I RETURNED home for the Long Vacation without plans and without money. To cover end-of-term expenses I had sold my Omega screen to Collins for ten pounds, of which I now kept four; my last cheque overdrew my account my a few shillings, and I had been told that, without my father’s authority, I must draw no more. My next allowance was not due until October. I was thus faced with a bleak prospect and, turning the matter over in my mind, I felt something not far off remorse for the prodigality,of the preceding weeks.
I had started the term with my battels paid and over a hundred pounds in hand. All that had gone, and not a penny paid out where I could get credit. There had been no reason for it, no great pleasure unattainable else; it had gone in ducks and drakes. Sebastian used to tease me - ‘You spend money, like a bookie’ - but all of it went on and with him. His own finances were perpetually, vaguely distressed. ‘It’s all done by lawyers,’ he said helplessly, ‘and I suppose they embezzle a lot. Anyway, I never seem to get much. Of course, mummy would give me anything I asked for.’ ‘Then why don’t you ask her for a proper allowance?’ ‘Oh, mummy likes everything to be a present. She’s so sweet,’ he said, adding one more line to the picture I was forming of her.
Now Sebastian had disappeared into that other life of his where I was not asked to follow, and I was left, instead, forlorn and regretful.
How ungenerously in later life we disclaim the virtuous moods of our youth, living in retrospect long, summer days of unreflecting dissipation. There is no candour in a story of early manhood which leaves out of account the home-sickness for nursery morality,
the regrets and resolutions of amendment, the black hours which, like zero on the roulette table, turn up with roughly calculable regularity. Thus I spent the first afternoon at home, wandering from room to room, looking from the plate-glass windows in turn on the garden and the street, in a mood of vehement self-reproach.
My father, I knew, was in the house, but his library was inviolable, and it was not until just before dinner that he appeared to greet me. He was then in his late fifties, but it was his idiosyncrasy to seem much older than his years; to see him one might have put him at seventy, to hear him speak at nearly eighty. He came to me now, with the shuffling, mandarin-tread which he affected, and a shy smile of welcome. When he dined at home - and he seldom dined elsewhere - he wore a frogged velvet smoking suit of the kind which had been fashionable many years before and was to be so again, but, at that time, was a deliberate archaism.
‘My dear boy, I they never told me you were here.’ Did you have a very exhausting journey? They gave you tea? You are well? I have just made a somewhat audacious I purchase from Sonerscheins - a terra-cotta bull of the fifth century. I was examining it and forgot your arrival. Was the carriage very full? You had a corner seat? (He travelled so rarely himself that to hear of others doing so always excited his solicitude.) ‘Hayter brought you the evening paper? There is no news, of course - such a lot of nonsense.’
Dinner was announced. My father from long habit took a book with him to the table and then, remembering my presence, furtively dropped it under his chair. ‘What do you like to drink? Hayter, what have we for Mr Charles to drink?’ ‘There’s some whisky.’
‘There’s whisky. Perhaps you like something, else? What else have we?’
‘There isn’t anything else in the house, sir.’
‘There’s nothing else. You must tell Hayter what you would like and he will get it in. I never keep any wine now. I am forbidden it and no one comes to see me. But while you are here, you must have what you like. You are here for long.?’ ‘I’m not quite sure, father.’
‘It’s a very long vacation,’ he said wistfully. ‘In my day we used to go on what were called reading parties, always in mountainous areas. Why?. Why,’ he repeated petulantly, ‘should alpine scenery be thought conducive to study?’ ‘I thought of putting in some time at an art school - in the life class.’ ‘My dear boy, you’ll find them all shut. The students go to Barbizon or such places and paint in the open air. There was an institution in my day called a “sketching club”’ - mixed sexes’ (snuffle), ‘bicycles’ (snuffle), ‘pepper-and-salt knickerbockers, holland umbrellas, and, it was popularly thought, free love’ (snuffle), such a lot of nonsense. I expect they still go on. You might try that.’
‘One of the problems of the vacation is money, father.’
‘Oh, I shouldn’t worry about a thing like that at your age.’
‘You see, I’ve run rather short.’
‘Yes?’ said my father without any sound of interest.
‘In fact I don’t quite know how I’m going to get through the next two months.’ ‘Well, I’m the worst person to come to for advice. I’ve never been “short” as you so painfully call it. And yet what else could you say? Hard up? Penurious? Distressed?
Embarrassed? Stonybroke?’ (snuffle). ‘On the rocks? In Queer Street? Let us say you are in Queer Street and leave it at that. Your grandfather once said to me, “Live within your means, but if you do get into difficulties, come to me. Don’t go to the Jews.” Such a lot of nonsense. You try. Go to those gentlemen in Jermyn Street who offer advances on note of hand only. My dear boy, they won’t give you a sovereign.’ ‘Then what do you suggest my doing?’
‘Your cousin Melchior was imprudent with his investments and got into a very queer street. He went to Australia.’ I had not seen my father so gleeful since he found two pages of second-century papyrus between the leaves of a Lombardic breviary. ‘Hayter, I’ve dropped my book.’
It was recovered for him from under his feet and propped against the épergne. For the rest of dinner he was silent save for an occasional snuffle of merriment which could not, I thought be provoked by the work he read.
Presently we left the table and sat in I the garden-room; and there, plainly, he put me out of his mind; his thoughts, I knew, were far away, in those distant ages where he moved at ease, where time passed in centuries and all the figures were defaced and the names of his companions were corrupt readings of words of quite other meaning. He sat in an attitude which to anyone else would have been one of extreme discomfort, askew in his upright armchair, with his book held high and obliquely to the light. Now and then he took a gold pencil-case from his watchchain and made an entry in the margin. The windows were open to the summer night; the ticking of the clocks, the distant murmur of traffic on the Bayswater Road, and my-father’s regular turning of the pages were the only sounds. I had thought it impolitic to smoke a cigar while pleading poverty; now in desperation I went to my room and fetched one. My father did not look up. I pierced it, lit it, and with renewed confidence said, ‘Father, you surely don’t want me to spend the whole vacation here with you?’
‘Eh?’
‘Won’t you find it rather a bore having me at home for so long?’ ‘I trust I should not betray such an emotion even if I felt it, said my father mildly and turned back to his book.
The evening passed. Eventually all over the room clocks of diverse pattern musically chimed eleven. My, father closed his book and removed his spectacles. ‘You are very welcome, my dear boy,’ he said. ‘Stay as long as you find it convenient.’ At the door he paused and turned back. ‘Your cousin Melchior worked his passage to Australia before the mast.’ (Snuffle.) ‘What, I wonder, is “before the mast”?’
During the sultry week that followed, my relations with my father deteriorated sharply. I saw little of him during the day; he spent hours on end in the library; now and then he emerged and I would hear him calling over the banisters: ‘Hayter, get me a cab.’ Then he would be away, sometimes for half an hour or less, sometimes a whole day; his errands were never explained. Often I saw trays going up to him at odd hours, laden with meagre nursery snacks - rusks, glasses of milk, bananas, and so forth. If we met in a passage or on the stairs he would look at me vacantly and say ‘Ah-ha,’ or ‘Very warm,’ or ‘Splendid, splendid,’ but in the evening, when he came to the garden-room in his velvet smoking suit, he always greeted me formally.
The dinner table was our battlefield.
On the second evening I took my book with me to the dining-room. His mind and wandering eye fastened on it with sudden attention, and as we passed through the hall he surreptitiously left his own on a side table. When we sat down, he said plaintively: ‘I do think, Charles, you might talk to me. I’ve had a very exhausting day. I was looking forward to a little conversation.’
‘Of course, father. What shall we talk about?’
‘Cheer me up. Take me out of myself,’ petulantly, ‘tell me about the new plays.’
‘But I haven’t been to any.’
‘You should, you know you really should. It’s not natural in a young man to spend all his evenings at home.’
‘Well, father,’ as I told you, I haven’t much money to spare for theatre-going.’ ‘My dear boy, you must not let money become your master in this way. Why, at your age, your cousin Melchior was part-owner of a musical piece. It was one of his few happy ventures. You should go to the play as part of your education. If you read the lives of eminent men you will find that quite half of them made their first acquaintance with drama from the gallery. I am told there is no pleasure like it. It is there that you find the real critics and devotees. It is called “sitting, with the gods”. The expense is nugatory, and even while you wait for admission in the street you are diverted by “buskers”. We will sit with the gods together one night. How do you find Mrs.Abel’s cooking.?’
‘Unchanged.’
‘It was inspired by your Aunt Philippa. She gave Mrs Abel ten menus, and they have never been varied. When I am alone I do not notice what I eat, but now that you are here, we must have a change. What would you like? What is in season? Are you fond of lobsters? Hayter, tell Mrs Abel to give us lobsters tomorrow night.’ Dinner that. evening consisted of a white, tasteless soup, overfried fillets of sole with a pink sauce, lamb cutlets propped against a cone of mashed potato, stewed pears in jelly standing on a kind of sponge cake.
‘It is purely out of respect for your Aunt Philippa that I dine at this length. She laid it down that a three-course dinner was middle-class. “If you once let the servants get their way,” she said, “you will find yourself dining nightly off a single chop.” There is nothing I should like more. In fact, that is exactly what I do when I go to my club on Mrs Abel’s evening out. But your aunt ordained that at home I must have soup and three courses; some nights it is fish, meat, and savoury, on others it is meat, sweet, savoury - there are a number of possible permutations.
It is remarkable how some people are able to put their opinions in lapidary form; your aunt had that gift.
‘It is odd to think that she and I once dined together nightly just as you and I do, my boy. Now she made unremitting efforts to take me out of myself. She used to tell me about her reading. It was in her mind to make a home with me, you know. She thought I should get into funny ways if I was left on my own. Perhaps I have got into funny ways. Have I? But it didn’t do. I got her out in the end.’
There was an unmistakable note of menace in his voice as he said this. It was largely by reason of my Aunt Philippa that I now found myself so much a stranger in my father’s house. After my mother’s death she came to live with my father and me, no doubt, as he said, with the idea of making her home with us. I knew nothing, then, of the nightly agonies at the dinner table. My aunt made herself my companion, and I accepted her without question. That was for a year. The first change was that she reopened her house in Surrey which she had meant to sell, and lived there during my school terms, coming to London only for a few days’ shopping and entertainment. In the summer we went to lodgings together at the seaside. Then in my last year at school she left England. ‘I got her out in the end,’ he said with derision and triumph of that kindly lady, and he knew that I heard in the words a challenge to myself. As we left the dining-room my father said, ‘Hayter, have you yet said anything to Mrs Abel about the lobsters I ordered for tomorrow?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Do not do so.’
‘Very good, sir.’
And when we reached our chairs in the garden-room he said: ‘I wonder whether Hayter had any intention of mentioning, lobsters, I rather think not. Do you know, I believe he thought I was joking? ‘
Next day by chance, a weapon came to hand. I met an old acquaintance of school-days, a contemporary of mine named Jorkins. I never had much liking for Jorkins. Once, in my Aunt Philippa’s day, he had come to tea, and she had condemned him as being probably charming at heart, but unattractive at first sight. Now I greeted him with enthusiasm and asked him to dinner. He came and showed little alteration. My father must have been warned by Hayter that there was a guest, for instead of his velvet suit he wore a tail coat; this, with a black waistcoat, very high collar, and very narrow white tie, was his evening dress; he wore it with an air of melancholy as though it were court mourning, which he had assumed in early youth and, finding the style sympathetic, had retained. He never possessed a dinner jacket.
‘Good evening, good evening. So nice of you to come all this way.’
‘Oh, it wasn’t far, said Jorkins, who lived in Sussex Square. ‘Science annihilates distance,’ said my father disconcertingly. ‘You are over here on business?’
‘Well, I’m in business, if that’s what you mean.’
‘I had a cousin who was in business - you wouldn’t know him; it was before your time. I was telling Charles about him only the other night. He has been much in my mind. He came,’ my father paused to give full weight to the bizarre word - ‘a cropper.’ Jorkins giggled nervously. My father fixed him with a look of reproach. ‘You find his misfortune the subject of mirth? Or perhaps the word I used was unfamiliar; you no doubt would say that he “folded up”.’ My father was master of the situation. He had made a little fantasy for himself, that Jorkins should I be an American and throughout the evening he played a delicate one-sided parlour-game with him, explaining any peculiarly English terms that occurred in the conversation, translating pounds into dollars and courteously deferring to him with such phrases as ‘Of course, by your standards...’; ‘All this must seem very parochial to Mr Jorkins’; ‘In the vast spaces to which you are accustomed...’ so that my guest was left with the vague sense that there was a misconception somewhere as to his identity, which he never got the chance of explaining. Again and again during dinner he sought my father’s eye, thinking to read there the simple statement that this form of address was an elaborate joke, but met instead a look of such mild benignity that he was left baffled. Once I thought my father had gone too far, when he said: ‘I am afraid that, living in London, you must sadly miss your national game.’
‘My national game?’ asked Jorkins, slow in the uptake, but scenting that here, at last, was the opportunity for clearing the matter up.
My father glanced from him to me and his expression changed from kindness to malice then back to kindness again as he turned once more to Jorkins. It was the look of a gambler who lays down fours against a full house. ‘Your national game,’ he said gently, ‘cricket,’ and he snuffled uncontrollably, shaking all over and wiping his eyes with his napkin. ‘Surely, working in the City, you find your time on the cricket-field, greatly curtailed?’
At the door of the dining-room he left us. ‘Good night, Mr Jorkins,’ he said. ‘I hope you will pay us another visit when you next “cross the herring pond”.’ ‘I say, what did.your governor mean by that?’ He seemed almost to think I was, American.’
‘He’s rather odd at times.’
‘I mean all that about advising me to visit Westminster Abbey. It seemed rum.’
‘Yes. I can’t quite explain.’
‘I almost thought he was pulling my leg,’ said Jorkins in puzzled tones.
My father’s counter-attack was delivered a few days later. He sought me out and said, ‘Mr Jorkins is still here?’
‘No, father, of course not. He only came to dinner.’
‘Oh, I hoped he was staying with us. Such a versatile young man. But you will be dining in?’
‘Yes.’
‘I am giving a little dinner party to diversify the rather monotonous series of your evenings at home. You think Mrs Abel is up to it? No. But our guests are not exacting. Sir Cuthbert and Lady Orme-Herrick are what might be called the nucleus. I hope for a little music afterwards. I have included in the invitations some young people for you.’ My presentiments of my father’s plan were surpassed by the actuality. As the guests assembled in the room which my father, without self-consciousness, called ‘the Gallery’, it was plain to me that they had been carefully chosen for my discomfort. The ‘young people’ were Miss Gloria Orme-Herrick a student of the cello; her fiancé, a bald young man .from the British Museum; and a monoglot Munich publisher. I saw my father snuffling at me from behind a case of ceramics as he stood with them. That evening he wore, like a chivalric badge of battle, a small red rose in his button-hole. Dinner was long and chosen, like the guests, in a spirit of careful mockery. It was not of Aunt Philippa’s choosing, but had been reconstructed from a much earlier period, long before he was of an age to dine downstairs. The dishes were ornamental in appearance and regularly alternated in colour between red and white. They and the wine were equally tasteless. After dinner my father led the German publisher to the piano and then, while he played, left the drawing-room to show Sir Cuthbert Orme-Herrick the Etruscan bull in the gallery.
It was a gruesome evening, and I was astonished to find, when at last the party broke up, that it was only a few minutes after eleven. My father helped himself to a glass of barley-water and said: ‘What very dull friends I have! You know, without the spur of your presence I should never have roused myself to invite them. I have been very negligent about entertaining lately. Now that you are paying me such a long visit, I will have many such evenings. You liked Miss Gloria Orme-Herrick?’ ‘No.’
‘No? Was it her little moustache you objected to or her very large feet? Do you think she enjoyed herself.’
‘No.’
‘That was my impression also. I doubt if any of our guests will count this as one of their happiest evenings. That young foreigner played atrociously, I thought. Where can I have met him? And Miss Constantia Smethwick - where can I have met her? But the obligations of hospitality must be observed. As long as you are here, you shall not be dull.’
Strife was internecine during the next fortnight, but I suffered the more, for my father had greater reserves to draw on and a wider territory for manoeuvre, while I was pinned to my bridgehead between. the uplands and the sea. He never declared his war aims, and I do not to this day know whether they, were purely punitive - whether he had really at the back of his mind some geopolitical idea of getting me out of the country, as my Aunt Philippa had been driven to Bordighera and cousin Melchior to Darwin, or whether, as seems most likely, he fought for the sheer love of a battle in which indeed he shone.
I received one letter from Sebastian, a conspicuous object which was brought to me in my father’s presence one day when he was lunching at home; I saw him look curiously at it and bore it away to read in solitude. It was written on, and enveloped in, heavy late-Victorian mourning paper, black-coroneted and black-bordered. I read it eagerly:
Brideshead Castle,
Wiltshire
I wonder what the date is Dearest Charles,
I found a box of this paper at the back of a bureau so I must write to you as I am mourning for my lost innocence. It never looked like living. The doctors despaired of it from the start.
Soon I am off to Venice to stay with my papa in his palace of sin. I wish you were coming. I wish you were here.
I am never quite alone. Members of my family keep turning up and collecting luggage and going away again but the white raspberries are ripe. I have a good mind not to take Aloysius to Venice. I don’t want him to meet a lot of horrid Italian bears and pick up bad habits.
Love or what you will.
S.
I knew his letters of old; I had had them at Ravenna; I should not have been disappointed; but that day as I tore the stiff sheet across and let it fall into the basket, and gazed resentfully across the grimy gardens and irregular backs of Bayswater, at the jumble of soil-pipes and fire-escapes and protuberant little conservatories, I saw, in my mind’s eye, the pale face of Anthony Blanche, peering through the straggling leaves as it had peered through the candle flames at Thame, and heard, above the murmur of traffic, his clear tones...’You mustn’t blame Sebastian if at times he seems a little insipid...When I hear him talk I am reminded of that in some ways nauseating picture of “Bubbles”.’ For days after that I thought I hated Sebastian; then one Sunday afternoon a telegram came from him, which dispelled that shadow, adding a new and darker one of its own. My father was out and returned to find me in a condition of feverish anxiety. He stood in the hall with his panama hat still on his head and beamed at me. ‘You’ll never guess how I have spent the day; I have been to the Zoo. It was most agreeable; the animals seem to enjoy the sunshine so much.’ ‘Father, I’ve got to leave at once.’
‘Yes?’
‘A, great friend of mine - he’s had a terrible accident. I must go to him at once.
Hayter’s packing for me, now. There’s a train in half an hour.’ I showed him the telegram, which read simply: ‘Gravely injured come at once Sebastian.’
‘Well,’ said my father. ‘I’m sorry you are upset. Reading this message I should not say that the accident was as serious as you seem to think - otherwise it would hardly be signed by the victim himself. Still, of course, he may well be fully conscious but blind or paralysed with a broken back. Why exactly is your presence so necessary? You have no medical knowledge. You are not in holy orders. Do you hope for a legacy?’ ‘I told you, he is a great friend.’
‘Well, Orme-Herrick is a great friend of mine, but I should not go tearing off to his deathbed on a warm Sunday afternoon. I should doubt whether Lady Orme-Herrick would welcome me. However, I see you have no such doubts. I shall miss you, my dear boy, but do not hurry back on my account.’
Paddington Station on that August Sunday evening, with the sun streaming through the obscure panes of its roof, the bookstalls shut, and the few passengers strolling unhurried beside their porters, would have soothed a mind less agitated than mine. The train was nearly empty. I had my suitcase put in the corner of a third-class carriage and took a seat in the dining-car. ‘First dinner after Reading, sir; about seven o’clock. Can I get you anything now?’ I ordered gin and vermouth; it was brought to me as we pulled out of the station. The knives and forks set up their regular jingle; the bright landscape rolled past the windows. But I had no mind for these smooth things; instead, fear worked like yeast in my thoughts, and the fermentation brought to the surface, in great gobs of scum, the images of disaster; a loaded gun held carelessly at a stile, a horse rearing and rolling over, a shaded pool with a submerged, stake, an elm bough falling suddenly on a still morning, a car at a blind corner; all the catalogue of threats to civilized life rose and haunted me; I even pictured a homicidal maniac mouthing in the shadows, swinging a length of lead pipe. The cornfields and heavy woodland sped past, deep in the golden evening, and the throb of the wheels repeated monotonously in my ears. ‘You’ve come too late. You’ve come too late. He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead.’ I dined and changed trains to the local line, and in twilight came to Melstead Carbury, which was my destination.
‘Brideshead, sir? Yes, Lady Julia’s in the yard.’
She was sitting at the wheel of an open car. I recognized her at once; I could not have failed to do so.
‘You’re Mr Ryder? Jump in.’ Her voice was Sebastian’s and his her, way of speaking.
‘How is he?’
‘Sebastian? Oh, he’s fine. Have you had dinner? Well, I expect it was beastly. There’s some more at home. Sebastian and I are alone, so we thought we’d wait for you.’ ‘What’s happened to him?’
‘Didn’t he say? I expect he thought you wouldn’t come if you knew. He’s cracked a bone in his ankle so small that it hasn’t a name. But they X-rayed it yesterday, and told him to keep it up for a month. It’s a great bore to him, putting out all his plans; he’s been making the most enormous fuss...Everyone else has gone. He tried to make me stay back with him. Well, I expect you know how maddeningly pathetic he can be. I almost gave in, and then I said: “Surely there must be someone you can get hold of,” and he said everybody was away or busy and, anyway, no one else would do. But at last he agreed to try you, and I promised I’d stay if you failed him, so you can imagine how popular you are with me. I must say it’s noble of you to come all this way at a moment’s notice.’ But as she said it, I heard, or thought I heard, a tiny note of contempt in her voice that I should be so readily available.
‘How did he do it?’
‘Believe it or not, playing croquet. He lost his temper and tripped over a hoop. Not a very honourable scar.’
She so much resembled Sebastian that, sitting beside her in the gathering dusk, I was confused by the double illusion of familiarity and strangeness. Thus, looking through strong lenses, one may watch a man approaching from afar, study every detail of his face and clothes, believe one has only to put out a hand to touch him marvel that he does not hear one and look up as one moves, and then, seeing him with the naked eye, suddenly remember that one is to him a distant speck, doubtfully human. I knew her and she did not know me. Her dark hair was scarcely longer than Sebastian’s, and it blew back from her forehead as his did; her eyes on the darkling road were his, but larger; her painted mouth was less friendly to the world. She wore a bangle of charms on her wrist and in her ears little gold rings. Her light coat revealed an inch or two of flowered silk; skirts were short in those days, and her legs, stretched forward to the controls of the car, were spindly, as was also the fashion. Because her sex was the palpable difference between the familiar and the strange it seemed to fill the space between us, so that I felt her to be especially female, as I had felt of no woman before. ‘I’m terrified of driving at this time of the evening,’ she said. ‘There doesn’t seem anyone left at home who can drive a car. Sebastian and I are practically camping out here. I hope you haven’t come expecting a pompous party.’ She leaned forward to the locker for a box of cigarettes.
‘No thanks.’
‘Light one for me, will you?’
It was, the first time in my life that anyone had asked this of me, and as I took the cigarette from my lips and put it in hers, I caught a thin bat’s squeak of sexuality, inaudible to any but me.
‘Thanks. You’ve been here before. Nanny reported it. We both thought it very odd of you not to stay to tea with me.’
‘That was Sebastian.’
‘You seem to let him boss you about a good deal. You shouldn’t. It’s very bad for him.’
We had turned the comer of the drive now; the colour had died in the woods, and sky,.and the house seemed painted in grisaille, save for the central golden square at the open doors. A man was waiting to take my luggage.
‘Here we are.’
She led me up the steps and into the hall, flung her coat on a marble table, and stooped to fondle a dog which came to greet her. ‘I wouldn’t put it past Sebastian to have started dinner.’
At that moment he appeared between the pillars at the further end, propelling himself in a wheel-chair. He was in pyjamas and dressing-gown, with one foot heavily bandaged.
‘Well, darling, I have collected your chum,’ she said, again with a barely perceptible note of contempt.
‘I thought you were dying,’ I said, conscious then, as I had been ever since I arrived, of the predominating emotion of vexation, rather than of relief, that I had been bilked of my expectations of a grand tragedy.
‘I thought I was, too. The pain was excruciating. Julia, do you think, if you asked him, Wilcox would give us champagne tonight?’
‘I hate champagne and Mr Ryder has had dinner.’
‘Mister Ryder? Mister Ryder? Charles drinks champagne at all hours. Do you know, seeing this great swaddled foot of mine, I can’t get it out of my mind that I have gout, and that gives me a craving for champagne.’
We dined in a room they called ‘the Painted Parlour’. It was a spacious octagon, later in design than the rest of the house its walls, were adorned with wreathed medallions and across its dome prim Pompeian figures stood pastoral groups. They and the satinwood and ormolu furniture, the carpet, the hanging bronze candelabrum, the mirrors and sconces, were all a single composition, the design of one illustrious hand. ‘We usually eat here when we’re alone,’ said Sebastian, ‘it’s so cosy.’ While they dined I ate a peach and told them of the war with my father.
‘He sounds a perfect poppet,’ said Julia. ‘And now I’m going to leave you boys.’
‘Where are you off to?’
‘The nursery. I promised nanny a last game of halma.’ She kissed the top of Sebastian’s head. I opened the door for her. ‘Good Night, Mr Ryder, and good-bye. I don’t suppose we’ll meet tomorrow. I’m leaving early. I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you for relieving me at the sick-bed.’
‘My sister is very pompous tonight,’ said Sebastian, when she was gone.
‘I don’t think she cares for me,’ I said.
‘I don’t think she cares for anyone much. I love her. She’s so like me.’
‘Do you? Is she?’
‘In looks I mean and the way she talks. I wouldn’t love anyone with a character like mine.’
When we had drunk our port, I walked beside Sebastian’s chair through the pillared hall to the library, where we sat that night and nearly every night of the ensuing month. It lay on the side of the house that overlooked the lakes; the windows were open to the stars and the scented air, to the indigo and silver, moonlit landscape of the valley and the sound of water falling in the fountain.
‘We’ll have a heavenly time alone,’ said Sebastian and when next morning, while I was shaving, I saw from my bathroom window Julia, with luggage at her back, drive from the forecourt and disappear at the hill’s crest, without a backward glance, I felt a sense of liberation and peace such as I was, to know years later when, after a night of unrest, the sirens sounded the ‘All Clear’.
我回家过暑假，既无计划，又没钱。为了付期末的费用，我已经把欧米加牌的屏风以十镑代价卖给了科林斯，这笔钱现在只剩下四镑；我最后的一张支票在我的账上已经透支了几先令，银行通知我，不得到我父亲许可，我不能再支钱了。要到十月，我的下一笔津贴才能到手。这样，我就面临着黯淡的前景，我左思右想，对前几个星期的挥霍浪费不免有点懊悔。
我在学期开始时付清了大学的膳费和杂费，手头还有一百多镑钱。现在这笔钱花光了，我在商店的欠款还分文未还。那些花费其实没有必要，丝毫乐趣也没有得到；那些钱都白白浪费掉。塞巴斯蒂安常常取笑我——“你像个赛马的赌徒一样浪费银钱”——可是那些钱全是花在他身上，或者是和他一块儿花的。他自己好像永远很困难。“都给律师们算计光了，”他一筹莫展地说，“我想，他们贪污了不少。无论如何，我得到的好像从来不多。当然，只要我要，妈妈就会给。”
“那么，你为什么不向她要一笔固定的津贴呢？”
“啊，妈妈喜欢样样都当作礼物给人，她可好极啦。”他这样说，在我勾画的她的形象上又添上一笔。
现在塞巴斯蒂安隐没到另一种生活里，那种生活是他不让我和他一起过的，所以丢下我非常孤单和懊恼。
当我们到了晚年，回顾在漫长的夏日里过的放荡生活时，如果否认我们年轻时代的道德感，我们就显得多么胸襟狭隘。一个人在谈他早年的生活经历中，如果略去不谈怀念幼年美德之情，略去不谈改正错误时怀着的懊恼和决心，略去不谈像轮盘上不时出现的零字一样隔不多时就准会出现的忧郁时刻，如果略去这一切，那么这种传记也就谈不上是坦率的了。
就这样，我从一间房子走到另一间房子，隔着厚玻璃窗轮流看着花园和大街，怀着强烈谴责自己的心情——我回家的头一天下午就这样度过。
我知道，我父亲在家里，但是他的图书室是个不可侵犯的地方。他到快吃饭时才出来招呼我。他已经五十六七岁了，他的特点是看起来比实际年龄苍老很多；人们看见他会以为他七十岁了，听他说话，会以为他年近八十。他向我走来，拖着脚，迈着方步，露出欢迎我的羞怯微笑。当他在家吃晚饭时——他很少在别处吃晚饭——他穿一件天鹅绒盘花纽扣的罩衣，这罩衣在他吸烟时才穿，这种衣服几年前很时兴，以后也许还会很时兴，可是现在肯定已经过时了。
“亲爱的孩子，他们没有告诉我你在这儿。你旅行累了吗？他们给你端茶点了吗？你身体好吗？我刚刚从索纳差因古玩店里大胆买了一件东西——一件公元五世纪制的赤陶牛。我正在鉴赏，忘记了你到达了。车厢里很挤吗？你坐在车厢的角落里吗？（他自己很少旅行，所以听到别人旅行就会引起他的关切。）海特把晚报给你拿来了吗？当然，没有什么新闻——全是废话。”
仆人通知开晚饭了。我父亲由于多年的习惯带本书放在餐桌上，后来想起我在，便偷偷把书丢在椅子上，“你爱喝什么酒？海特，你给查尔斯什么酒喝？”
“还有点威士忌。”
“有威士忌，也许你喜欢喝别的酒吧？我们还有别的吗？”
“老爷，家里没有别的酒了。”
“没有别的酒了。你得告诉海特你爱喝什么酒，他会给你买来。现在家里我什么酒也不存了。医生禁止我喝酒，也没有人来看望我，但是你在家时你喜欢什么就可以要什么。你要在家里待很久吗？”
“还不一定，爸爸。”
“这是一个很长的假期，”他沉思着说。“在我年轻时，遇上这种假期总是去办读书会，总是住在山区。为什么呢？为什么，”他性急地说，“大家认为高山风景有益于读书呢？”
“我想花些时间去上艺术学校——上肖像画班。”
“亲爱的孩子，你会发现学校都关门了。学生们去巴比松或这类地方的野外写生去了。我年轻时有个机构名叫‘素描俱乐部’——男女在一起”（抽鼻子），“自行车”（抽鼻子），“椒盐色短裤，荷兰雨伞，而且一般都认为是，自由恋爱”（抽鼻子），“一大堆这样的废话。我希望他们还在办这样的俱乐部。你可以去那里试试。”
“这个假期的一个问题就是钱，爸爸。”
“啊，我在你这个年纪，可不为这样的事犯愁。”
“你知道，我很缺钱。”
“真的吗？”我父亲丝毫不关心地问。
“事实上，下两个月我都不知道怎样度过哩。”
“嗯，我是最不适合给你出主意的人。我从来没有像你那样痛苦地说‘缺钱’。你还能用别的词说吗？比如说：手头紧？贫困？苦恼？处境尴尬？破产？”（抽鼻子。）“遇难？负了债？就说你负了债，就这么说好了。有一次你爷爷对我说，‘量入为出，你有了困难就来找我。别去找犹太人。’那么多废话。你试试看。去找杰尔明街的先生们，他们只凭手写的字据就借钱给我。亲爱的孩子，他们连一个子儿也不会借给你。”
“那么你让我怎么办？”
“你表兄梅尔基奥投资太不小心，负了很多债。他去澳洲了。”
自从父亲在《伦巴底每日祈祷书》中间发现两张公元二世纪的古埃及文稿，显得惊喜若狂以来，我从来没有见过他这样高兴过。
“海特，我把书掉到地上了。”
仆人把书从父亲脚边捡起来，把书靠在餐桌中间摆花的架子上。父亲在晚餐的其余时间一直沉默着，除了偶尔发出几声快乐的抽鼻子声音，这种声音我想不会是由他看的书引起的。
不久，我们离开餐桌，坐到花园中的房间里；在那儿，他显然把我忘掉了；我知道，他的思想已经回到久远的年代去了，那时，他动作轻快，那时，好像是几世纪以前，所有人的形象都模糊了，他朋友们的名字的读音都错了，意思也完全不一样。他以别人会感到很不舒服的姿势坐着，斜着坐在直背椅子上，高高地举着一本书，就着光线斜着看。他不时从他的表链上取下一个金铅笔盒，在书边上做个记号。窗户开着，外面是夏天的傍晚；只听得见时钟的滴答声，从白水路传来的遥远的轰隆轰隆的车马声，父亲有规则地翻动书页的声音。我以前想，一面闹穷，一面又抽雪茄是失礼的。现在，希望落空，我就回到自己房里取了一根雪茄。父亲没有抬头看。我撅开雪茄头儿，点燃了，又重新获得了信心，我说，“爸爸，你一定不愿意我整个假期都跟你过吧？”
“呃？”
“让我在家里待这么长一个假期你不觉得心烦吗？”
“我相信即使我感到心烦，也不会表现出来的，”父亲温和地说，又看起书来。
晚间过去了。最后，房里各式各样的钟都悦耳地敲了十一点钟。父亲合上书，取下老花眼镜。“亲爱的孩子，非常欢迎你，”他说，“你愿意待多久就待多久。”他在门口停了一下，然后转身说，“你表兄梅尔基奥当一名普通水手上澳洲去了。”（抽鼻子。）“我不知道，什么叫‘普通水手’？”
晚饭的餐桌就是我们的战场。
第二天晚上，我带着书去了餐厅。他突然注意到了这本书，那双温和而又显得恍惚的眼睛盯住不放，当我们经过走廊时，他偷偷摸摸地把自己的那本书扔在靠边的一张桌上了。我们坐下的时候，他悲哀地说：“我想，查尔斯，你会跟我说些什么吧？这一天我简直筋疲力尽了。我盼望和你一道聊聊。”
“当然啰，爸爸。我们聊什么呢？”
“聊一些能让我高兴的事。给我散散心，”他耍着性子说，“就跟我说说新上演的戏吧。”
“可是我什么戏也没有看过啊。”
“你该去看看，你知道，你真的该去看看。一个青年人，整晚都泡在家里，很不正常哩。”
“呃，爸爸，以前我就跟你说过，我哪有那么多闲钱看戏呀。”
“亲爱的孩子，你决不能让金钱把你这样限制住了。嗯，在你这个年纪，你表兄梅尔基奥就和别人合伙写了一支乐曲喽。这是他闯荡天下的一件快事。戏还是该去看看的，当作你的教育的一部分。如果你读过那些杰出人物的生平，那你就会发现，那一些人中足足有一半是从剧场的顶层楼座了解话剧的。有人跟我说，像那种地方根本没有乐趣可言。可是正是在那种地方，你可以发现真正的戏剧评论家和爱好者。这就是所谓的‘和众神坐在一起’嘛。花费微乎其微，而且甚至在大街上等候入场的时候，那些‘街头艺人’也会使你很开心。哪天晚上我们也去和‘诸神们’一起坐坐，你觉得艾贝尔太太的烹调手艺有没有进步？”
“老一套呗。”
“这还是受了你菲利帕姑妈的启发呢。她给了艾贝尔太太十份菜单，这十份菜单从来没有变动过。我一个人吃饭的时候，我倒并不在乎饭菜怎么样，可是既然你在家，我们就得变变花样啦。你喜欢吃什么呢？现在的时令菜是什么？喜欢龙虾吗？海特，告诉艾贝尔太太明天晚上我们要吃龙虾。”
这天晚上的菜是一盆淡而无味的汤，浇着粉红色调味汁的炸糊了的蝾鱼片，配着摆成锥形的土豆泥的羊肉片，还有摆在蛋糕上的煮梨冻。
“我吃得这么考究，纯粹出于对你菲利帕姑妈的尊敬。她规定，一顿饭有三道菜才算得上中产阶级。‘如果一旦让仆人随便做，’她说，‘你就会发现每天晚上你只吃一块排骨。’其实我最爱吃的就数排骨了。事实上，艾贝尔太太不在的晚上，我去俱乐部吃的也无非是一块排骨。可是你姑妈已经规定，我在家里吃饭必须是三菜一汤；这几个晚上是鱼、肉、开胃的菜肴，那几个晚上是肉、甜食、开胃的菜肴——这几种菜可能配出很多种花样哩。
“有些人能够把自己的见解很得体地表达出来，这实在够惊人的；你姑妈就有这种本事。
“如果以为过去我和她天天晚上在一起吃饭——像我和你现在的情形一样，那就太可笑了，孩子。她一个劲儿让我开心。她常常跟我讲她读过的书。她心里想把这儿当作她的家，你知道。她认为如果让我自个儿过活的话，我就会变得怪僻了。或许我已经有了怪僻，有没有？可是把这儿当她家——不行。最后我还是把她甩掉了。”
他说这话时，语气里显然含着一种威胁的意味。
多半是由于我姑妈菲利帕的原故，我现在觉得自己在父亲家里竟成了一个生人。我母亲过世后，姑妈就来同我父亲和我住在一起了，毫无疑问，正如父亲说的，她想把这儿当作她的家。当时，每天晚上饭桌上的种种痛苦我是根本不知道的。姑妈要亲自陪着我，我毫无疑问地领受了她的情意。这种情形持续了一年光景。最初的变化是她重新启用她原先打算卖掉的萨里那所房子，我上学期间她就住在那里，她到伦敦来住几天只是为了买东西，玩一玩。到了夏天，我们就一起去海滨。后来，我在学校最后一年的时候，她离开了英国。“最后我还是把她甩掉了，”谈到那位慈祥的夫人时他用这种嘲笑和得意的口吻说话，他知道我听出来话里向我挑战的意思。
我们离开餐室时我父亲问：“海特，你跟艾贝尔太太说了明天要给我定龙虾吗？”
“还没有呢，先生。”
“那就不用说了。”
“好的，先生。”
我们在花园房间里一坐下来，他就说：“我不知道海特是不是真的打算提龙虾的事，我认为他并不打算提的。你知道吗，我相信他认为我在开玩笑。”
到了第二天，一件武器凑巧落在手里。那天我遇见了一个中学时代的老朋友，名叫乔金斯的同年同学。我一向不大喜欢这位乔金斯。有一次，那还是菲利帕姑妈在家里的时候，他来吃茶，她就曾经对这个人作出这样的宣判：即他的内心可能美，可是头一眼看上去可不那么吸引人。这一回我热情地向他问好，并请他来吃晚饭。他来了，不过并没有显出有什么变化。父亲事先肯定得到海特的提醒，说有一位客人要来吃饭，所以他没有穿他那身丝绒衣服，而穿了一件燕尾服。这身燕尾服，再加上黑背心，极高的硬领，特窄的白领带，就算是他的晚礼服了。他穿着这身衣服，显出一种忧伤的神气，好像穿的是朝廷的丧服，这种神情是他很年轻的时候就有的，由于发现这种神情招人喜欢，所以一直就保持下来了。他连一件吃饭穿的短上衣都没有。
“晚上好，晚上好。你太难得了，大老远地来这里。”
“哦，并不远，”乔金斯回答说，他住在苏塞克斯广场。
“科学消灭距离嘛，”父亲狼狈地说，“你来这儿是出差吧？”
“噢，我在经商，如果你是这个意思的话。”
“我也有一个亲戚是做生意的——你不会认识他的；他比你要早喽。那天晚上我还跟查尔斯谈到他哩。我常常想到他。他成了，”他顿了顿，以便充分强调下面的古怪说法，“他成了个‘惨败的人’。”
乔金斯神经质地咯咯笑起来。父亲带着责备的神色盯住他。
“难道你觉得他这么倒霉倒值得高兴吗？也许是我用的词不常听说吧；你想必会说他‘破产’了吧。”
父亲控制着局面。他自己有了一个古怪的想法，故意认定乔金斯是个美国人，所以一晚上他都在和他玩一场微妙的、别出心裁的客厅游戏，凡是谈话中出现的一切专门的英国用语他都要解释一番，把英镑折合成美元，还必恭必敬倾听他的谈话，并且连连说道“当然啰，以你们的标准而言……”；“对乔金斯先生来说，这一切显得太狭隘了”；“你们习惯在辽阔的空间……”等等。听他这么说，因此使我的客人隐约觉得他的身分大概有什么问题，而他又根本得不到机会把自己的身分解释清楚。他一边吃饭，一边不住地琢磨我父亲的眼神，想要在他的眼神里看出他以这个方式讲话不过是一次精心安排的玩笑罢了，可是他看到他的神色竟如此温和、宽厚，使他感到困惑莫解。
有一次连我都觉得父亲说得太过分了，当时他说：“你在伦敦居住，恐怕相当难过，玩不成你们国家的游戏了吧？”
“我们国家的游戏？”乔金斯问道，他领悟得很慢，不过终于领悟到这是弄清问题的好机会。
父亲看看他，又看看我，他的表情也同时从和蔼可亲变成满腔怨恨；当他再朝乔金斯看去的时候，表情又变得和蔼可亲了。这种神气就像一个赌徒向全室的人认输那样。“说到你们国家的游戏，”他从容地说道，“那就是说板球嘛，”说着他就控制不住抽起了鼻子，全身都抖动起来，他还用手帕擦擦眼睛。“在城里工作，你肯定发现用在板球场上的时间大大缩短了吧？”
他走到餐室门口撇下了我们，“晚安，乔金斯先生，”他说，“你下次‘横渡大西洋’的时候，希望你再来我们这儿作客。”
“喂，你爸爸这话到底是什么意思？他几乎认为我是美国人啦。”
“他有时相当古怪。”
“我把这番话理解成建议我去看看威斯敏斯特大教堂啦。这太怪了。”
“不错，可是我没法解释啊。”
“我差不多认为他在拿我开心呢，”乔金斯困惑地说。
“不在了，爸爸，当然不在啦。他只是来吃饭的。”
“呃，我原来希望他和我们一起住几天。这么一个多才多艺的年轻人。不过你在家吃晚饭吗？”
“在家吃。”
“我搞了一个小小的宴会，你在家里连续过了许多单调的夜晚，以便换换花样。你以为艾贝尔太太胜任得了吗？不行的。不过我们的客人并不苛求。卡思伯特爵士和奥姆—赫里克太太，正是所谓的核心人物。我希望饭后听听音乐。我还为你请了几个青年人。”
现实的情况超过了我对父亲的计划所怀着的不祥预感。客人们聚集在我父亲不自觉地称之为“楼座”的房间里，这时我才明白，明摆着这些客人都是为了让我不痛快而仔细挑选来的。而青年人则是格洛里亚·奥姆—赫里克小姐，一位学大提琴的学生；她的未婚夫，一位不列颠博物馆的秃顶年轻人；还有一位只懂得一种语言的慕尼黑出版商。我看到，我父亲和那些人站在一起，在瓷器架后面冲我直抽鼻子。这天晚上，他在纽扣眼里别上一枝小小的红玫瑰花，好像骑士在战争中佩戴的徽章。
晚餐时间很长，菜肴跟那些客人一样是精心挑选的，也有一种存心嘲弄的意思。菜肴并不是菲利帕姑妈挑选的那些，而是从早就确定下来的几份菜单中拼凑起来的，那些菜单是他还能在楼下吃饭时使用的。盘子的花饰考究，上菜时，盘子照红、白相间的颜色轮流出现。菜肴和葡萄酒一样没有味道。晚餐过后，我父亲把那位德国出版商领到钢琴边，出版商弹起钢琴，他就离开客厅，领着卡思伯特·奥姆—赫里克爵士到“楼座”里去看那个伊特拉斯坎的公牛。
这是个令人十分厌烦的夜晚，宴会终于散了的时候，我惊奇地发现十一点才过几分钟。父亲自己喝了一大杯大麦茶，说道：“找来的这些朋友多不带劲儿呀！你知道，如果没有你在家这个推动力，我永远也鼓不起勇气邀请他们的。我近来对应酬没有什么兴趣了。既然你要在我这儿住很久，我也就会过许多这样的夜晚了。你喜欢格洛里亚·奥姆—赫里克小姐吗？”
“不喜欢。”
“不喜欢？是你对她的毛茸茸的唇髭有反感呢，还是对她的大脚有反感呢？你觉得她今晚过得愉快吗？”
“不愉快。”
“我也有这样的印象。我很怀疑这些客人中谁会认为这是他们最愉快的一个晚上。那个年轻的外国人钢琴弹得糟透了，我想。我在哪遇见过他呢？还有康斯坦蒂亚·斯梅斯威克小姐——她又是我在哪遇见的呢？不过殷勤待客这一条还是要遵守的。只要你在这儿，你就不会觉得无聊的。”
在以后两个星期的冲突中我们两败俱伤，不过我却失败得更惨，因为父亲有更多的储备可以利用，也有更大的回旋余地，我却被挤在一片高地和大海之间的桥头堡里。他从不宣布他的战斗目标，而我至今还不明白他的目标是否纯粹是惩罚性的——是否他的思想深处存有某种地理政治学的思想，要把我从这个国家赶出去，如同菲利帕姑妈被赶到博迪盖拉，表兄梅尔基奥被赶到达尔文一样；或者，似乎是最可能的，他之所以战斗，是否只是由于热爱使他才华毕露的战斗。
有一天我收到塞巴斯蒂安寄来的一封信，这件引人注目的东西是我当着我父亲的面收到的，当时他正在家里吃午饭；看见他好奇地盯住这封信，于是我把信带走私下里读起来。信是写在维多利亚王朝后期办丧事用的厚信纸上的，信纸信封头上印着黑色花冠，周围镶着黑边。我急切地读起来：
最最亲爱的查尔斯，
我在写字台后面发现了一盒这样的纸，当我为自己失去纯真而哀伤的时候，我非给你写信不可了。纯真看来不像是个活东西。医生们从一开头就对它表示绝望。
我马上就要动身去威尼斯和我父亲一起住在他那个罪恶之宫里。我希望你来我这儿。我希望你在这儿。
我从来不是一个人呆着。家里的人们不断回来，不断整理行李，又离开了，而白色的山莓已经熟了。
我很想不带阿洛伊修斯去威尼斯。我不想让它遇到一大帮子讨厌的意大利熊而染上坏习惯。
爱你，或者随你的意思。
以后好多天，我一直觉得自己很讨厌塞巴斯蒂安。后来在一个星期日下午，他拍来了一封电报，把那个阴影驱散了，可是这封电报本身却增加了另一个更深的阴影。
父亲出去了，回来时发现我焦躁不安，团团乱转。他站在走廊里，头上还戴着巴拿马草帽，冲着我微笑。
“你决猜不出我这一天是怎么过的；我到动物园去啦。真是太愉快了；看来那些动物非常喜欢晒太阳。”
“爸爸，我得马上走了。”
“是吗？”
“我的一个好朋友——他出了严重的事情啦。我得马上到他那儿去。海特现在正给我收拾东西。过半个小时有一趟火车。”
我把电报拿给他看，电报写得很简单：“伤势严重速来塞巴斯蒂安。”
“嗯，”父亲说，“我很难过你这么慌乱。看电报，很难说事情像你想的那样严重——否则，根本不可能由受伤者本人签名。还有，当然啰，他也可能神智完全清醒，只不过眼睛看不见了，脊梁骨摔断成了瘫痪。你究竟有什么必要去那儿呢？你也不懂医道嘛。再说你又没有担任什么神职。你是不是希望得到什么遗物呢？”
“我跟你说过了，他是我的特别要好的朋友。”
“呃，奥姆—赫里克也是我的特别要好的朋友，可我就不会在一个暖和的星期天下午手忙脚乱跑到他的灵床前去。我还怀疑奥姆—赫里克太太是不是欢迎我去。不过我看你并没有这样的顾虑。我会惦记你的，亲爱的孩子，不过不要因为我急着回来。”
八月一个星期日薄暮时分的帕丁顿火车站。阳光从屋顶上毛玻璃窗户透进来，书摊已经关门了，几个不慌不忙的旅客在搬运工人旁边溜溜达达——这一切足以安慰一个心绪比我稍为安宁的人。火车几乎是空的。我把小提箱放到一节三等车厢的角落里，然后在餐车里占了一个坐位。“过了雷丁站开第一次正餐，先生，大约在七点钟。您现在要来点什么？”我要了杜松子酒和苦艾酒。火车一出站酒就送上来了。刀叉发出常有的丁当声；明丽的景色在窗前倏忽闪过。可是我对那柔媚的景致没有兴趣；相反，脑子里的恐怖就像酵母一样在发酵，大片的泡沫泛起来，呈现出种种灾祸的情景；篱边入口有人随便举起一支上了膛的枪，一匹马的后腿直立起来，在地上翻滚，一片阴沉沉的水塘，水下埋了个桩子，一棵榆树的枝干突然在一个宁静的早晨倒下来，一辆汽车冲进一个死角；文明生活的各种各样的威胁都从脑子里冒出来，紧紧缠住我。我甚至想象出一个患杀人狂的疯子在阴暗的地方作怪脸，挥舞着一段铅管。麦田和大片林地飞速闪过，溶进金黄色的夕照里，车轮的颤动声，单调地在我耳中反复震荡着：“你来得太晚了，你来得太晚了。他死了，他死了，他死了。”
我吃了饭，换乘开往该地的火车，黄昏时候到了我的目的地梅尔斯蒂德—卡布里站。
“是去布赖兹赫德的吗？先生，是的，朱丽娅小姐正在车场等您呢。”
她坐在一辆敞篷汽车的车轮边。我立刻认出她来；我不可能认不出她来的。
“你是赖德先生吧？跳进来吧。”她的声音和说话的神气都同塞巴斯蒂安的一样。
“他怎么样了？”
“塞巴斯蒂安吗？噢，他很好。你吃过饭了吗？吃了，我想那种饭一定坏透了。家里还有一些。家里只有我和塞巴斯蒂安，所以我们还是等你来了一道吃。”
“他出什么事了？”
“他没说吗？我估计，他认为如果你知道是怎么回事就不会来了。他踝骨上的一根骨头裂了，那骨头太小，连个名称都没有。不过昨天他们已经给他照了X光，要他再忍耐一个月。这可让他烦得要命，他所有的计划都给取消了；他一个劲地唠叨着……别的人都走了。他要我留下来跟他一块儿待着。嘿，我想你是知道他能忧郁得发疯的。我几乎屈服了，后来我说：‘你肯定能抓住什么人的，’他说大家不是出去了，就是都很忙。总而言之谁也不会来陪他的。不过他最后同意试着去找你，我也答应了要是你不来的话，我就留下来，因此你可以想象得出对我说来你多么受欢迎。我得说，你一接到通知就远道赶来，真是太高尚啦。”但是，当她说这话的时候，我却听出了，或者认为听出在她的口气里含着一点轻蔑的味道，好像我竟