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流动的盛宴|A Moveable Feast

第二章　斯泰因小姐的教诲|Miss Stein Instructs

属类： 双语小说 【分类】双语小说 -[作者: 海明威] 阅读：[4709]
《 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 》
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我们返回巴黎时天气已晴好，冷冷的，叫人感到惬意。城市已经适应了冬季——我们街对面有家卖柴和煤的商店，此时正供应上好的木柴；许多经营状况好的咖啡馆在外边的平台上生了火盆，坐在平台上也能取暖。我们住的公寓房里暖洋洋的，让人感到心情舒畅。我们家烧煤球（那是用煤屑压成的卵形煤团），放在木柴生的火上烧。冬季的巴黎街头阳光明媚。光秃秃的树映衬着蓝天，成了一道人们熟悉的景观。迎着清新的冷风信步走在卢森堡公园里，沿着刚用水冲洗过的砾石小径穿过公园，自是别有一番情调。树木脱尽了叶子，你看惯了，会觉得它们就像一尊尊雕塑；风儿吹过池塘的水面，喷泉在灿烂的阳光下喷涌。由于我们在山里待过，观看远景历历如在眼下。

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因为爬过高山，现在爬小山小坡便不在话下了，倒是叫我心情愉悦；攀登旅馆的楼梯，到旅馆顶层我的写作室里（在这个房间，可以将山上所有的屋顶和烟囱尽收眼底），我也乐在其中。写作室里的壁炉通风良好，屋里温暖、舒适。我买了柑橘和烤栗子装在纸袋里带进房间。柑橘是又红又小的蜜橘，我吃的时候把皮剥掉扔在火里，把核也吐在火里。肚子饿了，我就吃烤栗子充饥。由于爬山、天冷和写作的缘故，我总是饥肠辘辘的。在写作室里，我藏了一瓶从山区带回来的樱桃酒，每当在给一篇故事收尾的时候，或者在一天的工作临近结束的时候，我都会喝上几口。一天下来，完成了当日的写作，我就把笔记簿或者稿纸放进桌子的抽屉里，将吃剩的柑橘放进我的口袋（夜间放在写作室里它们会冻成冰疙瘩的）。

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由于写得顺风顺水，走下那一段段长长的楼梯时，我心里美滋滋的。我写作时笔不停挥，非得写出点眉目才行，非得计划好下一步该怎么写才肯停笔。这样就算是吃了一颗定心丸，知道次日该如何挥毫落墨了。但有时写一篇新的小说，一开始我就发怵，不知该怎样铺排。这时，我会坐在火炉前，剥下小蜜橘的皮，把皮里的汁液挤在火焰的边缘，只见那儿会蹿起蓝色的火苗，发出哔剥的声响。然后，我会站起身，走到窗前眺望巴黎城那鳞次栉比的房屋的屋顶，自我安慰地暗忖：“不必焦虑。以前能写得出来，现在也一定能写得出！只要写一个漂亮的句子作为开头就可以了！写一句肺腑之言！”就这样，我最后总会写出一个漂亮的句子，写下文时就如行云流水了。这种套路并不难，因为我心里总会有肺腑之言的，或者也可以写道听途说的漂亮句子。假如写作时故弄玄虚，或者像有些作家那样拾人牙慧、华而不实，那么，写着写着我会发现不如去伪存真、删繁就简，于是便重新起笔，以已经写下的第一个货真价实的句子作为开篇。就是在那个高踞顶层的房间里，我立下了一个宏愿：写一篇故事，反映我熟悉的诸多人和事。其实，这一直都是我的一个心愿——一个美好的心愿，也是对自己严格的要求。也是在这个房间里，我学会了控制自己的思维，一旦停笔就不再想故事里的人和事，直至次日重新开始写作。如此，我潜意识里可以继续思考自己所写的故事，而与此同时，我还可以有望眼观六路耳听八方，留心身边的事物，并希望有所得；我还可以读书以转移注意力，不再将心思放在写作上——急着写作，反而写不下去。一旦写得得意（这不仅需要自我约束，还需要有好的运气），我下楼时会感到飘然若仙，心里轻松自在，这时的我不管到巴黎的哪一处散步都心地坦然。

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下午散步，走的街道虽不同，但我都会走到卢森堡公园那儿，穿过公园去卢森堡博物馆参观（那儿有许多名画，如今那些名画大多已转入卢浮宫和凡尔赛宫陈列了）。我几乎天天都去卢森堡博物馆观赏塞尚、马奈、莫奈以及其他印象派大师的画——最初，我是在芝加哥美术学院开始接触印象派画家的作品的。通过了解和学习塞尚的画作，我意识到：光凭几个有“真知灼见”的句子不足以使我的作品具有深度（“深度”正是我当时追求的目标）。观赏了塞尚的画作，我获益匪浅，只是自己口拙，不善于表达自己的斩获罢了。再说，这也是个秘密嘛，不便外泄。假如卢森堡博物馆里不见灯光，那我就穿过公园去弗勒吕斯街27号——格特鲁德·斯泰因[1]住的一套带有工作室的公寓房。

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[1]　美国作家、诗人，常年侨居巴黎，成为现代主义文学与现代艺术发展中的触媒。
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我和妻子曾经拜访过斯泰因小姐，她以及和她同居的那位朋友[2]对我们极其热情友好。我们喜欢那宽敞的工作室——工作室里挂着许多名画，跟一流画廊的一流展室无异，所不同的是这儿有一个大壁炉，温暖而舒适，还有吃有喝的。在这里，你可以喝茶，可以喝用紫李、黄李或野生红草莓自然蒸馏出的甜酒。这种酒没有颜色，芳香四溢，盛在刻花玻璃瓶里，倒在小玻璃杯里用来招待客人。无论李子酒[3]还是草莓酒[4]都是原汁原味，味道跟所用的原料相同，让你的舌尖有一丝火辣辣的感觉，使你觉得暖洋洋的，变得十分健谈。

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[2]　指爱丽丝·托克勒斯（Alice Toklas），与格特鲁德·斯泰因有同性恋关系。
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斯泰因小姐长得敦实，但个子不高，健壮得像个农村妇女，眼睛挺漂亮，脸盘坚毅，像德国犹太人，也像弗留利人[5]。她的衣着、她的表情多变的脸，还有她那可爱、浓密而富有生气的美国移民的头发（可能还保留着她大学时代的那种发式），都会叫我想起意大利北方的农妇。她说起话来滔滔不绝、海阔天空。

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[5]　弗留利位于意大利。
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她的女伴声音如银铃，小个子，肤色黑黑的，头发剪得像布泰·德·蒙韦尔插图中的圣女贞德，鼻子是鹰钩鼻，尖尖的。我们第一次登门拜访时，她正在绣一个花边，一边绣一边招待我们吃东西、喝饮品，还跟我的妻子唠着家常。她有时说，有时听，有时则在别人说话时插上几句。后来，她向我解释，她喜欢跟家庭妇女谈些家长里短的事。我和妻子有一种共同的感觉——她对那些“家庭妇女”算是很宽容的了。不过，尽管斯泰因小姐的这位朋友叫人有点畏怯，但我们还是挺喜欢她们俩的。这里的油画、蛋糕以及白兰地都是那样的美妙。她们似乎也喜欢我们，待我们就像我们是非常听话、很有礼貌而且有出息的孩子似的。她仿佛觉得我们不该这么小就谈恋爱和结婚，然而却原谅了我们，可能觉得该不该结婚还是由时间决定吧。我的妻子邀请她们到我们家喝茶，她们接受了邀请。

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走进我们的公寓房时，她们似乎更喜欢我们了。不过，这也许是因为房间小，大家坐得太近，我产生了一种错觉吧。斯泰因小姐坐在地铺上，提出要看看我写的短篇小说。看过之后，她说除了那个叫《在密歇根州北部》的短篇，其余的她都挺喜欢的。

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她在评价《在密歇根州北部》时说：“小说倒是不错，但这不是关键所在——关键是它拿不出手。这就像一幅画，画家把画画出来了，却无法展出——即便展出也没人买，因为买回家去也根本无法挂出来。”

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“其实，这篇故事并不是宣淫，而只是返璞归真，用了一些朴实的词句罢了。只有用朴实的词句，故事才能显得真实。这是不得已而为之，唯有如此才能真实。”我分辩说。

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“你根本没有明白我的意思，”她说，“既然拿不出手，就不该写它！这纯粹是无益之举，是错误、愚蠢之举！”

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她本人想在《大西洋月刊》上发表作品，并将这一意图告诉了我。她说我的作品不够出类拔萃，别指望发表于《大西洋月刊》或《星期六晚邮报》，不过我写作独具一格，有望成为一种新类型作家。当务之急，她建议我不要再写无法发表的作品。我没有跟她争辩，也没有再解释心里的想法，说自己想在人物对话上尝试一种新的写法。那是我自己的打算，而现在听取别人的意见要有意义得多。这天下午，她还针对如何买画发表了自己的看法。

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“有了钱，你要么买衣服，要么买画，”她说，“事情就是这么简单。钱囊羞涩者，不可能既买衣服又买画。至于衣服，不必过于讲究，不必赶时髦，买衣服只买舒适的、结实的，省下钱可以买画嘛。”

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“可是，即便我再也不添一件衣服，”我说，“想买毕加索的画也买不起呀。”

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“不错，他的画你的确买不起。你要买就买与你同龄人的画——这类画家和你一样有着当兵的经历。你一定会遇到这类画家的，在街头就能看得见。有些画家是后起之秀，他们的作品严肃认真、出类拔萃。不过，你买衣服恐怕买得并不多，你的妻子买衣服买得多，而女人的衣服特别费钱。”

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我发现妻子的目光在躲着斯泰因小姐，尽量不去看她穿的那身怪模怪样的廉价衣服，并且做到了。斯泰因小姐她们离去时，仍然将我们两口子看得跟香饽饽一样（这是我的感觉），邀请我们再去弗勒吕斯街27号做客。

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这以后又过了一段时间，我受到斯泰因小姐邀请，说冬季下午五点钟之后任何时候都可以去她的工作室。我曾在卢森堡公园里遇见过斯泰因小姐，记不清她是否在遛狗，也记不得当时她到底有没有狗。我只记得自己是在散步，而非遛狗，因为我们养不起狗，甚至连一只猫也养不起。若说猫，我只在咖啡馆或者小餐馆见到过，还在公寓楼门房的窗台上见过几只大猫，它们很招人喜欢。后来我倒是常见斯泰因小姐在卢森堡公园遛狗，但以前她好像是没有狗的。

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暂且不管她有没有狗，反正我接受了她的邀请，出去遛弯时常到她的工作室坐坐，每次去她都请我喝自然蒸馏出的白兰地，并且坚持要我喝干了一杯再斟满。我欣赏着那些画，和她聊着天。那些画叫人观之心潮澎湃，而我们的谈话十分温馨。她侃侃而谈，大讲特讲现代派绘画和画家，讲画家时，主要讲他们的人生经历（讲他们的人生经历多于讲他们的艺术生涯）。她还谈到自己的创作，还将好几篇手稿拿给我看（每天，她写出草稿，由她的女伴打印出来）。她说写作使她感到快乐。但后来随着了解她的程度的加深，我发现真正使她快乐的是创作的出品量（多寡视她的精力而定），是让她的作品获得出版，得到社会的认可。

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我刚认识她的时候，事情还不太严重——她发表了三篇小说，人人都读得懂。其中的一篇名为《梅兰克莎》，写得非常好，是她的那些实验性作品的优秀范例，已经以单行本形式出版，凡是认识和了解她的评论家都交口称赞。她的性格中有一种力量——一旦她想赢得一个人的喜爱，那么对方一定无法抗拒。那些认识她并看过她的藏画的评论家，有些对她写的东西明明看不懂，却投了信任票，这是因为他们喜欢她本人，对于她的人生观抱有信心。在创作时，她发现了许多关于节奏和词句重复使用的窍门，实用而珍贵。在介绍经验时，她口若悬河，讲得头头是道。

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但话又说回来，尽管她写的东西需要出版，需要得到公众的认可，可她不愿修改润色，嫌它枯燥乏味，也不愿承担让别人能看得懂自己的作品的义务——《美利坚民族的形成》这本长得令人难以置信的书尤为如此。

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这本书的开篇部分写得极为出彩，接下来有很长一段也精彩纷呈，不乏绝词佳句，可是后来就走了下坡路，同样的事情没完没了地重复，换上一个责任心强、不喜欢投机取巧的作家，早就把这样的垃圾扔进废纸篓里了。后来我请求（也许应该说逼迫）福特·马多克斯·福特在《大西洋彼岸评论》上连载这部作品，这时我才发现这部作品是多么长，觉得该刊物恐怕直到停刊也连载不完——为了使这本书能顺利连载，我负责审读全部校样（斯泰因小姐嫌这活儿乏味，把它推给了我）。

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这天下午去拜访斯泰因小姐，天气寒冷，我经过公寓看门人的小屋，穿过寒气袭人的院落，步入了她那间暖和的工作室。以上所提到的那些情节都是陈年往事。而这一天，她为我指点迷津，介绍了一些性知识。此时的我们已经非常投合，几乎无话不谈——我自以为无所不知，如果有不懂的事，那八成就是性方面的了。斯泰因小姐认为我在性问题上太无知了。我必须承认自己对同性恋是抱有偏见的，因为我知道里面包含着一些低级趣味的因素。男孩子跟流浪汉在一起，身上就得带一把刀子，随时准备用来护身。在这种情况下，“色狼”可不是指那些对女人穷追不舍的男子。我曾在堪萨斯城待过，游历过那座城市的诸多区域，还去过芝加哥，在那儿的湖泊上乘过船，颇有见闻，学到了不少难登大雅之堂的词语。在追问之下，我告诉斯泰因小姐说，一个男孩子如果和成年男子相处，就得做好杀人的准备，要懂得怎样杀人——要防止遭到性侵，就得在心理上有所准备。这方面的词汇也是无法出版的。假如你有杀人的意图，别人立刻就能感受得到，也就没人敢来惹你了。但也会有一些意外的情况出现，使得你身不由己，或者因受骗而落入绝境。说到这里，我觉得唯有用不雅的词语才能说得更生动一些，于是便说了一句在船上听色狼说过的一句话：“一条缝[6]固然不错，但我情愿要一个眼[7]。”不过，我在讲述时特别留心，即便在使用“大实话”表达自己的看法时亦是如此，唯恐拂逆了对方。

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[6]　隐指女人的阴部。
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“是啊，是啊，海明威，”她说，“可是，你那时生活的环境不同，身边尽是些罪犯和性变态者。”

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我不想跟她争辩，但心里却在想：我那时生活的圈子跟现在没什么不同，里面有着形形色色的人——对那些人我力图抱以理解之心，然而有些人我实在没法喜欢，对于某些人我甚至还讨厌。

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想到这里，我对斯泰因小姐说：“那次在意大利的一所医院住院养病，那位彬彬有礼、名气很大的老人拿着一瓶马沙拉白葡萄酒[8]（或者是堪培利开胃酒[9]）跑来看我，在行为举止上无可挑剔，可后来有一天我不得不吩咐护士再也不要让那老家伙进病房里了。你说这会有什么别的原因呢？”

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[8]　产于意大利西西里岛。
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“这种人有病，他们控制不了自己。你应该可怜他们才对。”

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“我应该可怜他吗？”我问道。接着，我报出了那老人的名字，此处就不提了——那人喜欢出风头，乐于让别人知道他的名字。

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“此人另当别论。他是个邪恶的人，引诱人堕落，的确十恶不赦。”

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“可是，据说他是个优秀的作家啊。”

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“狗屁优秀作家！”斯泰因小姐说，“他只不过是个喜欢招摇过市的人，自己过着醉生梦死的堕落生活，还引诱他人步入歧途。譬如，他引诱他人吸毒。”

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“当时在米兰，你是说那个需要我可怜的人企图引诱我酗酒？”

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“别说傻话啦。他怎么能指望引诱你酗酒呢？你是喝烈性酒的人，他用一瓶马沙拉白葡萄酒就能引诱你酗酒吗？非也，他值得可怜是因为他管不住自己。他心理有病，无法自禁，正因为这一点才叫你可怜他。”

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“我当时的确有点可怜他，”我说，“可又感到失望，想不到他那么彬彬有礼的人竟做出那种事。”

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我又呷了一口白兰地，心里对那个老人的行为痛惜不已，一面欣赏着毕加索的画（画面上有一个裸女和一篮鲜花）。这次谈话不是由我开的头，我觉得再谈下去有点危险了。我和斯泰因小姐交谈历来都没有出现过冷场的局面，但此时却出现了。我见她还有话要说，于是便给自己的杯子里斟满了酒等待着。

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“其实，你对这种事情一点都不懂，海明威，”她徐徐说道，“你遇到的那些人显然是些罪犯、病态的人和邪恶的人。问题的关键是：男性同性恋所干的那档子事是丑恶的，叫人恶心，就连他们自己在事后也觉得恶心。他们酗酒、吸毒，借以缓解这种龌龊的心情，但仍会觉得恶心，于是便隔三岔五地换性伙伴，根本无法获得真正的幸福感。”

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“我明白了。”

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“女人的情况就恰恰相反。她们从不做自己感到恶心的事，不会有那种污秽的行为，所以女性伴侣在一起是快乐的，可以在一起幸幸福福地过日子。”

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“我明白了，”我说，“不过，那个某某人士该当何论？”

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“她是个邪恶的女人，”斯泰因小姐说，“她是个地地道道的坏女人，一个劲儿换性伙伴，否则便无宁日。她会把人引入泥潭之中。”

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“我明白了。”

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“你敢肯定你明白了吗？”

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在那些日子里，要谈的话题很多，于是我们就转换了话头，这令我感到高兴。离开斯泰因小姐的工作室时，公园已经关门了，我只好沿着公园的围墙走到沃日拉尔路，从那儿绕过公园的南端。公园关了门并上了锁，景象凄凉。我急匆匆往位于勒穆瓦纳主教街的家中赶——归途中不是穿过公园，而是绕行，这未免让我的心里也感到有些凄凉。这一天，开始的时候心情很好，末了却如此落寞！明天必须加倍努力——工作是治疗一切疾病的灵丹妙药，我自始至终都将此奉为信条。而此时需要治疗的疾病（斯泰因小姐有同感）是我对青春的迷惘和对妻子的痴情。回到勒穆瓦纳主教街的家中之后，我心里的凄凉感便荡然无存了。我把刚学到的知识给妻子讲了一遍。夜间，我们利用已经掌握的知识，再加上新学到的知识，美美地爽了一场。

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When we came back to Paris it was clear and cold and lovely. The city had accommodated itself to winter, there was good wood for sale at the wood and coal place across our street, and there were braziers outside of many of the good cafés so that you could keep warm on the terraces. Our own apartment was warm and cheerful. We burned boulets which were molded, egg-shaped lumps of coal dust, on the wood fire, and on the streets the winter light was beautiful. Now you were accustomed to see the bare trees against the sky and you walked on the fresh-washed gravel paths through the Luxembourg gardens in the clear sharp wind. The trees were sculpture without their leaves when you were reconciled to them, and the winter winds blew across the surfaces of the ponds and the fountains blew in the bright light. All the distances were short now since we had been in the mountains.

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Because of the change in altitude I did not notice the grade of the hills except with pleasure, and the climb up to the top floor of the hotel where I worked, in a room that looked across all the roofs and the chimneys of the high hill of the quarter, was a pleasure. The fireplace drew well in the room and it was warm and pleasant to work. I brought mandarines and roasted chestnuts to the room in paper packets and peeled and ate the small tangerine-like oranges and threw their skins and spat their seeds in the fire when I ate them and roasted chestnuts when I was hungry. I was always hungry with the walking and the cold and the working. Up in the room I had a bottle of kirsch that we had brought back from the mountains and I took a drink of kirsch when I would get toward the end of a story or toward the end of the day’s work. When I was through working for the day I put away the notebook, or the paper, in the drawer of the table and put any mandarines that were left in my pocket. They would freeze if they were left in the room at night.

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It was wonderful to walk down the long flights of stairs knowing that I’d had good luck working. I always worked until I had something done and I always stopped when I knew what was going to happen next. That way I could be sure of going on the next day. But sometimes when I was starting a new story and I could not get it going, I would sit in front of the fire and squeeze the peel of the little oranges into the edge of the flame and watch the sputter of blue that they made. I would stand and look out over the roofs of Paris and think, “Do not worry. You have always written before and you will write now. All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.” So finally I would write one true sentence, and then go on from there. It was easy then because there was always one true sentence that I knew or had seen or had heard someone say. If I started to write elaborately, or like someone introducing or presenting something, I found that I could cut that scrollwork or ornament out and throw it away and start with the first true simple declarative sentence I had written. Up in that room I decided that I would write one story about each thing that I knew about. I was trying to do this all the time I was writing, and it was good and severe discipline.

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It was in that room too that I learned not to think about anything that I was writing from the time I stopped writing until I started again the next day. That way my subconscious would be working on it and at the same time I would be listening to other people and noticing everything, I hoped; learning, I hoped; and I would read so that I would not think about my work and make myself impotent to do it. Going down the stairs when I had worked well, and that needed luck as well as discipline, was a wonderful feeling and I was free then to walk anywhere in Paris.

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If I walked down by different streets to the Jardin du Luxembourg in the afternoon I could walk through the gardens and then go to the Musée du Luxembourg where the great paintings were that have now mostly been transferred to the Louvre and the Jeu de Paume. I went there nearly every day for the Cézannes and to see the Manets and the Monets and the other Impressionists that I had first come to know about in the Art Institute at Chicago. I was learning something from the painting of Cézanne that made writing simple true sentences far from enough to make the stories have the dimensions that I was trying to put in them. I was learning very much from him but I was not articulate enough to explain it to anyone. Besides it was a secret. But if the light was gone in the Luxembourg I would walk up through the gardens and stop in at the studio apartment where Gertrude Stein lived at 27 rue de Fleurus.

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My wife and I had called on Miss Stein, and she and the friend who lived with her had been very cordial and friendly and we had loved the big studio with the great paintings. It was like one of the best rooms in the finest museum except there was a big fireplace and it was warm and comfortable and they gave you good things to eat and tea and natural distilled liqueurs made from purple plums,yellow plums or wild raspberries. These were fragrant, colorless alcohols served from cut-glass carafes in small glasses and whether they were quetsche, mirabelle or framboise they all tasted like the fruits they came from, converted into a controlled fire on your tongue that warmed you and loosened it.

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Miss Stein was very big but not tall and was heavily built like a peasant woman. She had beautiful eyes and a strong German-Jewish face that also could have been Friulano and she reminded me of a northern Italian peasant woman with her clothes, her mobile face and her lovely, thick, alive immigrant hair which she wore put up in the same way she had probably worn it in college. She talked all the time and at first it was about people and places.

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Her companion had a very pleasant voice, was small, very dark, with her hair cut like Joan of Arc in the Boutet de Monvel illustrations and had a very hooked nose. She was working on a piece of needlepoint when we first met them and she worked on this and saw to the food and drink and talked to my wife. She made one conversation and listened to two and often interrupted the one she was not making. Afterwards she explained to me that she always talked to the wives. The wives, my wife and I felt, were tolerated. But we liked Miss Stein and her friend, although the friend was frightening. The paintings and the cakes and the eau-de-vie were truly wonderful. They seemed to like us too and treated us as though we were very good, well mannered and promising children and I felt that they forgave us for being in love and being married—time would fix that—and when my wife invited them to tea, they accepted.

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When they came to our flat they seemed to like us even more; but perhaps that was because the place was so small and we were much closer together. Miss Stein sat on the bed that was on the floor and asked to see the stories I had written and she said that she liked them except one called “Up in Michigan.”

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“It’s good,” she said. “That’s not the question at all. But it is inaccrochable. That means it is like a picture that a painter paints and then he cannot hang it when he has a show and nobody will buy it because they cannot hang it either.”

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“But what if it is not dirty but it is only that you are trying to use words that people would actually use? That are the only words that can make the story come true and that you must use them? You have to use them.”

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“But you don’t get the point at all,” she said. “You mustn’t write anything that is inaccrochable. There is no point in it. It’s wrong and it’s silly.”

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She herself wanted to be published in the Atlantic Monthly, she told me, and she would be. She told me that I was not a good enough writer to be published there or in The Saturday Evening Post but that I might be some new sort of writer in my own way but the first thing to remember was not to write stories that were inaccrochable. I did not argue about this nor try to explain again what I was trying to do about conversation. That was my own business and it was much more interesting to listen. That afternoon she told us, too, how to buy pictures.

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“You can either buy clothes or buy pictures,” she said. “It’s that simple. No one who is not very rich can do both. Pay no attention to your clothes and no attention at all to the mode, and buy your clothes for comfort and durability, and you will have the clothes money to buy pictures.”

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“But even if I never bought any more clothing ever,” I said, “I wouldn’t have enough money to buy the Picassos that I want.”

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“No. He’s out of your range. You have to buy the people of your own age—of your own military service group. You’ll know them. You’ll meet them around the quarter. There are always good new serious painters. But it’s not you buying clothes so much. It’s your wife always. It’s women’s clothes that are expensive.”

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I saw my wife trying not to look at the strange, steerage clothes that Miss Stein wore and she was successful. When they left we were still popular, I thought, and we were asked to come again to 27 rue de Fleurus.

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It was later on that I was asked to come to the studio any time after five in the winter time. I had met Miss Stein in the Luxembourg. I cannot remember whether she was walking her dog or not, nor whether she had a dog then. I know that I was walking myself, since we could not afford a dog nor even a cat then, and the only cats I knew were in the cafés or small restaurants or the great cats that I admired in concierges’ windows. Later I often met Miss Stein with her dog in the Luxembourg gardens; but I think this time was before she had one.

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But I accepted her invitation, dog or no dog, and had taken to stopping in at the studio, and she always gave me the natural eau-de-vie, insisting on my refilling my glass, and I looked at the pictures and we talked. The pictures were exciting and the talk was very good. She talked, mostly, and she told me about modern pictures and about painters—more about them as people than as painters—and she talked about her work. She showed me the many volumes of manuscript that she had written and that her companion typed each day. Writing every day made her happy, but as I got to know her better I found that for her to keep happy it was necessary that this steady daily output, which varied with her energy, be published and that she receive recognition.

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This had not become an acute situation when I first knew her, since she had published three stories that were intelligible to anyone. One of these stories, “Melanctha,” was very good and good samples of her experimental writing had been published in book form and had been well praised by critics who had met her or known her. She had such a personality that when she wished to win anyone over to her side she would not be resisted, and critics who met her and saw her pictures took on trust writing of hers that they could not understand because of their enthusiasm for her as a person, and because of their confidence in her judgment. She had also discovered many truths about rhythms and the uses of words in repetition that were valid and valuable and she talked well about them.

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But she disliked the drudgery of revision and the obligation to make her writing intelligible, although she needed to have publication and official acceptance, especially for the unbelievably long book called The Making of Americans.

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This book began magnificently, went on very well for a long way with great stretches of great brilliance and then went on endlessly in repetitions that a more conscientious and less lazy writer would have put in the waste basket. I came to know it very well as I got—forced, perhaps would be the word—Ford Madox Ford to publish it in The Transatlantic Review serially, knowing that it would outrun the life of the review. For publication in the review I had to read all of Miss Stein’s proof for her as this was a work which gave her no happiness.

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On this cold afternoon when I had come past the concierge’s lodge and the cold courtyard to the warmth of the studio, all that was years ahead. On this day Miss Stein was instructing me about sex. By that time we liked each other very much and I had already learned that everything I did not understand probably had something to it. Miss Stein thought that I was too uneducated about sex and I must admit that I had certain prejudices against homosexuality since I knew its more primitive aspects. I knew it was why you carried a knife and would use it when you were in the company of tramps when you were a boy in the days when wolves was not a slang term for men obsessed by the pursuit of women. I knew many inaccrochable terms and phrases from Kansas City days and the mores of different parts of that city, Chicago and the lake boats. Under questioning I tried to tell Miss Stein that when you were a boy and moved in the company of men, you had to be prepared to kill a man, know how to do it and really know that you would do it in order not to be interfered with. That term was accrochable. If you knew you would kill, other people sensed it very quickly and you were let alone; but there were certain situations you could not allow yourself to be forced into or trapped into. I could have expressed myself more vividly by using an inaccrochable phrase that wolves used on the lake boats, “Oh gash may be fine but one eye for mine.” But I was always careful of my language with Miss Stein even when true phrases might have clarified or better expressed a prejudice.

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“Yes, yes, Hemingway,” she said. “But you were living in a milieu of criminals and perverts.”

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I did not want to argue that, although I thought that I had lived in a world as it was and there were all kinds of people in it and I tried to understand them, although some of them I could not like and some I still hated.

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“But what about the old man with beautiful manners and a great name who came to the hospital in Italy and brought me a bottle of Marsala or Campari and behaved perfectly, and then one day I would have to tell the nurse never to let that man into the room again?” I asked.

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“Those people are sick and cannot help themselves and you should pity them.”

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“Should I pity so and so?” I asked. I gave his name but he delights so in giving it himself that I feel there is no need to give it for him.

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“No. He’s vicious. He’s a corrupter and he’s truly vicious.”

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“But he’s supposed to be a good writer.”

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“He’s not,” she said. “He’s just a showman and he corrupts for the pleasure of corruption and he leads people into other vicious practices as well. Drugs, for example.”

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“And in Milan the man I’m to pity was not trying to corrupt me?”

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“Don’t be silly. How could he hope to corrupt you? Do you corrupt a boy like you, who drinks alcohol, with a bottle of Marsala? No, he was a pitiful old man who could not help what he was doing. He was sick and he could not help it and you should pity him.”

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“I did at the time,” I said. “But I was disappointed because he had such beautiful manners.”

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I took another sip of the eau-de-vie and pitied the old man and looked at Picasso’s nude of the girl with the basket of flowers. I had not started the conversation and thought it had become a little dangerous. There were almost never any pauses in a conversation with Miss Stein, but we had paused and there was something she wanted to tell me and I filled my glass.

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“You know nothing about any of this really, Hemingway,” she said. “You’ve met known criminals and sick people and vicious people. The main thing is that the act male homosexuals commit is ugly and repugnant and afterwards they are disgusted with themselves. They drink and take drugs, to palliate this, but they are disgusted with the act and they are always changing partners and cannot be really happy.”

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“I see.”

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“In women it is the opposite. They do nothing that they are disgusted by and nothing that is repulsive and afterwards they are happy and they can lead happy lives together.”

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“I see,” I said. “But what about so and so?”

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“She’s vicious,” Miss Stein said. “She’s truly vicious, so she can never be happy except with new people. She corrupts people.”

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“I understand.”

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“You’re sure you understand?”

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There were so many things to understand in those days and I was glad when we talked about something else. The park was closed so I had to walk down along it to the rue de Vaugirard and around the lower end of the park. It was sad when the park was closed and locked and I was sad walking around it instead of through it and in a hurry to get home to the rue Cardinal Lemoine. The day had started out so brightly too. I would have to work hard tomorrow. Work could cure almost anything, I believed then, and I believe now. Then all I had to be cured of, I decided Miss Stein felt, was youth and loving my wife. I was not at all sad when I got home to the rue Cardinal Lemoine and told my newly acquired knowledge to my wife. In the night we were happy with our own knowledge we already had and other new knowledge we had acquired in the mountains.

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序号 英文/音标 中文解释 更多操作

fountain

[’faʊntən]

n.喷泉;源泉;储水容器;泉水

kirsch

[kɪəʃ]

n.樱桃酒

declarative

[dɪ’klærətɪv]

adj.宣言的;布告的;说明的;陈述的

Paris

[’pærɪs]

n.巴黎;重楼(百合科植物);帕里斯(姓氏)

Stein

[staɪn]

n.啤酒杯

loosen

[’luːsn]

vt.松开;放松;放宽

felted

[’feltɪd]

v. 把 ... 制成毡(使 ... 粘结)

Michigan

[ˈmɪʃɪgən]

n.密西根(美国州名)

conversation

[ˌkɒnvə’seɪʃn]

n.谈话;会话

Picasso

[pɪ’kɑːsəʊ]

n.毕加索(西班牙画家)

Luxembourg

[’lʌksəmbɜːɡ]

n.卢森堡(欧洲西北部国家).

manuscript

[’mænjuskrɪpt]

n.手稿;原稿

intelligible

[ɪn’telɪdʒəbl]

adj.可理解的;明白易懂的;清楚的

unbelievably

[ʌnbɪˈliːvəblɪ]

adv.难以相信地

outrun

[ˌaʊt’rʌn]

v.比 ... 跑得更快;超过;从...逃脱

pervert

[pə’vɜːt]

vt.误用;歪曲;曲解;败坏

Marsala

[mɑː’sɑːlə]

n.马沙拉葡萄酒

vicious

[’vɪʃəs]

adj.恶毒的;恶意的;剧烈的;堕落的

corrupt

[kə’rʌpt]

adj.腐败的;堕落的;讹误的

pitiful

[’pɪtɪfl]

adj.慈悲的;可怜的;凄惨的

disgust

[dɪs’ɡʌst]

n.厌恶;憎恶;反感

repulsive

[rɪ’pʌlsɪv]

adj.令人厌恶的;排斥的

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