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流动的盛宴|A Moveable Feast

第八章　饿体肤，苦心志|Hunger Was Good Discipline

属类： 双语小说 【分类】双语小说 -[作者: 海明威] 阅读：[4948]
《 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 》
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在巴黎，如果你腹中乏食，你会有一种强烈的饥饿感——面包房的橱窗里摆着许多好吃的东西，食客们在人行道边上的餐桌旁大吃大喝，你眼睛里看到的是美食，鼻子里闻到的是美食的香味，这些都会耸动你的馋虫。你放弃了新闻工作，却还没有写出一篇在美国有人愿意买的小说，这时你跟家里人撒了个谎，说要去赴一个饭局。那么，你最好还是到卢森堡公园去吧。到了那里，你从天文台广场走到沃日拉尔路，途中既看不到美食，也闻不到美食的香味。既然不能饱口福，你可以进卢森堡博物馆饱眼福——你肚子里没有东西，饿得发晕，这时你会觉得那些名画线条清晰，画面无比美丽。正是在饥肠辘辘的情况下，我才对塞尚有了更深的了解，真正明白了他的那些风景画是怎么创作出来的。我禁不住想：他创作时可能也饿着肚子——也许他忘记了吃饭。你睡不着觉、吃不上饭的时候，很可能会产生这种荒诞但很励志的想法。后来我觉得塞尚大概也在忍饥挨饿，只是在方式上有所不同罢了。

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出了卢森堡博物馆，你可以沿着狭窄的费鲁路走到圣叙尔皮斯广场。那儿也没有餐馆，只有静悄悄的空地、长椅和树木，有一座喷泉和狮子塑像，还有一些鸽子（有的大摇大摆地在人行道上走动，有的落在主教塑像上）。除此之外，还有一座教堂以及一些商铺（那些商铺位于广场北侧，出售宗教用品和牧师穿的法衣）。

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离开广场，如果到河边去，你沿途势必会路过水果店、蔬菜卖场、酒馆、面包房和糕饼店。不过，要是精心择路，向右绕过那座灰白的用石块建成的教堂，到达罗迪昂街，然后向右拐弯走向西尔维亚·比奇的书店，路上就不会遇见多少餐馆和食品店了。罗迪昂街上一家餐馆都没有，要一直走到前边的广场才能看见三家。

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待你抵达罗迪昂街12号[1]时，你的饥饿感便已经得到了控制，而观察力和思考能力却得到了提升。你会觉得墙上的那些照片大放异彩，会发现一些以前从没见过的好书。

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[1]　西尔维亚·比奇创建的莎士比亚公司的所在地，也是作家们的文化沙龙举办地。
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“你真是太瘦了，海明威。”西尔维亚会这样对我说，“你吃得够饱吗？”

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“当然能吃饱。”

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“午饭你吃了什么？”

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我饿得胃里直泛酸水，但嘴里却敷衍道：“我现在正打算回家吃午饭呢。”

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“下午三点才吃午饭？”

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“想不到都这么晚了。”

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“艾德里安娜那天晚上说，想请你和哈德莉吃顿饭。可以把法尔格也请来。你喜欢法尔格，对不对？或者请拉尔博。拉尔博你是喜欢的，这我心里有底。反正不管请谁吧，只要你喜欢就行。你能跟哈德莉说一声吗？”

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“我知道她一定会非常高兴的。”

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“那就托你带口信了。吃饭吃不好，就不要太辛苦了。”

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“我不会太辛苦的。”

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“那你就回家吃午饭吧，别太晚了。”

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“他们会把我的饭留下的。”

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“不要吃冷食。午饭应该趁热吃。”

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“有我的邮件吗？”

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“大概没有吧。不过，还是先叫我看看再说吧。”

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她查了查，结果找到了一封邮件，然后高兴地抬头看了看我，打开了一个合着的桌子抽屉。

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“这是我出去的时候送来的。”她说。那是一封信，里面似乎装的是钱。“是韦德尔科普寄来的。”她解释道。

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“准是《横截面》[2]寄来的稿酬。你见过韦德尔科普吗？”

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[2]　德国的一家文学月刊。
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“没有。不过他跟乔治都在这座城市里，早晚都会见你的。别担心。他可能是想先把稿酬付给你。”

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“那是六百法郎。他说以后还会付更多的。”

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“我真高兴，多亏你的提醒，我才查了查邮件。谢谢你，亲爱的好好先生。”

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“真是滑稽，我的稿子只能卖到德国去，卖给《横截面》和《法兰克福日报》。”

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“是吗？不过，你不必因此而心烦。你可以拿些短篇小说卖给福特呀。”她打趣说。

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“一页稿子三十法郎。就算每三个月在《大西洋彼岸评论》上发表一个短篇吧，一个季度一个五页长的短篇只能得一百五十法郎，一年总共才六百法郎。”

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“海明威，你可别仅仅计较稿酬。问题的关键是你能把稿子写出来。”

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“这我清楚。稿子是可以写出来的，但没人买也白搭。自从放弃了新闻工作，我就再也没有挣到过钱。”

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“一定能卖出去的。瞧，这不就有一笔稿酬到手了嘛。”

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“抱歉，西尔维亚。请原谅我这般发牢骚。”

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“这有什么原谅不原谅的？随便聊聊，不说这也会说别的嘛。你也知道，当作家，各有各的烦恼，谁没有满肚子的苦水？我要你答应我：一是不要为稿酬焦虑，二是一定要吃饱肚子。”

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“我答应你。”

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“那就回家去吃午饭吧。”

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出了门走到罗迪昂街上，我好一顿自责，怪自己不该发那么多的牢骚。我饿肚子完全是自作自受，是一种愚蠢的行为。我完全可以买一个大面包吃进肚子里，而不该跳过一顿饭。那烘得焦焦的棕色面包让人垂涎欲滴！不过，光吃面包嘴里会发干，总还得喝点什么！“你这个牢骚满腹的家伙！你是一个肮脏的伪圣人、假殉道者！”我对自己说，“你放弃新闻工作，是你自己愿意那样做！你是个守信誉的人，只要开口，西尔维亚会借钱给你的。借她的钱，你不知借了多少次了。借钱是没有问题的，但你得在别的地方妥协让步。其实，饥饿有益于健康，饿肚子的时候欣赏画作效果更好。话虽如此，吃饭毕竟是一种享受！眼下，该到何处去吃饭呢？”

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要去就去利普饭店，在那儿美美吃一顿，喝上几杯！

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利普饭店很快就能走到。路上，每经过一个供吃喝的地方，我的胃跟我的眼睛或鼻子一样很快就注意到了，这给走这段路增添了一份乐趣。利普饭店的啤酒餐厅里人很少，我在一把靠墙的长椅上坐下来，背后有一面大镜子，前面则是餐桌。侍者问我要不要啤酒，我点了一份高档啤酒，盛在一个大玻璃杯里，足足有一公升，又点了一份土豆沙拉。

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啤酒冰凉冰凉，口感极好。土豆煎得硬硬的，在卤汁里浸泡过，橄榄油的味道鲜爽可口。我在土豆上撒了点儿黑胡椒面，把面包在橄榄油里浸了浸，先喝了一大口啤酒，然后便慢慢地又吃又喝。土豆吃完后，我又要了一份，另外还点了一份熏香肠。这种熏香肠有点像法兰克福香肠，又粗又大，从中间劈开，涂上特制的芥末酱。

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我用面包蘸着橄榄油和芥末酱，把它们吃了个精光，然后就慢慢喝啤酒，细品慢咽。等到啤酒的凉爽劲开始消失的时候，我便将剩下的酒一饮而尽，接着又要了半升，看着侍者为我斟酒。这份酒比刚才的那份好像更凉爽，我一仰脖子就喝了半杯。

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若说我的那些稿子，我一点都不担心，知道那是些好稿子，国内早晚会有人愿意出版的。我放弃新闻工作时，就胸有成竹，知道那批短篇小说一定能出版。可是，我寄出的稿子屡屡被退回。令我信心不减的是：爱德华·奥布赖恩[3]把我那篇《我的老头儿》编入了《最佳短篇小说选》，并且把当年的那一期献给了我。想到这里，我哑然失笑，又喝了几口啤酒。那个短篇从未在杂志上发表过，他却破了自己定的规矩，将其收入了《最佳短篇小说选》。我不禁又哈哈笑出了声，引得侍者瞥了我一眼。更可笑的是：尽管爱德华·奥布赖恩如此看得起我，却把我的名字拼写错了。在这之前，哈德莉有一次将我写的稿子放进衣箱里，结果在里昂车站连箱子一起被人偷走了。最后只剩下了两个短篇，《我的老头儿》就是其中的一篇。她原来是准备把那些稿子带到洛桑交给我，给我一个惊喜，这样我们在山区度假时我就可以对稿子进行润色。她当初把原稿、打字稿和复写的副本一股脑儿放进了马尼拉文件夹里。这篇稿子之所以能够幸存下来，完全是因为林肯·斯蒂芬斯[4]曾把它寄给了一个编辑，而那个编辑又将其寄了回来——其他稿子失窃时，这一篇则在邮寄途中。幸存的另一篇稿子名为《在密歇根州北部》，是早在斯泰因小姐来我们家做客之前就写好了，由于她说这篇稿子有伤大雅，我一直没有誊写。草稿就一直躺在抽屉的哪个地方睡大觉。

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[3]　美国作家、编辑，每年编选一期《最佳短篇小说选》。
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话说那次离开洛桑，我们又去了一趟意大利。在意大利，我把那篇描写赛马的《我的老头儿》拿给奥布赖恩看。他温文尔雅，样子有点腼腆，眼睛呈淡蓝色，头发直直的，很难看，发型是他自己修剪的。当时他住在拉帕洛[5]旁边一座山上的修道院里写稿子。我那时的处境很糟，有点江郎才尽的感觉，竟然愚蠢地把那个短篇拿给他看——这简直就像是出示一艘出事轮船所残留下的罗经柜（那艘船由于某种令人无法置信的原因而下沉），或者出示一只穿着靴子的残废了的脚（你开玩笑地说这只脚是在一次飞机失事时致残的）。他读那个短篇时，看得出他远比我伤心[6]。除了面临死亡或者经受无法承受的痛苦，我还没见过有谁比他更伤心的——这不包括哈德莉那次把稿子弄丢后向我诉苦的时候。哈德莉起初不停地抹眼泪，哭了又哭，就是无法说出口。我告诉她，哪怕是天塌地陷也不当紧，也没什么大不了的；不管发生了什么事情都不必担心，总会找到补救办法的。最后，她终于把事情说了出来。我听后觉得她不可能把复写的副本也一起带来弄丢了，于是便花钱雇人帮我采访（我当时从事新闻工作，薪酬丰厚），自己急忙乘列车回巴黎去，结果发现哈德莉说的是实情。那天晚上回到家中，证实了哈德莉的话，我简直伤心欲绝——当时的情况我至今仍记忆犹新。现在，一切都过去了，往事不堪回首。琴科曾教导我：死伤由命，不要老说来说去的。那次，我拿这话安慰奥布赖恩，让他别太难过。塞翁失马，焉知非福——早期作品遗失，也许对我还是件好事呢。反正我对奥布赖恩说的都是些胜败乃兵家常事之类的话。我说我还会写出新的短篇故事的。如此说，也只是不想让他太难过罢了。但我心里清楚：我一定会这么做的。

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[5]　意大利热那亚省的一个小镇。
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在利普饭店吃饭时，我浮想联翩，回忆着自己在早期作品遗失后究竟在何时又开始振作起来而写出了一篇新的故事。那是在科尔蒂纳丹佩佐[7]——当时，我中断了春季的滑雪，被派往德国的莱茵兰和鲁尔区采访，之后又返回科尔蒂纳丹佩佐与哈德莉会合。那是一个极简单的短篇，叫作《禁捕季节》，原来有主人公（一个老人）上吊自杀的结尾，却被我一笔删掉了。这种大刀阔斧的删减是我的新理论——能简化就简化，如此能加强小说的感染力，令读者有更深的感受，品味到弦外之音。

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[7]　意大利的一个小镇。
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我觉得自己就是这么做的，结果叫人有点看不懂。对这一点不会有多大疑问的。这样的作品自然没有人愿意看。不过，人们终究会理解的，这跟欣赏绘画一样——先是不懂，最后理解。这需要时间和耐心！

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话说饿肚子，你得减少食量，有必要好好控制自己，这样就不会过多思考饮食方面的事情了。饥饿是良好的锻炼，会让你获益匪浅。在这方面，众生还尚不理解，而我已胜他们一筹了。我敢肯定自己已远远领先于他们——我连一日三餐都吃不起。即便他们能赶上来，也不是坏事。

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我踌躇满志，觉得必须写一部长篇小说才甘心。但这似乎是一件不可能做到的事情——我曾经尝试着写一些段落，想以此作为长篇小说的组成部分，却感到千难万难。写长篇势在必行，这就跟你要参加长跑比赛一样，得进行长跑训练。

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其实，我是写过一部长篇的，草稿被妻子放进衣箱，在里昂车站失窃了。我仍具有少年时期的那种抒情能力——一种像青春一样容易消逝而不可靠的能力。草稿的遗失未必不是件好事，但必须重打锣鼓另开张，再写出一部长篇来！不过，此事得从长计议，必要时再动笔。狗屁从长计议！要吃饭就得立刻动手写，非写不行！现在已到了山穷水尽的地步，已经没有了退路。那就积累素材吧。与此同时，先利用自己最熟悉的素材写一个比较长的短篇，以解燃眉之急。

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想着想着，我已付了账走出了利普饭店，向右拐弯跨过雷恩街（走这条路是为了躲开“双叟”咖啡馆[8]，不到那儿喝咖啡），然后抄近道走波拿巴路回家。

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[8]　位于巴黎日耳曼大街。
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此时，我仍在苦苦思索：究竟有哪些自己熟悉的素材还没有写过？究竟有哪些素材是自己真正了解和最关心的呢？对于这些，我无法做出决断。我所能决断的是应该以最快的速度走哪条路到一个自己能写作的地方。于是，我沿着波拿巴路走到古伊尼莫路，再从那儿到阿萨斯路，最后抵达圣母院大街，步入丁香园咖啡馆。

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我在一个角落里坐下挥笔疾书，午后的阳光越过我的肩头照进来。侍者送来一杯奶沫咖啡，稍凉后我喝了半杯，随即将杯子放下继续写作。甚至在停下笔时，我心里仍念念难忘那条大河[9]，仿佛看见鲑鱼在水潭里游动，水流静静拍打着阻住其去路的木桩桥墩。这篇故事讲的是一个战士从战场还乡后的生活，对战争却只字未提。

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[9]　海明威此时正在写名篇《“双心”大河》。
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次日早晨，我还要写那条大河，必须把大河那儿的情景、附近的风光以及那儿发生的事情一一展现出来。我要从容地写，每天都写，其他的事情可以放在一边。现在口袋里有了德国寄来的稿酬，生活不成问题。这笔钱用完，还会有别的钱进账。

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目前要做的是保持身体健康和头脑清醒，次日早晨重新投入到工作当中。

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You got very hungry when you did not eat enough in Paris because all the bakery shops had such good things in the windows and people ate outside at tables on the sidewalk so that you saw and smelled the food. When you had given up journalism and were writing nothing that anyone in America would buy, explaining at home that you were lunching out with someone, the best place to go was the Luxembourg gardens where you saw and smelled nothing to eat all the way from the Place de l’Observatoire to the rue de Vaugirard. There you could always go into the Luxembourg museum and all the paintings were sharpened and clearer and more beautiful if you were belly-empty, hollow-hungry. I learned to understand Cézanne much better and to see truly how he made landscapes when I was hungry. I used to wonder if he were hungry too when he painted; but I thought possibly it was only that he had forgotten to eat. It was one of those unsound but illuminating thoughts you have when you have been sleepless or hungry. Later I thought Cézanne was probably hungry in a different way.

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After you came out of the Luxembourg you could walk down the narrow rue Férou to the Place St.-Sulpice and there were still no restaurants, only the quiet square with its benches and trees. There was a fountain with lions, and pigeons walked on the pavement and perched on the statues of the bishops. There was the church and there were shops selling religious objects and vestments on the north side of the square.

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From this square you could not go further toward the river without passing shops selling fruits, vegetables, wines, or bakery and pastry shops. But by choosing your way carefully you could work to your right around the grey and white stone church and reach the rue de l’Odéon and turn up to your right toward Sylvia Beach’s bookshop and on your way you did not pass too many places where things to eat were sold. The rue de l’Odéon was bare of eating places until you reached the square where there were three restaurants.

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By the time you reached 12 rue de l’Odéon your hunger was contained but all of your perceptions were heightened again. The photographs looked different and you saw books that you had never seen before.

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“You’re too thin, Hemingway,” Sylvia would say. “Are you eating enough?”

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“Sure.”

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“What did you eat for lunch?”

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My stomach would turn over and I would say, “I’m going home for lunch now.”

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“At three o’clock?”

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“I didn’t know it was that late.”

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“Adrienne said the other night she wanted to have you and Hadley for dinner. We’d ask Fargue. You like Fargue, don’t you? Or Larbaud. You like him. I know you like him. Or anyone you really like. Will you speak to Hadley?”

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“I know she’d love to come.”

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“I’ll send her a pneu. Don’t you work so hard now that you don’t eat properly.”

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“I won’t.”

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“Get home now before it’s too late for lunch.”

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“They’ll save it.”

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“Don’t eat cold food either. Eat a good hot lunch.”

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“Did I have any mail?”

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“I don’t think so. But let me look.”

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She looked and found a note and looked up happily and then opened a closed door in her desk.

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“This came while I was out,” she said. It was a letter and it felt as though it had money in it. “Wedderkop,” Sylvia said.

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“It must be from Der Querschnitt. Did you see Wedderkop?”

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“No. But he was here with George. He’ll see you. Don’t worry. Perhaps he wanted to pay you first.”

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“It’s six hundred francs. He says there will be more.”

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“I’m awfully glad you reminded me to look. Dear Mr. Awfully Nice.”

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“It’s damned funny that Germany is the only place I can sell anything. To him and the Frankfurter Zeitung.”

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“Isn’t it? But don’t you worry ever. You can sell stories to Ford,” she teased me.

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“Thirty francs a page. Say one story every three months in The Transatlantic. Story five pages long makes one hundred and fifty francs a quarter. Six hundred francs a year.”

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“But, Hemingway, don’t worry about what they bring now. The point is that you can write them.”

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“I know. I can write them. But nobody will buy them. There is no money coming in since I quit journalism.”

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“They will sell. Look. You have the money for one right there.”

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“I’m sorry, Sylvia. Forgive me for speaking about it.”

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“Forgive you for what? Always talk about it or about anything. Don’t you know all writers ever talk about is their troubles? But promise me you won’t worry and that you’ll eat enough.”

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“I promise.”

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“Then get home now and have lunch.”

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Outside on the rue de l’Odéon I was disgusted with myself for having complained about things. I was doing what I did of my own free will and I was doing it stupidly. I should have bought a large piece of bread and eaten it instead of skipping a meal. I could taste the brown lovely crust. But it is dry in your mouth without something to drink. You God damn complainer. You dirty phony saint and martyr, I said to myself. You quit journalism of your own accord. You have credit and Sylvia would have loaned you money. She has plenty of times. Sure. And then the next thing you would be compromising on something else. Hunger is healthy and the pictures do look better when you are hungry. Eating is wonderful too and do you know where you are going to eat right now?

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Lipp’s is where you are going to eat and drink too.

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It was a quick walk to Lipp’s and every place I passed that my stomach noticed as quickly as my eyes or my nose made the walk an added pleasure. There were few people in the brasserie and when I sat down on the bench against the wall with the mirror in back and a table in front and the waiter asked if I wanted beer I asked for a distingué, the big glass mug that held a liter, and for potato salad.

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The beer was very cold and wonderful to drink. The pommes à l’huile were firm and marinated and the olive oil delicious. I ground black pepper over the potatoes and moistened the bread in the olive oil. After the first heavy draft of beer I drank and ate very slowly.When the pommes à l’huile were gone I ordered another serving and a cervelas. This was a sausage like a heavy, wide frankfurter split in two and covered with a special mustard sauce.

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I mopped up all the oil and all of the sauce with bread and drank the beer slowly until it began to lose its coldness and then I finished it and ordered a demi and watched it drawn. It seemed colder than the distingué and I drank half of it.

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I had not been worrying, I thought. I knew the stories were good and someone would publish them finally at home. When I stopped doing newspaper work I was sure the stories were going to be published. But every one I sent out came back. What had made me so confident was Edward O’Brien’s taking the “My Old Man” story for the Best Short Stories book and then dedicating the book for that year to me. Then I laughed and drank some more beer. The story had never been published in a magazine and he had broken all his rules to take it for the book. I laughed again and the waiter glanced at me. It was funny because, after all that, he had spelled the name wrong. It was one of two stories I had left when everything I had written was stolen in Hadley’s suitcase that time at the Gare de Lyon when she was bringing the manuscripts down to me to Lausanne as a surprise, so I could work on them on our holidays in the mountains. She had put in the originals, the typescripts and the carbons, all in manila folders. The only reason I had the one story was that Lincoln Steffens had sent it out to some editor who sent it back. It was in the mail while everything else was stolen. The other story that I had was the one called “Up in Michigan” written before Miss Stein had come to our flat. I had never had it copied because she said it was inaccrochable. It had been in a drawer somewhere.

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So after we had left Lausanne and gone down to Italy I showed the racing story to O’Brien, a gentle, shy man, pale, with pale blue eyes, and straight lanky hair he cut himself, who lived then as a boarder in a monastery up above Rapallo. It was a bad time and I did not think I could write any more then, and I showed the story to him as a curiosity, as you might show, stupidly, the binnacle of a ship you had lost in some incredible way, or as you might pick up your booted foot and make some joke about it if it had been amputated after a crash. Then, when he read the story, I saw he was hurt far more than I was. I had never seen anyone hurt by a thing other than death or unbearable suffering except Hadley when she told me about the things being gone. She had cried and cried and could not tell me. I told her that no matter what the dreadful thing was that had happened nothing could be that bad, and whatever it was, it was all right and not to worry. We would work it out. Then, finally, she told me. I was sure she could not have brought the carbons too and I hired someone to cover for me on my newspaper job. I was making good money then at journalism, and took the train for Paris. It was true all right and I remember what I did in the night after I let myself into the flat and found it was true. That was over now and Chink had taught me never to discuss casualties; so I told O’Brien not to feel so bad. It was probably good for me to lose early work and I told him all that stuff you feed the troops. I was going to start writing stories again I said and, as I said it, only trying to lie so that he would not feel so bad, I knew that it was true.

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Then I started to think in Lipp’s about when I had first been able to write a story after losing everything. It was up in Cortina d’Ampezzo when I had come back to join Hadley there after the spring skiing which I had to interrupt to go on assignment to the Rhineland and the Ruhr. It was a very simple story called “Out of Season” and I had omitted the real end of it which was that the old man hanged himself. This was omitted on my new theory that you could omit anything if you knew that you omitted and the omitted part would strengthen the story and make people feel something more than they understood.

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Well, I thought, now I have them so they do not understand them. There cannot be much doubt about that. There is most certainly no demand for them. But they will understand the same way that they always do in painting. It only takes time and it only needs confidence.

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It is necessary to handle yourself better when you have to cut down on food so you will not get too much hunger-thinking. Hunger is good discipline and you learn from it. And as long as they do not understand it you are ahead of them. Oh sure, I thought, I’m so far ahead of them now that I can’t afford to eat regularly. It would not be bad if they caught up a little.

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I knew I must write a novel. But it seemed an impossible thing to do when I had been trying with great difficulty to write paragraphs that would be the distillation of what made a novel. It was necessary to write longer stories now as you would train for a longer race. When I had written a novel before, the one that had been lost in the bag stolen at the Gare de Lyon, I still had the lyric facility of boyhood that was as perishable and as deceptive as youth was. I knew it was probably a good thing that it was lost, but I knew too that I must write a novel. I would put it off though until I could not help doing it. I was damned if I would write one because it was what I should do if we were to eat regularly. When I had to write it, then it would be the only thing to do and there would be no choice. Let the pressure build. In the meantime I would write a long story about whatever I knew best.

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By this time I had paid the check and gone out and turned to the right and crossed the rue de Rennes so that I would not go to the Deux-Magots for coffee and was walking up the rue Bonaparte on the shortest way home.

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What did I know best that I had not written about and lost? What did I know about truly and care for the most? There was no choice at all. There was only the choice of streets to take you back fastest to where you worked. I went up Bonaparte to Guynemer, then to the rue d’Assas, up the rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs to the Closerie des Lilas.

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I sat in a corner with the afternoon light coming in over my shoulder and wrote in the notebook. The waiter brought me a café crème and I drank half of it when it cooled and left it on the table while I wrote. When I stopped writing I did not want to leave the river where I could see the trout in the pool, its surface pushing and swelling smooth against the resistance of the log-driven piles of the bridge. The story was about coming back from the war but there was no mention of the war in it.

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But in the morning the river would be there and I must make it and the country and all that would happen. There were days ahead to be doing that each day. No other thing mattered. In my pocket was the money from Germany so there was no problem. When that was gone some other money would come in.

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All I must do now was stay sound and good in my head until morning when I would start to work again.

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序号 英文/音标 中文解释 更多操作

sleepless

[’sliːpləs]

adj.无眠的;睡不着的;警觉的

vestment

[’vestmənt]

n.(尤指牧师的)法衣;官服;礼服

bookshop

[’bʊkʃɒp]

n.书店.

heighten

[’haɪtn]

v.增加;升高;加强

Sylvia

[ˈsɪlvɪə]

n.西尔维亚(女子名)

franc

[fræŋk]

n.法郎

Frankfurter

[’fræŋkfɜːtə(r)]

n.法兰克福香肠

tease

[tiːz]

n.揶揄者;戏弄

liter

[’liːtə(r)]

n.升;公升(容量单位).

frankfurter

[’fræŋkfɜːtə(r)]

n.法兰克福香肠

coldness

[’kəʊldnəs]

n.寒冷;冷淡

Stein

[staɪn]

n.啤酒杯

Chink

[tʃɪŋk]

n.裂缝;漏洞;硬币;叮当声;(贬)中国人

deceptive

[dɪ’septɪv]

adj.骗人的;虚伪的;诈欺的

Bonaparte

[ˈbəʊnɪpɒt]

n.波拿巴(科西嘉一家族;包括拿破仑一世之兄弟).

swelling

[’swelɪŋ]

n.肿胀物;膨胀,

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