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流动的盛宴|A Moveable Feast

第九章 福特·马多克斯·福特[1]和魔鬼的门徒|Ford Madox Ford and the Devil’s Disciple

属类: 双语小说 【分类】双语小说 -[作者: 海明威] 阅读:[5236]
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当我们住在圣母院大街113号靠近锯木厂的那幢公寓时,离我们最近的、最好的咖啡馆是丁香园咖啡馆,这儿也是巴黎最好的咖啡馆之一。冬天这儿暖洋洋的,春秋季则可以坐在外边喝咖啡——在人行道的树荫下摆几张桌子(桌子是清一色的方桌,沿林荫大道一字排开,头顶是硕大的遮阳伞),旁边就是内伊元帅的雕像,真是别具一番情调。这家咖啡馆有两个侍者和我们成了好朋友。圆亭咖啡馆和劳特尔多咖啡馆[2]的顾客是绝对不会来这种地方的,因为来这儿不会有人认识他们,也不会有人关注他们。那年头,人们对位于蒙帕纳斯林荫大道和拉斯帕伊林荫大道交接处的那两家咖啡馆趋之若鹜,都想在那儿露露面,在某种程度上是想让专栏记者报道他们,以一日的显赫博得万古美名。

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[2] 这两家咖啡馆在国际上享有盛名,是名人雅士常来常往之地。
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丁香园咖啡馆曾经一度是诗人们定期聚会的场所,而最后一位露面的巨匠是诗人保罗·福尔[3](可惜他的作品我从未拜读过)。而现在,我唯一能见到的诗人只有布莱斯·桑德拉尔[4]了,脸上伤痕累累,像是拳击场上留下的,一只空袖子挽起并用别针别着,抽烟时用那只剩下的完好的手卷烟丝。在没有喝高的情况下,他可以成为你很好的伙伴。一喝高,他就信口雌黄、谎话连篇,即便如此也比许多不撒谎的人风趣。到丁香园来的诗人只有他一个了,我却在这儿仅见过他一次。如今,来丁香园的多为老者,留着大胡子,穿着褪了色的衣服,或带妻子,或带情妇,有的在衣服的翻领上佩有荣誉军团的细条红绶带。我们怀着良好的愿望将他们视为科学家或学者——他们会要一杯开胃酒坐在那儿消磨时光,几乎跟那些衣着比较寒酸、胸前挂着法兰西科学院的荣誉紫色绶带、带了妻子或情妇来喝牛奶咖啡的人坐的时间一样长(我们觉得他们挂绶带并不意味着他们就是院士,而可能是大学里的教授或讲师)。

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[3] 法国诗人,被称为“象征派诗王”。
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由于这些人的到来,丁香园咖啡馆成了一个充满了温馨情调的地方,因为他们相互关心,只对美酒、咖啡和自制饮料,以及那些夹在报架上的报纸感兴趣,无人想出风头吸引别人的眼球。

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丁香园咖啡馆另外还有一些别的顾客,他们有的上衣翻领上佩着军功十字章,有的则佩戴黄绿两色的奖章。这些顾客是伤残军人:有的缺胳膊少腿,生活中需要克服由此而带来的不便;有的失去了眼睛,换上了假眼;有的脸部受伤,做了整容手术——大换脸后,他们的面部总会留下红红的、发亮的痕迹,就像滑雪板在雪地上压出的印迹。我留心观察着这个人群,观察他们的一举一动,观察他们假眼的质量以及脸部手术的效果。对他们,我们深怀敬意,甚于对那些学者或教授的尊敬——学者或教授可能也有过冲锋陷阵的经历,但他们毕竟没有致残。

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那年头,我们对没有打过仗的人一概缺乏好感,但也不是对每一个打过仗的人都有好感。对桑德拉尔我们就颇不以为然,觉得他虽然失去了一条胳膊,也不该那般炫耀。这天下午,他来丁香园来得早,那些常客尚未露面,这叫我感到高兴。

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黄昏时分,我坐在丁香园外面的一张桌子旁,观察着树木和房屋上光影的变化,观察着远处几匹马在林荫大道上慢慢行走。就在这时,我身后右侧咖啡馆的门开了,一个人出了咖啡馆,来到了我跟前。

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“嗬,你在这里坐着呢。”他打招呼说。

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来者是福特·马多克斯·福特(他当时用的是这个名字),他喘着粗气,嘴上的八字胡又浓又密,染了颜色,身子挺得笔直,像一个能走动的、包装得很好的倒置的大酒桶。

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“我能坐在这儿吗?”他一边说着一边坐了下来,眼球是淡蓝色的,眼皮和眉毛淡而无色,目光投向远处的林荫大道。

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“我这一辈子不知用了多少年致力于一件事——宰猪杀羊也应该讲人道。”

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“这话听你说过。”我说。

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“我想我没对你说过。”

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“你百分之百说过。”

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“这就非常怪啦。我绝对没告诉过任何人。”

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“喝一杯好吗?”

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侍者正站在跟前,于是福特对他说要一杯香百丽黑醋栗酒。那位侍者瘦高瘦高的,头顶已秃,用旁边的头发虚掩在上面,留一簇浓密的老式龙骑兵胡子。他听后,又重复了一遍福特要的酒。

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“不要香百丽酒了。还是来一杯兑水的白兰地吧。”福特说。

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和福特在一起,我总不愿正眼看他。要是在密闭的房间里,我会屏住呼吸,怕闻他的气息。不过,此时我们是在室外,人行道上的落叶是从我这边被风吹向他那边的。于是我就直视了他一眼,结果马上就后悔了,便将目光移向了林荫大道那边。光影又发生了变化,而我却未能看到那一幕。我怀疑由于他的到来,连酒的味道都变糟了,于是便尝了一口,但发现酒味仍香醇如初。

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“你好像心情不好。”他说。

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“哪里的话。”

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“是的,的确如此。你应该多出来散散心。我来是想邀请你参加一个小型晚会,地点在勒穆瓦纳主教街的小风笛歌舞厅,离康特斯卡普广场不远。”

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“你这次来巴黎之前我就住在那儿,住了两年。”

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“这就怪了。你敢肯定吗?”

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“敢肯定,”我说,“没一点错。歌舞厅的老板还兼开出租车。我到机场,他就送我去。出发之前,我们会摸黑到歌舞厅的吧台去,在那儿喝上一杯白葡萄酒,然后再走。”

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“我可从来不喜欢乘飞机。”福特说,“你和你的妻子准备好星期六晚上去小风笛歌舞厅吧。我给你画一张地图,这样你就能找到了。那地方是我路过时偶然发现的。”

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“那家歌舞厅就在勒穆瓦纳主教街74号的楼下,”我说,“我当时住在三楼。”

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“歌舞厅没有门牌,”福特说,“不过,你能找到康特斯卡普广场,就能找到它。”

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我又喝了一大口酒。侍者送来了福特要的酒,可是福特却对他说:“我要的不是白兰地加苏打水,而是香百丽黑醋栗酒。”他说话的语气不恼不怒,但很严厉。

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“没关系,让,”我对侍者说,“这杯酒我要了。先生现在点什么你就给他送什么来吧。”

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“不是现在点的,而是刚才点的。”福特纠正道。

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这时,有个面色颇为憔悴的男子披着斗篷从人行道上走过去,身旁是一个高个子女人。他朝我们这儿瞥了一眼,然后转过眼去,沿着林荫大道走远了。

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“我对他视而不见,你看到了吧?”福特说,“我对他视而不见,你看到了吧?”

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“没注意。你在说谁呀?”

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“我在说贝洛克[5]。”福特说,“对于他,我视而不见!”

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[5] 20世纪初英国最多产的作家之一。
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“我没注意到。”我说,“你为什么要那样做呢?”

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“有一千条一万条的理由。”福特说,“总算给了他个下马威。”

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他沾沾自喜,有点飘然若仙。我从未见过贝洛克,也不认为他刚才看到了我们——他刚才经过时好像在想心事,瞥我们那一眼几乎是无意识的。福特对他如此无礼,这叫我觉得不舒服。我是一个在事业上刚起步的年轻人,对前辈有着崇高的敬意。如今这让人无法理解,那年头却是司空见惯的现象。

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我当时心想:如果贝洛克在我们桌前留住脚步,那该是一件多么令人高兴的事情,那样我就可以结识他了。这一下午算是叫福特给毁了,贝洛克如果停下来,情况也许会好些。

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“你为什么要喝白兰地呢?”福特问我,“难道你不知道染上白兰地的酒瘾对一个年轻作家是致命的吗?”

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“这种酒我是不常喝的。”我支吾道。此时的我正在努力回忆埃兹拉·庞德对我说过的话——他叮咛我千万不可对福特说出格的话。让我记住:福特只有在十分疲倦的时候才撒谎;福特是一个真正的优秀作家,只是祸起萧墙,使他备受磨难。庞德的叮咛言犹在耳,可是现在福特就在我眼皮底下,离我咫尺之遥,呼哧呼哧喘着粗气,言行令人作呕,这就叫我受不了了。不过,我仍竭力克制着自己。

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“请问,一个人为什么要对他人视而不见呢?”我问道。这之前,我以为只有在奥维达[6]的小说里才有这样的情节。其实,奥维达的小说我连一本都没有看过。即使在瑞士的一个滑雪胜地,当潮湿的南风刮起,读物已经看完,只剩下一些战前的泰赫尼茨版[7]的书籍时,我也没看她的书。但根据第六感,我断定她小说里的主人公彼此视而不见,互相不理睬。

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[6] 英国女小说家。
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“一个有教养的人遇见无赖,一般都会视而不见。”福特解释说。

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我咕咚喝了一口白兰地,问道:“遇见一个粗汉,他也会这样吗?”

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“一个有教养的人是不可能跟粗汉打交道的。”

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“如此看,你只对和自己地位平等的熟人视而不见喽?”我追问道。

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“这是自然的。”

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“一个有教养的人怎么会结识一个无赖呢?”

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“你也许不知道他是个无赖,或者说他后来变成了无赖。”

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“什么样的人才是无赖呢?”我问道,“是不是人见人恨,恨不得食其肉寝其皮的那种人?”

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“那倒不一定。”福特说。

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“埃兹拉是个有教养的人吗?”我问。

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“当然不是,”福特说,“因为他是个美国人嘛。”

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“难道美国人成不了有教养的人?”

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“也许约翰·奎恩算得上是个有教养的人,”福特解释说,“他是你们的一个大使。”

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“麦伦·特·赫里克[8]是不是?”

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[8] 美国外交家,曾担任美国驻法国大使。在巴黎第八区设有一条以他的名字命名的街道。
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“大概是吧。”

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“亨利·詹姆斯[9]是个有教养的人吗?”

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[9] 19世纪美国继霍桑、麦尔维尔之后最伟大的小说家。
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“差不多吧。”

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“你是个有教养的人吗?”

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“当然是喽。我持有英王陛下的委任状[10]。”

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[10] 福特·马多克斯·福特曾持有英王的特别委任状,第一次世界大战中在法国打过仗。
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“这是一个非常复杂的问题呦。”我说,“你看我是不是个有教养的人?”

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“绝对不是。”福特说。

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“那你为什么跟我在一起喝酒?”

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“我跟你一起喝酒是因为你是一个有前途的青年作家。事实上,我把你看作一个同行。”

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“承蒙你看得起。”我说。

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“在意大利,你也许会被视为一个有教养的人。”福特宽宏大度地说。

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“在这里,总不能将我看作无赖吧?”

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“当然不会的,亲爱的老弟。谁说过这样的话?”

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“我以后也许会变成一个无赖的,”我沮丧地说,“因为我喝白兰地,什么酒都喝。特罗洛普[11]小说里的哈里·霍特斯珀勋爵就是这样给毁掉的。请问,特罗洛普是个有教养的人吗?”

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[11] 英国作家。
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“当然不是。”

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“你敢肯定吗?”

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“别人对他可能有两种看法,而我的看法只有一种。”

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“菲尔丁[12]是吗?他可是当过法官的。”

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[12] 英国作家,其代表作是《弃儿汤姆·琼斯》。
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“技术上说或许是吧。”

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“马洛[13]呢?”

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[13] 英国诗人。
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“当然不是。”

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“约翰·邓恩[14]呢?”

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[14] 17世纪英国玄学派诗人、教士。
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“他是一个教士,而非有教养的人。”

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“你的话太有意思了。”我说。

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“很高兴你能感兴趣。”福特说,“最后陪你喝一杯兑水的白兰地,然后我就走了。”

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福特离开后,天已经黑了。我走到书报亭去买了一份《巴黎赛事概况》,那是午后出版的赛马报的最后一版,报道欧特伊赛马场的比赛结果以及关于次日在昂吉安比赛的预告。侍者埃米尔已经接替了让的班,此刻来到我的桌子跟前,想了解欧特伊最后一场赛马的结果。这时,我的一位密友(此人很少来丁香园咖啡馆)走了过来,在我身旁坐了下来。正当他向埃米尔点酒水时,那个面色憔悴、披着斗篷的男子跟那位高个子女人沿着人行道从我们的跟前走了过去。男子朝我们扫了一眼,然后就把目光移开了。

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“那是希拉里·贝洛克。”我对密友说,“福特今天下午就坐在这里,给了他个‘视而不见’。”

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“别犯傻了,”我的密友说,“那是阿莱斯特·克劳利[15],一个会施妖术魔法的人。他堪称是世间最邪恶的人。”

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[15] 英国的神秘学学者,但更多人称呼他是“野兽之王”或是“启示录之兽”,更有人称他是“世上最邪恶的人”。
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“噢,对不起。”我说道。

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The Closerie des Lilas was the nearest good café when we lived in the flat over the sawmill at 113 rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs, and it was one of the best cafés in Paris. It was warm inside in the winter and in the spring and fall it was very fine outside with the tables under the shade of the trees on the side where the statue of Marshal Ney was, and the square, regular tables under the big awnings along the boulevard. Two of the waiters were our good friends. People from the D?me and the Rotonde never came to the Lilas. There was no one there they knew, and no one would have stared at them if they came. In those days many people went to the cafés at the corner of the Boulevard Montparnasse and the Boulevard Raspail to be seen publicly and in a way such places anticipated the columnists as the daily substitutes for immortality.

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The Closerie des Lilas had once been a café where poets met more or less regularly and the last principal poet had been Paul Fort whom I had never read. But the only poet I ever saw there was Blaise Cendrars, with his broken boxer’s face and his pinned-up empty sleeve, rolling a cigarette with his one good hand. He was a good companion until he drank too much and, at that time, when he was lying, he was more interesting than many men telling a story truly. But he was the only poet who came to the Lilas then and I only saw him there once. Most of the clients were elderly bearded men in well worn clothes who came with their wives or their mistresses and wore or did not wear thin red Legion of Honor ribbons in their lapels. We thought of them all hopefully as scientists or savants and they sat almost as long over an apéritif as the men in shabbier clothes who sat with their wives or mistresses over a café crème and wore the purple ribbon of the Palms of the Academy, which had nothing to do with the French Academy, and meant, we thought, that they were professors or instructors.

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These people made it a comfortable café since they were all interested in each other and in their drinks or coffees, or infusions, and in the papers and periodicals which were fastened to rods, and no one was on exhibition.

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There were other people too who lived in the quarter and came to the Lilas, and some of them wore Croix de Guerre ribbons in their lapels and others also had the yellow and green of the Médaille Militaire, and I watched how well they were overcoming the handicap of the loss of limbs, and saw the quality of their artificial eyes and the degree of skill with which their faces had been reconstructed. There was always an almost iridescent shiny cast about the considerably reconstructed face, rather like that of a well packed ski run, and we respected these clients more than we did the savants or the professors, although the latter might well have done their military service too without experiencing mutilation.

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In those days we did not trust anyone who had not been in the war, but we did not completely trust anyone, and there was a strong feeling that Cendrars might well be a little less flashy about his vanished arm. I was glad he had been in the Lilas early in the afternoon before the regular clients had arrived.

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On this evening I was sitting at a table outside of the Lilas watching the light change on the trees and the buildings and the passage of the great slow horses of the outer boulevards. The door of the café opened behind me and to my right, and a man came out and walked to my table.

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“Oh here you are,” he said.

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It was Ford Madox Ford, as he called himself then, and he was breathing heavily through a heavy, stained mustache and holding himself as upright as an ambulatory, well clothed, up-ended hogshead.

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“May I sit with you?” he asked, sitting down, and his eyes which were a washed-out blue under colorless lids and eyebrows looked out at the boulevard.

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“I spent good years of my life that those beasts should be slaughtered humanely,” he said.

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“You told me,” I said.

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“I don’t think so.”

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“I’m quite sure.”

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“Very odd. I’ve never told anyone in my life.”

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“Will you have a drink?”

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The waiter stood there and Ford told him he would have a Chambéry Cassis. The waiter, who was tall and thin and bald on the top of his head with hair slicked over and who wore a heavy old-style dragoon mustache, repeated the order.

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“No. Make it a fine à l’eau,” Ford said.

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“A fine à l’eau for Monsieur,” the waiter confirmed the order.

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I had always avoided looking at Ford when I could and I always held my breath when I was near him in a closed room, but this was the open air and the fallen leaves blew along the sidewalks from my side of the table past his, so I took a good look at him, repented, and looked across the boulevard. The light was changed again and I had missed the change. I took a drink to see if his coming had fouled it, but it still tasted good.

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“You’re very glum,” he said.

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“No.”

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“Yes you are. You need to get out more. I stopped by to ask you to the little evenings we’re giving in that amusing Bal Musette near the Place Contrescarpe on the rue Cardinal Lemoine.”

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“I lived above it for two years before you came to Paris this last time.”

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“How odd. Are you sure?”

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“Yes,” I said. “I’m sure. The man who owned it had a taxi and when I had to get a plane he’d take me out to the field, and we’d stop at the zinc bar of the Bal and drink a glass of white wine in the dark before we’d start for the airfield.”

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“I’ve never cared for flying,” Ford said. “You and your wife plan to come to the Bal Musette Saturday night. It’s quite gay. I’ll draw you a map so you can find it. I stumbled on it quite by chance.”

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“It’s under 74 rue Cardinal Lemoine,” I said. “I lived on the third floor.”

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“There’s no number,” Ford said. “But you’ll be able to find it if you can find the Place Contrescarpe.”

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I took another long drink. The waiter had brought Ford’s drink and Ford was correcting him. “It wasn’t a brandy and soda,” he said helpfully but severely. “I ordered a Chambéry vermouth and Cassis.”

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“It’s all right, Jean,” I said. “I’ll take the fine. Bring Monsieur what he orders now.”

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“What I ordered,” corrected Ford.

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At that moment a rather gaunt man wearing a cape passed on the sidewalk. He was with a tall woman and he glanced at our table and then away and went on his way down the boulevard.

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“Did you see me cut him?” Ford said. “Did you see me cut him?”

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“No. Who did you cut?”

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“Belloc,” Ford said. “Did I cut him!”

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“I didn’t see it,” I said. “Why did you cut him?”

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“For every good reason in the world,” Ford said. “Did I cut him though!”

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He was thoroughly and completely happy. I had never seen Belloc and I did not believe he had seen us. He looked like a man who had been thinking of something and had glanced at the table almost automatically. I felt badly that Ford had been rude to him, as, being a young man who was commencing his education, I had a high regard for him as an older writer. This is not understandable now but in those days it was a common occurrence.

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I thought it would have been pleasant if Belloc had stopped at the table and I might have met him. The afternoon had been spoiled by seeing Ford but I thought Belloc might have made it better.

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“What are you drinking brandy for?” Ford asked me. “Don’t you know it’s fatal for a young writer to start drinking brandy?”

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“I don’t drink it very often,” I said. I was trying to remember what Ezra Pound had told me about Ford, that I must never be rude to him, that I must remember that he only lied when he was very tired, that he was really a good writer and that he had been through very bad domestic troubles. I tried hard to think of these things but the heavy, wheezing, ignoble presence of Ford himself, only touching-distance away, made it difficult. But I tried.

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“Tell me why one cuts people,” I asked. Until then I had thought it was something only done in novels by Ouida. I had never been able to read a novel by Ouida, not even at some skiing place in Switzerland where reading matter had run out when the wet south wind had come and there were only the left-behind Tauchnitz editions of before the war. But I was sure, by some sixth sense, that people cut one another in her novels.

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“A gentleman,” Ford explained, “will always cut a cad.”

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I took a quick drink of brandy.

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“Would he cut a bounder?” I asked.

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“It would be impossible for a gentleman to know a bounder.”

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“Then you can only cut someone you have known on terms of equality?” I pursued.

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“Naturally.”

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“How would one ever meet a cad?”

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“You might not know it, or the fellow could have become a cad.”

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“What is a cad?” I asked. “Isn’t he someone that one has to thrash within an inch of his life?”

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“Not necessarily,” Ford said.

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“Is Ezra a gentleman?” I asked.

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“Of course not,” Ford said. “He’s an American.”

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“Can’t an American be a gentleman?”

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“Perhaps John Quinn,” Ford explained. “Certain of your ambassadors.”

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“Myron T. Herrick?”

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“Possibly.”

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“Was Henry James a gentleman?”

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“Very nearly.”

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“Are you a gentleman?”

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“Naturally. I have held His Majesty’s commission.”

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“It’s very complicated,” I said. “Am I a gentleman?”

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“Absolutely not,” Ford said.

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“Then why are you drinking with me?”

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“I’m drinking with you as a promising young writer. As a fellow writer in fact.”

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“Good of you,” I said.

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“You might be considered a gentleman in Italy,” Ford said mag-nanimously.

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“But I’m not a cad?”

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“Of course not, dear boy. Who ever said such a thing?”

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“I might become one,” I said sadly. “Drinking brandy and all. That was what did for Lord Harry Hotspur in Trollope. Tell me, was Trollope a gentleman?”

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“Of course not.”

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“You’re sure?”

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“There might be two opinions. But not in mine.”

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“Was Fielding? He was a judge.”

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“Technically perhaps.”

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“Marlowe?”

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“Of course not.”

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“John Donne?”

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“He was a parson.”

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“It’s fascinating,” I said.

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“I’m glad you’re interested,” Ford said. “I’ll have a brandy and water with you before I go.”

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After Ford left it was dark and I walked over to the kiosque and bought a Paris-Sport Complet, the final edition of the afternoon racing paper with the results at Auteuil, and the line on the next day’s meeting at Enghien. The waiter Emile, who had replaced Jean on duty, came to the table to see the results of the last race at Auteuil. A great friend of mine who rarely came to the Lilas came over to the table and sat down, and just then as my friend was ordering a drink from Emile the gaunt man in the cape with the tall woman passed us on the sidewalk. His glance drifted toward the table and then away.

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“That’s Hilaire Belloc,” I said to my friend. “Ford was here this afternoon and cut him dead.”

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“Don’t be a silly ass,” my friend said. “That’s Aleister Crowley, the diabolist. He’s supposed to be the wickedest man in the world.”

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“Sorry,” I said.

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序号 英文/音标 中文解释 更多操作

immortality

[ˌɪmɔː’tæləti]

n.不朽;永生

Academy

[əˈkædəmɪ]

高等(专科)院校研究院(所)

fasten

[’fɑːsn]

vt.拴紧;使固定;系;强加于

mutilation

[ˌmjuːtɪ’leɪʃn]

n.切断;毁损

flashy

[’flæʃi]

adj.闪光的;(穿着)浮华的;一瞬间的;炫耀技艺的

hogshead

[’hɒgzhed]

n.大桶;液量单位(尤指美国的63加仑)

boulevard

[’buːləvɑːd]

n.林荫大道

humane

[hjuː’meɪn]

adj.仁慈的;人道的

mustache

[mə’stɑːʃ]

n.髭;小胡子;(动物)触须

Monsieur

[mə’sjɜː]

n.(法语)先生

glum

[ɡlʌm]

adj.闷闷不乐的;阴郁的;阴沉的

Musette

[mjuː’zet]

n.法国的小风笛;牧歌调的曲子

Paris

[’pærɪs]

n.巴黎;重楼(百合科植物);帕里斯(姓氏)

airfield

[’eəfiːld]

n.飞机场

Cassis

[kæ’siːs]

n.1. 产于欧洲的黑醋栗2. 黑醋栗所酿的酒(法式饮料)

occurrence

[ə’kʌrəns]

n.发生

brandy

[’brændi]

n.白兰地酒

ignoble

[ɪɡ’nəʊbl]

adj.平民的;卑贱的;卑鄙的;不光彩的

Switzerland

[’swɪtsələnd]

n.瑞士

bounder

[’baʊndə(r)]

n.不道德的人;粗人

thrash

[θræʃ]

n.打(谷);鞭打

Hotspur

[’hɒtspɜː]

n.性急的人;暴躁的人

technicalness

[’teknɪkl]

adj.技术的;专业的;工艺的

parson

[’pɑːsn]

n.教区牧师

cape

[keɪp]

n.岬;海角

简典