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流动的盛宴|A Moveable Feast

第六章　一个虚幻的春天|A False Spring

属类： 双语小说 【分类】双语小说 -[作者: 海明威] 阅读：[10001]
《 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 》
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当春天来临时，即便是虚幻的春天，也应该找个地方快活一下，其他的都不在话下。春光大好，唯一能败坏你兴致的就是人。如果不和人接触，那你的每一天都会快乐无边。只有极少数人能像春天那样使你心情愉悦，其他的人全都是你寻求欢乐的障碍。

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春天，我一大早就会起来写作，妻子仍高眠未醒。房间的窗户大敞，雨后的鹅卵石街道正在一点点变干。凭窗望去，阳光正在逐渐将对面房屋那湿漉漉的门脸晒干。街上的店铺仍未开门营业。牧羊人来卖羊奶，吹着牧笛招揽顾客，这时住在我们楼上的那个女人便会拎着一个大罐子下楼，来到人行道上买羊奶。牧羊人牵过一只奶水饱满的黑奶羊，把奶挤入罐子里，而牧羊犬则将其他的羊赶到一边等候。羊群四面张望，像观光客似的转动着它们的头颈。牧羊人接过女人付的奶钱，道一声谢，然后就吹着牧笛沿着大街走掉了。牧羊犬驱赶着羊群走在他的前边，可以看见羊的犄角一上一下晃动着。它们走后，我又继续写我的东西，而那个女人提着奶罐回到了楼上。她穿着打扫卫生时穿的毡底鞋，走路听不见声音。她在我们门外的楼梯口歇脚时，只可以听见她的喘气声，以及她回到家后关门的声音。在我们公寓楼里，她是牧羊人唯一的客户。

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我决定下楼去买一份早晨版的赛马报。这地方穷归穷，还不至于连份赛马报都买不到，但像这样的日子，要买就得趁早买。我走到康特斯卡普广场拐角处的笛卡尔路，在那儿买到了一份。那些山羊正顺着笛卡尔路往前走去。我吸了几口清新的空气，快步返回，一心要爬上楼梯去把稿子写完。我倒是很想跟在羊群的后边，在这春日的清晨沿着街道散散步，怎奈有事要做。不过，就在我重新挥毫落墨写作之前，扫了一眼那份赛马报，结果发现昂吉安有一场赛马——那儿的赛马场很小、很漂亮，扒手多，圈外人喜欢到那儿赌赛马。

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于是，我打算完成了当日的写作之后，就和妻子去看赛马。我为之撰稿的那家多伦多报社刚给我汇来了一笔钱，如果能发现一匹合适的马，便来个放长线钓大鱼。有一次到欧特伊看赛马，妻子把赌注压在了一匹名叫“金山羊”的马身上。那匹马的赔率为一百二十比一，比别的马领先二十个马身，可是在跳最后一道栏时却意外摔倒了。够我们半年生活用的积蓄也跟着打了水漂。这件倒霉的往事，我们想都不愿去想它。在“金山羊”事件发生之前，我们赌赛马一直都顺风顺水的！

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“咱们真的有足够的钱去赌赛马吗，塔蒂？”妻子问我。

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“下赌注，咱们的钱是不够的。可以见机行事，酌情而定。你有什么需要用钱的地方吗？”

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“这个嘛……”她沉吟不决。

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“咱们家的日子过得很拮据，都怪我手太紧，花钱方面太抠门。”

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“不是那回事，”她说，“不过……”

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我知道自己平时是很苛刻的，也知道家里的经济状况捉襟见肘。一个专心于事业的人在耕耘中获得满足，是不会被贫困吓到的。可是一想到地位不如自己的人都可以享用浴缸、淋浴器以及抽水马桶，都有钱外出旅游（我们倒是经常出去旅游），我还是觉得挺不是滋味的。我们洗澡则是到河岸边的那条街道去，那儿的街头有家公共澡堂。妻子对此从无怨言，也从不为此伤心落泪。若说落泪，“金山羊”摔倒时她倒是潸然泪下——记得那是心疼那匹马，而非心疼赌注。我生性愚钝，她需要一件灰色羔羊皮短上衣时，我却全然不知——不过，她把上衣买来后，我还是挺喜欢的。在别的一些事情上，我也是很愚钝的。和贫困做斗争就是这么尴尬，除非你把钱袋扎紧一分也不花。当你把钱用在买画上，而非买衣服时，情况更是如此。不过，我们从来不认为自己贫穷，绝不接受这种看法。我们自以为高人一等，瞧不起他人，对于真正的富人也嗤之以鼻。穿运动衫当内衣御寒，我并不觉得古怪——只有那些富人才觉得这样的穿法古怪。我们花钱不多，但吃香喝辣，相亲相爱，睡得安稳、温馨。

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“我觉得应该去看赛马，”妻子说，“好长时间都没到赛马场去了。咱们可以把午饭和酒带去。我将做上几份香喷喷的三明治。”

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“咱们可以乘列车去，这样比较便宜。不过，假如你不想去，那就不去了。今天是个好日子，不管干什么心情都会愉快的。”

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“我觉得应该去看赛马。”

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“你不想干点别的什么吗？”

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“不想。”她高傲地说——她的颧骨高高的，很可爱，显得傲岸不群，“再说，能干些什么呢？”

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于是，我们就到列车北站乘列车去了，穿过巴黎城最肮脏、最晦暗的区域，下车后步行走到了绿洲般的赛马场。时间尚早，我们就在新修剪过的绿茵地铺上我的雨衣，坐下吃午餐，就着瓶子一口一口喝着葡萄酒，一边观看那古老的大看台，那下赌注的棕色木头小亭子，那绿色的跑道，那一道道暗绿色的跳栏，那闪着微光的褐色障碍水沟，那刷白的石墙以及白色的柱子和栏杆，那长出新叶的大树下的围场，以及头一批进围场的参赛马匹。餐毕，我们又喝了些酒，接着研究了一下赛马报上的程序表。后来，妻子躺在雨衣上睡着了，阳光洒在她的脸上。我走开去，找到了一位过去在米兰的圣西罗赛马场认识的熟人，他给我提供了两匹马的名字。

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“记住，它们不会叫你发大财，但你也别因为怕花钱就望而却步。”他叮咛道。

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我们把一半赌金押在了第一匹马上，它的赔率是十二比一。这匹马风驰电掣，跳栏跳得非常漂亮，在跑道上向前直冲，到达终点时比别的马快四个马身，结果大获全胜。我们把赢来的钱留下一半，收入囊中，用另一半赌那第二匹马。这第二匹马一开始就跑在了前头，跃过一道道跳栏时如履平地，一路遥遥领先，骑师不时给它两鞭子，使它直到终点线都保持着优势。

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这场赛马结束后，我们走到看台下的酒吧去喝香槟酒，等待领取赢得的奖金。

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“哇，这场比赛看得人提心吊胆。”妻子说，“你没看见后边的那匹马紧追不舍吗？”

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“我现在还觉得一颗心在嗓子眼吊着呢。”

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“它的赔率是多少？”

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“牌子上写的是十八比一，但最后可能又有人下注了呢。”

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参赛马从我们身边经过时，但见我们赌的那匹马浑身大汗淋漓，鼻孔张大，喘着粗气，骑师用手轻轻拍着它。

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“可怜的马儿，”妻子说，“咱们只不过下下注，而它却在拼命。”

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我们目送着那些马走远，又喝了一杯香槟，然后赛马赢得的奖金便公布了：八十五。这意味着押十法郎可以拿到八十五法郎。

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“最后一定又有人下了大笔的赌注。”我说。

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不过，我们赢的钱也真算不少的了，对我们而言数目可观，这下子有了钱便可以欢度春天了。人生更无他求！花钱应该细水长流，不妨把奖金分成四份，每人花四分之一，这样还可以留下一半作为今后赌赛马的本钱！于是，我把这笔本钱悄悄藏起来，不同其他的钱相混。

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那年，我们一次旅行归来，到赛马场去又交了好运，返家途中在普吕尼耶饭店门前留住了脚步，看了看橱窗里种种美味佳肴的价目表，然后在酒吧坐了下来，要了牡蛎和墨西哥螃蟹，又要了两杯桑塞尔白葡萄酒。酒足饭饱之后，我们摸黑穿过杜伊勒里公园[1]往家走。在公园里，我们停下来眺望远处，目光透过卡尔赛门[2]可以看到那黑魆魆一片的花园，再往前可以看见协和广场通明的灯火，接下来便是长龙一般的路灯了，直通向凯旋门。随后，我们又将目光转向卢浮宫，眺望那座黑灯瞎火的宫殿。我对妻子说：“据说这三座拱门形成了一条直线，你觉得是不是真的？我指的是这儿的两座以及米兰的塞米昂纳拱门，它们是不是形成了一条直线？”

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[1]　旧时是王宫，1871年被焚毁，现作公园。
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“我不清楚，塔蒂。他们既然这么说，那他们应该是心里有数的。有一次咱们爬雪山，经过圣伯纳德大山口进入意大利境内，步入了温暖的春天。就在当天，你和我，还有琴科，咱们一口气走到了奥斯塔城[3]。当时的情景你还记得吗？”

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[3]　奥斯塔建于公元前24年。有12世纪教堂建筑艺术与古罗马城墙、城门、街道、凯旋门等遗迹。
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“琴科说咱们是‘穿着逛大街的鞋翻过了圣伯纳德大山口’。你还记得你当时穿的那双鞋吗？”

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“那双鞋可真够惨的。咱们在美术馆旁的比菲咖啡馆吃了什锦水果，吃了盛在大玻璃罐里的新鲜桃子和野草莓，里面加了冰块，还兑有白葡萄酒。这些你还记得吗？”

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“正是在那个时候，我对这三座拱门产生了兴趣。”

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“塞米昂纳拱门使我难以忘怀，它跟这座颇为相似。”

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“咱们在艾格勒下榻的那家旅店你还记得吗？那天，我在河边钓鱼，而你和琴科坐在花园里看书。”

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“历历在目，塔蒂。”

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我记得自己钓鱼的那条河叫罗讷河，河面狭窄，水发浑，里面有大量的雪水，两侧是施托卡尔珀河以及罗讷运河，都可以钓鳟鱼——施托卡尔珀河清澈见底，而罗讷运河则浑浊不堪。

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“当时正是七叶树开花的季节，我竭力回忆一个关于紫藤花的故事（那故事大概是吉姆·甘波尔给我讲过的），可怎么也回忆不起来了。这些你都还记得吧？”

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“记忆犹新，塔蒂。记得你和琴科老喜欢争论是非曲直，写东西秉笔直书，却不愿详细描述。这些我都记忆犹新。有时他占理，有时你的结论是正确的。记得你们针对灯泡、灯泡的结构和外形也要争个面红耳赤。”

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说话间，我们已穿过卢浮宫，出了宫院大门，走到马路对面，站在桥上，趴在石头栏杆上，望着桥下的河水。

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“咱们三个不管遇见什么都要争论一番，非得有个具体的结论不行，相互打趣，相互取笑。那次旅行中咱们做的每件事，说的每句话，我都记忆犹新。”我的妻子哈德莉说，“每一幕情景我都记得清清楚楚。你跟琴科说话，每一次我都不是局外人。这在感觉上是同斯泰因小姐家里的那一位不一样的——那一位只充当妻子的角色。”

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“当时，我要是能回忆起那个关于紫藤花的故事就好了。”

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“花不花并不重要，关键是那棵紫藤完好就行，塔蒂。”

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“有一次，我从艾格勒买了些葡萄酒，带回了咱们的度假小屋。这你还记得吗？葡萄酒是在旅店买的，他们说吃鳟鱼就要有葡萄酒。那瓶酒大概是用《洛桑日报》包了带回来的。”

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“西昂葡萄酒的味道甚至可以说更好。咱们一回度假小屋，吉斯韦施太太就给咱们做金蓝鳟鱼[4]吃。这你还记得吗？那样的鳟鱼菜真是妙不可言，塔蒂。咱们在外面门廊上一边喝西昂酒，一边吃鳟鱼，但见脚下峭壁如削，一眼望去，目光掠过湖面，可以看见积雪覆盖到半山腰的登特-杜-米迪山，还可以看见罗讷河口的那片树林——罗讷河就是在那儿汇入了大湖。”

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[4]　海明威当时二十多岁，是鳟鱼菜的鉴赏家。这种做法是他最喜欢的一种。理想情况下，鳟鱼在烹饪前应是活的，皮肤发蓝，做出的菜味道极鲜。
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“每逢冬天和春天，咱们就思念琴科。”

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“割不断的情怀。现在已近春残，我对他的怀念仍不消减。”

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琴科是个职业军人，英国皇家桑赫斯特军校毕业后去了蒙斯前线。我和他初次相逢于意大利，后结为知己，长时间保持着友谊。他一旦休假，就和我们在一起。

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“他从科隆写了封信来，说他明年春天将争取休一次长假。”

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“这我知道。而咱们要活就活在当下，要珍惜每一分钟时光。”

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“这不，咱们正在欣赏着眼前的景色，观看河水冲刷堤脚。往上游看，你能看见什么呢？”

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我们放眼望去，将塞纳河、巴黎城以及城内小岛的景色尽收眼底。

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“你我真是太幸运了，”妻子说，“希望琴科能来。他可以保护咱们。”

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“他可不这么想。”

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“当然，他不会的。”

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“他觉得是大家一起探险。”

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“是这么回事。但这要取决于探的是什么险。”

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我们边聊边走过桥，到了我们家住的那一侧河岸。

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“说了这么多话，走了这么远的路，你肚子又饿了吧？”我问。

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“当然啦，塔蒂。难道你不饿？”

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“咱们可以去一家高级饭店，美美吃上一顿。”

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“哪家饭店？”

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“米肖德饭店怎么样？”

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“好极了，那家饭店离这儿很近。”

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于是，我们沿着圣佩雷斯街走到雅各布路的拐角，不时停下观看橱窗里的画和家具。来到米肖德饭店后，我们就站在外面看贴出的菜单。餐厅内座无虚席，我们只好在外边等待，眼巴巴望着那些已经喝过了咖啡的食客，盼他们赶快出来。

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由于走路，我们早已饥肠辘辘。对我们而言，在米肖德饭店进餐价钱不菲，但令人激动。当时，乔伊斯正陪着他的家人在这家饭店吃饭。他和他的妻子诺拉背靠墙坐着，乔伊斯手拿菜单，透过厚厚的眼镜片在点菜。诺拉喜欢美食，但吃得很挑剔；他们的儿子乔吉奥身材瘦削，从后面看去，头发贼亮，有点像纨绔子弟；女儿露西亚，长着一头浓浓的鬈发，是一个还没有发育成熟的小姑娘；他们全都讲意大利语。

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站在那里等候的当儿，我不由想起了刚才在桥头上的感受，不知其中究竟有几分是饥饿感，于是我就把这话拿来问妻子。她说：“这我说不清，塔蒂。反正饥饿感五花八门，分许多种类，春天更是如此。不过，现在饿过了头，饥饿感就成了一种记忆。”

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说了这番蠢话后，我把目光投向餐厅，透过窗户看见侍者将两份菲力牛排端上了餐桌，不由感到异常饥饿——那是一种普通饮食男女的饥饿感。

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“你曾说咱们今天运气好，此话一点不假。不过，运气好是因为有人指点迷津，为咱们提供了可靠的信息。”

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妻子哈哈一笑说：“我可不是指赛马呦。你真是个爱钻牛角尖的死脑筋。我是说在别的方面运气好。”

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“我觉得琴科不喜欢看赛马。”我说道（这一说使我显得更蠢了）。

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“是的。要是让他骑马参赛，他才会喜欢。”

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“你还想去看赛马吗？”

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“当然还想去。你说什么时候去，咱们就什么时候去。”

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“你真的想去吗？”

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“当然是真的。你也想去，不是吗？”

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后来，我们走进米肖德饭店大快朵颐。饭毕，饥饿的问题也就解决了。但乘公共汽车回家时，那种在桥上产生的类似于饥饿的感觉仍萦绕不散。二人进了家门，摸着黑上床云雨之后，那种感觉仍在纠缠着我。半夜醒来，我发现窗子都开着，看见月光照在一幢幢高房子的房顶上，而那种感觉还是没有消失。我扭过脸去，不去看那月光，而望着房间里的黑暗处，却再也无法入眠，于是索性躺在那儿遐思不已，思索着那究竟是什么感觉。这一夜，我们醒了两次。这当儿，妻子睡得很香，月光照在她的脸上。我想啊想，绞尽了脑汁，由于脑子笨，所以百思不得其解。次日早晨醒来，我发现眼前只不过是一个虚幻的春天，耳畔又闻牧笛声，牧羊人又赶着羊群来卖奶。我又走出公寓去买赛马报。生活似乎就是这么简单！

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但话又说回来，年轻的我们生活在巴黎这样一座历史悠久的城市里，一切都并不简单——甚至贫穷、意外之财、月光、是与非以及那在月光下伴你睡眠的人，都有着不平凡的故事。

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When spring came, even the false spring, there were no problems except where to be happiest. The only thing that could spoil a day was people and if you could keep from making engagements, each day had no limits. People were always the limiters of happiness except for the very few that were as good as spring itself.

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In the spring mornings I would work early while my wife still slept. The windows were open wide and the cobbles of the street were drying after the rain. The sun was drying the wet faces of the houses that faced the window. The shops were still shuttered. The goatherd came up the street blowing his pipes and a woman who lived on the floor above us came out onto the sidewalk with a big pot. The goatherd chose one of the heavy-bagged, black milk-goats and milked her into the pot while his dog pushed the others onto the sidewalk. The goats looked around, turning their necks like sight-seers. The goatherd took the money from the woman and thanked her and went on up the street piping and the dog herded the goats on ahead, their horns bobbing. I went back to writing and the woman came up the stairs with the goat milk. She wore her felt-soled cleaning shoes and I only heard her breathing as she stopped on the stairs outside our door and then the shutting of her door. She was the only customer for goat milk in our building.

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I decided to go down and buy a morning racing paper. There was no quarter too poor to have at least one copy of a racing paper but you had to buy it early on a day like this. I found one in the rue Descartes at the corner of the Place Contrescarpe. The goats were going down the rue Descartes and I breathed the air in and walked back fast to climb the stairs and get my work done. I had been tempted to stay out and follow the goats down the early morning street. But before I started work again I looked at the paper. They were running at Enghien, the small, pretty and larcenous track that was the home of the outsider.

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So that day after I had finished work we would go racing. Some money had come from the Toronto paper that I did newspaper work for and we wanted a long shot if we could find one. My wife had a horse one time at Auteuil named Chèvre d’Or that was a hundred and twenty to one and leading by twenty lengths when he fell at the last jump with enough savings on him to keep us six months. We tried never to think of that. We were ahead on that year until Chèvre d’Or.

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“Do we have enough money to really bet, Tatie?” my wife asked.

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“No. We’ll just figure to spend what we take. Is there something else you’d rather spend it for?”

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“Well,” she said.

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“I know. It’s been terribly hard and I’ve been tight and mean about money.”

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“No,” she said. “But—”

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I knew how severe I had been and how bad things had been. The one who is doing his work and getting satisfaction from it is not the one the poverty bothers. I thought of bathtubs and showers and toilets that flushed as things that inferior people to us had or that you enjoyed when you made trips, which we often made. There was always the public bathhouse down at the foot of the street by the river. My wife had never complained once about these things any more than she cried about Chèvre d’Or when he fell. She had cried for the horse, I remembered, but not for the money. I had been stupid when she needed a grey lamb jacket and had loved it once she had bought it. I had been stupid about other things too. It was all part of the fight against poverty that you never win except by not spending. Especially if you buy pictures instead of clothes. But then we did not think ever of ourselves as poor. We did not accept it. We thought we were superior people and other people that we looked down on and rightly mistrusted were rich. It had never seemed strange to me to wear sweatshirts for underwear to keep warm. It only seemed odd to the rich. We ate well and cheaply and drank well and cheaply and slept well and warm together and loved each other.

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“I think we ought to go,” my wife said. “We haven’t been for such a long time. We’ll take a lunch and some wine. I’ll make good sandwiches.”

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“We’ll go on the train and it’s cheap that way. But let’s not go if you don’t think we should. Anything we’d do today would be fun. It’s a wonderful day.”

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“I think we should go.”

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“You wouldn’t rather spend it some other way?”

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“No,” she said arrogantly. She had the lovely high cheek-bones for arrogance. “Who are we anyway?”

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So we went out by the train from the Gare du Nord through the dirtiest and saddest part of town and walked from the siding to the oasis of the track. It was early and we sat on my raincoat on the fresh cropped grass bank and had our lunch and drank from the wine bottle and looked at the old grandstand, the brown wooden betting booths, the green of the track, the darker green of the hurdles, and the brown shine of the water jumps and the whitewashed stone walls and white posts and rails, the paddock under the new leafed trees and the first horses being walked to the paddock. We drank more wine and studied the form in the paper and my wife lay down on the raincoat to sleep with the sun on her face. I went over and found someone I knew from the old days at San Siro in Milano. He gave me two horses.

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“Mind, they’re no investment. But don’t let the price put you off.”

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We won the first with half of the money that we had to spend and he paid twelve to one, jumping beautifully, taking command on the far side of the course and coming in four lengths ahead. We saved half of the money and put it away and bet the other half on the second horse who broke ahead, led all the way over the hurdles and on the flat just lasted to the finish line with the favorite gaining on him with every jump and the two whips flailing.

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We went to have a glass of champagne at the bar under the stand and wait for the prices to go up.

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“My, but racing is very hard on people,” my wife said. “Did you see that horse come up on him?”

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“I can still feel it inside me.”

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“What will he pay?”

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“The cote was eighteen to one. But they may have bet him at the last.”

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The horses came by, ours wet, with his nostrils working wide to breathe, the jockey patting him.

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“Poor him,” my wife said. “We just bet.”

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We watched them go on by and had another glass of champagne and then the winning price came up: 85. That meant he paid eighty-five francs for ten.

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“They must have put a lot of money on at the end,” I said.

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But we had made plenty of money, big money for us, and now we had spring and money too. I thought that was all we needed. A day like that one, if you split the winnings one quarter for each to spend, left a half for racing capital. I kept the racing capital secret and apart from all other capital.

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Another day later that year when we had come back from one of our voyages and had good luck at some track again we stopped at Pruniers on the way home, going in to sit at the bar after looking at all the clearly priced wonders in the window. We had oysters and crabe Mexicaine with glasses of Sancerre. We walked back through the Tuileries in the dark and stood and looked through the Arc du Carrousel up across the dark gardens with the lights of the Concorde behind the formal darkness and then the long rise of lights toward the Arc de Triomphe. Then we looked back toward the dark of the Louvre and I said, “Do you really think that the three arches are in line? These two and the Sermione in Milano?”

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“I don’t know, Tatie. They say so and they ought to know. Do you remember when we came out into the spring on the Italian side of the St. Bernard after the climb in the snow, and you and Chink and I walked down all day in the spring to Aosta?”

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“Chink called it ‘across the St. Bernard in street shoes.’ Remember your shoes?”

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“My poor shoes. Do you remember us having fruit cup at Biffi’s in the Galleria with Capri and fresh peaches and wild strawberries in a tall glass pitcher with ice?”

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“That time was what made me wonder about the three arches.”

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“I remember the Sermione. It’s like this arch.”

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“Do you remember the inn at Aigle where you and Chink sat in the garden that day and read while I fished?”

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“Yes, Tatie.”

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I remembered the Rh?ne, narrow and grey and full of snow water and the two trout streams on either side, the Stockalper and the Rh?ne canal. The Stockalper was really clear that day and the Rh?ne canal was still murky.

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“Do you remember when the horse-chestnut trees were in bloom and how I tried to remember a story that Jim Gamble, I think, had told me about a wisteria vine and I couldn’t remember it?”

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“Yes Tatie, and you and Chink always talking about how to make things true, writing them, and put them rightly and not describe. I remember everything. Sometimes he was right and sometimes you were right. I remember the lights and textures and the shapes you argued about.”

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Now we had come out of the gateway through the Louvre and crossed the street outside and were standing on the bridge leaning on the stone and looking down at the river.

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“We all three argued about everything and always specific things and we made fun of each other. I remember everything we ever did and everything we ever said on the whole trip,” Hadley said. “I do really. About everything. When you and Chink talked I was included. It wasn’t like being a wife at Miss Stein’s.”

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“I wish I could remember the story about the wisteria vine.”

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“It wasn’t important. It was the vine that was important, Tatie.”

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“Do you remember I brought some wine from Aigle home to the chalet? They sold it to us at the inn. They said it should go with the trout. We brought it wrapped in copies of La gazette de Lucerne, I think.”

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“The Sion wine was even better. Do you remember how Mrs. Gangeswisch cooked the trout au bleu when we got back to the chalet? They were such wonderful trout, Tatie, and we drank the Sion wine and ate out on the porch with the mountainside dropping off below and we could look across the lake and see the Dent du Midi with the snow half down it and the trees at the mouth of the Rh?ne where it flowed into the lake.”

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“We always miss Chink in the winter and the spring.”

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“Always. And I miss him now when it is gone.”

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Chink was a professional soldier and had gone out to Mons from Sandhurst. I had met him first in Italy and he had been my best friend and then our best friend for a long time. He spent his leaves with us then.

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“He’s going to try to get leave this next spring. He wrote last week from Cologne.”

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“I know. We should live in this time now and have every minute of it.”

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“We’re watching the water now as it hits this buttress. Look what we can see when we look up the river.”

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We looked and there it all was: our river and our city and the island of our city.

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“We’re too lucky,” she said. “I hope Chink will come. He takes care of us.”

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“He doesn’t think so.”

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“Of course not.”

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“He thinks we explore together.”

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“We do. But it depends on what you explore.”

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We walked across the bridge and were on our own side of the river.

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“Are you hungry again?” I said. “Us. Talking and walking.”

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“Of course, Tatie. Aren’t you?”

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“Let’s go to a wonderful place and have a truly grand dinner.”

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“Where?”

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“Michaud’s?”

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“That’s perfect and it’s so close.”

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So we walked up the rue des Saints-Pères to the corner of the rue Jacob stopping and looking in the windows at pictures and at furniture. We stood outside of Michaud’s restaurant reading the posted menu. Michaud’s was crowded and we waited for people to come out, watching the tables where people already had their coffee.

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We were hungry again from walking and Michaud’s was an exciting and expensive restaurant for us. It was where Joyce ate with his family then, he and his wife against the wall, Joyce peering at the menu through his thick glasses holding the menu up in one hand; Nora by him, a hearty but delicate eater; Giorgio thin, foppish, sleek-headed from the back; Lucia with heavy curly hair, a girl not quite yet grown; all of them talking Italian.

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Standing there I wondered how much of what we had felt on the bridge was just hunger. I asked my wife and she said, “I don’t know, Tatie. There are so many sorts of hunger. In the spring there are more. But that’s gone now. Memory is hunger.”

67

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I was being stupid, and looking in the window and seeing two tournedos being served I knew I was hungry in a simple way.

68

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“You said we were lucky today. Of course we were. But we had very good advice and information.”

69

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She laughed.

70

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“I didn’t mean about the racing. You’re such a literal boy. I meant lucky other ways.”

71

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“I don’t think Chink cares for racing,” I said compounding my stupidity.

72

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“No. He’d only care for it if he were riding.”

73

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“Don’t you want to go racing any more?”

74

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“Of course. And now we can go whenever we want again.”

75

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“But you really want to go?”

76

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“Of course. You do, don’t you?”

77

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It was a wonderful meal at Michaud’s after we got in; but when we had finished and there was no question of hunger any more the feeling that had been like hunger when we were on the bridge was still there when we caught the bus home. It was there when we came in the room and after we had gone to bed and made love in the dark, it was there. When I woke with the windows open and the moonlight on the roofs of the tall houses, it was there. I put my face away from the moonlight into the shadow but I could not sleep and lay awake thinking about it. We had both wakened twice in the night and my wife slept sweetly now with the moonlight on her face. I had to try to think it out and I was too stupid. Life had seemed so simple that morning when I had wakened and found the false spring and heard the pipes of the man with his herd of goats and gone out and bought the racing paper.

78

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But Paris was a very old city and we were young and nothing was simple there, not even poverty, nor sudden money, nor the moonlight, nor right and wrong nor the breathing of someone who lay beside you in the moonlight.

79

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序号 英文/音标 中文解释 更多操作

bob

[bɒb]

vi. 上下动荡；浮动；摇摆;

larcenous

['lɑːsɪnəs]

adj.窃盗的

Toronto

[tə'rɔntəu]

n.多伦多(加拿大城市)

underwear

['ʌndəweə(r)]

n.内衣

arrogance

['ærəɡəns]

n.傲慢;自大

flail

[fleɪl]

v.挥动;用连迦打;敲打

cote

[kəʊt]

n.棚;窝;栏;小屋

Pat

[pæt]

n.轻拍;轻打;小块

franc

[fræŋk]

n.法郎

Chink

[tʃɪŋk]

n.裂缝;漏洞;硬币;叮当声;(贬)中国人

pitcher

['pɪtʃə(r)]

n.水罐;【棒球】投手;【植】瓶状叶

arch

[ɑːtʃ]

n.拱;拱门;拱状物

murky

['mɜːki]

adj.黑暗的;朦胧的;烟雾弥漫的;含糊的;隐晦的

vine

[vaɪn]

n.藤;蔓;攀爬植物

Louvre

['luːvə(r)]

n.(巴黎)罗浮宫(又名卢浮宫)

Lucerne

[luː'sɜːn]

n.紫苜蓿

Midi

['mɪdi]

=Musical Instrument Digital Interface,(电子)乐器数字(化)接口

buttress

['bʌtrəs]

n.扶墙;拱壁

Jacob

[ˈʤeɪkəb]

n.雅各布(男子名)

curly

['kɜːli]

adj.卷曲的

felted

['feltɪd]

v. 把 ... 制成毡(使 ... 粘结)

tournedos

['tʊənəˌdəʊ]

n.tournedos 腓里牛排

literal

['lɪtərəl]

adj.逐字的;字面上的;文字的

stupidity

[stjuː'pɪdəti]

n.愚笨;愚蠢的行为

herd

[hɜːd]

n. 【C】(牛、马、猪、象等)群;

Paris

['pærɪs]

n.巴黎;重楼(百合科植物);帕里斯(姓氏)

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