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流动的盛宴|A Moveable Feast

第三章　“迷惘的一代”|“Une Génération Perdue”

属类： 双语小说 【分类】双语小说 -[作者: 海明威] 阅读：[9980]

[18]　此话的言外之意：格特鲁德·斯泰因的那位同性恋伴侣充当着“妻子”的角色。
《 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 》
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久而久之，我养成了一种习惯，下午动辄便到弗勒吕斯街27号去，在那儿烤火、观赏名画以及与斯泰因小姐谈天说地。斯泰因小姐一般是不在工作室接待客人的，但对我却十分友好，有很长一段时间表现得热情洋溢。我为加拿大的一家报社效力，还为一些通讯社撰稿，常去近东和德国报道各种政治性会议，回来后她就叫我把趣闻轶事讲给她听。有些趣闻轶事是很有意思的，她百听不厌，还喜欢听德国人所谓的“绞刑架幽默”[1]的故事。她渴望了解这个世界快乐的一面，而非真相，也不愿知道丑恶的一面。

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[1]　“绞刑架幽默”是幽默或者笑话的一种形式，是针对自身的糟糕处境表达的一种幽默。
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我那时年轻，不知道忧愁是什么滋味，觉得即便在最糟糕的时候也会发生奇怪和滑稽的事情，而斯泰因小姐想听的正是这种事情。我将这些趣闻讲给她听，并将采访到的内容写入稿件。

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不出去采访，我就搞创作，工作之余便去弗勒吕斯街找斯泰因小姐聊天。有时，我会请她针对如何读书发表看法。我搞创作，都是写一写，然后读一读书。假如你一个劲绞尽脑汁思考自己所写的内容，不读一点书的话，你会有江郎才尽的感觉，次日很可能就写不下去了。锻炼身体也是很有必要的，让自己的筋骨感到疲倦，以缓解写作的压力。如果能跟你所爱的人做做爱，那就是神仙过的日子了，比什么都强。不过，云雨之后，你会感到空虚。此时，有必要读书充实自己，以排除空想和焦虑——唯有如此，才能重新投入写作当中。我的经验是：不要等到创作的源泉枯竭之后才辍笔，而是在水井里还有水时就及时补水，使之长流不竭。

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为了让大脑得到休息，我有时会在工作之余读一读当代作家的作品，如阿道司·赫胥黎[2]和戴维·赫伯特·劳伦斯[3]等。他们的作品可以从西尔维亚·比奇[4]的图书馆借到，也可以在码头书摊上买到。

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[2]　英格兰作家。
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“赫胥黎是个缺乏生气的人，”斯泰因小姐说，“你怎么愿意读这样一个人的书？难道你看不出他是个死气沉沉的人吗？”

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当时我没有看出这一点，于是便推说看他的书只是图个消遣，缓解一下压力而已。

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“读书，应该读货真价实的好书，要么就读臭名昭著的坏书。”

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“若说货真价实的好书，我去年冬天在读，今年冬天在读，明年冬天还会读。至于臭名昭著的坏书，我是不愿意读的。”

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“那你为什么要读赫胥黎的垃圾？那可是一个半死不活的人写出的华而不实的垃圾，海明威！”

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“他们的作品我只是随便看看，”我说，“好让大脑得到休息。”

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“你现在还读谁的作品？”

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“戴维·赫伯特·劳伦斯的，”我说，“他的短篇小说有些写得非常精彩，其中有一篇叫作《普鲁士军官》。”

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“我原来想读一读他的长篇小说，谁知却不堪卒读。他的书可悲又可耻，十分荒唐，满是病态的情调。”

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“他的长篇，我喜欢《儿子与情人》和《白孔雀》，”我说，“也许，这样做有点缺乏品位。至于《恋爱中的女人》，简直让人读不下去。”

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“既然你不愿意读臭名昭著的坏书，而愿意读自己感兴趣而且里面含有精华的书，那就不妨看看玛丽·贝罗克·朗兹[5]的作品。”

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[5]　英国小说家，擅长写侦探小说。
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我没听说过这位作家。斯泰因小姐拿出两本此人写的书借给我看——一本是《房客》，动人心弦，写的是“开膛手”杰克的故事，另一本写的是一桩发生在巴黎近郊的谋杀案（一看就知道那地方是昂吉安莱班）。工作之余读这样的书妙不可言，书中的人物和情节真实可信，读之令人毛骨悚然。在忙完写作之后，读这种书消遣是再好不过了。于是，我把贝罗克·朗兹夫人的书尽数收集来阅读，这时才发现她的作品也不过就是那么点东西，没有一本像我最初读的那两本那般精彩。在白天或夜间的空闲时间里，我感到空虚，却苦于找不到好的作品消遣。后来，西默农[6]的小说问世，一炮打响，才填补了这个空白。

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[6]　世界闻名的法语侦探小说家，作品超过四百五十部，全球销售超过五亿册，是全世界较为多产与畅销的作家。
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我读的西默农的书，第一本不是《第一号船闸》就是《运河上的房子》，让人手不释卷。我觉得斯泰因小姐一定会喜欢西默农的书，但是又不能百分百地肯定，因为那时的她虽然喜欢说法语，却不喜欢看法语书。我读的西默农的头两本书，都是珍妮特·弗朗纳[7]送给我的。珍妮特爱读法语书，早在西默农担任报道犯罪案件的记者时，就读他的作品了。

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[7]　《纽约人》杂志社的新闻记者。
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有三四年的时间，我和格特鲁德·斯泰因保持着亲密友好的关系，从没听她称赞过哪个作家，只是对那些撰文吹捧过她的作品，对她的事业有所贡献的人，她才另眼相看。不过，这里面罗纳德·菲尔班克和后起之秀司各特·菲茨杰拉德[8]是个例外。

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[8]　美国小说家，代表作是《了不起的盖茨比》。
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刚认识她时，听她说起过舍伍德·安德森[9]。她谈起舍伍德·安德森，不是谈他的创作，而是大谈特谈他的为人和长相，说他有一双热情洋溢、美丽动人的意大利人的眼睛，说他心地善良，极具个人魅力。他有没有热情洋溢、美丽动人的意大利人的眼睛，我并不关心，但对于他的一些短篇小说我还是非常喜欢的。那些短篇笔锋简练，有些鬼斧神工的味道。他关心和了解自己所写的人物，对他们有着深厚的感情。对他的作品斯泰因小姐避而不谈，却滔滔不绝地谈他的为人和长相。

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[9]　美国作家。
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“你觉得他的长篇写得怎么样？”我问道。岂不知这样问是犯忌的。她压根就不愿谈安德森的作品，正如她不愿谈乔伊斯的作品一样。只要你两次提起乔伊斯，她就不会再邀请你去做客了。这就像在一位将军面前称赞另一位将军。遇到这种情况，应该吃一堑长一智。不过，在和将军交谈时，你可以谈另一位被他打败过的将军。这时，跟你交谈的那位将军就会大大称赞自己的手下败将，然后不厌其烦地详细描述自己是如何打败对方的。

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安德森的短篇写得太漂亮了，以此为话题会叫斯泰因小姐不高兴的。所以，我打算跟她聊一聊他的长篇，准备说他的长篇简直是涂鸦之作。谁知这样也不行，因为这样就等于是在抨击她的一位铁杆支持者了。后来，安德森写了一部名为《黑色的笑声》的长篇小说，差劲得不能再差劲了，忸怩作态、矫揉造作，我忍不住在一篇讽刺文章里对其口诛笔伐，结果惹得斯泰因小姐勃然大怒，因为我批评的人是她圈子里的成员。在这之前，她很长时间都没有生过气了。安德森的写作生涯走到尽头时，她亲自出马，为其大唱赞歌。

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她曾生过埃兹拉·庞德[10]的气，原因是后者把她的一把椅子压坏了，那椅子又小又单薄，显然很不舒适，也可能是故意留给他坐的，结果就压坏了（大概是开裂了）。庞德是伟大的诗人，性情温和，是个仗义疏财的人——接待这样的人，应该让他坐大小适宜的椅子才对。她不喜欢庞德，多年后解释原因时编造出了一些理由，把话说得很巧妙，里面包含着恶意。

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[10]　美国诗人和文学评论家，意象派诗歌运动的重要代表人物。他和艾略特同为后期象征主义诗歌的领军人物。其代表作是《在地铁站内》。
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那时，我们从加拿大回来后，住在圣母院大街。我跟斯泰因小姐仍是亲密无间的朋友。一天，她提出了“迷惘的一代”之说法。当时，她驾驶的那辆老式福特T型汽车的点火装置出了些毛病，到修理厂后，一个小伙子负责为她修车。小伙子在第一次世界大战的最后一年曾服过兵役，修车时技术不够熟练，或者说没有打破先来先修、后来后修的规矩提前为斯泰因小姐修车。反正不管怎么说吧，斯泰因小姐对他颇有微词，弄得他被修理厂的老板狠狠训斥了一顿。

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老板对他说：“你们都是迷惘的一代。”

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“你就是这样的人。你们全都是！”斯泰因小姐对我说，“你们这些年轻人，在战争中服过兵役，全都属于迷惘的一代，无一例外。”

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“真的吗？”我说。

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“的确如此，”她语气坚定地说，“你们把什么都不放在眼里，一喝酒就醉个半死。”

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“那个年轻的修理工醉了个半死吗？”

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“那倒没有。”

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“你见过我喝醉吗？”

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“没有。但你的朋友是酗酒的。”

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“其实，我喝醉过，”我说，“但一喝醉，我是不来这儿的。”

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“当然不是那回事。这话可不是我说的。”

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“也许，那个修理工的老板是个酒徒，上午十一点的时候喝了个酩酊大醉，”我说，“所以，酒后说了些胡话。”

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“别跟我争辩了，海明威，”斯泰因小姐说，“这根本没有用。你们全是迷惘的一代，汽车修理厂的那个老板说得不错。”

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后来，在创作第一部长篇小说[11]时，我把斯泰因小姐引用汽车修理厂老板的那句话跟《传道书》[12]的用语相比较，发现这一术语来自《传道书》。话说那天夜里回家的路上，我想到了汽车修理厂的那个小伙子，不知道他是否跟我一样，曾在战争中被拉去驾驶用普通车改装成的救护车[13]。记得有一次运伤员，下山时司机们拼命踩刹车，把刹车片都烧坏了也不顶用，最后用了倒车挡才让车停下。最后的几辆车空车驶过了山腰，车上的伤员转移到了大型菲亚特汽车上——那种车有性能良好的变速器以及全金属的制动器。总之，在返家的路上我浮想联翩，想到了斯泰因小姐和舍伍德·安德森，想到了自我主义和思想的懒散，还想到了自我约束。末了，我不禁自问：“究竟哪些人才应该被称为‘迷惘的一代’呢？”走近丁香园咖啡馆时，我看见灯光正照在我的老朋友内伊元帅[14]手持战刀的雕像上——婆娑的树影洒在这尊青铜雕像上，他孤零零地站在那儿，背后没有一个人。正是这个人，在滑铁卢战役中一败涂地。我心想：每一代人都有自己的“迷惘”，过去如此，今后也必然如此。想到这里，我在丁香园咖啡馆留住了脚步，打算陪一陪这尊雕像，喝上一杯冰镇啤酒，然后再回我那位于锯木厂附近的公寓楼家中。但坐下来喝酒时，我心里又起波澜，望着那尊雕像，想起莫斯科战败后，拿破仑带着科兰古[15]乘马车仓皇撤退时，内伊则率军断后，不知鏖战了多少个日日夜夜。想起了斯泰因小姐是个多么热情亲切的朋友，想起了她对阿波里耐[16]的高度评价，想起了她在说到阿波里耐的死时是多么悲伤——阿波里耐死于1918年停战的那一天，当时群众在高喊“打倒纪尧姆”[17]，身处弥留之际的阿波里耐以为自己成了众矢之的。对于斯泰因小姐，我决定尽自己最大的力量为她效力，只要自己力所能及，就一定要还她一个公道，让她的杰出的贡献得到公正的对待。愿上帝和内伊将军祝我成功！话虽如此，但还是叫她的“迷惘的一代”之说以及所有的那些乌七八糟、信手拈来的标签统统见鬼去吧！我回到家，走进院子，上了楼，见自己的妻子、儿子和小猫“F猫咪”都高高兴兴的，壁炉里生着火，我的心情也好了起来，便对妻子说：“不管怎么说，格特鲁德归根结底还是个好人。”

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[13]　第一次世界大战爆发后，海明威辞掉了记者一职去意大利参战。由于视力缺陷导致体检不及格，只被调到红十字会救伤队担任救护车司机。
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“这是当然的，塔蒂。”

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“不过，她有时说话说得很离谱。”

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“我没听她跟我说过什么，”我的妻子说，“我是做妻子的。跟我说话的是她的那个同伴。”[18]

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[18]　此话的言外之意：格特鲁德·斯泰因的那位同性恋伴侣充当着“妻子”的角色。
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It was easy to get into the habit of stopping in at 27 rue de Fleurus late in the afternoon for the warmth and the great pictures and the conversation. Often Miss Stein would have no guests and she was always very friendly and for a long time she was affectionate. When I had come back from trips that I had made to the different political conferences or to the Near East or Germany for the Canadian paper and the news services that I worked for she wanted me to tell her about all the amusing details. There were funny parts always and she liked them and also what the Germans call gallows-humor stories. She wanted to know the gay part of how the world was going; never the real, never the bad.

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I was young and not gloomy and there were always strange and comic things that happened in the worst time and Miss Stein liked to hear these. The other things I did not talk of and wrote by myself.

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When I had not come back from any trips and would stop in at the rue de Fleurus after working I would try sometimes to get Miss Stein to talk about books. When I was writing, it was necessary for me to read after I had written. If you kept thinking about it, you would lose the thing that you were writing before you could go on with it the next day. It was necessary to get exercise, to be tired in the body, and it was very good to make love with whom you loved.That was better than anything. But afterwards, when you were empty, it was necessary to read in order not to think or worry about your work until you could do it again. I had learned already never to empty the well of my writing, but always to stop when there was still something there in the deep part of the well, and let it refill at night from the springs that fed it.

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To keep my mind off writing sometimes after I had worked I would read writers who were writing then, such as Aldous Huxley, D. H. Lawrence or any who had books published that I could get from Sylvia Beach’s library or find along the quais.

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“Huxley is a dead man,” Miss Stein said. “Why do you want to read a dead man? Can’t you see he is dead?”

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I could not see, then, that he was a dead man and I said that his books amused me and kept me from thinking.

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“You should only read what is truly good or what is frankly bad.”

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“I’ve been reading truly good books all winter and all last winter and I’ll read them next winter, and I don’t like frankly bad books.”

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“Why do you read this trash? It is inflated trash, Hemingway. By a dead man.”

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“I like to see what they are writing,” I said. “And it keeps my mind off me doing it.”

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“Who else do you read now?”

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“D. H. Lawrence,” I said. “He wrote some very good short stories, one called ‘The Prussian Officer.’?”

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“I tried to read his novels. He’s impossible. He’s pathetic and preposterous. He writes like a sick man.”

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“I liked Sons and Lovers and The White Peacock,” I said.“Maybe that not so well. I couldn’t read Women in Love.”

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“If you don’t want to read what is bad, and want to read something that will hold your interest and is marvelous in its own way, you should read Marie Belloc Lowndes.”

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I had never heard of her, and Miss Stein loaned me The Lodger, that marvelous story of Jack the Ripper and another book about murder at a place outside Paris that could only be Enghien les Bains. They were both splendid after-work books, the people credible and the action and the terror never false. They were perfect for reading after you had worked and I read all the Mrs. Belloc Lowndes that there was. But there was only so much and none as good as the first two and I never found anything as good for that empty time of day or night until the first fine Simenon books came out.

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I think Miss Stein would have liked the good Simenons—the first one I read was either L’Ecluse Numéro 1, or La Maison du Canal—but I am not sure because when I knew Miss Stein she did not like to read French although she loved to speak it. Janet Flanner gave me the first two Simenons I ever read. She loved to read French and she had read Simenon when he was a crime reporter.

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In the three or four years that we were good friends I cannot remember Gertrude Stein ever speaking well of any writer who had not written favorably about her work or done something to advance her career except for Ronald Firbank and, later, Scott Fitzgerald. When I first met her she did not speak of Sherwood Anderson as a writer but spoke glowingly of him as a man and of his great, beautiful, warm Italian eyes and of his kindness and his charm. I did not care about his great beautiful warm Italian eyes but I liked some of his short stories very much. They were simply written and sometimes beautifully written and he knew the people he was writing about and cared deeply for them. Miss Stein did not want to talk about his stories but always about him as a person.

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“What about his novels?” I asked her. She did not want to talk about Anderson’s works any more than she would talk about Joyce. If you brought up Joyce twice, you would not be invited back. It was like mentioning one general favorably to another general. You learned not to do it the first time you made the mistake. You could always mention a general, though, that the general you were talking to had beaten. The general you were talking to would praise the beaten general greatly and go happily into detail on how he had beaten him.

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Anderson’s stories were too good to make happy conversation. I was prepared to tell Miss Stein how strangely poor his novels were, but this would have been bad too because it was criticizing one of her most loyal supporters. When he wrote a novel finally called Dark Laughter, so terribly bad, silly and affected that I could not keep from criticizing it in a parody,[1]Miss Stein was very angry. I had attacked someone that was a part of her apparatus. But for a long time before that she was not angry. She, herself, began to praise Sherwood lavishly after he had cracked up as a writer.

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She was angry at Ezra Pound because he had sat down too quickly on a small, fragile and, doubtless, uncomfortable chair, that it is quite possible he had been given on purpose, and had either cracked or broken it. That he was a great poet and a gentle and generous man and could have accommodated himself in a normal-size chair was not considered. The reasons for her dislike of Ezra, skillfully and maliciously put, were invented years later.

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It was when we had come back from Canada and were living in the rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs and Miss Stein and I were still good friends that Miss Stein made the remark about the lost generation. She had some ignition trouble with the old Model T Ford she then drove and the young man who worked in the garage and had served in the last year of the war had not been adept, or perhaps had not broken the priority of other vehicles, in repairing Miss Stein’s Ford. Anyway he had not been sérieux and had been corrected severely by the patron of the garage after Miss Stein’s protest. The patron had said to him, “You are all a génération perdue.”

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“That’s what you are. That’s what you all are,” Miss Stein said.“All of you young people who served in the war. You are a lost generation.”

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“Really?” I said.

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“You are,” she insisted. “You have no respect for anything. You drink yourselves to death....”

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“Was the young mechanic drunk?” I asked.

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“Of course not.”

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“Have you ever seen me drunk?”

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“No. But your friends are drunk.”

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“I’ve been drunk,” I said. “But I don’t come here drunk.”

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“Of course not. I didn’t say that.”

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“The boy’s patron was probably drunk by eleven o’clock in the morning,” I said. “That’s why he makes such lovely phrases.”

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“Don’t argue with me, Hemingway,” Miss Stein said. “It does no good at all. You’re all a lost generation, exactly as the garage keeper said.”

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Later when I wrote my first novel I tried to balance Miss Stein’s quotation from the garage keeper with one from Ecclesiastes. But that night walking home I thought about the boy in the garage and if he had ever been hauled in one of those vehicles when they were converted to ambulances. I remembered how they used to burn out their brakes going down the mountain roads with a full load of wounded and braking in low and finally using the reverse, and how the last ones were driven over the mountainside empty, so they could be replaced by big Fiats with a good H-shift and metal-to-metal brakes. I thought of Miss Stein and Sherwood Anderson and egotism and mental laziness versus discipline and I thought who is calling who a lost generation? Then as I was getting up to the Closerie des Lilas with the light on my old friend, the statue of Marshal Ney with his sword out and the shadows of the trees on the bronze, and he alone there and nobody behind him and what a fiasco he’d made of Waterloo, I thought that all generations were lost by something and always had been and always would be and I stopped at the Lilas to keep the statue company and drank a cold beer before going home to the flat over the sawmill. But sitting there with the beer, watching the statue and remembering how many days Ney had fought, personally, with the rearguard on the retreat from Moscow that Napoleon had ridden away from in the coach with Caulaincourt, I thought of what a warm and affectionate friend Miss Stein had been and how beautifully she had spoken of Apollinaire and of his death on the day of the Armistice in 1918 with the crowd shouting “à bas Guillaume” and Apollinaire, in his delirium, thinking they were crying against him, and I thought, I will do my best to serve her and see she gets justice for the good work she had done as long as I can, so help me God and Mike Ney. But the hell with her lost-generation talk and all the dirty, easy labels. When I got home and into the courtyard and upstairs and saw my wife and my son and his cat, F.Puss, all of them happy and a fire in the fireplace, I said to my wife,“You know, Gertrude is nice, anyway.”

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“Of course, Tatie.”

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“But she does talk a lot of rot sometimes.”

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“I never hear her,” my wife said. “I’m a wife. It’s her friend that talks to me.”

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Notes：

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序号 英文/音标 中文解释 更多操作

affectionate

[ə'fekʃənət]

adj.充满感情的;示爱的

Stein

[staɪn]

n.啤酒杯

refill

['riːfɪl]

v.(使)再充满

Sylvia

[ˈsɪlvɪə]

n.西尔维亚(女子名)

preposterous

[prɪ'pɒstərəs]

adj.荒谬的;可笑的

Peacock

['piːkɒk]

n.(雄)孔雀;爱炫耀的人

credible

['kredəbl]

adj.可信的;可靠的

Janet

['dʒænɪt]

n.珍妮特

favorably

['feɪvərəblɪ]

adv.赞同地;亲切地;好意地

lavish

['lævɪʃ]

adj.大方的;丰富的;浪费的

malicious

[mə'lɪʃəs]

adj.怀恶意的;恶毒的

adept

[ə'dept]

adj.熟练的;老练的

fireplace

['faɪəpleɪs]

n.壁炉

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