 《乞力马扎罗的雪》是海明威的一部短篇小说,是对于一个临死前的人的精彩描述。故事主要讲述一个作家哈里去非洲狩猎,途中汽车抛锚,皮肤被刺划破,染上坏疽病。他和他的妻子在等待一架飞机来把他送到医院治疗。小说围绕“死亡”和“即将死亡”来写,但根本的主题是哈里回到过去,从过去走到现在的历程回顾。哈里热爱这个世界。他有很多经历。跟不同女人的经历,以及自己所从事的不同职业的经历,他都想写下来但却没来得及写。他最终没有能达到心中的目标。死前,他悔恨至极。故事的结尾,他死于一个梦境:他乘着飞机,向非洲最高峰——乞力马扎罗的山顶飞去。 |
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'No. Just a little sleepy.'
'I do,' he said.
He had just felt death come by again.
'You know the only thing I've never lost is curiosity,' he said to her.
'You've never lost anything. You're the most complete man I've ever known.'
'Christ,' he said. 'How little a woman knows. What is that? Your intuition?'
Because, just then, death had come and rested its head on the foot of the cot and he could smell its breath.
'Never believe any of that about a scythe and a skull,' he told her. 'It can be two bicycle policemen as easily or be a bird. Or it can have a wide snout like a hyena.'
It had moved up on him now, but it had no shape any more. It simply occupied space.
'Tell it to go away.'
It did not go away but moved a little closer.
'You've got a hell of a breath,' he told it. 'You stinking bastard.'
It moved up closer to him still and now he could not speak to it, and when it saw he could not speak it came a little closer, and now he tried to send it away without speaking, but it moved in on him so its weight was all upon his chest, and while it crouched there and he could not move, or speak, he heard the woman say, 'Bwana is asleep now. Take the cot up very gently and carry it into the tent'.
He could not speak to tell her to make it go away and it crouched now, heavier so he could not breathe. And then, while they lifted the cot, suddenly it was all right and the weight went from his chest.
It was morning and had been morning for some time and he heard the plane. It showed very tiny and then made a wide circle and the boys ran out and lit the fires, using kerosene, and piled on grass so there were two big smudges at each end of the level place and the morning breeze blew them toward the camp and the plane circled twice more, low this time, and then glided down and levelled off and landed smoothly and, coming walking toward him, was old Compton in slacks, a tweed jacket and a brown felt hat.
'What's the matter, old cock?' Compton said.
'Bad leg,' he told him. 'Will you have some breakfast?'
'Thanks. I'll just have some tea. It's the Puss Moth, you know. I won't be able to take the Memsahib. There's only room for one. Your lorry is on the way.'
Helen had taken Compton aside and was speaking to him.
Compton came back more cheery than ever.
'We'll get you right in,' he said. I'll be back for the Mem. Now I'm afraid I'll have to stop at Arusha to refuel. We'd better get going.'
'What about the tea?'
'I don't really care about it, you know.'
The boys had picked up the cot and carried it around the green tents and down along the rock and out on to the plain and along past the smudges that were burning brightly now, the grass all consumed, and the wind fanning the fire, to the little plane. It was difficult getting him in, but once in he lay back in the leather seat, and the leg was stuck straight out to one side of the seat where Compton sat. Compton started the motor and got in. He waved to Helen and to the boys and, as the clatter moved into the old familiar roar, they swung around with Compie watching for wart-hog holes and roared, bumping, along the stretch between the fires and with the last bump rose and he saw them all standing below, waving, and the camp beside the hill, flattening now, and the plain spreading, clumps of trees, and the bush flattening, while the game trails ran now smoothly to the dry waterholes, and there was a new water that he had never known of. The zebra, small rounded backs now, and the wildebeeste, big-headed dots seeming to climb as they moved in long fingers across the plain, now scattering as the shadow came toward them, they were tiny now, and the movement had no gallop, and the plain as far as you could see, grey-yellow now and ahead old Compie's tweed back and the brown felt hat. Then they were over the first hills and the wildebeeste were trailing up them, and then they were over mountains with sudden depths of green-rising forest and the solid bamboo slopes, and then the heavy forest again, sculptured into peaks and hollows until they crossed, and hills sloped down and then another plain, hot now, and purple brown, bumpy with heat and Compie looking back to see how he was riding. Then there were other mountains dark ahead.
And then instead of going on to Arusha they turned left, he evidently figured that they had the gas, and looking down he saw a pink sifting cloud, moving over the ground, and in the air, like the first snow in a blizzard, that comes from nowhere, and he knew the locusts were coming up from the South. Then they began to climb and they were going to the East it seemed, and then it darkened and they were in a storm, the rain so thick it seemed like flying through a waterfall, and then they were out and Compie turned his head and grinned and pointed and there, ahead, all he could see, as wide as all the world, great, high, and unbelievably white in the sun, was the square top of Kilimanjaro. And then he knew that there was where he was going.
Just then the hyena stopped whimpering in the night and started to make a strange, human, almost crying sound. The woman heard it and stirred uneasily. She did not wake. In her dream she was at the house on Long Island and it was the night before her daughter's debut. Somehow her father was there and he had been very rude. Then the noise the hyena made was so loud she woke and for a moment she did not know where she was and she was very afraid. Then she took the flashlight and shone it on the other cot that they had carried in after Harry had gone to sleep. She could see his bulk under the mosquito bar but somehow he had gotten his leg out and it hung down alongside the cot. The dressings had all come down and she could not look at it.
'Molo,' she called. 'Molo! Molo!'
Then she said, 'Harry, Harry!' Then her voice rising, 'Harry! Please, Oh Harry!'
There was no answer and she could not hear him breathing.
Outside the tent the hyena made the same strange noise that had awakened her. But she did not hear him for the beating of her heart.
“没有。只是我有点困啦。”
“我可是感觉到了。”
就在这时候，他感到死神又一次临近了。
“你知道，我唯一没有失去的东西，只有好奇心了，”他对她说。
“你从来没有失去什么东西。你是我所知道的一个最完美的人了。”
“天哪，”他说。“女人知道的东西实在太少啦。你根据什么这样说？是直觉吗？”
因为正是这个时候死神来了，死神的头靠在帆布床的脚上，他闻得出它的呼吸。
“你可千万别相信死神是镰刀和骷髅，”他告诉她。“它很可能是两个从从容容骑着自行车的警察或者是一只鸟儿。或者是象鬣狗一样有一只大鼻子。”
现在死神已经挨到他的身上来了，可是它已不再具有任何形状了。它只是占有空间。
“告诉它走开。”
它没有走，相反挨得更近了。
“你呼哧呼哧地净喘气，”他对它说，“你这个臭杂种。”
它还是在向他一步步挨近，现在他不能对它说话了，当它发现他不能说话的时候，又向他挨近了一点，现在他想默默地把它赶走，但是它爬到他的身上来了，这样，它的重量就全压到他的胸口了，它趴在那儿，他不能动弹也说不出话来，他听见女人说，“先生睡着了，把床轻轻地抬起来，抬到帐篷里去吧。”
他不能开口告诉她把它赶走，现在它更沉重地趴在他的身上，这样他气也透不过来了，但是当他们抬起帆布床的时候，忽然一切又正常了，重压从他胸前消失了。
现在已是早晨，已是早晨好一会儿了，他听见了飞机声。
飞机显得很小，接着飞了一大圈，两个男仆跑出来用汽油点燃了火，堆上野草，这样在平地两端就冒起了两股浓烟，晨风把浓烟吹向帐篷，飞机又绕了两圈，这次是低飞了，接着往下滑翔，拉平，平稳地着陆了，老康普顿穿着宽大的便裤，上身穿一件花呢茄克，头上戴着一顶棕色毡帽，朝着他走来。
“怎么回事啊，老伙计？”康普顿说。
“腿坏了，”他告诉他。“你要吃点儿早饭吗？”
“谢谢。我只要喝点茶就行啦，你知道这是一架‘天社蛾’，我没有能搞到那架‘夫人’。只能坐一个人。你的卡车正在路上。”
海伦把康普顿拉到旁边去，正在给他说着什么话。康普顿显得更兴高采烈地走回来。
“我们得马上把你抬进飞机去，”他说。“我还要回来接你太太。现在我怕我得在阿鲁沙⒇停一下加油。咱们最好马上就走。”
“喝点茶怎么样？”
“你知道，我实在并不想喝。”
两个男仆抬起了帆布床，绕着那些绿色的帐篷兜了一圈，然后沿着岩石往了走到那片平地上，走过那两股浓烟——现在正亮晃晃地燃烧着，风吹旺了火，野草都烧光了——来到那架小飞机前。好不容易把他抬进飞机，一进飞机他就躺在皮椅子里，那条腿直挺挺地伸到康普顿的座位旁边。康普顿发动了马达，便上了飞机。他向海伦和两个男仆扬手告别，马达的咔哒声变成惯常熟悉的吼声，他们摇摇摆摆地打着转儿，康普顿留神着着那些野猪的洞穴，飞机在两堆火光之间的平地上怒吼着，颠簸着，随着最后一次颠簸，起飞了，而他看见他们都站在下面扬手，山边的那个帐篷现在显得扁扁的，平原展开着，一簇簇的树林，那片灌木丛也显得扁扁的，那一条条野兽出没的小道，现在似乎都平坦坦地通向那些干涸的水穴，有一处新发现的水，这是他过去从来不知道的。斑马，现在只看到它们那圆圆的隆起的背脊了。大羚羊象长手指头那么大，它们越过平原时，仿佛是大头的黑点在地上爬行，现在当飞机的影子向它们逼近时，都四散奔跑了，它们现在显得更小了，动作也看不出是在奔驰了。你极目望去，现在平原是一片灰黄色，前面是老康普顿的花呢茄克的背影和那顶棕色的毡帽。接着他们飞过了第一批群山，大羚羊正往山上跑去，接着他们又飞越高峻的山岭，陡峭的深谷里斜生着浓绿的森林，还有那生长着茁壮的竹林的山坡，接着又是一大片茂密的森林，他们又飞过森林，穿越一座座尖峰和山谷。山岭渐渐低斜，接着又是一片平原，现在天热起来了，大地显出一片紫棕色，飞机热哄哄地颠簸着，康普顿回过头来看看他在飞行中情况怎样。接着前面又是黑压压的崇山峻岭。
接着，他们不是往阿鲁沙方向飞，而是转向左方，很显然，他揣想他们的燃料足够了，往下看，他见到一片象筛子里筛落下来的粉红色的云，正掠过大地，从空中看去，却象是突然出现的暴风雪的第一阵飞雷，他知道那是蝗虫从南方飞来了。接着他们爬高，似乎他们是往东方飞，接着天色晦暗，他们碰上了一场暴风雨，大雨如注，仿佛象穿过一道瀑布似的，接着他们穿出水帘，康普顿转过头来，咧嘴笑着，一面用手指着，于是在前方，极目所见，他看到，象整个世界那样宽广无垠，在阳光中显得那么高耸、宏大，而且白得令人不可置信，那是乞力马扎罗山的方形的山巅。于是他明白，那儿就是他现在要飞去的地方。
正是这个当儿，鬣狗在夜里停止了呜咽，开始发出一种奇怪的几乎象人那样的哭声。女人听到了这种声音，在床上不安地反侧着。她并没有醒。在梦里她正在长岛的家里，这是她女儿第一次参加社交的前夜。似乎她的父亲也在场，他显得很粗暴。接着鬣狗的大声哭叫把她吵醒了，一时她不知道自己身在何处，她很害怕。接着她拿起手电照着另一张帆布床，哈里睡着以后，他们把床抬进来了。在蚊帐的木条下，他的身躯隐约可见，但是他似乎把那条腿伸出来了，在帆布床沿耷拉着，敷着药的纱布都掉落了下来，她不忍再看这副景象。
“莫洛，”她喊道，“莫洛！莫洛！”
接着她说：“哈里，哈里！”接着她提高了嗓子，“哈里！请你醒醒，啊，哈里！”
没有回答，也听不见他的呼吸声。
帐篷外，鬣狗还在发出那种奇怪的叫声，她就是给那种叫声惊醒的。但是因为她的心在怦怦跳着，她听不见鬣狗的哭叫声了。● -
The husband of the woman who ran the Bal Musette drove a taxi and when he, Harry, had to take an early plane the husband knocked upon the door to wake him and they each drank a glass of white wine at the zinc of the bar before they started. He knew his neighbours in that quarter then because they all were poor.
Around that place there were two kinds: the drunkards and the sportifs. The drunkards killed their poverty that way; the sportifs took it out in exercise. They were the descendants of the Communards and it was no struggle for them to know their politics.
They knew who had shot their fathers, their relatives, their brothers, and their friends when the Versailles troops came in and took the town after the Commune and executed anyone they could catch with calloused hands, or who wore a cap, or carried any other sign he was a working man. And in that poverty, and in that quarter across the street from a Boucherie Chevaline and a wine co-operative he had written the start of all he was to do. There never was another part of Paris that he loved like that, the sprawling trees, the old white plastered houses painted brown below, the long green of the autobus in that round square, the purple flower dye upon the paving, the sudden drop down the hill of the rue Cardinal Lemoine to the River, and the other way the narrow crowded world of the rue Mouffetard.
The street that ran up toward the Pantheon and the other that he always took with the bicycle, the only asphalted street in all that quarter, smooth under the tyres, with the high narrow houses and the cheap tall hotel where Paul Verlaine had died. There were only two rooms in the apartments where they lived and he had a room on the top floor of that hotel that cost him sixty francs a month where he did his writing, and from it he could see the roofs and chimney pots and all the hills of Paris.
From the apartment you could only see the wood and coal man's plate. He sold wine, too, bad wine. The golden horse's head outside the Boucherie Chevaline where the carcasses hung yellow gold and red in the open window, and the green painted co-operative where they bought their wine; good wine and cheap. The rest was plaster walls and the windows of the neighbours. The neighbours who, at night, when someone lay drunk in the street, moaning and groaning in that typical French ivresse that you were propaganded to believe did not exist, would open their windows and then the murmur of talk.
'Where is the policeman? When you don't want him the bugger is always there. He's sleeping with some concierge. Get the Agent.'
Till someone threw a bucket of water from a window and the moaning stopped. 'What's that? Water. Ah, that's intelligent,' And the windows shutting. Marie, his femme de mage, protesting against the eight-hour day saying, 'If a husband works until six he gets only a little drunk on the way home and does not waste too much. If he works only until five he is drunk every night and one has no money. It is the wife of the working man who suffers from this shortening of hours,'
'Wouldn't you like some more broth?' the woman asked now.
'No, thank you very much. It is awfully good.'
'Try just a little.'
'I would like a whisky-soda.'
'It's not good for you.'
'No. It's bad for me. Cole Porter wrote the words and the music. This knowledge that you're going mad for me.'
'You know I like you to drink.'
'Oh yes. Only it's bad for me.'
When she goes, he thought. I'll have all I want. Not all I want but all there is. Ayee, he was tired. Too tired. He was going to sleep a little while. He lay still and death was not there. It must have gone around another street. It went in pairs, on bicycles, and moved absolutely silently on the pavements.
No, he had never written about Paris. Not the Paris that he cared about. But what about the rest that he had never written?
What about the ranch and the silvered grey of the sage brush, the quick, clear water in the irrigation ditches, and the heavy green of the alfalfa? The trail went up into the hills and the cattle in the summer were shy as deer. The bawling and the steady noise and slow moving mass raising a dust as you brought them down in the fall. And behind the mountains, the clear sharpness of the peak in the evening light and, riding down along the train in the moonlight, bright across the valley.
Now he remembered coming down through the timber in the dark holding the horse's tail when you could not see and all the stories that he meant to write.
About the half-wit chore boy who was left at the ranch that time and told not to let anyone get any hay, and that old bastard from the Forks who had beaten the boy when he had worked for him stopping to get some feed. The boy refusing and the old man saying he would beat him again. The boy got the rifle from the kitchen and shot him when he tried to come into the barn and when they came back to the ranch he'd been dead a week, frozen in the corral, and the dogs had eaten part of him. But what was left you packed on a sled wrapped in a blanket and roped on and you got the boy to help you haul it, and the two of you took it out over the road on skis, and sixty miles down to town to turn the boy over. He having no idea that he would be arrested. Thinking he had done his duty and that you were his friend and he would be rewarded. He'd helped to haul the old man in so everybody could know how bad the old man had been, and how he'd tried to steal some feed that didn't belong to him, and when the sheriff put the handcuffs on the boy he couldn't believe it. Then he'd started to cry. That was one story he had saved to write. He knew at least twenty good stories from out there and he had never written one. Why?
'You tell them why,' he said.
'Why what, dear?'
'Why nothing.'
She didn't drink so much, now, since she had him. But if he lived he would never write about her, he knew that now.
Nor about any of them. The rich were dull and they drank too much, or they played too much backgammon. They were dull and they were repetitious. He remembered poor Julian and his romantic awe of them and how he had started a story once that began, 'The very rich are different from you and me.' And how someone had said to Julian. Yes, they have more money. But that was not humorous to Julian.
He thought they were a special glamorous race and when he found they weren't it wrecked him just as much as any other thing that wrecked him.
He had been contemptuous of those who wrecked. You did not have to like it because you understood it. He could beat anything, he thought, because nothing could hurt him if he did not care.
All right. Now he would not care for death. One thing he had always dreaded was the pain. He could stand pain as well as any man, until it went on too long, and wore him out, but here he had something that had hurt frightfully and just when he had felt it breaking him, the pain had stopped.
He remembered long ago when Williamson, the bombing officer, had been hit by a stick bomb someone in a German patrol had thrown as he was coming in through the wire that night and, screaming, had begged everyone to kill him. He was a fat man, very brave, and a good officer, although addicted to fantastic shows. But that night he was caught in the wire, with a flare lighting him up and his bowels spilled out into the wire, so when they brought him in, alive, they had to cut him loose. Shoot me, Harry. For Christ sake shoot me. They had had an argument one time about our Lord never sending you anything you could not bear and someone's theory had been that meant that a certain time the pain passed you out automatically. But he had always remembered Williamson, that night. Nothing passed out Williamson until he gave him all his morphine tablets that he had always saved to use himself and then they did not work right away.
Still this now, that he had, was very easy; and if it was no worse as it went on there was nothing to worry about. Except that he would rather be in better company.
He thought a little about the company that he would like to have.
No, he thought, when everything you do, you do too long, and do too late, you can't expect to find the people still there.
The people are all gone. The party's over and you are with your hostess now.
I'm getting as bored with dying as with everything else, he thought.
'It's a bore,' he said out loud.
'What is, my dear?'
'Anything you do too bloody long.'
He looked at her face between him and the fire. She was leaning back in the chair and the firelight shone on her pleasantly lined face and he could see that she was sleepy.
He heard the hyena make a noise just outside the range of the fire.
'I've been writing,' he said. 'But I got tired,'
'Do you think you will be able to sleep?'
'Pretty sure. Why don't you turn in?'
'I like to sit here with you.'
'Do you feel anything strange?' he asked her.
他，哈里，有一次凌晨要乘飞机出门，经营“风笛”跳舞厅的女人的丈夫驾了一辆出租汽车来敲门唤他起身，动身前他们两个人在酒吧间的锌桌边喝了一杯白葡萄酒。那时，他熟悉那个地区的邻居，因为他们都很穷。
在城堡护墙广场附近有两种人：酒徒和运动员。酒徒以酗酒打发贫困，而运动员则在锻炼中忘却贫困。他们是巴黎公社的后裔，因此，对于他们来说，懂得他们的政治并不难。他们知道是谁打死了他们的父老兄弟和亲属朋友的，当凡尔赛的军队开进巴黎，继公社之后而占领了这座城市，任何人，只要是他们摸到手上有茧的，或者戴着便帽的，或者带有任何其他标志说明他是一个劳动者的，一律格杀勿论。就是在这样的贫困之中，就是在这个地区里，街对面是一家马肉铺和一家酿酒合作社，他开始了他此后的写作生涯。巴黎再没有他这样热爱的地区了，那蔓生的树木，那白色的灰泥墙，下面涂成棕色的老房子，那在圆形广场上的长长的绿色公共汽车，那路面上淌着染花的紫色颜料，那从山上向塞纳河急转直下的莱蒙昂红衣主教大街，还有那另一条狭窄然而热闹的莫菲塔德路。那条通向万神殿的大街和那另一条他经常骑着自行车经过的大街，那是那个地区唯一的一条铺上沥青的大街，车胎驶过，感到光溜平滑，街道两边尽是高耸而狭小的房子，还有那家高耸的下等客店，保尔·魏尔伦⒃就死在这里。在他们住的公寓里，只有两间屋子，他在那家客店的顶楼上有一间房间，每月他要付六十法郎的房租，他在这里写作，从这间房间，他可以看到鳞次栉比的屋顶和烟囱以及巴黎所有的山峦。
你从那幢公寓却只能看到那个经营木柴和煤炭的人的店铺，他也卖酒，卖低劣的甜酒。马肉铺子外面挂着金黄色的马头，在马肉铺的橱窗里挂着金黄色和红色的马肉，那涂着绿色油漆的合作社，他们就在那儿买酒喝；醇美而便宜的甜酒。其余就是灰泥的墙壁和邻居们的窗子。夜里，有人喝醉了躺在街上，在那种典型的法国式的酩酊大醉（人们向你宣传，要你相信根本不存在这样的大醉）中呻吟着，那些邻居会打开窗子，接着是一阵喃喃的低语。
“警察上哪儿去了？总是在你不需要警察的时候，这个家伙就出现了。他准是跟哪个看门女人在睡觉啦。去找警察。”等到不知是谁从窗口泼下一桶水，呻吟声才停止了。“倒下来的是什么？水。啊，这可是聪明的办法。”
于是窗子都关上了。玛丽，他的女仆，抗议一天八小时的工作制说，“要是一个丈夫干到六点钟，他在回家的路上就只能喝得稍微有点醉意，花钱也不会太多。可要是他活儿只干到五点钟，那他每天晚上都会喝得烂醉，你也就一个子儿也没有了。受这份缩短工时的罪的是工人的老婆。”
“你要再喝点儿肉汤吗？”女人现在问他。
“不要了，多谢你。味道好极了。”
“再喝一点儿吧。”
“我想喝威士忌苏打。”
“酒对你可没有好处。”
“是啊，酒对我有害。柯尔·波特⒄写过这些歌词，还作了曲子。这种知识正使你在生我的气。”
“你知道我是喜欢你喝酒的。”
“啊，是的，不过因为酒是对我有害的。”
等她走开了，他想，我就会得到我所要求的一切。不是我所要求的一切，而只是我所有的一切。嗳，他累啦。太累啦。他想睡一会儿。他静静地躺着，死神不在那儿。它准是上另一条街溜达去了。它成双结对地骑着自行车，静悄悄地在人行道上行驶。
不，他从来没有写过巴黎。没有写过他喜爱的那个巴黎。可是其余那些他从来没有写过的东西又是如何呢？
大牧场和那银灰色的山艾灌木丛，灌溉渠里湍急而清澈的流水和那浓绿的苜蓿又是如何呢？那条羊肠小道蜿蜒而上向山里伸展，而牛群在夏天胆小得象麋鹿一样。
那吆喝声和持续不断的喧嘈声，那一群行动缓慢的庞然大物，当你在秋天把它们赶下山来的时候，扬起了一片尘土。群山后面，嶙峋的山峰在暮霭中清晰地显现，在月光下骑马沿着那条小道下山，山谷那边一片皎洁。他记得，当你穿过森林下山时，在黑暗中你看不见路，只能抓住马尾巴摸索前进，这些都是他想写的故事。
还有那个打杂的傻小子，那次留下他一个人在牧场，并且告诉他别让任何人来偷干草，从福克斯来的那个老坏蛋，经过牧场停下来想搞点饲料，傻小子过去给他干活的时候，老家伙曾经揍过他。孩子不让他拿，老头儿说他要再给他一顿狠揍。当他想闯进牲口栏去的时候，孩子从厨房里拿来了来复熗，把老头儿打死了，于是等他们回到牧场的时候，老头儿已经死了一个星期，在牲口栏里冻得直僵僵的，狗已经把他吃掉了一部分。但是你把残留的尸体用毯子包起来，捆在一架雪橇上，让那个孩子帮你拖着，你们两个穿着滑雪板，带着尸体赶路，然后滑行六十英里，把孩子解到城里去。他还不知道人家会逮捕他呢。他满以为自己尽了责任，你是他的朋友，他准会得到报酬呢。他是帮着把这个老家伙拖进城来的，这样谁都能知道这个老家伙一向有多坏，他又是怎样想偷饲料，饲料可不是他的啊，等到行政司法官给孩子戴上手铐时，孩子简直不能相信。于是他放声哭了出来。这是他留着准备将来写的一个故事。从那儿，他至少知道二十个有趣的故事，可是他一个都没有写。为什么？
“你去告诉他们，那是为什么，”他说。
“什么为什么，亲爱的？”
“不为什么。”
她自从有了他，现在酒喝得不那么多了。可要是他活着，他决不会写她。这一点现在他知道了。他也决不写她们任何一个。有钱的人都是愚蠢的，他们就知道酗酒，或者整天玩巴加门⒅。他们是愚蠢的，而且唠唠叨叨叫人厌烦。他想起可怜的朱利安和他对有钱人怀着的那种罗曼蒂克的敬畏之感，记得他有一次怎样动手写一篇短篇小说，他开头这样写道：“豪门巨富是跟你我不同的。”有人曾经对朱利安说，是啊，他们比咱们有钱。可是对朱利安来说，这并不是一句幽默的话。
他认为他们是一种特殊的富有魅力的族类，等到他发现他们并非如此，他就毁了，正好象任何其他事物把他毁了一样⒆。
他一向鄙视那些毁了的人。你根本没有必要去喜欢这一套，因为你了解这是怎么回事。什么事情都骗不过他，他想，因为什么都伤害不了他，如果他不在意的话。
好吧。现在要是死，他也不在意。他一向害怕的一点是痛。他跟任何人一样忍得住痛，除非痛的时间太长，痛得他精疲力竭，可是这儿却有一种什么东西曾经痛得他无法忍受，但就在他感觉到有这么一种东西在撕裂他的时候，痛却已经停止了。
他记得在很久以前，投弹军官威廉逊那天晚上钻过铁丝网爬回阵地的时候，给一名德国巡逻兵扔过来的一枚手榴弹打中了，他尖声叫着，央求大家把他打死。他是个胖子，尽管喜欢炫耀自己，有时叫人难以相信，却很勇敢，也是一个好军官。可是那天晚上他在铁丝网里给打中了，一道闪光突然把他照亮了，他的肠子淌了出来，钩在铁丝网上，所以当他们把他抬进来的时候，当时他还活着，他们不得不把他的肠子割断。打死我，哈里。看在上帝的份上，打死我。有一回他们曾经对凡是上帝给你带来的你都能忍受这句话争论过，有人的理论是，经过一段时间，痛会自行消失。可是他始终忘不了威廉逊和那个晚上。在威廉逊身上痛苦并没有消失，直到他把自己一直留着准备自己用的吗啡片都给他吃下以后，也没有立刻止痛。
可是，现在他感觉到的痛苦却非常轻松，如果就这样下去而不变得更糟的话，那就没有什么需要担心的事情了。不过他想，要是能有更好的同伴在一起，该有多好。
他想了一下他想要的同伴。
不，他想，你干什么事情，总是干得太久，也干得太晚了，你不可能指望人家还在那儿。人家全走啦。已经酒阑席散，现在只留下你和女主人啦。
我对死越来越感到厌倦，就跟我对其他一切东西都感到厌倦一样，他想。
“真使人厌倦，”他禁不住说出声来。
“你说什么，亲爱的？”
“你干什么事情都干得太久了。”
他瞅着她坐在自己身边和篝火之间。她靠坐在椅子里，火光在她那线条动人的脸上照耀着，他看得出她困了。他听见那只鬣狗就在那一圈火光外发出一声嗥叫。
“我一直在写东西，”他说，“我累啦。”
“你想你能睡得着吗？”
“一定能睡着。为什么你还不去睡？”
“我喜欢跟你一起坐在这里。”
“感觉到有什么奇怪的东西吗？”他问她。 -
Drinking together, with no pain now except the discomfort of lying in the one position, the boys lighting a fire, its shadow jumping on the tents, he could feel the return of acquiescence in this life of pleasant surrender. She was very good to him. He had been cruel and unjust in the afternoon.
She was a fine woman, marvellous really. And just then it occurred to him that he was going to die.
It came with a rush; not as a rush of water nor of wind; but of a sudden evil-smelling emptiness and the odd thing was that the hyena slipped lightly along the edge of it.
'What is it, Harry?' she asked him.
'Nothing,' he said. 'You had better move over to the other side. To windward.'
'Did Molo change the dressing?'
'Yes. I'm just using the boric now.'
'How do you feel?'
'A little wobbly.'
'I'm going in to bathe,' she said. 'I'll be right out. I'll eat with you and then we'll put the cot in.'
So, he said to himself, we did well to stop the quarrelling.
He had never quarrelled much with this woman, while with the women that he loved he had quarrelled so much they had finally, always, with the corrosion of the quarrelling, killed what they had together. He had loved too much, demanded too much, and he wore it all out.
He thought about alone in Constantinople that time, having quarrelled in Paris before he had gone out. He had whored the whole time and then, when that was over, and he had failed to kill his loneliness, but only made it worse, he had written her, the first one, that one who left him, a letter telling her how he had never been able to kill it . . . How when he thought he saw her outside the Regence one time it made him go all faint and sick inside, and that he would follow a woman who looked like her in some way, along the Boulevard, afraid to see it was not she, afraid to lose the feeling it gave him.
How everyone he had slept with had only made him miss her more.
How what she had done could never matter since he knew he could not cure himself of loving her. He wrote this letter at the Club, cold sober, and mailed it to New York asking her to write him at the office in Paris. That seemed safe. And that night missing her so much it made him feel hollow sick inside, he wandered up past Taxings, picked a girl up and took her out to supper. He had gone to a place to dance with her afterwards, she danced badly, and left her for a hot Armenian slut, that swung her belly against him so it almost scalded. He took her away from a British gunner subaltern after a row. The gunner asked him outside and they fought in the street on the cobbles in the dark. He'd hit him twice, hard, on the side of the jaw and when he didn't go down he knew he was in for a fight. The gunner hit him in the body, then beside his eye. He swung with his left again and landed and the gunner fell on him and grabbed his coat and tore the sleeve off and he clubbed him twice behind the ear and then smashed him with his right as he pushed him away. When the gunner went down his head hit first and he ran with the girl because they heard the M.P.s coming. They got into a taxi and drove out to Rimmily Hissa along the Bosphorus, and around, and back in the cool night and went to bed and she felt as over-ripe as she looked but smooth, rose-petal, syrupy, smooth-bellied, big-breasted and needed no pillow under her buttocks, and he left her before she was awake looking blousy enough in the fast daylight and turned up at the Pera Palace with a black eye, carrying his coat because one sleeve was missing.
That same night he left for Anatolia and he remembered, later on that trip, riding all day through fields of the poppies that they raised for opium and how strange it made you feel, finally, and all the distances seemed wrong, to where they had made the attack with the newly-arrived Constantine officers, that did not know a god-damned thing, and the artillery had fired into the troops and the British observer had cried like a child.
That was the day he'd first seen dead men wearing white ballet skirts and upturned shoes with pompoms on them. The Turks had come steadily and lumpily and he had seen the skirted men running and the officers shooting into them and running then themselves and he and the British observer had run too until his lungs ached and his mouth was full of the taste of pennies and they stopped behind some rocks and there were the Turks coming as lumpily as ever. Later he had seen the things that he could never think of and later still he had seen, much worse. So when he got back to Paris that time he could not talk about it or stand to have it mentioned. And there in the cafe as he passed was that American poet with a pile of saucers in front of him and a stupid look on his potato face talking about the Dada movement with a Roumanian who said his name was Tristan Tzarti, who always wore a monocle and had a headache, and, back at the apartment with his wife that now he loved again, the quarrel all over, the madness all over, glad to be home, the office sent his mail up to the flat. So then the letter in answer to the one he'd written came in on a platter one morning and when he saw the hand-writing he went cold all over and tried to slip the letter underneath another.
But his wife said, 'Who is that letter from, dear?' and that was the end of the beginning of that.
He remembered the good times with them all, and the quarrels.
They always picked the finest places to have the quarrels. And why had they always quarrelled when he was feeling best? He had never written any of that because, at first, he never wanted to hurt anyone and then it seemed as though there was enough to write without it.
But he had always thought that he would write it finally. There was so much to write. He had seen the world change; not just the events; although he had seen many of them and had watched the people, but he had seen the subtler change and he could remember how the people were at different times. He had been in it and he had watched it and it was his duty to write of it; but now he never would.
'How do you feel?' she said. She had come out from the tent now after her bath.
'All right.'
'Could you eat now?' He saw Molo behind her with the folding table and the other boy with the dishes.
'I want to write,' he said.
'You ought to take some broth to keep your strength up.'
'I'm going to die to-night,' he said. 'I don't need my strength up.'
'Don't be melodramatic, Harry, please,' she said.
'Why don't you use your nose? I'm rotted half-way up my thigh now. What the hell should I fool with broth for? Molo, bring whisky-soda.'
'Please take the broth,' she said gently.
'All right.'
The broth was too hot. He had to hold it in the cup until it cooled enough to take it and then he just got it down without gagging.
'You're a fine woman,' he said. 'Don't pay any attention to me.'
She looked at him with her well-known, well-loved face from Spur and Town and Country, only a little the worse for drink, only a little the worse for bed, but Town and Country never showed those good breasts and those useful thighs and those lightly small-of-back caressing hands, and as he looked and saw her well-known pleasant smile, he felt death come again. This time there was no rush. It was a puff, as of a wind that makes a candle flicker and the flame go tall.
'They can bring my net out later and hang it from the tree and build the fire up. I'm not going in the tent to-night. It's not worth moving. It's a clear night. There won't be any rain.'
So this was how you died, in whispers that you did not hear. Well, there would be no more quarrelling. He could promise that. The one experience that he had never had he was not going to spoil now. He probably would.
You spoiled everything. But perhaps he wouldn't.
'You can't take dictation, can you?'
'I never learned,' she told him.
'That's all right.'
There wasn't time, of course, although it seemed as though it telescoped so that you might put it all into one paragraph if you could get it right.
There was a log house, chinked white with mortar on a hill above the lake. There was a bell on a pole by the door to call the people in to meals. Behind the house were fields and behind the fields was the timber. A line of lombardy poplars ran from the house to the dock. Other poplars ran along the point. A road went up to the hills along the edge of the timber and along that road he picked blackberries. Then that log house was burned down and all the guns that had been on deer foot racks above the open fire place were burned and afterwards their barrels, with the lead melted in the magazines, and the stocks burned away, lay out on the heap of ashes that were used to make lye for the big iron soap kettles, and you asked Grandfather if you could have them to play with, and he said, no. You see they were his guns still and he never bought any others. Nor did he hunt any more. The house was rebuilt in the same place out of lumber now and painted white and from its porch you saw the poplars and the lake beyond; but there were never any more guns.
The barrels of the guns that had hung on the deer feet on the wall of the log house lay out there on the heap of ashes and no one ever touched them.
In the Black Forest, after the war, we rented a trout stream and there were two ways to walk to it. One was down the valley from Triberg and around the valley road in the shade of the trees that bordered the white road, and then up a side road that went up through the hills, past many small farms, with the big Schwarzwald houses, until that road crossed the stream. That was where our fishing began.
The other way was to climb steeply up to the edge of the woods and then go across the top of the hills through the pine woods, and then out to the edge of a meadow and down across this meadow to the bridge.
There were birches along the stream and it was not big, but narrow, clear and fast, with pools where it had cut under the roots of the birches. At the Hotel in Triberg the proprietor had a fine season.
It was very pleasant and we were all great friends. The next year came the inflation and the money he had made the year before was not enough to buy supplies to open the hotel and he hanged himself.
You could dictate that, but you could not dictate the Place Contrescarpe where the flower sellers dyed their flowers in the street and the dye ran over the paving where the autobus started and the old men and the women, always drunk on wine and bad marc; and the children with their noses running in the cold; the smell of dirty sweat and poverty and drunkenness at the Cafe des Amateurs and the whores at the Bal Musette they lived above. The Concierge who entertained the trooper of the Garde Republicaine in her loge, his horse-hair-plumed helmet on a chair. The locataire across the hall whose husband was a bicycle racer and her joy that morning at the Cremerie when she had opened L'Auto and seen where he placed third in Paris-Tours, his first big race. She had blushed and laughed and then gone upstairs crying with the yellow sporting paper in her hand.
他们一起喝着酒，没有痛的感觉，只是因为一直躺着不能翻身而感到不适，两个仆人生起了一堆篝火，光影在帐篷上跳跃，他感到自己对这种愉快的投降生活所怀有的那种默认的心情，现在又油然而生了。她确实对他非常好。今天下午他对她太狠心了，也太不公平了。她是个好女人，确实是个了不起的女人。可是就在这当儿，他忽然想起他快要死了。
这个念头象一种突如其来的冲击；不是流水或者疾风那样的冲击；而是一股无影无踪的臭气的冲击，令人奇怪的是，那只鬣狗却沿着这股无影无踪的臭气的边缘轻轻地溜过来了。
“干什么，哈里？”她问他。
“没有什么，”他说。“你最好挪到那一边去坐。坐到上风那一边去。”
“莫洛给你换药了没有？”
“换过了。我刚敷上硼酸膏。”
“你觉得怎么样？”
“有点颤抖。”
“我要进去洗澡了，”她说。“我马上就会出来的。我跟你一起吃晚饭，然后把帆布床抬进去。”
这样，他自言自语地说，咱们结束吵嘴，是做对啦。他跟这个女人从来没有大吵大闹过，而他跟他爱上的那些女人却吵得很厉害，最后由于吵嘴的腐蚀作用，总是毁了他们共同怀有的感情：他爱得太深，要求得也太多，这样就把一切全都耗尽了。
他想起那次他孤零零地在君士坦丁堡⑾的情景，从巴黎出走之前，他吵了一场。那一阵他夜夜宿娼，而事后他仍然无法排遣寂寞，相反更加感到难忍的寂寞，于是他给她，他那第一个情妇，那个离开了他的女人写了一封信，告诉她，他是怎样始终割不断对她的思恋……
怎样有次在摄政院外面他以为看到了她，为了追上她，他跑得头昏眼花，心里直想吐，他会在林荫大道跟踪一个外表有点象她的女人，可就是不敢看清楚不是她，生怕就此失去了她在他心里引起的感情。他跟不少女人睡过，可是她们每个人又是怎样只能使他更加想念她，他又是怎样决不介意她干了些什么，因为他知道他摆脱不掉对她的爱恋。他在夜总会冷静而清醒地写了这封信，寄到纽约去，央求她把回信寄到他在巴黎的事务所去。这样似乎比较稳当。那天晚上他非常想念她，他觉得心里空荡荡的直想吐，他在街头踯躅，一直溜过塔克辛姆，碰到了一个女郎，带她一起去吃晚饭。后来他到了一个地方，同她跳舞，可是她跳得很糟，于是丢下了她，搞上了一个风骚的亚美尼亚女郎，她把肚子贴着他的身子摆动，擦得肚子都几乎要烫坏了。他跟一个少尉衔的英国炮手吵了一架，就把她从炮手手里带走了。那个炮手把他叫到外面去，于是他们在暗地里，在大街的圆石地面上打了起来。他朝他的下巴颏狠狠地揍了两拳，可是他并没有倒下，这一下他知道他免不了要有一场厮打了。那个炮手先打中了他的身子，接着又打中他的眼角。他又一次挥动左手，击中了那个炮手，炮手向他扑过来，抓住了他的上衣，扯下了他的袖子，他往他的耳朵后面狠狠揍了两拳，接着在他把他推开的时候，又用右手把他击倒在地。炮手倒下的时候，头先磕在地上，于是他带着女郎跑掉了，因为他们听见宪兵来了。他们乘上一辆出租汽车，沿着博斯普鲁斯海峡⑿驶向雷米利希萨，兜了一圈，在凛冽的寒夜回到城里睡觉，她给人的感觉就象她的外貌一样，过于成熟了，但是柔滑如脂，象玫瑰花瓣，象糖浆似的，肚子光滑，胸脯高耸，也不需要在她的臀部下垫个枕头，在她醒来以前，他就离开了她，在第一线曙光照射下，她的容貌显得粗俗极了，他带着一只打得发青的眼圈来到彼拉宫，手里提着那件上衣，因为袖子已经没了。
就在那天晚上，他离君士坦丁堡动身到安纳托利亚⒀去，后来他回忆那次旅行，整天穿行在种着罂粟花的田野里，那里的人们种植罂粟花提炼鸦片，这使你感到多么新奇，最后——不管朝哪个方向走仿佛都不对似的——到了他们曾经跟那些刚从君士坦丁堡来的军官一起发动进攻的地方，那些军官啥也不董，大炮都打到部队里去了，那个英国观察员哭得象个小孩子似的。
就在那天，他第一次看到了死人，穿着白色的芭蕾舞裙子和向上想起的有绒球的鞋子。土耳其人象波浪般地不断涌来，他看见那些穿着裙子的男人在奔跑着，军官们朝他们打熗，接着军官们自己也逃跑了，他同那个英国观察员也跑了，跑得他肺都发痛了，嘴里尽是那股铜腥味，他们在岩石后面停下来休息，土耳其人还在波浪般地涌来。后来他看到了他从来没有想象到的事情，后来他还看到比这些更糟的事情。所以，那次他回到巴黎的时候，这些他都不能谈，即使提起这些他都受不了。他经过咖啡馆的时候，里面有那位美国诗人，面前一大堆碟子，土豆般的脸上露出一副蠢相，正在跟一个名叫特里斯坦·采拉⒁的罗马尼亚人讲达达运动。特里斯坦·采拉老是戴着单眼镜，老是闹头痛；接着，当他回到公寓跟他的妻子在一起的时候，他又爱他的妻子了，吵架已经过去了，气恼也过去了，他很高兴自己又回到家里，事务所把他的信件送到了他的公寓。这样，一天早晨，那封答复他写的那封信的回信托在一只盘子里送进来了，当他看到信封上的笔迹时，他浑身发冷，想把那封信塞在另一封信下面。可是他的妻子说：“亲爱的，那封信是谁寄来的？”于是那件刚开场的事就此了结。
他想起他同所有这些女人在一起时的欢乐和争吵。
她们总是挑选最妙的场合跟他吵嘴。为什么她们总是在他心情最愉快的时候跟他吵嘴呢？关于这些，他一点也没有写过，因为起先是他绝不想伤害她们任何一个人的感情，后来看起来好象即使不写这些，要写的东西就已经够多了。但是他始终认为最后他还是会写的。要写的东西太多了。他目睹过世界的变化；不仅是那些事件而已；尽管他也曾目睹过许多事件，观察过人们，但是他目睹过更微妙的变化，而且记得人们在不同的时刻又是怎样表现的。他自己就曾经置身于这种变化之中，他观察过这种变化，写这种变化，正是他的责任，可是现在他再也不会写了。
“你觉得怎样啦？”她说。现在她洗过澡从帐篷里出来了。
“没有什么。”
“这会儿就给你吃晚饭好吗？”他看见莫洛在她后面拿着折叠桌，另一个仆人拿着菜盘子。
“我要写东西，”他说。
“你应该喝点肉汤恢复体力。”
“我今天晚上就要死了，”他说，“我用不着恢复什么体力啦。”
“请你别那么夸张，哈里，”她说。
“你干吗不用你的鼻子闻一闻？我都已经烂了半截啦，现在烂到大腿上了。我干吗还要跟肉汤开玩笑？莫洛，拿威士忌苏打来。”
“请你喝肉汤吧，”她温柔地说。
“好吧。”
肉汤太烫了。他只好把肉汤倒在杯子里，等凉得可以喝了，才把肉汤喝下去，一口也没有哽住过。
“你是一个好女人，”他说，“你不用关心我啦。”
她仰起她那张在《激励》和《城市与乡村》上人人皆知，人人都爱的脸庞望着他，那张脸因为酗酒狂饮而稍有逊色，因为贪恋床第之乐而稍有逊色，可是《城市与乡村》从未展示过她那美丽的胸部，她那有用的大腿，她那轻柔地爱抚你的纤小的手，当他望着她，看到她那著名的动人的微笑的时候，他感到死神又来临了。这回没有冲击。它是一股气，象一阵使烛光摇曳，使火焰腾起的微风。
“待会儿他们可以把我的蚊帐拿出来挂在树上，生一堆篝火。今天晚上我不想搬到帐篷里去睡了。不值得搬动了。今天是一个晴朗的夜晚。不会下雨。”
那么，你就这样死了，在你听不见的悄声低语中死去了。
好吧，这样就再也不会吵嘴了。这一点他可以保证。这个他从来没有经历过的经验，他现在不会去破坏它了。但是他也可能会破坏。你已经把什么都毁啦。但是也许他不会。
“你能听写吗？”
“我没有学过，”她告诉他。
“好吧。”
没有时间了，当然，尽管好象经过了压缩，只要你能处理得当，你只消用一段文字就可以把那一切都写进去。
在湖畔，一座山上，有一所圆木构筑的房子，缝隙都用灰泥嵌成白色。门边的柱子上挂着一只铃，这是召唤人们进去吃饭用的。房子后面是田野，田野后面是森林。一排伦巴底白杨树从房子一直伸展到码头。另一排白杨树沿着这一带迤逦而去。森林的边缘有一条通向山峦的小路，他曾经在这条小路上采摘过黑莓。后来，那所圆木房子烧坍了，在壁炉上面的鹿脚架上挂着的猎熗都烧掉了，熗筒和熗托跟融化在弹夹里的铅弹也都一起烧坏了，搁在那一堆灰上——那堆灰原是给那只做肥皂的大铁锅熬碱水用的，你问祖父能不能拿去玩，他说，不行。你知道那些猎熗仍旧是他的，他从此也再没有买别的猎熗了。他也再不打猎了。现在在原来的地方用木料重新盖了那所房子，漆成了白色，从门廊上你可以看见白杨树和那边的湖光山色；可是再也没有猎熗了。从前挂在圆木房子墙上的鹿脚上的猎熗筒，搁在那堆灰上，再也没有人去碰过。
战后，我们在黑森林⒂里，租了一条钓鲑鱼的小溪，有两条路可以跑到那儿去。一条是从特里贝格走下山谷，然后烧着那条覆盖在林荫（靠近那条白色的路）下的山路走上一条山坡小道，穿山越岭，经过许多矗立着高大的黑森林式房子的小农场，一直走到小道和小溪交叉的地方。我们就在这个地方开始钓鱼。
另一条路是陡直地爬上树林边沿，然后翻过山巅，穿过松林，接着走出林子来到一片草地边沿，下山越过这片草地到那座桥边。小溪边是一溜桦树，小溪并不宽阔，而是窄小、清澈而湍急，在桦树根边冲出了一个个小潭。
在特里贝格的客店里，店主人这一季生意兴隆。这是使人非常快活的事，我们都是亲密的朋友。第二年通货膨胀，店主人前一年赚的钱，还不够买进经营客店必需的物品，于是他上吊死了。
你能口授这些，但是你无法口授那个城堡护墙广场，那里卖花人在大街上给他们的花卉染色，颜料淌得路面上到处都是，公共汽车都从那儿出发，老头儿和女人们总是喝甜酒和用果渣酿制的低劣的白兰地，喝得醉醺醺的；小孩子们在寒风凛冽中淌着鼻涕；汗臭和贫穷的气味，“业余者咖啡馆”里的醉态，还有“风笛”跳舞厅的妓女们，她们就住在舞厅楼上。那个看门女人在她的小屋里款待那个共和国自卫队员，一张椅上放着共和国自卫队员的那顶插着马鬃的帽子。门厅那边还有家住户，她的丈夫是个自行车赛手，那天早晨她在牛奶房打开《机动车》报看到他在第一次参加盛大的巴黎环城比赛中名列第三时，她是多么高兴。她涨红了脸，大声笑了出来，接着跑到楼上，手里拿着那张淡黄色的体育报哭了起来。 -
"Memsahib's gone to shoot," the boy said. "Does Bwana want?"
"Nothing."
She had gone to kill a piece of meat and, knowing how he liked to watch the game, she had gone well away so she would not disturb this little pocket of the plain that he could see. She was always thoughtful, he thought. On anything she knew about, or had read, or that she had ever heard.
It was not her fault that when he went to her he was already over. How could a woman know that you meant nothing that you said; that you spoke only from habit and to be comfortable? After he no longer meant what he said, his lies were more successful with women than when he had told them the truth.
It was not so much that he lied as that there was no truth to tell. He had had his life and it was over and then he went on living it again with different people and more money, with the best of the same places, and some new ones.
You kept from thinking and it was all marvellous. You were equipped with good insides so that you did not go to pieces that way, the way most of them had, and you made an attitude that you cared nothing for the work you used to do, now that you could no longer do it. But, in yourself, you said that you would write about these people; about the very rich; that you were really not of them but a spy in their country; that you would leave it and write of it and for once it would be written by some one who knew what he was writing of. But he would never do it, because each day of not writing, of comfort, of being that which he despised, dulled his ability and softened his will to work so that, finally, he did no work at all. The people he knew now were all much more comfortable when he did not work. Africa was where he had been happiest in the good time of his life, so he had come out here to start again. They had made this safari with the minimum of comfort. There was no hardship; but there was no luxury and he had thought he could get back into training that way. That in some way he could work the fat off his soul the way a fighter went into the mountains to work and train in order to burn it out of his body.
She had liked it. She said she loved it. She loved anything that was exciting, that involved a change of scene, where there were new people and where things were pleasant. And he had felt the illusion of returning strength of will to work. Now if this was how it ended, and he knew it was, he must not turn like some snake biting itself because its back was broken. It wasn't this woman's fault. If it had not been she it would have been another. If he lived by a lie he should try to die by it. He heard a shot beyond the hill.
She shot very well this good, this rich bitch, this kindly caretaker and destroyer of his talent. Nonsense. He had destroyed his talent himself. Why should he blame this woman because she kept him well? He had destroyed his talent by not using it, by betrayals of himself and what he believed in, by drinking so much that he blunted the edge of his perceptions, by laziness, by sloth, and by snobbery, by pride and by prejudice, by hook and by crook. What was this? A catalogue of old books? What was his talent anyway? It was a talent all right but instead of using it, he had traded on it. It was never what he had done, but always what he could do. And he had chosen to make his living with something else instead of a pen or a pencil. It was strange, too, wasn't it, that when he fell in love with another woman, that woman should always have more money than the last one? But when he no longer was in love, when he was only lying, as to this woman, now, who had the most money of all, who had all the money there was, who had had a husband and children, who had taken lovers and been dissatisfied with them, and who loved him dearly as a writer, as a man, as a companion and as a proud possession; it was strange that when he did not love her at all and was lying, that he should be able to give her more for her money than when he had really loved.
We must all be cut out for what we do, he thought. However you make your living is where your talent lies. He had sold vitality, in one form or another, all his life, and when your affections are not too involved you give much better value for the money. He had found that out but he would never write that, now, either. No, he would not write that, although it was well worth writing.
Now she came in sight, walking across the open towards the camp. She was wearing jodhpurs and carrying her rifle.
The two boys had a Tommie slung and they were coming along behind her. She was still a good-looking woman, he thought, and she had a pleasant body. She had a great talent and appreciation for the bed, she was not pretty, but he liked her face, she read enormously, liked to ride and shoot and, certainly, she drank too much. Her husband had died when she was still a comparatively young woman and for a while she had devoted herself to her two just-grown children, who did not need her and were embarrassed at having her about, to her stable of horses, to books, and to bottles. She liked to read in the evening before dinner and she drank Scotch and soda while she read. By dinner she was fairly drunk and after a bottle of wine at dinner she was usually drunk enough to sleep.
That was before the lovers. After she had the Iovers she did not drink so much because she did not have to be drunk to sleep. But the lovers bored her. She had been married to a man who had never bored her and these people bored her very much.
Then one of her two children was killed in a plane crash and after that was over she did not want the lovers, and drink being no anaesthetic she had to make another life. Suddenly, she had been acutely frightened of being alone. But she wanted someone that she respected with her.
It had begun very simply. She liked what he wrote and she had always envied the life he led. She thought he did exactly what he wanted to. The steps by which she had acquired him and the way in which she had finally fallen in love with him were all part of a regular progression in which she had built herself a new life and he had traded away what remained of his old life.
He had traded it for security, for comfort too, there was no denying that, and for what else? He did not know. She would have brought him anything he wanted. He knew that.
She was a damned nice woman too. He would as soon be in bed with her as anyone; rather with her, because she was richer, because she was very pleasant and appreciative and because she never made scenes. And now this life that she had built again was coming to a term because he had not used iodine two weeks ago when a thorn had scratched his knee as they moved forward trying to photograph a herd of waterbuck standing, their heads up, peering while their nostrils searched the air, their ears spread wide to hear the first noise that would send them rushing into the bush.
They had bolted, too, before he got the picture.
Here she came now.
He turned his head on the cot to look toward her. 'Hello,' he said.
'I shot a Tommy ram,' she told him. 'He'll make you good broth and I'll have them mash some potatoes with the Klim. How do you feel?'
'Much better.'
'Isn't that lovely? You know I thought perhaps you would. You were sleeping when I left.'
'I had a good sleep. Did you walk far?'
'No. Just around behind the hill. I made quite a good shot on the Tommy.'
'You shoot marvellously, you know.'
'I love it. I've loved Africa. Really. If you're all right it's the most fun that I've ever had. You don't know the fun it's been to shoot with you. I've loved the country.'
'I love it too. Darling, you don't know how marvellous it is to see you feeling better. I couldn't stand it when you felt that way. You won't talk to me like that again, will you? Promise me?'
'No,' he said. 'I don't remember what I said.'
'You don't have to destroy me. Do you? I'm only a middle-aged woman who loves you and wants to do what you want to do. I've been destroyed two or three times already. You wouldn't want to destroy me again, would you?'
'I'd like to destroy you a few times in bed,' he said.
'Yes. That's the good destruction. That's the way we're made to be destroyed. The plane will be here to-morrow.'
'How do you know?'
'I'm sure. It's bound to come. The boys have the wood all ready and the grass to make the smudge. I went down and looked at it again to-day. There's plenty of room to land and we have the smudges ready at both ends.'
'What makes you think it will come to-morrow?'
'I'm sure it will. It's overdue now. Then, in town, they will fix up your leg and then we will have some good destruction. Not that dreadful talking kind.'
'Should we have a drink? The sun is down.'
'Do you think you should?'
'I'm having one.'
'We'll have one together. Molo, letti dui whisky-soda!' she called.
'You'd better put on your mosquito boots,' he told her.
'I'll wait till I bathe . . .'
While it grew dark they drank and just before it was dark and there was no longer enough light to shoot, a hyena crossed the open on his way around the hill.
'That bastard crosses there every night,' the man said.
'Every night for two weeks,'
'He's the one makes the noise at night. I don't mind it. They're a filthy animal though.'
“太太打猎去了，”男仆说。“先生要什么吗？”
“不要什么。”
她打猎去了，想搞一点兽肉，她知道他喜欢看打猎，有心跑得远远的，这样她就不会惊扰这一小片平原而让他看到她在打猎了。她总是那么体贴周到，他想。只要是她知道的或是读到过的，或是她听人讲过的，她都考虑得很周到。
这不是她的过错，他来到她身边的时候，他已经完了。一个女人怎么能知道你说的话，都不是真心实意呢？怎么能知道你说的话，不过是出于习惯，而且只是为了贪图舒服呢？自从他对自己说的话不再当真以后，他靠谎话跟女人相处，比他过去对她们说真心话更成功。
他撒谎并不都是因为他没有真话可说。他曾经享有过生命，他的生命已经完结，接着他又跟一些不同的人，而且有更多的钱，在从前那些最好的地方，以及另外一些新的地方重新活了下来。
你不让自己思想，这可真是了不起。你有这样一副好内脏，因此你没有那样垮下来，他们大部分都垮下来了，而你却没有垮掉，你抱定一种态度，既然现在你再也不能干了，你就毫不关心你经常干的工作了。可是，在你心里，你说你要写这些人，写这些非常有钱的人；你说你实在并不属于他们这一类，而只是他们那个国度里的一个间谍；你说你会离开这个国度，并且写这个国度，而且是第一次由一个熟悉这个国度的人来写它。可是他永远不会写了，因为每天什么都不写，贪图安逸，扮演自己所鄙视的角色，就磨钝了他的才能，松懈了他工作的意志，最后他干脆什么都不干了。他不干工作的时候，那些他现在认识的人都感到惬意得多。非洲是在他一生幸运的时期中感到最幸福的地方，他所以上这儿来，为的是要从头开始。他们这次是以最低限度的舒适来非洲作狩猎旅行的。没有艰苦，但也没有奢华，他曾想这样他就能重新进行训练。这样或许他就能够把他心灵上的脂肪去掉，象一个拳击手，为了消耗体内的脂肪，到山里去干活和训练一样。
她曾经喜欢这次狩猎旅行来着。她说过他爱这次狩猎旅行。凡是激动人心的事情，能因此变换一下环境，能结识新的人，看到愉快的事物，她都喜爱。他也曾经感到工作的意志力重新恢复的幻觉。现在如果就这样了结，他知道事实就是如此，他不必变得象一条蛇那样，因为背脊给打断了就啃咬自己。这不是她的过错。如果不是她，也会有别的女人。如果他以谎言为生，他就应该试着以谎言而死。他听到山那边传来一声熗响。
她的熗打得挺好，这个善良的，这个有钱的娘们，这个他的才能的体贴的守护人和破坏者。废话，是他自己毁了自己的才能。他为什么要嗔怪这个女人，就因为她好好地供养了他？他虽然有才能，但是因为弃而不用，因为出卖了自己，也出卖了自己所信仰的一切，因为酗酒过度而磨钝了敏锐的感觉，因为懒散，因为怠惰，因为势利，因为傲慢和偏见，因为其他种种缘故，他毁灭了自己的才能。这算是什么？一张旧书目录卡？到底什么是他的才能？就算是才能吧，可是他没有充分利用它，而是利用它做交易。他从来不是用他的才能去做些什么，而总是用它来决定他能做些什么。他决意不靠钢笔或铅笔谋生，而靠别的东西谋生。说来也怪，是不是？
每当他爱上另一个女人的时候，为什么这另一个女人总是要比前一个女人更有钱？可是当他不再真心恋爱的时候，当他只是撒谎的时候，就象现在对这个女人那样，她比所有他爱过的女人更有钱，她有的是钱，她有过丈夫，孩子，她找过情人，但是她不满意那些情人，她倾心地爱他，把他当作一位作家，当作一个男子汉，当作一个伴侣，当作一份引为骄傲的财产来爱他——说来也怪，当他根本不爱她，而且对她撒谎的时候，为了报答她为他花费的钱，他所能给予她的，居然比他过去真心恋爱的时候还多。
咱们干什么，都是注定了的，他想。不管你是干什么过活的，这就是你的才能所在。他的一生都是出卖生命力，不管是以这种形式或者那种形式。而当你并不十分钟情的时候，你越是看重金钱。他发现了这一点，但是他决不会写这些了，现在也不会写了。不，他不会写了，尽管这是很值得一写的东西。
现在她走近来了，穿过那片空地向营地走过来了。她穿着马裤，擎着她的来复熗，两个男仆扛着一只野羊跟在她后面走来。她仍然是一个很好看的女人，他想，她的身躯也很动人，她对床第之乐很有才能，也很有领会，她并不美，但是他喜欢她的脸庞，她读过大量的书，她喜欢骑马和打熗，当然，她酒喝得太多。她还是一个比较年轻的女人的时候，丈夫就死了，在一个很短暂的时间里，她把心都放在两个刚长大的孩子身上，孩子却并不需要她，她在他们身边，他们就感到不自在，她还专心致志地养马，读书和喝酒。她喜欢在黄昏吃晚饭前读书，一面阅读一面喝威士忌苏打。到吃晚饭的时候，她已经喝得醉醺醺的，在晚饭桌旁再喝上一瓶甜酒，往往就醉得足够使她昏昏欲睡了。
这是她在有情人以前的情况。在有了那些情人以后，她就不再喝那么多的酒了，因为她不必喝醉了酒去睡觉了。但是情人使她感到厌烦。她嫁过一个丈夫，他从没有使她厌烦，而这些人却使她感到厌烦透了。
接着，她的一个孩子在一次飞机失事中死去了，事件过去以后，她不再需要情人了，酒也不再是麻醉剂了，她必须建立另一种生活。突然间，孤身独处吓得她心惊胆战。但是她要跟一个她所尊敬的人在一起生活。
事情发生得很简单。她喜欢他写的东西，她一向羡慕他过的那种生活。她认为他正是干了他自己想干的事情。她为了获得他而采取的种种步骤，以及她最后爱上了他的那种方式，都是一个正常过程的组成部分，在这个过程中她给自己建立起一个新生活，而他则出售他旧生活的残余。
他出售他旧生活的残余，是为了换取安全，也是为了换取安逸，除此以外，还为了什么呢？他不知道。他要什么，她就会给他买什么。这他是知道的。她也是一个非常温柔的女人。他跟任何人一样，愿意立刻和她同床共枕；特别是她，因为她更有钱，因为她很有风趣，很有欣赏力，而且因为她从不大吵大闹。可是现在她重新建立的这个生活行将结束了，因为两个星期以前，一根荆棘刺破了他的膝盖，而他没有给伤口涂上碘酒，当时他们挨近去，想拍下一群羚羊的照片，这群羚羊站立着，扬起了头窥视着，一面用鼻子嗅着空气，耳朵向两边张开着，只等一声响动就准备奔入丛林。他没有能拍下羚羊的照片，它们已跑掉了。
现在她到这儿来了。
他在帆布床上转过头来看她，“你好，”他说。
“我打了一只野羊，”她告诉他。“它能给你做一碗好汤喝，我还让他们捣一些土豆泥拌奶粉。你这会儿觉得怎么样？”
“好多啦。”
“这该有多好？你知道，我就想过你也许会好起来的。我离开的时候，你睡熟了。”
“我睡了一个好觉。你跑得远吗？”
“我没有跑远，就在山后面。我一熗打中了这只野羊。”
“你打得挺出色，你知道。”
“我爱打熗。我已经爱上非洲了。说真的，要是你平安无事，这可是我玩得最痛快的一次了。你不知道跟你一起射猎是多么有趣。我已经爱上这个地方了。”
“我也爱这个地方。”
“亲爱的，你不知道看到你觉得好多了，那有多么了不起。
刚才你难受得那样，我简直受不了。你再不要那样跟我说话了，好吗？你答应我吗？”
“不会了，”他说。“我记不起我说了些什么了。”
“你不一定要把我给毁掉，是吗？我不过是个中年妇女，可是我爱你，你要干什么，我都愿意干。我已经给毁了两三次啦。你不会再把我给毁掉吧，是吗？”
“我倒是想在床上再把你毁几次，”他说。
“是啊。那可是愉快的毁灭。咱们就是给安排了这样毁灭的。明天飞机就会来啦。”
“你怎么知道明天会来？”
“我有把握。飞机一定要来的。仆人已经把木柴都准备好了，还准备了生浓烟的野草。今天我又下去看了一下。那儿足够让飞机着陆，咱们在空地两头准备好两堆浓烟。”
“你凭什么认为飞机明天会来呢？”
“我有把握它准定会来。现在它已经耽误了。这样，到了城里，他们就会把你的腿治好，然后咱们就可以搞点儿毁灭，而不是那种讨厌的谈话。”
“咱们喝点酒好吗？太阳落山啦。”
“你想喝吗？”
“我想喝一杯。”
“咱们就一起喝一杯吧。莫洛，去拿两杯威士忌苏打来！”
她唤道。
“你最好穿上防蚊靴，”他告诉她。
“等我洗过澡再穿……”
他们喝着酒的时候，天渐渐暗下来，在这暮色苍茫没法瞄准打熗的时刻，一只鬣狗穿过那片空地往山那边跑去了。
“那个杂种每天晚上都跑过那儿，”男人说。“两个星期以来，每晚都是这样。”
“每天晚上发出那种声音来的就是它。尽管这是一种讨厌的野兽，可我不在乎。” -
"I don't mean that."
"If we would have hired a good mechanic instead of a half baked kikuyu driver, he would have checked the oil and never burned out that bearing in the truck."
"I don't mean that."
"If you hadn't left your own people, your goddamned Old West-bury, Saratoga, Palm Beach people to take me on--"
"Why, I loved you. That's not fair. I love you now. I'll always love you. Don't you love me?"
"No," said the man. "I don't think so. I never have."
"Harry, what are you saying? You're out of your head."
"No. I haven't any head to go out of."
"Don't drink that," she said. "Darling, please don't drink that. We have to do everything we can."
"You do it," he said. "I'm tired."
* * *
Now in his mind he saw a railway station at Karagatch and he was standing with his pack and that was the headlight of the Simplon-Orient cutting the dark now and he was leaving Thrace then after the retreat. That was one of the things he had saved to write, with, in the morning at breakfast, looking out the window and seeing snow on the mountains in Bulgaria and Nansen's Secretary asking the old man if it were snow and the old man looking at it and saying, No, that's not snow. It's too early for snow. And the Secretary repeating to the other girls, No, you see. It's not snow and them all saying, It's not snow we were mistaken. But it was the snow all right and he sent them on into it when he evolved exchange of populations. And it was snow they tramped along in until they died that winter.
It was snow too that fell all Christmas week that year up in the Gauertal, that year they lived in the woodcutter's house with the big square porcelain stove that filled half the room, and they slept on mattresses filled with beech leaves, the time the deserter came with his feet bloody in the snow. He said the police were right behind him and they gave him woolen socks and held the gendarmes talking until the tracks had drifted over.
In Schrunz, on Christmas day, the snow was so bright it hurt your eyes when you looked out from the weinstube and saw every one coming home from church. That was where they walked up the sleigh-smoothed urine-yellowed road along the river with the steep pine hills, skis heavy on the shoulder, and where they ran that great run down the glacier above the Madlener-haus, the snow as smooth to see as cake frosting and as light as powder and he remembered the noiseless rush the speed made as you dropped down like a bird.
They were snow-bound a week in the Madlener-haus that time in the blizzard playing cards in the smoke by the lantern light and the stakes were higher all the time as Herr Lent lost more. Finally he lost it all. Everything, the skischule money and all the season's profit and then his capital. He could see him with his long nose, picking up the cards and then opening, "Sans Voir." There was always gambling then. When there was no snow you gambled and when there was too much you gambled. He thought of all the time in his life he had spent gambling.
But he had never written a line of that, nor of that cold, bright Christmas day with the mountains showing across the plain that Barker had flown across the lines to bomb the Austrian officers' leave train, machine-gunning them as they scattered and ran. He remembered Barker afterwards coming into the mess and starting to tell about it. And how quiet it got and then somebody saying, "You bloody murderous bastard."
Those were the same Austrians they killed then that he skied with later. No not the same. Hans, that he skied with all that year, had been in the Kaiser-J?gers and when they went hunting hares together up the little valley above the saw-mill they had talked of the fighting on Pasubio and of the attack on Pertica and Asalone and he had never written a word of that. Nor of Monte Corno, nor the Siete Commum, nor of Arsiedo.
How many winters had he lived in the Voralberg and the Arlberg? It was four and then he remembered the man who had the fox to sell when they had walked into Bludenz, that time to buy presents, and the cherry-pit taste of good kirsch, the fast-slipping rush of running powder-snow on crust, singing "Hi! Ho! said Rolly!" as you ran down the last stretch to the steep drop, taking it straight, then running the orchard in three turns and out across the ditch and onto the icy road behind the inn. Knocking your bindings loose, kicking the skis free and leaning them up against the wooden wall of the inn, the lamplight coming from the window, where inside, in the smoky, new-wine smelling warmth, they were playing the accordion.
* * *
"Where did we stay in Paris?" he asked the woman who was sitting by him in a canvas chair, now, in Africa.
"At the Crillon. You know that."
"Why do I know that?"
"That's where we always stayed."
"No. Not always."
"There and at the Pavillion Henri-Quatre in St. Germain. You said you loved it there."
"Love is a dunghill," said Harry. "And I'm the cock that gets on it to crow."
"If you have to go away," she said, "is it absolutely necessary to kill off everything you leave behind? I mean do you have to take away everything? Do you have to kill your horse, and your wife and burn your saddle and your armour?"
"Yes," he said. "Your damned money was my armour. My Swift and my Armour."
"Don't."
"All right. I'll stop that. I don't want to hurt you."
"It's a little bit late now."
"All right then. I'll go on hurting you. It's more amusing. The only thing I ever really liked to do with you I can't do now."
"No, that's not true. You liked to do many things and everything you wanted to do I did."
"Oh, for Christ sake stop bragging, will you?"
He looked at her and saw her crying.
"Listen," he said. "Do you think that it is fun to do this? I don't know why I'm doing it. It's trying to kill to keep yourself alive, I imagine. I was all right when we started talking. I didn't mean to start this, and now I'm crazy as a coot and being as cruel to you as I can be. Don't pay any attention, darling, to what I say. I love you, really. You know I love you. I've never loved any one else the way I love you."
He slipped into the familiar lie he made his bread and butter by.
"You're sweet to me."
"You bitch," he said. "You rich bitch. That's poetry. I'm full of poetry now. Rot and poetry. Rotten poetry."
"Stop it. Harry, why do you have to turn into a devil now?"
"I don't like to leave anything," the man said. "I don't like to leave things behind."
* * *
It was evening now and he had been asleep. The sun was gone behind the hill and there was a shadow all across the plain and the small animals were feeding close to camp; quick dropping heads and switching tails, he watched them keeping well out away from the bush now. The birds no longer waited on the ground. They were all perched heavily in a tree. There were many more of them. His personal boy was sitting by the bed.
“我不是指这个。”
“要是咱们雇了一个高明的技工，而不是那个半瓶子醋的吉库尤人②司机，他也许就会检查机油，而决不会把卡车的轴承烧毁啦。”
“我不是指这个。”
“要是你没有离开你自己的人——你那些该死的威斯特伯里、萨拉托加和棕榈滩③的老相识——偏偏捡上了我——”
“不，我是爱上了你。你这么说，是不公平的。我现在也爱你。我永远爱你。你爱我吗？”
“不，”男人说。“我不这么想。我从来没有这样想过。”
“哈里，你在说些什么？你昏了头啦。”
“没有，我已经没有头可以发昏了。”
“你别喝酒啦，”她说。“亲爱的，我求求你别喝酒啦。只要咱们能办到的事，咱们就得尽力去干。”
“你去干吧，”他说。“我可是已经累啦。”
现在，在他的脑海里，他看见的卡拉加奇④的一座火车站，他正背着背包站在那里，现在正是辛普伦—奥连特列车的前灯划破了黑暗，当时在撤退以后他正准备离开色雷斯⑤。这是他准备留待将来写的一段情景，还有下面一段情节：早晨吃早餐的时候，眺望着窗外保加利亚群山的积雪，南森的女秘书问那个老头儿，山上是不是雪，老头儿望着窗外说，不，那不是雪。这会儿还不到下雪的时候哩。于是那个女秘书把老头儿的话重复讲给其他几个姑娘听，不，你们看。那不是雪，她们都说，那不是雪，咱们都看错了。可是等他提出交换居民，把她们送往山里去的时候，那年冬天她们脚下一步步踩着前进的正是积雪，直到她们死去。
那年圣诞节在高厄塔耳山，雪也下了整整一个星期。
那年他们住在伐木人的屋子里，那口正方形的大瓷灶占了半间屋子，他们睡在装着山毛榉树叶的垫子上，这时那个逃兵跑进屋来，两只脚在雪地里冻得鲜血直流。他说宪兵就在他后面紧紧追赶，于是他们给他穿上了羊毛袜子，并且缠住宪兵闲扯，直到雪花盖没了逃兵的足迹。
在希伦兹，圣诞节那天，雪是那么晶莹闪耀，你从酒吧间望出去，刺得你的眼睛发痛，你看见每个人都从教堂回到自己的家里去。他们肩上背着沉重的滑雪板，就是从那儿走上松林覆盖的陡峭的群山旁的那条给雪橇磨得光溜溜的、尿黄色的河滨大路的，他们那次大滑雪，就是从那儿一直滑到“梅德纳尔之家”上面那道冰川的大斜坡的，那雪看来平滑得象糕饼上的糖霜，轻柔得象粉末似的，他记得那次阒无声息的滑行，速度之快，使你仿佛象一只飞鸟从天而降。
他们在“梅德纳尔之家”被大雪封了一个星期，在暴风雪期间，他们挨着灯光，在烟雾弥漫中玩牌，伦特先生输得越多，赌注也跟着越下越大。最后他输得精光，把什么东西都输光了，把滑雪学校的钱和那一季的全部收益都输光了，接着把他的资金也输光了。他能看到伦特先生那长长的鼻子，捡起了牌，接着翻开牌说，“不看。”
那时候总是赌博。天不下雪，你赌博，雪下得太多，你又是赌博。他想起他这一生消磨在赌博里的时间。
可是关于这些，他连一行字都没有写；还有那个凛冽而晴朗的圣诞节，平原那边显出了群山，那天加德纳飞过防线去轰炸那列运送奥地利军官去休假的火车，当军官们四散奔跑的时候，他用机熗扫射他们。他记得后来加德纳走进食堂，开始谈起这件事。大家听他讲了以后，鸦雀无声，接着有个人说，“你这个该死的杀人坏种。”
关于这件事，他也一行字都没有写。
他们杀死的那些奥地利人，就是不久前跟他一起滑雪的奥地利人，不，不是那些奥地利人。汉斯，那年一整年跟他一起滑雪的奥地利人，是一直住在“国王—猎人客店”里的，他们一起到那家锯木厂上面那个小山谷去猎兔的时候，他们还谈起那次在帕苏比奥⑥的战斗和向波蒂卡和阿萨洛纳的进攻，这些他连一个字都没有写。
关于孟特科尔诺，西特科蒙姆，阿尔西陀⑦，他也一个字都没有写。
在福拉尔贝格⑧和阿尔贝格⑨他住过几个冬天？住过四个冬天，于是他记起那个卖狐狸的人，当时他们到了布卢登茨⑩，那回是去买礼物，他记起甘醇的樱桃酒特有的樱桃核味儿，记起在那结了冰的象粉一般的雪地上的快速滑行，你一面唱着“嗨！嗬！罗利说！”一面滑过最后一段坡道，笔直向那险峻的陡坡飞冲而下，接着转了三个弯滑到果园，从果园出来又越过那道沟渠，登上客店后面那条滑溜溜的大路。你敲松缚带，踢下滑雪板，把它们靠在客店外面的木墙上，灯光从窗里照射出来，屋子里，在烟雾缭绕、冒着新醅的酒香的温暖中，人们正在拉着手风琴。
“在巴黎咱们住在哪儿？”他问女人，女人正坐在他身边一只帆布椅里，现在，在非洲。
“在克里昂。这你是知道的。”
“为什么我知道是那儿？”
“咱们始终住在那儿。”
“不，并不是始终住在那儿。”
“咱们在那儿住过，在圣日耳曼区的亨利四世大楼也住过。你说过你爱那个地方。”
“爱是一堆粪，”哈里说。“而我就是一只爬在粪堆上咯咯叫的公鸡。”
“要是你一定得离开人间的话，”她说，“是不是你非得把你没法带走的都砍尽杀绝不可呢？我的意思是说，你是不是非得把什么东西都带走不可？你是不是一定要把你的马，你的妻子都杀死，把你的鞍子和你的盔甲都烧掉呢？”
“对，”他说。“你那些该死的钱就是我的盔甲。就是我的马和我的盔甲。”
“你别这么说。”
“好吧。我不说了。我不想伤害你的感情。”
“现在这么说，已经有点儿晚啦。”
“那好吧，我就继续来伤害你。这样有趣多啦。我真正喜欢跟你一起干的唯一的一件事，我现在不能干了。”
“不，这可不是实话。你喜欢干的事情多得很，而且只要是你喜欢干的，我也都干过。”
“啊，看在上帝的份上，请你别那么夸耀啦，行吗？”
他望着她，看见她在哭了。
“你听我说，”他说。“你以为我这么说有趣吗？我不知道我为什么要这样说。我想，这是想用毁灭一切来让自己活着。
咱们刚开始谈话的时候，我还是好好的。我并没有意思要这样开场，可是现在我蠢得象个老傻瓜似的，对你狠心也真狠到了家。亲爱的，我说什么，你都不要在意。我爱你，真的。
你知道我爱你。我从来没有象爱你这样爱过任何别的女人。”
他不知不觉地说出了他平时用来谋生糊口的那套说惯了的谎话。
“你对我挺好。”
“你这个坏娘们，”他说。“你这个有钱的坏娘们。这是诗。
现在我满身都是诗。腐烂和诗。腐烂的诗。”
“别说了。哈里，为什么你现在一定要变得这样恶狠狠的？”
“任何东西我都不愿留下来，”男人说。“我不愿意有什么东西在我身后留下来。”
现在已是傍晚，他睡熟了一会。夕阳已隐没在山后。平原上一片阴影，一些小动物正在营地近旁吃食；它们的头很快地一起一落，摆动着尾巴，他看着它们现在正从灌木丛那边跑掉了。那几只大鸟不再在地上等着了。它们都沉重地栖息在一棵树上。它们还有很多。他那个随身侍候的男仆正站在床边。
-
Kilimanjaro is a snow covered mountain 19,710 feet high, and it is said to be the highest mountain in Africa. Its western summit is called the Masai "Ngàje Ngài," the House of God. Close to the western summit there is the dried and frozen carcass of a leopard. No one has explained what the leopard was seeking at that altitude.
"The marvellous thing is that it's painless," he said. "That's how you know when it starts."
"Is it really?"
"Absolutely. I'm awfully sorry about the odor though. That must bother you."
"Don't! Please don't."
"Look at them," he said. "Now is it sight or is it scent that brings them like that?"
The cot the man lay on was in the wide shade of a mimosa tree and as he looked out past the shade onto the glare of the plain there were three of the big birds squatted obscenely, while in the sky a dozen more sailed, making quick-moving shadows as they passed.
"They've been there since the day the truck broke down," he said. "Today's the first time any have lit on the ground. I watched the way they sailed very carefully at first in case I ever wanted to use them in a story. That's funny now."
"I wish you wouldn't," she said.
"I'm only talking," he said. "It's much easier if I talk. But I don't want to bother you."
"You know it doesn't bother me," she said. "It's that I've gotten so very nervous not being able to do anything. I think we might make it as easy as we can until the plane comes."
"Or until the plane doesn't come."
"Please tell me what I can do. There must be something I can do."
"You can take the leg off and that might stop it, though I doubt it. Or you can shoot me. You're a good shot now. I taught you to shoot didn't I?"
"Please don't talk that way. Couldn't I read to you?"
"Read what?"
"Anything in the book bag that we haven't read."
"I can't listen to it," he said. "Talking is the easiest. We quarrel and that makes the time pass."
"I don't quarrel. I never want to quarrel. Let's not quarrel any more. No matter how nervous we get. Maybe they will be back with another truck today. Maybe the plane will come."
"I don't want to move," the man said. "There is no sense in moving now except to make it easier for you."
"That's cowardly."
"Can't you let a man die as comfortably as he can without calling him names? What's the use of slanging me?"
"You're not going to die."
"Don't be silly. I'm dying now. Ask those bastards." He looked over to where the huge, filthy birds sat, their naked heads sunk in the hunched feathers. A fourth planed down, to run quick-legged and then waddle slowly toward the others.
"They are around every camp. You never notice them. You can't die if you don't give up."
"Where did you read that? You're such a bloody fool."
"You might think about some one else."
"For Christ's sake," he said, "That's been my trade."
He lay then and was quiet for a while and looked across the heat shimmer of the plain to the edge of the bush. There were a few Tommies that showed minute and white against the yellow and, far off, he saw a herd of zebra, white against the green of the bush. This was a pleasant camp under big trees against a hill, with good water, and close by, a nearly dry water hole where sand grouse flighted in the mornings.
"Wouldn't you like me to read?" she asked. She was sitting on a canvas chair beside his cot. "There's a breeze coming up."
"No thanks."
"Maybe the truck will come."
"I don't give a damn about the truck."
"I do."
"You give a damn about so many things that I don't."
"Not so many, Harry."
"What about a drink?"
"It's supposed to be bad for you. It said in Black's to avoid all alcohol. You shouldn't drink."
"Molo!" he shouted.
"Yes Bwana."
"Bring whiskey-soda."
"Yes Bwana."
"You shouldn't," she said. "That's what I mean by giving up. It says it's bad for you. I know it's bad for you."
"No," he said. "It's good for me."
So now it was all over, he thought. So now he would never have a chance to finish it. So this was the way it ended in a bickering over a drink. Since the gangrene started in his right leg he had no pain and with the pain the horror had gone and all he felt now was a great tiredness and anger that this was the end of it. For this, that now was coming, he had very little curiosity. For years it had obsessed him; but now it meant nothing in itself. It was strange how easy being tired enough made it.
Now he would never write the things that he had saved to write until he knew enough to write them well. Well, he would not have to fail at trying to write them either. Maybe you could never write them, and that was why you put them off and delayed the starting. Well he would never know, now.
"I wish we'd never come," the woman said. She was looking at him holding the glass and biting her lip. "You never would have gotten anything like this in Paris. You always said you loved Paris. We could have stayed in Paris or gone anywhere. I'd have gone anywhere. I said I'd go anywhere you wanted. If you wanted to shoot we could have gone shooting in Hungary and been comfortable."
"Your bloody money," he said.
"That's not fair," she said. "It was always yours as much as mine. I left everything and I went wherever you wanted to go and I've done what you wanted to do. But I wish we'd never come here."
"You said you loved it."
"I did when you were all right. But now I hate it. I don't see why that had to happen to your leg. What have we done to have that happen to us?"
"I suppose what I did was to forget to put iodine on it when I first scratched it. Then I didn't pay any attention to it because I never infect. Then, later, when it got bad, it was probably using that weak carbolic solution when the other antiseptics ran out that paralyzed the minute blood vessels and started the gangrene." He looked at her, "What else?"
乞力马扎罗是一座海拔一万九千七百一十英尺的长年积雪的高山，据说它是非洲最高的一座山。西高峰叫马塞人①的“鄂阿奇—鄂阿伊”，即上帝的庙殿。在西高峰的近旁，有一具已经风干冻僵的豹子的尸体。豹子到这样高寒的地方来寻找什么，没有人作过解释。
“奇怪的是它一点也不痛，”他说。“你知道，开始的时候它就是这样。”
“真是这样吗？”
“千真万确。可我感到非常抱歉，这股气味准叫你受不了啦。”
“别这么说！请你别这么说。”
“你瞧那些鸟儿，”他说。“到底是这儿的风景，还是我这股气味吸引了它们？”
男人躺在一张帆布床上，在一棵含羞草树的浓荫里，他越过树荫向那片阳光炫目的平原上望去，那儿有三只硕大的鸟讨厌地蜷伏着，天空中还有十几只在展翅翱翔，当它们掠过时，投下了迅疾移动的影子。
“从卡车抛锚那天起，它们就在那儿盘旋了，”他说。“今天是它们第一次落到地上来。我起先还很仔细地观察过它们飞翔的姿态，心想一旦我写一篇短篇小说的时候，也许会用得上它们。现在想想真可笑。”
“我希望你别写这些，”她说。
“我只是说说罢了，”他说，“我要是说着话儿，就会感到轻松得多。可是我不想让你心烦。”
“你知道这不会让我心烦，”她说，“我是因为没法出点儿力，才搞得这么焦灼的。我想在飞机来到以前，咱们不妨尽可能轻松一点儿。”
“或者直等到飞机根本不来的时候。”
“请你告诉我能做些什么吧。总有一些事是我能干的。”
“你可以把我这条腿锯下来，这样就可以不让它蔓延开去了，不过，我怀疑这样恐怕也不成。也许你可以把我打死。你现在是个好射手啦。我教过你打熗，不是吗？”
“请你别这么说。我能给你读点什么吗？”
“读什么呢？”
“咱们书包里不论哪本咱们没有读过的书都行。”
“我可听不进啦，”他说，“只有谈话最轻松了。咱们来吵嘴吧，吵吵嘴时间就过得快。”
“我不吵嘴。我从来就不想吵嘴。咱们再不要吵嘴啦。不管咱们心里有多烦躁。说不定今天他们会乘另外一辆卡车回来的。也说不定飞机会来到的。”
“我不想动了，”男人说，“现在转移已经没有什么意思了，除非使你心里轻松一些。”
“这是懦弱的表现。”
“你就不能让一个男人尽可能死得轻松一点儿，非得把他痛骂一顿不可吗？你辱骂我有什么用处呢？”
“你不会死的。”
“别傻啦。我现在就快死了。不信你问问那些个杂种。”他朝那三只讨厌的大鸟蹲伏的地方望去，它们光秃秃的头缩在耸起的羽毛里。第四只掠飞而下，它快步飞奔，接着，蹒跚地缓步向那几只走去。
“每个营地都有这些鸟儿。你从来没有注意罢了。要是你不自暴自弃，你就不会死。”
“你这是从哪儿读到的？你这个大傻瓜。”
“你不妨想想还有别人呢。”
“看在上帝的份上，”他说，“这可一向是我的行当哩。”
他静静地躺了一会儿，接着越过那片灼热而炫目的平原，眺望灌木丛的边缘。在黄色的平原上，有几只野羊显得又小又白，在远处，他看见一群斑马，映衬着葱绿的灌木丛，显得白花花的。这是一个舒适宜人的营地，大树遮荫，背倚山岭，有清洌的水。附近有一个几乎已经干涸的水穴，每当清晨时分，沙松鸡就在那儿飞翔。
“你要不要我给你读点什么？”她问道。她坐在帆布床边的一张帆布椅上。“有一阵微风吹来了。”
“不要，谢谢你。”
“也许卡车会来的。”
“我根本不在乎什么卡车来不来。”
“我可是在乎。”
“你在乎的东西多着哩，我可不在乎。”
“并不很多，哈里。”
“喝点酒怎么样？”
“喝酒对你是有害的。在布莱克出版的书里说，一滴酒都不能喝。你不应该喝酒啦。”
“莫洛！”他唤道。
“是，先生。”
“拿威士忌苏打来。”
“是，先生。”
“你不应该喝酒，”她说。“我说你自暴自弃，就是这个意思。书上说酒对你是有害的。我就知道酒对你是有害的。”
“不，”他说。“酒对我有好处。”
现在一切就这样完了，他想。现在他再没有机会来了结这一切了。一切就这样在为喝一杯酒这种小事争吵中了结了。
自从他的右腿开始生坏疽以来，他就不觉得痛，随着疼痛的消失，恐惧也消失了，他现在感到的只是一种强烈的厌倦和愤怒：这居然就是结局。至于这个结局现在正在来临，他倒并不感到多大奇怪。多少年来它就一直萦绕着他；但是现在它本身并不说明任何意义。真奇怪，只要你厌倦够了，就能这样轻而易举地达到这个结局。
现在他再也不能把原来打算留到将来写作的题材写出来了，他本想等到自己有足够的了解以后才动笔，这样可以写得好一些。唔，他也不用在试着写这些东西的时候遭遇失败了。也许你永远不能把这些东西写出来，这就是你为什么一再延宕，迟迟没有动笔的缘故。得了，现在，他永远不会知道了。
“我但愿咱们压根儿没上这儿来，”女人说。她咬着嘴唇望着他手里举着的酒杯。“在巴黎你决不会出这样的事儿。你一向说你喜欢巴黎。咱们本来可以待在巴黎或者上任何别的地方去。不管哪儿我都愿意去。我说过你要上哪儿我都愿意去。要是你想打猎，咱们本来可以上匈牙利去，而且会很舒服的。”
“你有的是该死的钱，”他说。
“这么说是不公平的，”她说。“那一向是你的，就跟是我的一样。我撇下了一切，不管上哪儿，只要你想去我就去，你想干什么我就干什么。可我真希望咱们压根儿没上这儿来。”
“你说过你喜欢这儿。”
“我是说过的，那时你平安无事。可现在我恨这儿。我不明白干吗非得让你的腿出岔儿。咱们到底干了什么，要让咱们遇到这样的事？”
“我想我干的事情就是，开头我把腿擦破了，忘了给抹上碘酒，随后又根本没有去注意它，因为我是从不感染的。后来等它严重了，别的抗菌剂又都用完了，可能就因为用了药性很弱的石炭酸溶液，使微血管麻痹了，于是开始生坏疽了。”
他望着她，“除此以外还有什么呢？”