人性的枷鎖(3)

人性的枷鎖OF HUMAN BONDAGE(3)

BY W. SOMERSET MAUGHAM毛姆

1915

中譯Bill Lin

第3章 託孤

凱里太太去世時住的房子，坐落在肯辛頓Kensington 區一條落寞卻頗體面的街上，位於諾丁山門Notting Hill Gate 和高街High Street 之間。他們到了以後，艾瑪就把菲利浦領進客廳。他的伯父正在給送花圈的親友寫謝函。有個花圈送遲了，沒趕上葬禮，還裝在紙盒裡，擱在門廳的桌子上。

「菲利浦少爺來了，」艾瑪說。

凱里先生慢吞吞地站起身來同小孩握手；想了一下，接著又彎下身親了孩子的額頭。他的個子不高，身子開始發福。留長髮，往上梳來蓋住他的禿頂。鬍子刮得很乾淨，五官端正，可以想像，他年輕時是英俊的。他的錶鏈上掛著一個金的十字架。

「菲利浦，從現在起你要跟我一起過日子了，」凱里先生說，「你喜歡嗎？」

菲利浦兩年前出水痘時，曾被送到這位牧師家裡待了一陣子；但現在能想得起來的，只剩一間閣樓和大花園，而對於他的伯父伯母都沒有什麼印象。

「是的。」

「你得把我和你的路易莎Louisa 伯母當成自己的父母。」

孩子的嘴唇動了一下，臉紅了，但是沒作聲。

「你親愛的母親要我照料你。」

凱里先生不善於表達自己。他一得到弟媳病危的消息，立即趕來倫敦。他一路上沒想別的，只擔心要是弟媳死了，逼得他得照顧她兒子，他日子就難過了。他已年逾半百，結婚三十年的妻子沒生過孩子；到了這把年紀，他從未樂見家裡多了個小男孩，說不定是又吵又鬧。而且，他對這位弟媳從來沒有太多的好感。

「我明天就帶你去布萊克斯泰勃Blackstable，」他說。

「艾瑪也一起去？」

孩子將手伸進艾瑪的手掌，艾瑪將它緊緊捏著。

「恐怕艾瑪得離開了，」凱里先生說。

「但是我要艾瑪跟我一起去。」

菲利浦哭將起來，保姆也忍不住掉淚。凱里先生一籌莫展地望著他們。

「我想，妳最好讓我單獨同菲利浦少爺談。」

「好的，先生。」

雖然菲利浦扒著她，她還是徐徐地讓孩子鬆了手。凱里先生把孩子抱到膝上，用胳臂勾著他。

「你不可以哭，」他說。「你現在大到不該再有保姆啦。我們要準備讓你上學。」

「我要艾瑪跟我走，」孩子又說了一遍。

「這樣開銷太大了，菲利浦。你爸爸沒留下多少錢，我也不知道還剩多少。我們必須省著用。」

前天，凱里先生走訪了家庭律師。菲利浦的父親是位高明的外科醫生。從他在醫院裡擔任的職務可知他在醫界是有一席之地。所以，當他猝死於血中毒症，人們知道他留給未亡人的遺產，除了人壽保險金，以及在布魯頓Bruton 街的房租外，竟然只剩一點點錢，都感到十分意外。那是六個月以前的狀況；當時凱里太太健康已經出了問題，又發覺自己懷了孩子，所以一有人要租那房子，就隨便地答應了。她把家具收在倉庫。為了在孩子出世前能安穩地過日子，自己再租了一幢有全套家具的房子，賃期一年，以牧師的眼光看來，租金簡直太貴了。但是她從未習慣於當家理財，也不會量入為出，適應境遇的變遷。那一點點錢，就從她的指縫裡漏掉了；到目前，一切開銷付清之後，只剩不過兩千英鎊多一點，當孩子在獨立謀生之前的生活費。這一切跟菲利浦都說不通的，何況這孩子還在一直不停的唏噓。

「你還是去找艾瑪吧，」凱里先生說，他覺得只有艾瑪能好好地安慰這孩子。

二話不說，菲利浦從伯父的膝蓋上溜了下來，但凱里先生一把把他攔住。

「我們明天就必須動身，因為週末我得準備講道。你要告訴艾瑪今天就把行李收拾好。你可以把玩具都帶走，假如想要父母的遺物作紀念，只可以各留下一件。其他的東西全都要賣掉。」

孩子悄悄地離開了房間。凱里先生通常是不工作的，所以他心不甘情不願的去回信。書桌的一頭，擺著一疊帳單，這些帳單使他看了就火大。有一張特別荒謬的：凱里太太一嚥氣，艾瑪馬上向花店訂購了大批白花，來佈置死者的房間；完全是浪費錢。艾瑪不知分寸，自作主張。即使沒有財務上的考量，他也要把她辭掉。

但是菲利浦卻跑去找她，把頭埋在她懷裡，哭得很傷心。菲利浦出世一個月後就交由艾瑪照顧，她也把他當親生兒子看待；她細語哄勸，答應以後有空就來看他，絕不把他給忘了；她描述他所要去的那個地方，又講了自己德文郡老家──她父親在看守通往埃克塞特Exeter大路的關卡；家裡的豬圈養了好多豬；還有一頭母牛，才生下一頭牛犢──直到菲利浦忘掉了傷心事，而且一想到這趟旅行就興奮起來。她把他放下來，因為還有好多事該做；他幫她把自己的衣服拿出來放在床上。她叫他到幼兒室去收拾他的玩具，沒一下子，他就玩得很高興了。

最後，他自個兒玩膩了，又回到臥室，艾瑪正忙著把他的衣物用品收進大皮箱裡。這時，菲利浦想起伯父說過他可以拿一樣父母親的遺物留作紀念。他告訴艾瑪，還問她應該挑選什麼。

「你可以到客廳去看看有什麼你要的。」

「伯父在那兒咧。」

「沒關係，那些都還是你的東西。」

菲利浦緩步下樓，看到房門開著；凱里先生不在了。菲利浦慢慢地繞了一圈。他們住進來不久，屋子裡沒什麼東西使他特感興趣。這是別人的房子，裡面沒有使他心怡的東西；但是他知道哪些是母親的，哪些是房東的。這時，他看上了一只小時鐘，他曾聽母親說：她很喜歡它。

他拿著小鐘悶悶不樂地上樓。在母親的臥室門外，他停下來細聽。雖然沒有人不准他進去，但他覺得是不該進去；他有點害怕，心跳得很不舒服；同時又有些說不出的感覺，驅使他去扭動門把。他輕輕地旋轉門把，生怕被裡面的人聽見，隨後慢慢地把門推開。他在門檻上站了一陣子才鼓足勇氣走進去。現在他不怕了，只覺得怪怪的。他帶上門。

在一月午後清冷的日光下，百葉窗放下了，房間是陰暗的。梳妝臺上放著凱里太太的梳子和手鏡。一隻小盤裡有幾支髮夾。壁爐架上擺著一張菲利浦的照片，還有一張父親的照片。他經常趁母親不在的時候進這兒來；但是現在人事全非。那些椅子就是看不順眼。床鋪整理得就像晚上會有人來就寢似的。枕頭套上還放著一件睡衣。

菲利浦打開一個掛滿了衣服的大櫥櫃，走了進去，張開手臂盡可能地滿抱著一堆衣服，把臉埋在裡面，每件都聞到了他母親的香味。然後，他拉開了擺滿母親東西的抽屜，仔細端詳：衣巾裡有幾袋薰衣草，有著悅人的清香。房間裡的奇怪氣氛不見了，他覺得母親只是才出去散步，一下子就會回來，而且會上樓到幼兒室來和他一起用茶點；好像還感覺到了母親給他的親吻。

說他再也見不著母親是錯的，說這簡直是不可能也是錯的。他爬上床，把頭擱在枕頭上，躺在那兒動也不動。

********

When they reached the house Mrs. Carey had died in—it was in a dreary, respectable street between Notting Hill Gate and High Street, Kensington—Emma led Philip into the drawing-room. His uncle was writing letters of thanks for the wreaths which had been sent. One of them, which had arrived too late for the funeral, lay in its cardboard box on the hall-table.

"Here's Master Philip," said Emma.

Mr. Carey stood up slowly and shook hands with the little boy. Then on second thoughts he bent down and kissed his forehead. He was a man of somewhat less than average height, inclined to corpulence, with his hair, worn long, arranged over the scalp so as to conceal his baldness. He was clean-shaven. His features were regular, and it was possible to imagine that in his youth he had been good-looking. On his watch-chain he wore a gold cross.

"You're going to live with me now, Philip," said Mr. Carey. "Shall you like that?"

Two years before Philip had been sent down to stay at the vicarage after an attack of chicken-pox; but there remained with him a recollection of an attic and a large garden rather than of his uncle and aunt.

"Yes."

"You must look upon me and your Aunt Louisa as your father and mother."

The child's mouth trembled a little, he reddened, but did not answer.

"Your dear mother left you in my charge."

Mr. Carey had no great ease in expressing himself. When the news came that his sister-in-law was dying, he set off at once for London, but on the way thought of nothing but the disturbance in his life that would be caused if her death forced him to undertake the care of her son. He was well over fifty, and his wife, to whom he had been married for thirty years, was childless; he did not look forward with any pleasure to the presence of a small boy who might be noisy and rough. He had never much liked his sister-in-law.

"I'm going to take you down to Blackstable tomorrow," he said.

"With Emma?"

The child put his hand in hers, and she pressed it.

"I'm afraid Emma must go away," said Mr. Carey.

"But I want Emma to come with me."

Philip began to cry, and the nurse could not help crying too. Mr. Carey looked at them helplessly.

"I think you'd better leave me alone with Master Philip for a moment."

"Very good, sir."

Though Philip clung to her, she released herself gently. Mr. Carey took the boy on his knee and put his arm round him.

"You mustn't cry," he said. "You're too old to have a nurse now. We must see about sending you to school."

"I want Emma to come with me," the child repeated.

"It costs too much money, Philip. Your father didn't leave very much, and I don't know what's become of it. You must look at every penny you spend."

Mr. Carey had called the day before on the family solicitor. Philip's father was a surgeon in good practice, and his hospital appointments suggested an established position; so that it was a surprise on his sudden death from blood-poisoning to find that he had left his widow little more than his life insurance and what could be got for the lease of their house in Bruton Street. This was six months ago; and Mrs. Carey, already in delicate health, finding herself with child, had lost her head and accepted for the lease the first offer that was made. She stored her furniture, and, at a rent which the parson thought outrageous, took a furnished house for a year, so that she might suffer from no inconvenience till her child was born. But she had never been used to the management of money, and was unable to adapt her expenditure to her altered circumstances. The little she had slipped through her fingers in one way and another, so that now, when all expenses were paid, not much more than two thousand pounds remained to support the boy till he was able to earn his own living. It was impossible to explain all this to Philip and he was sobbing still.

"You'd better go to Emma," Mr. Carey said, feeling that she could console the child better than anyone.

Without a word Philip slipped off his uncle's knee, but Mr. Carey stopped him.

"We must go tomorrow, because on Saturday I've got to prepare my sermon, and you must tell Emma to get your things ready today. You can bring all your toys. And if you want anything to remember your father and mother by you can take one thing for each of them. Everything else is going to be sold."

The boy slipped out of the room. Mr. Carey was unused to work, and he turned to his correspondence with resentment. On one side of the desk was a bundle of bills, and these filled him with irritation. One especially seemed preposterous. Immediately after Mrs. Carey's death Emma had ordered from the florist masses of white flowers for the room in which the dead woman lay. It was sheer waste of money. Emma took far too much upon herself. Even if there had been no financial necessity, he would have dismissed her.

But Philip went to her, and hid his face in her bosom, and wept as though his heart would break. And she, feeling that he was almost her own son—she had taken him when he was a month old—consoled him with soft words. She promised that she would come and see him sometimes, and that she would never forget him; and she told him about the country he was going to and about her own home in Devonshire—her father kept a turnpike on the high-road that led to Exeter, and there were pigs in the sty, and there was a cow, and the cow had just had a calf—till Philip forgot his tears and grew excited at the thought of his approaching journey. Presently she put him down, for there was much to be done, and he helped her to lay out his clothes on the bed. She sent him into the nursery to gather up his toys, and in a little while he was playing happily.

But at last he grew tired of being alone and went back to the bed-room, in which Emma was now putting his things into a big tin box; he remembered then that his uncle had said he might take something to remember his father and mother by. He told Emma and asked her what he should take.

"You'd better go into the drawing-room and see what you fancy."

"Uncle William's there."

"Never mind that. They're your own things now."

Philip went downstairs slowly and found the door open. Mr. Carey had left the room. Philip walked slowly round. They had been in the house so short a time that there was little in it that had a particular interest to him. It was a stranger's room, and Philip saw nothing that struck his fancy. But he knew which were his mother's things and which belonged to the landlord, and presently fixed on a little clock that he had once heard his mother say she liked. With this he walked again rather disconsolately upstairs. Outside the door of his mother's bed-room he stopped and listened. Though no one had told him not to go in, he had a feeling that it would be wrong to do so; he was a little frightened, and his heart beat uncomfortably; but at the same time something impelled him to turn the handle. He turned it very gently, as if to prevent anyone within from hearing, and then slowly pushed the door open. He stood on the threshold for a moment before he had the courage to enter. He was not frightened now, but it seemed strange. He closed the door behind him. The blinds were drawn, and the room, in the cold light of a January afternoon, was dark. On the dressing-table were Mrs. Carey's brushes and the hand mirror. In a little tray were hairpins. There was a photograph of himself on the chimney-piece and one of his father. He had often been in the room when his mother was not in it, but now it seemed different. There was something curious in the look of the chairs. The bed was made as though someone were going to sleep in it that night, and in a case on the pillow was a night-dress.

Philip opened a large cupboard filled with dresses and, stepping in, took as many of them as he could in his arms and buried his face in them. They smelt of the scent his mother used. Then he pulled open the drawers, filled with his mother's things, and looked at them: there were lavender bags among the linen, and their scent was fresh and pleasant. The strangeness of the room left it, and it seemed to him that his mother had just gone out for a walk. She would be in presently and would come upstairs to have nursery tea with him. And he seemed to feel her kiss on his lips.

It was not true that he would never see her again. It was not true simply because it was impossible. He climbed up on the bed and put his head on the pillow. He lay there quite still.