人性的枷鎖(5)

人性的枷鎖OF HUMAN BONDAGE

BY W. SOMERSET MAUGHAM毛姆

1915

中譯Bill Lin

第5章 遺照

菲利浦逐漸摸熟了身邊的人，透過一些片段的交談──有些不是要說給他聽的──他也知道了不少有關他自己和已故的雙親的故事。

菲利浦的父親比這布萊克斯泰勃的牧師少好幾歲。他在聖路加St. Luke 醫院有段很不錯的生涯，被院方聘為駐院的醫生，有可觀的收入；花錢很大方：有回牧師準備修繕教堂，向他的弟弟勸募，結果出乎意料地收到了幾百英鎊。凱里先生天性節儉又手頭拮据，他收到那筆錢時，有很混雜的心情；他妒忌弟弟，居然拿得出這麼一大筆錢來；他一面為教堂感到高興，一面又隱隱的被這近乎炫耀的慷慨而激怒。

後來，亨利．凱里Henry Carey 和一位病人結婚，她很漂亮但沒有錢，無親無故卻是名門之後；婚禮時佳友如雲。牧師每次上倫敦去拜訪這位弟媳時，總是有些拘謹；他感到害躁，而且對她的艷麗心懷怨恨：她的裝扮，以當一個敬業的外科醫生的妻子來說，確實過於華麗；而她家裡那些迷人的家具，還有甚至在冬天裡擺設的鮮花，都是令他心痛的揮霍奢華。他還聽她提起要去參加的交際場合：正如牧師回家以後對他的妻子所說，不可能不禮尚往來。他在餐室裡看到的葡萄，想來至少得花八先令一磅；在午餐時，請他享用的蘆筍，兩個月後才能從牧師菜園裡收成。

現在，他所預料的一切都已成真：好像一個預言家看到一個不聽他的警告又不悔改的城市，終於被硫磺火所吞噬；牧師感到心滿意足。可憐的菲利浦真是一文不名，他媽媽的那些好友們現在能有什麼用？他聽說自己父親的揮霍實在是無法無天，所以慈悲的天父早點把他親愛的母親接走了；因為她對金錢的概念只像個小孩子。

菲利浦到了布萊克斯泰勃一個星期以後，發生了一件似乎讓他伯父很生氣的事。一天早上，牧師在早餐桌上看到一個小包裹，是由凱里太太生前在倫敦所住的房子轉寄來的。是寄給她的。牧師拆開一看，是凱里太太的一打照片。都是只拍到肩部的大頭照，她的髮型比平時樸素，頭髮蓋到額頭，顯得有點異樣；臉龎瘦削，面容憔悴，不過疾病也無損於她容貌的美麗。菲利浦並不記得這雙烏黑的大眼睛所透出的哀怨之情。乍看到這過世的女子，凱里先生心頭不禁微微一震，但是緊接著的是不解。這些照片似乎是新近拍攝的，可是他想像不出是誰要的。

「你知道這些照片是怎麼一回事，菲利浦？」他問道。

「我記得媽媽說去拍過照，」他回答。「瓦特津小姐還為這事責怪她……她說：『我要給孩子留點東西，讓他長大後能記得我。』」

凱里先生看著菲利浦好一會兒。孩子用輕晰的童音說著，他記得母親的話，卻不明白任何含義。

「你最好拿一張照片放在你的房間裡，」凱里先生說：「其餘的就由我保管。」

他寄了一張給瓦特津小姐，於是她回了信，也解釋了這些照片是怎麼來的：

有一天，凱里太太躺在床上，覺得人比平時好了些，醫生早上也說好像有起色；艾瑪帶孩子出去了，女僕們都在樓下地下室裡，凱里太太突然絕望地感到自己在世上的孤獨。

她被籠罩在一陣巨大的恐懼之下：她原以為兩個星期坐月子，現在恐怕好不了了。兒子今年才九歲，怎麼能指望他將來不把自己忘掉呢？她不能忍受他日後長大會將自己忘掉，忘得一乾二淨的念頭；她這麼深切地愛他，因為他體質羸弱，又有殘疾，又是自己的親生骨肉。她結婚以後還沒有拍過照，已經十年了。她要兒子知道自己臨終前的模樣，這樣他才不會把自己忘得一乾二淨。她知道，如果她找侍女，說她要出門，侍女一定會阻止她，說不定還會找醫生來，她現在連掙扎或爭論的力氣都沒有。她自己下床，開始穿衣服。

因為長期臥榻，她的雙腿支撐不住，然後是腳底針刺的感覺，幾幾乎連腳擺到地上都受不了。但是她堅持下去。她不慣於自己做頭髮，一抬起手臂開始梳頭，就感到一陣眩暈。她怎麼梳也弄不像侍女所做的髮型。她有著漂亮的金黃色的秀髮。筆直的黑色眉毛。她穿一條黑裙子，但選了那件最喜歡的緊身胸衣：當時很流行的白緞做的。

她照鏡子，看到自己的臉色很蒼白，但皮膚透明。她臉上一向沒什麼血色，這反而使她那美麗的嘴唇越顯得紅潤。她情不自禁地哭起來。但是她沒本錢顧影自憐，因為她已感到精疲力竭；她披上亨利去年聖誕節送給她的皮衣──當時她頗以這件禮物為傲和快樂──怦怦心跳的溜下樓。

她順利的出了屋子，搭車去照相館。她付了一打照片的錢。在拍照的當兒，她支撐不住，不得不要了杯水；攝影師的助手看到她有病，建議她改日再來，但她堅持到底。最後，總算拍完了，她又搭車回肯辛頓的那所她很恨惡的灰溜溜的小屋。要死在那種屋子裡實在很恐怖。

她發現大門開著，當她的車子開上去時，侍女和艾瑪跑下臺階來幫她。

當她們發現她不在房間裡，全給嚇壞了。最先，她們想她應該是去找瓦特津小姐，於是打發廚娘過去那兒。不料，瓦特津小姐卻跟著她一起過來，在客廳裡焦急地等著。現在她也趕下樓來，很焦急的數落凱里太太；但是凱里太太的體力透支已經遠超過她所能忍受，所以當逞強的場合一過，她就垮了。她重重地倒在艾瑪懷裡，被她們抬上樓。她昏迷了一陣子，但對看護她的人來說，卻像是很長的時間；已經趕緊去請醫生，但還沒到。

等到她好了一點，瓦特津小姐從她嘴裡了解了整件事，已經是隔天了。菲利浦正在母親臥室的地板上玩耍，這兩位婦人都沒注意到他。他只是似懂非懂地聽到她倆的對話，他說不清為什麼那些話會留在他的記憶裡。

「我要留給孩子，讓他長大後能記得我的東西。」

「我想不透她為什麼要拍一打，」凱里先生說：「兩張不就夠了。」

********************

Philip came gradually to know the people he was to live with, and by fragments of conversation, some of it not meant for his ears, learned a good deal both about himself and about his dead parents. Philip's father had been much younger than the Vicar of Blackstable. After a brilliant career at St. Luke's Hospital he was put on the staff, and presently began to earn money in considerable sums. He spent it freely. When the parson set about restoring his church and asked his brother for a subscription, he was surprised by receiving a couple of hundred pounds: Mr. Carey, thrifty by inclination and economical by necessity, accepted it with mingled feelings; he was envious of his brother because he could afford to give so much, pleased for the sake of his church, and vaguely irritated by a generosity which seemed almost ostentatious. Then Henry Carey married a patient, a beautiful girl but penniless, an orphan with no near relations, but of good family; and there was an array of fine friends at the wedding. The parson, on his visits to her when he came to London, held himself with reserve. He felt shy with her and in his heart he resented her great beauty: she dressed more magnificently than became the wife of a hardworking surgeon; and the charming furniture of her house, the flowers among which she lived even in winter, suggested an extravagance which he deplored. He heard her talk of entertainments she was going to; and, as he told his wife on getting home again, it was impossible to accept hospitality without making some return. He had seen grapes in the dining-room that must have cost at least eight shillings a pound; and at luncheon he had been given asparagus two months before it was ready in the vicarage garden. Now all he had anticipated was come to pass: the Vicar felt the satisfaction of the prophet who saw fire and brimstone consume the city which would not mend its way to his warning. Poor Philip was practically penniless, and what was the good of his mother's fine friends now? He heard that his father's extravagance was really criminal, and it was a mercy that Providence had seen fit to take his dear mother to itself: she had no more idea of money than a child.

When Philip had been a week at Blackstable an incident happened which seemed to irritate his uncle very much. One morning he found on the breakfast table a small packet which had been sent on by post from the late Mrs. Carey's house in London. It was addressed to her. When the parson opened it he found a dozen photographs of Mrs. Carey. They showed the head and shoulders only, and her hair was more plainly done than usual, low on the forehead, which gave her an unusual look; the face was thin and worn, but no illness could impair the beauty of her features. There was in the large dark eyes a sadness which Philip did not remember. The first sight of the dead woman gave Mr. Carey a little shock, but this was quickly followed by perplexity. The photographs seemed quite recent, and he could not imagine who had ordered them.

"D'you know anything about these, Philip?" he asked.

"I remember mamma said she'd been taken," he answered. "Miss Watkin scolded her…. She said: I wanted the boy to have something to remember me by when he grows up."

Mr. Carey looked at Philip for an instant. The child spoke in a clear treble. He recalled the words, but they meant nothing to him.

"You'd better take one of the photographs and keep it in your room," said

Mr. Carey. "I'll put the others away."

He sent one to Miss Watkin, and she wrote and explained how they came to be taken.

One day Mrs. Carey was lying in bed, but she was feeling a little better than usual, and the doctor in the morning had seemed hopeful; Emma had taken the child out, and the maids were downstairs in the basement: suddenly Mrs. Carey felt desperately alone in the world. A great fear seized her that she would not recover from the confinement which she was expecting in a fortnight. Her son was nine years old. How could he be expected to remember her? She could not bear to think that he would grow up and forget, forget her utterly; and she had loved him so passionately, because he was weakly and deformed, and because he was her child. She had no photographs of herself taken since her marriage, and that was ten years before. She wanted her son to know what she looked like at the end. He could not forget her then, not forget utterly. She knew that if she called her maid and told her she wanted to get up, the maid would prevent her, and perhaps send for the doctor, and she had not the strength now to struggle or argue. She got out of bed and began to dress herself. She had been on her back so long that her legs gave way beneath her, and then the soles of her feet tingled so that she could hardly bear to put them to the ground. But she went on. She was unused to doing her own hair and, when she raised her arms and began to brush it, she felt faint. She could never do it as her maid did. It was beautiful hair, very fine, and of a deep rich gold. Her eyebrows were straight and dark. She put on a black skirt, but chose the bodice of the evening dress which she liked best: it was of a white damask which was fashionable in those days. She looked at herself in the glass. Her face was very pale, but her skin was clear: she had never had much colour, and this had always made the redness of her beautiful mouth emphatic. She could not restrain a sob. But she could not afford to be sorry for herself; she was feeling already desperately tired; and she put on the furs which Henry had given her the Christmas before—she had been so proud of them and so happy then—and slipped downstairs with beating heart. She got safely out of the house and drove to a photographer. She paid for a dozen photographs. She was obliged to ask for a glass of water in the middle of the sitting; and the assistant, seeing she was ill, suggested that she should come another day, but she insisted on staying till the end. At last it was finished, and she drove back again to the dingy little house in Kensington which she hated with all her heart. It was a horrible house to die in.

She found the front door open, and when she drove up the maid and Emma ran down the steps to help her. They had been frightened when they found her room empty. At first they thought she must have gone to Miss Watkin, and the cook was sent round. Miss Watkin came back with her and was waiting anxiously in the drawing-room. She came downstairs now full of anxiety and reproaches; but the exertion had been more than Mrs. Carey was fit for, and when the occasion for firmness no longer existed she gave way. She fell heavily into Emma's arms and was carried upstairs. She remained unconscious for a time that seemed incredibly long to those that watched her, and the doctor, hurriedly sent for, did not come. It was next day, when she was a little better, that Miss Watkin got some explanation out of her. Philip was playing on the floor of his mother's bed-room, and neither of the ladies paid attention to him. He only understood vaguely what they were talking about, and he could not have said why those words remained in his memory.

"I wanted the boy to have something to remember me by when he grows up."

"I can't make out why she ordered a dozen," said Mr. Carey. "Two would have done."