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| 千柱廳 |
人性的枷鎖OF
HUMAN BONDAGE
BY
W. SOMERSET MAUGHAM毛姆
1915
中譯Bill
Lin
第9章
轉變
下個主日，牧師準備去客廳睡午覺──他所有的生活行為都隨著儀式而行──而凱里太太也正要上樓，菲利浦問道：「不許我玩，那我該幹什麼？」
「你就不能安靜地坐一會兒嗎？」
「我不能一直坐著等到吃茶點。」
凱里先生往窗子看，外面陰冷，他不能建議菲利浦到花園裡去。
「我知道你有什麼可以幹，你可以背今天的禱文。」
他從風琴上拿到那本給禱告用的祈禱書，翻到他要的那一頁。
「這不太長。當我進來用茶點時，如果你能一字不誤地說出來，我就把我的雞蛋頂頭給你。」
凱里太太把菲利浦的座椅拖到餐桌旁──他們已經給菲利浦買了一張高腳凳──並且把書放在他的前面。
「魔鬼會替沒事幹的找事做，」凱里先生說。
他給爐子加炭，等會兒用茶點時才會有旺盛的火焰，加完炭後走到客廳。他鬆開衣領，擺好靠墊，然後舒舒服服地躺在沙發上。凱里太太想到客廳裡有點冷，便從門廳那兒拿了條毛毯，給他蓋在腿上，並且裹住了雙腳。她往常會把百葉窗放下，免得日光照到他的眼睛，不過他已經把百葉窗關了，她就躡著腳尖走出去。牧師今天心神安寧，不到十分鐘就睡著了，還輕輕地打呼。
那天是東方三博士節Epiphany後的第六個星期天，這天禱文的起頭是：「神啊，聖子已顯明將破除魔鬼的作為，使我們成為神的眾子，成為永生神的後嗣。」菲利浦整段讀了過去，卻不知所云。他只好高聲朗讀，但是有好些字不認得，句子結構又很奇怪。他至多只能記得兩行。他的注意力散漫：牧師樓牆邊種了許多果樹，有根長枝條不時的敲打窗子玻璃；羊群在花園外的田野裡緩慢地放牧。他的腦子裡好像有幾個繩結。接著，他感到一陣恐慌──到用茶點時還是不懂得那些詞句，他又繼續越唸越快，他不想去了解，只要像鸚鵡學舌般的硬塞進腦子裡。
那天下午，凱里太太睡不著覺，到了四點左右，她很清醒，乾脆走下樓來。她想先聽一下菲利浦的禱文，免得在說給伯父聽時犯錯，這樣他的伯父才會滿意；他才會看得出這孩子的心地是純正的。但是當凱里太太來到餐室門口，才要走進去的時候，她聽見一個聲音，使她很快的停下腳步。她的心跳了一下。她轉過身，悄悄地溜出了前門，沿著屋子到餐室窗下，小心地往屋裡看。菲利浦仍然坐在她讓他坐的椅子上，但是他卻趴在桌子上，把頭埋在手臂裡，拼命地抽泣。她看到他的肩膀在抽搐著。凱里太太給嚇壞了。過去她一直有這樣的印象，這孩子好像很能自我控制，從未見他哭過。現在她終於知道，他的冷靜原來是一種羞於流露感情的直覺反應：他總是躲在人後哭泣。
一點也不考慮她的老公不喜歡突然被吵醒，她衝進了客廳。
「威廉，威廉，」她說，「那孩子哭得像是心碎了。」
凱里先生坐起來，一把掀掉腿上的毯子。
「哭什麼哭？」
「我不知道……噢，威廉，我們可不能讓孩子受委屈呀。這該不是我們的錯吧？我們要是有孩子，就知道該怎麼辦了。」
凱里先生不解地望著她。他更是感到束手無策。
「不會是因為我叫他背禱文才哭的吧，又沒超過十行！」
「威廉，我拿幾本圖畫書給他看，可以嗎？我們有幾本聖地的圖畫書，不會有什麼不妥吧。」
「好吧，我沒意見。」
凱里太太走進書房。搜集圖書是凱里先生的唯一嗜好，他每次去坎特伯利總要在舊書店裡待一兩個鐘頭；經常買回來四、五本發霉的舊書。他從不去讀它們，因為他早就沒有閱讀的習慣了，但是他喜歡翻翻書，假如是有插圖的話，就看看那些插圖，還有黏補掉頁。他喜歡下雨天，因為這時候，他可以毫無內疚地待在家裡，一整個下午用蛋白和一瓶膠水，修補一些四開本有俄羅斯皮面的舊書。他有好多本古老的有鋼板刻畫的遊記，所以凱里太太很快就找到兩本介紹巴勒斯坦Palestine的書。她故意在餐室門口咳嗽一聲，好讓菲利浦有時間回神下來。她想，如果她撞見他正在掉眼淚，他會覺得丟臉，她接著又喀噠喀噠地轉動門把。她走進來的時候，菲利浦正在鑽研祈禱書。他用手遮著眼睛，不讓她知道自己才哭過。
「你會祈禱文了嗎？」她問。
他沒有馬上回答，她覺得他是怕自己露出了沙啞聲。她感到出奇的尷尬。
「我背不起來，」他倒抽了口氣，終於冒出一句話。
「噢，沒關係，」她說。「你不用背了。我拿幾本圖畫書來給你看。過來，坐到我大腿上，讓我們一起看。」
菲利浦溜下椅子，一拐一拐地走向她來，低著頭讓她看不到自己的眼睛。她用雙手摟住他。
「瞧，這兒是我們的主耶穌基督的出生地。」
她給他看一個有平坦、圓頂和尖塔屋頂的東方市鎮。前面是一排棕櫚樹，樹下有兩個阿拉伯人和幾隻駱駝正在歇腳。菲利浦把手放到畫面上，像是要摸那些房子和牧人的寬鬆披衫。
「念給我聽這上面寫了些什麼，」他央求著。
凱里太太用平靜的聲調，念了隔頁的記敘。那是1830年代某位東方旅遊家寫的一段帶有浪漫色彩的遊記，可能有些自大，但煥發著繼拜倫Byron和夏多勃里昂Chateaubriand之後的那一代人對東方世界的感情。過了一陣子，菲利浦插嘴：「我要看另一張圖。」
瑪麗安走進來，凱里太太站起身來幫她鋪檯布。菲利浦把書拿過來，趕緊把書裡的插圖一一看過。他的伯母費了好大的勁，才讓他放下書來用茶點。他已經忘掉要背禱文時的痛苦掙扎；忘掉他的掉淚。隔天是個下雨天，他又要看那本書。凱里太太很高興地拿給他。她和老公談過孩子的前途，發覺他倆都希望他以後能承當聖職；現在他對這本描述因著耶穌而成為聖地的書特有興趣，像是個好現象。看來這孩子的心靈，很自然地注意到神聖的事物上。但是過了一兩天，他就要求要看更多的書。凱里先生把他帶到書房，讓他看整排擺著有插圖書卷的書架，替他挑了一本有關羅馬的書。菲利浦很飢渴地地接過去。那些圖畫把他引到一個新的樂趣。為了搞清圖畫的內容，他開始唸每幅版畫前後頁的文字敘述，很快的，他對他的玩具失掉了興趣。
之後，只要身邊沒有人，他就拿書出來看；也許是第一個給他留下深刻印象的是個東方城市，所以他特別偏好那些描述地中海國家和島嶼的書籍。他一看到有清真寺和華美的宮殿的圖片就就興奮得心跳；尤其是一本關於君士坦丁堡的書，特別激起了他的想像力。那是一幅標名為「千柱廳」的插圖，畫的是拜占庭的一個人工湖，多樣花俏的加工，賦予了夢幻般的浩瀚無際的感覺。他讀過的說明，告訴我們在這入口處，總是停靠著一葉扁舟，吸引那些輕率的遊客，冒然闖入黑暗處的，無一倖返。菲利浦不知道，那小舟究竟是不停的從柱廊穿過柱廊，或是最終到達一座奇怪的大廈。
有一天他的運氣來了，他碰巧翻到萊恩Lane翻譯的《一千零一夜》。他一開始是被插畫吸引住，然後開始讀有關魔法術的故事，又接下去讀其他的篇幅；對於喜歡的那幾篇，他是讀了又讀。他可以聚精會神，忘了自己的遭遇。吃飯時，總得被人叫上兩三次才坐到餐位上。不知不覺間，他養成了世人最有樂趣的──閱讀的習慣；他不知道，這一來他給自己一個逃避所有人生苦難的庇護所；他也不知道，他正為自己創造出一個虛無的世界，使得每日的現實世界成了痛苦失望的來源。沒多久，他開始閱讀起其他的東西。他的智力是早熟了。他的伯父和伯母見到他有所事事，不煩惱也不吵鬧，就不再因他而費神了。
凱里先生有許多的書連自己都不知道；他只讀過一點點，所以他會忘了有些零星的書買了一次，因為便宜又買一次。在一堆講道、演說、遊記、聖者長老傳記、教會歷史的書籍裡面，偶而也混雜了一些古舊小說，這些是菲利浦最後才發現的。他因著而書名把它們挑出來。第一本念的是《蘭開夏郡的女巫The
Lancashire Witches》，接著念了《可敬佩的克里奇頓The
Admirable
Crichton》，接著又有好幾本。每當他看到一本書裡描寫兩個旅客孤獨的在懸崖峭壁的邊緣策馬而行的時候，他會想到自己是安然無恙的。
夏天來了，那位水手出身的老花匠，給菲利浦做了一張吊床，掛在垂柳的枝幹上。他一連好幾個小時躺在吊床上看書，熱切地讀呀讀呀，任一到牧師樓來的人，都找不到他。轉眼就過了七月；到了八月：每逢星期天，教堂內總擠滿了陌生人，收到的奉獻款經常會超過兩英鎊。在這段時間裡，牧師和她的老婆很少出門；因為他們不喜歡見到生面孔，他們厭惡那些從倫敦來的遊客。對面房子出租六個星期給一位有兩個小男孩的紳士，他派人來問菲利浦是否願意去和他們一起玩；但是凱里太太婉謝了。她怕菲利浦會被倫敦來的小男孩帶壞。他以後要成為教士，所以一定不能給沾污了。她喜歡把他看成是個小小的撒母耳Samuel。
*******************
On
the following Sunday, when the Vicar was making his preparations to
go into the drawing-room for his nap—all the actions of his life
were conducted with ceremony—and Mrs. Carey was about to go
upstairs, Philip asked:
"What
shall I do if I'm not allowed to play?"
"Can't
you sit still for once and be quiet?"
"I
can't sit still till tea-time."
Mr.
Carey looked out of the window, but it was cold and raw, and he could
not suggest that Philip should go into the garden.
"I
know what you can do. You can learn by heart the collect for the
day."
He
took the prayer-book which was used for prayers from the harmonium,
and turned the pages till he came to the place he wanted.
"It's
not a long one. If you can say it without a mistake when I come in to
tea you shall have the top of my egg."
Mrs.
Carey drew up Philip's chair to the dining-room table—they had
bought him a high chair by now—and placed the book in front of him.
"The
devil finds work for idle hands to do," said Mr. Carey.
He
put some more coals on the fire so that there should be a cheerful
blaze when he came in to tea, and went into the drawing-room. He
loosened his collar, arranged the cushions, and settled himself
comfortably on the sofa. But thinking the drawing-room a little
chilly, Mrs. Carey brought him a rug from the hall; she put it over
his legs and tucked it round his feet. She drew the blinds so that
the light should not offend his eyes, and since he had closed them
already went out of the room on tiptoe. The Vicar was at peace with
himself today, and in ten minutes he was asleep. He snored softly.
It
was the Sixth Sunday after Epiphany, and the collect began with the
words: O God, whose blessed Son was manifested that he might destroy
the works of the devil, and make us the sons of God, and heirs of
Eternal life. Philip read it through. He could make no sense of it.
He began saying the words aloud to himself, but many of them were
unknown to him, and the construction of the sentence was strange. He
could not get more than two lines in his head. And his attention was
constantly wandering: there were fruit trees trained on the walls of
the vicarage, and a long twig beat now and then against the
windowpane; sheep grazed stolidly in the field beyond the garden. It
seemed as though there were knots inside his brain. Then panic seized
him that he would not know the words by tea-time, and he kept on
whispering them to himself quickly; he did not try to understand, but
merely to get them parrot-like into his memory.
Mrs.
Carey could not sleep that afternoon, and by four o'clock she was so
wide awake that she came downstairs. She thought she would hear
Philip his collect so that he should make no mistakes when he said it
to his uncle. His uncle then would be pleased; he would see that the
boy's heart was in the right place. But when Mrs. Carey came to the
dining-room and was about to go in, she heard a sound that made her
stop suddenly. Her heart gave a little jump. She turned away and
quietly slipped out of the front-door. She walked round the house
till she came to the dining-room window and then cautiously looked
in. Philip was still sitting on the chair she had put him in, but his
head was on the table buried in his arms, and he was sobbing
desperately. She saw the convulsive movement of his shoulders. Mrs.
Carey was frightened. A thing that had always struck her about the
child was that he seemed so collected. She had never seen him cry.
And now she realised that his calmness was some instinctive shame of
showing his feelings: he hid himself to weep.
Without
thinking that her husband disliked being wakened suddenly, she burst
into the drawing-room.
"William,
William," she said. "The boy's crying as though his heart
would break."
Mr.
Carey sat up and disentangled himself from the rug about his legs.
"What's
he got to cry about?"
"I
don't know…. Oh, William, we can't let the boy be unhappy. D'you
think it's our fault? If we'd had children we'd have known what to
do."
Mr.
Carey looked at her in perplexity. He felt extraordinarily helpless.
"He
can't be crying because I gave him the collect to learn. It's not
more than ten lines."
"Don't
you think I might take him some picture books to look at, William?
There are some of the Holy Land. There couldn't be anything wrong in
that."
"Very
well, I don't mind."
Mrs.
Carey went into the study. To collect books was Mr. Carey's only
passion, and he never went into Tercanbury without spending an hour
or two in the second-hand shop; he always brought back four or five
musty volumes. He never read them, for he had long lost the habit of
reading, but he liked to turn the pages, look at the illustrations if
they were illustrated, and mend the bindings. He welcomed wet days
because on them he could stay at home without pangs of conscience and
spend the afternoon with white of egg and a glue-pot, patching up the
Russia leather of some battered quarto. He had many volumes of old
travels, with steel engravings, and Mrs. Carey quickly found two
which described Palestine. She coughed elaborately at the door so
that Philip should have time to compose himself, she felt that he
would be humiliated if she came upon him in the midst of his tears,
then she rattled the door handle. When she went in Philip was poring
over the prayer-book, hiding his eyes with his hands so that she
might not see he had been crying.
"Do
you know the collect yet?" she said.
He
did not answer for a moment, and she felt that he did not trust his
voice. She was oddly embarrassed.
"I
can't learn it by heart," he said at last, with a gasp.
"Oh,
well, never mind," she said. "You needn't. I've got some
picture books for you to look at. Come and sit on my lap, and we'll
look at them together."
Philip
slipped off his chair and limped over to her. He looked down so that
she should not see his eyes. She put her arms round him.
"Look,"
she said, "that's the place where our blessed Lord was born."
She
showed him an Eastern town with flat roofs and cupolas and minarets.
In the foreground was a group of palm-trees, and under them were
resting two Arabs and some camels. Philip passed his hand over the
picture as if he wanted to feel the houses and the loose habiliments
of the nomads.
"Read
what it says," he asked.
Mrs.
Carey in her even voice read the opposite page. It was a romantic
narrative of some Eastern traveller of the thirties, pompous maybe,
but fragrant with the emotion with which the East came to the
generation that followed Byron and Chateaubriand. In a moment or two
Philip interrupted her.
"I
want to see another picture."
When
Mary Ann came in and Mrs. Carey rose to help her lay the cloth.
Philip took the book in his hands and hurried through the
illustrations. It was with difficulty that his aunt induced him to
put the book down for tea. He had forgotten his horrible struggle to
get the collect by heart; he had forgotten his tears. Next day it was
raining, and he asked for the book again. Mrs. Carey gave it him
joyfully. Talking over his future with her husband she had found that
both desired him to take orders, and this eagerness for the book
which described places hallowed by the presence of Jesus seemed a
good sign. It looked as though the boy's mind addressed itself
naturally to holy things. But in a day or two he asked for more
books. Mr. Carey took him into his study, showed him the shelf in
which he kept illustrated works, and chose for him one that dealt
with Rome. Philip took it greedily. The pictures led him to a new
amusement. He began to read the page before and the page after each
engraving to find out what it was about, and soon he lost all
interest in his toys.
Then,
when no one was near, he took out books for himself; and perhaps
because the first impression on his mind was made by an Eastern town,
he found his chief amusement in those which described the Levant. His
heart beat with excitement at the pictures of mosques and rich
palaces; but there was one, in a book on Constantinople, which
peculiarly stirred his imagination. It was called the Hall of the
Thousand Columns. It was a Byzantine cistern, which the popular fancy
had endowed with fantastic vastness; and the legend which he read
told that a boat was always moored at the entrance to tempt the
unwary, but no traveller venturing into the darkness had ever been
seen again. And Philip wondered whether the boat went on for ever
through one pillared alley after another or came at last to some
strange mansion.
One
day a good fortune befell him, for he hit upon Lane's translation of
The Thousand Nights and a Night. He was captured first by the
illustrations, and then he began to read, to start with, the stories
that dealt with magic, and then the others; and those he liked he
read again and again. He could think of nothing else. He forgot the
life about him. He had to be called two or three times before he
would come to his dinner. Insensibly he formed the most delightful
habit in the world, the habit of reading: he did not know that thus
he was providing himself with a refuge from all the distress of life;
he did not know either that he was creating for himself an unreal
world which would make the real world of every day a source of bitter
disappointment. Presently he began to read other things. His brain
was precocious. His uncle and aunt, seeing that he occupied himself
and neither worried nor made a noise, ceased to trouble themselves
about him. Mr. Carey had so many books that he did not know them, and
as he read little he forgot the odd lots he had bought at one time
and another because they were cheap. Haphazard among the sermons and
homilies, the travels, the lives of the Saints, the Fathers, the
histories of the church, were old-fashioned novels; and these Philip
at last discovered. He chose them by their titles, and the first he
read was The Lancashire Witches, and then he read The Admirable
Crichton, and then many more. Whenever he started a book with two
solitary travellers riding along the brink of a desperate ravine he
knew he was safe.
The
summer was come now, and the gardener, an old sailor, made him a
hammock and fixed it up for him in the branches of a weeping willow.
And here for long hours he lay, hidden from anyone who might come to
the vicarage, reading, reading passionately. Time passed and it was
July; August came: on Sundays the church was crowded with strangers,
and the collection at the offertory often amounted to two pounds.
Neither the Vicar nor Mrs. Carey went out of the garden much during
this period; for they disliked strange faces, and they looked upon
the visitors from London with aversion. The house opposite was taken
for six weeks by a gentleman who had two little boys, and he sent in
to ask if Philip would like to go and play with them; but Mrs. Carey
returned a polite refusal. She was afraid that Philip would be
corrupted by little boys from London. He was going to be a clergyman,
and it was necessary that he should be preserved from contamination.
She liked to see in him an infant Samuel.
