第七十七章

午时分，房东太太正在打扫楼梯。

"格里菲思先生在吗？"菲利普间房东太太。

"不在，先生。今天早上你走后不久他也走了。"

"他还回来吗？"

"我想不会回来了，先生。他把行李都搬走了。"

菲利普猜不透格里菲思那样做究竟是什么意思。他信手捧起一本书，读了起来。这是他刚从威斯敏斯特公共图书馆借来的伯顿著的《麦加之行》。第一贞读完了，他却不知所云，因为他的心思根本不在书上，而一直竖起两耳，悉心谛听着是否有人来拉门铃。他不敢存有这样的奢望：格里菲思会把米尔德丽德留在伦敦而独自回坎伯兰省亲。等了不一会儿，米尔德丽德就会来找他要钱的。他硬着头皮继续读着，竭力把注意力集中到书上去。这么一来，书上的句子倒是看进脑子里去了，可是郁结在心头的痛苦使得他曲解了这些句子的确切含义。他满心希望自己当初不提那个由自己掏腰包资助他们旅行的馊主意就好了，但是，一言既出，他又没有勇气收回。这倒不是为了米尔德丽德，而是为了他自己。他身匕有股病态的执拗劲儿，驱使着他去做他下决心要做的事。他发现读了三页书，但脑子里依然空空如也，压根儿没留下一点印象。于是，他把书又翻了过去，重新从头读起。他发觉自己翻来覆去地老是看着同一个句于，蓦地，书上的句子同自己的思绪交织在一起，犹如恶梦中一幅森然可怖的图案。有一件事是他能够做到的，即离汗这儿躲到外面去，子夜过后再回来。这样，格里菲思和米尔德丽德就走不成咯。他仿佛看到他们俩每过一个小时就跑来探问一次，问房东太太他是否在家。想到他们俩扫兴失望的样儿，他心里头喜滋滋的，兴奋之余，不觉有意识地又把书上的那个句子重念了一遍。然而，他可不能做那种事。让他们来拿钱吧！那样的话，他就可以知道人们可能寡廉鲜耻到何种地步。此时他再无心读下去了，书上的字简直看不清。他倒在椅子里，紧闭着双眼，呆板的神情里透出丝丝凄苦。他在等待着米尔德丽德的到来。

房东太太悄然走进房来问道：

"先生，你见不见米勒太太？"

"叫她进来。"

菲利普打起精神，不动声色地接待了米尔德丽德。他一时情不自禁地想拜倒在她脚下，抓起她的双手，乞求她不要离他而去，但是他知道此时没有什么东西讨以打动她的心。她会把他说的话和他的一举一动都告诉给格里菲思。他感觉羞愧不已。

"你们的远足准备得怎样了？"他乐呵呵地问道。

"我们马上就走。哈利就在门外。我告诉他你不愿见他，所以他就不进来了。不过他还是想知道，他是否可以进来呆上一分钟，跟你说声再见。"

"不行，我不想见到他，"菲利普回了一句。

他看得出米尔德丽德根本不在乎他见不见格里菲思。她既来了，他想趁早把她打发走。

"喏，这是张五镑的钞票。我希望你马上就离开这儿。"

她接过钞票，道了声谢，随即转过身去，脚步咚咚地离开房问。

"你哪天回来？"他问道。

"嗯，星期一就回来，因为那大哈利一定得回家去。"

他知道他想要说的话难免出乖露丑，有损自己的体面。但是无奈胸中情火和妒火中烧，灼灼逼人，他也顾不上体面不体面了，便脱口说了出来：

"到那大我可以不可以去看你？"

他一时不能自已，说话时还是夹带着哀求的调于。

"当然可以罗。我一回到伦敦就同你联系。"

两人握手道别后，菲利普隔着窗帘眼巴巴地望着米尔德丽德跃入停在门口的四轮出租马车。马车磷磷地走远了。此时，他颓然倒在床上，双手掩面，不觉热泪盈眶。对此，他自己生起自己的气来了。他用双手紧紧扭住向己的身子，竭力不让自己掉泪，但没能忍住，他不住地啜泣，哭得好不伤心。

菲利普顿觉周身瘫软无力，内心羞愧不已。他还是从床上爬了起来，跑去洗了把脸，还为自己调制了一杯浓烈的威士忌掺和苏打水的饮料。喝过后，他觉得稍微好受一些。蓦然间，他瞥见了搁在壁炉上面的去巴黎的两张车票，一时火冒三丈，便一把抓起车票，把它们扔进了炉火。他知道把票退了自己还可得笔钱，但是只有把它们烧了才解心头之恨。接着，他离开寓所，外出找个人在一起说个话儿，以排遣内心的愁闷。但是，学校俱乐部里空无一人。他感到百无聊赖，要不找个人说个话儿，自己准会发疯。但是劳森还在国外。他信步来到海沃德的住处，那个应声出来开门的女仆告诉他，说海沃德已上布赖顿度周末去了。然后菲利普来到一家美术馆，可真不凑巧，这家美术馆又刚刚闭馆。这下他变得心烦意乱，真不知做什么是好。他不禁想起格里菲思和米尔德丽德来了：这时他们俩正在去牛津的路上，面对面地坐在车厢里，心里乐开了花。他又回到自己的住所，但这里的一切使他心里充满了恐怖，因为就是在这个鬼地方，近来他接二连三地遭受到莫大的不幸。他力图再次捧起那本伯顿爵士写的书。但是，他一面读着书，一面心里不断地嘀咕着，说自己是个彻头彻尾的大傻瓜，因为正是他让他们结伴外出旅行的，主动给他们提供盘资，而且还是强塞给他们的呢。当初，在把格里菲思介绍给米尔德丽德认识的时候，他完全可以预料到事情的后果，因为他自己满腔按捺不住的激情足以勾起另一位的勃勃欲念。此时，他们恐已抵达牛津了，或许就住在约翰街上的一家食宿公寓里。菲利普至今还没到过牛津。可格里菲思却经常在他面前谈起这个地方，他完全知道他们俩会上哪儿观光游玩。他们吃饭可以上克拉伦敦餐馆：每当要寻欢作乐，格里菲思总是上这家餐馆。菲利普就在查里恩十字广场附近一家饭馆里胡乱吃了点东西。因为他早下定决心要去看场歌剧，所以一吃完饭，便奋力穿过拥挤不堪的人群，来到剧院的正厅后座。剧院正上演奥斯卡·王尔德的一出戏。他暗自纳闷，这晚米尔德丽德和格里菲思他们俩是否也会去逛戏院，不管怎么说，他们总得想法于打发时光呀。他们是一对蠢货，都满足于在一起磨牙扯淡。他回想起他们俩旨趣鄙俗下流，真是天造地设的一对，这时，他心里有一种说不出的高兴。他心猿意马地看着演出，每一幕之间都要喝上几口威士忌，以提高一下自己的情趣。他不习惯喝烈性酒，不一会儿，酒力发作，直冲脑门，而且他越喝心里越烦躁、郁闷。演出结束时，他又喝了一杯。他不能上床睡觉，自己心里也明白就是上了床也睡不着，他就是害怕看到由于自己想象力活跃而浮现在自己眼前的种种画面。他竭力克制自己，不去想格里菲思和米尔德丽德。他知道自己酒喝得太多了。眼下，一种跃跃欲试做件可怕的、卑鄙下流事儿的欲念攫住了他的心。他想喝它个酷配大醉。他浑身兽欲勃发，急煎煎地想发泄一通。他真想趴倒在地上。

他拖曳着那条瘸腿，朝皮卡迪利大街踉跄走去。他醉醺醺的，心里悲愤交集，犹如猫爪抓心似的难受。蓦地，一个脸上涂满脂粉的妓女挡住了他，并用手挽起了他的胳膊。他嘴里骂骂咧咧的，用力推开那个妓女。他朝前挪了几步，随即又打住脚步，心想她跟旁的什么女人还不一样嘛。他为自己刚才言语粗鲁而感到内疚。于是他又走到她的面前。

"嘿，"他开腔打着招呼。

"见鬼去吧，"她回敬了一句。

菲利普听罢哈哈大笑。

"我是想问问你今晚能否赏个脸儿，陪我去喝杯茶。"

那个妓女饶有兴趣地打量着菲利普，心里踌躇着，好一会儿没有讲话。她发觉菲利普喝醉了。

"我不反对。"

这句话他从米尔德丽德嘴里听到过不知多少次了，这个妓女居然也这样说话，菲利普直觉得诧异。他把妓女带上一家饭馆，这是他同米尔德丽德常常光顾的地方。在走路的当儿，菲利普发觉她老是目光朝下瞅着他的腿。

"我有条腿是瘸的，"他说，"你有意见吗？"

"你这个人真怪，"她笑着说。

他回到自己的住所时，浑身骨头疼痛不已，脑壳里像是有把榔头不住地敲打着，痛得他几乎要惊呼救命。他又喝了杯威士忌加苏打水，镇定一下自己的情绪，然后爬上床去。不一会儿，便酣然人睡，直到次日中午才醒。

after lunching in the basement of the medical school philip went back to his rooms. it was saturday afternoon, and the landlady was cleaning the stairs.

‘is mr. griffiths in?’ he asked.

‘no, sir. he went away this morning, soon after you went out.’

‘isn’t he coming back?’

‘i don’t think so, sir. he’s taken his luggage.’

philip wondered what this could mean. he took a book and began to read. it was burton’s journey to meccah, which he had just got out of the westminster public library; and he read the first page, but could make no sense of it, for his mind was elsewhere; he was listening all the time for a ring at the bell. he dared not hope that griffiths had gone away already, without mildred, to his home in cumberland. mildred would be coming presently for the money. he set his teeth and read on; he tried desperately to concentrate his attention; the sentences etched themselves in his brain by the force of his effort, but they were distorted by the agony he was enduring. he wished with all his heart that he had not made the horrible proposition to give them money; but now that he had made it he lacked the strength to go back on it, not on mildred’s account, but on his own. there was a morbid obstinacy in him which forced him to do the thing he had determined. he discovered that the three pages he had read had made no impression on him at all; and he went back and started from the beginning: he found himself reading one sentence over and over again; and now it weaved itself in with his thoughts, horribly, like some formula in a nightmare. one thing he could do was to go out and keep away till midnight; they could not go then; and he saw them calling at the house every hour to ask if he was in. he enjoyed the thought of their disappointment. he repeated that sentence to himself mechanically. but he could not do that. let them come and take the money, and he would know then to what depths of infamy it was possible for men to descend. he could not read any more now. he simply could not see the words. he leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes, and, numb with misery, waited for mildred.

the landlady came in.

‘will you see mrs. miller, sir?’

‘show her in.’

philip pulled himself together to receive her without any sign of what he was feeling. he had an impulse to throw himself on his knees and seize her hands and beg her not to go; but he knew there was no way of moving her; she would tell griffiths what he had said and how he acted. he was ashamed.

‘well, how about the little jaunt?’ he said gaily.

‘we’re going. harry’s outside. i told him you didn’t want to see him, so he’s kept out of your way. but he wants to know if he can come in just for a minute to say good-bye to you.’

‘no, i won’t see him,’ said philip.

he could see she did not care if he saw griffiths or not. now that she was there he wanted her to go quickly.

‘look here, here’s the fiver. i’d like you to go now.’

she took it and thanked him. she turned to leave the room.

‘when are you coming back?’ he asked.

‘oh, on monday. harry must go home then.’

he knew what he was going to say was humiliating, but he was broken down with jealousy and desire.

‘then i shall see you, shan’t i?’

he could not help the note of appeal in his voice.

‘of course. i’ll let you know the moment i’m back.’

he shook hands with her. through the curtains he watched her jump into a four-wheeler that stood at the door. it rolled away. then he threw himself on his bed and hid his face in his hands. he felt tears coming to his eyes, and he was angry with himself; he clenched his hands and screwed up his body to prevent them; but he could not; and great painful sobs were forced from him.

he got up at last, exhausted and ashamed, and washed his face. he mixed himself a strong whiskey and soda. it made him feel a little better. then he caught sight of the tickets to paris, which were on the chimney-piece, and, seizing them, with an impulse of rage he flung them in the fire. he knew he could have got the money back on them, but it relieved him to destroy them. then he went out in search of someone to be with. the club was empty. he felt he would go mad unless he found someone to talk to; but lawson was abroad; he went on to hayward’s rooms: the maid who opened the door told him that he had gone down to brighton for the week-end. then philip went to a gallery and found it was just closing. he did not know what to do. he was distracted. and he thought of griffiths and mildred going to oxford, sitting opposite one another in the train, happy. he went back to his rooms, but they filled him with horror, he had been so wretched in them; he tried once more to read burton’s book, but, as he read, he told himself again and again what a fool he had been; it was he who had made the suggestion that they should go away, he had offered the money, he had forced it upon them; he might have known what would happen when he introduced griffiths to mildred; his own vehement passion was enough to arouse the other’s desire. by this time they had reached oxford. they would put up in one of the lodging-houses in john street; philip had never been to oxford, but griffiths had talked to him about it so much that he knew exactly where they would go; and they would dine at the clarendon: griffiths had been in the habit of dining there when he went on the spree. philip got himself something to eat in a restaurant near charing cross; he had made up his mind to go to a play, and afterwards he fought his way into the pit of a theatre at which one of oscar wilde’s pieces was being performed. he wondered if mildred and griffiths would go to a play that evening: they must kill the evening somehow; they were too stupid, both of them to content themselves with conversation: he got a fierce delight in reminding himself of the vulgarity of their minds which suited them so exactly to one another. he watched the play with an abstracted mind, trying to give himself gaiety by drinking whiskey in each interval; he was unused to alcohol, and it affected him quickly, but his drunkenness was savage and morose. when the play was over he had another drink. he could not go to bed, he knew he would not sleep, and he dreaded the pictures which his vivid imagination would place before him. he tried not to think of them. he knew he had drunk too much. now he was seized with a desire to do horrible, sordid things; he wanted to roll himself in gutters; his whole being yearned for beastliness; he wanted to grovel.

he walked up piccadilly, dragging his club-foot, sombrely drunk, with rage and misery clawing at his heart. he was stopped by a painted harlot, who put her hand on his arm; he pushed her violently away with brutal words. he walked on a few steps and then stopped. she would do as well as another. he was sorry he had spoken so roughly to her. he went up to her.

‘i say,’ he began.

‘go to hell,’ she said.

philip laughed.

‘i merely wanted to ask if you’d do me the honour of supping with me tonight.’

she looked at him with amazement, and hesitated for a while. she saw he was drunk.

‘i don’t mind.’

he was amused that she should use a phrase he had heard so often on mildred’s lips. he took her to one of the restaurants he had been in the habit of going to with mildred. he noticed as they walked along that she looked down at his limb.

‘i’ve got a club-foot,’ he said. ‘have you any objection?’

‘you are a cure,’ she laughed.

when he got home his bones were aching, and in his head there was a hammering that made him nearly scream. he took another whiskey and soda to steady himself, and going to bed sank into a dreamless sleep till mid-day.