第七十八章
星期一终于盼来了，菲利普心想精神上的旷日持久的折磨总算熬到了头。他查阅了火车时刻表，发现格里菲思乘最晚一班车可于当天夜里赶到故里，这班车将于下午一点后不久从牛津发出。他估计米尔德丽德将赶几分钟以后的那趟车返回伦敦。他真想去车站接她，但转而一想，米尔德丽德也许喜欢独自呆上一天，说不定这天夜里她会寄封短信来，告诉他她已经回到了伦敦，要不他就第二天到她住处去看望她。想到又要同她见面，他心里不觉有些黯然。他对格里菲思恨之人骨；而对米尔德丽德，尽管出了那么多事，却还怀有一种虽令人心酸但依然灼热的情欲。菲利普庆幸的是海沃德星期六下午离开了伦敦，发狂似的外出寻求人生的乐趣去了。要是海沃德还在伦敦，那他无论如何也熬不住不把这一切告诉海沃德，而海沃德定会对他的懦弱无能感到惊讶。当知道菲利普在米尔德丽德委身于另一个男人之后，居然还想她做自己的情妇，海沃德一定会鄙视他的，同时会感到震惊、厌恶。管它是震惊还是厌恶，他才不在乎呢！只要他能一遂平生所愿，让自己的欲望得以满足，他随时可以作出任何让步，并已作好准备，就是蒙受更加辱没人格的耻辱也在所不惜。
薄暮时分，他的两条腿违心地把他带到了米尔德丽德的寓所门外。菲利普抬头望了望她房间的窗户，黑洞洞的没见掌灯，但他驻步不前，不敢去打听她的消息，因为他对米尔德丽德的应许深信不疑。翌晨，他没见有信，便于中午时分跑去探问。那儿的女用人告诉他，米尔德丽德还没有回来。对此，他迷惑不解。他知道格里菲思不得不于前天赶回老家的，因为他要在一次婚礼上充当男演相，再说，米尔德丽德身上没钱啊。他脑子里顿时折腾开了，反复考虑着种种可能发生的事情。下午，菲利普又去了一趟，并留下张便条，邀请米尔德丽德晚上同他一道吃晚饭，措词口气平和，仿佛近半个月来压根儿没发生什么事似的。他在便条中写明地点和时间，并抱着米尔德丽德会准时践约的一线希望，耐心地等着。一个小时过去了，却不见她的人影儿。星期三早晨，菲利普不再好意思跑去询问了，便差一位信童去送信，并嘱咐他带个回音来。可是不出一个小时，那位信童回来了，带去的信原封不动地拿了回来。他报告菲利普，说那位女士还在乡下，尚未返回伦敦。菲利普简直要发狂了，正是米尔德丽德的这一谎言的打击使他难以忍受。他反复地喃喃自语，说他厌恶米尔德丽德，并把由米尔德丽德撒谎所带来的失意心情迁怒于格里菲思。他恨死了格里菲思，此时叫他用刀宰了格里菲思也是高兴的。菲利普在房间里踱来踱去，心想要是趁黑夜突然扑到他身上，对准喉部的颈动脉给他一刀，瞅着他像条癞皮狗似地倒在街头，那该有多么痛快啊。菲利普悲愤填膺，气得灵魂出窍。他一向不喜欢喝威士忌，但还是喝了，借以麻木自己的神经。星期二星期三，接连两晚，他都喝得酩酊大醉才上床睡觉。
星期四早晨，他起得很迟。他醉眼惺忪，一脸莱色，踽踽曳足来到起居间，看看有没有他的信。他一看到格里菲思的字体笔迹，一种莫可名状的感觉袭扰着他的心头。
亲爱的老兄：
此信不知从何落笔，但又不能不写。我希望你不要生我的气。我知道我不该带米莉出来，但无奈情火灼热，不能自已。她简直把我给迷住了，为了得到她，我完全会不择手段。当她告诉我你主动为我们出盘缠的时候，我哪里会拒绝呢。眼下，一切都成了过眼烟云。我真为自己感到害臊，要是当初我不那么昏头昏脑，该有多好啊！我希望你能写封信给我，说你不生我的气，同时我还希望你能允许我去看望你。千万给我写上几句，好老兄，告诉我你宽恕我。这样，才能使我的良心稍安。我当时认为你不持异议，否则你就不会主动给我们钱了。但是我知道我不该接受那笔钱。我于星期一抵达故乡，而米莉想独自在牛津多呆几天。她准备于星期三返回伦敦，因此，当你接到此信，你可能已经见到她了。但愿一切都会好起来。万望赐我一信，说你宽恕我。急盼回音。
你的忠实的朋友
哈利
菲利普怒不可遏，把信撕了个粉碎，他根本无意回复。他蔑视格里菲思的道歉，不能忍耐格里菲思对自己良心的那番谴责。一个人完全可以做出卑怯的事来，但是事情一过又忏悔，那才是卑鄙的。菲利普认为格里菲思的来信正表明他是个懦夫和伪君子，他对信中流露出来的伤感情绪深恶痛绝。
"你干下了畜生似的勾当，然后只消说声道歉，就什么事都没了，这倒轻巧呀！"菲利普喃喃自语道。
他内心深处盼着能有个机会给格里菲思点厉害瞧瞧。
不过，他知道米尔德丽德无论如何是已经回到了伦敦，便匆匆穿上衣服，也顾不得刮脸了，喝了点茶后就雇了辆马车，赶往米尔德丽德的寓所。马车好似蜗牛爬行。他急煎煎地想见到米尔德丽德，不知不觉地向他根本不相信的上帝祷告起来了，祈求上帝让米尔德丽德态度和善地接待他菲利普。他只求把以往的一切都忘掉。他怀揣着一颗狂跳不止的心，举手按着门铃。他满怀激情，急欲再次把米尔德丽德紧紧搂抱在自己的怀里，这当儿，他把以往遭受的痛苦都抛到了九霄云外。
"米勒太太在家吗？"菲利普快活地问道。
"她走了，"女用人回答说。
菲利普茫然地望着女用人。
"一个钟头以前她来这里把她的东西搬走了。"
有好一会儿，菲利普不知该说些什么。
"你把我的信交给她了吗？她说过她搬到哪儿了吗？"
菲利普顿然领悟到米尔德丽德又欺骗了他。她是决计不回到他身边来了。他极力在这位女用人面前挽回自己的面子。
"哦，嗯，我肯定马上就可以收到她的信的，兴许她把信寄往另一个地赴了。"
说罢，菲利普转身就走，神情沮丧地回到了自己的寓所。他完全可以料到她会这么做的；她从来就不把他放在心上，打一开始就当他是个傻瓜。她毫无怜悯之心，待人一点也不厚道，也没有一丝仁爱。眼下他只能忍气吞声地接受这不可避免的结局。他悲恸欲绝，宁愿去死，也不愿忍受这般痛苦的折磨。突然间，他想一了百了倒还好些：他可以去投河，也可以去卧轨，但是还没来得及说出这些想法就一一否决了。理智告诉菲利普，到时候这个不幸的遭遇会被忘怀的，只要他下狠心，也可以把米尔德丽德从脑海中抹去；为了一个俗不可耐的荡妇而去结果自己的生命，那是十分荒唐的。生命只有一次，无故把它抛去则是疯狂的举动。他感觉到他永远克服不了自己的情欲，不过他也明白说到底这只是个时间的问题。
菲利普不愿再在伦敦呆下去了。这儿的一切无不使他回忆起自己遭受的种种不幸。他先给大伯打了个电报，说他马上去布莱克斯泰勃，然后匆匆整理行装，搭乘最早的一趟车走了。他一心想离开那几个肮脏的房间，因为正是在那儿，痛苦接踵而至，一一降临到他的头上！他要呼吸一下清新空气。他厌恶自己，觉得自己有些儿疯了。
自菲利普长大成人，牧师大伯就把牧师公馆里最好的备用房间给了他。这个房间位于公馆的一角，一扇窗前有棵百年老树挡住了视线，不过从另一扇窗口望出去，可以看到在公馆花园和空地的尽头，有一片开阔的芳草地。房间里的糊墙纸，菲利普打幼年时代起就熟记于心了。墙四周贴满了描绘维多利亚时代早期的风格古雅的水彩画，都是牧师大伯年轻时候的一位朋友画的。画面的色彩虽说已经褪去，但风韵犹存。梳妆台的四周围着价格昂贵的薄纱绸。房间里还有一只放衣服的高脚柜。菲利普欣慰地叹了口气，他从没有意识到所有这一切对他还会有多大的用处。牧师公馆里的生活依然如故。没有一件家具挪动过位置。牧师大伯的食谱、谈吐一应如前，没有变化，每天工作之余，还是要散上一会儿步。所不同的是，他稍长胖了些，话儿更少了些，气量更狭小了些。对鳏夫的生活，他已经习惯了，因此很少想念他的亡妻。他还是动辄就同乔赛亚·格雷夫斯发生口角。菲利普跑去看望了这位教会执事。他显得较前清癯，脸色也苍白了些，表情更为严肃。他仍然独断独行，还对把蜡烛插在圣坛上这件事耿耿于怀。那几爿店依然呈现出一派古朴气氛，看来令人爽心说目。菲利普伫立在那爿专售诸如高统靴、防雨油布衣帽和帆的滑车索具之类的航海用品的商店跟前，这当儿，他回忆起孩提时代的情景来。那会儿，他感到这爿店里弥漫着那令人惊心动魄的海上生活的乐趣，富有一种诱发人们去未知世界探险的魅力。
每次邮差来"笃笃"敲门时，菲利普的那颗心总是控制不住地怦怦直跳，说不定房东太太会转来米尔德丽德给他的信件。但是，他肚里明白，根本不会有他的信的。如今，他能比较冷静地思考问题了。他认识到他试图强迫米尔德丽德爱自己，无疑是缘木求鱼。一个男人给予一个女人的、一个女人给予一个男人的究竟是什么东西，而这东西又为什么能使一个男人或一个女人变成顺从对方的奴隶，对此，菲利普一窍不通。把这种东西叫作性欲的本能倒是方便的。不过，要是事情还不仅仅于此，他又弄不懂为什么有时它会强烈地吸引着一个人，而对另一个人却毫无吸引力呢？这种东西是不可抗拒的。理智不是它的对手；而与他相比，什么友谊啦，感激啦，利益啦，统统软弱无力。正因为他激不起米尔德丽德的性欲冲动，所以他所做的一切对米尔德丽德不起一丝一毫的作用。这个想法使得菲利普感到恶心，这使得人类的本性与走兽无异了。蓦地，他感到人们的心灵里也有见不得人的阴暗角落。因为米尔德丽德对他的态度冷漠，所以他就认为她毫无性感，还认为她那毫无血色的容颜、两片薄薄的嘴唇、那臀部狭小和胸脯扁平的身材，还有那有气无力的动作，无不一一证实了他的假设。然而，她有时却情欲突发，不能自制，甚至敢冒天大的危险，以填欲壑。他永远也捉摸不透她同埃米尔·米勒之间的风流韵事，这似乎不像是她所能干出来的，而她自己也不可能解释。不过，眼下他亲眼目睹了她同格里菲思的勾搭成奸，知道这是旧事重演，她完全为一种抑制不住的欲望迷住了心窍。菲利普力图找出究竟是什么东西使得那两个男人对米尔德丽德具有神奇的吸引力。他们俩均本性粗俗，都拥有一种能挑起她平庸的幽默感的庸俗的逗笑本领，而使他们能得手的也许还是放浪形骸的性行为，这正是他们俩与众不同的特别之处。米尔德丽德感情细腻，举止文雅，一看到人生的赤裸裸的事实而感到战栗。她认为肉体的作用是不光彩的，谈论简单的事物时，她都运用各种各样委婉的说法，说话总是煞费苦心地挑个精确恰当的字眼儿，认为这样要比用简单的字眼儿更为适宜。所以，那两个男人的兽性犹如一根鞭子，在抽打着她那苍白纤弱的肩膀，而她怀着耽迷肉欲的痛苦的心情不住地颤抖着。
有件事菲利普已经下决心要付诸行动。他可不愿意再回到原先租赁的房间去了，因为在那儿他遭到了不堪忍受的痛苦。他写了封信通知房东太太。他想把属于自己的东西全部带走，决定另租几间没有家具的房间，这样的房间住了又舒服又便宜。他这样考虑也是迫于情势，因为在过去的一年半时间里，他花了近七百英镑，他得最大限度地紧缩开支，以弥补过去的亏损。间或他展望未来，不寒而栗。他过去真傻，竟在米尔德丽德身上花那么多钱。不过他心里明白，要是事情再重演一遍，他还是会那么千的。菲利普的朋友们因为他性格内向不那么生气横溢而认为他意志刚强，深谋远虑和头脑冷静，有时想到这一点，菲利普不觉好笑。他们认为他有理智，一致称赞他懂得为人处世的常识。但是他心里明白，他那平静的表情，不过是一张自己自觉不自觉套在脸上的假面具，其作用宛如彩蝶身上的保护色而已，相反他却为自己意志的薄弱而感到震惊。在他看来，他好比风中的一片孤叶，完全为感情上每一次掀起的哪怕是小小的涟漪所左右，一旦情欲控制了自己，他就显得无能为力。他完全丧失了自制力。他只是表面上显得还有自制力，因为许多能打动别人的事情，他却一概无动于衷。
他怀着几分讥诮的心情思索起自己安身立命的人生哲学来了，因为在他经历的多事之秋里，他的人生哲学对他没起多大的作用。他不禁怀疑起思想对一个人在其人生道路的关键时刻是否真会有什么帮助。在他看来，他倒是完全为一种异己的然而又存在于自己体内的力量所左右，这种力量犹如把保罗和弗兰茜斯卡步步推向罪恶深渊的巨大的地狱阴风那样催逼着自己。他考虑他所需要做的事情，以及何时采取行动，但在连他自己也莫名其妙的本能和情感的控制之中，他显得无能为力，一筹莫展。他做起事来就像是部机器，在他所处的环境和他的人格这两股力量的驱使下运转一般。他的理智却像个人在一旁冷眼旁观，而无力参与其间，就像伊壁鸠鲁所描述的诸神那样，在九天之上坐视人们的所作所为，却无力改变事态的发展，连一点点都改变不了。
At last Monday came, and Philip thought his long torture was over. Looking out the trains he found that the latest by which Griffiths could reach home that night left Oxford soon after one, and he supposed that Mildred would take one which started a few minutes later to bring her to London. His desire was to go and meet it, but he thought Mildred would like to be left alone for a day; perhaps she would drop him a line in the evening to say she was back, and if not he would call at her lodgings next morning: his spirit was cowed. He felt a bitter hatred for Griffiths, but for Mildred, notwithstanding all that had passed, only a heart-rending desire. He was glad now that Hayward was not in London on Saturday afternoon when, distraught, he went in search of human comfort: he could not have prevented himself from telling him everything, and Hayward would have been astonished at his weakness. He would despise him, and perhaps be shocked or disgusted that he could envisage the possibility of making Mildred his mistress after she had given herself to another man. What did he care if it was shocking or disgusting? He was ready for any compromise, prepared for more degrading humiliations still, if he could only gratify his desire.
Towards the evening his steps took him against his will to the house in which she lived, and he looked up at her window. It was dark. He did not venture to ask if she was back. He was confident in her promise. But there was no letter from her in the morning, and, when about mid-day he called, the maid told him she had not arrived. He could not understand it. He knew that Griffiths would have been obliged to go home the day before, for he was to be best man at a wedding, and Mildred had no money. He turned over in his mind every possible thing that might have happened. He went again in the afternoon and left a note, asking her to dine with him that evening as calmly as though the events of the last fortnight had not happened. He mentioned the place and time at which they were to meet, and hoping against hope kept the appointment: though he waited for an hour she did not come. On Wednesday morning he was ashamed to ask at the house and sent a messenger-boy with a letter and instructions to bring back a reply; but in an hour the boy came back with Philip’s letter unopened and the answer that the lady had not returned from the country. Philip was beside himself. The last deception was more than he could bear. He repeated to himself over and over again that he loathed Mildred, and, ascribing to Griffiths this new disappointment, he hated him so much that he knew what was the delight of murder: he walked about considering what a joy it would be to come upon him on a dark night and stick a knife into his throat, just about the carotid artery, and leave him to die in the street like a dog. Philip was out of his senses with grief and rage. He did not like whiskey, but he drank to stupefy himself. He went to bed drunk on the Tuesday and on the Wednesday night.
On Thursday morning he got up very late and dragged himself, blear-eyed and sallow, into his sitting-room to see if there were any letters. A curious feeling shot through his heart when he recognised the handwriting of Griffiths.
Dear old man:
I hardly know how to write to you and yet I feel I must write. I hope you’re not awfully angry with me. I know I oughtn’t to have gone away with Milly, but I simply couldn’t help myself. She simply carried me off my feet and I would have done anything to get her. When she told me you had offered us the money to go I simply couldn’t resist. And now it’s all over I’m awfully ashamed of myself and I wish I hadn’t been such a fool. I wish you’d write and say you’re not angry with me, and I want you to let me come and see you. I was awfully hurt at your telling Milly you didn’t want to see me. Do write me a line, there’s a good chap, and tell me you forgive me. It’ll ease my conscience. I thought you wouldn’t mind or you wouldn’t have offered the money. But I know I oughtn’t to have taken it. I came home on Monday and Milly wanted to stay a couple of days at Oxford by herself. She’s going back to London on Wednesday, so by the time you receive this letter you will have seen her and I hope everything will go off all right. Do write and say you forgive me. Please write at once.
Yours ever, Harry.
Philip tore up the letter furiously. He did not mean to answer it. He despised Griffiths for his apologies, he had no patience with his prickings of conscience: one could do a dastardly thing if one chose, but it was contemptible to regret it afterwards. He thought the letter cowardly and hypocritical. He was disgusted at its sentimentality.
‘It would be very easy if you could do a beastly thing,’ he muttered to himself, ‘and then say you were sorry, and that put it all right again.’
He hoped with all his heart he would have the chance one day to do Griffiths a bad turn.
But at all events he knew that Mildred was in town. He dressed hurriedly, not waiting to shave, drank a cup of tea, and took a cab to her rooms. The cab seemed to crawl. He was painfully anxious to see her, and unconsciously he uttered a prayer to the God he did not believe in to make her receive him kindly. He only wanted to forget. With beating heart he rang the bell. He forgot all his suffering in the passionate desire to enfold her once more in his arms.
‘Is Mrs. Miller in?’ he asked joyously.
‘She’s gone,’ the maid answered.
He looked at her blankly.
‘She came about an hour ago and took away her things.’
For a moment he did not know what to say.
‘Did you give her my letter? Did she say where she was going?’
Then he understood that Mildred had deceived him again. She was not coming back to him. He made an effort to save his face.
‘Oh, well, I daresay I shall hear from her. She may have sent a letter to another address.’
He turned away and went back hopeless to his rooms. He might have known that she would do this; she had never cared for him, she had made a fool of him from the beginning; she had no pity, she had no kindness, she had no charity. The only thing was to accept the inevitable. The pain he was suffering was horrible, he would sooner be dead than endure it; and the thought came to him that it would be better to finish with the whole thing: he might throw himself in the river or put his neck on a railway line; but he had no sooner set the thought into words than he rebelled against it. His reason told him that he would get over his unhappiness in time; if he tried with all his might he could forget her; and it would be grotesque to kill himself on account of a vulgar slut. He had only one life, and it was madness to fling it away. He FELT that he would never overcome his passion, but he KNEW that after all it was only a matter of time.
He would not stay in London. There everything reminded him of his unhappiness. He telegraphed to his uncle that he was coming to Blackstable, and, hurrying to pack, took the first train he could. He wanted to get away from the sordid rooms in which he had endured so much suffering. He wanted to breathe clean air. He was disgusted with himself. He felt that he was a little mad.
Since he was grown up Philip had been given the best spare room at the vicarage. It was a corner-room and in front of one window was an old tree which blocked the view, but from the other you saw, beyond the garden and the vicarage field, broad meadows. Philip remembered the wall-paper from his earliest years. On the walls were quaint water colours of the early Victorian period by a friend of the Vicar’s youth. They had a faded charm. The dressing-table was surrounded by stiff muslin. There was an old tall-boy to put your clothes in. Philip gave a sigh of pleasure; he had never realised that all those things meant anything to him at all. At the vicarage life went on as it had always done. No piece of furniture had been moved from one place to another; the Vicar ate the same things, said the same things, went for the same walk every day; he had grown a little fatter, a little more silent, a little more narrow. He had become accustomed to living without his wife and missed her very little. He bickered still with Josiah Graves. Philip went to see the churchwarden. He was a little thinner, a little whiter, a little more austere; he was autocratic still and still disapproved of candles on the altar. The shops had still a pleasant quaintness; and Philip stood in front of that in which things useful to seamen were sold, sea-boots and tarpaulins and tackle, and remembered that he had felt there in his childhood the thrill of the sea and the adventurous magic of the unknown.
He could not help his heart beating at each double knock of the postman in case there might be a letter from Mildred sent on by his landlady in London; but he knew that there would be none. Now that he could think it out more calmly he understood that in trying to force Mildred to love him he had been attempting the impossible. He did not know what it was that passed from a man to a woman, from a woman to a man, and made one of them a slave: it was convenient to call it the sexual instinct; but if it was no more than that, he did not understand why it should occasion so vehement an attraction to one person rather than another. It was irresistible: the mind could not battle with it; friendship, gratitude, interest, had no power beside it. Because he had not attracted Mildred sexually, nothing that he did had any effect upon her. The idea revolted him; it made human nature beastly; and he felt suddenly that the hearts of men were full of dark places. Because Mildred was indifferent to him he had thought her sexless; her anaemic appearance and thin lips, the body with its narrow hips and flat chest, the languor of her manner, carried out his supposition; and yet she was capable of sudden passions which made her willing to risk everything to gratify them. He had never understood her adventure with Emil Miller: it had seemed so unlike her, and she had never been able to explain it; but now that he had seen her with Griffiths he knew that just the same thing had happened then: she had been carried off her feet by an ungovernable desire. He tried to think out what those two men had which so strangely attracted her. They both had a vulgar facetiousness which tickled her simple sense of humour, and a certain coarseness of nature; but what took her perhaps was the blatant sexuality which was their most marked characteristic. She had a genteel refinement which shuddered at the facts of life, she looked upon the bodily functions as indecent, she had all sorts of euphemisms for common objects, she always chose an elaborate word as more becoming than a simple one: the brutality of these men was like a whip on her thin white shoulders, and she shuddered with voluptuous pain.
One thing Philip had made up his mind about. He would not go back to the lodgings in which he had suffered. He wrote to his landlady and gave her notice. He wanted to have his own things about him. He determined to take unfurnished rooms: it would be pleasant and cheaper; and this was an urgent consideration, for during the last year and a half he had spent nearly seven hundred pounds. He must make up for it now by the most rigid economy. Now and then he thought of the future with panic; he had been a fool to spend so much money on Mildred; but he knew that if it were to come again he would act in the same way. It amused him sometimes to consider that his friends, because he had a face which did not express his feelings very vividly and a rather slow way of moving, looked upon him as strong-minded, deliberate, and cool. They thought him reasonable and praised his common sense; but he knew that his placid expression was no more than a mask, assumed unconsciously, which acted like the protective colouring of butterflies; and himself was astonished at the weakness of his will. It seemed to him that he was swayed by every light emotion, as though he were a leaf in the wind, and when passion seized him he was powerless. He had no self-control. He merely seemed to possess it because he was indifferent to many of the things which moved other people.
He considered with some irony the philosophy which he had developed for himself, for it had not been of much use to him in the conjuncture he had passed through; and he wondered whether thought really helped a man in any of the critical affairs of life: it seemed to him rather that he was swayed by some power alien to and yet within himself, which urged him like that great wind of Hell which drove Paolo and Francesca ceaselessly on. He thought of what he was going to do and, when the time came to act, he was powerless in the grasp of instincts, emotions, he knew not what. He acted as though he were a machine driven by the two forces of his environment and his personality; his reason was someone looking on, observing the facts but powerless to interfere: it was like those gods of Epicurus, who saw the doings of men from their empyrean heights and had no might to alter one smallest particle of what occurred.
