第八十五章
半个月以后的一天黄昏，菲利普从医院下班回到寓所，敲了敲克朗肖的房门，见里面没有动静，便推门走了进去。克朗肖蜷曲着身子侧卧着，菲利普来到床头前。他不知克朗肖是在睡梦中呢，还是同往常一样，只是躺在床上生闷气。看到他的嘴巴张着，菲利普不由得一惊。他摸了摸克朗肖的肩头，不禁惊叫了起来，连忙把手伸进克朗肖的衬衫底下试试心跳，他一下呆住了，惶然不知所措。绝望之中，他掏出镜子放在克朗肖的嘴上，因为他曾经听说以前人们也是这样做的。看到自己独自同克朗肖的尸体呆在一起，菲利普感到惊恐不安。他身上衣帽齐全，便噔噔跑下楼去，来到街上，跳上一辆马车，直奔哈利大街。幸好蒂勒尔大夫在家。
"嘿，请你立即跟我走一趟好吧？我想克朗肖已经死了。"
"他死了，我去也没多大用处，对不？"
"你能陪我走一趟，我将感激不尽。我已叫了辆马车，就停在门口。只消半个小时，你就可以回来的。"
蒂勒尔戴上了帽子。在马车里，他问了菲利普一两个问题。
"今天早晨我走的时候，他的病情也不见得比平时环呀，"菲利普告诉蒂勒尔大夫说。"可是我刚才走进他的房间时，可把我吓了一跳。想想看，他临终时身旁连一个人也没有……您认为当时他知道自己要死吗？"
这时，克朗肖先前说过的话儿又回响在菲利普的耳边，他暗自思忖着，不知克朗肖在生命即将终止的那一刹那，有没有被死亡的恐惧所吓倒。菲利普设想着自己处于同样的境地，面对死神的威胁，必然会惊惶失色，更何况克朗肖临终时，身边连一个安慰的人都没有哇。
"你的心情很不好，"蒂勒尔大夫说。
蒂勒尔大夫睁着晶莹闪烁的蓝眼睛凝视着菲利普，目光中流露出同情的神色。
他在看过克朗肖的尸体后对菲利普说：
"他已经死了好几个钟头了。我认为他是在睡眠中死去的。病人有时候是这样咽气的。"
克朗肖的躯体缩作一团，不堪人目，没有一点人样。蒂勒尔大夫平心静气地盯视着尸体，接着下意识地掏出怀表瞥了一眼。
"嗯，我得走了。待会儿我派人给你送死亡证明书来。我想你该给他的亲属报丧。"
"我想他并没有什么亲属，"菲利普答了一句。
"那葬礼怎么办？"
"喔，这由我来操持。"
蒂勒尔大夫朝菲利普瞥了一眼，肚里盘算着他该不该为葬礼掏几个英镑。他对菲利普的经济状况一无所知，说不定菲利普完全有能力承担这笔费用，要是这时他提出掏钱的话，菲利普兴许会觉得此举太不礼貌。
"唔，有什么要我帮忙的，尽管说好了，"他最后说了这么一句。
菲利普陪他走到门口，两人便分手了。菲利普径直去电报局拍了个电报，向伦纳德·厄普姜报丧。然后，菲利普去找殡仪员。每天上医院时，菲利普都得经过这位殡仪员的店面，橱窗里一块黑布上写的"经济、迅速、得体"六个银光闪闪的大字，陈列在橱窗里的两口棺材模型，常常吸引住他的注意力。这位殡仪员是个矮胖的犹太人，一头黑色鬈发，又长又油腻，在一根粗壮的手指上套了只钻石戒指。他用一种既颐指气使又神情温和的态度接待了上门来的菲利普。他不久便发觉菲利普一筹莫展，于是答应立即派个妇人去张罗必不可少的事宜。他建议举办的葬礼颇有些气派；而菲利普看到这位殡仪员似乎认为他的异议有些儿吝啬，不觉自惭形秽起来。为这区区小事而同他讨价还价，实在有失体面。因此，菲利普最后同意承担这笔他根本承担不起的费用。
"我很理解您的心情，先生，"殡仪员说，"您不希望大肆铺张--而我自己也不喜欢摆阔讲场面--可是，您希望把事情办得体体面面的呀。您尽管放心，把事情交给我好了。我一定尽力让您少花钱，而把事情办得既妥帖又得体。我就说这么些，也没别的可说了。"
菲利普回家吃晚饭。在这当儿，那个妇人上门来陈殓克朗肖的遗体。不一会儿，伦纳德·厄普姜打来的电报送到了。
惊悉噩耗，痛悼不已。今晚外出聚餐，不能前往，颇为遗憾。明日一早见您。深表同情。厄普姜。
没隔多久，那位妇人笃笃敲着起居室的房门。
"先生，我于完了。您是否进去瞧他一眼，看我做的合适不？"
菲利普尾随她走了进去。克朗肖仰面直挺挺地躺着，两眼紧闭，双手虔诚地交叉着放在胸口。
"按理说，您该在他身边放上些鲜花，先生。"
"我明天就去弄些来。"
那位妇人向那具僵直的躯体投去满意的一瞥。她已经履行了自己的职责，便捋下袖管，解开围裙，戴上无檐软帽。菲利普问她要多少工钱。
"嗯，先生，有给两先令六便士的，也有给五先令的。"
菲利普满面赧颜地递给那位妇人不到五个先令的工钱，而她却以与菲利普眼下所怀有的莫大的哀痛相称的心情连声道谢，随即便告退了。菲利普仍旧回到起居室，收拾掉晚饭留下来的剩菜残汤，坐下来阅读沃尔沙姆撰写的《外科学》。他发现这本书很难懂。他感到自己内心异常紧张，楼梯上一有响声，便从坐位上惊起，那颗心突突乱跳不止。隔壁房间里的东西，原先还是个人，可眼下却化作乌有，使得他心里充满惊悸。罩着房间的沉寂气氛仿佛也有生命似的，里面像是有个神秘物在悄然移动着；死亡的阴影沉重地压迫着这套房问，令人不可思议，森然可怖。菲利普为了曾经是他朋友的那个人而蓦地生出一种恐惧感。他力图迫使自己专心致志地读书，但过了没多一会，他便绝望地把书推开了。刚刚结束的那条生命毫无价值，这一点使得他心烦意乱。问题倒并不在克朗肖是死还是依旧活着，哪怕世界上从来就没有克朗肖这么个人，情况还是如此。菲利普想起了青年时代的克朗肖，然而要在自己脑海里勾勒出身材细长、步履轻快有力、脑袋覆着头发、意气风发、充满了信心的克朗肖来，还得作一番想象才行呢。在这里，菲利普的人生准则--即如同附近的警察那样凭本能行事--却未能奏效。这是因为克朗肖生前举行的也是这套人生准则，但他到头来还是令人可悲可叹地失败了。看来人的本能不足信。菲利普不禁觉得偶然。他扪心自问，要是那套人生准则不能奏效，那么还有什么样的人生准则呢？为什么人们往往采取这一种方式而不采取另一种方式行事呢？人们是凭自己的情感去行动的，但是他们的情感有时能是好的，也有可能是坏的呀。看来，他们的情感是把他们引向成功还是毁灭，纯粹是偶然的际遇而已。人生像是一片无法摆脱的混浊。人们在这种无形的力量的驱使下四处奔波，但是对这样做的目的何在，他们却一个也回答不出，似乎只是为了奔波而奔波。
翌日清晨，伦纳德·厄普姜手持一个用月桂树枝扎成的小花圈来到菲利普的寓所。他对自己向逝去的诗人敬献这样的花圈的做法颇为得意，不顾菲利普无声的反感，试着把花圈套在克朗肖的秃头上，可那模样儿实在不雅，看上去就像跳舞厅里卑劣的小丑戴的帽子的帽檐。
"我去把它拿下来，重新放在他的心口，"厄普姜说。
"可你却把花圈放到他的肚子上去了，"菲利普说。
厄普姜听后淡然一笑。
"只有诗人才知道诗人的心在哪里，"他接着回答道。
他们俩一起回到起居室。菲利普把葬礼的筹备情况告诉了厄普姜。
"我希望你不要心疼花钱。我喜欢灵枢后面有一长队空马车跟随着，还要让所有的马匹全都装饰着长长的随风飘摇的羽翎，送葬队伍里应该包括一大批哑巴，他们头戴系有长长飘带的帽子。我很欣赏空马车的想法。"
"葬礼的一切开销显然将落在我的肩上，可目前我手头并不宽裕，因此我想尽量压缩葬礼的规模。"
"但是，我亲爱的老兄，那你为何不把葬礼办得像是给一位乞丐送葬那样呢？那样的话，或者还有点儿诗意呢。你就是有一种在办平庸的事业方面从来不会有过错的本能。"
菲利普脸红了，但并没有搭腔。翌日，他同厄普姜一道坐在他出钱雇来的马车里，跟在灵枢的后面。劳森不能亲自前来，送来了只花圈，以示哀悼。为了不使灵枢显得太冷清，菲利普自己掏钱买了一对花圈。在回来的路上，马车夫不时挥鞭策马奔驰。菲利普心力交瘁，顿时酣然人睡了。后来他被厄普姜的说话声唤醒了。
"幸好他的诗集还没有出。我想，我们还是把诗集推迟一点出版的好。这样，我可以为诗集作序。我在去墓地的途中就开始考虑这个问题。我相信我能够做件非常好的事。不管怎么说，作为开头，先为《星期六评论》杂志写篇文章。"
菲利普没有接他的话茬。马车里一片沉静。最后还是厄普姜开腔说：
"我要充分利用我写的文章的想法恐怕还是比较明智的。我想为几家评论杂志中的一家写篇文章，然后将此文作为诗集的前言再印一次。"
菲利普密切注视着所有的杂志，几个星期以后，厄普姜的文章终于面世了。那篇文章似乎还掀起了一阵波动，许多家报纸还竞相摘要刊登呢。这确实是篇妙文，还略带传记的性质，因为很少有人了解克朗肖的早期生活。文章构思精巧，口气亲切动人，语言也十分形象生动。伦纳德·厄普姜撷取克朗肖在拉丁区与人交谈和吟诗作赋的几个镜头，以其缠绕繁复的笔调，将它们描绘得有声有色，风雅别致；经他笔下生花，克朗肖的形象顿时栩栩如生，跃然纸上，变成了英国的凡莱恩。他描写了克朗肖的凄惨的结局，以及那个坐落在索霍区的寒枪的小阁楼；他还允许自己有节制地陈述为说服那位诗人移居一间坐落在百花争艳的果园、掩映在忍冬树树荫里的村舍所作的种种努力，他那严谨的态度着实令人神魂颠倒，使人想起他的为人岂止是谦逊，简直是豁达大度。写到这里的时候，伦纳德·厄普姜添枝加叶，大肆渲染，其措词显得端庄却又战战兢兢，虽夸张却又委婉动人。然而有人却缺乏同情心，虽出于好心但却又不老练，把这位诗人带上了俗不可耐却体面的肯宁顿大街！伦纳德·厄普姜之所以用那种有所克制的诙谐的口气描写肯宁顿大街，是因为恪守托马斯·希朗爵士的遣词造句的风格所必须的。他还巧妙地用一种讽刺的口吻叙述了克朗肖生前最后三个星期的情况，说什么克朗肖以极大的耐心忍受了那位自命为他的看护的青年学生，那位青年学生好心却办了环事。还叙述了那位天才的流浪者在那不可救药的中产阶级氛围中的可怜的境遇。他还引用了艾赛亚的名言"美自灰烬出"来比喻克朗肖。对那位为社会所遗弃的诗人竟死在那俗不可耐的体面的氛围之中，这一反语运用得妙极了，这使得伦纳德·厄普姜想起了耶稣基督置身于法利赛人中间的情景来，而这一联想又给了他一个略显文采的机会写下一段字字玑珠的佳文。接着他又告诉读者，说逝者的一位朋友把一个月桂树枝编成的花圈安放在仙逝的诗人的心口。在讲述这一雅致的想象时，他那高雅的情趣竟使他能容忍仅仅暗示了一下而没有直接点明这位朋友是谁。还说死者的那秀美的双手以一种诱人情欲勃发的姿态安放在阿波罗的月桂枝上。这些月桂枝散发着艺术的幽香。它比那些精明的水手从物产丰富的、令人不可思议的中国带回来的绿宝石还要绿。跟上文相比，文章的结尾更有画龙点睛之妙。他详细叙述了为他举行的中产阶级的平淡无奇、毫无诗意的葬礼的情况，本来对像克朗肖这样的诗人，要不就应该像安葬王子那样，要不就该像埋葬一个乞丐那样举行葬礼的。这是一次登峰造极的打击，是腓力斯人对艺术、美和非物质的事物取得了最后胜利。
伦纳德·厄普姜从未写出过这么好的文章。这篇文章堪称富有风韵、文雅和怜悯的奇作。在文章中间，他不时引用了克朗肖写得最好的诗句，因此，当克朗肖诗集出版时，诗集的灵魂早已被抽去了，但是他却把自己的观点发挥得淋漓尽致。就这样，他成了一名引人瞩目的评论家。以前他看上去似乎有些傲气，但是，这篇文章里却充满了暖人心扉的人情味，使人读来趣味隽永，爱不释手。
About a fortnight after this Philip, going home one evening after his day’s work at the hospital, knocked at the door of Cronshaw’s room. He got no answer and walked in. Cronshaw was lying huddled up on one side, and Philip went up to the bed. He did not know whether Cronshaw was asleep or merely lay there in one of his uncontrollable fits of irritability. He was surprised to see that his mouth was open. He touched his shoulder. Philip gave a cry of dismay. He slipped his hand under Cronshaw’s shirt and felt his heart; he did not know what to do; helplessly, because he had heard of this being done, he held a looking-glass in front of his mouth. It startled him to be alone with Cronshaw. He had his hat and coat still on, and he ran down the stairs into the street; he hailed a cab and drove to Harley Street. Dr. Tyrell was in.
‘I say, would you mind coming at once? I think Cronshaw’s dead.’
‘If he is it’s not much good my coming, is it?’
‘I should be awfully grateful if you would. I’ve got a cab at the door. It’ll only take half an hour.’
Tyrell put on his hat. In the cab he asked him one or two questions.
‘He seemed no worse than usual when I left this morning,’ said Philip. ‘It gave me an awful shock when I went in just now. And the thought of his dying all alone.... D’you think he knew he was going to die?’
Philip remembered what Cronshaw had said. He wondered whether at that last moment he had been seized with the terror of death. Philip imagined himself in such a plight, knowing it was inevitable and with no one, not a soul, to give an encouraging word when the fear seized him.
‘You’re rather upset,’ said Dr. Tyrell.
He looked at him with his bright blue eyes. They were not unsympathetic. When he saw Cronshaw, he said:
‘He must have been dead for some hours. I should think he died in his sleep. They do sometimes.’
The body looked shrunk and ignoble. It was not like anything human. Dr. Tyrell looked at it dispassionately. With a mechanical gesture he took out his watch.
‘Well, I must be getting along. I’ll send the certificate round. I suppose you’ll communicate with the relatives.’
‘I don’t think there are any,’ said Philip.
‘How about the funeral?’
‘Oh, I’ll see to that.’
Dr. Tyrell gave Philip a glance. He wondered whether he ought to offer a couple of sovereigns towards it. He knew nothing of Philip’s circumstances; perhaps he could well afford the expense; Philip might think it impertinent if he made any suggestion.
‘Well, let me know if there’s anything I can do,’ he said.
Philip and he went out together, parting on the doorstep, and Philip went to a telegraph office in order to send a message to Leonard Upjohn. Then he went to an undertaker whose shop he passed every day on his way to the hospital. His attention had been drawn to it often by the three words in silver lettering on a black cloth, which, with two model coffins, adorned the window: Economy, Celerity, Propriety. They had always diverted him. The undertaker was a little fat Jew with curly black hair, long and greasy, in black, with a large diamond ring on a podgy finger. He received Philip with a peculiar manner formed by the mingling of his natural blatancy with the subdued air proper to his calling. He quickly saw that Philip was very helpless and promised to send round a woman at once to perform the needful offices. His suggestions for the funeral were very magnificent; and Philip felt ashamed of himself when the undertaker seemed to think his objections mean. It was horrible to haggle on such a matter, and finally Philip consented to an expensiveness which he could ill afford.
‘I quite understand, sir,’ said the undertaker, ‘you don’t want any show and that—I’m not a believer in ostentation myself, mind you—but you want it done gentlemanly-like. You leave it to me, I’ll do it as cheap as it can be done, ‘aving regard to what’s right and proper. I can’t say more than that, can I?’
Philip went home to eat his supper, and while he ate the woman came along to lay out the corpse. Presently a telegram arrived from Leonard Upjohn.
Shocked and grieved beyond measure. Regret cannot come tonight. Dining out. With you early tomorrow. Deepest sympathy. Upjohn.
In a little while the woman knocked at the door of the sitting-room.
‘I’ve done now, sir. Will you come and look at ‘im and see it’s all right?’
Philip followed her. Cronshaw was lying on his back, with his eyes closed and his hands folded piously across his chest.
‘You ought by rights to ‘ave a few flowers, sir.’
‘I’ll get some tomorrow.’
She gave the body a glance of satisfaction. She had performed her job, and now she rolled down her sleeves, took off her apron, and put on her bonnet. Philip asked her how much he owed her.
‘Well, sir, some give me two and sixpence and some give me five shillings.’
Philip was ashamed to give her less than the larger sum. She thanked him with just so much effusiveness as was seemly in presence of the grief he might be supposed to feel, and left him. Philip went back into his sitting-room, cleared away the remains of his supper, and sat down to read Walsham’s Surgery. He found it difficult. He felt singularly nervous. When there was a sound on the stairs he jumped, and his heart beat violently. That thing in the adjoining room, which had been a man and now was nothing, frightened him. The silence seemed alive, as if some mysterious movement were taking place within it; the presence of death weighed upon these rooms, unearthly and terrifying: Philip felt a sudden horror for what had once been his friend. He tried to force himself to read, but presently pushed away his book in despair. What troubled him was the absolute futility of the life which had just ended. It did not matter if Cronshaw was alive or dead. It would have been just as well if he had never lived. Philip thought of Cronshaw young; and it needed an effort of imagination to picture him slender, with a springing step, and with hair on his head, buoyant and hopeful. Philip’s rule of life, to follow one’s instincts with due regard to the policeman round the corner, had not acted very well there: it was because Cronshaw had done this that he had made such a lamentable failure of existence. It seemed that the instincts could not be trusted. Philip was puzzled, and he asked himself what rule of life was there, if that one was useless, and why people acted in one way rather than in another. They acted according to their emotions, but their emotions might be good or bad; it seemed just a chance whether they led to triumph or disaster. Life seemed an inextricable confusion. Men hurried hither and thither, urged by forces they knew not; and the purpose of it all escaped them; they seemed to hurry just for hurrying’s sake.
Next morning Leonard Upjohn appeared with a small wreath of laurel. He was pleased with his idea of crowning the dead poet with this; and attempted, notwithstanding Philip’s disapproving silence, to fix it on the bald head; but the wreath fitted grotesquely. It looked like the brim of a hat worn by a low comedian in a music-hall.
‘I’ll put it over his heart instead,’ said Upjohn.
‘You’ve put it on his stomach,’ remarked Philip.
Upjohn gave a thin smile.
‘Only a poet knows where lies a poet’s heart,’ he answered.
They went back into the sitting-room, and Philip told him what arrangements he had made for the funeral.
‘I hoped you’ve spared no expense. I should like the hearse to be followed by a long string of empty coaches, and I should like the horses to wear tall nodding plumes, and there should be a vast number of mutes with long streamers on their hats. I like the thought of all those empty coaches.’
‘As the cost of the funeral will apparently fall on me and I’m not over flush just now, I’ve tried to make it as moderate as possible.’
‘But, my dear fellow, in that case, why didn’t you get him a pauper’s funeral? There would have been something poetic in that. You have an unerring instinct for mediocrity.’
Philip flushed a little, but did not answer; and next day he and Upjohn followed the hearse in the one carriage which Philip had ordered. Lawson, unable to come, had sent a wreath; and Philip, so that the coffin should not seem too neglected, had bought a couple. On the way back the coachman whipped up his horses. Philip was dog-tired and presently went to sleep. He was awakened by Upjohn’s voice.
‘It’s rather lucky the poems haven’t come out yet. I think we’d better hold them back a bit and I’ll write a preface. I began thinking of it during the drive to the cemetery. I believe I can do something rather good. Anyhow I’ll start with an article in The Saturday.’
Philip did not reply, and there was silence between them. At last Upjohn said:
‘I daresay I’d be wiser not to whittle away my copy. I think I’ll do an article for one of the reviews, and then I can just print it afterwards as a preface.’
Philip kept his eye on the monthlies, and a few weeks later it appeared. The article made something of a stir, and extracts from it were printed in many of the papers. It was a very good article, vaguely biographical, for no one knew much of Cronshaw’s early life, but delicate, tender, and picturesque. Leonard Upjohn in his intricate style drew graceful little pictures of Cronshaw in the Latin Quarter, talking, writing poetry: Cronshaw became a picturesque figure, an English Verlaine; and Leonard Upjohn’s coloured phrases took on a tremulous dignity, a more pathetic grandiloquence, as he described the sordid end, the shabby little room in Soho; and, with a reticence which was wholly charming and suggested a much greater generosity than modesty allowed him to state, the efforts he made to transport the Poet to some cottage embowered with honeysuckle amid a flowering orchard. And the lack of sympathy, well-meaning but so tactless, which had taken the poet instead to the vulgar respectability of Kennington! Leonard Upjohn described Kennington with that restrained humour which a strict adherence to the vocabulary of Sir Thomas Browne necessitated. With delicate sarcasm he narrated the last weeks, the patience with which Cronshaw bore the well-meaning clumsiness of the young student who had appointed himself his nurse, and the pitifulness of that divine vagabond in those hopelessly middle-class surroundings. Beauty from ashes, he quoted from Isaiah. It was a triumph of irony for that outcast poet to die amid the trappings of vulgar respectability; it reminded Leonard Upjohn of Christ among the Pharisees, and the analogy gave him opportunity for an exquisite passage. And then he told how a friend—his good taste did not suffer him more than to hint subtly who the friend was with such gracious fancies—had laid a laurel wreath on the dead poet’s heart; and the beautiful dead hands had seemed to rest with a voluptuous passion upon Apollo’s leaves, fragrant with the fragrance of art, and more green than jade brought by swart mariners from the manifold, inexplicable China. And, an admirable contrast, the article ended with a description of the middle-class, ordinary, prosaic funeral of him who should have been buried like a prince or like a pauper. It was the crowning buffet, the final victory of Philistia over art, beauty, and immaterial things.
Leonard Upjohn had never written anything better. It was a miracle of charm, grace, and pity. He printed all Cronshaw’s best poems in the course of the article, so that when the volume appeared much of its point was gone; but he advanced his own position a good deal. He was thenceforth a critic to be reckoned with. He had seemed before a little aloof; but there was a warm humanity about this article which was infinitely attractive.
