第六十四章
凌晨三点光景，菲利普就醒了，且再也不能人睡。他想起了米尔德丽德。他试图不去想她，但无奈情思缠绵，不能自已，就这样，时作时辍，反反复复，直弄得自己头昏脑胀。米尔德丽德要嫁人，这是不可避免的，因为对一位要自谋生计的姑娘来说，生活是艰难的；倘若她发现有人能够给她提供一个舒适的家并接受之，那也是无可指摘的。菲利普意识到，在米尔德丽德看来，让她同自己结婚才是个愚蠢的行动呢，因为只有爱情才，能使眼下这种捉襟见肘的日子得以忍受。然而，她却并不爱他。这绝不是米尔德丽德的过错，这不过是他不得不接受的又一个事实罢了。他试图说服自己。他深知他那被刺伤的自负深深地埋在心底，此时他的情欲却从被损害的虚荣中勃然而起。实际上，在很大程度上，正是由于这一点，他才变得颓唐消沉。菲利普像鄙视米尔德丽德那样鄙视自己。他为未来作出种种打算，反来复去地考虑着那些同样的计划。在这当儿，他又回想起自己在她那娇嫩、苍白的脸颊上亲吻的情景，耳际又响起她那回荡不绝的嗓音。在医学院里，他同朋友们断绝来往，而眼下他却希望有人作伴。事情真凑巧，半个月前，海沃德来信说他要路过伦敦，邀请菲利普一同进餐，但那时菲利普因不愿受人打扰而婉言谢绝了。海沃德快要返回伦敦，在此度过社交季节，于是，菲利普决定写封信给海沃德。
钟敲八点。他还能爬起来，对此他感到欣慰。他脸色苍白，倦容满面。但是，在洗了把澡，穿上了衣服，用过早餐之后，他感到自己又重新回到了尘世，病痛也显得较易忍受了。这天上午，他不想去听课，而来到陆海军商场，为米尔德丽德买件结婚礼物。菲利普犹豫了半晌，最后决定买个化妆手提包。它花去了二十镑，大大超出了他的支付能力。不过，这只包既艳丽夺目又俗不可耐。他知道米尔德丽德一定会十分精确地估计出这只包的价钱来的。这件礼物既能使她感到快乐，又能表达自己对她的鄙视。他为自己挑中了这件礼物而内心感到一种隐隐扎痛的满足。
菲利普怀着惶恐不安的心情期待着米尔德丽德成亲的日子，他这是在期待着一种难以忍受的痛苦。他感到宽慰的是，星期六早晨他接到海沃德的一封信，信中说，他就在当天早些时候来伦敦，并请菲利普替他事先找好住处。菲利普急于摆脱眼下的心境，便去查阅时刻表，找出海沃德可能搭乘的那趟车。他赶往车站迎接海沃德。朋友聚首，兴奋之至。他俩将行李寄存在车站，随后便欢天喜地地走了。海沃德还同往常一样，提议他俩首先花一个小时去游览国立美术馆。海沃德已经好些时候没有观赏图画了，说是一定得去瞧上一眼，使自己跟生活的旋律合拍协调起来。数月来，菲利普找不到一个人能同自己谈论艺术和书籍。自从去巴黎以来，海沃德一直在专心致志地研究法国的现代诗人。而在法国，这类诗人繁若群星，数不胜数。眼下，海沃德就有好几位新跃文坛的天才诗人的事儿要告诉菲利普听。他们俩漫步在美术馆，各自给对方指点着自己心爱的图画，情绪激昂地交谈着，从一个话题转到另一个话题。此时，阳光普照，微风和煦。
"走，咱俩上公园去坐一会儿，"海沃德提议说，"吃过中饭再去找房间不迟。"
公园里，春意盎然，沁人心脾。这种日子叫人感到，人只要活着就是幸福。在天空的映衬下，青翠欲滴的树林，分外妖烧。淡蓝色的天幕上嵌镶着朵朵白云。玉带般的河流的尽头，是一群身穿灰色制服的皇家禁卫骑兵队。这种层次分明的优美景色，带有一种十八世纪图画的风采眼前的景色，使人想起的是约翰一巴普蒂斯特·佩特的那种平凡质朴的图画，而不是沃特画的画。沃特的风景画富有诗意，画中只有在梦幻虚境中才能看到的那种森林幽谷的景致。菲利普心里不觉一阵轻松。他从过去读过的书本中领悟到，艺术（因为艺术的存在正如他认为自然界的存在一样）还可以将人的心灵从痛苦中解救出来。
他们俩来到一家意大利餐馆吃中饭，还要了一瓶香提酒。两人慢啜细嚼，边吃边谈，一起回忆着他俩在海德堡的熟人，谈论菲利普在巴黎的朋友，议论书籍、图画、道德和人生。猛然间，菲利普听到一只钟接连敲了三下，直觉得声声撞击着他那颗心。有那么一两分钟，海沃德说的话他啥也没听见。但是，他还一个劲儿地往自己杯子里勘酒。他喝不惯酒，并已经感到酒力直冲脑门。不管怎么说，他眼下是无忧无虑的了。多少个月来，他那敏捷的脑于闲着不思想，这时却完全陶醉在谈话中间。他为有个同自己情趣相投的人在一起交谈而感到无比欣慰。
"我说呀，咱们可别把这良辰浪费在寻找房间上头。今晚我来安顿你。你可以在明天或者下星期一再去找房间嘛！"
"好的。那眼下咱俩干什么呢？"海沃德应声说道。
"咱俩花上一个便士，乘汽船到格林威治去。"
这个主意正中海沃德的下怀。于是，他同菲利普一起跳上一辆出租马车，来到威斯敏斯特大桥，接着又乘上一艘刚要离岸的汽船。此时，菲利普的嘴角露出一丝笑意。他说：
"我还记得当初去巴黎那会儿，克拉顿，对，就是他，还发了一通长篇宏论呢。他说是画家和诗人把美赋予事物中去的，是他们创造了美。在"他们看来，乔托的钟楼和一家工厂的烟囱没有两样。然而，美丽的事物随着它们勾起一代代人们的情感而变得越来越绚丽多彩。古老的事物要比现代的事物更加美丽，其道理也就在于此。那篇《希腊古瓶颂》现在就比刚问世那会儿要更加隽永妩媚，这是因为上百年来，情侣们不断地吟诵它，那些悲观失望者也从诗句中求得安慰的缘故。"
菲利普让海沃德去推断，面对两岸摇曳而过的景色，听了他的话会作何联想。他发现自己有意作出暗示而未被对方觉察，不觉窃窃自喜。长期来他过着的那种生活，突然间在他心灵中激起了强烈的反应，使得他思绪万千，感慨系之。伦敦缥缈的大气，晕光闪烁，给建筑物的灰石蒙上了一层柔和的轻淡优美的色彩；那一个个码头、一座座仓库透出丝丝类似日本版画式的纯朴、庄重的气息。他们俩继续向前泛舟荡漾。那雄伟壮丽的水道，是大英帝国的标志，越往前越开阔。河面上千帆竞发，穿梭不息。菲利普想起那些画家和诗人把所有这一些描绘得如此婀娜多姿，心头充满了感激之情。他们随船来到伦敦地区的泰晤土河面上。有谁能够描绘出它的庄严仪容呢？顿时，他思绪驰骋，激动不已。天晓得是什么使得人们把这浩瀚的河面变得平静如镜，使得鲍士威尔老是跟随在约翰逊的左右，使得老佩皮斯跨上军舰的。啊，原来是壮丽的英国历史，是离奇的际遇和充满惊险的冒险！菲利普笑容可掬地转向海沃德。
"亲爱的狄更斯，"他喃喃地说。当觉察到自己的感情激昂起来，他不觉莞尔。
"你放弃学画，就不感到后悔吗？"海沃德问道。
"不后悔！"
"看来你是喜欢行医的？"
"不，恰恰相反，我很不喜欢当医生。不过也没有旁的事情可做呀。头两年的功课重得快把人压垮了，再说，遗憾的是，我可没一点儿科学家的气质。"
"哦，你可不能再见异思迁了。"
"嗯，不会的。我要坚持学医。我想，到了病房，我会更加喜欢上这一职业的。我有个想法，我对人比对世界上任何一样东西都更有兴趣。照我看，只有当医生，才能享有充分的*。你把知识装在脑于里，拎着医疗器械箱，外加几味药，你就可以到处混饭吃。"
"这么说，你是不想当一名开业医师的？"
"至少在很长一段时间里不想当开业医师，"菲利普回答说。"我一取得医院的职位，便去搭乘海轮。我想到东方去--到马来群岛、暹罗、中国等等地方去---然后，我将找些零星的活儿干干。事情总是有得做的，比如说，印度闹霍乱病啦，诸如此类。我还想去周游列国。一个经济拮据的人要做到这一点，唯一的办法就是行医。"
接着他们来到了格林威治。英尼戈·琼斯设计的宏伟的大厦，仪态雍容地正视着河面。
"嘿，快瞧，那儿准是可怜的杰克跳下去捞钱的地方，"菲利普说。
他们俩在公园里信步闲逛。衣衫褴褛的孩子们在嬉耍，他们的吆喝声响遍整个公园。年迈的海员们这儿一群那儿一帮地坐着晒太阳。这儿弥漫着一种百年前的那种古朴的气息。
"你在巴黎白白浪费了两年，有些可惜，"海沃德感叹了一声。
"白白浪费？瞧那个孩子的动作，瞧那阳光穿过树叶照在地上的图案，再瞧瞧头顶上那块天--啊，要是我不到巴黎去，我就看不到那儿的天空。"
海沃德发觉菲利普语塞哽咽，不禁诧异地凝视着他。
"你怎么啦？"
"没什么。对不起，我太伤感了。不过，这半年来，我无时无刻不渴望着来观赏一下大自然的美。"
"你过去一直很讲究实际。真有趣，还能从你嘴里说出那种话来。"
"去你的，我可不想变得有趣，"菲利普哈哈笑着说。"走，咱们喝杯浓茶去！"
But about three in the morning Philip awoke and could not sleep again. He began to think of Mildred. He tried not to, but could not help himself. He repeated to himself the same thing time after time till his brain reeled. It was inevitable that she should marry: life was hard for a girl who had to earn her own living; and if she found someone who could give her a comfortable home she should not be blamed if she accepted. Philip acknowledged that from her point of view it would have been madness to marry him: only love could have made such poverty bearable, and she did not love him. It was no fault of hers; it was a fact that must be accepted like any other. Philip tried to reason with himself. He told himself that deep down in his heart was mortified pride; his passion had begun in wounded vanity, and it was this at bottom which caused now a great part of his wretchedness. He despised himself as much as he despised her. Then he made plans for the future, the same plans over and over again, interrupted by recollections of kisses on her soft pale cheek and by the sound of her voice with its trailing accent; he had a great deal of work to do, since in the summer he was taking chemistry as well as the two examinations he had failed in. He had separated himself from his friends at the hospital, but now he wanted companionship. There was one happy occurrence: Hayward a fortnight before had written to say that he was passing through London and had asked him to dinner; but Philip, unwilling to be bothered, had refused. He was coming back for the season, and Philip made up his mind to write to him.
He was thankful when eight o’clock struck and he could get up. He was pale and weary. But when he had bathed, dressed, and had breakfast, he felt himself joined up again with the world at large; and his pain was a little easier to bear. He did not feel like going to lectures that morning, but went instead to the Army and Navy Stores to buy Mildred a wedding-present. After much wavering he settled on a dressing-bag. It cost twenty pounds, which was much more than he could afford, but it was showy and vulgar: he knew she would be aware exactly how much it cost; he got a melancholy satisfaction in choosing a gift which would give her pleasure and at the same time indicate for himself the contempt he had for her.
Philip had looked forward with apprehension to the day on which Mildred was to be married; he was expecting an intolerable anguish; and it was with relief that he got a letter from Hayward on Saturday morning to say that he was coming up early on that very day and would fetch Philip to help him to find rooms. Philip, anxious to be distracted, looked up a time-table and discovered the only train Hayward was likely to come by; he went to meet him, and the reunion of the friends was enthusiastic. They left the luggage at the station, and set off gaily. Hayward characteristically proposed that first of all they should go for an hour to the National Gallery; he had not seen pictures for some time, and he stated that it needed a glimpse to set him in tune with life. Philip for months had had no one with whom he could talk of art and books. Since the Paris days Hayward had immersed himself in the modern French versifiers, and, such a plethora of poets is there in France, he had several new geniuses to tell Philip about. They walked through the gallery pointing out to one another their favourite pictures; one subject led to another; they talked excitedly. The sun was shining and the air was warm.
‘Let’s go and sit in the Park,’ said Hayward. ‘We’ll look for rooms after luncheon.’
The spring was pleasant there. It was a day upon which one felt it good merely to live. The young green of the trees was exquisite against the sky; and the sky, pale and blue, was dappled with little white clouds. At the end of the ornamental water was the gray mass of the Horse Guards. The ordered elegance of the scene had the charm of an eighteenth-century picture. It reminded you not of Watteau, whose landscapes are so idyllic that they recall only the woodland glens seen in dreams, but of the more prosaic Jean-Baptiste Pater. Philip’s heart was filled with lightness. He realised, what he had only read before, that art (for there was art in the manner in which he looked upon nature) might liberate the soul from pain.
They went to an Italian restaurant for luncheon and ordered themselves a fiaschetto of Chianti. Lingering over the meal they talked on. They reminded one another of the people they had known at Heidelberg, they spoke of Philip’s friends in Paris, they talked of books, pictures, morals, life; and suddenly Philip heard a clock strike three. He remembered that by this time Mildred was married. He felt a sort of stitch in his heart, and for a minute or two he could not hear what Hayward was saying. But he filled his glass with Chianti. He was unaccustomed to alcohol and it had gone to his head. For the time at all events he was free from care. His quick brain had lain idle for so many months that he was intoxicated now with conversation. He was thankful to have someone to talk to who would interest himself in the things that interested him.
‘I say don’t let’s waste this beautiful day in looking for rooms. I’ll put you up tonight. You can look for rooms tomorrow or Monday.’
‘All right. What shall we do?’ answered Hayward.
‘Let’s get on a penny steamboat and go down to Greenwich.’
The idea appealed to Hayward, and they jumped into a cab which took them to Westminster Bridge. They got on the steamboat just as she was starting. Presently Philip, a smile on his lips, spoke.
‘I remember when first I went to Paris, Clutton, I think it was, gave a long discourse on the subject that beauty is put into things by painters and poets. They create beauty. In themselves there is nothing to choose between the Campanile of Giotto and a factory chimney. And then beautiful things grow rich with the emotion that they have aroused in succeeding generations. That is why old things are more beautiful than modern. The Ode on a Grecian Urn is more lovely now than when it was written, because for a hundred years lovers have read it and the sick at heart taken comfort in its lines.’
Philip left Hayward to infer what in the passing scene had suggested these words to him, and it was a delight to know that he could safely leave the inference. It was in sudden reaction from the life he had been leading for so long that he was now deeply affected. The delicate iridescence of the London air gave the softness of a pastel to the gray stone of the buildings; and in the wharfs and storehouses there was the severity of grace of a Japanese print. They went further down; and the splendid channel, a symbol of the great empire, broadened, and it was crowded with traffic; Philip thought of the painters and the poets who had made all these things so beautiful, and his heart was filled with gratitude. They came to the Pool of London, and who can describe its majesty? The imagination thrills, and Heaven knows what figures people still its broad stream, Doctor Johnson with Boswell by his side, an old Pepys going on board a man-o’-war: the pageant of English history, and romance, and high adventure. Philip turned to Hayward with shining eyes.
‘Dear Charles Dickens,’ he murmured, smiling a little at his own emotion.
‘Aren’t you rather sorry you chucked painting?’ asked Hayward.
‘No.’
‘I suppose you like doctoring?’
‘No, I hate it, but there was nothing else to do. The drudgery of the first two years is awful, and unfortunately I haven’t got the scientific temperament.’
‘Well, you can’t go on changing professions.’
‘Oh, no. I’m going to stick to this. I think I shall like it better when I get into the wards. I have an idea that I’m more interested in people than in anything else in the world. And as far as I can see, it’s the only profession in which you have your freedom. You carry your knowledge in your head; with a box of instruments and a few drugs you can make your living anywhere.’
‘Aren’t you going to take a practice then?’
‘Not for a good long time at any rate,’ Philip answered. ‘As soon as I’ve got through my hospital appointments I shall get a ship; I want to go to the East—the Malay Archipelago, Siam, China, and all that sort of thing—and then I shall take odd jobs. Something always comes along, cholera duty in India and things like that. I want to go from place to place. I want to see the world. The only way a poor man can do that is by going in for the medical.’
They came to Greenwich then. The noble building of Inigo Jones faced the river grandly.
‘I say, look, that must be the place where Poor Jack dived into the mud for pennies,’ said Philip.
They wandered in the park. Ragged children were playing in it, and it was noisy with their cries: here and there old seamen were basking in the sun. There was an air of a hundred years ago.
‘It seems a pity you wasted two years in Paris,’ said Hayward.
‘Waste? Look at the movement of that child, look at the pattern which the sun makes on the ground, shining through the trees, look at that sky—why, I should never have seen that sky if I hadn’t been to Paris.’
Hayward thought that Philip choked a sob, and he looked at him with astonishment.
‘What’s the matter with you?’
‘Nothing. I’m sorry to be so damned emotional, but for six months I’ve been starved for beauty.’
‘You used to be so matter of fact. It’s very interesting to hear you say that.’
‘Damn it all, I don’t want to be interesting,’ laughed Philip. ‘Let’s go and have a stodgy tea.’
