1. <acronym id="mmoau"><strong id="mmoau"><xmp id="mmoau"></xmp></strong></acronym>
    <track id="mmoau"><strike id="mmoau"><tt id="mmoau"></tt></strike></track>
    <pre id="mmoau"><nav id="mmoau"></nav></pre>
    1. <p id="mmoau"><strong id="mmoau"><small id="mmoau"></small></strong></p>

      1. <tr id="mmoau"><label id="mmoau"><menu id="mmoau"></menu></label></tr>
        英語聽力 學英語,練聽力,上聽力課堂! 注冊 登錄
        > 在線聽力 > 有聲讀物 > 世界名著 > 譯林版·馬丁·伊登 >  第24篇

        雙語《馬丁·伊登》 第二十四章

        所屬教程:譯林版·馬丁·伊登

        瀏覽:

        2022年07月06日

        手機版
        掃描二維碼方便學習和分享

        CHAPTER XXIV

        The weeks passed. Martin ran out of money, and publishers’ checks were far away as ever. All his important manuscripts had come back and been started out again, and his hack-work fared no better. His little kitchen was no longer graced with a variety of foods. Caught in the pinch with a part sack of rice and a few pounds of dried apricots, rice and apricots was his menu three times a day for five days running. Then he startled to realize on his credit. The Portuguese grocer, to whom he had hitherto paid cash, called a halt when Martin’s bill reached the magnificent total of three dollars and eighty-five cents.

        “For you see,” said the grocer, “you no catcha da work, I losa da mon’.”

        And Martin could reply nothing. There was no way of explaining. It was not true business principle to allow credit to a strong-bodied young fellow of the working class who was too lazy to work.

        “You catcha da job, I let you have mora da grub,” the grocer assured Martin. “No job, no grub. Thata da business.” And then, to show that it was purely business foresight and not prejudice, “Hava da drink on da house—good friends justa da same.”

        So Martin drank, in his easy way, to show that he was good friends with the house, and then went supperless to bed.

        The fruit store, where Martin had bought his vegetables, was run by an American whose business principles were so weak that he let Martin run a bill of five dollars before stopping his credit. The baker stopped at two dollars, and the butcher at four dollars. Martin added his debts and found that he was possessed of a total credit in all the world of fourteen dollars and eighty-five cents. He was up with his typewriter rent, but he estimated that he could get two months’ credit on that, which would be eight dollars. When that occurred, he would have exhausted all possible credit.

        The last purchase from the fruit store had been a sack of potatoes, and for a week he had potatoes, and nothing but potatoes, three times a day. An occasional dinner at Ruth’s helped to keep strength in his body, though he found it tantalizing enough to refuse further helping when his appetite was raging at sight of so much food spread before it. Now and again, though afflicted with secret shame, he dropped in at his sister’s at meal-time and ate as much as he dared—more than he dared at the Morse table.

        Day by day he worked on, and day by day the postman delivered to him rejected manuscripts. He had no money for stamps, so the manuscripts accumulated in a heap under the table. Came a day when for forty hours he had not tasted food. He could not hope for a meal at Ruth’s, for she was away to San Rafael on a two weeks’ visit; and for very shame’s sake he could not go to his sister’s. To cap misfortune, the postman, in his afternoon round, brought him five returned manuscripts. Then it was that Martin wore his overcoat down into Oakland, and came back without it, but with five dollars tinkling in his pocket. He paid a dollar each on account to the four tradesmen, and in his kitchen fried steak and onions, made coffee, and stewed a large pot of prunes. And having dined, he sat down at his table-desk and completed before midnight an essay which he entitled “The Dignity of Usury.” Having typed it out, he flung it under the table, for there had been nothing left from the five dollars with which to buy stamps.

        Later on he pawned his watch, and still later his wheel, reducing the amount available for food by putting stamps on all his manuscripts and sending them out. He was disappointed with his hack-work. Nobody cared to buy. He compared it with what he found in the newspapers, weeklies, and cheap magazines, and decided that his was better, far better, than the average;yet it would not sell. Then he discovered that most of the newspapers printed a great deal of what was called “plate” stuff, and he got the address of the association that furnished it. His own work that he sent in was returned, along with a stereotyped slip informing him that the staff supplied all the copy that was needed.

        In one of the great juvenile periodicals he noted whole columns of incident and anecdote. Here was a chance. His paragraphs were returned, and though he tried repeatedly he never succeeded in placing one. Later on, when it no longer mattered, he learned that the associate editors and subeditors augmented their salaries by supplying those paragraphs themselves. The comic weeklies returned his jokes and humorous verse, and the light society verse he wrote for the large magazines found no abiding-place. Then there was the newspaper storiette. He knew that he could write better ones than were published. Managing to obtain the addresses of two newspaper syndicates, he deluged them with storiettes. When he had written twenty and failed to place one of them, he ceased. And yet, from day to day, he read storiettes in the dailies and weeklies, scores and scores of storiettes, not one of which would compare with his. In his despondency, he concluded that he had no judgment whatever, that he was hypnotized by what he wrote, and that he was a self-deluded pretender.

        The inhuman editorial machine ran smoothly as ever. He folded the stamps in with his manuscript, dropped it into the letter-box, and from three weeks to a month afterward the postman came up the steps and handed him the manuscript. Surely there were no live, warm editors at the other end. It was all wheels and cogs and oil-cups—a clever mechanism operated by automatons. He reached stages of despair wherein he doubted if editors existed at all. He had never received a sign of the existence of one, and from absence of judgment in rejecting all he wrote it seemed plausible that editors were myths, manufactured and maintained by office boys, typesetters, and pressmen.

        The hours he spent with Ruth were the only happy ones he had, and they were not all happy. He was afflicted always with a gnawing restlessness, more tantalizing than in the old days before he possessed her love; for now that he did possess her love, the possession of her was far away as ever. He had asked for two years; time was flying, and he was achieving nothing. Again, he was always conscious of the fact that she did not approve what he was doing. She did not say so directly. Yet indirectly she let him understand it as clearly and definitely as she could have spoken it. It was not resentment with her, but disapproval; though less sweet-natured women might have resented where she was no more than disappointed. Her disappointment lay in that this man she had taken to mould, refused to be moulded. To a certain extent she had found his clay plastic, then it had developed stubbornness, declining to be shaped in the image of her father or of Mr. Butler.

        What was great and strong in him, she missed, or, worse yet,misunderstood. This man, whose clay was so plastic that he could live in any number of pigeonholes of human existence, she thought wilful and most obstinate because she could not shape him to live in her pigeonhole, which was the only one she knew. She could not follow the flights of his mind, and when his brain got beyond her, she deemed him erratic. Nobody else’s brain ever got beyond her. She could always follow her father and mother, her brothers and Olney; wherefore, when she could not follow Martin, she believed the fault lay with him. It was the old tragedy of insularity trying to serve as mentor to the universal.

        “You worship at the shrine of the established,” he told her once, in a discussion they had over Praps and Vanderwater. “I grant that as authorities to quote they are most excellent—the two foremost literary critics in the United States. Every school teacher in the land looks up to Vanderwater as the Dean of American criticism. Yet I read his stuff, and it seems to me the perfection of the felicitous expression of the inane. Why, he is no more than a ponderous bromide, thanks to Gelett Burgess. And Praps is no better. His ‘Hemlock Mosses,’ for instance is beautifully written. Not a comma is out of place;and the tone—ah!—is lofty, so lofty. He is the best-paid critic in the United States. Though, Heaven forbid! he’s not a critic at all. They do criticism better in England.

        “But the point is, they sound the popular note, and they sound it so beautifully and morally and contentedly. Their reviews remind me of a British Sunday. They are the popular mouthpieces. They back up your professors of English, and your professors of English back them up. And there isn’t an original idea in any of their skulls. They know only the established,—in fact, they are the established. They are weak minded, and the established impresses itself upon them as easily as the name of the brewery is impressed on a beer bottle. And their function is to catch all the young fellows attending the university, to drive out of their minds any glimmering originality that may chance to be there, and to put upon them the stamp of the established.”

        “I think I am nearer the truth,” she replied, “when I stand by the established, than you are, raging around like an iconoclastic South Sea Islander.”

        “It was the missionary who did the image breaking,” he laughed. “And unfortunately, all the missionaries are off among the heathen, so there are none left at home to break those old images, Mr. Vanderwater and Mr. Praps.”

        “And the college professors, as well,” she added.

        He shook his head emphatically. “No; the science professors should live. They’re really great. But it would be a good deed to break the heads of ninetenths of the English professors—little, microscopic-minded parrots!”

        Which was rather severe on the professors, but which to Ruth was blasphemy. She could not help but measure the professors, neat, scholarly, in fitting clothes, speaking in well-modulated voices, breathing of culture and refinement, with this almost indescribable young fellow whom somehow she loved, whose clothes never would fit him, whose heavy muscles told of damning toil, who grew excited when he talked, substituting abuse for calm statement and passionate utterance for cool self-possession. They at least earned good salaries and were—yes, she compelled herself to face it—were gentlemen; while he could not earn a penny, and he was not as they.

        She did not weigh Martin’s words nor judge his argument by them. Her conclusion that his argument was wrong was reached—unconsciously, it is true—by a comparison of externals. They, the professors, were right in their literary judgments because they were successes. Martin’s literary judgments were wrong because he could not sell his wares. To use his own phrase, they made good, and he did not make good. And besides, it did not seem reasonable that he should be right—he who had stood, so short a time before, in that same living room, blushing and awkward, acknowledging his introduction, looking fearfully about him at the bric-a-brac his swinging shoulders threatened to break, asking how long since Swinburne died, and boastfully announcing that he had read “Excelsior” and the “Psalm of Life.”

        Unwittingly, Ruth herself proved his point that she worshipped the established. Martin followed the processes of her thoughts, but forbore to go farther. He did not love her for what she thought of Praps and Vanderwater and English professors, and he was coming to realize, with increasing conviction, that he possessed brain-areas and stretches of knowledge which she could never comprehend nor know existed.

        In music she thought him unreasonable, and in the matter of opera not only unreasonable but wilfully perverse.

        “How did you like it?” she asked him one night, on the way home from the opera.

        It was a night when he had taken her at the expense of a month’s rigid economizing on food. After vainly waiting for him to speak about it, herself still tremulous and stirred by what she had just seen and heard, she had asked the question.

        “I liked the overture,” was his answer. “It was splendid.”

        “Yes, but the opera itself?”

        “That was splendid too; that is, the orchestra was, though I’d have enjoyed it more if those jumping-jacks had kept quiet or gone off the stage.”

        Ruth was aghast.

        “You don’t mean Tetralani or Barillo?” she queried.

        “All of them—the whole kit and crew.”

        “But they are great artists,” she protested.

        “They spoiled the music just the same, with their antics and unrealities.”

        “But don’t you like Barillo’s voice?” Ruth asked. “He is next to Caruso, they say.”

        “Of course I liked him, and I liked Tetralani even better. Her voice is exquisite—or at least I think so.”

        “But, but—” Ruth stammered. “I don’t know what you mean, then. You admire their voices, yet say they spoiled the music.”

        “Precisely that. I’d give anything to hear them in concert, and I’d give even a bit more not to hear them when the orchestra is playing. I’m afraid I am a hopeless realist. Great singers are not great actors. To hear Barillo sing a love passage with the voice of an angel, and to hear Tetralani reply like another angel, and to hear it all accompanied by a perfect orgy of glowing and colorful music—is ravishing, most ravishing. I do not admit it. I assert it. But the whole effect is spoiled when I look at them—at Tetralani, five feet ten in her stocking feet and weighing a hundred and ninety pounds, and at Barillo, a scant five feet four, greasy-featured, with the chest of a squat, undersized blacksmith, and at the pair of them, attitudinizing, clasping their breasts, flinging their arms in the air like demented creatures in an asylum; and when I am expected to accept all this as the faithful illusion of a love-scene between a slender and beautiful princess and a handsome, romantic, young prince—why, I can’t accept it, That’s all. It’s rot; it’s absurd; it’s unreal. That’s what’s the matter with it. It’s not real. Don’t tell me that anybody in this world ever made love that way. Why, if I’d made love to you in such fashion, you’d have boxed my ears.”

        “But you misunderstand,” Ruth protested. “Every form of art has its limitations.” (She was busy recalling a lecture she had heard at the university on the conventions of the arts.) “In painting there are only two dimensions to the canvas, yet you accept the illusion of three dimensions which the art of a painter enables him to throw into the canvas. In writing, again, the author must be omnipotent. You accept as perfectly legitimate the author’s account of the secret thoughts of the heroine, and yet all the time you know that the heroine was alone when thinking these thoughts, and that neither the author nor any one else was capable of hearing them. And so with the stage, with sculpture, with opera, with every art form. Certain irreconcilable things must be accepted.”

        “Yes, I understood that,” Martin answered. “All the arts have their conventions.” (Ruth was surprised at his use of the word. It was as if he had studied at the university himself, instead of being ill-equipped from browsing at haphazard through the books in the library.) “But even the conventions must be real. Trees, painted on flat cardboard and stuck up on each side of the stage, we accept as a forest. It is a real enough convention. But, on the other hand, we would not accept a sea scene as a forest. We can’t do it. It violates our senses. Nor would you, or, rather, should you, accept the ravings and writhings and agonized contortions of those two lunatics tonight as a convincing portrayal of love.”

        “But you don’t hold yourself superior to all the judges of music?” she protested.

        “No, no, not for a moment. I merely maintain my right as an individual. I have just been telling you what I think, in order to explain why the elephantine gambols of Madame Tetralani spoil the orchestra for me. The world’s judges of music may all be right. But I am I, and I won’t subordinate my taste to the unanimous judgment of mankind. If I don’t like a thing, I don’t like it, That’s all; and there is no reason under the sun why I should ape a liking for it just because the majority of my fellow-creatures like it, or make believe they like it. I can’t follow the fashions in the things I like or dislike.”

        “But music, you know, is a matter of training,” Ruth argued; “and opera is even more a matter of training. May it not be—”

        “That I am not trained in opera?” he dashed in.

        She nodded.

        “The very thing,” he agreed. “And I consider I am fortunate in not having been caught when I was young. If I had, I could have wept sentimental tears tonight, and the clownish antics of that precious pair would have but enhanced the beauty of their voices and the beauty of the accompanying orchestra. You are right. It’s mostly a matter of training. And I am too old, now. I must have the real or nothing. An illusion that won’t convince is a palpable lie, and That’s what grand opera is to me when little Barillo throws a fit, clutches mighty Tetralani in his arms (also in a fit), and tells her how passionately he adores her.”

        Again Ruth measured his thoughts by comparison of externals and in accordance with her belief in the established. Who was he that he should be right and all the cultured world wrong? His words and thoughts made no impression upon her. She was too firmly intrenched in the established to have any sympathy with revolutionary ideas. She had always been used to music, and she had enjoyed opera ever since she was a child, and all her world had enjoyed it, too. Then by what right did Martin Eden emerge, as he had so recently emerged, from his rag-time and working-class songs, and pass judgment on the world’s music? She was vexed with him, and as she walked beside him she had a vague feeling of outrage. At the best, in her most charitable frame of mind, she considered the statement of his views to be a caprice, an erratic and uncalled-for prank. But when he took her in his arms at the door and kissed her good night in tender lover-fashion, she forgot everything in the outrush of her own love to him. And later, on a sleepless pillow, she puzzled, as she had often puzzled of late, as to how it was that she loved so strange a man, and loved him despite the disapproval of her people.

        And next day Martin Eden cast hack-work aside, and at white heat hammered out an essay to which he gave the title, “The Philosophy of Illusion.” A stamp started it on its travels, but it was destined to receive many stamps and to be started on many travels in the months that followed.

        第二十四章

        幾個星期的時間一閃而過。馬丁的錢囊告罄,而出版商的支票仍遙遙無期。那些重要稿件全如數退回,又被他寄了出去,賣錢作品的下場也同樣糟糕。小“廚房”里不再有形形色色的食物。他處境艱難,只剩下了半袋米和幾磅干杏,于是他一日三餐都吃米飯和干杏,一連湊合了五天。接著,他便開始賒賬了。那位葡萄牙食品商一貫收馬丁的現金,這時見他欠的錢已多達三元八角五分,便要停止供貨。

        “你該放明白些,”食品商說,“你不去找工作干,我就得賠錢?!瘪R丁無法解釋,一時答不上話來。賒賬給一個懶得不肯干活、身強力壯的工人階級的小伙子,是不符合生意準則的。

        “你一找到工作,我就供給你食品?!笔称飞滔蝰R丁保證說,“沒有工作,就沒有食品,這就是生意?!彪S后,為了表明這純粹是生意上的遠見,而非偏見,他又說,“來,請你喝杯酒——咱們還是好朋友嘛?!?/p>

        馬丁灑脫地喝了酒,以示他對食品店的友好之情,當天晚上沒吃飯就上了床。

        馬丁買蔬菜的那家果品店是由一位美國人經營,此人做生意的原則性非常差,竟讓馬丁賒了五塊錢的賬才宣告停止。另外,還欠面包坊兩塊錢,欠肉鋪四塊錢。馬丁把所有的債加在一起,發現自己總共欠下十四元八角五分。打字機的租賃費也該交了,但他估計還能賒兩個月的賬——共八塊錢。待到那時,他便到了窮途末路,再也賒不來賬了。

        從果品店最后一次賒來的是一袋土豆,于是他在一個星期里一天吃三頓土豆,別的什么也不吃。偶爾在露絲家吃頓可以幫助他恢復體力,可是看到那么多的食物擺在面前,自己又不好多要,他覺得實在饞得難熬。隔上一些時候,他就會懷著慚愧的心理在吃飯時間跑到姐姐家,放開膽子吃一頓——在摩斯家的飯桌旁他可不敢大吃特吃。

        他天天寫作,日日接到郵遞員送來的退稿。由于沒錢買郵票,稿件在桌下堆成了小山。一次,他連著四十個小時粒米未進,又不能指望到露絲家混飯,因為露絲到圣拉斐爾去了,兩個星期后才回來。出于羞愧的心情,他不愿到姐姐家去。雪上加霜的是,郵遞員在當天下午送來了五份退稿。于是,馬丁披上外套去了奧克蘭?;貋頃r外套不見了,口袋里卻有五塊洋錢在叮當作響。他向那四個生意人每人還了一塊錢的欠款,隨后就在“廚房”里炸牛排、炒洋蔥、烹咖啡,還燉了一大鍋梅干。飽餐一頓之后,他伏于案頭,趕午夜之前寫完了一篇名為《高利貸的尊嚴》的論文。他把論文用打字機打出,然后扔到了桌子底下,因為那五塊錢已花光用盡,再沒有錢買郵票了。

        后來,他先后當掉了手表和自行車,給所有的稿件都貼上郵票,郵寄出去,所剩下的買食品的錢就不多了。對于自己寫的賣錢的作品,他大失所望,因為無人愿意購買。與報紙上、周刊上以及廉價雜志上的文章相比較,他認為自己的作品比一般水平要強,而且要強得多,但就是兜售不出去。這時,他發現多數報紙都大量刊載所謂的“鉛版文章”,于是便找來了提供這類文章的那家社團的地址??墒撬娜サ淖髌穮s給退了回來,并附著一張鉛印的條子,說明所需稿件全由社團成員撰寫。

        在一份大型少年期刊上,他發現整欄整欄都登載的是奇聞逸事,心想這下機會來了。但他寄去的文章卻吃了閉門羹,雖幾經嘗試,也一篇打不進去,后來,當他已經無所謂了的時候,方才得知那些副編輯以及助理編輯都是親自撰文撈取外快。喜劇周刊退回了他的笑話和幽默詩,而他為大雜志撰寫的筆調輕松的社交詩也未尋到立足之地。他心里清楚,自己的文章比那些登出的作品寫得好。他設法搞到兩家報業辛迪加的地址,源源不斷地把短篇小說投給它們。寫完二十篇,卻一篇也沒投中,他這才罷了休。天天都能在日報和周刊上看到短篇小說,看到的豈止幾十篇,但沒有一篇可與他的作品相媲美。于絕望之中,他斷定自己失去了判斷力,無端陶醉于自己的文章,是個自欺欺人的冒牌作家。

        缺乏人性的編輯機器依然在有條不紊地運轉。他把郵票夾入稿件,投進郵筒,待三個星期乃至一個月后,郵遞員便會走上臺階把稿件遞還給他。那一端肯定不存在有血有肉有感情的編輯,而只存在著輪盤、齒輪和注油器——一臺自動控制的靈巧機器。他失望到了極點,甚至懷疑根本就沒有什么編輯,因為在他的退稿單上沒有一絲一毫的痕跡可以證明編輯的存在。他的作品不分青紅皂白就被全部退回,由此可見,所謂的編輯很可能是辦公室差役、排字工人及印刷工人杜撰和宣揚的虛構人物。

        只有和露絲在一起時,他才感到幸福,但也并非每時每刻都感到幸福。他始終都受到痛苦和不安情緒的折磨,比過去得到她的愛之前的那些日子更為焦慮擔憂;因為他現在雖然獲得了她的愛,但離得到她還相距甚遠。他曾經請求給他兩年的時間;時光如白駒過隙,而他卻一事無成。而且,他老是念念不忘一個事實:她不贊成他所干的事情。她雖然沒有直接說明,但卻拐彎抹角讓他明白這一點,效果與把話挑明一樣清楚和確切。她沒有勃然大怒,而只是不贊成。換上天性缺乏善良的女人,很可能會雷霆大怒,可是她僅僅流露出一些失望的情緒。她失望的原因在于,她立志要重新塑造的這位男子,不該拒絕接受塑造。從某種程度而言,她一度認為他是塊可塑的材料,但這塊材料越來越倔強,不愿被塑造成她父親或勃特勒先生的那種模樣。

        他身上偉大和堅強的品質,她全視而不見,或者更為糟糕,全遭到了她的誤解。這位男子的確可塑性很強,可以在人類社會任何一個狹小的角落生存,而她卻覺得他任性和泥古不化,因為她無法把他塑造成一個適于生活在那個她唯一所熟悉的小天地里的人。她理解不透他那奔放的思想,一旦跟不上他的大腦運轉時,就說他古怪乖僻。除了他,還沒有誰的思想使她感到困惑。對于她的父母、弟弟以及奧爾奈,她素來都了如指掌;因而,她理解不透馬丁時,就堅信毛病出在他身上。思想褊狹的人妄圖給思路開闊的人當導師,總會演出這樣的悲劇。

        “你所膜拜的是正統思想的神殿,”一次在談論普萊普斯和范德爾瓦特時,他對她說道,“我承認,拿他們當權威來引用,是再好不過了——因為他們倆畢竟是美國一流的文藝評論家嘛。國內的每一位教師都把范德爾瓦特尊為美國評論界的老前輩。我看過他的文章,覺得那是一個措辭巧妙但頭腦空洞的人寫的杰作。說穿了,正如葛萊特·伯吉斯所言,他只不過是個平庸之輩。普萊普斯也并不比他強。就拿他的《毒苔蘚》來說吧,寫得倒是很漂亮,沒有用錯一個標點,格調也定得很高——嗬,高得驚人哩!他成了美國稿酬最高的評論家。但是,蒼天在上,他算什么評論家呀!英國人的評論文章寫得比他強。

        “可問題在于,他們唱的是迎合大眾的調子,而且唱得是那么堂皇、崇高和自得。他們的評論文章會讓我想起英國的禮拜日布教,不愧是頗得民意的傳話筒。他們和你的那些國語教授一唱一和,相互吹捧,他們腦袋瓜里沒有一丁點自己的獨到見解,只懂得正統思想——其實,他們自己的思想也是正統的。他們觀念淡薄,極易受到正統思想的影響,這就和把釀酒廠的標簽貼在啤酒瓶子上一樣簡單。他們的任務是把所有上大學的年輕人都控制在手中,清洗凈他們頭腦里可能有的獨特見解,然后打上正統思想的烙印?!?/p>

        “我擁護正統思想,而你狂怒暴烈得像一個反對崇拜偶像的南洋島國居民,相比較而言,我覺得我更接近真理?!彼卮鸬?。

        “反對偶像崇拜是傳教士的作為,”他笑著說,“可惜傳教士全跑到國外向異教徒傳教去了,要是國內留下一個,也可以向范德爾瓦特先生及普萊普斯先生這兩個古老的偶像開刀?!?/p>

        “還有大學里的教授呢?!彼a充說。

        他斷然地搖了搖了頭?!安?,應該讓理學教授活下來。他們是真正偉大的人。但如果能敲碎國語教授的腦殼,那才是好事呢,因為這些人十之八九都是思想狹隘、人云亦云的應聲蟲!”

        針對教授所發的這通言論未免有些尖刻,在露絲聽來簡直是褻瀆。她情不自禁地把那些干凈整潔、知識淵博、衣著稱體、說話的聲調抑揚有致、談吐文雅和富于教養的教授跟這個她鬼使神差般愛上的幾乎無法形容的年輕人放在一起比較了一番——這位年輕人穿著總不合體,發達的肌肉標示出艱辛的勞作,一說話就激動,不是心平氣和、態度冷靜,而是滿口臟話、語言刻薄。教授們至少掙著高工資——是啊,她強迫自己面對現實——屬于上等人,而他一個子兒也掙不來,和他們是兩個等級的人。

        她沒有掂量馬丁的話,也沒有根據他的話判斷他的觀點是否正確,而是拿表面現象做比較,認定他的看法是錯誤的——說實話,這是一種缺乏意識的結論。那些教授在文學上的見解之所以正確,是因為他們是成功者,馬丁的文學論點之所以錯誤,是因為他兜售不出自己的作品,用他自己的話形容,他們“干出了名堂”,而他一事無成。再說,不久之前他站在這間客廳里被別人介紹時還面紅耳赤、一臉窘相,驚恐地望著周圍的古玩,生怕自己一搖一晃的肩膀會把它們撞碎,而且還問起斯溫伯恩死了多久,大言不慚地宣稱自己讀過《精益求精》和《贊美生活》——這樣一個人的觀點要是正確,那才荒唐哩。

        露絲無意中證實了他的看法:她崇拜正統思想。馬丁理解她的思維方式,卻不愿追根問底。她怎樣尊崇普萊普斯、范德爾瓦特以及那些國語教授影響不到他對她的愛,但他愈來愈肯定地認識到她永遠也不會理解或知曉他的思想深度和知識范圍。

        談到音樂時,她覺得他不可理喻;論及歌劇,認為他不僅無法理喻,還剛愎自用,抱著錯誤的觀點不放。

        “你覺得怎么樣?”一天夜里,在看完歌劇回家的路上,她這樣問他。

        這天晚上的歌劇票是他用一個月來一口一口從嘴里省出的錢買下的。她原想等他發表看法,但不見動靜,而她自己被剛才看到和聽到的感動得渾身顫抖、情緒激昂,于是便問了以上的那句話。

        “我喜歡那支序曲,”對方答道,“真是好聽得很?!?/p>

        “是好聽,可歌劇本身怎么樣呢?”

        “也很好聽;我是說樂隊演奏得很好。要是那些蹦蹦跳跳的人不咋咋呼呼的,或者干脆走下臺,我聽歌劇的勁頭會更大些?!?/p>

        露絲一下子驚呆了。

        “你指的不是臺特拉蘭尼或巴利洛吧?”她問道。

        “指的是他們全體——全體演出人員?!?/p>

        “他們可是杰出的藝術家呀?!彼棺h道。

        “他們古里古怪,顯得很不真實,即便杰出的藝術家,也是在糟蹋音樂?!?/p>

        “難道你不喜歡巴利洛的歌喉?”露絲問,“據說,他僅次于卡魯索呀?!?/p>

        “我當然喜歡他,我還更喜歡臺特拉蘭尼哩。她的歌喉珠圓玉潤——起碼我是這樣想的?!?/p>

        “可是,可是——”露絲說話結巴起來,“我不明白你的意思。你欣賞他們的歌喉,卻又說他們糟蹋了音樂?!?/p>

        “正是這么回事。我希望能聽上他們的音樂會,然而卻一百個不愿意聽他們在樂隊演奏時歌唱??峙挛沂且粋€無可救藥的現實主義者。杰出的歌唱家不一定就是杰出的演員。在五光十色、余音繞梁的音樂伴奏下,聽巴利洛亮起天使般的歌喉唱段情歌,聽臺特拉蘭尼也像天使一樣同他對唱,那才叫人心醉神迷哩,簡直會飄飄欲仙。這可不是我的承認,而是我的強調。不過,要是看到其人,整個效果就破壞掉了——臺特拉蘭尼不穿鞋身高也有五英尺十英寸,體重高達一百九十磅;而巴利洛則高不足五英尺四英寸,臉上油光閃閃,胸脯厚實得像個五短身材的鐵匠;他們倆裝腔作勢,不是緊緊抱住自己的胸膛,就是像瘋人院里的瘋子把胳膊在空中胡揮亂舞。讓我把這一切幻想成苗條、美麗的公主和英俊、浪漫的年輕王子之間的愛情場景,我可是萬萬做不到??傊?,這太荒唐、太可笑、太不真實,問題就在于此。在這個世界上,絕沒有人那樣談情說愛。倘若我用這樣的方式和你談戀愛,你一定會摑我一耳光?!?/p>

        “你理解錯了,”露絲反駁道,“每一種藝術都有其局限性?!保ㄋ阉骺菽c地回憶著自己在上大學時所聽的關于藝術常規的講座。)“拿繪畫來說吧,畫面上只展現物體的二維性,但畫家卻運用藝術讓你產生錯覺,認為他畫中表現的是三維物體。再以寫作為例,作家必須無所不能,讓你覺得他對主人公心理的描繪是合情合理的,但實際上你也知道主人公心里考慮問題時并無他人在場,無論是作家還是別的任何人都聽不到主人公的聲音。戲劇、雕塑、歌劇——各種類型的藝術全都是這樣。有些不可調和的事物應該得到人們的接受?!?/p>

        “是的,這我明白,”馬丁說,“所有的藝術都有其常規?!保督z聽他使用這個字眼,不禁感到意外。仿佛他自己也上過大學,而非缺乏真才實學,只知道在圖書館里胡亂翻閱書刊。)“但就連常規也必須是真實的。把一棵棵樹畫在平面硬紙板上,豎在戲臺的兩側,我們可以把它們看作森林。這種常規是夠逼真的了。但話又說回來,我們不會把海洋景色視為森林。這是絕對不可能的,因為我們的感官不允許我們這樣做。你絕不會,或更確切地說,你不應該把今晚那兩個瘋子的狂呼亂吼、扭捏作態和痛苦的痙攣看作對愛情的真實刻畫?!?/p>

        “你難道自以為比所有的音樂鑒賞家都高明不成?”她不屑地問。

        “不,不,壓根就不是這么回事。我只是想保留我個人的看法罷了,我剛才講出自己的觀點,是想向你解釋臺特拉蘭尼夫人笨拙的表演是怎樣破壞了我對音樂的雅興,全世界的音樂鑒賞家也許都是對的,但我是我,我可不愿委曲求全去迎合整個人類一致的看法。如果我不喜歡一樣東西,那就是不喜歡;我無論如何也不會因為自己的大多數同胞喜歡或假裝喜歡,就做出一副喜歡的樣子。在這種事情上,我可不會趕時髦?!?/p>

        “可你知道,音樂涉及修養問題,”露絲不服氣地說,“歌劇更是如此。也許——”

        “也許我對歌劇缺乏修養吧?”他快言快語地打斷她的話說。她點了點頭。

        “正是這樣?!彼澩卣f,“我可自以為是幸運兒呢,因為我小時候沒有對歌劇入迷。要是真入迷,今天晚上鬧不定會灑下多愁善感的眼淚呢;看過那對寶貝的丑角戲,還會覺得他們的歌喉更優美、伴奏的音樂更動聽哩。你說得對,這多半涉及的是修養問題。我現在年齡太大了,必須看真實的東西,要不什么都不看。令人難以信服的假象顯然是騙人的把戲。當矮小的巴利洛發起神經來,把人高馬大的臺特拉蘭尼摟在懷里(她也在發神經),向她表白自己在愛著她時,我覺得大歌劇就是這種騙人的把戲?!?/p>

        露絲又在用表面現象做比較,并根據自己對正統思想的信仰衡量他的思想。他算老幾,難道就他一個是對的,而所有有教養的人都是錯的?他的話以及他的觀點對她絲毫不起作用。正統思想在她的腦海中已過于根深蒂固,所以她不會對創新的思想產生共鳴。她一直都在受著音樂的熏陶,打孩提時代就喜歡聽歌劇,她那個階層的人也都喜歡歌劇。馬丁·伊登剛剛從低劣的工人階級歌曲堆里走出來,有什么權利對世界一流的音樂說東說西呢?她對他感到惱火,走在他旁邊隱隱約約地滋生出些許憤恨的情緒。就算她懷有最寬大的胸懷,也頂多認為他的言論是任性的怪話及不合情理的玩笑。然而,當他在大門口把她擁入懷中,以溫柔的戀人方式對她吻別時,她心頭涌起一股對他的愛,忘掉了所有的齟齬。這天夜里,她躺在枕上難以成寐,腦子里想個不停(她近來常這樣),猜不透自己怎么會不顧家里人的反對愛上這樣一個怪人。

        次日,馬丁·伊登把手頭的文章擱置一旁,鼓足勁揮筆疾書,寫出了一篇名為《論假象》的論文。貼上郵票,這篇文章便上了路,而在以后的日月里,它注定還要貼許多郵票,還要進行許多趟這樣的旅行。

        用戶搜索

        瘋狂英語 英語語法 新概念英語 走遍美國 四級聽力 英語音標 英語入門 發音 美語 四級 新東方 七年級 賴世雄 zero是什么意思汕頭市華逸雅居英語學習交流群

        • 頻道推薦
        • |
        • 全站推薦
        • 推薦下載
        • 網站推薦
        91亚洲国产精品_一级a片欧美日本俄罗斯国产_在这里只有精品99_日韩国产图片区视频一区