第五十七章
菲利普来到了维多利亚车站，比米尔德丽德指定的时间差不多提早了半个小时。他坐在二等候车室里左等右盼，迟迟不见她来。他有点憋不住了，便起身步入车站，望着打郊区来的一列列火车。她定下的时间已经过了，还是不见她的人影。菲利普着急了，跑进另外几间候车室，四下张望。突然，他的心扑通地跳了一下。
"你在这儿！我还以为你不来了呢。"
"是知道要等那么多时间，我才不高兴来呢。我正在想还是回家算了。"
"可你说好是在二等候车室里等的啊。"
"我根本没那么说。我既然可以坐在一等候车室里，干吗要坐到二等候车室去等，你说呢？"
菲利普确信自己没听错，但他不再为自己辩解。他俩上了一辆出租马车。
"我们上哪儿吃饭？"她问。
"我想去阿德尔夫饭店。你看可合适？"
"随便上哪儿吃饭，我全不在乎。"
米尔德丽德没好气地说。刚才她空等了好半天，憋了一肚子火，这会儿菲利普想同她拉话，她嗯嗯噢噢地爱理不理。她身上披了件深色粗料的长斗篷，头上裹条钩针编织的围巾。他们来到餐馆，在一张餐桌旁就了座。她满意地环顾四周。餐桌上的烛灯，一律罩着红色的灯罩，餐室里镶金嵌银，满目琳琅，再加上一面面大玻璃镜，显得金碧辉煌，气派豪华。
"我还是头一回来这儿。"
米尔德丽德朝菲利普粲然一笑。她脱下斗篷，只见她穿着一袭淡蓝色方领外衣，头发比往常梳得更加考究。他点的是香槟酒，酒菜端上餐桌时，米尔德丽德的眼睛熠熠放光。
"你会喝醉的，"她说。
"就因为我要的是香槟吗？"他用满不在乎的口吻问，那言下之意似乎是，他向来是非此酒而不喝的。
"那天你邀我上戏院，我着实吃了一惊。"
双方谈得不怎么投机，米尔德丽德似乎没什么要说的，而菲利普因为自己没本事把她逗乐而感到惴惴不安。米尔德丽德心不在焉地听着他说话，一双眼睛却忙着左顾右盼，打量其他顾客，她显然无意于装出对菲利普感兴趣的样子。菲利普偶尔同她开一两个玩笑，她却当真了，朝他虎起了脸。只有在菲利普谈起餐馆里其他女招待的时候，她才稍微显得活跃些。米尔德丽德非常讨厌店里的那个女经理，她在菲利普面前一五一十地数说着女经理的种种不端行为。
"我怎么也跟她合不来，特别是她那副臭架子，真叫人受不了。有时候，我真想当着她的面把事情抖出来，她别以为我不知道她的底细。"
"什么事呀？"菲利普问。
"嗯，有一回我偶然听人说起，她常跟一个男人到伊斯特本去度周木。我们店里的一个姑娘，她姐姐已经成家，有回她同丈夫一块儿去伊斯特本，碰巧撞见了我们店的女经理。女经理和她同住在一家旅店里。别看她手上戴着结婚戒指，至少我知道她根本没结过婚。"
菲利普给她的杯于斟得满满的，希望她喝了香槟酒会变得热乎些，心中巴望这次出游能就此打开局面。他注意到她拿餐刀的样子，就像握笔杆似的，而她举杯呷洒时，那根兰花似的小拇指怡然翘起。菲利普一连换了好几个话题，就是没法从米尔德丽德嘴里多掏出几句话来，再想想她在店里同那德国佬一起谈天说地，嘻嘻哈哈的快活劲儿，真叫人又气又恼。吃完晚饭，他们一块儿儿上戏院。菲利普是个颇有点修养的年轻人，根本不把喜歌剧放在眼里。他觉得戏里的噱头轻浮庸俗，不登大雅之堂，而音乐的曲调又太浅露，不堪回味。在这方面，法国的喜歌剧似乎要高明得多。然而米尔德丽德却看得津津有味，每看到发噱之处，笑得连腰都直不起来，而且不时瞟上菲利普一眼，分明是想同他交换一下领会个中妙处的眼色，同时还一面欣喜若狂地拍着手。
"我已是第七次上这儿来了，"第一幕结束后，她说，"就是再来这么七回，我也不嫌多。"
米尔德丽德对周围头等座里的妇人很感兴趣。她点给菲利普看，哪些是脸上涂了脂粉的，哪些是头上戴了假发的。
"这些西区的娘儿们真要不得，"她说，"我不懂她们戴了那么个玩意儿，怎么受得了，"她把手放在自己的头发上。"我的头发可根根都是自个儿的。"
剧场里没有一个是她看得上眼的，不管提到哪个，她都要讲几句坏话。菲利普听了觉得很不是滋味。他想，说不定到了明天她会在店里的姑娘面前，说他带她出去玩过了，而且他这个人乏味至极等等。他对米尔德丽德很反感，然而不知道为什么，他就是要同她呆在一起。在回家的路上，菲利普问她：
"但愿你今天玩得很尽兴？"
"那还用说。"
"改天晚上再和我一块儿出去走走，好吗？"
"我没意见。"
她总是说些这类阴阳怪气的话。她那种冷冰冰的神情简直把菲利普气疯了。
"听你说话的口气，似乎去不去都无所谓。"
"哦，你不带我去，自有别人会来约我。我从来就不愁没人陪我上戏院。"
菲利普不吭声了。他们来到车站，菲利普朝票房走去。
"我有月票，"她说。
"我想要是你不介意，让我送你回家吧，这会儿时间很晚了。"
"要是这样能让你高兴，我也没意见。"
菲利普给她买了张单程头等票，给自己买了一张往返票。
"嗯，我得说，你这个人倒是挺大方的，"在菲利普推开车厢门时，她说。
其他的旅客陆续进了车厢，菲利普只得闭上嘴，他自己也不知道心里是高兴还是懊丧。他们在赫尼希尔下了车，菲利普一直陪她走到她住的那条街的街角上。
"就送到这儿吧，晚安，"她边说边伸出了手。"你最好别跑到我家门门来。人言可畏哪，我可不喜欢让别人嚼舌头。"
她道了声晚安，旋即匆匆离去。浓浓的夜色之中，那条白围巾仍依稀可见。他想她也许会转过身来，但她连头也没回。菲利普留神看她进了某一所房子，随即走上前去打量了一番。那是一幢普普通通的黄砖住屋，整洁且小巧，同街面上的其他小屋一模一样。他在外面逗留了几分钟，不一会儿，顶层窗户里的灯光灭了。菲利普慢腾腾地踱回车站。这一晚算个啥名堂。他又气又恼，心里说不出有多窝囊。
菲利普躺在床上，似乎仍看到米尔德丽德的身影：她坐在车厢的角落里，头上兜着那条钩针编织的围巾。从现在算起，还要过好几个小时才能同她再次见面。真不知道该如何打发这段时间才好。他睡意蒙咙地想到她那张瘦削的脸庞，纤巧的五官，还有那苍白而微呈绿色的肌肤。虽说同她呆在一起并不感到快活，可是一旦离开了她，却感到痛苦不堪。他渴望坐在她身旁，望着她，抚摸她的身体，他想要……那念头刚迷迷糊糊冒出来，还没来得及细想下去，脑子就豁然清醒了……他要吻她那张没有血色的小嘴，吻她那两片薄薄的嘴唇。他终于明白过来：自己已爱上她了。他简直不敢相信竟会有这种事。
他过去常常憧憬着爱神的降临，脑子里不止一遍地展现过这样一幕情景：他看到自己翩然步入舞厅，目光停留在一小群正在聊天的男女来宾身上，其中一位女郎转过身来，双眸凝视着自己。他觉得喉头阵阵发紧，粗气直喘，而且知道那女郎也在喘着粗气。他收住脚步，纹丝不动。她身材修长，肤色黝黑，亭亭玉立，楚楚动人，一双明眸像夜一样黑，一身舞服像雪一样白，乌黑的云鬓之中，钻石在熠熠闪光。他俩四目对视，旁若无人。菲利普径直朝她走去，她也挪开轻盈的脚步迎上前来。他俩都感到寒暄客套已属多余。菲利普对她说：
"我一生都在把你寻找。"
"你终于来到了我跟前，"她喃喃地说。
"愿意和我跳舞吗？"
菲利普张开双手，女郎迎上前去，两人一道翩翩起舞。（菲利普总把自己想象成身无足疾之累的）她舞姿轻盈如仙女。
"和我跳过舞的人当中，谁也不像你跳得这么出色，"她说。
她改变了原来的安排，整个晚上只陪菲利普一个跳舞。
"我真幸运，幸亏我一直在等待着你，"菲利普对她说，"我心里明白，早晚会遇到你的。"
舞厅里的人全都看傻了眼。他俩全不在意，丝毫不想掩藏自己内心的激情。最后，他们步入花园之中，菲利普把一件轻巧的斗篷披搭在她的肩头，扶她上了一辆正在等候的马车。他们赶上了午夜去巴黎的火车。火车载着他们穿过万籁俱寂、星光灿烂的黑夜，朝着未知的远方疾驰而去……
他沉浸在他旧日的罗曼蒂克的幻想之中。他怎么会爱上米尔德丽德·罗杰斯这样的女人呢？似乎根本不可能。她的名字古怪可笑。菲利普嫌她长得不漂亮，而且人也太瘦了点。就在那天晚上他还注意到，她因"为穿上了夜礼眼，胸骨明显地鼓突出来。菲利普将她的面部五官逐一品'评过去，他不喜欢那张嘴，那病态的肤色也隐隐激起他的反感。她人品平庸，毫无特色。她词汇贫乏，谈吐无味，颠来倒去就是那么几句言词，这正是她心灵空虚的表现。菲利普想起她在观看喜歌剧时怎么被那些噱头逗得格格直笑--笑得那么粗俗；想起她举杯呷酒时如何有意翘起那根兰花小指。她的举止如同她的谈吐，故作斯文，令人作呕。菲利普还想起。她平日里那股盛气凌人的神气，有时候他恨不得劈面给她两巴掌，可是突然他自己也不晓得是何缘故一也许是因为想到要揍她，或者是因为想一到她那对漂亮的小耳朵--他被一股突如其来的感情冲动紧紧攫住。他涌起万股缱绻之情，想象着自己如何把她那娇弱瘦小的身子紧紧搂在怀里，并亲吻那两片苍白的嘴唇。他要用手抚摸她那微微发青的脸颊。他多需要她啊。
菲利普一直把爱情看作是令人销魂的温柔之乡，总以为一旦堕入了情网，整个世界就会变得像春天那样美好，他一直在期待着那种令人心醉神迷的欢乐。谁知现在，爱情给他带来的却不是欢乐，而是心灵的饥渴，是痛苦的思念，是极度的苦恼--这种滋味是他有生以来从未尝到过的。
菲利普竭力回想，爱情的种于到底是何时何日撒进他的心田里来的。他自己也说不清。只记得最初几回去那点心店，并不觉得怎么的。可这以后，每去一回，心底里便涌起一阵莫可名状的感觉。那是心灵在隐隐作痛。而且，每当米尔德丽德对他说话的时候，他不知怎么地总觉得喉头紧收，连气都喘不过来。假如说，她一从他身边走开，给他留下的便是苦恼，那么，每当她出现在他面前的时候，给他带来的则是绝望。
菲利普像条狗那样仰肢八叉地躺在床上，心里暗暗纳闷：这种永无休止的心灵的痛楚，自己如何忍受得了。
Philip arrived at Victoria Station nearly half an hour before the time which Mildred had appointed, and sat down in the second-class waiting-room. He waited and she did not come. He began to grow anxious, and walked into the station watching the incoming suburban trains; the hour which she had fixed passed, and still there was no sign of her. Philip was impatient. He went into the other waiting-rooms and looked at the people sitting in them. Suddenly his heart gave a great thud.
‘There you are. I thought you were never coming.’
‘I like that after keeping me waiting all this time. I had half a mind to go back home again.’
‘But you said you’d come to the second-class waiting-room.’
‘I didn’t say any such thing. It isn’t exactly likely I’d sit in the second-class room when I could sit in the first is it?’
Though Philip was sure he had not made a mistake, he said nothing, and they got into a cab.
‘Where are we dining?’ she asked.
‘I thought of the Adelphi Restaurant. Will that suit you?’
‘I don’t mind where we dine.’
She spoke ungraciously. She was put out by being kept waiting and answered Philip’s attempt at conversation with monosyllables. She wore a long cloak of some rough, dark material and a crochet shawl over her head. They reached the restaurant and sat down at a table. She looked round with satisfaction. The red shades to the candles on the tables, the gold of the decorations, the looking-glasses, lent the room a sumptuous air.
‘I’ve never been here before.’
She gave Philip a smile. She had taken off her cloak; and he saw that she wore a pale blue dress, cut square at the neck; and her hair was more elaborately arranged than ever. He had ordered champagne and when it came her eyes sparkled.
‘You are going it,’ she said.
‘Because I’ve ordered fiz?’ he asked carelessly, as though he never drank anything else.
‘I WAS surprised when you asked me to do a theatre with you.’ Conversation did not go very easily, for she did not seem to have much to say; and Philip was nervously conscious that he was not amusing her. She listened carelessly to his remarks, with her eyes on other diners, and made no pretence that she was interested in him. He made one or two little jokes, but she took them quite seriously. The only sign of vivacity he got was when he spoke of the other girls in the shop; she could not bear the manageress and told him all her misdeeds at length.
‘I can’t stick her at any price and all the air she gives herself. Sometimes I’ve got more than half a mind to tell her something she doesn’t think I know anything about.’
‘What is that?’ asked Philip.
‘Well, I happen to know that she’s not above going to Eastbourne with a man for the week-end now and again. One of the girls has a married sister who goes there with her husband, and she’s seen her. She was staying at the same boarding-house, and she ‘ad a wedding-ring on, and I know for one she’s not married.’
Philip filled her glass, hoping that champagne would make her more affable; he was anxious that his little jaunt should be a success. He noticed that she held her knife as though it were a pen-holder, and when she drank protruded her little finger. He started several topics of conversation, but he could get little out of her, and he remembered with irritation that he had seen her talking nineteen to the dozen and laughing with the German. They finished dinner and went to the play. Philip was a very cultured young man, and he looked upon musical comedy with scorn. He thought the jokes vulgar and the melodies obvious; it seemed to him that they did these things much better in France; but Mildred enjoyed herself thoroughly; she laughed till her sides ached, looking at Philip now and then when something tickled her to exchange a glance of pleasure; and she applauded rapturously.
‘This is the seventh time I’ve been,’ she said, after the first act, ‘and I don’t mind if I come seven times more.’
She was much interested in the women who surrounded them in the stalls. She pointed out to Philip those who were painted and those who wore false hair.
‘It is horrible, these West-end people,’ she said. ‘I don’t know how they can do it.’ She put her hand to her hair. ‘Mine’s all my own, every bit of it.’
She found no one to admire, and whenever she spoke of anyone it was to say something disagreeable. It made Philip uneasy. He supposed that next day she would tell the girls in the shop that he had taken her out and that he had bored her to death. He disliked her, and yet, he knew not why, he wanted to be with her. On the way home he asked:
‘I hope you’ve enjoyed yourself?’
‘Rather.’
‘Will you come out with me again one evening?’
‘I don’t mind.’
He could never get beyond such expressions as that. Her indifference maddened him.
‘That sounds as if you didn’t much care if you came or not.’
‘Oh, if you don’t take me out some other fellow will. I need never want for men who’ll take me to the theatre.’
Philip was silent. They came to the station, and he went to the booking-office.
‘I’ve got my season,’ she said.
‘I thought I’d take you home as it’s rather late, if you don’t mind.’
‘Oh, I don’t mind if it gives you any pleasure.’
He took a single first for her and a return for himself.
‘Well, you’re not mean, I will say that for you,’ she said, when he opened the carriage-door.
Philip did not know whether he was pleased or sorry when other people entered and it was impossible to speak. They got out at Herne Hill, and he accompanied her to the corner of the road in which she lived.
‘I’ll say good-night to you here,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘You’d better not come up to the door. I know what people are, and I don’t want to have anybody talking.’
She said good-night and walked quickly away. He could see the white shawl in the darkness. He thought she might turn round, but she did not. Philip saw which house she went into, and in a moment he walked along to look at it. It was a trim, common little house of yellow brick, exactly like all the other little houses in the street. He stood outside for a few minutes, and presently the window on the top floor was darkened. Philip strolled slowly back to the station. The evening had been unsatisfactory. He felt irritated, restless, and miserable.
When he lay in bed he seemed still to see her sitting in the corner of the railway carriage, with the white crochet shawl over her head. He did not know how he was to get through the hours that must pass before his eyes rested on her again. He thought drowsily of her thin face, with its delicate features, and the greenish pallor of her skin. He was not happy with her, but he was unhappy away from her. He wanted to sit by her side and look at her, he wanted to touch her, he wanted... the thought came to him and he did not finish it, suddenly he grew wide awake... he wanted to kiss the thin, pale mouth with its narrow lips. The truth came to him at last. He was in love with her. It was incredible.
He had often thought of falling in love, and there was one scene which he had pictured to himself over and over again. He saw himself coming into a ball-room; his eyes fell on a little group of men and women talking; and one of the women turned round. Her eyes fell upon him, and he knew that the gasp in his throat was in her throat too. He stood quite still. She was tall and dark and beautiful with eyes like the night; she was dressed in white, and in her black hair shone diamonds; they stared at one another, forgetting that people surrounded them. He went straight up to her, and she moved a little towards him. Both felt that the formality of introduction was out of place. He spoke to her.
‘I’ve been looking for you all my life,’ he said.
‘You’ve come at last,’ she murmured.
‘Will you dance with me?’
She surrendered herself to his outstretched hands and they danced. (Philip always pretended that he was not lame.) She danced divinely.
‘I’ve never danced with anyone who danced like you,’ she said.
She tore up her programme, and they danced together the whole evening.
‘I’m so thankful that I waited for you,’ he said to her. ‘I knew that in the end I must meet you.’
People in the ball-room stared. They did not care. They did not wish to hide their passion. At last they went into the garden. He flung a light cloak over her shoulders and put her in a waiting cab. They caught the midnight train to Paris; and they sped through the silent, star-lit night into the unknown.
He thought of this old fancy of his, and it seemed impossible that he should be in love with Mildred Rogers. Her name was grotesque. He did not think her pretty; he hated the thinness of her, only that evening he had noticed how the bones of her chest stood out in evening-dress; he went over her features one by one; he did not like her mouth, and the unhealthiness of her colour vaguely repelled him. She was common. Her phrases, so bald and few, constantly repeated, showed the emptiness of her mind; he recalled her vulgar little laugh at the jokes of the musical comedy; and he remembered the little finger carefully extended when she held her glass to her mouth; her manners like her conversation, were odiously genteel. He remembered her insolence; sometimes he had felt inclined to box her ears; and suddenly, he knew not why, perhaps it was the thought of hitting her or the recollection of her tiny, beautiful ears, he was seized by an uprush of emotion. He yearned for her. He thought of taking her in his arms, the thin, fragile body, and kissing her pale mouth: he wanted to pass his fingers down the slightly greenish cheeks. He wanted her.
He had thought of love as a rapture which seized one so that all the world seemed spring-like, he had looked forward to an ecstatic happiness; but this was not happiness; it was a hunger of the soul, it was a painful yearning, it was a bitter anguish, he had never known before. He tried to think when it had first come to him. He did not know. He only remembered that each time he had gone into the shop, after the first two or three times, it had been with a little feeling in the heart that was pain; and he remembered that when she spoke to him he felt curiously breathless. When she left him it was wretchedness, and when she came to him again it was despair.
He stretched himself in his bed as a dog stretches himself. He wondered how he was going to endure that ceaseless aching of his soul.