Chapter 8 Chapter 8 scored twice

1 Riding a train is one of the pleasures of my life.The sad thing is that no one has that kind of close affection for it now that is like a good friend.I boarded a reserved sleeper car at Calais, thus avoiding Dover and the exhaustion of the ship, and settled comfortably at last on the train of my dreams.Only then did I realize the dangers lurking in the journey from the start.I was in the same carriage as a middle-aged lady, a well-dressed, experienced traveler, with a great many suitcases and hat-boxes.She struck up a conversation with me.This was natural, since we shared a compartment, which had two berths like other second-class compartments.In some respects, second-class cars are much more comfortable than first-class cars because of the large space and room for movement.

My companion asked where I was going.I told to go to Baghdad.She immediately became excited.She happened to live in Baghdad.She concluded that I was staying with friends there, and said she probably knew them too.I can't tell my friend's house. "Where do you live? You're not going to Baghdad for a hotel?" Why not?Otherwise, what's the use of a hotel?I at least murmured it in my heart, but I didn't say it. "Ah! You can't live in a hotel. Don't do that. I tell you what to do: come to us!" I'm a little surprised. This Mrs. C told me that her husband was in Baghdad, and she herself was one of the earliest residents there.

What can I say?Just had to thank you again and add that my plans are not yet finalized.Fortunately, Mrs. C. did not go the whole way with me, thank God, because she was always full of words. The trip was as expected.After passing Trieste, the train passes through Yugoslavia and the Balkan Peninsula. Looking out of the window, there is a world with a different scenery in front of you, which is full of strange charm: passing through the canyon, looking at the ox carts and chic freight cars, examining the Crowds on the platforms; getting out occasionally in Nice and Belgrade to look around and watch the old front end replaced by a new behemoth painted with vastly different letters and symbols.Naturally, I got to know a few more people during the trip, and the gratifying thing is that none of them are as fussy as the first one.I met successively an American missionary, a Dutch engineer, and several Turkish women, and the day passed happily.The last one could hardly talk to each other, and we only exchanged a few broken words in French.I found myself visibly disfigured by having only one child and it was a girl.Thirteen times this boastful Turkish lady had three or four miscarriages.

Only by traveling can you realize how caring and kind people are in the big world, and of course not everything goes the way you want.The missionary woman urged me to take my stomach medicine: she brought plenty of Epsom salts.The Dutch engineer berated me sternly about where I lived in Istanbul, and he warned me that the city was not safe: "You have to be careful. You live in England, you are a well-bred woman, you will always have a husband or relatives to protect you. When you are away from home Don't believe what people say. Don't go to entertainment unless you know where it's taking you." In fact, he thought I was an ignorant seventeen-year-old.I thanked him and told him I would be more careful.

In order to avoid these dangers, he invited me to dinner on the night of his arrival. "Go to the Tocatrian Hotel," he said, "it's a nice hotel. It's pretty safe there. I'll pick you up at nine and take you to a nice restaurant, that's all. It was run by Russian ladies, well-born White Russian women.They cook superbly and behave very well in restaurants. " The next day, he came to me after finishing his business.Take me to see several places of interest in Istanbul and find me a guide. "Don't hire a guide from Cooks' company. He charges too much. I assure you this guide is very decent."

We had another pleasant evening amidst the Russian lady's shuttles, suave smiles and condescending attitude to my engineer friend.Later, he showed me several places in Istanbul, and finally sent me back to the Tocatrian Hotel.The two of us stopped at the door, "I think so," he stared at me inquiringly, "I think now..." After he estimated my possible reaction, the kind of inquiry became more obvious .Then he sighed and said, "Not asking. I think it would be wiser not to ask." "I think you're very clever," I said, "and quite a friend."

He held my hand emotionally, brought it to his lips and kissed it, and then disappeared from my life forever.He is a decent man, and I should thank him for his kind arrangement for my viewing of the sights of Istanbul. The next day, an agent of the Cooks Company invited me in the most traditional way, and took us across the Bosporus to Haida Pasha for another trip on the Orient Express.I was glad to have a guide by my side, because Haida Pasha station immediately reminds one of a madhouse.Everyone was yelling, screaming, and banging for the customs officials to clear.I've learned what a Cooks & Co. guide can do.

"Give me a pound, please," he said.I gave him a pound.Then he jumped onto the customs bench, waving the bill high and shouting, "Here, here." His shout paid off.A customs officer in a gold sash came running towards us and marked my luggage with chalk.Said to me, "Have a pleasant journey," and then drove away those who did not do so. "I've arranged for you to get into the car," said the guide from Cooks & Co. "So?" I didn't know how much to tip, but when I pulled out the Turkish currency, he said indisputably: "You'd better keep the money, it will be useful. Just give me another pound." Although I was a little hesitant, but thinking of being in the wrong and gaining wisdom, I handed him a pound, and he saluted to express his gratitude , turned around and left.

From Europe to Asia, there is an indescribable difference.Time seemed to lose its meaning.The train travels leisurely along the Sea of ​​Marmara, passing through mountains and ridges, and the scenery along the way is charming.The passengers in the carriages also became various, although it is difficult to describe their characteristics.I feel lifeless, but increasingly interested in what I do and where I go.Every time the train stops at a station, I look around the platform and see people in all kinds of clothes, and country people squeeze on the platform, selling cooked food that I have never seen before to the passengers on the train.Kebabs, food wrapped in leaves, colorfully painted eggs, you name it.The farther east the train traveled, the more unpalatable the meal became, and every meal was a greasy and tasteless hot meal.

The next night, the train stopped and people alighted to see the Silesian Gate Castle.It's an indescribable moment.I will never forget it.Later, when I traveled to and from the Near East, I passed by this place more than once. Due to different train numbers, I got off at different times: sometimes in the early morning, when the scenery is really spectacular; sometimes, like the first time, at six o’clock in the evening; sometimes Sadly at midnight.I had good luck the first time.I got out of the car with the others.stand there.The setting sun is gradually setting in the west, and the scenery is beautiful.I am so happy to be here, filled with joy and gratitude.After I returned to the car, the whistle blew, and the train circled down the valley, passed through the mountain stream, and emerged from the valley below the mountain.In this way, the train slowly passed through Turkey and entered Syria from Aleppo.

-------- ①A mountain pass in the Taurus Mountains in southern Turkey. - Annotation Before arriving in Aleppo, I hit a bad luck.I got bitten by bedbugs.I've been especially vulnerable to this bug all my life.They hide in old-fashioned wooden carriages, greedily sucking the blood of the passengers on board.My temperature rose to 102c (Fahrenheit, translator's note), and my arms were swollen.I had a high fever, a headache, and felt miserable.However, my French friend helped me a lot: he got out of the car and bought some grapes, the small sweet grapes that are a local specialty.Although my mother and aunt taught me to wash food before eating abroad, I forgot about it.Every quarter of an hour, I eat some grapes.This made me a lot less hot.I have no appetite for anything else.The French friend broke up with me in Aleppo, and by the next day, the swelling had lessened and I felt much better. I've had another tedious day on the train, which seems to be crawling at five miles an hour at all times.And always stop at the unknown small station with no change in the environment.The train finally reached Damascus.There was an uproar in the station, and the porter snatched my luggage.shouted.When I got out of the station, I saw a beautiful car with the words Oriental Palace Hotel written on it.A handsome man in uniform rescued me and my luggage.I got into the car with a few other bewildered travelers, and the car drove to the hotel, where a room was reserved for me.The hotel is magnificent, with a spacious living room, the marble is shining, but the electric lights are too dim to see the surroundings. I remember that I stayed in Damascus for three days. During this period, I was guided by Kukes company as planned and toured around.once.I went to see a Crusader castle with an elderly priest and an American engineer who knew nothing about the Near East.We met for the first time in the car at 8:30.The old pastor had kind eyes and regarded me and the American engineer as husband and wife. The old preacher gushed about the virtues of married life, the need to take and give, and wished us happiness.We didn't explain much, or tried to explain, but the old pastor looked upset when the American engineer told him loudly in his ear that we were not husband and wife and that it was best not to mind other people's business. "But you should get married." He insisted on his opinion, shook his head and said, "Concubine, you know, it's not appropriate, it's really not appropriate." I went to see lovely Bellerbeck, the market and Straight Street, where I bought a lot of lovely locally made brass cutlery. I estimate that there are very few such old craftsmen and families left in Damascus today: they have been replaced by factories.At that time, inlaid wooden chests and tables were commonplace, imitated everywhere, and still handmade, using traditional patterns and techniques. Further excursions only strengthened my determination to return to Damascus, and I visited many places in Damascus.subsequently.I embarked on a journey across the Bohai Sea to Baghdad.At this time, the travel affairs were undertaken by the Nairn Transport Company.The company has a fleet of six-wheeled vehicles and is run by brothers Gerry and Norman Ness.He is originally from Australia and is very forthright.I met them the night before my departure. The car leaves at dawn.Two burly young drivers were busy.They were busy stuffing some rifles into the car and covering them with an armful of blankets when I came out after the luggage when a group came to the steps of the hotel.To my surprise, but not necessarily to my delight, the lead was none other than Mrs. C., who parted ways in Trieste.I thought she was already in Baghdad because of my wandering around here. "I guess you will go this route," she greeted me with a smile on her face, "everything is arranged, I will take you to Alvea, any hotel in Baghdad is not suitable for you" what else can I say what?I seem to be trapped in a cage.I've never been to Baghdad, let alone a hotel there.For all I know, they can be a smoky mess, full of bedbugs, fleas, lice, snakes, and that gray beetle that I particularly loathe.So I had to stammer my thanks.We settled down, and I realized that the "Duchess of Alvea" was my friend, Madame C.She refused to sit in her seat, which was near the rear, where she would get motion sickness.She will sit behind the driver.And that seat had been reserved by an Arab woman a week earlier.The Arab woman got into the car and refused to give up her seat, and her husband assisted her.Then there was a lot of chatter.A French woman would sit there, too, and a German general seemed interested.I don't know what the fuss was about, but the way things are, the weaker of the four lost his good seat and was driven to the back of the car.The German generals, the French and the Arab women put on their sand masks, and Mrs. C stayed victorious.I never argue and I don't take my time, but my seat number is actually ideal. The car leaves on time.I watched the car rumble through the yellow desert, the rolling dunes and the Gobi desert. The monotonous scenery finally made me drowsy, and I opened a book casually.I never get motion sickness, but now the seat is close to the rear of the car, and the bumps of the six-wheeled car are like a ship on the sea. Just reading a book in the bumps, I get motion sickness unconsciously, and it is very severe.I felt ashamed, but Mrs. C told me considerately that motion sickness is often unexpected, and she will take care of finding me a seat near the front next time. The forty-eight-hour journey across the desert is both enthralling and foreboding. People have a strange feeling at this time, as if they are shrouded in a vacuum.The first thing that touched me deeply was that at noon, there was no way to tell the difference between east, west and north. It is said that it is at this time that huge six-wheeled vehicles often lose their way. Between Damascus and Baghdad there is nothing but the desert of Khoque, and there are no signposts at all.There is only one release station in the long journey, Rutba Castle. Arrived there around midnight, estimated.In the dark night, a flickering light suddenly appeared, and it was time to arrive at the post station.The gate of the castle was opened, and the muzzle of the black hole beside the door pointed at us vigilantly. It was the soldiers of the camel caravan on guard, beware of bandits disguised as tourists.Their dark, rugged faces are terrifying.We were let into the castle after careful inspection, and the gate was slammed shut behind us.There were several rooms with beds in it. Five or six of us women rested in one room for three hours and then set off again. It was about five or six o'clock in the morning, when the dawn was slightly dewed, we had breakfast.The desert is covered with a layer of sunrise, lavender, apricot yellow and azure blue, coupled with the cold air, it makes people feel amazing.This is exactly the beauty of a good day that I can only dream of.It makes people forget the world.Facing the pure and refreshing air in the morning.Quiet, without even hearing the birdsong, the fine sand flows from the fingers, and the sun rises in the distance. At this time, I am tasting sausages and tea.What else do you want in life?The car continued to move forward, and finally came to Felucha on the banks of the Euphrates River, and crossed the river on a pontoon bridge built by boats.Pass the aviation maintenance depot in Habania and continue until you come into view of palm groves and a raised road.Go forward and cross another pontoon bridge, cross the Tigris River, and enter the city of Baghdad. The first thing you see is a road with precarious buildings on both sides. There seems to be a turquoise dome standing in the street. beautiful mosque. I never had a chance to see how the hotel was doing. Mrs. C and her husband took me into a comfortable car.Driving along Baghdad, passing the statue of General Mode, out of the city, the road is lined with palm trees, and groups of beautiful black buffalo are swimming in the pond.It is completely different from the scenery just now. 2 In Baghdad, they treated me very warmly.Everyone lives in harmony and lives happily.I am ashamed that I ever had the premonition that I was in a fence.Alvea is now a part of the downtown area, with its constant flow of cars and other forms of transportation, but at the time it was miles away from the center of the city. one day.I hitched a ride to Buffalo for a tour.The town can still be seen today when entering Baghdad by train from the north.To strangers, it looks—looks like a place of terror.The dilapidated houses, the huge pens full of buffaloes and dung, smell bad, and the shacks made of petrol cans make people believe that this is the epitome of poverty and shame.But the reality is far from that.The owners of the buffalo lived well enough, in spite of their shabbiness, that a buffalo cost well over a hundred pounds, and much more nowadays.The owner of the buffalo considered himself very lucky when the women walked through the mud.Beautiful silver anklets and turquoises are visible on the ankles. It was not long before I heard it said that everything seen in the Near East had to be discounted. The rules of a person's life and behavior, observation and action, have to be re-studied upside down.Seeing a man gesturing rudely to you to go away, you run away.In fact he is inviting you over.On the other hand, if he waves to you, it means to let you go away.There were two people standing face to face from a distance, yelling at each other, as if they would kill each other immediately, but they were not.It was the brothers passing the time in boredom, raising their voices because neither of them bothered to take the two steps forward. The people of Alvea treated me extremely well.Play tennis, drive to the races, take me sightseeing, shop, I feel like I'm in England.Geographically, I am in Baghdad, but spiritually I am still in England; the idea of ​​my travel is to leave England to see exotic scenery.I decided I had to change my mind. I am going to visit Ur.I inquired and was delighted to find that instead of holding me back, they encouraged me to go.The trip was all arranged, and it brought a lot of unnecessary decorations. I set off on time.I stared at the guy carrying my stuff with a little bit of wariness.He was tall and slender, and he had the air of having accompanied the ladies all over the Near East, knowing better than they themselves what to do.Dressed in bright clothes, he put me in the bare and ill-suited compartment, saluted me, and left.Before leaving, he explained to me that he would come and take me to the restaurant on the platform at the appropriate station. The hour at which I traveled by train to Ur station varied in those years, but the time was always by accident.This time around five in the morning.In a place as fruitful as Ur's archaeological digs, where people are busy every minute, it is most annoying to have a lot of interesting women hanging around.The Woolleys keep a tight schedule.Tourists travel in groups, escorted by guides to places worth seeing, and then hurried back.I was treated as a distinguished guest and received warmly, for which I should be doubly grateful. This preferential treatment is entirely due to the fact that Leonard Woolley's wife, Catherine Woolley, has just read my The Murder of Roger Ackroyd.She raved about the book, so I was treated like an important person. She also asked other travelers in her group if they had read the book, and if anyone hadn't, she highly recommended it. Leonard Woolley graciously accompanied me on my tour, and Father Burrows, a Jesuit priest and epigrapher, also showed me around.The man was a singular man, and his way of describing things was an interesting contrast to Mr. Woolley's.Leonard Woolley saw everything with imaginative eyes: the place seemed to him what it looked like fifteen hundred years ago or earlier.Everywhere we went, he made it come alive.When he explained, I would have no doubt that the house in one corner was the house of Abraham.This is his re-creation of history, and he believes in it so deeply that anyone who hears him will believe his explanation.Father Burrows' eloquence came out in a very different way.He always described a courtyard, a church, or a business district in a defensive tone. He told me at lunch one time that he thought I could write a good detective story, and he urged me to do it.Until then, I was completely unaware of his love of detective novels.The story he outlined, although in fact it is still an outline, has more or less depicted a tortuous picture of the story, and I made up my mind to start writing one day.After many years, about twenty-five years later, suddenly one day, this complete story reappeared in my mind.So I put it together and wrote a long short story.Father Burrows was long dead by then, but I hope he is alive, and I adopted his idea with deep gratitude.Like any writer, I incorporated it in my ideas, his traces are hard to see, but his inspiration is the source of this novel. Catherine Woolley later became my best friend.She is an unusual person.One half of the people hated her and the other half adored her, perhaps because her moods were erratic and difficult to grasp.One thing I know for sure is that if you need to go with a woman to the desert, or any other place where there is no fun, she will spice up your trip more than anyone.What she talks about is definitely not a glass of boiled water, she will urge you to consider the problem along a new way of thinking.She doesn't put on airs, but if she wants to please you, she can do it. I fell in love with this place of Ur.The beautiful scenery in the evening, towering pagoda-style buildings, half-shadowed by the setting sun, and the vast sea of ​​sand are changing colors every moment, apricot yellow, rose red, azure blue, and purple red. I love the craftsmen there, the staff in charge, Basket-carrying children, archaeological excavators, their craft and life.The allure of history has absorbed my soul.There is something very romantic about seeing a gleaming dagger slowly unearthed from the sand.Looking at the clay pots and other utensils carefully lifted out of the sand made me also want to be an archaeologist on a whim.How unlucky I have been living a meaningless life, I thought.At this time, I recall with shame that when I was a girl in Cairo, my mother urged me to go to Luxor and Aswan to see the glorious history of Egypt, but I was obsessed with dating boys and dancing until the early morning.I think it's not too late now. Catherine Woolley told my servant to go back to Baghdad first, saying it was uncertain when I would return.In this way, I could return to Baghdad without the attention of the enthusiastic hostess, and thus stayed at the Tigris Palace Hotel without any scruples. That hotel was no less.First through the gloom, which is the lounge and dining room, always with curtains.Every guest room on the second floor has a balcony. As far as I know, anyone passing by can see the house from there. Whether you are lying in bed, people are always coming and going throughout the day.One side of this hotel is on the Tigris River, on which thousands of boats compete.It's like a fairyland. The suave Howes who made my trip had a recommendation or two for me.I figured these people weren't sociable, and were only introduced to people they thought were worth acquainting.These people had accompanied them to see the sights of the city.Although Alvea is very British, Baghdad is still the first oriental city I have seen, purely oriental.Turning from Rashid Street and turning into the narrow alley, you will come to an Islamic bazaar with a different style: in front of the copperware stalls, steelsmiths are beating and knocking, and in the spice market stalls are various spices. A friend of the Howes', Maurice Vickers, an Anglo-Indian who lived alone, became a dear friend of mine.He led me to wander around the bazaars that were not easily seen.We walked to the river through brown-toned bushes and date orchards, and perhaps I was more interested in what he said than what I saw.It was from him that I first learned to think about time.I hadn't thought about time impersonally before.But for him, time and its connections have a special meaning. "Once you consider time and its infinity, the personal stuff doesn't affect you in the same way anymore. Sorrow, suffering, all the finite things in life come out in very different guises." He asked me if I had read Donne's "Test of Time" and lent me a copy. Since then, I have noticed a certain change in myself, not inside, not outside, but in me. Seeing things more objectively, in a vast world full of internal connections, I am just a drop in the ocean.People can grasp themselves from time to time and observe their existence from another existing plane. -------- ① Dunne (1867-1936) American humorist and journalist. - Annotation It will be clumsy at first, but from that moment on, I do feel a strong sense of comfort and a genuine understanding of stillness that I have never experienced before. To Rhys Vickers, I thank him for guiding me to face life with an open mind.He had a great library, philosophical and otherwise, and he was a remarkable young man.Sometimes I wonder if we will ever see each other again, and I feel content without seeing each other.We are like two ships passing by in the night.He hands a present.I accepted.It is a gift that has never been given, because it is the gift of wisdom.It comes from the mind, not just the heart. I can't stay in Baghdad any longer because I'm in a hurry to get home for Christmas. At the hotel I made the acquaintance of Colonel Dwyer of the Royal African Rifles.He has been to many parts of the world.He was old and knew everything about the Middle East.Our conversation started with Kenya and Uganda, and I mentioned that my brother had lived there for many years and told him my brother's name was Miller.He looked at me, and then a familiar look came over his face, a questioning look. "You mean you're Miller's sister? Your brother is Billy the Smoker?" I'd never heard the nickname Billy the Smoker. "Crazy?" he added inquiringly. "That's right," I agreed with him. "He's always crazy." "You're much younger than him, aren't you?" "Ten years younger than him." "Were you a child when he went out?" "No. I don't know him well, but he often comes home during the holidays." "What happened to him after that? I heard that he was admitted to the hospital, but there was no news after that." I gave an account of my brother's life, how he was sent home to die, and lived on for a few years even though the doctor said he would not live long. Colonel Dwyer and I have been friends ever since.Sometimes I dined at his place, sometimes he came to my hotel; our conversation always turned to Kenya, Mount Kilimanjaro, Uganda and Lake Victoria, and anecdotes about my brother. In a domineering and militarized manner, Colonel Dwyer scheduled my next trip abroad. "I've arranged three trips for you," he said, and once you're fit and I'm free again, I'll set up a time with you.I want to meet somewhere in Egypt. ’ Then he told me about his travel plans. Doubts often arise in my mind: Can my body handle this schedule?Perhaps, both of us knew that this arrangement was just a matter of thought.He is a loner.Colonel Dwyer was born in the army, lived a strict military life, and gradually became estranged from his wife who did not want to leave the British homeland.All she cared about, according to him, was a quiet little house on a lonely road; his children showed no affection for his coming home for vacation.They thought it absurd for him to travel to pristine regions. It was already November, and the weather gradually changed.The scorching sun is gone, and it even rains occasionally.I booked a ticket back home, maybe I will say goodbye to Baghdad with regrets, but that's not enough, because I have already made plans to return to Baghdad. 3 After staying home for a while, I traveled to Beirut on the Lloyd Triestino.Stayed there for a few days and again traveled across the desert with the Nairn Transport convoy.The ship left Alexandria and sailed along the coast.The sea was choppy and I felt a little unwell.On board, I noticed another woman, Sybil Burnett, who later told me she wasn't used to rough seas either.Bow Burnett, as people usually call her, was the wife of Air Major General Sir Charles Burnett at the time, and the purpose of her trip was to reunite with her husband.She was a woman of good sense, a frank mind, a love of travel and exotic sights, and she had a fine house in Algiers. Among those traveling were English Catholics who had gone to Iraq to visit places mentioned in the Bible.In the lead was a sinister-looking woman called Aunt Wilbriham, whom Sybill Burnett said was quite right when she said she looked like a big beetle.She's the woman everyone wants to fight against. When we arrived in Baghdad, I visited some old friends and spent four or five days there happily, and then I received a telegram from the Woolleys and went to Ur. I saw them in London in June of this year, when they were going home to visit relatives, and I lent them a small house in Cresswell Street, which I had just bought, and wished them repairs. At the time, they had a fascinating plan for me. I arrived in Ur a week or so before early summer, and when they had packed their bags, I went with them, through Syria, and headed straight to Greece, and I was glad to be able to go with them to Delphi in Greece. I made it to Ur in Desert Storm.I have encountered desert storms when traveling there before, but this time it was more violent and lasted for four or five days.I have never experienced the scene of sand grains everywhere.Even though the windows were closed and the mosquito nets were hung, the bed was still covered with sand at night.Although I went outside the door to shake it off before going to bed, there was still a lot of sand on my face the next morning.I suffered for five days. But we chatted, and everyone was very friendly, and I had a good time there. Father Burrows was there again, and Witburn the builder, and this time Max Mallowan, Leonard Woolley's assistant, who had been his assistant for five years, but when I came the year before He happened to be away.He is a thin, dark-skinned young man, taciturn and rarely speaks, but he is very familiar with his duties. I quickly saw that he was good at getting things done.He was on good terms with the craftsmen and, to make matters worse for him, coaxed Catherine Woolley around.Catherine said to me, "Max was of course an excellent assistant. I don't know what I would have done without him all these years, and I think you'd like him. I sent him to accompany you to Najaf and Karbala. Najaf is the Muslim dead There is a beautiful mosque in the holy city of Karbala. We pack up and go to Baghdad, and he will accompany you there. You can see Nippur along the way." "Oh," I said, "but, doesn't he want to go to Baghdad? I mean, he's going there to see friends before he goes home." After working hard for three months, maybe I have to go to Baghdad alone. "Oh, no," said Catherine firmly, "Max would be happy." Work hard like Max on grueling archaeological digs.A young man who can finally rest and relax, sacrifices his time to drive with a strange woman who is older than himself and knows nothing about archeology to see some scenery. Everyone thinks it is a matter of course.It seems that Max took this matter as a natural thing.He was a solemn young man, and I was a little nervous in his presence.I secretly felt a little uneasy.Should I apologize to him?I did stammer to tell him that the trip wasn't my idea, but Max didn't seem to care.He said it was fine anyway.He could take a short walk home, first with the Woolleys, and since he had been to Delphi, he would part with them and go see the Temple of Bassa and other places of interest in Greece. He himself would also like to visit Nippur.It was an interesting place, he was always interested in going there, and of course Najaf and Karbala were all worth seeing. We both set off on schedule.Had a great time in Nippur, although exhausted. We reached Diwania about seven o'clock in the evening, and we stayed overnight at Dishburn's house. It was a very confusing night.Mrs. Dixiebeth was going around, not only talking to people around her, but also taking care of Max and me.Max answered politely; the missionary couple said nothing, the wife stared at her husband while he wrung his handkerchief. I dozed off, and the plot of an authentic detective story appeared in my dim mind.A missionary gradually lost his mind due to nervous tension. Why are you nervous?Something must have happened.Everywhere he went, he twisted and tore the handkerchief to pieces, thus providing some clues.Clues, handkerchiefs, fragments, whirling around, I dozed off and almost slipped under the chair. At this moment, a piercing voice sounded in the left ear: "All archaeologists," said Mr. Dishburns maliciously, "are liars." I lost all sleep, thinking about him and his words.He came at me provocatively.我觉得维护考古学家的信誉没什么必要，于是就口气温和地说：“你凭什么认为他们是骗子呢？他们说假话了吗？”“一切。”迪希伯思斯先生说．一切都是假的，说什么他们知道文物的年代了，挖掘出什么东西，什么这是有七千年的历史楼，那件有三千年之久唉，什么这个帝王那时当政啦，另外那个帝王取而代之啦，骗子，统统是骗子，无一例外。 “难道这还会有假吗？”我说， “果真如此？”迪希伯恩斯先生嘲讽地一笑，不说话了。 我和传教士说了几句话，可他没什么表示。接着迪希伯恩斯先生再次打破了缄默，透露出他愤愤不平的缘由：“一般情况下，我都得把起居室让出来给考古学家那家伙。” “噢，”我不安地表示，“对不起，我没想到。” 第二天清晨五点，我们上了路。我俩造访了纳杰夫，那的确是个迷人的地方，真正的墓地，死者的城市。带着黑色面罩的穆斯林妇女来来往往地哭泣着。这是极端分子的温床，不是随便可以来的，需要事先通知警察，他们会注意是否会发生狂热冲突。 我们离开纳杰夫，前住卡尔巴拉，那儿有漂亮的清真寺，拱顶金碧辉煌。这是我第一次走到近处观赏它。我们在警察哨所里过夜。在维多利亚时代长大的我，夜里去叫醒一个不太熟悉的年轻人，请他陪我去厕所，真是不可思议的事。然而很快就习惯了。我叫醒了马克斯，他又叫来一个警察，警察提了盏灯，我们三人走过长长的走廊，到了个奇臭难闻的地方。马克斯和警察又陪着我一起回到了住处。 第二天早晨吃了早饭，一个正在采摘玫瑰花的花匠，拿着一束花走过来。我站在那儿等着，准备报之以优雅的一笑。我丝毫也没料到，他竞不睬我一眼地径直走到马克斯前，深深地鞠一躬，把花递给他。马克斯呵呵一笑，对我说，“这是东方，馈赠都是给男人而不是给妇女。” 在回巴格达的路上，我们不时地停下来到古遗址的土丘上看看，去四周转转，捡起陶瓷碎片。我尤其对那些有釉的碎片着迷。鲜艳的颜色：碧绿、青绿，湛蓝，还有一片有金色图案的碎片，都是些马克斯不感兴趣的近代的东西，可他对我的爱好抱宽容的态度，我俩收集了一大口袋。 凯瑟琳和莱恩·伍利早已到达巴格达，对我们迟到一天颇为不快，这是由于绕道乌凯迪尔的结果。我被开脱了责任，因为我只管手拎个小包跟着走就是了，不晓得到什么地方去。 过了几天，我们坐火车离开巴格达去基尔库克和摩苏尔，登上返回的旅程。我的朋友德怀尔上校到巴格达北站为我们送行。 到阿勒颇的第二天，凯瑟琳本来没发烧，可她却说不舒服。她那付神情容不得身边有任何人。 “我真不知如何是好。”莱思手足无措地说。 “喂，”他给我的印象不错，我安慰他说：“我想她自己知道怎么办最好。大概她不要别人打搅她，我晚上再看她，那会儿她会好一些。” 于是事情就这样定了。马克斯和我去卡拉特——锡曼探访十字军的城堡。莱恩说他自己留在旅馆。如果凯瑟琳需要什么，他好随时照应。 马克斯和我兴高采烈地走了。天气晴朗多了，车开得挺顺当。我们沿盘山路行驶，四周到处是灌木丛、红牡丹和成群的绵羊，后来随山路缓缓而上，绵羊变成了黑山羊及小羊羔。我俩终于到了卡拉特——锡曼，随即开始野餐。我俩席地而坐，环顾周围，马克斯讲述着他的身世，他的生活。他即将离开大学时就交上了好运，在伦纳德·伍利手下找了这份工作。我俩又四处捡了些陶片，待夕阳西照时我们才起身回去。 我们离开阿勒颇一个星期后的一个清晨，马克斯带我去看五花八门的教徒。这令人相当紧张。 我俩看到了马龙派教徒，叙利亚天主教徒，希腊东正教徒，聂斯托里教徒，以及许许多多我记不得名称的教徒。其中一些人我叫他们是“洋葱教士”，就是说，他稠带着像洋葱那样的圆圆的头巾。希腊东正教堂最使人念念不安，因为在那儿我和马克斯不容分说地被分开，我和其他女人—起被挤到教堂一边。这是个充满神秘气氛的仪式，大部分在祭坛帷幔后进行。帷幔后圆润响亮的声音随着缭绕的香火传到厅堂里。大家都按指定的间隔捣蒜式地鞠躬。后来马克斯才找到我。 4 离开阿勒颇，我们乘船去希腊，沿途时常靠岸。到雅典时。我感到少有的高兴，满怀着期待。 但是，天有不测风云。我清楚地记得我站在旅馆的接待柜台前，接过一叠邮件，最上面是几封电报。至少两星期没得到家里的音讯了，我心头笼罩着不祥的阴影。我打开电报，他们告诉我罗莎琳德患了肺炎。 由于突如其来的震惊，我昏昏沉沉地挪动着脚步，突然把脚迈进了雅典街道旁的树坑里，踝骨严重扭伤，无法走路了。我坐在旅馆里听着莱恩和凯瑟琳的宽心话。心里惦记着马克斯去哪儿了。过了一会儿，他回来了，手里拿着两轴绷带和一块膏药。他轻声地解释说他在路上会照顾我和我的脚伤。 “但是你要去达萨庙啊，”我说，“你不是去见什么人吗？”“噢，我改变计划了．”他说，“我考虑该是回家的时候了，这样可以和你一道走。我可以扶你去餐车或给你弄点吃的，结你当个帮手。” 这真是求之不得了，简直不能相信。我想，而且一直这么认为马克斯真是个好人：他不言不语，没什么同情之类的话，可他干实事。他会急人所需，使你得到莫大的慰藉。 我和马克斯次日晚上就启程了。一路上他给我讲了许多有关他的家庭的事情，他的弟兄，他的父亲以及他的母亲——一个爱好艺术、喜好绘画的法国女人。 一到伦敦。我就提心吊胆地给家里打电话，已经五天没听到家里的消息了。听到我姐姐告诉我罗莎琳德好多了，已脱离了危险，恢复得很快等情况时，我才松了一口气。 尽管罗莎琳德明显在迅速康复，我见到她仍吃了一惊。 我当时对孩子患病时变化之快毫无经验。罗莎琳德看上去瘦了，高了，无精打彩地靠在扶手椅上，一点也不像我的孩子。 作母亲的自然都宠爱自己的孩子，为什么不呢？可是我情不自禁地认为我女儿比大多数孩子更逗人喜爱。她有一种本事，回答问题常出人意料之外。一般人往往会想到孩子的答案，而罗莎琳德的回答常使我吃一惊。也许是她身上有爱尔兰血统。阿尔奇的母亲是爱尔兰人，大概是从她的爱尔兰祖母那儿继承了这种出其不意的本事。 当人们三岁、六岁、十岁或二十岁时，大家没什么差别。 大概在六七岁时这点尤其明显，因为还不到会做作的年龄。 而到了二十岁，人们就会扮嘴脸或赶时髦了。如果时尚推祟理智，你就会变得文质彬彬；如果姑娘们愚蠢轻浮，大家都不例外。然而随着生活的进程，你就会腻味这套做作的角色，于是又恢复了个性，日复一日地恢复了本色。这有时会使周围的人惶惑不解，然而却使本人得到了解脱。 我琢磨这是否适用于创作。初学写作时，通常极端崇拜某一作家，不自觉地模仿其风格。其实这种风格并不适合于你，因此写得不伦不类。但是随着时间的推移，这种祟拜的影响减弱了。你仍然佩服某些作家，甚至还希望写得像他们那样，但是显然达不到。你大概懂得了文学创作谦卑感。如果我的作品像伊丽莎白、鲍思、穆里尔、斯帕克或格雷厄姆、格林的著作，我就可以得意地一步跨人文学的殿堂，但是我自叹弗如，我从未想过试图模仿他们。我深知我就是我，我只能尽力而为，却不能干那些奢望之事。 我脑海时常闪过一个悬挂在我房间中的奖状，这肯定是在赛船会上的掷椰子比赛中获得的。那上面写着：“当不上火车司机，就当个加油工。”生活中没有比这更好的座右铭了。我觉得自己是照此办了。尽管我也做过一番努力，但我从不一味干那些劳而无功的事。鲁默·戈登在她的一本著作中曾列举了她的好恶。我觉得这很有趣，随即写下了我的好恶。我觉得还可以加以补充，列举一下我的擅长和我的短处。自然，我的所长要比所短多得多。 我不擅长运动；不是也不可能是个健谈者；极易受暗示的影响，因此，我往往独自一人去考虑我究竟想干什么或需要干什么。我既不会素描更不会油画；不会做模型，也不会任何雕塑；不火烧眉毛决不着急；不善于口头表达自己的思想，文字会更得心应手。我可以坚持原则，但决不是别的什么。尽管我知道明天是星期二，可如果有人告诉我多次明天是星期三，我也会信以为真，并据此行事。 我擅长什么呢？嗯，擅于写作。可以做个过得去的音乐家，可做不了专业的音乐家，只能为独唱的人伴奏。遇到问题时，会临时想办法凑和，这本事可有用；用发卡或别针来凑和的本事会令人吃惊。我可以自诩干家务事颇有一套，等等。 下面是我的好恶。 我不喜欢人多，熙熙攘攘、大声喧哗、冗长的谈话、聚会、特别是鸡尾酒会、到处烟雾缭绕。我不喜欢任何酒，除非用于烹调，不喜欢果酱、牡蛎、半生不熟的食物，灰蒙蒙的天空。最后，我最厌恶热牛奶的味道。 我喜欢阳光、苹果、几乎任何音乐、列车数字游戏、任何有关数学的东西；喜欢航海、洗澡和游泳；我好沉默、睡觉、作梦、吃东西，喜欢咖啡的味道、山谷中的百合花、狗；喜欢看戏。 我可以把这些列举得更好听，听起来更郑重其事，更有意义，但是那样就不是我了，我想还是顺从自己的秉性吧。 我既然开始了新的生活，就得对朋友进行估价。我所经历的一切都有助于严格的反剩卡洛和我把他们分成两类．一类是讨厌鬼，一类是忠实的伙伴。讨厌鬼并不多，但有些是你开始没有看透的，误以为是知心朋友，可一旦你的名声变得不太好听，他们就会立刻冷落你。另一方面我发现许多朋友竟能始终如一地待人，对我的爱护和关怀是谁也无法比的。 在所有的品行中，我最推崇忠诚。忠诚和勇敢是人类两大最优秀的品德。任何形式的勇敢，无论是体力的还是精神的，都使我满怀敬意。这是生活中最重要的品德。如果你要生活，就不能没有勇敢，这是必不可少的。 在我异性朋友中，我发现许多值得尊敬的忠实的伙伴。 大多数女人的生活中不乏俯首贴耳之人，其中有一个以规规矩矩的方式接近我的人特别使我感动。他给我送来了许多鲜花．给我写信，最后要求我嫁给他。他是个鳏夫，比我年长。他告诉我说，初次见到我时，他觉得我年龄太小了，可现在他可以给我幸福和一个温暖的家。我被他的话打动了，但我并不想嫁给他，对他也从没有过那种感情。他是个好心肠的朋友，仅仅如此而已。有人钟情于你总是叫你感到激动，但是仅仅为了安慰或伏在男人的肩膀上哭泣而结婚就太愚蠢了。 不管怎样，我并不希望谁安慰我。 我害怕结婚。我认识到，许多女人迟早会认识到这一点。即在生活中惟一能伤你心的人只有自己的丈夫。再没有更亲近的人了。再没有比每日相伴的亲人更叫人依赖的了，而这就是婚姻。我拿定主意决不把自己托付给别人。 在巴格达，一位空军朋友说过一些令人不安的话。他讲述了自己婚姻的坎坷，最后说道：“我觉得生活都安顿下来，可以按自己的意愿生活下去了。但是最终出点纰漏。或者找一个情人，或者找几个情人。 要在二者之间作一选择。 " 有时，我心神不定地认为他的话是对的。但是无论选择哪一种，都比结婚强。几个情人不会伤你的心，而只有一个情人往往会令你伤心，但也不是像丈夫那样叫人心碎．对我来说，丈夫成为过去。当时，我脑子里不考虑任何异性。但是，我那位空军朋友的话也不会影响我今后的生活。 使我惊讶不已的是即使没明确宣布和丈夫分居或离婚，人们也会不厌其烦地问起这件事。一个小伙子曾用认为我毫无道理的口吻对我说，“你已经和丈夫分居了，或许还将和他离婚，那么你还祈望得到什么呢？”开始时，我也弄不清自己对人们这种关心是高兴还是气恼。我想基本上是高兴的。另一方面，它有时会把事情弄得复杂到令人讨厌的地步，一位意大利人就是这样。这是我不懂意大利人的习惯而自作自受的。他问我船上夜里装煤的声音是否搅得我睡不着觉。我告诉他没这回事，因为我的卧舱在船的右舷，不临码头一边。 “噢，”他说，“我想您是三十三号卧舱吧。” “不是，”我说，“我的是个偶数：六十八号。” 在我看来，这话无可挑剔吧？可是没想到问你卧舱号的意大利的习惯，意思是能否去你卧舱。随后他没说什么。可午夜过后，这位意大利人来了。滑稽场面也随之出现。我不懂意大利语，他不通英语。于是我俩用法语压低嗓音叽叽喳喳地争吵起来，我很生气，他也很恼火。我们是这样说的：“您怎么敢到我的卧舱来？”“您邀请我来的呀。” "Nothing." “您邀请了。您告诉我您的卧舱号是六十八号。” “不错，可那是由于您问我的。” “当然是我问的，我问您是因为想到您卧舱来，您告诉我可以来。” "I don't." 我俩吵了一会，声音时高时低，最后我让他别作声了。 我相信隔壁卧舱的使馆医生和夫人会对我妄加猜测的。我气愤地撵他走，他坚持要留下来。最后他恼羞成怒的程度甚至超过了我，于是我向他道歉，说我的确不知道他当时的问话实际隐含的其它意思。我最后终于把他赶走了。尽管他仍忿忿不平但却弄清楚了我不是他想象中的那种走到哪混到哪的女人。第二天早晨，使馆医生的太太冷冷地白了我一眼。 没多久，我就发现罗莎琳德从一开始就以很实际的态度掂量我的每一个求婚者。 “嗯，我想你肯定会再结婚的，我自然要关心那个人是谁。”她向我解释说。 马克斯此时从法国他母亲那儿回来了。他说在大英博物馆找份工作，并想知道我是否在伦敦。刚好我的出版人科林斯准备在萨伏依举行一次大型宴会，特别邀我去见见出版我作品的美国出版商以及其他一些人。那天的会面排得满满的，于是我乘晚车去了伦敦，邀请马克斯来吃早饭。 我一想到要与他重逢就感到兴奋，但奇怪的是，他的到来竟使我窘迫不已。在那次结伴旅行中我们已经建立了友谊，我难以想象此次相会为什么使我有种无所适从的感觉。 他看来也有些拘谨。可待我俩吃完我亲手制做的早餐时，我们又恢复到老样子。令人高兴的是我没有和他失掉联系。 继《罗杰，艾克罗伊德谋杀案》后，我又在写。这是我以前那本《名苑猎凶》的续集，属于被我称之为“轻松惊险小说”那类书。这种书容易一挥而就，无需太多的情节和构思。 此时我对写作又恢复了信心。我觉得每年写一本书不成问题，还能写几篇短篇小说。那时，我写作的直接动力就是能赚到钱。写一篇小说，就可以带来六十倍的收入，扣除所得税，当时每英镑扣四至五先令——这样，足足四十五英镑就归自己了。这极大刺激了我的创作欲望。 当时是个讲求实际的年代，我成了一个手头阔绰的人。 我的作品在美国连载出版，其收入远比在英国的连载权的收入可观。而且还免征所得税。这被认为是资本的收入。我并没即刻得到这笔稿费，但我可以感到财源不断，在我看来，要做的事就是不顾劳累地赚钱。 我常常觉得现在不妨只字不写，因为一动笔就招致一堆麻烦。 马克斯到了德文郡，我俩在帕丁顿见了面，乘晚车回到家。 和马克斯又见面了，我真高兴。我意识到我们之间的友谊是多么亲密，几乎不用开口就明白对方的意思。第二天晚上，我和马克斯互道晚安后，我就在床上看书。这时，有人敲门，接着马克斯走了进来，这出乎我的意料之外。他手里拿着一本我借给他的书。 “谢谢你借给我这本书，”他说，“我很喜欢。”他把书放在床边，随后坐在床头，深情地望着我：他说要娶我作妻子。 第二天他乘车离开，我去送他时，他说：“你肯定会嫁给我的。” 这时天刚蒙蒙亮，我不能继续和他争辩。望着他远去，我感到茫然不知所措，悒悒回到家。 我问罗莎琳德是否喜欢马克斯。 “当然喜欢，”她回答说，“我非常喜欢他，比R上校和B先生还要喜欢。” 我相信罗莎琳德对什么都一清二楚，只不过是出于礼貌而不挂在嘴边罢了。 以后的几个星期是多么难熬埃我感到凄然怅惘，脑子里一片混乱。起初，我曾决计不再结婚，我得有保障，不再受任何伤害；没有比嫁给一个比自己年龄小得多的人更蠢的事了；马克斯年轻，还不了解他自己；这对他不公平，他应该娶一个漂亮的年轻姑娘；我刚刚尝到了独立生活的甜头。后来，这些论点几乎是不知不觉地变了。不错，他是比我年轻，但我俩共同点太多了。 一切都在不知不觉中转变。假如初次见面我就想到马克斯可能会成为我丈夫的话，我就会倍加小心，决不会轻而易举地建立这种良好的关系。我没料到竟会发生这种事，俩人都心情愉快，在一起交谈是那样的充满乐趣，无拘无束，仿佛是一对夫妻一般。 就在这一等莫展之际，我向我的神灵请教。 “罗莎琳德，你认为我再结婚如何？” “嗯，我料到你会这样的，”罗莎琳德以一种始终明察秋毫的口气说话，“我的意思是，这事很自然，对不对？”“唔，也许对吧。” “我可不赞成你跟R上校结婚。”罗莎琳德若有所思地说。这倒挺有趣，因为只上校过份地宠着罗莎琳德，他为讨她高兴而和她玩游戏玩得似乎很开心。 我说出了马克斯的名字。 “我觉得他是最合适的了。”罗莎琳德说，随后又补充说，“我们可以自己弄条船，行不行？他可就派上用场了。他网球打得不错，是吧？我可以和他打网球了。”她毫无顾忌地设想着，完全是从她个人的实用主义的观点出发。 尽管如此，那个夏天仍是我一生中最难提的。人们纷纷反对我和他结婚，也许这实质上给我增添了勇气。我姐姐坚决不赞成：年龄差别！甚至我姐夫詹姆斯也委婉地道出要我慎重从事的告诫。 我终于把消息透露给伍利夫妇。看上去，他们都很高兴。莱恩当然不必说了，可凯瑟琳总是捉摸不透似的。 她不容置否地说：“只是你两年之内决不要嫁给他。” “两年之内？”我沮丧地道。 “对。这是命里注定的。” “哦，我认为这样不明智。我已经比他大许多了，年龄愈来愈大，结婚还有什么乐趣可言呢，还是应该让他享受生活的甘美才好。” “我认为这对他毫无益处。”凯瑟琳说，“对他这种年龄的人毫无好处可言，他会认为万事如意的。我认为最好让他等两年，不能再短了。” 这个主意我不敢苟同，这似乎是个严厉的清教徒的观点。 我的婚事弄得满城风雨，给我带来了难堪，于是我想尽量地不再声张了。我们商定卡洛和玛丽·费舍还有罗莎琳德跟我们一起去斯凯岛，在那里住三个星期。我们的婚事预告将在那儿公布，在爱丁堡的圣哥伦教堂举行婚礼。 随后，我带马克斯去探望宠基和詹姆斯，詹姆斯虽然没有提出异议，但脸上露出不高兴的神色，宠基仍极力阻止我们的婚事。 在列车上，我几乎反悔。马克斯聚精会神地听我讲述家里情况。 “你说的是詹姆斯·瓦茨吗？”他问，“我上大学时有个同学叫詹姆斯·瓦茨，那是你姐姐的孩子？他可是个绝妙的喜剧演员，极擅于模仿人。” 听说马克斯和我的外甥是同届同学，我简直要坚持不住了，我俩的婚事似乎毫不可能了。 我绝望地说：“你年龄太小了，太小了。” 这次马克斯真的害怕了。 “根本不小。我上大学的确年纪不大，可我的同学都说我很老成，我和瓦茨那帮人根本不同。”但是我在良心上仍感到不安。 宠基竭尽全力要说服马克斯，我都怕会引起马克斯的讨厌，事实恰恰相反。他说她是那么真诚，那么急切地渴望我幸福。人们对我姐姐的断语总是如此。 临别时，宠基泪如泉涌，不再说话。詹姆斯向我很宽厚地告别。好在我外甥杰克没在家，不然会把事情弄糟的。 “当然，我一眼就看出你打定主意要嫁给他，”我姐夫说，“我知道你不会改变主意。” “嗨，简，你不知道，我奸像每天都在变来变去。” “这倒未必。我希望你会一切随心。这不是我所希望你选择的，但你总是很有眼力，我觉得他是那种不达目的不罢休的年轻人。” 我多么喜爱亲爱的詹姆斯啊，他总是那么苦口婆心，“别理会宠基，你知道她的为人，生米煮成熟饭她就会改变看法的。” 我问宠基能不能去爱丁堡参加我们的婚礼，她认为最好是不去。“我会哭出声的，扫大家的兴。”我为此由衷地感谢。 在圣哥伦巴教堂内举行婚礼后，我俩仍分居两地，像古老的歌谣说的那样，我们在教堂前的草坪上分手了。马克斯回到了伦敦以便三天内完成乌尔的研究，而我则在第二天和罗莎琳德一起回到了克雷斯威尔，在那儿忠诚的贝西迎接我，她还蒙在鼓里。马克斯两天后坐一辆出租汽车来到克雷斯威尔门口，我们乘车去多佛尔，从那里渡过海峡去我们蜜月的第一站：威尼斯。 蜜月是马克斯一手安排的。我相信谁也没有像我们这样沉浸在蜜月的幸福之中。惟一与蜜月不和谐的就是东方快车上的臭虫，甚至在到威尼斯之前，它们就从木板下钻出来，频频袭扰我们。