Chapter 6 annotation

Lines 1-4: I am the shadow of the slain sparrow, etc. The image in the opening lines of the poem clearly refers to a bird that was killed by flying into a glass window. illusion.We imagine John Shade in childhood, an unremarkable but well-developed boy, picking up the egg-shaped entity from the turf with hesitant fingers, watching the gray-brown The glossy wax-red lines on the wings, watching the beautiful tail feathers with yellow tips that are as bright as new paint, experience the shocking end of the end for the first time while solving the problem.During the last year of Shade's life I had the good fortune to live in the idyllic hills of Newway (see the foreword) as a neighbor of his; Pecking with great joy at the ashen dried nuts (see lines 181-182).

My knowledge of garden birds is limited to the Nordic species, but a young gardener in Newwerk who interested me (see note on line 998) has helped me learn to recognize quite a few species that look like tropical birds The shape of the strange gadgets and their weird calls; of course, the tops of each tree extend to the dotted line marked on the top of my desk, and I will go straight from the lawn to the desk with excitement. Look up the scientific names of various birds.How difficult I find it to apply the title "robin" to the impostors of the rough fowl of this suburb!That bird, with its dingy crimson plumage, has a sickening appetite for devouring the poor long worms.

Incidentally, it is curious to notice that a crested bird called Semper ("silk-tailed bird") in Zambala, in shape and shade , all resembling waffles, was the prototype for one of three animals (the natural reindeer and the golden-haired of the azure male mermaid), and of the king's magnificent doom, my friend and I have been discussing it incessantly. I started writing this poem in the middle of the year, just a few minutes past midnight on July 1st, when I was playing chess with a young Iranian in our summer school; I'm sure our poet It must be understood that the commentators of his poems are trying to synchronize the timing of a certain fatal event, that is, the departure of the regicide Gradus from Zamballa, with the poet's creative process.Gradus had actually left Anghava on the Copenhagen plane on July 5th.

Line 12: The crystal clear earth This may refer to my dear country Zambala.On the fragmentary draft, half obliterated, the following two lines still faintly visible below the line, which I cannot guarantee to be quite correct: Oh, I shouldn't forget to say a certain king my friend told me about Alas, the poet would have had more to say if the anti-Karlite in the family hadn't controlled every line he showed her!I have accused him many times in a joking tone: "You should really agree to use all that wonderful material, you white-haired mischievous poet, you!" Then we will be like two little boys. Grid laughed.But after an inspiring walk in the evening we were obliged to part, and the pitiless night raised its drawbridge between the impregnable fortress of the poet and my humble abode.

The reign of that king (1936-58) will be remembered by at least some discerning historian as a period of genteel peace.Thanks to a sensible system of league mobility, God of War never tarnished its fine record during that period.Before corruption, treachery and extremism seeped in, the People's Square (Parliament) in the country worked very harmoniously with the Royal House.Harmony was, in fact, the password of the period.The refined arts and pure sciences flourished.Technical sciences, applied physics and industrial chemistry, etc. are also thriving.A small dark blue glass skyscraper rises steadily in On Hava.The climate also appears to have improved.Taxes are a beautiful thing. (According to the soon-to-be-famous Kim Porter Law), the poor get richer and the rich get poorer.Health care is promoted across the country: every autumn, when the pepper trees are hanging with coral-colored fruits, and the glass ducklings are jingling in the pool, the eloquent and friendly monarch will visit all parts of the country, often with a group of schoolchildren. Among them, the conversation was interrupted because of "taking a dose of whooping cough preventive medicine."Skydiving became a universal sport.In a word, everyone is content - even the political divisives who are constantly content to wreak havoc under the patronage of the triumphant (Zambala's huge neighbor) Suzd.But let's stop talking about this annoying subject.

Let’s talk about the king again: let’s take the aspect of personal cultural accomplishment as an example. How many kings often engage in a certain professional research?There are only a handful of conchologists among them.Zambala, the last king, was partly influenced by his uncle Conmarr, a great translator of Shakespeare (see notes 39-40 and 962), and despite his migraines, Still obsessed with literary research.Shortly before the collapse of the throne, at the age of forty, he had reached such a high academic level that he had the audacity to agree to the hoarse voice of his venerable uncle on his deathbed: "Karl boy, go teach!" Of course, being a monarch, showing up on a university podium in a gown, explaining to those rosy-cheeked youths that Finnegans Wake is Angus McDimird's "incoherent treatment" and Strange extensions of Southey's quaint and unintelligible jargon (such as "Dear Stumpalumpel"), or a discussion of a ten- Kongs-skugg-sio, a 2nd-century anonymous masterpiece) (Zambal version of The Royal Mirror, which must have been inappropriate. So he used a fake name for every lecture, and wore a wig and fake sideburns , heavy make-up. All Zambalas with beards, blue eyes, and ruddy cheeks look alike, but I haven't shaved for a year, and I look a lot like my make-up. King's blanket (see comment on line 894).

During those teachings, Charles Xavier must have slept, as any academic would, in the rented Pied-a-tene on Coriolanus Lane: a collectively heated, moody room. Pleasant studio with adjoining bathroom and kitchenette.You will recall with nostalgia the gray rugs and pearl-gray walls (on one wall hung a glorious Picasso Candlestick, Jug and Enameled Pan), a bookshelf bound in calfskin. Books and an untouched couch covered in soft imitation panda fur.How far this carefree simplicity seemed from the palace and that hideous chamber with its insoluble problems and terrified representatives! Line 17: And then the gradual (gradually); Line 29: gray (gray)

By sheer coincidence (perhaps due to the counterpoint inherent in Shade's poetic art), our poet here seems to use the words (gradual and gray) to point out a person's surname, and will appear in three See the man at a decisive moment a week later, but he must not have known the existence of the guy at the time (July 2nd).Jacob Gladus referred to himself as Jack Degray, Jacques de Gray or James de Gray, and appeared in police records as Raworth, Ravenstone and Dagus respectively .With a morbid feeling for Soviet-era Red Russia, he insisted that his surname Gradus should find its true roots in the Russian word Vinograd, to which the addition of The last Latin ending becomes Vinogradus (Winogradus).His father, Martin Gradus, was a Protestant priest in Riga, but apart from him and another uncle (Roman Chelovalnikov, a police officer and Socialist Revolutionary), the family seems to have been doing Liquor business.Martin Gradus died in 1920, and his widow emigrated to Strasbourg, where she died a short time later.Another Gradus, a merchant from Alsace, was, strange to say, not related to our murderer, but had been close business associates with his relatives for many years, and adopted him. He took care of this orphan and brought him up with his own children.The young Gradus seems to have been studying pharmacology in Zurich for a while, and wandering around misty vineyards here and there as a traveling wine taster.We found out that he later engaged in small-scale subversive activities—printing whiny pamphlets, acting as a correspondent for hidden syndicalist groups, organizing strikes in several glass factories, and so on. He came to Zambala as a brandy salesman in the 1940s and married a hotel owner's girl.His association with the Radical Party had begun in its first frenzy; as soon as the revolution broke out, his austere organizational skills were appreciated in several different departments.He thus sets out for Western Europe with a loaded pistol in his pocket for a sordid purpose; on the day an innocent poet begins his second chapter in an innocent country.At all times we should keep in mind that we are accompanying Gradus all the way; he travels the entire length of the poem from the distant bleak Zambala to the verdant Appalachia, along the The rhyme road of poetry advances, sails past a rhyme, slows down near the corners of the line of meaning between lines, panting with the pauses of the lines, from line to line, paragraph to paragraph, always dangles to the bottom of each page, hides between two words (see note on line 596), emerges again on the horizon of a new chapter, moves closer and closer with iambic footwork Go, cross the roads, carry the travel bag, climb the five-step escalator, move up, step down, board a series of trains of ideas, walk into a hotel lobby, erase a word on the draft at Shed At that time, I turned off the bed light and fell asleep at the moment when the poet put down his pen in the middle of the night.

Line 27: Sherlock Holmes A hook-nosed, lean and likable private eye, the protagonist of Conan Doyle's stories.At present, I have no way to find out which story the situation described here comes from, but I have a little doubt that this "The Big Case of Backtracking Footsteps" is purely invented by our poet himself. Lines 34-35: Pointed daggers formed by frozen water droplets How stubborn our poet is to conjure up winter scenes at the beginning of this long poem, which he began on a warm summer night!The associative structure is easily recognizable (glass leads to crystal, crystal leads to ice), but the man behind the scenes who inspired him to write this poem has remained aloof.One would be ashamed to guess that the fact that the poet and his future commentator first met on a winter's day somehow seems to have a decisive influence here by reminding him of that particular season.In the beautiful line that introduces this note, the reader should note the word "stillicide" at the end.The dictionary I have at hand defines it this way: "a continuous drop of water falling from an eaves, eaves drops, cave drops." I remember first seeing the word in a poem by Thomas Hardy.The crystal clear cold has immortalized the crystal eaves water droplets.We should also note that the gleaming "pointed dagger" hints at a plot to assassinate, and the rhyme hints at regicide.

Lines 39-40: closing the eyes, etc. In the draft, these two lines were originally the following two lines of variation: 39 ...my thieves would hurry home 40 The sun with stolen ice, the moon with leaves This is reminiscent of the passage in Timon of Athens (Act 4, Scene 3) where the cynical nobleman talks to three thieves.In this dreary cabin I lived as Timon lived in his cave, and since there was no study, and for the sake of quick citation, I had to repeat this passage from the Zambala verse of Timon Translated into English prose, I hope the translation is close enough to the original text, at least faithful to the spirit of the original text:

The sun is a thief: she seduces the sea and steal it.The moon is a thief: He stole his silver light from the sun. The sea is a thief: it causes the moon to dissolve. For a cautious assessment of Cammer's translation of Shakespeare, see note on line 962. Line 42: I can recognize At the end of May, I recognized his genius that day would give shape to the outlines of some images in my mind.In the middle of June, I was finally convinced that he would reproduce in a poem the radiant Zambala I had in mind.I made him listen with fascination to my talk of the country, filled his head with my imagination, and with the gallantry of a drunkard I thrust upon him all that I could not write into poetry myself.To be honest, it is difficult to find such an identical example in the history of poetry—two men, whose backgrounds, upbringing, reasoning associations, mental outlooks, and ways of thinking are very different, one is a well-informed scholar, the other is a furnace. Bian Poet actually concluded such a secret agreement.I finally realized that he knew my Zambala so well that he could produce a good poem in the blink of an eye.I urged him, at every opportunity, to overcome his habit of indolence, and to write as soon as possible.My little diary records such simple words as: "Advise him to take desperate measures"; "Recount the escape"; "Provide a quiet room in my house for him to write"; for his use"; and finally under the date of July 3rd: "The poetry begins!" Although I feel very well that, alas, that last pale and vague result cannot be seen as a direct echo of my narrative (of which, by the way, only a few fragments exist in my ——mainly mentioned in the—notes to the first chapter verses), but there is no doubt that the sunset light of that historical story really acted like a catalyst on that vigorous and persistent creative process, so that Schade created a long poem of a thousand lines in three weeks.And the poem and the tale have in color a resemblance of the kind between kinship.Not without interest, I reread my commentaries on his lines, and found myself on many occasions borrowing the opalescent light from my poet's inflamed eyes, and insensibly imitating his habit of writing critical essays. kind of prose.But his widow and colleagues need not worry, whatever advice they may have given my good-natured poet, can fully appreciate the results.Oh, by the way, the final text of the poem was entirely determined by the poet himself. Even if we deduct (lines 605, 822, and 894) the three casual references to the royal family and Pope's "Zambala" in line 937 - which I think should be the case - we can still conclude that the definitive text The material I have given has been scrupulously and extensively absorbed; but we also find that, despite the controls exerted on our poet by a family censor and God knows who else, he still gives the royal fugitive Let him take shelter in those cellars of variants that poets keep; revealed in the Notes of the verse; the verses were evidently written at an earlier time when he enjoyed a greater degree of creative freedom) bear the unmistakable imprint of my subject, the subtleties I left when I spoke of Zambala and the unfortunate king. And the real shining shadow. Lines 47-48: The log cabin between Goldsworth and Wordssmith The first surname concerned the house on Dulwich Road where I rented the house of Hugh Warren Goldsworth, a great judge of Roman law and eminent judge.Though I have never had the honor of meeting my landlord, I recognize Shade's handwriting almost as much as I know Shade's.The second surname, of course, refers to Wordssmith University.It seems that in proposing this in-between situation, our poet is less concerned with spatial precision than with a witty shift of syllables that conjures up two masters of heroic couplets , and shaded his muse with an awning in between.In fact, the "wooden house on the green block" was five kilometers west of Wordssmith's campus, and only fifty yards from the windows of my house to the east. In the preface of this work, I have had the opportunity to explain some information about the environment and facilities where I live.The lovely and lovely dazed lady (see note on line 691) who got the house for me, had never seen the house beforehand, and undoubtedly had good intentions, especially because of the neighbors in the area. All praised it for its "old-age elegance and spaciousness".It was actually a half-timbered, sinister-looking black-and-white house, known in my country as a "wodnaggen" type, with carved gables, airy oriel windows, a so-called The "semi-grand" porch and an ugly balcony above that.Judge Goldsworth had his wife and four daughters in his family.Family photos met me in the foyer and followed me from room to room; though I was sure Alfina (nine), Betty (ten), Candida (twelve) Andy (fourteen) is going from very cute school chick to stylish young lady to wonderful mom in no time, and I still have to admit that their fancy pictures bore me so much that I ended up Just packed them up and stuffed them all under a row of their film-covered winter clothes hanging like a gallows in a closet.In the study, I saw a large photo of their parents, but the genders are reversed. Brother and wife look like Malenkov, while Mr. Brother looks exactly like Medusa, a gorgon; A reproduction of Picasso's earlier work "The Earthly Boy Leading the Nimbus Horse" took its place.I didn't bother too much with the family library, though, which was all over the place--four different editions of the Children's Encyclopedia and another set of staid editions for grown-ups, all the way down the shelf next to a flight of stairs. Arranged up, finally ascended to the attic and burst out a volume of appendices.Mrs. Goldsworth's intellectual interests, judging from the novels lined up in her boudoir, were indeed quite wide, extending from "Amber" to "Zen."The patriarch of the alphabetized family also had a study with many alphabetized ledges, but the collection was devoted to legal monographs.The only thing the layman can find interesting and instructive in it is a photo album bound in Moroccan tanned leather, in which the judge lovingly pasted the pictures and biographies of the prisoners whom he sent to prison or sentenced to death: Unforgettable face, the way she smoked her last cigarette, her last smirk, the perfectly ordinary hands of a strangler, a widow in her own right, a murderer (I admit the long Kind of like the hard, hard-set eyes of the late Jacques Dagus), a bright, parent-killing seven-year-old boy ("Now, little one, we want you to tell us . . . " ), and a wretched old dumpy sodomite who shot the blackmailer.To my great surprise it was he, my learned landlady, and not his "wife," who was in charge of the house.Not only did he leave me an exhaustive inventory of all the clutter in the house that gathered around a new tenant like a menacing mob of natives, but he also painstakingly scribbled descriptions, some of them suggestive, on slips of paper. , some are explanatory, some are prohibitive, some are appendices, and so on.I lived there the first day, and no matter what I touched, it would trigger a specimen in the collection of Goldsworth's literature.As soon as I opened the medicine cabinet in the upstairs bathroom, a piece of information flapped out of it, advising me not to stuff the blades in the slot of the box of used safety blades, because it was full. , can't fit anymore.I opened the refrigerator, and another note warned like a dog barking: "Any local products with an odor that is difficult to eliminate" are not allowed to be put in.I opened the middle desk drawer in the study—and found a sorted catalog of the items contained therein, among the unremarkable items a pile of assorted cigarette dishes, a Damascus steel cutting paper knife ( An ancient "dagger" bought from the East by Mrs. Goldsworth's father), and an unused pocket diary waiting optimistically for the ripe time to contact it on a daily basis .There is a special bulletin board in the pantry, on which various detailed notices are pasted, such as instructions about plumbing everywhere, discussions about using electrical appliances, knowledge about cacti, etc.; Recipe for black cats received by all houses: Monday, Wednesday, Friday: Liver Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday: Fish Sunday: Ground game meat (sorry, I only fed him milk and sardines; it was a cute little animal, but it didn't take long for his behavior to start getting on my nerves and upset me, so I entrusted him to the cleaner Fan Mrs. Ray's foster care.) But probably the funniest of all was the specific instruction on the handling of the drapes, the slip of paper stating that they need to be drawn in different ways at different times to keep the sun out of the upholstery.Which window and where the sun came in was described for each season, and for each day; and if I cared about the matter, and followed it, I would have as busy a hand as a rower.Fortunately, however, there is a footnote below, graciously suggesting that, if I did not wish to do so, I could move around some of the more expensive pieces of furniture (two embroidered armchairs and a heavy "royal corkscrew table") Go, avoid sun-exposed areas, but dry carefully so as not to scratch the slats of the wall trim.Alas, I can't go into the detailed timetable of that relocation right now, but I seem to remember that I'm supposed to move them a long way before I go to sleep, and move them a short way first thing in the morning .I took my dear Shade on a tour of it, and let him taste the drudgery for himself, and he burst out laughing.Thank God.His rough laugh dispelled the air that I was bound to be hurt if I lived there.He, for his part, cheered me up with some anecdotes concerning the judge's dull wit and the customs of the court; most of these anecdotes were doubtless folk exaggerations, and some were patently invented, but nonetheless All harmless.He didn't mention those ridiculous stories about Judge Goldsworth, which my dear old friend would never do, about whether the terrible shadow cast by the judge's robes stepped into the underworld, or Telling that this or that brute lying in a prison was quite definitely raghdirst—all the clichés handed down by vulgar or cruel fellows—whoever tells such stories, in their opinion, is a Roman Shila, the ends of the earth, the blood-red sky covered with sealskin, the gloomy sand dunes of a kingdom in the legend, all of them don't exist at all.Enough said, let us return to the windows of our poet's house.It is not my intention to weave some definite material for critical research into something that closely resembles a novel. Today it is impossible for me to describe Shade's house architecturally or in any other way, except, of course, the peeps, the peeks, the wonderful opportunities the window frames afforded me.As already mentioned (see preface), the onset of summer creates an optical problem: the encroaching foliage doesn't always look exactly as I see it: it mistakes the opaque mask for a green lens, and the blocker for a green lens. Protect.At that time (the third of July, according to my notebook), I heard—not from John, but from Sybil—that my friend had begun a long poem.I really hadn't seen him for two or three days, and then that day I went to his letterbox on the side of the road, which was next to Goldsworth's letterbox (which was actually full of brochures, local adverts, and merchandise Directory kind of garbage, I usually don't open it).I was taking out Shade's third-class mail and I happened to bump into Sybil, who was out of doors because a bunch of bushes hid her from my eagle eyes.She was wearing a straw hat and a pair of gardening gloves, and she was crouching in front of a flower bed to trim or fasten something, and her brown leggings reminded me of the ones my wife used to wear. "Mandolin" tights (as I like to call them jokingly).As soon as she saw me, she told me not to bother the poet with the advertising crap, and revealed that he had "started to write a really great poem".I felt a rush of blood rushing to my face, so I muttered something like he hasn't shown me anything yet; she stood up immediately, and smoothed the drooping black hair with white hair on her forehead , stared at me and said, "What do you mean—to show you? He never showed anyone his unfinished works. Never, never. He didn't even discuss I don’t discuss it with anyone.” I didn’t believe it, but soon I found out that he had been under the strict supervision and counseling of his wife when I talked with my strangely silent friend.I tried to get him out for a walk with quips like "People who live in glasshouses shouldn't write poetry," but he yawned, shook his head, and retorted, "Gringos should stay away from old Aphorisms." Yet I was dying to see how he was using all the glamorous, heart-pounding, sparkling live material I'd flooded him with, and I couldn't help but itch to see him at work (even if I have no credit for that achievement, and it doesn't matter), this desire is really painful and uncontrollable, so that I gradually indulge in an unrestrained spying, and no consideration of self-esteem can stop it. . We all know that windows have been the consolation of that first-person literature through the ages.But an observer like myself has never had the good fortune of imitating the eavesdropping Hero of Our Time or the ubiquitous Man of Time Gone.But I still give Grace a chance to hunt for happiness from time to time.Since my vertical hinged window was out of function due to the overgrown elm in front of me, I found an ivy-covered nook at the end of the balcony, from which I could see a considerable area in front of the poet's house.If I wanted to see the south side of the house, I went behind my garage, hid behind a tulip tree, and looked across the winding path downhill to some of his precious bright windows, Because the poet never draws the shade (she does).If I want to look north of the house, I need only climb to the highest point in my garden, where my bodyguards of black larch watch the stars, the omens, the light on the road below. A dim patch of light from a single street lamp.At the beginning of that season, I was there, overcoming the peculiar and secret fear discussed elsewhere (see note on line 62), and secretly having fun throwing eastwards along the weeds and stones on my side of the ground. The shadows of the past looked across, as far as a row of acacia groves a little higher to the north of the poet's house. Thirty years ago, in my frail and terrible childhood, I had the opportunity to see a man communicate with God.Once I was practicing hymns in my hometown of Anghava, and during the break, I slipped into the so-called rose garden behind the Ducal church by myself.I wandered there, lifting my bare calves alternately against a slippery column to cool off. I heard sweet voices in the distance mixed with the joy of boys' low voices. Psychology, harboring a grudge against one of the boys and not joining in the fun.A sudden rush of footsteps caused me to raise my somber gaze as I was looking down at the little mosaics of the courtyard floor—lifelike rose petals set in green Above the marble-carved branches and the large almost palpable thorns, out of these roses and thorns rose a figure, a tall, long-nosed, pale, black-haired figure I had seen once or twice The young priest strode out of the vestry from the sacristy. He didn't see me, but went straight to the middle of the courtyard and stopped to pray.A look of guilty disgust twisted his thin lips.He wore a pair of spectacles, and his clenched hands seemed to be grasping bars invisible to the naked eye.However, man may be able to receive the infinite gift of the Lord.His expression suddenly changed to one of ecstasy and awe.I have never seen such a joyful radiance of God-given blessings on people's faces before, but I did not expect to feel a little of that radiance in another country now, and that kind of spiritual feeling and the Lord's apparition reflected in it. Old John Shade's plain wrinkled face.All spring I kept my nocturnal watch, and what a joy it was to observe him at midsummer doing his wondrous work!I know the time and place exactly, and I must choose the best observation point when the time comes, and follow his inspiration from there.My binoculars would find him working in various spots from a distance, and I would focus and watch: at night, his upstairs study was lit, and a friendly mirror reflected his towering shoulders and the pencil with which he kept digging his ears (and inspecting the lead now and then, even tasting it in his mouth).Before noon, he was sneaking around in the shattered shadows of the study downstairs, and saw a shiny goblet swaying silently from the filing cabinet to the small shelf, and from the small shelf to the bookshelf. Hid, if necessary, behind the bust of Dante; on hot days, among the vines on the little trellis-like porch, where I glanced through the wreaths, I could catch a glimpse of his elbow resting on the On an oilcloth on the table rested pudgy fists on wrinkled temples.Owing to minor mishaps in lenses and light, and interference from pergolas and leaves, I have often been unable to see his face; perhaps nature has purposely arranged it so that a man who seems to be a predator cannot see the mystery of growth. Well; but sometimes, when the poet walks up and down the lawn in front of his house, or sits for a while on the bench at the end of the lawn, or lingers under his favorite hickory tree, I can recognize with that effusive, rapturous, awed look in which he followed the verbal images in his mind; and I knew, whatever my agnostic friend might Deny it, and then the Lord will be with him. Some nights, before my neighbors usually went to bed, I observed from my three vantage points that the house was completely dark on three sides for a long period of time, but the darkness convinced me that the couple were there, because they The car was parked near the garage and didn't go away--I don't believe they would have gone out on foot, if they had, they'd have left the porch light on.After some reflection and reasoning, I found out that the day of the great lack of light was the eleventh of July, the day Shade finished the second chapter of his long poem.It was a blustery night, dark and hot.I tiptoed through the bushes to the back of their house.起先我还当这第四面也黑糊糊的，也就没必要再调查下去了，我正在体验一种古怪的解脱感时，忽然发现过去从没去过的房子后面一个小客厅的窗户露出微微亮光。那扇窗户大敞着。一盏高脚灯，带着样儿像羊皮纸的遮罩，照亮了那间屋子尽头，我看得见希碧尔和约翰在那边呐；她背朝着我，两腿并拢斜身坐在长沙发上，约翰则坐在长沙发近旁一个厚坐垫上，好像正在慢慢把刚玩完一局忍耐的散乱纸牌收拢起来。希碧尔一会儿晃动蜷缩的身子，一会儿擤擤鼻子；约翰那张脸则布满斑斑泪痕。说实话，我当时还没闹清我这位朋友用什么类型纸张写稿呢，我不禁纳闷儿一局纸牌游戏的结局怎么竟会让人这样泪流满面。我本来跪在弹性挺厉害的黄杨木树篱里，为了急于看得更清楚些，便站起来，一不小心碰翻了垃圾筒盖儿，造成哐啷一声响。这当然会被误认为是风刮的，希碧尔素来讨厌风，立刻离开高处那个休息处，走过来砰的一声把窗户关上，还嘎嘎地把遮光帘也拉下来了。 我怀着沉重和困惑的心情蹑手蹑脚地返回我那毫无乐趣的住处。几天过后，大概是圣斯威逊节那天，心情依然十分沉重，困惑之谜倒给解开了，因为我在小日记本那个日期下面发现有“promnad vespert mid JS”那种期望的记载，可是又使性子把它划掉了，且因用力过猛，笔铅在半中腰断了。那天我等我的朋友出来一块儿在巷子里散散步，等啊等的，最后夕阳的红光都变成了幽暗的灰色，我只好朝他家前门走去，心里犹犹豫豫，琢磨那儿的昏暗和静寂，围着那幢房子转悠。这一次后身那个小客厅里一点亮光也没有，厨房里倒亮着平凡的灯光，我辨认出一张粉刷过的桌子一头，希碧尔正坐在旁边，满脸带着欣喜若狂的神情，真叫人会以为她准是刚想出一个新食谱似的。那扇后门微敞着，我轻叩一声就把门推开了，投进去几句欢快的话，我发现谢德正坐在那张桌子另一头，念给她听一些我猜想大概是他那首诗的片断。他俩一见我进来大吃一惊。诗人脱口而出一句不宜在此刊印出来的诅咒，把手里那摞索引卡片往桌上一掼。后来他把这一时冲动的怒气爆发归咎于戴着老花眼镜，错把一位受欢迎的朋友当成了一名闯进门的推销员；不过我得说他种举动真叫我震惊不已，大为震惊咧，并且使我当时倾向于把接下来发生的事都看成是恶意的表示。”好了，那就请坐，”希碧尔说，“喝杯咖啡吧。”（胜利者往往都慷慨大方。）我接受了，因为我倒想看看有我在场，朗诵是否还会继续下去。结果使我大失所望。“我本来以为，”我只好对我的朋友说，“你会出来跟我一块儿遛个弯儿呢。”他一边为自己辩解说身子不大舒服，一边接着挖他那个烟斗，挖得那么狠，真像是挖空我的心脏似的。 我当时不仅了解到谢德经常把自己累积写好的诗篇念给希碧尔听，而且现在还认识到她也同样经常叫他从誊清的诗稿上减少或干脆去掉任何有关我不断提供给他的那个宏伟的赞巴拉题材，我由于不大了解诗作的进展情况，还一直盲目轻信那会成为一条编织全诗的丰富主线呢！ 那树木葱茏的山丘更高一点的地方当时矗立着——我相信现在还依然矗立着——苏顿博士那座装有护墙楔形板的房子；山丘顶上，查教授那栋超级现代化别墅也永远会存在下去，您从他那个屋顶平台朝南望去，可以俯瞰到三个相连的沉郁的大湖泊——奥米茄、奥泽罗和泽罗（三个被早期开拓者篡改的印第安人名字，篡改得好提供一些似是而非的派生意义和陈腐的隐喻）。在那座山丘北面，杜尔威奇路连接那条通往华兹史密斯大学的公路；至于那所大学，我倒不想多说，部分原因是读者致函该校公关办公室就会很方便地得到各式各样的指南小册子，无需我在这里嚼舌，不过主要还是因为我想在提到华兹史密斯大学时该比描述哥尔斯华斯和谢德两家住宅时尽量简短些；总之，只想传达这一事实：这家学院距离他们两家要比他们两家之同的距离远得多。这也许是首次通过文体效果来反映距离给人带来的隐痛吧，首次使地形测量概念在一系列按透视法缩短的句子里得以体现吧。 那条公路朝东蜿蜒四公里，通过一个美丽的居民区，那里有不同等级的两边倾斜的草坪，然后便叉开，分成两条道：一条朝左，通往纽卫镇和它期待完工的飞机场；另一条直通校园。于是出现了那些疯狂喧嚣的楼房，那些设计得毫无瑕疵的宿舍楼——一些响彻着丛林爵士乐的疯人院，接着是那个宏伟的行政办公宫殿啦，那些砖墙啦，那些拱廊啦，那些绿丝绒般和绿玉髓般的方块草地啦，斯宾塞楼和它那个百合花池啦，那座小教堂啦，新讲演厅啦，图书馆啦，那栋内有我们的教室和办公室的、监狱般的大楼啦（从今以后改称为谢德楼），那条两旁栽种着所有莎士比亚提到过的树木的著名林阴道啦；远处传来一阵嗡嗡声，暗示高班学生正在捉弄欺凌低班学生；还有那座天文馆的青绿色圆屋顶，一缕缕一团团的藤枝卷须；那座由白杨树遮荫、备有古罗马式梯层座位的足球场，夏日里空空旷旷，只有一个两眼出神的小伙子在操纵一架——控制在一长段距离范围内嗡嗡盘旋的——摩托动力的模型飞机。 噢，天哪，真正干点什么吧。 49行：糙皮山核桃小树 一种山核桃树。我们这位诗人跟英国大师们共同使用了那种把树木连带树液和树荫移植到诗篇里去的高贵窍门。多年以前，我们的王后迪莎，她宠爱的树木则是蓝花楹和掌叶铁线蕨，从她那个摘记本里抄出约翰·谢德那本短诗集《赫柏之杯》中的一首四行诗。我禁不住要在这儿（从我一九五九年四月六日收到的一封寄自法国南方的来信中）摘引如下： 神圣的树 银杏叶子，银光闪闪， 垂落时像个麝香葡萄， 而在体形上又像个歪张翅翼的 老派过时的蝴蝶。 纽卫镇那座圣公会教堂（参见第549行注释）兴建时，推土机机下留情，没铲掉那些神圣的树，而是绕了个弧形圈儿；那些树在校园里那条所谓莎士比亚林阴道尽头，是由一名天才园林学家（瑞普伯格）种的。我闹不清这一点是否至关重要，不过诗中第二行确实有个猫戏老鼠的把戏，而且“树”在费巴拉语中是“格拉道斯”。 57行：我小女儿那架秋千的幽灵 在这一行下面，谢德在草稿上轻轻划掉了下列几行： 灯光良好；那盏阅读时用的长颈台灯； 每扇门皆有钥匙。你那位现代建筑师 跟心理学家相勾结：在设计双亲的 两间卧室时，坚持装上不带锁的门， 好让未来江湖郎中治疗的未来病人，在回顾时， 可以发现那种使他完全释放受压抑情绪的场景。 61行：电视天线，状似巨大回形针 我在第71——72行注释中提到的那篇讣文，要不是其中摘引了谢德未发表过的一首诗，就显得空洞而相当乏味了。那首（由希碧尔·谢德提供的）诗，被说成“显然是我们的诗人在六月底，也就是说我们的诗人在逝世前不到一个月的时间里创作的，因此可以说是我们的诗人写下的最后一首诗。” 现附录如下： the swing 那落日夕阳的余晖 照亮了房顶上电视 那巨大回形针天线； 那球形门拉手阴影 在太阳落山时像是 门上的一个棒球棍； 那只红衣凤头鸟 喜欢栖息在树梢 发出吱喂、吱喂、吱喂的鸣声； 那树下晃动的空荡荡的小秋千： 这些物件样样都使我 心胆俱裂，肝肠痛断。 我让我的诗人的读者自行判定这首微型小诗究竟有没有可能是诗人把它的题材重复到长诗这部分之前几天写的。我个人猜测那是相当早期的成果（上面并没标出创作年代，不过应当注明写于他的爱女去世后不久的某日才对）。谢德想必是翻阅他的一些旧纸片，看看有什么可以借用而写进（我们那位讣告撰写者根本就不知道有这首长诗存在），结果挖掘出这首小诗而且利用上了。 62行：经常 经常，大都是在夜间，贯穿在一九五九年整个春季，我为自己的性命提心吊胆。离群索居的地方向来是撒旦魔王喜欢光临的游戏场。我没法形容我那种孤独和痛苦的深度。我那位知名的邻居当然就住在那条小巷对面；有一段时间，我接受了一个放荡的青年做房客（他经常在午夜过后很久才回家）。可我还是要着重指出那种孤独的冰冷核心，对一个被迫流亡异乡的人来说，真是叫人很不好受。尽人皆知赞巴拉人怎样遭受过弑君的厄运：仅仅在一个世纪（一七〇〇年至一八〇〇年）里就有两位王后、三位国王和十四名王位觊觎者暴死，有的被勒死，有的被刺死，有的被毒死，有的被淹死。这个哥尔斯华斯城堡在黄昏过后就变得尤其荒凉，昏暗得跟我头脑里的阴影色彩不相上下。隐秘的窸窸窣窣声啦，踩在去年枯叶上的脚步声啦，一阵没来由的风啦，一条巡视垃圾筒的狗儿啦一样样在我听来都像是一头四处觅食的嗜血动物在活动。我不断在几扇窗户前踱来踱去，丝睡帽浸透了汗水。赤裸的胸脯像个正在解冻的池塘；有时候，我用法官那管猎枪武装起来，敢于公然蔑视平台上的恐怖。我料想大概就是在那时分，在那些类似假面舞会那类欺骗性的春夜，树木内部的孳长声残酷地模仿我头脑里那些过去的死亡噼啪爆裂声；我料想大概就是在那时分，在那些可怕的夜晚，我习惯于向我邻居家中的窗户求援，期望从中得到些许安慰（参见第47——48行注释）。诗人又犯了心脏病（参见第691行和注释），导致窗户在半夜里大亮，我被叫到他们家，一阵忙乱，同情啦，咖啡啦，打电话啦，赞巴拉草药啦（还真起了神奇的疗效作用！），谢德活了过来，偎在我怀中哭哭啼啼（“得了，得了，约翰”）；自从经过那次一阵大乱的温暖友情之后，我还有什么不肯贡献出来呢。但是，在三月份那些黑夜里，他们家却跟棺材里一样黑暗。等到后来我观察得筋疲力尽，四周犹如坟墓里那样阴冷，我只好上楼躺在我那无伴的双人床上，屏息躺着——我仿佛那时才神志清醒地活着，总算熬过我在祖国处境危险的那些夜晚，当时随时随刻都会有一帮情绪激昂的革命分子闯进门来，把我带出去，推搡到一堵月光照亮的大墙前面。一辆汽车飞快的奔驰声或一辆卡车吱吱嘎嘎的呻吟声，犹如生命美好的解脱和死亡可怕的阴影古怪相混地到来：那阴影会出现在我的门前吗？那些幽灵般的凶手会来杀害我吗？他们会立刻毙了我——或者把这位被氯仿麻醉过去的学者偷运回赞巴拉，红色的赞巴拉，让他在那儿面对一个亮得耀眼的细颈盛水瓶和一排坐在审判席上欣喜若狂的法官吗？ 有时候，我心想只有自我毁灭这一招儿才可能有望骗过那些正前来的残酷杀手，他们与其说出现在一般的公路上，不如说活跃在我体内、耳鼓里、脉搏里和头颅里，不停地在我身上翻筋斗，围绕我的心脏乱转悠，使我昏昏沉沉地打起瞌睡，可又让那个醉醺醺、无可救药而又令人难忘的鲍勃返回来睡到原是坎蒂达或蒂的床铺上去那阵响声惊醒。正如前言里简短提到过那样，我后来把他轰走；接下来几个夜晚，无论是酒啦，音乐啦，祈祷啦，都没能减轻我的恐惧。不过，另一方面，那些温暖的春天倒也还能叫人忍受，我在学院里的讲课人人都深感满意，我还决定出席任何有份参加的社交集会。然而，欢乐的晚会之后，那种伺机谋害的阴谋又会斜身曳步挨近过来，那种悄悄的蠕动啦，那种暂时的停顿啦，那种噼噼啪啪的爆裂声，又复出现。 这座哥尔斯华斯城堡有多扇通往户外的门，甭管我每天睡觉前怎样查过门户和楼下各扇百叶窗，翌日清晨我总还是发现有的没锁上，有的没别好插销，这儿有点松动，那儿有点微敞着，总会现出那么一丁点儿透着狡猾和令人起疑的样儿。有一天夜里，我亲眼见到那只黑猫一扭一扭地下到地下室去，我在那儿一处环境优美的地方给它准备好了厕所设备，可是没过几分钟它又突然出现在我的音乐室门槛那儿，那当儿我正处于失眠状态，刚听到一张瓦格纳音乐唱片半当腰，只见它拱起背脊，炫耀脖颈上一个白丝蝴蝶结呐，那当然绝不可能是它自己系上去的。我连忙拨“11111”电话号码，没多大工夫就开始跟一名警察研究是否会有罪犯潜入。他呢，津津有味地大喝我调制的烈性樱桃甜酒；然而，甭管是谁破门而入，却都没留下一丁点儿痕迹。生性残忍的人很容易想出高招儿来让那个受他的诡计折磨的人要么相信他有迫害狂，要么自信真有个杀手在潜步追踪，要么相信自己犯了幻觉毛病。illusion!我清楚地知道在我拒绝过的一些向我献殷勤的年轻讲师当中至少有一个爱搞恶作剧的邪恶家伙；这事我早已知晓，因为我参加过一次蛮愉快而且成功的师生聚会（我在那个场合曾经兴高釆烈地脱掉外衣，向一些乐意观看的学生露了几手赞巴拉摔跤运动员惯用的几种挺有趣儿的擒拿术），回家之后就发现我的衣兜里有一张用词粗鲁的匿名纸条，上书：“你可真有糟糕的hal……s，傻瓜”，意思明明是指“hallucinations”（幻觉），尽管一名恶意的评论家会从那些不够数的虚点推断出小个子匿名先生虽然在教一年级大学生英语，却几乎拼不出这个词汇。 我乐意在此顺便汇报一下，复活节过后不久，我那些恐惧便消失得无影无踪，一去不复返。另一名房客住进那间不是艾尔菲娜就是贝蒂的房间，我给那个家伙取了个绰号，管他叫肥土王子巴尔退则，他生活得倒蛮有规律，每天九点上床一直呼呼睡到次日大天亮六点；，还在院子里种些天芥菜花（Heliotropium turgenevi）。这种花的香味长期有效地唤起人怀念一个遥远的北方国度的黄昏，那儿花园里的长凳和一座彩漆木屋。 70行：那崭新的电视 在（注明七月三日的）草稿上，这句下面还有几行没编号码的诗句，可能是打算用在这首长诗的后一部分。它们没给真正划掉，却伴有一个写在页边空白处的问号，另有一条弯弯曲曲的线侵犯了其中个别字： 有些事件，古怪的偶发事件， 给予我象征意义。它们就像 一些飘飘荡荡而失去的明喻， 无线牵引，无所依附。therefore, 那位北方国王铤而走险地越狱 只因他那四十几名追随者那夜 化装成他，仿效着他的逃跑， 才使他的逃亡终于得以成功—— 要不是国王那些秘密拥护者，一些英勇浪漫而胆大妄为的人，雷厉风行地纷纷乔装改扮成逃亡的国王，布下迷阵，那他想必根本就到不了这个西海岸。他们都穿上红毛线衫，戴上红便帽，装扮成他的模样，突然出现在这儿那儿，彻底把革命派警察搞糊涂了。有些爱搞恶作剧的家伙其实比国王少俊得多，不过这也没关系，因为山区老百姓的栅屋里和那些出售垂钓用的蠕虫、姜饼和吉利牌刀片的守旧村庄的小店铺里挂着的御像，那上面的国王自从他加冕登基以来一直就没变老。在那次著名事件的过程中，还流传了一幅有趣儿的漫画：一名假扮国王的欢乐小丑，从克隆伯克里饭店平台上，搭乘那运送旅客前去克隆冰川游览的滑动升降椅，像只红色飞蛾，倏地升空飞翔而去，他身后隔开两把椅子的座位上有个垂头丧气、没戴帽子的警察两眼发愣地缓慢追逐。令人发噱的是那位假国王在快到扎营地点之前，竟想法儿从一根支撑牵引缆索的标杆上爬下来逃之夭夭（另参见第149和第171行注释）。 71行：双亲 赫尔利教授以一种值得称道的敏捷速度，在诗人逝世还不到一个月的时间里就发表了一篇赞扬约翰·谢德发表过的诗作的评论文章。那是刊登在一份我一时忘了刊名、发行量不大的文艺评论杂志上面的，有人在芝加哥拿给我看了，我当时正开车从纽卫镇到赛达恩去，中途在那个秋季阴冷的山区逗留了两三天。 评论论坛应由平和的学术讨论来主宰，而不是抨击那篇小小讣告中荒谬缺点的场所。我之所以提到它，是因为在其中发现了一些有关诗人双亲的细节。他的父亲塞缪尔·谢德，死于一九〇二年，享年五十岁，青年时期学过医学，后出任埃克斯顿外科手术器械公司副总裁。然而，我们那位善于辞令的讣告撰稿人说他主要的爱好却在于“羽族研究”那一方面，并称“有一种鸟以他的姓氏命名为谢德丝鸟（Bombycilla Shadei）”（这当然干脆称作“谢德”就成了）。诗人的母亲，闺名为卡萝琳·路金，协助丈夫著述，给他那部《墨西哥鸟类》绘制了优美插图，这本专著我记得在我朋友家里见到过。讣告作者没弄清的地方是路金这个姓氏来源于圣徒路加，其他如路考克、路克松和路卡什威奇等姓氏也如出一辙。这仅代表众多例子当中的一个，那种貌似不规则却源于父名而活生生继承下来的姓氏，围着一个卵石般的普通教名不断增多起来，有时是以奇形怪状出现的。路金那家人出身于埃塞克斯郡一个古老家族。其他诸如赖迈尔、斯克里威纳、林奈（使羊皮纸生辉的人）、波特金（制造狭颈小口鞋之类的花哨鞋鞋匠）等上千上万姓氏，其实都是跟行当有关而派生出来的。我的一名苏格兰籍家庭教师，惯于把任何一栋摇摇欲坠的老楼房都叫做“赫尔利房子”。不过，这方面的话说得也够多的了，就此打住。 至于其他一些有关约翰·谢德在大学里的学术研究和他那异常平凡一生中的中年时代事迹，读者可以自行从那位教授那篇文章里查寻。总的说来，那篇文章，要不是具有某些特色使之——该用什么措词来形容好呢——活跃起来，想必会是一篇乏味透顶的玩意儿。因此，其中只有一处提及我那位朋友的杰作（那一摞整洁的卡片，在我写到这儿时，正像一批巨额财富的金锭似的搁在我桌上的阳光这儿呢），我怀着病态的喜悦心情在此录下那句话：“就在我们的诗人不幸早逝之前，他似乎正在着手写一首自传体长诗。”这次死亡事件的真相也彻底让那位教授歪曲了，他是报社记者先生们的一名忠实追随者——也许是为了政治原因——严重歪曲了那名杀人犯的动机和目的，没等到审判他就妄加判断——可惜的是那——审判没法儿在这尘世间进行了（参见我最后一个注释）。不过，当然啦，那篇讣文最突出的一大特点就是只字未提那段使约翰在一生最后几个月里活跃起来的光辉灿烂的友谊。 我的朋友记不得他爹的形象。那位国王在他爹阿尔方国王驾崩的时候还不到三岁，也同样回忆不起来他爹的长相，然而古怪的却是他倒蛮清楚地记得一张老照片上他手里握着的那个巧克力糖做的小型单翼飞机，那是那位坐在机舱里的沉郁的飞行员生平最后一张照片（摄于一九一八年圣诞节）；我们这位国王当时还是个圆脸蛋的娃娃呢，赶巧不情愿而且挺不舒服地张开四肢坐在那名飞行员的膝头上，手里握着那块飞机模型巧克力呐。 糊涂王阿尔方（1873——1918；执政于一九〇〇至一九一八年，大多数人名词典中则为一九〇〇至一九一九年，这是由于赶巧碰到历法由旧历改为新历所造成的一种笨拙的处理），这个绰号是安费希艾特里克斯给取的，该人并非是个不友好的作家，经常在自由派报纸上发表一些即兴小诗（把我的首都取名为“乌拉诺格勒”这个绰号的也是此公！）。阿尔方国王那种精神恍惚的健忘症简直发展到了无可救药的地步。他又是个蹩脚的语言学家，只会支配那么几句法语和丹麦语，可是每逢他不得不向他的臣民——一群偏僻山谷里目瞪口呆的乡巴佬，他是由于飞机出了故障而迫降在那里的——发表一通讲话时，头脑里某个控制不住的转换器就会起作用，他便顺口诌出那些外国话，还在论题上加点拉丁语增添风趣。大多数有关他精神恍惚大发作的趣闻轶事太过愚蠢幼稚而粗鄙不堪，不便在这里玷污宝贵的篇幅；不过其中有一件我并不觉得特别好笑的事却惹得谢德那么狂笑不止（而且通过那间师生公共休息室，回了我几句他添油加醋联想到的十分猥亵的话），使我不得不在这里拿它作个例子（同时也为了作出纠正）。第一次世界大战前的一个夏季，一位（我理解在这世界上少得多么难以选出来的）某王国的皇帝前来我们这个艰难的小国做一次极为不平常而讨好的访问，我爹便带领他和一位年轻的赞巴拉翻译（性别我空缺着，按下不表），乘坐一辆新买来的定做的汽车到乡镇作一次短途游览。阿尔方国王出访一向不带御警队，这次也一样，他亲自轻快地驾车，似乎很叫他的贵宾担惊害怕。在返回途中，离昂哈瓦市还有二十多公里之处，阿尔方国王决定停下来修理一下车。他笨笨咧咧地修理马达的时候，那位皇帝和翻译就在公路边上几棵松树树阴下等待；阿尔方国王回到昂哈瓦之后，一再受到相当焦急的询问，才渐渐意识到他把某人落下了（“什么皇帝？”是他留下的唯一一句令人难忘的话）。总的说来，凡是有关我提供的素材（或者我认为是素材的东西），我都一再嘱咐我这位诗人务必用文字把它们记录下来，万勿在闲谈扯淡中扩散；然而，即使是诗人，也同样是凡人啊。 阿尔方国王的健忘症却古怪地跟一股对机械玩意儿的热情爱好，尤其是对飞行设备的爱好，混在一块儿了。一九一二年，他想方设法乘坐一架伞状的法布尔式“水上飞机”升空，结果差点儿在尼特拉和英德拉之间的海域里淹死。他撞毁过两架法尔芒式飞机，三架赞巴拉自制的机器玩意儿和一架心爱的桑托斯·杜蒙特式“蜻蜓”号。一九一六年，一架单翼机“布兰达四世”号特地为他制造好了，制造者是经常出任他的“飞机参谋”的彼得·古塞夫上校（后来是一位先驱跳伞员，七十多岁时成为一名空前伟大的跳伞者），但那也是一架致他于死命的飞机。天使们选择十二月里一个晴朗而不太冷的日子的上午，撒下天罗地网捕捉他那温和而纯洁的灵魂，阿尔方国王当时正独自驾驶那架飞机在空中试着来个直下降再翻个筋斗的高难动作表演，那是安德烈·卡楚林亲王，俄罗斯著名特技飞行员和第一次世界大战的英雄，在加特契纳给他表演过的绝技。那架小“布兰达”忽然出了什么毛病，看上去无法控制地朝下俯冲。在他后面上空，古塞夫上校（这时已是瑞尔公爵）和王后在一架考德隆式双翼飞机上，拍下不少起先像是一次壮丽优美的花样变换而接着就大成问题的照片。在那千钧一发的时刻，阿尔方国王居然设法使机器恢复好转，又成了掌握重心的能手，可是紧接着他便机毁人亡地撞在一处海滨荒地上正在兴建的一座饭店高楼的脚手架上，真好像那是特地等着御驾光临似的。布兰达王后后来下令铲平那座严重损坏而尚未完工的楼房，在原地另建起一座顶上有架奇形怪状的铜制飞机模型的不雅观的花岗石纪念碑取而代之。那些描绘了整个儿那场大灾难的放大了的光溜溜的照片，让八岁的查尔斯·扎威尔在一名秘书的书橱里发现了。您在几张可怕的照片上可以辨认出那位满不在乎的飞行员的肩膀和皮革头盔，而且在那一整套照片的倒数第二张上，您清晰地看到他在飞机撞得白花花粉碎之前还恢复信心而得意洋洋地举起一只手呐。那个男孩儿看过之后，从此夜间经常做噩梦，可他的母后却压根儿也不知道孩子曾经看过那些该死的记录。 他多多少少记得他的母后的模样——一名女骑师，高大壮实，宽肩膀，红彤彤的脸膛。一位表亲向她保证她的儿子在令人钦佩的堪贝尔先生的教导下会安全而幸福，那位先生教过不少顺从的小公主怎样把蝴蝶摊开来，怎样欣赏罗纳德勋爵的挽歌。可以这么说吧，他一辈子为之献身的众多的癖好都是些轻便的祭坛，从蠹鱼研究到猎熊，而且能在徒步旅行中滔滔不绝地把《麦克白》从头到尾背诵一遍；可他却一点也不关心那些受他托管的孩子的道德品行，喜欢女郎更胜过男孩儿，而且从不插手干预赞巴拉内部复杂激烈的火拼。他呆了十年光景，一九三二年就到另一个外国宫廷去高就了。当时，我们的王子十七岁，已经开始一半时间在大学念书，一半时间在部队里受训。这是他生平最美好的一段时期。他压根儿拿不准什么使他更感到乐趣，究竟是对诗歌——尤其是对英国诗歌——进行研究呢，还是参加军队游行，或是在化装舞会上跟男孩扮的女孩和女孩扮的男孩跳舞。他的母后突然在一九三六年七月二十一日因患一种起因不明的血液症而去世，那种病也曾折磨过她的老母和奶奶。就在去世前一天，她还好好的呐——查尔斯·扎威尔到格林戴尔伍德那座所谓的公爵大厦参加通宵舞会去了：当时那是一种跟异性正规交往的途径，比以前的种种娱乐新鲜些。黎明四点钟左右，曙光开始染红树顶，染红法尔克山，使它状似一个粉红色锥体，那位国王在王宫大院一扇大铁门前停下他那辆马力十足的汽车。空气那么清新，亮光那么富有诗意，他和身边三位朋友决定步行穿过椴树丛走到客人所住的孔雀宾馆去。他和他那位柏拉图式好友奥塔尔穿着燕尾服，不过两人的大礼帽方才都在公路上让风刮跑了。王宫城堡壕沟的斜坡和外崖的景致显得端庄古板，正反阴影更增强了那种气氛，他们四个人站在幼小椴树下，忽然都有一种古怪的感受。奥塔尔是个招人喜欢的小贵族，特大的鼻子，稀疏的头发，带着两个情人儿，一个是十八岁的菲法尔达（后来跟他结了婚），另一个是十七岁的弗萝尔（我们在另两个注释中还会遇到她），两个姑娘都是王后宠爱的女侍臣菲丽尔女伯爵的女儿。人往往不由自主地眷恋那种景色，就跟人在优越有利的时候往往依依不舍一样，事后才领悟到人的生活一瞬间就会起彻底变化。奥塔尔当时就处在这种心态中，他带着困惑的表情眺望远处王后居住区那边的楼房窗户；两个姑娘肩并肩地站在他身旁，她俩身穿闪亮的外衣，两腿修长，小鼻子粉红，绿眼睛现出犯困的神情，耳环动人地熠熠放光。那扇大铁门那儿，甭管什么时候，一向出现的人都不多，一条小道沿着那里展开，连接那条朝东的公路。一个手里拿着一小块亲自烘烤的糕饼的庄稼婆，无疑是那名哨兵的母亲，见那个没刮胡子、黑发的年轻（nattdett）（夜猫子）还没从他那个沉闷的岗亭下岗，便独自坐在虎爪式柱座的石头上，用女性纳闷儿的目光仰望着楼房那些萤火虫般的烛光从这个窗户到那个窗户来回闪烁；两名工人扶着他们的自行车也在注视着那些怪亮光；另一个蓄着两撇海象那种末端下垂的长胡须的醉汉，不断摇摇晃晃地走来走去，时而还轻轻拍拍椴树树干。在这种呆滞的生活中，人往往会注意到一些次要细节。那位国王就发现一些微红的泥浆弄脏了那两辆自行车车身，而且前轮彼此平行地朝同一个方向转动呐。突然之间，从丁香花丛当中那条陡峭的小径——一条抄近路通往王后居住区的道路——那位女伯爵慌慌张张奔跑下来，被她那件带褶裥的长袍折边绊倒了；与此同时，从王宫另一头有七位枢密元老，都穿着正规大礼服，分别拿着各种葡萄干蛋糕般大小的王位标志复制件，从石阶上庄严地匆匆大步走下来，那位女伯爵却抢先了他们一步，大声吐露了那一噩耗。那名醉汉开始唱起一首有关“小卡尔——小嘎子”的下流民谣，接着一个筋斗栽进那条半月形沟渠里。要在一首诗的简短注解里一清二楚地讲明一座设防城堡里的条条通道，那是不大容易的一件事；有鉴于此，我早在六月里向约翰·谢德叙述我在若干注释里提到过的事（参见，比如说，第130行注释），那段时期就给他画过一张昂哈瓦王宫内部各个房间、平台、棱堡和娱乐场所的平面图。那张用几种颜色的墨水画在一大块（长三十寸、宽二十寸的）硬卡纸板上的详图，除非给毁掉或让人偷走了，想必还在我七月中旬最后一次见到它存放的地方放着呐，也就是在通往所谓的水果室那条小走廊的一个凹壁里，那架老织布机对面的大黑箱子上面呐。要是没在那儿放着，那就到楼上他的书房里四处找找。我为此事曾致函谢德夫人，可她却没回信。如果那张图纸还在，我想请求她，并不提高嗓门，而是十分谦卑地，就像那位国王最低下的臣民那样低声下气地乞求立刻恢复他的权益（那张图纸是我的，而且上面签署了“金波特”这个姓氏，在那后边还盖了一个黑色象棋棋子儿那样的国王王冠），把它包好，邮包上注明万勿折叠字样，挂号寄给我的出版商，以便这部著作再版时制版附加进去供读者参阅。甭管我以往有过多么大的干劲儿，我的精力最近已经衰退，再加上要命的头疼毛病，现在我根本就不可能再有绘制另一幅那样的平面图所需要的出色记忆力和聚精会神的目力啦。那个黑箱子是放在另一个个儿更大的棕色或褐色的箱子上面；在那个黑糊糊的旮旯里，我想，还有一个剥制的狐狸或郊狼在箱子旁边立着呐。 79行：一个认为《启示录》预言业已实现的人 草稿上，这一行的页边空白处还有两行，只有一行能辨认得出如下字迹： 夜晚是赞颂白昼的时辰 我很有把握相信我这位朋友在这里试图编入他们夫妇俩曾经听我在轻松愉快时刻摘引过的某些诗句，我们赞巴拉那部相当于《老埃达》文集里的一首十分优美的四行诗，一位无名氏把它译成如下英诗（是克尔贝的译文吗？）： 智者在黄昏时赞颂白昼， 赞颂那已经去世的妻子， 那十字冰层，那跌跤的 新娘和那匹稳健的马儿。 80行：我的卧室 我们的王子喜欢弗萝尔，把她当作亲妹妹那样看待，不过没有一点乱伦邪念或继发的同性恋并发症。她长着一张苍白的脸，凸出的颧骨，明亮的