Chapter 3 III
One happy summer at the end of last century, John Drinkwater took a walking tour to England in the name of looking at houses.One evening he came to the gate of a red-brick vicarage in Cheshire.He got lost, and lost his guide book, which he had dropped into the sink of a mill while he was eating lunch a few hours earlier.Now he was hungry, and however safe and lovely the English countryside was, he couldn't help feeling uneasy.
In the vicarage there was an overgrown and neglected garden, butterflies fluttered among thick rose bushes, and birds twittered and twittered in a gnarled and domineering apple tree.A man was sitting on a branch of a tree, just lighting a candle.Why candles?It was a young girl in white, who was protecting the candle with both hands, and the flame flickered.She said (but not to him): "What's the matter?" The candle went out in an instant."Excuse me," he said, and she scrambled down quickly and nimbly, so he stood away from the gate so as not to be rude when she came to talk to him.But the girl didn't come.Now from somewhere (or rather from every corner) came a nightingale's song, paused, then started again.
He had come to a crossroads not so long ago (not really a crossroads; although he had faced a lot of choices over the past month, whether to go down to the water or up over the hills, he found These experiences did not help him much at the crossroads of his life).It took him a year to design a gigantic skyscraper that had to look as much like a thirteenth-century church as its size and purpose would allow.When he sent the first draft of the design drawing to the client, he originally regarded it as a joke, a kind of fantasy, or even a kind of pastime, and should be rejected; but the client didn't see his intentions, Yan Ming wants his skyscraper to be built like this, and wants it to be a commercial church.And what John Drinkwater didn't expect was that he wanted the brass letterbox shaped like a baptistery too, and those eccentric Cluny-esque bas-reliefs (depicting dwarves talking on the phone or reading a tape paper tapes), and a gargoyle high up in the building where no one would ever see it, and the gargoyle had the same protruding eyes and strawberry nose as the client himself (but the guy didn't even see that not come out).The client thinks that there is nothing he can't do, so now everything must be done exactly according to Drinkwater's design.
While the project dragged on, he came close to undergoing a transformation.It was almost, but fortunately he managed to avoid it.It seems to be something that is not itself, and it is about to come out but it can't be said.At first he noticed a devious intrusion into his busy but regular life full of eccentric daydreams: just abstract words that popped into his mind, as if a voice had pronounced them.One of them is "diversity".Another day, when he was sitting in the university club and looking out the window at the misty rain, the word "combination" appeared.Once uttered, the concept would take over his mind, spread all the way to his workplace and the accounting office, paralyzing him, unable to focus on his so-called "flash in the pan" career and taking the long-conceived next step. take actions.
He felt that he was slowly falling into a long dream, and he might be waking up from a dream.Whether it's the former or the latter, he doesn't want it to happen.To resist, he became interested in theology.He reads the works of Swedenborg and Augustine, and nothing soothes him more than Aquinas: he can almost feel that this "Dr. Angel" in the eyes of everyone is completing his great book "Summa Theology" .He later learned that Aquinas regarded everything he wrote as "a pile of straw" before his death.
A pile of straw.Drinkwater sat in the long, skylighted office of Maus, Drinkwater & Stone Architects, staring at the black-and-white photographs of the towers, parks, and mansions he built, thinking "Just a pile of straw".Like the least durable house built by the first little pig in The Three Little Pigs.Whatever the big wolf was chasing him, there had to be a stronger place for him to hide.He was already thirty-nine years old.
Partner Maus found that although he had been at the drawing board for months, the concrete design of the commercial church was nowhere in progress; Hours.So I sent him abroad to recuperate for a while.
Odd interior... A path led from the gate to the door of the vicarage with the fanned windows, and beside the path he saw a machine (or a garden ornament), a white sphere on a tripod, surrounded by Surrounded by rusty iron hoops.Some of the hoops had come loose and fell on the garden path, where weeds covered them.He pushed the door and it creaked open.There was a movement of light in the room.And as he walked up the weedy path, there was a voice through the door.
"You're not welcome," said Dr. Bramble (for it was he), "you're not you anymore. Is that you, Fred? I should have put a lock on the gate, now People are so rude.”
"I'm not Fred."
His accent made Dr. Bramble pause for thought.He lifted the lamp. "then who are you?"
"Just a traveler. I'm afraid I'm lost. You don't have a walkie-talkie."
"of course not."
"I have no intention of rushing in."
"Watch out for that old stargazer. It's all disintegrated and turned into a horrible trap. Are you American?"
"yes."
"Oh, well, come in."
The girl is gone.
Two years later, John Drinkwater sat sleepily in the overheated, dimly lit room of the Metropolitan Theosophical Society (he never thought he'd end up here, but here he was).The society held a series of lectures, with speakers from all sides, psychics and celestial beings, and Drinkwater found that Dr. Theodore Bourne Bramble was also on the list of speakers waiting for the society to choose , giving a lecture on "The Small World in the Big World".As soon as he saw this name, he couldn't help but think of the girl on the apple tree, and the light went out between her palms.What happened?He thought again of how she looked when she walked into the dim dining room.The pastor didn't introduce who she was, because he didn't want to interrupt the conversation at all.He just nodded, pushing away the stacks of moldy books and stacks of papers tied with blue bands, to make room for her to put down the blackened tea set and the smoked salmon on the cracked plate.She could be a daughter, a ward, a servant, a prisoner (possibly even a guard), for Dr. Bramble's mind is eccentric and obsessive, even if it's implied.
"Think—" he said, pausing to light his pipe.So Drinkwater took the time to ask, "Is that lady your niece?"
Bramble glanced back, as if Drinkwater saw a member of the Bramble family he didn't know.Then he nodded, and continued: "You know, Paracelsus..."
She offered white and red port wine.By the time it was all gone, Dr. Bramble had become agitated and began to bring up personal matters, such as his disbarment as a priest for insisting on telling the truth as he knew it.And now they'll come and laugh at him, and tie the tin can to the tail of his dog, poor stupid dog!She sent whiskey and brandy again.Finally, Drinkwater finally went all out and asked her name directly. "Violet," she said, without looking him directly.Dr. Bramble finally took him to bed, and he would lead the way himself so that Drinkwater could continue to listen to him.But in fact, he could no longer understand what Dr. Bramble was saying. "In houses made of time there are houses made of houses." Waking up before dawn, he found himself saying these words aloud, his throat sore.He had just dreamed of the kind face of Dr. Bramble.He knocked over the big kettle beside the bed, and a spider crawled out angrily, so he stood at the window, pressed the cold ceramic to his cheek, and the thirst in his throat was not quenched.He watched the wisps of mist blowing in the wind among the lace-like trees, and watched the last fireflies disappear.He saw her come back from the barn barefoot in a long light-coloured dress, with a bucket of milk in each hand, but no matter how carefully she moved forward, drops of milk splashed on the ground.At a moment of incomparable clarity, he suddenly realized that he was going to start building a house.And a year and a few months later, the house became Edgewood.
At this time in New York, her name appeared in front of her eyes.He had thought he would never see her again.He registered for that class.
He knew she would come with his father, he knew it when he saw the name.He knew she was going to be even more attractive, that her hair, which she never trimmed, would be longer than it was two years ago.But he didn't know that when she arrived she was three months pregnant and the father was Fred Renard or Oliver Hawksquill or some persona non grata (he never asked the name) Unexpectedly, she was two years older like him, and she also came to her own difficult crossroads and walked through strange dark alleys.
"Paracelsus believed," Dr. Brambau told the Theosophist, "that the universe was full of forces and spirits, but not entirely immaterial. Whatever they were, they were perhaps finer and finer than the ordinary world. Hard-to-reach material. The air and water are full of it, and it's all around us, so all we have to do is move (he flicks his long hand in the air to disturb his spit smoke) can take away thousands.”
She sat by the door out of the lamplight, a little bored, a little nervous, or both.She rested her chin on her hand, and the desk lamp illuminated the lower edge of her dark arm, making it appear golden.Her eyes were dark and dark, and her eyebrows, which formed a line that stretched from the tip of her nose, were thick and untrimmed.She didn't look at him, or rather, she turned a blind eye to him.
"Paracelsus divided them into water-spirits, tree-spirits, air-spirits and fire-spirits," said Dr. Bramble. There are corresponding spirit bodies: mermaids belong to water, elves belong to earth, fairies belong to wind, and demons belong to fire. Because of this, we will call them "yuan spirits" in a unified way. Paracelsus A well-organized person. But this theory is wrong, because after all, it is based on the wrong foundation, thinking that the world is made up of the four elements of wind, fire, earth, and water-this is an ancient one in the history of science. , Big mistake. Of course we now know that there are more than ninety kinds of elements, and the old four elements are not among them at all.”
When he said this, there was an uproar in the more radical or Rosicrucian audience, because they still attach great importance to the four elements.And this speech must be a success, Dr. Bramble took a few swigs from the glass beside him, cleared his throat, and then tried to bring up the more surprising or enlightening parts of his speech. "The real question," he said, "if there are not several kinds of these 'souls', but only one, as I believe, why do they manifest in so many different guises? Ladies and gentlemen , They will indeed appear, there is no doubt about it." He looked at his daughter meaningfully, and many people followed him, after all, Dr. Bramble's concept became weighty because of her experience.She smiled slightly, and seemed to cower under the eyes of everyone. "Okay." He said, "We have integrated various experiences, some from myths and fables, some from modern observations, and found that these primordial spirits can be divided into two categories, and there are different sizes and density (if you can call it that).
"There are two different types: one is light, beautiful, and otherworldly, and the other is ugly, rustic, and short. It's actually a gender distinction. These spirits are much more gender-different than humans.
"The difference in size is another matter. What are the differences? If it appears in the form of an air spirit or a goblin, it is often only the size of a large insect or a hummingbird. Legend has it that it lives in the woods and is related to flowers. .Many funny stories have been made up about them using spears made of acacia thorns, and driving chariots made of nutshells and drawn by dragonflies, and so on. But there are also petite men and women, one to three feet tall, wingless, full bodied, with habits Closer to humans. There are also fairies who fascinate humans and seem to be able to have sex with humans. They are comparable in size to human women. In addition, there are fairy warriors riding tall horses. Banshees, ghosts, ogres, etc. all belong to this category , much larger than humans.
"How to explain all this?
"The world these spirits live in is not our world. Their world is completely another world, and that world is embedded in our world. In a certain way, it is like a complete mirror image of this world, Its geographical shape can only be described as 'funnel-shaped'." He paused for suspenseful effect. "What I mean by this is that the other world is made up of a series of concentric circles. The deeper you go into the inner world, the bigger the world becomes. The further you go in, the bigger the space. Each circle in this set of concentric circles There is a bigger world hidden, and when it reaches the center, it becomes infinitely large, at least very, very large." He took another sip of water.Every time he tried to explain it all, it gradually faded away from him.That perfect clarity, that barely comprehensible perfect paradox that rang like silver bells in his mind at times) was so inexpressible—God, maybe not at all.The unimpressed people in front of him were still waiting for his explanation. "We humans actually live in the largest circle on the outermost circle of this inverted funnel. Paracelsus is right: we are accompanied by these spirits in every move, but we cannot see them not because They are invisible, but because here, they are too small to be seen by the naked eye!
"There are many passages (let's call them doors) inside the circumference of our world that lead to the next smaller and larger world. The inhabitants here are as big as ghost birds or will-o'-the-wisps. This is The most common experience is that most people have only entered the first floor. The circumference of the next floor is smaller, so there are fewer doors, so there are fewer opportunities for people to accidentally cross. The residents there will be Fairchild or small dwarf appearance, but this situation is relatively rare. Going inside and so on: if those spirits grow to the same size as us, they must live in those vast inner circles, but these circles are too large. Small, so that we pass over it all day and night without realizing it, and never really enter; but perhaps it was easier to enter in the age of heroes of old, and that is why so many heroic legends took place there. Finally, The greatest world, the land of infinity, the central point, which is Wonderland, where, gentlemen and ladies, heroes ride across endless lands, to sea after sea, and the possibilities are endless. Oh, but The circle is so small that it doesn't even have a door."
He sat there, exhausted. "Now," he said, with his extinguished pipe in his mouth, "before I show some mathematical and topographical evidence," he patted the pile of messy papers and labeled books beside him, "You should know that some people are so gifted that they can enter the small worlds I just mentioned almost at will. If you ask me to give first-hand evidence to support my overall thesis, my daughter Miss Violet Brambau... ..."
The audience murmured (that's what they came for), and turned to Violet, seated by the red-shaded lamp.
But the girl is gone.
It was Drinkwater who found her.She was sitting huddled at the corner of the stairs between the academy and the law firm upstairs.When he walked towards her, she didn't move, just rolled her eyes to look at him.He wanted to light the gas lamp above her head, but she touched his calf: "No."
"are you uncomfortable?"
"no."
"Fear?"
She didn't answer.He sat down beside her and took her hand. "Well, dear boy," he said in a fatherly tone, but there was a tremor, as if an electric current went from her hand to his palm, "you know, they won't hurt you, they won't haunt you ..."
"I'm not afraid," she said slowly. "It's just a circus."
"Not afraid." How old is she?Fifteen or sixteen?Must live like this—fifteen?sixteen years old?As he got closer, he found that she was crying softly, big teardrops formed in her deep eyes, quivered next to her thick eyelashes, and then rolled down her cheeks drop by drop.
"I felt so sorry for him. He hated making me do it, but he did it anyway because we were cornered." She said it tersely, as if she meant "because we're British."She didn't let go of his hand, maybe she didn't notice at all.
"I can help you." The words blurted out, but anyway, he felt that he had no choice when facing her.Since he caught a glimpse of her on the apple tree in the evening two years ago, all the bitter lovesickness seems to shrink into a speck of dust and drift away.He had to protect her, he had to take her away, to some safe place, somewhere... She didn't want to talk anymore, and he couldn't talk anymore.He knew that his well-constructed life, the life he had carefully built and decorated for forty years, could not contain his dissatisfaction; he felt the world falling apart, the foundations slipped, huge cracks appeared, the whole building collapsed, and he could almost hear it. That long sound.He kissed the warm, salty tears on her cheeks.
All their luggage was piled at the door to be moved by servants, and Dr. Bramble was seated in a comfortable chair on the wide marble front porch.At this point John Drinkwater said to Violet, "You might go around the house."
Wisteria flowers grew above the tapered pillars of the front porch. Although it was early summer, the clear green leaves had already covered the landscape he wanted to introduce: a wide lawn and young plants, a gazebo, and the pond in the distance, Above stands a smart, elegant and classically styled arch bridge.
Dr. Bramble rejected his proposal and had already taken an octavo-sized book out of his pocket.Violet agreed in a low voice (she must be dignified in such a grand place, she had thought there would be a log house and a red fan, she really had no idea).She took his hand (a strong architect's hand, she thought), and the two of them crossed the new lawn and onto a gravel road, flanked at intervals by a pair of sphinxes. Guard the trail. (These sphinxes were the work of his Italian stonemason friends, who were at this time furnishing the big city mansion of Mr. Maus, a partner in the firm, and they carved the whole front of the building with clusters of grapes and Weird faces. These statues were quickly carved out of soft stone, which will not stand the ravages of time well, but that's for another day.)
"You can stay as long as you want," Drinkwater said.He had said so when, for the first time after the hasty speech, he insisted on inviting them to dinner at Cherry's, though shyly.He said it again later, when he met them in the shabby, smelly hotel lobby.The third time was at Grand Central Station, with the huge zodiac painted on the dark blue ceiling, glittering, and still in the wrong direction (Dr. Bramble couldn't help noticing this).He said it again at the end, when she was nodding on the train and dozing off, while the satin rosebuds in the vase above the carriage were nodding too.
But how long does she want to stay?
"You're so nice," she said.
You'll live in many different houses, Mrs. Underhill once told her, and you'll wander about and live in many different houses.She cried when she heard it, or whenever she thought about it in the car, on the boat, in the waiting room, wondering how many houses were "a lot" and how long it would take to settle down in a house, She will cry.It must have been a long time, for they had lived in hotels and taverns since they left Cheshire six months ago, and seemed to continue to do so.How long will it take?
They walked up a tidy gravel road as if they were stepping, turned right, and set foot on another road.Drinkwater made a sound, signaling that he was about to break the silence.
"I'm very interested in your... er... experience," he said.He held up his palms sincerely. "I have no intention of spying, and I don't want to make you sad. It's fine if talking about it makes you sad. I'm just very interested."
She was silent, anyway, all she could tell him was that it was over.For a moment she felt empty, and he seemed to sense it, for he pressed her arm very gently. "The other worlds," he said dreamily, "are worlds within worlds." He led her to a curvilinear hedge and sat her down on a small bench.In the distance is the complex facade of the house, dark yellow in the evening sun, very unique, it looks serious but smiling in her eyes, just like the Eras she saw in her father's frontispiece Mo portrait.
"Well," she said, "those thoughts are Papa's thoughts, and worlds of worlds and all. I don't know myself."
"But you have been."
"It was Dad who said I had been there." She crossed her legs and clasped her hands to cover a brown stain on the cotton skirt that could not be washed off. "I never thought it would turn out like this. I just told him ... everything, everything that happened to me. Because I wanted to make him happy. Want to tell him that it's going to be okay and that all the problems are part of the story."
"story?"
She becomes wary. "I mean I never expected it to turn out like this. Leaving the house, leaving..." They, she almost said.But after that night at the Theosophical Society (the last straw that broke her!), she had had enough and decided never to mention them again.Just losing them is bad enough.
"Miss Bramble," he said, "please. I'm not going to go after you for your...your story." That's not true.He was fascinated by it.He had to know the story, to know her heart. "No one will disturb you here. You can rest well." He points to the Lebanese cedars that grow on the lawn.The wind blowing through the treetops sounded like the whispering of children, a vague hint of how powerful and serious their voices would be when they grew up. "It's safe here. This place was built to be safe."
Despite seeming restrained, she did feel a certain peace.If it was a big mistake to tell my father about them, if it would only make him more enchanted than safe, and make them both like two itinerants (or maybe a gypsy and a dancing bear would be better) aptly so), living in dismal lecture halls and conference rooms entertaining crazy people for a living (and counting the money afterwards, God!), then rest and oblivion are the best payoffs.exceeded their expectations.only……
She rose impatiently and walked down the path to a wing jutting out of the corner, designed somewhat like a stage, with a series of arches. "This house," she heard him say, "was actually built for you. In a way."
She went through the arch and around the corner.The original simple shell of the wing room suddenly unfolded in front of the eyes, and transformed into an American style painted with white paint, full of flowers and full of lace-like cut-out decorations.It was a different place, as if Erasmus was smiling behind his stern face.She could not help laughing, for the first time since leaving her English garden.
He almost ran over to her, grinning at the surprise.He pushed the straw hat back on his head and began chatting excitedly about the house and himself, all kinds of emotions flashing across his big face. "Unusual, not at all," he laughed. "There's nothing unusual about it. Here, for example, was supposed to be a vegetable garden. You see, anyone would have a vegetable garden here, but I'm It's full of flowers. The chef doesn't want to grow vegetables, and the gardener is good at growing flowers, but says he can't even grow tomatoes..." He pointed at a beautiful pump house with his bamboo stick. "It's exactly like the one in my parents' garden," he said, "and it's functional." Then he pointed to the hollowed-out arches above the porch, covered with broad vine leaves. "It's a hollyhock," he said, leading her to look, where some bumblebees were already busy. "Some people think hollyhocks are a weed. I don't think so."
"Be careful down there!" A loud voice with an Irish accent came from above.Upstairs a maid opened a window and shook a mop in the sun.
"She's a wonderful girl." Drinkwater said, pointing upstairs, "A wonderful girl..." He looked at Violet, his expression became dreamy again, and she looked up at him .Dust fell like golden rain in the sun. "I think," he said solemnly, the bamboo stick in his hand swinging like a pendulum behind him, "I think you should think I'm old."
"You mean what you think."
"But I'm not old, you know. I'm not old."
"But you think, you expect..."
"I mean I thought..."
"You should have said 'I guess,'" she said, stamping her little foot, causing a butterfly to fly from a carnation flower. "Americans say 'I guess,' don't they?" She put on a redneck low-pitched voice: "I guess it's time to bring the cows back from pasture. I guess no tax without reps—oh, You know." She bent to smell the flowers, and he bent after her.The sun was beating on her bare arms, and the insects in the garden were humming.
"Okay," he said.She heard his tone suddenly bold. "Just say I guess. I guess I'm in love with you, Violet. I guess I want you to stay here forever. I guess..."
She knew he was about to take her in his arms, so she ran away from him along the flagstone garden path.Her figure disappeared around the next corner of the house.He let her go.Don't let me go, she thought.
What just happened?She slowed down and found herself in a dark valley.She had come into the shadows behind the house.A sloping lawn led down to a quiet creek, and across the way a hill rose abruptly, covered with sharp pines like a barrel of arrows.She stopped among the yew trees, not knowing which direction to go.The houses beside me were as gray and gloomy as the yews.The thick stone pillars supported the hard and seemingly useless belt layer, presenting a heavy sense of oppression.What should she do?
Now she caught a glimpse of Drinkwater, his white suit pale in the circle of stone corridors.She heard his boots on the stone.The wind turned suddenly, and the yew branches pointed toward him, but she refused to look in that direction, and he, shy, said nothing.But he came close.
"You shouldn't have said those things," she said to the dark hill, unwilling to turn to him. "You don't know me, and you don't know..."
"It doesn't matter what I don't know," he said.
"Oh," she said, "oh..." She shivered, but it was because of his heat.He had embraced her from behind, and she was leaning against him.So they went down together, and the surging stream bubbled up and flowed into a cave on the side of the mountain, disappearing without a trace.They could feel the damp, rocky atmosphere of the cave, so he held her tighter to keep her from shivering with the cold.She confided all her secrets in his arms without shedding a single tear.
"So you love him?" Drinkwater asked after she had finished. "The man who did this to you?" It was him with tears in his eyes.
"No, never loved." The question had never mattered until this moment.She couldn't help wondering which answer would hurt him more, loved or not (she wasn't even entirely sure what the answer was, but he would never, ever know).She felt that she had sinned deeply.But he held her tolerantly.
"Poor child," he said, "lost child. But you won't be lost again. Listen to me now. If..." He looked at her face, but the line of eyebrows and thick eyelashes seemed Block out the world. "If you can accept me...you know, no stain can make me look down on you, no matter what, I am the one who favors you. But if you can accept it, I swear this child will be born and raised here, just like me Like a child." His determined, serious face softened, almost into a smile. "One of our kids, Violet. One of our many kids."
At last she shed tears, surprised at his kindness.She had never realized how much trouble she was in before, but now he volunteered to save her.How honest!Even his own father hadn't noticed yet.
But she did know she was lost.Can she find herself here?She turned away from him again, round the next corner, and came under the strange line of overhanging arcades and tight battlements.She held her hat in her hand, and the white band skimmed the green, damp grass.She could feel him following, keeping a polite distance between them.
"Strange," she said aloud as she rounded the corner, "strange."
The house has been transformed from gloomy gray stone walls to lively brick walls in a dazzling palette of red and brown, with beautiful enameled tiles and white wood battens.All the heavy Gothic elements are stretched, elongated, pointed, and exploded into high and low curved eaves, comic chimneys, useless fat towers, and exaggerated arcs of crooked bricks.Here the sun came out again, shining on the brick wall and winking at her—as if the dark porch, the silent stream, and the sleeping yew had all been a joke.
"This," Violet asked, as John walked toward her with his hands behind his back, "is actually a lot of houses, isn't it?"
"That's right." He said with a smile, "Every building is for you."
Through a comical monastery arch she glimpsed her father's back.He was still sitting on the wicker chair, still looking out into the distance through the wisteria flowers, and in front of him should still be the avenue of the Sphinx and those Lebanese cedars.But from here, the bald father looks like a monk daydreaming in a monastery garden.She laughed.You'll be wandering around, living in many houses. "A lot of houses!" She took John Drinkwater's hand and almost brought it to her lips for a kiss.She smiled and looked up at him, his face seemed to be full of surprise.
"What a joke!" she said. "Lots of jokes! Are there so many houses in it?"
"So to speak," he said.
"Oh! Show me!" She pulled him toward the white arch with fine brass hinges.The minimalist vestibule is painted.She kissed his broad hand gratefully as she came suddenly into the dark vestibule.
There are many doors behind the vestibule.There was a long series of arches and lintels, from which light poured in, probably through invisible windows.
"How can you not get lost inside?" Violet asked standing on the threshold.
"In fact, sometimes you do get lost," he said. "I proved that every room must have more than two doors, but I have never been able to prove that any room only needs three doors." Urge her.
"Maybe," she said, "you'll think so hard about it one day that you'll never get out."
Violet Bramble pressed her hand against the wall and advanced slowly, as if blind (though she was really only surprised).And so she stepped into the pumpkin shell that John Drinkwater had made to enclose her, but to please her first he had transformed it into a golden carriage.
After the moon rises, Violet wakes up in a large and strange bedroom.She felt the cold moonlight and heard someone calling her name.She lay quietly on the bed for a while, holding her breath, waiting for the tiny call to sound again, but it never came again.She threw back the comforter, climbed out of bed and walked across the floor.When she opened the window, she seemed to hear her name again.
Violet?
There was a rush of summer air into the room, and so many small voices that she couldn't make out the one that had called her.她从行李箱里取出她的大斗篷穿上，踮起脚尖迅速安静地离开了房间。由于她开了一扇窗，有一阵风从楼梯往上蹿，吹得她的白色棉布睡衣飘动不已。
“瓦奥莱特？”
这次是她父亲，在她经过他房间时叫了她一声，人说不定根本还在睡，因此她没响应。
她小心翼翼摸索了好一阵子才找到下楼出门的路（双脚踩在没铺地毯的阶梯上与大厅里，感觉愈来愈冷）。当她终于找到一扇两边都有窗户的门、确认外头还是黑夜时，她才意识到自己完全不晓得方位。does it matter?
结果门外是那座气派安静的花园。人面狮身像看着她走过，一模一样的脸孔在似水的月光下仿佛会动。鱼塘边缘传来一只青蛙的叫声，但叫的不是她的名字。她继续前进，越过那座鬼魅般的桥，穿过一排白杨树，树的姿态仿佛一颗颗吓得毛发直竖的头颅。后面是一片田野，中间横着一道类似树篱的东西，但又不是真正的树篱，而是一排灌木和沙沙作响的小树，外加一道粗糙的石墙。她沿着这道墙，漫无目标地往前走。跟多年后的史墨基一样，她觉得自己也许根本没有离开艾基伍德，只是走进了另一条假的户外走廊而已。
她似乎走了很久。没有听到那些以树篱为家的动物的声音，像是兔子、鼬和刺猬等（这里也有这些动物吗？），她不知道它们是没有声音还是不愿出声。她赤脚踩在露水上，一开始觉得冷，接着就麻木了。虽然今晚很温暖，但她还是拉高斗篷盖住鼻子，因为月光似乎让她感到寒冷。
接着，不知怎么的，她开始有了似曾相识的感觉。她抬头望向月亮，结果一看到月亮的笑脸，她就明白自己已经来到一个她从未去过但却认识的地方。前方那片长着莎草与繁花的草场隆起形成一座圆丘，上面有一棵橡树和一株荆棘紧紧相依。她加快脚步、心跳加速，知道圆丘旁一定有一条小径绕到后方，通往一间凿在圆丘底部的小屋。
“瓦奥莱特？”
小屋圆圆的窗户里透出灯光，圆圆的门上嵌着一张黄铜的脸，口中咬着一个门环。她一到门前，门就开了。根本没必要敲门。
“昂德希尔太太，”她说，在惊喜与受伤之间颤抖不已，“你怎么没告诉我事情是这样发展的？”
“进来吧，孩子，别再问我了。倘若我那时就知道这么多的话，我一定会说出来。”
“我以为……”瓦奥莱特开口，但却说不下去。她以为自己再也见不到她、再也见不到他们中的任何一员了，再也不会在黑暗的花园里瞥见发光的身影、看见一张小脸偷偷吸着忍冬花蜜。但这些她都说不出口。昂德希尔太太的小屋是由那棵橡树和那株荆棘的根所构成的，此时被她小小的台灯照亮着。当瓦奥莱特抬头望着纠结的根、吐出长长的一口气以免哭出来时，她吸入了它们生长的气息。“但怎么会……”她说。
娇小驼背的昂德希尔太太看上去仿佛只有一颗包在披肩里的头和一双穿着拖鞋的大脚。她举起一根几乎跟她的毛线针一样长的手指，以示警告。“别问我怎么会这样，”她说，“但它确实存在。”
瓦奥莱特在她脚边坐下，一切问题都有了答案，或至少已经不重要。只是……“你可以告诉我的，”她说，眼中闪烁着喜悦的泪水，“说我即将住进的那些房子其实是一栋房子。”
“是吗？”昂德希尔太太说。她一边织毛线一边摇着摇椅，棒针上的七彩围巾迅速变长。“过去的时光，未来的时光，”她从容地说，“故事总会说出来的。”
“把故事告诉我吧。”瓦奥莱特说。
“啊，能说的我早说了。”
“太长了吗？”
“比任何故事都长。孩子，必须等到你入土已久，还有你的儿孙也都入土已久，故事才说得完哪。”她摇摇头，“那是常识。”
“结局美好吗？”瓦奥莱特问。这一切她以前就都问过了，但这些却不真的是问题，只是一种交流而已，仿佛她跟昂德希尔太太不断带着赞美把同一个礼物传过来又传回去，每次都表达出惊奇与感恩。
“这个嘛，谁知道呢。”昂德希尔太太说。围巾一行行变长。“那只是一个故事，如此而已。故事只有长短之分。你的故事是我所知道最长的。”有东西（不是猫）开始拉扯昂德希尔太太那饱满的毛线球。“住手，大胆的家伙！”她说，然后从耳朵后面抽出一根毛线针朝它打过去。她对瓦奥莱特摇摇头。“真是片刻不得安宁。”
瓦奥莱特站起来，把手扣在昂德希尔太太耳边。昂德希尔太太靠了过来，一边咧嘴微笑，一边等着听秘密。
“它们在听吗？”瓦奥莱特耳语。
昂德希尔太太把手指举到唇边。“应该没有。”她说。
“那么老实告诉我吧。”瓦奥莱特说，“你怎会跑到这里来？”
昂德希尔太太吓了一跳。“我？”她说，“你是啥意思呀，孩子？我一直都在这里。移动的人是你！”她拿起她那对窃窃私语的毛线针。“你用脑子想想。”她往摇椅上一靠，椅子下有个东西被夹住而吱吱叫，昂德希尔太太咧嘴，露出不怀好意的一笑。
“真是片刻不得安宁。”她说。
婚后，约翰·德林克沃特就从建筑圈淡出。那些原本会请他设计的建筑物，现在在他眼里都显得沉重、愚钝又了无生气，而且瞬间即逝。他仍是公司的一员，众人还是经常征询他的意见，而他的构想与精美的草图（被他的合伙人和工程师团队化为平凡之后）也持续改变着东岸城市的面貌，但它们已不再是他的生命之作了。
他有其他计划。他设计了一种惊人的折叠床，事实上根本是一间完整的卧室，可折叠收藏在一个衣柜之类的东西内，在一套黄铜钩子、杠杆和沉重平衡锤的迅速转换下，只需一秒钟就能变成一张床，让卧室成为卧室。他很喜欢这个构想（卧室中的卧室），甚至申请了专利，但唯一的买主是他的伙伴毛斯；后者位于大城的宅邸内安置了几张，但主要是出于人情。接着是他的“宇宙光学仪”：他愉快地花了一年时间跟发明家朋友亨利·克劳德一起研究。约翰·德林克沃特认识的所有人当中，只有亨利能够真正“感受”到地球的自转和它绕着太阳的公转。这宇宙光学仪是个巨大无比、要价惊人的东西，由彩绘玻璃和锻铁打造而成，可呈现出黄道带的星空和它们的动向，还有行星在黄道带内的动向。它确实会动：主人可以坐在里面的绿色豪华座椅上，而随着平衡锤落下、齿轮转动，由彩色玻璃打造的圆顶就会呈现跟真正的天空一样的星体运行轨迹。德林克沃特竟然认为这古怪的玩具在有钱人的市场上会大卖，光从这点就能看出他有多不切实际。
然而奇怪的是，不管他跟世界多么脱节，不管他把多少收入砸在这些计划上，却还是大发利市。他的投资都赚了大钱，他的财产有增无减。
因为受到保佑，瓦奥莱特说。德林克沃特坐在俯瞰“公园”的石桌前喝茶时，他仰望天空。他试图感觉自己受到保佑。他曾试图在瓦奥莱特断言存在的那面防护罩底下休息，嘲笑外面世界的风风雨雨。但内心深处却了无遮蔽，赤裸裸地置身异地。
事实上，随着年华老去，他变得愈来愈担心天气。他搜集各种历书（不管是不是科学的），还每天钻研报纸上的天气预测，虽然那只是一些他不怎么信任的神父所做的猜测。他只是无来由地希望他们预言天气晴的时候是对的、预言天气不好时是错的。他特别留意夏日天空，倘若远方出现任何可能会遮蔽太阳或愈积愈大的云朵，他的心情就沉重无比。当天空出现绵羊般无害的蓬松积云时，他从容但会提高警觉，因为它们有可能会突然集结成雷暴云砧，逼得他逃回室内、聆听雨落在屋顶上的单调声响。
（现在似乎就是这种状况：西方已出现云层，而他无力阻止。他总会禁不住朝它们望去，而每看一次它们就叠得更高。空气沉重，似乎摸得到。这么说来暴雨恐怕即将来临了。他很想抵抗。）
冬天他常哭；春天他总是不耐烦到极点，若是四月时还会下雪，他就愤怒不已。瓦奥莱特提起春天时，指的是个繁花盛开、万物新生的季节，是一种概念。他认为她想象的应该是个晴朗的四月天，或者应该说五月天，因为他发现她对月份特征的概念跟他并不一样：她想的是英国的月份，二月融雪、四月百花齐放，跟这个艰苦的放逐之地并不同步。英国的五月就像这里的六月。而任何美国经验都无法改变她的想法，甚至连边都沾不上，他有时会这么想。
也许地平线上的那片阴云是静止的，只是一种装饰，就像他孩子的图画书上那种高高堆在乡村景致后方的云朵。但周遭的空气沉重而瞬息万变，立刻就击破了这个想法。
瓦奥莱特认为“那里”四季如春（他没听错吧？他总得花上好几个小时苦思她谜样的话语，一边参考布兰波博士详细的解说，但他还是无法确定）。然而春天不过是一种转变。所有的季节皆然：把一连串紧锣密鼓的日子连接起来，就像心情的转变。她是这个意思吗？还是说，她指的是嫩草与新叶的春季概念，一个始终如一的春分日？根本没有春天。也许那是个玩笑。应该有先例可循。有时他会觉得自己迫切追问所得到的每一个答案都是玩笑。每一季都是春天、每一季都不是春天。“那里”永远是春天。没有什么“那里”。一阵潮湿的绝望感朝他袭来，他知道是一种雷暴般的情绪，然而……
他并非老了（或者应该说：他老了而她长大）就愈来愈不爱她，只是他已失去了最初那份狂热的笃定感（认定她会“带他前往某处”）。他当初之所以如此肯定，是因为她本身确实去过那里。结果事实是他无法一起去。痛苦过了第一年后，他就明白了这点。接下来几年稍微好些。他为她扮演的角色：将她的旅程（那些他自己永远无缘经历的奇幻旅程）告诉世人。他认为她曾暗示若没有他这栋房子，整个“故事”就不会开展；就某种角度而言，这栋房子是开始，可能也是结局，就像杰克建的房子，是一连串连锁反应的开端。他没听懂，但他很满意。
即使过了多年，就算生了三个孩子，已有不知多少春水向东流，每当她突然上前，把一双小手按在他身上对他耳语“去睡觉，老山羊”（她管他叫“老山羊”是因为他不知羞耻地索求无度），他还是会心跳加速，赶紧上楼去等她。
而瞧他现在拥有什么：放眼看过去，就框在即将形成的高耸云柱之间。
有他的女儿提摩西雅·威廉明娜和诺拉·安杰莉卡，刚去游泳回来。还有他儿子（其实是她儿子）奥伯龙，正背着相机走过草坪，仿佛在搜寻什么可攻击的东西。还有他的小儿子奥古斯特，穿着水手服却从没见过海洋。他的名字是从“八月”来的，因为在那个月份，年岁似乎静止不动、日日晴空万里，他因此得以暂时不去注意天空。此时他望向天际。白云边缘处已染上阴郁的灰色，就像老人悲伤的眼睛般开始下垂。但阳光依然在他前方的地面上投射出他的影子，伴随着树影。他摇摇报纸、换换双腿姿势。享受吧，享受吧。
他岳父坚信一个人若能看到自己的影子就没办法清楚思考或感受事物，这是他的诸多怪异信仰之一。（他也认为上床前照镜子会让人做噩梦，或至少做扰人的梦。）因此他总是坐在阴影里，再不然就是正对着阳光，例如他现在就坐在“牧神”旁那张锻铁情人椅上，膝盖间夹着一根拐杖，毛茸茸的双手拄着杖头，腰际还有一条金链子在阳光下闪闪发光。奥古斯特坐在他脚边听他说话，但也可能只是礼貌性地假装倾听。老先生的声音传到德林克沃特耳里时已变成一阵呢喃，跟其他众多嗡嗡声混在一块儿：蝉鸣、奥托罗推着绕圈圈的割草机、音乐室传来的琴音（诺拉在练钢琴），流泻的音符如同沿着脸颊滚下的泪水。
她最爱那些琴键的触感，一想起它们是实心的象牙跟黑檀木她就开心。“是什么做的？”“实心象牙。”她弹出六音与八音和弦，此时她已没在练习，只是用指尖测试着光滑感。她母亲根本不会发现她现在弹的已经不是的作品。她告诉自己说妈妈没有耳朵，尽管她明明可以看见母亲顶着漂亮的耳朵坐在鼓形圆桌旁，托着腮玩她的牌，或至少是在看她的牌。她长长的耳环一动不动，直到她抬起头从牌堆里取了另一张牌。这一动，牵动了一切，耳环摇曳、项链晃动。诺拉离开上蜡的琴凳，走过来看她母亲的作品。
“你该出去走走。”瓦奥莱特头也不抬地对她说，“天气这么热，你跟提米威莉应该到湖边去的。”
诺拉没说她刚刚才从湖边回来，因为她已经说过一次了，而倘若她母亲当时没听进去，似乎也没有理由再强调。她只是望着母亲摊开来的牌。
“你会盖纸牌屋吗？”她问。
“会。”瓦奥莱特说完继续盯着牌。每当有人对她说话，瓦奥莱特总有本事不去领会当中最明显的意义，反而会听取其他内在回音或逆向层面，这点令她丈夫困惑懊恼不已。他总认为瓦奥莱特对这些平凡问题做出的高深莫测的回答，暗示着她知道某些真相，但却无法明说。在岳父的协助下，他写了一册又一册的研究心得。但孩子们几乎没注意到这点。诺拉等了一会儿，她发现期待中的纸牌屋一直没出现之后，决定忘了这件事。壁炉架上的钟敲了几响。
“啊。”瓦奥莱特抬起头，“他们一定吃过下午茶了。”她揉揉脸颊，仿佛突然醒了过来。“你怎么一句话都没说？咱们去看看还有什么能吃的吧。”
她牵起诺拉的手，穿过落地窗进入花园。瓦奥莱特拿起桌上的宽边帽戴上，但她随即停下脚步，站在那儿望着雾气。“空气里那东西是什么？”她说。
“电，”诺拉说着越过了露台，“奥伯龙说的。”她眯起眼睛。“我这样就看得到，红色跟蓝色的弯曲线条。代表会有暴风雨。”
瓦奥莱特点点头，缓缓走过草坪，仿佛正穿越某种她不熟悉的元素。她丈夫坐在石桌前对她招手。奥伯龙刚拍下一张外公跟宝宝的照片，此时正拿着相机朝桌子走来，示意要母亲入镜。他拍照时很严肃，仿佛是出自责任而非娱乐。她突然有些怜悯他。这种空气！
她坐下来，约翰帮她倒了茶。奥伯龙把相机架在他们面前。那朵巨大的云遮蔽了太阳，约翰满怀怨气，抬头瞪着它。
“噢！看啊！”诺拉说。
“看！”瓦奥莱特说。
奥伯龙的相机快门打开又合上。
“不见了。”诺拉说。
“不见了。”瓦奥莱特说。
前进中的锢囚锋面扫过草坪，扰动发丝、翻起领子和树叶，露出浅色的叶背。它从敞开的房屋正门灌进去，掀起牌桌上的一张牌、吹开钢琴上的五指练习谱。吹得挂在沙发上的围巾流苏飘动不已，窗帘边缘啪啪作响。这阵寒意蹿上二楼和三楼、蹿上数千英尺的高空，在那里，造雨者已经备妥饱满的雨滴，准备扔向他们。
“不见了。”奥古斯特说。
Notes:
Notes: