Chapter 11 The Tragic Fate of Mr. Jones, Series Seven

The Tragic Fate of Mr. Jones, Series Seven Some people—not you and not me, because we are very self-controlled—and some people, when visiting people or talking to people in the evening, always find it difficult and difficult to say goodbye.Time passed minute by minute, and when the visitor felt that it was time to go, he stood up and stammered, "Uh, I think I..." Then the host said, "Oh, you're going to leave now." Do you want to go? It's really early!" So the embarrassment of the visitor's indecision ensued. The saddest example of such incidents that I know of is that of my poor friend, Mr. Mel Pamenius Jones.He was a curate, a very sweet young man of twenty-three.He simply did not know how to get out of the house of the man he was visiting.He was too honest to tell a lie, and too polite to be rude.Just in the afternoon of his first summer vacation, he went to visit a friend of his.The next six weeks were his own—he had nothing to do.He chatted there for a while, drank a couple of cups of tea, and then, with some effort, he said abruptly, "Well, I think I..."

But the hostess said: "Oh, don't worry! Mr. Jones, can't you stay a little longer?" Jones never told the truth. "Oh, yes," he said, "of course I—well—could stay a little longer." "Then please don't go." He stayed and drank eleven cups of tea.Night began to fall, and he stood up again. "Well, now," he said timidly, "I think I really..." "Do you want to go?" said the hostess politely. "I thought you could stay for supper..." "Well, yes, you know," said Jones, "if..." "Stay, then, and I'm sure my husband will be delighted."

"Okay," he said weakly, "then stay here." He slumped back into the chair and drank tea, which was very uncomfortable. The master is back.They start to eat dinner.Jones sat all through the dinner planning to say goodbye at eight-thirty.The host family wondered whether Jones looked morose because he was stupid, or if he was just stupid. After dinner, the hostess wanted to "open his mouth" and showed him the pictures.She took out all the photographs in the house, there were several miles in all--there were pictures of the host's uncle and aunt, there were pictures of the hostess' brother and his young son, and there was a very interesting picture of the hostess. There's a photo of the owner's uncle's friend in a Bengali uniform, there's a really good one of the owner's grandfather's colleague's dog, and there's a very wicked one of the owner playing the devil at a masquerade ball.

By 8:30, Jones had looked at seventy-one pictures and had about sixty-nine more.Jones stood up. "Now I must take my leave," he said pleadingly. "Farewell!" they said. "Hey, it's only eight-thirty! Is there anything you want to do?" "It's all right," he admitted, then asked sulkily that he would be free for six weeks, and smiled wryly. At this moment, everyone found that the host's precious son—that cute little naughty ghost had hidden Mr. Jones's hat, so the host said that Mr. Jones must stay, so they invited Jones to smoke and chat together .The man chatted with Jones while smoking a cigarette, and Jones stayed there again.He wanted to leave decisively all the time, but he just couldn't.At last the host grew weary of Jones, and became restless, and said ironically that Mr. Jones had better stay overnight, and they could make him a temporary bed.Jones misunderstood his intention and thanked him repeatedly with tears in his eyes.So the master put him in an empty room, cursing him fiercely in his heart.

After breakfast the next day, the host went to work in the city, leaving Jones to play with his precious son at home.Jones was heartbroken, he was completely discouraged.He had been thinking about leaving all day, but he was in a dilemma, which made it impossible for him to get out.When the host came back from get off work in the evening, he was surprised and annoyed to find that Jones was still at home.He wanted to make a joke and send Jones away, so he said: He thinks it's time to collect rent and board from Mr. Jones, hehe!The unfortunate lad was stupefied for a moment, then pressed his master's hand tightly, advanced him a month's board and lodging, and sobbed uncontrollably like a child.

In the days that followed, he looked melancholy and unapproachable.Of course, he was stuck in the living room all day, and his health was rapidly failing from lack of fresh air and exercise.He passed the time drinking tea and looking at those pictures.He would stand for hours at a time, staring at a photograph of the host's uncle's friend in a Bengali uniform—sometimes talking to it, sometimes swearing at it.His mind had obviously begun to go awry. Finally he broke down.They carried him upstairs, and he had such a fever that he was out of his mind.Later, the condition deteriorated further, which was terrible.He didn't know anyone anymore, not even the friend of the master's uncle in the Bengali uniform.Sometimes he'd sit up in bed, scream, "Ugh, I guess..." and then fall back on the pillow, letting out a blood-curdling laugh.After a while, he'd jump up again and cry, "Another cup of tea, and some more pictures! More pictures! Ha, ha!"

Finally, after a month of torment, on the last day of his vacation, he passed away.People say that on his deathbed, he sat up on his bed with a beautiful confident smile on his face and said, "Oh - the angels are calling me, I think I really should go. Goodbye." His soul broke free from its prison with the swiftness of a hunted cat over a garden fence. The Seventh Series Borrowing Matches You may think that borrowing matches from people on the street is an easy task.But anyone who has ever borrowed a match from someone on the street will assure you that it was no easy task, and after hearing what I experienced the other evening a few days ago, they will swear what I said It is absolutely true.

That evening I was standing on the corner of a street with a cigar in my hand trying to light it, but I had no matches with me.I just waited there until a decent, ordinary guy came up.So I said, "Excuse me, sir, would you lend me a match?" "A match?" he said. "Oh, of course." Then he unbuttoned his overcoat and groped in his waistcoat pocket. "I remember I had one," he went on groping, "and I could almost swear it was in the bottom pocket—oh, wait, that being said, I think it could have been in the top pocket too. —Wait a minute, please, while I put these packets on the sidewalk first."

"Oh, don't bother," I said, "it's no big deal." "Oh, no trouble, I'll find out in a minute. I remember I had one somewhere"—he said, flicking his fingers into one pocket after another—"but, you see, this Not my usual waistcoat..." I found the man excited. "Well, it's all right," I said solemnly, "since it's not your usual waistcoat—well, you needn't bother." "Wait a minute, oh, a moment!" said the man, "I've got that nasty thing somewhere on me. I guess it's with my watch. No, it's not there either. Here. Wait a minute, and I'll feel the coat again. If only the damned tailor could make pockets you can put your hand in!"

Now he's even more agitated.He had thrown away his cane, and was groping through his pockets with clenched teeth. "Must be my damned little boy," he said in a resentful voice, "for messing around in my pocket. Damn it, maybe I should give him a good look when I get back! Ah, I Bet it's in my bum pocket. Please help me lift the back of my coat for a while while I..." "No, no," I protested again solemnly, "please don't bother, it's really nothing. I really don't think it's necessary for you to take off your coat, oh, please don't throw your letters and things like that." And in the snow, don't turn all your pockets upside down! I beg you, please don't step on your overcoat and don't trample your little bags. You complain and curse in a resentful voice I'm sorry to hear that, your little son. Don't—please don't tear your clothes so hard."

Suddenly the man let out an ecstatic grunt and withdrew his hand from the lining of his coat. "I've found it," he cried, "here you are!" and he held it up to the light. It turned out to be a toothpick! I couldn't restrain my impulse in a fit of anger, I pushed him down under the tram wheels, and then ran away. Series 7 The Man in the Asbestos Clothes (1) ——A fable about the future First let me admit that I did it on purpose.Perhaps partly out of jealousy. It seems a little unfair that other writers can sleepwalk four or five hundred years at will, or plunge headlong into the distant future to experience its wonders. I also want to do the same thing. I have been, and still am, a passionate researcher on social issues.Today's world is really scary, not to mention the strife, poverty, war and cruelty everywhere, the clamor of machines and the endless toil of laborers are enough to make me terrified of it.I love to think back to the era that will come one day in the future-when the exhausted people have conquered nature, and the entire human race has entered the age of harmony. I love to think of that era, and long to see it. So I made careful planning. What I want to do is to fall asleep in the usual way, sleep him for at least two or three hundred years, and then wake up in the future miracle world. I prepared myself for this slumber. I bought every funny newspaper I could find, even the ones with illustrations.I took them to my room at the hotel, along with a pork loaf and donuts by the dozen.After eating the pork pie and the bagel, I sat back on the bed and read one funny paper after another.At last, when I felt a dreadful drowsiness creep over me, I reached for the London Times and held up the current affairs page before my eyes. In a sense, it was literal suicide, but I did it anyway. I can feel all my senses leaving me.In the room across the corridor there is a man singing.His voice, which had been loud above the window transom, was growing weaker and weaker.I fell into a deep sleep, that unfathomable sleep that silenced the whole external world.I feel vaguely that the days are passing, and then the years, and then the long centuries. Then, not gradually, but very suddenly, I woke up, sat up, and looked around. Where am I? It makes perfect sense to ask yourself that. I found myself lying, or rather sitting, on a wide bed.I was in a large, dark, shabby-looking room, obviously a museum or something, judging by the glass cases and stuffed stuff inside. There is a man sitting next to me.He has no beard on his face, neither old nor young.The clothes he wears are gray, much like paper that remains untouched after burning.He looked at me quietly, neither particularly surprised nor interested. "Tell me quickly," I said impatiently, "where am I? Who are you? What year is it now, is it three thousand years, or something else?" He took a breath with annoyance on his face. "It's strange how excited you talk," he said. "Tell me," I said again, "is it three thousand years?" "I think I see what you mean," he said, "but I really don't know at all. I think it must be at least three thousand years, and I can't be more than a hundred years old, but no one has been keeping dates for many, many years." so it's hard to say." "You don't remember the year anymore?" I asked, gasping. "We used to keep dates, too," said the man. "I remember myself trying to keep dates a century or two ago, and then it died out with a lot of other fads. Hey ’” he went on, the first tinge of excitement in the conversation, “what’s the use of years? You know, after we’ve ruled out death—” "Death ruled out?" I cried, sitting up straight. "My God!" "What did you just say?" the man asked suspiciously. "My God!" I repeated. "Oh," he said, "never heard that said before. I was saying that after we've eliminated death, eliminated food, and eliminated change, we're pretty much immune to external things, and— —” "Wait!" I said, feeling dizzy. "Just tell me one thing at a time." "Hmph!" he blurted out, "I think you must have been asleep for a long time. Then keep asking questions. But, if you don't care, ask as little as possible, and please don't get excited." Strangely enough, the first question that came out of my mouth was—"What's your dress made of?" "Asbestos," the man replied, "they'll last hundreds of years. We all have one, and if someone wants to get a new one, there's billions out there." "Thank you," I replied, "can you tell me where this is?" "You're in a museum. The people in the glass case are stuffed like you. But," he said, "if you really want to know what this new era is all about, you've got to get off your booth and go to Broadway." Just find a chair on the street and sit down." I went down. The Seventh Series The Man in the Asbestos Clothes (2) As I walked through the dusty, dark houses, I studied the people in the glass boxes with great curiosity. "My God!" I exclaimed, facing a man in a blue suit with a belt and a baton. "That's a policeman!" "Yes," said my new acquaintance, "is this what the police were like back then? I often wonder. What were they for?" "What?" I asked, bewildered. "Hey, they're standing in the middle of the street." "Oh, yes, I see," he said, "in there to shoot people. You'll have to forgive my ignorance," he went on, "that's how it used to be in your society. I did social history surgery in 1999, but the material they used was terrible." I didn't understand the man at all, and I had no time to ask questions, because at that moment we were out in the street, and I froze in astonishment. Broadway!is it possible?The changes are scary!The Broadway I used to know was bustling with people and cars, but in front of me it was a dead, moss-covered desert.Century after century of wind and rain have turned one high-rise building after another into ruins, and the ruins of the walls are covered with fungus and moss everywhere!The deserted street was dead silent.Not a single car was driving, no wires overhead.There was no sound of life or movement here, just here and there slowly moving human figures, dressed in asbestos clothes like my new acquaintances, with the same beardless faces, the same ageless and young look. OMG!Is this the era of the conquest of nature that I have always hoped to see? !For some reason, I always took it for granted that human beings are destined to move forward.But the desolation in front of me, the ruins of our civilization, made me almost speechless. There are some small chairs scattered along the street.We sat down. "It's a lot better than you can remember, isn't it?" asked the man in the asbestos coat. He looked very proud when he said it. I gasped and asked, "Where did the cars on the street go?" "Oh, they were abandoned a long time ago," he said. "They must be very scary. Who can stand the noise of them!" With a shiver, his asbestos suit rustled. "Then how do you go elsewhere?" "We're not going anywhere," he replied. "Why are we going? Being here is exactly the same as being anywhere else." He looked at me with endless weariness. Thousands of questions suddenly came to my mind.I asked the easiest of them all. "How do you go to work and how do you come back?" "Work!" he replied, "no work to be done. It was done long ago. The last bit of work was done hundreds of years ago." I looked at him for a moment with my mouth open, then I turned my head and looked again at the gray deserted street where the asbestos jackets were scattered here and there. I tried to find ways to focus myself.I realized that if I wanted to make sense of this new and unexpected future, I had to approach it systematically, step by step. "I know," I said after a pause, "that a lot of great things have happened from my time to the present. I hope you will allow me to ask systematically and explain to me bit by bit. First of all I want to know The question is, what do you mean there isn't any work to be done?" "Well," replied my strange acquaintance, "it died of itself. Machines destroyed it. You had a certain number of machines even in your day, if I remember correctly. You made a great deal out of steam. Great achievement, and a good start in the use of electricity, although I think you have hardly put radioactivity to use yet." I nodded in agreement. "But you find that these technologies are not good for you. The better your machines, the more tired you are at work. The more things you get, the more things you lack. The pace of life is getting faster and faster. You Shout to stop, but it won't stop. You're all dragged down by the cogs of your own machine. None of you know where the end is." "That's true," I said, "but how do you know all this?" "Oh," replied the man in the asbestos coat, "I did a good job with this part of my education—I know you don't understand me. Don't worry, I'll tell you later. Well, we'll Let’s go ahead. Later, about two hundred years after your era, the great age of conquering nature appeared, and man and machine won the final victory.” "Did they really conquer nature?" I asked impatiently, the old hope throbbing in my veins again. "Truly conquer it," he said, "beat it! Beat it to a standstill! Things come one by one, and then faster and faster, and in a hundred years they're done. Fact In fact, once man turned his energies to reducing his needs instead of increasing his desires, the whole thing worked out better. Chemicals came first. My God! It was so simple. In your time thousands of Man digs and plows the land from morning till night. I've seen samples of this kind of people—farmers, that's what they call them. We have one in that museum. I'm still in a year since chemical food was invented Store them in large department stores, enough for hundreds of years. Agriculture is obsolete. Meals and other things that go with it, such as housework and the like—it's all over. Now a person needs only Take a concentrated pellet left or right, and you're done. The whole digestive system—you know, it's been swollen too much in the past—it's just a big, useless pile of fat!" I couldn't help interrupting him: "Don't you and these people have stomachs—don't they have digestive organs?" "Of course there is," he replied, "but we use it for other things. My stomach is mostly devoted to my education—wait! I'm talking too much again. Better let me go in the order I started Go on. Chemical food came first: this saved about a third of the work. Then came the asbestos clothes. How wonderful! People make more asbestos clothes in a year than they can ever wear. Of course Well, that would never have been possible without the rebellion of women and the decline of the fashion industry." "Aren't all fashions gone?" I asked, "that extravagant, crazy—" I was about to start my old tirade against the sheer vanity of fancy dress when suddenly a few The image of the asbestos suit came into view, so I stopped immediately. "All gone," said the man in the asbestos suit. "The next thing we wiped out, or nearly wiped out, was climate change. I don't think in your day you fully understood what you said weather change added to your What a hassle. It meant all kinds of tailor-made clothes and shelters, and all sorts of miscellaneous work that went with it. It must have been terrible in your day--storms, big wet things--you called them What? That's right, clouds—they travel in the air, the whole sea of ​​salt isn't it?—they're torn apart by storms, and snow is thrown on everything, and hail, rainstorms —how dreadful!" "Sometimes," I said, "that's beautiful too. But how do you change it?" "Get rid of the weather!" said the man in the asbestos coat. "It's as simple as anything—we've got the forces of the weather to cancel each other out, and we've changed the composition of the sea so that the whole upper part of it is more or less gelatinous. I can't really tell about that because I never had that kind of surgery in school, but what I can tell you is that it turned the sky gray and you could see that, and Turn the sea the color of gum, and the sky the same forever. And with that comes the waste of fuel, houses, and endless toil!" He paused.I'm starting to get a little sense of the process of change that has taken place. "So," said I, "does the conquest of nature mean that there is now nothing more to do?" "It's true," he said, "that nothing has happened." "Is there enough food for everyone?" "Too many," he replied. "What about houses and clothes?" "No matter what you want, there is no shortage." The man in the asbestos coat said and waved his hand. "They're there. Just go get them. Of course, they fall—slowly, very slowly. But they'll last for centuries, and nobody's going to worry about it." That's when I realized—for the first time, I think—how important the meaning of work was in the old life, and how painstakingly constructed life itself was around work. After a while, my eyes wandered over the mossy buildings, and I saw what appeared to be remnants of telephone wires. "Those things," I said, "what about the telegraph and the telephone and the whole communication system?" "Oh," said the asbestos man, "that's called a telephone, isn't it? I know that thing was abandoned hundreds of years ago. What the hell is it for?" "Hey," I said enthusiastically, "we can talk to anyone on the phone. It's not difficult to find anyone, and we can talk to him at a long distance." "And anyone can call you to talk at any time, can't they?" said the man in the asbestos jacket with a certain horror. Everything else was gone, transportation and communications were all abolished, banned. It was meaningless. You know," he added, "what you don't realize is that after your time people gradually became More and more rational. Railroads, for example. What good is that? Carrying people from other towns and cities. Who needs them? No one. Work stops, commerce ends, food is unnecessary, The weather is dead, too, and it's foolish to walk around now. Anyway, it's all over." A look of horror crossed his face, and he went on, in a different tone: "It's too dangerous to walk around!" "What!" said I. "Danger! Are you still in danger?" "Yes, well," said he, "there is always the danger of being smashed." "What do you mean?" I asked. "Hey," said the man in the asbestos coat, "I think that's what you used to call death. Of course, in the sense that there hasn't been death for centuries, we ruled it out. Disease and death are just A germ problem. We found them one by one. I think even in your day, you've found one or two of the big, easy-to-find bugs, right?" I nodded. The Seventh Series The Man in the Asbestos Clothes (3) "Yes, you had diphtheria and typhoid, and if I'm not mistaken, there were others that you knew about but didn't understand, and you called them superbugs, like scarlet fever and smallpox , but there are some germs that you don't even suspect at all. We, one by one, found them and wiped them all out. It's strange that no one in your time ever thought that the old age itself was nothing but A germ! It's really just a very simple germ, but because it was so widespread in the behavior of that age, you never even thought of it." "You want to tell me that you people today can live forever, right?" I looked at the man in the asbestos suit and blurted out in amazement. "I hope," he said, "that you don't talk in that uncommon, excitable way. Look at you talking as if everything is too important." He went on, "Yes, we Can live forever, unless of course we get smashed. That kind of thing happens sometimes. I mean we fall from a high place or hit something and it breaks itself. You see, we're a little brittle—a hangover from old germs, I guess—so we've got to be careful. In fact, I can tell you without hesitation that until we do something to prevent accidents, this Accidents like this are one of the saddest things in our civilization. We banned cars big and small from the streets, airplanes, and so on. The risk in your day," he said with a shudder in his asbestos suit, "must have been very scary." "It's scary," I said, feeling a sense of pride in my generation that I've never felt before, "but we hold the brave to be responsible—" "Come on, come on," said the asbestos man impatiently, "please don't get excited. I know what you mean. That's so irrational." We sat for a long time without saying a word.I looked around, and all I could see were decaying buildings, monotonous skies, and dark, empty streets.This, then, is the conquest of nature--the end of work, the end of hunger and cold, the end of arduous struggle, the annihilation of change and death, and there is this result--oh no, with this happy golden age.However, for some reason, something seems to have gone wrong again.I pondered, and then asked two or three questions in succession, so anxious that I almost didn't think about the other party's answer. "Is there still a war?" "It was taken away centuries ago. They used a vending machine-like device to settle various international disputes. All international exchanges have since been cancelled. Why keep them? All of them I think foreigners are scary." "Are there still newspapers?" "Newspapers! What do we want them for? If we ever need them, there are thousands of old newspapers piled up there, ready to go. Besides, the things printed in the newspapers are nothing but things that happen, such as Wars, accidents, jobs, and death. When those things die, so do newspapers. See," the man in the asbestos coat went on, "you seem to be a bit of a social reformer, but you don't understand this new life. You have no idea how completely all our burdens have disappeared. Let us put it this way, how did your people in the past, go through the whole early period of their lives?" "Hey," I said, "our first fifteen years or so were spent on education." "Indeed," he replied, "now look how far we have come. In our day, education is done surgically. It is strange that no one in your day realized that education was nothing more than It is a surgical operation. You are not old enough to see that what you are doing is slowly remodeling the brain through a long and painful mental Leave a mark on the brain, cause it to undergo some kind of organic change. You knew this before, but you couldn't see the full effect. And we invented surgical education based on it - very simple, just open the side of the skull , it would be enough to transplant a pre-prepared brain into it. Of course, at the beginning, I guess they had to use dead people's brains as materials, which was a bit scary," - at which point the man in asbestos beat like a leaf A quiver—"However, they soon figured out how to make brain substitutes that work just as well. At this point, it's a breeze. A few minutes of surgery is enough to convert poetry, foreign languages, history, or whatever you want. Any other knowledge is implanted in your brain. As an example, see," he said, pushing the hair off the side of his head to reveal a scar underneath, "this is the scar from when I implanted spherical trigonometry. I Admittedly, implanting the triangle thing is painful, but implanting other things, such as English, poetry or history, is not painful at all. Your savage, painful way of education done by ear, when I think about it Just trembling. Strangely enough, we later discovered that there are many things that are not worth using the brain at all. We put such things—philosophy, metaphysics, etc.—in the organs that used to be used for digestion. It's awesome in there." He paused for a moment, then continued; "Okay, let's go on, after receiving education in the past, what did you spend your time and energy on?" "Hey," I said, "Of course, a man has to work, and then, to be honest, a large part of his time and affection is devoted to the opposite sex, and he spends a lot of time and energy in dating, finding a woman share life with him." "Oh," said the man in the asbestos coat, genuinely interested, "I've heard about your arrangements with women, but don't know anything about them. Tell me what it is, you say you choose a certain woman? " "yes." "So she became what you call your wife?" "Yes, of course." "You work for her?" the man in the asbestos jacket asked in amazement. "yes." "She doesn't work, does she?" "No," I replied, "of course not." "Half your fortune is hers, isn't it?" "yes." "She has the right to live in your house and use your things, right?" "Of course." I replied. "How scary!" said the man in the asbestos suit. "I didn't realize until now what was really scary about your time." He sat there trembling slightly, with the same timid look on his face. Then it dawned on me that the people on the street looked indistinguishable from each other. "Tell me," I said, "are there no more women now? Are they all gone too?" "Oh no," replied the man in the asbestos suit, "they're here too. Some of those people were women. It's just, you see, everything's changed now. It's all part of their rebellion—they Want to be like the men. Did it start in your time?" "Only a little," I replied, "when they began to demand suffrage and equality with men." "Exactly," said my acquaintance, "I can't find the right word for it. Your women, I believe, are something terrible, aren't they? They're all covered with feathers, Dead things like fur and blinding colors, right? They giggle at every turn, don't they? Their teeth are ridiculous, and they can trick you into signing that kind of contract anytime! Phew!" He shivered. “石棉，”我说道（我找不到其他名字叫他），同时愤怒地转向他，“石棉，瞧街上那些果浆过滤袋似的'平等者'，她们的衣服和垃圾箱一样，你认为她们能和我们二十世纪的那些没有被改造、保持着天生风采的穿鱼尾裙的女人媲美片刻吗？” 然后，另一念头突然闪进我心中—— “孩子们呢？”我说，“孩子们上哪儿去了？现在还有孩子吗？” “孩子们，”他说，“没有！至少一个世纪以来我还从没听说过有这种东西。他们准是一些又小又可怕的妖魔！脸大大的，哭个没完没了！而且还变长，是不是？像蘑菇一样！我相信他每年都要比头一年长一些，而且——” I stood up. “石棉！”我说道，“原来，这就是你们近在眼前的文明，你们的极乐盛世！工作和负担从生活中消亡了，与之相伴的生活的欢乐和甜蜜也消失了，剩下这么个沉闷、僵死的怪物！取代以前的奋斗的，只是死气沉沉的停滞；取代危险和死亡的，只是安全带来的沉闷和单调，只是漫无止境地衰弱的恐惧！”我叫喊起来，朝沉闷的空气张开着双臂，“把过去那又紧张又危险的旧生活还给我，连同它艰难的操劳和痛苦的风险，连同它所有的伤心事儿。我明白它的价值！我知道它的意义。不要让我永无安宁吧！”我大声喊道—— “别喊了，让走廊的其他地方安宁一下！”一声愤怒的高喊接着我的大喊爆发出来。 突然我的睡眠结束了。 我再一次回到了我在旅馆的房间，环绕我的又是那个忙碌、邪恶的老世界的喧嚣，还有走廊对面那个愤怒的男人的吼声在我耳里炸开。 “停止牛叫吧，你这地狱的混蛋，”他吼叫道，“回到地面上来吧。” 我于是回到了地面。 第七辑家庭女教师杰楚德(1) 又名：纯真的十七岁 前面章节概要： 前面没有章节。 在苏格兰西洋岸这一夜狂风大作。不过，这一点对本故事并不重要，因为故事并不是发生在苏格兰西部。其实说到气候，爱尔兰东部海滩也是同样糟糕的。 本故事的大背景是英格兰南部，具体发生在诺泰珊提勒姆塔楼（人们称之为诺珊塔）及其附近，此地是诺泰珊特侯爵（人们常称之为诺什侯爵）的邸宅。 不过，在读本故事的时候，没有必要把这些地名、人名都拼读出来。 诺珊塔是一座典型的英国式家园。它的主要部分是一座用暖色红砖砌成的伊丽莎白时代的建筑，它更古旧的那一部分是一座古风依然的诺曼式塔楼——侯爵为它自豪到了过分的地步。塔楼旁边增设的建筑是金雀花王朝的一个孤儿院和兰卡斯特王朝的一座监狱。这座巨宅四周分布着大面积的树木和园子，其中的很多橡树和榆树不知已长了多少年，离宅子更近的地方则长着一丛丛的山莓和天竺葵，它们是当年的十字军种植的。 这座巨大的古宅四周热闹非凡，有画眉鸟婉转的吟唱，有鹧鸪沙哑的鸣声，还有小溪清脆甜美的喃喃细语。除了鸟类，还有大量的四足动物如鹿、羚羊等在草坪上倘祥，它们那么柔驯地在吃着草，整天悠哉乐哉的。事实上，这里可以说是一个井然有序的动物园。 从古宅下坡，有一条美丽宽广的大道穿过园林，它是亨利七世国王修建的。 诺什侯爵正站在书房里壁炉前的地毯上。虽然作为政治家和外交官他训练有素，但他那贵族气十足的威严的脸还是因愤怒而失去了常态。 “小子，”他说，“你得和这个女孩结婚，否则我取消你的继承权。不再认你这个儿子。” 年轻的罗纳德爵士站在侯爵面前，以挑衅似的目光回敬侯爵。 “我不答应，”那年轻人说，“从今以后您不再是我的父亲。我要另找一个女孩。我只愿和我能爱上的女人结婚。我们从未见过的这个女孩——” “傻小子，”侯爵说，“你愿抛弃我们的财产和这上千年的名声吗？我听说，那个姑娘很漂亮，她姨妈同意这门亲事，她们是法国人，哼！法国人可懂得这些。” “可您的理由——” “我不用说理由，”侯爵说，“听着，罗纳德，我给你一个月时间考虑。这段时间你得呆在这儿。一个月后你要是不按我说的办，那我就和你一刀两断，一个子儿也不给你。” 罗纳德爵士什么也没说，他猛冲出书房，纵上自己的马，朝四面八方狂奔而去。 书房的门在罗纳德身后一关上，侯爵就颓然坐进了扶手椅。他的脸变了。它不再是一个骄傲的贵族的脸，说它像一个被通缉的罪犯的脸倒是蛮恰当的。“他必须娶那个姑娘，”他咕哝说，“不久她就会明白一切。塔切莫夫已逃离西伯利亚，他知道一切而且会说出来的。所有的矿山都遗赠给了她，还有这座宅子，那么我——够了！”他站起来，走到餐具橱边，舀了一大勺苦味杜松子酒喝下肚去，然后他又变成一个有教养的英国绅士。 就在这当儿，或许已有人注意到，有一辆高高的狗车正驶进诺珊塔的林阴道，驾车的小伙子穿着诺什侯爵家的特别制服。他身边坐着一个年轻姑娘，看上去她比一个孩子大不了多少，事实上她也没有车夫个儿大。 她戴着一顶形状像苹果馅饼的帽子，上面插着些黑色的柳状羽饰，帽子遮住了她的脸部——那看起来太像一张脸了，因此毫无疑问是一张脸。 来客——我们得介绍一下——是家庭女教师杰楚德，她今天前来诺珊塔任职。 在狗车驶进林阴道的一头的同时，或许已有人注意到，一个高高的年轻男子正从另一头骑马而来，他那张表明身世的贵族气十足的脸长长的，而他所骑的那匹马的脸甚至比他的更长。 这个随着马的每一跨跃离杰楚德越来越近的高个儿男子是谁呢？噢，他到底是谁呢？Who is it?我不知读者诸君是否能猜得出来，此公不是别人，正是罗纳德爵士。 他们俩命中注定要相遇。瞧，他们越来越近了。啊，更近了。接下来的那一瞬间他们相遇了。彼此擦身而过的时候，杰楚德抬起头来看那个贵族青年，她那双简直能说话的圆圆的眼睛绝非一般眼睛可比。而罗纳德爵士也向狗车乘客投去凝视的目光，其炽烈程度只有瞪羚或煤气管能比。 这是不是爱情的萌芽呢？等着瞧吧。别把故事给搅了。 我们还是先介绍一下杰楚德吧。杰楚德?德蒙哥穆伦奇?麦克弗京既不知道她的父亲是谁，也不知道母亲是谁。在她出生之前几年他们俩就去世了。对母亲她所知无几，只知道她是法国人，长得非常漂亮，还知道她的所有长辈甚至她生意上的那些朋友都在法国大革命中丧命了。 不过杰楚德珍视父母的记忆。她的胸口挂着一个串在项链上的小金属盒，里面珍藏着她母亲的小像，她的背心处则挂着她父亲的一张银版相片。她把祖母的一幅画像，揣在衣袖里，把表兄表姐们的照片藏在靴子里，另外还——噢够了，犯不着多举了。 对父亲她所知甚至更少。他是一个出身高贵的英国绅士，曾云游四方，在很多地方住过，她知道的就这些了。他留给杰楚德的遗产只有一本俄语语法、一本罗马尼亚成语集、一个测角度用的经纬仪和一本关于采矿工程的书。 从婴儿最早期起杰楚德就由姨妈抚养。她姨妈精心地向她传授了基督教的所有教义。她还对她讲伊斯兰教教义以免她陷入迷误。 杰楚德十七岁的时候，她姨妈得狂犬病离开了人世。 她姨妈遭逢此运的前因后果是一个谜。那一天有一个穿俄罗斯服装的留络腮胡子的奇怪男子来拜访过她姨妈。他走之后，杰楚德发现姨妈晕厥过去了，从此姨妈就进入了一种胡言乱语的状态而且再没有恢复常态。 为了无损于这不幸者的声誉，人们称她患的是狂犬病。总之，杰楚德就这样被抛到了世界上。往后怎么办呢？她必须面对这个咄咄逼人的问题。 有一天杰楚德刚好在沉思自己的命运，突然她看到一则广告： “欲聘一家庭女教师，要求懂法语、意大利语、俄语、罗马尼亚语、音乐和采矿学。薪水为每年一英镑四先令零四个半便士。有意者可于十一点半至十一点三十五分之问到贝尔格雷韦亚梯形街第六区四十A号洽谈。诺什侯爵夫人启。” 杰楚德是一个天生聪敏、富于悟性的姑娘，对这则广告沉思了半个小时之后，她就领悟到广告所要求的学识刚好和她所具备的一样。 她准时赶到了贝尔格雷韦亚梯形街去诣见侯爵夫人，夫人接待小姑娘的态度是那么和蔼，使小姑娘立即就安下心来。 “你精通法语，对吧？”侯爵夫人问道。 “噢，是的。”杰楚德用法语谦恭地回答。 “还有意大利语？”侯爵夫人继续问道。 “噢，没错。”杰楚德用意大利语回答。 “还有德语吧？”侯爵夫人高兴地问道。 “对的。”杰楚德用德语回答。 “还有俄语吧？”夫人问道。 “是的。”杰楚德用俄语回答。 “罗马尼亚语呢？”夫人问道。 “也懂。”杰楚德用的是罗马尼亚语。 小姑娘如此精通现代语言，这令侯爵夫人吃惊不小，她仔仔细细地端详着小姑娘。那张脸她以前在哪儿见过呢？她若有所思地用手拂了一下眉头，朝地板上吐了一口痰，可是没有，她怎么也想不起来。 “够了，”她说，“我这就聘用你，明天你就到诺珊塔去，开始教那些孩子吧。另外我还要补充一点，你还得帮助侯爵处理他的俄文信件。他在彻明斯基有大宗矿产。” 彻明斯基？为什么这个简单的地名在杰楚德耳里不断回响呢？why?因为它刚好是她的父亲写在他那本采矿学著作的扉页上的地名。其中到底有些什么奥妙呢？ 接下来的第二天杰楚德就乘车到了那条林阴道上。她从狗车上下来，穿过围成七层的一群穿制服的仆人，她给他们每人一个金镑，然后就进了诺珊塔大宅。 “欢迎。”侯爵夫人一边说，一边帮杰楚德拿箱子上楼。 姑娘不久就下了楼并被带进了书房，在那里她被引荐给了侯爵。目光一落到新来的家庭女教师脸上，侯爵就明显地惊了一下。他在哪儿见过这张脸呢？到底在哪儿呢？在赛马场，或是在剧院——在公共车上吧——噢不。一根记忆的游丝在他心里悠晃。他匆匆地走到餐具橱前，舀起一勺半白兰地酒喝下肚去，然后他又再次变成了一个完美的英国绅士。 杰楚德到幼儿室和那两个即将由她管教的金发小童会面去了，我们还是来说说侯爵和他儿子的事吧。 诺珊侯爵属于完美型的英国贵族和政治家。在他的外交生涯中，他曾在君士坦丁堡、圣彼得堡和盐湖城呆过多年，这练就了他的老谋深算并为他的贵族出身锦上添花。而他在圣赫勒拿岛、皮特肯岛以及安大略的汉米敦度过的漫长岁月，则使他变得更富于主见，不易为外部印象所动了。作为全国民众自卫队的副军需官，他领略过军旅生活更可怕的那一面，而世袭的宫廷侍从职位，又使他与皇家本身保持着直接联系。 第七辑家庭女教师杰楚德(2) 他对户外活动的热情使他深为他的住客们喜爱。作为一个热衷户外运动的人，他擅长打狐狸、捕狗、杀猪、抓蝙蝠以及他那个阶层的其他娱乐。 在户外活动方面罗纳德爵士可以说是子承父志。从一开始这个年轻人就表现得极有发展前途。在伊顿公学，他在板羽球和羽毛球方面有出色表现；在剑桥大学，他的缝纫技术是全班第一。在人们的私下交谈中，他的名字已与全英乒乓球赛冠军称号联系在一起——果真夺冠的话，那他无疑会在国会占一席之地。 家庭女教师就这样在诺珊塔安顿下来了。 一个个日子，一个个星期过去了。 杰楚德这个孤儿、这个美丽的女郎的纯真的魅力迷住了所有人的心。她那两个小学生成了她的奴隶。“我爱你。”小拉斯赫尔弗里达常常这么说，同时把金发的小脑袋枕在杰楚德的膝上。甚至那些仆人都爱她。大园丁常在她起床之前抱一大束美丽的玫瑰送到她的房间，二园丁则给她送来一大把刚长出来的菜花，三园丁送的是一株老芦笋，连第十和第十一个园丁都给她送来了一枝饲料甜菜或是一捆干草。整个白天，她房里都挤满了园丁，而到了晚上，年迈的男管家有感于举目无亲的姑娘的孤独，会轻轻地敲响她的房门，给她送来黑麦威士忌酒和德国矿泉水或一盒匹兹堡雪茄。连那些不会说话的动物都好像在向她表达一切尽在不言中的倾慕。白嘴鸦们一声不吭地在她肩上栖息，附近的每一条狗都默默地跟随着她。 还有罗纳德！噢，罗纳德！没错，当然有他！他们碰到一起了。他们还一起说过话哩。 “多阴沉的早晨！”杰楚德说道，然后又用法语和德语重复了两遍。 “糟透了！！”罗纳德回答说。 “糟透了！！”这一回答一整天都在杰楚德耳朵里回响。 自那以后他们俩就形影不离了。白天他们一起玩网球和乒乓球；晚上，按侯爵府的刻板程序，他们和侯爵及侯爵夫人一起坐下来玩二十五分钱的扑克牌，此后他们还要一起坐在走廊里，看着月亮从一边天际走向另一边。 没过多久，杰楚德就意识到罗纳德爵士不仅爱和她打乒乓球，而且还对她别有一份温情。有时候，尤其是吃完晚饭之后，当着她的面，他会突然羞怯地陷人沉思。 有一天晚上，杰楚德回到房间，在准备脱衣睡觉之前，她推开窗户，居然看到了罗纳德爵士的脸。他正坐在她窗下的一丛荆棘里，他那向上仰着的脸痛苦而苍白。 不知不觉日子一天天过去，诺珊塔的生活按英国大家庭的惯常程序往前推移。早上七点钟打锣是起床。八点钟吹号是吃早饭，八点三十分吹口哨是祈祷，下午一点升旗是吃午饭，下午四点鸣枪是喝下午茶，晚上九点第一次打铃是穿礼服，九点十五分第二次打铃是继续穿戴，而九点三十分放小火箭表示晚餐已准备好了。午夜时晚餐结束，凌晨一点又有铃声敲响，举家上下做晚祷的时间到了。 就这样侯爵给罗纳德爵士限定的一个月一天天过去。现在已是七月十五日，过一两天便是七月十七日了，而紧接着又马上到了七月十八日。 有时候，在大厅里一碰到罗纳德爵士，侯爵就会很严厉地说：“记着，孩子，你得答应，否则我取消你的继承权。” 那么侯爵对杰楚德是怎么看的呢？这正是姑娘在幸福之中感到一丝苦涩的地方。由于某种她没法弄清的原因侯爵对她流露出一种明显的憎恨。 有一次，她从书房门口经过，他向她投来一个脱靴器。还有一次单独和她吃午饭时，他野蛮地用一根香肠在她脸上打了个正着。 替侯爵翻译俄文信也在她的职责范围之内。她徒劳地试图借此解开有关彻明斯基的谜团。有一天一封俄文电报被送到了侯爵手里。杰楚德大声地为他译了出来： “塔彻莫夫去找了那个女人。她死了。” 听到这一消息侯爵怒恼得脸色煞白，事实上就是在这一天侯爵用香肠打了她。 后来的某一天，侯爵外出打蝙蝠去了，杰楚德为女性本能的好奇心驱使，不顾可能遭受的惩罚，内心里痒酥酥地翻遍了侯爵的往来信件，想不到居然找到了解开谜团的钥匙。 诺什侯爵不是诺珊塔的合法主人。它真正的主人是侯爵的一个远房表兄，侯爵在彻明斯基任大使时用奸计暗害了他，结果他枉死在了监狱里。这位表兄的女儿才是诺珊塔的合法继承人。 那些信函没有透露那个合法的继承人的名字，除了这一点侯爵的隐事可以说赤裸裸地暴露在杰楚德眼前了。 女人的心就是怪，杰楚德是不是因此就鄙弃侯爵了呢？No.她自己的悲惨命运使她学会了同情别人。 不过谜团还是没有完全解开！为什么侯爵每一次看她的脸都会颤一下呢（可以感觉出这一点）？有时候他惊颤的幅度达四厘米，因此别人可以看得一清二楚。在这种情况下，他往往会急忙喝下一勺酒或矿泉水，再次变成一个无可挑剔的英国绅士。 结局很快就出现了。杰楚德永远忘不了它。那是诺珊塔举行大型舞会的一个夜晚。附近所有的邻居都被请来了。杰楚德那颗满怀希望的心跳得多么厉害呀。她翻遍她少得可怜的所有衣物，以便穿得不致于在罗纳德爵士眼里太掉价，这时她是多么惶恐不安啊。她的衣服实在是太少了，好在有她从法国母亲那儿继承的穿着方面的内在天赋为她撑腰。她在头发里插了一朵玫瑰花，还用伞的内架和几张旧报纸为自己做了一身足以为舞会增辉的衣服。她在腰间系了一条用提袋的带子做的腰带，还把她母亲遗留给她的一小段花边用细线吊在一边耳朵上。 杰楚德吸引了所有人的目光。她随着音乐的旋律翩然起舞，那少女的欢快与纯真谁见了都会着迷。 舞会进入了高潮。简直是热火朝天！ 罗纳德和杰楚德站在灌木丛中。他们互相对视着。 “杰楚德，”他说，“我爱你。” 虽然只是简简单单的几个字，可它们却震撼了姑娘的衣服的每一根纤维。 “罗纳德！”她说着把头依到了他肩膀上。 就在这个时候，侯爵突然出现在他们俩身旁，幽幽地站在月光下。他那严厉的脸因愤怒而扭曲了。 “好啦！”他说道，同时转向罗纳德，“看来你拿定主意了！” “没错。”罗纳德傲慢地说。 “你愿娶这个身无分文的姑娘，而不要我替你选的继承了大笔财富的小姐？” 杰楚德惊讶地看看那个父亲又看看那个儿子。 “是的。”罗纳德说。 “就这么说吧，”侯爵说道，同时喝下一勺他拿在手里的杜松子酒并且恢复了平静。“我得取消你的继承权。从这儿滚吧，再也别回来。” “来吧，杰楚德，”罗纳德柔情地说，“我们一起走。” 杰楚德站在他们前面。那朵玫瑰已从她头上落下，那段花边已从她耳朵上脱落，那根提袋带子已从她腰上松开，那件报子做的衣服也皱得不成样子了。虽然她衣发凌乱，面目全非了，可是她的神志却非常清醒。 “决不要这样，”她坚定地说，“罗纳德，决不要为我的缘故做这样的牺牲。”然后她转向侯爵，用冷冰冰的语调说，“别人也有自尊，先生，甚至能和您的相比。梅切尼柯夫?麦克弗京的女儿不必巴望任何人的恩赐。” 说着她就从胸口把她父亲的银版相片拿了出来并把它贴在嘴唇上。 侯爵一阵惊颤，好像被打了一枪似的。“那个名字！”他叫道，“那张脸！那张相片！够了！” all right!没有必要把故事讲完了。读者诸君想必早已猜出，杰楚德就是那个女继承人。 那对恋人投入了彼此的怀抱。侯爵那傲慢的脸色柔和下来了。“上帝保佑你们。”他说。侯爵夫人和众宾客拥出大厅，来到了草坪上。新的一天即将破晓，把喜庆的人们照亮。 杰楚德和罗纳德举行了婚礼。他们的幸福完美无缺。我们还有必要说更多吗？是的，不过只需再多说一点点。几天之后侯爵在猎场被打死了。侯爵夫人也被闪电夺去了性命。那两个孩子则殒命在一口井里。这么着杰楚德和罗纳德的幸福就完满无缺了。