Chapter 5 2

I can't say that this "determination" changed my life dramatically.It just made me more indifferent to pain, more carefree when I was drinking and taking opiates, a little more curious about the limits of what I could bear, and nothing else.The effects of other experiences that night were far stronger than this one.I read through Steppenwolf's thesis several times, sometimes with gratitude and concentration, as if knowing that an invisible magic power was guiding my fate correctly, and sometimes with the calm sobriety of the text, with mockery and contempt. Attitude, the essay seems to have no grasp of the peculiar flavors and contradictions of my life.What is said in the essay about Steppenwolves and suicides is good and reasonable, but it is a timeless abstraction for a whole class of people, for a certain type of man; Soul, my own distinct destiny, I find it difficult to enclose it in such a sparse net.

But more haunting to me than all these were apparitions or hallucinations on the church walls, the hopeful notices of jumping and flashing neon letters.This prediction coincides with the hint of the paper.It filled me with hope, and the sounds of that strange world stimulated my curiosity so strongly that I often thought about it for hours on end, forgetting everything else.The warning in the ad was coming to me more and more clearly: "Ordinary People Not Entered—For Mad Men!" I heard the voice, and those worlds could speak to me, which meant I must be crazy, and "Ordinary people" have been very different.Oh my God, haven't I been far away from the lives of ordinary people, far away from the lives and thoughts of normal people?Haven't I already dissociated and become a madman?But deep down I'm still fine!To hear and understand the call to be a madman, to abandon reason, prudence, civic, and devote myself to the surging, lawless world of the soul, the world of fantasy.

One day, when I walked all over the streets and squares again, looking for the person with the billboard on his back, passed the wall with an invisible gate many times, and listened to the movement inside but found nothing, I met a man in the suburban Martin District. The funeral procession.The mourners walked slowly with the hearse in grief and pain.As I watched their adventures, I thought: In this city, in this world, whose death is a loss to me?Where does this person live?This person may be Erika, my lover; but, for a long time, 'We have always been distant, we rarely see each other, neither quarrel nor quarrel.At the moment, I don't even know where she lives.Sometimes she comes to me, sometimes I go to her, we are both lonely people, not social, difficult to get along with.In our souls, in terms of heart disease, we have the same place, and despite all our problems, we still have a certain connection.But if she hears that I'm dead, won't she breathe a sigh of relief, feel a sense of relief?I don't know if my feelings are reliable, nor can I.One can know a little about such things only by common sense guesswork.

I wandered over to join the funeral procession and follow the mourners to the cemetery.It was a modern concrete cemetery with a well-equipped crematorium.Our dead were not cremated, the coffin was lowered before a simple grave, and I watched the priests and other old tricksters—undertaker workers—go through their duties one by one, trying to make their event dignified and mournful, They still acted on every occasion, pretentiously, appearing to be working very hard, which inevitably became comical.I watched how their black uniforms flowed down, and how they tried to induce mourning in the mourners, forcing them to kneel before the majesty of death.But all this was in vain, and no one cried. It seemed that everyone felt that the deceased was a superfluous person.No one listened to the persuasion and developed a pious heart. The pastor repeatedly called the mourners "dear Christian brothers and sisters", but these merchants, bakers and their wives all looked businesslike; Heads bowed very solemnly, embarrassingly affected, all they wanted was an immediate end to the embarrassing ceremony.At last the ceremony was over, and the first two Christian brothers and sisters shook hands with the orator, and walked up the curb of the nearest lawn to wipe the wet mud from their shoes.They just put the dead in the wet mud.In the tomb, their faces returned to normal.Suddenly, I saw a person who seemed to have known me before. By the way, I seemed to think that that person was the one who carried the billboard at that time, and he was the one who gave me the booklet.

I think I really recognized him, but at this moment he turned around, bent down, and fiddled with his black trousers, I saw him clumsily rolling up the trouser legs hanging on the shoes, and then hurriedly ran with the umbrella in his hands up.I ran up quickly, caught up with him, and nodded to him, but he looked like he didn't recognize me. "No pastimes today?" I asked, trying to be casual, like secret insiders beckoning to each other, while sleeping eyes on him.However, since I became familiar with this facial expression, due to the change in my lifestyle, I have hardly spoken for a long time.I felt it myself, I was just making a stupid face.

"An evening pastime?" the man muttered, looking at me inexplicably. "If you need it. Go to the Black Eagle's, man." To tell the truth, I'm not sure if he is the man now.I was disappointed and continued on my way.I don't know where to go, full of goals, no pursuit, no obligation.There was a bitterness to life, I felt, and a growing sense of world-weariness had reached its peak over a long period of time, and life pushed me away and abandoned me.I ran like crazy in the gray city, and I felt that everything smelled of damp earth, of the grave.Don't let these vultures stand by my tomb, these vultures in cassocks and making sentimental remarks!Ah, no matter where I look or where I think, there is not a gleam of joy in what awaits me, there is not a call, and there is nothing attractive anywhere. Everything emits a rotten stench of wastage, rotten The stench of satisfaction and dissatisfaction that seemed to be there, everything old, brown, gray, slack, drained.Dear God, how could this be?How did I come to be this way when I was originally a lively young man, poet, friend of the arts, world traveler, passionate idealist?I'm numb, I hate myself, everyone, all senses are dull, I feel an excruciating deep loathing, I'm sinking into a pit of emptiness and hopelessness, and yet how slowly it all goes What came to me quietly and silently?

As I was passing the library, I met a young professor.I had talked to him several times before, and during my last stay in this city several years ago, I visited his house several times to discuss Eastern mythology with him.I was very busy in the area at the time.The scholar walked towards me straight up, his eyes were a little nearsighted, and I was about to walk past him before he recognized me.He greeted me very warmly, and I was not in a good mood, and I was not very grateful for his gesture.He was very happy, suddenly became lively, and let me recall the details of our several conversations at that time.He also told me that he owed much to my inspiration and that he often misses me; he said that since then, he has never received so much inspiration and gained so much from discussions with his colleagues.He asked me how long I had been in the city (I lied: only a few days) and why I didn't visit him.I looked at this well-mannered man, looked at his intelligent and kind face, and felt that this scene was ridiculous, but I enjoyed the warmth of this small place like a hungry dog, this little love, this little Little approbation, SteppenWolf Harry grinned touched, saliva from his parched throat, sentimentality conquering him against his will.So, I was busy talking slightly, and I said to him.I'm only here temporarily for research, and I don't feel well, otherwise I would have gone to see him.He cordially invited me to come to his home this evening, which I gratefully accepted, and asked him to pay his respects to his wife.When I spoke and smiled, I felt pain in my cheeks, which were not used to such intense activity.As I—Lee Harrell—stand in the street, amazed at this unexpected encounter, flattered by the flattery, I look politely and eagerly at the amiable man, at his Short-sighted eyes, kindly, as if another Harry was standing next to him, standing there with the same wry smile, thinking, how strange, stupid, and liar my brother is, and two minutes ago, he hated this The world, which is so hateful, is still shaking its fists at it with a grin.But now, a respectable and honest man called him and greeted him in a very ordinary way, and he was grateful, accepted it, and was as happy as a little pig rolling on the ground, intoxicated by it. A little bit of kindness, respect and kindness.Two Harrys—two not at all likable people—in front of the polite professor, they both jeered at each other, looked at each other, spat at each other, and thought, as they always do on such occasions: Is it the follies and weaknesses of man, the fate of a common man, or a sentimental individualism, the impersonality, the filthy and divisive qualities of feeling, which are only his personal, Steppenwolf-like qualities .If this kind of meanness is common to everyone, then I can defy the world and renew the viciousness.If it were only my personal weakness, I would have reason to indulge in contempt for myself.

When the two Harrys quarreled, the professor almost forgot; suddenly, I hated him, and I hurried away from him. "I watched for a long time how he walked away along the bare avenue with the kind and somewhat ridiculous steps of an idealist and a believer. A big battle broke out in my heart, and I mechanically flexed and stretched my stiff limbs repeatedly. Fingers, wrestling with the secretly painful gout, I have to admit that I have been deceived, I have accepted the invitation to dinner at 7:30, so, this invitation with all the formalities, formalities, scientific The gossip, the observation of other people's family happiness were all taken up. I went home annoyed, mixed brandy and water, took painkillers with the water wine, and lay down on the couch to read. I finally After reading "Sophie Memmer - Travels in Saxony" for a while, which is an eighteenth-century book, it is very touchingly written, and suddenly I remembered the professor's invitation. I have not shaved and I have to dress. Burning, why am I so hard on myself! Harry, get up, put down the books, soap up, shave your chin bloody, put on your clothes, and enjoy your company! I'm soaping up and thinking of the graveyard That filthy earth burial in the sky, where an unknown dead person was put into today. I also think of the faces of those Christian brothers and sisters who are bored and furrowed, but I can't laugh. There, there In the filthy Tomb of Mers, in the stupid and embarrassing speeches of the priests, in the stupid and embarrassed expressions of the mourners, in the unconsoling spectacle of all these tin and marble crosses and tombstones Here, in all those fake flowers of wire or glass, I felt that not only was the stranger there to end his life, not only was there my life tomorrow and the day after tomorrow, in the embarrassment and lies of mourners I will be buried hastily in a hole in the earth; everything in the world will end like this, all our pursuits, all our cultures, all our beliefs, all our joys in life, all of which are terminally ill and will soon be buried Go there. The cemetery is all our culture, where Jesus Christ and Socrates, Mozart and Haydn, Dante and Goethe are but faded names carved on rusty iron plates, standing around Those embarrassing, lying and deceitful mourners will pay dearly if they still believe in these once-very sacred iron plates, if they can seriously say a word of justice to the dead world , expressing condolence and despair, then they must pay a high price, but the only thing they can do is to stand beside the grave with a grinning grinning bewilderment. I scratched the old wound on my chin angrily and cauterized it with salt water After a while, I changed the clean collar I had been wearing for a while. In fact, I don't know why I did this. I have no interest in going to the appointment. However, a small part of Harry played on the spot again, saying that the professor Desiring to smell a little human, to mingle with people, to talk, to recall the professor's pretty wife, and to think that the idea of ​​spending an evening in a friendly home is fundamentally invigorating. Van this kindPrompted me to put a patch of ointment on my chin, prompted me to dress and tie a dainty tie, persuaded myself to dismiss the desire to stay at home.At the same time I thought, I dressed against my will, went out to visit a professor, and exchanged more or less deceitful fake courtesies with him, and I thought that most people are like me, year after year, day by day. Day after day, they are forced to do things against their will, live against their will, and act against their will. They visit relatives and friends, chat with each other, and go to work in government agencies. All these things are forced, mechanical, and not voluntary. The machine does it, or it doesn't do it at all; it is this perpetual machinery that prevents them - as it prevents me - from looking critically at their life, from seeing and feeling its stupidity, its shallowness, its dubiousness. , hopeless sadness and emptiness.Oh, they're right, these people are totally right, that's how they live and act and make money and fame.Instead of rebelling against the depressing machinery like me who is out of the normal track, staring hopelessly into the void.Even if I have been contemptuous and mocking in these few pages, don't think that I am passing the blame on them, that I am accusing them and holding them accountable for my personal woes.But now that I have fallen to the point where I have slipped to the edge of life, and if I take another step I will fall into the dark abyss, if I still try to deceive myself and say that the machinery of life is working for me, I am still A page in the innocent and lovely world that goes on forever, then I am lying and doing bad things.

The weather was fine that night.I stopped for a moment in front of an acquaintance's building, looking up at the window.I thought to myself, he lives here and does his job year after year.Reading books, writing articles, exploring the connection between West Asian and Indian mythology, he finds great pleasure in doing these things, because he believes in the value of his work, believes in science (he is a servant of science), and believes in the value of pure knowledge And the value of knowledge accumulation, because he believes in progress and development.He had not lived through the war, had not experienced the great shock that Einstein had brought to the hitherto intellectual foundations (it was only with mathematicians, he thought), he could not see that around him a new war was being conceived, He thought Jews and Communists alike to be hated, and he was a kind, thoughtless, happy, pompous boy, which was admirable.I cheered up.Walking past, I was received by a maid in a white apron, and I noticed with some premonition exactly where she would put my hat and coat.The maid took me into a warm and bright room and asked me to wait a while.Instead of praying or closing my eyes for a short nap, I listened to some playful instinct and picked up the closest thing to me.It was a small framed painting with a cardboard stand behind it, and it was placed on a round table at an angle.It is an etching of the poet Goethe, an old man of distinct character and well-haired, with a handsomely shaped face, lacking neither the well-known radiance of the eyes nor the trace of a courtier. The loneliness and desolation slightly covered by the solemnity.The artist has paid special attention to expressing the characteristics of loneliness and sadness.He manages to imbue this remarkable old man with the restraint and honesty that are a professorial, and arguably an actor's, without compromising his depth.In short, he made him into a very handsome old gentleman indeed, who could be furnished in every town house.The picture in my hand is probably no more disturbing than the lovely series of pictures of Messiahs, Twelve, Heroes, Giants of Thought, and Statesmen, produced by industrious craftsmen, perhaps only because of the It was the mastery of the drawing that stimulated me; at any rate, I had been stimulated enough to be on the verge of rage, while the pretentious, complacent figure of old Goethe shouted at me in a shrill voice that presaged misfortune. , pointing out to me that this is not the place for me to stay.This is the home of gentle and elegant teachers and national heroes.Not the home of Steppenwolf.

Had my master come in at this moment, I might have succeeded in finding a plausible excuse to retreat.But it was his wife who came in, and I had no choice but to resign myself to fate, and I had a premonition of disaster.We greet each other, and incongruities border on each other.Madame congratulated me on my good looks, and I myself knew very well that I had aged a great deal in the years since we last saw each other; she shook my hand, and I knew I was old when my rheumatic fingers ached.Then she asked how my wife was and I had to tell her honestly that my wife had left me and we were divorced.We were both delighted when the professor stepped into the room.He also welcomed me warmly.It quickly becomes apparent how ridiculous the situation is.He held a newspaper in his hand, which he subscribed to, a newspaper of militarism and the main war faction.After he shook hands with me, he pointed to the newspaper and told me that he had read a political commentator with the same surname as mine, also called Harrell. Have fun, he declared.His country is as much responsible for the outbreak of war as the enemy country.What a bastard!Hey, here's enough for him to see, the editorial department criticized this pest severely, and refuted him so badly.He saw that I was not interested in this topic, so we talked about other issues.The two of them really didn't expect that that hateful person would sit in front of them, and such a hateful person was me.Of course, why make such a loud noise and upset them!I laughed to myself, but I had given up all hope that I would have any pleasure tonight.The scene at that time is still vivid.When the professor talked about the traitor Harrell, I felt an uncomfortable feeling of depression and despair. Since I witnessed the funeral scene, this feeling has become stronger and stronger, and finally became strong pressure.It turned into a pain felt in the body (lower body), into a very terrible feeling of being tied to fate.I felt that something was spying on me, that some danger was approaching me quietly from behind.Fortunately the servant reported that supper was ready.We go into the dining room.I rummaged and tried to say and ask innocuous things as best I could.I ate while talking, eating more than usual, and I felt more and more pitiful.I kept thinking, oh my god, why do we torture ourselves like this?I clearly feel that my masters are not comfortable either, whether it is because I give a dull and sluggish impression, or because there is something unhappy in their family, I think they have taken a lot of trouble to get it. Pretend to be so active.They also asked me things, but I couldn't give an honest answer, and soon I was telling a lot of lies, fighting my nausea with every word.Finally, to divert the conversation, I describe the burial I witnessed today.But my tone was wrong, and my humor was disappointing at first, and we became less and less talkative, Steppenwolf grinned, and when we got to the point, the three of us stopped talking very much.

We went back to the first room, where we had coffee and schnapps—perhaps that would help us regain our spirits a little.But the great poet came into my eyes again. Although he was placed on the side chest of drawers, I still couldn’t get rid of him. I heard the warning voice in my heart, but I still took the painting in my hand and started talking to the poet. Argue.I was completely overwhelmed by this feeling: the present situation was unbearable, and I had only two options, either to interest my masters, to move them so that they would resonate with my words, or to break apart completely and irremediably. I said: "I hope Goethe is not really like this! Look at his conceited and noble appearance! He puts on an airs and sees the portraits of respected princes. He looks like a man on the surface. But in his heart he is very Sentimental! He certainly has a lot to blame, and I often have a lot of dissatisfaction with this arrogant old man, but it’s not okay to paint him like this, it’s too much.” The housewife refilled the coffee again and hurried out of the room with a sad face, and her husband, embarrassed and angry, said that the portrait of Goethe belonged to his wife and that she loved it very much. "Even if you were objectively right, you couldn't say it so sharply. Besides, I have a different opinion on whether you're right." "You're right," I admitted. "Unfortunately, I am always sharp and extreme in my words, it is my habit, my fault. But Goethe is also like this when he is in a good mood. Of course, this lovely, vulgar Sharon Goethe will never say A straight cut remark. I beg your pardon, and your wife, to tell her that I am schizophrenic. And allow me to say goodbye." The professor was a little embarrassed, and raised a few different opinions, saying again and again how interesting and enlightening our previous conversations were, how I talked about Mithras and Kiri Shina's conjecture had made such an impression on him then that he had hoped it would do the same today... and so on.I thanked him, and it was kind and friendly to say that, but unfortunately my interest in Krishna and my enjoyment of talking about science had died down.Today, I lied to him many times. For example, I have been in this city not for a few days, but for several months. He also suffers from gout and is drunk most of the time.Also, in order to get this over with, and at least leave without lying, I had to tell my esteemed gentleman that he had broken my heart so much today.He accepted the stupid, stubborn attitude of a reactionary newspaper to Harrell's opinion, an attitude unbecoming of a scholar, only for idle officers.That "bad guy one, that patriotic guy Harrell is myself, if at least this few thinking people stand for reason and love peace instead of blindly and fanatically instigating a new revolution War, it will be better for our motherland and the world. Well, let's say goodbye! After I finished speaking, I stood up, said goodbye to Goethe and the professor, walked into the aisle, and looked at my coat and hat.Take off my things and leave the house.In the back of my mind, the gloating Steppenwolf howled loudly, and there was a violent quarrel between the two Harrys.It quickly became clear to me that this unpleasant hour of conversation meant more to me than the irritated professor; he was just disappointed and pissed off, while to me this hour meant a final failure , the last escape means farewell to the moral world, to the learned world, to the bourgeois world, and the wilderness has completely won.It was a farewell to being a deserter and a loser, bankrupt before myself, a farewell without consolation, without superiority, without humor.I bid farewell to my old world, to my native land, to my civicness, to my manners, to my learning, in the same way a man with an ulcer bids farewell to a roast pork.I ran under the street lights, angry and sad.How dull, how humiliating, how dangerous the whole day of unpleasant conversations from the base to the professor's house from morning to night!What is all this for?what reason?Is there any point in living this kind of life and suffering this kind of crime again?It doesn't make sense anymore!So I'll end this comedy tonight.Come home, Harry, go back and cut the throat!You have waited long enough for this day. Driven by my pain, I walked up and down the street.I desecrate the decorations in the parlors of good people in their homes, and it is unseemly, disgraceful, and disrespectful.But at that time, I had no other choice. I could no longer bear this gentle, hypocritical and lying life.On the other hand, it seems that I can no longer bear the loneliness, my own society has become so hateful and disgusting, I am suffocating and scratching in my own vacuum hell struggling.You see, where is there any way out?There is no way out.O Father, O Mother, O the distant and holy fire of my youth, O the myriad joys, works, and purposes of my life!All of this was gone, not even remorse, and I was left with disgust and pain.I seem to think so.The fact that Holly had to live had never pained me more than this hour. I rested for a while in a secluded small hotel in the suburbs, drank some water and French brandy, and then ran around the city as if being chased by the devil, through the steep and winding streets of the old town, Cross the square in front of the train station.A thought flashed across my mind: Get out of here!I walked into the train station, looked intently at the timetable on the wall, drank some wine, and tried to think about it.I saw the phantom getting closer and clearer, and I was afraid of this phantom.This phantom wants me to go home, wants me to go back to my cell, wants me to be extremely disappointed and can only wait without saying a word!Even if I walk around for a few more hours, I can't escape this ghost.I can't escape going home, I have to go back, go to the side door, go to the table with the books, go to the sofa with my lover's picture on it, I can't avoid taking out the razor and cutting my throat That moment.Such a picture is more and more clearly displayed in front of my eyes, my heart is already beating with joy, and I feel more and more clearly the most terrible fear: the fear of death!Yes and I face death, terrified.Although I could see no other way out, although disgust, mediocrity, and despair piled up around me, although nothing attracted me anymore.Give me joy and hope, but when I think of death, the last moment of death, and the thought of cutting my own body with a cold blade, an indescribable sense of terror arises in my heart. I see no way out of this terrible end.Today, in the struggle between despair and cowardice, if cowardice has triumphed over despair, hopelessness stands before me again, and it does so every day, and despair is all the greater because of self-contempt.I would pick up the razor again and again and put it down again and again until I finally did.Instead of this, why not do it today!As if to a timid child, I said this rationally to myself, but the child would not listen, he ran away, he wanted to live.I twitched, and the invisible force pulled me around the city again, making a big circle around my house. I always wanted to go home, and I kept delaying it.From time to time, I lingered in a small tavern, drank a glass of wine or two, and then continued to wander, circling the sun, the razor, and death in a big circle.Exhausted, I would occasionally sit on a bench, on the edge of a well or on the corner stone next to the door for a while, hear my heart beating violently, wipe the sweat off my brow, filled with the fear of death and the desire to survive Eager to continue running. I wandered like this until late at night, and came to a remote place in the suburbs that I was not familiar with. I entered a tavern, and there were bright and strong dance music coming from the window of the tavern.When I walked in, I saw an old sign hanging on the door: Black Eagle.Today, it is an all-night entertainment, crowded with noisy people, smoky, alcohol-smelling, dancing in the shop behind, and the dance music is fierce and harsh.I stayed in the front hall, where there were ordinary customers, some of them shabbily dressed, while some well-dressed and well-dressed people could be seen in the ballroom at the back.I was pushed to a table by the counter.One was pale.Sitting on a bench against the wall was a beautiful girl in a thin, topless dance dress, with a withered flower in her hair.Seeing me approaching, she looked at me attentively and friendlyly, and moved aside with a smile to make room for me. "Can I sit?" I asked, sitting down beside her. "Of course," she said. "Who are you?" "Thank you," I said. "I can't go home, I can't, I can't, I'm going to stay here, I'm going to stay with you if you let me. Oh, no, I can't go home." She nodded, as if she understood me; when I nodded, I looked at her hair hanging from her forehead to her ears, and I found that the withered flower was a camellia.There was blaring music from there, and the waitress at the counter hurriedly announced who had ordered the meal. "Just stay here." Her voice made me feel comfortable. "Why can't you go home?" "I can't go back. Something is waiting for me at home. Oh, no, I can't go back, it's terrible." "Then let it wait, and you stay here. Come on, wipe your glasses first, you can't see anything. Well, give me your handkerchief. Shall we have a drink? Have a drink Burgundy?" She cleaned my glasses; only then did I see her face clearly.She was pale and muscular, with bright red lips, bright gray eyes, and a cool, bare forehead.The short hairs hang low next to the ears.She took care of me kindly and slightly mockingly, ordered wine, and clinked glasses with me.After clinking glasses, she looked down at my shoes. "My God, where are you from? You look as if you came from Paris on foot. How can you go to a ball in those shoes!" I was noncommittal, just smiled.Let her say.I liked her very much, and I was amazed at the kind of young girls I've always avoided and looked at them with distrust.But at this moment, her care for me was exactly what I needed very much, and she has treated me like this every moment since then.She was loving me as much as I needed and taunting me as much as I needed.She ordered a bread and butter, and ordered me to eat it.She poured me wine and told me to drink it, but told me not to drink it too quickly.Then she praised me for being obedient. "You are so obedient," she encouraged me. "You don't embarrass people. I bet it's been a long time since you've been told to. Haven't you?" "Yes, you won. How do you know that?" "It's not an art. Obedience is like eating and drinking. Whoever lacks it for a long time has nothing more important to him. Will you listen to me?" "Very willingly. You know everything." "You're such a quick talker. Maybe, my friend, I can tell you what's waiting for you at home, and what's your fear. But you know it yourself, and we don't need to talk about it, do we? What nonsense! A A man either hangs himself, then he hangs himself, he always has his reasons; or he lives, he lives, and he has to worry about life. What could be simpler than this "Oh," I blurted out, "if only it were that easy. Really, I worry enough about living, and it's no use at all. It might be hard to hang yourself, I don't know. And it's much harder to live!" God knows how hard it is! "Well, you'll see, it's easy to be alive. We've taken the first step. You wiped your glasses, ate, and drank. Now let's go and brush your pants and shoes, it's It's time to brush it up. Then you do a simi dance with me." "You see," I exclaimed hastily, "I'm still right! I'm more sorry than not being able to carry out your orders. But I couldn't carry out your order just now. I don't know how to dance the sime,也不会跳华尔兹舞、波尔卡舞，什么舞也不会跳，我一生中从来没有学过跳舞。您现在看到了吧，并不是一切都像您说的那样简单，是吗？” 漂亮姑娘的鲜红嘴唇微微一笑，摇了摇梳着男孩发式的头。我看着她，觉得她很像我还是孩子时爱的第一个姑娘罗莎。克赖斯勒，不过她的眼睛是棕色的，头发是深色的。不，我不知道，这位陌生姑娘让我想起谁来，我只知道，她让我回忆起少年时代，回忆起儿童时代的什么人来。 “慢着，”她喊道。“慢着，你不会跳舞？一点不会？连一步舞也不会？而你却说，天烧得，你已经在生活中花了多大的功夫！你这就说谎了。孩子，到你这个年纪不该这样做了。嗯，你连舞都不想跳，怎么能说你已经作出极大努力去生活呢？” “可我不会呀！我从来没有学过。” she laughed. “可是你学过看书写字，对吧，学过算术，也许还学过拉丁文、法文以及诸如此类的玩意儿？我敢打赌，你上了十年，也许十二年的学校，可能还上过大学，甚至得过博士学位，会中文或西班牙文。是不是？你瞧。可你却没有花那么一点时间和钱学几个钟点的舞！真是的！” 我为自己辩解。“这是我父母的事。他们让我学拉丁文、希腊文，学所有这些玩意儿。可他们没有让我学跳舞，当时在我们那里不时兴跳舞，我的父母自己也从未跳过舞。” 她冷冷地看着我，目光中充满了蔑视，脸上也露出使我想起少年时代的神色。 “是这样，责任在父母。你是否也问过他们，今天晚是否允许你到黑老鹰酒馆？你问了吗？你说他们早就死了？那就是嘛！你说由于服从，你年轻时不曾想学过跳舞，这我不管！虽然我不相信你当时是个模范儿童。可是后来呢……后来这么长的岁月你都干什么了？” “唉，”我坦白地说，“我自己也不清楚。我上了大学，搞过音乐，看书，写书，旅行……” “你对生活的看法真奇怪！你做的都是些又难又复杂的事情，而简单的东西你却没有学过？没有时间？没有兴趣？那好吧，谢天谢地，幸好我不是你的母亲。后来你就摆出一副样子，好像你已尝遍了生活的甘苦，最后什么也没有找到，不行，这可不行！” “您别责骂我了，”我请求道。“我已经知道，我疯了。” “哈，得了，别给我走调调！你根本没有疯，教授先生，应该说，你太过于清醒了！我觉得，你太聪明了，真的像个教授。来，再吃个小面包！吃完你接着讲。” 她又要了一个小面包，在上头撒上一点盐，涂上一点芥末着，切下一小块留给自己，那大半个叫我吃。我吃了。除了跳舞，她叫我做什么都行，我都会去做。服从某个人的命令，坐在他身旁，让他盘根究底地问，让他发号施令，让他申斥，倒也蛮不错。要是几个小时前，那位教授或他的妻子就这么做，我就省去许多烦恼了。不过现在这样也好，否则，许多东西也就让它溜过去了。 “你到底叫什么名字？”她突然问道。 “哈里。” “哈里？是个孩子名字！你倒也真是个孩子，哈里，尽管你有些头发已经灰白。你是个孩子，你需要有人照料你。跳舞的事我不再提了。可你的头发多乱！难道你没有妻子，没有情人？” “我没有妻子了，我们已经离婚。情人有一个，不过她不住在这里，我很少见她，我们不太合得来。” 她轻轻地吹起口哨来。 “没有人留在你身边，看来你是个很难相处的人。不过，现在请告诉我，今天晚上到底发生了什么不寻常的事情，使你这样神魂颠倒地在外头乱跑乱撞？吵架了？输了钱了？” 这可很难回答。 “你听我说，”我开始讲起来。“原本是小事一桩。我被人请去作客，请我的是个教授，我自己其实并不是教授，本来我不应该去，我已经不习惯跟别人坐在一起谈天说地，这种事我已经不会了。我刚走进房子时就感到，今天的事要砸锅，我挂帽子时就想起，过不了一会儿我就又得戴上它了。刚才说了，是在教授家里，桌子上随随便便放着一幅蚀版画，一幅讨厌的画惹我生气……” 她打断我的话问道：“什么样的画？为什么惹你生气？” “噢，那是一幅歌德的肖像画，您知道，诗人歌德。可是画得不像歌德本来的样子。当然，他到底什么样子，现在的人知道得并不确切，他死了一百年了。加是现代的某个画家根据他对歌德的想象画的，这幅画使我恼火，我看着太不顺眼了。我不知道您是否听明白了我的话。” “毫无问题，你不用担心，讲下去好了。” “在这之前，我和教授的意见就不一致；他跟几乎所有教授一样；是个爱国主义者，战争期间他着实出了一把力，帮着欺骗老百姓，当然，他真以为那是好事，他是真心实意的。而我是反对战争的。嗳，不说它了，我还是往下讲吧。我根本就用不着看这幅画……” “你是用不着看的。” “可是首先，为了歌德，那幅画使我难受，我十分喜爱歌德。其次，我当时想，咳，我是这样想的，或者是这样感觉的：我现在跟他们坐在一起，我把他们看作我的同类，我想，他们也许差不多和我一样喜爱歌德，会差不多跟我一样想象歌德是什么样的人，可他们家里却放着这样一张乏味的、歪曲的、庸俗化了的歌德像，觉得它美极了，一点没有注意到，这幅画的精神恰好同歌德精神相反。他们觉得那幅画美妙无比，他们自然可以那样看，这倒也随他们的便，可是我对这些人的全部信任，跟他们的全部友谊，跟他们休戚与共的全部感情一下子全都化为乌有了。况且，跟他们的友谊原本就不深。这一来，我又恼又悲，发现我完全孤独了，没有人理解我。您懂吗？” “这很容易懂，哈里。后来呢？你拿起画向他们的脑袋砸过去了？” “没有，我骂了他们，跑开了。我想问家，可是……” “可是回家也没有妈妈安慰或者数落你这个傻孩子。唉，哈里。我几乎为你感到难过，你真是个与众不同的孩子。” 是的，我似乎自己也看到这一点。她斟了一杯酒让我喝。说真的，她对我像妈妈。可我看见，她多么年轻漂亮。 她又开始说起来：“歌德是一百年前死的，'哈里很喜欢他，歌德当时的模样怎样，哈里想象得很美，他有权这样想象，对吧？而同样爱慕歌德、给他画像的画家倒没有想象的权利，那教授也没有这个权利，而且根本就没有人有这个权利，因为这不合哈里的心意，他不能忍受，于是他不得不咒骂，跑开！要是他聪明一点的话，就会对画家和教授只置之一笑。要是他疯了，他就把歌德肖像向他们的脸扔过去。可是，他只是个小孩子，所以他跑回家想上吊……我很理解你的故事，哈里。这是个很可笑的故事。它让我发笑。停一停，别喝得这么急！勃民第酒要慢慢喝，喝快了使人发热。你呀真是个小孩子，什么都得告诉你。” 她的目光像一位六十岁的家庭女教师那样严厉，那样有威力。 “噢，是的，”我很满意地恳求她道，“请您告诉我一切吧！” “要我告诉你什么？” “您想说的一切。” “好吧，我给你讲一些。整整一个小时了，你听见我跟你说话都用'你'称呼，而你总用'您'称呼我。你总讲拉丁文、希腊文，总把事情讲得尽量复杂！如果一位姑娘用'你'称呼，你也不厌恶她，那你就也用'你'跟她说话好了。好了，你这又学了一点新东西。其次，半个小时前，我听说你叫哈里。我知道你的名字，是因为我问了你。你却不想知道我叫什么名字。” “噢，不是的，我很想知道你的名字。” “太晚了，孩子！我们下次见面时，你可以再问。今天我不会告诉你了。好了，现在我要跳舞去了。” 她做了个要站起来的姿势。突然，我的情绪一落千丈，我害怕她会走开，撇下我一个人，那样一切又都会恢复原状。像暂时止住的牙痛又突然折磨起人来，像突然着了火一样，在这一瞬间，害怕与恐惧又突然回到我身上。噢，上帝，我能忘记等着我的事情吗？难道情况有了什么变化？ “等一等，”我大声恳求道，“您别……你别走开！当然你可以跳舞，你爱跳多久就跳多久，可是别离开太久了，你再回来，再回来！” 她一边笑一边站起身。她站着没有我想象的那么高，她很苗条，但不高。她又让我想起那个人来…想起的是谁呢？一时又想不起来。 “你还回来吗？” “我还回来的，不过可能要过一会儿才回来，过半个小时，也许过一个小时。听我说，闭上眼睛睡一会儿，你需要睡眠。” 我给她让出位子，她走了；她的裙子掠过我的膝盖，一边走一边用一面小圆镜子照了照脸，眉毛一扬，用一个小粉扑擦了擦下巴，随后进舞厅消失了。我看了看四周：周围的人我都不认识，男人们拍着烟，大理石的桌子上撒满了啤酒，到处是吵吵嚷嚷和尖利的怪叫声，隔壁传来舞曲声。她说了，我该睡觉。啊，老弟，你知道我的睡眠，睡魔到了我身上比黄鼠狼还胆怯！在这种、“集市似的场所，坐在桌边，在叮当乱响的啤酒杯之间我能睡觉吗？我呷了一口酒，从衣袋里拿出一支雪茄，看看周围谁有火柴，其实我一点不想抽烟，于是便把烟放到桌子上。她曾对我说过，“闭上眼睛”。天晓得，这个姑娘怎么生就这么一副好嗓音，这样深沉，这样慈爱。服从这声音真好，我已经体会到了。我顺从地合上眼睛，把头靠到墙上，听着各种各样嘈杂的声音在我周围轰响，她怎么会想起叫我在这个地方睡觉，对这个想法我觉得有些好笑，决定到舞厅门旁去，向舞厅里看一眼——我该看看我那美丽的姑娘怎样跳舞——在椅子下动了动脚，这才觉得我跑了几个小时乏得要命，就没有起来。一会儿，我就忠实地执行慈母般的命令，睡着了，睡得又香又甜，而且做起梦来，这个梦比最近很长一段时间里做的梦都更清楚、更美妙。我做了这样一个梦： 我坐在一间旧式前厅里等着。起先我只知道，我要见一位阁下，后来我想起这位阁下是歌德先生，我要受他的接见。遗憾的是，我不是完全以私人身份来到这里，我的身份是一家杂志的记者，这真让我觉得不对劲，我不明白，是哪个魔鬼把我驮进这种处境。此外，我刚才看见一只蝎子想从我的腿上往上爬，这也使我稍感不安。我抖了抖腿，想把这只黑色的小爬虫抖掉，可我不知道它现在藏在哪里，我哪儿也不敢去摸。 同时，我心里也不敢肯定，他们会不会由于疏忽，没有把我通报到歌德那里，而通报到了马蒂森那里，可是我在梦中搞错了，把马蒂森换成了比格尔，因为我以为致莫丽的诗是他写的。而且，我非常希望跟莫丽见面，我想象中的她长得很漂亮，纤柔，有音乐天赋，又很文静。要是我到这里并不是为那该死的编辑部办事，那该多好！我的不满情绪越来越大，而已逐渐埋怨起歌德来，我对他突然有了各种各样的疑虑和责备。这样可能会在接见时出现一场好戏。但是，那蝎子虽然危险，也许就藏在我的贴身处，这倒也不一定就那么糟；我觉得，它也可能意味着亲切友好的事情，我觉得它很可能与莫丽有关，它可能是她的使者，或她的徽记．女性和罪孽的美丽而危险的徽记动物。这个动物不是也可能叫乌尔皮乌斯叫马？正在这时，一位男仆打开了门，我起身走了进去。 老歌德站在那里，挺得笔直，在他那经典作家的胸前果真藏着一枚厚厚的星形勋章。他似乎一直在统治，一直在接见宾客，他身在魏玛博物馆，却控制着整个世界。因为他一看见我，就像一只老鸦那样颤巍巍地向我点头，庄严地说：“好，你们年轻人，你们大概很不同意我们和我们的种种努力吧？” “您说得很对，”他那大臣的威严目光使我感到浑身发凉。 '我们年轻人事实上真的不同意您的看法，老先生。我们觉得您太庄严了，阁下，太爱虚荣，太装模作样，不够诚实。而最最主要的大概是不够诚实。 " 小老头把他严厉的头微微向别动了动，他那严峻的、抿得紧紧的嘴巴放松了一点，露出一丝笑意，变得有生气了。这时，我的心突然怦怦跳了起来，因为我忽然想起《夜幕》这首诗，这首诗的字句正是出自这个人的嘴巴。本来，我在此刻已经完全被缴了械，被制服了，并且真想在他面前下跪。可我还是直挺挺地站着，听他微笑着的嘴巴说出下面的话：“噢，您指责我不诚实？这是什么话！您能不能作进一步的说明？” 我很愿意说明，很愿意这样做。 “歌德先生，您像所有大人物一样，清楚地认识并感觉到人生的可疑和绝望，快乐时刻只如昙花一现，马上就会调零消逝；只有在平时受尽煎熬，才能得到感官的至高享受，您渴望精神王国，对无辜失去的自然王国也同样炽热而神圣地热爱着，因而在您来说它们两者永远处在殊死的搏斗中，永远在虚无飘渺和捉摸不定的状态中可怕地飘荡；什么事都注定要烟消云散，永远不可能达到完全有效；永远带有试验的性质，永远是肤浅表面，一知半解。一亩以蔽之，做一个人真是前途渺茫，过度紧张，万分绝望。这一切您都知道，而且您向来确信这一点，可是您的一生宣扬的却恰好相反，您表达了信仰和乐观，您自欺欺人，说我们在精神方面作出的种种努力是有意义的，能流传千古。无论在您自己身上，还是在克莱斯特和贝多芬身上，您都反对并压抑追求深度，反对并压抑绝望的真理的声音。几十年之久，您都摆出一副样子，似乎积累知识，收集珍宝，撰写，收集信件以及您在魏玛走过的全部生活之路确实就是一条使瞬间永恒化，使自然具有思想的路。而实际上，您只能将瞬间涂防腐药作永久保存，给自然罩上一层伪装。这就是我们对您提出的指责，我们所说的不诚实。” 老枢密顾问沉思地盯着我的眼睛，他的嘴角还始终带着一丝笑意。 然后他向我提出一个问题，使我很宽诧异：“那么，莫扎特的《魔笛》您肯定也很觉反感？” 我还没有提出异议，他就继续说道：“《魔笛》把生活描写成甜美的歌曲，像歌颂永恒的、神圣的东西那样歌颂我们的感情，虽然我们的感情并不能永久常在，《魔笛》既不同意克莱斯特先生，也不赞同贝多芬先生，而是宣扬乐观与信仰。” “我知道，我知道，”我怒气冲冲地喊道。“天晓得，您怎么会想起《魔笛》来的，《魔笛》是我在世界上最喜爱的东西。莫扎特并没有像您那样活到八十二岁，也没有像您那样在他个人的生活中要求持久、安宁、呆板的尊严！他不曾自命不凡！他歌唱了他那些神奇的旋律，他穷困潦倒，早早地去世了，不为世人所了解……” 我透不过气来。我恨不得把千百件事情用十句话说出来，我额头渗出汗来。 歌德却很亲切地说：“我活了八十二岁，这也许是永远不可原谅的。可是我因长寿而得到的快乐比您想的要小。我非常渴望持久，这种追求始终使我充实，我始终害怕死亡，并向它作斗争，这话您说对了。我相信，反对死亡的斗争，绝然地、执着地要生活下去，这正是推动所有杰出的人物行动和生活的动力。到头来人都不免一死，这一点，我年轻的朋友，我用八十二岁的一生作了令人信服的证明，这同譬如我当小学生的时候就夭折一样能令人信服。如果下面这一点能证明我说得不错的话，我在这里也说一下：在我的秉性中有许多天真的东西，好奇，贪玩，乐于消磨时光。这不，我花了很长时间才看到，玩耍总得有个够才是。” 他一边说着，一边狡黠地像调皮鬼似地微笑着。他的身材变高了，加呆板的姿态和脸上痉挛的严肃神情消失了。我们周围的空气里回响着音乐，全是歌德的歌，我清楚地辨认出其中有莫扎特谱曲的和舒伯特谱曲的《明月照山谷》。现在，歌德年轻了，红光满面，神采奕奕，爽朗地笑起来，一会儿像莫扎特，一会儿又像舒伯特，像他们的兄弟一样，他胸前的星完全由花草组成，星的中央一棵樱草花特别鲜艳夺目。 这老头儿想用这样一种开玩笑的方式逃避我的问题和指控，我觉得不太合适，我以责备的眼光看着他。于是他向我凑过来，他那变得完全像孩子似的嘴巴贴近我的耳朵，轻轻对我说：“我的年轻人，你对老歌德也太认真了。对已经去世的老年人不能这样苛求，否则就会对他们不公平。我们不朽的人不喜欢这样认真，我们爱玩笑。我的年轻人，你要知道，严肃认真是时间的事情；我要向你透露一点：严肃认真是由于过高估计时间的价值而产生的。我也将过高估计时间的价值，正因为如此，我想活一百岁。而在永仁之中，你要知道，意没有时间的；永恒只是一瞬间，刚好开一个玩笑。” 事实上已经不可能跟这个老头儿认真地谈话了，他快活地、敏捷地手舞足蹈起来，忽而让他那颗胸前星星中的樱草花像火箭一样射出来，忽而又让它变小，消失不见。他精神焕发地跳着舞，我却不期而然地想起，这个人至少没有错过学跳舞的机会。他跳得还真不错。突然，那个蝎子闯进我的脑际，或者与其说是那个蝎子，还不如说是莫丽，我冲着歌德喊道：“告诉我，莫丽在这里吗？” 歌德高声笑起来。他走到桌子也，打开一个抽屉，拿出一个皮制或天鹅绒做的贵重小盒，打开盒盖递到我的眼前。我看见，黑色天鹅绒上放着一条小小的女人大腿，摆得好好的，闪射出淡淡的光彩。这真是一条可爱的腿，膝盖微微弯曲，脚掌向下伸，纤细的脚趾也伸得很直。 我伸出手，想把这条小腿拿过来，这条腿太使我喜爱了，可是正当我想用两个指头拿起它时，这个小玩意儿仿佛动起来了，我突然怀疑起来，这可能就是那条蝎子。歌德似乎看出我的怀疑，似乎这正是他的目的，他就是要让我进退维谷，看我这种既渴望得到又害怕不敢拿的矛盾状态。他把那诱人的小蝎子递到我的眼前，看我跃跃欲试想得到它，又看我怕得直向后退，这似乎让他非常高兴。他用这个可爱而危险的小东西跟我逗乐时，人又变老了，变得老态龙钟，好像一千岁，一头银丝，他那干瘪的老脸无声地笑着，带着老年人深邃的幽默独自笑个不止，笑得前仰后合。