Chapter 3 third chapter

There was music coming from my neighbor's house all summer nights.In his blue gardens men and women came and went like moths amidst laughter, champagne and flowers.At high tide in the afternoon, I watched his guests dive from the diving board of his raft or sunbathe on the hot sand of his private beach, while his two small motorboats cut through the waves, hauling wakeboards. Over the churning waves.On weekends, his Rolls-Royce became a bus, picking up guests in and out of town from nine in the morning until midnight, while his station wagon went to the train like a lithe yellow crustacean. Pick up all the buses at the station.Every Monday, eight servants, including an occasional gardener, worked hard all day, with mops, scrub brushes, hammers, and pruning shears to clean up the mess of the previous night.

Every Friday, five boxes of oranges and lemons arrive from a fruit shop in New York.Every Monday, the oranges and lemons leave his back door in a little pyramid of half-pulled peels.He had a juicer in the kitchen that could squeeze two hundred oranges in half an hour, if the butler pushed a button two hundred times with his thumb. At least once every fortnight, legions of caterers descended from the city, bringing with them hundreds of feet of canvas tents and countless colored lights, enough to make Gatsby's vast garden look like a Christmas tree.The buffet table is full of various cold dishes, and the spiced ham is surrounded by various salads, roasted golden suckling pig and turkey.In the hall, a bar with a real copper rod was set up, stocked with various gins and spirits, as well as various nectars that had long been rare, most of the female guests were too young to tell the difference Which is which.

Before seven o'clock the band arrived, not by any means a five-piece band, but a full set of oboes, trombones, saxophones, violins, cornets, piccolos, brass drums, high and low.The last swimmers have come in from the beach and are changing upstairs now.The cars from New York were parked in a row of five on the driveway, and at the same time all the halls, parlors, and balconies were already colorful. of.The business at the bar was booming, and at the same time trays of cocktails were transmitted to every corner of the garden outside. Later, the whole air was full of laughter, jokes and introductions that were blurted out but forgotten in a blink of an eye, and full of mutual anonymity. A very cordial meeting between the ladies.

①A region in Spain famous for producing headscarves. The electric lights look brighter as the earth lurches away from the sun, and now the band is playing yellow cocktail music, and the chorus of voices raises another note.Laughter is getting easier every moment, pouring out without restraint, it only takes a joke to elicit a roar of laughter.The crowd changes more and more quickly, sometimes growing with new arrivals, sometimes dispersing and then regrouping immediately.Already a few people were wandering here and there - thick-skinned young girls slipping in and out of the more stable crowd, now the center of attention in a moment of jubilation, now triumphant in the changing lights Travel through changing faces, voices and colors.

All of a sudden, one of these gypsy girls, all in jewels, grabs a cocktail, goes down for courage, dances, and dances by herself in the middle of the tarpaulin dance floor to perform.There was a moment's silence, when the conductor graciously changed the time for her, and then there was a sudden chatter, as rumors spread that she was Gilder Gray's understudy at the Speedway.The party has officially begun. ①Gilda Gray (Gilda Gray), a famous New York dancer. I believe that when I first went to Gatsby's that night, I was one of the few guests who actually received an invitation.People are not invited - they are themselves.They got into the car, and the car took them to Long Island, and somehow they kept turning up at Gatsby's door.Once they arrived, someone who knew Gatsby would always introduce them, and from then on they talked and acted like they were in an entertainment venue.Sometimes they never saw Gatsby at all when they came and went, and they came to the meeting with such sincerity that it was a ticket.

I am indeed invited.Early that Saturday morning, a chauffeur in a turquoise livery crossed my lawn with a very polite invitation for his master: If I were to come to his "little party" that night, Guy Tsby should feel very honored.He had seen me a few times, and had long intended to visit, but for various reasons could not - Jay Gatsby's signature, in a dignified hand. Just after seven in the evening, I walked over to his lawn in a white flannel suit, wandering uncomfortably among groups of people I didn't know - though I was occasionally on a local train Mianza I've seen.I noticed right away that there were quite a few young Englishmen among the guests: all well-dressed, all hungry, all talking humbly to well-to-do Americans.I bet they were all selling something -- or bonds.Or insurance, or a car.At the very least, they were all anxiously aware that money was at their fingertips, and believed that it was all they needed to say in a few wise words.

I tried to find the owner as soon as I arrived, but after asking two or three people where he was, they all stared at me in amazement while denying any knowledge of his whereabouts, and I had to sneak over to the cocktail table— -The only place in the whole garden where a single man can linger without looking bored and lonely. I was bored, and was about to get very drunk, when Jordan Baker came out of the house and stood on the top of the marble steps, leaning back slightly, looking down on the garden with a light air. No matter whether someone welcomes you or not, I feel that I really have to depend on someone, otherwise, I'm afraid I'll have to greet the passing guests.

"Hello!" I yelled, walking towards her.My voice seemed unnaturally loud in the garden. "I guess you might come," she replied absent-mindedly when I came up to her. "I remember you lived next door..." She shook my hand unemotionally, as a sign of her promise to come back to me soon, and at the same time went to listen to the two girls in the same yellow dress who stopped at the bottom of the steps. "Hello!" they shouted in unison, "it's a pity you didn't win." This is about the game of golf.She lost in last week's final. "You don't know who we are," said one of the two girls in yellow, "but we met here about a month ago."

"You dyed your hair afterward," said Jordan, and I was taken aback, but the girls had already walked away casually, so she spoke to the early moon, which was like the food and drink at dinner, No doubt also from the caterer's basket.Jordan put her slender, blond arm around mine, and we descended the steps and wandered in the garden.A tray of cocktails floated in front of us in the twilight, and we sat down at a table with the two girls in yellow and the three men, all of whom were introduced to us by name Passed by in a blur. "Do you come to these parties often?" Jordan asked the girl next to her.

"The last time I was here was when I saw you," answered the girl, in a voice that was quick and confident.She turned to her friend again, "Is it the same for you, Lucille?" So is Lucille. "I like to come," said Lucille, "I never cared what I did, as long as I had a good time. Last time I was here, I tore my clothes on the chair, and he asked my name and address-- Within a week I had a package from Crowley's with a new evening dress." "Did you take it?" Jordan asked. "Of course I took it. I was going to wear it tonight, but it was too big in the chest and had to be changed. It was light blue with lavender beads. Two hundred and sixty-five dollars."

"It's queer for a man to do such a thing," said the other girl eagerly. "He doesn't want to offend anybody." "Who wouldn't?" I asked. "Gatsby. I've been told..." The two girls and Jordan put their heads together mysteriously. "I was told that he was thought to have killed someone." We were all very surprised, and Mr. Wei also put his head forward and pricked up his ears to listen. "I don't think that's the case," Lucille argued disapprovingly. "It's probably because he was a German spy during the war." One of the three men nodded in agreement. "I've also heard that from a man who knew everything about him and who grew up with him in Germany," he told us with certainty. "Oh, no," said the first girl again, "it can't be that way, because he was in the American Army during the Great War." As we again tended to take her word for it, she poked her head sideways again with gusto . "You just look at him when he thinks no one is looking at him. I bet he killed someone." She narrowed her eyes and shivered.Lucille was shaking too.We all turned around and looked around for Gatsby.Some people have long believed that there is nothing to be shunned in this world, and now they whisper about him in this way, which is enough to prove how romantic reveries he has aroused. The first supper--there was another after midnight--was now open, and Jordan invited me to sit with a group of her friends who were sitting around a table across the garden.There were three couples in all, plus a male college student who accompanied Jordan, who was dead for nothing, always insincere, and obviously thought that sooner or later Jordan would give himself to him more or less.This group of people doesn't wander around, but sits upright and self-contained.Indigenous and self-appointed representative of the dignified rural aristocracy--East Egg condescends to West Egg, but is wary of its feasting and merriment. "Let's go away," whispered Jordan, having lost half an hour inexplicably, "this place is too polite for me." We got up and she explained that we were going to find the owner.She said she had never seen him, which made her quite uncomfortable.The college student nodded, looking both cynical and sullen. We went to the bar first, and it was full of people, but Gatsby wasn't there.She looked down from the steps and couldn't find him, nor was he on the balcony.We opened hopefully a dignified door and entered a tall Gothic library paneled with English carved oak, probably dismantled intact from some monument overseas. over here. A short, stocky, middle-aged man, wearing a pair of owl-like glasses, was sitting drunkenly on the edge of a large table, staring at the rows of books on the bookshelf in a daze.As soon as we walked in he turned around excitedly and gave Jordan a head-to-toe look. "What do you think?" he asked boldly. "about what?" He raised his hand to the bookshelf. "About that. Actually, you don't have to read it carefully. I have read it carefully. They are all true." "These books?" He nodded. "Absolutely true—page by page, everything. I thought at first they were probably pretty empty bookcases. In fact, they are absolutely true. Page by page of what—wait! I'll show you." He took it for granted that we didn't believe it, and hurried to the bookcase, and brought back a volume one of Stoddard's Speeches. ① John Stoddard (John Stoddard, 1850-1931), an American orator, wrote ten volumes of "Speeches". "Look!" he exclaimed triumphantly, "it's a real print. It really blew me away. The guy is a Velasco. What a workmanship. How meticulous! How true! And knowing Take it as soon as it's ready--no paper cut. What else do you want? What do you expect?" ①David Belasco (David Belasco, 1850--1931), an American stage manager, is famous for his realistic scenery. He snatched the book out of my hand, and hastily put it back on the shelf, muttering that if one brick were removed the whole library might collapse. "Who brought you here?" he asked. "Or uninvited? I was brought here. Most of the guests are brought by others." Jordan was alert and looked at him happily, but didn't answer. "I was brought by a Mrs. Roosevelt," he went on, "Mrs. Claude Roosevelt. Do you know her? I met her somewhere last night. I've been drunk for weeks. Well, I thought sitting in the library for a while would help me sober up." "Are you awake?" "Wake up a little, I think. I can't say it yet. I've been here an hour. Did I tell you about these books? They're all true. They're..." "You told us." We shook hands with him solemnly, and went back outside. At the moment there is dancing on the tarpaulin in the garden.There are old men pushing young girls backwards in endless ugly circles; there are haughty men and women huddling together in fashionable dance steps, dancing in a corner -- and many, many more. Single girls were dancing solo, or helping the band with a little banjo or percussion.At midnight the hilarity got even worse.A famous tenor sang Italian songs, another notorious contralto sang jazz, and others performed "stunts" all over the garden in between, all the while bursting with joyful, empty laughter The sound resounded through the summer night sky.A pair of twins—it turned out to be the two girls in yellow—did a baby act in disguise, while champagne was served in glasses larger than finger bowls.The moon rose higher, and a pair of triangular silver scales floated in the bay, trembling slightly with the clang of the banjo on the lawn. ① Refers to the Big Cup star. I'm still with Jordan Baker.We sat at a table with a man about my age and a noisy little girl who couldn't help laughing out loud.I'm having a lot of fun now too.I had already had two bowls of xiangqi, so the scene became something significant, fundamental, and mysterious before my eyes. During the break in the entertainment program, the man looked at me and smiled. "You look familiar," he said politely, "were you not in the 1st Division during the war?" "Exactly. I'm in the 28th Infantry Company." "I was in the Sixteenth Company until June 198, and I just now know where I've seen you before." We talked for a while about this rainy, gray little village in France, and he obviously lived nearby, because he told me he had just bought a seaplane and was going to test it out tomorrow morning. "Want to come with me, man? Just walk around the shore in the bay." "when?" "Anytime, whatever suits you." I was on the verge of asking his name when Jordan turned around and smiled at me. "have fun now?" she asked "It's much better." I turned to my new friend again, "This is a strange party for me. I haven't even met the owner yet. I live over there..." I turned to the far away A wave of the invisible fence. "This Gatsby sent his chauffeur with an invitation." He looked at me for a moment, as if he didn't understand what I said. "I'm Gatsby," he said suddenly "What!" I yelled. "Oh, I'm so sorry." "I thought you knew, man. I'm afraid I'm not a very good Master." He smiled knowingly -- and more than knowingly.It was an extremely rare smile with a look of permanent kindness in it, the one you only see four or two times in your life.It faces—or seems to face—the whole of the eternal world for a split second, and then fixes itself on you with irresistible favoritism.He knows you just as well as you want to be known, believes in you as you would like to believe in yourself, and teaches you to rest assured that his impression of you is the impression you wish to give others when you are at your best.Just at that moment his smile disappeared--and I was looking at a handsome young fellow, about thirty or twelve, with a manner of speaking that was almost ridiculous.Shortly before he introduced himself, I had a strong impression that he chose his words carefully. About the moment Mr. Gatsby identified himself, a butler hurried up to him to report that he had a long-distance call from Chicago.He bowed slightly to apologize, including all of us -- including. "Just ask what you want, man," he said to me earnestly, "I'm sorry, but I'll see you later." As soon as he walked away, I turned to Jordan -- impatient to tell her how surprised I was.I thought Mr. Gatsby was a middle-aged man with red face and big ears. "Who is he?" I asked eagerly, "Do you know?" "He's a Gatsby." "I mean where did he come from? What does he do?" "Now you're thinking about the subject too," she laughed wearily. "Well, he told me he went to Oxford." A blurry background about him begins to emerge, but fades immediately with her next sentence. "But I don't believe it." "Why don't you believe it?" "I don't know," she said stubbornly, "I just don't believe he went to Oxford." There was something in her tone that reminded me of the other girl's "I think he killed a man," which turned out to pique my curiosity.Whether Gatsby was born in the swamps of Louisiana or in the South Side of New York, I can accept it without a doubt.That's understandable.But young people couldn't--at least my ignorant extra didn't think they could--sneaked up out of nowhere and bought a palatial villa on Long Island Sound. ①Slums "Anyway, he had big parties," Jordan said, changing the subject with the city-man's disdain to go into specifics, "and I like big parties, too. It's very intimate. At small gatherings, it's better to talk in twos or threes." impossible." There was a boom of the big drums, and then suddenly the voice of the bandleader drowned out the tumult of voices in the garden. "Ladies and gentlemen," he cried, "at Mr. Gatsby's request, we present to you the latest work by Mr. Vladimir Tostov, which was presented at Carnegie in May. The concert hall has attracted the attention of many people. You can read the newspapers and you will know that it is a sensational event." He smiled with a relaxed and condescending air, and added: "What a sensation!" This sentence caused everyone to burst into laughter laughing out loud. "This piece," he said in a booming voice at last, "is called "The World History of Jazz Music by Vladimir Tostov." What happened to Mr. Tostov's piece, I didn't notice, because as soon as the performance started, I saw Gatsby standing alone on the marble steps, looking from the group to the other with satisfied eyes. a group of people.His tanned skin was beautifully stretched across his face, and his short hair looked as if it was trimmed every day.I see no sign of the occult in him.I wondered if the fact that he didn't drink helped to separate him from his guests, because I thought he grew more dignified as the communal hilarity mounted.After the performance of "World History of Jazz Music", some girls happily leaned on the man's shoulders like pug dogs, some joked and fainted backwards in the man's arms, and even fell into the crowd, knowing that someone would put it on the man's shoulder anyway. They supported--but no one passed out on top of Gatsby, and no French bob touched Gatsby's shoulders, and no one organized a quartet to pull Gatsby into it. "Sorry." Suddenly Gatsby's butler stood beside us. "Miss Baker?" he asked. "I'm sorry, Mr. Gatsby would like to speak to you alone." "Talk to me?" she said aloud in surprise. "Yes, miss." She stood up slowly, raised her eyebrows at me in amazement, and followed the butler toward the house.I noticed that she wore evening gowns, and everything else, as if she were in sportswear—her movements had a springy stance, as if she had been learning to walk on a golf course on a crisp morning. I was alone and it was almost two o'clock.For a few moments there came from a long, many-windowed room above the balcony a chaotic and compelling sound.The college student at Jordan was talking about midwifery with two chorus dancers and begged me to join, but I slipped away and went indoors. The big room was full of people.One of the girls in yellow was playing the piano, and beside her stood a tall, red-haired young woman from a famous song and dance troupe, singing there.She's been drinking a lot of champagne, and in the middle of her singing she inappropriately decides that everything is very, very miserable - not only is she singing, but she's also crying.Whenever there is a pause in the song, she fills it up with sobs and cries, and then continues to sing the lyrics in a trembling soprano.Tears flowed down her cheeks--not a free flow, for the tears turned to black ink as soon as they met the thickly painted lashes, and continued to flow slowly like two black rivers. .Someone suggested, as a joke, that she sing the notes on her face, and at this she threw her hands up, sank into a chair, and fell asleep soundly drunk. "She just had a fight with a guy who said he was her husband," explained a girl next to me. I looked around, and most of the remaining ladies were now arguing with their so-called husbands.Even Jordan's gang, the four from East Egg, were torn apart by disagreements.One of the men was talking vigorously to a young actress whose wife at first maintained her dignity, pretended to be nonchalant, tried to laugh it off, then totally broke down and took a side attack - popping up at him from time to time , like a hissing sound in the mouth of a cleft ridge snake when it is angry, squeezed out a sentence through the teeth in his ear: "You promised!" Those who are reluctant to go home are not limited to wayward male guests.In the hall at the moment there were two unintoxicated male guests and their angry wives.The two ladies raised their voices a little in mutual sympathy. "Every time he sees me having fun he goes home." "I've never seen anyone so selfish in my life." "We're always the first to go." "So are we." "We're almost the last tonight, though," said one of the two men timidly. "The band left half an hour ago." Although the wives agreed that such malice was beyond belief, the dispute ended in a short tussle, and both wives were picked up, kicked, and disappeared into the night. While I was waiting for my hat in the hall, the library door opened and Jordan Baker and Gatsby came out together.He was still saying the last word to her, but at this moment several people came up to say goodbye to him, and his original eagerness suddenly restrained and became stiff. Jordan's gang called her impatiently from the balcony, but she lingered a moment to shake my hand. "I just heard the most amazing thing," she whispered dreamily. "How long have we been out there?" "Oh, for an hour." "It's... amazing," she repeated ecstatically, "but I swore I wouldn't tell anyone, and now I'm teasing you." She yawned softly into my face, "Come and see me when you are free... phone book... under Mrs. Sigourney Howard...my aunt..." she said as she hurried away--she flicked her tanned hand in farewell, and disappeared into her party at the door. Feeling ashamed that I had stayed so late on my first visit, I went over to the last of the guests who surrounded Gatsby.I want to explain that I've looked for him everywhere since I arrived, and apologize to him for not knowing who he was when I came face to face with him just now in the garden. "It's okay," he enjoined me earnestly. "Don't take it to heart, man." It was not as affectionate as the hand that patted me on the shoulder in a very friendly way. "Don't forget we're going to be picked up by seaplane at nine o'clock tomorrow morning." Then the butler came and stood behind him. "Sir, there is a long distance call for you from Philadelphia." "Okay, come on. Tell them I'll come. Good night." "Good night." "Good night." He smiled slightly.Suddenly, I stayed until the end, and there seemed to be something pleasant about it, as if he had always wanted it to be. "Good night, man... good night." However, when I walked down the steps, I saw that the party was not quite over yet.Fifty feet from the gate, the headlights of a dozen cars illuminated an unusual, boisterous scene.In the ditch by the side of the road, right side up, lay a new coupe with one wheel knocked off.The car had been out of Gatsby's driveway for less than two minutes, and an overhang of a wall was responsible for the wheels coming off.Now there are five or six curious drivers watching, but as they let their cars block the road, the drivers in the cars behind have been honking their horns for a long time, and a cacophony of noise adds to the already serious chaos of the whole scene . A man in a long windbreaker had come out of the wrecked car and was standing in the middle of the road, seeing the tires from the car and the bystanders from the tires, with a happy and puzzled expression on his face. "Look!" he explained, "it's driven into a ditch." This fact astonished him.I recognized the man--the same one who had visited Gatsby's library earlier, by the unusual tone of surprise. "What happened?" He shrugged. "I don't know anything about mechanics," he said firmly. "What the hell happened? Did you hit the wall?" "Don't ask me," said Owl-Eyes, putting the matter out of the way, "I don't know much about driving—nearly anything. It happens, and I know it." "Since you're such a bad driver, you shouldn't be trying to drive at night." "But I didn't even try," he explained angrily, "I didn't even try." The bystanders were too shocked to speak when they heard this. "Are you trying to kill yourself?" "Lucky it's only one wheel! Can't drive well without even trying!" "You don't understand," the sinner explained, "I'm not driving. There's another person in the car." The shock caused by this statement was manifested in a series of "Oh... ah... ah!" as the car's door slowly opened.The crowd--a huge crowd at the moment--involuntarily drew back, and there was another eerie pause as the doors swung open.Then, gradually, part by part, a white-faced, dangling figure stepped out of the wrecked-up car, and just stretched out a large dancing shoe to test the ground a few times. Blinded by car headlights and dazed by the sound of car horns, the ghost stood there shaking for a moment before recognizing the man in the trench coat. "What's the matter?" he asked calmly. "Are we out of gas?" "look!" Five or six pointed to the detached wheel--he glared at it, then looked up, as if he suspected that the wheel had fallen from the sky. "The wheel fell off," one explained. He nodded. "At first I didn't realize we had stopped." After a while, he took a deep breath, puffed out his chest again, and said in a firm voice: "I wonder if you could tell me where there is a gas station?" At least five or six people, some of them a little more sober than he, explained to him that there was no longer any real connection between the wheel and the car. "Reverse," he suggested after a while, "use reverse gear." "Ding, the wheel fell off!" He hesitated for a moment. "It doesn't hurt to try," he said. The screeching of the car horn reached a crescendo, and I turned around and walked home across the grass.I glanced back.A bright moon was shining on Gatsby's villa, making the night as beautiful as before the light.The moon is still bright, and the laughter has died from the garden that is still bright.A sudden emptiness seemed to flow now from those windows and the huge doors, leaving in complete isolation the figure of the host, who now stood on the balcony, raising one hand in a formal gesture of farewell. Rereading what I have written above, I think I have given the impression that what happened on three nights, weeks apart, was all I was concerned with.On the contrary, they were mere incidents in a busy summer, and until much later I cared far less about them than about my own private affairs. I work most of the time.Every morning as the sun casts my shadow westward, I scurry along the white chasms between the skyscrapers of Southern New York to Integrity Trust.I got to know the other clerks and the young bond salesmen well, and with them I lunched in dark, crowded restaurants over small pork sausages and mashed potatoes and a cup of coffee.I even had a brief affair with a girl who lived in Jersey City and worked in accounting.But her brother started giving me winks, so when she went on vacation in July, I let it go quietly. ①Near New York City. After I usually have dinner at the Yale Club--for some reason this is the bleakest thing of my day--I go upstairs to the library and spend an hour earnestly studying various investments and securities.There are often a few fun-loving people in the student union, but they never go into the library, so it is a good place to do work.After that, if the weather was nice, I strolled down Madison Road, past the old Murray Hill Hotel, and across Thirty-third Street to Penn Station. I was beginning to like New York, the wild, adventurous feel of it at night, the satisfaction that the constant flow of men and women and traffic gave to the restless eye.I like to walk around on Fifth Avenue, picking out the flamboyant women from the crowd, imagining that in a few minutes I'm going to be in their lives, and no one will ever know or criticize it.Sometimes, in my mind, I followed them to their apartment on a mysterious street corner, and at the door they looked back and smiled, then walked through a door and disappeared into warm darkness.In the charming evening hours of the big city, I sometimes feel a kind of overwhelming loneliness, and I also feel that others feel it-those poor young clerks who linger in front of the window, and when the time comes, they go to the small restaurant to eat alone. A supper—a young clerk in the evening, wasting away the most intoxicating hours of night and life. Sometimes at eight o'clock in the evening, the dark alleys of the 40th Street are crowded with taxis, five in a row, all heading for the theater district, and then I feel a nameless melancholy in my heart.When the taxi stopped at the intersection, the people in the car huddled together, voices were heard, inaudible jokes caused laughter, and the lighted cigarettes made blurred halos inside.I imagined that I was also rushing to have fun and share their inner excitement, so I secretly blessed them. I hadn't seen Jordan Baker for a long time, and then I found her again in midsummer.At first I was honored to go everywhere with her, because she was a golf champion and everyone knew her name.Then there was another feeling.I didn't really fall in love with her, but I developed a tender curiosity.That bored, haughty face she put on to the world was hiding something--most pretences are always hiding something later, though not at first--and one day I discovered what it was.We were both in Warwick for a house party.She parked a borrowed car in the rain with the top down and told a lie—and all of a sudden I remembered something about her that I couldn't remember that night at Daisy's.At her first major golf tournament, L, there was a scandal that nearly hit the papers—someone said she had moved the ball from an unfavorable position in the semifinal round.The matter was close to becoming a scandal - and then died down.A caddy walked back his words, and the only other witness admitted he might have been mistaken.The incident and her name stayed in my mind. 乔丹呗克本能地回避聪明机警的男人，现在我明白了这是因为她认为，在对越轨的行动不以为然的社会圈子里活动比较保险。她不诚实到了不可救药的地步。她不能忍受处于不利的地位，既然这样不甘心，因此我想她从很年轻的时候就开始耍各种花招，为了对世人保持那个傲慢的冷笑，而同时又能满足她那硬硬的、矫健的肉体的要求。 这对我完全无所谓。女人不诚实，这是人们司空见惯的事--我微微感到遗憾，过后就忘了。也是在参加那次别墅聚会的时候，我们俩有过一次关于开车的奇怪的谈话。因为她从几个工人身旁开过去，挨得太近，结果挡泥板擦着一个工人上衣的纽扣。 "你是个粗心的驾驶员，"我提出了抗议，"你该再小心点儿，要不就干脆别开车。" "我很小心。" "不对，你不小心。" "不要紧，反正别人很小心。"她轻巧地说。 "这跟你开车有什么关系？" "他们会躲开我的，"她固执地说，"要双方不小心才能造成一次车祸嘛。" "假定你碰到一个像你一样不小心的人呢？" "我希望永远不会碰到，"她答道，"我顶讨厌不小心的人。这也是我喜欢你的原因。" 她那双灰色的、被太阳照得眯紧的眼睛笔直地盯着前方，但她故意地改变了我们的关系，因而有片刻工夫我以为我爱上了她。但是我思想迟钝，而且满脑袋清规戒律，这都对我的情欲起着刹车的作用，同时我也知道首先我得完全摆脱家乡的那段纠葛。我一直每星期写一封信并且签上"爱你，尼克"，而我能想到的只是每次那位小姐一打网球，她的上唇上边总出现像小胡子一样的一溜汗珠。不过确实有过一种含糊的默契，这必须先委婉地解除，然后我才可以自由。 每个人都以为他自己至少有一种主要的美德，而这就是我的：我所认识的诚实的人并不多，而我自己恰好就是其中的一个。