Chapter 67 Chapter 67

Philip was anxious to return to London after two months at Blackstable.During these two months, Nora wrote frequently, and the letters were long and vigorous.In her letters, she described in a smooth and humorous style the daily trivialities, the landlady's domestic disputes, the witty jokes, and the comic troubles she encountered in the rehearsal-she was in a London theater at the time. Supporting roles in important plays -- and her adventures with the publishers of her fiction.Philip read a lot, swam, played tennis, and went on boat trips.At the beginning of October, he returned to London, settled down to study, and prepared for the second unified examination.He is eager to pass the exam, because passing the exam means the end of a heavy course, after which he will have to practice in the outpatient department of the hospital, dealing with men and women and textbooks.Philip visits Nora every day.

Lawson had been summering at Poole, and several of his sketches of the harbor and the beach were exhibited.He was commissioned to paint two portraits and intended to remain in London until the light became too difficult for him to paint.At this time, Hayward was also in London, intending to spend the winter abroad.But, week by week, he remained stranded in London, unable to make up his mind to move.During these two or three years Hayward had put on weight—it was five years since Philip first saw him at Heidelberg—and had gone bald prematurely.He was very sensitive to this, and deliberately grew his hair long to hide the unsightly bald top of his head.His only consolation was that his eyebrows were as handsome as before.His blue eyes were dull and dull, with drooping eyelids; the mouth, devoid of youthful vitality, was withered and pale.Hayward is still talking vaguely about what he plans to do in the future, but with little confidence.He realized that his friends didn't believe in him any more, and so, after a couple of whiskeys, he became sad and dejected.

"I'm a loser," he murmured, "I can't stand the cruelty of life's struggle. All I can do is get out of the way, and let the officials and juniors hustle and bustle and compete for their interests." ." Hayward gives the impression that failure is a subtler and more refined thing than success.He hinted that his solitary arrogance came from a distaste for everything common and mean.He admired Plato very much. "I thought you had stopped studying Plato now," said Philip impatiently. "Really?" asked Hayward, raising his eyebrows. "I don't see the point of reading the same things over and over again," said Philip. "It's just a boring and exhausting diversion."

"But do you think you have such a great mind that you can understand the works of the most profound writers just by reading them?" "I don't want to understand him, and I'm not a critic. I'm not interested in him for his sake, but for my own." "Then why do you want to read?" "One is for pleasure. Because reading is a habit, not reading is as sad as not smoking. The other is to understand myself. When I read, I just look at it with my eyes. However, sometimes I I also come across a piece of text, maybe just a phrase, which still has some meaning to me. At this time, they become a part of me. I absorb everything in the book that is useful to me. Therefore, Even if I read it dozens of times, I can't get more. To me, a person is like a tightly wrapped bud. What a person reads or does, in most cases but there are certain things which do have a special meaning to a man, and which make the bud open one petal, one petal after another, and at last a flower ."

Philip was not very satisfied with his analogy, but he did not know how to express what he felt but could not quite understand. "You want to do something, and you want to be famous," said Hayward, shrugging his shoulders. "How vulgar it is." Up to this point Philip knew Hayward well.He is weak-willed and vain.He is so vain that you have to be on your guard all the time not to hurt his feelings.He confuses idealism with boredom, without being able to separate the two.One day, in Lawson's studio, Hayward met a journalist.The reporter was intoxicated by his eloquence.A week later, a letter from the editor of a newspaper suggested that he write some critical articles.During the forty-eight hours after receiving the letter, Hayward had been in the agony of indecision and indecision.For a long time, he had talked about taking such a position, so he had no face to refuse it now, but he was filled with fear at the thought of doing it.In the end, he declined the suggestion, which was a relief.

"Otherwise it would interfere with my work," he told Philip. "What job?" Philip asked gruffly. "My spiritual life," replied Hayward. Then he recounted the affairs of the Geneva professor Émile.His ingenuity made it possible for him to achieve anything, but he never achieved anything.When the professor died and went to bed, the two questions of why he failed and why he had to excuse himself were immediately answered in the detailed and meaningful diary found in his file pile. .After all, an indescribable smile appeared on Hayward's face. But Hayward talked of books with gusto.He has a good taste and a keen eye.His exuberance with fantasies persisted, and fantasies became his delightful companions.Actually, fantasy means nothing to him, because fantasy has never had any influence on him.But he treated the fantasy as if it were china at an auction house, handled it with a keen interest in its appearance and its luster, weighed its price in his mind, put it away in a case, and never cared about it again. .

However, it was Hayward who made the big discovery.One evening, after some preparations, he took Philip and Lawson to a tavern in Beek Street.The pub's reputation is not just for its grandeur and history - it recalls the haunting glory of the eighteenth century - but also for stocking the best snuff in London.The mixed sweet drinks here are especially famous.Heyward led them both into a large long narrow room.Here, dimly lit, ornately decorated, there are huge nude women hanging on the walls: huge allegorical paintings of the Hayden school.However, the lingering smoke, the pervasive air and the unique atmosphere of London make the figures in the painting graceful and lifelike, as if they have always been the masters of this place.The dark paneling, the thick gilt cornices with dull luster, and the mahogany tables gave the room a luxurious air; the leather chairs, lined along the walls, were soft and comfortable.On the table facing the door is a ram's head, which contains the famous snuff of the shop.They ordered a mixed sweet drink and enjoyed it together.This is a steaming sweet drink spiked with rum.To write the beauty of this drink, the clumsy pen in my hand can't help trembling.In this passage, the words are serious and the words are mediocre, and they are not at all expressive; while the flashy diction, the pearly and fascinating words, have always been used to describe the excited imagination.The drink warms the blood, clears the mind, refreshes the heart (it fills the soul with a sense of healthy rest), delights the soul, and delights the wit of others.It is as unpredictable as music and as precise as mathematics.There is only one quality in which this drink can be compared with anything else: it has a good-hearted warmth.However, its taste, smell and how it makes people feel cannot be expressed in words.Charles Ram, written with infinite wit, might well have painted a fascinating genre picture of the time; had Earl Byron described this indescribable in a stanza of his Don Juan He would have written about the most majestic and eloquent of all things; and Oscar Wilde, who had poured the jewels of Isfahan on the tapestry of Byzantium, might have made it a mind-boggling beauty.Thinking of this, I can't help but feel the scene of drinking and drinking at the banquet in Iragabala before my eyes; I can hear Debussy's choking harmony, and there is still a trace of forgotten in the tune. The musty but fragrant legendary smell of a generation's wardrobe of old clothes, ruffled collars, stockings and tights is mixed with the fragrance of lilies in the deep ravines and the dry wine of chiganda.I couldn't help feeling dizzy.

Hayward discovered the tavern specializing in the rare concoction through a fellow student at Cambridge, Macalister, whom he met on the street.Macaris was part exchange broker and part philosopher.Every week, he had to patronize this tavern.So it was not long before Philip, Lawson, and Hayward got together every Tuesday evening.Changing lifestyles have made them frequent the tavern.This is not without Zen benefits for people who like to talk.Macalister was a big-boned, broad-framed man who seemed too short in comparison, with a broad, fleshy face, and a soft-spoken voice.He is Kant's younger brother and always looks at everything from a purely rational point of view. He likes to expound his own theories.Philip listened with keen interest, for he had long since believed that no other doctrine interested him so much as metaphysics.However, he was not so sure about the validity of metaphysics in solving the affairs of life.The little ingenious system of thought which he had worked out at Blackstable seemed to have had no influence during his infatuation with Mildred.He is not sure how useful reason is in dealing with the affairs of life.In his view, life is life after all, with its own laws.Until now, he still clearly remembered the power of the emotion that controlled all his words and actions, and his helplessness about it, as if his whole body was tied to the ground with ropes.He learned a lot from the book, but he can only judge things from his own experience (he doesn't know whether he is different from others).He acts without weighing the pros and cons of the action, and without considering its pros and cons.However, he always felt an irresistible force driving himself forward.He acted not half-heartedly, but with all his might.The power that governs everything seems to have nothing to do with reason: its function is to show him the way to get what his heart desires.

At this time, Macalister reminded Philip not to forget the famous argument of "category". "You must behave in such a way that the style of each of your actions will be a general law of the conduct of all men." "It seems to me that what you say is sheer nonsense," retorted Philip. "How dare you dare to charge Immanuel Kant," Macalister replied immediately. "Why not? It is a stupid quality to obey what someone says. There is simply too much fetishism in the world today. Kant considered things not because they really existed, but only because he was Kant."

"Well, then, what exactly do you think of the categorical imperative?" (The two of them debated each other, as if the fate of the Empire was at stake.) "It shows that a person can choose a path by his own willpower. It also tells people that reason is the most reliable guide. Why must its instructions be stronger than those of emotions? The two are completely different. This is My take on the categorical imperative." "It seems you are a convincing slave to your emotions." "If a slave, it's because I can't help it, but I'm not a convincing slave," replied Philip, smiling.

As he spoke, Philip recalled the frenzy with which he had courted Mildred.How restless he was under the scorching fire of love at the beginning, and how he suffered great humiliation because of it later, flashed through his mind one by one. "Thank goodness, now I'm finally free from there!" he sighed inwardly. Despite what he said, he wasn't sure if the words were from his heart.When he was under the influence of passion he felt strangely alive and his mind was unnaturally active.He was alive and full of energy, and there was a passion in him, and an impatience in his heart.All of this makes life seem a bit dull right now.All the misfortunes he had suffered in his life were compensated in that sense by a life full of passion and excitement. But Philip's vague remark just now turned Macalister's attention to the question of freedom of the will.Macalister, by virtue of his rote knowledge, put forward one argument after another.He also liked to play with rhetoric.He drove Philip to contradict himself.He pushed Philip into a difficult situation at every turn, so that Philip could only make unfavorable concessions to get rid of the awkward situation.Macalister refuted him to pieces with meticulous logic, and defeated him with authoritative force. At last Philip spoke at last: "Well, I don't have much to say about other people. I can only say about myself. The illusion of freedom of will is so strong in my head that I can't get rid of it. Still, I think it's just It's just a fantasy. But this fantasy is just one of the strongest motivations for my behavior. Before I take action, I always think that I can choose freely, and I do things under the control of this thought. But When it was done, I realized that it could never be avoided." "What conclusion do you draw from that?" interposed Hayward. "Hey, it's not clear, it's useless to regret. The milk is pouring, and it's no use crying, because all the forces in the world are bent on overturning the milk!"