Chapter 31
第三十一章
一个月来，海沃德四日声声说自己明天就要动身去南方，可是想到整理行装好不麻烦，还有旅途的沉闷乏味，他又下不了这个决心，结果行期一周又一周地往后延宕，直到圣诞节前，大家都忙着过节，这才迫不得已动了身。他受不了条顿民族的寻欢作乐方式，只要一想到节日期间那种放浪形骸的狂欢场面，他身上就会起鸡皮疙瘩。为了不招人注目，他决定趁圣诞节前夜悄悄启程。
菲利普送走海沃德时，心里并不感到依依不舍，因为他生性爽直，见到有谁优柔寡断拿不定主意，就会生出一股无名火来。尽管他深受海沃德的影响，但他认为一个人优柔寡断，并不说明他感官锐敏，讨人喜欢。另外，海沃德对他为人处世的一板一眼，不时暗露嘲讽之意，这也使他忿忿不满。他们俩保持通信往来。海沃德可谓是尺续圣手，他自知在这方面颇有天分，写信时也就特别肯下功夫。就海沃德的气质来说，他对接触到的胜景美物，具有很强的感受力，他还能把淡雅的意大利乡土风光，倾注在他罗马来信的字里行间。他认为这座古罗马人缔造的城市，有点俗不可耐，只是由于罗马帝国的衰微才沾光出了名；不过教皇们的罗马，却在他心头引起共鸣，经他字斟句酌的精心描绘，洛可可式建筑的精致华美跃然纸上。海沃德谈到古色古香的教堂音乐和阿尔卑斯山区的绮丽风光，谈到袅袅熏香的催人欲眠，还说到令人销魂的雨夜街景：人行道上微光闪烁，街灯摇曳不定，显得虚幻迷离。这些令人赞叹的书信，说不定他还只字不改地抄寄给诸亲好友。他哪知道这些书信竟扰乱了菲利普心头的平静呢。相形之下，菲利普眼下的生活显得何其索然寡味。随着春天的来临，海沃德诗兴勃发，他建议菲利普来意大利。他呆在海德堡纯粹是虚掷光阴。德国人举止粗野，那儿的生活平淡无奇。置身于那种古板划一的环境，人的心灵怎能得到升华？在托斯卡纳，眼下已是春暖花开，遍地花团锦簇；而菲利普已经十九岁了。快来吧，他们可以一起遍游翁布里亚诸山城。那些山城的名字深深印刻在菲利普的心坎上。还有凯西莉，她也同情人一起去意大利了。不知怎地，他一想到这对情侣，就有一种莫可名状的惶惶之感攫住了他的心。他诅咒自己的命运，因为他连去意大利的川资也无法筹措，他知道大伯除了按约每月寄给他十五镑外，一个子儿也不会多给的。他自己也不善于精打细算。付了膳宿费和学费之后，菲利普的口袋里已是所剩无几。再说，他发现同海沃德结伴外出，开销实在太大。海沃德一会儿提出去郊游，一会儿又要去看戏，或者去喝瓶啤酒，而这种时候，菲利普的月现钱早已花个精光，囊中空空；而在他那种年岁的年轻人都有那么一股子傻气，硬是不肯承认自己手头拮据，一点铺张不起的。
幸好海沃德的信来得不算太勤，菲利普还有时间安下心来过他穷学生的勤奋生活。菲利普进了海德堡大学，旁听一两门课程。昆诺·费希尔此时名声大噪，红得发紫。那年冬季，他作了一系列有关叔本华的相当出色的讲座。菲利普学哲学正是由此人的门。他的头脑注重实际，一接触抽象思维就如堕烟海似地惴惴不安起来，可是他在聆听完验哲学的专题报告时，却销声敛息，出乎意外地入了迷，有点像观赏走钢丝的舞蹈演员在悬崖峭壁表演惊险绝技似的，令人兴奋不已。这一厌世主义的主题，深深吸引了这个年轻人。他相信，他即将步入的社会乃是一片暗无天日的无情苦海，这也丝毫不减他急于踏入社会的热情。不久，凯里太太来信转达了菲利普的监护人的意见：他该回国了。菲利普欣然表示同意。将来到底干什么，现在也得拿定主意了。假如菲利普在七月底动身离开海德堡，他们可以在八月间好好商量一下，如能就此作出妥善安排，倒也不失时宜。
回国行期确定之后，凯里太太又来了一封信，提醒他别忘了威尔金森小姐，承蒙这位小姐的推荐，菲利普才在海德堡欧林太太的家里找到落脚之处。信中还告诉他，说威尔金森小姐准备来布莱克斯泰勃同他们小住几周。预计她将在某月某日自弗拉欣渡海，他要是也能在这一天动身，到时候可以同她结伴同行，在来布莱克斯泰勃的路上照顾照顾她。生性怕羞的菲利普赶忙回信推托，说他得迟一两天才能动身。他想象着自己如何在人群里寻找威尔金森小姐，如何难为情地跑上前去问她是否就是威尔金森小姐（他很可能招呼错了人而横遭奚落），然后又想到，他拿不准在火车上是该同她攀谈呢，还是可以不去搭理她，只管自己看书。
菲利普终于离开了海德堡。近三个月来，他净是在考虑自己的前途，走时并无眷恋之意。他一直没觉得那里的生活有多大乐趣。安娜小姐送给他一本《柴金恩的号手》，菲利普回赠她一册威廉·莫里斯的著作。他俩总算很聪明，谁也没去翻阅对方馈赠的书卷。
Chapter 31
Hayward, after saying for a month that he was going South next day and delaying from week to week out of inability to make up his mind to the bother of packing and the tedium of a journey, had at last been driven off just before Christmas by the preparations for that festival. He could not support the thought of a Teutonic merry-making. It gave him goose-flesh to think of the season’s aggressive cheerfulness, and in his desire to avoid the obvious he determined to travel on Christmas Eve.
Philip was not sorry to see him off, for he was a downright person and it irritated him that anybody should not know his own mind. Though much under Hayward’s influence, he would not grant that indecision pointed to a charming sensitiveness; and he resented the shadow of a sneer with which Hayward looked upon his straight ways. They corresponded. Hayward was an admirable letter-writer, and knowing his talent took pains with his letters. His temperament was receptive to the beautiful influences with which he came in contact, and he was able in his letters from Rome to put a subtle fragrance of Italy. He thought the city of the ancient Romans a little vulgar, finding distinction only in the decadence of the Empire; but the Rome of the Popes appealed to his sympathy, and in his chosen words, quite exquisitely, there appeared a rococo beauty. He wrote of old church music and the Alban Hills, and of the languor of incense and the charm of the streets by night, in the rain, when the pavements shone and the light of the street lamps was mysterious. Perhaps he repeated these admirable letters to various friends. He did not know what a troubling effect they had upon Philip; they seemed to make his life very humdrum. With the spring Hayward grew dithyrambic. He proposed that Philip should come down to Italy. He was wasting his time at Heidelberg. The Germans were gross and life there was common; how could the soul come to her own in that prim landscape? In Tuscany the spring was scattering flowers through the land, and Philip was nineteen; let him come and they could wander through the mountain towns of Umbria. Their names sang in Philip’s heart. And Cacilie too, with her lover, had gone to Italy. When he thought of them Philip was seized with a restlessness he could not account for. He cursed his fate because he had no money to travel, and he knew his uncle would not send him more than the fifteen pounds a month which had been agreed upon. He had not managed his allowance very well. His pension and the price of his lessons left him very little over, and he had found going about with Hayward expensive. Hayward had often suggested excursions, a visit to the play, or a bottle of wine, when Philip had come to the end of his month’s money; and with the folly of his age he had been unwilling to confess he could not afford an extravagance.
Luckily Hayward’s letters came seldom, and in the intervals Philip settled down again to his industrious life. He had matriculated at the university and attended one or two courses of lectures. Kuno Fischer was then at the height of his fame and during the winter had been lecturing brilliantly on Schopenhauer. It was Philip’s introduction to philosophy. He had a practical mind and moved uneasily amid the abstract; but he found an unexpected fascination in listening to metaphysical disquisitions; they made him breathless; it was a little like watching a tight-rope dancer doing perilous feats over an abyss; but it was very exciting. The pessimism of the subject attracted his youth; and he believed that the world he was about to enter was a place of pitiless woe and of darkness. That made him none the less eager to enter it; and when, in due course, Mrs. Carey, acting as the correspondent for his guardian’s views, suggested that it was time for him to come back to England, he agreed with enthusiasm. He must make up his mind now what he meant to do. If he left Heidelberg at the end of July they could talk things over during August, and it would be a good time to make arrangements.
The date of his departure was settled, and Mrs. Carey wrote to him again. She reminded him of Miss Wilkinson, through whose kindness he had gone to Frau Erlin’s house at Heidelberg, and told him that she had arranged to spend a few weeks with them at Blackstable. She would be crossing from Flushing on such and such a day, and if he travelled at the same time he could look after her and come on to Blackstable in her company. Philip’s shyness immediately made him write to say that he could not leave till a day or two afterwards. He pictured himself looking out for Miss Wilkinson, the embarrassment of going up to her and asking if it were she (and he might so easily address the wrong person and be snubbed), and then the difficulty of knowing whether in the train he ought to talk to her or whether he could ignore her and read his book.
At last he left Heidelberg. For three months he had been thinking of nothing but the future; and he went without regret. He never knew that he had been happy there. Fraulein Anna gave him a copy of Der Trompeter von Sackingen and in return he presented her with a volume of William Morris. Very wisely neither of them ever read the other’s present.