1920.01 在阳台上 作者：William Mcfee

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On a Balcony
By William Mcfee
JANUARY 1920 ISSUE
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I
THERE are some men whom a staggering emotional shock, so far from making them mental invalids for life, seems, on the other hand, to awaken, to galvanize, to arouse into an almost incredible activity of soul. They are somewhat in the same case as the elderly expressman who emerged from a subway smash untouched, save that he began to write free verse. Those who do not read free verse may consider the comparison too flippant. But the point must be insisted on, that there is far too much talk of love and grief benumbing the faculties, turning the hair gray, and destroying a man’s interest in his work. Grief has made many a man look younger.


Or, one may compare the emotions with wine. The faculties of some men become quiescent with wine. Others are like Sheridan writing The School for Scandal right on through the night, with a decanter of port at his elbow getting emptier as the pages (and Sheridan) got full; or like Mozart, drinking wine to stimulate his brain to work, and employing his wife to keep him awake at the same time.

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There was a singular disparity between the above trivial reflections and the scene upon which they were staged. I was seated on the balcony outside my room on the third floor of the Grand Hotel Splendid Palace at Smyrna. I was to leave that afternoon for Constantinople, having been relieved, and I had been watching with some attention the arrival of the destroyer upon whose deck, as a passenger, I was to travel.

I was distracted from this pastime by the growing excitement in the street below. Greek troops, headed by extremely warlike bands, were marching along the quay, gradually extending themselves into a thin yellowish-green line with sparkling bayonets, and congesting the populace into the fronts of the cafés. A fantastic notion assailed me that my departure was to be carried out with military honors. There is an obscure memorandum extant in some dusty office-file, in which I am referred to as ‘embarrassing His Majesty’s Government ’ — the nearest I have ever got to what is known as public life. The intoxication engendered proved conclusively that public life was not my métier.


But I was not to be deceived for long on this occasion. Motor-cars drove up, bearing little flags on sticks. A Greek general, a French admiral, an Italian captain, and a British lieutenant of the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve jumped out of their respective chariots and, after saluting with the utmost decorum, shook hands with the utmost (official) cordiality. Looked at from above, the scene was singularly like the disturbance caused by stirring up a lot of ants with a stick.

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By this time it was perfectly obvious that something more than the departure of a mere lieutenant of reserve was in theair. I knew that Royal Naval Volunteer Lieutenant, and the hope, the incipient prospect, of another taste of public life died within me. After all, I reflected (and this is how I led up to the other reflections already recorded), after all, one must choose between Obscurity with Efficiency, and Fame with its inevitable collateral of Bluff. There is a period, well on toward middle life, when a man can say such things to himself and feel comforted.

I knew that Royal Naval Volunteer Lieutenant, and I began to recall some remarks he had made the previous evening at dinner. He had said something about some big man coming. This was at the British Naval Residency, which was to be found, by the intrepid, in the Austrian Consulate. The British Naval Residency filled the Austrian Consulate very much as a penny fills the pocket of a fur overcoat. You could spend a pleasant morning wandering through the immense chambers of the Austrian Consulate and come away without having discovered anyone save a fat Greek baby whose mother washed in some secret subterranean chamber.

I was supposed to be messing at the British Naval Residency. I had even been offered by my country’s naval representative (this same Royal Naval Volunteer Lieutenant) the use of any room I liked, to sleep in, if I had a bed, and bed-clothes to put on it. He even offered me the throne-room — a gigantic affair about the size of the Pennsylvania Terminal and containing three hassocks, and a catafalque like a halffinished sky-scraper. At night, when we dined, an intrepid explorer who, we may suppose, had reached the great doors after perils which had turned him gray, would see, afar off across the acres of dried and splitting parquetry flooring, a table with one tiny electric light, round which several humans were feasting. If his travels had not bereft him of his senses, he might have gathered that these extraordinary beings were continually roaring with laughter at their own wit. Out of the gloom at intervals would materialize a sinister oriental figure bearing bottles whose contents he poured out in libations before his humorous masters.


This frightful scene (near on midnight) was the British Naval Residency at dinner. And I ought to have paid attention, — only I was distracted by an imaginary bowstring murder going on in the throne-room beyond the vast folding doors, — and then I would have heard the details of the function taking place below my hotel windows. But it is impossible to pay attention to the details of a ceremonial while a beautiful Circassian, on her knees between two husky Ottoman slaves who are hauling at the cord which has been passed in a clove-hitch about her neck, is casting a last glance of despair upon the ragged and cobwebbed scarlet silk portière. It may be objected that, as the tragedy was an imaginary one, I was not compelled to dwell upon it. The reader and I will not quarrel over the point. I will even make him a present of the fact that there are no beautiful Circassians in that part of the world. They have all been kidnaped and carried away to the seraglios of our popular novelists, who marry them, in the last chapter, to dashing young college men of the ‘clean-cut’ breed. But the British Naval Resident’s cook is an artist, and the British Naval Resident’s kümmel, while it closes the front doors of the mind to the trivial tattle of conversation, draws up the dark curtain that hangs at the back and reveals a vast and shadowy stage, whereon are enacted the preposterous performances of the souls of men.

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II
But however hazy I might be myself about this event, all Smyrna seemed cognizant. As I sat on my balcony, I was joined by the children of the family in the next room. Who the family in the next room may be I am somewhat at a loss to explain. At first I imagined they were a family of Russian refugees named Buttinsky; but Katia, the eldest, who is ten and speaks French, says her father is a major of artillery and is named Priam Callipoliton. From occasional glances through the open door while passing, one imagines that a married major in the army of the Hellenes has a fierce time when he is at home. There are three beds in the room, besides a gas-stove and a perambulator. Leaning over my balcony railing one early morning, and poking with a walking-stick at an enigmatic crimson patch on the Callipoliton window-sill, I discovered, to my horror, that it was a raw liver, left out to keep cool.


Priam seems to be fairly hard at it at the front. Madame, a shapeless and indomitable creature, regards me with that look of mysterious yet comfortable camaraderie which women with large families seem to reserve for strange bachelors. I like her. She uses my balcony (having none of her own) with a frank disregard of the small change of etiquette which is beyond praise. I come up from the street in the middle of the morning and find Madame and the femme-de-chambre leaning comfortably on my balcony-rail, a sisterly pair, each couple of high French heels worn sideways, each broad-hipped skirt gaping at the back, each with a stray hank of hair waving wildly in the strong breeze blowing across the glittering gulf. If I cough, they turn and nod genially. If I explain apologetically that I wish to change, they nod again and shut the big jalousies upon me and my astounding modesty.

And if they are not there, the children are. Katia is the possessor of three small sisters and a small brother. They are Evanthe, Theodosia, and Sophia, with Praxiteles sifted in somewhere between them. They were rather amazing at first. ‘ Êtes-vous marié ? ’ they squeaked in their infantile Hellenist trebles. ‘ Pas encore ’ only made them point melodramatic fingers at a photograph, with their ridiculous black pigtails hanging over their shoulders. ‘ C’est lui, peutêtre. Oui? Très jolie!’ And the pigtails vibrated with vehement nods.

They use my balcony. Praxiteles has a horrifying habit of sitting astride the rail. Katia takes the most comfortable chair and asks me genially why I do not go and make a promenade. ‘Avec votre fiancée,’ she adds, with enervating audacity. And I am supposed to have the exclusive use of this room, with balcony, for three pounds (Turkish) per diem!


The point, however, is that, if this be the state of affairs on ordinary days, on this particular morning, my balcony, like all the other balconies, is full. Madame and the femme-de-chambre are there. Katia, Evanthe, Theodosia, Sophia, and Praxiteles are to be heard of all men. Praxiteles endeavors to drag an expensive pair of field-glasses from their case, and is restrained only by main force. George, the floor-porter, a sagacious but unsatisfactory creature, who plays a sort of Jekylland-Hyde game with the femme-dechambre, comes in, on the pretence of cleaning the electric-light fittings, and drifts casually to the balcony. George, descended no doubt from the famous George family of Cappadocia, if rung for, goes away to find Marthe, the femme-de-chambre. Marthe appears, merely to go away again to find George. It is a relief to see the two of them at once, if only to dispel the dreadful notion that George is Marthe and Marthe a sinister manifestation of George.

It is a gratifying thing to record, too, that all these people are perfectly willing that I should see the show as well. Katia, commanded by Madame, resigns the best chair, sulks a moment on one leg, and then forgets her annoyance in the thunder of the guns booming from the Greek warships in the roadstead. I forge my way through and find a stranger in the corner of my balcony.

For a moment I am in the grip of that elusive yet impenetrable spirit of benevolent antipathy which is the main cause of the Englishman’s reputation for icy coldness toward those to whom he has not been introduced. Now you can either break ice or melt it; but the best way is to let the real human being, whom you can see through the cold blue transparencies, thaw himself out, as he will in time. Very few foreigners give us time. They jump on the ice with both feet. They attempt to be breezy and English, and leave us aghast at their inconceivable fatuity. While we are struggling within our deliquescent armor, and on the very point of escaping into the warm sunlight of genial conversation, they freeze us solid again with some frightful banality or racial solecism. The reader will perceive from this that the Englishman is not having such a pleasant time in the world as some people imagine.

However, the stranger on my balcony turns out to be, not a foreigner, but another Englishman, which is an even worse trial to some of us. He is, of course, smoking a cigarette. He wears an old straw hat, an old linen suit, and his boots are slightly burst at the sides. His moustache and scanty hair are iron gray. His eyes are pale blue. While he talks they remain fixed upon Cordelio, which is on the other side of the gulf. No doubt, if he were talking in Cordelio, they would be fixed upon Smyrna. He wears a plain gold wedding-ring. His clothes are stylish, which is not to say they are new. They might have been worn by a wealthy Englishman abroad, say nine or ten years ago. No Greek tailor, for example, would hole all those buttons on the cuffs, nor would he make the coat-collar ‘lay’ with such glovelike contiguity to the shoulders. Also, the trousers hang as Greek trousers never hang, in spite of their bagginess at the knees.

Keeping a watchful eye upon Cordelio, he bends toward me as I sit in my chair, and apologizes for the intrusion. Somehow the phrase seems homelike. Greeks, for example, never ‘intrude’: they come in, generally bringing a powerful whiff of garlic with them, and go out again, unregretted. They do not admit an intrusion. Even my friend Kaspar Dring, Stab-Ober-Leutnant attached to the defunct Imperial German Consulate, would scarcely appreciate the fine subtlety implied in apologizing for an intrusion. It may be that so gay a personality cannot conceive a psychological condition which his undefeated optimism would fail to illuminate. And so, when the stranger, who is, I imagine, on the verge of forty, murmurs his apology for his intrusion, I postulate for him a past emerging from the muzzy-minded ideals of the English middle class. He adds that, in fact, he had made a mistake in the number of the room. Quite thought, this was number seventy-seven, which was, I might know, the official residence of the Bolivian vice-consul, a great friend of his. Had arranged to see the affair from the Bolivian vice-consul’s balcony. However, it did n’t matter now, so long as I did n’t mind — What? Of course, I knew what was going on. There! There he is, just stepping out of the launch. That’s Skaramapopulos shaking hands with him now. English, eh? Just look at him! By Jove! who can beat us, eh? And just look at that upholstered old pork-butcher, with his eighteen medals and crosses, and never saw active service in his life. Too busy making his percentage on — What? No, not him — he’s been asleep all his life. Oh, it was a game! However, now he’s come, we may get something like order into the country. Did I mind if he took a few notes?

I did not mind. I tipped a member of the Callipoliton family off one of the other chairs, and begged my new friend to sit down. I fetched my binoculars and examined the scene below, where a famous British general stood, with his tan-gloved hand at the salute beside his formidable monocle, and was introduced to the Greek general, the French admiral, the Italian captain, and the British lieutenant. ‘A cavalryman,’ I muttered, as he started off down the line of Greek troops, hand at the salute, the sun gleaming on his brown harness and shining spurs. The Greek band was playing ‘See the Conquering Hero Comes,’ very much off the key, and it almost seemed as if the tune was too much for the conquering hero himself, for he dived suddenly into a motor-car and moved rapidly away. Whereupon the band took breath and began to form fours, the yellowish-green lines of troops coagulated into oblong clots, the motor cars, with their little flags swarming, whooped and snarled at the crowds from the cafés and side-streets, and the quay began to assume its wonted appearance (from above) of a disorganized ant-heap.

And my balcony began also to thin out. The Callipoliton faction dwindled to Madame, who was established on a chair at the other end, elbow on the rail, contemplating Mount Sipylus like a disillusioned sybil. Katia bounced back for a moment to inquire, in a piercing treble, whether my baggage was ready, and if so, should George descend with it to the entrance-hall?

I informed her that, if George was really bursting to do something useful, he could go ahead and do as she said.

She bounced away, and later the baggage was found down below; but I am inclined to believe that George sublet the contract to the Armenian boots and merely took a rake-off. George is built on those lines.

‘ So you are a reporter,’ I remarked to my friend, eyeing the mangy-looking notebook he was returning to his pocket.

‘Oh, yes,’ he assured me, adding hastily, though I had made no comment, ‘I’m getting on very well, too.’

He did n’t look it, but I let that pass. You can never tell these millionaires nowadays. I thought I was safe in asking what paper he worked for.

‘I’ve an article in to-day’s Mercure de Smyrne. You’ve seen it, I suppose?’

I had n’t. I’d never even heard of it. I had read the Levant, the Independant, the Matin, the Orient, and so forth; but the Mercure was a new one on me. It came out of his pocket like a shot — a single sheet with three columns on each side, three fourths of the back occupied by an insurance company’s ad.


‘This is mine,’ he informed me, laying a finger on a couple of paragraphs signed ‘Bijou.’

The article was entitled, ‘Les Bas de Soie,’ and was in the boulevardese style dear to the Parisian journalist.

‘You write French easily?’ I said, quite unable to keep down my envy.

He waved his cigarette.

‘Just the same as English,’ he assured me. ‘Italian and Spanish also.’

‘Then for the love of Michael Angelo why do you stop here in this part of the world? You might make your thousands a year on a big paper as a special commissioner. Why don’t you go home ? ’

III
Well, he told me why he did n’t go home, though not in so many words. If the reader will turn back to the beginning, he will see some reflections upon the behavior of men under emotional shock and stress. It is possible he may have already turned back, wondering what those remarks portended, what it was all about anyway. Well —


It seems that Mr. Satterley Thwaiteson (I quote his card, which he pressed upon me) had been in the Levant some time. He had had a very pleasant probation as articled pupil to an architect in Norwich, — did I know it? — and had made quite a hobby of studying French architecture, in his own time, of course. Used to take his autumn vacation in Northern France, visiting the abbeys and ruins and so forth. Got quite a facility, for an Englishman, in the language. Perhaps it was because of this that, when he had been in a Bloomsbury architect’s office for a year or so, and a clerk of works was needed for a Protestant church which some society was erecting in Anatolia, he, Satterley Thwaiteson, got the job. ‘Secured the appointment,’ were his exact words, but I imagine he meant, really, that he got the job. He came out, on one of the Pappayanni boats — did I know them? — and as far as I could gather, got his church up without any part of it falling down before the consecration service. Which, considering the Levantine contractor’s conceptions of probity, was a wonder.

So far Mr. Satterley Thwaiteson’s history seemed simple enough. Like many others of his imperial race, he had gone abroad and had added to the prestige of the English name by erecting a Protestant church in a country where Protestants are as plentiful as pineapples in Labrador. But — and here seems to be the joint in the stick — he did n’t go home. All the time regarding Cordelio across the gulf with his paleblue eyes, an expression of extraordinary pride and pleasure comes over his features, and banishes for a few moments the more permanent indication of a man who had lost the art of life. Extraordinary pride and pleasure! He did n’t go home. Never did go home. It is obvious that the memory of this emotional treachery to the call of home is something to be treasured as one of the great things in life. No, on the contrary, he got married out here. Yes, a foreigner, too — a Roumanian. And they did n’t get married in his wonderful Protestant church either, for she was a Roman Catholic. ‘Here’s a photo of her as she was then.’


He takes from his pocket an old wallet stuffed with folded letters, and fishes out a small flat oval frame that opens on a hinge. There are two portraits, photos colored like miniatures. One is the Mr. Satterley Thwaiteson of that day fifteen or sixteen years ago, not so different save as to the hair, of which there is not much at present. But the woman is beautiful. In these days of high-tension fiction, when novelists, like the Greek in one of Aristophanes’s plays, walk about, each with his string of lovely female slaves, it is tameenough to say a woman is beautiful. And perhaps it would be better to say that this woman in the little colored photo was startling. The bronze hair piled high, the broad fair brow, the square indomitable chin, the pallor contrasting with the heavily lashed brown eyes, the exquisite lips, all formed a combination which must have had a rather curious effect upon the studious young man from Norwich via Bloomsbury. Filled him with pride for one thing, or he would n’t be showing this picture to a stranger.

But what struck me about that girl’s picture, even before he fished out a picture postcard photo of his family taken a month or two ago, was something in her face which can be expressed only by the word rapacity. Not, be it noted, a vampire. If the truth were known, there are very few vampires about, outside of high-tension fiction. But I saw rapacity, and it seemed a curious thing to find in a woman who, it transpired, had married him and borne him children, eight in all, and had made him so happy that he had never gone home.


For that was what had aged him and paralyzed him and kept him there until he was a shabby failure — happiness. That was what brought to his face that expression of extraordinary pride and pleasure. As I listened to his tale I wondered, and at the back of my mind, on the big shadowy stage of which I spoke, there seemed to be something going on which he forgot to mention. And when he showed me, with tender pride, the picture-postcard photo of his wife and her eight children, I could not get rid of the notion that there was something rapacious about her. Even now she was handsome, in a stout and domineering kind of way. It was absurd to accuse such a woman of rapacity. Was she not a pearl? Everything a woman should do, she had done. She had been fruitful, she had been a good mother, a virtuous wife, and her husband assumed an expression of extraordinary pride and pleasure when he showed a stranger her portrait. His happiness in her was so rounded and complete that he would never have another thought away from her. He would never go to England again. Was not this marvelous?

As I pondered upon the marvel of it, I heard him telling me how he had found some difficulty in making a living out of the few architectural commissions which happened along, and gradually fell into the habit of giving lessons in English to Greeks and Armenians who were anxious to achieve social distinction. And when the war came, and he was shut up with everybody else in the city, he had to depend entirely upon the language lessons. And then, of course, he ‘wrote for the press’ as well, as he had shown me. He was very successful, he thought, taking everything into consideration. Why, he would get three pounds Turkish (about four dollars) for that little thing. Always signed himself ‘Bijou.’ His wife liked it. It was her name for him when they were lovers. And though, of course, the teaching was hard work, for Armenian girls were inconceivably thick-headed, and sometimes it occupied him twelve or fourteen hours a day, yet it paid, and he was happy.


And in the very middle of my irritation at him for harping on what he called happiness, I saw that I was right, after all: that girl had been rapacious. She had devoured his personality, fed on it, destroyed it, and had grown stout and virtuous upon it. His hair was thin and gray, he had a hunted and dilapidated look, and his boots were slightly burst at the sides. And he was happy. He had abandoned his profession, and he toiled like a packhorse for the bare necessities; yet he was happy. He was proud. It was plain he believed his position among men was to be gauged by his having won this peerless woman. He rambled on about local animosities and politics, and it was forced upon me that he would not do for a great newspaper. He would have to go away and find out how the people of the world thought and felt about things, and I was sure he would never consent to do that. His wife would not like it. And he might not be happy.

It is evening, and the sun, setting behind Cordelio, shines straight through my room and along the great dusty corridor beyond. In the distance can be seen those antiphonal personalities, Marthe and George, in harmony at last, waiting to waylay me for a tip. On the balcony is the mother of all the Callipolitons, elbow on the rail, contemplating Mount Sipylus like some shrewd sybil who has found out the worthlessness of most of the secrets of the gods.


When I have packed an attaché-case, I am ready. The destroyer on which I am to travel to Constantinople is signaling the flagship. In an hour she will depart. I go out once more on the balcony, to contemplate for the last time the familiar scene. The roadstead sparkles in the sun and the distant waters are aflame. The immense heave of the mountain-ranges is purple and ruddy-gold, and in the distance I can see white houses in quiet valleys above the gray-green of the olive grounds. There is one in particular, among great cypresses, and I turn the binoculars upon it for a brief sentimental moment. As I return the glasses to the case, Madame regards me with attention.

‘Vous partez ce soir, monsieur?’ she murmurs.

And I nod, wondering why one can detect nothing of rapacity in her rather tired face. ‘Oui, madame, je partis pour Constantinople ce soir,’ I assure her, thinking to engage her in conversation.

So far, in spite of our propinquity and the vociferous curiosity of Katia, we have not spoken together to any extent.

‘Et après?’

‘Après, madame, je vais à Malte, Marseilles, Paris, et Londres. Peutêtre, à l’Amérique aussi—je ne sais pas.’


‘Mon dieu!’ She seems quietly shocked at the levity of a man who prances about the world like this. Then comes tire inevitable query, ‘ Vous êtes marié, monsieur?’ and the inevitable reply, ‘Pas encore.’

She abandons Mount Sipylus for a while and turns on the chair, one highheeled and rather slatternly shoe tapping on the marble flags. ' Mais dîtesmoi, monsieur; vous avez une amante de cœur, sans doute?’

‘Vous croyez ça? Pourquoi?’

She shrugs her shoulders.

‘N’importe. C’est vrai. Vous êtes triste.’

‘Oui. Mais c’est la guerre.’

She was silent a moment, observing later that I was a philosopher, which was flattering but irrelevant. And then she said something that I carried away with me, as the destroyer fled over the dark waters of the Ægean.

‘Oui, c’est la guerre, mais il faut que vous n’oubliez, monsieur, que chaque voyage est un petit mort.’

I left her there, looking out across the hard blue glitter of the gulf, when I went down to go aboard.




在阳台上
作者：William Mcfee
1920年1月号
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I
有一些人，一次令人震惊的情感冲击，远远没有使他们成为终身的精神病人，相反，似乎唤醒了他们，激励了他们，唤起了他们几乎不可思议的灵魂活动。他们的情况与那位从地铁事故中走出来的老年快递员相同，他没有受到任何影响，只是开始写自由诗。那些不读自由诗的人可能认为这种比较太轻率了。但必须坚持的一点是，有太多关于爱情和悲伤使人能力减退、头发变白、破坏人对工作的兴趣的言论。悲伤使许多人看起来更年轻。


或者，我们可以把情感比作酒。有些人的能力在酒的作用下变得安静下来。另一些人则像谢里丹一样，整夜整夜地写《丑闻学校》，他的肘部放着一壶波特酒，随着书页（和谢里丹）的填满而越来越空；或者像莫扎特一样，喝葡萄酒来刺激他的大脑工作，同时雇佣他的妻子让他保持清醒。

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上述琐碎的思考和它们所处的场景之间存在着一种奇异的差距。我坐在士麦那辉煌宫大饭店三楼的房间外的阳台上。我将在当天下午离开，前往君士坦丁堡，我一直在注意观察驱逐舰的到来，作为乘客，我将在其甲板上旅行。

下面的街道上越来越热闹，这让我从这种消遣中分了心。希腊军队在极富战斗力的队伍的带领下，沿着码头行进，逐渐延伸成一条黄绿色的细线，刺刀闪闪发光，把民众挤在咖啡馆的前面。一个奇妙的想法向我袭来，我的离开将以军事荣誉的方式进行。在某个尘封的办公室档案中，有一份模糊的备忘录，其中提到我是 "让国王陛下的政府尴尬"--这是我最接近所谓的公共生活。所产生的陶醉感最终证明，公共生活不是我的职业。


但在这个场合，我没有被欺骗太久。汽车开了过来，上面插着小旗子。一位希腊将军、一位法国海军上将、一位意大利上尉和一位英国皇家海军志愿后备队的中尉从他们各自的战车上跳下来，在以最大的礼节致敬后，以最大的（官方）诚意握手。从上面看，这一幕奇特地像用棍子搅动许多蚂蚁引起的骚动。

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到了这个时候，很明显的是，有些事情不仅仅是一个普通的预备役中尉的离开。我知道那个皇家海军志愿兵中尉，而我内心深处对另一种公共生活的希望，即初露端倪的前景，已经死了。我想，毕竟（我就是这样导致了已经记录在案的其他反思），毕竟，人们必须在有效率的隐蔽性和有不可避免的虚张声势的名声之间做出选择。有一个时期，在接近中年的时候，一个人可以对自己说这样的话并感到安慰。

我认识那个皇家海军志愿兵中尉，我开始回忆起他前一天晚上在晚餐时说的一些话。他曾说过一些关于某个大人物要来的事情。这是在英国海军驻地，无畏的人可以在奥地利领事馆找到这个驻地。英国海军驻地在奥地利领事馆中的地位就像毛皮大衣的口袋里装满了一便士一样。你可以花一个愉快的上午在奥地利领事馆巨大的房间里闲逛，走的时候却没有发现任何人，只有一个胖胖的希腊婴儿，他的母亲在某个秘密的地下房间里洗漱。

我本应在英国海军驻地工作。我国的海军代表（就是这位皇家海军志愿军中尉）甚至向我提供了任何我喜欢的房间，让我睡觉，如果我有一张床和可以穿的衣服。他甚至给我提供了宝座室--一个巨大的、与宾夕法尼亚码头差不多大的房间，里面有三张长袜，还有一个像半成品的空中楼阁一样的壁炉。晚上，当我们用餐时，一个无畏的探险家，我们可以猜想，在经历了使他变得灰头土脸的危险之后，到达了这扇大门前，会远远地看到，在几亩干裂的镶木地板上，有一张桌子，上面有一盏小小的电灯，几个人正围着它用餐。如果他的旅行没有使他失去理智的话，他可能会发现这些不寻常的人正在为他们自己的机智而不断地发出笑声。阴暗中不时出现一个阴险的东方人，他拿着瓶子，把里面的东西倒在他幽默的主人面前喝酒。


这个可怕的场景（接近午夜时分）是英国海军驻地的晚餐。我本应该注意的，--只是我被巨大的折叠门外的王室里发生的想象中的弓弦谋杀案分散了注意力，--然后我就会听到我酒店窗户下面发生的活动的细节。但是，当一个美丽的切尔克斯人跪在两个粗壮的奥斯曼帝国奴隶之间，而这两个奴隶正在拉扯她脖子上用丁字钩系着的绳子时，她不可能注意到仪式的细节，她正向破烂不堪、布满蜘蛛网的猩红色丝绸门帘投去绝望的最后一眼。也许有人会反对说，由于这个悲剧是假想出来的，所以我没有必要在这个问题上多费口舌。读者和我不会为这一点争吵。我甚至要向他介绍一个事实：在世界的那个地方，没有美丽的切尔克斯人。她们都被绑架了，被带到我们流行的小说家们的塞拉格里奥那里，在最后一章里，他们与 "清一色 "的年轻大学生结婚。但是，英国海军驻地的厨师是一位艺术家，英国海军驻地的库梅尔虽然对琐碎的谈话关闭了心灵的前门，但却拉起了挂在后面的黑幕，露出了一个巨大而阴暗的舞台，在那里上演着人的灵魂的荒诞表演。

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但是，无论我自己对这一事件有多朦胧，整个士麦那似乎都知道了。当我坐在阳台上时，隔壁房间里的孩子们也加入了我的行列。隔壁房间里的家庭可能是谁，我有点不知道该怎么解释。起初我以为他们是一个叫布廷斯基的俄国难民家庭；但10岁的大女儿卡蒂亚说她的父亲是一名炮兵少校，名叫普里亚姆-卡利波利顿。从过往时偶尔从敞开的门缝中看到的情况来看，人们可以想象，希腊人军队中一个已婚的少校在家里的时候会有一段激烈的时光。房间里有三张床，还有一个煤气灶和一个轮椅。一天清晨，我靠在阳台的栏杆上，用手杖戳着卡利波利顿窗台上一个神秘的深红色斑块，我惊恐地发现，那是一个生的肝脏，放在外面保持凉爽。


普里安似乎在前线相当卖力地工作。夫人是个不修边幅、不屈不挠的人，她用那种神秘而又舒适的友情的眼神看着我，而这种眼神是有大户人家的妇女似乎为陌生的单身汉保留的。我喜欢她。她使用我的阳台（她自己没有），坦率地无视礼仪上的小变化，这是很值得称赞的。清晨，我从街上走来，发现夫人和女服务员舒服地靠在我的阳台栏杆上，她们是一对姐妹，每双高跟鞋都穿在侧面，每条宽大的裙子都在后面敞开，每个人都有一缕头发在吹过闪亮海湾的强风中疯狂地挥舞。如果我咳嗽，他们会转过身来，和蔼地点点头。如果我抱歉地解释说我想换衣服，他们又会点点头，对我和我惊人的谦逊关上大门。

如果他们不在那里，孩子们就在那里。卡蒂亚有三个小妹妹和一个小弟弟。她们是埃文特、狄奥多西亚和索菲亚，还有普拉克西特勒斯在她们之间。他们起初是相当惊人的。'你结婚了吗？他们用稚嫩的希腊式的高音尖叫着。'Pas encore'只是让他们用戏剧性的手指指着一张照片，他们可笑的黑色小辫子垂在肩上。'是他，可能是他。是吗？真漂亮！而小辫子则随着激烈的点头而震动。

他们使用我的阳台。普拉西特勒斯有一个可怕的习惯，就是坐在栏杆上。卡蒂亚坐在最舒适的椅子上，和蔼地问我为什么不去走走看看。她说："和你的未婚妻一起，"她补充说，带着令人窒息的胆量。而我应该独占这个带阳台的房间，每天花三英镑（土耳其币）！"。


然而，问题是，如果这是平时的情况，在这个特殊的早晨，我的阳台和其他所有的阳台一样，都是满的。夫人和女侍应都在那里。卡蒂亚、伊凡特、狄奥多西亚、索菲亚和普拉西特列斯等人都来了。普拉西特勒斯试图从箱子里拖出一副昂贵的野战眼镜，结果被主要的力量所限制。地面服务员乔治，一个聪明但不令人满意的人，他与女服务员玩着一种杰基伦-海德的游戏，他进来了，借口是清洁电灯装置，然后随意地走到阳台上。乔治，无疑是卡帕多西亚著名的乔治家族的后裔，如果被叫到的话，就去找女侍应马特了。马特出现了，只是为了再次去找乔治。如果能同时看到他们两个人就好了，只要能打消乔治就是马特、马特是乔治的阴险表现这一可怕的想法就好了。

令人欣慰的是，所有这些人都完全愿意让我也看一看这场演出。卡蒂亚在夫人的指挥下，辞去了最好的椅子，用一条腿生闷气，然后在路边希腊军舰的炮声中忘记了她的烦恼。我强行通过，在阳台的角落里发现一个陌生人。

有那么一瞬间，我被那种难以捉摸却又难以渗透的仁慈的反感精神所控制，这种精神是英国人对那些没有被介绍过的人冰冷的声誉的主要原因。现在，你可以打破冰，也可以融化它；但最好的办法是让你能透过冰冷的蓝色透明材料看到的真正的人，自己解冻，因为他将及时解冻。很少有外国人给我们时间。他们用双脚跳到冰上。他们试图表现得风轻云淡和英姿飒爽，却让我们对他们不可思议的愚蠢感到震惊。当我们在我们的盔甲里挣扎，正准备逃到和蔼可亲的谈话的温暖阳光下时，他们又用一些可怕的平庸或种族偏见把我们冻结起来。读者可以从中看出，英国人在这个世界上过得并不像某些人想象的那么愉快。

然而，在我的阳台上的陌生人原来不是一个外国人，而是另一个英国人，这对我们中的一些人来说是一个更糟糕的考验。当然，他在抽着烟。他戴着一顶旧草帽，穿着一套旧的亚麻布衣服，他的靴子两边略微爆裂。他的小胡子和稀疏的头发是铁灰色的。他的眼睛是淡蓝色的。他说话时，眼睛一直盯着海湾另一边的科德利奥。毫无疑问，如果他在科德利奥说话，眼睛就会盯着士麦那。他戴着一个普通的金婚戒。他的衣服很时尚，这并不是说它们是新的。它们可能是一个富有的英国人在国外穿的，比如说九或十年前。例如，没有一个希腊裁缝会在袖口上开那么多扣子，也不会让大衣领子像手套一样 "躺 "在肩膀上。此外，裤子也是希腊人的裤子，尽管它们的膝盖处很宽，但从来没有挂过。

当我坐在椅子上时，他警惕地注视着科德利奥，向我弯腰致歉，为我的打扰表示歉意。不知何故，这句话似乎很有家的感觉。例如，希腊人从不 "闯入"：他们进来，通常会带来一股强烈的大蒜味，然后再出去，毫无遗憾。他们不承认有入侵行为。即使是我的朋友卡斯帕-德林（Kaspar Dring），隶属于已解散的帝国德国领事馆的刺客，也很难理解为入侵而道歉所隐含的精妙之处。可能是这样一个性格的人无法想象一种心理状况，而他那不败的乐观主义又无法照亮这种心理状况。因此，当这个陌生人--我想他快40岁了--为他的闯入喃喃自语地道歉时，我为他设想了一个从英国中产阶级模糊的理想中出现的过去。他补充说，事实上，他在房间的号码上犯了一个错误。我想，这是七十七号，我可能知道，那是玻利维亚副领事的官邸，他的一位好朋友。我曾安排在玻利维亚副领事的阳台上看这件事。然而，现在这并不重要，只要我不介意 - 什么？当然，我知道发生了什么。在那里！在那里！在那里！在那里 他在那里，刚从发射台走出来。那是Skaramapopulos正在和他握手。英国人，嗯？看看他吧！天哪！谁能打败我们，嗯？再看看那个装腔作势的老猪肉屠夫，带着18枚勋章和十字架，一生中从未服过役。忙于在--什么？不，不是他--他这辈子都在睡觉。哦，那是个游戏！不过，现在他来了，我们可能会在国内得到类似于秩序的东西。我是否介意他做一些笔记？

我并不介意。我把卡利波利通家族的一个成员从其他椅子上推开，并恳求我的新朋友坐下来。我取来望远镜，观察下面的情景，一位著名的英国将军站在那里，戴着棕褐色手套的手在他那可怕的单片眼镜旁边敬礼，并被介绍给希腊将军、法国海军上将、意大利上尉和英国中尉。'一个骑兵，'我嘀咕道，他沿着希腊军队的队列出发，手在敬礼，太阳在他的棕色马具和闪亮的马刺上闪闪发光。希腊乐队正在演奏 "看到征服者的英雄来了"，非常不合拍，而且似乎这曲子对征服者本人来说太过沉重，因为他突然跳进一辆汽车，迅速离开。这时，乐队喘着粗气，开始排成四队，黄绿色的队伍凝结成长方形的团块，挂着小旗子的汽车蜂拥而至，在咖啡馆和小街的人群中呼啸而过，码头开始呈现出它惯有的样子（从上面看），像一个无组织的蚂蚁堆。

而我的阳台也开始变得稀疏起来。卡利波利通派逐渐减少，只剩下夫人，她坐在另一端的椅子上，手肘放在栏杆上，像一个幻灭的西庇鲁斯山一样沉思。卡蒂亚回过头来，用刺耳的高音询问我的行李是否准备好了，如果是的话，乔治是否应该带着行李下楼到入口大厅？

我告诉她，如果乔治真的想做一些有用的事情，他可以按她说的去做。

她蹦蹦跳跳地走了，后来在下面发现了这些行李；但我倾向于相信，乔治把合同转租给了亚美尼亚人的靴子，只是拿了一笔钱。乔治是按这种思路建立的。

'所以你是个记者，'我对我的朋友说，盯着他正放回口袋的那本看起来很脏的笔记本。

'哦，是的，'他向我保证，并匆忙补充道，尽管我没有发表意见，'我也过得很好。

他看起来不像，但我没有在意。现在的百万富翁，你永远无法判断。我想我问他为哪家报纸工作是安全的。

我在今天的《Mercure de Smyrne》上有一篇文章。我想，你已经看过了吧？

我没有。我没有，我甚至从来没有听说过它。我读过《黎凡特》、《独立报》、《晨报》、《东方报》等等；但《信使报》对我来说是个新东西。他像打了鸡血一样从口袋里掏出来--一张单页，每面有三栏，背面的四分之三被一家保险公司的广告占据。


这是我的，"他告诉我，用手指着几段署名 "Bijou "的文章。

这篇文章的标题是 "Les Bas de Soie"，是巴黎记者所喜爱的林荫大道风格。

'你写法语很容易？我说，完全无法压制我的羡慕。

他挥了挥手中的香烟。

'和英语一样，'他向我保证。'意大利语和西班牙语也是如此。

'那么看在迈克尔-安吉洛的份上，你为什么要在世界的这个地方停下来？你可以在一家大报社当特派员，一年赚上几千美元。你为什么不回家呢？'

三
好吧，他告诉了我他不回家的原因，虽然没有用这么多话。如果读者回头看看开头，他就会看到一些对男人在情感冲击和压力下的行为的反思。他有可能已经回头了，想知道这些话预示着什么，这一切到底是怎么回事。嗯------。


看来萨特利-斯怀特森先生（我引用他的名片，是他强加给我的）已经在黎凡特呆了一段时间。他曾在诺里奇当过一个建筑师的实习学生，非常愉快，我知道吗？- 当然，在他自己的时间里，他对研究法国建筑有很大的爱好。他曾经在法国北部度过他的秋季假期，参观修道院和遗迹等等。对于一个英国人来说，他的语言能力很强。也许正因为如此，当他在布鲁姆斯伯里的一家建筑师事务所工作了一年左右，某个社团在安纳托利亚建造的新教教堂需要一名工程员时，他，萨特利-斯怀特森，得到了这份工作。他的原话是 "获得任命"，但我想他的意思是，真的，他得到了这份工作。他出来了，乘坐帕帕扬尼的一艘船--我认识他们吗？- 据我所知，他把教堂建好了，在祝圣仪式前没有任何部分倒下。考虑到黎凡特承包商的诚信观念，这真是一个奇迹。

到目前为止，萨特利-斯怀特森先生的历史似乎很简单。像他的帝国种族中的其他许多人一样，他出国了，在一个新教徒像拉布拉多的菠萝一样多的国家建立了一座新教教堂，从而提高了英国人的声望。但是--这里似乎是棍子上的关节--他没有回家。他一直用他那双淡蓝色的眼睛看着海湾对面的科德利奥，一种非同寻常的自豪和快乐的表情出现在他的五官上，并在片刻间驱逐了一个失去生活艺术的人的更永久的迹象。非凡的骄傲和快乐！他没有回家。他没有回家。从来没有回家过。很明显，这种对家的呼唤的情感背叛的记忆是值得珍惜的，是生命中最伟大的事情之一。不，恰恰相反，他在这里结婚了。是的，也是一个外国人--一个罗马尼亚人。而且他们也没有在他那美好的新教教堂里结婚，因为她是罗马天主教徒。'这是她当时的一张照片。


他从口袋里拿出一个塞满折叠信件的旧钱包，并从里面翻出一个用铰链打开的椭圆形小框。里面有两张肖像，照片的颜色像微型画。一张是十五六年前那天的萨特利-斯怀特森先生，除了头发之外没有什么不同，而现在的头发已经不多了。但这个女人很美。在这个紧张的小说时代，当小说家们像阿里斯托芬戏剧中的希腊人一样，走来走去，每个人都带着他的一串可爱的女奴，说一个女人是美丽的，这已经很驯服了。也许应该说，这张彩色小照片上的女人让人吃惊。高高堆起的古铜色头发，宽阔白皙的眉毛，方形的不屈不挠的下巴，苍白的脸色与浓密睫毛的棕色眼睛形成对比，精致的嘴唇，所有这些形成了一个组合，对这个来自诺里奇经过布鲁姆斯伯里的好学的年轻人来说，肯定有相当奇怪的影响。首先是让他充满了自豪感，否则他就不会向一个陌生人展示这张照片。

但那个女孩的照片让我印象深刻，甚至在他找出一两个月前拍的他家的明信片照片之前，她脸上的东西只能用奸诈这个词来表达。请注意，这不是一个吸血鬼。如果知道真相，在紧张的小说之外，很少有吸血鬼的存在。但我看到了奸诈，在一个女人身上发现这一点似乎很奇怪，据说这个女人嫁给了他，为他生了孩子，总共有八个，而且让他非常高兴，以至于他从未回家。


因为这就是让他变老、让他瘫痪、让他在那里一直到他成为一个寒酸的失败者的原因--幸福。正是这一点使他的脸上出现了异常自豪和愉悦的表情。当我听着他的故事时，我很好奇，在我的脑海里，在我所说的那个大的阴暗的舞台上，似乎有什么事情发生了，而他忘记了提及。当他带着温柔的骄傲给我看他妻子和她的八个孩子的明信片照片时，我无法摆脱这样的想法：她有一些贪婪。即使是现在，她也很英俊，有一种粗壮和霸气的感觉。指责这样一个女人贪婪是很荒唐的。她难道不是一颗珍珠吗？一个女人应该做的一切，她都做了。她硕果累累，她是个好母亲，是个贤惠的妻子，她的丈夫在给陌生人看她的画像时，表现出异常自豪和高兴。他在她身上的幸福是如此的圆润和完整，以至于他再也不会有离开她的想法了。他再也不会去英国了。这难道不令人惊奇吗？

在我思考这个奇迹的时候，我听到他告诉我，他是如何在为数不多的建筑委托中找到生计的困难，并逐渐养成了给那些急于获得社会地位的希腊人和亚美尼亚人上英语课的习惯。当战争来临时，他和城里的其他人一起被关起来，他不得不完全依靠语言课。然后，当然，他也 "为媒体写作"，正如他向我展示的那样。他认为，考虑到一切因素，他非常成功。为什么，他可以为那件小事得到三英镑土耳其币（约四美元）。他总是把自己署名为 "Bijou"。他的妻子喜欢这样。这是她对他的称呼，当他们是恋人的时候。当然，虽然教书是件苦差事，因为亚美尼亚女孩的头脑难以想象，有时一天要花上十二或十四个小时，但这是有报酬的，他也很高兴。


就在我对他纠缠于他所谓的幸福感到恼火的时候，我看到我毕竟是对的：那个女孩一直很贪婪。她吞噬了他的个性，以它为食，摧毁了它，并在它的基础上成长为强壮而贤惠的人。他的头发稀疏而灰白，他有一个狩猎和破旧的外观，他的靴子在两侧稍微爆裂。而他是幸福的。他已经放弃了他的职业，他像一匹驮马一样为最基本的需要而辛勤工作；但他很快乐。他很自豪。很明显，他认为他在男人中的地位是由他赢得这个无以伦比的女人来衡量的。他喋喋不休地谈论着当地的敌意和政治，我不得不承认，他不会为一家大报纸工作。他必须走出去，了解世界人民对事物的看法和感受，而我确信他绝不会同意这样做。他的妻子会不喜欢。而且他可能不会高兴。

现在是傍晚时分，太阳从科德利奥身后落下，直直地照进我的房间，沿着巨大的灰尘走廊照过去。在远处可以看到那些唱反调的人，马特和乔治，终于和谐了，他们在等着向我要小费。阳台上是所有卡利波隆人的母亲，她用胳膊肘顶着栏杆，沉思着西皮鲁斯山，就像某个精明的女人发现了众神的大部分秘密的无用性。


当我收拾好一个手提箱后，我就准备好了。我要去君士坦丁堡的那艘驱逐舰正在向旗舰发出信号。一小时后，她将启程。我再一次走到阳台上，最后一次思考这个熟悉的场景。路基在阳光下闪闪发光，远处的水面一片火热。山脉的巨大隆起是紫色和红金色的，在远处我可以看到安静的山谷中的白色房子，在橄榄树的灰绿色土地上。在巨大的柏树中，有一座特别的房子，我把双筒望远镜对准它，进行了短暂的感性观察。当我把眼镜放回盒子里时，夫人注意地看着我。

你今天晚上要来吗，先生？"她喃喃地说。

我点了点头，想知道为什么在她那张相当疲惫的脸上看不出任何奸诈的痕迹。'是的，夫人，我今天晚上要去君士坦丁堡，'我向她保证，想让她参与谈话。

到目前为止，尽管我们的关系很好，而且卡蒂亚的好奇心很强，但我们还没有一起说过话。

'那以后呢？

'之后，夫人，我将前往马尔泰、马赛、巴黎和伦敦。也许，还会去美国，我不知道。


'我的天啊！' 她似乎对一个像这样在世界范围内游荡的人的轻率感到震惊。然后是不可避免的提问："你结婚了吗，先生？"以及不可避免的回答："还没有。

她暂时放弃了西皮鲁斯山，转身坐在椅子上，一只高跟鞋相当粗野地敲打着大理石的旗子。'但是，请原谅，先生；你有一个心爱的人，没有问题吧？

'你认为是这样吗？Pourquoi?

她耸耸肩。

'无所谓。这就是事实。你是个悲剧。

'是的。但这是一场战争。

她沉默了一会儿，后来观察到我是个哲学家，这让人受宠若惊，但却无关紧要。然后她说了一句话，我带着这句话离开了，就像毁灭者在埃吉亚河的黑暗水面上逃亡。

'是的，这是一场战争，但我必须让你不要忘记，先生，每次航行都是一次小小的死亡。

我把她留在那里，望着海湾坚硬的蓝色闪光，当我下船的时候。