1904.01 新加坡一瞥

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新加坡
作者：Elizabeth W. H. Wright
1904年1月号
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赤道穿过印度洋，穿过苏门答腊岛，再次向东进入大海，亚洲就在这里结束，并以一个时期结束。这就是新加坡的岛屿和城镇。

在新加坡镇上有一家酒店，你可以坐在那里看全世界的船只驶过。这意味着有红色漏斗的蒸汽船，有黑色漏斗的货船，有在阳光下颤动的白色游艇，有凝视着灰色的战舰。这意味着有白翼的帆船，有吱吱作响的棕色帆船，还有无数的小划艇，它们不停地在水面上划动着。事实上，这意味着所有在海上行驶的东西，都是伟大的高速公路。


如果你面向正确的方向，你甚至可以坐在你的餐桌前看到这一切，因为大海从所有宽阔的门和开口处游走，显得格外蔚蓝。你所坐的房间是巨大的，白色的，凉爽的。它是由白色大理石或白色石膏制成的，或者不管它是什么，颜色都是白色的，所以效果是一样的。有大柱子和一个高高的圆顶，圆顶的尽头是一个天窗，大多数柱子上都固定着呼呼作响的电风扇。因此，你坐在那里，被周围凉爽的白色和上面凉爽的呼呼声所安慰。

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如果你到外面去，你可以乘坐人力车或Gharry，--如果你是聪明人，就乘坐Gharry。它们发出剧烈的响声，座位很硬，但车顶很厚，而且有百叶窗，可以一直拉起来。小马是个小麻烦的畜生。有时，它在路途中僵硬地发抖，Gharry从它身上滚过，它就迷路了。有时它在路的两边踢来踢去，并对路人大声说话。很多时候，Gharry-syce跑到他的头上，给他塞上鲜绿的草，这就鼓励他往前走。

起初，你坐在那里，对着硬邦邦的阳光和呛人肺部的红色细尘云眨眼。渐渐地，你看清了在你面前展开的红色道路和覆盖着红尘的树篱。然后，你看到其他的Gharries经过，还有人力车和高高的英国车，车上有红脸的男人和白脸的女人。你看到胜利女神带着穿戴整齐的仆人和沉重的铁链声滚滚而过，每次你看时，你都会看到一个圆润的中国人躺在他的垫子上，戴着一顶宽大的阿尔卑斯山帽，抽着一支肥大的雪茄。


你会看到穿着卡其色短裤、戴着红色头巾的锡克族警察，站在街上或成队走过。你不太容易看到政府人员、泰米尔人和马来人，他们穿着白色的鸭子，胸前有红色的带子，戴着红色和黄色的薄饼帽。

有许多人不断地从你身边经过，你却很少注意到他们。他们或多或少都是道路的颜色，他们的纱笼和腰布几乎被烧成了穿着者的颜色。有时会有绿色或橙色的闪光经过你的窗户，你看着那些拧在丑陋的鼻子上的戒指和纽扣，不寒而栗。这些是泰米尔妇女；她们大胆而黑，大步流星地嚼着槟榔，槟榔从她们的嘴角漏出红色。你很少看到马来妇女，因为她们的纱笼似乎总是暗色或粉色的，像胆小的鸟的羽毛。她们蒙着头，不知不觉地溜走了，但如果你知道，你会发现她们的嘴角下垂，圆眼睛盯着你。

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如果锡克族妇女或孟加拉人偶然经过，你就会从加里的后面盯着他们看；但这并不常见。她们看起来像美丽的热带鸟类，她们的羽毛是绿色、红花和火焰色。他们像鸟儿一样潇洒地迈着步子，纤细的腿被珊瑚或淡柠檬色紧紧绑住。她们的脚踝上戴着沉重的银手镯，是她们喉咙上的链子的碰撞声让你看了一眼。

你从不看路上的中国人。他们是丑陋的生物，--穿着蓝色宽松长裤的苦力妇女，以及光着背的男人，被烧成了肮脏的黄色。他们挑着沉重的担子，低着头，嘀咕着一种沉重的口号。

那么，这些人就是路人，他们赤裸的脚在厚厚的红尘中留下图案。他们有成千上万的人，他们的叽叽喳喳声在新加坡巨大的低沉的嗡嗡声中无人理会。

还有一些人，你不可能不知道。他们在酒店和商店里占主导地位，坐满了吉普车和人力车，有时还有狗车。如果你步行遇到他们，他们很可能会推搡你并粗暴地盯着你。他们的穿着像欧洲人，只是更像，他们喜欢粉红色和最亮的蓝色。他们中有些人是灰白色的，有些人是黄色的，所有的人都是黧黑的，看起来很不健康。这些是欧亚人。所有你不太清楚的人都肯定属于他们，--那些穿着高跟鞋的外国人，以及那些在门前穿着棉布包裹的肮脏的女人。

但这些都是新加坡人；此外，还有一些东西--建筑物和桥梁，以及一条挤满船只的肮脏小河。这里有长长的红色道路，上面长满了翠绿的树木，与头顶相接。在深深的花园里有私人住宅，在开放的街道上有被称为别墅的平房。这里有马球场，马身上涂满了泡沫，男人们被太阳晒得浑身湿漉漉的，还有高尔夫球场和网球场，里面有加热的女人。这里有军团的营房，有军官的深色平房。有一个宽阔的花园，里面有罕见的植物，在一个角落里，有一个黑暗的角落，是移植的丛林，鸟类和野兽刚刚被困住，还有一只不安分的打着哈欠的老虎，身上有条纹，闪闪发光。

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然后是政府大楼，在一个可能是英国的大公园里。特别是在晚上，当道路蜿蜒穿过一点草地，低沉的薄雾升起，就像英国的薄雾，只是更不健康，--就在你惊动三只鹿的地方。但从山顶上看，这不是英国的风景。那是东方的风景，它有一片闪亮的海，热气腾腾地躺着。而那些绿色的岛屿，一年四季都是绿色的，它们不是英国的。棕色屋顶的轮廓也不清晰，缓慢的嗡嗡声也不在炎热和红尘之上。同样，当微风扑面而来时，那种病态的、沉重的、粘稠的气息也不是西方的气息。

信号站就在远处挥舞着它那憔悴的手臂，光秃秃的光束上荡漾着东方和西方都能读懂的语言。一种由色彩组成的语言，在裸露的桅杆上闪烁盘旋，就像阳光下翩翩起舞的蝴蝶，用象征性的语言拼出传递的信息。

新加坡蜿蜒的道路有许多转弯。它们在枝繁叶茂的林荫道下延伸，空气寂静而浓郁的香水味，马儿踩着软绵绵的、宽大的花朵。它们热气腾腾地蔓延到散发着盐水和腐烂木材气味的水面上。芳香和阴凉再次出现，它们进入了别墅和茅屋。然后，它们在两排行进的棕榈树之间奔向岛的边缘，对面就是柔佛。

还有一些地方不那么好。一条长长的路，尘土飞扬，房屋平坦。当你进入时，你要弯下腰，即使如此，你的头也会被垂下的破大衣和废弃的装饰品擦过。昏暗的角落里摆放着一些箱子，里面装满了闪闪发光的典当黄金和半个世界变得绝望的饰品。这条路蜿蜒狭窄，进入其他街道，这些可怜的街道上，喧嚣的生活日复一日地冲刷。沉重的、无助的、热气腾腾的道路，世界最后的苦难在这里飘来飘去。这里没有绿色，只有被踩踏的红色道路和被水泡的房屋门面的凝视。

还有新加坡的另一部分。你坐在一个宽大的阳台上，用手肘靠在街上，抽烟喝酒，盯着走过的人，时间就这样流逝。空气中弥漫着薄薄的灰雾，港口是玻璃的。船只像梦一样慢慢飘来，雾气飘向大海。

你不想动，永远不想。也许你不能；你无精打采地想知道。大的、热的、开放的操场就在对面。到处都是游人如织的绿色，--沉重的、一动不动的生菜。道路看起来很热，路过的陷阱掀起巨大的永恒的红色尘埃。你懒洋洋地盯着它们，看着它们消失在视线中。你可以一动不动地这样做。

而且，你也可以不动声色地看到在树木中间有一个巨大的红色的模糊物。在过去的一个多小时里，你一直在无所事事地猜测它。它下面的地面看起来像溢出的血，每隔几分钟，它周围的空气就会因坠落的红色而变暗。在巨大的绿色涂抹中，它看起来非常热和醒目。它让你昏昏欲睡，你想知道它是什么类型的树，或者灌木，或者野兽。

沿着同一条路走下去，是一座巨大的、黄色的、被太阳晒得发白的大教堂。它的碎片穿过树丛。它看起来不像是东方的，也不像地方的，但总的来说还是不错的。今天似乎是星期天，缓慢疲惫的钟声在告诉人们这一点。拔河的人在外面撸着绳索。而你实际上发现自己在里面，在你面前有一个高高的、细长的、哥特式的距离，还有一闪而过的蓝色长窗。墙壁和拱门看起来很昏暗，一根很长的绳子上的白色庞卡就在你的头顶上摇摆。

还有其他的庞卡，都在长绳上，都在缓慢地拍打着。它们之间似乎没有特别的联系。它们的拍打和摆动是最不规则的，你看着，拼命地想让它们适应一个均匀的时间。你最后放弃了，但这种尝试让你进入了一种美味的、有节奏的情绪，你隐约觉得这是一种睡眠。然后你就什么也不清楚了。你意识到一种深沉的悸动，这可能是器官，还有一些慵懒的声音，在你找到它们之前就已经消失了。

最后，一个声音说话了，这让你吓了一跳，连忙去听。与此同时，你开始清楚地意识到你面前的欧亚人学校。他们都穿着白色的衣服，戴着白帽子，看起来特别干净。他们身上都有一点蓝色。有些人戴着蓝色的腰带，带着稀疏的蝴蝶结。较小的人像农民一样在胸前戴着蓝色的围巾。其他人只有领子和蓝色的腰带。你想知道他们为什么不选择不同的颜色，--然后意识到一件衣服肯定要便宜很多。你更仔细地看了看前面的大姑娘，发现她几乎是白色的，有黄褐色的头发。但旁边的小姑娘几乎是黑色的，有一头硬直的头发。在那之后，你发现所有的色调和特征，--并深思熟虑地猜测一般的欧亚人。

你的目光游移到更远的地方，好奇地看着一个穿着白色鸭子的漆黑泰米尔。他似乎非常认真，从不放过任何一个反应。他很有戏剧性，站着的时候双臂交叠，令人印象深刻。这里有一大群黑发女士，她们频频点头，戴着人造花和许多飘动的丝带。她们兴致勃勃地唱歌，但她们的声音并不悦耳；她们的声音平淡而尖锐，她们的话语圆润而蹩脚。他们当然是欧亚人。最后，你挑出一小撮欧洲人，他们穿着软绵绵的过时衣服，弥漫着霉味和樟脑的气息。


然后，你的兴趣减退了，你记得的最后一件事是你的朋卡向下嗖嗖飞去，从一个开口处，在一个椰子后面发出最后的纯金光辉。

之后，你坐着人力车回家了。大量的其他人力车从你身边驶过，夜色中似乎充满了双黄灯。突然间，一片未知的土地近在咫尺。港口开始有灯光，你对它们的数量感到惊奇。你看着远处闪烁的舢板和在沉重的桅杆上摇曳的灯塔。这些灯光有街道和大道，还有未被记录的星座。

一阵号角声响彻海岸，最后的音符伴随着微风吹过。这是后话，因为这一声是 "熄灯"。现在只有你一个人在你的阳台上，而夜色正不断地笼罩着。黄包车轻轻地驶过。在另一个夜晚，一艘流浪的船又在巨大的孤独中探出头来。

远处传来中国钹的撞击声，近处是印度烟斗的低沉、破碎的呜呜声。但这些声音相距甚远，被寂静的空间所填满，被一波又一波的沉闷的黑暗所填满。

街上是一个流浪马戏团的昏暗的灯笼。在入口处有烟和火把的闪光，以及突然亮起的本地人的脸。里面有一种死气沉沉的敲打声和拍打声。一些片段飘进了无精打采的夜里，这是几十年前的无趣的、哀伤的曲调。

沉重的、令人窒息的夜色笼罩着这个小镇，而在黑海之外，南十字星的四颗大星也在沉没。

伊丽莎白-W-H-赖特。



Singapore
By Elizabeth W. H. Wright
JANUARY 1904 ISSUE
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THE equator burns its course through the Indian Ocean, belts a path across Sumatra, strikes east again into the sea, — and just here Asia ends, and finishes with a period. This is the island and town of Singapore.

There is an hotel in Singapore the town, where you can sit and watch the ships of all the world go by. And that means steamers with red funnels, and freighters with black ones, and yachts that quiver white in the sunlight, and men-of-war that stare a sullen gray. It means white-winged sailing ships, and junks that creak a flap of burnished brown, and myriads of tiny paddling craft that fret the water with their ceaseless motion. It means everything, in fact, that drives upon the sea as the great highway.


You can even sit at your table and see all this if you face the right way, for the sea swims off blue through all the wide doors and openings. The room that you sit in is huge and white and cool. It is of white marble or white plaster, or anyway, of whatever it is, the color is white, so the effect is the same. There are big pillars and a high sort of dome that ends in a skylight, and to most of the pillars are fastened whirring electric fans. And so you sit and are comforted by the cool whiteness about you and the cool whirring above you.

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If you go outside you can take a rickshaw or a gharry, — if you are wise, a gharry. They rattle furiously, and the seats are hard, but the roof is thick, and there are shutters that pull up all the way round. The gharry pony is a wee troublesome beast. Sometimes he balks rigid in the roadway, and the gharry rolls over him and he is lost. Sometimes he kicks and plunges on both sides of the road at once, and speaks clamorously to the passers-by. Oftener the gharry-syce runs at his head and stuffs him with bright green grass, and this encourages him to go forward.

At first, you sit and blink at the hard sunlight and the clouds of fine red dust that choke your lungs. Gradually you make out the red road unwinding before you and the hedges covered with red dust. Then you see other gharries passing, and rickshaws, and high English carts with red-faced men and white-faced women. You see victorias roll by with much be-liveried servants and a heavy rattling of chains, and every time you look you see a sleek Chinaman lolling on his cushions, with a wide alpine hat and a fat cigar.


You see Sikh policemen in khaki knickerbockers and red turbans, standing in the streets or marching past in squads. Not so readily you spy government peons, Tamils, and Malays, in white duck with bands of red across their breasts, and pancake hats of red and yellow.

There are quantities of creatures passing you continually whom you seldom notice. They are more or less the color of the road, and their sarongs and loincloths have been burned to almost the color of their wearers. Sometimes there is a flash of green or orange past your window, and you look and shudder at the rings and buttons screwed into ugly noses. These are Tamil women ; they are bold and black, and stride along chewing betel, which leaks red out of the corners of their mouths. The Malay women you rarely see, for their sarongs seem always dun-colored or dustcolored, like the feathers of timid birds. They hood their heads and slip by unnoticed,— but if you knew, you would catch a corner down and round eyes staring at you.

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If Sikh women or Bengali chance to pass, you stare after them out of the back of the gharry; but this is not often. They look like beautiful tropical birds, and their plumage is green and saffron and flame-color. They step daintily like birds, and their slender legs are bound tight with coral or pale lemon. Their ankles ring with heavy silver bracelets, and it was the clashing of the chains about their throats that made you look.

You never look at the Chinese in the roads. They are ugly creatures, — coolie women with blue, wide-flapping trousers, and men with bare backs burned a dirty yellow. They swing by with heavy burdens, heads down, muttering a heavy sort of chant.

These, then, are the roadway people, whose naked feet leave patterns in the thick red dust. There are thousands of them, and their twitterings sink unheeded in the vast low hum of Singapore.

There are other people whom you cannot fail to see. They reign in the hotels and shops, and fill gharries and rickshaws, and sometimes dogcarts. If you meet them on foot they are apt to jostle you and stare rudely. They dress like Europeans, only more so, and they love pink and brightest blue. Some of them are ash-color, some are yellow, and all of them are sallow and unhealthy-looking. These are the Eurasians. All the people you cannot quite place are sure to belong to them, — the foreign-looking people in high traps, and the frouzy, wretched women who wear cotton wrappers on their front doorsteps.

But these are the people of Singapore ; besides, there are things, — buildings and bridges, and a dirty little river crammed with boats. There are long red roads with avenues of bright green trees that meet overhead. There are private houses in deep tangled gardens, and cottages called villas staring on the open street. There are polo grounds with lathered horses and dripping sun-burned men, and golf links and tennis courts with heated women. There are barracks for the regiment, and deep-browed bungalows for the officers. There is a wide-spreading garden rustling with rare plant life, and in one corner a dark nook of transplanted jungle, — birds and beasts just trapped, and a restless yawning tiger striped and shining.

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Then there is Government House, in a big park that might be England. Particularly in the evening, when the road winds through a bit of meadow land with low mists rising, like English mists, only more unhealthy, — and just beyond where you startle three deer. But the view from the top is not English. That is of the East, with its stretch of shining sea lying hot and languid. And the green islands, green the year round, they are not English. Nor is the blur of spreading brown roofs, nor the slow droning hum that rises above the heat and the red dust. Nor again, when a breeze puffs that way, is the sickish, heavy, clinging breath a Western breath.

The signal station waves its gaunt arms just beyond, and on the bare beams ripples a speech that East and West may read. A speech of colors that light and hover on the naked mast like fluttering butterflies in sunlight, and spell in symbol the passing word.

There are many turns to the winding roads of Singapore. They stretch under avenues of branching trees, and the air is still and heavy with perfume, and the horses step on limp, wide-flaring blossoms. They spread hot and glaring to the water front that reeks of brine and rotting wood. Fragrant and shaded again, they draw into villas and cottages. Then out they run between two lines of marching palms to the island’s rim, with Johore across the way.

There are other places not so nice. One long road of dust and flat-faced houses. You bend low when you enter, and even then your head is brushed by dangling shabby coats and cast-off finery. And in the dim corners are cases filled with the glitter of pawned gold and the trinkets of half the world grown desperate. This road winds narrow into other streets, wretched streets where a noisy, reeling life washes night and day. Heavy, helpless, heated ways where the final misery of the world drifts in. No green shows here, only the trodden red road and the stare of blistered house fronts.

There is yet another part of Singapore. You sit on a wide veranda that leans an elbow in the street, and smoke and drink and stare at the people going past, — and time curls away. There is a thin gray mist in the air, and the harbor is of glass. The boats float in slowly like dreams, and the mist drifts out to sea.

You do not want to move, — never. Perhaps you cannot; you wonder about it languidly. The big, hot, open playground is just across the way. And everywhere is a swimming together of much green, — heavy, motionless lettucegreen. The road looks hot, and passing traps raise great clouds of the eternal red dust. You stare after them lazily and watch them out of sight. You can do this without moving.

And also without moving you can see a great blur of red in the midst of the trees. You have been speculating about it idly for the last hour or so. The ground under it looks like spilled blood, and every few minutes the air about it dims with falling red. It looks very hot and striking in the great smear of green. Sleepily it pleases you, and you wonder what manner of tree, or bush, or beast it is.

Down the same way is the big, yellow, sun-bleached cathedral. Bits of it are sticking through the trees. It looks unEastern and out of place, yet altogether rather nice. It seems to be Sunday, and slow tired bells are telling people so. The punkah-pullers are jerking at their ropes outside. And you actually find yourself inside, with a high, slender, Gothic distance before you, and a glint of long blue windows. The walls and arches look dim, and a white punkah on a very long rope is swinging just above your head.

There are other punkahs, all on long ropes, and all flapping slowly. There seems to be no particular connection between them. They flap and swing most irregularly, and you watch and try desperately hard to fit them to an even time. You give it up at last, but the attempt has got you into a delicious, rhythmical mood that you vaguely feel is sleep. Then you do not know anything very clearly. You are conscious of a deep throbbing that is probably the organ, and of languid groups of voices that fade away before you place them.

Finally a single voice speaks, and that startles you for a moment into listening. At the same time you become distinctly aware of the Eurasian school in front of you. They are all of them in white with white hats, and they look particularly clean. They all have a bit of blue about them. Some have blue sashes with scant bows. The smaller ones wear scarfs of blue across their breasts like peons. Others have only collars and belt ribbons of blue. You wonder why they do not choose different colors, — and then realize how much cheaper a single one must be. You look more closely at the big girl just in front, and find that she is almost white with tawny hair. But the little one next is as nearly black with stiff straight hair. After that you find all shades and features, — and speculate thoughtfully on Eurasians in general.

Your eyes wander farther and watch curiously a jet-black Tamil in white duck. He seems tremendously in earnest and never misses a response. He is rather dramatic, and stands with arms impressively folded. There is a large smattering of gay brunette ladies who nod a great deal and wear artificial flowers and much fluttering ribbon. They sing with great zest, but their voices are not pleasant; they are flat and shrill, and their words round off lamely. They are Eurasians of course. Finally, you pick out a handful of Europeans in limp, outof-date clothes, and a pervading atmosphere of mildew and camphor.


Then your interest wanes, and the last thing you remember is the downward swish of your punkah, and out of an opening a final gleam of pure gold behind a cocoanut.

Afterwards you go home in a rickshaw. Quantities of other rickshaws rattle past you, and the night seems full of double yellow lights. Suddenly an unknown land stretches close at hand. Lights have started in the harbor, and you marvel at their number. You watch the far-away flickerings of sampans and the beacons swaying at heavy mast-heads. There are streets and avenues of these lights, — and unrecorded constellations.

A bugle call rings into the shore, — the last notes with a breeze at their heels. This is later, for the call is “ lights out.” You are alone now on your veranda, and the night is droning on. Rickshaws roll past softly. Out in that other night a vagrant ship pokes off again into the great loneliness.

Far away comes a crash of Chinese cymbals, and much nearer is the low, broken whining of an Indian pipe. But these sounds come far apart, are filled in with spaces of silence, with waves of muffled heavy darkness.

Down the street are the dim lamplighted tents of a wandering circus. At the entrance is a flare of smoke and torches, and the sudden lighting up of native faces. There is a deadened banging and beating going on inside. Snatches of it drift into the listless night, — mirthless, mournful tunes of decades ago.

A heavy, breathless night settles over the town, and beyond in the black sea sink the four great stars of the Southern Cross.

Elizabeth W. H. Wright.