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第35章 让心灵去旅行11（第1页）

可这值得吗？”我不禁叫了起来。“当然啦，”勒·罗斯回答道。“这不至于让他们自觉是‘他乡客’。列车员会因此敬重他们，而其他乘客也不会瞧不起他们——他们不久就要一同登上轮船的。这能为他们赢得整个航行中的地位。再说，事情本身就很有意思。你刚才看到了我送那位女郎吧。不觉得我身手不错吗？”“的确不凡，”我承认道。“我真羡慕你。你看看我站在那儿——”“是的，我能想象。你在那儿，从头到脚哪都不对劲，呆呆地望着你的朋友，搜肠刮肚地找着话题。我完全理解。以前我也是这样的，只不过后来专门研习，干起了这行，才表现得像模像样起来。我现在的技术还没有登峰造极，登上站台后不免总有些怯场。这火车站的戏可最难演，这点你一定也有切身体会。”“可是，”我有些生气了，“我没有演戏，我可是在真心实意地感觉——”“我也是的，伙计，”勒·罗斯又说，“没有真情实感是演不了戏的。那人叫什么来着，那个法国人——狄德罗，对了——他说过可以，可他都懂得些什么？你没看见火车开时我眼睛里涌出的泪水吗？告诉你吧，我确确实实受了感动，我的眼泪不是硬挤出来的。我敢说刚才你也一样，只不过你做不到用眼泪来证明你的感动罢了。你不会表达你的感情，也就是说，你演不了戏。退一步说，”他说得稍微委婉些，“至少你在火车站演不了戏。”“那请赐教！”我放开了嗓门请求。他定定地看着我，斟酌片刻，终于说“好”，答应了下来，“实际上送行的旺季也快过去了。我可以给你上几堂课。目前我的门下子弟还真不少，不过还是这样吧，”说着，他查了查他那漂亮的记事簿，“定为每周四和每周五，一次一小时。”

他开出的学费，坦白说，实在是不低的。但既然是学点本领，我也就不会嫌贵。

Iamnotgoodatit。Todoitwellseemstomeoneofthemostdifficultthingsintheworld，androbablyseemssotoyou，too。

ToseeafriendofffromWaterlootoVauxhallwereeasyenough。Butwearenevercalledontoerformthatsmallfeat。Itisonlywhenafriendisgoingonalongishjourney，andwillbeabsentforalanguishtime，thatweturnuattherailwaystation。Thedearerthefriendandthelongerthejourney，andthelongerthelikelyabsence，theearlierdoweturnu，andthemorelamentablydowefail。Ourfailureisinexactratiototheseriousnessoftheoccasion，andtothedethofourfeeling。

Inaroom，orevenonadoorste，wecanmakethefarewellquiteworthily。Wecanexressinourfacesthegenuinesorrowwefeel。Nordowordsfailus。Thereisnoawkwardness，norestraint，oneitherside。Thethreadofourintimacyhasnotbeensnaed。Theleave-takingisanidealone。Whynot，then，leavetheleave-takingatthat？Always，deartingfriendsimloreusnottobothertocometotherailwaystationnextmorning。Always，wearedeaftotheseentreaties，knowingthemtobenotquitesincere。Thedeartingfriendswouldthinkitveryoddofusifwetookthemattheirword。Besides，theyreallydowanttoseeusagain。Andthatwishisheartilyrecirocated。Wedulyturnu。Andthen，ohthen，whatagulfyawns！Westretchourarmsvainlyacrossit。Wehaveutterlylosttouch。Wehavenothingatalltosay。Wegazeateachotherasdumbanimalsgazeathumanbeings。We“makeconversation”—andsuchconversation！Weknowthatthesefriendsarethefriendsfromwhomweartedovernight。Theyknowthatwehavenotaltered。Yet，onthesurface，everythingisdifferent；andthetensionissuchthatweonlylongfortheguardtoblowhiswhistleandutanendtothefarce。

OnacoldgreymorningoflastweekIdulyturneduatEuston，toseeoffanoldfriendwhowasstartingforAmerica。

Overnight，wehadgivenhimafarewelldinner，inwhichsadnesswaswellmingledwithfestivity。Yearsrobablywouldelasebeforehisreturn。Someofusmightneverseehimagain。Notignoringtheshadowofthefuture，wegailycelebratedtheast。Wewereasthankfultohaveknownourguestasweweregrievedtolosehim；andboththeseemotionsweremademanifest。Itwasaerfectfarewell。

Andnow，herewewere，stiffandself-consciousonthelatform；andframedinthewindowoftherailway-carriagewasthefaceofourfriend；butitwasasthefaceofastranger—astrangeranxioustolease，anaealingstranger，anawkwardstranger。“Haveyougoteverything？”askedoneofus，breakingasilence。“Yes，everything，”aidourfriend，withaleasantnod。“Everything，”hereeated，withtheemhasisofanemtybrain。“You’llbeabletolunchonthetrain，”saidI，thoughtherohecyhadalreadybeenmademorethanonce。“Oh，yes，”hesaidwithconviction。HeaddedthatthetrainwentstraightthroughtoLiverool。Thisfactseemedtostrikeusasratherodd。Weexchangedglances。“Doesn’titstoatCrewe？”askedoneofus。“No，”saidourfriend，briefly。Heseemedalmostdisagreeable。Therewasalongause。Oneofus，withanodandaforcedsmileatthetraveler，said“Well！”Thenod，thesmileandtheunmeaningmonosyllable，werereturnedconscientiously。Anotherausewasbrokenbyoneofuswithafitofcoughing。Itwasanobviouslyassumedfit，butitservedtoassthetime。Thebustleofthelatformwasunabated。Therewasnosignofthetrain’sdearture。Release—ours，andourfriend’s—wasnotyet。

Mywanderingeyealightedonaratherortlymiddle-agedmanwhowastalkingearnestlyfromthelatformtoayoungladyatthenextwindowbutonetoours。Hisfinerofilewasvaguelyfamiliartome。TheyoungladywasevidentlyAmerican，andhewasevidentlyEnglish；otherwiseIshouldhaveguessedfromhisimressiveairthathewasherfather。IwishedIcouldhearwhathewassaying。Iwassurehewasgivingtheverybestadvice；andthestrongtendernessofhisgazewasreallybeautiful。Heseemedmagnetic，asheouredouthisfinalinjunctions。IcouldfeelsomethingofhismagnetismevenwhereIstood。Andthemagnetism，liketherofile，wasvaguelyfamiliartome。WherehadIexeriencedit？

InaflashIremembered。ThemanwasHubertLeRos。ButhowchangedsincelastIsawhim！Thatwassevenoreightyearsago，intheStrand。Hewasthen（asusual）outofanengagement，andborrowedhalf-a-crown。Itseemedarivilegetolendanythingtohim。Hewasalwaysmagnetic。AndwhyhismagnetismhadnevermadehimsuccessfulontheLondonstagewasalwaysamysterytome。Hewasanexcellentactor，andamanofsoberhabit。But，likemanyothersofhiskind，HubertLeRos（Idonot，ofcourse，givetheactualnamebywhichhewasknown）driftedseedilyawayintotherovinces；andI，likeeveryoneelse，ceasedtorememberhim。

Itwasstrangetoseehim，afteralltheseyears，hereonthelatformofEuston，lookingsoroserousandsolid。Itwasnotonlythefleshthathehaduton，butalsotheclothes，thatmadehimhardtorecognize。Intheolddays，animitationfurcoathadseemedtobeasintegralaartofhimaswerehisill-shornlanternjaws。Butnowhiscostumewasamodelofrichandsombermoderation，drawing，notcalling，attentiontoitself。Helookedlikeabanker。Anyonecouldhavebeenroudtobeseenoffbyhim。

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