It was a damp April day, with long diagonal clouds over the Albishorn and water inert in the low places. Zurich is not unlike an American city. Missing something ever since his arrival two days before, Dick perceived that it was the sense he had had in finite French lanes that there was nothing more. In Zurich there was a lot besides Zurich—the roofs upled the eyes to tinkling cow pastures, which in turn modified hilltops further up—so life was a perpendicular starting off to a postcard heaven. The Alpine lands, home of the toy and the funicular, the merry-go-round and the thin chime, were not a being here, as in France with French vines growing over one’s feet on the ground.

In Salzburg once Dick had felt the superimposed quality of a bought and borrowed century of music; once in the laboratories of the University in Zurich, delicately poking at the cervical of a brain, he had felt like a toy-maker rather than like the tornado who had hurried through the old red buildings of Hopkins, two years before, unstayed by the irony of the gigantic Christ in the entrance hall.

Yet he had decided to remain another two years in Zurich, for he did not underestimate the value of toy-making, of infinite precision, of infinite patience.

To-day he went out to see Franz Gregorovious at Dohmler’s clinic on the Zürichsee. Franz, resident pathologist at the clinic, a Vaudois by birth, a few years older than Dick, met him at the tram stop. He had a dark and magnificent aspect of Cagliostro about him, contrasted with holy eyes; he was the third of the Gregoroviouses—his grandfather had instructed Kraepelin when psychiatry was just emerging from the darkness of all time. In personality he was proud, fiery, and sheep-like—he fancied himself as a hypnotist. If the original genius of the family had grown a little tired, Franz would without doubt become a fine clinician.

On the way to the clinic he said:“Tell me of your experiences in the war. Are you changed like the rest? You have the same stupid and unaging American face, except I know you’re not stupid, Dick.”

“I didn’t see any of the war—you must have gathered that from my letters, Franz.”

“That doesn’t matter—we have some shell-shocks who merely heard an air raid from a distance. We have a few who merely read newspapers.”

“It sounds like nonsense to me.”

“Maybe it is, Dick. But, we’re a rich person’s clinic—we don’t use the word nonsense. Frankly, did you come down to see me or to see that girl?”

They looked sideways at each other; Franz smiled enigmatically.

“Naturally I saw all the first letters,” he said in his official basso.“When the change began, delicacy prevented me from opening any more. Really it had become your case.”

“Then she’s well?” Dick demanded.

“Perfectly well, I have charge of her, in fact I have charge of the majority of the English and American patients. They call me Doctor Gregory.”

“Let me explain about that girl,” Dick said. “I only saw her one time, that’s a fact. When I came out to say good-by to you just before I went over to France. It was the first time I put on my uniform and I felt very bogus in it—went around saluting private soldiers and all that.”

“Why didn’t you wear it to-day?”

“Hey! I’ve been discharged three weeks. Here’s the way I happened to see that girl. When I left you I walked down toward that building of yours on the lake to get my bicycle.”

“Toward the Cedars?”

“—a wonderful night, you know—moon over that mountain—”

“The Krenzegg.”

“—I caught up with a nurse and a young girl. I didn’t think the girl was a patient; I asked the nurse about tram times and we walked along. The girl was about the prettiest thing I ever saw.”

“She still is.”

“She’d never seen an American uniform and we talked, and I didn’t think anything about it.” He broke off, recognizing a familiar perspective, and then resumed:“—except, Franz, I’m not as hard-boiled as you are yet; when I see a beautiful shell like that I can’t help feeling a regret about what’s inside it. That was absolutely all—till the letters began to come.”

“It was the best thing that could have happened to her,” said Franz dramatically, “a transference of the most fortuitous kind. That’s why I came down to meet you on a very busy day. I want you to come into my office and talk a long time before you see her. In fact, I sent her into Zurich to do errands.” His voice was tense with enthusiasm. “In fact, I sent her without a nurse, with a less stable patient. I’m intensely proud of this case, which I handled, with your accidental assistance.”

The car had followed the shore of the Zürichsee into a fertile region of pasture farms and low hills, steepled with chalets. The sun swam out into a blue sea of sky and suddenly it was a Swiss valley at its best—pleasant sounds and murmurs and a good fresh smell of health and cheer.

Professor Dohmler’s plant consisted of three old buildings and a pair of new ones, between a slight eminence and the shore of the lake. At its founding, ten years before, it had been the first modern clinic for mental illness; at a casual glance no layman would recognize it as a refuge for the broken, the incomplete, the menacing, of this world, though two buildings were surrounded with vine-softened walls of a deceptive height. Some men raked straw in the sunshine; here and there, as they rode into the grounds, the car passed the white flag of a nurse waving beside a patient on a path.

After conducting Dick to his office, Franz excused himself for half an hour. Left alone Dick wandered about the room and tried to reconstruct Franz from the litter of his desk, from his books and the books of and by his father and grandfather; from the Swiss piety of a huge claret-colored photo of the former on the wall. There was smoke in the room; pushing open a French window, Dick let in a cone of sunshine. Suddenly his thoughts swung to the patient, the girl.

He had received about fifty letters from her written over a period of eight months. The first one was apologetic, explaining that she had heard from America how girls wrote to soldiers whom they did not know. She had obtained the name and address from Doctor Gregory and she hoped he would not mind if she sometimes sent word to wish him well, etc., etc.

So far it was easy to recognize the tone—from Daddy-Long-Legs and Molly-Make-Believe, sprightly and sentimental epistolary collections enjoying a vogue in the States. But there the resemblance ended.

The letters were divided into two classes, of which the first class, up to about the time of the Armistice, was of marked pathological turn, and of which the second class, running from thence up to the present, was entirely normal, and displayed a richly maturing nature. For these latter letters Dick had come to wait eagerly in the last dull months at Bar-sur-Aube—yet even from the first letters he had pieced together more than Franz would have guessed of the story.

MON CAPITAINE:

I thought when I saw you in your uniform you were so handsome. Then I thought Je m’en fiche French too and German. You thought I was pretty too but I’ve had that before and a long time I’ve stood it. If you come here again with that attitude base and criminal and not even faintly what I had been taught to associate with the role of gentleman then heaven help you. However you seem quieter than the others, all soft like a big cat. I have only gotten to like boys who are rather sissies. Are you a sissy? There were some somewhere.

Excuse all this, it is the third letter I have written you and will send immediately or will never send. I’ve thought a lot about moonlight too, and there are many witnesses I could find if I could only be out of here.

They said you were a doctor, but so long as you are a cat it is different. My head aches so, so excuse this walking there like an ordinary with a white cat will explain, I think. I can speak three languages, four with English, and am sure I could be useful interpreting if you arrange such thing in France I’m sure I could control everything with the belts all bound around everybody like it was Wednesday. It is now Saturday and you are far away, perhaps killed.

Come back to me some day, for I will be here always on this green hill. Unless they will let me write my father, whom I loved dearly. Excuse this. I am not myself today. I will write when I feel better.

Cherio

NICOLE WARREN.

Excuse all this.

CAPTAIN DIVER:

I know introspection is not good for a highly nervous state like mine, but I would like you to know where I stand. Last year or whenever it was in Chicago when I got so I couldn’t speak to servants or walk in the street I kept waiting for some one to tell me. It was the duty of some one who understood. The blind must be led. Only no one would tell me everything—they would just tell me half and I was already too muddled to put two and two together. One man was nice—he was a French officer and he understood. He gave me a flower and said it was “plus petite et moins entendue.” We were friends. Then he took it away. I grew sicker and there was no one to explain to me. They had a song about Joan of Arc that they used to sing at me but that was just mean—it would just make me cry, for there was nothing the matter with my head then. They kept making reference to sports, too, but I didn’t care by that time. So there was that day I went walking on Michigan Boulevard on and on for miles and finally they followed me in an automobile, but I wouldn’t get in. Finally they pulled me in and there were nurses. After that time I began to realize it all, because I could feel what was happening in others. So you see how I stand. And what good can it be for me to stay here with the doctors harping constantly in the things I was here to get over. So today I have written my father to come and take me away. I am glad you are so interested in examining people and sending them back. It must be so much fun.

And again, from another letter:

You might pass up your next examination and write me a letter. They just sent me some phonograph records in case I should forget my lesson and I broke them all so the nurse won’t speak to me. They were in English, so that the nurses would not understand. One doctor in Chicago said I was bluffing, but what he really meant was that I was a twin six and he had never seen one before. But I was very busy being mad then, so I didn’t care what he said, when I am very busy being mad I don’t usually care what they say, not if I were a million girls.

You told me that night you’d teach me to play. Well, I think love is all there is or should be. Anyhow I am glad your interest in examinations keeps you busy.

Tout à vous,

NICOLE WARREN.

There were other letters among whose helpless c?suras lurked darker rhythms.

DEAR CAPTAIN DIVER:

I write to you because there is no one else to whom I can turn and it seems to me if this farcicle situation is apparent to one as sick as me it should be apparent to you. The mental trouble is all over and besides that I am completely broken and humiliated, if that was what they wanted. My family have shamefully neglected me, there’s no use asking them for help or pity. I have had enough and it is simply ruining my health and wasting my time pretending that what is the matter with my head is curable.

Here I am in what appears to be a semi-insane-asylum, all because nobody saw fit to tell me the truth about anything. If I had only known what was going on like I know now I could have stood it I guess for I am pretty strong, but those who should have, did not see fit to enlighten me. And now, when I know and have paid such a price for knowing, they sit there with their dogs lives and say I should believe what I did believe. Especially one does but I know now.

I am lonesome all the time far away from friends and family across the Atlantic I roam all over the place in a half daze. If you could get me a position as interpreter (I know French and German like a native, fair Italian and a little Spanish) or in the Red Cross Ambulance or as a trained nurse, though I would have to train you would prove a great blessing.

And again:

Since you will not accept my explanation of what is the matter you could at least explain to me what you think, because you have a kind cat’s face, and not that funny look that seems to be so fashionable here. Dr. Gregory gave me a snapshot of you, not as handsome as you are in your uniform, but younger looking.

MON CAPITAINE:

It was fine to have your postcard. I am so glad you take such interest in disqualifying nurses—oh, I understood your note very well indeed. Only I thought from the moment I met you that you were different.

DEAR CAPITAINE:

I think one thing today and another tomorrow. That is really all that’s the matter with me, except a crazy defiance and a lack of proportion. I would gladly welcome any alienist you might suggest. Here they lie in their bath tubs and sing Play in Your Own Backyard as if I had my backyard to play in or any hope which I can find by looking either backward or forward. They tried it again in the candy store again and I almost hit the man with the weight, but they held me.

I am not going to write you any more. I am too unstable.

And then a month with no letters. And then suddenly the change.

—I am slowly coming back to life….

—Today the flowers and the clouds….

—The war is over and I scarcely knew there was a war….

—How kind you have been! You must be very wise behind your face like a white cat, except you don’t look like that in the picture Dr. Gregory gave me….

—Today I went to Zurich, how strange a feeling to see a city again.

—Today we went to Berne, it was so nice with the clocks.

—Today we climbed high enough to find asphodel and edelweiss….

After that the letters were fewer, but he answered them all. There was one:

I wish someone were in love with me like boys were ages ago before I was sick. I suppose it will be years, though, before I could think of anything like that.

But when Dick’s answer was delayed for any reason, there was a fluttering burst of worry—like a worry of a lover:“Perhaps I have bored you,” and:“Afraid I have presumed,” and “I keep thinking at night you have been sick.”

In actuality Dick was sick with the flu. When he recovered, all except the formal part of his correspondence was sacrificed to the consequent fatigue, and shortly afterward the memory of her became overlaid by the vivid presence of a Wisconsin telephone girl at headquarters in Bar-sur-Aube. She was red-lipped like a poster, and known obscenely in the messes as “The Switchboard.”

Franz came back into his office feeling self-important. Dick thought he would probably be a fine clinician, for the sonorous or staccato cadences by which he disciplined nurse or patient came not from his nervous system but from a tremendous and harmless vanity. His true emotions were more ordered and kept to himself.

“Now about the girl, Dick,” he said. “Of course, I want to find out about you and tell you about myself, but first about the girl, because I have been waiting to tell you about it so long.”

He searched for and found a sheaf of papers in a filing cabinet but after shuffling through them he found they were in his way and put them on his desk. Instead he told Dick the story.

那是四月的一个天气潮湿的日子，阿尔比松上空有几块雨云，长长的，斜挂在空中，而低洼处积着雨水。苏黎世同美国的城市没什么不同。自从两天前抵达这里以来，迪克一直感到怅然若失，此时才发现自己有这种感觉不是因为别的，而是因为这儿没有法国的那种偏街小巷。在苏黎世，真是景外有景——站在房顶远眺，你可以看到铃铛叮当响的奶牛牧场，那牧场一望无际，一直延伸到远处的山巅（这种田园牧歌式的美景印在明信片上，无异于天堂）。这儿有阿尔卑斯山地、儿童玩具、高山缆车、旋转木马和精密钟表，仿佛置身于仙境——在法国，葡萄蔓漫山遍野，你也会有这种感觉。

有一回他去萨尔茨堡，觉得那儿音乐绕梁，耳畔仿佛回荡着来自十九世纪的乐声。而一走进苏黎世大学的实验室，他就觉得自己的大脑变得思维缜密，仿佛成了一个善于做玩具的能工巧匠，不再是两年前那个在霍普金斯大学古老的红楼里横冲直撞，面对大厅内巨大的基督像投来的嘲讽目光不作停留的野小子了。

然而，他决定在苏黎世再待两年——制造玩具需要细之又细的精确度和不骄不躁的耐心嘛，对这两点他不敢掉以轻心。

这一天，他出门去看望位于苏黎世湖区多姆勒诊所的弗朗茨·格雷戈罗维斯。弗朗茨是这家诊所的坐诊病理学家，瑞士沃州人，比迪克年长几岁。他来到电车站迎候迪克。但见他皮肤黝黑，英气逼人，样子有点像卡格里奥斯特罗，一双眼睛却似天使般纯洁。他是第三代格雷戈罗维斯，祖父曾是克雷佩林的导师（那时，精神病学刚刚出现，犹如黑暗中出现了一缕曙光）。弗朗茨其人有点自命不凡，脾气火暴，对人却温文尔雅——他觉得自己俨然一个催眠师。如果家族的遗传基因稍微再弱一些，他无疑会成为一个出色的临床医师。

在去诊所的路上，只听他说：“给我讲讲你在战争中的经历吧。你是不是跟其他人一样，也有所变化？你也有一张傻傻的美国脸，一点也不显老。不过，我很清楚你其实并不傻，迪克。”

“我没有什么战争经历……从我的信中，你大概也能看得出来吧？”

“有没有战争经历其实无所谓……我们有些病人是仅仅从远处听了空袭的爆炸声就患上了弹震症，还有些只不过在报纸上看了看有关报道便患了精神病。”

“听上去简直是无稽之谈。”

“也许是吧，迪克。不过，我们诊所专门收治富人，不用‘无稽之谈’这样的词。坦率地说吧，你是来看我呢，还是来看那个女孩的？”

二人侧过脸相互对视。弗朗茨意味深长地笑了笑，然后用他那标准的男低音说道：“前几封信我自然都是拆开看过的，后来瞧出情况有了微妙的变化，也就不再拆那些信了。其实，后来都由你处理了。”

“那她病好了吗？”迪克问道。

“完全好了。我负责她的治疗。实际上，英国和美国的病人大多数都是由我负责治疗的。他们叫我格雷戈里医生。”

“关于那个女孩的情况，请允许我做一解释。”迪克说，“事实上，我只见过她一面。当时，我要到法国去，临行前来和你告别。那是我第一次穿军装，一路上总有当兵的向我行军礼以及诸如此类的事情，怪不自在的，弄得我觉得自己是个冒牌货。”

“今天你为什么没穿军装？”

“嗬！三个星期前我就退役了。我见到那女孩纯粹是巧合。我离开你之后，就朝你们在湖边的那座房子走去，去取我的自行车。”

“是去‘雪松楼’？”

“……那是个美妙的夜晚，山上明月高悬……”

“那是科伦扎格山。”

“前边有个护士和一个年轻女孩，我就赶了上去。我没有想到那女孩是个病人，一边跟她们一起走，一边向护士打听电车的时间。那个女孩太漂亮了，从没见过那么漂亮的女孩。”

“她现在仍然很漂亮哟。”

“她却是从来没有见过美国军装。我们就聊了起来。我当时也没有别的心思。”说到这里，迪克看到一处眼熟的景色不由停顿了一下，随后又接着说了下去，“弗朗茨，你见的病人多，已经不敏感了。我还没到你这种程度，我只要看见一只漂亮的贝壳，就会禁不住为那漂亮外表下的生命而惋惜。当时的情况就是这样……后来，那些信就接二连三地寄了来。”

“这对她而言是天大的好事，”弗朗茨戏谑道，“偶然相遇，一见钟情！所以，我不管再忙也要前来接你。我想让你去我的办公室，在见她之前你我先好好谈一谈。实不相瞒，我打发她到苏黎世办事去了。”他的声音因兴奋而有些发紧，“实际上，我没有让护士陪她，而是叫一个病人跟她一起去了，那个病人的病情还不太稳定。对于治疗效果，我颇为自豪——这是我取得的成就，当然偶尔也得到了你的鼎力相助。”

说话间，他们的车便沿着苏黎世湖岸行驶到了一个风景如画的地方，这儿有肥沃的牧场、连绵起伏的丘陵和一幢幢尖顶农舍。太阳钻出云层，高悬在如大海般蔚蓝的天空中。倏然，汽车驶进了瑞士的一个千姿百态的山谷，听得到百鸟啁啾，闻得到馥郁花香，看得见绿草如茵——一派生机勃勃的景象。

多姆勒教授的诊所位于一座小山丘和湖畔之间，共有三幢老式楼房和两幢新楼。该诊所创办于十年前，是第一家治疗精神方面疾病的现代医疗机构，其中的两幢楼房带有围墙（围墙不太高，上面爬满了藤蔓）——乍一看，外行看不出这儿是世界上心灵破碎者、心智不全者和精神变态者的避难所。有几个男子在太阳下耙草。他们的汽车驶进诊所的大院时，只见路上有个护士陪伴着病人，护士朝他们挥了挥手里的一面白旗。

弗朗茨将迪克引进他的办公室后，有事出去了半个小时。迪克一个人在房间里踱来踱去，看一看弗朗茨桌子上的杂物，再看一看屋里的那些书（其中有弗朗茨的专著，也有他父亲和祖父的专著，亦有他父亲和祖父的传记），又看一看弗朗茨的父亲（一个虔诚的瑞士人）那挂在墙上的深红色巨幅照片，试图从这些细节判断弗朗茨是怎样的一个人。房间里有烟味，于是他推开了一扇落地长窗，让一束阳光射进来。就在这时，他的思绪如脱缰的野马，想到了那个女孩。

在八个月的时间里，他收到那女孩写给他的信，大约有五十封之多。在第一封信里，女孩对自己的冒昧表示了歉意，解释说她曾听说美国女孩给素不相识的士兵写信是常有的事；她从格雷戈里医生那儿打听到了他的姓名和地址，如果有时写信向他问好，希望他别介意，等等。

信的风格很容易就能认得出是受到了《长腿叔叔》以及《莫莉的憧憬》的影响——这两部书信集轻松活泼，却又多愁善感，走红了美国各地。不过，女孩的信仅仅是在风格上有所相似而已。

那些信可以分为两类：第一类信大约写于停战协议签订的那个时期，有一种病态的迹象；第二类信的书写日期是从那个时候一直到现今，内容完全正常，表现出一种不断丰富成熟的个性。迪克在奥布河畔的巴尔城那郁闷的最后几个月里急切盼望看到的正是这第二类信。即便从最初的那几封信，他也已了解了女孩的心思，掌握的情况超过了弗朗茨对此事的猜度……

我的上尉：

看见你一身戎装，我觉得你帅极了。当时我心想，原来我是不喜欢法国人和德国人哟。你可能也觉得我漂亮，不过这种话我听多了，老早就麻木了。如果你再来这里，可别低三下四的一副猥琐相，那样完全不像我自小就熟知的绅士风度——上天会保佑你的。不过，你看上去好像挺文静的，比别的男人文静，温顺得就像一只大猫。我喜欢带点羞涩气的男孩子。你是不是这种人？你好像是的。

……

恕我冒昧，这是我给你写的第三封信了，马上就去邮寄，或者永远也不会发出。对于花前月下的浪漫我想了许多。只要我能离开这里，我就可以找到许多证人。

……

他们说你是个医生。不过，只要你像猫一样温顺，就是一个与众不同的医生。我头痛欲裂，就不能像正常人一样跟一只大白猫一起散步了——我的意思你大概是能理解的。我能说三种语言，加上英语就是四种了。如果你在法国需要翻译，我保证能够胜任。我坚信自己的能力，坚信我可以把一切都安排得妥妥当当，叫所有的人都规规矩矩的。今天是星期六，而你远在他方，也许已饮弹身亡了吧。

……

希望你哪一天能来到我的身旁——我将永远留在这葱绿的小山上，除非他们允许我写信给我深爱的父亲，让他把我接走。对不起，我今天身体有点不舒服，等好些了再给你继续写吧。

再见！

请原谅我就此搁笔。

尼科尔·沃伦

……

戴弗上尉：

我很清楚，内省法对我这样高度神经质的人而言并非良策。我想让你了解一下我的境况。去年或者别的什么时候，我是在芝加哥变成这样的，简直跟仆人说不成话，也不能上街去，茫然不知所措，等待着有人前来为我指点迷津。总应该有高人担负起这个责任！应该有人为盲者引路！可是，无人前来揭开谜底——他们对我说话只说半截，而我浑浑噩噩，连二加二等于几都不知道了。有一个人很不错——他是个法国军官，能理解我，送给我一枝花，说“鲜花娇小，花语难解”。我们成了朋友。后来，他把花拿走了，使得我病情加重。再无人前来为我指点迷津。他们会常常对我唱一支有关圣女贞德的歌，结果弄巧成拙，只会叫我伤心落泪（那时，我的头还没有疼痛的感觉）。他们还滔滔不绝地讲什么要加强体育锻炼，但这种话我是听不进去的。那天，我跑到密歇根林荫大道，走了好远好远。最后，他们乘汽车追了来，可我硬是不肯上车。末了，他们将我拖上了车，而车上坐着几个护士。那以后，我就开始明白是怎么回事了，因为我能体会到其他病人内心的感受。我的境况就是这样。我来这儿不愿听那些乌七八糟的事情，而医生们偏偏老把那些事情挂在嘴边。你说这对我有什么好处？于是，我今天给家父写信，要他把我接走。很高兴你醉心于为人检查身体，迎来送往的。这其中一定有很大的乐趣！

以下是另一封信的几段文字：

希望你能放下手头的工作，给我写封信。他们刚刚给我送来几张唱片，让我别忘了自己的功课，我却把唱片全都一毁了之，惹得护士都不愿跟我说话了。那些唱片是英文的，所以护士们听不懂。芝加哥的一个医生说我是在胡闹，他真正的意思是怪我脾气火暴——他说他从未见过我这么任性的人。当时我满肚子的怨气，根本不理会他在说什么。我就是这种人，一生气就不管三七二十一，即便叫我粉身碎骨我也不在乎。

你那天晚上告诉我，说你要教我做游戏。哦，这恐怕是一种爱的表达，或者说应该是爱的表达。不管怎么说吧，反正我是很高兴你能醉心于诊治病人，为此而忙碌的。

你真挚的

尼科尔·沃伦

另有一些信，看得出写信人心境更加灰暗，似乎处于绝望之中。

亲爱的戴弗上尉：

我给你写信，因为我没有其他人可以求助了。这里的情况十分荒唐可笑，我这么一个病人尚且能看得出，你一定也心知肚明。我的精神疾病很是严重，也完全崩溃了，真是感到无地自容。难道这就是他们想要达到的目的？我的家人无耻地将我置之不管，求他们帮助我和可怜我纯粹是白费口舌。我已经忍无可忍，因为这样的日子只会毁掉我的健康，浪费我的生命——若说我脑子里的病可以治愈，简直是痴人说梦。

我犹如置身于一家疯人院里——这里的人装聋作哑，谁都不愿将实情告诉我。如果当初我明白了一切，如我现在这般，我是能够挺住的——我想我是十分坚强的。他们本应该坦率直言，可他们硬是要藏藏掖掖。

现在我总算明白了，不知为此付出了多少代价，而他们只是轻轻松松地袖手旁观，说什么应该一如既往地相信医生，尤其精神病患者更应如此。不过，现在我什么都看透了。

远离亲友，跟他们隔着一个大西洋，我一直很孤单，茫然地四处乱转。如果你能给我找一个翻译的差事（我懂法语和德语，就跟母语一样，意大利语也很棒，还会一点西班牙语），或者在红十字会救护队或训练队里谋个护士的职位（虽然我还得接受培训），你就是我的救星了。

还有：既然你不愿接受我的解释之词，那你至少可以敞开心扉，谈一谈你的看法嘛——你有一张像猫一样的和善的面孔，跟这儿随处可见的面孔均不相同，不是那么怪异。格雷戈里医生给了我一张你的小照，不如你身着戎装那样英俊，但看上去要年轻一些。

……

我的上尉：

能够收到你的明信片真是太好了。你对取消那些护士的资格一事很感兴趣，这叫我非常高兴。哦，你在明信片上写的话我心领神会，十分清楚。第一次见你，我就觉得你与众不同。

……

亲爱的上尉：

我今天想一件事，明天想另一件事，这就是我的真实情况——在遐想的时候，我心里有一种疯狂的反抗情绪，有点不知进退。不管你推荐任何一个精神病医生，我都会热烈欢迎。这儿，他们躺在浴盆里唱什么《在你自家的后院玩吧》，哪里知道我既无后院可以玩耍，也无任何希望（左看右看都看不到希望之光）。后来他们在糖果店又唱这首歌，我差点用秤砣砸那个人，亏得他们拉住了我。

近期我就不再给你写信了，因为我的情绪很不稳定。

接下来的一个月，迪克果真没有收到她的来信。一个月后，她的信又突然来了。

——我慢慢地又死而复生了……

——今天看得见鲜花绽放、白云飘荡……

——战争结束了（我几乎就不知道发生了战争）……

——你的心肠真是太好了！你肯定非常聪明，虽然你的脸像一只白猫（不过在格雷戈里医生给我的照片上你看上去并不像猫）……

——今天我去了苏黎世（又见到了一座城市，那种感觉是多么奇妙）……

——今天我们去了伯尔尼，那儿的钟表是多么的精致啊……

——今天我们去爬山，满山遍野寻找阿福花和火绒草……

这以后信就少了，但他有信必回。她有一封信是这样写的：

我希望有人爱我——我生病之前，许多小伙子向我表达过爱慕之情。不过，恐怕还得等上几年，我才能考虑谈情说爱这类事情。

只要迪克的回信因故耽搁，她就会惊恐不安，就像一个情人那样牵肠挂肚，会在信中写这类话：“也许我使你厌烦了。”“可能我太冒昧了。”或者：“夜间睡不着，我一直在想你也许病了。”

迪克倒确实病了，得了流感。康复之后，他仍感到身体疲倦，除了正常的通信之外，其他的事情一概懒得做。不久，他对她的思念就被奥布河畔巴尔城司令部的一个来自威斯康星的女话务员所取代了——该女子活生生地就在眼前，描眉涂唇，像个招贴女郎，士兵们在食堂吃饭时淫秽地称之为“交换台”。

就在迪克遐想不已时，弗朗茨回到了办公室，神情颇为自得。迪克心想弗朗茨可能会成为一个优秀的临床医生，因为他说话声音洪亮，音调抑扬顿挫，对护士和病人指挥若定，但他的话语并非出自真心，而是出于一种强烈而又与人无害的虚荣。弗朗茨善于自控，对自己真实的感情含而不露。

“现在来谈谈那个女孩吧，迪克。”他说，“当然，我也想了解你，想听你谈谈你自己。不过，还是先说那女孩吧。关于她，有些情况我老早就想告诉你了。”

他从档案柜里找出一叠纸，但翻了翻之后，觉得反而妨碍他叙述，于是便把纸放到办公桌上，对迪克讲起了那个女孩的故事。