Chapter 14

From that day onward, Finn only left the old room when obliged.

The spring had opened the fountain before the house and he was happy at its rippling, which never began and never stopped. The red fowers were put out on the balcony: when the wind blew, their petals fluttered right over into the basin of the fountain and rocked upon the water. He followed their dance through the air and wondered if they would reach their goal.

His best time was in the evening, when the square shone with a thousand lights.

He loved the dying day.

He knew every light that went out, every sound as it stopped. And he liked the sound best when it stopped and the light when it went out. He thought that the people who moved down below, disguised in the darkness, were of another kind or better than those whom the sun shone upon. He had no more to do with them than with the others; but he liked them better.

Then, when night came and the rippling of the fountain sang louder and louder through the silence and cries sounded from down below, no one knowing what they were, and solitary steps were heard, that approached and retreated again, then he lit the candles on the mantelpiece and sat down in one of the old chairs, there where the owners of the house and their wives had sat when the house sleptand they had something to say to each other.

He looked round the room, where the things sang in every dark corner, and simply could not conceive that he had not known the old room before.

He was more at home here than anywhere else: here, where he was outside the world, which worried him, because it demanded that of him which he had not; here, where every spot and every object told how all had been said and done and accomplished in the old days, so that he had nothing else to do but listen wonderingly and rejoice at its marvellous beauty.

Then he fell a-dreaming and remained sitting till the lights went out.

“He does not sleep enough,”said Fru Adelheid, anxiously.

Cordt crossed the foor with the same thought in his mind. Then he stopped where she was sitting and looked at her:

“I wonder, is he ever awake, Adelheid?”he said.

By day, Finn generally sat at the window and stared out, idly and silently, with his hands open on his knees.

Often, when Cordt was crossing the square, he thought that he could see Finn's old face behind the window-panes. He would stop and nod and beckon to him.

But Finn never saw him. For he saw nothing positively.

And Cordt went on…in and out…constantly longing to see the strong air of the old room color his son's cheeks and rouse his will…constantly trusting that, sooner or later, this would happen.

He never went up there since the day when he and his old servant had arranged the room as it used to be.

And Finn was glad of this. He was so afraid lest that shouldhappen that a long time passed before he could suppress his terror when he heard any one coming. And, even when he had recovered his composure, he knew that it would happen sooner or later and that the day of its happening would be a gloomy one.

For he well understood the eternal loving question in Cordt's eyes and it hurt him and frightened him. He dreaded the craving in his affection, which was greater than a father's. It was like that of a sovereign for the heir who is to occupy the throne after him.

And Finn could not take the reins of empire in his slack hands or bear the pressure of the crown upon his head, which ached at the mere thought of it.

But Fru Adelheid often came; and they two were comfortable up there, in the old room.

She came with no craving; and, if she was doubtful and restless, as she often was, since Finn had moved up into the old room, then she would be quite silent when the door closed behind her.

Silent like Finn…and like the big chairs and the jar with the man writhing through thorns…silent like the spinning-wheel, which had whirred merrily every evening for many a good year and stood as it was with thread upon its spindle.

He looked at her and smiled and nodded when she spoke. He himself talked . . .for long at a time and then stopped, without its making any difference, and listened to the rippling of the fountain and the voices in the old room, which always talked to him and plainest when Fru Adelheid was with him.

He told her that, when she came, the room was no longer his own.

For then he felt like a stranger, a man of another period, who should suddenly find himself in an old ruined castle, full of marvellous dangers and adventures, and stand face to face with the last of those who had lived the castle's rich, wonderful life.

Once he spoke her name aloud just as she was entering at the door. It was dark in the room and his voice and fgure were so like Cordt's that she grew pale and frightened. But he did not see this and she forced a laugh and soon forgot it.

And, gradually, the wonderful solemnity of the old room retreated into the background, when they were both there, for they spent more and more of their time there and at last simply did not think they were together except there. But Finn was always able to summon it up when he wished.

They used to read together.

And that happened in this way, that one of them found a book, a treasure of silence and singing, which was the only sort that they felt equal to, and read it and gave it to the other, who then read it while they were together.

They found most of the books in foreign languages and it seemed as if there were no end of them. Also, the fact that the language was foreign made the book dearer to them, because it carried them farther afeld.

When they had read one of these books, they lived in it for a time…not in its action, among its characters, for there was no action and no characters, but in its music. They tuned their thoughts and words in its key.

Then they felt as if they had passed through some experience or as if they were travelling.

“The artist lives,”said Finn.“He makes the sky blue and grey for himself…for himself and for us all. He wipes everything outwith his hand and builds it up again…greater, ever greater. He is the master. He is God.”

One day, he asked Fru Adelheid to sing.

She had not sung for many years, except in church, and was surprised at his request:

“I have given up singing, Finn.”

He lay down before her and looked up smiling into her face:

“I can remember so well when you used to sing,”he said.“You often sang to me when I was a boy. But one occasion…one occasion I remember in particular. There were many visitors and I, of course, had long been in bed, but I was not asleep. For old Marie had promised to take me down to the dining-room when the people had got up from dinner and you were to sing. She told me that, when there was company and all the candles were lighted and you were prettiest and brightest, then you sang a thousand times more beautifully than usual.”

She took her eyes from his face and laid her head back in her chair.

“I kept awake till she came and it lasted long. But then I heard you and also saw you for a moment through the door.”

“And was it so nice?”

“I don't remember,”he said.“But I remember the many faces.…I should know them again if I saw them now, I think. And best of all I remember father's.”

Fru Adelheid rose:

“What shall I sing?”she asked.

He laughed with content, went to the spinet and opened it. Then he took up one of the pieces of music:

“Look what I have found,”he said.“This was sung by the onewho put the spinet here. Look, here is her name: she herself wrote both the words and the music.…See how pale the writing is…and how distinct.”

Fru Adelheid stood with the old, yellow sheet in her hand. She hummed the tune and struck the keys.

Then she sat down to the spinet and sang:

Day is passing, dearest maiden:

Ere thou knowest, comes the night;

Warning winds, with fragrance laden,

Bring cool air and colder light.

We must part: time hastens so!

Day is passing, dew is falling.

Hark! Thy mother's voice is calling:

Dearest maiden, I must go.

Part we must, dear maid, in sorrow!

Day is surely doomed to die.

Ah, but we shall find to-morrow

Countless joys we let go by,

Countless words we uttered not,

Hours we robbed of wasted chances,

Eyes we balked of mutual glances,

Countless kisses we forgot.

Happy smiles will haunt thee dreaming

On a couch of virgin white;

In my brain thy picture gleaming,

I shall hasten through the night.

Let the crimson sun depart!

Brighter sunshine in thy face is,

Sunshine of remembered places,

Love's own sunshine in thy heart.

She remained sitting a while with the old music-sheet in her hand. Then Finn said:

“She used to sing that. Do you know if she was happy, mother?”

“She was often sad,”said Fru Adelheid.“And, when she was sad, she sang.”

She put down the sheet and took up the first music-book that came to hand, but threw it aside, as though it had burnt her fngers.

It was the Lenore songs, which she had sung to Cordt.

She rose and went back to her place beside Finn. Then she sprang up and stood with her arms crossed on her breast and sat down again and stared with great eyes through the window:

“Finn…if I sang it to you…would you recognize the…the song you heard when Marie carried you down…?”

He woke from his dream and looked at her in surprise:

“The song…no…I should not. Why, do you remember it?”

“No,”said Fru Adelheid.

They long sat silent. Twilight fell and it grew dark in the room.

“Mother,”said Finn,“what are women like?”

She turned her face slowly towards him. He did not look at her. His eyes were far away and she realized that he had forgotten his question or did not know that he had put it.

第十四章

从那天起，芬只在迫不得已时离开那间屋子。

春天融化了屋子前的喷泉，芬欣喜于那无休无止的潺潺水声。红色的花朵也被放到了阳台上：当风吹过，花瓣会被正好吹到楼下的喷泉里，漂在水面上。他看着花瓣从空中飞舞而下，猜测它们能否到达目的地。

傍晚，当广场上千灯齐亮，这是芬一天中最美好的时光。

他喜欢那即将消逝的白昼。

他知晓每盏熄灭的灯光，熟悉每个停止的声音。而他最中意的便是那刚刚戛然而止的声音和骤然熄灭的灯光。在他心里，披着夜色游荡的人们是另外一类人，好过于那些走在太阳底下的人。他跟这些人都不认识，没有任何关系，但他莫名地更喜欢那些夜行的人。

当夜晚来临，喷泉划破夜空的沉寂，大声地歌唱，远处传来哭喊声，没有人知道这哭声来自哪里，孤独的脚步由远及近，又由近及远，然后芬会点燃壁炉架上的蜡烛，在其中一个老椅子上坐下，在那儿，曾坐着房子的主人和他们的妻子，整栋房子入睡后，他们会坐在那里聊天。

芬环视屋子，屋里的一切都在黑暗的角落里歌唱，他不敢相信自己以前竟然不知道老屋子的存在。

比起任何其他地方，老屋子更让芬觉得无拘无束：在这里，他可以躲开外面令他烦心的世界，因为那个世界需要他展现他所没有的品质。在这里，每一个点、每一件物品都在诉说以往的事情，芬好奇地听着，为老屋子那不可思议的美丽感到欣慰。

有时，芬会陷入梦境，并一直静静地坐着，直到灯都熄灭了。

“他睡眠不够。”阿德尔海德担心地说。

科特心里也在想着一样的问题，他穿过房间，停在了阿德尔海德坐着的地方，说：

“我在想，他有没有醒过，阿德尔海德？”

白天，芬会坐在窗户旁向外望去，无所事事，双手摊放在膝盖上。

当科特穿越广场，他总是认为，他能看到在窗格后面的芬。科特会停下来，冲他点点头。

但芬从未看到过科特。因为他从不积极主动地观察任何事物。

科特进进出出房子，总是期望老屋子强壮的气息能够晕染他儿子的脸色，唤醒他的意志，科特总是相信，这一切迟早都会发生。

自从科特和老仆人把老屋子整理如初后，他便再也没有去过那里。

对此，芬非常开心。他非常担心科特会来这屋子瞧瞧他，以至于每当听到有脚步声靠近，他都需要极力克制自己的恐惧。当芬从恐惧中恢复平静，他意识到，科特来这屋子里是迟早要发生的事情，而那一天将是不愉悦的一天。

其实芬很清楚科特眼中一直都有的充满爱意的疑问，这问题让他担惊受怕。他害怕科特对他的渴望，这种渴望比一个父亲应有的热切得多，更像是一国之主对即将继承王位的继承人的期盼。

而芬那无力的双手根本无法掌控一个国家，也承受不住头顶皇冠的压力，仅仅是有这样的想法都已让他头痛不已。

但阿德尔海德经常来老屋子，他们两人会惬意地坐在那里。

阿德尔海德对芬没有什么期盼。而且，虽然她多疑不安，自芬搬到老屋子后她就总是这样，但当屋子的门在她身后关上，她就会安静下来。

安静得像芬，像硕大的古董椅子和画着在荆棘中扭动的男人的罐子，像那辆曾经好多年夜夜发出欢快的呼呼声、纺线仍旧穿在纺锤上的纺车一般安静。

当阿德尔海德说话时，芬会看着她微笑点头。芬自己也会讲话，长久地，然后突然停止，不过这不会有什么影响，然后他会听那喷泉的汩汩声，老屋子里的声音，这些声音总是在对他讲话，而当阿德尔海德和他在一起时，讲的话最通俗易懂。

芬告诉阿德尔海德，当她来到这里，这屋子就不再是他一人的了。

他觉得自己像个陌生人，来自另外一个年代，他会突然发现自己住在一个充满各种危险和冒险的废墟城堡里，和最后一个享受过城堡里富足生活的人面对面站着。

有一次，在阿德尔海德进入屋子的那一刻，他大声地喊出了她的名字。那时，房间里极暗，他的声音和身形像极了科特，这让阿德尔海德脸色苍白，惊恐不已。但芬没有注意到这一切，阿德尔海德逼自己笑了笑，很快就忘记了这件事。

逐渐地，当他们两个都在老屋子的时候，那奇妙的肃穆消散在背景里，他们在那里度过越来越多的时间，到最后变成，只有在老屋子里时，两人才算陪伴彼此。

他们过去会一起读书，而且是用这种特定的方式读书，他们中的某个人会发现一本书，一个安静又满是歌声的宝藏，这是他们觉得唯一可以与之相比的，然后读完这本书的人再给对方，而对方则会于他们在一起的时候来读这本书。

大部分书都是外语书，书多得好像无穷尽。正是因为用外语书写，书变得更为珍贵，因为异国语言能把他们带到更远的地方去。

当他们读完一本书，他们会沉浸在书中。并不是沉浸在它的情节或它的角色里，而是在它的音乐里。他们把书中的思想和话语转化为音符。

那时，他们好似体验了一些经历，或者好像他们在旅行。

“艺术家会名留青史，”芬说，“他把天空描绘成蓝灰色，为了他自己……为了他自己也为了我们所有人。他用手擦掉所有东西，然后又重新建立，建立更大的，至今为止最大的事物。他是主宰者。他是上帝。”

一天，芬要求阿德尔海德唱首歌。

阿德尔海德许多年都未曾唱过歌了，除非在教堂里，因而当芬提出这个要求时，阿德尔海德很诧异。

“我已放弃唱歌了，芬。”

芬在她面前躺下，看着她的脸朝她微笑，“我清楚地记得你唱歌的时候。当我还是小男孩时你总是唱歌给我听。但是有一次，有一次我记得很清楚，家里有很多客人，我早已上床，但我并没有睡着。因为老玛丽答应我当客人们用晚餐，你要唱歌的时候，会带我到宴会厅里。她告诉我，当有客人时，所有的灯都被点亮，你是最漂亮、最光彩照人的，那时，你会唱得比以往好听一千倍。”

阿德尔海德把视线从芬的脸上移开，躺回椅子里。

“我一直醒着，直到老玛丽来了，我等了好久，但我听到了你歌唱，还从门缝里看到了你。”

“有那么好吗？”

“我不记得了。但我记得有很多张脸。如果再见到他们我应该能认得出来，幸运的是，我记得父亲的脸。”

阿德尔海德站起来。

“我应该唱什么呢？”她问道。

芬满意地笑了，走到钢琴前，打开钢琴，然后他选了一首曲子。

“看我找到了什么，”他说，“这是那个把钢琴放在这里的人所唱的歌曲。瞧，这里是她的名字，她自己写了词和曲。瞧这笔迹可真模糊，但同时又这么明显。”

阿德尔海德站在那里，手里拿着那泛黄的曲单。她哼着小调，敲打着琴键。

然后她坐在钢琴前，边弹边唱了起来：

白天正在消逝，亲爱的少女：

你知道吗，夜晚来临；

警示的风，满载香气，

带来凉气寒灯。

我们必须分开：时间促使这样！

白天正在消逝，黄昏正在到来。

听！你母亲正在喊你：

亲爱的少女，我必须离去。

我们必须分离，亲爱的少女，悲伤漫溢！

白天一定会消逝。

唉，但到明日，

我们错失了数不清的快乐，

少说了数不清的话语。

我们从浪费的机会中抢走时间，

眼睛充满彼此的影子，

数不清的亲吻被我们忘记。

快乐的微笑萦绕着做梦的你，

在纯洁的白色躺椅上；

我脑海中你的身影摇曳，

我将要快快过完夜晚。

让绯红的太阳起程！

你的脸上明亮的阳光，

回忆中故地的阳光，

爱情的阳光在你的心里。

唱完后，她在钢琴前坐了一会儿，手里拿着曲单。芬问道：“那女人曾唱过这歌。你觉得她快乐吗，母亲？”

“她经常伤心，”阿德尔海德说，“每当她伤心时，她就会唱歌。”

阿德尔海德放下曲单，拿起手边的一本乐谱，但又立刻扔在了一边，好像乐谱烫到了她的手指。

乐谱上是丽诺尔系列，她曾经给科特唱过。

阿德尔海德站了起来，坐回到芬旁边。然后她又突然站起来，双臂交叉在胸前，又坐下，大眼睛盯着窗外，“芬，如果我唱歌给你听，你还能辨别出老玛丽带你下楼听我唱歌时的那曲子吗？”

芬回过神来，惊讶地看着阿德尔海德，“那首歌，不，我应该不能。为什么这么问？你记得那首歌吗？”

“不。”阿德尔海德回答道。

他们长久沉默地坐着。黄昏来临，屋子里变暗了。

“母亲，”芬问道，“女人是什么样的？”

阿德尔海德慢慢地扭头看着芬。而芬并没有看着她。他的眼睛看着远处，阿德尔海德意识到，他已经忘记他刚刚问的问题，或者，他根本没有意识到自己问了那样的问题。