Chapter 21

Finn stood at the window in Cordt's room, with his head leaning against the frame, and looked down into the yard, where the porter's children were playing.

He had come, as usual, to say good-morning and Cordt had told him to wait while he fnished a letter. The letter had been sealed for some time, but Finn had not noticed it. He was watching the game down below and bending forward to see better.

Then the children were called in. He laid his head against the window-frame again and looked up at the grey sky. He thought of Hans, who had left for Paris that morning and was to remain abroad for two years.

Cordt sat silent. From where he was, he could see Finn's profle: the forehead, which was so white, the eyelids, which lifted themselves so heavily, the mouth, which was so tired and so weak.

“Finn!”

Finn started and turned round.

“Did you see Hans off?”

“Yes.”

Finn sat down by the window where he stood, with bent head and his hands upon his knees. He wound the cord of the blind round his fngers and unwound it again.

“I wonder if you will miss Hans?”

“Oh…yes.”

“I shall,”said Cordt.“Hans represents the new order at its fnest…the hero in modern poetry…the engineer, you know, whom they can never put on the stage without making him insipid…because he never acts a part. He is strong and has the courage to employ his powers. To us he often seems lacking in refnement and he fnds it diffcult to grant us our due. He has no ancestors…he is the ancestor…he founds a dynasty.”

“Yes,”said Finn.

They sat silent for a while.

There was no doubt in Cordt. He knew what he wanted and wanted it. He did not seek for kind words, but strong words. Finn knew this too. He sat like a culprit awaiting sentence and was thankful for every minute that passed.

Then they looked up into each other's eyes.

They measured each other's strength. And Finn was strong in his hopelessness, even as Cordt was strong in the hope which he could not let go, because he had nothing else to fall back upon.

“Do you know that you are a born artist, Finn?”

Finn smiled sadly and shook his head.

“You are,”said Cordt.“There is no doubt about it. When you were travelling abroad…there was simply nothing in your letters but delight at the pictures you saw. Your journey was one long progress through a royal gallery. At sea, in the street, on the mountains…everywhere you caught life and hung it on your wall and sat down to look at it.”

“Did I?”

“Had you not been born with a silver spoon in your mouth, youwould have been lost beyond redeeming. You would have become a painter…no…an author.”

“Would that be so bad?”

“What use is literature to us modern people?”said Cordt.“Where does it lead us? How does it form our lives? If the old poets had lived nowadays, they would certainly have been merchants, or electricians, or arctic navigators.…Just look round you, Finn…the books we read, the pictures we look at, the plays they perform: isn't it all like an orchestra that plays for an hour while people walk about the grounds? Tired people, who like to hear a bit of music before they go to bed. The band plays its tune and gets its pay and its applause and we are interested in seeing that the performance is well and properly given.…But…the poet, Finn…A solitary horn sounds over the hills. We drop the plough and listen and look up, because the notes seem to us so rare and so powerful and we have never heard them before and know them so well. Then our eyes glisten. And the sorrow that bent our back and the gladness that held us erect and the hope we had…all of that suddenly acquires color and light. And we go whither the horn calls us…over the hills…to new green felds where it is better living.”

“Father . . .”

Finn raised his head, but then could not fnd the phrase for what he wanted to say.

“Don't you think that the poet must be a man…a man like the others, with courage in his breast and a sword at his thigh? Then he goes forth and sings them to battle and wedding, to dance and death. He is a part of the business, foremost in the crowd.”

“The poets also sat in the ladies' chambers and sang,”said Finn.Cordt nodded:

“They did that also,”he said.“But the poets we now have do nothing else. There will always be fddlers as long as there are idle women and women with two husbands and wars and kings. As long as the stars wander so far through the sky and the children cannot catch the bird that flies in the bush.…But never mind that, Finn. Never mind that. Just look at those who sit in the orchestra today.…Would you sit among them? They are sick people singing about their sickness. One is sick with love and one with lewdness and one with drink. One chants his faith on vellum, another sells his doubts in sixpenny editions. The feeble will of the one quavers in silly verses…the other intoxicates his pale fancy with blood and horrors drawn from the olden times. Do you think that a free man would of his own accord select his place among those artists?”

Finn looked up with his quiet eyes:

“Who is a free man, father?…Are you?”

Cordt put his hands on Finn's shoulders and bent over him and looked at him:

“You are, Finn.…You are a free man…if you wish to be.”

“Father…”

Finn put out his hands like a child asking for something. But Cordt looked at him inexorably. And so strong and radiant was his glance, that Finn tried to escape it, but could not; tried to speak, but was silent.

Then Cordt walked across the room, up and down, with great, calm strides, and spoke and was silent and never for a moment released his son from his stern grasp.

His words seized Finn and lifted him up where things weregreat and beautiful and bitterly cold, he thought; then let him fall again, till he relapsed into his own dark corner; and seized him anew and carried him aloft.

But, when Cordt ceased, it was to Finn as though he heard a flourish of trumpets from the clouds proclaiming that other words were now coming, greater still and austerer, more loving, ever heavier to bear.

“You are right, Finn.…I am not a free man, I never was. I am bound up in the tradition that built my house and bore my race and, when I could not support the tradition, things broke for me. But that did not make me free.…Those were heavy days, Finn. I could not understand it, you see, and I fought to the end. I was young and strong and I was in love. You are fond of the old room…you can hear the legends up there singing their powerful, melancholy song.…Remember, Finn, I am one of those on whom the legend is laid. I have lived in the secrecy of the old room.…I have stood, in my calm, proud right…up there, where the room stood, unseen by any one except the master of the house and his wife…always remote and locked and hidden in its time-honored might…always open to him who owned it.…I left it like a beaten man. But I could not retire into a corner and mourn, for I had you, Finn. You were only a little child then, so I could not know how your paths would go. I knew only one thing, that you would never sit with your wife up there, where people became so small when they sat down in the big chairs and where it was so pleasant and so safe. I was the last. With me, the tradition of the old room was fnished.…Then I had to try if I could find my way in the world which I did not understand. I had to go through all that which I disliked so desperately and which had killedmy happiness. For myself, I had nothing to gain: I was a bound man and a wounded. But I had you, Finn.…And I had to know if they were building properly and honestly somewhere behind all the dancing and firting and singing which I saw before my eyes. Or if it was no different from what my eyes saw and if I should not be doing best to carry my child out into the mountains and let the wild beasts tear it to pieces.…I was alone in this. Your mother went to live in an old house beside the old house where her happiness could not grow. There she found peace. But I needed no refuge. Where I was, I was at home: I only wanted to see the place where you and your children should flourish.…I did not spare myself, Finn. I sought honestly, south and north, east and west. I took their books…the light ones burst like soap-bubbles in my hands and the powerful ones my thoughts had to struggle to understand. Not one of their green visions but has been with me in my room, not one of their bright swords but has flashed before my eyes.…I did not allow myself to be blinded by my own bitterness, or tricked by catchwords, or frightened by abuse. I went on as long as I could see the way…and longer, Finn. I peered out into the farthest, where those who thought as I did saw nothing but horror and insanity…. And Finn…I don't know.…Perhaps it was your mother's God that helped me…perhaps it was my ancestor, who himself had sailed into harbor and raised our house on new ground for many a good, long day. Perhaps it was your little hand, which lay so trustingly in mine, when you used to come to me in those anxious, lonely days and say good-morning and good-night.…I don't know. I daresay it was my love for you that lifted me above myself. I climbed as high up the mountains as a mortal can climb. It all lay under my feet like a cloud…longingand happiness and daily bread and daily trouble. I could not see the valley in which my house was built. But out of the cloud, over the mountain, I saw the road where we hustle and strive, generation after generation, ever forward towards the goal which we cannot see, but which is there, because the road is there.…And I saw land…the promised land of you and your children…from the mountain where I stood. A land I did not know…a land strange to my eyes…people with other habits and other beliefs, with a different form of love and a different code of honor.…I saw it through the storm that fung the door of the old room wide open.…That was a strange time, Finn…the strongest in my life and the happiest.”

Cordt stood at the window with his arms crossed over his chest. He looked at his son and smiled sadly. Finn sat still, with his head thrown back in his chair and his eyes closed.

“Then I equipped you for the journey, Finn.…I did not show you this way or that, for I was a bound man and could not go with you. I gave you books and masters, who opened all the gates of the world to you. I let you look into the mist where you wanted to ride. I feared nothing, because I wanted nothing for myself and because I had seen through the mist.…You grew up and I saw that you grew good and clever. Then I sat down and waited and longed for the day when I should wave to you from the balcony of my old house, when you marched forth to conquer your new land.…I was right to wait for the day.…Ah.…I have seen them, the poor devils, hungry and wounded, rush blindfold towards the new, which they did not know, because it could not possibly be worse than the old. I have heard them call for new laws because they had violated the old…they were driven from their huts and sat on the deck of the emigrant-shipwith their bundle and their uncertain hope for a better fate in the new world.…But you.…You had done no wrong and had nothing to revenge. Free as a king's son, you rode over the bridge with your retinue and rode through the world and planted your banner wherever you chose to dwell. Born of your mother's longing for excitement…in your father's house, whose walls are as thick as the walls of a castle…with the strong air of the old room in your lungs and without its yoke upon your neck…a rich and spotless nobleman, taking his place of his own free will in the ranks of the revolution.”

He was silent. His steps sounded heavily through the stillness:

“Are you with me, Finn?”

“Yes, father.”

“Come.”

Finn rose. Cordt put his arm over his shoulder and they paced the room together.

“I had so many dreams, Finn. And I gained such confidence, because my own happiness was shattered and I had you. I had become an old man, but my mind was not blunted. I had suffered shipwreck, but I was not afraid of the sea. I believed in life…in God, if you like.”

They did not walk well together and Cordt removed his arm. Finn sat down in his chair again and listened. Cordt went on walking:

“Then came the days which you know…the days of the present.…You grew up into the quiet man you are. Your eyes looked heavily upon life, you shrank back timidly when you saw that there was fre and smoke on earth.…You kept your scutcheon untarnished, but that is easily done, when one doesn't fight. Youwere never in places where one does not wish to be seen…that is true. But you never went outside your door, Finn…never. There was no fire in your blood, no desire in your thoughts. You were tired, Finn…merely tired.…I grew frightened for you…. As the years passed, you had become more to me than a son. You were not only flesh of my flesh and bone of my bone…you were a link in the human chain that goes on through the ages, ever onward. Your hand was in mine, but your life was more precious than mine. For you had to carry a greater burden and to carry it into new ways.…Remember, Finn, I had been on the mountain and seen through the mist. It was more than the question of an inheritance, more than family pride and family loyalty. You and I were allied in a great cause. And I sat with the map before me and followed the course of the battle…like an old soldier, who can no longer sally forth himself, but who has his son and his colors and his emperor under fre.…Remember how I had arrived at where I was. Remember what I had lost, what I had let go, how completely I had sacrifced myself for you. I had you, Finn…had I anything else ?…When I, then, became frightened for you, I plunged into my wonderful treasure and endowed you lavishly. I told you the legend of the old house and thought it would call you to arms, like the blast of the bugle over the camp. I revealed your father's and your mother's fate to you, that you might see how people fight for happiness. I sent you out into the world, where life is bigger and stronger than at home, so that life might make you into a man.…But never…never did I put any constraint upon you. Never did I usurp the place of Providence…. And you turned over the pages of the picture-book and came home paler than before and wearier. The old room was merely a charmingpoem to you, that sang you into deeper dreams. Up there…where the strong men of our race met their wives, when the sun went down upon the business of the day, and talked gladly and earnestly when their hearts impelled them to…there you sit, alone, all day long, with your slack hands.”

Then he laid his hands firmly on Finn's shoulders. And Finn looked up with moist eyes and quivering mouth.

“To-day, Finn, I have given you your inheritance. From to-day, I look upon you as of age. You were such that one could not use coercion with you…and, in fact, there was none that wanted to use it. Nor could one be angry with you…you were the same…it was the same…always. To-day, that is past. Go out and buy yourself a house and take a wife and have children by her. And remember that, if there were some in the family that fell, there was none that finched.”

“Father…I understand you…but I cannot do what you want.”

Cordt took a step back and tossed his thick hair from his forehead:

“You pale people understand everything, because no faith blinds your eyes: you are so kind and clever, you think. You judge leniently, you do not judge at all, you know that the truth is nowhere and everywhere. You justify every silly thought you have entertained…you sit for all time and contemplate your navel…and then you let the murderer go and the thief escape. God help you poor wretches! The stupidest, the most ignorant dervish is cleverer and kinder than you!”

Finn wanted to say something, but Cordt made a preventive gesture with his hand:

“A man must not understand everything. He must choose and judge and reject. If he doesn't do that, there is no happiness in the world and no loyalty and no peace. And, if he cannot hate, he cannot love either.”

He went to the window and looked out. And, as he stood there, Finn came up to him and seized his hand and looked at him pleadingly:

“I can't do what you want,”he said.

But Cordt withdrew his hand and moved away from him:

“You have no right to say that to me, Finn. I won't listen to it. For what I want is only that you should live. Take the inheritance which I have given you and use it as you can. One day, you shall be called upon to answer for your son, as I to-day for you.”

Finn smiled sadly:

“I shall never have a son,”he said, softly.

Cordt did not hear what he said. He was struggling with a memory…passed his hand over his face and stared before him. He saw Fru Adelheid…that evening in the old room, when she had said what Finn was saying now…the same hopeless, impotent words:“I cannot do what you want.”

He sat down and fell back in his chair.

All the despair of the old days came over him like a tremendous weariness. He was struggling against what was stronger than himself. He had nothing to set against that eternal, hopeless,“I cannot do what you want.”

Then he sprang up and stood in front of Finn with blazing eyes:“If it's your mother who paralyzes your will, then fy from her, hate her, thrust her from you…”

“Father…father…”

“Hate her, I say. She was smitten with the pestilence from her youth. She understood everything…like you. To her nothing was small or great, nothing near or far. Her will was gone, like yours. She knew where the glory lay, if she could reach it, but she could not. She hearkened to the times and the times made her their own. She was always sick…sick unto death.”

He crossed the room and said nothing more.

They were both of them very pale and both longed to be alone. They had nothing more to say to each other.

And Finn was not angry on his mother's account. He thought only of the one thing, that he could not do what Cordt wanted and could not appease his sorrow…could not even tell him that he loved him. And then he longed to sit still…in the old room…with his mother, who was so pretty and whom he had never offended:

“Are you angry with me, father?”

Cordt looked at him long and intently.Then he said:

“Yes.”

But, when Finn was gone, he sat with his face buried in his hands and wept.

第二十一章

芬站在科特房间里的窗户边上，头倚着窗户框，看着楼下的院子，看门人的孩子们正在那里玩耍。

芬是按照惯例前来向科特道早安的，科特让芬等一会儿，等他写完手头的那封信。此刻，科特早已封上信封，但芬没有注意到。他在观看楼下孩子们玩游戏，为了看得更清楚，他还往前探了探头。

不久，孩子们被喊进屋子了。于是，他头倚着窗框望着灰色的天空。他想起汉斯，那天早晨汉斯去了巴黎，并且将要在那里待两年。

科特静静地坐着。他看着芬的侧脸，芬的额头是那么白皙，芬的眼睑如此沉重地抬着，芬的嘴巴疲惫而软弱。

“芬！”

芬惊了一下，转过身来。

“你去送汉斯了吗？”

“去了。”

芬坐在他刚刚站过的窗户旁的位置，低着头，双手摊在膝盖上。他把百叶窗的绳子卷到自己手指头上，然后又解开。

“你会想汉斯吗？”

“哦，会的。”

“我会想念汉斯的，”科特说，“汉斯属于新秩序中最棒的那些人，是现代诗歌的英雄……工程师，你知道的，没有人能够原汁原味地将他展现在舞台上，因为他从来不会表演单一的一个角色。他很强大，有勇气去挥洒他的力量。对于我们来说，他似乎缺乏教养，而他也无法认同我们。他没有祖先，因为他就是祖先，他建立了他自己的朝代。”

“是的。”芬附和道。

然后他们沉默地坐了一阵子。

科特心中没有任何疑虑。他知道他想要的是什么，然后索要他想要的。他不会说温和的话，而是富有力量的话。芬对此很清楚。他坐在那里就像个囚犯，等待着他的判决，每一分钟对他来讲都是煎熬。

然后，他们抬起头，看着彼此的眼睛。

两人相互估量对方的力量。芬的绝望如此强大，就像科特无法放弃的希望那样强大，这希望是科特唯一所能依赖的。

“你知道你是天生的艺术家吗，芬？”

芬伤心地笑笑，摇摇头。

“你是的，”科特说，“关于这一点儿毫无疑问。当你在国外旅行时，你的信中充满你对所见美景的喜悦。你的旅程是一段穿越高贵画廊的漫长的过程。在海边，在街道上，在山里，在每一处你都捕捉到生活，把它挂在你的墙上，然后你会坐下来慢慢欣赏。”

“是吗？”

“要不是你出生在富有的家庭中，你会不可救赎。你可能成为个画家，不，一个作家。”

“成为画家或作家有那么糟糕吗？”

“文学对于我们现代人来讲有什么用？”科特说道，“文学能带领我们去哪里？文学如何影响我们的生活？如果那些老诗人活到今天，他们早就变成商人，或电工，或北极的领航员。看看你身边，芬，我们读的书，看的画，上演的戏剧，难道不是都像街头的交响乐队，在人们散步的时候表演一个小时？那都是些疲惫的人们，在上床睡觉前想听一点儿音乐。乐队演奏完小曲儿，得到钱和掌声，而我们乐于看到这表演恰如其分地完成。但是，诗人，芬，是那响彻山冈的孤独号角。我们会扔下手中的犁，静静地听，抬头看，因为那些文字对于我们来说如此稀有而又如此强大，我们从未听到过这些音符却又对它们如此熟悉。然后我们眼中闪过光芒。然后，那些压弯我们脊梁的伤痛，那些让我们挺拔的欢乐，还有我们的希望，瞬间都拥有了颜色和光芒。我们渐渐衰老，号角召唤我们，在山的那头，去那新的绿地，那里有更好的生活。”

“父亲。”

芬抬起头，但却不知如何表达自己的想法。

“难道你不认为诗人首先应该是一个……一个跟他人一样的男人，胸中充满勇气，腰上挎着利剑？他用诗歌欢送人们去战场或去婚礼，去跳舞或者战死疆场。他是世俗的一部分，首先出现在群体中。”

“诗人也会坐在女士的闺房里唱歌。”芬说。

科特点点头说：

“是的，但我们如今的诗人却只会坐在女士的闺房里唱歌了。只要有闲逛的女人，还有经历过两场战争，两个国王，有两个丈夫的女人在；只要星星游离在天空，孩子们抓不住灌木丛中的飞鸟，就会有许多光阴的游荡者存在。但是，不必在意这些，芬。不必在意。你就看看今天坐在交响乐团中的那些人，你会坐在他们中间吗？他们都是些病态的人，吟唱他们各自的病魔。有人犯了相思病，有人淫秽，还有人嗜酒。有人吟诵他那写在羊皮纸上的信仰，有人出售有关他疑虑的六便士的书。他们那懦弱的意志在愚蠢的诗句中颤抖，还有人借用旧时代的血腥恐怖来陶醉他那苍白的想象。你觉得一个自由意志的人会选择把自己放在这些艺术家中吗？”

芬抬起头，用他那安静的眼睛望着科特，“父亲，谁是有自由意志的人？你吗？”

科特将手放在芬的肩膀上，并看着他，“你是啊，芬，你是有自由意志的人，如果你愿意的话。”

“父亲。”芬伸出手，好似小孩子向大人索要东西那般。但科特无情地看着芬。科特的眼神充满力量和光芒，芬试图躲开那灼人的眼神，却无法做到。他试图说些什么，但却保持着沉默。

然后，科特在屋子里走来走去，步伐稳重有力，他一会儿说话，一会儿沉默，但从不肯让芬从他那严厉的掌控中逃离一步。

科特用话语抓住芬，把芬托到一个一切都很伟大、美丽但有点儿冷酷的地方，再把他摔回到他自己那个黑暗的角落里。然后重新又抓住他，把他带到高处。

然而，当科特停下来时，对于芬来讲，就好像听到号角齐鸣，宣告其他话语紧接着要来了，更加宏大、严肃，充满爱意但却承受不起。

“你是对的，芬，我不是一个有自由意志的人，我从来都不是。我被筑成我的房子、养育我家族的传统束缚，当我无法再支撑这些传统，我的世界就会崩塌，但依旧无法让我自由。那是很沉重的时光，芬。我无法理解这些，你看，我一直战斗到了最后。那时我很年轻，身强力壮，而且我在恋爱中。你喜欢那间老屋子，你能听到那些传奇人物在那屋子里动人忧伤地歌唱。记住，芬，我也是那些人中的一员。我也曾经平静而骄傲地站在那里，在那儿，没有人能看得到我，除了房子的建造者和他的妻子，总是遥远又封闭地躲藏在老屋子古老的威力中。对房子建造者毫无保留地打开心扉，我像一个被打倒的人。但我无法躲入角落独自神伤，因为我还有你，芬。那时你还是一个小孩子，我不知道你未来的路是怎样的。我只知道一件事情，就是你永远都不会和你的妻子坐在那里，坐在那硕大的、立刻让人显得渺小的椅子上，那里一切总是很舒适很安心。我是最后一个坐在那里的人。老屋子的传统在我这里终结。后来我不得不试着在这个我无法理解的世界中找到我自己的路。我不得不经历一切我极其讨厌、并让我的快乐消失殆尽的事物。对我自己而言，已无所求，我是一个被束缚的、受过伤的人。但我还有你，芬，我得知道在一切虚无的跳舞、调情、唱歌背后，他们是不是在诚实、正确地筑建这个世界。或者这世界于我眼前的没什么两样，那我是不是不应该尽全力将我的孩子带到这险山恶水中，让野兽把他撕成碎片，这一切考量中我都独自一人。你母亲搬去这房子旁边的老房子住了，因为在这里，她无法快乐。在那里，她找到了平静。但我不需要避难所。不论我在哪里，我都是在家里：我只是想看到你，还有你的孩子能够幸福安康生活成长的地方……我不遗余力地寻找，南部北部，东边西边。我读了他们的书……那些轻松的书在我手中像肥皂泡一样破裂，而那些富有力量的书我理解起来很费劲。没有什么他们的绿色远景是我没有在自己的房间里看到过的，也没有什么亮剑没在我眼前闪过光。我没有被自己的苦楚蒙蔽双眼，被流行话欺骗，也没有害怕那些谩骂声。只要我还能看到路，我就顺着我的路一直往前走，芬。我凝视着最远处，在那里我所看到的只有恐惧和疯狂。芬，我不知道，可能是你母亲的上帝救了我。也可能是我那个自己开船驶入港湾然后在新大地上盖起房子的祖先。或许是在那些充满焦虑孤独的日子里，你来向我道早安和晚安时，你完全信任地放在我手掌中的那双小手。我说不清楚。我敢肯定，是我对你的爱让我得到了升华。我爬到了凡人所能爬到的山峰高度。一切在我脚下都像一片云，憧憬、幸福、生计和苦恼。我看不到我的房子所在的山谷。但在白云之外，越过山峰，我看到我们一代又一代忙碌努力的地方，一天一天朝着目标前进，虽然这目标我们看不到，但它就在那里，因为路就在那里。我还看到土地，从我站的山峰之处，看到你还有你的子孙后代的乐土。那是一片我所不知道的土地，一片我看着陌生的土地，那里的人们有不一样的习惯和信仰，有不同形式的爱情和荣耀。我在那场将老屋子的门猛地推开的暴风雨中看到这一切，芬，那是很神奇的时刻，是我一生中最强大、最快乐的时刻。”

科特站在窗边，双臂交叉在胸前。他看着他的儿子，遗憾地笑笑。芬静静地坐在椅子里，仰着头，闭着眼。

“然后，我就让你为你的旅行做好准备，芬，我无法给你指路，因为我是被束缚的人，我无法和你同行。我带给你书籍和指引者，他们帮你打开世界之门。我让你知晓你想骑行穿越的迷雾。我已没有任何顾虑，因为我无所求，我已看过那片雾霭。你长大了，你健康聪明。之后我便慢慢地等待，渴望当我从自家阳台向你挥手，看你去征服世界的那一天尽快到来。我就是在等待着那一天。啊，我看到过那些穷鬼，饥饿难耐，伤痕累累，盲目地冲向新世界，因为那世界不可能比旧世界更加糟糕。我听到他们号召建立新的法律，因为他们违反了旧的。他们被赶出他们的茅屋，带着他们的包裹，还有对新世界的一丝希望，坐上了移民的船舶。但你，你没有做错什么，也没复仇的理由。你有国王的儿子一样的自由身，你和你的随从骑过桥梁，横穿世界，把你的横标插在任何你想要的地方。你生于你母亲对兴奋的渴望，生在你父亲堡垒一般的房子里，有老屋子里的劲风充满你的肺，而没有它对你的束缚。一个高贵无瑕的君子，追逐他的自由意志，在革命的潮流中占有一席之地。”

科特安静下来，他的脚步声则显得更加沉重。

“芬，你在听我讲话吗？”

“是的，父亲。”

“过来。”

芬站起来。科特搂着芬的肩膀，同他一起在屋里踱步。

“我曾有好多的梦想，芬。我收获了很多自信，我的快乐已经支离破碎，但我还有你。我虽是个老人，但我的思想却不迟钝。我经历过海难，但我不惧怕大海。我相信生命，相信上帝。”

科特和芬无法步调一致地肩并肩走路，于是科特挪开了他搭在芬肩头的胳膊。芬又坐回到他的椅子里，听着他父亲继续说道：

“然后就到了你知道的这些时光，现在的日子，你长成为一个安静的人。你沉重地看着生活，胆小的你害怕世界上的硝烟火海。你的衣服总是一尘不染，但这很容易做到，因为你从来不打架。你从不会在别人不希望你出现的地方出现。你从不踏出家门，芬，从不。你的血液中没有热血，你的思想中没有欲望。你总是很累，芬，仅仅是累。我渐渐为你担心起来，随着时间流逝，你对我来说已不仅仅只是儿子，不仅仅是我的血肉，你是人类链条上的一节，穿越年华，一直向前。你的生命比我的更加宝贵。因为你得挑起新的负担进入新的时代。记住，芬，我曾去过山顶，看过森林。这不再只是传承的问题，不再只是家族骄傲和家族忠诚的问题。你和我在这场战斗中结盟。我拿着眼前的地图，紧随战斗的脚步，像年迈的士兵，自己无法再征战疆场，但他还有他的儿子，他的族群，他的帝王，记住我是如何到达我所在的地方的。记住我失去了什么，我放弃了什么，我是如何全心全意为你付出的。我拥有你，芬，除了你，我还有什么？那时，我开始为你担忧，我倾尽所有培养你。我告诉你老屋子的故事，希望它会让你穿上戎装。我告诉你你父亲和母亲的命运，是为了让你明白人们如何努力去获得幸福。我把你送到外面的世界，让你开眼界，看看更加伟大、强壮的生命力，是为了让你成为一个男人。但我从不……从不给你套上任何限制。我从不利用我作为抚养者的角色要挟你。而你，你翻着画册，带着比以往更加苍白的脸色回到家里。老屋子只是一首漂亮的诗，它让你陷入更沉的梦里。而在外面的世界，身强力壮的男人遇到他们的妻子。当太阳西下时，他们真诚而开心地交谈。而你，整天坐在那里，一个人，双手倦怠无力。”

讲到这里，科特重重地拍了下芬的肩膀。芬抬起头看着科特，双眼模糊，嘴巴一直在颤抖。

“今天，芬，我把一切交给你来继承。从今天起，我把你当作成年人对待。别人无法强迫你。而且，也没有人愿意那样做。也没有人能对你生气。你没有情绪，始终都那个样子。今天，这一切都将成为过去。出去给自己买座房子，娶个老婆，跟她生一群孩子。记住，我们家族里虽然有人失败，但没有胆小怯懦之徒。”

“父亲，我理解你所说的，但我做不到你想让我做的。”

“你们这些胆小鬼总是理解一切，因为你们根本没有任何信仰。你们以为你们都那么亲切聪明。说你们宽容，那是因为你们根本不做决定，你们知道，真理无处可寻又处处都在。你们替一切愚蠢的想法辩护，你们永远都在盘算肚子里那点儿东西却从不行动，然后你们放走了杀人犯，让小偷逃之夭夭。上帝啊，帮帮这些可怜虫！那些最愚蠢、最无知的恶魔都比你们这些人更聪明、更和蔼！”

芬想说话，但科特做了个手势，不让他说话，“一个男人，不应能够理解一切。他必须选择、判断、拒绝。如果他不这么做，那世界上就不存在幸福，也就没有和平和忠诚。如果他无法恨，那么他也就无法爱。”

科特走到窗户前，向外望去。此刻，芬走到他身边，抓住他的手，哀求地望着他，“我做不到你想让我做的那样。”

科特抽回自己的手，站得离芬远了些，“你没有权利对我说那样的话，芬。我不听。因为我想要的，只不过是让你去生活。拿着我给你的财产，随你的意愿使用它。有一天，你会为你的儿子负责，现在，是我对你负责的时候。”

芬满脸悲伤地笑笑，说道：

“我永远都不会有儿子。”

科特没有听到芬说的话。他陷入了回忆的挣扎中。科特用手抹了一把脸，目视前方。他看到阿德尔海德，那一晚在老屋子里，说了跟芬刚才说的一模一样的话，绝望无力。“我做不到你想要的。”

科特坐下来，躺回到自己的椅子里。

过去的绝望再次向他袭来，他陷入巨大的疲惫中。他无法抵御那一句“我做不到你想要的”。

然后，他从椅子上跳了起来，双眼冒火地看着芬，“如果是你的母亲摧毁了你的意志，那你立刻离开她，恨她，抛弃她。”

“父亲，父亲！”

“恨她，她沉迷于她年轻时的毒害。跟你一样，她理解一切。对于她来说，没有渺小伟大，没有远近之分。她的意志已经消失，就跟你一样。她知道荣耀在哪里，但她够不到。她汲取这个时代的精髓，她也成了这个时代的人。她总是病怏怏的，病得快死了。”

他穿过屋子，没再说什么。

科特和芬两人脸色苍白，都渴望独处。他们彼此都不想再说什么。

芬并不是为了他母亲而感到生气。他脑子里只有一件事情，那就是他做不到科特希望他做的，而且他也无法平息科特心中的悲伤，也无法告诉科特，他有多么爱他。他渴望静静地坐着，在老屋子里，和他母亲一起。

“你生我的气吗，父亲？”

科特长久地看着芬，然后说：

“是的。”

当芬离开后，科特把脸埋在手中，默默地哭泣。