Chapter 26
第二十六章
菲利普已在海德堡呆了三个月。一天早晨，教授太太告诉他有个名叫海沃德的英国人要住进这寓所来，就在当天晚上吃饭时，他见到了一张陌生面孔。连日来，这屋子里的人一直沉浸在兴奋之中。首先，经过教授太太母女俩低三下四的恳求，加上含而不露的恫吓，另外天知道还耍了些什么鬼花招，那位与特克拉小姐订婚的英国青年的父母，终于邀请她去英国看望他们。她动身时，随身带了一本水彩画册，有意显示一下自己的多才多艺，另外还带去一大捆情书，以证明那位英国青年在孽海中陷得有多深。一星期之后，赫德威格小姐又春风满面地宣布，她的意中人，那位轻骑兵中尉，就要偕同父母前来海德堡。中尉的父母一则吃不住宝贝儿子死皮赖脸的纠缠，二则对赫德威格小姐的父亲主动提出的那笔嫁妆动了心，终于同意来海德堡同这位少女结识一下。会面的结果尽如人意，赫德威格小姐洋洋得意地把情人领市立公园，让欧林教授家所有的人一睹丰采……那几位紧靠教授太太端坐上席的老太太，平时一向沉静端庄，今晚却显得心绪不宁。当赫德威格小姐说她要立即启程回家去举行订婚仪式时，教授太太毫不吝惜地说，她愿意请大家喝Maibowle，聊表祝贺之意。欧林教授颇为自己调制这种淡雅、香醇的酒的手艺感到自豪。晚餐后，在客厅的圆桌上隆重地摆上了一大碗掺苏打水的白葡萄酒，碗里还漂着一些香草和野生草莓。安娜小姐拿菲利普打趣，说他的情人要甩下他走了，菲利普听了浑身不白在，有种说不出的惆怅之感。赫德威格小姐唱了好几支歌子，安娜小姐演奏了《婚礼进行曲》，教授唱了《Die Wacht am Rhein》。沉浸在这样的欢乐气氛之中，菲利普很少留意那位新来的房客。刚才吃晚饭时他俩面对面坐着，但菲利普净忙着同赫德威格小姐拉扯絮叨，而那位陌生人不懂德语，只顾一个人埋头吃饭。菲利普注意到他系了条淡蓝色的领带，单因为这一点，菲利普就陡然心生厌恶。此人二十六岁，眉清目秀，蓄着波浪形的长发，时而还漫不经心地抬手抚弄一下。一双蓝色的大眼睛，不过是很淡很淡的蓝色，眼神里颇带几分倦怠之意。胡子刮得精光，尽管嘴唇薄薄的，但整个口形很美。安娜小姐对于相面术很感兴趣，她要菲利普日后留神一下，那陌生人的头颅外形有多匀称，而他脸庞的下部却显得松软。那颗脑袋，她评论说，是颗思想家的脑袋，但他的下颚却缺少个性。这位注定了要当一辈子老处女的安娜小姐，生就一副高高的颧骨和一只怪模怪样的大鼻子，特别注重人的个性。就在他们谈论此人长相的时候，他已离开大伙儿，站在一旁冷眼观看这闹哄哄的一群人，怡然自得的神态中微带几分傲慢。他身材修长。这会儿，他有意摆出一副风雅不俗的仪态。维克斯，那几个美国学生中的一个，见他独自站在一旁，便跑去同他搭讪。他们两位形成了奇怪的对照：那个美国人穿戴整洁，上身穿一件黑色外套，下身套一条椒盐色的裤子，长得又瘦又干俾，举止神情之中多少掺着点教士的热忱；而那个英国人呢，穿着一身宽松的花哨的呢服，粗手粗脚，举动慢条市里。
菲利普直到第二天才同新来的房客讲了话。午餐前，他们发现就自已两个站在客厅前的凉台上。海沃德向他招呼说：
"我想你是英国人吧？"
"是的。"
"这儿的伙食老是像昨晚上的那么差劲？"
"差不多就是这个样子。"
"糟透了，是不？"
"糟透了。"
菲利普一点儿没觉着伙食有什么不对头。事实上，他不但吃起来津津有味，而且食量颇大。但是，他可不想让人看出自己在吃的方面是个外行，竟把别人认为不堪入口的伙食视作上乘佳品。
特克拉小姐已去英国作客，操持家务就得偏劳妹妹安娜，她再抽不出时间经常到野外去散步。那位脸小鼻塌、金发束成长辫子的凯西莉小姐，近来也常闭门独处，似乎不大愿意同别人交往。赫德威格小姐走了，经常陪他们一同外出散步的那个美国人维克斯，现在也到德国南部旅行去了，丢下菲利普一个人，怪冷清的。海沃德有心要同他结交，可菲利普却有这么个不幸的特点：由于生性羞怯，或者说，由于在他身上出现某种返祖遗传--承继了穴居人的习性，他在同别人乍打交道时，总是心生嫌恶。一直要等到以后熟捻了，才会消除初次见面时别人给自己留下的坏印象。鉴于这点，外人很难同他接近。对于海沃德的友好表示，菲利普虚与应付，感到羞赧难当。一天，海。德邀菲利普同去散步，菲利普不得已同。了，因为他实在想不出句体面的托辞来。他照例是那么一句告罪的话，同时对自己禁不住要脸红这一点很是恼怒，于是故意张扬一笑，想借此来掩饰自己的窘态。
"我恐怕走不快呀。"
"我的老天，我又不是要打赌看谁走得快。我就是喜欢随便溜达溜达。您不记得佩特在《马里乌斯》的一章里曾经讲过，悠然漫步乃是最理想的交谈助兴剂？"
菲利普颇能领略他人讲话的妙处。虽然他自己也常常想说些语惊四座的妙语，但往往等到说话的机会已经错过了，才想起句把来；海沃德却谈锋甚健。换个比菲利普稍微老练些的人，也许会觉得海沃德就是喜欢别人听他自己高谈阔论。他那目空一切的傲态，给了菲利普很深的印象。对于许多被自己视为近乎神圣不可侵犯的事物，此人竟敢表示轻侮之意，单凭这一点，就不能不叫人佩服，不能不叫人肃然起敬。海沃德针砭世人对体育的盲目崇拜，把热心各种体育活动的人一概斥之为"奖品迷"；其实菲利普不明白，海沃德毕竟脱不了此窠臼，在身心的陶冶方面，他也总得迷恋些别的什么。
他们信步逛到古堡那儿，在古堡前那座俯瞰着海德堡全城的平台上坐定。小城傍依在风光宜人的内卡河畔，显示出一种与世无争的恬淡气氛。千家万户的烟囱里，腾起袅袅青烟，弥漫在古城上空，化成一片淡蓝的雾霭；高耸的屋顶和教堂的塔尖，错落有致，赋予小城一种赏心悦目的中世纪风味。整个古城自有一种沁人肺腑的亲切暖意。海沃德谈到了《理查·弗浮莱尔》和《包法利夫人》，谈到了魏尔伦、但丁和马修·阿诺德。那时候，菲茨杰拉德翻译的莪默·伽亚谟的诗集，只为少数上帝的特选子民所知晓，而海沃德却能将诗集逐字逐句地背诵给菲利普听。他很喜欢背诵诗篇，自己写的，或是别人写的，都以一种平直的歌调加以吟诵。等到他们回到家里时，菲利普对海沃德的态度，已从敷衍猜疑一转而为热情崇拜。
他们每天下午总要一起出外走一遭。菲利普没多久就了解到海沃德的身世点滴。他是位乡村法官的儿子，不久前法官去世，他继承到一笔岁人三百镑的遗产。海沃德在查特豪斯公学的学业成绩优异出众，他进剑桥大学时，甚至连特林尼特学院院长也破格亲自出迎，对他决定进该学院深造表示满意。海沃德厉兵袜马，准备干一番轰轰烈烈的事业。他同出类拔萃的知识界人士周旋交往，热情研读勃朗宁的诗作，对了尼生的作品嗤之以鼻。雪莱同海略特的那段啼笑姻缘的细节，他洞晓无遗；他对艺术史也有所涉猎（在他房间的墙壁上，挂有G·F·华茨、伯恩-琼斯和波提切利等画家杰作的复制品）。他自己也写了一些格调悲凉，却不乏特色的诗篇。朋友间相互议论，说他资质聪颖，才气横溢；海沃德很乐意听他们预言自己将来如何一鸣惊人，蜚声文坛。没多久，他自然而然地成了义学艺术方面的权威。纽曼的《自辩书》对他颇有影响；罗马天主教生动别致的教义，和他敏锐的美感一拍即合，他只是伯父亲（他父亲是个思想褊狭、心直口快的愣汉，平生喜读麦考利的作品）大发雷霆才没有"幡然改宗"，皈依天主教。当海沃德在毕业考试中只取得个及格成绩时，朋友们都惊愕不止；而他自己却耸耸肩，巧妙地暗示说，他可不愿充当主考人手里的玩偶。他让人感到优异的考试成绩总不免沾有几分市井之气。他用豁达调侃的口吻描述了一次口试的经过：某个围了只讨厌透顶的领圈的角色，提问他逻辑学上的问题；口试冗长乏味到了极点，突然，他注意到主考人穿着一双宽紧靴，这情况怪诞而可笑，他思想开起小差来，想到了金斯学院哥特式教堂的粗犷之美。话得说回来，他也确实在剑桥度过一段美好时光：在那儿，他宴请过亲朋好友，餐席之丰美，还未见过能与之比肩的；他在自己的书室里与同窗纵论天下事，其言谈之高雅，往往令人永志难忘。说着，他随口给菲利普引述了一句精辟的警句：
"他们告诉我，赫拉克利特，他们告诉我，你已经归天了。"
这会儿，当他言归正传，继续绘声绘色地讲述关于主考人和他靴子的轶事时，他禁不住仰面大笑起来。
"这当然是件蠢事罗，"他说，"不过在此蠢事之中也有其微妙之处。"
菲利普不无激动地想：真了不起！
之后，海沃德去伦敦攻读法律。他在克莱门特法律协会租了几间十分雅致的、墙壁上镶有嵌板的房间，设法把它们布置得像学院里的书室那样。他的抱负，多多少少是着眼于政界官场的。他自称是辉格党人。有人推举他加入一个虽带有自由党色彩、绅士气息却很浓的俱乐部。海沃德的想法是先开业当律师（他打算处理大法官法庭方面的诉讼事务，因为这比较仁慈些），一俟各方的许诺兑现之后，便设法当上某个地利人和的选区的议员。在此期间，他经常上歌剧院，结交少数几个趣味相投的风雅之士。他还加入某个聚餐俱乐部，俱乐部的座右铭是：全、佳、美。他同一个住在肯辛顿广场、比他年长八岁的女士建立了柏拉图式的情谊。几乎每天下午，他都要同她在带遮光罩的烛灯之下品茶对饮，谈论乔治·梅瑞狄斯和沃特·佩特。众所周知，律师协会举行的考试是不论哪个傻瓜都通得过的；所以海沃德也就疲疲沓沓地应付着学业。哪知到头来，结业考试却没及格，海沃德认为这是主考人存心同他过不去。也就在这时，那位住在肯辛顿广场的太太告诉他说，她丈夫马上要从印度回国来度假了，丈夫的为人尽管在各方面都无可指责，但毕竟是个见地平庸的男人，对于一位青年男子的频繁拜访，不见得会予以充分谅解的吧。海沃德感到生活里充满了丑恶，同时，想到还要再一次面对玩世不恭的主考人，真是打心底里感到厌恶。他觉得干脆把脚边的球一脚踢开去，倒不失为快刀斩乱麻的好办法。况且他眼下债台高筑；在伦敦，想依靠三百镑的岁人来维持个体面的生活，也实在是难。他内心向往着威尼斯和佛罗伦萨，这两处地方被约翰·罗斯金说得神乎其神。他觉得自己适应不了庸俗繁忙的法律事务，因为他已发现，先把自己的大名往大门上一写，是招揽不到什么诉讼案的，而且现代政治似乎也欠尊严。他觉得自己生来是个诗人。他退掉克莱门特法律协会的房间，动身去意大利。他在佛罗伦萨和罗马分别度过了一个冬天，现在又来到德国，消度他在国外的第二个夏天，以便日后可以欣赏歌德的原著。
海沃德具有极其可贵的天赋：他对文学有很高的鉴赏力，能够将自已的激情淋漓尽致地倾注在作品之中，使自己获得与作家相同的感受，洞察作家的一切精华所在，然后垦切入理地加以评论。菲利普读的书不可谓不多，但是从不加以选择，拿到什么就读什么，现在遇到这么一个能在义学鉴赏方面加以点拨的良师益友，真是三生有幸。菲利普从本城藏书量有限的外借图书馆借来各种书籍，凡是海沃德提到过的精采之作，他一本连一本地拜读过去。虽然读的时候并不都觉得饶有兴味，但他锲而不舍地往下钻。他感到自己太无知，太浅薄，热切地希望自己能有所长进。到八底，维克斯从德国南部回来的时候，菲利普已经完全置于海沃德的影响之下。海沃德不喜欢维克斯，对那个美国人的黑外套和椒盐色裤子连声哀叹；每每讲到他那新英格兰的良心，则轻蔑地一耸肩。听着海沃德出言不逊，糟蹋维克斯，菲利普也暗暗得意，尽管维克斯对他特别殷勤友善：反过来，维克斯对海沃德稍微发表几句不中听的议论，菲利普听了就会顿时发起火来。
"你的新朋友看上去倒像个诗人呢，"维克斯不无挖苦地说，饱经忧患的嘴角上挂着一缕微笑。
"他本是个诗人嘛。"
"是他自己对你这么说的吗？在我们美国，管他这号人叫标准饭桶。"
"可我们现在并不在美国，"菲利普冷冷地说。
"他多大了？二十五岁？他就这样成天无所事事，住在膳宿公寓里写诗。"
"你不了解他，"菲利普气冲冲地说。
"不，我很了解他呢！像他这样的人我见过一百四十七个了。"
维克斯的那对眸子灼灼有光，但是菲利普欣赏不了美国人的幽默，噘嘴翘唇，铁板着脸。在菲利普看来，维克斯似乎已届中年，实际上他才三十出头。维克斯是个瘦长条子，像学者似的，有点佝偻，头颅大得难看，头发暗淡而稀疏，皮肤呈土色。薄薄的嘴唇，细长的鼻子，额骨明显地向前突出，生就一副粗俗相。他的态度冷淡，举止拘泥刻板，既无生气，也无热情，却有一种莫名其妙的轻浮气质，闹得一些容严心肃的人周章失措，而维克斯出于本能，偏偏喜欢同这等人混在一起。他在海德堡大学攻读神学，而另外一些也在此地攻读神学的同胞对他都心存戒意。此人离经叛道的味儿太浓，使他们望而生畏。他的那种古怪幽默感，也使他们颇不以为然。
"他这样的人你怎么可能见过一百四十七个呢？"
"我在巴黎的拉丁居民区见到过他；我在柏林、慕尼黑的寄宿公寓里见到过他。他住在佩鲁贾和阿西西的小旅馆里。他那样的人三五成群地伫立在佛罗伦萨的波提切利名画之前；他那样的人占满了罗马西斯廷教堂的座席。在意大利，他喝葡萄酒稍微多一点；他在德国喝起啤酒来，则是开怀痛饮，全无节制。凡属正确的东西，不问是什么，他一概膜拜顶礼。他打算在不久的将来写一部皇皇巨著。想一想吧，一百四十七部惊世之作，蕴藏在一百四十七位大人物的心头；不幸的是，这一百四十七部惊世之作一部也写不出来。而世界呢，照样在前进。"
维克斯一本正经地侃侃而谈，临结束时，那一双浅灰眸于忽闪了几下。菲利普脸红了，知道这位美国人在拿他打趣。
"净瞎扯淡，"菲利普怒气冲冲地说。
Chapter 26
Philip had spent three months in Heidelberg when one morning the Frau Professor told him that an Englishman named Hayward was coming to stay in the house, and the same evening at supper he saw a new face. For some days the family had lived in a state of excitement. First, as the result of heaven knows what scheming, by dint of humble prayers and veiled threats, the parents of the young Englishman to whom Fraulein Thekla was engaged had invited her to visit them in England, and she had set off with an album of water colours to show how accomplished she was and a bundle of letters to prove how deeply the young man had compromised himself. A week later Fraulein Hedwig with radiant smiles announced that the lieutenant of her affections was coming to Heidelberg with his father and mother. Exhausted by the importunity of their son and touched by the dowry which Fraulein Hedwig’s father offered, the lieutenant’s parents had consented to pass through Heidelberg to make the young woman’s acquaintance. The interview was satisfactory and Fraulein Hedwig had the satisfaction of showing her lover in the Stadtgarten to the whole of Frau Professor Erlin’s household. The silent old ladies who sat at the top of the table near the Frau Professor were in a flutter, and when Fraulein Hedwig said she was to go home at once for the formal engagement to take place, the Frau Professor, regardless of expense, said she would give a Maibowle. Professor Erlin prided himself on his skill in preparing this mild intoxicant, and after supper the large bowl of hock and soda, with scented herbs floating in it and wild strawberries, was placed with solemnity on the round table in the drawing-room. Fraulein Anna teased Philip about the departure of his lady-love, and he felt very uncomfortable and rather melancholy. Fraulein Hedwig sang several songs, Fraulein Anna played the Wedding March, and the Professor sang Die Wacht am Rhein. Amid all this jollification Philip paid little attention to the new arrival. They had sat opposite one another at supper, but Philip was chattering busily with Fraulein Hedwig, and the stranger, knowing no German, had eaten his food in silence. Philip, observing that he wore a pale blue tie, had on that account taken a sudden dislike to him. He was a man of twenty-six, very fair, with long, wavy hair through which he passed his hand frequently with a careless gesture. His eyes were large and blue, but the blue was very pale, and they looked rather tired already. He was clean-shaven, and his mouth, notwithstanding its thin lips, was well-shaped. Fraulein Anna took an interest in physiognomy, and she made Philip notice afterwards how finely shaped was his skull, and how weak was the lower part of his face. The head, she remarked, was the head of a thinker, but the jaw lacked character. Fraulein Anna, foredoomed to a spinster’s life, with her high cheek-bones and large misshapen nose, laid great stress upon character. While they talked of him he stood a little apart from the others, watching the noisy party with a good-humoured but faintly supercilious expression. He was tall and slim. He held himself with a deliberate grace. Weeks, one of the American students, seeing him alone, went up and began to talk to him. The pair were oddly contrasted: the American very neat in his black coat and pepper-and-salt trousers, thin and dried-up, with something of ecclesiastical unction already in his manner; and the Englishman in his loose tweed suit, large-limbed and slow of gesture.
Philip did not speak to the newcomer till next day. They found themselves alone on the balcony of the drawing-room before dinner. Hayward addressed him.
‘You’re English, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is the food always as bad it was last night?’
‘It’s always about the same.’
‘Beastly, isn’t it?’
‘Beastly.’
Philip had found nothing wrong with the food at all, and in fact had eaten it in large quantities with appetite and enjoyment, but he did not want to show himself a person of so little discrimination as to think a dinner good which another thought execrable.
Fraulein Thekla’s visit to England made it necessary for her sister to do more in the house, and she could not often spare the time for long walks; and Fraulein Cacilie, with her long plait of fair hair and her little snub-nosed face, had of late shown a certain disinclination for society. Fraulein Hedwig was gone, and Weeks, the American who generally accompanied them on their rambles, had set out for a tour of South Germany. Philip was left a good deal to himself. Hayward sought his acquaintance; but Philip had an unfortunate trait: from shyness or from some atavistic inheritance of the cave-dweller, he always disliked people on first acquaintance; and it was not till he became used to them that he got over his first impression. It made him difficult of access. He received Hayward’s advances very shyly, and when Hayward asked him one day to go for a walk he accepted only because he could not think of a civil excuse. He made his usual apology, angry with himself for the flushing cheeks he could not control, and trying to carry it off with a laugh.
‘I’m afraid I can’t walk very fast.’
‘Good heavens, I don’t walk for a wager. I prefer to stroll. Don’t you remember the chapter in Marius where Pater talks of the gentle exercise of walking as the best incentive to conversation?’
Philip was a good listener; though he often thought of clever things to say, it was seldom till after the opportunity to say them had passed; but Hayward was communicative; anyone more experienced than Philip might have thought he liked to hear himself talk. His supercilious attitude impressed Philip. He could not help admiring, and yet being awed by, a man who faintly despised so many things which Philip had looked upon as almost sacred. He cast down the fetish of exercise, damning with the contemptuous word pot-hunters all those who devoted themselves to its various forms; and Philip did not realise that he was merely putting up in its stead the other fetish of culture.
They wandered up to the castle, and sat on the terrace that overlooked the town. It nestled in the valley along the pleasant Neckar with a comfortable friendliness. The smoke from the chimneys hung over it, a pale blue haze; and the tall roofs, the spires of the churches, gave it a pleasantly medieval air. There was a homeliness in it which warmed the heart. Hayward talked of Richard Feverel and Madame Bovary, of Verlaine, Dante, and Matthew Arnold. In those days Fitzgerald’s translation of Omar Khayyam was known only to the elect, and Hayward repeated it to Philip. He was very fond of reciting poetry, his own and that of others, which he did in a monotonous sing-song. By the time they reached home Philip’s distrust of Hayward was changed to enthusiastic admiration.
They made a practice of walking together every afternoon, and Philip learned presently something of Hayward’s circumstances. He was the son of a country judge, on whose death some time before he had inherited three hundred a year. His record at Charterhouse was so brilliant that when he went to Cambridge the Master of Trinity Hall went out of his way to express his satisfaction that he was going to that college. He prepared himself for a distinguished career. He moved in the most intellectual circles: he read Browning with enthusiasm and turned up his well-shaped nose at Tennyson; he knew all the details of Shelley’s treatment of Harriet; he dabbled in the history of art (on the walls of his rooms were reproductions of pictures by G. F. Watts, Burne-Jones, and Botticelli); and he wrote not without distinction verses of a pessimistic character. His friends told one another that he was a man of excellent gifts, and he listened to them willingly when they prophesied his future eminence. In course of time he became an authority on art and literature. He came under the influence of Newman’s Apologia; the picturesqueness of the Roman Catholic faith appealed to his esthetic sensibility; and it was only the fear of his father’s wrath (a plain, blunt man of narrow ideas, who read Macaulay) which prevented him from ‘going over.’ When he only got a pass degree his friends were astonished; but he shrugged his shoulders and delicately insinuated that he was not the dupe of examiners. He made one feel that a first class was ever so slightly vulgar. He described one of the vivas with tolerant humour; some fellow in an outrageous collar was asking him questions in logic; it was infinitely tedious, and suddenly he noticed that he wore elastic-sided boots: it was grotesque and ridiculous; so he withdrew his mind and thought of the gothic beauty of the Chapel at King’s. But he had spent some delightful days at Cambridge; he had given better dinners than anyone he knew; and the conversation in his rooms had been often memorable. He quoted to Philip the exquisite epigram:
‘They told me, Herakleitus, they told me you were dead.’
And now, when he related again the picturesque little anecdote about the examiner and his boots, he laughed.
‘Of course it was folly,’ he said, ‘but it was a folly in which there was something fine.’
Philip, with a little thrill, thought it magnificent.
Then Hayward went to London to read for the Bar. He had charming rooms in Clement’s Inn, with panelled walls, and he tried to make them look like his old rooms at the Hall. He had ambitions that were vaguely political, he described himself as a Whig, and he was put up for a club which was of Liberal but gentlemanly flavour. His idea was to practise at the Bar (he chose the Chancery side as less brutal), and get a seat for some pleasant constituency as soon as the various promises made him were carried out; meanwhile he went a great deal to the opera, and made acquaintance with a small number of charming people who admired the things that he admired. He joined a dining-club of which the motto was, The Whole, The Good, and The Beautiful. He formed a platonic friendship with a lady some years older than himself, who lived in Kensington Square; and nearly every afternoon he drank tea with her by the light of shaded candles, and talked of George Meredith and Walter Pater. It was notorious that any fool could pass the examinations of the Bar Council, and he pursued his studies in a dilatory fashion. When he was ploughed for his final he looked upon it as a personal affront. At the same time the lady in Kensington Square told him that her husband was coming home from India on leave, and was a man, though worthy in every way, of a commonplace mind, who would not understand a young man’s frequent visits. Hayward felt that life was full of ugliness, his soul revolted from the thought of affronting again the cynicism of examiners, and he saw something rather splendid in kicking away the ball which lay at his feet. He was also a good deal in debt: it was difficult to live in London like a gentleman on three hundred a year; and his heart yearned for the Venice and Florence which John Ruskin had so magically described. He felt that he was unsuited to the vulgar bustle of the Bar, for he had discovered that it was not sufficient to put your name on a door to get briefs; and modern politics seemed to lack nobility. He felt himself a poet. He disposed of his rooms in Clement’s Inn and went to Italy. He had spent a winter in Florence and a winter in Rome, and now was passing his second summer abroad in Germany so that he might read Goethe in the original.
Hayward had one gift which was very precious. He had a real feeling for literature, and he could impart his own passion with an admirable fluency. He could throw himself into sympathy with a writer and see all that was best in him, and then he could talk about him with understanding. Philip had read a great deal, but he had read without discrimination everything that he happened to come across, and it was very good for him now to meet someone who could guide his taste. He borrowed books from the small lending library which the town possessed and began reading all the wonderful things that Hayward spoke of. He did not read always with enjoyment but invariably with perseverance. He was eager for self-improvement. He felt himself very ignorant and very humble. By the end of August, when Weeks returned from South Germany, Philip was completely under Hayward’s influence. Hayward did not like Weeks. He deplored the American’s black coat and pepper-and-salt trousers, and spoke with a scornful shrug of his New England conscience. Philip listened complacently to the abuse of a man who had gone out of his way to be kind to him, but when Weeks in his turn made disagreeable remarks about Hayward he lost his temper.
‘Your new friend looks like a poet,’ said Weeks, with a thin smile on his careworn, bitter mouth.
‘He is a poet.’
‘Did he tell you so? In America we should call him a pretty fair specimen of a waster.’
‘Well, we’re not in America,’ said Philip frigidly.
‘How old is he? Twenty-five? And he does nothing but stay in pensions and write poetry.’
‘You don’t know him,’ said Philip hotly.
‘Oh yes, I do: I’ve met a hundred and forty-seven of him.’
Weeks’ eyes twinkled, but Philip, who did not understand American humour, pursed his lips and looked severe. Weeks to Philip seemed a man of middle age, but he was in point of fact little more than thirty. He had a long, thin body and the scholar’s stoop; his head was large and ugly; he had pale scanty hair and an earthy skin; his thin mouth and thin, long nose, and the great protuberance of his frontal bones, gave him an uncouth look. He was cold and precise in his manner, a bloodless man, without passion; but he had a curious vein of frivolity which disconcerted the serious-minded among whom his instincts naturally threw him. He was studying theology in Heidelberg, but the other theological students of his own nationality looked upon him with suspicion. He was very unorthodox, which frightened them; and his freakish humour excited their disapproval.
‘How can you have known a hundred and forty-seven of him?’ asked Philip seriously.
‘I’ve met him in the Latin Quarter in Paris, and I’ve met him in pensions in Berlin and Munich. He lives in small hotels in Perugia and Assisi. He stands by the dozen before the Botticellis in Florence, and he sits on all the benches of the Sistine Chapel in Rome. In Italy he drinks a little too much wine, and in Germany he drinks a great deal too much beer. He always admires the right thing whatever the right thing is, and one of these days he’s going to write a great work. Think of it, there are a hundred and forty-seven great works reposing in the bosoms of a hundred and forty-seven great men, and the tragic thing is that not one of those hundred and forty-seven great works will ever be written. And yet the world goes on.’
Weeks spoke seriously, but his gray eyes twinkled a little at the end of his long speech, and Philip flushed when he saw that the American was making fun of him.
‘You do talk rot,’ he said crossly.