第三章（第2/7页）

Michaelis arrived duly, in a very neat car, with a chauffeur and a manservant. He was absolutely Bond Street! But at right of him something in Clifford's county soul recoiled. He wasn't exactly…not exactly…in fact, he wasn't at all, well, what his appearance intended to imply. To Clifford this was final and enough. Yet he was very polite to the man; to the amazing success in him. The bitch-goddess, as she is called, of Success, roamed, snarling and protective, round the half-humble, half-defiant Michaelis' heels, and intimidated Clifford completely: for he wanted to prostitute himself to the bitch-goddess, Success also, if only she would have him. Michaelis obviously wasn't an Englishman, in spite of all the tailors, hatters, barbers, booters of the very best quarter of London. No, no, he obviously wasn't an Englishman: the wrong sort of flattish, pale face and bearing; and the wrong sort of grievance. He had a grudge and a grievance: that was obvious to any true-born English gentleman, who would scorn to let such a thing appear blatant in his own demeanour. Poor Michaelis had been much kicked, so that he had a slightly tail-between-the-legs look even now. He had pushed his way by sheer instinct and sheerer effrontery on to the stage and to the front of it, with his plays. He had caught the public. And he had thought the kicking days were over. Alas, they weren't… They never would be. For he, in a sense, asked to be kicked. He pined to be where he didn't belong...among the English upper classes. And how they enjoyed the various kicks they got at him! And how he hated them! Nevertheless he travelled with his manservant and his very neat car, this Dublin mongrel.

米凯利斯如约而至，座驾奢侈豪华，私人司机和贴身男仆左右相陪。身上穿的是如假包换的邦德街行头！刚打照面，克利福德那颗乡下人的胆怯心灵便畏缩不前了。他并不真是……不真是……事实上，他龌龊的内心根本与光鲜的外表不搭调。对克利福德而言，这点是确定无疑的。不过，他还是对米凯利斯毕恭毕敬，对他取得的非凡成就崇拜不已。米凯利斯既谦卑又趾高气昂，而“成功”——人们常称之为“母狗女神”的——徘徊在他的脚边，肆意咆哮着，担当着保镖的角色。这阵仗彻底把克利福德吓住了，他又何尝不想主动献身给成功女神，只要她愿意跟他春风一度。就算伦敦最上流街区的裁缝、帽商、理发师以及鞋匠们都调动起来，也没法把米凯利斯打扮得像个英国人。不，不，他显然不像是英国人，无论是苍白扁平的脸孔，举手投足间的风度，还是愤世嫉俗的性格，都与英伦风范不合。他总是恨意满腔，牢骚满腹，这根本逃不过地道英国绅士的眼睛，他们从不屑让这种情绪在自己的举止间流露出来。可怜的米凯利斯之前饱受摧残，以至于现在都没有摆脱夹着尾巴做人的丧气相。凭借单纯的直觉以及更加彻底的厚颜无耻，依靠自己的作品，他在戏剧舞台占据一席之地，甚至成为个中翘楚。他赢得观众的青睐。本以为备受蹂躏的日子总算过去。没料想，事实并非如此...它们永远也不会终结。或者可以说，米凯利斯是个自讨苦吃的家伙。他奢求涉足自己不可企及的领域...跻身英国上流社会。而他们想方设法地践踏他，并乐在其中。而他对他们也只有切齿的痛恨。而这个都柏林狗杂种依然带着跟班，乘着名车，招摇过市。

There was something about him that Connie liked. He didn't put on airs to himself, he had no illusions about himself. He talked to Clifford sensibly, briefly, practically, about all the things Clifford wanted to know. He didn't expand or let himself go. He knew he had been asked down to Wragby to be made use of, and like an old, shrewd, almost indifferent business man, or big-business man, he let himself be asked questions, and he answered with as little waste of feeling as possible.

米凯利斯有些优点深得康妮青睐。他从不装腔作势，懂得脚踏实地。一旦攀谈起来，他总能做到条理清晰，简明扼要，实事求是，将克利福德想要了解的一切和盘托出。他从不夸大事实，从不得意忘形。他深知克利福德请自己到拉格比来，只是为了加以利用，而他像位经验老道、从容不迫的商人，甚至可以说是位巨贾，任你如何发问，他都能尽可能自若地回答。

"Money!" he said. "Money is a sort of instinct. It's a sort of property of nature in a man to make money. It's nothing you do. It's no trick you play. It's a sort of permanent accident of your own nature; once you start, you make money, and you go on; up to a point, I suppose.” "But you've got to begin," said Clifford.

“金钱！”他感慨道。“金钱是种本能。挣钱是人类与生俱来的天性。无论你怎么做。无论你耍什么花招。在我看来，这是人类天性中不可变更的运数；一旦掌握要领，钱就会滚滚而来，一发不可收拾，直至富埒陶白。“但总得掌握入门的诀窍。”克利福德说。

"Oh, quite! You've got to get in. You can do nothing if you are kept outside. You've got to beat your way in. Once you've done that, you can't help it.” "But could you have made money except by plays?" asked Clifford.

“没错，的确如此！入门确实至关重要。置身其中才能施展拳脚。必须想方设法找到挣钱的门路。一旦深谙此道，就会欲罢不能。”“除了写剧本，你还有其他挣钱的门道么？”克利福德问。

"Oh, probably not! I may be a good writer or I may be a bad one, but a writer and a writer of plays is what I am, and I've got to be. There's no question of that.” "And you think it's a writer of popular plays that you've got to be?" asked Connie. "There, exactly!" he said, turning to her in a sudden flash. "There's nothing in it! There's nothing in popularity. There's nothing in the public, if it comes to that. There's nothing really in my plays to make them popular. It's not that. They just are like the weather...the sort that will have to be...for the time being.” He turned his slow, rather full eyes, that had been drowned in such fathomless disillusion, on Connie, and she trembled a little. He seemed so old...endlessly old, built up of layers of disillusion, going down in him generation after generation, like geological strata; and at the same time he was forlorn like a child. An outcast, in a certain sense; but with the desperate bravery of his rat-like existence.

“哦，或许没有吧！拥有生花妙笔也好，作品不堪卒读也罢，都无法改变我身为剧作家的事实，而且这也是我唯一的出路。这一点毋庸置疑。”“那你觉得自己注定会成为尽人皆知的剧作家么？”康妮问道。“没错，千真万确！”他答道，霍地把脸扭向康妮。“其实也算不得什么！家喻户晓也没有什么了不起。说白了，广大观众也就是那么回事。其实我的剧本并无出众之处。受欢迎的关键不在于此。一切就好似天气……不过是水到渠成的事情……至少目前看来是这样。”他那对迟钝的大眼睛凝视着康妮，眼神中饱含着无穷无尽的幻灭，四目相对，康妮不禁微微战栗了一下。他看上去如此苍老……久历岁月的沧桑，经年累月的幻灭层叠起来，在他身上沉积汇聚，如同地层的形成过程；但与此同时，他又像个孤立无助的孩子。某种意义上，一个被抛弃者，却有着老鼠般抗争的勇敢气概。