Chapter 84
第八十四章
新年伊始，菲利普便上外科门诊部当敷裹员。此项工作的性质，同他不久前在内科门诊部所从事的工作没有什么两样，只不过是工作方式更加直接而已。这是外科不同于内科的性质所决定的。因循守旧的公众对内、外两科疾病的态度总是过分拘谨，任其四处蔓延，致使其中相当一部分人身受染病之苦。菲利普在一位名叫雅各布的外科助理医师手下当敷裹员。此人矮墩墩、胖乎乎的，脑顶心秃秃的，生性欢快，热情洋溢。说起话来，一口伦敦腔，嗓门扯得老大。医学院的学生们在背后送给他一个雅号--丑莽汉。然而，无论是作为一名外科大夫，还是一名教员，他都称得上才智过人，倒使得一部分学生忽略了他外表的丑陋。他还颇爱开玩笑，而且对病人也罢，对学生也罢，他都一视同仁，照开不误。他津津有味地出他手下的敷裹员们的洋相。那些敷裹员啥也不懂，诚惶诚恐，对他那副屈尊俯就俨然跟他们是平等的姿态很不适应。在这种情况下，拿他们开开心，那还不是易如反掌。一到下午，他心情更加愉快，因为他可以唠叨他的老生常谈，而那些来实习的学生们只得赔着笑脸硬着头皮听着。有一天，一个男孩跑来求医看跛足。他的父母亲想知道是否还有法子治好他的跛足。雅各布先生转过身来，对菲利普说：
"凯里，这个病人最好由你来看。这个课题你该了解一下。"
菲利普的脸红了。这位外科大夫显然是在捉弄他菲利普，而旁边的几位被他吓住了的敷裹员，一个个胁肩谄笑。看到这番情景，菲利普的脸不由得涨成了猪肝色。说实在的，自从来到圣路加医院，菲利普一直怀着急切的心情留心研究这个课题。图书馆里有关各种各样的跛足的资料他都读遍了。菲利普叫那孩子脱去靴子和长统袜。这孩子才十四岁。满是雀斑的脸上，长着一对蓝眼睛，嵌着一只塌鼻子。他父亲唠叨说，如有可能，他们想把孩子的脚治好，否则拖着条瘸脚对孩子独自谋生不利。那孩子性情可开朗啦，一点也不怕羞，伶牙俐齿的，且脸皮很厚。对此，他父亲很是反感。那孩子对自己的跛足还挺感兴趣的哩。
"要知道，这脚不过样子难看些吧，"他对菲利普说，"可我丝毫不觉得不便。"
"住嘴，厄尼，"他父亲呵斥道，"你废话说得太多了。"
菲利普检查着那孩子的跛足，并用手轻轻地抚摩着。他不理解这孩子为什么一点也不感到羞耻，而这种羞耻感却无时无刻不是沉重地压在自己的心上。他不知道为什么他就不能像这个孩子那样，对残疾抱明智的漠然的态度。这会儿，雅各布先生走到他的面前。那男孩坐在一张长椅边上，外科大大和菲利普两人分别站在他的两旁，其余几位学生成半月形围拢着。跟往常一样，雅各布才气横溢地、绘声绘色地就跛足发表了一个简短的演讲：他论及跛足的类型以及因不同的组织构造而形状各异的跛足。
"我想你那只跛足是呈马蹄形的，是不？"他说着，猛然转向菲利普。
"是的。"
菲利普觉察到同学们的目光一下子都集中在自己身上，脸刷地绯红，为此，他还暗暗地责骂自己。他感到手掌心沁出了涔涔汗水。由于行医多年，雅各布先生才能讲得头头是道，并独具慧眼，令人钦佩。他对自己的职业抱有浓厚的兴趣。但是菲利普并没有用心听讲，一心巴望这位老兄快点把话讲完。蓦地，他意识到雅各布是在对他说话。
"凯里，让你脱一会儿袜子，你不会介意吧？"
菲利普只觉得全身上下一阵震颤。刹那间，他真想冲着雅各布大喊"你给我滚"，然而他却没有勇气发脾气，生怕自己落得个被人讥笑的下场。于是，他强忍内心的愤懑，装出一副若无其事的样子来。
"这没什么，"他回了一声。
他一屁股坐了下来，开始解皮靴扣子。他的手指颤抖着，心里想他不该解这个扣子的。他回忆起上学时同学们强迫他脱下鞋袜裸露跛足时的情景，想起了由此而深深印在自己心灵上的创伤。
"他总是把双脚保养得好好的，洗得干干净净的，是不？"雅各布操着刺耳的伦敦土音说。
在场的学生们格格发笑。菲利普注意到刚才被检查脚的那个男孩用一种急切的、好奇的目光俯视着他的脚。雅各布一把抓住菲利普的跛足，接着说：
"是啊，这一点我预料到了。我看你这只脚是动过手术的。我想是小时候动的手术吧？"
接着，他滔滔不绝地解释着。学生们一个个倾过身子，注视着菲利普的跛足。雅各布放手的时候，两三个学生还盯着那只跛足仔仔细细地瞧了个够。
"你们看够了，我再穿袜子，"菲利普笑吟吟地说，但这微笑含有嘲讽的意味。
他准能把他们一个个都干掉。他想要是用把凿子（他不知道自己怎么会想起用这种工具来的）捅他们的脖子，那该多杀气啊！人是多么像野兽啊！他巴不得自己能相信炼狱之说，这样，想到他们这些人将受到可怕的折磨，他心里也可舒畅一些。雅各布先生把注意力转向治疗方法上，他的话一半是说给那孩子的父亲听的，一半是讲给学生们听的。菲利普套上袜子，扣上靴子。最后，那位外科大夫的话讲完了，但像是想起了什么似的，突然转向菲利普说：
"嘿，我认为你再动次手术说不定还是有好处的。当然我不能还你一只同常人一样的脚，不过我想我还是可以做些事情的。你好好想想吧。什么时候你想休假，你尽管到医院里来住一段时间好了。"
菲利普常常问自己这条跛腿是否还有办法治好。但是他讨厌提起自己的残疾，所以一直没有跟医院里任何一位外科医生商讨过这个问题。他从书中得知，小时候无论接受过什么样的治疗，都是不会有什么效果的，因为当时的医术不如现在的高明。不过，只要能使得他穿上正常的靴子，走路时也瘸得不那么厉害，就是再挨一刀还是值得的。他想起他曾虔诚地祈祷出现奇迹。他的牧师大伯曾许诺说，万能的上帝是完全能够创造出这种奇迹来的。想到这儿，他不觉凄苦地一笑。
"那会儿，我真傻！"他暗自思忖着。
快到二月底的时候，克朗肖的病情明显地恶化，再也起不来了。他整天躺在床上，但还坚持要把所有的窗户都闭上，仍旧拒绝医生看病。他只吃很少一点滋补食品，却一个劲儿要求给他买威士忌和香烟。菲利普知道他根本不该喝酒抽烟，但是拗不过克朗肖。他的观点是很难驳倒的。
"我知道烟酒肯定在夺我的命，可我不在乎，你功过我了，做到了仁至义尽。我不听你的忠告。给我酒喝，然后滚你的蛋。"
伦纳德·厄普姜一星期中有两三次飘然来访，枯叶般的外表使得用"枯叶"这个词儿来描写他的仪表最形象、最确切不过了。他三十五岁，头发又长又灰白，脸色苍白，长得活像棵野草。那样子叫人一看就知道他很少涉足户外。他头上戴了顶像是非国教牧师戴的帽子。菲利普对他那种傲慢的态度很反感，讨厌他那口若悬河的谈吐。伦纳德·厄普姜就喜欢夸夸其谈，全然不顾听众的兴趣，而这一点正是一位出色的演说家必不可少的品质。厄普姜从来不会想到他所讲的都是听众们早已听厌了的陈同滥调。他字斟句酌地对菲利普发表自己对罗丹、艾伯特·萨曼恩和凯撒·弗兰克的看法。菲利普雇佣的打杂女工只是上午来干一个小时的活，菲利普本人又整天都得泡在医院里，这样，一天大部分时间，克朗肖就得独自一人呆在家里。厄普姜告诉菲利普说他想叫个人来陪伴克朗肖，可只是于打雷，不下雨。
"想到那位伟大的诗人孤零零地呆在家里，实在叫人担心。喂，他很可能死的时候身边连个人影也没有呢。"
"我想这很可能，"菲利普说。
"你怎么好这样冷酷无情呢！"
"你满可以每天上这儿来干事，这样的话，他需要什么，身边也有个人呀。你为什么不这样做呢？"菲利普淡淡地反问道。
"我？亲爱的老兄，我只能在我熟悉的环境里工作，再说我经常要外出呀。"
另外，看到菲利普把克朗肖接到自己的住处，厄普姜满肚子的不高兴。
"我倒希望你让他仍旧住在索霍，"他说话的当儿，那双细长的手臂在空中挥舞了一下，"那个阁楼虽说脏了点，可还有一丝浪漫气息。即使是换成了华滨或肖迪奇，我也能容忍，可就是不能容忍把他搬到体面的肯宁顿来。那是一块多么理想的安葬诗魂的地方啊！"
克朗肖时常使性子。可菲利普时时提醒自己不要发脾气，因为他那急躁的心情不过是疾病的症状而已。厄普姜有时赶在菲利普下班以前来看望克朗肖，而克朗肖总是在这个时候，当着厄普姜的面，狠狠地发泄一通自己对菲利普的怨气。厄普姜则在一旁饶有兴趣地谛听着。
厄普姜对菲利普说话总是带着刺儿，而菲利普却极力抑制住自己的情感。但是，一天黄昏，菲利普终于忍无可忍了。那大，他在医院干了一天重活，回到寓所时，人已疲惫不堪。正当他在厨房里沏茶时，伦纳德·厄普姜一脚跨了进来，告诉菲利普说克朗肖对他坚持请医生来看病一事颇有怨言。
"难道你没有意识到，你享有一种非常罕见、非常微妙的特权吗？当然罗，你应该使出浑身解数，来证明你的高尚的品德是足以信赖的。"
"这种罕见的、微妙的特权，我可担当不起呀，"菲利普顶了一句。
每当提及钱的事儿，伦纳德·厄普姜总是流露出一种不屑一顾的神气，而且，他那敏感的天性总是变得激忿起来。
"克朗肖的举止言谈本来还有些优美的东西，可都被你的死乞白赖给搅了。你应该给你所体会不到的微妙的想象留些余地嘛。"
菲利普的脸色阴沉。
"我们一起去找克朗肖评评理，"菲利普态度冷冷地说。
那位诗人正躺在床上看书，嘴里还叼着烟斗呢。房间里弥漫着一股霉臭味。尽管菲利普常来打扫收拾，但房间里还是邋里邋遢的。看来，克朗肖住到哪儿，哪儿就休想干净。克朗肖看见他们俩走了进来，便摘下了眼镜。此时，菲利普简直是到了怒不可遏的地步。
"厄普姜说你埋怨我老是催你去请医生看病，"菲利普说。"我要你去看病，是因为你随时都有生命危险。再说，你一直不去找医生看病的话，那我就无法得到健康证明书。一旦你去世，我可要被传讯，还会为没请医生一事受到指责。"
"这一点我倒没想到。我原以为你催我去看病，是为了我而不是为你自个儿着想的。那好吧，你愿什么时候请医生来，我就什么时候看病。"
菲利普沉默不语，只是以难以觉察的动作耸了耸双肩。一直在注视着他的克朗肖不由得哧哧笑了起来。
"别生气嘛，亲爱的。我晓得，你想为我做你所能做到的一切。那就请你去叫医生来吧。说不定他真能帮点我的忙呢。至少说，这样可以使你得到些安慰。"接着，他把目光转向厄普姜。"你是个地道的蠢货，伦纳德。你怎么想起来去伤他的心呢？除了在我死后为我写篇漂亮的文章外，你啥也不会为我做的。我一向了解你。"
次日，菲利普跑去找蒂勒尔大夫。他想只要他把克朗肖的病情一讲，蒂勒尔大夫那个人准感兴趣。事情果真是这样。蒂勒尔大夫一下班，就跟着菲利普来到肯宁顿大街。他完全同意菲利普早先讲的那番话，也认为克朗肖已病人膏盲，无可救药了。
"你愿意的话，我可以把他送进医院，"他对菲利普说道。"可以安排他住在单人病房里。"
"说啥他也不会肯的。"
"要知道，他每分钟都有死亡的可能。要不，很可能还会再次生肺炎。"
菲利普点点头。蒂勒尔大夫又嘱咐了几句，并答应菲利普他随叫随到。临走时，他还留下了自己的地址。菲利普送走大夫，回到克朗肖的身边，发觉他正沉静地捧着本书看呢。克朗肖连问一声医生有何嘱咐都没有问。
"亲爱的老弟，这下你该满意了吧？"他问道。
"我想，你说啥也不会照蒂勒尔大夫的嘱咐去做的，对不？"
"那自然罗，"克朗肖笑眯眯地应了一声。
At the new year Philip became dresser in the surgical out-patients’ department. The work was of the same character as that which he had just been engaged on, but with the greater directness which surgery has than medicine; and a larger proportion of the patients suffered from those two diseases which a supine public allows, in its prudishness, to be spread broadcast. The assistant-surgeon for whom Philip dressed was called Jacobs. He was a short, fat man, with an exuberant joviality, a bald head, and a loud voice; he had a cockney accent, and was generally described by the students as an ‘awful bounder’; but his cleverness, both as a surgeon and as a teacher, caused some of them to overlook this. He had also a considerable facetiousness, which he exercised impartially on the patients and on the students. He took a great pleasure in making his dressers look foolish. Since they were ignorant, nervous, and could not answer as if he were their equal, this was not very difficult. He enjoyed his afternoons, with the home truths he permitted himself, much more than the students who had to put up with them with a smile. One day a case came up of a boy with a club-foot. His parents wanted to know whether anything could be done. Mr. Jacobs turned to Philip.
‘You’d better take this case, Carey. It’s a subject you ought to know something about.’
Philip flushed, all the more because the surgeon spoke obviously with a humorous intention, and his brow-beaten dressers laughed obsequiously. It was in point of fact a subject which Philip, since coming to the hospital, had studied with anxious attention. He had read everything in the library which treated of talipes in its various forms. He made the boy take off his boot and stocking. He was fourteen, with a snub nose, blue eyes, and a freckled face. His father explained that they wanted something done if possible, it was such a hindrance to the kid in earning his living. Philip looked at him curiously. He was a jolly boy, not at all shy, but talkative and with a cheekiness which his father reproved. He was much interested in his foot.
‘It’s only for the looks of the thing, you know,’ he said to Philip. ‘I don’t find it no trouble.’
‘Be quiet, Ernie,’ said his father. ‘There’s too much gas about you.’
Philip examined the foot and passed his hand slowly over the shapelessness of it. He could not understand why the boy felt none of the humiliation which always oppressed himself. He wondered why he could not take his deformity with that philosophic indifference. Presently Mr. Jacobs came up to him. The boy was sitting on the edge of a couch, the surgeon and Philip stood on each side of him; and in a semi-circle, crowding round, were students. With accustomed brilliancy Jacobs gave a graphic little discourse upon the club-foot: he spoke of its varieties and of the forms which followed upon different anatomical conditions.
‘I suppose you’ve got talipes equinus?’ he said, turning suddenly to Philip.
‘Yes.’
Philip felt the eyes of his fellow-students rest on him, and he cursed himself because he could not help blushing. He felt the sweat start up in the palms of his hands. The surgeon spoke with the fluency due to long practice and with the admirable perspicacity which distinguished him. He was tremendously interested in his profession. But Philip did not listen. He was only wishing that the fellow would get done quickly. Suddenly he realised that Jacobs was addressing him.
‘You don’t mind taking off your sock for a moment, Carey?’
Philip felt a shudder pass through him. He had an impulse to tell the surgeon to go to hell, but he had not the courage to make a scene. He feared his brutal ridicule. He forced himself to appear indifferent.
‘Not a bit,’ he said.
He sat down and unlaced his boot. His fingers were trembling and he thought he should never untie the knot. He remembered how they had forced him at school to show his foot, and the misery which had eaten into his soul.
‘He keeps his feet nice and clean, doesn’t he?’ said Jacobs, in his rasping, cockney voice.
The attendant students giggled. Philip noticed that the boy whom they were examining looked down at his foot with eager curiosity. Jacobs took the foot in his hands and said:
‘Yes, that’s what I thought. I see you’ve had an operation. When you were a child, I suppose?’
He went on with his fluent explanations. The students leaned over and looked at the foot. Two or three examined it minutely when Jacobs let it go.
‘When you’ve quite done,’ said Philip, with a smile, ironically.
He could have killed them all. He thought how jolly it would be to jab a chisel (he didn’t know why that particular instrument came into his mind) into their necks. What beasts men were! He wished he could believe in hell so as to comfort himself with the thought of the horrible tortures which would be theirs. Mr. Jacobs turned his attention to treatment. He talked partly to the boy’s father and partly to the students. Philip put on his sock and laced his boot. At last the surgeon finished. But he seemed to have an afterthought and turned to Philip.
‘You know, I think it might be worth your while to have an operation. Of course I couldn’t give you a normal foot, but I think I can do something. You might think about it, and when you want a holiday you can just come into the hospital for a bit.’
Philip had often asked himself whether anything could be done, but his distaste for any reference to the subject had prevented him from consulting any of the surgeons at the hospital. His reading told him that whatever might have been done when he was a small boy, and then treatment of talipes was not as skilful as in the present day, there was small chance now of any great benefit. Still it would be worth while if an operation made it possible for him to wear a more ordinary boot and to limp less. He remembered how passionately he had prayed for the miracle which his uncle had assured him was possible to omnipotence. He smiled ruefully.
‘I was rather a simple soul in those days,’ he thought.
Towards the end of February it was clear that Cronshaw was growing much worse. He was no longer able to get up. He lay in bed, insisting that the window should be closed always, and refused to see a doctor; he would take little nourishment, but demanded whiskey and cigarettes: Philip knew that he should have neither, but Cronshaw’s argument was unanswerable.
‘I daresay they are killing me. I don’t care. You’ve warned me, you’ve done all that was necessary: I ignore your warning. Give me something to drink and be damned to you.’
Leonard Upjohn blew in two or three times a week, and there was something of the dead leaf in his appearance which made the word exactly descriptive of the manner of his appearance. He was a weedy-looking fellow of five-and-thirty, with long pale hair and a white face; he had the look of a man who lived too little in the open air. He wore a hat like a dissenting minister’s. Philip disliked him for his patronising manner and was bored by his fluent conversation. Leonard Upjohn liked to hear himself talk. He was not sensitive to the interest of his listeners, which is the first requisite of the good talker; and he never realised that he was telling people what they knew already. With measured words he told Philip what to think of Rodin, Albert Samain, and Caesar Franck. Philip’s charwoman only came in for an hour in the morning, and since Philip was obliged to be at the hospital all day Cronshaw was left much alone. Upjohn told Philip that he thought someone should remain with him, but did not offer to make it possible.
‘It’s dreadful to think of that great poet alone. Why, he might die without a soul at hand.’
‘I think he very probably will,’ said Philip.
‘How can you be so callous!’
‘Why don’t you come and do your work here every day, and then you’d be near if he wanted anything?’ asked Philip drily.
‘I? My dear fellow, I can only work in the surroundings I’m used to, and besides I go out so much.’
Upjohn was also a little put out because Philip had brought Cronshaw to his own rooms.
‘I wish you had left him in Soho,’ he said, with a wave of his long, thin hands. ‘There was a touch of romance in that sordid attic. I could even bear it if it were Wapping or Shoreditch, but the respectability of Kennington! What a place for a poet to die!’
Cronshaw was often so ill-humoured that Philip could only keep his temper by remembering all the time that this irritability was a symptom of the disease. Upjohn came sometimes before Philip was in, and then Cronshaw would complain of him bitterly. Upjohn listened with complacency.
‘The fact is that Carey has no sense of beauty,’ he smiled. ‘He has a middle-class mind.’
He was very sarcastic to Philip, and Philip exercised a good deal of self-control in his dealings with him. But one evening he could not contain himself. He had had a hard day at the hospital and was tired out. Leonard Upjohn came to him, while he was making himself a cup of tea in the kitchen, and said that Cronshaw was complaining of Philip’s insistence that he should have a doctor.
‘Don’t you realise that you’re enjoying a very rare, a very exquisite privilege? You ought to do everything in your power, surely, to show your sense of the greatness of your trust.’
‘It’s a rare and exquisite privilege which I can ill afford,’ said Philip.
Whenever there was any question of money, Leonard Upjohn assumed a slightly disdainful expression. His sensitive temperament was offended by the reference.
‘There’s something fine in Cronshaw’s attitude, and you disturb it by your importunity. You should make allowances for the delicate imaginings which you cannot feel.’
Philip’s face darkened.
‘Let us go in to Cronshaw,’ he said frigidly.
The poet was lying on his back, reading a book, with a pipe in his mouth. The air was musty; and the room, notwithstanding Philip’s tidying up, had the bedraggled look which seemed to accompany Cronshaw wherever he went. He took off his spectacles as they came in. Philip was in a towering rage.
‘Upjohn tells me you’ve been complaining to him because I’ve urged you to have a doctor,’ he said. ‘I want you to have a doctor, because you may die any day, and if you hadn’t been seen by anyone I shouldn’t be able to get a certificate. There’d have to be an inquest and I should be blamed for not calling a doctor in.’
‘I hadn’t thought of that. I thought you wanted me to see a doctor for my sake and not for your own. I’ll see a doctor whenever you like.’
Philip did not answer, but gave an almost imperceptible shrug of the shoulders. Cronshaw, watching him, gave a little chuckle.
‘Don’t look so angry, my dear. I know very well you want to do everything you can for me. Let’s see your doctor, perhaps he can do something for me, and at any rate it’ll comfort you.’ He turned his eyes to Upjohn. ‘You’re a damned fool, Leonard. Why d’you want to worry the boy? He has quite enough to do to put up with me. You’ll do nothing more for me than write a pretty article about me after my death. I know you.’
Next day Philip went to Dr. Tyrell. He felt that he was the sort of man to be interested by the story, and as soon as Tyrell was free of his day’s work he accompanied Philip to Kennington. He could only agree with what Philip had told him. The case was hopeless.
‘I’ll take him into the hospital if you like,’ he said. ‘He can have a small ward.’
‘Nothing would induce him to come.’
‘You know, he may die any minute, or else he may get another attack of pneumonia.’
Philip nodded. Dr. Tyrell made one or two suggestions, and promised to come again whenever Philip wanted him to. He left his address. When Philip went back to Cronshaw he found him quietly reading. He did not trouble to inquire what the doctor had said.
‘Are you satisfied now, dear boy?’ he asked.
‘I suppose nothing will induce you to do any of the things Tyrell advised?’
‘Nothing,’ smiled Cronshaw.
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