弗吉尼亞·伍爾夫 喬修峰

Nobody can be said to know London who does not know one true Cockney—who cannot turn down a side street， away from the shops and the theatres， and knock at a private door in a street of private houses.

Private houses in London are apt to be much of a muchness. The door opens on a dark hall; from the dark hall rises a narrow staircase; off the landing opens a double drawing-room， and in this double drawing-room are two sofas on each side of a blazing fire， six armchairs， and three long windows giving upon the street. What happens in the back half of the drawing-room which looks upon the gardens of other houses is often a matter of considerable conjecture. But it is with the front drawing-room that we are here concerned; for Mrs Crowe always sat there in an armchair by the fire; it was there that she had her being; it was there that she poured out tea…

There by the fire in winter， by the window in summer， she had sat for sixty years—but not alone. There was always someone in the armchair opposite， paying a call. And before the first caller had been seated ten minutes the door always opened， and the maid Maria， she of the prominent eyes and prominent teeth， who had opened the door for sixty years， opened it once more and announced a second visitor; and then a third， and then a fourth.

A tête-à-tête with Mrs Crowe was unknown. She disliked tête-à-têtes. It was part of a peculiarity that she shared with many hostesses that she was never specially intimate with anyone. For example， there was always an elderly man in the corner by the cabinet—who seemed， indeed， as much a part of that admirable piece of eighteenth-century furniture as its own brass claws. But he was always addressed as Mr Graham—never John， never William： though sometimes she would call him ‘dear Mr Graham as if to mark the fact that she had known him for sixty years.

The truth was she did not want intimacy; she wanted conversation. Intimacy has a way of breeding silence， and silence she abhorred. There must be talk， and it must be general， and it must be about everything. It must not go too deep， and it must not be too clever， for if it went too far in either of these directions somebody was sure to feel out of it， and to sit balancing his tea-cup， saying nothing.

Thus Mrs Crowes drawing-room had little in common with the celebrated salons of the memoir writers. Clever people often came there—judges， doctors， members of parliament， writers， musicians， people who travelled， people who played polo， actors and complete nonentities， but if anyone said a brilliant thing it was felt to be rather a breach of etiquette—an accident that one ignored， like a fit of sneezing， or some catastrophe with a muffin. The talk that Mrs Crowe liked and inspired was a glorified version of village gossip. The village was London， and the gossip was about London life. But Mrs Crowes great gift consisted in making the vast metropolis seem as small as a village with one church， one manor house and twenty-five cottages. She had first-hand information about every play， every picture show， every trial， every divorce case. She knew who was marrying， who was dying， who was in town and who was out. She would mention the fact that she had just seen Lady Umphlebys car go by， and hazard a guess that she was going to visit her daughter whose baby had been born last night， just as a village woman speaks of the Squires lady driving to the station to meet Mr John， who is expected down from town…

Thus， to know London not merely as a gorgeous spectacle， a mart， a court， a hive of industry， but as a place where people meet and talk， laugh， marry， and die， paint， write and act， rule and legislate， it was essential to know Mrs Crowe. It was in her drawing-room that the innumerable fragments of the vast metropolis seemed to come together into one lively， comprehensible， amusing and agreeable whole. Travellers absent for years， battered and sun-dried men just landed from India or Africa， from remote travels and adventures among savages and tigers， would come straight to the little house in the quiet street to be taken back into the heart of civilisation at one stride. But even London itself could not keep Mrs Crowe alive for ever. It is a fact that one day Mrs Crowe was not sitting in the armchair by the fire as the clock struck five; Maria did not open the door; Mr Graham had detached himself from the cabinet. Mrs Crowe is dead， and London—no， though London still exists， London will never be the same city again.

要是連一個土生土長的倫敦人都不認識，不能拐進一條遠離商鋪和劇院的小巷，在一條私宅林立的小街上叩開一扇門，那就算不上真正了解倫敦。

倫敦的私人住宅基本大同小異。一進門，映入眼簾的就是昏暗的門廳。門廳盡頭，是狹窄的樓梯。走出樓梯平臺，就是一個分成前后間的大客廳，客廳里有一個壁爐，爐子里的火燒得很旺，壁爐兩邊各有兩張沙發(fā)，此外還有六把扶手椅，三扇長窗正對著街道?？蛷d后半間望出去是別人家的花園，這半間會發(fā)生什么故事，常常讓人浮想聯(lián)翩。不過，我們現(xiàn)在說的是前半間，因為克羅夫人總是坐在這邊爐旁的扶手椅上。在這里，她有存在感;在這里，她斟茶品茗……

冬日的爐邊，夏日的窗前，她一坐就是六十年——但不是只身一人。總有人來拜訪，就坐在對面的扶手椅上。常常是第一個客人坐下還不到十分鐘，門便又開了——是那個鼓睛暴眼、牙齒外突的女仆瑪麗亞再次打開的門，通報第二個訪客的到來，然后是第三個、第四個。這差事，瑪麗亞已經(jīng)干了六十年。

克羅夫人從不跟人私密交談。她不喜歡私密交談。她和很多女主人一樣，都有一種怪癖，就是從不跟任何人過分親密。比如說，有位老先生總是靠在角落那個十八世紀的精美儲藏柜邊，看上去就跟柜子的銅腳一樣，也成了柜子的一部分。但他總是被叫作格雷厄姆先生——從來沒有被叫作約翰，或者威廉。不過，有時候她也會叫他“親愛的格雷厄姆先生”，似乎是為了表明他們確實相識了六十年。

事實是她不想跟人太親密，她只是想找人聊天。太親密就容易陷入沉默，她討厭沉默。必須得聊起來，話題必須籠統(tǒng)，還必須得無所不包。不能太深入，也不能太深奧，不然肯定會有人覺得插不上話，只能坐在那里擺弄自己的茶杯，一言不發(fā)。

所以，克羅夫人的客廳跟那些傳記作家的高雅沙龍大不相同。來客廳的通常都是聰明人——法官、醫(yī)生、議員、作家、音樂家、旅行的、打馬球的、演員，還有徹頭徹尾的無名之輩。不過，誰要是說了件有趣的事，就會被認作壞了規(guī)矩，人們會裝作沒聽見，就像有人打了個噴嚏，或者吃松糕噎著了?？肆_夫人喜歡并發(fā)起的那種交談，是一種體面的鄉(xiāng)村閑話。這個鄉(xiāng)村就是倫敦，閑話說的也是倫敦的生活?？肆_夫人的拿手絕活就是把一座大都市變成一個看似只有一座教堂、一處莊園、二十五間茅舍的小村莊。每一出戲、每一次畫展、每一場官司、每一樁離婚，她都有第一手信息。誰要結(jié)婚了、誰要死了、誰在城里，誰不在城里，她全知道。她會告訴你，她剛看見昂弗爾比夫人的車開過去了，估計是去看女兒，昂弗爾比夫人的女兒昨晚剛生了孩子——她說話時那神態(tài)，就像村里的婦人說起地主太太開車去車站接城里來的約翰先生……

因此，要想了解倫敦不只是一處奇觀、一個購物天堂、一處宮廷重地、一個工業(yè)中心，還是人們聚會、聊天、歡笑、結(jié)婚、死亡、畫畫、寫作、演出、統(tǒng)治、立法的地方，那就一定要認識克羅夫人。正是在她的客廳里，這座大都市的無數(shù)碎片似乎匯聚成了一個活潑、易懂、有趣、可愛的整體。那些長年漂泊在外、經(jīng)受風(fēng)吹日曬的人，剛從印度或非洲回國，剛從野人和老虎出沒的遠方歷險歸來，會徑直來到這條安靜的街道，一踏進這棟小房子，便被帶回到文明的中心?？墒?，就算是倫敦，也沒法讓克羅夫人永生。誰都知道，總有一天，五點的鐘聲敲響的時候，克羅夫人不再坐在爐邊的扶手椅上，瑪麗亞也不再去開門，格雷厄姆先生也不再靠在儲藏柜邊。克羅夫人走了，倫敦也——唉，倫敦盡管還在，但再也不會是從前那個倫敦了。