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作品选读

The Serpent and the Rope

(excerpt)

By Raja Rao

Yes, I say to myself: “I must leave this world, I must leave, leave this world.” But, Lord, where shall I go, where? How can one go anywhere? How can one go from oneself ?

I walk up and down this mansard, and say: “There must be something that exalts and explains why we are here, what is it we seek.” And suddenly, as though I’ve forgotten where I am, I begin to sing out aloud, “Shivoham, Shivoham,” as if I were in Benares, on the banks of the Ganges, sitting on Harishchandra Ghat and singing away. In Benares, it may still sound true—but here against the dull sky of Paris, this yellow wallpaper, with its curved and curling clematis, going back and forth, and all about my room ... I say, “Clematis is the truth, must be in the truth.” I count, one, two, three, simply like that, and count 177 clematis in my room. “If I add a zero,” I say to myself, “it will make 1,770 and they would cover ten mansard rooms.” I look out and count the number of windows in the Lycée St Louis. It has eighteen windows: one, two, three, five, eleven, eighteen windows. And I say, “If they had clematis on their walls, how many would there be? Each room there is about three times the width of my room.” My arithmetic goes all wrong, for I must subtract one wall out of every three, and that’s too complicated. I roll back into my bed. “Hara-Hara, Shiva-Shiva,” I say to myself, as if I were in Benares again, then “Chidananda rupah, Shivoham, Shivoham.”

I began to clap hands and sing. The Romanian lady next door again knocks to remind me I am in Paris. I go out, with my overcoat on, wander round and round the Luxembourg Gardens by the Rue d’ Assas, feeling that three times round anything you love must give you meaning, must give you peace. Buses still go on the streets, and students are still there chez shining, mirrored Dupont. I wish I could drink: “It must be wonderful to drink,” I say to myself. The students get drunk and are so gay. That Dutch boy, the other day, was quite drunk; he sat in the hotel lounge, with his mouth on one side, and started singing songs. If you don’t feel too warm at heart, you can always warm yourself in the Quartier Latin. You never saw more generous girls in the world. Existentialism has cleared the libido out of the knots of hair. Wherever you go, girls have rich bosoms, fiery red lips. They don’t need cards—not because the gendarme does not ask for them, but because girls have grown too pure. Purity is not in the act but in the meaning of the act. Had I been less of a Brahmin, I might have known more of “love.”

I go down the Boulevard St Michel, stand before the lit fountain and come back. I am sure I am much better. I go round the “100,000 Chemises” shop, who know their arithmetic. I see that a cravat costs 1,990 francs, the good ones—shoes cost twice as much; the best one four times in the next shop. There is a brawl on the corner of my street, and I look at everyone, thinking as if I am not looking at them, but I am counting them. “One, two, three, four, five,” I say, and one threatens to beat four and four threatens to beat me. Fear is such a spontaneous experience—I slink away, I run and run till I reach my hotel. I think it was a political battle of some sort. A group of Moroccan and Indo-Chinese students were having a brawl with some elderly Frenchman. Then I understood. They thought—the fat, threatening Frenchman thought—that I must be a Tunisian. You must fight for something. You cannot flow like the Rhone, dividing Avignon into the Avignon of the Popes and Petit Avignon.

I get my key from the concierge and come up to my room. I feel the room to be so spacious, so kind; I could touch the sky with my fingers. You can have 177 clematis in your room and yet touch the sky of Paris. A Brahmin can touch anything, he is so high—the higher the freer. I look at the carefully arranged manuscript of my thesis. It has 278 pages. It has been finished for over a week. Dr Robin-Bessaignac said it is very interesting, very very interesting indeed, but blue-pencilled several passages. One in particular, in my preface, made him laugh. “History is not a straight line, it is not even a curved line,” I had written. “History is a straight line turned into a round circle. It has no beginning, it has no end—it is movement without itself moving. History is an act to deny fact. History, truly speaking, is seminal.”

“You don’t know our professors,” Dr Robin said. “They would hide behind their notes if they saw a girl with too much rouge on her lips. Besides, my friend, there is an ancient tradition in this country: Beware of too much truth. We French live on heresies. If only poor Abelard had ended with a question mark and not with a ‘Scito Teipsum,’ he might have walked Paris un-castrate, and be canonized a saint by now. You must go to the end of philosophy, go near enough to truth—but you must end with a question mark. The question mark is, I repeat, the sign of French intelligence; it is the tradition of Descartes, that great successor of Abelard. And as for anything imaginative... There’s a famous story about Sylvain Lévi, the orientalist, you know. He had said, and that was seventy good years ago, something about Kalidasa’s plays. His books ended, as all good literature ended in those days, with a noble sentence, rounded like one of Mallarmé’s. Would you believe it, the thesis was refused: he had to write it again. I do not want to see your thesis refused. I knew what they will say. This is supposed to be a thesis on the philosophical origins, mainly oriental, primarily Hindu, of the Cathar philosophy. But it is too poetic. It lacks historical discipline! Get someone—preferably a professor—to help you to remove everything that does not end in a question.”

“Can you find one?” he asked me. Of course I know one. Who could be more helpful to me than good Georges? I often discuss my thesis with him, and I have read him bits of it. He does not say whether it would be suitable or not as a thesis: he is happy at my defence of Catholicism, and finds my logic inescapable. Here and there, however, he has suggested a few corrections. And then, somebody has to translate the whole text into French. I wonder whether Georges would do. Good Georges, of course, agrees. I must give it to him tomorrow.

I roll and roll in my bed. Not that I am ill; no, I am not so ill. In fact the doctors are very satisfied with the state of my lungs; hardly any complications with my ribs or my chest, they say. I could, in fact, stay in Europe if I cared. But why should I? What is there to do? I think of Saroja. She is not happy, but she is settled. I think of Little Mother going and dipping in the Ganges every morning. And now, this year, with the Kumbha Méla and the sun in Capricorn, she must be very happy. Could I give Little Mother such joy if I were back? What can a poor Professor in Hyderabad do? At best I could take her on a pilgrimage once in two years. There is nobody to go to now: no home, no temple, no city, no climate, no age.

Kashwam koham kutha āyatha ka mē janani ko mē tātah? Who are you and whose; whence have you come?

Wheresoever I am is my country, and I weep into my bed. I am ashamed to say I weep a lot these days. I go to bed reading something, and some thought comes, I know not what—thoughts have no names—or have they?—and I lie on my bed and sob. Sometimes singing some chant of Sankara, I burst into sobs. Grandfather Kittanna used to say that sometimes the longing for ... becomes so great, so acute, you weep and that weeping has no name. Do I long for ...? ... is an object and I cannot long for him. I cannot long for a round, red thing, that one calls ..., and he becomes .... It would be like that statue down the road. I asked someone there, “What is this statue, Monsieur?” He was surprised and said, “Why, it’s St Michel!” Since then I have known why this road here is called St Michel and that St Michel kills a dragon. Being a Brahmin I know about Indra and Prajapathi, but not about St Michel or St Denis. I will have to look into the Encyclopédie des religions. And that’s not too helpful either. ..., in this Encyclopédie, has sixty-two pages, and they do not illuminate my need.

No, not a ... but a guru is what I need. “Oh Lord, my guru, my Lord,” I cried, in the middle of this dreadful winter night. It was last night; the winds of April had arisen, the trees of the Luxembourg were crying till you could hear them like the triple oceans of the ... at Cape Comorin. “Lord, Lord, my guru, come to me, tell me; give me thy touch, vouch-safe,” I cried, “the vision of Truth. Lord, my Lord.”

I do not know where I went, but I was happy there, for it was free and broad like a sunny day and like a single broad white river it was. I had reached Benares—Benares. I had risen from the Ganges, and saw the luminous world, my home. I saw the silvery boat, and the boatman had a face I knew.

I knew His face, as one knows one’s face in deep sleep. He called me, and said: “It is so long, so long my son. I have awaited you. Come, we go.” I went, and man, I tell you, my brother, my friend, I will not return. I have gone whence there is no returning. To return you must not be. For if you are, where can you return? Do you, my brother, my friend, need a candle to show the light of the sun? Such a Sun I have seen, it is more splendid than a million suns. It sits on a river bank, it sits as the formless form of Truth; it walks without walking, speaks without talking, moves without gesticulating, shows without naming, reveals what is Known. To such a Truth was I taken, and I became its servant, I kissed the perfume of its Holy Feet, and called myself a disciple. 4PXZDn02Cjv1u7ns3ICxDrTQQY/QKKkQG7bMslfZfbbZ0EUqyZVHGHid6iefbPkN



4 戈温达斯·维什努达斯·德萨尼(Govindas Vishnudas Desani,1909—2000)

作者简介

戈温达斯·维什努达斯·德萨尼 (Govindas Vishnudas Desani,1909—2000),美国印度裔剧作家、小说家,出生在肯尼亚的内罗毕(Nairobi, Kenya),父亲和母亲均是商人,从小接受私立教育。德萨尼于1926年前往英国,在那里开始了长达30年的记者生涯,之后又回到了印度。他于1934年成为《印度时报》(Times of India)的记者,1936年成为英国广播公司的广播员。1970年移居美国,先后任教于波士顿大学(Boston University)和得克萨斯大学奥斯汀分校。

1948年,德萨尼出版了他最重要的作品——小说《关于哈特尔的一切》(All about H. Hatterr),两年后又出版了戏剧《哈里》(Hali,1950)。1952—1966年,德萨尼主要研究印度和缅甸的佛教与印度教文化。德萨尼在1960—1968年,曾为《印度画刊周报》(Illustrated Weekly of India)和《印度时报》撰稿。虽然德萨尼只写了一部小说、一部戏剧和少量的短篇小说,但他与同时代的多产作家如穆尔克·拉吉·阿南德(Mulk Raj Anand)、R. K.纳拉扬(R. K. Narayan)和拉贾·劳(Raja Rao)等人地位相当。

《关于哈特尔的一切》被誉为一部喜剧杰作,是当年最畅销的书籍之一,讲述了一个年轻人在印度寻找真理的冒险故事。德萨尼将英语改造为一种语言混合体,凸显了一个重要的主题:不可能通过一个主叙述将各式各样的生活归结为一体,因为生活从根本上是荒谬的。德萨尼在表面的机智和幻想、语言的裂变和疯狂的冒险中,暗示了复杂的问题。选段出自小说《关于哈特尔的一切》第一部分,描述了哈特尔因欠下酒钱,被俱乐部开除后,再次决定接受东方传统的故事。 HQ7bDK9w91HR6wR//zid0MkoGsWsyZQZp9X7bCCurf3BjCf/DmDj9fqnhpgUYg+l



作品选读

All about H. Hatterr

I

(excerpt)

By Govindas Vishnudas Desani

She banged the door in my face.

She refused to take the money due to her!

The next step the parly took was downright singular!

She went to my club.

Damme, to a feller’s club!

The Secretary tried to disperse her: and failed.

She remained on the premises, squatting on the green lawn, and wept loudly!

Facing the sundry sahibs and memsahibs, poised at’em at an alternating angle of forty-five degrees, a living metronome, the woman swang, pulled her hair, tore up her clothes, and wailed, “O my mothers and fathers! I am a poor woman! I am starving! My children are starving! H. Hatterr sahib owes me money! He owes me money!”

Damme, damme, damme!

Wham!

Fellers out East do away with themselves following such exhibitions against themselves!

The sahibs, who had reluctantly heard her poignant sorrow, were dumbfounded!

Right through the curry-courses, not a feller could cough up a single word, except such sundry expressions of pain as, “The fellah is a cad, sir!” “Gad, the man wants a birching!”

While commenting in this derogatory vein was going on behind my back, the Club Secretary, Harcourt Pankhurst-Sykes, summoned an extraordinary meeting.

And the agenda alleged that I, H. Hatterr, fellow-member of the Club, was letting down my brother-sahibs!

As a member of the Club, I owed on drinks, same as any other feller.

Black on white, and I was bound to honour the chits.

Yet, the Secretary held that too against me!

In the light of the exhibition made by the dhobin, extreme loss of confidence in my integrity prevailed in the Club.

At the extraordinary meeting, thank ..., ideals came to my rescue.

I avoided all mention of the dhobin.

I never gave away a woman, not even a dhobin!

And I spoke at the meeting concisely.

“If you censure me,” I said to the fellers, “I won’t disguise the fact that it would be a blow to my prestige. If the Club is so dam’ keen on members’ financial status quo, the Club should advance me a loan. I am forthwith applying to you for same. Otherwise, damme, Harcourt Pankhurst-Sykes, you can’t touch me! Hands off, I say! Can’t nail me to the barn-door for nothing! Otherwise, damme, I shall see the whole bunch of you in hell first! You can’t hold lucre same as honour! Mark my words, damme, all of you!”

After being kept waiting for nearly four hours—during which time the extraordinary meeting were dealing with the liquor contractor, the scavenger’s wage-increase application, every blasted thing but my matter—I was unanimously declared a defaulter, blackballed, and struck off!

Hell, did you ever!

I hadn’t for a moment imagined that they would do that to me, swine fever to ’em! and all because of a dhobin!

When I heard the committee-decision, the earth beneath my feet felt like being pulled away by a supernatural sub-agent!

Till this happened, I don’t mind admitting that I had regarded life as a bed of roses: and thorns absent.

I ate the finest chilly-hot curries in the land, did a good square job of it, remained a sahib, and life on the whole had been fine.

I walked from the Club, alone, and when in the digs, wept without restraint.

Banerrji called in soon after.

I told the feller I didn’t wish to breathe no more. I meant to do the Dutch act to myself that very evening.

“Mr H. Hatterr,” said my brother, upset to his foundations, “I have already heard that you have been mercilessly kicked out. I came to appeal, please, do not contemplate the drastic action! Life is sacred. No man may destroy same. Excuse me, but my heart bleeds for you! May I, therefore, make a present to you of this parcel of an all-in-one pantie-vest? It has just come from Bond Street of dear England. It is delightfully snug, made in Huddersfield, forming no wrinkles. Its colour is a charming peach, with a stylish elastic round the waist and the knees. Also, it has got gay little le-dandy motifs in lazy-daisy stitch, and will make a perfect foundation garment for you in the coming severe winter. Originally, I had ordered the parcel for my own use. Please accept it with my kindest regards.”

This spontaneous gesture from a true friend, the gift of a valuable garment, and made out of pure love, braced me up instantly.

“Banerrji,” I said, accepting the pantie, my eyes still red from the previous orgy of grief, “don’t worry, old feller. I won’t take the drastic step. To hell with the sahibs! Not an anna-piece for the drink chits! Not a ruddy chip! Damme, I will go Indian! Live like you fellers, your neighbourhood, and no dam’ fears! Go to flannel dances! No fancy rags! The sahibs have kicked me. But for that kick, mark me, I will return ten, till the seats of their pants wear out!”

And, by all the pits of the Punjab country-side, I tried to do so, and live up to it!

I went completely Indian, and kicked out of the house the only sahib who came to condole!

The chap was the hearty sort, respected no institutions, and had made me wink off my real origin. He had got me into the Club under false pretences, as an India-born, pure Cento-per- Cento Anglo-Saxon breed. Consequence, used to flirt with the wife as his natural due.

To celebrate the bust-up with the feller, and, to spite the Club, I gave Banerrji the exclusive news-item for his uncle’s fortnightly journal: “Ex-member of the Sahib Club kicks a member out of the house! Mr Haakon K. Olsen, prominent Norwegian grid-bias battery manufacnurer, defies Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s wife commandment! Involved in the eternal triangle! Alleged found making love 10 the ex-mem-ber’s wife!”

Thereupon, a social highlight by the name of A. Arnot-Smith, O.B.E., came to see me.

Said A-Smith, “It is the climate, old chap. Fellows can’t help loving other fellows’ wives. Gad, no need to kick up a row! Think of the Club, man! You are running down a fellow-European by allowing trash like this to be published in vernacular rags. Jerry Olsen’s a scout. We don’t wish to take notice, but if you want to prosecute the paper, the Club would render financial aid. It will all be confidential, of course. Sir Cyril and I strongly advise legal action.”

I threw A. Arnot-Smith out of the house, and wished his ancestors, and Sir Cyril’s, to a hotting up in Flames.

I told Banerrji of the facts.

“Do not let Mr Albion Arnot-Smith, O.B.E, persecute you,” said my brother. “You may regard yourself as merely human. It is rightly said, Sie vos non vobis.”

“What does it mean?”

“It is Latin. Nevertheless, I am saying, now that you have openly turned Indian, you don’t have to depend on any O.B.E. of the sahib community for kind regards. You are going to be independent. As my best friend, you shall have a job too. I have arranged for an appointment for you. You meet tomorrow Mr Chari-Charier, the Indian extreme-wing gentleman. He will give you a journalistic job on his daily without question. He is a great friend of the underdog. Mr Chari-Charier himself was struck off from All Souls’ College, Oxford. He has a very high regard for struck-off gentlemen.” HQ7bDK9w91HR6wR//zid0MkoGsWsyZQZp9X7bCCurf3BjCf/DmDj9fqnhpgUYg+l

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