修道院的滋味

[多酚 10]

尚青和弱雞是兩個即將升二年級的國中生，從暑假到現在他們都在電腦前打遊戲對戰，今

天終於有機會走出房間，因為他們拿到了兩張免費”主題晚餐”的招待劵。

30分鐘後，他們來到了因為新開幕而免費招待晚餐的主題餐廳。不過它的位置有點偏僻，

離繁華的市中心有一段距離，它的隔壁是—-呃----------動物園，而這間餐廳的前身竟然是

-呃---------馬戲團。

這是一間外表搭著馬戲團帳蓬的主題餐廳，因為馬戲團團長將馬戲團連員工一起賣給了餐

廳老板。

弱雞：「記得小時候我們全家來這裏看過馬戲團表演。」

尚青：「難怪你路這麼熟，我本來還擔心找不到這間新開的餐廳，原來你小時候就來過

了。」

弱雞：「我一直認為看表演應該有正式的餐點吃，而不是只吃熱狗、爆米花之類的垃圾

食物。」

尚青：「你的意思是待會我們可以邊吃晚餐邊看馬戲團表演？」

弱雞：「而且這一切全都是免費的。」

尚青：「其實我比較想吃早餐。」

弱雞：「為什麼？」

尚青：「因為我早餐沒吃。」

弱雞：「你這樣真的很沒有時間概念，現在是晚上，你不能在晚餐時間吃早餐。」

尚青：「但是我媽說早餐沒吃直接吃晚餐對身體不好，會胃食道逆流。」

弱雞：「那你午餐吃了沒？」

尚青：「我從11：00起床後到現在都沒吃，不知道這樣算是早餐沒吃還是午餐沒吃？」

弱雞：「兄弟，麻煩你振作一點，看看你手上的免費招待券以及現在昏暗的天色，我們

只有一種選擇。」

尚青：「晚餐。」

弱雞：「對，沒錯，晚餐。」

於是兩人勇敢地走進了帳蓬，發現帳蓬內還有一扇門，門上貼了一張告示牌寫著：「請

著裝。」

弱雞：「『請著裝』是什麼意思？我們都有穿啊！」

尚青：「我也不是很瞭，可能有人沒穿衣服就來吃飯，真是太沒有概念了，連基本禮儀

都不懂，所以特別在門口提醒大家一定要穿衣服才能入內用餐，畢竟這是一間

高級的餐廳。」

弱雞：「說的也是，這種傷風敗俗的事情也做得出來。」

推開大門，這間由馬戲團變身的主題餐廳果然沒有令人失望：比一般餐廳更加寬廣的用餐

空間，華麗且挑高的巨型中央舞台，搭配令人目炫神迷的七彩燈光，彷彿神秘奇妙的夜宴

即將隆重登場！

尚青和弱雞在服務生的帶領下坐進了全餐廳視野最好的位置-------剛好就在舞台的正前

方。

這個時候突然有一位衣著時尚的潮男優雅現身，尚青以為他是服務生就問道：「先生，請

問餐點什麼時候送上來？」

潮男：「二位貴賓想必是第一次來吧？晚餐供應的是buffet(西式自助餐)，隨時都可以去

餐檯選取自已喜歡的菜色，不過『主題晚餐』的重點不是『晚餐』。」

弱雞：「那『重點』是什麼？」

尚青：「我知道了，重點是馬戲團表演。」

潮男：「那來的『馬戲團』表演？待會在舞台上表演的是『潮服』時裝秀。」

弱雞：「你怎麼知道？」

潮男：「因為我就是買下馬戲團的餐廳老板兼『潮服』時裝秀的設計師。還記得大門上

的告示牌寫著『請著裝』嗎？如果你們的穿著不符合時尚潮流，就必須從『潮

服』時裝秀中選購一套時尚『潮服』，下次來用餐就可以穿了。」

尚青：「什麼樣的穿著叫做不符合時尚潮流？」

潮男：「就像你們這樣。」

弱雞：「但是我們有穿啊！」

尚青：「招待券上不是說免費嗎？為什麼現在又要花錢買什麼『潮服』？」

潮男：「是『晚餐』免費，不是全部免費，天下沒有白吃的『晚餐』，懂嗎？既然你們

是第一次來，特別給你們優惠，買一送一，所以你們只要付一套『潮服』的錢就

可以帶 兩套回家。」

弱雞：「還好我媽有提醒我就算吃免錢，出門身上還是要帶錢。」

尚青：「幸好你有帶錢。」

於是尚青和弱雞在『潮服』時裝秀開始前匆忙選取了兩盤buffet後趕緊入座觀賞表演。

隨著表演開始，真正令人驚奇的事情發生了：另一位穿著建中制服的『尚青』出

　

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　現在舞台。

弱雞：「我不知道原來建中制服是『潮服』的一種，而且那個穿建中制服的麻豆(模特兒)長

得很像你。」

「何止像？簡直是一模一樣。」尚青忍不住問了潮男：「設計師老闆，可不可以請你解釋一下

『潮服』的定義？」

潮男：「只要是『我』設計的，通稱『潮服』。代表穿上它能引領時尚潮流。」

弱雞：「那『建中制服』是你設計的嗎？」

潮男：「沒錯，算你有眼光。」

尚青：「所以『建中制服』代表時尚潮流？」

潮男：「呃----------對某些人來說--------它代表了『一切』。」設計師語重心長地表示。

弱雞：「設計師老闆，我們決定了，尚青和我要買這套能「代表一切」的建中『潮服』。」

潮男：「有眼光。這是一個非常正確的選擇。」

弱雞：「設計師老闆，台上那位穿建中制服的麻豆(模特兒)和我朋友尚青長的很像吔！」

潮男：「哦～，你們注意到了。」

尚青：「我非常確定自已不是『雙胞胎』。」

潮男：「他不是你的『雙胞胎』。」

尚青：「那他是誰？」

「他是『未來的你』。」潮男決定揭曉這個「天大的秘密」：「你是不是做了什麼讓時間失序，打破時空法

則的事？」

「我只是沒吃早餐和午餐。」尚青困惑地說：「其實────。」

弱雞：「其實他甚至搞不清楚自己到底是沒吃早餐還是沒吃午餐？」

尚青：「謝了！兄弟。」

「你對『時間』感到困惑嗎？」潮男接著又說：「就是因為你的『困惑』才使得『未來的你』有機會來到

『現在』，導致時空失序。」

尚青：「兄弟，你相信他的鬼話嗎？」

弱雞：「設計師老闆，你這樣亂亂說，叫我們怎麼相信你。」

潮男：「尚青你有帶手機嗎？」

尚青：「有啊！」

「尚青，把你的手機關掉。」潮男接著又說：「弱雞，用你的手機打給尚青。」

弱雞：「他都關機了，你還讓我打給他？」

潮男：「不要懷疑，照做就是了。」

於是弱雞撥了尚青的號碼，然後微笑望著尚青，因為他認為潮男神精有問題。

但是手機響了，它千真萬確地響了，不過不是尚青的手機響，而是─────

由於他們的位置剛好在舞台的正前方，所以當麻豆（模特兒）的手機響時，

台下的尚青和弱雞全都魂飛魄散地聽得一清二楚。

弱雞：「呃～，手機響了吔，如果待會麻豆（模特兒）接了，我要說什麼？」

尚青：「我也不知道。」

潮男：「約他在後台化妝室見面。」

麻豆（模特兒）從容不迫地從制服口袋拿起手機接電話，就像擺pose般輕而易舉。

弱雞：「呃～，你好，我是弱雞，待會後台化妝室見。」說完驚魂未定地立即掛上電話。

台上的麻豆（模特兒）此時竟然望著他們微笑點頭，好像他早就認識他們一樣。

尚青：「大設計師，這一切該不會是你一手設計的吧？」

潮男：「我又不知道你的手機號碼，怎麼可能事先安排？」

弱雞：「說得也是。」

「那我們真的要在後台和他見面嗎？」尚青恐懼地說：「他真的是『未來的我』嗎？」

「又來了，就是因為你的恐懼和困惑才會擾亂時空讓『未來的你』有機可乘。」潮男接著又說：「記住，待

會在任何情況下一定要先『控制住場面』，不能讓『未來的你』為所欲為，這樣就能搞定一切，懂嗎？」

尚青：「不懂。」

「總之，『未來』掌握在你們自己手中，『現在』的你才能真正決定『未來』，祝你們好運！」

潮男語畢就「非常不負責任」地留下尚青和弱雞跑到別桌去哈啦了。

尚青：「原來早餐午餐不吃直接吃晚餐的下場不是胃食道逆流。」

弱雞：「而是會上建中。」

尚青：「看來我好像發明了什麼東西？」

弱雞：「搞不清楚自己沒吃早餐還是午餐算是一種發明嗎？」

尚青：「剛才老闆不是說我讓時空失序了嗎？我就是發明了這個。」

弱雞：「你先別高興，如果待會我們真的在後台見到『未來的你』，先看看他身上的建中制服有沒有繡學

號，如果────」

尚青：「如果沒有，就代表他騙人。」

弱雞：「對，沒錯。」

為了在任何情況下先「控制住場面」，尚青和弱雞做了「萬全」的準備：

一、先從「燈光」下手：一進門只要看見麻豆（未來的尚青），立刻將燈關掉。

二、再拿出事先準備的黑色不透光塑膠袋套住麻豆的頭，逼他說出實話。

尚青和弱雞像是逮捕重大罪犯的刑警般埋伏在後台化妝間的門口，在目睹麻豆進門後，確定化妝間內只有麻

豆一人，他們決定破門而入。

有的時候，就算做了萬全的準備，也是無法「控制住場面」，因為--------------------

一、他們找不到燈的開關，不能立刻將燈關掉，製造「混亂」的場面。

二、由於第一個關燈的步驟沒做好，使得用塑膠袋套頭的計畫也無法順利進行。

房間內的麻豆一看見尚青和弱雞，就像看見失散多年的兄弟，興奮得不得了。

麻豆：「謝天謝地，還好你們來了。」接著一把抱住尚青和弱雞。

面對麻豆「熱情」的擁抱，尚青和弱雞真的不知道該如何是好。

尚青：「呃～我們是來『控制住一切』的。」

弱雞：「你最好不要太囂張，沒有『現在』就沒有『未來』。說！你到底是誰？」

「兄弟，我是『尚青』啊！你不認得我了？」麻豆無辜地說。

「我現在問你一個問題，如果你答對了就證明你是我。」尚青接著問：「小時候爸媽帶我們到這裏玩是先去

動物園還是先來馬戲團？」

麻豆：「當然是先來馬戲團，直到熊貓住進動物園後，我才吵著要先去動物園看牠。」

這個時候房間突然漆黑一片───────────────────────

弱雞：「是誰把燈給關了？」三個人明明站在一起，完全沒有關燈的可能。

黑暗中有一團軟軟又溫溫的東西從外面抱住三個人。

「我們好像被什麼毛茸茸的東西控制住了？」尚青問：「你幹麻穿毛衣？」

麻豆：「我那有時間穿毛衣？我們被『熊抱』了啦！」

弱雞：「熊？那來的熊？馬戲團不是變餐廳了嗎？」

尚青：「這隻熊是不是你從『別的時空』帶來的？」

「牠從隔壁來的啦！化妝間剛好是馬戲團和動物園的交界。」麻豆接著又說：「牠先是吃了一盆開運竹，後

來又吞了幾把竹製的梳子，牠可能是肚子餓了。」

弱雞：「牠抱我們抱得這麼緊，是不是想把我們吃了？」

麻豆：「我沒有聽說過『熊貓』會吃人的。」

尚青：「那牠剛才在那裏？我和弱雞怎麼沒看見牠？」

麻豆：「牠一直都在這啊！牠剛才躲在窗簾後面，電燈開關就在那裏。可能是聽到你說小時候都去動物園看

牠，一時激動才抱住我們！」

弱雞：「那牠幹麻關燈？」

「害羞啊！」尚青說完就被熊貓拍了一下頭，叫道：「哦！是誰打我的頭？」

麻豆：「害羞還敢跑來這裏亂亂吃，我那把竹製防靜電的梳子很貴很難買吔！」

尚青：「總比你在台上亂亂走好吧，還接手機咧！」

實際上「暗中」控制一切的「熊貓老大」實在是聽不下去了，於是牠把尚青和麻豆的頭

在黑暗中非常用力地「互撞」了一下───────────────────。

「啊～頭好痛啊！」等到尚青早上醒來已經在自己的床上了，身上穿著繍了三條槓的「建中」制服，手裏不

知何時拿著一本名為「指南」的書。

翻開「指南」第一頁：如果你一覺醒來，發現自己來到了另一個時空，不要驚慌，這是有可能發生的。先照

一下鏡子看看自己的臉有沒有因為穿越時空而扭曲變形，眼睛、鼻子、嘴巴是不是還在原來的位置，如果

是，恭喜你！如果不是，請將它們調回來的位置，這樣下樓才不會嚇到爸媽。緊接者確定一下當天的西元年

份，搞清楚自已身處的時代非常重要。

尚青閤上「指南」，心想：真是看了等於沒看。

打開電腦，發現自己來到了西元2015年的暑假。整整跨越了2年。

尚青一下樓，尚媽看著自己的兒子，臉部表情充滿震驚與疑惑，說道：「你--------------

你怎麼------------------？」

尚青看見尚媽的表情以為自己的臉因穿越空而扭曲變形，嚇得趕緊照鏡子，發現自已還是「尚青」的帥哥，

這才鬆了一口氣。

「媽，我怎麼了嗎？」尚青問。

尚媽：「你把自己弄得壓力這麼大幹麻？看看你做了什麼？你為什麼要這樣對待你自己？」

「我做了什麼了？」尚青真的一頭霧水。

尚媽：「今天才『新生訓練』第一天，你把自己制服繡『三條槓』是怎麼回事？壓力不要這麼大嘛！放輕鬆

一點！」

有這種『反應過度』的媽媽，一不小心真的會被嚇死！

為了查明真相，尚青又上樓翻了「指南」這本書的第二頁：

如果你想讓自己對「時間」有概念，方法很簡單：只要使用「比較法」，找出比你更沒有時間概念的人，這

樣「相形之下」，你就比較有概念了。

尚青心想：又是廢話，想找出比我更沒有「時間概念」的人根本不可能。

於是他又翻了「指南」第三頁：

乾脆「好書」做到底，你去找一本名為「席維亞」的書，這本書的作者是史

上最沒有時間概念的人。只要找到這本書，你就可以成為史上「第二」沒時

間概念的人。

貼心小提示：在法國一處叫「羅希」的修道院，那裏可以找到這本書。

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

以下是「羅希」修道院內院長及修女「不對外公開」的「秘密」談話。

修女：最近很多人來問有關「席維亞」這本書，因為作者在書中提到了「羅希」修道院。

院長：蒙主恩寵！有人來總比沒有人來好。

修女：尤其是語法中沒有「未完成過去式」的外國人，英文翻譯無法完整詮釋這本書，

所以非拉丁語系的國家幾乎完全看不懂「席維亞」這本書。

院長：沒辦法，現在有很多「程度差」的人非常需要主的救贖。

修女：沒錯。

院長：那就幫他們開一個「研經班」吧！

修女：那這個「研經班」是要研讀「玫瑰經」還是研讀「席維亞」？

院長：需要「主的救贖」的就研讀「玫瑰經」；「程度差」的就研讀「席維亞」。

修女：那如果「程度差」又需要「主的救贖」呢？

院長：那就先研讀「玫瑰經」再研讀「席維亞」，多開幾個班，懂嗎？

修女：懂！

「研經班」附設的「文學賞析」暨「文法加強班」開課的第一天，修道院院長要大家自我介紹一下來這裏的

原因及目的。

尚青：「額~我們是來這裏搞清楚『未完成過去式的』。」

「什麼？」艾力克(知名樂團主唱)：「你的文法有問題嗎？」

「他不是文法有問題，他是對『時間』感到困惑。」洛基(原名弱雞)：「他懷疑未來的『他』取代了現在的

『他』。」

艾力克：「小朋友，年紀輕輕就把自己搞得這麼『複雜』不是一件好事！」

尚青：「那你是來幹麻的？大明星。」

艾力克(知名樂團主唱)：「開演唱會」。-------其實他是來應徵修道院「唱詩班」的。(他曾在小學時代參加過

唱詩班，後來不知道怎麼搞的，跑去組樂團)

尚青：「你那首暢銷金曲『但願不認識妳』是你個人親身經歷嗎？」

艾力克：「算是。」

洛基（原名弱雞）：「聽完你那首歌心情變得很沉重，害我好幾天沒辦法『耍寶』。」

尚青：「對呀，我原本以為『into the night』是全世界最悲慘的歌（尤其是黑人演唱版的，最後哀嚎了好

久），沒想到你這首更慘，足足比他多哀嚎了5分鐘。」

艾力克(知名樂團主唱)：「害你們心情不好我很抱歉，但我剛好是那個『主唱』，所以我的心情也好不到那

去。」

尚青：「對了，弱雞，你什麼時候改名叫『洛基』的？」

洛基：「從我變強開始！」

尚青：「那你為什麼不改名叫『藍波』。」

洛基：「因為我女朋友叫『藍波兒』！」

尚青：「沒想到短短兩年你的變化這麼大！」

修士：各位同學請注意，現在我要為各位簡單介紹一下「席維亞」這本書------------------------------------------

首先要告訴大家的是：這是一本非常不真實的書，像是一場夢中之夢，讀者非常容易在小說中迷失自已。因

為它是如此地美，吸引想要一探究竟的人一路癡迷地追尋下去。但是最後你會發現：

當你讀得愈多，分析得愈多，卻赫然驚覺自已又回到了原點，不知自已身在何處。

尚青：「我有點想回家了，如果讀這本小說會迷路的話，那要搞懂『未完成過去式』就更不可能了。」

洛基：「但是這樣你就不能當史上『第二沒時間概念』的人了，如果你不能證明『席維亞』的作者是

　　　　史上『第一沒時間概念』的人的話。」

希薇：「對呀，這樣半途而廢很沒有原則。」

尚青：「我的原則就是沒有任何原則。」

艾力克：「請問這種沒有『時間概念』又『沒有原則』的日子要如何進行下去？」

洛基： 「這種生活我們己經在不知不覺中徹底『進行』了1５年，謝天謝地！我們還活著。」

尚青：「這位同學，妳的名字『希薇』和『席維亞』有點像吔！」

希薇：「我本來叫『海倫』的，後來不知道怎麼搞的，就變成『希薇』了。」

艾力克：「妳爸媽不知道妳從『海倫』變成『希薇』嗎？」

希薇：「我非常懷疑我媽是因為『席維亞』這本書才把我的名字改成『希薇』的，但是她堅決否認。」

尚青：「為什麼？」

希薇：「她非常迷戀書中形容女主角的句子──『蒼白如夜，美如白畫』，所以就把我改成和『席維亞』名字

很像的『希薇』了。」

洛基：「『蒼白如夜，美如白晝』這是形容人的句子嗎？」

尚青：「不然呢？形容鬼喔！」

修士：「你們再這樣搞笑下去，可能沒辦法好好欣賞文學作品。」

洛基：「老師，你誤會我了。我的意思是『蒼白如夜，美如白晝』有點像是文謅謅的舞台劇台詞。」

修士：「沒錯，『席維亞』的作者是一個不折不扣的『劇場迷』，他迷戀的對象也確實是一名女演

員。」

以下是『席維亞』的英文版本：

I.

A WASTED NIGHT.

I passed out of a theatre where I was wont to appear nightly, in the proscenium boxes, in the attitude of suitor. Sometimes it was full, sometimes nearly empty; it mattered little to me, whether a handful of listless spectators occupied the pit, while antiquated costumes formed a doubtful setting for the boxes, or whether I made one of an audience swayed by emotion, crowned at every tier with flower-decked robes, flashing gems and radiant faces. The spectacle of the house left me indifferent, that of the stage could not fix my attention until at the second or third scene of a dull masterpiece of the period, a familiar vision illumined the vacancy, and by a word and a breath, gave life to the shadowy forms around me.

I felt that my life was linked with hers; her smile filled me with immeasurable bliss; the tones of her voice, so sweet and sonorous, thrilled me with love and joy. My ardent fancy endowed her with every perfection until she seemed to respond to all my raptures—beautiful as day in the blaze of the footlights, pale as night when their glare was lowered and rays from the chandelier above revealed her, lighting up the gloom with the radiance of her beauty, like those divine Hours with starry brows, which stand out against the dark background of the frescoes of Herculaneum.

For a whole year I had not sought to know what she might be, in the world outside, fearing to dim the magic mirror which reflected to me her image. Some idle gossip, it is true, touching the woman, rather than the actress, had reached my ears, but I heeded it less than any floating rumours concerning the Princess of Elis or the Queen of Trebizonde, for I was on my guard. An uncle of mine whose manner of life during the period preceding the close of the eighteenth century, had given him occasion to know them well, had warned me that actresses were not women, since nature had forgotten to give them hearts. He referred, no doubt, to those of his own day, but he related so many stories of his illusions and disappointments, and displayed so many portraits upon ivory, charming medallions which he afterwards used to adorn his snuff-boxes, so many yellow love-letters and faded tokens, each with its peculiar history, that I had come to think ill of them as a class, without considering the march of time.

We were living then in a strange period, such as often follows a revolution, or the decline of a great reign. The heroic gallantry of the Fronde, the drawing-room vice of the Regency, the scepticism and mad orgies of the Directory, were no more. It was a time of mingled activity, indecision and idleness, bright utopian dreams, philosophic or religious aspirations, vague ardour, dim instincts of rebirth, weariness of past discords, uncertain hopes,—an age somewhat like that of Peregrinus and Apuleius. The material man yearned for the roses which should regenerate him, from the hands of the fair Isis; the goddess appeared to us by night, in her eternal youth and purity, inspiring in us remorse for the hours wasted by day; and yet, ambition suited not our years, while the greedy strife, the mad chase in pursuit of honour and position, held us aloof from every possible sphere of activity. Our only refuge was the ivory tower of the poets whither we climbed higher and higher to escape the crowd. Upon the heights to which our masters guided us, we breathed at last the pure air of solitude, we quaffed oblivion in the golden cup of fable, we were drunk with poetry and love. Love, alas! of airy forms, of rose and azure tints, of metaphysical phantoms. Seen nearer, the real woman repelled our ingenuous youth which required her to appear as a queen or a goddess, and above all, inapproachable.

Some of our number held these platonic paradoxes in light esteem, and athwart our mystic reveries brandished at times the torch of the deities of the underworld, that names through the darkness for an instant with its train of sparks. Thus it chanced that on quitting the theatre with the sense of bitter sadness left by a vanished dream, I turned with pleasure to a club where a party of us used to sup, and where all depression yielded to the inexhaustible vivacity of a few brilliant wits, whose stormy gaiety at times rose to sublimity. Periods of renewal or decadence always produce such natures, and our discussions often became so animated that timid ones in the company would glance from the window to see if the Huns, the Turkomans or the Cossacks were not coming to put an end to these disputations of sophists and rhetoricians. "Let us drink, let us love, this is wisdom!" was the code of the younger members. One of them said to me: "I have noticed for some time that I always meet you in the same theatre. For which one do you go?" Which! why, it seemed impossible to go there for another! However, I confessed the name. "Well," said my friend kindly, "yonder is the happy man who has just accompanied her home, and who, in accordance with the rules of our club, will not perhaps seek her again till night is over."

With slight emotion I turned toward the person designated, and perceived a young man, well dressed, with a pale, restless face, good manners, and eyes full of gentle melancholy. He flung a gold piece on the card-table and lost it with indifference. "What is it to me?" said I, "he or another?" There must be someone, and he seemed worthy of her choice. "And you?" "I? I chase a phantom, that is all."

On my way out, I passed through the reading-room and glanced carelessly at a newspaper, to learn, I believe, the state of the stock market. In the wreck of my fortunes, there chanced to be a large investment in foreign securities, and it was reported that, although long disowned, they were about to be acknowledged;—and, indeed, this had just happened in consequence of a change in the ministry. The bonds were quoted high, so I was rich again.

A single thought was occasioned by this sudden change of fortune, that the woman whom I had loved so long, was mine, if I wished. My ideal was within my grasp, or was it only one more disappointment, a mocking misprint? No, for the other papers gave the same figures, while the sum which I had gained rose before me like the golden statue of Moloch.

"What," thought I, "would that young man say, if I were to take his place by the woman whom he has left alone?"

I shrunk from the thought, and my pride revolted. Not thus, not at my age, dare I slay love with gold! I will not play the tempter! Besides, such an idea belongs to the past. Who can tell me that this woman may be bought? My eyes glanced idly over the journal in my hand, and I noticed two lines: "Provincial Bouquet Festival. To-morrow the archers of Senlis will present the bouquet to the archers of Loisy." These simple words aroused in me an entirely new train of thought, stirring long-forgotten memories of provincial days, faint echoes of the artless joys of youth.

The horn and the drum were resounding afar in hamlet and forest; the young maidens were twining garlands as they sang, and binding nosegays with ribbon. A heavy wagon, drawn by oxen, received their offerings as it passed, and we, the children of that region, formed the escort with our bows and arrows, assuming the proud title of knights,—we did not know that we were only preserving, from age to age, an ancient feast of the Druids that had survived later religions and monarchies.

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II.

ADRIENNE.

I sought my bed, but not to sleep, and, lost in a half-conscious revery, all my youth passed before me. How often, in the border-land of dreams, while yet the mind repels their encroaching fancies, we are enabled to review in a few moments, the important events of a lifetime!

I saw a castle of the time of Henry IV., with its slate-covered turrets, its reddish front, jutting corners of yellow stone, and a stretch of green bordered by elms and lime-trees, through whose foliage, the setting sun shot its last fiery rays. Young girls were dancing in a ring on the lawn, singing quaint old tunes caught from their mothers, in a French whose native purity bespoke the old country of Valois, where for more than a thousand years had throbbed the heart of France. I was the only boy in the circle where I had led my young companion, Sylvie, a little maid from the neighboring hamlet, so fresh and animated, with her black eyes, regular features and slightly sun-burned skin. I loved but her, I had eyes but for her—till then! I had scarcely noticed in our round, a tall, beautiful blonde, called Adrienne, when suddenly, in following the figures of the dance, she was left alone with me, in the centre of the ring; we were of the same height, and they bade me kiss her, while the dance and song went whirling on, more merrily than before. When I kissed her, I could not forbear pressing her hand; her golden curls touched my cheek, and from that moment, a new feeling possessed me.

The fair girl must sing a song to reclaim her place in the dance, and we seated ourselves about her. In a sweet, penetrating voice, somewhat husky, as is common in that country of mists and fogs, she sang one of those old ballads full of love and sorrow, which always carry the story of an imprisoned princess, shut in a tower by her father, as a punishment for loving. At the end of every stanza, the melody died away in those quavering trills which enable young voices to simulate so well the tremulous notes of old women.

While she sang, the shadows of the great trees lengthened and the light of the young moon fell full upon her, as she stood apart from the rapt circle. The lawn was covered with rising clouds of mist that trailed its white wreaths over every blade of grass. We thought ourselves in Paradise. The song ended and no one dared break the stillness—at last I rose and ran to the gardens where some laurels were growing in large porcelain vases painted in monochrome. I plucked two branches which were twined into a crown, bound with ribbon, and I placed it upon Adrienne's brow, where its glossy leaves gleamed above her fair locks in the pale moonlight. She looked liked Dante's Beatrice, smiling at the poet as he strayed on the confines of the Blest Abodes.

Adrienne rose and, drawing up her slender figure, bowed to us gracefully and ran back to the castle; they said she was the child of a race allied to the ancient kings of France, that the blood of the Valois princes flowed in her veins. Upon this festal day, she had been permitted to join in our sports, but we were not to see her again, for on the morrow she would return to the convent of which she was an inmate.

When I rejoined Sylvie, I found her weeping because of the crown I had given to the fair singer. I offered to make another for her, but she would not consent, saying she did not merit it. I vainly tried to vindicate myself, but she refused to speak as we went the homeward way.

Paris soon recalled me to resume my studies, and I bore with me the two-fold memory of a tender friendship sadly broken, and of a love uncertain and impossible, the source of painful musings which my college philosophy was powerless to dispel.

Adrienne's face alone haunted me, a vision of glory and beauty, sweetening and sharing the hours of arduous study.

In the vacation of the following year, I learned that this lovely girl, who had but flitted past me, was destined by her family to a religious life.

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III.

RESOLVE.

These memories, recalled in my dreamy revery, explained everything. This hopeless passion for an actress, which took possession of me nightly from the hour when the curtain rose until I fell asleep, was born of my remembrance of Adrienne, the pale moon-flower, as she glided over the green, a rose-tinted vision enveloped in a cloud of misty whiteness. The likeness of a face long years forgotten was now distinctly outlined; it was a pencil-sketch, which time had blurred, developed into a painting, like the first drafts of the old masters which delight us in a gallery, the completed masterpiece being found elsewhere.

To fall in love with a nun in the guise of an actress!... suppose they were one and the same!—it is enough to drive one mad, a fatal mystery, drawing me on like a will o' the wisp flitting over the rushes of a stagnant pool. Let us keep a firm foothold on reality.

Sylvie, too, whom I loved so dearly, why had I forgotten her for three long years? She was a charming girl, the prettiest maiden in Loisy; surely she still lives, pure and good. I can see her window, with the creeper twining around the rose-bush, and the cage of linnets hanging on the left; I can hear the click of her bobbins and her favourite song:

La belle était assise

Près du ruisseau coulant....

(The maiden was sitting

Beside the swift stream.)

She is still waiting for me. Who would wed her, so poor? The men of her native village are sturdy peasants with rough hands and gaunt, tanned faces. I, the "little Parisian," had won her heart in my frequent visits near Loisy, to my poor uncle, now dead. For the past three years I have been squandering like a lord the modest inheritance left by him, which might have sufficed for a lifetime, and Sylvie, I know, would have helped me save it. Chance returns me a portion, it is not too late.

What is she doing now? She must be asleep.... No, she is not asleep; to-day is the Feast of the Bow, the only one in the year when the dance goes on all night.... She is there. What time is it? I had no watch.

Amongst a profusion of ornaments, which it was then the fashion to collect, in order to restore the local colour of an old-time interior, there gleamed with freshly polished lustre, one of those tortoise-shell clocks of the Renaissance, whose gilded dome, surmounted by a figure of Time, was supported by caryatides in the style of the Medici, resting in their turn upon rearing steeds. The historic Diana, leaning upon her stag, was in bas-relief under the face, where, upon an inlaid background, enameled figures marked the hours. The works, no doubt excellent, had not been put in motion for two centuries. It was not to tell the hour that I bought this time-piece in Touraine.

I went down to the porter's lodge to find that his clock marked one in the morning. "In four hours I can be at Loisy," thought I.

Five or six cabs were still standing on the Place du Palais Royal, awaiting the gamblers and clubmen. "To Loisy," I said to the nearest driver. "Where is it?" "Near Senlis, eight leagues distant." "I will take you to the posting station," said the cabman, more alert than I.

How dreary the Flanders road is by night! It gains beauty only as it approaches the belt of the forest. Two monotonous rows of trees, taking on the semblance of distorted figures, rise ever before the eye; in the distance, patches of verdure and cultivated land, bounded on the left by the blue hills of Montmorency, Ecouen and Luzarches. Here is Gonesse, an ordinary little town, full of memories of the League and the Fronde.

Beyond Louvres is a road lined with apple-trees, whose white blossoms I have often seen unfolding in the night, like stars of the earth—it is the shortest way to the village. While the carriage climbs the slope, let me recall old memories of the days when I came here so often.

________________________________________

IV.

A VOYAGE TO CYTHERA.

Several years had passed, and only a childish memory was left me of that meeting with Adrienne in front of the castle. I was again at Loisy on the annual feast, and again I mingled with the knights of the bow, taking my place in the same company as of old. The festival had been arranged by young people belonging to the old families, who still own the solitary castles, despoiled rather by time than revolution, hidden here and there in the forest. From Chantilly, Compiègne and Senlis, joyous companies hastened to join the rustic train of archers. After the long parade through hamlet and village, after mass in the church, contests of skill and awarding of prizes, the victors were invited to a feast prepared upon an island in the centre of one of the tiny lakes, fed by the Nonette and the Thève. Boats, gay with flags, conveyed us to this island, chosen on account of an old temple with pillars, destined to serve as a banquet hall. Here, as in Hermenonville, the country side is sown with these frail structures, designed by philosophical millionaires, in accordance with the prevailing taste of the close of the eighteenth century. Probably this temple was originally dedicated to Urania. Three pillars had fallen, bearing with them a portion of the architrave, but the space within had been cleared, and garlands hung between the columns, quite rejuvenated this modern ruin, belonging rather to the paganism of Boufflers and Chaulieu than of Horace. The sail on the lake was perhaps designed to recall Watteau's "Voyage to Cythera," the illusion being marred only by our modern dress. The immense bouquet was borne from its wagon and placed in a boat, accompanied by the usual escort of young girls dressed in white, and this graceful pageant, the survival of an ancient custom, was mirrored in the still waters that flowed around the island, gleaming in the red sunlight with its hawthorn thickets and colonnades.

All the boats soon arrived, and the basket of flowers borne in state, adorned the centre of the table, around which we took our places, the most fortunate beside a young girl; to win this favour it was enough to know her relatives, which explains why I found myself by Sylvie, whose brother had already joined me in the march, and reproached me for neglecting to visit them. I excused myself by the plea that my studies kept me in Paris, and averred that I had come with that intention.

"No," said Sylvie, "I am sure he has forgotten me. We are only village folk, and a Parisian is far above us." I tried to stop her mouth with a kiss, but she still pouted, and her brother had to intercede before she would offer me her cheek with an indifferent air. I took no pleasure in this salute, a favour accorded to plenty of others, for in that patriarchal country where a greeting is bestowed upon every passing stranger, a kiss means only an exchange of courtesies between honest people.

To crown the enjoyment of the day, a surprise had been contrived, and, at the close of the repast, a wild swan, hitherto imprisoned beneath the flowers, soared into the air, bearing aloft on his powerful wings, a tangle of wreaths and garlands, which were scattered in every direction. While he darted joyously toward the last bright gleams of the sun, we tried to seize the falling chaplets, to crown our fair neighbours. I was so fortunate as to secure one of the finest, and Sylvie smilingly granted me a kiss more tender than the last, by which I perceived that I had now redeemed the memory of a former occasion. She had grown so beautiful that my present admiration was without reserve, and I no longer recognised in her the little village maid, whom I had slighted for one more skilled in the graces of the world. Sylvie had gained in every respect; her black eyes, seductive from childhood, had become irresistibly fascinating, and there was something Athenian in her arching brows, together with the sudden smile lighting up her quiet, regular features. I admired this classic profile contrasting with the mere prettiness of her companions. Her taper fingers, round, white arms and slender waist changed her completely, and I could not refrain from telling her of the transformation, hoping thus to hide my long unfaithfulness. Everything favoured me, the delightful influences of the feast, her brother's regard, the evening hour, and even the spot chosen by a tasteful fancy to celebrate the stately rites of ancient gallantry. We escaped from the dance as soon as possible, to compare recollections of our childhood and to gaze, side by side, with dreamy pleasure, upon the sunset sky reflected in the calm waters. Sylvie's brother had to tear us from the contemplation of this peaceful scene by the unwelcome summons that it was time to start for the distant village where she dwelt.

________________________________________

V.

THE VILLAGE.

They lived at Loisy, in the old keeper's lodge, whither I accompanied them, and then turned back toward Montagny, where I was staying with my uncle. Leaving the highway to cross a little wood that divides Loisy from Saint S——, I plunged into a deep track skirting the forest of Hermenonville. I thought it would lead me to the walls of a convent, which I had to follow for a quarter of a league. The moon, from time to time, concealed by clouds, shed a dim light upon the grey rocks, and the heath which lay thick upon the ground as I advanced. Right and left stretched a pathless forest, and before me rose the Druid altars guarding the memory of the sons of Armen, slain by the Romans. From these ancient piles I discerned the distant lakelets glistening like mirrors in the misty plain, but I could not distinguish the one where the feast was held.

The air was so balmy, that I determined to lie down upon the heath and wait for the dawn. When I awoke, I recognized, one by one, the neighbouring landmarks. On the left stretched the long line of the convent of Saint S——, then, on the opposite side of the valley, La Butte aux Gens d'Armes, with the shattered ruins of the ancient Carlovingian palace. Close by, beyond the tree-tops, the crumbling walls of the lofty Abbey of Thiers, stood out against the horizon. Further on, the manor of Pontarmé, surrounded as in olden times, by a moat, began to reflect the first fires of dawn, while on the south appeared the tall keep of La Tournelle and the four towers of Bertrand Fosse, on the slopes of Montméliant.

The night had passed pleasantly, and I was thinking only of Sylvie, but the sight of the convent suggested the idea that it might be the one where Adrienne lived. The sound of the morning bell was still ringing in my ears and had probably awakened me. The thought came to me, for a moment, that by climbing to the top of the cliff, I might take a peep over the walls, but on reflection, I dismissed it as profane. The sun with its rising beams, put to flight this idle memory, leaving only the rosy features of Sylvie. "I will go and awaken her," I said to myself, and again I started in the direction of Loisy.

Ah, here at the end of the forest track, is the village, twenty cottages whose walls are festooned with creepers and climbing roses. A group of women, with red kerchiefs on their heads, are spinning in the early light, in front of a farmhouse, but Sylvie is not among them. She is almost a young lady, now she makes dainty lace, but her family remain simple villagers. I ran up to her room without exciting surprise, to find that she had been up for a long time, and was busily plying her bobbins, which clicked cheerfully against the square green cushion on her knees. "So, it is you, lazybones," she said with her divine smile; "I am sure you are just out of bed."

I told her how I had lost my way in the woods and had passed the night in the open air, and for a moment she seemed inclined to pity me.

"If you are not too tired, I will take you for another ramble. We will go to see my grand-aunt at Othys."

Before I had time to reply, she ran joyously to smooth her hair before the mirror, and put on her rustic straw hat, her eyes sparkling with innocent gaiety.

Our way, at first, lay along the banks of the Thève, through meadows sprinkled with daisies and buttercups; then we skirted the woods of Saint Lawrence, sometimes crossing streams and thickets to shorten the road. Blackbirds were whistling in the trees, and tomtits, startled at our approach, flew joyously from the bushes.

Now and then we spied beneath our feet the periwinkles which Rousseau loved, putting forth their blue crowns amid long sprays of twin leaves, a network of tendrils which arrested the light steps of my companion. Indifferent to the memory of the philosopher of Geneva, she sought here and there for fragrant strawberries, while I talked of the New Heloise, and repeated passages from it, which I knew by heart.

"Is it pretty?" she asked.

"It is sublime."

"Is it better than Auguste Lafontaine?"

"It is more tender."

"Well, then," said she, "I must read it. I will tell my brother to bring it to me the next time he goes to Senlis."

I went on reciting portions of the Heloise, while Sylvie picked strawberries.

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VI.

OTHYS.

When we had left the forest, we found great tufts of purple foxglove, and Sylvie gathered an armful, saying it was for her aunt who loved to have flowers in her room.

Only a stretch of level country now lay between us and Othys. The village church-spire pointed heavenward against the blue hills that extend from Montméliant to Dammartin. The Thève again rippled over the stones, narrowing towards its source, where it forms a tiny lake which slumbers in the meadows, fringed with gladiolus and iris. We soon reached the first houses where Sylvie's aunt lived in a little cottage of rough stone, adorned with a trellis of hop-vine and Virginia creeper. Her only support came from a few acres of land which the village folk cultivated for her, now her husband was dead. The coming of her niece set the house astir.

"Good morning, aunt; here are your children!" cried Sylvie; "and we are very hungry." She kissed her aunt tenderly, gave her the flowers, and then turned to present me, saying, "He is my sweetheart."

I, in turn, kissed the good aunt, who exclaimed, "He is a fine lad! why, he has light hair!" "He has very pretty hair," said Sylvie. "That does not last," returned her aunt; "but you have time enough before you, and you are dark, so you are well matched."

"You must give him some breakfast," said Sylvie, and she went peeping into cupboards and pantry, finding milk, brown bread and sugar which she hastily set upon the table, together with the plates and dishes of crockery adorned with staring flowers and birds of brilliant plumage. A large bowl of Creil china, filled with strawberries swimming in milk, formed the centrepiece, and after she had raided the garden for cherries and goose-berries, she arranged two vases of flowers, placing one at each end of the white cloth. Just then, her aunt made a sensible speech: "All this is only for dessert. Now, you must let me set to work." She took down the frying-pan and threw a fagot upon the hearth. "No, no; I shall not let you touch it," she said decidedly to Sylvie, who was trying to help her. "Spoiling your pretty fingers that make finer lace than Chantilly! You gave me some, and I know what lace is."

"Oh, yes, aunt, and if you have some left, I can use it for a pattern."

"Well, go look upstairs; there may be some in my chest of drawers."

"Give me the keys," returned Sylvie.

"Nonsense," cried her aunt; "the drawers are open." "No; there is one always locked." While the good woman was cleaning the frying-pan, after having passed it over the fire to warm it, Sylvie unfastened from her belt a little key of wrought steel and showed it to me in triumph.

I followed her swiftly up the wooden staircase that led to the room above. Oh youth, and holy age! Who could sully by an evil thought the purity of first love in this shrine of hallowed memories? The portrait of a young man of the good old times, with laughing black eyes and rosy lips, hung in an oval gilt frame at the head of the rustic bed. He wore the uniform of a gamekeeper of the house of Condé; his somewhat martial bearing, ruddy, good-humoured face, and powdered hair drawn back from the clear brow, gave the charm of youth and simplicity to this pastel, destitute, perhaps, of any artistic merit Some obscure artist, bidden to the hunting parties of the prince, had done his best to portray the keeper and his bride who appeared in another medallion, arch and winning, in her open bodice laced with ribbons, teasing with piquant frown, a bird perched upon her finger. It was, however, the same good old dame, at that moment bending over the hearth-fire to cook. It reminded me of the fairies in a spectacle who hide under wrinkled masks, their real beauty revealed in the closing scene when the Temple of Love appears with its whirling sun darting magic fires.

"Oh, dear old aunt!" I exclaimed, "how pretty you were!"

"And I?" asked Sylvie, who had succeeded in opening the famous drawer which contained an old-fashioned dress of taffeta, so stiff that the heavy folds creaked under her touch. "I will see if it fits me," she said; "I shall look like an old fairy!" "Like the fairy of the legends, ever young," thought I.

Sylvie had already unfastened her muslin gown and let it fall to her feet. She bade me hook the rich robe which clung tightly to her slender figure.

"Oh, what ridiculous sleeves!" she cried; and yet, the lace frills displayed to advantage her bare arms, and her bust was outlined by the corsage of yellow tulle and faded ribbon which had concealed but little the vanished charms of her aunt.

"Come, make haste!" said Sylvie. "Do you not know how to hook a dress?" She looked like the village bride of Greuze. "You ought to have some powder," said I. "We will find some," and she turned to search the drawers anew. Oh! what treasures, what sweet odours, what gleams of light from brilliant hues and modest ornaments! Two mother-of-pearl fans slightly broken, some pomade boxes covered with Chinese designs, an amber necklace and a thousand trifles, among them two little white slippers with sparkling buckles of Irish diamonds. "Oh! I will put them on," cried Sylvie, "if I find the embroidered stockings."

A moment more, and we were unrolling a pair of pink silk stockings with green clocks; but the voice of the old aunt, accompanied by the hiss of the frying-pan, suddenly recalled us to reality. "Go down quickly," said Sylvie, who refused to let me help her finish dressing. Her aunt was just turning into a platter the contents of the frying-pan, a slice of bacon and some eggs. Presently, I heard Sylvie calling me from the staircase. "Dress yourself as soon as possible," and, completely attired herself, she pointed to the wedding clothes of the gamekeeper, spread out upon the chest. In an instant I was transformed into a bridegroom of the last century. Sylvie waited for me on the stairs, and we went down, arm in arm. Her aunt gave a cry when she saw us. "Oh, my children!" she exclaimed, beginning to weep and then smiling through her tears. It was the image of her own youth, a cruel, yet charming vision. We sat beside her, touched, almost saddened, but soon our mirth came back, for after the first surprise, the thoughts of the good old dame reverted to the stately festivities of her wedding day. She even recalled the old-fashioned songs chanted responsively from one end of the festal board to the other, and the quaint nuptial hymn whose strains attended the wedded pair when they withdrew after the dance. We repeated these couplets with their simple rhymes, flowery and passionate as the Song of Solomon. We were bride and bridegroom the space of one fair summer morn.

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VII

CHAÂLIS.

It is four o'clock in the morning; the road winds through a hollow and comes out on high ground; the carriage passes Orry, then La Chapelle. On the left is a road that skirts the forest of Hallate. Sylvie's brother took me through there one evening in his covered cart, to attend some local gathering on the Eve of Saint Bartholomew, I believe. Through the woods, along unfrequented ways, the little horse sped as if hastening to a witches' sabbath. We struck the highway again at Mont-l'Évêque, and a few moments later pulled up at the keeper's lodge of the old abbey of Chaâlis—Chaâlis, another memory!

This ancient retreat of the emperors offers nothing worthy of admiration, save its ruined cloisters with their Byzantine arcades, the last of which are still mirrored in the lake—crumbling fragments of the abodes of piety, formerly attached to this demesne, known in olden times as "Charlemagne's farms." In this quiet spot, far from the stir of highways and cities, religion has retained distinctive traces of the prolonged sojourn of the Cardinals of the House of Este during the time of the Medici; a shade of poetic gallantry still lingers about its ceremonial, a perfume of the Renaissance breathing beneath the delicately moulded arches of the chapels decorated by Italian artists. The faces of saints and angels outlined in rose tints upon a vaulted roof of pale blue produce an effect of pagan allegory, which recalls the sentimentality of Petrarch and the weird mysticism of Francesco Colonna. Sylvie's brother and I were intruders in the festivities of the evening. A person of noble birth, at that time proprietor of the demesne, had invited the neighbouring families to witness a kind of allegorical spectacle in which some of the inmates of the convent close by were to take part. It was not intended to recall the tragedies of Saint Cyr, but went back to the first lyric contests, introduced into France by the Valois princes. What I saw enacted resembled an ancient mystery. The costumes, consisting of long robes, presented no variety save in colour, blue, hyacinth or gold. The scene lay between angels on the ruins of the world. Each voice chanted one of the glories of the now extinct globe, and the Angel of Death set forth the causes of its destruction. A spirit rose from the abyss, holding a flaming sword, and convoked the others to glorify the power of Christ, the conqueror of bell. This spirit was Adrienne, transfigured by her costume as she was already by her vocation. The nimbus of gilded cardboard encircling her angelic head seemed to us a circle of light; her voice had gained in power and compass, and an infinite variety of Italian trills relieved with their bird-like warbling the stately severity of the recitative.

In recalling these details, I come to the point of asking myself, "Are they real or have I dreamed them?" Sylvie's brother was not quite sober that evening. We spent a few minutes in the keeper's house, where I was much impressed by a cygnet displayed above the door, and within there were tall chests of carved walnut, a large clock in its case and some archery prizes, bows and arrows, above a red and green target. A droll-looking dwarf in a Chinese cap, holding a bottle in one hand and a ring in the other, seemed to warn the marksmen to take good aim. I think the dwarf was cut out of sheet-iron. Did I really see Adrienne as surely as I marked these details? I am, however, certain that it was the son of the keeper who conducted us to the hall where the representation took place; we were seated near the door behind a numerous company who seemed deeply moved. It was the feast of Saint Bartholomew—a day strangely linked with memories of the Medici, whose arms, impaled with those of the House of Este, adorned these old walls. Is it an obsession, the way these memories haunt me? Fortunately the carriage stops here on the road to Plessis; I leave the world of dreams and find myself with only a fifteen-minutes walk to reach Loisy by forest paths.

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VIII

THE BALL AT LOISY.

I entered the ball of Loisy at that sad yet pleasing hour when the lights flicker and grow dim at the approach of dawn. A faint bluish tinge crept over the tops of the lime-trees, sunk in shadow below. The rustic flute no longer contended so gayly with the trills of the nightingale. The dancers all looked pale, and among the dishevelled groups I distinguished with difficulty any familiar faces. Finally, I recognized a tall girl, Sylvie's friend Lise.

"We have not seen you for a long time, Parisian," said she.

"Yes; a long time."

"And you come so late?"

"By coach."

"And you traveled slowly!"

"I came to see Sylvie; is she still here?"

"She will stay till morning; she loves to dance."

In a moment I was beside her; she looked tired, but her black eyes sparkled with the same Athenian smile as of old. A young man stood near her, but she refused by a gesture to join the next country-dance, and he bowed to her and withdrew.

It began to grow light, and we left the ball hand in hand. The flowers hung lifeless and faded in Sylvie's loosened tresses, and the nosegay at her bosom dropped its petals on the crumpled lace made by her skilful hands. I offered to walk home with her; it was broad day, but the sky was cloudy. The Thève murmured on our left, leaving at every curve a little pool of still water where yellow and white pond-lilies blossomed, and lake star-worts, like Easter daisies, spread their delicate broidery. The plain was covered with hay-ricks whose fragrance seemed wafted to my brain, affecting me as the fresh scent of the woods and hawthorn thickets had done in the past. This time neither of us thought of crossing the meadows.

"Sylvie," said I, "you no longer love me."

She sighed. "My friend," she continued, "you must console yourself, since things do not happen as we wish in this world. You once mentioned the New Heloise; I read it, and shuddered when I found these words, at the beginning: 'Any young girl who reads this book is lost.' However, I kept on, trusting in my discretion. Do you remember the day we put on the wedding clothes, at my aunt's house? The engravings in the book also represented lovers dressed in olden costumes, so that to me you were Saint-Preux and I was Julie. Ah! why did you not come back then? But they said you were in Italy. You must have seen there far prettier girls than I!"

"Not one, Sylvie, with your expression or the pure lines of your profile. You do not know it, but you are a nymph of antiquity. Besides, the woods here are as beautiful as those about Rome. There are granite masses yonder, not less sublime, and a cascade which falls from the rocks like that of Terni. I saw nothing there to regret here."

"And in Paris?" she asked.

"In Paris—" I shook my head, but did not answer. Suddenly I remembered the vain shadow which I had pursued so long. "Sylvie," cried I, "let us stop here, will you?"

I threw myself at her feet, and with hot tears I confessed my irresolution and fickleness; I evoked the fatal spectre that haunted my days.

"Save me!" I implored, "I come back to you forever."

She turned toward me with emotion, but at this moment our conversation was interrupted by a loud burst of laughter, and Sylvie's brother rejoined us with the boisterous mirth always attending a rustic festival, and which the abundant refreshments of the evening had stimulated beyond measure. He called to the gallant of the ball, who was concealed in a thicket, but hastened to us. This youth was little firmer on his feet than his companion, and appeared more embarrassed by the presence of a Parisian than by Sylvie. His candid look and awkward deference prevented any dislike on my part, on account of his dancing so late with Sylvie at the ball; I did not consider him a dangerous rival.

"We must go in," said Sylvie to her brother. "We shall meet again soon," she said, as she offered me her cheek to kiss, at which the lover was not offended.

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IX.

HERMENONVILLE.

Not feeling inclined to sleep, I walked to Montagny to revisit my uncle's house. Sadness fell upon me at the first glimpse of its yellow front and green shutters. Everything looked as before, but I was obliged to go to the farmer's to obtain the key. The shutters once open, I surveyed with emotion the old furniture, polished from time to time, to preserve its lustre, the tall cupboard of walnut, two Flemish paintings said to be the work of an ancient artist, our ancestor, some large prints after Boucher, and a whole series of framed engravings representing scenes from "Emile" and the "New Heloise" by Moreau; on the table was the dog, now stuffed and mounted, that I remembered alive, as the companion of my forest rambles, perhaps the last "Carlin," for it had belonged to that breed now extinct.

"As for the parrot," said the farmer, "he is still alive, and I took him home with me."

The garden offered a magnificent picture of the growth of wild vegetation, and there in a corner was the plot I had tended as a child. A shudder came over me as I entered the study, which still contained the little library of choice books, familiar friends of him who was no more, and where upon his desk lay antique relics, vases and Roman medals found in the garden,—a local collection, the source of much pleasure to him.

"Let us go to see the parrot," I said to the farmer. The parrot clamoured for his breakfast, as in his best days, and gave me a knowing look from his round eye peering out from the wrinkled skin, like the wise glances of the old.

Full of sad thoughts awakened by my return to this cherished spot, I felt that I must again see Sylvie, the only living tie which bound me to that region, and once more I took the road to Loisy. It was the middle of the day, and I found them all asleep, worn out by the night of merry-making. It occurred to me that it might divert my thoughts to stroll to Hermenonville, a league distant, by the forest road. It was fine summer weather, and on setting out I was delighted by the freshness and verdure of the path which seemed like the avenue of a park. The green branches of the great oaks were relieved by the white trunks and rustling leaves of the birches. The birds were silent, and I heard no sound but the woodpecker tapping the trees to find a hollow for her nest. At one time I was in danger of losing my way, the characters being wholly effaced on the guide-posts which served to distinguish the roads. Passing the Desert on the left, I came to the dancing-ring where I found the benches of the old men still in place. All the associations of ancient philosophy, revived by the former owner of the demesne, crowded upon me, at the sight of this picturesque realisation of "Anacharsis" and "Emile."

When I caught sight of the waters of the lake sparkling through the branches of willows and hazels, I recognised a spot which I had often visited with my uncle. Here stands to this day, sheltered by a group of pines, the Temple of Philosophy which its founder had not the good fortune to complete. It is built in the form of the temple of the Tiburtine Sibyl, and displays with pride the names of all the great thinkers from Montaigne and Descartes to Rousseau. This unfinished structure is now but a ruin around which the ivy twines its graceful tendrils, while brambles force their way between its disjointed steps. When but a child, I witnessed the celebrations here, where young girls, dressed in white, came to receive prizes for scholarship and good conduct. Where are the roses that girdled the hillside? Hidden by brier and eglantine, they are fast losing all traces of cultivation. As for the laurels, have they been cut down, according to the old song of the maidens who no longer care to roam the forest? No! these shrubs from sweet Italy have withered beneath our unfriendly skies. Happily, the privet of Virgil still thrives as if to emphasize the words of the Master, inscribed above the door, Rerum cognoscere causas. Yes! like so many others, this temple crumbles, and man, weary or thoughtless, passes it by, while indifferent nature reclaims the soil for which art contended, but the thirst for knowledge is eternal, the mainspring of all power and activity.

Here are the poplars of the island and the empty tomb of Rousseau. O Sage! thou gavest us the milk of the strong and we were too weak to receive it! We have forgotten thy lessons which our fathers knew, and we have lost the meaning of thy words, the last faint echoes of ancient wisdom! Still, let us not despair, and like thee, in thy last moments, let us turn our eyes to the sun!

I revisited the castle, the quiet waters about it, the cascade which complains among the rocks, the causeway that unites the two parts of the village with the four dove-cotes that mark the corners, and the green that stretches beyond like a prairie, above which rise wooded slopes; the tower of Gabrielle is reflected from afar in the waters of an artificial lake studded with ephemeral blossoms; the scum is seething, the insects hum. It is best to escape the noxious vapours and seek the rocks and sand of the desert and the waste lands where the pink heath blooms beside green ferns. How sad and lonely it all seems! In by-gone days, Sylvie's enchanting smile, her merry pranks and glad cries enlivened every spot! She was then a wild little creature with bare feet and sun-burned skin, in spite of the straw hat whose long strings floated loosely amid her dark locks. We used to go to the Swiss farm to drink milk, and they said: "How pretty your sweetheart is, little Parisian!" Ah! no peasant lad could have danced with her in those days! She would have none but me for her partner, at the yearly Feast of the Bow.

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X.

BIG CURLY-HEAD

I went back to Loisy and they were all awake. Sylvie was dressed like a young lady, almost in the fashion of the city. She led me up to her room with all her old simplicity. Her bright eyes smiled as charmingly as ever, but the decided arch of her brows made her at times look serious. The room was simply decorated, but the furniture was modern: a mirror in a gilt frame had replaced the old-fashioned looking-glass where an idyllic shepherd was depicted offering a nest to a blue and pink shepherdess; the four-post bed, modestly hung with flowered chintz, was succeeded by a little walnut couch with net curtains; canaries occupied the cage at the window where once there were linnets. I was impatient to leave this room, where nothing spoke to me of the past. "Shall you make lace to-day?" I asked Sylvie. "Oh, I do not make lace now; there is no demand for it here, and even at Chantilly the factory is closed." "What is your work then?" She brought forward, from the corner of the room, an iron tool which resembled a long pair of pincers.

"What is that?"

"It is called the machine and is used to hold the leather in place while the gloves are sewed."

"Then you are a glove-maker, Sylvie?"

"Yes, we work here for Dammartin; it pays well now, but I shall not work to-day; let us go wherever you like." I glanced towards Othys, but she shook her head, and I understood that the old aunt was no more. Sylvie called a little boy and bade him saddle an ass. "I am still tired from yesterday," she said, "but the ride will do me good; let us go to Chaâlis."

We set out through the forest, followed by the boy armed with a branch. Sylvie soon wished to stop, and I kissed her as I led her to a seat. Our conversation could no longer be very intimate. I had to talk of my life in Paris, my travels.... "How can anyone go so far?" she demanded. "It seems strange to me, when I look at you."

"Oh! of course,"

"Well, admit that you were not so pretty in the old days."

"I cannot tell."

"Do you remember when we were children and you the tallest?"

"And you the wisest?"

"Oh! Sylvie!"

"They put us on an ass, one in each pannier."

"And we said thee and thou to each other? Do you remember how you taught me to catch crawfish under the bridges over the Nonette and the Thève?"

"Do you remember your foster-brother who pulled you out of the water one day?"

"Big Curly-head? It was he who told me to go in."

I made haste to change the subject, because this recollection had brought vividly to mind the time when I used to go into the country, wearing a little English coat which made the peasants laugh. Sylvie was the only one who liked it, but I did not venture to remind her of such a juvenile opinion. For some reason, my mind turned to the old aunt's wedding clothes in which we had arrayed ourselves, and I asked what had become of them.

"Oh! poor aunt," cried Sylvie; "she lent me her gown to wear to the carnival at Dammartin, two years ago, and the next year she died, dear, old aunt!" She sighed and the tears came, so I could not inquire how it chanced that she went to a masquerade, but I perceived that, thanks to her skill, Sylvie was no longer a peasant girl. Her parents had not risen above their former station, and she lived with them, scattering plenty around her like an industrious fairy.

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XI.

RETURN.

The outlook widened when we left the forest and we found ourselves near the lake of Chaâlis. The galleries of the cloister, the chapel with its pointed arches, the feudal tower and the little castle which had sheltered the loves of Henry IV. and Gabrielle, were bathed in the crimson glow of evening against the dark background of the forest.

"Like one of Walter Scott's landscapes, is it not?" said Sylvie. "And who has told you of Walter Scott?" I inquired. "You must have read much in the past three years! As for me, I try to forget books, and what delights me, is to revisit with you this old abbey where, as little children, we played hide and seek among the ruins. Do you remember, Sylvie, how afraid you were when the keeper told us the story of the Red Monks?"

"Oh, do not speak of it!"

"Well then, sing me the song of the fair maid under the white rose-bush, who was stolen from her father's garden."

"Nobody sings that now."

"Is it possible that you have become a musician?"

"Perhaps."

"Sylvie, Sylvie, I am positive that you sing airs from operas!"

"Why should you complain?"

"Because I loved the old songs and you have forgotten them."

Sylvie warbled a few notes of a grand air from a modern opera.... She phrased!

We turned away from the lakeside and approached the green bordered with lime-trees and elms, where we had so often danced. I had the conceit to describe the old Carlovingian walls and to decipher the armorial bearings of the House of Este.

"And you! How much more you have read than I, and how learned you have become!" said Sylvie. I was vexed by her tone of reproach, as I had all the way been seeking a favourable opportunity to resume the tender confidences of the morning, but what could I say, accompanied by a donkey and a very wide-awake lad who pressed nearer and nearer for the pleasure of hearing a Parisian talk? Then I displayed my lack of tact, by relating the vision of Chaâlis which I recalled so vividly. I led Sylvie into the very hall of the castle where I had heard Adrienne sing. "Oh, let me hear you!" I besought her; "let your loved voice ring out beneath these arches and put to flight the spirit that torments me, be it angel or demon!" She repeated the words and sang after me:

"Anges, descendez promptement

au fond du purgatoire...."

(Angels descend without delay

To dread abyss of purgatory.)

"It is very sad!" she cried.

"It is sublime! An air from Porpora, I think, with words translated in the present century."

"I do not know," she replied.

We came home through the valley, following the Charlepont road which the peasants, without regard to etymology, persistently called Châllepont. The way was deserted, and Sylvie, weary of riding, leaned upon my arm, while I tried to speak of what was in my heart, but, I know not why, could find only trivial words or stilted phrases from some romance that Sylvie might have read. I stopped suddenly then, in true classic style, and she was occasionally amazed by these disjointed rhapsodies. Having reached the walls of Saint S—— we had to look well to our steps, on account of the numerous stream-lets winding through the damp marshes.

"What has become of the nun?" I asked suddenly.

"You give me no peace with your nun! Ah, well! it is a sad story!" Not a word more would Sylvie say.

Do women really feel that certain words come from the lips rather than the heart? It does not seem probable, to see how readily they are deceived, and what an inexplicable choice they usually make—there are men who play the comedy of love so well! I never could accustom myself to it, although I know some women lend themselves wittingly to the deception. A love that dates from childhood is, however, sacred, and Sylvie, whom I had seen grow up, was like a sister to me; I could not betray her. Suddenly, a new thought came to me. "At this very hour, I might be at the theatre. What is Aurélie (that was the name of the actress) playing to-night? No doubt the part of the Princess in the new play. How touching she is in the third act! And in the love scene of the second with that wrinkled actor who plays the lover!"

"Lost in thought?" said Sylvie; and she began to sing:

"A Dammartin l'y a trots belles filles:

L'y en a z'une plus belle que le jour...."

(At Dammartin there are three fair maids,

And one of them is fairer than day.)

"Little tease!" I cried, "you know you remember the old songs."

"If you would come here oftener, I would try to remember more of them," she said; "but we must think of realities; you have your affairs at Paris, I have my work here; let us go in early, for I must rise with the sun to-morrow."

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XII.

FATHER DODU.

I was about to reply, to fall at her feet and offer her my uncle's house which I could purchase, as the little estate had not been apportioned among the numerous heirs, but just then we reached Loisy, where supper awaited us and the onion-soup was diffusing its patriarchal odour. Neighbours had been invited to celebrate the day after the feast, and I recognised at a glance Father Dodu, an old wood-cutter who used to amuse or frighten us, in the evenings by his stories. Shepherd, carrier, gamekeeper, fisherman and even poacher, by turns, Father Dodu made clocks and turnspits in his leisure moments. For a long time he acted as guide to the English tourists at Hermenonville, and while he recounted the last moments of the philosopher, would lead them to Rousseau's favourite spots for meditation. He was the little boy employed to classify the herbs and gather the hemlock twigs from which the sage pressed the juice into his cup of coffee. The landlord of the Golden Cross contested this point and a lasting feud resulted. Father Dodu had once borne the reproach of possessing some very innocent secrets, such as how to cure cows by saying a rhyme backwards and making the sign of the cross with the left foot, but he had renounced these superstitions—thanks, he declared, to his conversations with Jean Jacques.

"That you, little Parisian?" said Father Dodu; "have you come to carry off our pretty girls?"

"I, Father Dodu?"

"You take them into the woods when the wolf is away!"

"Father Dodu, you are the wolf."

"I was as long as I could find sheep, but at present I meet only goats, and they know how to take care of themselves! As for you, why, you are all rascals in Paris. Jean Jacques was right when he said, 'Man grows corrupt in the poisonous air of cities.'"

"Father Dodu, you know very well that men become corrupt everywhere."

"Father Dodu began to roar out a drinking song, and it was impossible to stop him at a questionable couplet that everyone knew by heart. Sylvie would not sing, in spite of our entreaties, on the plea that it was no longer customary to sing at table. I bad already noticed the lover of the ball, seated at her left, and his round face and tumbled hair seemed familiar. He rose and stood behind me, saying, "Have you forgotten me, Parisian?" A good woman who came back to dessert after serving us, whispered in my ear: "Do you not recognize your foster-brother?" Without this warning, I should have made myself ridiculous. "Ah, it is Big Curly-head!" I cried; "the very same who pulled me out of the water." Sylvie burst out laughing at the recollection.

"Without considering," said the youth em-bracing me, "that you had a fine silver watch and on the way home you were more concerned about it than yourself, because it had stopped. You said, 'the creature is drowned does not go tick-tack; what will Uncle say?'" "A watch is a creature," said Father Dodu; "that is what they tell children in Paris!"

Sylvie was sleepy, and I fancied there was no hope for me. She went upstairs, and as I kissed her, said: "Come again to-morrow." Father Dodu remained at table with Sylvain and my foster-brother, and we talked a long time over a bottle of Louvres ratafia.

"All men are equal," said Father Dodu between glasses; "I drink with a pastry-cook as readily as with a prince."

"Where is the pastry-cook?" I asked.

"By your side! There you see a young man who is ambitious to get on in life."

My foster-brother appeared embarrassed and I understood the situation. Fate had reserved for me a foster-brother in the very country made famous by Rousseau, who opposed putting children out to nurse! I learned from Father Dodu that there was much talk of a marriage between Sylvie and Big Curly-head, who wished to open a pastry-shop at Dammartin. I asked no more. Next morning the coach from Nanteuil-le-Haudouin took me back to Paris.

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XIII

AURÉLIE.

To Paris, a journey of five hours! I was impatient for evening, and eight o'clock found me in my accustomed seat Aurélie infused her own spirit and grace into the lines of the play, the work of a contemporary author evidently inspired by Schiller. In the garden scene she was sublime. During the fourth act, when she did not appear, I went out to purchase a bouquet of Madame Prevost, slipping into it a tender effusion signed An Unknown, "There," thought I, "is something definite for the future," but on the morrow I was on my way to Germany.

Why did I go there? In the hope of com-posing my disordered fancy. If I were to write a book, I could never gain credence for the story of a heart torn by these two conflicting loves. I had lost Sylvie through my own fault, but to see her for a day, sufficed to restore my soul. A glance from her had arrested me on the verge of the abyss, and henceforth I enshrined her as a smiling goddess in the Temple of Wisdom. I felt more than ever reluctant to present myself before Aurélie among the throng of vulgar suitors who shone in the light of her favour for an instant only to fall blinded.

"Some day," said I, "we shall see whether this woman has a heart."

One morning I learned from a newspaper that Aurélie was ill, and I wrote to her from the mountains of Salzburg, a letter so filled with German mysticism that I could hardly hope for a reply, indeed I expected none. I left it to chance or ... the unknown.

Months passed, and in the leisure intervals of travel I undertook to embody in poetic action the life-long devotion of the painter Colonna to the fair Laura who was constrained by her relatives to take the veil. Something in the subject lent itself to my habitual train of thought, and as soon as the last verse of the drama was written, I hastened back to France.

Can I avoid repeating in my own history, that of many others? I passed through all the ordeals of the theatre. I "ate the drum and drank the cymbal," according to the apparently meaningless phrase of the initiates at Eleusis, which probably signifies that upon occasion we must stand ready to pass the bounds of reason and absurdity; for me it meant to win and possess my ideal.

Aurélie accepted the leading part in the play which I brought back from Germany. I shall never forget the day she allowed me to read it to her. The love scenes had been arranged expressly for her, and I am positive that I rendered them with feeling. In the conversation that followed I revealed myself as the "Unknown" of the two letters. She said: "You are mad, but come again; I have never found anyone who knew how to love me."

Oh, woman! you seek for love ... but what of me?

In the days which followed I wrote probably the most eloquent and touching letters that she ever received. Her answers were full of good sense. Once she was moved, sent for me and confessed that it was hard for her to break an attachment of long standing. "If you love me for myself alone, then you will understand that I can belong to but one."

Two months later, I received an effusive letter which brought me to her feet—in the meantime, someone volunteered an important piece of information. The handsome young man whom I had met one night at the club had just enlisted in the Turkish cavalry.

Races were held at Chantilly the next season, and the theatre troupe to which Aurélie belonged gave a performance. Once in the country, the company was for three days subject to the orders of the director. I had made friends with this worthy man, formerly the Dorante of the comedies of Marivaux and for a long time successful in lovers' parts. His latest triumph was achieved in the play imitated from Schiller, when my opera-glass had discovered all his wrinkles. He had fire, however, and being thin, produced a good effect in the provinces. I accompanied the troupe in the quality of poet, and persuaded the manager to give performances at Senlis and Dammartin. He inclined to Compiègne at first, but Aurélie was of my opinion. Next day, while arrangements with the local authorities were in progress, I ordered horses and we set out on the road to Commelle to breakfast at the castle of Queen Blanche. Aurélie, on horseback, with her blonde hair floating in the wind, rode through the forest like some queen of olden times, and the peasants were dazzled by her appearance. Madame de F—— was the only woman they had ever seen so imposing and so graceful. After breakfast we rode down to the villages like Swiss hamlets where the waters of the Nonette turn the busy saw-mills. These scenes, which my remembrance cherished, interested Aurélie, but did not move her to delay. I had planned to conduct her to the castle near Orry, where I had first seen Adrienne on the green. She manifested no emotion. Then I told her all; I revealed the hidden spring of that love which haunted my dreams by night and was realized in her. She listened with attention and said: "You do not love me! You expect me to say 'the actress and the nun are the same'; you are merely arranging a drama and the issue of the plot is lacking. Go! I no longer believe in you."

Her words were an illumination. The unnatural enthusiasm which had possessed me for so long, my dreams, my tears, my despair and my tenderness,—could they mean aught but love? What then is love?

Aurélie played that night at Senlis, and I thought she displayed a weakness for the director, the wrinkled "young lover" of the stage. His character was exemplary, and he had already shown her much kindness.

One day, Aurélie said to me: "There is the man who loves me!"

________________________________________

XIV.

THE LAST LEAF.

Such are the fancies that charm and beguile us in the morning of life! I have tried to set them down here, in a disconnected fashion, but many hearts will understand me. One by one our illusions fall like husks, and the kernel thus laid bare is experience. Its taste is bitter, but it yields an acrid flavour that invigorates,—to use an old-fashioned simile. Rousseau says that the aspect of nature is a universal consolation. Sometimes I seek again my groves of Clarens lost in the fog to the north of Paris, but now, all is changed! Hermenonville, the spot where the ancient idyl blossomed again, transplanted by Gessner, thy star has set, the star that glowed for me with two-fold lustre. Blue and rose by turns, like the changeful Aldebaran, it was formed by Adrienne and Sylvie, the two halves of my love. One was the sublime ideal, the other, the sweet reality. What are thy groves and lakes and thy desert to me now? Othys, Montagny, Loiseaux, poor neighbouring hamlets, and Chaâlis now to be restored, you guard for me no treasures of the past. Occasionally, I feel a desire to return to those scenes of lonely musing, where I sadly mark the fleeting traces of a period when affectation invaded nature; sometimes I smile as I read upon the granite rocks certain lines from Boucher, which I once thought sublime, or virtuous maxims inscribed above a fountain or a grotto dedicated to Pan. The swans disdain the stagnant waters of the little lakes excavated at such an expense. The time is no more when the hunt of Condé swept by with its proud riders, and the forest-echoes rang with answering horns! There is to-day no direct route to Hermenonville, and sometimes I go by Creil and Senlis, sometimes by Dammartin.

It is impossible to reach Dammartin before night, so I lodge at the Image of Saint John. They usually give me a neat room hung with old tapestry, with a glass between the windows. This room shows a return to the fashion for bric-à-brac which I renounced long ago. I sleep comfortably under the eider-down covering used there. In the morning, when I throw open the casement wreathed with vines and roses, I gaze with rapture upon a wide green landscape stretching away to the horizon, where a line of poplars stand like sentinels. Here and there the villages nestle guarded by their protecting church-spires. First Othys, then Eve and Ver; Hermenonville would be visible beyond the wood, if it had a belfry, but in that philosophic spot the church has been neglected. Having filled my lungs with the pure air of these uplands, I go down stairs in good humour and start for the pastry-cook's. "Helloa, big Curly-head!" "Helloa, little Parisian!" We greet each other with sly punches in the ribs as we did in childhood, then I climb a certain stair where two children welcome my coming. Sylvie's Athenian smile lights up her classic features, and I say to myself: "Here, perhaps, is the happiness I have missed, and yet...."

Sometimes I call her Lotty, and she sees in me some resemblance to Werther without the pistols, which are out of fashion now. While Big Curly-head is busy with the breakfast, we take the children for a walk through the avenues of limes that border the ruins of the old brick towers of the castle. While the little ones practise with their bows and arrows, we read some poem or a few pages from one of those old books all too short, and long forgotten by the world.

I forgot to say that when Aurélie's troupe gave a performance at Dammartin, I took Sylvie to the play and asked her if she did not think the actress resembled someone she knew.

"Whom, pray?"

"Do you remember Adrienne?"

She laughed merrily, in reply. "What an idea!"

Then, as if in self-reproach, she added with a sigh: "Poor Adrienne! she died at the convent of Saint S—— about 1832."

尚青：「呃～，這篇『閱讀測驗』有點長！」

希薇：「我們老師說遇到不太會的英文閱讀測驗，先看題目以後把文章全部讀一遍。非常快速(大概花五分鐘)

遇到不會的字直接跳過，重點是：要用手指去指每一個字，邊讀邊掃過去這樣子。讀完你可能覺得不

知道他在幹嘛，但是再看題目以後就會知道答案了。」

洛基：「老師，您還沒給閱讀測驗的題目吔！」

「難怪我完全看不懂」艾力克：「原來是因為題目還沒給！」

修士：「＠＃％＆＊～，天啊！這不是閱讀測驗！」

尚青：「我記得『克漏字』不是長這樣。」

艾力克：「難道這是『劇本』？」

洛基：「恭喜你突破『盲點』了。」

修士：「我很高興你們能有這層領悟，看來你們不是完全看不懂，的確有學者認為“席維亞”『舞台劇』的

成份很重」

「大家有沒有發現這間教室很像『劇場』？」尚青：「還有舞台和布幕！」

「你不是第一個這麼說的人。」修士：「我們剛搬進來時也這麼認為，做為修道院，這棟建築太華麗了。」

艾力克：「難怪很多人到這裏詢問『席維亞』，這裏以前會不會是『劇院』？」

修士：「這個問題可能要問院長，我不是第一個搬進來的人。不過這棟建築在我們搬進來之前就存在了。」

希薇：「但是這個『劇本』的『獨白』也太多了吧！」

尚青：「那不是『獨白』，那是『內心戲』。」

洛基：「是嗎？那你『演』一下『內心戲』給我看看！」

希薇：「光是她『蒼白如夜，美如白晝』就很難演。」

尚青：「呃～，那不是用「演」的，那是用「看」的。例如：找一個看起來『蒼白如夜，美如白晝』

　　　的女演員來詮釋這個角色。」

艾力克：「老師只是說“席維亞”『舞台劇』的成份很重，沒說這本小說一定是『劇本』. 至少我就沒看過

有那個導演成功將 “席維亞” 改拍成電影的。」

洛基：「沒錯，難度真的很高，畢竟要將『獨白』在觀眾面前呈現成『內心戲』不是一件容易的事。」

尚青：「但是我好想演演看，尤其這位作者和我一樣很沒『時間概念』，這些搞不清楚『過去那一段時間』

　　　

的『獨白』好像是為我設計的，我真的感同身受，很有親切感。」

為了讓尚青「演演看」，將「沒有時間概念」的生活「繼續進行」下去，順便證明尚青是史上『第二沒時間

概念』的人。大家也只好勇敢地「搏命」配合演出很可能會在小說中「迷失自已」、至今沒有導演敢拍的

「席維亞」。

PS：由於英文不具備「未完成過去式」，所以很難翻譯出著名的「劇場之夜」也就是「席維亞」

第一章的第 一句：

I passed out of a theatre where I was wont to appear nightly, in the proscenium boxes.

我當時正從一座劇院走出來，而夜復一夜，我都會在其中一個舞台包廂現身。

這翻譯雖然有點長，但是原文(法文)「未完成過去式」動詞的「持續性」和「重複性」至少都表達出來了。

從第一章開頭五小段的６０個動詞裏：「未完成過去式」就用了５３個，這就是為什麼作者造成「時間失

序」的原因，因為它表示動詞「過去未完成」的狀態：它將我們從正在說話的「此刻」移到「先前一段時

間」，但是並沒有確切告我們到底是什麼時候，並且持續多久。一位年輕人從劇院裏走出來，決定前從往羅

希的舞會，而在路途中，他竟然又回憶起「以前某次」前往羅希的路程。由於作者在「回憶的夢境」和「找

尋真實」兩者之間掙扎，所以這個時候「現實」很容易和「回憶」混淆在一起，讀者完全不知道自己到底身

處故事中的「那一段」情節，因此會有「迷路」的感覺，就算翻回前面重看，也是徒勞無功。

為了成功地將「夢境」與「現實」混淆在一起，使觀眾看了之後「神精錯亂」地逃出劇院；呃～，不，是產

生夢幻迷離的「氤氳」效果，尚青決定挑戰最難演的「羅希舞會」。(以下要求完全照書上吩咐)

場景：位於羅希的一處草原空地（實際上是修道院的教室舞台）

燈光：由洛基負責史上難度最高的劇場燈光效果（這簡直是特技）：

一、女演員出場時首先要有「成排的」腳燈照亮。

二、接著是頭頂上的分枝吊燈。

三、舞會進行時夕陽西下的餘暉要具有背景布幔的效果。

四、當女主角唱歌時，她所在的位置要有被頭上「月亮大燈」孤立起來的感覺。

(也就是所謂「聚光燈」的效果，並且確保女主角退到後台前能向觀眾優雅行禮)

五、最後要讓幾棵菩提樹的根基逐漸隱進黑暗，而同時讓樹梢染上帶藍的光，直到整個場景被清晨蒼白的晨

曦淹沒為止。(筆者非常懷疑洛基能否完成此項「不可能的任務」)

音效：由艾力克負責指導女主角邊走邊唱地優雅現身。

武術指導：由樂團鼓手aben負責指導修士組成「羅希射箭隊」，不但要拉弓射箭，還要充滿「神話聯想」。

如果男女主角不會跳舞的話，可能還要指導如何跳舞。

男主角：尚青

女主角：希薇

以下是第一次排演的順台詞：

男主角：啊!火炬遠不及妳的明亮；妳皎然懸在暮天的頰上，

像黑奴耳邊璀璨的珠環；妳是天上明珠降落人間！

瞧妳隨著女伴進退周旋，像鴉群中一頭白鴿蹁躚。

我要等舞闌後追隨左右，握一握妳那纖纖的素手。

我從前的戀愛是假非真，今晚才遇見絕世的佳人

女主角：幸福的夜啊！我怕我只是在晚上做了一個夢,這樣美滿的事不會是真實的。

修士：等一下，這不是“莎士比亞”「羅密歐與茱麗葉」的台詞嗎？

尚青：沒辦法，「席維亞」這本小說只著重演「內心戲」的「獨白」以及劇場「燈光」、「場景」的安排，

　　　

幾乎沒給什麼男女主角的「對白」，為了營造舞台劇氣氛只好朗讀了“莎士比亞”文謅謅的台詞了。

修士：你這樣對得起社會大眾嗎？

尚青：要不然我改唸”瓊瑤阿姨”連續劇的台詞。

修士：你不會自已編嗎？

以下是”第二次”順台詞：

女主角：你那模稜兩可的敘事策略，真是如假包換的曖昧不明，一個前來羅希的「你」竟又回憶起另一

　　　　從前的「你」，你到底認同那一個「你」？從頭到尾也交待不清，甚至還多了「另一個」敘事者出

　　　　來幫「你」混淆視聽，你這樣對得起「如墜五里霧」的迷惑讀者嗎？

男主角：妳在第一章是「蒼白如夜，美如白晝」的女演員奧慧麗雅，到了第二章成了金髮高窕、

具備瓦洛瓦家族血統、榮光和美麗幻象的艾德希安，等到第四章又變成擁有雅典式優雅、

令人不可抗拒、如神般美麗、彷彿「遠古藝術品」的席維亞，三人就像狡黠的藝術女伶般

「不可狹近」又俐落機靈，每當我一靠近，妳就隨時準備變成「另一種東西」。

修士：卡～，這是「批鬥大會」嗎？你們在「審問」誰？作者又不在這裏？

尚青：我們只是說出真心話，這個作者不只對「時間」超級沒概念。

希薇：而且對「女人」也不是普通沒概念，每次他逃避自已心愛的女子嘗試接近另一個，卻又發現後者和他

　　　想要躲開的那個人相似，最後這三名女子終於成功地永遠令他「混淆不清」，彷彿這三個人是同一個

人。

修士：所以你們認為「男主角」就是「作者」？

希薇：不然咧？還會有別人嗎？

洛基：恭喜妳，又突破「盲點」了！也許作者真的是「別人」呢？

修士：書中先後出現的「三位」女主角會不會其實真的是「同一個」人？

洛基：啊！太好了！又出現一個新的「盲點」！

尚青：我其實有一喜歡這樣「逆向操作」，把「席維亞」當作推理小說來「破解」。

艾力克：但是這本書的「疑難雜症」實在是太多了，給的「線索」又太少，真是「先天不足」又

「後天失調」。

此內容已被編輯, September 10, 2013 ,由 多酚