首页>> 文学论坛>> 都市生活>> 毛姆 William Somerset Maugham   英国 United Kingdom   温莎王朝   (1874年1月25日1965年12月16日)
兰贝斯的丽莎 Liza of Lambeth
  中学毕业后在德国海德堡大学肄业。1892年至1897年在伦敦学医,并取得外科医师资格。学医期间,曾赴伦敦兰贝斯贫民窟当了三个星期的助产士,这段经历使他动了写作的念头。他的第一部长篇小说《兰贝斯的丽莎》 (1897)即根据他作为贝可医生在贫民区为产妇接生时的见闻用自由主义写法写成。一八九七年,他因染上肺疾,被送往法国南方里维埃拉疗养,开始接触法国文学,特别是莫泊桑的作品。1892年初,他去德国海德堡大学学习了一年。在那儿,他接触到德国哲学史家昆诺·费希尔的哲学思想和以易卜生为代表的新戏剧潮流。同年返回英国,在伦敦一家会计师事务所当了六个星期的练习生,随后,在接受了坎特伯雷的国王中学和德国海德堡大学的教育之后,毛姆成为伦敦圣托马斯医院的实习医生(1892-1897)。为期五年的习医生涯,不仅使他有机会了解到底层人民的生活状况,而且使他学会用解剖刀一样冷峻、犀利的目光来剖视人生和社会。他的第一部小说《兰贝斯的丽莎》,正是根据他从医实习期间的所见所闻写成的。
  
  这本书出版后销路很好,这使得毛姆下定了弃医从文的决心。从1903年起,毛姆开始戏剧创作。


  Liza of Lambeth (1897) was W. Somerset Maugham's first novel, which he wrote while working as a doctor at a hospital in Lambeth, then a working class district of London. It depicts the short life and death of Liza Kemp, an 18-year-old factory worker who lives together with her aging mother in Vere Street (obviously fictional) off Westminster Bridge Road (real) in Lambeth. All in all, it gives the reader an interesting insight into the everyday lives of working class Londoners at the turn of the century.
  
  Plot summary
  
  The action covers a period of roughly four months—from August to November—around the time of Queen Victoria's Jubilee. Liza Kemp is an 18-year-old factory worker and the youngest of 13 children, now living alone with her ageing and incompetent mother. Very popular with all the residents—both young and old—of Vere Street, Lambeth, she cannot really make up her mind as far as her love life is concerned. She very much likes Tom, a boy her age, but when he proposes to her she rejects him ("I don't love yer so as ter marry yer"). Nevertheless she is persuaded to join a party of 32 who make a coach trip (in a horse-drawn coach, of course) to a nearby village on the August Bank Holiday Monday. Some of the other members of the party are Tom; Liza's friend Sally and her boyfriend Harry; and Jim Blakeston, a 40-year-old father of nine who has recently moved to Vere Street with his large family, and his wife (while their eldest daughter, Polly, is taking care of her siblings). The outing is a lot of fun, and they all get more or less drunk on beer. On their way back, in the dark, Liza realizes that Jim Blakeston is making a pass at her by holding her hand. After their arrival back home, Jim manages to speak to her alone and to steal a kiss from her.
  
  Seemingly without considering either the moral implications or the consequences of her actions, Liza feels attracted to Jim. They never appear together in public because they do not want the other residents of Vere Street or their workmates to start talking about them. One of Jim Blakeston's first steps to win Liza's heart is to go to a melodramatic play with her on Saturday night. Afterwards, he succeeds in seducing her (although we never learn where they do it—obviously in the open):
  
   'Liza,' he said a whisper, 'will yer?'
   'Will I wot?' she said, looking down.
   'You know, Liza. Sy, will yer?'
   'Na,' she said.
  
  But in the end they do "slide down into the darkness of the passage". (The reader never learns whether at that time Liza is still a virgin or not.) Liza is overwhelmed by love. ("Thus began a time of love and joy.")
  
  When autumn arrives and the nights get chillier, Liza's secret meetings with Jim become less comfortable and more trying. Lacking an indoor meeting place, they even spend their evenings together in the third class waiting room of Waterloo station. Also, to Liza's dismay, it turns out that people do start talking about them, in spite of the precautions they have taken. Only Liza's mother, who is a drunkard and a very simple sort of person, has no idea what is going on.
  
  Liza's friend Sally gets married, has to stop working at the factory because her husband would not let his wife earn her own money, and soon becomes pregnant. Liza feels increasingly isolated, with Sally being married now and even Tom seemingly shunning her, but her love for Jim keeps her going. They do talk about their love affair though: about the possibility of Jim leaving his wife and children ("I dunno if I could get on without the kids"), about Liza not being able to leave her mother because the latter needs her help, about living somewhere else "as if we was married", about bigamy -- but, strangely, not about adultery.
  
  The novel builds up to a sad climax when it gradually turns out that all men—maybe with the exception of Tom—are alike: They invariably beat their wives, especially when they have been drinking. Soon after their wedding Harry beats up Sally just because she has been away from home chatting with a female neighbour of theirs. What is more, he even hits Mrs Cooper, his mother-in-law. Liza, who happens to drop by and stays a little longer to comfort Sally is late for her meeting with Jim in front of a nearby pub. When she finally gets there Jim himself is aggressive towards her for being late. Without really intending to, he hits her across the face ("It wasn't the blow that 'urt me much; it was the wy you was talkin'"). Nevertheless on the following morning she has a black eye.
  
  Soon the situation deteriorates completely. Mrs Blakeston, who is pregnant again, stops talking to her husband at home—this is her way of opposing his affair with Liza. Then she goes on to indirectly threaten Liza: She tells other people what she would do to Liza if she got hold of her, and the other people tell Liza. Liza, a "coward" according to the third person narrator, is frightened because Mrs Blakeston is strong whereas she herself is weak. One Saturday afternoon in November, when Liza is going home from work, she is confronted with an angry Mrs Blakeston. In the ensuing fight between the two women, Mrs Blakeston first spits in Liza's face and then attacks her physically. Quickly a group of spectators gather round the two women—none of them even tries to separate the fighting women ("The audience shouted and cheered and clapped their hands."). Eventually, both Tom and Jim stop the fight, and Tom walks Liza home. Liza is now publicly stigmatized as a "wrong one", a fact she herself admits to Tom ("Oh, but I 'ave treated yer bad. I'm a regular wrong 'un, I am"). Despite all her misbehaviour ("I couldn't 'elp it! [...] I did love 'im so!"), Tom still wants to marry Liza, but she tells him that "it's too lite now" because she thinks she is pregnant. Tom would even tolerate her condition if only she could decide to marry him, but she refuses again.
  
  Meanwhile, at the Blakestones', Jim beats up his wife. Again people nearby—this time those who live in the same house and who are alarmed by Polly Blakeston—choose not to interfere in other people's domestic problems ("She'll git over it; an' p'raps she deserves it, for all you know").
  
  When Mrs Kemp comes home and sees her daughter's injuries all she can contribute to mitigating the situation is to offer her daughter some alcohol (whisky or gin). In the course of the evening they both get drunk, in spite of Liza's pregnancy. During the following night, however, Liza has a miscarriage. Mr Hodges, who lives upstairs, fetches a doctor from the nearby hospital, who soon pronounces the hopelessness of Liza's condition. While her daughter is dying, Mrs Kemp has a long talk with Mrs Hodges, a midwife and sick-nurse. Liza's last visitor is Jim, but Liza is already in a coma. Mrs Kemp and Mrs Hodges have switched the subject and are talking about the funeral arrangements (!) when Liza's death rattle can be heard and the doctor, who is still present, declares that she is dead.
  Major themes
  Living conditions
  
  Liza of Lambeth is clearly not a muckraking novel. People seem to be content with what they have; their poverty is not depicted as unbearable, and it does not prevent them from being fervent patriots ("Every man's fust duty is ter get as many children as 'e bloomin'well can") or from enjoying their spare time (which is often spent in pubs; also Liza drinks a lot). The scene at the theatre where Liza shouts out loud during the performance to warn one of the characters on stage is reminiscent of the Elizabethan theatre.
  
  At one point the narrator deplores the "newish, three-storied buildings" of Vere Street which are "perfectly flat, without a bow window [...] to break the straightness of the line from one end of the street to the other". As the lodgings are rather crowded with people, the residents of Vere Street spend as much time as possible outside, in the street—something which has changed completely in the course of the last hundred years.
  Working conditions and working hours
  
  It is not mentioned what the factory Liza and Sally work at is producing. What we do learn though is that work at the factory starts at 8 a.m. If you are late you are shut out, do not get a token and, accordingly, do not get any pay for that day. On Saturdays, work is over around 2 p.m. The August Bank Holiday—the day of the excursion—enables the workers to have two days off in a row, something which is quite unusual for them.
  The relationship between men and women
  
  There is not even an allusion to the women's or at least the suffragette movement. Every character in the novel—both men and women—knows their place, and the traditional stereotypes of gender roles are repeated over and over again. For example, Sally is absolutely submissive and blames herself when she is beaten up by her husband Harry. Beating your wife seems like a national pastime.
  
  Apart from Jim Blakeston's illicit affair with Liza Kemp, which is about to lead to an unwanted pregnancy, there is just one quick mention of illegitimate children, and no mention at all of abortions. The question of morality is not really pursued, neither by the characters in the novel nor by the third person narrator.
  The value of human life
  
  From an early 21st century point of view, the way the characters regard death could almost be called fatalistic. People do not believe there is anything they can do about sudden or premature deaths. Infant mortality is very high.
  The use of language
  
  The language used by the characters (i.e. everything in direct speech) is probably the most difficult aspect of the novel. This concerns both (a) the phonetic spelling (the typical Cockney phenomenon of "dropping the aitches" - and vice versa) and (b) the innumerable slang expressions.
  Film, TV or theatrical adaptations
  
  A musical based - albeit loosely - on the novel was written by Willie Rushton and Berny Stringle, with music by Cliff Adams. It opened at the Shaftesbury Theatre in London in June 1976, and ran for 110 performances. It was produced by Ben Arbeid, directed by Berny Stringle, musically directed by John Burrows, and starred Angela Richards (best known as a regular in the BBC's Secret Army) in the title role, Patricia Hayes, Ron Pember, Michael Robbins and Eric Shilling, among others.
  
  The musical style is predominantly music hall, but the show includes a parody of Gilbert and Sullivan, a church choir arrangement with some completely incongruous lyrics (A Little Bit On The Side), and some touching ballads.
  
  The Tart With A Heart of Gold was cut from the West End production, and is also missing from the original London cast recording (Thames THA 100), despite it describing the entire raison d'être of one of the main female characters.
  
  The musical has not been officially published for amateur performance, but it is occasionally licensed for amateurs. The world amateur premiere was performed at the Erith Playhouse in Erith, Kent, in June 1977, and was attended by members of the London production team. The rights to this musical are currently held by Thames Music in London.
  It was the first Saturday afternoon in August; it had been broiling hot all day, with a cloudless sky, and the sun had been beating down on the houses, so that the top rooms were like ovens; but now with the approach of evening it was cooler, and everyone in Vere Street was out of doors.
   Vere street, Lambeth, is a short, straight street leading out of the Westminster Bridge Road; it has forty houses on one side and forty houses on the other, and these eighty houses are very much more like one another than ever peas are like peas, or young ladies like young ladies. They are newish, three-storied buildings of dingy grey brick with slate roofs, and they are perfectly flat, without a bow-window or even a projecting cornice or window-sill to break the straightness of the line from one end of the street to the other.
   This Saturday afternoon the street was full of life; no traffic came down Vere Street, and the cemented space between the pavements was given up to children. Several games of cricket were being played by wildly excited boys, using coats for wickets, an old tennis-ball or a bundle of rags tied together for a ball, and, generally, an old broomstick for bat. The wicket was so large and the bat so small that the man in was always getting bowled, when heated quarrels would arise, the batter absolutely refusing to go out and the bowler absolutely insisting on going in. The girls were more peaceable; they were chiefly employed in skipping, and only abused one another mildly when the rope was not properly turned or the skipper did not jump sufficiently high. Worst off of all were the very young children, for there had been no rain for weeks, and the street was as dry and clean as a covered court, and, in the lack of mud to wallow in, they sat about the road, disconsolate as poets. The number of babies was prodigious; they sprawled about everywhere, on the pavement, round the doors, and about their mothers' skirts. The grown-ups were gathered round the open doors; there were usually two women squatting on the doorstep, and two or three more seated on either side on chairs; they were invariably nursing babies, and most of them showed clear signs that the present object of the maternal care would be soon ousted by a new arrival. Men were less numerous but such as there were leant against the walls, smoking, or sat on the sills of the ground-floor windows. It was the dead season in Vere Street as much as in Belgravia, and really if it had not been for babies just come or just about to come, and an opportune murder in a neighbouring doss-house, there would have been nothing whatever to talk about. As it was, the little groups talked quietly, discussing the atrocity or the merits of the local midwives, comparing the circumstances of their various confinements.
   'You'll be 'avin' your little trouble soon, eh, Polly?' asked one good lady of another.
   'Oh, I reckon I've got another two months ter go yet,' answered Polly.
   'Well,' said a third. 'I wouldn't 'ave thought you'd go so long by the look of yer!'
   'I 'ope you'll have it easier this time, my dear,' said a very stout old person, a woman of great importance.
   'She said she wasn't goin' to 'ave no more, when the last one come.' This remark came from Polly's husband.
   'Ah,' said the stout old lady, who was in the business, and boasted vast experience. 'That's wot they all says; but, Lor' bless yer, they don't mean it.'
   'Well, I've got three, and I'm not goin' to 'ave no more bli'me if I will; 'tain't good enough--that's wot I says.'
   'You're abaht right there, ole gal,' said Polly, 'My word, 'Arry, if you 'ave any more I'll git a divorce, that I will.'
   At that moment an organ-grinder turned the corner and came down the street.
   'Good biz; 'ere's an organ!' cried half a dozen people at once.
   The organ-man was an Italian, with a shock of black hair and a ferocious moustache. Drawing his organ to a favourable spot, he stopped, released his shoulder from the leather straps by which he dragged it, and cocking his large soft hat on the side of his head, began turning the handle. It was a lively tune, and in less than no time a little crowd had gathered round to listen, chiefly the young men and the maidens, for the married ladies were never in a fit state to dance, and therefore disinclined to trouble themselves to stand round the organ. There was a moment's hesitation at opening the ball; then one girl said to another:
   'Come on, Florrie, you and me ain't shy; we'll begin, and bust it!'
   The two girls took hold of one another, one acting gentleman, the other lady; three or four more pairs of girls immediately joined them, and they began a waltz. They held themselves very upright; and with an air of grave dignity which was quite impressive, glided slowly about, making their steps with the utmost precision, bearing themselves with sufficient decorum for a court ball. After a while the men began to itch for a turn, and two of them, taking hold of one another in the most approved fashion, waltzed round the circle with the gravity of judges.
   All at once there was a cry: 'There's Liza!' And several members of the group turned and called out: 'Oo, look at Liza!'
   The dancers stopped to see the sight, and the organ-grinder, having come to the end of his tune, ceased turning the handle and looked to see what was the excitement.
   'Oo, Liza!' they called out. 'Look at Liza; oo, I sy!'
   It was a young girl of about eighteen, with dark eyes, and an enormous fringe, puffed-out and curled and frizzed, covering her whole forehead from side to side, and coming down to meet her eyebrows. She was dressed in brilliant violet, with great lappets of velvet, and she had on her head an enormous black hat covered with feathers.
   'I sy, ain't she got up dossy?' called out the groups at the doors, as she passed.
   'Dressed ter death, and kill the fashion; that's wot I calls it.'
   Liza saw what a sensation she was creating; she arched her back and lifted her head, and walked down the street, swaying her body from side to side, and swaggering along as though the whole place belonged to her.
   ''Ave yer bought the street, Bill?' shouted one youth; and then half a dozen burst forth at once, as if by inspiration:
   'Knocked 'em in the Old Kent Road!'
   It was immediately taken up by a dozen more, and they all yelled it out:
   'Knocked 'em in the Old Kent Road. Yah, ah, knocked 'em in the Old Kent Road!'
   'Oo, Liza!' they shouted; the whole street joined in, and they gave long, shrill, ear-piercing shrieks and strange calls, that rung down the street and echoed back again.
   'Hextra special!' called out a wag.
   'Oh, Liza! Oo! Ooo!' yells and whistles, and then it thundered forth again:
   'Knocked 'em in the Old Kent Road!'
   Liza put on the air of a conquering hero, and sauntered on, enchanted at the uproar. She stuck out her elbows and jerked her head on one side, and said to herself as she passed through the bellowing crowd:
   'This is jam!'
   'Knocked 'em in the Old Kent Road!'
   When she came to the group round the barrel-organ, one of the girls cried out to her:
   'Is that yer new dress, Liza?'
   'Well, it don't look like my old one, do it?' said Liza.
   'Where did yer git it?' asked another friend, rather enviously.
   'Picked it up in the street, of course,' scornfully answered Liza.
   'I believe it's the same one as I saw in the pawnbroker's dahn the road,' said one of the men, to tease her.
   'Thet's it; but wot was you doin' in there? Pledgin' yer shirt, or was it yer trousers?'
   'Yah, I wouldn't git a second-'and dress at a pawnbroker's!'
   'Garn!' said Liza indignantly. 'I'll swipe yer over the snitch if yer talk ter me. I got the mayterials in the West Hend, didn't I? And I 'ad it mide up by my Court Dressmiker, so you jolly well dry up, old jellybelly.'
   'Garn!' was the reply.
   Liza had been so intent on her new dress and the comment it was exciting that she had not noticed the organ.
   'Oo, I say, let's 'ave some dancin',' she said as soon as she saw it. 'Come on, Sally,' she added, to one of the girls, 'you an' me'll dance togither. Grind away, old cock!'
   The man turned on a new tune, and the organ began to play the Intermezzo from the 'Cavalleria'; other couples quickly followed Liza's example, and they began to waltz round with the same solemnity as before; but Liza outdid them all; if the others were as stately as queens, she was as stately as an empress; the gravity and dignity with which she waltzed were something appalling, you felt that the minuet was a frolic in comparison; it would have been a fitting measure to tread round the grave of a _premiere danseuse_, or at the funeral of a professional humorist. And the graces she put on, the languor of the eyes, the contemptuous curl of the lips, the exquisite turn of the hand, the dainty arching of the foot! You felt there could be no questioning her right to the tyranny of Vere Street.
   Suddenly she stopped short, and disengaged herself from her companion.
   'Oh, I sy,' she said, 'this is too bloomin' slow; it gives me the sick.'
   That is not precisely what she said, but it is impossible always to give the exact unexpurgated words of Liza and the other personages of the story, the reader is therefore entreated with his thoughts to piece out the necessary imperfections of the dialogue.
   'It's too bloomin' slow,' she said again; 'it gives me the sick. Let's 'ave somethin' a bit more lively than this 'ere waltz. You stand over there, Sally, an' we'll show 'em 'ow ter skirt dance.'
   They all stopped waltzing.
   'Talk of the ballet at the Canterbury and South London. You just wite till you see the ballet at Vere Street, Lambeth--we'll knock 'em!'
   She went up to the organ-grinder.
   'Na then, Italiano,' she said to him, 'you buck up; give us a tune that's got some guts in it! See?'
   She caught hold of his big hat and squashed it down over his eyes. The man grinned from ear to ear, and, touching the little catch at the side, began to play a lively tune such as Liza had asked for.
   The men had fallen out, but several girls had put themselves in position, in couples, standing face to face; and immediately the music struck up, they began. They held up their skirts on each side, so as to show their feet, and proceeded to go through the difficult steps and motions of the dance. Liza was right; they could not have done it better in a trained ballet. But the best dancer of them all was Liza; she threw her whole soul into it; forgetting the stiff bearing which she had thought proper to the waltz, and casting off its elaborate graces, she gave herself up entirely to the present pleasure. Gradually the other couples stood aside, so that Liza and Sally were left alone. They paced it carefully, watching each other's steps, and as if by instinct performing corresponding movements, so as to make the whole a thing of symmetry.
   'I'm abaht done,' said Sally, blowing and puffing. 'I've 'ad enough of it.'
   'Go on, Liza!' cried out a dozen voices when Sally stopped.
   She gave no sign of having heard them other than calmly to continue her dance. She glided through the steps, and swayed about, and manipulated her skirt, all with the most charming grace imaginable, then, the music altering, she changed the style of her dancing, her feet moved more quickly, and did not keep so strictly to the ground. She was getting excited at the admiration of the onlookers, and her dance grew wilder and more daring. She lifted her skirts higher, brought in new and more difficult movements into her improvisation, kicking up her legs she did the wonderful twist, backwards and forwards, of which the dancer is proud.
   'Look at 'er legs!' cried one of the men.
   'Look at 'er stockin's!' shouted another; and indeed they were remarkable, for Liza had chosen them of the same brilliant hue as her dress, and was herself most proud of the harmony.
   Her dance became gayer: her feet scarcely touched the ground, she whirled round madly.
   'Take care yer don't split!' cried out one of the wags, at a very audacious kick.
   The words were hardly out of his mouth when Liza, with a gigantic effort, raised her foot and kicked off his hat. The feat was greeted with applause, and she went on, making turns and twists, flourishing her skirts, kicking higher and higher, and finally, among a volley of shouts, fell on her hands and turned head over heels in a magnificent catharine-wheel; then scrambling to her feet again, she tumbled into the arms of a young man standing in the front of the ring.
   'That's right, Liza,' he said. 'Give us a kiss, now,' and promptly tried to take one.
   'Git aht!' said Liza, pushing him away, not too gently.
   'Yus, give us a kiss,' cried another, running up to her.
   'I'll smack yer in the fice!' said Liza, elegantly, as she dodged him.
   'Ketch 'old on 'er, Bill,' cried out a third, 'an' we'll all kiss her.'
   'Na, you won't!' shrieked Liza, beginning to run.
   'Come on,' they cried, 'we'll ketch 'er.'
   She dodged in and out, between their legs, under their arms, and then, getting clear of the little crowd, caught up her skirts so that they might not hinder her, and took to her heels along the street. A score of men set in chase, whistling, shouting, yelling; the people at the doors looked up to see the fun, and cried out to her as she dashed past; she ran like the wind. Suddenly a man from the side darted into the middle of the road, stood straight in her way, and before she knew where she was, she had jumped shrieking into his arms, and he, lifting her up to him, had imprinted two sounding kisses on her cheeks.
   'Oh, you ----!' she said. Her expression was quite unprintable; nor can it be euphemized.
   There was a shout of laughter from the bystanders, and the young men in chase of her, and Liza, looking up, saw a big, bearded man whom she had never seen before. She blushed to the very roots of her hair, quickly extricated herself from his arms, and, amid the jeers and laughter of everyone, slid into the door of the nearest house and was lost to view.
  Liza and her mother were having supper. Mrs. Kemp was an elderly woman, short, and rather stout, with a red face, and grey hair brushed tight back over her forehead. She had been a widow for many years, and since her husband's death had lived with Liza in the ground-floor front room in which they were now sitting. Her husband had been a soldier, and from a grateful country she received a pension large enough to keep her from starvation, and by charring and doing such odd jobs as she could get she earned a little extra to supply herself with liquor. Liza was able to make her own living by working at a factory.
   Mrs. Kemp was rather sulky this evening.
   'Wot was yer doin' this afternoon, Liza?' she asked.
   'I was in the street.'
   'You're always in the street when I want yer.'
   'I didn't know as 'ow yer wanted me, mother,' answered Liza.
   'Well, yer might 'ave come ter see! I might 'ave been dead, for all you knew.'
   Liza said nothing.
   'My rheumatics was thet bad to-dy, thet I didn't know wot ter do with myself. The doctor said I was to be rubbed with that stuff 'e give me, but yer won't never do nothin' for me.'
   'Well, mother,' said Liza, 'your rheumatics was all right yesterday.'
   'I know wot you was doin'; you was showin' off thet new dress of yours. Pretty waste of money thet is, instead of givin' it me ter sive up. An' for the matter of thet, I wanted a new dress far worse than you did. But, of course, I don't matter.'
   Liza did not answer, and Mrs. Kemp, having nothing more to say, continued her supper in silence.
   It was Liza who spoke next.
   'There's some new people moved in the street. 'Ave you seen 'em?' she asked.
   'No, wot are they?'
   'I dunno; I've seen a chap, a big chap with a beard. I think 'e lives up at the other end.'
   She felt herself blushing a little.
   'No one any good you be sure,' said Mrs. Kemp. 'I can't swaller these new people as are comin' in; the street ain't wot it was when I fust come.'
   When they had done, Mrs. Kemp got up, and having finished her half-pint of beer, said to her daughter:
   'Put the things awy, Liza. I'm just goin' round to see Mrs. Clayton; she's just 'ad twins, and she 'ad nine before these come. It's a pity the Lord don't see fit ter tike some on 'em--thet's wot I say.'
   After which pious remark Mrs. Kemp went out of the house and turned into another a few doors up.
   Liza did not clear the supper things away as she was told, but opened the window and drew her chair to it. She leant on the sill, looking out into the street. The sun had set, and it was twilight, the sky was growing dark, bringing to view the twinkling stars; there was no breeze, but it was pleasantly and restfully cool. The good folk still sat at their doorsteps, talking as before on the same inexhaustible subjects, but a little subdued with the approach of night. The boys were still playing cricket, but they were mostly at the other end of the street, and their shouts were muffled before they reached Liza's ears.
   She sat, leaning her head on her hands, breathing in the fresh air and feeling a certain exquisite sense of peacefulness which she was not used to. It was Saturday evening, and she thankfully remembered that there would be no factory on the morrow; she was glad to rest. Somehow she felt a little tired, perhaps it was through the excitement of the afternoon, and she enjoyed the quietness of the evening. It seemed so tranquil and still; the silence filled her with a strange delight, she felt as if she could sit there all through the night looking out into the cool, dark street, and up heavenwards at the stars. She was very happy, but yet at the same time experienced a strange new sensation of melancholy, and she almost wished to cry.
   Suddenly a dark form stepped in front of the open window. She gave a little shriek.
   ''Oo's thet?' she asked, for it was quite dark, and she did not recognize the man standing in front of her.
   'Me, Liza,' was the answer.
   'Tom?'
   'Yus!'
   It was a young man with light yellow hair and a little fair moustache, which made him appear almost boyish; he was light-complexioned and blue-eyed, and had a frank and pleasant look mingled with a curious bashfulness that made him blush when people spoke to him.
   'Wot's up?' asked Liza.
   'Come aht for a walk, Liza, will yer?'
   'No!' she answered decisively.
   'You promised ter yesterday, Liza.'
   'Yesterday an' ter-day's two different things,' was her wise reply.
   'Yus, come on, Liza.'
   'Na, I tell yer, I won't.'
   'I want ter talk ter yer, Liza.' Her hand was resting on the window-sill, and he put his upon it. She quickly drew it back.
   'Well, I don't want yer ter talk ter me.'
   But she did, for it was she who broke the silence.
   'Say, Tom, 'oo are them new folk as 'as come into the street? It's a big chap with a brown beard.'
   'D'you mean the bloke as kissed yer this afternoon?'
   Liza blushed again.
   'Well, why shouldn't 'e kiss me?' she said, with some inconsequence.
   'I never said as 'ow 'e shouldn't; I only arst yer if it was the sime.'
   'Yea, thet's 'oo I mean.'
   ''Is nime is Blakeston--Jim Blakeston. I've only spoke to 'im once; he's took the two top rooms at No. 19 'ouse.'
   'Wot's 'e want two top rooms for?'
   ''Im? Oh, 'e's got a big family--five kids. Ain't yer seen 'is wife abaht the street? She's a big, fat woman, as does 'er 'air funny.'
   'I didn't know 'e 'ad a wife.'
   There was another silence; Liza sat thinking, and Tom stood at the window, looking at her.
   'Won't yer come aht with me, Liza?' he asked, at last.
   'Na, Tom,' she said, a little more gently, 'it's too lite.'
   'Liza,' he said, blushing to the roots of his hair.
   'Well?'
   'Liza'--he couldn't go on, and stuttered in his shyness--'Liza, I--I--I loves yer, Liza.'
   'Garn awy!'
   He was quite brave now, and took hold of her hand.
   'Yer know, Liza, I'm earnin' twenty-three shillin's at the works now, an' I've got some furniture as mother left me when she was took.'
   The girl said nothing.
   'Liza, will you 'ave me? I'll make yer a good 'usband, Liza, swop me bob, I will; an' yer know I'm not a drinkin' sort. Liza, will yer marry me?'
   'Na, Tom,' she answered quietly.
   'Oh, Liza, won't you 'ave me?'
   'Na, Tom, I can't.'
   'Why not? You've come aht walkin' with me ever since Whitsun.'
   'Ah, things is different now.'
   'You're not walkin' aht with anybody else, are you, Liza?' he asked quickly.
   'Na, not that.'
   'Well, why won't yer, Liza? Oh Liza, I do love yer, I've never loved anybody as I love you!'
   'Oh, I can't, Tom!'
   'There ain't no one else?'
   'Na.'
   'Then why not?'
   'I'm very sorry, Tom, but I don't love yer so as ter marry yer.'
   'Oh, Liza!'
   She could not see the look upon his face, but she heard the agony in his voice; and, moved with sudden pity, she bent out, threw her arms round his neck, and kissed him on both cheeks.
   'Never mind old chap!' she said. 'I'm not worth troublin' abaht.'
   And quickly drawing back, she slammed the window to, and moved into the further part of the room.
首页>> 文学论坛>> 都市生活>> 毛姆 William Somerset Maugham   英国 United Kingdom   温莎王朝   (1874年1月25日1965年12月16日)