送行

Seeing People Off

by Max Beerbohm

 

 

I am not good at it. To do it well seems to me one of the most difficult things in the world， and probably seems so to you， too.

To see a friend off from Waterloo to Vauxhall were easy enough. But we are never called on to perform that small feat. It is only when a friend is going on a longish journey， and will be absent for a longish time， that we turn up at the railway station. The dearer the friend， and the longer the journey， and the longer the likely absence， the earlier do we turn up， and the more lamentably do we fail. Our failure is in exact ratio to the seriousness of the occasion， and to the depth of our feeling.

In a room or even on a door step， we can make the farewell quite worthily. We can express in our faces the genuine sorrow we feel. Nor do words fail us. There is no awkwardness， no restraint on either side. The thread of our intimacy has not been snapped. The leave-taking is an ideal one. Why not， then leave the leave-taking at that？ Always， departing friends implore us not to bother to come to the railway station next morning. Always， we are deaf to these entreaties， knowing them to be not quite sincere. The departing friends would think it very odd of us if we took them at their word. Besides， they really do want to see us again. And that wish is heartily reciprocated. We duly turn up. And then， oh then， what a gulf yawns！ We stretch our arms vainly across it. We have utterly lost touch. We have nothing at all to say. We gaze at each other as dumb animals gaze at human beings. We make conversation -- and such conversation！ We know that these friends are the friends from whom we parted overnight. They know that we have not altered. Yet， on the surface， everything is different； and the tension is such that we only long for the guard to blow his whistle and put an end to the farce.

On a cold grey morning of last week I duly turned up at Euston， to see off an old friend who was starting for America. Overnight， we had given him a farewell dinner， in which sadness was well mingled with festivity. Years probably would elapse before his return. Some of us might never see him again. Not ignoring the shadow of the future， we gaily celebrated the past. We were as thankful to have known our guest as we were grieved to lose him； and both these emotions were made manifest. It was a perfect farewell.

And now， here we were， stiff and self-conscious on the platform； and framed in the window of the railway-carriage was the face of our friend； but it was as the face of a stranger -- a stranger anxious to please， an appealing stranger， an awkward stranger. `Have you got everything？' asked one of us， breaking a silence. `Yes， everything，' said our friend， with a pleasant nod. `Everything，' he repeated， with the emphasis of an empty brain. `You'll be able to lunch on the train，' said I， though the prophecy had already been made more than once. `Oh， yes，' he said with conviction. He added that the train went straight through to Liverpool. This fact seemed to strike us as rather odd， We exchanged glances. `Doesn't it stop at Crewe？' asked one of us. `No'， said our friend， briefly. He seemed almost disagreeable. There was a long pause. One of us， with a nod and a forced smile at the traveller， said `Well！' The nod， the smile and the unmeaning monosyllable were returned conscientiously. Another pause was broken by one of us with a fit of coughing. It was an obviously assumed fit， but it served to pass the time. The bustle of the platform was unabated. There was no sign of the train's departure. Release--ours， and our friend's， -- was not yet.

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My wandering eye alighted on a rather portly middle-aged man who was talking earnestly from the platform to a young lady at the next window but one to ours. His fine profile was vaguely familiar to me. The young lady was evidently American， and he was evidently English； otherwise I should have guessed from his impressive air that he was her father. I wished I could hear what he was saying. I was sure he was giving the very best advice； and the strong tenderness of his gaze was really beautiful. He seemed magnetic， as he poured out his final injunctions. I could feel something of his magnetism even where I stood. And the magnetism like the profile， was vaguely familiar to me. Where had I experienced it？

In a flash I remembered. The man was Hubert Le Ros. But how changed since last I saw him！ That was seven or eight years ago， in the Strand. He was then as usual out of an engagement， and borrowed half a crown. It seemed a privilege to lend anything to him. He was always magnetic. And why his magnetism had never made him successful on the London stage was always a mystery to me. He was an excellent actor， and a man of sober habit. But， like many others of his kind， Hubert Le Ros （I do not， of course， give the actual name by which he was known） drifted speedily away into the provinces； and I， like every one else， ceased to remember him.

It was strange to see him， after all these years， here on the platform of Euston， looking so prosperous and solid. It was not only the flesh that he had put on， but also the clothes， that made him hard to recognize. In the old days， an imitation fur coat had seemed to be as integral a part of him as were his ill-shorn lantern jaws. But now his costume was a model of rich and somber moderation， drawing， not calling attention to itself. He looked like a banker. Any one would have been proud to be seen off by him.

`Stand back， please！' The train was about to start， and I waved farewell to my friend. Le Ros did not stand back. He stood clasping in both hands the hands of the young American. `Stand back， sir， please！' He obeyed， but quickly darted forward again to whisper some final word. I think there were tears in her eyes. There certainly were tears in his when， at length， having watched the train out of sight， he turned round. He seemed， nevertheless， delighted to see me. He asked me where I had been hiding all these years； and simultaneously repaid me the half-crown as though it had been borrowed yesterday. He linked his arm in mine， and walked with me slowly along the platform， saying with what pleasure he read my dramatic criticisms every Saturday.

I told him， in return， how much he was missed on the stage. `Ah， yes，' he said， `I never act on the stage nowadays.' He laid some emphasis on the `stage'， and I asked him where， then， he did act. `On the platform，' he answered. `You mean，' said I， `that you recite at concerts？' He smiled. `This，' he whispered， striking his stick on the ground， `is the platform I mean.' Had his mysterious prosperity unhinged　him？ He looked quite sane. I begged him to be more explicit.

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`I suppose，' he said presently， giving me a light for the cigar which he had offered me， `you have been seeing a friend off？' I assented. He asked me what I supposed he had been doing. I said that I had watched him doing the same thing. `No，' he said gravely. `That lady was not a friend of mine. I met her for the first time this morning， less than half an hour ago， here'， and again he struck the platform with his stick.

I confessed that I was bewildered. He smiled. `You may，' he said， `have heard of the Anglo-American Social Bureau？' I had not. He explained to me that of the thousands of Americans who annually pass through England there are many hundreds who have no English friends. In the old days they used to bring letters of introduction. But the English are so inhospitable that these letters are hardly worth the paper they are written on. `Thus，' said Le Ros， `The A.A.S.B. supplies a long-felt want. Americans are a sociable people， and most of them have plenty of money to spend. The A.A.S.B. supplies them with English friends. Fifty per cent of the fees is paid over to the friends. The other fifty is retained by the A.A.S. B. I am not， alas！ a director. If I were， I should be a very rich man indeed. I am only an employee. But even so I do very well. I am one of the seers-off.'

Again I asked for enlightenment. `Many Americans，' he said， `cannot afford to keep friends in England. But they can all afford to be seen off. the fee is only five pounds. （twenty-five dollars） for a single traveller； and eight pounds （forty dollars） for a party of two or more. They send that in to the Bureau， giving the date of their departure and a description by which the seer-off can identify them on the platform. And then--well， then they are seen off.'

`But is it worth？' I exclaimed. `Of course it is worth it，' said Le Ros. `It prevents them from feeling "out of it." It earns them the respect of the guard. It saves them from being despised by their fellow-passengers -- the people who are going to be on the boat. It gives them a footing for the whole voyage. Besides， it is a great pleasure in itself. You saw me seeing that young lady off. Didn't you think I did it beautifully？' `Beautifully，' I admitted. `I envied you. There was I --' `Yes， I can imagine. There were you， shuffling from head to foot， staring blankly at your friend， trying to make conversation. I know. That's how I used to be myself， before I studied， and went into the thing professionally. I don't say I'm perfect yet. I'm still a martyr to platform fright. A railway station is the most difficult of all places to act in， as you have discovered for yourself.' `But，' I said with resentment， `I wasn't trying to act. I really felt！' `So did I， my boy，' said Le Ros， `You can't act without feeling. What's - his - name， the Frenchman -- Diderot， yes -- said you could； but what did he know about it Didn't you see those tears in my eyes when the train started？ I hadn't forced them. I tell you I was moved. So were you， I dare say. But you couldn't have pumped up a tear to prove it. You can't express your feelings. In other words， you can't act. At any rate，' he added kindly， `not in a railway station.' `Teach me！' I cried. He looked thoughtfully at me. `Well，' he said at length， `the seeing-off season is practically over. Yes， I'll give you a course. I have a good many pupils on hand already； but yes，' he said， consulting an ornate notebook， `I could give you an hour on Tuesdays and Fridays.'

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His terms， I confess， are rather high. But I don't grudge the investment.

 

 

 

送行

麦克斯·毕尔勃姆

 

我不会送行。它可是我所认为的世上最难做好的事情之一。对此，你大概也心有同感。

送一位朋友从滑铁卢去渥克斯厅可以说是一件相当简单的事。但你从来就接不到这种轻松活儿。我们只有当朋友要远行，离去的时间又比较长久时，才被召唤亲赴车站送行。朋友交情越好，送的路程越远，朋友离去的时间越长，我们就越早到达车站，相应地，我们遭遇的失败也就越为惨烈。这种失败的程度恰恰与场合的正式以及感情的深厚程度成正比。

屋内话别已十分体面，甚至在门前台阶也不错。我们脸上的表情书写着真切的忧伤，言语里透出恋恋不舍之情，主客双方不觉尴尬或拘谨，亲密友谊更是丝毫无损。如此的送别真可谓完美。可我们怎么就不懂到了这种程度就应该罢休呢?通常情况下，即将远行的友人们总是恳求我们次日早晨不要再赶到车站。但我们知道那不一定是真心话，便也就不听信那些劝说的话，还是奔向车站。假若真的听信了朋友们的话，并且照着做了，他们说不定心里还会责怪呢。何况，他们也确实希望能和我们再见上一面。于是我们也就按时到达，真诚地去回应朋友的愿望。但结果却，结果却，陡然生出一道鸿沟！我们伸手，可怎么也无法超越，谁也够不着谁。我们哑口无言，像愚笨的动物痴望人类一样面面相觑。我们“找些话题来说”——但哪里有什么话好说的！大家都心知肚明，离别之景昨夜就已上演了一遍。人还是昨晚的那些人，但从表面上看，所有的又都变了。气氛是如此紧张，我们都盼望着列车员赶紧鸣笛，及早结束这场闹剧。

上周一个冷清阴沉的早晨，我准点赶到奥斯顿送一位去美国的朋友。

头一天晚上，我们已经摆设筵席为他饯行，席间分手的离情和聚会的喜庆掌握得恰到好处。他这一去可能就是多年，席上有些人恐怕今世也难得再见他面。虽然说不上完全不受未来所投下的阴影的影响，可我们还是兴高采烈，畅叙了往日情谊。我们既为认识这位朋友而感谢命运，同时又因他的行将离别而遗憾不已。此两种情怀欣然体现，昨晚的离别真是完美！

可现在呢，我们在站台上，行为僵硬，极不自然，友人的面孔嵌在车厢窗框中，却宛然属于一个陌生人——一个急于讨人欢心的陌生人，一个情意真切但却又举止笨拙的陌生人。“东西都带齐了吧?”送行的人中有一个打破了沉默。“对，都带齐了。”我们的朋友愉快地点了点头，答道。“都齐了。”紧接着的这再次重复更加明显地暴露出此刻他头脑的空空如也。“那你得在火车上吃午饭了，”我说道，尽管这个预言远非是第一次被提出。“啊，是的。”他用确定的语气回答，然后又告诉大家，列车将中途不停直达利物浦。这句新加上的话似乎就带来了惊讶。我们彼此对视。“在克鲁也不停吗?”一个人问道。“不停。”朋友回答得简短，甚至都有些不悦了。较长一阵时间的停顿过后，有个人对我们的朋友回了句“行”，与此同时还点着头，做强颜欢笑状。于是，车外每个人那般点头，吐出那个莫名其妙的单音词“行”，以表谢意。沉默再次接踵而至，多亏我们中的一位干咳了几声打破这沉闷的寂静——那咳嗽当然是假装出来的，但它们却恰到好处地拖延了时间。列车似乎没有立即出发的迹象，站台上还是乱哄哄的。关于解除送别紧张的气氛——无论于送客的，还是于被送的——这个时刻还没有到来。

我的目光四处游弋，移到一个中年人身上的时候眼前突然一亮，他体格颇为健壮，站在站台上，正同我们旁边第三个窗口里的一名年轻女郎亲切话别。他良好的体型于我似乎并不陌生。那女郎显然是个美国人，而他英国人的特征也十分明显。如果不注意这点，单从他娓娓而谈的神态判断，我定会把他们当成一对父女。我热切地想听到他说话的内容，十分确定他此时正提供着最宝贵的建议；而他又是那般温柔地凝视着他的倾听者，真是活脱脱的一个美男子。末了，他又叮咛几句，更是魅力摄人了，连站在那么远之外的我都能感受到。而这魅力，就好比他的身材，隐隐约约为我所熟悉。但是，我在哪见到过呢?

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我猛地想起来了。他是休伯特·勒·罗斯。可是，比起最后一次见面，他发生了多大的改变呀！那都是七八年前在滨河路的事了。当时他正失业(失业对他而言再正常不过了)，来找我借半克朗。他是如此魅力非凡，借他点儿东西都能让人受宠若惊。但凭着那样的魅力，他竟一直没在伦敦舞台红起来，其中道理我是猜不透的。他滴酒不沾，是一个优秀的演员。可他也游走到外地了，像其他许许多多休伯特·勒·罗斯一样(当然，我在这所写下的并非他的真名)。于是我也就像别人一样，没过多少时日就把他遗忘了。

时光流逝，在奥斯顿的站台上再度见到他，真有些陌生感，尤其是他现在如此地阔气殷实。把他给认出来可真不容易，其一是几乎令他面目全非发福了的身材，其二更是他今非昔比的衣着。多年前，他两颊瘦癯，胡子拉碴，一件人造毛皮大衣是唯一能让他抛头露面的皮囊。但如今，他的穿戴典型地透出富贵而内敛的风格。他无须去引人注目，人们自然而然就会被他所吸引。有他这样一位具备银行家气质的人前来送行，被送的人都会甚感荣幸。

“请后退，请后退！”列车就要开了，我也挥手向朋友告别。可勒·罗斯并没有动，依旧站在那儿握着那美国女郎的双手。“请后退，先生！”他照做了，但立即又冲了回去，上前耳语了最后一句珍重之辞。我猜，当时女郎一定泪眼汪汪了吧。而最终当他目送列车驶出视线，转过身时，他眼里也噙满了泪。不过，见到我时他还是表现得很高兴。他一边询问这些年来我都隐匿在什么地方；一边还给我那半克朗，仿佛这钱他昨天才刚刚借去。他说每星期六我发表的那些剧评是如何赏心悦目，同时还把我的手挽起，沿着站台一路缓缓地走。

作为回敬，我告诉他由于他的离去令伦敦舞台失色不少。“啊，的确，”他答道，“我如今不再在舞台上演戏了。”他说这话时对“舞台”这个词特别强调，我便问，那现在他又在何处演戏。“站台上。”他回答道。“你的意思是，”我又问，“你在音乐会上朗诵?”他笑笑，说：“就这儿，”还用手杖敲着地面，“我说的站台就是这儿”。他神奇的发迹是不是搅乱了他的神经?可他看上去十分理智啊！我于是请他把话讲明白。

“我想，”他一边向我递过一支雪茄并点上，一边说道，“你刚才在给一位朋友送行吧?”我表示同意。接着他又问那我认为他刚才在做什么。我回答说我看见他也在送朋友。“不，”他严肃地说，“那位女士并不是我的朋友。我今天早上才第一次见她，不到半个小时前，就在这儿。”说着他又用手杖敲了敲站台。

我承认自己被他弄得摸不着头脑了。他笑笑：“你大概听说过英美社会局吧?”我说没有。他便解释道，每年前来英国旅行的美国人成千上万，可其中不少人没有英国朋友。以前他们往往携带介绍信来这里。但英国人素来就太淡漠了，这些信写是写了，可连张废纸都不如。“所以，”勒·罗斯说，“英美社会局便应运而生，以满足这项长期而迫切的需要。美国人喜好社交，多数人又囊中殷实。社会局便向他们提供英国朋友。所得费用，做朋友的和社会局五五分成。唉，我混不上个局长，没福发大财。我就是一个雇员罢了。不过也还算凑和，现在算是个送行人员吧。”

我要求他作进一步说明。“不少美国人，”他接着道，“负担不起在英国交朋结友的钱，但花钱请人为他们送送行还是没问题的。单送一个人收款五镑(相当25美元); 两位或两位以上的团体费也不过是八镑(相当40美元)。他们到局里提前付好钱，留下出发日期以及相貌特征，以便送行人员辨认他们。然后——到时候就有人为他们送行了。”

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“可这值得吗?”我不禁叫了起来。“当然啦，”勒·罗斯回答道。“这不至于让他们自觉是‘他乡客’。列车员会因此敬重他们，而其他乘客也不会瞧不起他们——他们不久就要一同登上轮船的。这能为他们赢得整个航行中的地位。再说，事情本身就很有意思。你刚才看到了我送那位女郎吧。不觉得我身手不错吗?”“的确不凡，”我承认道。“我真羡慕你。你看看我站在那儿——”“是的，我能想象。你在那儿，从头到脚哪儿都不对劲，呆呆地望着你的朋友，搜肠刮肚地找着话题。我完全理解。以前我也是这样的，只不过后来专门研习，干起了这行，才表现得像模像样起来。我现在的技术还没有登峰造极，登上站台后不免总有些怯场。这火车站的戏可最难演，这点你一定也有切身体会。”“可是，”我有些生气了，“我没有演戏，我可是在真心实意地感觉——”“我也是的，伙计，”勒·罗斯又说，“没有真情实感是演不了戏的。那人叫什么来着，那个法国人——狄德罗，对了——他说过可以；可他都懂得些什么?你没看见火车开时我眼睛里涌出的泪水吗？告诉你吧，我确确实实受了感动，我的眼泪不是硬挤出来的。我敢说刚才你也一样，只不过你做不到用眼泪来证明你的感动罢了。你不会表达你的感情，也就是说，你演不了戏。退一步说，”他说得稍微委婉些，“至少你在火车站演不了戏。”“那请赐教!”我放开了嗓门请求。他定定地看着我，斟酌片刻，终于说“好”，答应了下来，“实际上送行的旺季也快过去了。我可以给你上几堂课。目前我的门下子弟还真不少；不过还是这样吧，”说着，他查了查他那漂亮的记事簿，“定为每周四和每周五，一次一小时。”

他开出的学费，坦白说，实在是不低的。但既然是学本领，我也就不会嫌贵。

 

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