生命不能承受之轻-第15部分

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ed；　she　changed　the　subject。
THE　BEAUTY　OF　NEW　YORK
Franz　and　Sabina　would　walk　the　streets　of　New　York　for　hours　at　a　time。　The　view　changed　with　each　step；　as　if　they　were　following　a　winding　mountain　path　surrounded　by　breathtaking　scenery：　a　young　man　kneeling　in　the　middle　of　the　sidewalk　praying；
a　few　steps　away；　a　beautiful　black　woman　leaning　against　a　tree；　a　man　in　a　black　suit　directing　an　invisible　orchestra　while　crossing　the　street；　a　fountain　spurting　water　and　a　group　of　construction　workers　sitting　on　the　rim　eating　lunch；　strange　iron　ladders　running　up　and　down　buildings　with　ugly　red　facades；　so　ugly　that　they　were　beautiful；　and　next　door；　a　huge　glass　skyscraper　backed　by　another；　itself　topped　by　a　small　Arabian　pleasure…dome　with　turrets；　galleries；　and　gilded　columns。
She　was　reminded　of　her　paintings。　There；　too；　incongruous　things　came　together：　a　steelworks　construction　site　superimposed　on　a　kerosene　lamp；　an　old…fashioned　lamp　with　a　painted…glass　shade　shattered　into　tiny　splinters　and　rising　up　over　a　desolate　landscape　of　marshland。
Franz　said；　Beauty　in　the　European　sense　has　always　had　a　premeditated　quality　to　it。　We've　always　had　an　aesthetic　intention　and　a　long…range　plan。　That's　what　enabled　Western　man　to　spend　decades　building　a　Gothic　cathedral　or　a　Renaissance　piazza。　The　beauty　of　New　York　rests　on　a　completely　different　base。　It's　unintentional。　It　arose　independent　of　human　design；　like　a　stalagmitic　cavern。　Forms　which　are　in　themselves　quite　ugly　turn　up　fortuitously；　without　design；　in　such　incredible　surroundings　that　they　sparkle　with　a　sudden　wondrous　poetry。　
Sabina　said；　Unintentional　beauty。　Yes。　Another　way　of　putting　it　might　be　'beauty　by　mistake。'　Before　beauty　disappears　entirely　from　the　earth；　it　will　go　on　existing　for　a　while　by　mistake。　'Beauty　by　mistake'—the　final　phase　in　the　history　of　beauty。　
And　she　recalled　her　first　mature　painting；　which　came　into　being　because　some　red　paint　had　dripped　on　it　by　mistake。　Yes；　her　paintings　were　based　on　beauty　by　mistake；　and　New　York　was　the　secret　but　authentic　homeland　of　her　painting。
Franz　said；　Perhaps　New　York's　unintentional　beauty　is　much　richer　and　more　varied　than　the　excessively　strict　and　composed　beauty　of　human　design。　But　it's　not　our　European　beauty。　It's　an　alien　world。　
Didn't　they　then　at　last　agree　on　something？
No。　There　is　a　difference。　Sabina　was　very　much　attracted　by　the　alien　quality　of　New　York's　beauty。　Franz　found　it　intriguing　but　frightening；　it　made　him　feel　homesick　for　Europe。
SABINA'S　COUNTRY
Sabina　understood　Franz's　distaste　for　America。　He　was　the　embodiment　of　Europe：　his　mother　was　Viennese；　his　father　French；　and　he　himself　was　Swiss。
Franz　greatly　admired　Sabina's　country。　Whenever　she　told　him　about　herself　and　her　friends　from　home；　Franz　heard　the　words　prison；　persecution；　enemy　tanks；　emigration；　pamphlets；　banned　books；　banned　exhibitions；　and　he　felt　a　curious　mixture　of　envy　and　nostalgia。
He　made　a　confession　to　Sabina。　A　philosopher　once　wrote　that　everything　in　my　work　is　unverifiable　speculation　and　called　me　a　'pseudo…Socrates。'　I　felt　terribly　humiliated　and　made　a　furious　response。　And　just　think；　that　laughable　episode　was　the　greatest　conflict　I've　ever　experienced！　The　pinnacle　of　the　dramatic　possibilities　available　to　my　life！　We　live　in　two　different　dimensions；　you　and　I。　You　came　into　my　life　like　Gulliver　entering　the　land　of　the　Lilliputians。　
Sabina　protested。　She　said　that　conflict；　drama；　and　tragedy　didn't　mean　a　thing；　there　was　nothing　inherently　valuable　in　them；　nothing　deserving　of　respect　or　admiration。　What　was　truly　enviable　was　Franz's　work　and　the　fact　that　he　had　the　peace　and　quiet　to　devote　himself　to　it。
Franz　shook　his　head。　When　a　society　is　rich；　its　people　don't　need　to　work　with　their　hands；　they　can　devote　themselves　to　activities　of　the　spirit。　We　have　more　and　more　universities　and　more　and　more　students。　If　students　are　going　to　earn　degrees；　they've　got　to　come　up　with　dissertation　topics。　And　since　dissertations　can　be　written　about　everything　under　the　sun；　the　number　of　topics　is　infinite。　Sheets　of　paper　covered　with　words　pile　up　in　archives　sadder　than　cemeteries；　because　no　one　ever　visits　them；　not　even　on　All　Souls'　Day。　Culture　is　perishing　in　overproduction；　in　an　avalanche　of　words；　in　the　madness　of　quantity。　That's　why　one　banned　book　in　your　former　country　means　infinitely　more　than　the　billions　of　words　spewed　out　by　our　universities。　
It　is　in　this　spirit　that　we　may　understand　Franz's　weakness　for　revolution。　First　he　sympathized　with　Cuba；　then　with　China；　and　when　the　cruelty　of　their　regimes　began　to　appall　him；　he　resigned　himself　with　a　sigh　to　a　sea　of　words　with　no　weight　and　no　resemblance　to　life。　He　became　a　professor　in　Geneva　（where　there　are　no　demonstrations）；　and　in　a　burst　of　abnegation　（in　womanless；　paradeless　solitude）　he　published　several　scholarly　books；　all　of　which　received　considerable　acclaim。　Then　one　day　along　came　Sabina。　She　was　a　revelation。　She　came　from　a　land　where　revolutionary　illusion　had　long　since　faded　but　where　the　thing　he　admired　most　in　revolution　remained：　life　on　a　large　scale；　a　life　of　risk；　daring；　and　the　danger　of　death。　Sabina　had　renewed　his　faith　in　the　grandeur　of　human　endeavor。　Superimposing　the　painful　drama　of　her　country　on　her　person；　he　found　her　even　more　beautiful。
The　trouble　was　that　Sabina　had　no　love　for　that　drama。　The　words　prison；　persecution；　banned　books；　occupation；　tanks　were　ugly；　without　the　slightest　trace　of　romance。　The　only　word　that　evoked　in　her　a　sweet；　nostalgic　memory　of　her　homeland　was　the　word　cemetery。　
CEMETERY
Cemeteries　in　Bohemia　are　like　gardens。　The　graves　are　covered　with　grass　and　colorful　flowers。　Modest　tombstones　are　lost　in　the　greenery。　When　the　sun　goes　down；　the　cemetery　sparkles　with　tiny　candles。　It　looks　as　though　the　dead　are　dancing　at　a　children's　ball。　Yes；　a　children's　ball；　because　the　dead　are　as　innocent　as　children。　No　matter　how　brutal　life　becomes；　peace　always　reigns　in　the　cemetery。　Even　in　wartime；　in　Hitler's　time；　in　Stalin's　time；　through　all　occupations。　When　she　felt　low；　she　would　get　into　the　car；　leave　Prague　far　behind；　and　walk　through　one　or　another　of　the　country　cemeteries　she　loved　so　well。　Against　a　backdrop　of　blue　hills；　they　were　as　beautiful　as　a　lullaby。
For　Franz　a　cemetery　was　an　ugly　dump　of　stones　and　bones。
6
I'd　never　drive。　I'm　scared　stiff　of　accidents！　Even　if　they　don't　kill　you；　they　mark　you　for　life！　And　so　saying；　the　sculptor　made　an　instinctive　grab　for　the　finger　he　had　nearly　chopped　off　one　day　while　whittling　away　at　a　wood　statue。　It　was　a　miracle　the　finger　had　been　saved。
What　do　you　mean？　said　Marie…Claude　in　a　raucous　voice。　She　was　in　top　form。　I　was　in　a　serious　accident　once；　and　I　wouldn't　have　missed　it　for　the　world。　And　I've　never　had　more　fun　than　when　I　was　in　that　hospital！　I　couldn't　sleep　a　wink；　so　I　just　read　and　read；　day　and　night。　
They　all　looked　at　her　in　amazement。　She　basked　in　it。　Franz　reacted　with　a　mixture　of　disgust　（he　knew　that　after　the　accident　in　question　his　wife　had　fallen　into　a　deep　depression　and　complained　incessantly）　and　admiration　（her　ability　to　transform　everything　she　experienced　was　a　sign　of　true　vitality）。
It　was　there　I　began　to　divide　books　into　day　books　and　night　books；　she　went　on。　Really；　there　are　books　meant　for　daytime　reading　and　books　that　can　be　read　only　at　night。　
Now　they　all　looked　at　her　in　amazement　and　admiration；　all；　that　is；　but　the　sculptor；　who　was　still　holding　his　finger　and　wrinkling　his　face　at　the　memory　of　the　accident。
Marie…Claude　turned　to　him　and　asked；　Which　category　would　you　put　Stendhal　in？　
The　sculptor　had　not　heard　the　question　and　shrugged　his　shoulders　uncomfortably。　An　art　critic　standing　next　to　him　said　he　thought　of　Stendhal　as　daytime　reading。
Marie…Claude　shook　her　head　and　said　in　her　raucous　voice；　No；　no；　you're　wrong！　You're　wrong！　Stendhal　is　a　night　author！　
Franz's　participation　in　the　debate　on　night　art　and　day　art　was　disturbed　by　the　fact　that　he　was　expecting　Sabina　to　show　up　at　any　minute。　They　had　spent　many　days　pondering　whether　or　not　she　should　accept　the　invitation　to　this　cocktail　party。　It　was　a　party　Marie…Claude　was　giving　for　all　painters　and　sculptors　who　had　ever　exhibited　in　her　private　gallery。　Ever　since　Sabina　had　met　Franz；　she　had　avoided　his　wife。　But　because　they　feared　being　found　out；　they　came　to　the　conclusion　that　it　would　be　more　natural　and　therefore　less　suspicious　for　her　to　come。
While　throwing　unobtrusive　looks　in　the　direction　of　the　entrance　hall；　Franz　heard　his　eighteen…year…old　daughter；　Marie…Anne；　holding　forth　at　the　other　end　of　the　room。　Excusing　himself　from　the　group　presided　over　by　his　wife；　he　made　his　way　to　the　group　presided　over　by　his　daughter。　Some　were　in　chairs；　others　standing；　but　Marie…Anne　was　cross…legged　on　the　floor。　Franz　was　certain　that　Marie…Claude　would　soon　switch　to　the　carpet　on　her　side　of　the　room；　too。　Sitting　on　the　floor　when　you　had　guests　was　at　the　time　a　gesture　signifying　simplicity；　informality；　liberal　politics；　hospitality；　and　a　Parisian　way　of　life。　The　passion　with　which　Marie…Claude　sat　on　all　floors　was　such　that　Franz　began　to　worry　she　would　take　to　sitting　on　the　floor　of　the　shop　where　she　bought　her　cigarettes。
What　are　you　working　on　now；　Alain？　Marie…Anne　asked　the　man　at　whose　feet　she　was　sitting。
Alain　was　so　naive　and　sincere　as　to　try　to　give　the　gallery　owner's　daughter　an　honest　answer。　He　started　explaining　his　new　approach　to　her；　a　combination　of　photography　and　oil；　but　he　had　scarcely　got　through　three　sentences　when　Marie…Anne　began　whistling　a　tune。　The　painter　was　speaking　slowly　and　with　great　concentration　and　did　not　hear　the　whistling。　Will　you　tell　me　why　you're　whistling？　Franz　whispered。　Because　I　don't　like　to　hear　people　talk　about　politics；　she　answered　out　loud。
And　in　fact；　two　men　standing　in　the　same　circle　were　discussing　the　coming　elections　in　France。　Marie…Anne；　who　felt　it　her　duty　to　direct　the　proceedings；　asked　the　men　whether　they　were　planning　to　go　to　the　Rossini　opera　an　Italian　com