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未曾谋面的劲敌朋友我和约翰布雷尔初次会面时，我俩都已60出头了，但是，较之别人，她对我的人生影响最大却是事实，并且我害羞的毛病也重要归咎于她。卡丽舅妈是我最喜欢的亲戚，也是我最喜欢的权威人物。她总是一脸笑容，满口赞美之词，随时宽容她人的失误。对我而言，她只有一种缺陷，即她也是约翰布雷尔的姨妈。约翰是她住在格洛斯特郡的妹妹的儿子。卡丽舅妈总是称她“我的另一种外甥小约翰”，并且总是提起她。在我意识到之前，我与小约翰也许已被比较了无多次了。我能清晰记得的第一次，是“卡丽舅妈的另一种外甥小约翰”与我同一天上学，并且她喜欢上学就像鸭子喜欢水，而我的第一天却是劫难性的。并且劫难持续不断。她是个令人难以置信的孩子，学数学长进不久，解高等数学题轻而易举。而我几乎总是跌跌撞撞，连学百分数都很费力。于是我开始胆怯卡丽舅妈来访，由于她老是比较我们俩。时间在继续，我们之间的比较也在继续。通过放假时大人们的谈论，上学时大人之间的通信，我总能随时理解约翰的进步。在这样的挑战下，我终于开始寻找我最擅长的事情。当我发现我擅长写作时，我就用心地提高我的写作水平，置其她一切于脑后。我只要写作，让约翰去拥有所有其她的吧。我创作的故事，多半与科技有关，本质上是科幻故事。都是有关火箭、航天飞机，诸如此类把人送上天的东西。对自己的性格作了点分析后，我结识到我的这些故事就是自己愿望的延伸，我想愈升愈高，直至超过约翰布雷尔。在后来的40年里，有三四次我在报上读到约翰布雷尔的消息。她当时在做支持大型科学项目的数学研究工作。这种职业不太会招来多少公众注意，但偶尔见诸报端的报道却描绘了她一步步成功的故事，直到退休。另有一次，有一半专栏报道了她，说她最后的工作是将太阳能用于将卫星送入轨道。她在波斯湾某国为一种政府部门工作。而那时，我也在自己的行业获得了成功，写了30本畅销故事，其中无一失败之作。后来，那一年的11月，我正在一家具乐部喝酒，等着吃饭。一声咳嗽令我转头张望。我看见一种矮矮胖胖的人，小小的鼻子看上去难以支撑沉重的眼镜框架。她叫了我的名字，显然不太自在，而我也不情愿地说是我。自从我有了点名气后，偶尔也有陌生人向我打招呼。然后无论她们说什么，我总是感到十分窘迫。“你不不结识我我，”这个矮小男人结结巴巴地说。“我叫约翰布布雷尔。我们都均有一种亲戚，卡卡罗琳莱西。我过去常常听她提起你，”她笑着说。“你懂得我始终觉得，你至少八英尺高，很英俊，气愤勃勃，比世界上任何人都能干。”说着话，她的笑容扩散开来。“真的，”她说，“卡丽姨妈写的那些有关你的信，弄得我几乎要自杀了。徐徐地，我就不肯听到你的名字了。”据说她那么近年之后忽然见到她我有点吃惊。“与你妈妈过去常写的有关你的信相比，”我说，“那些信算不了什么。每次信都告诉我你的计算题做得对。我总是把你想成一位光辉典范，九英尺高，比罗伯特泰勒英俊，比丘吉尔聪颖。因此，那些信是互相夸奖对方的（她们骗了我们），对不对？”“对我来说更糟糕，”她说。“我历来是小个子，过去总是戴着这东西。”她摸了摸自己的眼镜。“而你呢，魁梧、英俊，还很聪颖。我总得做点什么，而我能做的就是计算。我拼命取悦于她人，我几乎可以说，”她似乎有点怨恨地说，“就是由于你，我做了一辈子的算术！”“把算术换成写作，你就懂得我的情形了，”我说。我俩相对而视，脸上挂着相似的表情。也许，我俩都明白了，我们坐着的这个地方，并不是人生失败的人出没的地方，对于男孩子来说，无论她们目前什么样，偶尔的鞭策并非一件坏事。我们都推了推自己的眼镜，两人之间的对抗情绪荡然无存。虽然都没说话，但我懂得，我们在举杯纪念我们的卡丽舅（姨）妈。The Challenging Friend I Didnt Know John Bullyer and I met for the first time when we were both in our early sixties, but it is true to say that he did more to shape my life than any other person, and is largely responsible for the shyness which has been a handicap to me. Aunt Carrie was my favorite relative, as well as my favorite authority figure. She was always free with smiles, words of praise, and excuses for misdoings. For me she had but one drawback: She was also aunt to John Bullyer, the son of her sister who lived in Gloucestershire. She invariably referred to him as Little-John-my-other-nephew all in one word, and she referred to him far too often. Probably hundreds of comparisons were made before I became aware of them. The first that I remember with any clarity was that Little-John-Aunt-Carries-other-nephew had started school on the same day as I did and had taken to it like a duck to water. My first day, on the other hand, was disastrous. And so it went on. Incredible boy, he advanced quickly in mathematics; he was dealing expertly with advanced math, just cruising through, while I was practically slamming my head against a wall trying to learn percentages. I began to dread Aunt Carries visits, because she was always comparing the two of us. Time went on; so did the comparisons. By word of mouth during the holidays, by phrases that leaped out of letters during term time, I was kept up to date with Johns progress. Thus challenged, I began at last to look round for something that I could do well. When I discovered that I could write well, I worked with intensity at my craft, minding nothing else. Let this be mine, John Bullyer could have all the rest. The stories that I invented were mostly technological and science fiction in nature. They told of rockets and spacecraft, things that would take men high up into the sky. After some analysis of my personality, I realized that my stories were an extension of my own desires to rise to higher and higher altitudes, until I was above John Bullyer. Three or four times during the next forty years I saw mention of John Bullyer in the press. He was doing mathematical work that supported big, scientific projects. It was not the kind of career to attract much publicity, but occasional paragraphs in newspapers charted a steady success until he retired. On that occasion there was a half column about him; it said that his last job was the harnessing of solar power for a satellite put into orbit. He was working for a government bureau in a country in the Persian Gulf. I was, by that time, successful in my own line, having written a streak of 30 best-sellers without a single failure. Late that year, in November, I was in a club, sipping a glass of wine before dinner. A cough made me look round. I saw a short, fat man with a little nose that looked too small to support the framework of his heavy glasses. With more than a suggestion of discomfort, he spoke my name and I, somewhat reluctantly, admitted my identity. Since I attained some measures of fame I have on occasion been approached by strangers. Whatever they say, I am always horribly embarrassed. You d-dont know m-me, said the little man, stammering. My names John B-Bullyer. We sh-shared an aunt, C-Caroline Lacey. I used to hear so much about you, he said with a smile. You see. I grew up with the idea that you were at least eight feet tall, handsome, dynamic, and more able than anyone in the universe. His smile broadened. Really, he said, the letters Aunt Carrie used to write about you almost drove me to suicide. I grew to hate the sound of your name at times. Those letters were probably nothing, I said, surprised to meet this man after so many years of having heard of him, compared to the letters your mother used to write about you. I was told every time you got a sum right. I always thought of you as an imposing specimen of a mannine feet high, better looking than Robert Taylor and wiser than Churchill. So they played the game both ways, did they? But it was worse for me, he said. Ive always been undersized, and I always had these. He touched his glasses. And there you were, tall and handsome. And so clever too. I had to do something; and all I could ever do was sums, and nearly killed myself at games in an effort to be liked by others. I might almost say, he said, with something like resentment, that because of you Ive been doing sums all my life! Substitute writing stories for doing sums and you have exactly my story, I said. We looked at each other with identical expressions. Then it probably dawned on us both that the place in which we sat is not the place of men who have been failures in life, and that for boys, being what they are, an occasional push is not such a bad thing. Together we lifted our glasses, and the tensions between us went away. And though neither of us spoke, I know we drank to the memory of our Aunt Carrie.
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