Oliver Barrett IV, a Harvard student from a wealthy WASP family, fell in love with Jennifer, a Radcliffe music major, daughter of a pastry chef of Italian descent. Jennifer returned his love. The two of them started talking about marriage, thinking they were made for each other. A banker and a squeamish parent, Oliver Barrett III refused to give his blessing to the proposed alliance. Oliver and Jennifer thereupon went ahead on their own, contented with their "love in a cottage".

We join the novel in Chapter 13, three years after Oliver married Jennifer regardless of his father's fierce opposition. One day, they received an invitation from Oliver's parents to the old man's sixtieth birthday party. Jennifer preferred accepting the invitation, regarding it as a good opportunity for a reconciliation between father and son. But Oliver wouldn't give it a thought. Thus the two of them had a violent quarrel…

Love Story

Erich Segal

CHAPTER 13

Mr. And Mrs. Oliver Barrett III

request the pleasure of your company

at a dinner in celebration of

Mr. Barrett's sixtieth birthday

Saturday, the sixth of March

at seven o'clock

Dover House, Ipswich, Massachusetts

R. S. V. P.

"Well?" asked Jennifer.

"Do you even have to ask?" I replied. I was in the midst of abstracting The State v. Percival, a very important precedent in criminal law. Jenny was sort of waving the invitation to bug me.

"I think it's about time, Oliver," she said.

"For what?"

"For you know very well that," she answered. "Does he have to crawl here on his hands and knees?"

I kept working as she worked me over.

"Ollie -- he's reaching out to you!"

"Bullshit, Jenny. My mother addressed the envelope."

"I thought you said you didn't look at it!" she sort of yelled.

Okay, so I did glance at it earlier. Maybe it had slipped my mind. I was, after all, in the midst of abstracting The State v. Percival, and in the virtual shadow of exams. The point was she should have stopped haranguing me.

"Ollie, think," she said, her tone kind of pleading now. "Sixty goddamn years old. Nothing says he'll still be around when you're finally ready for the reconciliation."

I informed Jenny in the simplest possible terms that there would never be a reconciliation and would she please let me continue my studying. She sat down quietly, squeezing herself onto a corner of the sofa where I had my feet. Although she didn't make a sound, I quickly became aware that she was looking at me very hard. I glanced up.

"Someday," she said, "when you're being bugged by Oliver V --"

"He won't be called Oliver, be sure of that!" I snapped at her. She didn't raise her voice, though she usually did when I did.

"Listen, Ollie, even if we name him Bozo the Clown that kid's still going to resent you because you were a big Harvard athlete. And by the time he's a freshman, you'll probably be in the Supreme Court!"

I told her that our son would definitely not resent me. She then inquired how I could be so certain of that. I couldn't produce evidence. I mean, I simply knew our son would not resent me, I couldn't say precisely why. Jenny then remarked:

"Your father loves you too, Oliver. Her loves you just the way you'll love Bozo. But you Barretts are so damn proud and competitive, you'll go through life thinking you hate each other."

"If it weren't for you," I said jokingly.

"Yes," she said.

"The case is closed," I said, being, after all, the husband and head of household. My eyes returned to The State v. Percival and Jenny got up. But then she remembered.

"There's still the matter of the RSVP."

I said that a Radcliffe music major could probably compose a nice little negative RSVP without professional guidance.

"Listen, Oliver," she said, "I've probably lied or cheated in my life. But I've never deliberately hurt anyone. I don't think I could."

Really, at that moment she was only hurting me, so I asked her politely to handle the RSVP in whatever manner she wished, as long as the essence of the message was that we wouldn't show unless hell froze over. I returned once again to The State v. Percival.

"What's the number?" I heard her say very softly. She was at the telephone.

"Can't you just write a note?"

"In a minute I'll lose my nerve. What's the number?"

I told her and was instantly immersed in Percival's appeal to the Supreme Court. I was not listening to Jenny. That is, I tried not to. She was in the same room, after all.

"Oh -- good evening, sir," I heard her say.

She had her hand over the mouthpiece.

"Ollie, does it have to be negative?"

The nod of my head indicated that it had to be, the wave of my hand indicated that she should hurry up.

"I'm terribly sorry," she said into the phone. "I mean, we're terribly sorry, sir…"

We're! Did she have to involve me in this? And why can't she get to the point and hang up?

"Oliver!"

She had her hand on the mouthpiece again and was talking very loud.

"He's wounded, Oliver! Can you just sit there and let you father bleed?"

Had she not been in such an emotional state, I could have explained once again that stones do not bleed. But she was very upset. And it was upsetting me too.

"Oliver," she pleaded, "could you just say a word?"

To him? She must be going out of her mind!

"I mean, like just maybe 'hello'?"

She was offering the phone to me. And trying not to cry.

"I will never talk to him. Ever," I said with perfect calm.

And now she was crying. Nothing audible, but tears pouring down her face. And then she -- she begged.

"For me, Oliver. I've never asked you for anything. Please."

Three of us. There of us just standing (I somehow imagined my father being there as well) waiting for something. What? For me?

I couldn't do it.

Didn't Jenny understand she was asking the impossible? That I would have done absolutely anything else? As I looked at the floor, shaking my head in adamant refusal and extreme discomfort, Jenny addressed me with a kind of whispered fury I had never heard from her:

"You are a heartless bastard,' she said. And then she ended the telephone conversation with my father saying:

"Mr. Barrett, Oliver does want you to know that in his own special way…"

She paused for breath. She had been sobbing, so it wasn't easy. I was much too astonished to do anything but await the end of my alleged "message."

"Oliver loves you very much," she said, and hung up very quickly.

There is no rational explanation for my actions in the next split second. I must never be forgiven for what I did.

I ripped the phone from her hand, then from the socket -- and hurled it across the room.

"God damn you, Jenny! Why don't you get the hell out of my life!"

I stood still, panting like the animal I had suddenly become. Jesus Christ! What the hell had happened to me? I turned to look at Jen.

But she was gone.

I mean absolutely gone, because I didn't even hear footsteps on the stairs. Christ, she must have dashed out the instant I grabbed the phone. Even her coat and scarf were still there. The pain of not knowing what to do was exceeded only by that of knowing what I had done.

I searched everywhere.

In the Law School library, I prowled the rows of grinding students, looking and looking. Up and back, at least half a dozen times. Though I didn't utter a sound, I knew my glance was so intense, my face so fierce, I was disturbing the whole place. Who cares?

But Jenny wasn't there.

Then all through Harkness Commons, the lounge, the cafeteria. Then a wild sprint to look around Agassiz Hall at Radcliffe. Not there, either. I was running everywhere now, my legs trying to catch up with the pace of my heart.

Paine Hall? (Ironic goddamn name!) Downstairs are piano practice rooms. I know Jenny. When she's angry, she pounds the keyboard. Right? But how about when she's scared to death?

It's crazy walling down the corridor, practice rooms on either side. The sounds of Mozart and Bartok, Bach and Brahms filter out from the doors and blend into this weird infernal sound.

Jenny's got to be here!

Instinct made me stop at a door where I heard the pounding (angry?) sound of a Chopin prelude. I paused for a second. The playing was lousy -- stops and starts and many mistakes. At one pause I heard a girl's voice mutter, "Shit!" It had to be Jenny. I flung open the door.

A Radcliffe girl was at the piano. She looked up. Au ugly, big-shouldered hippie Radcliffe girl, annoyed at my invasion.

"What's the matter, man?" she asked.

"Sorry," I replied, and closed the door again.

Then I tried Harvard Square. Nothing.

Where would Jenny have gone?

I just stood there, lost in the darkness of Harvard Square, not knowing where to go or what to do next. A colored guy approached me and inquired if I was in need of a fix. I kind of absently replied, "No, thank you sir."

I wasn't running now. I mean, what was the rush to return to the empty house? It was very late -- almost 1 A. M. -- and I was numb -- more with fright than with the cold (although it wasn't warm, believe me). From several yards off, I thought I saw someone sitting on the top of the steps. This had to be my eyes playing tricks, because the figure was motionless.

But it was Jenny.

She was sitting on the top step.

I was too tired to panic, too relieved to speak. Inwardly I hoped she had some blunt instrument with which to hit me.

"Jen?"

"Ollie?"

We both spoke so quietly, it was impossible to take an emotional reading.

"I forgot my key," Jenny said.

I stood there at the bottom of the steps, afraid to ask how long she had been sitting, knowing only that I had wronged her terribly.

"Jenny, I'm sorry --"

"Stop!" she cut off my apology, then said very quietly, "Love means not ever having to say you're sorry."

I climbed up the stairs to where she was sitting.

"I'd like to go to sleep. Okay?" she said.

"Okay."

We walked up to our apartment. As we undressed, she looked at me reassuringly.

"I meant what I said, Oliver."

And that was all.

出生于富裕的上层白人家庭的哈佛学生奥利佛·巴雷特四世爱上了意大利裔糕点师的女儿拉德克利夫学院音乐专业的学生詹妮弗。詹妮弗以爱相报。他们开始谈婚论嫁，认为他俩是天生的一对。银行家奥利弗·巴特雷三世是个过分拘谨的家长，他不同意这一提议中的婚姻。奥利佛与詹妮弗随即自己作主结了婚，甘愿过“清贫而和谐的婚姻生活。”

我们要读的是小说中第十三章，离奥利佛不顾父亲激烈反对与詹妮弗结婚已有三年。一天，他们收到奥利佛父母发来的邀其参加老人六十寿庆的请帖。詹妮弗认为应该接受邀请，把这视为父子和解的一个好机会。但奥利佛不愿考虑此事。于是他们之间发生了激烈争吵。

爱情故事

埃里克·西格尔

第十三章

兹订于三月六日星期六下午七时在马萨诸塞州伊普斯威奇镇多佛宅邸设宴庆贺巴雷特先生六十寿辰，恭请届时拨冗光临。

奥利佛·巴雷特三世夫妇鞠躬

请赐回复

“怎么样?”詹妮弗问。

“这你还用问吗?”我反问了一句。我正忙于摘录刑法上一起非常重要的判例——“珀西瓦尔公诉案”的要点。詹尼微微摆动着请柬，不让我安宁。

“我想是时候了，奥利佛，”她说。

“是什么的时候了?”

“你明明知道我说的是什么，”她回答说，“难道你非要他跪着爬到这儿来?”

我继续干我的事，任她肆意攻击我。

“奥利——他在主动向你伸手呢!”

“胡扯，詹妮，信封是我母亲开的。”

“我想你说过你连看都没看一眼呢!”她有点儿扯开嗓子嚷嚷了。

好吧，就算我刚才瞅过一眼吧。也许我已经忘了。不管怎么说，我正在专心做“珀西瓦尔公诉案”的摘要，忙着对付迫在眉睫的考试。问题在于她不该跟我唠叨个没完。

“奥利，好好想想，”她说，她现在的口吻近乎恳求了。“已经是六十岁的人了。等你最终回心转意想要和解的时候，谁能担保他还活在世上呢?”

我用最简单明了的话告诉詹妮，决不会有和解的一天，能不能请她让我继续学习下去。她一声不响地坐了下来，收紧身子，缩在我搁脚的那张沙发的一角。虽然她没吱声，但我很快便意识到她正紧紧地盯着我。我抬起头来。

“总有一天，”她说，“当奥利佛五世跟你怄气的时候——”

“他的名字决不会叫奥利佛，这你放心好了!”我对她厉声说道。通常我一提高嗓门，她也跟着将嗓门抬高，这回她却没有。

“听我说，奥利，即使我们给他取名叫‘小丑博佐’，那小子照样会怨恨你，因为你曾是哈佛的体育大明星。等他上大学一年级的时候，说不定你已经当上了联邦最高法院的法官!”

我对她说，我们的儿子肯定不会怨恨我。于是她问我凭什么这样自信。我提不出证据。我的意思是说，反正我知道我们的儿子决不会怨恨我，至于确切的理由嘛，我一时还说不清楚。于是詹妮说道：

“你父亲也是爱你的，奥利佛。他爱你，就像你日后爱博佐一样。但是你们巴雷特家的人都那么傲慢，那么好胜，你们一辈子都在想，你们相互仇恨，不共戴天。”

“要不是有了你，说不定还真会这样呢。”我用调侃的口吻说。

“可不。”她说。

“本案到此结束，”我说，毕竟我是丈夫，是一家之主。我的眼睛重又回到“珀西瓦尔公诉案”上，詹妮也站起身来。但这时她突然想了起来。

“‘请赐回复’的事儿还没了结呢。”

我说，一个拉德克利夫学院音乐专业的学生要写一封婉言谢绝的短信，大概无须行家指点吧。

“听着，奥利佛，”她说，“我这辈子可能撒过谎，骗过人，可我从来没有存心伤害过什么人。这种事儿我想我是干不来的。”

事实上，她此时此刻却正在伤害我，于是我客客气气地请她全权处理“请赐回示”的事儿，随她用什么方式都行，只要回示的实质是：除非地狱封冻，我们决不赴宴。说完，我便再次回过头来对付“珀西瓦尔公诉案”。

“号码是多少?”我听到她轻声细气地问。她已站在电话机旁。

“你就不能写个便条吗?”

“再过一分钟我就没有勇气了。号码是多少?”

我告诉了她，旋即潜心研读起珀西瓦尔呈交最髙法院的上诉书。我没去听詹妮打电话。确切地说，我尽量不去听。可她毕竟是在同一间屋子里。

“哦——晚上好，先生，”我听见她在说。

她用手捂住话筒。

“奥利，非回绝不可吗?”

我点点头，表示非回绝不可；我又挥挥手，表示她得赶快把事儿了结。

“我很抱歉，”她朝电话里说。“我是说，我们感到很抱歉，先生……”

我们！她干吗非要把我扯进去呢？她干吗不能直截了当地把话说完就把电话挂上？

“奥利佛！”

她又用手捂住了话筒，可话却说得很响。

“他感情上受到了伤害，奥利佛！眼看你父亲的心在流血，你能坐在那儿无动于衷吗？”

要不是她这样动感情，我也许会再次向她解释，铁石心肠是不会流血的。但是她此刻心烦意乱。再说我也给搞得心烦意乱。

“奥利佛，”她恳求说，“你就只说一两句不行吗?”

跟他说话？她准是疯了!

“我是说，就说句‘哈罗’之类打招呼的话?”

她把电话向我递过来，一边竭力忍住不哭。

“我决不跟他说话，决不，”我十分平静地说。

这下她哭了。虽然听不到一点声音，但看得见眼泪顺着她的面颊直淌下来。接着她——她就哀求起来。

“看在我的分上，奥利佛。我从来没有求过你什么。这回我求你了。”

我们三个人。我们三个人就这么站着，等待着什么（不知怎么，在我的想像中父亲似乎就站在跟前）。等什么呢？等我？

我没法照办。

难道詹妮不明白她是在要求根本办不到的事？不明白除此之外的任何别的事儿，我都会绝对照办？我低头望着地板，极其苦恼却又十分坚决地摇了摇头表示拒绝。这时，詹妮带着一腔怒火，强压嗓门冲着我直骂。我还从来没有听到她这样怒气冲冲地对我说过话：

“你是个没有心肝的杂种，”她说。

随后她便结束了同我父亲的交谈：

“巴雷特先生，奥利佛的确希望你能知道，尽管他的方式很特别……”

她停下来喘了口气。她因为一直在抽泣，所以说话很吃力。我一时给弄得目瞪口呆，只能等着她把据说是我“委托转告的口信”讲完。

“其实奥利佛是非常爱你的，”说罢，她立即挂断了电话。

对于接下来一刹那我的所作所为，实在没法作出任何合乎情理的解释。我所干的事绝不可宽恕。

我当时一把从她手中夺过电话，拔出插座——把电话狠狠地扔到屋子的另一头。

“你真该死，詹妮！你给我滚!”

我一动不动地站在那儿，好像突然变成了一头野兽在大口大口地喘着粗气。天哪！我这到底是怎么啦！我转身去看詹。

但是她已经不在了。

我是说，她已踪影全无，因为我连她下楼的脚步声也没听见。天哪，她准是在我抢电话的那一瞬间夺门而出的。连她的外套和围巾也没带上。一阵不知如何是好的痛楚，随即被一阵更为强烈的痛楚所代替——意识到自己竟然干出这等事儿来。

我四处寻找。

在法学院图书馆里，我在一排排专心学习的学生中间来回穿行，不停地东张西望。走过来又走过去，来回至少转了六趟。尽管我一声没吭，我却知道自己目光紧张，脸色吓人，那地方全被我搅和了。管它呢！

但詹妮没在那儿。

接着我把哈克尼斯公共食堂、休息室、小吃部全都搜了个遍。然后又以全力冲刺的速度跑到拉德克利夫学院的阿加西斯楼，四处搜寻。那儿也没有。于是我又到处奔跑，双腿尽力想跟上我的心跳速度。

潘恩楼？（该死的名字，还真有点儿讽刺意味!）楼下是练琴房。我知道詹妮的脾性。她发火时总是拼命敲打琴键。对不对？但是在她快被吓死的时候又会怎么样呢？

走廊两侧都是练琴房，在这种地方行走，真能让人发疯！莫扎特、巴尔托克、巴赫和勃拉姆斯的乐曲声从门缝里泄出来，汇成这么一片古怪的鬼哭狼嚎似的声音。

詹妮肯定就在这儿！

我听到一间琴房里，有人在（生气地？）狠命弹着肖邦的一首前奏。出于直觉，我在门口收住了脚步。我迟疑了片刻。琴弹得糟透了，停停又开始，开始了又停下，错误百出。在一次停顿时，我听到一个姑娘的声音在嘟哝：“他妈的！”这肯定是詹妮。我砰地一声把门推开。

一个拉德克利夫的女生正坐着弹琴。她抬起头来。原来是一个长相难看、肩膀很宽的嬉皮士，见我贸然闯进去很有点儿恼火。

“怎么回事，老兄?”她问。

“对不起，”我回了一声，重又把门关上。

随后我又去哈佛广场试了试运气。连她的影子也没有。

詹妮上哪儿去了呢？

我茫然地站在那儿，置身于哈佛广场的黑暗之中，不知道下一步再去哪儿或者干什么才好。一个黑人走到我跟前，问我要不要“来一针”。我有点心不在焉地回答说：“谢谢，不要，先生。”

现在我不再奔跑。我的意思是说，还那么急匆匆地赶回空荡荡的家里干什么呢？时间很晚了——已近凌晨一点——我浑身麻木，与其说是因为天冷，还不如说是因为害怕（不过，天气也确实不暖和，真的）。到了离家门口还有几码的地方，我觉得好像看到有个人坐在台阶上。这一定是我的眼睛看花了，因为那黑影儿一动也不动。

然而，那却是詹妮。

她坐在最高的一级台阶上。

我已累得没力气表示惊慌；同时又感到如释重负，已没必要再说什么了。我心里只希望她能有件什么钝器给我一下子。

“詹？”

“奥利?”

我们俩的口气都那么平静，不可能听出对方话中的感情色彩。

“我忘了带钥匙了，”詹妮说。

我站在台阶下，不敢问她在这儿已经坐了多久，只知道我大大地委屈了她。

“詹妮，对不起——”

“别说了！”她打断我的道歉，接着心平气和地说：“爱就意味着永远不必说对不起。”

我登上台阶走到她坐的地方。

“我想睡觉了，好吗？”她说。

“好的。”

我们走上楼，来到我们的公寓套间。在我们脱衣就寝时，她用一种让我宽心的目光望着我。

“刚才我说的话是真心实意的，奥利佛。”

这事儿就这么过去了。

参考资料：

1. 大学英语精读第五册 Unit 7_大学教材听力 - 可可英语

2. 大学英语精读(第三版) 第五册: unit6A Love Story(1)_大学教材听力 - 可可英语