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第七章 花园的钥匙  

2016-03-12 11:40:37|  分类: 译著 |  标签: |举报 |字号 订阅

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第七章  花园的钥匙

【美】弗朗西丝·霍奇森·伯内特 

 熊良銋 

 

两天后的清晨,玛丽一睁开眼睛,就立马从床上坐了起来,朝着玛莎大声喊叫。

快看荒野!快看荒野!

暴风雨停了,灰蒙蒙的云雾在夜间被大风一扫而空。这时风也也停了,一片明朗的深蓝色的天空高拱在荒野之上。玛丽从来永远做梦都没有想到天空会这么湛蓝。在印度时,天空是火烤般的灼热,而这里的天空却是一派湛蓝,凉爽宜人,闪亮宛如一泓可爱的深不见底粼粼闪光的湖水。在那高高拱起的蓝天上,到处飘浮着羊毛般雪白的纤云。那遥遥无边的荒野上现在也似乎蓝得温静自在,不再是阴郁的紫黑色或者凄凉得可怕的土灰色。

啊吔,玛莎粲然一笑道。暴风雨总算是暂时停了。每年的这个时候都是这样。他总是这样在一夜间悄然停了,象是假装它从未来过,以后也不会再来似的。这是因为春天就要到来了。尽管还有好长一段距离,但很快就要来了。

我原以为也许在英国天总是下雨或阴沉沉的呢。玛丽说道。

噢!不是的!玛莎说着,在一堆黑刷子中间盘起双腿坐直了起来。没得这档子的咯!

你这话什么意思?玛丽认真地问道。在印度,土著也讲不同的方言,只有很少人能听懂,所以,当玛莎说了一些不好懂的地方话时,她也不觉得惊奇。

玛莎哈哈大笑了起来,就象是她们初次见面的那天早晨一样。

瞧我这记性,她说道。我刚才又说起约克郡方言来了,梅德洛克太太叮嘱过不许我说方言土语的。没得这档子的咯的意思是说根本没有这么回事,’”她一个字儿一个字儿地说道。可是要这么说太费劲儿了。每当太阳出来时,约克郡是世界上最阳光的地方了。我跟你说过,过不多久你就会喜欢上这荒野的。等着吧,你会看到金色的荆豆花和金雀花盛开着,还有石楠花也开了,上面挂满了紫色的铃铛,成百上千之蝴蝶振翅翻飞,蜜蜂嗡嗡地哼小调着,云雀一边唱着歌,一边冲上蓝天。到那时,太阳一出来你就想到外面去,象迪肯那样在那里野玩一整天。
    “
我能到那里去吗?玛丽心驰神往地问道,眺望着窗外远出的那片蓝天。这颜色是那样新奇,那样广袤,那样美妙,宛如天堂般的圣洁。
    “
我不知道,玛莎回答,我寻思,您从生下地就不怎么用腿脚的咯。恐怕您连五哩路也走不动的。走到我们家的茅舍正还是五哩远。
    “
我倒真想去看看你们家的茅舍呢。
     
玛莎好奇地瞪视着她好一阵子,然后才拿起打光的刷子,重新开始擦起壁炉隔栅来。她心想,这张很一般的小脸现在不再象那天早上她初次见到的那么古板了。它还真有那么一点点象小苏珊·安妮的,尤其是在她非常想要什么东西时的模样。
    “
这事儿我要去问问俺娘,她说道。她是那种凡事几乎都能想出办法有主见的人。今天该我休息,我正要回家的咯。啊!我真高兴。梅德洛克太太也常常想着俺娘的。也许她能和俺娘聊聊。
    “
我挺喜欢你娘的,玛丽说道。
    “
我感觉到您会的。玛莎赞同道,继续擦着。
    “
我可从来没有见过她呢,玛丽说道。
    “
对的咯,您没见过,玛莎答道。
     
她又在自己的脚后跟盘坐起来,用手背擦擦鼻子,似乎一时间有点犹疑不决。但是最后她的态度变得很肯定了。
    “
嗯,俺娘可是个通情达理,勤劳善良,脾气好,爱干净的人,不管见没见过她,人们都会情不自禁地喜欢上她的咯。每当我休息,回家去看她时,我走在荒野上总是高兴得连蹦带跳的。
    “
我也喜欢迪肯,玛丽补了一句。可我也从来没有见过他。
    “
那当然咯,玛莎理直气壮地说道。我早跟您说过的,鸟儿都个个喜欢他,还有兔子啦,野羊啦,马驹啦,甚至那些狐狸啦,个个都喜欢他。可我不知道啊,玛莎若有所思地凝视着她,迪康会怎么看你呢?
    “
他不会喜欢我的,玛丽用她惯常的那种生硬冰冷的口气说道。没人会喜欢我的。
     
玛莎又显得若有所思了。
    “
那您自己喜欢自己吗?她询问道,好象真的很想知道。
   
玛丽一下子拿不定主意,认真地想了想。
    “
一点也不喜欢,真的,她答道。但是我以前从没想过这个问题。
   
玛莎眯眯地笑了起来,仿佛回想起了一件亲身经历过的事儿来了。
    “
有一次俺娘这样问说,她说道。当时她正在洗衣服,我在发脾气,说了些别人的坏话,她回过身来对我说:好你个小丫头片子,你太放肆咯!在那儿一站,你就说不喜欢这个,不喜欢那个。那你喜欢你自己吗?我听了这话就噗嗤一笑,头脑就一下子清醒了。
   
她照料玛丽吃完早饭后,就兴致很高地离去了。她要走五哩路,穿越荒野,回到茅舍的家去,她要帮她母亲洗衣服,帮她烘烤下周吃的面包,开开心心地度过这一天。
     
在知道玛莎不在在宅子里以后,玛丽觉得更加孤寂了。她尽快出了门,进了花园,第一件事就是围绕带喷泉的花园跑了十圈。她认真地数着圈数,跑完后觉得精神好多了。阳光使这地方完全变了样。高远深邃的蓝天不仅覆盖着米瑟尔斯威特庄园,也覆盖着荒野,她不停地抬起头来,仰望天空,遐想着躺在那些雪白的纤云上,在天上四处飘荡,会是什么感觉。随后,她走进了第一个菜园,看到
·维德斯达夫和另外两个园丁在干活。天气的变化看来对他也有好处。他竟主动和她说话了。

春天就要来了,他说道。您没闻到气息?
   
玛丽用鼻子嗅了嗅,觉得自己真的闻到了。
    “
我是闻到了一股芳香新鲜潮湿的气味。她说道。
    “
那是肥沃的泥土的气味,他一边答话,一边继续挖着。它此刻在为万物生长做准备,心情着呢好。每当播种的季节,它心里就高兴。而在冬天,它无事可干,就觉得烦闷。在那边的几个花园里,黑土地底下的东西会在暗中萌动发芽。太阳光在温暖着它们。再过几天,你就能看到一些尖嫩的绿芽从黑土里冒出来。
    “
它们会是些什么呢?玛丽问道。
    “
番红花啦,雪花莲啦,还有旱水仙啦。你从没见过吧?
    “
没有。在印度,雨下过之后,一切都是热辣辣湿漉漉绿油油的,玛丽说道。我还以为所有的东西都是在一夜之间长出来的哩。
    “
这里的花草一个晚上可长不出来,
维德斯达夫说道。你一定得耐心等待。它们会这儿升高一点点,那儿冒出个叶尖尖。今天一片叶子刚舒开,明天另一片又伸出来。你就睁大眼睛瞧吧。
    “
我会的,玛丽答道。
   
很快,她又听到轻柔的翅羽扑动声,便立刻知道是那只知更鸟来了。它精神很好,活泼调皮,就在她的双脚周边跳来跳去,还把小脑袋歪到一边,狡猾地看着她,使她不禁要向
·维德斯达夫提出一个问题。
    “
你觉得它会记得我吗?她问道。
    “
记得你!
维德斯达夫愤愤不平地说道。它清楚地记得园子里每一兜卷心菜,就别说人了。它以前从没在这里见过小丫头,所有它一定会想方设法弄清楚你的一切。你别想什么事能瞒得了它。
    “
在它住的那个花园里头,黑土地底下的花草也在暗中萌动吗?玛丽询问道。
    “
什么花园?
·维德斯达夫嘟哝着,脸色又变得难看起来。
    “
就是有棵老玫瑰树的那个花园呀,她忍不住要打听,因为她实在太想知道了。那儿所有的花都死光了呢,还是有些到夏天会再开花?有没有玫瑰花呢?
    “
去问它吧,
·维德斯达夫说着,朝那只知更鸟耸了耸肩膀。知道的只有它一个。十年来没有别人进道里面去过。
   
十年客是很长的一段时间呢,玛丽心想道。她就是十年前出生的。
   
她走开了,一边在慢慢地思索着。她开始喜欢上那个花园了,如同她渐渐喜欢上那只知更鸟、迪康和玛莎的母亲。她也开始喜欢玛莎了。看来让她喜欢的人还真不少,可在不久前她可是谁都不喜欢的。她是把知更鸟也当成一个人的。她来到那覆盖着常春藤的长墙外他的那条步行道上来回走着,越过墙顶她能瞥见墙里面的树梢;当她走到第二趟时,她遇上了一件最有趣、最激动人心的事,而这一切都多亏了
·维德斯达夫的那只知更鸟。
     
这时她听到一阵小鸟的啁啾鸣啭声,便扭头朝左边那光秃秃的花圃看去,只见它正在那里往前跳跃,假装在土里啄食,好让她相信它没有跟着她。可是她知道它一直在跟着她,这个发现让她满心又惊又喜,她几乎全身都震颤起来了。
    “
你真的还记得我呀!她大声喊道。你真记得的!你是这世界上最最可爱的了!
   
她于是一边学鸟鸣叫,一边轻言细语地跟它说着话,而它一蹦一跳摇头摆尾,不停地啼叫。它好象也在说话似的。它的红马甲象绸缎般柔美,它把小胸脯挺得鼓鼓的,显得那么精致,那么高贵,那么迷人,就好象它真的是在向她显示:一只知更鸟可以是多么重要,多么象一个人。当鸟儿紧跟着她,她离鸟儿越来越近时,玛丽已经忘了自己曾是怎样的一个倔小姐,她弯下腰来,试着用知更鸟的声音跟它对话。
     
哦!想想看,它竟然能让她挨它那么近!它明白,这世界上不会有任何东西能让她伸手去碰它一下,也不决会去惊吓它,哪怕是最微小的惊吓。它明白这一点,因为它是真正通人性的,甚至比这世上所有的人更有人性。她快乐得几乎不敢喘息了。
     
那花圃并不完全是光秃秃的。上面没有花,因为多年生植物都作了修剪,以利过冬,但在花圃后边还簇拥着高高低低的灌木丛,知更鸟在灌木丛下面蹦跳时,她看到它跳上了一小堆新翻过的泥土。它停在那里寻找虫子。泥土刚被翻动过,因为有条狗想掏出一只鼹鼠,刨出了一个颇深的洞。

 玛丽看着这个洞,真的不知道为什么那里会有个洞。看着看着,她突然发现有样东西半埋在新翻的泥土里。那好象是一枚生了锈的铁环或铜环。当知更鸟飞上附近的一棵树后,她伸出手去捡起圆环。但着不只是一枚圆环,而是一把似乎埋了很久的旧钥匙,。
   
玛丽小姐站了起来,看着悬在她手上的这枚圆环,脸上现出非常惊恐的神情。
    “
也许它已经被埋了十年,她悄声说道。也许它就是那个花园的钥匙!

 

附录:原文

 

Chapter 7  The Key of the Garden

Written byFrances Hodgson Burnett

Translated by Liangren Xiong

 

Two days after this, when Mary opened her eyes she sat upright in bed immediately, and called to Martha.

"Look at the moor! Look at the moor!"

The rain-storm had ended and the gray mist and clouds had been swept away in the night by the wind. The wind itself had ceased and a brilliant, deep blue sky arched high over the moorland. Never, never had Mary dreamed of a sky so blue. In India skies were hot and blazing; this was of a deep cool blue which almost seemed to sparkle like the waters of some lovely bottomless lake, and here and there, high, high in the arched blueness floated small clouds of snow-white fleece. The far-reaching world of the moor itself looked softly blue instead of gloomy purple-black or awful dreary gray.

"Aye," said Martha with a cheerful grin. "Th' storm's over for a bit. It does like this at this time o' th' year. It goes off in a night like it was pretendin' it had never been here an' never meant to come again. That's because th' springtime's on its way. It's a long way off yet, but it's comin'."

"I thought perhaps it always rained or looked dark in England," Mary said.

"Eh! no!" said Martha, sitting up on her heels among her black lead brushes. "Nowt o' th' soart!"

"What does that mean?" asked Mary seriously. In India the natives spoke different dialects which only a few people understood, so she was not surprised when Martha used words she did not know.

Martha laughed as she had done the first morning.

"There now," she said. "I've talked broad Yorkshire again like Mrs. Medlock said I mustn't. 'Nowt o' th' soart' means 'nothin'-of-the-sort,'" slowly and carefully, "but it takes so long to say it. Yorkshire's th' sunniest place on earth when it is sunny. I told thee tha'd like th' moor after a bit. Just you wait till you see th' gold-colored gorse blossoms an' th' blossoms o' th' broom, an' th' heather flowerin', all purple bells, an' hundreds o' butterflies flutterin' an' bees hummin' an' skylarks soarin' up an' singin'. You'll want to get out on it at sunrise an' live out on it all day like Dickon does."

"Could I ever get there?" asked Mary wistfully, looking through her window at the far-off blue. It was so new and big and wonderful and such a heavenly color.

"I don't know," answered Martha. "Tha's never used tha' legs since tha' was born, it seems to me. Tha' couldn't walk five mile. It's five mile to our cottage."

"I should like to see your cottage."

Martha stared at her a moment curiously before she took up her polishing brush and began to rub the grate again. She was thinking that the small plain face did not look quite as sour at this moment as it had done the first morning she saw it. It looked just a trifle like little Susan Ann's when she wanted something very much.

"I'll ask my mother about it," she said. "She's one o' them that nearly always sees a way to do things. It's my day out to-day an' I'm goin' home. Eh! I am glad. Mrs. Medlock thinks a lot o' mother. Perhaps she could talk to her."

"I like your mother," said Mary.

"I should think tha' did," agreed Martha, polishing away.

"I've never seen her," said Mary.

"No, tha' hasn't," replied Martha.

She sat up on her heels again and rubbed the end of her nose with the back of her hand as if puzzled for a moment, but she ended quite positively.

"Well, she's that sensible an' hard workin' an' good-natured an' clean that no one could help likin' her whether they'd seen her or not. When I'm goin' home to her on my day out I just jump for joy when I'm crossin' th' moor."

"I like Dickon," added Mary. "And I've never seen him."

"Well," said Martha stoutly, "I've told thee that th' very birds likes him an' th' rabbits an' wild sheep an' ponies, an' th' foxes themselves. I wonder," staring at her reflectively, "what Dickon would think of thee?"

"He wouldn't like me," said Mary in her stiff, cold little way. "No one does."

Martha looked reflective again.

"How does tha' like thysel'?" she inquired, really quite as if she were curious to know.

Mary hesitated a moment and thought it over.

"Not at all—really," she answered. "But I never thought of that before."

Martha grinned a little as if at some homely recollection.

"Mother said that to me once," she said. "She was at her wash-tub an' I was in a bad temper an' talkin' ill of folk, an' she turns round on me an' says: 'Tha' young vixon, tha'! There tha' stands sayin' tha' doesn't like this one an' tha' doesn't like that one. How does tha' like thysel'?' It made me laugh an' it brought me to my senses in a minute."

She went away in high spirits as soon as she had given Mary her breakfast. She was going to walk five miles across the moor to the cottage, and she was going to help her mother with the washing and do the week's baking and enjoy herself thoroughly.

Mary felt lonelier than ever when she knew she was no longer in the house. She went out into the garden as quickly as possible, and the first thing she did was to run round and round the fountain flower garden ten times. She counted the times carefully and when she had finished she felt in better spirits. The sunshine made the whole place look different. The high, deep, blue sky arched over Misselthwaite as well as over the moor, and she kept lifting her face and looking up into it, trying to imagine what it would be like to lie down on one of the little snow-white clouds and float about. She went into the first kitchen-garden and found Ben Weatherstaff working there with two other gardeners. The change in the weather seemed to have done him good. He spoke to her of his own accord.

"Springtime's comin'," he said. "Cannot tha' smell it?"

Mary sniffed and thought she could.

"I smell something nice and fresh and damp," she said.

"That's th' good rich earth," he answered, digging away. "It's in a good humor makin' ready to grow things. It's glad when plantin' time comes. It's dull in th' winter when it's got nowt to do. In th' flower gardens out there things will be stirrin' down below in th' dark. Th' sun's warmin' 'em. You'll see bits o' green spikes stickin' out o' th' black earth after a bit."

"What will they be?" asked Mary.

"Crocuses an' snowdrops an' daffydowndillys. Has tha' never seen them?"

"No. Everything is hot, and wet, and green after the rains in India," said Mary. "And I think things grow up in a night."

"These won't grow up in a night," said Weatherstaff. "Tha'll have to wait for 'em. They'll poke up a bit higher here, an' push out a spike more there, an' uncurl a leaf this day an' another that. You watch 'em."

"I am going to," answered Mary.

Very soon she heard the soft rustling flight of wings again and she knew at once that the robin had come again. He was very pert and lively, and hopped about so close to her feet, and put his head on one side and looked at her so slyly that she asked Ben Weatherstaff a question.

"Do you think he remembers me?" she said.

"Remembers thee!" said Weatherstaff indignantly. "He knows every cabbage stump in th' gardens, let alone th' people. He's never seen a little wench here before, an' he's bent on findin' out all about thee. Tha's no need to try to hide anything from him."

"Are things stirring down below in the dark in that garden where he lives?" Mary inquired.

"What garden?" grunted Weatherstaff, becoming surly again.

"The one where the old rose-trees are." She could not help asking, because she wanted so much to know. "Are all the flowers dead, or do some of them come again in the summer? Are there ever any roses?"

"Ask him," said Ben Weatherstaff, hunching his shoulders toward the robin.

"He's the only one as knows. No one else has seen inside it for ten year'."

Ten years was a long time, Mary thought. She had been born ten years ago.

She walked away, slowly thinking. She had begun to like the garden just as she had begun to like the robin and Dickon and Martha's mother. She was beginning to like Martha, too. That seemed a good many people to like—when you were not used to liking. She thought of the robin as one of the people. She went to her walk outside the long, ivy-covered wall over which she could see the tree-tops; and the second time she walked up and down the most interesting and exciting thing happened to her, and it was all through Ben Weatherstaff's robin.

She heard a chirp and a twitter, and when she looked at the bare flower-bed at her left side there he was hopping about and pretending to peck things out of the earth to persuade her that he had not followed her. But she knew he had followed her and the surprise so filled her with delight that she almost trembled a little.

"You do remember me!" she cried out. "You do! You are prettier than anything else in the world!"

She chirped, and talked, and coaxed and he hopped, and flirted his tail and twittered. It was as if he were talking. His red waistcoat was like satin and he puffed his tiny breast out and was so fine and so grand and so pretty that it was really as if he were showing her how important and like a human person a robin could be. Mistress Mary forgot that she had ever been contrary in her life when he allowed her to draw closer and closer to him, and bend down and talk and try to make something like robin sounds.

Oh! to think that he should actually let her come as near to him as that! He knew nothing in the world would make her put out her hand toward him or startle him in the least tiniest way. He knew it because he was a real person—only nicer than any other person in the world. She was so happy that she scarcely dared to breathe.

The flower-bed was not quite bare. It was bare of flowers because the perennial plants had been cut down for their winter rest, but there were tall shrubs and low ones which grew together at the back of the bed, and as the robin hopped about under them she saw him hop over a small pile of freshly turned up earth. He stopped on it to look for a worm. The earth had been turned up because a dog had been trying to dig up a mole and he had scratched quite a deep hole.

Mary looked at it, not really knowing why the hole was there, and as she looked she saw something almost buried in the newly-turned soil. It was something like a ring of rusty iron or brass and when the robin flew up into a tree nearby she put out her hand and picked the ring up. It was more than a ring, however; it was an old key which looked as if it had been buried a long time.

Mistress Mary stood up and looked at it with an almost frightened face as it hung from her finger.

"Perhaps it has been buried for ten years," she said in a whisper. "Perhaps it is the key to the garden!"

 

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