注册 登录  
 加关注
   显示下一条  |  关闭
温馨提示!由于新浪微博认证机制调整,您的新浪微博帐号绑定已过期,请重新绑定!立即重新绑定新浪微博》  |  关闭

beargoodman 的博客

鸟鸣溪谷柳鸣春,万类和融释醉痕。骚客登楼临曲水,金威雅集胜兰亭。

 
 
 

日志

 
 

第五章 走廊里的哭声  

2016-03-09 11:11:52|  分类: 译著 |  标签: |举报 |字号 订阅

  下载LOFTER 我的照片书  |

第五章  走廊里的哭声

【美】弗朗西丝·霍奇森·伯内特 

 熊良銋 

 

起初,玛丽·楞诺克斯在这里的日子过得几乎全都一模一样。每天早上,她在挂着壁毯的房间里醒来,都会看到玛丽跪在壁炉前生火;每天早上,她会在很乏味的活动房里吃早餐;每天早餐后,她就会凝视着窗外那辽阔的荒野,那荒野仿佛向四面八方延伸着,直与天边相连;眺望了一会儿之后,她就意识到自己要是不出去的话,就只有待在室内无事可干,于是她就出去了。她并不知道这样做对她自己是最好的了;她也不知道,当她开始沿着花间小径和林荫道快步行走小跑时,由于要顶着从荒野上来刮来的风,她浑身的血液便会加速流动,体质也会渐渐增强。当初,她跑步只是想让自己暖和些,她讨厌那荒野的风,因为它吹打着她的面颊,咆哮着阻碍她前行,就象一个她看不见的巨人。然而,从石楠丛里刮来的阵阵粗野强劲的新鲜空气,给她的肺增添了活力,对她那整个瘦弱的身子大有好处,这使她的脸颊泛起红润,让她暗淡无光的眼睛变得炯炯有神,虽然她自己对于这一切几乎是一无所知。

可是,她整天整在天户外游玩了好几天以后,一天早晨醒来时,她居然知道饿的滋味了。当她坐下来吃早餐时,她不再是厌恶地看看粥然后推开它,而是拿起勺子开始大吃起来了,直吃得碗底朝天。

今天早晨的粥很合您的口味,是啵?玛莎说道。

今天的粥很好吃,玛丽说着,自己也觉得有点吃惊。

是荒野上的空气让您有了吃东西的胃口的咯,玛莎答道。您好福气呀,您有吃的,胃口也好。我们茅舍里的那十二张嘴,胃口倒也好,就是没东西往里塞。你往后就坚持每天出去玩,肯定你骨头上会长肉,脸色也不会这么黄了。

我不去玩,玛丽说道。我没有东西玩。

没有东西玩!玛莎惊叹道。我们这儿的孩子们个个儿都玩树枝玩石子。他们只是到处跑跳,大声喊叫,东瞧瞧西望望的。

玛丽在外边没有喊叫,不过她也是瞧这瞧那的。因为确实没有别的事做,她就围着那些园子一圈又一圈地走着,在庭院里的小径上到处闲游。有时候她去找本·维德斯达夫,但是虽然她有好几次见到他在干活,他却太忙,顾不得理睬她,要不就是绷着脸。有一次她正朝他走去,他却拎起铁锹转身就走,好象是有意要避开她似的。

有个地方她去得比任何别处都更经常。就是那有围墙的那些园子外面的那条长长步行道。步行道两侧是光秃秃的花圃,靠墙的常春藤长的很茂密。有一段墙上攀爬的藤叶比任何别处更为翠绿浓密,似乎许久无人打理了。其余的地方都经过修剪,显得整整齐齐,但是步行道尽头的这一块,却完全没有修剪过。

在和本·维德斯达夫讲过话以后,过了几天,玛丽来这里散步时停了下来,注意到了这个情况,他觉得好奇怪,事情怎么会这样的呢。她刚停下步子,正抬头观看着那一长排在风里摇摆的常春藤,突然她看见一团红色,听到一声清脆的鸟鸣,原来,本·维德斯达夫的红胸脯知更鸟就蹲在墙头上,他正在伸长了脖子歪斜着小脑袋在看她呢。

噢!她大声喊道。是你吗?当真是你吗?她这样对它讲话,自己一点儿也不觉得奇怪,仿佛她肯定它能听懂,而且会回答她的。

它果然回答了。它又是啁啾啼啭地鸣叫,又是在墙头上跳来跳去,仿佛是在告诉她各种各样的事情。玛丽小姐觉得自己似乎也能听懂它的意思,虽然它用的不是人类的语言。好像它是在说:

早上好!这儿的风多么好!这儿的太阳多么好!这儿的一切都多么好!我们一起来动歌喉,蹦蹦跳,大声喊吧!来吧!来吧!

玛丽会心地大笑起来。鸟儿顺着墙头时而低飞,时而向前跳几步,她就紧跟着它追跑。可怜那身材瘦小、面色蜡黄、长相难看的小玛丽,一时间竟然显得有几分美丽了。

我喜欢你!我就是喜欢你!她大声喊着,轻快地顺着步行道小跑;接着她学鸟儿唧唧鸣叫,还试着吹口哨,尽管她根本就不会吹口哨。可是知更鸟好像觉得很满意了,以啁啾声鸣啭声与她相应和。最后,它展开翅膀,一下子飞到一棵树顶上,便停栖在那里大声鸣唱起来。

玛丽不禁回想起第一次见道它时的情景。那时它蹲在一棵树顶上摇晃着,而她站在果园里。现在她是在果园的另一边,站在墙外的小径上,地势要低许多,而在墙里面还是那同一棵树。

这棵树是在那个没人能进的园子里,她自言自语地说道,就是那个没有门的园子。小鸟就住在那里。我多么希望能看看那个园子是什么模样呀!

她顺着步行道往上跑到第一天早晨她进过的那扇绿门前。接着她沿着小径穿过另一扇门进入果园,她就站在那儿抬头看去,只见那棵树就在墙那边是,那只知更鸟刚刚唱完歌,开始用喙梳理起自己的羽毛来了。

就是这个园子了,她说道。我肯定就是它。

 她来回走动,仔细察看果园墙篱的那一面,但是她只是发现了原先已经发现的,就是墙篱上没有门。然后,她再次穿过菜园,来到爬满常春藤的那堵长墙外的步行道上,边走边察看,一直走到尽头也没有门。她转身往回走,又一直走到另一端,又边走边察看,但还是没有门。

这太奇怪了,她说道。·维德斯达夫说过没有门,就没有门。但是十年前肯定有门的,因为克雷文先生亲自埋过钥匙的。

这真够她好好地去思考的,她开始产生了兴趣,觉得不后悔来了米瑟尔斯威特庄园。在印度时,她总是觉得热,太委靡不振,对任何事都不关心。事实是,来自荒野的新鲜空气开始拂去蒙在她稚嫩头脑里的污垢,让她清醒了一些。

她几乎在户外待了一整天,晚上坐下来吃晚饭时,她不但觉得饿,而且很困倦,心中也很舒坦。玛莎唠叨时,她也不觉得厌烦了,似乎还听爱听的。最后,她感到自己很想问玛莎一个问题。吃完晚饭,坐在炉火前的毯子上时,她这才提了出来。

克雷文先生为什么要恨那座花园?她问道。

她让玛莎留下来陪她,玛莎一点也不反对。玛莎很年轻,习惯了许多弟弟妹妹一起挤着住在农舍里,她觉得楼下的那个仆人大厅很郁闷。大厅里的南浦和上房使女们总是取笑她的约克郡口音,把她看成一个无关紧要的乡下小丫头,他们自己则坐在一起窃窃私语。玛莎爱聊天,而这个曾在印度生活过,一向由 黑人服侍的陌生女孩是那么新奇,所以也吸引了她。

玛莎没等别人请,自己就在壁炉前地毯上坐了下来。

您还在琢磨那座花园吗?她说道。我就知道你会的。我头一回听说这事儿时也是这样的。

他为什么要恨它呢?玛丽追问道。

玛莎盘起双腿,让自己坐得更舒服些。

您听听这宅子周围呼啸着的风,她说道。今晚您要是外出,去到荒野上您连站都站不稳的咯。

玛丽起初不懂呼啸是什么意思,直到她听到风声后,才明白过来。那肯定是指那围绕着房屋发出的一阵阵空洞回环、令人颤抖的吼叫声,仿佛是一个隐形的巨人在撞击着房屋,捶打着墙壁和窗户,想闯进来。但是人们知道它进不来,这倒反而让坐在生着红红炭火的屋子里的人们觉得非常安全而温暖。

可是为什么他这么恨那座花园?听了风声之后,她又问道。她想明白玛莎是否知道原因。

这时玛莎才把自己所知道的一切和盘托出了。

您可要记住,她说道。梅德洛克太太吩咐过,这件事是不许议论的。这个地方很多事情都不许谈论。那是克雷文先生的规定。他说,他自己的烦恼不关仆人的事。要不是因为那座花园,他也不会象现在这样倒霉的。那原来是克雷文太太的花园,他们俩刚结婚的时候,由她亲自打理的,她非常喜欢,他们总是一块儿去培护里面的花草,不准任何一个园丁进去。他带着她往常进去后,就把园门关上,在里面一待就是好几个小时,一起看书聊天。她正是一位柔弱娇嫩小女姑娘,园子里有一棵古树,垂下一根弯曲的树枝,很象是一把座椅。她就在周边种上玫瑰,自己惯常坐在那儿观赏。可是有一天她坐在上面时,树枝突然断了,她掉了下来,伤得很重,第二天就死了。医生们都以为克雷文先生会伤心发疯,随后死去的。这就是为什么他那么恨那座花园的原因。从那以后,就再也没有人进去过,而且他不准任何人提起它。

玛丽再也不提别的问题了。她看着红红的炉火,听着风儿的呼啸声。那呼啸声似乎比以前更大了。

这时,一间大好事正在她身上发生了。实际上,自从她来到米瑟尔斯威特庄园以后,已经发生了四件大好事。她感到自己似乎能理解知更鸟,知更鸟似乎也能理解她;她在风里奔跑,使血液加快循环,浑身发热;她平生第一次胃口大开,有了饥饿感;而且,她还明白了同情别人是怎么一回事。他真是大有长进了。

然而,正当她听着风声的时候,她又听到了一种别的声音。她不知道那是什么,因为开始时她几乎无法把它和风声区分开来。那是个一种奇怪的声音,听上去几乎象是一个小孩在什么地方哭。有时候风声听起来很象小孩子的哭声,但是很快玛丽小姐就敢肯定,这声音是从房子里传出来的,绝对不是来自房子外面。这声音离她很远,可是的确是在室内的。她转过身看着玛莎。

你听到有人在哭吗?她问道。

玛莎一下子显得茫然起来。

没有啊,她答道。那是风声。有时候风声听起来象是有人在荒野里迷了路急哭了的声音一样。风是能发出各种各样的声音来的。

但是你听哪,玛丽说道。那是在大宅子里面,从那些长走廊尽头的某处发出来的。

就在那一瞬间,楼下某处的一扇门肯定被吹开了,因为一道猛烈的穿堂风沿过道刮来,把她们坐在里面的房间的门“哐咙”一声刮开了。她们两个都吓得跳了起来,灯烛也吹灭了,哭声从远处的走廊传过来,所以听得比任何时候都更清楚了。

听见了吧!玛丽说道。我说的没错吧!是有人在哭,而且不是一个成年人。

玛莎急忙跑去关上门,扭动钥匙反锁了,但是在她去关门之前,她们两人都听到了远处过道有扇门 的一声关上了,然后一切都安静下来,因为连风的呼啸声也停歇了好一阵子。

就是风嘛,玛莎固执地说道。如果不是风的话,就是小贝蒂·巴特沃斯,那个负责洗扫的小丫头。她牙疼了一整天。

但是,她的神色里有些不安和尴尬,这让玛丽小姐不禁用锐利的目光审视着她。她认为玛莎没有说真话。

 

附录:原文

 

Chapter 5  The Cry in the Corridor

Written byFrances Hodgson Burnett

Translated by Liangren Xiong

 

At first each day which passed by for Mary Lennox was exactly like the others. Every morning she awoke in her tapestried room and found Martha kneeling upon the hearth building her fire; every morning she ate her breakfast in the nursery which had nothing amusing in it; and after each breakfast she gazed out of the window across to the huge moor which seemed to spread out on all sides and climb up to the sky, and after she had stared for a while she realized that if she did not go out she would have to stay in and do nothing—and so she went out. She did not know that this was the best thing she could have done, and she did not know that, when she began to walk quickly or even run along the paths and down the avenue, she was stirring her slow blood and making herself stronger by fighting with the wind which swept down from the moor. She ran only to make herself warm, and she hated the wind which rushed at her face and roared and held her back as if it were some giant she could not see. But the big breaths of rough fresh air blown over the heather filled her lungs with something which was good for her whole thin body and whipped some red color into her cheeks and brightened her dull eyes when she did not know anything about it.

But after a few days spent almost entirely out of doors she wakened one morning knowing what it was to be hungry, and when she sat down to her breakfast she did not glance disdainfully at her porridge and push it away, but took up her spoon and began to eat it and went on eating it until her bowl was empty.

"Tha' got on well enough with that this mornin', didn't tha'?" said Martha.

"It tastes nice to-day," said Mary, feeling a little surprised herself.

"It's th' air of th' moor that's givin' thee stomach for tha' victuals," answered Martha. "It's lucky for thee that tha's got victuals as well as appetite. There's been twelve in our cottage as had th' stomach an' nothin' to put in it. You go on playin' you out o' doors every day an' you'll get some flesh on your bones an' you won't be so yeller."

"I don't play," said Mary. "I have nothing to play with."

"Nothin' to play with!" exclaimed Martha. "Our children plays with sticks and stones. They just runs about an' shouts an' looks at things."

Mary did not shout, but she looked at things. There was nothing else to do. She walked round and round the gardens and wandered about the paths in the park.

Sometimes she looked for Ben Weatherstaff, but though several times she saw him at work he was too busy to look at her or was too surly. Once when she was walking toward him he picked up his spade and turned away as if he did it on purpose.

One place she went to oftener than to any other. It was the long walk outside the gardens with the walls round them. There were bare flower-beds on either side of it and against the walls ivy grew thickly. There was one part of the wall where the creeping dark green leaves were more bushy than elsewhere. It seemed as if for a long time that part had been neglected. The rest of it had been clipped and made to look neat, but at this lower end of the walk it had not been trimmed at all.

A few days after she had talked to Ben Weatherstaff Mary stopped to notice this and wondered why it was so. She had just paused and was looking up at a long spray of ivy swinging in the wind when she saw a gleam of scarlet and heard a brilliant chirp, and there, on the top of the wall, perched Ben Weatherstaff's robin redbreast, tilting forward to look at her with his small head on one side.

"Oh!" she cried out, "is it you—is it you?" And it did not seem at all queer to her that she spoke to him as if she was sure that he would understand and answer her.

He did answer. He twittered and chirped and hopped along the wall as if he were telling her all sorts of things. It seemed to Mistress Mary as if she understood him, too, though he was not speaking in words. It was as if he said:

"Good morning! Isn't the wind nice? Isn't the sun nice? Isn't everything nice? Let us both chirp and hop and twitter. Come on! Come on!"

Mary began to laugh, and as he hopped and took little flights along the wall she ran after him. Poor little thin, sallow, ugly Mary—she actually looked almost pretty for a moment.

"I like you! I like you!" she cried out, pattering down the walk; and she chirped and tried to whistle, which last she did not know how to do in the least. But the robin seemed to be quite satisfied and chirped and whistled back at her. At last he spread his wings and made a darting flight to the top of a tree, where he perched and sang loudly.

That reminded Mary of the first time she had seen him. He had been swinging on a tree-top then and she had been standing in the orchard. Now she was on the other side of the orchard and standing in the path outside a wall—much lower down—and there was the same tree inside.

"It's in the garden no one can go into," she said to herself. "It's the garden without a door. He lives in there. How I wish I could see what it is like!"

She ran up the walk to the green door she had entered the first morning. Then she ran down the path through the other door and then into the orchard, and when she stood and looked up there was the tree on the other side of the wall, and there was the robin just finishing his song and beginning to preen his feathers with his beak.

"It is the garden," she said. "I am sure it is."

She walked round and looked closely at that side of the orchard wall, but she only found what she had found before—that there was no door in it. Then she ran through the kitchen-gardens again and out into the walk outside the long ivy-covered wall, and she walked to the end of it and looked at it, but there was no door; and then she walked to the other end, looking again, but there was no door.

"It's very queer," she said. "Ben Weatherstaff said there was no door and there is no door. But there must have been one ten years ago, because Mr. Craven buried the key."

This gave her so much to think of that she began to be quite interested and feel that she was not sorry that she had come to Misselthwaite Manor. In India she had always felt hot and too languid to care much about anything. The fact was that the fresh wind from the moor had begun to blow the cobwebs out of her young brain and to waken her up a little.

She stayed out of doors nearly all day, and when she sat down to her supper at night she felt hungry and drowsy and comfortable. She did not feel cross when Martha chattered away. She felt as if she rather liked to hear her, and at last she thought she would ask her a question. She asked it after she had finished her supper and had sat down on the hearth-rug before the fire.

"Why did Mr. Craven hate the garden?" she said.

She had made Martha stay with her and Martha had not objected at all. She was very young, and used to a crowded cottage full of brothers and sisters, and she found it dull in the great servants' hall down-stairs where the footman and upper-housemaids made fun of her Yorkshire speech and looked upon her as a common little thing, and sat and whispered among themselves. Martha liked to talk, and the strange child who had lived in India, and been waited upon by "blacks," was novelty enough to attract her.

She sat down on the hearth herself without waiting to be asked.

"Art tha' thinkin' about that garden yet?" she said. "I knew tha' would. That was just the way with me when I first heard about it."

"Why did he hate it?" Mary persisted.

Martha tucked her feet under her and made herself quite comfortable.

"Listen to th' wind wutherin' round the house," she said. "You could bare stand up on the moor if you was out on it to-night."

Mary did not know what "wutherin'" meant until she listened, and then she understood. It must mean that hollow shuddering sort of roar which rushed round and round the house as if the giant no one could see were buffeting it and beating at the walls and windows to try to break in. But one knew he could not get in, and somehow it made one feel very safe and warm inside a room with a red coal fire.

"But why did he hate it so?" she asked, after she had listened. She intended to know if Martha did.

Then Martha gave up her store of knowledge.

"Mind," she said, "Mrs. Medlock said it's not to be talked about. There's lots o' things in this place that's not to be talked over. That's Mr. Craven's orders. His troubles are none servants' business, he says. But for th' garden he wouldn't be like he is. It was Mrs. Craven's garden that she had made when first they were married an' she just loved it, an' they used to 'tend the flowers themselves. An' none o' th' gardeners was ever let to go in. Him an' her used to go in an' shut th' door an' stay there hours an' hours, readin' an' talkin'. An' she was just a bit of a girl an' there was an old tree with a branch bent like a seat on it. An' she made roses grow over it an' she used to sit there. But one day when she was sittin' there th' branch broke an' she fell on th' ground an' was hurt so bad that next day she died. Th' doctors thought he'd go out o' his mind an' die, too. That's why he hates it. No one's never gone in since, an' he won't let any one talk about it."

Mary did not ask any more questions. She looked at the red fire and listened to the wind "wutherin'." It seemed to be "wutherin'" louder than ever.

At that moment a very good thing was happening to her. Four good things had happened to her, in fact, since she came to Misselthwaite Manor. She had felt as if she had understood a robin and that he had understood her; she had run in the wind until her blood had grown warm; she had been healthily hungry for the first time in her life; and she had found out what it was to be sorry for some one. She was getting on.

But as she was listening to the wind she began to listen to something else. She did not know what it was, because at first she could scarcely distinguish it from the wind itself. It was a curious sound—it seemed almost as if a child were crying somewhere. Sometimes the wind sounded rather like a child crying, but presently Mistress Mary felt quite sure that this sound was inside the house, not outside it. It was far away, but it was inside. She turned round and looked at Martha.

"Do you hear any one crying?" she said.

Martha suddenly looked confused.

"No," she answered. "It's th' wind. Sometimes it sounds like as if some one was lost on th' moor an' wailin'. It's got all sorts o' sounds."

"But listen," said Mary. "It's in the house—down one of those long corridors."

And at that very moment a door must have been opened somewhere down-stairs; for a great rushing draft blew along the passage and the door of the room they sat in was blown open with a crash, and as they both jumped to their feet the light was blown out and the crying sound was swept down the far corridor so that it was to be heard more plainly than ever.

"There!" said Mary. "I told you so! It is some one crying—and it isn't a grown-up person."

Martha ran and shut the door and turned the key, but before she did it they both heard the sound of a door in some far passage shutting with a bang, and then everything was quiet, for even the wind ceased "wutherin'" for a few moments.

"It was th' wind," said Martha stubbornly. "An' if it wasn't, it was little Betty Butterworth, th' scullery-maid. She's had th' toothache all day."

But something troubled and awkward in her manner made Mistress Mary stare very hard at her. She did not believe she was speaking the truth.

 

  评论这张
 
阅读(144)| 评论(0)
推荐 转载

历史上的今天

评论

<#--最新日志,群博日志--> <#--推荐日志--> <#--引用记录--> <#--博主推荐--> <#--随机阅读--> <#--首页推荐--> <#--历史上的今天--> <#--被推荐日志--> <#--上一篇,下一篇--> <#-- 热度 --> <#-- 网易新闻广告 --> <#--右边模块结构--> <#--评论模块结构--> <#--引用模块结构--> <#--博主发起的投票-->
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

页脚

网易公司版权所有 ©1997-2017