Tomorrow is Another Day

Again Scarlett was back in the windy ord of Tara and there was the same look in Rhett’s eyes that had been in Ashley’s eyes that day. Ashley’s words were as clear in her ears as though he and not Rhett were speaking. Fragments of words came back to her and she quoted parrot-like: “A glamour to it—a perfection, a symmetry like Grecian art.”

Rhett said sharply: “Why did you say that? That’s what I meant.”

“It was something that—that Ashley said once, about the old days.”

He shrugged and the light went out of his eyes.

“Always Ashley,” he said and was silent for a moment.

“Scarlett, when you are forty-five, perhaps you will know what I’m talking about and then perhaps you, too, will be tired of imitation gentry and shoddy manners and cheap emotions. But I doubt it. I think you’ll always be more attracted by glister than by gold. Anyway, I can’t wait that long to see. And I have no desire to wait. It just doesn’t interest me. I’m going to hunt in old towns and old ries where some of the old times must still linger. I’m that sentimental. Atlanta’s too raw for me, too new.”

“Stop,” she said suddenly. She had hardly heard anything he had said. Certainly her mind had not taken it in. But she knew she could no longer endure with any fortitude the sound of his voice when there was no love in it

He paused and looked at her quizzically.

“Well, you my meaning, don’t you?” he questioned, rising to his feet.

She threw out her hands to him, palms up, in the age-old gesture of appeal and her heart, again, was in her face.

“No,” she cried. “All I know is that you do not love me and you are going away! Oh, my darling, if you go, what shall I do?”

For a moment he hesitated as if debating whether a kind lie were kinder in the long run than the truth. Then he shrugged.

“Scarlett, I was never one to patiently pick up broken fragments and glue them toher and tell myself that the mended whole was as good as new. What is broken is broken—and I’d rather remember it as it was at its best than mend it and see the broken places as long as I lived. Perhaps, if I were younger—” he sighed. “But I’m too old to believe in such sentimentalities as clean slates and starting all over. I’m too old to shoulder the burden of constant lies that go with living in polite disillusionment. I couldn’t live with you and lie to you and I certainly couldn’t lie to myself. I can’t even lie to you now. I wish I could care what you do or where you go, but I can’t.”

He drew a short breath and said lightly but softly: “My dear, I don’t give a damn.”

She silently watched him go up the stairs, feeling that she would strangle at the pain in her throat. With the sound of his feet dying away in the upper hall was dying the last thing in the world that mattered. She knew now that there was no appeal of emotion or reason which would turn that cool brain from its verdict. She knew now that he had meant every word he said, lightly though some of them had been spoken. She knew because she sensed in him something strong, unyielding, implacable—all the qualities she had looked for in Ashley and never found.

She had never understood either of the men she had loved and so she had lost them both. Now, she had a fumbling knowledge that, had she ever understood Ashley, she would never have loved him; had she ever understood Rhett, she would never have lost him. She wondered forlornly if she had ever really understood anyone in the world.

There was a merciful dullness in her mind now, a dullness that she knew from long experience would soon give way to sharp pain, even as severed tissues, shocked by the surgeon’s knife, have a brief instant of nsibility before their agony begins.

“I won’t think of it now,” she thought grimly, summoning up her old m. “I’ll go crazy if I think about losing him now. I’ll think of it tomorrow.”

“But,” cried her heart, casting aside the m and beginning to ache, “I can’t let him go! There must be some way!”

 “I won’t think of it now,” she said again, aloud, trying to push her misery to the back of her mind, trying to find some bulwark against the rising tide of pain. “I’ll—why, I’ll go home to Tara tomorrow,” and her spirits lifted faintly.

She had gone back to Tara once in fear and defeat and she had emerged from its sheltering walls strong and armed for victory. What she had done once, somehow—please God, she could do again! How, she did not know. She did not want to think of that now. All she wanted was a breathing space in which to hurt, a quiet place to lick her wounds, a haven in which to plan her campaign. She thought of Tara and it was as if a gentle cool hand were stealing over her heart. She could see the white house gleaming welcome to her through the reddening autumn leaves, feel the quiet hush of the ry twilight coming down over her like a benediction, feel the dews falling on the acres of green bushes starred with fleecy white, see the raw color of the red earth and the dismal dark beauty of the pines on the rolling hills.

She felt vaguely comforted, strengthened by the picture, and some of her hurt and frantic regret was pushed from the top of her mind. She stood for a moment remembering small things, the avenue of dark cedars leading to Tara, the banks of cape jessamine bushes, vivid green against the white walls, the fluttering white curtains. And Mammy would be there. Suddenly she wanted Mammy desperately, as she had wanted her when she was a little girl, wanted the broad bosom on which to lay her head, the gnarled black hand on her hair. Mammy, the last link with the old days.

With the spirit of her people who would not know defeat, even when it stared them in the face, she raised her chin. She could Rhett back. She knew she could. There had never been a man she couldn’t , once she set her mind upon him.

“I’ll think of it all tomorrow, at Tara. I can stand it then. Tomorrow, I’ll think of some way to him back. After all, tomorrow is another day.”

思嘉再一次回忆起塔拉微风中农场果园里的情景,那天艾希礼的神色跟现在的瑞德完全一样。艾希礼说的那些话如今清清楚楚地回晌在她耳边,好像说话的是他而不是瑞德似的。她记起了艾希礼话中的一些片段,便像鹦鹉学舌一般引用道：“它的魅力——像古希腊艺术那样,完美而匀称。”

瑞德厉声问她：“你怎么说这个？这正是我的意思呢。”

“这是一这是艾希礼谈到以前的日子时说过的。”

他耸了耸肩,眼睛里的光芒消失了。“总是艾希礼,”他说完沉思了片刻。

“思嘉,等到你四十五岁的时候,你也许会懂我在说什么,那时你可能也对这种模仿的文雅、虚假的礼貌和廉价的感情感到厌烦。不过我还有点怀疑。我想你会永远只注意外表而不重视实质的。反正我等不到那么久了。而且,我也不想等那么久呢。我一点也不感兴趣。我要到古老的城镇和乡村里去寻 找,那里一定还残留着一些旧时的风貌。我现在变得多愁善感。亚特 兰大对我来说实在太陌生了。”

“你别说了,”思嘉猛地喊道。她几乎没有听见他在说什么,当然心里一点都没有接受。可是她明白,不论她有多大的耐性,也实在忍受不了他那毫无情意的单调声音了。

他只好停住,疑惑地望着她。

“那么,你懂得我的意思了,是吗？”他边问边站起身来。

她把两只手伸到他面前,手心朝上,这是一个古老的祈求姿势,同时她的全部感情也流露在脸上了。

“不,”她喊道。“我唯一知道的就是你不爱我,并且你要离开！啊,亲爱的,你要是走了,我怎么办呢？”

他迟疑了一会儿,仿佛在琢磨一个善意的黯是不是终究比说实话更合乎人情。然后他了耸肩膀。

“思嘉，我从来没有耐心拾起一片碎片,把它们凑合在一起，然后对自己说这个修补好了的东西跟新的完全一样。东西碎了就是碎了——我宁愿记住它最好时的模样,也不想修修补补,然后终生看着那些裂痕。也许,如果我再年轻一点——”他叹了一口气。“可是我已经这么大年纪了,不再相信那 种感情可以重新开始的美好情调,也不能承受相敬如宾的谎言和破灭了的幻想。我不能跟你生活在一起同时又对你撒谎,而且我绝不能欺骗自己。就是现在,我也不能对你撒谎。我是很想关心你今后的情况,可是我不能那样做。”

他微微吸了一口气,然后轻柔地说：“亲爱的,我不管了。”

她默默地望着他上楼,感到嗓子痛得厉害,仿佛要窒息了。他的脚步声渐渐消失在楼上穿堂里,她觉得这世界上她在意的最后一个人也离去了。她此时才明白,瑞德那个冷酷的头脑的判决是任何情感或理智上的力量都无法改变的。她此时才明白,他的每一句话都是认真的,尽管有的说得那么轻松。她明白这些,是因为在他身上,她感觉到了那种坚强不屈、毫不妥协的品质——她从艾希礼身上寻找过这些品质,可是从没找到。

她对她所爱过的两个男人都不了解,因此到头来一个也没得到。现在她才恍惚认识到,假如她当初了解艾希礼,她是绝不会爱他的；而假如她了解瑞德,她就不会失去他了。于是她陷入了绝望的迷惘之中,不知道这世界上究竟有没有一个人是她真正了解的。

此刻她心里感到麻木——按照她以前的经验——这种麻木会很快变为剧痛,就像肌肉被外科医生的手术刀突然切开时,经历了一瞬间的麻木后才开始产生剧痛。

“我现在不去想它。”她暗自思忖,准备使用她惯用的办法。

“我要是现在来想他离开的事,一定会发疯的。还是明天再想吧。”“可是,”她的心在喊叫,

惯用的办法也不顶用了,开始心痛起来,“我不能让他走！一定会有办法留住他的！”

“我现在不想它,”她又说,

声音很大,试着把痛苦抛到脑后, 或筑起一座堤坝挡住痛楚的潮水。“我要——嗯,我要回塔拉去,明天就走。”这样,她的精神又稍稍振作起来了。

她曾经带着惊恐和挫败感回到塔拉,后来在它的庇护下坚强地武装起来,重新投人生活的战斗。她以前做过的,无论怎样——请上帝保佑,她能够再来一次！至于怎么做,她还不知道。她现在不打算考虑这些。她唯一需要的是一个喘息的机会来熬过痛苦,一个宁静的地方来舔她的伤口,一个港湾来计划下一个战斗。她想到塔拉,似乎那是一只温柔而凉爽的手在召唤她的心灵。她看得见那幢雪白发亮的房子在秋天的红叶中欢迎她,她感觉得到乡下黄昏时的宁静带给她幸福,感觉得到露水落在成片的绿白相映的树丛里,看得见起伏的丘陵上那些赤裸的红土地和松树暗淡深色的美感。

这些想象给了她安慰和力量,心头的痛苦和发疯似的悔恨也减轻了一些。她站了一会儿,回忆着一些细小的东西,如通向塔拉,两旁种有翠松的林荫道,那一排排与白粉墙相映衬,充满着绿色生机的茉莉花丛,以及随风飘动的白色窗帘。嬤嬷一定在那里。她突然迫切地想见嬷嬷了,就像小时候需要她那样,需要她那宽阔的胸怀,让她 好把自己的头伏在上面,需要她那 粗粮的大手抚摩她的头发。嬷嬷,是自己与过去时光的最后一点联系了！

她的家族那种不肯认输的精神一即使失败就摆在眼前一使她把下巴高髙翘起。她能让瑞德回到她身边。她知道她可以。只要她下定决心,世界上没有哪个男人是她无法得到的。

“我明天回塔拉再去想吧。那时我就经受得住一切了。明天,我会想出一个办法让他回到我身边。毕竟,明天又是新的一天。”

Now he knew there was the fish and his hands and back were no dream. The hands cure quickly, he thought. I bled them clean and the salt water will heal them. The dark water of the true gulf is the greatest healer that there is. All I must do is keep the head clear. The hands have done their work and we sail well. With his mouth shut and his tail straight up and down we sail like brothers. Then his head started to become a little unclear and he thought, is he bringing me in or am I bringing him in? If I were towing him behind there would be no question. Nor if the fish were in the skiff, with all dignity (尊严) gone, there would be no question either. But they were sailing toher lashed side by side and the old man thought, let him bring me in if it pleases him. I am only better than him through trickery and he meant me no harm.

They sailed well and the old man soaked his hands in the salt water and tried to keep his head clear. There were high cumulus clouds(积云) and enough cirrus（卷云） above them so that the old man knew the breeze (微风) would last all night. The old man looked at the fish constantly to make sure it was true. It was an hour before the first shark hit him.

The shark was not an accident. He had come up from deep down in the water as the dark cloud of blood had settled and dispersed (散布) in the mile deep sea. He had come up so fast and absolutely without caution that he broke the surface of the blue water and was in the sun. Then he fell back into the sea and picked up the scent (气味) and started swimming on the course the skiff and the fish had taken.

Sometimes he lost the scent. But he would pick it up again, or have just a trace of it, and he swam fast and hard on the course. He was a very big Make shark built to swim as fast as the fastest fish in the sea and everything about him was beautiful except his jaws. His back was as blue as a sword fishs and his belly was silver and his hide was smooth and handsome. He was built as a sword fish except for his huge jaws which were tight shut now as he swam fast, just under the surface with his high dorsal fin (鳍) knifing through (穿过) the water without wavering. Inside the closed double lip of his jaws all of his eight rows of teeth were slanted inwards. They were not the ordinary pyramid-shaped teeth of most sharks. They were shaped like a mans fingers when they are crisped like claws (爪). They were nearly as long as the fingers of the old man and they had razor-sharp cutting edges on both sides. This was a fish built to feed on all the fishes in the sea, that were so fast and strong and well armed that they had no other enemy. Now he speeded up as he smelled the fresher scent and his blue dorsal fin cut the water. When the old man saw him coming he knew that this was a shark that had no fear at all and would do exactly what he wished. He prepared the harpoon and made the rope fast while he watched the shark come on. The rope was short as it lacked what he had cut away to lash the fish.

The old mans head was clear and good now and he was full of resolution but he had little hope. It was too good to last, he thought. He took one look at the great fish as he watched the shark close in. It might as well have been a dream, he thought. I cannot keep him from hitting me but maybe I can him. Dentuso[1], he thought. Bad luck to your mother.

The shark closed fast astern and when he hit the fish the old man saw his mouth open and his strange eyes and the clicking chop of the teeth as he drove forward in the meat just above the tail. The sharks head was out of water and his back was coming out and the old man could hear the noise of skin and flesh ripping (撕裂) on the big fish when he rammed the harpoon down onto the sharks head at a spot where the line between his eyes intersected with the line that ran straight back from his nose. There were no such lines. There was only the heavy sharp blue head and the big eyes and the clicking, thrusting all-swallowing jaws. But that was the location of the brain and the old man hit it. He hit it with his blood mushed hands driving a good harpoon with all his strength. He hit it without hope but with resolution and complete malignancy (恶意).

The shark swung over and the old man saw his eye was not alive and then he swung over once again, wrapping himself in two loops of the rope. The old man knew that he was dead but the shark would not accept it. Then, on his back, with his tail lashing and his jaws clicking, the shark plowed over the water as a speedboat does. The water was white where his tail beat it and three-quarters of his body was clear above the water when the rope came taut (绷紧的), shivered, and then snapped. The shark lay quietly for a little while on the surface and the old man watched him. Then he went down very slowly.

"He took about forty pounds," the old man said aloud. He took my harpoon too and all the rope, he thought, and now my fish bleeds again and there will be others.

He did not like to look at the fish any more since he had been mutilated. When the fish had been hit it was as though he himself were hit. But I killed the shark that hit my fish, he thought. And he was the biggest dentuso that I have ever seen. And God knows that I have seen big ones.

It was too good to last, he thought. I wish it had been a dream now and that I had never hooked the fish and was alone in bed on the newspapers.

"But man is not made for defeat," he said. "A man can be destroyed but not defeated[2]." I am sorry that I killed the fish though, he thought. Now the bad time is coming and I do not even have the harpoon. The dentuso is cruel and able and strong and intelligent. But I was more intelligent than he was. Perhaps not, he thought. Perhaps I was only better armed.

现在他知道这鱼就在这里，他的双手和背脊都不是梦中之物。这双手很快就会痊愈的，他想。虽然流了很多血，但海水会将它们治愈。存在于这真正的海湾的深暗色水是世上最佳的药品。我只消保持头脑清醒就行。这两只手已经做了它们该做的事，我们航行顺利。鱼闭着嘴巴，尾巴直直地竖着，我们像亲兄弟一样航行。接着，他有点儿迷糊了：是它在带我回家，还是我在带它回家呢？如果我把它拖在船后，那就毫无疑问是我带它回家。如果这鱼丢尽颜面，给放在这小船上，那么也不会有什么疑问。可是他们是并排地拴在一起航行的，所以老人想，只要它高兴，就算是它把我带回家去好了。它对我并无恶意，我不过靠了诡计才比它强的。

他们航行得很顺利，老人把手浸在盐水里，努力保持清醒。积云堆聚得很高，上空还有很多卷云，因此老人看出这风将刮上整整一夜。老人时常看一眼鱼，好确定这一切都是真的。一个小时候后，老人将遭到鲨鱼的第一次攻击。

这条鲨鱼的出现绝非偶然。当一大片暗红的血潮在一英里深的海里下沉并扩散时，它从水底深处上来了。它迅速地窜上来，全然没有预兆，竟然冲破了蓝色的水面，出现在阳光下。接着，官它又回到海里，嗅到了血腥，就顺着小船和鱼的路线游去。

有时候，它闻不到气味。但它总会重新嗅到，或者嗅到那么一点气味就飞快地使劲跟上。这是条巨大的灰鲭鲨，生性就能游得跟海里最快的鱼一般快，除了颚之外，周身的一切都很美。它的背部和剑鱼一样蓝，银色的肚子，皮光滑而漂亮。它和剑鱼模样相似，除了它那张快速游泳时紧闭着的大嘴。它在水面下飞速游动，高耸的脊鳍如刀子般划破水面，丝毫没有抖动。紧闭着的双唇里八排牙齿全都朝里倾斜。和大多数鲨鱼不同，它的牙齿不是一般的金字塔形，而像人的手指蜷曲起来呈爪子状。它们几乎跟老人的手指一样长，两边如刀片般锋利。这种鱼生来就以海里所有的鱼为食，它们动作敏捷，体型壮健，凶猛无比，是海中之王。它闻到了新鲜的血腥气，此刻正加快了速度，蓝色的脊鳍划过水面。老人看见它游来，看出这是条毫无畏惧而且行为冲动的鲨鱼。他准备好了鱼叉，系紧了绳子，一面注视着向前游来的鲨鱼。绳子有些短了，因为之前他割下了一截用来绑鱼。

老人此刻头脑清醒、正常、充满信心，但并不抱着多少希望。好事情是不可能持久的，他想。他注视着正在逼近的鲨鱼，不时朝那条大鱼望上一眼。他觉得这简直是一场梦。我没法阻止它来袭击我，但是也许我能弄死它。登多索鲨，你可真的交上坏运啦。

鲨鱼飞速地逼近船梢。它袭击那鱼的时候，老人看见它张开的嘴和那双奇异的眼睛。它咬住鱼尾上面一点儿的地方，牙齿嘎吱嘎吱地响。鲨鱼的头露出在水面上，背部正在出水。老人听见那条大鱼皮肉被撕裂的声音。这时，他用鱼叉朝下猛地扎进鲨鱼的脑袋，正扎在它两眼之间的那条线和从鼻子笔直通到脑后的那条线的交叉点上。这两条线事实上并不存在。只有那笨重的蓝色尖脑袋，两只大眼睛和那嘎吱作响、吞噬一切的突出的两颚。老人刺的地方正是脑子。他使出全身的力气，用糊着鲜血的双手，把一支好鱼叉向它扎去。他扎它，并不抱着希望，但是带着十足的决心和万分的恶意。

鲨鱼翻了个身，老人看出它眼睛里已经没有生气了，跟着它又翻了个身，自己缠上了两道绳子。老人知道这鲨鱼快死了，但它还是不肯认输。这时，它肚皮朝上，尾巴摆动着，两颚嘎吱作响，像一条快艇般划过水面。它的尾巴把水拍打得泛出白色，四分之三的身体露出在水面上。这时，绷紧的绳子抖了一下，断开了。鲨鱼在水面上静静地躺了片刻，老人紧盯着它。然后它慢慢地沉下去了。

“它吃掉了约莫四十磅肉，”老人说出声来。它把我的鱼叉还有那么多绳子都带走了，他想，而且现在我这条鱼又在淌血，等会儿还会有其他鲨鱼出现。

他不忍心再看这死鱼一眼，因为它已经死无全尸了。鱼遭到袭击的时候，他感同身受。可是我杀死了这条袭击我鱼的鲨鱼，他想。而它是我见到过的最大的登多索鲨。天知道，我的确见过一些大的。

好事是不可能持久的，他想。但愿这是一场梦，我根本没有钓到这条鱼，而是正独自躺在床上铺的旧报纸上。

“不过人不是为失败而生的，”他说，“一个人可以被毁灭，但不能被战胜。”不过这条鱼死了，我还是很痛心的，他想。现在倒霉的时刻要来了，可我连鱼叉也没有。这条登多索鲨残忍、能干、强壮而聪明。但是我比它更聪明。也许并不是这样的，他想。也许仅仅是我的武器比它强。

One evening, he was sitting, in utter dejection and prostration, by a few decaying brands, where his coarse supper was baking. He put a few bits of brushwood on the fire, and strove to raise the light, and then drew his worn Bible from his pocket. There were all the marked passages, which had thrilled his soul so often, --- words of patriarchs and seers, poets and sages, who from early time had spoken courage to man, --- voices from the great cloud of witnesses who ever surround us in the race of life. Had the word lost its power, or could the failing eye and weary sense no longer answer to the touch of that mighty inspiration? Heavily sighing, he put it in his pocket. A coarse laugh roused him; he looked up, --- Legree was standing opposite to him.

"Well, old boy," he said, "you find your religion dont work, it seems! I thought I should that through your wool, at last!"

The cruel taunt was more than hunger and cold and nakedness. Tom was silent.

"You were a fool," said Legree; "for I meant to do well by you when I bought you. You might have been better off than Sambo, or Quimbo either, and had easy times; and, instead of ting cut up and thrashed, every day or two, ye might have had liberty to lord it round, and cut up the other niggers; and ye might have had, now and then, a good warming of whiskey punch. Come, Tom, dont you think youd better be reasonable? --- heave that ar old pack of trash in the fire, and join my church!"

"The Lord forbid!", said Tom, fervently.

"You see the Lord ant going to help you; if he had been, he wouldnt have let me you! This yer religion is all a mess of lying trumpery. Tom. I know all about it. Yed better hold to me; Im somebody, and can do something!"

"No, Masr," said Tom; “Ill hold on. The Lord may help me, or not help; but Ill hold to him, and believe him to the last!”

"The more fool you!" said Legree, spitting scornfully at him, and spurning him with his foot. "Never mind; Ill chase you down, yet, and bring you under, --- youll see!" and Legree turned away.

When a heavy weight presses the soul to the lowest level at which endurance is possible, there is an instant and desperate effort of every physical and moral nerve to throw off the weight; and hence the heaviest anguish often precedes a return tide of joy and courage. So was it now with Tom. The atheistic taunts of his cruel master sunk his before dejected soul to the lowest ebb; and, though the hand of faith still held to the eternal rock, it was a numb, despairing grasp. Tom sat, like one stunned, at the fire. Suddenly everything around him seemed to fade, and a vision rose before him of one crowned with thorns, buffeted and bleeding. Tom gazed, in awe and wonder, at the majestic patience of the face; the deep, pathetic eyes thrilled him to his inmost heart; his soul woke, as, which floods of emotion, he stretched out his hands and fell upon his knees, --- when, gradually, the vision changed: the sharp thorns became rays of glory; and, in splendor inconceivable, he saw that same face bending compassionately towards him, and a voice said, "He that overcometh shall sit down with me on my throne, even as I also overcome, and am set down with my Father on his throne."

How long Tom lay there, he knew not. When he came to himself, the fire was gone out, his clothes were wet with the chill and drenching dews; but the dread soul-crisis was past, and, in the joy that filled him, he no longer felt hunger, cold, degradation, disappointment, wretchedness. From his deepest soul, he that hour loosed and parted from every hope in life that now is, and offered his own will an unquestioning sacrifice to the Infinite. Tom looked up to the silent, ever-living stars, --- types of the angelic hosts who ever look down on man; and the solitude of the night rung with the triumphant words of a hymn, which he had sung often in happier days, but never with such feeling as now:

"The earth shall be dissolved like snow,

The sun shall cease to shine;

But God, who called me here below,

Shall be forever mine.

"And when this mortal life shall fail,

And flesh and sense shall cease,

I shall possess within the veil

A life of joy and peace.

"When weve been there ten thousand years,

Bright shining like the sun,

Weve no less days to sing Gods praise,

Than when we first begun."

Those who have been familiar with the religious histories of the slave population know that relations like what we have narrated are very common among them. We have heard some from their own lips, of a very touching and affecting acter. The psychologist tells us of a state, in which the affections and images of the mind become so dominant and overpowering, that they press into their service the outward imaging. Who shall measure what an all-pervading Spirit may do with these capabilities of our mortality, or the ways in which He may encourage the desponding souls of the desolate? If the poor forgotten slave believes that Jesus hath appeared and spoken to him, who shall contradict him? Did He not say that his, mission, in all ages, was to bind up the broken-hearted, and set at liberty them that are bruised?

When the dim gray of dawn woke the slumberers to go forth to the field, there was among those tattered and shivering wretches one who walked with an exultant tread; for firmer than the ground he trod on was his strong faith in Almighty, eternal love. Ah, Legree, try all your forces now ! Utmost agony, woe, degradation, want, and loss of all things, shall only hasten on the process by which he shall be made a king and a priest unto God!

一天晚上，汤姆忧郁疲惫地坐在一堆柴火边，柴火上正烤着他的晚餐——粗饼。他又添了一些柴火，尽量使火能烧得更旺，接着又从口袋里拿出那本翻破了的《圣经》。他曾在书中做过一些标记，那些句子曾时常让他的灵魂异常兴奋，那是始祖、先知、诗人与圣人们的话——这些话自古以来就不断激励着人类——证明他们曾降临人间的智言。此刻，这些话已经失去了力量？还是那日渐衰弱的视力和感觉再也不能感触到这种万能的启示？汤姆深深地叹了口气，把《圣经》又放回口袋。这时他听到了一阵嘶哑的笑声，拾起头看时，发现烈格雷就在他的对面站着。

“老家伙！”他说，“你似乎感到自己的宗教没用了吧？我早就想让你明白过来，现在你终于清醒了！”

这样残酷的侮辱比饥寒交迫和赤裸身体还要更残酷。汤姆没有回答。

“你真是个傻瓜．”烈格雷叫道，“当初我买下你的时候，本来想待你好一点。你本可以比桑博或昆博他们还要舒服。你不用每过一两天就会受苦受罚，挨打挨骂，而可以自由自在，耀武扬威，欺负其他黑奴，时常喝上一杯上好的热威士忌潘趣酒。哎，汤姆，难道你不认为自己该有些理智吗？把那本没用的破书扔到柴火中去，加入我的教会吧！”

“上帝禁止这样的行为！”汤姆热切地说道。

“你知道上帝肯定不会帮你。如果他要帮你，就不会让你落到我手里！汤姆，你这宗教全是没用的谎言。汤姆，我非常了解你那种宗教，你最好还是来投靠我。我可不是一般的人物，我会大有作为的！”

“不可能，主人，”汤姆说，“我会坚持下去的。无论上帝帮不帮我，我永远都会依赖他，永远都信仰他。”

“那你就更是个大傻瓜了！”烈格雷说着，向汤姆轻蔑地唾了一口，又踢了他一脚。“没关系，你迟早都要向我屈服，走着瞧！”说完，他转身走了。

当沉重的压力达到人的心理所能承受的极限时，人们会马上拼命地想尽身体上和道德上的各种办法来摆脱这种压力。因此最深重的苦难过后，往往是前所未有的欢乐与勇气。汤姆现在正是如此。主人不敬神灵的残酷嘲讽让他早已颓败的心灵跌入谷底。虽然他的信仰依然对永恒之石不离不弃，但这种坚持是麻木的，令人绝望的。汤姆坐在火边，一动不动。一瞬间，他身边的一切似乎都在消失，他眼前出现一个头戴荆棘、受尽折磨、浑身血淋淋的人的形象。汤姆既惊讶又恐惧，注视着那张威严坚韧的脸。那双深沉忧郁的眼睛触动了汤姆的内心深处。他的灵魂醒来了，内心的苦水被感情激荡着，奔流着，他伸出双手，跪了下去。忽然，这个画面变了：锋利的荆棘变成了荣耀的光芒，在难以想象的夺目光辉里，他看见那个人慈祥地面向他弯下身子，一个声音说道：“我要赐予克服苦难的人宝座，让他与我坐在一起，就像我战胜苦难后与我的父亲同坐在宝座上一样。”

汤姆不知道自己究竟在地上躺了多久。当他完全清醒过来的时候，炉火已经熄了，他的衣服被寒气和露水打湿了。可怕的心灵危机已经过去，他心里充满喜悦感，再也感觉不到人世的饥饿、寒冷、屈辱、失望和困苦了。在那一刻，他从灵魂深处抛弃一切希望，自愿把自己的全部奉献给上帝。汤姆抬起头看了看天边静悄悄的永恒的星星，它们像天使一样俯视人类！歌声打破了孤寂的夜空，汤姆唱起了一首歌颂胜利的赞美诗。以前他的日子过得快乐时，常常唱起这首诗歌，但今天，他比以往更深情：

“地球会如雪般融化，太阳不再照耀；

但是，上帝在召唤我，

他永远与我同在。

当尘世的生命走到尽头，

肉体和灵魂一齐逝去；

我依然在永恒中享受快乐和宁静，

当我们在天国生活了万年之久，

闪耀如旭日东升；

我们依然如当初般赞美歌颂上帝。”

所有了解我们黑奴宗教历史的人都知道，以上描述的与上帝之间的关系在奴隶中是极为常见的。我们听过他们曾亲口叙述自己催人泪下、感人至深的身世。心理学家说过，有时一个人的某种情感和幻想异常强大难以抑制的时候，他常常会求助于外部的想象。有谁能够预估到万能的神灵会怎样利用我们这些凡夫俗子的能力呢？他又是如何帮助消沉的心灵走出孤寂？如果这位可怜的被人遗忘的黑奴相信上帝出现在了他面前，跟他说话，谁又敢怀疑他呢？《圣经》上不是写着，他的使命就是重塑世人受伤的灵魂，解救人类的苦难吗？

黎明的光芒唤醒了还在沉睡中的人们，他们又要下地干活了。在这群衣衫褴褛、瑟瑟发抖的人中，有一个人迈着快乐的步调。这是因为他对上帝和不灭仁爱的信仰比他脚下的土地还要结实、坚硬。他在心里不停地呼唤：来吧!烈格雷，来折磨我吧！极度的痛苦、屈辱和一无所有只会让他早日成为上帝的身边的一名君主和牧师。

During the school year, we had a daily routine. By the time I dragged myself out of bed and lumbered to the bathroom. Hassan had already washed up, prayed the morning namaz with Ali, and prepared my breakfast: hot black tea with three sugar cubes and a slice of toasted naan topped with my favorite sour cherry marmalade, all neatly placed on the dining table. While I ate and complained about homework, Hassan made my bed, polished my shoes, ironed my outfit for the day, packed my books and pencils. I hear him singing to himself in the foyer as he ironed, singing old Hazara songs in his nasal voice. Then, Baba and I drove off in his black Ford Mustang --- a car that drew envious looks everywhere because it was the same car Steve McQueen had driven in Bullitt, a film that played in one theater for six months. Hassan stayed home and helped Ali with the days chores: hand-washing dirty clothes and hanging them to dry in the yard, sweeping the floors, buying fresh naan from the bazaar, marinating meat for dinner, watering the lawn.

After school, Hassan and I met up, grabbed a book, and trotted up a bowl-shaped hill just north of my fathers property in Wazir Akbar Khan. There was an old abandoned cemetery atop the hill with rows of unmarked headstones and tangles of brushwood clogging the aisles. Seasons of rain and snow had turned the iron gate rusty and left the cemeterys low white stone walls in decay. There was a pomegranate tree near the entrance to the cemetery. One summer day, I used one of Alis kitchen knives to carve our names on it: Amir and Hassan, the sultans of Kabul. Those words made it formal: the tree was ours. After school, Hassan and I climbed its branches and snatched its bloodred pomegranates. After wed eaten the fruit and wiped our hands on the grass, I would read to Hassan.

Sitting cross-legged, sunlight and shadows of pomegranate leaves dancing on his face, Hassan absently plucked blades of grass from the ground as I read him stories he couldnt read for himself. That Hassan would grow up illiterate like Ali and most Hazaras had been decided the minute he had been born, perhaps even the moment he had been conceive in Sanaubars unwelcoming womb --- after all, what use did a servant have for the written word? But despite his illiteracy, or maybe because of it, Hassan was drawn to the mystery of words, seduced by a secret world forbidden to him. I read him poems and stories, sometimes riddles --- though I stopped reading those when I saw he was far better at solving them than I was. So I read him unchallenging things, like the misadventures of the bumbling Mullah Nasruddin and his donkey. We sat for hours under that tree, sat there until the sun faded in the west, and still Hassan insisted we had enough daylight for one more story, one more chapter.

My favorite part of reading to Hassan was when we came across a big word that he didnt know. Id tease him, expose his ignorance. One time, I was reading him a Mullah Nasruddin story and he stopped me. What does that word mean?

"Which one?"

"Imbecile?"

"You dont know what it means?" I said, grinning.

"Nay, Amir agha.?"

"But its such a common word!?"

"Still, I dont know it." If he felt the sting of my tease, his smiling face didnt show it.

"Well, everyone in my school knows what it means," I said. "Lets see. Imbecile. It means smart, intelligent. Ill use it in a sentence for you. When it comes to words, Hassan is an imbecile."

"Aaah." he said, nodding.

I would always feel guilty about it later. So Id try to make up for it by giving him one of my old shirts or a  broken toy. I would tell myself that was amends enough for a harmless prank.

Hassans favorite book by far was the Shahnamah, the tenth-century epic of ancient Persian heroes. He liked all of the chapters, the shahs of old, Feridoun, Zal, and Rudabeh. But his favorite story, and mine, was Rostam and Sohrab, the tale of the great warrior Rostam and his  fleet-footed horse, Rakhsh. Rostam mortally wounds his valiant nemesis, Sohrab, in battle, only to discover that Sohrab is his long-lost son. Stricken with grief, Rostam hears his sons dying words:

If thou art indeed my father, then hast thou stained thy sword in the life-blood of thy son. And thou didst it of thine obstinacy. For I sought to turn thee unto love, and I implored of thee thy name, for I thought to behold in thee the tokens reed of my mother. But I appealed unto thy heart in vain, and now is the time gone for meeting...

"Read it again please, Amir agha." Hassan would say. Sometimes tears pooled in Hassans eyes as I read him this passage, and I always wondered whom he wept for, the grief-stricken Rostam who tears his clothes and covers his head with ashes, or the dying Sohrab who only longed for his fathers love? Personally, I couldnt see the tragedy in Rostams fate. After all, didnt all fathers in their secret hearts harbor a desire to kill their sons?

当年我还在学校读书的时候，每天的生活都一成不变。每当我从床上不情愿地爬起来，跌跌撞撞往洗手间走，哈桑早已洗漱完毕，跟阿里做完早晨的祷告，为我准备好了早餐：加三块方糖的热红茶，一片涂着我最爱吃的樱桃甜酱的饼,所有的这些都在桌子上整整齐齐地摆着。我边吃早饭边抱怨功课，哈桑收拾我的床铺，擦亮我的鞋子，熨好我上学要穿的衣服，替我整理好课本和铅笔。我听见他在门廊边熨衣服边唱歌，鼻音厚重的嗓子里唱出古老的哈扎拉歌曲。然后，爸爸和我开着他的福特野马轿车出发。所到之处都会有人羡慕地看着我们，因为当时有部叫《警网铁金刚》的电影在电影院已经上映了半年，主角史蒂夫·麦奎因在影片中开的正是这种车。哈桑留在家里，帮阿里做些杂务：将脏衣服洗干净，晾在院子里；拖地；去市场买刚出炉的饼；为晚餐准备腌肉；浇灌草坪。

放学后，我跟哈桑碰头，抓起书本，跑着爬上爸爸房子北边瓦兹尔·阿克巴·汗区那片碗状山丘。山顶有废弃的古墓地，小径上灌木丛生，还有成排的空白墓碑。多年的风霜雨雪侵蚀了墓园的铁门，低矮的白色石墙像要坍塌了一样。墓园的入口边上有株石榴树。夏日的一天，我用阿里厨房的小刀在树干刻下我们的名字：“阿米尔和哈桑，喀布尔的苏丹。”这些文字正式宣告：这棵树是我们的。放学后，哈桑和我爬上它的枝桠，摘下一些血红色的石榴。吃过石榴，用草把手擦干净之后，我会念书给哈桑听。

哈桑盘腿坐着，阳光和石榴叶的阴影在他脸上翩翩起舞。我给他念那些他看不懂的故事时，他会心不在焉地扯地上杂草的叶片。哈桑像阿里和多数哈扎拉人一样，自出生之日起，甚至自他妈妈莎娜芭不情愿地怀上他那天起，就注定要成为文盲——毕竟，仆人读书识字有什么用呢？尽管他不认字——也正因为如此——哈桑对那些谜一样的文字十分入迷，那个他无法到达的神圣殿堂深深吸引了他。我给他念诗歌和故事，有时也念谜语——不过后来我发现他猜谜语的本领远比我强，就不再念谜语了，而是开始念些不那么有挑战性的东西，比如经常出错的纳斯鲁丁毛拉和他那头驴子出尽洋相的故事。我们在树下一坐就是几个钟头，直到夕阳西下时，哈桑还会说，天还没黑，我们可以多念一个故事，多读一章。

念故事时我最喜欢的部分是碰到某个他无法理解的字眼时，因为这时我可以取笑他的无知。有一次，我给他念纳斯鲁丁毛拉的故事，他打断了我。“那个词是什么意思？”

“哪个？”

“愚。”

“你不知道是什么意思？”我一脸坏笑地说着。

“不知道，阿米尔少爷。”

“可是这是个很常见的词啊。”

“不过我还是不懂。”就算他听到我话中带刺，却依然笑容满面。

“哦，我们学校的人都认识这个词。”我说，  “让我看看，‘愚’，它的意思是聪明、机灵。我可以用它来给你造句。‘在读书识字方画，哈桑很愚。”

“啊。”他点头说。

后来我总是觉得很对不起他。所以我把旧衬衣或者破玩具送给他试着弥补我的错误。我会告诉自己，对于一个无伤大雅的玩笑来说，这样的补偿就足够了。

哈桑最喜欢的书是《沙纳玛》，10世纪一部描写古代波斯英雄的史诗。他每一章都喜欢，比如那些垂老将死的国王：费里敦、扎尔，还有鲁达贝。但他最喜欢的故事，也是我最喜欢的，是“罗斯坦和索拉博”，讲的是神武的战士罗斯坦和他那匹千里马拉克什的故事。罗斯坦在战斗中，给他的强敌索拉博造成了致命的伤害，最终却发现索拉博是他失散多年的儿子。罗斯坦强忍悲痛，听着他儿子的遗言：

如果您真是我的父亲，那么我的鲜血就玷污了您的宝剑。而这一切都是您的顽固造成的。我想爱您．想呼唤您的名字，因为您拿着我母亲的信物。但是我的心却不允许我这样做，现在，我要去见……

哈桑会说：“再念一次吧，阿米尔少爷。”有时我给他念这段话的时候，他泪水涟涟。我总是想知道他到底为谁哭泣：痛苦万分，泪湿衣襟、埋头尘土的罗斯坦，还是危在旦夕，渴望父爱的索拉博呢？我个人觉得，罗斯坦的命运并非悲剧。毕竟，难道不是每个父亲的内心深处，都藏着要杀死自己儿子的欲望吗？

She wakes up very easily. I mean you dont have to yell at her or anything. All you have to do, practically, is sit down on the bed and say, "Wake up, Phoeb," and bingo, shes awake.

"Holden!" she said right away. She put her arms around my neck and all. Shes very affectionate. I mean shes quite affectionate, for a child. Sometimes shes even too affectionate. I sort of gave her a kiss, and she said, "Whenja home?"

She was glad as hell to see me. You could tell.

"Not so loud. Just now. How are ya anyway?"

"Im fine. Did you my letter? I wrote you a five-page-"

"Yeah --- not so loud. Thanks."

She wrote me this letter. I didnt a chance to answer it, though. It was all about this play she was in school. She told me not to make any dates or anything for Friday so that I could come see it.

"Hows the play?" I asked her.

"Whatd you say the name of it was?"

"A Christmas Pageant for Americans. It stinks, but Im Benedict Arnold. I have practically the biggest part," she said. Boy, was she wide-awake. She s very excited when she tells you that stuff. "It starts out when Im dying. This ghost comes in on Christmas Eve and asks me if Im ashamed and everything. You know. For betraying my ry and everything. Are you coming to it?" She was sitting way the hell up in the bed and all. "Thats what I wrote you about. Are you?"

"Sure Im coming. Certainly Im coming."

"Daddy cant come. He has to fly to California," she said. Boy, was she wide-awake. It only takes her about two seconds to wide-awake. She was sitting --- sort of kneeling --- way up in bed, and she was holding my goddam hand. "Listen. Mother said youd be home Wednesday," she said."She said Wednesday."

"I got out early. Not so loud. Youll wake everybody up."

"What time is it? They wont be home till very late, Mother said. They went to a party in Norwalk,  Connecticut," old Phoebe said. "Guess what I did this afternoon! What movie I saw. Guess!"

"I dont know --- Listen. Didnt they say what time theyd --- "

"The Doctor," old Phoebe said."Its a special movie they had at the Lister Foundation. Just this one day they had it-today was the only day. It was all about this doctor in Kentucky and everything that sticks a blanket over this childs face thats a cripple and cant walk. Then they send him to jail and everything. It was excellent."

"Listen a second. Didnt they say what time theyd --- "

"He feels sorry for it, the doctor. Thats why he sticks this blanket over her face and everything and makes her suffocate. Then they make him go to jail for life imprisonment, but this child that he stuck the blanket over its head comes to visit him all the time and thanks him for what he did. He was a mercy killer. Only, he knows he deserves to go to jail because a doctor isn’t supposed to take things away from God. This girl in my classs mother took us. Alice Holmborg. Shes my best friend. Shes the only girl in the whole ---"

"Wait a second, will ya?” I said “Im asking you a question. Did they say what time theyd be back, or didnt they?"

"No, but not till very late. Daddy took the car and everything so they wouldnt have to worry about trains. We have a radio in it now! Except that Mother said nobody can play it when the cars in traffic."

I began to relax, sort of. I mean I finally quit worrying about whether theyd catch me home or not. I figured the hell with it. If they did, they did.

You shouldve seen old Phoebe. She had on these blue pajamas with red elephants on the collars. Elephants knock her out.

"So it was a good picture, huh?" I said.

"Swell, except Alice had a cold, and her mother kept asking her all the time if she felt grippy. Right in the middle of the picture. Always in the middle of something important, her motherd lean all over me and everything and ask Alice if she felt grippy. It got on my nerves."

Then I told her about the record. "Listen, I bought you a record," I told her. "Only I broke it on the way home." I took the pieces out of my coat pocket and showed her. "I was  plastered,” I said.

"Gimme the pieces," she said. "Im saving them." She took them right out of my hand and then she put them in the drawer of the night table. She kills me.

"D.B. coming home for Christmas?" I asked her.

"He may and he may not, Mother said. It all depends. He may have to stay in Hollywood and write a picture  about Annapolis."

"Annapolis, for Gods sake!"

"Its a love story and everything. Guess whos going to be in it! What movie star. Guess !"

"Im not interested. Annapolis, for Gods sake. Whats D.B. know about Annapolis, for Gods sake? Whats that got to do with the kind of stories he writes?" I said. Boy, that stuff drives me crazy. That goddam Hollywood. "Whatd you do to your arm?" I asked her. I noticed she had this big hunk of adhesive tape on her elbow. The reason I noticed it, her pajamas didnt have any sleeves.

"This boy, Curtis Weintraub, thats in my class, pushed me while I was going down the stairs in the park," she said. "Wanna see?" She started taking the crazy adhesive tape off her arm.

"Leave it alone. Whyd he push you down the stairs?"

"I dont know. I think he hates me," old Phoebe said. "This other girl and me, Selma Atterbury, put ink and stuff all over his windbreaker."

"That isnt nice. What are you --- a child, for Gads sake?"

"No, but every time Im in the park, he follows me everywhere. Hes always following me. He s on my nerves."

"He probably likes you. Thats no reason to put ink all --- "

"I dont want him to like me," she said. Then she started looking at me funny. 6Holden," she said, "how come youre not home Wednesday?"

"What?"

Boy, you have to watch her every minute. If you dont think shes smart, youre mad.

"How come youre not home Wednesday?" she asked me. "You didnt kicked out or anything, did you?"

"I told you. They let us out early. They let the whole ---"

"You did kicked out! You did!" old Phoebe said. Then she hit me on the leg with her fist. She s very fisty when she feels like it. "You did! Oh, Holden!" She had her hand on her mouth and all. She s very emotional, I swear to God.

她（主人公妹妹菲比）睡觉很轻。我是说你用不着向她大喊什么的。你需要做的，只是往她床上一坐，说：“快醒醒，菲比。”她就会醒来。

霍尔顿，”她立刻说，两臂搂住我的脖子。她十分热情。我是说她是个非常热情的孩子。有时候她简直是太热情了。我亲了她一下。她说：“你什么时候回来的？”

看得出来，她见了我真是高兴得要命。

“小点声，我刚到家。你怎么样？”

“我挺好。你收到了我的信没有？我给你写了封五页的——”

“收到了——小点声，谢谢。”

她给我写了封信。我却没机会回复她。信里谈的全是她要在学校里表演的事。她叫我星期五去看她演出，不要在那天跟人约会或做其他的事。

“你的戏怎样了？”我问她。

“你说那戏叫什么名字来着？”

“《给美国人的圣诞节晚会》。那剧本真是糟透了，可我演班纳迪克特·阿诺德，简直是最重要的角色，”她说。嘿，她可真是完全清醒了。她跟你谈这种事儿的时候总是十分兴奋。

“戏开始的时候，我已经快死了。那鬼魂在圣诞前夕进来问我心里是不是觉得惭愧之类的。你知道，为背叛自己的国家什么的而惭愧。你来不来看？”她直直地坐在床上了。“我信中就写了这些。你来不来？”

“我当然来。一定。”

“爸爸不能来。他要飞到加利福尼亚去，”她说。嘿，她真是够清醒的。她只要两秒钟就能完全醒过来。她坐在——或者说是跪在——床上，握住我一只手。

“对了，妈妈说你要星期三才回家。”她说，“她说的是星期三。”

“我提前离校了。小点声，不然你要把大家都吵醒啦。”

“现在几点啦？妈妈说他们要到很晚才回来。他们到康涅狄格州的诺沃克参加舞会去了，”老菲比说。“猜猜我今天中午干什么啦！猜猜看我看了什么电影！”

“我不知道——听着。他们有没有说什么时候——”

“《大夫》，”老菲比说。

“是里斯特基金会上专门放映的电影。他们只放映一天，就是今天。讲的是肯塔基州的一个大夫，在一个又瘸又不能走路的孩子脸上盖了条毯子什么的。后来他就进了监牢。那电影真是太好看了。”

“听我一秒钟。他们有没有说什么时候---”

“那个大夫很替那孩子难受。所以他才在她脸上盖了条毯子，把她闷死。后来他给关进了监牢，判了无期徒刑，可那个被他闷死的孩子常来看他，感谢他那样做。他原是出于好心才杀人的。不过他知道自己坐牢是罪有应得，因为一个当大夫的没有资格夺走上帝创造的东西。是我班的一个同学的母亲带我们去看这电影的。她叫爱丽丝·霍尔姆保，是我最好的朋友。她是唯一一个女孩——”

“等一秒钟，行不？”我说。

“我要问你一句话。爸妈有没有说什么时候回来？”

“没有，不过要在很晚才回来。爸爸把汽车开走了，说这样可以不用担心火车的班次。我们汽车里装了收音机啦！只是母亲说汽车在路上行驶的时候，谁也不能听。”

我开始放下心来。我是说我终于不再担心他们会在家里撞见我什么的。我豁出去了。万一真被他们撞见，那就撞见好了。

你真应该看看老菲比当时的样儿。她穿着那套蓝色睡衣，衣领上还绣着红色大象。她非常喜欢大象。

“那么说来这电影挺不错了？”我说。

“好极了，只是爱丽丝感冒了。就在电影演到一半的时候，她母亲老问她舒服不舒服。每次总是演到重要的地方，她母亲就靠到我这边来，问她感觉怎么样。真让我受不了。”

接着我把那唱片的事告诉了她。“听着，我给你买了张唱片，”我对她说。“只是我在回家的路上把它弄碎了。”我从大衣袋里拿出那些碎片来给她看。“我当时喝醉了。”我说。

“把碎片给我，”她说。“我在收集碎唱片呢。”她就从我手里拿过那些碎片，放进床头柜的抽屉里。她真让我受不了。

“DB圣诞节回家吗？”我问她。

“妈妈说他也许回，也许不回。到时候再看吧。他也许得待在好莱坞写一个关于安纳波利斯的电影剧本。”

“安纳波利斯，天呀！”

“写的是个爱情故事什么的。猜猜看，这个电影将由谁主演？哪一个电影明星？猜猜看！”

“我没兴趣。安纳波利斯，天。DB对安纳波利斯知道些什么？那跟他要写的故事又有什么关系？”我说。嘿，好莱坞那玩艺儿真让我发疯。“你的胳膊怎么啦？”我问她。我注意到她的一个胳膊肘上贴着一大块胶带。我看到了，因为她的睡衣没有袖子。

“我走下公园楼梯的时候，我班上那个叫寇铁斯·温特劳伯的男孩子推了我一把，”她说。“你要看看吗？”她开始撕胳膊上的那块胶带。

“别去撕它。他干吗要推你？”

“我不知道。我觉得他恨我，”老菲比说。“我跟一个叫西尔玛·阿特伯雷的小女孩在他的皮上衣上涂满了墨水什么的。”

“那太不应该了。你这是怎么啦——成了个小孩子啦？真是的。”

“不是，每次我到公园去，他总是跟着我。我真是受不了他老跟我。”

“也许他喜欢你。你不能因此就把墨水什么的——”

“我不要他喜欢我，”她说。接着她开始用一种异样的目光瞅着我。“霍尔顿，”她说，“你怎么不等到星期三就回家了？”

“什么？”

嘿，你得时刻提防着她。你要是觉得她不聪明，那你准是疯了。

“你怎么不到星期三就回来了？”她问我。“你不会被开除了吧？”

“我给你说了。学校早放假了。他们让所有——”

“你真的被开除了！真的！”老菲比说。然后，她开始用拳头打我的腿。她想打人的时候就用拳头狠狠地打。“噢，霍尔顿，你真的被开除了！”她一只手捂着嘴，天呀，她的情绪真的是很激动。

      莎拉·奥恩·朱厄特1849年9月3日出生于美国缅因州南贝里克镇。

成就和特色：美国著名女作家。她那些以乡下人为主角、笔法精致、清秀娟美的乡土文学作品深深影响了薇拉·凯瑟和其他一些作家。  《尖枞树之乡》是一个系列小品文，主要描绘了缅因州一个海港小镇的风土人情。其他代表作品包括：《小品和短篇故事集：新老朋友》》、《一只白鹭》、《王后的孪生姐妹》；长篇小说《乡村医生》、《沼泽岛》、《保守党的情人》。

写作背景：日夜陪伴的奶牛、清澈凉爽的溪水、温柔宜人的晚风都会使西尔维娅充满快乐。而风度翩翩、热情大方、鸟类知识渊博的年轻人的出现对小姑娘西尔维娅是极大的诱惑。为了金钱和友情，她进行了人生的第一次挑战，艰难地爬上了梦想已久的古松树，眺望大自然的深处，比翼翩飞的白鹭使西尔维娅感觉自己仿佛在云彩里飞翔，大自然的神奇造化给了她内心深深的震撼。她做出了正确的决定。

The forest was full of shadows as a little girl hurried through it one summer evening in June. It was already eight oclock and Sylvie wondered if her grandmother would be angry with her for being so late. Every evening Sylvie left her grandmothers house at five-thirty to bring their cow home. The old animal spent her days out in the open ry eating sweet grass. It was Sylvies job to bring her home to be milked. When the cow heard Sylvies voice calling her, she would hide among the bushes!

This evening it had taken Sylvie longer than usual to find her cow. The child hurried the cow through the dark forest, following a narrow path that led to her grandmothers home. The cow stopped at a small stream to drink. As Sylvie waited, she put her bare feet in the cold, fresh water of the stream.

She had never before been alone in the forest as late as this. The air was soft and sweet. Sylvie felt as if she were a part of the gray shadows and the silver leaves that moved in the evening breeze. She began thinking how it was only a year ago that she came to her grandmothers farm. Before that, she had lived with her mother and father in a dirty, crowded factory town. One day, Sylvies grandmother had visited them and had chosen Sylvie from all her brothers and sisters to be the one to help her on her farm in Vermont.

The cow finished drinking, and as the nine-year-old child hurried through the forest to the home she loved, she thought again about the noisy town where her parents still lived. Suddenly the air was cut by a sharp whistle not far away. Sylvie knew it wasnt friendly birds whistle. It was the determined whistle of a person. She forgot the cow and hid in some bushes. But she was too late.

"Hello, little girl," a young man called out cheerfully. "How far is it to the main road?"

Sylvie was trembling as she whispered. "Two miles." She came out of the bushes and looked up into the face of a tall young man carrying a gun.

The stranger began walking with Sylvie as she followed her cow through the forest. "Ive been hunting for birds," he explained, "but Ive lost my way. Do you think I can spend the night at your house?"

Sylvie didnt answer. She was glad they were almost home.

She could see her grandmother standing near the door of the farmhouse. When they reached her the stranger put down his gun and explained his problem to Sylvies smiling grandmother. "Of course you can stay with us," she said. "We dont have much, but youre welcome to share what we have. Now Sylvie, a plate for the gentleman!" After eating, they all sat outside. The young man explained he was a scientist who collected birds. "Do you put them in a cage?" Sylvie asked.

"No," he answered slowly, "I shoot them and stuff them with special chemicals to preserve them. I have over one hundred different kinds of birds from all over the United States in my study at home."

"Sylvie knows a lot about birds, too," her grandmother said proudly. "She knows the forest so well. The wild animals come and eat bread right out of her hands."

"So Sylvie knows all about birds? Maybe she can help me then," the young man said. "I saw a white heron not far from here two days ago. Ive been looking for it ever since. Its a very rare bird, the little white heron. Have you seen it, too?" he asked Sylvie. But Sylvie was silent. "You would know it if you saw it," he added. "Its a tall, strange bird with soft white feathers and long thin legs. It probably has its nest at the top of a tall tree." Sylvies heart began to beat fast. She knew that strange white bird! She had seen it on the other side of the forest. The young man was staring at Sylvie. "I would give ten dollars to the person who showed me where the white heron is." That night her dreams were full of all the wonderful things she and her grandmother could buy for ten dollars....

Sylvie spent the next day in the forest with the young man. He told her a lot about the birds they saw. Sylvie would have had a much better time if the young man had left his gun at home. She could not understand why he killed the birds he seemed to like so much. She felt her heart tremble every time he shot an unsuspecting bird as it was singing in the trees.

But Sylvie watched the young man with eyes full of admiration. She had never seen anyone so handsome and ming. A strange excitement filled her heart.

At last evening came. They drove the cow home....Long after the moon came out and the young man had fallen asleep, Sylvie was still awake. She had a plan that would the ten dollars for her grandmother and make the young man happy. When it was almost time for the sun to rise, she quietly left her house and hurried through the forest. She finally reached a huge pine tree, so tall it could be seen for many miles around. Her plan was to climb to the top of the pine tree. She could see the whole forest from there. She was sure she would be able to see where the white heron had hidden its nest.

Sylvies bare feet and tiny fingers grabbed the trees rough trunk. Sharp dry branches scratched at her like cats claws. The pine trees sticky sap made her fingers feel stiff and clumsy as she climbed higher and higher. The pine tree seemed to grow taller, the higher that she climbed. Sky began to brighten in the east. Her face was like a pale star when, at last, she reached the trees highest branch. The golden suns rays hit the green forest. Two hawks flew toher in slow-moving circles far below. She felt as if she could go flying among the clouds, too. To the west she could see other farms and forests.

Suddenly Sylvies dark gray eyes caught a flash of white that grew larger and larger. A bird with broad white wings and a long slender neck flew past and landed on a pine branch below her. The white heron smoothed its feathers and called to its mate, sitting on their nest in a nearby tree. Then it lifted its wings and flew away. Sylvie gave a long sigh. She knew the wild birds secret now. Slowly she began her dangerous trip down the ancient pine trees. She did not dare to look down. She tried to for that her fingers hurt and her feet were bleeding. All she wanted to think about was what the stranger would say to her when she told him where to find the herons nest. As she climbed slowly down the pine tree, the stranger was waking up back at the farm. He was smiling because he was sure from the way the shy little girl had looked at him that she had seen the white heron.

About an hour later, Sylvie appeared. Both her grandmother and the young man stood up as she came into the kitchen. The splendid moment to speak about her secret had come. But Sylvie was silent. Her grandmother was angry with her. Where had she been? The young looked into her own dark gray ones. He could give Sylvie and her grandmother ten dollars. He had promised to do this, and they needed the money. Besides, Sylvie wanted to make him happy.

But Sylvie was silent. She remembered how the white heron came flying through the golden air and how they watched the sun rise toher from the top of the world. She could not tell the herons secret and give its life away.

The young man went away later that day, disappointed. Sylvie was sad. She wanted to be his friend. He never returned. But many nights she heard the sound of his whistles as she came home with her grandmothers cow.

Were the birds better friends than their hunter might have been? Who can know?

六月初夏的一个傍晚，西尔维娅匆匆穿过树影婆娑的森林。已经8点钟了，西尔维娅不知道祖母会不会因为她回去这么晚而生气。西尔维娅每天傍晚5点半离开祖母的房子，去把她们的奶牛赶回来。老牛天天都放牧在旷野里，啃着甜美的草儿。西尔维娅每天的活计就是将牛儿赶回家挤奶。听到西尔维娅的呼喊声，牛儿常常躲进灌木丛。

这天傍晚，西尔维娅费了比平时更大的劲儿才把牛给找到。她匆匆赶着牛儿，顺着一条狭窄的小路，穿过黑黝黝的森林，向祖母的房子走去。牛儿在一条小溪边停下来饮水。在等候的当儿，西尔维娅把光脚丫伸进清澈凉爽的溪水中。

她以前从未这么晚一个人呆在这莽莽森林里。晚风吹拂，温柔宜人。西尔维娅仿佛觉得自己也成了灰色暗影和随晚风摆动的银色树叶的一部分。她开始想起了仅一年前她刚到祖母农场的情景。此前，她同父母一起住在一个肮脏而又拥挤的工业城镇。一天，在佛蒙特州务农的祖母去她们家作客，从她们兄弟姐妹中将她挑出来，带来农场作帮手。

牛儿饮好了水。当9岁的西尔维娅急匆匆穿过森林朝心爱的家走去时，她又想起了那个嘈杂的、她父母至今仍在栖身的小镇。突然，不远处传来一声尖利的唿哨，划破了森林的宁静。西尔维娅知道这不是鸟儿友好的唿哨，它有一股坚定劲儿，是一个人发出的。她顾不得母牛，慌忙躲进灌木丛，但已经来不及了。

“喂，小妹妹，”一个年轻男人兴冲冲地喊道。“这里离大路还有多远？”

西尔维娅浑身颤抖着低声说：  “两英里。”她打灌木丛中走出来，抬起头，劈脸看到了那个年轻人。他高高的个子，带着一支枪。

西尔维娅赶着牛儿穿过林子，那个陌生人和她并排走了起来。“我一直在搜寻各种鸟儿，”他解释道，”却想不到迷了路。你说我能在你家住一宿吗？”

西尔维娅没有吭声。她庆幸已经到家了。她看到祖母正站在农舍门口。他们走到跟前，陌生人把枪放下，向她面带笑容的祖母讲了他遇到的麻烦。当然，你可以住在我们这里，”她说。“我们不大宽裕，但不会嫌你的。喂，西尔维娅，去给这位先生拿只盘子来！”饭后，他们坐在外边。那年轻人说他是一名收集鸟类的科学家。“你是不是把鸟儿装进笼子里？”维娅问道。

“不是，”他慢条斯里地答道，  “我用枪把它们打下来，加上专门的化学防腐剂，把它们制成标本。我家的书房中收藏着美国各地一百多种不同的鸟类。”

“对乌儿西尔维娅知道得也挺多的，“她的祖母自豪地说道。”她对森林非常熟悉。森林里的野兽常常来径直从她的手里吃面包呢。”

“这么说，西尔维娅是一本鸟类的百宝全书喽?也许她还能给我帮上忙呢，”年轻人说道。“两天前，我在离这里不远的地方看到一只白鹭。打那时起，我一直在寻找。小白鹭是一种十分珍稀的鸟类。你也看到过吗?”他向西尔维娅问道。但是，西尔维娅默不作声。“你见了自会认得的。”他接着又说。“这是一只羽毛柔软洁白、两腿细长、个子挺高的奇鸟。它很可能把巢筑在大树顶上。”西尔维娅的心咚咚狂跳起来。她认识那只奇异的白鸟！她在森林的那一边看到过。那年轻人两眼紧盯着西尔维娅。”谁告诉我白鹭藏身的地方，我就给谁十美元。”那天夜里，西尔维娅尽梦见她和祖母拿着那十美元所能买的许多许多奇妙的东西……

第二天，西尔维娅和那年轻人在森林里呆了一天，看到许多种乌儿，年轻人向西尔维娅讲了这些乌儿的许多事情。如果那年轻人把枪留在家里的话，西尔维娅会玩得更加开心的。她不明白，既然他那样喜欢鸟儿，为什么还要开枪打死它们。每次看到一只正在树上鸣唱毫无戒心的鸟儿被他打死，她就感到心在颤抖。

然而，西尔维娅望着那年轻人时，眼中充满了爱慕。她从未见过这样英俊漂亮的人。一种奇异的兴奋充溢她的心房。

最后，夜幕降临了。他们一块赶着牛儿回家……月亮早已升起，年轻人进入了梦乡，西尔维娅却久久不能合眼。她想出了一个计划。这个计划既能让祖母得到那十美元，又能叫那年轻人高兴。当太阳即将升起时，她悄悄地离开房子，匆匆穿过森林。最终，她来到一棵大松树下。松树高大挺拔，方圆几英里都能看见。她的计划是爬到松树顶端，从那里可把整个森林尽收眼底。她相信自己一定能找到藏巢的地方。

西尔维娅猛地用小手抓住、用赤脚夹住大松树粗糙的树干向上爬时，尖利的干枝权猫爪般地在她身上抓划。她越爬越高，粘乎乎的松脂使她的手指僵硬不听使唤。她越往上爬，松树似乎也跟着往上长。东方开始发白。她终于爬到了最高的树梢，她的小脸蛋看上去就像一颗淡淡的晨星。金色的阳光撒向苍翠的森林。两只苍鹰在远远的下方缓缓地比翼盘旋。她感到好像自己也能在云彩之间展翅飞翔。向西望去，可见到一座座农庄和一片片森林。

突然，西尔维娅深灰色的眼睛瞥见一个白影闪现，越来越大。只见一只长着宽阔的白翅和修长的脖子的鸟儿飞掠而过，停落在她下面的一根松枝上。这只白鹭理理羽毛，向蹲在附近一棵树上窝里的伴侣叫了一声，就扇起翅膀飞走了。西尔维娅长长地吁了一口气。现在她知道那只野乌儿的秘密了。她冒着危险，开始慢慢地顺着老松树向下溜。她不敢向下看。她尽力不去想她手指很疼而且两腿在流血。她只愿意想：告诉那陌生人该上哪里去找白鹭窝时，他会对她说什么。在她慢慢滑下松树时，那个陌生人刚好在农庄里醒来。他脸上带着笑容，因为他从西尔维娅望着他的那副腼腆模样，断定她已经看到过那只白鹭。

大约一小时后，西尔维娅出现了。她走进厨房，祖母和那年轻人站起身来。说出她的秘密的美妙时刻到来了。但是，西尔维娅默不作声。祖母对她很生气。她野到哪里去了7年轻人盯着西尔维娅那双深灰色的眼睛。他可以付给西尔维娅和她的祖母1 0美元。他许诺过要这样做，而且她们也的确需要这笔钱。再说，西尔维娅不想使他扫兴。

西尔维娅却默不作声。白鹭是如何飞过金色的天空，她和它又是如何从云端一同望着太阳升起，她都记得一清二楚。她不能说。她不能说出白鹭的秘密，那样会要它的命的。

那天晚些时候，年轻人失望地离开了。西尔维娅感到很伤心。她想做年轻人的朋友。他再也没有回来过。但是，有许多傍晚，当她赶着祖母的牛儿回家时，她总是听到那人的唿哨声。

和猎鸟人相比，鸟儿可能是更好的朋友吗？谁能知道？

Liu, the farmer, sat at the door of his one-room house. It was a warm evening in late February, and in his thin body he felt the coming of spring. How he knew that the time had now come when sap should stir in trees and life begin to move in the soil he could not have told himself. In other years it would have been easy enough. He could have pointed to the willow trees about the house, and shown the swelling buds. But there were no more trees now. He had cut them off during the bitter winter when they were starving for food and he had sold them one by one. Or he might have pointed to the pink-tipped buds of his three peach trees and his six apricot trees that his father had planted in his day so that now，being at the height of their time，they bore a load of fruit every year. But these trees were also gone. Most of all，in any other year than this he might have pointed to his wheat fields, where he planted wheat in the winter when the land was not needed for rice, and where, when spring was moving into summer, he planted the good rice, for rice was his chief crop. But the land told nothing，this year. There was no wheat on it, for the flood had covered it long after wheat should have been planted, and it lay there cracked and like clay but newly dried.

Well, on such a day as this, if he had his buffalo and his plow as he had always had in other years，he would have gone out and plowed up that cracked soil. He ached to plow it up and make it look like a field again, yes, even though he had not so much as one seed to put in it. But he had no buffalo. If anyone had told him that he would eat his own water buffalo that plowed the good land for him, and year after year pulled the stone roller over the grain and threshed it at harvest he would have called that man idiot. Yet it was what he had done. He had eaten his own water buffalo, he and his wife and his parents and his four children, they had all eaten the buffalo toher.

But what else could they do on that dark winter’s day when the last of their store of grain was gone, when the trees were cut and sold, when he had sold everything, even the little they had saved from the flood, and there was nothing left except the rafters of the house they had and the garments they wore? Was there sense in stripping the coat off one’s back to feed one’s belly? Besides, the beast was starving also, since the water had covered even the grass lands, and they had had to go far afield to gather even enough to cook its bones and flesh. On that day when he had seen the faces of his old parents set as though dead, on that day when he had heard the crying of his children and seen his little daughter dying, such a despair had seized him as made him like a man without his reason, so that he had gathered toher his feeble strength and he had done what he said he never would; he had taken the kitchen knife and gone out and killed his own beast. When he did it, even in his despair, he groaned, for it was as though he killed his own brother. To him it was the last sacrifice.

Yet it was not enough. No, they grew hungry again and there was nothing left to kill. Many of the villagers went south to other places, or they went down the river to beg in the great cities. But he, Liu the farmer, had never begged. Moreover, it seemed to him then that they must all die and the only comfort left was to die on their own land. His neighbor had come and begged him to set forth with them; yes, he had even said he would carry one of the old parents on his back so that Liu might carry the other, seeing that his own old father was already dead. But Liu had refused, and it was well, for in the next two days the old mother was dead, and if she had died on the way he could only have cast her by the roadside lest the others be delayed and more of them die. As it was he could put her safely into their own ground, although he had been so weak that it had taken him three days to dig a hole deep enough for her little old withered body. And then before he could her buried he and his wife had quarreled over the poor few clothes on the old body. His wife was a hard woman and she would have buried the old mother naked, if he had let her, so as to have the clothes for the children. But he made her leave on the inner coat and trousers; although they were only rags after all, and when he saw the cold earth against his old mother’s flesh—well, that was sorrow for a man, but it could not be helped. Three more he had buried somehow, his old father and his baby daughter and the little boy who had never been strong.

That was what the winter’s famine had taken from them. It would have taken them all except that in the great pools lying everywhere, which were left from the flood, there were shrimps, and these they had eaten raw and were still eating, although they were all sick with a dysentery that would not well. In the last day or so his wife had crawled out and dug a few sprouting dandelions. But there was no fuel and so they also were eaten raw. But the bitterness was good after the tasteless flesh of the raw shrimps. Yes, spring was coming.

He sat on heavily, looking out over his land. If he had his buffalo back, if he had his plow that they had burned for fuel, he could plow the land. But when he thought of this as he did many times every day, he felt helpless as a leaf tossed upon the flood. The buffalo was gone; gone also his plow and every implement of wood and bamboo, and what other had he? Sometimes in the winter he had felt grateful that at least the flood had not taken all the house as it had so many other houses. But now suddenly it came to him that he could be grateful for nothing，no, not even that he had his life left him and the life of his wife and the two older children. He felt tears come into his eyes slowly as they had not even come when he buried his old mother and saw the earth fall against her flesh, bared by the rags which had comforted him that day. But now he was comforted by nothing. He muttered to himself.

“I have no seed to plant in the land. There the land lies! I could go and claw it up with my hands if I had the seed and the land would bear. I know my good land. But I have no seed and the land is empty. Yes，even though spring comes，we must still starve! ”

And he looked, hopeless, into the barren spring.

农民老刘坐在自己只有一间房的门口。那是二月末的一个温 煦的黄昏，他瘦削的身体已经感知到春天的来临。他怎会知道正 是这时候树木的汁液开始颤动，泥土中的生命开始苏醒呢？他无法给自己一个答案。可是在往年，这本是一件极容易的事情。他本可以指着屋子四周的柳树，给大家看就要抽条的嫩芽。但是现在树已经没有了，严冬饥荒时被他全砍了，—棵—棵地卖了。或者他本来还可以指着父亲年轻时亲手栽种的三株桃树和六棵杏树，给大家看那粉嫩的花荀。这些果树正值壮年，每年都会结下累累的果实。但是这些树也没有了。最重要的是，往年他还会指着麦地给大家看。在这块地上，他冬天种麦子，因为那个时令没法种水稻；快入夏时，他就会插秧种稻子，而且收成很好。水稻是他田里的主要农作物。但是今年地里啥也没有。没有离离的麦子，因为该种麦子的时候，田地被洪水淹没了，现在地都开裂了，像刚干不久的黏土一样。

好吧，在这样一个日子里，要是还和往年一样，他的水牛还在，耕犁还在，他应该早已经出门去耕种那片已经开裂的土地了。他很想念犁地，想念平整耕田的样子，是的，就算他连一颗可以播撒的种子也没有。但如今他没有水牛了。要是先前有人劝他把他的水牛宰了吃，他一定会痛骂那个人是个王八犊子。他的水牛可是耕地能手，丰收时还可以帮拉石磨碾谷子。但这都是过去时了。他已经吃掉了自己的水牛。他和他的妻子、父母还有四个孩子一起把水牛给吃了。

但是，在那个昏暗的冬日里，他们吃完了储藏的最后一点粮食，树也砍光了卖钱，能卖的都卖了，连从洪水中救出的那一点点东西也都卖了，除了房梁和身上的衣服，什么都没有剩下，他们还能怎么办？剥掉衣服来填肚子有意义吗？而且当时牲口也已快饿死了，因为洪水已淹没草地，连煮牲口的骨和肉所需的柴草也得走很远才能捡够。那一天，他看到自己年迈的父母面如死灰，听到孩子们哭泣不停，眼见小女儿奄奄—息，他被—阵惨痛的绝望钳住，变得失去了理智，然后鼓起虚弱的气力，做了他说过永远不会做的事情。他到厨房拿起刀，走出去，把自己的牲口给宰了。那一刻他绝望地呻吟着，好像亲手杀了自己的兄弟。对他而 言，这是最后的牺牲。

但这还不够。是的，他们又开始遭受饥饿的折磨了，但已经没有什么可杀的了。村子里很多人南下投奔别的地方，或者到河流下游的大城市去乞讨。但农民老刘绝不乞讨。而且他觉得反正大家迟早都要死，死在自己的土地上是剩下的唯一的安慰。邻居来求他，让他跟他们一起动身；是的，他的邻居看到自己的老父亲已命归黄泉时，甚至提出愿意跟老刘一道背他的父母赶路。但老刘拒绝了。这样也不错，因为两天以后他老母亲就死了。要是死在半路上，他只能把尸体扔在路边，否则还得耽误其他人的时间，然后就会有更多人因此死去。现在呢，虽说他身体已经十分虚弱，花了整整三天才挖出一个够深的土穴来掩埋母亲干瘪的身 躯，但毕竟他可以把她安好地埋葬在自己的土地上。就在母亲下葬之前，他和老婆吵了一架，就为老人尸体上那点可怜的衣服。 他老婆是个硬心肠的女人，假如老刘同意的话，她就要让婆婆光着身子下葬，这样一来扒下来的衣服就可以给孩子们穿。但是老刘还是给母亲穿了内衣和裤子离开了，尽管那都已经是破布了。当他看到冰冷的泥土盖在老母亲的皮肉上时——喔，这对一个男人来说是一种悲哀，但是又有什么办法呢？然后他又亲手将他的老父亲、幼小的女儿和一个从未长结实的小儿子一个个埋入泥土。

这就是这场冬日的饥荒从他们身边所夺走的。饥荒还差点夺走所有人的性命，幸亏洪水过后，随处可见的水塘里发现了小虾， 他们便捞来生吃，虽然都因此得了一种难以痊愈的痢疾，但他们一直这样吃到现在。大概在最后一天，他老婆挣扎着出去，挖到 了一些刚发芽的蒲公英，因为没有柴火，所以也只能生吃了。昧儿苦，但在吃腻了没有滋味的生虾后，这苦味倒还感觉不错。是的，春天来了。

他一屁股坐下，望着外面自己的土地。要是他能要回他的水牛，如果他没有把耕犁当柴火烧了，他现在就能耕地了。每当他想到这些（他每天都想很多遍），他就觉得十分无助，就像扔进洪水的一片孤叶。水牛不在了，犁也不在了，连一根木头一节竹子都没有剩，他还有什么呢？冬天里，有时候他还会心存一丝感激，至少洪水没有把他所有的房屋都冲坏，尽管也冲毁了很多人家的房子。但现在，他突然意识到没有什么值得他感激的，没有，甚至他都不感激自己还活着，自己的老婆还活着，还有老大老二两个孩子。他感觉到泪水慢慢涌上眼眶，就算在埋葬母亲那天，看着泥土撒落在母亲的躯体上时，他都没有掉过一滴眼泪，他甚至还因为母亲辞世时尚有破布遮体而感到安慰。但现在，他无以慰藉。他喃喃自语：

“我没有种子可以种地。土地就在那儿！我要是有种子，我会用我的双手去刨地，土地就会有收成。我知道我的地肥。但我没有种子，地里什么也没有。是的，春天来了，可我们还会挨饿！”

他呆望着这贫瘠的春天，没有一丝希望。

（罗选民译，清华大学教授， 博士生导师）

At first when you see the coolie on the road, bearing his load, it is as a pleasing object that he strikes the eye. In his blue rags, a blue of all colors from indigo to turquoise and then to the paleness of a milky sky, he fits the landscape. He seems exactly right as he trudges along the narrow causeway between the rice fields or climbs a green hill. His clothing consists of no more than a short coat and a pair of trousers; and if he had a suit which was at the beginning all of a piece, he never thinks when it comes to patching to choose a bit of stuff of the same color. He takes anything that comes handy. From sun and rain he protects his head with a straw hat shaped like an extinguisher with a preposterously wide, flat brim.

You see a string of coolies come along, one after the other, each with a pole on his shoulders from the ends of which hang two great bales, and they make an agreeable pattern. It is amusing to watch their hurrying reflections in the padi water. You watch their faces as they pass you. They are good-natured faces and frank, you would have said, if it had not been drilled into you that the oriental is inscrutable; and when you see them lying down with their loads under a banyan tree by a wayside shrine, smoking and chatting gaily, if you have tried to lift the bales they carry for thirty miles or more a day, it seems natural to feel admiration for their endurance and their spirit. But you will be thought somewhat absurd if you mention your admiration to the old residents of China. You will be told with a tolerant shrug of the shoulders that the coolies are animals and for two thousand years from father to son have carried burdens, so it is no wonder if they do it cheerfully. And indeed you can see for yourself that they begin early, for you will ener little children with a yoke on their shoulders staggering under the weight of veable baskets.

The day wears on and it grows warmer. The coolies take off their coats and walk stripped to the waist. Then sometimes in a man resting for an instant, his load on the ground but the pole still on his shoulders so that he has to rest slightly crouched, you see the poor tired heart beating against the ribs: you see it as plainly as in some cases of heart disease in the out-patients room of a hospital. It is strangely distressing to watch. Then also you see the coolies\ backs. The pressure of the pole for long years, day after day, has made hard red scars, and sometimes even there are open sores, great sores without bandages or dressing that rub against the wood; but the strangest thing of all is that sometimes, as though nature sought to adapt man for these cruel uses to which he is put, an odd malformation seems to have arisen so that there is a sort of hump, like a camels, against which the pole rests. But beating heart or angry sore, bitter rain or burning sun notwithstanding, they go on eternally, from dawn till dusk, year in year out, from childhood to the extreme of age. You see old men without an ounce of fat on their bodies, their skin loose on their bones, wizened, their little faces wrinkled and apelike, with hair thin and grey; and they totter under their burdens to the edge of the grave in which at last they shall have rest. And still the coolies go, not exactly running, but not walking either, sidling quickly, with their eyes on the ground to choose the spot to place their feet, and on their faces a strained, anxious expression. You can make no longer a pattern of them as they wend their way. Their effort oppresses you. You are filled with a uss compassion.

In China it is man that is the beast of burden.

“To be harassed by the wear and tear of life, and to pass rapidly through it without the possibility of arresting ones course, —is not this pitiful indeed? To labor without ceasing, and then, without living to enjoy the fruit, worn out, to depart, suddenly, one knows not whither, —is not that a just cause for grief?”

So wrote the Chinese mystic.

刚开始看到有苦力挑着重担在路上行走，你会觉得这是个愉悦的场景，冲击着你的眼球。他穿着破衣烂衫，一身蓝，从靛蓝、天蓝到泛白的乳蓝，但很应景。他费力地走在稻田间狭窄的田埂上，又或是爬上绿色的山丘，一切都显得那么自然。他上身不过一件短外套，下身一条裤子。倘若他有一套起先还是浑然一体的衣服，但后来要打补丁时，他不会想到要选用同一颜色的布块，手头什么方便就拿什么补。为了遮阳避雨，他戴了顶草帽，隆起的部分像个灭火器，帽檐又宽又平，看上去有些怪异。

你看见一长溜苦力走过来，一个接一个，每个人肩上挑一个担子，两头挂着两个大包，构成一幅惬意的图景。从水中的倒影看他们匆匆忙忙的样子十分逗笑。他们路过时你观察他们的脸，要不是东方人神秘莫测的说法已植入人心，你肯定会说他们面容温厚坦诚。当他们到了路边的神祠，在菩提树下放下重担，躺下来，快乐地抽烟聊天，而且如果你也尝试扛过他们一天要挑三十里路的重担，你会很自然地敬佩他们的忍耐力和精神。但是如果你跟人说，你对这些中国长者心生钦佩之感，人们会耸耸肩，觉得你有些荒谬可笑，然后宽容地告诉你，这些苦力都是牲口。两千年来，他们祖祖辈辈都是挑重担的，所以他们干得很开心也不足为奇。事实上，你自己都能看到他们打很小的时候就开始挑担了，因为你会遇到小孩子肩头扛着扁担，两头挂着菜筐，踉踉跄跄地蹒跚前行。

日子一天天过去了，天气变暖，这些苦力脱掉上衣，光着膀子走着。有时一个苦力要停下来休息，便把两头的包放地上，扁担还留在肩头，这样他就要稍稍蜷蹲着休息一下，这个时候你会看到他那可怜疲惫的心脏在肋骨间跳动。你看得一清二楚，样子恰似在医院门诊室看见心脏病人的心脏跳动一样。看到这一幕会让人有些许莫名的伤感。然后你再看他们的脊背，担子长年累月的压迫，留下深红的疤痕，有时甚至有溃口的疮疤，很大，没有绷带包扎，没有衣服隔挡，直接就在木扁担上摩擦。但最奇怪的是，就好像大自然力图让人适应他被交予的这些残酷用途，一种反常的畸形出现了，苦力们肩上会隆起一个包，就像驼峰一样，这样担子就可以顶在上面。但是尽管心在狂跳，疤在怒吼，不管苦雨还是烈日，他们永远都行在路上，从黎明到黄昏，年复一年，从童年到迟暮。你看到那些老人骨瘦如柴，皮肤松弛地耷拉在骨头上，干瘪枯槁，脸上满是皱纹，像瘦猴一样，头发灰白稀疏，在重担之下跌跌撞撞，一直走向坟墓的边缘，那是他们最后休息的场所。但苦力们仍在赶路，不能算跑，也不能算走，就是快速地侧身而行，眼睛一直盯着地面，好选个下脚的地方，脸上露出紧张焦虑的神情。他们继续前行时，你眼前再也不是什么惬意的图景了。他们的那种疲于奔命的努力让你感到压抑，内心充满怜悯，但又什么忙都帮不上。

在中国，人就是负重的牲口。

“被生活损耗、折磨，然后迅速走完生命历程，根本得不到休息——这不是很可怜吗？苦苦地干，没个完了，然后还没活到享受劳动果实的日子，就疲惫地突然逝去，也不知道会落个什么归宿——这能够不令人悲哀吗？”

那位中国的神秘主义者如是写道。（罗选民译，清华大学教授， 博士生导师）

He came into the room to shut the windows while we were still in bed and I saw he looked ill. He was shivering, his face was white, and he walked slowly as though it ached to move.

"Whats the matter, Schatz?"

"Ive got a headache."

"You better go back to bed."

"No. Im all right."

"You go to bed. Ill see you when Im dressed."

But when I came downstairs he was dressed, sitting by the fire, looking a very sick and miserable boy of nine years. When I put my hand on his forehead I knew he had a fever.

"You go up to bed," I said, "youre sick."

"Im all right." he said.

When the doctor came he took the boys temperature.

"What is it?" I asked him.

"One hundred and two."

Downstairs, the doctor left three different medicines in different colored capsules with instructions for giving them. One was to bring down the fever, another a purgative, the third to overcome an acid condition. The germs of influenza can only exist in an acid condition, he explained. He seemed to know all about influenza and said there was nothing to worry about if the fever did not go above one hundred and four degrees. This was a light epidemic of flu and there was no danger if you avoided pneumonia.

Back in the room I wrote the boys temperature down and made a note of the time to give the various capsules.

"Do you want me to read to you?"

"All right. If you want to." said the boy. His face was very white and there were dark areas under his eyes. He lay still in the bed and seemed very detached from what was going on.

I read aloud from Howard Pyle s Book of Pirates; but I could see he was not following what I was reading.

"How do you feel, Schatz?" I asked him.

"Just the same, so far." he said.

I sat at the foot of the bed and read to myself while I waited for it to be time to give another capsule. It would have been natural for him to go to sleep, but when I looked up he was looking at the foot of the bed, looking very strangely.

"Why dont you try to go to sleep? Ill wake you up for the medicine."

"Id rather stay awake."

After a while he said to me, "You dont have to stay in here with me, Papa, if it bothers you."

"It doesnt bother me."

"No, I mean you dont have to stay if its going to bother you."

I thought perhaps he was a little lightheaded and after giving him the prescribed capsules at eleven oclock I went out for a while.

It was a bright, cold day, the ground covered with a sleet that had frozen so that it seemed as if all the bare trees, the bushes, the cut brush and all the grass and the bare ground had been varnished with ice. I took the young Irish setter  for a little walk up the road and along a frozen creek, but it was difficult to stand or walk on the glassy surface and the red dog slipped and slithered and I fell twice, hard, once ping my gun and having it slide away over the ice.

We flushed a covey of quail under a high clay bank with overhanging brush and I killed two as they went out of sight over the top of the bank. Some of the covey lit in trees, but most of them scattered into brush piles and it was necessary to jump on the ice-coated mounds of brush several times before they would flush. Coming out while you were poised unsteadily on the icy, springy brush they made difficult shooting and I killed two, missed five, and started back pleased to have found a covey close to the house and happy there were so many left to find on another day.

At the house they said the boy had refused to let anyone come into the room.

"You cant come in." he said, "You mustnt what I have."

I went up to him and found him in exactly the position I had left him, white-faced, but with the tops of his cheeks flushed by the fever, staring still, as he had stared at the foot of the bed.

I took his temperature.

"What is it?"

"Something like a hundred." I said. It was one hundred and two and four tenths.

"It was a hundred and two." he said.

"Who said so?"

"The doctor."

"Your temperature is all right."I said, "Its nothing to worry about."

"I dont worry," he said, "but I cant keep from thinking."

"Dont think." I said, "Just take it easy."

"Im taking it easy," he said and looked straight-ahead. He was evidently holding tight onto himself about something.

"Take this with water,"

"Do you think it will do any good?"

"Of course it will."

I sat down and opened the Pirate book and commenced to read, but I could see he was not following, so I stopped.

"About what time do you think Im going to die?" he asked.

"What?"

"About how long will it be before I die?"

"You arent going to die. Whats the matter with you?"

"Oh, yes, I am. I heard him say a hundred and two."

"People dont die with a fever of one hundred and two. Thats a silly way to talk."

"I know they do. At school in France the boys told me you cant live with forty-four degrees.

Ive got a hundred and two."

He had been waiting to die all day, ever since nine oclock in the morning.

"You poor Schatz. I said, "Poor old Schatz. Its like miles and kilometres. You arent going to die. Thats a different thermometer. On that thermometer thirty-seven is normal. On this kind its ninety-eight"

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely."I said, "Its like miles and kilometers. You know, like how many kilometers we make when we do seventy miles in the car?"

"Oh." he said.

But his gaze at the foot of the bed relaxed slowly. The hold over himself relaxed too, finally, and the next day it was very slack and he cried very easily at little things that were of no importance.

当我们还躺在床上睡觉的时候，他走进屋里关上了窗户，我看到他好像是生病了。他浑身颤抖直打哆嗦，面色惨白，走路慢吞吞地好像痛得动不了似的。

“你怎么了，宝贝儿？”

“我头疼。”

“你最好还是回到床上去吧。”

“没事儿，我还好。”

“你回床上去吧。等我穿好衣服就来看你。”

但是当我下楼来的时候，他已经穿好了衣服，正靠近火炉旁边坐着，看起来就是一个病病殃殃、可怜兮兮的九岁的男孩。我把手放到他的额头上，发现他正在发高烧。

“你快上楼睡觉去吧。”我说，“你生病了。”

“我没事儿。”他说。

这时医生进来给男孩测量了体温。

“怎么样，多少度？”我问他。

“一百零二度。”

在楼底下，医生留下了三种药，是三种颜色不同的胶囊，并且还告诉了他服用这些药物的方法：一种是退烧药，另一种是通便药，第三种是控制酸性状态的。医生还解释说，流感病菌只会在酸性的状态中存活。他似乎对流感无所不知，还说只要体温不高于一百零四度就不用担心。这是轻度流感，如果没有肺炎并发症就没有什么危险。

回到房间以后我把男孩的体温记了下来，还记录了服用各种不同药物的时间。

“你想让我读书给你听吗？”

“好吧，你想念就念吧。”男孩说。他面色惨白，眼睛下面还有黑眼圈。他躺在床上一动不动，似乎很超然，对外界一点都不感兴趣。

我大声念着霍华德·派尔的《海盗集》，但我能看得出来他根本没在意听我念的是什么内容。

“现在感觉怎么样，宝贝儿？”我问他。

“到目前为止，还是老样子。”他说。

我坐在床脚一边看书一边等着到了时间给他吃另一种药。本来他睡觉是轻而易举的事情，但我抬眼一看他正盯着床脚，神情十分怪异。

“你怎么不睡会儿觉呢？到了吃药的时候我会叫你的。”

“我宁愿醒着。”

不一会儿他对我说：“爸爸，要是打扰你，你就不用在这儿陪我了。”

“没打扰我。”

“不，我的意思是说，如果这里叫你心烦的话，就不用非得待在这儿陪我了。”

我以为或许他有点头晕，到了十一点我给他吃了医生开的胶囊后就到外面待了一会儿。

那天天气晴朗但寒冷，地上覆盖着一层雨夹雪后冻成的冰，以至于看上去所有光秃秃的树木、灌木丛、修剪过的灌木，所有草地和空地上面都好像涂上了一层冰似的。我带着一条爱尔兰长毛小猎犬沿着那条路，沿着一条结冰的小河散步，但是在光滑的路面上站立或是行走都不是一件容易的事情，那条红毛小狗溜了一下然后滑倒了，我也重重地摔了两跤，有一次把我的枪都弄掉了，在冰上滑掉了。

我们惊起了一群躲在悬有灌木的高高±堤下的鹌鹑，它们从土堤顶上飞开时我打死了两只。有些鹌鹁栖息在树上，但大多数都分散在一丛丛灌木林间，必须在长着灌木丛的结冰的土墩上蹦哒几下,它们才会惊起呢；你还在覆盖着冰雪的、富有弹性的灌木丛中东倒西歪，想保持身体重心时，它们就飞出来了，这时要打它们可真不容易，我打中了两只，五只没打中，动身回来时，发现靠近屋子的地方也有一群鹌鹑，心里很高兴，开心的是第二天还可以找到好多呢。

到家后，家人说孩子拒绝让任何人进他房间去。

“你们不能进来，”他说，“你们绝不能拿走我的东西。”

我上楼去看他，发现他还保持着我离开他时候的那个姿势，脸色煞白，不过因为发烧脸颊红红的，还是像刚才那样一动不动死死盯着床脚。

我给他量了体温。

“多少度？”

“好像是一百度，”我说，“其实是一百零二度四分。”

“是一百零二度。”他说。

“谁说的？”

“医生说的。”

“你的体温还好，”我说，“没什么好担心的。”

“我不担心，”他说，“但是我不得不想。”

“别想了，”我说，“别着急，慢慢来。”

“我不急。”他说着一直朝前看。很明显他心里藏着什么事情。

“用水把这药服下去吧。”

“你觉得这药吃了会起什么作用吗？”

 “当然起作用啦。”

我坐下来翻开那本《海盗集》开始读了起来，但我看得出他没在听，所以我就不读了。

“你认为我什么时候会死去？”他问。

“什么？”

“我还能活多久才死？”

“你不会死的。你怎么啦？”

“哦，是的，我要死了。我听见他说一百零二度。”

“发烧到一百零二度人是死不了的。你这么说可真傻啊。”

“我知道会死的。在法国学校的时候，同学告诉过我，人到了四十四度就活不成了。可我已经到了一百零二度了。”

原来从早上九点钟起，他就一直在等死，都等了一整天了。

“可怜的宝贝儿，”，我说，“可怜的大宝贝儿啊，这就好比英里和公里。你不会死的。那是两种不同的体温表啊。那种表上三十七度算正常。这种表要九十八度才算正常。”

“此话当真？”

“千真万确！”我说，“好比英里和公里。你知道我们开车时车速七十英里等于多少公里吗？”

“哦。”他说。

可他盯住床脚的眼光慢慢轻松了下来，他内心的紧张焦虑最后也终于轻松了，第二天一点也不紧张了，他为了一点鸡毛蒜皮的小事动不动就哭了。

（孙悦译）

In a little district west of Washington Square the streets have run crazy and broken themselves into small strips called "places". These "places" make strange angles and curves. One Street crosses itself a time or two. An artist once discovered a valuable possibility in this street. Suppose a collector with a bill for paints, paper and canvas should, in traversing this route, suddenly meet himself coming back, without a cent having been paid on ac!

So, to quaint old Greenwich Village the art people soon came prowling, hunting for north windows and eighteenth -century gables and Dutch attics and low rents. Then they imported some pewter mugs and a chafing dish or two from Sixth Avenue, and became a "colony".

At the top of a squatty, three-story brick Sue and Johnsy had their studio. "Johnsy" was familiar for Joanna. One was from Maine; the other from California. They had met at the table dhote of an Eighth Street "Delmonicos". and found their tastes in art, chicory salad and bishop sleeps so congenial that the joint studio resulted.

That was in May. In November a cold, unseen stranger, whom the doctors called Pneumonia, stalked about the colony, touching one here and there with his icy fingers. Over on the east side this ravager strode boldly, smiting his victims by scores, but his feet trod slowly through the maze of the narrow and moss-grown "places".

Mr. Pneumonia was not what you would call a chivalric old gentleman. A mite of a little woman with blood thinned by California zephyrs was hardly fair game for the red-fisted, short-breathed old duffer. But Johnsy he smote; and she lay, scarcely moving, on her painted iron bedstead, looking through the small Dutch window-panes at the blank side of the next brick house.

One morning the busy doctor invited Sue into the hallway with a shaggy, gray eyebrow.

"She has one chance in-let us say, ten." he said, as he shook down the mercury in his clinical thermometer, " And that chance is for her to want to live. This way people have of lining-u on the side of the undertaker makes the entire pharmacopoeia look silly. Your little lady has made up her mind that shes not going to well. Has she anything on her mind?"

"She --- she wanted to paint the Bay of Naples some day." said Sue.

"Paint? --- bosh! Has she anything on her mind worth thinking twice --- a man for instance?"

"A man?" said Sue, with a jews-harp twang in her voice. "Is a man worth --- but, no, doctor; there is nothing of the kind."

"Well, it is the weakness, then." said the doctor, "I will do all that science, so far as it may filter through my efforts, can accomplish. But whenever my patient begins to the carriages in her funeral procession I subtract 50 per cent from the curative power of medicines. If you will her to ask one question about the new winter styles in cloak sleeves I will promise you a one-in-five chance for her, instead of one in ten."

After the doctor had gone Sue went into the workroom and cried a Japanese napkin to a pulp.

Then she swaggered into Johnsys room with her drawing board, whistling ragtime.

Johnsy lay, scarcely making a ripple under the bedclothes, with her face toward the window.

Sue stopped whistling, thinking she was asleep.

She arranged her board and began a pen-and-ink drawing to illustrate a magazine story.

Young artists must pave their way to Art by drawing pictures for magazine stories that young authors write to pave their way to Literature.

As Sue was sketching a pair of elegant horseshow riding trousers and a monocle of the figure of the hero, an Idaho cowboy, she heard a low sound, several times repeated. She went quickly to the bedside.

Johnsys eyes were open wide. She was looking out the window and ing-ing backward

"Twelve," she said, and little later "eleven"; and then "ten" and "nine"; and then "eight" and "seven", almost toher.

Sue look solicitously out of the window. What was there to ? There was only a bare, dreary yard to be seen, and the blank side of the brick house twenty feet away. An old, old ivy vine, gnarled and decayed at the roots, climbed half way up the back wall. The cold breath of autumn had stricken its leaves from the vine until its skeleton branches clung, almost bare, to the crumbling bricks.

"What is it, dear?" asked Sue.

"Six," said Johnsy, in almost a whisper. "Theyre falling faster now. Three days ago there were almost a hundred. It made my head ache to them. But now its easy. There goes another one.

There are only five left now."

"Five what, dear? Tell your Sudie."

"Leaves. On the ivy vine. When the last one falls I must go, too. Ive known that for three days.

Didnt the doctor tell you?"

"Oh, I never heard of such nonsense," complained Sue, with magnificent scorn. "What have old ivy leaves to do with your ting well? And you used to love that vine so, you naughty girl. Dont be a goosey. Why, the doctor told me this morning that your chances for ting well real soon were-lets see exactly what he said-he said the chances were ten to one! Why, thats almost as good a chance as we have in New York when we ride on the street cars or walk past a new building. Try to take some broth now, and let Sudie go back to her drawing, so she can sell the editor man with it, and buy port wine~ for her sick child, and pork chops for her greedy self."

"You neednt any more wine." said Johnsy, keeping her eyes fixed out the window, "There goes another. No, I dont want any broth. That leaves just four. I want to see the last one fall before it s dark. Then Ill go, too."

"Johnsy, dear," said Sue, bending over her, "will you promise me to keep your eyes closed, and not look out the window until am done working? I must hand those drawings in by to-morrow. I need the light, or I would draw the shade down."

"Couldnt you draw in the other room?" asked Johnsy, coldly.

"Id rather be here by you." said Sue, "Beside, I dont want you to keep looking at those silly ivy leaves."

"Tell me as soon as you have finished," said Johnsy, closing her eyes, and lying white and still as fallen statue, "because I want to see the last one fall. Im tired of waiting. Im tired of thinking. I want to turn loose my hold on everything, and go sailing down, down, just like one of those poor, tired leaves."

"Try to sleep." said Sue, "I must call Behrman up to be my model for the old hermit miner. Ill not be gone a minute. Dont try to move till come back."

Old Behrman was a painter who lived on the ground floor beneath them. He was past sixty and had a Michael Angelos Moses beard curling down from the head of a Satyr along with the body of an imp. Behrman was a failure in art. Forty years he had wielded the brush without ting near enough to touch the hem of his Mistresss robe. He had been always about to paint a masterpiece, but had never yet begun it. For several years he had painted nothing except now and then a daub in the line of commerce or advertising. He earned a little by serving as a model to those young artists in the colony who could not pay the price of a professional. He drank gin to excess, and still talked of his coming masterpiece. For the rest he was a fierce little old man, who scoffed terribly at softness in any one, and who regarded himself as especial mastiff-in-waiting to protect the two young artists in the studio above.

Sue found Behrman smelling strongly of juniper berries in his dimly lighted den below. In one comer was a blank canvas on an easel that had been waiting there for twenty-five years to receive the first line of the masterpiece. She told him of Johnsys fancy, and how she feared she would, indeed, light and fragile as a leaf herself, float away, when her slight hold upon the world grew weaker.

Old Behrman, with his red eyes plainly streaming, shouted his contempt and derision for such idiotic imaginings.

"Vass!" he cried, "Is dere people in de world mit der foolishness to die because leafs dey off from a confounded vine? I haf not heard of such a thing. No, I will not bose as a model for your fool hernut-dunderhead. Vy do you allow dot silly pusiness to come in der brain of her? Ach, dot poor leetle Miss Yohnsy."

"She is very ill and weak," said Sue, "and the fever has left her mind morbid and full of strange fancies. Very well, Mr. Behrman, if you do not care to pose for me, you neednt. But I think you are a horrid old-old Hibbertigibbet."

"You are just like a woman!" yelled Behrman, "Who said I will not bose? Go on. I come mit you. For half an hour I haf peen trying to say dot I am ready to bose. Gott! dis is not any blace in which one so goot as Miss Yohnsy shall lie sick. Some day I vill baint a masterpiece, and ve shall all go away. Gott! yes."

Johnsy was sleeping when they went upstairs. Sue pulled the shade down to the window-sill, and motioned Behrman into the other room. In there they peered out the window fearfully at the ivy vine. Then they looked at each other for a moment without speaking. A persistent, cold rain was falling, mingled with snow. Behrman, in l:us old blue shirt, took his seat as the hermit miner on an upturned kettle for a rock.

When Sue awoke from an hours sleep the next morning she found Johnsy with dull, wide-open eyes staring at the drawn green shade.

"Pull it up; I want to see.’’ she ordered，in a whisper.

Wearily Sue obeyed.

But, lo! after the beating rain and fierce gusts of wind that had endured through the livelong night, there yet stood out against the brick wall one ivy leaf. It was the last one on the vine. Still dark green near its stem, with its serrated edges tinted with the yellow of dissolution and decay, it hung bravely from the branch some twenty feet above the ground.

"It is the last one." said Johnsy, "I thought it would surely fall during the night. I heard the wind. It will fall today, and I shall die at the same time."

"Dear, dear!" said Sue, leaning her worn face down to the pillow, "think of me, if you wont think of yourself. What would I do?"

But Johnsy did not answer. The lonesomest thing in all the world is a soul when it is making ready to go on its mysterious, far journey. The fancy seemed to possess her more strongly as one by one the ties that bound her to friendship and to earth were loosed.

The day wore away, and even through the twilight they could see the lone ivy leaf clinging to its stem against the wall. And then, with the coming of the night the north wind was again loosed, while the rain still beat against the windows and pattered down from the low Dutch eaves.

When it was light enough Johnsy, the merciless, commanded that the shade be raised.

The ivy leaf was still there.

Johnsy lay for a long time looking at it. And then she called to Sue, who was stirring her chicken broth over the gas stove.

"Ive been a bad girl, Sudie." said Johnsy, "Something has made that last leaf stay there to show me how wicked I was. It is a sin to want to die. You may bring a me a little broth now, and some milk with a little port in it, and-no; bring me a hand-mirror first, and then pack some pillows about me, and I will sit up and watch you cook."

An hour later she said: "Sudie, someday I hope to paint the Bay of Naples."

The doctor came in the afternoon, and Sue had an excuse to go into the hallway as he left.

"Even chances." said the doctor, taking Sues thin, shaking hand in his, "With good nursing youll win." And now I must see another case I have downstairs. Behrman, his name is --- some kind of an artist, I believe. Pneumonia, too. He is an old, weak man, and the attack is acute. There is no hope for him; but he goes to the hospital today to be made more comfortable."

The next day the doctor said to Sue: "Shes out of danger. You won. Nutrition and care now --- thats all."

And that afternoon Sue came to the bed where Johnsy lay, contentedly knitting a very blue and very uss woollen shoulder scarf, and put one arm around her, pillows and all.

"I have something to tell you, white mouse." she said, "Mr. Behrman died of pneumonia today in the hospital. He was ill only two days. The janitor found him the morning of the first day in his room downstairs helpless with pain. His shoes and clothing were wet through and icy cold. They couldnt imagine where he had been on such a dreadful night. And then they found a lantern, still lighted, and a ladder that had been dragged from its place, and some scattered brushes, and a palette with green and yellow colors mixed on it, and-look out the window, dear, at the last ivy leaf on the wall. Didnt you wonder why it never fluttered or moved when the wind blew? Ah, darling, its Behrmans masterpiece-he painted it there the night that the last leaf fell."

在华盛顿广场以西的狭小区域里，街道延伸得毫无秩序，并且有许多叫“巷子”的小分支。这些“巷子”尽是些奇怪的拐角。一条街会自行交叉一两回。曾经有一位画家发现了这种街道的好处。假定有一个要账的人跑到这里的一条街上来收颜料、纸和画布钱的话，他可能一分钱还没有收到，就突然间发现自己又从原路返回了。

或许正因为这样，不久，那些画画儿的人们就来到这个古香古色的老格林威治村，寻找那些朝北的窗子、锡鎉、十八世纪的山墙和荷兰式的阁楼以及房租低廉的出租屋。然后他们从第六大街上购置一些锡铅合金的大杯子和一两只暖锅。这里就成了他们的“殖民地”了。在一所低矮敦实的三层砖楼里，苏伊和琼西拥有她们的工作室。“琼西”是琼安娜的昵称。她俩一个来自缅因州，另一个来自加利福尼亚州。她们是在第八街区的“德尔茉妮可的店”偶遇的，随后发现在艺术的品位、生菜沙拉的味道以及对灯笼袖的看法上都一致，结果就产生了这间联合画室。

那是发生在五月里的事情了。到了十一月，一个冷血的看不见的被医生们唤作肺炎的陌生人，昂首阔步地来到这块儿殖民地，用冰冷的手指摸摸这儿，碰碰那儿。在东边，这个破坏者放肆前行，击垮了二十多人，但是，在迷宫般狭小又布满苔藓的“巷子”里，他放慢了脚步。

肺炎先生可不是你说的有骑士精神的老绅士。一个瘦小的女子，被加利福尼亚的西风吹得血色惨淡，几乎就不是这个赤红拳头、呼吸急促的老东西的对手。但是，他还是袭击了琼西，她躺在那儿，几乎一动不动，在她那张油过漆的铁床上，透过一扇窄小的荷兰式窗子，望着相邻一所房子空白的墙壁。

一个早晨，那位有着长长的灰色眉毛的医生，把苏伊请到走廊上。

“她还有十分之一的机会。”他边说边甩下体温表里的水银柱，“而那希望来自于她求生的念头。有人要是排队等侯给自己办丧事的话，那就无药可救了。你的小姐妹认定自己是不会好了。有什么能让她琢磨琢磨的事情吗？”

“她——她想有一天去画那不勒斯海湾。”苏伊说。

“画画儿？废话！有什么能让她再三考虑的事情吗——比如男人？”

“一个男人？”苏伊说，带着一种不屑的口吻。“—个男人值得吗？不，医生，没有那种事情。”

“哦，那么希望就很微小了。”医生说，“我将尽一切所知道的科学方法来治疗。但是，当我的病人开始数着她葬礼上的马车时，我就得把治疗的效果降低百分之五十。如果你能让她就冬季大衣袖子的新款式提个问题的话，我向你保证，她的治疗效果能从十分之一提高到五分之一。”

医生离去之后，苏伊走进画室，哭了一场，曰式餐巾湿成了一团。然后，她仿佛什么事情都没有似的，来到琼西的房间，夹着画板，吹着爵士乐的小调。

琼西躺在那里，被单下的身体一动不动，她的脸朝着窗子，苏伊以为她睡了，停止了口哨。

她放好画板，开始为一个杂志故事画一幅钢笔插图。年轻的艺术家不得不通过为杂志画插图来铺就通往艺术殿堂的道路，而那些杂志故事又是年轻的作家为了铺就通往文学殿堂的道路而写的。

正当苏伊为故事的主角，一个爱达荷州的牛仔，画上在马匹展会上穿戴的优雅马裤和单片眼镜时，她听到一个微弱的声音，反复了好几次。她迅速地走到床边。

琼西睁大了眼睛，她望着窗外，数着——是倒数着。

“十二片。”她说，过了一会儿，“十一片”“十片”“九片”“八片”和“七片”是紧接着说的。

苏伊关切地朝窗外看去。那有什么东西可数的？只能看到那儿有一个空旷沉闷的院子，还能看见二十英尺开外一所砖房的墙壁。一株苍老的根部扭曲、布满结疤且枯朽的常春藤已经爬到了砖墙的一半儿。瑟瑟秋风已经把叶子从藤条上打落，只剩下主干枝条紧紧地抓住几尽光秃、满是裂痕的砖墙。

“那有什么，亲爱的？”苏伊问道。

“六片。”琼西耳语般说着，“它们现在很快就要掉落了。三天前，有差不多一百多片叶子。我数起来都觉得头疼。但是，现在简单多了。又捧下了一片。现在只剩下五片了。”

“五片什么东西，亲爱的？快告诉你的苏迪。”

“藤叶。常春藤上的叶子。最后一片叶子掉落的时候，我就要走了。三天前，我就知道了。难道医生没有告诉你吗？”

“哦，我从未听过这种胡话。”苏伊不以为然地抱怨，  “那棵枯老的常春藤跟你的病情好转有什么关系？因为以前你不喜欢那棵藤，你这个淘气的丫头。别傻了。哎，那个医生今天早上告诉我说你很快就会康复——听听他具体是怎么说来着——他说你十之八九是能康复的。好了，那几乎差不多同我们在纽约搭街车，或者是路过一座新建筑物一样。现在来尽量喝点肉汤吧，让苏迪接着画她的画儿，好卖给编辑先生，然后给她的病孩子买点波尔图酒，给馋嘴的自己买点猪排。”

“不用再买酒了。”琼西说。她的目光凝视窗外，“又有一片掉了下来。不，我不想喝什么肉汤。就剩下四片叶子了。天黑之前，我想看到最后一片叶子掉下来。那时候，我也要走了。”

“琼西，亲爱的。”苏伊弯下身子对她讲，  “你能向我保证在我完成工作之前闭上眼睛不向窗外望了吗？我明天必须要交上这些插图的画稿了。我需要光线，否则我早就拉下窗帘了？”

“你不能到另一个房间去画吗？”

“我愿意在这儿陪着你，”苏伊说，“另外，我不想让你一直盯着那几片没有意义的藤 叶看。”

“你一画完就告诉我。”琼西说，闭上眼睛，面色苍白，像一尊一动不动的倒下的塑像，  “因为我想看到最后一片藤叶掉落。我等得有些烦了。我想得也有些烦了。我想放开所有的事情，然后就像那些可怜疲倦的藤叶，飘落下来，飘落下来。”

“尽量睡会儿吧。”苏伊说，“我得下楼把贝尔曼叫上来当隐居老矿工的模特儿。我就离开一小会儿。我回来之前，你别动。”

老贝尔曼住在她们楼下的底层。他六十开外，留着米开朗基罗式的胡子，从森林之神萨蒂般的头上卷曲着并沿小鬼儿般的身躯垂下来。贝尔曼是一个失败的艺术家。他已经挥动画笔四十年却没能触及艺术女神的裙边。他总是要画一幅杰作，但一直没有开工。有好几年，除了时不时地画一些商业广告或海报，他什么都没画。他给艺术区里雇不起职业模特的年轻艺术家们充当模特，以此来赚点钱。他总是喝过头，并且仍旧谈论着他即将创作的名画儿。除此之外，他是一个好发脾气的小老头儿，总是讥讽别人的温婉厚道，却自视看家狗，专门保护楼上工作室里两位年轻的画家。

苏伊在楼下那间昏暗污秽的小屋里找到一身酒气的贝尔曼。在一个角落里，一块儿空白画布放置在画架上，二十五年来一直等着杰作的第一笔画在上面。她告诉他琼西的胡思乱想，还有如何担心当一琼西对这个世界的留恋越来越少的时候，会像一片又轻又脆弱的藤叶飘然而逝。

老贝尔曼，布满血丝的双眼里泪光清晰可见，大声嚷嚷着，对这种呆傻的猜想表示蔑视和嘲讽。

“什么话！”他大声喊着。“这世上真有人愚蠢到因为叶子从那该死的常春藤上掉落而想到死吗？我还从没听说过这种事情。不，我不会去给你当呆傻的隐居矿工模特儿的。你怎么能让她的头脑中有那种愚蠢的念头呢？哎，可怜的琼西小姐。”

“她病得很重而且很虚弱。”苏伊说，“发烧让她头脑混乱，满是奇怪的想法。不过，好吧，贝尔曼先生，如果你不想给我当模特儿，也不必勉强。但我认为你是一个让人烦的老——老唠叨鬼。”

“真是妇人之见！”贝尔曼大声反驳。“谁说我不干了？走，我跟你走。这半个小时，我一直跟你说要准备给你干。老天！琼西小姐这样的好姑娘真是不该病倒在这里。总有一天，我会拿出一幅大作品，然后我们都离开这儿，会的。”

他们上楼时，琼西正在睡觉。苏伊拉下窗帘直到窗台，然后打手势让贝尔曼到另一个房间去。在那儿，他们紧张兮兮地盯着窗外的常春藤。然后，他们各自看着对方，谁都没有做声。一阵冰冷的雨断断续续，夹着雪花下了起来。贝尔曼，穿上他的蓝色旧衬衣，像一位隐居的矿工，坐在充当岩石的翻倒过来的水壶上。

第二天早上，苏伊只睡了一个小时，醒过来，发现琼西，呆滞地盯着拉下来的绿色窗帘。

“我要看看。”她用一个低弱的声音命令着。

疲惫不堪的苏伊遵从指示。

但是，哦！经过一夜雨水的敲打和阵阵狂风的肆虐，仍然有一片藤叶在挨着砖墙的地方。它是最后一片藤叶。接近根茎的地方仍旧是深绿色的，锯齿状叶子的边缘处有些泛黄枯萎。它充满勇气地挂在离地面二十英寸的枝蔓上。

“最后一片了。”琼西说。“我还以为昨晚它一定会掉了。我听见了风声。今天它会落下来的，在那一刻，我会死掉。”

“亲爱的！”苏伊说，将满是倦容的脸靠在枕头上，“即便不为自己着想，也该想想我。我以后怎么办？”

但是，琼西并没有作答。全世界最可怕的事莫过于一个灵魂准备好踏上神秘的征途。当友谊和尘世的扭结一个一个松散开来，胡乱的想法似乎却对她越抓越紧。

白天磨磨蹭蹭地过去了，即便是在暮色中，她们仍能看见那片孤单的藤叶紧紧抓牢贴近墙面的茎蔓。随着夜幕的降临，北风又开始吹起来，雨点敲打着窗子，雨水沿着低矮的荷兰式屋檐洒散。

第二天天才亮，琼西又毫无怜悯地命令苏迪把窗帘拉起来。

那片藤叶仍然在那里。

琼西躺在那里好一会儿，并一直望着那片叶子。然后她呼唤苏伊，后者正用煤气炉给她煮鸡汤。

 “我是个坏孩子，苏迪。”琼西说，“某些东西让那片叶子一直在那里，为的是让我看到自己有多坏。想死是一种罪。现在你或许可以给我一点儿汤喝，或者是加丁波尔图酒的牛奶，还有——不，先给我一面小梳妆镜，再拿几个枕头让我靠着，我就能坐起来看着你做汤了。”

一个小时后她说：“苏迪，有一天我想去画那不勒斯海湾。”

下午医生来了，苏伊在他临走时找了个借口走到走廊里。

“有一半机会康复了。”医生说，握住苏伊瘦弱颤抖的手，“只要好好照料，你就能赢了。现在，我必须去看看楼下另一个病人。他叫贝尔曼——我想，也算是个画家之类的。得的也是肺炎。他年老体虚，是急症。他没有希望了。今天要把他弄到医院去，那会让他舒服些。”

第二天，医生对苏伊说：“她已经度过危险期了。你成功了。现在只要补充营养和悉心照料就行了。”

当天下午，苏伊来到琼西床边，琼西正满意地织着一条深蓝色、毫无用处的羊毛披肩，苏伊用一只胳膊，连枕头带人一起搂住琼西。

“我要告诉你些事情，小东西。”她说，“贝尔曼先生今天在医院因为肺炎去世了。他才病了两天。第一天的时候，看门人在楼下的房间里发现无助痛苦的他。没法想象他在那个可怕的夜晚去哪里了。然后，他们找到还亮着的灯、一个从外面拖回来的梯子、散落的画笔、一个上面有些绿釜翻黄色颜料的调色板。亲爱的，看看外面吧，墙上那片最后的藤叶。难道你不奇怪吗？为什么风吹过的时侯它一动不动？啊，亲爱的，它是贝尔曼的杰作——那个夜晚，当最后—片藤叶掉落的时候他画了一片在墙上。”

（李瑾  译）

One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the veable man and the butcher until ones cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Della ed it. One dollar and eighty-seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.

There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della did it, which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.

While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first stage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at $8 per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had that word on the lookout for the mendicancy" squad.

In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name "Mr. James Dillingham Young."

The "Dillingham" had been flung to the breeze during a former period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid $30 per week. Now, when the income was shrunk to $20, though, they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming D. But whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was called "Jim" and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young, already introduced to you as Della, which is all very good.

Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out dully at a gray cat walking along a gray fence in a gray backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a week doesnt go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something fine and rare and sterling --- something just a little bit near to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim.

There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pier-glass in an $8 flat. A very thin and very agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, being slender, had mastered the art.

Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. Her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its color within twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length.

Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jims gold watch that had been his fathers and his grandfathers. The other was Dellas hair. Had the queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft, Della would have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majestys jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from envy.

So now Dellas beautiful hair fell about her rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet.

On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street.

Where she stopped the sign read: "Mme. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds." One flight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting. Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the "Sofronie".

"Will you buy my hair?" asked Della.

"I buy hair." said Madame, "Take yer hat off and lets have a sight at the looks of it."

Down rippled the brown cascade.

"Twenty dollars." said Madame, lifting the mass with a practised hand.

"Give it to me quick." said Della.

Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. For the hashed metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jims present.

She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by meretricious ornamentation --- as all good things should do. It was even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must be Jims. It was like him. Quietness and value --- the description applied to both. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the 87 cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on ac of the old leather strap that he used in place of a chain.

When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence and reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love, which is always a tremendous task, dear friends --- a mammoth task.

Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-lying curls that made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked at her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critically.

"If Jim doesnt kill me," she said to herself, "before he takes a second look at me, hell say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl. But what could I do --- oh! what could I do with a dollar and eighty-seven cents?"

At 7 oclock the coffee was made and the frying-pan was on the back of the stove hot and ready to cook the chops.

Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then she heard his step on the stair away down on the first flight, and she turned white for just a moment. She had a habit for saying little silent prayer about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered: "Please God, make him think I am still pretty."

The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two --- and to be burdened with a family! He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves.

Jim stopped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scent of quail. His eyes were fixed upon Della, and there was an expression in them that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face.

Della wriggled off the table and went for him.

"Jim, darling," she cried, "dont look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and sold because I couldnt have lived through Christmas without giving you a present. Itll grow out again --- you wont mind, will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say Merry Christmas! Jim, and lets be happy. You dont know what a nice --- what a beautiful, nice gift Ive got for you."

"Youve cut off your hair?" asked Jim, laboriously, as if he had not arrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labor.

"Cut it off and sold it." said Della, "Dont you like me just as well, anyhow? Im me without my hair, aint I?"

Jim looked about the room curiously.

"You say your hair is gone?" he said, with an air almost of idiocy.

"You neednt look for it." said Della, "Its sold, I tell you --- sold and gone, too. Its Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went for you. Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered," she went on with sudden serious sweetness, "but nobody could ever my love for you. Shall I put the chops on, Jim?"

Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded his Della. For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some inconsequential object in the other direction. Eight dollars a week or a million a year --- what is the difference? A mathematician or a wit would give you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them. This dark assertion will be illuminated later on.

Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table.

"Dont make any mistake, Dell," he said, "about me. I dont think theres anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me like my girl any less. But if youll unwrap that package you may see why you had me going a while at first."

White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! a quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment of all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat.

For there lay The Combs --- the set of combs, side and back, that Della had worshipped long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell, with jewelled rims --- just the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope of possession. And now, they were hers, but the tresses that should have adorned the coveted adornments were gone.

But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to look up with dim eyes and a smile and say: "My hair grows so fast, Jim!"

And then Della leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, "Oh, oh!"

Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit.

"Isnt it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. Youll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it."

Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled.

"Dell," said he, "lets put our Christmas presents away and keep em a while. Theyre too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to the money to buy your combs. And now suppose you put the chops on."

The magi, as you know, were wise men --- wonderfully wise men --- who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art, of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. O all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi.

一块八毛七。所有的钱就这么多。而且，有六毛钱还是用小硬币凑的。这些硬币是用在杂货店、菜摊儿、肉铺子这些地方费力讨价而省下的一两分积攒的。每次她都因落下个“抠门儿”的坏名声而脸颊发烫。黛拉数了三遍钱。一美元八毛七分。第二天就是圣诞节了。

很明显，什么也做不了，除了一下子坐在又破又旧的小沙发里哭。黛拉就是这个样子。这让她不免想起生活就是由呜咽、抽噎和微笑组成的，而抽噎占了主要部分。

当这个家的女主人心情渐渐平缓下来的时候，让我们瞧瞧这个家吧。一间带家具的公寓，租金是每周八块。这个房间还不是完全破旧简陋到没法描述，不过，它看上去像是那些贫民居住的地方。

褛下门厅里有一个信箱，里面没有一封信。有一个电钮，没有一个活人的手指头愿意触碰一下它。信箱的下方还有一张卡片，上面写着“詹姆士·帝林汉姆·扬先生”。

“帝林汉姆”在以前每周赚三十块钱的富裕时期也曾春风得意。但现在，缩减到二十块钱，所以他们在认真地思考，要把名字缩写成谦逊的“D”，以显得不那么招摇。但是，不论什么时间，詹姆士﹒帝林汉姆﹒扬先生一回到家中，走进属于他的那间公寓，他都被詹姆士﹒帝林汉姆﹒扬太太紧紧地抱住，听她喊着“吉姆”。詹姆士·帝林汉姆·扬太太就是我们已提到的黛拉。然后这一切又变得美好起来。

黛拉停止了哭泣，往脸上扑了点粉。她站在窗边，没精打采地看见一只灰猫在灰暗的后院里穿过一道灰色的篱笆。明天就是圣诞节了，她只有一块八毛七给吉姆买礼物。好几个月以来，她节省每一分钱，可结果还是这个样子。每周二十块钱，花不了多久就没了。花费远比她预算的要多。他们总是这样。只剩下一块八毛七给吉姆买礼物了。她曾经用许多美妙的时间盘算着给他买件好东西。要买一件精美的、稀有的、有价值的——一件能够配得上他的礼物。

房间两扇窗子之间有一面穿衣镜，你也许见过租金八块钱的公寓。一个身材消瘦、行动敏捷的人，在镜子前来回晃晃，通过一系列狭长的镜像叠加在一起，就能对他的容貌有一个较为精准的印象。黛拉身材苗条，早巳掌握了这种技巧。

突然，她从窗前转过来，站在穿衣镜前。她的双眼烁烁闪亮，而她的脸颊却在二十秒钟内失色。她迅速地放下头发，让它们全部披散下来。

在詹姆士·帝林汉姆·扬家里，有两样引以为豪的东西。一样是吉姆的金表，是他祖父的，又传给了他父亲。另一样是黛拉的头发。假如示巴女王住在风井对面的公寓里，哪一天，黛拉把她的头发甩到窗外吹干，女王的所有珠宝财物都显得不值一文了。假如所罗门王是一位守门人，把他全部金银财宝堆在地下室里，吉姆每次掏出怀表时，都会令他嫉妒得直拽胡须。

现在黛拉美丽的长发垂散下来，头发一直垂至她的膝盖，仿佛一件罩住她的长袍。然后，她又神经质地把头发迅速扎好。有一阵她犹豫了，站在那里一动不动，一两滴眼泪洒落在破旧的红色地毯上。

她穿上棕色的旧外套，戴上她的棕色旧帽子。她转了一下裙摆，眼睛里还闪着泪光就飞奔出门，下楼，来到大街上。

她在一块商店招牌前面停下了脚步，招牌上写着：“索芙朗妮夫人。各种头发制品有售。”黛拉一步跑进去，整理了一下自己，气喘吁吁。那个夫人，又高又胖，皮肤白得有些过头，面容冷酷，一点儿没有像是叫“索芙朗妮”的模样。

“我的头发您买吗？”黛拉问道。

“我买。”夫人答道，“把帽子摘下来，让我看看你的头发。”

棕色的瀑布飘垂下来。

“二十块钱。”夫人说着，用一只老练的手提起头发。

“快把它给我。”戴拉说道。

哦，在接下来的两个小时里，黛拉仿佛拥有了一双瑰丽的翅膀，轻松愉快地奔忙着。别去理喻这个糟糕的比喻吧。她寻遍了商店，为的是给吉姆买上一件礼物。

终于，她找到了。那一定是为吉姆而不是别人准备的：在别的任何一家商店里，也没有像这样的一件物品了，她已经找遍了所有的商店。那是一条铂金带饰物的怀表链，设计简约朴素，完全是以品质来表明自己的价值，而非那些华而不实的装饰——如同一切好的东西一样。它绝对像吉姆一样安静而有价值——这种形容对人对表链都适合。店员收了她二十一块钱，她拿着八毛七分钱匆匆地回家了。给怀表配上那条链子，吉姆就能在任何人面前看时间了。那块怀表是很贵重的，但是他只能偷偷地看，都是因为他用一根旧皮绳代替了表链。

黛拉回到家里之后，她不再那么陶醉与兴奋，开始理性谨慎地思考。她拿出卷发钳，点着了煤气灯，开始修复那些因爱情的慷慨而造成的痕迹。通常这是一项艰巨的工作，亲爱的朋友们——可是一项庞大的工作。

不到四十分钟，她的头上就都是细小而紧密的发卷了，这让她看上去活像一个逃学的学生。她在狭长的镜子前仔细而挑剔地看着自己。

“如果吉姆没杀死我，”她自言自语道，“在他看我第二眼之前，他会说我看上去象科尼岛上合唱团里的女孩儿。但是我还能怎么办呢——哦：一块八毛七能做什么呢?"

七点钟的时候，咖啡煮好了，平底锅已在炉子上预热，准备煎牛排了。

吉姆从不迟到。黛拉折叠好那款表链，把它攥在手里，坐在他常走进的那扇门旁边的餐桌一角。随后，她听到下面一楼他上台阶的脚步声，一时间她脸色苍白。她有一个习惯，对于每日里最简单的事情都要祷告一番，现在她低声祷告着，“请上帝让他觉得我还是好看的。”

门开了，吉姆走进屋子把门关上。他看上去清瘦而严肃。可怜的小伙子，才二十二岁，就要担负起一个家庭的责任。他需要一件新外衣，他连一副手套都没有。

吉姆停在门内，一动不动，仿佛一只猎犬嗅到了鹌鹑的味道。他的目光锁定在黛拉那里，目光里有她读不懂的含义，这让她害怕。那不是愤怒，不是吃惊，不是否定，不是恐惧，不是任何一种她准备迎接的感情。他就那样一副奇怪的表情，盯着她看。

戴拉离开桌子走向他。

“吉姆，亲爱的。”她喊他，“别那样看着我。我剪掉头发卖了，是因为我要不送你一件礼物就没法子过圣诞节。头发还能再长出来——你不会在意，对吗？我是不得不那么做的。我的头发长得特别快。说‘圣诞节快乐’吧，吉姆，我们高兴点儿。你还不知道我给你买了一件多么好，多么漂亮的礼物哩。”

“你把头发剪了？”吉姆非常费解地问道，仿佛在一番激烈的脑力劳动之后，还没有明白这个明摆着的事实。

“剪掉卖了。”黛拉答道，“不管我什么样子你都喜欢，对吗？头发没了，但我还是我，对吗？”

吉姆好奇地环视了房间。

“你是说你的头发没有了？”他问道，几乎一副傻呆呆的样子。

“你别找了。”黛拉说，“卖掉了，我告诉你——我把头发卖掉了，已经卖了。现在是圣诞前夜，亲爱的。对我好点儿，为了你，我才卖掉头发的。也许我的头发是有数的。”她突然带着一种十分认真的甜蜜走向他，“但是没有人能数清我对你的爱。我能去煎牛排了吗，吉姆？”

吉姆似乎立即从恍惚中清醒过来。他抱住黛拉。就让我们用这十秒钟的时间从其他角度谨慎思考一些并不相关的事物吧。每周八块钱租金的公寓和一年一百万租金的公寓，这有什么区别吗？一个数学家或者一个聪明的人将会给你错误的答案。东方三贤带来了价值连城的礼物，但那件礼物不在其中。这个意思含混的句子在后文将会讲明。

吉姆从外套的袋子里掏出一个小包，放在桌上。

“别误解我，黛儿。”他说，“我觉得不论是剪发、修发或者洗发都不能使我对妻子的爱减少一丝一毫。但是如果你拆开那个包儿，就会明白为什么你让我一下子就愣住了。”

洁白的手指，灵巧地解开细绳儿，撕开包装纸。随后是一声欣喜的尖叫。接着，哎呀！又迅速地变成了女人情绪激动的眼泪和哭泣，这让这间公寓的主人不得不立刻用上所有安慰人的法子。

原来那是梳子——一套梳子，插在发鬓两侧的，插在脑后的，这是黛拉羡慕好久的，陈列在百老汇大街上橱窗里的那一套梳子。漂亮的梳子是玳瑁制成的，边缘处镶嵌了珠宝—恰好是能配那些剪掉的秀发的颜色。这些梳子是昂贵的，她知道，她只是在心里渴望得到，却从没有想到有希望能真正拥有。现在，它们是她的了，可惜那头本来渴望打扮装饰的长发却没有了。

但是她还是把它们捧在胸前，过了好久，她才眨着泪眼抬起头来，微笑着说，“吉姆，我的头发长得特别快！”

接着，黛拉像一只被烧焦的小猫一样跳起来，喊着，“哦，哦！”

吉姆还没看到他的漂亮的礼物。她把礼物放在手心，热切地伸向他。闷声不响的贵金属似乎闪烁着她明亮而热切的神情。

“是不是好极了，吉姆？我搜遍了全城找到的。现在你可以一天之中看上一百次时间了。把你的怀表给我。我要看看配上这条链子会怎样？”

吉姆没有遵从，而是一下子坐在沙发上，双手放在脑后，笑着。

“黛儿。”他说，“我们把圣诞礼物放一边保存一段时间吧。他们太好了，不适合现在用。我把怀表卖了，给你买了梳子。那么现在你煎牛排好了。

如你所知，东方三贤，都是有智慧的人—是了不起的聪明人—一他们给马厩里的圣婴带去了礼物。他们开创了送圣诞礼物的先河。他们都是智者，毫无疑问，他们的礼物也是智慧之选，如有雷同，可优先调换。在这里，我给你讲了一个蹩脚的关于这间公寓里两个傻孩子的故事，他俩非常不聪明地为了对方牺牲了自己最珍贵的宝贝。但最后，我还是要对现如今的聪明人说上一句，对所有送圣诞礼物的人来讲，他俩是最聪明的。对所有送礼物和收礼物的人而言，他们是最聪明的。在每一个地方，他俩都是最聪明的。他们就是东方三贤那样充满智慧的人。 （李瑾译）