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[探討] [短篇英文小說][James Joyce] Araby

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心雪 超級版主 2008-10-3 03:27:01 灘主

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ARABY

NORTH RICHMOND STREET being blind, was a quiet street
except at the hour when the Christian Brothers' School set the boys
free. An uninhabited house of two storeys stood at the blind end,
detached from its neighbours in a square ground The other houses
of the street, conscious of decent lives within them, gazed at one
another with brown imperturbable faces.

The former tenant of our house, a priest, had died in the back
drawing-room. Air, musty from having been long enclosed, hung
in all the rooms, and the waste room behind the kitchen was
littered with old useless papers. Among these I found a few
paper-covered books, the pages of which were curled and damp:
The Abbot, by Walter Scott, The Devout Communnicant and The
Memoirs of Vidocq. I liked the last best because its leaves were
yellow. The wild garden behind the house contained a central
apple-tree and a few straggling bushes under one of which I found
the late tenant's rusty bicycle-pump. He had been a very charitable
priest; in his will he had left all his money to institutions and the
furniture of his house to his sister.

When the short days of winter came dusk fell before we had well
eaten our dinners. When we met in the street the houses had grown
sombre. The space of sky above us was the colour of
ever-changing violet and towards it the lamps of the street lifted
their feeble lanterns. The cold air stung us and we played till our
bodies glowed. Our shouts echoed in the silent street. The career
of our play brought us through the dark muddy lanes behind the
houses where we ran the gauntlet of the rough tribes from the
cottages, to the back doors of the dark dripping gardens where
odours arose from the ashpits, to the dark odorous stables where a
coachman smoothed and combed the horse or shook music from
the buckled harness. When we returned to the street light from the
kitchen windows had filled the areas. If my uncle was seen turning
the corner we hid in the shadow until we had seen him safely
housed. Or if Mangan's sister came out on the doorstep to call her
brother in to his tea we watched her from our shadow peer up and
down the street. We waited to see whether she would remain or go
in and, if she remained, we left our shadow and walked up to
Mangan's steps resignedly. She was waiting for us, her figure
defined by the light from the half-opened door. Her brother always
teased her before he obeyed and I stood by the railings looking at
her. Her dress swung as she moved her body and the soft rope of
her hair tossed from side to side.

Every morning I lay on the floor in the front parlour watching her
door. The blind was pulled down to within an inch of the sash so
that I could not be seen. When she came out on the doorstep my
heart leaped. I ran to the hall, seized my books and followed her. I
kept her brown figure always in my eye and, when we came near
the point at which our ways diverged, I quickened my pace and
passed her. This happened morning after morning. I had never
spoken to her, except for a few casual words, and yet her name
was like a summons to all my foolish blood.

Her image accompanied me even in places the most hostile to
romance. On Saturday evenings when my aunt went marketing I
had to go to carry some of the parcels. We walked through the
flaring streets, jostled by drunken men and bargaining women,
amid the curses of labourers, the shrill litanies of shop-boys who
stood on guard by the barrels of pigs' cheeks, the nasal chanting of
street-singers, who sang a come-all-you about O'Donovan Rossa,
or a ballad about the troubles in our native land. These noises
converged in a single sensation of life for me: I imagined that I
bore my chalice safely through a throng of foes. Her name sprang
to my lips at moments in strange prayers and praises which I
myself did not understand. My eyes were often full of tears (I
could not tell why) and at times a flood from my heart seemed to
pour itself out into my bosom. I thought little of the future. I did
not know whether I would ever speak to her or not or, if I spoke to
her, how I could tell her of my confused adoration. But my body
was like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers
running upon the wires.

One evening I went into the back drawing-room in which the priest
had died. It was a dark rainy evening and there was no sound in the
house. Through one of the broken panes I heard the rain impinge
upon the earth, the fine incessant needles of water playing in the
sodden beds. Some distant lamp or lighted window gleamed below
me. I was thankful that I could see so little. All my senses seemed
to desire to veil themselves and, feeling that I was about to slip
from them, I pressed the palms of my hands together until they
trembled, murmuring: "O love! O love!" many times.

At last she spoke to me. When she addressed the first words to me
I was so confused that I did not know what to answer. She asked
me was I going to Araby. I forgot whether I answered yes or no. It
would be a splendid bazaar, she said she would love to go.

"And why can't you?" I asked.

While she spoke she turned a silver bracelet round and round her
wrist. She could not go, she said, because there would be a retreat
that week in her convent. Her brother and two other boys were
fighting for their caps and I was alone at the railings. She held one
of the spikes, bowing her head towards me. The light from the
lamp opposite our door caught the white curve of her neck, lit up
her hair that rested there and, falling, lit up the hand upon the
railing. It fell over one side of her dress and caught the white
border of a petticoat, just visible as she stood at ease.

"It's well for you," she said.

"If I go," I said, "I will bring you something."

What innumerable follies laid waste my waking and sleeping
thoughts after that evening! I wished to annihilate the tedious
intervening days. I chafed against the work of school. At night in
my bedroom and by day in the classroom her image came between
me and the page I strove to read. The syllables of the word Araby
were called to me through the silence in which my soul luxuriated
and cast an Eastern enchantment over me. I asked for leave to go
to the bazaar on Saturday night. My aunt was surprised and hoped
it was not some Freemason affair. I answered few questions in
class. I watched my master's face pass from amiability to
sternness; he hoped I was not beginning to idle. I could not call my
wandering thoughts together. I had hardly any patience with the
serious work of life which, now that it stood between me and my
desire, seemed to me child's play, ugly monotonous child's play.

On Saturday morning I reminded my uncle that I wished to go to
the bazaar in the evening. He was fussing at the hallstand, looking
for the hat-brush, and answered me curtly:

"Yes, boy, I know."

As he was in the hall I could not go into the front parlour and lie at
the window. I left the house in bad humour and walked slowly
towards the school. The air was pitilessly raw and already my heart
misgave me.

When I came home to dinner my uncle had not yet been home.
Still it was early. I sat staring at the clock for some time and. when
its ticking began to irritate me, I left the room. I mounted the
staircase and gained the upper part of the house. The high cold
empty gloomy rooms liberated me and I went from room to room
singing. From the front window I saw my companions playing
below in the street. Their cries reached me weakened and
indistinct and, leaning my forehead against the cool glass, I looked
over at the dark house where she lived. I may have stood there for
an hour, seeing nothing but the brown-clad figure cast by my
imagination, touched discreetly by the lamplight at the curved
neck, at the hand upon the railings and at the border below the
dress.

When I came downstairs again I found Mrs. Mercer sitting at the
fire. She was an old garrulous woman, a pawnbroker's widow, who
collected used stamps for some pious purpose. I had to endure the
gossip of the tea-table. The meal was prolonged beyond an hour
and still my uncle did not come. Mrs. Mercer stood up to go: she
was sorry she couldn't wait any longer, but it was after eight
o'clock and she did not like to be out late as the night air was bad
for her. When she had gone I began to walk up and down the
room, clenching my fists. My aunt said:

"I'm afraid you may put off your bazaar for this night of Our Lord."

At nine o'clock I heard my uncle's latchkey in the halldoor. I heard
him talking to himself and heard the hallstand rocking when it had
received the weight of his overcoat. I could interpret these signs.
When he was midway through his dinner I asked him to give me
the money to go to the bazaar. He had forgotten.

"The people are in bed and after their first sleep now," he said.

I did not smile. My aunt said to him energetically:

"Can't you give him the money and let him go? You've kept him
late enough as it is."

My uncle said he was very sorry he had forgotten. He said he
believed in the old saying: "All work and no play makes Jack a
dull boy." He asked me where I was going and, when I had told
him a second time he asked me did I know The Arab's Farewell to
his Steed. When I left the kitchen he was about to recite the
opening lines of the piece to my aunt.

I held a florin tightly in my hand as I strode down Buckingham
Street towards the station. The sight of the streets thronged with
buyers and glaring with gas recalled to me the purpose of my
journey. I took my seat in a third-class carriage of a deserted train.
After an intolerable delay the train moved out of the station
slowly. It crept onward among ruinous house and over the
twinkling river. At Westland Row Station a crowd of people
pressed to the carriage doors; but the porters moved them back,
saying that it was a special train for the bazaar. I remained alone in
the bare carriage. In a few minutes the train drew up beside an
improvised wooden platform. I passed out on to the road and saw
by the lighted dial of a clock that it was ten minutes to ten. In front
of me was a large building which displayed the magical name.

I could not find any sixpenny entrance and, fearing that the bazaar
would be closed, I passed in quickly through a turnstile, handing a
shilling to a weary-looking man. I found myself in a big hall
girdled at half its height by a gallery. Nearly all the stalls were
closed and the greater part of the hall was in darkness. I recognised
a silence like that which pervades a church after a service. I
walked into the centre of the bazaar timidly. A few people were
gathered about the stalls which were still open. Before a curtain,
over which the words Cafe Chantant were written in coloured
lamps, two men were counting money on a salver. I listened to the
fall of the coins.

Remembering with difficulty why I had come I went over to one of
the stalls and examined porcelain vases and flowered tea- sets. At
the door of the stall a young lady was talking and laughing with
two young gentlemen. I remarked their English accents and
listened vaguely to their conversation.

"O, I never said such a thing!"

"O, but you did!"

"O, but I didn't!"

"Didn't she say that?"

"Yes. I heard her."

"0, there's a ... fib!"

Observing me the young lady came over and asked me did I wish
to buy anything. The tone of her voice was not encouraging; she
seemed to have spoken to me out of a sense of duty. I looked
humbly at the great jars that stood like eastern guards at either side
of the dark entrance to the stall and murmured:

"No, thank you."

The young lady changed the position of one of the vases and went
back to the two young men. They began to talk of the same
subject. Once or twice the young lady glanced at me over her
shoulder.

I lingered before her stall, though I knew my stay was useless, to
make my interest in her wares seem the more real. Then I turned
away slowly and walked down the middle of the bazaar. I allowed
the two pennies to fall against the sixpence in my pocket. I heard a
voice call from one end of the gallery that the light was out. The
upper part of the hall was now completely dark.

Gazing up into the darkness I saw myself as a creature driven and
derided by vanity; and my eyes burned with anguish and anger.

[ 本帖最後由 心雪 於 2008-10-3 03:28 編輯 ]





Araby [By James Joyce] 中譯本

阿拉比



  北里士满街是条死巷,那是一条安静的街道,除了基督教兄弟学校的男孩们放学的时候。在街道封死的那头,有一幢无人居住的两层楼房,独自矗立着,与邻居保持着距离.街上的其他房子意识到各自房中人们的体面生活,都摆出一副冷静沉着的棕色面孔凝视着彼此.  

     我们家以前的房客是个牧师,死在后屋的起居室里.因为封闭的太久的缘故,所有的房间都弥漫着一股霉湿的气味.厨房后面废弃的房间满地狼藉,都是些无用的旧纸张.我在里面发现了几本平装书,书页已经卷了边,潮乎乎的:沃尔特·司各特的《修道院院长》,《虔诚的教友》,还有《维多契回忆录》.我最喜欢最后一本,因为它的书页是黄色的.房子后面荒园子中间有一棵苹果树,还有些胡乱蔓生的灌木,在一丛灌木下,我发现了牧师留下的锈迹斑斑的自行车气筒.他是个很有善心的牧师;他在遗嘱里把钱全留给了教会组织,把他房里的家具全留给了他妹妹。

     冬季白天变短了,我们还没有吃完晚饭,黄昏就降临了.我们在街上碰面时,房子变得阴沉沉的.头顶上那片天空呈现出不断变换的紫罗兰色,街灯朝着它发出微弱的光.寒冷的空气刺痛了皮肤,我们玩闹着,身上逐渐觉得热起来.我们的叫喊声在寂然的街道上回荡.沿着游戏的路线,我们先要穿过房子后面黑暗泥泞的胡同,在那里我们遭到了住在那些小屋里的粗人的咒骂,然后到黑暗潮湿的花园后门,花园里的灰坑升腾出一种刺鼻的臭味,最后到达阴暗的臭臭的马厩,马夫正在那里抚弄梳理着马毛,或是摇动着紧扣的马具丁冬作响.当我们返回到街上的时候,各家各户厨房里透出的灯光已经撒满了街区.倘若瞧见我叔父正从街角走来,我们就躲在阴影里,看他走进房里才算平安无事.或者曼根的姐姐出来到门阶上,叫她弟弟回屋吃晚茶,我们就从阴影处看着她沿街东瞅西瞅.我们会等一会儿,看她是否留在那里还是进屋去,如果她留在那儿,我们就离开藏身的阴影,无可奈何地走上曼根家的门阶.她在等我们,半开的门里透出的灯光勾勒出她的身型。他的弟弟总在乖乖的顺从前先逗弄她一番.我就站在栏杆前凝望着她.她的裙子随着身体的移动来回的摇摆着,柔软的发辫也随之左右摆动。

      每天早上我都躺在前厅的地板上观察着她的房门。百叶窗拉下来到离窗框只有不到一英寸的空隙,这样就不会被别人看见。当她出来走到台阶上,我的心就砰砰地跳。我跑到客厅,抓起书本,紧跟在她后面。我总让她棕褐色的身影保留在我的视线里,当我们快走到要分开的岔路口的时候,我便加快我的脚步,与她擦身而过.同样的情景在一个又一个早晨重复着.我从没和她说过话,除了几句平常的寒暄,然而她的名字却能传唤起我全身的血液迸发出愚蠢的激情.



     她的形象一直伴随着我,哪怕是在最难以让人产生浪漫情愫的地方.每个星期六傍晚,我的婶婶要去市场,我也得去帮着提包.我们在琳琅满目的街上穿来走去,被醉汉和讨价还价的女人们挤撞着,四周是工人们的咒骂声,店铺伙计站在成桶的猪颊肉旁尖着嗓子的叫卖声,街头艺人用鼻音哼唱的一首奥多若万·罗萨的《大家都来吧》的曲子,或者是一首关于我们的祖国如何多灾多难的歌谣。这些闹声汇聚成我对生活的唯一感觉:我想象中,自己正捧着圣杯在一大群仇敌中安然走过。当我做着连我自己都不能明白的奇怪的祈祷和赞美的时候,她的名字竟然不经意的冲口而出。那时我的双眼便噙满了泪水(我也不知道这是为什么),有时候会从心底涌起一阵潮水,溢满我的胸膛。我很少想到将来。我不知道自己是否能和她说话,或者如果我真的和她说话了,我该怎样告诉我这种懵懂的爱慕。但我的身体就像一架竖琴,她的话语和姿势就像在琴弦上拨弄的手指。

     有天晚上我走进了后屋牧师去世的那间起居室.那是一个雨幕中的暗沉的夜晚,屋子里没有任何的声息.透过其中一扇破了的玻璃窗,我听见雨水落在地面上的声音,细密的连绵不断的水流在浸透了的地床上戏耍的声音.远处有一盏灯或亮着光的窗户在我楼下闪烁。我几乎看不到什么,这使我心存感激.我所有的知觉好像都渴望把自己隐藏起来,我感到他们都快要溜掉了,就紧紧的合起手掌,直到它们颤抖起来,我喃喃地说:哦,我的爱!哦,我的爱!一直重复着。


    她终于对我说话了.当她向我开口说出最初几个字时,我茫然得都不知怎么回答她才好.她问我要去阿拉比吗.我已经记不清自己当时说的是去还是不去.她说,那可是个很棒的集市;她很想去。

   ——那你为什么不去呢?我问.

    她说话的时候,一圈又一圈地拨转着手腕上的银手镯。她说,她去不了,她上的教会学校那个星期有次静修。她的弟弟和另外两个男孩子正在抢帽子,我独自一人靠在栏杆上。她握住一根栏杆的尖头,低头朝向我。我家房门对面的灯映照出她白皙的脖颈的曲线,照亮了垂落在脖子上的秀发,再往下,照亮了她搁在栏杆上的手。灯光洒落在她裙子的一边,正照在衬裙的白色镶边上,她随意地站在那里的时候刚好瞧得见。

——你就太好了,她说.
——要是我去的话,我说,我给你带回点好东西.

     那个傍晚之后,数不清的傻主意占据在我的脑海里,白白浪费了我多少的日思夜想啊!我巴望着能抹掉中间那些单调无聊的日子.我焦躁地应付着学校的功课.深夜在卧房中,白天在教室里,她的形象会出现在我和我拼命想要读下去的书页之间.我的灵魂在静默中沉迷,阿拉比这个词的每个音节都在静默中回荡在我的周围,使我感到神魂颠倒。我请求批准我在星期六晚上去集市上走一趟.婶婶吃了一惊,说希望那和共济会的事无关.我在课堂上几乎回答不了什么问题.我望着老师的脸色从温和转为严厉;他希望我不要荒废时光.我没办法把散乱的思绪集中起来.我对生活中那些严肃的工作已经很难有耐心,既然它挡在我和我的愿望之间,那在我看来它就好像是小孩子的游戏,丑陋单调的小孩子的游戏.

     到了星期六的早晨,我提醒叔父,我希望能在傍晚到集市去.他正着急地翻弄着衣帽架找自己的帽子,就简短地回答我说:

     ——好的,孩子,我知道啦.

     因为他在大厅里,所以我没能去前厅躺在窗下.我心情很糟地离开宅子,慢吞吞朝学校走去.空气阴冷的近乎无情,我心中感到不安.
     我回家吃晚饭的时候,叔父还没有回来.时候还早.我坐在那里,呆呆地瞪着时钟,过了一会儿,钟表的滴答声开始令我烦躁,我离开了那房间.我爬上楼梯,走到房子的上半截.那些房间又高又冷,空荡阴郁,却放松了我的心情,我唱着歌从一个房间走到另一个房间.透过前窗,我看到伙伴们正在下面的街上玩.他们的叫喊声传到我这里时微弱地无法辨认,我的额头抵在冰凉的玻璃上,遥望着她居住的那所昏暗的宅院.我在那里可能站了有一个小时,我什么都看不到,满眼全是我想象中刻画的那个身着褐衫的身影,灯光小心翼翼地触摸着那弯弯的脖颈,那搁在栏杆上的手,还有那裙服下的镶边.

     再下楼时,我发现默瑟太太坐在炉火边.她是个唠唠叨叨的老太太,当铺老板的寡妇,为了很虔诚的目的收集些用过的邮票.我不得不忍受着茶桌上的东家长西家短.饭拖拖拉拉吃了一个多小时,叔父却还没回来.默瑟太太起身要走:她很遗憾不能再等了,已经过了八点钟,她不愿意在外面呆得很晚,因为晚上的空气对她有害.她走了后,我开始楼上楼下满屋子的走,紧握着拳头.婶婶说:

    ——恐怕这个礼拜六晚上你去不了集市了.

    九点钟时我听到叔父用弹簧钥匙开门的声音.我听到他自言自语,听到他把外套搭在衣帽架上,衣帽架摇晃的声音.我一听就能辨认的出.他晚饭吃到一半,我就求他给我钱好去集市.他已经忘了.

    ——这时候了,人们在床上都睡醒了头一觉啦,他说.

      我没有笑.婶婶很激动地对他说:

       ——你就不能给他钱让他去吗?事实上你耽搁得他已经够迟的啦.

     叔父说他很抱歉自己全忘了.他说他很相信那句老话:只工作不玩耍,聪明孩子也变傻.他问我想去哪里,我又跟他说了一回,他便问我是否知道那首《阿拉伯人告别坐骑》.我走出厨房的时候,他正要给婶婶背诵开篇的几句诗行.

     我紧紧攥着一个佛罗林(英国货币,值二先令),大步沿着白金汉大街朝车站走去.看见条条大街上熙熙攘攘的购物者和耀眼闪亮的汽灯,我想起了这次旅行的目的.我登上一辆乘客稀少的列车,在三等车厢的座位上坐下.一阵令人难以忍受的延迟之后列车才缓缓驶出车站.它向前爬行,经过了破烂废弃的房屋,又跨过了波光粼粼的大河.在韦斯特兰·罗车站,人群拥向车厢门口;可是乘务员却让他们退后,说这是去集市的专列.空寥的车厢里,我始终是独自一人.几分钟后,列车在临时搭建的木质月台前缓缓停下.我走出车厢来到路上,看到亮着灯的大钟盘上已经是差十分钟十点了。我的前面是一幢巨大的建筑物,上面显示着那个具有魔力的名字.

      我找不到票价是六便士的入口,又担心集市快要散了,就快步从一个旋转栅门进去了,把1先令递给一个满面倦色的人.我发觉自己进了一间大厅,厅内半高处有一圈楼廊.几乎所有的摊位都收摊了,厅里大部分地方都在昏暗中.我意识到一种静默,就像礼拜结束后教堂里充溢的那种静默.我怯怯地走到集市中间.有几个人聚在仍然在营业的那些摊位前.有个挂帘上用彩灯勾出了CafeChantant的字样,两个男人正在帘前数着托盘上的钱.我听到硬币掉落的声音.

     我勉强记起了自己为什么到这儿来,便朝一间摊位走过去,细细地瞧着陶瓷花瓶和雕花的茶具.摊位门口有位年轻女士在跟两位年轻绅士说笑.我听出他们有英格兰口音,模糊的听到他们的谈话.

——哦,我从没说过那样的话!
——哦,可是你说过!
——哦,可是我就是没有说过!
——她不是说过的吗?
——说过的.我听她说过。
——哦,这是……瞎说!

     看到我,那年轻女士便走过来问我是不是想买点什么.她的语调一点也不热情,对我说话好象是出于一种义务。我谦卑地看着在摊位昏暗的入口处像东方卫士一样挺立两边的大罐子,小声地说:

      ——不了,谢谢。

      年轻女士摆放了一下其中一个花瓶,又回到两个年轻男人那里.他们又谈起了同一个话题,那个年轻女人还回头斜瞟我一两次.

     尽管我明白自己滞留下去也无济于事,却在她的摊位前流连着,想让我看上去好象真的对她那些瓶瓶罐罐感兴趣一样。然后我慢慢转身离去,朝里走到集市的中间.我让两个便士在口袋里跟六便士的硬币撞击着.我听到楼廊一头有个声音在喊要灭灯了.大厅的上层现在全黑了.

       我抬头凝视着黑暗,发觉自己是受虚荣驱动又受虚荣愚弄的可怜虫;我的双眼中燃烧着痛苦和愤怒.
這篇令我想起契諾夫一短篇小說, 羅卡
回覆 秋津 的文章

契柯夫我比較喜歡<帶小狗的女人>和<大學生>。
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