Araby_中英译文

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 Communicant, 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. At 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 felt 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 hall door. 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 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 houses 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 girded at half its height by a gallery. Nearly all the stalls were closed and the greater part of the hall was in darkness. I recognized 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 Caf?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.' 　　`O, 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. Araby 阿拉比 James Joyce 中文译版 里士满北街是条死胡同，很寂静，只有基督教兄弟学校的男生们放学的时候除外。一幢无人居住的两层楼房矗立在街道封死的那头，避开邻近的房子，独占一方。街上的其他房子意识到各自房中人们的体面生活，便彼此凝视着，个个是一副冷静沉着的棕色面孔。 　　我们家原先的房客是个司铎，他死在后屋的起居室里。封闭得太久，空气变得又闷又潮，滞留在所有的房间里，厨房后面废弃的房间满地狼藉，都是写无用的旧纸张。我在里面发现了几本平装 书 关于书的成语关于读书的排比句社区图书漂流公约怎么写关于读书的小报汉书pdf ，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，因为它的纸是黄色的。房子后面有荒园子，中间栽种了苹果树，还有些胡乱蔓生的灌木，在一丛灌木下，我找到了司铎留下的锈迹斑斑的自行车气筒。他是个很有善心的司铎；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，我们还有吃晚饭，黄昏就降临了。我们在街上碰面时，房子显得很肃穆。我们头上那块天空总是不断变换着紫罗兰色，街灯朝着那片天空举起微弱的灯火。凛冽的空气刺痛了我们，我们嬉闹着，后来全身就热乎乎的了。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，在那里会同破烂屋棚那边来的野孩子交手，然后到黑乎乎湿漉漉的园子后面，园子里的灰坑冒出刺鼻的异味，最后到达阴暗的臭烘烘的马厩，马夫抚弄梳理着马毛，或是摇动着紧扣的马具丁冬作响。我们回到街上的时候，厨房窗里透出的灯光已经撒满街区。倘若瞧见我叔父正从街角走来，我们就躲在阴影里，看他走进宅子才算平安无事。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，我们就离开藏身的黑影，垂头丧气地走上曼根家的门阶。她在等我们，门半开着，透出灯光，勾勒出她的身材。她动身子的时候裙子会摆来摆去，柔软的发梢甩到这边有甩到那边。 　　每天早晨我都躺在前厅的地板上看她的房门。百叶窗拉下来，离窗格只有不到一英寸的空隙，别人不见我。当她出来走到台阶上，我的心就欢跳起来。我跑到客厅，抓过自己的书本就跟到她身后。我总让自己眼中有她棕褐的背影，快走到我们得分开的地方时，我便加快步伐超过她。一个又一个的早晨，都是这样的。我除了几句日常客气话，再没有对她说过什么，可她的名字却像一声传唤，会调动我全身的血液喷发愚蠢的激情。 　　就算在最不适合想入非非的地方，她的形象也伴随着我。每逢星期六傍晚，我的婶婶去市场的时候，我得去帮着提包裹。我们在花哨热闹的街上穿来走去，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，店铺伙计守在成桶的猪颊肉旁尖着嗓子吆喝，街头卖唱的用鼻音哼唱着，唱的是关于奥多若万?罗萨的一首《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。这些闹声汇集成我对生活的唯一感受：我想象中，自己正捧着圣杯在一大群仇敌中安然走过。我做着古怪的祈祷和赞美，她的名字常常冲口而出，我自己也不明白这些祈祷和赞美。我的双眼常常热泪盈眶（我却不知道为何如此），有时候一阵狂潮从心底喷涌而出，像是要充溢我的胸膛。我很少想到将来。我不知道究竟会不会跟她讲话，也不知道当真讲话了，又能怎样告诉她我这茫然的迷恋。但我的躯体就像一架竖琴，她的一言一笑、一举手一投足就像在琴弦上划过的手指。 　　有天晚上我走进了后屋司铎去世的那间起居室。那晚上夜色很黑，下着雨，房子里既然无声。透过一扇窗户，我听见雨水砸在地面上，细密而连续不断的水像针尖一样在浸润透了的土床上戏耍。远处某盏灯或亮着灯火的窗户在我下面闪动。我很感激我几乎看不到什么。我所有的知觉好像都渴望把自己遮掩起来，我感到我所有的知觉都快要溜掉了，就紧紧合起双掌，两只手都颤抖了，我喃喃地说：哦，爱！哦，爱！说了好多次。 她终于对我说话了。她向我开口讲最初几个字时，我茫然得都不知怎么回答她才好。她问我可是要去阿拉比。我忘了自己当时说的是去还是不去。她说，那可是个很棒的集市；她真想去啊。 　　——那你为什么不能去呢？ 　　她说话的时候，一圈又一圈地转动着手腕上的一个银手链。她说，她去不了，她那个星期要在修道院静修。她的弟弟和另外两个男孩子正在抢帽子，我独自靠在门栏边。她握住一根栏杆的尖头，朝我低下头。我们房门对面的路灯映照出她脖颈白皙的曲线，照亮了垂落在脖子上的秀发，又落下来，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，她叉开腿站在那里的时候刚好瞧得见。 　　——你倒是走运啊，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，数不清的蠢念头便占据了我的思维，糟蹋了我多少的日思夜想！我巴望着能抹掉中间那写单调无聊的日子。我焦躁地应付着学校的功课。深夜在卧房中，白天在教室里，她的形象都会来到我和我拼命想要读下去的书页之间。我的灵魂在静默中感受到巨大的快感，阿拉比这个词的每个音节都通过静默在我周围回荡着，把一种东方的魔力施加在我全身上下。我请求在星期六晚上得空到集市上走一趟。婶婶吃了一惊，说希望那不是什么共济会的玩意。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。我几乎没有耐心来严肃地生活，既然这正儿八经的生活挡在我和我的愿望之间，那在我看来它就好像是儿戏，丑陋单调的儿戏。 　　到了星期六的早晨，我提醒叔父，我很盼望能在傍晚到集市去。他正翻弄着衣帽架找自己的帽子，就短促地回答我说： 　　——行啦，孩子，我知道啦。 　　他在大厅里，我就不能去前厅躺在窗下。我心情很糟地离开宅子，慢吞吞朝学校走去。空气凛冽湿冷，我心中已然不安起来。 　　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，滴答声开始令我烦躁，我就离开了那房间。我爬上楼梯，走到房子的上半截。那些房间又高又冷，空荡荡阴惨惨的，却放松了我的心情，我唱着歌一间屋一间屋地串着。我从前窗望去，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又微弱又不清楚，我把头抵在凉丝丝的玻璃上，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，我开始在屋里走来走去，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厅。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。我很明白这些迹象。他晚饭吃到一半，我就求他给我钱好去集市。他全忘了。 　　——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，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。列车好一会儿都没有开动，真叫人受不了，然后列车缓缓驶出车站。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。我听着硬币掉落的声音。 　　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。我留心到他们有英格兰口音，就含含混混地听他们谈话。 　　——哦，我从没说过那样的话！ 　　——哦，可是你说过的啊！ 　　——哦，可是我就是没有说过！ 　　——她难道不是说过的吗？ 　　——说过的。我听她说过。 　　——哦，这是……瞎说！ 　　年轻女士看到我，便走过来问我可想要买点东西。她的语调并不很殷勤；好像就是为了尽义务才对我说话。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，咕哝着说： 　　——不，谢谢。 　　年轻女士挪动了一个花瓶的位置，又回到两个年轻男人那里。他们又谈起了同一个话题。年轻女士回头斜眼瞧了我一两回。 　　尽管我明白自己滞留不去也无济于事，却在她的摊位前流连着，想让我对她那些瓶瓶罐罐的兴趣看上去更像回事。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。