The-Fly及其译文

The Fly by Katherine Mansfield 'You are very snug in here,' piped old Mr Woodifield, and he peered out of the great, green leather armchair by his friend the boss's desk as a baby peers out of its pram. His talk was over; it was time for him to be off. But he did not want to go. Since he had retired, since his... stroke, the wife and the girls kept him boxed up in the house every day of the week except Tuesday. On Tuesday he was dressed and brushed and allowed to cut back to the City for the day. Though what he did there the wife and girls couldn't imagine. Made a nuisance of himself to his friends, they supposed.... Well, perhaps so. All the same, we cling to our last pleasures as the tree clings to its last leaves. So there sat old Woodifield, smoking a cigar and staring almost greedily at the boss, who rolled in his once chair, stout, rosy, five years older than he, and still going strong, still at the helm. It did one good to see him. Wistfully, admiringly, the old voice added, 'It's snug in here--upon my word!' 'Yes, it's comfortable enough,' agreed the boss, and he nipped the Financial Times with a paper-knife. As a matter of fact he was proud of his room; he liked to have it admired, especially by old Woodifield. It gave him a feeling of deep, solid satisfaction to be planted there in the midst of it in full view of that frail old figure in the muffler. 'I've had it done up lately,' he explained, as he had explained for the past--how many?--weeks. 'New carpet,' and he pointed to the bright red carpet with a pattern of large white rings. 'New furniture,' and he nodded towards the massive bookcase and the table with legs like twisted treacle. 'Electric heating!' He waved almost exultantly towards the five transparent, pearly sausages glowing so softly in the tilted copper pan. But he did not draw old Woodifield's attention to the photograph over the table of a grave-looking boy in uniform standing in one of those spectral photographers' parks with photographers' storm-clouds behind him. It was not new. It had been there for over six years. 'There was something I wanted to tell you,' said old Woodifield, and his eyes grew dim remembering. 'Now what was it? I had it in my mind when I started out this morning.' His hands began to tremble, and patches of red showed above his beard. Poor old chap, he's on his last pins, thought the boss. And, feeling kindly, he winked at the old man, and said jokingly, 'I tell you what. I've got a little drop of something here that will do you good before you go out into the cold again. It's beautiful stuff. It wouldn't hurt a child.' He took a key off his watch-chain, unlocked a cupboard below his desk, and drew forth a dark, squat bottle. 'That's the medicine,' said he. 'And the man from whom I got it told me on the strict Q.T. it came from the cellars at Windsor Cassel.' Old Woodifield's mouth fell open at the sight. He couldn't have looked more surprised if the boss had produced a rabbit. 'It's whisky, ain't it?' he piped, feebly. The boss turned the bottle and lovingly showed him the label. Whisky it was. 'Do you know,' said he, peering up at the boss wonderingly, 'they won't let me touch it at home.' And he looked as though he was going to cry. 'Ah, that's where we know a bit more than the ladies,' cried the boss, swooping across for two tumblers that stood on the table with the water-bottle, and pouring a generous finger into each. 'Drink it down. It'll do you good. And don't put any water with it. It's sacrilege to tamper with stuff like this. Ah!' He tossed off his, pulled out his handkerchief, hastily wiped his moustaches, and cocked an eye at old Woodifield, who was rolling his in his chaps. The old man swallowed, was silent a moment, and then said faintly, 'It's nutty!' But it warmed him; it crept into his chill old brain--he remembered. 'That was it,' he said, heaving himself out of his chair. 'I thought you'd like to know. The girls were in Belgium last week having a look at poor Reggie's grave, and they happened to come across your boy's. They're quite near each other, it seems.' Old Woodifield paused, but the boss made no reply. Only a quiver in his eyelids showed that he heard. 'The girls were delighted with the way the place is kept,' piped the old voice. 'Beautifully looked after. Couldn't be better if they were at home. You've not been across, have yer?' 'No, no!' For various reasons the boss had not been across. 'There's miles of it,' quavered old Woodifield, 'and it's all as neat as a garden. Flowers growing on all the graves. Nice broad paths.' It was plain from his voice how much he liked a nice broad path. The pause came again. Then the old man brightened wonderfully. 'Do you know what the hotel made the girls pay for a pot of jam?' he piped. 'Ten francs! Robbery, I call it. It was a little pot, so Gertrude says, no bigger than a half-crown. And she hadn't taken more than a spoonful when they charged her ten francs. Gertrude brought the pot away with her to teach 'em a lesson. Quite right, too; it's trading on our feelings. They think because we're over there having a look round we're ready to pay anything. That's what it is.' And he turned towards the door. 'Quite right, quite right!' cried the boss, though what was quite right he hadn't the least idea. He came round by his desk, followed the shuffling footsteps to the door, and saw the old fellow out. Woodifield was gone. For a long moment the boss stayed, staring at nothing, while the grey-haired office messenger, watching him, dodged in and out of his cubby hole like a dog that expects to be taken for a run. Then: 'I'll see nobody for half an hour, Macey,' said the boss. 'Understand? Nobody at all.' Very good, sir.' The door shut, the firm heavy steps recrossed the bright carpet, the fat body plumped down in the spring chair, and leaning forward, the boss covered his face with his hands. He wanted, he intended, he had arranged to weep.... It had been a terrible shock to him when old Woodifield sprang that remark upon him about the boy's grave. It was exactly as though the earth had opened and he had seen the boy lying there with Woodifield's girls staring down at him. For it was strange. Although over six years had passed away, the boss never thought of the boy except as lying unchanged, unblemished in his uniform, asleep for ever. 'My son!' groaned the boss. But no tears came yet. In the past, in the first months and even years after the boy's death, he had only to say those words to be overcome by such grief that nothing short of a violent fit of weeping could relieve him. Time, he had declared then, he had told everybody, could make no difference. Other men perhaps might recover, might live their loss down, but not he. How was it possible? His boy was an only son. Ever since his birth the boss had worked at building up this business for him; it had no other meaning if it was not for the boy. Life itself had come to have no other meaning. How on earth could he have slaved, denied himself, kept going all those years without the promise for ever before him of the boy's stepping into his shoes and carrying on where he left off? And that promise had been so near being fulfilled. The boy had been in the office learning the ropes for a year before the war. Every morning they had started off together; they had come back by the same train. And what congratulations he had received as the boy's father! No wonder; he had taken to it marvelously. As to his popularity with the stag, every man jack of them down to old Macey couldn't make enough of the boy. And he wasn't in the least spoiled. No, he was just his bright, natural self, with the right word for everybody, with that boyish look and his habit of saying, 'Simply splendid.' But all that was over and done with as though it never had been. The day had come when Macey had handed him the telegram* that brought the whole place crashing about his head. 'Deeply regret to inform you....' And he had left the office a broken man, with his life in ruins. Six years ago, six years.... How quickly time passed! It might have happened yesterday. The boss took his hands from his face; he was puzzled. Something seemed to be wrong with him. He wasn't feeling as he wanted to feel. He decided to get up and have a look at the boy's photograph. But it wasn't a favourite photograph of his; the expression was unnatural. It was cold, even stern-looking. The boy had never looked like that. At that moment the boss noticed that a fly had fallen into his broad inkpot, and was trying feebly but desperately to clamber out again. Help! help! said those struggling legs. But the sides of the inkpot were wet and slippery; it till back again and began to swim. The boss took up a pen, picked the fly out of the ink, and shook it on to a piece of blotting-paper. For a fraction of a second it lay still on the dark patch that oozed round it. Then the front legs waved, took hold, and, pulling its small, sodden body up it began the immense task of cleaning the ink from its wings. Over and under, over and under, went a leg along a wing, as the stone goes over and under the scythe. Then there was a pause, while the fly, seeming to stand on the tips of its toes, tried to expand first one wing and then the other. It succeeded at last, and, sitting down, it began, like a minute cat, to clean its face. Now one could imagine that the little front legs rubbed against each other lightly, joyfully. The horrible danger was over; it had escaped; it was ready for life again. But just then the boss had an idea. He plunged his pen back into the ink, leaned his thick wrist on the blotting paper, and as the fly tried its wings down came a great heavy blot. What would it make of that? What indeed! The little beggar seemed absolutely cowed, stunned, and afraid to move because of what would happen next. But then, as if painfully, it dragged itself forward. The front legs waved, caught hold, and, more slowly this time, the task began from the beginning. He's a plucky little devil, thought the boss, and he felt a real admiration for the fly's courage. That was the way to tackle things; that was the right spirit. Never say die; it was only a question of.... But the fly had again finished its laborious task, and the boss had just time to refill his pen, to shake fair and square on the new cleaned body yet another dark drop. What about it this time? A painful moment of suspense followed. But behold, the front legs were again waving; the boss felt a rush of relief. He leaned over the fly and said to it tenderly, 'You artful little b... ' And he actually had the brilliant notion of breathing on it to help the drying process. All the same, there was something timid and weak about its efforts now, and the boss decided that this time should be the last, as he dipped the pen deep into the inkpot. It was. The last blot fell on the soaked blotting-paper, and the draggled fly lay in it and did not stir. The back legs were stuck to the body; the front legs were not to be seen. 'Come on,' said the boss. 'Look sharp!' And he stirred it with his pen--in vain. Nothing happened or was likely to happen. The fly was dead. The boss lifted the corpse on the end of the paper-knife and flung it into the waste-paper basket. But such a grinding feeling of wretchedness seized him that he felt positively frightened. He started forward and pressed the bell for Macey. 'Bring me some fresh blotting-paper,' he said, sternly, 'and look sharp about it.' And while the old dog padded away he fell to wondering what it was he had been thinking about before. What was it? It was.... He took out his handkerchief and passed it inside his collar. For the life of him he could not remember. 苍蝇 王汉梁译 “你这儿真舒服，”任德菲尔德老先生一边说，一边坐在他的朋友—经理—的写字台旁边的绿皮大靠背椅上，目视着前方。他的话说完了，该告辞了。但他还不想走。自从他因病退休后，他的妻子、女儿们除了星期二这一天之外，其它日子一直把他关在家里。到了星期二，穿戴、掸刷得衣冠楚楚的他，被准许大白天回伦敦的金融、贸易中心区去。可是他的老婆、女儿们却想象不出他在哪儿能干些什么。她们猜想，他准是去麻烦他的朋友们啦。唉，也许是这样。不过，我们留恋自己仅剩的乐趣犹如一棵树依依不舍它的最后几篇叶子。所以，老任德菲尔德还坐在那儿，一边抽烟，一边瞧着经理。肥胖，红润的经理坐在办公椅里摇动着。他比任德菲尔德大五岁，仍然工作的相当出色，照旧领导着自己的企业。瞧瞧他那副模样，对人确有好处。 那个老气横秋的嗓门又赞叹地补了一句：“这儿真舒服，真的！” “是嘛，舒服极了，”经理附和道，一边用一把裁剪刀拍了拍报纸。事实上，他的确对自己的房间颇为得意；他很乐意有人赞美它，尤其是出诸老任德菲尔德之口。在这个房间里，面对这个虚弱的老家伙，使他感到心满意足。 “最近，我又在房里添了些东西，”他说。“新家具，”他瞧瞧大书架和弯腿桌。“电热器！”他朝壁炉指了指。 不过，他没有把任德菲尔德的注意力引向桌子上方的照片，照片上是一个 表 关于同志近三年现实表现材料材料类招标技术评分表图表与交易pdf视力表打印pdf用图表说话 pdf 情严肃、身穿军官制服的小伙子。照片不是新的，挂在那儿已经六年多了。 “我有些事想告诉你，”老任德菲尔德说。他的目光随着回忆模糊了起来：“哎，是什么呀？早上我出门时还记得的。”他的双手哆嗦了起来，面孔胀的血红。 可怜的老家伙，他快完了—经理想。她觉得自己挺仁厚，便开玩笑似的说：“告诉你，我这里有点酒，你先喝两口，再到外面冷空气中去，对你有好处。这酒太妙了。小孩儿喝了都无妨。”他从自己的表链上取下一把钥匙，打开写字台下的一个食橱，拿出一只胖鼓鼓的深色瓶子。“就是这酒，”他说。“给我酒的那个人私下告诉我，这瓶东西还来自温莎堡呢。” 老任德菲尔德见状张开了嘴。他看上去很吃惊。 “这是威士忌，是么？”他有气无力地问。 经理转过瓶子，挺友善地给他看瓶子上的商标。果真是威士忌！ “你知道，”老任德菲尔德一边说，一边惊疑地仰视着对方，“我在家里她们是不准我跟酒沾边的”他看上去想要哭似的。 “啊，那便是咱们比娘儿们高明的地方了，”经历大声说着，从桌上抓起两只跟水瓶放在一起的玻璃杯，挺大度地把酒斟入两只杯中。“喝下去，这对你有好处。可别掺水啊！”他喝掉自己杯中的酒，抽出手帕，揩揩嘴巴，一边瞧着把威士忌含在嘴里打转转的老任德菲尔德。 老头儿吞下酒，静了一会。威士忌使他浑身发热。酒力渗入他冰冷老朽的脑子—他记起来了。“对了”说着，他从椅子里直起身子。“我想，你一定乐意知道的。姑娘们上星期在比利时。她们去探望了可怜的雷盖的墓，碰巧也看到了令郎的墓穴。两个墓好像还靠的很近呢。” H:\fanwen caiji two\已上传lddoc\2018年电大个人学习计划.doc老任德菲尔德停了停，但经理并不答话。只从他的眼皮在打颤这一点，才知道他还在听。 “姑娘们对墓地的照管方式挺满意，”那老气横秋的嗓门儿继续道。“目的保养的可好了。他们的坟墓即使在国内也不见得照看得更好些。你没渡海到那儿去过吗？” “没有，没有！”由于种种原因，经理尚未渡海过去。 “墓地有方圆几英里呢。整个公墓干净得就像一个花园。一个个墓地上都开着鲜花。一条条走道又整洁有宽阔。”从他的声音里听得出，他显然挺喜欢整洁宽阔的走道。 老头儿又停了一下，然后奇异地活跃了起来。 “旅馆费贵极了，要了姑娘们好多钱。我说，那简直是抢劫。他们认为，咱们是到那儿去观光的，所以就有准备支付一切开销。就这么回事。”说着，他转向房门。 “不错，不错！”经理大声道。虽然他压根儿弄不清“不错”些什么。他绕过写字台，跟着前面迟缓的脚步走到门口，直至目送那个老头儿离去，任德菲尔德走了。 经理呆了许久，茫无所见。那个灰头发的公务信使看他进进出出，好似一条盼望被牵出去溜溜腿的狗，尔后，经理道：“马赛，我半个小时内不见客，懂吗?谁都不见。” “是，先生。” 门关上了。坚实、沉重的步子再次走过地板，肥胖的身子在弹簧椅上坐了下来，经理朝前倾身，双手掩面。他想他准备痛苦一场。。。。。。 老任德菲尔德提起了儿子的墓，这对他来说是一个痛苦的打击。这恰如墓地打开，他眼见儿子躺在地上，任德菲尔德的姑娘们都俯视着他一样。说来也怪，时光虽已流逝了六年多，经理的心目中始终保存着儿子那不变的、完美的、永远安睡着的形象。“我的儿子！”他叫道。但眼里却流不出泪来。 在过去，在儿子死后的最初几个月、甚至最初几年里。他只要一提起这四个字便会悲从中来，泪流满面。那时，他宣称：时间冲突不了他的哀思—他逢人便这样说。别人也许会淡忘，但他不会。这怎么可能呢。这小伙子是他的独生子。他一生下来，经理已在着手为他经营一份企业了。要不是为了这孩子，这一切便没什么意思了。生命本身也变得毫无意义。要不是为了这孩子，这一切便没什么意思了。生命本省也变得毫无意义。要不是儿子会继承他的事业、这么个前景在鼓舞着他，这些年来，他怎么可能如此奴隶般地操劳呢？ 那个前景几乎快实现了。战前，儿子在办公处已经学习了一年经营管理。他们每天早晨一起出发；又搭乘同一辆火车回家。由于他是这孩子的父亲，他接受了多少人的恭贺啊！人人都喜欢这个孩子。他一点都没被宠坏。不，他始终保持着自己开朗、自然的本色。对每个人都言谈得体，带着一脸孩子气和“实在太妙了！”的口语。 这一切都过去了，完了，仿佛从未发生过似的。那天，马赛交给他一份电报，终于把他的一生统统毁了。儿子牺牲了。他失魂落魄地离开了办公室。六年以前，六年了。。。。。。时间过得多快啊！就像是昨天的事一样。经理把双手从自己脸上拿开；他困惑了。有些事儿似乎不大对头。他没有期望感受到的那种感觉。他决定站起来，瞧一眼儿子的照片。不过，这张照片却照的不大称心：表情多不自然啊，而且冷漠的很，太一本正经了。儿子本人看上去绝不是那副模样。 这时，经理瞥见一只苍蝇掉进了他的大口墨水瓶里，正软弱而又死命想重新爬出来。“救命！救命呀！”那些拼命挣扎着的苍蝇腿似乎在喊。但墨水瓶的里侧又湿又滑；苍蝇又跌下去，游泳了起来。经理拿起一支钢笔,把苍蝇从墨水里挑出来，掸到一张吸墨纸上。一时间，苍蝇就躺在一滩新墨渍上了。尔后，它的前腿舞动着，紧抓在一起。它挺起湿漉漉的小身子，抖干净翅膀上的墨汁。一条腿沿着一张翅膀上上下下梳理着。然后，停了一会。苍蝇似乎踮着自己的脚趾，力图先伸开一张翅膀，再伸开另一张翅膀。它终于成功了。他坐下来像只小貌似得开始洗起脸来了。那副景象，你可以想象的出来：小小的前腿，快活的相互摩擦着。可怕的危险过去了；它死里逃生，正准备重新开始生活。可就在这当口，经理忽然有了个主意。他把钢笔放回墨水里，朝吸墨纸倾斜过去。正当苍蝇振翅欲飞时，一大滴墨水朝它滴了下来。现在它怎么办呢？真的，怎么办啊！小生物似乎震惊欲绝，吓得一动不动生怕接下来还有什么意外事情。但过后，它还是痛苦地拖拽着身子向前了。它舞动前腿，紧抓在一起。这一回，它的动作比起初慢多了。 经理想，这真是一只勇敢的小生物。他十分钦佩苍蝇的勇气。面对事实就得这样。真是精神可嘉啊。决不气馁！苍蝇又完成了那一套艰苦卓绝的动作，这时经理刚好重新在笔上蘸满墨水，便在它抖弄干净的身子上又摔下一滴墨水。这一次会怎样呢？他痛苦地等了片刻，看见苍蝇的前腿又舞动了起来；经理感到一阵宽慰。他对苍蝇喃喃而语。他确实有朝它呵口气、帮它弄干净身子的巧妙想法。但眼下，苍蝇已经挣扎乏力了。当经理把钢笔伸进墨水瓶时，他决定，这回是最后一次了。 果真如此。最后一滴墨水落到了湿漉漉的吸墨纸上，苍蝇躺在墨渍中不动了。苍蝇的后退粘在它的身子上，前腿却看不见。 “醒醒！”经理道。他用笔徒劳地拨拨它。毫无动静，而且也不可能有什么动静。苍蝇死了。 经理用裁纸刀的刀尖挑起死尸，把它抛进废纸篓里。他痛苦欲绝，甚至害怕了起来。他朝前按铃叫马赛。 “给我拿些新的吸墨纸来，”他厉声的道，“快点！”马赛走后，他开始怀疑自己刚才正在思索些什么。是什么呢？是。。。。。。他掏出手帕，揩揩脖子周围。他记不得是什么了。