首页分享《秘密花园》译文样章第五章（The Secret Garden）

《秘密花园》译文样章第五章（The Secret Garden）

来源：花匠小妙招时间：2025-04-28 11:32

文章来源链接： http://user.yeeyan.org/u/278724
第五章楼道里的哭声
开始的那些日子，玛丽过得跟第一天没什么区别。每天早上在满墙绣帏的房间醒来，看着玛莎跪在壁炉前拨弄炉火；然后再去那间没有任何娱乐项目的儿童活动室吃早饭；吃完早饭她总会凭窗远眺，望着那片四面无垠远接天际的荒原；看了一会儿，她意识到倘若不出去，只能呆在房间里无所事事——所以最终决定出去走走。她不知道这是她最睿智的决定；不知道当她沿着小径或大道快步走甚至疯跑的时候浑身漫流的血液正在搅动；也不知道当她跑着与迎面吹来的大风抗衡时身体已经日益强健，那毕竟是从荒原刮来的大风呀。她只知道跑跑会暖和些，她讨厌风，讨厌它扫过脸庞时不舒服的感觉，讨厌它怒吼咆哮时的粗鲁，也讨厌它像个隐形的巨人一样不停地顶着自己的背。但大口大口地吸着那些拂过石楠的新鲜的空气并存储在肺部，对玛丽单薄的小身板确实大有裨益。瞧，她蜡黄瘦削的脸颊漾起了健康的红晕，空乏无神的眼睛也映出了光亮，不过玛丽对此全然没有察觉。
就这样又过了些日子，每天的户外活动让玛丽在一日清晨醒来时第一次尝到了饥饿的感觉，当她起身转向早餐时，也不再像从前那样轻蔑地看一眼粥，不当一回事地把它推开，而是抓起勺子，狼吞虎咽地扒了个碗底朝天。
“你今早表现很好嘛，是不是呀？”玛莎说。
“今天的粥味道好极了，”玛丽说，连她都惊讶于自己的表现。
“是荒原的空气给了你食欲，”玛莎说。“你真幸运，在你食欲好的时候有食物能填饱肚子。我家茅草屋里面的十二个孩子想吃却没得吃，只能饿肚子呢。你每天继续到外面去玩，等到长些肉，就不像现在这样皮包骨头似的，脸色也不会这么蜡黄蜡黄的了。”
“我不玩，”玛丽说。“我没什么东西可玩。”
“没什么东西玩！”玛莎叫了起来。“我们家的那群弟弟妹妹都拿石头和棍棒去玩。他们也就是跑来跑去，叫叫嚷嚷，东看看西看看的。”
玛丽没有喊叫也没有嚷嚷，不过她的确四处看风景，除此之外也就没什么可做的了。她绕着花园一圈一圈地转悠，还在公园的小路上来回溜达。有时候她会四处寻找本.威瑟斯塔夫，有几次真的找到了，但老本不是忙得无暇顾及就是脸色怪得让人不敢靠近。有一次玛丽正走向他，他就扛着铁锹走开了，看样子是故意的。
比起其他地方，有一个地方玛丽去的比较频繁，就是四面都是围墙的花园外面长长的走道。道路两边都是光秃秃的花坛，依附在围墙上的常青藤长得倒是格外旺盛，其中有一块墙面上蔓延的常青藤叶子尤其茂密，深绿的、蓬蓬的、像是许久都没人关注过它一样。墙面的其他地方修剪得还算利落，奇怪的是道路尽头围墙上的藤蔓却连一丁点儿被修整过的痕迹都没有。
离上次与本.威瑟斯塔夫聊天只有几天，玛丽就发现了新情况，她特别想知道这究竟是怎么回事。她停在那里，抬头望着长长的一绺常青藤蔓在高空中随风摇曳，就在这时，伴随着一声轻快的鸣叫，一道鲜红的光亮闪过。就在墙头上，本.威瑟斯塔夫那只红胸知更鸟停落在那里，歪着小脑袋，向前略倾身子看着玛丽。
“啊！”她叫了起来，“是你吗？——是你吗？”玛丽俨然一副对方能听懂还能回答她的样子，也丝毫不觉得这种问话方式有何不妥。
知更鸟回话了。它叽叽喳喳，又唱又叫，还在墙头上没玩没了地蹦着，放佛在告诉玛丽所有有趣的事情。玛丽似乎能听懂，尽管对方说的是鸟语。它好像在说：
“早上好!今天的风舒服吧？太阳明媚吧？一切都顺利吧？让我们一起唱一起叫一起跳吧！来吧！来吧！”
玛丽开怀大笑起来。当知更鸟在墙头上蹦来蹦去，还沿着墙短短地飞了几段时，玛丽紧紧地追着。这个可怜的小东西，又黄又瘦，还丑巴巴的，此刻浑身上下散发着活力，好像突然变漂亮了。
“我喜欢你！我喜欢你！”玛丽一边急匆匆地在道路上跑着，一边大喊。她嘴里发出吱吱喳喳的鸣叫声，还试图吹口哨，可她压根就不会。但知更鸟对玛丽的反应好像很满意，还回赠了叫声和口哨声。最后他伸展翅膀，像离弦之箭一般扎到树顶，高声唱了起来。
这让玛丽想起来第一次见知更鸟的场景。那时它在树顶飞旋，玛丽站在果园里。而如今她在果园的另一边，站在围墙外的小径上——向南望去——里面有一棵同样的树。
“它在那个没人能进的园子里，”玛丽自言自语。“这是那个没有门的园子。它就住在里面。我多想去看看园子里是什么样子呀！”
她沿着小道跑到了第一天早晨进去的那扇绿门。然后顺着小径穿过了另一扇门来到了果园。她站在那里抬头望着围墙里的那棵树，上面知更鸟刚刚唱完歌，正满足地用嘴巴梳理着羽毛呢。
“就是那个花园，”她说。“我敢肯定。”
她绕了一圈，认真地排查着果园这边的围墙，但仍旧没有新发现——没有门。接着她跑进果园，又跑出来，回到那堵覆满常青藤的围墙外面的小道上，一直走到路尽头，没有门；她还不死心，又返回去走到路的另一头，结果还是没有门。
“真是太奇怪了，”她说。“本.威瑟斯塔夫说没有门，结果就真的没有门。但是十年前这里肯定是有门的，否则克雷文先生藏什么钥匙呢。”
这让她有了更多东西去思考，也使她开始对一切产生兴趣，不再为来到米特斯韦特庄园而感到不幸了。在印度她总觉得燥热、厌倦、对什么都提不起精神，也懒得去管其他事情。如今荒原上清新舒爽的风吹去了她满脑袋的“浆糊”，也吹醒了这个一直活在自我世界里的小丫头。
她在外面几乎呆了整整一天，晚上回到房间坐在桌边吃饭的时候，她感觉到好饿、好困、又好舒服。当玛莎开始絮絮叨叨，她没有生气发火，反而觉得自己喜欢听玛莎这样唠家常。最后她决定问玛莎一个问题。晚饭结束后，玛丽坐在炉火前的小毯子上开始问道：
“克雷文先生为什么要憎恨那座花园呢？”
玛丽让玛莎留下来陪她，玛丽没有任何抵触情绪，欣然答应了。她那么年轻，也习惯了家里满屋子的弟弟妹妹，再加上在楼下仆人厅里候着实在是乏味得很，男仆和楼上的女仆们经常拿她的约克郡口音说笑；他们看不起她，说她是放在人群里就认不出的小东西；他们坐成一堆窃窃私语，对玛莎指指点点，说三道四。玛莎原本就很健谈，面对眼前这个曾经居住在印度，一直由“黑人”仆人侍候的怪小孩，感觉新鲜极了。
玛莎坐到炉火前，还没等玛丽问话就先开口了。
“你是不是还在想那个花园？”她说。“我就知道你会这样。因为我第一次听说那座花园时也和你一样。”
“他为什么憎恨那个园子？”玛丽又问。
玛莎把脚蜷缩在身子下面，因为这个姿势很舒服。
“听屋外狂风咆哮的声音，”她说。“今晚你要是出去的话，恐怕还没等站起来就又被风给撂倒了。”
玛丽开始并不知道“咆哮”是什么意思，直到她竖起耳朵听了听才明白。“咆哮”一定就是风空洞颤抖的呼呼声，它一圈圈地绕着房子嚎叫，就像一个隐形的巨人在与房子搏斗，拼命拍打着窗和墙，企图闯进来一样。不过人们知道它进不来，所以在生着红腾腾炉火的房间里守着，感觉又安全又惬意。
“他为什么要恨那个花园呢？”玛丽听完“咆哮”又重新拾回之前的话题。她想知道玛莎是否知晓答案。
在玛丽的再三追问下，玛莎的心理防线被攻破了，她开始倒出那一箩筐的秘密。
“听着，”她说，“米洛克太太交代过这些是不能说的。这个地方有很多事情都是不能随便谈论的。这是克雷文先生下的命令。他说他的所有烦恼都跟我们这些仆人没有关系。不过在那个花园的问题上，他做得的确有些过火。花园是克雷文太太和克雷文先生在刚结婚时建造的，克雷文太太喜欢得不得了，那时他们总是亲自去照看园子里的花儿，连园丁都不许进去。他们以前经常把自己锁在花园里，一呆就是好几个小时，在里面读书，聊天。园子里有一棵老树，其中一条树枝弯了出来，就像是在树上吊了个座椅。克雷文太太有点小女孩的心性，就在上面种了很多玫瑰花，让它看起来像个花椅，自己还经常坐在上面。但是有一天，树枝突然断了，把坐在上面的克雷文太太重重地摔到了地上，她伤势太重，第二天就去世了。医生以为克雷文先生也会万念俱灰而死去。这就是他恨那座花园的原因。从那以后，再没人进去过那个花园，他也不许任何人再提及。
玛丽没有再问其他问题。她望着眼前那堆红红的炭火，听着外面狂风的咆哮。咆哮的声音似乎比任何时候都凶猛了。
就在那一刻，一件非常美妙的事情降临到玛丽身上，确切地说，自从她来到米特斯韦特庄园，四件美好的事情已经在她身上发生了。她觉得自己好像读懂了知更鸟，同时知更鸟也明白她；她可以在风中奔跑，直到浑身上下的血液变暖；她此生首次尝到了“健康”的饥饿感；她体味到了为他人感到惋惜是什么滋味。
但就在玛丽全神贯注地聆听大风的呼啸时，她放佛听到了其他声音。她不知道那究竟是什么声，因为开始连她自己都分不清是风声还是其他什么。那个声音很奇怪——就像一个孩子在什么地方哭泣。有时候，风声听起来的确像孩子的哭声，不过现在大小姐玛丽可以十分确定声音传自屋内，而不是外面。虽然听起来有些遥远，但的的确确是在屋内。玛丽转过头看着玛莎。
“你听见有人在哭吗？”她问。
玛莎突然慌了起来。
“没有，”她说。“是风声。有时候听起来是很像什么人在荒原上迷路恸哭。风声就是这样，听起来会像各种各样的声音。”
“不对，你听，”玛丽说。“声音就在某个房间里——就在其中一条长楼道的尽头。”
但恰巧在那时，楼下有个房间的门被打开了，从楼道里冲上来一股很强的气流，把玛丽房间的门给顶开了。她们俩条件反射似地跳起来，急促中带的气流又把蜡烛给吹灭了。哭声再起，横扫了远处的楼道，不停地回荡着，声音也越发清晰可辨了。
“你听，你听！”玛丽说。“我怎么说的来着，是有人在哭，而且是个小孩儿。”
玛莎跑过去关上门，还在门锁里转了转钥匙把门锁死。但就在这之前，两个姑娘都听到了远处楼道里传来的“砰”的一声门响，接着一切恢复了平静。甚至好大一会儿连风的“咆哮”都听不见了。
“就是风声，”玛莎固执地说。“如果不是风声，肯定是小贝蒂.巴特沃斯，那个洗碗工，她有牙疼的毛病，今天已经疼了一整天了。”
玛莎说这些的时候，表情既别扭又尴尬，这让玛丽看她的眼神充满了质疑，她不相信玛莎说的是实话。
原文：
CHAPTER V
THE CRY IN THE CORRIDOR
At first each day which passed by for Mary Lennox was exactly like the others. Every morning she awoke in her tapestried room and found Martha kneeling upon the hearth building her fire; every morning she ate her breakfast in the nursery which had nothing amusing in it; and after each breakfast she gazed out of the window across to the huge moor which seemed to spread out on all sides and climb up to the sky, and after she had stared for a while she realized that if she did not go out she would have to stay in and do nothing--and so she went out. She did not know that this was the best thing she could have done, and she did not know that, when she began to walk quickly or even run along the paths and down the avenue, she was stirring her slow blood and making herself stronger by fighting with the wind which swept down from the moor. She ran only to make herself warm, and she hated the wind which rushed at her face and roared and held her back as if it were some giant she could not see. But the big breaths of rough fresh air blown over the heather filled her lungs with something which was good for her whole thin body and whipped some red color into her cheeks and brightened her dull eyes when she did not know anything about it.
But after a few days spent almost entirely out of doors she wakened one morning knowing what it was to be hungry, and when she sat down to her breakfast she did not glance disdainfully at her porridge and push it away, but took up her spoon and began to eat it and went on eating it until her bowl was empty.
"Tha' got on well enough with that this mornin', didn't tha'?" said Martha.
"It tastes nice today," said Mary, feeling a little surprised her self.
"It's th' air of th' moor that's givin' thee stomach for tha' victuals," answered Martha. "It's lucky for thee that tha's got victuals as well as appetite. There's been twelve in our cottage as had th' stomach an' nothin' to put in it. You go on playin' you out o' doors every day an' you'll get some flesh on your bones an' you won't be so yeller."
"I don't play," said Mary. "I have nothing to play with."
"Nothin' to play with!" exclaimed Martha. "Our children plays with sticks and stones. They just runs about an' shouts an' looks at things." Mary did not shout, but she looked at things. There was nothing else to do. She walked round and round the gardens and wandered about the paths in the park. Sometimes she looked for Ben Weatherstaff, but though several times she saw him at work he was too busy to look at her or was too surly. Once when she was walking toward him he picked up his spade and turned away as if he did it on purpose.
One place she went to oftener than to any other. It was the long walk outside the gardens with the walls round them. There were bare flower-beds on either side of it and against the walls ivy grew thickly. There was one part of the wall where the creeping dark green leaves were more bushy than elsewhere. It seemed as if for a long time that part had been neglected. The rest of it had been clipped and made to look neat, but at this lower end of the walk it had not been trimmed at all.
A few days after she had talked to Ben Weatherstaff, Mary stopped to notice this and wondered why it was so. She had just paused and was looking up at a long spray of ivy swinging in the wind when she saw a gleam of scarlet and heard a brilliant chirp, and there, on the top of the wall, forward perched Ben Weatherstaff's robin redbreast, tilting forward to look at her with his small head on one side.
"Oh!" she cried out, "is it you--is it you?" And it did not seem at all queer to her that she spoke to him as if she were sure that he would understand and answer her.
He did answer. He twittered and chirped and hopped along the wall as if he were telling her all sorts of things. It seemed to Mistress Mary as if she understood him, too, though he was not speaking in words. It was as if he said:
"Good morning! Isn't the wind nice? Isn't the sun nice? Isn't everything nice? Let us both chirp and hop and twitter. Come on! Come on!"
Mary began to laugh, and as he hopped and took little flights along the wall she ran after him. Poor little thin, sallow, ugly Mary--she actually looked almost pretty for a moment.
"I like you! I like you!" she cried out, pattering down the walk; and she chirped and tried to whistle, which last she did not know how to do in the least. But the robin seemed to be quite satisfied and chirped and whistled back at her. At last he spread his wings and made a darting flight to the top of a tree, where he perched and sang loudly. That reminded Mary of the first time she had seen him. He had been swinging on a tree-top then and she had been standing in the orchard. Now she was on the other side of the orchard and standing in the path outside a wall--much lower down--and there was the same tree inside.
"It's in the garden no one can go into," she said to herself. "It's the garden without a door. He lives in there. How I wish I could see what it is like!"
She ran up the walk to the green door she had entered the first morning. Then she ran down the path through the other door and then into the orchard, and when she stood and looked up there was the tree on the other side of the wall, and there was the robin just finishing his song and, beginning to preen his feathers with his beak.
"It is the garden," she said. "I am sure it is."
She walked round and looked closely at that side of the orchard wall, but she only found what she had found before--that there was no door in it. Then she ran through the kitchen-gardens again and out into the walk outside the long ivy-covered wall, and she walked to the end of it and looked at it, but there was no door; and then she walked to the other end, looking again, but there was no door.
"It's very queer," she said. "Ben Weatherstaff said there was no door and there is no door. But there must have been one ten years ago, because Mr. Craven buried the key."
This gave her so much to think of that she began to be quite interested and feel that she was not sorry that she had come to Misselthwaite Manor. In India she had always felt hot and too languid to care much about anything. The fact was that the fresh wind from the moor had begun to blow the cobwebs out of her young brain and to waken her up a little.
She stayed out of doors nearly all day, and when she sat down to her supper at night she felt hungry and drowsy and comfortable. She did not feel cross when Martha chattered away. She felt as if she rather liked to hear her, and at last she thought she would ask her a question. She asked it after she had finished her supper and had sat down on the hearth-rug before the fire.
"Why did Mr. Craven hate the garden?" she said.
She had made Martha stay with her and Martha had not objected at all. She was very young, and used to a crowded cottage full of brothers and sisters, and she found it dull in the great servants' hall downstairs where the footman and upper-housemaids made fun of her Yorkshire speech and looked upon her as a common little thing, and sat and whispered among themselves. Martha liked to talk, and the strange child who had lived in India, and been waited upon by "blacks," was novelty enough to attract her.
She sat down on the hearth herself without waiting to be asked.
"Art tha' thinkin' about that garden yet?" she said. "I knew tha' would. That was just the way with me when I first heard about it."
"Why did he hate it?" Mary persisted.
Martha tucked her feet under her and made herself quite comfortable.
"Listen to th' wind wutherin' round the house," she said. "You could bare stand up on the moor if you was out on it tonight."
Mary did not know what "wutherin'" meant until she listened, and then she understood. It must mean that hollow shuddering sort of roar which rushed round and round the house as if the giant no one could see were buffeting it and beating at the walls and windows to try to break in. But one knew he could not get in, and somehow it made one feel very safe and warm inside a room with a red coal fire.
"But why did he hate it so?" she asked, after she had listened. She intended to know if Martha did.
Then Martha gave up her store of knowledge.
"Mind," she said, "Mrs. Medlock said it's not to be talked about. There's lots o' things in this place that's not to be talked over. That's Mr. Craven's orders. His troubles are none servants' business, he says. But for th' garden he wouldn't be like he is. It was Mrs. Craven's garden that she had made when first they were married an' she just loved it, an' they used to 'tend the flowers themselves. An' none o' th' gardeners was ever let to go in. Him an' her used to go in an' shut th' door an' stay there hours an' hours, readin' and talkin'. An' she was just a bit of a girl an' there was an old tree with a branch bent like a seat on it. An' she made roses grow over it an' she used to sit there. But one day when she was sittin' there th' branch broke an' she fell on th' ground an' was hurt so bad that next day she died. Th' doctors thought he'd go out o' his mind an' die, too. That's why he hates it. No one's never gone in since, an' he won't let any one talk about it."
Mary did not ask any more questions. She looked at the red fire and listened to the wind "wutherin'." It seemed to be "wutherin'" louder than ever. At that moment a very good thing was happening to her. Four good things had happened to her, in fact, since she came to Misselthwaite Manor. She had felt as if she had understood a robin and that he had understood her; she had run in the wind until her blood had grown warm; she had been healthily hungry for the first time in her life; and she had found out what it was to be sorry for some one.
But as she was listening to the wind she began to listen to something else. She did not know what it was, because at first she could scarcely distinguish it from the wind itself. It was a curious sound--it seemed almost as if a child were crying somewhere. Sometimes the wind sounded rather like a child crying, but presently Mistress Mary felt quite sure this sound was inside the house, not outside it. It was far away, but it was inside. She turned round and looked at Martha.
"Do you hear any one crying?" she said.
Martha suddenly looked confused.
"No," she answered. "It's th' wind. Sometimes it sounds like as if some one was lost on th' moor an' wailin'. It's got all sorts o' sounds."
"But listen," said Mary. "It's in the house--down one of those long corridors."
And at that very moment a door must have been opened somewhere downstairs; for a great rushing draft blew along the passage and the door of the room they sat in was blown open with a crash, and as they both jumped to their feet the light was blown out and the crying sound was swept down the far corridor so that it was to be heard more plainly than ever.
"There!" said Mary. "I told you so! It is some one crying--and it isn't a grown-up person."
Martha ran and shut the door and turned the key, but before she did it they both heard the sound of a door in some far passage shutting with a bang, and then everything was quiet, for even the wind ceased "wutherin'" for a few moments.
"It was th' wind," said Martha stubbornly. "An' if it wasn't, it was little Betty Butterworth, th' scullery-maid. She's had th' toothache all day."
But something troubled and awkward in her manner made Mistress Mary stare very hard at her. She did not believe she was speaking the truth.