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钟形罩|The Bell Jar

第10章|Ten

属类： 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 西尔维娅-普拉斯] 阅读：[20400]
这本小说以作者早年生活经历为蓝本，叙述了19岁的大二女生埃斯特· 格林伍德经历了充当某知名杂志社的客座编辑、参加写作班被拒、自杀未遂、接受心理治疗、重树自信期待返回社会，展开新生活的一系列过程。本文从“榜样缺失”的角度出发，结合当时美国的实际，探讨埃斯特作为女性，在其成长过程中男性社会压抑下所产生的孤独、绝望与挣扎的心灵历程以及反抗的必然性。
《 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 》
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镜中的脸，活像是生了病的印第安人。

1
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我把粉饼盒丢进手提包，望向火车窗外。就像处于一个巨大的垃圾场，康涅狄格州的沼泽和荒地飞快地闪过，这是一个衰败的与世隔绝的碎片。

2
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这世界真是一个大杂烩！

3
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我低头看了看身上这套陌生的衣裙。

4
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绿色的紧腰宽裙，裙面布满黑色、白色和铁青色的小图案，裙身蓬松如灯罩；缀满圆孔的白色衬衫没有袖子，取而代之的是肩部松软的波浪褶边，宛如新生天使的翅膀。

5
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那晚我将所有的衣服都抛入纽约的夜空，却忘了给自己留下一件白天能穿的衣裳，所以贝琪把这身衬衫和裙子给我，换走了我那件有矢车菊图案的浴袍。

6
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我苍白的影子——白色的翅膀，褐色的马尾辫——一切有如幽魂般浮现在窗外的景致里。

7
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“牛仔傻大妞。”我喊了一声。

8
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对面看杂志的女人抬起头来。

9
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直到出发前一刻，我也不想把凝固在脸上的那两道交错的血渍洗掉。它们看起来颇为动人，相当醒目，我甚至想留着它们，就像随身携带死去爱人的遗物，直到它们自然淡去。

10
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当然，如果我笑或者脸部肌肉动得太厉害，血渍就会很快脱落，所以我尽量绷着脸，不得不说话时就从牙缝里挤出几个字，绝不动到嘴巴。

11
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我真搞不懂，人们为什么要把目光落在我身上。

12
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比我怪的人多的是。

13
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灰色皮箱放在我头顶上方的行李架上，里头很空，只放了一本《年度最佳短篇小说三十篇》，一个白色的塑料墨镜盒，和朵琳临行前送的两打鳄梨。

14
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鳄梨尚未成熟，所以很耐放。每当我提起和放下箱子，或哪怕只是拎着它走动时，就会听见它们在箱子里滚来滚去，发出一种微弱而特别的隆隆声。

15
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“一二八线公路到了！”列车员喊道。

16
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人工种植的野生松树、枫树和橡树缓缓停止滑动，在火车窗框中定格成一幅丑陋的画。我走过长长的走道，行李箱一路颠簸作响。

17
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从开着空调的车厢下到车站月台，郊区的气息立刻如慈母般包围了我。那气息闻起来是由草坪洒水器、休旅车、网球拍、宠物狗和婴儿的味道交织而成的。

18
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夏日的静谧如同死亡一样抚慰了一切。

19
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母亲就在那辆灰色的雪佛兰车旁等着我。

20
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“天啊，宝贝，你的脸怎么了？”

21
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“不小心划到了。”我简单地说。把行李箱塞进后座，我也坐了进去。我可不想坐在她旁边，免得被她一路盯着回家。

22
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椅子皮面光滑洁净。

23
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母亲坐到驾驶位上，往我腿上丢了几封信，转回身。

24
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车子低颤着启动。

25
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“我想该让你早点儿知道。”她说。从她脖子的姿势看，我就知道是坏消息。“你没被写作班录取。”

26
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我整个人如泄了气的皮球。

27
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整个六月，如深渊般沉闷的夏天，写作班就像一座光明与安全的桥，是我的盼头。现在，我看到它摇摇晃晃地消失了，一具白衣绿裙的尸体骤然落下深渊。

28
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我的嘴艰涩地闭上。

29
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早料到会是这个结果。

30
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我的脊柱抵着椅背，整个人偷偷往下滑，直到鼻子与车窗下沿齐平，看着窗外波士顿郊区的房舍飞逝而过。房子越来越眼熟，我越缩越低。

31
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我觉得，要紧的是，千万别被人认出来。

32
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包了软垫的灰色车顶在头上罩得严严实实，犹如囚车。窗外的房子钉着清一色的护墙板，白得闪闪发亮，各幢之间种着修剪整齐的绿色植被。房子一幢幢在眼前掠过，好像一个巨大而密不可逃的牢笼的栅栏。

33
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我还从来没在郊区度过夏天。

34
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婴儿车轮子发出女高音般尖厉的声音，刺痛我的耳朵。阳光从百叶窗间隙透进来，整个卧室充满硫黄色的光。我不知道自己睡了多久，只觉得累到虚脱。

35
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旁边的那张床已经空了，还未收拾。

36
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七点时我听见母亲起床，匆促地套上衣服，蹑手蹑脚地走出卧室。然后，楼下传来橙汁机的嗡嗡声，咖啡和培根的香味从门缝底下飘进来。再然后，水槽上的龙头被拧开，一阵叮当作响，是母亲把洗净擦干的餐盘放回碗柜。

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接着，前门打开，关上。车门打开，关上，引擎隆隆发动，吱嘎碾过沙砾，慢慢远去了。

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母亲在市立大学教很多女生速记和打字，要到下午三四点钟才回家。

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婴儿车轮子又发出尖厉的声音，似乎有人在我的窗下来回推着婴儿。

40
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我从床上滑到地毯上，手脚并用，偷偷爬到窗边，看看外面究竟是谁。

41
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我们家不大，外面也钉着白色的护墙板，周围种着一小块绿色草坪，就位于两条宁静的郊区街道的交会处。所以尽管有一排小枫树环绕在房子四周，但是人行道上经过的任何人只要一抬头，就能透过二楼的窗户饱览屋内的风光。

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我之所以知道这个，全都拜隔壁的讨人嫌的欧肯丹太太所赐。

43
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老太婆欧肯丹是个退休护士，刚嫁给第三任丈夫的她——两任前夫死因蹊跷——成天躲在自家上了浆的窗帘后面窥探别人。

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她曾经两次给我的母亲打过电话告我的密。一次说我在屋前的路灯下坐了一小时，还跟一个开着蓝色普利茅斯的男人亲嘴；另一次提醒我最好放下卧室的百叶窗，因为有一天晚上她出门遛她那只苏格兰小猎犬时，刚好瞧见我半裸着身子准备睡觉。

45
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我小心翼翼地把眼睛凑向窗台。

46
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一个身高不及五英尺的女人，挺着个又丑又凸的大肚子，正推着一辆老旧的黑色婴儿车走在街上。两三个身高不一的孩子跟在她的裙摆下蹒跚而行，全都面色苍白，脸上脏兮兮的，裸露在外的膝盖也脏兮兮的。

47
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女人的脸上洋溢着安详沉静而近于圣洁的微笑。她幸福地仰着头，整个葫芦般的身形像鸭蛋上隆起个麻雀蛋。她对着阳光粲然一笑。

48
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这女人我很熟。

49
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她是朵朵·康威。

50
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朵朵·康威是天主教徒，读完哥伦比亚大学伯纳德女子学院后，嫁给了同是哥大毕业且同是天主教徒的建筑师。他们就住在这条街的另一头，房子很大却乱七八糟，门前是一排长得病歪歪的松树，房子四周散落着代表郊区童年的各色物品——儿童踏板车、三轮脚踏车、娃娃推车、玩具消防车、棒球棍、羽毛球网、棒球的三柱门、仓鼠笼子和小可卡犬玩偶。

51
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不由自主地，我开始注意起朵朵。

52
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她家的房子和左邻右舍的都不一样，大小不同（她家大很多），颜色也特别（二楼的护墙板是深褐色的，一楼则是灰泥墙，上面布满灰色和紫色的状似高尔夫球的圆石），而且周围的松树完全遮挡了视线。这在家家户户草坪相连，篱笆高度只及腰的街坊邻里看来，真是离群寡居的模样。

53
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朵朵的六个孩子——毋庸置疑第七个也即将诞生——全是吃家乐氏的脆米花、花生酱棉花糖三明治、香草冰激凌和一加仑一加仑的护滋牌牛奶长大的，用奶量大到本地的牛奶商愿意给她折扣价。

54
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虽然朵朵家中人口频添，落人话柄，但是大家还是很喜欢她。周围年长的人通常生两个，比如我母亲；年轻一点家境又宽裕的，会生四个。没人像朵朵这样往第七个迈进，就算六个都已嫌多。不过，话锋一转，大伙总是说，当然啦，朵朵是天主教徒嘛。

55
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我看着朵朵推着她家的小康威走来走去，这么做好像就是为了惹毛我。我讨厌小孩。

56
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脚下的地板突然嘎吱一响，我赶紧低头缩腰，与此同时，朵朵·康威不知是出于本能还是听力超强，以她的细脖子为轴，把脸缓缓转向我这一侧。

57
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我觉得她的目光穿透了白色的护墙板和粉红玫瑰壁纸，把蜷伏在银色暖气片后面的我给挖了出来。

58
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我爬回床上，拉过被单，盖住脑袋。可即便如此，仍阻挡不了光线。于是我把头埋进枕头下的漆黑世界，假装已经入夜。我找不到起床的理由。我没有任何期待。

59
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过了一会儿，我听见楼下门厅传来电话铃声。我用枕头塞住耳朵。坚持了五分钟，我把头从枕头拱出的洞里抬起来。铃声已经停了。

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几乎同时，铃声再度响起。

61
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不知是哪路亲戚朋友，还是八竿子打不着的什么人，嗅出了我返家的消息，我边诅咒这该死的来电，边光着脚走下了楼。门厅桌上的那个黑乎乎的东西，歇斯底里地发出一声又一声颤音，活像只神经质的鸟。我拿起话筒。“喂。”我故意低声说话。

62
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“喂，埃斯特，你怎么了？喉咙发炎了？”

63
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是我的老友乔蒂从剑桥打来的。

64
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乔蒂这个暑假在学校的合作商店带薪实习，并且修了一门开在午餐时段的社会学课程。她和另外两个跟我同校的女孩向哈佛法学院的四个学生转租了一间大公寓，我本打算写作班一开课，就搬去和她们同住。

65
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乔蒂打电话问我何时过去。

66
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“我不去了。”我说，“我没被录取。”

67
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她沉默了片刻。

68
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“他是笨蛋。”乔蒂说，“有眼无珠，不识好歹。”

69
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“我也这么想。”在我自己听来我的声音陌生而空洞。

70
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“你还是来吧，可以修其他课啊。”

71
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我一下子想到了德语和变态心理学。反正我把在纽约见习的薪水几乎都存下来了，刚好负担得起。

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但是那个空洞的声音却说：“还是别把我算在内了。”

73
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“好吧。”乔蒂说，“有个女生想跟我们合租，如果有人要退出的话……”

74
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“好，去找她吧。”

75
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挂上电话的那一刻，我知道我应该答应乔蒂过去的。一整个早上听着朵朵·康威的婴儿车辗来辗去，我一定会发疯。而且，我早就决定，不和母亲住在同一个屋檐下超过一个礼拜。

76
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我伸手想重拾话筒。

77
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手才伸出去几英寸，就缩了回来，颓然下垂。我强迫它再次伸向话筒，但它还是半途停下，仿佛撞上了一扇玻璃。

78
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我漫无目的地走进饭厅。

79
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餐桌上立着两封信。一封长方形的正式信函是暑期学校寄来的；另一封薄薄的蓝色信笺是巴迪·威拉德用剩下的耶鲁信纸写的，上面有他工整清晰的笔迹。

80
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我用刀裁开暑期学校的信。

81
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信里说，我未被写作班录取，可以选择其他课程，但最迟必须于这个早上致电录取办公室，以免耽误注册。另外，各门课程都已接近满员。

82
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我拨通了录取办公室的电话，听到自己僵尸般的声音说，埃斯特·格林伍德小姐取消了前往暑期学校的一切安排。

83
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接着，我打开巴迪·威拉德的信。

84
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信里写道，他很可能爱上了一个同患肺结核的护士，但他妈妈七月在疗养院所在的阿迪伦达克山区租了个小木屋，如果我能同去住上一阵，他或许就会发现自己对那护士只是一时迷恋而已。

85
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我抓过一支铅笔，划掉巴迪写的内容，翻过信纸，在背面写上我已经和一位同声传译官订婚，再也不想见到巴迪，因为我不希望自己孩子的父亲是个伪君子。

86
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我把信纸塞回信封，用透明胶带封口，把收信地址改成巴迪的，邮票不贴了——信里的话值得他到付三分钱邮资。

87
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事毕，我决定要利用这个暑假写本小说。

88
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借此可以修理很多人。

89
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我走进厨房，往一杯生肉糜里打了枚生蛋，搅搅吃了。然后我在房子通往车库那条装有纱窗的通道上支起了一张牌桌。

90
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一大丛摇曳的桑橙挡住了前方的街景，两侧各有屋墙和车库墙作掩护，后面的一片白桦树和一排黄杨树篱让我免受欧肯丹太太的窥视。

91
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我数出三百五十张母亲藏在客厅壁橱中一堆旧毡帽、衣服刷和羊毛围巾下面的高级可改写打字纸。

92
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回到通道，我把第一张洁白的纸放入我那台老旧的便携式打字机，卷好。

93
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另一个疏离的自我，看着自己坐在通道里，周围是两堵钉有白色护板的墙、一丛桑橙树、一片白桦树和一排黄杨树篱，小小的我有如身处娃娃屋里的娃娃。

94
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一股柔情盈满心中。我的女主角就是我自己，只是会加以伪装。她的名字叫依莲。依莲，我伸出指头数了数，和埃斯特一样，都是六个字母，看样子是个好兆头。

95
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依莲穿着母亲的黄色旧睡袍，坐在通道里，等着发生点什么。这是个闷热的七月清晨，汗珠一滴滴从背上滑落，如同小虫慢慢爬过。

96
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我往椅背上一靠，看着自己写的东西。

97
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挺生动的，把汗珠比作虫子这句我尤为得意。只是隐约觉得，很久以前似乎在哪儿读过类似的话。

98
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我就这么呆坐了一个小时，绞尽脑汁想着接下来要做什么。在我的脑海中，那个穿着母亲黄色旧睡袍的娃娃也和我一样，赤足呆坐，茫然凝望。

99
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“怎么了，亲爱的？还不想换衣服吗？”

100
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母亲很小心，从来不强迫我做任何事，只是好声好气地和我讲道理，像两个理智成熟的大人在打交道。

101
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“快下午三点了呢。”

102
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“我在写小说。”我说，“没那闲工夫换来换去的。”

103
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我躺在通道的沙发上，闭着眼。我能听见母亲把牌桌上的打字机和纸张收走，摆上晚餐的银餐具，但是我一动没动。

104
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惰性如糖浆，从依莲的四肢缓缓渗出。她心想：得疟疾就是这个感觉吧。

105
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无论如何，一天能写出一页已属万幸。

106
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然后，我意识到了问题出在哪儿。

107
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我需要历练。

108
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没谈过恋爱，没生过小孩，连死亡也未曾目睹，我能写出什么人生？我认识一个女孩，刚得了个短篇小说奖，人家的故事写的是在非洲俾格米族中的奇遇。这样的经历我怎么比得上？

109
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晚餐结束前，母亲终于说服我，利用晚上时间跟她学速记。我想，这也算一石二鸟吧，既不耽误我写小说，又能学点一技之长。当然，还省了一大笔学费。

110
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当天晚上，母亲就从地下室翻出了一块旧黑板，支在了通道里。她站在黑板前，用白粉笔在上面潦草地写出一些小小的花体字，我就坐在椅子上看着。

111
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一开始，我觉得很有希望。

112
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我想，用不了多久，我就能学会速记。等学校奖学金办公室那个雀斑女士问起，作为领奖学金的女孩，为何我没有在七八月打工赚钱的时候，我就可以告诉她，我利用这段时间上了免费的速记课，这样一毕业我就能养活自己了。

113
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唯一的问题是，当我试图想象自己开始上班，敏捷地速记下一行行信息时，脑子里竟变得一片空白。那些需要速记的工作我一个都不想做。我就那么坐着，看着白粉笔写出的花体字模糊成一片无意义的符号。

114
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我跟母亲说头疼得很，便上床去睡觉了。

115
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过了一小时，门一点点地开了，母亲蹑手蹑脚进了卧室。我听见她窸窸窣窣脱衣服的声音。听见她爬上床。然后她的呼吸渐渐变得缓慢而均匀。

116
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在透过闭合的百叶窗进入室内的昏黄的街灯光芒下，我看见她头上的发卷像刺刀一样闪闪发光。

117
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我决定把小说先放一放，等我去趟欧洲、谈场恋爱再说。至于速记，我一个字也不要学了。如果我坚决不学，就永远也用不到它。

118
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这个暑假就用来读读《芬尼根守灵夜》，写写论文吧。

119
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这样一来，等九月底开学时，我就能好整以暇地享受大学的最后一年，免得像大部分成绩优异的毕业生那样，成日里刻苦用功，把自己搞得蓬头垢面，要靠咖啡和苯丙胺提神，直到论文完成的那一刻方歇。

120
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我又想，不妨推迟一年毕业，去当个陶艺学徒。

121
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要么，想办法去德国当女招待，把德语学会了再回来。

122
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计划一个接一个在脑海中窜来窜去，像一窝狂躁的兔子。

123
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我看见我的人生就像路边一根根以电线相连的电话线杆子，我数着一、二、三……数到第十九根，不论我怎么努力，后面一根杆子也见不到，徒留一截电线在空中飘荡。

124
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房间渐呈蓝色，不知道夜晚跑哪儿去了。母亲的轮廓从一截模糊的木头变为沉睡的中年妇人，嘴巴微张，鼾声从她喉咙冒上来。猪哼似的鼾声真是恼人，有那么片刻，我觉得唯一能阻止这种噪音的方法，只有抓住发出鼾声的那根肉柱，用两手狠狠扭断。

125
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我假装睡觉，直到母亲离开家去学校。可眼睛就算闭着，也挡不住光。眼皮的毛细血管交织成两片刺眼的红帘，像血淋淋的伤口挂在我眼前。我钻入床垫和床架之间，让床垫像墓碑一样压着我，我躲在下面，又黑又安全，只可惜床垫不够重。

126
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还得再来一吨重的东西压着我，我才睡得着。

127
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江河奔腾，流过夏娃与亚当的家，从凸出的河岸，到凹入的海湾。江河宽阔，复始循环，把我们带回霍斯堡和郊外……

128
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《芬尼根守灵夜》真厚，把我的肚子硌出一道令人不快的凹痕。

129
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江河奔腾，流过夏娃与亚当的家……

130
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我在想，第一个词“江河奔腾”之所以首字母小写，可能是为了表示没有任何事物真正拥有全新的开端，一切只是承载过往，延续而来。“夏娃与亚当的家”，指的就是亚当和夏娃。当然，也有可能另有所指。

131
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也许指的是都柏林的某间酒馆。

132
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我的视线在一锅字母杂烩汤里逡巡，落在页面中间那串长长的单词上。

133
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bababadalgharaghtakamminarronnkonnbronntonnerron-ntuonnthunntrovarrhounawnskawntoohoohoordenenthurnuk!

134
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我数了数，正好一百个字母。我想，其中必有深意。

135
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为什么是一百个字母？

136
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揣度犹疑之间，我大声念出这个单词。

137
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听起来就像一块沉重的木制品滚下楼梯，砰砰砰，一级级下落。我提起书页，在眼前缓缓翻动，那些字依稀熟悉，但又像哈哈镜里的脸一样扭曲，且稍纵即逝，未曾在我脑中平滑的镜面上留下丝毫痕迹。

138
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我斜眼看着书页。

139
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看着看着，字母慢慢变成了倒钩和羊角，一个个分离开来，傻兮兮地上下跳动，然后结合成不可思议、难以理解的形状，像是阿拉伯文或者中文。

140
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我决定把论文抛到一边。

141
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同时，也放弃整套优等生课程，只做个英文系的普通学生。我去查了校方对英文系普通学生的要求。

142
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必修课还真多，我上过的一半都不到。其中一门是十八世纪文学，但我想到十八世纪就觉得讨厌。那时的作家都自命不凡，总是写那种严格遵守韵律要求的两行诗，而且极端热衷理性，所以我没选这门课。我们优等生就是有更多的选课自由，所以我的时间多半用来研究狄兰·托马斯(1)。

143
(1) 狄兰?托马斯（Dylan Thomas，1914-1953），英国作家、诗人，一九四六年发表人生中最重要的一部诗集《死亡和出场》，评论界普遍认为他是继奥登以后英国的又一位重要诗人。
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我有个朋友也是优等生，她就有办法一个字不读莎士比亚，却是研究T.S.艾略特《四首四重奏》的真正专家。

144
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我明白了从选课自由的优等生变成选课诸多限制的普通生，根本不可能，而且也很丢人，所以我去查了母亲任教的那所市立大学英文系的要求。

145
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那里更惨。

146
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你需要懂古英语和英语语言史，还得把从《贝奥武甫》到当代文学的所有代表性作品都读过。

147
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这着实让我大吃一惊。我向来瞧不起我母亲的那所学校，因为它不仅男女同校，而且只有那些拿不到奖学金进东海岸名校的学生才会就读。

148
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现在我才发现，这所学校里最笨的学生都比我懂得多。估计他们连校门都不会让我进，更不用说让他们像我的学校那样，提供给我一大笔奖学金了。

149
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我想我最好先工作一年，把事情想清楚再说。或者我可以私底下学习十八世纪文学。

150
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可我不会速记，能做什么呢？

151
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当个女招待或者打字员。

152
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随便哪个，想想都觉得无法忍受。

153
-

“你要我多开点安眠药给你？”

154
-

“对。”

155
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“可我上周开给你的，药效已经很强了。”

156
-

“现在没有什么效果了。”

157
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特雷莎那双黑色的大眼睛若有所思地望着我。我听见她的三个孩子在诊察室窗外的花园里玩耍。我的姨妈莉比嫁给了一个意大利人，特雷莎就是我姨妈的小姑子，也是我们的家庭医生。

158
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我喜欢特雷莎。她性情温柔又直觉敏感。

159
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我觉得这一定是因为她是意大利人。

160
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出现了片刻沉默。

161
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“问题出在哪儿？”特雷莎问。

162
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“我睡不着，也看不进书。”我试图以一种冷静沉着的语气说话，但那个僵尸又出现了，扼住了我的喉咙，我只好无奈地双手一摊。

163
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“我有个建议。”特雷莎从处方笺上撕下一张纸，写上一个名字和地址，“你最好去看看我认识的这个医生，他比我更能帮助你。”

164
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我费力地看了半天，但我读不出那个名字。

165
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“戈登大夫。”特雷莎说，“他是精神科医生。”

166
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The face in the mirror looked like a sick Indian.

1

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I dropped the compact into my pocketbook and stared out of the train window. Like a colossal junkyard, the swamps and back lots of Connecticut flashed past, one broken-down fragment bearing no relation to another.

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What a hotchpotch the world was!

3

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I glanced down at my unfamiliar skirt and blouse.

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The skirt was a green dirndl with tiny black, white and electric-blue shapes swarming across it, and it stuck out like a lampshade. Instead of sleeves, the white eyelet blouse had frills at the shoulder, floppy as the wings of a new angel.

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I’d forgotten to save any day clothes from the ones I let fly over New York, so Betsy had traded me a blouse and skirt for my bathrobe with the cornflowers on it.

6

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A wan reflection of myself, white wings, brown ponytail and all, ghosted over the landscape.

7

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“Pollyanna Cowgirl,” I said out loud.

8

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A woman in the seat opposite looked up from her magazine.

9

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I hadn’t, at the last moment, felt like washing off the two diagonal lines of dried blood that marked my cheeks. They seemed touching, and rather spectacular, and I thought I would carry them around with me, like the relic of a dead lover, till they wore off of their own accord.

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Of course, if I smiled or moved my face much, the blood would flake away in no time, so I kept my face immobile, and when I had to speak I spoke through my teeth, without disturbing my lips.

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I didn’t really see why people should look at me.

12

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Plenty of people looked queerer than I did.

13

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My gray suitcase rode on the rack over my head, empty except for The Thirty Best Short Stories of the Year, a white plastic sunglasses case and two dozen avocado pears, a parting present from Doreen.

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The pears were unripe, so they would keep well, and whenever I lifted my suitcase up or down or simply carried it along, they cannoned from one end to the other with a special little thunder of their own.

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“Root Wan Twenny Ate!” the conductor bawled.

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The domesticated wilderness of pine, maple and oak rolled to a halt and stuck in the frame of the train window like a bad picture. My suitcase grumbled and bumped as I negotiated the long aisle.

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I stepped from the air-conditioned compartment onto the station platform, and the motherly breath of the suburbs enfolded me. It smelt of lawn sprinklers and station wagons and tennis rackets and dogs and babies.

18

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A summer calm laid its soothing hand over everything, like death.

19

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My mother was waiting by the glove-gray Chevrolet.

20

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“Why lovey, what’s happened to your face?”

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“Cut myself,” I said briefly, and crawled into the back seat after my suitcase. I didn’t want her staring at me the whole way home.

22

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The upholstery felt slippery and clean.

23

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My mother climbed behind the wheel and tossed a few letters into my lap, then turned her back.

24

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The car purred into life.

25

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“I think I should tell you right away,” she said, and I could see bad news in the set of her neck, “you didn’t make that writing course.”

26

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The air punched out of my stomach.

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All through June the writing course stretched before me like a bright, safe bridge over the dull gulf of the summer. Now I saw it totter and dissolve, and a body in a white blouse and green skirt plummet into the gap.

28

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Then my mouth shaped itself sourly.

29

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I had expected it.

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I slunk down on the middle of my spine, my nose level with the rim of the window, and watched the houses of outer Boston glide by. As the houses grew more familiar I slunk still lower.

31

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I felt it was very important not to be recognized.

32

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The gray, padded car roof closed over my head like the roof of a prison van, and the white, shining, identical clapboard houses with their interstices of well-groomed green proceeded past, one bar after another in a large but escape-proof cage.

33

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I had never spent a summer in the suburbs before.

34

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The soprano screak of carriage wheels punished my ear. Sun, seeping through the blinds, filled the bedroom with a sulphurous light. I didn’t know how long I had slept, but I felt one big twitch of exhaustion.

35

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The twin bed next to mine was empty and unmade.

36

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At seven I had heard my mother get up, slip into her clothes and tiptoe out of the room. Then the buzz of the orange squeezer sounded from downstairs, and the smell of coffee and bacon filtered under my door. Then the sink water ran from the tap and dishes clinked as my mother dried them and put them back in the cupboard.

37

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Then the front door opened and shut. Then the car door opened and shut, and the motor went broom-broom and, edging off with a crunch of gravel, faded into the distance.

38

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My mother was teaching shorthand and typing to a lot of city college girls and wouldn’t be home till the middle of the afternoon.

39

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The carriage wheels screaked past again. Somebody seemed to be wheeling a baby back and forth under my window.

40

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I slipped out of bed and onto the rug, and quietly, on my hands and knees, crawled over to see who it was.

41

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Ours was a small, white clapboard house set in the middle of a small green lawn on the corner of two peaceful suburban streets, but in spite of the little maple trees planted at intervals around our property, anybody passing along the sidewalk could glance up at the second story windows and see just what was going on.

42

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This was brought home to me by our next-door neighbor, a spiteful woman named Mrs. Ockenden.

43

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Mrs. Ockenden was a retired nurse who had just married her third husband—the other two died in curious circumstances—and she spent an inordinate amount of time peering from behind the starched white curtains of her windows.

44

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She had called my mother up twice about me—once to report that I had been sitting in front of the house for an hour under the streetlight and kissing somebody in a blue Plymouth, and once to say that I had better pull the blinds down in my room, because she had seen me half-naked getting ready for bed one night when she happened to be out walking her Scotch terrier.

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With great care, I raised my eyes to the level of the windowsill.

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A woman not five feet tall, with a grotesque, protruding stomach, was wheeling an old black baby carriage down the street. Two or three small children of various sizes, all pale, with smudgy faces and bare smudgy knees, wobbled along in the shadow of her skirts.

47

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A serene, almost religious smile lit up the woman’s face. Her head tilted happily back, like a sparrow egg perched on a duck egg, she smiled into the sun.

48

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I knew the woman well.

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It was Dodo Conway.

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Dodo Conway was a Catholic who had gone to Barnard and then married an architect who had gone to Columbia and was also a Catholic. They had a big, rambling house up the street from us, set behind a morbid facade of pine trees, and surrounded by scooters, tricycles, doll carriages, toy fire trucks, baseball bats, badminton nets, croquet wickets, hamster cages and cocker spaniel puppies—the whole sprawling paraphernalia of suburban childhood.

51

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Dodo interested me in spite of myself.

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Her house was unlike all the others in our neighborhood in its size (it was much bigger)and its color (the second story was constructed of dark brown clapboard and the first of gray stucco, studded with gray and purple golfball-shaped stones), and the pine trees completely screened it from view, which was considered unsociable in our community of adjoining lawns and friendly, waist-high hedges.

53

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Dodo raised her six children—and would no doubt raise her seventh—on Rice Krispies, peanut-butter-and-marshmallow sandwiches, vanilla ice cream and gallon upon gallon of Hoods milk. She got a special discount from the local milkman.

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Everybody loved Dodo, although the swelling size of her family was the talk of the neighborhood. The older people around, like my mother, had two children, and the younger, more prosperous ones had four, but nobody but Dodo was on the verge of a seventh. Even six was considered excessive, but then, everybody said, of course Dodo was a Catholic.

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I watched Dodo wheel the youngest Conway up and down. She seemed to be doing it for my benefit. Children made me sick.

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A floorboard creaked, and I ducked down again, just as Dodo Conway’s face, by instinct, or some gift of supernatural hearing, turned on the little pivot of its neck.

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I felt her gaze pierce through the white clapboard and the pink wallpaper roses and uncover me, crouching there behind the silver pickets of the radiator.

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I crawled back into bed and pulled the sheet over my head. But even that didn’t shut out the light, so I buried my head under the darkness of the pillow and pretended it was night. I couldn’t see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.

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After a while I heard the telephone ringing in the downstairs hall. I stuffed the pillow into my ears and gave myself five minutes. Then I lifted my head from its bolt hole. The ringing had stopped.

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Almost at once it started up again.

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Cursing whatever friend, relative or stranger had sniffed out my homecoming, I padded barefoot downstairs. The black instrument on the hall table trilled its hysterical note over and over, like a nervous bird. I picked up the receiver. “Hullo,” I said, in a low, disguised voice.

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“Hullo, Esther, what’s the matter, have you got laryngitis?” It was my old friend Jody, calling from Cambridge.

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Jody was working at the Coop that summer and taking a lunchtime course in sociology. She and two other girls from my college had rented a big apartment from four Harvard law students, and I’d been planning to move in with them when my writing course began.

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Jody wanted to know when they could expect me.

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“I’m not coming,” I said. “I didn’t make the course.”

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There was a small pause.

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“He’s an ass,” Jody said then. “He doesn’t know a good thing when he sees it.”

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“My sentiments exactly.” My voice sounded strange and hollow in my ears.

69

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“Come anyway. Take some other course.”

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The notion of studying German or abnormal psychology flitted through my head. After all, I’d saved nearly the whole of my New York salary, so I could just about afford it.

71

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But the hollow voice said, “You better count me out.”

72

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“Well,” Jody began, “there’s this other girl who wanted to come in with us if anybody dropped out…”

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“Fine. Ask her.”

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The minute I hung up I knew I should have said I would come. One morning listening to Dodo Conway’s baby carriage would drive me crazy. And I made a point of never living in the same house with my mother for more than a week.

75

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I reached for the receiver.

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My hand advanced a few inches, then retreated and fell limp. I forced it toward the receiver again, but again it stopped short, as if it had collided with a pane of glass.

77

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I wandered into the dining room.

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Propped on the table I found a long, businesslike letter from the summer school and a thin blue letter on leftover Yale stationery, addressed to me in Buddy Willard’s lucid hand.

79

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I slit open the summer school letter with a knife.

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Since I wasn’t accepted for the writing course, it said, I could choose some other course instead, but I should call in to the Admissions Office that same morning, or it would be too late to register, the courses were almost full.

81

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I dialed the Admissions Office and listened to the zombie voice leave a message that Miss Esther Greenwood was canceling all arrangements to come to summer school.

82

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Then I opened Buddy Willard’s letter.

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Buddy wrote that he was probably falling in love with a nurse who also had TB, but his mother had rented a cottage in the Adirondacks for the month of July, and if I came along with her, he might well find his feeling for the nurse was a mere infatuation.

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I snatched up a pencil and crossed out Buddy’s message. Then I turned the letter paper over and on the opposite side wrote that I was engaged to a simultaneous interpreter and never wanted to see Buddy again as I did not want to give my children a hypocrite for a father.

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I stuck the letter back in the envelope, Scotch-taped it together, and readdressed it to Buddy, without putting on a new stamp. I thought the message was worth a good three cents.

86

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Then I decided I would spend the summer writing a novel.

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That would fix a lot of people.

88

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I strolled into the kitchen, dropped a raw egg into a teacup of raw hamburger, mixed it up and ate it. Then I set up the card table on the screened breezeway between the house and the garage.

89

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A great wallowing bush of mock orange shut off the view of the street in front, the house wall and the garage wall took care of either side, and a clump of birches and a box hedge protected me from Mrs. Ockenden at the back.

90

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I counted out three hundred and fifty sheets of corrasable bond from my mother’s stock in the hall closet, secreted away under a pile of old felt hats and clothes brushes and woolen scarves.

91

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Back on the breezeway, I fed the first, virgin sheet into my old portable and rolled it up.

92

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From another, distanced mind, I saw myself sitting on the breezeway, surrounded by two white clapboard walls, a mock orange bush and a clump of birches and a box hedge, small as a doll in a doll’s house.

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A feeling of tenderness filled my heart. My heroine would be myself, only in disguise. She would be called Elaine. Elaine. I counted the letters on my fingers. There were six letters in Esther, too. It seemed a lucky thing.

94

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Elaine sat on the breezeway in an old yellow nightgown of her mother’s waiting for something to happen. It was a sweltering morning in July, and drops of sweat crawled down her back one by one, like slow insects.

95

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I leaned back and read what I had written.

96

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It seemed lively enough, and I was quite proud of the bit about the drops of sweat like insects, only I had the dim impression I’d probably read it somewhere else a long time ago.

97

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I sat like that for about an hour, trying to think what would come next, and in my mind, the barefoot doll in her mother’s old yellow nightgown sat and stared into space as well.

98

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“Why, honey, don’t you want to get dressed?”

99

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My mother took care never to tell me to do anything. She would only reason with me sweetly, like one intelligent mature person with another.

100

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“It’s almost three in the afternoon.”

101

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“I’m writing a novel,” I said. “I haven’t got time to change out of this and change into that.”

102

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I lay on the couch on the breezeway and shut my eyes. I could hear my mother clearing the typewriter and the papers from the card table and laying out the silver for supper, but I didn’t move.

103

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Inertia oozed like molasses through Elaine’s limbs. That’s what it must feel like to have malaria, she thought.

104

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At any rate, I’d be lucky if I wrote a page a day.

105

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Then I knew what the trouble was.

106

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I needed experience.

107

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How could I write about life when I’d never had a love affair or a baby or even seen anybody die? A girl I knew had just won a prize for a short story about her adventures among the pygmies in Africa. How could I compete with that sort of thing?

108

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By the end of supper my mother had convinced me I should study shorthand in the evenings. Then I would be killing two birds with one stone, writing a novel and learning something practical as well. I would also be saving a whole lot of money.

109

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That same evening, my mother unearthed an old blackboard from the cellar and set it up on the breezeway. Then she stood at the blackboard and scribbled little curlicues in white chalk while I sat in a chair and watched.

110

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At first I felt hopeful.

111

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I thought I might learn shorthand in no time, and when the freckled lady in the Scholarships Office asked me why I hadn’t worked to earn money in July and August, the way you were supposed to if you were a scholarship girl, I could tell her I had taken a free shorthand course instead, so I could support myself right after college.

112

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The only thing was, when I tried to picture myself in some job, briskly jotting down line after line of shorthand, my mind went blank. There wasn’t one job I felt like doing where you used shorthand. And, as I sat there and watched, the white chalk curlicues blurred into senselessness.

113

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I told my mother I had a terrible headache, and went to bed.

114

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An hour later the door inched open, and she crept into the room. I heard the whisper of her clothes as she undressed. She climbed into bed. Then her breathing grew slow and regular.

115

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In the dim light of the streetlamp that filtered through the drawn blinds, I could see the pin curls on her head glittering like a row of little bayonets.

116

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I decided I would put off the novel until I had gone to Europe and had a lover, and that I would never learn a word of shorthand. If I never learned shorthand I would never have to use it.

117

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I thought I would spend the summer reading Finnegans Wake and writing my thesis.

118

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Then I would be way ahead when college started at the end of September, and able to enjoy my last year instead of swotting away with no makeup and stringy hair, on a diet of coffee and Benzedrine, the way most of the seniors taking honors did, until they finished their thesis.

119

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Then I thought I might put off college for a year and apprentice myself to a pottery maker.

120

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Or work my way to Germany and be a waitress, until I was bilingual.

121

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Then plan after plan started leaping through my head, like a family of scatty rabbits.

122

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I saw the years of my life spaced along a road in the form of telephone poles, threaded together by wires. I counted one, two, three…nineteen telephone poles, and then the wires dangled into space, and try as I would, I couldn’t see a single pole beyond the nineteenth.

123

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The room blued into view, and I wondered where the night had gone. My mother turned from a foggy log into a slumbering, middle-aged woman, her mouth slightly open and a snore raveling from her throat. The piggish noise irritated me, and for a while it seemed to me that the only way to stop it would be to take the column of skin and sinew from which it rose and twist it to silence between my hands.

124

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I feigned sleep until my mother left for school, but even my eyelids didn’t shut out the light. They hung the raw, red screen of their tiny vessels in front of me like a wound. I crawled between the mattress and the padded bedstead and let the mattress fall across me like a tombstone. It felt dark and safe under there, but the mattress was not heavy enough.

125

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It needed about a ton more weight to make me sleep.

126

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riverrun, past Eve and Adam’s, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and environs…

127

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The thick book made an unpleasant dent in my stomach.

128

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riverrun, past Eve and Adam’s…

129

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I thought the small letter at the start might mean that nothing ever really began all new, with a capital, but that it just flowed on from what came before. Eve and Adam’s was Adam and Eve, of course, but it probably signified something else as well.

130

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Maybe it was a pub in Dublin.

131

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My eyes sank through an alphabet soup of letters to the long word in the middle of the page.

132

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bababadalgharaghtakamminarronnkonnbronntonner-ronntuonnthunntrovarrhounawnskawntoohoohoordenenth-urnuk!

133

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I counted the letters. There were exactly a hundred of them. I thought this must be important.

134

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Why should there be a hundred letters?

135

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Haltingly, I tried the word aloud.

136

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It sounded like a heavy wooden object falling downstairs, boomp boomp boomp, step after step. Lifting the pages of the book, I let them fan slowly by my eyes. Words, dimly familiar but twisted all awry, like faces in a funhouse mirror, fled past, leaving no impression on the glassy surface of my brain.

137

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I squinted at the page.

138

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The letters grew barbs and rams’ horns. I watched them separate, each from the other, and jiggle up and down in a silly way. Then they associated themselves in fantastic, untranslatable shapes, like Arabic or Chinese.

139

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I decided to junk my thesis.

140

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I decided to junk the whole honors program and become an ordinary English major. I went to look up the requirements of an ordinary English major at my college.

141

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There were lots of requirements, and I didn’t have half of them. One of the requirements was a course in the eighteenth century. I hated the very idea of the eighteenth century, with all those smug men writing tight little couplets and being so dead keen on reason. So I’d skipped it. They let you do that in honors, you were much freer. I had been so free I’d spent most of my time on Dylan Thomas.

142

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A friend of mine, also in honors, had managed never to read a word of Shakespeare; butshe was a real expert on the Four Quartets.

143

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I saw how impossible and embarrassing it would be for me to try to switch from my free program into the stricter one. So I looked up the requirements for English majors at the city college where my mother taught.

144

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They were even worse.

145

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You had to know Old English and the History of the English Language and a representative selection of all that had been written from Beowulf to the present day.

146

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This surprised me. I had always looked down on my mother’s college, as it was coed, and filled with people who couldn’t get scholarships to the big eastern colleges.

147

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Now I saw that the stupidest person at my mother’s college knew more than I did. I saw they wouldn’t even let me in through the door, let alone give me a large scholarship like the one I had at my own college.

148

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I thought I’d better go to work for a year and think things over. Maybe I could study the eighteenth century in secret.

149

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But I didn’t know shorthand, so what could I do?

150

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I could be a waitress or a typist.

151

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But I couldn’t stand the idea of being either one.

152

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“You say you want more sleeping pills?”

153

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“Yes.”

154

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“But the ones I gave you last week are very strong.”

155

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“They don’t work any more.”

156

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Teresa’s large, dark eyes regarded me thoughtfully. I could hear the voices of her three children in the garden under the consulting-room window. My Aunt Libby had married an Italian, and Teresa was my aunt’s sister-in-law and our family doctor.

157

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I liked Teresa. She had a gentle, intuitive touch.

158

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I thought it must be because she was Italian.

159

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There was a little pause.

160

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“What seems to be the matter?” Teresa said then.

161

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“I can’t sleep. I can’t read.” I tried to speak in a cool, calm way, but the zombie rose up in my throat and choked me off. I turned my hands palm up.

162

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“I think,” Teresa tore off a white slip from her prescription pad and wrote down a name and address, “you’d better see another doctor I know. He’ll be able to help you more than I can.”

163

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I peered at the writing, but I couldn’t read it.

164

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“Doctor Gordon,” Teresa said. “He’s a psychiatrist.”

165

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1 ..... 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20
序号 英文/音标 中文解释 更多操作

hotchpotch

[’hɒtʃpɒtʃ]

n.杂烩;混杂

unfamiliar

[ˌʌnfə’mɪliə(r)]

adj.不熟悉的

floppy

[’flɒpi]

adj.松软的;懒散的

bathrobe

[’bɑːθrəʊb]

n.浴衣;睡衣=dressing gown(美).

ponytail

[’pəʊniteɪl]

n.(女子的)马尾发型

Cowgirl

[’kaʊɡɜːl]

n.女牛仔

relic

[’relɪk]

n.神圣的遗物;遗迹;纪念物

disturbance

[dɪ’stɜːbəns]

n.扰乱;骚动

queer

[kwɪə(r)]

a. 古怪的，奇怪的;

cannon

[’kænən]

n.大炮;机关炮

bawl

[bɔːl]

v.大叫;大哭;大声训斥

aisle

[aɪl]

n.侧廊;(席位间的)通道

sprinkler

[’sprɪŋklə(r)]

n.洒水装置;洒水车

soothe

[suːð]

v.缓和;使安静;安慰

lovey

[’lʌvi]

n.宝贝，亲爱的(对爱人的昵称)

suitcase

[’suːtkeɪs]

n.手提箱

slippery

[’slɪpəri]

adj.滑的;狡猾的;不可靠的

plummet

[’plʌmɪt]

n.铅锤;铅垂线

slink

[slɪŋk]

v.偷偷溜走;扭捏招摇地走;早产

felted

[’feltɪd]

v. 把 ... 制成毡(使 ... 粘结)

past

[pɑːst]

a. 过去的;

exhaustion

[ɪɡ’zɔːstʃən]

n.疲惫;筋疲力尽;竭尽

unmake

[ˌʌn’meɪk]

v.毁坏;废除;改变;使还原

clink

[klɪŋk]

n.牢房;叮当声

gravel

[’ɡrævl]

n.碎石

shorthand

[’ʃɔːthænd]

n.速记;缩写

maple

[’meɪpl]

n.【C】枫树;槭树

spiteful

[’spaɪtfl]

adj.恶意的;怀恨的

starch

[stɑːtʃ]

n.淀粉

terrier

[’teriə(r)]

n.一种活泼的小狗

windowsill

[’wɪndəʊsɪl]

n.窗沿;窗台

perching

[’pɜːtʃɪŋ]

n.栖息;验布;铲软,

Dodo

[’dəʊdəʊ]

n.渡渡鸟;愚蠢之人;落伍的人

paraphernalia

[ˌpærəfə’neɪliə]

n.随身用品;装备;已婚妇女的私人财产

milkman

[’mɪlkmən]

n.送牛奶的人

supernatural

[ˌsuːpə’nætʃrəl]

adj.超自然的;神奇的

radiator

[’reɪdieɪtə(r)]

n.暖气片;散热器;辐射体

liftable

[lɪftəbl]

a.1. 可以举起的

disguise

[dɪs’ɡaɪz]

vt.掩饰;假装;假扮

laryngitis

[ˌlærɪn’dʒaɪtɪs]

n.喉炎

Harvard

[’hɑːvəd]

n.哈佛大学(美国)

York

[jɔːk]

约克郡;〈板球〉使击球员出局

carriage

[’kærɪdʒ]

n.四轮马车

pane

[peɪn]

n.窗玻璃;方框;方格

dine

[daɪn]

v.用正餐;进餐

lucid

[’luːsɪd]

adj.明白易懂的;清晰的;神智清醒的

slit

[slɪt]

n.裂缝;狭长的切口

Greenwood

[’griːnwʊd]

n.绿林

infatuation

[ɪnˌfætʃu’eɪʃn]

n.迷恋

hypocrite

[’hɪpəkrɪt]

n.伪君子;伪善者

cent

[sent]

n.分

breezeway

[’briːzweɪ]

n.有屋顶的通路

birch

[bɜːtʃ]

n.桦树;桦木;用桦条抽打

scarf

[skɑːf]

n.围巾

nightgown

[’naɪtɡaʊn]

n.睡衣;睡袍.

supper

[’sʌpə(r)]

n.晚饭

molasses

[mə’læsɪz]

n.糖浆;糖蜜

Africa

[’æfrɪkə]

n.非洲

scribble

[’skrɪbl]

v.潦草地书写;乱写

hopeful

[’həʊpfl]

adj.有希望的

senseless

[’sensləs]

adj.无感觉的;无意义的;无意识的;不省人事的

undress

[ʌn’dres]

v.脱掉;使脱衣服;暴露;使卸去装饰

bayonet

[’beɪənət]

n.刺刀

Benzedrine

[ˈbenzədriːn]

n.苏醒剂的一种

apprentice

[ə’prentɪs]

n.学徒;见习生

waitress

[’weɪtrəs]

n.女侍者;女服务员

scatty

[’skæti]

adj.发疯的;注意力不集中的;愚蠢的

dangle

[’dæŋɡl]

v.摇晃;悬垂;挂着;追求

sinew

[’sɪnjuː]

n.肌肉;精力;原动力

mattress

[’mætrəs]

n.床垫

environs

[ɪn’vaɪrənz]

n.郊外;郊区,

dent

[dent]

n.凹痕;心理阴影;挫伤

signify

[’sɪɡnɪfaɪ]

vt.表示;预示;意味着;象征

halting

[’hɔːltɪŋ]

adj.跛的;踌躇的,

glassy

[’ɡlɑːsi]

adj.如镜的;呆滞的

squint

[skwɪnt]

n. 斜视；斜视眼;

Arabic

[’ærəbɪk]

n.阿拉伯语

junk

[dʒʌŋk]

n.垃圾;废旧杂物;中国平底帆船

quartet

[kwɔː’tet]

n.四重奏

coed

[ˌkəʊ’ed]

n.男女同校中的女生

typist

[’taɪpɪst]

n.打字员

intuitive

[ɪn’tjuːɪtɪv]

adj.直觉的

Teresa

[təˈriːzə]

n.特丽萨(女子名;Theresa 的异体)

zombie

[’zɒmbi]

n.僵尸;行尸走肉;木讷呆板的人

psychiatrist

[saɪ’kaɪətrɪst]

n.精神病医师;精神病学家

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