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属类: 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 托马斯-哈代] 阅读:[31870]
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季节向前发展了,成熟了。在新的一年里,鲜花、树叶、夜莺、画眉、金翅雀,以及诸如此类的生命短暂的生物,都出现在它们各自的岗位上了,仅仅在一年以前,这些位置都被其它的生物占据着,而它们不过只是一些胚芽和无机体的分子。在朝阳的光照下,苞芽滋生了,长出了长条,汁液在无声的溪流中奔涌,花瓣绽开了,在无形的喷吐和呼吸中把香气散发出去。

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奶牛场老板克里克奶牛场里挤奶的男女工人们,生活得舒舒适适的,平平静静的,甚至是快快活活的。在整个社会的所有工作岗位中,他们的岗位也许是最快乐的,因为同结束了贫困的人相比,他们还在其上,但是他们又不如另外那个阶层的人,而那个阶层的人因为要遵守社会礼仪而开始压抑天然感情,为了追赶时髦又弄得入不敷出,不得不承受捉襟见肘的压力。

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当树木似乎变成户外最集中的事物时,树叶生长的季节就这样过去了。苔丝和克莱尔都在无意中相互捉摸,一直处在一种激情的边缘之上,但是他们显然又在压制着自己的感情,不让它迸发出来。他们受到不可抗拒的自然法则的支配,一直在向一起聚合,非常像一个山谷中流在一起的两条溪流。

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近几年来,苔丝的生活从来没有像现在这样快乐过,也可能再也不会像现在这样快乐了。在新的环境里,她在身心两个方面都感到很融洽。她像一棵幼树,在原先栽种的地方,已经把根扎进了有毒的土层里,而现在已经被移植到深厚的土壤里了。另外,她和克莱尔也还处在好感和爱恋之间的不稳固的土壤上;还没有达到一定的深度;也没有什么难以解决的思虑和让人烦恼的问题,“这股新的爱潮要把我带到哪里去?它对我未来的前途意味着什么?它对我的过去又是怎样的?”

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到目前为止,在安琪尔·克莱尔看来,苔丝只不过是一种偶然的现象——一个让人感到温暖的玫瑰色幻影,在他的意识里,这个幻影也只是刚刚具有了驱赶不开的性质。因此他只好容许她在他的思想中存在,认为自己这种专注的心情,只不过是一个哲学家对一个极其新颖、艳丽和有趣的妇女典型的关注而已。

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他们继续不断地见面;他们无法克制自己。他们每天都在那个新奇庄严的时刻里见面,也就是在朦胧的晨光里、在紫色的或粉红色的黎明里见面;因为在这儿必须早起,要起得非常早。牛奶是要准时挤完的,在挤牛奶之前还要撇奶油,这都是在三点刚过就要开始的。他们通常是通过抽签在他们中间选好一个人,这第一个人先由一架闹钟叫醒,然后再由他叫醒其他的人。由于苔丝是最近才来的,不久他们又发现她不像其他的人那样,要依靠闹钟才能睡觉,因此这项把人叫醒的任务大多就托付给她。三点钟刚刚敲响,苔丝就走出房间,先跑到老板的房门前叫醒老板,然后从楼梯上楼来到安琪尔的房门前,低声把他叫醒,最后才叫醒她的女伙伴们。在苔丝穿好衣服的时候,克莱尔已经下了楼,走进了屋外的潮湿空气里。其他的挤奶女工和老板自己,通常都要在床上多躺一会儿,要过了一刻钟才会露面。

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在破晓的时刻和黄昏的时刻,虽然它们明暗的程度都是一样的,但是它们半灰的色调却不尽相同。在清早的晨羲里,亮光活跃,黑暗消极;在黄昏的暮霭电,活跃的不断增强的却是黑暗,昏倦沉寂的反而是亮光。

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由于他们经常是奶牛场里起得最早的两个人——可能从来就不是偶然——因此他们觉得自己就是全世界起得最早的两个人。在苔丝刚在这儿住下的最初的日子里,她不撇奶油,但是她起床后就立即走出门外,安琪尔总是在外面等着她。空旷的草地上弥漫着半明半暗的、明暗混合的和带着水汽的光线,给他们留下的印象是一种孤独的感觉,似乎他们就是亚当和夏娃。在一天中这个朦胧的最初的阶段,克莱尔觉得苔丝似乎在性格和形体两个方面都表现出一种尊贵和庄严,那几乎就是一种女王的力量,也可能是因为他知道,在外貌上像苔丝那样天赋丽质的女子,都不大会在这个奇异的时刻里走进露天里来,走进他的视线的范围以内;这在全英国是非常少的。在仲夏的黎明里,漂亮的女人总是还沉睡在睡梦里。她就在自己的身边,而别的女子他不知道哪儿才有。

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在这种明暗混合的奇异的朦胧曙光里,他们一起走到奶牛伏卧的地方,这常常使安琪尔想到了耶稣复活的时刻。他很少想到走在他身边的也许是个抹大拉女人。当所有的景物都沐浴在明暗相宜的色调中的时候,他的同伴的脸就成了他眼睛注意的中心,那张脸从层层雾霭中显露出来,脸上似乎染上了一层磷光。她看上去像一个幽灵,仿佛只是一个自由的灵魂。实际上是来自东北方向的白天清冷的光线照到了她的脸上,不过不太明显而已;而他自己的脸,虽然他自己并没有想到,但在苔丝看来也是同样的光景。

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正如先前说过的那样,从那个时候开始,苔丝才给了他最为深刻的印象。她不再是一个挤牛奶的女工了,而是一种空幻玲珑的女性精华——是全部女性凝聚而成的一个典型形象。他用半开玩笑的口气叫她阿耳忒弥斯和德墨忒耳①,还叫她其他一些幻想中的名字,但是苔丝不喜欢,因为她听不懂。

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①阿耳忒弥斯(Artemis)和德墨忒耳(Demeter)。希腊女神。阿耳忒弥斯为狩猎女神;德墨忒耳为丰产和农业女神。

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“叫我苔丝吧,”她说,斜了他一眼;而他也就照办了。

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后来天渐渐亮了,她的面容就变得只是一个女子的面容了;从给人福佑的女神的面容转而变成了渴望福佑的人的面容了。

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在这些非人世间的时刻里,他们才能走到离那些水鸟很近的地方。一群苍鹭高声大叫着飞来,那叫声就像开门开窗户的声音,它们是从草地旁边它们常常栖身的树林中间飞来的;或者,如果它们已经飞到了这儿,它们就坚决地停在水里,像一些安装有机械装置的木偶转动一样,缓慢的、水平的和不动感情地转动着它们的脖子,看着这一对情人从它们旁边走过。

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后来,他们看见稀薄的夏雾,一层层一片片地飘浮在草地上,还没有消散,薄雾像羊毛似的,平展地铺在地面上,显然还没有床罩厚。在布满白露的草地上,有晚上奶牛躺卧后留下的印迹——在露珠构成的汪洋大海里,它们就是由于草形成的一些深绿色岛屿,和奶牛的身体一般大小、在小岛和小岛之间,有一条蜿蜒曲折的小路把它们连接起来,那是奶牛起来后走出去吃草留下来的,在小路的尽头一定可以找到一头奶牛;当奶牛认出他们时,鼻子里就发一声哼,喷出一股热气,在那一大片薄雾中间,又形成了一小块更浓的雾气。接着他们就根据当时的情形,把牛赶回院子,或者坐在那儿为它们挤奶。

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有时候,夏雾弥漫了全谷,草地就变成了白茫茫的大海,里面露出来几棵稀稀落落的树木,就像海中危险的礁石。小鸟也会从雾气中飞出来,一直飞到高空中发光的地方,停在半空中晒太阳,或者,它们降落在把草地隔离起来的湿栏杆上,这时的栏杆闪闪发亮,像玻璃棒一样。苔丝的眼睫毛上,也挂满了由漂浮的雾气凝结而成的细小钻石,她的头发上的水珠,也好像一颗颗珍珠一样。天越来越亮,阳光越来越普遍,苔丝身上的露珠被晒干了;而且,苔丝也失去了她身上那种奇异缥缈的美;她的牙齿、嘴唇和眼睛,都在阳光里闪烁,她又只不过是一个光艳照人的挤奶女工了,不得不自己坚持着去同世界上其他的女人竞争。

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大约在这个时候,他们听到了奶牛场老板克里克说话的声音,责备那些不住在奶牛场里的工人来晚了,又骂年老的德波娜·费安德尔没有洗手。

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“我的老天啦,把你的双手放在水龙头下洗洗吧,德布!我敢肯定,要是伦敦人知道了你,知道了你那种肮脏样子,他们喝牛奶、吃黄油一定比现在更加细心了;我已经说得够多了。”

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挤牛奶进行着,挤到快结束的时候,苔丝、克莱尔和其余的人,听见了克里克太太把吃早饭的沉重桌子从厨房的墙边拖出来的声音,这是每次吃饭一成不变的例行公事;吃完了饭,收拾好桌子,随着桌子被拖回原处,又听到了同样难听的刺耳声。

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In general the cows were milked as they presented themselves, without fancy or choice. But certain cows will show a fondness for a particular pair of hands, sometimes carrying this predilection so far as to refuse to stand at all except to their favourite, the pail of a stranger being unceremoniously kicked over.

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It was Dairyman Crick’s rule to insist on breaking down these partialities and aversions by constant interchange, since otherwise, in the event of a milkman or maid going away from the dairy, he was placed in a difficulty. The maids’ private aims, however, were the reverse of the dairyman’s rule, the daily selection by each damsel of the eight or ten cows to which she had grown accustomed rendering the operation on their willing udders surprisingly easy and effortless.

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Tess, like her compeers, soon discovered which of the cows had a preference for her style of manipulation, and her fingers having become delicate from the long domiciliary imprisonments to which she had subjected herself at intervals during the last two or three years, she would have been glad to meet the milchers’ views in this respect. Out of the whole ninety-five there were eight in particular - Dumpling, Fancy, lofty, Mist, Old Pretty, Young Pretty, Tidy, and Loud - who, though the teats of one or two were as hard as carrots, gave down to her with a readiness that made her work on them a mere touch of the fingers. Knowing, however, the dairyman’s wish, she endeavoured conscientiously to take the animals `just as they came, excepting the very hard yielders which she could not yet manage.

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But she soon found a curious correspondence between the ostensibly chance position of the cows and her wishes in this matter, till she felt that their order could not be the result of accident. The dairyman’s pupil had lent a hand in getting the cows together of late, and at the fifth or sixth time she turned her eyes, as she rested against the cow, full of sly inquiry upon him.

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`Mr Clare, you have ranged the cows!’ she said, blushing; and in making the accusation symptoms of a smile gently lifted her upper lip in spite of her, so as to show the tips of her teeth, the lower lip remaining severely still.

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`Well, it makes no difference,’ said he. `You will always be here to milk them.’

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`Do you think so? I hope I shall! But I don’t know.’

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She was angry with herself afterwards, thinking that he, unaware of her grave reasons for liking this seclusion, might have mistaken her meaning. She had spoken so earnestly to him, as if his presence were somehow a factor in her wish. Her misgiving was such that at dusk, when the milking was over, she walked in the garden alone, to continue her regrets that she had disclosed to him her discovery of his considerateness.

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It was a typical summer evening in June, the atmosphere being in such delicate equilibrium and so transmissive that inanimate objects seemed endowed with two or three senses, if not five. There was no distinction between the near and the far, and an auditor felt close to everything within the horizon. The soundlessness impressed her as a positive entity rather than as the mere negation of noise. It was broken by the strumming of strings.

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Tess had heard those notes in the attic above her head. Dim, flattened, constrained by their confinement, they had never appealed to her as now, when they wandered in the still air with a stark quality like that of nudity. To speak absolutely, both instrument and execution were poor, but the relative is all, and as she listened Tess, like a fascinated bird, could not leave the spot. Far from leaving she drew up towards the performer, keeping behind the hedge that he might not guess her presence.

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The outskirt of the garden in which Tess found herself had been left uncultivated for some years, and was now damp and rank with juicy grass which sent up mists of pollen at a touch; and with tall blooming weeds emitting offensive smells - weeds whose red and yellow and purple hues formed a polychrome as dazzling as that of cultivated flowers. She went stealthily as a cat through this profusion of growth, gathering cuckoo-spittle on her skirts, cracking snails that were underfoot, staining her hands with thistlemilk and slug-slime, and rubbing off upon her naked arms sticky blights which, though snow-white on the apple-tree trunks, made madder stains on her skin; thus she drew quite near to Clare, still unobserved of him.

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Tess was conscious of neither time nor space. The exaltation which she had described as being producible at will by gazing at a star, came now without any determination of hers; she undulated upon the thin notes of the second-hand harp, and their harmonies passed like breezes through her, bringing tears into her eyes. The floating pollen seemed to be his notes made visible, and the dampness of the garden the weeping of the garden’s sensibility. Though near nightfall, the rank-smelling weed-flowers glowed as if they would not close for intentness, and the waves of colour mixed with the waves of sound.

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The light which still shone was derived mainly from a large hole in the western bank of cloud; it was like a piece of day left behind by accident, dusk having closed in elsewhere. He concluded his plaintive melody, a very simple performance, demanding no great skill; and she waited, thinking another might be begun. But, tired of playing, he had desultorily come round the fence, and was rambling up behind her. Tess, her cheeks on fire, moved away furtively, as if hardly moving at all.

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Angel, however, saw her light summer gown, and he spoke; his low tones reaching her, though he was some distance off.

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`What makes you draw off in that way, Tess?’ said he. `Are you afraid?’

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`Oh no, sir... not of outdoor things; especially just now when the apple-blooth is failing, and everything so green.’

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`But you have your indoor fears - eh?’

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`Well - yes, sir.’

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`What of?,

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`I couldn’t quite say.’

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`The milk turning sour?’

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`No.’

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`Life in general?’

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`Yes, sir.’

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`Ah - so have I, very often. This hobble of being alive is rather serious, don’t you think so?’

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`It is - now you put it that way.’

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`All the same, I shouldn’t have expected a young girl like you to see it so just yet. How is it you do?’

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She maintained a hesitating silence.

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`Come, Tess, tell me in confidence.’

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She thought that he meant what were the aspects of things to her, and replied shyly--

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`The trees have inquisitive eyes, haven’t they? - that is, seem as if they had. And the river says, - "Why do ye trouble me with your looks?" And you seem to see numbers of to-morrows just all in a line, the first of them the biggest and clearest, the others getting smaller and smaller as they stand farther away; but they all seem very fierce and cruel and as if they said, "I’m coming! Beware of me! Beware of me!"... But you, sir, can raise up dreams with your music, and drive all such horrid fancies away!’

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He was surprised to find this young woman - who though but a milkmaid had just that touch of rarity about her which might make her the envied of her housemates - shaping such sad imaginings. She was expressing in her own native phrases - assisted a little by her Sixth Standard training - feelings which might almost have been called those of the age - the ache of modernism. The perception arrested him less when he reflected that what are called advanced ideas are really in great part but the latest fashion in definition - a more accurate expression, by words in logy and ism, of sensations which men and women have vaguely grasped for centuries.

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Still, it was strange that they should have come to her while yet so young; more than strange; it was impressive, interesting, pathetic. Not guessing the cause, there was nothing to remind him that experience is as to intensity, and not as to duration. Tess’s passing corporeal blight had been her mental harvest.

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Tess, on her part, could not understand why a man of clerical family and good education, and above physical want, should look upon it as a mishap to be alive. For the unhappy pilgrim herself there was very good reason. But how could this admirable and poetic man ever have descended into the Valley of Humiliation, have felt with the man of Uz - as she herself had felt two or three years ago - `My soul chooseth strangling and death rather than my life. I loathe it; I would not live alway.’

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It was true that he was at present out of his class. But she knew that was only because, like Peter the Great in a shipwright’s yard, he was studying what he wanted to know. He did not milk cows because he was obliged to milk cows, but because he was learning how to be a rich and prosperous dairyman, landowner, agriculturist, and breeder of cattle. He would become an American or Australian Abraham, commanding like a monarch his flocks and his herds, his spotted and his ring-stroked, his men-servants and his maids. At times, nevertheless, it did seem unaccountable to her that a decidedly bookish, musical, thinking young man should have chosen deliberately to be a farmer, and not a clergyman, like his father and brothers.

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Thus, neither having the clue to the other’s secret, they were respectively puzzled at what each revealed, and awaited new knowledge of each other’s character and moods without attempting to pry into each other’s history.

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Every day, every hour, brought to him one more little stroke of her nature, and to her one more of his. Tess was trying to lead a repressed life, but she little divined the strength of her own vitality.

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At first Tess seemed to regard Angel Clare as an intelligence rather than as a man. As such she compared him with herself; and at every discovery of the abundance of his illuminations, of the distance between her own modest mental standpoint and the unmeasurable, Andean altitude of his, she became quite dejected, disheartened from all further effort on her own part whatever.

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He observed her dejection one day, when he had casually mentioned something to her about pastoral life in ancient Greece. She was gathering the buds called `lords and ladies’ from the bank while he spoke.

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`Why do you look so woebegone all of a sudden?’ he asked.

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`What?’

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`I meant that there are always more ladies than lords when you come to peel them.’

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