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钟形罩|The Bell Jar

第8章|Eight

属类： 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 西尔维娅-普拉斯] 阅读：[39611]
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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威拉德先生开车送我去阿迪伦达克的疗养院。

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这是圣诞节后的第一天，头顶上是灰蒙蒙的天，大雪纷飞。我觉得肚子好撑，郁闷而又失望。每年的这一天我都有这种感觉，松枝，蜡烛，系着金银丝带的礼物，烧着桦木的壁炉，圣诞火鸡，圣诞颂歌和钢琴音乐，不管许诺过什么，都从来没有实现过。

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每逢圣诞节，我都差点盼着自己是个天主教徒了。

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这趟路程，先是威拉德先生开，然后换我开。我不知道我们都聊了些什么，四周乡野覆盖着厚重的积雪，让我们更觉凄冷。茂密的冷杉从灰暗的山丘蔓延到路边，深浓的墨绿连绵，看起来黑沉沉的。我只觉得心情越来越阴郁。

4
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我真想叫威拉德先生自己去疗养院，让我搭便车回家。

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可是一抬眼看见威拉德先生的脸——修剪成孩子气的平头的银色头发，澄澈的蓝眸，红润的脸颊，带着纯真而信任的表情，宛如婚礼上洒了糖霜的甜美蛋糕——我知道我开不了这口，我必须把这次探访进行到底。

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及至中午，灰霾略退，我们将车停在一处结冰的岔道上，共享威拉德太太给我们准备的午餐：金枪鱼三明治，燕麦曲奇，苹果，还有装在保温瓶里的黑咖啡。

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威拉德先生慈祥地看着我，然后清了清喉咙，拂掉腿上的食物碎屑。我看得出来，他有正事要说。他生性害羞，有一次他进行一个重要的经济主题演讲，我听到他在开口前就像现在这样清喉咙。

8
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“娜莉和我一直想要个女儿。”

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我一时胡思乱想起来，以为威拉德先生要宣布威拉德太太怀了个女宝宝。他接着说：“可是，我觉得，没有女儿会比你更好。”

10
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威拉德先生一定以为我的泪水是听闻他把我当女儿看待喜极而泣。“好啦，好啦。”他拍拍我的肩膀，又清了清喉咙，“我想我们心意相通。”

11
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然后他打开了他那侧的车门，下车绕过车子，走到我身边，他呼出的气在灰蒙蒙的天色中盘旋成缕缕白烟。我移到他空出来的座位上，他发动车子，我们继续前进。

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我不确定自己对巴迪住的疗养院有什么期望。

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我想，我期望的是一座小山丘之上的一栋小木屋，住在里面的青年男女面泛酡红，十分迷人，但是双眼因肺痨而红热，裹着厚厚的毯子躺在露天阳台上。

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“肺结核就像在肺里埋了颗炸弹。”我在学校时，巴迪曾经写信告诉我，“你只能静静地躺着，祈祷它不会爆炸。”

15
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我很难想象巴迪静静躺着的模样。他的全部人生哲学就是分秒必争，活出精彩。就连夏天里我们去海边，他也绝不会像我在阳光下躺下来打个盹，而是要么跑来跑去，要么打打球，要么来两个伏地挺身，充分利用时间。

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威拉德先生和我在接待室里等候下午休息治疗的结束。

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整个疗养院似乎以红褐色为基调。暗沉的木构件，焦褐色的皮椅，霉菌或湿气将原本可能洁白无瑕的墙壁侵染得面目全非。地板上铺了棕色的亚麻油毡，已显斑驳。

18
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一张低矮的咖啡桌，深色的胶合板桌面已经被圆形和半圆形的污渍噬咬，上面放了几本破旧的《时代》和《生活》杂志。我拿起离我最近的一本，随手翻到中间，艾森豪威尔总统的脸映入眼帘，微笑，秃头，神情茫然，活像罐子里的胚胎标本。

19
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过了一会儿，我隐隐听到漏水的声音。起初我以为是墙壁吸饱了湿气开始渗水，不过随即发现声音来自房间角落的一个小小喷泉。

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一截粗糙的管子喷出几英寸高的喷泉，手状的水柱喷起又落下，参差的水花淹没在一石槽泛黄的水中。石槽上铺了公共厕所常见的白色六角形瓷砖。

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蜂鸣声响起，远处的门开了又合上。巴迪走了进来。

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“嗨，老爸。”

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巴迪抱了抱他父亲，随即快速地带着一种可怕的容光焕发的样子走向我，朝我伸出手来。我握了握他的手——又潮又肥。

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威拉德先生和我坐在同一张皮沙发上，巴迪坐在我们对面一张扶手摇椅的边缘。他一直在笑，嘴角仿佛吊了两根看不见的铁丝。

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我万万没料到巴迪会变胖。每每想到住在疗养院的他，我的眼前总是浮现深陷的脸颊，镶在凹陷眼窝中的灼红双眼。

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然而此刻，巴迪身上原本凹陷的地方突然全都凸起，紧身白色尼龙衬衫下绷着个水桶腰，脸颊圆胖红润好像杏仁果，就连笑声听起来都饱满丰盈。

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巴迪与我目光交汇。“饮食造成的。”他说，“他们让我们天天吃饱了就躺下休息。但是现在散步时间我可以出去了，所以别担心，几周后我就会瘦下来。”他倏然起身，笑得像个开心的东道主。“想不想看看我的房间？”

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我跟着巴迪，威拉德先生跟在我后面，穿过一道嵌着毛玻璃的双推门，走进一条红褐色的昏暗长廊。这里弥漫着地板蜡、来苏尔消毒液和一种像捣碎了的栀子花的隐约气味。

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巴迪用力推开一扇棕色的门，我们鱼贯走入这个狭窄的房间。

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一张笨重的床占据了大半的空间，床上铺着白底蓝纹薄床单。旁边的床头柜上有一个水罐和一个玻璃水杯，装着粉色消毒剂的瓶中有一个温度计探出它银色的末端。还有一张桌子挤在床尾和衣橱门之间，上面满是书籍、纸张和陶罐半成品——已经烧制好，也上了色，但没上釉。

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“嗯。”威拉德先生呼了口气说，“看起来蛮舒适的。”

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巴迪笑笑。

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“这是什么？”我拿起一个形似莲叶的陶制烟灰缸，底色是暗绿的，上面用黄色仔细绘出了叶脉。巴迪不抽烟。

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“那是烟灰缸。”巴迪说，“给你的。”

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我放下烟灰缸。“我不抽烟。”

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“我知道。”巴迪说，“但我还以为你会喜欢。”

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“好啦。”威拉德先生抿了抿薄如纸片的嘴唇，“我想我该上路了，留你们两个年轻人……”

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“好的，老爸。那你慢走。”

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我十分吃惊。我以为威拉德先生会留下来过夜，第二天再开车带我回去。“我也一起走吧？”

40
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“不用，不用。”威拉德先生从皮夹中抽出几张钞票递给巴迪，“一定要给埃斯特买个舒服的火车位子。她可能会待上个一两天。”巴迪把他父亲送到门口。

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我觉得自己被威拉德先生抛弃了，我猜他肯定早就计划好了这一切。但巴迪说不是这样，他父亲只是见不得人生病，尤其是他的儿子生病，因为他认为所有的疾病都来自意志之病。威拉德先生这辈子就没病过一天。

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我坐在巴迪的床沿，因为没其他地方可坐。

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巴迪有条不紊地翻查桌上的那叠纸，然后递给我一本薄薄的灰皮杂志。“翻到十一页。”

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杂志是在缅因州的什么地方印的，里头全是蜡纸油印的诗歌和叙述的段落，用星号区隔开来。在第十一页上是一首名为《佛罗里达黎明》的诗，随着我快速浏览，意象不断涌现：西瓜色的晨曦，玳瑁绿的棕榈，有凹槽的仿佛希腊建筑缩影的贝壳。

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“不错。”其实我觉得很烂。

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“谁写的？”巴迪带着奇怪的傻笑问道。

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我的视线落到这页的右下角。巴·斯·威拉德。

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“我不知道。”但我随即改口，“我当然知道啦，巴迪。你写的。”

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巴迪蹭到我身边。

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我往后挪了挪。我对结核病所知甚少，但总觉得此病很是凶险，传染人于无影无形之间。而此时巴迪很有可能正置身于自己的结核病菌的致命笼罩之下。

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“别担心。”巴迪笑着说，“我不是阳性。”

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“阳性？”

53
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“就是你不会被我传染。”

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巴迪停下来喘了口气，就像爬了个陡坡中间停下来喘息一样。“我想问你个问题。”他新养成了一个让人不安的坏习惯，就是用目光直刺入我的眼睛，好像这样真的可以穿透我的脑子，更好地分析里头的思绪似的。

55
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“我本想写信问你的。”

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我脑中闪过一个淡蓝色的信封，背面的信封口上印有耶鲁大学的徽章。

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“但是后来我决定，等你上这儿来时我亲自问问你，这样更妥当。”他顿了顿，“嗯，你难道不想知道我要问什么吗？”

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“什么？”我低声问道，预感不妙。

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巴迪贴着我坐下，一手揽住我的腰，一手把我耳旁的头发拂开。我一动不动。他附在我耳边悄声问道：“你愿意做巴迪·威拉德太太吗？”

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我差点爆笑出来。

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在我远远地暗恋巴迪的那五六年间，他若是这么问我，不论什么时候，我想我都必定惊喜若狂。

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巴迪看出了我的迟疑。

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“呃，我知道我现在身体不太好。”他连忙说，“我还在服用对氨基水杨酸，可能还要切除一两根肋骨，但明年秋天我应该可以回医学院念书。最迟不会超过后年春天……”

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“我要告诉你一件事，巴迪。”

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“我知道了。”巴迪僵硬地说，“你有别人了。”

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“不，不是这样的。”

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“那是怎样？”

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“我一辈子都不打算结婚。”

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“你疯了吧。”巴迪精神一振，“你迟早会改主意的。”

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“不会，我心意已决。”

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巴迪对我后面的话不予理会，仍是一脸开心。

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“你记得吗？”我问他，“有一次在短剧之夜后，你和我一起搭便车回校？”

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“我记得。”

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“记得当时你问我喜欢住在乡村还是城市吗？”

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“你说……”

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“我说，我既想住在乡村，也想住在城市。”

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巴迪点点头。

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“然后你就笑了，”我突然加重语气，“说我完全符合神经官能症的症状。而且那周心理学课上的问卷里就有这道题吧？”

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巴迪的笑容渐渐消失了。

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“呵，你说得对，我是有点神经质。我永远没办法在乡村或城市中安定下来。”

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“你可以住在城乡之间嘛。”巴迪很积极地出主意，“这样你就可以有时进城，有时下乡。”

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“那——神经官能症和住在哪里有什么关系？”

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巴迪没说话。

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“说啊？”我轻叱一声，心想不能太宠着这些病人，把他们惯坏了是最糟糕的。

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“没什么关系。”巴迪用一种苍白无力的声音答道。

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“神经官能症，哈！”我不屑地放声一笑，“如果神经官能症是同时想获得两种相互不容的东西，那么我就是个十足的神经病。我接下来的人生都要在两种不相容的东西间飞来飞去。”

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巴迪把手覆在我的手上。

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“让我和你一起飞。”

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我站在毗斯迦山滑雪坡顶往下望。我实在没必要来这里，这辈子我还没滑过雪。不过话说回来，当此美景，有机会我自然要好好欣赏一番。

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在我的左手边，缆车将滑雪者一一运到积雪的山顶。正午的太阳下，积雪稍融，加上人来人往不断踩踏，峰顶的地面变得坚硬光滑如玻璃一般。冷空气刺激着我的肺部和鼻腔，让我陷入一种幻想的空灵中。

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四面八方都有滑雪者从让人昏眩的陡坡飞身而下，他们一身或红或蓝或白的夹克，有如美国国旗上飞逝而过的星星点点。一片寂静之中，从滑雪道底部的一座仿原木小屋中，传出流行歌曲的旋律：

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向下凝望着少女峰，

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从我俩的度假小屋……

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轻快又响亮的乐声，像是冰雪荒原上一条看不见的小溪，悠悠淌过我的身旁。一个不经意的华丽动作，就能让我冲下陡坡，直冲向滑雪场边观众群中的一个卡其色小点——那是巴迪·威拉德。

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整个早上，巴迪都在教我滑雪。

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首先，巴迪跟村里的一个朋友借了滑雪板和滑雪杖，又跟某个脚只比我大一号的医生太太借了雪地靴，再跟一个实习护士借了红色的滑雪外套。面对众人的极力劝阻，他的执意成行着实令人惊叹。

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见此，我想起巴迪在医学院时曾得过一个奖，表彰他说服死者亲属捐出遗体供科学解剖研究最多，无论医学院是否需要。我忘了这个奖项的名称，但我可以想见巴迪穿着白大褂，从一侧口袋中突出的听诊器活像他身上的器官，他面露微笑深深鞠躬，说服那些沉默无语的家属签下解剖同意书，而后者往往还没从失去亲人的震惊中回过神来。

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接下来，巴迪从他的主治医生那里借了辆车，这医生自己也得过肺结核，因而很能体谅他。我们驾车出发时，正赶上散步的铃声，回荡在不见天日的疗养院长廊上。

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巴迪同样没滑过雪，但他说基本原理很简单，而且他经常观察滑雪教练教学生，所以我需要知道的一切诀窍他都能传授给我。

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头半个小时，我乖乖服从他的指令，走之字形爬上一个小坡，然后滑雪杖用力一撑，径直滑下坡来。巴迪对我的进步似乎颇为满意。

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“很好，埃斯特。”在我第二十次爬上同一道小坡时，他发表了意见，“现在你试着上索道吧。”

102
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我在滑道上停了下来，脸红气喘。

103
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“但是，巴迪，我还不会之字滑行啊。从山顶往下滑的人都知道怎么滑之字。”

104
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“哦，那你上到一半就好了，这样你下滑的冲力就不会太大。”

105
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巴迪陪我走到索道边上，教我怎么让绳索穿过手掌，然后要我十指紧扣，抓牢绳索上坡。

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我完全没想到说不。

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粗糙扎人的绳索像条蛇般缠绕在我指间，我紧紧抓住，一路上行。

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可这绳索一路摇摇晃晃，拖着我飞快地上山，我只能力保平衡，根本不敢半路松手。我前后都有滑雪者，一旦松手跃下，很可能会被撞翻，再被一堆滑雪板和滑雪杖打中。为了不惹麻烦，我默默地继续上行。

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可到了山顶，我后悔了。

110
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巴迪认出我来，我穿着红夹克在山顶犹疑畏缩。他的双臂在空中猛挥，像卡其色的风车。我看见他比画着手势，要我从迂回前行的滑雪者当中空出的一条小路滑下来。我摆好姿势，却心中不安，喉咙发干，从我脚边到他脚边那条顺滑雪白的小径渐至模糊一片。

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一个滑雪者从左边切过这条小径，另一个从右边过来。巴迪的手臂继续似有似无地挥着，好像滑雪场的另一端伸出的触角。整个滑雪场挤满人群，有如蠢动的微生物，像细菌一类，或是弯曲明亮的感叹号。

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我的目光从人潮涌动的滑雪场底部往上移动。

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天空像一个巨大的灰眼回望着我。雾气弥漫中，太阳从四面八方洒下苍白寂寥的光，穿过白雪覆盖的绵延山峦，汇聚在我的脚下。

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心里有个声音喋喋不休，要我别做傻事——要保护自己，卸掉滑雪板，走下山去，雪坡侧边的低矮松枝正好做个掩护——像只郁郁寡欢的蚊子一样逃开吧。滑下去会要了我的命，这个念头在我的脑海中冷冷地滋长，长成了一棵树，或一朵花。

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我目测自己和巴迪间的距离。

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现在，他的双臂交抱在胸前，跟身后的横条篱笆融为一体——一样的无知无觉，一样的棕褐色，一样的微不足道。

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我慢慢走到山顶边缘，把滑雪杖的尖头插入雪里，用力一撑，整个人便飞了起来。我知道，此时不论是技术还是迟来的理智，都无法让我停下了。

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我笔直往下冲。

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之前悠然的风此刻扑面袭来，灌进我的嘴里，吹得我的头发与地面平行。我在下坠，但白色的太阳并没有显得更高。它依然高挂在绵延的山峦之上，是无知无觉的枢纽，没有了它，世界将不复存在。

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我的体内有个响应的小点，直向着太阳飞去。迎面涌来的景致——空气、山峦、树木、人群——让我的肺部乍然膨胀。我想：“原来这就是快乐的感觉。”

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我急速下冲，冲过之字形前进的新手和专业的滑雪者，冲过年复一年的伪装、微笑和妥协，冲入我的过往。

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两侧的人和树不停后退，就像隧道两侧的黑墙不断飞逝，我冲向尽头那不动的亮点——那是井底的水晶，是蜷缩在母亲肚中的白皙可爱的胎儿。

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我咬了满嘴的冰碴，牙齿嘎吱作响，沁凉的雪水渗入我的喉咙。

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巴迪的脸出现在我上方，又近又大，像一颗脱轨的星球。他的后面冒出其他人的脸孔。他的后方，黑色的小点挤满在一片雪白之上。仿佛有个乏味的仙女婆婆挥了挥她的魔杖，旧世界一点一点地回归原位。

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“你滑得很好。”熟悉的声音传入我耳中，“可惜有人闯进你的滑道。”

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人们帮我解开滑雪板上的固定装置，捡回两根滑雪杖，它们歪七扭八地插在滑道两侧的雪堤上。小屋的篱笆被我压在身下，硌着我的背。

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巴迪弯腰脱掉我的靴子，以及塞在里面的好几双白色毛袜。他的胖手覆住我的左脚掌，一寸一寸地往上移到我的脚踝，轻轻握住，细细摩挲，好像在探寻私藏的武器。

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苍穹高处的白色太阳冷冷地照着大地。我好想用它来砥砺磨炼自己，直到自己变得像刀锋一样圣洁而纤薄，只余精华。

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“我要起来。”我说，“我还要滑。”

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“不，你不能起来。”

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巴迪的脸上浮现出一种怪异而满足的表情。

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“不，你不能起来，”他带着裁决般的微笑重复，“你的腿断了两处，得打几个月的石膏。”

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Mr. Willard drove me up to the Adirondacks.

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It was the day after Christmas and a gray sky bellied over us, fat with snow. I felt overstuffed and dull and disappointed, the way I always do the day after Christmas, as if whatever it was the pine boughs and the candles and the silver and gilt-ribboned presents and the birch-log fires and the Christmas turkey and the carols at the piano promised never came to pass.

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At Christmas I almost wished I was a Catholic.

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First Mr. Willard drove and then I drove. I don’t know what we talked about, but as the countryside, already deep under old falls of snow, turned us a bleaker shoulder, and as the fir trees crowded down from the gray hills to the road edge, so darkly green they looked black, I grew gloomier and gloomier.

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I was tempted to tell Mr. Willard to go ahead alone, I would hitchhike home.

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But one glance at Mr.Willard’s face—the silver hair in its boyish crewcut, the clear blue eyes, the pink cheeks, all frosted like a sweet wedding cake with the innocent, trusting expression—and I knew I couldn’t do it. I’d have to see the visit through to the end.

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At midday the grayness paled a bit, and we parked in an icy turnoff and shared out the tunafish sandwiches and the oatmeal cookies and the apples and the thermos of black coffee Mrs. Willard had packed for our lunch.

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Mr. Willard eyed me kindly. Then he cleared his throat and brushed a few last crumbs from his lap. I could tell he was going to say something serious, because he was very shy, and I’d heard him clear his throat in that same way before giving an important economics lecture.

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“Nelly and I have always wanted a daughter.”

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For one crazy minute I thought, Mr. Willard was going to announce that Mrs. Willard was pregnant and expecting a baby girl. Then he said, “But I don’t see how any daughter could be nicer than you.”

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Mr. Willard must have thought I was crying because I was so glad he wanted to be a father to me. “There, there,” he patted my shoulder and cleared his throat once or twice. “I think we understand each other.”

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Then he opened the car door on his side and strolled round to my side, his breath shaping tortuous smoke signals in the gray air. I moved over to the seat he had left and he started the car and we drove on.

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I’m not sure what I expected of Buddy’s sanatorium.

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I think I expected a kind of wooden chalet perched up on top of a small mountain, with rosy-cheeked young men and women, all very attractive but with hectic glittering eyes, lying covered with thick blankets on outdoor balconies.

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“TB is like living with a bomb in your lung,” Buddy had written to me at college. “You just lie around very quietly hoping it won’t go off.”

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I found it hard to imagine Buddy lying quietly. His whole philosophy of life was to be up and doing every second. Even when we went to the beach in the summer he never lay down to drowse in the sun the way I did. He ran back and forth or played ball or did a little series of rapid pushups to use the time.

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Mr. Willard and I waited in the reception room for the end of the afternoon rest cure.

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The color scheme of the whole sanatorium seemed to be based on liver. Dark, glowering woodwork, burnt-brown leather chairs, walls that might once have been white but had succumbed under a spreading malady of mold or damp. A mottled brown linoleum sealed off the floor.

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On a low coffee table, with circular and semicircular stains bitten into the dark veneer, lay a few wilted numbers of Time and Life. I flipped to the middle of the nearest magazine.The face of Eisenhower beamed up at me, bald and blank as the face of a fetus in a bottle.

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After a while I became aware of a sly, leaking noise. For a minute I thought the walls had begun to discharge the moisture that must saturate them, but then I saw the noise came from a small fountain in one corner of the room.

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The fountain spurted a few inches into the air from a rough length of pipe, threw up its hands, collapsed and drowned its ragged dribble in a stone basin of yellowing water. The basin was paved with the white hexagonal tiles one finds in public lavatories.

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A buzzer sounded. Doors opened and shut in the distance. Then Buddy came in.

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“Hello, Dad.”

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Buddy hugged his father, and promptly, with a dreadful brightness, came over to me and held out his hand. I shook it. It felt moist and fat.

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Mr. Willard and I sat together on a leather couch. Buddy perched opposite us on the edge of a slippery armchair. He kept smiling, as if the corners of his mouth were strung up on invisible wire.

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The last thing I expected was for Buddy to be fat. All the time I thought of him at the sanatorium I saw shadows carving themselves under his cheekbones and his eyes burning out of almost fleshless sockets.

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But everything concave about Buddy had suddenly turned convex. A pot belly swelled under the tight white nylon shirt and his cheeks were round and ruddy as marzipan fruit. Even his laugh sounded plump.

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Buddy’s eyes met mine. “It’s the eating,” he said. “They stuff us day after day and then just make us lie around. But I’m allowed out on walk hours now, so don’t worry, I’ll thin down in a couple of weeks.” He jumped up, smiling like a glad host. “Would you like to see my room?”

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I followed Buddy, and Mr. Willard followed me, through a pair of swinging doors set with panes of frosted glass down a dim, liver-colored corridor smelling of floor wax and Lysol and another vaguer odor, like bruised gardenias.

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Buddy threw open a brown door, and we filed into the narrow room.

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A lumpy bed, shrouded by a thin white spread, pencil-striped with blue, took up most of the space. Next to it stood a bed table with a pitcher and a water glass and the silver twig of a thermometer poking up from a jar of pink disinfectant. A second table, covered with books and papers and off-kilter clay pots—baked and painted, but not glazed—squeezed itself between the bed foot and the closet door.

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“Well,” Mr. Willard breathed, “it looks comfortable enough.”

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Buddy laughed.

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“What are these?” I picked up a clay ashtray in the shape of a lilypad, with the veinings carefully drawn in yellow on a murky green ground. Buddy didn’t smoke.

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“That’s an ashtray,” Buddy said. “It’s for you.”

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I put the tray down. “I don’t smoke.”

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“I know,” Buddy said. “I thought you might like it, though.”

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“Well,” Mr. Willard rubbed one papery lip against another. “I guess I’ll be getting on. I guess I’ll be leaving you two young people…”

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“Fine, Dad. You be getting on.”

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I was surprised. I had thought Mr. Willard was going to stay the night before driving me back the next day. “Shall I come too?”

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“No, no.” Mr. Willard peeled a few bills from his wallet and handed them to Buddy. “See that Esther gets a comfortable seat on the train. She’ll stay a day or so, maybe.” Buddy escorted his father to the door.

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I felt Mr. Willard had deserted me. I thought he must have planned it all along, but Buddy said no, his father simply couldn’t stand the sight of sickness and especially his own son’s sickness, because he thought all sickness was sickness of the will. Mr. Willard had never been sick a day in his life.

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I sat down on Buddy’s bed. There simply wasn’t anywhere else to sit.

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Buddy rummaged among his papers in a businesslike way. Then he handed me a thin, gray magazine. “Turn to page eleven.”

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The magazine was printed somewhere in Maine and full of stenciled poems and descriptive paragraphs separated from each other by asterisks. On page eleven I found a poem titled “Florida Dawn.” I skipped down through image after image about watermelon lights and turtle-green palms and shells fluted like bits of Greek architecture.

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“Not bad.” I thought it was dreadful.

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“Who wrote it?” Buddy asked with an odd, pigeony smile.

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My eye dropped to the name on the lower right-hand corner of the page. B. S. Willard.

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“I don’t know.” Then I said, “Of course I know, Buddy. You wrote it.”

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Buddy edged over to me.

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I edged back. I have very little knowledge about TB, but it seemed to me an extremely sinister disease, the way it went on so invisibly. I thought Buddy might well be sitting in his own little murderous aura of TB germs.

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“Don’t worry,” Buddy lughed. “I’m not positive.”

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“Positive?”

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“You can’t catch anything.”

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Buddy stopped for a breath, the way you do in the middle of climbing something very steep.

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“I want to ask you a question.” He had a disquieting new habit of boring into my eyes with his look as if actually bent on piercing my head, the better to analyze what went on inside it.

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“I’d thought of asking it by letter.”

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I had a fleeting vision of a pale blue envelope with a Yale crest on the back flap.

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“But then I decided it would be better if I waited until you came up, so I could ask you in person.” He paused. “Well, don’t you want to know what it is?”

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“What?” I said in a small, unpromising voice.

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Buddy sat down beside me. He put his arm around my waist and brushed the hair from my ear. I didn’t move. Then I heard him whisper, “How would you like to be Mrs. Buddy Willard?”

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I had an awful impulse to laugh.

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I thought how that question would have bowled me over at any time in my five-or six-year period of adoring Buddy Willard from a distance.

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Buddy saw me hesitate.

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“Oh, I’m in no shape now, I know,” he said quickly. “I’m still on P.A.S. and I may yet lose a rib or two, but I’ll be back at med school by next fall. A year from this spring at the latest…”

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“I think I should tell you something, Buddy.”

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“I know,” Buddy said stiffly. “You’ve met someone.”

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“No, it’s not that.”

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“What is it, then?”

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“I’m never going to get married.”

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“You’re crazy.” Buddy brightened. “You’ll change your mind.”

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“No. My mind’s made up.”

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But Buddy just went on looking cheerful.

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“Remember,” I said, “that time you hitchhiked back to college with me after Skit Night?”

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“I remember.”

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“Remember how you asked me where would I like to live best, the country or the city?”

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“And you said…”

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“And I said I wanted to live in the country and in the city both?”

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Buddy nodded.

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“And you,” I continued with sudden force, “laughed and said I had the perfect setup of a true neurotic and that that question came from some questionnaire you’d had in psychology class that week?”

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Buddy’s smile dimmed.

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“Well, you were right. I am neurotic. I could never settle down in either the country or the city.”

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“You could live between them,” Buddy suggested helpfully. “Then you could go to the city sometimes and to the country sometimes.”

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“Well, what’s so neurotic about that?”

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Buddy didn’t answer.

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“Well?” I rapped out, thinking, You can’t coddle these sick people, it’s the worst thing for them, it’ll spoil them to bits.

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“Nothing,” Buddy said in a pale, still voice.

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“neurotic, ha!” I let out a scornful laugh. “If neurotic is wanting two mutually exclusive things at one and the same time, then I’m neurotic as hell. I’ll be flying back and forth between one mutually exclusive thing and another for the rest of my days.”

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Buddy put his hand on mine.

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“Let me fly with you.”

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I stood at the top of the ski slope on Mount Pisgah, looking down. I had no business to be up there. I had never skied before in my life. Still, I thought I would enjoy the view while I had the chance.

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At my left, the rope tow deposited skier after skier on the snowy summit which, packed by much crossing and recrossing and slightly melted in the noon sun, had hardened to the consistency and polish of glass. The cold air punished my lungs and sinuses to a visionary clearness.

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On every side of me the red and blue and white jacketed skiers tore away down the blinding slope like fugitive bits of an American flag. From the foot of the ski run, the imitation log cabin lodge piped its popular songs into the overhang of silence.

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Gazing down on the Jungfrau

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From our chalet for two…

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The lilt and boom threaded by me like an invisible rivulet in a desert of snow. One careless, superb gesture, and I would be hurled into motion down the slope toward the small khaki spot in the sidelines, among the spectators, which was Buddy Willard.

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All morning Buddy had been teaching me how to ski.

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First, Buddy borrowed skis and ski poles from a friend of his in the village, and ski boots from a doctor’s wife whose feet were only one size larger than my own, and a red ski jacket from a student nurse. His persistence in the face of mulishness was astounding.

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Then I remembered that at medical school Buddy had won a prize for persuading the most relatives of dead people to have their dead ones cut up whether they needed it or not, in the interests of science. I forget what the prize was, but I could just see Buddy in his white coat with his stethoscope sticking out of a side pocket like part of his anatomy, smiling and bowing and talking those numb, dumb relatives into signing the postmortem papers.

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Next, Buddy borrowed a car from his own doctor, who’d had TB himself and was very understanding, and we drove off as the buzzer for walk hour rasped along the sunless sanatorium corridors.

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Buddy had never skied before either, but he said that the elementary principles were quite simple, and as he’d often watched the ski instructors and their pupils he could teach me all I’d need to know.

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For the first half hour I obediently herringboned up a small slope, pushed off with my poles and coasted straight down. Buddy seemed pleased with my progress.

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“That’s fine, Esther,” he observed, as I negotiated my slope for the twentieth time. “Now let’s try you on the rope tow.”

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I stopped in my tracks, flushed and panting.

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“But Buddy, I don’t know how to zigzag yet. All those people coming down from the top know how to zigzag.”

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“Oh, you need only go halfway. Then you won’t gain very much momentum.”

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And Buddy accompanied me to the rope tow and showed me how to let the rope run through my hands, and then told me to close my fingers round it and go up.

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It never occurred to me to say no.

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I wrapped my fingers around the rough, bruising snake of a rope that slithered through them, and went up.

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But the rope dragged me, wobbling and balancing, so rapidly I couldn’t hope to dissociate myself from it halfway. There was a skier in front of me and a skier behind me, and I’d have been knocked over and stuck full of skis and poles the minute I let go, and I didn’t want to make trouble, so I hung quietly on.

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At the top, though, I had second thoughts.

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Buddy singled me out, hesitating there in the red jacket. His arms chopped the air like khaki windmills. Then I saw he was signaling me to come down a path that had opened in the middle of the weaving skiers. But as I poised, uneasy, with a dry throat, the smooth white path from my feet to his feet grew blurred.

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A skier crossed it from the left, another crossed it from the right, and Buddy’s arms went on waving feebly as antennae from the other side of a field swarming with tiny moving animalcules like germs, or bent, bright exclamation marks.

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I looked up from that churning amphitheater to the view beyond it.

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The great, gray eye of the sky looked back at me, its mist-shrouded sun focusing all the white and silent distances that poured from every point of the compass, hill after pale hill, to stall at my feet.

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The interior voice nagging me not to be a fool—to save my skin and take off my skis and walk down, camouflaged by the scrub pines bordering the slope—fled like a disconsolate mosquito. The thought that I might kill myself formed in my mind coolly as a tree or a flower.

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I measured the distance to Buddy with my eye.

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His arms were folded, now, and he seemed of a piece with the split-rail fence behind him—numb, brown and inconsequential.

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Edging to the rim of the hilltop, I dug the spikes of my poles into the snow and pushed myself into a flight I knew I couldn’t stop by skill or any belated access of will.

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I aimed straight down.

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A keen wind that had been hiding itself struck me full in the mouth and raked the hair back horizontal on my head. I was descending, but the white sun rose no higher. It hung over the suspended waves of the hills, an insentient pivot without which the world would not exist.

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A small, answering point in my own body flew toward it. I felt my lungs inflate with the inrush of scenery—air, mountains, trees, people. I thought, “This is what it is to be happy.”

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I plummeted down past the zigzaggers, the students, the experts, through year after year of doubleness and smiles and compromise, into my own past.

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People and trees receded on either hand like the dark sides of a tunnel as I hurtled on to the still, bright point at the end of it, the pebble at the bottom of the well, the white sweet baby cradled in its mother’s belly.

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My teeth crunched a gravelly mouthful. Ice water seeped down my throat.

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Buddy’s face hung over me, near and huge, like a distracted planet. Other faces showed themselves up in back of his. Behind him, black dots swarmed on a plane of whiteness. Piece by piece, as at the strokes of a dull godmother’s wand, the old world sprang back into position.

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“You were doing fine,” a familiar voice informed my ear, “until that man stepped into your path.”

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People were unfastening my bindings and collecting my ski poles from where they poked skyward, askew, in their separate snowbanks. The lodge fence propped itself at my back.

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Buddy bent to pull off my boots and the several pairs of white wool socks that padded them. His plump hand shut on my left foot, then inched up my ankle, closing and probing, as if feeling for a concealed weapon.

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A dispassionate white sun shone at the summit of the sky. I wanted to hone myself on it till I grew saintly and thin and essential as the blade of a knife.

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“I’m going up,” I said. “I’m going to do it again.”

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“No, you’re not.”

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A queer, satisfied expression came over Buddy’s face.

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“No, you’re not,” he repeated with a final smile. “Your leg’s broken in two places. You’ll be stuck in a cast for months.”

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序号 英文/音标 中文解释 更多操作

carol

['kærəl]

n.颂歌;欢乐的歌;卡罗尔(人名)

gloomy

['ɡluːmi]

adj.阴暗的;忧闷的;前景黯淡的

hitchhike

['hɪtʃhaɪk]

v.搭便车

frost

[frɒst]

n.霜;霜冻;严寒

thermos

['θɜːməs]

n.热水瓶

crumb

[krʌm]

n.【C】碎屑;少许;无价值的人

Pat

[pæt]

n.轻拍;轻打;小块

tortuous

['tɔːtʃuəs]

adj.弯曲的;曲折的;转弯抹角的

sanatorium

[ˌsænə'tɔːriəm]

n.疗养院;休养所

glitter

['ɡlɪtə(r)]

n.灿烂;闪烁;辉耀;亮片

drowse

[draʊz]

vi.打瞌睡

linoleum

[lɪ'nəʊliəm]

n.油布;油毯

bald

[bɔːld]

adj.秃头的;单调的;无装饰的

fountain

['faʊntən]

n.喷泉;源泉;储水容器;泉水

lavatory

['lævətri]

n.盥洗室;厕所

buzzer

['bʌzə(r)]

n.蜂音器;翁翁作声的东西;信号手;门铃;汽笛

felted

['feltɪd]

v. 把 ... 制成毡(使 ... 粘结)

perching

['pɜːtʃɪŋ]

n.栖息;验布;铲软,

slippery

['slɪpəri]

adj.滑的;狡猾的;不可靠的

armchair

['ɑːmtʃeə(r)]

n.扶手椅;单人沙发;安乐椅

socket

['sɒkɪt]

n.插座;插口

convex

['kɒn'veks]

adj.中凸的;凸圆的;凸面的

swelling

['swelɪŋ]

n.肿胀物;膨胀,

nylon

['naɪlɒn]

n.【U】尼龙(复数)

gardenia

[ɡɑː'diːniə]

n.栀子花;栀子

disinfectant

[ˌdɪsɪn'fektənt]

adj.消毒的

pick

[pɪkt]

采摘，挑选；

veining

['veɪnɪŋ]

n.静脉文理;脉纹的排列

grind

[ɡraɪnd]

v.磨;压迫;碾碎;磨得吱吱响;逐渐停顿

ashtray

['æʃtreɪ]

n.烟灰缸

papery

['peɪpəri]

adj.薄的;纸质的;像纸的

escort

['eskɔːt]

n.护送者;护航舰;陪伴者;陪游;妓女

businesslike

['bɪznəslaɪk]

adj.有效率的;条理的;实际(或无情感因素)的

flute

[fluːt]

n.长笛;凹槽

dreadful

['dredfl]

adj.可怕的;糟糕的

aura

['ɔːrə]

n.气氛;氛围;气味;光环;【医】先兆

steep

[stiːp]

vt. & vi. 浸(渍)；浸湿；浸泡;

pierce

[pɪəs]

v.刺穿;穿透;洞悉

flap

[flæp]

n.拍打

unpromising

[ʌn'prɒmɪsɪŋ]

adj.没有希望的(结果未必良好的)

adore

[ə'dɔː(r)]

vt.爱慕;崇拜;很喜欢

latest

['leɪtɪst]

adj.最近的;最新的

brighten

['braɪtn]

v.使变亮;使生辉;发亮;开颜

Skit

[skɪt]

n.滑稽短剧;讽刺文章

neurotic

[njʊə'rɒtɪk]

adj.神经病的;神经过敏的

dim

[dɪm]

adj.暗淡的;模糊的;笨的

rap

[ræp]

n. 轻敲，急拍；轻敲声，急拍声;

clearness

['klɪənəs]

n.晴朗;明白;清晰

overhang

['əʊvəhæŋ]

v.悬于 ... 之上;悬垂;逼近

chalet

['ʃæleɪ]

n.(瑞士的)木屋;小型度假屋

sideline

['saɪdlaɪn]

n.(球场)边线;副业;附带出售的商品

mulish

['mjuːlɪʃ]

adj.骡似的;执拗的;杂种的

rasp

[rɑːsp]

v.用锉刀锉;刺激;用刺耳的声音说;发出刺耳声

herringbone

[ˈherɪŋbəʊn]

n.飞鱼鱼骨;交叉缝式;人字形

flush

[flʌʃ]

v.冲洗;发红;将某人赶出

zigzag

['zɪɡzæɡ]

n. 【C】之字形，锯齿形;

bruise

[bruːz]

n.瘀青;擦伤;挫伤

skier

['skiːə(r)]

n.滑雪者

poise

[pɔɪz]

n.平衡;姿态;镇静

uneasy

[ʌn'iːzi]

adj.不自在的 ；心神不安的 ；不稳定的;不舒服的

blur

[blɜː(r)]

v.弄脏;使 ... 模糊

swarm

[swɔːm]

n.群;蜂群

churn

[tʃɜːn]

n.搅乳器

compass

['kʌmpəs]

n.指南针

disconsolate

[dɪs'kɒnsələt]

adj.忧郁的;郁郁不乐的

inconsequential

[ɪnˌkɒnsɪ'kwenʃl]

adj.不合逻辑的;不合理的;不重要的

belated

[bɪ'leɪtɪd]

adj.迟来的

insentient

[ɪn'senʃənt]

adj.无知觉的;无生命的

inrush

['ɪnrʌʃ]

n.(水、空气、或人群等的)涌入;侵入

past

[pɑːst]

a. 过去的;

cradle

['kreɪdl]

n.摇篮;发祥地;支架

seep

[siːp]

v.渗出;渗漏

wand

[wɒnd]

n.棒;棍;杖;魔杖;嫩枝;箭靶

prop

[prɒp]

n.支柱;支持者;倚靠人

probe

[prəʊb]

n.调查;探针;探测器

saintly

['seɪntli]

adj.圣洁的;像圣徒一样的

queer

[kwɪə(r)]

a. 古怪的，奇怪的;

casting

['kɑːstɪŋ]

n.铸造

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