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The Chrysanthemums

by John Steinbeck

    Elisa is a young married lady working on an isolated farm and proud of her skills in growing flowers. One day, she suddenly feels a desire to communicate with the outside world. What happens to her? Please read the following story.

    The high grey-flannel fog of winter closed off the Salinas Valley from the sky and from all the rest of the world. On every side it sat like a lid on the mountains and made of the great valley a closed pot. On the broad, level land floor the gang plows bit deep and left the black earth shining like metal where the shares had cut. On the foothill ranches across the Salinas River, the yellow stubble fields seemed to be bathed in pale cold sunshine, but there was no sunshine in the valley now in December. The thick willow scrub along the river flamed with sharp and positive yellow leaves.

    It was a time of quiet and of waiting. The air was cold and tender. A light wind blew up from the southwest so that the farmers were mildly hopeful of a good rain before long; but fog and rain do not go together.

    Across the river, on Henry Allen's foothill ranch there was little work to be done, for the hay was cut and stored and the orchards were plowed up to receive the rain deeply when it should come. The cattle on the higher slopes were becoming shaggy and rough-coated.

    Elisa Allen, working in her flower garden, looked down across the yard and saw Henry, her husband, talking to two men in business suits. The three of them stood by the tractor shed, each man with one foot on the side of the little Fordson. They smoked cigarettes and studied the machine as they talked.
    Elisa watched them for a moment and then went back to her work. She was thirty-five. Her face was lean and strong and her eyes were as clear as water. Her figure looked blocked and heavy in her gardening costume, a man's black hat pulled low down over her eyes, clod-hopper shoes, a figured print dress almost completely covered by a big corduroy apron with four big pockets to hold the snips, the trowel and scratcher, the seeds and the knife she worked with. She wore heavy leather gloves to protect her hands while she worked.

    She was cutting down the old year's chrysanthemum stalks with a pair of short and powerful scissors. She looked down toward the men by the tractor shed now and then. Her face was eager and mature and handsome; even her work with the scissors was over-eager, over-powerful. The chrysanthemum stems seemed too small and easy for her energy.

    She brushed a cloud of hair out of her eyes with the back of her glove, and left a smudge of earth on her cheek in doing it. Behind her stood the neat white farm house with red geraniums close-banked around it as high as the windows. It was a hard-swept looking little house with hard-polished windows, and a clean mud-mat on the front steps.

    Elisa cast another glance toward the tractor shed. The strangers were getting into their Ford coupe. She took off a glove and put her strong fingers down into the forest of new green chrysanthemum sprouts that were growing around the old roots. She spread the leaves and looked down among the close-growing stems. No aphids were there, no sowbugs or snails or cutworms. Her terrier fingers destroyed such pests before they could get started.

    Elisa started at the sound of her husband's voice. He had come near quietly, and he leaned over the wire fence that protected her flower garden from cattle and dogs and chickens.

    "At it again," he said. "You've got a strong new crop coming."

    Elisa straightened her back and pulled on the gardening glove again: "Yes. They'll be strong this coming year." In her tone and on her face there was a little smugness.

    "You've got a gift with things," Henry observed. "Some of those yellow chrysanthemums you had this year were ten inches across. I wish you'd work out in the orchard and raise some apples that big."

    Her eyes sharpened. "Maybe I could do it, too. I've a gift with things, all right. My mother had it. She could stick anything in the ground and make it grow. She said it was having planters' hands that knew how to do it."

    "Well, it sure works with flowers," he said.

   "Henry, who were those men you were talking to?"
    "Why, sure, that's what I came to tell you. They were from the Western Meat Company. I sold those thirty head of three-year-old steers. Got nearly my own price, too."

    "Good," she said. "Good for you."

    "And I thought," he continued, "I thought how it's Saturday afternoon, and we might go into Salinas for dinner at a restaurant, and then to a picture show─to celebrate, you see."

    "Good," she repeated. "Oh, yes. That will be good."

    Henry put on his joking tone. "There's fights tonight. How'd you like to go to the fights?"

    "Oh, no," she said breathlessly. "No, I wouldn't like fights."

    "Just fooling, Elisa. We'll go to a movie. Let's see. It's two now. I'm going to take Scotty and bring down those steers from the hill. It'll take us maybe two hours. We'll go in town about five and have dinner at the Cominos Hotel. Like that?"

    "Of course I'll like it. It's good to eat away from home."

    "All right, then. I'll go get up a couple of horses."

    She said, "I'll have plenty of time to transplant some of these sets, I guess."

    She heard her husband calling Scotty down by the barn. And a little later she saw the two men ride up the pale yellow hillside in search of the steers.

    There was a little square sandy bed kept for rooting the chrysanthemums. With her trowel she turned the soil over and over, and smoothed it and patted it firm. Then she dug ten parallel trenches to receive the sets. Back at the chrysanthemum bed she pulled out the little crisp shoots, trimmed off the leaves of each one with her scissors and laid it on a small orderly pile.

    A squeak of wheels and plod of hoofs came from the road. Elisa looked up. The country road ran along the dense bank of willows and cottonwoods that bordered the river, and up this road came a curious vehicle, curiously drawn. It was an old spring-wagon, with a round canvas top on it like the cover of a prairie schooner. It was drawn by an old bay horse and a little grey-and-white burro. A big stubble-bearded man sat between the cover flaps and drove the crawling team. Underneath the wagon, between the hind wheels, a lean and rangy mongrel dog walked sedately. Words were painted on the canvas, in clumsy, crooked letters. "Pots, pans, knives, scissors, lawn mowers. Fixed." Two rows of articles, and the triumphantly definitive "Fixed" below. The black paint had run down in little sharp points beneath each letter.

    Elisa, squatting on the ground, watched to see the crazy, loose-jointed wagon pass by. But it didn't pass. It turned into the farm road in front of her house, crooked old wheels skirling and squeaking. The rangy dog darted from between the wheels and ran ahead. Instantly the two ranch shepherds flew out at him. Then all three stopped, and with stiff and quivering tails, with taut straight legs, with ambassadorial dignity, they slowly circled, sniffing daintily. The caravan pulled up to Elisa's wire fence and stopped. Now the newcomer dog, feeling out-numbered, lowered his tail and retired under the wagon with raised hackles and bared teeth.

    The man on the wagon seat called out, "That's a bad dog in a fight when he gets started."

    Elisa laughed. "I see he is. How soon does he generally get started?"

    The man caught up her laughter and echoed it heartily. "Sometimes not for weeks and weeks," he said. He climbed stiffly down, over the wheel. The horse and the donkey drooped like unwatered flowers.

    Elisa saw that he was a very big man. Although his hair and beard were greying, he did not look old. His worn black suit was wrinkled and spotted with grease. The laughter had disappeared from his face and eyes the moment his laughing voice ceased. His eyes were dark, and they were full of the brooding that gets in the eyes of teamsters and of sailors. The calloused hands he rested on the wire fence were cracked, and every crack was a black line. He took off his battered hat.

    "I'm off my general road, ma'am," he said. "Does this dirt road cut over across the river to the Los Angeles highway?"

    Elisa stood up and shoved the thick scissors in her apron pocket. "Well, yes, it does, but it winds around and then fords the river. I don't think your team could pull through the sand."

    He replied with some asperity, "It might surprise you what them beasts can pull through."

    "When they get started?" she asked.

    He smiled for a second. "Yes. When they get started."

    "Well," said Elisa, "I think you'll save time if you go back to the Salinas road and pick up the highway there."

    He drew a big finger down the chicken wire and made it sing. "I ain't in any hurry, ma'am. I go from Seattle to San Diego and back every year. Takes all my time. About six months each way. I aim to follow nice weather."

    Elisa took off her gloves and stuffed them in the apron pocket with the scissors. She touched the under edge of her man's hat, searching for fugitive hairs. "That sounds like a nice kind of a way to live," she said.

    He leaned confidentially over the fence. "Maybe you noticed the writing on my wagon. I mend pots and sharpen knives and scissors. You got any of them things to do?"

    "Oh, no," she said quickly. "Nothing like that." Her eyes hardened with resistance.

    "Scissors is the worst thing," he explained. "Most people just ruin scissors trying to sharpen ‘em, but I know how. I got a special tool. It's a little bobbit kind of thing, and patented. But it sure does the trick."
    "No. My scissors are all sharp."

    "All right, then. Take a pot," he continued earnestly, "a bent pot, or a pot with a hole. I can make it like new so you don't have to buy no new ones. That's a saving for you."

    "No," she said shortly. "I tell you I have nothing like that for you to do."

    His face fell to an exaggerated sadness. His voice took on a whining undertone. "I ain't had a thing to do today. Maybe I won't have no supper tonight. You see I'm off my regular road. I know folks on the highway clear from Seattle to San Diego. They save their things for me to sharpen up because they know I do it so good and save them money."

    "I'm sorry," Elisa said irritably. "I haven't anything for you to do."

    His eyes left her face and fell to searching the ground. They roamed about until they came to the chrysanthemum bed where she had been working. "What's them plants, ma'am?"

    The irritation and resistance melted from Elisa's face. "Oh, those are chrysanthemums, giant whites and yellows. I raise them every year, bigger than anybody around here."
    "Kind of a long-stemmed flower? Looks like a quick puff of colored smoke?" he asked.

    "That's it. What a nice way to describe them."

    "They smell kind of nasty till you get used to them," he said.

    "It's a good bitter smell," she retorted, "not nasty at all."

    He changed his tone quickly. "I like the smell myself."

    "I had ten-inch blooms this year," she said.

    The man leaned farther over the fence. "Look. I know a lady down the road a piece, has got the nicest garden you ever seen. Got nearly every kind of flower but no chrysanthemums. Last time I was mending a copper-bottom washtub for her (that's a hard job but I do it good), she said to me, 'If you ever run across some nice chrysanthemums I wish you'd try to get me a few seeds.' That's what she told me."

    Elisa's eyes grew alert and eager. "She couldn't have known much about chrysanthemums. You can raise them from seed, but it's much easier to root the little sprouts you see there."

    "Oh," he said. "I s'pose I can't take none to her, then."

    "Why yes you can," Elisa cried. "I can put some in damp sand, and you can carry them right along with you. They'll take root in the pot if you keep them damp. And then she can transplant them."

    "She'd sure like to have some, ma'am. You say they're nice ones?"

    "Beautiful," she said. "Oh, beautiful." Her eyes shone. She tore off the battered hat and shook out her dark pretty hair. "I'll put them in a flower pot, and you can take them right with you. Come into the yard."

    While the man came through the picket gate Elisa ran excitedly along the geranium-bordered path to the back of the house. And she returned carrying a big red flower pot. The gloves were forgotten now. she kneeled on the ground by the starting bed and dug up the sandy soil with her fingers and scooped it into the bright new flower pot. Then she picked up the little pile of shoots she had prepared. With her strong fingers she pressed them into the sand and tamped around them with her knuckles. The man stood over her. "I'll tell you what to do," she said. "You remember so you can tell the lady."

    "Yes, I'll try to remember."

    "Well, look. These will take root in about a month. Then she must set them out, about a foot apart in good rich earth like this, see?" She lifted a handful of dark soil for him to look at. "They'll grow fast and tall. Now remember this: In July tell her to cut them down, about eight inches from the ground."

    "Before they bloom?" he asked.

    "Yes, before they bloom." Her face was tight with eagerness. "They'll grow right up again. About the last of September the buds will start."

    She stopped and seemed perplexed. "It's the budding that takes the most care," she said hesitantly. "I don't know how to tell you." She looked deep into his eyes, searchingly. Her mouth opened a little, and she seemed to be listening. "I'll try to tell you," she said. "Did you ever hear of planting hands?"

    "Can't say I have, ma'am."

    "Well, I can only tell you what it feels like. It's when you're picking off the buds you don't want. Everything goes right down into your fingertips. You watch your fingers work. They do it themselves. You can feel how it is. They pick and pick the buds. They never make a mistake. They're with the plant. Do you see? Your fingers and the plant. You can feel that, right up your arm. They know. They never make a mistake. You can feel it. When you're like that you can't do anything wrong. Do you see that? Can you understand that?"
    She was kneeling on the ground looking up at him. Her breast swelled passionately.

    The man's eyes narrowed. He looked away self-consciously. "Maybe I know," he said. "Sometimes in the night in the wagon there —"

    Elisa's voice grew husky. She broke in on him, "I've never lived as you do, but I know what you mean. When the night is dark─why, the stars are sharp-pointed, and there's quiet. Why, you rise up and up! Every pointed star gets driven into your body. It's like that. Hot and sharp and —lovely."

    Kneeling there, her hand went out toward his legs in the greasy black trousers. Her hesitant fingers almost touched the cloth. Then her hand dropped to the ground. She crouched low like a fawning dog.

    He said, "it's nice, just like you say. Only when you don't have no dinner, it ain't."

    She stood up then, very straight, and her face was ashamed. She held the flower pot out to him and placed it gently in his arms. "Here. Put it in your wagon, on the seat, where you can watch it. Maybe I can find something for you to do."

    At the back of the house she dug in the can pile and found two old and battered aluminum saucepans. She carried them back and gave them to him. "Here, maybe you can fix these."

    His manner changed. He became professional. "Good as new I can fix them." At the back of his wagon he set a little anvil, and out of an oily tool box dug a small machine hammer. Elisa came through the gate to watch him while he pounded out the dents in the kettles. His mouth grew sure and knowing. At a difficult part of the work he sucked his under-lip.

    "You sleep right in the wagon?" Elisa asked.

    "Right in the wagon, ma'am. Rain or shine I'm dry as a cow in there."

    "It must be nice," she said. "It must be very nice. I wish women could do such things."

    "It ain't the right kind of a life for a woman."

    Her upper lip raised a little, showing her teeth. "How do you know? How can you tell?" she said.

    "I don't know, ma'am," he protested. "Of course I don't know. Now here's your kettles, done. You don't have to buy no new ones."

    "How much?"

    "Oh, fifty cents'll do. I keep my prices down and my work good. That's why I have all them satisfied customers up and down the highway."

    Elisa brought him a fifty-cent piece from the house and dropped it in his hand. "You might be surprised to have a rival some time. I can sharpen scissors, too. And I can beat the dents out of little pots. I could show you what a woman might do."

    He put his hammer back in the oily box and shoved the little anvil out of sight. "It would be a lonely life for a woman, ma'am, and a scarey life, too, with animals creeping under the wagon all night." He climbed over the singletree, steadying himself with a hand on the burro's white rump. He settled himself in the seat, picked up the lines. "Thank you kindly, ma'am," he said. "I'll do like you told me; I'll go back and catch the Salinas road."

    "Mind," she called, "if you're long in getting there, keep the sand damp."

    "Sand, ma'am?...sand? Oh, sure. You mean around the chrysanthemums. Sure I will." He clucked his tongue. The beasts leaned luxuriously into their collars. The mongrel dog took his place between the back wheels. The wagon turned and crawled out the entrance road and back the way it had come, along the river.

    Elisa stood in front of her wire fence watching the slow progress of the caravan. Her shoulders were straight, her head thrown back, her eyes half-closed, so that the scene came vaguely into them. Her lips moved silently, forming the words "Good-bye─good-bye." Then she whispered, "That's a bright direction. There's a glowing there." The sound of her whisper startled her. She shook herself free and looked about to see whether anyone had been listening. Only the dogs had heard. They lifted their heads toward her from their sleeping in the dust, and then stretched out their chins and settled asleep again. Elisa turned and ran hurriedly into the house.

    In the kitchen she reached behind the stove and felt the water tank. It was full of hot water from the noonday cooking. In the bathroom she tore off her soiled clothes and flung them into the corner. And then she scrubbed herself with a little block of pumice, legs and thighs, loins and chest and arms, until her skin was scratched and red. When she had dried herself she stood in front of a mirror in her bedroom and looked at her body. She tightened her stomach and threw out her chest. She turned and looked over her shoulder at her back.

    After a while she began to dress, slowly. She put on her newest underclothing and her nicest stockings and the dress which was the symbol of her prettiness. She worked carefully on her hair, penciled her eyebrows and rouged her lips.

    Before she was finished she heard the little thunder of hoofs and the shouts of Henry and his helper as they drove the red steers into the corral. She heard the gate bang shut and set herself for Henry's arrival.

    His step sounded on the porch. He entered the house calling, "Elisa, where are you?"

    "In my room, dressing. I'm not ready. There's hot water for your bath. Hurry up. It's getting late."

    When she heard him splashing in the tub, Elisa laid his dark suit on the bed, and shirt and socks and tie beside it. She stood his polished shoes on the floor beside the bed. Then she went to the porch and sat primly and stiffly down. She looked toward the river road where the willow-line was still yellow with frosted leaves so that under the high grey fog they seemed a thin band of sunshine. This was the only color in the grey afternoon. She sat unmoving for a long time. Her eyes blinked rarely.

    Henry came banging out of the door, shoving his tie inside his vest as he came. Elisa stiffened and her face grew tight. Henry stopped short and looked at her. "Why─why, Elisa. You look so nice!"

    "Nice? You think I look nice? What do you mean by 'nice'?"

    Henry blundered on. "I don't know. I mean you look different, strong and happy."
    "I am strong? Yes, strong. What do you mean 'strong'?"

    He looked bewildered. "You're playing some kind of a game," he said helplessly.    "It's a kind of a play. You look strong enough to break a calf over your knee, happy enough to eat it like a watermelon."

    For a second she lost her rigidity. "Henry! Don't talk like that. You didn't know what you said." She grew complete again. "I'm strong," she boasted. "I never knew before how strong."

    Henry looked down toward the tractor shed, and when he brought his eyes back to her, they were his own again. "I'll get out the car. You can put on your coat while I'm starting."

    Elisa went into the house. She heard him drive to the gate and idle down his motor, and then she took a long time to put on her hat. She pulled it here and pressed it there. When Henry turned the motor off she slipped into her coat and went out.

    The little roadster bounced along on the dirt road by the river, raising the birds and driving the rabbits into the brush. Two cranes flapped heavily over the willow-line and dropped into the river-bed.

    Far ahead on the road Elisa saw a dark speck. She knew.

    She tried not to look as they passed it, but her eyes would not obey. She whispered to herself sadly, "He might have thrown them off the road. That wouldn't have been much trouble, not very much. But he kept the pot," she explained. "He had to keep the pot. That's why he couldn't get them off the road."

    The roadster turned a bend and she saw the caravan ahead. She swung full around toward her husband so she could not see the little covered wagon and the mismatched team as the car passed them.

    In a moment it was over. The thing was done. She did not look back.

    She said loudly, to be heard above the motor, "It will be good, tonight, a good dinner."

    "Now you're changed again," Henry complained. He took one hand from the wheel and patted her knee. "I ought to take you in to dinner oftener. It would be good for both of us. We get so heavy out on the ranch."

    "Henry," she asked, "could we have wine at dinner?"

    "Sure we could. Say! That will be fine."

    She was silent for a while; then she said, "Henry, at those prize fights, do the men hurt each other very much?"

    "Sometimes a little, not often. Why?"

    "Well, I've read how they break noses, and blood runs down their chests. I've read how the fighting gloves get heavy and soggy with blood."

    He looked around at her. "What's the matter, Elisa? I didn't know you read things like that." He brought the car to a stop, then turned to the right over the Salinas River bridge.
    "Do any women ever go to the fights?" she asked.

    "Oh, sure, some. What's the matter, Elisa? Do you want to go? I don't think you'd like it, but I'll take you if you really want to go."

    She relaxed limply in the seat. "Oh, no. No. I don't want to go. I'm sure I don't." Her face was turned away from him. "It will be enough if we can have wine. It will be plenty." She turned up her coat collar so he could not see that she was crying weakly—like an old woman.

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课文一

菊花

约翰·斯坦贝克

    年轻媳妇伊利莎住在一家偏僻的农场，一手高超的种花技能令她自豪。一天，她突然有了与外界交流的愿望。有什么故事发生呢？请您往下看。

    飘荡在半空中的冬雾呈现出灰法兰绒色，将萨利纳斯山谷严实地罩了起来；同时也把它与外界分隔开。雾气锁着山头，四面像顶盖子，而山谷则成了一口盖得严严实实的深锅。农民在宽阔平坦的土地上深耕，犁铧过处，黑色的土地闪着金属的光泽。在横卧萨利纳斯河的丘陵地上，农场里的茬地泛着黄色，像是沐浴在冷冷的苍白日光下；不过，现在时至腊月，山谷里没什么阳光。河边上密密麻麻的柳丛上的黄叶颜色鲜浓，像着了火似的。

    这是一个安静，叫人等待的季节。空气凉凉的，柔柔的。从西南方向吹来一阵轻风，农民们隐隐地感到不久会有一场及时雨，但雨和雾是不一起来的。

    河对岸亨利·埃伦家位于丘陵上的农场里已经没什么活计了：干草都收割过并存放了起来，果园业已深翻过，好等到有雨的时候浇个透底墒。高处山坡上的牛变得毛皮杂乱粗糙。

    伊利莎·埃伦正在花园里干活儿，穿过院子朝远处望时，她看见丈夫亨利正在与两个身着工作服的人交谈。三个人都站在拖拉机棚边上，一只脚蹬在那辆小型福特牌拖拉机的一侧。说话的时候，他们边抽着烟，边打量拖拉机。

    伊利莎看了他们一会儿，又继续忙自己的活儿。她今年三十五岁，脸庞瘦俏并透着坚毅，一双眼睛清澈如水。由于穿着园艺工作服，她显得鼓囊囊的、有点儿笨拙。她头上戴着一顶男式的黑帽子，拉得很低，直到她的眼睛。脚上是一双粗笨的鞋子。下面穿的印花裙子几乎全给那个大号的灯心绒围裙遮盖了起来。围裙上有四个大口袋，用来放她干活时用的剪刀、泥铲、刮管器、种子和刀。干活时她戴着厚厚的皮手套，免得弄伤手。

    她这会儿正用一把锋利的小剪子把去年的菊花枝剪短，还不时朝站在拖拉机棚边上的三个男人望一望。她的脸上充满着渴望，看起来成熟漂亮——甚至连她拿着剪刀干活的样子都显得那么有力，饱含期待，以至于那些菊花的枯杆相比之下都显得纤细柔弱，容易收拾了。

    她用手套的背部将眼前的一绺乌发抹开，一点污渍就留在了她的脸颊上。她身后是整洁的白色农舍，红色的天竺葵紧紧地簇拥着，直到窗户附近。看得出这座不大的屋子好好打扫过，窗户也曾细心地擦拭过，就连前面台阶上的擦鞋垫都收拾得干干净净。

    伊利莎又朝拖拉机棚的方向看了一眼，那些陌生人正钻进他们的福特牌小客车里。她脱掉一只手套，将自己有力的手指伸到从老的菊花根部新生的一丛幼苗里，然后分开叶子，在长得郁郁葱葱的幼苗里查看。里面蚜虫、潮虫、蜗牛、毛虫什么的都没有。如果真有的话，她那犀利无比的手指也会在这些害虫逃跑之前就将它们消灭。

    听到丈夫的声音，伊利莎吃了一惊。原来他已经悄悄地走到了她的旁边，从铁丝栅栏那边俯过身来。铁丝栅栏把她的花园圈了起来，免得牛呀，狗呀，鸡呀这些家畜糟蹋。
    “又侍弄你的花儿啦，”他说，“它们今年长势好啊。”
    听到丈夫搭话，伊利莎直起身，顺手把那只手套又戴上：“对，今年长势会很好。”不管是言语中还是脸上都洋溢着得意。
   “你干活儿很有一手，”亨利说，“你今年种的黄菊花中有的有十英寸那么大，真希望你去侍弄果园，也结出那么大的苹果来。”

    她的眼睛一亮。“或许我也能。我的确在种植方面有一手，我妈妈也是那样。她随便把什么东西往地下一 插，就能活。她说是因为有了庄稼人的手才知道怎么去种植。”

    “嗯，种花也是这样的，”他说。

    “亨利，刚才同你说话的那些人是谁呀？”
    “啊，对了，我正要跟你说呢。他们是西部肉制品公司的。我把那三十头三岁的菜牛买给他们，差不多是我要的价格。”

    “太好了，”她说，“真有你的。”
     “我想，”他接着说，“现在是周六下午，我们可以去萨利纳斯的一家饭店吃顿饭，再去看场电影，庆祝一下，你看怎么样。”

    “太好了，”她重复道。“真是好极了。”
    亨利接着开玩笑说，“今天晚上有拳击赛，你愿意看吗？”

    “不，”她紧张地说，“我可不喜欢拳击赛。”
    “骗你哪，伊利莎。我们去看电影。让我想一下，现在是下午两点，我去叫斯哥迪，把牛赶下山。这大概要两个钟头。我们会在五点钟到城里，去克民诺斯酒店吃晚饭。你觉得怎么样？”

    “当然可以，在外面吃饭好。”

    “那好，我去准备几匹马。”

    “我想我会有充裕的时间把这些苗儿种上的。”伊利莎说。
    继而，她听到丈夫在谷仓那儿叫斯哥迪。又过了一会儿，她看见他们两个骑着马，走上灰黄的山坡找菜牛。

    花园里有一块四四方方的沙地，是用来种菊花幼苗的。她用泥铲把土翻了又翻，又弄平，再拍结实。然后又挖了十道平行的小沟，好栽种菊苗。她从菊花园里拔了些脆嫩的幼苗，用剪刀剪掉叶子，然后整齐地放在一起。

    路边这时传来了车轮的吱嘎声和马蹄的声响。伊利莎抬起了头。河边上密密麻麻的柳树和杨树旁是条乡间小路，沿着这条路来了一辆奇怪的车，走的样子很怪。那是一辆老式的带弹簧的四轮马车，上面的帆布圆顶子像是拓荒者用的大篷车的顶篷。拉着它的是匹栗色的马和一头灰白的小毛驴。在车顶盖的下面坐着个胡子拉碴的人，赶着这辆车往前爬行。在马车后轮之间，一条瘦骨嶙峋的长腿杂种狗不声不响地跟着。车蓬的上面歪歪扭扭地写着“修理锅、罐、刀、剪子、割草机”。修理的器皿写了两行，“修理”两个字在下面，显得很自信。写字用的黑色颜料在每个字母下面都流成了一个个小尖头。

    伊利莎蹲在地上，看着这辆怪模怪样、松松垮垮的马车驶过去。但它并没有从她的眼前过去，而是弯上了经过她家门前的农场小路，破旧的车轮吱嘎吱嘎尖厉地响着。车下面轮子间的那条瘦骨嶙峋的长腿狗冲到了马车的前面，马上，两条牧羊犬朝着它冲了上去。于是，三条狗都站住了，尾巴直竖着、颤抖着，绷紧了腿，带着外交官般的庄重神情。它们互相围着打转，挑剔地嗅着对方。大篷车在伊利莎家的铁丝栅栏边上停了下来。那条初来乍到的狗这时感觉到数量上的众寡悬殊，垂下尾巴，退回到车下，脖子上的毛竖着，牙齿露在外面。

    坐在车上的男人喊道，“这条狗打架受惊时不是条好狗。”

    伊利莎笑道，“我看是的，它一般要多久就会受惊？”

    那人被伊利莎的笑声感染，也大声地笑了起来。“有时好几周也不会，”他说。说着，他生硬地从车轮上爬下车。那匹马和那头毛驴耷拉着脑袋，像缺了水的花。

    伊利莎看得出他是个大块头，虽然头发胡子都白了，却并不显老。褴褛的黑色西装皱皱巴巴的，还有星星点点的油渍。笑声一停，他眼角眉梢的笑容也顿时没了。他双眼乌黑，充满忧郁，这种眼神通常只出现在卡车司机或水手的眼里。他放在铁丝栅栏上的手打满了老茧，裂着一条条黑乎乎的口子。他脱下了那顶破烂的帽子。

    “夫人，我走岔路了，”他说，“沿这条土路过河上得了去洛山矶的公路吗？”

    伊利莎站了起来，把那把大剪子放到围裙口袋里。“啊，上得了。不过，这条路要绕很远，然后还要从水中蹚过河，我想你很难走过那片沙滩。”

    他粗暴地回答，“要是你知道这些家伙都走过什么样的地方，或许会吃惊的。”
   

    “一旦它们受惊吗？”她问。
    他笑了一笑。“是的，一旦它们受惊。”
    “嗯，”伊利莎说，“我想，要是你拐回去到萨利纳斯的路，再从那儿上公路，会省些时间。”
    他用一个大手指弹了一下栅栏，它响了起来。“我一点儿都不着急，夫人。我每年从西雅图走到圣地亚哥，再回来，总是不慌不忙。一趟大概半年光景，哪儿的天气好我就往哪儿走。”

    伊利莎脱下手套，把它们放在装着剪子的围裙口袋里。她碰了碰自己那顶男式帽子的底沿，看有没有头发从里面跑出来。“听起来很不错的活法，”她说。

    他把身子弯向栅栏里面，显出很亲密的样子，说，“或许你看到了我马车上的那些字，我修理锅，磨剪子磨菜刀。你有什么东西要修吗？”

    “哦，没有，”她忙说。“没什么要修的。”她的眼神坚定起来，透出拒绝的神情。
    “剪子是最难对付的东西，”他解释说。“大部分人只知道拼命磨它，结果却糟蹋了它，可我知道怎么能把剪子磨快又不糟蹋它。我有专门的工具，是一件小玩意儿，还取得了专利，好用得很。”
    “不过，我的剪子都很快。”
    “那好吧。”他继续劝说着，“拿口锅修修吧，不管是瘪了的还是有洞的，我都能修得像新的一样，这样你就不用买新锅了。这你不是省钱了吗？”

    “不用，”她简短地答道。“我告诉过你我没什么要修的东西。”
    他的脸顿时变得一种夸张的痛苦，就连声音也变得呜咽了。“我今天一件活儿都没干成，或许今晚饭都吃不上。你看我走错了路，我认识从西雅图到圣地亚歌沿途所有的人，他们都把那些坏的家伙放起来等我来修，因为他们知道我活儿干得好，给他们省钱。”

   “对不起，”伊利莎有些着恼。“我没什么东西好让你修。”

    他的目光离开了她的脸，落到了地上，四处瞥了瞥，最后停到伊利莎忙碌着的那片菊花地上。“夫人，那些是什么呀？”

    听到这话，伊利莎脸上的恼怒和拒绝缓和了。“啊，那是菊花，巨白菊和黄菊。我每年都种，开起来比方圆左近的人种的都大。”

    “是一种长茎花吗？看起来像是一朵彩色烟雾？”他问。

    “正是，你这样比喻太恰当了。”

    “要是不习惯它的香味，闻起来有点儿难受，”他说。
    “那是一种好闻的苦香，”她反驳道，“一点儿也不难受。”
    他马上改了口。“我就很喜欢那种香味。”
    “我今年有直径十英寸那么大的花，”她说。

    那人又朝栅栏里边靠了靠。“喂，我认识下面离这儿不远的一位太太，从没见过那么好的花园，里面几乎什么花儿都有，就是没有菊花。我上次给她修了一个铜底洗衣盆。那可是件棘手的活儿，不过我干得很好。她跟我说，‘如果你能碰上什么好的菊花，希望你能给我带点儿种子来。’她这么跟我说。”

    伊利莎眼睛一亮，变得热切起来。“她不可能知道很多关于菊花的知识。你可以下种，但插幼苗的方法更容易，就是你在那边看到的那些。”

    “啊，”他叫道。“这样的话，我估计一棵也给她带不去了。”
   “为什么不能？你可以，”伊利莎大声说，“我可以把幼苗种在湿的沙土里，你就可以随身带着了。只要保持沙土不干，这些幼苗就会在花盆里生根，然后她就可以移栽它们了。”
    “她肯定很高兴有这些菊花，夫人。它们是很漂亮的菊花，对吧？”
    “漂亮，”她说，“啊，非常漂亮。”她的双眼这会儿炯炯有神。她一把拉下了那顶破旧的帽子，乌黑漂亮的头发散了开来。“我把它们栽到一个花盆里，你再带走。到院里来吧。”

    那男人进了尖木桩做的大门，而伊利莎兴奋地沿着两边都是天竺葵的小路跑到房子后面，回来的时候抱着一个大个儿的红花盆。手套已经不知道扔哪儿去了。她跪在苗床旁的地上，用手指挖些沙土，然后捧到那个新的红花盆里。接着她捡起准备好的一小捆苗，用自己有力的手指将它们插到沙子里，然后再用指节在周围拍了拍。男人低头看着她。“我会告诉你怎么做的，”她说。“你得记着，好告诉那位太太。”

    “好的，我尽力记住。”
    “那好，记着，这些幼苗会在一个月左右扎根。然后她就得把它们移栽出来，移到像这样肥沃的土壤里，每隔一英尺种一棵，你明白吗？”她抓起一满把黑色的土壤让他看。“它们会长得很快很高。你记着：告诉她七月的时候把它们剪短，剪到距地面大概八英寸高。”

    “在它们开花前吗?”他问。
    “是的，在开花前。”她的脸因为兴奋绷得紧紧的。“它们很快就会长起来；九月末就开始打花骨朵了。”

    她停了下来，好像有点儿不知所措。“打苞的时候最需要好好照看，”她欲言又止地说。“我不知道该怎么对你说。”她凝视着他的眼睛，好像在寻找什么。她的嘴微微张着，像是倾听什么回答。“我给你讲讲看，”她说。“你听说过庄稼里手吗？”

    “我想没有，夫人。”
    “那么，我只能给你说说那是什么感觉。那是在你摘掉那些多余花蕾的时候。一切都聚集到你的手指里，你看着自己手指的活计。它们在自己干着活儿，你能感觉到那是怎么一回事儿。它们在不停地摘着，摘着，不出一点儿差错。它们与庄稼是天生的搭档，你明白吗？庄稼和手指间。你可以感觉到，一直到你的手臂。它们知道该怎么做，从不出错。你可以感觉到。只要这样，你就不会出什么错。你明白吗？你听懂了吗?”

    她跪在那里，朝上看着他，胸脯激动得涨了来。
    那个男人眯起了眼。好像自己意识到什么，朝远处看了看。“或许我理解，”他说。“有时候，晚上，在马车里……”

    伊利莎的声音变得有些沙哑，她打断他说，“我从没像你那样生活过，但我知道你的意思。天黑的时候——啊，群星亮闪闪的，周遭一片寂静。你觉得自己愈来愈高，每一颗亮闪闪的星星都融入自己身体里。就是那样。热热的，亮亮的——美极了。”

    她跪在那儿，她的手朝他穿着脏兮兮的黑裤子的腿伸了去。她迟疑不决的手指几乎碰到了他的裤子。接着她的手垂了下去。她蜷缩在地上,像只摇尾乞怜的狗。

    他说，“对，就像你说的，那很美。只要不是没有晚饭吃。”

    听到这些她站了起来。腰挺得很直，脸上有些羞愧。她将花盆抱出来，轻轻地放在他的怀里。“好，放在你的车上，放到座位上，这样你就可以看着它。或许我能找些东西来你修一下。”

    她在屋后的罐子堆里很找了一通，找到了两个破旧的铝炖锅。她拿着它们回来交给他。“喂，或许你可以把这些东西修一下。”

    他的样子为之一变，显得很专业。“我会把它们修得跟新的一样。”他在马车的后面支起了一个铁砧，然后从一个油乎乎的工具箱里鼓捣出一个小机锤。伊利莎走出大门，看他将锅上的凹痕敲平。他的嘴巴显得自信，踌躇满志。活儿不好干的时候，他就咬着下嘴唇。

   “你就在马车里睡觉吗？”伊利莎问。

    “就在马车里，夫人。下雨也好，天晴也好，我身上都不会湿。”
    “那肯定很棒，”她说。“肯定美极了。我希望女人也能这样生活。”

    “这种生活不适合女人。”

    她的上唇轻轻地一扬，露出了牙齿。“你怎么知道？你怎么能这样说？”她说。

    “我不知道，夫人。”他不满地说。”当然我不知道。好，你的锅好了，你不用买新的了。”

    “多少钱？”
    “啊，五十美分好了。我的要价一向很低，但活儿是高质量的。所以沿途的客户对我都很满意。”

    伊利莎从屋里拿了五十美分放到他手里。“如果你发现自己有个对手可能会大吃一惊，。我也能让剪子锋利起来。而且我也能弄平小锅上的凹痕。我可以让你见识一下一个女人能干些什么。”

    他把锤子放回了那个油乎乎的工具箱，然后胡乱把那个小铁砧放到看不见的地方。“夫人，对于一个女人来说，每天晚上都躺在马车上，下面蜷缩着牲畜，这种生活太寂寞而且叫人害怕。”他爬到马车前的横木上，一只手放在毛驴白色的屁股上，让自己坐稳。他把自己安顿到座位上，拿起缰绳。“非常感谢，夫人，”他说。“我会按你交代我的去做。回去上萨利纳斯的公路。”

    “记着，”她喊道，“要是到那儿时间很久，要保持沙土湿润。”

    “沙土，夫人？……沙土？哦，当然。你是说菊花根部吧，我肯定会的。”他的舌头发出咯咯的声音。那两匹牲口舒服地在它们的轭上靠着。那条杂种狗站在两个后轮间。马车调了头，慢慢地从来的入口徐徐出去，上了来时沿河的那条路。

    伊利莎站在铁栅栏前，看着大篷车慢慢走远。她直起身子，头往后仰着，双眼微微闭着，眼前的景色也因此变得模模糊糊。她的双唇无声地动着，说“再见——再见”。然后她低声道，“那边霞光万丈，多么亮啊。”这声音吓了她一跳。她摇摇头让自己清醒过来，四处看看是不是有人在听。只有那几条狗听见了，它们睡在地上，朝伊利莎抬起头，伸长了下巴，然后又倒下睡了。伊利莎转过身，匆匆跑进了屋里。

   在厨房里，她把手伸到炉子后面，摸摸水箱。里面盛满了热水，是中午做饭时烧热的。她走进浴室，脱掉脏衣服，扔到墙角；然后用一小块浮石擦洗起身子来，腿、腰、胸、胳膊，直到皮肤擦得红红的，留下一道道擦痕。她把身上的水弄干，站在卧室里的镜子前，端详着自己的身体。她收腹挺胸，然后又转过头从肩膀上看自己的后背。

    过了一会儿她开始穿衣服，穿得很慢。她穿上自己的新内衣，最精致的长袜，还有那件像征她的美丽的裙子。她仔细地梳理着头发，描眉，涂口红。

    还没等她收拾好，外面传来了马蹄的得得声。亨利同他的伙计吆喝着往牲口圈里赶牛。听到大门砰的一声关上，她准备好，等着亨利过来。

    走廊上传来亨利的脚步声，他走到屋里喊道，“伊利莎，你在哪儿？”

    “在我屋里穿衣服呢，还没好呢。你洗澡的热水好了，快点儿洗，没有时间了。”

    伊利莎听到亨利在浴盆里哗啦哗啦的洗澡声，把他的黑西服放在床上，边上是他的衬衫、袜子和领带。她把擦亮的鞋子摆放在床边的地板上，然后来到走廊上，一本正经地坐在那儿，显得有些呆滞。她朝河边的路上看去，那儿的柳叶上挂着霜，依然泛着黄色，因而在半空的灰白色雾气笼罩下，这一带柳树好像是道薄薄的阳光。这是整个灰色下午唯一的色彩。她一动不动地坐了很久， 很少眨眼睛。

    亨利出来时砰的一声关门，边走边往马甲里塞领带。伊利莎直起身子，脸也绷紧了。亨利蓦地停下来盯着她。“嘿，伊利莎，你看起来真棒！”

    “棒？你觉得我很棒？‘很棒’是什么意思？”

    “我不知道。我是说你看起来有些不一样，强壮、快活。”亨利结结巴巴地说。
    “强壮？是的，我很强壮。这又是什么意思？”

    他显得有些迷惑不解。“你在玩儿什么游戏，”他无可奈何地说。“你在玩游戏。你显得很强壮，可以在你的膝盖上劈死一头小牛；又很高兴，能像吃个大西瓜那样把它吃掉。”

    一时间她僵硬的神情没了。“亨利！别那样说。你不知道你在说什么。”她又恢复了原来的样子。“我很强壮，”她夸耀地说。“我以前从不知道自己有多么结实。”

    亨利朝下看了看拖拉机棚。当他收回目光再看她时，那眼神又变成他以前的那种了。“我去把车开出来，趁这当儿，你把大衣穿好。”

    伊利莎走进了屋。她听到亨利把车开到了门口，马达空转着。她磨磨蹭蹭地戴上帽子，按按这儿扯扯那儿。这时亨利熄了马达，她很快穿上大衣，走了出去。

    小敞篷车沿着河在土路上颠簸前行，惊起一群鸟，野兔也被惊得钻进了树丛。两只鹤重重地拍打着翅膀，越过路边的柳树，然后落到河岸上。

    远远的，伊利莎看到路上有个黑点。她知道那是什么。

    当他们经过那个黑点时，她尽量不去看它，可眼睛不听她的话。她伤心地小声对自己说，“他可以把它们扔到路下边的。那不会给他增加什么麻烦的，一点儿也不会。不过他留着花盆呢，”她自己解释说。“他肯定得留着花盆，所以没能把它们扔到路下边。”

    他们的小敞篷车转了个弯，她看到了前面的大篷车。她急忙转向自己的丈夫，以免汽车超过时看见那辆小小的篷车，那怪模怪样的队伍。

    事情一会儿就过去了，一切都结束了。她没有往后看。
    她大声说，甚至盖过了马达的声音，“今晚会很好，一顿美餐。”

    “你又变了，”亨利抱怨说。他一只手离开了方向盘，拍了拍她的膝盖。“我应该经常带你到城里去吃饭。这对我们都有好处，农场上的生活太沉闷了。

    “亨利，”她问，“我们吃饭时可以喝一杯吗？”
    “当然可以。啊，真是太好了！”
     她沉默了一会儿，又说，“亨利，拳击赛时双方会不会伤得很厉害?”

    “有时有一点，不过不常。怎么了？”
    “嗯，我从书上看到，他们有的把鼻子都打断了，鲜血顺着胸往下流。拳击手套浸满了血，湿漉漉地很沉。”

     他回过头来看着她。“伊利莎，你怎么了？我不知道你还看这些东西。”他把车停了下来，然后向右转，开上萨利纳斯桥。

    “看拳击的有女人吗？”她问。

    “啊，当然了，有一些。怎么了，伊利莎？你也想看吗？我觉得你不会喜欢的。不过，要是你真想去看我会带你去的。”

    她无精打采地坐在座位上。“哦，不，不，我不想，真不想。”她把脸转向了另一面。“只要有酒，就够了。就很高兴了。”她把大衣的领子竖了起来，以免他看到自己在轻轻啜泣——像是一位老太太。

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Text 2

How Soon Can I Leave?

by Susan Hill

    The two ladies who lived together were called Miss Bartlett and Miss Roscommon.

    Miss Roscommon, the older and stouter of the two, concealed her fear of life behind frank reference to babies and lavatories and the sexing of day-old chicks. It was well known that she had travelled widely as a girl, she told of her walking tours in Greece, and how she had driven an ambulance during the Spanish Civil War.

    Miss Bartlett, who was only forty, cultivated shyness and self-effacement, out of which arose her way of leaving muttered sentences to trail off into the air, unfinished. Oh, do not take any notice of anything I may say, she meant, it is of no consequence, I am sorry to have spoken ...But the sentences drew attention to her, nevertheless.
    "What was that?" people said, "I beg your pardon, I didn't quite catch...Do speak up..." And so, she was forced to repeat herself and they, having brought it upon themselves, were forced to listen. She also protested helplessness in the face of everyday tools. It was Miss Roscommon who peeled all the potatoes and defrosted the refrigerator and opened the tins.

    Their house, one of two white bungalows overlooking the bay, was called Tuscany.

    When Miss Bartlett had finally come to live with Miss Roscommon, seven years before, each one believed that the step was taken for the good of the other. Miss Bartlett had been living in one of the little stone cottages, opposite the harbour, working through the winter on the stock that she sold, from her front room and on a trestle outside, in summer. From November until March, there were no visitors to Mountsea. Winds and rain scoured the surface of the cliffs and only the lifeboat put out to sea. Miss Roscommon had taken to inviting Miss Bartlett up to the bungalow for meals.

    "You should have a shop," she had begun by saying, loading Miss Bartlett's plate with scones and home-made ginger jam, "properly equipped and converted. It cannot be satisfactory having to display goods in your living-room. Why have you not thought of taking a shop?"

    Miss Bartlett made marquetry pictures of the church, the lighthouse and the harbour, table-lamps out of lobster pots and rocks worked over with shells. She also imported Italian straw baskets and did a little pewter work.

    The idea of a shop had come to her, and been at once dismissed, in the first weeks after her coming to Mountsea. She was too timid to take any so definite a step, for, by establishing herself in a shop, with her name written up on a board outside, was she not establishing herself in the minds of others, as a shopkeeper? As a girl, she had been impressed by her mother's constant references to her as dreamy and artistic, so that she could not possibly now see herself in the role of shopkeeper. Also, by having her name written up on that board, she felt that she would somehow be committing herself to Mountsea, and by doing that, finally abandoning all her hopes of a future in some other place. As a girl, she had looked out at the world, and seen a signpost, with arms pointing in numerous different directions, roads leading here, or here, or there. She had been quite unable to choose which road to take for, having once set out upon any of them, she would thereby be denying herself all the others. And what might I lose, she had thought, what opportunities shall I miss if I make the wrong choice?

    So that, in the end, she had never chosen, only drifted through her life from this to that, waking every morning to the expectation of some momentous good fortune dropped in her lap.

    "That cottage is damp," said Miss Roscommon, allowing her persuasions to take on a more personal note, as they got to know one another better. "I do not think you look after yourself properly. And a place of business should not have to double as a home."

    At first, Miss Bartlett shrank from the hints and persuasions, knowing herself to be easily swayed, fearful of being swept along on the tide of Miss Roscommon's decision. I am only forty years old, she said, there is plenty of opportunity left for me, I do not have to abandon hope by retreating into middle age, and life with another woman. Though certainly she enjoyed the meals the other cooked; the taste of home-baked pasties and stews and herb-flavoured vegetables.

    "I'm afraid that I cannot cook," she said. "I live on milk and cheese and oven-baked potatoes. I would not know where to begin in the kitchen." It did not occur to her that this was any cause for shame, and Miss Roscommon tut-tutted and floured the pastry-board, relieved to have, once again, a sense of purpose brought into her life.

    "There were nine of us in the family," she said, "and I was the only girl. At the age of seven, I knew how to bake a perfect loaf of bread. I am quite content to be one of the Marthas of this world."

    But I will not go and live there, Miss Bartlett told herself, towards the end of that summer. I am determined to remain independent, my plans are fluid, I have many work, and besides, it would never do, we might not get on well together and then it would be embarrassing for me to have to leave. And people might talk.

   Though she knew that they would not, and that it was of her own judgment that she was most afraid, for Mountsea was full of ladies of indeterminate age, sharing houses together.

    The winter came, and the cottage was indeed damp. The stone walls struck cold all day and all night, in spite of expensive electric heaters, and Miss Bartlett spent longer and longer afternoons at Tuscany, even taking some of her work up there, from time to time.

    At the beginning of December, the first of the bad storms sent waves crashing up over the quayside into the front room.

    Of course, Miss Roscommon is lonely, she said now, she has need of me, I should have realized. That type of woman, who appears to be so competent and strong, feels the onset of old age and infirmity more than most, but she cannot say so, cannot give way and confess to human weakness. She bakes me cakes and worries about the dampness in my house because she needs my company and concern for herself.

    And so, on Christmas Eve, when the second storm filled Miss Bartlett's living-room with water up to the level of the window seat, she allowed herself to be evacuated by the capable Miss Roscommon up to the white bungalow.

    "It will not be for good," she said anxiously, "when the weather improves, I shall have to go back, there is the business to be thought of." "We shall make plans for a proper shop," said Miss Roscommon firmly, "I have a little money..."

    She filled up a pottery bowl with leek soup, having acquired her faith in its restorative powers when she had set up a canteen at the scene of a mining disaster in the nineteen-twenties.

    Miss Bartlett accepted the soup and a chair close to the fire and an electric blanket for her bed, thereby setting the seal on the future pattern of their relationship. By the beginning of February, plans for the shop were made, by mid-March, the work was in hand. There was no longer any talk of her moving, she would sell her goods from the new shop during the summer days, but she would live at Tuscany. The garage was fitted with light, heat and two extra windows, and made into a studio.

    "This is quite the best arrangement," said Miss Roscommon, "here, you will be properly fed and looked after, I shall see to that."

    Over the seven years that followed, Miss Bartlett came to rely upon her for many more things than the comforts of a well-kept home. It was Miss Roscommon who made all the business arrangements for the new shop, who saw the bank manager, the estate agent and the builder, Miss Roscommon who advised with the orders and the accounts. During the summer seasons, the shop did well, and after three years, at her friend's suggestion, Miss Bartlett started to make pink raffia angels and pot-pourri jars, for the Christmas postal market.

    She relaxed, ceased to feel uneasy, and if, from time to time she did experience a sudden shot of alarm, at seeing herself so well and truly settled, she said, not, "Where else would I go?" but, "I am needed here. However would she manage without me? It would be cruel to go." All the decisions were left to Miss Roscommon. "You are so much better at these things ..." Miss Bartlett said, and drifted away to her studio, a small woman with pastel-coloured flesh.

    Perhaps it was her forty-seventh birthday that jolted her into a renewed awareness of the situation. She looked into the mirror on that morning, and saw middle-age settled irrevocably over her features. She was reminded of her dependence upon Miss Roscommon.

   I said I would not stay here, she thought, would never have my name written up above a permanent shop, for my plans were to remain fluid. And now it is seven years, and how many opportunities have I missed? How many roads are closed to me?

   Or perhaps it was the visit of Miss Roscommon's niece Angela, and her husband of only seven days, one weekend in early September.
    "I shall do a great deal of baking," Miss Roscommon said, "for they will certainly stay to tea. We shall have cheese scones and preserves and a layer cake."

    "I did not realize that you had a niece."

    Miss Roscommon rose from the table heavily, for she had put on weight, over the seven years. There had also been some suspicion about a cataract in her left eye, another reason why Miss Bartlett told herself she could not leave her.

    "She is my youngest brother's child. I haven't seen her since she was a baby."

    Miss Bartlett nodded and wandered away from the breakfast table, not liking to ask why there had been no wedding invitation. Even after seven years, Miss Roscommon kept some of her secrets, there were subjects upon which she simply did not speak, though Miss Bartlett had long ago bared her own soul.

    The niece Angela, and her new husband, brought a slab of wedding cake, which was put to grace the centre of the table, on a porcelain stand.

    "And this," said Miss Roscommon triumphantly, "this is my friend, Miss Mary Bartlett." For Miss Bartlett had hung behind in the studio for ten minutes after their arrival, out of courtesy and because it was always something of a strain for her to meet new people.

    "Mary is very shy, very retiring," her own mother had always said, "she is artistic you see, she lives in her own world." Her tone had always been proud and Miss Bartlett had therefore come to see her own failure as a mark of distinction. Her shyness had been cultivated, readily admitted to.

    The niece and her husband sat together on the sofa, a little flushed and self-conscious in new clothes. Seeing them there, Miss Bartlett realized for the first time that no young people had ever been inside the bungalow, since her arrival. But it was more than their youthfulness which struck her, there was an air of suppressed excitement about them, a glitter, the emanated pride in the satisfactions of the flesh.

    Miss Roscommon presided over a laden tea-table, her face still flushed from the oven.

    "And Miss Bartlett is very clever," she told them, "she makes beautiful things. You must go down to the shop and see them, buy something for your new home."

    "You make things?" said Angela, through a mouthful of shortbread, "what sort of things?"

    Miss Bartlett made a little gesture of dismissal with her hand. "Oh, not very much really, nothing at all exciting. Just a few little ... I'm sure you wouldn't ..." She let her voice trail off, but it was Miss Roscommon and not the niece Angela who took her up on it.

    "Now that is just nonsense," she said firmly. "There is no virtue in this false modesty, I have told you before. Of course Angela will like your things, why should she not? Plenty of visitors do, And there is nothing to be ashamed of in having a talent."

    "I wore a hand-embroidered dress," said the niece Angela, "for my wedding."

    Miss Bartlett watched her, and watched the new husband, whose eyes followed Angela's slim hand as it moved over to the cake plate and back, and up into her mouth. Their eyes met and shone with secrets, across the table. Miss Bartlett's stomach moved a little, with fear and excitement. She felt herself to be within touching distance of some very important piece of knowledge.

    "Do you help with this shop, then—?" asked the husband though without interest.

    "Oh, no! Well, here and there with the accounts and so forth, because Mary doesn't understand any of that, she is such a dreamer! No, no, that is not my job, that is not what keeps me so busy. My job is to look after Mary, of course. I took that upon myself quite some time ago, when I saw that I was needed. She is such a silly girl, she lives in a world of her own and if I were not here to worry about her meals and her comforts, she would starve, I assure you, simply starve."

    "Oh, I don't think I really..."

    "Of course you would," said Miss Roscommon. "Now let me have your cup to be filled."

    The young couple exchanged another glance, of comprehension and amusement. How dare you, thought Miss Bartlett, almost in tears with anger and frustration, at being so looked upon and judged and misunderstood. What do you know of it, how can you sit there so smugly? It is because you are young and know nothing. It is all very well for you.

    "All the same," said the niece Angela, sitting back in her chair, "it's nice to be looked after, I must say."

    She smiled like a cat.

    "Yes, that has always been my role in life, that is my talent," said Miss Roscommon, "to do all the looking after." She leaned over and patted Miss Bartlett on the hand. "She is my responsibility now, you see," she told them confidently. "My little pussy-cat."

    Miss Bartlett pushed the hand away and got to her feet, her face flushed with shame and annoyance. "What a foolish thing to say! Of course I am not, how very silly you make me look. I am a grown woman, I am quite capable of looking after myself."

    Miss Roscommon, not in the least discomfited, only began to pour the tea dregs into a slop basin, smiling.
    When they were about to leave, Miss Bartlett said, "I will walk down the hill with you, and we shall drop in for a minute at the shop. Yes, I insist ... But not for you to buy anything. You must choose a wedding present from my stock, it is the very least I can do." For she wanted to keep them with her longer, to be seen walking in their company down the hill away from the bungalow, wanted to be on their side.

    "You will need a warm coat, it is autumn now, the evenings are drawing in. Take your mohair."

    "Oh, leave me, leave me, do not fuss." And Miss Bartlett walked to the end of the gravelled drive, while the niece and her new husband made their good-byes.

    "I am afraid it is all she has to worry over nowadays," she said hastily, the moment they had joined her. "It gives her pleasure, I suppose, to do all that clucking round and I have not the heart to do anything but play along, keep up appearances. If it were not for me, she would be so lonely. Of course, I have had to give up a good deal of my own life, on that account."

    The niece Angela took her husband's arm. "It must be very nice and comfortable for you there," she said, "all the same."

    Miss Bartlett turned her face away and looked out to sea. Another winter, she thought, and I am now forty-seven years old. You do not understand.

    She detained them in the shop for as long as possible, fetching out special items from the stock room and taking time over the wrapping paper. Let me be with you, she wanted to say, let me be on your side, for do you not see that I still have many opportunities left, I am not an old woman, I know about the world and the ways of modern life? Take me with you.

    But when they had gone she stood in the darkening shop and saw that they had already placed and dismissed her, that she did not belong with them and there was no hope left. She sat on the stool beside the till and wept, for the injustice of the world and the weakness of her own nature. I have become what I've always dreaded becoming, she said, everything has slipped through my fingers.

    And for all of it, after a short time, she began to blame Miss Roscommon. She has stifled me, she thought, she preys upon me, I am treated as her child, her toy, her pussy-cat, she has humiliated me and fed off my dependence and the fact that I have always been so sensitive. She is a wicked woman. And then she said, but I do not have to stay with her. Fortified by the truth of this new realization, Miss Bartlett blew her nose, and walked back up the hill to Tuscany.

    "You cannot leave," said Miss Roscommon, "what nonsense, of course you cannot. You have nowhere else to go and besides in ten days' time we'll set off for our holiday in Florence."

    "You will set off. I am afraid my plans have now changed." Miss Bartlett could not now bear the thought of being seen with her friend in all the museums and art galleries of Florence, discussing the paintings in loud, knowledgeable voices and eating whole meal sandwiches out of neat little greaseproof bags, speaking very slowly to the Italians. This year Miss Roscommon must go alone. She did not allow herself to think of how, or whether she would enjoy herself. We are always hearing of how intrepid she was as a girl, she thought. Then let her be intrepid again.

    Aloud, she said, "I am going back to live at the cottage." For she had kept it on, and rented it to summer visitors.

    Miss Roscommon turned herself, and her daming, a little more towards the light. "You are being very foolish," she said mildly. "But I understand why, it is your age, of course."

    Appalled, Miss Bartlett went through to her room, and began to throw things furiously, haphazardly, into a suitcase. I am my own mistress, she said, a grown-up woman with years ahead of me, it is time for me to be firm. I have pandered to her long enough.

    The following day, watched by Miss Roscommon, she moved back down the hill to the cottage. She would, she decided, stay there for a while, give herself time to get accustomed, and to gather all other things around her again, and then she would look out and make plans, take steps towards her new life.

    That evening, hearing the wind around her own four walls, she said, I have escaped. Though she woke in the night and was aware of being entirely alone in the cottage, of not being able to hear the loud breathing of Miss Roscommon in the room next door.

    She expected the Italian holiday to be cancelled, on some pretext, and was astonished when Miss Roscommon left, on the appointed day and alone. Miss Bartlett took the opportunity of going up to Tuscany and fetching some more of her things down, work from the studio to keep her busy in the evening, and during the days, too, for now it was October and few people came into the shop.

    Here I am, she said, twisting the raffia angels and winding ribbon around the pot-pourris, etching her gift cards, here I am, living my own life and making my own decisions. She wanted to invite someone down to stay, someone young, so that she could be seen and approved of, but there was no one. A search through all the drawers and cupboards at the bungalow did not yield her the address of the niece Angela. She would have sent a little note, with a Christmas gift, to tell of her removal, prove her independence.

    Miss Roscommon returned from Italy, looked rather tired and not very suntanned. She came in with a miniature plaster copy of a Donatello statue, and some fine art post-cards. Miss Bartlett made tea, and the conversation was very stilted.

    "You are not warm enough here," said Miss Roscommon, "I will send down some extra blankets."

    "Oh no, thank you. Please don't do that."
    But the following day the blankets, and a Dutch apple pie, arrived with the butcher's boy.

    Miss Bartlett bought huge slabs of cheese and eggs, which she could boil quite well, and many potatoes, and ate them off her knee while she read detective stores through the long evenings. She thought that she might buy a television set for company, though she was busy too, with the postal orders for Christmas. When all this is over, she told herself, that is when I shall start looking about me and making my plans. She thought of all the things she might have done as a girl, the studio in London and the woodblock engravings for the poetry press, the ballet company for whom she might have been asked to do some ethereal costume designs. She read in a newspaper of a woman who had started her own firm, specializing in computer management, at the age of fifty and was now rather wealthy, wholly respected in a man's world. Miss Bartlett looked at herself in the mirror. I am only forty-seven, she said.

    In her white bungalow, lonely and lacking a sense of purpose, Miss Roscommon waited.

    On November the seventh, the first of the storms came, and Miss Bartlett sat in her back room and heard the wind and the crashing of the sea, terrified. The next morning, she saw that part of the pierhead had broken away. Miss Roscommon sent down a note, with a meat pasty, via the butcher's boy.

    "I am worried about you," she wrote, "you cannot be looking after yourself, and I know that it is damp in that cottage. Your room here is ready for you at any time."

    Miss Bartlett tore the note up and threw the pasty away, but she thought of the warm bed, the fires and soft sofas at Tuscany.

    Two days later, when the gales began again, Miss Roscommon came herself, and hammered at the door of the cottage, but Miss Bartlett hid upstairs, behind a cheval mirror, until she went away. This time, there was no note, only a thermos flask of lentil soup on the doorstep.

    She is suffocating me, thought Miss Bartlett, I cannot bear all these unwanted attentions, I only wish to be left alone. It is a poor thing if a woman of her age and resources can find nothing else to occupy her, nothing else to live for. But in spite of herself, she drank the soup, and the taste of it, the smell of the steam rising up into her face reminded her of all the meals at Tuscany, the winter evenings spent happily sitting beside the fire.

    When the storms came again, another section of the pier broke away, the lifeboat put out to sea and sank with all hands, and the front room of Miss Bartlett's cottage was flooded, rain broke in through a rent in the roof. She lay all night, too terrified by the roaring of the wind and seas to get out of bed and do anything about it, only whimpering a little with cold and fright, remembering how close the cottage came to the water, how vulnerable she was.

    As a child, she had been afraid of all storms, gales and thunder and cloudbursts drumming on the roof, and her mother had understood, wrapped her in a blanket and taken her into her own bed.

   "It is because you have such a vivid imagination," she had said, "you feel things that the other, ordinary little children, cannot ever feel." And so, nothing had been done to conquer this praiseworthy fear of storms.

    Now, I am alone, thought Miss Bartlett, there is no one, my mother is dead, and who is there to shelter and understand me? A flare rocket, sent up from the sinking lifeboat, lit up the room faintly for a second, and then she knew who there was, and that everything would be all right. On the stormy nights, Miss Roscommon always got up and made sandwiches and milky hot drinks, brought them to her as she lay awake in bed, and they would sit reading nice magazines, in the gentle circle of the bedside lamp.

    I have been very foolish, Miss Bartlett thought, and heard herself saying it aloud, humbly, to Miss Roscommon. A very foolish, selfish woman, I do not deserve to have you as a friend.

    She did not take very much with her up the hill on the following morning, only a little handcase and some raffia work. The    rest could follow later, and it would be better to arrive like that, it would be a real indication of her helplessness.

    The landscape was washed very clean and bare and pale, but the sea churned and moved within itself, angry and battleship grey. In the summer, Miss Bartlett thought, refreshed again by the short walk, it will be time to think again, for I am not committing myself to any permanent arrangements and things will have to be rather different now, I will not allow myself to be treated as a pet plaything, that must be understood. For she had forgotten, in the cold, clear morning, the terrors of the previous night.

    She wondered what to do, ring the bell or knock or simply open the back door into the kitchen, where Miss Roscommon would be working, and stand there, case in hand, waiting to be forgiven. Her heart beat a little faster. Tuscany was very settled and reassuring in its low, foursquare whiteness on top of the hill. Miss Bartlett knocked timidly at the blue kitchen door.

    It was some time before she gave up knocking and ringing, and simply went in. Tuscany was very quiet.

    She found her in the living-room, lying crumpled awkwardly on the floor, one of her legs twisted underneath her. Her face was a curious, flat colour, like the inside of a raw potato. Miss Bartlett drew back the curtains. The clock had stopped just before midnight, almost twelve hours ago. For a moment, she stood there, still holding her little case, in the comfortable, chintzy room, and then she dropped down on to her knees, and took the head of Miss Roscommon into her lap and, rocking and rocking, cradling it like a child, Miss Bartlett wept.

(4641 words)  TOP

课文二

要多久我才能离开？

苏珊·希尔

   芭特莱特小姐和罗丝康门小姐住在一起。
    罗丝康门小姐年纪大一点，身体也壮些。她直率地谈论婴儿、厕所、如何鉴别刚出生一天的雏鸡雌雄，以此来掩饰对生活的恐惧。大家都知道她年轻时跑过很多地方，在希腊徒步旅行，在西班牙内战中如何开救护车。

    芭特莱特小姐只有40岁，文雅，害羞，谦逊。说话声音很低，还没说完就听不见了。她的意思是：哦，别注意我说的话，它们一点都不重要，很抱歉我说了这些……可这些话还是让人注意到她。

    “那是什么？”人们说，“对不起，我没听清……请大点声……”于是，她不得不重复一遍，而人们这样请求她了，也就不得不再听一遍。她还声称自己不会摆弄日常生活工具。削土豆皮，给冰箱除霜，开罐头的，是罗丝康门小姐。

    有两栋带凉台的白色平房俯视着海湾，其中一栋是她们的房子，叫托斯卡纳。

    七年前，芭特莱特小姐终于来和罗丝康门小姐住在一起时，两人都认为这是为对方好。芭特莱特小姐原来住在一栋小石头房子里，正对着港口，整个冬天她制作手工艺品，到了夏天,她在自己的前屋和外面的平台上做生意，把它们卖掉。十一月到三月间没有游客来蒙特西。风雨冲刷着悬崖，只有救生船出海。罗丝康门小姐喜欢邀请芭特莱特小姐到自己山上的平房吃饭。

    “你应该开个店，”她开始说道，一边把烤饼和自制的姜汁酱放在芭特莱特小姐的盘子里，“好好装修改建。把东西放在客厅里卖生意不会好。你为什么不考虑考虑开个店？”

    芭特莱特小姐制作一些镶嵌艺术画，有教堂、灯塔和港口，在虾笼和石头上装饰贝壳做台灯。她还买进一些意大利草篮，自制白镴器皿。

    到蒙特西的头几个星期，她也有过开店的想法，可立刻就打消了。她太怯懦，不可能作出任何这样的决断。因为，开一个商店，把自己的名字写在外面的招牌上，这难道不是让人认为，她是个小店主吗？年轻时她一直印象很深，她母亲总说她爱幻想，有艺术天才。所以，现在她无法接受一个商店女老板的身份。而且，她觉得，一旦把名字写在招牌上，就好像把自己和蒙特西连在了一起，就彻底放弃了她所有的对另一种将来的梦想。年轻时，她对生活充满憧憬。她看见了人生的路标，上面的箭头指向许多不同的方向，条条路通往不同的地方。她不知道该选择哪条路，因为一旦选择了一条，就意味着放弃了其它的路。她想过，如果选择错了，会失去什么呢？会错过什么机会？

    于是，她始终没有作出选择，在生活中随波逐流，漂来漂去，每天早晨醒来，期待着什么大好运气降临在她头上。

   “那座房子太潮湿了，”罗丝康门小姐说。因为两人相互了解多了一些，她就把话说得更亲密些，“我觉得你照顾不好自己。再说，做生意的地方没有必要又做住的地方。”

    最初，芭特莱特小姐对这些暗示和劝说退避三舍。她知道自己耳软心活，总害怕被罗丝康门小姐的决定所左右。她想，我只有四十岁，还有很多机会，没必要放弃希望，自己退到中年以及另一个女人的生活中。不过，当然了，她很喜欢这另一个女人做的饭，喜欢家制烤饼、炖肉、还有带草药味的蔬菜的味道。

    “我恐怕我不会做饭，”她说：“我是靠牛奶，奶酪，烤过头的土豆过活的。在厨房里我不知道该如何下手。”她没觉得这有什么可丢脸的。罗丝康门小姐啧啧了两声，一边把面粉倒在烘板上。又一次感到了自己生活的意义，她感到安慰。

    “我家有九口人，”她说：“我是唯一的女孩。七岁时我就知道怎么烤出一块香喷喷的面包。我很满意，在这个世界上我是实实在在、积极生活的人之一。”

    这个夏末之前我不会去那里住的，芭特莱特小姐想。我一定要保持独立，我的计划是不断变化的，我有很多事要做，再说，这件事绝对行不通，我们不会相处好，到时候我还得回来，那多难堪。人们也会说三道四 。

    可是她知道，别人不会说什么的，她最害怕的是要自己作判断。因为蒙特西有很多说不清年龄的妇女合住房子。

   冬天到了，石屋里确实又冷又潮。整天整夜，石壁上都冷冰冰的，尽管她使用昂贵的电暖器。下午，芭特莱特小姐在托斯卡那待的时间越来越长，有时甚至把她的活儿也带到那儿去。

    十二月初，第一场猛烈的暴风雨降临了，海水越过了码头，冲进了芭特莱特小姐的前屋。

    芭特莱特小姐现在想，当然了，罗丝康门小姐很孤独，她需要我，我早应该意识到。那种女人看起来很能干，又强壮，可她们最能体会到老年和病弱的迫近。可她又不能说出来，不能屈服，不能承认人类的弱点。她为我烤蛋糕，担心我房子里潮湿，因为她需要我做伴，需要我关心她自己。

    圣诞节前夜，第二次暴风雨使芭特莱特小姐的客厅灌满了水，一直漫到窗台。于是，芭特莱特小姐让能干的罗丝康门小姐把自己营救到了山上的白房子里。

   “我不会待久的，”她焦急地说，“天气好了我就会回去的，还得考虑生意呢。”“我们要定个计划，开一家真正的商店，”罗丝康门小姐坚定地说：“我有一点钱……”

    她把韭葱汤盛在一个陶碗里。二十世纪二十年代矿井失事时她在现场设立了一个临时流动餐馆，自那起她就很相信韭葱汤的滋补作用。

    芭特莱特小姐接受了韭葱汤，一张靠火的椅子和铺在床上的电热毯，同时也确定下了两人未来生活的模式。二月初她们定下了开店的计划，到三月中旬一切都在顺利进行。她不再说要搬走了，她夏天在新商店里卖东西，住却是在托斯卡那。她们在车库里装上了电灯，暖气，又开了两扇窗户，把它改成了一间工作室。

    “这是最好的安排，”罗丝康门小姐说：“在这儿你会吃好，照顾得好，我会负责这些的。”

    以后的七年中，芭特莱特小姐在更多的事情上依赖罗丝康门小姐，不仅仅限于料理得很好的舒适的家。是罗丝康门小姐安排新店的所有事务，去见银行经理、房地产商和建筑商，是罗丝康门处理定货和帐目。夏天商店经营得很好。三年后，在罗丝康门小姐的建议下，芭特莱特小姐开始用酒椰叶纤维制作粉红的天使，还有百花香罐子，供应圣诞节的邮购市场。

    芭特莱特小姐安下心来，不再觉得不安。有时，看到自己这样心安理得地安定下来，她会感到一阵突然的警觉，这时她不会再问自己：“我要到哪儿去？”而是说：“这里需要我。没有我她怎么办呢？这对她太残酷了……”所有的决定都由罗丝康门小姐来做。“这些事你做得这样好……”这样说着，身材娇小，皮肤柔美的芭特莱特小姐就飘进了自己的工作室。

    也许是她的47岁生日使她一下子又重新意识到了现在的处境。那天早上，她对着镜子，看到中年已经不可挽回地爬上了她的脸庞。她想起自己对罗丝康门小姐的依赖。

    我说过我不会待在这儿的，她想，不会把自己的名字写在一个永久性商店上，我的计划是不要固定下来。可现在已经七年了，我错过了多少机会？有多少条路已经对我关闭？

    九月初的一个周末，罗丝康门小姐的侄女安吉拉和她结婚刚七天的丈夫来拜访，也许是这次拜访的事。

    “我得做很多点心，”罗丝康门小姐说：“他们肯定会留下来喝茶的。我们吃奶酪烤饼，蜜饯，还要夹心蛋糕。”

    “我不知道你还有个侄女。”

    罗丝康门小姐费力地从桌子旁站了起来，过去七年中她体重增加了不少。她们还怀疑她的左眼患有白内障，这也是芭特莱特告诉自己不能离开她的一个原因。

    “她是我最小的弟弟的女儿，上次见她时她还是个孩子。”
    芭特莱特小姐点点头，从早餐桌前走了开来。她不想问为什么没有婚礼邀请。即使七年过去了，罗丝康门小姐还保留着一些自己的秘密，有些东西她就是不提。而芭特莱特小姐早就敞开了心扉。

    安吉拉侄女和她的新婚丈夫带着一大块结婚蛋糕来了。蛋糕盛在瓷盘里，放在桌子中央，满室生辉。

    “这位，”罗丝康门小姐骄傲地说：“这位是我的朋友，玛丽·芭特莱特小姐。”因为客人来后，芭特莱特小姐在工作室里磨蹭了有十分钟才出来。这是出于礼貌，也因为见到生人她总是紧张。

    “玛丽很害羞，不爱交际，”母亲总是这样说：“你知道她有艺术天才，她生活在自己的天地里。”母亲的语调总是很骄傲，于是芭特莱特小姐也渐渐把自己的失败看作是与众不同。她的羞怯是教养，很容易得到承认。

    侄女和丈夫坐在沙发上。因为穿着新衣服，她有点脸红，不大自然。看着他们，芭特莱特小姐头一次意识到，自她搬过来后，还没有年轻人到过这栋房子。然而，让她震动的不仅仅是他们的年轻，他们的脸上带着抑制不住的兴奋，闪着青春的光辉，散发着对肉体快乐的自豪。

    罗丝康门小姐主持堆满食物的茶桌，炉子烤过的脸还是红红的。

    “芭特莱特小姐很聪明，”她告诉他们：“她会做很多漂亮的玩意儿。你们一定得去下面的店里看看，为你们的新家买点儿什么。”
    “你制作手工艺品？”安吉拉问，嘴里塞满了脆饼，“什么工艺品？”

    芭特莱特小姐稍稍作了个不赞同的手势。“哦，不是很好，没什么特殊的。不过是些小……我保证你们不会……”她的声音渐渐低了下去，然而接过话头的是罗丝康门小姐，而不是安吉拉侄女。

    “那是胡说，”她坚决地说。“这种假谦逊不是优点，我以前就告诉过你。安吉拉当然会喜欢你的东西，为什么不？很多游客都喜欢。没必要为自己的天才感到羞愧。”

    “我婚礼那天穿的是手工刺绣的礼服，”安吉拉说。
    芭特莱特小姐看着她和她的新婚丈夫。丈夫的目光跟随着安吉拉纤细的手移动，从盘子里拿蛋糕，再回来，送到嘴里。他们的目光相遇，隔着茶桌会心地发出亮光。芭特莱特小姐的心动了一下，有些恐惧，有些兴奋。她感觉到，某种非常重要的知识就近在咫尺。

    “那，你在商店里帮忙吗？”安吉拉的丈夫问，尽管他不感兴趣。

    “哦，不！不过是管点帐本什么的，因为玛丽根本不懂这些事，她是个梦想家！不，不，那不是我的事，那不是让我忙的原因。我的任务当然是照顾玛丽。好久以前我就把这当成我的责任了，我看到她需要我。她是这样一个傻姑娘，生活在自己的世界里，要不是我在这儿操心她的饮食起居，她会饿死的，我敢保证，肯定会饿死的。”

   “哦，我不觉得我真的会……”
    “当然你会的，”罗丝康门小姐说。“现在让我把你的杯子添满。”

    年轻夫妻又交换了一次理解和愉悦的眼神。你怎么敢这样，芭特莱特小姐想。这样地看待，评价和误解自己，这让她愤怒、沮丧，几乎哭了出来。你们知道什么，你们怎么能这样自以为是地坐在那儿？因为你们年轻，什么都不知道。你们一切都好。

    “当然，”安吉拉说，往椅子上一靠：“我得说，有人照顾真好。”

    她笑得像只猫。

    “是的，照料一切一直是我的生活任务，那是我的天才，”罗丝康门小姐说。她俯过身去拍拍芭特莱特小姐的手。“她是我的责任，你们看，”她自信地告诉他们。“我的小猫。”

    芭特莱特小姐把她的手推开，站了起来，又羞又恼地涨红了脸。“你在说什么呀！我可不是那样，你把我说的多傻啊。我是个成人，我能够照顾自己。”

    罗丝康门小姐一点也不生气，只是笑着把茶根倒进垃圾桶里。

    客人准备离开时，芭特莱特小姐说：“我跟你们一块下山，我们可以顺便到店里看一看。是的，我希望……不过你们不必买什么。你们一定得从我的东西中选一个结婚礼物，这是我起码要做的。”她想和他们多待一会儿，想让人看见她和他们一起离开山顶的房子走下山去，她想跟他们在一起。

    “你需要一件暖和点的大衣，现在是秋天了，天黑的早了。带上你的马海毛围巾。”
    “噢，别管我，别管我，别小题大做。”说着，芭特莱特小姐就沿着沙砾铺的车道走去，这边安吉拉和丈夫在跟罗丝康门小姐告别。

    “恐怕现在她操心的就这些了，”他们一赶上她，芭特莱特小姐就急忙说。“我想，她这样忙活很开心，我不忍心干事，只好陪着她，不断露面。如果不是我，她会很寂寞的。当然，我因此不得不放弃了很多自己的生活。”

    安吉拉侄女挽起丈夫的胳膊。“不过，你们在那儿一定生活得很幸福，很舒适，”她说。

    芭特莱特小姐把脸转过去，眺望着大海。又是一个冬天了，她想，我已经47岁。你们不懂。

    她在店里尽量挽留他们，从里面拿出一些不同寻常的东西给他们看，又花很长时间用纸包装起来。让我和你们在一起，她想说，让我站在你们旁边，你们没看见我还有很多机会吗？我不老，我知道外面的世界和现代的生活。带上我。

    可他们走后，她站在暗下来的店堂里，知道他们已经把她丢下，她不属于他们，没有希望。她坐在钱箱旁的杌子上哭了起来，因为这世界不公平，自己软弱。我已经成了我最害怕变成的样子，她想，一切都从我身边溜走了。

    不久，她开始把一切都归咎到罗丝康门小姐头上了。她想，她窒息了我，她折磨我，她把我当成她的孩子，她的玩具，她的小猫，她让我丢脸，是她使我这么依赖她，让我一直都这么敏感。她是个邪恶的女人。接着芭特莱特小姐说，但我不必非跟她生活在一起。这刚刚意识到的真理使芭特莱特小姐坚强起来，她擤了擤鼻子，向山上的托斯卡那走去。

    “你不能离开，”罗丝康门小姐说：“你在胡说什么，你当然不能走。你没地方可去，再说，十天后我们要去佛伦罗萨度假。”

    “你自己去，恐怕我的计划现在变了。”想到要和自己的朋友在出现佛伦罗萨的博物馆和画廊里，很博学地高声谈论着那些美术作品，从干净的防油食物袋里拿出三明治来当饭吃，慢腾腾地同意大利人讲话，芭特莱特小姐简直无法忍受。今年罗丝康门小姐必须孤身一人去。她不让自己去想，她如何或者是否开心？我们总是听她说，她年轻时怎么勇敢无畏，她想，现在让她再勇敢一次吧。

    她高声说：“我要搬回石屋去住。”因为她还留着它，夏天租给游客。

    罗丝康门小姐向光亮处稍稍转了转，也让芭特莱特小姐转过去。“你是在犯傻，”她温和地说。“不过我理解，这是因为你的年龄，当然。”

    芭特莱特小姐有些吃惊。她走进自己的房间，狂怒地把东西随便丢进箱子里。我是自己的主人，她说，一个成年女人，我的生命还有很长时间，现在该是我坚强起来的时候。我迎合她已经够久了。

   第二天，在罗丝康门小姐的注视下，她下山搬回了自己的石屋。她想，她会在这儿待一段时间，先习惯习惯，把一切都安排好，然后就要着手将来的计划，迈向新生活 。

    那天晚上，她一边倾听着墙外呼啸的海风，一边说，我已经逃脱了。夜里她醒来，意识到自己是单独一个人在房子里，不会听到隔壁房间罗丝康门小姐沉重的呼吸声。

    她以为罗丝康门小姐会找个借口取消意大利的旅行。可让她吃惊的是，罗丝康门小姐如期动身，单独去度假。芭特莱特小姐趁机会到托斯卡那又把自己的东西拿了些回来。她晚上做活儿，好让自己忙起来，白天也做，因为现在是十月了，店里的生意已经很清淡 。

    我回来了，她说，一边弯曲着酒椰叶纤维做天使，把缎带系在百花香罐上，做蚀刻礼物卡。我回来了，过自己的生活，自己做决定。她想邀请一个人下来和她一起住，一个年轻人，这样别人就会看见，而且承认她还很年轻。可她找不到。她翻遍了托斯卡那所有的抽屉和柜厨，可没有找到安吉拉侄女的地址，否则她就会给她写个条子，加一份圣诞礼物，告诉她自己已经搬出来，证明自己是独立的。

    罗丝康门小姐从意大利回来了，看起来很累，可并没有晒黑。她给芭特莱特小姐带来了多那太罗雕塑作品的微型石膏复制品，还有一些精美的艺术明信片。芭特莱特小姐沏了茶，两人的谈话很不自然。

    “你在这儿不够暖和，”罗丝康门小姐说：“我给你再送几条毯子下来。”

    “哦，不，谢谢，请别那样做。”

    可第二天，肉店的小伙计送来了毯子，还有一个丹麦苹果馅饼。

    芭特莱特小姐买了好几大块奶酪，鸡蛋，还有很多土豆，她会煮这些东西。她把食物放在膝上，边吃边读侦探小说，来打发漫长的夜晚。她想也许应该买台电视机做伴，尽管她也忙着准备圣诞节的邮购定货。她对自己说，这些事都做完时，该就是我考虑自己的情况制定计划的时候了。她想到所有年轻时也许会做的事，在伦敦开个工作间，为出版的诗歌制作木刻，她也许会被请去为芭蕾剧团设计幽雅飘渺的服装。她在报上读到一个女人五十岁时开创自己的事业，精通计算机管理，现在很富有，在男人的世界受到广泛尊重。芭特莱特小姐对着镜子看自己。她想，我只有47岁。

    而罗丝康门小姐待在白色房子里等待着，孤独，没有生活目的。

    11月7号，第一场暴风雨来了，芭特莱特小姐坐在里屋，听着狂风和大海的咆哮声，吓坏了。第二天早上，她看到突堤前端的那一部分已经毁坏。罗丝康门小姐让肉店的小伙计送下山一张字条和一块肉馅饼。

   “我很为你担心，”她写道：“你不会照料自己，而且我知道那座房子里很潮。这里随时为你准备好房间。”

    芭特莱特小姐撕碎了条子，扔掉了肉馅饼，可是想到了托斯卡那温暖的床铺、火炉和柔软的沙发。
    两天后，又起了大风，这次罗丝康门小姐自己来了，砰砰地使劲敲门。芭特莱特小姐躲在楼上，藏在旋转穿衣镜后，直到罗丝康门小姐离开。这次没有条子，只有放在门口台阶上的一暖瓶小扁豆汤。

    她在窒息我，芭特莱特小姐想，我受不了这些没必要的关心，我只想自己呆着。她很可怜，在那样的年龄，有那样的收入，却没什么别的事做，活着没什么别的目的。可她还是喝了汤，那味道，那扑面的热气让她想起了托斯卡纳的饭菜，还有在火炉边度过的快乐的冬日夜晚。

    暴风雨又来临了，码头的又一段围堤被冲走了，救生船出海了，满载着水手。芭特莱特小姐的前屋又进了水，雨水从房顶的裂缝漏了进来。在暴风和大海的咆哮中，她吓得整夜躺在床上，什么也不敢做。她在寒冷和恐惧中呜咽着，想着她的房子离海水有多近，她的处境多么危险。

    小时候，她就害怕暴雨，飓风，打雷和敲击屋顶的倾盆大雨。她母亲知道这一点，就用毯子把她裹起来，放在自己床上。

    “这是因为你有生动的想象力，”她说：“你能感受到其他普通的孩子感受不到的东西。”于是，就没有做任何事情来克服这个值得表扬的对暴风雨的恐惧。

    现在只有我一个人了，芭特莱特小姐想，没有其他人，我母亲已经死了，还有谁照料我，理解我呢？正在沉没的救生艇发出了求救信号，在瞬间微微照亮了房间，接着她知道那儿是谁，知道一切都会好的。在暴风雨的夜晚，罗丝康门小姐总是起来做些三明治和热牛奶，送到她跟前，而她正醒着躺在床上。她们会坐着，就着床头灯柔和的光线，阅读有趣的杂志。

    我真傻，芭特莱特小姐想，并且听见自己大声、谦卑地对罗丝康门小姐这样说。我是一个愚蠢、自私的女人，我不配有你这样的朋友。

    第二天早上她上山了，没带什么东西，只有一个小箱子和一些酒椰叶纤维活计。其它的东西可以以后再拿上来，这样上去更好一些，这会表明她真的很无助。

    暴风雨把一切冲刷得干净、苍白，而大海仍在愤怒地翻滚搅动，呈现出战舰灰色。一小段的步行使芭特莱特小姐的精神振奋了一下，她想，到夏天我会再考虑的，我不会把自己栓在一种永久的生活方式中，现在的情况也得有所不同，我不能被当作一个宠物或玩具，这一点她必须明白。因为在这寒冷清爽的早晨，她已经忘记了昨天晚上的恐惧。

    她踌躇着该怎么做，按门铃？敲门？还是直接从后门进厨房？罗丝康门小姐会在那儿干活儿。她会站在那儿，手里拿着提箱，等待着原谅。她的心跳有点加快了。白色的托斯卡那座落在山顶，低矮、结实，显得安详、可靠。芭特莱特小姐胆怯地敲了敲蓝色的厨房门。

    许久没有回应。她放弃了敲门、按门铃，径直走了进去。托斯卡那安静极了。

    她在客厅里发现了她，蜷缩着地躺在地板上，一条腿弯曲地压在身体下面。脸色很奇怪，灰暗得像切开的生土豆。芭特莱特小姐拉开窗帘。就在午夜前钟停了，几乎是十二个小时之前。一时间，芭特莱特小姐站在舒适、朴素的屋子里，手里还提着小箱子。然后，她跪了下来，把罗丝康门小姐的头放在她的膝盖上，摇着，摇着，像摇婴儿入睡一样摇着她，芭特莱特小姐哭了。

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