freezerThe Fly及其译文

2021年1月20日发(作者：音障)

















The Fly
by Katherine Mansfield




'You are very snug in here,' piped old Mr Woodifield, and he peered
out of the great, green leather armchair by his friend the boss's desk as a
baby peers out of its pram. His talk was over; it was time for him to be off.
But
he
did
not
want
to
go.
Since
he
had
retired,
since
his...
stroke,
the
wife and the girls kept him boxed up in the house every day of the week
except Tuesday. On Tuesday he was dressed and brushed and allowed to
cut back to the City for the day. Though what he did there the wife and
girls
couldn't
imagine.
Made
a
nuisance
of
himself
to
his
friends,
they
supposed.... Well, perhaps so. All the same, we cling to our last pleasures
as the tree clings to its last leaves. So there sat old Woodifield, smoking a
cigar and staring almost greedily at the boss, who rolled in his once chair,
stout, rosy, five years older than he, and still going strong, still at the helm.
It did one good to see him.




Wistfully,
admiringly,
the
old
voice
added,
'It's
snug
in
here--upon
my word!'




'Yes,
it's
comfortable
enough,'
agreed
the
boss,
and
he
nipped
the
Financial Times
with a paper-knife. As a matter of fact he was proud of
his
room;
he
liked
to
have
it
admired,
especially
by
old
Woodifield.
It
gave him
a
feeling
of
deep, solid
satisfaction
to be
planted there
in the
midst of it in full view of that frail old figure in the muffler.




'I've had it done up lately,' he explained, as he had explained for the
past-- how many?--weeks. 'New carpet,' and he pointed to the bright red
carpet with a pattern of large white rings. 'New furniture,' and he nodded
towards the massive bookcase and the table with legs like twisted treacle.
'Electric
heating!'
He
waved
almost
exultantly
towards
the
five
transparent, pearly sausages glowing so softly in the tilted copper pan.
But he did not draw old Woodifield's attention to the photograph over the
table of a grave-looking boy in uniform standing in one of those spectral
photographers' parks with photographers' storm-clouds behind him. It was
not new. It had been there for over six years.




'There was something I wanted to tell you,' said old Woodifield, and
his eyes grew dim remembering. 'Now what was it? I had it in my mind
when I started out this morning.' His hands began to tremble, and patches
of red showed above his beard.




Poor old chap, he's on his last pins, thought the boss. And, feeling
kindly, he winked at the old man, and said jokingly, 'I tell you what. I've
got a little drop of something here that will do you good before you go
out
into
the
cold
again.
It's
beautiful
stuff.
It
wouldn't
hurt
a
child.'
He
took a key off his watch- chain, unlocked a cupboard below his desk, and
drew
forth
a
dark,
squat
bottle.
'That's
the
medicine,'
said
he.
'And
the
man from whom I got it told me on the strict Q.T. it came from the cellars
at Windsor Cassel.'




Old
Woodifield's
mouth
fell
open
at
the
sight.
He
couldn't
have
looked more surprised if the boss had produced a rabbit.
'It's whisky, ain't it?' he piped, feebly.
The boss turned the bottle and lovingly showed him the label. Whisky it
was.




'Do
you
know,'
said
he,
peering
up
at
the
boss
wonderingly,
'they
won't let me touch it at home.' And he looked as though he was going to
cry.




'Ah, that's where we know a bit more than the ladies,' cried the boss,
swooping
across
for
two
tumblers
that
stood
on
the
table
with
the
water-bottle, and pouring a generous finger into each. 'Drink it down. It'll
do you good. And don't put any water with it. It's sacrilege to tamper with
stuff like this. Ah!' He tossed off his, pulled out his handkerchief, hastily
wiped
his
moustaches,
and
cocked
an
eye
at
old
Woodifield,
who
was
rolling his in his chaps.




The old man swallowed, was silent a moment, and then said faintly,
'It's nutty!'




But it warmed him; it crept into his chill old brain--he remembered.
'That
was
it,'
he said,
heaving himself out
of his
chair.
'I
thought
you'd
like to know. The girls were in Belgium last week having a look at poor
Reggie's
grave,
and
they
happened
to
come
across
your
boy's.
They're
quite near each other, it seems.'




Old Woodifield paused, but the boss made no reply. Only a quiver in
his eyelids showed that he heard.
'The
girls
were
delighted
with
the
way
the
place
is kept,'
piped
the
old
voice. 'Beautifully looked after. Couldn't be better if they were at home.





You've not been across, have yer?'




'No, no!' For various reasons the boss had not been across.




'There's miles of it,' quavered old Woodifield, 'and it's all as neat as a
garden. Flowers growing on all the graves. Nice broad paths.' It was plain
from his voice how much he liked a nice broad path.
The pause came again. Then the old man brightened wonderfully.




'Do you know what the hotel made the girls pay for a pot of jam?' he
piped. 'Ten francs! Robbery, I call it. It was a little pot, so Gertrude says,
no bigger than a half-crown. And she hadn't taken more than a spoonful
when they charged her ten francs. Gertrude brought the pot away with her
to teach 'em a lesson. Quite right, too; it's trading on our feelings. They
think
because
we're
over
there
having
a
look
round
we're
ready
to
pay
anything. That's what it is.' And he turned towards the door.




'Quite right, quite right!' cried the boss, though what was quite right
he
hadn't
the
least
idea.
He
came
round
by
his
desk,
followed
the
shuffling
footsteps
to
the
door,
and
saw
the
old
fellow
out.
Woodifield
was gone.




For
a
long
moment
the
boss
stayed,
staring
at
nothing,
while
the
grey-haired
office
messenger,
watching
him,
dodged
in
and
out
of
his
cubby
hole
like
a dog that expects
to be taken
for
a run.
Then:
'I'll see
nobody for half an hour, Macey,' said the boss. 'Understand? Nobody at
all.'




Very good, sir.'




The door shut, the firm heavy steps recrossed the bright carpet, the
fat body plumped down in the spring chair, and leaning forward, the boss
covered his face with his hands. He wanted, he intended, he had arranged
to weep....




It had been a terrible shock to him when old Woodifield sprang that
remark upon him about the boy's grave. It was exactly as though the earth
had opened and he had seen the boy lying there with Woodifield's girls
staring
down
at
him.
For
it
was
strange.
Although
over
six
years
had
passed away, the boss never thought of the boy except as lying unchanged,
unblemished in his uniform, asleep for ever. 'My son!' groaned the boss.
But no tears came yet. In the past, in the first months and even years after
the boy's death, he had only to say those words to be overcome by such
grief that nothing short of a violent fit of weeping could relieve him. Time,
he had declared then, he had told everybody, could make no difference.
Other men perhaps might recover, might live their loss down, but not he.
How was it possible? His boy was an only son. Ever since his birth the
boss
had
worked
at
building
up
this
business
for
him;
it
had
no
other
meaning if it was not for the boy. Life itself had come to have no other
meaning. How on earth could he have slaved, denied himself, kept going
all
those
years
without
the
promise
for
ever
before
him
of
the
boy's
stepping into his shoes and carrying on where he left off?




And that promise had been so near being fulfilled. The boy had been
in the office learning the ropes for a year before the war. Every morning
they had started off together; they had come back by the same train. And
what congratulations he had received as the boy's father! No wonder; he
had taken to it marvelously. As to his popularity with the stag, every man
jack of them down to old Macey couldn't make enough of the boy. And he
wasn't in the least spoiled. No, he was just his bright, natural self, with
the
right
word
for
everybody,
with
that
boyish
look
and
his
habit
of
saying, 'Simply splendid.'




But all that was over and done with as though it never had been. The
day had come when Macey had handed him the telegram* that brought
the whole place crashing about his head. 'Deeply regret to inform you....'
And he had left the office a broken man, with his life in ruins.




Six years ago, six years.... How quickly time passed! It might have
happened
yesterday.
The
boss
took
his
hands
from
his
face;
he
was
puzzled. Something seemed to be wrong with him. He wasn't feeling as
he
wanted
to
feel.
He
decided
to
get
up
and
have
a
look
at
the
boy's
photograph.
But
it
wasn't
a
favourite
photograph
of
his;
the
expression
was unnatural. It was cold, even stern-looking. The boy had never looked
like that.




At that moment the boss noticed that a fly had fallen into his broad
inkpot, and was trying feebly but desperately to clamber out again. Help!
help! said those struggling legs. But the sides of the inkpot were wet and
slippery; it till back again and began to swim. The boss took up a pen,
picked the fly out of the ink, and shook it on to a piece of blotting-paper.
For a fraction of a second it lay still on the dark patch that oozed round it.
Then the front legs waved, took hold, and, pulling its small, sodden body
up it began the immense task of cleaning the ink from its wings. Over and
under, over and under, went a leg along a wing, as the stone goes over
and under the scythe. Then there was a pause, while the fly, seeming to
stand on the tips of its toes, tried to expand first one wing and then the
other. It succeeded at last, and, sitting down, it began, like a minute cat, to
clean
its
face.
Now
one
could
imagine
that
the
little
front
legs
rubbed
against each other lightly, joyfully. The horrible danger was over; it had
escaped; it was ready for life again.




But just then the boss had an idea. He plunged his pen back into the
ink, leaned his thick wrist on the blotting paper, and as the fly tried its
wings down came a great heavy blot. What would it make of that? What
indeed! The little beggar seemed absolutely cowed, stunned, and afraid to
move
because
of
what
would
happen
next.
But
then,
as
if
painfully,
it