现代大学英语精读第二版（第四册）学习笔记（原文及全文翻译）——13A - Cords（纽带）

Unit 13A - Cords

Cords

Edna O'Brien

Everything was ready, the suitcase closed, her black velvet coat carefully brushed, and a list pinned to the wall reminding her husband when to feed the hens and turkeys. She was setting out on a visit to her daughter Claire in London, just like any mother, except that her daughter was different: she'd lost her faith, and she mixed with queer people and wrote poems.

"The turkeys are the most important," she said to her husband, thinking faraway to the following Christmas, to the turkeys she would sell, and the plumper ones she would give as gifts.

"I hope you have a safe flight," he said. She'd never flown before.

"All Irish planes are blessed, they never crash," she said, believing totally in the God that created her, sent her this husband, and this daughter.

The journey was pleasant once she got over the shock of being strapped down for the take-off. As they went higher and higher she looked out at the very white, waspish cloud and thought of the wash tub and hoped her husband would remember to change his shirt while she was away.

Claire met her mother at the airport and they kissed warmly, not having seen each other for over a year.

"Have you stones in it?" Claire said, taking the suitcase. It was doubly secured with a new piece of binding twine. Her mother wore a black straw hat with clusters of cherries on both sides of the brim.

"You were great to meet me," the mother said.

"Of course I'd meet you," Claire said, easing her mother right back on the taxi seat. It was a long ride and they might as well be comfortable.

"I could have navigated," the mother said, and Claire said nonsense a little too brusquely. Then to make amends she asked gently how the journey was.

"Oh I must tell you, there was this very peculiar woman and she was screaming."

Claire listened and stiffened, remembering her mother's voice that became low and dramatic in a crisis.

"But otherwise?" Claire said. This was a holiday, not an expedition into the past.

"We had tea and sandwiches. I couldn't eat mine, the bread was buttered."

"Still faddy?" Claire said. Her mother got bilious if she touched butter, fish, olive oil, or eggs.

The first evening passed well enough. The mother unpacked the presents—a chicken, bread, eggs, a tapestry of a church spire which she'd done all winter, stitching at it until she was almost blind, a holy water font, ashtrays made from shells, and lamps converted from bottles.

Claire laid them along the mantelshelf, and stood back, not so much to admire them as to see how incongruous they looked.

"Thank you," she said to her mother, as tenderly as she might have when she was a child. These gifts touched her, especially the tapestry, although it was ugly. She thought of the winter nights and the Aladdin lamp smoking, and her mother hunched over her work, not even using a thimble to ease the needle through, because she believed in sacrifice. She could picture her and her father at the fire night after night, the turf flames green and fitful, the hens locked up, foxes prowling around in the wind, outside.

"I'm glad you like it, I did it specially for you," the mother said gravely, and they both stood with tears in their eyes, savoring those seconds of tenderness.

"You'll stay seventeen days," Claire said, because that was the length an economy ticket allowed. She really meant, "Are you staying seventeen days?"

"If it's all right," her mother said over-humbly. "I don't see you that often, and I miss you."

Claire withdrew into the scullery to put on the kettle for her mother's hot water bottle; she did not want any disclosures now, any declaration about how hard life had been and how near they'd been to death during many of the father's drinking deliriums.

"Your father sent you his love," her mother said, nettled because Claire had not asked how he was.

"How is he?"

"He's great now, never touches a drop."

Claire knew that if he had, he would have descended on her, the way he used to descend on her as a child.

"It was God who did it, curing him like that," the mother said.

Claire thought bitterly that God had taken too long to help the frustrated man. But she said nothing, she merely filled the rubber bottle, and then conducted her mother upstairs to bed.

Next morning they went up to the center of London and Claire presented her mother with fifty pounds. The woman got flushed.

"You always had a good heart, too good," she said to her daughter, as her eyes beheld racks of coats, raincoats, skirts on spinning hangers, and all kinds and colours of hats.

"Try them on," Claire said. "I have to make a phone call."

There were guests due to visit her that night—it had been arranged weeks before—but as they were bohemian people, she could not see her mother suffering them, or them suffering her mother. There was the added complication that they were a "trio"—one man and two women; his wife and his mistress. At that point in their lives the wife was noticeably pregnant.

On the telephone the mistress said they were looking forward, awfully, to the night, and Claire heard herself substantiate the invitation by saying she had simply rung up to remind them. She thought of asking another man to give a complexion of decency to the evening, but the only three unattached men she could think of had been lovers of hers and she could not call on them; it seemed pathetic.

"Damn," she said, irritated by many things, but mainly by the fact that she was going through one of those bleak, loveless patches that come in everyone's life, but, she imagined, came more frequently the older one got. She was twenty-eight. Soon she would be thirty, withering.

When Claire returned, she found her mother holding a hand mirror up to get a back view of a ridiculous hat which she had tried on. It resembled the shiny straw she wore for her trip, except that it was more ornamental.

"Am I too old for it?" the mother said.

"You're not," Claire said. "You look well in it."

"Of course I've always loved hats," her mother said, as if admitting to some secret vice.

"Yes, I remember your hats," Claire said, remembering the blue hat that her mother once got on approbation and wore to Mass before returning it to the shop.

"If you like it, take it," Claire said indulgently.

The mother bought it, along with a reversible raincoat and a pair of shoes. She told the assistant who measured her feet about a pair of shoes which lasted her for seventeen years, and were eventually stolen by a tinker-woman, who afterwards was sent to jail for the theft.

Claire nudged her to shut up. The mother's face flushed.

"Did I say something wrong?" she said as she descended uneasily on the escalator.

"No，I just thought she was busy," Claire said.

At home they prepared the food and the mother tidied the front room before the visitors arrived. Without a word she carried all her gifts to her daughter and put them in the front room alongside the books and some pencil drawings.

"They are nicer in here," the mother said, apologizing for doing it, and at the same time criticizing the drawing of the nude.

"I'd get rid of some of those things if I were you," she said in a serious tone.

Claire kept silent, and sipped the whiskey she felt she needed badly.

The mother had changed into a blue blouse, Claire into velvet pants, and they sat before the fire with a blue-shaded lamp casting a restful light on their faces.

"You have a tea-leaf on your eye-lid," she said to Claire, putting up her hand to brush it away. It was mascara which got so smeared that Claire had to go upstairs to repair it.

At that precise moment the visitors came.

"They are here," the mother said when the hall bell shrieked.

"Open the door," Claire called down. She was quite relieved that they would have to muddle through their own set of introductions.

The dinner went off well. They all liked the food and the mother was not as shy as Claire expected. She told about her journey, and about a television programme she'd once seen, showing how bird's nest soup was collected.

After dinner Claire gave her guests enormous brandies, because she felt relieved that nothing disastrous had been uttered.

The fulfilled guests sat back, sniffed, drank their coffee, laughed, tipped their cigarette ash on the floor, having missed the ashtray by a hair's breadth, gossiped, and refilled their glasses. They smiled at the various new ornaments but did not comment, except to say that the tapestry was nice.

"Claire likes it," the mother said it timidly, drawing them into another silence. The evening was punctuated by brief but crushing silences.

"You like Chinese food then?" the husband said. He mentioned a restaurant which she ought to go and see. It was in the East End of London and getting there entailed having a motor-car.

"You've been there?" his wife said to the young blonde mistress.

"Yes and it was super. Remember?" she said, turning to the husband, who nodded.

"We must go some time," his wife said. "If ever you can spare an evening."

"That was the night we found a man against a wall, beaten up," the mistress said, shivering, recalling how she had actually shivered.

"You were so sorry for him," the husband said, amused.

"Wouldn't anyone be?" the wife said tartly, and Claire turned to her mother and promised that they would go to that restaurant the following evening.

"We'll see,'' the mother said. She knew the places she wanted to visit: Buckingham Palace, the Tower of London and the waxworks museum. When she went home, it was these places she would discuss with her neighbours, not some seamy place where men were flung against walls.

"No, not another, it's not good for the baby," the husband said, as his wife balanced her empty glass on the palm of her hand and looked towards the bottle.

"Who's the more important, me or the baby?"

"Don't be silly, Marigold," the husband said.

"Excuse me," she said in a changed voice. "Whose welfare are you thinking about?" She was on the verge of an emotional outburst, her cheeks flushed from brandy and anger. By contrast, Claire's mother had the appearance of a tombstone, chalk white and deadly still.

"How is the fire?" Claire said, staring at it. On that cue her mother jumped up and sailed off with the coal scuttle.

"I'll get it," Claire said following. The mother did not even wait until they reached the kitchen.

"Tell me," she said, her blue eyes pierced with insult, "which of those two ladies is he married to?"

"It's not your concern," Claire said, hastily. She had meant to smooth it over, to say that the pregnant woman had some mental disturbance, but instead she said hurtful things about her mother being narrow-minded and cruel.

"Show me your friends and I know who you are," the mother said and went away to shovel the coal. She left the filled bucket outside the living-room door and went upstairs. Claire, who had gone back to her guests, heard the mother's footsteps going into the bedroom overhead.

"Has your mother gone to bed?" the husband asked.

"She's tired I expect," Claire said, conveying weariness too. She wanted them to go. She could not confide in them. They might sneer. They were not friends any more than the ex-lovers, they were all social appendages, extras, acquaintances cultivated in order to be able to say to other acquaintances, "Well one night a bunch of us went mad and had a nude sit-in..."There was no one she trusted, no one she could produce for her mother and feel happy about it.

"Music, brandy, cigarettes..." They were recalling her, voicing their needs. They stayed until they'd finished the packet, which was well after midnight.

Claire hurried to her mother's room and found her awake with the light on.

"I'm sorry," Claire said.

"You turned on me like a tinker," her mother said, in a voice cracked with emotion.

"I didn't mean to," Claire said. She tried to sound reasonable; she tried to tell her mother that the world was a big place and contained many people all of whom held various views about various things.

"They're not sincere," her mother said, stressing the last word.

"And who is?" Claire said, remembering the treacherous way the lovers vanished, or how former landladies rigged meters so that units of electricity cost double. Her mother had no notion of how lonely it was to read manuscripts all day, and write a poem once in a while, when one became consumed with a memory or an idea, and then to constantly go out, seeking people, hoping that one of them might fit, might know the shorthand of her, body and soul.

"I was a good mother, I did everything I could, and this is all the thanks I get." It was spoken with such justification that Claire turned and laughed, hysterically. An incident leaped to her tongue, something she had never recalled before.

"You went to the hospital," she said to her mother, "to have your toe lanced, and…"

"What are you talking about?" her mother said numbly. The face that was round, in the evening, had become old, twisted, bitter.

"Nothing," Claire said. Impossible to explain. She had violated all the rules: decency, kindness, caution. She would never be able to laugh it off in the morning. Muttering an apology she went to her own room and sat on her bed, trembling. Since her mother's arrival every detail of her childhood kept dogging her. Her present life, her work, the friends she had, seemed insubstantial compared with all that had happened before. She used to love to slip into the chapel, alone, in the daytime, praying that she would die before her mother did, in order to escape being the scapegoat of her father. How could she have known that twenty years later, zipped into a heated, plastic tent, treating herself to a steam bath she would suddenly panic and cry out convinced that her sweat became as drops of blood. She put her hands through the flaps and begged the masseuse to protect her, the way she had begged her mother, long ago. Made a fool of herself. The way she made a fool of herself with the various men. The first night she met the Indian she was wearing a white fox collar, and its whiteness under his dark, well-chiseled chin made a stark sight as they walked through a mirrored room to a table, and saw, and were seen, in mirrors. He said something she couldn't hear. "Tell me later," she said, already putting her little claim on him. But after a few weeks he left, like the others. She was familiar with the various tactics of withdrawal—abrupt, honest, nice. Flowers, notes posted from the provinces, and the "I don't want you to be hurt" refrain. They reminded her of the trails that slugs leave on a lawn in summer mornings, the sad, silver trails of departure. She undressed, she told herself that one day she would meet a man whom she loved and did not frighten away. But it was brandy optimism. The brandy gave her hope but it disturbed her heart beats and she was unable to sleep. As morning approached she rehearsed the sweet and conciliatory things she would say to her mother.

They went to Mass on Sunday, but it was obvious that Claire was not in the habit of going: they had to ask the way. Going in, her mother took a small bottle from her handbag and filled it with holy water from the font.

"It's always good to have it," she said to Claire, but in a bashful way. The outburst had severed them, and they were polite now in a way that should never have been.

After Mass they went—because the mother had stated her wishes—to the waxworks museum, saw the Tower of London and walked across the park that faced Buckingham Palace.

备注：由于资料原网站的问题，英文版最后部分不完整。

参考译文——纽带

纽带

埃德娜•奧布莱恩

—切都准备好了，手提箱也关上了，她的黑色天鹅绒大衣已仔细地刷过一遍，给丈夫留下的注意事项的清单也已钉在墙上，提醒他什么时候喂母鸡与火鸡。她像所有母亲一样，就要出发去看望自己在伦敦的女儿克莱尔，但和其他母亲不一样的是，她的女儿与众不同：她已经失去自己的信仰，和一些奇怪的人来往，她还写诗。

“最重要的是要照料好火鸡，”她对丈夫说，心里想着遥远的圣诞节，想到那些她要出售的火鸡，而那些肥一点的，她是要当作礼物送人的。

“一路平安，”他说。她以前从没有乘坐过飞机。

“所有爱尔兰的飞机都有上帝的保佑，从来没有出过事，”她说道。她完全相信创造了她并把她的丈夫和女儿赐给了她的上帝。

飞机起飞前系上安全带的时候她有些惊慌，但此后一路都十分愉快。当飞机越飞越高的时候，她向窗外望了望细细的白云，想到家里的洗衣盆，希望她不在的时候丈夫会记得换衬衣。

克莱尔到机场接她的母亲，她们一年多没有见面了，两人热情地亲吻。

“你在里面装了石头吗？ ”克莱尔接过手提箱时说。那箱子用一条新的麻绳加固捆绑着。她的母亲戴着一顶黑色草帽，帽檐两侧各有一串樱桃饰品。

“你能来接我，太好了，”母亲说。

“我当然会来接你，”克莱尔说，同时一面帮她母亲在出租车后面的座位上舒坦地坐好。到她的住处路程不短，她们最好还是坐得舒服些。

“我本来也可以乘船来的，”母亲说。克莱尔有些无礼地说了句“胡说”。为了弥补刚才的失礼，她马上又柔声地问母亲旅途怎么样。

“哦，我得给你说说，飞机上有个非常怪的女人，她一直高声尖叫。”

克莱尔听着，身体突然绷紧了，她想起她母亲每次遇到危机的时候，说话的声音就会很低，很夸张。

“不过其他还好吧？”克莱尔说道，心想，这是在度假，不是在探索过去。

“飞机上供应茶和三明治，但是我的那一份没法吃，因为面包上涂了黄油。”

“你还那么挑食啊？”克莱尔说道。她知道她母亲如果碰一下黄油、鱼、橄榄油或鸡蛋，就会感到恶心得要吐。

第一个晚上过得还不错。母亲从箱子里取出了礼物——一只鸡、面包、鸡蛋、一幅绣着教堂尖顶的挂毯，那是她一针针缝的，整整花了一个冬天，缝到眼睛几乎什么也看不见了才完成。礼物中还有一个圣水盂、用贝壳制作的烟灰缸和玻璃瓶改装的台灯。

克莱尔把礼品一一摆在壁炉台上，往后退了几步，不过与其说是在欣赏，倒不如说是在看看这些玩意儿摆在那儿是多么不协调。

“谢谢，”她对母亲说，尽量像她小时候那样温情。这些礼物打动了她，尤其是那幅挂毯，尽管它很难看。她能想象到那一个个冬夜的情景，在旧式油灯的烟雾中，她母亲弯着腰，缝制那幅挂毯，连能帮她将针穿过布料的顶针都不戴，因为她信仰牺牲精神。她能想象她母亲和父亲每天晚上坐在炉火边的情形，泥炭燃烧时的绿色火苗时断时续，母鸡锁在鸡笼里，屋外狐狸在风中四处觅食。

“我很高兴你喜欢这幅挂毯，我是特意为你做的，”母亲郑重其事地说。两人站在那里，眼里都闪着泪花，享受着那一刻的温情。

“你可以待17天吧，”克莱尔说，因为那是经济舱往返机票允许的最长停留时间。她真正的意思是:“你打算待17天吗？”

“要是可以的话，”她的母亲过于谦卑地说，“我难得经常见你，我想念你。”

克莱尔起身走进了洗涤室，把水壶放在炉子上，给她母亲的热水袋烧水；她现在不想听她母亲对她诉苦，告诉她过去家里的日子有多不好过，她们娘儿俩如何在她父亲发酒疯的时候多次几乎被置于死地。

“你父亲叫我转达他对你的爱，”她的母亲说，因克莱尔没有问起她父亲而感到不悦。

“他好吗？”

“好极了，现在滴酒不沾了。”

克莱尔清楚，要是他还酗酒的话，一定会来攻击她，就像在她小时候那样。

“这是上帝的功劳，就这样把他治好了，”母亲说。

克莱尔愤愤地想上帝为什么要花那么长的时间才来帮助这个失意的男人。不过她什么也没有说，只是把热水袋灌满，然后带母亲上楼睡觉。

第二天上午母女二人去了伦敦市中心，克莱尔给了她母亲50英镑，母亲高兴得脸都红了。

“你总是心肠那么好，你心肠太好了，”她对女儿说。此刻她的目光正好落到货架上的大衣、雨衣，旋转衣架上的裙子以及不同款式和不同颜色的帽子上。

“试试这些吧，”克莱尔说，“我得去打个电话。”

那天晚上有客人要到她家来——这是几个星期前安排好的——不过由于他们都是放荡不羁的艺术家，她既不能让他们惹她母亲生气，也不能让她母亲惹得他们不快。这几个人的“三角”关系使得情况更加复杂——一个男人和两个女人；两个女人分别是这个男人的妻子和情人，此刻那位妻子还明显怀有身孕。

电话中那个情人说，他们三人正非常盼望晚上去她家。克莱尔只好再次确认这一邀请，说她打电话就是想提醒他们，怕他们忘记。她想再邀请一位男士，使晚上的聚会看起来还算比较得体，可是她能想到的单身男人只有三个，都是她过去的情人，她自然不能邀请他们；这情况真够可怜的。

“真该死，”她说，心里因为许多事情感到憋火，主要还是因为她现在正处于黯淡而缺少爱情的一个阶段，这种情况在每个人的生活中都会发生，不过她觉得随着年龄的增长，这种时段来得越来越频繁了。她已经28岁，很快就30了，容颜渐渐老去。

克莱尔回来的时候，发现母亲正在试一顶很可笑的帽子，她手拿着一面镜子在看脑后的效果：这顶帽子与她下飞机时戴的那顶闪亮的草帽相似，只不过更加花哨。

“这帽子对我来说是不是太显嫩了？”母亲问道。

“不，”克莱尔说，“你戴着挺好看的。”

"当然，我一直特别喜欢帽子，”母亲说，好像在承认什么见不得人的坏毛病。

“是呀，我还记得你的那些帽子呢，”克莱尔说，突然想起了那顶她母亲曾经从店里拿回家试戴的蓝色帽子，在还给商店之前，她还戴着去参加了弥撒。

“要是喜欢，就买吧，”克莱尔纵容地说，

母亲买了那顶帽子，还买了一件正反两穿的雨衣和一双鞋：她告诉给她量脚的售货员说她有一双穿了17年的鞋，后来叫一个补锅的女工偷走了，那个女人后来还因此进了监狱。

克莱尔用手肘推了推母亲，暗示她别说了。母亲的脸一下子红了。

“我说错话了吗？”在下自动扶梯时她不安地问。

“没有啊，我只是觉得她挺忙的，”克莱尔说。

回到家以后，她们开始准备晚餐，母亲在客人来之前收拾了一下前厅。她什么都没说就径自把她给女儿带来的所有礼物都挪到了前厅，把它们与书籍和几张铅笔画并排放在一起。

“它们放到这儿显得更好看，”母亲说，算是对自己这么做表示一点歉意，但同时又批评起一张裸体画来。

“要是我，就把那样的东西扔了，”她用严肃的口吻说。

克莱尔什么也没有说，她只抿了点此刻她急需的威士忌。

母亲已换上了一件蓝色的衬衫，克莱尔则穿上了一条平绒裤子，她们坐在炉火前，静谧的灯光透过蓝色的灯罩洒在母女的脸上。

“你的眼皮上有片茶叶，”母亲对克莱尔说，抬起手来想把那片茶叶擦掉，没想到原来是女儿把睫毛膏画坏了，克莱尔只好上楼去补妆。

就在这时客人到了。

“他们来了，”门铃响起来的时候，母亲说道。

“你去开门吧，”克莱尔向楼下喊道。她松了口气，这样客人就要设法自己介绍自己了。

晚饭进行得很顺利。客人们对菜肴很满意，母亲也不像克莱尔想的那样腼腆。她对客人们谈了她的旅途情况，还谈了她看过的一个有关做燕窝汤的燕窝是如何采集的电视节目

饭后克莱尔给客人端上了大量的白兰地，因为饭间没有人捅什么大娄子，她心里的一块石头落地了。

酒足饭饱的客人们靠在椅子背上，鼻子吸了吸气，喝着咖啡，大声笑着，朝烟灰缸抖烟灰时就差一点没有抖上，结果让烟灰都落到了地板上；他们漫无边际的闲聊着，把酒杯又重新斟满。他们冲屋里新添的各饰品笑了笑，但是没有评论，只说那条挂毯不错。

“克莱尔喜欢它，”母亲小心翼翼地说。于是又出现了冷场。饭后的交谈就这样时不时被这种短暂但令人尴尬的冷场打断。

“这么说你喜欢中国餐？”那个丈夫说他提起一家餐馆，说她应该去看看。那家餐馆在伦敦东区，得乘汽车去。

“你去过那儿？”妻子问她丈夫那位年轻的金发情人。

“去过。真是好极了。还记得吗？”她说着转身问那丈夫。他点了点头。

“什么时候咱们俩一定也要去一次，”他妻子说，“要是你能抽出一个晚上来的话。”

“就在那天夜里，我们看到一个人靠在墙上，遭人毒打了，”那情人说，想起她当时颤抖的情景，不禁又哆嗦起来。

“你当时很可怜他，”丈夫说，他觉得很好笑

“谁都会的，不是吗？ ”妻子酸溜溜地说。克莱尔这时转身答应母亲说她们明天晚上就去那家餐馆。

“再说吧，”母亲说道。她清楚自己想去哪些地方——白金汉宫、伦敦塔和蜡像馆。等她回到家里，她要跟邻居聊的是这些地方，而不是男人被摔到墙上的什么乌七八糟的地方。

“别喝了，不能再喝了，这对胎儿不好，”那丈夫看见他妻子把空酒杯稳稳地立在手掌上，眼睛望着酒瓶，就赶紧说道。

“谁更重要，是我还是肚子里的孩子？”

“别犯傻了，玛丽戈尔德，”丈夫说。

“等一下，”她说道，声音都变了。“你考虑的是谁的幸福？”白兰地和怒火使她的面颊涨得通红，情绪眼看就要爆发。与此形成鲜明对照的是，克莱尔的母亲看上去却如同墓碑一样，脸色煞白，身子一动不动。

“炉火怎么样了？”克莱尔看着炉火说：接到那个暗示，她母亲就立即起身，拿起煤斗，不露声色地离开了客厅。

“我去取吧，”克莱尔说着跟了出去。母亲还没等她们到厨房就忍不住开口了。

“告诉我，”她说，她蓝色的眼睛显露出受到侮辱的神情，“他是跟这两位女士中的哪一个结婚的？”

“这跟你没关系，”克莱尔急速地说。她本想说那怀孕的女人精神上有些毛病，借此把大事化小，但她却说出了伤害母亲的话，说母亲思想不开通，言语刻薄。

“看看你的朋友，我就知道你是什么样的人了，”母亲说完这句话就去铲煤了。她把装满了的煤斗放在客厅的门外，随即就上楼了。回到客人身边的克莱尔听到了楼上母亲进她卧室的脚步声。

“你母亲去睡觉了？”那丈夫问道。

“我想她是累了，”克莱尔说，自己也显露出倦意。她希望客人快些离开。她不可能对他们说心里话，那样他们会嘲笑她的。他们也算不上什么朋友，与她过去的情人一样。他们都不过是她的社交附属物，多余的人，泛泛之交，和这些人的关系于她只不过是为了可以哪一天和其他的泛泛之交说:“有一天晚上，我们一帮人发疯了，举行了一次裸体静坐示威……”没有一人她能信任，并且可以高高兴兴向她母亲介绍。

“放点音乐吧，再来点白兰地，还有香烟……”他们一直在叫她，提他们的要求。直到把桌上的烟酒一扫而光，他们才撤离，此刻已过午夜。

克莱尔赶紧来到她母亲的房间，发现屋里开着灯，她还没睡。

“真对不起，”克莱尔说。

“你居然像补锅匠那样朝我吼叫，”她母亲说，激动得嗓音都沙哑了。

“我根本没想那样的，”克莱尔说。她极力想跟母亲讲道理；试图告诉她母亲，这个世界很大，什么样的人都有，他们对各种不同的事物持有很多不同的观点。

“他们都不真诚，”她母亲说。最后两个字说得很重。

“那你说谁真诚？ ”克莱尔说。她想起了她那些恋人一个个甜言蜜语然后突然消失的样子，还有以前的那些房东太太为了让她多付一倍电费，在电表上做手脚。她母亲根本不理解她整天看书稿是多么孤独，有时因为想起某件往事或产生某种想法而不能自拔时写首诗，此外就是常常外出在人群中寻找，盼望其中能有一个人适合自己，能很快地了解自己，包括她的身体与灵魂。

“我是个好母亲，我为你做了我能做的一切，而这就是我得到的回报。”这话说得如此理直气壮，以至于克莱尔转过身，歇斯底里地大笑起来。她忍不住说起了一件以前从未想起过的往事。

“有一次你去了医院，”她对她母亲说，“去给你的脚趾拔脓，还有……”

“你在胡说些什么？ ”她母亲说。她实在气呆了，那晚上原本还丰满的脸一下显得苍老，扭曲起来，令人心酸。

“我没说什么，”克莱尔说。这下她不可能解释清楚了。她已违背了所有的行为准则：礼貌、善良、谨慎。她永远不可能一觉醒来对刚才自己的无礼一笑了之。她含糊地道了个歉就回到了自己的房间，坐到床上，浑身颤抖。自从她母亲到来以后，她不断想起童年时期的那些往事，每一个细节。她当前的生活、她的工作、她的朋友，跟以往发生的那些事相比，似乎都不重要。那时她喜欢白天独自一人溜进小教堂，祈求上帝让她死在她母亲之前，以免成为她父亲毒打的替罪羊。她当时怎么会知道20年之后，当她拉开加热的塑料帐篷的拉链去享受蒸汽浴的时候，她会突然觉得她的汗水变成了一滴滴的鲜血，而因此惊慌得叫喊。她把手伸出帐篷门帘，恳求女按摩师保护她，就像很久以前她求母亲救她那样。那天她真是出丑了，就像她与不同男人在一起时出丑一样。与那个印度人相遇的第一个晚上，她脖子上围了个白色的狐皮领套，在他们穿过四壁都是镜子的房间走向餐桌时，他们两人，以及周围的人在镜子里都注意到，他轮廓鲜明的深色下巴和她领套的白颜色形成了非常明显的对比。他说了句话，但她听不见。

“等会儿再告诉我吧，”她说。她已经开始对他说要他怎么做了。不过几个星期后，与其他人一样，他也离开了她。她已经熟悉了他们离开她时采用的各种策略——很突然、很坦诚但又彬彬有礼。给你送些鲜花，再从外地给你邮寄来短信，说些什么“我不想让你感觉受到伤害”的老调。他们使她想起了夏日清晨鼻涕虫在草坪上留下的痕迹，那些令人伤心的银白色的告别的痕迹。她脱了衣服，告诉自己总有一天她会遇到一个她爱的而且不会再被她吓跑的男人。但这只不过是白兰地带来的乐观。白兰地给了她希望，却打乱了她的心跳，使她无法入睡。天快亮的时候，她练习了一下怎么对她母亲说些委婉动听的、和解的话。

星期天她们一起参加了弥撒，不过很明显克莱尔不经常去，因为她们得问路。进教堂时，她母亲从手提包里拿出来一个小瓶子，用圣洗池里的圣水将瓶子装满。

“带点圣水总是好的，”她有些不好意思地对克莱尔说。昨晚爆发的那场争吵使她们之间的关系疏远了，所以现在她们相互间客气得都不像母女了。

弥撒之后，按照母亲曾经表示过的愿望，她们参观了蜡像馆，看了伦敦塔，然后步行穿过了白金汉宫对面的公园。

克莱尔知道她母亲要说什么。她妈妈想回家，她担心她的丈夫，她的飞鸟，那些堆积的要洗的衣物，还有必须播种的春小麦。实际上她母亲心情很不好。现在她和女儿之间的距离比之前每周写一封信的时候更远了。

“你只在这里待了六天了，”克菜尔说。“我还想带你去大剧院和几家餐馆呢。再住些日子吧”“我会考虑的，”母亲说。但她已下定决心。

两个晚上之后，他们在机场休息室候机，也不说话，担心因说话听不见叫到的航班号。

“你换了这一一身衣服挺好看的，”克菜尔说。她母亲穿着新衣服，看上去精神多了。她手里还拿着两顶新帽子，希望不会引起海关的注意。

“我以后会告诉你这两顶帽子我要不要缴税，”她说。

“好的，”克莱尔笑着说，理了理她母亲的衣领，想说些讨人喜欢的话来弥补自己的过错。

“你把我打扮的很好，瞧我这一身的气派，”妈妈在电话亭的玻璃门前微笑着说。“还有我们那次沿河的游览，”她说。“我那天玩得最开心了。 ”她指的是母女俩沿泰曙士河去威斯敏斯特的一次短途旅行。

他们看着对方，然后把目光转开了，看了一眼机场的时钟，和手表上的时间对比。

“是我们的航班,”两人一起说，心里松了一口气，好像她们都私下害怕那航班号会永远不会被叫到似的。在隔离栅栏处，她们相互亲吻，两人湿润的面颊贴在一-起有一一会儿，相互都感觉到了对方的悲伤。

“我会给你写信，我会写的更频繁一点，”克菜尔说。好几分钟了她还站在那里挥手，哭泣着，就像不知道母亲已经走了一样。现在她又要回到自己的生活了，和从前一样。

作品赏析——Constrictive Mother-Daughter Bond,

Edna O’Brien (born 15 December 1930) has written short stories throughout her long career. “Come into the Drawing Room, Doris” (retitled “Irish Revel” in The Love Object collection) first appeared in The New Yorker on October 6, 1962. “Cords,” published as “Which of Those Two Ladies Is He Married To?” in The New Yorker, on April 25, 1964, deals with many of the aspects of loss and missed connections, which are O’Brien’s constant themes. The missed connections are most frequently between mothers and daughters, and between women and men. O’Brien is at her most persuasively graphic when her protagonists are clearly Irish women, at home, in a vanished Ireland whose society as a whole she re-creates and often increasingly indicts most convincingly.

Cords

The question “Which of Those Two Ladies Is He Married To?,” which forms the original title of “Cords,” is posed in the story by Claire’s scandalized, rural, Irish mother on a London visit to her sexually active, editor, lapsed Catholic, poet daughter. The dinner guests are a husband, his pregnant wife Marigold, and his mistress Pauline—which grouping elicits the mother’s question. The newer title, “Cords,” more aptly focuses attention on the constrictive mother-daughter bond, which is at the center of this story. The conflict is effectively rendered; no final judgment is made on who is to blame. The Catholic, self-sacrificing mother, who masochistically sews without a thimble, is a spunky traveler. The rather precious daughter, with her “social appendages” but no friends, “no one she could produce for her mother [or herself] and feel happy about,” for her part means well. The two women are deftly shown to be on a collision course, not just with their umbrellas or their differences over food. The detailed parts of the story all function smoothly. The mother looks at herself in a glass door; Claire sees herself reflected in a restaurant’s mirrors. Each woman is herself and an image projected elsewhere. The constraint between them is vividly rendered from their moment of meeting until they are at the airport again, where both “secretly feared the flight number would never be called.”

In the background here, in Claire’s thoughts, is the father, “emaciated, crazed and bankrupted by drink,” with whom the mother’s unhealthy, symbiotic relationship continues: “She was nettled because Claire had not asked how he was.” In “Cords,” then, are many of the perennial, rush-of-memory themes: the family feuding, the malevolent Church influence, the searing, almost flawlessly detailed exposé of the tie that binds many mothers and daughters. All is rendered here with the saving grace of good humor, and even old jokes are recalled, such as those about good grazing on the Buckingham Palace lawns, about Irish planes being blessed and therefore never crashing, and about an overly heavy suitcase—“Have you stones in it?” Claire asks.

参考资料：

Analysis of Edna O’Brien’s Stories – Literary Theory and Criticism

Key Words:

expedition [.ekspi'diʃən]

n. 远征，探险队，迅速

tapestry ['tæpistri]

n. 挂毯 v. 饰以织锦画

incongruous [in'kɔŋgruəs]

adj. 不协调的，不一致的，前后不一的

trio ['tri:əu]

n. 三个一组，三重唱（奏）

bleak [bli:k]

adj. 萧瑟的，严寒的，阴郁的

decency ['di:snsi]

n. 得体，礼貌，体面

rung

n. 横档，脚蹬横木；地位 v. 给…打电话

approbation [.æprə'beiʃən]

n. 认可，嘉许

disastrous [di'zɑ:strəs]

adj. 灾难性的

seamy ['si:mi]

adj. 不愉快的，黑暗的，恶劣的，有接缝的

tombstone ['tu:mstəun]

n. 墓碑

hastily ['heistili]

adv. 匆忙地，急速地

stark [stɑ:k]

adj. 僵硬的，完全的，严酷的，荒凉的，光秃秃的

conciliatory [kən'siliətəri]

adj. 安抚的；调停的；调和的

参考资料：