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）——11B - Secrets（秘密）

Unit 11B - Secrets

Secrets

Bernard Maclaverty

He had been called to be there at the end. His Great Aunt Mary had been dying for some days now and the house was full of relatives.

He knelt at the bedroom door to join in the prayers. His knees were on the wooden threshold and he edged them forward onto the carpet. They had tried to wrap her fingers around a crucifix but they kept loosening. She lay low on the pillow and her face seemed to have shrunk by half since he had gone out earlier in the night. Her white hair was damped and pushed back from her forehead. She twisted her head from side to side, her eyes closed. The prayers chorused on, trying to cover the sound she was making deep in her throat. Someone said about her teeth and his mother leaned over her and took her dentures from her mouth. The lower half of her face seemed to collapse. She half opened her eyes but could not raise her eyelids enough and showed only crescents of white.

The prayers went on. The noise that his aunt was making became intolerable to him. It was as if she were being drowned. She had lost all the dignity he knew her to have. He got up from the floor and went into her sitting-room.

He was trembling with anger or sorrow, he didn't know which. He sat in the brightness of her big sitting-room at the oval table and waited for something to happen. On the table was a cut-glass vase of irises, dying because she had been in bed for over a week. He sat staring at them for a long time until he heard the sounds of women weeping from the next room.

His aunt had been small, and seemed to get smaller each year. Her skin fresh, her hair white and waved and always well washed. She wore no jewelry except a ring on the third finger of her right hand and, around her neck, a gold locket on a chain. The boy had noticed the ring when she had read to him as a child. In the beginning fairy tales, then as he got older extracts from famous novels, Lorna Doone, Persuasion, Wuthering Heights and her favourite extract, because she read it so often, Pip's meeting with Miss Havisham from Great Expectations. She would sit with him on her knee, her arms around him and holding the page flat with her hand. When he was bored he would interrupt her and ask about the ring. He loved hearing her tell of how her grandmother had given it to her as a brooch and she had had a ring made from it. He would try to count back to see how old it was. Had her grandmother got it from her grandmother? And if so what had she turned it into?

"Don't be so inquisitive," she'd say. "Let's see what happens next in the story."

One day she was sitting copying figures with a dip pen when he came into her room. She didn't look up when he asked her a question. She just said, "Mm?" and went on writing. The vase of irises on the oval table vibrated slightly as she wrote.

"What is it?" She wiped the nib on blotting paper and looked up at him over her reading glasses.

"I've started collecting stamps and Mamma says you might have some."

"Does she now—"

She got up from the table and went to the tall walnut bureau-bookcase standing in the alcove. From a shelf of the bookcase she took a small wallet of keys and selected one for the lock. There was a harsh metal shearing sound as she pulled the desk flap down. The inner part was divided into pigeonholes, all bulging with papers. Some of them, envelopes, were gathered in batches nipped at the waist with elastic bands. There were postcards and bills. She pointed to the postcards.

"You may have the stamps on those," she said. "But don't tear them. Steam them off."

She went back to the oval table and continued writing. He sat on the arm of the chair looking through the picture postcards. Then he turned them over and began to sort the stamps. Spanish, with a bald man, French with a rooster, German with funny jerky print, some Italian with what looked like a chimney-sweep'bundle and a hatchet.

"These are great," he said. "I haven't got any of them."

"Just be careful how you take them off."

"Can I take them downstairs?"

"Is your mother there?"

"Yes."

"Then perhaps it's best if you bring the kettle up here."

He went down to the kitchen. His mother was in the morning room polishing silver. He took the kettle and the flex upstairs. Except for the dipping and scratching of his Aunt's pen the room was silent. It was at the back of the house overlooking the orchard and the sound of traffic from the main road was distant and muted. A tiny rattle began as the kettle warmed up, then it bubbled and steam gushed quietly from its spout. The cards began to curl slightly in the jet of steam but she didn't seem to be watching. The stamps peeled off and he put them in a saucer of water to flatten them.

"Who is Brother Benignus?" he asked. She seemed not to hear. He asked again and she looked over her glasses.

"He was a friend."

His flourishing signature appeared again and again. Sometimes Bro Benignus, sometimes Benignus and once Iggy.

"Is he alive?"

"No, he's dead now. Watch the kettle doesn't run dry."

When he had all the stamps off he put the postcards together and replaced them in the pigeonhole. He reached over towards the letters but before his hand touched them his aunt's voice, harsh for once, warned.

"A-A-A," she moved her pen from side to side. "Do not touch," she said and smiled. "Anything else, yes! That section, no!" She resumed her writing.

The boy went through some other papers and found some photographs. One was of a beautiful girl. It was very old-fashioned but he could see that she was beautiful. The picture was a pale brown oval set on a white square of card. The edges of the oval were misty. The girl in the photograph was young and had dark, dark hair scraped severely back and tied like a knotted rope on the top of her head—high arched eyebrows, her nose straight and thin, her mouth slightly smiling. Her eyes looked out at him dark and knowing and beautiful.

"Who is that?" he asked.

"Why? What do you think of her?"

"She's all right."

"Do you think she is beautiful?" The boy nodded.

"That's me," she said. The boy was glad he had pleased her in return for the stamps.

Other photographs were there, not posed ones like Aunt Mary's but Brownie snaps of laughing groups of girls in bucket hats like German helmets and coats to their ankles. There was a photograph of a young man smoking a cigarette, his hair combed one way by the wind against a background of sea.

"Who is that in the uniform?" the boy asked.

"He's a soldier," she answered without looking up.

"Oh," said the boy. "But who is he?"

"He was a friend of mine before you were born," she said. Then added, "Do I smell something cooking? Take your stamps and off you go. That's the boy."

The boy looked at the back of the picture of the man and saw in black spidery ink "John, Aug' 15 Ballintoye."

"I thought maybe it was Brother Benignus," he said. She looked at him not answering.

"Was your friend killed in the war?"

At first she said no, but then she changed her mind.

"Perhaps he was," she said, then smiled. "You are too inquisitive. Put it to use and go and see what is for tea. Your mother will need the kettle." She came over to the bureau and helped tidy the photographs away. Then she locked it and put the keys on the shelf.

"Will you bring me up my tray?"

The boy nodded and left.

It was a Sunday evening, bright and summery. He was doing his homework and his mother was sitting on the carpet in one of her periodic fits of tidying out the drawers of the mahogany sideboard. The boy heard the bottom stair creak under Aunt Mary's light footstep. She knocked and put her head round the door and said that she was walking to Devotions. She was dressed in her good coat and hat and was just easing her fingers into her second glove. The boy saw her stop and pat her hair into place before the mirror in the hallway. Devotions could take anything from twenty minutes to three quarters of an hour, depending on who was saying it.

The boy left his homework and went upstairs and into his aunt's sitting room. He stood in front of the bureau wondering, then he reached for the keys. He tried several before he got the right one. The desk flap screeched as he pulled it down. He pretended to look at the postcards again. Then he put them away and reached for the bundle of letters. The elastic band was thick and old, brittle almost and when he took it off its track remained on the wad of letters. He carefully opened one and took out the letter and unfolded it.

My dearest Mary, it began. I am so tired I can hardly write to you. I have spent what seems like all day censoring letters (there is a howitzer about 100 yds away firing every 2 minutes). The letters are heartrending in their attempt to express what they cannot. Some of the men are illiterate, others almost so. I know that they feel as much as we do, yet they do not have the words to express it. That is your job in the schoolroom to give us generations who can read and write well. They have...

The boy's eye skipped down the page and over the next. He read the last paragraph.

Mary I love you as much as ever—more so that we cannot be together. I do not know which is worse, the hurt of this war or being separated from you. Give all my love to Breden and all at home.

It was signed, scribbled with what he took to be John. He folded the paper carefully into its original creases and put it in the envelope. He opened another.

My love, it is thinking of you that keeps me sane. When I get a moment I open my memories of you as if I were reading. Your long dark hair—I always imagine you wearing the blouse with the tiny roses, the white one that opened down the back—your eyes that said so much without words, the way you lowered your head when I said anything that embarrassed you, and the clean nape of your neck.

The day I think about most was the day we climbed the head at Ballycastle. In a hollow, out of the wind, the air full of pollen and the sound of insects, the grass warm and dry and you lying beside me your hair undone, between me and the sun. You remember that that was where I first kissed you and the look of disbelief in your eyes that made me laugh afterwards.

It makes me laugh now to see myself savouring these memories standing alone up to my thighs in muck. It is everywhere, two, three feet in the clay and my head in the clouds. I love you, John.

He did not bother to put the letter into the envelope but opened another.

My dearest, I am so cold that I find it difficult to keep my hand steady enough to write. You remember when we swam the last two fingers of your hand went the colour and texture of candles with the cold. Well that is how I am all over. It is almost four days since I had any real sensation in my feet or legs. Everything is frozen. The ground is like steel.

Forgive me telling you this but I feel I have to say it to someone. The worst thing is the dead. They sit or lie frozen in the position they died. You can distinguish them from the living because their faces are the colour of slate. God help us when the thaw comes... This war is beginning to have an effect on me. I have lost all sense of feeling. The only emotion I have experienced lately is one of anger. Sheer white trembling anger. If I live through this experience I will be a different person.

The only thing that remains constant is my love for you.

Today a man died beside me. A piece of shrapnel had pierced his neck as we were moving under fire. I pulled him into a crater and stayed with him until he died. I watched him choke and then drown in his blood.

He sorted through the pile and read half of some, all of others. The sun had fallen low in the sky and shone directly into the room onto the pages he was reading making the paper glare. He selected a letter from the back of the pile and shaded it with his hand as he read.

Dearest Mary, I am writing this to you from my hospital bed. I hope that you were not too worried about not hearing from me. I have been here, so they tell me, for two weeks and it took another two weeks before I could bring myself to write this letter.

I have been thinking a lot as I lie here about the war and about myself and about you. I do not know how to say this but I feel deeply that I must do something, must sacrifice something to make up for the horror of the past year. In some strange way Christ has spoken to me through the carnage...

Suddenly the boy heard the creak of the stair and he frantically tried to slip the letter back into its envelope but it crumpled and would not fit. He bundled them all together. He could hear his aunt's familiar puffing on the short stairs to her room. He spread the elastic band wide with his fingers. It snapped and the letters scattered. He pushed them into their pigeon hole and quickly closed the desk flap. The brass screeched loudly and clicked shut. At that moment his aunt came into the room.

"What are you doing boy?" she snapped.

"Nothing," he stood with the keys in his hand. She walked to the bureau and opened it. The letters sprung out in an untidy heap.

"You have been reading my letters," she said quietly. Her mouth was tight with the words and her eyes blazed. The boy could say nothing. She struck him across the side of his face.

"Get out," she said. "Get out of my room."

The boy, the side of his face stinging and red, put the keys on the table on his way out. When he reached the door she called to him. He stopped, his hand on the handle.

"You are dirt," she hissed, "and always will be dirt. I shall remember this till the day I die."

Even though it was a warm evening there was a fire in the large fireplace. His mother had asked him to light it so that she could clear out Aunt Mary's stuff. The room could then be his study, she said.

She took the keys from her pocket, opened the bureau and began turning papers and cards. She glanced quickly at each one before she flicked it into the fire.

"Who was Brother Benignus?" he asked.

His mother stopped sorting and said, "I don't know. Your aunt kept herself very much to herself."

She went on burning the cards. They built into strata, glowing red and black. Now and again she broke up the pile with the poker, sending showers of sparks up the chimney. He saw her come to the letters. She took off the elastic band and began dealing the envelopes into the fire.

"Mama," he said.

"Yes?"

"Did Aunt Mary say anything about me—before she died?"

"Not that I know of—the poor thing was too far gone to speak, God rest her."

When he felt a hardness in his throat he put his head down on his books. Tears came into the crook of his arm for the woman who had been his maiden aunt, his teller of tales, that she might forgive him.

参考译文——秘密

秘密

伯纳德•麦克莱弗蒂

他是最后被叫去那里的。他的叔祖母玛丽已经病危好几天了，满屋子都是亲戚。

他跪在卧室门口，和众人一同祷告。他的膝盖跪在了木头门槛上，于是他慢慢向前移动到了地毯上。他们试图让她的手拿住耶稣受难像的十字架，然而她的手却松开着。她平躺在枕头上，和他晚上早些时候出去时相比，她的脸看上去皱缩了一半。她的白发被弄湿了，从前额梳到了后面。她来回扭动着头，眼睛闭着。祷告者们继续合唱着，尽力压过她喉咙深处发出的声音。有人说到她的牙齿，他的妈妈便倾身向前，从她的嘴里取出了假牙。她的脸的下半部分似乎要凹陷了。她的眼睛半睁着，眼皮却无法抬高，只露着月牙状的眼白。

祷告仍在继续。他的叔祖母所发出的声音让他开始无法忍受。那声音仿佛她溺水了一样。她已全然丧失了他所熟悉的为人的体面。他站起身来去了她的客厅。

他全身发抖，不知是因为生气还是悲伤。他坐在她大客厅里的椭圆桌子的光亮处，等待着某件事情的发生。桌上摆着一个雕花玻璃花瓶，里面的鸢尾花枯蒌了，因为她已经一个多星期卧床不起了。他坐在那儿盯着它们看了好久，直到他听到隔壁房间传来女人们的哭声。

他的叔祖母本来就比较瘦小，好像变得一年比一年瘦小。她皮肤清爽，一头花白的卷发总是打理得很干净。她右手的中指上戴着一枚戒指，脖子上戴着一条项链，项链上有一个金的盒式项链坠，除此之外不佩戴其他任何首饰。当他还是个孩子时，叔祖母常给他读故事，那时，他就注意到了这枚戒指。一开始读的是童话故事，后来随着他长大，便读著名小说的选摘，比如《洛娜·杜恩》、《劝导》、《呼啸山庄》，她最喜欢的选摘是《远大前程》中皮普遇到郝维辛小姐的那一段，因为她经常读。她会让他坐在她的膝盖上，胳膊搂着他，一只手水平地端着书本。在他觉得无聊时，他会打断她，问她戒指的事。他喜欢听她讲她的祖母是怎样把一个胸针送给她的故事，然后她把胸针做成了一枚戒指。他会倒推着计算这枚戒指的历史有多久。她的祖母是从自己的祖母那里得来的吗？如果是这样的话，她又把它变成了什么呢？

“别那么好奇，”她会这么说，“让我们看看这个故事接下来发生了什么。”

有一天，当他进入她的房间时，她正坐着用一支蘸水笔临摹肖像画。当他问她一个问题时，她并未抬头，只是说:“嗯？”然后继续临摹。在她临摹的时候，椭圆桌上装着鸢尾花的花瓶在轻轻摇摆。

“什么？ ”她用吸墨纸擦拭着笔尖，抬头透过她的老花镜看着他。

“我开始集邮了，妈妈说您这儿可能会有一些。”

“她现在——”

她从桌旁起身，走到壁凹处胡桃木制的带书桌的书架旁。她从书架上拿下一只小的钥匙包，找出了开锁的那一把。在她把书桌挡板拉下来时，发出刺耳的切割金属的声音。里面被分成了一个个的信件格，全部塞满了文件。有一些信封被分批收好，中间用橡皮筋捆着。还有一些明信片和账单。她指着那些明信片。

“你可以拿走那些信封上的邮票，”她说，“但是不要把它们撕下来。用蒸汽把它们弄下来。”

她回到椭圆桌旁继续临蓽。他坐在椅子的扶手上，翻看那些风景明信片。然后他把明信片都翻过来，开始整理邮票。西班牙的邮票上有个秃头的男人，法国的上面有只雄鸡，德国的上面印着搞笑的熏肉条，一张意大利的邮票上印着看起来是扫烟囱用的扫帚和一把短柄小斧。

“这些邮票真是太棒了，”他说，“这些我一张也没有。”

“注意好好把它们弄下来。”

“我可以把它们拿到楼下吗？”

“你妈妈在那儿吗？”

“是的。”

“那么也许你最好还是把水壶拿上来。”

他下楼去了厨房。他的妈妈正在晨间起居室里擦拭银器。他拿着水壶和皮线上了楼。房间内很安静，只有叔祖母钢笔的蘸墨声和刷刷声。叔祖母的房间位于整个房子的深处，从这里可以眺望果园，听见远处车辆往来细微的声音。随着水温的升高，水壶发出微弱的咔嗒声，然后开始沸腾，蒸汽从壶嘴静静地冒出。明信片随着蒸汽的喷出开始微微卷起，然而她似乎并没有在注意这一切。邮票脱落下来，他把它们放在一个盛着水的小碟子中，把它们展平。

“贝尼格纳斯兄弟是谁？”他问道。她似乎没听到他的话。他又问了一次，她透过眼镜看着他。

“他是一个朋友。”

他那花体的签名一次又一次地出现。有时候签的是贝尼格纳斯兄弟，有时候是贝尼格纳斯，还有一次是伊吉。

“他还活着吗？”

“没有，他现在去世了。看着点水壶，别烧干了。”

当他把所有的邮票都弄下来后，他把那些明信片放在一起，把它们放回了那个信件格里。他的手伸向那些信，但是在他触摸到那些信之前，叔祖母警告声响起，就严厉了那么一下。

“啊——啊——啊，”她左右来回挥动着钢笔。“不要动，”她笑着说，“动其他东西，可以！那部分，不行！”她又继续她的临摹。

男孩翻看了一些其他文件，发现了一些照片。有一张上面是一位美丽的姑娘。那是很老式的照片，但是他能看出来姑娘很漂亮。照片是椭圆形的，泛着浅棕色，镶在一个白色的方形卡片上。椭圆形的边缘已经模糊了。照片中的姑娘很年轻，头发很黑很黑，梳得特别向后，扎得好像一根打结的绳子在头顶束起——眉毛高耸，鼻子挺直而细长，嘴巴微微笑着。她乌黑的眼睛看着他，含情脉脉，非常美丽。

“她是谁？ ”他问道。

“为什么要问？你觉得她怎么样？”

“她很好。”

“你觉得她漂亮吗？ ”男孩点点头。

“那是我，”她说。男孩很高兴自己让她高兴，作为获取邮票的一种回报。

那里还有其他的照片，不过并没有像玛丽叔祖母那样摆姿势的，然而有一群女童子军笑着的照片，她们戴着水桶帽，像是德国的头盔，身着到脚踝的大衣。还有一张照片上面是一位抽着烟的年轻男人，他的头发被风梳向了一边，背景是大海。

“穿制服的这个人是谁？”男孩问道。

“他是一名士兵，”她回答道，并没有抬头。

“噢，”男孩说，“但是，他是谁呢？”

“他是我的一位朋友，那时你还没出生，”她说。然后她补充道:“我是不是闻到做饭的味道了？拿着你的邮票下楼去吧。这才是我的好孩子。”

男孩看了看那张照片的背面，看到上面有细长的黑色墨迹“约翰，8月15日，巴林托伊”。

“我想他可能是贝尼格纳斯兄弟，”他说道。她看着他，没有回答。

“你的朋友是在战争中牺牲了吗？”

一开始她说没有，但是后来她改变了说法。

“也许是的，”她说，然后笑了，“你好奇心太强了。把它用在正道上，去看看要不要沏茶。你妈妈需要这个水壶。”她来到书桌旁，帮忙把那些照片收拾起来。然后把它们锁了起来，把钥匙放在了架子上。

“你能把我的托盘拿上来吗？”

男孩点了点头，离开了。

那是一个周日的晚上，有种夏天特有的明亮。他在做功课，他的妈妈正坐在地毯上，进行着红木餐具柜抽屉的定期清洁工作。男孩听到楼梯最下面一阶传来嘎吱声，那是玛丽叔祖母特有的轻微脚步声。她敲了一下门，把头探进来，说她要走着去祈祷。她穿着一件质地很好的外套，戴着帽子，正在慢慢带上她的第二只手套。男孩看见她停了下来，在走廊的镜子前轻轻拍了拍整理自己的头发。祈祷会持续20分钟到45分钟，这要取决于讲话人。

男孩放下了功课，走上楼去，进入了叔祖母的客厅。他站在书桌前琢磨着，然后找到了钥匙。他试了好几把后才找到那把正确的钥匙。他拉开书桌挡板时，发出了刺耳的声音。他假装再看一次那些明信片然后他把它们放在一边，拿起了那捆信件。橡皮筋很粗而且很旧，快断了。当他取下橡皮筋时，那捆信上还留着它的痕迹。他小心翼翼地打开一个信封，取出信，然后展开了信纸。

开头是，我最亲爱的玛丽。我太累了，几乎无法给你写信了。我似乎一整天都在删剪信件 (100码外每两分钟便会有榴弹炮发射出来）。那些信令人心碎，因为他们试图用信表达出那些他们无法表达的东西。一些人根本不识字，其他人差不多也是。我知道他们和我们的感受一样，但是他们却无法用文字表达出来。你的教育工作的意义所在——培养一代代的学生们读书和写作的能力。他们已经……

男孩跳过这一页，翻到下一页。他看到了最后一段。

玛丽，我一如既往地爱着你——爱得太深以致我们无法在一起。我不知道哪种情况更糟，是这场战争的伤害还是与你的分离。代我向布雷登和家里所有人献上所有的爱。

签名十分潦草，他觉得像是约翰。他小心翼翼地沿着原来的折痕叠起那封信，然后把它放入了信封。他打开了另一封。

我的爱人，只有想着你，我才能保持清醒，一有时间我便像读书般在回忆中温习你的样子。你长长的黑发——我时常想象着你穿着带有小玫瑰花的衬衫，那件白色的，后面底下开着口——你那会说话的眼晴，当我说任何让你尴尬的话时你低头的样子，还有你光洁的后颈：

我想的最多的是我们爬上巴里卡斯尔山顶的那一天。在山洞里，没有风，空气里满是花粉，还有昆虫的声音，草地温暖而干燥，你躺在我的身边，头发散着，散在我和阳光之间。你是否记得那是我笫一次亲吻你的地方，你眼中流露出难以置信的神情，以后每每回想起来，我就禁不住开怀大笑。

如今我独自站在深及大腿的淤泥中，回味着这些记忆，这让我发笑。到处都是这样，有两三英尺深的泥土，我的大脑充满幻想。我爱你。约翰。

他并未把那封信装入信封，而是打开了另一封。

我最亲爱的，我太冷了，我发现让自己的手稳稳地写字都很难。你是否还记得我们一起游泳的时候，你最后两根手指冻得顏色和质地如同蜡烛一般。那正是此刻我全身的感觉。几乎已经四天了，我的脚和腿还是没有任何知觉。一切都那么寒冷。大地冷得如同钢一般。

原谅我把这件事告诉你，但是我觉得我必须要把这件事告诉某个人。最糟糕的事情是那些死的人。他们就那样被冻死，保持着坐着或躺着的姿势。你可以把他们和活人分辨开来，因为他们的脸色像石板。冰雪消融时，上帝帮助了我们……这场战争开始对我产生影响。我已经失去了所有的感觉。最近我所经历的唯一的情感就是愤怒，完全苍白无力的、令人战栗的愤怒。如果我能在这次战争中存活下来，我会变成一个不同的人。

唯一不变的是我对你的爱。

今天一个人在我旁边死掉了。我们在战火中穿行时，一个弹片刺穿了他的脖子。我把他拖到一个弹坑中，陪伴着他一直到他死去，我眼看着他窒息，然后死在血泊中。

他整理着那堆信件，有些读了一半，其他的全都读完了。太阳已经落得很低，阳光直射到房间内，落在了他正在阅读的信纸上，信纸发出了刺眼的光。他从那沓信的后面挑了一封，在他读的时候用自己的手遮挡着阳光。

最亲爱的玛丽，我正在自己的病床上给你写这封信。我希望你没有因为没收到我的来信而感到担心。他们告诉我，我已经在这里待了两个星期。又过了两个星期我才能写这封信。

我躺在这里想了很多，关于战争，关于我和你。我不知道该如何表达，但是我深切地感觉到我必须做点什么，必须牺牲点什么来弥补过去这一年我所经历的恐怖。上帝已经用某种奇特的方式通过这场大屠杀与我对话……

突然，男孩听到了楼梯的嘎吱声，他手忙脚乱地试图把那封信塞回信封，可是信被弄皱了，放不进去。他把所有的信捆在一起。他能听到叔祖母从那一小段楼梯走向自己房间时发出的那种熟悉的喘息声。他用自己的手指把橡皮筋撑得很大。橡皮筋啪的一声绷断了，信全都散了。他把它们推入信件格里，迅速关上了挡板。黄铜轴发出巨大而刺耳的声音，然后咔哒一下关上了。就在那时，他的叔祖母进入了房问。

“你在做什么，孩子？ ”她生气地说道。

“没什么。”他站在那里，手里拿着钥匙。她走到书桌前然后打开了挡板。一堆信件凌乱地涌了出来。

“你看了我的信，”她轻轻地说道。说完这句话，她的嘴便紧紧地闭着，眼睛冒着火。男孩无言以对。她朝着他的一边脸扇了一巴掌。

“滚，”她说，“滚出我的房间。”

男孩的脸又痛又红，他出去的时候把钥匙放在了桌子上。当他走到门□时，她叫住了他。他停在那儿，手放在门把手上。

“你真无耻，”她生气地低声说，“而且你将永远这么无耻。我到死的那天也不会忘记这件事。”

尽管这是一个暖和的夜晚，大壁炉中还烧着火。是他妈妈让他点燃的，这样她可以清理玛丽叔祖母的遗物。她说，以后那个房间会成为他的书房。

她从自己的口袋里拿出了钥匙，打开书桌，开始翻阅那些文件和明信片。每一个她都快速瞥一眼，然后把它扔入火中，

“贝尼格纳斯兄弟是谁？ ”他问道。

他妈妈停止了整理，说:“我不知道。你的叔祖母一直都不太与别人来往。”

她继续烧着明信片。它们都被烧成了一层一层的，散发着火红和黑色的光。她会时不时地用拨火棍拨弄火堆，激起的火星儿升向烟囱。他看到她走向那些信。她取下橡皮筋，然后开始把那些信扔入火中。

“妈妈，”他说。

“嗯？”

“玛丽叔祖母提到过我吗——在她死前？”

“据我所知没有——那件不幸的事已经过去太久了，不会被提起了。上帝保佑她安息。”

他感觉到自己如鲠在喉，他把自己的头埋进书中。眼泪流到了他的臂弯里，为这位曾是他叔祖母的未婚女人，为这位曾为他讲故事的女人，也许她已经原谅了他。

Key Words:

damped

adj. 阻尼的；衰减的；被窒息的

nib [nib]

n. 嘴，鹅管笔的尖端，笔尖

inquisitive [in'kwizitiv]

adj. 好奇的，好追根究底的，求知欲强的

alcove ['ælkəuv]

n. 凹室，壁龛

rattle ['rætl]

vi. 嘎嘎作响，喋喋不休

flex [fleks]

v. 弯曲，伸缩，褶曲2

orchard ['ɔ:tʃəd]

n. 果园

harsh [hɑ:ʃ]

adj. 粗糙的，使人不舒服的，刺耳的，严厉的，大约的

misty ['misti]

adj. 有雾的，模糊的，含糊的

hallway ['hɔ:lwei]

n. 门厅；玄关；走廊

brittle ['britl]

adj. 易碎的，敏感的，尖利的，冷淡的

flap [flæp]

n. 拍打，拍打声，片状垂悬物(口袋盖等)，副翼

separated ['sepəreitid]

adj. 分居；分开的；不在一起生活的 v. 分开；隔开

illiterate [i'litərit]

adj. 文盲的，无知的

texture ['tekstʃə]

n. (材料等的)结构，特点，表面，基本结构

slate [sleit]

n. 板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单

glare [glɛə]

n. 闪耀光，刺眼

choke [tʃəuk]

vi. 窒息，阻塞

untidy [ʌn'taidi]

adj. 不整齐的，懒散的

glowing ['gləuiŋ]

adj. 灼热的，热情的，强烈的

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