TheFly及其译文.docx

1、TheFly及其译文 The Flyby 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 bosss 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

2、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 couldnt imagine. Made a nuisance of himself to hi

3、s 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 s

4、trong, still at the helm. It did one good to see him. Wistfully, admiringly, the old voice added, Its snug in here-upon my word! Yes, its 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 admir

5、ed, 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. Ive had it done up lately, he explained, as he had explained for the past-how many?-weeks. New carpet, and he pointed to th

6、e 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 h

7、e did not draw old Woodifields 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

8、, 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, hes on his last pins, thought the boss. And, feeling kindly, he winked at the old man,

9、 and said jokingly, I tell you what. Ive got a little drop of something here that will do you good before you go out into the cold again. Its beautiful stuff. It wouldnt hurt a child. He took a key off his watch-chain, unlocked a cupboard below his desk, and drew forth a dark, squat bottle. Thats th

10、e 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 Woodifields mouth fell open at the sight. He couldnt have looked more surprised if the boss had produced a rabbit.Its whisky, aint it? he piped, feebly.The boss turned the b

11、ottle and lovingly showed him the label. Whisky it was. Do you know, said he, peering up at the boss wonderingly, they wont let me touch it at home. And he looked as though he was going to cry. Ah, thats where we know a bit more than the ladies, cried the boss, swooping across for two tumblers that

12、stood on the table with the water-bottle, and pouring a generous finger into each. Drink it down. Itll do you good. And dont put any water with it. Its 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

13、 Woodifield, who was rolling his in his chaps. The old man swallowed, was silent a moment, and then said faintly, Its 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 youd like to know. The girls were in Belgi

14、um last week having a look at poor Reggies grave, and they happened to come across your boys. Theyre 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 th

15、e old voice. Beautifully looked after. Couldnt be better if they were at home. Youve not been across, have yer? No, no! For various reasons the boss had not been across. Theres miles of it, quavered old Woodifield, and its all as neat as a garden. Flowers growing on all the graves. Nice broad paths.

16、 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

17、. And she hadnt 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; its trading on our feelings. They think because were over there having a look round were ready to pay anything. Thats what it is. And he turned

18、towards the door. Quite right, quite right! cried the boss, though what was quite right he hadnt 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

19、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: Ill 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

20、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 boys grave. It was exactly as though the earth had

21、opened and he had seen the boy lying there with Woodifields 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 ye

22、t. In the past, in the first months and even years after the boys 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

23、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 s

24、laved, denied himself, kept going all those years without the promise for ever before him of the boys 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 morni

25、ng they had started off together; they had come back by the same train. And what congratulations he had received as the boys 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 couldnt make enough of the boy. And he wasnt in

26、 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

27、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

28、with him. He wasnt feeling as he wanted to feel. He decided to get up and have a look at the boys photograph. But it wasnt 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

29、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

30、 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 th

31、e 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 f

32、ront 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 dragged itse