风

突然，在莫名的惊惧中，她醒了。发生了什么？发生了什么可怕的事。不——什么都没发生。只是风在摇晃屋子，窗户格格响，屋顶的铁皮发出重重的巨响，她的床也在抖动。树叶在窗前飞舞，越飞越高，越飞越远；下边的林荫道上一张报纸在空中翻动，像一个掉线的风筝，在一株苹果树上盘旋乱飞。天气很冷，夏天已经过去——这是秋天——万物都这么丑陋。一辆大车咯吱咯吱地经过，从一边晃到另一边；两个中国人用木扁担挑着捆着蔬菜的篮子，缓慢地走着，他们的长辫和蓝色宽松上衣在风中飞动。一条白色的三条腿的狗吠叫着跑过大门前。完了！哦，一切都完了！她开始用颤抖的手指扎自己的鞭子，不敢看镜子一眼。母亲正在大厅里和祖母谈话。

“真是一个蠢货！竟在这样的天气里让那些东西挂在外边的绳上……现在我那件最好的坦纳利佛衣服变成布条了。什么味这么重？麦片粥糊了。哦，天哪——这风！”

十点种她有一节音乐课。一想到它贝多芬的那些低音乐章就开始在她头脑里响了起来，那些颤音又长又可怕，像旋转往复的鼓声……玛丽·丝维森跑进旁边的花园里，想在那些菊花枯萎之前采下它们。她的裙子被吹得飞过了腰部，她试图把它压下来，弯腰把它掖进两腿之间，但没有用——它仍然飞了起来。所有的树和灌木都在她边上闲逛。她以尽可能快的速度采，但她十分心烦意乱。她几乎都没意识到她在做什么——她把那些植物连根拔起，扭弯，拧碎，跺着脚，大声咒骂。

“看在上帝的份上把前门关上！从后门走，”有人在大声咆哮。这时她听见了波奇的声音：

“妈妈，有电话找你。电话，妈妈。是肉商。”

生活是多么丑陋啊！——令人生厌，仅仅令人生厌……现在她帽子的橡皮筋断了。它当然会这样。她只能戴着她的便帽从后门溜出去。但母亲看见了。

“玛蒂尔德。玛蒂尔德。回来，立——刻！你头上戴的都是什么玩意啊？它看起来简直是一个茶壶套。还有你额前的那些头发怎么回事？”

“我不能回来，妈妈。我上课要迟到了。”

“立刻回来！”

她不，她绝不。她恨母亲。“下地狱去吧！”她喊道，沿着马路跑了下去。

灰尘，连同那些麦杆、谷壳、肥料的碎粒，纠集在一起如海浪、如乌云、如旋转的漩涡，迎面针般刺来。花园里的树木发出巨大的咆哮声。站在路的尽头，布伦先生家的门外，她能听到大海在呜咽：“哦！……哦！……哦啊！”但布伦先生的客厅却同洞穴一样平静。窗户关着，帘子半掩。她并没有迟到。排在她之前的女孩刚开始弹奏麦克道尔的“致一个冷冰冰的人”，布伦先生微笑着从上方看着她。

“请坐，”他说，“在那边的沙发上坐一下，小女士。”

他是多么有趣啊！他不是特意嘲笑你……但他的态度里有一些……哦，这里是多么地宁静啊！她喜欢这间屋子。它发出哔叽画布、陈旧的烟、菊花……的气味。在一幅苍白的鲁宾斯坦肖像后边的壁炉架上有一个大花瓶……一个可爱的男人罗伯特·布伦（注：此处原文夹有法语，译文属揣测原意胡翻）……在黑色发亮的钢琴上方挂着一幅“孤独”——一个模糊的带悲剧色彩的妇女披一身白，坐在一块石头上，膝盖交叉，下巴支在手上。

“不，不！”布伦先生说。他斜向那个女孩上方，从她的肩膀上方伸过手臂去，为她弹奏那一段。这个蠢货——她的脸红了，多么可笑！

现在排在她前边的女孩走了，前门砰的一声关上。布伦先生转回来，非常轻地来回走动，等着她。多么异常啊！她的手指抖得无法解开乐谱的绑带。都是风……她的心跳得如此厉害，她感到它上下撑着她的上衣。布伦先生没有说话。破旧的红钢琴座足够两个人肩并肩地坐下。布伦先生在她旁边坐了下来。

“我可以从音阶练习开始吗？”她问，把两只手紧紧拧在一起。“我还有一些琶音要练习。”

但他没有回答，她相信他甚至没在听……突然他的充满生气的带着戒指的手伸了出来，弹起了贝多芬。

“让我们来一段我们的老大师。”他说。

但为什么他说话这么温和——这么这么地温和——彷佛他们已相互认识多年，相互了解对方的一切。

他慢慢地翻过页去。她看着他的手——这是一双多么美妙、洁净的手啊，看起来总是像刚洗过。

“我们从这开始。”布伦先生说。

哦，多么和蔼的声音——哦，那些低音乐章，那些小小的鼓声……

“我应当再练习一次吗？”

“是的，亲爱的孩子。”

他的声音太温和、太和蔼了。那些四分音符和八分音符在五线谱表上跳舞，像一群黑色的小孩跳动在篱笆上。他为什么这么……她不会哭——她没有什么可哭的……

“怎么了，亲爱的孩子？”

布伦先生握住了她的手。他的肩膀就在她的头边。她在不经意中曾轻轻地靠在上边，她的脸颊碰着那些柔软的花呢布。

“生活是多么地令人绝望啊。”她喃喃地说，但她现在一点也没感觉到它的令人绝望。他在说些“等待”、“停顿不前”、“女人，这件奇妙的事物”，但她没在听。多么地舒适……永远……

门突然开了，随着砰的一声，玛丽·丝维森，比她的上课时间提前进来了。

（注：此处这个女孩的名字同以其视角作为全文叙述角度的女孩相同，不能理解，疑有误，但几种英文版本中都是如此。）

“把快板弹得再快一点。”布伦先生说，站了起来，又开始在屋里来回走动。

“请坐在那边的沙发上，小女士。”他对玛丽说。

风，——又是风。一人独自呆在屋里是可怕的。床、镜子、白色的壶和盆像屋外的天空一样微微闪光。床是可怕的。它躺在那儿，发出睡熟的声音……母亲要补好所有那些捆在棉被里的长袜，她会有片刻想到她的生活像一群盘绕在一起的蛇吗？她不会。不，母亲。我不明白为什么我要……风——风！从烟囱里吹出来的煤灰有一种古怪的味道。有人为风写过诗吗？……“我带来新鲜的花朵，给那些树叶和阵雨。”……毫无意义。

“是你吗，波奇？”

“去海滨路上散散步吧，玛蒂尔德。我再也忍受不下去了。”

“对极了。等我穿上外套。多糟糕的天啊！”波奇的外套正和她的一样。扣上衣领，她在镜中看着自己。她的脸是苍白的，他们有着同样兴奋的眼睛和热切的嘴唇。哦，他们认识镜子中的那两个人。再见，亲爱的，我们很快就会回来的。

“好多了吧，是不是？”

“不错。”（注：原文为hook on，不懂，只猜测胡译）波奇说。

他们走不得太快。他们低着头，两腿碰在一起，像一个人一样，大步走过市镇，在野生的茴香在两侧疯长的沥青道上曲折前进，来到海边。天色昏暗——刚开始变暗。风太大了，他们不得不拼命抵制它，在风中摇晃得像两个醉鬼。海边那些可怜的野花都弯向地面。

“赶快！赶快！再靠近点。”

海水非常高地漫过了防波堤。他们摘下帽子。她的头发吹过她的嘴唇，使她尝到咸味。海水如此之高，浪头接连不断；它们重重地拍击着粗硬的石墙，吮吸水草，在台阶上落下。一阵水花细沫正好穿过那片海滨路，他们身上挂满了水珠；她的嘴里尝到冰冷潮湿的味道。

波奇的声音被打断了。他说话时音调变得忽高忽低。真有趣——它使你想笑——而它正适合这样的天。风带走了他们的声音，那些句子的零落碎片像被风撕碎的布条在飞舞。

“快！快！”

天色已很黑。港口的运煤船上有两点灯光，一个在高高的桅杆上，一个来自船尾。

“看，波奇。看那儿。”

一艘大型黑色汽船正冒出一圈圈的烟，舷窗上的灯亮了，各处的灯都亮了，船正在启航。风没有阻止她；她穿过海浪，匆匆走向位于突出的岩石中间的敞开的大门，那些石头指向……那些灯光使她看起来那么美丽和神秘。他们手拉手地靠在甲板的护栏上。

“……他们是谁？”

“……兄妹。”

“看，波奇。那是市镇。它看起来很小吧？那是在最后一次报时的邮局大钟。那是我们在那个大风天走过的海滨路。你还记得吗？那天我在我的音乐课上哭了——多少年过去了！再见，小岛，再见了……”

现在夜晚正在翻腾的水面上伸展开它黑色的羽翼。他们再也看不见那两个人了。再见，再见，不要忘记……而现在船已经离去了。

风，——还是风！

（注：原欲为曼斯菲尔德的这篇名作写一篇评论，却突然发现不但手头无中文译本，网上也找不到译文，一怒之下自己动手，丰衣足食，对着英文，祭出金山词霸，回忆以前看过的中文译本，写下了生平第一篇“译文”。）

THE WIND BLOWS

SUDDENLY–dreadfully–she wakes up. What has happened? Something dreadful has happened. No–nothing has happened. It is only the wind shaking the house, rattling the windows, banging a piece of iron on the roof and making her bed tremble. Leaves flutter past the window, up and away; down in the avenue a whole newspaper wags in the air like a lost kite and falls, spiked on a pine tree. It is cold. Summer is over–it is autumn–everything is ugly. The carts rattle by, swinging from side to side; two Chinamen lollop along under their wooden yokes with the straining vegetable baskets–their pigtails and blue blouses fly out in the wind. A white dog on three legs yelps past the gate. It is all over! What is? Oh, everything! And she begins to plait her hair with shaking fingers, not daring to look in the glass. Mother is talking to grandmother in the hall.

"A perfect idiot! Imagine leaving anything out on the line in weather like this. . . . Now my best little Teneriffe-work teacloth is simply in ribbons. What is that extraordinary smell? It's the porridge burning. Oh, heavens–this wind!" [Page 138] 

She has a music lesson at ten o'clock. At the thought the minor movement of the Beethoven begins to play in her head, the trills long and terrible like little rolling drums. . . . Marie Swainson runs into the garden next door to pick the "chrysanths" before they are ruined. Her skirt flies up above her waist; she tries to beat it down, to tuck it between her legs while she stoops, but it is no use–up it flies. All the trees and bushes beat about her. She picks as quickly as she can, but she is quite distracted. She doesn't mind what she does–she pulls the plants up by the roots and bends and twists them, stamping her foot and swearing.

"For heaven's sake keep the front door shut! Go round to the back," shouts someone. And then she hears Bogey:

"Mother, you're wanted on the telephone. Telephone, Mother. It's the butcher."

How hideous life is–revolting, simply revolting. . . . And now her hat-elastic's snapped. Of course it would. She'll wear her old tam and slip out the back way. But Mother has seen.

"Matilda. Matilda. Come back im-me-diately! What on earth have you got on your head? It looks like a tea cosy. And why have you got that mane of hair on your forehead."

"I can't come back, Mother. I'll be late for my lesson."

"Come back immediately!" [Page 138] 

She won't. She won't. She hates Mother. "Go to hell," she shouts, running down the road.

In waves, in clouds, in big round whirls the dust comes stinging, and with it little bits of straw and chaff and manure. There is a loud roaring sound from the trees in the gardens, and standing at the bottom of the road outside Mr. Bullen's gate she can hear the sea sob: "Ah! . . . Ah! . . . Ah-h!" But Mr. Bullen's drawing-room is as quiet as a cave. The windows are closed, the blinds half-pulled, and she is not late. The-girl-before-her has just started playing MacDowell's "To an Iceberg." Mr. Bullen looks over at her and half smiles.

"Sit down," he says. "Sit over there in the sofa corner, little lady."

How funny he is. He doesn't exactly laugh at you . . . but there is just something. . . . Oh, how peaceful it is here. She likes this room. It smells of art serge and stale smoke and chrysanthemums . . . there is a big vase of them on the mantelpiece behind the pale photograph of Rubinstein . . . á mon ami Robert Bullen. . . . . Over the black glittering piano hangs "Solitude"–a dark tragic woman draped in white, sitting on a rock, her knees crossed, her chin on her hands.

"No, no!" says Mr. Bullen, and he leans over the other girl, puts his arms over her shoulders and plays the passage for her. The stupid–she's blushing! How ridiculous! [Page 140] 

Now the-girl-before-her has gone; the front door slams. Mr. Bullen comes back and walks up and down, very softly, waiting for her. What an extraordinary thing. Her fingers tremble so that she can't undo the knot in the music satchel. It's the wind. . . . And her heart beats so hard she feels it must lift her blouse up and down. Mr. Bullen does not say a word. The shabby red piano seat is long enough for two people to sit side by side. Mr. Bullen sits down by her.

"Shall I begin with scales?" she asks, squeezing her hands together. "I had some arpeggios, too."

But he does not answer. She doesn't believe he even hears . . . and then suddenly his fresh hand with the ring on it reaches over and opens Beethoven.

"Let's have a little of the old master," he says.

But why does he speak so kindly–so awfully kindly–and as though they had known each other for years and years and knew everything about each other.

He turns the page slowly. She watches his hand–it is a very nice hand and always looks as though it had just been washed.

"Here we are," says Mr. Bullen.

Oh, that kind voice–Oh, that minor movement. Here come the little drums. . . .

"Shall I take the repeat?"

"Yes, dear child."

His voice is far, far too kind. The crotchets and [Page 141]  quavers are dancing up and down the stave like little black boys on a fence. Why is he so . . . She will not cry–she has nothing to cry about. . . .

"What is it, dear child?"

Mr. Bullen takes her hands. His shoulder is there–just by her head. She leans on it ever so little, her cheek against the springy tweed.

"Life is so dreadful," she murmurs, but she does not feel it's dreadful at all. He says something about "waiting" and "marking time" and "that rare thing, a woman," but she does not hear. It is so comfortable . . . for ever . . .

Suddenly the door opens and in pops Marie Swainson, hours before her time.

"Take the allegretto a little faster," says Mr. Bullen, and gets up and begins to walk up and down again.

"Sit in the sofa corner, little lady," he says to Marie.

The wind, the wind. It's frightening to be here in her room by herself. The bed, the mirror, the white jug and basin gleam like the sky outside. It's the bed that is frightening. There it lies, sound asleep.. . . Does Mother imagine for one moment that she is going to darn all those stockings knotted up on the quilt like a coil of snakes? She's not. No, Mother. I do not see why I should. . . . The wind–the wind! There's a funny smell of [Page 142]  soot blowing down the chimney. Hasn't anyone written poems to the wind? . . . "I bring fresh flowers to the leaves and showers." . . . What nonsense.

"Is that you, Bogey?"

"Come for a walk round the esplanade, Matilda. I can't stand this any longer."

"Right-o. I'll put on my ulster. Isn't it an awful day!" Bogey's ulster is just like hers. Hooking the collar she looks at herself in the glass. Her face is white, they have the same excited eyes and hot lips. Ah, they know those two in the glass. Good-bye, dears; we shall be back soon.

"This is better, isn't it?"

"Hook on," says Bogey.

They cannot walk fast enough. Their heads bent, their legs just touching, they stride like one eager person through the town, down the asphalt zigzag where the fennel grows wild, and on to the esplanade. It is dusky–just getting dusky. The wind is so strong that they have to fight their way through it, rocking like two old drunkards. All the poor little pahutukawas on the esplanade are bent to the ground.

"Come on! Come on! Let's get near."

Over by the breakwater the sea is very high. They pull off their hats and her hair blows across her mouth, tasting of salt. The sea is so high that the waves do not break at all; they thump against the rough stone wall and suck up the weedy, [Page 143]  dripping steps. A fine spray skims from the water right across the esplanade. They are covered with drops; the inside of her mouth tastes wet and cold.

Bogey's voice is breaking. When he speaks he rushes up and down the scale. It's funny–it makes you laugh–and yet it just suits the day. The wind carries their voices–away fly the sentences like narrow ribbons.

"Quicker! Quicker!"

It is getting very dark. In the harbour the coal hulks show two lights–one high on a mast, and one from the stern.

"Look, Bogey. Look over there."

A big black steamer with a long loop of smoke streaming, with the portholes lighted, with lights everywhere, is putting out to sea. The wind does not stop her; she cuts through the waves, making for the open gate between the pointed rocks that leads to . . . It's the light that makes her look so awfully beautiful and mysterious. . . . They are on board leaning over the rail arm in arm.

" . . . Who are they?"

" . . . Brother and sister."

"Look, Bogey, there's the town. Doesn't it look small? There's the post office clock chiming for the last time. There's the esplanade where we walked that windy day. Do you remember? I cried at my music lesson that day–how many years ago ! Good-bye, little island, good-bye. . . . " [Page 144] 

Now the dark stretches a wing over the tumbling water. They can't see those two any more. Good-bye, good-bye. Don't forget. . . . But the ship is gone, now.

The wind–the wind.