【精品】The_Chrysanthemums-带译文

The_Chrysanthemums-带译文

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The Chrysanthemums

by John Steinbeck

Elisa is a young married lady working on an

isolated farm and proud of her skills in growing

flowers. One day, she suddenly feels a desire to

communicate with the outside world. What happens to

her? Please read the following story.

The high grey-flannel fog of winter closed

off the Salinas Valley from the sky and from all

the rest of the world. On every side it sat like a

lid on the mountains and made of the great valley a

closed pot. On the broad, level land floor the gang

plows bit deep and left the black earth shining

like metal where the shares had cut. On the

foothill ranches across the Salinas River, the

yellow stubble fields seemed to be bathed in pale

cold sunshine, but there was no sunshine in the

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valley now in December. The thick willow scrub

along the river flamed with sharp and positive

yellow leaves.

It was a time of quiet and of waiting. The

air was cold and tender. A light wind blew up from

the southwest so that the farmers were mildly

hopeful of a good rain before long; but fog and

rain do not go together.

Across the river, on Henry Allen's foothill

ranch there was little work to be done, for the hay

was cut and stored and the orchards were plowed up

to receive the rain deeply when it should come. The

cattle on the higher slopes were becoming shaggy

and rough-coated.

Elisa Allen, working in her flower garden,

looked down across the yard and saw Henry, her

husband, talking to two men in business suits. The

three of them stood by the tractor shed, each man

with one foot on the side of the little Fordson.

They smoked cigarettes and studied the machine as

they talked.

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Elisa watched them for a moment and then

went back to her work. She was thirty-five. Her

face was lean and strong and her eyes were as clear

as water. Her figure looked blocked and heavy in

her gardening costume, a man's black hat pulled low

down over her eyes, clod-hopper shoes, a figured

print dress almost completely covered by a big

corduroy apron with four big pockets to hold the

snips, the trowel and scratcher, the seeds and the

knife she worked with. She wore heavy leather

gloves to protect her hands while she worked.

She was cutting down the old year's

chrysanthemum stalks with a pair of short and

powerful scissors. She looked down toward the men

by the tractor shed now and then. Her face was

eager and mature and handsome; even her work with

the scissors was over-eager, over-powerful. The

chrysanthemum stems seemed too small and easy for

her energy.

She brushed a cloud of hair out of her eyes

with the back of her glove, and left a smudge of

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earth on her cheek in doing it. Behind her stood

the neat white farm house with red geraniums close-banked around it as high as the windows. It was a

hard-swept looking little house with hard-polished

windows, and a clean mud-mat on the front steps.

Elisa cast another glance toward the tractor

shed. The strangers were getting into their Ford

coupe. She took off a glove and put her strong

fingers down into the forest of new green

chrysanthemum sprouts that were growing around the

old roots. She spread the leaves and looked down

among the close-growing stems. No aphids were there,

no sowbugs or snails or cutworms. Her terrier

fingers destroyed such pests before they could get

started.

Elisa started at the sound of her husband's

voice. He had come near quietly, and he leaned over

the wire fence that protected her flower garden

from cattle and dogs and chickens.

"At it again," he said. "You've got a strong

new crop coming."

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Elisa straightened her back and pulled on

the gardening glove again: "Yes. They'll be strong

this coming year." In her tone and on her face

there was a little smugness.

"You've got a gift with things," Henry

observed. "Some of those yellow chrysanthemums you

had this year were ten inches across. I wish you'd

work out in the orchard and raise some apples that

big."

Her eyes sharpened. "Maybe I could do it,

too. I've a gift with things, all right. My mother

had it. She could stick anything in the ground and

make it grow. She said it was having planters'

hands that knew how to do it."

"Well, it sure works with flowers," he said.

"Henry, who were those men you were talking

to?"

"Why, sure, that's what I came to tell you.

They were from the Western Meat Company. I sold

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those thirty head of three-year-old steers. Got

nearly my own price, too."

"Good," she said. "Good for you."

"And I thought," he continued, "I thought

how it's Saturday afternoon, and we might go into

Salinas for dinner at a restaurant, and then to a

picture show － to celebrate, you see."

"Good," she repeated. "Oh, yes. That will be

good."

Henry put on his joking tone. "There's

fights tonight. How'd you like to go to the

fights?"

"Oh, no," she said breathlessly. "No, I

wouldn't like fights."

"Just fooling, Elisa. We'll go to a movie.

Let's see. It's two now. I'm going to take Scotty

and bring down those steers from the hill. It'll

take us maybe two hours. We'll go in town about

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five and have dinner at the Cominos Hotel. Like

that?"

"Of course I'll like it. It's good to eat

away from home."

"All right, then. I'll go get up a couple of

horses."

She said, "I'll have plenty of time to

transplant some of these sets, I guess."

She heard her husband calling Scotty down by

the barn. And a little later she saw the two men

ride up the pale yellow hillside in search of the

steers.

There was a little square sandy bed kept for

rooting the chrysanthemums. With her trowel she

turned the soil over and over, and smoothed it and

patted it firm. Then she dug ten parallel trenches

to receive the sets. Back at the chrysanthemum bed

she pulled out the little crisp shoots, trimmed off

the leaves of each one with her scissors and laid

it on a small orderly pile.

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A squeak of wheels and plod of hoofs came

from the road. Elisa looked up. The country road

ran along the dense bank of willows and cottonwoods

that bordered the river, and up this road came a

curious vehicle, curiously drawn. It was an old

spring-wagon, with a round canvas top on it like

the cover of a prairie schooner. It was drawn by an

old bay horse and a little grey-and-white burro. A

big stubble-bearded man sat between the cover flaps

and drove the crawling team. Underneath the wagon,

between the hind wheels, a lean and rangy mongrel

dog walked sedately. Words were painted on the

canvas, in clumsy, crooked letters. "Pots, pans,

knives, scissors, lawn mowers. Fixed." Two rows of

articles, and the triumphantly definitive "Fixed"

below. The black paint had run down in little sharp

points beneath each letter.

Elisa, squatting on the ground, watched to

see the crazy, loose-jointed wagon pass by. But it

didn't pass. It turned into the farm road in front

of her house, crooked old wheels skirling and

squeaking. The rangy dog darted from between the

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wheels and ran ahead. Instantly the two ranch

shepherds flew out at him. Then all three stopped,

and with stiff and quivering tails, with taut

straight legs, with ambassadorial dignity, they

slowly circled, sniffing daintily. The caravan

pulled up to Elisa's wire fence and stopped. Now

the newcomer dog, feeling out-numbered, lowered his

tail and retired under the wagon with raised

hackles and bared teeth.

The man on the wagon seat called out,

"That's a bad dog in a fight when he gets started."

Elisa laughed. "I see he is. How soon does

he generally get started?"

The man caught up her laughter and echoed it

heartily. "Sometimes not for weeks and weeks,” he

said. He climbed stiffly down, over the wheel. The

horse and the donkey drooped like unwatered flowers.

Elisa saw that he was a very big man.

Although his hair and beard were greying, he did

not look old. His worn black suit was wrinkled and

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spotted with grease. The laughter had disappeared

from his face and eyes the moment his laughing

voice ceased. His eyes were dark, and they were

full of the brooding that gets in the eyes of

teamsters and of sailors. The calloused hands he

rested on the wire fence were cracked, and every

crack was a black line. He took off his battered

hat.

"I'm off my general road, ma'am," he said.

"Does this dirt road cut over across the river to

the Los Angeles highway?"

Elisa stood up and shoved the thick scissors

in her apron pocket. "Well, yes, it does, but it

winds around and then fords the river. I don't

think your team could pull through the sand."

He replied with some asperity, "It might

surprise you what them beasts can pull through."

"When they get started?" she asked.

He smiled for a second. "Yes. When they get

started."

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"Well," said Elisa, "I think you'll save

time if you go back to the Salinas road and pick up

the highway there."

He drew a big finger down the chicken wire

and made it sing. "I ain't in any hurry, ma'am. I

go from Seattle to San Diego and back every year.

Takes all my time. About six months each way. I aim

to follow nice weather."

Elisa took off her gloves and stuffed them

in the apron pocket with the scissors. She touched

the under edge of her man's hat, searching for

fugitive hairs. "That sounds like a nice kind of a

way to live," she said.

He leaned confidentially over the fence.

"Maybe you noticed the writing on my wagon. I mend

pots and sharpen knives and scissors. You got any

of them things to do?"

"Oh, no," she said quickly. "Nothing like

that." Her eyes hardened with resistance.

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"Scissors is the worst thing," he explained.

"Most people just ruin scissors trying to sharpen

‘em, but I know how. I got a special tool. It's a

little bobbit kind of thing, and patented. But it

sure does the trick."

"No. My scissors are all sharp."

"All right, then. Take a pot," he continued

earnestly, "a bent pot, or a pot with a hole. I can

make it like new so you don't have to buy no new

ones. That's a saving for you."

"No," she said shortly. "I tell you I have

nothing like that for you to do."

His face fell to an exaggerated sadness. His

voice took on a whining undertone. "I ain't had a

thing to do today. Maybe I won't have no supper

tonight. You see I'm off my regular road. I know

folks on the highway clear from Seattle to San

Diego. They save their things for me to sharpen up

because they know I do it so good and save them

money."

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"I'm sorry," Elisa said irritably. "I

haven't anything for you to do."

His eyes left her face and fell to searching

the ground. They roamed about until they came to

the chrysanthemum bed where she had been working.

"What's them plants, ma'am?"

The irritation and resistance melted from

Elisa's face. "Oh, those are chrysanthemums, giant

whites and yellows. I raise them every year, bigger

than anybody around here."

"Kind of a long-stemmed flower? Looks like a

quick puff of colored smoke?" he asked.

"That's it. What a nice way to describe

them."

"They smell kind of nasty till you get used

to them," he said.

"It's a good bitter smell," she retorted,

"not nasty at all."

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He changed his tone quickly. "I like the

smell myself."

"I had ten-inch blooms this year," she said.

The man leaned farther over the fence. "Look.

I know a lady down the road a piece, has got the

nicest garden you ever seen. Got nearly every kind

of flower but no chrysanthemums. Last time I was

mending a copper-bottom washtub for her (that's a

hard job but I do it good), she said to me, 'If you

ever run across some nice chrysanthemums I wish

you'd try to get me a few seeds.' That's what she

told me.”

Elisa's eyes grew alert and eager. "She

couldn't have known much about chrysanthemums. You

can raise them from seed, but it's much easier to

root the little sprouts you see there."

"Oh," he said. "I s'pose I can't take none

to her, then."

"Why yes you can," Elisa cried. "I can put

some in damp sand, and you can carry them right

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along with you. They'll take root in the pot if you

keep them damp. And then she can transplant them."

"She'd sure like to have some, ma'am. You

say they're nice ones?"

"Beautiful," she said. "Oh, beautiful." Her

eyes shone. She tore off the battered hat and shook

out her dark pretty hair. "I'll put them in a

flower pot, and you can take them right with you.

Come into the yard."

While the man came through the picket gate

Elisa ran excitedly along the geranium-bordered

path to the back of the house. And she returned

carrying a big red flower pot. The gloves were

forgotten now. she kneeled on the ground by the

starting bed and dug up the sandy soil with her

fingers and scooped it into the bright new flower

pot. Then she picked up the little pile of shoots

she had prepared. With her strong fingers she

pressed them into the sand and tamped around them

with her knuckles. The man stood over her. "I'll

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tell you what to do," she said. "You remember so

you can tell the lady."

"Yes, I'll try to remember."

"Well, look. These will take root in about a

month. Then she must set them out, about a foot

apart in good rich earth like this, see?" She

lifted a handful of dark soil for him to look at.

"They'll grow fast and tall. Now remember this: In

July tell her to cut them down, about eight inches

from the ground."

"Before they bloom?" he asked.

"Yes, before they bloom." Her face was tight

with eagerness. "They'll grow right up again. About

the last of September the buds will start."

She stopped and seemed perplexed. "It's the

budding that takes the most care," she said

hesitantly. "I don't know how to tell you." She

looked deep into his eyes, searchingly. Her mouth

opened a little, and she seemed to be listening.

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"I'll try to tell you,” she said. “Did you ever

hear of planting hands?"

"Can't say I have, ma'am."

"Well, I can only tell you what it feels

like. It's when you're picking off the buds you

don't want. Everything goes right down into your

fingertips. You watch your fingers work. They do it

themselves. You can feel how it is. They pick and

pick the buds. They never make a mistake. They're

with the plant. Do you see? Your fingers and the

plant. You can feel that, right up your arm. They

know. They never make a mistake. You can feel it.

When you're like that you can't do anything wrong.

Do you see that? Can you understand that?"

She was kneeling on the ground looking up at

him. Her breast swelled passionately.

The man's eyes narrowed. He looked away

self-consciously. "Maybe I know," he said.

"Sometimes in the night in the wagon there －"

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Elisa's voice grew husky. She broke in on

him, "I've never lived as you do, but I know what

you mean. When the night is dark － why, the stars

are sharp-pointed, and there's quiet. Why, you rise

up and up! Every pointed star gets driven into your

body. It's like that. Hot and sharp and － lovely."

Kneeling there, her hand went out toward his

legs in the greasy black trousers. Her hesitant

fingers almost touched the cloth. Then her hand

dropped to the ground. She crouched low like a

fawning dog.

He said, "it's nice, just like you say. Only

when you don't have no dinner, it ain't."

She stood up then, very straight, and her

face was ashamed. She held the flower pot out to

him and placed it gently in his arms. "Here. Put it

in your wagon, on the seat, where you can watch it.

Maybe I can find something for you to do."

At the back of the house she dug in the can

pile and found two old and battered aluminum

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saucepans. She carried them back and gave them to

him. "Here, maybe you can fix these."

His manner changed. He became professional.

"Good as new I can fix them." At the back of his

wagon he set a little anvil, and out of an oily

tool box dug a small machine hammer. Elisa came

through the gate to watch him while he pounded out

the dents in the kettles. His mouth grew sure and

knowing. At a difficult part of the work he sucked

his under-lip.

"You sleep right in the wagon?" Elisa asked.

"Right in the wagon, ma'am. Rain or shine

I'm dry as a cow in there."

"It must be nice," she said. "It must be

very nice. I wish women could do such things."

"It ain't the right kind of a life for a

woman."

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Her upper lip raised a little, showing her

teeth. "How do you know? How can you tell?" she

said.

"I don't know, ma'am," he protested. "Of

course I don't know. Now here's your kettles, done.

You don't have to buy no new ones."

"How much?"

"Oh, fifty cents'll do. I keep my prices

down and my work good. That's why I have all them

satisfied customers up and down the highway."

Elisa brought him a fifty-cent piece from

the house and dropped it in his hand. "You might be

surprised to have a rival some time. I can sharpen

scissors, too. And I can beat the dents out of

little pots. I could show you what a woman might

do."

He put his hammer back in the oily box and

shoved the little anvil out of sight. "It would be

a lonely life for a woman, ma'am, and a scarey life,

too, with animals creeping under the wagon all

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night." He climbed over the singletree, steadying

himself with a hand on the burro's white rump. He

settled himself in the seat, picked up the lines.

"Thank you kindly, ma'am," he said. "I'll do like

you told me; I'll go back and catch the Salinas

road."

"Mind," she called, "if you're long in

getting there, keep the sand damp."

"Sand, ma'am?...sand? Oh, sure. You mean

around the chrysanthemums. Sure I will." He clucked

his tongue. The beasts leaned luxuriously into

their collars. The mongrel dog took his place

between the back wheels. The wagon turned and

crawled out the entrance road and back the way it

had come, along the river.

Elisa stood in front of her wire fence

watching the slow progress of the caravan. Her

shoulders were straight, her head thrown back, her

eyes half-closed, so that the scene came vaguely

into them. Her lips moved silently, forming the

words "Good-bye － good-bye." Then she whispered,

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"That's a bright direction. There's a glowing

there." The sound of her whisper startled her. She

shook herself free and looked about to see whether

anyone had been listening. Only the dogs had heard.

They lifted their heads toward her from their

sleeping in the dust, and then stretched out their

chins and settled asleep again. Elisa turned and

ran hurriedly into the house.

In the kitchen she reached behind the stove

and felt the water tank. It was full of hot water

from the noonday cooking. In the bathroom she tore

off her soiled clothes and flung them into the

corner. And then she scrubbed herself with a little

block of pumice, legs and thighs, loins and chest

and arms, until her skin was scratched and red.

When she had dried herself she stood in front of a

mirror in her bedroom and looked at her body. She

tightened her stomach and threw out her chest. She

turned and looked over her shoulder at her back.

After a while she began to dress, slowly.

She put on her newest underclothing and her nicest

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stockings and the dress which was the symbol of her

prettiness. She worked carefully on her hair,

penciled her eyebrows and rouged her lips.

Before she was finished she heard the little

thunder of hoofs and the shouts of Henry and his

helper as they drove the red steers into the corral.

She heard the gate bang shut and set herself for

Henry's arrival.

His step sounded on the porch. He entered

the house calling, "Elisa, where are you?"

"In my room, dressing. I'm not ready.

There's hot water for your bath. Hurry up. It's

getting late."

When she heard him splashing in the tub,

Elisa laid his dark suit on the bed, and shirt and

socks and tie beside it. She stood his polished

shoes on the floor beside the bed. Then she went to

the porch and sat primly and stiffly down. She

looked toward the river road where the willow-line

was still yellow with frosted leaves so that under

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the high grey fog they seemed a thin band of

sunshine. This was the only color in the grey

afternoon. She sat unmoving for a long time. Her

eyes blinked rarely.

Henry came banging out of the door, shoving

his tie inside his vest as he came. Elisa stiffened

and her face grew tight. Henry stopped short and

looked at her. "Why － why, Elisa. You look so

nice!"

"Nice? You think I look nice? What do you

mean by 'nice'?"

Henry blundered on. "I don't know. I mean

you look different, strong and happy."

"I am strong? Yes, strong. What do you mean

'strong'?"

He looked bewildered. "You're playing some

kind of a game," he said helplessly. "It's a

kind of a play. You look strong enough to break a

calf over your knee, happy enough to eat it like a

watermelon."

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For a second she lost her rigidity. "Henry!

Don't talk like that. You didn't know what you

said." She grew complete again. "I'm strong," she

boasted. "I never knew before how strong."

Henry looked down toward the tractor shed,

and when he brought his eyes back to her, they were

his own again. "I'll get out the car. You can put

on your coat while I'm starting."

Elisa went into the house. She heard him

drive to the gate and idle down his motor, and then

she took a long time to put on her hat. She pulled

it here and pressed it there. When Henry turned the

motor off she slipped into her coat and went out.

The little roadster bounced along on the

dirt road by the river, raising the birds and

driving the rabbits into the brush. Two cranes

flapped heavily over the willow-line and dropped

into the river-bed.

Far ahead on the road Elisa saw a dark speck.

She knew.

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She tried not to look as they passed it, but

her eyes would not obey. She whispered to herself

sadly, "He might have thrown them off the road.

That wouldn't have been much trouble, not very much.

But he kept the pot," she explained. "He had to

keep the pot. That's why he couldn't get them off

the road."

The roadster turned a bend and she saw the

caravan ahead. She swung full around toward her

husband so she could not see the little covered

wagon and the mismatched team as the car passed

them.

In a moment it was over. The thing was done.

She did not look back.

She said loudly, to be heard above the motor,

"It will be good, tonight, a good dinner."

"Now you're changed again," Henry complained.

He took one hand from the wheel and patted her knee.

"I ought to take you in to dinner oftener. It would

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be good for both of us. We get so heavy out on the

ranch."

"Henry," she asked, "could we have wine at

dinner?"

"Sure we could. Say! That will be fine."

She was silent for a while; then she said,

"Henry, at those prize fights, do the men hurt each

other very much?"

"Sometimes a little, not often. Why?"

"Well, I've read how they break noses, and blood

runs down their chests. I've read how the fighting

gloves get heavy and soggy with blood."

He looked around at her. "What's the matter,

Elisa? I didn't know you read things like that." He

brought the car to a stop, then turned to the right

over the Salinas River bridge.

"Do any women ever go to the fights?" she

asked.

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"Oh, sure, some. What's the matter, Elisa?

Do you want to go? I don't think you'd like it, but

I'll take you if you really want to go."

She relaxed limply in the seat. "Oh, no. No.

I don't want to go. I'm sure I don't." Her face was

turned away from him. "It will be enough if we can

have wine. It will be plenty." She turned up her

coat collar so he could not see that she was crying

weakly － like an old woman.

(4272 words)

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菊花

约翰·斯坦贝克

年轻媳妇伊利莎住在一家偏僻的农场，一手高超的种花技能令她自豪。一天，她突然有了与外界交流的愿望。有什么故事发生呢？请您往下看。

飘荡在半空中的冬雾呈现出灰法兰绒，将萨利纳斯山谷严实地罩了起来；同时也把它与外界分隔开。雾气锁着山头，四面象顶盖子，而山谷则成了一口盖得严严实实的 深锅。农民在宽阔平坦的土地上深耕，犁铧过处，黑的土地闪着金属的光泽。在横卧萨利纳斯河的丘陵地上，农场里的茬地泛着黄，象是沐浴在冷冷的苍白日光下；不过，现在时至腊月，山谷里没什么阳光。河边上密密麻麻的柳丛上的黄叶颜鲜浓，象着了火似的。

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这是一个安静，叫人等待的季节。空气凉凉的，柔柔的。从西南方向吹来一阵轻风，农民们隐隐地感到不久会有一场及时雨，但雨和雾是不 一起来的。

河对岸亨利·埃伦家位于丘陵上的农场里已经没什么活计了：干草都收割过并存放了起来，果园业已深翻过，好等到有雨的时候浇个透底墒。高处山坡上的牛变得毛皮杂乱粗糙。

伊利莎·埃伦正在花园里干活儿，穿过院子朝远处望时，她看见丈夫亨利正在与两个身着工作服的人交谈。三个人都站在拖拉机棚边上，一只脚蹬在那辆小型福特牌拖拉机的一侧。说话的时候，他们边抽着烟，边打量拖拉机。

伊利莎看了他们一会儿，又继续忙自己的活儿。她今年三十五岁，脸庞瘦俏并透着坚毅，一双眼睛清澈如水。由于穿着园艺工作服，她显得鼓囊囊 的、有点儿笨拙。她头上戴着一顶男式的黑帽子，拉得很低，直到她的眼睛。脚上是一双粗笨的鞋子。下面穿的印花裙子几乎全给那个大号的灯心绒围裙遮盖了起来。围裙上有四个大口__________________________________________________

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袋，用来放她干活时用的剪刀、泥铲、刮管器、种子和刀。干活时她戴着厚厚的皮手套，免得弄伤手。

她这会儿正用一把锋利的小剪子把去年的菊花枝剪短，还不时朝站在拖拉机棚边上的三个男人望一望。她的脸上充满着渴望，看起来成熟漂亮——甚至连她拿着剪刀干活的样子都显得那么有力，饱含期待，以至于那些菊花的枯杆相比之下都显得纤细柔弱，容易收拾了。

她用手套的背部将眼前的一绺乌发抹开，一点污渍就留在了她的脸颊上。她身后是整洁的白农舍，红的天竺葵紧紧地簇拥着，直到窗户附近。看得出这座不大的屋子好好打扫过，窗户也曾细心地擦拭过，就连前面台阶上的擦鞋垫都收拾得干干净净。

伊利莎又朝拖拉机棚的方向看了一眼，那些陌生人正钻进他们的福特牌小客车里。她脱掉一只手套，将自己有力的手指伸到从老的菊花根部新生的一丛幼苗里，然后分开叶子，在长得郁郁葱葱的幼苗里查看。里面蚜虫、潮虫、蜗牛、毛虫什么的都没有。如果真有的话，她那犀利无比的手指也会在这些害虫逃跑之前就将它们消灭。

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听到丈夫的声音，伊利莎吃了一惊。原来他已经悄悄地走到了她的旁边，从铁丝栅栏那边俯过身来。铁丝栅栏把她的花园圈了起来，免得牛呀，狗呀，鸡呀这些家畜糟蹋。

“又侍弄你的花儿啦，”他说，“它们今年长势好啊。”

听到丈夫搭话，伊利莎直起身，顺手把那只手套又戴上：“对，今年长势会很好。”不管是言语中还是脸上都洋溢着得意。

“你干活儿很有一手，”亨利说，“你今年种的黄菊花中有的有十英寸那么大，真希望你去侍弄果园，也结出那么大的苹果来。”

她的眼睛一亮。“或许我也能。我的确在种植方面有一手，我妈妈也是那样。她随便把什么东西往地下一

插，就能活。她说是因为有了庄稼人的手才知道怎么去种植。”

“嗯，种花也是这样的，”他说。

“亨利，刚才同你说话的那些人是谁呀？”

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“啊，对了，我正要跟你说呢。他们是西部肉制品公司的。我把那三十头三岁的菜牛买给他们，差不多是我要的价格。”

“太好了，”她说，“真有你的。”

“我想，”他接着说，“现在是周六下午，我们可以去萨利纳斯的一家饭店吃顿饭，再去看场电影，庆祝一下，你看怎么样。”

“太好了，”她重复道。“真是好极了。”

亨利接着开玩笑说，“今天晚上有拳击赛，你愿意看吗？”

“不，”她紧张地说，“我可不喜欢拳击赛。”

“骗你哪，伊利莎。我们去看电影。让我想一下，现在是下午两点，我去叫斯哥迪，把牛赶下山。这大概要两个钟头。我们会在五点钟到城里，去克民诺斯酒店吃晚饭。你觉得怎么样？”

“当然可以，在外面吃饭好。”

“那好，我去准备几匹马。”

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“我想我会有充裕的时间把这些苗儿种上的。”伊利莎说。

继而，她听到丈夫在谷仓那儿叫斯哥迪。又过了一会儿，她看见他们两个骑着马，走上灰黄的山坡菜牛。

花园里有一块四四方方的沙地，是用来种菊花幼苗的。她用泥铲把土翻了又翻，又弄平，再拍结实。然后又挖了十道平行的小沟，好栽种菊苗。她从菊花园里拔了些脆嫩的幼苗，用剪刀剪掉叶子，然后整齐地放在一起。

路边这时传来了车轮的吱嘎声和马蹄的声响。伊利莎抬起了头。河边上密密麻麻的柳树和杨树旁是条乡间小路，沿着这条路来了一辆奇怪的车，走的样子很怪。那是一辆老式的带弹簧的四轮马车，上面的帆布圆顶子象是拓荒者用的大篷车的顶篷。拉着它的是匹栗的马和一头灰白的小毛驴。在车顶盖的下面坐着个胡子拉碴的人，赶着这辆车往前爬行。在马车后轮之间，一条瘦骨嶙峋的长腿狗不声不响地跟着。车蓬的上面歪歪扭扭地写着“修理锅、罐、刀、剪子、割草机”。修理的器皿写了两行，“修理”两个字在下面，显得很自信。写字用的黑颜料在每个字母下面都流成了一个 个小尖头。

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伊利莎蹲在地上，看着这辆怪模怪样、松松垮垮的马车驶过去。但它并没有从她的眼前过去，而是弯上了经过她家门前的农场小路，破旧的车轮吱嘎吱嘎尖厉地响着。车下面轮子间的那条瘦骨嶙峋的长腿狗冲到了马车的前面，马上，两条牧羊犬朝着它冲了上去。于是，三条狗都站住了，尾巴直竖着、颤抖着，绷紧了腿，带着外交官般的庄重神情。它们互相围着打转，挑剔地嗅着对方。大篷车在伊利莎家的铁丝栅栏边上停了下来。那条初来乍到的狗这时感觉到 数量上的众寡悬殊，垂下尾巴，退回到车下，脖子上的毛竖着，牙齿露在外面。

坐在车上的男人喊道，“这条狗打架受惊时不是条好狗。”

伊利莎笑道，“我看是的，它一般要多久就会受惊？”

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那人被伊利莎的笑声感染，也大声地笑了起来。“有时好几周也不会，”他说。说着，他生硬地从车轮上爬下车。那匹马和那头毛驴耷拉着脑袋，象缺了水的花。

伊利莎看得出他是个大块头，虽然头发胡子都白了，却并不显老。褴褛的黑西装皱皱巴巴的，还有星星点点的油渍。笑声一停，他眼角眉梢的笑容也顿时没了。他双眼乌黑，充满忧郁，这种眼神通常只出现在卡车司机或水手的眼里。他放在铁丝栅栏上的手打满了老茧，裂着一条条黑乎乎的口子。他脱下了那顶破烂的帽子。

“夫人，我走岔路了，”他说，“沿这条土路过河上得了去洛山矶的公路吗？”

伊利莎站了起来，把那把大剪子放到围裙口袋里。“啊，上得了。不过，这条路要绕很远，然后还要从水中蹚过河，我想你很难走过那片沙滩。”

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他粗暴地回答，“要是你知道这些家伙都走过什么样的地方，或许会吃惊的。”

“一旦它们受惊吗？”她问。

他笑了一笑。“是的，一旦它们受惊。”

“嗯，”伊利莎说，“我想，要是你拐回去到萨利纳斯的路，再从那儿上公路，会省些时间。”

他用一个大手指弹了一下栅栏，它响了起来。“我一点儿都不着急，夫人。我每年从西雅图走到圣地亚哥，再回来，总是不慌不忙。一趟大概半年光景，哪儿的天气好我就往哪儿走。”

伊利莎脱下手套，把它们放在装着剪子的围裙口袋里。她碰了碰自己那顶男式帽子的底沿，看有没有头发从里面跑出来。“听起来很不错的活法，”她说。

他把身子弯向栅栏里面，显出很亲密的样子，说，“或许你看到了我马车上的那些字，我修理锅，磨剪子磨菜刀。你有什么东西要修吗？”

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“哦，没有，”她忙说。“没什么要修的。”她的眼神坚定起来，透出拒绝的神情。

“剪子是最难对付的东西，”他解释说。“大部分人只知道拼命磨它，结果却糟蹋了它，可我知道怎么能把剪子磨快又不糟蹋它。我有专门的工具，是一件小玩意儿，还取得了专利，好用得很。”

“不过，我的剪子都很快。”

“那好吧。”他继续劝说着，“拿口锅修修吧，不管是瘪了的还是有洞的，我都能修得象新的一样，这样你就不用买新锅了。这你不是省钱了吗？”

“不用，”她简短地答道。“我告诉过你我没什么要修的东西。”

他的脸顿时变得一种夸张的痛苦，就连声音也变得呜咽了。“我今天一件活儿都没干成，或许今晚饭都吃不上。你看我走错了路，我认识从西雅图到圣地亚歌沿途所有的人，他们都把那些坏的家伙放起来等我来修，因为他们知道我活儿干得好，给他们省钱。”

“对不起，”伊利莎有些着恼。“我没什么东西好让你修。”

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他的目光离开了她的脸，落到了地上，四处瞥了瞥，最后停到伊利莎忙碌着的那片菊花地上。“夫人，那些是什么呀？”

听到这话，伊利莎脸上的恼怒和拒绝缓和了。“啊，那是菊花，巨白菊和黄菊。我每年都种，开起来比方圆左近的人种的都大。”

“是一种长茎花吗？看起来象是一朵彩烟雾？”他问。

“正是，你这样比喻太恰当了。”

“要是不习惯它的香味，闻起来有点儿难受，”他说。

“那是一种好闻的苦香，”她反驳道，“一点儿也不难受。”

他马上改了口。“我就很喜欢那种香味。”

“我今年有直径十英寸那么大的花，”她说。

那人又朝栅栏里边靠了靠。“喂，我认识下面离这儿不远的一位太太，从没见过那么好的花园，里面几乎什么花儿都有，就是没有菊花。我上次给她修了一个铜底洗__________________________________________________

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衣盆。那可是件棘手的活儿，不过我干得很好。她跟我说，‘如果你能碰上什么好的菊花，希望你能给我带点儿种子来。’她这么跟我说。”

伊利莎眼睛一亮，变得热切起来。"她不可能知道很多关于菊花的知识。你可以下种，但插幼苗的方法更容易，就是你在那边看到的那些。”

“啊，”他叫道。“这样的话，我估计一棵也给她带不去了。”

“为什么不能？你可以，”伊利莎大声说，“我可以把幼苗种在湿的沙土里，你就可以随身带着了。只要保持沙土不干，这些幼苗就会在花盆里生根，然后她就可以移栽它们了。”

“她肯定很高兴有这些菊花，夫人。它们是很漂亮的菊花，对吧？”

“漂亮，”她说，“啊，非常漂亮。”她的双眼这会儿炯炯有神。她一把拉下了那顶破旧的帽子，乌黑漂亮的头发散了开来。“我把它们栽到一个花盆里，你再带走。到院里来吧。”

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那男人进了尖木桩做的大门，而伊利莎兴奋地沿着两边都是天竺葵的小路跑到房子后面，回来的时候抱着一个大个儿的红花盆。手套已经不知道扔哪儿去了。她跪在苗床旁的地上，用手指挖些沙土，然后捧到那个新的红花盆里。接着她捡起准备好的一小捆苗，用自己有力的手指将它们插到沙子里，然后再用指节在周围拍了拍。男人低头看着她。“我会告诉你怎么做的，”她说。“你得记着，好告诉那位太太。”

“好的，我尽力记住。”

“那好，记着，这些幼苗会在一个月左右扎根。然后她就得把它们移栽出来，移到象这样肥沃的土壤里，每隔一英尺种一棵，你明白吗？”她抓起一满把黑的土壤让他看。“它们会长得很快很高。你记着：告诉她七月的时候把它们剪短，剪到距地面大概八英寸高。”

“在它们开花前吗?”他问。

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“是的，在开花前。”她的脸因为兴奋绷得紧紧的。“它们很快就会长起来；九月末就开始打花骨朵了。”

她停了下来，好像有点儿不知所措。“打苞的时候最需要好好照看，”她欲言又止地说。“我不知道该怎么对你说。”她凝视着他的眼睛，好像在寻什么。她的嘴微微张着，象是倾听什么回答。“我给你讲讲看，”她说。“你听说过庄稼里手吗？”

“我想没有，夫人。”

“那么，我只能给你说说那是什么感觉。那是在你摘掉那些多余花蕾的时候。一切都聚集到你的手指里，你看着自己手指的活计。它们在自己干着活儿，你能感觉到那是怎么一回事儿。它们在不停地摘着，摘着，不出一点儿差错。它们与庄稼是天生的搭档，你明白吗？庄稼和手指间。你可以感觉到，一直到你的手臂。它们知道该怎么做，从不出错。你可以感觉到。只要这样，你就不会出什么错。你明白吗？你听懂了吗?”

她跪在那里，朝上看着他，胸脯激动得涨了来。

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那个男人眯起了眼。好像自己意识到什么，朝远处看了看。“或许我理解，”他说。“有时候，晚上，在马车里……”

伊利莎的声音变得有些沙哑，她打断他说，“我从没象你那样生活过，但我知道你的意思。天黑的时候——啊，星亮闪闪的，周遭一片寂静。你觉得自己愈来愈高，每一颗亮闪闪的星星都融入自己身体里。就是那样。热热的，亮亮的——美极了。”

她跪在那儿，她的手朝他穿着脏兮兮的黑裤子的腿伸了去。她迟疑不决的手指几乎碰到了他的裤子。接着她的手垂了下去。她蜷缩在地上,象只摇尾乞怜的狗。

他说，“对，就象你说的，那很美。只要不是没有晚饭吃。”

听到这些她站了起来。腰挺得很直，脸上有些羞愧。她将花盆抱出来，轻轻地放在他的怀里。“好，放在你的车上，放到座位上，这样你就可以看着它。或许我能些东西来你修一下。”

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她在屋后的罐子堆里很了一通，到了两个破旧的铝炖锅。她拿着它们回来交给他。“喂，或许你可以把这些东西修一下。”

他的样子为之一变，显得很专业。“我会把它们修得跟新的一样。”他在马车的后面支起了一个铁砧，然后从一个油乎乎的工具箱里鼓捣出一个小机锤。伊利莎走出大门，看他将锅上的凹痕敲平。他的嘴巴显得自信，踌躇满志。活儿不好干的时候，他就咬着下嘴唇。

“你就在马车里睡觉吗？”伊利莎问。

“就在马车里，夫人。下雨也好，天晴也好，我身上都不会湿。”

“那肯定很棒，”她说。“肯定美极了。我希望女人也能这样生活。”

“这种生活不适合女人。”

她的上唇轻轻地一扬，露出了牙齿。“你怎么知道？你怎么能这样说？”她说。

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“我不知道，夫人。”他不满地说。”当然我不知道。好，你的锅好了，你不用买新的了。”

“多少钱？”

“啊，五十美分好了。我的要价一向很低，但活儿是高质量的。所以沿途的客户对我都很满意。”

伊利莎从屋里拿了五十美分放到他手里。“如果你发现自己有个对手可能会大吃一惊，。我也能让剪子锋利起来。而且我也能弄平小锅上的凹痕。我可以让你见识一下一个女人能干些什么。”

他把锤子放回了那个油乎乎的工具箱，然后胡乱把那个小铁砧放到看不见的地方。“夫人，对于一个女人来说，每天晚上都躺在马车上，下面蜷缩着牲畜，这种生活太寂寞而且叫人害怕。”他爬到马车前的横木上，一只手放在毛驴白的屁股上，让自己坐稳。他把自己安顿到座位上，拿起缰绳。“非常感谢，夫人，”他说。“我会按你交代我的去做。回去上萨利纳斯的公路。”

“记着，”她喊道，“要是到那儿时间很久，要保持沙土湿润。”

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“沙土，夫人？……沙土？哦，当然。你是说菊花根部吧，我肯定会的。”他的舌头发出咯咯的声音。那两匹牲口舒服地在它们的轭上靠着。那条狗站在两个后轮间。马车调了头，慢慢地从来的入口徐徐出去，上了来时沿河的那条路。

伊利莎站在铁栅栏前，看着大篷车慢慢走远。她直起身子，头往后仰着，双眼微微闭着，眼前的景也因此变得模模糊糊。她的双唇无声地动着，说“再见——再见”。然后她低声道，“那边霞光万丈，多么 亮啊。”这声音吓了她一跳。她摇摇头让自己清醒过来，四处看看是不是有人在听。只有那几条狗听见了，它们睡在地上，朝伊利莎抬起头，伸长了下巴，然后又倒下睡了。伊利莎转过身，匆匆跑进了屋里。

在厨房里，她把手伸到炉子后面，摸摸水箱。里面盛满了热水，是中午做饭时烧热的。她走进浴室，脱掉脏衣服，扔到墙角；然后用一小块浮石擦洗起身子来，腿、腰、胸、胳膊，直到皮肤擦得红红的，留下一道道擦痕。她把身上的水弄干，站在卧室里的镜子前，端详着自己的身体。她收腹挺胸，然后又转过头从肩膀上看自己的后背。

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过了一会儿她开始穿衣服，穿得很慢。她穿上自己的新内衣，最精致的长袜，还有那件象征她的美丽的裙子。她仔细地梳理着头发，描眉，涂口红。

还没等她收拾好，外面传来了马蹄的得得声。亨利同他的伙计吆喝着往牲口圈里赶牛。听到大门砰的一声关上，她准备好，等着亨利过来。

走廊上传来亨利的脚步声，他走到屋里喊道，“伊利莎，你在哪儿？”

“在我屋里穿衣服呢，还没好呢。你洗澡的热水好了，快点儿洗，没有时间了。”

伊利莎听到亨利在浴盆里哗啦哗啦的洗澡声，把他的黑西服放在床上，边上是他的衬衫、袜子和领带。她把擦亮的鞋子摆放在床边的地板上，然后来到走廊上，一本正经地坐在那儿，显得有些呆滞。她朝河边的路上看去，那儿的柳叶上挂着霜，依然泛着黄，因而在半空的灰白雾气笼罩下，这一带柳树好象是道薄薄的阳光。这是整__________________________________________________

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个灰下午唯一的彩。她一动不动地坐了很久， 很少眨眼睛。

亨利出来时砰的一声关门，边走边往马甲里塞领带。伊利莎直起身子，脸也绷紧了。亨利蓦地停下来盯着她。“嘿，伊利莎，你看起来真棒！”

“棒？你觉得我很棒？‘很棒’是什么意思？”

“我不知道。我是说你看起来有些不一样，强壮、快活。”亨利结结巴巴地说。

“强壮？是的，我很强壮。这又是什么意思？”

他显得有些迷惑不解。“你在玩儿什么游戏，”他无可奈何地说。“你在玩游戏。你显得很强壮，可以在你的膝盖上劈死一头小牛；又很高兴，能象吃个大西瓜那样把它吃掉。”

一时间她僵硬的神情没了。“亨利！别那样说。你不知道你在说什么。”她又恢复了原来的样子。“我很强__________________________________________________