［翻译］伍尔夫――A Haunted House

A Haunted House

鬼屋

Whatever hour you woke there was a door shutting. From room to room they went, hand in hand, lifting here, opening there, making sure—a ghostly couple.

不论你何时醒来，都会听到有扇门正在关上。他们从这间走到那间，手拉手，这挪挪，那找找，到处摸摸――是一对鬼夫妻。

“Here we left it,” she said. And he added, “Oh, but here too!” “It’s upstairs,” she murmured. “And in the garden,” he whispered “Quietly,” they said, “or we shall wake them.”

“留在了这，”她说。他应道，“噢，还有这！” “楼上也有，”她呢喃着。“还有花园，”他小声回应“轻点，”“不然要吵醒他们。”他们相互告知。

But it wasn’t that you woke us. Oh, no. “They’re looking for it; they’re drawing the curtain,” one might say, and so read on a page or two. “Now they’ve found it,” one would be certain, stopping the pencil on the margin. And then, tired of reading, one might rise and see for oneself, the house all empty, the doors standing open, only the wood pigeons bubbling with content and the hum of the threshing machine sounding from the farm. “What did I come in here for? What did I want to find?” My hands were empty. “Perhaps it’s upstairs then?” The apples were in the loft. And so down again, the garden still as ever, only the book had slipped into the grass.

不是你们说话的声音吵醒了我们。哦，确实不是。“他们在找着什么；他们拉窗帘了，”有人可能会说，然后继续读一两页。“现在他们找到想找的东西了，”他会很确定，顺手把笔搁在页边上。最后读厌了，他也许会起身看看是否真的有这回事――房子是空的，门都打开着, 只听见林鸽欢快的咕咕声和农场上打谷机的嗡嗡声。“我到这来干嘛？我要找什么？”我的两手空空。“可能上楼了吧？”苹果就在阁楼上。但他们又下楼了。花园里安静如常，只有书不小心滑到草里的声音。

But they had found it in the drawing room. Not that one could ever see them. The window panes reflected apples, reflected roses; all the leaves were green in the glass. If they moved in the drawing room, the apple only turned its yellow side. Yet, the moment after, if the door was opened, spread about the floor, hung upon the walls, pendant from the ceiling—what? My hands were empty. The shadow of a thrush crossed the carpet; from the deepest wells of silence the wood pigeon drew its bubble of sound. “Safe, safe, safe,” the pulse of the house beat softly. “The treasure buried; the room . . . ” the pulse stopped short. Oh, was that the buried treasure?

他们最后在客厅找到了。他永远都看不到他们。窗玻璃上映着苹果，也映着蔷薇；叶子还是绿的。如果客厅里有他们走动，苹果树叶会变得枯黄。开门那一刹那，看到影子躺在地上，挂在墙上，悬在天花板上――我到底要找什么？我的手是空的。地毯上遛过一只画眉的影子；从深井般的寂静里那只林鸽又开始咕咕叫。“无恙，无恙，无恙，”房子的脉搏在轻微跳动。“宝藏埋了；房间……”脉搏猛地停住。噢，那就是埋下的宝藏吗？

A moment later the light had faded. Out in the garden then? But the trees spun darkness for a wandering beam of sun. So fine, so rare, coolly sunk beneath the surface the beam I sought always burnt behind the glass. Death was the glass; death was between us; coming to the woman first, hundreds of years ago, leaving the house, sealing all the windows; the rooms were darkened. He left it, left her, went North, went East, saw the stars turned in the Southern sky; sought the house, found it dropped beneath the Downs. “Safe, safe, safe,” the pulse of the house beat gladly. “The Treasure yours.”

一会儿之后，灯光随他们渐渐隐去。去花园了吧？光线游走，树编织着黑暗。精美的光丝偶尔才这样冷冷地躺在地上，以往我总是得在玻璃后追逐着它。死亡是玻璃；死亡横在你我之间。几百年以前，是女人先把窗户统统封上，想要离开。房间从此不见光亮。他离开它，离开她，去北方，去东边，看着南方夜空星辰流转。又回来寻找房子，在山丘脚下找到被遗落的它。“无恙，无恙，无恙，”房子的脉搏欢快地跳着。“宝藏是你们的。”

瞎配张图

The wind roars up the avenue. Trees stoop and bend this way and that. Moonbeams splash and spill wildly in the rain. But the beam of the lamp falls straight from the window. The candle burns stiff and still. Wandering through the house, opening the windows, whispering not to wake us, the ghostly couple seek their joy.

风呼啸着旋上林荫道。树都弯了腰，相互纠缠着。月光倾倒，在雨里肆意迸溅。他们手里的灯光径直从窗里照到街上。蜡烛就那样静静燃着。在房子里慢步，打开窗户，轻声细语地不敢惊醒我们。鬼夫妻寻找他们的快乐。

“Here we slept,” she says. And he adds, “Kisses without number.” “Waking in the morning—” “Silver between the trees—” “Upstairs—” “In the garden—” “When summer came—” “In winter snowtime—” The doors go shutting far in the distance, gently knocking like the pulse of a heart.

“我们以前就睡这，”她说。“还有无数个吻”他回忆着。“在早晨醒来――”“树隙里的银光――”“楼上――”“花园里――”“每次夏天到了――”“下雪的冬天――”远处的门要关上了，轻柔的合门声就像心的微动。

Nearer they come; cease at the doorway. The wind falls, the rain slides silver down the glass. Our eyes darken; we hear no steps beside us; we see no lady spread her ghostly cloak. His hands shield the lantern. “Look,” he breathes. “Sound asleep. Love upon their lips.”

他们越来越近；在门口停住。风渐渐息了，镜子里的雨闪着银光缓缓滑落。我们只看到了黑暗，听不到靠近的脚步, 没看到她鬼魅的斗篷。他的手罩着提灯。“看哪，”他舒了口气。“熟睡呢。唇上还有爱的痕迹。”

Stooping, holding their silver lamp above us, long they look and deeply. Long they pause. The wind drives straightly; the flame stoops slightly. Wild beams of moonlight cross both floor and wall, and, meeting, stain the faces bent; the faces pondering; the faces that search the sleepers and seek their hidden joy.

弯下腰，他们提银灯照着我们，看了很久，看得入神。就这样过了好久。风径直吹来；灯焰轻轻抖了抖。月的光线随意地散在地板和墙壁上，然后相遇，晕染着这两张脸――向下，琢磨着的脸。他们探寻着沉睡，寻探着幸福。

“Safe, safe, safe,” the heart of the house beats proudly. “Long years—” he sighs. “Again you found me.” “Here,” she murmurs, “sleeping; in the garden reading; laughing, rolling apples in the loft. Here we left our treasure—” Stooping, their light lifts the lids upon my eyes. “Safe! safe! safe!” the pulse of the house beats wildly. Waking, I cry “Oh, is this your buried treasure? The light in the heart.”

“无恙，无恙，无恙，”房子的心得意地跳着。“很久了――”他叹道。“你又找到了我。”“在这，”她低语着，“睡着觉；在花园里读着书；在阁楼上大笑，滚苹果。我们把宝藏留在了这――”又弯身，他们的灯照得我睁开了眼。“无恙！无恙！无恙！”房子的脉搏变得激动。醒来，我叫道“噢，这就是你们埋的宝藏吗？心中的烛光。”

［作者应该不止一次看见这对鬼夫妻。前五段是过去时，应该是描述之前的经历；剩下的是现在时，应该描述现在的经历。

这篇是伍尔夫早期写的实验性小说，从中可以看出她追求素净的文字。除了鬼夫妻和我，伍尔夫把读者也写了进去（内心表示拒绝O_o），所以看上去有点乱。三条故事线的主体分别是：鬼夫妻，我和读者（就是“有人”）。鬼夫妻是房子几百年前的主人，伍尔夫不仅描写了他们找宝藏的情景，也交代了他们的往事，这点我很喜欢。我是真实参与者也是叙述者。那个读者是想象参与者。他看了小说后去找鬼夫妻，但是没找到。］