The Father父亲

He was a piano-tuner. Snow was falling as he went from house to house， his little blue hands tucked up his sleeves. Already during that morning he had tuned three instruments in rooms where no fires burned and now through bleak streets was making his way to another， walking solemnly， staring with screwed-up eyes at the passing hats， letting the snow cover his fat face as it would.

他是一名钢琴调音师。漫天飘雪的时候，他走进一户户人家，两只青色的小手缩在衣袖里。这天上午，他已经在没生火的房间里调试了三架钢琴，眼下正经过几条阴冷的街道，走向另一户人家。他步履沉重，眯眼紧盯着过往行人的一顶顶帽子，任由雪花覆满他那张胖脸。

Sometimes， hating the snow， the wet soles of his feet， the cold rooms and the icy keys of the pianos， he wished for night to come. Sometimes something like a lump of frozen stone seemed to lie oppressively across his chest. Now and then drops of moisture shivered in his eyes and on the end of his nose， falling on his moustache and the frayed edges of his black bow.

有时，他讨厌雪，讨厌潮湿的脚底、寒冷的屋子、冰凉的琴键，巴不得夜晚早点来临。有时，他的胸口好像沉重地压着什么东西，如同一块冰冷的石头。几颗水珠时不时在他眼里和鼻尖上颤动，滚落在他的胡髭和蝶形黑领结磨损的边缘上。

The knocker of the next house he lifted slowly， as if worn out. It too fell like a stone. In the room where he was admitted there was， as he had expected， no fire and he remembered that for a long time now he had no money from the people who lived there.

他慢慢拎起下一户人家的门环，仿佛累坏了似的，门环也像石头一般重重地坠下。他被主人让进的这间屋子，如其所料，也没有生火。他想起自己很久没挣到这一带住户的钱了。

‘Ah！ Well！’ he thought simply. ‘That’ll have to be looked into，’ and sighed.

“啊！没错！”他简单地想道，“这可得探究一番哇。”接着叹了口气。

Sitting down he opened the instrument， and shivering as he touched the keys， began his work.

他坐下来打开琴盖，手指触摸琴键的瞬间，浑身打了个寒战，随即开始工作。

‘Da！—da！—da！—da！—da！—da！—dadaaaa！’ he tested mournfully.

“哒！——哒！——哒！ ——哒！——哒！——哒！——哒哒——！”他弹出凄惨的测试音。

Suddenly he paused， and then tremblingly from his pocket produced a newspaper of that morning， spread it out on the keys and read slowly and methodically， his lips moving a little：

他蓦然止住，然后哆哆嗦嗦地从衣袋里掏出一份当天的晨报，平摊在琴键上，一字字缓慢地读起来，嘴唇翕动着：

‘An inquest was yesterday held on Selina Bridges， twenty-seven， professional singer， whose body was taken in a decomposed2 condition from the Thames near Waterloo Bridge， on Tuesday afternoon. Medical evidence was given to show that there were signs of alcohol. Suicide while of unsound mind.’

“昨天对二十七岁的职业歌手塞利娜·布里奇斯进行了验尸，她的尸体于周二下午从滑铁卢桥附近的泰晤士河里打捞上岸，时已腐败。医学证据显示死者有醉酒的迹象。系神志不清时自杀身亡。”

The notice became blurred and as if the printing were to blame he brushed his hand once or twice across the page， but misjudging the distance， striking a discord on the piano instead. He tried to smile， but suddenly tears began to run over his face. His fat shoulders danced sadly in their grief. Gradually， softly， the snow on his hair began to melt in pure blobs on his temples and on his legs and boots changed to streams that curled under the piano like dark snakes.

这则告示变得模模糊糊，仿佛都怪印刷质量，他一只手朝着纸页扫了一两下，但距离估计得不准，反而在钢琴上敲出一个不和谐音。他想笑，可泪水倏地涌出，顺着面颊簌簌流淌。他肥厚的肩膀悲痛不已地抽动着。他头发上凝结的冻雪开始一点点地慢慢融化，双鬓变得湿淋淋的。他的双腿和靴子上的积雪形成两股小溪，在钢琴下蜿蜒流淌，犹如两条黑蛇。

In his misery he noticed nothing. At last the woman of the house put in her head and asked：

陷入哀伤的他什么也没察觉。终于，这家女主人探头进门，问道：

‘What’s the matter， Mr. Bridges？ I don’t hear you tunin’！’

“怎么啦，布里奇斯先生？没听见你在调琴嘛！”

‘I’m only cold. It’s all right，’ he whispered. He brought a pair of blue hands together in a feeble， demonstrative smack.

“我就是冷。没事的。”他口里嗫嚅道。他合拢两只发青的手，发出微弱而感情流露的一下拍击声。

‘You’ve no business3 out，’ this woman told him.

“你不该出来的。”这个女人对他说。

‘That’s all right！ That’s all right，’ he croaked. ‘That’s all—’

“没关系！没关系。”他嗓音低沉而沙哑地说，“没关——”

He began to cough， his eyes swelled and became an ugly grey. Suddenly he trembled and wept again.

他咳起来，眼泡肿胀，变成一种难看的灰色。他忽然又打了个哆嗦，哭泣起来。

‘You ought to have something，’ the woman suggested.

“你得喝点什么。”女人提议道。

While she had gone out his fit of coughing ceased and he fell into a morose4 state of reflection， shuddering at the thought of the freezing winds， bringing the snow.

她出去之后，他这阵呛咳止息了，陷入一种回首往事不胜悲戚的状态，想到外面呼啸的寒风裹挟着雪花，不禁浑身战栗。

‘You don’t look well，’ said the woman on returning. ‘Not half you don’t. You’ve no business out. I’ve brought a glass of wine.’

“你看上去不太好。”回到屋里的女人说。“非常不好。你不该出来的。我拿来了一杯葡萄酒。”

He drank some wine.

他喝了些酒。

‘I’d be well enough，’ he replied. ‘I used to be strong. I never had an illness. But it’s my daughter， Selina， who’s a singer. That’s what’s the matter.’

“我马上就会好的。”他答道，“我以前挺结实的，从没生过病。都是因为我女儿，塞利娜，她是一个歌手。就是这么回事。”

He pointed out the notice. As the woman read it he drank more wine and whimpered5 quietly. Hearing him， the woman in consolation sniffed and then whimpered too. They wept together. By and by there seemed to come over the woman， the cold piano， and the cheerless room a change and in the place of the great stone across his chest came something soothing and warm. He felt suddenly that he must pour out a long stream of confidences and woes into her soft， kind face.

他指着那则告示。女人读告示之际，他又喝了两口酒，开始悄声抽泣。女人听到他的声音，出于安慰擤了擤鼻子，稍后也抽泣起来。两人一起流泪。渐渐地，眼前的女人、冰冷的钢琴、阴暗的房间，似乎都发生了一种变化，他的胸口不再压着那块巨石，而是泛起某种带有暖意和慰藉的东西。他忽然觉得，他必须将自己的所有秘密与痛苦，当着她温柔和善的脸，一股脑儿地统统倾泻出来。

‘She’s my only child，’ he whimpered. ‘When she was young I used to say she’d be a singer. A prima donna6， I fancied. It’s nice now to think that I was right. I taught her to read and play—and then after all that—’