欧亨利经典短篇小说《菜单上的春天》Springtime A La Carte英汉对照翻译

It was a day in March.Never, never begin a story this way when you write one. No opening could possibly be worse. It is unimaginative, flat, dry and likely to consist of mere wind. But in this instance it is allowable. For the following paragraph, which should have inaugurated the narrative, is too wildly extravagant and preposterous to be flaunted in the face of the reader without preparation.Sarah was crying over her bill of fare.Think of a New York girl shedding tears on the menu card!To account for this you will be allowed to guess that the lobsters were all out, or that she had sworn ice-cream off during Lent, or that she had ordered onions, or that she had just come from a Hackett matinee. And then, all these theories being wrong, you will please let the story proceed.The gentleman who announced that the world was an oyster which he with his sword would open made a larger hit than he deserved. It is not difficult to open an oyster with a sword. But did you ever notice any one try to open the terrestrial bivalve with a typewriter? Like to wait for a dozen raw opened that way?Sarah had managed to pry apart the shells with her unhandy weapon far enough to nibble a wee bit at the cold and clammy world within. She knew no more shorthand than if she had been a graduate in stenography just let slip upon the world by a business college. So, not being able to stenog, she could not enter that bright galaxy of office talent. She was a free-lance typewriter and canvassed for odd jobs of copying.The most brilliant and crowning feat of Sarah's battle with the world was the deal she made with Schulenberg's Home Restaurant. The restaurant was next door to the old red brick in which she ball- roomed. One evening after dining at Schulenberg's 40-cent, five- course ~table d'hote~ (served as fast as you throw the five baseballs at the coloured gentleman's head) Sarah took away with her the bill of fare. It was written in an almost unreadable script neither English nor German, and so arranged that if you were not careful you began with a toothpick and rice pudding and ended with soup and the day of the week.The next day Sarah showed Schulenberg a neat card on which the menu was beautifully typewritten with the viands temptingly marshalled under their right and proper heads from "hors d'oeuvre" to "not responsible for overcoats and umbrellas."Schulenberg became a naturalised citizen on the spot. Before Sarah left him she had him willingly committed to an agreement. She was to furnish typewritten bills of fare for the twenty-one tables in the restaurant--a new bill for each day's dinner, and new ones for breakfast and lunch as often as changes occurred in the food or as neatness required.In return for this Schulenberg was to send three meals per diem to Sarah's hall room by a waiter--an obsequious one if possible--and furnish her each afternoon with a pencil draft of what Fate had in store for Schulenberg's customers on the morrow.Mutual satisfaction resulted from the agreement. Schulenberg's patrons now knew what the food they ate was called even if its nature sometimes puzzled them. And Sarah had food during a cold, dull winter, which was the main thing with her.And then the almanac lied, and said that spring had come. Spring comes when it comes. The frozen snows of January still lay like adamant in the crosstown streets. The hand-organs still played "In the Good Old Summertime," with their December vivacity and expression. Men began to make thirty-day notes to buy Easter dresses. Janitors shut off steam. And when these things happen one may know that the city is still in the clutches of winter.One afternoon Sarah shivered in her elegant hall bedroom; "house heated; scrupulously clean; conveniences; seen to be appreciated." She had no work to do except Schulenberg's menu cards. Sarah sat in her squeaky willow rocker, and looked out the window. The calendar on the wall kept crying to her: "Springtime is here, Sarah-- springtime is here, I tell you. Look at me, Sarah, my figures show it. You've got a neat figure yourself, Sarah--a--nice springtime figure--why do you look out the window so sadly?"Sarah's room was at the back of the house. Looking out the window she could see the windowless rear brick wall of the box factory on the next street. But the wall was clearest crystal; and Sarah was looking down a grassy lane shaded with cherry trees and elms and bordered with raspberry bushes and Cherokee roses.__Spring's real harbingers are too subtle for the eye and ear. Some must have the flowering crocus, the wood-starring dogwood, the voice of bluebird--even so gross a reminder as the farewell handshake of the retiring buckwheat and oyster before they can welcome the Lady in Green to their dull bosoms. But to old earth's choicest kin there come straight, sweet messages from his newest bride, telling them they shall be no stepchildren unless they choose to be.On the previous summer Sarah had gone into the country and loved a farmer.(In writing your story never hark back thus. It is bad art, and cripples interest. Let it march, march.)Sarah stayed two weeks at Sunnybrook Farm. There she learned to love old Farmer Franklin's son Walter. Farmers have been loved and wedded and turned out to grass in less time. But young Walter Franklin was a modern agriculturist. He had a telephone in his cow house, and he could figure up exactly what effect next year's Canada wheat crop would have on potatoes planted in the dark of the moon.It was in this shaded and raspberried lane that Walter had wooed and won her. And together they had sat and woven a crown of dandelions for her hair. He had immoderately praised the effect of the yellow blossoms against her brown tresses; and she had left the chaplet there, and walked back to the house swinging her straw sailor in her hands.They were to marry in the spring--at the very first signs of spring, Walter said. And Sarah came back to the city to pound her typewriter.A knock at the door dispelled Sarah's visions of that happy day. A waiter had brought the rough pencil draft of the Home Restaurant's next day fare in old Schulenberg's angular hand.Sarah sat down to her typewriter and slipped a card between the rollers. She was a nimble worker. Generally in an hour and a half the twenty-one menu cards were written and ready.To-day there were more changes on the bill of fare than usual. The soups were lighter; pork was eliminated from the entrees, figuring only with Russian turnips among the roasts. The gracious spirit of spring pervaded the entire menu. Lamb, that lately capered on the greening hillsides, was becoming exploited with the sauce that commemorated its gambols. The song of the oyster, though not silenced, was ~diminuendo con amore~. The frying-pan seemed to be held, inactive, behind the beneficent bars of the broiler. The pie list swelled; the richer puddings had vanished; the sausage, with his drapery wrapped about him, barely lingered in a pleasant thanatopsis with the buckwheats and the sweet but doomed maple.Sarah's fingers danced like midgets above a summer stream. Down through the courses she worked, giving each item its position according to its length with an accurate eye. Just above the desserts came the list of vegetables. Carrots and peas, asparagus on toast, the perennial tomatoes and corn and succotash, lima beans, cabbage--and then--Sarah was crying over her bill of fare. Tears from the depths of some divine despair rose in her heart and gathered to her eyes. Down went her head on the little typewriter stand; and the keyboard rattled a dry accompaniment to her moist sobs.For she had received no letter from Walter in two weeks, and the next item on the bill of fare was dandelions--dandelions with some kind of egg--but bother the egg!--dandelions, with whose golden blooms Walter had crowned her his queen of love and future bride--dandelions, the harbingers of spring, her sorrow's crown of sorrow--reminder of her happiest days.Madam, I dare you to smile until you suffer this test: Let the Marechal Niel roses that Percy brought you on the night you gave him your heart be served as a salad with French dressing before your eyes at a Schulenberg ~table d'hote~. Had Juliet so seen her love tokens dishonoured the sooner would she have sought the lethean herbs of the good apothecary.But what a witch is Spring! Into the great cold city of stone and iron a message had to be sent. There was none to convey it but the little hardy courier of the fields with his rough green coat and modest air. He is a true soldier of fortune, this ~dent-de-lion~-- this lion's tooth, as the French chefs call him. Flowered, he will assist at love-making, wreathed in my lady's nut-brown hair; young and callow and unblossomed, he goes into the boiling pot and delivers the word of his sovereign mistress.By and by Sarah forced back her tears. The cards must be written. But, still in a faint, golden glow from her dandeleonine dream, she fingered the typewriter keys absently for a little while, with her mind and heart in the meadow lane with her young farmer. But soon she came swiftly back to the rock-bound lanes of Manhattan, and the typewriter began to rattle and jump like a strike-breaker's motor car.At 6 o'clock the waiter brought her dinner and carried away the typewritten bill of fare. When Sarah ate she set aside, with a sigh, the dish of dandelions with its crowning ovarious accompaniment. As this dark mass had been transformed from a bright and love-indorsed flower to be an ignominious vegetable, so had her summer hopes wilted and perished. Love may, as Shakespeare said, feed on itself: but Sarah could not bring herself to eat the dandelions that had graced, as ornaments, the first spiritual banquet of her heart's true affection.At 7:30 the couple in the next room began to quarrel: the man in the room above sought for A on his flute; the gas went a little lower; three coal wagons started to unload--the only sound of which the phonograph is jealous; cats on the back fences slowly retreated toward Mukden. By these signs Sarah knew that it was time for her to read. She got out "The Cloister and the Hearth," the best non- selling book of the month, settled her feet on her trunk, and began to wander with Gerard.The front door bell rang. The landlady answered it. Sarah left Gerard and Denys treed by a bear and listened. Oh, yes; you would, just as she did!And then a strong voice was heard in the hall below, and Sarah jumped for her door, leaving the book on the floor and the first round easily the bear's. You have guessed it. She reached the top of the stairs just as her farmer came up, three at a jump, and reaped and garnered her, with nothing left for the gleaners."Why haven't you written--oh, why?" cried Sarah."New York is a pretty large town," said Walter Franklin. "I came in a week ago to your old address. I found that you went away on a Thursday. That consoled some; it eliminated the possible Friday bad luck. But it didn't prevent my hunting for you with police and otherwise ever since!"I wrote!" said Sarah, vehemently."Never got it!""Then how did you find me?"The young farmer smiled a springtime smile. "I dropped into that Home Restaurant next door this evening," said he. "I don't care who knows it; I like a dish of some kind of greens at this time of the year. I ran my eye down that nice typewritten bill of fare looking for something in that line. When I got below cabbage I turned my chair over and hollered for the proprietor. He told me where you lived.""I remember," sighed Sarah, happily. "That was dandelions below cabbage.""I'd know that cranky capital W 'way above the line that your typewriter makes anywhere in the world," said Franklin."Why, there's no W in dandelions," said Sarah, in surprise.The young man drew the bill of fare from his pocket, and pointed to a line.Sarah recognised the first card she had typewritten that afternoon. There was still the rayed splotch in the upper right-hand corner where a tear had fallen. But over the spot where one should have read the name of the meadow plant, the clinging memory of their golden blossoms had allowed her fingers to strike strange keys.Between the red cabbage and the stuffed green peppers was the item:"DEAREST WALTER, WITH HARD-BOILED EGG."
这是三月里的一天。
如果你要写一个故事，可千万别这么开头。没有比这种开头更糟糕的了。这里面缺乏想象，又平淡乏味。不过用在这里还是可以的。因为下面这一段本来应该用在故事的开头，只是太不着边际，就这样放在没有思想准备的读者面前，有点叫人摸不着头脑。
莎拉对着菜单哭泣。
到底为什么呢？也许你会猜测，菜单上没有牡蛎，也许她答应过，现在不吃冰淇淋了。然而你猜的都不对，还是请让我把故事讲下去吧。 有位先生说，世界是个大牡蛎，他要用刀把它剖开，因此出了名。用刀剖开一个牡蛎并不难，可是你看见过什么人要用打字机打开它吗？
莎拉用打字机把世界打开了一点儿。她的工作就是打字。她打字的速度不很快，所以她不能在一个大办事处里工作，只好一个人干。莎拉同这个世界最成功的一场战斗就是她和舒伦伯格家庭餐馆达成一项协议。她在一幢旧红砖房子的一间屋子里住，这家餐馆就在隔壁，有一天晚上；她在舒伦伯格餐馆吃完饭把菜单带走了。菜单上的字是手写的，既不像英文，也不像德文，简直没法儿辨认，一不小心把菜单看倒了，就会先看见甜食，最后才看见汤，和星期几。
第二天，莎拉给舒伦伯格看一张卡片，上面是用打字机打得整整齐齐的菜单，菜名诱人地排列在恰当的位置上，从第一行直排到“衣帽物件，各自小心”为止。
舒伦伯格大为高兴，莎拉离开以前，他愿意达成一项协议。莎拉为餐馆里的ZI张餐桌打菜单，每天要为晚餐打一份新菜单。如果早餐和午餐换了花样，就打一份新菜单，或者菜单脏了，另打一份干净的菜单。
舒伦伯格每天派人把三顿饭送到莎拉房间作为报酬，每天下午还送去一张用铅笔写好的菜单，这就是命运女神为第二天舒伦伯格家顾客准备好的饭菜。
双方都对协议很满意。那些在舒伦伯格餐馆进餐的顾客现在知道他们吃的菜叫什么名称了，即使这些菜的性质有时候使他们感到困惑。
而莎拉可以在寒冷而沉闷的冬天有饭吃了，对于她来说，这是至关重要的。 尽管春天的月份来到了，那还不是春天。春天总是在该来的时候才来。街上一月份的积雪还冻得硬梆梆的。一些手拿乐器的人在街上演奏《在往昔美好的夏天》这支曲子，他们的动作和表情还像在12月份似的。各家各户的暖气都关了。每逢发生这此情况，人们就会知道，这座城市仍然处于冬天的控制之下。 一天下午，莎拉在她的卧室里冻得直打哆嗦。除了打舒伦伯格的菜单外，她没有事情可做。莎拉坐在摇椅上望着窗子外面，那个月是春天的月份了，它不停地对她呼唤：“春天来了，莎拉，肯定地说，春天来了。你身材匀称、美好，莎拉，你洋溢着青春的气息，你为什么这样伤感地望着窗外呢？” 莎拉的房间在这幢房子的背面，从窗子里望出去可以看到邻街的一家制盒厂的没有窗子的砖墙。但是她却想起了长满青草的牧场、树林、灌木丛和玫瑰花。 去年夏天，莎拉到乡下去，她爱上了一个农民。 （写故事可别这样倒叙，这是一种拙劣的技巧，使人失去兴趣，还是往下写吧。）
莎拉在森尼鲁克农场住了两个星期，在那里她爱上了农民富兰克林的儿子沃尔特。农民们谈恋爱到结婚往往用不了多久。不过年轻的沃尔特是个新型的农艺师。他的牛圈里装着电话，他还能准确地计算出加拿大来年的小麦产量，对他种植的农作物会产生什么影响。
就在这偏僻的地方，沃尔特赢得了她的心。他们坐在一起，用蒲公英编了一个花冠戴在莎拉头上。他赞美蒲公英的黄花配她那棕色头发所产生的效果，于是她就没有把花冠摘下来，手里挥动着草帽回到寓所。 沃尔特说，他们要在来年春天结婚，一开春就结婚。后来莎拉就回到城里来打字。
一阵敲门声把莎拉从回想那一个幸福的日子的梦中惊醒，一个侍者拿来一张用铅笔写的潦草的家庭餐馆第二天的菜单，是老舒伦伯格的难看的笔迹。 莎拉在打字机旁坐下来，把一张卡片卷在滚轴上。她是个灵巧的工作者，通常一个半小时就可以把21张卡片全部打好。
今天菜单上更动的项目比往常要多。各种汤都比较清淡，肉食花样也有所改变，整个菜单充满了春天的气息，油炸食品似乎都不见了。 莎拉的手指在打字机上跳动，就像夏天的小溪上飞舞的小虫。她从上到下仔细地看着，按照各种菜名的长短把它们打在恰当的位置上。刚要打水果名称的当儿，莎拉对着那张菜单哭了起来。泪水从她失望的心灵深处涌上来积聚在她的眼睛里。她的头一直抵在打字机的小桌子上。
她已经两个星期没有收到沃尔特的信了，而菜单的下一个菜名正好是蒲公英和一种什么鸡蛋——别管它是什么鸡蛋！——蒲公英，沃尔特正是用蒲公英的金黄色的花朵做成的花冠，为他爱情的王后和未来的妻于加冕——蒲公英啊，春天的使者，——她那最幸福的日子的纪念品。
然而春天是多么奇妙啊！一定会有信息送到这个用石头和钢铁筑成的寒冷的大城市里来的。除了穿着毛茸茸的绿衣服的田野的信使蒲公英——法国人把它叫作狮子的牙齿——还有谁来传递春天的信息呢！蒲公英开花的时候，它就盘在姑娘的深棕色头发上成全好事；而鲜嫩未开花的时候，它就跑到开水壶里去了。
过了一会儿，莎拉忍住了泪。菜单一定得打出来。她神思恍惚心不在焉地按着打字机的键，而她的思绪、她的心灵已飞往乡村和她的青年农民在一起了。不久她回到曼哈顿的石砌建筑中来，打字机又开始跳动。 6点钟，侍者送晚饭来，把打好的菜单取走。莎拉闷闷地吃了晚饭，到7点半，隔壁房里的两个人吵起架来；在楼上那个房间住的男人好像在弄什么乐器；煤气灯的光稍微暗了一点，有人着手撤煤火；还可以听到后院篱笆那儿猫叫的声音。根据这种迹象，莎拉知道她现在该看书了。她拿出书来，把脚搁在箱子上看起来。
前门的铃响了，房东太太去开门，莎拉放下书来听。噢，是你，要是你，也会跟她一样的。
楼下门厅里传来宏亮的声音，莎拉跳起来去开门，书掉在地板上。你已经猜出来了。她跑到楼梯口时，她的农民正一跨三级地跑上楼来，把她搂在怀里。 “你为什么不写信？哦，为什么？”莎拉大声说。
“纽约可真是个大城市，”沃尔特·富兰克林说，“一星期以前我就照老地址去找你了。
我打听到你星期四离开那里的。从那以后，我通过警察局和别的办法到处找你！”
“我给你写信了呀。”莎拉说。
“从来没收到过！” “那你怎么找到我的呢？” 年轻农民满面春风地一笑。 “今天晚上，我到隔壁的那家家庭餐馆去，”他说，“我不在乎它有没有名气，每年这个时候，我都喜欢吃些蔬菜。我的眼睛在那份用打字机打得漂漂亮亮的菜单上看了一遍，想找一样蔬菜吃，我看着看着，就把椅子弄翻了，把老板喊来。他告诉我你住在哪儿。” “这是怎么回事？” “我知道，你打字机上的大写字母W，不论打在哪里，总是往上一些，不在－条线上。”富兰克林说。年轻人从口袋里拿出一张莱单，指着其中的一行。 她认出这是她那天下午打的第一张卡片，在它的右上角还有一滴眼泪的痕迹。但在本来应该是一种蔬菜名称的位置上，对那金色花朵的回忆使她的手指按在另一些键上。 在两道菜名之间，有这么一行字： 最亲爱的沃尔特和白煮鸡蛋。