大双心河 海明威

我是美工

了却一段情   海明威

    早先霍顿斯湾是座木材业城市。住在城里的人没一个听不见湖边木材厂里大锯子的声音。后来有一年再也没有木头可做木材了。运木材的双桅帆船一艘艘开进湖湾，把原来堆放在场地上那些厂里锯好的木材装上船。全部木材堆都搬走了。大厂房里凡是能搬动的机械都搬出来，由原先在厂里干过活的工人搬上其中一艘双桅帆船。那艘双桅帆船出了湖湾，驶向开阔的湖面，装载着两把大锯子、往旋转圆锯口里抛木料的滑车，还把全部滚轴、轮子、皮带和铁皮都堆在一船木材上。露天货舱盖着帆布，系得紧紧的，船帆鼓满了风，驶进开阔的湖面，船上装载着一切曾把工厂弄得像座工厂，把霍顿斯湾弄得像座城市的东西。
    一座座平房工棚、食堂、公司找房、工厂办公室和大厂房都空无一人，留在湖湾岸边草地上遍地锯木屑堆里。
    十年以后，尼克和玛乔丽沿岸划着船来，这里除了厂基那断裂的白灰石露出在沼泽地的二茬草木之外，工厂已荡然无存。他们正沿着航道岸边用轮转线钓鱼，那边的水底已从浅沙滩陡地下降为十二英尺的深水处。他们正一路划到准备投放夜钓丝钓虹鳟鱼的岬角。
    '那就是咱们老厂的废墟，尼克，'玛乔丽说。
    尼克一边划着船，一边看着绿树丛里的白石。
    '就在这儿，'他说。
    '你还记得当初这是个工厂的情景吗？'玛乔丽问。
    '我当然记得，'尼克说。
    '看上去更象座城堡，'玛乔丽说。
    尼克一言不发。他们沿岸划着，划得看不见工厂了。尼克才抄近路穿过湖湾。
    '鱼儿没咬钩，'他说。
    '是啊，'玛乔丽说。他们钓鱼时，她始终一心扑在钓鱼竿上，即使嘴里说话时也这样。她就爱钓鱼。她爱跟尼克一起钓鱼。
    靠近船边，有条大蹲鱼跃出了水面。尼克使劲划单桨，好让小船转身，远远在船尾后飞速移动的鱼饵就会掠过鳟鱼觅食的地方。鳟鱼背露出水面的时候，鲠鱼跳得正欢。跳得水面浪花四溅，象一梭枪弹射进水里似的。另一条鳟鱼破水而出，在小船另一边觅食。
    '在吃呢，'玛乔丽说。
    '可是鱼儿不会上钩，'尼克说。
    他把船划了一圈，让拖着的钓丝掠过这两条觅食的鳟鱼，然后把船径直朝岬角划去。等到船靠岸，玛乔丽才收线。
    他们把船拖上湖滩，尼克拎起一桶活鲈鱼。鲈鱼在水桶里游。尼克双手抓了三条，去头去鳍，玛乔丽双手还在桶里摸鱼，终于抓住一条，去头去鳍。尼克瞧着她手里的鱼。
    '你不用把腹鳍去掉，'他说。'去掉鳍做鱼饵固然也行，不过最好留着鳍。'
    他把鱼钩穿进每条去掉皮的鲈鱼尾。每根钓竿的蚊钩上都挂着两个钩子。于是玛乔丽把船划到航道的岸对面，一边用牙齿咬住钓丝，两眼朝尼克望去，尼克正站在岸边，拿着钓竿，让卷轴里的钓丝放出来。
    '差不多行了，'他喊道。
    '要我放下钓丝吗？'玛乔丽手里拿着钓丝，回他一声道。
    '当然，放吧。'玛乔丽把钓丝放到船外，眼望着鱼饵沉入水中。
    她把船划过来，用同样的方法放下第二根钓丝。每一回尼克都把一大块冲来的木头放在钓竿柄上压压严实，再用一小块木片斜支着钓竿。他收起松弛的钓丝，把钓丝绷紧，让鱼饵落在航道水底沙土上，再在卷轴上安好闸。要是鳟鱼在水底觅食，咬了鱼饵，就会拖动它，猛一下子从卷轴里抽出钓丝，卷轴上了闸就会发出鸣响。
    玛乔丽把船朝岬角那边划过去一段，免得妨碍钓丝。她使劲划桨，船靠了沙滩。船尾激起一阵小浪花。玛乔丽下了船，尼克把船拖上了岸。
    '怎么啦，尼克？'玛乔丽问。
    '我不知道，'尼克说，一边拿了木头生堆火。
    他们用冲上岸来的木头生了火。玛乔丽上船取了条毯子。夜风把烟吹向岬角，玛乔丽就把毯子铺在火堆和湖之间。
    玛乔丽背向火，坐在毯子上，等着尼克。他过来了，在她身边毯子上坐下。他们背后是岬角密密麻麻的二茬树木，前面是霍顿斯河的湾口。天色还没完全黑。火光一直照到水面。他们都看得见两根钢钓竿斜支在黑黝黝的水面上。火光在卷轴上闪闪发亮。
    玛乔丽打开饭篮。
    '我不想吃，'尼克说。
    '快来吃吧，尼克。'
    '好吧。'
    他们默默吃着，眼睁睁看着两根钓竿和水面上的火光。
    '今晚会有月亮，'尼克说。他望着湖湾对面的山丘，山丘在天色的衬托下渐渐轮廓鲜明了。他知道月亮在山那边升起来了。
    '我知道了，'玛乔丽兴高采烈地说。
    '你什么都知道，'尼克说。
    '哎呀，尼克，请别说啦，请别那样！'
    '我没法不说，'尼克说。'你的确这样。你什么都知道。毛病就出在这儿。你知道自己的确这样。'
    玛乔丽一言不发。
    '我什么都教过你了。你知道自己的确这样。不管怎么说，你有什么不知道的？'
    '哎呀，住口，'玛乔丽说。'月亮出来了。'
    他们坐在毯子上，谁也不挨谁，眼望着月亮出来。
    '你不用胡说，'玛乔丽说。'究竟怎么回事？'
    '我不知道。'
    '你当然知道。'
    '不，我不知道。'
    '得了吧，说出来。'
    尼克看着月亮从山丘上面升起。
    '没劲儿了。'
    他不敢看着玛乔丽。过会儿才看着她。她背朝他，坐在那儿。他看着她背影。'没劲儿了。一点劲儿也没。'
    她一言不发。他径自说下去。'我感到心里万念俱灰。我不知道，玛吉。我不知道说什么才好。'
    他看着她的背影。
    '爱情也没劲儿？'玛乔丽说。
    '是啊，'尼克说。玛乔丽站起身。尼克坐着，双手蒙头。
    '我去划船，'玛乔丽对他叫道。'你可以绕着岬角走回去。'
    '行，'尼克说。'我来帮你把船推下河去。'
    '你不用忙了，'她说。她趁着月光上了水上的船。尼克回来，在火边躺下，拿毯子蒙住脸。他听得见玛乔丽在水上划着船。
    他躺了老半天。他听到比尔在林子里四下走动，走到空地里，这时他还躺着。他感到比尔走近火边。比尔也没碰他。
    '她走了吗？'比尔说。
    '走了，'尼克躺着说，脸碰在毯子上。
    '吵了一场？'
    '没，没吵过架。'
    '你觉得怎么样？'
    '唉，走开吧，比尔！走开一会儿。'
    比尔在饭篮里挑了一份三明治就走过去看钓竿了。

我是美工

三天大风   海明威
  
    尼克拐进穿过果园那条路时，雨停了。果子都摘了，秋风吹过光秃秃的果树。路边枯黄的野草里有只瓦格纳苹果，给雨水淋得透亮，尼克停步捡起了苹果。他把苹果放进厚呢短大衣的口袋里。
    那条路出了果园，直达山顶。山顶有小屋，门廊空荡荡的，烟囱里冒着烟。屋后是车库，鸡棚，二茬树象堵树篱，挨着后面的林子。他放眼望去，上空的树给风刮得远远倒向一边。今年秋天还是头一遭刮大风呢。
    尼克走过果园上面那块空地时，小屋的门打开了，比尔出来了。他站在门廊上往外看。
    '哎呀，威米奇，'他说。
    '嗨，比尔，'尼克说着走上台阶。
    他们站在一起，眺望着原野对面，俯视着果园、路那边、低处田野和突出湖面那岬角的林子那边。大风正直扫湖面。他们看得见十里岬沿岸的浪花。
    '在刮风呢，'尼克说。
    '这样刮要连刮三天呢，'比尔说。
    '你爹在吗？'尼克说。
    '不在。他拿着枪出去了。进来吧。'
    尼克进了屋。壁炉里生着堆熊熊烈火。风刮得炉火呼啦啦响。比尔关上门。
    '喝一杯？'他说。
    他到厨房里，拿来两个玻璃杯和一壶水。尼克伸手到壁炉架上去拿瓶威士忌。
    '行吗？'他说。
    '行，'比尔说。
    他们坐在火堆前，喝着兑水的爱尔兰威士忌。
    '有股冲鼻的烟味，'尼克说，两眼透过玻璃杯看着火。
    '是泥炭，'比尔说。
    '酒里不会放泥炭的，'尼克说。
    '那没什么关系，'比尔说。
    '你见过泥炭吗？'尼克问。
    '没，'比尔说。
    '我也没，'尼克说。
    他伸出腿，搁在炉边，鞋子在火堆前冒起水气来了。
    '最好把你的鞋脱了，'比尔说。
    '我没穿袜子。'
    '把鞋脱了，烤烤干，我去给你找找看，'比尔说。他上阁楼去了，尼克听见头顶上有他的走动声。楼上房间敞开，就在屋顶下，比尔父子和他，尼克，有时就在楼上睡觉。后面是一间梳妆室。他们把床铺往后挪到雨淋不到的地方，上面盖着橡皮毯。
    比尔拿了一双厚羊毛袜下来。
    '天晚了，不穿袜子不能到处走动，'他说。
    '我真不愿再穿上，'尼克说。他套上袜子，又倒在椅子里，把腿搁在炉火前的屏风上。
    '你要把屏风搁坏了，'比尔说。尼克把两腿一翘，搁到炉边。
    '有什么好看的吗？'他问。
    '只有报纸。'
    '卡斯队打得怎么样？'
    '一天连续两场比赛都输给巨人队。'
    '他们应当稳赢的。'
    '这两场球是白送的，'比尔说。'只要麦克劳在球队俱乐部联合会中能收买每一个球员，那就没什么问题。'
    '他不能把大家全买通啊，'尼克说。
    '凡是他用得着的人，他都买通了，'比尔说。'不行的话，他就弄得大家都不满，只好同他做买卖。'
    '比如海尼.奇姆，'尼克附和道。
    '那个笨蛋对他可大有好处呢。'
    比尔站起身。
    '他能得分，'尼克提出道。炉火的热气把他腿烤热了。
    '他也是个出色的外野手，'比尔说。'不过他也输过球。'
    '说不定是麦克劳要他输的，'尼克提出道。
    '说不定，'比尔附和说。
    '事情背后往往大有文章，'尼克说。
    '那当然。不过咱们虽然隔得那么远，内幕消息倒不少。'
    '就象你虽然没有看见赛马，照样大有选马眼力。'
    '一点不错。'
    比尔伸手去拿威士忌酒瓶。他的大手伸出老远去斟酒，把威士忌倒在尼克端在手里的酒杯里。
    '兑多少水？'
    '照旧。'
    他在尼克椅子旁边的地板上坐下。
    '秋风一起真不坏吧？'尼克说。
    '是不赖。'
    '这是一年中最好的季节，'尼克说。
    '城里会不会闹翻了天？'比尔说。
    '我就喜欢看世界职业棒球锦标赛，'尼克说。
    '得了，如今锦标赛总是在纽约或费城举行，'比尔说。
    '对咱们一点好处都没有。'
    '不知卡斯队会不会夺标？'
    '这辈子休想看到了，'比尔说。
    '哎呀，他们要气疯了，'尼克说。
    '你还记得他们碰到火车出事之前那回的情况吗？'
    '当然！'尼克想起来说。
    比尔伸出手去拿那本扣在窗下桌上的书，刚才他到门口时顺手就放在那儿了。他一手端着酒杯，一手拿着书，背靠着尼克的椅子。
    '你在看什么书？'
    '《理查德.菲弗里尔》。'
    '我对这书可不感兴趣。'
    '这本书不错，'比尔说。'不是坏书，威米奇。'
    '你还有什么我没看过的书？'尼克问。
    '你看过《森林情侣》吗？'
    '看过。就是那本书里写他们每晚上床，都在两人中间放把出鞘的剑。'
    '是本好书，威米奇。'
    '是本不赖的书。我始终搞不懂这把剑有什么用处。这把剑得一直剑锋朝上，因为翻倒的话，你就滚得过去，也不会出什么事。'
    '这是象征，'比尔说。
    '当然，'尼克说，'可这不符合实际。'
    '你看过《坚忍不拔》吗？'
    '好书，'尼克说。'倒是本真实的书。那书里写他老爹一直在找他。你还有沃尔波尔的作品吗？'
    '《黑森林》，'比尔说。'写俄国的。'
    '他对俄国懂得什么啊？'尼克问。
    '我不知道。那些家伙可说不清。也许他小时候在那儿。他有不少有关俄国的内幕消息呢。'
    '我倒想见见他，'尼克说。
    '我倒想见见切斯特顿，'比尔说。
    '我真希望他眼下就在这儿，'尼克说。'咱们明天就可以带他上夏勒伏瓦去钓鱼了。'
    '不知他想不想去钓鱼，'比尔说。
    '当然去，'尼克说。'他一定是钓鱼老手。你还记得《短暂的客栈》吗？'
    ''天使下凡尘，
      赐你一杯羹，
      受宠先谢恩，
      倒进污水盆。''
    '一点不错，'尼克说。'我看他这人比沃尔波尔强。'
    '哦，没错儿，他是强一些，'比尔说。
    '不过沃尔波尔写文章比他强。'
    '我不知道，'尼克说。'切斯特顿是个文豪。'
    '沃尔波尔也是个文豪，'比尔坚持道。
    '但愿他们两个都在这儿，'尼克说。'咱们明天就可以带他们到夏勒伏瓦去钓鱼了。'
    '咱们来个一醉方休吧，'比尔说。
    '行啊。'尼克附和道。
    '我老子才不管呢，'比尔说。
    '真的吗？'尼克说。
    '我有数，'比尔说。
    '我现在就有点醉了，'尼克说。
    '你没醉，'比尔说。
    他从地板上站起身，伸手去拿那瓶威士忌。尼克将酒杯伸过来。比尔斟酒时，他两眼直盯着。
    比尔在杯里斟了半杯威士忌。
    '自己兑水，'他说，'只有一小杯了。'
    '还有吗？'尼克问。
    '酒可多的是，可爹只肯让我喝已经起封的。'
    '那当然，'尼克说。
    '他说喝新启封的酒会成为酒鬼，'比尔解释说。
    '一点不错，'尼克说。他听了印象很深。他以前倒从没想到这点。他一向总是认为只有独自喝闷酒才会成为酒鬼呢。
    '你爹怎么样？'他肃然起敬问。
    '他挺好，'比尔说。'有时有点儿胡来。'
    '他人倒是不坏，'尼克说。他从壶里往自己杯里加水。水慢慢就同酒混在一起了。酒多水少。
    '他人确实不坏，'比尔说。
    '我老子也不错，'尼克说。
    '对极了，'比尔说。
    '他说自己一生滴酒不沾，'尼克说，仿佛在发表一项科学事实似的。
    '说起来，他是个大夫呢。我老子是个画家。那可不一样。'
    '他错失不少良机，'尼克忧伤地说。
    '这倒难说，'比尔说。'万事有失必有所得。'
    '他说自己错失不少良机，'尼克直说道。
    '说起来，爹也有一段日子很倒霉，'比尔说。
    '全都彼此彼此，'尼克说。
    他们坐着，一边望着炉火里边，一边想着这深刻的真理。
    '我到后门廊去拿块柴火，'尼克说。他望着炉火里边时注意到火快熄灭了。同时他也希望表示一下自己酒量大，头脑还管用。尽管他父亲一生滴酒不沾，但是比尔自己还没醉就休想灌醉他。
    '拿块大的山毛榉木头来，'比尔说。他也存心摆出一副头脑还管用的样子。
    尼克拿了柴火，穿过厨房进屋来，走过时把一个锅子从厨房桌上碰翻了。他放下柴火，捡起锅子。锅里有浸在水中的杏干。他仔细把杏干一一从地板上捡起来，有几颗已经滚到炉灶下面了，他把杏干放回锅里。他从桌边桶里取些水来泡在杏干上。他感到自己十分得意。他的头脑完全管用呢。
    他搬了柴火进来，比尔起身离座，帮他把柴火放进炉火里。
    '那块柴真不赖，'尼克说。
    '我一直留着等天气坏才用，'比尔说。'这样一大块柴好烧整整一夜呢。'
    '到了早晨烧剩木炭又好生火了，'尼克说。
    '对啊，'比尔附和道。他们的谈话水平可高呢。
    '咱们再喝一杯，'尼克说。
    '我想柜子里还有一瓶已经启封的，'比尔说。
    他在墙角柜前跪下，取出一瓶廉价烈酒。
    '这是苏格兰威士忌，'他说。
    '我会多兑些水，'尼克说，他又出去，走到厨房里。他用勺子从桶里舀出阴凉的泉水，灌满水壶，回起居室时，走过饭厅里一面镜子，照了照。他的脸看上去真怪，他对着镜中的脸笑笑，镜中的脸也咧嘴回他一笑。他对着那脸眨眨眼睛就往前走了。这不是他的脸，不过这没多大关系。
    比尔斟了酒。
    '这一大杯真够呛的，'尼克说。
    '咱们才不当一回事呢，威米奇，'比尔说。
    '咱们为什么干杯？'尼克举杯问。
    '咱们为钓鱼干杯吧，'比尔说。
    '好极了，'尼克说，'诸位先生，我提议为钓鱼干杯。'
    '就为钓鱼，'比尔说。'到处钓鱼。'
    '钓鱼，'尼克说，'咱们就为钓鱼干杯。'
    '这比棒球强，'比尔说。
    '这扯不上一块，'尼克说。'咱们怎么扯上棒球来了？'
    '错了，'比尔说，'棒球是大老粗玩的。'
    他们把杯里的酒一饮而尽。
    '现在咱们为切斯特顿干杯。'
    '还有沃尔波尔呢，'尼克插嘴说。
    尼克斟酒。比尔倒水。他们相对一看。大家感觉良好。
    '诸位先生，'比尔说，'我提议为切斯特顿和沃尔波尔干杯。'
    '说得对，诸位先生，'尼克说。
    他们干了杯。比尔把杯子斟满。他们在炉火前两张大椅子里坐下。
    '你非常聪明，威米奇，'比尔说。
    '你什么意思？'尼克问。
    '同玛吉那档子事吹了，'比尔说。
    '我想是吧，'尼克说。
    '只有这么办了。要是你没吹，这会儿你就要回家去干活，想法攒足钱结婚。'
    尼克一言不发。
    '男人一旦结婚就彻底完蛋，'比尔继续说。'他什么都没有了。一无所有。钱也没有。他玩儿完了。你见过结了婚的男人。'
    尼克一言不发。
    '你一看他们就知道，'比尔说。'他们都有这种结过婚的傻样儿。他们玩儿完了。'
    '那当然，'尼克说。
    '吹了兴许很可惜，'比尔说。'不过你这人总是爱上别的人就没事了。爱上她们可没什么，就是别让她们毁了你啊。'
    '是，'尼克说。
    '要是你娶了她啊，那就得娶她一家子。别忘了还有她母亲和她嫁的那家伙。'
    尼克点点头。
    '想想看，一天到晚只见他们围着屋子转，星期天还得上他们家去吃饭，还要请他们来吃饭，听她母亲老是叫玛吉去做什么，怎么做。'
    尼克默默坐着。
    '你既然脱了身，那可太好了，'比尔说。'现在她可以嫁给象她自己那样的人，成个家，开开心心过日子了。油跟水不能掺和在一起，那种事也不能掺和在一起，正如我不能娶为斯特拉顿家干活的艾达一样。艾达大概也很想这样。'
    尼克一言不发。酒意全消，任他逍遥自在。比尔不在那儿。他不坐在炉火前，明天也不跟比尔和他爹去钓鱼啊什么的。他并不醉。这都过去了。他只知道自己从前有过玛乔丽，又失去了她。她走了，他打发她走的。那是关键。他没准儿再也见不到她了。大概永远不会见到她了。一切全过去了，全完了。
    '咱们再喝一杯，'尼克说。
    比尔斟酒，尼克拼了一点水进去。
    '要是你走了那条路，那咱们现在就不会在这儿了，'比尔说。
    这话倒不错。他原来的计划是回家去找份活儿。然后计划整个冬天都留在夏勒伏瓦，这样就可以亲近玛吉。现在他可不知自己打算做什么了。
    '大概咱们明天连鱼也钓不成了，'比尔说。'你那一着走得对，没错儿。'
    '我是没法子，'尼克说。
    '我知道。只有这样才行，'比尔说。
    '忽然一下子，一切都结束了，'尼克说。'我不知道这是什么道理。我没法子。正象眼下连刮三天大风，把树叶全都刮光一样。'
    '得了，都结束了。不必多说了，'比尔说。
    '这是我的错，'尼克说。
    '是谁的错都没关系，'比尔说。
    '不，我认为不是这样，'尼克说。
    玛乔丽走了，大概他永远也不会再见到她了，那才是大事。他跟她谈过他们一起到意大利去，两个人该有多开心。谈过他们一起要去的地方。如今全过去了。
    '只要这事了结了，那就万事大吉，'比尔说。'说真的，威米奇，这事拖下去我还真担心呢。你做得对。我听说她母亲戚得要命。她告诉好多人说你们订了婚。'
    '我们没订婚，'尼克说。
    '都在传说你们订了婚。'
    '那我没法说了，'尼克说。'我们没订婚。'
    '你们原来不是打算结婚吗？'比尔问。
    '是啊。可我们没有订婚，'尼克说。
    '那有什么区别？'比尔象法官似的问。
    '我不知道。总有区别吧。'
    '我看不出来，'比尔说。
    '那好，'尼克说。'咱们喝个醉吧。'
    '那好，'比尔说。'咱们就喝它个真正大醉。'
    '咱们喝醉了就去游泳，'尼克说。
    他一口气喝干。
    '我对她深感内疚，可我有什么法子呢？'他说。'你也知道她母亲那德行！'
    '她真厉害，'比尔说。
    '忽然一下子全了结了，'尼克说。'我不该谈起这事。' '不是你谈起的，'比尔说。'是我谈起的，现在我不谈了。咱们再也不会谈起这事了。你不该想起这事。一想又会陷进去了。'
    尼克原来并没有想到过这事。这事似乎早成定局了。那只是个想法而已。想想倒让他感到好受些。
    '当然，'他说。'总是有那种危险的。'
    他现在感到高兴了。决没有什么无可挽回的事。他星期六晚上可以进城了。今天是星期四。
    '总有一个机会的，'他说。
    '你可得自己留神，'比尔说。
    '我自己会留神的，'他说。
    他感到高兴了。什么事都没有完结。什么都没有失去过。星期六他要进城去。他的心情轻松些了，跟比尔没开头提起这事的时候那样。总有一条出路的。
    '咱们拿枪到岬角那儿找你爹去吧，'尼克说。
    '好吧。'
    比尔从墙壁架上取下两支猎枪。他打开子弹匣。尼克穿上厚呢短大衣和鞋子。他的鞋烤得硬邦邦的。他还醉醺醺的，可是头脑清楚。
    '你感觉怎么样？'尼克问。
    '不赖。我只是刚有点儿醉意罢了。'比尔正扣上毛衣的钮扣。
    '喝醉了也没好处。'
    '是啊，咱们该上户外去。'
    他们走出门。正在刮大风。
    '刮风天鸟儿会躲在草地里，'尼克说。
    他们朝山下果园走去。
    '我今天早上看见一只山鹬，'比尔说。
    '也许咱们会惊动它，'尼克说。
    '这么大的风没法开枪，'比尔说。
    到了外边，玛吉那档子事再也没那么惨了。那事甚至没什么了不得。大风把一切都那样刮跑了。
    '风是一直从大湖那边刮来的，'尼克说。
    他们顶着风听到一声枪响。
    '是爹，'比尔说。'他在沼泽地。'
    '咱们就顺那条路穿下去吧，'尼克说。
    '咱们就穿过下面草地，看看是不是会惊奇什么，'比尔说。
    '好吧，'尼克说。
    现在没什么了不得的事了。大风把它从他头脑里刮走了。
    他照旧可以在星期六晚上经常进城去。幸亏有备无患啊。

lostboy

有英文版的吗？特别是那个大双心河。明威的文字英语原文读起来更有一种诗歌的韵律。

我是美工

抱歉,我找了很久也没找到

生铁

我有，但没有电子版。

陶北

翻上来看着方便。

蓝风

顶上去。

我是美工

lostboy 发表于 2009-12-18 21:14
有英文版的吗？特别是那个大双心河。明威的文字英语原文读起来更有一种诗歌的韵律。

波哀。
我找到英文版的了。

我是美工

Big Two-Hearted River
E.Hemingway.

Part I

     The train went on up the track out of sight, around one of the hills of
burnt timber. Nick sat  down on the bundle of canvas and bedding the baggage
man had  pitched out  of  the door of the baggage  car. There was  no  town,
nothing but the rails and the burned-over country. The thirteen saloons that
had lined the  one street of Seney had not  left a trace. The foundations of
the Mansion House hotel stuck up above the ground. The stone was chipped and
split by the fire. It  was  all that was left of the town of Seney. Even the
surface had been burned off the ground.
     Nick  looked  at  the  burned-over stretch  of  hillside, where  he had
expected to find the scattered houses of the town  and then  walked down the
railroad track to the bridge over the river. The river was there. It swirled
against the log spiles of the bridge. Nick looked down into the clear, brown
water,  colored  from the  pebbly  bottom,  and  watched  the  trout keeping
themselves steady in the current with wavering fins. As he watched them they
changed their positions  by quick  angles,  only to hold steady  in the fast
water again. Nick watched them a long time.
     He watched them holding  themselves with their noses into  the current,
many trout in deep, fast moving water,  slightly distorted as he watched far
down through  the glassy convex surface of the pool, its surface pushing and
swelling  smooth  against  the  resistance  of the log-driven piles  of  the
bridge. At the bottom of the pool were the big trout. Nick did not  see them
at first. Then  he saw them at the bottom of  the pool, big trout looking to
hold themselves on the  gravel  bottom in a varying mist of gravel and sand,
raised in spurts by the current.
     Nick looked  down  into the  pool from the bridge.  It was a hot day. A
kingfisher flew up the stream. It was a long time since Nick had looked into
a stream and  seen trout. They were very satisfactory. As the  shadow of the
kingfisher moved  up the stream, a big trout shot upstream in  a long angle,
only  his shadow marking the angle, then lost his shadow as he came  through
the surface of the water, caught the sun, and then, as he went back into the
stream  under the surface,  his shadow seemed to float down the  stream with
the current, unresisting, to his  post under the  bridge where he  tightened
facing up into the current.
     Nick's heart tightened as the trout moved. He felt all the old feeling.
     He   turned  and   looked   down   the  stream.   It  stretched   away,
pebbly-bottomed with shallows and  big boulders and a deep pool as it curved
away around the foot of a bluff.
     Nick  walked  back  up  the ties  to  where his pack lay in the cinders
beside  the railway track. He was happy. He adjusted the pack harness around
the bundle, pulling straps tight, slung the pack  on  his back, got his arms
through the shoulder straps  and took  some of the pull off his shoulders by
leaning his  forehead against the wide band of the tump-line. Still,  it was
too heavy. It was much  too  heavy. He  had his leather rod-case in his hand
and leaning forward to keep the weight of the pack high on  his shoulders he
walked along the  road that paralleled the railway track, leaving the burned
town  behind in  the heat, and then turned  off around  a hill  with a high,
fire-scarred  hill  on either  side onto a  road  that  went  back  into the
country.  He  walked along the road feeling  the ache from  the pull  of the
heavy pack. The road climbed steadily. It was hard work walking up-hill. His
muscles ached and the day was hot,  but Nick felt happy. He felt he had left
everything behind, the need for thinking, the need to write, other needs. It
was all back of him.
     From the time he  had gotten down off the train and the baggage man had
thrown his pack  out of  the open car door things had been  different. Seney
was burned,  the country was burned over and changed, but it did not matter.
It  could not all be burned. He knew that. He hiked along the road, sweating
in the sun, climbing  to cross the range of hills that separated the railway
from the pine plains.
     The  road ran on, dipping occasionally, but always  climbing. Nick went
on up. Finally the road  after going parallel  to the burnt hillside reached
the top.  Nick  leaned  back  against a stump  and  slipped  out of the pack
harness.  Ahead  of him, as far  as he  could see, was  the  pine plain. The
burned country  stopped off at the left with the  range  of  hills. On ahead
islands of dark pine trees rose  out of  the plain. Far  off to the left was
the line of  the  river. Nick followed it with his eye and caught glints  of
the water in the sun.
     There was  nothing but the pine plain ahead  of him, until the far blue
hills that marked  the Lake  Superior height  of land.  He could hardly  see
them, faint and far away in the heat-light over the plain. If  he looked too
steadily they  were gone.  But  if he only half-looked  they were there, the
far-off hills of the height of land.
     Nick sat down against the  charred stump  and  smoked a cigarette.  His
pack balanced  on  the top  of  the  stump, harness holding  ready, a hollow
molded in  it from his back. Nick sat smoking, looking out over the country.
He did not need to get his map  out. He  knew where he was from the position
of the river.
     As  he smoked,  his  legs stretched out  in front of him, he  noticed a
grasshopper  walk  along  the  ground  and  up  onto  his  woolen sock.  The
grasshopper was black. As he  had walked  along  the  road, climbing, he had
started many grasshoppers from the  dust. They were all black. They were not
the big grasshoppers  with yellow and black or red and black wings  whirring
out from their black wing sheathing as they fly up. These were just ordinary
hoppers, but all a sooty black in color. Nick had wondered  about them as he
walked,  without really thinking about them.  Now, as he  watched the  black
hopper that was nibbling at the wool of his  sock  with its fourway  lip, he
realized that they had all turned black from living in the burned-over land.
He  realized  that  the  fire  must  have  come  the year  before,  but  the
grasshoppers were all black now. He  wondered how  long they would stay that
way.
     Carefully he reached his hand down  and took hold of the hopper  by the
wings. He turned him up,  all his legs walking in the air, and looked at his
jointed belly. Yes, it was  black  too, iridescent where  the back  and head
were dusty.
     "Go on, hopper,"  Nick said, speaking out loud for the first time. "Fly
away somewhere."
     He tossed the grasshopper up into the air and watched him sail away  to
a charcoal stump across the road.
     Nick  stood up. He leaned his back against the weight of his pack where
it rested upright on the stump and got his arms through the shoulder straps.
He  stood with  the pack  on his back  on the brow  of the hill  looking out
across  the  country  toward the  distant  river  and  then struck  down the
hillside  away  from the road. Underfoot the  ground  was good walking.  Two
hundred  yards  down  the hillside the fire  line stopped. Then it was sweet
fern,  growing ankle high, to walk through, and  dumps of jack pines; a long
undulating country with frequent rises and descents, sandy underfoot and the
country alive again.
     Nick kept his direction by the sun.  He knew  where he wanted to strike
the river and he kept on through the pine plain, mounting small rises to see
other rises ahead  of him and sometimes from the top of a rise a great solid
island  of pines off  to his right or his left.  He broke off some sprigs of
the heathery sweet  fern, and  put them under  his pack  straps. The chafing
crushed it and he smelled it as he walked.
     He was  tired and very  hot, walking  across the uneven, shadeless pine
plain. At any time he knew he could strike the  river by turning off to  his
left. It could not be more than a mile away. But he kept on toward the north
to hit the river as far upstream as he could go in one day's walking.
     For some time  as he walked  Nick had  been in sight of one of  the big
islands of pine standing out above the rolling high ground he was crossing.
     He dipped down and then as he came slowly up to the crest of the bridge
he turned and made toward the pine trees.
     There was no underbrush in the island of  pine trees. The minks of  the
trees  went straight  up  or  slanted  toward  each other.  The trunks  were
straight  and brown without branches.  The branches  were  high above.  Some
interlocked  to make a  solid shadow on  the brown forest floor. Around  the
grove of trees was a bare space. It was brown  and  soft  underfoot as  Nick
walked on it. This was the over-lapping of the pine needle floor,  extending
out beyond the width of the high branches. The  trees had grown tall and the
branches  moved  high,  leaving in  the sun this  bare space  they had  once
covered with shadow. Sharp at the edge of this extension of the forest floor
commenced the sweet fern.
     Nick slipped off his pack and lay down in the shade. He lay on his back
and looked  up into the pine  trees. His neck and back and the small of  his
back rested as he stretched. The earth felt good against his back. He looked
up at the sky, through the branches, and then  shut his eyes. He opened them
and looked  up again. There was a wind high up in  the branches. He shut his
eyes again and went to sleep.
     Nick  woke stiff  and cramped.  The  sun was nearly down. His  pack was
heavy and  the  straps painful as he lifted  it on. He leaned over with  the
pack  on and picked up the  leather rod-case and started  out from  the pine
trees across the sweet fern swale, toward the river. He knew it could not be
more than a mile.
     He came down a hillside covered with stumps  into a meadow. At the edge
of the meadow flowed the river. Nick was glad to get to the river. He walked
upstream through  the  meadow.  His trousers were soaked with the dew as  he
walked. After the hot day, the dew had come  quickly and heavily.  The river
made no sound. It was too fast and smooth. At the edge of the meadow, before
he  mounted to a piece  of  high ground to  make camp. Nick  looked down the
river at the trout  rising. They were rising to  insects come from the swamp
on the other side of the stream when the sun went down. The trout jumped out
of  water  to  take them. While Nick  walked through  the little stretch  of
meadow alongside the stream, trout had jumped high out of  water.  Now as he
looked down the river, the insects must be settling on the  surface, for the
trout were  feeding steadily all down the  stream.  As  far  down  the  long
stretch  as he could see, the trout were rising, making circles all down the
surface of the water, as though it were starting to rain.
     The ground rose, wooded and  sandy, to overlook the meadow, the stretch
of river and the swamp. Nick dropped his pack and rod-case and looked for  a
level  piece of ground.  He was very hungry and  he wanted to make his  camp
before he  cooked.  Between two jack pines,  the  ground was quite level. He
took the ax out of  the pack  and chopped  out  two projecting  roots.  That
leveled a  piece  of ground large  enough to sleep on.  He smoothed out  the
sandy soil  with his hand  and  pulled  all  the sweet  fern bushes by their
roots. His hands smelled good from the sweet fern.  He smoothed the uprooted
earth. He did not want anything making lumps under the blankets. When he had
the ground smooth, he spread his three blankets. One he folded double,  next
to the ground. The other two he spread on top.
     With  the  ax he slit off a bright slab of pine from one of the  stumps
and split  it into  pegs for the tent. He wanted them long and solid to hold
in the ground. With the  tent unpacked and spread on  the  ground, the pack,
leaning against a  jackpine,  looked much smaller. Nick  tied  the rope that
served the tent for a ridge-pole to the trunk of one of  the pine  trees and
pulled the tent up off the ground with the other end of the rope and tied it
to the other  pine.  The tent hung on the rope  like  a canvas blanket  on a
clothesline. Nick poked a pole  he  had  cut up  under the back peak of  the
canvas and then made it a tent by pegging out the sides. He pegged the sides
out taut and drove the pegs deep, hitting them down into the ground with the
flat  of  the ax until  the rope  loops were buried and the canvas  was drum
tight.
     Across the open mouth of  the tent Nick  fixed cheesecloth  to keep out
mosquitoes. He  crawled inside  under the mosquito  bar with various  things
from the pack to  put at the head of the bed under the slant  of the canvas.
Inside  the  tent the  light  came through  the  brown  canvas.  It  smelled
pleasantly of canvas. Already there was  something mysterious and  homelike.
Nick was happy as he crawled inside  the  tent. He had not  been unhappy all
day. This was different though. Now things were done. There had been this to
do. Now  it was  done.  It had been a hard trip. He was very tired. That was
done. He had made his camp. He was settled. Nothing could touch him.  It was
a good place to  camp. He  was  there, in the good place. He was in his home
where he had made it. Now he was hungry.
     He came out, crawling under the cheesecloth. It was quite dark outside.
It was lighter in the tent.
     Nick went  over to the pack and found, with his fingers, a long nail in
a paper sack of nails, in the bottom of the pack. He drove  it into the pine
tree, holding it  close and  hitting  it  gently with the flat of the ax. He
hung  the pack up on the nail. All  his supplies were in the pack. They were
off the ground and sheltered now.
     Nick  was  hungry. He  did not  believe he  had ever  been hungrier. He
opened and emptied  a can  of pork and beans and a can of spaghetti into the
frying pan.
     "I've got a  right to eat  this kind of stuff, if I'm  willing to carry
it," Nick said. His voice sounded strange in the darkening woods. He did not
speak again.
     He started a fire with some chunks of pine he  got with the  ax  from a
stump. Over the fire he stuck a  wire grill, pushing the four legs down into
the ground  with  his boot. Nick  put  the  frying pan on the grill over the
flames. He  was hungrier. The  beans and spaghetti wanned. Nick stirred them
and mixed  them  together. They began to  bubble, making little bubbles that
rose with difficulty to  the surface. There was a good smell. Nick got out a
bottle of tomato catchup  and cut four slices of  bread.  The little bubbles
were coming faster now. Nick  sat down beside the fire and lifted the frying
pan off. He poured about half the contents out into the tin plate. It spread
slowly on the plate.  Nick knew it was too hot.  He  poured  on  some tomato
catchup. He knew the  beans  and spaghetti were still too hot. He looked  at
the fire, then at the tent, he was not going to spoil it all by burning  his
tongue. For  years he had never enjoyed fried  bananas  because he had never
been  able to wait for  them to  cool. His tongue was very sensitive. He was
very hungry. Across  the river in  the  swamp, in the almost  dark, he saw a
mist rising. He  looked at the tent  once  more.  All right. He  took a full
spoonful from the plate.
     "Chrise," Nick said, "Geezus Chrise," he said happily.
     He ate the whole plateful before he remembered the bread. Nick finished
the  second plateful with  the  bread,  mopping the plate  shiny. He had not
eaten since a cup of coffee and a ham sandwich in the  station restaurant at
St.  Ignace. It had been  a very fine experience.  He  had been that  hungry
before, but had not been  able to satisfy it. He could have made  camp hours
before if he had wanted to. There were plenty  of good places to camp on the
river. But this was good.
     Nick tucked two big chips of pine under  the grill. The fire flared up.
He had forgotten  to  get  water for the coffee. Out  of the  pack he got  a
folding canvas  bucket and  walked  down the  hill, across  the edge of  the
meadow, to the stream. The other bank  was in the  white mist. The grass was
wet and cold as he  knelt on  the bank and dipped the canvas bucket into the
stream. It bellied and pulled hard in  the current. The water was ice  cold.
Nick rinsed the bucket and carried it full up to the  camp. Up away from the
stream it was not so cold.
     Nick  drove  another big nail  and hung up the bucket full of water. He
dipped  the coffee  pot half full, put some more chips  under the grill onto
the fire and put the pot on. He could not remember which way he made coffee.
He could remember  an argument about it with Hopkins, but not  which side he
had taken. He dedded  to  bring  it  to a  boil. He remembered now that  was
Hopkins's way. He had once  argued  about everything  with Hopkins. While he
waited for the coffee to boil,  he opened a small can of apricots.  He liked
to open cans. He emptied the  can of apricots  out into  a tin cup. While he
watched the coffee on the  fire, he drank the  juice syrup  of the apricots,
carefully at first to  keep  from spilling, then  meditatively, sucking  the
apricots down. They were better than fresh apricots.
     The coffee boiled as he watched. The lid came up and coffee and grounds
ran down the side of the pot. Nick took  it  off the grill. It was a triumph
for Hopkins.  He put sugar in the empty apricot cup  and  poured some of the
coffee out to cool. It was too hot  to pour and  he used his hat to hold the
handle of the coffee pot. He would not let it steep in the  pot at  all. Not
the first cup. It should be straight Hopkins all the way. Hop deserved that.
     He was a very serious coffee drinker. He was the  most serious man Nick
had ever known. Not heavy, serious. That was a long time ago. Hopkins  spoke
without moving his lips. He  had played polo. He made millions of dollars in
Texas. He had borrowed carfare to go to Chicago, when the wire came that his
first big well had come in.  He could have wired  for money. That would have
been  too  slow. They called Hop's  girl the Blonde Venus. Hop  did not mind
because she  was not his real  girl. Hopkins said very confidently that none
of  them would make fun of  his real girl. He was  right.  Hopkins went away
when the telegram came. That was on the Black River. It  took eight days for
the telegram to reach him. Hopkins  gave away his. 22 caliber Colt automatic
pistol  to Nick.  He gave his camera to  Bill. It was to remember him always
by. They were all going fishing again next summer. The Hop Head was rich. He
would  get a  yacht and they would all  cruise along the north shore of Lake
Superior.  He was excited but serious. They said  good-bye and all felt bad.
It broke up the trip. They never saw Hopkins again. That was a long time ago
on the Black River.
     Nick drank the coffee, the coffee according to  Hopkins. The coffee was
bitter.  Nick  laughed.  It made a  good  ending  to the story. His mind was
starting to work. He knew he  could choke it because he was tired enough. He
spilled the coffee out of the pot and shook the grounds loose into the fire.
He  lit  a cigarette  and went  inside  the tent. He took off his  shoes and
trousers, sitting on the blankets,  rolled  the shoes up inside the trousers
for a pillow and got in between the blankets.
     Out through the front of the tent he watched the glow of the fire, when
the  night wind  blew  on it. It was a quiet night. The swamp  was perfectly
quiet. Nick stretched under the blanket comfortably. A mosquito hummed close
to  his ear. Nick  sat up  and  lit a match. The mosquito was on the canvas,
over  his head. Nick moved the match quickly up to it.  The mosquito made  a
satisfactory hiss in the  flame. The match went  out. Nick  lay  down  again
under the  blanket. He turned on his side and shut his eyes. He  was sleepy.
He felt sleep coming. He curled up under the blanket and went to sleep.

     Part II

     In the morning  the  sun  was up and the tent  was starting to get hot.
Nick crawled out  under the  mosquito netting stretched across the mouth  of
the tent, to look at the morning. The grass was wet on his  hands as he came
out. He held his trousers and his shoes in  his hands. The sun  was  just up
over  the hill. There was the meadow, the  river  and the  swamp. There were
birch trees in the green of the swamp on the other side of the river.
     The river was clear and smoothly fast in the early morning.  Down about
two  hundred yards were three logs  all the way across the stream. They made
the water smooth and  deep above them. As Nick  watched, a mink crossed  the
river on  the logs and went into the swamp. Nick was excited. He was excited
by  the  early morning  and  the  river. He  was really too hurried  to  eat
breakfast, but he knew he must. He built a little fire and put on the coffee
pot.
     While the water was heating in the pot he took an empty bottle and went
down over the edge of the high ground to the meadow. The meadow was wet with
dew and Nick wanted to catch grasshoppers for bait before  the sun dried the
grass.  He found plenty of good grasshoppers.  They  were at the base of the
grass  stems. Sometimes they  clung  to a grass stem. They were cold and wet
with the dew, and could not jump until the sun wanned them. Nick picked them
up,  taking only the  medium-sized brown ones, and put them into the bottle.
He turned over a  log  and just  under the shelter of the  edge were several
hundred hoppers. It was a grasshopper lodging house. Nick put about fifty of
the medium browns into the bottle. While  he was  picking up the hoppers the
others warmed in the sun and  commenced  to  hop  away.  They flew when they
hopped. At first they made one flight and stayed stiff when  they landed, as
though they were dead.
     Nick knew that by the time he was through with breakfast  they would be
as  lively as ever. Without dew in the  grass it would take him  all  day to
catch a  bottle full of good grasshoppers and he would have to crush many of
them,  slamming at them with his hat. He washed his  hands at the stream. He
was excited to be near it. Then he walked  up to the tent. The  hoppers were
already jumping stiffly in the grass. In the bottle, warmed by the sun, they
were jumping in  a mass. Nick put in a pine stick as  a cork. It plugged the
mouth of the bottle enough, so the hoppers could not get out and left plenty
of air passage.
     He had  rolled the log back and knew  he  could get grasshoppers  there
every morning.
     Nick laid the bottle full of jumping grasshoppers against a pine trunk.
Rapidly he mixed some buckwheat flour with  water and stirred it smooth, one
cup of flour, one  cup of water. He put a handful  of  coffee in the pot and
dipped a  lump of grease out of a can  and slid it sputtering across the hot
skillet. On the smoking skillet he poured smoothly the buckwheat  batter. It
spread  like  lava,  the  grease  spitting  sharply.  Around  the  edges the
buckwheat  cake  began  to  firm, then brown,  then  crisp. The  surface was
bubbling slowly to porousness. Nick pushed  under  the browned under surface
with a fresh pine chip. He shook the skillet sideways and the cake was loose
on  the surface. I won't try and  flop  it, he  thought. He slid the chip of
clean wood all the way under the cake, and flopped it over onto its face. It
sputtered in the pan.
     When it was cooked Nick regreased the  skillet. He used all the batter.
It made another big flapjack and one smaller one.
     Nick ate a big  flapjack and  a smaller one, covered with apple butter.
He put apple butter on the  third  cake, folded it over twice, wrapped it in
oiled paper and put it in his shirt pocket. He put the apple butter jar back
in the pack and cut bread for two sandwiches.
     In the pack he found  a big onion.  He sliced it in two and peeled  the
silky  outer  skin.  Then  he  cut  one  half  into  slices  and  made onion
sandwiches. He wrapped them in oiled  paper  and  buttoned them in the other
pocket of his khaki shirt. He turned the  skillet upside down  on the grill,
drank the coffee, sweetened and yellow brown with the condensed milk in  it,
and tidied up the camp. It was a good camp.
     Nick took  his  fly rod  out of the leather rod-case,  jointed it,  and
shoved the rod-case  back into the tent. He put on the reel and threaded the
line through the guides. He had to hold it from hand to hand, as he threaded
it, or  it would slip back through its  own weight. It  was a heavy,  double
tapered fly line. Nick had paid eight dollars for it a long time ago. It was
made heavy  to lift  back  in the air and come  forward flat  and  heavy and
straight to make it possible to cast a fly which has  no weight. Nick opened
the aluminum  leader box. The leaders were  coiled between the damp  flannel
pads. Nick had  wet the pads at  the water cooler  on the train  up  to  St.
Ignace. In the damp pads the  gut leaders had softened and Nick unrolled one
and tied it by a loop at the end to the heavy fly  line. He  fastened a hook
on the end of the leader. It was a small hook; very thin and springy.
     Nick took  it from his hook book, sitting with the rod  across his lap.
He  tested the knot  and the spring  of the rod by pulling the line taut. It
was a good feeling. He was careful not to let the hook bite into his finger.
     He  started down  to  the  stream,  holding  his  rod,  the  bottle  of
grasshoppers hung from his neck by a thong tied in half hitches  around  the
neck of  the bottle. His landing net  hung by a hook from his belt. Over his
shoulder was a long flour sack tied at each comer into an ear. The cord went
over his shoulder. The sack flapped against his legs.
     Nick felt  awkward  and professionally  happy with  all  his  equipment
hanging  from  him. The grasshopper  bottle swung against  his chest. In his
shin the breast pockets bulged against him with the lunch and his fly book.
     He stepped into the stream. It was a shock. His trousers clung tight to
his legs. His shoes felt the gravel. The water was a rising cold shock.
     Rushing, the current  sucked against his legs. Where he stepped in, the
water  was over his knees. He waded  with the current. The gravel slid under
his shoes. He looked down at the swirl of water below each leg and tipped up
the bottle to get a grasshopper.
     The first  grasshopper gave a  jump  in the neck of the bottle and went
out into the water. He was sucked under in the whirl by Nick's right leg and
came  to the surface  a little way down stream. He floated rapidly, kicking.
In a quick circle, breaking the smooth surface of the water, he disappeared.
A trout had taken him.
     Another hopper poked his face out of the  bottle. His antennae wavered.
He  was getting his front legs out of the bottle to jump.  Nick took  him by
the head  and held him while he threaded the slim hook under  his chin, down
through  his  thorax  and  into  the  last  segments  of  his  abdomen.  The
grasshopper took  hold  of  the hook  with his  front feet, spitting tobacco
juice on it. Nick dropped him into the water.
     Holding the  rod in his right hand he  let out line against the pull of
the grasshopper in the current. He stripped off line from the reel  with his
left hand and let it run free.  He could see the hopper in  the little waves
of the current. It went out of sight.
     There was a tug on the line. Nick pulled  against the taut line. It was
his first strike. Holding the now living rod across  the current, he brought
in the  line with his  left  hand. The rod bent in  jerks, the trout pumping
against  the  current.  Nick  knew it was  a small one. He  lifted  the  rod
straight up in the air. It bowed with the pull.
     He saw  the trout in the water jerking with his head  and  body against
the shifting tangent of the line in the stream.
     Nick took the  line in his  left hand  and pulled the  trout,  thumping
tiredly against the current, to the surface. His back was mottled the clear,
water-over-gravel  color, his side flashing  in the  sun.  The rod under his
right arm, Nick stooped, dipping his right hand  into  the  current. He held
the trout,  never still, with his  moist  right  hand, while he unhooked the
barb from his mouth, then dropped him back into the stream.
     He hung unsteadily in the current, then settled to  the bottom beside a
stone. Nick reached  down his hand  to touch him, his arm to the elbow under
water.  The trout was steady  in the moving  stream, resting  on the gravel,
beside a stone. As  Nick's fingers touched him,  touched his  smooth,  cool,
underwater feeling he was  gone,  gone in  a shadow across the bottom of the
stream.
     He's all right. Nick thought. He was only tired.
     He  had  wet his  hand  before he touched  the  trout, so he  would not
disturb the delicate mucus that covered him.  If a trout  was touched with a
dry hand, a white fungus attacked the unprotected spot. Years before when he
had fished crowded streams,  with fly fishermen ahead of him and behind him.
Nick had  again  and  again  come on  dead trout, furry  with  white fungus,
drifted against a rock, or floating belly up in some pool. Nick did not like
to fish with other men on the  river. Unless they were  of  your party, they
spoiled it.
     He wallowed  down the stream, above his knees in the  current,  through
the  fifty yards of shallow water above the  pile  of logs that  crossed the
stream. He did not rebait  his hook and held it  in his hand as he waded. He
was certain he  could catch small trout in the shallows, but he did not want
them. There would be no big trout in the shallows this time of day.
     Now the water deepened up his  thighs sharply and coldly. Ahead was the
smooth dammed-back  flood of water  above the logs. The water was smooth and
dark; on the left, the lower edge of the meadow; on the right the swamp.
     Nick leaned back against the current and took a hopper from the bottle.
He threaded the hopper on the hook and spat  on him for  good  luck. Then he
pulled several yards of line  from  the reel and tossed the hopper out ahead
onto the fast, dark water. It floated down towards the logs, then the weight
of  the  line  pulled  the bait  under the surface. Nick held the rod in his
right hand, letting the line run out through his fingers.
     There was a long tug. Nick struck and the rod came alive and dangerous,
bent double, the line tightening, coming out  of water, tightening, all in a
heavy,  dangerous,  steady  pull. Nick felt the moment when the leader would
break if the strain increased and let the line go.
     The reel ratcheted into a mechanical shriek as the  line went out in  a
rush. Too fast. Nick could not check it, the line rushing out. the reel note
rising as the line ran out.
     With the core of the  reel  showing, his heart feeling stopped with the
excitement, leaning  back against the current that mounted icily his thighs,
Nick  thumbed  the  reel hard with his left hand. It was awkward getting his
thumb inside the fly reel frame.
     As  he put on pressure  the  line  tightened into sudden  hardness  and
beyond the  logs a huge trout went high  out  of  water. As he jumped.  Nick
lowered the tip of the rod. But he felt, as  he dropped the tip  to ease the
strain, the moment when the strain was too great; the hardness too tight. Of
course,  the leader had broken. There was no  mistaking the feeling when all
spring left the line and it became dry and hard. Then it went slack.
     His mouth dry, his heart down. Nick reeled in. He had never seen so big
a trout. There was a heaviness, a power not to be held, and then the bulk of
him, as he jumped. He looked as broad as a salmon.
     Nick's  hand  was shaky. He reeled  in slowly. The thrill  had been too
much. He felt, vaguely,  a little sick,  as though it would be better to sit
down.
     The  leader had broken where the  hook was tied to it. Nick  took it in
his hand. He thought of the trout  somewhere on the bottom, holding  himself
steady over the gravel,  far down below the light, under the logs,  with the
hook in his jaw. Nick knew the trout's teeth  would cut through the snell of
the  hook. The hook  would imbed itself  in his jaw. He'd  bet the trout was
angry.  Anything  that size would be angry. That  was  a  trout. He had been
solidly hooked. Solid as a rock. He felt like a rock, too, before he started
off. By God, he was a big one. By God, he  was the biggest one  I ever heard
of.
     Nick climbed  out onto the  meadow  and stood, water running  down  his
trousers and out of his shoes,  his shoes squelchy. He went  over and sat on
the logs. He did not want to rush his sensations any.
     He  wriggled  his  toes  in  the  water, in  his shoes, and  got  out a
cigarette from  his  breast  pocket. He lit it and tossed the match into the
fast  water below  the logs.  A  tiny  trout rose at  the match, as it swung
around in the fast current. Nick laughed. He would finish the cigarette.
     He  sat on  the logs, smoking, drying in the sun,  the sun warm  on his
back, the river shallow ahead  entering  the woods, curving into  the woods,
shallows, light glittering,  big water-smooth  rocks, cedars along  the bank
and white birches, the logs warm in the sun, smooth to sit on, without bark,
gray to the touch; slowly  the  feeling of  disappointment left him. It went
away  slowly, the  feeling  of disappointment that came  sharply  after  the
thrill that made his shoulders ache. It was all right now. His rod lying out
on the logs. Nick tied a new hook on the leader, pulling the gut tight until
it grimped into itself in a hard knot.
     He  baited up, then picked up  the rod and walked to the far end of the
logs  to get into the water, where it was not too deep. Under and beyond the
logs  was  a deep pool. Nick walked around the shallow shelf  near the swamp
shore until he came out on the shallow bed of the stream.
     On the left, where  the meadow  ended and  the woods began, a great elm
tree was uprooted. Gone  over  in a storm, it lay back  into the  woods, its
roots clotted with dirt,  grass growing in  them, rising a solid bank beside
the stream. The river cut to the edge of the uprooted tree.  From where Nick
stood he could see deep channels, like ruts, cut in  the shallow  bed of the
stream by the flow of the current. Pebbly where he stood and pebbly and full
of boulders beyond;  where it  curved near the tree  roots, the  bed of  the
stream was marly  and between the ruts of deep water green weed fronds swung
in the current.
     Nick swung  the  rod back over his shoulder  and forward, and the line,
curving  forward,  laid the grasshopper down on one of  the deep channels in
the weeds. A trout struck and Nick hooked him.
     Holding the rod far out toward  the uprooted tree and sloshing backward
in the current. Nick worked the trout, plunging, the rod  bending alive, out
of the  danger  of the weeds into the open  river. Holding the  rod, pumping
alive against the current.  Nick brought the trout in. He rushed, but always
came, the  spring of the rod yielding to the rushes, sometimes jerking under
water,  but  always bringing him in. Nick eased downstream with the  rushes.
The rod above his head he led the trout over the net, then lifted.
     The trout hung heavy in the net, mottled trout back and silver sides in
the meshes. Nick unhooked him; heavy sides, good to hold, big undershot jaw,
and slipped him, heaving and big sliding, into the long sack that hung  from
his shoulders in the water.
     Nick  spread the mouth of the sack against the  current and it  filled,
heavy  with  water. He  held  it up, the bottom in the stream, and the water
poured out through the sides. Inside at the  bottom was the big trout, alive
in the water.
     Nick  moved downstream. The  sack out ahead  of him sunk  heavy in  the
water, pulling from his shoulders.
     It was getting hot, the sun hot on the back of his neck.
     Nick  had one good trout. He did not care about getting many trout. Now
the  stream was  shallow  and  wide.  There were trees along both banks. The
trees of  the left bank  made short shadows  on the current in the  forenoon
sun.  Nick knew there were trout in each shadow. In the afternoon, after the
sun had crossed toward the hills, the trout would be in  the cool shadows on
the other side of the stream.
     The very biggest  ones would lie up close to the bank. You could always
pick them  up  there on the Black. When the sun was down they  all moved out
into the current.  Just when the sun  made the water blinding  in  the glare
before it went  down, you were liable to strike a big  trout anywhere in the
current. It was almost impossible to fish then, the surface of the water was
blinding as a mirror in the sun. Of course, you could  fish upstream, but in
a stream like the Black, or  this, you had to wallow against the current and
in a deep place, the water  piled up on you. It  was no fun to fish upstream
with this much current.
     Nick  moved along through  the shallow stretch watching the  banks  for
deep holes. A  beech tree  grew close beside the river, so that the branches
hung down  into the water. The stream  went back in  under the leaves. There
were always trout in a place like that.
     Nick  did not care about fishing  that hole. He was sure  he would  get
hooked in the branches.
     It looked deep  though. He dropped  the grasshopper so the current took
it  under water, back  in under the overhanging branch. The line pulled hard
and Nick struck. The trout threshed heavily, half out of water in the leaves
and branches. The line was caught.  Nick pulled hard and  the trout was off.
He reeled in and holding the hook in his hand, walked down the stream.
     Ahead,  close to  the left bank, was a big log. Nick saw it was hollow;
pointing up  river the current  entered it  smoothly, only  a  little ripple
spread each  side of the log. The water was deepening. The top of the hollow
log was gray and dry. It was partly in the shadow.
     Nick took the  cork out of the grasshopper bottle and a hopper clung to
it.  He  picked him off, hooked him and tossed him out. He held the  rod far
out so that the hopper on the  water moved into the current flowing into the
hollow  log.  Nick lowered the rod and the hopper floated  in. There  was  a
heavy strike. Nick swung the rod against the pull. It felt as though he were
hooked into the log itself, except for the live feeling.
     He tried to force the fish out into the current. It came, heavily.
     The line  went slack and Nick thought  the  trout was gone. Then he saw
him,  very near, in the current,  shaking his head, trying to  get the  hook
out.  His mouth  was  clamped shut. He was  fighting  the hook in  the clear
flowing current.
     Looping in the line with his  left hand. Nick swung the rod to make the
line taut and tried to lead the trout toward  the net, but he was  gone, out
of sight, the line pumping. Nick fought him against the current, letting him
thump in the water against the spring of the rod. He shifted  the rod to his
left hand,  worked  the trout upstream,  holding his weight, fighting on the
rod, and then let him down into the net. He lifted him clear of the water, a
heavy half  circle in the net, the  net dripping, unhooked him  and slid him
into the sack.
     He spread the mouth of the sack and looked down in at the two big trout
alive in the water.
     Through the deepening water. Nick waded over to the hollow log. He took
the sack off, over his head, the trout flopping as it came out of water, and
hung  it so the trout  were  deep in the water. Then he pulled himself up on
the log and sat, the water from his trouser and boots  running down into the
stream. He  laid his rod down, moved along  to the shady end of  the log and
took the sandwiches out of his pocket. He dipped the sandwiches in the  cold
water. The current carried away the crumbs. He ate the sandwiches and dipped
his hat full of water  to  drink, the water running out through his hat just
ahead of his drinking.
     It was cool in the shade, sitting on the log. He took  a  cigarette out
and struck a match to light it. The match sunk  into the gray wood, making a
tiny furrow. Nick leaned  over the side of the log, found  a  hard place and
lit the match. He sat smoking and watching the river.
     Ahead the river narrowed and went into a swamp. The river became smooth
and deep and the  swamp  looked solid with  cedar  trees, their  trunks dose
together, their branches solid. It  would  not be possible to walk through a
swamp  like  that. The  branches grew so  low. You would have to keep almost
level  with  the ground to  move  at  all. You could  not crash  through the
branches. That must  be why the animals  that lived in swamps were built the
way they were. Nick thought.
     He wished he had  brought something to read.  He  felt like reading. He
did not feel like going on  into the swamp. He  looked down the river. A big
cedar slanted all the way across the stream. Beyond that the river went into
the swamp.
     Nick did not  want to go in there now. He felt a reaction  against deep
wading with the water deepening up  under his armpits, to hook big trout  in
places impossible to land them. In  the swamp the banks  were bare, the  big
cedars  came  together  overhead, the  sun  did not come through,  except in
patches; in the fast deep  water, in the  half light,  the fishing  would be
tragic. In  the swamp fishing  was a tragic adventure. Nick did not want it.
He did not want to go down the stream any further today.
     He  took out  his knife, opened it and stuck it  in the  log.  Then  he
pulled  up  the  sack,  reached  into  it and  brought out one of the trout.
Holding him near the tail, hard to hold,  alive, in his hand, he whacked him
against the log. The  trout quivered, rigid. Nick laid him on the log in the
shade and broke the neck  of the other fish the same way. He  laid them side
by side on the log. They were fine trout.
     Nick cleaned them, slitting them from the  vent to the tip  of the jaw.
All  the insides and the  gills and tongue came out in one  piece. They were
both  males;  long  gray-white strips  of milt,  smooth  and clean.  All the
insides clean and  compact,  coming out all together.  Nick tossed the offal
ashore for the minks to find.
     He  washed  the  trout in the stream. When he  held them back up in the
water they looked like  live fish. Their color  was not gone yet. He  washed
his  hands  and dried them on  the log.  Then he  laid the trout on the sack
spread out  on the log, rolled them up in it,  tied the bundle and put it in
the landing net. His  knife was still  standing, blade stuck in  the log. He
cleaned it on the wood and put it in his pocket.
     Nick  stood  up on the log, holding his rod, the  landing  net  hanging
heavy, then  stepped into the water and splashed ashore. He climbed the bank
and  cut  up into  the  woods,  toward the high ground. He was going back to
camp.  He looked  back. The river just showed through the  trees. There were
plenty of days coming when he could fish the swamp.

lostboy

多谢了。要是还有海明威别的英文版的小说都给我吧。