荡志《我的安东尼娅》（节选）芹菜炒腊肠
死心
作者：薇拉·凯瑟
来源：《英语世界》2020年第12期
街舞种类 【导读】薇拉·凯瑟（1873—1947），美国小说家，普利策奖获得者，以描写美国中西部内布拉斯加州的草原生活而闻名。薇拉幼时随父母移居该州一个叫“红云镇”的地方，因该镇地处边疆，所以她有机会接触到来自瑞典、波希米亚、俄罗斯、德国等欧洲移民，并了解他们的生活点滴，这成为其创作的重要素材。长篇小说《啊，拓荒者！》（O Pioneers！， 1913）和《我的安东尼娅》（My Antonia，1918）是公认的佳作，生动再现了早期欧洲移民在美国艰苦奋斗的历程——移民的开拓精神和生活勇气可歌可泣，移民的自然淳朴亦可爱动人！描写雪景
本文节译自《我的安东尼娅》第二部“雇来的姑娘们”（The Hired Girls）第六章。内布拉斯加州草原上的冬，苍白、寂静、酷冷、漫长，本身似乎并无美感可言。不过，叙述者“我”和他的朋友们在这样恶劣的气候中仍是其乐融融。他们不仅用慧眼在自然的灰色调之外找寻斑斓的色彩，还在故事、嬉戏以及美食中度过了一个个难捱的无聊夜。冬，因为情，变得美好生动了！
Winter comes down savagely over a little town on the prairie. The wind that sweeps in from the open country strips away all the leafy screens that hide one yard from another
员工站in summer， and the hous em to draw clor together. The roofs， that looked so far away across the green tree-tops， now stare you in the face， and they are so much uglier than when their angles were softened by vines and shrubs.
In the morning， when I was fighting my way to school against the wind， I couldn’t e anything but the road in front of me; but in the late afternoon， when I was coming home， the town looked bleak and desolate to me. The pale， cold light of the winter sunt did not beautify—it was like the light of truth itlf. When the smoky clouds hung low in the west and the red sun went down behind them， leaving a pink flush on the snowy roofs and the blue drifts， then the wind sprang up afresh， with a kind of bitter song， as if it said： “This is reality， whether you like it or not. All tho frivolities of summer， the light and shadow， the living mask of green that trembled over everything， they were lies， and this is what was underneath. This is the truth.” It was as if we were being punished for loving the loveliness of summer.
If I loitered on the playground after school， or went to the post-office for the mail an
d lingered to hear the gossip about the cigar-stand， it would be growing dark by the time I came home. The sun was gone; the frozen streets stretched long and blue before me; the lights were shining pale in kitchen windows， and I could smell the suppers cooking as I pasd. Few people were abroad， and each one of them was hurrying toward a fire. The glowing stoves in the hous were like magnets. When one pasd an old man， one could e nothing of his face but a red no sticking out between a frosted beard and a long plush cap. The young men capered along with their hands in their pockets， and sometimes tried a slide on the icy sidewalk. The children， in their bright hoods and comforters， never walked， but always ran from the moment they left their door， beating their mittens against their sides. When I got as far as the Methodist Church， I was about halfway home. I can remember how glad I was when there happened to be a light in the church， and the painted glass window shone out at us as we came along the frozen street. In the winter bleakness a hunger for colour came over people， like the Laplander’s craving for fats and sugar. Without knowing why， we ud to linger on the sidewalk outside the church when the lamps were lighted early for choir p
ractice or prayer-meeting， shivering and talking until our feet were like lumps of ice. The crude reds and greens and blues of that coloured glass held us there.
蘑菇效应 On winter nights， the lights in the Harlings’ windows drew me like the painted glass. Inside that warm， roomy hou there was colour， too. After supper I ud to catch up my cap， stick my hands in my pockets， and dive through the willow hedge as if witches were after me. Of cour， if Mr. Harling was at home， if his shadow stood out on the blind of the west room， I did not go in， but turned and walked home by the long way， through the street， wondering what book I should read as I sat down with the two old people.
Such disappointments only gave greater zest to the nights when we acted charades， or had a costume ball in the back parlour， with Sally always dresd like a boy. Frances taught us to dance that winter， and she said， from the first lesson， that Antonia would make the best dancer among us. On Saturday nights， Mrs. Harling ud to play the old operas for us—Martha， Norma， Rigoletto—telling us the story while she
played. Every Saturday night was like a party. The parlour， the back parlour， and the dining-room were warm and brightly lighted， with comfortable chairs and sofas， and gay pictures on the walls. One always felt at ea there. Antonia brought her wing and sat with us—she was already beginning to make pretty clothes for herlf. After the long winter evenings on the prairie， with Ambrosch’s sullen silences and her mother’s complaints， the Harlings’ hou emed， as she said， “like Heaven” to her. She was never too tired to make taffy or chocolate cookies for us. If Sally whispered in her ear， or Charley gave her three winks， Tony would rush into the kitchen and build a fire in the range on which she had already cooked three meals that day.
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