作者：[英] 约翰·高尔斯华绥（John Galsworthy）
格式: AZW3, DOCX, EPUB, MOBI, PDF, TXT
老福赛特的印第安之夏(外研社双语读库)试读：
I 1"And Summer's lease hath all too short a date."—Shakespeare“夏日的逗留总是如此短暂。”——莎士比亚
In the last day of May in the early 'nineties, about six o'clock of the evening, old Jolyon Forsyte sat under the oak tree below the terrace of his house at Robin Hill. He was waiting for the midges to bite him, before abandoning the glory of the afternoon. His thin brown hand, where blue veins stood out, held the end of a cigar in its tapering, long-nailed fingers—a pointed polished nail had survived with him from those earlier Victorian days when to touch nothing, even with the tips of the fingers, had been so distinguished. His domed forehead, great white moustache, lean cheeks, and long lean jaw were covered from the westering sunshine by an old brown Panama hat. His legs were crossed; in all his attitude was serenity and a kind of elegance, as of an old man who every morning put eau de Cologne upon his silk handkerchief. At his feet lay a woolly brown-and-white dog trying to be a Pomeranian—the dog Balthasar between whom and old Jolyon primal aversion had changed into attachment with the years. Close to his chair was a swing, and on the swing was seated one of Holly's dolls—called 'Duffer Alice'—with her body fallen over her legs and her doleful nose buried in a black petticoat. She was never out of disgrace, so it did not matter to her how she sat. Below the oak tree the lawn dipped down a bank, stretched to the fernery, and, beyond that refinement, became fields, dropping to the pond, the coppice, and the prospect—'Fine, remarkable'—at which Swithin Forsyte, from under this very tree, had stared five years ago when he drove down with Irene to look at the house. Old Jolyon had heard of his brother's exploit—that drive which had become quite celebrated on Forsyte 'Change. Swithin! And the fellow had gone and died, last November, at the age of only seventy-nine, renewing the doubt whether Forsytes could live for ever, which had first arisen when Aunt Ann passed away. Died! and left only Jolyon and James, Roger and Nicholas and Timothy, Julia, Hester, Susan! And old Jolyon thought: 'Eighty-five! I don't feel it—except when I get that pain.'
九十年代初一个五月的最后一天，傍晚六点左右，老乔利恩·福赛特坐在一棵橡树下，就在他罗宾山宅第的走廊下面。即使蠓虫会来咬他，他也要享受这傍晚的美好时光。他的手瘦黄，青筋暴露；一截雪茄烟头夹在瘦削的手指间，指甲很长——有一只光亮的尖指甲是他从维多利亚时代早期就一直留着的。当时，人们认为不用手，甚至不用指尖去碰任何东西才是十分高贵。他前额圆阔，双颊瘦削，下颌长瘦，留着浓密的大白胡子；一顶又黄又旧的巴拿马草帽为他遮挡西斜的日光。他跷着腿，神情自若且优雅。一个每天早上都要往丝质手帕上洒古龙香水的老人，正是如此。一只棕白相间的长毛狗趴着他的脚边，扮作博美犬的样子—这就是小狗巴尔萨泽。多年过去，它与老乔利恩已经由最初的相互敌视转为亲密无间了。他椅子旁有架秋千，上面坐着霍利的一只玩偶——名叫“笨蛋艾丽斯”——她的上身倒在腿上，那只悲惨的鼻子埋在她的黑裙里。她一向不惹人怜爱，所以坐姿如何也就无所谓了。橡树下是草坪，草坪沿着斜坡往下，连着精心修剪的蕨类种植园，再往那边是田野，接着地势更低了，一直到池塘和小灌木林，还有那片斯威辛·福赛特曾感叹“不错，美极了”的景色——五年前他和艾琳一起坐马车过来看房子时，曾在这棵橡树下凝望这片美景。老乔利恩听说过他弟弟的辉煌成就——那次出行曾在整个福赛特交易所引起轰动。斯威辛！不曾想，去年十一月，这位老兄弟就死了，才七十九岁。这让人们又一次怀疑，福赛特家族的人是否真能永远不死。他们第一次有这种怀疑，还是在安姑太去世的时候呢。又走了一个。现在只剩下老乔利恩、詹姆斯、罗杰、尼古拉斯、蒂莫西、茱莉娅、赫斯特，还有苏姗了！老乔利恩想：“八十五了！我可没觉得——不过那儿疼的时候除外。”
His memory went searching. He had not felt his age since he had bought his nephew Soames' ill-starred house and settled into it here at Robin Hill over three years ago. It was as if he had been getting younger every spring, living in the country with his son and his grandchildren—June, and the little ones of the second marriage, Jolly and Holly; living down here out of the racket of London and the cackle of Forsyte 'Change,' free of his boards, in a delicious atmosphere of no work and all play, with plenty of occupation in the perfecting and mellowing of the house and its twenty acres, and in ministering to the whims of Holly and Jolly. All the knots and crankiness, which had gathered in his heart during that long and tragic business of June, Soames, Irene his wife, and poor young Bosinney, had been smoothed out. Even June had thrown off her melancholy at last—witness this travel in Spain she was taking now with her father and her stepmother. Curiously perfect peace was left by their departure; blissful, yet blank, because his son was not there. Jo was never anything but a comfort and a pleasure to him nowadays—an amiable chap; but women, somehow—even the best—got a little on one's nerves, unless of course one admired them.
他继续回想着往事。三年前，他从侄子索姆斯手中买下了这座不祥之屋，搬到了罗宾山。打那以后，他还不觉得自己老过。他跟儿子乔、孙女琼，还有乔再婚后生的乔利和霍利一起生活在乡下，远离伦敦的喧闹，也没有福赛特交易所的聒噪，不开董事会，不用工作，尽情玩乐，这让他觉得自己每年都年轻了一些。他每天花大量时间完善屋舍，打理周边的二十英亩地，由着霍利和乔利的性子做这做那。琼、索姆斯和他妻子艾琳，还有小波辛尼，这几个人之间的恩怨长久以来在他心里生了许多郁结，可如今，也都逐渐化解了。就连琼也终于不再忧伤——现在正和父亲与继母一起在西班牙旅行。没想到他们走后，日子显得格外平静，幸福却又冷清，因为儿子不在身边。乔是个让人心宽的孩子，近来给他带来很多慰藉和快乐；可是女人，不知为何，即使是最好的女人，也难免让人有些心烦，当然，除非你对她心驰神往。
Far-off a cuckoo called; a wood-pigeon was cooing from the first elm-tree in the field, and how the daisies and buttercups had sprung up after the last mowing! The wind had got into the sou' west, too—a delicious air, sappy! He pushed his hat back and let the sun fall on his chin and cheek. Somehow, to-day, he wanted company—wanted a pretty face to look at. People treated the old as if they wanted nothing. And with the un-Forsytean philosophy which ever intruded on his soul, he thought: 'One's never had enough. With a foot in the grave one'll want something, I shouldn't be surprised!' Down here—away from the exigencies of affairs—his grandchildren, and the flowers, trees, birds of his little domain, to say nothing of sun and moon and stars above them, said, 'Open, sesame,' to him day and night. And sesame had opened—how much, perhaps, he did not know. He had always been responsive to what they had begun to call 'Nature,' genuinely, almost religiously responsive, though he had never lost his habit of calling a sunset a sunset and a view a view, however deeply they might move him. But nowadays Nature actually made him ache, he appreciated it so. Every one of these calm, bright, lengthening days, with Holly's hand in his, and the dog Balthasar in front looking studiously for what he never found, he would stroll, watching the roses open, fruit budding on the walls, sunlight brightening the oak leaves and saplings in the coppice, watching the water-lily leaves unfold and glisten, and the silvery young corn of the one wheat field; listening to the starlings and skylarks, and the Alderney cows chewing the cud, flicking slow their tufted tails; and every one of these fine days he ached a little from sheer love of it all, feeling perhaps, deep down, that he had not very much longer to enjoy it. The thought that some day—perhaps not ten years hence, perhaps not five—all this world would be taken away from him, before he had exhausted his powers of loving it, seemed to him in the nature of an injustice brooding over his horizon. If anything came after this life, it wouldn't be what he wanted; not Robin Hill, and flowers and birds and pretty faces—too few, even now, of those about him! With the years his dislike of humbug had increased; the orthodoxy he had worn in the 'sixties, as he had worn side-whiskers out of sheer exuberance, had long dropped off, leaving him reverent before three things alone—beauty, upright conduct, and the sense of property; and the greatest of these now was beauty. He had always had wide interests, and, indeed could still read The Times, but he was liable at any moment to put it down if he heard a blackbird sing. Upright conduct, property—somehow, they were tiring; the blackbirds and the sunsets never tired him, only gave him an uneasy feeling that he could not get enough of them. Staring into the stilly radiance of the early evening and at the little gold and white flowers on the lawn, a thought came to him: This weather was like the music of 'Orfeo,' which he had recently heard at Covent Garden. A beautiful opera, not like Meyerbeer, nor even quite Mozart, but, in its way, perhaps even more lovely; something classical and of the Golden Age about it, chaste and mellow, and the Ravogli 'almost worthy of the old days'—highest praise he could bestow. The yearning of Orpheus for the beauty he was losing, for his love going down to Hades, as in life love and beauty did go—the yearning which sang and throbbed through the golden music, stirred also in the lingering beauty of the world that evening. And with the tip of his cork-soled, elastic-sided boot he involuntarily stirred the ribs of the dog Balthasar, causing the animal to wake and attack his fleas; for though he was supposed to have none, nothing could persuade him of the fact. When he had finished he rubbed the place he had been scratching against his master's calf, and settled down again with his chin over the instep of the disturbing boot. And into old Jolyon's mind came a sudden recollection—a face he had seen at that opera three weeks ago—Irene, the wife of his precious nephew Soames, that man of property! Though he had not met her since the day of the 'At Home' in his old house at Stanhope Gate, which celebrated his granddaughter June's ill-starred engagement to young Bosinney, he had remembered her at once, for he had always admired her—a very pretty creature. After the death of young Bosinney, whose mistress she had so reprehensibly become, he had heard that she had left Soames at once. Goodness only knew what she had been doing since. That sight of her face—a side view—in the row in front, had been literally the only reminder these three years that she was still alive. No one ever spoke of her. And yet Jo had told him something once—something which had upset him completely. The boy had got it from George Forsyte, he believed, who had seen Bosinney in the fog the day he was run over—something which explained the young fellow's distress—an act of Soames towards his wife—a shocking act. Jo had seen her, too, that afternoon, after the news was out, seen her for a moment, and his description had always lingered in old Jolyon's mind—'wild and lost' he had called her. And next day June had gone there—bottled up her feelings and gone there, and the maid had cried and told her how her mistress had slipped out in the night and vanished. A tragic business altogether! One thing was certain—Soames had never been able to lay hands on her again. And he was living at Brighton, and journeying up and down—a fitting fate, the man of property! For when he once took a dislike to anyone—as he had to his nephew—old Jolyon never got over it. He remembered still the sense of relief with which he had heard the news of Irene's disappearance. It had been shocking to think of her a prisoner in that house to which she must have wandered back, when Jo saw her, wandered back for a moment—like a wounded animal to its hole after seeing that news, 'Tragic death of an Architect,' in the street. Her face had struck him very much the other night—more beautiful than he had remembered, but like a mask, with something going on beneath it. A young woman still—twenty-eight perhaps. Ah, well! Very likely she had another lover by now. But at this subversive thought—for married women should never love: once, even, had been too much—his instep rose, and with it the dog Balthasar's head. The sagacious animal stood up and looked into old Jolyon's face. 'Walk?' he seemed to say; and old Jolyon answered: "Come on, old chap!"
远处传来布谷鸟的叫声；一只斑鸠在田野那边的第一棵榆树上咕咕啼唱。自上次刈草后，雏菊和毛茛长得多快啊！风也转为西南风——好甜美的空气，甘露一般！他往后推了推帽子，让阳光照在他的下颌和脸颊上。不知为何，今天他想让人陪着——有张漂亮的脸看看也好。人们总以为老人无欲无求。不时侵入他灵魂的非福赛特哲学此时又在唱和，他想：“人永远不会满足。就算是快要入土的人也会有所欲求，这有什么好奇怪的！”就在这乡下——远离世事扰攘的地方，他的孙子孙女、花儿、树，还有他小家园的鸟儿们，更不用说他们头顶上的日月星辰，日日夜夜都在对他说：“芝麻，开门。”门终究是开了——开了多大，也许他并不清楚。他总能很快地感应到人们口中的“自然”，这种感应发自内心，几乎像对宗教般虔诚。可不管自然多么打动他，他也不会改变看法，夕阳就是夕阳，风景就是风景。如今自然却让他隐隐作痛，他对这一点有切身体会。现在白天越来越长，在每个这样宁静明媚的日子，老乔利恩都会牵着霍利的手去散步，小狗巴尔萨泽跑在前面，努力寻找它从来没找到的那些东西。他们看着玫瑰花开，墙上的枝条结出果子，阳光照亮橡树叶子和灌木林中的小树苗，睡莲的叶子舒展开来，闪着光，还有唯一的一片麦田里银色的新麦；听着椋鸟和云雀歌唱，看着奥尔德尼乳牛嚼着草，慢慢地摇着蓬松的尾巴。他珍爱每一个这样美好的日子，却也因此感到心中隐隐作痛，因为在内心深处，他觉得自己也许已时日无多，再也无法享受这一切。想到有一天——也许不到十年，也许不到五年——所有这一切都会从他身边消失，而他还没有倾尽所有力量来爱这个世界，这在他看来太不公平了。即使有来世，也不会是他想要的。不会有罗宾山，不会有花和鸟，也不会有漂亮的脸蛋——就算是现在，这些在他的生活中也太少！年岁渐长，他越发痛恨欺骗。六十年代时，他还是一副道貌岸然的样子，当时蓄起络腮胡子纯属年轻气盛，现在它们早已稀疏。如今他仍信奉着只有三样东西——美、正直的品行以及财产意识。而当下，美才是其中最重要的。他一直对许多事情饶有兴趣，也依然会读读《泰晤士报》，不过，一旦耳边传来画眉鸟的叫声，他就会立刻丢下手中的报纸。正直的品行、财产——不知怎的，这些东西会让人觉得厌烦；画眉鸟和落日却从来不会，只会让他觉得不安心，总怕自己听不够、看不够。他出神地望着黄昏时分静谧的余晖，还有草地上金色和白色的小花，心想：这天气多像《奥菲欧》里的音乐呀！不久前，他刚在科文特加登剧院听过这场歌剧。那场歌剧很精彩，它不像梅耶贝尔，也不怎么像莫扎特，它有自己的风格，或许这样更显得可爱。它带有古典风格和黄金时代的色彩，纯洁而浓郁，还有拉沃戈里，“堪比昔日”——这是他所能给出的最佳称赞。俄耳甫斯怀念逝去的美人，怀念他撒手人寰的爱人，世间的爱和美的结局皆是如此——那金子般的音乐动人地诉说着这段情思，也在今晚迟迟未散的美丽中跃动。他穿着两边有松紧的软木底靴，鞋尖不经意地踢到了小狗巴尔萨泽的肋骨，把它戳醒了。小家伙于是开始捉起身上的跳蚤来；虽然它身上根本没有，可它怎么也不相信。弄完后，它又把抓过的地方在主人的小腿肚上蹭了蹭，然后又趴下来，把下巴搭在那只戳醒它的靴子上。老乔利恩突然回忆起了什么：三周前他在剧院见过一张面孔——是艾琳，他那拥有产业的宝贝侄子索姆斯的妻子！老乔利恩上次见到她，还是在斯坦霍普门旧居举办的茶会上，那次是为了庆祝他孙女琼和小波辛尼不幸的订婚。即便如此，他还是立刻认出了她，因为他早就十分欣赏这位天生丽人。艾琳后来成了小波辛尼的情妇，这件事颇受非议。小波辛尼死后，他听说艾琳立刻离开了索姆斯。没有人知道她后来的情况。那天她坐在前排，他只看了个侧脸。但那却是三年来唯一的消息，让人知道她还活着。从来没有人谈起过她。不过有一次，乔向他说起过什么，让他很不愉快。他觉得乔是从乔治·福赛特那里听来的。那天下着大雾，乔治看到了波辛尼，他就是那天出的车祸。乔告诉了老乔利恩索姆斯对妻子的所作所为——令人震惊，这也正是让年轻的波辛尼万分痛苦的原因。那天下午，就在消息传出后，乔也见到了她，时间不长。老乔利恩始终无法忘记乔是如何描述艾琳的——说她“疯疯癫癫，丢了魂一般”。第二天，琼也去看她，努力掩饰着自己的情绪去看她。女仆哭着告诉她女主人夜里偷偷跑了出去，不见了。彻头彻尾的悲剧！可以确定的一点是——从那以后，索姆斯再也没找到艾琳。他后来搬去了布赖顿，整天东奔西跑——有产业的人，就该是这个命！老乔利恩一旦不喜欢某个人，比如他侄子，就不会再改变。他仍记得自己听说艾琳失踪时是如何如释重负。乔看见她时，她一定是看见了街上那条“一名建筑师惨死”的消息，然后，迷迷糊糊走回了那间屋子，就像受伤的动物慢慢挪回自己的洞穴。想想她像个囚犯似的住在那里面，真叫人不好受。那晚的见面着实让他心里一惊，那张脸比他记忆中的还要美，但却像戴着一张面具，下面隐藏着什么东西。她年纪还轻——可能二十八岁上下。唉，好吧！她现在很可能已经找到爱人了。已婚女人不该再爱上别人，哪怕一次也不行——一想到她有违传统的做法，他又抬了抬脚，巴尔萨泽的头也跟着抬了起来。敏锐的小家伙爬起来，望着老乔利恩的脸。它仿佛在说：“去散步吗？”老乔利恩回答道：“走吧，老伙计！”
Slowly, as was their wont, they crossed among the constellations of buttercups and daisies, and entered the fernery. This feature, where very little grew as yet, had been judiciously dropped below the level of the lawn so that it might come up again on the level of the other lawn and give the impression of irregularity, so important in horticulture. Its rocks and earth were beloved of the dog Balthasar, who sometimes found a mole there. Old Jolyon made a point of passing through it because, though it was not beautiful, he intended that it should be,
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