第23章 献给佑兰的玫瑰Roses for Yolande
加布里艾尔·罗伊 /Gabrielle Roy
Why did the memory of that dead child seek me out on this beautiful day? Till then, no intimation of sorrow had come to me through the dazzling revelations of a summer that sang.
It happened many years ago. I had just arrived in a small village in Manitoba, Canada, to f inish the school year as replacement for a teacher who had fallen ill or simply, for all I knew, become discouraged.
“When the time comes for you to apply for a permanent position,”the principal of the normal school had told me, “You'll be able to say that you've had experience.”
And so I found myself in spring in that very poor village - just a few shacks, with nothing around but spindling spruce trees. “A month,” I asked myself, “will that be long enough to become attached to the children? Will a month be worth the effort?”
Perhaps the same calculation was in the minds of the children, for I had never seen faces so dejected, so apathetic or perhaps sorrowful. I had had so little experience. I myself was hardly more than a child.
Nine o'clock came. The room was hot as an oven. Sometimes in Manitoba an incredible heat settles in during the f irst days of June.
Scarcely knowing where or how to begin, I opened the attendance book and called the roll. The names were for the most part French, and today they still return to my memory, like this, for no reason: Madeleine Berube, Josephat Brisset, Emilien Dumont, Cecile Lepine...
But most of the children who rose and answered “Present, mamzelle”, when their names were called had the slightly narrowed eyes, warm coloring and jet-black hair that told of metis blood.
They were beautiful and exquisitely polite; there was really nothing to reproach them for except the inconceivable distance they maintained between themselves and me. It crushed me. “Is this what children are like, then,” I asked myself with anguish, “untouchable, barricaded in some region where you can't reach them?”
I came to the name Yolande Chartrand.
No one answered. I repeated the name and, when there was still no answer, I looked up at faces that seemed to me completely indifferent.
Then from the back of the classroom, above the buzzing of f lies, arose a voice I couldn't place at f irst. “She's dead, mamzelle. She died last night.”
Perhaps even more distressing than the news was the calm, level tone of the child's voice.
“Ah, ” I said, lost for words.
We looked at one another in silence for a long time, the children and I. Now I understood that the expression in their eyes that I had taken for indifference was a heavy sadness.
“Since Yolande... was your schoolmate... would you like... after school at four o'clock... for us to go and visit her?”
On the small, much too serious faces there appeared the trace of some smiles, wary, still sad, but smiles just the same.
At f irst past four I found most of them waiting for me at the door, a good 20 children, but making no more noise than if they were being kept in after school. Several of them went ahead to show me the way. Others pressed around me so closely. I could scarcely move. F ive or six of the smaller ones took me by the hand and pulled me forward gently as if they were leading a blind person. They did not talk, merely held me enclosed in their circle.
Together, in this way, we came to a wooden cabin standing in isolation among thin spruce trees. Its door was wide open, so we were able to see the dead child alone in the room from quite far off. She had been laid out on rough boards suspended between two chairs.
The parents had undoubtedly done all they could for their child. They had covered her with a clean sheet. Her mother, probably, had arranged her hair in the two very tight braids that framed the thin face. But some pressing need had sent them away: perhaps the purchase of a coff in in town, or a few more boards to make her one themselves.
The child had a delicate little face, very wasted, with the serious expression I had seen on the faces of most of the children here, as if the cares of the adults had crushed them all too early. She might have been 10 or 11 years old.
The children were watching me. I realized they now expected everything from me, though I didn't know much more than they. Then I had a sort of inspiration.
“Don't you think Yolande would like to have someone with her always till the time comes to commit her to the ground?”
The faces of the children told me I had struck the right note.
“We'll take turns then, four or f ive around her every two hours, until the funeral. We must be careful not to let the f lies touch her face.”
They agreed with a glow in their dark eyes. Standing around me, they now felt a trust in me so complete it terrif ied me.
In a clearing among the spruce trees a short distance away, I noticed a bright-pink stain on the ground whose source I didn't yet know. The sun slanted on it, making it f lame, the one moment in this day that had been touched by a certain grace.
“What sort of girl was she?” I asked.
At f irst the children didn't understand. Then a boy of about the same age said with tender seriousness, “She was smart, Yolande.”
“And did she do well in school?”
“She didn't come very often this year. She was always being absent.”
“Our teacher before last said Yolande could have done well.”
“What did Yolande die of?”
“Tuberculosis, mamzelle,” they replied with a single voice, as if this was the customary way for children to die around here.
They were eager to talk about her now. I had succeeded in opening the little doors deep within them that no one perhaps had ever much wanted to see opened. They told me moving facts about her brief life. “One day on her way home from school - it was February.”“No,” said another, “in March - she had lost her reader and wept inconsolably for weeks. To study her lesson after that, she had to borrow a book from one of the others,” - and I saw on the faces of some of them that they'd grudged lending their readers and would always regret this. “Not having a dress for her conf irmation, she had pleaded till her mother f inally made her one from the only curtain in the house - the one from this room... a beautiful lace curtain, mamzelle.”
“And did Yolande look pretty in her lace-curtain dress?” I asked.
They all nodded deeply, in their eyes the memory of a pleasant image.
I studied the silent little face. A child who had had loved books, solemnity and decorous attire. Then I glanced at the astonishing splash of pink in the melancholy landscape and realized that it was a mass of wild roses. In June they open in great sheets all over Manitoba, growing from the poorest soil. I felt some consolation.
“Let's go and pick some roses for Yolande.”
On the children's faces there appeared the same slow smiles of gentle sadness I had seen when I suggested visiting the body.
In no time we were gathering roses. The children were not yet cheerful, far from that, but I could hear them at least talking to one another. A sort of rivalry, had gripped them. Each vied to see who could pick the most roses or the brightest, those of a deep shade that was almost red.
From time to time, one tugged at my sleeve. “Mamzelle, see the lovely one I've found!”
On our return we pulled them gently apart and scattered petals over the dead child. Soon only her face emerged from the pink drift. Then - how could this be? - it looked a little less forlorn.
The children formed a ring around their schoolmate and said of her without the bitter sadness of the morning, “She must have got to heaven by this time.”
Or. “She must be happy now.”
I listened to them, already consoling themselves as best they could for being alive...
But why, oh why, did the memory of that dead child seek me out today in the very midst of the summer that sang?
Was it brought to me just now by the wind with the scent of roses?
A scent I have not much liked since the long ago June when I went to that poorest of villages - to acquire, as they say, experience.
在这个美好的日子里，不知为什么，我又想起了那个死去的女孩。而此前，我一直沉浸在夏日璀璨的光辉和欢乐的海洋里，毫无任何悲伤的征兆。
事情发生在很多年前，那时，我刚到加拿大曼尼托巴一个小村庄，那里的一个老师生病了，或许只是气馁了。我作为代课老师，要教完那个学年。
“当你申请固定教师职位时，”师范学校的校长曾告诉我，“你就可以说有工作经验了。”
所以，那年春天，我到了那个非常贫穷的小村庄——只有几间小木屋，周围除了细长的云杉树，什么都没有。“一个月，”我问自己，“能让孩子们喜欢上我吗？一个月，值得付出努力吗？”
也许孩子们的心里也在这样想，因为我从来未见过如此沮丧、冷漠、或说是哀伤的面孔。我经历的太少了，几乎还只是个孩子。
九点钟，教室热得像个大烤箱。有时，曼尼托巴异常的燥热在六月初就会出现。
我简直不知道从何时开始，我打开花名册，开始点名。那些名字大多是法文。奇怪的是，今天我居然还能记起来，例如：玛黛琳·贝鲁贝，约瑟法·布里塞，艾蜜莲·杜蒙，塞西·勒宾……
但是，当点到他们的名字，他们一个个站起来答“到，老师”时，我看见多数孩子都是细细的眼睛，黝黑的皮肤，乌黑的头发，无一不在昭示着他们是有着黑人血统的混血儿。
这些孩子漂亮又很有礼貌。实在没有什么值得责备的地方，但令我沮丧的是，我觉得他们在有意地疏远我。“所有的孩子都这样吗？”我痛苦地反问自己。“就这样难以捉摸，把心灵封锁起来，让人无法触及吗？”
我点到佑兰·夏特康这个名字。
没人回答，我重复了一遍，还没人回答，我抬起头，扫视着那些看起来很冷漠的脸。
突然，从教室的后面传来一个声音，苍蝇似的嗡嗡声使我无法立即找到说话人，“她死了，老师，昨晚死的。”
或许这孩子沉着平静的语调比这消息本身更令人害怕。
“啊。”我一时说不出话来。
我和孩子们默默对视了很长时间。我现在才看懂他们眼里所流露出的并非我以为的冷漠，而是万分的悲痛。
“既然佑兰……是你们的同学……你们愿不愿意……四点钟放学后……我们一起去她家？”
那些异常严肃的小面孔上，隐隐约约地浮现出一丝笑容，虽然那笑容机警且悲伤，但毕竟笑了。
四点刚过，我发现他们多数都在门口等我，足有二十个，寂静无声地站在那里，就像被罚留校一样。几个孩子在前面带路，其他的紧紧围绕着我，几乎使我无法移动。五六个年纪小的孩子轻轻拉着我的手，好像在给盲人引路。他们不说话，只是把我围在中间。
就这样簇拥着，我们来到一间小木屋前，它孤零零地立在稀落的云杉树中。大门敞开着，我们很远就看见那个死去的孩子独自躺在屋内。家人已把她放在一块粗糙的木板上，两端用两张椅子支撑着。
毫无疑问，父母已经为孩子做了他们能做的一切。他们用一条干净的被单把她盖起来。可能是她的妈妈，把她的头发编成两条紧紧的辫子，衬托着她那瘦削的小脸。也许有一些更要紧的事使他们不得不离开：可能是去镇上买棺材了，也可能是去找木板了，要亲手为她做一个。
这孩子精致的小脸非常消瘦，严肃的表情与我在这里见到的大多数孩子一样，他们似乎过早地经历了成人的忧虑。她可能只有十或十一岁。
孩子们都看着我，我知道他们在期盼我说点或做点什么，尽管我并不比他们懂得多。突然，我想到了一个主意。
“你们觉得佑兰会喜欢有人一直陪着她入土为安吗？”
孩子们的表情告诉我，我说到了他们的心坎里。
“那么我们四五个人一组轮流陪她，每两小时换一次，直到下葬。我们要悉心呵护她，不让苍蝇飞到她的脸上。”
他们同意了，乌黑的眼睛闪烁着。他们围绕着我，此时他们对我的绝对信任，使我有些恐惧。
不远处的云杉树下，有一片空地。我注意到地上有一块明亮的粉红色斑块。我不知道那究竟是什么。阳光斜照在上面，熠熠生辉。那个瞬间是那天最优美迷人的时刻。
“她是一个什么样的女孩？”我问。
孩子们开始好像不大明白我的意思。之后，一个与她年龄相仿的男孩轻轻地，而又严肃地答道，“佑兰很聪明。”
“她学习成绩好吗？”
“今年她不常来学校，经常缺课。”
“我们以前的老师说，佑兰还可以做得更好。”
“佑兰得了什么病？”
“肺结核，老师。”他们异口同声道，好像这附近的孩子通常都是这样死去的。
现在，他们争着谈论她，我已将他们小小的心扉成功地打开了，也许以前没有人在意他们的心灵。他们告诉我她短暂的一生中一些感人的事。“一天，她放学回家的路上——那是二月份，”“不，”另一个说，“是三月——她把课本弄丢了，整整哭了几个星期。从那以后，她只能向其他人借课本学习。”从他们一些人的脸上，我看出他们会为没能借课本给佑兰而后悔终生。“还有一次，参加坚信礼，她没有礼服穿，便央求妈妈给她缝一件，最后，她妈妈用家里唯一的窗帘为她做了一件——就是这个房子的窗帘……一个漂亮的花边窗帘，老师。”
“佑兰穿着她的花边窗帘裙漂亮吗？”我问。
他们都用力地点了点头，眼里又浮现出一个可爱的形象。
我仔细端详着这张小脸，一个曾喜爱书本，注重庄严仪式和服饰的孩子。突然，我瞥见那片沉闷的景物中的粉红色斑块，惊讶地发现那是一簇一簇的野玫瑰。六月，它们成片地开满曼尼托巴的大地，在贫瘠的土地上生长。我感到很欣慰。
“我们去摘些玫瑰花给佑兰吧。”
孩子们的脸上再次浮现出淡淡的、悲哀的微笑，就像我建议探视佑兰的遗体时一样。
很快，我们都在摘玫瑰了，孩子们还没有高兴到欢呼雀跃的程度，远远没有。不过，至少我能听到他们在相互交谈。他们开始竞相采摘，看谁能摘到的玫瑰最多、最娇艳。
偶尔会有孩子拉我的衣袖，“老师，看我采的这朵花多可爱呀！”
回来后，我们将花朵轻轻地撕开，把花瓣撒在佑兰的身上。很快，粉红色的花瓣撒满了她全身，只有脸露在外面。不知道为什么，我觉得这样看起来不那么凄惨了。
孩子们在旁边围成一个圈，谈论佑兰的语气不像早上那么悲哀了，“此时她一定到天堂了。”
有人说：“她现在一定幸福极了。”
我听他们谈论着，他们在尽力安慰自己，毕竟他们还活着……
可是，为什么，为什么，在今天，这个美好的仲夏夜，我又想起了这个死去的孩子？
难道是随风飘来的玫瑰馨香勾起了我的回忆？
我不喜欢这种馨香，自很久以前的那个六月，我去那座贫困的小村庄——去获得他们所谓的经验时起，我就不喜欢了。
记忆填空
1.It happened many years_______. I had just arrived in a small_______in Manitoba, Canada, to f inish the school year_______replacement for a teacher who had fallen ill or simply, for_______ I knew, become discouraged.
2.They were eager to_______about her now. I had succeeded in opening the little doors_______within them that no one perhaps had ever much wanted to_______opened. They told me moving facts about her brief_______.
3.A scent I have not much_______since the long ago June when I went to that poorest of villages - to acquire,_______ they say, experience.
佳句翻译
1.而此前，我一直沉浸在夏日璀璨的光辉和欢乐的海洋里，毫无任何悲伤的征兆。
译_______________________________________________________________
2.阳光斜照在上面，熠熠生辉。那个瞬间是那天最优美迷人的时刻。
译_______________________________________________________________
3.我听他们谈论着，他们在尽力安慰自己，毕竟他们还活着……
译_______________________________________________________________
短语应用
1.“When the time comes for you to apply for a permanent position,”the principal of the normal school had told me,“You'll be able to say that you've had experience.”
apply for：请求；提出申请（或要求等）
造_______________________________________________________________
2.They were eager to talk about her now.
be eager to：热切想做，渴望要做
造_______________________________________________________________