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作者简介:马克·吐温(Mark Twain,1835年11月30日-1910年4月21日),原名萨缪尔·兰亨·克莱门 (Samuel
Langhorne Clemens) (射手座)是美国的幽默大师、小说家、作家，也是著名演说家，19世纪后期美国现实主义文学的杰出代表。
写作风格：融幽默与讽刺一体，既富于独特的个人机智与妙语，又不乏深刻的社会洞察与剖析，既是幽默辛辣的小说杰作，又是悲天悯人的严肃!
It was summer-time, and twilight. We were sitting on the porch of the
farmhouse, on the summit of the hill, and "Aunt Rachel" was sitting respectfully
below our level, on the steps-for she was our Servant, and colored. She was of
mighty frame and stature; she was sixty years old, but her eye was undimmed and
her strength unabated. She was a cheerful, hearty soul, and it was no more
trouble for her to laugh than it is for a bird to sing. She was under fire now,
as usual when the day was done. That is to say, she was being chaffed without
mercy, and was enjoying it. She would let off peal after of laughter, and then
sit with her face in her hands and shake with throes of enjoyment which she
could no longer get breath enough to express. It such a moment as this a thought
occurred to me, and I said:
"Aunt Rachel, how is it that you've lived sixty years and never had any
trouble?"
She stopped quaking. She paused, and there was moment of silence. She
turned her face over her shoulder toward me, and said, without even a smile her
voice:
"Misto C — , is you in 'arnest?"
It surprised me a good deal; and it sobered my manner and my speech, too. I
said:
"Why, I thought — that is, I meant — why, you can't have had any trouble.
I've never heard you sigh, and never seen your eye when there wasn't a laugh in
it."
She faced fairly around now, and was full earnestness.
"Has I had any trouble? Misto C — , I's gwyne to tell you, den I leave it
to you. I was bawn down 'mongst de slaves; I knows all 'bout slavery, 'case I
ben one of 'em my own se'f. Well sah, my ole man — dat's my husban' — he was lov
an' kind to me, jist as kind as you is to yo' own wife. An' we had chil'en —
seven chil'en — an' loved dem chil'en jist de same as you loves yo' chil'en. Dey
was black, but de Lord can't make chil'en so black but what dey mother loves 'em
an' wouldn't give 'em up, no, not for anything dat's in dis whole world.
"Well, sah, I was raised in ole Fo'ginny, but mother she was raised in
Maryland; an' my souls she was turrible when she'd git started! My lan! but
she'd make de fur fly! When she'd git into dem tantrums, she always had one word
dat she said. She'd straighten herse'f up an' put her fists in her hips an' say,
'I want you to understan' dat I wa'n't bawn in the mash to be fool' by trash!
I's one o' de ole Blue Hen's Chickens, I is!' 'Ca'se you see, dat's what folks
dat's bawn in Maryland calls deyselves, an' dey's proud of it. Well, dat was her
word. I don't ever forgit it, beca'se she said it so much, an' beca'se she said
it one day when my little Henry tore his wris' awful, and most busted 'is head,
right up at de top of his forehead, an' de niggers didn't fly aroun' fas' enough
to 'tend to him. An' when dey talk' back at her, she up an' she says,
'Look-a-heah!' she says, 'I want you niggers to understan' dat I wa'n't bawn in
de mash be fool' by trash! I's one o' de ole Blue Hen's chickens, I is!' an' den
she clar' dat kitchen an' bandage' up de chile herse'f. So I says dat word, too,
when I's riled.
"Well, bymeby my ole mistis say she's broke, an she got to sell all de
niggers on de place. An' when I heah dat dey gwyne to sell us all off at oction
in Richmon', oh, de good gracious! I know what dat mean!"
Aunt Rachel had gradually risen, while she warmed to her subject, and now
she towered above us, black against the stars.
"Dey put chains on us an' put us on a stan' as high as dis po'ch — twenty
foot high-an' all de people stood aroun', crowds 'an' crowds. An' dey'd come up
dah an' look at us all roun', an' squeeze our arm, an' make us git up an' walk,
an' den say, Dis one too ole,' or 'Dis one lame,' or 'Dis one don't 'mount to
much.' An' dey sole my ole man, an' took him away, an' dey begin to sell my
chil'en an' take dem away, an' I begin to cry; an' de man say, 'Shet up yo' damn
blubberin',' an' hit me on de mouf wid his han'. An' when de las' one was gone
but my little Henry, I grab' him clost up to my breas' so, an' I ris up an'
says, 'You sha'nt take him away,' I says; 'I'll kill de man dat tetch him!' I
says. But my little Henry whisper an' say 'I gwyne to run away, an' den I work
an' buy yo' freedom' Oh, bless de chile, he always so good! But dey got him —
dey got him, de men did; but I took and tear de clo'es mos' off of 'em an' beat
'em over de head wid my chain; an' dey give it to me too, but I didn't mine
dat.
"Well, dah was my ole man gone, an' all my chil'en, all my seven chil'en —
an' six of 'em I hain't set eyes on ag'in to dis day, an' dat's twenty-two year
ago las' Easter. De man dat bought me b'long' in Newbern, an' he took me dah.
Well, bymeby de years roll on an' de waw come. My marster he was a Confedrit
colonel, an' I was his family's cook. So when de Unions took dat town dey all
run away an' lef' me all by myse'f wid de other niggers in dat mons'us big
house. So de big Union officers move in dah, an' dey ask me would I cook for
dem. 'Lord bless you,' says I, 'dat what I's for.'
"Dey wa'n't no small-fry officers, mine you, de was de biggest dey is; an'
de way dey made dem sojers mosey roun'! De Gen'l he tole me to boss dat kitchen;
an' he say, 'If anybody come meddlin' wid you, you jist make 'em walk chalk;
don't you be afeared,' he say; 'you's 'mong frens now.'
"Well, I thinks to myse'f, if my little Henry ever got a chance to run
away, he'd make to de Norf, o' course. So one day I comes in dah whar de big
officers was, in de parlor, an' I drops a kurtchy, so, an' I up an' tole 'em
'bout my Henry, dey a-listenin' to my troubles jist de same as if I was white
folks; an' I says, 'What I come for is beca'se if he got away and got up Norf
whar you gemmen comes from, you might 'a' seen him, maybe, an' could tell me so
as I could fine him ag'in; he was very little, an' he had a sk-yar on his lef'
wris' an' at de top of his forehead.' Den dey look mournful, an' de Gen'l says,
'How long sence you los' him?' an' I say, 'Thirteen year. Den de Gen'l say, 'He
wouldn't be little no mo' now — he's a man!'
"I never thought o' dat befo'! He was only dat little feller to me yit. I
never thought 'bout him growin' up an' bein' big. But I see it den. None o' de
gemmen had run acrost him, so dey couldn't do nothin' for me. But all dat time,
do' I didn't know it, my Henry was run off to de Norf, years an' years, an' he
was a barber, too, an' worked for hisse'f. An' bymeby, when de waw come he ups
an' he says: 'I's done barberin',' he says, 'I's gwyne to fine my ole mammy,
less'n she's dead.' So he sole out an' went to whar dey was recruitin', an'
hired hisse'f out to de colonel for his servant an' den he went all froo de
battles everywhah, huntin' for his ole mammy; yes, indeedy, he'd hire to fust
one officer an' den another, tell he'd ransacked de whole Souf; but you see I
didn't know nuffin 'bout dis. How was I gwyne to know it?
"Well, one night we had a big sojer ball; de sojers dah at Newbern was
always havin' balls an' carryin' on. Dey had 'em in my kitchen, heaps o' times,
'ca'se it was so big. Mine you, I was down on sich doin's; beca'se my place was
wid de officers, an' it rasp me to have dem common sojers cavortin' roun' in my
kitchen like dat. But I alway' stood aroun' an kep' things straight, I did; an'
sometimes dey'd git my dander up, an' den I'd make 'em clar dat kitchen mine I
tell you!
"Well, one night — it was a Friday night — dey comes a whole platoon f'm a
nigger ridgment da was on guard at de house — de house was head quarters, you
know-an' den I was jist a-bilin' mad? I was jist a-boomin'! I swelled aroun', an
swelled aroun'; I jist was a-itchin' for 'em to do somefin for to start me. An'
dey was a-waltzin' an a dancin'! my but dey was havin' a time! an I jist
a-swellin' an' a-swellin' up! Pooty soon, 'long comes sich a spruce young nigger
a-sailin' down de room wid a yaller wench roun' de wais'; an' roun an' roun' an
roun' dey went, enough to make a body drunk to look at 'em; an' when dey got
abreas' o' me, dey went to kin' o' balancin' aroun' fust on one leg an' den on
t'other, an' smilin' at my big red turban, an' makin' fun, an' I ups an' says
'Git along wid you! — rubbage!' De young man's face kin' o' changed, all of a
sudden, for 'bout a second but den he went to smilin' ag'in, same as he was
befo'. Well, 'bout dis time, in comes some niggers dat played music and b'long'
to de ban', an' dey never could git along widout puttin' on airs. An de very
fust air dey put on dat night, I lit into em! Dey laughed, an' dat made me wuss.
De res' o' de niggers got to laughin', an' den my soul alive but I was hot! My
eye was jist a-blazin'! I jist straightened myself up so — jist as I is now,
plum to de ceilin', mos' — an' I digs my fists into my hips, an' I says,
'Look-a-heah!' I says, 'I want you niggers to understan' dat I wa'n't bawn in de
mash to be fool' by trash! I's one o' de ole Blue hen's Chickens, I is!' an' den
I see dat young man stan' a-starin' an' stiff, lookin' kin' o' up at de ceilin'
like he fo'got somefin, an' couldn't 'member it no mo'. Well, I jist march' on
dem niggers — so, lookin' like a gen'l — an' dey jist cave' away befo' me an'
out at de do'. An' as dis young man a-goin' out, I heah him say to another
nigger, 'Jim,' he says, 'you go 'long an' tell de cap'n I be on han' 'bout eight
o'clock in de mawnin'; dey's somefin on my mine,' he says; 'I don't sleep no mo'
dis night. You go 'long,' he says, 'an' leave me by my own se'f.
"Dis was 'bout one o'clock in de mawnin'. Well, 'bout seven, I was up an'
on han', gittin' de officers' breakfast. I was a-stoopin' down by de stove jist
so, same as if yo' foot was de stove — an' I'd opened de stove do' wid my right
han' — so, pushin' it back, jist as I pushes yo' foot — an' I'd jist got de pan
o' hot biscuits in my han' an' was 'bout to raise up, when I see a black face
come aroun' under mine, an' de eyes a-lookin' up into mine, jist as I's
a-lookin' up clost under yo' face now; an' I jist stopped right dah, an' never
budged! jist gazed an' gazed so; an' de pan begin to tremble, an' all of a
sudden I knowed! De pan drop' on de flo' an' I grab his lef' han' an' shove back
his sleeve — jist so, as I's doin' to you — an' den I goes for his forehead an'
push de hair back so, an' 'Boy!' I says, 'if you an't my Henry, what is you
doin' wid dis welt on yo' wris' an' dat sk-yar on yo' forehead? De Lord God ob
heaven be praise', I got my own ag'in!'
"Oh no' Misto C — , I hain't had no trouble. An' no joy!" |
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发表于 2016-7-10 11:23:37