大学英语精读课文翻译第四册（大学英语精读第1册第10单元课文及翻译）

​撰文|王树振

Book 1 Unit 10

I first heard this story a few years ago from a girl I had met in New York's Greenwich Village. Probably the story is one of those mysterious bits of folklore that reappear every few year, to be told anew in one form or another. However, I still like to think that it really did happen, somewhere, sometime.

Going Home

They were going to Fort Lauderdale -- three boys and three girls -- and when they boarded the bus, they were carrying sandwiches and wine in paper bags, dreaming of golden beaches and sea tides as the gray, cold spring of Now York vanished behind them.

As the bus passed through New Jersey, they began to notice Vingo. He sat in front of them, dressed in a plain, ill-fitting suit, never moving, his dusty face masking his age. He kept chewing the inside of his lip a lot, frozen into complete silence.

Deep into the night, outside Washington, the bus pulled into Howard Johnson's, and everybody got off except Vingo. He sat rooted in his seat, and the young people began to wonder about him, trying to imagine his life: perhaps he was a sea captain, a runaway from his wife, an old soldier going home. When they went back to the bus, one of the girls sat beside him and introduced herself.

"We're going to Florida," she said brightly. "I hear it's really beautiful."

"It is," he said quietly, as if remembering something he had tried to forget.

"Want some wine?" she said. He smiled and took a swig from the bottle. He thanked her and retreated again into his silence. After a while, she went back to the others, and Vingo nodded in sleep.

In the morning, they awoke outside another Howard Johnson's, and this time Vingo went in. The girl insisted that he join them. He seemed very shy, and ordered black coffee and smoked nervously as the young people chattered about sleeping on beaches. When they returned to the bus, the girl sat with Vingo again, and after a while, slowly and painfully, he began go tell his story. He had been in jail in New York for the past four years, and now he was going home.

"Are you married?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know?" she said.

"Well, when I was in jail I wrote to my wife," he said. "I told her that I was going to be away a long time, and that if she couldn't stand it, if the kids kept askin' questions, if it hurt her too much, well, she could jus forget me. I'd understand. Get a new guy , I said -- she's a wonderful woman, really something -- and forget about me. I told her she didn't have to write me. And she didn't. Not for three and a half years."

"And you're going home now, not knowing?"

"Yeah," he said shyly. "Well, last week, when I was sure the parole was coming through, I wrote the again. We used to live in Brunswick, just Before Jacksonville, and there's a big oak tree just as you come into town, I told her that if she didn't have a new guy and if she'd take me back, she should put a yellow handkerchief on the tree, and I'd get off and come home. If she didn't want me, forget it -- no handkerchief, and I'd go on through."

"Wow," the girl exclaimed. "Wow."

She told the others, and soon all of them were in it, caught up in the approach of Brunswick, looking at the pictures Vingo showed them of his wife and three children -- the woman handsome in a plain way, the children still unformed in the much-handled snapshots.

Now they were 20 miles from Brunswick, and the young people took over window seats on the right side, waiting for the approach of the great oak tree. Vingo stopped looking, tightening his face, as id fortifying himself against still another disappointment.

Then Brunswick was 10 miles, and then five. Then, suddenly, all of the young people were up out of their seats, screaming and shouting and crying, doing small dances of joy. All except Vingo.

Vingo sat there stunned, looking at the oak tree. It was covered with yellow handkerchiefs -- 20 of them, 30 of them, maybe hundreds, a tree that stood like a banner of welcome billowing in the wind. As the young people shouted, the old con slowly rose from his seat and made his way to the front of the bus to go home.

课文翻译

我是在几年前，从在纽约格林威治村碰到的一个女孩子那里第一次听到这个故事的。这故事很可能是那些每隔几年就会重新出现，以一种新的说法再被讲述一遍的神秘的民间传说中的一个。然而，我依然愿意相信这故事确实曾在某个地方、某个时间发生过。

回家

他们要去洛德代尔堡——三个男孩子和三个女孩子。他们用纸袋装着夹心面包和葡萄酒上了公共汽车。当纽约灰暗寒冷的春天在他们身后消失时，他们正梦想着金色的海滩和大海的潮水。

公共汽车驶过新泽西州时，他们开始注意到了文戈。他坐在他们前面，穿着一套不合身的便服，一动不动。他风尘满面，让人看不出他有多大岁数。他不停地咬着嘴唇内侧，表情冷淡，默默无言。

深夜，公共汽车驶抵华盛顿郊外，停进了霍华德·约翰逊餐馆。所有人都下了车，只有文戈除外。他像生了根似地坐在座位上，几个年轻人开始诧异起来，试图想像出他的身世：他或许是位海船船长，或是一个抛下妻子离家出走的人，再不就是一个回家的老兵。当他们回到车上时，一个女孩子便坐到他身边，作了自我介绍。

"我们要到佛罗里达去，"她兴高采烈地说。"听说那儿的确很美。"

"是的，"他轻声说道，仿佛想起了他一直想忘却的什么东西。

"想喝点酒吗？"她问。他微微一笑，就着瓶子喝了一大口。他谢了谢她，又缩回去一声不响了。过了一会儿，她回到自己一伙人身边，而文戈则打着盹睡着了。

第二天早上，他们醒来，车已停在另一家霍华德·约翰逊餐馆外面。这一次文戈进去了。那女孩一定要他跟他们坐在一起。他好像很害羞，要了杯不加牛奶的清咖啡，在年轻人喋喋不休地议论着露宿沙滩的乐趣时，他却紧张不安地在抽烟。回到车上以后，那女孩又跟文戈坐在了一起。过了一会儿，他慢吞吞地、不胜心酸地讲起了他的身世。他在纽约坐了四年牢，现在要回家了。

"你有太太吗？"

"不知道。"

"你不知道？"她问。

"是这样的，我在坐牢的时候曾写信给我妻子，"他说。"我告诉她我要离开很长一段时间，要是她受不了，要是孩子们老是问这问那，要是这事太让她伤心，那她可以干脆忘掉我。我会理解的。我说，再找个男人，忘掉我吧，——她是个很好的女人，真的挺不错。我告诉她不必给我写信。她没有写。三年半没有给我写信。"

"你现在什么也不知道就这样回家？"

"嗯，"他羞答答地说。"噢，上个礼拜，当我得知我的假释即将获准时，我又给她写了封信。我们过去一直住在杰克逊维尔不远的布伦斯威克，就在镇口有一棵大橡树。我告诉她，要是她没有别的男人，要是她还想让我回去，就在树上系一条黄手绢，我就会下车回家。要是她不要我，就当没这回事好了——不要系手绢，我就跟着汽车一直到底。"

"哇，"女孩子叫了起来。"哇。"

她告诉了别的人，很快大家全知道了，大家全都关注着布伦斯威克的到来。他们看着文戈拿给他们的几张照片，是他妻子和三个孩子的照片——从那几张触摸过多的快照上看，那女人自有一种朴实的美，孩子们还没有发育成熟。

他们离布伦斯威克只有二十英里了，年轻人都坐到了车右边靠窗的座位上，等待着那棵大橡树的出现。文戈不再张望，他紧绷着脸，仿佛正在鼓足勇气准备迎接另一次失望似的。

离布伦斯威克只有十英里了，只有五英里了。突然，所有年轻人都从座位上站了起来，尖叫着，呼喊着，大声嚷嚷着，跳起了欢乐的舞蹈。只有文戈除外。

文戈坐在那儿望着橡树惊呆了。树上挂满了黄手绢——二十条，三十条，或许有几百条，一棵树立在那儿就像欢迎的旗帜在迎风招展。在年轻人的欢呼声中，这位前犯人慢吞吞地从座位上站起来，向车子前部走去，准备回家。

本文由王树振老师编辑整理，图片来自网络