 《杀死一只知更鸟》属于那种比较老式的电影，影片有一种让人难以想象的真实感。影片中充满了对过去那种时代的缅怀之情，我们甚至能从电影中感受到那个时代的勇气与怀疑。一方面充满了浪漫主义色彩，另一方面又深受当时现实主义的影响，宛若一丝光明穿越黑暗的森林引领我们去寻找真理。影片根据哈伯。李的同名小说改编而成，格里高利。派克电影生涯中最具代表的作品之一。《杀死一只知更鸟》是好莱坞60年代初自由主义的先声。当时正值美国国内黑人与白人矛盾冲突激化之际，电影虽然说的是经济大萧条时的事情，其实正是影射当时国内的现状。 |
Chapter 1 When he was nearly thirteen, my brother Jem got his arm badly broken at the elbow. When it healed, and Jem’s fears of never being able to play football were assuaged, hewas seldom self-conscious about his injury. His left arm was somewhat shorter than hisright; when he stood or walked, the back of his hand was at right angles to his body, histhumb parallel to his thigh. He couldn’t have cared less, so long as he could pass andpunt. When enough years had gone by to enable us to look back on them, we sometimesdiscussed the events leading to his accident. I maintain that the Ewells started it all, butJem, who was four years my senior, said it started long before that. He said it began thesummer Dill came to us, when Dill first gave us the idea of making Boo Radley comeout. I said if he wanted to take a broad view of the thing, it really began with AndrewJackson. If General Jackson hadn’t run the Creeks up the creek, Simon Finch wouldnever have paddled up the Alabama, and where would we be if he hadn’t? We were fartoo old to settle an argument with a fist-fight, so we consulted Atticus. Our father said wewere both right. Being Southerners, it was a source of shame to some members of the family that wehad no recorded ancestors on either side of the Battle of Hastings. All we had wasSimon Finch, a fur-trapping apothecary from Cornwall whose piety was exceeded onlyby his stinginess. In England, Simon was irritated by the persecution of those who calledthemselves Methodists at the hands of their more liberal brethren, and as Simon calledhimself a Methodist, he worked his way across the Atlantic to Philadelphia, thence toJamaica, thence to Mobile, and up the Saint Stephens. Mindful of John Wesley’sstrictures on the use of many words in buying and selling, Simon made a pile practicingmedicine, but in this pursuit he was unhappy lest he be tempted into doing what heknew was not for the glory of God, as the putting on of gold and costly apparel. SoSimon, having forgotten his teacher’s dictum on the possession of human chattels,bought three slaves and with their aid established a homestead on the banks of theAlabama River some forty miles above Saint Stephens. He returned to Saint Stephensonly once, to find a wife, and with her established a line that ran high to daughters. Simon lived to an impressive age and died rich. It was customary for the men in the family to remain on Simon’s homestead, Finch’sLanding, and make their living from cotton. The place was self-sufficient: modest incomparison with the empires around it, the Landing nevertheless produced everythingrequired to sustain life except ice, wheat flour, and articles of clothing, supplied by river-boats from Mobile. Simon would have regarded with impotent fury the disturbance between the North andthe South, as it left his descendants stripped of everything but their land, yet the traditionof living on the land remained unbroken until well into the twentieth century, when myfather, Atticus Finch, went to Montgomery to read law, and his younger brother went toBoston to study medicine. Their sister Alexandra was the Finch who remained at theLanding: she married a taciturn man who spent most of his time lying in a hammock bythe river wondering if his trot-lines were full. When my father was admitted to the bar, he returned to Maycomb and began hispractice. Maycomb, some twenty miles east of Finch’s Landing, was the county seat ofMaycomb County. Atticus’s office in the courthouse contained little more than a hat rack,a spittoon, a checkerboard and an unsullied Code of Alabama. His first two clients werethe last two persons hanged in the Maycomb County jail. Atticus had urged them toaccept the state’s generosity in allowing them to plead Guilty to second-degree murderand escape with their lives, but they were Haverfords, in Maycomb County a namesynonymous with jackass. The Haverfords had dispatched Maycomb’s leadingblacksmith in a misunderstanding arising from the alleged wrongful detention of a mare,were imprudent enough to do it in the presence of three witnesses, and insisted that the-son-of-a-bitch-had-it-coming-to-him was a good enough defense for anybody. Theypersisted in pleading Not Guilty to first-degree murder, so there was nothing muchAtticus could do for his clients except be present at their departure, an occasion thatwas probably the beginning of my father’s profound distaste for the practice of criminallaw. During his first five years in Maycomb, Atticus practiced economy more than anything;for several years thereafter he invested his earnings in his brother’s education. JohnHale Finch was ten years younger than my father, and chose to study medicine at atime when cotton was not worth growing; but after getting Uncle Jack started, Atticusderived a reasonable income from the law. He liked Maycomb, he was MaycombCounty born and bred; he knew his people, they knew him, and because of SimonFinch’s industry, Atticus was related by blood or marriage to nearly every family in thetown. Maycomb was an old town, but it was a tired old town when I first knew it. In rainyweather the streets turned to red slop; grass grew on the sidewalks, the courthousesagged in the square. Somehow, it was hotter then: a black dog suffered on a summer’sday; bony mules hitched to Hoover carts flicked flies in the sweltering shade of the liveoaks on the square. Men’s stiff collars wilted by nine in the morning. Ladies bathedbefore noon, after their three-o’clock naps, and by nightfall were like soft teacakes withfrostings of sweat and sweet talcum. People moved slowly then. They ambled across the square, shuffled in and out of thestores around it, took their time about everything. A day was twenty-four hours long butseemed longer. There was no hurry, for there was nowhere to go, nothing to buy and nomoney to buy it with, nothing to see outside the boundaries of Maycomb County. But itwas a time of vague optimism for some of the people: Maycomb County had recentlybeen told that it had nothing to fear but fear itself. We lived on the main residential street in town—Atticus, Jem and I, plus Calpurnia ourcook. Jem and I found our father satisfactory: he played with us, read to us, and treatedus with courteous detachment. Calpurnia was something else again. She was all angles and bones; she wasnearsighted; she squinted; her hand was wide as a bed slat and twice as hard. She wasalways ordering me out of the kitchen, asking me why I couldn’t behave as well as Jemwhen she knew he was older, and calling me home when I wasn’t ready to come. Ourbattles were epic and one-sided. Calpurnia always won, mainly because Atticus alwaystook her side. She had been with us ever since Jem was born, and I had felt hertyrannical presence as long as I could remember. Our mother died when I was two, so I never felt her absence. She was a Graham fromMontgomery; Atticus met her when he was first elected to the state legislature. He wasmiddle-aged then, she was fifteen years his junior. Jem was the product of their firstyear of marriage; four years later I was born, and two years later our mother died from asudden heart attack. They said it ran in her family. I did not miss her, but I think Jem did. He remembered her clearly, and sometimes in the middle of a game he would sigh atlength, then go off and play by himself behind the car-house. When he was like that, Iknew better than to bother him. When I was almost six and Jem was nearly ten, our summertime boundaries (withincalling distance of Calpurnia) were Mrs. Henry Lafayette Dubose’s house two doors tothe north of us, and the Radley Place three doors to the south. We were never temptedto break them. The Radley Place was inhabited by an unknown entity the meredescription of whom was enough to make us behave for days on end; Mrs. Dubose wasplain hell. That was the summer Dill came to us. Early one morning as we were beginning our day’s play in the back yard, Jem and Iheard something next door in Miss Rachel Haverford’s collard patch. We went to thewire fence to see if there was a puppy—Miss Rachel’s rat terrier was expecting—instead we found someone sitting looking at us. Sitting down, he wasn’t much higherthan the collards. We stared at him until he spoke: “Hey.” “Hey yourself,” said Jem pleasantly. “I’m Charles Baker Harris,” he said. “I can read.” “So what?” I said. “I just thought you’d like to know I can read. You got anything needs readin‘ I can doit…” “How old are you,” asked Jem, “four-and-a-half?” “Goin‘ on seven.” “Shoot no wonder, then,” said Jem, jerking his thumb at me. “Scout yonder’s beenreadin‘ ever since she was born, and she ain’t even started to school yet. You look rightpuny for goin’ on seven.” “I’m little but I’m old,” he said. Jem brushed his hair back to get a better look. “Why don’t you come over, CharlesBaker Harris?” he said. “Lord, what a name.” “‘s not any funnier’n yours. Aunt Rachel says your name’s Jeremy Atticus Finch.” Jem scowled. “I’m big enough to fit mine,” he said. “Your name’s longer’n you are. Betit’s a foot longer.” “Folks call me Dill,” said Dill, struggling under the fence. “Do better if you go over it instead of under it,” I said. “Where’d you come from?” Dill was from Meridian, Mississippi, was spending the summer with his aunt, MissRachel, and would be spending every summer in Maycomb from now on. His family wasfrom Maycomb County originally, his mother worked for a photographer in Meridian, hadentered his picture in a Beautiful Child contest and won five dollars. She gave themoney to Dill, who went to the picture show twenty times on it. “Don’t have any picture shows here, except Jesus ones in the courthouse sometimes,” said Jem. “Ever see anything good?” Dill had seen Dracula, a revelation that moved Jem to eye him with the beginning ofrespect. “Tell it to us,” he said. Dill was a curiosity. He wore blue linen shorts that buttoned to his shirt, his hair wassnow white and stuck to his head like duckfluff; he was a year my senior but I toweredover him. As he told us the old tale his blue eyes would lighten and darken; his laughwas sudden and happy; he habitually pulled at a cowlick in the center of his forehead. When Dill reduced Dracula to dust, and Jem said the show sounded better than thebook, I asked Dill where his father was: “You ain’t said anything about him.” “I haven’t got one.” “Is he dead?” “No…” “Then if he’s not dead you’ve got one, haven’t you?” Dill blushed and Jem told me to hush, a sure sign that Dill had been studied and foundacceptable. Thereafter the summer passed in routine contentment. Routine contentmentwas: improving our treehouse that rested between giant twin chinaberry trees in theback yard, fussing, running through our list of dramas based on the works of OliverOptic, Victor Appleton, and Edgar Rice Burroughs. In this matter we were lucky to haveDill. He played the character parts formerly thrust upon me—the ape in Tarzan, Mr. Crabtree in The Rover Boys, Mr. Damon in Tom Swift. Thus we came to know Dill as apocket Merlin, whose head teemed with eccentric plans, strange longings, and quaintfancies. But by the end of August our repertoire was vapid from countless reproductions, and itwas then that Dill gave us the idea of making Boo Radley come out. The Radley Place fascinated Dill. In spite of our warnings and explanations it drew himas the moon draws water, but drew him no nearer than the light-pole on the corner, asafe distance from the Radley gate. There he would stand, his arm around the fat pole,staring and wondering. The Radley Place jutted into a sharp curve beyond our house. Walking south, onefaced its porch; the sidewalk turned and ran beside the lot. The house was low, wasonce white with a deep front porch and green shutters, but had long ago darkened to thecolor of the slate-gray yard around it. Rain-rotted shingles drooped over the eaves of theveranda; oak trees kept the sun away. The remains of a picket drunkenly guarded thefront yard—a “swept” yard that was never swept—where johnson grass and rabbit-tobacco grew in abundance. Inside the house lived a malevolent phantom. People said he existed, but Jem and Ihad never seen him. People said he went out at night when the moon was down, andpeeped in windows. When people’s azaleas froze in a cold snap, it was because he hadbreathed on them. Any stealthy small crimes committed in Maycomb were his work. Once the town was terrorized by a series of morbid nocturnal events: people’s chickensand household pets were found mutilated; although the culprit was Crazy Addie, whoeventually drowned himself in Barker’s Eddy, people still looked at the Radley Place,unwilling to discard their initial suspicions. A Negro would not pass the Radley Place atnight, he would cut across to the sidewalk opposite and whistle as he walked. TheMaycomb school grounds adjoined the back of the Radley lot; from the Radleychickenyard tall pecan trees shook their fruit into the schoolyard, but the nuts layuntouched by the children: Radley pecans would kill you. A baseball hit into the Radleyyard was a lost ball and no questions asked. The misery of that house began many years before Jem and I were born. TheRadleys, welcome anywhere in town, kept to themselves, a predilection unforgivable inMaycomb. They did not go to church, Maycomb’s principal recreation, but worshiped athome; Mrs. Radley seldom if ever crossed the street for a mid-morning coffee break withher neighbors, and certainly never joined a missionary circle. Mr. Radley walked to townat eleven-thirty every morning and came back promptly at twelve, sometimes carrying abrown paper bag that the neighborhood assumed contained the family groceries. I neverknew how old Mr. Radley made his living—Jem said he “bought cotton,” a polite term fordoing nothing—but Mr. Radley and his wife had lived there with their two sons as longas anybody could remember. The shutters and doors of the Radley house were closed on Sundays, another thingalien to Maycomb’s ways: closed doors meant illness and cold weather only. Of all daysSunday was the day for formal afternoon visiting: ladies wore corsets, men wore coats,children wore shoes. But to climb the Radley front steps and call, “He-y,” of a Sundayafternoon was something their neighbors never did. The Radley house had no screendoors. I once asked Atticus if it ever had any; Atticus said yes, but before I was born. According to neighborhood legend, when the younger Radley boy was in his teens hebecame acquainted with some of the Cunninghams from Old Sarum, an enormous andconfusing tribe domiciled in the northern part of the county, and they formed the nearestthing to a gang ever seen in Maycomb. They did little, but enough to be discussed bythe town and publicly warned from three pulpits: they hung around the barbershop; theyrode the bus to Abbottsville on Sundays and went to the picture show; they attendeddances at the county’s riverside gambling hell, the Dew-Drop Inn & Fishing Camp; theyexperimented with stumphole whiskey. Nobody in Maycomb had nerve enough to tellMr. Radley that his boy was in with the wrong crowd. One night, in an excessive spurt of high spirits, the boys backed around the square ina borrowed flivver, resisted arrest by Maycomb’s ancient beadle, Mr. Conner, andlocked him in the courthouse outhouse. The town decided something had to be done;Mr. Conner said he knew who each and every one of them was, and he was bound anddetermined they wouldn’t get away with it, so the boys came before the probate judgeon charges of disorderly conduct, disturbing the peace, assault and battery, and usingabusive and profane language in the presence and hearing of a female. The judgeasked Mr. Conner why he included the last charge; Mr. Conner said they cussed so loudhe was sure every lady in Maycomb heard them. The judge decided to send the boys tothe state industrial school, where boys were sometimes sent for no other reason than toprovide them with food and decent shelter: it was no prison and it was no disgrace. Mr. Radley thought it was. If the judge released Arthur, Mr. Radley would see to it thatArthur gave no further trouble. Knowing that Mr. Radley’s word was his bond, the judgewas glad to do so. The other boys attended the industrial school and received the best secondaryeducation to be had in the state; one of them eventually worked his way throughengineering school at Auburn. The doors of the Radley house were closed on weekdaysas well as Sundays, and Mr. Radley’s boy was not seen again for fifteen years. But there came a day, barely within Jem’s memory, when Boo Radley was heard fromand was seen by several people, but not by Jem. He said Atticus never talked muchabout the Radleys: when Jem would question him Atticus’s only answer was for him tomind his own business and let the Radleys mind theirs, they had a right to; but when ithappened Jem said Atticus shook his head and said, “Mm, mm, mm.” So Jem received most of his information from Miss Stephanie Crawford, aneighborhood scold, who said she knew the whole thing. According to Miss Stephanie,Boo was sitting in the livingroom cutting some items from The Maycomb Tribune topaste in his scrapbook. His father entered the room. As Mr. Radley passed by, Boodrove the scissors into his parent’s leg, pulled them out, wiped them on his pants, andresumed his activities. Mrs. Radley ran screaming into the street that Arthur was killing them all, but when thesheriff arrived he found Boo still sitting in the livingroom, cutting up the Tribune. He wasthirty-three years old then. Miss Stephanie said old Mr. Radley said no Radley was going to any asylum, when itwas suggested that a season in Tuscaloosa might be helpful to Boo. Boo wasn’t crazy,he was high-strung at times. It was all right to shut him up, Mr. Radley conceded, butinsisted that Boo not be charged with anything: he was not a criminal. The sheriff hadn’tthe heart to put him in jail alongside Negroes, so Boo was locked in the courthousebasement. Boo’s transition from the basement to back home was nebulous in Jem’s memory. Miss Stephanie Crawford said some of the town council told Mr. Radley that if he didn’ttake Boo back, Boo would die of mold from the damp. Besides, Boo could not liveforever on the bounty of the county. Nobody knew what form of intimidation Mr. Radley employed to keep Boo out of sight,but Jem figured that Mr. Radley kept him chained to the bed most of the time. Atticussaid no, it wasn’t that sort of thing, that there were other ways of making people intoghosts. My memory came alive to see Mrs. Radley occasionally open the front door, walk tothe edge of the porch, and pour water on her cannas. But every day Jem and I wouldsee Mr. Radley walking to and from town. He was a thin leathery man with colorlesseyes, so colorless they did not reflect light. His cheekbones were sharp and his mouthwas wide, with a thin upper lip and a full lower lip. Miss Stephanie Crawford said he wasso upright he took the word of God as his only law, and we believed her, because Mr. Radley’s posture was ramrod straight. He never spoke to us. When he passed we would look at the ground and say, “Goodmorning, sir,” and he would cough in reply. Mr. Radley’s elder son lived in Pensacola; hecame home at Christmas, and he was one of the few persons we ever saw enter orleave the place. From the day Mr. Radley took Arthur home, people said the house died. But there came a day when Atticus told us he’d wear us out if we made any noise inthe yard and commissioned Calpurnia to serve in his absence if she heard a sound outof us. Mr. Radley was dying. He took his time about it. Wooden sawhorses blocked the road at each end of theRadley lot, straw was put down on the sidewalk, traffic was diverted to the back street. Dr. Reynolds parked his car in front of our house and walked to the Radley’s every timehe called. Jem and I crept around the yard for days. At last the sawhorses were takenaway, and we stood watching from the front porch when Mr. Radley made his finaljourney past our house. “There goes the meanest man ever God blew breath into,” murmured Calpurnia, andshe spat meditatively into the yard. We looked at her in surprise, for Calpurnia rarelycommented on the ways of white people. The neighborhood thought when Mr. Radley went under Boo would come out, but ithad another think coming: Boo’s elder brother returned from Pensacola and took Mr. Radley’s place. The only difference between him and his father was their ages. Jemsaid Mr. Nathan Radley “bought cotton,” too. Mr. Nathan would speak to us, however,when we said good morning, and sometimes we saw him coming from town with amagazine in his hand. The more we told Dill about the Radleys, the more he wanted to know, the longer hewould stand hugging the light-pole on the corner, the more he would wonder. “Wonder what he does in there,” he would murmur. “Looks like he’d just stick his headout the door.” Jem said, “He goes out, all right, when it’s pitch dark. Miss Stephanie Crawford saidshe woke up in the middle of the night one time and saw him looking straight throughthe window at her… said his head was like a skull lookin‘ at her. Ain’t you ever waked upat night and heard him, Dill? He walks like this-” Jem slid his feet through the gravel. “Why do you think Miss Rachel locks up so tight at night? I’ve seen his tracks in ourback yard many a mornin’, and one night I heard him scratching on the back screen, buthe was gone time Atticus got there.” “Wonder what he looks like?” said Dill. Jem gave a reasonable description of Boo: Boo was about six-and-a-half feet tall,judging from his tracks; he dined on raw squirrels and any cats he could catch, that’swhy his hands were bloodstained—if you ate an animal raw, you could never wash theblood off. There was a long jagged scar that ran across his face; what teeth he had wereyellow and rotten; his eyes popped, and he drooled most of the time. “Let’s try to make him come out,” said Dill. “I’d like to see what he looks like.” Jem said if Dill wanted to get himself killed, all he had to do was go up and knock onthe front door. Our first raid came to pass only because Dill bet Jem The Gray Ghost against twoTom Swifts that Jem wouldn’t get any farther than the Radley gate. In all his life, Jemhad never declined a dare. Jem thought about it for three days. I suppose he loved honor more than his head, forDill wore him down easily: “You’re scared,” Dill said, the first day. “Ain’t scared, justrespectful,” Jem said. The next day Dill said, “You’re too scared even to put your big toein the front yard.” Jem said he reckoned he wasn’t, he’d passed the Radley Place everyschool day of his life. “Always runnin‘,” I said. But Dill got him the third day, when he told Jem that folks in Meridian certainly weren’tas afraid as the folks in Maycomb, that he’d never seen such scary folks as the ones inMaycomb. This was enough to make Jem march to the corner, where he stopped and leanedagainst the light-pole, watching the gate hanging crazily on its homemade hinge. “I hope you’ve got it through your head that he’ll kill us each and every one, DillHarris,” said Jem, when we joined him. “Don’t blame me when he gouges your eyes out. You started it, remember.” “You’re still scared,” murmured Dill patiently. Jem wanted Dill to know once and for all that he wasn’t scared of anything: “It’s justthat I can’t think of a way to make him come out without him gettin‘ us.” Besides, Jemhad his little sister to think of. When he said that, I knew he was afraid. Jem had his little sister to think of the time Idared him to jump off the top of the house: “If I got killed, what’d become of you?” heasked. Then he jumped, landed unhurt, and his sense of responsibility left him untilconfronted by the Radley Place. “You gonna run out on a dare?” asked Dill. “If you are, then-” “Dill, you have to think about these things,” Jem said. “Lemme think a minute… it’ssort of like making a turtle come out…” “How’s that?” asked Dill. “Strike a match under him.” I told Jem if he set fire to the Radley house I was going to tell Atticus on him. Dill said striking a match under a turtle was hateful. “Ain’t hateful, just persuades him—‘s not like you’d chunk him in the fire,” Jemgrowled. “How do you know a match don’t hurt him?” “Turtles can’t feel, stupid,” said Jem. “Were you ever a turtle, huh?” “My stars, Dill! Now lemme think… reckon we can rock him…” Jem stood in thought so long that Dill made a mild concession: “I won’t say you ranout on a dare an‘ I’ll swap you The Gray Ghost if you just go up and touch the house.” Jem brightened. “Touch the house, that all?” Dill nodded. “Sure that’s all, now? I don’t want you hollerin‘ something different the minute I getback.” “Yeah, that’s all,” said Dill. “He’ll probably come out after you when he sees you in theyard, then Scout’n‘ me’ll jump on him and hold him down till we can tell him we ain’tgonna hurt him.” We left the corner, crossed the side street that ran in front of the Radley house, andstopped at the gate. “Well go on,” said Dill, “Scout and me’s right behind you.” “I’m going,” said Jem, “don’t hurry me.” He walked to the corner of the lot, then back again, studying the simple terrain as ifdeciding how best to effect an entry, frowning and scratching his head. Then I sneered at him. Jem threw open the gate and sped to the side of the house, slapped it with his palmand ran back past us, not waiting to see if his foray was successful. Dill and I followedon his heels. Safely on our porch, panting and out of breath, we looked back. The old house was the same, droopy and sick, but as we stared down the street wethought we saw an inside shutter move. Flick. A tiny, almost invisible movement, andthe house was still. 我哥哥杰姆快满十三岁的时侯，肘关节被扭断过。后来伤好了，他也不再担心今后玩不了橄榄球了，就不大为自己的伤感到不自然了。他的左臂比右臂稍短，站立或行走时，左手的手背与身体成直角，大拇指和大腿平行。这些，他一点儿也不在乎，只要能传球，能踢球就行了。 长大到可以回顾往事时，我们有时谈起那次事故的起因。我始终认为事情是从尤厄尔家开始的，但是杰姆(他比我大四岁)说起因还远在以前。他说，迪尔来到我们这里的那个夏天，事情就开始了}在那个夏天，他第一次怂恿我们设法把布，拉德利从他家里引出来。 我说，如果他要看得远些，就真得从安德鲁?杰克逊算起。假如杰克逊将军没有把克里克人沿克里克河赶走的话，西蒙-芬奇就不会划着小船沿着亚拉巴马河到这儿来。他没来的话，我们现在会在哪儿呢?当时，我们早已大到不该再用拳头来解决争吵了。于是，我们去问爸爸阿迪克斯。爸爸说我们俩各有各的道理。 作为南方人，哈斯汀斯战役的任何一方都没有我们的祖先参加，这总使家族中有一些人感到不光彩。我们只有西蒙?芬奇这样一个祖先——一个来自康沃耳的爱捕捉毛皮兽的药剂师。他的虔诚仅次于他的吝啬。在当时的英国，自称卫理公会教徒的人，常常遭到那些更自由的教友的迫害，对此，西蒙十分恼怒。因为他自认为是卫理公会的教徒，他沿途做工，横渡大西洋来到费城。然后又迁徙到牙买加，再到莫比尔，最后沿着圣?斯蒂芬斯河北上。他牢记约翰?韦斯利的训诫，做生意时，时刻注意什么话该说，什么话不该说，靠行医发了大财。尽管有钱，但他并不快活，担心会被诱惑去做有损于上帝荣誉的事，比如穿戴价钱昂贵的衣饰。后来，他忘记了他老师所说的不应该占有奴隶的格言，买了三个奴隶，依靠他们在圣?斯蒂芬斯以东约四十英里的亚拉巴马河岸上建立了家业。他只回过圣?斯蒂芬斯一次，在那里娶了妻子，生了一大串女儿。西蒙死时年纪很大，留下了一大笔遗产。 家里的男人惯常留在西蒙建立的家园——芬奇庄园上，靠植棉为生。这个地方能自给自足。尽管比不上周围的其它庄园，芬奇庄园还是能生产维持生活的各种必需品，只有冰制食品、面粉、衣料等要用船从莫比尔运来。 要是西蒙投死的话，尽管无可奈何，也一定会无比愤怒地看待南方和北方之问的那场动乱，因为他的后代在动乱中失去了除土地以外的所有财产。不过，在这块土地上生活的传统一直延续到二十世纪。这时，我父亲——阿迪克斯?芬奇——离家去蒙哥马利攻读法律，他弟弟去波士顿学医。他们的妹妹亚历山德拉是留在庄园上的芬奇家唯一的后裔。她嫁给了一个沉默寡言的男子，这人大部分时间都躺在河边的吊床上，猜想着安置在河里的钓钩是否全部钩上了鱼。 我父亲取得律师资格后，回到梅科姆镇，当起律师来。梅科姆镇坐落在芬奇庄园以东二十英里左右的地方，是梅科姆县的县政府所在地。阿迪克斯的事务所设在法院里。里面陈设简单，只有一只衣帽架，一个痰盂，一个棋盘和一部爱护得很好的亚拉巴马法典。他的头两个当事人是在梅科姆县监狱处死的最后两个人。阿迪克斯曾劝他们承认犯了误杀罪，好接受州立法院的宽大处理，保住性命。但他们是哈弗福特家族的人，在梅科姆县，这个家族是笨驴的同义词。这两个人误以为梅科姆县最有名的铁匠非法扣留了他们的一匹母马，就把他杀了。他们莽撞得竟敢当着三个人的面行凶，还坚持他们自己没有任何罪，说铁匠是他妈的自作自受。他们认为这就是最好的答辩。他们矢口否认犯了谋杀罪。所以，阿迪克斯无能为力，只能眼睁睁地望着他们被处死。也许就是从这件事开始，我父亲对实施刑法产生了强烈的反感。 在梅科姆镇度过的头五年中，我父亲极端俭朴。在以后的好几年里，他用攒下的钱资助他的弟弟上学。约翰?黑尔?芬奇比我父亲小十岁。在种植棉花不合算的时候，他开始学医。等杰克叔叔能够自立以后，阿迪克斯当律师，收入还可以。他热爱梅科姆镇。他生在梅科姆，长在梅科姆，了解当地人，当地人也了解他，并且，由于西蒙?芬奇的产业，阿迪克斯几乎与小镇上的每家都有血缘或姻亲关系。 梅科姆是个古老的市镇。我别刚了解它时，它已经破败不堪了。一到雨天，街道就成了红色的泥塘。人行道上，野草丛生。法院歪歪斜斜地立在广场上。不知为什么，那时天气热一些。夏天，黑毛狗是要活受罪的。广场上有几棵常青橡树，在闷热的树荫里，拴在一种叫胡佛大车上的瘦骨嶙峋的骡子不停地摆动尾巴，驱赶着叮在身上的苍蝇。男人们笔挺的衣领到上午九点就蔫巴了。女人们在中午以前得洗个澡，三点钟午睡后又得洗一个，可是到太阳落山时，又变得象是带有汗迹和爽身粉混合而成的糖霜的糕点了。 那时，人们行动缓慢。悠悠荡荡地走过广场，拖着步子在附近的商店进进出出，干什么都慢条斯理的。每天本来是二十四小时，但那时的二十四小时好象长一些。人们用不着匆匆忙忙，因为没地方可去，没东西可买，也没钱买东西。在梅科姆县界以外，也没什么好看的。但对有些人来说，那仿佛是个乐观时期：有人在那不久以前告诉梅科姆县的人，害怕的本身是最可怕的，除此之外，没什么是可怕的。 我们住的那条街是镇上的主要居民区。我们家共有四日人：阿迪克斯，杰姆，我，加上我们的厨子卡尔珀尼亚。我和杰姆都很喜欢父亲。他和我们一起玩耍，读书给我们听。对待我们既随和又公正。 卡尔珀尼亚却有些不一样。她千千瘦瘦的，既近视又斜视。手象块床板一样宽，但比床板还硬上一倍。她总把我赶出厨房，同我为什么不象杰姆那样听话，虽然她明明知道杰姆比我大。我不想回家时，她偏偏要叫我回去。我们之间的冲突大得惊人，而且老是一方取胜。卡尔珀尼亚总占上风，主要是因为阿迪克斯老站在她一边。从杰姆出世起，卡尔珀尼亚就和我们在一起。在我的记忆里，总能感到她的专横。 我两岁时母亲就去世了，所以，我从没感到失去了母亲。母亲来自蒙哥马利的格雷厄姆家族，阿迪克斯第一次被选入州的立法机构时碰上了她。当时，阿迪克斯已到了中年，母亲比他小十五岁。杰姆是他们结婚后第一年生下的。四年后生了我。又过了两年，母亲心脏病发作，突然去世。人家说这个病是她家遗传下来的。我并不想念她，但我知道杰姆非常想念她，对她记忆犹新。有时，玩着玩着，他突然长叹起来，然后走开，躲着我，呆在车库后一个人玩。碰上这种情况，我从不去打扰他。 我快到六岁、杰姆快到十岁时，我们夏天玩耍的最大区域(我们不敢走远，卡尔珀尼亚可能随时叫我们)是从我家北面第二家亨利?拉斐特?杜博新太太的房子到南面第三家拉德利家的房子。我们从没想过要超出这个范围。拉德利家住着个无人知晓的人物。只要把他描述一番，我们就会吓得一连好几天老老实实。而杜博斯太太却简直令人望而生畏。 就在那年夏天，迪尔来到我们这里度暑假。 一天清晨，我和杰姆正在后院准备开始一天的玩耍，突然听到邻居雷切尔?哈弗福特小姐家的甘蓝地里有什么响动。我们走到铁丝栅栏旁，想看看是不是有条小狗崽——雷切尔小姐的狗当时要生崽了。出乎意料之外，我们看到的却是个小孩，坐在那儿望着我们。他坐着不比身旁的甘蓝高多少。我们一个劲儿地盯着他，直到他开口说话t 。你们好。” “你好。”杰姆和颜悦色地回答道。 “我叫查尔斯?贝克?哈里斯，”他说，“我认识字了。” “那有什么了不起?”我说。 “我原以为你们想知道我认不认得字。你们有什么要读的我可以读给你们听……” “你多大了?”杰姆问，“四岁半吗?” “快七岁了。” “嘿，这么大了，当然能识字啊。”杰姆将大拇指朝我一扬说，“那边的斯各特一生下来就识字，现在还没上学呢。你都快七岁了，看上去这么小。” “我个子小，可年纪大。”他说。 杰姆把头发向后拂了拂，好看得更清楚些。“千吗不过来，查尔斯?贝克?哈里斯?”他说，“天啊，多么怪的名字啊！” “和你的名字一样，没有什么好奇怪的。雷切尔姑妈说，你叫杰里米?阿迪克斯?芬奇。” 杰姆皱起眉头。“我这么大了，当然可以取这样的名字。”他说，“你的名字比你这个人的身体还要长，我断定要长一英尺。” “大家都叫我迫尔。”迪尔说着，身子使劲在栅栏下朝这边钻。 “从上边过来好些，别从底下钻。”我说，“你是哪里人?” 迪尔是密西西比州梅里迪安县人，正在这里和他姑妈雷切尔小姐一道过夏天。从现在起，每年夏天都将在这里度过。他家原来也在梅科姆县。他妈妈在梅里迪安给一个摄影师干活，曾经拿迪尔的照片参加过一次儿童比美竞赛，得了五美元的奖金。她把钱给了迪尔，迪尔用这笔钱看了二十场电影。 “我们这儿没有电影，除了有时侯在法院里放些关于耶稣的片子，”杰姆说，“看过什么好电影吗?” 迪尔看过《德拉卡拉》。听他这么一说，杰姆开始以敬佩的目光端详着他。“给我们讲讲这个电影。” 迪尔是个很有趣的孩予。他身穿蓝色的亚麻布短裤。短裤扣在他的衬衣上。雪一样白的头发象鸭绒一样竖在他头上。他比我大一岁，但我比他高得多。他给我们讲这个古老的故事时，两只蓝眼睛忽明忽暗。他笑得突然，叉笑得畅快，时时抹着额头中央伸出来的一绺不听话的头发。 迪尔讲完《德拉卡拉》后，杰姆说听起来电影比小说有趣一些。我问迪尔他爸爸在哪儿： “你还没提到过你爸爸呢。” “我没有爸爸。” “死了吗?’ “不……’ “既然没死，你就当然有个爸爸呀，是不是?” 迪尔脸红了。杰姆要我住嘴。这是个信号，暗示经过审查，可以跟迪尔交朋友了。从那以后，整个夏天我们都过得十分愉快。十分愉快的含义是：不断改进建在后院两裸巨大的苦楝树之间的树上小屋；追跑嬉闹；把我们节目单上根据奥利弗?奥普蒂克、维克托?阿普尔顿和埃德加?赖斯?巴勒斯的作品改编的戏从头到尾地演一遍。在演戏方面，有了迪尔我们真幸运。他扮演了原来硬要我扮演的角色，《人猿泰山》中的猿人，《罗弗家的男孩》中的酸苹果树先生，《托姆?斯威夫特》中的达门先生。这样，我们渐渐发现迪尔年龄虽小，但可以算个象默林那样的预言家和魔术家了。他脑子里装满了古怪的计划、离奇的渴望和荒诞的幻想。 但是，到了八月底，我们的全部节目反反复复演了无数次，已经枯燥无味了。就是在这个时候，迪尔给我们出了个主意：设法把布?拉德利从他家引出来。 拉德利家的房子强烈地吸引着迪尔。我们一再警告、解释部无济于事。这所房子吸引着他就象月亮吸引着海水一样。不过，最多只把他吸引到拐角处的电杆下。这里离拉德利家还有相当一段距离。他常常站在那儿，紧紧搂着那根粗大的电杆，出神地凝望，内心充满了好奇。 我家旁边是个急拐弯，拉德利家的房子就插在这个拐弯里。朝南走，你正好面对他家的走廊1人行道沿着他家的地界转了个弯。房子不高，很久以前，墙壁是白颜色，有纵深的前廊和绿色的百叶窗。不过，现在墙壁的颜色早已黯淡成和院子里的石板地一样的蓝灰色了。由于长期的风吹雨打，屋顶板在前廊的屋檐上耷拉着，几棵橡树遮住了阳光。一根木桩的残余部分没精打采地守卫着前院——一个从没有人打扫过的“干净的”院子。院子里杂草丛生。 房子里住着个阴险恶毒的幽灵似的人物。人们说他活着，可我和杰姆从没见过他。人们还说月亮西沉后，他就会出来，在别人的窗子外向室内窥视。如果一次寒潮后杜鹃花冻死了，那一定是沾染了他呼出的毒气。梅科姆镇上的任何小偷小摸事件都被人认为是他千的。有一向这个镇上夜间接二连三地出事，搅得全镇鸡犬不宁：人们喂养韵家禽和其他爱畜常常被人弄得缺肢断腿。尽管后来发现罪犯是神经失常的艾第——这个人最后跳进巴克?埃迪河湾中淹死了，可是人们的眼睛还是老瞅着拉德利白勺房子，不愿放弃最初的怀疑。在黑夜，连黑人都不愿从拉德利家的房前经过，他们常常绕到对面的人行道上，一边走一边吹口哨壮鹏。梅科姆学校的球场与拉德利家的地界毗邻。拉德利家有个养鸡的院子，院子里高大的核桃埘上的核桃常常掉进学校校园里，但这些核桃总在那儿，没有哪个孩子会去碰一碰：拉德利家的核桃会要你的命。棒球掉进他家的院子就等于丢失了，没有谁敢去问。 这所房子的不幸在我和杰姆出世以前就开始了。其实，那时在整个镇上，拉德利家的人不管到哪儿都会受欢迎。但他们从不与外界接触，这在梅科姆镇的人看来是一种不可原谅的怪癖。镇上的主要消遣活动是上教堂做礼拜，可是他们不去，只在家里做礼拜。拉德利太太难得在上午十时左右横过马路到对面的邻居家里和大家一道喝喝咖啡，休息休息，当然也从不参加任何宗教团体。拉德利先生每天上午十一点三十分步行到镇上去，十二点又很快回来。有时拿回一个棕色的纸袋，邻居们揣测里边一定装着这家人吃的和用的东西。我从不知道老拉德刺先生靠什么谋生——杰姆说他“买棉花”，这是无所事事的委婉语。可是，就人们的记忆所及，拉德利先生和他的妻子带着两个儿子一直住在那儿。 另一件与梅科姆镇的习惯格格不入的事情是，拉德利家的门和百叶窗在星期日总是关着的。在这个镇上，一般人只在家里有病人或者寒冷的冬天才把门窗关上。每周的七天里，这里的人总是在星期日下午进行正式的相互拜访：妇女穿上紧身胸衣，男人穿上外农，孩子们穿上鞋子。但是要在星期日下午爬上拉德利家的台阶叫一声“你好”，这却是左右邻居们从没做过的。他家没有纱门。有一次貔问阿迪克斯他们以前是不是有过纱门，阿迪克斯说有过，不过是在我出生以前。 根据街坊中流传的说法，拉德利的小儿子十多岁的时候曾跟由萨勒姆来的一些坎宁安家族的人混在一起。这些人属于住在这个县的北部一个令人迷惑不解的很大的氏族。他们结成一伙，组成了一个梅科姆镇还是第一次见过的帮会一类的团体。虽然没干什么坏事，但是他们的所作所为引起了全镇的议论，他们在大庭广众之中受到三个布道坛的公开誉告。他们在理发店周围闲逛，星期日开着车子去阿波兹维尔看电影，他们去本县河边上的赌窟——“露珠小店和钓鱼营地”参加跳舞’他们还喝自制的威士忌烈酒。镇上没有人有足够的勇气告诉拉德利先生他的儿子结交了一些狐群狗党。 一天晚上，这伙人一时心血来潮，开着一辆借来的小汽车在广场上倒来倒去。梅科姆镇的老法院差役康纳先生企图逮捕他们，但他们拒捕，后来把康纳先生锁在法院的厕所里。镇上的人认为不惩办一下这帮人不行了。康纳先生说，他认识他们中的每一个人，他决心承担责任，决不让他们逍遥法外。因此这些青年人被带到法官面前，罪名是破坏秩序，扰乱治安，聚众斗殴，在女人面前或女人能听到的地方使用下流的语言。法官问康纳先生为什么控告里包括最后一条罪状，康纳先生回答说，他们叫骂的声音那么大，他敢肯定，镇上的每个女人都听到了。法官决定把他们送往州立工艺劳作学校’有时候；青年人被送列那儿纯粹是为了供给他们饭菜和舒适的住房：那儿根本不是监狱，呆在那儿一点也不丢脸。但是拉德利先生的看法完全相反。如果法官释放亚瑟的话，拉德利先生愿意保证亚瑟不再惹麻烦。法官知道拉德利先生会恪守诺言，便很高兴地把亚瑟放了。 其他青年人到了工艺劳作学校后，接受了州内第一流的中等教育。其中一个最后在奥伯恩半工半读完成了工程学校纳学业。从这以后，每周其他几天也和星期日一样，拉德利家总是门户紧闭。拉德利的小儿子有十五年没有露面。 但是有一天(这一天在杰姆的记忆中已经淡薄)，好几个人听到了布?拉德利的声音，并且还看见了他。但杰姆没赶上。他说，阿迪克斯从来不大谈拉德利家里的事：每当杰姆问他时，阿迪克斯的唯一答复就是要他别管别人的事，拉德利家的事留给他们自己去管，他们有这个权利。但这件事发生的时候，杰姆说阿迪克斯摇着头，嘴里说；“嗯，嗯，嗯。” 杰姆的大部分消息都是从斯蒂芬尼?克劳福德小姐那儿得来的。她是邻近的一个泼辣的女人。她说，这事的前前后后她都知道。据她说，有一天布?拉德利正坐在客厅里，从《梅科姆论坛报*上剪下一些消息，准备贴到剪贴本上，他父亲进来了。他父亲在他身边走过时，他用剪刀捅进他父亲的大腿，然后拔出来，在自己裤腿上擦了擦，叉继续去千他自己的事。 拉德利太太尖叫着冲到街上，说亚瑟要把全家人都杀掉。但是司法官赶来时，发现布正坐在那儿剪他的论坛报。那时他三十三岁。 斯蒂芬尼说，当时有人建议，把布送到塔斯卡卢萨精神病院去过几个月可能会有好处。可是，老拉德利说，他们家的人是不会去精神病院的，因为布并没有疯，只是有时容易激动罢了。他承认把布关起来是可以的，但又坚持布不应该受到指控：他不是罪犯。县司法官不忍把他和黑人关在同一个监狱里，于是把布关在县法院的地下室。 布是怎样从地下室放出来，又怎样回到家里，杰姆已记不清楚了。斯蒂芬尼?克劳福德小姐说，镇上的官员告诉拉德利先生说，如果不把布带回去，布会在发霉的潮湿中死掉。再说，县里也不能老是白白地养着他。． 谁也不知道拉德利先生使用了什么恫吓手段使得布不再露面。杰姆猜想拉僖利先生大部分时间都用链条把他拴在床上。阿迪克斯否定了这种猜想，认为不是那么回事，说还有其他办法能使人变成幽灵。 我清晰地记得拉德利太太偶尔打开前门，走到前廊边上，用水浇她的美人蕉。但是每天我和杰姆都能看到拉德利先生进城又回来。他很瘦，脸上皮肤很粗，双目无神，甚至不反射什么光线。他的颧骨很高，嘴很大，上嘴唇薄，下嘴唇厚。斯蒂芬尼?克劳福德小姐说他诚实正直，只有上帝的话才是他唯一的法则。我们相信这位小姐的话，因为拉德利先生的姿势总是笔直笔直的。 他从不跟我们说话。每当他从身边走过时，我们总是低着头，看着地面说：“早上好，先生。”而他总是咳嗽一声作为回答。拉德利先生的大儿子住在彭萨科拉，每年圣诞节回家一趟。他是人们看到的出入这所房子的屈指可数的几个人之一。从拉德利先生把亚瑟带回家那天起，人们就说连这所房子都死掉了。 有一天，阿迪克斯对我们说，要是我们在院子里喧闹，他就要打我们的屁股，并且授权卡尔珀尼亚，他不在时，只要听列我们吵闹，就代替他行使权力。原来是拉德利先生快要死了。 他并没有很快死去。锯木架在拉德利家的两端堵塞了道路，人行道上铺了麦秆，来往的车辆全都改道走后街。雷纳兹先生每次来看病人时都把车子停在我家门前，然后步行到拉德利家去。有好几天，我和杰姆只能蹑手蹑脚地在院子里走动。最后，锯木架搬走了。当拉德利先生从我家门前最后一次经过时，我们都站在前廊上观看。 “瞧，上帝创造的这个最卑鄙的人离开了人世。”卡尔珀尼亚喃喃自语道，并且若有所思地朝地下吐了一口唾沫。我们吃惊地看看她，因为卡尔珀尼亚很少谈论白人。 左邻右舍的人都以为拉德利先生入土后，布就会出来了。但他们猜错了：布的哥哥从彭萨科拉回来了，取代了拉德利先生。他跟他父亲的唯一差别是年龄。杰姆说内森?拉德利也“买棉花”。不过，我们向他道早安时，他会圆我们的话。有时。我们见他从镇上回来，手里拿本杂志。 袍德利家的事，我们告诉迪尔的越多，他就越想知道，抱着拐角处的电杆站得也就越久，想得也就越多。 “真不知道他在那儿干什么，’他常常自言自语地说，“好象就要把脑袋伸出来似的。” 杰姆说：“他会出来的，真的，在漆黑漆黑的时候。斯蒂芬尼?克劳福德小姐说，一次她半夜醒来，看见布在窗外直愣愣地望着她……布的脑袋象个骷髅。迪尔，难道你晚上就没醒过，没听到过他的声音吗?他这样走路……”杰姆在石子地上拖着脚走。“你知道雷切尔小姐为什么晚上把门锁得那么严实吗?好几个早上，我看到后院有他的脚印。有天晚上，我听见他抓搔我家后面的纱门，可是等阿迪克斯赶到时，他已经走了。”， “不知他是个什么样儿?”迪尔问。 杰姆把布作了一番听来颇有道理的描绘：从他的脚印看，布大概有六英尺半高；他抓松鼠吃、抓猫吃，这就是他手上有血迹的原因——要是你生吃小动物，就永远也洗不掉手上的血迹。他脸上有条锯齿形的长长的伤疤；牙齿是黄色的，并且被虫蛀坏了；两眼向外鼓，还老流口水。 “想办法把他逗出来，”迪尔说，“我想看看他是个什么样儿。” 杰姆说如果迪尔想找死的话，只须走上去敲敲那扇前门。 我们第一次进攻的原因不过是因为迪尔说杰姆不敢超过拉德利家的大门，并且拿一本《灰色的幽灵))对两本《托姆?斯威夫特》与杰姆打赌。杰姆长这么大，打赌时从没示过弱。 杰姆思索了整整三天。我猜想，他爱荣誉胜过爱自己的脑袋，因为迪尔轻而易举地把他说服了。“你害怕了。”迪尔头一天说。“不是害怕，只是尊重他，”杰姆回答说。第二天，迪尔说，“你太胆小了，连用大脚趾挨一下他家前院的地面都不敢。”杰姆说他不这样看，自上学以来，哪天上学放学不经过拉德利家。 “每次都是跑过去的。”我说。 第三天，迪尔终于降服了他。他告诉杰姆说，梅里迪安的人绝不象梅科姆镇上的人这样没有勇气，还说他从没见过象梅科姆镇上这样胆小如鼠的人。 这几句话就足够了。杰姆昂首挺胸地走到拐弯处，站在那儿，倚在电杆上，盯着歪歪斜斜地吊在自制的合叶上的大门。 “我希望你仔细考虑过了，他会把我们三个人都杀掉的，迪尔?哈里斯。”我们走上去时，杰姆说，“要是他用大拇指把你的眼睛抠出来，可别怪我。记住，这是你挑起来的。” “你还害怕哪。”迪尔耐着性子嘀咕道。 杰姆想一劳永逸地让迪尔知道，他对什么都无所畏惧，他说：“问题是我老想不出个办法既能把他引出来，又不让他抓住我们。”另外，他说他还有个小妹妹要考虑呢。 他这么一说，我知道他害怕了。邓次我赌他从屋顶上跳下去，他也说要考虑小妹妹。“要是我死了，你怎么办昵?”他问。后来，他跳了，平安无事，他的责任心也就不翼而飞了。可现在，面对拉德利家，他的责任心又来了。 “你想打了赌又开溜吗?”迪尔问，“如果你真想开溜……” “迪尔，你得想到这些事。让我想一会儿……这有点儿象逗乌龟把头伸出来一样……” “怎么逗?”迪尔问。 “在他身子下划一根火柴。” 我警告杰姆说，如果他放火烧拉德利家的房子，我要告诉阿迪克斯。 迪尔说在乌龟身子下划火柴太可恶了。 “并不可恶，只是逗引它——并不是把它扔进火里。”杰姆咆哮起来。 “你怎么知道火柴不会伤着它?” “乌龟感觉不到，真傻！”杰姆说。 “你当过乌龟吗?” “天啊，迪尔！现在让我想一想……我想我们能吓他一下……” 杰姆站着想了那么久，迪尔最后作了小小的让步：“我不说你想开溜了，如果你走上去，摸一下那栋房子，我就给你那本《灰色的幽灵》。” 杰姆顿时眉开眼笑：“摸一下房子，就这些?” 迪尔点点头。 “一言为定啊I我可不愿意回来后又听你提别的要求。” “一言为定，就这么多。”迪尔说，“要是他看见你在院子里，也许会追出来，那么我和斯各特就跳到他身上，把他按倒，然后告诉他我们不打算伤害他。” 我们离开拐角，穿过拉德利家房前的街道，停在大门边。 “喂，再往前走，”迪尔说，“我和斯各特就在你身后。” “我就走，别催我。”杰姆说。 他走到拉德利家地界的角上，然后又退回来，观察着眼前的简单地形，又是皱眉头，又是搔脑袋，似乎在想怎样进去最好。 我讥笑起他来了。 杰姆猛地推开大门，飞快地跑到房子侧面，用手掌摸了一下墙，又掉头跑回来，从我们身边冲过去，也没等一下看看他的袭击是否奏效。迪尔和我紧紧跟上，平安无事地回到我家的前廊，三个人都上气不接下气地大口喘着。这时，我们才回头看了一眼。 那栋房子依然如故，还是那样垂头丧气，没精打采。可是，朝街上看去时，我们相信我们看到了一扇百叶窗动了一下，微檄地动了一下，动得几乎看不出来，整座房子就寂静无声了。 |
Chapter 2 Dill left us early in September, to return to Meridian. We saw him off on the five o’clockbus and I was miserable without him until it occurred to me that I would be starting toschool in a week. I never looked forward more to anything in my life. Hours of wintertimehad found me in the treehouse, looking over at the schoolyard, spying on multitudes ofchildren through a two-power telescope Jem had given me, learning their games,following Jem’s red jacket through wriggling circles of blind man’s buff, secretly sharingtheir misfortunes and minor victories. I longed to join them. Jem condescended to take me to school the first day, a job usually done by one’sparents, but Atticus had said Jem would be delighted to show me where my room was. Ithink some money changed hands in this transaction, for as we trotted around thecorner past the Radley Place I heard an unfamiliar jingle in Jem’s pockets. When weslowed to a walk at the edge of the schoolyard, Jem was careful to explain that duringschool hours I was not to bother him, I was not to approach him with requests to enact achapter of Tarzan and the Ant Men, to embarrass him with references to his private life,or tag along behind him at recess and noon. I was to stick with the first grade and hewould stick with the fifth. In short, I was to leave him alone. “You mean we can’t play any more?” I asked. “We’ll do like we always do at home,” he said, “but you’ll see—school’s different.” It certainly was. Before the first morning was over, Miss Caroline Fisher, our teacher,hauled me up to the front of the room and patted the palm of my hand with a ruler, thenmade me stand in the corner until noon. Miss Caroline was no more than twenty-one. She had bright auburn hair, pink cheeks,and wore crimson fingernail polish. She also wore high-heeled pumps and a red-and-white-striped dress. She looked and smelled like a peppermint drop. She boardedacross the street one door down from us in Miss Maudie Atkinson’s upstairs front room,and when Miss Maudie introduced us to her, Jem was in a haze for days. Miss Caroline printed her name on the blackboard and said, “This says I am MissCaroline Fisher. I am from North Alabama, from Winston County.” The class murmuredapprehensively, should she prove to harbor her share of the peculiarities indigenous tothat region. (When Alabama seceded from the Union on January 11, 1861, WinstonCounty seceded from Alabama, and every child in Maycomb County knew it.) NorthAlabama was full of Liquor Interests, Big Mules, steel companies, Republicans,professors, and other persons of no background. Miss Caroline began the day by reading us a story about cats. The cats had longconversations with one another, they wore cunning little clothes and lived in a warmhouse beneath a kitchen stove. By the time Mrs. Cat called the drugstore for an order ofchocolate malted mice the class was wriggling like a bucketful of catawba worms. MissCaroline seemed unaware that the ragged, denim-shirted and floursack-skirted firstgrade, most of whom had chopped cotton and fed hogs from the time they were able towalk, were immune to imaginative literature. Miss Caroline came to the end of the storyand said, “Oh, my, wasn’t that nice?” Then she went to the blackboard and printed the alphabet in enormous squarecapitals, turned to the class and asked, “Does anybody know what these are?” Everybody did; most of the first grade had failed it last year. I suppose she chose me because she knew my name; as I read the alphabet a faintline appeared between her eyebrows, and after making me read most of My FirstReader and the stock-market quotations from The Mobile Register aloud, shediscovered that I was literate and looked at me with more than faint distaste. MissCaroline told me to tell my father not to teach me any more, it would interfere with myreading. “Teach me?” I said in surprise. “He hasn’t taught me anything, Miss Caroline. Atticusain’t got time to teach me anything,” I added, when Miss Caroline smiled and shook herhead. “Why, he’s so tired at night he just sits in the livingroom and reads.” “If he didn’t teach you, who did?” Miss Caroline asked good-naturedly. “Somebody did. You weren’t born reading The Mobile Register.” “Jem says I was. He read in a book where I was a Bullfinch instead of a Finch. Jemsays my name’s really Jean Louise Bullfinch, that I got swapped when I was born andI’m really a-” Miss Caroline apparently thought I was lying. “Let’s not let our imaginations run awaywith us, dear,” she said. “Now you tell your father not to teach you any more. It’s best tobegin reading with a fresh mind. You tell him I’ll take over from here and try to undo thedamage-” “Ma’am?” “Your father does not know how to teach. You can have a seat now.” I mumbled that I was sorry and retired meditating upon my crime. I never deliberatelylearned to read, but somehow I had been wallowing illicitly in the daily papers. In thelong hours of church—was it then I learned? I could not remember not being able toread hymns. Now that I was compelled to think about it, reading was something that justcame to me, as learning to fasten the seat of my union suit without looking around, orachieving two bows from a snarl of shoelaces. I could not remember when the linesabove Atticus’s moving finger separated into words, but I had stared at them all theevenings in my memory, listening to the news of the day, Bills to Be Enacted into Laws,the diaries of Lorenzo Dow—anything Atticus happened to be reading when I crawledinto his lap every night. Until I feared I would lose it, I never loved to read. One does notlove breathing. I knew I had annoyed Miss Caroline, so I let well enough alone and stared out thewindow until recess when Jem cut me from the covey of first-graders in the schoolyard. He asked how I was getting along. I told him. “If I didn’t have to stay I’d leave. Jem, that damn lady says Atticus’s been teaching meto read and for him to stop it-” “Don’t worry, Scout,” Jem comforted me. “Our teacher says Miss Caroline’sintroducing a new way of teaching. She learned about it in college. It’ll be in all thegrades soon. You don’t have to learn much out of books that way—it’s like if you wantalearn about cows, you go milk one, see?” “Yeah Jem, but I don’t wanta study cows, I-” “Sure you do. You hafta know about cows, they’re a big part of life in MaycombCounty.” I contented myself with asking Jem if he’d lost his mind. “I’m just trying to tell you the new way they’re teachin‘ the first grade, stubborn. It’s theDewey Decimal System.” Having never questioned Jem’s pronouncements, I saw no reason to begin now. TheDewey Decimal System consisted, in part, of Miss Caroline waving cards at us on whichwere printed “the,” “cat,” “rat,” “man,” and “you.” No comment seemed to be expected ofus, and the class received these impressionistic revelations in silence. I was bored, so Ibegan a letter to Dill. Miss Caroline caught me writing and told me to tell my father tostop teaching me. “Besides,” she said. “We don’t write in the first grade, we print. Youwon’t learn to write until you’re in the third grade.” Calpurnia was to blame for this. It kept me from driving her crazy on rainy days, Iguess. She would set me a writing task by scrawling the alphabet firmly across the topof a tablet, then copying out a chapter of the Bible beneath. If I reproduced herpenmanship satisfactorily, she rewarded me with an open-faced sandwich of bread andbutter and sugar. In Calpurnia’s teaching, there was no sentimentality: I seldom pleasedher and she seldom rewarded me. “Everybody who goes home to lunch hold up your hands,” said Miss Caroline,breaking into my new grudge against Calpurnia. The town children did so, and she looked us over. “Everybody who brings his lunch put it on top of his desk.” Molasses buckets appeared from nowhere, and the ceiling danced with metallic light. Miss Caroline walked up and down the rows peering and poking into lunch containers,nodding if the contents pleased her, frowning a little at others. She stopped at WalterCunningham’s desk. “Where’s yours?” she asked. Walter Cunningham’s face told everybody in the first grade he had hookworms. Hisabsence of shoes told us how he got them. People caught hookworms going barefootedin barnyards and hog wallows. If Walter had owned any shoes he would have wornthem the first day of school and then discarded them until mid-winter. He did have on aclean shirt and neatly mended overalls. “Did you forget your lunch this morning?” asked Miss Caroline. Walter looked straight ahead. I saw a muscle jump in his skinny jaw. “Did you forget it this morning?” asked Miss Caroline. Walter’s jaw twitched again. “Yeb’m,” he finally mumbled. Miss Caroline went to her desk and opened her purse. “Here’s a quarter,” she said toWalter. “Go and eat downtown today. You can pay me back tomorrow.” Walter shook his head. “Nome thank you ma’am,” he drawled softly. Impatience crept into Miss Caroline’s voice: “Here Walter, come get it.” Walter shook his head again. When Walter shook his head a third time someone whispered, “Go on and tell her,Scout.” I turned around and saw most of the town people and the entire bus delegationlooking at me. Miss Caroline and I had conferred twice already, and they were looking atme in the innocent assurance that familiarity breeds understanding. I rose graciously on Walter’s behalf: “Ah—Miss Caroline?” “What is it, Jean Louise?” “Miss Caroline, he’s a Cunningham.” I sat back down. “What, Jean Louise?” I thought I had made things sufficiently clear. It was clear enough to the rest of us: Walter Cunningham was sitting there lying his head off. He didn’t forget his lunch, hedidn’t have any. He had none today nor would he have any tomorrow or the next day. He had probably never seen three quarters together at the same time in his life. I tried again: “Walter’s one of the Cunninghams, Miss Caroline.” “I beg your pardon, Jean Louise?” “That’s okay, ma’am, you’ll get to know all the county folks after a while. TheCunninghams never took anything they can’t pay back—no church baskets and no scripstamps. They never took anything off of anybody, they get along on what they have. They don’t have much, but they get along on it.” My special knowledge of the Cunningham tribe—one branch, that is—was gainedfrom events of last winter. Walter’s father was one of Atticus’s clients. After a drearyconversation in our livingroom one night about his entailment, before Mr. Cunninghamleft he said, “Mr. Finch, I don’t know when I’ll ever be able to pay you.” “Let that be the least of your worries, Walter,” Atticus said. When I asked Jem what entailment was, and Jem described it as a condition of havingyour tail in a crack, I asked Atticus if Mr. Cunningham would ever pay us. “Not in money,” Atticus said, “but before the year’s out I’ll have been paid. You watch.” We watched. One morning Jem and I found a load of stovewood in the back yard. Later, a sack of hickory nuts appeared on the back steps. With Christmas came a crateof smilax and holly. That spring when we found a crokersack full of turnip greens, Atticussaid Mr. Cunningham had more than paid him. “Why does he pay you like that?” I asked. “Because that’s the only way he can pay me. He has no money.” “Are we poor, Atticus?” Atticus nodded. “We are indeed.” Jem’s nose wrinkled. “Are we as poor as the Cunninghams?” “Not exactly. The Cunninghams are country folks, farmers, and the crash hit themhardest.” Atticus said professional people were poor because the farmers were poor. AsMaycomb County was farm country, nickels and dimes were hard to come by for doctorsand dentists and lawyers. Entailment was only a part of Mr. Cunningham’s vexations. The acres not entailed were mortgaged to the hilt, and the little cash he made went tointerest. If he held his mouth right, Mr. Cunningham could get a WPA job, but his landwould go to ruin if he left it, and he was willing to go hungry to keep his land and vote ashe pleased. Mr. Cunningham, said Atticus, came from a set breed of men. As the Cunninghams had no money to pay a lawyer, they simply paid us with whatthey had. “Did you know,” said Atticus, “that Dr. Reynolds works the same way? Hecharges some folks a bushel of potatoes for delivery of a baby. Miss Scout, if you giveme your attention I’ll tell you what entailment is. Jem’s definitions are very nearlyaccurate sometimes.” If I could have explained these things to Miss Caroline, I would have saved myselfsome inconvenience and Miss Caroline subsequent mortification, but it was beyond myability to explain things as well as Atticus, so I said, “You’re shamin‘ him, Miss Caroline. Walter hasn’t got a quarter at home to bring you, and you can’t use any stovewood.” Miss Caroline stood stock still, then grabbed me by the collar and hauled me back toher desk. “Jean Louise, I’ve had about enough of you this morning,” she said. “You’restarting off on the wrong foot in every way, my dear. Hold out your hand.” I thought she was going to spit in it, which was the only reason anybody in Maycombheld out his hand: it was a time-honored method of sealing oral contracts. Wonderingwhat bargain we had made, I turned to the class for an answer, but the class lookedback at me in puzzlement. Miss Caroline picked up her ruler, gave me half a dozenquick little pats, then told me to stand in the corner. A storm of laughter broke loosewhen it finally occurred to the class that Miss Caroline had whipped me. When Miss Caroline threatened it with a similar fate the first grade exploded again,becoming cold sober only when the shadow of Miss Blount fell over them. Miss Blount, anative Maycombian as yet uninitiated in the mysteries of the Decimal System, appearedat the door hands on hips and announced: “If I hear another sound from this room I’llburn up everybody in it. Miss Caroline, the sixth grade cannot concentrate on thepyramids for all this racket!” My sojourn in the corner was a short one. Saved by the bell, Miss Caroline watchedthe class file out for lunch. As I was the last to leave, I saw her sink down into her chairand bury her head in her arms. Had her conduct been more friendly toward me, I wouldhave felt sorry for her. She was a pretty little thing. 迪尔九月初离开我们，回到梅里迪安去。莸们乘早上五点钟的公共汽车去送他。少了他，我心里很不是滋味，直到后来想起再过一个星期就要上学了，心情才好转。上学是我的最大愿望。冬天，我在树上的小屋里，一坐就是几个小时，用杰姆给我的放大两倍的望远镜看着校园里一群一群的小学生，学习他们的游戏，在玩捉迷藏游戏的一圈圈蠕动的人群中注视我哥哥杰姆的红上衣，暗自分担他们的不幸，也分享他们小小的胜利。我多么想成为他们中的一员啊！ 上学的第一天，杰姆还算赏脸，把我带到学校。这本来是家长的事，但阿迫克斯说杰姆会欢喜带我去找我的教室的。我想，为这事爸爸可能给了他钱，因为走过拉德剩家附近的拐角时，我听见杰姆的口袋里有从没听到过的丁当丁当的钱响。快到学校了，我们放慢脚步，杰姆一再叮嘱我，在学校里别去打扰他，别去要他再演一段《人猿泰山和蚂蚁人》，别谈论他在家里的情况使他丢脸，课间或午问休息时，也别象尾巴一样老跟在他屁股后面。他让我跟一年级的学生去玩，丙他跟五年级的学生在一起。一句话，不让我缠着他。 “你是说我们以后不能一起玩了吗?”我问。 “在家我们和以前一样，”他说，“但你会明白——学校不一样。” 学校的确大不一样。第一个上午还没完，我们的老师卡罗琳?费希尔小姐就把我拖到教室的前面，用尺打我的手心，然后罚我站壁角，一直站到中午。 卡罗琳小姐不过二十一岁，金棕色的头发，粉红色的面颊，指甲上涂着深红色的指甲油。她脚上穿着一双高跟浅口无带皮鞋，身上穿着有红白条纹的连衣裙，看起来闻起来都象一根有红白条纹的薄荷棒糖。她住在街对面，和我们家斜对门。她住的是楼上的前房，莫迪?阿特金森小姐住在楼下。莫迪小姐介绍我们与她认识时，杰姆给她迷住了，一连好几天都是这样。 卡罗琳小姐把她的姓名用印刷体写在黑板上，然后告诉我们：“这几个字的意思是我是卡罗琳?费希尔小姐。我是亚拉巴马州北部温斯顿县人。”全班都担心地小声议论起来，怕她也有那个地方的人所特有的怪癖(亚拉巴马于1861年1月11日退出合众国时，温斯顿县退出了亚拉巴马州，梅科姆县的每个小孩都知道这件事)。北亚拉巴马有很多大酒商，拖拉机厂，钢铁公司，共和党人，教授以及其他没有什么背景的人。 上课一开始，卡罗琳小姐给我们读了个有关猫的放孰这群猫相互之问交谈了很久，它们都穿着精巧的小衣服，住在炉,灶下面的一问暖和的房子里。她读到猫大妈去杂货店定购巧克力麦芽老鼠时，全班同学象一桶长在葡萄上的虫似地蠕动起来。这些身穿褴楼的斜纹粗布衬衣或面粉口袋布裙子的一年级学生，大部分别会走路时就开始喂猪、摘棉花，对唤起想象力的文学作品毫无接受能力。而卡罗琳小姐对这点一无所知。读完故事后她说：“啊，多好的故事!” 然后，她走到黑板前把字母表的大写字母用印厢8体大个大个地写在黑板上，转过身来问大家：“有谁知道这是什么吗?” 谁都知道。不过前一年的一年级的大部分学生是不知道的。 我想她叫我回答是因为知道我的名字。我朗读字母表时，她的眉宇间出现了一条皱纹。让我读完《我的第一本读物》的大部分和摘自《莫比尔纪事报》的股票市场的行情后，她发现我识字，就用厌恶的眼色望着我。卡罗琳小姐叫我告诉爸爸不要再教我了，否则会影响我读书。 “教我?”我吃惊地晚，“他什么都没教过我，卡罗琳小姐。阿迪克斯没时间教我。”卡罗琳小姐笑着直摇头，我又说了句：“这没有什么好奇怪的，他每天晚上那么累，光坐在房里看书。” “他没教，那又是谁教你的?”她和蔼地问，“总有谁教过你，你不可能生下来就会读《莫比尔纪事报》。” “杰姆说我生下来就会。他读过一本书，书里说我是布尔芬奇，而不是芬奇。杰姆说我的真名叫琼?路易斯?布尔芬奇，还说我生下来时被人掉包了，其实我是……” 看得出，卡罗琳小姐以为我在撒谎。“不要想入非非了，亲爱的，”她说，“告诉你爸爸不要再教你了。正式学习以前，最好不要学些不正规的东西。告诉他，我从这儿接手，要把不正规的东西纠正过来……” “小姐?” “你爸爸不懂教学方法。你可以坐下了。” 我咕哝着说对不起，然后坐下，开始考虑我到底有什么罪过。我从没有专门学过识字，但有时候的确私自抱着报纸读个不停。我常常上教堂做礼拜——是在那儿学会的吗?我记不起我有过不会读赞美诗的时候。既然被迫考虑这个问题，我觉得识字的能力对我来说是自然而然地获得的，好象不用学习就能不往后看而把连衫裤系好一样，不用学习就能把鞋带打两个蝴蝶结一样。我记不清阿迪克斯移动的手指所指的一行行句子是怎样分为一个个单词的。在我的记忆中，每天晚上我都注意地看着这些字，耳朵听着当天的新闻，如“提案将被通过成为法律”啦，某某人的日记啦，等等。一句话，每天晚上趴在爸爸的膝匕，他读什么我听什么。要不是担心会忘记所听到的词句，我从不爱自己读书。人之所以要呼吸是不得已，我读书也是这样。 我知道我触怒了卡罗琳小姐，就不再没事找事了。我扭过头，盯着窗外直到下课。在院子里，杰姆把我从一年级的小伙伴中找出去，问我怎么样。我把情况告诉了他。 “可以不上学的话，真想离开这里了。杰姆，那该死的小姐硬说阿迪克斯教我读过书，还叫我要地别再教了……” “别急，斯各特，”杰姆安慰我说，“我们老师说卡罗琳小姐正在弓『进一种新的教学法，她在大学学的，很快就会在每个年级推广。根据这个方法，很多知识不用从书本上学。譬如，想学有关奶牛的知识，你就去挤一次奶，你明白了吗?” “明白了，杰姆。可我不想学奶牛知识，我……” “当然得学，你必须了解一些奶牛知识，在梅科姆县生活，少不了奶牛。” 我问杰姆他脑瓜子是不是出了毛病。 “我是想告诉你这是他们教一年级学生的新方法，你真难对付。这种新方法叫做‘杜威十进分类法’。” 杰姆说的话我从来没怀疑过，现在也没有怀疑的必要。杜威教学法的一部分内容就是卡罗琳小姐在课堂上朝我们挥舞卡片，上面写着“这个”、“猫”、“老鼠”、“男人”、“你”等等。好象不要我们作什么回答，全班默默地接受这些印象主义的新启示。我不耐烦了，便给迪尔写信。正写着，卡罗琳小姐发现了。她叫我告诉爸爸别再教我了。“而且，”她说，“一年级学生不学写作，只学写字。你们要到三年级才练习写作。” 这就要怪卡尔珀尼亚了。遇上雨天，她总让我抄写点什么。这样，我就不会给她找麻烦，把她舞得晕头转向的。她一笔一划地把字母表写在一张小桌子上端，从一头写到另一头，然后在下边抄一节《圣经》。我的任务是各抄一遍。抄好后，她满意就奖给我半块带有糖和黄油的三明治面包。她在教我的过程中从不掺杂任何感情：我很难得让她满意，她也很少奖赏我。 “回家吃午饭的同学举起手来。”卡罗琳小姐说。这句话打断了我对卡尔珀尼亚的又一种怨恨。 镇上的学生都举了手，她把我们打量了一遍。 “带了午饭的同学把饭盒放在桌上。” 饭盒不知从什么地方一个接一个地冒了出来。金属盒把阳光反射到天花板上，不停地跳动。卡罗琳小姐在过遭上走了几趟，不时打开盒子看看，盒里的饭菜她看后满意就点点头，否则就皱起眉头。她在沃尔特?坎宁安的桌旁停了下来。“你的午饭呢?”她问。 一年级的学生都能从沃尔特?坎宁安的脸色看出他肚里有钩虫。他没穿鞋，光着两脚，这就告诉我们他的钩虫病是从哪儿来的。光着脚在牲口栏前的地坪上或在猪猡常打滚的洼地里走，就会染上钩虫病。要是沃尔特有鞋子的话，上学的第一天肯定会穿来，然后脱掉，直到隆冬时再穿上。那天，他倒是穿了一件干净衬衣，一条补得挺整齐的背带裤。 “你早上忘记带午饭了吗?”卡罗琳小姐问。沃尔特两眼直直地望着前方。我看见他那瘦削的下巴上的肌肉在抽搐。 “你今天早上忘记了吗?”她问。沃尔特下巴上的肌肉又抽搐了一下。 “是的，小姐。”他最后含含糊糊地回答道。 卡罗琳小姐回到讲桌旁，打开钱包。“这是两角五分钱，”她对沃尔特说，“今天去镇上吃午饭。你可以到明天再把钱还给我。” 沃尔特摇了摇头。“不，谢谢小姐。”他轻轻地、慢腾腾地说了句。 卡罗琳小姐的声音显得有些不耐烦了：“听着，沃尔特，过来拿钱。” 沃尔特再次摇了摇头。 沃尔特第三次摇头时，有的同学低声说：“斯各特，你去跟她讲讲。” 我回过头，看到镇上的大部分学生和乘公共汽车上学的所有的学生都在望着我。我和卡罗琳小姐已经交谈过两次了，大家都望着我，天真地认为熟悉了的人才能互相理解。 为了替沃尔特解围，我彬彬有礼地站起来，“嗯……卡罗琳小姐。” “什么事，琼?路易斯?” “卡罗琳小姐，他是坎宁安家的。。 我坐下来。 “什么，琼?路易斯?” 我想我已经把事情说得很清楚了，对其他人来说，这已够明白的了。沃尔特坐着，一个劲地埋着头。他不是忘记了午饭，而是没有午饭。今天没有，明天不会有，后天也不会有。他长到这么大，恐怕还没有一次见过三个两角五分的硬币。 我又说了一遍：“沃尔特是坎宁安家的，卡罗琳小姐。” “对不起，请再说一遍，琼?路易斯。” “好的，小姐，过一段时间你就会了解这个镇上所有的人。坎宁安家的人从不接受他们无法偿还的东西——不要教堂的救济物，也不要政府发放的救济款。从不用任何人的任何东西。自己有什么就用什么，就吃什么。他们的东西并不多，但就靠那些东西凑合着过日子。” 我对坎宁安家族的特殊知识是去年冬天学到的。沃尔特的爸爸是阿迪克斯的当事人之一。一天晚上，他和爸爸就限定继承权问题在我家谈了很久，临走时，坎宁安先生说：“芬奇先生，我不知什么时候才有钱付您酬劳。” “这件事您尽可以不放在心上，沃尔特。”阿迪克斯说。 我问杰姆什么是限定继承权，他把它描绘成把尾巴夹在缝隙中的窘境，我问阿迪克斯，坎宁安先生会不会付钱给我们。 “不会付现钱，”阿迪克斯说，“但是，在今年年内，我们会得到报酬的，等着瞧吧。” 我们一直在等着瞧。一天早上，我和杰姆在后院发现一搁干柴。后来，在屋后的台阶上出现了一袋山核桃。圣诞节时，又来了一箱菝葜和圣诞节装饰用的冬青类树枝。今年春天，我们发现一袋萝卜菜时，阿迪克斯说坎宁安家给我们的东西已经超过了应该付的钱。 “他为啥这样付欠款?。我问。 “因为这是他能付欠款的唯一方式，他没有钱。” “我们也穷吗，阿迪克斯?” 阿迪克斯点点头。“我们确实也穷。” 杰姆的鼻子皱起来。“我们跟坎宁安家一样穷吗?” “不完全一样。坎宁安家的人都住在乡下，他们是农民，经济危机对他们打击擐大。” 阿迪克斯说，医生和律师之所以穷是因为农民穷。梅科姆县是以农业为主的县，医生、牙医、律师很难收到现金。限定继承权只是坎宁安先生苦恼的一部分。那些没有限定继承人的土地全部被用来当抵押物，得来的一点点钱又全都付了利息。如果开口韵话，坎宁安先生本来可以在工程规划署找个工作做做，可是他一走，土地就要荒了，于是他宁愿挨饿种地，自由一些。阿迪克斯说坎宁安先生属于那种性情固执的人。 因为没有钱，坎宁安家的人干脆有什么就给什么。阿迪克斯说：“你们知道吗，雷纳兹医生的收费方式也一样。接生一次，他向农户要一蒲式耳土豆。斯各特小姐，要是你用心听的话，我就告诉你什么是限定继承权。有时，杰姆的定义下得还比较准确。” 要是我把这些话早讲给卡罗琳小姐听的话，我就不会有什么麻烦了，卡罗琳小姐随后也就不会丢面子了。可是我不能象阿迪克斯一样地解释清楚，所以我说：“您这是在为难他，卡罗琳小姐。沃尔特家没有两角五分钱还给您，而您又不能用干柴。” 卡罗琳小姐站在那儿象根木棍一样，一动也不动。突然，她一把抓住我的衣领，把我拖到讲桌前。“琼?路易斯，今天上午你已终让我够受的了，”她说，“一开始你就处处捣蛋，我亲爱的。伸出手来!” 我还以为她要朝我手里吐唾沫呢，因为梅科姆镇上的人伸手都是为了这个：这是个由来已久的签定口头合同的方法。我不明白我们做了什么交易，迷惑不解地把眼睛转向全班同学，想寻找答案，可他们也同样迷惑不解地望着我。卡罗琳小姐拿起尺，很快地在我手心上打了五六下，然后，罚我站壁角。最后，大家弄明白是卡罗琳小姐打了我一顿时，全班顿时哄堂大笑。 卡罗琳小姐又用同样的下场威胁大家，全班又大笑起来。直等到布朗特小姐的影子落在他们身上时才一个个闭上嘴巴，收敛起笑容。布朗特小姐是一位还不了解新教学方法秘密的土生土长的梅科姆县人，她两手叉腰，出现在教室门口，大声喝道：“要是再听到这个教室里有声音，我就把里边的人统统烧死。卡罗琳小姐，你这儿太吵闹了，六年级学生无法集中注意力听讲金字塔。” 我在墙角站酌时间不长，下课铃解救了我。卡罗琳小姐望着学生一个一个走出去吃午饭。我是最后一个出去的，看见她朝椅子上坐下去，头伏在胳膊上。要是她对我好一点儿的话，我也许会同情她。她是个漂亮的年轻姑娘呢。 |
Chapter 3 Catching Walter Cunningham in the schoolyard gave me some pleasure, but when Iwas rubbing his nose in the dirt Jem came by and told me to stop. “You’re bigger’n heis,” he said. “He’s as old as you, nearly,” I said. “He made me start off on the wrong foot.” “Let him go, Scout. Why?” “He didn’t have any lunch,” I said, and explained my involvement in Walter’s dietaryaffairs. Walter had picked himself up and was standing quietly listening to Jem and me. Hisfists were half cocked, as if expecting an onslaught from both of us. I stomped at him tochase him away, but Jem put out his hand and stopped me. He examined Walter withan air of speculation. “Your daddy Mr. Walter Cunningham from Old Sarum?” he asked,and Walter nodded. Walter looked as if he had been raised on fish food: his eyes, as blue as Dill Harris’s,were red-rimmed and watery. There was no color in his face except at the tip of hisnose, which was moistly pink. He fingered the straps of his overalls, nervously picking atthe metal hooks. Jem suddenly grinned at him. “Come on home to dinner with us, Walter,” he said. “We’d be glad to have you.” Walter’s face brightened, then darkened. Jem said, “Our daddy’s a friend of your daddy’s. Scout here, she’s crazy—she won’tfight you any more.” “I wouldn’t be too certain of that,” I said. Jem’s free dispensation of my pledge irkedme, but precious noontime minutes were ticking away. “Yeah Walter, I won’t jump onyou again. Don’t you like butterbeans? Our Cal’s a real good cook.” Walter stood where he was, biting his lip. Jem and I gave up, and we were nearly tothe Radley Place when Walter called, “Hey, I’m comin‘!” When Walter caught up with us, Jem made pleasant conversation with him. “A hain’tlives there,” he said cordially, pointing to the Radley house. “Ever hear about him,Walter?” “Reckon I have,” said Walter. “Almost died first year I come to school and et thempecans—folks say he pizened ‘em and put ’em over on the school side of the fence.” Jem seemed to have little fear of Boo Radley now that Walter and I walked besidehim. Indeed, Jem grew boastful: “I went all the way up to the house once,” he said toWalter. “Anybody who went up to the house once oughta not to still run every time he passesit,” I said to the clouds above. “And who’s runnin‘, Miss Priss?” “You are, when ain’t anybody with you.” By the time we reached our front steps Walter had forgotten he was a Cunningham. Jem ran to the kitchen and asked Calpurnia to set an extra plate, we had company. Atticus greeted Walter and began a discussion about crops neither Jem nor I couldfollow. “Reason I can’t pass the first grade, Mr. Finch, is I’ve had to stay out ever‘ spring an’ help Papa with the choppin‘, but there’s another’n at the house now that’s field size.” “Did you pay a bushel of potatoes for him?” I asked, but Atticus shook his head at me. While Walter piled food on his plate, he and Atticus talked together like two men, tothe wonderment of Jem and me. Atticus was expounding upon farm problems whenWalter interrupted to ask if there was any molasses in the house. Atticus summonedCalpurnia, who returned bearing the syrup pitcher. She stood waiting for Walter to helphimself. Walter poured syrup on his vegetables and meat with a generous hand. Hewould probably have poured it into his milk glass had I not asked what the sam hill hewas doing. The silver saucer clattered when he replaced the pitcher, and he quickly put his handsin his lap. Then he ducked his head. Atticus shook his head at me again. “But he’s gone and drowned his dinner in syrup,” Iprotested. “He’s poured it all over-” It was then that Calpurnia requested my presence in the kitchen. She was furious, and when she was furious Calpurnia’s grammar became erratic. When in tranquility, her grammar was as good as anybody’s in Maycomb. Atticus saidCalpurnia had more education than most colored folks. When she squinted down at me the tiny lines around her eyes deepened. “There’ssome folks who don’t eat like us,” she whispered fiercely, “but you ain’t called on tocontradict ‘em at the table when they don’t. That boy’s yo’ comp’ny and if he wants toeat up the table cloth you let him, you hear?” “He ain’t company, Cal, he’s just a Cunningham-” “Hush your mouth! Don’t matter who they are, anybody sets foot in this house’s yo‘comp’ny, and don’t you let me catch you remarkin’ on their ways like you was so highand mighty! Yo‘ folks might be better’n the Cunninghams but it don’t count for nothin’ theway you’re disgracin‘ ’em—if you can’t act fit to eat at the table you can just set here andeat in the kitchen!” Calpurnia sent me through the swinging door to the diningroom with a stinging smack. I retrieved my plate and finished dinner in the kitchen, thankful, though, that I wasspared the humiliation of facing them again. I told Calpurnia to just wait, I’d fix her: oneof these days when she wasn’t looking I’d go off and drown myself in Barker’s Eddy andthen she’d be sorry. Besides, I added, she’d already gotten me in trouble once today: she had taught me to write and it was all her fault. “Hush your fussin‘,” she said. Jem and Walter returned to school ahead of me: staying behind to advise Atticus ofCalpurnia’s iniquities was worth a solitary sprint past the Radley Place. “She likes Jembetter’n she likes me, anyway,” I concluded, and suggested that Atticus lose no time inpacking her off. “Have you ever considered that Jem doesn’t worry her half as much?” Atticus’s voicewas flinty. “I’ve no intention of getting rid of her, now or ever. We couldn’t operate asingle day without Cal, have you ever thought of that? You think about how much Caldoes for you, and you mind her, you hear?” I returned to school and hated Calpurnia steadily until a sudden shriek shattered myresentments. I looked up to see Miss Caroline standing in the middle of the room, sheerhorror flooding her face. Apparently she had revived enough to persevere in herprofession. “It’s alive!” she screamed. The male population of the class rushed as one to her assistance. Lord, I thought,she’s scared of a mouse. Little Chuck Little, whose patience with all living things wasphenomenal, said, “Which way did he go, Miss Caroline? Tell us where he went, quick! D.C.-” he turned to a boy behind him—“D.C., shut the door and we’ll catch him. Quick,ma’am, where’d he go?” Miss Caroline pointed a shaking finger not at the floor nor at a desk, but to a hulkingindividual unknown to me. Little Chuck’s face contracted and he said gently, “You meanhim, ma’am? Yessum, he’s alive. Did he scare you some way?” Miss Caroline said desperately, “I was just walking by when it crawled out of his hair…just crawled out of his hair-” Little Chuck grinned broadly. “There ain’t no need to fear a cootie, ma’am. Ain’t youever seen one? Now don’t you be afraid, you just go back to your desk and teach ussome more.” Little Chuck Little was another member of the population who didn’t know where hisnext meal was coming from, but he was a born gentleman. He put his hand under herelbow and led Miss Caroline to the front of the room. “Now don’t you fret, ma’am,” hesaid. “There ain’t no need to fear a cootie. I’ll just fetch you some cool water.” Thecootie’s host showed not the faintest interest in the furor he had wrought. He searchedthe scalp above his forehead, located his guest and pinched it between his thumb andforefinger. Miss Caroline watched the process in horrid fascination. Little Chuck brought water ina paper cup, and she drank it gratefully. Finally she found her voice. “What is yourname, son?” she asked softly. The boy blinked. “Who, me?” Miss Caroline nodded. “Burris Ewell.” Miss Caroline inspected her roll-book. “I have a Ewell here, but I don’t have a firstname… would you spell your first name for me?” “Don’t know how. They call me Burris’t home.” “Well, Burris,” said Miss Caroline, “I think we’d better excuse you for the rest of theafternoon. I want you to go home and wash your hair.” From her desk she produced a thick volume, leafed through its pages and read for amoment. “A good home remedy for—Burris, I want you to go home and wash your hairwith lye soap. When you’ve done that, treat your scalp with kerosene.” “What fer, missus?” “To get rid of the—er, cooties. You see, Burris, the other children might catch them,and you wouldn’t want that, would you?” The boy stood up. He was the filthiest human I had ever seen. His neck was darkgray, the backs of his hands were rusty, and his fingernails were black deep into thequick. He peered at Miss Caroline from a fist-sized clean space on his face. No one hadnoticed him, probably, because Miss Caroline and I had entertained the class most ofthe morning. “And Burris,” said Miss Caroline, “please bathe yourself before you come backtomorrow.” The boy laughed rudely. “You ain’t sendin‘ me home, missus. I was on the verge ofleavin’—I done done my time for this year.” Miss Caroline looked puzzled. “What do you mean by that?” The boy did not answer. He gave a short contemptuous snort. One of the elderly members of the class answered her: “He’s one of the Ewells,ma’am,” and I wondered if this explanation would be as unsuccessful as my attempt. ButMiss Caroline seemed willing to listen. “Whole school’s full of ‘em. They come first dayevery year and then leave. The truant lady gets ’em here ‘cause she threatens ’em withthe sheriff, but she’s give up tryin‘ to hold ’em. She reckons she’s carried out the law justgettin‘ their names on the roll and runnin’ ‘em here the first day. You’re supposed tomark ’em absent the rest of the year…” “But what about their parents?” asked Miss Caroline, in genuine concern. “Ain’t got no mother,” was the answer, “and their paw’s right contentious.” Burris Ewell was flattered by the recital. “Been comin‘ to the first day o’ the first gradefer three year now,” he said expansively. “Reckon if I’m smart this year they’ll promoteme to the second…” Miss Caroline said, “Sit back down, please, Burris,” and the moment she said it I knewshe had made a serious mistake. The boy’s condescension flashed to anger. “You try and make me, missus.” Little Chuck Little got to his feet. “Let him go, ma’am,” he said. “He’s a mean one, ahard-down mean one. He’s liable to start somethin‘, and there’s some little folks here.” He was among the most diminutive of men, but when Burris Ewell turned toward him,Little Chuck’s right hand went to his pocket. “Watch your step, Burris,” he said. “I’dsoon’s kill you as look at you. Now go home.” Burris seemed to be afraid of a child half his height, and Miss Caroline took advantageof his indecision: “Burris, go home. If you don’t I’ll call the principal,” she said. “I’ll haveto report this, anyway.” The boy snorted and slouched leisurely to the door. Safely out of range, he turned and shouted: “Report and be damned to ye! Ain’t nosnot-nosed slut of a schoolteacher ever born c’n make me do nothin‘! You ain’t makin’ me go nowhere, missus. You just remember that, you ain’t makin‘ me go nowhere!” He waited until he was sure she was crying, then he shuffled out of the building. Soon we were clustered around her desk, trying in our various ways to comfort her. He was a real mean one… below the belt… you ain’t called on to teach folks like that…them ain’t Maycomb’s ways, Miss Caroline, not really… now don’t you fret, ma’am. MissCaroline, why don’t you read us a story? That cat thing was real fine this mornin‘…Miss Caroline smiled, blew her nose, said, “Thank you, darlings,” dispersed us,opened a book and mystified the first grade with a long narrative about a toadfrog thatlived in a hall. When I passed the Radley Place for the fourth time that day—twice at a full gallop—my gloom had deepened to match the house. If the remainder of the school year wereas fraught with drama as the first day, perhaps it would be mildly entertaining, but theprospect of spending nine months refraining from reading and writing made me think ofrunning away. By late afternoon most of my traveling plans were complete; when Jem and I racedeach other up the sidewalk to meet Atticus coming home from work, I didn’t give himmuch of a race. It was our habit to run meet Atticus the moment we saw him round thepost office corner in the distance. Atticus seemed to have forgotten my noontime fallfrom grace; he was full of questions about school. My replies were monosyllabic and hedid not press me. Perhaps Calpurnia sensed that my day had been a grim one: she let me watch her fixsupper. “Shut your eyes and open your mouth and I’ll give you a surprise,” she said. It was not often that she made crackling bread, she said she never had time, but withboth of us at school today had been an easy one for her. She knew I loved cracklingbread. “I missed you today,” she said. “The house got so lonesome ‘long about two o’clock Ihad to turn on the radio.” “Why? Jem’n me ain’t ever in the house unless it’s rainin‘.” “I know,” she said, “But one of you’s always in callin‘ distance. I wonder how much ofthe day I spend just callin’ after you. Well,” she said, getting up from the kitchen chair,“it’s enough time to make a pan of cracklin‘ bread, I reckon. You run along now and letme get supper on the table.” Calpurnia bent down and kissed me. I ran along, wondering what had come over her. She had wanted to make up with me, that was it. She had always been too hard on me,she had at last seen the error of her fractious ways, she was sorry and too stubborn tosay so. I was weary from the day’s crimes. After supper, Atticus sat down with the paper and called, “Scout, ready to read?” TheLord sent me more than I could bear, and I went to the front porch. Atticus followed me. “Something wrong, Scout?” I told Atticus I didn’t feel very well and didn’t think I’d go to school any more if it was allright with him. Atticus sat down in the swing and crossed his legs. His fingers wandered to hiswatchpocket; he said that was the only way he could think. He waited in amiablesilence, and I sought to reinforce my position: “You never went to school and you do allright, so I’ll just stay home too. You can teach me like Granddaddy taught you ‘n’ UncleJack.” “No I can’t,” said Atticus. “I have to make a living. Besides, they’d put me in jail if I keptyou at home—dose of magnesia for you tonight and school tomorrow.” “I’m feeling all right, really.” “Thought so. Now what’s the matter?” Bit by bit, I told him the day’s misfortunes. “-and she said you taught me all wrong, sowe can’t ever read any more, ever. Please don’t send me back, please sir.” Atticus stood up and walked to the end of the porch. When he completed hisexamination of the wisteria vine he strolled back to me. “First of all,” he said, “if you can learn a simple trick, Scout, you’ll get along a lot betterwith all kinds of folks. You never really understand a person until you consider thingsfrom his point of view-” “Sir?” “-until you climb into his skin and walk around in it.” Atticus said I had learned many things today, and Miss Caroline had learned severalthings herself. She had learned not to hand something to a Cunningham, for one thing,but if Walter and I had put ourselves in her shoes we’d have seen it was an honestmistake on her part. We could not expect her to learn all Maycomb’s ways in one day,and we could not hold her responsible when she knew no better. “I’ll be dogged,” I said. “I didn’t know no better than not to read to her, and she heldme responsible—listen Atticus, I don’t have to go to school!” I was bursting with asudden thought. “Burris Ewell, remember? He just goes to school the first day. Thetruant lady reckons she’s carried out the law when she gets his name on the roll-” “Youcan’t do that, Scout,” Atticus said. “Sometimes it’s better to bend the law a little inspecial cases. In your case, the law remains rigid. So to school you must go.” “I don’t see why I have to when he doesn’t.” “Then listen.” Atticus said the Ewells had been the disgrace of Maycomb for three generations. None of them had done an honest day’s work in his recollection. He said that someChristmas, when he was getting rid of the tree, he would take me with him and show mewhere and how they lived. They were people, but they lived like animals. “They can goto school any time they want to, when they show the faintest symptom of wanting aneducation,” said Atticus. “There are ways of keeping them in school by force, but it’s sillyto force people like the Ewells into a new environment-” “If I didn’t go to school tomorrow, you’d force me to.” “Let us leave it at this,” said Atticus dryly. “You, Miss Scout Finch, are of the commonfolk. You must obey the law.” He said that the Ewells were members of an exclusivesociety made up of Ewells. In certain circumstances the common folk judiciously allowedthem certain privileges by the simple method of becoming blind to some of the Ewells’ activities. They didn’t have to go to school, for one thing. Another thing, Mr. Bob Ewell,Burris’s father, was permitted to hunt and trap out of season. “Atticus, that’s bad,” I said. In Maycomb County, hunting out of season was amisdemeanor at law, a capital felony in the eyes of the populace. “It’s against the law, all right,” said my father, “and it’s certainly bad, but when a manspends his relief checks on green whiskey his children have a way of crying from hungerpains. I don’t know of any landowner around here who begrudges those children anygame their father can hit.” “Mr. Ewell shouldn’t do that-” “Of course he shouldn’t, but he’ll never change his ways. Are you going to take outyour disapproval on his children?” “No sir,” I murmured, and made a final stand: “But if I keep on goin‘ to school, we can’tever read any more…” “That’s really bothering you, isn’t it?” “Yes sir.” When Atticus looked down at me I saw the expression on his face that always mademe expect something. “Do you know what a compromise is?” he asked. “Bending the law?” “No, an agreement reached by mutual concessions. It works this way,” he said. “Ifyou’ll concede the necessity of going to school, we’ll go on reading every night just aswe always have. Is it a bargain?” “Yes sir!” “We’ll consider it sealed without the usual formality,” Atticus said, when he saw mepreparing to spit. As I opened the front screen door Atticus said, “By the way, Scout, you’d better notsay anything at school about our agreement.” “Why not?” “I’m afraid our activities would be received with considerable disapprobation by themore learned authorities.” Jem and I were accustomed to our father’s last-will-and-testament diction, and wewere at all times free to interrupt Atticus for a translation when it was beyond ourunderstanding. “Huh, sir?” “I never went to school,” he said, “but I have a feeling that if you tell Miss Caroline weread every night she’ll get after me, and I wouldn’t want her after me.” Atticus kept us in fits that evening, gravely reading columns of print about a man whosat on a flagpole for no discernible reason, which was reason enough for Jem to spendthe following Saturday aloft in the treehouse. Jem sat from after breakfast until sunsetand would have remained overnight had not Atticus severed his supply lines. I hadspent most of the day climbing up and down, running errands for him, providing him withliterature, nourishment and water, and was carrying him blankets for the night whenAtticus said if I paid no attention to him, Jem would come down. Atticus was right. 在学校的院子里我抓住沃尔特?坎宁安来开心。我正抓着他的脑袋在泥土里擦他的鼻子时，杰姆过来了，叫我住手。“你比他大，”他说。 “他差不多跟你一样大昵，”我说，“都怪他，我一开头就倒霉。” “放开他，斯各特，这是为了什么?” “他没吃午饭。”我说，然后把我卷入他的吃饭问题的经过告诉了杰姆。 沃尔特站起来，在一旁悄悄地听着我俩说话，拳头半握着，好象准备我俩的拳头一起朝他打去似的。我跺着脚想把他赶走，杰姆伸手拦住我。他仔细打量了沃尔特一番。“你爸爸沃尔特?坎宁安先生是萨勒姆地方的人吧2”他问。沃尔特点点头。 沃尔特看上去好象是吃鱼食长大的。眼睛和迪尔?哈里斯的一样蓝，水汪汪的，眼眶通红。脸上没有血色，只有鼻尖有点潮乎乎的红色。他用手摸着背带裤的背带，神情紧张地把上面的金属钩拨个不停。 杰姆突然朝他笑了笑：“走，跟我们回去吃午饭，沃尔特，”他说，“跟你在一起我们很高兴。” 沃尔特脸上露出了喜色，但马上又消逝了。 杰姆说：“我们的爸爸是你爸爸的朋友。斯各特只是一时发火——她不会再打你了。” “我才不下保证呢，”我说。杰姆用我的保证送人情，我挺恼火。但宝贵的中午时间在一分一分地过去。“好吧，沃尔特，我以后不把你按在地上了。你爱吃利马豆吗?我家的卡尔做得可好吃呢。” 祆尔特站着没动，咬着嘴唇。我和杰姆干脆不劝他了。可等我们一块走到拉德利家门前时，沃尔特突然喊了一声：“嘿，我来了。” 沃尔特赶上我们，杰姆跟他愉快地说个不停。“那儿住着个鬼，”他兴致勃勃地说，手指着拉德利家的房子，“听说过他没有，沃尔特?” “好象听说过。我第一年来上学时，吃了他家树上掉下来的核桃，差点儿死掉。大人们说他把核桃涂上毒药，然后扔到学校校园里。” 有我和沃尔特在身边，杰姆现在好象不太怕布?拉德利似的。真的，他开始吹起牛来：“有一次，我一个人走到房子边上。”他对沃尔特说。 “谁要是到过房子边上一次，就不应该每次一到这儿仍然撒腿就跑。”我抬起头对着天上的云彩说。 “谁跑了?请问你这个不受人欢迎的小姐。’ “是你，没人陪着你时你就跑。” 到了我家房前的台阶时，沃尔特已经忘记他是坎宁安家的人了。杰姆跑进厨房，告诉卡尔珀尼亚多准备个盘子，说我们有个小伙伴。阿迪克斯和沃尔特打了招呼，然后跟他谈起地里的庄稼}他们说的事，我和杰姆都听不懂。 “芬奇先生，我老上不了二年级，就是因为每年春天都得离开学校，帮爸爸劈柴。现在家里请了一个人，他个子高大得很。” “你们付给他一蒲式耳土豆吗?”我问，但阿迪克斯对我摇了摇头。 沃尔特一边往盘子里堆菜，一边象个大人似的跟阿迪克斯谈个不停。我和杰姆感到不可理解。阿迪克斯正在谈农业问题时，沃尔特突然插话，问家里有没有糖蜜。阿迪克斯喊了卡尔珀尼亚一声，她把糖蜜罐拿来了。她站在一旁等着沃尔特自己舀糖。沃尔特拿起罐子往下就倒，蔬菜上倒完了又往肉上倒，大方得很。要不是我问他怎么搞的，恐怕还会倒进他的牛奶杯里。 他把罐子放下时，桌上的银茶托咣地响了一声，他立刻把手放在膝头上，然后低下了脑袋。 阿迪克斯又朝我摇了摇头。“他把饭菜都用糖蜜泡起来了，”我反驳说，“他弄得到处都是。” 这时，卡尔珀尼亚喊我到厨房去。 她气势汹汹，每逢这种情况，她的语法就不讲究了。心情平静时，她的语法不比梅科姆县的任何人差。阿迪克斯说，卡尔珀尼亚比大多数黑人都多受了些教育。 她斜着眼睛望着我时，两眼周围的皱纹更深了。“有些人家的吃法跟我们不一样，”她气呼呼地说，“没人叫你在吃饭时对他们的吃法表示不满。人家是你的客人，他即使要把桌布吃掉，你也让他吃好了，昕见了没有?” 。他不是客人，卡尔，他只不过是个坎宁安家的人……” “你给我住嘴，不管他是谁，只要进了这扇门，就是你的客人。告诉你，别让我再听见你责怪人家怎么样怎么样，好象你自己多高贵，多了不起似的。你们家的人可能比坎宁安家的人强一点，但你不能因为这个就可以侮辱人家——如果你不适宜在桌上吃饭的话，你可以坐在这儿，在厨房吃！” 卡尔珀尼亚重重地拍了我一下，打发我出门到餐室里去。我把盘子端出来，在厨房把饭吃完。也好，免受再和他们在一起的折磨。我嘀嘀咕咕地对卡尔珀尼亚说，等着瞧吧，我要报复：哪一一天她不注意时，我就跑出去，跑到巴克?埃迪河湾投水自杀，那时她就要后悔了．另外，我还说，因为她，今天我已经倒霉了，她教过我写字，都怪她。“你给我住嘴I”她说。 杰姆和沃尔特比我早回学校：我一个人留在后边的话，就得飞快地跑过拉德利家的房子，可我要在阿迪克斯面前告卡尔珀尼娅的状，说她不公平。这样，留下来还是值得的。“不管怎么说，她更喜欢杰姆些。”我最后说，并且建议阿迪克斯立即把她解雇。 “你想过没有，杰姆没你一半淘气。”阿迪克斯的口气很坚决，“我没有撵走她的想法，现在没有，永远也不会有。没有她，我们连一天都没法过，你想过没有?想想她为你做了多少事，要听她的话，听见了吗?” 我回到了学校，越想越恨卡尔珀尼亚。突然，一声尖叫打断了我的怨恨。一抬头，看到卡罗琳小姐站在教室中间，脸上浮现出惊恐的神色。很明显，她已从上午的疲倦中恢复过来，又来上课了。 “是活的!”她尖叫一声。 全班的男同学一起冲上去帮助她。天啊，我想着，她一定是被一只老鼠吓成这样。对小动物最有耐心的名叫小查克?利特尔的同学问：“往哪儿跑了，卡罗琳小姐，告诉我们它跑到哪儿去了，快说呀！狄西……”他回过头对一个男同学喊了一声，“狄西，关上门就可以抓住了。快说，小姐，它往哪儿跑了?” 卡罗琳小姐颤抖的手指既没指地板也没指课桌，却指着一个我不认识的大块头学生。小查克?利特尔的脸皱了起来，很斯文地说：“您说的是他，老师?是啊，他是活着。他怎么吓着你了?” 卡罗琳小姐声嘶力竭地说，。我正好从他身边走过，看见那东西从他头发里爬出来……从他头发里爬出来的?：…?” 小查克-利特尔咧嘴笑起来。“虱子有什么可怕的，老师。您从来没见过?别害怕，现在回到讲桌去，继续教我们吧。” 小查克?利特尔是学生中又一个吃了上顿没有下顿饭的，可他是个天生的有教养的人。他用手托着卡罗琳小姐的、肘部把她领到教室前面。“别害怕了，老师，”他说，“虱子没什么可怕的。我给您倒杯冷开水来压压惊。” 虱子的主人对臼已引起的这场风波毫不感兴趣。他在头顶上摸着，找到了他的那个客人，然后用大拇指和食指把它掐死。 卡罗琳小姐又惊讶又好奇地看着整个过程。小查克?剩特尔用一个纸杯子端来一杯冷开水，她很感激地把水喝了。最后，总算开口了：“你叫什么名字，孩子?”她柔和地问。 那男孩子眨了眨眼：‘谁，我?”卡罗琳小姐点点头。 “伯利斯?尤厄尔。” 卡罗琳小姐查了查她的花名册。“这儿有个尤厄尔，只有姓，没有名……请把你的名字拼写出来。” “不会。在家里他们叫我伯科斯。” “好吧，伯利斯，”卡罗琳小姐说，“我想，今天下午你回去算了。我要你回去把头发洗一洗。” 她从桌上拿起一本厚书，翻到要找的页码，读了一会儿。“这儿有个特效偏方……伯利斯，我让你回去用碱性肥皂洗洗头发。洗完后用煤油把头皮治疗一下。” “为什么，老师?” “去掉……呃……虱子。听着，伯利斯，其他孩子也会染上虱子的，可你并不想让他们都有虱子，对吗?’ 那男孩子站起来。我从来没见过他这样脏的人。他的脖子是深灰色，手背是铁锈色，指甲前面的很长一节是黑色的，脸上只有拳头大的一块干净点。他望着卡罗琳小姐。上午很可能没有谁注意他，因为大部分时间都是我和卡罗琳小姐在表演。 “伯利斯，”卡罗琳小姐说，“明天来校以前请洗个澡。” 那男孩子粗鲁地笑起来。“用不着你打发我回去，小姐，我正要走呢。今年，我在学校的时间已经过完了。” 卡罗琳小姐迷惑不解地望着：“你说这话是什么意思?” 那男孩没有网答，只是不屑一顾地哼了一声。 班上一个年龄大一点的同学回答说：“他是尤厄尔家的孩子，小姐。”我不知道这个解释会不会跟我的解释一样不起作用。卡罗琳小姐看上去好象愿意听似的。“学校有很多这样的人，每年开学的第一天他们来报个到，以后就不来了。那位监管逃学的太太把他们弄来。她威胁他们，说要不来就带他们去见司法官。可她也放弃了把他们留在学校里的打算。她认为只要把他们的名字写在花名册上，开学的第一天把他们弄到学校来，她就算执行了规章制度。从明天起，您尽管给他们打缺席就是了……” “可是他们的父母是怎么看的?”卡罗琳小姐问，语气中流露出真正的关切。 “他们没有妈妈，”有人回答说，“他们最爱打架。” 听到这些，伯利斯?尤厄尔洋洋得意，滔滔不绝地说：“一年级的第一天我已来过三次了，要是今年我表现好的话，我想他们会让我进二年级的……” 卡罗琳小姐打断他的话说：“请坐下，伯利斯。”她一插话，我知道她犯了一个严重的错误。邪男孩给老师一点面子的态度变成了气愤。 “小姐，你试试，看能让我坐下不。” 小查克?利特尔站起来。“老师，让他走，”他说，“他是个老油条，油得要命。他可能要闹事，这儿有些很小的孩子呢。” 他是男孩中墩矮小的。伯利斯?尤厄尔转过身看着他时，小查克?利特尔立即把手放进口袋。“小心点儿，伯利斯，”他说，“我宁肯宰了你也不愿看你一眼。回家去。” 伯利斯好象对这样一个只有他一半高的小孩也感到害怕。卡罗琳小姐趁他犹豫不决时说：“伯利斯，回去n巴。不然的话我去喊校长来。”她说，“不管怎么说，我得把这件事向上面汇报。” 那男孩又哼了哼，没精打采地朝门边走去。 觉得安全了，他回过头大叫起来：“汇报去吧！见鬼去吧!流鼻涕的肮脏女老师从来拿我没办法!你赶不走我。小姐，你记住，你赶不走我!” 他等了一会儿，直到肯定那女老师在哭，才拖着步子离开这幢房子。 我们立刻围到她桌边，用各种方法安慰她。他是个大坏蛋……他真坏……您不是教这样的学生的……卡罗琳小姐，位是梅科姆县的败类……老师，别怕，给我们讲一段故事吧!上午您讲的那个猫的故事可好听啦…… 卡罗琳小姐笑了，她持了擤鼻子，然后说，“亲爱的孩子们，谢谢你们。”她叫我们回到座位上，她自己打开书，读了一段很长的关于一只住在大厅里的蟾蜍的故事。 那一天，我第四次经过拉德利家时(其中有两次是飞快跑过去的)，我变得跟那座房子一样忧郁了。要是以后在学校的日子都象第一天有那么多小插曲的话，学校生活也还好玩，但一想到九个月不能看书写字，我就想逃跑。 太阳快落山时，我要去的地方都去过了，我和杰姆两人在人行道上争先恐后地跑着去接阿迪克斯下班时，我跑不过他。一看见阿迪克斯在远处的邮局门口的拐弯处就跑去接他，这是我们的习惯。阿迪克斯好象忘记了我中午的不礼貌的行为。他一个劲地打听学校的情况，我只简单地回答“是’或“不是’。他也没追问得那么详细。 卡尔珀尼亚看出来我这一天过得不痛快。她让我看她傲晚饭。“闭上眼睛张开嘴，我要让你吃一惊。”她说。 她很少做香脆面包，说她没时间。可今天我俩都上学去了，她也轻松多了。她知道我爱吃香脆面包。 “我今天怪想你韵，”她说，“一个人在家太寂寞了，两点钟我就打开了收音机。” “为什么?只要不下雨，我和杰姆总是不在家呀。” “知道，”她说，。可是你俩总有一个一喊就到。我不知道每天花多少时间跟在你们后边喊你们。好吧，”她说着从小靠椅上站起来，“我想我们有足够时间做一盘香脆面包吃。你走开，让我把晚饭摆在桌上。” 卡尔珀尼亚弯腰吻了我。我边走边想，她这是怎么了。她想跟我言归于好，对了，是这样。她一直对我太苛刻了。她终于认识了自己的错误，承认有时太暴躁了。她知道自己不对，但又固执，不愿说出来。我这一天尽犯过错，这时感到疲倦了。 晚饭后，阿迪克斯手拿报纸坐下来，然后喊道：“斯各特，准备读报吧?”我简直再也无法忍受，一下冲到前廊上。阿迪克斯跟着我出来了。 “什么事不高兴，斯各特?” 我说我不太舒服，还说要是他没意见的话，我不愿意再上学了。 阿迪克斯在悬椅上坐下来，跷起二郎腿，伸手在表袋里摸了一摸。他说上学是他能想到的唯一办法！说完后他耐心而慈祥地等待我回答。我想进一步强调我的态度：“你从来没有上过学，千得也挺好，所以，我也要留在家里。你可以教我，就象爷爷教你和杰克叔叔那样。” “不行，我不能教你。”阿迪克斯说，“我得挣钱维持生活，另外，如果我把你留在家里，他们会把我关进监狱的……今晚上吃点药，明天上学去。” “我没病，真的。” “我猜你也没有病。那到底是怎么回事?” 我把当天的不幸一点儿一点儿地告诉了他。“她说你教给我的都错了，所以，我们不能再读报了，永远不能了。请您别把我送回去了。” 阿迪克斯站起来，走到前廊的尽头。在那儿看了一会儿紫藤树，又走了回来。 “首先，”他说，“要是你稍为灵活一点，斯各特，你和所有的人都能搞好关系。要了解一个人，就必须设身处地从他的角度去考虑问题，否则，你就不可能真正了解他。。 “是吗?” “除非你设身处地站在别人的立场上。” 阿迪克斯说我今天学了不少东西，卡罗琳小姐也学了不少。比方说，她学会了不要把东西给坎宁安家的人。但是，如果我和沃尔特站在她的立场上，我们就会发现她犯的是一个诚实的错误。我们不应该要求她一天之内把梅科姆的风俗习惯都学会，她不知道时，我们不能责怪她。 “我不会让步的，”我说，“我不知道不能在她面前读书，她却怪我……爸爸，告诉你，我不一定非上学不可！”我突然有了个主意，“伯利斯?尤厄尔，记得吗?他只在第一天去报个到。那位监管逃学的太太认为只要花名册上有他的名字，她就执行了法律。” “你不能那样做，斯各特。”阿迪克斯说，“在特殊情况下，法律可以稍微灵活一点儿。就你这种情况说，法律不容违反。所以，学一定要上！” “他可以不上，我不知道我为什么非上不可。” “那就听着。” 阿迫克斯说尤厄尔家连续三代都是梅科姆的败类。就他所知，他们家没有一个人老老实实干过一天活。他说，等过圣诞节他处理圣诞树时会带我去看看他们住在哪儿，是怎样生活的。他们也是人，但象动物一样生活。“只要他们愿意，随时可以上学，只要他们有半点儿想要接受教育的心思，就可以上学。”阿迪克斯说，“用强制手段要人上学的方法是有的，但是强迫象尤厄尔家这样的人去一个新环境是愚蠢的……” “如果我明天不去上学，你就要强迫我去罗。” “我们把语说到这里，”阿迪克斯冷冰冰地说，“你，斯各特?芬奇小姐属于一般正常的人，必须遵守法律。”他说尤厄尔家族是由尤厄尔家的人组成的一群特殊的人。在某些情况下，正常的人在法律上允许给他们一定的特权，方法很简单，就是对尤厄尔家的人的一些行为视而不见。他们可以不上学，这是他们的特权之一。另一个特权是伯利斯的爸爸，鲍勃-尤厄尔，可以不分季节地打猜，设陷阱。 “阿迪克斯，那可不好。”我说。在梅科姆县，打猎不分季节，根据法律应判轻罪，在一般人跟中，这是可处死刑的重罪。 “是的，这是违法的，”爸爸说，“这当然不好，但是，一个人用救济金买威士忌酒，他的孩子们却饿得哇哇直叫，在这种情况下，我不知道这里有哪个土地所有者会舍不得让那位爸爸打几只他能打到的小猎物给孩子们吃。” “尤厄尔先生不该那么做……’ “当然不应该，可是他恶习难改，你要对他的孩子们发泄你的不满吗?” “不，爸爸。”我喃喃地说，并且最后表示：“可是如果我上学的话，我们不能一起读书了……” “这使你很恼火，是吗?” “是的，爸爸。” 他低头看我时，我看见他脸上出现了那种预示着有个新主意的表情。 “你知道什么叫妥协吗?” “让法律灵活一点儿。” “不足，妥协就是双方都让步后达成的协议。就这么办吧，”他说，“如果你答应上学，每天晚上我们就象以前一样，继续在一起读书。这个协议怎么样?”、“行，爸爸。” “我们这就算说定了，平常那套手续就免了吧。”阿迪克斯看见我准备往手心吐唾沫时这么说。 我打开前面的纱门时阿迪克斯说：“斯各特，顺便说一句，在学校里你最好别提我们达成的侨议。” “为什么不能提?” “我怕我们的活动会受到那些更有学问的权威人士的指责。” 我和杰姆习惯了父亲的遗嘱般的措辞，所以，有不懂的地方我们随时可以打断他的谈话，请他解释。 “什么?” “我从没上过学，”他说，“我觉得如果你告诉卡罗琳小姐我们每天晚上一起读书，她会找我的麻烦，我不愿意她找我的麻烦。” 那天晚上，阿迪克斯一直逗得我们笑个不停。他很严肃地读了一篇专栏故事，说的是一个没什么明白理由就去坐在旗杆上的人。这给杰姆下一个星期六高高地坐在树上的小屋里提供了理由。他从早饭后一直坐到太阳落山。要不是阿迪克斯切断了他的“供给线”的话，可能还要在那儿过夜。我一会儿爬上一会儿爬下，替他跑腿，给他送文学读物，送吃的送喝的。我正要给他送毯子过夜时，阿迪克斯对我说如果我不理他，杰姆就会下来的。阿迪克斯说对了。 |
Chapter 4 The remainder of my schooldays were no more auspicious than the first. Indeed, theywere an endless Project that slowly evolved into a Unit, in which miles of constructionpaper and wax crayon were expended by the State of Alabama in its well-meaning butfruitless efforts to teach me Group Dynamics. What Jem called the Dewey DecimalSystem was school-wide by the end of my first year, so I had no chance to compare itwith other teaching techniques. I could only look around me: Atticus and my uncle, whowent to school at home, knew everything—at least, what one didn’t know the other did. Furthermore, I couldn’t help noticing that my father had served for years in the statelegislature, elected each time without opposition, innocent of the adjustments myteachers thought essential to the development of Good Citizenship. Jem, educated on ahalf-Decimal half-Duncecap basis, seemed to function effectively alone or in a group,but Jem was a poor example: no tutorial system devised by man could have stoppedhim from getting at books. As for me, I knew nothing except what I gathered from Timemagazine and reading everything I could lay hands on at home, but as I inchedsluggishly along the treadmill of the Maycomb County school system, I could not helpreceiving the impression that I was being cheated out of something. Out of what I knewnot, yet I did not believe that twelve years of unrelieved boredom was exactly what thestate had in mind for me. As the year passed, released from school thirty minutes before Jem, who had to stayuntil three o’clock, I ran by the Radley Place as fast as I could, not stopping until Ireached the safety of our front porch. One afternoon as I raced by, something caughtmy eye and caught it in such a way that I took a deep breath, a long look around, andwent back. Two live oaks stood at the edge of the Radley lot; their roots reached out into the side-road and made it bumpy. Something about one of the trees attracted my attention. Some tinfoil was sticking in a knot-hole just above my eye level, winking at me in theafternoon sun. I stood on tiptoe, hastily looked around once more, reached into the hole,and withdrew two pieces of chewing gum minus their outer wrappers. My first impulse was to get it into my mouth as quickly as possible, but I rememberedwhere I was. I ran home, and on our front porch I examined my loot. The gum lookedfresh. I sniffed it and it smelled all right. I licked it and waited for a while. When I did notdie I crammed it into my mouth: Wrigley’s Double-Mint. When Jem came home he asked me where I got such a wad. I told him I found it. “Don’t eat things you find, Scout.” “This wasn’t on the ground, it was in a tree.” Jem growled. “Well it was,” I said. “It was sticking in that tree yonder, the one comin‘ from school.” “Spit it out right now!” I spat it out. The tang was fading, anyway. “I’ve been chewin‘ it all afternoon and I ain’tdead yet, not even sick.” Jem stamped his foot. “Don’t you know you’re not supposed to even touch the treesover there? You’ll get killed if you do!” “You touched the house once!” “That was different! You go gargle—right now, you hear me?” “Ain’t neither, it’ll take the taste outa my mouth.” “You don’t ‘n’ I’ll tell Calpurnia on you!” Rather than risk a tangle with Calpurnia, I did as Jem told me. For some reason, myfirst year of school had wrought a great change in our relationship: Calpurnia’s tyranny,unfairness, and meddling in my business had faded to gentle grumblings of generaldisapproval. On my part, I went to much trouble, sometimes, not to provoke her. Summer was on the way; Jem and I awaited it with impatience. Summer was our bestseason: it was sleeping on the back screened porch in cots, or trying to sleep in thetreehouse; summer was everything good to eat; it was a thousand colors in a parchedlandscape; but most of all, summer was Dill. The authorities released us early the last day of school, and Jem and I walked hometogether. “Reckon old Dill’ll be coming home tomorrow,” I said. “Probably day after,” said Jem. “Mis’sippi turns ‘em loose a day later.” As we came to the live oaks at the Radley Place I raised my finger to point for thehundredth time to the knot-hole where I had found the chewing gum, trying to make Jembelieve I had found it there, and found myself pointing at another piece of tinfoil. “I see it, Scout! I see it-” Jem looked around, reached up, and gingerly pocketed a tiny shiny package. We ranhome, and on the front porch we looked at a small box patchworked with bits of tinfoilcollected from chewing-gum wrappers. It was the kind of box wedding rings came in,purple velvet with a minute catch. Jem flicked open the tiny catch. Inside were twoscrubbed and polished pennies, one on top of the other. Jem examined them. “Indian-heads,” he said. “Nineteen-six and Scout, one of em’s nineteen-hundred. These are real old.” “Nineteen-hundred,” I echoed. “Say-” “Hush a minute, I’m thinkin‘.” “Jem, you reckon that’s somebody’s hidin‘ place?” “Naw, don’t anybody much but us pass by there, unless it’s some grown person’s-” “Grown folks don’t have hidin‘ places. You reckon we ought to keep ’em, Jem?” “I don’t know what we could do, Scout. Who’d we give ‘em back to? I know for a factdon’t anybody go by there—Cecil goes by the back street an’ all the way around by townto get home.” Cecil Jacobs, who lived at the far end of our street next door to the post office, walkeda total of one mile per school day to avoid the Radley Place and old Mrs. HenryLafayette Dubose. Mrs. Dubose lived two doors up the street from us; neighborhoodopinion was unanimous that Mrs. Dubose was the meanest old woman who ever lived. Jem wouldn’t go by her place without Atticus beside him. “What you reckon we oughta do, Jem?” Finders were keepers unless title was proven. Plucking an occasional camellia, gettinga squirt of hot milk from Miss Maudie Atkinson’s cow on a summer day, helpingourselves to someone’s scuppernongs was part of our ethical culture, but money wasdifferent. “Tell you what,” said Jem. “We’ll keep ‘em till school starts, then go around and askeverybody if they’re theirs. They’re some bus child’s, maybe—he was too taken up withgettin’ outa school today an‘ forgot ’em. These are somebody’s, I know that. See howthey’ve been slicked up? They’ve been saved.” “Yeah, but why should somebody wanta put away chewing gum like that? You know itdoesn’t last.” “I don’t know, Scout. But these are important to somebody…” “How’s that, Jem…?” “Well, Indian-heads—well, they come from the Indians. They’re real strong magic, theymake you have good luck. Not like fried chicken when you’re not lookin‘ for it, but thingslike long life ’n‘ good health, ’n‘ passin’ six-weeks tests… these are real valuable tosomebody. I’m gonna put em in my trunk.” Before Jem went to his room, he looked for a long time at the Radley Place. Heseemed to be thinking again. Two days later Dill arrived in a blaze of glory: he had ridden the train by himself fromMeridian to Maycomb Junction (a courtesy title—Maycomb Junction was in AbbottCounty) where he had been met by Miss Rachel in Maycomb’s one taxi; he had eatendinner in the diner, he had seen two twins hitched together get off the train in Bay St. Louis and stuck to his story regardless of threats. He had discarded the abominableblue shorts that were buttoned to his shirts and wore real short pants with a belt; he wassomewhat heavier, no taller, and said he had seen his father. Dill’s father was taller thanours, he had a black beard (pointed), and was president of the L & N Railroad. “I helped the engineer for a while,” said Dill, yawning. “In a pig’s ear you did, Dill. Hush,” said Jem. “What’ll we play today?” “Tom and Sam and Dick,” said Dill. “Let’s go in the front yard.” Dill wanted the RoverBoys because there were three respectable parts. He was clearly tired of being ourcharacter man. “I’m tired of those,” I said. I was tired of playing Tom Rover, who suddenly lost hismemory in the middle of a picture show and was out of the script until the end, when hewas found in Alaska. “Make us up one, Jem,” I said. “I’m tired of makin‘ ’em up.” Our first days of freedom, and we were tired. I wondered what the summer wouldbring. We had strolled to the front yard, where Dill stood looking down the street at thedreary face of the Radley Place. “I—smell—death,” he said. “I do, I mean it,” he said,when I told him to shut up. “You mean when somebody’s dyin‘ you can smell it?” “No, I mean I can smell somebody an‘ tell if they’re gonna die. An old lady taught mehow.” Dill leaned over and sniffed me. “Jean—Louise—Finch, you are going to die inthree days.” “Dill if you don’t hush I’ll knock you bowlegged. I mean it, now-” “Yawl hush,” growled Jem, “you act like you believe in Hot Steams.” “You act like you don’t,” I said. “What’s a Hot Steam?” asked Dill. “Haven’t you ever walked along a lonesome road at night and passed by a hot place?” Jem asked Dill. “A Hot Steam’s somebody who can’t get to heaven, just wallows aroundon lonesome roads an‘ if you walk through him, when you die you’ll be one too, an’ you’llgo around at night suckin‘ people’s breath-” “How can you keep from passing through one?” “You can’t,” said Jem. “Sometimes they stretch all the way across the road, but if youhafta go through one you say, ‘Angel-bright, life-in-death; get off the road, don’t suck mybreath.’ That keeps ‘em from wrapping around you-” “Don’t you believe a word he says, Dill,” I said. “Calpurnia says that’s nigger-talk.” Jem scowled darkly at me, but said, “Well, are we gonna play anything or not?” “Let’s roll in the tire,” I suggested. Jem sighed. “You know I’m too big.” “You c’n push.” I ran to the back yard and pulled an old car tire from under the house. I slapped it upto the front yard. “I’m first,” I said. Dill said he ought to be first, he just got here. Jem arbitrated, awarded me first push with an extra time for Dill, and I folded myselfinside the tire. Until it happened I did not realize that Jem was offended by my contradicting him onHot Steams, and that he was patiently awaiting an opportunity to reward me. He did, bypushing the tire down the sidewalk with all the force in his body. Ground, sky andhouses melted into a mad palette, my ears throbbed, I was suffocating. I could not putout my hands to stop, they were wedged between my chest and knees. I could onlyhope that Jem would outrun the tire and me, or that I would be stopped by a bump in thesidewalk. I heard him behind me, chasing and shouting. The tire bumped on gravel, skeetered across the road, crashed into a barrier andpopped me like a cork onto pavement. Dizzy and nauseated, I lay on the cement andshook my head still, pounded my ears to silence, and heard Jem’s voice: “Scout, getaway from there, come on!” I raised my head and stared at the Radley Place steps in front of me. I froze. “Come on, Scout, don’t just lie there!” Jem was screaming. “Get up, can’tcha?” I got to my feet, trembling as I thawed. “Get the tire!” Jem hollered. “Bring it with you! Ain’t you got any sense at all?” When I was able to navigate, I ran back to them as fast as my shaking knees wouldcarry me. “Why didn’t you bring it?” Jem yelled. “Why don’t you get it?” I screamed. Jem was silent. “Go on, it ain’t far inside the gate. Why, you even touched the house once,remember?” Jem looked at me furiously, could not decline, ran down the sidewalk, treaded water atthe gate, then dashed in and retrieved the tire. “See there?” Jem was scowling triumphantly. “Nothin‘ to it. I swear, Scout, sometimesyou act so much like a girl it’s mortifyin’.” There was more to it than he knew, but I decided not to tell him. Calpurnia appeared in the front door and yelled, “Lemonade time! You all get in outathat hot sun ‘fore you fry alive!” Lemonade in the middle of the morning was asummertime ritual. Calpurnia set a pitcher and three glasses on the porch, then wentabout her business. Being out of Jem’s good graces did not worry me especially. Lemonade would restore his good humor. Jem gulped down his second glassful and slapped his chest. “I know what we aregoing to play,” he announced. “Something new, something different.” “What?” asked Dill. “Boo Radley.” Jem’s head at times was transparent: he had thought that up to make me understandhe wasn’t afraid of Radleys in any shape or form, to contrast his own fearless heroismwith my cowardice. “Boo Radley? How?” asked Dill. Jem said, “Scout, you can be Mrs. Radley-” “I declare if I will. I don’t think-” “‘Smatter?” said Dill. “Still scared?” “He can get out at night when we’re all asleep…” I said. Jem hissed. “Scout, how’s he gonna know what we’re doin‘? Besides, I don’t thinkhe’s still there. He died years ago and they stuffed him up the chimney.” Dill said, “Jem, you and me can play and Scout can watch if she’s scared.” I was fairly sure Boo Radley was inside that house, but I couldn’t prove it, and felt itbest to keep my mouth shut or I would be accused of believing in Hot Steams,phenomena I was immune to in the daytime. Jem parceled out our roles: I was Mrs. Radley, and all I had to do was come out andsweep the porch. Dill was old Mr. Radley: he walked up and down the sidewalk andcoughed when Jem spoke to him. Jem, naturally, was Boo: he went under the frontsteps and shrieked and howled from time to time. As the summer progressed, so did our game. We polished and perfected it, addeddialogue and plot until we had manufactured a small play upon which we rang changesevery day. Dill was a villain’s villain: he could get into any character part assigned him, andappear tall if height was part of the devilry required. He was as good as his worstperformance; his worst performance was Gothic. I reluctantly played assorted ladieswho entered the script. I never thought it as much fun as Tarzan, and I played thatsummer with more than vague anxiety despite Jem’s assurances that Boo Radley wasdead and nothing would get me, with him and Calpurnia there in the daytime and Atticushome at night. Jem was a born hero. It was a melancholy little drama, woven from bits and scraps of gossip andneighborhood legend: Mrs. Radley had been beautiful until she married Mr. Radley andlost all her money. She also lost most of her teeth, her hair, and her right forefinger(Dill’s contribution. Boo bit it off one night when he couldn’t find any cats and squirrels toeat.); she sat in the livingroom and cried most of the time, while Boo slowly whittledaway all the furniture in the house. The three of us were the boys who got into trouble; I was the probate judge, for achange; Dill led Jem away and crammed him beneath the steps, poking him with thebrushbroom. Jem would reappear as needed in the shapes of the sheriff, assortedtownsfolk, and Miss Stephanie Crawford, who had more to say about the Radleys thananybody in Maycomb. When it was time to play Boo’s big scene, Jem would sneak into the house, steal thescissors from the sewing-machine drawer when Calpurnia’s back was turned, then sit inthe swing and cut up newspapers. Dill would walk by, cough at Jem, and Jem wouldfake a plunge into Dill’s thigh. From where I stood it looked real. When Mr. Nathan Radley passed us on his daily trip to town, we would stand still andsilent until he was out of sight, then wonder what he would do to us if he suspected. Ouractivities halted when any of the neighbors appeared, and once I saw Miss MaudieAtkinson staring across the street at us, her hedge clippers poised in midair. One day we were so busily playing Chapter XXV, Book II of One Man’s Family, we didnot see Atticus standing on the sidewalk looking at us, slapping a rolled magazineagainst his knee. The sun said twelve noon. “What are you all playing?” he asked. “Nothing,” said Jem. Jem’s evasion told me our game was a secret, so I kept quiet. “What are you doing with those scissors, then? Why are you tearing up thatnewspaper? If it’s today’s I’ll tan you.” “Nothing.” “Nothing what?” said Atticus. “Nothing, sir.” “Give me those scissors,” Atticus said. “They’re no things to play with. Does this byany chance have anything to do with the Radleys?” “No sir,” said Jem, reddening. “I hope it doesn’t,” he said shortly, and went inside the house. “Je-m…” “Shut up! He’s gone in the livingroom, he can hear us in there.” Safely in the yard, Dill asked Jem if we could play any more. “I don’t know. Atticus didn’t say we couldn’t-” “Jem,” I said, “I think Atticus knows it anyway.” “No he don’t. If he did he’d say he did.” I was not so sure, but Jem told me I was being a girl, that girls always imagined things,that’s why other people hated them so, and if I started behaving like one I could just gooff and find some to play with. “All right, you just keep it up then,” I said. “You’ll find out.” Atticus’s arrival was the second reason I wanted to quit the game. The first reasonhappened the day I rolled into the Radley front yard. Through all the head-shaking,quelling of nausea and Jem-yelling, I had heard another sound, so low I could not haveheard it from the sidewalk. Someone inside the house was laughing. 后来在学校的日子跟第一天一样不顺心。的确，那是个不知何年何月才能完成的教学计划，这计划渐渐发展成为一个教学单元。在这个单元里，亚拉巴马州好心好意地花费了几英里长的手工纸和彩色蜡笔，想教我在小组中做手工，但毫无结果。杰姆说的杜威十进法在我上学的第一年年底已在全校铺开。所以，我没有机会把它与其他教学方法相比较，只能观察周围的人：阿迪克斯和我叔叔在家接受教育，他们什么都知遭——起码，这个不知道的那个知道。并且我还注意到，爸爸在州立法机构工作多年，每次当选，无人反对。我们老师认为，当一个标准公民所必不可少的那些条条框框他可不知道。杰姆既受益于新方法，也领教过惩罚制，看起来，无论单独学习或在小组中，他学得都比较好但是杰姆这个例子不太好：没有谁发明的教学方法能够使他不读书。至于我，除了从《时代》杂志上以及在家里自己看书学来的知识外一无所知。随着梅科姆县单调的教学方法的进展，我得到的唯一印象是我的某种东西被骗走了，到底是什么东西我不清楚，反正我不相信州政府为我打算的就是让我在这儿受十二年折磨。 时间在慢慢流逝。每天我比杰姆早三十分钟放学，他不到三点不能离校。我尽快地跑过拉德利家，一口气跑到我家前廊的安全地带才停下来。一天下午，我跑过时突然看见什么东西，这东西强烈地吸引了我：我深深地吸了一口气，朝周围仔细张望了一番，又返回去。 拉德利家的地界边缘上有两棵常青橡树，树根延伸列人行道上，使路而拱起来。其中一棵树上有个什么东西吸引了我的注意力。 在比我的眼睛略高的树节孔里粘着一些锡箔纸，在阳光下闪闪发光。我踮起脚，匆匆朝周围扫视了一遍，把手伸进小洞，意外地掏出了两块不带包装纸的口香糖。 我的第一个念头是立刻把它放进嘴里，可是又想起了这是什么地方。我跑回家，在前廊上仔细查看了我的这件战利品。这糖看上去挺新鲜。我闻了闻，气味也正常；用舌头舔一下，等了一会儿，我并没有死，于是把它塞进嘴里。 杰姆回来后问我从哪儿弄来的口香糖，我告诉他是捡到的。 “斯各特，别吃捡来的东西。” “不是在地上，是在树上拾的。” 杰姆咆哮起来。 “是真的，”我说，“是粘在那边的树上的，从学校过来的那棵。” “快吐出来!’ 我吐了，糖味没有了。我说：“我嚼了一个下午，没死也没病。” 杰姆跺着脚，说；“你不知道你不该碰那棵树吗；碰了，你就会没命。” 你还摸过那栋房子呢。” “那是另外一回事!快去漱口，听见没有?” “不，会把糖味漱掉的。” “不去我就告诉卡尔珀尼亚。” 因为不愿意与卡尔珀尼亚发生纠纷，我照杰姆的要求做了。因为某种原因，我在学校的第一年使我和她的关系有了很大变化；卡尔珀尼亚原来专横，不公正，喜欢干涉我的事。现在也常常对我不满意，但顶多是温和地抱怨几甸。我有时候也尽力不去惹她。 夏天就要来了；我和杰姆急不可待。夏天是我们最好的季节：夏天意味着睡在装着纱窗的后廊上的帆布床上，或者睡在树上的小屋里；夏天有很多好吃的；夏天，在阳光照耀下风景秀丽，色彩斑斓。但最主要的是，夏天意味着我们会跟遗尔一起玩。 学期的最后一天，学校很早就放学了。杰姆和我一起回家。“我想，迪尔这家伙明天就会来。”我说。 “可能耍到后天，”杰姆说，“密西西比州放假要晚一天。” 来到托德利家的橡树前，我伸手指着我找到口香糖的树节洞——我指过近百次了——想让杰姆相信我是在那儿找到的，突然发现自己在指着另一张锡箔纸。 “我看见了，斯各特，我看见了……’ 杰姆朝周围看了看，伸手小心翼翼地把一个发光的小纸包放进口袋。我们跑回家，在前廊上，我们仔细检查了得到的这个小盒子。这是用包口香糖的锡蒲纸一点点拼凑起来的，样子象装结婚戒指的小盒，用紫红色的丝绒装饰着，带有一个精巧的小搭扣。杰姆轻轻打开搭扣，里面是两枚擦得光亮的面值一便士的硬币，一上一下叠放着。杰姆反复看了看。 “印第安人头像，”他说，“1906，这个是1900。真的是很久以前的旧币。” “1900，”我重复了一句，“那么说……” “先别做声，我正在思考。” “杰姆，你认为那是谁藏东西的地方吗?” “不，除了我们，别人一般不从那儿经过，隐非是大人的……” “大人不会有藏东西的地方。你看我们应该把钱留下吗，杰姆?” “我不知道该怎么办，斯各特。我们退给谁呢?我敢肯定别人不从那儿经过——塞西尔走后街，从镇上绕个圈回家。” 塞西尔?雅各布住在我们这条街的尽头，他家的隔壁是邮政局。为了避开拉德利家和亨利?拉斐特?杜博斯太太，他每天上学多走一英里路。杜博斯太太和我们同住一条街，中间只隔两家。邻居们都认为她是最坏的女人。没有阿迪克斯陪着，杰姆从不愿意从她家门前经过。 “杰姆，我们怎么办?” 找不到失主，谁捡酌就归谁所有。偶尔摘一朵山茶花；夏天，从莫迪-阿特金森的奶牛身上挤点奶；有时，偷吃点别人的葡萄，这些做法都不超出本地的常理，可是钱却不同。 “我有个主意，”杰姆说，“我们先拿着，开学后再去打听看是谁的。可能是某个乘公共汽车上学的同学的——可能是急着回家忘记拿了。我知道这钱肯定总是某个人的。看这钱表面多光滑，肯定是谁积攒下的。’ “是的，可是为什么有的人把口香糖这样放起来呢?你知道，糖会化的。’ “我不知遭，斯各特。这些钱对某个人是重要的……” “为什么?” “看，印第安人头像——是印第安人传下来的。这钱有真正的魔力，会给人带来好运气的。这跟你意外地找到炸鸡不一样，而是象长寿、健康一样，氖通过了六周一次的考试一样……对某个人来说，确实有真正的价值。我要把钱放在箱子里。” 杰姆在回到自己房间以前，对着拉德利家看了好长时间，好象又在思考着什么。 两天后，迪尔神气十足地来了；他一个人乘火车从梅里迪安来到梅科姆车站(这是一种礼节上的称呼——梅科姆车站在艾博特县)，在那儿，雷切尔小姐雇了梅科姆县唯一的出租汽车去接他；他在餐车吃的午饭，在圣?路易斯湾看见一对连体双胞胎下火车。他不顾我们的威胁，坚持要讲他的故事。他已丢掉了那讨厌的用扣子扣到衬衣上的蓝短裤，换了一条真正的短裤，还系上了皮带。他好象胖了点，但和以前一样矮。他还说看见了他爸爸。迪尔的爸爸比我们的爸爸高，有黑胡子(尖尖的)。他是莱思铁路公司的经理。 “我帮着火车司机干了一会儿。”迪尔打着呵欠说。 “鬼晓得你帮着干了，迪尔!别说了。”杰姆说，“我们今天演什么戏?” “演托姆、山姆，迪克。”迪尔说，“我们到前院去吧。”迪尔要演《罗弗家的男孩》是因为里面有三个了不起的人物。很明显，他不愿意总演同一类角色。 “我讨厌这些角色，”我说。我不愿演托姆?罗弗，他在一次演电影时突然失去了记忆力，从剧本上消失了。直到最后才在阿拉斯加发现了他。 “你给我们编一个吧，杰姆。”我说。 “我不愿意编了。” 别刚放假几天，我们这也讨厌，那也不愿，我不知道整个夏天怎么过。． 我们来到前院，迪尔远望着拉德利家灰暗的房子。“我……闻……到一股死人昧。”他说。我叫他别瞎说，他回答说，“真的闻到了。” “你是说人快死的时候你能闻出来?” “不!我是说可以闻一闻一个人，然后说他是不是快要死了。这是一个老太婆教给我的。”迪尔靠过来闻了闻我。“琼?路易斯，你三天后会死。” “迪尔，再不住嘴我就打瘸你的腿。我说话算话。” “住嘴!”杰姆起来，“看样子你相信‘热气’。” “看样子你不信罗。”我说。 “什么是‘热气’?”迪尔问。 “晚上你走在无人的路上，经过一个热地方，这你经历过吗?”杰姆问迪尔。“热气’就是不能上天堂的人，他只能在路上徘徊，要是你从他身边走过，死后你电跟他一样。晚上你会四处游荡去吸别人的气……” “有办法能避免从他身边走过吗?” “你避免不了，”杰姆说，“有时候路上到处都是。但是，如果你不得不从边上走过，你就说，‘光明的守护神，我活得比死还难过；别挡我的路，别吸我的气。’这样，他就不会缠你了。” “别昕他胡扯，迪尔。”我说，“卡尔珀尼亚说那是黑人们说的。” 杰姆恶狠狠地瞪了我一眼，然后说，“喂，到底玩点什么不?” “我们滚轮胎吧。”我提议说。 杰姆叹了口气说：“你知道稳个子太大了。” “你可以推嘛。” 我跑到后院，从楼板和地面之间的空隙处拖出个旧轮胎，然后滚到前院。“我先坐进去。”我说。 迪尔说应该让他先坐，他才玩。 最后由杰姆决定，让我先坐，让迪尔多坐一次。我蜷缩身子钻进车胎的内圈。 直到后来我才想起，因为我反驳了杰姆说的“热气”，触怒了他。他正耐心地等待机会“奖赏”我呢。他真的这样千了。他使出全身力气在人行道上猛滚轮胎。地面、天空、房屋，还有人行道交融在一起，变成了一个五颜六色的调色板。我的耳朵嗡嗡地响，胸口闷得透不过气，两手夹在胸脯和双膝之间，无法伸出米阻止滚动。我只能希望杰姆跑过轮胎，或者轮眙撞到人行道上的什么东西后停下来。我听见他在后边跑着，叫着。 轮胎撞在砾石上，滑到路的另一侧，碰上障碍物，象扔软木采似的把我抛到路面上。我躺在水泥地上，头晕，日眩，恶心。我摇摇头，拍拍耳朵，直到平静下来才昕到杰姆的喊声：“斯各特，离开那儿，快点!” 我抬起头看到眼前就是拉德利家的台阶时，身上的血都凝固了。 “快点，斯各特，别躺在那儿！”杰姆叫喊善，“能起来吗?” 身上的血流动了，我战战兢兢地爬起来。 “拿超轮胎，”杰姆叫着，“把轮胎带过来！你还有知觉没有?” 能走了，我双膝颤抖，竭尽全力朝他们一飞速跑去。 “为什么不把轮胎带过来?”杰姆尖叫着。 “你怎么不去拿?”我高声地说。 杰姆不说话了。 “去，轮胎在进大门不远的地方，怕什么，你还摸过一次房子呢，不记得啦?” 杰姆愤怒地望着我，但他没法拒绝，便从人行道上跑过去，踏着大门旁的积水走过去，然后冲进大门拿回轮胎。 “看见了吗?”杰姆得意地说，“什么事也没有。筏发誓，有时候你的行动女孩子气太重，简直叫人受不了。” 这中间还有别的事他不知道呢，可我决定不告诉他。 卡尔珀尼亚出现在前门日，她喊道：“回来喝柠檬水!都给我进来，不然你们会活活晒死的!”我们在夏天的上午常喝柠檬水。 卡尔珀尼亚在前廊上摆上一个罐子、三只玻璃杯，然后千她的事去了。杰姆不满意我，这我并不担心，柠檬水会恢复他的好性子的。 杰姆喝下第二杯后捐拍胸脯。“我们有东西演了，”他宣布说，“演点新东西，演点别的。” “什么?”迪尔问。 。布-拉德利。” 杰姆的想法有时是容易被人识破的：他的这个主意是想让我知道什么样的拉德利他都不怕，这样他就好让他那蘑不畏惧的英雄气概和我的怯懦形成鲜明的对比。 “布?拉德利?怎么演?”迪尔问。 杰姆说，“斯各特，你可以演拉德利太太……” “哎呀呀．我决不干。我不认为……” “有啥关系?”迪尔问，“还害怕?” “等我们晚上睡觉时他会出来的……”我说。 杰姆嘘了一声。“斯各特，他怎么知道我们干什么?再说，我不相信他还在那儿。几年前他就死了，他们把他塞进了烟囱。” 迪尔说：。杰姆，咱俩演。斯各特害怕就让她看好了。” 我敢肯定布?拉德利在房子里边，可我无法证实。还是少说为佳，要不，他会说我也相信“热气”了。对于那种现象，我在白天是不理会的。 杰姆把角色分派如下：我是拉德剥太太，我要做的就是出来打扫走廊；迪尔是老拉德利先生，他在人行道上走来走去，杰姆打招呼时他只咳嗽一声；杰姆自己当然是布?拉德利，他被关在前面的台阶下，不时嚎哭尖叫。 随着夏天一天天过去，我们的节日一天天进步。我们反复修改加工，增补对话和情节，直到后来变成了一个短剧。在这个基础上，我们每天再加上些新东西。 迪尔真是演反面角色的好料：他演什么象什么，如果对某个反面角色的要求是很高的身材的话，他演出来就好象他很高大似的。他演得最差的也是好戏。哥特式小说他演得最差。我很勉强地扮演这个剧里出现的各种女角色。我认为这出戏没有《人猿泰山》有意思。整整一个夏天，我一边演一边总是心神不安。尽管杰姆保证布?拉德利已死，说我不会出事，因为白天有他和卡尔珀尼亚，晚上有阿迪克斯在家。 杰姆真是天生的英雄。 这是一出由街谈巷议和左邻右舍的传说一点点拼凑而成的有悲伤情调的短剧：拉德利太太原来很漂亮，后来与拉德利先生结了婚，失去了财产。她还失去了很多牙齿，头发也少了，右手的食指也没有了(这是迪尔的独创：，有天晚上，布找不到猫和松鼠吃，就把她的手指咬掉了>。她大部分时间坐在客厅里哭个不停，而布却慢慢地把房间里的家具一点点地削坏了。‘ 我们三个都同时扮演那些尽惹麻烦的青年人；为了换换口味，我扮演了遗嘱法官；迪尔把杰姆领回去，把他塞到台阶底下，用扫帚打他几下。按照需要，杰姆以市政官员或者镇上各种人的身分出现。有时他装扮成斯蒂芬尼?克劳福德小姐。在梅科姆县，对拉德利家的情况她比谁都知道得多。 要演布的那个大场面时．杰姆偷偷溜进房间，趁卡尔珀尼亚转身时从缝纫机的抽屉里偷出剪刀，然后坐在悬椅上剪报纸。接着迪尔从他身边走过，朝他咳嗽一声，杰姆假装用剪刀朝迪尔的大腿猛刺。从我站的地方看去，他们演得象真的一样。 内森?拉德利先生每天从我们身边走过到镇上去时，我们都站着不动，也不做声，直到看不见他。然后我们就会猜想，要是他猜到我们在干啥，他会对我们怎么样。只要看见哪个邻居，我们的活动立刻停止。有一次，我看见莫迪?阿特金森小姐在街对面盯着我们，手里拿着的树篱剪刀停在半空中。 一天，我们击紧张地演着《一个人的家庭》第二卷第二十五章时，没注意阿迪克斯正站在人行道上望着我们，手拿一份卷着的杂志拍打着膝盖。头顶上的太阳告诉我们时问已是正午。 “你们在玩什么?”他问。 “没什么。”杰姆说。 杰姆故意掩饰，说明我们的游戏是个秘密，所以我在一边没傲声。 “那么你们用剪刀干什么?为什么撕报纸?如果是今天的报纸，我就要打人了。” “没什么。” “没什么?”阿迪克斯问。 “没什么，爸爸。” “把剪刀给我，”阿迪克斯说，“这不是好玩的。你们的游戏是不是碰巧和拉德利家有关?” “没有，爸爸。”杰姆红着脸说。 “我希望没有。”他说，然后进屋去了。 “杰姆……” “别说话，他在客厅，能听见我们说话。” 来到院子里，说话安全了。迪尔问杰姆能不能再演。 “我不知道，阿迪克斯没说我们不能……” “杰姆，”我说，“我想阿迪克斯无论如何知道了。” “不，他不知道。要是知道他会讲的。” 我没那么肯定，可杰姆说我这样太女孩子气了。女孩子就是想得太多，难怪很多人恨她们这一点。还说要是我还象女孩子那样的话，最好走开，找别人玩去。 “好吧，那你就继续演吧。”我说，“你会明白的。” 阿迪克斯回来了是我不想再演这个戏的第二个原因。第一个原囚是那天我滚进拉德利家前院。尽管头晕耳鸣，在杰姆的叫喊声中我昕到了另一个声音，声音那么低，我知道不是从人行道上传来的，是房予里面有人在笑。 |
Chapter 5 My nagging got the better of Jem eventually, as I knew it would, and to my relief weslowed down the game for a while. He still maintained, however, that Atticus hadn’t saidwe couldn’t, therefore we could; and if Atticus ever said we couldn’t, Jem had thought ofa way around it: he would simply change the names of the characters and then wecouldn’t be accused of playing anything. Dill was in hearty agreement with this plan of action. Dill was becoming something of atrial anyway, following Jem about. He had asked me earlier in the summer to marry him,then he promptly forgot about it. He staked me out, marked as his property, said I wasthe only girl he would ever love, then he neglected me. I beat him up twice but it did nogood, he only grew closer to Jem. They spent days together in the treehouse plottingand planning, calling me only when they needed a third party. But I kept aloof from theirmore foolhardy schemes for a while, and on pain of being called a girl, I spent most ofthe remaining twilights that summer sitting with Miss Maudie Atkinson on her frontporch. Jem and I had always enjoyed the free run of Miss Maudie’s yard if we kept out of herazaleas, but our contact with her was not clearly defined. Until Jem and Dill excludedme from their plans, she was only another lady in the neighborhood, but a relativelybenign presence. Our tacit treaty with Miss Maudie was that we could play on her lawn, eat herscuppernongs if we didn’t jump on the arbor, and explore her vast back lot, terms sogenerous we seldom spoke to her, so careful were we to preserve the delicate balanceof our relationship, but Jem and Dill drove me closer to her with their behavior. Miss Maudie hated her house: time spent indoors was time wasted. She was a widow,a chameleon lady who worked in her flower beds in an old straw hat and men’scoveralls, but after her five o’clock bath she would appear on the porch and reign overthe street in magisterial beauty. She loved everything that grew in God’s earth, even the weeds. With one exception. Ifshe found a blade of nut grass in her yard it was like the Second Battle of the Marne: she swooped down upon it with a tin tub and subjected it to blasts from beneath with apoisonous substance she said was so powerful it’d kill us all if we didn’t stand out of theway. “Why can’t you just pull it up?” I asked, after witnessing a prolonged campaign againsta blade not three inches high. “Pull it up, child, pull it up?” She picked up the limp sprout and squeezed her thumb upits tiny stalk. Microscopic grains oozed out. “Why, one sprig of nut grass can ruin awhole yard. Look here. When it comes fall this dries up and the wind blows it all overMaycomb County!” Miss Maudie’s face likened such an occurrence unto an OldTestament pestilence. Her speech was crisp for a Maycomb County inhabitant. She called us by all ournames, and when she grinned she revealed two minute gold prongs clipped to hereyeteeth. When I admired them and hoped I would have some eventually, she said,“Look here.” With a click of her tongue she thrust out her bridgework, a gesture ofcordiality that cemented our friendship. Miss Maudie’s benevolence extended to Jem and Dill, whenever they paused in theirpursuits: we reaped the benefits of a talent Miss Maudie had hitherto kept hidden fromus. She made the best cakes in the neighborhood. When she was admitted into ourconfidence, every time she baked she made a big cake and three little ones, and shewould call across the street: “Jem Finch, Scout Finch, Charles Baker Harris, comehere!” Our promptness was always rewarded. In summertime, twilights are long and peaceful. Often as not, Miss Maudie and I wouldsit silently on her porch, watching the sky go from yellow to pink as the sun went down,watching flights of martins sweep low over the neighborhood and disappear behind theschoolhouse rooftops. “Miss Maudie,” I said one evening, “do you think Boo Radley’s still alive?” “His name’s Arthur and he’s alive,” she said. She was rocking slowly in her big oakchair. “Do you smell my mimosa? It’s like angels’ breath this evening.” “Yessum. How do you know?” “Know what, child?” “That B—Mr. Arthur’s still alive?” “What a morbid question. But I suppose it’s a morbid subject. I know he’s alive, JeanLouise, because I haven’t seen him carried out yet.” “Maybe he died and they stuffed him up the chimney.” “Where did you get such a notion?” “That’s what Jem said he thought they did.” “S-ss-ss. He gets more like Jack Finch every day.” Miss Maudie had known Uncle Jack Finch, Atticus’s brother, since they were children. Nearly the same age, they had grown up together at Finch’s Landing. Miss Maudie wasthe daughter of a neighboring landowner, Dr. Frank Buford. Dr. Buford’s profession wasmedicine and his obsession was anything that grew in the ground, so he stayed poor. Uncle Jack Finch confined his passion for digging to his window boxes in Nashville andstayed rich. We saw Uncle Jack every Christmas, and every Christmas he yelled acrossthe street for Miss Maudie to come marry him. Miss Maudie would yell back, “Call a littlelouder, Jack Finch, and they’ll hear you at the post office, I haven’t heard you yet!” Jemand I thought this a strange way to ask for a lady’s hand in marriage, but then UncleJack was rather strange. He said he was trying to get Miss Maudie’s goat, that he hadbeen trying unsuccessfully for forty years, that he was the last person in the world MissMaudie would think about marrying but the first person she thought about teasing, andthe best defense to her was spirited offense, all of which we understood clearly. “Arthur Radley just stays in the house, that’s all,” said Miss Maudie. “Wouldn’t you stayin the house if you didn’t want to come out?” “Yessum, but I’d wanta come out. Why doesn’t he?” Miss Maudie’s eyes narrowed. “You know that story as well as I do.” “I never heard why, though. Nobody ever told me why.” Miss Maudie settled her bridgework. “You know old Mr. Radley was a foot-washingBaptist-” “That’s what you are, ain’t it?” “My shell’s not that hard, child. I’m just a Baptist.” “Don’t you all believe in foot-washing?” “We do. At home in the bathtub.” “But we can’t have communion with you all-” Apparently deciding that it was easier to define primitive baptistry than closedcommunion, Miss Maudie said: “Foot-washers believe anything that’s pleasure is a sin. Did you know some of ‘em came out of the woods one Saturday and passed by thisplace and told me me and my flowers were going to hell?” “Your flowers, too?” “Yes ma’am. They’d burn right with me. They thought I spent too much time in God’soutdoors and not enough time inside the house reading the Bible.” My confidence in pulpit Gospel lessened at the vision of Miss Maudie stewing foreverin various Protestant hells. True enough, she had an acid tongue in her head, and shedid not go about the neighborhood doing good, as did Miss Stephanie Crawford. Butwhile no one with a grain of sense trusted Miss Stephanie, Jem and I had considerablefaith in Miss Maudie. She had never told on us, had never played cat-and-mouse withus, she was not at all interested in our private lives. She was our friend. How soreasonable a creature could live in peril of everlasting torment was incomprehensible. “That ain’t right, Miss Maudie. You’re the best lady I know.” Miss Maudie grinned. “Thank you ma’am. Thing is, foot-washers think women are asin by definition. They take the Bible literally, you know.” “Is that why Mr. Arthur stays in the house, to keep away from women?” “I’ve no idea.” “It doesn’t make sense to me. Looks like if Mr. Arthur was hankerin‘ after heaven he’dcome out on the porch at least. Atticus says God’s loving folks like you love yourself-” Miss Maudie stopped rocking, and her voice hardened. “You are too young tounderstand it,” she said, “but sometimes the Bible in the hand of one man is worse thana whiskey bottle in the hand of—oh, of your father.” I was shocked. “Atticus doesn’t drink whiskey,” I said. “He never drunk a drop in hislife—nome, yes he did. He said he drank some one time and didn’t like it.” Miss Maudie laughed. “Wasn’t talking about your father,” she said. “What I meant was,if Atticus Finch drank until he was drunk he wouldn’t be as hard as some men are attheir best. There are just some kind of men who—who’re so busy worrying about thenext world they’ve never learned to live in this one, and you can look down the streetand see the results.” “Do you think they’re true, all those things they say about B—Mr. Arthur?” “What things?” I told her. “That is three-fourths colored folks and one-fourth Stephanie Crawford,” said MissMaudie grimly. “Stephanie Crawford even told me once she woke up in the middle of thenight and found him looking in the window at her. I said what did you do, Stephanie,move over in the bed and make room for him? That shut her up a while.” I was sure it did. Miss Maudie’s voice was enough to shut anybody up. “No, child,” she said, “that is a sad house. I remember Arthur Radley when he was aboy. He always spoke nicely to me, no matter what folks said he did. Spoke as nicely ashe knew how.” “You reckon he’s crazy?” Miss Maudie shook her head. “If he’s not he should be by now. The things that happento people we never really know. What happens in houses behind closed doors, whatsecrets-” “Atticus don’t ever do anything to Jem and me in the house that he don’t do in theyard,” I said, feeling it my duty to defend my parent. “Gracious child, I was raveling a thread, wasn’t even thinking about your father, butnow that I am I’ll say this: Atticus Finch is the same in his house as he is on the publicstreets. How’d you like some fresh poundcake to take home?” I liked it very much. Next morning when I awakened I found Jem and Dill in the back yard deep inconversation. When I joined them, as usual they said go away. “Will not. This yard’s as much mine as it is yours, Jem Finch. I got just as much right toplay in it as you have.” Dill and Jem emerged from a brief huddle: “If you stay you’ve got to do what we tellyou,” Dill warned. “We-ll,” I said, “who’s so high and mighty all of a sudden?” “If you don’t say you’ll do what we tell you, we ain’t gonna tell you anything,” Dillcontinued. “You act like you grew ten inches in the night! All right, what is it?” Jem said placidly, “We are going to give a note to Boo Radley.” “Just how?” I was trying to fight down the automatic terror rising in me. It was all rightfor Miss Maudie to talk—she was old and snug on her porch. It was different for us. Jem was merely going to put the note on the end of a fishing pole and stick it throughthe shutters. If anyone came along, Dill would ring the bell. Dill raised his right hand. In it was my mother’s silver dinner-bell. “I’m goin‘ around to the side of the house,” said Jem. “We looked yesterday fromacross the street, and there’s a shutter loose. Think maybe I can make it stick on thewindow sill, at least.” “Jem-” “Now you’re in it and you can’t get out of it, you’ll just stay in it, Miss Priss!” “Okay, okay, but I don’t wanta watch. Jem, somebody was-” “Yes you will, you’ll watch the back end of the lot and Dill’s gonna watch the front ofthe house an‘ up the street, an’ if anybody comes he’ll ring the bell. That clear?” “All right then. What’d you write him?” Dill said, “We’re askin‘ him real politely to come out sometimes, and tell us what hedoes in there—we said we wouldn’t hurt him and we’d buy him an ice cream.” “You all’ve gone crazy, he’ll kill us!” Dill said, “It’s my idea. I figure if he’d come out and sit a spell with us he might feelbetter.” “How do you know he don’t feel good?” “Well how’d you feel if you’d been shut up for a hundred years with nothin‘ but cats toeat? I bet he’s got a beard down to here-” “Like your daddy’s?” “He ain’t got a beard, he-” Dill stopped, as if trying to remember. “Uh huh, caughtcha,” I said. “You said ‘fore you were off the train good your daddyhad a black beard-” “If it’s all the same to you he shaved it off last summer! Yeah, an‘ I’ve got the letter toprove it—he sent me two dollars, too!” “Keep on—I reckon he even sent you a mounted police uniform! That’n never showedup, did it? You just keep on tellin‘ ’em, son-” Dill Harris could tell the biggest ones I ever heard. Among other things, he had beenup in a mail plane seventeen times, he had been to Nova Scotia, he had seen anelephant, and his granddaddy was Brigadier General Joe Wheeler and left him hissword. “You all hush,” said Jem. He scuttled beneath the house and came out with a yellowbamboo pole. “Reckon this is long enough to reach from the sidewalk?” “Anybody who’s brave enough to go up and touch the house hadn’t oughta use afishin‘ pole,” I said. “Why don’t you just knock the front door down?” “This—is—different,” said Jem, “how many times do I have to tell you that?” Dill took a piece of paper from his pocket and gave it to Jem. The three of us walkedcautiously toward the old house. Dill remained at the light-pole on the front corner of thelot, and Jem and I edged down the sidewalk parallel to the side of the house. I walkedbeyond Jem and stood where I could see around the curve. “All clear,” I said. “Not a soul in sight.” Jem looked up the sidewalk to Dill, who nodded. Jem attached the note to the end of the fishing pole, let the pole out across the yardand pushed it toward the window he had selected. The pole lacked several inches ofbeing long enough, and Jem leaned over as far as he could. I watched him makingjabbing motions for so long, I abandoned my post and went to him. “Can’t get it off the pole,” he muttered, “or if I got it off I can’t make it stay. G’on backdown the street, Scout.” I returned and gazed around the curve at the empty road. Occasionally I looked backat Jem, who was patiently trying to place the note on the window sill. It would flutter tothe ground and Jem would jab it up, until I thought if Boo Radley ever received it hewouldn’t be able to read it. I was looking down the street when the dinner-bell rang. Shoulder up, I reeled around to face Boo Radley and his bloody fangs; instead, I sawDill ringing the bell with all his might in Atticus’s face. Jem looked so awful I didn’t have the heart to tell him I told him so. He trudged along,dragging the pole behind him on the sidewalk. Atticus said, “Stop ringing that bell.” Dill grabbed the clapper; in the silence that followed, I wished he’d start ringing itagain. Atticus pushed his hat to the back of his head and put his hands on his hips. “Jem,” he said, “what were you doing?” “Nothin‘, sir.” “I don’t want any of that. Tell me.” “I was—we were just tryin‘ to give somethin’ to Mr. Radley.” “What were you trying to give him?” “Just a letter.” “Let me see it.” Jem held out a filthy piece of paper. Atticus took it and tried to read it. “Why do youwant Mr. Radley to come out?” Dill said, “We thought he might enjoy us…” and dried up when Atticus looked at him. “Son,” he said to Jem, “I’m going to tell you something and tell you one time: stoptormenting that man. That goes for the other two of you.” What Mr. Radley did was his own business. If he wanted to come out, he would. If hewanted to stay inside his own house he had the right to stay inside free from theattentions of inquisitive children, which was a mild term for the likes of us. How wouldwe like it if Atticus barged in on us without knocking, when we were in our rooms atnight? We were, in effect, doing the same thing to Mr. Radley. What Mr. Radley didmight seem peculiar to us, but it did not seem peculiar to him. Furthermore, had it neveroccurred to us that the civil way to communicate with another being was by the frontdoor instead of a side window? Lastly, we were to stay away from that house until wewere invited there, we were not to play an asinine game he had seen us playing ormake fun of anybody on this street or in this town-“We weren’t makin‘ fun of him, we weren’t laughin’ at him,” said Jem, “we were just-” “So that was what you were doing, wasn’t it?” “Makin‘ fun of him?” “No,” said Atticus, “putting his life’s history on display for the edification of theneighborhood.” Jem seemed to swell a little. “I didn’t say we were doin‘ that, I didn’t say it!” Atticus grinned dryly. “You just told me,” he said. “You stop this nonsense right now,every one of you.” Jem gaped at him. “You want to be a lawyer, don’t you?” Our father’s mouth was suspiciously firm, as ifhe were trying to hold it in line. Jem decided there was no point in quibbling, and was silent. When Atticus went insidethe house to retrieve a file he had forgotten to take to work that morning, Jem finallyrealized that he had been done in by the oldest lawyer’s trick on record. He waited arespectful distance from the front steps, watched Atticus leave the house and walktoward town. When Atticus was out of earshot Jem yelled after him: “I thought I wantedto be a lawyer but I ain’t so sure now!” 我唠叨不停，杰姆终于让步了。我就知道他会让步的。我们放慢了节目的速度，我这才松了口气。但是他坚持认为阿迪克斯并没说我们不能演，因此我们可以演。即使阿迪克斯说了我们不能演，杰姆已经想好了应付的办法t只需把人物的姓名改一下，别人就没什么可责备我们的了。 迪尔衷心拥护这个行动计射。他变得越来越讨厌了，老跟在杰姆屁股后边转。夏天开始时他曾经提出要和我结婚，说完就忘了。他把我当作他的财产，说他永远只爱我一个人，可叉把我抛下不管。我狠狠打过他两次，没用，他反而跟杰姆跟得更紧了。他们整天呆在树上的小屋里挖空心思，制定计划，只是在需要第三者时才把我叫上去。好一段时间我对他们敬而远之，不参加他们的那些越来越愚蠢的计戈!I。为了免遭太女孩子气的指责，那个夏天剩下的傍晚我干脆和莫迪?阿特金森小姐一起，天天坐在她的前廊上。 只要我们不动莫迪小姐的杜鹃花，杰姆和我就可以在她的院子里任意玩耍。但是我们和她的接触并没有明确规定下来。在杰姆和迪怨没有把我从他们的计戈!！中排除之前，她不过是邻近的一位小姐，仅仅是比较平易近人罢了。 我们和她心照不宣的协定是，我们可以在她的草坪上玩；可以吃她的葡萄，但不能跳到葡萄架上去；可以在她屋后的空旷地上自由活动。这些条件慷慨得很，我们很少跟她讲什么话，小心翼翼地维护我们关系巾的微妙的平衡。可是杰姆和迪尔的所作所为迫使我与莫迪小姐更接近了。 莫迪小姐恨死了她的屋子：呆在屋甩就是浪费时问。她是个寡妇，象变色龙一般，白天戴顶旧草帽，穿件男式工作服在花园里忙碌。五点钟洗过澡后她出现在前廊上，却打扮得花枝招展，街上没有哪个女人比得上她。 她热爱生长在大地上的每一样东西，连草她都喜欢。只有一种草例外。要是她在院子里看见一片莎草叶，接着而来的便是象马恩河地区的第二次会战：她会操起喷雾器朝小革扑去，把农药喷在草的根部。她说那农药有剧毒，如果我们不站远一点，我们都会被毒死。 “您为什么不把草拔出来?”目睹她对这高不足三英寸的小草大动干戈，发起长时间的进攻后，我问道。 “拔出来，孩子，拔出来?”她掐下小草萎软了的嫩芽，用大拇指使劲推挤那小小的茎杆，很小很小的草籽掉了出来。“为什么?一蔸莎草会毁掉整个园子。你看，一到秋天这些东西干了，风一吹就会传遍整个梅科姆县!”从莫迪小姐的面部表情来看，这就象《圣经?旧约》里描写的瘟疫一样。 在梅科姆镇上，她说话算是干脆的。她直呼我们的名字，笑时嘴里锈出两个夹在上颚犬牙上的金牙。当我表示赞赏并且希望我也能有几颗金牙时她说：“看这里。”她舌头一动，吐出假牙，这个友好的动作加深了我们的友谊。 杰姆和迪尔的活动停下来时，莫迪小姐对他们也很好。她有一种过去没让我们知道过的本领，给了我们很大好处。在附近的邻居中，她的蛋糕做得最好。和毪们交了朋友后，她每次做蛋糕都做一个大的，三个小的，然后隔着街喊：“杰姆?芬奇，斯各特?芬奇，查尔斯-贝克?哈里斯，过来I’我们从没有自跑过。 夏天，傍晚的时间又长又宁静。莫迪小姐和我常常默默地坐在她的前廊上，看着太阳落山时天空由黄色变成粉红色，看着燕子在附近低飞，最后消失在学校屋顶的后面。 “莫迪小姐，”有天晚上我问道，“你说布?拉德利还活着吗?” “他叫亚瑟，还活着。”她一边说一边坐在很大的橡木椅子里慢慢地摇着。“你闻到我的含羞草的香味吗?今天晚上的气味真好，象天使的呼吸一样。” “闻到了，你怎么知道?” “知道什么，孩子?” “布……亚瑟先生还活着?” “多么可怕的问题。我认为这是个令人毛骨悚然的问题。琼-路易斯，我知道他还活着是因为我没看见谁抬他出去。” “可能是他死了，他们把他塞进了烟囱。” “你哪来这么个想法?” “杰姆是这样认为的。” “咝——咝——咝，他越来越象杰克?芬奇了，” 莫迪小姐从小就认识阿迪克斯的弟弟杰克?芬奇。因为年龄相似，他们在芬奇庄园上一起长大。莫迪小姐是附近一个土地所有者弗兰克?布福德医生的女儿。布福德医生的职业是行医，可他对地里长着的东西入迷，所以一生清贫。杰克?芬奇叔叔的爱好只是在窗槛花箱方面，在纳什维尔一直挺富裕。每逢圣诞节我们便能见到他。每次，他隔着街大喊，要莫迪小姐嫁给他。莫迪小姐也会喊着回答：“再大声一点，杰克?芬奇，让邮局的人也能听见，我还没听到你喊什么呢!”杰姆和我认为这是向女子求婚的一种奇怪方式。杰克叔叔本来就是个古怪的人。他说他只不过想惹她发火罢了。但是他试了四十年都没成功。他还说莫迪小姐最不愿和他这种入结婚，但最愿拿他开心。对奥迪小姐来说，最好的防御办法就是勇猛的攻击。这些我们心里都明白。 “亚瑟?拉德利只是呆在家里，没别的什么。”莫迪小姐说，“如果你不愿意出来，你不也会呆在家里吗?” “是的，小姐，可我愿意出来，他为什么不愿意出来?” 莫迪小姐的眼睛眯成了一条缝。“关于他的事你和我一样清楚。” “可我从来没听说过是为什么，没有准告诉过我。” 莫迪小姐装好了假牙说：“你知道老拉德利先生是个在礼拜前行洗脚礼的浸礼会教徒……” “你也是的，是吗?” “我没那样保守，我只不过是个浸礼会教徒。” “你们不都相信在做礼拜前该举行洗脚礼吗?” “我们是洗脚的，只是在家里的澡盆里。” “可是我们不能跟你们一起屹圣餐……” 很明显，莫迪小姐觉得给原始的浸礼会教堂的浸礼池下定义此给只限于一部分人能参加的圣餐下定义容易一些，予是她说。“行洗脚礼的浸礼会教徒认为享乐就是罪恶。有一个星期六，他们中的一些人从林子里走出来经过这里时，告诉我说，我和我的花草都要下地狱，你听说过吗?” “你的花草也要下地狱吗?” “是的，姑娘。花草将和我一同被烧毁。他们认为我在外边的时间太长，在室内读《圣经》的时间太少。” 一想到莫迪小姐在基督教新教徒的各种地狱中会要受煎熬的情景，我们对布道坛上所宣传的福音就越来越不相信了。莫迪小姐嘴尖舌利，这是真的，她不象斯蒂芬尼?克劳福德小姐那样常为左邻右舍做些好事，可是，稍有头脑韵人都信不过斯蒂芬尼小姐，而我和杰姆对莫迪小姐却相当信任。她从不告我们的状；从不象猫追老鼠似的追赶我们；从不过问我们的活动；她是我们的朋友。这样通情达理的人竟要遭受永久的折磨，实在不可理解。 “太不合理了，莫迪小姐。您是我认识的最好的妇女。” 莫迪小姐露齿一笑。“谢谢你，姑娘。问题是那些礼拜前行洗脚礼的浸礼会教徒认为女人本身就是罪恶。他们按照字面上的意义理解《圣经》，你知道吗?” “亚瑟就是为这个呆在家里，为了躲开女人吗?” “我不清楚。” “我实在想不通。如果亚瑟想进天堂的话，他起码会走到前廊上。阿迪克斯说上帝爱世人，就象你爱你自己一样。” 莫迪小姐停止了摇椅子，她的声音变得坚定了：“你太小了，还不懂。但是，有时候，某个人手中的《圣经》比……噢，比你父亲手中的……威士忌洒瓶还要糟糕。 我大吃一惊。“阿迪克斯不喝威士忌酒，”我谎，“他一辈子一口酒都没喝过……不，他喝过，他说他喝过一一次，但他并不喜欢。。 莫迪小姐大笑起来。“我并没谈论你爸爸，”她说，“我的意思是即使阿迪克斯喝得酩酊火醉，也不会象那些最清醒的人那样凶暴。总有那么些人，他们时刻为来生的事情烦恼，却从没有学习过怎样在这个世界上生活。你可以朝街上看一看，看看结果。” “你认为邪些事是真的吗?那些关于布……亚瑟先生的事?” “什么事?” 枕告诉了她。 “那些事有四分之三是黑人说的，四分之一是斯蒂芬尼?克劳福德说的。”莫迪小姐严肃地说，“斯蒂芬尼-克劳福德甚至告诉我说，有天晚上她半夜醒来，看见亚瑟透过窗子看着她。我问她，‘你怎么办，斯蒂芬尼，你在床上移到另一边给他让地方吗?’这句话问得她一时哑口无言。” 我相信这一点。莫迪小姐的声音是足以使别人不再多说什么的。 “不是那样的，孩子。”她说，“那是座不幸的房子。我还记得孩提时代的亚瑟?拉德利。不管别人说他千了什么，他总是彬彬有礼地跟我说话。他说话确实很有礼貌。” “你认为他疯了吗?” 莫迪小姐摇摇头。“即使原来不疯现在也疯了。有些人的事情税们永远不会真正知道的。在关闭着的大门后面的房间星所发生曲事情，那些秘密……” “阿迪克斯在院予壁不做的事，住房间里也不对杰姆和我做。”我觉得为爸爸辩解是我的责任。 “多懂事的孩子。我刚才在解一个线头，并没想到你爸爸，现在既然想到了，我要说阿迪克斯在家和在公共场所一。个样。你愿意带点新做的磅饼回去吗?” 我最爱吃这种饼子。 第二天早晨醒来时，我发现杰姆和迪尔在后院谈得正起劲儿。象平时一样，等我走近时他们叫我走开。 “就不，这个院子有你的份也有我的份，杰姆?芬奇。种你一样，我也有权利在这儿玩。” 迪尔和杰姆很快地咬了一下耳朵，然后警告我：“要是不愿走开就得按我们的要求办。” “哎呀，”我说，“这是谁一下于变得这么趾高气扬的?” “要是你不保证按我们的要求办，什么都不告诉你。”迪尔说。 “看架势你好象一晚上长了十英寸似的!好吧，千什么?” 杰姆心平气和地说：“我们要送给布?拉德利一个纸条。” “怎么给?”我极力想抑制心中不由自主的恐惧。虽然莫迪小姐说布?拉德利没什么可怕，可她年纪大，又是舒适地躺在前廊上，而我们可不一样。 杰姆的办法是把纸条放在钓鱼竿的末端，然后把它插进百叶窗。要是有人走过，迪尔就摇铃。 迪尔举起右手。这是我妈妈使用过的银质餐铃。 “我要绕到房子侧面，”杰姆说，“昨天，我隔若街道看见百叶窗上有一块叶板松了，我想我们起码可以把纸条贴在窗台上。” “杰姆……” “既然你卷入了这件事，就别想退出了。你只有坚持到底，不受人欢迎的小姐。” “可以，当然可以，可我不想当望风的。杰姆，有人……” “你必须望风。你要望着空地的后面，迪尔望着房子的前面和街上，有人来他就摇铃，明白了吗?” “好吧。你写了些什么给他?” 迪尔说：“我们很有礼貌地请他在什么时候出来一下，告诉我们他在那儿千什么……我们说不会伤害他，还要给他买冰淇淋。” “你们俩都疯了，他会杀了我们的。” 迪尔说；“是我的主意。我想要是他出来和我们坐一会儿，他会觉得好一些的。” “你怎么知道他现在觉得不好?” “好吧，要是你被关了一百年，除了吃猫，没别的可吃，你会怎么样?我想他的胡子已经长到这儿了……” “跟你爸爸的一样?” “我爸爸没胡子，他……”迪尔不说下去了，好象在回忆。 “哈哈，露馅了，”我说，“你说你下火车前看见了你爸爸有黑胡子……” “如果你觉得无所谓的话，他是去年夏天刮了胡子的。对了，我有信为证……他还寄给我两块钱呢。” “说下去……我看他还送了你骑警服吧!我们从来没见过，对吧?伙计，你老是光凭嘴讲……”， 占， 迪尔?哈里斯尽挑我没听说过的大事情吹牛。比如，他坐过十七次邮政飞机，到过诺瓦斯科夏，看过大象，他爷爷是陆军准将乔?惠勒，还把他的剑留给他。 “都住嘴!”杰姆说，然后很快钻进楼板和地面之问的空隙处拿出一根黄竹竿。“你们看从人行道上伸过去够长了吗?” “淮要是去过并且还摸过那栋房子，就不该用钓竿，”我说，“你为什么不走过去敲敲前边的门呢?” “这个不同，”杰姆说，“我要告诉你多少次才成?” 迪尔从口袋里掏出张纸递给杰姆。我们三人小心翼翼地朝房子走去。迪尔在前面拐弯处的电杆旁停下来，杰姆和我慢慢地顺着与房子侧面平行的人行道走下去。我从杰姆身边再往前走，站在我能看见的有人拐弯的地方。 “平安无事，’我说，“没有一个人。” 杰姆朝人行道上的迪尔看了看，迪尔点点头。 杰姆把纸条牯在钓竿头上，把钓竿伸出去，穿过院子，然后朝选好的窗子推去。钓竿短了几英寸，不够长，杰姆的身予使劲向前倾。我看着他用钓竿向前捅了很久，我就离开了自己的岗位来到他身边。 “纸条还在竿子上，”他小声说，“即使脱开竿子也不能弄到窗子上去。回到街上去，斯各特，” 我回到原地，在拐弯的地方目不转睛地看着空无一人的大道。偶尔回过头看看杰姆，他正耐心地企图把纸条弄到窗台上。纸条不时飘到地上，杰姆又一次次把它捅上去。我突然想起即使布?拉德利先生收到了纸条他也看不清上面的字了。我正往街上望着，突然铃响了。 我耸起肩膀转过身去，我以为会看见布?拉德利和他那沾满血污的獠牙。可定睛一看，却肴到迪尔在阿迪克斯面前拼命摇铃。 杰姆吓得面无人色，我不忍心对他说我早就叫他别这么干。他拖着钓鱼竿一步一步地挪了回来。 阿迪克斯说：“别摇铃了。” 迪尔抓住铃舌。在随即而来的沉默中，我真希望他把铃再摇起来。阿迪克斯把帽子向后推了推，双手叉着腰，“杰姆，你们在干什么?” “什么都没干，爸爸。” “我不希望你这样回答。告诉我。” “我……我们想送点东西给拉德刹先生。” “你们想给他什么?” “就不过一封信。” “给我看看。”’ 杰姆递过一张弄脏了的纸。阿迪克斯接过去看起来。“你们为什么要拉德利先生出来?” 迪尔说：“我们想他会愿意和我们一起玩的……”阿迪克斯看他一眼，他不讲了。 “孩子，”他对杰姆说，“你听我说，而且只说这一次：不要去打扰那个人。这话你们另外两个也要记住。” 拉德利先生千什么是他自已的事。他想出来就会出来的。要是他愿意呆在这个屋子里，他就有这个权利。那些好打听别人事情的孩子(这是指我们这些小孩的委婉的说法)不要管他。如果我们晚上在自己房间里，阿迪克斯不敲门就闯进来，我们会怎么想。事实上，我们对拉德利先生的做法和这是一个道理。在我们看来拉德利先生的做法的确看起来反常，但在他自己看来却不是反常的。再说，难道我们没有想过，要和别人打交道，有礼貌的方法是通过前门，而不是通过房子侧面的窗子!最后，他还说除非被邀请，否则我们不要到这儿来。我们不要再玩他看见我们玩过的这种愚蠢的游戏了，不要嘲笑这条街或是这个镇上的任何人了…… “我们并没有跟他开玩笑，我们没有嘲笑他。”杰姆说，“我们只不过……” “你们是那么干的，不是吗?” “跟他开玩笑?” “不，”阿迪克斯说，“你们把他的经历排成戏来启发街坊。” 杰姆好象有些激动。“我也没说过我们是那样做的，我没说过。” 阿迪克斯冷冷一笑。“你刚才就告诉了我。”他说，“你们马上停止这些乱七八糟的东西，你们几个都听着。” 杰姆目瞪口呆地望着他。 “你想当个律师，是吗?”阿迪克斯装得很严肃的样子。 杰姆觉得跟他磨嘴皮子没意思，不再做声了。爸爸走进屋子取出上午上班忘记带去的卷宗时，杰姆终于明白他上了有史以来最大的律师的当。他等在离前面台阶很远的地方望着阿迪克斯离开家里朝镇上走去。等阿迪克斯走远了，听不见他的声音时，杰姆朝他喊起来；“我以前想过要当律师，现在可不一定了!” |
Chapter 6 “Yes,” said our father, when Jem asked him if we could go over and sit by MissRachel’s fishpool with Dill, as this was his last night in Maycomb. “Tell him so long forme, and we’ll see him next summer.” We leaped over the low wall that separated Miss Rachel’s yard from our driveway. Jem whistled bob-white and Dill answered in the darkness. “Not a breath blowing,” said Jem. “Looka yonder.” He pointed to the east. A gigantic moon was rising behind Miss Maudie’s pecan trees. “That makes it seem hotter,” he said. “Cross in it tonight?” asked Dill, not looking up. He was constructing a cigarette fromnewspaper and string. “No, just the lady. Don’t light that thing, Dill, you’ll stink up this whole end of town.” There was a lady in the moon in Maycomb. She sat at a dresser combing her hair. “We’re gonna miss you, boy,” I said. “Reckon we better watch for Mr. Avery?” Mr. Avery boarded across the street from Mrs. Henry Lafayette Dubose’s house. Besides making change in the collection plate every Sunday, Mr. Avery sat on the porchevery night until nine o’clock and sneezed. One evening we were privileged to witness aperformance by him which seemed to have been his positively last, for he never did itagain so long as we watched. Jem and I were leaving Miss Rachel’s front steps onenight when Dill stopped us: “Golly, looka yonder.” He pointed across the street. At firstwe saw nothing but a kudzu-covered front porch, but a closer inspection revealed an arcof water descending from the leaves and splashing in the yellow circle of the street light,some ten feet from source to earth, it seemed to us. Jem said Mr. Avery misfigured, Dillsaid he must drink a gallon a day, and the ensuing contest to determine relativedistances and respective prowess only made me feel left out again, as I was untalentedin this area. Dill stretched, yawned, and said altogether too casually. “I know what, let’s go for awalk.” He sounded fishy to me. Nobody in Maycomb just went for a walk. “Where to, Dill?” Dill jerked his head in a southerly direction. Jem said, “Okay.” When I protested, he said sweetly, “You don’t have to come along,Angel May.” “You don’t have to go. Remember-” Jem was not one to dwell on past defeats: it seemed the only message he got fromAtticus was insight into the art of cross examination. “Scout, we ain’t gonna do anything,we’re just goin‘ to the street light and back.” We strolled silently down the sidewalk, listening to porch swings creaking with theweight of the neighborhood, listening to the soft night-murmurs of the grown people onour street. Occasionally we heard Miss Stephanie Crawford laugh. “Well?” said Dill. “Okay,” said Jem. “Why don’t you go on home, Scout?” “What are you gonna do?” Dill and Jem were simply going to peep in the window with the loose shutter to see ifthey could get a look at Boo Radley, and if I didn’t want to go with them I could gostraight home and keep my fat flopping mouth shut, that was all. “But what in the sam holy hill did you wait till tonight?” Because nobody could see them at night, because Atticus would be so deep in a bookhe wouldn’t hear the Kingdom coming, because if Boo Radley killed them they’d missschool instead of vacation, and because it was easier to see inside a dark house in thedark than in the daytime, did I understand? “Jem, please-” “Scout, I’m tellin‘ you for the last time, shut your trap or go home—I declare to the Lordyou’re gettin’ more like a girl every day!” With that, I had no option but to join them. We thought it was better to go under thehigh wire fence at the rear of the Radley lot, we stood less chance of being seen. Thefence enclosed a large garden and a narrow wooden outhouse. Jem held up the bottom wire and motioned Dill under it. I followed, and held up thewire for Jem. It was a tight squeeze for him. “Don’t make a sound,” he whispered. “Don’tget in a row of collards whatever you do, they’ll wake the dead.” With this thought in mind, I made perhaps one step per minute. I moved faster when Isaw Jem far ahead beckoning in the moonlight. We came to the gate that divided thegarden from the back yard. Jem touched it. The gate squeaked. “Spit on it,” whispered Dill. “You’ve got us in a box, Jem,” I muttered. “We can’t get out of here so easy.” “Sh-h. Spit on it, Scout.” We spat ourselves dry, and Jem opened the gate slowly, lifting it aside and resting iton the fence. We were in the back yard. The back of the Radley house was less inviting than the front: a ramshackle porch ranthe width of the house; there were two doors and two dark windows between the doors. Instead of a column, a rough two-by-four supported one end of the roof. An old Franklinstove sat in a corner of the porch; above it a hat-rack mirror caught the moon and shoneeerily. “Ar-r,” said Jem softly, lifting his foot. “‘Smatter?” “Chickens,” he breathed. That we would be obliged to dodge the unseen from all directions was confirmed whenDill ahead of us spelled G-o-d in a whisper. We crept to the side of the house, around tothe window with the hanging shutter. The sill was several inches taller than Jem. “Give you a hand up,” he muttered to Dill. “Wait, though.” Jem grabbed his left wristand my right wrist, I grabbed my left wrist and Jem’s right wrist, we crouched, and Dillsat on our saddle. We raised him and he caught the window sill. “Hurry,” Jem whispered, “we can’t last much longer.” Dill punched my shoulder, and we lowered him to the ground. “What’d you see?” “Nothing. Curtains. There’s a little teeny light way off somewhere, though.” “Let’s get away from here,” breathed Jem. “Let’s go ‘round in back again. Sh-h,” hewarned me, as I was about to protest. “Let’s try the back window.” “Dill, no,” I said. Dill stopped and let Jem go ahead. When Jem put his foot on the bottom step, thestep squeaked. He stood still, then tried his weight by degrees. The step was silent. Jemskipped two steps, put his foot on the porch, heaved himself to it, and teetered a longmoment. He regained his balance and dropped to his knees. He crawled to the window,raised his head and looked in. Then I saw the shadow. It was the shadow of a man with a hat on. At first I thought itwas a tree, but there was no wind blowing, and tree-trunks never walked. The backporch was bathed in moonlight, and the shadow, crisp as toast, moved across the porchtoward Jem. Dill saw it next. He put his hands to his face. When it crossed Jem, Jem saw it. He put his arms over his head and went rigid. The shadow stopped about a foot beyond Jem. Its arm came out from its side,dropped, and was still. Then it turned and moved back across Jem, walked along theporch and off the side of the house, returning as it had come. Jem leaped off the porch and galloped toward us. He flung open the gate, danced Dilland me through, and shooed us between two rows of swishing collards. Halfwaythrough the collards I tripped; as I tripped the roar of a shotgun shattered theneighborhood. Dill and Jem dived beside me. Jem’s breath came in sobs: “Fence by theschoolyard!—hurry, Scout!” Jem held the bottom wire; Dill and I rolled through and were halfway to the shelter ofthe schoolyard’s solitary oak when we sensed that Jem was not with us. We ran backand found him struggling in the fence, kicking his pants off to get loose. He ran to theoak tree in his shorts. Safely behind it, we gave way to numbness, but Jem’s mind was racing: “We gotta gethome, they’ll miss us.” We ran across the schoolyard, crawled under the fence to Deer’s Pasture behind ourhouse, climbed our back fence and were at the back steps before Jem would let uspause to rest. Respiration normal, the three of us strolled as casually as we could to the front yard. We looked down the street and saw a circle of neighbors at the Radley front gate. “We better go down there,” said Jem. “They’ll think it’s funny if we don’t show up.” Mr. Nathan Radley was standing inside his gate, a shotgun broken across his arm. Atticus was standing beside Miss Maudie and Miss Stephanie Crawford. Miss Racheland Mr. Avery were near by. None of them saw us come up. We eased in beside Miss Maudie, who looked around. “Where were you all, didn’t youhear the commotion?” “What happened?” asked Jem. “Mr. Radley shot at a Negro in his collard patch.” “Oh. Did he hit him?” “No,” said Miss Stephanie. “Shot in the air. Scared him pale, though. Says if anybodysees a white nigger around, that’s the one. Says he’s got the other barrel waitin‘ for thenext sound he hears in that patch, an’ next time he won’t aim high, be it dog, nigger,or—Jem Finch!” “Ma’am?” asked Jem. Atticus spoke. “Where’re your pants, son?” “Pants, sir?” “Pants.” It was no use. In his shorts before God and everybody. I sighed. “Ah—Mr. Finch?” In the glare from the streetlight, I could see Dill hatching one: his eyes widened, his fatcherub face grew rounder. “What is it, Dill?” asked Atticus. “Ah—I won ‘em from him,” he said vaguely. “Won them? How?” Dill’s hand sought the back of his head. He brought it forward and across his forehead. “We were playin‘ strip poker up yonder by the fishpool,” he said. Jem and I relaxed. The neighbors seemed satisfied: they all stiffened. But what wasstrip poker? We had no chance to find out: Miss Rachel went off like the town fire siren: “Do-o-oJee-sus, Dill Harris! Gamblin‘ by my fishpool? I’ll strip-poker you, sir!” Atticus saved Dill from immediate dismemberment. “Just a minute, Miss Rachel,” hesaid. “I’ve never heard of ‘em doing that before. Were you all playing cards?” Jem fielded Dill’s fly with his eyes shut: “No sir, just with matches.” I admired my brother. Matches were dangerous, but cards were fatal. “Jem, Scout,” said Atticus, “I don’t want to hear of poker in any form again. Go by Dill’sand get your pants, Jem. Settle it yourselves.” “Don’t worry, Dill,” said Jem, as we trotted up the sidewalk, “she ain’t gonna get you. He’ll talk her out of it. That was fast thinkin‘, son. Listen… you hear?” We stopped, and heard Atticus’s voice:“…not serious… they all go through it, MissRachel…” Dill was comforted, but Jem and I weren’t. There was the problem of Jem showing upsome pants in the morning. “‘d give you some of mine,” said Dill, as we came to Miss Rachel’s steps. Jem said hecouldn’t get in them, but thanks anyway. We said good-bye, and Dill went inside thehouse. He evidently remembered he was engaged to me, for he ran back out and kissedme swiftly in front of Jem. “Yawl write, hear?” he bawled after us. Had Jem’s pants been safely on him, we would not have slept much anyway. Everynight-sound I heard from my cot on the back porch was magnified three-fold; everyscratch of feet on gravel was Boo Radley seeking revenge, every passing Negrolaughing in the night was Boo Radley loose and after us; insects splashing against thescreen were Boo Radley’s insane fingers picking the wire to pieces; the chinaberry treeswere malignant, hovering, alive. I lingered between sleep and wakefulness until I heardJem murmur. “Sleep, Little Three-Eyes?” “Are you crazy?” “Sh-h. Atticus’s light’s out.” In the waning moonlight I saw Jem swing his feet to the floor. “I’m goin‘ after ’em,” he said. I sat upright. “You can’t. I won’t let you.” He was struggling into his shirt. “I’ve got to.” “You do an‘ I’ll wake up Atticus.” “You do and I’ll kill you.” I pulled him down beside me on the cot. I tried to reason with him. “Mr. Nathan’sgonna find ‘em in the morning, Jem. He knows you lost ’em. When he shows ‘em toAtticus it’ll be pretty bad, that’s all there is to it. Go’n back to bed.” “That’s what I know,” said Jem. “That’s why I’m goin‘ after ’em.” I began to feel sick. Going back to that place by himself—I remembered MissStephanie: Mr. Nathan had the other barrel waiting for the next sound he heard, be itnigger, dog… Jem knew that better than I. I was desperate: “Look, it ain’t worth it, Jem. A lickin‘ hurts but it doesn’t last. You’ll getyour head shot off, Jem. Please…” He blew out his breath patiently. “I—it’s like this, Scout,” he muttered. “Atticus ain’tever whipped me since I can remember. I wanta keep it that way.” This was a thought. It seemed that Atticus threatened us every other day. “You meanhe’s never caught you at anything.” “Maybe so, but—I just wanta keep it that way, Scout. We shouldn’a done that tonight,Scout.” It was then, I suppose, that Jem and I first began to part company. Sometimes I didnot understand him, but my periods of bewilderment were short-lived. This was beyondme. “Please,” I pleaded, “can’tcha just think about it for a minute—by yourself on thatplace—” “Shut up!” “It’s not like he’d never speak to you again or somethin‘… I’m gonna wake him up,Jem, I swear I am—” Jem grabbed my pajama collar and wrenched it tight. “Then I’m goin‘ with you—” Ichoked. “No you ain’t, you’ll just make noise.” It was no use. I unlatched the back door and held it while he crept down the steps. Itmust have been two o’clock. The moon was setting and the lattice-work shadows werefading into fuzzy nothingness. Jem’s white shirt-tail dipped and bobbed like a smallghost dancing away to escape the coming morning. A faint breeze stirred and cooledthe sweat running down my sides. He went the back way, through Deer’s Pasture, across the schoolyard and around tothe fence, I thought—at least that was the way he was headed. It would take longer, soit was not time to worry yet. I waited until it was time to worry and listened for Mr. Radley’s shotgun. Then I thought I heard the back fence squeak. It was wishful thinking. Then I heard Atticus cough. I held my breath. Sometimes when we made a midnightpilgrimage to the bathroom we would find him reading. He said he often woke up duringthe night, checked on us, and read himself back to sleep. I waited for his light to go on,straining my eyes to see it flood the hall. It stayed off, and I breathed again. The night-crawlers had retired, but ripe chinaberries drummed on the roof when the wind stirred,and the darkness was desolate with the barking of distant dogs. There he was, returning to me. His white shirt bobbed over the back fence and slowlygrew larger. He came up the back steps, latched the door behind him, and sat on hiscot. Wordlessly, he held up his pants. He lay down, and for a while I heard his cottrembling. Soon he was still. I did not hear him stir again. “可以。”这是爸爸对杰姆的请求的答复。杰姆先问爸爸我们可不可以去雷切尔小姐的鱼塘边上和迪尔坐一会儿，因为这是迪尔在梅科姆县的最后一个晚上。“代我向他告别，明年夏天我们会再见面的。” 一道矮墙把雷切尔小姐的院子和我们家的车道隔开，我们从墙上翻过去。杰姆学鹑鸟吹了声口哨，迪尔在黑暗中回了暗号。 “没一丝风。”杰姆说，“看那边。” 他朝东边指去。一轮明月正从莫迪小姐家的核桃树后冉冉上升。 “月亮一照，显得更热。”他说。 “今晚上月亮里有十字架吗?”迪尔问，头也没抬。他正在用报纸和绳子卷支烟。 “没有，只有那位太太。别点燃那玩意儿，迪尔，那难闻的烟味会把镇子这一头都熏臭的。” 在梅科姆镇，人们说月亮里有位太太，正坐在梳妆台前梳头发。 “我们会想你的。”我说，“我想我们最好注意艾弗里先生。” 艾弗里先生住在街对面，和亨利?拉斐特?杜博斯太太隔街相望。艾弗里先生每个星期日去教堂捐献时，总要在捐款盘里换些零钱。除了干这个外，他每天晚上坐在走廊上，一直坐到九点钟，然后打起喷嚏来。一天晚上，我们十分荣幸地看到了他的表演。那次表演看上去是最后一次，因为被我们注意以后，他再没表演过。那天晚上，杰姆和我正要离开雷切尔小姐前面的台阶，逋尔突然拦住我们：“天啊，看那边。”他指着街对面。开始，除了葡萄树遮盖的前廊外我们什么都没看见。可仔细一看，我们发现一道水弧从树叶上落下来，在街灯的昏暗光线中发出劈劈啪啪的溅水声。看上去从水源到地面之间有十英尺高。杰姆说艾弗里先生没尿准，迫尔说他一定是一天喝了一加仑。接着，他俩开始比赛，看谁尿得远，尿得猛，这使我感到又被抛下不管了，因为我在这个领域没有天赋。 迪尔伸伸懒腰，打个呵欠，然后随便说了句：“我有个好主意，咱们去散散步吧。” 他的话使我感到可疑。梅科姆镇上没有人光是为了散步而出去的。 “去哪儿，迪尔?” 他的脑袋往南边一歪。 杰姆说：“好吧。”我说不愿意去时，他很亲切地说：“你不一定要跟着去，小天使。” “你不一定要去。记得……” 杰姆不爱谈论过去的失败：看来，他从阿迪克斯身上学来的唯一东西是盘问别人的艺术。“斯各特，我们不去干什么，只走到路灯那儿就回来。” 我们默默地在人行道上走着，听着人们在走廊的悬椅上压出的嘎吱嘎吱的声响，听着住在街道两旁的成年人夜间轻轻的谈话声。偶尔可以听到斯蒂芬尼?克劳福德小姐的笑声。 “怎么样?”迪尔问。 “好吧。”杰姆说，“你怎么不回家，斯各特?” “你们要干什么?” 原来，迪尔和杰姆要从那块松了一块叶板的百叶窗那儿向室内窥视，试试能不能看见拉德利，要是我不愿意跟他们去，可以立刻回家，但要守口如瓶，就这些。 “可你为什么偏偏要等到今天晚上?” 因为晚上没人能看见他们，因为阿迪克斯在全神看书，听不到外面的动静，还因为，如果布?拉德利把他们杀了，他们将要失去的是新的学期而不是假期。另外，从外面朝一间黑屋子里看，晚上比白天看得更清楚一些。杰姆问我懂不懂。 。杰姆，请你……” “斯各特，我最后一次告诉你，要么闭上嘴，要么回家去——哎呀!你越来越象个丫头了。”． 他这么一说，我没别的办法，只好跟他们一道去。我们觉得最好从拉德利家房子后面的很高的铁丝网下面钻过去，那样被人看见的可能性小一些。 铁丝网围着一个很大的园子和一个窄狭的木厕所。 杰姆掀起铁丝网的底部，示意要迪尔钻过去。我跟在迪尔后面，然后，替杰姆掀起铁丝网。杰姆勉强钻过来。“别弄出声响，”他小声说，“不管怎么样，别走到甘蓝地里去，否则死人也会被惊醒的。” 因为要注意这一点，我的速度可能是一分钟一步。看到远远走在前面的杰姆在月光下向我招手时，我加快了速度。我们来到一道门前，这道门将园子与后院隔开。杰姆碰碰门，门咯吱咯吱响起来。“往上面吐唾沫。”迪尔小声说。 。杰姆，你把我们带进了这种困境，出去可不容易啊。”我咕哝着。 “嘘!往上面吐唾沫，斯各特。” 我们一个个都吐得口里发干，然后杰姆轻轻推开门，把门从门墩儿上抬起，抽出来靠在一旁的栅栏上。我们进了后院。 拉德利家的后面不如前面逗人喜欢：破烂不堪的走廊的长度与房子一样宽；有两扇门，两门之间有两扇窗，窗里一片漆黑；代替大圆柱的是一根二英寸厚四英寸宽的粗糙的术材，支撑着屋顶的一端；走廊上一个角落里有一个古老的富兰克林式的炉灶}炉灶上方有一面帽架上的镜子在月光下闪闪发光，令人不寒而栗。 “啊!”杰姆低声叫了一声，提起脚来。 “怎么了?” “鸡。”他轻声说。 前面杰姆轻轻的一声叫证明我们不得不小心谨慎，不要碰上那些看不见的东西。我们弯着腰摸到房子侧面，然后朝有一块松了叶板的窗子移近。窗台比杰姆高几英寸。 “我们用手把你撑上去。”他对迪尔说，“不过，等一等。”杰姆抓住自己的左腕，然后抓住我的右腕，我也抓住自已的左腕和杰姆的右腕。我们蹲下来，迪尔坐上我们的手架。我们把他抬起来，他抓住了窗台。 “快点，”杰姆轻声说，“我们坚持不住了。” 迪尔拍一下我的肩膀，于是我们把他放了下来。 “看见什么了?” “什么都没看见。有窗帘。但是里边较远的地方有一道徽弱的光。” “我们要离开这里，”杰娲说，“我们再回到后边去。嘘。”我正要说话，他先发出了警告。 “我们去试试后边的窗户。” “不，迪尔。。我说。 迪尔停下来，让杰姆走在前面。杰姆踏上楼梯的最底下一级时，楼梯略吱一下响起来。他停下来不敢再动。然后，一点点移上去。楼梯不响了。杰姆连跨两级踏上走廊，身子也跟了上去，然后踉踉跄跄地好一阵才站稳。他弯下双膝，徐徐爬到窗下，抬起头向室内望去。 这时，我看见了一个黑影。这是一个戴着帽子的男人的影子。开始，我以为是树，但是当时没有风，树干是不能走动的。整个后廊沫浴在月光之中，那影子从走廊那一端朝杰姆走来。 接着迪尔也看见了。他吓得用手蒙住了脸。 黑影从杰姆身边走过时杰姆也看见了。他用胳膊盖住脑袋，吓呆了。 又走过一英尺左右后黑影停住了。胳膊从侧面伸出来又放下，站着不动了。然后转过身，从杰姆身边走回去，沿着走廊走到房子侧面，象出来时一样又消失了。 杰姆跳下走廊，飞也似的朝我们跑来。他猛地推开门，从我和迪尔之间冲过去，嘘的一声把我俩赶进塞窄作响的甘蓝地中。在甘蓝地里刚跑了一半，我就被绊例了。这时，一声熗响划破了寂静的夜空。 迪尔和杰姆在我身边向前猛冲。杰姆抽噎地说：“学校那边的栅栏……怏，斯各特。” 杰姆掀起铁丝网，迪尔和我滚过去。我们朝学校院子里那棵孤独的橡树刚跑了一半路，突然发觉杰姆没跟上来。我们跑回去，看到杰姆正在铁丝网下挣扎着把被挂住的长裤往下脱。他穿着短裤跑到橡树下。 躲在树后安全了，我们全都站在那儿发果。但是，杰姆的脑瓜子还是停不下来：“我们得回去，他们会找我们的。” 我们穿过学校的院子，钻过栅栏来到我家后面的迪尔牧场。翻过我家屋后的栅栏，我们来到后面的台阶。杰姆这才让我们停下来休息。 呼吸正常后，我们三个装得和平时一样，若无其事地走到前院。我们朝街道上一看，只见拉德利家门前围了一群人。 “我们最好到那儿去，’杰姆说，“要是我们不露面，他们会觉得奇怪的。” 内森?拉德利先生站在大门口，猎熗挎在胳膊上，熗上装子弹的部位张开着。阿迪克斯站在莫迪小姐和斯蒂芬尼?克劳福德小姐身旁。雷切尔小姐和艾弗里先生也在一边。他们谁都没看见我们来了。 我们灵活地钻到莫迪小姐身旁，她回头看了看。“你们几个从哪儿来?没听到这儿乱哄哄的声音吗?” “怎么了?”杰姆问。 “拉德利先生朝着在他家甘蓝地里的一个黑人开了一熗。” “哎呀，打中他了吗?” “没有，”斯蒂芬尼说，“是朝天上开的，可把他吓坏了。他说，谁要是在附近看见一个穿白衣的黑鬼，耶就是他。他说另一枝熗管已装好子弹，只要再听到菜地里有声音，这回不会再朝天上开了，管他是狗，是黑鬼，还是……杰姆?芬奇I” “小姐?”杰姆问。 阿迪克斯说话了：“你的裤子呢，孩子?” “裤子?” “是的。” 没说的了。在大庭广众之中他只穿着短裤。我叹了口气。 “噢……芬奇先生?” 在耀眼的街灯下我看得出迪尔又在打鬼主意：他眼睛瞪得大大的，胖胖的脸变得更圆了。 “怎么回事，迪尔?”阿迪克斯问。 “噢……我赢了他的裤予。”他含含糊糊地说。 “赢了他的，怎么赢的?” 迪尔摸着后脑勺，然后手又移到前面，在前额上摸来摸去。 “我们刚才在鱼塘边上玩扑克赌的，输一盘脱一件衣服。” 我和杰姆放心了。邻居们好象也满意了：他们都惊呆了。可是，什么是输一盘脱一件衣服呢? 我们还没来得及弄明白：雷切尔小姐象上等的救火车上的报警器似的突然嚎叫起来：“耶稣保佑。迪尔?哈里斯!在鱼塘边上赌博，看我把你撕碎不，老兄!” 阿迪克斯救了迪尔，这才使他幸免肢解。“等一等，雷切尔小姐，”他说，“我以前从没听说过他们玩那玩意儿。你们都玩扑克牌吗?” 杰姆接过迪尔的谎话：“不是的，爸爸，玩的是火柴。” 我真佩服我哥哥。火柴是危险的，可是扑克牌是致命的。 “杰姆，斯各特，”阿迪克斯说，“我不愿再听到以任何方式提到扑克牌。杰姆，去迪尔家把裤子拿来。你们自己把问题解决吧。” “别怕，迪尔，”我们走上人行道时杰姆说，“雷切尔小姐不会把你怎么样的。爸爸会说服她的。你这个家伙反应真快。昕……你们听见没有?” 我们停下来，听见阿迪克斯说：“……不要紧的，他们总要经历这个阶段的，雷切尔小姐……” 迪尔放心了，可杰姆和我却麻烦了。第二天上午杰姆总得穿裤子。 “把我的借给你，”我们走到雷切尔小姐屋前的台阶上时，迪尔说。杰姆说谢谢他的好意，可他穿不进迪尔的裤子。我们说了再见后迪尔进去了。显然他还记得他已和我订了婚，因为他跑出来当着杰姆的面很快地吻了我。“来信，听见了吗?”他在我们身后大喊了一声。 即使杰姆的裤子好好地穿在身上，我们也不会睡好的。我睡在后廊的帆布床上，在寂静的夜晚听到的每一声响动都放大了三倍；砾石路上每一阵脚步声都是拉德利在寻找报复机会，夜间路过的黑人的笑声都是松了绑的拉德利在追踪我们，昆虫撞击纱窗的噼噼啪啪的声音就是精神不正常的拉德利在甩手指把纱窗的纱一根根扯断；苦楝树似乎也有了生命，不怀好意地在附近徘徊。我昏昏沉沉，睡一阵醒一阵，直到后来昕到杰姆小声说话。 “你这小小的三眼鬼，睡着了吗?。 “你发疯了吧?” “嘘，阿迪克斯房里的灯关掉了。” 在渐暗的月色里，我看见杰姆的脚一抬，踏到地上。 “我去我裤子。”他说。 我坐起来。“不行，我不让你去。” 他正在急忙穿衬衣。。不去不行。” “你去我就喊醒阿迪克斯。” “你喊我就要你的命。” 我把他拽到床边坐下来想跟他讲清理由：“明天早上内森先生发现裤子后，他知道是你丢的，顶多不过是拿给阿迪克斯看。再糟也就是这么回事。回床上去吧。” “这点我知道，”杰姆说，“就是因为这点我才要去。” 我左右为难了。他一个人回到那个地方……我想起斯蒂芬尼小姐的话：内森先生的另一枝熗管已装好子弹，再听到声响就开熗，管他是黑鬼，是狗……这一点杰姆比我清楚。 我不顾一切地劝阻：“告诉你，杰姆，不值得，挨揍是会痛的，但痛过后就没事了。你这一去，脑袋就没了，杰姆，请求你……” 他喘了口气。“我……是这样，斯各特，”他小声说，“从我记事以来，阿迪克斯从没打过我，我想这样保持下去。” 这倒挺有道理。阿迪克斯好象隔一天就耍威胁我们一次。“你是说他从没抓住过你的把柄肥。” “大概是。可是……我只不过想保持下去，斯各特。今晚我们不该干那件事。” 我想那一次是杰姆和我第一次开始有分歧了。有时我不理解他，但这种迷惑不解总是一下就过去了。这次我实在不理解。“请你，”我哀求道，“再想一下……你一个人在那个鬼地方……” “住嘴！” “他肯定不会再也不跟你讲话或对你做出别的什么……我要去喊醒他，杰姆，我发誓要……” 杰姆一把抓住我睡衣的衣领死死地扭着。我说，“要不我跟你一起去……”我被勒得透不过气来。 “不，你不能去。你会弄出声响的。” 一切劝阻都是白搭。我打开后门栓，推开门，望着他蹑手蹑脚地下了台阶。一定是午夜两点了。月亮已开始西沉，窗户投在地上的方格影子渐渐模糊，最后几乎消失了。杰姆的白衬衣的下摆忽上忽下，就象个小鬼跳着逃避即将到来的清晨似的。我的两肋淌下汗珠，微风吹来，我感到凉快。 他走的是原路，过了迪尔牧场，穿过学校大院，绕到栅栏前，我想——至少他是朝那个方向去的。还要过一会儿才能到，所以还不是担心的时候。我等了一会儿，到了开始担心的时候了。我静静地听着，等待着拉德利先生的熗响。这时，我觉得听到了后面栅栏咯吱咯吱的响声。这只是我的一种梦想。 过了一会儿我听见阿迫克斯咳嗽。我屏住气息。有时，我们晚上去厕所时看见他还在看书。他说晚上他常常起来看我们，然后看看书再睡觉。我等着他开灯，瞪大眼睛等待着房里突然雪亮。灯没亮，我松了口气。 夜间爬出来的大蚯蚓已经回洞了，但风一吹，成熟的苦楝树子就象敲鼓似的落在房顶上。远处传来的狗叫声使黑夜显得更加寂静。 他回来了，朝我跑来。白衬衣闪现在后面的栅栏上，然后显得越来越大。他踏上后台阶，进来后随手插上门栓，然后在他床上坐下来。他手里提着裤子，半天没说话。躺下后，我听见他的床颤动了一下。他很快平静下来，再没听见他动过。 |
Chapter 7 Jem stayed moody and silent for a week. As Atticus had once advised me to do, I triedto climb into Jem’s skin and walk around in it: if I had gone alone to the Radley Place attwo in the morning, my funeral would have been held the next afternoon. So I left Jemalone and tried not to bother him. School started. The second grade was as bad as the first, only worse—they stillflashed cards at you and wouldn’t let you read or write. Miss Caroline’s progress nextdoor could be estimated by the frequency of laughter; however, the usual crew hadflunked the first grade again, and were helpful in keeping order. The only thing goodabout the second grade was that this year I had to stay as late as Jem, and we usuallywalked home together at three o’clock. One afternoon when we were crossing the schoolyard toward home, Jem suddenlysaid: “There’s something I didn’t tell you.” As this was his first complete sentence in several days, I encouraged him: “Aboutwhat?” “About that night.” “You’ve never told me anything about that night,” I said. Jem waved my words away as if fanning gnats. He was silent for a while, then he said,“When I went back for my breeches—they were all in a tangle when I was gettin‘ out of’em, I couldn’t get ‘em loose. When I went back—” Jem took a deep breath. “When Iwent back, they were folded across the fence… like they were expectin’ me.” “Across—” “And something else—” Jem’s voice was flat. “Show you when we get home. They’dbeen sewed up. Not like a lady sewed ‘em, like somethin’ I’d try to do. All crooked. It’salmost like—” “—somebody knew you were comin‘ back for ’em.” Jem shuddered. “Like somebody was readin‘ my mind… like somebody could tell whatI was gonna do. Can’t anybody tell what I’m gonna do lest they know me, can they,Scout?” Jem’s question was an appeal. I reassured him: “Can’t anybody tell what you’re gonnado lest they live in the house with you, and even I can’t tell sometimes.” We were walking past our tree. In its knot-hole rested a ball of gray twine. “Don’t take it, Jem,” I said. “This is somebody’s hidin‘ place.” “I don’t think so, Scout.” “Yes it is. Somebody like Walter Cunningham comes down here every recess andhides his things—and we come along and take ‘em away from him. Listen, let’s leave itand wait a couple of days. If it ain’t gone then, we’ll take it, okay?” “Okay, you might be right,” said Jem. “It must be some little kid’s place—hides histhings from the bigger folks. You know it’s only when school’s in that we’ve foundthings.” “Yeah,” I said, “but we never go by here in the summertime.” We went home. Next morning the twine was where we had left it. When it was stillthere on the third day, Jem pocketed it. From then on, we considered everything wefound in the knot-hole our property. The second grade was grim, but Jem assured me that the older I got the better schoolwould be, that he started off the same way, and it was not until one reached the sixthgrade that one learned anything of value. The sixth grade seemed to please him fromthe beginning: he went through a brief Egyptian Period that baffled me—he tried to walkflat a great deal, sticking one arm in front of him and one in back of him, putting one footbehind the other. He declared Egyptians walked that way; I said if they did I didn’t seehow they got anything done, but Jem said they accomplished more than the Americansever did, they invented toilet paper and perpetual embalming, and asked where wouldwe be today if they hadn’t? Atticus told me to delete the adjectives and I’d have thefacts. There are no clearly defined seasons in South Alabama; summer drifts into autumn,and autumn is sometimes never followed by winter, but turns to a days-old spring thatmelts into summer again. That fall was a long one, hardly cool enough for a light jacket. Jem and I were trotting in our orbit one mild October afternoon when our knot-holestopped us again. Something white was inside this time. Jem let me do the honors: I pulled out two small images carved in soap. One was thefigure of a boy, the other wore a crude dress. Before I remembered that there was nosuch thing as hoo-dooing, I shrieked and threw them down. Jem snatched them up. “What’s the matter with you?” he yelled. He rubbed the figuresfree of red dust. “These are good,” he said. “I’ve never seen any these good.” He held them down to me. They were almost perfect miniatures of two children. Theboy had on shorts, and a shock of soapy hair fell to his eyebrows. I looked up at Jem. Apoint of straight brown hair kicked downwards from his part. I had never noticed itbefore. Jem looked from the girl-doll to me. The girl-doll wore bangs. So did I. “These are us,” he said. “Who did ‘em, you reckon?” “Who do we know around here who whittles?” he asked. “Mr. Avery.” “Mr. Avery just does like this. I mean carves.” Mr. Avery averaged a stick of stovewood per week; he honed it down to a toothpickand chewed it. “There’s old Miss Stephanie Crawford’s sweetheart,” I said. “He carves all right, but he lives down the country. When would he ever pay anyattention to us?” “Maybe he sits on the porch and looks at us instead of Miss Stephanie. If I was him, Iwould.” Jem stared at me so long I asked what was the matter, but got Nothing, Scout for ananswer. When we went home, Jem put the dolls in his trunk. Less than two weeks later we found a whole package of chewing gum, which weenjoyed, the fact that everything on the Radley Place was poison having slipped Jem’smemory. The following week the knot-hole yielded a tarnished medal. Jem showed it to Atticus,who said it was a spelling medal, that before we were born the Maycomb Countyschools had spelling contests and awarded medals to the winners. Atticus saidsomeone must have lost it, and had we asked around? Jem camel-kicked me when Itried to say where we had found it. Jem asked Atticus if he remembered anybody whoever won one, and Atticus said no. Our biggest prize appeared four days later. It was a pocket watch that wouldn’t run, ona chain with an aluminum knife. “You reckon it’s white gold, Jem?” “Don’t know. I’ll show it to Atticus.” Atticus said it would probably be worth ten dollars, knife, chain and all, if it were new. “Did you swap with somebody at school?” he asked. “Oh, no sir!” Jem pulled out his grandfather’s watch that Atticus let him carry once aweek if Jem were careful with it. On the days he carried the watch, Jem walked on eggs. “Atticus, if it’s all right with you, I’d rather have this one instead. Maybe I can fix it.” When the new wore off his grandfather’s watch, and carrying it became a day’sburdensome task, Jem no longer felt the necessity of ascertaining the hour every fiveminutes. He did a fair job, only one spring and two tiny pieces left over, but the watch would notrun. “Oh-h,” he sighed, “it’ll never go. Scout—?” “Huh?” “You reckon we oughta write a letter to whoever’s leaving us these things?” “That’d be right nice, Jem, we can thank ‘em—what’s wrong?” Jem was holding his ears, shaking his head from side to side. “I don’t get it, I just don’tget it—I don’t know why, Scout…” He looked toward the livingroom. “I’ve gotta goodmind to tell Atticus—no, I reckon not.” “I’ll tell him for you.” “No, don’t do that, Scout. Scout?” “Wha-t?” He had been on the verge of telling me something all evening; his face would brightenand he would lean toward me, then he would change his mind. He changed it again. “Oh, nothin‘.” “Here, let’s write a letter.” I pushed a tablet and pencil under his nose. “Okay. Dear Mister…” “How do you know it’s a man? I bet it’s Miss Maudie—been bettin‘ that for a longtime.” “Ar-r, Miss Maudie can’t chew gum—” Jem broke into a grin. “You know, she can talkreal pretty sometimes. One time I asked her to have a chew and she said no thanks,that—chewing gum cleaved to her palate and rendered her speechless,” said Jemcarefully. “Doesn’t that sound nice?” “Yeah, she can say nice things sometimes. She wouldn’t have a watch and chainanyway.” “Dear sir,” said Jem. “We appreciate the—no, we appreciate everything which youhave put into the tree for us. Yours very truly, Jeremy Atticus Finch.” “He won’t know who you are if you sign it like that, Jem.” Jem erased his name and wrote, “Jem Finch.” I signed, “Jean Louise Finch (Scout),” beneath it. Jem put the note in an envelope. Next morning on the way to school he ran ahead of me and stopped at the tree. Jemwas facing me when he looked up, and I saw him go stark white. “Scout!” I ran to him. Someone had filled our knot-hole with cement. “Don’t you cry, now, Scout… don’t cry now, don’t you worry-” he muttered at me all theway to school. When we went home for dinner Jem bolted his food, ran to the porch and stood on thesteps. I followed him. “Hasn’t passed by yet,” he said. Next day Jem repeated his vigil and was rewarded. “Hidy do, Mr. Nathan,” he said. “Morning Jem, Scout,” said Mr. Radley, as he went by. “Mr. Radley,” said Jem. Mr. Radley turned around. “Mr. Radley, ah—did you put cement in that hole in that tree down yonder?” “Yes,” he said. “I filled it up.” “Why’d you do it, sir?” “Tree’s dying. You plug ‘em with cement when they’re sick. You ought to know that,Jem.” Jem said nothing more about it until late afternoon. When we passed our tree he gaveit a meditative pat on its cement, and remained deep in thought. He seemed to beworking himself into a bad humor, so I kept my distance. As usual, we met Atticus coming home from work that evening. When we were at oursteps Jem said, “Atticus, look down yonder at that tree, please sir.” “What tree, son?” “The one on the corner of the Radley lot comin‘ from school.” “Yes?” “Is that tree dyin‘?” “Why no, son, I don’t think so. Look at the leaves, they’re all green and full, no brownpatches anywhere—” “It ain’t even sick?” “That tree’s as healthy as you are, Jem. Why?” “Mr. Nathan Radley said it was dyin‘.” “Well maybe it is. I’m sure Mr. Radley knows more about his trees than we do.” Atticus left us on the porch. Jem leaned on a pillar, rubbing his shoulders against it. “Do you itch, Jem?” I asked as politely as I could. He did not answer. “Come on in,Jem,” I said. “After while.” He stood there until nightfall, and I waited for him. When we went in the house I sawhe had been crying; his face was dirty in the right places, but I thought it odd that I hadnot heard him. 整整一个星期杰姆都闷闷不乐，他一句话也不说。按照阿迪克斯对我说过的那样，我极力设身处地从他所处酌位置考虑问题：要是我一个人清早两点钟去拉德利家那儿，第二天下午一定要为我举行葬礼的。所以我不去打扰杰姆，随他怎么样。 开学了。二年级和一年级一样没味，甚至更差——老师们还是向你挥舞卡片，一不让你读，二不让你写。卡罗琳小姐在隔壁教室上课的情况如何，昕到那里面爆发的笑声就可想而知。然而一年级考试不及格的总是原来那些人，这一来，纪律要好一点。二年级唯一的好处就是我和杰姆放学一样晚了，所以我们常常三点钟一起回家。 一天下午，我们穿过学校的院子正朝家走着，杰姆突然说：“我有件事没告诉你。” 这是几天来他说的第一句完整的话，我鼓励他说下去：“什么事?” “关于那天晚上。” “你从没跟我谈过那天晚上的事。”我说。 杰姆手一挥打断我的话，好象挥着扇子把蚋蚊赶走似的。他沉默了一会儿，然后说：“我回去拿裤子时——我原来脱裤子时裤子乱作一团，根本取不下来。等我回去时……”杰姆深深吸了一口气，“等我回去时，裤子叠好了，放在栅栏上……好象在等着我似的。” “在栅栏上……” “还有别的呢……”杰姆用平稳的声音说，“到家再给你看。裤子缝好了，不象出自女人之手，跟我缝的差不多，针脚弯弯曲曲的，差不多象……” “有人知道你要回去取裤子。” 杰姆哆噫了一下。“好象有人能看出我的思想……好象有人知道我要干什么。别人不会知道我要干什么，除非他认识我，你说是吗，斯各特?” 杰姆的问题带有请求我帮他解答的口气。我安慰他说：“别人不知遭你要干什么，除非和你一起住在这栋房子里，就连我有时候都不知道。” 我们正路过我们每天经过的那棵树。树节孔里有匝麻线。 。别拿，杰姆，”我说，“这是别人藏东西的地方。” “我才不信昵，斯各特。” “是的，本来就是。象沃尔特?坎宁安这样的人每次下课都来这里藏东西——我们就这样走过来拿走他的可不行。听我说，我们把线团留在这儿等一两天，要是没人拿的话我们再拿，这样好吗?” “好吧，可能你说得对。”杰姆说，“这儿一定是某个小孩的地方——把东西藏起来，怕大孩子拿去。你注意了吗，每次我们发现东西都是开学以后。” “是的，”我说，“可是夏天我们从不路过这儿。” 我们回家去了。第二天早上，线团留在那儿原封没动。到第三天还没人动时，线团进了杰姆的口袋。从那以后，在树节孔里发现的任何东西都被看作是我们的财产了。 二年级实在没味。但杰姆告诉我年龄越大，上学越有意思。他说他也是这样开始的，还说要到六年级才真正学习有价值的东西。六年级好象一开始就使他高兴：他经过了使我迷惑不解的简短的“埃及阶段”——他花了很大工夫学习走得平稳一些。手脚总是一前一后。他说埃及人就是这样走路的。我说这样走路又怎么样，没看见他们做出什么了不起的事。可杰姆说他们比美国人取得的成就多得多，他们发明了手纸并用香料使尸体永不腐烂。杰姆问我要是没有他们的发明，我们会有今天这样的成就吗?阿迪克斯说过，删去些形容词，剩下的就是事实。 亚拉巴马南部的四个季节没有明显的界线。夏季很快进入秋季，而秋天之后，有时并没有冬天而是转入寿命只有几天时问的春天，然后又混进夏天。那年的秋天持续了很久，气候温暖，几乎没凉到要穿甲克衫。十月的一天下午，天气不冷不热，杰姆和我正在我们常走的路上匆匆走着，突然那树节洞又把我们吸引住了。这次，有样白色的东西在里边。 杰姆这次让我去拿：我抽出来两个用肥皂雕的小小的人像。一个是男孩，另一个是女孩，穿着一件很粗糙的衣服。我尖Ⅱq一声，把人像扔到地上，可一下又想起世上并没有什么不祥之物。 杰姆立刻把人像捡起来。“你怎么了?”他叫起来，然后擦去人像上的红色灰尘。“雕得真好，”他说，“我从没见过这么好的。” 他把人像递给我。这是两个几乎挑不出毛病的小孩像。男孩穿着短裤，一堆乱蓬蓬的头发一直垂到眉毛上。我抬头看看杰姆，他那直愣愣的棕色头发从中间分开，向下耷拉着。我在这以前从没注意过他的头发。 杰姆的目光从那女娃娃身上移到我脸上。女娃娃前额留着刘海，而我正好也留着刘海。 “这是我们俩。”他说。 “你看是谁雕的?” “这附近有我们认识的会雕刻的人投有?”他问。 “艾弗里先生。” “艾弗里先生干的正是这个，我说的是雕刻。” 艾弗里先生平均每个星期削一根柴火棍，最后磨成牙签放进嘴里嚼起来。 “还有斯蒂芬尼?克劳福德小姐的情人。”我说。 “他雕得倒不错，可他住在乡下。他哪有时问来注意我们呢?” “可能是他坐在走廊上看我们而不是看斯蒂芬尼小姐。我要是他的话也会这样做。” 杰姆瞪着眼望了我那么久，我问他怎么了，可他的回答只是“没什么，斯各特”。到家后，他把人像放进他的箱子。 不到两个星期，我们发现了一整包口香糖，我们当然老实不客气地饱了口福。拉德利家的每样东西都是毒药，这个说法杰姆已丢到脑后了。 又过了一个星期，树节洞里又出现一个失去光泽的奖章。杰姆拿给阿迪克斯看，阿迪克斯说这是个拼写比赛的奖章。我们出生以前，梅科姆县的学校组织过拼写比赛，获胜者都得了奖章。阿迪克斯说一定是谁丢的，问我们在周围打听了没有，我正要说在哪儿捡的，杰姆用脚跟踢了踢我。杰姆问阿迪克斯记不记得谁得过这种奖章，阿迪克斯说不记得。 又过了四天，我们的最大的战利品出现了。这回是个怀表，已经不能走了，挂在一个带把小铝刀的链子上。 “你看这是白金的吗，杰姆?” “不知道。我要绐阿迪克斯看看。” 阿迪克斯说如果是新的，表、小刀、链子三件合起来大概值十美元。“你们在学校和谁交换的吗?”他问。 “不，不是的，爸爸。”杰姆掏出爷爷用过的怀表，这是阿迪克斯让他带的，每星期一次，条件是他要小心。每逢带表的日子，杰姆走起路来小心翼翼。“阿迪克斯，要是你没意见，我想要这一个，说不定我能修好。” 爷爷的表变旧了，而且戴了它成了一天的负担，杰姆不再感到有必要每隔五分钟看一次时间了。 他把表好好地修理了一下，只剩下一个弹簧和两个小零件没去理会，但表却还是不走。“嗐，”他叹了口气，“永远也走不了了。斯各特……” “啊?” “你看我们是不是应该给送我们这些东西的人写封信?” “当然应该，杰姆，我们可以感谢他们……怎么了?” 杰姆抱着耳朵直摇头。“我不明白，我就是不明白……我不知道为什么，斯各特……”他朝客厅看去。“我很想告诉阿迪克斯……不，还是不告诉的好。” “我替你告诉他。” “不，别告诉他。斯各特?” “什——么?” 整个晚上，他部好象有什么事要告诉我似的。他脸上一阵兴奋，向我靠过来，但马上又改变主意。这次他又变回去不想说了：“噢，没什么。” “过来，我们写封信。”我把信纸和铅笔推到他面前。 “好吧。亲爱的先生……” “你怎么知道是男的?我断定是莫迪小姐——我一直认为是她。” “啊……莫迪小姐不能嚼口香糖……”杰姆唰嘴笑起来。“你知道，有时候她很会说话。有一次我请她吃口香糖，她说不，谢谢……口香糖粘在她的硬腭上，使她说不出话来。”杰姆说得很小心，“她这话不是说得好吗?” 。说得真好，有时候她可会说话啦。但她不会有带表链子的表。” “亲爱的先生，”杰姆写道，“我们十分喜欢那……不，十分喜欢您为我们放在树上的每一样东西。杰里米?阿迪克斯?芬奇谨启。” “杰姆，你那样签名，他不会知道你是谁的。” 杰姆擦去他的名字，然后写上“杰姆?芬奇”。我在下面签上“琼?路易斯?芬奇(斯各特)”。杰姆把纸条装进信封。 第二天早晨上学时，他跑在我前面，到树跟前时他停下来抬头向上看，这时我正好看到他的脸，只见他脸色苍白。 “斯各特！” 我朝他跑去。 有人把我们的树洞用水泥堵塞了。 “别哭，斯各特……先别哭，别着急……”在上学的路上他不停地这样安慰我。 回到家里吃饭时，杰姆囫囵吞下几口就跑到走廊，站在台阶上。我跟着他出来。“还没走过这里。”他说。 第二天杰姆又守望着，这回可没有白费力气。 “您好，内森先生，”他说。 “早上好，杰姆，斯各特。”拉德利先生说着走过去。 “拉德利先生。”杰姆说。 拉德利先生回过头。 “拉德利先生，嗯……是您用水泥把那边那棵树上的洞堵上的吗?” “是的，是我堵的．。” “您为什么要堵上，先生?” “那树要死了。树生了病就用水泥堵上，这你应该知道的，杰姆。” 直到傍晚，杰姆才再谈到这件事。我们走过那棵树时，杰姆若有所思地在水泥上轻轻地拍了一下，然后又陷入了沉思。他好象要生气了，所以我和他保持着一段距离。 象平时一样，阿迪克斯下班回家时，我们出去接他。上了台阶后，杰姆问他：“阿迪克斯，请你看看那边那棵树。” 。什么树，孩子?” “拉德利家前面的拐角上靠学校那边那棵。” “怎么了?” “那棵树快死了吗?” “没有啊，孩子，我看不象。看树上的叶子绿油油的，叶子没脱落，也没褐色的斑点……” “连病都没有吗?” “那棵树和你一样棒，杰姆。为什么问这个?” “内森先生说树快死了。” “那么可能是这样。我相信内森先生对他家的树比我们更了解。” 阿迪克斯把我们留在走廊上，自己走开了。杰姆靠着一根柱子，肩膀在上面擦来擦去。 “你痒吗，杰姆?”我非常有礼貌地问他。他没回答。“进去吧，杰姆。”我说。 “等一会儿。”他站在那儿一直到天黑，我也陪着他。我们进去时，我发现他哭过。脸上流过泪的地方不很干净，可我觉得奇怪，怎么没听见他哭。 |
Chapter 8 For reasons unfathomable to the most experienced prophets in Maycomb County,autumn turned to winter that year. We had two weeks of the coldest weather since 1885,Atticus said. Mr. Avery said it was written on the Rosetta Stone that when childrendisobeyed their parents, smoked cigarettes and made war on each other, the seasonswould change: Jem and I were burdened with the guilt of contributing to the aberrationsof nature, thereby causing unhappiness to our neighbors and discomfort to ourselves. Old Mrs. Radley died that winter, but her death caused hardly a ripple—theneighborhood seldom saw her, except when she watered her cannas. Jem and Idecided that Boo had got her at last, but when Atticus returned from the Radley househe said she died of natural causes, to our disappointment. “Ask him,” Jem whispered. “You ask him, you’re the oldest.” “That’s why you oughta ask him.” “Atticus,” I said, “did you see Mr. Arthur?” Atticus looked sternly around his newspaper at me: “I did not.” Jem restrained me from further questions. He said Atticus was still touchous about usand the Radleys and it wouldn’t do to push him any. Jem had a notion that Atticusthought our activities that night last summer were not solely confined to strip poker. Jemhad no firm basis for his ideas, he said it was merely a twitch. Next morning I awoke, looked out the window and nearly died of fright. My screamsbrought Atticus from his bathroom half-shaven. “The world’s endin‘, Atticus! Please do something—!” I dragged him to the window andpointed. “No it’s not,” he said. “It’s snowing.” Jem asked Atticus would it keep up. Jem had never seen snow either, but he knewwhat it was. Atticus said he didn’t know any more about snow than Jem did. “I think,though, if it’s watery like that, it’ll turn to rain.” The telephone rang and Atticus left the breakfast table to answer it. “That was EulaMay,” he said when he returned. “I quote—‘As it has not snowed in Maycomb Countysince 1885, there will be no school today.’” Eula May was Maycomb’s leading telephone operator. She was entrusted with issuingpublic announcements, wedding invitations, setting off the fire siren, and giving first-aidinstructions when Dr. Reynolds was away. When Atticus finally called us to order and bade us look at our plates instead of outthe windows, Jem asked, “How do you make a snowman?” “I haven’t the slightest idea,” said Atticus. “I don’t want you all to be disappointed, but Idoubt if there’ll be enough snow for a snowball, even.” Calpurnia came in and said she thought it was sticking. When we ran to the back yard,it was covered with a feeble layer of soggy snow. “We shouldn’t walk about in it,” said Jem. “Look, every step you take’s wasting it.” I looked back at my mushy footprints. Jem said if we waited until it snowed some morewe could scrape it all up for a snowman. I stuck out my tongue and caught a fat flake. Itburned. “Jem, it’s hot!” “No it ain’t, it’s so cold it burns. Now don’t eat it, Scout, you’re wasting it. Let it comedown.” “But I want to walk in it.” “I know what, we can go walk over at Miss Maudie’s.” Jem hopped across the front yard. I followed in his tracks. When we were on thesidewalk in front of Miss Maudie’s, Mr. Avery accosted us. He had a pink face and a bigstomach below his belt. “See what you’ve done?” he said. “Hasn’t snowed in Maycomb since Appomattox. It’sbad children like you makes the seasons change.” I wondered if Mr. Avery knew how hopefully we had watched last summer for him torepeat his performance, and reflected that if this was our reward, there was somethingto say for sin. I did not wonder where Mr. Avery gathered his meteorological statistics: they came straight from the Rosetta Stone. “Jem Finch, you Jem Finch!” “Miss Maudie’s callin‘ you, Jem.” “You all stay in the middle of the yard. There’s some thrift buried under the snow nearthe porch. Don’t step on it!” “Yessum!” called Jem. “It’s beautiful, ain’t it, Miss Maudie?” “Beautiful my hind foot! If it freezes tonight it’ll carry off all my azaleas!” Miss Maudie’s old sunhat glistened with snow crystals. She was bending over somesmall bushes, wrapping them in burlap bags. Jem asked her what she was doing thatfor. “Keep ‘em warm,” she said. “How can flowers keep warm? They don’t circulate.” “I cannot answer that question, Jem Finch. All I know is if it freezes tonight theseplants’ll freeze, so you cover ‘em up. Is that clear?” “Yessum. Miss Maudie?” “What, sir?” “Could Scout and me borrow some of your snow?” “Heavens alive, take it all! There’s an old peach basket under the house, haul it off inthat.” Miss Maudie’s eyes narrowed. “Jem Finch, what are you going to do with mysnow?” “You’ll see,” said Jem, and we transferred as much snow as we could from MissMaudie’s yard to ours, a slushy operation. “What are we gonna do, Jem?” I asked. “You’ll see,” he said. “Now get the basket and haul all the snow you can rake up fromthe back yard to the front. Walk back in your tracks, though,” he cautioned. “Are we gonna have a snow baby, Jem?” “No, a real snowman. Gotta work hard, now.” Jem ran to the back yard, produced the garden hoe and began digging quickly behindthe woodpile, placing any worms he found to one side. He went in the house, returnedwith the laundry hamper, filled it with earth and carried it to the front yard. When we had five baskets of earth and two baskets of snow, Jem said we were readyto begin. “Don’t you think this is kind of a mess?” I asked. “Looks messy now, but it won’t later,” he said. Jem scooped up an armful of dirt, patted it into a mound on which he added anotherload, and another until he had constructed a torso. “Jem, I ain’t ever heard of a nigger snowman,” I said. “He won’t be black long,” he grunted. Jem procured some peachtree switches from the back yard, plaited them, and bentthem into bones to be covered with dirt. “He looks like Stephanie Crawford with her hands on her hips,” I said. “Fat in themiddle and little-bitty arms.” “I’ll make ‘em bigger.” Jem sloshed water over the mud man and added more dirt. Helooked thoughtfully at it for a moment, then he molded a big stomach below the figure’swaistline. Jem glanced at me, his eyes twinkling: “Mr. Avery’s sort of shaped like asnowman, ain’t he?” Jem scooped up some snow and began plastering it on. He permitted me to coveronly the back, saving the public parts for himself. Gradually Mr. Avery turned white. Using bits of wood for eyes, nose, mouth, and buttons, Jem succeeded in making Mr. Avery look cross. A stick of stovewood completed the picture. Jem stepped back andviewed his creation. “It’s lovely, Jem,” I said. “Looks almost like he’d talk to you.” “It is, ain’t it?” he said shyly. We could not wait for Atticus to come home for dinner, but called and said we had abig surprise for him. He seemed surprised when he saw most of the back yard in thefront yard, but he said we had done a jim-dandy job. “I didn’t know how you were goingto do it,” he said to Jem, “but from now on I’ll never worry about what’ll become of you,son, you’ll always have an idea.” Jem’s ears reddened from Atticus’s compliment, but he looked up sharply when hesaw Atticus stepping back. Atticus squinted at the snowman a while. He grinned, thenlaughed. “Son, I can’t tell what you’re going to be—an engineer, a lawyer, or a portraitpainter. You’ve perpetrated a near libel here in the front yard. We’ve got to disguise thisfellow.” Atticus suggested that Jem hone down his creation’s front a little, swap a broom forthe stovewood, and put an apron on him. Jem explained that if he did, the snowman would become muddy and cease to be asnowman. “I don’t care what you do, so long as you do something,” said Atticus. “You can’t goaround making caricatures of the neighbors.” “Ain’t a characterture,” said Jem. “It looks just like him.” “Mr. Avery might not think so.” “I know what!” said Jem. He raced across the street, disappeared into Miss Maudie’sback yard and returned triumphant. He stuck her sunhat on the snowman’s head andjammed her hedge-clippers into the crook of his arm. Atticus said that would be fine. Miss Maudie opened her front door and came out on the porch. She looked across thestreet at us. Suddenly she grinned. “Jem Finch,” she called. “You devil, bring me backmy hat, sir!” Jem looked up at Atticus, who shook his head. “She’s just fussing,” he said. “She’sreally impressed with your—accomplishments.” Atticus strolled over to Miss Maudie’s sidewalk, where they engaged in an arm-wavingconversation, the only phrase of which I caught was “…erected an absolute morphoditein that yard! Atticus, you’ll never raise ‘em!” The snow stopped in the afternoon, the temperature dropped, and by nightfall Mr. Avery’s direst predictions came true: Calpurnia kept every fireplace in the house blazing,but we were cold. When Atticus came home that evening he said we were in for it, andasked Calpurnia if she wanted to stay with us for the night. Calpurnia glanced up at thehigh ceilings and long windows and said she thought she’d be warmer at her house. Atticus drove her home in the car. Before I went to sleep Atticus put more coal on the fire in my room. He said thethermometer registered sixteen, that it was the coldest night in his memory, and that oursnowman outside was frozen solid. Minutes later, it seemed, I was awakened by someone shaking me. Atticus’s overcoatwas spread across me. “Is it morning already?” “Baby, get up.” Atticus was holding out my bathrobe and coat. “Put your robe on first,” he said. Jem was standing beside Atticus, groggy and tousled. He was holding his overcoatclosed at the neck, his other hand was jammed into his pocket. He looked strangelyoverweight. “Hurry, hon,” said Atticus. “Here’re your shoes and socks.” Stupidly, I put them on. “Is it morning?” “No, it’s a little after one. Hurry now.” That something was wrong finally got through to me. “What’s the matter?” By then he did not have to tell me. Just as the birds know where to go when it rains, Iknew when there was trouble in our street. Soft taffeta-like sounds and muffled scurryingsounds filled me with helpless dread. “Whose is it?” “Miss Maudie’s, hon,” said Atticus gently. At the front door, we saw fire spewing from Miss Maudie’s diningroom windows. As ifto confirm what we saw, the town fire siren wailed up the scale to a treble pitch andremained there, screaming. “It’s gone, ain’t it?” moaned Jem. “I expect so,” said Atticus. “Now listen, both of you. Go down and stand in front of theRadley Place. Keep out of the way, do you hear? See which way the wind’s blowing?” “Oh,” said Jem. “Atticus, reckon we oughta start moving the furniture out?” “Not yet, son. Do as I tell you. Run now. Take care of Scout, you hear? Don’t let herout of your sight.” With a push, Atticus started us toward the Radley front gate. We stood watching thestreet fill with men and cars while fire silently devoured Miss Maudie’s house. “Why don’tthey hurry, why don’t they hurry…” muttered Jem. We saw why. The old fire truck, killed by the cold, was being pushed from town by acrowd of men. When the men attached its hose to a hydrant, the hose burst and watershot up, tinkling down on the pavement. “Oh-h Lord, Jem…” Jem put his arm around me. “Hush, Scout,” he said. “It ain’t time to worry yet. I’ll letyou know when.” The men of Maycomb, in all degrees of dress and undress, took furniture from MissMaudie’s house to a yard across the street. I saw Atticus carrying Miss Maudie’s heavyoak rocking chair, and thought it sensible of him to save what she valued most. Sometimes we heard shouts. Then Mr. Avery’s face appeared in an upstairs window. He pushed a mattress out the window into the street and threw down furniture until menshouted, “Come down from there, Dick! The stairs are going! Get outta there, Mr. Avery!” Mr. Avery began climbing through the window. “Scout, he’s stuck…” breathed Jem. “Oh God…” Mr. Avery was wedged tightly. I buried my head under Jem’s arm and didn’t look againuntil Jem cried, “He’s got loose, Scout! He’s all right!” I looked up to see Mr. Avery cross the upstairs porch. He swung his legs over therailing and was sliding down a pillar when he slipped. He fell, yelled, and hit MissMaudie’s shrubbery. Suddenly I noticed that the men were backing away from Miss Maudie’s house,moving down the street toward us. They were no longer carrying furniture. The fire waswell into the second floor and had eaten its way to the roof: window frames were blackagainst a vivid orange center. “Jem, it looks like a pumpkin—” “Scout, look!” Smoke was rolling off our house and Miss Rachel’s house like fog off a riverbank, andmen were pulling hoses toward them. Behind us, the fire truck from Abbottsvillescreamed around the curve and stopped in front of our house. “That book…” I said. “What?” said Jem. “That Tom Swift book, it ain’t mine, it’s Dill’s…” “Don’t worry, Scout, it ain’t time to worry yet,” said Jem. He pointed. “Looka yonder.” In a group of neighbors, Atticus was standing with his hands in his overcoat pockets. He might have been watching a football game. Miss Maudie was beside him. “See there, he’s not worried yet,” said Jem. “Why ain’t he on top of one of the houses?” “He’s too old, he’d break his neck.” “You think we oughta make him get our stuff out?” “Let’s don’t pester him, he’ll know when it’s time,” said Jem. The Abbottsville fire truck began pumping water on our house; a man on the roofpointed to places that needed it most. I watched our Absolute Morphodite go black andcrumble; Miss Maudie’s sunhat settled on top of the heap. I could not see her hedge-clippers. In the heat between our house, Miss Rachel’s and Miss Maudie’s, the men hadlong ago shed coats and bathrobes. They worked in pajama tops and nightshirts stuffedinto their pants, but I became aware that I was slowly freezing where I stood. Jem triedto keep me warm, but his arm was not enough. I pulled free of it and clutched myshoulders. By dancing a little, I could feel my feet. Another fire truck appeared and stopped in front of Miss Stephanie Crawford’s. Therewas no hydrant for another hose, and the men tried to soak her house with handextinguishers. Miss Maudie’s tin roof quelled the flames. Roaring, the house collapsed; fire gushedeverywhere, followed by a flurry of blankets from men on top of the adjacent houses,beating out sparks and burning chunks of wood. It was dawn before the men began to leave, first one by one, then in groups. Theypushed the Maycomb fire truck back to town, the Abbottsville truck departed, the thirdone remained. We found out next day it had come from Clark’s Ferry, sixty miles away. Jem and I slid across the street. Miss Maudie was staring at the smoking black hole inher yard, and Atticus shook his head to tell us she did not want to talk. He led us home,holding onto our shoulders to cross the icy street. He said Miss Maudie would stay withMiss Stephanie for the time being. “Anybody want some hot chocolate?” he asked. I shuddered when Atticus started afire in the kitchen stove. As we drank our cocoa I noticed Atticus looking at me, first with curiosity, then withsternness. “I thought I told you and Jem to stay put,” he said. “Why, we did. We stayed—” “Then whose blanket is that?” “Blanket?” “Yes ma’am, blanket. It isn’t ours.” I looked down and found myself clutching a brown woolen blanket I was wearingaround my shoulders, squaw-fashion. “Atticus, I don’t know, sir… I—” I turned to Jem for an answer, but Jem was even more bewildered than I. He said hedidn’t know how it got there, we did exactly as Atticus had told us, we stood down by theRadley gate away from everybody, we didn’t move an inch—Jem stopped. “Mr. Nathan was at the fire,” he babbled, “I saw him, I saw him, he was tuggin‘ thatmattress—Atticus, I swear…” “That’s all right, son.” Atticus grinned slowly. “Looks like all of Maycomb was outtonight, in one way or another. Jem, there’s some wrapping paper in the pantry, I think. Go get it and we’ll—” “Atticus, no sir!” Jem seemed to have lost his mind. He began pouring out our secrets right and left intotal disregard for my safety if not for his own, omitting nothing, knot-hole, pants and all. “…Mr. Nathan put cement in that tree, Atticus, an‘ he did it to stop us findin’ things—he’s crazy, I reckon, like they say, but Atticus, I swear to God he ain’t ever harmed us,he ain’t ever hurt us, he coulda cut my throat from ear to ear that night but he tried tomend my pants instead… he ain’t ever hurt us, Atticus—” Atticus said, “Whoa, son,” so gently that I was greatly heartened. It was obvious thathe had not followed a word Jem said, for all Atticus said was, “You’re right. We’d betterkeep this and the blanket to ourselves. Someday, maybe, Scout can thank him forcovering her up.” “Thank who?” I asked. “Boo Radley. You were so busy looking at the fire you didn’t know it when he put theblanket around you.” My stomach turned to water and I nearly threw up when Jem held out the blanket andcrept toward me. “He sneaked out of the house—turn ‘round—sneaked up, an’ went likethis!” Atticus said dryly, “Do not let this inspire you to further glory, Jeremy.” Jem scowled, “I ain’t gonna do anything to him,” but I watched the spark of freshadventure leave his eyes. “Just think, Scout,” he said, “if you’d just turned around,you’da seen him.” Calpurnia woke us at noon. Atticus had said we need not go to school that day, we’dlearn nothing after no sleep. Calpurnia said for us to try and clean up the front yard. Miss Maudie’s sunhat was suspended in a thin layer of ice, like a fly in amber, and wehad to dig under the dirt for her hedge-clippers. We found her in her back yard, gazingat her frozen charred azaleas. “We’re bringing back your things, Miss Maudie,” saidJem. “We’re awful sorry.” Miss Maudie looked around, and the shadow of her old grin crossed her face. “Alwayswanted a smaller house, Jem Finch. Gives me more yard. Just think, I’ll have moreroom for my azaleas now!” “You ain’t grievin‘, Miss Maudie?” I asked, surprised. Atticus said her house wasnearly all she had. “Grieving, child? Why, I hated that old cow barn. Thought of settin‘ fire to it a hundredtimes myself, except they’d lock me up.” “But—” “Don’t you worry about me, Jean Louise Finch. There are ways of doing things youdon’t know about. Why, I’ll build me a little house and take me a couple of roomersand—gracious, I’ll have the finest yard in Alabama. Those Bellingraths’ll look plain punywhen I get started!” Jem and I looked at each other. “How’d it catch, Miss Maudie?” he asked. “I don’t know, Jem. Probably the flue in the kitchen. I kept a fire in there last night formy potted plants. Hear you had some unexpected company last night, Miss JeanLouise.” “How’d you know?” “Atticus told me on his way to town this morning. Tell you the truth, I’d like to’ve beenwith you. And I’d‘ve had sense enough to turn around, too.” Miss Maudie puzzled me. With most of her possessions gone and her beloved yard ashambles, she still took a lively and cordial interest in Jem’s and my affairs. She must have seen my perplexity. She said, “Only thing I worried about last nightwas all the danger and commotion it caused. This whole neighborhood could have goneup. Mr. Avery’ll be in bed for a week—he’s right stove up. He’s too old to do things likethat and I told him so. Soon as I can get my hands clean and when StephanieCrawford’s not looking, I’ll make him a Lane cake. That Stephanie’s been after myrecipe for thirty years, and if she thinks I’ll give it to her just because I’m staying with hershe’s got another think coming.” I reflected that if Miss Maudie broke down and gave it to her, Miss Stephanie couldn’tfollow it anyway. Miss Maudie had once let me see it: among other things, the recipecalled for one large cup of sugar. It was a still day. The air was so cold and clear we heard the courthouse clock clank,rattle and strain before it struck the hour. Miss Maudie’s nose was a color I had neverseen before, and I inquired about it. “I’ve been out here since six o’clock,” she said. “Should be frozen by now.” She heldup her hands. A network of tiny lines crisscrossed her palms, brown with dirt and driedblood. “You’ve ruined ‘em,” said Jem. “Why don’t you get a colored man?” There was no noteof sacrifice in his voice when he added, “Or Scout’n’me, we can help you.” Miss Maudie said, “Thank you sir, but you’ve got a job of your own over there.” Shepointed to our yard. “You mean the Morphodite?” I asked. “Shoot, we can rake him up in a jiffy.” Miss Maudie stared down at me, her lips moving silently. Suddenly she put her handsto her head and whooped. When we left her, she was still chuckling. Jem said he didn’t know what was the matter with her—that was just Miss Maudie. 那一年一反常态，秋天变成了冬天，连梅科姆县最有经验的预言家们都不了解其中的原因。有两个星期天气冷得出奇。阿迪克斯说，从1885年以来，天气从没有象那两周那么冷过。艾弗里先生说，埃及的罗塞塔碑上写着，要是小孩不听父母的话，抽烟或者斗殴的话，四季就会变化。杰姆和我心情沉重，感到内疚，因为气候反常和我们有关，使得邻居们不愉快，我们自已也不舒服。 老拉德利太太那年冬天死了。她的死没gf起人们注意——除了她给美人蕉浇水的时间外，左邻右舍们很少看见她。杰姆和我认为布?拉德利终于把她弄死了，但是，阿迪克斯从拉德利家回来时说，她是因年老而死的。这使我们感到扫兴。 “问他。”杰姆小声说。 “你问，你是老大。” “就是因为你小才应该你问。” “阿迪克斯，”我说，“你看见亚瑟先生了吗?” 阿迪克斯往一旁挪动一下正在看的报纸，脸色很严峻地看着我们说：“没看见。” 杰姆叫我别再问了。他说阿迪克斯对我们和拉德利家的人还很敏感，再追问他没好处。杰姆总觉得阿迪克斯知道今年夏天那个晚上我们的活动并不仅仅局限于玩输一盘脱一件衣服的扑克牌游戏。杰姆这个想法没有很可靠的根据，他说，这只不过是偶尔的想法罢了。 第二天早上我醒来朝窗外一看，差点没被吓死。我大叫起来。 阿迪克斯的脸刚刮了一半就从盥洗室跑过来。 “世界末日来临了，阿迪克斯!快想点办法吧!”我把他拖到窗前指着窗外说。 。不，不是的，”他说，“这是下雪。” 杰姆问阿迪克斯是否会持续下去。杰姆也没见过雪，但他知道雪是什么。阿迪克斯说他和杰姆一样对雪了解得也不多。“但我想，如果天气象这样有雨意的话，最后会下雨的。’ 电话铃响了，阿迪克斯离开饭桌接电话去了。他回来时说：“是尤拉?梅打来的。我传达她的原话：‘因为这是1885年以来梅科姆县第一次下雪，今天学生不上学。” 尤拉?梅是梅科姆县的主要电话接线员。她的职责是向大家传达通知，发结婚邀请，报救火警报，如果雷纳兹医生不在，她还要负责下达急救指示。 阿迪克斯最后喊我们快点吃饭，看着桌上的盘子，别盯着窗外。杰姆接着问：“你知道怎样堆雪人吗?” “我一窍不通。”阿迪克斯说，“我不想叫你俩失望，但我怀疑这些雪恐怕连滚个雪球都不够。” 卡尔珀尼亚进来了，她说她想雪应该开始积起来了。我们跑到后院时，地上已经薄薄地盖了?层湿雪。 “我们不应该在雪上乱走，”杰姆说，“看，每走一步都糟蹋了一些雪。” 我回头看看身后留下的软糊糊的脚印。杰姆说要是我们等一等，等再下一会儿雪的话，我们可以把雪刮起来堆个雪人。我吐了一下舌头，一大块雪片落在舌头上，舌头感到发烫。 “杰姆，是热的。” “不，不是的，因为雪太冷，反倒觉得烫人。别吃了，斯各特，你又在糟蹋它。让雪落在地上。” “我还想在上面走走。” “我看这样，我们可以到莫迪小姐的院子里去走走。” 杰姆单足跳过前院，积顺着他的脚印跟着跳出去。我们来到莫迪小姐屋前的人行道上时，艾弗里先生走上前来跟我们搭讪。他的脸色粉红，皮带底下的肚子圆鼓鼓的。 “看看你们干的什么好事!”他说，“自从南部联军在阿波马托克斯投降以来，梅科姆县没下过雪。是你们这些淘气的小家伙使得天气变成这样的。” 我不知道艾弗里先生是否知道今年夏天我们是怎样满怀信心地盼望他重复那个表演的。我想如果这天气是对我们的报应的话，这种报应也有好的一面。我当然知道艾弗里先生是从哪儿弄来的气象资料：直接从罗塞塔石碑上得来的。 “杰姆?芬奇，杰姆?芬奇！” “莫迪小姐在喊你，杰姆。” “你俩只能在院子中间玩玩，走廊附近的雪底下埋着海石竹，注意别踩着了!” “知道了，小姐。”杰姆喊着，“真带劲儿，奠迫小姐，您说是吗?” “带劲个屁!要是今晚上结冰，我的杜鹃花就全完蛋了!” 莫迪小姐酌旧太阳帽上的雪花结晶闪闪发光。她正在一些不太高的花草旁弯着腰用粗麻布袋捆绑着花草。杰姆问把花草包起来干什么。 “保温。”她说。 “花草怎么能保温，它们没有血液循环。” “我回答不了这个问题，杰姆?芬奇。我就知道如果今晚上冰冻的话，这些花草会冻死，所以，要把它们包起来，明白了吗?” ‘明白了，小姐。莫迪小姐?” “什么事，老兄?” “我和斯各特可以借用一些你的雪吗?” “天啊，全拿去!楼板底下有个装桃子用的旧篮子，用它装雪拖走吧。”莫迪小姐的眼睛眯成了一条缝。“杰姆?芬奇，你们要用我的雪干什么?” “你会知道的。”杰姆说。随后我们尽最大的力量把莫迪小姐院子里的雪运到我们家的院子，弄得到处是泥，到处是水。 “下一步怎么办，杰姆?” “一会儿你就知道了。”杰姆说，“现在你拿着篮子去后院把雪都收集起来运到前院。注意，回来时顺着踩过的脚印走。”他提醒莸说。 “我们用雪堆个小娃娃吗，杰姆?” “不，一个真正的雪人。现在得使劲千了。” 杰姆跑到后院，找出把锄头，然后在柴火堆后飞快地挖起来，边挖边把挖到的一些虫都放在一边。他跑进屋里，出来时带了个装脏衣服用的大篮子。他把土装进篮子，然后运到前院。 等我们有了五篮土两篮雪时，杰姆说我们可以开始了。 “你不觉得这会搞得有些乱七八糟吗?”我问。 “暂时看上去一塌糊涂，一会儿就会好的。”他说。 杰姆用铲子铲了一堆土，把土堆在一起拍紧，加一铲土，再加一铲，直到堆出个躯干。 “杰姆，我从没听说过有黑人雪人。”我说。 “过一会几就不黑了。”他哼了一声。 杰姆从后院找来些桃树枝，他把这些树枝编织起来，编成骨架准备往上盖：！。 “他看起来象斯蒂芬尼?克劳福德小姐两手叉着腰，”我说，“身子很胖，两个胳膊很细。” “我会把胳膊加粗的。”杰姆往泥人身上泼些水，然后又加些土。他仔细对泥人端详了一会儿，然后又在腰下加上个大肚子。杰姆朝我瞥了一眼，眼里闪着喜悦的光芒：“艾弗里先生的体型有点象个雪人，你看是吗?” 杰姆铲了些雪，开始往上糊。他让费只动后面，把正面留给他。艾弗里先生渐渐地变白了。 杰姆用些小木条做眼睛、鼻子、嘴和钮扣，这些加上去后，“艾弗里先生”看上去怒气冲冲的。杰姆最后用一根柴火棍当拐杖，画龙点睛地完成了这个人物形象。杰姆往后退几步，仔细打量着他的创作。 “真带劲儿，杰姆，”我说，“看上去他好象要跟你说话似的。” “真的吗?”他有点不好意思地说。 我们等不及阿迪克斯回来吃晚饭了。我们打电话告诉他有一样使他吃惊的东西。爸爸在前院看到后院时，看上去似乎感到很意外，说我们干得很出色。“我原来不知道你们打算怎样做，”他对杰姆说，“但是，从现在起，我再不会担心你会怎么样了。孩子，你总是会打主意的。” 听了阿迪克斯的赞扬，杰姆的耳朵根都红了。但见阿迪克斯朝后退去时，他突然仰起头向上看去。阿迪克斯斜着眼看了一会儿雪人。他微微一笑，然后大笑起来。“孩子，我不知道你将来会当什么……是工程师、律师或者是画家。在这个前院你可以说是犯了侮辱他人罪。我们得给这位先生伪装伪装。” 阿迪克斯建议杰姆把他创作的人物的肚子削去一点，用一把扫帚代替柴火棍，再给他加一条围裙。 杰姆解释说如果照他那样办，会把雪人弄得黑糊糊的，那样就不成其为雪人了。 “我不管你们怎么办，反正得改一改，”阿迪克斯说，“你们随意丑化邻居是不行的。” “不是丑化，”杰姆说，“看上去碰巧跟他一样。” “艾弗里先生不一定这样看。” “我有个好主意I”杰姆说。他跑过街道，消失在莫迪小姐的后院。不一会儿他得意洋洋地回来了。杰姆把莫迪小姐的太阳帽扣在雪人头上，把树篱剪刀塞进胳膊的打弯处。阿迪克斯说这倒不错。 莫迪小姐打开前门来到走廊上。她隔着街望着我们。突然，她笑起来。“杰姆?芬奇，”她叫着，“你这个小淘气，把我的太阳帽送回来!” 杰姆抬头看看阿迪克斯，爸爸摇摇头。“她n！『着好玩，”他说，“实际上她很喜欢你的杰作。” 阿迪克斯走到莫迪小姐房前的人行道上，在那儿和莫迪小姐用手比划着热烈地谈起来。我们只听到其中的一句，“…??在那院子里堆了一个地道的阴阳人！阿迪克斯，你可管不了他们了。” 下午雪停了，气温下降。到天黑时，艾弗里先生那最可怕的预言应验了：卡尔珀尼亚把屋里所有的壁炉都点着了，可我们仍然觉得冷。那天晚上阿迪克斯回来时，他说我们要挨冻=r。他问卡尔珀尼亚是否想留下来和我们过夜，卡尔珀尼亚抬头看看高高的天花板，又看看长长的窗子，说她认为她家会暖和一些。阿迪克斯开车送她回去了。 我睡觉前，阿迪克斯往我房间里的炉子又添了些煤。他说温度计上的温度是华氏十六度，这是他知道的最冷的天气。他还说外面我们堆的雪人都冻硬了。 我觉得睡了还没多久就有人把我推醒了。阿迪克斯的大衣盖在我身上。“就天亮了吗?” “宝贝儿，起来。” 阿迪克斯拿着我的浴衣和外套t“先穿上浴衣。’他说。 杰姆站在阿迪克斯身旁，头发乱蓬蓬的，他一只手用大衣裹着脖子，一只手插在口袋里，好象站不稳似的。他看上去穿得太多了。 “快点，乖孩子。”阿迪克斯说，“给你鞋袜。” 我迷迷糊糊地穿上鞋袜。“天亮了吗?” “不，一点钟刚过。快点。” 我终于明白出事了。“怎么回事?” 到这时他用不着告诉我了。正如下雨时小鸟知道往哪几去一样，我们这条街出事时我也知道。象塔夫绸摆动时的轻柔声和沉闷急促的脚步声使我不寒而栗。 “谁家出事了?” “莫迪小姐家，乖孩子。”阿迪克斯轻声地说。 在前门我看到大火从莫迪小姐家餐室的窗口向外喷射。好象要证实我所看见的是真的似的，镇上的火警警报器刺耳地尖叫起来，接着便反反复复地叫个不停。 “火烧得很厉害，是吗?”杰姆伤心地问。 “我想是的。”阿迪克斯说，“你俩听着，下楼去站在拉德利家房前，离火远一点，听见了吗?注意风是往哪个方向刮的。” “阿迪克斯，你看我们要把家具搬出去吗?”杰姆问。 “还用不着，孩子。按我说的办，快跑吧。看好斯各特，你听见吗?别把她丢了。” 说着阿迪克斯把我们朝拉德利家的前门推出去。我们站着观看挤满了人和车子的街道。烈火无声地吞噬着莫迪小姐的房子。“他们为什么不快点，为什么不快点……”杰姆喃喃地说。 我们明白了为什么。耶辆旧的救火车水箱冻住了，发动不起来，正由一群人从镇上推过来。当那些人把水管套在消防龙头上时，水管被冲爆了，水向上直射，水管丁当一声落在地上。 “天啊，杰姆……” 杰姆伸出手搂住我。“别叫，斯各特，”他说，“还没到担心的时候，到时候我会告诉你的。” 梅科姆镇上所有的男子，身上穿得五花八门的，有的穿着外衣，有的穿着内衣，他们都在从莫迪小姐家往外搬家具，搬出来都放在街对面的一块空地上。我看见阿迪克斯背着莫迪小姐的笨重的橡木摇椅，我觉得他抢救她最珍惜的东西，是明智的。 有时候我们听到喊声。这时，艾弗里先生的面孔在楼上的窗口出现了。他把床垫从窗口推下街来，然后扔下家具，直到有人喊他：“快从那儿下来，迪克I楼梯要塌了！快离开那儿，艾弗里先生!” 艾弗里先生开始从窗口向外爬。 “斯各特，他被卡住了……”杰姆急促地说，“哎呀，天啊……” 艾弗里先生给死死地卡住了。我把头埋在杰姆的胳膊下不敢抬头看，直到杰姆喊：“出来了，斯各特！他没事！” 我抬起头，看见艾弗里先生正穿过楼上的走廊。他一抬脚跨过栏杆，顺着柱子往下滑，突然，他手一松摔了下来，大叫一声掉在莫迪小姐家的灌木丛中。 接着我看到人们开始从莫迪小姐的房子往后退，人们朝我们移过来。他们不再抢救家具了。火已上了二楼，火舌正向屋顶舔去。黑越越的窗框映衬着鲜艳的橘色火球。 “杰姆，看上去象个大南瓜。” “斯各特，看!” 我们家和雷切尔小姐家的房子上浓烟滚滚而过，就象蒸腾大雾滚过河岸。人们开始朝这边拽水管。在我们身后，从阿波兹维尔开来的救火车呼啸着开过拐弯处，停在我家屋前。 “那本书……”我说。 “什么?”杰姆问。 “那本《托姆?斯威夫特》，那不是我的，是迪尔的……” “别急，斯各特，还没到急的时候。”杰姆说。他用手一指，“看那边。’ 阿迪克斯站在一群人中，两手揣在口袋里，好象在看足球赛似的。莫迪小姐站在他身旁。 “看那边，他都没着急。”杰姆说。 “他怎么不到餍顶上去?” “他年纪大了，那样做会摔死的。” “你看，我们应该要他把我们的东西搬出来吗?” “我们别去打扰他，他知道什么时候动手。”杰姆说。 从阿波兹维尔来的救火车开始往我家的房上喷水。有卟人站在屋顶上指挥若哪儿最需要水。我眼睁睁地看着我们的阴阳人变黑，然后垮掉了。莫迪小姐的太阳帽还扣在那堆土上，可我没看见那把剪刀。在我们这几家之间的热浪中，救火的人早就脱去了外衣和浴衣，他们忙碌着，睡衣塞进裤腰里，可我站在那儿却渐渐地感到冷得发抖。杰姆想帮我暖和暖和，可他的手不大起作用。我推开他的胳膊，用自己的双手紧紧搂住肩膀。我跳了一会儿，脚才有了知觉。 叉来了辆救火车，停在斯蒂芬尼?克劳福德小姐门前。有水管，可是没有消防龙头了。救火的人企图用手提灭火器灭掉房子上的火。 莫迪小姐的铁皮屋顶止住了火苗。随着一阵呼啸，房子倒塌了。满地都是火苗，随后便是一阵阵毯子的扑打声。人们在邻近的房顶上拍打火星和烧着了的一块块的木头。 一直到天亮，人们才渐渐离去，先是一个个走开，后来是成群地离去。他们把梅科姆的救火车推回镇上，从阿波兹维尔来的车回去了，第三辆车留了下来。第二天，我们才知道这辆车是从六十英里以外的克拉克渡口开来的。 我和杰姆走到街对面。莫迪小姐呆呆地看着院子里还在冒烟的黑洞。阿迪克斯向我们摇摇头，意思是莫迪小姐现在不想说话。他搂着我俩的肩膀，穿过街道，把我俩领回家。他说莫迪小姐暂时会和斯蒂芬尼小姐住在一块儿。 “谁要热巧克力吗?”爸爸问。当爸爸在厨房的炉子里生起一炉火时，我打了个冷颤。 喝可可茶H、j，我发现阿迪克斯在看着我，先是好奇地看着，后来变得严肃起来。“我想我告诉了你和杰姆，要你们站在那儿别动。” “是啊，我们是没动。我们站在……” “那么这是谁的毯子?” “毯子?” “是的，小姐，毯子。这不是我们家的。” 我低头一看，发现自己正紧紧抓着披在身上的一条棕色的羊毛毯子，象印第安女人似的。 “阿迪克斯，我不知道，爸爸……我……” 我朝杰姆看去，希望他能解答，但杰姆比我还迷惑不解。他说他不知道毯子怎么到我身上来的，说我们是按阿迪克斯的要求办的。我们站在拉德利家的大门口，离大家远远的，我们站在那儿一步都没动……杰姆住了口。 。内森先生当时在火场上。”他含糊不清地又说起来，“我看见他了，我看见他了，他当时正在拖床垫……阿迪克斯，我发誓……” “行了，孩子，”阿迪克斯稍微笑了笑，“看来梅科姆镇上的人今晚上都出来了，只是出来的方式不同。杰姆，我想食品室里有些包装纸，去拿来，我们……” “阿迪克斯，不，爸爸!” 杰姆好象发疯了似的。他把我们的秘密一古脑儿全都倒了出来。他不怕受处分，也完全把我置之度外。他一点都没保留，什么树洞啦，裤子啦，全都说了。 “……内森先生把树洞里塞进水泥是为了不让我们再找到东西……我想，正如大伙说的那样，他有砦古怪，但我向上帝发誓，他从没伤过我们，从没害过我们。那天晚上他本来可以把找打死，可相反，他却帮我补了裤予……他真的从没害过我们，阿迪克斯。” 阿迪克斯说：“好了，孩子。”他说得那样和气，我这才松了口气。很明显，他根本没听杰姆在说什么，因为阿迪克斯只说了句：“你说得对，这件事和毯子的事只有我们知道就行了。可能有一天，斯各特可以向他表示谢意，谢他把毯子披在她肩上。” “谢谢谁?”我问。 “布?拉德利。你光顾看火去了，他把毯子披在你身上，你都没注意。” 我的五脏六腑顿时象变成了一滩水似的。杰姆拿着毯子朝我走过来时，我差点呕出来。他说，“布?拉德利……溜出房间……转过弯……偷偷走过来，这样走的。” 阿迪克斯冷冷地说：“不要因为这个而洋洋得意，再去干那些自以为荣耀的事，杰里米。” 杰姆不高兴了。“我又不会去惹他。”我注意到他眼里刚刚出现的进行新的冒险的光芒消失了。“想一想，新各特，”他说，“当时你只要转过身，就看见他了。” 卡尔珀尼亚中午才把我们喊醒。阿迪克斯已经说了，我们那天用不着上学，一晚上没睡觉，上学也学不了什么。卡尔珀尼亚叫我们把前院打扫干净。 奥迫小姐的太阳帽外面冻了一层薄薄的冰，就象琥珀中的一只苍蝇似的。我们不得不在土堆里挖找她的剪刀，我们看见她在后院，呆呆地凝视着她那冰冻了的被烧焦的杜鹃花。 “我们马上把您的东西还给您，莫迪小姐，”杰姆说，。我们真为您难过。”’ 莫迪小姐转过身来，脸上露出了常见的笑容。“一直想要个小点的房子。想一想，院子再大一点，我就有更多的地方种杜鹃花了。” “您并不伤心，莫迪小姐?”我惊讶地问了句。阿迪克斯说她的房子几乎是她所拥有的一切。 “伤心，孩子?哎呀，我恨透了那间旧牛棚，我想过不知多少次了，自己点把火把它烧掉吧；要不是担心他们会拘留我的话，我早就动手了。” “可是……” “别为我担心，琼?路易斯?芬奇。有些办法你还不知道。我呀，我要建一栋小房子，找几个房客……对了，我要有一个亚拉巴马最高级的院子。等我动起手来，贝林格雷思那些院子就会显得太渺小了。” 杰姆和我互相看了看。“火是怎么着起来的，莫迪小姐?”他问。 “我不知道，杰姆。可能是厨房里的烟道引起的。昨晚上我把栽在盆里的花放在那儿，生了一炉火。琼?路易斯小姐，听说昨晚上你们碰到一位没预料到的伙伴。” “您怎么知道的?” “阿迪克斯早上到镇上去的时候告诉我的。告诉你们实话，我要是跟你们在一块儿就好了。要是我在的话，一定会感觉到并转过身去的。” 莫迫小姐使我莫名其妙。她的大部分财产都已化为灰烬，她那可爱的院子已变为废墟，可她对杰姆和我的活动还这么感兴趣，她还是这么活泼热情。 她一定看出我有些迷惑不解。她说：“昨天晚上我唯一酌担心是这场火引起的混乱和危险。这条街上所有的房子都有可能被烧掉。艾弗里先生得在床上躺一个星期——他年纪太大了，不能干那样的事。我跟他这么讲了。等我手头韵事一做完，斯蒂芬尼?克劳福德又不在旁边看着时，我要给他做个‘莱恩’饼。三十年来，那个斯蒂芬尼一直想学会我的制作方法，要是她以为我和她住在一起就会告诉她这个方法，那她就想错了。” 我想，即使莫迪小姐改变主意，把制作方法告诉她，斯蒂芬尼小姐也是学不会的。莫迪小姐有一次做这种饼子时让我看见了：除了其他配料外，这个方法需要一大杯糖。 这一天十分寂静。空气又寒冷又清新。法院大钟在报时前发出的丁当声和乐曲声都能听清楚。莫迪小姐的鼻子的颜色是我从没见过的。我问了问她。 “从早上六点钟起我就在外边，”她说，“我现在一定冻伤了。”她举起手，手掌上布满了细细的线条，那是棕色的脏东西和凝固的血浆构成的。 “您把手弄成这样，”杰姆说，“您为什么不叫个黑人?”又说，“为什么不找我和斯各特?我们可以帮忙的。”他说最后一句话时，并没有要做出牺牲的口气。 莫迪小姐说：“谢谢你，孩子。可你们那边有你们自己的事。”她朝我家院子一指。 “您是说那个阴阳人吗?”我问，“那没有什么！我们一下就可以把它堆起来。” 莫迪小姐的目光低下来盯着我，嘴唇动了动没出声。突然，她抱着脑袋大叫起来。我们离开她时，她还在抿着嘴轻声地笑。 杰姆说不知道她怎么了——莫遒小姐就是_那么个人。 |
Chapter 9 “You can just take that back, boy!” This order, given by me to Cecil Jacobs, was the beginning of a rather thin time forJem and me. My fists were clenched and I was ready to let fly. Atticus had promised mehe would wear me out if he ever heard of me fighting any more; I was far too old and toobig for such childish things, and the sooner I learned to hold in, the better off everybodywould be. I soon forgot. Cecil Jacobs made me forget. He had announced in the schoolyard the day beforethat Scout Finch’s daddy defended niggers. I denied it, but told Jem. “What’d he mean sayin‘ that?” I asked. “Nothing,” Jem said. “Ask Atticus, he’ll tell you.” “Do you defend niggers, Atticus?” I asked him that evening. “Of course I do. Don’t say nigger, Scout. That’s common.” “‘s what everybody at school says.” “From now on it’ll be everybody less one—” “Well if you don’t want me to grow up talkin‘ that way, why do you send me to school?” My father looked at me mildly, amusement in his eyes. Despite our compromise, mycampaign to avoid school had continued in one form or another since my first day’sdose of it: the beginning of last September had brought on sinking spells, dizziness, andmild gastric complaints. I went so far as to pay a nickel for the privilege of rubbing myhead against the head of Miss Rachel’s cook’s son, who was afflicted with a tremendousringworm. It didn’t take. But I was worrying another bone. “Do all lawyers defend n-Negroes, Atticus?” “Of course they do, Scout.” “Then why did Cecil say you defended niggers? He made it sound like you wererunnin‘ a still.” Atticus sighed. “I’m simply defending a Negro—his name’s Tom Robinson. He lives inthat little settlement beyond the town dump. He’s a member of Calpurnia’s church, andCal knows his family well. She says they’re clean-living folks. Scout, you aren’t oldenough to understand some things yet, but there’s been some high talk around town tothe effect that I shouldn’t do much about defending this man. It’s a peculiar case—itwon’t come to trial until summer session. John Taylor was kind enough to give us apostponement…” “If you shouldn’t be defendin‘ him, then why are you doin’ it?” “For a number of reasons,” said Atticus. “The main one is, if I didn’t I couldn’t hold upmy head in town, I couldn’t represent this county in the legislature, I couldn’t even tellyou or Jem not to do something again.” “You mean if you didn’t defend that man, Jem and me wouldn’t have to mind you anymore?” “That’s about right.” “Why?” “Because I could never ask you to mind me again. Scout, simply by the nature of thework, every lawyer gets at least one case in his lifetime that affects him personally. Thisone’s mine, I guess. You might hear some ugly talk about it at school, but do one thingfor me if you will: you just hold your head high and keep those fists down. No matterwhat anybody says to you, don’t you let ‘em get your goat. Try fighting with your headfor a change… it’s a good one, even if it does resist learning.” “Atticus, are we going to win it?” “No, honey.” “Then why—” “Simply because we were licked a hundred years before we started is no reason for usnot to try to win,” Atticus said. “You sound like Cousin Ike Finch,” I said. Cousin Ike Finch was Maycomb County’ssole surviving Confederate veteran. He wore a General Hood type beard of which hewas inordinately vain. At least once a year Atticus, Jem and I called on him, and I wouldhave to kiss him. It was horrible. Jem and I would listen respectfully to Atticus andCousin Ike rehash the war. “Tell you, Atticus,” Cousin Ike would say, “the MissouriCompromise was what licked us, but if I had to go through it agin I’d walk every step ofthe way there an‘ every step back jist like I did before an’ furthermore we’d whip ‘em thistime… now in 1864, when Stonewall Jackson came around by—I beg your pardon,young folks. Ol’ Blue Light was in heaven then, God rest his saintly brow…” “Come here, Scout,” said Atticus. I crawled into his lap and tucked my head under hischin. He put his arms around me and rocked me gently. “It’s different this time,” he said. “This time we aren’t fighting the Yankees, we’re fighting our friends. But remember this,no matter how bitter things get, they’re still our friends and this is still our home.” With this in mind, I faced Cecil Jacobs in the schoolyard next day: “You gonna takethat back, boy?” “You gotta make me first!” he yelled. “My folks said your daddy was a disgrace an‘ thatnigger oughta hang from the water-tank!” I drew a bead on him, remembered what Atticus had said, then dropped my fists andwalked away, “Scout’s a cow—ward!” ringing in my ears. It was the first time I everwalked away from a fight. Somehow, if I fought Cecil I would let Atticus down. Atticus so rarely asked Jem andme to do something for him, I could take being called a coward for him. I felt extremelynoble for having remembered, and remained noble for three weeks. Then Christmascame and disaster struck. Jem and I viewed Christmas with mixed feelings. The good side was the tree andUncle Jack Finch. Every Christmas Eve day we met Uncle Jack at Maycomb Junction,and he would spend a week with us. A flip of the coin revealed the uncompromising lineaments of Aunt Alexandra andFrancis. I suppose I should include Uncle Jimmy, Aunt Alexandra’s husband, but as he neverspoke a word to me in my life except to say, “Get off the fence,” once, I never saw anyreason to take notice of him. Neither did Aunt Alexandra. Long ago, in a burst offriendliness, Aunty and Uncle Jimmy produced a son named Henry, who left home assoon as was humanly possible, married, and produced Francis. Henry and his wifedeposited Francis at his grandparents’ every Christmas, then pursued their ownpleasures. No amount of sighing could induce Atticus to let us spend Christmas day at home. Wewent to Finch’s Landing every Christmas in my memory. The fact that Aunty was a goodcook was some compensation for being forced to spend a religious holiday with FrancisHancock. He was a year older than I, and I avoided him on principle: he enjoyedeverything I disapproved of, and disliked my ingenuous diversions. Aunt Alexandra was Atticus’s sister, but when Jem told me about changelings andsiblings, I decided that she had been swapped at birth, that my grandparents hadperhaps received a Crawford instead of a Finch. Had I ever harbored the mysticalnotions about mountains that seem to obsess lawyers and judges, Aunt Alexandrawould have been analogous to Mount Everest: throughout my early life, she was coldand there. When Uncle Jack jumped down from the train Christmas Eve day, we had to wait forthe porter to hand him two long packages. Jem and I always thought it funny whenUncle Jack pecked Atticus on the cheek; they were the only two men we ever saw kisseach other. Uncle Jack shook hands with Jem and swung me high, but not high enough: Uncle Jack was a head shorter than Atticus; the baby of the family, he was younger thanAunt Alexandra. He and Aunty looked alike, but Uncle Jack made better use of his face: we were never wary of his sharp nose and chin. He was one of the few men of science who never terrified me, probably because henever behaved like a doctor. Whenever he performed a minor service for Jem and me,as removing a splinter from a foot, he would tell us exactly what he was going to do,give us an estimation of how much it would hurt, and explain the use of any tongs heemployed. One Christmas I lurked in corners nursing a twisted splinter in my foot,permitting no one to come near me. When Uncle Jack caught me, he kept me laughingabout a preacher who hated going to church so much that every day he stood at hisgate in his dressing-gown, smoking a hookah and delivering five-minute sermons to anypassers-by who desired spiritual comfort. I interrupted to make Uncle Jack let me knowwhen he would pull it out, but he held up a bloody splinter in a pair of tweezers and saidhe yanked it while I was laughing, that was what was known as relativity. “What’s in those packages?” I asked him, pointing to the long thin parcels the porterhad given him. “None of your business,” he said. Jem said, “How’s Rose Aylmer?” Rose Aylmer was Uncle Jack’s cat. She was a beautiful yellow female Uncle Jack saidwas one of the few women he could stand permanently. He reached into his coat pocketand brought out some snapshots. We admired them. “She’s gettin‘ fat,” I said. “I should think so. She eats all the leftover fingers and ears from the hospital.” “Aw, that’s a damn story,” I said. “I beg your pardon?” Atticus said, “Don’t pay any attention to her, Jack. She’s trying you out. Cal says she’sbeen cussing fluently for a week, now.” Uncle Jack raised his eyebrows and saidnothing. I was proceeding on the dim theory, aside from the innate attractiveness ofsuch words, that if Atticus discovered I had picked them up at school he wouldn’t makeme go. But at supper that evening when I asked him to pass the damn ham, please, UncleJack pointed at me. “See me afterwards, young lady,” he said. When supper was over, Uncle Jack went to the livingroom and sat down. He slappedhis thighs for me to come sit on his lap. I liked to smell him: he was like a bottle ofalcohol and something pleasantly sweet. He pushed back my bangs and looked at me. “You’re more like Atticus than your mother,” he said. “You’re also growing out of yourpants a little.” “I reckon they fit all right.” “You like words like damn and hell now, don’t you?” I said I reckoned so. “Well I don’t,” said Uncle Jack, “not unless there’s extreme provocation connected with‘em. I’ll be here a week, and I don’t want to hear any words like that while I’m here. Scout, you’ll get in trouble if you go around saying things like that. You want to grow upto be a lady, don’t you?” I said not particularly. “Of course you do. Now let’s get to the tree.” We decorated the tree until bedtime, and that night I dreamed of the two longpackages for Jem and me. Next morning Jem and I dived for them: they were fromAtticus, who had written Uncle Jack to get them for us, and they were what we hadasked for. “Don’t point them in the house,” said Atticus, when Jem aimed at a picture on the wall. “You’ll have to teach ‘em to shoot,” said Uncle Jack. “That’s your job,” said Atticus. “I merely bowed to the inevitable.” It took Atticus’s courtroom voice to drag us away from the tree. He declined to let ustake our air rifles to the Landing (I had already begun to think of shooting Francis) andsaid if we made one false move he’d take them away from us for good. Finch’s Landing consisted of three hundred and sixty-six steps down a high bluff andending in a jetty. Farther down stream, beyond the bluff, were traces of an old cottonlanding, where Finch Negroes had loaded bales and produce, unloaded blocks of ice,flour and sugar, farm equipment, and feminine apparel. A two-rut road ran from theriverside and vanished among dark trees. At the end of the road was a two-storied whitehouse with porches circling it upstairs and downstairs. In his old age, our ancestorSimon Finch had built it to please his nagging wife; but with the porches all resemblanceto ordinary houses of its era ended. The internal arrangements of the Finch house wereindicative of Simon’s guilelessness and the absolute trust with which he regarded hisoffspring. There were six bedrooms upstairs, four for the eight female children, one for WelcomeFinch, the sole son, and one for visiting relatives. Simple enough; but the daughters’ rooms could be reached only by one staircase, Welcome’s room and the guestroomonly by another. The Daughters’ Staircase was in the ground-floor bedroom of theirparents, so Simon always knew the hours of his daughters’ nocturnal comings andgoings. There was a kitchen separate from the rest of the house, tacked onto it by a woodencatwalk; in the back yard was a rusty bell on a pole, used to summon field hands or as adistress signal; a widow’s walk was on the roof, but no widows walked there—from it,Simon oversaw his overseer, watched the river-boats, and gazed into the lives ofsurrounding landholders. There went with the house the usual legend about the Yankees: one Finch female,recently engaged, donned her complete trousseau to save it from raiders in theneighborhood; she became stuck in the door to the Daughters’ Staircase but wasdoused with water and finally pushed through. When we arrived at the Landing, AuntAlexandra kissed Uncle Jack, Francis kissed Uncle Jack, Uncle Jimmy shook handssilently with Uncle Jack, Jem and I gave our presents to Francis, who gave us a present. Jem felt his age and gravitated to the adults, leaving me to entertain our cousin. Franciswas eight and slicked back his hair. “What’d you get for Christmas?” I asked politely. “Just what I asked for,” he said. Francis had requested a pair of knee-pants, a redleather booksack, five shirts and an untied bow tie. “That’s nice,” I lied. “Jem and me got air rifles, and Jem got a chemistry set—” “A toy one, I reckon.” “No, a real one. He’s gonna make me some invisible ink, and I’m gonna write to Dill init.” Francis asked what was the use of that. “Well, can’t you just see his face when he gets a letter from me with nothing in it? It’lldrive him nuts.” Talking to Francis gave me the sensation of settling slowly to the bottom of the ocean. He was the most boring child I ever met. As he lived in Mobile, he could not inform onme to school authorities, but he managed to tell everything he knew to Aunt Alexandra,who in turn unburdened herself to Atticus, who either forgot it or gave me hell,whichever struck his fancy. But the only time I ever heard Atticus speak sharply toanyone was when I once heard him say, “Sister, I do the best I can with them!” It hadsomething to do with my going around in overalls. Aunt Alexandra was fanatical on the subject of my attire. I could not possibly hope tobe a lady if I wore breeches; when I said I could do nothing in a dress, she said I wasn’tsupposed to be doing things that required pants. Aunt Alexandra’s vision of mydeportment involved playing with small stoves, tea sets, and wearing the Add-A-Pearlnecklace she gave me when I was born; furthermore, I should be a ray of sunshine inmy father’s lonely life. I suggested that one could be a ray of sunshine in pants just aswell, but Aunty said that one had to behave like a sunbeam, that I was born good buthad grown progressively worse every year. She hurt my feelings and set my teethpermanently on edge, but when I asked Atticus about it, he said there were alreadyenough sunbeams in the family and to go on about my business, he didn’t mind memuch the way I was. At Christmas dinner, I sat at the little table in the diningroom; Jem and Francis sat withthe adults at the dining table. Aunty had continued to isolate me long after Jem andFrancis graduated to the big table. I often wondered what she thought I’d do, get up andthrow something? I sometimes thought of asking her if she would let me sit at the bigtable with the rest of them just once, I would prove to her how civilized I could be; afterall, I ate at home every day with no major mishaps. When I begged Atticus to use hisinfluence, he said he had none—we were guests, and we sat where she told us to sit. He also said Aunt Alexandra didn’t understand girls much, she’d never had one. But her cooking made up for everything: three kinds of meat, summer vegetables fromher pantry shelves; peach pickles, two kinds of cake and ambrosia constituted a modestChristmas dinner. Afterwards, the adults made for the livingroom and sat around in adazed condition. Jem lay on the floor, and I went to the back yard. “Put on your coat,” said Atticus dreamily, so I didn’t hear him. Francis sat beside me on the back steps. “That was the best yet,” I said. “Grandma’s a wonderful cook,” said Francis. “She’s gonna teach me how.” “Boys don’t cook.” I giggled at the thought of Jem in an apron. “Grandma says all men should learn to cook, that men oughta be careful with theirwives and wait on ‘em when they don’t feel good,” said my cousin. “I don’t want Dill waitin‘ on me,” I said. “I’d rather wait on him.” “Dill?” “Yeah. Don’t say anything about it yet, but we’re gonna get married as soon as we’rebig enough. He asked me last summer.” Francis hooted. “What’s the matter with him?” I asked. “Ain’t anything the matter with him.” “You mean that little runt Grandma says stays with Miss Rachel every summer?” “That’s exactly who I mean.” “I know all about him,” said Francis. “What about him?” “Grandma says he hasn’t got a home—” “Has too, he lives in Meridian.” “—he just gets passed around from relative to relative, and Miss Rachel keeps himevery summer.” “Francis, that’s not so!” Francis grinned at me. “You’re mighty dumb sometimes, Jean Louise. Guess youdon’t know any better, though.” “What do you mean?” “If Uncle Atticus lets you run around with stray dogs, that’s his own business, likeGrandma says, so it ain’t your fault. I guess it ain’t your fault if Uncle Atticus is a nigger-lover besides, but I’m here to tell you it certainly does mortify the rest of the family—” “Francis, what the hell do you mean?” “Just what I said. Grandma says it’s bad enough he lets you all run wild, but now he’sturned out a nigger-lover we’ll never be able to walk the streets of Maycomb agin. He’sruinin‘ the family, that’s what he’s doin’.” Francis rose and sprinted down the catwalk to the old kitchen. At a safe distance hecalled, “He’s nothin‘ but a nigger-lover!” “He is not!” I roared. “I don’t know what you’re talkin‘ about, but you better cut it outthis red hot minute!” I leaped off the steps and ran down the catwalk. It was easy to collar Francis. I saidtake it back quick. Francis jerked loose and sped into the old kitchen. “Nigger-lover!” he yelled. When stalking one’s prey, it is best to take one’s time. Say nothing, and as sure aseggs he will become curious and emerge. Francis appeared at the kitchen door. “Youstill mad, Jean Louise?” he asked tentatively. “Nothing to speak of,” I said. Francis came out on the catwalk. “You gonna take it back, Fra—ancis?” But I was too quick on the draw. Francis shotback into the kitchen, so I retired to the steps. I could wait patiently. I had sat thereperhaps five minutes when I heard Aunt Alexandra speak: “Where’s Francis?” “He’s out yonder in the kitchen.” “He knows he’s not supposed to play in there.” Francis came to the door and yelled, “Grandma, she’s got me in here and she won’tlet me out!” “What is all this, Jean Louise?” I looked up at Aunt Alexandra. “I haven’t got him in there, Aunty, I ain’t holdin‘ him.” “Yes she is,” shouted Francis, “she won’t let me out!” “Have you all been fussing?” “Jean Louise got mad at me, Grandma,” called Francis. “Francis, come out of there! Jean Louise, if I hear another word out of you I’ll tell yourfather. Did I hear you say hell a while ago?” “Nome.” “I thought I did. I’d better not hear it again.” Aunt Alexandra was a back-porch listener. The moment she was out of sight Franciscame out head up and grinning. “Don’t you fool with me,” he said. He jumped into the yard and kept his distance, kicking tufts of grass, turning aroundoccasionally to smile at me. Jem appeared on the porch, looked at us, and went away. Francis climbed the mimosa tree, came down, put his hands in his pockets and strolledaround the yard. “Hah!” he said. I asked him who he thought he was, Uncle Jack? Francis said he reckoned I got told, for me to just sit there and leave him alone. “I ain’t botherin‘ you,” I said. Francis looked at me carefully, concluded that I had been sufficiently subdued, andcrooned softly, “Nigger-lover…” This time, I split my knuckle to the bone on his front teeth. My left impaired, I sailed inwith my right, but not for long. Uncle Jack pinned my arms to my sides and said, “Standstill!” Aunt Alexandra ministered to Francis, wiping his tears away with her handkerchief,rubbing his hair, patting his cheek. Atticus, Jem, and Uncle Jimmy had come to the backporch when Francis started yelling. “Who started this?” said Uncle Jack. Francis and I pointed at each other. “Grandma,” he bawled, “she called me a whore-lady and jumped on me!” “Is that true, Scout?” said Uncle Jack. “I reckon so.” When Uncle Jack looked down at me, his features were like Aunt Alexandra’s. “Youknow I told you you’d get in trouble if you used words like that? I told you, didn’t I?” “Yes sir, but—” “Well, you’re in trouble now. Stay there.” I was debating whether to stand there or run, and tarried in indecision a moment toolong: I turned to flee but Uncle Jack was quicker. I found myself suddenly looking at atiny ant struggling with a bread crumb in the grass. “I’ll never speak to you again as long as I live! I hate you an‘ despise you an’ hope youdie tomorrow!” A statement that seemed to encourage Uncle Jack, more than anything. Iran to Atticus for comfort, but he said I had it coming and it was high time we wenthome. I climbed into the back seat of the car without saying good-bye to anyone, and athome I ran to my room and slammed the door. Jem tried to say something nice, but Iwouldn’t let him. When I surveyed the damage there were only seven or eight red marks, and I wasreflecting upon relativity when someone knocked on the door. I asked who it was; UncleJack answered. “Go away!” Uncle Jack said if I talked like that he’d lick me again, so I was quiet. When he enteredthe room I retreated to a corner and turned my back on him. “Scout,” he said, “do youstill hate me?” “Go on, please sir.” “Why, I didn’t think you’d hold it against me,” he said. “I’m disappointed in you—youhad that coming and you know it.” “Didn’t either.” “Honey, you can’t go around calling people—” “You ain’t fair,” I said, “you ain’t fair.” Uncle Jack’s eyebrows went up. “Not fair? How not?” “You’re real nice, Uncle Jack, an‘ I reckon I love you even after what you did, but youdon’t understand children much.” Uncle Jack put his hands on his hips and looked down at me. “And why do I notunderstand children, Miss Jean Louise? Such conduct as yours required littleunderstanding. It was obstreperous, disorderly and abusive—” “You gonna give me a chance to tell you? I don’t mean to sass you, I’m just tryin‘ totell you.” Uncle Jack sat down on the bed. His eyebrows came together, and he peered up atme from under them. “Proceed,” he said. I took a deep breath. “Well, in the first place you never stopped to gimme a chance totell you my side of it—you just lit right into me. When Jem an‘ I fuss Atticus doesn’t everjust listen to Jem’s side of it, he hears mine too, an’ in the second place you told menever to use words like that except in ex-extreme provocation, and Francis provocatedme enough to knock his block off—” Uncle Jack scratched his head. “What was your side of it, Scout?” “Francis called Atticus somethin‘, an’ I wasn’t about to take it off him.” “What did Francis call him?” “A nigger-lover. I ain’t very sure what it means, but the way Francis said it—tell youone thing right now, Uncle Jack, I’ll be—I swear before God if I’ll sit there and let himsay somethin‘ about Atticus.” “He called Atticus that?” “Yes sir, he did, an‘ a lot more. Said Atticus’d be the ruination of the family an’ he letJem an me run wild…” From the look on Uncle Jack’s face, I thought I was in for it again. When he said,“We’ll see about this,” I knew Francis was in for it. “I’ve a good mind to go out theretonight.” “Please sir, just let it go. Please.” “I’ve no intention of letting it go,” he said. “Alexandra should know about this. The ideaof—wait’ll I get my hands on that boy…” “Uncle Jack, please promise me somethin‘, please sir. Promise you won’t tell Atticusabout this. He—he asked me one time not to let anything I heard about him make memad, an’ I’d ruther him think we were fightin‘ about somethin’ else instead. Pleasepromise…” “But I don’t like Francis getting away with something like that—” “He didn’t. You reckon you could tie up my hand? It’s still bleedin‘ some.” “Of course I will, baby. I know of no hand I would be more delighted to tie up. Will youcome this way?” Uncle Jack gallantly bowed me to the bathroom. While he cleaned and bandaged myknuckles, he entertained me with a tale about a funny nearsighted old gentleman whohad a cat named Hodge, and who counted all the cracks in the sidewalk when he wentto town. “There now,” he said. “You’ll have a very unladylike scar on your wedding-ringfinger.” “Thank you sir. Uncle Jack?” “Ma’am?” “What’s a whore-lady?” Uncle Jack plunged into another long tale about an old Prime Minister who sat in theHouse of Commons and blew feathers in the air and tried to keep them there when allabout him men were losing their heads. I guess he was trying to answer my question,but he made no sense whatsoever. Later, when I was supposed to be in bed, I went down the hall for a drink of water andheard Atticus and Uncle Jack in the livingroom: “I shall never marry, Atticus.” “Why?” “I might have children.” Atticus said, “You’ve a lot to learn, Jack.” “I know. Your daughter gave me my first lessons this afternoon. She said I didn’tunderstand children much and told me why. She was quite right. Atticus, she told mehow I should have treated her—oh dear, I’m so sorry I romped on her.” Atticus chuckled. “She earned it, so don’t feel too remorseful.” I waited, on tenterhooks, for Uncle Jack to tell Atticus my side of it. But he didn’t. Hesimply murmured, “Her use of bathroom invective leaves nothing to the imagination. Butshe doesn’t know the meaning of half she says—she asked me what a whore-ladywas…” “Did you tell her?” “No, I told her about Lord Melbourne.” “Jack! When a child asks you something, answer him, for goodness’ sake. But don’tmake a production of it. Children are children, but they can spot an evasion quicker thanadults, and evasion simply muddles ‘em. No,” my father mused, “you had the rightanswer this afternoon, but the wrong reasons. Bad language is a stage all children gothrough, and it dies with time when they learn they’re not attracting attention with it. Hotheadedness isn’t. Scout’s got to learn to keep her head and learn soon, with what’sin store for her these next few months. She’s coming along, though. Jem’s getting olderand she follows his example a good bit now. All she needs is assistance sometimes.” “Atticus, you’ve never laid a hand on her.” “I admit that. So far I’ve been able to get by with threats. Jack, she minds me as wellas she can. Doesn’t come up to scratch half the time, but she tries.” “That’s not the answer,” said Uncle Jack. “No, the answer is she knows I know she tries. That’s what makes the difference. What bothers me is that she and Jem will have to absorb some ugly things pretty soon. I’m not worried about Jem keeping his head, but Scout’d just as soon jump on someoneas look at him if her pride’s at stake…” I waited for Uncle Jack to break his promise. He still didn’t. “Atticus, how bad is this going to be? You haven’t had too much chance to discuss it.” “It couldn’t be worse, Jack. The only thing we’ve got is a black man’s word against theEwells‘. The evidence boils down to you-did—I-didn’t. The jury couldn’t possibly beexpected to take Tom Robinson’s word against the Ewells’—are you acquainted with theEwells?” Uncle Jack said yes, he remembered them. He described them to Atticus, but Atticussaid, “You’re a generation off. The present ones are the same, though.” “What are you going to do, then?” “Before I’m through, I intend to jar the jury a bit—I think we’ll have a reasonablechance on appeal, though. I really can’t tell at this stage, Jack. You know, I’d hoped toget through life without a case of this kind, but John Taylor pointed at me and said,‘You’re It.’” “Let this cup pass from you, eh?” “Right. But do you think I could face my children otherwise? You know what’s going tohappen as well as I do, Jack, and I hope and pray I can get Jem and Scout through itwithout bitterness, and most of all, without catching Maycomb’s usual disease. Whyreasonable people go stark raving mad when anything involving a Negro comes up, issomething I don’t pretend to understand… I just hope that Jem and Scout come to mefor their answers instead of listening to the town. I hope they trust me enough… JeanLouise?” My scalp jumped. I stuck my head around the corner. “Sir?” “Go to bed.” I scurried to my room and went to bed. Uncle Jack was a prince of a fellow not to letme down. But I never figured out how Atticus knew I was listening, and it was not untilmany years later that I realized he wanted me to hear every word he said. “你可以把那句话收回去，小子” 我给塞西尔?雅各布韵这个命令标志着杰姆和我开始了一段不愉快的日子。我已经握紧拳头，就要打出去了。阿迪克斯警告过我，要是再听说我和别人打架，就要打我的屁股。我已经这么大了，不该再千那些小孩子们干的事，还说我越快学会克制自己，就越会使大家都少点麻烦。可是我很快就忘记了这些嘱咐。 是塞西尔?雅各布使我忘记的。前天他在学校公开宣布斯各特?芬奇的爸爸为黑鬼们辩护。我否认了这点，但我告诉了杰姆。 “他说这些是什么意思?”我问。 “没什么意思。”杰姆说，“问阿迪克斯，他会告诉你的。” “你为黑鬼们辩护吗，阿迪克斯?”那天晚上我问他。 “当然啦。不要叫黑鬼，斯各特，那样叫是粗鄙的。” “学校里都是这么叫的。” “但从现在起，这么叫的人中就可以少你一个。” “如果你不想让我这样叫，为什么还要送我上学呢?” 爸爸很和蔼地看着我，眼里闪着快乐的光芒。尽管我们已经相互妥协，可是从我第一天尝到上学的滋味起，我一直在变换手法，争取不上学。九月份一开始就使我情绪一阵阵低落，头也昏，胃也有点痛。我甚至还出五分钱的镍币，让雷切尔小姐家厨师的儿子同意我用脑袋磨擦他的脑袋。他有一块很大的金钱癣，但我并没传染上。 但是，我还为另一件事担心。“所有的律师都为黑……黑人辩护吗，阿迪克斯?” “当然，都这样做，斯各梅。” “那为什么塞西尔说你为黑鬼辩护呢?他i兑起来好象你在千违法的事似的。” 阿迪克斯叹了口气。“我只不过是为一个黑人辩护罢了——他叫汤姆?鲁宾逊，住在镇上的垃圾场那边那闻小屋里。他是卡尔珀尼亚那个教会组织中的成员之一，卡尔珀尼亚很了解他们家，她说他们是安分守己的人。斯各特，你还小，有些事还不懂。我能告诉你的是，最近镇上有些议论，说我不该出力为黑人辩护。这是个特殊的案子——夏季开庭期以前不会审判的。约翰?泰勒挺好，同意延期审判……” “要是不该为他辩护，为什么你还这样做昵?” “有几点理由，”阿迪克斯说，“主要理由是，假如我不这样做，在镇上我将抬不起头，在立法机关就不能代表这个县，我甚至不能要求你或者杰姆别再做某种事了。” “你是说要是你不为那个人辩护，我和杰姆就可以不听你的话了吗?” “大概是这样。” “为什么?” “因为我再不能要求你们听我的话了。斯各特，这种工作酌性质决定了每一个律师在他的一生中总要办一个影响到他本人的案子。我想，这个就是我的案子。在学校你可能会听到一些关于这件事的不堪入耳的议论，但如果你愿意的话，请为我做一件事：这就是抬起头来，放下拳头。不管谁对你说什么，也不要生气，换个方法，用你的脑袋和别人斗……你的脑袋尽管在学习上不大灵，在这方面还是个好脑袋。” “阿迪克斯，我们会赢吗?” “不，乖孩子。” “那为什么……” “道理很简单，我们不能因为一百年前失败过就不再争取胜利了。”阿迪克斯说。 “你说话有点象堂哥艾克?芬奇。”我说。艾克?芬奇是梅科姆县活下来的唯一的南部联盟的老兵。他留着胡德将军式的胡子，对此他总吹个不停。每年阿迪克斯要带杰姆和我至少去他家玩一次，而每次我都得和他亲嘴，简直太可怕了。我和杰姆总是恭恭敬敬地听阿迪克斯和艾克重新讲述战争时的故事。“跟你说，阿迪克斯，”艾克常常说，“我们败就败在密苏里妥协案，但是，如果我要再一次经历这样的事，我会象以前一样，一步一步走到那儿，再一步一步地退回来。再说，这次该轮到我们打败他们了……到1864年，被人叫作‘石墙’的杰克生将军回来时——请原谅，年轻人，他这个绰号‘蓝光老人’的人当时已在天堂，愿上帝让这位伟人安息吧……” “过来，斯各特。”阿迪克斯说。我爬到他的膝上，把头伸到他的下巴下面。他用手搂着我轻轻地摇着。“这次不同了，”他说，“这次我们不是和北方佬打仗，而是和朋友较量。但是记住这一点，不管事情变得对我们多么不利，他们仍然是我们的朋友，这里仍是我们的家。” 脑子里记着这一点，我第二天在学校院子里遇见了塞西尔?雅各布：“你准备把那句话收回去吗，小子?” “我不收回去，你敢把我怎么样?”他叫着说，“我们家的人说你爸爸给我们丢脸，那个黑鬼应该被吊死在储水罐上!” 我的拳头对准他别要打出去，突然记起了阿迪克斯的话，我放下拳头走开了。身后传来了“斯各特是个胆小鬼”的喊声。这是我第一次不战而退。 不管怎么说，如果我打了塞西尔-雅各布，我就辜负了阿迪克斯的教诲。阿迪克斯很少要求我和杰姆为他做事。为了他，我可以忍受别人喊我胆小鬼。因为记住了阿迪克斯的话，我觉得挺自豪的。我只自豪了三个星期。圣诞节到了，灾难降临了。 我和杰姆都带着一种复杂的心情看待圣诞节。好的一面是圣诞树和杰克-芬奇叔叔。每年圣诞节的前一天，我们都去梅科姆站接杰克叔叔，然后他跟我们一道度过一个星期。 向上抛硬币，接落下时的正反面作出抉择的方法，反映了亚历山德拉姑妈和弗朗西斯的不妥睇的特点。 我想应该把亚历山德拉姑妈的丈夫，吉米姑父也算在内，但我长这么大，他从没跟我说过话，只有一次他说了句：“下来，不要爬栅栏。”我从不觉得有必要注意他，亚历山德拉姑妈也是这样想的。很久以前，由于友谊的进发，姑妈和吉米姑父生了个男孩，取名亨利。亨利刚够年龄就离开家里，结了婚，生了弗朗西斯。亨利和他妻子每年圣诞节把弗朗西斯放在爷爷奶奶家里，而他们自己则去寻欢作乐。 无论怎样叹气，阿迪克斯也不会让我们在家里过圣诞节的。在我的记忆中，每年圣诞节我们都去芬奇庄园。姑妈是个好厨师，这倒是弥补了被迫和弗朗西斯一道过节的烦恼。他比我大一岁，我的原则是回避他，因为我不赞成的他都欣赏，而我最喜欢的娱乐活动他都讨厌。 亚历山德拉姑妈是阿迪克斯的妹妹，但是杰姆跟我说过小孩出生时有被人调换的现象。我肯定她生下来时被人掉了包，我爷爷奶奶得到的是克劳福德家的后裔而不是芬奇家的。律师和法官对于山脉似乎老是有些神秘的概念，要是当年我也有他们那些概念的话，我会把亚历山德拉姑妈比作埃非尔士峰了t在我幼小的记忆中，她一直冷冰冰地矗立在那儿，拿她没办法。 圣诞节的前一天，当杰克叔叔从火车上下来时，我们等了他一会儿，直到搬运工人递给他两个长长的包裹。每次杰克叔叔象鸟儿似的在阿迪克斯的脸上啄几下时，杰姆和我朦觉得好笑。他们是我们看到的相互亲吻的唯一的两个男子汉。杰克叔叔和杰姆握握手，把我抱起来在空中高高地转几圈，但不太高：杰克叔叔比阿迪克斯矮一个头。他排行最小，比亚历山德拉姑妈小。他和姑妈长得很相象。但杰克叔叔的脸型好一点，他的尖鼻子、尖下巴一点也不叫我们害怕。 他是那些少数从不让我害怕的科学工作者之一，很可能是因为他的举止从不象个医生。每次他给杰姆或我诊治小毛病，例如拔出脚上的刺时，他都告诉我们他准备干什么，为我们估计会痛到什么程度，并且解释他使用的镊子的用途。有一次过圣诞节时，我躲在一个角落里，脚上扎进一根弯弯的长刺。我不让任何人靠近我。杰克叔叔抓住了我，他给我讲了个牧师的故事，这人最恨去教堂做礼拜，所以每天穿着晨衣，抽着水烟筒，站在大门口，对每一个寻求精神安慰的人他都要作五分钟的说教。听他讲故事时，我一直笑个不停。当我打断他的故事，要他告诉我什么时候把刺拔出来时，他用镊子夹着根血糊糊的刺，说当我捧腹大笑时，他已用力拔出来了，这就是人们所说的相对论。 “包裹里是什么?”我指着搬运工人递给他的包裹问。 “这不关你的事。”他说。 杰姆问：“罗斯?艾莫尔怎么样?” 罗斯?艾莫尔是杰克叔叔喂的猫。那是只漂亮的黄色的雌猫。杰克叔叔说和女人在一起，时间久了他就厌烦，但和这只猫却一直相处得很好。他把手伸进上衣的口袋里，掏出几张快照，我们挺喜欢。 “它越来越肥了。”我说。 “我想是这样。医院里扔掉的手指、耳朵，它都吃。” “该死曲，说得这么恶心。”我说。 “你说什么?” 阿迪克斯说：“杰克，别理她，她在逗你生气。卡尔说这一个星期她老是骂骂咧咧的。” 杰克叔叔有些惊讶，但什么也没说。除开这些词本身的诱惑力外，我是在试验?种模糊不清的理论，即如果阿迪克斯发现这些字眼是我从学校学来的，就不会让我上学了。 但吃晚饭时，当我请他传给我那该死的火腿时，杰克叔叔指着我说：“饭后过来见我，年轻的小姐。” 晚饭吃完后，杰克叔叔来到客厅坐下。他拍拍大腿让我坐到他的膝头上去。我喜欢闻他身上的味儿：他象一瓶酒似的，身上还有一种令人愉快的香味儿。他用手把我的刘海向后边拂了拂，然后看着我：。你不太象你妈妈，倒很象阿迪克斯。你长大了，裤子也小了点。” “我觉得裤子正合适。” “你现在喜欢说‘该死，见鬼去吧’是吗?” 我说是的。 “我可不喜欢，”杰克叔叔说，“除非气愤到了极点时才顺便带一句。我会在这里住一‘个星期，这期问，我不希望再听到那样的字眼。斯各特，如果你到哪儿都用那些字眼，你会惹祸的。你想成为一个有教养的女子，是吗?” 我说不特别想。 “你当然想。走，我们去装饰圣诞树吧。” 我们在那儿一直干到上床的时间。那天晚上，我梦见了给我和杰姆的那两个长包裹。第二天早上，杰姆和我起来就跑去找包裹：是阿迪克斯送的礼物，他写信要杰克叔叔给我们买的，正是我们要的礼物。 “不要在屋里把熗瞄来瞄去。”当杰姆对着墙上的一张画瞄准时，阿迪克斯说。 “你得教他们怎么射击。”杰克叔叔说。 “那是你的事，”阿迪克斯说，“我给他们买这样的礼物实在出于无奈。” 阿迪克斯不得不用在法庭上说话时的大嗓门才把我们从圣诞树旁叫开。 他不同意我们把气熗带到庄园上去(我已开始想要用熗打死弗朗西斯)，并且说只要我们出一点差错就把熗收回去，永远不给我们了。 芬奇庄园坐落在河边的陡岸上，从上到下，有三百六十六级阶梯，一直延伸到水中的小码头。顺着河流往下走，地势逐渐平坦，在那儿可以看见从前装卸棉花的地方。在那儿芬奇家的黑奴曾经把大包大包的棉花和其他农产品装上船只，从船上卸下冰块、面粉、糖、农具以及各种女式服装。一条被压出两道车辙印的马车路从河边向外蜿蜒伸展，消失在黑魑魃的树林中。 路的尽头有一幢两层楼的房子，楼上楼下都有走廊围着。很早以前，我们的祖先西蒙?芬奇修建这栋房子是为了满足他那位爱唠叨的妻子的要求。但是，由于有个这样的走廊，这房子与当时的普通房屋的式样大不一样。室内的设计可以说明西蒙的坦率正直和对后代的绝对信任。 楼上有六间卧室，四间是八个女孩子住的，一间是独子威尔卡姆?芬奇住的，还有一间留给作客的亲戚朋友用。卧室都很简朴，但是只有一个楼悌通向女孩子住的卧室，去威尔卡姆的卧室和客人的卧室只能走另一个楼梯。女孩子房间的楼梯是从楼下父母的卧室通上去的，所以，西蒙随时知道女孩子们夜间进出的时间。 厨房和其他房间是隔开的，中间由一条木板钉的狭窄的过道连接，后院的柱子上有一个生了锈的大钟，从前用来召集地里干活的人，有时也用来搬急’屋顶上有个寡妇台回，但没有寡妇去过那儿——从这里，西蒙可以俯瞰他的监工，眺望河里来往的船只，观察附近其他土地所有者的活动。 这所房子还有一段关于那些精明的新英格兰人的传说：芬奇家的一位姑娘刚刚订了婚，为了不让邻近强盗把嫁妆抢去，她把所有的嫁妆都穿在身上，结果在上女孩子住的房间的楼梯时卡在门口，动弹不得，往她身上浇了好一阵水，最后才把她推了过去。我们到了庄园后，亚历山德拉姑妈吻了杰克叔叔，弗朗西斯吻了杰克叔叔，吉米姑父默默无言地和杰克叔叔握了握手，我和杰姆把我们的礼物送给弗朗西斯，他回赠了我们一件礼物。杰姆觉得他自己年纪大一些，被大人们吸引过去了。留下我一个人和弗朗西斯在一起。他八岁了，头发向后梳得光溜溜的。 “你得到的圣诞节礼物是什么?”我彬彬有礼地问。 “正是我要的东西。”他说。弗朗西斯要了一条齐膝盖长的裤子，一个红色的皮革书包，五件衬衣，还有一副没有打结的蝶形领带。 “真带劲儿。”我言不由衷地说，“我和杰姆一人得了把气熗，杰姆还得了一套化学器皿……”“我知道，是玩具器皿。” “不是玩具，是真的。他准备给我制造一种显影墨水，我还要用这种墨水给迪尔写信呢。”弗朗西斯问那有什么用。 “告诉你吧，他收到我的一封上面什么都没有的信时，你能猜想他的面部表情会怎么样吗?他会奠名其妙的。” 与弗朗西斯谈话给我一种慢慢地沉入海底的感觉。他是我见过的最叫人讨灰的小孩。凶为他住在奠比尔，没法去学校告我的状，可他想方设法把他知道的都告诉了亚历山德拉姑妈，而姑妈又全说给阿迪克斯听。阿迪克斯有时听后就忘记了，有时要抓我猛训一顿，这要看他的兴致怎样。但是我所昕到的他说话最严厉的一次是：“妹妹，我对他们尽了最大的努力!”这与我穿着背带裤到处走有关。 亚历山德拉姑妈对我的衣着总唠叨不停。说什么如果我总穿条长裤，就绝对不可能成为一个有教荠的女子。我说穿了连衣裙就什么不能干了。她却说没人要求我做那些只有穿长裤才能干的活。在她的眼里，我应该玩小火炉、茶具，应该佩带我出生时她送给我的可往上加珠子的项圈。另外，我应该是爸爸寂寞生活中的一束阳光。我说穿长裤一样可以是一束阳光，但她说一个人的举止要象一个活泼快乐的孩子一样。还说我生下来的时候很好，现在却一年不如一年了。她的话很伤我的心，气得我直咬牙。可是我问阿迪克斯时，他说家里的阳光够充足的了，叫我继续玩我的去，他对我的举止衣着没有苛求。 吃圣诞晚宴时，我坐在餐室里的一张小桌旁。杰姆和弗朗西斯帮大人一起在大饭桌上吃饭。他俩早就升上犬桌，姑妈还在继续孤立我。我时常猜想她以为我会干什么，会站起来把什么东西扔掉吗?有时候我想问问她，能不能让我和其他人一样在大桌上吃一回饭，我将向她证明找是很懂规矩的。不管怎么说，我在家天天吃饭，也没闻过什么大祸。我请求阿迪克斯施加影响，他说他不能——我们是客人，她让我们坐哪儿就坐哪儿。他还说亚历山德拉姑妈不太了解女孩子，她自己从来没有女孩。 她的烹调手艺弥补了一切：兰种肉食，食品室内菜架上的夏季疏菜，腌制的桃子，两种蛋糕，还有一些美味佳肴，所有这些构成了圣诞节这顿朴素的宴会。饭后，大人们来到客厅，晕晕呼呼地围着坐下。杰姆躺到地板上，我来到后院。“穿上你的上衣。”阿迪克斯迷迷糊糊地说，所以我没听清他的话。 在屋后的台阶上，弗朗西斯和我并排坐着。“这是我吃过的最好的饭菜。”我说。 “我奶奶是个了不起的厨师，”弗朗西斯说，“她准备教我。’ “男孩子不做饭莱。”想到杰姆系着条围裙的样子，我格格地笑起来。 “奶奶说，所有的男子都应该学会做饭莱，说男的应该体谅妻子，妻子不舒服的时候要眼侍她。”弗朗西斯说。 “我不愿让迪尔服侍我，”我说，“我倒宁愿服侍他。” “迪尔?” 。是的，暂时先别谈论这个，但是我们准备一到年龄就结婚。今年夏天他向我求婚来着。” 弗朗西斯带着看不起的神气哼了一声。 “他怎么的?”我问，“他没什么不好。” “你是说奶奶提到过的每年在雷切尔小姐家过夏天的那个小矮个吗?” “正是他。” “他的事我都知道。”弗朗西斯说。 “什么事?” “奶奶说他没有家……” “当然有家，他住在梅里遭安。” “……他总是轮流在他的亲戚家住，每年夏天轮到雷切尔小姐家。” “弗朗西斯，不是那么回事!” 他笑着对我说：“有时候你太笨了，琼-路易斯。我看你还不知道。”． “什么意思?” “如果阿迪克斯让你和野狗一起四处乱跑，那是他的事，正象奶奶说的，那不是你的错。我想如果阿迪克斯为黑鬼帮腔那也不是你的错，但是我告诉你，他这样搞会给家里其他人丢脸……” “弗朗西斯，见鬼去吧，你这话到底是什么意思?” “就是我刚才说的。奶奶说，他让你们这样没人管教，太不象话了，现在他竟然为黑鬼帮起腔来，我们再段脸在梅科姆街上走了。他把这一家人的名誉都搞坏了，这是他正在干的事。” 弗朗西斯站起来，从那狭窄的过道上拼命跑向旧厨房。跑到安全距离后，他喊道：“阿迪克斯为黑鬼帮腔!” “不是的！”我大吼一声，“我不知道你在讲什么，不过在我的气头上，你最好立刻住嘴!” 我跳下台阶，跑副过道上，轻而易举地抓住了他的衣领。我要他把话收回去。 弗朗西斯猛地一下挣脱了，跑进旧厨房。“为黑鬼帮腔I”他叫起来。 追踪猎物时最好要沉着，什么话也不说，他肯定会感到奇怪而走出来的。弗朗西斯在厨房门口出现了。“你还生气吗，琼?路易斯?”他试探性地问。 “没什么可说的，”我说。 弗期西斯走出来，来到过道上。 “你准备收回你的话不?弗一～朗西钎?”我太不沉着了。他又钻进厨房，所以我回到台阶上。我可以耐心地等待。坐了大约五分钟，我听到亚历山德拉姑妈在问；“弗朗西斯在哪儿?” “他在那边的厨房里。” “他知道他是不许在那儿玩的。” 弗朗西斯来到门日叫起来：“奶奶，她把我追到这儿的，她不让我出来。” “这是怎么回事，琼?路易斯?” 我抬头看看亚历山德拉姑妈，“我没把他追到那儿，又不是我不让他出来。” “是的，是她。”弗朗西斯叫起来，“她不让我出来!” 。你们是闹着玩的吗?” “琼?路易斯跟我翻脸了，奶奶。”弗朗西斯大声说。 “弗朗西斯，出来，离开那儿!琼-路易斯，要是我再听见你说一句话，就告诉你爸爸。刚才你是不是又说‘见鬼去吧’?” “没有。” “我想我听到了。我最好别再听见。” 亚厉山德拉姑妈最能偷听别人的话。她刚一走，弗朗西斯就趾高气扬地走出来。“别想拿我开心。”他说。 他跳下台阶，来到院子，始终和我保持一定距离，脚踢着草丛，不时回过头来朝我笑一笑。杰姆出现在走廊上，看了看我们就走开了。弗朗西斯爬上含羞树，又下来，两手揣在口袋里，在院子里来回溜达。“哈哈I”他叫了一声。我问他以为他自己是谁，杰克叔叔?弗朗西斯说他想有人刚刚警告过我，叫我坐在那儿别惹他。 “我叉没惹你。”我说。 弗朗西斯仔细打量了我，确信我已被制服，然后轻轻地哼着：。为黑鬼帮腔……” 这回我挥起拳头朝他的门牙一顿猛击，我的左手打伤了，换右手再打。但没打凡下，杰克叔叔把我的两个胳膊紧紧地夹在身体两侧，他说：“站着别动！” 亚历山德拉姑妈走过来照颐弗朗西斯，用手绢擦去弗朗西斯的眼泪，拂拂他的头发，摸摸他的脸蛋儿。弗朗西斯一州，阿迪克斯、杰姆、吉米姑夫都来到后面的走廊上。 “谁挑起的?”杰克叔叔问。 弗朗西斯和我互相指着。“奶奶，”他大哭起来，“她骂我是婊子婆，还打了我。” “是这么回事吗?”杰克叔叔问。 “我想是的。”我回答。 杰克叔叔低头看我时，他的表情和亚历山德拉姑妈的一样。“我强你说过，如果再用那样的字眼。你会闯祸的。我告诉了你没有?” “说过，叔叔。可是……” “好吧，你闯祸了。呆在这儿别动。” 我在犹豫是站着还是跑开，因为半天拿不定主意耽误了时间。我转身就跑，但杰克叔叔更快。我突然看到草地上一只小小的蚂蚁正在拼命地抱着块面包屑。 “只要我活着，永远不跟你说话了!我恨你，看不起你，希望你明天就死！”这句话好象比别的东西都更使杰克叔叔受到鼓舞。我跑向阿迪克斯，想从他那儿得到安慰，但他说我是自作自受，我们该回家了。我爬进汽车，坐到后排座位上，没对任何人说再见。一到家，我便冲进自己的房间，砰地一声关上门。杰姆想说几旬好话，可我不让他说。 我看看我受的伤，只有七八条红印子。我正在想着相对论时，有人敲门了。我问是谁。杰克叔叔回答了我。 “走开!” 杰克叔叔说如果我这样说话，他还要揍我，所以我不做声了。他进来后，我退到一个墙角上，转过身背对着他。“斯各特，你还恨我吗?” “请说下去，叔叔。” “我以为你不会怪我，”他说，“你使我很失望——你自作自受，你自己知道。”’ “我也以为你不会怪我。” “乖孩子，你不该到哪儿都喊人家……” “你不公平，”我说，“你不公平。” 杰克叔叔感到吃惊，“不公平，怎么不公平?” “你确实很好，杰克叔叔，我想尽管你这样对待我，我还是喜欢你，但你并不太理解小孩。’ 杰克叔叔两手叉着腰，低头看着我。“为什么说我不理解小孩，琼?路易斯小姐?象你这样的行为用不着什么理解，脾气倔强，不守规矩，开口骂人……” “你不想给我说话的机会吗?我并不是对你顶嘴，只是要告诉你。” 杰克叔叔坐在床上。他的眉毛皱在一块儿，他从眉毛下面看着我。“说吧。”他说。 我深深地吸了一口气。“我说，第一，你从不停下来给我机会申述我的理由——就只知道训我。杰姆和我吵架时，阿迪克斯从来不只听杰姆的一面之词，他也听我说；第二，你告诉我不要再用那样冉句字眼．除非特别特别气愤的时候。弗朗西斯这样向我挑衅，完全有理由让他吃点苦头……” 杰克叔叔搔搔脑袋。“你的理由是什么，斯各特?” “弗朗西斯骂爸爸，我才不让他呢。” “弗朗西斯骂你爸爸什么?” “为黑鬼帮腔。我不太清楚这是什么意思，但他说话的样子……现在我老实对你说，杰克叔叔，如果我再坐在那儿，让他骂爸爸的话，那我就是个混……我向上帝发誓。” “他是那样骂你爸爸的吗?” “是的，叔叔，他是那样骂的，还有别的。他说全家人的脸都让阿迪克斯丢尽了，还说他不管教我和杰姆，让我们胡作非为……” 从杰克叔叔的表情可以看出我又要倒霉了。然而，他说，“我会把事情弄清楚的，”这时我知道要倒霉的是弗朗西斯。“我决定今晚去那儿一趟。”他说。 “叔叔，请求你，让这件事过去算了。” “我不想让这件事就这样过去，”他说，“亚历山德拉应该知道这件事。哎呀，真是岂有此……等着，等我找了弗朗西斯再说……” “杰克权叔，请向我保证一件事，请求你保证不把这件事告诉阿迪克斯。他……他有一次告诉我，不管听到别人怎样议论他，我都不要发火，我宁愿他以为我们为别的事打架。请求你保证……” “但是找不能让弗朗西斯说出这样的话而不受到处罚。” “他已经受到了处罚。你可以帮我把手包扎一下吗?还在流血呢。” “当然可以，孩子。为你包扎好手是我最乐意干的事。到这儿来好吗?” 杰克叔叔殷勤地带我去盥洗室。他一边清洗、包扎伤口，一边给我讲故事：一个近视眼老头很滑稽，他喂了只猫，取名叫。乡下佬”。他进城时把人行道上∞裂缝全数了一遍。“这下好了，”他说，“你这个戴结婚戒指的手指上将留下一道与贵妇身分完全不相称的伤疤。” “谢谢你。杰克叔叔?” “嗯，姑娘?” “什么是婊子婆?” 杰克叔叔又开始了一个很长的故事。说的是一位首相，坐在众议院内往空中吹羽毛，还想让羽毛停在空中永远不落下来，而他周围的人都慌得不知所措。我猜想他在绕弯回答我的问题，但故事跟问题毫不相干。 后来，当我该上床睡觉时，我到过厅去喝水，听到阿迪克斯和杰克叔叔在客厅里谈话： “阿迪克斯，我永远不结婚。” “为什么?” “我怕有孩子。” 阿迪克斯说：“你还有很多东西要学啊，杰克。” “我知道。你女儿今天下午给我上了第一课。她说我不太理解小孩，并且讲了为什么。她说得很对。阿迪克斯，她告诉我本来应该怎样对待她……唉!我对她发火，太对不起她了。” 阿迪克斯抿着嘴轻声笑起来。“她自找的，你用不着那么懊悔。” 我提心吊胆 |
Chapter 10 Atticus was feeble: he was nearly fifty. When Jem and I asked him why he was so old,he said he got started late, which we felt reflected upon his abilities and manliness. Hewas much older than the parents of our school contemporaries, and there was nothingJem or I could say about him when our classmates said, “My father—” Jem was football crazy. Atticus was never too tired to play keep-away, but when Jemwanted to tackle him Atticus would say, “I’m too old for that, son.” Our father didn’t do anything. He worked in an office, not in a drugstore. Atticus did notdrive a dump-truck for the county, he was not the sheriff, he did not farm, work in agarage, or do anything that could possibly arouse the admiration of anyone. Besides that, he wore glasses. He was nearly blind in his left eye, and said left eyeswere the tribal curse of the Finches. Whenever he wanted to see something well, heturned his head and looked from his right eye. He did not do the things our schoolmates’ fathers did: he never went hunting, he didnot play poker or fish or drink or smoke. He sat in the livingroom and read. With these attributes, however, he would not remain as inconspicuous as we wishedhim to: that year, the school buzzed with talk about him defending Tom Robinson, noneof which was complimentary. After my bout with Cecil Jacobs when I committed myselfto a policy of cowardice, word got around that Scout Finch wouldn’t fight any more, herdaddy wouldn’t let her. This was not entirely correct: I wouldn’t fight publicly for Atticus,but the family was private ground. I would fight anyone from a third cousin upwardstooth and nail. Francis Hancock, for example, knew that. When he gave us our air-rifles Atticus wouldn’t teach us to shoot. Uncle Jackinstructed us in the rudiments thereof; he said Atticus wasn’t interested in guns. Atticussaid to Jem one day, “I’d rather you shot at tin cans in the back yard, but I know you’ll goafter birds. Shoot all the bluejays you want, if you can hit ‘em, but remember it’s a sin tokill a mockingbird.” That was the only time I ever heard Atticus say it was a sin to do something, and Iasked Miss Maudie about it. “Your father’s right,” she said. “Mockingbirds don’t do one thing but make music for usto enjoy. They don’t eat up people’s gardens, don’t nest in corncribs, they don’t do onething but sing their hearts out for us. That’s why it’s a sin to kill a mockingbird.” “Miss Maudie, this is an old neighborhood, ain’t it?” “Been here longer than the town.” “Nome, I mean the folks on our street are all old. Jem and me’s the only childrenaround here. Mrs. Dubose is close on to a hundred and Miss Rachel’s old and so areyou and Atticus.” “I don’t call fifty very old,” said Miss Maudie tartly. “Not being wheeled around yet, amI? Neither’s your father. But I must say Providence was kind enough to burn down thatold mausoleum of mine, I’m too old to keep it up—maybe you’re right, Jean Louise, thisis a settled neighborhood. You’ve never been around young folks much, have you?” “Yessum, at school.” “I mean young grown-ups. You’re lucky, you know. You and Jem have the benefit ofyour father’s age. If your father was thirty you’d find life quite different.” “I sure would. Atticus can’t do anything…” “You’d be surprised,” said Miss Maudie. “There’s life in him yet.” “What can he do?” “Well, he can make somebody’s will so airtight can’t anybody meddle with it.” “Shoot…” “Well, did you know he’s the best checker-player in this town? Why, down at theLanding when we were coming up, Atticus Finch could beat everybody on both sides ofthe river.” “Good Lord, Miss Maudie, Jem and me beat him all the time.” “It’s about time you found out it’s because he lets you. Did you know he can play aJew’s Harp?” This modest accomplishment served to make me even more ashamed of him. “Well…” she said. “Well, what, Miss Maudie?” “Well nothing. Nothing—it seems with all that you’d be proud of him. Can’t everybodyplay a Jew’s Harp. Now keep out of the way of the carpenters. You’d better go home, I’llbe in my azaleas and can’t watch you. Plank might hit you.” I went to the back yard and found Jem plugging away at a tin can, which seemedstupid with all the bluejays around. I returned to the front yard and busied myself for twohours erecting a complicated breastworks at the side of the porch, consisting of a tire,an orange crate, the laundry hamper, the porch chairs, and a small U.S. flag Jem gaveme from a popcorn box. When Atticus came home to dinner he found me crouched down aiming across thestreet. “What are you shooting at?” “Miss Maudie’s rear end.” Atticus turned and saw my generous target bending over her bushes. He pushed hishat to the back of his head and crossed the street. “Maudie,” he called, “I thought I’dbetter warn you. You’re in considerable peril.” Miss Maudie straightened up and looked toward me. She said, “Atticus, you are adevil from hell.” When Atticus returned he told me to break camp. “Don’t you ever let me catch youpointing that gun at anybody again,” he said. I wished my father was a devil from hell. I sounded out Calpurnia on the subject. “Mr. Finch? Why, he can do lots of things.” “Like what?” I asked. Calpurnia scratched her head. “Well, I don’t rightly know,” she said. Jem underlined it when he asked Atticus if he was going out for the Methodists andAtticus said he’d break his neck if he did, he was just too old for that sort of thing. TheMethodists were trying to pay off their church mortgage, and had challenged theBaptists to a game of touch football. Everybody in town’s father was playing, it seemed,except Atticus. Jem said he didn’t even want to go, but he was unable to resist footballin any form, and he stood gloomily on the sidelines with Atticus and me watching CecilJacobs’s father make touchdowns for the Baptists. One Saturday Jem and I decided to go exploring with our air-rifles to see if we couldfind a rabbit or a squirrel. We had gone about five hundred yards beyond the RadleyPlace when I noticed Jem squinting at something down the street. He had turned hishead to one side and was looking out of the corners of his eyes. “Whatcha looking at?” “That old dog down yonder,” he said. “That’s old Tim Johnson, ain’t it?” “Yeah.” Tim Johnson was the property of Mr. Harry Johnson who drove the Mobile bus andlived on the southern edge of town. Tim was a liver-colored bird dog, the pet ofMaycomb. “What’s he doing?” “I don’t know, Scout. We better go home.” “Aw Jem, it’s February.” “I don’t care, I’m gonna tell Cal.” We raced home and ran to the kitchen. “Cal,” said Jem, “can you come down the sidewalk a minute?” “What for, Jem? I can’t come down the sidewalk every time you want me.” “There’s somethin‘ wrong with an old dog down yonder.” Calpurnia sighed. “I can’t wrap up any dog’s foot now. There’s some gauze in thebathroom, go get it and do it yourself.” Jem shook his head. “He’s sick, Cal. Something’s wrong with him.” “What’s he doin‘, trying to catch his tail?” “No, he’s doin‘ like this.” Jem gulped like a goldfish, hunched his shoulders and twitched his torso. “He’s goin‘like that, only not like he means to.” “Are you telling me a story, Jem Finch?” Calpurnia’s voice hardened. “No Cal, I swear I’m not.” “Was he runnin‘?” “No, he’s just moseyin‘ along, so slow you can’t hardly tell it. He’s comin’ this way.” Calpurnia rinsed her hands and followed Jem into the yard. “I don’t see any dog,” shesaid. She followed us beyond the Radley Place and looked where Jem pointed. TimJohnson was not much more than a speck in the distance, but he was closer to us. Hewalked erratically, as if his right legs were shorter than his left legs. He reminded me ofa car stuck in a sandbed. “He’s gone lopsided,” said Jem. Calpurnia stared, then grabbed us by the shoulders and ran us home. She shut thewood door behind us, went to the telephone and shouted, “Gimme Mr. Finch’s office!” “Mr. Finch!” she shouted. “This is Cal. I swear to God there’s a mad dog down thestreet a piece—he’s comin‘ this way, yes sir, he’s—Mr. Finch, I declare he is—old TimJohnson, yes sir… yessir… yes—” She hung up and shook her head when we tried to ask her what Atticus had said. Sherattled the telephone hook and said, “Miss Eula May—now ma’am, I’m through talkin‘ toMr. Finch, please don’t connect me no more—listen, Miss Eula May, can you call MissRachel and Miss Stephanie Crawford and whoever’s got a phone on this street and tell’em a mad dog’s comin‘? Please ma’am!” Calpurnia listened. “I know it’s February, Miss Eula May, but I know a mad dog when Isee one. Please ma’am hurry!” Calpurnia asked Jem, “Radleys got a phone?” Jem looked in the book and said no. “They won’t come out anyway, Cal.” “I don’t care, I’m gonna tell ‘em.” She ran to the front porch, Jem and I at her heels. “You stay in that house!” she yelled. Calpurnia’s message had been received by the neighborhood. Every wood door withinour range of vision was closed tight. We saw no trace of Tim Johnson. We watchedCalpurnia running toward the Radley Place, holding her skirt and apron above herknees. She went up to the front steps and banged on the door. She got no answer, andshe shouted, “Mr. Nathan, Mr. Arthur, mad dog’s comin‘! Mad dog’s comin’!” “She’s supposed to go around in back,” I said. Jem shook his head. “Don’t make any difference now,” he said. Calpurnia pounded on the door in vain. No one acknowledged her warning; no oneseemed to have heard it. As Calpurnia sprinted to the back porch a black Ford swung into the driveway. Atticusand Mr. Heck Tate got out. Mr. Heck Tate was the sheriff of Maycomb County. He was as tall as Atticus, butthinner. He was long-nosed, wore boots with shiny metal eye-holes, boot pants and alumber jacket. His belt had a row of bullets sticking in it. He carried a heavy rifle. Whenhe and Atticus reached the porch, Jem opened the door. “Stay inside, son,” said Atticus. “Where is he, Cal?” “He oughta be here by now,” said Calpurnia, pointing down the street. “Not runnin‘, is he?” asked Mr. Tate. “Naw sir, he’s in the twitchin‘ stage, Mr. Heck.” “Should we go after him, Heck?” asked Atticus. “We better wait, Mr. Finch. They usually go in a straight line, but you never can tell. Hemight follow the curve—hope he does or he’ll go straight in the Radley back yard. Let’swait a minute.” “Don’t think he’ll get in the Radley yard,” said Atticus. “Fence’ll stop him. He’ll probablyfollow the road…” I thought mad dogs foamed at the mouth, galloped, leaped and lunged at throats, andI thought they did it in August. Had Tim Johnson behaved thus, I would have been lessfrightened. Nothing is more deadly than a deserted, waiting street. The trees were still, themockingbirds were silent, the carpenters at Miss Maudie’s house had vanished. I heardMr. Tate sniff, then blow his nose. I saw him shift his gun to the crook of his arm. I sawMiss Stephanie Crawford’s face framed in the glass window of her front door. MissMaudie appeared and stood beside her. Atticus put his foot on the rung of a chair andrubbed his hand slowly down the side of his thigh. “There he is,” he said softly. Tim Johnson came into sight, walking dazedly in the inner rim of the curve parallel tothe Radley house. “Look at him,” whispered Jem. “Mr. Heck said they walked in a straight line. He can’teven stay in the road.” “He looks more sick than anything,” I said. “Let anything get in front of him and he’ll come straight at it.” Mr. Tate put his hand to his forehead and leaned forward. “He’s got it all right, Mr. Finch.” Tim Johnson was advancing at a snail’s pace, but he was not playing or sniffing atfoliage: he seemed dedicated to one course and motivated by an invisible force that wasinching him toward us. We could see him shiver like a horse shedding flies; his jawopened and shut; he was alist, but he was being pulled gradually toward us. “He’s lookin‘ for a place to die,” said Jem. Mr. Tate turned around. “He’s far from dead, Jem, he hasn’t got started yet.” Tim Johnson reached the side street that ran in front of the Radley Place, and whatremained of his poor mind made him pause and seem to consider which road he wouldtake. He made a few hesitant steps and stopped in front of the Radley gate; then hetried to turn around, but was having difficulty. Atticus said, “He’s within range, Heck. You better get him before he goes down theside street—Lord knows who’s around the corner. Go inside, Cal.” Calpurnia opened the screen door, latched it behind her, then unlatched it and heldonto the hook. She tried to block Jem and me with her body, but we looked out frombeneath her arms. “Take him, Mr. Finch.” Mr. Tate handed the rifle to Atticus; Jem and I nearly fainted. “Don’t waste time, Heck,” said Atticus. “Go on.” “Mr. Finch, this is a one-shot job.” Atticus shook his head vehemently: “Don’t just stand there, Heck! He won’t wait all dayfor you—” “For God’s sake, Mr. Finch, look where he is! Miss and you’ll go straight into theRadley house! I can’t shoot that well and you know it!” “I haven’t shot a gun in thirty years—” Mr. Tate almost threw the rifle at Atticus. “I’d feel mighty comfortable if you did now,” he said. In a fog, Jem and I watched our father take the gun and walk out into the middle of thestreet. He walked quickly, but I thought he moved like an underwater swimmer: time hadslowed to a nauseating crawl. When Atticus raised his glasses Calpurnia murmured, “Sweet Jesus help him,” andput her hands to her cheeks. Atticus pushed his glasses to his forehead; they slipped down, and he dropped themin the street. In the silence, I heard them crack. Atticus rubbed his eyes and chin; wesaw him blink hard. In front of the Radley gate, Tim Johnson had made up what was left of his mind. Hehad finally turned himself around, to pursue his original course up our street. He madetwo steps forward, then stopped and raised his head. We saw his body go rigid. With movements so swift they seemed simultaneous, Atticus’s hand yanked a ball-tipped lever as he brought the gun to his shoulder. The rifle cracked. Tim Johnson leaped, flopped over and crumpled on the sidewalk ina brown-and-white heap. He didn’t know what hit him. Mr. Tate jumped off the porch and ran to the Radley Place. He stopped in front of thedog, squatted, turned around and tapped his finger on his forehead above his left eye. “You were a little to the right, Mr. Finch,” he called. “Always was,” answered Atticus. “If I had my ‘druthers I’d take a shotgun.” He stooped and picked up his glasses, ground the broken lenses to powder under hisheel, and went to Mr. Tate and stood looking down at Tim Johnson. Doors opened one by one, and the neighborhood slowly came alive. Miss Maudiewalked down the steps with Miss Stephanie Crawford. Jem was paralyzed. I pinched him to get him moving, but when Atticus saw us cominghe called, “Stay where you are.” When Mr. Tate and Atticus returned to the yard, Mr. Tate was smiling. “I’ll have Zeebocollect him,” he said. “You haven’t forgot much, Mr. Finch. They say it never leavesyou.” Atticus was silent. “Atticus?” said Jem. “Yes?” “Nothin‘.” “I saw that, One-Shot Finch!” Atticus wheeled around and faced Miss Maudie. They looked at one another withoutsaying anything, and Atticus got into the sheriff’s car. “Come here,” he said to Jem. “Don’t you go near that dog, you understand? Don’t go near him, he’s just as dangerousdead as alive.” “Yes sir,” said Jem. “Atticus—” “What, son?” “Nothing.” “What’s the matter with you, boy, can’t you talk?” said Mr. Tate, grinning at Jem. “Didn’t you know your daddy’s—” “Hush, Heck,” said Atticus, “let’s go back to town.” When they drove away, Jem and I went to Miss Stephanie’s front steps. We satwaiting for Zeebo to arrive in the garbage truck. Jem sat in numb confusion, and Miss Stephanie said, “Uh, uh, uh, who’da thought of amad dog in February? Maybe he wadn’t mad, maybe he was just crazy. I’d hate to seeHarry Johnson’s face when he gets in from the Mobile run and finds Atticus Finch’s shothis dog. Bet he was just full of fleas from somewhere—” Miss Maudie said Miss Stephanie’d be singing a different tune if Tim Johnson was stillcoming up the street, that they’d find out soon enough, they’d send his head toMontgomery. Jem became vaguely articulate: “‘d you see him, Scout? ’d you see him just standin‘there?… ’n‘ all of a sudden he just relaxed all over, an’ it looked like that gun was a partof him… an‘ he did it so quick, like… I hafta aim for ten minutes ’fore I can hitsomethin‘…” Miss Maudie grinned wickedly. “Well now, Miss Jean Louise,” she said, “still think yourfather can’t do anything? Still ashamed of him?” “Nome,” I said meekly. “Forgot to tell you the other day that besides playing the Jew’s Harp, Atticus Finch wasthe deadest shot in Maycomb County in his time.” “Dead shot…” echoed Jem. “That’s what I said, Jem Finch. Guess you’ll change your tune now. The very idea,didn’t you know his nickname was Ol‘ One-Shot when he was a boy? Why, down at theLanding when he was coming up, if he shot fifteen times and hit fourteen doves he’dcomplain about wasting ammunition.” “He never said anything about that,” Jem muttered. “Never said anything about it, did he?” “No ma’am.” “Wonder why he never goes huntin‘ now,” I said. “Maybe I can tell you,” said Miss Maudie. “If your father’s anything, he’s civilized in hisheart. Marksmanship’s a gift of God, a talent—oh, you have to practice to make itperfect, but shootin’s different from playing the piano or the like. I think maybe he put hisgun down when he realized that God had given him an unfair advantage over mostliving things. I guess he decided he wouldn’t shoot till he had to, and he had to today.” “Looks like he’d be proud of it,” I said. “People in their right minds never take pride in their talents,” said Miss Maudie. We saw Zeebo drive up. He took a pitchfork from the back of the garbage truck andgingerly lifted Tim Johnson. He pitched the dog onto the truck, then poured somethingfrom a gallon jug on and around the spot where Tim fell. “Don’t yawl come over here fora while,” he called. When we went home I told Jem we’d really have something to talk about at school onMonday. Jem turned on me. “Don’t say anything about it, Scout,” he said. “What? I certainly am. Ain’t everybody’s daddy the deadest shot in Maycomb County.” Jem said, “I reckon if he’d wanted us to know it, he’da told us. If he was proud of it,he’da told us.” “Maybe it just slipped his mind,” I said. “Naw, Scout, it’s something you wouldn’t understand. Atticus is real old, but I wouldn’tcare if he couldn’t do anything—I wouldn’t care if he couldn’t do a blessed thing.” Jem picked up a rock and threw it jubilantly at the carhouse. Running after it, he calledback: “Atticus is a gentleman, just like me!” 阿迪克斯身体很虚弱：他快五十岁了。我和杰姆问他为什么这么老，他说成家立业太晚；我们感到，这一点使得人们认为他缺乏能力和男子气概。此起与我们年龄相仿的同学的父母来，他的年纪大得多。当同学们说起他们的爸爸时，我或杰姆对我们的爸爸却没有什么可说的。 杰姆是个橄榄球迷。阿迪克斯再累也会陪他玩。但打球时，如果杰姆抱住他要把他摔倒的话，阿迪克斯就说：“我太老了，受不了这个，孩子。” 我们的爸爸什么都不做。他在律师事务所工作，不是在杂货店’他不是给县里开自动卸货卡车的，不是县司法官；他不干农活，不在汽车间工作，也不干什么其他能够}f人羡慕的工作。 除此之外，他还戴眼镜。左眼几乎完全瞎了，他说芬奇家族的人左眼都有毛病。每次要仔细看什么东西时，他要扭过头用右眼看。 同学们的爸爸千的事他都不干：从不打猎，不玩扑克，不钓鱼，不喝酒，不抽烟。他坐在客厅晕看书。 尽管有这样的性格，他并不象我们希望的那样默默无闻：那一年，对他为汤姆?鲁宾逊辩护一事，学校里淡论纷纷，没一句话是说他好的。和塞西尔?雅各布较量后，我决定采取骂不还口打不还手的策略。于是有人说斯各特?芬奇再不会打架了，她爸爸不让她打。这并不完全对：我不会为阿迪克斯在外面打架，但家里是私人场所。从远房表兄弟算起，我淮都会打，决不手软。举例说吧，弗朗西斯?汉考克就知道这一点。 阿迪克斯给我们气抢时，不愿意教我们怎么打。因此，杰克叔叔教了我们点入门知识。他说阿迪克斯对熗不感兴趣。有一天，阿迪克斯对杰姆说：“我希望你们在后院打罐头盒，但我知道你们会去打鸟的。如果愿意的话，你们可以把所有的蓝背桎鸟都打下来，但记住，打死反舌鸟是一种罪恶。” 听阿迪克斯说干某件事是罪恶，这是唯一的一次。我向莫迪小姐打听了一下。 “你爸爸说得对，”她说，“反舌鸟除了唱歌供我们欣赏外，不千别的事。它们不到花园里啄花，不在谷仓里筑巢。除了为我们尽情歌唱外，不干别的。这就是为什么打死反舌鸟是一种罪恶。” “莫迪小姐，这儿的街坊都老了，是吗?” “他们在这个镇建立以前就来了。” “不是的，我是说这条街上的人年纪都很老了。这附近只有我和杰姆两个小孩。杜博斯太太快一百岁了，雷切尔小姐老了，你和阿迪克斯也老了。” “我不认为五十多岁就算很老，”莫迪小姐尖刻地回答，“我还没有被人用车子推肴走，是不是?你爸爸也不是这样。IH我必须说，上帝把我那幢古老的、又大又阴森的房子烧掉，实在是做了件好事。我太老了，没能力料理这么大一幢房子……可能你说得对，琼?路易斯，这附近的人年纪都犬了，你们周围总是没有什么年轻人，是吗?’ “有的，学校里有。” “我指的是年轻的成年人。你知道，你真有福气。因为你爸爸这个年纪，你和杰姆得了不少好处。要是你爸爸才三十岁的话，你会发现生活完全不同。” “我当然会发现的。阿迪克斯什么都干不了……” 。你会吃惊的，”莫迪小姐说，“他还很有活力呢。” “他能干什么?” 。他可以帮助别人把遗嘱立得无懈可击，谁都别想在上面打主意。” 。真的……” 。你知道吗，这个镇上，他的跳棋下得最好?在庄园上我们还年轻的时候，阿迪克斯可以下赢河两岸所有的人。” “天啊，莫迪小姐，我和杰姆每次都赢他。” “你们该知道，是他让你们的。你知道他会吹单簧口琴吗?” 为这点小事还赞扬他，我更为他不好意恩了。 “这……”她说。 “这什么，莫迪小姐?” 。没什么。没什么了——我看尽管这样你们也该为他感到骄傲呢。不是每个人都能吹单簧口琴的。好了，别挡住术匠的路。你最好回去吧，我要去看看杜鹃花了，不能照看你，木板会打着你的。” 我回到后院，看见杰姆正一心一意地忙着打罐头盒。放着周围那么多蓝背桎鸟不打，专弄这玩意儿，我看有点傻。我回到前院，忙了两个小时，在走廊上修建了一个复杂的军事掩体，材料有一个轮胎，一个装橘予用的板条箱，一个洗衣服用的篮子，走廊上的几把椅子，还有杰姆给我的从装爆米花盒上撕下来的一面小小的美国国旗。 阿迪克斯回来吃饭时发现我正蹲着对着街对面瞄准。“你在瞄什么?” “莫迪小姐的屁股。 阿迪克斯转过身去，看见我那大靶子正弯着腰看她的花草。他把帽子往脑后一推，朝街对面走去。。莫迪，”他喊起来，。我想我最好警告你，你的处藏很危险。” 莫迪小姐直起腰朝我看了看。她说；“阿迪克斯，你是个机灵鬼。” 阿迪克斯回来后叫我撤营。“别再让我看见你用那枝熗瞄准任何人。”他说。． 要是我爸爸真的是个机灵鬼就好了。我试探了卡尔珀尼亚对这个问题的看法。“芬奇先生?噢，他会干很多事。” “能干什么?”我问。 卡尔珀尼亚搔搔脑袋。“这个，我不太清楚。” 杰姆以强调的口气问阿迪克斯他是否会代表卫理公会参加橄榄球比赛时，阿迪克斯说如果他去的话他会摔死的。他年纪大了，不能干这种事了。卫理公会的教徒们正设法并钱偿还修教堂时的抵押借款。他们向授理会挑战，要和他们进行一场触身法橄榄球赛。好象镇上每个小孩的爸爸都将参加比赛，只有阿迪克斯例外。杰姆说他去都不想去，但他无论如何抵制不住橄榄球的诱惑。他闷闷不乐地与阿迪克斯和我站在场外，观看塞西尔?雅各布的爸爸为浸礼会得分。 一个星期六，我和杰姆决定带着我们的气熗出去转转，看能不能碰上只野兔或者松鼠。过了拉德利家的房子大约五百码左右，我突然发现杰婀斜着眼看着街上的什么东西。他的头转向一侧，从眼角向外看着。 “你在看什么?” “那边那条老狗。”他说。 “那是老蒂姆?约翰逊吗?” “是的。” 蒂姆?约翰逊是哈里?约翰逊的。哈里住在镇子南边，开公共汽车跑莫比尔。蒂姆是条红褐色的捕鸟猎犬，是梅科姆镇挺逗人喜欢的狗。 “它在干什么?” “不知道，我们最好回家去。” “杰姆，现在是二月份。” “我不管几月，我要去告诉卡尔。” 我们跑回去，冲进厨房。 “卡尔，”杰姆说，“你能到人行道上来一下吗?” “什么事，杰姆?我不是每次你喊我我就能去的。” “那边有条老狗好象有病。” 卡尔珀尼亚叹了口气，“我现在不能为狗包扎腿了，盥洗室有些纱布，去拿来你们自己包吧。” 杰姆摇摇头：“它有病，有些不正常。” “它在干什么，想咬自己的尾巴吗?” “不，它是这样的。” 杰姆象金鱼一样，嘴一-丌一闭地喘着，缩肩弓背地抽搐着。“它这样走，只是好象不受自己控制。” “你在给我编故事吗，杰姆?芬奇?”卡尔珀尼亚的声音严厉起来。 “不是的，卡尔，我发誓，不是的。” “它在跑吗?” “没有，只是慢慢儿走，慢得几乎看不出来。正朝这边来。” 卡尔珀尼亚冼洗手，跟着杰姆来到院子。“我没看见狗。”她说。 她跟着我们走过拉德利家，然后朝杰姆指的地方看去。蒂姆?约翰逊从远处看上去只是一个小点，但是离我们这边近些了。它走路很不稳，好象右腿比左腿短一些似的。看见它，我想起了一辆陷在沙子里的小汽车。 “它一边高一边低。”杰姆说。 卡尔珀尼亚瞪大眼睛看了看，然后抓着我们的肩膀，三个人一起跑回家去。她关上身后的木门，走过去拿起电话叫起来：“我要芬奇先生的事务所。” “芬奇先生，”她叫着说，“我是卡尔，我向上帝发誓，街上离这儿不远的地方有条疯狗一一正朝这边走来，是的，先生，它是……芬奇先生，我断定它是……蒂姆?约翰逊，是韵，先生……是的，先生……是的……” 她挂上电话，我刚要问她阿迪克斯说了什么时．她摇摇头。她用力摇摇电话，然后说：“尤拉?梅小姐，我给芬奇先生的电话打完了，我不用占线了。听我说，尤拉?梅小姐，请你打个电话给雷切尔小姐，斯蒂芬尼?克劳福德小姐以及这条街上所有有电话的人家，告诉他们来了一条疯狗，麻烦你了，小姐。” 卡尔珀尼亚听了一会儿。“我知道现在是二月份，尤拉?梅小姐，但是我一看就认得出疯狗。请快一点。” 卡尔珀尼亚问杰姆：“拉德利家有电话吗?” 杰姆查了查电话簿说没有。“他们反正不会出来。” “我不管，我要告诉他们。” 她跑到前面的走廊，杰姆和我紧跟在后边。“你们呆在家里!”她火叫起来。 邻居都接到了卡尔珀尼亚的通知。我们看得见的木门都紧紧地关上了。在这儿还看不见蒂姆?约翰逊的影子。我们看着卡尔珀尼亚朝拉德利家跑去，裙子和围裙提在膝盖以上。她上了屋前的台阶敲起门来。没人回答。她喊起来。“内森先生，亚瑟先生，疯狗来了!疯狗来了！” “她应该绕到后面去。”我说。 杰姆摇摇头。“这时候顾不了那些了。” 卡尔珀尼亚用劲捶门，还是没人回答。没人表示得到了她的替告。好象没人听到似的。 卡尔珀尼亚跑回后廊时，一辆黑色的福特牌汽车开了过来。阿迪克斯和赫克?塔特从车上走出来。 赫克-塔特先生是梅科姆县的司法官。他和阿迪克斯一样高，但瘦一些。他的鼻子很长，穿着长统靴，靴子上有光亮的金属小孔，身着马裤和伐术工人穿的甲克衫，皮带上捅着一排子弹。他带了枝步熗。他和阿迪克斯来到走廊上时，杰姆打开门。 “呆在里边，孩子。”阿迪克斯说，“狗在哪儿，卡尔?” “现在应该到这儿了。”卡尔珀尼亚指着街上说。 “它不是在跑吧?”塔特先生问。 “不跑，先生。还在抽搐阶段。” “我们要去找一找吗，赫克?”阿迪克斯问。 “最好等一等，芬奇先生。疯狗通常笔直往前走，但也说不定。也可能顺着路拐弯——希望是这样，要不，它会一直走到拉德利家的后院去。我们稍等一会儿。” “别以为它会进拉德利家的院子，栅栏会挡住它的。很可能会顺着路走过来……”阿迪克斯说。 我原来以为疯狗口吐白沫，连跑带跳地朝人的喉咙扑去呢，我还以为八月份才有疯狗。要是蒂姆?约翰逊有这些症状的话，我就不会吓成这样了。 街上一个入也设有，人们在静静地等待，没有比这更令人受不了的。树叶丝纹不动，反舌鸟停止了歌唱，莫迪小姐家的木匠也不见了。我只听见塔特先生不时用鼻子出声地吸气，然后又擤鼻子。又见他把熗换到胳膊的弯曲部分。我还看见斯蒂芬尼?克劳福德的脸出现在她家前门的玻璃窗内。莫迪小姐出现在她身旁，和她并肩站着。阿迪克斯提脚蹬在椅子的横档上，手在大腿侧面摩挲。 “过来了。”他轻声说。 可以看见蒂姆-约翰逊了。它在和拉德利家平行的弯道上的内侧漫无目标地走着。 “快看，”杰姆小声说，“赫克先生说疯狗笔直地走，它连顺路走都不会。” “看起来病得很厉害。”我说。 “在它前面放样东西，它会直接往上撞的。” 塔特先生把手放到前额上，身子往前倾。“确实疯了，芬奇先生。” 蒂姆?约翰逊十分缓慢地移动，但不是在玩或者闻地上的树叶：好象被固定在一条线路上，在一种无形的力量的推动下朝我们移动。我们可以看见它的身体象马在驱散苍蝇时那样不停地颤抖，嘴一张一合的。它身子一边高一边低，正慢慢地朝我们这边移动。 “它正在找个地方死。”杰姆说。 塔特先生转过身：“离死还早着呢，杰姆。” 蒂姆-约翰逊来到拉德利家门前的小路，它的可怜的大脯还清醒的那部分使它停下来，好象在考虑走哪条路。它犹豫不决地走了几步，停在拉德币Ⅱ家的大门前，后来想转过身，但很困难。’ 阿迪克斯说：“在射程之内了，赫克。你最好现在干掉它，不然就会上小路了……天知道拐角处有什么人没有。卡尔，到里边去！” 卡尔珀尼亚打开纱门，随手拴上，又打开，抓住门钩。她想用身体挡住我和杰姆，但我们从她的胳膊下往外看。 “干掉它，芬奇先生I”塔特先生把熗交给阿遭克斯。我和杰姆差点昏倒。自七 “别浪费时间，赫克。”阿迪克斯说，“你打吧。” “芬奇先生，这是要一熗解决问题的。” 阿迪克斯使劲摇头：“别光站在那儿，赫克!它不会等你一天的……” “看在上帝的面上，芬奇先生，看它到哪儿了！要是打得不准，就会打到拉德利家去的!我打不了那么准，这你知道！” “我有三十年没打熗了……” 塔特先生几乎是把熗扔给阿迪克斯的。“如果你现在就打的话，我会觉得轻松得多。”他说。 我们可以模模糊糊地看见爸爸接过熗，走到街中心。他走得很快，但我觉得他象潜水员那样游动。时间过得真慢，令人心烦。 阿迪克斯把眼镜向上推时，卡尔珀尼亚轻轻地说：“耶稣保佑他。”然后把手捂在睑上。 阿迪克斯把眼镜推到前额上，又滑了下来，他干脆把眼镜扔到地上。一切都静悄悄的，我听见眼镜掉在地上打碎了。阿迪克斯揉揉眼睛，摸摸下巴。我看见他使劲眨眼睛。 在拉德利家的大门前，蒂姆?约翰逊还清醒的那部分大脑已打定主意，最后总算转过身来，顺着原来的路线沿街走过来。它向前走两步。停下来抬起头。我们看见它的身体突然变得僵硬了。 阿迪克斯动作敏捷，把熗端起顶住肩膀，然后手猛地拉动一端是个小圆球的拉杆，仿佛这些动作是同时发生的一样。 熗砰地一声响了。蒂姆?约翰逊跳起来，噗地一声倒下在人行道上滚了滚，缩成了一团棕白色的东西。它不知是什么东西打中了它。 塔特先生跳下走廊，朝拉德利家跑去。他在狗的前边蹲下来，然后转过身，手指着自己的左眼上方说：“偏右了一点，芬奇先生。”他喊遭。 “总是偏右，”阿迪克斯说，“要是有选择的余地，我愿意用猎熗。’ 他弯腰抬起眼镜，用脚跟把摔破的镜片碾得粉碎，然后走到塔特先生身边，低头看着蒂姆?约翰逊。 门一扇扇打开了，整条街又慢慢有了生气。莫迪小姐和斯蒂芬尼?克劳福德小姐一同走下台阶。 杰姆呆呆地站着不动，我拧他一下，Hq他快走。阿迪克斯见我们过来，喊起来：“呆在原地别动。” 和阿迪克斯回到院里时，塔特先生脸上堆满了笑容。“我会喊齐波来收它的尸体的．”他说，“你的熗法还那么准，芬奇先生。他们说你永远丢不了。” 阿迪克斯没说话。 “阿迪克斯'”杰姆问。 “嗯?” “没什么。” “我看见了，‘弹无虚发的芬奇’！” 阿迪克斯转身看着莫迪小姐。他们相互对视，没说话，然后阿迪克斯进了司法官的车。“过来，”他对杰姆说，“别到狗边上去，明白吗?别靠近那狗，它虽然死了，还和活着一样危险。’ “听见了，爸爸。”杰姆说，“阿迪克斯……” 。什么事，孩子?” ‘没什么。”． “你怎么了，孩子?你不能说出来吗?”塔特先生朝杰姆笑了笑说。“你不知道你爸爸是……” “别说了，赫克，我们回镇上去吧。”阿迪克斯说。 车走后，杰姆和我来到斯蒂芬尼家前面的台阶上，坐着等待齐波开垃圾车来。 杰姆呆呆地坐在那儿，惘然若失。只听得斯蒂芬尼说：“哎砑呀，谁会想到二月份有疯狗?可能并不是疯狗，只是发癫罢了。我真不愿意看见哈里?约翰逊从莫比尔回来发现阿迪克斯打死了他的狗时的表情。我想它一定只是从哪儿沾了一身跳蚤罢了……” 莫迪小姐说，假如蒂姆?约翰逊还在街上，正朝这边走来的话，斯蒂芬尼小姐唱的就会是另一个调子了，还说究竟是不是疯狗，他们很快就会知道，因为很快会把狗头送到蒙哥马利去化验。 杰姆说话了：“你看见他吗，斯各特?看见他站在那儿吗?……他突然全身放松，那枝熗就象他身体的一部分似的……他那么快就开了熗，好象……我要打什么的话，至少要瞄十分钟……” 莫迪小姐狡黠地笑了笑。。琼?路易斯，这下还认为你爸爸什么都不能干吗?还为他感到丢脸吗?” “不了。”我温顺地说。 “那天忘记告诉你了，阿迪克斯不但能吹单簧口琴，年轻时还是梅科姆县大名鼎鼎的神熗手。” “神熗手……”杰姆情不自禁地重复了一句。 。我是这么说的，杰姆。我想你现在也会改变你的调子了。想想看！他还是孩子的时候，他的绰号叫‘弹无虚发’！这点你不知道吗?他年轻的时候在庄园上，要是十五熗打下十四只鸽子，他会抱怨浪费了子弹。” “他从没提过这些事。”杰姆说． “他从没提过这些事吗?” “没有，小姐。” “不知为什么他现在不打猎了。”我说。 “也许我可以告诉你，”莫迪小姐说，“要说你爸爸与别人有什么不同的话，那就是他的心灵是文明的。神熗法是一种天赋，是一种本领——当然，你得通过练习才能学会这种本领，但射击与弹钢琴或类似的事情不同。我想他放下熗是因为意识到上帝给了他一种不公平的、超越大部分生物的才能。我猜想他决定不到万不得已的时候不再打熗，今天他是不得不打。” “看起来他应该为这个感到骄傲。”我说。 “头脑正常的人从不因自己的才能而感到骄傲。”莫迪小姐说。 我看见齐波的车开过来了。他从垃圾车后拿出把干草叉，小心谨慎地挑起蒂姆?约翰逊，把它扔进车箱，然后用一个汽油壶朝蒂姆躺过的地方及周围洒了些什么。“你们这阵子还不能过来。”他叫道。 圆家后我对杰姆说，星期一上学，我们可真的有东西谈沦了。可杰姆对我翻脸了。 “什么都别提，斯各特。”他说。 “什么?我当然要说。在梅科姆县，不是每个人的爸爸都是神熗手。” 杰姆说：“我看如果他想让我们知道，他早就告诉我们了。要是他为这个感到骄傲，他早就告诉我们了。” “可能他忘了。”我说。 “不是的，斯各特，这个你不懂。阿迪克斯确实老了，但是，即使他什么事都不会做，我也不在乎——即使他什么都不会干，我也不在乎。” 杰姆拾起块石头，喜气洋洋地朝车库扔去，然后追过去。他回头喊道：“阿迪克斯是个有教养的人，就象我一样。” |
Chapter 11 When we were small, Jem and I confined our activities to the southern neighborhood,but when I was well into the second grade at school and tormenting Boo Radley becamepasse, the business section of Maycomb drew us frequently up the street past the realproperty of Mrs. Henry Lafayette Dubose. It was impossible to go to town withoutpassing her house unless we wished to walk a mile out of the way. Previous minorencounters with her left me with no desire for more, but Jem said I had to grow up sometime. Mrs. Dubose lived alone except for a Negro girl in constant attendance, two doors upthe street from us in a house with steep front steps and a dog-trot hall. She was veryold; she spent most of each day in bed and the rest of it in a wheelchair. It was rumoredthat she kept a CSA pistol concealed among her numerous shawls and wraps. Jem and I hated her. If she was on the porch when we passed, we would be raked byher wrathful gaze, subjected to ruthless interrogation regarding our behavior, and givena melancholy prediction on what we would amount to when we grew up, which wasalways nothing. We had long ago given up the idea of walking past her house on theopposite side of the street; that only made her raise her voice and let the wholeneighborhood in on it. We could do nothing to please her. If I said as sunnily as I could, “Hey, Mrs. Dubose,” I would receive for an answer, “Don’t you say hey to me, you ugly girl! You say goodafternoon, Mrs. Dubose!” She was vicious. Once she heard Jem refer to our father as “Atticus” and her reactionwas apoplectic. Besides being the sassiest, most disrespectful mutts who ever passedher way, we were told that it was quite a pity our father had not remarried after ourmother’s death. A lovelier lady than our mother never lived, she said, and it washeartbreaking the way Atticus Finch let her children run wild. I did not remember ourmother, but Jem did—he would tell me about her sometimes—and he went livid whenMrs. Dubose shot us this message. Jem, having survived Boo Radley, a mad dog and other terrors, had concluded that itwas cowardly to stop at Miss Rachel’s front steps and wait, and had decreed that wemust run as far as the post office corner each evening to meet Atticus coming fromwork. Countless evenings Atticus would find Jem furious at something Mrs. Dubose hadsaid when we went by. “Easy does it, son,” Atticus would say. “She’s an old lady and she’s ill. You just holdyour head high and be a gentleman. Whatever she says to you, it’s your job not to lether make you mad.” Jem would say she must not be very sick, she hollered so. Whenthe three of us came to her house, Atticus would sweep off his hat, wave gallantly to herand say, “Good evening, Mrs. Dubose! You look like a picture this evening.” I never heard Atticus say like a picture of what. He would tell her the courthouse news,and would say he hoped with all his heart she’d have a good day tomorrow. He wouldreturn his hat to his head, swing me to his shoulders in her very presence, and we wouldgo home in the twilight. It was times like these when I thought my father, who hatedguns and had never been to any wars, was the bravest man who ever lived. The day after Jem’s twelfth birthday his money was burning up his pockets, so weheaded for town in the early afternoon. Jem thought he had enough to buy a miniaturesteam engine for himself and a twirling baton for me. I had long had my eye on that baton: it was at V. J. Elmore’s, it was bedecked withsequins and tinsel, it cost seventeen cents. It was then my burning ambition to grow upand twirl with the Maycomb County High School band. Having developed my talent towhere I could throw up a stick and almost catch it coming down, I had caused Calpurniato deny me entrance to the house every time she saw me with a stick in my hand. I feltthat I could overcome this defect with a real baton, and I thought it generous of Jem tobuy one for me. Mrs. Dubose was stationed on her porch when we went by. “Where are you two going at this time of day?” she shouted. “Playing hooky, Isuppose. I’ll just call up the principal and tell him!” She put her hands on the wheels ofher chair and executed a perfect right face. “Aw, it’s Saturday, Mrs. Dubose,” said Jem. “Makes no difference if it’s Saturday,” she said obscurely. “I wonder if your fatherknows where you are?” “Mrs. Dubose, we’ve been goin‘ to town by ourselves since we were this high.” Jemplaced his hand palm down about two feet above the sidewalk. “Don’t you lie to me!” she yelled. “Jeremy Finch, Maudie Atkinson told me you brokedown her scuppernong arbor this morning. She’s going to tell your father and then you’llwish you never saw the light of day! If you aren’t sent to the reform school before nextweek, my name’s not Dubose!” Jem, who hadn’t been near Miss Maudie’s scuppernong arbor since last summer, andwho knew Miss Maudie wouldn’t tell Atticus if he had, issued a general denial. “Don’t you contradict me!” Mrs. Dubose bawled. “And you—” she pointed an arthriticfinger at me—“what are you doing in those overalls? You should be in a dress andcamisole, young lady! You’ll grow up waiting on tables if somebody doesn’t change yourways—a Finch waiting on tables at the O.K. Café—hah!” I was terrified. The O.K. Café was a dim organization on the north side of the square. Igrabbed Jem’s hand but he shook me loose. “Come on, Scout,” he whispered. “Don’t pay any attention to her, just hold your headhigh and be a gentleman.” But Mrs. Dubose held us: “Not only a Finch waiting on tables but one in thecourthouse lawing for niggers!” Jem stiffened. Mrs. Dubose’s shot had gone home and she knew it: “Yes indeed, what has this world come to when a Finch goes against his raising? I’lltell you!” She put her hand to her mouth. When she drew it away, it trailed a long silverthread of saliva. “Your father’s no better than the niggers and trash he works for!” Jem was scarlet. I pulled at his sleeve, and we were followed up the sidewalk by aphilippic on our family’s moral degeneration, the major premise of which was that halfthe Finches were in the asylum anyway, but if our mother were living we would not havecome to such a state. I wasn’t sure what Jem resented most, but I took umbrage at Mrs. Dubose’sassessment of the family’s mental hygiene. I had become almost accustomed to hearinginsults aimed at Atticus. But this was the first one coming from an adult. Except for herremarks about Atticus, Mrs. Dubose’s attack was only routine. There was a hint ofsummer in the air—in the shadows it was cool, but the sun was warm, which meantgood times coming: no school and Dill. Jem bought his steam engine and we went by Elmore’s for my baton. Jem took nopleasure in his acquisition; he jammed it in his pocket and walked silently beside metoward home. On the way home I nearly hit Mr. Link Deas, who said, “Look out now,Scout!” when I missed a toss, and when we approached Mrs. Dubose’s house my batonwas grimy from having picked it up out of the dirt so many times. She was not on the porch. In later years, I sometimes wondered exactly what made Jem do it, what made himbreak the bonds of “You just be a gentleman, son,” and the phase of self-consciousrectitude he had recently entered. Jem had probably stood as much guff about Atticuslawing for niggers as had I, and I took it for granted that he kept his temper—he had anaturally tranquil disposition and a slow fuse. At the time, however, I thought the onlyexplanation for what he did was that for a few minutes he simply went mad. What Jem did was something I’d do as a matter of course had I not been underAtticus’s interdict, which I assumed included not fighting horrible old ladies. We had justcome to her gate when Jem snatched my baton and ran flailing wildly up the steps intoMrs. Dubose’s front yard, forgetting everything Atticus had said, forgetting that shepacked a pistol under her shawls, forgetting that if Mrs. Dubose missed, her girl Jessieprobably wouldn’t. He did not begin to calm down until he had cut the tops off every camellia bush Mrs. Dubose owned, until the ground was littered with green buds and leaves. He bent mybaton against his knee, snapped it in two and threw it down. By that time I was shrieking. Jem yanked my hair, said he didn’t care, he’d do it againif he got a chance, and if I didn’t shut up he’d pull every hair out of my head. I didn’t shutup and he kicked me. I lost my balance and fell on my face. Jem picked me up roughlybut looked like he was sorry. There was nothing to say. We did not choose to meet Atticus coming home that evening. We skulked around thekitchen until Calpurnia threw us out. By some voo-doo system Calpurnia seemed toknow all about it. She was a less than satisfactory source of palliation, but she did giveJem a hot biscuit-and-butter which he tore in half and shared with me. It tasted likecotton. We went to the livingroom. I picked up a football magazine, found a picture of DixieHowell, showed it to Jem and said, “This looks like you.” That was the nicest thing Icould think to say to him, but it was no help. He sat by the windows, hunched down in arocking chair, scowling, waiting. Daylight faded. Two geological ages later, we heard the soles of Atticus’s shoes scrape the frontsteps. The screen door slammed, there was a pause—Atticus was at the hat rack in thehall—and we heard him call, “Jem!” His voice was like the winter wind. Atticus switched on the ceiling light in the livingroom and found us there, frozen still. He carried my baton in one hand; its filthy yellow tassel trailed on the rug. He held outhis other hand; it contained fat camellia buds. “Jem,” he said, “are you responsible for this?” “Yes sir.” “Why’d you do it?” Jem said softly, “She said you lawed for niggers and trash.” “You did this because she said that?” Jem’s lips moved, but his, “Yes sir,” was inaudible. “Son, I have no doubt that you’ve been annoyed by your contemporaries about melawing for niggers, as you say, but to do something like this to a sick old lady isinexcusable. I strongly advise you to go down and have a talk with Mrs. Dubose,” saidAtticus. “Come straight home afterward.” Jem did not move. “Go on, I said.” I followed Jem out of the livingroom. “Come back here,” Atticus said to me. I cameback. Atticus picked up the Mobile Press and sat down in the rocking chair Jem hadvacated. For the life of me, I did not understand how he could sit there in cold blood andread a newspaper when his only son stood an excellent chance of being murdered witha Confederate Army relic. Of course Jem antagonized me sometimes until I could killhim, but when it came down to it he was all I had. Atticus did not seem to realize this, orif he did he didn’t care. I hated him for that, but when you are in trouble you become easily tired: soon I washiding in his lap and his arms were around me. “You’re mighty big to be rocked,” he said. “You don’t care what happens to him,” I said. “You just send him on to get shot atwhen all he was doin‘ was standin’ up for you.” Atticus pushed my head under his chin. “It’s not time to worry yet,” he said. “I neverthought Jem’d be the one to lose his head over this—thought I’d have more trouble withyou.” I said I didn’t see why we had to keep our heads anyway, that nobody I knew at schoolhad to keep his head about anything. “Scout,” said Atticus, “when summer comes you’ll have to keep your head about farworse things… it’s not fair for you and Jem, I know that, but sometimes we have tomake the best of things, and the way we conduct ourselves when the chips are down—well, all I can say is, when you and Jem are grown, maybe you’ll look back on this withsome compassion and some feeling that I didn’t let you down. This case, TomRobinson’s case, is something that goes to the essence of a man’s conscience—Scout,I couldn’t go to church and worship God if I didn’t try to help that man.” “Atticus, you must be wrong…” “How’s that?” “Well, most folks seem to think they’re right and you’re wrong…” “They’re certainly entitled to think that, and they’re entitled to full respect for theiropinions,” said Atticus, “but before I can live with other folks I’ve got to live with myself. The one thing that doesn’t abide by majority rule is a person’s conscience.” When Jem returned, he found me still in Atticus’s lap, “Well, son?” said Atticus. He setme on my feet, and I made a secret reconnaissance of Jem. He seemed to be all in onepiece, but he had a queer look on his face. Perhaps she had given him a dose ofcalomel. “I cleaned it up for her and said I was sorry, but I ain’t, and that I’d work on ‘em everSaturday and try to make ’em grow back out.” “There was no point in saying you were sorry if you aren’t,” said Atticus. “Jem, she’sold and ill. You can’t hold her responsible for what she says and does. Of course, I’drather she’d have said it to me than to either of you, but we can’t always have our‘druthers.” Jem seemed fascinated by a rose in the carpet. “Atticus,” he said, “she wants me toread to her.” “Read to her?” “Yes sir. She wants me to come every afternoon after school and Saturdays and readto her out loud for two hours. Atticus, do I have to?” “Certainly.” “But she wants me to do it for a month.” “Then you’ll do it for a month.” Jem planted his big toe delicately in the center of the rose and pressed it in. Finally hesaid, “Atticus, it’s all right on the sidewalk but inside it’s—it’s all dark and creepy. There’sshadows and things on the ceiling…” Atticus smiled grimly. “That should appeal to your imagination. Just pretend you’reinside the Radley house.” The following Monday afternoon Jem and I climbed the steep front steps to Mrs. Dubose’s house and padded down the open hallway. Jem, armed with Ivanhoe and fullof superior knowledge, knocked at the second door on the left. “Mrs. Dubose?” he called. Jessie opened the wood door and unlatched the screen door. “Is that you, Jem Finch?” she said. “You got your sister with you. I don’t know—” “Let ‘em both in, Jessie,” said Mrs. Dubose. Jessie admitted us and went off to thekitchen. An oppressive odor met us when we crossed the threshold, an odor I had met manytimes in rain-rotted gray houses where there are coal-oil lamps, water dippers, andunbleached domestic sheets. It always made me afraid, expectant, watchful. In the corner of the room was a brass bed, and in the bed was Mrs. Dubose. Iwondered if Jem’s activities had put her there, and for a moment I felt sorry for her. Shewas lying under a pile of quilts and looked almost friendly. There was a marble-topped washstand by her bed; on it were a glass with a teaspoonin it, a red ear syringe, a box of absorbent cotton, and a steel alarm clock standing onthree tiny legs. “So you brought that dirty little sister of yours, did you?” was her greeting. Jem said quietly, “My sister ain’t dirty and I ain’t scared of you,” although I noticed hisknees shaking. I was expecting a tirade, but all she said was, “You may commence reading, Jeremy.” Jem sat down in a cane-bottom chair and opened Ivanhoe. I pulled up another oneand sat beside him. “Come closer,” said Mrs. Dubose. “Come to the side of the bed.” We moved our chairs forward. This was the nearest I had ever been to her, and thething I wanted most to do was move my chair back again. She was horrible. Her face was the color of a dirty pillowcase, and the corners of hermouth glistened with wet, which inched like a glacier down the deep grooves enclosingher chin. Old-age liver spots dotted her cheeks, and her pale eyes had black pinpointpupils. Her hands were knobby, and the cuticles were grown up over her fingernails. Herbottom plate was not in, and her upper lip protruded; from time to time she would drawher nether lip to her upper plate and carry her chin with it. This made the wet movefaster. I didn’t look any more than I had to. Jem reopened Ivanhoe and began reading. I triedto keep up with him, but he read too fast. When Jem came to a word he didn’t know, heskipped it, but Mrs. Dubose would catch him and make him spell it out. Jem read forperhaps twenty minutes, during which time I looked at the soot-stained mantelpiece, outthe window, anywhere to keep from looking at her. As he read along, I noticed that Mrs. Dubose’s corrections grew fewer and farther between, that Jem had even left onesentence dangling in mid-air. She was not listening. I looked toward the bed. Something had happened to her. She lay on her back, with the quilts up to her chin. Only her head and shoulders were visible. Her head moved slowly from side to side. From time to time she would open her mouth wide, and I could see her tongue undulatefaintly. Cords of saliva would collect on her lips; she would draw them in, then open hermouth again. Her mouth seemed to have a private existence of its own. It workedseparate and apart from the rest of her, out and in, like a clam hole at low tide. Occasionally it would say, “Pt,” like some viscous substance coming to a boil. I pulled Jem’s sleeve. He looked at me, then at the bed. Her head made its regular sweep toward us, andJem said, “Mrs. Dubose, are you all right?” She did not hear him. The alarm clock went off and scared us stiff. A minute later, nerves still tingling, Jemand I were on the sidewalk headed for home. We did not run away, Jessie sent us: before the clock wound down she was in the room pushing Jem and me out of it. “Shoo,” she said, “you all go home.” Jem hesitated at the door. “It’s time for her medicine,” Jessie said. As the door swung shut behind us I sawJessie walking quickly toward Mrs. Dubose’s bed. It was only three forty-five when we got home, so Jem and I drop-kicked in the backyard until it was time to meet Atticus. Atticus had two yellow pencils for me and afootball magazine for Jem, which I suppose was a silent reward for our first day’ssession with Mrs. Dubose. Jem told him what happened. “Did she frighten you?” asked Atticus. “No sir,” said Jem, “but she’s so nasty. She has fits or somethin‘. She spits a lot.” “She can’t help that. When people are sick they don’t look nice sometimes.” “She scared me,” I said. Atticus looked at me over his glasses. “You don’t have to go with Jem, you know.” The next afternoon at Mrs. Dubose’s was the same as the first, and so was the next,until gradually a pattern emerged: everything would begin normally—that is, Mrs. Dubose would hound Jem for a while on her favorite subjects, her camellias and ourfather’s nigger-loving propensities; she would grow increasingly silent, then go awayfrom us. The alarm clock would ring, Jessie would shoo us out, and the rest of the daywas ours. “Atticus,” I said one evening, “what exactly is a nigger-lover?” Atticus’s face was grave. “Has somebody been calling you that?” “No sir, Mrs. Dubose calls you that. She warms up every afternoon calling you that. Francis called me that last Christmas, that’s where I first heard it.” “Is that the reason you jumped on him?” asked Atticus. “Yes sir…” “Then why are you asking me what it means?” I tried to explain to Atticus that it wasn’t so much what Francis said that had infuriatedme as the way he had said it. “It was like he’d said snot-nose or somethin‘.” “Scout,” said Atticus, “nigger-lover is just one of those terms that don’t meananything—like snot-nose. It’s hard to explain—ignorant, trashy people use it when theythink somebody’s favoring Negroes over and above themselves. It’s slipped into usagewith some people like ourselves, when they want a common, ugly term to labelsomebody.” “You aren’t really a nigger-lover, then, are you?” “I certainly am. I do my best to love everybody… I’m hard put, sometimes—baby, it’snever an insult to be called what somebody thinks is a bad name. It just shows you howpoor that person is, it doesn’t hurt you. So don’t let Mrs. Dubose get you down. She hasenough troubles of her own.” One afternoon a month later Jem was ploughing his way through Sir Walter Scout, asJem called him, and Mrs. Dubose was correcting him at every turn, when there was aknock on the door. “Come in!” she screamed. Atticus came in. He went to the bed and took Mrs. Dubose’s hand. “I was coming fromthe office and didn’t see the children,” he said. “I thought they might still be here.” Mrs. Dubose smiled at him. For the life of me I could not figure out how she couldbring herself to speak to him when she seemed to hate him so. “Do you know what timeit is, Atticus?” she said. “Exactly fourteen minutes past five. The alarm clock’s set forfive-thirty. I want you to know that.” It suddenly came to me that each day we had been staying a little longer at Mrs. Dubose’s, that the alarm clock went off a few minutes later every day, and that she waswell into one of her fits by the time it sounded. Today she had antagonized Jem fornearly two hours with no intention of having a fit, and I felt hopelessly trapped. Thealarm clock was the signal for our release; if one day it did not ring, what would we do? “I have a feeling that Jem’s reading days are numbered,” said Atticus. “Only a week longer, I think,” she said, “just to make sure…” Jem rose. “But—” Atticus put out his hand and Jem was silent. On the way home, Jem said he had to doit just for a month and the month was up and it wasn’t fair. “Just one more week, son,” said Atticus. “No,” said Jem. “Yes,” said Atticus. The following week found us back at Mrs. Dubose’s. The alarm clock had ceasedsounding, but Mrs. Dubose would release us with, “That’ll do,” so late in the afternoonAtticus would be home reading the paper when we returned. Although her fits hadpassed off, she was in every other way her old self: when Sir Walter Scott becameinvolved in lengthy descriptions of moats and castles, Mrs. Dubose would become boredand pick on us: “Jeremy Finch, I told you you’d live to regret tearing up my camellias. You regret itnow, don’t you?” Jem would say he certainly did. “Thought you could kill my Snow-on-the-Mountain, did you? Well, Jessie says thetop’s growing back out. Next time you’ll know how to do it right, won’t you? You’ll pull itup by the roots, won’t you?” Jem would say he certainly would. “Don’t you mutter at me, boy! You hold up your head and say yes ma’am. Don’t guessyou feel like holding it up, though, with your father what he is.” Jem’s chin would come up, and he would gaze at Mrs. Dubose with a face devoid ofresentment. Through the weeks he had cultivated an expression of polite and detachedinterest, which he would present to her in answer to her most blood-curdling inventions. At last the day came. When Mrs. Dubose said, “That’ll do,” one afternoon, she added,“And that’s all. Good-day to you.” It was over. We bounded down the sidewalk on a spree of sheer relief, leaping andhowling. That spring was a good one: the days grew longer and gave us more playing time. Jem’s mind was occupied mostly with the vital statistics of every college football playerin the nation. Every night Atticus would read us the sports pages of the newspapers. Alabama might go to the Rose Bowl again this year, judging from its prospects, not oneof whose names we could pronounce. Atticus was in the middle of Windy Seaton’scolumn one evening when the telephone rang. He answered it, then went to the hat rack in the hall. “I’m going down to Mrs. Dubose’sfor a while,” he said. “I won’t be long.” But Atticus stayed away until long past my bedtime. When he returned he wascarrying a candy box. Atticus sat down in the livingroom and put the box on the floorbeside his chair. “What’d she want?” asked Jem. We had not seen Mrs. Dubose for over a month. She was never on the porch anymore when we passed. “She’s dead, son,” said Atticus. “She died a few minutes ago.” “Oh,” said Jem. “Well.” “Well is right,” said Atticus. “She’s not suffering any more. She was sick for a longtime. Son, didn’t you know what her fits were?” Jem shook his head. “Mrs. Dubose was a morphine addict,” said Atticus. “She took it as a pain-killer foryears. The doctor put her on it. She’d have spent the rest of her life on it and diedwithout so much agony, but she was too contrary—” “Sir?” said Jem. Atticus said, “Just before your escapade she called me to make her will. Dr. Reynoldstold her she had only a few months left. Her business affairs were in perfect order butshe said, ‘There’s still one thing out of order.’” “What was that?” Jem was perplexed. “She said she was going to leave this world beholden to nothing and nobody. Jem,when you’re sick as she was, it’s all right to take anything to make it easier, but it wasn’tall right for her. She said she meant to break herself of it before she died, and that’swhat she did.” Jem said, “You mean that’s what her fits were?” “Yes, that’s what they were. Most of the time you were reading to her I doubt if sheheard a word you said. Her whole mind and body were concentrated on that alarmclock. If you hadn’t fallen into her hands, I’d have made you go read to her anyway. Itmay have been some distraction. There was another reason—” “Did she die free?” asked Jem. “As the mountain air,” said Atticus. “She was conscious to the last, almost. Conscious,” he smiled, “and cantankerous. She still disapproved heartily of my doings,and said I’d probably spend the rest of my life bailing you out of jail. She had Jessie fixyou this box—” Atticus reached down and picked up the candy box. He handed it to Jem. Jem opened the box. Inside, surrounded by wads of damp cotton, was a white, waxy,perfect camellia. It was a Snow-on-the-Mountain. Jem’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. “Old hell-devil, old hell-devil!” he screamed,flinging it down. “Why can’t she leave me alone?” In a flash Atticus was up and standing over him. Jem buried his face in Atticus’s shirtfront. “Sh-h,” he said. “I think that was her way of telling you—everything’s all right now,Jem, everything’s all right. You know, she was a great lady.” “A lady?” Jem raised his head. His face was scarlet. “After all those things she saidabout you, a lady?” “She was. She had her own views about things, a lot different from mine, maybe…son, I told you that if you hadn’t lost your head I’d have made you go read to her. Iwanted you to see something about her—I wanted you to see what real courage is,instead of getting the idea that courage is a man with a gun in his hand. It’s when youknow you’re licked before you begin but you begin anyway and you see it through nomatter what. You rarely win, but sometimes you do. Mrs. Dubose won, all ninety-eightpounds of her. According to her views, she died beholden to nothing and nobody. Shewas the bravest person I ever knew.” Jem picked up the candy box and threw it in the fire. He picked up the camellia, andwhen I went off to bed I saw him fingering the wide petals. Atticus was reading thepaper. 小时候，我和杰姆的活动范围只限于这个镇的南边一带。但是当我上了二年级，烦扰布-拉德利己成为往事时，我们常常经过亨利?拉斐特?杜博斯太太的房子和土地，来到镇北边的商业区。到镇上去不经过她家是不可能的，除非我们愿意绕道多走一英里路。前几次和她的小冲突使我不想再遇到类似事件，但杰姆说我还得长大一点才能绕道走。 杜博斯太太独居在一栋房子里，和我们家只隔两家。房前有很陡的台阶，里面有很长的过厅。家里只有个黑人姑娘常年照顾她。她已是老态龙钟了。白天，大部分时问躺在床上，其余时间坐在轮椅上。有人说她有一枝南部联邦军用过的手熗，藏在她那数不清的披肩和围巾里。 我和杰姆都恨她。我们经过她家时，她如果在走廊上，就耍怒气冲冲地瞪着我们，凶恶地问我们干过什么坏事没有，还要令人意气消沉地预言我们长大后会干些什么，当然是说我们毫无出息。我们早就决定不从她家对面的街道上走，因为这一来她反而会把嗓门提高，使得左右邻居都听得到。 我们干什么都无法博得她的欢心。要是我兴高采烈地对她说：“嘿，杜博斯太太。”我们会得到这样的回答：“别跟我嘿呀嘿的，丑丫头!你应该说下午好，杜博斯太太!” 她坏透了。一次她听见杰姆叫“阿迪克斯”，她的反应就好象中风发作似的。她说我们是经过她家门口的人中最粗鲁最无礼的小杂种。除此之外，她还对我们说我妈妈死后，爸爸没再给我们找个妈妈真是太遗憾了。她说比我妈妈更可爱的女人从来没有过，阿迪克斯这样不管教孩子，让我们胡作非为，真叫人伤心。我不记得妈妈了，但杰姆记得——有时他跟我讲起妈妈——杜博斯太太跟我们说这话时，杰姆的脸都气得发青。 杰姆曾经从布?拉德利手里死里逃生，又经历了疯狗和其他可怕的事，现在得出结论说，站在雷切尔小姐家门前的台阶那儿等爸爸太胆小了。他宣布，每天傍晚，我们要跑到邮局拐弯处接爸爸下班。很多次，阿迪克斯看见杰姆气冲冲的，因为杜博斯太太在我们路过她家时说了些话。 “不要紧，孩子。”阿迫克斯常常说，“她老了，又有病。你应该抬起头，做个有教养的人。不管她说什么，都不要生她的气。” 杰姆通常说她的病肯定不重，是故意叫得那么厉害。我们三个人路过她那儿时，阿迪克斯总是摘下帽子和悦地朝她一挥，嘴里说：“晚上好，杜博斯太太！今天晚上，您看上去象一幅画一样。” 我从没听阿迪克斯说她象一幅什么画。他常常告诉她一些法院的新闻，并且衷心祝愿她第二天愉快，然后戴上帽子，当着她的面把我扛在肩膀上，在暮色中走回家去。每逢这样的时候，我认为我爸爸是世界上从没有过的最勇敢的人，尽管他憎恨武器，从没有参加过战争。 杰姆十二岁生日的第二天，他的钱在口袋里放不住了，所以下午我们早早地朝镇上走去。杰姆认为他的钱足够为自己买个小型蒸汽机，再给我买根指挥棒。 我早就看中那根指挥棒了；是埃尔默商店的，上面装饰着金属片和金属丝，价格一角七分。当时我的野心是长大以后指挥梅科姆县中学的乐队。我常常向上抛棍子，下来时再抓住，我的这个本领越来越娴熟。这一来，每次卡尔珀尼亚看见我手上有棍子就不让我进屋。我觉得如果有根真指挥棒，这个毛病就会改掉的。我想杰姆肯为我买根指挥棒，真是够大方的了。 我们路过杜博斯太太家时，她正在走廊上。 “这个时候你们俩去哪儿啊?”她喊道，“我看是逃学，我要打电话给校长。”她把手放在椅子下面的轮子上，表情十分严峻。 “今天是星期六，杜博斯太太，”杰姆说。 “星期六也没什么区别，”她含糊不清地说，“我不知道你们的爸爸是否知道你们在哪儿?” “杜博斯太太，我们从这么高起就自己到镇上去了。”杰姆用手在离地面两英尺高的地方比了一下。 “别跟我撒谎!”她叫起来，“杰里米?芬奇，莫迪?阿特金森告诉我，今天早上，你把她的葡萄架给勇倒了。她要告诉你爸爸，那时候你就会后悔不该活在世上了。如果下个星期以前不把你们送到教养院去，我就不叫杜博斯!” 杰姆去年夏天以后就没到莫迪小姐的葡萄架那儿去过。他说根本没那回事儿。他知道即使他弄倒了葡萄架，莫迪小姐也不会告诉阿迪克斯的。 “别跟我顶嘴！”杜博斯太太叫起来，“还有你……”她用关节变了形的手指朝我一指……“你穿那背带裤干什么?你应该穿连衣裙，里面衬背心，年轻的小姐!如果没人管教你的话，长大了你得去饭馆跑堂——芬奇家的人在O．K．咖啡馆跑堂——哈哈!” 我吓坏了。o．K．咖啡馆是广场北面的一个面目不清的组织。我抓住杰姆的手，但他把我甩开了。 “算了，斯各特，。他轻声说，“别理她，抬起头，做个有教养的人。” 可是杜博斯太太缠住我们不放：“芬奇家不光有人跑堂，还有人在法院为黑鬼辩护。” 杰姆愣住了。杜博斯太太击中了我们的痛处，她自己也知道。 “真的，芬奇家的人和自己人作对时，人家会得出什么样的结论呢?我告诉你!”她把手放到嘴上，抽开时，手上拖了条长长的白色的唾沫。“你们的爸爸和他为之卖力的那些黑鬼以及其他混蛋是一丘之貉!” 杰姆脸色通红。我拉拉他的袖子，一边在人行道上走，一边听到后边传来的恶言恶语，说我们家道德败坏，其大前提是，不管怎么说，芬奇家有一半人有神经病，但如果我们的妈妈还在的话，我们是不会堕落到这种地步的。 我不敢肯定杰姆最恨什么，但我最气愤的是杜博斯太太说我们家韵人思想不干净。昕别人侮辱阿迪克斯对我来说己是习以为常了。但这是第一次出自大人之口。除了咒骂阿迪克斯的话外，杜博斯太太对我们的攻击都是老一套。 空气中有夏天的迹象了——在树荫下挺凉快，太阳下却有些热了，这意味着好玩的时候到了：不上学，还有迪尔。 杰姆买了蒸汽机后，我们去埃尔默商店买我的指挥棒。杰姆买了蒸汽机，却并不高兴。他把它律口袋里一塞，和我默默地朝家里走去。路上我不停地把指挥棒向上抛，有一次没接到，差点打在林克?迪斯身上。“看着点，斯各特。”他说。等我们走近杜博斯太太家时，我的指挥棒因为多次掉到地上，已经很脏了。 她不在走廊上。 我们长大以后，我有时候百恩不得其解，不知究竟是什么原因使杰姆当时那么干，使他破侧违反了“傲个有教养韵人”的嘱咐和他刚学会的要自觉地做到为人正直的观点。杰姆受到的对阿迪克斯为黑鬼辩护的非难和我昕到的大概一样多，也一样忍受了。我认为他头脑冷静是理所当然的——他的性格本来就很稳重，不容易大发雷霆。我想对他的举动的唯一解释是，在那几分钟内，他简直发疯了。 阿迪克斯曾经说过不要和令人讨厌的老太太一般见识，要是没有他的禁令的话，杰姆干的那事我肯定会干。我们刚走到她的大门前，杰姆突然夺过我的指挥棒，猛地冲过台阶，进了杜博斯太太的前院，把阿迪克斯的话都忘了，也忘了杜博斯太太的围巾里有枝熗，忘了假如她打不准，她的女佣人杰西可能会打中。 直到把杜博斯太太的山茶花全部打断，地面上铺满了绿叶和蓓蕾，他才平静下来。他把我的指挥棒朝膝盖上一磕，折成两截，扔到地上。 这时我叫起来了。杰姆抓住我的头发，说他什么也不怕，有机会还要干。还说要是我不住嘴，他要拔光我的头发。我没住嘴，他踢了我一脚，我站不稳，脸朝下摔在地上。杰姆粗鲁地一把抓起我，但看上去似乎挺难过。后来就没说什么了。 那天晚上，我们不想去接阿迪克斯下班，躲在厨房里，直到卡尔珀尼亚把我们撵出来。卡尔珀尼亚好象凭什么巫术，知道我们所做的一切了，所以不可能给我们什么慰藉，但她给了杰姆一块涂了黄油曲热饼子。杰姆把饼掰成两半，绐我一半。我吃起来象嚼棉花一样。 我们来到客厅。我拿起本橄榄球杂志，发现一张迫克西?豪厄尔的照片，我递给杰姆说；“这个看上去象你。”这是我想到的能对他说的最好的恭维话，但没有用。他坐在窗边，缩在描椅里，皱着眉头等待着。天渐渐黑了。 好象过了两个地质年代，我才听到阿迪克斯的鞋底擦着前面台阶的声音。纱门砰地一声关上了，静了一会儿——阿迪克斯到了过厅的帽架前——一会儿，我们听到他喊“杰姆”，声音象冬天的风一样。 阿迪克斯打开客厅上面的灯，看见我们在那儿，象冻僵_，似的。他一只手拿着我的指挥棒，那上面弄脏了的黄色流苏拖在地毯上。他伸出另一只手，手上是些丰满的山茶花蓓蕾。 “杰姆，”他说，“这是你千的吗?” “是的，爸爸。” “为什么这样千?” 杰姆轻声地说：“她说您为黑鬼辩护。” “你这样干就是因为她这么说了吗?” 杰姆的嘴唇动了动，他说，“是的，爸爸，”声音几乎听不到。 “孩子，我不怀疑你为了你的同学们指责我为黑鬼辩护而恼火，你自己也是这么说的，但这样对待一个身体有病的老人是不能原谅的。我非常希望你能去和杜博斯太太说清楚，然后立刻回来。” 杰姆没动。 “我说你快点儿去。” 我跟着杰姆走出客厅。“回来!”阿迪克斯对我说。我退了回来。 阿迪壳斯拿起“莫比尔纪事报》，坐在杰姆刚刚坐过的椅子上。我无论如何不能理解，当他的唯一的儿子面临着被人用南部联邦军用过的手熗打死的危硷时，他怎么能忍心坐在那儿看搬。尽管杰姆有时候使我实在难以容忍，我恨不得杀了他，但他真要死了，我又觉得他是我的一切。阿迪克斯好象没意识到这点，或者说，意识到了，但不在乎。 我很恨爸爸这一点，但是人不顺心就容易疲劳：不一会儿，我就坐在他的膝上，埋在他的怀里，他用手搂着我。 “你太火了，摇不动了。”他说。 “你不在乎他会出什么事，”我说，“他那么干都是为了你，而你却让他出去遭人熗击。” 阿迪克斯把我的脑袋按到他下巴下面。“还不是担心的时候。我从没料到杰姆会在这样的问题上失去理智——原以为会给我找更多麻烦的是你。” 我说我不明白我们为什么要保持冷静，学校里我认识的人中没有谁要为什么事保持冷静。 “斯各特，”阿迪克斯说，“到了夏天会有更糟糕的事，那时，你更要冷静……我知道这在你和杰姆看来是不公平的，但有时候，我们要善处逆境，而且在紧要关头我们的行为应该是——好吧，这方面我不多说了，我能够说的是，等你和杰姆长大后，可能会带着怜悯的心情和某种感情来回顾这件事，你们会觉得我没有辜负你们的心愿。这个案子，这个汤姆?鲁宾逊的案子触及到人的天良——斯各特，如果我不尽力帮助那个人，我就没有脸去教堂做礼拜。” “阿迪克斯，一定是你错了……” “怎么我错了?” “啾，大多数人好象认为他们是对的，你是错的……” “他们当然有权这样认为，他们的看法有权受到尊重，”阿迪克斯说，“但是，在处理好与他人的关系之前，我首先得处理好与自己的关系。大多数人公认的准则是应当遵守的，但如果这样做违背了一个人的良心，就不应当遵守。只有在这种情况下才可以不遵守。” 杰姆回来时我还在阿迪克斯的膝上。“怎么样，孩子?”阿迪克斯问。他放下我。我暗暗地把杰姆上下打量了一番，看来他虽安然无恙，脸上的表情却挺奇怪。可能是杜博斯太太给他吃了一剂甘汞吧。 “我替她打扫干净了，说了对不起，但心里并不这样认为，我还说每个星期六我会去照看那些山茶花，让它们尽快恢复原样。” “如果你心里不通，嘴里说对不起是没用的。”阿迪克斯说，“杰姆，她老了，又有病。她说什么，做什么，你都不该计较。当然，我宁愿她对我说那些话，而不是对你们俩蜕，但是我们不可能事事如意。” 杰姆好象被地毯上的一朵玫瑰花迷住了似的。“阿迪克斯，”他说，“她叫我读书给她听。” “读书给她听?” “是的，爸爸，她要我每天下午放学后和星期六过去为她大声读两个小时的书。阿迪克斯，我得去吗?” “当然。” “可她要我读一个月。” “那你就读一个月嘛。” 杰姆的大脚趾轻轻踩在玫瑰花的中间，往下压。最后他说：“阿迪克斯，在人行道上没关系，但是屋里面——黑乎乎的，怪吓人的。天花板上有些影子和舄IJ的东西……” 阿迪克斯严厉地一笑。“那可会激发你的想象力。就假设你们是在拉德利家嘛。” 星期一下午，我和杰姆爬上杜博斯太太门前的台阶，穿过她家的过厅。杰姆手里拿本※艾凡赫"，脑子里装着深奥的知识。他敲敲左边的第二扇门。 “杜博斯太太?”他喊道。 杰西打开木门然后开开纱门。 “是杰姆?芬奇吗?”她问，“你和妹妹一起来，我不知道……” “让他俩都进来，杰西。”杜博斯太太说。杰西让我们进来后，就到厨房去了。 我们跨过门槛，一股难闻的气味扑鼻而来。这种气味我在那种被雨水冲洗过多次的旧房子里闻到过，那种房里常有煤油灯，舀水的勺子，没漂白的家织被单。一闻到这种气味我就害怕，就特别警惕，老想着会出事。 墙角上有张钢床，床上是杜博斯太太。我不知道是不是杰姆把她气得卧床不起的。突然问，我有点同情她了。她身上盖了几层被子，看上去似乎还友好。 床边有个大理石面的洗脸架。上面有个玻璃杯，里面有只茶匙，架上还有个红色的洗耳器，一盒脱脂棉花，一个有三条小腿的闹钟。 “看样子你把那个不讲卫生的妹妹带来了，是吗?”这是她的第一句话。 杰姆轻轻地说：“我妹妹讲卫生，我也不怕你了。”可我看见杰姆的膝盖在颤抖。 我想杜博斯太太会唠叨一阵，但她只说了旬：。你可以读了，杰里米。 杰姆坐在一把藤椅上，打开《艾凡赫》。我拖过另一把藤椅，在他边上坐下来。 “坐近点，”杜博斯太太说，“到床边上来。” 我们把椅子移上前去。我从没有跟她挨得这么近过，实在想把椅子往后移。’ 她很吓人。脸是脏枕套的颜色，嘴角因为有唾沫而发亮，唾液象冰川似的顺着下巴上深深的皱纹慢慢流动。脸上布满了老年斑，灰白的眼睛里有针尖大的黑色的瞳孔。手上有很多疙瘩，指甲上长了一层薄膜。她没戴下面的假牙，上嘴唇向外突出。隔一会儿，下嘴唇和下巴就要一起向上动一动，这一来，唾沫流动得更快。 我只在不得已时才看她一下。杰姆又一次打开书，开始读起来。我想跟着他看，但他读得太快。杰姆遇到不认识的字就跳过去，但杜博斯太太听得出，让他停下来把那个字拼出来。杰姆读了大约有二十分钟，这期间，我时而看看煤烟熏黑的壁炉，时而看看窗外，反正不看她就行。我发现杰姆越往下读，杜博斯太太纠正的错误越少，杰姆有时甚至省去了一整句没念。她早不在听了。 我朝床上看去。 她有些不正常。仰面躺着，被子一直盖到下巴上，只能看见头和肩膀。头缓慢地从一边倒向另一边。隔一会儿，嘴就要张得大大的，我可以模糊地看见她的舌头在微微地起伏。嘴唇上不一会儿就堆起了一条条的唾液，她暖进去，然后再张开嘴。她的嘴好象有独立的生命，能和身体内外的其他器官分开工作，就象落潮时的蛤蜊一样。偶尔，她嘴里发出扑哧声，好象什么粘东西正在开始沸腾。 我拉拉杰姆的袖子。 他看看我，再看看床上。杜博斯太太的脑袋有规律地不时摆向我们一边。杰姆说：“杜博斯太太，您不舒服吗?”杜博斯太太没听见。 突然，闹钟响起来了，把我们吓呆了。不一会儿，我们已经在人行道上往家里走了，神经还绷得紧紧的。我们不是逃出来的，是杰西打发我们走的：闹钟声还没停，她就到了屋里，把我和杰姆往外推。 “嘘!”她说，“你俩都回去吧。” 杰姆在门口犹豫了一下。 “她该吃药了。”杰西说。门关上时，我看见杰西很快朝杜博斯太太床边走去。 我们到家时才三点四十五分，所以我们在后院踢了一会儿球，才去接爸爸下班。阿迪克斯给我两支黄色铅笔，给杰姆一本橄榄球杂志。我想这是对我们和杜博斯太太第一次约会的不加说明的奖励。 杰姆跟他讲了在那儿的经过。 “她吓着你了吗?”阿迪克斯问。 “没有，爸爸，”杰姆说，“可是太Hq人作呕了。她好象一阵阵发病似的，老吐唾沫。” “她也是没办法。病人的样子有时候是不讨人喜欢的。” “她可把我吓坏了。”我说。’ 阿迪克斯从眼镜上面看看我。“你用不着跟杰姆去嘛。” 在杜博斯太太家的第二天下午跟第一天一样，第三天也一样。渐渐地出现了一个固定的程序：开始一切正常——就是说，她首先和杰姆谈一阵她喜欢的话题，她的山茶花啦，我们爸爸为黑鬼帮腔的怪癖啦，她的话逐渐减少，然后不和我们说话了。接着闹钟响起来，杰西把我们“嘘”出去。剩下的时间就是我们的了。 “阿迪克斯，”一天晚上我问，“什么叫为黑鬼帮腔?” 阿迪克斯脸色阴沉。“有谁这佯说你吗?” “没有，爸爸，杜博斯太太这样说你。这是她每天下午的开场白。去年圣诞节弗朗西斯这样说我，那是我第一次听到。” “你是为这个揍他吗?”阿迪克斯问。 “是的，爸爸……” “那为什么还问我这是什么意思?” 我对阿迪克斯解释说，把我惹火的与其说是他说话的内容，不如说是他说话的神态。“好象他在说我们很下贱似的。” “斯各特，”阿迪克斯说，“说人家为黑鬼帮腔和说人家下贱一样，是一种毫无意义的话。这是很难解释的。没有知识的、下贱的人，认为有人站在黑人一边反对他们时，就这样说。他们要找一个粗鄙的、难听的说法来污蔑某人时，这种说法就是指我们这种人。” “你并不真的喜欢黑人，是吗?” “我当然真的喜欢。我尽最大的努力爱每一个人……我有时处境不利……孩子，被人加上有人认为是很难听的称号并不是侮辱。这只说明那个人太可怜了，对你并无损害。所以，别对杜博斯太太发火。她本身的麻烦已经够多的了。” 一个月以后的一天下午，杰姆正吃力地读着沃尔特?斯各特爵士(这是杰姆的叫法)的作品，杜博斯太太每次都要纠正他。这时，有人敲门。“进来!”她尖叫一声。 进来的是阿迪克斯。他走列床边，拉起杜博斯太太的手。“我刚从事务所来，没见列孩子，我猜想他们会在这儿。” 杜博斯太太朝他笑了笑。她看起来那么恨他，我真不知道这时她怎么有脸跟他说话。“你知道几点了吗，阿迪克斯?”她问，“五点十四分。闹钟五点三十分响，我想让你知道这一点。” 我突然想起我们在杜博斯大太家的时间一天比一天长，闹钟每天都比前一天晚几分钟响。前一段，到铃响时，她已痉挛了一次。今天，她已跟杰姆罗嗦了差不多两个小时，还没有要痉挛的迹象。我觉得上当了。闹钟是我们离开的信号，如果哪一天钟不响了，我们可怎么办呢? “我觉得你约好杰姆读书的时间要完了。”阿迪克斯说。 “我想只延长一个星期。”她说，“目的是为了保证……” 杰姆站起来说：“可是…“一” 阿迪克斯伸手拦住他，杰姆不做声了。回家的路上杰姆说，原来讲好只读一个月，一个月已经过去了，太不讲理了。 “再读一个星期，孩子。”阿迪克斯说。 “不。”杰姆说。 “要读。”阿迪克斯说。 下一个星期，我们仍旧每天去杜博斯太太家。闹钟已经不响了。等杜博斯太太说“够了’时，我们才可以回去。所以，我们到家时阿迪克斯已在看报了。尽管她不再痉挛了，但在其他方面还是老样子：每当沃尔特?斯科特开始较长地描写护城沟和城堡时，杜博斯太太就不耐烦了，就开始挑我们的岔子。 “杰里米?芬奇，我说过你捣坏我的山茶花会后悔的。你现在后悔了吧?” 杰姆也就说他当然后悔了。 。你以为会把我的‘银边翠’弄死吗?杰西说你捣坏的山茶花又长起来了。下次你会知道怎么办了，对吧?你会连根拔掉，是吗?” 杰姆想说他当然会。 “你这小子别跟我吞吞吐吐的!抬起头说是的，太太。可我想，因为你爸爸是那么个人，你会感到抬不起头。” 杰姆就抬起下巴，毫无恶意地看着杜博斯太太。几周来，杰姆学会了一种彬彬有礼、漫不经心的表情，来回答她的那些听了使人血都会凝固的凭空的捏造。 总算熬到头了。一天下午，杜博斯太太说“够了”后，又加了一句“到此结束了，再见”。 终于结束了。我们高兴地连蹦带跳来到人行道上，边跑边叫，好象卸下个大包袱。 那年春天挺合我们心意：白天越来越长，我们玩的时间越来越多。杰姆在忙着收集全国各高等院校橄榄球队队员的主要资料。每天晚上阿迪克斯都给我们读报上的体育消息。从亚拉巴马州球队队员候选人来看，亚拉巴马今年可能又会去参加加州玫瑰杯大学橄榄球赛，这些候选队员的名字我们一个都不会读。一天晚上，阿迪克斯刚读了一半温迪?西顿的专栏文章，突然电话响了。 他接完电话后，走到过厅内的帽架前说：“我去杜博斯太太家看看，用不了多久，一会儿就回来。” 可他去了很久，我上床睡觉的时问早过了，他还没回。他回来时带回、一盒糖果。他在客厅内坐下来，盒子放在椅子边的地上。 “她叫你去干什么?”杰姆问。 我们已有一个月没看见杜博斯太太了。我们路过她家时，她从不在走廊上。 “她死了，孩子，几分钟前死的。”阿迪克斯说。 “噢，”杰姆说，“好。”‘ “死了是好，”阿迪克斯说，“免得多受罪。她病了很久，孩子，你知道她一阵阵痉挛是什么原因吗?” 杰姆摇摇头。 “杜博斯太太用吗啡上了瘾。”阿迪克斯说，“她把吗啡当止痛药用了好几年，医生让她用的，她本来可以用吗啡一直到死，而且不致死得那么痛苦，可她太固执了……” “爸爸，是怎么一回事?”杰姆间。 阿迪克斯说：“就在你那次恶作剧之前，她喊我去立遗嘱。雷纳兹医生告诉她只剩下几个月了。当时她的生意情况很好，但她说：‘还有一件事不正常。”’ “什么事?”杰姆迷惑不解地问。 “她说她离开这个世界酌时候要不托任何事的福，不叨任何人的光。杰姆，如果你象她那样重病在身，也许会认为只要能减轻痛苦，不管用什么药都是无可指责的。但她不这样认为。她说要在死之前戒掉吗啡，她说到做到了。” 杰姆问：“你是说她一阵阵痉挛就是这么回事吗?” “是韵。你给她读书的大部分时间，我怀疑她一个宇都没听。她的全部精力和身体都集中在那个闹钟上。即使你没落在她手里，我也会让你们去给她读书的。。读书也许可以分散她的注意力。还有一个原因……” “她死时无忧无虑吗?” “象山上的空气一样自由自在。”阿迪克斯说，“差不多直劲最后一刻她都是清醒的。是清醒的，”他笑了笑，“脾气还很坏。她从心眼里反对我的一些做法，还说我很可能要花我一生剩下的时问不断地把你从牢狱里保释出来。她叫杰西绐你准备了这个盒子……” 阿迪克斯伸手拾起那个糖果盒子交给杰姆。 杰姆打开盒子，里边用湿棉花围着朵又完好又水灵的白色山茶花。这是朵“银边翠”。 杰姆气得几乎眼睛都瞪出来了。“老鬼，老鬼，”他叫着把花扔到地上，“她为什么总不放过我?” 阿迪克斯很快站起来，杰姆把头埋在阿迪克斯衬衣的前襟里。“嘘，”阿迪克斯说，“我看她是用这种方式来告诉你……现在一切都好了，杰姆，现在一切都好了。你知道她真是个了不起的有教养的女人。” “有教养的女人?”杰姆抬起头。他的脸红了，“她说了你那么多坏话，还是个有教养的女人?” “她是的。她对事情有自己的独特见解，和我的看法很不一样，可能……孩子，我跟你说了，如果你没千那件冒失事的话，我也会叫你去给她读书的。我想让你了解了解她，让你见识见识真正的勇敢是什么，而不要总认为男子手里拿支熗才是勇敢。真正的勇敢是，在行动之前就知道要失败，但还是要行动，不管怎样，要进行到底。你往往失败，但有时候你也能取得胜利。杜博斯太太胜利了，这个只有九十八磅的小老太太。根据她的观点，她死时不托任何事的福，不叨任何人的光。她是我知道的最勇敢的人。” 杰姆拾起糖果盒扔进火里。他又拾起山茶花，我去睡觉时，见他在抚弄那宽大的花瓣。阿迪克斯在看报。 |
Chapter 12 Jem was twelve. He was difficult to live with, inconsistent, moody. His appetite wasappalling, and he told me so many times to stop pestering him I consulted Atticus: “Reckon he’s got a tapeworm?” Atticus said no, Jem was growing. I must be patient withhim and disturb him as little as possible. This change in Jem had come about in a matter of weeks. Mrs. Dubose was not coldin her grave—Jem had seemed grateful enough for my company when he went to readto her. Overnight, it seemed, Jem had acquired an alien set of values and was trying toimpose them on me: several times he went so far as to tell me what to do. After onealtercation when Jem hollered, “It’s time you started bein‘ a girl and acting right!” I burstinto tears and fled to Calpurnia. “Don’t you fret too much over Mister Jem—” she began. “Mister Jem?” “Yeah, he’s just about Mister Jem now.” “He ain’t that old,” I said. “All he needs is somebody to beat him up, and I ain’t bigenough.” “Baby,” said Calpurnia, “I just can’t help it if Mister Jem’s growin‘ up. He’s gonna wantto be off to himself a lot now, doin’ whatever boys do, so you just come right on in thekitchen when you feel lonesome. We’ll find lots of things to do in here.” The beginning of that summer boded well: Jem could do as he pleased; Calpurniawould do until Dill came. She seemed glad to see me when I appeared in the kitchen,and by watching her I began to think there was some skill involved in being a girl. But summer came and Dill was not there. I received a letter and a snapshot from him. The letter said he had a new father whose picture was enclosed, and he would have tostay in Meridian because they planned to build a fishing boat. His father was a lawyerlike Atticus, only much younger. Dill’s new father had a pleasant face, which made meglad Dill had captured him, but I was crushed. Dill concluded by saying he would loveme forever and not to worry, he would come get me and marry me as soon as he gotenough money together, so please write. The fact that I had a permanent fiancé was little compensation for his absence: I hadnever thought about it, but summer was Dill by the fishpool smoking string, Dill’s eyesalive with complicated plans to make Boo Radley emerge; summer was the swiftnesswith which Dill would reach up and kiss me when Jem was not looking, the longings wesometimes felt each other feel. With him, life was routine; without him, life wasunbearable. I stayed miserable for two days. As if that were not enough, the state legislature was called into emergency sessionand Atticus left us for two weeks. The Governor was eager to scrape a few barnacles offthe ship of state; there were sit-down strikes in Birmingham; bread lines in the citiesgrew longer, people in the country grew poorer. But these were events remote from theworld of Jem and me. We were surprised one morning to see a cartoon in the Montgomery Advertiser abovethe caption, “Maycomb’s Finch.” It showed Atticus barefooted and in short pants,chained to a desk: he was diligently writing on a slate while some frivolous-looking girlsyelled, “Yoo-hoo!” at him. “That’s a compliment,” explained Jem. “He spends his time doin‘ things that wouldn’tget done if nobody did ’em.” “Huh?” In addition to Jem’s newly developed characteristics, he had acquired a maddening airof wisdom. “Oh, Scout, it’s like reorganizing the tax systems of the counties and things. That kindof thing’s pretty dry to most men.” “How do you know?” “Oh, go on and leave me alone. I’m readin‘ the paper.” Jem got his wish. I departed for the kitchen. While she was shelling peas, Calpurnia suddenly said, “What am I gonna do aboutyou all’s church this Sunday?” “Nothing, I reckon. Atticus left us collection.” Calpurnia’s eyes narrowed and I could tell what was going through her mind. “Cal,” Isaid, “you know we’ll behave. We haven’t done anything in church in years.” Calpurnia evidently remembered a rainy Sunday when we were both fatherless andteacherless. Left to its own devices, the class tied Eunice Ann Simpson to a chair andplaced her in the furnace room. We forgot her, trooped upstairs to church, and werelistening quietly to the sermon when a dreadful banging issued from the radiator pipes,persisting until someone investigated and brought forth Eunice Ann saying she didn’twant to play Shadrach any more—Jem Finch said she wouldn’t get burnt if she hadenough faith, but it was hot down there. “Besides, Cal, this isn’t the first time Atticus has left us,” I protested. “Yeah, but he makes certain your teacher’s gonna be there. I didn’t hear him say thistime—reckon he forgot it.” Calpurnia scratched her head. Suddenly she smiled. “How’dyou and Mister Jem like to come to church with me tomorrow?” “Really?” “How ‘bout it?” grinned Calpurnia. If Calpurnia had ever bathed me roughly before, it was nothing compared to hersupervision of that Saturday night’s routine. She made me soap all over twice, drewfresh water in the tub for each rinse; she stuck my head in the basin and washed it withOctagon soap and castile. She had trusted Jem for years, but that night she invaded hisprivacy and provoked an outburst: “Can’t anybody take a bath in this house without thewhole family lookin‘?” Next morning she began earlier than usual, to “go over our clothes.” When Calpurniastayed overnight with us she slept on a folding cot in the kitchen; that morning it wascovered with our Sunday habiliments. She had put so much starch in my dress it cameup like a tent when I sat down. She made me wear a petticoat and she wrapped a pinksash tightly around my waist. She went over my patent-leather shoes with a cold biscuituntil she saw her face in them. “It’s like we were goin‘ to Mardi Gras,” said Jem. “What’s all this for, Cal?” “I don’t want anybody sayin‘ I don’t look after my children,” she muttered. “Mister Jem,you absolutely can’t wear that tie with that suit. It’s green.” “‘Smatter with that?” “Suit’s blue. Can’t you tell?” “Hee hee,” I howled, “Jem’s color blind.” His face flushed angrily, but Calpurnia said, “Now you all quit that. You’re gonna go toFirst Purchase with smiles on your faces.” First Purchase African M.E. Church was in the Quarters outside the southern townlimits, across the old sawmill tracks. It was an ancient paint-peeled frame building, theonly church in Maycomb with a steeple and bell, called First Purchase because it waspaid for from the first earnings of freed slaves. Negroes worshiped in it on Sundays andwhite men gambled in it on weekdays. The churchyard was brick-hard clay, as was the cemetery beside it. If someone diedduring a dry spell, the body was covered with chunks of ice until rain softened the earth. A few graves in the cemetery were marked with crumbling tombstones; newer oneswere outlined with brightly colored glass and broken Coca-Cola bottles. Lightning rodsguarding some graves denoted dead who rested uneasily; stumps of burned-outcandles stood at the heads of infant graves. It was a happy cemetery. The warm bittersweet smell of clean Negro welcomed us as we entered thechurchyard—Hearts of Love hairdressing mingled with asafoetida, snuff, Hoyt’sCologne, Brown’s Mule, peppermint, and lilac talcum. When they saw Jem and me with Calpurnia, the men stepped back and took off theirhats; the women crossed their arms at their waists, weekday gestures of respectfulattention. They parted and made a small pathway to the church door for us. Calpurniawalked between Jem and me, responding to the greetings of her brightly clad neighbors. “What you up to, Miss Cal?” said a voice behind us. Calpurnia’s hands went to our shoulders and we stopped and looked around: standingin the path behind us was a tall Negro woman. Her weight was on one leg; she restedher left elbow in the curve of her hip, pointing at us with upturned palm. She was bullet-headed with strange almond-shaped eyes, straight nose, and an Indian-bow mouth. Sheseemed seven feet high. I felt Calpurnia’s hand dig into my shoulder. “What you want, Lula?” she asked, intones I had never heard her use. She spoke quietly, contemptuously. “I wants to know why you bringin‘ white chillun to nigger church.” “They’s my comp’ny,” said Calpurnia. Again I thought her voice strange: she wastalking like the rest of them. “Yeah, an‘ I reckon you’s comp’ny at the Finch house durin’ the week.” A murmur ran through the crowd. “Don’t you fret,” Calpurnia whispered to me, but theroses on her hat trembled indignantly. When Lula came up the pathway toward us Calpurnia said, “Stop right there, nigger.” Lula stopped, but she said, “You ain’t got no business bringin‘ white chillun here—theygot their church, we got our’n. It is our church, ain’t it, Miss Cal?” Calpurnia said, “It’s the same God, ain’t it?” Jem said, “Let’s go home, Cal, they don’t want us here—” I agreed: they did not want us here. I sensed, rather than saw, that we were beingadvanced upon. They seemed to be drawing closer to us, but when I looked up atCalpurnia there was amusement in her eyes. When I looked down the pathway again,Lula was gone. In her place was a solid mass of colored people. One of them stepped from the crowd. It was Zeebo, the garbage collector. “MisterJem,” he said, “we’re mighty glad to have you all here. Don’t pay no ‘tention to Lula,she’s contentious because Reverend Sykes threatened to church her. She’s atroublemaker from way back, got fancy ideas an’ haughty ways—we’re mighty glad tohave you all.” With that, Calpurnia led us to the church door where we were greeted by ReverendSykes, who led us to the front pew. First Purchase was unceiled and unpainted within. Along its walls unlighted kerosenelamps hung on brass brackets; pine benches served as pews. Behind the rough oakpulpit a faded pink silk banner proclaimed God Is Love, the church’s only decorationexcept a rotogravure print of Hunt’s The Light of the World. There was no sign of piano,organ, hymn-books, church programs—the familiar ecclesiastical impedimenta we sawevery Sunday. It was dim inside, with a damp coolness slowly dispelled by the gatheringcongregation. At each seat was a cheap cardboard fan bearing a garish Garden ofGethsemane, courtesy Tyndal’s Hardware Co. (You-Name-It-We-Sell-It). Calpurnia motioned Jem and me to the end of the row and placed herself between us. She fished in her purse, drew out her handkerchief, and untied the hard wad of changein its corner. She gave a dime to me and a dime to Jem. “We’ve got ours,” hewhispered. “You keep it,” Calpurnia said, “you’re my company.” Jem’s face showed briefindecision on the ethics of withholding his own dime, but his innate courtesy won and heshifted his dime to his pocket. I did likewise with no qualms. “Cal,” I whispered, “where are the hymn-books?” “We don’t have any,” she said. “Well how—?” “Sh-h,” she said. Reverend Sykes was standing behind the pulpit staring thecongregation to silence. He was a short, stocky man in a black suit, black tie, white shirt,and a gold watch-chain that glinted in the light from the frosted windows. He said, “Brethren and sisters, we are particularly glad to have company with us thismorning. Mister and Miss Finch. You all know their father. Before I begin I will readsome announcements.” Reverend Sykes shuffled some papers, chose one and held it at arm’s length. “TheMissionary Society meets in the home of Sister Annette Reeves next Tuesday. Bringyour sewing.” He read from another paper. “You all know of Brother Tom Robinson’s trouble. He hasbeen a faithful member of First Purchase since he was a boy. The collection taken uptoday and for the next three Sundays will go to Helen—his wife, to help her out athome.” I punched Jem. “That’s the Tom Atticus’s de—” “Sh-h!” I turned to Calpurnia but was hushed before I opened my mouth. Subdued, I fixed myattention upon Reverend Sykes, who seemed to be waiting for me to settle down. “Willthe music superintendent lead us in the first hymn,” he said. Zeebo rose from his pew and walked down the center aisle, stopping in front of us andfacing the congregation. He was carrying a battered hymn-book. He opened it and said,“We’ll sing number two seventy-three.” This was too much for me. “How’re we gonna sing it if there ain’t any hymn-books?” Calpurnia smiled. “Hush baby,” she whispered, “you’ll see in a minute.” Zeebo cleared his throat and read in a voice like the rumble of distant artillery: “There’s a land beyond the river.” Miraculously on pitch, a hundred voices sang out Zeebo’s words. The last syllable,held to a husky hum, was followed by Zeebo saying, “That we call the sweet forever.” Music again swelled around us; the last note lingered and Zeebo met it with the nextline: “And we only reach that shore by faith’s decree.” The congregation hesitated, Zeebo repeated the line carefully, and it was sung. At thechorus Zeebo closed the book, a signal for the congregation to proceed without his help. On the dying notes of “Jubilee,” Zeebo said, “In that far-off sweet forever, just beyondthe shining river.” Line for line, voices followed in simple harmony until the hymn ended in a melancholymurmur. I looked at Jem, who was looking at Zeebo from the corners of his eyes. I didn’tbelieve it either, but we had both heard it. Reverend Sykes then called on the Lord to bless the sick and the suffering, aprocedure no different from our church practice, except Reverend Sykes directed theDeity’s attention to several specific cases. His sermon was a forthright denunciation of sin, an austere declaration of the motto onthe wall behind him: he warned his flock against the evils of heady brews, gambling, andstrange women. Bootleggers caused enough trouble in the Quarters, but women wereworse. Again, as I had often met it in my own church, I was confronted with the Impurityof Women doctrine that seemed to preoccupy all clergymen. Jem and I had heard the same sermon Sunday after Sunday, with only one exception. Reverend Sykes used his pulpit more freely to express his views on individual lapsesfrom grace: Jim Hardy had been absent from church for five Sundays and he wasn’tsick; Constance Jackson had better watch her ways—she was in grave danger forquarreling with her neighbors; she had erected the only spite fence in the history of theQuarters. Reverend Sykes closed his sermon. He stood beside a table in front of the pulpit andrequested the morning offering, a proceeding that was strange to Jem and me. One byone, the congregation came forward and dropped nickels and dimes into a blackenameled coffee can. Jem and I followed suit, and received a soft, “Thank you, thankyou,” as our dimes clinked. To our amazement, Reverend Sykes emptied the can onto the table and raked thecoins into his hand. He straightened up and said, “This is not enough, we must have tendollars.” The congregation stirred. “You all know what it’s for—Helen can’t leave those childrento work while Tom’s in jail. If everybody gives one more dime, we’ll have it—” ReverendSykes waved his hand and called to someone in the back of the church. “Alec, shut thedoors. Nobody leaves here till we have ten dollars.” Calpurnia scratched in her handbag and brought forth a battered leather coin purse. “Naw Cal,” Jem whispered, when she handed him a shiny quarter, “we can put ours in. Gimme your dime, Scout.” The church was becoming stuffy, and it occurred to me that Reverend Sykes intendedto sweat the amount due out of his flock. Fans crackled, feet shuffled, tobacco-chewerswere in agony. Reverend Sykes startled me by saying sternly, “Carlow Richardson, I haven’t seenyou up this aisle yet.” A thin man in khaki pants came up the aisle and deposited a coin. The congregationmurmured approval. Reverend Sykes then said, “I want all of you with no children to make a sacrifice andgive one more dime apiece. Then we’ll have it.” Slowly, painfully, the ten dollars was collected. The door was opened, and the gust ofwarm air revived us. Zeebo lined On Jordan’s Stormy Banks, and church was over. I wanted to stay and explore, but Calpurnia propelled me up the aisle ahead of her. Atthe church door, while she paused to talk with Zeebo and his family, Jem and I chattedwith Reverend Sykes. I was bursting with questions, but decided I would wait and letCalpurnia answer them. “We were ‘specially glad to have you all here,” said Reverend Sykes. “This church hasno better friend than your daddy.” My curiosity burst: “Why were you all takin‘ up collection for Tom Robinson’s wife?” “Didn’t you hear why?” asked Reverend Sykes. “Helen’s got three little’uns and shecan’t go out to work—” “Why can’t she take ‘em with her, Reverend?” I asked. It was customary for fieldNegroes with tiny children to deposit them in whatever shade there was while theirparents worked—usually the babies sat in the shade between two rows of cotton. Thoseunable to sit were strapped papoose-style on their mothers’ backs, or resided in extracotton bags. Reverend Sykes hesitated. “To tell you the truth, Miss Jean Louise, Helen’s finding ithard to get work these days… when it’s picking time, I think Mr. Link Deas’ll take her.” “Why not, Reverend?” Before he could answer, I felt Calpurnia’s hand on my shoulder. At its pressure I said,“We thank you for lettin‘ us come.” Jem echoed me, and we made our way homeward. “Cal, I know Tom Robinson’s in jail an‘ he’s done somethin’ awful, but why won’t folkshire Helen?” I asked. Calpurnia, in her navy voile dress and tub of a hat, walked between Jem and me. “It’sbecause of what folks say Tom’s done,” she said. “Folks aren’t anxious to—to haveanything to do with any of his family.” “Just what did he do, Cal?” Calpurnia sighed. “Old Mr. Bob Ewell accused him of rapin‘ his girl an’ had himarrested an‘ put in jail—” “Mr. Ewell?” My memory stirred. “Does he have anything to do with those Ewells thatcome every first day of school an‘ then go home? Why, Atticus said they were absolutetrash—I never heard Atticus talk about folks the way he talked about the Ewells. Hesaid-” “Yeah, those are the ones.” “Well, if everybody in Maycomb knows what kind of folks the Ewells are they’d be gladto hire Helen… what’s rape, Cal?” “It’s somethin‘ you’ll have to ask Mr. Finch about,” she said. “He can explain it betterthan I can. You all hungry? The Reverend took a long time unwindin’ this morning, he’snot usually so tedious.” “He’s just like our preacher,” said Jem, “but why do you all sing hymns that way?” “Linin‘?” she asked. “Is that what it is?” “Yeah, it’s called linin‘. They’ve done it that way as long as I can remember.” Jem said it looked like they could save the collection money for a year and get somehymn-books. Calpurnia laughed. “Wouldn’t do any good,” she said. “They can’t read.” “Can’t read?” I asked. “All those folks?” “That’s right,” Calpurnia nodded. “Can’t but about four folks in First Purchase read…I’m one of ‘em.” “Where’d you go to school, Cal?” asked Jem. “Nowhere. Let’s see now, who taught me my letters? It was Miss Maudie Atkinson’saunt, old Miss Buford—” “Are you that old?” “I’m older than Mr. Finch, even.” Calpurnia grinned. “Not sure how much, though. Westarted rememberin‘ one time, trying to figure out how old I was—I can remember backjust a few years more’n he can, so I’m not much older, when you take off the fact thatmen can’t remember as well as women.” “What’s your birthday, Cal?” “I just have it on Christmas, it’s easier to remember that way—I don’t have a realbirthday.” “But Cal,” Jem protested, “you don’t look even near as old as Atticus.” “Colored folks don’t show their ages so fast,” she said. “Maybe because they can’t read. Cal, did you teach Zeebo?” “Yeah, Mister Jem. There wasn’t a school even when he was a boy. I made him learn,though.” Zeebo was Calpurnia’s eldest son. If I had ever thought about it, I would have knownthat Calpurnia was of mature years—Zeebo had half-grown children—but then I hadnever thought about it. “Did you teach him out of a primer, like us?” I asked. “No, I made him get a page of the Bible every day, and there was a book Miss Bufordtaught me out of—bet you don’t know where I got it,” she said. We didn’t know. Calpurnia said, “Your Granddaddy Finch gave it to me.” “Were you from the Landing?” Jem asked. “You never told us that.” “I certainly am, Mister Jem. Grew up down there between the Buford Place and theLandin‘. I’ve spent all my days workin’ for the Finches or the Bufords, an‘ I moved toMaycomb when your daddy and your mamma married.” “What was the book, Cal?” I asked. “Blackstone’s Commentaries.” Jem was thunderstruck. “You mean you taught Zeebo outa that?” “Why yes sir, Mister Jem.” Calpurnia timidly put her fingers to her mouth. “They werethe only books I had. Your grandaddy said Mr. Blackstone wrote fine English—” “That’s why you don’t talk like the rest of ‘em,” said Jem. “The rest of who?” “Rest of the colored folks. Cal, but you talked like they did in church…” That Calpurnia led a modest double life never dawned on me. The idea that she had aseparate existence outside our household was a novel one, to say nothing of her havingcommand of two languages. “Cal,” I asked, “why do you talk nigger-talk to the—to yourfolks when you know it’s not right?” “Well, in the first place I’m black—” “That doesn’t mean you hafta talk that way when you know better,” said Jem. Calpurnia tilted her hat and scratched her head, then pressed her hat down carefullyover her ears. “It’s right hard to say,” she said. “Suppose you and Scout talked colored-folks’ talk at home it’d be out of place, wouldn’t it? Now what if I talked white-folks’ talk atchurch, and with my neighbors? They’d think I was puttin‘ on airs to beat Moses.” “But Cal, you know better,” I said. “It’s not necessary to tell all you know. It’s not ladylike—in the second place, folksdon’t like to have somebody around knowin‘ more than they do. It aggravates ’em. You’re not gonna change any of them by talkin‘ right, they’ve got to want to learnthemselves, and when they don’t want to learn there’s nothing you can do but keep yourmouth shut or talk their language.” “Cal, can I come to see you sometimes?” She looked down at me. “See me, honey? You see me every day.” “Out to your house,” I said. “Sometimes after work? Atticus can get me.” “Any time you want to,” she said. “We’d be glad to have you.” We were on the sidewalk by the Radley Place. “Look on the porch yonder,” Jem said. I looked over to the Radley Place, expecting to see its phantom occupant sunninghimself in the swing. The swing was empty. “I mean our porch,” said Jem. I looked down the street. Enarmored, upright, uncompromising, Aunt Alexandra wassitting in a rocking chair exactly as if she had sat there every day of her life. 杰姆十二岁了。和他相处不容易，他反复无常，郁郁寡欢，胃口大得惊人。他总叫我别老缠着他。于是，我跑去问阿迪克斯：“我想他肚子里有条绦虫吧?”阿迪克斯说不是，杰姆正长身子，我对他要耐着点性子，尽量少去打扰他。 杰姆的这些变化发生在短短的几个星期里。杜博斯太太死了还不久，杰姆对莸当初陪着他上杜博斯太太家给她念书还十分感激。可是，仿佛一夜之间，杰姆便学了一套古里古怪的准则，还想强加给我：有好几次他甚至教训我哪些该千，哪些不该千。有一回吵了嘴后，杰姆吼着说：“你也该象个女孩子，行为该规矩点了1”我的眼泪刷地流了下来，一扭头跑到了卡尔珀尼亚跟前。 “别生杰姆先——生的气。” 。杰姆先——生?” “是啊，他很快就是杰姆先生了。” “他的年龄还不够格呢，他需要的就是让人揍上一顿，可惜我太小了点。” “真是个孩子，”卡尔珀尼亚说，“杰姆先生越长越大，我玎没办法。他不想老让人跟着，要去千男孩子干的事啦。你要是觉得寂寞，就到厨房里来。在这里我们有不少的事可干。” 那年夏天开始时，看来一切都会令人满意。杰姆可以随心所欲；迪尔来到之前我有卡尔珀尼亚陪我，这也不算坏。我在厨房里她很高兴。而我看着她干活，也慢慢觉得要做一个女孩子还真有点什么技巧在里头。 但夏天到了，迪尔却没来。我收到他的一封信和一张照片。信上说他有了个新爸爸，新爸爸的照片也附存信内。迪尔要留在梅里迪安，因为他家决定造一艘渔船。他的这个爸爸同阿迪克斯一样，也是个律师，不过年轻得多，有一张漂亮的脸蛋。迪尔有了爸爸，我很高兴，可我自己却很失望。迪尔在结尾处说，他会爱我一辈子，叫我别担心；他一有了足够的饯就会来接找，和我成家，所以请我给他回信。 迪尔不在身边，这一点，即使有了他这个牢靠的未婚夫也无法弥补。虽然我事实上并没有在头脑里这么去想，但是迪尔便是夏天的一切：同他一起坐在鱼塘边把绳子当烟抽；趁杰姆没注意，他突然探过头来在我脸上飞快地一吻；机灵的眼睛一亮，他便有了逗布?拉德利露面的鬼主意，还有我们都感到的相互间的渴慕。有了他，生活并不怎样出奇；少了他，却无法忍受。一连两天我都很不痛快。 然而这好象还不够似的，阿迪克斯又要去参加州立法机关的紧急会议，两个星期不能回家。州长急于清除州里的一些麻烦事：伯明翰发生了数起静坐罢工，城里等待分发救济食物的队伍越来越长；乡下的人则越来越穷。这些都离着我和杰姆的天地远远的。 一天上午，我们十分惊讶地在《蒙哥马利广告报》上看到一幅漫画，下面的标题是“梅科姆的芬奇”。画中的阿迪克斯光着两脚，只穿着短裤，被铁链锁在一张桌子上，十分认真地在一块石板上写着什么，身旁几个看上去很轻浮的女孩子正对着他叫。喂……!” “这是称赞他，”杰姆解释说，“他用自己的时间干那些没人干便干不成的事。” “是吗?” 杰姆身上除了最近出现的怪脾气外，还添上了一副叫人受不了的自作聪明的派头。 “哦，斯各特，这就如同把各县所有的东西的税收法重新制订一样，而大多数人对这类事情都没有兴趣。” “你怎么知道?” 。哎呀，走开，让我一个人果着，我在看报呢。” 杰姆如愿以偿。我离开他到了厨房里。 卡尔珀尼亚正剥着豆荚，突然对我说：“你们俩星期天做礼拜的事叫我怎么办才好呢?” “我想没什么太了不得的，阿迪克斯给了我们募捐的钱。” 卡尔珀尼亚的两跟眯了起来，我知道她心里在想什么。“卡尔，你知遭我们会守规矩的。我们已有好几年没在教堂里惹过麻烦了。” 卡尔珀尼亚肯定记起了这么一件事；一个星期日，下着雨，我们既没有家长带着，也没有老师管束。我们班的同学们任意胡来，把尤妮斯?安?辛酱森捆到椅子上，关进了炉子问。过后，我们把她忘了，全班人马开拔到楼上做礼拜去了。正静静地听着布道，忽然顺着暖气管道传来了一阵可怕的砰砰声，一直持续到有人去查看为止。尤妮斯被带了出来，说她再不愿扮演谢德拉克了。杰姆?芬奇说，如果她有足够的诚心就烧不伤。不过，那下面确实热。 “而且，卡尔，阿迪克斯又不是第一次离开我们。”我分辩道。 “我知道不是第一次，可他每次都设法让老师管着你们。这回没听他这么说。嗯……他大概忘了。”卡尔珀尼亚搔了搔头，忽然笑了。“你和杰姆先生明夭跟我去做礼拜，怎么样?” “真的?” “满意吧?”卡尔珀尼亚咧嘴笑着说。 不管卡尔珀尼亚以前给我们洗澡洗得多么使劲，跟那个星期六晚上比起来简直不算回事。她两次涂了我满身肥皂，每次清洗时都用大桶提来清水。她把我的脑袋按进水盆里洗了又洗，用了八角牌肥皂，又用了橄榄香皂。杰姆洗澡的事她已多年不过问了。那天晚上却偏要干预他的私事，惹得杰姆发作一通：“难道在这个家里非要所有的人在一旁看着才能洗澡?’ 第二天，比平时更早她就开始“检查”我们的衣服了。卡尔珀尼亚在我们家过夜时，就在厨房里支起个帆布床。那天早上，帆布床上堆满了我们札拜天穿的服装。她给我衣服上浆上得太多了，我往下坐时衣服鼓成帐篷一般。她给我穿上衬裙，然后用一根粉红色的腰带紧紧系上，她还把我的漆皮靴用带油脂的面包干擦得照得出她的脸。 “好象我们要去过狂欢节的最后一天似的。”杰姆说，“这是怎么回事儿，卡尔?” “我不愿听任何人说我没照顾好我的孩子。”她低声咕哝道，“杰姆先生，你无论如何不能用那条领带配这套衣服，那是绿色的。” “这有什么要紧?” “衣服是蓝色曲，难道你分辨不出来?” “嘻，嘻，”我嚷了起来，“杰姆是色盲。” 他气得满脸通红。卡尔珀尼亚马上说：“你们都别闹了，你们这是去首批房产教堂，脸上该挂着笑才对。” 非洲卫理公会监督派首批房产教堂在本镇的南端以外的黑人住宅区，老锯术厂车道的对面。这是一个古老的木架结构建筑，油漆早已剥落，也是梅科姆唯一有尖顼和大钟的教堂。把它叫做首批房产教堂，是因为它是获得自由的奴隶们用第一次挣来的钱建造的。星期天黑人在里面做礼拜，其他时候白人在里面赌钱。 教堂院子的地面是象砖一样硬的粘土，旁边的公墓也一样。如果天气干燥时死了人，就只好用冰块把尸体盖上，等雨天地皮软了才能下葬。公墓里有些坟上竖着正在碎裂的墓碑，而有些新堆的坟，就只用闪闪发亮的彩色玻璃和打破了的可日可乐瓶子来标出轮廓。有的坟上插着避雷针，告诉人们死者躲在地下还觉不安。婴儿的坟头还留着烧过的残烛。人们都愿死后葬在这里。 进了教堂后，我们闻到了有洁净习惯的黑人发出的那种气味，苦涩中夹着清香——这种气味来自一种头发油，还混合着阿魏胶鼻烟、科隆香水、嚼烟、薄荷和紫丁香爽身粉等的香气。 看到我和杰姆同卡尔珀尼亚在一起，男的边往后退边摘帽子；女人把双手交叉在腰间，这是平日表示敬意的姿势。人群分开来，为我们让出一条窄狭的过道，通到教堂门日。卡尔珀尼亚在我和杰姆中间，边走边回答着那些服饰艳丽的邻居们的问候。、 “你搞什么勾当，卡尔小姐?”从我们身后传来一个人的声音。 卡尔珀尼亚把手放到我们肩上，我们停下来回头一看，只见身后的路上站着一位很高的黑人妇女。她全身的重量全落在一只脚上，左手的肘弯顶在髋关节上，掌心朝上，指着我们。她长着圆脑袋，两只出奇的杏仁状的眼睛，一条笔直的鼻粱和一张象印第安人的弓形的嘴。看上去她有七英尺高。 我感到卡尔珀尼亚的手碰了碰我的肩膀。“你要干啥，卢拉?”她问道，用的是我从未听她用过的语调。她说得很平静，但带着鄙夷的口吻。 “我想知道你为什么把白人娃娃带进黑人教堂。” “他们陪着我来的。”我又一次觉得她的声音特殊，她这时的语言同另外这些人一个样。 “是的，我想这个星期你都在芬奇家里。” 人群里一阵低低的声音。“别生气，”卡尔珀尼亚小声对我说，可是她自己帽子上的玫瑰花却象在气愤似的抖动。卢拉顺着过道向我们走来，卡尔珀尼亚说，“给我在那儿站住，黑鬼。” 卢拉停下来了，但是嘴里还在说：“你没有理由把自人的娃娃带副这儿来。他们有他们的教堂，我们有我们的。这教堂是我们的，对不对，卡尔小姐?” 卡尔说：“上帝只有同样的一个，对不对?” 杰姆说话了：“回家吧，卡尔。他们不要我们在这儿……” 我同意他的话，他们不要我们在这儿。我感觉到，但不是发现我们在受到攻击。他们好象把我们围得越来越紧。但我一抬头，却在卡尔珀尼亚的眼里看到喜色。我向过道再望望，卢拉不见了，一大群黑人站在她原先站过的地方。 人群里出来一个人，是齐波，他是运垃圾的。“杰姆先生，你们在这儿使我们都十分高兴，别理卢拉。她这么吵是因为赛克斯牧师吓唬她，说耍用教规来管柬她。她一向是个爱捣蛋的人，尽是怪想法，总是目中无人。你们在这儿我们非常高兴。” 于是，卡尔珀尼亚把我们领到教堂门口。赛克斯牧师对我们表示欢迎，并把我JI『1领到了前排座位上。 这个教堂的内部既没有天花板，也没油漆过。墙上突出的铜架上挂着没点燃的煤油灯，松术条凳代替了通常教堂的靠背椅。粗糙的橡木讲坛后面有一面退了色的粉红丝质旗，上面写着“主即仁爱”。除了一张用照相版印刷的亨特的《世界之光》画外，整个教堂再没有其他装饰了。象钢琴、风琴、赞美诗，礼拜程序单等等每个星期日都要在教堂里见到的东西，这几连影子都没有。室内昏暗，直到上教堂的人越聚越多，才慢慢赶走了潮湿阴冷的感觉。每个座位上都有一把廉价的硬纸做的扇子；上面花花绿绿地画着《圣经》里耶稣被出卖和被捕之地——客西马尼花园。这是廷德尔五金公司赠送的，上面印着一旬商品广告：你要什么我们就卖什么。 卡尔珀尼亚示意我和杰姆坐到那排座位的一头去，她自己坐在我们中间。她在钱包里找出手绢，把包在角落里酌零钱打开，给了我和杰姆各一角钱。“我们自己有，”杰姆轻轻地说。“你们留着，”卡尔珀尼亚说，“你们是陪我来的。”从杰姆的脸色看来，他犹豫了一下，不知该不该留下自己的钱。到底还是他的天生礼貌占了上风，他很快把自己的钱放进了口袋。我也痛痛快快地把钱收了起来。 “卡尔，”我小声问，“赞美诗在哪几?” “我们没有。”她说。 “那怎么……?” “嘘……”她说。赛克斯牧师正站在布道坛后，盯着下面韵人，等教堂安静下来。他矮小结实，穿着黑衣服、白衬衫，系着黑领带，一根金表链在从毛玻璃窗外射进来的阳光中闪闪发亮。 他开口了：“教友们，今天上午芬奇先生和芬奇小姐跟我们在一起，我们感到特别高兴。大伙都熟悉他们的父亲。我在布道前还有几件事要通知。” 赛克斯牧师在几张纸里找出一张来，伸直胳膊举着。“传遭会在教友安妮特?里夫斯家碰头，带针线活来。” 他举起另一张纸。“你们都知道了教友汤姆?鲁宾逊的情况。他从小就是首批房产教堂的忠实成员。今天和下三个星期天的捐款将送刭他妻子海伦手上，帮助她度过难关。” 我把杰姆一捅。。就是这个汤姆，阿迪克斯为他辩……” “嘘……” 我又把脸转向卡尔珀尼亚，但还没有张嘴就被她制止了r。我没办法，只好把注意力集中到赛克斯牧师身上。他好象正等着我安定下来。“请音乐指挥带我们唱第一首赞美诗。”他说道。 齐波起身，沿中间过道走上前来，在我们前面停下来。他面对教友，手里拿着本翻旧了的赞美诗。他打开书说；“我们唱第二百七十三首。” 我再也忍不住了。“没书我们怎么能唱呢?” 卡尔珀尼亚笑了。“别出声，孩子。”她小声说，“过一会儿你就知道了。” 齐波清了一下嗓子便念了起来，声音象是远处的大炮在轰鸣。 “河的彼岸有一片土地。” 我们大伙儿象奇迹般地用同一个调子唱出了齐波的话，最后一个音节拖成沙哑低沉的嗡嗡声，然后齐波跟_r上去。 “我们称那地方为永恒的乐土。” 歌声又一次在周围晌起，最后一个音符持续了一会儿，齐波用下旬接上：“唯有信心，我们才能达到彼岸。” 教友们在迟疑，齐波认真重复了一遍，大伙便会唱了。齐唱声中，齐波合上书——一个叫教友们不要他帮助而继续唱下去的信号。 在唱到结尾处的。朱比种”时，齐波说道：“在闪烁的大河彼岸，在那遥远的永恒的乐土上。” 一句接一句，歌声再起，简单而和谐，然后结束在沉郁的低音之中。 我看着杰姆，他正斜视齐波。我也不相信能这样唱赞美诗，可是我们俩都亲耳听到了。 赛克斯牧师接着祈祷上帝赐福给病人和受苦的人们。这和我们教堂的做法没有两样，只是他请求上帝特别注意几个具体的事件。 他在布道中直截了当地谴责犯罪，严肃地宣扬他背后墙上的格言。他警告人们谨防私酿烈洒、赌博以及娟妓这些邪恶的东西。违法的酒贩在本区已经够麻烦的了，而女人比这还糟，此外，就象在我们自己的教堂里经常遇到的一样，我在这里又一次听到对于女人不纯洁的指责，仿佛所有的牧师一心想到的就是这种信条。 没有哪个星期天我和杰姆听的布道不是同样的模式，但这回是唯一的例外。赛克斯牧师把布道坛运用得更灵活，说出了他对人的堕落的看法：吉姆?哈迪有五个星期天没有来做礼拜了，而他并没有生病；康斯坦斯?杰克逊最好检查一下自己的行为，她因与邻居争吵正处在严重的危险之中，她第一个在本地区立起了怨恨的篱笆。 赛克斯牧师结束了布道，站在布道坛前的桌旁，要求人们捐献。杰姆和我都不知道有这种做法。人们一个接一个地走到前边，把五分或一角的硬币投进一个装咖啡的黑搪瓷罐里，杰姆和我也照着办。随着两角钱当啷的响声，我们听到人们轻声地说“谢谢你们，谢谢你们”。 使我们大感惊讶的是，赛克斯牧师把钱全部倒在桌上，又一起放在手上，然后直起腰说：“这钱不够，我们需要十块钱。” 教友们有点骚动。“你们都明白这钱做什么用。汤姆在监狱里，海伦不能丢下孩子去工作。每人再给一角钱就够了。”赛克斯牧师又一扬手，然后对后头一个人喊道：“亚历克，把门关上，不捐够十块钱谁也别出去。” 卡尔珀尼亚在手提包里摸了摸，掏出了个磨损了的放硬币的钱包。她递给杰姆一个闪光的二角五分的硬币，但杰姆小声地说：。不，卡尔，我们捐自己的钱。把你那一角钱给我，斯各特。” 教堂里越来越阎，我想赛克斯牧师的用意是让这些人流血汗似的流出所需要的数目来。扇子在噗噗地晌，脚不安地在地板上擦着，有嚼烟叶瘾的人受不了啦。 忽然，赛克斯牧师严厉的声音吓了我一跳：“卡洛?理奄森，我还投见你上来过一回!” 一个穿卡叽布裤的瘦个子走上过遣，投下一枚硬币。人群里传出低声的赞许。 赛克斯牧师接下去说道：“我希望这里没有孩子的人做出点牺牲，每个人再捐一角钱就够了。” 十块钱缓慢而艰难地凑足了。门打开了，一股温暖的空气使我们又振作起来。齐波逐行领唱“在雨骤风狂的约旦河岸。，礼拜便做完了。 我想留在后面到各处看看，可是卡尔珀尼亚把我推上过道，让我走在她的前面。到门口，她停下来同齐波和齐波家里人说话时，我和杰姆也同赛克斯牧师谈了起来。我憋着一肚子问题想问，但还是决定忍着，等卡尔珀尼亚去回答。 “今天你们都在这儿，我们特别高兴，你爸爸是这个教堂再好不过的朋友。” 我的好奇心终于控制不住了。“你仃j为什么都绐汤姆-鲁宾逊的妻子捐钱?” “你难道没听说为什么吗?”赛克斯牧师问，“海伦有三个孩子，她无法出去工作……” “那她为什么不能带他们去上班呢，牧师?”我问道。常见干地里活的黑人，哪里有荫凉处就把小孩放在哪里。婴儿一般是坐在两行棉花之间，还不能自己坐稳的便象北美印第安人白勺孩子一样，背在妈妈的身上或用另外一个棉花袋兜着。 赛克斯牧师犹豫了一下。“老实说吧，琼-路易斯小姐，这些日子海伦很难找到活干……到了摘棉花的季节，我想林克?迪斯会雇她。” “干吗不，牧师?” 他还来不及回答，我感到卡尔珀尼亚的手放到我肩上按了一下，于是我说：“谢谢您允许我们上这儿来。”杰姆也同样说了一句，我们便上路回家了。 “卡尔，我知道汤姆?鲁宾逊在监狱里，他干了件不体面的事。但是，人们为什么不雇海伦?”我问道。 卡尔珀尼亚穿着她藏青色的巴里纱衣服，头戴一顶大得象水盆的帽子，走在我和杰姆中间。“这是由于别人说的汤姆千的那件事。人们不太想……跟他家的任何人来往。” 。卡尔，他到底干了什么事?” 卡尔珀尼亚叹了一声。“老鲍勃?尤厄尔先生控告他强奸了他女儿，他被抓起来关进了监狱……” “尤厄尔先生?”我的记忆开始活动起来。“他与那些只在开学第一天去一下学校然后马上回去的尤厄尔家里人有什么关系吗?对了，阿迪克斯说他们是地道的‘贱种’。我从没昕过阿迪克斯象说他们那样说到过别人。他说……” “没错，正是那些人。” “那么，要是梅科姆所有的人都知道尤厄尔家那些人是什么样的人，他们就会雇海伦了……强奸是怎么回事，卡尔?” “这事你该去问芬奇先生，他会解释得比我好。你俩饿了吧?牧师今天上午收场太晚了点。他平时可没有这么罗嗦。” “他和我们的牧师一个样，”杰姆说，“可是你们为什么都是那样唱赞美诗?” “是说逐行领唱?” “这就叫逐行领唱吗?” “是，这叫逐行领唱，从我记事起，他们就是那样干的。” 杰姆说他们似乎可以从捐献里省下一年的钱，买些赞美诗。 卡尔珀尼亚笑出了声。“没用处，他们不识字。” “不识字?”我间，“都不识字?” “对，”卡尔珀尼亚点点头，“首批房产教堂大约只有四个人识字，我算一个。” “你住哪儿上的学，卡尔?”杰姆问。 “没在哪儿。我想想是谁教我的字母。是莫迪-阿特金森她姨，老布福德小姐。” “你有那么大岁数吗?” “我比芬奇先生岁数还要大。”卡尔珀尼亚咧开嘴笑着说，“不过说不准大多少。有一回我们回忆过去的事，想推算出我的年纪。我能记的事比他还早上几年。如果把男人记事没有女人记得那么牢这一点排除的话，我就比他大不了多少。” “你生日是哪天，卡尔?” “我把圣诞节算我的生日，那样好记。我并没有个确定的生日。” “但是，卡尔，你看来岁数一点也不象有阿迪克斯那么犬。” “黑人显老没有那么快。”她说。 “大概是他们不识字。卡尔，齐波是你教的吗?” “是我，杰姆先生。他小的时候还没有学校。不过我叫他学习。” 齐波是卡尔珀尼亚的火儿子，已经有几个半大的孩子了。我要是想到了这点，也就会明白卡尔珀尼亚早就上年纪了。我当时却一点也没想到。 “你是不是也用一本识字课本教他，跟教我们一样?”我问。 “不，我让他每天学一页《圣经》，还有另外一本布福德小姐教我时用过的书。我想你们一定不知道我打哪儿弄来的。”她说。 我们不知道。、 卡尔珀尼亚说：“是你们的祖父芬奇送我的。。 “你是从庄园上来的吗?”杰姆问。“你可从没说过。” “当然是的，杰姆先生。就是在布福德家和庄园里长大的。我这辈子不是给布福德家千活，就是给芬奇家干活，你爸娶你妈那阵子，我就搬到了梅科姆。” “是本什么书，卡尔?”我问。 “布莱克斯顿写的《圣经注解》。” 杰姆大吃一惊。“你是说你用那书教齐波?” “是这样，杰姆先生。”卡尔珀尼亚把手指放在嘴上，有点难为情。“我只有那一本书，你们祖父说布莱克斯顿的英语写得很漂亮。” “难怪你说话不同别的人一样。”杰姆说。 “别的什么人?” “别的黑人。卡尔，不过你在教堂照说话跟他们一样。” 我从没想到卡尔珀尼亚过着朴实的双重生活。出了我们家，她还有另一种生活，这点对我来说十分新奇，更别说她还掌握了两种语言。 “卡尔，”我问她，“你为什么用黑人语言跟这些……跟你们的人说话?你明明知道不正确嘛。” “这个，首先我自己就是黑人……” “那也不等于你本来能说得好一些，却非那样说不可啊。”杰姆说。 卡尔珀尼亚把帽子推到一边，抓了抓脑袋，然后小心地把帽子压到耳朵上。“真难说清，假如你和斯各特在家里说黑人方言，就不合适，对不对?那么我在教堂里象白人那样说话会怎么样?而且我是对我们黑人邻居们说话呢。他们会认为我摆架子，充贵人。” “可是卡尔，你能说得好一些啊。”我说。 “没有必要把自己知道的全兜出来。这不合女人的身分。再说，人们都不愿意旁人比自己懂得更多。这样的人使他们恼火。用正确的语言说话并不能改变他们。他们要学习，只能靠自觉。他们自己要是不想学的话，你除了不说话或说他们同样的话外，什么办法也没有。” “卡尔，我哪天能来看看你吗?” 她低头望着我。“来看我，小宝贝?你天天都看到了我。” “是到你家去，”我说，“哪天干完了活去，好吗?阿迪克斯可以来接我。” “什么时候想来就什么时候来吧，”她说，“我们会高兴地欢迎你的。” 这时，我们到了拉德利家附近的路上。 “瞧那边走廊上。”杰姆说。 我向拉德利家望去，心想能看到那个幽灵般的房主在悬椅上晒太阳。可是悬椅上什么人也没有。 “我是说咱们家走廊。”杰姆说。 我向街那头望过去，只见亚历山德拉姑妈一身行装，身子笔挺，显得很神气，坐在一张摇椅上，仿佛她～辈子每天都是在那儿坐着似的。 |
Chapter 13 “Put my bag in the front bedroom, Calpurnia,” was the first thing Aunt Alexandra said. “Jean Louise, stop scratching your head,” was the second thing she said. Calpurnia picked up Aunty’s heavy suitcase and opened the door. “I’ll take it,” saidJem, and took it. I heard the suitcase hit the bedroom floor with a thump. The sound hada dull permanence about it. “Have you come for a visit, Aunty?” I asked. AuntAlexandra’s visits from the Landing were rare, and she traveled in state. She owned abright green square Buick and a black chauffeur, both kept in an unhealthy state oftidiness, but today they were nowhere to be seen. “Didn’t your father tell you?” she asked. Jem and I shook our heads. “Probably he forgot. He’s not in yet, is he?” “Nome, he doesn’t usually get back till late afternoon,” said Jem. “Well, your father and I decided it was time I came to stay with you for a while.” “For a while” in Maycomb meant anything from three days to thirty years. Jem and Iexchanged glances. “Jem’s growing up now and you are too,” she said to me. “We decided that it would bebest for you to have some feminine influence. It won’t be many years, Jean Louise,before you become interested in clothes and boys—” I could have made several answers to this: Cal’s a girl, it would be many years beforeI would be interested in boys, I would never be interested in clothes… but I kept quiet. “What about Uncle Jimmy?” asked Jem. “Is he comin‘, too?” “Oh no, he’s staying at the Landing. He’ll keep the place going.” The moment I said, “Won’t you miss him?” I realized that this was not a tactfulquestion. Uncle Jimmy present or Uncle Jimmy absent made not much difference, henever said anything. Aunt Alexandra ignored my question. I could think of nothing else to say to her. In fact I could never think of anything to sayto her, and I sat thinking of past painful conversations between us: How are you, JeanLouise? Fine, thank you ma’am, how are you? Very well, thank you, what have youbeen doing with yourself? Nothin‘. Don’t you do anything? Nome. Certainly you havefriends? Yessum. Well what do you all do? Nothin’. It was plain that Aunty thought me dull in the extreme, because I once heard her tellAtticus that I was sluggish. There was a story behind all this, but I had no desire to extract it from her then. Todaywas Sunday, and Aunt Alexandra was positively irritable on the Lord’s Day. I guess itwas her Sunday corset. She was not fat, but solid, and she chose protective garmentsthat drew up her bosom to giddy heights, pinched in her waist, flared out her rear, andmanaged to suggest that Aunt Alexandra’s was once an hour-glass figure. From anyangle, it was formidable. The remainder of the afternoon went by in the gentle gloom that descends whenrelatives appear, but was dispelled when we heard a car turn in the driveway. It wasAtticus, home from Montgomery. Jem, forgetting his dignity, ran with me to meet him. Jem seized his briefcase and bag, I jumped into his arms, felt his vague dry kiss andsaid, “‘d you bring me a book? ’d you know Aunty’s here?” Atticus answered both questions in the affirmative. “How’d you like for her to come livewith us?” I said I would like it very much, which was a lie, but one must lie under certaincircumstances and at all times when one can’t do anything about them. “We felt it was time you children needed—well, it’s like this, Scout,” Atticus said. “Youraunt’s doing me a favor as well as you all. I can’t stay here all day with you, and thesummer’s going to be a hot one.” “Yes sir,” I said, not understanding a word he said. I had an idea, however, that AuntAlexandra’s appearance on the scene was not so much Atticus’s doing as hers. Auntyhad a way of declaring What Is Best For The Family, and I suppose her coming to livewith us was in that category. Maycomb welcomed her. Miss Maudie Atkinson baked a Lane cake so loaded withshinny it made me tight; Miss Stephanie Crawford had long visits with Aunt Alexandra,consisting mostly of Miss Stephanie shaking her head and saying, “Uh, uh, uh.” MissRachel next door had Aunty over for coffee in the afternoons, and Mr. Nathan Radleywent so far as to come up in the front yard and say he was glad to see her. When she settled in with us and life resumed its daily pace, Aunt Alexandra seemedas if she had always lived with us. Her Missionary Society refreshments added to herreputation as a hostess (she did not permit Calpurnia to make the delicacies required tosustain the Society through long reports on Rice Christians); she joined and becameSecretary of the Maycomb Amanuensis Club. To all parties present and participating inthe life of the county, Aunt Alexandra was one of the last of her kind: she had river-boat,boarding-school manners; let any moral come along and she would uphold it; she wasborn in the objective case; she was an incurable gossip. When Aunt Alexandra went toschool, self-doubt could not be found in any textbook, so she knew not its meaning. Shewas never bored, and given the slightest chance she would exercise her royalprerogative: she would arrange, advise, caution, and warn. She never let a chance escape her to point out the shortcomings of other tribal groupsto the greater glory of our own, a habit that amused Jem rather than annoyed him: “Aunty better watch how she talks—scratch most folks in Maycomb and they’re kin tous.” Aunt Alexandra, in underlining the moral of young Sam Merriweather’s suicide, said itwas caused by a morbid streak in the family. Let a sixteen-year-old girl giggle in thechoir and Aunty would say, “It just goes to show you, all the Penfield women are flighty.” Everybody in Maycomb, it seemed, had a Streak: a Drinking Streak, a Gambling Streak,a Mean Streak, a Funny Streak. Once, when Aunty assured us that Miss Stephanie Crawford’s tendency to mind otherpeople’s business was hereditary, Atticus said, “Sister, when you stop to think about it,our generation’s practically the first in the Finch family not to marry its cousins. Wouldyou say the Finches have an Incestuous Streak?” Aunty said no, that’s where we got our small hands and feet. I never understood her preoccupation with heredity. Somewhere, I had received theimpression that Fine Folks were people who did the best they could with the sense theyhad, but Aunt Alexandra was of the opinion, obliquely expressed, that the longer afamily had been squatting on one patch of land the finer it was. “That makes the Ewells fine folks, then,” said Jem. The tribe of which Burris Ewell andhis brethren consisted had lived on the same plot of earth behind the Maycomb dump,and had thrived on county welfare money for three generations. Aunt Alexandra’s theory had something behind it, though. Maycomb was an ancienttown. It was twenty miles east of Finch’s Landing, awkwardly inland for such an oldtown. But Maycomb would have been closer to the river had it not been for the nimble-wittedness of one Sinkfield, who in the dawn of history operated an inn where two pig-trails met, the only tavern in the territory. Sinkfield, no patriot, served and suppliedammunition to Indians and settlers alike, neither knowing or caring whether he was apart of the Alabama Territory or the Creek Nation so long as business was good. Business was excellent when Governor William Wyatt Bibb, with a view to promoting thenewly created county’s domestic tranquility, dispatched a team of surveyors to locate itsexact center and there establish its seat of government. The surveyors, Sinkfield’sguests, told their host that he was in the territorial confines of Maycomb County, andshowed him the probable spot where the county seat would be built. Had not Sinkfieldmade a bold stroke to preserve his holdings, Maycomb would have sat in the middle ofWinston Swamp, a place totally devoid of interest. Instead, Maycomb grew andsprawled out from its hub, Sinkfield’s Tavern, because Sinkfield reduced his guests tomyopic drunkenness one evening, induced them to bring forward their maps and charts,lop off a little here, add a bit there, and adjust the center of the county to meet hisrequirements. He sent them packing next day armed with their charts and five quarts ofshinny in their saddlebags—two apiece and one for the Governor. Because its primary reason for existence was government, Maycomb was spared thegrubbiness that distinguished most Alabama towns its size. In the beginning its buildingswere solid, its courthouse proud, its streets graciously wide. Maycomb’s proportion ofprofessional people ran high: one went there to have his teeth pulled, his wagon fixed,his heart listened to, his money deposited, his soul saved, his mules vetted. But theultimate wisdom of Sinkfield’s maneuver is open to question. He placed the young towntoo far away from the only kind of public transportation in those days—river-boat—and ittook a man from the north end of the county two days to travel to Maycomb for store-bought goods. As a result the town remained the same size for a hundred years, anisland in a patchwork sea of cottonfields and timberland. Although Maycomb was ignored during the War Between the States, Reconstructionrule and economic ruin forced the town to grow. It grew inward. New people so rarelysettled there, the same families married the same families until the members of thecommunity looked faintly alike. Occasionally someone would return from Montgomery orMobile with an outsider, but the result caused only a ripple in the quiet stream of familyresemblance. Things were more or less the same during my early years. There was indeed a caste system in Maycomb, but to my mind it worked this way: theolder citizens, the present generation of people who had lived side by side for years andyears, were utterly predictable to one another: they took for granted attitudes, charactershadings, even gestures, as having been repeated in each generation and refined bytime. Thus the dicta No Crawford Minds His Own Business, Every Third Merriweather IsMorbid, The Truth Is Not in the Delafields, All the Bufords Walk Like That, were simplyguides to daily living: never take a check from a Delafield without a discreet call to thebank; Miss Maudie Atkinson’s shoulder stoops because she was a Buford; if Mrs. GraceMerriweather sips gin out of Lydia E. Pinkham bottles it’s nothing unusual—her motherdid the same. Aunt Alexandra fitted into the world of Maycomb like a hand into a glove, but neverinto the world of Jem and me. I so often wondered how she could be Atticus’s and UncleJack’s sister that I revived half-remembered tales of changelings and mandrake rootsthat Jem had spun long ago. These were abstract speculations for the first month of her stay, as she had little tosay to Jem or me, and we saw her only at mealtimes and at night before we went tobed. It was summer and we were outdoors. Of course some afternoons when I wouldrun inside for a drink of water, I would find the livingroom overrun with Maycomb ladies,sipping, whispering, fanning, and I would be called: “Jean Louise, come speak to theseladies.” When I appeared in the doorway, Aunty would look as if she regretted her request; Iwas usually mud-splashed or covered with sand. “Speak to your Cousin Lily,” she said one afternoon, when she had trapped me in thehall. “Who?” I said. “Your Cousin Lily Brooke,” said Aunt Alexandra. “She our cousin? I didn’t know that.” Aunt Alexandra managed to smile in a way that conveyed a gentle apology to CousinLily and firm disapproval to me. When Cousin Lily Brooke left I knew I was in for it. It was a sad thing that my father had neglected to tell me about the Finch Family, or toinstall any pride into his children. She summoned Jem, who sat warily on the sofabeside me. She left the room and returned with a purple-covered book on whichMeditations of Joshua S. St. Clair was stamped in gold. “Your cousin wrote this,” said Aunt Alexandra. “He was a beautiful character.” Jem examined the small volume. “Is this the Cousin Joshua who was locked up for solong?” Aunt Alexandra said, “How did you know that?” “Why, Atticus said he went round the bend at the University. Said he tried to shoot thepresident. Said Cousin Joshua said he wasn’t anything but a sewer-inspector and triedto shoot him with an old flintlock pistol, only it just blew up in his hand. Atticus said itcost the family five hundred dollars to get him out of that one—” Aunt Alexandra was standing stiff as a stork. “That’s all,” she said. “We’ll see aboutthis.” Before bedtime I was in Jem’s room trying to borrow a book, when Atticus knockedand entered. He sat on the side of Jem’s bed, looked at us soberly, then he grinned. “Er—h’rm,” he said. He was beginning to preface some things he said with a throatynoise, and I thought he must at last be getting old, but he looked the same. ”I don’texactly know how to say this,“ he began. “Well, just say it,” said Jem. “Have we done something?” Our father was actually fidgeting. “No, I just want to explain to you that—your AuntAlexandra asked me… son, you know you’re a Finch, don’t you?” “That’s what I’ve been told.” Jem looked out of the corners of his eyes. His voice roseuncontrollably, “Atticus, what’s the matter?” Atticus crossed his knees and folded his arms. “I’m trying to tell you the facts of life.” Jem’s disgust deepened. “I know all that stuff,” he said. Atticus suddenly grew serious. In his lawyer’s voice, without a shade of inflection, hesaid: “Your aunt has asked me to try and impress upon you and Jean Louise that youare not from run-of-the-mill people, that you are the product of several generations’ gentle breeding—” Atticus paused, watching me locate an elusive redbug on my leg. “Gentle breeding,” he continued, when I had found and scratched it, “and that youshould try to live up to your name—” Atticus persevered in spite of us: “She asked me totell you you must try to behave like the little lady and gentleman that you are. She wantsto talk to you about the family and what it’s meant to Maycomb County through theyears, so you’ll have some idea of who you are, so you might be moved to behaveaccordingly,” he concluded at a gallop. Stunned, Jem and I looked at each other, then at Atticus, whose collar seemed toworry him. We did not speak to him. Presently I picked up a comb from Jem’s dresser and ran its teeth along the edge. “Stop that noise,” Atticus said. His curtness stung me. The comb was midway in its journey, and I banged it down. For no reason I felt myself beginning to cry, but I could not stop. This was not my father. My father never thought these thoughts. My father never spoke so. Aunt Alexandra hadput him up to this, somehow. Through my tears I saw Jem standing in a similar pool ofisolation, his head cocked to one side. There was nowhere to go, but I turned to go and met Atticus’s vest front. I buried myhead in it and listened to the small internal noises that went on behind the light bluecloth: his watch ticking, the faint crackle of his starched shirt, the soft sound of hisbreathing. “Your stomach’s growling,” I said. “I know it,” he said. “You better take some soda.” “I will,” he said. “Atticus, is all this behavin‘ an’ stuff gonna make things different? I mean are you—?” I felt his hand on the back of my head. “Don’t you worry about anything,” he said. “It’snot time to worry.” When I heard that, I knew he had come back to us. The blood in mylegs began to flow again, and I raised my head. “You really want us to do all that? I can’tremember everything Finches are supposed to do…” “I don’t want you to remember it. Forget it.” He went to the door and out of the room, shutting the door behind him. He nearlyslammed it, but caught himself at the last minute and closed it softly. As Jem and Istared, the door opened again and Atticus peered around. His eyebrows were raised,his glasses had slipped. “Get more like Cousin Joshua every day, don’t I? Do you thinkI’ll end up costing the family five hundred dollars?” I know now what he was trying to do, but Atticus was only a man. It takes a woman todo that kind of work. “把我的手提箱放到前头卧室里，卡尔珀尼亚。”这是亚历山德拉姑妈的第一句话。“琼?路易斯，别再搔脑袋了。”这是她的第二句话。 卡尔珀尼亚提起那个沉重的箱子，开了门。“我来提。”杰姆说着，接过箱子。箱子在卧室的地板上撞得咚的一声，这声音是低沉的，但在找耳里持续了好一阵子。 “您是来看望我们的吧，姑妈?”我问她。亚历山德拉姑妈很少从庄园出来探亲访友，但一旦出门，总是十分气派。她有一辆闪闪发亮的，方形的、绿色的布依克牌汽车和一个黑人司机，汽车和司机都不正常地整洁。这回，汽车和司机都没在。 “你们的爸爸没说过吗?” 杰姆和我摇摇头。 “也许他忘了。他还没回来?” “没有，他常常要下午才回来。”杰姆说。 “听着，他和我都认为我该来跟你们一起住上一阵子，是时候了。” 在梅科姆，“一阵子”意味着三两天劲三十年不等的时间。杰姆和我不由互相看了一眼。 “杰姆快成人了，你也一样。。她对我说，“我们决定，让你们也受点女人的影响。琼?路易斯，过不了几年你就会对穿戴和男孩子注意起来的……” 对这话我能有好几种回答：卡尔也是个女的；还要好几年我才会对男孩子注意起来；我永远也不会注意穿戴……但是我什么也没说。 “吉米姑父呢?”杰姆问，“他也来吗?” “啊，不，他留在庄园里，那儿有事要他料理。” 我刚说出“您不想他吗?”就意识到这话问得不得体。吉米姑父在不在都无所谓，反正他什么话也不说。亚历山德拉姑妈没有理会我的问题。 我想不出什么别的事好说，实际上我根本就没话可说。于是我坐了下来，同想着从前那些毫无意义的对话；你好吗，琼?路易斯?好！谢谢姑妈。您也好吗?很好，谢谢你}你这向于些什么?没千什么。你不干点什么?不。你当然有不少小朋友?是的。那么你们都干些什么呢?什么也投干。 错不了，姑妈一定认为我笨极了，因为有一回我听到她对阿迪克斯说我缺乏生气。 所有这一切是有其原因的，可是我眼下一点也不想从她那儿打听什么。今天是星期日，每逢星期日，亚历山德拉姑妈就很容易发火。我猜原因就是她那件星期日穿的紧身胸衣。她不很胖，但很壮实。她却偏挑裹得很紧的衣服。胸脯鼓出达到令人晕眩的高度，腰围绷紧，屁股向两边展开，把自己着意安排得仿佛在说：亚历山德拉姑妈从前也曾经有过细腰溜肩的好身段。不管从哪个角度看，她都使人害怕。 平时亲戚们凑到一块儿，阴郁的气氛也随之而来。下午剩下的时间就是在这种气氛中打发过去的，直到传来一辆汽车从车道上拐进来的声音，这种阴郁才消失。原来是阿迪克斯从蒙哥马利回来了。这时，杰姆早已把自己的庄重丢到了脑后，和我一起跑着去接他。杰姆抓过他的公文包和袋子，我跳进他白勺怀里，让他轻轻地随便吻一吻，接着便问：“给我买书了吗?知道姑妈来了吗?” 对这两个问题，他的回答都是肯定的。“你喜欢她来跟我们住在一起吗?” 我说很喜欢，可这是撒谎。在有些情况下，一个人不得不撒点谎。而且在不得已的情况下，即使老是撒谎也不算什么。 “我们觉得是时候了，你们这些孩子需要……该这么讲，斯备特，”阿迪克斯说，“你姑妈来是帮我的忙，也是帮你们的忙。我不能成天和你们一起在这儿，而且今年夏天会使人受不了。” “是的，爸爸。”我这样说了一声，他的话我一句也不懂。不过我想，亚历山德拉姑妈到这儿来，与其说是阿迪克斯的主意，还不如说是她自己的主意。她总爱对人宣称“怎样才对家里最有好处”。我估计，她来这儿跟我们一起住，是属于这种范畴的。 亚历山德拉姑妈在梅科姆很受欢迎。莫迪?阿特金森小姐给她烤了个。莱思”饼，里头放了那么多酒，吃得我都要醉了。斯蒂芬尼?克劳福德小姐来看了她好几次，呆得很久，不停地摇着头说：“啊，啊，啊。”隔壁的雷切尔小姐有好几个下午把她请过去喝咖啡。而内森?拉德利先生甚至特意走到前院来说，见到她很高兴。 哑历山德拉姑妈住了下来，生活恢复了正常。她就象一直和我们住在一起似的。而她给传道会举行的茶会更使她作为女主人的名声远扬(在传道会作攻击吃教会饭的教徒的冗长报告时，她不让卡尔珀尼亚准备点心来招待会里的成员)。她还参加了梅科姆的誊写俱乐部，并当上了秘书。象她这样无论什么集会和活动都参加的人，县里很难再找到第二个了！她从河船上和寄宿学校里学来一些举止，不管什么道德问题，她都予以支持。她是个天生喜欢谈论别人的人，是个不可救药的爱讲闲话的人。从前她念书的时候，课本里还找不到“缺乏自信心”这个词，因此她头脑里根本没有这一概念。她从不厌烦，只要有一点点机会她就神气十足地行使她的权力，帮人出主意、想办法，又是提醒这个，又是告诫那个。 她从不放过任何机会来挑别的宗族的毛病，给自己的宗族添光彩。这种习惯使杰姆感到好笑而不是讨厌：“姑妈最好说话小心点，梅科姆的人她大半都看不顺眼，都要碰一碰，可那些都是咱家的亲戚。” 亚历山德拉姑妈在强调小萨姆?梅里韦瑟自杀的教训时指出，这是她家族里一种病态的气质引起的。如果j个只有十六岁的小姑娘在合唱队里格格发笑，姑妈就会说，“这正好商你表明彭菲尔德家的所有女性都轻佻。”梅科姆的每个人似乎都有一种什么气质：酗洒的气质啦，赌博的气质啦，吝啬的气质啦，滑稽的气质啦。 有一次，姑妈满有把握地向我们指出，斯蒂芬尼?克劳福德小姐爱管别人闲事的毛病是遗传的，这时阿迪克斯说：“妹妹，你仔细想想，我们家几乎到我们这一辈才开始不跟表姐妹结婚，你是不是要说芬奇家族有乱伦的气质呢?” 姑妈说不是的，可这就是为什么我们手和脚长得都很小的原因。 我无法理解她对遗传的偏见。我自己不知从哪儿得到了这样的印象：杰出的人都是些凭自己的头脑尽自己的能力把事办得很好的人。但亚历山德拉姑妈却隐隐约约地同意这样一种观点：一个家族在同一个地方住得越久，门第越是高贵。 “这么说，尤厄尔家里的人就变成门第高贵的人了。”杰姆说。这个由伯利斯和他的兄弟们组成曲宗族一直住在梅科姆垃圾场后面的同一块地皮上，靠县里的救济金繁盛起来，已经有三代之久了。 不过，亚历山德拉姑妈的理论还是有点事实根据的。梅科姆是个古老的镇子，在芬奇庄园以东二十英里的地方。就这样一个建立很早的镇子说，离河边太远了。要不是因为那个叫辛格菲尔德的机灵人，梅科姆是会靠河边近一点的。很久很久以前，这人在两条小道的交叉处开了个客店，是当时这地方唯一的小旅馆。这人不爱国，不管是印第安人还是殖民者，他都一样接待，一样做军火生意。双方谁也不管他是属于亚拉巴马州还是属于克里克部落，只要买卖做成了就行，生意兴旺着呢。州长威廉?怀亚特-比布为了促进这个新建县的经济稳定，派出一支勘测队，去确定县的确切中心，并在那儿建立政府所在地。 这些勘测队员住在辛格菲尔德的客店里，他们告诉店主，他的客店在梅科姆县的地界内，并指给他看了初步选定的县政府的地址。要不是辛格菲尔德那时采取了大胆行动来保存自己的店产，梅科姆镇就会坐落在温斯顿沼泽的中心了，那是个设有任何好处的地方。结果没有那样，梅科姆从自己的中心——辛格菲尔德的小旅店——向外扩展开来。因为辛格菲尔德在一天晚上把他这两个客人灌迷糊了，让他们掏出了地图和测量图。他这儿删掉一点，那儿补上一块，按他自己的需要把县的中心位置挪动了。第二天，他打发这两个人上了路，鞍袋里既装着地图和图表，也装着五夸脱酒，每人两夸脱，另外一夸脱是给州长的。 梅科姆最初就是为县政府建立的，因此，不象亚拉巴马州里其他一些和它一样大的镇子那样肮脏。它一开始就修得房屋结实，法院堂皇，街道宽阔而雅致。梅科姆镇上有专业技术的人多起来了。拔牙的、修马车的、看病的、存钱酌．做礼拜的、给骡子诊病的，都得上梅科姆来。可惜的是，辛格菲尔德的谋略尽管聪明已极，仍然是有问题的。船是当时唯一的公共交通工具，而他让这个新镇子离河太远了。住在县北端的人们到梅科姆镇的商店买东西，要花上两夭工夫。结果一百年过去了，这个镇还只这么大，孤岛一样处在左一块右一块的棉花地和树林子的包围之中。 尽管内战时这个镇没有人注意，但是经济恢复法和经济衰退促使它发展，不过是向内部发展。极少有外来人在这儿安家。老是几个旧家族互相联姻，以至这块地方的人看起来都多少有点相象了。偶尔有人从蒙哥马利或莫比尔带进一个外乡人，但只在这平静的家族同化流程中引起一点小小的浪花。在我的童年时代里，这里的情况几乎没有什么变化。 梅科姆镇确实存在着一种种姓等级制度。在我看来，它是这么一回事：多年住在一起的老一辈的和现在这辈人，谁都可以对谁断言：各种态度，各种性格差异，连各种姿势都被人们认为理所当然地一代一代传下去，而且越来越纯粹。因而下边这些名言简直成了日常生活的指导；克劳福德家族专爱管别人酌事；梅里韦瑟家族里三个人中有一个是病态的；德拉菲尔德家族不讲真话，布福德家里的人走路都那样，一定得记住先给银行通个电话才能从一个德拉菲尔德家的人手上接过一张银行支票，莫迪?阿特金森小姐老是佝偻着肩，是由于她的布福蓥血统，如果格雷斯?梅里韦瑟太太从莉迪亚?平克姆的瓶子里吸杜松子酒，这算不上一回事，因为她妈就是这样的。 亚历山德拉姑妈适应梅科姆的生活就象手指适应手套一样，可是跟我和杰姆的生活格格不入。我常常感到奇怪，她怎么会是阿迪克斯和杰克叔叔的姊妹，因而不由得想到了那些只记住了一半的故事。那是杰姆很早以前编的，里面说到了被掉包的小孩和用于麻醉的曼陀罗草根等等。 这些只是她住下来头一个月里我们主观的想法，她跟杰姆或我没有多少话说，我们也只在吃饭时和上床前见到她。那正是夏天，我们总在外面，当然，有时在下午我跑进屋喝点水，看到客厅里满是梅科姆的太太小姐们，一边喝着，一边叽叽咕咕说着，一边摇扇子。我常常被她喊住：“琼?路易斯，过来和这些太太小姐们说话。” 我一旦在门口出现，姑妈却又常常好象后悔不该叫我进来。我总是身上溅上了泥或一身的砂子。 “去和你们的莉莉表姐说话。”一天下午她把我拦在过厅里说。 “谁?” “你的表姐，莉莉?布鲁克。” “她是我们的表姐?我可不知道。。 亚历山德托姑妈做了一个难看的笑脸，这对莉莉表姐是表示歉意，对我却是一种非难。莉莉表姐走了以后，我知道有瞧的了。 爸爸没有给我们说过芬奇家族的事，也没有给他的小孩灌输自豪感，这实在是糟糕的事。姑妈叫来了杰姆，杰姆在我身边的沙发上小心地坐下。姑妈离开房间，又带着一本紫色封面的书进来了，上面套金印着几个凹版字：《乔舒亚?斯?圣克莱尔沉思录》。 “你们的表哥写的，他是个了不起的人物。” 杰姆细看了看那本小书。“是那个被关了很长时间的乔舒亚表哥吗?” 亚历山德拉姑妈说：“你怎么知道那件事?” “怎么，阿迪克斯说的。他躲在大学校园拐角的地方。说他想开熗打死校长。乔舒亚表哥说那校长什么也不是，只是个管下水道的。他想甩一枝旧式燧发手熗打死他，可熗在他手上炸开了。阿迪克斯说他家花了五百块钱才把他们的事了结……” 亚历山德拉姑妈象鹳鸟一样僵直地站着。。够了，”她说，“我们会把这事弄清楚的。” 快上床的时候，我在杰姆的屋里，想借一本书，这时阿迪克斯敲门进来了。他在杰姆的床沿上坐下，先板着脸看着我们，然后又咧嘴笑了。 “呃——晤。”这一段时间，他说话前总要发出点沙哑的声音。我想他一定是老起来了．但看上去还是以前那样。“我不清楚到底该怎么说。”他说了起来。 “说就是了。”杰姆开口了，“是不是我们于了什么不该干的事?” 看上去，爸爸的确有点坐立不安。“不，我只是想解释一下——你们的亚历山德拉姑妈要求我……孩子，你知道你是芬奇家的人，对不对?” “人们是这样告诉我的。”杰姆斜着眼，然后不由自主地提高了嗓门，。阿迪克斯，到底怎么啦?” 阿迪克斯跷起二郎腿，操起两只胳膊。“我想把一些生活里的事告诉你。” 杰姆更不耐烦了。“我知道，就是那些玩意儿。” 阿迪克斯一下子严厉起来，用他在法庭上的口吻直通通地说；“你姑妈叫我要你和琼?路易斯记住，你们不是出自普通人家，你们是儿代有教养的人的后裔……”阿迪克斯顿了顿，看善我在腿上追踪一只躲躲闪闪的红甲虫。 “是有教养的，”等我找到那甲虫，抓了出来时，他接着往下说，“并且你们该对得起你们的姓……”他没管我们听了没有，又说下去，“她叫我告诉你们，你们的行为应跟你们的身分相称，你们的身分是有教养的小孩。她想跟你们谈谈我们家族和这些年来这个家族在梅科姆有什么样曲地位，好让你们知道自己是什么样的人，懂得要怎样才会不失身分。”他一口气把话说完了。 我们都懵了，对视了一眼，又都朝阿迪克斯看去，他的衣领好象长了刺似的。我们谁也不跟他说话。 过了一阵，我从杰姆的洗脸台上拿起一把梳子，用梳齿在台子边上来回划着。 “别弄出那样的声音。”阿迪克斯说。 他的粗鲁把我刺痛了。梳子正划到半路，我叭地把它放下来。我觉得自己想哭，投一点理由，但又忍不住。这不是我爸爸，我的爸爸从来没有这些想法，我的爸爸从来不这样说话。是亚历山德拉姑妈逼他这样做酌。我透过眼泪看到杰姆也孤单单地站着，脑袋向一边耷拉着。 尽管没哪儿可走，我还是一转身就走，一头碰上了阿迪克斯的胸脯。我把头埋了进去，听着那里面从浅蓝背心里传出的细细的声音：怀表的嘀嗒声，上过浆的衬衣的轻微的塞率声，以及柔和的呼吸声。． “你的肚子里头直响。”我说。 “知道。” “你最好吃点小苏打。。 “会吃的。” “阿迪克斯，你说了那些话，叫我们那样傲，就会使情况发生变化吗?我是说你会不会……?” 我感到他把手放到了我后脑上。“什么事也别担心，还不是担心的时候。” 昕到这话，我明白他又回到了我们一边。我腿上的血液又开始流动了，头也抬起来了。“你真想要我们都那样做?芬奇家的人该怎样，我无法全记下来……。 “我不想叫你们去记，忘了吧。” 他向门口走去，出了屋子，把门关上。他几乎在使劲甩门，但最后还是控制住了，把门轻轻地关上。杰姆和我正在发愣，门又开了，阿迪克斯向四周凝视。他眉毛上扬，眼镜早滑了下来。“我越来越象乔舒亚表哥了，对吗?你们是不是在想我会叫这个家也花上五百块钱才完事呢?。 今天我才明白过来，他那时想干什么，但是阿迪克斯毕竟只是个男人，而他想千的那种事只有女人才干得出来。 |
Chapter 14 Although we heard no more about the Finch family from Aunt Alexandra, we heardplenty from the town. On Saturdays, armed with our nickels, when Jem permitted me toaccompany him (he was now positively allergic to my presence when in public), wewould squirm our way through sweating sidewalk crowds and sometimes hear, “There’shis chillun,” or, “Yonder’s some Finches.” Turning to face our accusers, we would seeonly a couple of farmers studying the enema bags in the Mayco Drugstore window. Ortwo dumpy countrywomen in straw hats sitting in a Hoover cart. “They c’n go loose and rape up the countryside for all of ‘em who run this countycare,” was one obscure observation we met head on from a skinny gentleman when hepassed us. Which reminded me that I had a question to ask Atticus. “What’s rape?” I asked him that night. Atticus looked around from behind his paper. He was in his chair by the window. Aswe grew older, Jem and I thought it generous to allow Atticus thirty minutes to himselfafter supper. He sighed, and said rape was carnal knowledge of a female by force and withoutconsent. “Well if that’s all it is why did Calpurnia dry me up when I asked her what it was?” Atticus looked pensive. “What’s that again?” “Well, I asked Calpurnia comin‘ from church that day what it was and she said ask youbut I forgot to and now I’m askin’ you.” His paper was now in his lap. “Again, please,” he said. I told him in detail about our trip to church with Calpurnia. Atticus seemed to enjoy it,but Aunt Alexandra, who was sitting in a corner quietly sewing, put down her embroideryand stared at us. “You all were coming back from Calpurnia’s church that Sunday?” Jem said, “Yessum, she took us.” I remembered something. “Yessum, and she promised me I could come out to herhouse some afternoon. Atticus. I’ll go next Sunday if it’s all right, can I? Cal said she’dcome get me if you were off in the car.” “You may not.” Aunt Alexandra said it. I wheeled around, startled, then turned back to Atticus in timeto catch his swift glance at her, but it was too late. I said, “I didn’t ask you!” For a big man, Atticus could get up and down from a chair faster than anyone I everknew. He was on his feet. “Apologize to your aunt,” he said. “I didn’t ask her, I asked you—” Atticus turned his head and pinned me to the wall with his good eye. His voice wasdeadly: “First, apologize to your aunt.” “I’m sorry, Aunty,” I muttered. “Now then,” he said. “Let’s get this clear: you do as Calpurnia tells you, you do as I tellyou, and as long as your aunt’s in this house, you will do as she tells you. Understand?” I understood, pondered a while, and concluded that the only way I could retire with ashred of dignity was to go to the bathroom, where I stayed long enough to make themthink I had to go. Returning, I lingered in the hall to hear a fierce discussion going on inthe livingroom. Through the door I could see Jem on the sofa with a football magazine infront of his face, his head turning as if its pages contained a live tennis match. “…you’ve got to do something about her,” Aunty was saying. “You’ve let things go ontoo long, Atticus, too long.” “I don’t see any harm in letting her go out there. Cal’d look after her there as well asshe does here.” Who was the “her” they were talking about? My heart sank: me. I felt the starchedwalls of a pink cotton penitentiary closing in on me, and for the second time in my life Ithought of running away. Immediately. “Atticus, it’s all right to be soft-hearted, you’re an easy man, but you have a daughterto think of. A daughter who’s growing up.” “That’s what I am thinking of.” “And don’t try to get around it. You’ve got to face it sooner or later and it might as wellbe tonight. We don’t need her now.” Atticus’s voice was even: “Alexandra, Calpurnia’s not leaving this house until shewants to. You may think otherwise, but I couldn’t have got along without her all theseyears. She’s a faithful member of this family and you’ll simply have to accept things theway they are. Besides, sister, I don’t want you working your head off for us—you’ve noreason to do that. We still need Cal as much as we ever did.” “But Atticus—” “Besides, I don’t think the children’ve suffered one bit from her having brought themup. If anything, she’s been harder on them in some ways than a mother would havebeen… she’s never let them get away with anything, she’s never indulged them the waymost colored nurses do. She tried to bring them up according to her lights, and Cal’slights are pretty good—and another thing, the children love her.” I breathed again. It wasn’t me, it was only Calpurnia they were talking about. Revived,I entered the livingroom. Atticus had retreated behind his newspaper and AuntAlexandra was worrying her embroidery. Punk, punk, punk, her needle broke the tautcircle. She stopped, and pulled the cloth tighter: punk-punk-punk. She was furious. Jem got up and padded across the rug. He motioned me to follow. He led me to hisroom and closed the door. His face was grave. “They’ve been fussing, Scout.” Jem and I fussed a great deal these days, but I had never heard of or seen anyonequarrel with Atticus. It was not a comfortable sight. “Scout, try not to antagonize Aunty, hear?” Atticus’s remarks were still rankling, which made me miss the request in Jem’squestion. My feathers rose again. “You tryin‘ to tell me what to do?” “Naw, it’s—he’s got a lot on his mind now, without us worrying him.” “Like what?” Atticus didn’t appear to have anything especially on his mind. “It’s this Tom Robinson case that’s worryin‘ him to death—” I said Atticus didn’t worry about anything. Besides, the case never bothered us exceptabout once a week and then it didn’t last. “That’s because you can’t hold something in your mind but a little while,” said Jem. “It’s different with grown folks, we—” His maddening superiority was unbearable these days. He didn’t want to do anythingbut read and go off by himself. Still, everything he read he passed along to me, but withthis difference: formerly, because he thought I’d like it; now, for my edification andinstruction. “Jee crawling hova, Jem! Who do you think you are?” “Now I mean it, Scout, you antagonize Aunty and I’ll—I’ll spank you.” With that, I was gone. “You damn morphodite, I’ll kill you!” He was sitting on the bed,and it was easy to grab his front hair and land one on his mouth. He slapped me and Itried another left, but a punch in the stomach sent me sprawling on the floor. It nearlyknocked the breath out of me, but it didn’t matter because I knew he was fighting, hewas fighting me back. We were still equals. “Ain’t so high and mighty now, are you!” I screamed, sailing in again. He was still onthe bed and I couldn’t get a firm stance, so I threw myself at him as hard as I could,hitting, pulling, pinching, gouging. What had begun as a fist-fight became a brawl. Wewere still struggling when Atticus separated us. “That’s all,” he said. “Both of you go to bed right now.” “Taah!” I said at Jem. He was being sent to bed at my bedtime. “Who started it?” asked Atticus, in resignation. “Jem did. He was tryin‘ to tell me what to do. I don’t have to mind him now, do I?” Atticus smiled. “Let’s leave it at this: you mind Jem whenever he can make you. Fairenough?” Aunt Alexandra was present but silent, and when she went down the hall with Atticuswe heard her say, “…just one of the things I’ve been telling you about,” a phrase thatunited us again. Ours were adjoining rooms; as I shut the door between them Jem said, “Night, Scout.” “Night,” I murmured, picking my way across the room to turn on the light. As I passedthe bed I stepped on something warm, resilient, and rather smooth. It was not quite likehard rubber, and I had the sensation that it was alive. I also heard it move. I switched on the light and looked at the floor by the bed. Whatever I had stepped onwas gone. I tapped on Jem’s door. “What,” he said. “How does a snake feel?” “Sort of rough. Cold. Dusty. Why?” “I think there’s one under my bed. Can you come look?” “Are you bein‘ funny?” Jem opened the door. He was in his pajama bottoms. I noticednot without satisfaction that the mark of my knuckles was still on his mouth. When hesaw I meant what I said, he said, “If you think I’m gonna put my face down to a snakeyou’ve got another think comin’. Hold on a minute.” He went to the kitchen and fetched the broom. “You better get up on the bed,” he said. “You reckon it’s really one?” I asked. This was an occasion. Our houses had nocellars; they were built on stone blocks a few feet above the ground, and the entry ofreptiles was not unknown but was not commonplace. Miss Rachel Haverford’s excusefor a glass of neat whiskey every morning was that she never got over the fright offinding a rattler coiled in her bedroom closet, on her washing, when she went to hang upher negligee. Jem made a tentative swipe under the bed. I looked over the foot to see if a snakewould come out. None did. Jem made a deeper swipe. “Do snakes grunt?” “It ain’t a snake,” Jem said. “It’s somebody.” Suddenly a filthy brown package shot from under the bed. Jem raised the broom andmissed Dill’s head by an inch when it appeared. “God Almighty.” Jem’s voice was reverent. We watched Dill emerge by degrees. He was a tight fit. He stood up and eased hisshoulders, turned his feet in their ankle sockets, rubbed the back of his neck. Hiscirculation restored, he said, “Hey.” Jem petitioned God again. I was speechless. “I’m ‘bout to perish,” said Dill. “Got anything to eat?” In a dream, I went to the kitchen. I brought him back some milk and half a pan of cornbread left over from supper. Dill devoured it, chewing with his front teeth, as was hiscustom. I finally found my voice. “How’d you get here?” By an involved route. Refreshed by food, Dill recited this narrative: having been boundin chains and left to die in the basement (there were basements in Meridian) by his newfather, who disliked him, and secretly kept alive on raw field peas by a passing farmerwho heard his cries for help (the good man poked a bushel pod by pod through theventilator), Dill worked himself free by pulling the chains from the wall. Still in wristmanacles, he wandered two miles out of Meridian where he discovered a small animalshow and was immediately engaged to wash the camel. He traveled with the show allover Mississippi until his infallible sense of direction told him he was in Abbott County,Alabama, just across the river from Maycomb. He walked the rest of the way. “How’d you get here?” asked Jem. He had taken thirteen dollars from his mother’s purse, caught the nine o’clock fromMeridian and got off at Maycomb Junction. He had walked ten or eleven of the fourteenmiles to Maycomb, off the highway in the scrub bushes lest the authorities be seekinghim, and had ridden the remainder of the way clinging to the backboard of a cottonwagon. He had been under the bed for two hours, he thought; he had heard us in thediningroom, and the clink of forks on plates nearly drove him crazy. He thought Jem andI would never go to bed; he had considered emerging and helping me beat Jem, as Jemhad grown far taller, but he knew Mr. Finch would break it up soon, so he thought it bestto stay where he was. He was worn out, dirty beyond belief, and home. “They must not know you’re here,” said Jem. “We’d know if they were lookin‘ foryou…” “Think they’re still searchin‘ all the picture shows in Meridian.” Dill grinned. “You oughta let your mother know where you are,” said Jem. “You oughta let her knowyou’re here…” Dill’s eyes flickered at Jem, and Jem looked at the floor. Then he rose and broke theremaining code of our childhood. He went out of the room and down the hall. “Atticus,” his voice was distant, “can you come here a minute, sir?” Beneath its sweat-streaked dirt Dill’s face went white. I felt sick. Atticus was in thedoorway. He came to the middle of the room and stood with his hands in his pockets, lookingdown at Dill. I finally found my voice: “It’s okay, Dill. When he wants you to know somethin‘, he tellsyou.” Dill looked at me. “I mean it’s all right,” I said. “You know he wouldn’t bother you, youknow you ain’t scared of Atticus.” “I’m not scared…” Dill muttered. “Just hungry, I’ll bet.” Atticus’s voice had its usual pleasant dryness. “Scout, we can dobetter than a pan of cold corn bread, can’t we? You fill this fellow up and when I getback we’ll see what we can see.” “Mr. Finch, don’t tell Aunt Rachel, don’t make me go back, please sir! I’ll run offagain—!” “Whoa, son,” said Atticus. “Nobody’s about to make you go anywhere but to bed prettysoon. I’m just going over to tell Miss Rachel you’re here and ask her if you could spendthe night with us—you’d like that, wouldn’t you? And for goodness’ sake put some of thecounty back where it belongs, the soil erosion’s bad enough as it is.” Dill stared at my father’s retreating figure. “He’s tryin‘ to be funny,” I said. “He means take a bath. See there, I told you hewouldn’t bother you.” Jem was standing in a corner of the room, looking like the traitor he was. “Dill, I had totell him,” he said. “You can’t run three hundred miles off without your mother knowin‘.” We left him without a word. Dill ate, and ate, and ate. He hadn’t eaten since last night. He used all his money for aticket, boarded the train as he had done many times, coolly chatted with the conductor,to whom Dill was a familiar sight, but he had not the nerve to invoke the rule on smallchildren traveling a distance alone if you’ve lost your money the conductor will lend youenough for dinner and your father will pay him back at the end of the line. Dill made his way through the leftovers and was reaching for a can of pork and beansin the pantry when Miss Rachel’s Do-oo Je-sus went off in the hall. He shivered like arabbit. He bore with fortitude her Wait Till I Get You Home, Your Folks Are Out of Their MindsWorryin‘, was quite calm during That’s All the Harris in You Coming Out, smiled at herReckon You Can Stay One Night, and returned the hug at long last bestowed upon him. Atticus pushed up his glasses and rubbed his face. “Your father’s tired,” said Aunt Alexandra, her first words in hours, it seemed. She hadbeen there, but I suppose struck dumb most of the time. “You children get to bed now.” We left them in the diningroom, Atticus still mopping his face. “From rape to riot torunaways,” we heard him chuckle. “I wonder what the next two hours will bring.” Since things appeared to have worked out pretty well, Dill and I decided to be civil toJem. Besides, Dill had to sleep with him so we might as well speak to him. I put on my pajamas, read for a while and found myself suddenly unable to keep myeyes open. Dill and Jem were quiet; when I turned off my reading lamp there was nostrip of light under the door to Jem’s room. I must have slept a long time, for when I was punched awake the room was dim withthe light of the setting moon. “Move over, Scout.” “He thought he had to,” I mumbled. “Don’t stay mad with him.” Dill got in bed beside me. “I ain’t,” he said. “I just wanted to sleep with you. Are youwaked up?” By this time I was, but lazily so. “Why’d you do it?” No answer. “I said why’d you run off? Was he really hateful like you said?” “Naw…” “Didn’t you all build that boat like you wrote you were gonna?” “He just said we would. We never did.” I raised up on my elbow, facing Dill’s outline. “It’s no reason to run off. They don’t getaround to doin‘ what they say they’re gonna do half the time…” “That wasn’t it, he—they just wasn’t interested in me.” This was the weirdest reason for flight I had ever heard. “How come?” “Well, they stayed gone all the time, and when they were home, even, they’d get off ina room by themselves.” “What’d they do in there?” “Nothin‘, just sittin’ and readin‘—but they didn’t want me with ’em.” I pushed the pillow to the headboard and sat up. “You know something? I was fixin‘ torun off tonight because there they all were. You don’t want ’em around you all the time,Dill—” Dill breathed his patient breath, a half-sigh. “—good night, Atticus’s gone all day and sometimes half the night and off in thelegislature and I don’t know what—you don’t want ‘em around all the time, Dill, youcouldn’t do anything if they were.” “That’s not it.” As Dill explained, I found myself wondering what life would be if Jem were different,even from what he was now; what I would do if Atticus did not feel the necessity of mypresence, help and advice. Why, he couldn’t get along a day without me. EvenCalpurnia couldn’t get along unless I was there. They needed me. “Dill, you ain’t telling me right—your folks couldn’t do without you. They must be justmean to you. Tell you what to do about that—” Dill’s voice went on steadily in the darkness: “The thing is, what I’m tryin‘ to say is—they do get on a lot better without me, I can’t help them any. They ain’t mean. They buyme everything I want, but it’s now—you’ve-got-it-go-play-with-it. You’ve got a roomful ofthings. I-got-you-that-book-so-go-read-it.” Dill tried to deepen his voice. “You’re not aboy. Boys get out and play baseball with other boys, they don’t hang around the houseworryin’ their folks.” Dill’s voice was his own again: “Oh, they ain’t mean. They kiss you and hug you goodnight and good mornin‘ and good-bye and tell you they love you—Scout, let’s get us ababy.” “Where?” There was a man Dill had heard of who had a boat that he rowed across to a foggyisland where all these babies were; you could order one—“That’s a lie. Aunty said God drops ‘em down the chimney. At least that’s what I thinkshe said.” For once, Aunty’s diction had not been too clear. “Well that ain’t so. You get babies from each other. But there’s this man, too—he hasall these babies just waitin‘ to wake up, he breathes life into ’em…” Dill was off again. Beautiful things floated around in his dreamy head. He could readtwo books to my one, but he preferred the magic of his own inventions. He could addand subtract faster than lightning, but he preferred his own twilight world, a world wherebabies slept, waiting to be gathered like morning lilies. He was slowly talking himself tosleep and taking me with him, but in the quietness of his foggy island there rose thefaded image of a gray house with sad brown doors. “Dill?” “Mm?” “Why do you reckon Boo Radley’s never run off?” Dill sighed a long sigh and turned away from me. “Maybe he doesn’t have anywhere to run off to…” 从那以后，我们再也没听见亚历山德拉姑妈说过有关芬奇家族的事，但我们却从镇子上听了不少。星期六，要是杰姆同意我陪他出去的话(他那时极其讨厌我跟他一起出现在人群中)，我们就在口袋里装着几个硬币，慢慢挤过汗流浃背的人群，这时会不时听到“那就是他的孩子”，或者“那边有几个芬奇家的人”。我们转脸去看说话的人，却常常只看到两三个农民在打量梅科姆药房橱窗里的灌肠器袋，要么就是一对又矮又胖的乡下女人头戴草帽坐在一辆胡佛大车上。 “他们可以不受约束，在乡下强奸女人，管这个县的人也不会去管他们。”这一旬含混不清的冷言冷语是一个极瘦的男人经过我们身边时讲的。这使我记起有个问题要问阿迪克斯。 “强奸是怎么回事?”那天晚上我问他。 阿迪克斯从报纸后抬起头来。他正坐在靠窗的椅子上，我和杰姆又长大了一些，知道晚饭后要留三十分钟时间，别去打扰他。 他先叹了一口气，然后说强奸就是不经同意用暴力去跟一个女性发生性的关系。 “那么，如果就是这么一回事，为什么我问卡尔珀尼亚时，她却不回答呢?” 阿迪克斯若有所思地问：“这又是怎么回事?” “是这样，那天做了礼拜回来时，我问卡尔珀尼亚，但她说要问你。我忘了，此刻才记起来。” 这时，他把报纸放到了膝头上。“说下去。” 我把和卡尔珀尼亚上教堂的事详细说了一遍。阿迪克斯听了以后似乎挺高兴。亚历山德拉姑妈原来一直安静地坐着，在角落里绣花，这时却放下手里的活，眼睛盯着我们。 “那个星期天你们都是从卡尔珀尼亚的教堂回来的?” 杰姆回答：“是的，她把我们带去的。” 我记起了一件事。“对，她还答应我可以在哪个下午到她家玩。阿迪克斯，下星期天没事我就去，行吗?如果你开车出去，卡尔说她就来接我。 “不准去。” 这是亚历山德拉姑妈说的。我十分惊讶，很快转过身，然后又转回来，看见阿迪克斯对她很快使了个眼色。不过我的话已经出口了：“又不是问你。” 阿迪克斯是个大个子，可是他从椅子里站起来或坐下去比谁都快。这时他已经站起来了。“向你姑妈道歉。”他说。 “我不是问她，是问你……” 阿迪克斯扭过头，斜着眼睛盯着我，盯得我退到了墙根，他的声音阴沉得吓人：“先向姑妈道歉！” “对不起。”我咕噜一声。 “听着，”他说，“来，咱们把话讲明白；卡尔珀尼亚叫你千哈就干啥，我叫你干啥就千啥，姑妈在这几一天，你也得听她一天。懂了吗?” 我说懂了。想了一下，我得出这样一个结论，要想保留已经不多的体面走开，只有上厕所。我在厕所里果了一会，时间长得使他们相信我真的要解手。出来时，我在过厅放慢了脚步，听到客厅里激烈的辩论声，向门里望去，我看见杰姆坐在沙发上，手里捧着本橄榄球杂志在瞎翻，脑袋随着书页侧来侧去，仿佛看的不是书，而是书页里正在进行一场网球赛。 “……你要对她采取措施才行，”姑妈在说，“你让她这样放肆得太久了，阿迪克斯，太久了。” “我实在看不出让她去那儿有哪点不好。卡尔在那儿会同在这儿一样照看她的。” 他们说的这个“她”是谁?我的心往下一沉：是我啊。我感到身上浆得硬硬的粉红色棉布衣服象是少年教养所里涂了灰浆酌四壁在向我迫近。我平生第二次想到了逃跑。马上就跑。 “阿迪克斯，心肠软一点是好事，你自己是个随和的人，可你还有个女儿要考虑。一个正在长大的女儿。” “这正是我在考虑的事。” “别回避这件事。你迟早要正视的，不妨就在今天晚上。我们眼下不再需要她了。” 阿迪克斯的话很平静：“亚历山德拉，我不会让卡尔珀尼亚离开这个家，除非她自己要走。你可以不这样看，但在这些年里，没有她，口了就没法过。她是这个家里忠实的一员。现实是这样的，你就得接受这种现实。另外，妹妹，我并不要你为我们这样操尽了心——你那么千没道理。我们现在仍象过去一样需要卡尔。” “可是，阿迪克斯……” “还有就是，我不认为孩子们由她带大有任何不好。要说有的话，那就是她在某些地方比一个亲妈妈还要严格。她从不迁就他们，从不象大多数黑人保姆那样娇纵孩子。她努力按她自己的主意教养他们，而她的主意很不坏一再有一点，就是孩子们爱她。” 我松了口气，不是说我，说的只是卡尔珀尼亚。我恢复了常态，又进了客厅。阿迪克斯又举起报纸，亚历山德拉姑妈在忙她的刺绣。“噗，噗，噗，”绣花针穿过绷子响着。她停了一下，把布绷得更紧：“噗一一噗——噗!”她正在火头上。 杰姆起身，轻轻地走过地毯，示意要我跟上。他领我进了他的卧室，把门关上，脸上一本正经。 “刚才他们在吵嘴，斯各特。” 杰姆常跟我吵嘴，但从没听说过也没见过任何人跟阿迪克斯吵嘴。看到这样的事叫人很不舒服。 “斯各特，留心别惹姑妈，听到了吗?” 阿迪克斯刚才的话还使我心里极不舒服，我没听出杰姆的口吻是一种请求，不由火又上来了。“难道要你教我该干什么?” “不，是这样——即使我们不叫他再多操心，阿迪克斯伤脑筋的事已经够多的了。” “有什么要操心的?”阿迪克斯似乎并没有什么特别的事使他伤脑筋。 “叫他伤透了脑筋的是那个汤姆?鲁宾逊的案子。” 我说阿迪克斯对什么都不着急。而且除了每星期一次以外，这案子并不再碍Ⅱ自们的事，一下子就完了。 “那是因为你自己脑瓜子里一点事儿也装不了，大人可不是这样。我们……” 这些日子里，杰姆那种令人恼火的自充大人的态度简直叫人无法忍受。他什么也不干，除了看书就是独自行动。不过，他读过的书都传给找看，只是从前是因为他认为我也爱看，而现在却是给我点启蒙和教益。 “呸，杰姆!你以为你是什么人，竟管教起我来了?” 。这回我说话算数，斯各特。你要再惹姑妈，我就……我就打你的屁股。” 一听这话，我发火了。“你这该死的怪家伙!我打死你。”他正坐在床上，我一下抓住他额前的头发，往他嘴上打了一下。他打了我一个耳光，我又用左手去打，但是我肚子上挨了一拳，就四脚朝天地倒在地板上了。我被打得都快没气了。不过没关系，因为我知道他是在打架，是在向我回手。我们的地位还是半斤对八两。 “再不那么了不得了吧?”我尖叫着又冲了上去。他还是在床上，我没法站稳脚跟，便使出全身的力气一头栽了过去，又打又扯，又掐又挖。开始打的时候是拳击，这一下成了一场混战。我们正打得热闹，阿迪克斯把我们拉开了。 “够了，。他说。“你们俩都马上上床去。” “呸……！”我对杰姆说。在我上床的时候，爸爸也叫杰姆上床了。 “谁先动手的?”阿迪克斯心平气和地问。 “是杰姆。他想教训我该千什么。我才不听他的呢!” 阿迪克斯笑了。“算了吧，他要是有办法叫你断他的话，你就听。这够公平的了吧?” 亚历山德拉姑妈也在场，但没吭气。不过她和阿迪克斯往过厅走时，我们听见她说：“……正是我要和你说的事。”这句话使我和杰姆又重新结盟了。 我们卧室是相邻的，我关门时，杰姆说了声：“晚安，斯各特。” “晚安。”我低声回答，一边小心摸着走过房问去开灯，经过床边时，我的脚踩到了什么，那东西有热气，有弹性，光溜溜的，不大象块硬橡皮，我觉得那是个活家伙。我还听到了它移动的声音。 我赶忙拉开灯往床前地板上看去。但我踩的那东西不见了，我急忙去敲杰姆韵门。 “什么事?”他说。 “碰着一条蛇有什么感觉?” “有一点粗糙、冰凉、千千的感觉。怎么啦?” “我想床下就有一条。能过来看看吗?” “你在开玩笑吧?”杰姆开了门。他穿着睡裤。我带着几分快意地看到，我的指甲印子还留在他嘴巴上。当他看出我说的是真话时，便说：“你要是以为我会把脑袋朝着一条蛇伸下去，那你就想错了，等一下吧。” 他走到厨房，把扫帚拿来了。“你最好上床去。”他说。 “你认为真是条蛇吗?”我问。这可真希罕。我们家没地窖，房子都建在离地面好几英尺高的石头上。虫子爬进来的时候也有，但不多见。雷切尔?哈弗福特小姐每天要喝一杯纯威士忌酒，她的借口就是在她把睡衣挂到卧室衣橱上去时，害怕洗过的衣服上盘着响尾蛇。 杰姆在床下试着扫了一下，我在床头朝下看是不是会有条蛇钻出来。结果什么也没有。杰姆又往里一扫。 。蛇会发出哼哼的声音吗?” “不是蛇，。杰姆说，“是人。” 突然，从床下冒出个泥土色的脏包裹。杰姆忙举起扫帚，差一点就砸到迪尔伸出的脑袋瓜上。 “全能的上帝。”杰姆的声音充满虔诚。 我们看着迪尔一点一点地爬出来，他穿着贴身的衣服。站起来后，他松松肩膀，活动活动脚踝骨，又在脖子后面擦了几下。等血液循环恢复后他才说了声“嗨”。 杰姆又对上帝呼唤了一声。我一下子说不出话来。 “我简直要死了。”迪尔说，“有吃的吗?” 我象在梦中似的跑到厨房里，带回了晚餐剩下的一点牛奶和半块玉米饼。迪尔狼吞虎咽地全吃了，还是那老习惯，用门牙嚼着。 我好不容易说出了一句话：“你怎么来的?” 他说道路曲折。吃过东西，精神来了，迪尔象背书一样详细地叙述了一遍经过：他的新爸爸不喜欢他，用铁链把他拴在地下室里去等死(梅里迪安的房子都是有地下室的)，一个过路的农民听见他喊救命，他就靠这人送的生豌豆偷偷地活了下来(这好心人从通风道里把一蒲式耳的豆荚一个一个地捅进去)，并把铁链子从墙里拔出来，解放了自己。他手上戴着手铐，乱走了两英里，出了梅里迪安。后来碰上一次小型的牲畜展览，他马上被雇去洗骆驼。他随着这个展览走遍了密西西比州，直到他那从无误差的方向感告诉他已到了亚拉巴马的艾博特县，同梅科姆只隔着一条河。剩下的路程是走过来的。 “你怎么到的这儿?”杰姆问。 他从妈妈的钱包里拿了十三块钱，上了九点钟从梅里迪安开出的火车，在梅科姆站下车。从那儿到梅科姆镇有十四英里路，他在公路边的灌木林里偷偷地走了十来英里，怕有人找他。最后扒在一辆运棉花车的后挡板上来的。他自己估计，在床下已经果了两个小时。我们在餐厅吃饭时，叉盘的丁当声几乎叫他发狂。他觉得杰姆和我好象永远也不会上床睡觉了。他见杰姆长高了很多很多，想钻出来帮我接杰姆，但是他知道阿渔克斯马上会来拉开我们的，自己最好还是另U动。他累坏了，脏得叫人无法相信，可总算到家了。 “他们肯定不知道你在这儿，”杰姆说，“要是他们找你的话，我们会知道的。” “我想他们还在梅里迪安所有的电影院里找哩。”迪尔咧嘴笑着说。 “你该让你妈知道你在哪儿，”杰姆说，“你该让她知道你在这里……” 迪尔望着杰姆眨了眨眼，杰姆却看着地下。接着杰姆站起来，打破了我们儿童时代残余的那种准则，走出屋子，向过厅走去。隐隐约约地听见他说：“阿迪克斯，您能上这儿来一下吗?” 迪尔那布满灰尘又被汗水冲得满是道道的脸顿时变得惨自。我只想呕吐。这时，阿迪克斯出现在门口。 他走到屋子中央，手插在口袋里站着，低头望着迪尔。 我好不容易挤出了一句话：“没什么，迪尔。他想让你知道什么就会说什么。” 迪尔望着我。“我的意思是说不要紧，”我说，“你知道他不会找你的麻烦，你知道你是不怕阿迪克斯的。” “我不害怕……”迪尔小声说。 “我敢断定只是饿了。”阿迪克斯的声音还是平常那样既冷漠而又令人愉快，“斯各特，我们可以用比一盘冷玉米饼更好的东西招待他吧?你先把达伙计的肚子填饱，等我回来再看该怎么办。” “芬奇先生，别告诉雷切尔姑妈，别叫我回去，求求您，先生!要不，我又会逃跑的……！” “别走，孩子!”阿迫克斯说道，“除了叫你立刻上床外，谁也不会叫你到哪儿去。我只打算过去告诉雷切尔小姐你在这里，问一下你能不能在这儿和我们一起过夜——你喜欢这样，对不对?还有，千万把这些从乡下带来的脏东西弄到它该去的地方。泥巴的侵蚀作用够糟糕的。” 我爸爸走了，迪尔还呆呆地望着他的背影。 “他故意想说得滑稽一点，”我说，“他的意思是要你去洗个澡，明白了吧。我早就说他不会找你的麻烦的。” 杰姆站在屋角上，一副叛徒模样。他说： “迪尔，我不得不告诉他，你不该不叫你妈知道，而跑出了三百里地。” 我们一句话也没说，离开了他。 迪尔吃了又吃，吃个没完。从昨夜起他就没吃过东西，钱都买了车票。他象从前一样上了火车，象没事似的坐着跟乘务员闲聊，乘务员对他很熟悉，但是他没有胆量申请享受儿童单独旅行的待遇。这种待遇是：如果丢了钱，你可在乘务员那儿借到足够的钱吃饭，到站后由你爸爸偿付。 迪尔把剩饭剩菜扳销以后，正准备吃那个猪肉蚕豆罐头，只听见雷切尔小姐那“嘟——耶稣啊”的声音从客厅里传来。迪尔浑身抖得象只小兔。 “等着，我得把你送回去。你家里人都要急疯了。”迪尔耐心地听着这些话。“这都是你跑出来的好结果。”迪尔仍然不做声。“我看，你可以在这儿住一个晚上。”迪尔脸上绽开了笑容。最后他终于用拥抱回答姑妈对他的长时间的挪抱。 阿迪克斯朝上推了推眼镜，又擦擦脸。 “你们的父亲累了，”亚历山德拉姑妈说。几个小时里，她好象才说了这一旬话。她一直在那儿，但是我想她几乎惊得不会说话了。“你们这些孩子现在都上床去。” 我们都走了，大人们留在餐室里。阿迪克斯仍然在抹肴脸。“从强奸到暴乱再到潜逃，”只听见他格格直笑。“真不知下两个小时里还会有些什么。” 既然情况看来都相当不错，迪尔和我决定对杰姆还是以礼相待。而且迪尔还要跟他睡一个床，所以我们不妨跟他和解算了。 我穿上睡衣，看了一会儿书，突然觉得眼皮打架了。迪尔和杰姆都很安静，我关上台灯时，杰姆房问的门下一丝光都没有。 我一定睡了很久，因为我被推醒时，只见屋子里残月腺胧。 “睡过去点，斯各特。” “他想他不得不那样。”我咕噜一声，“别再生他的气。’ 迪尔上床爬到我身边。“我没生气，”他说，“我只想和你一起睡。你醒了吗?” 这时我真醒了，不过懒洋洋的，“你为什么这么千?” 没有回答，“我问你为什么跑出来?他真象你说的那样可恨吗?” “不……” “你们没修船吗?你信上说要修。” “他只是说要修，我们从没动手。” 我用手肘支起身体，面对着迪尔的身影。“这不足跑出来的理由。人们多半并不真正会千他们说过要干的事……” “不是因为那个，他……他们不喜欢我。” 我从没听说过这种从家里跑出去的离奇的理由。“怎么回事呢?” “唔，他们老是不在家。就是回来了，也是两个人躲在屋子里。” “他们在屋子里干啥?” “啥都不千，只是坐着看书。但是他们不愿我和他们在一起。” 我把枕头推到床头坐了起来。“你知道吗?今天晚上我倒因为他们都在那儿而打算跑掉的，你不会喜欢他们老是围着你转，迪尔……” 迪尔慢吞吞地吐了一口气，一半是叹息。 “……真是莫名其妙!阿迪克斯整天都在外头，有时半夜里才回来。我不知他在那个立法机关有什么事——你不愿他们老围着你，迪尔，如果他们在身边，你什么事也千不了。” “我看不是这样。” 迪尔在一旁解释着，我却发现自己一边听一边想象着如果杰姆不是这样，哪怕仅仅不是象现在这样，生活会是什么样子；如果阿迪克斯不需要我在身边，不需要我们的帮助和建议，我又会于出什么来。啊，没有我，他一天也没法过。甚至卡尔珀尼亚也没法过下去，除非有我在。他们都需要我。 “迪尔，你说得不对——你家没你不行。他们一定是舍不得为你花钱。我告诉你该怎么对付……” 迪尔在黑暗中一口气说了下去：“事实是，我想说的是——没有我他们好得多，我一点也帮不了他们。他们并不小气，我要什么他们给买什么。但都是为了支开我。总是说：‘既然买了就拿出去玩；都有一屋子玩具了；给你买了那本书，到一边看去。”迪尔使劲装出一副粗嗓门说话。“你不象个男孩。男孩都出门跟别酌男孩一起玩棒球，他们不象你，老是在这屋里转，缠着家里人。” 迪尔又改成了自己原来的声音：“真的，他们不小气。说早安、晚安和再见时，他们都吻你、抱你，还告诉你他们爱你……斯各特，我们要个孩子吧。” “上哪儿要?” 迪尔听人说过，只要有条船，划过一条河，到达一个烟雾蒙蒙的岛上，小孩都在那儿，你可以买上一个…… “那不是真的，亚历山德拉姑妈说，是上帝把他们从烟囱里扔下来的。至少，我想她是这么说的。”就在这一次，姑妈的措辞不太明朗。 “不，不是的。两个人凑在一起才会有孩子。但是也有这么个人——那些孩子都等着他去弄醒，他用气把他们吹活过来……” 迪尔又出神了。美妙的事物总在他一直做着梦的脑袋里乱翻。我看一本书他能看两本，但他更欣赏他的个人创造所具有的魔力。他演算加减法比闪电还快，但他却喜欢自己的朦胧的世界。这个世界里小孩们在睡觉，象清晨的百合花，等着人们去采集。他慢慢把自己说进了梦乡，还带上了我。但是，在那烟雾蒙蒙的、岛的寂静里，出现了一幅已不很明晰的画面：一幢灰色的房子和景象凄凉的褐色门扉。 “迪尔?” “嗯。” “你说布?拉德利为什么不从家里逃跑呢?” 迪尔长长地叹了一口气，从我旁边转过身去． “可能他没什么地方可逃……” |
Chapter 15 After many telephone calls, much pleading on behalf of the defendant, and a longforgiving letter from his mother, it was decided that Dill could stay. We had a week ofpeace together. After that, little, it seemed. A nightmare was upon us. It began one evening after supper. Dill was over; Aunt Alexandra was in her chair inthe corner, Atticus was in his; Jem and I were on the floor reading. It had been a placidweek: I had minded Aunty; Jem had outgrown the treehouse, but helped Dill and meconstruct a new rope ladder for it; Dill had hit upon a foolproof plan to make Boo Radleycome out at no cost to ourselves (place a trail of lemon drops from the back door to thefront yard and he’d follow it, like an ant). There was a knock on the front door, Jemanswered it and said it was Mr. Heck Tate. “Well, ask him to come in,” said Atticus. “I already did. There’s some men outside in the yard, they want you to come out.” In Maycomb, grown men stood outside in the front yard for only two reasons: deathand politics. I wondered who had died. Jem and I went to the front door, but Atticuscalled, “Go back in the house.” Jem turned out the livingroom lights and pressed his nose to a window screen. AuntAlexandra protested. “Just for a second, Aunty, let’s see who it is,” he said. Dill and I took another window. A crowd of men was standing around Atticus. They allseemed to be talking at once. “…movin‘ him to the county jail tomorrow,” Mr. Tate was saying, “I don’t look for anytrouble, but I can’t guarantee there won’t be any…” “Don’t be foolish, Heck,” Atticus said. “This is Maycomb.” “…said I was just uneasy.” “Heck, we’ve gotten one postponement of this case just to make sure there’s nothingto be uneasy about. This is Saturday,” Atticus said. “Trial’ll probably be Monday. Youcan keep him one night, can’t you? I don’t think anybody in Maycomb’ll begrudge me aclient, with times this hard.” There was a murmur of glee that died suddenly when Mr. Link Deas said, “Nobodyaround here’s up to anything, it’s that Old Sarum bunch I’m worried about… can’t youget a—what is it, Heck?” “Change of venue,” said Mr. Tate. “Not much point in that, now is it?” Atticus said something inaudible. I turned to Jem, who waved me to silence. “—besides,” Atticus was saying, “you’re not scared of that crowd, are you?” “…know how they do when they get shinnied up.” “They don’t usually drink on Sunday, they go to church most of the day…” Atticus said. “This is a special occasion, though…” someone said. They murmured and buzzed until Aunty said if Jem didn’t turn on the livingroom lightshe would disgrace the family. Jem didn’t hear her. “—don’t see why you touched it in the first place,” Mr. Link Deas was saying. “You’vegot everything to lose from this, Atticus. I mean everything.” “Do you really think so?” This was Atticus’s dangerous question. “Do you really think you want to move there,Scout?” Bam, bam, bam, and the checkerboard was swept clean of my men. “Do youreally think that, son? Then read this.” Jem would struggle the rest of an eveningthrough the speeches of Henry W. Grady. “Link, that boy might go to the chair, but he’s not going till the truth’s told.” Atticus’svoice was even. “And you know what the truth is.” There was a murmur among the group of men, made more ominous when Atticusmoved back to the bottom front step and the men drew nearer to him. Suddenly Jem screamed, “Atticus, the telephone’s ringing!” The men jumped a little and scattered; they were people we saw every day: merchants, in-town farmers; Dr. Reynolds was there; so was Mr. Avery. “Well, answer it, son,” called Atticus. Laughter broke them up. When Atticus switched on the overhead light in thelivingroom he found Jem at the window, pale except for the vivid mark of the screen onhis nose. “Why on earth are you all sitting in the dark?” he asked. Jem watched him go to his chair and pick up the evening paper. I sometimes thinkAtticus subjected every crisis of his life to tranquil evaluation behind The MobileRegister, The Birmingham News and The Montgomery Advertiser. “They were after you, weren’t they?” Jem went to him. “They wanted to get you, didn’tthey?” Atticus lowered the paper and gazed at Jem. “What have you been reading?” heasked. Then he said gently, “No son, those were our friends.” “It wasn’t a—a gang?” Jem was looking from the corners of his eyes. Atticus tried to stifle a smile but didn’t make it. “No, we don’t have mobs and thatnonsense in Maycomb. I’ve never heard of a gang in Maycomb.” “Ku Klux got after some Catholics one time.” “Never heard of any Catholics in Maycomb either,” said Atticus, “you’re confusing thatwith something else. Way back about nineteen-twenty there was a Klan, but it was apolitical organization more than anything. Besides, they couldn’t find anybody to scare. They paraded by Mr. Sam Levy’s house one night, but Sam just stood on his porch andtold ‘em things had come to a pretty pass, he’d sold ’em the very sheets on their backs. Sam made ‘em so ashamed of themselves they went away.” The Levy family met all criteria for being Fine Folks: they did the best they could withthe sense they had, and they had been living on the same plot of ground in Maycombfor five generations. “The Ku Klux’s gone,” said Atticus. “It’ll never come back.” I walked home with Dill and returned in time to overhear Atticus saying to Aunty, “…infavor of Southern womanhood as much as anybody, but not for preserving polite fictionat the expense of human life,” a pronouncement that made me suspect they had beenfussing again. I sought Jem and found him in his room, on the bed deep in thought. “Have they beenat it?” I asked. “Sort of. She won’t let him alone about Tom Robinson. She almost said Atticus wasdisgracin‘ the family. Scout… I’m scared.” “Scared’a what?” “Scared about Atticus. Somebody might hurt him.” Jem preferred to remainmysterious; all he would say to my questions was go on and leave him alone. Next day was Sunday. In the interval between Sunday School and Church when thecongregation stretched its legs, I saw Atticus standing in the yard with another knot ofmen. Mr. Heck Tate was present, and I wondered if he had seen the light. He neverwent to church. Even Mr. Underwood was there. Mr. Underwood had no use for anyorganization but The Maycomb Tribune, of which he was the sole owner, editor, andprinter. His days were spent at his linotype, where he refreshed himself occasionallyfrom an ever-present gallon jug of cherry wine. He rarely gathered news; people broughtit to him. It was said that he made up every edition of The Maycomb Tribune out of hisown head and wrote it down on the linotype. This was believable. Something must havebeen up to haul Mr. Underwood out. I caught Atticus coming in the door, and he said that they’d moved Tom Robinson tothe Maycomb jail. He also said, more to himself than to me, that if they’d kept him therein the first place there wouldn’t have been any fuss. I watched him take his seat on thethird row from the front, and I heard him rumble, “Nearer my God to thee,” some notesbehind the rest of us. He never sat with Aunty, Jem and me. He liked to be by himself inchurch. The fake peace that prevailed on Sundays was made more irritating by AuntAlexandra’s presence. Atticus would flee to his office directly after dinner, where if wesometimes looked in on him, we would find him sitting back in his swivel chair reading. Aunt Alexandra composed herself for a two-hour nap and dared us to make any noise inthe yard, the neighborhood was resting. Jem in his old age had taken to his room with astack of football magazines. So Dill and I spent our Sundays creeping around in Deer’sPasture. Shooting on Sundays was prohibited, so Dill and I kicked Jem’s football around thepasture for a while, which was no fun. Dill asked if I’d like to have a poke at Boo Radley. I said I didn’t think it’d be nice to bother him, and spent the rest of the afternoon fillingDill in on last winter’s events. He was considerably impressed. We parted at suppertime, and after our meal Jem and I were settling down to a routineevening, when Atticus did something that interested us: he came into the livingroomcarrying a long electrical extension cord. There was a light bulb on the end. “I’m going out for a while,” he said. “You folks’ll be in bed when I come back, so I’ll saygood night now.” With that, he put his hat on and went out the back door. “He’s takin‘ the car,” said Jem. Our father had a few peculiarities: one was, he never ate desserts; another was thathe liked to walk. As far back as I could remember, there was always a Chevrolet inexcellent condition in the carhouse, and Atticus put many miles on it in business trips,but in Maycomb he walked to and from his office four times a day, covering about twomiles. He said his only exercise was walking. In Maycomb, if one went for a walk with nodefinite purpose in mind, it was correct to believe one’s mind incapable of definitepurpose. Later on, I bade my aunt and brother good night and was well into a book when Iheard Jem rattling around in his room. His go-to-bed noises were so familiar to me that Iknocked on his door: “Why ain’t you going to bed?” “I’m goin‘ downtown for a while.” He was changing his pants. “Why? It’s almost ten o’clock, Jem.” He knew it, but he was going anyway. “Then I’m goin‘ with you. If you say no you’re not, I’m goin’ anyway, hear?” Jem saw that he would have to fight me to keep me home, and I suppose he thought afight would antagonize Aunty, so he gave in with little grace. I dressed quickly. We waited until Aunty’s light went out, and we walked quietly downthe back steps. There was no moon tonight. “Dill’ll wanta come,” I whispered. “So he will,” said Jem gloomily. We leaped over the driveway wall, cut through Miss Rachel’s side yard and went toDill’s window. Jem whistled bob-white. Dill’s face appeared at the screen, disappeared,and five minutes later he unhooked the screen and crawled out. An old campaigner, hedid not speak until we were on the sidewalk. “What’s up?” “Jem’s got the look-arounds,” an affliction Calpurnia said all boys caught at his age. “I’ve just got this feeling,” Jem said, “just this feeling.” We went by Mrs. Dubose’s house, standing empty and shuttered, her camellias grownup in weeds and johnson grass. There were eight more houses to the post office corner. The south side of the square was deserted. Giant monkey-puzzle bushes bristled oneach corner, and between them an iron hitching rail glistened under the street lights. Alight shone in the county toilet, otherwise that side of the courthouse was dark. A largersquare of stores surrounded the courthouse square; dim lights burned from deep withinthem. Atticus’s office was in the courthouse when he began his law practice, but afterseveral years of it he moved to quieter quarters in the Maycomb Bank building. Whenwe rounded the corner of the square, we saw the car parked in front of the bank. “He’sin there,” said Jem. But he wasn’t. His office was reached by a long hallway. Looking down the hall, weshould have seen Atticus Finch, Attorney-at-Law in small sober letters against the lightfrom behind his door. It was dark. Jem peered in the bank door to make sure. He turned the knob. The door was locked. “Let’s go up the street. Maybe he’s visitin‘ Mr. Underwood.” Mr. Underwood not only ran The Maycomb Tribune office, he lived in it. That is, aboveit. He covered the courthouse and jailhouse news simply by looking out his upstairswindow. The office building was on the northwest corner of the square, and to reach itwe had to pass the jail. The Maycomb jail was the most venerable and hideous of the county’s buildings. Atticus said it was like something Cousin Joshua St. Clair might have designed. It wascertainly someone’s dream. Starkly out of place in a town of square-faced stores andsteep-roofed houses, the Maycomb jail was a miniature Gothic joke one cell wide andtwo cells high, complete with tiny battlements and flying buttresses. Its fantasy washeightened by its red brick facade and the thick steel bars at its ecclesiastical windows. It stood on no lonely hill, but was wedged between Tyndal’s Hardware Store and TheMaycomb Tribune office. The jail was Maycomb’s only conversation piece: its detractorssaid it looked like a Victorian privy; its supporters said it gave the town a good solidrespectable look, and no stranger would ever suspect that it was full of niggers. As we walked up the sidewalk, we saw a solitary light burning in the distance. “That’sfunny,” said Jem, “jail doesn’t have an outside light.” “Looks like it’s over the door,” said Dill. A long extension cord ran between the bars of a second-floor window and down theside of the building. In the light from its bare bulb, Atticus was sitting propped againstthe front door. He was sitting in one of his office chairs, and he was reading, oblivious ofthe nightbugs dancing over his head. I made to run, but Jem caught me. “Don’t go to him,” he said, “he might not like it. He’sall right, let’s go home. I just wanted to see where he was.” We were taking a short cut across the square when four dusty cars came in from theMeridian highway, moving slowly in a line. They went around the square, passed thebank building, and stopped in front of the jail. Nobody got out. We saw Atticus look up from his newspaper. He closed it, folded itdeliberately, dropped it in his lap, and pushed his hat to the back of his head. Heseemed to be expecting them. “Come on,” whispered Jem. We streaked across the square, across the street, untilwe were in the shelter of the Jitney Jungle door. Jem peeked up the sidewalk. “We canget closer,” he said. We ran to Tyndal’s Hardware door—near enough, at the same timediscreet. In ones and twos, men got out of the cars. Shadows became substance as lightsrevealed solid shapes moving toward the jail door. Atticus remained where he was. Themen hid him from view. “He in there, Mr. Finch?” a man said. “He is,” we heard Atticus answer, “and he’s asleep. Don’t wake him up.” In obedience to my father, there followed what I later realized was a sickeningly comicaspect of an unfunny situation: the men talked in near-whispers. “You know what we want,” another man said. “Get aside from the door, Mr. Finch.” “You can turn around and go home again, Walter,” Atticus said pleasantly. “HeckTate’s around somewhere.” “The hell he is,” said another man. “Heck’s bunch’s so deep in the woods they won’tget out till mornin‘.” “Indeed? Why so?” “Called ‘em off on a snipe hunt,” was the succinct answer. “Didn’t you think a’that, Mr. Finch?” “Thought about it, but didn’t believe it. Well then,” my father’s voice was still the same,“that changes things, doesn’t it?” “It do,” another deep voice said. Its owner was a shadow. “Do you really think so?” This was the second time I heard Atticus ask that question in two days, and it meantsomebody’s man would get jumped. This was too good to miss. I broke away from Jemand ran as fast as I could to Atticus. Jem shrieked and tried to catch me, but I had a lead on him and Dill. I pushed my waythrough dark smelly bodies and burst into the circle of light. “H-ey, Atticus!” I thought he would have a fine surprise, but his face killed my joy. A flash of plain fearwas going out of his eyes, but returned when Dill and Jem wriggled into the light. There was a smell of stale whiskey and pigpen about, and when I glanced around Idiscovered that these men were strangers. They were not the people I saw last night. Hot embarrassment shot through me: I had leaped triumphantly into a ring of people Ihad never seen before. Atticus got up from his chair, but he was moving slowly, like an old man. He put thenewspaper down very carefully, adjusting its creases with lingering fingers. They weretrembling a little. “Go home, Jem,” he said. “Take Scout and Dill home.” We were accustomed to prompt, if not always cheerful acquiescence to Atticus’sinstructions, but from the way he stood Jem was not thinking of budging. “Go home, I said.” Jem shook his head. As Atticus’s fists went to his hips, so did Jem’s, and as theyfaced each other I could see little resemblance between them: Jem’s soft brown hairand eyes, his oval face and snug-fitting ears were our mother’s, contrasting oddly withAtticus’s graying black hair and square-cut features, but they were somehow alike. Mutual defiance made them alike. “Son, I said go home.” Jem shook his head. “I’ll send him home,” a burly man said, and grabbed Jem roughly by the collar. Heyanked Jem nearly off his feet. “Don’t you touch him!” I kicked the man swiftly. Barefooted, I was surprised to see himfall back in real pain. I intended to kick his shin, but aimed too high. “That’ll do, Scout.” Atticus put his hand on my shoulder. “Don’t kick folks. No—” hesaid, as I was pleading justification. “Ain’t nobody gonna do Jem that way,” I said. “All right, Mr. Finch, get ‘em outa here,” someone growled. “You got fifteen seconds toget ’em outa here.” In the midst of this strange assembly, Atticus stood trying to make Jem mind him. “Iain’t going,” was his steady answer to Atticus’s threats, requests, and finally, “PleaseJem, take them home.” I was getting a bit tired of that, but felt Jem had his own reasons for doing as he did, inview of his prospects once Atticus did get him home. I looked around the crowd. It was asummer’s night, but the men were dressed, most of them, in overalls and denim shirtsbuttoned up to the collars. I thought they must be cold-natured, as their sleeves wereunrolled and buttoned at the cuffs. Some wore hats pulled firmly down over their ears. They were sullen-looking, sleepy-eyed men who seemed unused to late hours. I soughtonce more for a familiar face, and at the center of the semi-circle I found one. “Hey, Mr. Cunningham.” The man did not hear me, it seemed. “Hey, Mr. Cunningham. How’s your entailment gettin‘ along?” Mr. Walter Cunningham’s legal affairs were well known to me; Atticus had oncedescribed them at length. The big man blinked and hooked his thumbs in his overallstraps. He seemed uncomfortable; he cleared his throat and looked away. My friendlyoverture had fallen flat. Mr. Cunningham wore no hat, and the top half of his forehead was white in contrast tohis sunscorched face, which led me to believe that he wore one most days. He shiftedhis feet, clad in heavy work shoes. “Don’t you remember me, Mr. Cunningham? I’m Jean Louise Finch. You brought ussome hickory nuts one time, remember?” I began to sense the futility one feels whenunacknowledged by a chance acquaintance. “I go to school with Walter,” I began again. “He’s your boy, ain’t he? Ain’t he, sir?” Mr. Cunningham was moved to a faint nod. He did know me, after all. “He’s in my grade,” I said, “and he does right well. He’s a good boy,” I added, “a realnice boy. We brought him home for dinner one time. Maybe he told you about me, I beathim up one time but he was real nice about it. Tell him hey for me, won’t you?” Atticus had said it was the polite thing to talk to people about what they wereinterested in, not about what you were interested in. Mr. Cunningham displayed nointerest in his son, so I tackled his entailment once more in a last-ditch effort to makehim feel at home. “Entailments are bad,” I was advising him, when I slowly awoke to the fact that I wasaddressing the entire aggregation. The men were all looking at me, some had theirmouths half-open. Atticus had stopped poking at Jem: they were standing togetherbeside Dill. Their attention amounted to fascination. Atticus’s mouth, even, was half-open, an attitude he had once described as uncouth. Our eyes met and he shut it. “Well, Atticus, I was just sayin‘ to Mr. Cunningham that entailments are bad an’ allthat, but you said not to worry, it takes a long time sometimes… that you all’d ride it outtogether…” I was slowly drying up, wondering what idiocy I had committed. Entailmentsseemed all right enough for livingroom talk. I began to feel sweat gathering at the edges of my hair; I could stand anything but abunch of people looking at me. They were quite still. “What’s the matter?” I asked. Atticus said nothing. I looked around and up at Mr. Cunningham, whose face wasequally impassive. Then he did a peculiar thing. He squatted down and took me by bothshoulders. “I’ll tell him you said hey, little lady,” he said. Then he straightened up and waved a big paw. “Let’s clear out,” he called. “Let’s getgoing, boys.” As they had come, in ones and twos the men shuffled back to their ramshackle cars. Doors slammed, engines coughed, and they were gone. I turned to Atticus, but Atticus had gone to the jail and was leaning against it with hisface to the wall. I went to him and pulled his sleeve. “Can we go home now?” Henodded, produced his handkerchief, gave his face a going-over and blew his noseviolently. “Mr. Finch?” A soft husky voice came from the darkness above: “They gone?” Atticus stepped back and looked up. “They’ve gone,” he said. “Get some sleep, Tom. They won’t bother you any more.” From a different direction, another voice cut crisply through the night: “You’re damntootin‘ they won’t. Had you covered all the time, Atticus.” Mr. Underwood and a double-barreled shotgun were leaning out his window aboveThe Maycomb Tribune office. It was long past my bedtime and I was growing quite tired; it seemed that Atticus andMr. Underwood would talk for the rest of the night, Mr. Underwood out the window andAtticus up at him. Finally Atticus returned, switched off the light above the jail door, andpicked up his chair. “Can I carry it for you, Mr. Finch?” asked Dill. He had not said a word the whole time. “Why, thank you, son.” Walking toward the office, Dill and I fell into step behind Atticus and Jem. Dill wasencumbered by the chair, and his pace was slower. Atticus and Jem were well ahead ofus, and I assumed that Atticus was giving him hell for not going home, but I was wrong. As they passed under a streetlight, Atticus reached out and massaged Jem’s hair, hisone gesture of affection. 一个又一个电活打来，拼命替这个被告说情，加上他妈妈又写了封表示原谅的长信，这才决定迪尔可以不走。我们一起享受了一周的平静生活。好象没过多久，一场恶梦降临了。 这是从一天晚饭后开始的。迪尔已经来了，亚历山德拉姑妈坐在屋角的椅子上，阿迪克斯也坐在自己的椅子上，我和杰姆在地板上看书。这一周过得很平静：我听姑妈的话，杰姆长大了，再不爬到树上的屋里去玩，但是帮我们挂上了一条新的绳梯’迪尔想出了一个完全保险的计划，既可以把布?拉德利逗出来，而我们自己又不需要付出任何代价(即从后门到前院滴一溜柠檬水，他就会象蚂蚁那样跟着走)。有人敲了一下前门，杰姆开了门，通报说赫克?塔特先生来了。 “请他进来吧。”阿迪克斯说。 “早进来了。院子里还有几个人，他们想要你出去。” 梅科姆的大人只为两种事才会聚在前院里：死了人或与政治有关的事。我想不出是谁又死了。杰姆和我走到前门日，但是阿迪克斯喊了旬，“回屋里去。” 杰姆把客厅里所有的灯都关了，脸紧贴在纱窗上。亚历山德拉姑妈抱怨地问关灯干什么。“就这么一会儿，姑妈，让我们看看是谁。”杰姆说。 我和迪尔占了另一个窗子。一大帮人正围着阿迪克斯。他们好象在齐声说着什么。 “……明天要把他转到县监狱去，”这是塔特先生在说，“我并不是找什么麻烦，可是我不能保证不会有麻烦……” “别傻了，赫克，”阿迪克斯说，“这是梅科姆。” “……我说我放心不下。” “赫克，我们推迟审理这个案子，为的就是耍保证不会有什么不放心的事。今天是星期六，”阿迪克斯说，“大概星期一就开庭，你再守他一个晚上不行吗?我想梅科姆不会有人在这不景气的时候使我丢掉一个当事人的。” 人堆里进发出一阵快活的笑声，但林克?迪斯先生一开口就止住了。“这里的人谁也不会怎么样，问题是那帮萨勒姆人叫我放心不下……你能不能换个……怎么说呢，赫克?” “换个审判地点，”塔特先生说，“现在那样做没什么意义了，是不是?” 阿迪克斯说了几旬什么，我没听清楚，我转身向着杰姆，他挥手叫我别出声。 “……再洗，”阿迪克斯说，“你们都不害怕那伙人，对不对?”。 “……我知道他们灌醉了酒会干些什么。” “他们星期天不大喝酒，大部分时间都上教堂做礼拜……”阿迪克斯说。 “不过，这回可是个特殊情况……”有人说。 嗡嗡的低沉的说话声一下停止了。忽然听见姑妈说，杰姆如果不把客厅的灯打开，就会给家里人丢脸。杰姆没听见她说的话。 “实在不能理解你为什么要插手此事，”林克?迪斯先生说，“在这件事上你会输得一干二净的，阿迪克斯。我说一干二净。” “你真这样想吗?” 每当阿迪克斯这样问，就意味着要出事了。 “你真想往那儿走吗，斯各特?”叭、叭、叭”，跳棋盘上的棋子一下就会给扫个精光。“你真这样想吗，孩子?那好，读这本书去。”这一来，杰姆就得在晚上剩下的时间拼命读一读亨利-格雷迪的讲演词。 “林克，那孩子也许会被处死，但首先得把真相弄明白，”阿迪克斯的声音平稳沉着，“而你是明白事实真相的。” 人堆中传出低低的说话声。当阿迪克斯退到台阶最下一级，其他人向他靠得更近时，声音变得带有不样的征兆。 杰姆突然叫了起来：“阿迪克斯，电话铃在晌j” 这些人稍稍惊了一下便散开了，这是些每天都见得到的人：做生意的人，家在镇上的农民，还有雷纳兹医生，艾弗里先生也在里面。 “知道了，你接一下，孩子。” 人群在笑声中散开了。阿迪克斯进屋把头顶上的灯打开后，看见杰姆站在窗前，除了纱窗留在他鼻尖上的明显痕迹外，脸上一片苍白。 “你们为什么都这么坐在黑屋子里?”他问道。 杰姆望着他走到椅子前，抬起晚报来。我不时有这样的想法，阿迪克斯平时碰到危难，总要靠安静地品味报刊杂志来稳定情绪。他常读的报纸有《莫比尔纪事报》，《伯明翰新闻报》，还有《蒙哥马利广告报》。 “他们在捣你的鬼，是吗?”杰姆走到他跟前。“他们想整你，是不是?” 阿迪克斯放下报纸，眼睛盯着杰姆。“你在看些什么书?”他问。然后又柔声说，“不，孩子，那些人是我们的朋友。” 。他们不是……不是一伙坏蛋?”杰姆斜视着。 阿迪克斯想忍住不笑，但没忍住。“不，梅科姆没有一伙伙的坏蛋，没有那些乌七八糟的东西。我从没听说过梅科姆有什么坏蛋。” “有一段时间三K党找过一些天主教徒的麻烦。” “也从没听说过是梅科姆的天主教徒，”阿迪克斯说，“你把别的事和这混在一起了。大概在1920年，有过一个卡兰党，但那实际是一个政治团体，并非别的什么。另外，他们谁也吓唬不了。有一晚，他们在萨姆?莱维先生家门口结队游行，但是萨姆只站在门前走廊上，告诉他们他境况已经很糟，连被单都卖给他们了。萨姆使他们羞愧得走开了。” 无论从哪方面说，莱维家都符合“名门”的标准：他们能动脑筋把事情尽可能办好，在梅科姆的同一个地方住了整整五代。 “三K党早完了，”阿迪克斯说，“再不会有了。” 当晚，我和迪尔一道回家，恰恰偶然听见阿迪克斯对姑妈说：“……和任何人一样支持南部妇女，但不赞成牺牲人命来保存虚伪的传统观念。”听了这话，我怀疑他们又在吵嘴。 我去找杰姆，在他屋里找到了他。他坐在床上正想得出神。“他们又吵了吗?”我问。 “吵了一会。姑妈不让他管汤姆?鲁宾逊酌事。她几乎说阿迪克斯是在丢家族的脸。斯各特，我害怕。” “怕什么?” “为阿迪克斯害怕。也许有人会害他。”杰姆从不愿把自己的底亮出来。不管我再接着问什么，他只叫我走开，别打扰他。 第二天是星期天，主日学校的课上完了，礼拜还没开始，来做礼拜的人都在外面散步。我看见阿迪克斯同另外一群人站在院子里。赫克-塔特先生在人群中，我不知道他是不是醒悟过来了。他是从不做礼拜的。甚至安德伍德先生也在场。不管叫什么团体组织，对安德伍德先生都不起作用。他只经营他的Ⅸ梅科姆论坛报》。他一个人兼任报馆的老板、编辑。他的时间都消磨在排版机旁，只偶尔从旁边的一个能盛一加仑的罐子里喝点樱桃酒提提神，那罐子随时都在手边。他很少采访新闻，新闻都是人们给他进去的。据说每期报纸都是他先在脑子里想好，然后弄到排版机上写成文字。这点可以相信。连安德伍德先生也给拖了出来，肯定出了点什么事。 我在阿迪克斯进门时碰上了他。他说汤姆已被转到了梅科姆监狱。他又说——与其说是对我说，不如说是自言自语t“如果一开始就关进那地方，也就不会有什么可争议的了。”我看见他在前面第三排坐下，听见他在我们唱完一首赞美诗后，还在低沉地唱着：“愿与我主更亲近，”他从不和我们坐在一起，做礼拜的时候他总爱独自一个人坐。 这几个星期天只是表面上平平静静，亚历山德拉姑妈在这里更使人不快。阿迪克斯一吃过饭就溜到了事务所，如果我们去看他，会发现他靠在转椅上读着书。亚历山德拉姑妈每天总要睡上两小时午觉，还威胁我们不准在院子里闹出响声。邻居们也都在休息。年龄日益增长的杰姆也爱守着一堆橄榄球杂志缩在屋里。这样，我和迪尔便在迪尔牧场上转来转去，打发一个个星期天。 星期天禁止打熗，我和迪尔只好在草场上踢一阵杰姆的橄榄球，但这也不觉得好玩。迪尔问我愿不愿去刺探一下布?拉德利。我说我认为打搅他不好。然后在剩下的时间里给他大讲了一通冬天里发生的事情。．他听得相当出神。 我和迪尔在晚饭的时候分了手。吃过饭，杰姆和我象往常一样安定下来做些晚饭后的事，阿迪克斯却干了件使我们感到有趣的事情。他手拿一根很长的电线进了客厅，电线上有个灯泡。 “我要出去一会儿，”他说，“等我回来你们可能已经睡了，所以我现在就对你们说晚安了。” 他一边说一边戴上帽子从后面出去了。 “他是去开车。”杰姆说。 爸爸有几个怪癖：一是，饭后从不吃甜点心，另一个就是，他喜欢步行。从我能记事的时候起，车库里就有一辆切佛罗里德牌汽车，保养得极好，阿迪克斯开着它出差跑过好多公里，但在梅科姆，他每天从事务所到家步行两个来回，大约一共两英里路。他说他唯一的锻炼就是散步。在梅科姆，如果一个人脑子里没有明确目的地在外面走，那么相信他脑子里不可能有明确目的，那是准没错的。 过了一会儿，我向姑妈和哥哥道了晚安，捧着一本书正看得起劲，只听见杰姆在自已屋里弄得四处格格直响。他上床的声音我是熟悉的。我就去敲他的门。“你为什么还不睡觉?” “我到镇上去一会儿。”他正换裤子。 “为什么?都快十点钟了，杰姆。” 他知道时间，但还是要去。 “那么，我和你一道去，要说一声不让，你自己也去不成，听到了吗?” 杰姆看得出来，要把我拦在家里就得打起来。我估计，他想到了要是打架一定会惹姑妈生气，所以才勉强答应了。 我很快就穿好了衣服。等姑妈屋里的灯熄了，我们悄悄走下了屋后的台阶。天上没有月亮。 。迪尔也会想去。”我压低了声音说。 “是的，他会想去。”杰姆不痛快地说。 我们翻过车道的墙，穿过雷切尔小姐的侧院，走到迪尔的窗前。杰姆学了声鹑鸟叫。迪尔的脸隔着窗子出现了一下又消失了。五分钟后他打开纱窗栓钻了出来。真是个老把式，他一直都没说话，到了人行道上才开口：“出了什么事?” 。杰姆变得好管闲事了。”卡尔珀尼亚说过，到这个年龄，男孩子都有这个毛病。 “我只是有这么一种感觉，”杰姆说，“只是一种感觉。” 我们走过了杜博斯太太住过的房子，房予的门窗紧闭，空荡荡地矗立在路旁，她种的山茶花周围长满了杂草。到邮局拐角那儿还有八户人家。 广场靠南的地方一片荒凉。各个角上都丛生着智利松树，树缝里一遭带刺钩的铁栏杆在街灯下闪着光。要不是公共厕所里亮着一盏灯，法院那边就会是黑乎乎的一片。广场四周全是店铺，把法院围在中间，从店铺里射出昏暗的灯光。 阿迪克斯最初开业的时候，他的事务所设在法院里，过了几年后，就搬进了梅科姆银行大楼，那儿安静一些。绕过广场角落，我们便看见他的汽车停在银行门口。“他在里面。”杰姆说。 可是他并不在里面。他的事务昕与一个长长的过厅相连，隔厅望去，映着门后的灯光本能看到一排不大但写得很认真的字：律师阿迪克斯?芬奇。可现在，里面看不到灯光。 为了证实一下，杰姆在银行门口仔细看了看，他叉扭了一下把手，发现门锁着。“咱们到街上去吧，他大概在安德伍德先生家。” 安德伍德先生不仅经营《梅科姆论坛报》，家也安在报馆里，确切地说是在报馆楼上。只要从楼上往窗外一看，便能得到法院和监狱里的新闻。报馆在广场西北角上，我们去那儿要打监狱门前经过。 梅科姆监狱在整个县的建筑中最古老而又最丑陋。阿迪克斯说它象是只有乔舒亚?圣克莱尔才可能设计得出来的。毫无疑问，这是什么人的一种异想天开的设计。它正好一间牢房宽，两间高，有着小小的墙垛和飞拱，象是用缩小的哥特式建筑形式开的一个玩笑，同这个充斥着方形门面的店铺和屋顶很尖的住宅的镇子很不协调。带有宗教色彩的窗口上横着密密的铁条，加上红砖的外壁，更使这个建筑显得荒诞不经。它不是建在一座孤独的山上，而是央在廷德尔五金店和《梅科姆论坛报》报馆的中间。人们闲聊时，常拿它作话题：反对者说它象维多利亚时代的厕所，支持它的人则说它使得镇子看起来极其文雅。但没有任何外人会怀疑里面关的尽是黑人。 我们走上人行遒，看见远处有一盏孤灯在闪烁。“奇怪，”杰姆说，“监狱外面没灯啊。” “象是在门上边。”迪尔说。 一根长长的电线穿过二楼窗口的铁条，沿着墙壁垂下来，在没有灯罩的灯泡射出的光线里，阿迪克斯正靠着前门坐在那儿。他坐在他事务所的椅子里读着什么，毫不在意在头上乱飞乱撞的甲虫。 我要跑过去，杰姆抓住了我。“别过去，”他说，“他可能会不高兴的。他没出事，我们回家吧。我只不过想看看他到底在哪儿。” 我们正抄近路穿过广场，突然从通梅里迪安的公路上开来四辆满是尘土的汽车，成一条直线慢慢移动。汽车绕过广场，过了银行大楼，在监狱门前停了下来。 没人下车，我们看见阿迪克斯从报纸上抬起头，然后台上报纸，又从容地叠好，放在膝盖上。他把帽子推到了脑后，好象正等着那四辆汽车。 “跟我来。”杰姆小声说道。我们飞快跑过广场，又过了大街，一直跑到吉特尼?容格尔游艺室门口躲了起来。杰姆往路上看了看说：“还可以近点。”我们跑到了廷德尔五金店门口——够近了，而且也保险。 从车上陆续下来几个人。他们向监狱大门靠近，人影在灯光下越来越清晰。阿迪克斯在原地一动也没动。这些人的身子把他挡住，看不见他了。 “他在那儿吗，芬奇先生?”有个人说。 “在，”我们听到阿迪克斯回答，“而且睡着了，别惊醒他。” 这些人按照我爸爸的话行事，出现了这样的局面；他们果真凑到一块声音很轻地说着什么。我后来才明白，这是一个毫无喜剧意味的事件中滑稽得令人作呕的一幕。 “你知道我们想千什么，”另一个人说，“从门口走开吧，芬奇先生。” “你还是向后转回家去吧，沃尔特，”阿迪克斯的话很客气，“赫克?塔特就在附近。” “他根本不在附近，”又一个人说，“赫克一伙人在林子的深处，明天才出得来。” “是吗，怎么回事?” “叫他们去打沙雉鸟去了，”回答很简短，“你投有想到这点吗，芬奇先生?” “想到了这点，但不相信。即使这样又怎样?”爸爸的声音没变，“这能把事态改变，是吗?” 。当然了。”另一个人用低沉的声音说道。说话的人看不清。 “你真是这样想吗?” 两天里我又一次听刘阿迪克斯这样问话。这就是说又有人该倒霉了。可不能错过机会。我挣脱杰姆，飞快地朝阿迪克斯跑去。 杰姆尖叫起来，想抓住我，但我跑在他和迪尔的前面。我从黑乎乎的、发出臭气的身躯中钻过去，一下子蹦到灯光圈里。 “嘿——阿追克斯!” 我以为他会喜出望外地吃一惊，不料他的脸色使我大为扫兴。他眼里掠过一缕明显的担心的眼光，接着看到迪尔和杰姆扭身挤进有光的地方，他又露出这种眼光来了。 周围有一股陈威士忌和猪圈的气味。我转身一看才发现，这些人都是陌生人，不是昨天夜里见到的那些人。我浑身发热，好生不自在；我竞神气活现地跳进了一圈我从未见过的生人中间。 阿迪克斯从椅子上站起来，但动作很慢，象个老头。他十分仔细地把报纸放下，又用迟缓的手指把折缝弄了弄。手指头在微微颤抖。 “回去，杰姆，”他说，“把斯各特和迪尔带回去。” 对阿迪克斯的命令，我们并不总是高高兴兴地接受，但已习惯了很快地照他说的办。可是这一回，从杰姆站的那样子看，他一点也没想着要动。 “我说，你们回去。” 杰姆摇摇头。阿迪克斯的双拳叉在腰上，杰姆也这个样儿。在他们面对面时，我在两个人之间看不到多少相似之处。杰姆柔软的褐色头发和眼睛，椭圆的脸形和紧贴在两侧的耳朵，是我妈妈的}跟阿迪克斯开始斑白的黑发、方正的面貌形成奇怪的对比。不过，他们又有点相象。两个人互不相t}的倔强劲儿看起来是一样的。 “孩子，我说过，你们回家去。” 杰姆摇摇头。 “我送他回去。”一个身体粗壮的人一边说，一边蛮横地抓住杰姆的领子，猛拉杰姆，差点把他拉倒了。 “不许动他。”我朝这个人一脚踢过去。我连鞋都没穿，却发现这人痛得朝后直退。我打算踢他的小腿，但起脚过高了点。 “够了，斯各特。”阿迪克斯把一只手放到我肩上。“不要踢人。不……”我正要申辩理由时，他又加了一句。 “谁也不许对杰姆那样。”我说。 “好啊，芬奇先生，叫他们离开这儿。”有人粗声说，“给你十五秒钟叫他们走开。” 在这群生人中间，阿迪克斯正设法叫杰姆听话。他先是威胁，后又要求，最后说：“杰姆，求求你把他们带回去。”对这些，杰姆的回答还是那个“我不走”。 我有点厌烦了，但一想到要是杰姆真的走了，不知会发生什么，就又觉得杰姆这样做自有他的道理。我又扫了一眼周围的人。那是一个夏夜，但这些人穿着齐整，大都穿着背带裤，斜纹棉布衬衫一直扣到脖子上。我想他们一定生来怕冷，因为他们都没卷袖子，还扣紧了袖口。有几个人的帽子直压到耳朵上。他们一个个面色阴沉，睡眼惺忪，似乎不习惯熬夜。我又一次想找出一张熟悉的面孔。最后，在围成半圆的人群中部总算看到了一张。 “嘿，坎宁安先生。” 这人好象没听见。 “嘿，坎宁安先生，您的限定继承权问题怎么样了?” 沃尔特?坎宁安先生的官司我很清楚，因为阿迪克斯作过详细的描述。这个大块头眨了眨眼睛，把两个大拇指抠进工作裤的背带里，显得有点不自在。他清了一下喉咙，把脸掉了过去。我主动的友好表示没受到理睬。 坎宁安先生没戴帽子，前额上部是白的，下面的脸给太阳晒黑了。这使我相信，他每天大都戴着帽子。他把两只脚挪了挪，脚上穿着笨重的工作靴。 “您不记得我了吗，坎宁安先生?我是琼?路易斯?芬奇。您有一回给我们带来过山核桃，还记得吗?”我开始体会到向偶然遇到的熟人打招呼时得不到反响的尴尬。‘ “毳和沃尔特一块儿上学，”我又开始说，“他是您的儿子，是不是?是不是，先生?” 坎宁安先生终于微微地点了点头，他到底还是认识我的。 “我和他在一个年级，”我说，“他挺好，是个好孩子，”我补上一旬，“是个真正的好孩子。有一回，我们把他带回家吃饭。他也许和您说过我，我揍过他一次，但是他一点也不生气。替我向他间好，好吗?” 阿迪克斯说过，要对人说他感兴趣的事而不说自己感兴趣的事，这样才有礼貌。坎宁安先生没有对儿子表示任何兴趣，于是，作为最后一招，我又向他说起限定继承权问题来了，想使他不感到拘谨。 “限定继承权问题还挺难办的呢。”我这么告诉他，却慢慢意识到自己正对所有的人在作讲演。这些人望着我，有些人半张着嘴；阿迪克斯早就不去碰杰姆了，他们伴着迪尔站在一起，大家注视着我，好象入了神。连阿迪克斯也把嘴半张着，他自己说过，这种表情又蠢又呆。我和他的目光碰到一起，他忙把嘴合上了。 “哦，阿迪克斯，我在对坎宁安先生说继承权问题挺难办那类事，不过您说过不用着急，有时这事耍花很多时间……你们会一道对付好的……”我慢慢地说完了话，不知道自己说了些什么蠢话。限定继承权似乎应该是客厅里的话题。 我开始感到头上淌汗，积聚到发脚边，什么事都好忍受，但就怕一大群入看着我，而这些人又这样的一言不发。 “怎么啦?”我问。 阿迪克斯没答话。我转过身，抬头又去看坎宁安先生，他的脸也同样没有什么表情。接着，出了件怪事，他蹭下来，一把抓住了我的双肩。 “我一定代你向他问好，小姐。”他说。 他直起身，大手一挥。“我们走开，”他大声说，“我们走吧，朋友们。” 和下车时一样，这些人又一个两个地挤进了摇摇晃晃的汽车。车门关上，发动机一阵轰鸣。然后，这些人走了。 我转身去找阿迪克斯，但是他已走到了监狱跟前，脸贴墙靠着。我过去扯了扯他的衣袖。“现在可以回家了吗?”他点点头，掏出手绢，满脸擦了一把，又使劲地擤鼻子。 “芬奇先生?” 黑暗中从头上方传出一个轻轻的沙哑的声音：“他们走了吗?” 阿迪克斯后退了几步，抬起头。“走了，”他说，“睡吧，汤姆。他们再不会来麻烦你了。” 从另一个方向，夜空里又传来一个清脆的声音。“别瞎吹，阿迪克斯。我一直在掩护着你。” 安德伍德先生和一枝双管猎熗从《梅科姆论坛报》报馆楼上韵窗口伸出来。 早过了我睡觉的时同，我十分困倦了。但阿迪克斯和安德伍德先生似乎要一直谈到天亮似的。安德伍德先生从窗口探出脑袋，阿迪克斯仰头对着他。最后，阿迪克斯终于转过身，关上监狱门口的电灯，拿起了椅子。 “我能帮您拿吗，芬奇先生?”迪尔问。这一段时间他一直没说话。 “啊，谢谢你，孩子。” 在去事务所的路上，我和迪尔掉在阿迪克斯和杰姆的后面。迪尔被椅子拖得脚步慢了下来。阿迪克斯和杰姆离我们相当远。我猜阿迪克斯一定因为杰姆投有回家在训他。但是我猜错了。他们走到路灯底下时，阿迪克斯伸出手抚摸杰姆的头发。他表示温情时就是这样。 |
Chapter 16 Jem heard me. He thrust his head around the connecting door. As he came to my bedAtticus’s light flashed on. We stayed where we were until it went off; we heard him turnover, and we waited until he was still again. Jem took me to his room and put me in bed beside him. “Try to go to sleep,” he said,“It’ll be all over after tomorrow, maybe.” We had come in quietly, so as not to wake Aunty. Atticus killed the engine in thedriveway and coasted to the carhouse; we went in the back door and to our roomswithout a word. I was very tired, and was drifting into sleep when the memory of Atticuscalmly folding his newspaper and pushing back his hat became Atticus standing in themiddle of an empty waiting street, pushing up his glasses. The full meaning of thenight’s events hit me and I began crying. Jem was awfully nice about it: for once hedidn’t remind me that people nearly nine years old didn’t do things like that. Everybody’s appetite was delicate this morning, except Jem’s: he ate his way throughthree eggs. Atticus watched in frank admiration; Aunt Alexandra sipped coffee andradiated waves of disapproval. Children who slipped out at night were a disgrace to thefamily. Atticus said he was right glad his disgraces had come along, but Aunty said,“Nonsense, Mr. Underwood was there all the time.” “You know, it’s a funny thing about Braxton,” said Atticus. “He despises Negroes,won’t have one near him.” Local opinion held Mr. Underwood to be an intense, profane little man, whose father ina fey fit of humor christened Braxton Bragg, a name Mr. Underwood had done his bestto live down. Atticus said naming people after Confederate generals made slow steadydrinkers. Calpurnia was serving Aunt Alexandra more coffee, and she shook her head at what Ithought was a pleading winning look. “You’re still too little,” she said. “I’ll tell you whenyou ain’t.” I said it might help my stomach. “All right,” she said, and got a cup from thesideboard. She poured one tablespoonful of coffee into it and filled the cup to the brimwith milk. I thanked her by sticking out my tongue at it, and looked up to catch Aunty’swarning frown. But she was frowning at Atticus. She waited until Calpurnia was in the kitchen, then she said, “Don’t talk like that infront of them.” “Talk like what in front of whom?” he asked. “Like that in front of Calpurnia. You said Braxton Underwood despises Negroes right infront of her.” “Well, I’m sure Cal knows it. Everybody in Maycomb knows it.” I was beginning to notice a subtle change in my father these days, that came out whenhe talked with Aunt Alexandra. It was a quiet digging in, never outright irritation. Therewas a faint starchiness in his voice when he said, “Anything fit to say at the table’s fit tosay in front of Calpurnia. She knows what she means to this family.” “I don’t think it’s a good habit, Atticus. It encourages them. You know how they talkamong themselves. Every thing that happens in this town’s out to the Quarters beforesundown.” My father put down his knife. “I don’t know of any law that says they can’t talk. Maybeif we didn’t give them so much to talk about they’d be quiet. Why don’t you drink yourcoffee, Scout?” I was playing in it with the spoon. “I thought Mr. Cunningham was a friend of ours. Youtold me a long time ago he was.” “He still is.” “But last night he wanted to hurt you.” Atticus placed his fork beside his knife and pushed his plate aside. “Mr. Cunningham’sbasically a good man,” he said, “he just has his blind spots along with the rest of us.” Jem spoke. “Don’t call that a blind spot. He’da killed you last night when he first wentthere.” “He might have hurt me a little,” Atticus conceded, “but son, you’ll understand folks alittle better when you’re older. A mob’s always made up of people, no matter what. Mr. Cunningham was part of a mob last night, but he was still a man. Every mob in everylittle Southern town is always made up of people you know—doesn’t say much for them,does it?” “I’ll say not,” said Jem. “So it took an eight-year-old child to bring ‘em to their senses, didn’t it?” said Atticus. “That proves something—that a gang of wild animals can be stopped, simply becausethey’re still human. Hmp, maybe we need a police force of children… you children lastnight made Walter Cunningham stand in my shoes for a minute. That was enough.” Well, I hoped Jem would understand folks a little better when he was older; I wouldn’t. “First day Walter comes back to school’ll be his last,” I affirmed. “You will not touch him,” Atticus said flatly. “I don’t want either of you bearing a grudgeabout this thing, no matter what happens.” “You see, don’t you,” said Aunt Alexandra, “what comes of things like this. Don’t say Ihaven’t told you.” Atticus said he’d never say that, pushed out his chair and got up. “There’s a dayahead, so excuse me. Jem, I don’t want you and Scout downtown today, please.” As Atticus departed, Dill came bounding down the hall into the diningroom. “It’s allover town this morning,” he announced, “all about how we held off a hundred folks withour bare hands…” Aunt Alexandra stared him to silence. “It was not a hundred folks,” she said, “and nobody held anybody off. It was just a nest of those Cunninghams, drunkand disorderly.” “Aw, Aunty, that’s just Dill’s way,” said Jem. He signaled us to follow him. “You all stay in the yard today,” she said, as we made our way to the front porch. It was like Saturday. People from the south end of the county passed our house in aleisurely but steady stream. Mr. Dolphus Raymond lurched by on his thoroughbred. “Don’t see how he stays in thesaddle,” murmured Jem. “How c’n you stand to get drunk ‘fore eight in the morning?” A wagonload of ladies rattled past us. They wore cotton sunbonnets and dresses withlong sleeves. A bearded man in a wool hat drove them. “Yonder’s some Mennonites,” Jem said to Dill. “They don’t have buttons.” They lived deep in the woods, did most oftheir trading across the river, and rarely came to Maycomb. Dill was interested. “They’veall got blue eyes,” Jem explained, “and the men can’t shave after they marry. Theirwives like for ‘em to tickle ’em with their beards.” Mr. X Billups rode by on a mule and waved to us. “He’s a funny man,” said Jem. “X’shis name, not his initial. He was in court one time and they asked him his name. He saidX Billups. Clerk asked him to spell it and he said X. Asked him again and he said X. They kept at it till he wrote X on a sheet of paper and held it up for everybody to see. They asked him where he got his name and he said that’s the way his folks signed himup when he was born.” As the county went by us, Jem gave Dill the histories and general attitudes of themore prominent figures: Mr. Tensaw Jones voted the straight Prohibition ticket; MissEmily Davis dipped snuff in private; Mr. Byron Waller could play the violin; Mr. JakeSlade was cutting his third set of teeth. A wagonload of unusually stern-faced citizens appeared. When they pointed to MissMaudie Atkinson’s yard, ablaze with summer flowers, Miss Maudie herself came out onthe porch. There was an odd thing about Miss Maudie—on her porch she was too faraway for us to see her features clearly, but we could always catch her mood by the wayshe stood. She was now standing arms akimbo, her shoulders drooping a little, her headcocked to one side, her glasses winking in the sunlight. We knew she wore a grin of theuttermost wickedness. The driver of the wagon slowed down his mules, and a shrill-voiced woman called out: “He that cometh in vanity departeth in darkness!” Miss Maudie answered: “A merry heart maketh a cheerful countenance!” I guess that the foot-washers thought that the Devil was quoting Scripture for his ownpurposes, as the driver speeded his mules. Why they objected to Miss Maudie’s yardwas a mystery, heightened in my mind because for someone who spent all the daylighthours outdoors, Miss Maudie’s command of Scripture was formidable. “You goin‘ to court this morning?” asked Jem. We had strolled over. “I am not,” she said. “I have no business with the court this morning.” “Aren’t you goin‘ down to watch?” asked Dill. “I am not. ‘t’s morbid, watching a poor devil on trial for his life. Look at all those folks,it’s like a Roman carnival.” “They hafta try him in public, Miss Maudie,” I said. “Wouldn’t be right if they didn’t.” “I’m quite aware of that,” she said. “Just because it’s public, I don’t have to go, do I?” Miss Stephanie Crawford came by. She wore a hat and gloves. “Um, um, um,” shesaid. “Look at all those folks—you’d think William Jennings Bryan was speakin‘.” “And where are you going, Stephanie?” inquired Miss Maudie. “To the Jitney Jungle.” Miss Maudie said she’d never seen Miss Stephanie go to the Jitney Jungle in a hat inher life. “Well,” said Miss Stephanie, “I thought I might just look in at the courthouse, to seewhat Atticus’s up to.” “Better be careful he doesn’t hand you a subpoena.” We asked Miss Maudie to elucidate: she said Miss Stephanie seemed to know somuch about the case she might as well be called on to testify. We held off until noon, when Atticus came home to dinner and said they’d spent themorning picking the jury. After dinner, we stopped by for Dill and went to town. It was a gala occasion. There was no room at the public hitching rail for anotheranimal, mules and wagons were parked under every available tree. The courthousesquare was covered with picnic parties sitting on newspapers, washing down biscuit andsyrup with warm milk from fruit jars. Some people were gnawing on cold chicken andcold fried pork chops. The more affluent chased their food with drugstore Coca-Cola inbulb-shaped soda glasses. Greasy-faced children popped-the-whip through the crowd,and babies lunched at their mothers’ breasts. In a far corner of the square, the Negroes sat quietly in the sun, dining on sardines,crackers, and the more vivid flavors of Nehi Cola. Mr. Dolphus Raymond sat with them. “Jem,” said Dill, “he’s drinkin‘ out of a sack.” Mr. Dolphus Raymond seemed to be so doing: two yellow drugstore straws ran fromhis mouth to the depths of a brown paper bag. “Ain’t ever seen anybody do that,” murmured Dill. “How does he keep what’s in it in it?” Jem giggled. “He’s got a Co-Cola bottle full of whiskey in there. That’s so’s not toupset the ladies. You’ll see him sip it all afternoon, he’ll step out for a while and fill itback up.” “Why’s he sittin‘ with the colored folks?” “Always does. He likes ‘em better’n he likes us, I reckon. Lives by himself way downnear the county line. He’s got a colored woman and all sorts of mixed chillun. Show yousome of ’em if we see ‘em.” “He doesn’t look like trash,” said Dill. “He’s not, he owns all one side of the riverbank down there, and he’s from a real oldfamily to boot.” “Then why does he do like that?” “That’s just his way,” said Jem. “They say he never got over his weddin‘. He wassupposed to marry one of the—the Spencer ladies, I think. They were gonna have ahuge weddin’, but they didn’t—after the rehearsal the bride went upstairs and blew herhead off. Shotgun. She pulled the trigger with her toes.” “Did they ever know why?” “No,” said Jem, “nobody ever knew quite why but Mr. Dolphus. They said it wasbecause she found out about his colored woman, he reckoned he could keep her andget married too. He’s been sorta drunk ever since. You know, though, he’s real good tothose chillun—” “Jem,” I asked, “what’s a mixed child?” “Half white, half colored. You’ve seen ‘em, Scout. You know that red-kinky-headedone that delivers for the drugstore. He’s half white. They’re real sad.” “Sad, how come?” “They don’t belong anywhere. Colored folks won’t have ‘em because they’re halfwhite; white folks won’t have ’em cause they’re colored, so they’re just in-betweens,don’t belong anywhere. But Mr. Dolphus, now, they say he’s shipped two of his up north. They don’t mind ‘em up north. Yonder’s one of ’em.” A small boy clutching a Negro woman’s hand walked toward us. He looked all Negroto me: he was rich chocolate with flaring nostrils and beautiful teeth. Sometimes hewould skip happily, and the Negro woman tugged his hand to make him stop. Jem waited until they passed us. “That’s one of the little ones,” he said. “How can you tell?” asked Dill. “He looked black to me.” “You can’t sometimes, not unless you know who they are. But he’s half Raymond, allright.” “But how can you tell?” I asked. “I told you, Scout, you just hafta know who they are.” “Well how do you know we ain’t Negroes?” “Uncle Jack Finch says we really don’t know. He says as far as he can trace back theFinches we ain’t, but for all he knows we mighta come straight out of Ethiopia durin‘ theOld Testament.” “Well if we came out durin‘ the Old Testament it’s too long ago to matter.” “That’s what I thought,” said Jem, “but around here once you have a drop of Negroblood, that makes you all black. Hey, look—” Some invisible signal had made the lunchers on the square rise and scatter bits ofnewspaper, cellophane, and wrapping paper. Children came to mothers, babies werecradled on hips as men in sweat-stained hats collected their families and herded themthrough the courthouse doors. In the far corner of the square the Negroes and Mr. Dolphus Raymond stood up and dusted their breeches. There were few women andchildren among them, which seemed to dispel the holiday mood. They waited patientlyat the doors behind the white families. “Let’s go in,” said Dill. “Naw, we better wait till they get in, Atticus might not like it if he sees us,” said Jem. The Maycomb County courthouse was faintly reminiscent of Arlington in one respect: the concrete pillars supporting its south roof were too heavy for their light burden. Thepillars were all that remained standing when the original courthouse burned in 1856. Another courthouse was built around them. It is better to say, built in spite of them. Butfor the south porch, the Maycomb County courthouse was early Victorian, presenting anunoffensive vista when seen from the north. From the other side, however, Greek revivalcolumns clashed with a big nineteenth-century clock tower housing a rusty unreliableinstrument, a view indicating a people determined to preserve every physical scrap ofthe past. To reach the courtroom, on the second floor, one passed sundry sunless countycubbyholes: the tax assessor, the tax collector, the county clerk, the county solicitor, thecircuit clerk, the judge of probate lived in cool dim hutches that smelled of decayingrecord books mingled with old damp cement and stale urine. It was necessary to turn onthe lights in the daytime; there was always a film of dust on the rough floorboards. Theinhabitants of these offices were creatures of their environment: little gray-faced men,they seemed untouched by wind or sun. We knew there was a crowd, but we had not bargained for the multitudes in the first-floor hallway. I got separated from Jem and Dill, but made my way toward the wall bythe stairwell, knowing Jem would come for me eventually. I found myself in the middle ofthe Idlers’ Club and made myself as unobtrusive as possible. This was a group of white-shirted, khaki-trousered, suspendered old men who had spent their lives doing nothingand passed their twilight days doing same on pine benches under the live oaks on thesquare. Attentive critics of courthouse business, Atticus said they knew as much law asthe Chief Justice, from long years of observation. Normally, they were the court’s onlyspectators, and today they seemed resentful of the interruption of their comfortableroutine. When they spoke, their voices sounded casually important. The conversationwas about my father. “…thinks he knows what he’s doing,” one said. “Oh-h now, I wouldn’t say that,” said another. “Atticus Finch’s a deep reader, a mightydeep reader.” “He reads all right, that’s all he does.” The club snickered. “Lemme tell you somethin‘ now, Billy,” a third said, “you know the court appointed himto defend this nigger.” “Yeah, but Atticus aims to defend him. That’s what I don’t like about it.” This was news, news that put a different light on things: Atticus had to, whether hewanted to or not. I thought it odd that he hadn’t said anything to us about it—we couldhave used it many times in defending him and ourselves. He had to, that’s why he wasdoing it, equaled fewer fights and less fussing. But did that explain the town’s attitude? The court appointed Atticus to defend him. Atticus aimed to defend him. That’s whatthey didn’t like about it. It was confusing. The Negroes, having waited for the white people to go upstairs, began to come in. “Whoa now, just a minute,” said a club member, holding up his walking stick. “Just don’tstart up them there stairs yet awhile.” The club began its stiff-jointed climb and ran into Dill and Jem on their way downlooking for me. They squeezed past and Jem called, “Scout, come on, there ain’t a seatleft. We’ll hafta stand up.” “Looka there, now.” he said irritably, as the black people surged upstairs. The old menahead of them would take most of the standing room. We were out of luck and it was myfault, Jem informed me. We stood miserably by the wall. “Can’t you all get in?” Reverend Sykes was looking down at us, black hat in hand. “Hey, Reverend,” said Jem. “Naw, Scout here messed us up.” “Well, let’s see what we can do.” Reverend Sykes edged his way upstairs. In a few moments he was back. “There’s nota seat downstairs. Do you all reckon it’ll be all right if you all came to the balcony withme?” “Gosh yes,” said Jem. Happily, we sped ahead of Reverend Sykes to the courtroomfloor. There, we went up a covered staircase and waited at the door. Reverend Sykescame puffing behind us, and steered us gently through the black people in the balcony. Four Negroes rose and gave us their front-row seats. The Colored balcony ran along three walls of the courtroom like a second-storyveranda, and from it we could see everything. The jury sat to the left, under long windows. Sunburned, lanky, they seemed to be allfarmers, but this was natural: townfolk rarely sat on juries, they were either struck orexcused. One or two of the jury looked vaguely like dressed-up Cunninghams. At thisstage they sat straight and alert. The circuit solicitor and another man, Atticus and Tom Robinson sat at tables withtheir backs to us. There was a brown book and some yellow tablets on the solicitor’stable; Atticus’s was bare. Just inside the railing that divided the spectators from thecourt, the witnesses sat on cowhide-bottomed chairs. Their backs were to us. Judge Taylor was on the bench, looking like a sleepy old shark, his pilot fish writingrapidly below in front of him. Judge Taylor looked like most judges I had ever seen: amiable, white-haired, slightly ruddy-faced, he was a man who ran his court with analarming informality—he sometimes propped his feet up, he often cleaned his fingernailswith his pocket knife. In long equity hearings, especially after dinner, he gave theimpression of dozing, an impression dispelled forever when a lawyer once deliberatelypushed a pile of books to the floor in a desperate effort to wake him up. Without openinghis eyes, Judge Taylor murmured, “Mr. Whitley, do that again and it’ll cost you onehundred dollars.” He was a man learned in the law, and although he seemed to take his job casually, inreality he kept a firm grip on any proceedings that came before him. Only once wasJudge Taylor ever seen at a dead standstill in open court, and the Cunninghamsstopped him. Old Sarum, their stamping grounds, was populated by two familiesseparate and apart in the beginning, but unfortunately bearing the same name. TheCunninghams married the Coninghams until the spelling of the names was academic—academic until a Cunningham disputed a Coningham over land titles and took to thelaw. During a controversy of this character, Jeems Cunningham testified that his motherspelled it Cunningham on deeds and things, but she was really a Coningham, she wasan uncertain speller, a seldom reader, and was given to looking far away sometimeswhen she sat on the front gallery in the evening. After nine hours of listening to theeccentricities of Old Sarum’s inhabitants, Judge Taylor threw the case out of court. When asked upon what grounds, Judge Taylor said, “Champertous connivance,” anddeclared he hoped to God the litigants were satisfied by each having had their publicsay. They were. That was all they had wanted in the first place. Judge Taylor had one interesting habit. He permitted smoking in his courtroom but didnot himself indulge: sometimes, if one was lucky, one had the privilege of watching himput a long dry cigar into his mouth and munch it slowly up. Bit by bit the dead cigarwould disappear, to reappear some hours later as a flat slick mess, its essenceextracted and mingling with Judge Taylor’s digestive juices. I once asked Atticus howMrs. Taylor stood to kiss him, but Atticus said they didn’t kiss much. The witness stand was to the right of Judge Taylor, and when we got to our seats Mr. Heck Tate was already on it. 杰姆听见我的声音，把头从门口伸过来。他走刭我床前的时候，阿迪克斯屋里的灯忽然亮了。我们没有动弹，直到他的灯熄了为止。我们听见他翻了个身。我们一直等到他又安静下来。 杰姆把我带到他屋里，让我躺在他旁边，“想办法睡着，”他说，“也许一过明天就没事了。” 我们静悄悄地走进屋予，以免吵醒姑妈。阿迪克斯在车道上便熄了火，靠惯性把车滑进车库。我们从后门进屋，然后进了各自的卧室，一直没出声。我累得厉害，正慢慢进入梦乡，一时梦见阿迪克斯镇定地叠着报纸，把帽子推到脑后，一时又梦见他在空旷、冷清的大街上把眼镜向上推。我突然明白了今天夜里究竟发生了什么事情，哭了起来。杰姆这回特别宽窖，头一次没有提醒我快九岁的人是不该哭鼻子的。 第二天早上，每个人都不太想吃饭，只有杰姆的胃口特别好：他一连吃了三个鸡蛋。阿迪克斯羡慕地望着他。亚历山德拉姑妈一边呷咖啡，一边流嚣出强烈的不赞同的表情，小孩子半夜里滔出门是给家里丢脸。阿迪克斯说这次的脸丢得他高兴。姑妈却说：“废话，安德伍德先生一直在那儿。” “你知道，布拉克斯顿真怪，”阿迪克斯说，“他从不让一个黑人靠近他。” 当地人将安德伍德先生看成一个易动感情、亵渎神灵的小人物。他爸爸幽默地把他的敦名定为布雷格，安德伍德先生尽了最大的力量想叫人们忘掉这个名字。阿迪克斯说，给人取南北战争中南部联邦将军的名字，会把这个人慢慢变成老是喝酒的人。 卡尔珀尼亚在给亚历山德拉姑妈斟咖啡。我显出一副逗人爱的恳求的脸色向她要咖啡，她却摇了摇头。“你还太小，”她说，“你什么时候长成大人了，我会告诉你。”我说这能开我的胃口。“好吧，”她说着，从餐具柜里取出一个杯子，倒出一汤匙咖啡。然后倒了一满杯牛奶。我把舌头一吐表示谢意。一抬眼正看到姑妈皱着眉头象是在发警告。但她是在对阿迪克斯皱眉。 她一直等卡尔珀尼亚进了厨房，然后才说：“别在他们跟前那么说话。” “在谁面前说什么话?”他问。 “象在卡尔珀尼亚面前那样。你刚才就在她跟前说布拉克斯顿?安德伍德瞧不起黑人。” “哦，我肯定她是知道这点的。在梅科姆谁都知道。” 我已开始注意到爸爸这几天的微妙变化。这一点在他和亚厉山德拉姑妈说话时就看得出来。他的话是一种平静的自卫，从来不直截了当地顶她。他说话的声音带一些掏谨，他说：。不管什么话，能在饭桌上说，就能在卡尔珀尼亚跟前说。她明白她在这个家里是什么样的人。” 。我认为这不是个好习惯，阿迪克斯。这是鼓动他们。你知道在他们中间会怎么说。镇上出的每一件事，不等天黑就会传到了黑人区。” 爸爸放下刀子。“我不知道有任何法律规定不许他们讲活。大概，要是不给他们这么多话把儿，那他们也就安静了。为什么不喝你的咖啡，斯各特?”’ 我正用匙子在杯里搅着玩。“我原来以为坎宁安先生是我们的朋友。你很久以前对我说过。” “他现在还是。” “可是昨晚上他想伤害你。” 阿迪克斯又把叉放在刀子旁，把盘子推到一边。“坎宁安先生基本上是个好人，”他说，“他只是对我们这些人有偏见。” 杰姆说话了：“别把那叫做有偏见，他昨晚上刚到那会儿，本想把你杀了的。” “他也许想害我一下，”阿迪克斯终于勉强承认了这一点，“不过，孩子，你再长大一点，就会更了解人一些。一伙暴终总是人组成的，不管什么人。坎宁安先生昨天是一伙暴徒中的一个，但他还是一个人。你知道每个南方小镇上的任何一伙暴徒都是人组成的。这不是恭维他们吧?” “我说这不是。”杰姆说。 “一个八岁的孩子能使他们清醒过来，对不对?”阿迪克斯说，“这便说明了一个道理——一群野兽有时也能被制服，就只因为他们毕竟还是人。晤，也许我们需要一支娃娃警察队……你们这些弦子昨晚上让沃尔特?坎宁安设身处地为驼考虑了一下，这就行了。” 是的，我希望杰姆再长大一点．能更了解人，我可不愿。“沃尔特回学校的头一天就将是他呆在学校的最后一天。”我声明说。 “不许你碰他，”阿迪克斯说得很干脆。“不管出了什么事，你们俩谁也不许记旧仇。” “你看到了吧，”亚历山德拉姑妈说，“看到这类事情的原因是什么了吧。别说我没早告诉你。” 阿迪克斯说他绝不会说这种话，他推开椅子站起身来。“还有一天的事要干，该走了。杰姆，我今天不想让你和斯各特副镇上去，我请求你们。” 阿迪克斯走了。迪尔来了，从过厅一路蹦跳着进了餐厅。“整个镇子都知道了，”他高声宣布，“都知道我们赤手空拳挡住了一百个人……” 亚历山德拉姑妈用眼瞪他，他不吱声了。。不是什么一百个人，”她说，“而且也没谁挡住了谁。只不过是那一窝坎宁安宗族的人喝醉了胡来。” “哦，姑妈，迪尔说话就是那样。”杰姆说着，打了个手势，叫我们跟他走。 “你们今天都不许出院子。”我们走到前面走廊时，姑妈说道。 外面好象在过礼拜六。县南头的人从我家门前悠闲地、络绎不绝地涌过。 多尔佛斯?雷蒙德先生骑着他的纯种马晃晃悠悠地过去了。“真不明白他在鞍子上怎么坐得稳，”杰姆小声说了旬，。上午八点钟以前就喝醉了，怎么受得了?” 一辆大车装着一群妇女从我们面前吱吱呀呀地过去。她们头戴棉布阔边遮阳帽，身着袖子很长的外衣。一个留着胡子戴着一顶呢帽子的人在赶车。“那是些孟诺派教徒，”杰姆对迪尔说，“她们的衣服上没有纽扣。”这些人住在森林深处，一般都过河做生意，很少到梅科姆来。迪尔感到很有趣。“他们全是蓝眼睛，”杰姆解释说，“而且男人结婚后就不能刮胡子。他们的妻子喜欢让他们用胡子逗她们。” X-比卢普斯先生骑着骡子过来，对我们招招手。?他很滑稽，”杰姆说，“X这个字母就是他的名字，不是他的名字的起首字母。有一回在法庭上，别人问他叫什么名字，他说X?比卢普斯。法庭书记口q他拼出来，他说了声X，又问他，他又说X。一直问到他把这个字母写到纸上，还举起来叫每个人都看到。人家问他在哪儿取的这个名字，他说他一生下来人们就是这样替他进行出生登记的。” 在这些人走过去的时候，杰姆向迪尔介绍其中一些知名人士的情况和大伙对这些人的看法。坦索先生投票拥护彻底禁酒，埃米莉-戴维斯小姐偷偷吸鼻烟；拜伦?沃勒先生会拉小提琴；杰克?斯莱德先生在出第三回牙。 出现了一车板着脸的人。他们对莫迪?阿特金森小姐的院子指指点点。夏天开放的花把满院映得通红。正在这时，莫迪小姐走到了走廊上。 关于莫迪小姐还有件怪事一一她远近站在走廊上时，我们无法把她的一切都看清，但是只看她站的姿势我们就能说出她的情绪是好还是坏。她现在双手叉腰，肩膀稍稍佝偻着，向一边歪着头，眼镜在太阳光里闪亮。我们知道，她准是咧着嘴露出恶意的笑容。 赶车的让骡子放慢脚步，一个采嗓门曲女人喊道：“人若虚荣下场歹。” 莫迪小姐回答：“心中轻快脸生彩。” 我想，礼拜前行洗脚礼的教徒认为魔鬼在为自己的目的而援目』《圣经》。赶车的又把车赶快了。他们为什么看不惯莫迪小姐的院子，这一直是个谜。就一个在房里呆不住、整天在户外的人来说，她对《圣经》的掌握是好得出奇的。因此这个谜在我头脑里更神秘了。 我们都走了过去。 杰姆问：“您今天上午去听审判吗?” 。不去，”莫迪小姐说，“我今天上午跟这法院无关。” 。您不想去看看吗?”迪尔问她。 “不去，看着一个可怜虫接受要置他于死地的审判，太可怕了。瞧那些人，好象在罗马过狂欢节似的。” “莫迪小姐，一定要公开审判他才行，”我说，“不这样是不对的。” “我很清楚这点，”她说，“正因为是公开的，我才没有必要去，是不是?” 斯蒂芬尼小姐打一旁走过，帽子和手套都戴上了。。晤，唔，晤，”她说，“瞧这些人吧，你会以为喊廉?詹宁斯?布赖恩要发表演说了呢。。 “那你自己又是上哪儿?”莫迪小姐问。 “上容格尔游艺室。” 莫迪小姐说她这一辈子还从没见过斯蒂芬尼小姐戴着帽子到容格尔游艺室去过。 “晤，我想我也可以去法院看看阿迪克斯干的什么勾当。” “最好小心点，别让他给你也递过来一张传票。” 我们请莫迫小姐说清楚点。她说斯蒂芬尼小姐好象对这事知道得很多，可能也会把她叫到法庭作证。 我们一直等到中午。阿迪克斯回家吃饭时说，他们花了一个上午选出陪审团。吃过饭，我们找到迪尔，便来到镇上。 镇上跟过节一样热闹。公共畜栏里连再多放一头牲口的地方都没有了。所有的树，只要能用得上，下面都停着太车和骠子。法庭广场上到处都是吃野餐的人。人们垫着报纸坐在地上，从果汁罐里例出热牛奶把软饼和果汁送下肚子。有的人在嚼着冷鸡肉和冷的炸猪排。稍富裕点的人还有可口可乐，装在灯泡形的苏打玻璃杯里。满脸邋遢的孩子一路玩甩鞭子的游戏，在人群里穿来穿去，婴儿在妈妈怀里吃奶。 广场远处的一个角落里，黑人在太阳下安静地坐着，吃着沙丁鱼、饼干和尼海可乐当中餐。多尔佛斯?雷蒙德先生也和他们坐在一起。 “杰姆，”迪尔说，“他从一个袋子里喝东西。” 多尔佛斯先生好象真在从一个袋子里喝东西，两根黄色的麦秆吸管从他的嘴里通到他手中的…一只褐色的纸袋里。 。从没见过有谁那么干，”迪尔小声说，“那里头的东西怎么不漏出来?” 杰姆格格地笑了起来。“那里头装着一个满是威士忌的可口可乐瓶予，免得那些太太们抱怨。你会看见他吸上一个下午，过不久就要走出去把瓶子灌满。” “他为什么和黑人坐在一起?” “从来就这样。我想他喜欢他们胜过喜欢咱们。他一个人靠镇边住着，家里有一个黑女人，还有不步棍血孩子。等碰上几个时我指给你看看吧。” “他不象是个低贱的白人。”迪尔说。 “对，那边沿河的土地全属于他，而且，他出身子一个地道的世家。” “那么他为什么要那样呢?”’“他就那样，”杰姆说。“人们说他没能从婚礼上发生的事情中恢复过来。他原来要跟一个……一个我想是斯彭德家的小姐结婚，还准备举行一个很盛大的婚礼，但后来没办成——婚礼试排后，那新娘副楼上，把自己的脑袋打开了花。猎熗打的。她用脚趾头扣的扳机。” “知道到底是怎么回事吗?” “不知道，”杰姆说，“谁也不知道究竟是怎么回事，只有多尔佛斯先生自己明白。别人说是因为这小姐知道了那黑女人的事。他认为他可以留着那黑女人又跟这自人小姐结婚。从那以后，他就一直有点儿醉意。不过你要知道，他待那些孩子一直都很好。” “杰姆，”我问，“什么叫混血儿?” “一半自，一半黑。你见过这种人，斯各特。给杂货店送货的，头上卷着红头发的那个就是。他一半是白人。这种人真可怜。” “可怜，为什么?” “他们什么人也不算。黑人不要他们，因为他们一半是自人，白人也不要他们，因为他们是黑人。他们夹在中问，哪头都挨不上。但是，听说多尔佛斯先生已经用船把两个孩子送到北边去了。北边的人待这种人不坏。瞧，那边就有一个。” 一个小男孩抓着一个黑人妇女的手朝我们走来。据我看，他完全是个黑人t皮肤是浓巧克力色，长着向外张开的鼻孔和很漂亮的牙齿。他不时快活地蹦上几步，但那黑人妇女拉一拉他的手叫他停下来。 杰姆等他们走了过去，说：“这就是其中的一个。’ “你怎么能看得出来?”迪尔问他，“我看他全是黑的。” “有时看不出}如果不知道他们是谁家的，那是看不出的。不过，他一半是雷蒙德的孩子，错不了。” “但是你到底是怎么看出来的?”我又问。 “我早告诉了你，斯各特，你要知道他们是谁才行。” 。那么你又凭什么说我们不是黑人呢?” 。杰克?芬奇叔叔说我们很难说不是。他说从他记得的芬奇家族的历史看，我们不是。不过我们家也可能是在旧约圣经时期从非洲的埃塞俄比亚来的。。 “要是在旧约圣经时期来的，时间就很久远了，这不能算一回事了。” “我也这样看，”杰姆说．“但在这儿，只要你身上有一滴黑人的血，就算是完全的黑人了。嘿，瞧……。 仿佛有一个无形的信号使得广场上正吃午饭的人全站起来，纷纷把报纸、玻璃纸和包装纸从手上扔下。孩子在找妈妈，婴儿给从屁股上托起抱着。这时，男人们头戴给汗湿透了的帽子，正招挽全家的人往法院门里带。广场远处的一角，黑人和多尔佛斯?雷蒙德先生也站了起来，拍打着裤子上的尘土。他们中间几乎没有妇女和孩子，因而似乎少了点度假的气氛。他们在门口耐心地等在一家家白人后面。 “咱们进去吧，”迪尔说。 “不，最好等他们先进去，如果阿迪克斯看见了我们，他也许会不高兴的，”杰姆说。 梅科姆法院的建筑，在某个方面使人多少联想到阿灵顿地区的建筑：南端屋顶不重，因此支撑它的水泥柱子就显得太粗笨了。原来的法院在1856年被火烧了以后，只剩下了这些柱子。围绕这些柱子又重修了法院。更确切些说，是撇开它们修的。要不是南面的走廊，梅科姆县法院便属于早期维多利亚风格的建筑。站在北面看去，眼里是一片悦目的景象。从另一边看就不同了t一排古希腊式酌大柱子和一个巨大的十九世纪的钟楼很不协调，钟楼里有一日生了锈的报时不准的钟，这叫人想起一个决心要把每一件古物保留下来的民族。 到审封厅，要经过=楼好几个不同类别的办公室。那些房间小得象鸽子笼一样，又见不到阳光。估税官、收税官、县书记官、县法务官、巡回录事、遗嘱法官等等，都生活在这些阴冷昏暗的小房洞里，里头一股陈腐的文件昧，跟年代很久的潮湿的永门汀和陈尿的气味混在一起。白天也得开灯，粗糙不平的地板上终年覆盖着一层灰。这些办公事的人是这种环境的产物；他们身材矮小，面色灰白，似乎没有吹过风，也没有晒过太阳， 我们早就想到了会有不少人，可没想到在一楼通大厅的过道上会有这么多的人。我跟杰姆和迪尔给冲散了，但我仍然一直朝楼梯井方向挤过去，因为我知道杰姆最终会来找我。我发现自己到了“闲人俱乐部”那伙人中间，便尽量地让自己不引人注目。这是一伙穿着白衬衣、咔叽裤，用吊袜带的上了年纪的人。他们一辈子什么也没干，到了暮年，还是终日坐在广场的橡树底下的松木条凳上无所事事。阿迪克斯说他们由于留心法院事务，长年观察，所以和首席法官一样精通法律。在一般情况下，他们是法院唯一的旁听者。今天，他们安逸的旁听受到干扰，显得很扫兴。他们在说着什么，装腔作势曲，但又故意显得漫不经心。他们谈的是我爸爸。 “……自认为他知道自己是在干什么事。”一个人说道。 “啊，啊，我可不那么说，”另一个在讲，“阿迪克斯是个钻研书本的人，钻得很深。” “他书倒是读的，但也不过如此而已。”好几个人一齐偷偷笑了起来。 “我来告诉你一件事，比利，”第三个人说。“你知道吗?法院指派他为这黑鬼辩护。” “知道，不过阿迪克斯却想帮他打赢这场官司，我对这点就是不喜欢。” 这可真是新闻，是对事实可以作出不同解释的新闻。阿迪克斯只能这样做，不管他愿意不愿意。使我奇怪的是，他一点也没对我们说过这事。他要是说了，我们就能在许多场合用这点为他和我们自己辩护。他不能不这样做，这就是为什么他在这样做，既然不能不这样做，那就可以免除许多争吵和许多议论了。但是，这能代表镇上人的看法吗?法院指派他为辩护律师，他想把官司打赢，而这点又正是他们不喜欢他的地方。这真使我们弄不明白。 等到白人都上了楼以后，黑人才开始往里边走。“喂，喂，慢一点，”俱乐部韵一个成员说着，一边举起手杖。“别一下全挤上去，等会儿。” 这些人关节僵硬地往上爬，正碰到迪尔和杰姆下楼来找我。他们从人群中挤过来，杰姆喊着，“斯各特，赶快，没有坐位了。我们只好站着了。” “看，这下多糟，”杰姆不高兴地说。这时黑人正往上涌。杰姆还说，走在前头的几个老先生会把能站的地方也占得差不多的。我们倒了霉，而这全得怪我。我们靠墙站着，很不舒服。 “你们能挤进来吗?” 赛克斯牧师从上往下看着我们，黑帽子拿在手中。 “您好，牧师，”杰姆说，“瞧，斯备特把我们弄得多倒霉。” “这样吧，我去看看能不能想点办法。” 赛克斯牧师挤上楼，不多久又回来了。“楼下没一个空位。看这样行不行，跟我一起到楼厅看台上去。” “那当然好，”杰姆说。我们兴冲冲地走在牧师前面，到了审判厅，接着上了一道有顶盖的楼梯，在一个门口等了一会。赛克斯牧师气喘吁吁地来到我们身后，他小心地领我们穿过楼厅看台上的黑人。有四个人站起来，把他们在前排的位子让给了我们。 这专给黑人的楼厅看台环绕在审判厅的三面墙上，就象=楼上的走廊。从这里看下去，什么都在我们眼里。 陪审团靠左坐着，头上是一排高大的窗子。这些人皮肤晒得很黑。个子瘦长，看上去都是农民。不过这没有什么奇怪的：镇里的人很少坐在陪审席上的，他们要么名字被删去，要么便自己找借口不出席。陪审团里有一两个人有点儿象是打扮了一番的坎宁安家族里的人。此刻，他们正警觉地、笔挺地坐着。 巡回法务官和另一个人，阿迪克斯和汤姆?鲁宾逊，分别背对我们坐在桌子前。巡回法务官的桌子上有一本褐色封皮的书和几本黄色便条簿，阿迪克斯的桌上什么也没有。 一道栏杆隔开了旁听者，栏杆里证人坐在牛皮椅上，背朝我们。 泰勒法官坐在审判席上，象是一条在打磕睡的老鲨鱼，他前面是条跟鲨鱼同游的舟鲡，在下边飞快地写着什么。泰勒法官看上去同我见过的大多数法官一样，亲切和蔼，头发灰白，面色微红。他审判时随便得惊人——他有时抬起两脚，用小刀剔干净指甲缝。在冗长的听审中，他给人留下在打盹的假象，特别是吃过饭以后。有一次，一个律师故意将桌子上的一堆书推下地板来惊醒他。泰勒法官连眼皮也没抬，低沉地说：“惠特刺先生，你要再那样千，就罚你一百美元。”这以后，谁也不上这种假象的当了。他精通法律，尽管审判时显得漫不经心，但实际上对手中的任何事件都抓得很紧。只有那么一次，人们看见他在公开审判时弄得毫无办法。那次是坎宁安家族的人难住了他。萨勒姆是他们扎根落脚的地方，最初两个家族分占两个地方。但不幸的是，两家的姓都一样。坎宁安家族的人跟康宁安家族的人长期结亲，直到后来两家人韵姓的拼法变得毫无实际意义。有一次，坎宁安家族的一个人同康宁安家族的一个人为土地所有权争了起来，告到法院，这名字的拼法才有了作用。在这一类性质的纠纷中，吉姆斯-坎宁安声称，他妈妈在契约等文件上签字都写的是坎宁安，但她确实是康宁安家族的人。她拼不准单词，很少看书，而且，有时夜里坐在前门走廊上，呆呆地望着远处。听了九个钟头的有关萨勒姆居民的怪癖后，泰勒法官说法院不再受理这一诉讼。人们间他这有什么法律根据，他说：“包办诉讼的纵容罪。”并且宣布他渴望这些诉讼当事人因为各人都享受了公开发言权而心满意足了。的确是这样，他们首先想到的一切便是这个。 泰勒法官有个挺有趣的习惯。他允许在审判厅内抽烟，自己却不抽。有这样的情况，如果你走运的话，可以有幸看到他把一支长雪茄烟放进嘴里，慢慢地咀嚼。这支没点燃的雪茄会一点一点地消失掉，几个小时后，也变成千瘪溜滑的一团吐出来，精华全吸掉了，与泰勒法官的唾液混在一起。 证人席在泰勒法官的右边，我们在位子上坐下时，赫克?塔特先生已经坐在证人席上了。 |
Chapter 17 “Jem,” I said, “are those the Ewells sittin‘ down yonder?” “Hush,” said Jem, “Mr. Heck Tate’s testifyin‘.” Mr. Tate had dressed for the occasion. He wore an ordinary business suit, whichmade him look somehow like every other man: gone were his high boots, lumber jacket,and bullet-studded belt. From that moment he ceased to terrify me. He was sittingforward in the witness chair, his hands clasped between his knees, listening attentivelyto the circuit solicitor. The solicitor, a Mr. Gilmer, was not well known to us. He was from Abbottsville; wesaw him only when court convened, and that rarely, for court was of no special interestto Jem and me. A balding, smooth-faced man, he could have been anywhere betweenforty and sixty. Although his back was to us, we knew he had a slight cast in one of hiseyes which he used to his advantage: he seemed to be looking at a person when hewas actually doing nothing of the kind, thus he was hell on juries and witnesses. Thejury, thinking themselves under close scrutiny, paid attention; so did the witnesses,thinking likewise. “…in your own words, Mr. Tate,” Mr. Gilmer was saying. “Well,” said Mr. Tate, touching his glasses and speaking to his knees, “I was called—” “Could you say it to the jury, Mr. Tate? Thank you. Who called you?” Mr. Tate said, “I was fetched by Bob—by Mr. Bob Ewell yonder, one night—” “What night, sir?” Mr. Tate said, “It was the night of November twenty-first. I was just leaving my office togo home when B—Mr. Ewell came in, very excited he was, and said get out to his housequick, some nigger’d raped his girl.” “Did you go?” “Certainly. Got in the car and went out as fast as I could.” “And what did you find?” “Found her lying on the floor in the middle of the front room, one on the right as you goin. She was pretty well beat up, but I heaved her to her feet and she washed her face ina bucket in the corner and said she was all right. I asked her who hurt her and she saidit was Tom Robinson—” Judge Taylor, who had been concentrating on his fingernails, looked up as if he wereexpecting an objection, but Atticus was quiet. “—asked her if he beat her like that, she said yes he had. Asked her if he tookadvantage of her and she said yes he did. So I went down to Robinson’s house andbrought him back. She identified him as the one, so I took him in. That’s all there was toit.” “Thank you,” said Mr. Gilmer. Judge Taylor said, “Any questions, Atticus?” “Yes,” said my father. He was sitting behind his table; his chair was skewed to oneside, his legs were crossed and one arm was resting on the back of his chair. “Did you call a doctor, Sheriff? Did anybody call a doctor?” asked Atticus. “No sir,” said Mr. Tate. “Didn’t call a doctor?” “No sir,” repeated Mr. Tate. “Why not?” There was an edge to Atticus’s voice. “Well I can tell you why I didn’t. It wasn’t necessary, Mr. Finch. She was mightybanged up. Something sho‘ happened, it was obvious.” “But you didn’t call a doctor? While you were there did anyone send for one, fetch one,carry her to one?” “No sir—” Judge Taylor broke in. “He’s answered the question three times, Atticus. He didn’t calla doctor.” Atticus said, “I just wanted to make sure, Judge,” and the judge smiled. Jem’s hand, which was resting on the balcony rail, tightened around it. He drew in hisbreath suddenly. Glancing below, I saw no corresponding reaction, and wondered if Jemwas trying to be dramatic. Dill was watching peacefully, and so was Reverend Sykesbeside him. “What is it?” I whispered, and got a terse, “Sh-h!” “Sheriff,” Atticus was saying, “you say she was mighty banged up. In what way?” “Well—” “Just describe her injuries, Heck.” “Well, she was beaten around the head. There was already bruises comin‘ on herarms, and it happened about thirty minutes before—” “How do you know?” Mr. Tate grinned. “Sorry, that’s what they said. Anyway, she was pretty bruised upwhen I got there, and she had a black eye comin‘.” “Which eye?” Mr. Tate blinked and ran his hands through his hair. “Let’s see,” he said softly, then helooked at Atticus as if he considered the question childish. “Can’t you remember?” Atticus asked. Mr. Tate pointed to an invisible person five inches in front of him and said, “Her left.” “Wait a minute, Sheriff,” said Atticus. “Was it her left facing you or her left looking thesame way you were?” Mr. Tate said, “Oh yes, that’d make it her right. It was her right eye, Mr. Finch. Iremember now, she was bunged up on that side of her face…” Mr. Tate blinked again, as if something had suddenly been made plain to him. Thenhe turned his head and looked around at Tom Robinson. As if by instinct, Tom Robinsonraised his head. Something had been made plain to Atticus also, and it brought him to his feet. “Sheriff,please repeat what you said.” “It was her right eye, I said.” “No…” Atticus walked to the court reporter’s desk and bent down to the furiouslyscribbling hand. It stopped, flipped back the shorthand pad, and the court reporter said,“‘Mr. Finch. I remember now she was bunged up on that side of the face.’” Atticus looked up at Mr. Tate. “Which side again, Heck?” “The right side, Mr. Finch, but she had more bruises—you wanta hear about ‘em?” Atticus seemed to be bordering on another question, but he thought better of it andsaid, “Yes, what were her other injuries?” As Mr. Tate answered, Atticus turned andlooked at Tom Robinson as if to say this was something they hadn’t bargained for. “…her arms were bruised, and she showed me her neck. There were definite fingermarks on her gullet—” “All around her throat? At the back of her neck?” “I’d say they were all around, Mr. Finch.” “You would?” “Yes sir, she had a small throat, anybody could’a reached around it with—” “Just answer the question yes or no, please, Sheriff,” said Atticus dryly, and Mr. Tatefell silent. Atticus sat down and nodded to the circuit solicitor, who shook his head at the judge,who nodded to Mr. Tate, who rose stiffly and stepped down from the witness stand. Below us, heads turned, feet scraped the floor, babies were shifted to shoulders, anda few children scampered out of the courtroom. The Negroes behind us whispered softlyamong themselves; Dill was asking Reverend Sykes what it was all about, but ReverendSykes said he didn’t know. So far, things were utterly dull: nobody had thundered, therewere no arguments between opposing counsel, there was no drama; a gravedisappointment to all present, it seemed. Atticus was proceeding amiably, as if he wereinvolved in a title dispute. With his infinite capacity for calming turbulent seas, he couldmake a rape case as dry as a sermon. Gone was the terror in my mind of stale whiskeyand barnyard smells, of sleepy-eyed sullen men, of a husky voice calling in the night,“Mr. Finch? They gone?” Our nightmare had gone with daylight, everything would comeout all right. All the spectators were as relaxed as Judge Taylor, except Jem. His mouth wastwisted into a purposeful half-grin, and his eyes happy about, and he said somethingabout corroborating evidence, which made me sure he was showing off. “…Robert E. Lee Ewell!” In answer to the clerk’s booming voice, a little bantam cock of a man rose and struttedto the stand, the back of his neck reddening at the sound of his name. When he turnedaround to take the oath, we saw that his face was as red as his neck. We also saw noresemblance to his namesake. A shock of wispy new-washed hair stood up from hisforehead; his nose was thin, pointed, and shiny; he had no chin to speak of—it seemedto be part of his crepey neck. “—so help me God,” he crowed. Every town the size of Maycomb had families like the Ewells. No economicfluctuations changed their status—people like the Ewells lived as guests of the county inprosperity as well as in the depths of a depression. No truant officers could keep theirnumerous offspring in school; no public health officer could free them from congenitaldefects, various worms, and the diseases indigenous to filthy surroundings. Maycomb’s Ewells lived behind the town garbage dump in what was once a Negrocabin. The cabin’s plank walls were supplemented with sheets of corrugated iron, itsroof shingled with tin cans hammered flat, so only its general shape suggested itsoriginal design: square, with four tiny rooms opening onto a shotgun hall, the cabinrested uneasily upon four irregular lumps of limestone. Its windows were merely openspaces in the walls, which in the summertime were covered with greasy strips ofcheesecloth to keep out the varmints that feasted on Maycomb’s refuse. The varmints had a lean time of it, for the Ewells gave the dump a thorough gleaningevery day, and the fruits of their industry (those that were not eaten) made the plot ofground around the cabin look like the playhouse of an insane child: what passed for afence was bits of tree-limbs, broomsticks and tool shafts, all tipped with rusty hammer-heads, snaggle-toothed rake heads, shovels, axes and grubbing hoes, held on withpieces of barbed wire. Enclosed by this barricade was a dirty yard containing theremains of a Model-T Ford (on blocks), a discarded dentist’s chair, an ancient icebox,plus lesser items: old shoes, worn-out table radios, picture frames, and fruit jars, underwhich scrawny orange chickens pecked hopefully. One corner of the yard, though, bewildered Maycomb. Against the fence, in a line,were six chipped-enamel slop jars holding brilliant red geraniums, cared for as tenderlyas if they belonged to Miss Maudie Atkinson, had Miss Maudie deigned to permit ageranium on her premises. People said they were Mayella Ewell’s. Nobody was quite sure how many children were on the place. Some people said six,others said nine; there were always several dirty-faced ones at the windows whenanyone passed by. Nobody had occasion to pass by except at Christmas, when thechurches delivered baskets, and when the mayor of Maycomb asked us to please helpthe garbage collector by dumping our own trees and trash. Atticus took us with him last Christmas when he complied with the mayor’s request. Adirt road ran from the highway past the dump, down to a small Negro settlement somefive hundred yards beyond the Ewells‘. It was necessary either to back out to thehighway or go the full length of the road and turn around; most people turned around inthe Negroes’ front yards. In the frosty December dusk, their cabins looked neat andsnug with pale blue smoke rising from the chimneys and doorways glowing amber fromthe fires inside. There were delicious smells about: chicken, bacon frying crisp as thetwilight air. Jem and I detected squirrel cooking, but it took an old countryman likeAtticus to identify possum and rabbit, aromas that vanished when we rode back past theEwell residence. All the little man on the witness stand had that made him any better than his nearestneighbors was, that if scrubbed with lye soap in very hot water, his skin was white. “Mr. Robert Ewell?” asked Mr. Gilmer. “That’s m’name, cap’n,” said the witness. Mr. Gilmer’s back stiffened a little, and I felt sorry for him. Perhaps I’d better explainsomething now. I’ve heard that lawyers’ children, on seeing their parents in court in theheat of argument, get the wrong idea: they think opposing counsel to be the personalenemies of their parents, they suffer agonies, and are surprised to see them often goout arm-in-arm with their tormenters during the first recess. This was not true of Jemand me. We acquired no traumas from watching our father win or lose. I’m sorry that Ican’t provide any drama in this respect; if I did, it would not be true. We could tell,however, when debate became more acrimonious than professional, but this was fromwatching lawyers other than our father. I never heard Atticus raise his voice in my life,except to a deaf witness. Mr. Gilmer was doing his job, as Atticus was doing his. Besides, Mr. Ewell was Mr. Gilmer’s witness, and he had no business being rude to himof all people. “Are you the father of Mayella Ewell?” was the next question. “Well, if I ain’t I can’t do nothing about it now, her ma’s dead,” was the answer. Judge Taylor stirred. He turned slowly in his swivel chair and looked benignly at thewitness. “Are you the father of Mayella Ewell?” he asked, in a way that made thelaughter below us stop suddenly. “Yes sir,” Mr. Ewell said meekly. Judge Taylor went on in tones of good will: “This the first time you’ve ever been incourt? I don’t recall ever seeing you here.” At the witness’s affirmative nod he continued,“Well, let’s get something straight. There will be no more audibly obscene speculationson any subject from anybody in this courtroom as long as I’m sitting here. Do youunderstand?” Mr. Ewell nodded, but I don’t think he did. Judge Taylor sighed and said, “All right, Mr. Gilmer?” “Thank you, sir. Mr. Ewell, would you tell us in your own words what happened on theevening of November twenty-first, please?” Jem grinned and pushed his hair back. Just-in-your-own words was Mr. Gilmer’strademark. We often wondered who else’s words Mr. Gilmer was afraid his witnessmight employ. “Well, the night of November twenty-one I was comin‘ in from the woods with a loado’kindlin’ and just as I got to the fence I heard Mayella screamin‘ like a stuck hog insidethe house—” Here Judge Taylor glanced sharply at the witness and must have decided hisspeculations devoid of evil intent, for he subsided sleepily. “What time was it, Mr. Ewell?” “Just ‘fore sundown. Well, I was sayin’ Mayella was screamin‘ fit to beat Jesus—” another glance from the bench silenced Mr. Ewell. “Yes? She was screaming?” said Mr. Gilmer. Mr. Ewell looked confusedly at the judge. “Well, Mayella was raisin‘ this holy racket soI dropped m’load and run as fast as I could but I run into th’ fence, but when I gotdistangled I run up to th‘ window and I seen—” Mr. Ewell’s face grew scarlet. He stoodup and pointed his finger at Tom Robinson. “—I seen that black nigger yonder ruttin’ onmy Mayella!” So serene was Judge Taylor’s court, that he had few occasions to use his gavel, buthe hammered fully five minutes. Atticus was on his feet at the bench saying somethingto him, Mr. Heck Tate as first officer of the county stood in the middle aisle quelling thepacked courtroom. Behind us, there was an angry muffled groan from the coloredpeople. Reverend Sykes leaned across Dill and me, pulling at Jem’s elbow. “Mr. Jem,” hesaid, “you better take Miss Jean Louise home. Mr. Jem, you hear me?” Jem turned his head. “Scout, go home. Dill, you’n‘Scout go home.” “You gotta make me first,” I said, remembering Atticus’s blessed dictum. Jem scowled furiously at me, then said to Reverend Sykes, “I think it’s okay,Reverend, she doesn’t understand it.” I was mortally offended. “I most certainly do, I c’n understand anything you can.” “Aw hush. She doesn’t understand it, Reverend, she ain’t nine yet.” Reverend Sykes’s black eyes were anxious. “Mr. Finch know you all are here? Thisain’t fit for Miss Jean Louise or you boys either.” Jem shook his head. “He can’t see us this far away. It’s all right, Reverend.” I knew Jem would win, because I knew nothing could make him leave now. Dill and Iwere safe, for a while: Atticus could see us from where he was, if he looked. As Judge Taylor banged his gavel, Mr. Ewell was sitting smugly in the witness chair,surveying his handiwork. With one phrase he had turned happy picknickers into a sulky,tense, murmuring crowd, being slowly hypnotized by gavel taps lessening in intensityuntil the only sound in the courtroom was a dim pink-pink-pink: the judge might havebeen rapping the bench with a pencil. In possession of his court once more, Judge Taylor leaned back in his chair. Helooked suddenly weary; his age was showing, and I thought about what Atticus hadsaid—he and Mrs. Taylor didn’t kiss much—he must have been nearly seventy. “There has been a request,” Judge Taylor said, “that this courtroom be cleared ofspectators, or at least of women and children, a request that will be denied for the timebeing. People generally see what they look for, and hear what they listen for, and theyhave the right to subject their children to it, but I can assure you of one thing: you willreceive what you see and hear in silence or you will leave this courtroom, but you won’tleave it until the whole boiling of you come before me on contempt charges. Mr. Ewell,you will keep your testimony within the confines of Christian English usage, if that ispossible. Proceed, Mr. Gilmer.” Mr. Ewell reminded me of a deaf-mute. I was sure he had never heard the wordsJudge Taylor directed at him—his mouth struggled silently with them—but their importregistered on his face. Smugness faded from it, replaced by a dogged earnestness thatfooled Judge Taylor not at all: as long as Mr. Ewell was on the stand, the judge kept hiseyes on him, as if daring him to make a false move. Mr. Gilmer and Atticus exchanged glances. Atticus was sitting down again, his fistrested on his cheek and we could not see his face. Mr. Gilmer looked rather desperate. A question from Judge Taylor made him relax: “Mr. Ewell, did you see the defendanthaving sexual intercourse with your daughter?” “Yes, I did.” The spectators were quiet, but the defendant said something. Atticus whispered tohim, and Tom Robinson was silent. “You say you were at the window?” asked Mr. Gilmer. “Yes sir.” “How far is it from the ground?” “‘bout three foot.” “Did you have a clear view of the room?” “Yes sir.” “How did the room look?” “Well, it was all slung about, like there was a fight.” “What did you do when you saw the defendant?” “Well, I run around the house to get in, but he run out the front door just ahead of me. Isawed who he was, all right. I was too distracted about Mayella to run after’im. I run inthe house and she was lyin‘ on the floor squallin’—” “Then what did you do?” “Why, I run for Tate quick as I could. I knowed who it was, all right, lived down yonderin that nigger-nest, passed the house every day. Jedge, I’ve asked this county for fifteenyears to clean out that nest down yonder, they’re dangerous to live around ‘sidesdevaluin’ my property—” “Thank you, Mr. Ewell,” said Mr. Gilmer hurriedly. The witness made a hasty descent from the stand and ran smack into Atticus, whohad risen to question him. Judge Taylor permitted the court to laugh. “Just a minute, sir,” said Atticus genially. “Could I ask you a question or two?” Mr. Ewell backed up into the witness chair, settled himself, and regarded Atticus withhaughty suspicion, an expression common to Maycomb County witnesses whenconfronted by opposing counsel. “Mr. Ewell,” Atticus began, “folks were doing a lot of running that night. Let’s see, yousay you ran to the house, you ran to the window, you ran inside, you ran to Mayella, youran for Mr. Tate. Did you, during all this running, run for a doctor?” “Wadn’t no need to. I seen what happened.” “But there’s one thing I don’t understand,” said Atticus. “Weren’t you concerned withMayella’s condition?” “I most positively was,” said Mr. Ewell. “I seen who done it.” “No, I mean her physical condition. Did you not think the nature of her injurieswarranted immediate medical attention?” “What?” “Didn’t you think she should have had a doctor, immediately?” The witness said he never thought of it, he had never called a doctor to any of his’n inhis life, and if he had it would have cost him five dollars. “That all?” he asked. “Not quite,” said Atticus casually. “Mr. Ewell, you heard the sheriff’s testimony, didn’tyou?” “How’s that?” “You were in the courtroom when Mr. Heck Tate was on the stand, weren’t you? Youheard everything he said, didn’t you?” Mr. Ewell considered the matter carefully, and seemed to decide that the question wassafe. “Yes,” he said. “Do you agree with his description of Mayella’s injuries?” “How’s that?” Atticus looked around at Mr. Gilmer and smiled. Mr. Ewell seemed determined not togive the defense the time of day. “Mr. Tate testified that her right eye was blackened, that she was beaten around the—” “Oh yeah,” said the witness. “I hold with everything Tate said.” “You do?” asked Atticus mildly. “I just want to make sure.” He went to the courtreporter, said something, and the reporter entertained us for some minutes by readingMr. Tate’s testimony as if it were stock-market quotations: “…which eye her left oh yesthat’d make it her right it was her right eye Mr. Finch I remember now she was bunged.” He flipped the page. “Up on that side of the face Sheriff please repeat what you said itwas her right eye I said—” “Thank you, Bert,” said Atticus. “You heard it again, Mr. Ewell. Do you have anythingto add to it? Do you agree with the sheriff?” “I holds with Tate. Her eye was blacked and she was mighty beat up.” The little man seemed to have forgotten his previous humiliation from the bench. Itwas becoming evident that he thought Atticus an easy match. He seemed to grow ruddyagain; his chest swelled, and once more he was a red little rooster. I thought he’d bursthis shirt at Atticus’s next question: “Mr. Ewell, can you read and write?” Mr. Gilmer interrupted. “Objection,” he said. “Can’t see what witness’s literacy has todo with the case, irrelevant’n‘immaterial.” Judge Taylor was about to speak but Atticus said, “Judge, if you’ll allow the questionplus another one you’ll soon see.” “All right, let’s see,” said Judge Taylor, “but make sure we see, Atticus. Overruled.” Mr. Gilmer seemed as curious as the rest of us as to what bearing the state of Mr. Ewell’s education had on the case. “I’ll repeat the question,” said Atticus. “Can you read and write?” “I most positively can.” “Will you write your name and show us?” “I most positively will. How do you think I sign my relief checks?” Mr. Ewell was endearing himself to his fellow citizens. The whispers and chucklesbelow us probably had to do with what a card he was. I was becoming nervous. Atticus seemed to know what he was doing—but it seemedto me that he’d gone frog-sticking without a light. Never, never, never, on cross-examination ask a witness a question you don’t already know the answer to, was a tenetI absorbed with my baby-food. Do it, and you’ll often get an answer you don’t want, ananswer that might wreck your case. Atticus was reaching into the inside pocket of his coat. He drew out an envelope, thenreached into his vest pocket and unclipped his fountain pen. He moved leisurely, andhad turned so that he was in full view of the jury. He unscrewed the fountain-pen capand placed it gently on his table. He shook the pen a little, then handed it with theenvelope to the witness. “Would you write your name for us?” he asked. “Clearly now,so the jury can see you do it.” Mr. Ewell wrote on the back of the envelope and looked up complacently to see JudgeTaylor staring at him as if he were some fragrant gardenia in full bloom on the witnessstand, to see Mr. Gilmer half-sitting, half-standing at his table. The jury was watchinghim, one man was leaning forward with his hands over the railing. “What’s so interestin‘?” he asked. “You’re left-handed, Mr. Ewell,” said Judge Taylor. Mr. Ewell turned angrily to thejudge and said he didn’t see what his being left-handed had to do with it, that he was aChrist-fearing man and Atticus Finch was taking advantage of him. Tricking lawyers likeAtticus Finch took advantage of him all the time with their tricking ways. He had toldthem what happened, he’d say it again and again—which he did. Nothing Atticus askedhim after that shook his story, that he’d looked through the window, then ran the niggeroff, then ran for the sheriff. Atticus finally dismissed him. Mr. Gilmer asked him one more question. “About your writing with your left hand, areyou ambidextrous, Mr. Ewell?” “I most positively am not, I can use one hand good as the other. One hand good asthe other,” he added, glaring at the defense table. Jem seemed to be having a quiet fit. He was pounding the balcony rail softly, andonce he whispered, “We’ve got him.” I didn’t think so: Atticus was trying to show, it seemed to me, that Mr. Ewell could havebeaten up Mayella. That much I could follow. If her right eye was blacked and she wasbeaten mostly on the right side of the face, it would tend to show that a left-handedperson did it. Sherlock Holmes and Jem Finch would agree. But Tom Robinson couldeasily be left-handed, too. Like Mr. Heck Tate, I imagined a person facing me, wentthrough a swift mental pantomime, and concluded that he might have held her with hisright hand and pounded her with his left. I looked down at him. His back was to us, but Icould see his broad shoulders and bull-thick neck. He could easily have done it. Ithought Jem was counting his chickens. “杰姆，”我说，“坐在下面那一边的是尤厄尔家的人吗?”“嘘，”杰姆说，“赫克?塔特先生在作证。”塔特先生今天特别打扮了一下。他穿着一身普通的老式西装，使自己看上去跟其他别的人一个样。高筒靴、笨重的甲克衫和缀着铁钉的腰带不见了。从那一刻起，他再没叫我害怕过。他坐在证人椅里，身向前倾，十指交叉地握着，放在两个膝盖之间，专心地听着巡回法务官说话。 巡回法务官，一个叫吉尔默先生的人，我们都不太熟悉。他是阿波兹维尔人，只有在法院开庭时才能看见他，就是这种情况也不多，因为法院对我和杰姆并不具有特别的吸引力。这位吉尔默先生正在秃顶，光光的脸上没一根胡须，年纪在四十到六十之间。虽然我们坐在他的背面，也知道他一只眼睛有点斜视，这点他利用得很好：他会看起来在注税着某个人，而实际上根本不是那么一回事，因而他对陪审团成员和证人来说，都是十分可怕的。陪审团以为自己总是在受着严密的监视，不敢大意，旁证人也同样有这种想法。 “……要讲真话，塔特先生。”吉尔默先生在说。 “好，”塔特先生应道，他扶了扶眼镜，然后低头对着自己的膝盖说了起来，“他叫我去……” “对陪审团说好吗，塔特先生?谢谢你。是谁叫你去的?” “是鲍勃?尤厄尔先生，就是那边那个。在那天夜里……” “哪天夜里，先生?” “那是11月21日夜里。我正耍离开办公室回家，鲍勃?尤厄尔先生进来了，神情非常激动，要我赶快去他家，说有个黑鬼强奸了他女儿。” “你去了吗?” “当然。我上了车很快地赶去了。” “那么你看到了什么?” “看到她躺在前屋地板中央，就是进门右手那间屋。她给打得很厉害，我扶她站起来。她在墙角的一个桶里洗了脸，说她没事。我问她是谁打的，她说是汤姆?鲁宾逊……” 泰勒法官正对他自己的指甲垒神贯注，这时抬起头来，好象等着有人提出异议，但是阿迪克斯没有开口。 “……问她是不是鲁宾逊把她打成那样，她说是的，是他。问她是不是鲁宾逊欺侮了她，她说是的，他这么干了。所以我到了鲁宾逊家，把他弄回来。她说正是他，于是我就把鲁宾逊关起来了。就是这些。” “谢谢你。”吉尔默先生说。 泰勒法官说：“有什么问题吗，阿迪克斯?” 。有，”爸爸说。他坐在桌子后，椅子歪到一边，跷着二郎腿，一只胳膊搁住椅背上。 “你请了医生吗，司法官?有别人去请了医生吗?”阿迪克斯问道。 “没有，先生。”塔特先生说。 “没有请医生?” “没有，先生。”塔特先生又说了一遍。 “为什么没有?”阿迪克斯的话有点逼人。 “我可以告诉你我为什么没去请。没有必要，芬奇先生。她被打得那么厉害，肯定出了什么事，这很明显。” “但是你没去请医生吗?你在那儿的时候有人打发人去请或亲自去请医生或带她去找个医生吗?” “没有，先生……” 泰勒法官插嘴说：“这个问题他回答了三次，阿迪克斯。他没去请医生。” 阿迪克斯说：“我只是要证实一下，法官先生。”法官笑了一笑。 杰姆的手原来放在栏杆上，这时却抓得紧紧的。他突然吸了一口气。我往下看了一眼，不见有什么相应的反应，使在心里想是不是杰姆故意要逗人注意。迪尔不动也不出声地看着，他旁边的赛克斯牧师和他一样。“什么事?”我低声问道，听到的只是一声短短的“嘘’。 “司法官，”阿迪克斯在问，“你说她被人打得很厉害，怎么打的?” “这……。 “把她的伤情描绘一下，赫克。” “头部挨了打，胳膊上出现伤痕，这是在三十分钟以前的事……” “你怎么知道?” 塔特先生咧了咧嘴。“很抱歉，他们就这么说的。不管怎样，我赶到时，她的伤已相当厉害，而且一只眼圈发青。” “哪只限?” 塔特先生眨了眨眼，两只手在头发里梳着。“让我想一想，”他轻声说道。接着，他望着阿迪克斯，似乎认为这问题提得太幼稚。 “记不起了吗?”阿迪克斯又问。 塔特先生往前面五英尺开外的地方虚指了一下，说：“她的左眼。” “请等一下，司法官。”阿迪克斯说，“是她面对你的左眼还是和你朝一个方向看的左眼?” 塔特先生说：“啊，对，这么说就该是她的右眼。是右眼，芬奇先生。这会儿我记起来了，她被打的是面部那一边……” 塔特先生又眨了眨眼，好象什么事突然变得明白了似的。他扭头打量了一下汤姆?鲁宾逊。仿佛出于本能，汤姆抬起了头。 阿迪克斯心里同样明白了点什么，因而他站起来。“司法官，请重复一遍你说过的话。 “打的是她的右眼，我这样说的。”。 “不……”阿迪克斯向法庭记录的桌前走去，向那只正忙于写字的手弯下身去。那手停住。把速记本翻了过来。法庭记录念道：“芬奇先生，这会儿我记起来了，她被打的是面部那一边。” 阿迪克斯抬头看着塔特先生。“再说一次，是哪一边，赫克?” “右边，芬奇先生，不过，她还有别的伤处——您想听我说说吗?” 阿迪克斯似乎又想到了另一问题，但他一转念便说道：。想听昕，其他的伤处怎样?”塔特先生在作回答的同时，阿迪克斯转过去看着汤姆?鲁宾逊，仿佛在说这是他们不曾料到的。 。她胳膊上也有伤，还给我看了脖子。喉咙上有明显的手指印……” “整个脖子都是，还是在脖子后面?” 。我说是整个脖子，芬奇先生。” “你这么说?” 。是的，先生，她的脖子很细，谁都可以把它整个儿掐住……” “只请你回答是还是不是，司法官。”阿迪克斯冷冷地说。塔特先生不吭气了。 阿迪克斯坐下，向巡回法务官点点头，巡回法务官又向法官摇摇头，法官又向塔特先生点点头，塔特先生僵硬地站起身，走下了证人席。 在我们底下，一个个脑袋在转动，脚擦着地板，怀里的婴儿移到了肩头，还有几个孩子蹦出了审判厅。身后的黑人们轻声地谈论着什么；迪尔正在问赛克斯牧师这到底是怎么回事。牧师说不知道。直到目前，气氛还极为沉闷：谁也没有高声怒喝，双方的律师还没有争辩，没有戏剧性的情节，似乎使在场的每个人都感到非常失望。阿迪克斯处事平和，好象牵涉到的是一件有关所有权的纠纷。他用那可以平息海潮的本事，把一件强奸案的审判弄得和布道一样乏味。陈威士忌酒和谷场的气昧，睡眼惺忪和面色阴沉的人，夜空里那个“芬奇先生?他们走了吗?”的沙哑声——这一切留在我脑子里的恐惧通通消失了。黎明赶走了梦魇，到头来一切都会好的。 象泰勒法官一样，所有的旁听者都松弛下来，只有杰姆例外。他使劲拧着嘴，半笑不笑，好象在思索着什么，两个眼珠滴溜溜四处转，还说了一些核对证据一类的事。我敢肯定，他是在表现自己。 “罗伯特?依?尤厄尔!” 听到书记官低沉的声音，一个矮小但神气十足的人站了起来，大摇大摆地走上了证人席。他听到念自己的名字，脖子后面都红了起来。他转身宣哲时，我们看到他的脸也和脖子一样红。我们还看到，他与他的同族人毫无相似之处。额头上一蓬刚洗过的头发东一束西一束地竖着；发亮的鼻子又细又尖；说不上有什么下巴——下巴好象是他皱巴巴的脖子的一部分。 “……我说实话。”他自傲地说。 和梅科姆同样大小的镇子都有象尤厄尔这样的家族。经济动荡改变不了他们的地位——不管繁荣还是萧条，他们都象客人一样住在县里。没有哪位监督逃学的职员能使他们那一群孩子呆在学校，没有哪位负责公共卫生的官员能使他们去掉那些天生的毛病，对他们那些污秽的环境所引起的特有的各种寄生虫和疾病，谁都毫无办法。 梅科姆镇上尤厄尔家的人住在垃圾堆后一个小屋里，从前那里边住的是黑人。这小屋的木板墙上又钉上了波纹铁片，顶上加盖了锤平了的锡罐头皮，只能从整个轮廓看出原来设计的模样：方方正正，四问很小的房间通向一个狭长的厅堂，整个屋子歪斜在四块形状不规则的石灰石上。墙上的空洞就是窗子，到夏天得用一块包干酪的布遮上，以防御那些在梅科姆垃圾堆上大吃大喝的害虫。 这些害虫的时运不佳了，因为尤厄尔家每天都到垃圾堆上彻底翻找一番，他们的劳动所得中那些不能吃的东西使这小屋四周看上去象是一个精神错乱的孩子的游戏室：拼凑成栅栏的是一些树干、扫帚柄、工具把，上头全装着生锈的榔头、歪齿的耙头，还有铁铲、斧头、锄头等等，都被带刺的铁丝缠在一起。其中有一辆T型号的福特牌汽车(停在修理槽上)，一把被扔掉的牙科手术椅，一个旧冰箱。那些旧鞋子、破收音机、画框子和水果坛子等等，只能算是附带的小件。几只瘦得可怜的黄毛鸡在赢下兴冲冲地觅食。 不过，院子里有一个角落倒叫人迷惑不解。沿着栅栏，有六只破损的搪瓷污水桶排成一列，里面种着红色的天竺葵，精心照料得象莫迫?阿特金森小姐的那样，如果她肯降低身分栽一株天竺葵的话。人们说那是梅耶拉?尤厄尔的花。 没人能十分肯定这地方究竟有多少孩子，有人说六个，有人说九个。不管谁从窗前走过，总能看见几张脏脸挤在窗口。除了在圣诞节教堂绐穷人家送节日食品篮子，或是镇长要求我们帮助送垃圾的人把我们自己家的圣诞树和废物送到垃圾场去时，在平日谁都没有必要从那儿经过。 去年圣诞节，阿迪克斯遵照镇长要求，自己去倒垃圾时，把我们也带去了。从公路开始，一条泥巴路经过垃圾场通到离尤厄尔家五百码远的一个小的黑人住宅区。回家时，要么退到公路上，要么就得走完整段泥巴路再弯回来。大多数人都愿在黑人家的前院里拐弯回去。霜期的十二月黄昏，他们的小屋看起来整洁舒适，淡淡的青烟从烟囱里冒出来，门道里看得见炉火的琥珀色光焰，到处扩散着炒鸡、炒羊肉的香味。那种气昧和薄暮的空气一样清新。我和杰姆发现锅里有松鼠，不过，一般只有象阿迪克斯那样的老乡下人才能分辨出负鼠和兔子。在回去的路上经过尤厄尔住的地方时，这些香昧没有了。 证人席上那个矮小的人与他邻近的黑人的唯一区别是，他的皮肤若放在很热的水里用碱性肥皂擦洗，就会是白的。 “罗伯特-尤厄尔先生吗?”吉尔默先生问。 “是我，长官。” 吉尔默先生的背微微一伸，连我都替他感到难过。我现在也许把事情说得更明白一些为好。我早听说，律师们的孩子看到自己的爸爸在审判时激烈争辩，会有这种错误的想法——把对方的辩护人看成他们父亲的死敌，他们很感痛苦。但是看到刚一休庭，他们的父亲就跟他的对手们手挽手一道走出来时，他们便惊讶起来。我和杰姆却不是这样。不管爸爸是输了还是赢了，我们都一样坦然。遗憾的是，在这方面我不能提供任何戏剧性的东西，就是提供了也不会是逼真的。不过，我们肴得出争辩的激烈程度什么时候超过了职业范围。但是，这是从其他律师的争辩中看出来的，我们的爸爸却不这么千。我从没听见过阿迪克斯提高嗓门，除非听话的是一个耳聋的证人。现在，吉尔默先生只是在履行他的职务，正如阿迪克斯也在履行职务一样。而且尤厄尔是吉尔默先生的证人，他无论如何没有必要对他粗暴无礼。 接下来的问题是：“你是梅耶拉?尤厄尔的爸爸吗?” 回答是：“呃，要是我不是的话，那我什么事也不能干了，她妈早死了。” 泰勒法官坐不住了，他在转椅里慢慢转过身，很和气地望着这个证人。“您是梅耶拉?尤厄尔的父亲吗?”他问了声，问话的口气使我们下面的笑声猛然停住了。 “是的，先生。”尤厄尔先生这次答得很温顺。 泰勒法官用和蔼的口气继续说下去：“这是你头一回上法庭吗?我记得从没有在这儿见过你。”证人点头表示同意，法官又接着说：“这样吧，我得讲个明白，只要我坐在这儿，任何人都不许把任何问题说得准听。懂了吗?” 尤厄尔先生点点头，可我却不相信他。泰勒法官叹了一声，说：“好吧，吉尔默先生?” “谢谢你，先生。尤厄尔先生，请你老老实实地把11月21日晚上发生的事告诉我们好吗?” 杰姆咧嘴一笑，把头发往后拢了拢。。老——老——实——实地说。，这话一昕就知道是吉尔默先生的，简直就象他的商标一样。我们常常纳闷，吉尔默先生怕他的证人用谁的话作证。 “呃，11月21日晚上，我带着一捆引火柴从林子里回家。刚走到栅栏前，就听到梅耶拉在屋子里象杀猪似的尖叫……” 听到这话，泰勒法官直瞪着他，但又一定断定他这话说得没有恶意，因为他又昏昏欲睡地坐在那儿。 “是在什么时问，尤厄尔先生?” “就在太阳落山前。刚才我说梅耶拉叫得鬼哭神嚎……”审判席上的人又瞪了他一眼，尤厄尔不做声了。 “是吗?她是在尖声喊叫吗?”吉尔默先生说。 尤厄尔先生迷惑地望着法官。“嗯，梅耶拉叫得越夹越凶，我扔下手里的东西就拼命跑，但栅栏把我挂住了。我挣脱开以后，就跑到了窗前，我看见……”尤厄尔先生脸色绯红。他站起身，用手指着汤姆。“我看见那黑鬼正在我的梅耶拉身上乱来!” 泰勒法官的审判厅经常平静得很少有必要动用小木槌，但这次，他敲了整整五分钟。阿迪克斯站在审判席上对他说着什么，赫克?塔特以县里第一号官员的身分站刊过道里，叫满屋子乱哄哄的人安静下来。我们身后，黑人们发出了低沉的愤怒的声音。 赛克斯牧师的身子越过我和迪尔，推了推杰姆的手肘说：“杰姆先生，你最好把琼?路易斯小姐带回家去。杰姆先生，你听到了我说的话没有?” 条姆掉过头来：“斯各特，回家去。迪尔，你和斯各特回家去。” “得让我先服了你才行。”我这样说，心里想起了阿迪克斯说过的那甸很好的格言。 杰姆冲我生气地瞪一瞪眼，然后对赛克斯牧师说，“我想没关系，牧师，她听不懂。” 我气得受不了。“我就是听得懂，你懂什么我就懂什么。” “哦，住嘴。她不懂，牧师，她还没满九岁。” 赛克斯牧师的黑眼睛露出不安的神色。“芬奇先生知道你们都在这儿吗?这种事对琼?路易斯小姐不合适，对你们也不合适。‘’ 杰姆摇摇头。“这么远，他看不到我们。没问题，牧师。” 我就知道杰姆会赢的，因为我知道这阵子没什么能使他离开审判厅。我和迪尔可以放心一阵予了。不过，阿迪克斯完全可以从他那儿发现我们，只要他一转脸就看得见我们。 泰勒法官敲着术槌，尤厄尔先生得意地坐在证人席上，欣赏着他造成的这一局面。凭他短短一句话，就让这些兴高采烈的野餐者变成了怒气冲冲、激动紧张、嘁嘁喳喳的人。槌于的敲打声使他们渐渐平持下来。直到最后，大厅里就剩了轻轻的“砰、砰、砰”的声音。听起来，法官好象在用铅笔敲着凳子似的。 重新控制了审判厅的局面后，泰勒法官靠在椅背上。他突然显得疲乏了，老态也表现出来了。 “有人提出要求，要把旁听者弄出审判厅，或者至少是妇女和孩子们，”泰勒法官说：“对这一要求暂时不予满足。人们一般可以看他所愿看的东西，听他所想听的事，同时，他们也有权决定是否让孩子也这样。不过，有一点我要你们记住，你们得安安静静地看，安安静静地听，否则你们就得离开审判厅。如果你们吵吵闹闹，那你们在我面前受到藐视法庭的控告以前，就别想轻易走掉。尤厄尔先生，我要求你尽可能使用合乎礼俗的话继续作证。说下去吧，吉尔默先生。” 尤厄尔先生那种神情使我想起了聋哑人。我相信泰勒法官对他说的话，他压根儿没有听进去——他的嘴作出动作，似乎在无声地说着话——不过，他脸上的神情表现出他体会到法官的话的重要性。他那得意洋洋的样子不见了，换成了一种非常认真的神态。但是，这种神态一点也骗不过泰勒法官：在尤厄尔先生坐在证人席上这段时间中，泰勒法官一直注意着他，好象看他敢不敢故意捣鬼。 吉尔默先生和阿迪克斯交换了个眼色。阿迪克斯又坐下了，一只拳头支着面颊，我们看不到他的脸。吉尔默先生显得很尴尬。泰勒法官问了一句话，使他轻松下来。“尤厄尔先生，你看到了被告与你女儿发生性行为吗?” “是的，看到了。” 旁听者都寂静无声，被告却说了点什么。阿迪克斯跟他耳语了一阵，汤姆就再没开口。 “你是说在窗子那儿看到的吗?”吉尔默先生问。 “是，先生。” “窗子离地面多高?” “大约三英尺。” “整个房间都看清楚了吗?” “是的，先生。” “屋里是什么样几?” “嗯，东西甩得乱七八精，象是打架来着。” “看见被告后你干了什么?” “嗯，我绕过屋子想进去，但他在我之前就从前面跑了。我看清了是谁。我一心牵挂着梅耶拉，就没去追他。我跑进屋子，她正躺在地板上哭叫……” “后来你干了什么?” “怎么，我尽快地找了塔特。我知道那家伙是谁，就住在那边黑人窝里，每天都打我家门前走过。法官，我对县里说过十五年了，要把那边那个窝子除掉。他们住在身边太危险了。而且，即使我把房产卖出去，有他们在旁边，也卖不起价。 “谢谢你，尤厄尔先生。”吉尔默先生赶忙说了一句。 证人匆匆地从证人席上下来，正撞上阿迪克斯。阿迪克斯早站起来准备向他提问。泰勒法官没有理会审判厅里的笑声。 “稍等一下，先生，”阿迪克斯温和地说，“我能间你～两个问题吗?” 尤厄尔先生又退回到证人席上，坐稳了，用傲慢而又怀疑的眼光注视着阿迪克斯，这是梅科姆县的证人在对方律师面前常有的表情。 “尤厄尔先生，”阿迪克斯开口说遘，“那晚上，你跑了不少的路。我们看一看，你说你跑进院子，跑到窗前，跑进房子，跑到梅耶拉身边，你还跑去找塔特先生。你跑这跑那，跑去找了个医生没有?” “没有必要，出的事我全看到了。” “但是有件事我不明白，”阿迪克斯说，。你不为梅耶拉的情况担心吗?” “我当然担心得不得了，”尤厄尔先生说，“我看到了是谁子的。” “不，我是说她的身体情况。你没想到她受的那种性质的伤害，有理由即刻接受医疗吗?” “什么?” “你难道没想到她应该立刻要个医生吗?” 这位证人说他压根儿没想到这点，他一辈子都没为自己的孩子找过医生。要去找的话，还得花五元钱。“就这些吗?”他问。 “还有一点，”阿迪克斯漫不经心地说，“你听到了司法官的证词，对不对?” “那又怎样?” “赫克?塔特先生作证时，你在审判厅里，是不是?他说的话你都听见了，是不是?” 尤厄尔仔细掂了掂这个问题，然后显然认为这个问题不会使他上当。 “是的，”他说。 “你同意他对梅耶拉伤势的描述吗?” “那又怎样?” 阿迪克斯转脸看着吉尔默先生，并笑了一笑。尤厄尔先生看上去似乎打定主意不理睬被告一方。 “塔特先生作证说她的右眼被打青了，打伤的部分还有……” “啊，对的，’这位证人说，“塔特说的我完全同意。” “你完全同意?”阿迪克斯问得很随和，“我只是想确认一F。”他走到法庭记录面前，说了点什么，然后记录员将塔特先生的证词象念证券交易所的行情一样念了几分钟，把我们全逗乐了：“……哪只眼?她的左眼，啊，对了，那样说就是她的右眼，打的是她的右眼，芬奇先生，我这会儿记起来了，”法庭记录员翻过一页继续念道：“……是那边的面部，司法官，请您重复您的话，打的是右眼，我说过……” “谢谢你，伯特。”阿迪克斯说，“你又听了一遍，尤厄尔先生。还有什么要补充的吗?你同意司法官的话吗?” “我同意，她一只眼被打青了，她挨了顿毒打。” 这矮个子似乎忘记了在审判席上受到了羞辱。他越来越明显地把阿迪克斯看成了一个好应付的对手。他又来神了，胸脯往前一挺一挺的，再次成了只红脖子公鸡。我暗暗在想，阿迪克斯要再提一个问题，他会得意到把衬衣都挺破。 “尤厄尔先生，你能读书写字吗?” 吉尔默先生出来进行干涉。“我反对，”他说，“我看不出证人的文化水平与本案有关，这话离了题，没有意义，” 泰勒法官正要开口，阿迪克斯却先说了：“法官，如果你允许这个问题后面再加上一个问题，你就会明白了。” 。行，让我想一想，”泰勒法官说，“不过，一定要让大家都明白，阿迪克斯。反对无效。”’ 吉尔默先生和我们一样，真不知道尤厄尔先生的文化程度和案件本身有什么关系。 “我把问题重复一遍，”阿迪克斯说，“你能读书写字吗?” “我当然能啦。” “你愿意把你的名字写下来给我们看看吗?” “当然愿意，你想我在领救济金时怎样签名呢?” 尤厄尔在同乡跟前卖乖。底下一阵耳语声和暗笑声很可能与他是个大活宝有关。 我紧张起来了。阿迪克斯好象清楚自己在千什么——但我看他似乎是在无灯捉蛤蟆。千万，千万，千万不要向证人提出一个自己不知道答案的问题，这是我在吃奶时就知道的原则。这样千，常常会得到一个自己不想要的答案，一个可能使你的辩护失败的答案。 阿迪克斯把手伸进上衣的内口袋，掏出一个信封，又从背心口袋上取出一支钢笔。他动作轻快，还转过身让陪审团船完全看清楚。接着，他拧下笔套，轻轻地放到自己桌上。他把笔稍微晃了一晃，连同信封一起交给了证人。“把自己的名字写下来好吗?”他问道，“写清楚，让陪审团能看着你写。” 尤厄尔先生在信封背面写好了名字，得意地抬起头，却看见泰勒法官直瞪瞪地望着他，仿佛看到证人席上长出一株开得正旺的栀子花。吉尔默先生在桌子旁半坐半立，陪审团也注视着尤厄尔先生，其中一个还向前倾着身子，两只手放在围栏上。 “什么事这么有趣?”他问。 “你是个左撇子，尤厄尔先生。”泰勒法官说。 尤厄尔先生气愤地转向法官，说他看不出他是个左撇子与案情有什么关系，说他是个虔诚的基督徒，而阿迪克斯正在捣他的鬼。象阿迪克斯这样狡猾的律师，总是使用他们惯用的狡猾手法搞他的鬼。他说他早把发生的事告诉了他们，他可以再反反复复地说——他也正是这样傲的，阿迪克斯问的话都不能改变他的说法。他说他往窗子里看了，然后吓跑了黑鬼，然后跑去找司法官。阿迪克斯没有再向他提问题了。 吉尔默先生又问了他另外一个问题。。你用左手写字，是不是双手俱灵，尤厄尔先生?” “我当然不是，我一只手能够用得和另一只一样好，一只手和另一只一样好。”他补上一句，向被告席瞪着眼。 杰姆似乎悄悄地生气了。他轻轻拍打着楼厅栏杆，还小声说了一句：“难住他了。” 我不这么看。据我看，阿迪克斯似乎想要使人们知道，梅耶拉可能是被尤厄尔先生打的。这一点我是理解的。如果她的右眼被打青了，而且她被打伤的部位主要是她的右脸，就可以证明她是被一个左撇子打的。舍洛克?福尔摩斯圆和杰姆?芬奇都会同意这种说法。但是，汤姆?鲁宾逊也同样可能是个左撇子。象赫克?塔特先生一样，我也想象出一个人正面对着我，头脑中迅速地演了一幕哑剧，然后得出一个这样的结论：汤姆很可能用右手抓住梅耶拉，用左手去打。我往下看着汤姆。他背对着我们，不过，我仍然能看到他宽阔的肩膀和粗大的脖子。他要那样做的话，是很容易的。我想杰姆高兴得太早了。 |
Chapter 18 But someone was booming again. “Mayella Violet Ewell—!” A young girl walked to the witness stand. As she raised her hand and swore that theevidence she gave would be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth so helpher God, she seemed somehow fragile-looking, but when she sat facing us in thewitness chair she became what she was, a thick-bodied girl accustomed to strenuouslabor. In Maycomb County, it was easy to tell when someone bathed regularly, as opposedto yearly lavations: Mr. Ewell had a scalded look; as if an overnight soaking haddeprived him of protective layers of dirt, his skin appeared to be sensitive to theelements. Mayella looked as if she tried to keep clean, and I was reminded of the row ofred geraniums in the Ewell yard. Mr. Gilmer asked Mayella to tell the jury in her own words what happened on theevening of November twenty-first of last year, just in her own words, please. Mayella sat silently. “Where were you at dusk on that evening?” began Mr. Gilmer patiently. “On the porch.” “Which porch?” “Ain’t but one, the front porch.” “What were you doing on the porch?” “Nothin‘.” Judge Taylor said, “Just tell us what happened. You can do that, can’t you?” Mayella stared at him and burst into tears. She covered her mouth with her hands andsobbed. Judge Taylor let her cry for a while, then he said, “That’s enough now. Don’t be‘fraid of anybody here, as long as you tell the truth. All this is strange to you, I know, butyou’ve nothing to be ashamed of and nothing to fear. What are you scared of?” Mayella said something behind her hands. “What was that?” asked the judge. “Him,” she sobbed, pointing at Atticus. “Mr. Finch?” She nodded vigorously, saying, “Don’t want him doin‘ me like he done Papa, tryin’ tomake him out lefthanded…” Judge Taylor scratched his thick white hair. It was plain that he had never beenconfronted with a problem of this kind. “How old are you?” he asked. “Nineteen-and-a-half,” Mayella said. Judge Taylor cleared his throat and tried unsuccessfully to speak in soothing tones. “Mr. Finch has no idea of scaring you,” he growled, “and if he did, I’m here to stop him. That’s one thing I’m sitting up here for. Now you’re a big girl, so you just sit up straightand tell the—tell us what happened to you. You can do that, can’t you?” I whispered to Jem, “Has she got good sense?” Jem was squinting down at the witness stand. “Can’t tell yet,” he said. “She’s gotenough sense to get the judge sorry for her, but she might be just—oh, I don’t know.” Mollified, Mayella gave Atticus a final terrified glance and said to Mr. Gilmer, “Well sir,I was on the porch and—and he came along and, you see, there was this old chiffarobein the yard Papa’d brought in to chop up for kindlin‘—Papa told me to do it while he wasoff in the woods but I wadn’t feelin’ strong enough then, so he came by-” “Who is ‘he’?” Mayella pointed to Tom Robinson. “I’ll have to ask you to be more specific, please,” said Mr. Gilmer. “The reporter can’t put down gestures very well.” “That’n yonder,” she said. “Robinson.” “Then what happened?” “I said come here, nigger, and bust up this chiffarobe for me, I gotta nickel for you. Hecoulda done it easy enough, he could. So he come in the yard an‘ I went in the house toget him the nickel and I turned around an ’fore I knew it he was on me. Just run upbehind me, he did. He got me round the neck, cussin‘ me an’ sayin‘ dirt—Ifought’n’hollered, but he had me round the neck. He hit me agin an‘ agin—” Mr. Gilmer waited for Mayella to collect herself: she had twisted her handkerchief intoa sweaty rope; when she opened it to wipe her face it was a mass of creases from herhot hands. She waited for Mr. Gilmer to ask another question, but when he didn’t, shesaid, “-he chunked me on the floor an‘ choked me’n took advantage of me.” “Did you scream?” asked Mr. Gilmer. “Did you scream and fight back?” “Reckon I did, hollered for all I was worth, kicked and hollered loud as I could.” “Then what happened?” “I don’t remember too good, but next thing I knew Papa was in the room a’standingover me hollerin‘ who done it, who done it? Then I sorta fainted an’ the next thing I knewMr. Tate was pullin‘ me up offa the floor and leadin’ me to the water bucket.” Apparently Mayella’s recital had given her confidence, but it was not her father’s brashkind: there was something stealthy about hers, like a steady-eyed cat with a twitchy tail. “You say you fought him off as hard as you could? Fought him tooth and nail?” askedMr. Gilmer. “I positively did,” Mayella echoed her father. “You are positive that he took full advantage of you?” Mayella’s face contorted, and I was afraid that she would cry again. Instead, she said,“He done what he was after.” Mr. Gilmer called attention to the hot day by wiping his head with his hand. “That’s allfor the time being,” he said pleasantly, “but you stay there. I expect big bad Mr. Finchhas some questions to ask you.” “State will not prejudice the witness against counsel for the defense,” murmured JudgeTaylor primly, “at least not at this time.” Atticus got up grinning but instead of walking to the witness stand, he opened his coatand hooked his thumbs in his vest, then he walked slowly across the room to thewindows. He looked out, but didn’t seem especially interested in what he saw, then heturned and strolled back to the witness stand. From long years of experience, I could tellhe was trying to come to a decision about something. “Miss Mayella,” he said, smiling, “I won’t try to scare you for a while, not yet. Let’s justget acquainted. How old are you?” “Said I was nineteen, said it to the judge yonder.” Mayella jerked her head resentfullyat the bench. “So you did, so you did, ma’am. You’ll have to bear with me, Miss Mayella, I’m gettingalong and can’t remember as well as I used to. I might ask you things you’ve alreadysaid before, but you’ll give me an answer, won’t you? Good.” I could see nothing in Mayella’s expression to justify Atticus’s assumption that he hadsecured her wholehearted cooperation. She was looking at him furiously. “Won’t answer a word you say long as you keep on mockin‘ me,” she said. “Ma’am?” asked Atticus, startled. “Long’s you keep on makin‘ fun o’me.” Judge Taylor said, “Mr. Finch is not making fun of you. What’s the matter with you?” Mayella looked from under lowered eyelids at Atticus, but she said to the judge: “Long’s he keeps on callin‘ me ma’am an sayin’ Miss Mayella. I don’t hafta take hissass, I ain’t called upon to take it.” Atticus resumed his stroll to the windows and let Judge Taylor handle this one. JudgeTaylor was not the kind of figure that ever evoked pity, but I did feel a pang for him as hetried to explain. “That’s just Mr. Finch’s way,” he told Mayella. “We’ve done business inthis court for years and years, and Mr. Finch is always courteous to everybody. He’s nottrying to mock you, he’s trying to be polite. That’s just his way.” The judge leaned back. “Atticus, let’s get on with these proceedings, and let the recordshow that the witness has not been sassed, her views to the contrary.” I wondered if anybody had ever called her “ma’am,” or “Miss Mayella” in her life;probably not, as she took offense to routine courtesy. What on earth was her life like? Isoon found out. “You say you’re nineteen,” Atticus resumed. “How many sisters and brothers haveyou?” He walked from the windows back to the stand. “Seb’m,” she said, and I wondered if they were all like the specimen I had seen thefirst day I started to school. “You the eldest? The oldest?” “Yes.” “How long has your mother been dead?” “Don’t know—long time.” “Did you ever go to school?” “Read’n‘write good as Papa yonder.” Mayella sounded like a Mr. Jingle in a book I had been reading. “How long did you go to school?” “Two year—three year—dunno.” Slowly but surely I began to see the pattern of Atticus’s questions: from questions thatMr. Gilmer did not deem sufficiently irrelevant or immaterial to object to, Atticus wasquietly building up before the jury a picture of the Ewells’ home life. The jury learned thefollowing things: their relief check was far from enough to feed the family, and there wasstrong suspicion that Papa drank it up anyway—he sometimes went off in the swamp fordays and came home sick; the weather was seldom cold enough to require shoes, butwhen it was, you could make dandy ones from strips of old tires; the family hauled itswater in buckets from a spring that ran out at one end of the dump—they kept thesurrounding area clear of trash—and it was everybody for himself as far as keepingclean went: if you wanted to wash you hauled your own water; the younger children hadperpetual colds and suffered from chronic ground-itch; there was a lady who camearound sometimes and asked Mayella why she didn’t stay in school—she wrote downthe answer; with two members of the family reading and writing, there was no need forthe rest of them to learn—Papa needed them at home. “Miss Mayella,” said Atticus, in spite of himself, “a nineteen-year-old girl like you musthave friends. Who are your friends?” The witness frowned as if puzzled. “Friends?” “Yes, don’t you know anyone near your age, or older, or younger? Boys and girls? Just ordinary friends?” Mayella’s hostility, which had subsided to grudging neutrality, flared again. “Youmakin‘ fun o’me agin, Mr. Finch?” Atticus let her question answer his. “Do you love your father, Miss Mayella?” was his next. “Love him, whatcha mean?” “I mean, is he good to you, is he easy to get along with?” “He does tollable, ‘cept when—” “Except when?” Mayella looked at her father, who was sitting with his chair tipped against the railing. He sat up straight and waited for her to answer. “Except when nothin‘,” said Mayella. “I said he does tollable.” Mr. Ewell leaned back again. “Except when he’s drinking?” asked Atticus so gently that Mayella nodded. “Does he ever go after you?” “How you mean?” “When he’s—riled, has he ever beaten you?” Mayella looked around, down at the court reporter, up at the judge. “Answer thequestion, Miss Mayella,” said Judge Taylor. “My paw’s never touched a hair o’my head in my life,” she declared firmly. “He nevertouched me.” Atticus’s glasses had slipped a little, and he pushed them up on his nose. “We’ve hada good visit, Miss Mayella, and now I guess we’d better get to the case. You say youasked Tom Robinson to come chop up a—what was it?” “A chiffarobe, a old dresser full of drawers on one side.” “Was Tom Robinson well known to you?” “Whaddya mean?” “I mean did you know who he was, where he lived?” Mayella nodded. “I knowed who he was, he passed the house every day.” “Was this the first time you asked him to come inside the fence?” Mayella jumped slightly at the question. Atticus was making his slow pilgrimage to thewindows, as he had been doing: he would ask a question, then look out, waiting for ananswer. He did not see her involuntary jump, but it seemed to me that he knew she hadmoved. He turned around and raised his eyebrows. “Was—” he began again. “Yes it was.” “Didn’t you ever ask him to come inside the fence before?” She was prepared now. “I did not, I certainly did not.” “One did not’s enough,” said Atticus serenely. “You never asked him to do odd jobs foryou before?” “I mighta,” conceded Mayella. “There was several niggers around.” “Can you remember any other occasions?” “No.” “All right, now to what happened. You said Tom Robinson was behind you in the roomwhen you turned around, that right?” “Yes.” “You said he ‘got you around the neck cussing and saying dirt’—is that right?” “‘t’s right.” Atticus’s memory had suddenly become accurate. “You say ‘he caught me andchoked me and took advantage of me’—is that right?” “That’s what I said.” “Do you remember him beating you about the face?” The witness hesitated. “You seem sure enough that he choked you. All this time you were fighting back,remember? You ‘kicked and hollered as loud as you could.’ Do you remember himbeating you about the face?” Mayella was silent. She seemed to be trying to get something clear to herself. Ithought for a moment she was doing Mr. Heck Tate’s and my trick of pretending therewas a person in front of us. She glanced at Mr. Gilmer. “It’s an easy question, Miss Mayella, so I’ll try again. Do you remember him beatingyou about the face?” Atticus’s voice had lost its comfortableness; he was speaking in hisarid, detached professional voice. “Do you remember him beating you about the face?” “No, I don’t recollect if he hit me. I mean yes I do, he hit me.” “Was your last sentence your answer?” “Huh? Yes, he hit—I just don’t remember, I just don’t remember… it all happened soquick.” Judge Taylor looked sternly at Mayella. “Don’t you cry, young woman—” he began,but Atticus said, “Let her cry if she wants to, Judge. We’ve got all the time in the world.” Mayella sniffed wrathfully and looked at Atticus. “I’ll answer any question you got—getme up here an‘ mock me, will you? I’ll answer any question you got—” “That’s fine,” said Atticus. “There’re only a few more. Miss Mayella, not to be tedious,you’ve testified that the defendant hit you, grabbed you around the neck, choked you,and took advantage of you. I want you to be sure you have the right man. Will youidentify the man who raped you?” “I will, that’s him right yonder.” Atticus turned to the defendant. “Tom, stand up. Let Miss Mayella have a good longlook at you. Is this the man, Miss Mayella?” Tom Robinson’s powerful shoulders rippled under his thin shirt. He rose to his feet andstood with his right hand on the back of his chair. He looked oddly off balance, but it wasnot from the way he was standing. His left arm was fully twelve inches shorter than hisright, and hung dead at his side. It ended in a small shriveled hand, and from as faraway as the balcony I could see that it was no use to him. “Scout,” breathed Jem. “Scout, look! Reverend, he’s crippled!” Reverend Sykes leaned across me and whispered to Jem. “He got it caught in acotton gin, caught it in Mr. Dolphus Raymond’s cotton gin when he was a boy… like tobled to death… tore all the muscles loose from his bones—” Atticus said, “Is this the man who raped you?” “It most certainly is.” Atticus’s next question was one word long. “How?” Mayella was raging. “I don’t know how he done it, but he done it—I said it allhappened so fast I—” “Now let’s consider this calmly—” began Atticus, but Mr. Gilmer interrupted with anobjection: he was not irrelevant or immaterial, but Atticus was browbeating the witness. Judge Taylor laughed outright. “Oh sit down, Horace, he’s doing nothing of the sort. Ifanything, the witness’s browbeating Atticus.” Judge Taylor was the only person in the courtroom who laughed. Even the babieswere still, and I suddenly wondered if they had been smothered at their mothers’ breasts. “Now,” said Atticus, “Miss Mayella, you’ve testified that the defendant choked and beatyou—you didn’t say that he sneaked up behind you and knocked you cold, but youturned around and there he was—” Atticus was back behind his table, and heemphasized his words by tapping his knuckles on it. “—do you wish to reconsider any ofyour testimony?” “You want me to say something that didn’t happen?” “No ma’am, I want you to say something that did happen. Tell us once more, please,what happened?” “I told’ja what happened.” “You testified that you turned around and there he was. He choked you then?” “Yes.” “Then he released your throat and hit you?” “I said he did.” “He blacked your left eye with his right fist?” “I ducked and it—it glanced, that’s what it did. I ducked and it glanced off.” Mayellahad finally seen the light. “You’re becoming suddenly clear on this point. A while ago you couldn’t remember toowell, could you?” “I said he hit me.” “All right. He choked you, he hit you, then he raped you, that right?” “It most certainly is.” “You’re a strong girl, what were you doing all the time, just standing there?” “I told’ja I hollered’n‘kicked’n’fought—” Atticus reached up and took off his glasses, turned his good right eye to the witness,and rained questions on her. Judge Taylor said, “One question at a time, Atticus. Givethe witness a chance to answer.” “All right, why didn’t you run?” “I tried…” “Tried to? What kept you from it?” “I—he slung me down. That’s what he did, he slung me down’n got on top of me.” “You were screaming all this time?” “I certainly was.” “Then why didn’t the other children hear you? Where were they? At the dump?” “Where were they?” No answer. “Why didn’t your screams make them come running? The dump’s closer than thewoods, isn’t it?” No answer. “Or didn’t you scream until you saw your father in the window? You didn’t think toscream until then, did you?” No answer. “Did you scream first at your father instead of at Tom Robinson? Was that it?” No answer. “Who beat you up? Tom Robinson or your father?” No answer. “What did your father see in the window, the crime of rape or the best defense to it? Why don’t you tell the truth, child, didn’t Bob Ewell beat you up?” When Atticus turned away from Mayella he looked like his stomach hurt, but Mayella’sface was a mixture of terror and fury. Atticus sat down wearily and polished his glasseswith his handkerchief. Suddenly Mayella became articulate. “I got somethin‘ to say,” she said. Atticus raised his head. “Do you want to tell us what happened?” But she did not hear the compassion in his invitation. “I got somethin‘ to say an’ then Iain’t gonna say no more. That nigger yonder took advantage of me an‘ if you fine fancygentlemen don’t wanta do nothin’ about it then you’re all yellow stinkin‘ cowards, stinkin’ cowards, the lot of you. Your fancy airs don’t come to nothin‘—your ma’amin’ and MissMayellerin‘ don’t come to nothin’, Mr. Finch—” Then she burst into real tears. Her shoulders shook with angry sobs. She was as goodas her word. She answered no more questions, even when Mr. Gilmer tried to get herback on the track. I guess if she hadn’t been so poor and ignorant, Judge Taylor wouldhave put her under the jail for the contempt she had shown everybody in the courtroom. Somehow, Atticus had hit her hard in a way that was not clear to me, but it gave him nopleasure to do so. He sat with his head down, and I never saw anybody glare at anyonewith the hatred Mayella showed when she left the stand and walked by Atticus’s table. When Mr. Gilmer told Judge Taylor that the state rested, Judge Taylor said, “It’s timewe all did. We’ll take ten minutes.” Atticus and Mr. Gilmer met in front of the bench and whispered, then they left thecourtroom by a door behind the witness stand, which was a signal for us all to stretch. Idiscovered that I had been sitting on the edge of the long bench, and I was somewhatnumb. Jem got up and yawned, Dill did likewise, and Reverend Sykes wiped his face onhis hat. The temperature was an easy ninety, he said. Mr. Braxton Underwood, who had been sitting quietly in a chair reserved for the Press,soaking up testimony with his sponge of a brain, allowed his bitter eyes to rove over thecolored balcony, and they met mine. He gave a snort and looked away. “Jem,” I said, “Mr. Underwood’s seen us.” “That’s okay. He won’t tell Atticus, he’ll just put it on the social side of the Tribune.” Jem turned back to Dill, explaining, I suppose, the finer points of the trial to him, but Iwondered what they were. There had been no lengthy debates between Atticus and Mr. Gilmer on any points; Mr. Gilmer seemed to be prosecuting almost reluctantly;witnesses had been led by the nose as asses are, with few objections. But Atticus hadonce told us that in Judge Taylor’s court any lawyer who was a strict constructionist onevidence usually wound up receiving strict instructions from the bench. He distilled thisfor me to mean that Judge Taylor might look lazy and operate in his sleep, but he wasseldom reversed, and that was the proof of the pudding. Atticus said he was a goodjudge. Presently Judge Taylor returned and climbed into his swivel chair. He took a cigarfrom his vest pocket and examined it thoughtfully. I punched Dill. Having passed thejudge’s inspection, the cigar suffered a vicious bite. “We come down sometimes towatch him,” I explained. “It’s gonna take him the rest of the afternoon, now. You watch.” Unaware of public scrutiny from above, Judge Taylor disposed of the severed end bypropelling it expertly to his lips and saying, “Fhluck!” He hit a spittoon so squarely wecould hear it slosh. “Bet he was hell with a spitball,” murmured Dill. As a rule, a recess meant a general exodus, but today people weren’t moving. Eventhe Idlers who had failed to shame younger men from their seats had remained standingalong the walls. I guess Mr. Heck Tate had reserved the county toilet for court officials. Atticus and Mr. Gilmer returned, and Judge Taylor looked at his watch. “It’s gettin‘ onto four,” he said, which was intriguing, as the courthouse clock must have struck thehour at least twice. I had not heard it or felt its vibrations. “Shall we try to wind up this afternoon?” asked Judge Taylor. “How ‘bout it, Atticus?” “I think we can,” said Atticus. “How many witnesses you got?” “One.” “Well, call him.” 有人又发出低沉的声音。“梅耶拉?维奥莱特?尤厄尔……!”?一个年轻女子走上了证人席。她举手宣誓说，她将要提供的证词是真实的，全是真的，只是真的，她敢对天发誓。她这时看上去有一点儿缺少力量，但她在面对我们的证人席椅子上坐下时，她又恢复常态了。她是一个身子结实，惯于劳动的姑娘。 在梅科姆县，很容易看出谁经常洗澡，谁一年才洗一两次。尤厄尔先生看上去象是刚刚烫冼过，仿佛一个晚上的浸泡剥去了身上的污垢构成的保护层。他的皮肤看上去对自然环境很敏感。而梅耶拉看上去很爱干净，使我想起了尤厄尔院子里那一行红色的天竺葵。 吉尔默先生请梅耶拉老老实实地给陪市团说说去年11月21日晚上发生的事：要老老实实地说。他又说一声。 梅耶拉坐着不开口。 “那天黄昏你在什么地方?”吉尔默先生耐心地问。 。在走廊上。” 。哪个走廊?” “只有一个，就是前面的走廊。” “你在走廊上千什么?” “什么也没干。” 泰勒法官说道：“把发生的事情说～说就行了。这点你做得到，是吗?” 梅耶拉用眼瞪着他，泪水滚了出来。她用手捂住了嘴抽泣着。泰勒法官让她哭了一阵，接着说：“别哭了。在这儿谁也别怕，只要你说的是真话。我知道，你不习惯这些，不过你没什么可害臊的，也没什么可害怕的。怕什么昵?” 梅耶拉捂着嘴说了点什么。“你说什么?”法官问。 “泊他，”她一边哭一边用手指着阿迪克斯。 “芬奇先生吗?” 她使劲点头，说：“别让他象对待爸爸那样对待我，他企图证明爸爸是左撇子……” 泰勒法官抓着他浓密的白发。很明显，他从投碰到过这类问题。“你多大了?”他问道。 “十九岁半。” 泰勒法官清了清嗓子，想用一种柔和的语气说话，但又没有这么说。“芬奇先生没想吓唬你。”他咆哮道，“要是他敢吓唬你，还有我在这儿呢，我不会允许他那样干的。这就是我坐在这儿的职责。你已经是大姑娘了，好好地坐着，给我们说说——说说你遭遇的事。这点你做得到，是吗?” 我悄悄地对杰姆说；“她脑瓜子是不足正常?” 杰姆对下面的证人席乜斜着两眼。“还说不上，”他说，“她脑瓜子清楚得够使法官为她难过。不过，她也许只是……哦，我不知道。” 梅耶拉平静了，又对阿迪克斯惊恐地看了一眼，然后对吉尔默先生说道：“好，先生。我正在走廊上，这时……这时他过来了。这时，您知道，那旧衣柜在院子里，爸爸捡来准备劈成引火柴……爸爸叫我在他去林子里时干这件活。但我觉得自己不太舒服，这时，他正好过来了……” “他’是谁?” 梅耶拉用手指着汤姆-鲁宾逊。“我不得不请你说得更具体一些。”吉尔默说，“记录员可记不准手势。” “那边的那个，”她说，“鲁宾逊。” “那么出了什么事?” “我说，过来，黑鬼，替我劈碎这个衣柜，我给你五分钱。他干这活是容易得很的，容易得很。所以他进了院予，我进屋去给他拿钱。我转过身还没弄清怎么回事，他就扑上来r。是在我身后扑过来的。他掐我的脖子，骂我，还说脏话……我又打又喊。但是他掐住我的脖子，打我，一下又一下……” 吉尔默先生等着梅耶拉镇定下来：梅耶拉把一块手绢拧成了一条给汗湿透了的绳子。她打开来擦脸时，已被她发烫的手弄得皱皱巴巴的。她等吉尔默先生问另一个问题，见他没问，便又说：“……他把我摔到地上掐我，欺侮了我。” “你叫喊了吗?”吉尔默先生问，“你叫喊了吗?还手了吗?” “我想是的，我拼命地叫，用脚踢，使劲喊。” “后来怎么样了?” “我记不太清楚了，但我知道的下一件事是，爸爸已经在屋子里头，弯着身子喊是谁干的，是谁干的。我后来有点儿不清醒了，再接下来就只知道塔特先生扶我站起来，领我到了水桶跟前。” 看得出来，梅耶拉的话使她自信起来，但不象她爸爸那样粗蛮。她的自信里有一种隐秘韵东西，就象是一只目光呆滞的猫，身后藏着一条颤动的尾巴。 “你说你尽最大的力气回了手?拼命地和他斗了?”吉尔默先生问。 “我肯定这样做了。”梅耶拉学着她爸爸的腔。 “你肯定他真的欺侮了你吗?” 梅耶拉的脸一下扭歪了，我担心她又会哭起来。但她说道：“他干成了想干的事。” 吉尔默先生在头上擦了一把，人们这才记起了炎热的气侯。“我暂时就问这些，”他温存地说。“不过你别走，我估计芬奇先生这个大坏蛋有话要问你。” “起诉一方不得使证人对被告一方产生成见，”泰勒法官严肃地说，“至少在这个时候不允许。” 阿迪克斯笑着站起来，但没往证人席那边走。他解开外农，把大拇指插进背心，慢慢地走过大厅，到了窗子前面。他看着外面，却并不显得对看到的东西有特别的兴趣。接着，他转过身，踱回到证人席前。多年的经验告诉我，他正在对什么事作出决定。 “梅耶拉小姐，”他面带笑容地说，“这会儿我不会吓唬你，暂时还不会，我们互相了解一下好吗?你多大了?” “说过我十九岁了，对那边的法官说过的。”梅耶拉气冲冲地把头向审判席一甩。 “你说过，你说过，小姐。你对我要耐心一点儿，梅耶拉小姐。我老起来了，记性不如以前了。我可能会问你已经回答过的问题，不过你还是愿意回答我的，对不对?这就好。” 梅耶拉的表情里没有任何东西能证明阿迪克斯作出的假设是正确的：她没有一点愿意合作的表示。她正满脸怒气地望着他。 “只要你还在挖苦我，我就一个字也不回答。”她说。 “小姐?”阿迪克斯吃惊地问了一声。 “只要你还跟我开玩笑。” 泰勒法官说：“芬奇先生没有跟你开玩笑。你怎么啦?” 梅耶拉垂着眼皮看了阿迪克斯一眼，却对着法官说：“只要他还叫我小姐，叫梅耶拉小姐。我无须听他的粗鲁的话，我来这儿不是听这些话的。” 阿迪克斯又向窗口走去，让泰勒法官处理这个问题。泰勒法官不是耶种叫人可怜的人物，但在他企图作出解释时，我真动了怜悯之心。“那不过是芬奇先生的习惯，”他告诉梅耶拉，“我们在这个法庭里一起办公已好多好多年了。芬奇先生对每个人都彬彬有礼。他不是想挖苦你，他只是想对你表示札貌。这只是他的习惯罢了。” 法官往后一靠说，“阿迪克斯，咱们继续审下去吧，让记录表明证人并没有受到粗鲁的待遇，而是跟她的看法正相反。” 我真想知道她这一辈子有没有人叫过她“小姐”或是“梅耶拉小姐”，可能没有，因为她对这种通常的礼节都要见怪。她的生活究竟是什么样儿?我立刻就知道了。 “你说你十九岁半了，”阿迪克斯又开口了，‘你有几个兄弟姐妹?”他从窗前回到了证人席。 “七个，”她回答。我不知道他们是否都跟我头一天上学看到的那一位一样。 “你是最大的?年纪最大的?” “是。” “你妈妈死了多久了?” “不知道……很久了。” “你上过学吗?” “和坐在那边的爸爸一样能读书写字。” 梅耶拉听起来就象我在一本书里读到过的没受过什么教育的金格尔先生。 “你念了几年书?” 。两年……三年……不知道。” 我一点一点地，但越来越清楚地开始看出阿迪克斯这样提问的用意。从吉尔默先生认为离题和没有意义而表示反对的问题起，阿迪克斯正悄悄地在陪审团的眼前把尤厄尔家的生活构成一个画面。陪审团了解到下边一些情况：靠救济金她家吃不饱，人们非常怀疑是尤厄尔先生喝酒把救济金喝光了……他有时一连几天在沼泽地里，回来就病倒了；天气很少冷到需要鞋子，就是天气真的冷了，他也可以用破轮胎制出上等的高级鞋来；这个家用桶从垃圾场的一头冒出的泉水里挑水——他们把泉水附近的垃圾清理干净了——说到爱干净则各人随各人的便：要想洗什么你就自己担自己的水}年纪小点儿的孩子终年感冒，而且患有难治的皮肤病。有个女人不时到她家附近来，问梅耶拉为什么不继续念书——她把答案写给了她：家里有两个人能读书写字，不需要其他人去学习了——她爸爸需要他们留在家里。 “梅耶拉小姐，”阿迪克斯不由自主地问道，“象你这样十九岁的姑娘一定有些朋友。哪些人是你的朋友?” 证人皱起眉头，好象不明白这话的意思。“朋友?” “对，你不认识任何跟你年纪差不多的人?或者比你大，或者比你小，小伙子或姑娘。连普通朋友都设有吗?” 梅耶拉的敌对情绪，本来已经平息到勉强过得去的程度，但这时又发作了。 “你又在开我的玩笑，芬奇先生?” 阿迪克斯把她问的这句话作为对他的回答了。 “你爱你爸爸吗，梅耶拉小姐?’这是他的下一个问题。 “爱他?你这是什么意思?” “我的意思是，他待你好吗?他容易相处吗?” “还可以，除了在……” “除了在什么时候?” 梅耶拉向她爸爸看了一眼，她爸爸原来让椅子斜靠着栏杆坐着，这时坐正了，等着她回答。 “什么时候也不除，我说了他还可以。” 尤厄尔先生又靠了F去。 “除了他喝酒的时候?”阿迪克斯问得十分柔和，梅耶拉点了点头。 “他对你有过什么吗?’ “你指的什么事?” “在他……在他发火时，打过你没有?” 梅耶拉向周围望了一望，往下望着法庭记录员，再往上望着法官。“回答这个问题，梅耶拉小姐。”泰勒法官说。 “我爸爸从没打过我，头发都没碰过我一根，”她毫不含糊地声明，“他从来没碰过我。” 阿迪克斯的眼镜滑下来一点，他重新把它推上鼻梁。“我们了解得很不错，梅耶拉小姐。我看现在最好回到本案来。你说你叫汤姆?鲁宾逊过来劈——劈什么来着?” “衣柜，就是那种有一边全是抽屉的旧衣柜。” “你和汤姆?鲁宾逊过去就很熟悉吗?”‘ “你这是什么意思?” “我的意思是你知不知道他是谁?住在哪儿?” 梅耶拉点点头：“我知道他是谁，他每天从我家门前过。” “这是你第一次叫他进院子吗?” 梅耶拉听到这话微微一惊。象刚才一样，阿迪克斯又慢慢地朝窗前走去。他有时问一句便朝外看着等待回答。他没看到梅耶拉不由自主地一惊，但我觉得他知道她动了一下。他转过身，把眉毛一扬。“是……”他又问起来了。 “是的，是第一次。” “你以前叫他进过院子吗?” 这回，她已有了准备；“没有，肯定没有。” “说一个没有就够了，”阿迪克斯平静地说，“你以前从没叫他给你干过零活?” “也许叫过，”梅耶拉让了步。“附近有好几个黑人。” “你能记得任何别的次数吗?” “记不起。” “好了，现在谈那件事的本身。你说过你转身时，汤姆?鲁宾逊早进了屋，就在你后面，是那样吗?” “是的。’ “你说过他掐你的脖子，骂你，说脏话……是那样吗?” “是那样。” 阿迪克斯的记忆一下予清清楚楚了。“你说‘他抓住我，骂我，欺侮了我……’是那样吗?” “我是这样说的。” “你记得他打了你的脸吗?” 证人犹豫了。 “你好象十分肯定他掐了你的脖子。你一直在还手，记得吗?你‘用脚踢，尽量地大声喊了’。你记不记得他打了你的脸?” 梅耶拉不说话了。她好象是在想让自己先把事情弄明白。有一会儿工夫，我猜她也是在玩赫克?塔特先生和我玩过的把戏；想象前面有个什么人。她望了吉尔默先生一眼。 “这个问题并不准，好回答得很，梅耶拉小姐。所以我再问你一遍，你记不记得他打了你的脸?”阿迪克斯的声音听起来不如以前那么令人舒服了，是一种他的职业所具有的呆板而冷漠的语气。“你记得他打过你的脸吗?” “不，我同想不起他是否打了我。我是说回想起来，他是打了我，他打了我。” “你的回答是最后那一句话吗?” “啊?对，他打了我——我想不起，我真想不起……事情发生得那么快。” 泰勒法官严厉地望着梅耶拉。“你别哭，姑娘……”他还要说下去。但阿迪克斯接过话头，“她想哭就让她哭肥，法官。我们有的是时间。” 梅耶拉气呼呼地吸着鼻子，望着阿迪克斯。“你问什么我就答什么——把我弄来嘲笑，是不是?你间什么问题我就答什么……” “那样就好，”阿迪克斯说。。只有几个问题了。梅耶拉小姐，我不说废话，你已经作证说被告打了你，掐了你的脖子，款侮了你。我想叫你肯定一下你没有弄错人。你认得出强奸你的人吗?” “能，就是他，在那儿。” 阿迪克斯向被告转过身。“汤姆，站起来，叫梅耶拉小姐把你看个清楚。是这个人吗，梅耶拉小姐?” 汤姆?鲁宾逊有力的肩头在衬衣下一起一伏。他站起来，用右手扶着椅子背，样子很怪，似乎站不稳。但这并不是他站的姿势造成的。他的左臂比右臂足足短了十二英寸，垂在一边，臂端是一只萎缩的小手，就是从楼座看台这么远的地方看去，我也能看出那只手什么也干不了。 “斯各特，”杰姆低声对我说，“斯各特，看!牧师，他是个残废!” 赛克斯牧师俯过身来，越过我对杰姆低声说：“他的手卷进了轧棉机，卷进了多尔佛斯?雷蒙德先生的轧棉机。那时他还是个孩子……血简直要流光了……肌肉全从骨头上扯了下来……” 阿迪克斯说：。是这个人强奸了你吗?” “当然，肯定是。” 阿迪克斯的下一个问题简单得只有一个词：“怎样?” 梅耶拉发火了。“他怎样干的我不知道，但他是千了的——我说过事情发生得太快了，我……” “那么现在，咱们冷静下来考虑一下这事吧……”阿迪克斯刚开始说，吉尔默先生就提出反对意见打断了他，他没说阿迪克斯说得离了题或者说得没有意义，而是说阿迪克斯在威胁证人。 听了这话，泰勒法官爽朗地笑起来了，“我说，坐下来，霍勒斯?吉尔默。他可没干那种事。如果这审判厅里有谁威胁谁的话，倒是证人在威胁阿迪克斯。” 整个大厅里，只有泰勒法官一个人在笑。连里面的婴儿也寂然无声，我忽然想到，他们是不是在他们妈妈的怀里憋死了。 “听着，”阿迪克斯说，“梅耶拉小姐，你作证说被告掐住你，打你——你没说他从背后悄悄走过来把你打昏，而是你转过身就看到他在面前……”阿迪克斯回到了桌子后头，用指关节在上面敲着以加重说话的分量，“……你愿对自己的证词重新考虑吗?” “你想叫我说没有的事吗?” “不，小姐，我想叫你说确确实实发生了的事。请再一次告诉我们，是怎么一回事。” “我早告诉了你是怎么一回事。” “你说你转身就看到他在跟前，然后就说他掐你的脖子?” “是酌。” “接着，他放开了你的脖子开始打你?” “我是这样说的。” “他用右手打青了你的左眼?” “我低头躲过了——拳头落空了，就是这么一回事。我低头一躲，拳头打在一边了。”梅耶拉最后明白过来了。 。在这点上你一下子就明白过来了。不久前你还记不太清楚，是不是?” “我早说过他打了我。” “好了。他掐了你的脖子，也打了你，接着强奸了你，是不是?” “当然，肯定是。” “你是个有力气的姑娘，那一阵你在干什么，光站在那儿吗?’ “我告诉你我大声喊了，用脚踢了，跟他对打了……” 阿迪克斯摘下眼镜，用他看得见的右眼盯着证人，一口气象放连珠炮似的问她一连串问题。泰勒法官说；“一个一个来，阿迪克斯。给证人回答的机会。” “好。你为什么不跑开?” “我想要……” “想要?为什么没有呢?” “我……他把我摔倒了。他把我掉倒后就把我压在身子下。” “你一直在喊叫?” “我当然在喊。” “那么为什么其他孩子没听到你喊?他们在哪儿?在垃圾场吗?” 没有回答。 “他们到底在哪儿?” “你的喊叫为什么没使他们跑过来?垃圾场比树林子近，对不对?” 没有回答。 “或者说，你直到在窗口看见了爸爸才喊起来?你直到那时才想到要喊叫，是不是?” 没有回答。 “你是首先因为看见你爸爸而不是因为看见汤姆?鲁宾逊才叫喊的吧?是不是这样?” 没有回答。 “是谁打了你?汤姆?鲁宾逊，还是你爸爸?” 投有回答。 “你爸爸在窗口看到的是什么?强奸罪呢，还是恰好不是这么回事?你为什么不说话，孩子，鲍勃?尤厄尔打了你吗?” 阿迪克斯从梅耶拉身边走开时，看上去好象是胃病发作了，而梅耶拉的表情虽既有恐惧也有愤怒。阿迪克斯疲倦地坐下，用手绢擦起眼镜来。 梅耶托突然说起话来了：“我有话要说。” 阿迪克斯抬起头。“你想告诉我们到底是怎么回事吗?” 但是她没听出他的期待中的怜悯之情。“我有话说，说过就不再说了。那边那个黑鬼欺侮了我。如果你们这些高贵的绅士不处理的话，那么你们这批人就都是卑鄙的胆小鬼，申酃的胆小鬼。你们高贵的假派头没有一点儿用——叫我‘小姐’和‘梅耶拉小姐’那一套没有用，芬奇先生……” 接着，她真哭了起来，肩膀随着气愤的抽泣不停地耸着。她真的说到做到，再没回答问题了。就是吉尔默先生想让她重新开口也没用。我猜，要不是她又穷又无知的话，泰勒法官肯定会因为她藐视法庭所有的人而把她送进监狱。不知怎的，阿迪克斯用了一种我不明白的方法伤了她的心。但他自己也并不愿意这样做。他耷拉着脑袋坐着。我从没见过任何人盯着别人时象梅耶拉离开证人席从阿迪克斯桌前走过时限睛里射出的那种强烈的仇视。 吉尔默先生告诉泰勒法官起诉一方证据提完了时，法官说：“是大伙儿都休息的时候了，休息十分钟。” 阿迪克斯和吉尔默先生在审判席前走到一起咬起耳朵来，接着，他们从证人席后的一扇门离开了审判厅。这是我们大家能够伸伸懒腰的信号。我发现自己一直坐在长凳的边缘上，有点儿发麻了。杰姆站起来，打了个呵欠，迪尔也一样，赛克新牧师用帽子擦了擦脑袋。他说气温起码华氏九十度。 布拉克斯顿?安德伍德先生在这以前一直安安静静地坐在一张专供记者用的椅子上，用他那什么都装得进的脑袋，海绵吸水般地把证词都吸了进去。这会儿，他那含着敌意的眼光往黑人楼厅上转了转，正碰上我的目光。他轻蔑地哼了一声便掉过头去。 “杰姆，”迪尔说，“安德伍德先生看见我们了；” “没关系，他不会告诉阿迪克斯，他只不过会在《梅科姆论坛报》的社会专栏里登上一条新闻。”杰姆对迪尔转过身，向他解释着，我猜是解释着有关审判的其他问题。但我不知道是些什么。阿迪克斯和吉尔默先生之间没就任何问题进行长时间的辩论}吉尔默先生好象是在勉勉强强地起诉，证人象驴子一样被牵着鼻子走，很少提出反对意见。不过，阿迪克斯对我说过，在泰勒法官的审判厅里，一个只会死死扣住证据作出解释的律师，通常要受到泰勒法官的严厉指责。他的意思概括起来就是，泰勒法官也许看上去懒洋洋的，似乎一边睡觉一边审判，但他的判决很少被上级法院推翻。这最能说明问题了。阿迪克斯说他是一个很不错的法官。 没过多久，泰勒法官回来了，又爬进了他的转椅。他从背心口袋里掏出一支雪茄，若有所思地把雪茄察看了一下。我碰了一下迪尔。那雪茄经过察看后，就被法官扎扎实实地嚼起来了。“我们有时特意看他嚼烟，”我解释说，“这一下午剩下的时间他会嚼个不停的。你等着瞧吧!”泰勒法官不知道头上有人注视着他，把雪茄烟头一口咬断，熟练地移到嘴唇边，“呸”的一声吐出去，恰恰吐进一个痰盂里，连里面水的泼溅声我们都听到了。“我想，用唾液弄湿纸团子吐到别人身上，一定是他过去的拿手好戏。”迪尔悄悄说了一句。 通常，一到休庭，就意味着大批人离去。可是今天谁也没有走动一下。甚至那些“闲人俱乐部”的人也靠着墙没动，坐在位子上的年轻人也没顾礼貌，谁也没有给他们让座。我想，赫克?塔特先生把县政府里的厕所都留给法院的官员们用了。 阿迪克斯和吉尔默先生回到审判厅来了，泰勒法官看了看表。“快四点了，”他说。这倒真有意思。法院钟楼里的钟一定至少报过两次时了，我没听到钟响，也没感觉到钟摆的震动。 “我们今天下午结束这个案子好吗'”泰勒法官说，“阿迪克斯，你看怎么样?” “我想可以的。”阿迪克斯说。 “你这一方有几个证人?” “一个。” “好吧，传他作证。” |
Chapter 19 Thomas Robinson reached around, ran his fingers under his left arm and lifted it. Heguided his arm to the Bible and his rubber-like left hand sought contact with the blackbinding. As he raised his right hand, the useless one slipped off the Bible and hit theclerk’s table. He was trying again when Judge Taylor growled, “That’ll do, Tom.” Tomtook the oath and stepped into the witness chair. Atticus very quickly induced him to tellus: Tom was twenty-five years of age; he was married with three children; he had been introuble with the law before: he once received thirty days for disorderly conduct. “It must have been disorderly,” said Atticus. “What did it consist of?” “Got in a fight with another man, he tried to cut me.” “Did he succeed?” “Yes suh, a little, not enough to hurt. You see, I—” Tom moved his left shoulder. “Yes,” said Atticus. “You were both convicted?” “Yes suh, I had to serve ‘cause I couldn’t pay the fine. Other fellow paid his’n.” Dill leaned across me and asked Jem what Atticus was doing. Jem said Atticus wasshowing the jury that Tom had nothing to hide. “Were you acquainted with Mayella Violet Ewell?” asked Atticus. “Yes suh, I had to pass her place goin‘ to and from the field every day.” “Whose field?” “I picks for Mr. Link Deas.” “Were you picking cotton in November?” “No suh, I works in his yard fall an‘ wintertime. I works pretty steady for him all yearround, he’s got a lot of pecan trees’n things.” “You say you had to pass the Ewell place to get to and from work. Is there any otherway to go?” “No suh, none’s I know of.” “Tom, did she ever speak to you?” “Why, yes suh, I’d tip m’hat when I’d go by, and one day she asked me to come insidethe fence and bust up a chiffarobe for her.” “When did she ask you to chop up the—the chiffarobe?” “Mr. Finch, it was way last spring. I remember it because it was choppin‘ time and Ihad my hoe with me. I said I didn’t have nothin’ but this hoe, but she said she had ahatchet. She give me the hatchet and I broke up the chiffarobe. She said, ‘I reckon I’llhafta give you a nickel, won’t I?’ an‘ I said, ’No ma’am, there ain’t no charge.‘ Then Iwent home. Mr. Finch, that was way last spring, way over a year ago.” “Did you ever go on the place again?” “Yes suh.” “When?” “Well, I went lots of times.” Judge Taylor instinctively reached for his gavel, but let his hand fall. The murmurbelow us died without his help. “Under what circumstances?” “Please, suh?” “Why did you go inside the fence lots of times?” Tom Robinson’s forehead relaxed. “She’d call me in, suh. Seemed like every time Ipassed by yonder she’d have some little somethin‘ for me to do—choppin’ kindlin‘, totin’ water for her. She watered them red flowers every day—” “Were you paid for your services?” “No suh, not after she offered me a nickel the first time. I was glad to do it, Mr. Ewelldidn’t seem to help her none, and neither did the chillun, and I knowed she didn’t haveno nickels to spare.” “Where were the other children?” “They was always around, all over the place. They’d watch me work, some of ‘em,some of ’em’d set in the window.” “Would Miss Mayella talk to you?” “Yes sir, she talked to me.” As Tom Robinson gave his testimony, it came to me that Mayella Ewell must havebeen the loneliest person in the world. She was even lonelier than Boo Radley, who hadnot been out of the house in twenty-five years. When Atticus asked had she any friends,she seemed not to know what he meant, then she thought he was making fun of her. She was as sad, I thought, as what Jem called a mixed child: white people wouldn’thave anything to do with her because she lived among pigs; Negroes wouldn’t haveanything to do with her because she was white. She couldn’t live like Mr. DolphusRaymond, who preferred the company of Negroes, because she didn’t own a riverbankand she wasn’t from a fine old family. Nobody said, “That’s just their way,” about theEwells. Maycomb gave them Christmas baskets, welfare money, and the back of itshand. Tom Robinson was probably the only person who was ever decent to her. But shesaid he took advantage of her, and when she stood up she looked at him as if he weredirt beneath her feet. “Did you ever,” Atticus interrupted my meditations, “at any time, go on the Ewellproperty—did you ever set foot on the Ewell property without an express invitation fromone of them?” “No suh, Mr. Finch, I never did. I wouldn’t do that, suh.” Atticus sometimes said that one way to tell whether a witness was lying or telling thetruth was to listen rather than watch: I applied his test—Tom denied it three times in onebreath, but quietly, with no hint of whining in his voice, and I found myself believing himin spite of his protesting too much. He seemed to be a respectable Negro, and arespectable Negro would never go up into somebody’s yard of his own volition. “Tom, what happened to you on the evening of November twenty-first of last year?” Below us, the spectators drew a collective breath and leaned forward. Behind us, theNegroes did the same. Tom was a black-velvet Negro, not shiny, but soft black velvet. The whites of his eyesshone in his face, and when he spoke we saw flashes of his teeth. If he had been whole,he would have been a fine specimen of a man. “Mr. Finch,” he said, “I was goin‘ home as usual that evenin’, an‘ when I passed theEwell place Miss Mayella were on the porch, like she said she were. It seemed realquiet like, an’ I didn’t quite know why. I was studyin‘ why, just passin’ by, when she saysfor me to come there and help her a minute. Well, I went inside the fence an‘ lookedaround for some kindlin’ to work on, but I didn’t see none, and she says, ‘Naw, I gotsomethin’ for you to do in the house. Th‘ old door’s off its hinges an’ fall’s comin‘ onpretty fast.’ I said you got a screwdriver, Miss Mayella? She said she sho‘ had. Well, Iwent up the steps an’ she motioned me to come inside, and I went in the front room an‘looked at the door. I said Miss Mayella, this door look all right. I pulled it back’n forth andthose hinges was all right. Then she shet the door in my face. Mr. Finch, I was wonderin’ why it was so quiet like, an‘ it come to me that there weren’t a chile on the place, not aone of ’em, and I said Miss Mayella, where the chillun?” Tom’s black velvet skin had begun to shine, and he ran his hand over his face. “I say where the chillun?” he continued, “an‘ she says—she was laughin’, sort of—shesays they all gone to town to get ice creams. She says, ‘took me a slap year to saveseb’m nickels, but I done it. They all gone to town.’” Tom’s discomfort was not from the humidity. “What did you say then, Tom?” askedAtticus. “I said somethin‘ like, why Miss Mayella, that’s right smart o’you to treat ’em. An‘ shesaid, ’You think so?‘ I don’t think she understood what I was thinkin’—I meant it wassmart of her to save like that, an‘ nice of her to treat em.” “I understand you, Tom. Go on,” said Atticus. “Well, I said I best be goin‘, I couldn’t do nothin’ for her, an‘ she says oh yes I could,an’ I ask her what, and she says to just step on that chair yonder an‘ git that box downfrom on top of the chiffarobe.” “Not the same chiffarobe you busted up?” asked Atticus. The witness smiled. “Naw suh, another one. Most as tall as the room. So I done whatshe told me, an‘ I was just reachin’ when the next thing I knows she—she’d grabbed meround the legs, grabbed me round th‘ legs, Mr. Finch. She scared me so bad I hoppeddown an’ turned the chair over—that was the only thing, only furniture, ‘sturbed in thatroom, Mr. Finch, when I left it. I swear ’fore God.” “What happened after you turned the chair over?” Tom Robinson had come to a dead stop. He glanced at Atticus, then at the jury, thenat Mr. Underwood sitting across the room. “Tom, you’re sworn to tell the whole truth. Will you tell it?” Tom ran his hand nervously over his mouth. “What happened after that?” “Answer the question,” said Judge Taylor. One-third of his cigar had vanished. “Mr. Finch, I got down offa that chair an‘ turned around an’ she sorta jumped on me.” “Jumped on you? Violently?” “No suh, she—she hugged me. She hugged me round the waist.” This time Judge Taylor’s gavel came down with a bang, and as it did the overheadlights went on in the courtroom. Darkness had not come, but the afternoon sun had leftthe windows. Judge Taylor quickly restored order. “Then what did she do?” The witness swallowed hard. “She reached up an‘ kissed me ’side of th‘ face. Shesays she never kissed a grown man before an’ she might as well kiss a nigger. Shesays what her papa do to her don’t count. She says, ‘Kiss me back, nigger.’ I say MissMayella lemme outa here an‘ tried to run but she got her back to the door an’ I’da had topush her. I didn’t wanta harm her, Mr. Finch, an‘ I say lemme pass, but just when I say itMr. Ewell yonder hollered through th’ window.” “What did he say?” Tom Robinson swallowed again, and his eyes widened. “Somethin‘ not fittin’ to say—not fittin‘ for these folks’n chillun to hear—” “What did he say, Tom? You must tell the jury what he said.” Tom Robinson shut his eyes tight. “He says you goddamn whore, I’ll kill ya.” “Then what happened?” “Mr. Finch, I was runnin‘ so fast I didn’t know what happened.” “Tom, did you rape Mayella Ewell?” “I did not, suh.” “Did you harm her in any way?” “I did not, suh.” “Did you resist her advances?” “Mr. Finch, I tried. I tried to ‘thout bein’ ugly to her. I didn’t wanta be ugly, I didn’t wantapush her or nothin‘.” It occurred to me that in their own way, Tom Robinson’s manners were as good asAtticus’s. Until my father explained it to me later, I did not understand the subtlety ofTom’s predicament: he would not have dared strike a white woman under anycircumstances and expect to live long, so he took the first opportunity to run—a suresign of guilt. “Tom, go back once more to Mr. Ewell,” said Atticus. “Did he say anything to you?” “Not anything, suh. He mighta said somethin‘, but I weren’t there—” “That’ll do,” Atticus cut in sharply. “What you did hear, who was he talking to?” “Mr. Finch, he were talkin‘ and lookin’ at Miss Mayella.” “Then you ran?” “I sho‘ did, suh.” “Why did you run?” “I was scared, suh.” “Why were you scared?” “Mr. Finch, if you was a nigger like me, you’d be scared, too.” Atticus sat down. Mr. Gilmer was making his way to the witness stand, but before hegot there Mr. Link Deas rose from the audience and announced: “I just want the whole lot of you to know one thing right now. That boy’s worked for meeight years an‘ I ain’t had a speck o’trouble outa him. Not a speck.” “Shut your mouth, sir!” Judge Taylor was wide awake and roaring. He was also pink inthe face. His speech was miraculously unimpaired by his cigar. “Link Deas,” he yelled,“if you have anything you want to say you can say it under oath and at the proper time,but until then you get out of this room, you hear me? Get out of this room, sir, you hearme? I’ll be damned if I’ll listen to this case again!” Judge Taylor looked daggers at Atticus, as if daring him to speak, but Atticus hadducked his head and was laughing into his lap. I remembered something he had saidabout Judge Taylor’s ex cathedra remarks sometimes exceeding his duty, but that fewlawyers ever did anything about them. I looked at Jem, but Jem shook his head. “It ain’tlike one of the jurymen got up and started talking,” he said. “I think it’d be different then. Mr. Link was just disturbin‘ the peace or something.” Judge Taylor told the reporter to expunge anything he happened to have written downafter Mr. Finch if you were a nigger like me you’d be scared too, and told the jury todisregard the interruption. He looked suspiciously down the middle aisle and waited, Isuppose, for Mr. Link Deas to effect total departure. Then he said, “Go ahead, Mr. Gilmer.” “You were given thirty days once for disorderly conduct, Robinson?” asked Mr. Gilmer. “Yes suh.” “What’d the nigger look like when you got through with him?” “He beat me, Mr. Gilmer.” “Yes, but you were convicted, weren’t you?” Atticus raised his head. “It was a misdemeanor and it’s in the record, Judge.” I thoughthe sounded tired. “Witness’ll answer, though,” said Judge Taylor, just as wearily. “Yes suh, I got thirty days.” I knew that Mr. Gilmer would sincerely tell the jury that anyone who was convicted ofdisorderly conduct could easily have had it in his heart to take advantage of MayellaEwell, that was the only reason he cared. Reasons like that helped. “Robinson, you’re pretty good at busting up chiffarobes and kindling with one hand,aren’t you?” “Yes, suh, I reckon so.” “Strong enough to choke the breath out of a woman and sling her to the floor?” “I never done that, suh.” “But you are strong enough to?” “I reckon so, suh.” “Had your eye on her a long time, hadn’t you, boy?” “No suh, I never looked at her.” “Then you were mighty polite to do all that chopping and hauling for her, weren’t you,boy?” “I was just tryin‘ to help her out, suh.” “That was mighty generous of you, you had chores at home after your regular work,didn’t you?” “Yes suh.” “Why didn’t you do them instead of Miss Ewell’s?” “I done ‘em both, suh.” “You must have been pretty busy. Why?” “Why what, suh?” “Why were you so anxious to do that woman’s chores?” Tom Robinson hesitated, searching for an answer. “Looked like she didn’t havenobody to help her, like I says—” “With Mr. Ewell and seven children on the place, boy?” “Well, I says it looked like they never help her none—” “You did all this chopping and work from sheer goodness, boy?” “Tried to help her, I says.” Mr. Gilmer smiled grimly at the jury. “You’re a mighty good fellow, it seems—did allthis for not one penny?” “Yes, suh. I felt right sorry for her, she seemed to try more’n the rest of ‘em—” “You felt sorry for her, you felt sorry for he?” Mr. Gilmer seemed ready to rise to theceiling. The witness realized his mistake and shifted uncomfortably in the chair. But thedamage was done. Below us, nobody liked Tom Robinson’s answer. Mr. Gilmer pauseda long time to let it sink in. “Now you went by the house as usual, last November twenty-first,” he said, “and sheasked you to come in and bust up a chiffarobe?” “No suh.” “Do you deny that you went by the house?” “No suh—she said she had somethin‘ for me to do inside the house—” “She says she asked you to bust up a chiffarobe, is that right?” “No suh, it ain’t.” “Then you say she’s lying, boy?” Atticus was on his feet, but Tom Robinson didn’t need him. “I don’t say she’s lyin‘, Mr. Gilmer, I say she’s mistaken in her mind.” To the next ten questions, as Mr. Gilmer reviewed Mayella’s version of events, thewitness’s steady answer was that she was mistaken in her mind. “Didn’t Mr. Ewell run you off the place, boy?” “No suh, I don’t think he did.” “Don’t think, what do you mean?” “I mean I didn’t stay long enough for him to run me off.” “You’re very candid about this, why did you run so fast?” “I says I was scared, suh.” “If you had a clear conscience, why were you scared?” “Like I says before, it weren’t safe for any nigger to be in a—fix like that.” “But you weren’t in a fix—you testified that you were resisting Miss Ewell. Were you soscared that she’d hurt you, you ran, a big buck like you?” “No suh, I’s scared I’d be in court, just like I am now.” “Scared of arrest, scared you’d have to face up to what you did?” “No suh, scared I’d hafta face up to what I didn’t do.” “Are you being impudent to me, boy?” “No suh, I didn’t go to be.” This was as much as I heard of Mr. Gilmer’s cross-examination, because Jem mademe take Dill out. For some reason Dill had started crying and couldn’t stop; quietly atfirst, then his sobs were heard by several people in the balcony. Jem said if I didn’t gowith him he’d make me, and Reverend Sykes said I’d better go, so I went. Dill hadseemed to be all right that day, nothing wrong with him, but I guessed he hadn’t fullyrecovered from running away. “Ain’t you feeling good?” I asked, when we reached the bottom of the stairs. Dill tried to pull himself together as we ran down the south steps. Mr. Link Deas was alonely figure on the top step. “Anything happenin‘, Scout?” he asked as we went by. “Nosir,” I answered over my shoulder. “Dill here, he’s sick.” “Come on out under the trees,” I said. “Heat got you, I expect.” We chose the fattestlive oak and we sat under it. “It was just him I couldn’t stand,” Dill said. “Who, Tom?” “That old Mr. Gilmer doin‘ him thataway, talking so hateful to him—” “Dill, that’s his job. Why, if we didn’t have prosecutors—well, we couldn’t have defenseattorneys, I reckon.” Dill exhaled patiently. “I know all that, Scout. It was the way he said it made me sick,plain sick.” “He’s supposed to act that way, Dill, he was cross—” “He didn’t act that way when—” “Dill, those were his own witnesses.” “Well, Mr. Finch didn’t act that way to Mayella and old man Ewell when he cross-examined them. The way that man called him ‘boy’ all the time an‘ sneered at him, an’ looked around at the jury every time he answered—” “Well, Dill, after all he’s just a Negro.” “I don’t care one speck. It ain’t right, somehow it ain’t right to do ‘em that way. Hasn’tanybody got any business talkin’ like that—it just makes me sick.” “That’s just Mr. Gilmer’s way, Dill, he does ‘em all that way. You’ve never seen him getgood’n down on one yet. Why, when—well, today Mr. Gilmer seemed to me like hewasn’t half trying. They do ’em all that way, most lawyers, I mean.” “Mr. Finch doesn’t.” “He’s not an example, Dill, he’s—” I was trying to grope in my memory for a sharpphrase of Miss Maudie Atkinson’s. I had it: “He’s the same in the courtroom as he is onthe public streets.” “That’s not what I mean,” said Dill. “I know what you mean, boy,” said a voice behind us. We thought it came from thetree-trunk, but it belonged to Mr. Dolphus Raymond. He peered around the trunk at us. “You aren’t thin-hided, it just makes you sick, doesn’t it?” 汤姆?鲁宾逊把右手绕到左边，伸着指头把左臂扶起，移向《圣经》。那橡皮般的左手好不容易挨到了《圣经》的黑色封皮。接着，他举起右手宣誓，可是不听话的左手却又从《圣经》上滑开，跌在书记员的桌子上。他想再扶起左臂，泰勒法官大声招呼说：“汤姆，就这样行了。”汤姆宣誓完毕，走入证人席。阿迪克斯很快从他嘴里问出了这些情况： 汤姆，二十五岁，已婚，有兰个小孩；犯有前科，因扰乱治安被拘留过三十天。 “想必是件违法的事。”阿迪克斯说，“具体是什么事呢?” “跟别人打架。那家伙用刀子捅我。” “捅到了没有?” “捅到了，先生。不过不厉害，伤不重。您看，我……”汤姆晃了晃左肩。 “嗯，”阿迪克斯说，“两人都判了罪?” “都判了，先生。我付不起罚款，只好遭监禁，那家伙付了罚款。 迪尔俯身过来，越过我问杰姆，阿迪克斯在干什么。杰姆说，阿迪克斯在设法让陪审团明白，汤姆什么也不隐瞒。 “你认识梅耶拉?维奥莱特?尤厄尔吗?”阿迪克斯问。 “认识，先生。我每天到地里去，从地里回来，都要打她家门口过。” “到谁的地里去?” “林克?迪斯先生的，我给他干活。” “你只是十一月替他摘棉花吗?” “不，先生，我秋天冬天都在他农场里干活。一年到头，工作比较稳定。他有很多山核桃树和其他庄稼。” “你说你每天干活来去都得经过尤厄尔家，有别的路可走吗?” “没有，先生，至少我不知道有别的路。” “汤姆，梅耶拉跟你说过话吗?” “呃，说过，先生。我经过时总是摸摸帽檐向她表示敬意。有一天，她叫我进她家的院子，帮她劈碎一个旧农柜当引火柴用。” “什么时候?” “芬奇先生，那还是去年春上的事。我记得这个时间，因为那时正是锄草季节，我带着把锄头。我对她说，除了锄头我什么工具也没有。她说，她有一把斧头。于是，她把斧头给我，我就帮她把那衣柜给劈碎了。她说：‘我想我应该给你五分钱，是吗?’我说：‘不用，小姐，不用给钱。’然后我就回家了。芬奇先生，那还是去年春上的事，到现在有一年多了。” “你后来又到她院子里去过没有?” “去过，先生。” “什么时候。” “哦，去了很多次。” 泰勒法官本能地伸手去拿他的小木槌，但又把手放下了。底下人群中嗡嗡的嘈杂声用不着他费神就自动平息了。 “是在什么情况下进去的?” “您说什么，先生?” “你为什么多次进入她家的院子?” 汤姆?鲁宾逊的前额松弛下来。“她常叫我进去，先生。每次我打那儿过，她好象总有点什么小事叫我做——劈引火柴啦，打水啦。她每天都浇那些红花。” “你帮她做这些事情，她给报酬吗?” 。没有，先生。从她第一次提出要给我五分钱被推辞后，她再也没有说过给报酬了。我高兴帮她的忙。尤厄尔先生好象不帮她一点儿忙，她的弟弟妹妹也不帮她的忙；我知道她没有多余的钱。”． “她弟弟妹妹在哪儿?” “总是在四周，在院子里到处玩耍。有的看着我干活，有的坐在窗予上。” “你帮着千活时，梅耶拉小姐跟你说话吗?” “说，先生。她常跟我说话。” 汤姆?鲁宾逊提供证词时，我突然感到，梅耶拉?尤厄尔一定是世界上最感寂寞的人，比二十五年未出房门的布?拉德利还要感到寂寞些。阿迪克斯问她有没有朋友时，她开始仿佛不懂他问的是什么，后来又以为他在奚落她。我想，她一定很不快乐，就象杰姆说的那混血儿一样：自人不想与她打交道，因为她与猪猡一般的人住在一起}黑人不敢与她打交道，因为她是白人。她不能象多尔佛斯?雷蒙德先生——一个喜欢与黑人交往的人那样生活，因为她既不拥有一条河岸的家产，也不是出身于名门望族。谈到尤厄尔家时，人们不屑于捉及他们家的生活方式。梅科姆镇给他们家提供福利费以及其他的帮助，圣诞节时还用篮子给他们送食品。可能只有汤姆?鲁宾逊一个人对梅耶拉小姐彬彬有礼。但是，她说他欺侮她，她站起来看着他时，好象是看着脚下的一堆尘土。 “你是否曾经进入尤厄尔家的院子……”阿迪克斯打断了我的沉思，“是否曾经在没有她家任何人明确邀请的情况下进了她家的院子?” “没有，芬奇先生，从来没有。我不会那样的，先生。” 阿迪克斯说过，要想辨别一个证人说真话还是说假话，最好是听而不是看。我采用了他的辨别方法。汤姆一口气否认了三次，但是声音很平静，一点也不带抱怨的口吻。我发现尽管他为自己辩护太多，我仍然相信他。他这个黑人似乎值得尊敬，一个值得尊敬的黑人是不会擅自跑到人家院子里去的。 “汤姆，去年11月21日晚上你碰上了什么事?” 我们下面大厅里的听众都不约而同地吸了口气，同时身子向前倾。我们后面的黑人听众也是这样。 汤姆的皮肤黝黑光滑，但并不发亮，而是十分柔和。白眼珠子与黑色的脸庞形成对照，显得格外明朗；说话时，闪闪地露出洁白的牙齿。要是左臂没有残废，他简直是个标准的男子汉。 “芬奇先生，”他说，“那天傍晚我象往常一样干完活回家去，经过尤厄尔家时，梅耶拉小姐象她自己说的那样，站在走廊上。那会儿真静，我不知道为什么会这么静，正在感到奇怪，突然听见她叫我，要我过去帮她一会儿忙。我进了院子，到处看了看，想找点柴火劈，但是没有。她说：‘我有点事要请你到屋里去做。那张旧门的合页脱了，寒冷的天气就要来了。’我说，‘你有没有螺丝起子，梅耶拉小姐?’她说她有一把。于是我走上台阶。她示意要我进去。我进了前屋，转身看了看门。我说，‘梅耶拉小姐，这门挺好的啊。’我把门拉开又关上，那些合页都没有脱落。然后她把门关上了。芬奇先生，我当时感到奇怪，为什么四周那么安静，我发现院子里没有一个小孩，一个都没有。我就问：‘梅耶拉小姐，你的弟弟妹妹哪儿去了?” 汤姆黝黑柔软的皮肤显得光亮起来了，他的手在脸上抹了一下。 “我问她弟弟妹妹都上哪儿去了。”汤姆继续说，“她说——一边说还一边笑出点声来——她说，他们都进城买冰淇淋去了。还说，她攒了整整一年，总算攒了七个五分的硬币，好让他们去吃冰淇淋。他们都去了。” 汤姆感到局促不安，但不是因为屋子里太潮湿。 。你后来怎么说的呢，汤姆?”阿迪克斯问。 “我说的大概是：真的，梅耶拉小姐，您买东西给他们吃，您真好啊。她说。‘你真这样想吗?’我想，她不知道我的意思，我是想说，她这个人好，攒下钱来给弟弟妹妹用。” “我懂你的意思，汤姆。继续说吧。”阿迪克斯说。 。嗯，我说我最好走吧，因为她没有什么事要我做。她说，哦，有事，我问她什么事，她要我踩到椅子上把搁在衣柜顶上的箱子拿下来。” “不是你帮她劈碎了的那个衣柜吧?”阿迪克斯问。 证人脸上露出一丝微笑。“不是的，先生，是另外一个，这一个几乎跟天花板一样高。我照她的吩咐，踏上椅子，正要伸手去拿，突然，她……她抱住我的双腿，抱住我的双腿，芬奇先生。我当时吓得要命，从椅子上跳了下来，把椅子给蹬翻了……芬奇先生，那是我离开时房子里唯一被移动过的东西，唯一移动了的家具。我可以在上帝面前发誓。” “椅子打翻后怎么样?。 汤姆?鲁宾逊闭住嘴不说话了。他望了望阿迪克斯，望了望陪审团，又望了望坐在对面的安德伍德先生。 “汤姆，你发过哲要一五一十说出真情，是吗?’ 汤姆紧张地用手捂着嘴巴。 “后来怎么样?” “请回答!”泰勒法官说。他手中的雪茄己减短了三分之一。 “芬奇先生，我从椅子上下来，转过身，她差不多是向我扑了过来。” “凶狠地扑过来的吗?” “不，先生，她……她抱住我。她紧紧抱着我的腰。” 这一次，泰勒法官“砰”地一声敲响了木槌，审判厅顶上的灯随着响声全部亮了起来。夜幕还没有降临，但夕阳的余辉已告别了窗户。泰勒法官迅速地使大家重新安定下来。 “她后来又怎么样?” 证人使劲地咽了一下。“她踮起脚来，吻了我的脸。她说她从来没有吻过一个成年男人，即使吻一个黑鬼也愿意。她说，跟她爸爸接的吻算不得什么吻。她说：‘你也吻我一下吧，黑鬼。’我说：‘梅耶拉小姐，让我出去吧。’我想跑出去，但她死死地用背顶着门，我得把她推开才行。芬奇先生，我不想伤害她，我说，‘让我出去吧。’正在这时，尤厄尔先生在窗外叫了起来。” “他叫什么来着?” 汤姆?鲁宾逊又使劲咽了一下，睁大了眼睛。“叫了些说不出口的话，不便说给这些大人和小孩昕……” “他叫了些什么，汤姆?你一定要告诉陪审团，他叫了些什么。” 汤姆?鲁宾逊紧紧闭住双眼。“他说，你这该死的婊子，我宰了你。” “后来怎样?” “芬奇先生，我拼命地跑，不知道后来怎样了。。 “汤姆，你奸污了梅耶拉?尤厄尔吗?” “没有，先生。” “你对她有什么伤害吗?” “没有，先生。” “对她的主动行为你抵制了吗?” “芬奇先生，我极力抵制了。我一方面抵制她，一方面叉不想伤害她。我不喜欢对别人无礼。我不想推搡她或怎么的。” 我突然觉得，汤姆?鲁宾逊跟阿迪克斯一样懂礼貌，只不过各有各的做法。要不是后来爸爸向我解释，我还不知道搦姆所处的为难境地：要是他还想活下去，在任何情况下也不能打一个自人妇女，因此，一有机会他撒腿就跑——而这正是犯罪的确证。 “汤姆，再谈尤厄尔先生。”阿迪克斯说，“他对你说了什么没有?” “没说什么，先生。他后来可能说了什么，可我已经跑了……” “好了，”阿迪克斯打断他的话说，“就谈你听到的，他当时是对谁说话?” “芬奇先生，他是对梅耶拉小姐说话，眼睛也是瞪着她的。” “你立刻跑了吗?” “当然，先生。” ‘为什么要跑?” “我害怕了，先生。” “怕什么?” “芬奇先生，要是您象我一样是个黑鬼的话，也会害怕的。” 阿迪克斯坐下来。吉尔默先生正走向证人席，但没等他走到，林克?迪斯先生就从人群中站起来大声说： “现在，我想让这里所有的人都明白一件事：汤姆这孩子给我千了八年活，从米没有惹过一点麻烦，一丁点儿都没有。” “给我闭嘴，先生!”泰勒法官睁大两眼吼了起来，满面怒容，说话时嘴里的雪茄烟竟然一点也不碍事。“林克?迪斯，”他高声叫道，“有话可以宣誓后再说，该你说的时候再说，现在你给我出去。听见没有?先生，别呆在这里．出去！听见设有?我真不想办理这个案子了！” 泰勒法官向阿迪克斯怒目而视，似乎看他敢不敢说话。可是，阿迪克新只是低下脑袋笑。我记得他说过，有时候泰勒法官的权威性发言超越了他的职责范围，可是律师中间几乎毁有谁在意过他过火的话。我瞅着杰姆，杰姆摇摇头说：“林克先生不象一个陪审员那样，可以起来发言。我想如果是一介陪审员发言，就不会这样。林克先生是扰乱了秩序。或者别的什么。” 泰勒法官吩咐记录把。芬奇先生，要是您象我一样是个黑鬼的话，也会害怕的”之后所有的话都去掉；又对陪审团说，对这个打岔不要理睬。他用疑问的眼光扫向下面中间的过道，挠想，他是要等林克?迪斯真正离开。然后他说：“您说吧，吉尔默先生。” “你因扰乱治安被监禁过三十天吗，鲁宾逊?”吉尔默先生问。 “是的，先生。” 。你们的案子了结时，那个黑鬼又怎么样?” “他打了我，吉尔默先生。” “是的-但是你被判了罪，是吗?” 阿迪克斯抬起头来。“那是个小过失，已经记录在案，法胄。”我觉得他声音带有倦意。 “但是，证人仍该回答。”泰勒法官说，声音听来同样带有倦意。 “是的，先生，我被监禁了三十天。。 我知道，吉尔默先生想使陪审团完全相信，既然汤姆因扰乱治安判过罪，就很可能怀有要欺侮梅耶拉?尤厄尔的坏心眼。他关心的只是这个理由，这类理由是起作用的。 “鲁宾逊，你光用一只手就完全能劈碎衣柜和引火柴，是吗?” “是的，先生，我想是的。” “你身强力壮，能够掐住一个女人的脖子并把她摔倒在地，是吗?” “从来没有千过那样的事儿，先生。” “但是你力气大得能做到这一步，是吗?” “我想可以，先生。” “你早盯住她了，是吗，小伙子?” “没有，先生，我连看也没有看过她一眼。” “那么说，你帮她劈柴打水全是出于一片好心，是吗?” “我只是帮助她一下，先生。” “你可真有副好心肠。下工后，你家里也有家务事，是吗，小伙子?” “是的，先生。” “为什么帮尤厄尔小姐做事，而不做自己家里的事呢?” “都做，先生。” “你一定非常忙。为什么?” “什么事情为什么，先生?” “你为什么这么急切地替那个女人做家务?” 汤姆?鲁宾逊踌躇了一下，在脑子里寻找答案。“看见她没有人帮忙，就象我蜕的……” “还有尤厄尔先牛和七个小孩呢，小伙子?” “嗯，我说过，他们好象从不帮她的忙。” “你帮助她劈柴、干活，纯粹是出于好心吗，小伙子?” “只是想帮助她，我已经说过了。” 吉尔默先生朝陪审团冷酷地笑了一下。“这么说，你真是个了不起的好人——干了那么多活，一分钱也没拿吗?” “是的，先生。我很可怜她。她比她家的其他人多做很多事。” “你可怜她?你可怜她?”吉尔默先生象是要冲到天花板上去了。 证人意识到自己说漏了嘴，在椅子上不安地挪动着身子。但是错误却不可挽回了。下面的观众没有人满意汤姆-鲁宾逊这个回答。吉尔默先生停顿了很久，让这印象在大家脑子里扎下根来。 “听着，去年11月21日，你象往常一样经过她家，”他说，“她叫你进屋去劈碎一个衣柜，对吗?” “不对，先生。” “你否认那天经过她家吗?” “不否认，先生……她说她有点事要我到屋里去做……” “她说要你劈碎一个衣柜，是吗?” “不是，先生，不是这样。” “那么，你说她在撒谎，是吗，小伙子?” 阿迪克斯站了起来，但是汤姆?鲁宾逊不需要他帮助，他回答说：“我不是说她撒谎，我是说她弄错了，吉尔默先生。” 吉尔默先生把梅耶拉叙述的情况重复了一遍，提出了十个问题，证人一一回答说，是她弄错了。 “你是被尤厄尔先生撵走的吗，小伙子?” “不是的，先生。我想不是。” “你想不是?什么意思?” “我是说，我没有等到他来撵我就跑了。” “这一点你倒十分老实，你为什么要跑得那么快?” “我蜕过我害怕，先生。” “没做亏心事，怎么会害怕呢?” “我说过了，任何黑鬼处于那样的困境部不安全，” “但是，你并没有处于困境——你说你当时在抵制尤厄尔小姐的主动行为。你难道这么害怕，怕她伤害你，于是就跑吗，你这么火的个子?” “不是，先生，我是怕．E法庭，就象我现在这样。” “怕被逮捕，怕受到对你犯下的罪行的指控?” “不，先生，我怕受到对我没有犯过的罪行的指控。” “你敢这样对我无礼吗，小伙子?”． “没有，先生，我不打算对您无礼。” 吉尔默先生的盘问，我只听了这些，因为杰姆要我带迪尔出去。不知怎的，迪尔哭起来了。并且哭个不停。开始是小声啜泣，后来啜泣声越来越大，看台上有好几个人都听见了。杰姆说．即使我不愿意也非得带他出去不可。赛克斯牧师也劝我带他出去一会儿，于是我就出去了。那一天，迪尔本来一直显得很好，没有仆么不舒服，不过，我心想，他也许是从家里逃出来后，还没有完全恢复过来。 “不舒服吗?”我们下完楼梯时我问他。 我们飞快地跑F南面的台阶时，迪尔极力使自己平静下来。林克?迪斯孤独的身影伫立在台阶顶上。“发生了什么事吗，斯各特?”我们打他身旁过时他问道。“没有，先生。”我掉过头答道，“迪尔在这儿，他病了。” “来吧，到这树底下来，”我招呼迪尔，“是受了热了，我想。”我们挑了一棵最粗大繁茂的橡树，坐在下面。 “我就是忍受不了他。”迪尔说。 “谁?汤姆吗?” “吉尔默那老家伙，那样对待他，那样恶狠狠地问他……” “迪尔，那是他的工作啊。没有起诉人，我想，我们就不会有辩护律师了。” 迪尔慢慢地呼了口气，说：“这我知道，斯各特，只是他讲话的神气使我感到恶心，实在恶心得很。” “他理所当然地要用那种神气说话，迪尔，他是在盘问……”． “他先前怎么不是那种神气?那时他……” “迪尔，先前那些人是他自己那边的证人啊。” “哼，芬奇先生盘问梅耶拉和老尤厄尔时可不是那副模样。口口声声叫人家‘小伙子’，可又讥笑人家，每次人家回答，他就转身看着陪审团……” “唉，迪尔，不管怎么说，汤姆毕竟是黑人啊。” “我才不管什么黑人自人的。这不合理，这样对待黑人就是不台理。任何人也没有权利用那种神态说话一真使我恶心。。 “吉尔默先生就是那样，迪尔，他总是那样对待黑人。你还从来没见过他真正对谁发脾气。他呀，有时候……唉，今天，在我看来他还不怎么凶呢。他们都是那样对待黑人，我说的是大多数律师。” “芬奇先生不是那样。” “不能拿他作例子，迪尔，他……”我极力在记忆里搜索一句莫迫?阿特金森说过的尖刻的话，终于找到了：“他在审判厅里与在大街上都一个样。” “我不是指这个。”迪尔说。 “我知道你是指什么，孩子。”我们身后传来一个声音。我们以为是从树上来的，但不是，是多尔佛斯?雷蒙德先生在说话。他在树干后面探头看着我们。“你很容易动感情，那神态使你恶心，是吗?” |
