Indian Camp
By Ernest Hemingway
At the lake shore there was another rowboat drawn up. The two Indians stood waiting.
Nick and his father got in the stern of the boat and the Indians shoved it off and one of them got in to row. Uncle George sat in the stern of the camp rowboat. The young Indian shoved the camp boat off and got in to row Uncle George.
The two boats started off in the dark. Nick heard the oarlocks of the other boat quite a way ahead of them in the mist. The Indians rowed with quick choppy strokes. Nick lay back with his father’s arm around him. It was cold on the water. The Indian who was rowing them was working very hard, but the other boat moved farther ahead in the mist all the time.
“Where are we going, Dad?” Nick asked.
“Over to the Indian camp. There is an Indian lady very sick.”
“Oh,” said Nick.
Across the bay they found the other boat beached. Uncle George was smoking a cigar in the dark. The young Indian pulled the boat way up the beach. Uncle George gave both the Indians cigars.
They walked up from the beach through a meadow that was soaking wet with dew, following the young Indian who carried a lantern. Then they went into the woods and followed a trail that led to the logging road that ran back into the hills. It was much lighter on the logging road as the timber was cut away on both sides. The young Indian stopped and blew out his lantern and they all walked on along the road.
They came around a bend and a dog came out barking. Ahead were the lights of the shanties where the Indian barkpeelers lived. More dogs rushed out at them. The two Indians sent them back to the shanties. In the shanty nearest the road there was a light in the window. An old woman stood in the doorway holding a lamp.
Inside on a wooden bunk lay a young Indian woman. She had been trying to have her baby for two days. All the old women in the camp had been helping her. The men had moved off up the road to sit in the dark and smoke out of range of the noise she made. She screamed just as Nick and the two Indians followed his father and Uncle George into the shanty. She lay in the lower bunk, very big under a quilt. Her head was turned to one side. In the upper bunk was her husband. He had cut his foot very badly with an ax three days before. He was smoking a pipe. The room smelled very bad.
Nick’s father ordered some water to be put on the stove, and while it was heating he spoke to Nick.
“This lady is going to have a baby, Nick,” he said.
“I know,” said Nick.
“You don’t know,” said his father. “Listen to me. What she is going through is called being in labor. The baby wants to be born and she wants it to be born. All her muscles are trying to get the baby born. That is what is happening when she screams.”
“I see,” Nick said.
Just then the woman cried out.
“Oh Daddy, can’t you give her something to make her stop screaming?” asked Nick.
“No. I haven’t any anesthetic,” his father said. “But her screams are not important. I don’t hear
them because they are not important.”
The husband in the upper bunk rolled over against the wall.
The woman in the kitchen motioned to the doctor that the water was hot. Nick’s father went into the kitchen and poured about half of the water out of the big kettle into a basin. Into the water left in the kettle he put several things he unwrapped from a handkerchief.
“Those must boil,” he said, and began to scrub his hands in the basin of hot water with a cake of soap he had brought from the camp. Nick watched his father’s hands scrubbing each other with the soap. While his father washed his hands very carefully and thoroughly, he talked.
“You see, Nick, babies are supposed to be born head first but sometimes they’re not. When th ey’re not they make a lot of trouble for everybody. Maybe I’ll have to operate on this lady. We’ll know in a little while.”
When he was satisfied with his hands he went in and went to work.
“Pull back that quilt, will you, George?” he said. “I’d rather not touch it.”
Later when he started to operate Uncle George and three Indian men held the woman still. She bit Uncle George on the arm and Uncle George said, “Damn squaw bitch!” and the young Indian who had rowed Uncle George over laughed at him. Nick held the basin for his father. It all took a long time.
His father picked the baby up and slapped it to make it breathe and handed it to the old woman.
“See, it’s a boy, Nick,” he said. “How do you like being an intern?”
Nick said, “All right.” H e was looking away so as not to see what his father was doing.
“There. That gets it,” said his father and put something into the basin.
Nick didn’t look at it.
“Now,” his father said, “there’s some stitches to put in. You can watch this or not, Nick, just as you like. I’m going to sew up the incision I made.”
Nick did not watch. His curiosity had been gone for a long time.
His father finished and stood up. Uncle George and the three Indian men stood up. Nick put the basin out in the kitchen.
Uncle George looked at his arm. The young Indian smiled reminiscently.
“I’ll put some peroxide on that, George,” the doctor said.
He bent over the Indian woman. She was quiet now and her eyes were closed. She looked very pale. She did not know what had become of the baby or anything.
“I’ll be back in the morning,” the doctor said, standing up. “The nurse should be here from St. Ignace by noon and she’ll bring everything we need.”
He was feeling exalted and talkative as football players are in the dressing room after a game.
“That’s one for the medical journal, George,” he said. “Doing a Caesarian with a jackknife and sewing it up with nine-foot, tapered gut leaders.”
Uncle George was standing against the wall, looking at his arm.
“Oh, you’re a great man, all right,” he said.
“Ought to have a look at the proud father. They’re usually the worst sufferers in these little affairs,” the doctor said. “I must say he took it all pretty quietly.”
He pulled back the blanket from the Indi an’s head. His hand came away wet. He mounted on the edge of the lower bunk with the lamp in one hand and looked in. The Indian lay with his face toward the wall. His throat had been cut from ear to ear. The blood had flowed down into a pool
where his body sagged the bunk. His head rested on his left arm. The open razor lay, edge up, in the blankets.
“Take Nick out of the shanty, George,” the doctor said.
There was no need of that. Nick standing in the door of the kitchen, had a good view of the uppe r bunk when his father, the lamp in one hand, tipped the Indian’s head back.
It was just beginning to be daylight when they walked along the logging road back toward the lake.
“I’m terribly sorry I brought you along, Nickie,”said his father, all his postoperative exhilaration gone. “It was an awful mess to put you through.”
“Do ladies always have such a hard time having babies?” Nick asked.
“No, that was very, very exceptional.”
“Why did he kill himself, Daddy?”
“I don’t know, Nick. He couldn’t stand things, I guess.”
Do many men kill themselves, Daddy?”
“Not very many, Nick.”
“Do many women?”
“Hardly ever.”
“Don’t they ever?”
“Oh, yes. They do sometimes.”
“Daddy?”
“Yes.”
“Where did Uncle George go?”
“He’ll turn up all right.”
“Is dying hard, Daddy?”
“No, I think it’s pretty easy, Nick. It all depends.”
They were seated in the boat, Nick in the stern, his father rowing. The sun was coming up over the hills. A bass jumped, making a circle in the water. Nick trailed his hand in the water. It felt warm in the sharp chill of the morning.
In the early morning on the lake sitting in the stern of the boat with his father rowing, he felt quite sure that he would never die.
印第安营地
又一条划船拉上了湖岸。两个印第安人站在湖边等待着。
尼克和他的父亲跨进了船梢，两个印第安人把船推下水去，其中一个跳上船去划桨。乔治大叔坐在营船的尾部。那年轻的一个把营船推下了水，随即跳进去给乔治大叔划船。
两条船在黑暗中划出去。在浓雾里，尼克听到远远地在前面传来另一条船的桨架的声响。两个印第安人一桨接一桨，不停地划着，掀起了一阵阵水波。尼克躺倒下去，偎在父亲的胳膊里。湖面上很冷。给他们划船的那个印第安人使出了大劲，但是另一条船在雾里始终划在前面，而且越来越赶到前面去了。
"上哪儿去呀，爸爸？"尼克问道。
"上那边印第安人营地去。有一位印第安妇女病势很重。"
"噢，"尼克应道。
划到海湾的对岸，他们发现那另一条船已靠岸了。乔治大叔正在黑暗中抽雪茄烟。那年轻的印第安人把船推上了沙滩。乔治大叔给两个印第安人每人一支雪茄烟。
他们从沙滩走上去，穿过一片露水浸湿的草坪，跟着那个年轻的印第安人走，他手里拿
一盏提灯。接着他们进入了林子，沿着一条羊肠小道走去，小道的尽头就是一条伐木的大路。这条路向小山那边折去，到了这里就明亮得多，因为两旁的树木都已砍掉了。年轻的印第安人立停了，吹灭了提灯，他们一起沿着伐木大路往前走去。
他们绕过了一道弯，有一只狗汪汪地叫着，奔出来。前面，从剥树皮的印第安人住的棚屋里，有灯光透出来，又有几只狗向他们扑过来了。两个印第安人把这几只狗都打发回棚屋去。最靠近路边的棚屋有灯光从窗口透射出来。一个老婆子提着灯站在门口。
屋里，木板床上躺着一个年轻的印第安妇女。她正在生孩子，已经两天了，孩子还生不下来。营里的老年妇女都来帮助她、照应她。男人们跑到了路上，直跑到再听不见她叫喊的地方，在黑暗中坐下来抽烟。尼克，还有两个印第安人，跟着他爸爸和乔治大叔走进棚屋时，她正好又尖声直叫起来。她躺在双层床的下铺，盖着被子，肚子鼓得高高的。她的头侧向一边。上铺躺着她的丈夫。三天以前，他把自己的腿给砍伤了，是斧头砍的，伤势很不轻。他正在抽板烟，屋子里一股烟味。
尼克的父亲叫人放些水在炉子上烧，在烧水时，他就跟尼克说话。
"这位太太快生孩子了，尼克，"他说。
"我知道，"尼克说。
"你并不知道，"父亲说。"听我说吧。她现在正在忍受的叫阵痛。婴孩要生下来，她要把婴孩生下来。她全身肌肉都在用劲要把婴孩生下来。方才她大声直叫就是这么回事。"
"我明白了，"尼克说道。
正在这时候，产妇又叫了起来。
"噢，爸爸，你不能给她吃点什么，好让她不这么直叫吗？"尼克问道。
"不行，我没有带麻药，"他的父亲说道。"不过让她去叫吧，没关系。我听不见，反正她叫不叫没关系。"
那做丈夫的在上铺翻了个身面向着墙壁。
厨房间里那个妇女向大夫做了个手势，表示水热了。尼克的父亲走进厨房，把大壶里的水倒了一半光景在盆里。然后他解开手帕，拿出一点药来放在壶里剩下的水里。
"这半壶水要烧开，"他说着，就用营里带来的肥皂在一盆热水里把手洗擦了一番。尼克望着父亲的满是肥皂的双手互相擦了又擦。他父亲一面小心地把双手洗得干干净净，一面说道：
"你瞧，尼克，按理说，小孩出生时头先出来，但有时却并不这样。不是头先出来。那就要给大家添不少麻烦了。说不定我要给这位女士动手术呢。等会儿就可以知道了。"
大夫认为自己的一双手已经洗干净了，于是他进去准备接生了。
"把被子掀开好吗，乔治？"他说。"我最好不碰它。"
过一会儿，他要动手术了。乔治大叔和三个印第安男人按住了产妇，不让她动。她咬了乔治大叔的手臂，乔治大叔说："该死的臭婆娘！"那个给乔治大叔划船的年轻的印第安人听了就笑他。尼克给他父亲端着盆，手术做了好长一段时间。
他父亲拎起了孩子，拍拍他，让他透过气来，然后把他递给了那个老妇人。
"瞧，是个男孩，尼克，"他说道。"做个实习大夫，你觉得怎么样？"
尼克说，"还行。"他把头转过去，不敢看他父亲在干什么。
"好吧，这就可以啦，"他父亲说着，把什么东西放进了盆里。
尼克看也不去看一下。
"现在，"他父亲说，"要缝上几针，看不看随便你，尼克。我要把切开的口子缝起来。"
尼克没有看。他的好奇心早就没有了。
他父亲做完手术，站起身来。乔治大叔和那三个印第安男人也站立起来。尼克把盆端到厨房去。
乔治大叔看看自己的手臂。那个年轻的印第安人想起什么，笑了起来。
"我要在你那伤口上放些过氧化物，乔治，"大夫说。
他弯下腰去看看印第安产妇，这会儿她安静下来了，她眼睛紧闭，脸色灰白。孩子怎么样，她不知道--她什么都不知道。
"一清早我就回去，"大夫站起身来说。"到中午时分会有护士从圣依格那斯来，我们需要些什么东西她都会带来。"
这当儿，他的劲头来了，喜欢说话了，就象一场比赛后足球运动员在更衣室里的那股得意劲儿。
"这个手术真可以上医药杂志了，乔治，"他说。"用一把大折刀做剖腹产手术，再用九英尺长的细肠线缝起来。"
乔治大叔靠墙站着，看着自己的手臂。
"噢，你是个了不起的人物，没错的。"他说道。
"该去看看那个洋洋得意的爸爸了。在这些小事情上做爸爸的往往最痛苦，"大夫说。"我得说，他倒是真能沉得住气。"
他把蒙着那个印第安人的头的毯子揭开来。他这么往上一揭，手湿漉漉的。他踏着下铺的床边，一只手提着灯，往上铺一看，只见那印第安人脸朝墙躺着。他的脖子贴两个耳根割开了一道大口子。鲜血直冒，使躺在床铺上的尸体全汪在血泊里。
他的头枕在左臂上。一把剃刀打开着，锋口朝上，掉在毯子上。
"快把尼克带出棚屋去，乔治，"大夫说。
其实用不到多此一举了。尼克正好在厨房门口，把上铺看得清清楚楚，那时他父亲正一手提着灯，一手把那个印第安人的脑袋轻轻推过去。
父子两个沿着伐木道走回湖边的时候，天刚刚有点亮。
"这次我真不该带你来，尼克，"父亲说，他做了手术后的那种得意的劲儿全没了。"真是糟透了--拖你来从头看到底。"
"女人生孩子都得受这么大罪吗？"尼克问道。
"不，这是很少、很少见的例外。"
"他干吗要自杀呀，爸爸？"
"我说不出，尼克。他这人受不了一点什么的，我猜想。"
"自杀的男人有很多吗，爸爸？"
"不太多，尼克。"
"女人呢，多不多？"
"难得有。"
"有没有呢？"
"噢，有的。有时候也有。"
"爸爸？"
"是呀。"
"乔治大叔上哪儿去呀？"
"他会来的，没关系。"
"死，难不难？爸爸？"
"不，我想死是很容易的吧。尼克。要看情况。"
他们上了船，坐了下来，尼克在船梢，他父亲划桨。太阳正从山那边升起来。一条鲈鱼跳出水面，在水面上弄出一个水圈。尼克把手伸进水里，让手跟船一起在水里滑过去。清早，真是冷飕飕的，水里倒是很温暖。
清早，在湖面上，尼克坐在船梢，他父亲划着船，他满有把握地相信他永远不会死。
Indian Camp
Death is one of the themes of The Indian Camp. “It’s the abstract concept which is made concrete through it representation in character, action and image in the work.”(Page361, Line2-3) With the death in The Indian Camp represented through a child—Nick, the whole story is not only full of fear, but also cloaked in mystery.
The character of Nick is represented by action, dialogue and descprtion.(Page338—
Characterisation) Nick is the image who is sensitive, innocent and has strong curiosity.
At first, he with his father steps in the Indian camp and witnesses the hard birth of the Indian woman. Though the little boy’s eyes, Hemingway shows the readers the suffering and countless pain of birth. Because Nick asks his father to stop the screaming and looks away so as not to see what his father is doing. And then, Nick standing in the room sees the suicide of the Indian man. The death of the man is too bloody, cruel for a young child. However Nick does not be scared by the bloody scene. When he is on the way with his father, he asks the questions about suicide of man and woman in a tone of calm. The description of death with a few words written by Hemingway is plain and simple, but do give a strong hit on the emotion of the readers. Without a doubt, birth is difficult while death is easy is one information what Hemingway wants to tell us. But, “iceberg”technique is the most distinguished artistic achievement of Hemingway. (Page111, Line2) This angle of the theme of death is one little ice cube.
In the final two ending paragraphs of pure description—the sun coming up over the hills, Nick feels quite sure that he would never die. In my opinion, that is another angle of the theme of death that Hemingway wants to show us. Does Nick feel sure that he would never die? I don’t think so. Hemingway uses the innocence and simplicity of a child to reveal the fact that every human being can not escape the capture of death. Nick is only a child and protected well by his father. He doesn’t be scared by the horrific scenes because he is too young to understand what has happened and why does that happen well. The feeling of uncomfortable inside of Nick disappeares so quickly, at least quicker than what the adults have. Nick’s father protects him so well and tries his best to give Nick some answers that will not hurt his little tender heart. Under the protection of his father, Nick thinks he has found the answer—He would never die.
Compared with the innocence and puerility of a child, the cruelty and ruthlessness of the reality is showed up more clearly.
Using a child’s eyes to reveal the essence of reality and death do add an element of mystery to the story. Birth compared with death, innocence compared with ruthlessness, that’s the great description which can make the theme more expressive and meaningful.
《印第安人营地》赏析。
《印第安人营地》是海明威早期短篇中最重要的一个，技巧精湛，情节惊栗，而且触及了贯穿他日后一切作品的主题，这就是“死亡”。他曾在一部描写斗牛的专著《午后之死》中说过，“一切故事讲到相当长度，都是以死结束的。”在《印第安人营地》中，死亡是以一个儿童的视角来呈现的，这使死亡在恐惧之外，多了一层神秘的色彩。这个儿童的名字叫尼克亚当斯。尼克的故事海明威共写了二十四个，从儿童一直写到他长成为一个青年。后来，等到海明威自己也长成了一个享有盛名的大作家时，他就把尼克抛开了。
尼克和海明威一样，都有一个当医生的父亲，都随时可能在夜晚去乡下出诊。海明威童年时就有过随父出诊的经历，而《印第安人营地》的故事，正是尼克随父出诊的一次见闻。有人据此认为，尼克的原型就是海明威本人。但更多人的似乎不以为然，因为尼克敏感、脆弱，而海明威叛逆、强悍，后来在巴黎，他曾设法告诉斯泰因小姐，他还是个孩子的时候就在男人堆里厮混，而且做好了杀人的准备。但仅仅据此断定海明威和尼克的截然不同，却是十分轻率的。追溯海明威的童年、家庭以及父母的婚姻，我们会略微惊讶地发现，在他内心深处那个真正的自己，的确就是尼克：敏感、脆弱，缺乏安全保障，有着急于被证明的焦虑。海明威的母亲是一个能干的钢琴教师，她一个人的收入足以养活全家，也许她也因此自负而专断，出于某种奇怪的控制欲，她把海明威和他姐姐打扮成双胞胎，时而装扮成兄弟、时而装扮成姐妹，有两张照片显示，身着女装、坐在母亲怀里的海明威表情异常尴尬和惊恐。母亲的强大让父亲感到很大的压力，也让所有人都压抑，海明威一生都同母亲关系不好，在他父亲于1928年吞枪自杀之后，海明威抱怨是他母亲逼死了父亲。海明威年岁稍长之后，立刻致力于摆脱母亲的影响，并用了一辈子的时间来证明一件事情：他是一个真正的男子。他对体力运动和暴力题材的偏嗜，似乎都是围绕着这种证明展开的。当有人怀疑他的胸毛是用胶水粘贴的时候，海明威回敬的方式就是照了一张泡在澡盆中的半裸照片发表在报刊上，展示他的胸毛是货真价实的。很多年前，我读到过一本外国作家关于母亲的访谈录，我很吃惊地发现，几乎所有人同母亲的关系都很疏远或者紧张，感受不到充沛的母爱。有一位老作家已经年过七十，但他说自己仍有一种孤儿的感觉。与此相反，此前我读过的中国作家写母亲的文章，都是饱含着深情和感恩的。我到现在也没想清楚，这种相反是因为文化的差异，还是由于外国作家更加坦率？不过，有一点是无可置疑的，所有艺术家都有过一个相同的摇篮，这就是童年的孤独。
在我读过的几种海明威传记中，也没有证据表明他和父亲的关系是亲密的。但父亲带给他的影响却是决定性的：父亲帮助他走近了死亡。海明威在父亲的诊
所和随父出诊的过程中，得以观察死亡，同时以他的敏感，他会发现在对待死亡的态度上，父亲和他截然不同。父亲是个医生，他对肉体的疼痛和消灭，感觉是麻木、迟钝的，也就是说，死亡这种异常的事件，对他而言也是日常和正常。但海明威还小，生与死都不啻是世上惊心动魄的大事件，就像稚嫩的舌头初次接触到辣椒，那种烧灼感是永远难忘的。他总是用神秘而严峻的态度来写到死亡。但是当他多次在战争和捕猎中出生入死后，他对死亡的态度似乎变得松弛了，最后他像父亲一样，用猎枪结束了自己的生命。也许在这个时候，极端也正是平常，没有哪个作家像他一样，经历过那么多死亡、写到过那么死亡，当死亡到来的时候，不过是对触及死亡的又一次重复，从前用笔，这一次用枪。海明威夫人在回忆那两声打飞丈夫脑袋的枪声时说，就像两只抽屉同时被关上了。关上抽屉，这是多么日常的一个动作啊。
海明威的短篇小说都写得精悍、结实，《印第安人营地》只写了尼克在一个晚上的见闻，内容压缩得更加紧密，翻译成中文，也就3300多字，以我个人的经验，这样做很容易，但要写得出色，则非常之困难。而海明威的短篇小说，每一次细微的阅读，都会有新的发现。这个关于死亡的故事开始于漆黑的夜晚，事情的由来是一位印第安产妇难产，生了两天也没把孩子生下来。尼克为此跟随父亲去印第安人营地出诊，他们乘船经过有雾的湖水，踏过被露水浸湿的草坪，抵达了村庄。产妇躺在双层床的下铺，正发出一阵阵尖叫。海明威没有直接描写她的痛苦，只提到：“营里的老年妇女都来帮助她、照应她。男人们跑到了路上，直跑到再听不见她叫喊的地方，在黑暗中坐下来抽烟。”看似轻描淡写的一笔，你却可以体会这尖叫凄惨得多么让人发怵！而她的丈夫躺在上铺，他不能跑，因为他是丈夫，还因为三天前他的斧头把自己的腿砍伤了。海明威没有说明砍伤的原因，应该是心慌意乱吧。尼克的父亲用职业医生的眼光略一判断，就决定给她施行剖腹产手术。尼克不能忍受她的尖叫，请父亲给她吃点什么，让她镇静下来。但父亲这样回答，“不行，我没有带麻药。不过，让她叫去吧。我听不见，反正她叫不叫没关系。”这时候，那个始终一声不吭的丈夫在上铺转个身靠着墙，他想必是听到了尼克父亲的话。接着，尼克的父亲在没有麻药的情况下，开始了手术：用一把大折刀切开了产妇的肚子。瑞士作家迪伦马特有一篇叫《嫌疑》的小说，揭露一个纳粹军医在不注射麻醉剂的情况下就给俘虏作腹部手术，是禽兽所为。而侵华日军也曾拿活生生的中国人做实验，在无麻醉的情况下，开膛破肚。这些令人发指的行为，或出于对人类的仇恨，或出于卑鄙的目的。但在《印第安人营地》中，尼克父亲则是在沿着他以为正常的逻辑，在尽到一个医生的职责，他不需要拷问自己的良心，因为他“听不见”产妇的惨叫。这和法西斯的兽行比较起来，显得更加荒谬和残忍。海明威没有渲染产妇的惨状，他冷静得仿佛尼克的父亲，但是他通过尼克的眼睛看到并说出这样的一句话：“乔治大叔和三个印第安男人按住了产妇，不让她动。她咬了乔治大叔的手臂……手术做了好长一段时间。”你可以设想，这是怎样的惨痛，才会迫使一个产妇不要命地挣扎，而且就在四个男人按住她的情况下，还咬伤了其中一个人！手术终于结束了，海明威像是漫不经心地补充道：还需要用九尺长的细肠线把伤口缝起来。婴儿生出来了，尼克的父亲很得意，就像一场足球比赛后球员在更衣室里的那种得意劲。他拍拍上铺的产妇的丈夫，揭开蒙着那印第安男人脑袋的毯子：他已经自杀了。这是整个小说的最高潮，可以说压抑的夜色、产妇的尖叫、无麻醉的手术，都是为了抵
达这个高潮而作的铺垫，而当高潮到来的时候，海明威不仅一如既往的冷静，而且表现出新闻记者般的精确，其实这正是一切好作家都具有的严峻的克制：
只见那印第安人脸朝墙躺着。他把自己的喉管割断了，刀口子拉得好长，鲜血直冒，流成一大滩，他的尸体使床铺往下陷。他的头枕在左臂上。一把剃刀打开着，锋口朝上，掉在毯子上。
因为这篇小说采用的是尼克的视角，所以这个男人自杀的动机、过程、他在那个瞬间的念头，都被略去了。海明威借此交给读者的，不仅有疑问，更是那具死了但还冒着鲜血的尸体。每一个细心的读者，都不能不在情感和感官上遭受双重的刺激。他的文字看似无情，所以能让读者伤情，他的冷静近于冷酷，所以他那一刀就像割在我们身上。
我以为，好的小说要有精彩的故事、精致的语言和精妙的结构。还要有立场，立场就是价值观、生死观，这是小说的出发点。还要有心灵，心灵就是同情、悲悯。要让立场消失在叙述中，让心灵从字里行间溢出来。还要有感官，这就是“身体”。身体使小说饱满和丰盈。如果结构是脊梁，语言是质地，身体就是血与肉。血肉之躯才会让故事具有暧昧和神秘。海明威成功的短篇小说，都离不开死亡这个主题，而死亡从来不是抽象的，它是身体的消灭，是诉之于感官的刺激，是一刀致命，或者慢慢地腐烂，就像《乞力马扎罗的雪》中患了坏疽等死的男人。
海明威的生死观通过《印第安人营地》的结尾，有过难得的抒情般的流露：在返回的路上，尼克问父亲，“他干吗要自杀呀？”父亲说，“我说不出。他这个人受不了一点什么的，我猜想。”尼克又问，“死，难不难？”父亲说，“不，我想死是很容易的吧。尼克。要看情况。”最后，这个血腥的故事在牧歌般的情景中落幕：
他们上了船，坐了下来，尼克在船梢，他父亲划桨。太阳正从山那边升起来。一条鲈鱼跳出水面，河面上画出一个水圈。尼克把手伸进水里，跟船一起滑过去。清早，真是冷嗖嗖的，水里倒是很温暖。
清早，在湖面上，尼克坐在船梢，他父亲划着桨，他满有把握地相信他永远不会死。
海明威发表这篇小说的时候，大约25岁，对死亡已经抱有既神秘又坚定的态度。他尚不知自己将如何死去，但他一定深信自杀是解决问题的办法。尼克无可置疑地是内在的海明威，一语成谶，他后来的结局和那个一言不发的印第安男人如出一辙。
Nightingale and Rose
Oscar Wilde
"She said that she would dance with me if I brought her red roses,'' cried the young Student,"but in all my garden there is red rose.''
From her nest in the oak tree the Nightingale heard him and she looked out through the leaves and wondered.
"No red rose in all my garden.'' he cried,and his beautiful eyes filled with tears."Ah,I have read all that the wise men have written,and all the secrets of philosophy are mine,yet for a red rose my life is made wretched.''
"Here at last is a true lover,''said the Nightingale."Night after night have I sung of him,and now I see him.''
"The Prince gives a ball tomorrow night,''murmured the young Student,"and my love will be there.If bring her a red rose she will dance with me till dawn.I shall hold her in my arms,and she will lean her head upon my shoulder.But there is no red rose in my garden,so I shall sit lonely and my heart will break.''
"Here.indeed,is the true lover,''said the Nightingale.Surely love is a wonderful thing.It is more precious than emeralds and dearer than fine opals.Pearls and pomegranates cannot buy it, nor is it set forth in the marketplace. It may not be purchased of the merchants, nor can it be weighed out in the balance for gold."
"The musicians will play upon their stringed instruments,''said the young Student,"and my love will dance to the sound of the harp and the violin.She will dance in his hands,and wept.
"Why is he weeping?''asked a green Lizard,as he ran past him with his face in his tail in the air. "Why,indeed?'' whispered a Daisy to his neighbor,in a soft,low voice.
"He is weeping for a red rose,''said the Nightingale.
"For a red rose?''they cried,"how very ridiculous/'' and the little Lizard who was something of a cynic,laughed outright.But the Nightingale understood the Student's sorrow,and sat silent in the Oak-tree.
Suddenly she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air.She passed through the grove like a shadow and like a shadow and like a shadow she sailed across the garden.
In the centre of the grass-plot stood a beautiful Rose-tree,and when she saw it she flew over to it."Give me a a red rose,she cried,"and I will sing you my sweetest song .''
But the Tree shook its head.
"My roses are white,''it answered,"as white as the foam of the sea,and whiter than the snow upon the mountain.But go to my brother who grows round the old sun-dial,and perhaps will give you what you want.''
So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing round the old sun-dial. "Give me a red rose,''she cried,"and I will sing you my sweetest song.''
But the Tee shook its head.
"My roses are yellow," it answered; "as yellow as the hair of the mermaiden who sits upon an amber throne, and yellower than the daffodil that blooms in the meadow before the mower comes with his scythe. But go to my brother who grows beneath the Student's window, and perhaps he will give you what you want."
So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing beneath the Student's window. "Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I will sing you my sweetest song."
But the Tree shook its head.
"My roses are red," it answered, "as red as the feet of the dove, and redder than the great fans of
coral that wave and wave in the ocean-cavern. But the winter has chilled my veins, and the frost has nipped my buds, and the storm has broken my branches, and I shall have no roses at all this year."
"One red rose is all I want," cried the Nightingale, "only one red rose! Is there no way by which I can get it?"
"There is away," answered the Tree; "but it is so terrible that I dare not tell it to you."
"Tell it to me," said the Nightingale, "I am not afraid."
"If you want a red rose," said the Tree, "you must build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with your own heart's-blood. You must sing to me with your breast against a thorn. All night long you must sing to me, and the thorn must pierce your heart, and your life-blood must flow into my veins, and become mine."
"Death is a great price to pay for a red rose," cried the Nightingale, "and Life is very dear to all. It is pleasant to sit in the green wood, and to watch the Sun in his chariot of gold, and the Moon in her chariot of pearl. Sweet is the scent of the hawthorn, and sweet are the bluebells that hide in the valley, and the heather that blows on the hill. Yet Love is better than Life, and what is the heart of a bird compared to the heart of a man?"
So she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. She swept over the garden like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed through the grove.
The young Student was still lying on the grass, where she had left him, and the tears were not yet dry in his beautiful eyes.
"Be happy," cried the Nightingale, "be happy; you shall have your red rose. I will build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with my own heart's-blood. All that I ask of you in return is that you will be a true lover, for Love is wiser than Philosophy, though she is wise, and mightier than Power, though he is mighty. Flame-coloured are his wings, and coloured like flame is his body. His lips are sweet as honey, and his breath is like frankincense."
The Student looked up from the grass, and listened, but he could not understand what the Nightingale was saying to him, for he only knew the things that are written down in books.
But the Oak-tree understood, and felt sad, for he was very fond of the little Nightingale who had built her nest in his branches.
"Sing me one last song," he whispered; "I shall feel very lonely when you are gone."
So the Nightingale sang to the Oak-tree, and her voice was like water bubbling from a silver jar.
When she had finished her song the Student got up, and pulled a note-book and a lead-pencil out of his pocket.
"She has form," he said to himself, as he walked away through the grove - "that cannot be denied to her; but has she got feeling? I am afraid not. In fact, she is like most artists; she is all style, without any sincerity. She would not sacrifice herself for others. She thinks merely of music, and everybody knows that the arts are selfish. Still, it must be admitted that she has some beautiful notes in her voice. What a pity it is that they do not mean anything, or do any practical good." And he went into his room, and lay down on his little pallet-bed, and began to think of his love; and, after a time, he fell asleep.
And when the Moon shone in the heavens the Nightingale flew to the Rose-tree, and set her breast against the thorn. All night long she sang with her breast against the thorn, and the cold
crystal Moon leaned down and listened. All night long she sang, and the thorn went deeper and deeper into her breast, and her life-blood ebbed away from her.
She sang first of the birth of love in the heart of a boy and a girl. And on the top-most spray of the Rose-tree there blossomed a marvellous rose, petal following petal, as song followed song. Pale was it, at first, as the mist that hangs over the river - pale as the feet of the morning, and silver as the wings of the dawn. As the shadow of a rose in a mirror of silver, as the shadow of a rose in a water-pool, so was the rose that blossomed on the topmost spray of the Tree.
But the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. "Press closer, little Nightingale," cried the Tree, "or the Day will come before the rose is finished."
So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and louder and louder grew her song, for she sang of the birth of passion in the soul of a man and a maid.
And a delicate flush of pink came into the leaves of the rose, like the flush in the face of the bridegroom when he kisses the lips of the bride. But the thorn had not yet reached her heart, so the rose's heart remained white, for only a Nightingale's heart's-blood can crimson the heart of a rose.
And the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. "Press closer, little Nightingale," cried the Tree, "or the Day will come before the rose is finished."
So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and the thorn touched her heart, and a fierce pang of pain shot through her. Bitter, bitter was the pain, and wilder and wilder grew her song, for she sang of the Love that is perfected by Death, of the Love that dies not in the tomb.
And the marvellous rose became crimson, like the rose of the eastern sky. Crimson was the girdle of petals, and crimson as a ruby was the heart.
But the Nightingale's voice grew fainter, and her little wings began to beat, and a film came over her eyes. Fainter and fainter grew her song, and she felt something choking her in her throat.
Then she gave one last burst of music. The white Moon heard it, and she forgot the dawn, and lingered on in the sky. The red rose heard it, and it trembled all over with ecstasy, and opened its petals to the cold morning air. Echo bore it to her purple cavern in the hills, and woke the sleeping shepherds from their dreams. It floated through the reeds of the river, and they carried its message to the sea.
"Look, look!" cried the Tree, "the rose is finished now"; but the Nightingale made no answer, for she was lying dead in the long grass, with the thorn in her heart.
And at noon the Student opened his window and looked out.
"Why, what a wonderful piece of luck!" he cried; "here is a red rose! I have never seen any rose like it in all my life. It is so beautiful that I am sure it has a long Latin name"; and he leaned down and plucked it.
Then he put on his hat, and ran up to the Professor's house with the rose in his hand.
The daughter of the Professor was sitting in the doorway winding blue silk on a reel, and her little dog was lying at her feet.
"You said that you would dance with me if I brought you a red rose," cried the Student. "Here is the reddest rose in all the world. You will wear it to-night next your heart, and as we dance together it will tell you how I love you."
But the girl frowned.
"I am afraid it will not go with my dress," she answered; "and, besides, the Chamberlain's nephew has sent me some real jewels, and everybody knows that jewels cost far more than flowers."
"Well, upon my word, you are very ungrateful," said the Student angrily; and he threw the rose into the street, where it fell into the gutter, and a cart-wheel went over it.
"Ungrateful!" said the girl. "I tell you what, you are very rude; and, after all, who are you? Only a Student. Why, I don't believe you have even got silver buckles to your shoes as the Chamberlain's nephew has"; and she got up from her chair and went into the house.
"What I a silly thing Love is," said the Student as he walked away. "It is not half as useful as Logic, for it does not prove anything, and it is always telling one of things that are not going to happen, and making one believe things that are not true. In fact, it is quite unpractical, and, as in this age to be practical is everything, I shall go back to Philosophy and study Metaphysics."
So he returned to his room and pulled out a great dusty book, and began to read.
夜莺与玫瑰
“她说过只要我送给她一些红玫瑰，她就愿意与我跳舞，”一位年轻的学生大声说道，“可
是在我的花园里，连一朵红攻瑰也没有。”
这番话给在圣栎树上自己巢中的夜莺听见了，她从绿叶丛中探出头来，四处张望着。
“我的花园里哪儿都找不到红玫瑰，”他哭着说，一双美丽的眼睛充满了泪水。“唉，难道幸福竟依赖于这么细小的东西!我读过智者们写的所有文章，知识的一切奥秘也都装在我的头脑中，然而就因缺少一朵红玫瑰我却要过痛苦的生活。”
“这儿总算有一位真正的恋人了，”夜莺对自己说，“虽然我不认识他，但我会每夜每夜地为他歌唱，我还会每夜每夜地把他的故事讲给星星听。现在我总算看见他了，他的头发黑得像风信子花，他的嘴唇就像他想要的玫瑰那样红；但是感情的折磨使他脸色苍白如象牙，忧伤的印迹也爬上了他的眉梢。”
“王子明天晚上要开舞会，”年轻学生喃喃自语地说，“我所爱的人将要前往。假如我送她一朵红玫瑰，她就会同我跳舞到天明；假如我送她一朵红玫瑰，我就能搂着她的腰，她也会把头靠在我的肩上，她的手将捏在我的手心里。可是我的花园里却没有红玫瑰，我只能孤零零地坐在那边，看着她从身旁经过。她不会注意到我，我的心会碎的。”
“这的确是位真正的恋人，”夜莺说，“我所为之歌唱的正是他遭受的痛苦，我所为之快乐的东西，对他却是痛苦。爱情真是一件奇妙无比的事情，它比绿宝石更珍贵，比猫眼石更稀奇。用珍珠和石榴都换不来，是市场上买不到的，是从商人那儿购不来的，更无法用黄金来称出它的重量。”
“乐师们会坐在他们的廊厅中，”年轻的学生说，“弹奏起他们的弦乐器。我心爱的人将在竖琴和小提琴的音乐声中翩翩起舞。她跳得那么轻松欢快，连脚跟都不蹭地板似的。那些身着华丽服装的臣仆们将她围在中间。然而她就是不会同我跳舞，因为我没有红色的玫瑰献给她。”于是他扑倒在草地上，双手捂着脸放声痛哭起来。
“他为什么哭呢?”一条绿色的小蜥蜴高高地翘起尾巴从他身旁跑过时，这样问道。
“是啊，到底为什么?”一只蝴蝶说，她正追着一缕阳光在跳舞。
“是啊，到底为什么?”一朵雏菊用低缓的声音对自己的邻居轻声说道。
“他为一朵红玫瑰而哭泣，”夜莺告诉大家。
“为了一朵红玫瑰?”他们叫了起来。“真是好笑!”小蜥蜴说，他是个爱嘲讽别人的人，忍不住笑了起来。
可只有夜莺了解学生忧伤的原因，她默默无声地坐在橡树上，想象着爱情的神秘莫测。
突然她伸开自己棕色的翅膀，朝空中飞去。她像个影子似的飞过了小树林，又像个
影子似的飞越了花园。
在一块草地的中央长着一棵美丽的玫瑰树，她看见那棵树后就朝它飞过去，落在一根小枝上。
“给我一朵红玫瑰，”她高声喊道，“我会为你唱我最甜美的歌。”
可是树儿摇了摇头。
“我的玫瑰是白色的，”它回答说，“白得就像大海的浪花沫，白得超过山顶上的积雪。但你可以去找我那长在古日晷器旁的兄弟，或许他能满足你的需要。”
于是夜莺就朝那棵生长在古日晷器旁的玫瑰树飞去了。
“给我一朵红玫瑰，”她大声说，“我会为你唱我最甜美的歌。”
可是树儿摇了摇头。
“我的玫瑰是黄色的，”它回答说，“黄得就像坐在琥珀宝座上的美人鱼的头发，黄得超过拿着镰刀的割草人来之前在草地上盛开的水仙花。但你可以去找我那长在学生窗下的兄弟，或许他能满足你的需要。”
于是夜莺就朝那棵生长在学生窗下的玫瑰树飞去了。
“给我一朵红玫瑰，”她大声说，“我会为你唱我最甜美的歌。”
可是树儿摇了摇头。
“我的玫瑰是红色的，”它回答说，“红得就像鸽子的脚，红得超过在海洋洞穴中飘动的珊瑚大扇。但是冬天已经冻僵了我的血管，霜雪已经摧残了我的花蕾，风暴已经吹折了我的枝叶，今年我不会再有玫瑰花了。”
“我只要一朵玫瑰花，”夜莺大声叫道，“只要一朵红玫瑰!难道就没有办法让我得到它吗?”
“有一个办法，”树回答说，“但就是太可怕了，我都不敢对你说。”
“告诉我，”夜莺说，“我不怕。”
“如果你想要一朵红玫瑰，”树儿说，“你就必须借助月光用音乐来造出它，并且要用你胸中的鲜血来染红它。你一定要用你的胸膛顶住我的一根刺来唱歌。你要为我唱上整整一夜，那根刺一定要穿透你的胸膛，你的鲜血一定要流进我的血管，并变成我的血。”
“拿死亡来换一朵玫瑰，这代价实在很高，”夜莺大声叫道，“生命对每一个人都是非常宝贵的。坐在绿树上看太阳驾驶着她的金马车，看月亮开着她的珍珠马车，是一件愉快的事情。山楂散发出香味，躲藏在山谷中的风铃草以及盛开在山头的石南花也是香的。然而爱情胜过生命，再说鸟的心怎么比得过人的心呢?”
于是她便张开自己棕色的翅膀朝天空中飞去了。她像影子似的飞过花园，又像影子似的穿越了小树林。
年轻的学生仍躺在草地上，跟她离开时的情景一样，他那双美丽的眼睛还挂着泪水。
“快乐起来吧，”夜莺大声说，“快乐起来吧，你就要得到你的红玫瑰了。我要在月光下把它用音乐造成，献出我胸膛中的鲜血把它染红。我要求你报答我的只有一件事，就是你要做一个真正的恋人，因为尽管哲学很聪明，然而爱情比她更聪明，尽管权力很伟大，可是爱情比他更伟大。火焰映红了爱情的翅膀，使他的身躯像火焰一样火红。他的嘴唇像蜜一样甜；他的气息跟乳香一样芬芳。”
学生从草地上抬头仰望着，并侧耳倾听，但是他不懂夜莺在对他讲什么，因为他只知道那些写在书本上的东西。
可是橡树心里是明白的，他感到很难受，因为他十分喜爱这只在自己树枝上做巢的小夜莺。
“给我唱最后二支歌吧，”他轻声说，“你这一走我会觉得很孤独的。”
于是夜莺给橡树唱起了歌，她的声音就像是银罐子里沸腾的水声。
等她的歌声一停，学生便从草地上站起来，从他的口袋中拿出一个笔记本和一支铅笔。
“她的样子真好看，”他对自己说，说着就穿过小树林走开了——“这是不能否认的；但是她有情感吗?我想她恐怕没有。事实上，她像大多数艺术家一样，只讲究形式，没有任何诚意。她不会为别人做出牺牲的。她只想着音乐，人人都知道艺术是自私的。不过我不得不承认她的歌声中也有些美丽的调子。只可惜它们没有一点意义，也没有任何实际的好处。”他走进屋子，躺在自己那张简陋的小床上，想起他那心爱的人儿，不一会儿就进入了梦乡。
等到月亮挂上了天际的时候，夜莺就朝玫瑰树飞去，用自己的胸膛顶住花刺。她用胸膛顶着刺整整唱了一夜，就连冰凉如水晶的明月也俯下身来倾听。整整一夜她唱个不停，刺在她的胸口上越刺越深，她身上的鲜血也快要流光了。
她开始唱起少男少女的心中萌发的爱情。在玫瑰树最高的枝头上开放出一朵异常的玫瑰，歌儿唱了一首又一首，花瓣也一片片地开放了。起初，花儿是乳白色的，就像悬在河上的雾霾——白得就如同早晨的足履，白得就像黎明的翅膀。在最高枝头上盛开的那朵玫瑰花，如同一朵在银镜中，在水池里照出的玫瑰花影。
然而这时树大声叫夜莺把刺顶得更紧一些。“顶紧些，小夜莺，”树大叫着，“不然玫瑰还没有完成天就要亮了。”
于是夜莺把刺顶得更紧了，她的歌声也越来越响亮了，因为她歌唱着一对成年男女心中诞生的激情。
一层淡淡的红晕爬上了玫瑰花瓣，就跟新郎亲吻新娘时脸上泛起的红晕一样。但是花刺还没有达到夜莺的心脏，所以玫瑰的心还是白色的，因为只有夜莺心里的血才能染红玫瑰的花心。
这时树又大声叫夜莺顶得更紧些，“再紧些，小夜莺，”树儿高声喊着，“不然，玫瑰还没完成天就要亮了。”
于是夜莺就把玫瑰刺顶得更紧了，刺着了自己的心脏，一阵剧烈的痛楚袭遍了她的全身。痛得越来越厉害，歌声也越来越激烈，因为她歌唱着由死亡完成的爱情，歌唱着在坟墓中也不朽的爱情。
最后这朵非凡的玫瑰变成了深红色，就像东方天际的红霞。花瓣的外环是深红色的，花心更红得好似一块红宝石。
不过夜莺的歌声却越来越弱了，她的一双小翅膀开始扑打起来，一层雾膜爬上了她的双目。她的歌声变得更弱了，她觉得喉咙给什么东西堵住了。
这时她唱出了最后一曲。明月听着歌声，竟然忘记了黎明，只顾在天空中徘徊，红玫瑰更是欣喜若狂，张开了所有的花瓣去迎接凉凉的晨风。回声把歌声带回自己山中的紫色洞穴中，把酣睡的牧童从梦乡中唤醒。歌声飘越过河中的芦苇，芦苇又把声音传给了大海。
“快看，快看!”树叫了起来，“玫瑰已长好了。”可是夜莺没有回答，因为她已经躺在长长的草丛中死去了，心口上还扎着那根刺。
中午时分，学生打开窗户朝外看去。
“啊，多好的运气呀!”他大声嚷道，“这儿竟有一朵红玫瑰!这样的玫瑰我一生也不曾见过。它太美了，我敢说它有一个好长的拉丁名字。”他俯下身去把它摘了下来。
随即他戴上帽子，拿起玫瑰，朝教授的家跑去。
教授的女儿正坐在门口，在纺车上纺着蓝色的丝线，她的小狗躺在她的脚旁。
“你说过只要我送你一朵红玫瑰，你就会同我跳舞，”学生高声说道，“这是全世界最红的一朵玫瑰。你今晚就把它戴在你的胸口上，我们一起跳舞的时候，它会告诉你我是
多么的爱你。”
然而少女却皱起眉头。
“我担心它与我的衣服不相配，”她回答说，“再说，宫廷大臣的侄儿已经送给我一些珍贵的珠宝，人人都知道珠宝比花更加值钱。”
“噢，我要说，你是个忘恩负义的人，”学生愤怒地说。一下把玫瑰扔到了大街上，玫瑰落入阴沟里，一辆马车从它身上碾了过去。
“忘恩负义!”少女说，“我告诉你吧，你太无礼；再说，你是什么人?只是个学生。啊，我敢说你不会像宫廷大臣侄儿那样，鞋上钉有银扣子。”说完她就从椅子上站起来朝屋里走去。
“爱情是多么愚昧啊!”学生一边走一边说，“它不及逻辑一半管用，因为它什么都证明不了，而它总是告诉人们一些不会发生的事，并且还让人相信一些不真实的事。说实话，它一点也不实用，在这个年代，一切都要讲实际。我要回到哲学中去，去学形而上学的东西。”
于是他想便回到自己的屋子里，拿出满是尘土的大书，读了起来。
（选自译林出版社1996年第1版《王尔德童话》）
The Cask of Amontillado
Edgar Allan Poe
Fortunato and I both were members of very old and important Italian families. We used to play together when we were children.
Fortunato was bigger, richer and more handsome than I was. And he enjoyed making me look like a fool. He hurt my feelings a thousand times during the years of my childhood. I never showed my anger, however. So, he thought we were good friends. But I promised myself that one day I would punish Fortunato for his insults to me.
Many years passed. Fortunato married a rich and beautiful woman who gave him sons. Deep in my heart I hated him, but I never said or did anything that showed him how I really felt. When I smiled at him, he thought it was because we were friends.
He did not know it was the thought of his death that made me smile.
Everyone in our town respected Fortunato. Some men were afraid of him because he was so rich and powerful. He had a weak spot, however. He thought he was an excellent judge of wine. I also was an expert on wine. I spent a lot of money buying rare and costly wines. I stored the wines in the dark rooms under my family's palace.
Our palace was one of the oldest buildings in the town. The Montresor family had lived in it for hundreds of years. We had buried our dead in the rooms under the palace. These tombs were quiet, dark places that no one but myself ever visited.
Late one evening during carnival season, I happened to meet Fortunato on the street. He was going home alone from a party. Fortunato was beautiful in his silk suit made of many colors: yellow, green, purple and red. On his head he wore an orange cap, covered with little silver bells. I could see he had been drinking too much wine. He threw his arms around me. He said he was glad to see me.
I said I was glad to see him, too because I had a little problem.
"What is it?" he asked, putting his large hand on my shoulder.
"My dear Fortunato," I said, "I'm afraid I have been very stupid. The man who sells me wine said he had a rare barrel of Amontillado wine. I believed him and I bought it from him. But now, I am not so sure that the wine is really Amontillado."
"What!" he said, "A cask of Amontillado at this time of year. An entire barrel? Impossible!"
"Yes, I was very stupid. I paid the wine man the full price he wanted without asking you to
taste the wine first. But I couldn't find you and I was afraid he would sell the cask of Amontillado to someone else. So I bought it."
"A cask of Amontillado!" Fortunato repeated. "Where is it?"
I pretended I didn't hear his question. Instead I told him I was going to visit our friend Lucresi. "He will be able to tell me if the wine is really Amontillado," I said.
Fortunato laughed in my face. "Lucresi cannot tell Amontillado from vinegar."
I smiled to myself and said "But some people say that he is as good a judge of wine as you are."
Fortunato grabbed my arm. "Take me to it," he said. "I'll taste the Amontillado for you."
"But my friend," I protested, "it is late. The wine is in my wine cellar, underneath the palace. Those rooms are very damp and cold and the walls drip with water."
"I don't care," he said. "I am the only person who can tell you if your wine man has cheated you. Lucresi cannot!"
Fortunato turned, and still holding me by the arm, pulled me down the street to my home. The building was empty. My servants were enjoying carnival. I knew they would be gone all night.
I took two large candles, lit them and gave one to Fortunato. I started down the dark, twisting stairway with Fortunato close behind me. At the bottom of the stairs, the damp air wrapped itself around our bodies.
"Where are we?" Fortunato asked. "I thought you said the cask of Amontillado was in your wine cellar."
"It is," I said. "The wine cellar is just beyond these tombs where the dead of my family are kept. Surely, you are not afraid of walking through the tombs.
He turned and looked into my eyes. "Tombs?" he said. He began to cough. The silver bells on his cap jingled.
"My poor friend," I said, "how long have you had that cough?"
"It's nothing," he said, but he couldn't stop coughing.
"Come," I said firmly, "we will go back upstairs. Your health is important.You are rich, respected, admired, and loved. You have a wife and children. Many people would miss you if you died. We will go back before you get seriously ill. I can go to Lucresi for help with the wine."
"No!" he cried. "This cough is nothing. It will not kill me. I won't die from a cough."
"That is true," I said, "but you must be careful." He took my arm and we began to walk through the cold, dark rooms. We went deeper and deeper into the cellar.
Finally, we arrived in a small room. Bones were pushed high against one wall. A doorway in another wall opened to an even smaller room, about one meter wide and two meters high. Its walls were solid rock.
"Here we are," I said. "I hid the cask of Amontillado in there." I pointed to the smaller room. Fortunato lifted his candle and stepped into the tiny room. I immediately followed him. He stood stupidly staring at two iron handcuffs chained to a wall of the tiny room. I grabbed his arms and locked them into the metal handcuffs. It took only a moment. He was too surprised to fight me.
I stepped outside the small room.
"Where is the Amontillado?" he cried.
"Ah yes," I said, "the cask of Amontillado." I leaned over and began pushing aside the pile of bones against the wall. Under the bones was a basket of stone blocks, some cement and a small shovel. I had hidden the materials there earlier. I began to fill the doorway of the tiny room with stones and cement.
By the time I laid the first row of stones Fortunato was no longer drunk. I heard him moaning inside the tiny room for ten minutes. Then there was a long silence.
I finished the second and third rows of stone blocks. As I began the fourth row, I heard Fortunato begin to shake the chains that held him to the wall. He was trying to pull them out of the granite wall.
I smiled to myself and stopped working so that I could better enjoy listening to the noise. After a few minutes, he stopped. I finished the fifth, the sixth and the seventh rows of stones. The wall I was building in the doorway was now almost up to my shoulders.
Suddenly, loud screams burst from the throat of the chained man. For a moment I worried. What if someone heard him? Then I placed my hand on the solid rock of the walls and felt safe. I looked into the tiny room, where he was still screaming. And I began to scream, too. My screams grew louder than his and he stopped.
It was now almost midnight. I finished the eighth, the ninth and the tenth rows. All that was left was a stone for the last hole in the wall. I was about to push it in when I heard a low laugh from behind the stones.
The laugh made the hair on my head stand up. Then Fortunato spoke, in a sad voice that no longer sounded like him.
He said, "Well, you have played a good joke on me. We will laugh about it soon over a glass of that Amontillado. But isn't it getting late. My wife and my friends will be waiting for us. Let us go."
"Yes," I replied, "let us go."
I waited for him to say something else. I heard only my own breathing. "Fortunato!" I called. No answer. I called again. "Fortunato!" Still no answer.
I hurried to put the last stone into the wall and put the cement around it. Then I pushed the pile of bones in front of the new wall I had built.
That was fifty years ago. For half a century now, no one has touched those bones. "May he rest in peace!"
一桶蒙特亚白葡萄酒
对福尔图纳托加于我的无数次伤害，我过去一直都尽可能地一忍了之；可当那次他斗胆侮辱了我，我就立下了以牙还牙的誓言。你对我的脾性了如指掌，无论如何也不会认为我的威胁是虚张声势。我总有一天会报仇雪恨；这是一个明确设立的目标——正是设立这目标之明确性消除了我对危险的顾虑。我不仅非要惩罚他不可，而且必须做到惩罚他之后我自己不受惩罚。若是复仇者自己受到了惩罚，那就不能算已报仇雪恨。若是复仇者没让那作恶者知道是谁在报复，那同样也不能算是报仇雪恨。
不言而喻，到当时为止我的一言一行都不曾让福尔图纳托怀疑过我居心叵测。我一如既往地冲他微笑，而他丝毫没看出当时我的微笑已是笑里藏刀。
他有一个弱点——我是说福尔图纳托——尽管他在其他方面可以说是个值得尊敬乃至值得敬畏的人。他吹嘘说他是个品酒的行家。很少有意大利人真正具有鉴赏家的气质。大概他们的热情多半都被用来寻机求缘，见风使舵——蒙骗那些英格兰和奥地利富翁。在名画和珠宝方面，福尔图纳托和他的同胞一样是个冒充内行的骗子——不过说到陈年老酒，他可是识货的里手行家。在这方面我与他相去无几：我自己对意大利名葡萄酒十分在行，一有机会总是大量买进。
那是在狂欢节高潮期的一天傍晚，当薄暮降临之时我遇见了我那位朋友。他非常亲热地与我搭话，因为他酒已经喝得不少。那家伙装扮成一个小丑，身穿有杂色条纹的紧身衣，头
戴挂有戏铃的圆锥形便帽。我当时是那么乐意见到他，以致于我认为可能我从来不曾那样热烈地与他握过手。
我对他说——“我亲爱的福尔图纳托，碰见你真是不胜荣幸。你今天的气色看上去真是好极了！可我刚买进了一大桶据认为是蒙特亚产的白葡萄酒，而我对此没有把握。”
“怎么会？”他说。“蒙特亚白葡萄酒？一大桶？不可能！尤其在这狂欢节期间！”
“我也感到怀疑，”我答道，“我真傻，居然没向你请教就照蒙特亚酒的价格付了钱。当时没找到你，而我生怕错过了一笔买卖。”
“蒙特亚酒！”
“我拿不准。”
“蒙特亚酒！”
“我非弄清楚不可。”
“蒙特亚酒！”
“因为你忙，我这正想去找卢切西。如果说还有人能分出真假，那就是他。他会告诉我——”
“卢切西不可能分清蒙特亚酒和雪利酒。”
“可有些傻瓜说他的本事与你不相上下。”
“得啦，咱们走吧。”
“上哪儿？”
“去你家地窖。”
“我的朋友，这不行；我不想利用你的好心。我看出你有个约会。卢切西——”
“我没什么约会；——走吧。”
“我的朋友，这不行。原因倒不在于你有没有约会，而是我看你正冷得够呛。我家地窖潮湿不堪。窖洞里到处都结满了硝石。”
“可咱们还是走吧。这冷算不了什么。蒙特亚酒！你肯定被人蒙了。至于卢切西，他辨不出啥是雪利酒啥是蒙特亚酒。”
福尔图纳托一边说一边拉住我一条胳膊。我戴上黑绸面具，裹紧身上的短披风，然后容他催着我回我的府邸。
家里不见一个仆人；他们早就溜出门狂欢去了。我告诉过他们我要第二天早晨才回家，并明确地命令他们不许外出。我清楚地知道，这命令足以保证他们等我一转背就溜个精光。
我从他们的火台上取了两支火把，将其中一支递给福尔图纳托，然后点头哈腰地领他穿过几套房间，走向通往地窖的拱廊。我走下一段长长的盘旋式阶梯，一路提醒着紧随我后边的他多加小心。我们终于下完阶梯，一起站在了蒙特雷索家酒窖兼墓窖的湿地上。
我朋友的步态不甚平稳，每走一步他帽子上的戏铃都丁当作响。
“那桶酒呢？”他问。
“在前面，”我说，“可请看洞壁上这些白花花的网状物。”
他转身朝向我，用他那双因中酒而渗出粘液的朦胧醉眼窥视我的眼睛。
“硝石？”他终于问道。
“硝石。”我回答。“你这样咳嗽有多久了？”
“咳！咳！咳！——咳！咳！咳！——咳！咳！咳！——咳！咳！咳！——咳！咳！咳！”
我可怜的朋友好几分钟内没法回答。
“这没什么。”他最后终于说。
“喂，”我断然说道，“咱们回去吧；你的健康要紧。你有钱，体面，有人敬慕，受人爱戴；你真幸运，就像我从前一样。你应该多保重。至于我，这倒无所谓。咱们回去吧；你会生病的，要那样我可担待不起。再说，还有卢切西——”
“别再说了，”他道，“咳嗽算不了什么；它不会要我的命。我也不会死于咳嗽。”
“当然——当然，”我答道，“其实我也无意这么不必要地吓唬你——不过你应该尽量小心谨慎。咱们来点梅多克红葡萄酒去去潮吧。”
说完我从堆放在窖土上的一长溜酒瓶中抽出一瓶，敲掉了瓶嘴。
“喝吧。”我说着把酒递给他。
他睨视了我一眼，把酒瓶凑到嘴边。接着他停下来朝我亲热地点了点头，他帽子上的戏铃随之丁当作响。
“我为安息在我们周围的死者们干杯。”他说。
“我为你的长寿干杯。”
他再次挽起我的胳膊，我们继续往前走。
“这些地窖，”他说，“可真大。”
“蒙特雷索家是个人丁兴旺的大家族。”我回答说。
“我记不起你家的纹章图案了。”
“蓝色的底衬上一只金色的大脚；金脚正把一条毒牙咬进脚后跟的巨蛇踩得粉身碎骨。”
“那纹章上的铭词呢？”
“凡伤我者必受惩罚。”
“妙！”他说。
酒在他的眼睛里闪耀，那些戏铃越发丁零当郎。我自己的想象力也因梅多克酒而兴奋起来。我们已经穿过由尸骨和大小酒桶堆成的一道道墙，来到了地窖的幽深之处。我又停了下来，这回还不揣冒昧地抓住了福尔图纳托的上臂。
“硝石！”我说，“瞧，越来越多了，就像苔藓挂在窖顶。我们是在河床的下面。水珠正滴在尸骨间。喂，咱们回去吧，趁现在还来得及，你的咳嗽——”
“这没什么，”他说，“我们继续走吧。不过先再来瓶梅多克酒。”
我开了一小瓶格拉夫白葡萄酒递给他。他把酒一饮而尽。他眼里闪出一种可怕的目光。他一阵哈哈大笑，并且用一种令我莫名其妙的手势把酒瓶往上一抛。
我诧异地盯着他。他又重复了那个手势——一个古怪的手势。
“你不懂？”他问。
“我不懂。”我答。
“那你就不是哥儿们。”
“什么？”
“你就不是个mason。”
“我是的，”我说，“是的，是的。”
“你？不可能！一个mason？”
“一个masorn。”我回答。
“给个暗号。”他说。