现代大学英语精读第二版（第五册）学习笔记（原文及全文翻译）——10 - The Bluest Eye(Excerpts)（最蓝的眼睛（节选））

淳于禄

2023-12-01

Unit 10 - The Bluest Eye (Excerpts)

The Bluest Eye(Excerpts)

Toni Morrison

They come from Mobile. Aiken. From Newport News. From Marietta. From Meridian. And the sounds of these places in their mouths make you think of love. When you ask them where they are from, they tilt their heads and say "Mobile" and you think you've been kissed. They say "Aiken" and you see a white butterfly glance off a fence with a torn wing. They say "Nagadoches" and you want to say "Yes, I will." You don't know what these towns are like, but you love what happens to the air when they open their lips and let the names ease out.

Meridian. The sound of it opens the windows of a room like the first four notes of a hymn. Few people can say the names of their home towns with such sly affection. Perhaps because they don't have home towns, just places where they were born. But these girls soak up the juice of their home towns, and it never leaves them. They are thin brown girls who have looked long at hollyhocks in the backyards of Meridian, Mobile, Aiken, and Baton Rouge. And like hollyhocks they are narrow, tall, and still. Their roots are deep, their stalks are firm, and only the top blossom nods in the wind. They have the eyes of people who can tell what time it is by the color of the sky. Such girls live in quiet black neighborhoods where everybody is gainfully employed. Where there are porch swings hanging from chains. Where the grass is cut with a scythe, where rooster combs and sunflowers grow in the yards, and pots of bleeding heart, ivy, and mother-in-law tongue line the steps and windowsills.

Such girls have bought watermelon and snapbeans from the fruit man's wagon. They have put in the window the cardboard sign that has a pound measure printed on each of three edges—10 lbs., 25 lbs., 50 lbs.—and no ice on the fourth. These particular brown girls from Mobile and Aiken are not like some of their sisters. They are not fretful, nervous, or shrill; they do not have lovely black necks that stretch as though against an invisible collar; their eyes do not bite. These sugar-brown Mobile girls move through the streets without a stir. They are as sweet and plain as buttercake. Slim ankles; long, narrow feet.

They wash themselves with orange-colored Lifebuoy soap, dust themselves with Cashmere Bouquet talc, clean their teeth with salt on a piece of rag, soften their skin with Jergens Lotion. They smell like wood, newspapers, and vanilla. They straighten their hair with Dixie Peach, and part it on the side. At night they curl it in paper from brown bags, tie a print scarf around their heads, and sleep with hands folded across their stomachs. They do not drink, smoke, or swear, and they still call sex "nookey." They sing second soprano in the choir, and although their voices are clear and steady, they are never picked to solo. They are in the second row, white blouses starched, blue skirts almost purple from ironing.

They go to land-grant colleges, normal schools, and learn how to do the white man's work with refinement: home economics to prepare his food; teacher education to instruct black children in obedience; music to soothe the weary master and entertain his blunted soul. Here they learn the rest of the lesson begun in those soft houses with porch swings and pots of bleeding heart: how to behave. The careful development of thrift, patience, high morals, and good manners. In short, how to get rid of the funkiness. The dreadful funkiness of passion, the funkiness of nature, the funkiness of the wide range of human emotions.

Wherever it erupts, this Funk, they wipe it away; where it crusts, they dissolve it; wherever it drips, flowers, or clings, they find it and fight it until it dies. They fight this battle all the way to the grave. The laugh that is a little too loud; the enunciation a little too round; the gesture a little too generous. They hold their behind in for fear of a sway too free; when they wear lipstick, they never cover the entire mouth for fear of lips too thick, and they worry, worry, worry about the edges of their hair.

They never seem to have boyfriends, but they always marry. Certain men watch them, without seeming to, and know that if such a girl is in his house, he will sleep on sheets boiled white, hung out to dry on juniper bushes, and pressed flat with a heavy iron. There will be pretty paper flowers decorating the picture of his mother, a large Bible in the front room.

They feel secure. They know their work clothes will be mended, washed, and ironed on Monday, that their Sunday shirts will billow on hangers from the door jamb, stiffly starched and white. They look at her hands and know what she will do with biscuit dough; they smell the coffee and the fried ham; see the white, smoky grits with a dollop of butter on top. Her hips assure them that she will bear children easily and painlessly. And they are right.

What they do not know is that this plain brown girl will build her nest stick by stick, make it her own inviolable world, and stand guard over its every plant, weed, and doily, even against him. In silence will she return the lamp to where she put it in the first place; remove the dishes from the table as soon as the last bite is taken; wipe the doorknob after a greasy hand has touched it. A sidelong look will be enough to tell him to smoke on the back porch. Children will sense instantly that they cannot come into her yard to retrieve a ball. But the men do not know these things. Nor do they know that she will give him her body sparingly and partially.

Occasionally some living thing will engage her affections. A cat, perhaps, who will love her order, precision, and constancy; who will be as clean and quiet as she is. The cat will settle quietly on the windowsill and caress her with his eyes. She can hold him in her arms, letting his back paws struggle for footing on her breast and his forepaws cling to her shoulder. She can rub the smooth fur and feel the unresisting flesh underneath.

At her gentlest touch he will preen, stretch, and open his mouth. And she will accept the strangely pleasant sensation that comes when he writhes beneath her hand and fattens his eyes with a surfeit of sensual delight. When she stands cooking at the table, he will circle about her shanks, and the trill of his fur spirals up her legs to her thighs, to make her fingers tremble a little in the pie dough.

Or, as she sits reading the "Uplifting Thoughts" in The Liberty Magazine, the cat will jump into her lap. She will fondle that soft hill of hair and let the warmth of the animal's body seep over and into the deeply private areas of her lap. Sometimes the magazine drops, and she opens her legs just a little, and the two of them will be still together, perhaps shifting a little together, sleeping a little together, until four o'clock, when the intruder comes home from work vaguely anxious about what's for dinner.

The cat will always know that he is first in her affections. Even after she bears a child. For she does bear a child—easily, and painlessly. But only one. A son. Named Junior.

One such girl from Mobile, or Meridian, or Aiken who did not sweat in her armpits nor between her thighs, who smelled of wood and vanilla, who had made souffles in the Home Economics Department, moved with her husband, Louis, to Lorain, Ohio. Her name was Geraldine. There she built her nest, ironed shirts, potted bleeding hearts, played with her cat, and birthed Louis Junior.

Geraldine did not allow her baby, Junior, to cry. As long as his needs were physical, she could meet them—comfort and satiety. He was always brushed, bathed, oiled, and shod. Geraldine did not talk to him, coo to him, or indulge him in kissing bouts, but she saw that every other desire was fulfilled. It was not long before the child discovered the difference in his mother's behavior to himself and the cat. As he grew older, he learned how to direct his hatred of his mother to the cat, and spent some happy moments watching it suffer. The cat survived, because Geraldine was seldom away from home, and could effectively soothe the animal when Junior abused him.

Geraldine, Louis, Junior, and the cat lived next to the playground of Washington Irving School. Junior considered the playground his own, and the schoolchildren coveted his freedom to sleep late, go home for lunch, and dominate the playground after school. He hated to see the swings, slides, monkey bars, and seesaws empty and tried to get kids to stick around as long as possible. White kids; his mother did not like him to play with niggers. She had explained to him the difference between colored people and niggers. They were easily identifiable. Colored people were neat and quiet; niggers were dirty and loud. He belonged to the former group—he wore white shirts and blue trousers; his hair was cut as close to his scalp as possible to avoid any suggestion of wool, the part was etched into his hair by the barber. In winter his mother put Jergens Lotion on his face to keep the skin from becoming ashen. Even though he was light-skinned, it was possible to ash. The line between colored and nigger was not always clear; subtle and telltale signs threatened to erode it, and the watch had to be constant.

Junior used to long to play with the black boys. More than anything in the world he wanted to play King of the Mountain and have them push him down the mound of dirt and roll over him. He wanted to feel their hardness pressing on him, smell their wild blackness, and say "Fuck you" with that lovely casualness. He wanted to sit with them on curbstones and compare the sharpness of jackknives, the distance and arcs of spitting. In the toilet he wanted to share with them the laurels of being able to pee far and long. Bay Boy and P. L. had at one time been his idols. Gradually he came to agree with his mother that neither Bay Boy nor P. L. was good enough for him. He played only with Ralph Nisensky, who was two years younger, wore glasses, and didn't want to do anything. More and more Junior enjoyed bullying girls. It was easy making them scream and run. How he laughed when they fell down and their bloomers showed. When they got up, their faces red and crinkled, it made him feel good. The nigger girls he did not pick on very much. They usually traveled in packs, and once when he threw a stone at some of them, they chased, caught, and beat him witless. He lied to his mother, saying Bay Boy did it. His mother was very upset. His father just kept on reading the Lorain Journal.

When the mood struck him, he would call a child passing by to come play on the swings or the seesaw. If the child wouldn't, or did and left too soon, Junior threw gravel at him. He became a very good shot.

Alternately bored and frightened at home, the playground was his joy. On a day when he had been especially idle, he saw a very black girl taking a shortcut through the playground. She kept her head down as she walked. He had seen her many times before, standing alone, always alone, at recess. Nobody ever played with her. Probably, he thought, because she was ugly.

Now Junior called to her. "Hey! What are you doing walking through my yard?"

The girl stopped.

Nobody can come through this yard 'less I say so.

This ain't your yard. It's the school's.

But I'm in charge of it.

The girl started to walk away.

Wait. Junior walked toward her. "You can play in it if you want to. What's your name?"

Pecola. I don't want to play.

Come on. I'm not going to bother you.

I got to go home.

Say, you want to see something? I got something to show you.

No. What is it?

Come on in my house. See, I live right there. Come on. I'll show you.

Show me what?

Some kittens. We got some kittens. You can have one if you want.

Real kittens?

Yeah. Come on.

He pulled gently at her dress. Pecola began to move toward his house. When he knew she had agreed, Junior ran ahead excitedly, stopping only to yell back at her to come on. He held the door open for her, smiling his encouragement. Pecola climbed the porch stairs and hesitated there, afraid to follow him. The house looked dark. Junior said, "There's nobody here. My ma's gone out, and my father's at work. Don't you want to see the kittens?"

Junior turned on the lights. Pecola stepped inside the door.

How beautiful, she thought. What a beautiful house. There was a big red-and-gold Bible on the dining-room table. Little lace doilies were everywhere—on arms and backs of chairs, in the center of a large dining table, on little tables. Potted plants were on all the windowsills. A color picture of Jesus Christ hung on a wall with the prettiest paper flowers fastened on the frame. She wanted to see everything slowly, slowly. But Junior kept saying, "Hey, you. Come on. Come on." He pulled her into another room, even more beautiful than the first. More doilies, a big lamp with green-and-gold base and white shade. There was even a rug on the floor, with enormous dark-red lowers. She was deep in admiration of the lowers when Junior said, "Here!" Pecola turned. "Here is your kitten!" he screeched. And he threw a big black cat right in her face. She sucked in her breath in fear and surprise and felt fur in her mouth. The cat clawed her face and chest in an effort to right itself, then leaped nimbly to the floor.

Junior was laughing and running around the room clutching his stomach delightedly. Pecola touched the scratched place on her face and felt tears coming. When she started toward the doorway, Junior leaped in front of her.

You can't get out. You're my prisoner, he said. His eyes were merry but hard.

You let me go.

No! He pushed her down, ran out the door that separated the rooms, and held it shut with his hands. Pecola's banging on the door increased his gasping, high-pitched laughter.

The tears came fast, and she held her face in her hands. When something soft and furry moved around her ankles, she jumped, and saw it was the cat. He wound himself in and about her legs. Momentarily distracted from her fear, she squatted down to touch him, her hands wet from the tears. The cat rubbed up against her knee. He was black all over, deep silky black, and his eyes, pointing down toward his nose, were bluish green. The light made them shine like blue ice. Pecola rubbed the cat's head; he whined, his tongue kicking with pleasure. The blue eyes in the black face held her.

Junior, curious at not hearing her sobs, opened the door, and saw her squatting down rubbing the cat's back. He saw the cat stretching its head and fattening its eyes. He had seen that expression many times as the animal responded to his mother's touch.

Gimme my cat! His voice broke. With a movement both awkward and sure he snatched the cat by one of its hind legs and began to swing it around his head in a circle.

Stop that! Pecola was screaming. The cat's free paws were stiffened, ready to grab anything to restore balance, its mouth wide, its eyes blue streaks of horror.

Still screaming, Pecola reached for Junior's hand. She heard her dress rip under her arm. Junior tried to push her away, but she grabbed the arm which was swinging the cat. They both fell, and in falling, Junior let go the cat, which, having been released in mid-motion, was thrown full force against the window. It slithered down and fell on the radiator behind the sofa. Except for a few shudders, it was still. There was only the slightest smell of singed fur.

Geraldine opened the door.

What is this? Her voice was mild, as though asking a perfectly reasonable question. "Who is this girl?"

She killed our cat, said Junior. "Look." He pointed to the radiator, where the cat lay, its blue eyes closed, leaving only an empty, black, and helpless face.

Geraldine went to the radiator and picked up the cat. He was limp in her arms, but she rubbed her face in his fur. She looked at Pecola. Saw the dirty torn dress, the plaits sticking out on her head, hair matted where the plaits had come undone, the muddy shoes with the wad of gum peeping out from between the cheap soles, the soiled socks, one of which had been walked down into the heel of the shoe. She saw the safety pin holding the hem of the dress up. Up over the hump of the cat's back she looked at her. She had seen this little girl all of her life. Hanging out of windows over saloons in Mobile, crawling over the porches of shotgun houses on the edge of town, sitting in bus stations holding paper bags and crying to mothers who kept saying "Shet up!" Hair uncombed, dresses falling apart, shoes untied and caked with dirt. They had stared at her with great uncomprehending eyes. Eyes that questioned nothing and asked everything. Unblinking and unabashed, they stared up at her. The end of the world lay in their eyes, and the beginning, and all the waste in between.

They were everywhere. They slept six in a bed, all their pee mixing together in the night as they wet their beds each in his own candy-and-potato-chip dream. In the long, hot days, they idled away, picking plaster from the walls and digging into the earth with sticks. They sat in little rows on street curbs, crowded into pews at church, taking space from the nice, neat, colored children; they clowned on the playgrounds, broke things in dime stores, ran in front of you on the street, made ice slides on the sloped sidewalks in winter. The girls grew up knowing nothing of girdles, and the boys announced their manhood by turning the bills of their caps backward. Grass wouldn't grow where they lived. Flowers died. Shades fell down. Tin cans and tires blossomed where they lived. They lived on cold black-eyed peas and orange pop. Like flies they hovered; like flies they settled. And this one had settled in her house. Up over the hump of the cat's back she looked.

Get out, she said, her voice quiet. "You nasty little black bitch. Get out of my house."

The cat shuddered and flicked his tail.

Pecola backed out of the room, staring at the pretty milk-brown lady in the pretty gold-and-green house who was talking to her through the cat's fur. The pretty lady's words made the cat fur move; the breath of each word parted the fur. Pecola turned to find the front door and saw Jesus looking down at her with sad and unsurprised eyes, his long brown hair parted in the middle, the gay paper flowers twisted around his face.

Outside, the March wind blew into the rip in her dress. She held her head down against the cold. But she could not hold it low enough to avoid seeing the snowflakes falling and dying on the pavement.

参考译文——最蓝的眼睛（节选）

最蓝的眼睛（节选）

托妮·莫里森

她们来自莫比尔，来自艾肯，来自纽波特纽斯，来自马利埃塔，来自默里迪恩。从她们嘴里说出的这些地名让你想起爱情。如果你问她们来自何方，她们就侧着头说“莫比尔”，使你感觉好像被人亲吻了一下。当她们说“艾肯”，你会看见一只断了翅膀的蝴蝶飞过篱笆墙。当她们说“那加多彻”，你就想说“行，我行”。你并不知道那些小镇的生活情景，可你喜欢听从她们张开的嘴里流出的地名。

默里迪恩，这声音听上去就像圣歌的头四个音符那样让人豁然开朗。很少有人能如此充满深情地说出自己家乡的地名。也许这是因为她们没有自己的家乡，只有出生地。可是这些女孩子吸吮着家乡的乳汁，永远不让它离开她们。她们是些浅棕肤色瘦瘦的女孩儿，曾长期注视着默里迪恩、莫比尔、艾肯、巴吞鲁日等镇子上房屋后院里的蜀葵。和蜀葵一样，她们又细又高，笔直挺立，根基深，茎秆壮，只有顶部的花蕊在风中摇曳。她们的眼睛看着天空的色彩光线就能说出时辰。这些女孩一般住在安静的黑人居民区里，那里人人都有一份有报酬的工作，房前过道里都吊着吊椅。草地用镰刀修剪整齐，院子里养着鸡，种着向日葵，台阶和窗台上摆放着一盆盆荷包牡丹、青藤和虎尾兰。

这些女孩从果农的大车上买回西瓜和大豆。她们在窗前摆上一块硬纸板。硬纸板的三个角上分别印着十磅、二十五磅、五十磅的字样，第四个角上印着“冰块无货”。这些来自莫比尔和艾肯的棕色女孩儿和她们的姐妹们不一样。她们既不烦躁，也不焦虑；她们也没有漂亮的黑脖子可以在无形的衣领里伸展；她们的眼神并不咄咄逼人。这些红糖肤色的女孩子在街上行走时悄然无声。她们甜蜜朴实得像奶油蛋糕。细细的脚踝，长长的脚板。

她们用橘黄色“救生圈”香皂洗澡，用“羊绒花束”香粉爽身，用布头沾着细盐刷牙，用“采碎”润肤霜滋润皮肤。她们身上散发出木屑、报纸以及香草气味。她们蘸着“南方甜心”润发油梳直头发，把发路分在一边。晚上用牛皮纸口袋的纸片把头发卷起小卷，用印花头巾把头包上，睡觉时把双手放在胸前。她们不喝酒，不抽烟，不说脏话，避免直接谈论性问题。她们在唱诗班里担任第二女高音。尽管她们的嗓音响亮稳健，她们从未人选担任独唱。她们站在第二排，身着浆过的白衬衫，蓝裙子被熨得几乎成了酱紫色。

她们上赠地学院和师范学校，学习如何尽善尽美地替内人干活：上家政课学习如何为他们做饭；学教育学来教育黑孩子顺从听话；学习音乐好安抚劳累的主人和他那颗迟钝的心灵。其余课程的学习都在房前挂着吊椅、摆有荷包牡丹的房子里进行：循规蹈矩、小心谨慎地培养勤俭、耐心、有道德、有礼貌等品德。总之，要学会抛弃纯真简朴的本色，可怕的纯真情感。自然大方，以及一切人类感情都该抛弃。

无论这种简朴的本色从哪里冒头，她们都会把它扫除一清；在哪儿积累成习就在哪儿把它消灭；在哪儿生根开花就在哪儿发现铲除。她们生命不息，战斗不止。笑声过于响亮，发音不够清晰，举止不够文雅都需纠正，她们紧缩臀部生怕扭动太大；抹口红时生怕嘴唇显得太厚实而不把整个嘴唇涂红；一天到晚没完没了地担心，生怕头发没有梳理整齐。

她们好像从来不交男朋友，但最终总是成家。有一类男人总在瞧她们，但不让人察觉。他们知道如果家里有这么个女人，他睡的床单一定会洗得干干净净，晾晒在松树丛上，然后熨烫得平平整整。他母亲遗像的四周一定有漂亮的纸花装点，客厅里一定会摆放着一本厚厚的《圣经》。

他们感到安全。他们知道工作服在周一早上会被洗得干干净净，缝补熨烫整齐；做礼拜穿的衬衫会挂在门后的衣架上，浆洗得洁白如新。看到她的手就知道她会做点心；闻得见咖啡和煎火腿的香味；看得见玉米面饼子上的一团黄油。她的臀部让他们确信生孩子既容易又不痛苦。他们往往是对的。

然而他们并不知道就是这些貌不惊人的棕色女孩儿会用一根根的树枝构筑她们的巢穴，使其成为不可侵犯的独立王国。她们会警觉地看护着每一棵花草，每一件财产，即使得罪他也在所不惜。她会不声不响地把台灯放回原先她放灯的位置；人们刚刚吃完最后一口饭，她就会把碗盘撤走；油手接触过的门把会被立即擦拭干净。一个斜视足以让他知道该到后院去抽烟。孩子们本能地感到他们不能进她的院子去捡球。可是男人是不会知道这一切的。他们也不会知道她不会将肉体慷慨大方毫无保留地让他享受。

一些小生命会偶然引起她的爱怜之心。比如，一只对她的整洁、严谨、坚定已很习惯的小猫，一只和她一样洁净安详的小猫。小猫会不声不响地坐在窗台上用眼睛上下打量她。她会用手臂把它抱起，让它的后爪在她的前胸来回蹬动，寻找落脚之地，前爪则搭在她的肩膀上。她会轻轻地抚摸平滑的猫毛，感受它全身肌肉的松弛。

一接触到她轻柔的手指，它就会舔舔毛，伸伸腰，张张嘴。当它在她手下扭动身子，并因极度的兴奋眼睛眯成一条缝时，她会接受这种奇妙的喜悦感。当她站在炉边做饭时，它会在她的两腿之间来回转悠，猫毛引起的刺激从小腿延伸到大腿，使她做馅饼的手都微微颤抖。

或许，当她在看《自由》杂志“思想升华”栏目时，小猫会跳上她的双腿。她抚摸它柔软的长毛，让猫的体温传遍她全身，传到她两腿之间的深处。有时杂志掉在地上，她微微分开两腿，她们俩挨得更紧了。她们也许要玩耍一阵，小睡一阵，直到四点钟那个不速之客下班回来，暗暗盘算着晚饭吃些什么。

小猫很清楚她的感情首先是属于它的，甚至在她生了一个孩子之后仍是如此。她生过一个孩子——轻而易举，毫无痛苦。只生了一个，是个儿子，名叫裘尼尔。

她就是来自莫比尔、默里迪恩、艾肯的众多女孩中的一个。她腋下或腿间从不出汗，满身花木香味，在家政系学做蛋奶酥，跟着丈夫路易斯搬到了俄亥俄州的洛兰。她的名字叫杰萝丹。在那儿她安家筑巢，熨烫衣物，养花弄草，嬉戏小猫，还生了儿子路易斯·裘尼尔。

杰萝丹不许她的孩子裘尼尔哭闹。只要他的需求是物质性的——舒适与温饱，她总能满足。她总是不停地给他梳洗打扮。杰萝丹不和孩子谈笑逗乐，也不亲吻溺爱，可是孩子其他方面的要求她都予以满足。没过多久孩子就觉察出他母亲对他和对猫的态度不一样。他长大一些后就学会如何把对母亲的仇恨转嫁给那只猫，并从小猫的痛苦之中着实获得过一些快乐。猫咪之所以仍活着是因为杰萝丹难得出门，当猫受到裘尼尔的虐待之后能有效地安抚它。

杰萝丹、路易斯·裘尼尔以及猫咪住在华盛顿·欧文学校操场边的一幢房子里。裘尼尔认为整个操场归他所有。学校所有的孩子都羡慕他能晚睡晚起，能中午回家吃饭，放学之后能霸占整个操场。而他则看不得操场上无人荡秋千，滑滑梯，爬攀登架，玩跷跷板，总是想方设法尽可能长时间地留人玩。他要找白人孩子玩，她妈妈不让他和黑孩子玩。她跟他解释过有色人与黑人之间的差别。两者很容易区别。有色人整洁安静；黑人肮脏吵闹。他属于前者：他穿的是白衬衫蓝裤子；头发剃到发根以免露出黑人的鬈发，头路是理发师烫出的一条印儿。冬天，她母亲在他脸上涂采婷润肤露，使他脸色不致变得灰白。尽管他的肤色还算浅，也有可能变得灰白。有色人与黑人之间的界限并不总是那么分明；一些细微但显露实情的标记会使界限变得模糊，因此必须保持髙度警惕。

裘尼尔原先很愿意和黑孩子一起玩儿。他最喜欢玩的游戏是他当山大王，让那些孩子把他从土堆上推下来，从他身上滚过去。他喜欢他们坚实的躯体在他身上的感觉，喜欢粗野的黑人身上特有的味道，还喜欢听他们用极其随便的口吻骂人。他喜欢和他们一起坐在马路边上比试谁的折刀刀刃快，谁能把唾沫吐得又髙又远。在厕所里，他喜欢和他们一起分享撒尿撒得又远又长的荣耀。湾仔和波乐曾是他崇拜的偶像。他逐渐赞同他母亲的观点，认为他们不配和他玩儿。他目前只和拉夫·尼桑斯甚玩儿。拉夫比他小两岁，戴副眼镜，什么游戏都不喜欢。裘尼尔越来越喜欢欺负女孩子了。让她们尖叫着逃跑是轻而易举的事。当她们摔倒之后露出裤衩，他会得意地大笑。最让他感到满足的是看到她们爬起来时脸色通红，一副哭相。他不常欺负黑女孩儿，因为她们通常成群结伙地走路。有一次他朝她们扔石块，她们追上来抓住他，狠狠地打了他一顿。他对母亲撒谎说是湾仔打的。他母亲很生气，而他父亲则一直在看《洛兰日报》。

当他来情绪时，他会叫住路上的一个孩子，和他一起荡秋千，玩跷跷板。如果那个孩子不愿意，或者只玩了一小会儿，他就用石子扔他。他练就了准确扔石子的本领。

在家里他时而寂寞时而恐惧，因此操场成了他的乐园。这一天他感到特别无所事事，看见一个长得极黑的女孩儿从操场上穿过。走路时她一直低着头。他在课间见过她多次，每次都是孤零零地一人站着，没人和她一起玩。他想也许是因为她长得太丑的原因。

裘尼尔朝她喊道：“喂！你为什么在我的院子里穿行？”

女孩停住了。

“没有我的允许谁都不能在院子里穿行。”

“这不是你家院子，是学校的。”

“可是归我管。”

女孩准备走开。

“等一下。”裘尼尔朝她走去，“如果你愿意，你可以在院子里玩。你叫什么名字？”

“佩科拉。我不想玩。”

“玩吧，我不找你麻烦。”

“我得回家。”

“对了，你想看一件东西吗？我有一样东西给你看。”

“不想看。什么东西？”

“到我家来。看见了吗？我就住在那里。来吧，我给你看。”

“给我看什么？”

“一些小猫。我家有一些小猫。如果你喜欢，你可以抱走一只。”

“是真猫吗？”

“当然啦，来吧。”

他轻轻地拉了拉她的裙子。佩科拉跟着朝他家走去。当他觉得她同意跟他走了就兴奋地先跑了，不时地停下来叫她快跟上。他打开院门让她进去，对她笑笑以示鼓励。佩科拉走上台阶，犹豫了一下，好像害怕跟他进屋。屋子里看上去暗得很。裘尼尔说：“家里没人，我妈出去了，我爸还在上班。你不想看小猫吗？”

裘尼尔打开电灯，佩科拉走进了房间。

真是太漂亮了，她想道，多漂亮的房子啊，餐桌上放着一本大大的红底金字的《圣经》。房间处处都点缀着带花边的布垫——椅背上，扶手上，餐桌的正中央，还有小桌上。所有的窗台上都摆放着花盘。墙上挂着一副彩色的耶稣画像，四周围了一圈漂亮的纸花。她想慢慢地、慢慢地欣赏这一切。可是裘尼尔不停地说：“喂，你，快来，快来。”他把她拽进另一间屋子，比第一间还漂亮。又有一些小布垫，落地灯的底座是绿金两色，佩有白色灯罩。地上居然还放着一块地毯，带有巨大的深红花卉图案。当她正默默地欣赏花卉时，裘尼尔说了声“接着”，她转过身来。“给你猫！”他叫道。他把一只大黑猫朝她脸上扔去。她惊恐地倒吸了一口气，感觉嘴里粘了几根猫毛。那只猫抓着她的脸和胸企图保持平衡，然后无力地跌到地上。

裘尼尔捂着肚子笑得满屋子地转。佩科拉摸着脸上被抓破的地方，眼泪要流出来了。当她朝门口走去时，裘尼尔拦住了她的去路。

“你不能出去。你是我的俘虏。”他对她说。虽是逗乐，他的目光却很坚定。

“你让我走。”

“不让！”他把她推倒在地，跑出房间，用双手使劲儿拉住关上的房门。佩科拉越砸门，裘尼尔越笑得喘不上气来。

佩科拉用双手捂着脸，眼泪哗哗地流。突然她惊跳起来，觉着有毛茸茸的东西在磨蹭着她的脚踝。一看，原来是那只猫在她的双腿之间来回环绕。她暂时忘却了恐惧，蹲下去摸了摸猫，手上还带着泪水。猫紧挨着她的双膝。只见它一身黑毛，乌黑发亮，蓝绿色的眼睛一端指向鼻子，在光线下显得像蓝色冰球。佩科拉抚摸着猫头；猫轻轻叫了几声，伸伸舌头表示惬意，嵌在黑脸庞里的蓝眼睛直直地看着她。

裘尼尔听不到佩科拉的哭声感到奇怪，推开房门看见她正蹲着抚摸猫的脊背。只见那猫伸长了脖子眯起双眼。他曾无数次地见过此种表情。他妈抚摸它时它就是这种表情。

“把猫给我！”他声嘶力竭地喊道。他既笨拙又果断地一把抓住猫的一条后腿，在头上转圈挥舞。

“住手！”佩科拉尖叫起来。猫的另几条腿直挺挺的，随时准备抓住东西以恢复平衡。嘴张得大大的，眼里闪着恐惧的蓝光。

佩科拉尖叫着去抓裘尼尔的手，她听见自己的裙子从腋下部位撕裂的声音。裘尼尔企图把她推开。可她抓住了挥舞猫咪的手，两人一起摔倒在地上。摔倒之时，裘尼尔松开了手。因是中途松手，惯性把猫咪摔在窗上。它摇晃着掉在沙发后面的电暖炉上，抽搐了几下之后就没动静了。一阵猫毛的焦味散发了出来。

杰萝丹开门进来。

“怎么回事？”她的嗓音柔和，好像在问一个极其平常的问题，“这个女孩是谁？”

“她把我们家的猫给弄死了。”裘尼尔说，“看。”他指了指电暖炉上躺着的猫，蓝色的双眼紧闭着，只剩一张毫无生气的黑脸。

杰萝丹走到电暖炉前将猫抱起来，它全身瘫软地躺在她双臂里，但她仍把脸贴在猫毛上。她朝佩科拉望去，看见的是撕破的脏裙子，头顶上的翘辫子，辫子散了的地方头发乱糟糟的一团，带泥的廉价鞋底露出中间的鞋衬，袜子脏兮兮的，其中一只已脱落到脚后跟。她看见裙子边开线的部位用别针别着。她从弓着的猫背上朝她望去。她这一辈子见的都是这类女孩儿。在莫比尔的沙龙窗前，在镇子边缘地带的简易房前。在汽车站里她们会手拿牛皮纸袋，不停地哭泣，而妈妈们则会不停地说“住嘴”。她们的头发从不梳理整齐，裙子总是破破烂烂，带泥的鞋子总是不系鞋带。她们总是用不可理解、蠢钝愚昧的目光瞧着她，既不眨眼，也不害臊。在她们的眼睛里可以看到世界末日，世界起源，以及末日与起源之间的荒芜。

她们无所不在。她们在马路牙子上和教堂里成排地挤坐着，占据了穿着整齐利索的有色孩子的位置；她们在操场上出洋相，在便宜商店里碰坏商品，在马路上连跑带跳，到了冬天则在人行道结冰的斜坡上滑行。女孩子到了成年也不知束腰为何物，男孩子则把帽檐朝后戴以表示他们已长大成人。他们居住的地方寸草不生，花木凋零，阴影笼罩，而罐头盒和汽车轮胎则生长繁茂。他们吃黑豆喝冷饮长大，像苍蝇一样成群结队地飞行，像苍蝇一样散落下来。其中之一就落到了她家，她正从弓着的猫背后朝她望着。

“出去，”她说道，嗓音低沉，“你这讨厌的小黑丫头，从我家滚出去。”

那只猫抖动了一下，摇了摇尾巴。

佩科拉倒退着出了门，眼睛一直看着住在金绿两色的漂亮房子里、透过猫毛跟自己说话的漂亮的浅棕色皮肤的太太。那位漂亮太太说话时嘴里冒出的热气使猫毛抖动、分开。佩科拉转过身去找到前门，看见耶稣正用伤感但又极其冷静的目光看着她。他长长的棕色头发从中间分开，脸的四周围着一圈纸花。

屋外，三月的风吹进她裙子的破裂处。在冷风里她低着头。可是即使低着头，她还是看见了飘落的雪花，雪花落在地上，随即消失。

Key Words:

cardboard ['kɑ:dbɔ:d]

n. 厚纸板

fretful ['fretfəl]

adj. 烦燥的，焦燥的

obedience [ə'bi:djəns]

n. 服从，顺从

jamb [dʒæm]

n. 门窗的侧柱，矿柱

preen [pri:n]

vt. 整理羽毛，(人)打扮修饰，自满，自负

surfeit ['sə:fit]

n. 过食，过量 v. 暴食，过分沉溺

soothe [su:ð]

v. 缓和，使 ... 安静，安慰

recess [ri'ses]

n. 休息，幽深处，凹缝，壁龛，放假 vt. 放入壁龛

参考资料：

现代大学英语精读第二版（第五册）学习笔记（原文及全文翻译）——10 - The Bluest Eye(Excerpts)（最蓝的眼睛（节选））

Unit 10 - The Bluest Eye (Excerpts)

参考译文——最蓝的眼睛（节选）

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