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双语·杰克·伦敦短篇小说选 墨西哥人 1

所属教程:译林版·热爱生命:杰克·伦敦短篇小说选

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2022年06月11日

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The Mexican I

Nobody knew his history—they of the Junta least of all.He was their “little mystery,”their “big patriot,”and in his way he worked as hard for the coming Mexican Revolution as did they.They were tardy in recognizing this,for not one of the Junta liked him.The day he first drifted into their crowded,busy rooms,they all suspected him of being a spy—one of the bought tools of the Diaz secret service.Too many of the comrades were in civil an military prisons scattered over the United States,and others of them,in irons,were even then being taken across the border to be lined up against adobe walls and shot.

At the first sight the boy did not impress them favorably.Boy he was,not more than eighteen and not over large for his years.He announced that he was Felipe Rivera,and that it was his wish to work for the Revolution.That was all—not a wasted word,no further explanation.He stood waiting.There was no smile on his lips,no geniality in his eyes.Big dashing Paulino Vera felt an inward shudder.Here was something forbidding,terrible,inscrutable.There was something venomous and snake-like in the boy's black eyes.They burned like cold fire,as with a vast,concentrated bitterness.He flashed them from the faces of the conspirators to the typewriter which little Mrs.Sethby was industriously operating.His eyes rested on hers but an instant—she had chanced to look up—and she,too,sensed the nameless something that made her pause.She was compelled to read back in order to regain the swing of the letter she was writing.

Paulino Vera looked questioningly at Arrellano and Ramos,and questioningly they looked back and to each other.The indecision of doubt brooded in their eyes.This slender boy was the Unknown,vested with all the menace of the Unknown.He was unrecognizable,something quite beyond the ken of honest,ordinary revolutionists whose fiercest hatred for Diaz and his tyranny after all was only that of honest and ordinary patriots.Here was something else,they knew not what.But Vera,always the most impulsive,the quickest to act,stepped into the breach.

“Very well,”he said coldly.“You say you want to work for the Revolution.Take off your coat.Hang it over there.I will show you—come—where are the buckets and cloths.The floor is dirty.You will begin by scrubbing it,and by scrubbing the floors of the other rooms.The spittoons need to be cleaned.Then there are the windows.”

“Is it for the Revolution?”the boy asked.

“It is for the Revolution,”Vera answered.

Rivera looked cold suspicion at all of them,then proceeded to take off his coat.

“It is well,”he said.

And nothing more.Day after day he came to his work—sweeping,scrubbing,cleaning.He emptied the ashes from the stoves,brought up the coal and kindling,and lighted the fires before the most energetic one of them was at his desk.

“Can I sleep here?”he asked once.

Ah,ha!So that was it—the hand of Diaz showing through!To sleep in the rooms of the Junta meant access to their secrets,to the lists of names,to the addresses of comrades down on Mexican soil.The request was denied,and Rivera never spoke of it again.He slept they knew not where,and ate they knew not where nor how.Once,Arrellano offered him a couple of dollars.Rivera declined the money with a shake of the head.When Vera joined in and tried to press it upon him,he said:

“I am working for the Revolution.”

It takes money to raise a modern revolution,and always the Junta was pressed.The members starved and toiled,and the longest day was none too long,and yet there were times when it appeared as if the Revolution stood or fell on no more than the matter of a few dollars.Once,the first time,when the rent of the house was two months behind and the landlord was threatening dispossession,it was Felipe Rivera,the scrub-boy in the poor,cheap clothes,worn and threadbare,who laid sixty dollars in gold on May Sethby's desk.There were other times.Three hundred letters,clicked out on the busy typewriters (appeals for assistance,for sanctions from the organized labor groups,requests for square news deals to the editors of newspapers,protests against the high-handed treatment of revolutionists by the United States courts),lay unmailed,awaiting postage.Vera's watch had disappeared—the old-fashioned gold repeater that had been his father's.Likewise had gone the plain gold band from May Setbby's third finger.Things were desperate.Ramos and Arrellano pulled their long mustaches in despair.The letters must go off,and the Post Office allowed no credit to purchasers of stamps.Then it was that Rivera put on his hat and went out.When he came back he laid a thousand two-cent stamps on May Sethby's desk.

“I wonder if it is the cursed gold of Diaz?”said Vera to the comrades.

They elevated their brows and could not decide.And Felipe Rivera,the scrubber for the Revolution,continued,as occasion arose,to lay down gold and silver for the Junta's use.

And still they could not bring themselves to like him.They did not know him.His ways were not theirs.He gave no confidences.He repelled all probing.Youth that he was,they could never nerve themselves to dare to question him.

“A great and lonely spirit,perhaps,I do not know,I do not know,”Arrellano said helplessly.

“He is not human,”said Ramos.

“His soul has been seared,”said May Sethby.“Light and laughter have been burned out of him.He is like one dead,and yet he is fearfully alive.”

“He has been through hell,”said Vera.“No man could look like that who has not been through hell—and he is only a boy.”

Yet they could not like him.He never talked,never inquired,never suggested.He would stand listening,expressionless,a thing dead,save for his eyes,coldly burning,while their talk of the Revolution ran high and warm.From face to face and speaker to speaker his eyes would turn,boring like gimlets of incandescent ice,disconcerting and perturbing.

“He is no spy,”Vera confided to May Sethby.“He is a patriot—mark me,the greatest patriot of us all.I know it,I feel it,here in my heart and head I feel it.But him I know not at all.”

“He has a bad temper,”said May Sethby.

“I know,”said Vera,with a shudder.“He has looked at me with those eyes of his.They do not love;they threaten;they are savage as a wild tiger's.I know,if I should prove unfaithful to the Cause,that he would kill me.He has no heart.He is pitiless as steel,keen and cold as frost.He is like moonshine in a winter night when a man freezes to death on some lonely mountain top.I am not afraid of Diaz and all his killers;but this boy,of him am I afraid.I tell you true.I am afraid.He is the breath of death.”

Yet Vera it was who persuaded the others to give the first trust to Rivera.The line of communication between Los Angeles and Lower California had broken down.Three of the comrades had dug their own graves and been shot into them.Two more were United States prisoners in Los Angeles.Juan Alvarado,the Federal commander,was a monster.All their plans did he checkmate.They could no longer gain access to the active revolutionists,and the incipient ones,in Lower California.

Young Rivera was given his instructions and dispatched south.When he returned,the line of communication was re?stablished,and Juan Alvarado was dead.He had been found in bed,a knife hilt-deep in his breast.This had exceeded Rivera's instructions,but they of the Junta knew the times of his movements.They did not ask him.He said nothing.But they looked at one another and conjectured.

“I have told you,”said Vera.“Diaz has more to fear from this youth than from any man.He is implacable.He is the hand of God.”

The bad temper,mentioned by May Sethby,and sensed by them all,was evidenced by physical proofs.Now he appeared with a cut lip,a blackened cheek,or a swollen ear.It was patent that he brawled,somewhere in that outside world where he ate and slept,gained money,and moved in ways unknown to them.As the time passed,he had come to set type for the little revolutionary sheet they published weekly.There were occasions when he was unable to set type,when his knuckles were bruised and battered,when his thumbs were injured and helpless,when one arm or the other hung wearily at his side while his face was drawn with unspoken pain.

“A wastrel,”said Arrellano.

“A frequenter of low places,”said Ramos.

“But where does he get the money?”Vera demanded.“Only to-day,just now,have I learned that he paid the bill for white paper—one hundred and forty dollars.”

“There are his absences,”said May Sethby.“He never explains them.”

“We should set a spy upon him,”Ramos propounded.

“I should not care to be that spy,”said Vera.“I fear you would never see me again,save to bury me.He has a terrible passion.Not even God would he permit to stand between him and the way of his passion.”

“I feel like a child before him,”Ramos confessed.

“To me he is power—he is the primitive,the wild wolf,—the striking rattlesnake,the stinging centipede,”said Arrellano.

“He is the Revolution incarnate,”said Vera.“He is the flame and the spirit of it,the insatiable cry for vengeance that makes no cry but that slays noiselessly.He is a destroying angel moving through the still watches of the night.”

“I could weep over him,”said May Sethby.“He knows nobody.He hates all people.Us he tolerates,for we are the way of his desire.He is alone...lonely.”Her voice broke in a half sob and there was dimness in her eyes.

Rivera's ways and times were truly mysterious.There were periods when they did not see him for a week at a time.Once,he was away a month.These occasions were always capped by his return,when,without advertisement or speech,he laid gold coins on May Sethby's desk.Again,for days and weeks,he spent all his time with the Junta.And yet again,for irregular periods,he would disappear through the heart of each day,from early morning until late afternoon.At such times he came early and remained late.Arrellano had found him at midnight,setting type with fresh swollen knuckles,or mayhap it was his lip,new-split,that still bled.

墨西哥人 1

没有人对他知根知底——最不了解他的恐怕要数革命委员会里的人。在他们的眼里,他是个“神秘人物”,是个“大爱国者”。他以自己的方式行事,和他们一样,也是在为即将来到的墨西哥革命埋头苦干。一开始,委员会里没人喜欢他,过了很久他们才发现他是同路人。他头一次出现在他们那拥挤、忙乱的活动场所时,大家都怀疑他是个奸细,是迪亚斯(1)的秘密警察收买来的爪牙。委员会里已有很多同志被关进美国各地的普通监狱和军事监狱,还有一些同志甚至披枷带锁被押出了边境,面朝土坯墙排成队,在那儿遭到处决。

第一眼看到这个男孩子,大家对他的印象就不好。称他为男孩子,是因为他未满十八岁,而且照他的年龄来看,他的个头也不算高。他说他叫菲力普·利维拉,说他的志向是为革命效力。他就说了这么两句话——一句废话也没有,也不做进一步的解释,然后就站在那儿等待着,脸上没有笑容,眼神缺乏善意。连身材高大、脾气暴烈的保利诺·维拉也感到心里一哆嗦,觉得他是个阴险、可怕、令人捉摸不透的人物,黑黑的眼睛里有一种阴冷似毒蛇的神情。那双眼睛像冷冷的火焰在熊熊燃烧,似乎凝聚着深仇大恨。他的目光扫过那些革命者的脸,落到了矮小的赛斯比太太正在忙着敲字的打字机上。在他们目光交汇的那一刹那——她那时碰巧抬起了头——她也感觉到他身上有一种难以名状的东西,以至不由停下了手。而后为了继续敲那封她正在写的信,她不得不往回读了读打过的内容。

保利诺·维拉询问似的看了看阿莱兰诺和拉莫斯,后两者也询问似的看了看他,然后又互相对视了一眼。他们的目光中出现了迟疑不决的神色。这个身材瘦削的小伙子来历不明,让人感到不安。他们是正直的普通革命者,对迪亚斯及其暴政恨之入骨,但这种仇恨是充满朴素爱国主义情怀的仇恨,而这位小伙子则像一个不可理解的谜团,叫他们吃不透。他有些与众不同,然而究竟有哪些不同,他们也说不出个所以然。维拉历来冲动,遇事不假思索,这时率先打破了僵局。

“很好,”他冷冷地说,“你说你愿意为革命效力。那就请你脱下外套,把外套挂到那边去。容我交代一下……你过来,这儿有水桶和抹布,这里的地板脏了,你就先把地板擦一擦吧,把别的房间的地也擦一擦。接下来就是洗痰盂和擦窗户。”

“这算是为革命效力吗?”小伙子问。

“是为革命效力。”维拉回答道。

利维拉用冰冷而狐疑的目光看了他们一眼,随即动手脱外套。

“那好吧。”他口中说道。

除此之外,他再没有说别的。之后,他每天都来干活——扫地、擦地板、收拾房间。在他们中最勤快的同志来工作前,他就已经清理掉炉灰,拿来了煤炭和引火柴,生着了炉子。

“我可以睡在这儿吗?”有一次,他问道。

啊哈!狐狸的尾巴终于露出来了——果然是迪亚斯的爪牙!睡在他们委员会的活动场所,就可以刺探情报,掌握墨西哥境内同志的名单以及地址!他的请求被拒绝了。此事利维拉也再没有提起过。他在哪儿歇宿、在哪儿吃饭以及如何糊口,大家一无所知。一次,阿莱兰诺提出要给他几美元的工钱,他摇摇头拒绝了。维拉过来帮着敲边鼓,劝他把钱收下,而他说:

“这是为革命工作,不取报酬。”

如今,发动一场革命是需要资金的,而委员会的状况总是捉襟见肘。委员们忍饥挨饿、埋头苦干,再苦再累也无怨言。不过,有的时候,革命的成败似乎也就是几美元的问题。有一次,那也是第一次,由于拖欠了两个月的房租,房东威胁说要赶他们出去。正是菲力普·利维拉——那个衣着寒酸而褴褛的打扫房间的小工,拿来了六十块金币,放在了梅·赛斯比的桌子上。这样的情形出现了不止一次。一天,几台打字机忙个不停,打出了三百封信(有求援信;有向劳工组织发出的呼吁书;有请求报纸编辑报道正义新闻的信件;有反对美国法院以高压手段对待革命者的抗议书),而这些信件由于缺邮资无法寄出。维拉父亲留给维拉的那块老式的金怀表不见了。梅·赛斯比中指上戴着的金戒指也是。真是到了山穷水尽的地步。拉莫斯和阿莱兰诺捋着他们的长胡子,苦于无计。这些信必须寄出去,可是买邮票,邮局却不愿意赊账。利维拉见状,戴上帽子出了门,回来时,将一千张两分的邮票放在了梅·赛斯比的桌子上。

“谁知道这是不是从迪亚斯那儿拿来的赃钱。”维拉对同志们说。

其他的人抬了抬眉毛,都有点说不准。就这样,为革命情愿当清洁工的菲力普·利维拉每当遇到这种情况,便拿出真金白银来供委员会使用。

可是,委员们还是无法喜欢上他。他们不了解他。他为人处世跟他们大不相同,从不跟人深谈,也不愿让别人打听他的事情。他虽然只是个毛头小伙子,他们也不敢冒昧地对他盘根问底。

“也许他是个伟大而孤独的人吧。谁知道呢,谁知道呢。”阿莱兰诺无奈地说。

“他有点缺乏人情味。”拉莫斯说。

“他的内心冷酷无情,”梅·赛斯比说,“他的生活中没有阳光和笑声。他像一个死人,却又充满了可怕的活力。”

“他肯定经历过许多磨难,”维拉说,“没吃过万千苦头的人,绝不会这个样子。说来,他还只是个孩子呀!”

不管怎样,他们还是无法喜欢上他。他从不多话,从不打听任何情况,也不献言献策。大家谈论革命,谈得慷慨激昂的时候,他总是站在旁边听着,脸上毫无表情,仿佛一个死人,唯有一双眼睛在冷冷地燃烧着。那双眼睛盯着发言人的脸,瞧瞧这个,再看看那个,目光似闪着亮光的冰锥般刺人,让人觉得慌乱和不安。

“他不是奸细,”维拉私下对梅·赛斯比说,“而是一个爱国者。请相信我的话,他是咱们中间最伟大的爱国者。我知道他是,能感觉得到他是,无论是从情感方面还是理智方面都可以感觉得到。只不过我对他的根底仍一无所知。”

“他的脾气很坏。”梅·赛斯比说。

“这我知道,”维拉打了个哆嗦说,“他曾用他那双眼睛盯过我,里面没有爱,只有威胁,野蛮得像猛虎一样。我知道,假如我做出对革命事业不忠的事情,他一定会杀了我的。他没有感情,如钢刀般冷酷,似冰霜一样寒气逼人。就像在冬夜里,一个人在荒郊野外快要冻死时看到的冷冰冰的月光。实不相瞒,我不怕迪亚斯和他的那帮杀人魔王,可是对这个小伙子,却有几分惧怕。他周身散发着死神的气息。”

不过,说服大家第一次信任利维拉的也是维拉。洛杉矶和下加利福尼亚(2)之间的通讯线被破坏。三个同志自投罗网,当局将他们枪杀了。另有两个同志也在美国被捕,被关进了洛杉矶的监狱。联邦军司令胡安·阿尔瓦拉多是一个恶魔,他破坏了他们所有的计划。无论是下加利福尼亚的革命积极分子,还是刚刚加入的新人,委员会再也无法跟他们取得联系了。

年轻的利维拉奉命南下。他回来的时候,通讯线恢复了,胡安·阿尔瓦拉多也死了。他被发现死在床上,胸口插了一把刀,只露出来个刀柄。此事已超出了利维拉所执行命令的范围,但委员会的人知道这是非常时期,也就没有追究。他什么也没说。大家相互交换了眼色,满脸猜测。

“我早就告诉过你们,”维拉说道,“迪亚斯最应该怕的是这个小伙子,而非别人。他下手狠,毫不留情,简直就是上帝派来的使者。”

梅·赛斯比曾说他脾气坏,大家也感觉到了,后来发生的情况亦证实了这一点。他露面时,不是嘴唇破了,就是脸青了一块,要不就是一只耳朵发肿。很清楚,他一定是在外边的哪个地方跟人打架了——那是一个他吃饭、睡觉、挣钱,以他们所不熟悉的方式活动的地方。过了一阵子,他开始为他们每周一期的宣传革命的小报排字。而有的时候,他则有些力不从心——因为他不是指节上皮破血流,就是大拇指受伤动弹不得,要不就是左臂或右臂耷拉下来使不上劲,脸上露出痛苦不堪的表情。

“真是个浪荡子。”阿莱兰诺说。

“看来他经常出入那些乌七八糟的地方。”拉莫斯说。

“可是,他的钱是从哪儿弄来的呢?”维拉说,“就在今天,我才刚刚知道,买纸的钱是他付的——整整一百四十块!”

“他常常说不来就不来,”梅·赛斯比说,“连个解释的话也没有。”

“应该派人调查一下。”拉莫斯提议说。

“我可不愿去盯他的梢。”维拉说,“要是去了,你们恐怕再也见不到我了,要见也是见我的尸体。他的脾气太可怕了,发作起来,就是上帝也别想拦住他。”

“在他面前,我觉得自己可怜得像个小孩子。”拉莫斯坦白地说。

“我觉得他代表着一种力量,简直就像是原始人、野狼、咬人的响尾蛇、蜇人的蜈蚣。”阿莱兰诺说。

“他是革命的化身,”维拉说,“是革命的火焰和灵魂,在厉声呼喊着人们起来复仇,但行动的时候却无声无息,静悄悄地置敌人于死地。他俨然就是一个惩恶扬善的天使,夜深人静时巡回于大地。”

“我真是为他感到难过,”梅·赛斯比说,“他身边没有朋友,他痛恨所有人,之所以能够容忍咱们,是因为咱们可以为他实现愿望铺平道路。他很孤独……一个人孤苦伶仃的。”说到此处,她的声音有些哽咽,泪水模糊了双眼。

利维拉的确行踪诡秘,有时一连一个星期都不见他露面。一次,他出外一个月未归。每次出外归来后,他都会拿出一些金币放在梅·赛斯比的桌子上,什么情况也不解释,什么话也不多讲。此后,他会一连数天或数个星期待在委员会,全身心地投入工作。过不了多久,他又会开始白天出去,只在早晨和晚上出现。这种时候,他一大早就到委员会来,晚上又待得很晚。阿莱兰诺曾发现他午夜时分还在排字,手上添了新伤,指关节肿肿的,要不就是嘴唇裂了口子,血还在流。

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