双语读电影 《爱丽丝梦游仙境-1》第07章 :时间变得让人厌烦，就连时针也不再嘀嗒了。

Even if Alice had not known that they were going to the home of the March Hare, she might have been able to guess who lived in the unusual house they found at the end of a tangled, hidden path. It was not an ordinary house. The roof was thatched with thick brown fur instead of straw or shingles. The long chimneys sticking out the top were shaped like rabbit ears. The doorknob was a soft white tuft of fur—unmistakably a rabbit’s tail. Rabbit feet poked up out of the ground in place of a picket fence, and as Alice peered at the house she realized that it was peering right back at her with large pink rabbit eyes where its windows should be.
“Who? What? Where?” the Hare cried, wringing his paws and whipping around so his long ears flapped.
The March Hare was seated around a long table in his front yard, presiding over a tea party with only two other guests.
And from the looks of it, the party had been dragging on for a very long time. The white tablecloth was stained and threadbare, with glimpses of the pale wood underneath peeking through the holes. The chairs stood at lopsided angles, as if waiting for guests who would never come. None of the pieces of the tea set matched; in front of the Hare, a blue willowware cup stood alongside a cracked white saucer and a pale green teapot. The rest of the set was an odd mixture of cracked pots and chipped cups, many of them tipped over next to ancient brown tea stains no one had ever bothered to try cleaning up.
Slumped in one of the chairs was a pale, morose man wearing a ragged, scorched top hat. His threadbare dark velvet coat hung loosely on his thin frame, and his eyes were lined with circles of exhaustion. He was staring blankly into space as Alice and the Cheshire Cat approached.
Alice realized that the third member of the tea party was the Dormouse, who had somehow gotten around ahead of Alice again. The gruesome, bloody eye of the Bandersnatch hung like a trophy at her waist. She scowled when she saw Alice emerge from the trees.
But the man, who was called the Mad Hatter, had another reaction entirely. At the sight of Alice, he bolted upright. His whole being seemed to brighten; even his clothes perked up. Transfixed, he moved toward her, stepping directly up onto and over the table, as that was the shortest route to reach her. Alice shivered a little as he came closer, staring at her intently. There was something in his face that made her anxious for him. She knew she couldn’t possibly deserve the delighted look he was giving her.
“It’s you,” said the Mad Hatter. He reached toward her golden hair, then pulled his hand back before touching her.
“No, it’s not,” the Dormouse snapped. “McTwisp brought us the wrong Alice.”
The Mad Hatter shook his head. “It’s absolutely Alice! You’re absolutely Alice! I’d know you anywhere. I’d know him anywhere.”
This time he did touch her, seizing her hand and pulling her back to the table. He stepped right up onto a chair and led her over the table the way he had come. Alice tried not to step on any teacups as they walked across the tablecloth. On the other side, the Hatter plunked her down in the chair next to his. She fidgeted nervously under his rapt gaze.
“Well, as you can see, we’re still having tea,” the Hatter explained. “It’s all because I was obliged to kill Time waiting for your return. You’re terribly late, you know … naughty. Well, anyway.”
“Sugar?” asked the March Hare.
“Time became quite offended and stopped altogether,” the Hatter continued. “Not a tick ever since.”
“Raspberry jam—my favorite,” the March Hare interjected.
“Time can be funny in dreams,” said Alice.
The Hatter gave her an odd look. “Yes, yes, of course. But now you’re back, you see,” he hurried on, “and we need to get on to the Frabjous Day!”
He seized the Hare’s left paw and the Dormouse seized his right. All three of them raised their clasped hands in the air. “Frabjous Day!”
“Downal wyth Bluddy Behg Hid!” they chanted in unison. Then they all dropped their hands and looked at her expectantly.
“What?” Alice said, confused.
The Cheshire Cat rolled his eyes. He was lounging against the rabbit’s-footfence, which occasionally twitched as if it found his presence rather irritating.
“Down with the Bloody Big Head,” the cat translated for Alice. “Bloody Big Head being the Red Queen.” He glanced around again, checking the trees with narrowed eyes.
“It’s a secret language used by us,” the Dormouse added. “The Underland Underground Resistance!” With a fierce expression, she raised her fist over her head.
The Cheshire Cat rolled his eyes again and wandered up to the table, sliding into one of the chairs in a graceful, feline way. He picked up a teapot with half its spout broken off and poured some tea into a delicate porcelain cup with faded butterflies painted on it.
“Come, come. We simply must commence with the slaying and such,” the Mad Hatter said, leaning forward emphatically. “Therefore, it’s high time for Time to forgive and forget! Or forget and forgive, whichever comes first. Or is in any case most convenient. I’m waiting.”
As he tugged on one of his ears, the March Hare had a terribly anxious expression. He peered at his pocket watch, tapped its face, and listened to it for a moment. Then, to Alice’s surprise, the Hare dunked the watch into his teacup, pulled it out, and listened to it again. Tiny droplets of tea splattered onto the Hare’s furry white chest.
He gasped. “It’s ticking again!”
“Ooh!” The Hatter squealed.
The Cheshire Cat made a disgusted face and set his teacup down. “All this talk of blood and slaying has put me off my tea.”
“Wonderful flavor,” said the March Hare.
“The entire world is falling to ruin, and poor Chessur’s off his tea,” the Mad Hatter said with thinly veiled hostility.
The Cat’s tail lashed angrily. “What happened that day was not my fault!”
Suddenly enraged, the Hatter slammed both hands on the table. Cups and teapots went flying, and Alice just avoided getting hot tea spilled all over her skirt. She pushed her chair back from the table, alarmed by the Hatter’s vehemence.
“You ran out on them to save your own skin!” the Hatter yelled at the Cat. “You guddler’s scuttish pilgar lickering—” His speech disintegrated into wild, furious cursing, although it was all in a language Alice didn’t know. “Shukem juggling slunking ur-pals. Bar lom muck egg brimni.” But she didn’t need to understand it to guess what he was expressing. His rage kept building, and the curses flew faster and faster, as if he couldn’t stop himself. The Cheshire Cat slipped around the table and put his paws over Alice’s ears.
“HATTER!” the Dormouse shouted.
The Mad Hatter jerked to a stop. He blinked, composing himself, and then sat down and picked up his teacup again. “Thank you,” he said. “I’m fine.” This elicited a snort from the Cheshire Cat.
“What’s wrong with you, Tarrant?” he asked, letting go of Alice’s ears and sitting in the chair on the other side of her. “You used to be the life of the party. You used to do the best Futterwacken in all of Witzend.”
“Futter … ? What?” Alice echoed.
“Futterwacken,” said the March Hare.
“It’s a dance,” the Dormouse explained impatiently.
“On the Frabjous Day, when the White Queen once again wears the crown,” said the Mad Hatter, lifting his chin. “On that day, I shall Futterwacken … vigorously.” At that moment, the Hare’s house bent over and tapped the Hare on the shoulder. “The Knave!” The March Hare gasped.
“Uh-oh!” cried the Cheshire Cat.
“Urg. The Knave!” the Dormouse added.
The March Hare shouted. “Hide her! Hide her!”
“Good-bye,” said the Cheshire Cat, then he immediately vanished into thin air. The Hatter grabbed a small bottle off the table and shoved it into Alice’s hands. It looked ominously familiar. “Drink this quickly,” he commanded.
“Oh, no,” Alice said, remembering the room with the locked doors and the little glass bottle she’d found there. She tried to resist, but the March Hare and the Mad Hatter forced the liquid down her throat. Before she could even shriek in protest, she was six inches tall.
And the indignity wasn’t over. The Mad Hatter picked her up and dropped her in the nearest teapot, which luckily was empty of tea. Alice stumbled to her knees on the cold porcelain floor. Her hands scrabbled at the smooth walls curving up on either side of her. The Hatter peeked in the top, and she saw his enormous hand descending with the teapot lid.
“Mind your head,” he said, and then the sky disappeared. Alice sat down huffily and crossed her arms. It was dim except for a stream of light from the spout. She could hear their voices outside quite clearly.
Soon Stayne arrived with his two Red Knights, following the bloodhound’s nose. The bloodhound headed straight for the table and began sniffing furiously.
“Well,” sneered the Knave of Hearts, “if it’s not my favorite trio of lunatics.”
“Would you like to join us?” asked the Dormouse.
“You’re all late for tea!” shouted the March Hare, flinging a teapot at them (fortunately, not the one with Alice in it).
The Knave didn’t bother to dodge. The teapot clattered harmlessly onto the path beside him as he surveyed the table with disdain. “We’re looking for the girl called Alice.”
Inside the teapot, Alice shuddered. She couldn’t see Stayne, but she didn’t like the sound of him. Why was everyone here so interested in her? And why wouldn’t this dream simply end?
“Speaking of the Queen,” said the Hatter as if the Knave had said something else, “here’s a little song we used to sing in her honor.”
All three of them burst into song at the same time, although their tunefulness left a bit to be desired. “Twinkle, twinkle, little bat!” they blared. “How I wonder where you’re at!”
Alice buried her head in her hands. These were the people protecting her? What was she supposed to do if the Knave killed them or took them all prisoner? She’d be stuck in a teapot, six inches tall, and no one would ever think to look for her there. One day someone would buy the teapot from a stall in Portobello Road, and wouldn’t they be surprised to find her dusty bones inside. Alice felt quite sorry for herself for a moment.
It’s just a dream, she remembered. There’s nothing to be scared of. It’s just a dream.
Back outside, the song abruptly broke off as Stayne grabbed the Hatter around the neck. One Red Knight cracked the March Hare with his weapon, while the other seized a teapot (again, luckily not Alice’s) and poured hot tea over the Dormouse’s head. The Hare and the Dormouse yelped in pain.
“If you’re hiding her, you’ll lose your heads,” growled the Knave.
“Already lost them,” the Hatter said cheerfully, ignoring the thick hands around his neck. “All together now!”
The other two joined in for the rest of the song. “Up above the world you fly, like a tea tray in the sky!” They all started laughing crazily. “Twinkle, twinkle, twinkle, twinkle!”
The Knave let go of the Hatter’s neck and stalked around the table, looking disgusted.
Peering up the spout, Alice saw a large black nose appear. The bloodhound put his paws on the table, sniffing the teapot vigorously. The Hatter glanced at the Knave, who had turned his back for a moment. While the other two kept singing, the Hatter leaned down toward the bloodhound and took a chance.
“Downal wyth Bluddy Behg Hid,” he whispered. He gave the teapot a significant look.
The bloodhound stopped dead. His large, sad eyes met the Hatter’s haunted ones for a moment. Then the dog dropped to the ground and kept sniffing, pretending to catch a new trail. He hurried off into the woods again.
“Would you like some cream? Would you like a slice of Battenberg? ”The March Hare said.
“Follow the bloodhound,” snapped the Knave, ignoring him. He lingered suspiciously as the two Red Knights galloped after the hunting dog.
“Sugar? One lump or two?” the Dormouse offered.
“You’re all mad,” the Knave growled at the caterwauling partygoers.
“Pass the scones please,” the Dormouse replied.
The Mad Hatter lifted the lid of Alice’s teapot. “Pardon,” he said. “One moment.”
He produced a pair of milliner’s scissors from his pocket and quickly whipped up a miniature ensemble for Alice out of the tea cozy, a doily, and a swatch of her old dress. By now it was far too enormous for her to even drag around after her. The Hatter handed the new outfit down to Alice and closed the lid again to give her some privacy.
A few moments later, there was a tiny knock on the lid. He opened it and let her out. Wearing the remade outfit, Alice had to admit it fit much better and was a lot more comfortable than the dress her mother had insisted on that morning, corset or no corset.
“Ooh. I like it!” the Hatter cooed.
“Good thing the bloodhound is one of us, or you’d be …” the Dormouse said, as she drew her finger across her throat with an ominous noise.
The March Hare was wringing his paws again. “Best take her to the White Queen,” he suggested. “She’ll be safe there. Spoon …”
The Hatter swept his hat off and put it on the table beside her. “Your carriage, m’lady.”
Alice raised her eyebrows. She looked from the Hatter to the hat and back again. “The hat?” she asked.
“Of course. Anyone can go by horse or rail,” he said blithely. “But the best way to travel is by hat. Have I made a rhyme?”
Alice climbed up and sat on the hat, trying not to show how nervous this made her. The Dormouse trotted over and sat on the hat, too, shoving Alice aside. “Ooh! I love travelling by hat,” she said. But the Hatter was shaking his head.
“Sorry, Mally,” he said. “Just Alice, please.”
The Dormouse huffed, annoyed, and climbed off again. She glared jealously at Alice as the Hatter swung the hat and Alice up onto his head.
“Fairfarren, all!” the Hatter sang, and started off into the woods.
“Whatcha mean?” wailed the March Hare behind them.
Alice and the Hatter ducked as a teapot hurtled past them. She couldn’t help thinking the Knave was right about these three. They were all quite mad.
And yet … she had no one else. Mad or not, it seemed she was stuck with them.

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