夏洛特·勃朗特(Charlotte Brontë)
It was in the cold weather which follows the shortest day that we first came to England. I was a little child at the time — perhaps four years old, or between that and five. The sea voyage is well remembered by me; the milky greenness of the waves, the curl of the foam, the dark meeting of December sea and sky, the glinting sea-birds and passing ships, made each an imprint on my vision which I yet retain — worn but not obliterated .
Whence did we come? Where had we lived? What occasioned this voyage? Memory puzzles herself to reply to these questions. She reflects with finger raised to her lips and eyes bent on the pavement. She turns to her chronicle and searches its faded pages where the records are so pale, brief, and broken: this is all she reads — We came from a place where the buildings were numerous and stately, where before white house-fronts there rose here and there trees straight as spires, where there was one walk broad and endlessly long, down which on certain days rolled two tides — one of people on foot, brightly clad with shining silks, delicate bonnets with feathers and roses, scarves fluttering , little parasols gay as tulips; and the other of carriages rolling along rapid and quiet. Indeed, all was quiet in this walk — it was a mysterious place, full of people but without noise.
We had lived in a house with slippery floors and no carpets; a house with many mirrors and many windows. In this house I know there was a hall with a door of red and violet glass, glowing brilliant in the shade of that end opposite the entrance. The bright portal opened into a garden, small but green, where there was turf, many flowers, and one tree. What chiefly made it green and filled it with leaf was the curtain of vines concealing the high walls — vines I know they were, because I remember both the grapes and the curled tendrils.
With whom did we live? To this question I can only reply — with my father; and of him I have twenty reminiscences , but they are all scant and fragmentary . My father — papa, as I called him — was the origin of all the punishments I had in those early days. I had an unreasonable wish to be always with him; and to this end, whenever the nurse who had charge of me turned her back, I was apt to escape from the nursery and seek the study. Then I was caught, shaken, and sometimes whipped, which I well deserved.
Whether my father knew how much I prized his presence I cannot pronounce . He was much engaged all day, frequently out, and when at home other gentlemen were with him; but it often happened of an evening that he would suddenly enter the nursery, come up to me as I sat in my little chair, stand a moment looking down at me, and as I held up my arms, full of pleasure, he would stoop , lift me, take me to his heart and say, “Polly may come downstairs now and be papa's little visitress.”
Papa had a wonderfully interesting style of conversation, intelligible to my childish brain, delightful to my childish heart. He charmed while he taught me. I think he had a quick , fiery temper : his brain was indeed gentle for me, but not always for others. I remember him both hasty and stern, but never with me. I never irritated him, never feared to do so. How I liked to stroke his dark face with my bands, to stand on his knees and comb his hair, to rest my head against his shoulder and thus fall asleep!
- obliterate [əˈblɪtəreɪt] vt. 消灭；忘掉
- flutter [ˈflʌtə(r)] v. 飘动，摆动
- parasol [ˈpærəsɒl] n. 阳伞
- reminiscence [ˈremɪnɪsəns] n. 回忆，怀旧
scant and fragmentary 支离破碎
- pronounce [prəˈnaʊns] v. 宣称；断言
a quick,fiery temper 性情暴躁
- stoop [stuːp] v. 弯腰，屈服
- stroke [strəʊk] v. 拍，拍打
初来乍到英格兰，正是天寒地冻时节，白天也随之变得最短。当时我是个小小孩——才四岁，要么就是四五岁之间。航海旅行我记忆犹新；那像牛奶般淡绿色的海浪，那翻卷着泡沫的浪花，十二月份天空和大海交接处的阴暗，飞翔的海鸟和过往海船，一一在我的视觉感受中留下了深刻的印记，迄今还保存在脑海里，有所磨损但没有擦拭干净。
我们从哪里来？曾经住在什么地方？什么促成了这次航海？记忆恍惚，她无法回答这些问题。她一边回忆，一边把手指竖起来，顶住双唇，眼睛仍然盯着人行道。她翻阅自己按照时间先后做的记录，搜寻褪了色的一页页记录，可是这些记录墨迹浅淡，写得简短，而又破旧。她所读的就是这些：我们来自一个地方，那里高楼多得数不清，巍然耸立；那里白房子的前面到处长着挺拔的大树，笔直如同尖塔；那里有一条大道，很宽，长得没有尽头。沿着这条路，在某些日子里有两股潮流在涌动——一股是步行的人流，穿着色彩鲜艳的丝光闪烁的衣服，戴着精致的无边帽，上面插着羽毛和玫瑰，系着飘飘拂拂的丝巾，打着像郁金香般鲜艳的遮阳伞；另外一股潮流就是马车，快捷而安静地滚滚向前。真的，在这条大道上，印象最深的是宁静的感觉——那是一个神秘的地方，神秘就神秘在人那么多而没有现代城市的嘈杂声。
我们的住房地板很滑，没有地毯，房子有很多镜子和窗户。我知道，在这个屋子里有一个客厅，门镶着红色和紫色的玻璃，在入口处对面那一端的阴影中闪烁光华。明亮的正门通向一个花园，花园虽小，翠绿常青，那里有草皮和许多鲜花，还有一棵树。使得花园青翠而绿叶繁多的主要是窗帘般的藤蔓，遮蔽着高墙——我知道是些藤蔓，因为我记住了葡萄藤和上面长的卷须。
我们跟谁生活在一起？这个问题我只能回答——跟我父亲；关于父亲我有二十篇回忆录，但都支离破碎。我的父亲——爸爸，我这么称呼他——在我童年时期受到的所有惩罚，都是他给的。我有不合情理的愿望，要永远待在他身边；为了这个目的，负责看管我的保姆一转身，我就想逃离保育堂，寻找书房，结果被逮住，推来搡去，有时遭鞭笞，这一切我活该领受。
我父亲是否知道我多么珍视他在我跟前，我无法断言。他整天事务缠身，时常外出，回家时又有别的先生们跟着他；但是时常偏巧在某个傍晚，他突然走进保育堂，向我走过来，我正坐在小椅子上。他站了一会儿，低头看着我，此时我伸出双臂，快乐极了，他弯下腰，抱起了我，把我贴着他的心口说：“波利现在可以下楼了，做爸爸的小女客人。”
爸爸有妙趣横生的交谈风格，能够让我幼稚的小脑袋瓜理解，给我幼稚的心灵带来快乐。他教我东西时，叫人着迷。我认为他有急躁火爆的脾气，但他待我很温柔，而待别人并不总是这般温柔。我记得他脾气急躁，十分严厉，但是待我从来不这样。我从来不激怒他，也从来不害怕激怒他。我多么喜欢用我的双手抚撑他黝黑的脸庞，多么喜欢站在他的膝盖上梳理他的头发，多么喜欢把自己的小脑瓜伏在父亲肩头，悄然入梦啊！
夏洛特·勃朗特(1816—1855)，英国女作家。她和两个妹妹艾米莉·勃朗特和安妮·勃朗特出身于贫穷的乡村牧师家庭，是英国文学史上著名的三姐妹作家。成名作《简·爱》(Jane Egre, 1847)轰动文坛。这是一部自传体小说，是英国文学史上的一部名著，此外，她还写了《雪莉》(Shirley ，1849)和《维莱特》(Villette ，1853)。她的作品描写细腻，充满诗意，饱含激情，很感人。