2024年4月25日发(作者：韩博士装机大师怎么激活系统)

惊天事件A Shocking

Accident 韦盖利

译

-CAL-FENGHAI-(2020YEAR-YICAI)_JINGBIAN

惊天事件A Shocking Accident 韦盖利 译

Graham Greene

1

Jerome was called into his housemaster's room in the break between the second

and the third class on a Tuesday morning. He had no fear of trouble, for he was a

warden - the name that the proprietor and headmaster of a rather expensive

preparatory school had chosen to give to approved, reliable boys in the lower forms

(from a warden one became a guardian and finally before leaving, it was hoped for

Marlborough or Rugby, a crusader). The housemaster, Mr Wordsworth, sat behind

his desk with an appearance of perplexity and apprehension. Jerome had the odd

impression when he entered that he was a cause of fear.

'Sit down, Jerome,' Mr Wordsworth said. 'All going well with the trigonometry'

'Yes, sir.'

'I've had a telephone call, Jerome. From your aunt. I'm afraid I have bad news for

you.'

'Yes, sir'

'Your father has had an accident.'

'Oh.'

Mr Wordsworth looked at him with some surprise. 'A serious accident.'

'Yes, sir'

Jerome worshipped his father: the verb is exact. As man re-creates God, so Jerome

re-created his father - from a restless widowed author into a mysterious adventurer

who travelled in far places - Nice, Beirut, Majorca, even the Canaries. The time had

arrived about his eighth birthday when Jerome believed that his father either 'ran

guns' or was a member of the British Secret Service. Now it occurred to him that his

father might have been wounded in 'a hail of machine-gun bullets'.

Mr Wordsworth played with the ruler on his desk. He seemed at a loss how to

continue. He said, 'You know your father was in Naples'

'Yes, sir.'

'Your aunt heard from the hospital today.'

'Oh.'

Mr Wordsworth said with desperation, 'It was a street accident.'

'Yes, sir' It seemed quite likely to Jerome that they would call it a street accident.

The police of course fired first; his father would not take human life except as a last

resort.

'I'm afraid your father was very seriously hurt indeed.'

'Oh.'

'In fact, Jerome, he died yesterday. Quite without pain.'

'Did they shoot him through the heart'

'I beg your pardon. What did you say, Jerome'

'Did they shoot him through the heart'

2

'Nobody shot him, Jerome. A pig fell on him.' An inexplicable convulsion took place

in the nerves of Mr Wordsworth's face; it really looked for a moment as though he

were going to laugh. He closed his eyes, composed his features and said rapidly as

though it were necessary to expel the story as rapidly as possible. 'Your father was

walking along a street in Naples when a pig fell on him. A shocking accident.

Apparently in the poorer quarters of Naples they keep pigs on their balconies. This

one was on the fifth floor. It had grown too fat. The balcony broke. The pig fell on

your father.'

Mr Wordsworth left his desk rapidly and went to the window, turning his back on

Jerome. He shook a little with emotion.

Jerome said, 'What happened to the pig'

2

This was not callousness on the part of Jerome, as it was interpreted by Mr

Wordsworth to his colleagues (he even discussed with them whether, perhaps,

Jerome was yet fitted to be a warden). Jerome was only attempting to visualize the

strange scene to get the details right. Nor was Jerome a boy who cried; he was a boy

who brooded, and it never occurred to him at his preparatory school that the

circumstances of his father's death were comic - they were still part of the mysteries

of life. It was later, in his first term at his public school, when he told the story to his

best friend, that he began to realize how it affected others. Naturally after that

disclosure he was known, rather unreasonably, as Pig.

Unfortunately his aunt had no sense of humour. There was an enlarged snapshot

of his father on the piano; a large sad man in an unsuitable dark suit posed in Capri

with an umbrella (to guard him against sunstroke), the Faraglione rocks forming the

background. By the age of sixteen Jerome was well aware that the portrait looked

more like the author of Sunshine and Shade and Ramblers in the Balearics than an

agent of the Secret Service. All the same he loved the memory of his father: he still

possessed an album fitted with picture-postcards (the stamps had been soaked off

long ago for his other collection), and it pained him when his aunt embarked with

strangers on the story of his father's death.

'A shocking accident,' she would begin, and the stranger would compose his or her

features into the correct shape for interest and commiseration. Both reactions, of

course, were false, but it was terrible for Jerome to see how suddenly, midway in her

rambling discourse, the interest would become genuine. 'I can't think how such

things can be allowed in a civilized country,' his aunt would say. 'I suppose one has to

regard Italy as civilized. One is prepared for all kinds of things abroad, of course, and

my brother was a great traveller. He always carried a water-filter with him. It was far

less expensive, you know, than buying all those bottles of mineral water. My brother

always said that his filter paid for his dinner wine. You can see from that what a

careful man he was, but who could possibly have expected when he was walking

along the Via Dottore Manuele Panucci on his way to the Hydrographic Museum that

a pig would fall on him'

That was the moment when the interest became genuine.

3

Jerome's father had not been a very distinguished writer, but the time always

seems to come, after an author's death, when somebody thinks it worth his while to

write a letter to the Times Literary Supplement announcing the preparation of a

biography and asking to see any letters or documents or receive anecdotes from

friends of the dead man. Most of the biographies, of course, never appear - one

wonders whether the whole thing may not be an obscure form of blackmail and

whether many a potential writer of a biography or thesis finds the means in this way

to finish his education at Kansas or Nottingham. Jerome, however, as a chartered

accountant, lived far from the literary world. He did not realize how small the

menace really was, or that the danger period for someone of his father's obscurity

had long passed. Sometimes he rehearsed the method of recounting his father's

death so as to reduce the comic element to its smallest dimensions - it would be of

no use to refuse information, for in that case the biographer would undoubtedly visit

his aunt who was living to a great old age with no sign of flagging.

It seemed to Jerome that there were two possible methods - the first led gently up

to the accident, so that by the time it was described the listener was so well

prepared that the death came really as an anti-climax. The chief danger of laughter

in such a story was always surprise. When he rehearsed his method Jerome began

boringly enough.

'You know Naples and those high tenement buildings Somebody once told me that

the Neapolitan always feels at home in New York just as the man from Turin feels at

home in London because the river runs in much the same way in both cities. Where

was I Oh, yes. Naples, of course. You'd be surprised in the poorer quarters what

things they keep on the balconies of those sky-scraping tenements - not washing,

you know, or bedding, but things like livestock, chickens or even pigs. Of course the

pigs get no exercise whatever and fatten all the quicker.' He could imagine how his

hearer's eyes would have glazed by this time. 'I've no idea, have you, how heavy a

pig can be, but these old buildings are all badly in need of repair. A balcony on the

fifth floor gave way under one of those pigs. It struck the third floor balcony on its

way down and sort of ricochetted into the street. My father was on the way to the

Hydrographic Museum when the pig hit him. Coming from that height and that angle

it broke his neck.' This was really a masterly attempt to make an intrinsically

interesting subject boring.

The other method Jerome rehearsed had the virtue of brevity.

'My father was killed by a pig.'

'Really In India'

'No, in Italy.'

'How interesting. I never realized there was pig-sticking in Italy. Was your father

keen on polo'

In course of time, neither too early nor too late, rather as though, in his capacity as

a chartered accountant, Jerome had studied the statistics and taken the average, he

became engaged to be married: to a pleasant fresh-faced girl of twenty-five whose

4

father was a doctor in Pinner. Her name was Sally, her favourite author was still

Hugh Walpole, and she had adored babies ever since she had been given a doll at the

age of five which moved its eyes and made water. Their relationship was contented

rather than exciting, as became the love-affair of a chartered accountant; it would

never have done if it had interfered with the figures.

One thought worried Jerome, however. Now that within a year he might himself

become a father, his love for the dead man increased; he realized what affection had

gone into the picture-postcards. He felt a longing to protect his memory, and

uncertain whether this quiet love of his would survive if Sally were so insensitive as

to laugh when she heard the story of his father's death. Inevitably she would hear it

when Jerome brought her to dinner with his aunt. Several times he tried to tell her

himself, as she was naturally anxious to know all she could that concerned him.

'You were very small when your father died'

'Just nine.'

'Poor little boy,' she said.

'I was at school. They broke the news to me.'

'Did you take it very hard'

'I can't remember.'

'You never told me how it happened.'

'It was very sudden. A street accident.'

'You'll never drive fast, will you, Jemmy' (She had begun to call him 'Jemmy'.) It

was too late then to try the second method - the one he thought of as the pig-

sticking one.

They were going to marry quietly in a registry-office and have their honeymoon at

Torquay. He avoided taking her to see his aunt until a week before the wedding, but

then the night came, and he could not have told himself whether his apprehension

was more for his father's memory or the security of his own love.

The moment came all too soon. 'Is that Jemmy's father' Sally asked, picking up the

portrait of the man with the umbrella.

'Yes, dear. How did you guess'

'He has Jemmy's eyes and brow, hasn't he'

'Has Jerome lent you his books'

'No.'

'I will give you a set for your wedding. He wrote so tenderly about his travels. My

own favourite is Nooks and Crannies . He would have had a great future. It made

that shocking accident all the worse.'

'Yes'

Jerome longed to leave the room and not see that loved face crinkle with

irresistible amusement.

'I had so many letters from his readers after the pig fell on him.' She had never

been so abrupt before. And then the miracle happened. Sally did not laugh. Sally sat

with open eyes of horror while his aunt told her the story, and at the end, 'How

horrible,' Sally said. 'It makes you think, doesn't it Happening like that. Out of a clear

sky.'

5

Jerome's heart sang with joy. It was as though she had appeased his fear for ever.

In the taxi going home he kissed her with more passion than he had ever shown and

she returned it. There were babies in her pale blue pupils, babies that rolled their

eyes and made water.

'A week today,' Jerome said, and she squeezed his hand. 'Penny for your thoughts,

my darling.'

'I was wondering,' Sally said, 'what happened to the poor pig'

'They almost certainly had it for dinner,' Jerome said happily and kissed the dear

child again.

1967

九岁那年，一个星期四的第二节课和第三节课的课间，舍监把杰洛米叫到办公

室，对他说：“我接到你姑姑打来的电话，说你父亲出了严重的事故。”

杰洛米很崇拜父亲，他的父亲是个作家，杰洛米却总对别人说父亲是一个神

秘的探险家，去过很多地方———尼斯、贝鲁特、马六甲甚至加纳利群岛。杰

洛米有时认为父亲是个秘密特工，因此当舍监说他父亲出了事故时，他还以为

父亲是遭到机关枪扫射。

舍监把玩着办公桌上的一把尺子，好像在想该说些什么。过了一会儿，他

说：“实际上，你父亲还没来得及感觉痛就死去了。”

杰洛米问：“他是被射中了心脏吗？”

“没有，杰洛米，没人向你父亲开枪。他走在那不勒斯的街上时，一头猪从

空中掉下来，刚好压在他身上。这真是一件惊人的事，那不勒斯的穷人在阳台

上养猪，那头猪长得太肥了，它从五楼的阳台上掉下来，压在你父亲的身

上。”舍监说。

杰洛米不敢让同学们知道他父亲是怎样死的，怕他们会嘲笑他。他想到了跟

姑姑见面的情景，她是个没有幽默感的人，她或许会说：“这是惊人的事件，

我想不到文明的意大利会有这种事情发生。我哥哥是个那么出名的作家，一个

小心谨慎的人，但谁都没料到他会被一头从空中落下的猪压死。”

二

过了一段不长也不短的时间，杰洛米成了一名特许会计师，跟一个25岁的女

孩订婚了。女孩名叫萨丽，她最喜欢作家休·沃尔坡，五岁时得到的一个会流

泪的洋娃娃让她对小孩非常有爱心。

杰洛米快要结婚了，一年内他也许会当上爸爸，想到这里，他就更加想念他

的爸爸了。

萨丽如果听到他父亲是被猪压死的，肯定会大笑的，但他不免要跟她说这件

事，还是带她去姑姑家吃饭的时候由姑姑跟她说吧———很多次杰洛米想自己

跟萨丽说这件事，却都没有说出口。

杰洛米和萨丽不准备摆喜宴，他们决定登记结婚之后就去托基旅行度蜜月。

杰洛米要等结婚前的那个星期再带她去看姑姑。

这天，他们来到杰洛米的姑姑家，萨丽看到墙上挂的那幅画像，就问：“那

是杰洛米的爸爸吧？”

杰洛米的姑姑说：“亲爱的，你怎么看出来的？”

“他的眼睛和眉毛跟杰洛米的一样，不是吗？”萨丽说。

“他是个作家。杰洛米送过他写的书给你看吗？”杰洛米的姑姑问。

“没有，杰洛米甚至从来没有跟我提起过。”萨丽说。

6

“到你们结婚的时候我送给你一套杰洛米父亲写的书，他的游记写得很细

腻。我最喜欢他写的《角落》和《奶奶》，他本来应该有很光明的未来，但发

生了一件惊人的意外，让一切事情都变糟糕了。”

看到姑姑布满皱纹的脸上那不可抗拒的表情，杰洛米真想马上离开那个房

间。但姑姑并不理会杰洛米的感受，继续说：“那头猪落到他身上之后，他就

上天堂去了，但我还收到很多读者写给他的信。”

那时，杰洛米看到了奇迹———萨丽没有笑，而是定定地看着他的姑姑，眼

睛里流露出恐怖的神情。等姑姑从头到尾把整件事说完，萨丽才说：“太可怕

了，不是吗？竟然有这种事，晴空里掉下一头肥猪，还压到一个人身上。”

杰洛米的心在欢跳，他一直以来害怕的事情其实没有发生。在回家的出租车

上，他要吻萨丽，他比以往都更热情，但她拒绝了。

杰洛米说：“好吧，一个星期以后，你做好准备哦。”

“我只是想，那头猪怎么样了？”萨丽说。

“他们肯定是把它处理，用来准备晚餐了。”

杰洛米笑着说完，趁萨丽愣神，在她脸上吻了一下。

7