洗衣女工原文及译文.doc

洗衣女工I.B 辛格一块洗衣皂弗兰克.萨杰森作者简介：I.B辛格,翻译：张伟伟I.B辛格（19021991）犹太裔美国人，因其短篇小说而闻名遐迩。辛格出生于波兰华沙近郊的村庄，1935年因邻国德国的纳粹威胁不断升级，辛格移民至美国并定居纽约，为当地一家意地语报纸担任记者开始其多产写作生涯。辛格共发表了18部长篇小说，但其最为人所知的还是他所创作的短篇小说。辛格的短篇小说收录于他的文集中，包括愚人吉姆佩尔（1957）， （1961）及羽毛王冠（1970）。1978年辛格被授予诺贝尔文学奖。他的短篇小说和长篇小说多发言了其所生活长大的欧洲东部。The WashwomanI. B. SingerOur home had little contact with Gentiles. But there were the Gentile washwomen who came to the house to fetch our laundry. My story is about one of these.She was a small woman, old and wrinkled. When she started washing for us, she was already past seventy. Most Jewish women of her age were sickly, weak, broken in body. But this washwoman, small and thin as she was, possessed a strength that came from generations of peasant ancestors. Mother would count out to her a bag of laundry that had accumulated over several weeks. She would lift the heavy bag, load it on her narrow shoulders, and carry it the long way home. It must have been a walk of an hour and a half.She would bring the laundry back about two weeks later. My mother had never been so pleased with any washwoman. Every piece of laundry was as clean as polished silver. Every piece was neatly ironed. Yet she charged no more than the others. She was a real find. Mother always had her money ready, because it was too far for the old woman to come a second time.Washing clothes was not easy in those days. The old woman had no tap where she lived, but had to bring in the water from a pump. For the clothes and bedclothes to come out so clean, they had to be scrubbed thoroughly in a washtub, rinsed with washing soda, soaked, boiled in an enormous pot, starched, then ironed. Every piece was handled ten times or more. And the drying! It had to be hug in the attic.She could have begged at the church door or entered a home for the poor and aged. But there was in her a certain pride and love of labor with which many Gentiles have been blessed. The old woman did not want to become a burden, and so bore her burden.The woman had a son who was rich. I no longer remember shat sort of business he had. He was ashamed of his mother, the washwoman, and never came to see her. Nor did he ever give her any money. The old woman told this without bitterness. One day the son was married. It seemed that he had made a good match. The wedding took place in a church. The son had not invited the old mother to his wedding, but she went to the church and waited at the steps to see her son lead the “young lady” to altar The story of the faithless son left a deep impression on my mother. She talked about it for weeks and months. It was an insult not only to the old woman but to all mothers. Mother would argue, “Does it pay to make sacrifices for children? The mother uses up her last strength, and he does not even know the meaning of loyalty.”That winter was a harsh one. The streets were icy. No matter how much we heated our stove, the windows were covered with frost. The newspapers reported that people were dying of the cold. Coal became dear. The winter had become so severe that parents stopped sending children to school.On one such day the washwoman, now nearly eighty years old, came to our house. A good deal of laundry had accumulated during the past weeks. Mother gave her a pot of tea to warm herself, as well as some bread. The old woman sat on a kitchen chair trembling and shaking, and warmed her hands against the teapot. Her fingers were rough from work, and perhaps from arthritis, too. Her fingernails were strangely white. These hands spoke of the stubbornness of mankind, of the will to work not only as ones strength permits but beyond the limits of ones power.The bag was big, bigger than usual. When the woman placed it on her shoulders, it covered her completely. At first she stayed, as though she were about to fall under the load. But an inner stubbornness seemed to call out; no, you may not fall. A donkey may permit himself to fall under his burden, but not a human being, the best of creation.She disappeared, and mother sighed and prayed for her.More than two months passed. The frost had gone, and then a new frost had come, a new wave of cold. One evening, while mother was sitting near the oil lamp mending a shirt, the door opened and a small puff of steam, followed by a gigantic bag, entered the room. I ran toward the old woman and helped her unload her bag. She was even thinner now, more bent. Her head shook from side to side as though she were saying no. she could not utter a clear word, but mumbled something with her sunken mouth and pale lips.After the old woman had recovered somewhat, she told us that she had been ill. Just what her illness was, I cannot remember. She had been so sick that someone called a doctor, and the doctor had sent for a priest. Someone had informed the son, and he had contributed money for a coffin and for the funeral. But God had not yet wanted to take this soul full of pain to Himself. She began to feel better, she became well, and as soon as she was able to stand on her feet once more, she began her washing. Not just ours, but the wash of several other families, too.“I could not rest easy in my bed because of the wash,” the old woman explained. “The wash would not let me die.”“With the help of God you will live to be a hundred and twenty,” said my mother, as a blessing.“God forbid! What good would such a long life be? The work becomes harder and harder my strength is leaving me I do not want to be a burden on anyone!” The old woman crossed herself, and raised her eyes toward heaven.Fortunately there was some money in the house and Mother counted out what she owed. Then she left, promising to return in a few weeks for a new load.But she never came back. The wash she had returned was her last effort on this earth. She had been driven by an indomitable will to return the property to its rightful owners, to fulfill the task she had undertaken.And now at last her body, which had long been supported only by the force of honesty and duty, had fallen. Her soul passed into those spheres where all holy souls meet, regardless of the roles they played on this earth, in whatever tongue, of whatever religion. I cannot imagine paradise without this Gentile washwoman. I cannot even imagine a world where there is no reward for such effort.美文赏析洗衣女工I.B辛格我家与外邦人鲜有往来，不过家中时有外邦洗衣女工来取待洗的衣物。我的故事便是关于其中一位洗衣女工。她个头不高，上了年纪，满脸皱纹，给我家干活时已是年过七旬。大部分犹太妇女到了她这把年纪都是体弱多病，可这个洗衣女工虽个小削瘦力气却很大，大概她祖辈几代都是农民吧。每次她来母亲都会数给她一包“攒”了几个礼拜的脏衣物，而她会用她那窄小的双肩扛起那包沉沉的衣物走很长一段路。她家住得远，大概要一个半小时才能到家。大约两个礼拜后，她会把洗好的衣物送回来。母亲从未对哪个洗衣女工像对她这样满意过：每件衣物都熨烫得笔挺，干净得如刨过光的银器，而她的收费却不比别人高。这样的洗衣工的确难找。因为她住得远，母亲不愿让她刻意跑一趟来拿工钱，所以每次都把钱事先准备好了当场付给她。那年头洗衣并非易事。老妇人住的地方没有自来水，得用水泵泵水来洗衣服。洗出来的衣物若像她洗得那样干净必须放进洗衣盆里使劲刷，再用碱水浸泡，然后放入大锅中煮，接着再熨烫。如此反复多次最后再把它们弄干。老妇人一定是抱着一大堆衣物爬到阁楼上去晾干。她本可以到教堂前去乞讨或是住进专门为穷人和老人设立的慈善机构，但她身上有一种许多外邦人所具有的自尊以及对劳动的热爱。她不愿成为别人的负担因而她自己肩负起了生活的重担。老妇人有个儿子很有钱，我已记不清他是做什么生意的，不过他对自己的母亲为人洗衣感到耻辱，从未来看过她，也不给她一分钱。老妇人在讲述这些时没有一丝怨艾。有一天，她的儿子结婚了。看起来他找了个不错的女孩。婚礼在教堂举行，她儿子没有让老母亲参加婚礼。但是老妇人还是去了教堂，在门口等着看自己的儿子将“年轻的女孩”领到圣坛。这个儿子不孝的故事让母亲感慨颇深。很长一段时间她都在谈论这件事。在母亲看来这是对老妇人及天下所有为人母者的羞辱。她会反驳说，“为孩子这样付出值吗？当妈的耗尽了自己最后的气力，而做儿子的竟然不懂孝道。”那年冬天特别冷。街道冷得像冰。不管我们把火炉烧得多热，窗户还是结了霜冻。报上说有人冻死了。煤也水涨船高变贵了。天太冷，父母也不把自家的孩子送到学校去了。就是在那样寒冷的一天，当时已近八旬的老妇人来到了我家。过去的几个星期里，家里又堆积了不少脏衣服。母亲给她漆了壶茶，拿了些面包让她暖和暖和。老妇人哆哆嗦嗦地坐在厨房的椅子上，把手放在茶壶上取暖。她的手因为洗衣也或者因为关节炎的缘故粗糙不堪，手指毫无血色。这双手诉说着人类的固执，也诉说着人类在自我力量范围之内以及超越自我力量的局限乐于工作的意志。那天的脏衣服包很大，比平日里的大。老妇人把包放在自己的肩上，包把她整个人都盖住