《桥边的老人》中英文阅读
中文版： 桥边的老人
（美国）海明威
一个戴钢丝边眼镜的老人坐在路旁，衣服上尽是尘土。河上搭着一座浮桥，大车、卡车、男人、女人和孩子们在涌过桥去。骡车从桥边蹒跚地爬上陡坡，一些士兵帮着推动轮辐。卡车嘎嘎地驶上斜坡就开远了，把一切抛在后面，而农夫们还在齐到脚踝的尘土中踯躅着。但那个老人却坐在那里，一动也不动。他太累，走不动了。
我的任务是过桥去侦察对岸的桥头堡，查明敌人究竟推进到了什么地点。完成任务后，我又从桥上回到原处。这时车辆已经不多了，行人也稀稀落落，可是那个老人还在原处。
“你从哪儿来?”我问他。
“从圣卡洛斯来,”他说着，露出笑容。
那是他的故乡，提到它，老人便高兴起来，微笑了。“那时我在看管动物,”他对我解释。“噢。”我说，并没有完全听懂。
“唔，"他又说，“你知道，我待在那儿照料动物。我是最后一个离开圣 卡洛斯的。”他看上去既不像牧羊的，也不像管牛的。我瞧着他满是灰尘的黑衣服、尽是尘土的灰色面孔，以及那副钢丝边眼镜，问道，“什么动物?”
“各种各样,”他摇着头说，“唉，只得把它们撒下了。”
我凝视着浮桥，眺望充满非洲色彩的埃布罗河四三角洲地区，寻思究竟要过多久才能
看到敌人，同时一直倾听着,期待第_ -阵响声,它将是一个信号，表示那神秘莫测的遭遇战即将爆发，而老人始终坐在那里。
“什么动物?”我又问道。
“一共三种,”他说，“两只山羊，一只猫，还有四对鸽子。”“你只得撇下它们了?”我问。
“是啊。怕那些大炮呀。那个上尉叫我走，他说炮火不饶人哪。”
“你没家?”我问，边注视着浮桥的另-头，那儿最后几辆大车正匆忙地驶下河边的斜坡。
“没家,” 老人说，“只有刚才讲过的那些动物。猫，当然不要紧。猫会照顾自己的，可是，另外几只东西怎么办呢?我简直不敢想。”
“你的政治态度怎样?”我问。
“政治跟我不相干,”他说，“我76岁了。我已经走了12公里，再也走不动了。”
“这儿可不是久留之地，”我说，“如果你勉强还走得动，那边通向托尔托萨①的岔路上有卡车。”
“我要待一- 会，然后再走,”他说，“卡车往哪儿开?”“巴塞罗那②。”我告诉他。
“那边我没有熟人,”他说，“不过我还是非常感谢你。”
他疲惫不堪地茫然瞅着我，过了一-会又开口，为了要别人分担他的忧虑，“猫是不要紧的，我拿得稳。不用为它担心。可是，另外几只呢，你说它们会怎么样?”
“噢，它们大概挨得过的。”“你这样想吗?”
“当然,”我边说边注视着远处的河岸，那里已经看不见大车了。“可是在炮火下它们怎么办呢?人家叫我走，就是因为要开炮了。”“鸽笼没锁上吧?”我问。“没有。”
“那它们会飞出去的。”
“嗯，当然会飞。可是山羊呢?唉，不想也罢。”他说。“要是你歇够了，我得走了。”我催他:“站起来，走走看。”
“谢谢你，”他说着撑起来，摇晃了几步，向后一仰，终于又在路旁的尘土中坐了下去。
“那时我在照看动物，”他木然地说，可不再是对着我讲了，“我只是在照看动物。”对他毫无办法。那天是复活节的礼拜天，法西斯正在向埃布罗挺进。可是天色阴沉，乌云密布，法西斯飞机没能起飞。这一点，再加上猫会照顾自己，或许就是这位老人仅有的幸运吧。
英文版：
An old man with steel rimmed spectacles and very dusty clothes sat by the side of the road. There was a pontoon bridge across the river and carts, trucks, and men, women and children were crossing it. The mule-drawn carts staggered up the steep bank from the bridge with soldiers helping push against the spokes of the wheels. The trucks ground up and away heading out of it all and the peasants plodded along in the ankle deep dust. But the old man sat there without moving. He was too tired to go any farther.
It was my business to cross the bridge, explore the bridgehead beyond and find out to what point the enemy had advanced. I did this and returned over the bridge. There were not so many carts now and very few people on foot, but the old man was still there.
“Where do you come from?“ I asked him.
“From San Carlos,“ he said, and smiled.
That was his native town and so it gave him pleasure to mention it and he smiled.
“I was taking care of animals,“ he explained.
“Oh,“ I said, not quite understanding.
“Yes,”he said,“I stayed, you see, taking care of animals. I was the last one to leave the town of San Carlos.”
He did not look like a shepherd nor a herdsman and I looked at his black dusty clothes and his gray dusty face and his steel rimmed spectacles and said,“What animals were they?”
“Various animals,“ he said, and shook his head.“I had to leave them.”
I was watching the bridge and the African looking country of the Ebro Delta and wondering how long now it would be before we would see the enemy, and listening all the while for the first noises that would signal that ever mysterious event called contact, and the old man still sat there.
“What animals were they?”I asked.
“There were three animals altogether,“ he explained.”There were two goats and a cat and then there were four pairs of pigeons.”
“And you had to leave them?”I asked.
“Yes. Because of the artillery. The captain told me to go because of the artillery.“
“And you have no family?“ I asked, watching the far end of the bridge where a few last carts were hurrying down the slope of the bank.
“No,“ he said,”only the animals I stated. The cat, of course, will be all right. A cat can look out for itself, but I cannot think what will become of the others.“
“What politics have you?“ I asked.
“I am without politics,“ he said.”I am seventy-six years old. I have come twelve kilometers now and I think now I can go no further.“
“This is not a good place to stop,“ I said.”If you can make it, there are trucks up the road where it forks for Tortosa.“
“I will wait a while,“ he said,” and then I will go. Where do the trucks go?”
“Towards Barcelona,“ I told him.
“I know no one in that direction,“ he said,”but thank you very much. Thank you again very much.“
He looked at me very blankly and tiredly, and then said, having to share his worry with someone,”The cat will be all right, I am sure. There is no need to be unquiet about the cat. But the others. Now what do you think about the others?”
“Why they“ll probably come through it all right.”
“You think so?“
“Why not,“ I said, watching the far bank where now there were no carts.
“But what will they do under the artillery when I was told to leave because of the artillery?“
“Did you leave the dove cage unlocked?“ I asked.
“Yes.“
“Then they“ll fly.“
“Yes, certainly they“ll fly. But the others. It“s better not to think about the others,“ he said.
“If you are rested I would go,“ I urged.”Get up and try to walk now.“
“Thank you,“ he said and got to his feet, swayed from side to side and then sat down backwards in the dust.
“I was taking care of animals,“ he said dully, but no longer to me.”I was only taking care of animals.“
There was nothing to do about him. It was Easter Sunday and the Fascists were advancing toward the Ebro. It was a gray overcast day with a low ceiling so their planes were not up. That and the fact that cats know how to look after themselves was all the good luck that old man would ever have.