高级英语（张汉熙版）第一册学习笔记（原文及全文翻译）——9 - The Loons（潜水鸟）
Unit 9 - The Loons
The Loons
Margarel Laurence
Just below Manawaka, where the Wachakwa River ran brown and noisy over the pebbles, the scrub oak and grey-green willow and chokecherry bushes grew in a dense thicket.
In a clearing at the centre of the thicket stood the Tonnerre family's shack.
The basis at this dwelling was a small square cabin made of poplar poles and chinked with mud, which had been built by Jules Tonnerre some fifty years before, when he came back from Batoche with a bullet in his thigh, the year that Riel was hung and the voices of the Metis entered their long silence.
Jules had only intended to stay the winter in the Wachakwa Valley, but the family was still there in the thirties, when I was a child.
As the Tonnerres had increased, their settlement had been added to, until the clearing at the foot of the town hill was a chaos of lean-tos, wooden packing cases, warped lumber, discarded car types, ramshackle chicken coops , tangled strands of barbed wire and rusty tin cans.
The Tonnerres were French half breeds, and among themselves they spoke a patois that was neither Cree nor French.
Their English was broken and full of obscenities.
They did not belong among the Cree of the Galloping Mountain reservation, further north, and they did not belong among the Scots-Irish and Ukrainians of Manawaka, either.
They were, as my Grandmother MacLeod would have put it, neither flesh, fowl, nor good salt herring.
When their men were not working at odd jobs or as section hands on the C.P. R. they lived on relief.
In the summers, one of the Tonnerre youngsters, with a face that seemed totally unfamiliar with laughter, would knock at the doors of the town's brick houses and offer for sale a lard - pail full of bruised wild strawberries, and if he got as much as a quarter he would grab the coin and run before the customer had time to change her mind.
Sometimes old Jules, or his son Lazarus, would get mixed up in a Saturday-night brawl, and would hit out at whoever was nearest or howl drunkenly among the offended shoppers on Main Street, and then the Mountie would put them for the night in the barred cell underneath the Court House, and the next morning they would be quiet again.
Piquette Tonnerre, the daughter of Lazarus, was in my class at school.
She was older than I, but she had failed several grades, perhaps because her attendance had always been sporadic and her interest in schoolwork negligible.
Part of the reason she had missed a lot of school was that she had had tuberculosis of the bone, and had once spent many months in hospital. I knew this because my father was the doctor who had looked after her.
Her sickness was almost the only thing I knew about her, however.
Otherwise, she existed for me only as a vaguely embarrassing presence, with her hoarse voice and her clumsy limping walk and her grimy cotton dresses that were always miles too long. I was neither friendly nor unfriendly towards her.
She dwelt and moved somewhere within my scope of vision, but I did not actually notice her very much until that peculiar summer when I was eleven.
I don't know what to do about that kid. my father said at dinner one evening. Piquette Tonnerre, I mean.
The damn bone's flared up again. I've had her in hospital for quite a while now, and it's under control all right, but I hate like the dickens to send her home again.
Couldn't you explain to her mother that she has to rest a lot? my mother said.
The mother's not there my father replied. She took off a few years back. Can't say I blame her.
Piquette cooks for them, and she says Lazarus would never do anything for himself as long as she's there.
Anyway, I don't think she'd take much care of herself, once she got back.
She's only thirteen, after all. Beth, I was thinking—What about taking her up to Diamond Lake with us this summer?
A couple of months rest would give that bone a much better chance.
My mother looked stunned.
But Ewen-what about Roddie and Vanessa?
She's not contagious, my father said. And it would be company for Vanessa.
Oh dear, my mother said in distress, I'll bet anything she has nits in her hair.
For Pete's sake, my father said crossly, do you think Matron would let her stay in the hospital for all this time like that? Don't be silly, Beth.
Grandmother MacLeod, her delicately featured face as rigid as a cameo, now brought her mauve-veined hands together as though she were about to begin prayer.
Ewen, if that half breed youngster comes along to Diamond Lake, I'm not going, she announced. I'll go to Morag's for the summer.
I had trouble in stifling my urge to laugh, for my mother brightened visibly and quickly tried to hide it.
If it came to a choice between Grandmother MacLeod and Piquette, Piquette would win hands down, nits or not.
It might be quite nice for you, at that, she mused. You haven't seen Morag for over a year, and you might enjoy being in the city for a while.
Well, Ewen dear, you do what you think best. If you think it would do Piquette some good, then we' II be glad to have her, as long as she behaves herself.
So it happened that several weeks later, when we all piled into my father's old Nash, surrounded by suitcases and boxes of provisions and toys for my ten-month-old brother, Piquette was with us and Grandmother MacLeod, miraculously, was not.
My father would only be staying at the cottage for a couple of weeks, for he had to get back to his practice, but the rest of us would stay at Diamond Lake until the end of August.
Our cottage was not named, as many were, Dew Drop Inn or Bide-a-Wee, or Bonnie Doon.
The sign on the roadway bore in austere letters only our name, MacLeod. It was not a large cottage, but it was on the lakefront.
You could look out the windows and see, through the filigree of the spruce trees, the water glistening greenly as the sun caught it.
All around the cottage were ferns, and sharp-branched raspberrybushes, and moss that had grown over fallen tree trunks.
If you looked carefully among the weeds and grass, you could find wild strawberry plants which were in white flower now and in another month would bear fruit, the fragrant globes hanging like miniature scarlet lanterns on the thin hairy stems.
The two grey squirrels were still there, gossiping at us from the tall spruce beside the cottage, and by the end of the summer they would again be tame enough to take pieces of crust from my hands.
The broad moose antlers that hung above the back door were a little more bleached and fissured after the winter, but otherwise everything was the same.
I raced joyfully around my kingdom, greeting all the places I had not seen for a year.
My brother, Roderick, who had not been born when we were here last summer, sat on the car rug in the sunshine and examined a brown spruce cone, meticulously turning it round and round in his small and curious hands.
My mother and father toted the luggage from car to cottage, exclaiming over how well the place had wintered, no broken windows, thank goodness, no apparent damage from storm felled branches or snow.
Only after I had finished looking around did I notice Piquette.
She was sitting on the swing her lame leg held stiffly out, and her other foot scuffing the ground as she swung slowly back and forth.
Her long hair hung black and straight around her shoulders, and her broad coarse-featured face bore no expression-it was blank, as though she no longer dwelt within her own skull, as though she had gone elsewhere.
I approached her very hesitantly.
Want to come and play?
Piquette looked at me with a sudden flash of scorn.
I ain't a kid, she said.
Wounded, I stamped angrily away, swearing I would not speak to her for the rest of the summer.
In the days that followed, however, Piquette began to interest me, and l began to want to interest her.
My reasons did not appear bizarre to me.
Unlikely as it may seem, I had only just realised that the Tonnerre family, whom I had always heard Called half breeds, were actually Indians, or as near as made no difference.
My acquaintance with Indians was not expensive.
I did not remember ever having seen a real Indian, and my new awareness that Piquette sprang from the people of Big Bear and Poundmaker, of Tecumseh, of the Iroquois who had eaten Father Brébeuf's heart-all this gave her an instant attraction in my eyes.
I was devoted reader of Pauline Johnson at this age, and sometimes would orate aloud and in an exalted voice, West Wind, blow from your prairie nest, Blow from the mountains, blow from the west-and so on.
It seemed to me that Piquette must be in some way a daughter of the forest, a kind of junior prophetess of the wilds, who might impart to me,
if I took the right approach, some of the secrets which she undoubtedly knew --where the whippoorwill made her nest, how the coyote reared her young, or whatever it was that it said in Hiawatha.
I set about gaining Piquette's trust. She was not allowed to go swimming, with her bad leg, but I managed to lure her down to the beach-or rather, she came because there was nothing else to do.
The water was always icy, for the lake was fed by springs,
but I swam like a dog, thrashing my arms and legs around at such speed and with such an output of energy that I never grew cold. Finally, when I had enough, I came out and sat beside Piquette on the sand.
When she saw me approaching, her hands squashed flat the sand castle she had been building, and she looked at me sullenly, without speaking.
Do you like this place? I asked, after a while, intending to lead on from there into the question of forest lore.
Piquette shrugged. It's okay. Good as anywhere.
I love it, I said. We come here every summer.
So what? Her voice was distant, and I glanced at her uncertainly, wondering what I could have said wrong.
Do you want to come for a walk? I asked her. We wouldn't need to go far.
If you walk just around the point there, you come to a bay where great big reeds grow in the water, and all kinds of fish hang around there. Want to? Come on.
She shook her head.
Your dad said I ain't supposed to do no more walking than I got to. I tried another line.
I bet you know a lot about the woods and all that, eh? I began respectfully.
Piquette looked at me from her large dark unsmiling eyes.
I don't know what in hell you're talkin' about, she replied. You nuts or something?
If you mean where my old man, and me, and all them live, you better shut up, by Jesus, you hear?
I was startled and my feelings were hurt, but I had a kind of dogged perseverance. I ignored her rebuff.
You know something, Piquette? There's loons here, on this lake. You can see their nests just up the shore there, behind those logs.
At night, you can hear them even from the cottage, but it's better to listen from the beach.
My dad says we should listen and try to remember how they sound, because in a few years when more cottages are built at Diamond Lake and more people come in, the loons will go away.
Piquette was picking up stones and snail shells and then dropping them again.
Who gives a good goddamn? she said.
It became increasingly obvious that, as an Indian, Piquette was a dead loss.
That evening I went out by myself, scrambling through the bushes that overhung the steep path, my feet slipping on the fallen spruce needles that covered the ground.
When I reached the shore, I walked along the firm damp sand to the small pier that my father had built, and sat down there.
I heard someone else crashing through the undergrowth and the bracken, and for a moment I thought Piquette had changed her mind, but it turned out to be my father.
He sat beside me on the pier and we waited, without speaking.
At night the lake was like black glass with a streak of amber which was the path of the moon.
All around, the spruce trees grew tall and close-set, branches blackly sharp against the sky, which was lightened by a cold flickering of stars.
Then the loons began their calling. They rose like phantom birds from the nests on the shore, and flew out onto the dark still surface of the water.
No one can ever describe that ululating sound, the crying of the loons, and no one who has heard it can ever forget it.
Plaintive, and yet with a quality of chilling mockery, those voices belonged to a world separated by aeon from our neat world of summer cottages and the lighted lamps of home.
They must have sounded just like that, my father remarked, before any person ever set foot here.
Then he laughed. You could say the same, of course, about sparrows or chipmunk, but somehow it only strikes you that way with the loons.
I know, I said.
Neither of us suspected that this would be the last time we would ever sit here together on the shore, listening.
We stayed for perhaps half an hour, and then we went back to the cottage.
My mother was reading beside the fireplace. Piquette was looking at the burning birch log, and not doing anything.
You should have come along, I said, although in fact I was glad she had not.
Not me, Piquette said.
You wouldn'catch me walkin' way down there jus'for a bunch of squawkin' birds.
Piquette and I remained ill at ease with one another. felt I had somehow failed my father, but I did not know what was the matter, nor why she Would not or could not respond when I suggested exploring the woods or Playing house.
I thought it was probably her slow and difficult walking that held her back.
She stayed most of the time in the cottage with my mother, helping her with the dishes or with Roddie, but hardly ever talking.
Then the Duncans arrived at their cottage, and I spent my days with Mavis, who was my best friend.
I could not reach Piquette at all, and I soon lost interest in trying.
But all that summer she remained as both a reproach and a mystery to me.
That winter my father died of pneumonia, after less than a week's illness.
For some time I saw nothing around me, being completely immersed in my own pain and my mother's.
When I looked outward once more, I scarcely noticed that Piquette Tonnerre was no longer at school.
I do not remember seeing her at all until four years later, one Saturday night when Mavis and I were having Cokes in the Regal Cafe.
The jukebox was booming like tuneful thunder, and beside it, leaning lightly on its chrome and its rainbow glass, was a girl.
Piquette must have been seventeen then, although she looked about twenty. I stared at her, astounded that anyone could have changed so much.
Her face, so stolid and expressionless before, was animated now with a gaiety that was almost violent.
She laughed and talked very loudly with the boys around her. Her lipstick was bright carmine, and her hair was cut Short and frizzily permed.
She had not been pretty as a child, and she was not pretty now, for her features were still heavy and blunt.
But her dark and slightly slanted eyes were beautiful, and her skin-tight skirt and orange sweater displayed to enviable advantage a soft and slender body.
She saw me, and walked over. She teetered a little, but it was not due to her once-tubercular leg, for her limp was almost gone.
Hi, Vanessa, Her voice still had the same hoarseness. Long time no see, eh?
Hi, I said Where've you been keeping yourself, Piquette?
Oh, I been around, she said. I been away almost two years now. Been all over the place-Winnipeg, Regina, Saskatoon. Jesus, what I could tell you!
I come back this summer, but I ain't stayin'. You kids go in to the dance?
No, I said abruptly, for this was a sore point with me. I was fifteen, and thought I was old enough to go to the Saturday-night dances at the Flamingo. My mother, however, thought otherwise.
Y'oughta come, Piquette said. I never miss one. It's just about the on'y thing in this jerkwater town that's any fun. Boy, you couldn' catch me stayin' here. I don' give a shit about this place. It stinks.
She sat down beside me, and I caught the harsh over-sweetness of her perfume.
Listen, you wanna know something, Vanessa? she confided, her voice only slightly blurred. Your dad was the only person in Manawaka that ever done anything good to me.
I nodded speechlessly. I was certain she was speaking the truth. I knew a little more than I had that summer at Diamond Lake, but I could not reach her now any more than I had then, I was ashamed, ashamed of my own timidity, the frightened tendency to look the other way.
Yet I felt no real warmth towards her-I only felt that I ought to, because of that distant summer and because my father had hoped she would be company for me, or perhaps that I would be for her, but it had not happened that way.
At this moment, meeting her again, I had to admit that she repelled and embarrassed me, and I could not help despising the self-pity in her voice. I wished she would go away. I did not want to see her did not know what to say to her. It seemed that we had nothing to say to one another.
I'll tell you something else, Piquette went on. All the old bitches an' biddies in this town will sure be surprised.
I'm gettin' married this fall-my boy friend, he's an English fella, works in the stockyards in the city there, a very tall guy, got blond wavy hair.
Gee, is he ever handsome. Got this real Hiroshima name. Alvin Gerald Cummings-some handle, eh? They call him Al.
For the merest instant, then I saw her. I really did see her, for the first and only time in all the years we had both lived in the same town.
Her defiant face, momentarily, became unguarded and unmasked, and in her eyes there was a terrifying hope.
Gee, Piquette -- I burst out awkwardly, that's swell. That's really wonderful. Congratulations-good luck-I hope you'll be happy-
As l mouthed the conventional phrases, I could only guess how great her need must have been, that she had been forced to seek the very things she so bitterly rejected.
When I was eighteen, I left Manawaka and went away to college. At the end of my first year, I came back home for the summer.
I spent the first few days in talking non-stop with my mother, as we exchanged all the news that somehow had not found its way into letters-what had happened in my life and what had happened here in Manawaka while I was away.
My mother searched her memory for events that concerned people I knew.
Did I ever write you about Piquette Tonnerre, Vanessa? she asked one morning.
No, I don't think so, I replied. Last I heard of her, she was going to marry some guy in the city. Is she still there?
My mother looked Hiroshima, and it was a moment before she spoke, as though she did not know how to express what she had to tell and wished she did not need to try.
She's dead, she said at last. Then, as I stared at her, Oh, Vanessa, when it happened, I couldn't help thinking of her as she was that summer-so sullen and gauche and badly dressed.
I couldn't help wondering if we could have done something more at that time--but what could we do? She used to be around in the cottage there with me all day, and honestly it was all I could do to get a word out of her.
She didn't even talk to your father very much, although I think she liked him in her way.
What happened? I asked.
Either her husband left her, or she left him, my mother said. I don't know which. Anyway, she came back here with two youngsters, both only babies-they must have been born very close together.
She kept house, I guess, for Lazarus and her brothers, down in the valley there, in the old Tonnerre place. I used to see her on the street sometimes, but she never spoke to me.
She'd put on an awful lot of weight, and she looked a mess, to tell you the truth, a real slattern dressed any old how. She was up in court a couple of times-drunk and disorderly, of course.
One Saturday night last winter, during the coldest weather, Piquette was alone in the shack with the children.
The Tonnerres made home brew all the time, so I've heard, and Lazarus said later she'd been drinking most of the day when he and the boys went out that evening.
They had an old woodstove there--you know the kind, with exposed pipes.
The shack caught fire. Piquette didn't get out, and neither did the children.
I did not say anything. As so often with Piquette, there did not seem to be anything to say.
There was a kind of silence around the image in my mind of the fire and the snow, and I wished I could put from my memory the look that I had seen once in Piquette's eyes.
I went up to Diamond Lake for a few days that summer, with Mavis and her family.
The MacLeod cottage had been sold after my father's death, and I did not even go to look at it, not wanting to witness my long-ago kingdom possessed now by strangers. But one evening I went clown to the shore by myself.
The small pier which my father had built was gone, and in its place there was a large and solid pier built by the government, for Galloping Mountain was now a national park, and Diamond Lake had been re-named Lake Wapakata, for it was felt that an Indian name would have a greater appeal to tourists.
The one store had become several dozen, and the settlement had all the attributes of a flourishing resort--hotels, a dance-hall, cafes with neon signs, the penetrating odours of potato chips and hot dogs.
I sat on the government pier and looked out across the water. At night the lake at least was the same as it had always been, darkly shining and bearing within its black glass the streak of amber that was the path of the moon.
There was no wind that evening, and everything was quiet all around me. It seemed too quiet, and then I realized that the loons were no longer here.
I listened for some time, to make sure, but never once did I hear that long-drawn call, half mocking and half plaintive, spearing through the stillness across the lake.
I did not know what had happened to the birds. Perhaps they had gone away to some far place of belonging.
Perhaps they had been unable to find such a place, and had simply died out, having ceased to care any longer whether they lived or not.
I remembered how Piquette had scorned to come along, when my father and I sat there and listened to the lake birds.
It seemed to me now that in some unconscious and totally unrecognized way, Piquette might have been the only one, after all, who had heard the crying of the loons.
参考译文——潜水鸟
潜水鸟
玛格丽特劳伦斯
马纳瓦卡山下有一条小河，叫瓦恰科瓦河，浑浊的河水沿着布满鹅卵石的河床哗哗地流淌着，河边谷地上长着无数的矮橡树、灰绿色柳树和野樱桃树，形成一片茂密的丛林。
坦纳瑞家的棚屋就座落在丛林中央的一片空地上。
这住所的主体结构是一间四方形木屋，系用一根根白杨木涂以灰泥建成，建造者是儒勒坦纳瑞。大约五十年前，也就是里尔被绞杀、法印混血族遭到彻底失败的那一年，儒勒坦纳瑞大腿上带着一颗枪弹从巴托什战场回到这里后便建造了那间小木屋。
儒勒当初只打算在瓦恰科瓦河谷里度过当年的那个冬天，但直到三十年代，他们家仍住在那儿，当时我还是个孩子。
坦纳瑞家人丁兴旺，他们的木屋慢慢地扩建，越来越大，到后来，那片林中空地上小披屋林立，到处乱七八糟地堆放着木板包装箱、晒翘了的木材、废弃的汽车轮胎、摇摇欲坠的鸡笼子、一卷一卷的带刺的铁丝和锈迹斑斑的洋铁罐。
坦纳瑞一家是法裔混血儿，他们彼此之间讲话用的是一种土话，既不像克里印第安语，也不像法语。
他们说的英语字不成句，还尽是些低级下流的粗话。
他们既不属于北方跑马山保留地上居住的克里族，也不属于马纳瓦卡山上居住的苏格兰爱尔兰人和乌克兰人群体。
用我祖母爱用的词来说，他们简直就是所谓的"四不像"。
他们的生计全靠家里的壮丁外出打零工或是在加拿大太平洋铁路上当养路工来维持，没有这种打工机会时，他们一家便靠吃救济粮过日子。
到了夏天，坦纳瑞家的一个长着一张从来不会笑的脸的小孩就会用一个猪油桶提一桶碰得伤痕累累的野草莓，挨家挨户地敲开镇上那些砖砌房屋的门叫卖。只要卖得一枚二角五分的硬币，他就会迫不及待地将那硬币抓到手中，然后立即转身跑开，生怕顾客会有时间反悔。
有时候，在星期六晚上，老儒勒或是他的儿子拉扎鲁会酗酒闹事，不是发疯似地见人就打，就是挤到大街上购物逛街的行人之中狂呼乱叫，让人恼怒，于是骑警队就会将他们抓去，关进法院楼下的铁牢里，到第二天早上，他们便会恢复常态。
拉扎鲁的女儿皮格特·坦纳瑞在学校读书时与我同班。
她年纪比我大几岁，但由于成绩不好留了几级，这也许怪她经常旷课而且学习劲头不大。
她掉课次数多的部分原因是她患有骨节炎，有一次一连住了好几个月的医院。我之所以知道这一情况是因为我父亲正好是为她治过病的医生。
不过，我对她的了解几乎只限于她的病情。
除此之外，我就只知道她是一个让人一见就觉得不舒服的人：说话时声音沙哑，走起路来踉踉跄跄，身上穿着的棉布衣裙总是脏兮兮的，而且总是长大得极不合体。
我对她的态度谈不上友好，也谈不上不友好。她的住处和活动范围都在我的眼前，但直到我十一岁那年的夏季到来之前，我还从来没有太多地注意到她的存在。
我真不知道该怎样去帮助那孩子，我父亲有一天吃晚饭的时候说，我指的是皮格特坦纳瑞。
她的骨结核又恶化了，我在医院里给她治疗好长一段时间了，病情自然是控制住了，但我真他妈不愿打发她回到她那个家里去。
你难道就不会对她妈妈说说她应该好好保养吗？我母亲问道。
她妈妈不在了，我父亲回答说。几年前她就离家出走了。也不能怪她。
皮格特为他们烧火做饭，她说只要她在家拉扎鲁便什么也不干。
不管怎么说，只要她一回到家里，我看她就很难保养好自己的身体了。
毕竟她才十三岁呀。贝丝，我在想，咱们全家去钻石湖避暑时把她也一道带去，你看怎么样?
好好休养两个月会使她的骨病治愈的希望大大增加。
我母亲满脸惊讶的神色。
可是艾文-罗迪和凡乃莎怎么办呢?
她的病并不是传染性的，我父亲说。这样凡乃莎还会多一个伙伴。
天哪！我母亲无可奈何地说，我敢保证她头上一定有虱子。
看在圣彼得的份上，我父亲生气地说，你以为护士长会让她一直那样在医院里住下去吗？别太天真了，贝丝。
麦克里奥祖母那清秀的脸上此时显得像玉石雕像般的冷峻，她那紫红色血管鼓起的双手此时也合到一起，像是准备做祷告的样子。
艾文，如果那个混血儿要去钻石湖的话，那我就不去了，她声明说。我要去莫拉格家度夏。
我几乎忍不住要哈哈大笑了，因为我看到我母亲突然面露喜色但马上又极力加以掩饰。
如果要我母亲在麦克里奥祖母和皮格特之间选择一个的话，那中选的毫无疑问就是皮格特，不管她头上是否有虱子。
说起来，那样对您老人家也是好事，她若有所思地说。您已有一年多没见过莫拉格了，而且，到大城市里去住一阵子也是一种享受。
好吧，亲爱的艾文，你认为怎么好就怎么着吧。假如你认为同我们一起住一段日子对皮格特有好处，那我们欢迎她，只要她能守规矩就行。
于是，几个星期以后，当我们全家带着一箱箱的衣物、食品以及给我那才满十个月的小弟弟玩的玩具挤进父亲那辆旧纳什轿车时，皮格特也同我们在一起，而麦克里奥祖母却奇迹般地没有同我们在一起。
我父亲只能在别墅里住两个星期，因为他要回去上班，但我其余的人却要在钻石湖一直住到八月底。
我们的湖边别墅不像许多其他别墅一样取了诸如露珠客栈或小憩园或怡神居之类的名字。
立于马路边的标牌上只用朴素的字体写着我们的姓氏麦克里奥。别墅的房子不算大，但占着正对着湖面的有利位置。
从别墅的窗户往外看，透过一层云杉树叶织成的丝帘，可以看见碧绿的湖面在太阳的映照下波光粼粼。
别墅的四周长满了凤尾草、悬钩子藤，还有断落的树枝上长出的青苔。
若是细心地在草丛里寻找，你还会找到一些野草莓藤，上面已经开了白花，再过一个月便会长出野草莓来，到时候，散发出芬芳气息的草莓果便会像一个个微型的红灯笼一般悬挂在毛茸茸的细茎上。
别墅旁边的一棵高大的云杉树上的那对灰色小松鼠还在，此时正朝着我们叽叽喳喳地乱叫，到夏天快过完的时候，它们又会变得驯驯服服，敢从我手上叼取面包屑了。
别墅后门上挂的一对鹿角经过一个冬天的风吹雨淋之后又多褪了一些颜色，增加了一些裂纹，其余一切都还是原样。
我兴高采烈地在我的小王国里跑来跑去，和所有阔别了一年的地方一一去打招呼。
我的小弟弟罗德里克，去年夏天我们来这儿避暑时他还没有出生，此时正坐在放在太阳底下晒着的汽车座垫上，埋头玩赏着一个黄褐色的云杉球果，用他那双好奇的小手小心翼翼地抓着那颗球果，把它搓得团团转。
我母亲和父亲忙着将行李从车上搬进别墅，连声惊叹着，这地方经过一个冬天后竞如此完好，窗户玻璃没破一块，真是谢天谢地，房屋也没有受到被暴风吹断的树枝或冰雪砸损的痕迹。
我忙着把所有的地方都看了一遍之后才回头注意到皮格特。
她正坐在秋千上缓缓地荡来荡去，她的那只跛腿直挺挺地向前伸着，另一只脚却垂拖到地上，并随着秋千的摆动而摩擦着地面。
她那又黑又直的长发垂披到肩上，那皮肤粗糙的宽脸上毫无表情--一副茫然的样子，似乎她已经没有了灵魂，又似乎她的灵魂已脱离了躯体。
我犹犹豫豫地向她走近。
想过来玩吗?
皮格特突然以一种不屑一顾的神色看着我。
我不是小孩，她说。
我自觉感情受到伤害，气得一跺脚跑开了，并发誓整个夏天不同她讲一句话。
可是，在后来的日子里，皮格特却开始引起我的兴趣，而且我也开始有了要提起她的兴趣的愿望。
我并不觉得这有什么奇怪。
看起来可能有些不合情理，我直到这时才开始认识到，那总被人们称作混血儿的坦纳瑞一家其实是印第安人，或者说很接近印第安人。
我和印第安人接触得不多，
好像还从来没见过一个真正的印第安人，现在认识到皮格特的祖先就是大熊和庞德梅克的族人，是特库姆塞的族人，是那些吃过布雷伯夫神父心脏的易洛魁人-这使她在我眼中突然产生了魅力。
我那时很爱读波琳约翰逊的诗，有时候还扯开嗓门拿腔拿调地背诵，西风啊，从原野上吹来;从高山上吹来;从西边吹来等诗句。
在我看来，皮格特一定可以算是森林的女儿，是蛮荒世界的小预言家。
只要我用适当的方法向她请教，她一定可以对我讲解一些她自己无疑知道的大自然的奥秘--如夜鹰在哪儿做窝，郊狼是如何育雏的，或是《海华沙之歌》之中提到的任何事情。
我开始努力博取皮格特的信任。她因为瘸腿的关系不能下湖游泳，但我还是设法把她引诱到湖边沙滩上去了-不过，也许是因为她没别的可干才去的。
钻石湖的水源自山泉，因此湖水总是冰凉的，
但我游得很起劲，奋力挥臂，使劲踢腿，游得又快又猛，从来也没有感觉到冷。过足游泳瘾之后，我走上岸挨近皮格特坐在沙滩上。
她一看见我走过来，马上用手把她刚堆起来的一个沙塔捣毁，满脸不高兴地看着我，一声不吭。
你喜欢这儿吗?过了一会儿，我便开口问道，想从这个问题慢慢引导到有关森林中的故事的问题上去。
皮格特耸了耸肩。这地方不错，比哪儿都不差。
我很喜欢这地方，我说，我们每年夏天都到这儿来。
那又怎么样呢?她的声音很冷淡，我疑惑地看着她，不知道我的哪句话得罪了她。
你想不想去散散步?我问她。我们不必走得太远。
只要绕过那边的那个湖岬，你就会看到一个浅水湾，那儿的水中长着高大的芦苇，芦苇丛中游动着各种各样的鱼儿。想去吗?快来吧。
她摇了摇头。
你爸爸说过，我不能过多地走路。我试着改用另一种策略。
我猜想你对森林中的故事一定知道得很多，是吗?我毕恭毕敬地说道。
皮格特瞪着那双大大的、没有一点笑意的黑眼睛望着我。
我不明白你在胡说些什么，她回答说。你是发神经还是怎么的?
假如你是想问我爹和我以及他们大家居住的地方的话，你最好闭住嘴，听到了吗?
我大感愕然，心里十分难受，但我生性固执。我不去计较她那冷漠的态度。
你知道吗，皮格特?这个湖上有一些潜水鸟。它们的窝就在那边的湖岸上，在那堆木材后边。
夜晚，在别墅里就可以听见它们的叫声，但在这儿的沙滩上要听得更清楚一些。
我爸爸要我们好好听听并记住它们的呜叫声，因为过几年之后，当湖边建起更多的别墅，来这儿的人也多起来的时候，潜水鸟便会飞离钻石湖了。
皮格特正在从地上拾起一些石子和蜗牛壳，然后又丢到地上。
谁有心思去管那些?她说。
要想通过皮格特来了解印第安人的情况看来是不可能了，这一点已经越来越清楚了。
那天晚上，我独自一人出去，沿着陡峭的山路攀爬而行，一边走一边要用手扒开那些伸到路中间的灌木枝，而脚踏在铺着一层云杉针叶的地面上也是一滑一滑的。
到了湖边后，我穿过坚实的湿沙滩，走到我父亲筑起的那道小防波堤上坐了下来。
我听到有人穿过灌木丛和羊齿蕨丛风风火火地一路行来，当下我还以为是皮格特回心转意了，没想到来的竟是我父亲。
他挨着我在防波堤上坐下，我们俩都没说话，静静地在那等候着。
夜间的湖面看起来像一块黑色玻璃，只有一线水面因映照着月光才呈现出琥珀色，
湖的周围到处密密丛丛地生长着高大的云杉树，在寒光闪烁的星空映衬下，云杉树的枝桠呈现出清晰的黑色剪影。
过了一会儿，潜水鸟开始呜叫。它们像幽灵般地从岸边的窝巢中腾起，飞往平静幽暗的湖面上。
潜水鸟的鸣声悲凉凄厉，任何人都无法形容，任何人听后也难以忘怀。
那种悲凉之中又带着冷嘲的声调属于另外一个遥远的世界，那世界与我们这个有着避暑别墅和居家灯火的美好世界相隔不下亿万年之遥。
在人的足迹尚未踏入此地之前，我父亲开口说，它们一定也就是这样叫的。
说完他自己笑了起来。当然，你也可以这样去评论麻雀和金花鼠，但不知何故，你却只想到这样去评论潜水鸟。
我明白，我说。
当时我们俩谁也想不到那竟是我们父女俩最后一次一块儿坐在湖边听鸟叫。
我们坐了大约半个小时后便回到别墅的屋里。
我母亲正在壁炉旁看书，皮格特则什么事也没做，只是望着壁炉中燃烧着的桦树木柴发楞。
你真该同我一道去的，我这样说着，其实心里觉得她没去倒还更好些。
我才不去哩，皮格特说。
我说啥也不会就为听那些鸟叫而跑到那儿去。
我和皮格特的关系一直没能融洽起来。我觉得有负于父亲的期望，但我又不知道自己哪一点做得不对，也不知道为什么当我提议去钻树林或玩过家家时她竞不愿或是不会作出适当反应。
我猜想也许是由于她行走不便以致产生畏怯情绪。
她大半的时间是留在别墅里与我母亲作伴，帮我母亲收拾碗碟或是照看罗迪，但却难得开口。
后来，邓肯一家也搬到他们自己的别墅里住起来了，于是我便整天同马维斯一起玩，马维斯是我最要好的朋友。
我根本没法同皮格特接近，后来干脆也就不想去试了。
但整整那一个夏天，她既让我感到自责，又让我觉得她是个谜。
那一年的冬天，我父亲患了肺炎，不到一星期就去世了。
那一段日子里我完全沉浸在自己的和母亲的痛苦之中，对周围的一切都视而不见。
当我重新回到现实中来以后，我也几乎没有注意到皮格特坦纳瑞已不在学校了。
在我的记忆中，我后来根本没有见到过她，直到四年之后才又见过她一次。那是一个星期六的晚上，我和马维斯正在里歌咖啡馆喝可口可乐，电唱机播放出雷声般的音乐，那镀铬材料和五彩玻璃造的电唱机旁斜依着一个姑娘。
那时皮格特大概是十七岁，但看上去却有二十岁左右。我盯住她看，为一个人能发生这么巨大的变化而大为惊讶。
以前，她的面孔十分呆板，毫无表情，而现在却带有一种有几分狂欢的活力。
她和身边的小伙子们大声地说笑。她的唇膏是一种鲜亮的洋红色，她的头发剪短，烫成弯弯曲曲的小卷。
小时候她长得就不漂亮，现在也还一样，她的五官粗糙、呆板。
但是，她那双乌黑、稍稍斜视的眼睛却是美丽的。而且，一条紧身裙和一件桔黄色毛衣将她那柔软、苗条的身材衬托得恰到好处，令人羡慕。
她看到我，就走了过来。她走路有点摇摇晃晃的，但那并不是由于她那曾经患骨结核的腿的缘故，她瘸腿的毛病已几乎没有了。
你好，凡乃莎，她的声音还是那样沙哑，好久不见，是吧?
你好，我说。你这些日子都到哪儿去了，皮格特?
哦，到处漂泊，她说。我离家已将近有两年了，到了好多地方--温尼佩格、雷金那、萨斯卡通。嗨，要说的可多啦!
我今年夏天才回来，但不打算呆下去。你们要不要去跳舞?
不要，我断然回答道，因为她的问话正触着我的痛处。我那时已十五岁，自己觉得到了可以去参加火烈鸟歌舞厅周末舞会的年龄了，但我母亲却不以为然。
你应该去的，皮格特说。我是每场必去。这偏僻小镇上再也找不到别的什么乐趣了。伙计，我才不会在这儿呆下去呢，我一点儿也不喜欢这地方，这地方糟透了。
她在我身边坐下，我闻到她身上散发出来的过份浓烈的香水味。
喂，凡乃莎，让我告诉你吧?她声音有点模糊不清地悄悄对我说，你爸爸是马纳卡瓦镇上唯一对我好的人。
我默默无言地点了点头。我知道她讲的是实话。这时我懂得的事儿比在钻石湖避暑的那个夏天要多了一些，但跟当时一样，无法跟她接近。我很惭愧，为自己的怯懦和知难而退的性格而感到惭愧。
但我心里对她就是热乎不起来--我只是觉得应该跟她接近，那也是因为多年前的那个夏天，也因为我父亲希望她能成为我的好伙伴，或者也许我能成为她的好伙伴，可是后来事情却没有朝这个方向发展。
此时和她再次相遇，说老实话，只能引起我的反感和不快，她说话中流露出的自卑自怜的口气只能引起我的轻视。我盼望她立刻走开，我不想见到她，我也不知道同她说什么，我同她之间似乎无话可说。
我还要告诉你一件事，皮格特接着说道，镇上的那些老婊子臭婆娘们一定都会大吃一惊的。
今年秋天我就要结婚了--我的男朋友是一个英国小伙子，在那边城里的畜牧场干活，个子高高的，还有着一头金黄色的卷发。
嗬，他可真是帅极了!连名字也很高贵，阿尔温?杰拉德?卡明斯--这名字有多伟大，呃?人们都喊他阿尔。
她说这些话的那一瞬间，我算看清了她。虽然我们多年来同住在一个小镇上，这还是第一次，也是唯一的一次，我真正地看清她的本来面目。
此时此刻，她那揭下面具和保护罩的脸上露出的是一副坚强不屈、敢于挑战一切的神色，她的眼神里也透出一种强烈得令人害怕的渴望。
嗬，皮格特--我突然笨口拙腮地说，那太棒了，真是好极了。祝贺你--好运--祝愿你们生活幸福—
我从口中挤出这些套语的时候，心里就在想：她对她那么不屑一顾的东西却又要去竭力地追求，可见她心里的渴望是多么地强烈。
十八岁时，我离开马纳瓦卡镇去外地上大学。大学第一学年结束的时候，我回家里过暑假。
刚回来的那几天，我一直不停地同我母亲谈家常，谈论着一些双方在书信中都没有谈及的事情--我在大学里的生活情况以及我上学期间马纳瓦卡镇上发生的一些事儿。
我母亲尽量从记忆中搜出一些有关我所熟识的人的情况对我讲。
凡乃莎，我在信中对你讲过皮格特?坦纳瑞的情况了吗?有一天早上，她这样问我。
没有，我想是没有，我回答说。我所知道的有关她的最新消息，是她即将同城里的某个小伙子结婚。她还在城里吗?
我母亲脸上露出不安的神色，好半天没吭声，好像有什么话不好讲而又不大愿意讲出来的样子。
她已经不在人世了，她终于说了出来。我怔怔地望着母亲，她接着说，呵，凡乃莎，她出事的时候，我不禁又想起她那个夏天时的样子--那么愁眉苦脸、呆头呆脑的，穿的衣服也不像样子。
我不禁想起，当初我们是不是能够多帮助她一点--但我们能做些什么呢?她虽说整天和我一起呆在别墅里，但说实话，我想引导她说一句话都不容易。
她连同你父亲都没有多少话讲，尽管我感觉她心里是喜欢你父亲的。
究竟出了什么事?我问道。
或许是她丈夫离开了她，也许是她离开了她丈夫,我母亲说。我也不知道是谁先离开谁的。总之，她带着两个孩子回到这里--两个都是婴儿，他们一定是先后紧接着出生的。
我猜想，她给她父亲和兄弟们管理家务。他们就住在山谷里坦纳瑞家的老地方。有时我在街上看到她，可她从来不和我讲话。
她发胖了许多，看上去乱七八糟的，说实话，完全是个邋遢的女人，衣着非常马虎。有几次她被法院传了去，自然是因为酗酒和妨碍治安。
去年的一个周六晚上，是在最寒冷的冬季，皮格特独自带着两个小孩在那间窝棚里。
我听说坦纳瑞家总是自己酿酒。据拉扎鲁后来说，那天他和儿子晚上不在家，皮格特整天在喝酒。
他们家有个老式的烧木头的炉子，你知道的，就是烟筒暴露在外的那种。
窝棚起火了，皮格特和两个孩子都没有逃出来。
我啥也没说，就像与皮格特一起时总没有什么可讲似的。
在一片静寂之中，我脑海里浮现出皮格特住的那间窝棚在一片冰天雪地之中着火燃烧的情景。我真希望能够回忆出我曾经从皮格特眼睛中看见过的那种神情。
那年暑期我又去钻石湖住了几天，是同马维斯一家一起去的。
麦克里奥家的湖边别墅自我父亲去世以后就卖出去了，从此我就再也没去看它一眼，因为我不想看见自己昔日的王国如今为别的陌生人所有。但是，有一天傍晚，我却独自一人去了湖边。
我父亲筑起的那道防波堤不见了，代之而出现于眼前的是政府出资修筑的一道坚固的大堤。这是因为跑马山现已辟为国家公园，钻石湖也已更名为瓦帕卡塔湖，原因是认为用上一个印第安名称对游客会更具有吸引力。
湖区原先只有一家商店，现在已发展到几十家了，一个繁荣兴旺的旅游胜地所具有的一切特征这里都已经有了--宾馆、舞厅、灯红酒绿的咖啡馆、四处弥漫着的炸土豆片和热狗的香味。
我坐在政府修筑的防波大堤上眺望着湖面，至少，夜间的湖面还是保持着先前的样子，墨镜般乌黑发亮的湖面上倒映着一线琥珀色的月光。
那天晚上风平浪静，周围的一切都是静悄悄的。我感觉似乎是太静了一点，随即我开始意识到潜水鸟已经不在这儿了。
为了证实这种推测，我静等了许久，但到底也没有再听见一声那划过静寂的湖面传来的、尾音拖得长长的、凄厉而带有冷嘲意味的叫声。
我不知道那些鸟儿究竟遭到了何种命运。也许它们去一个遥远的地方找到了栖身之地，
也许它们找不到这样的地方，于是把生死也不再放在心上，就这样自生自灭了。
我记起那年夏天，当我和我父亲坐在湖边听鸟声时皮格特不屑一顾，不愿一起去听。
现在我倒觉得，只有皮格特才以一种无意识的、别人完全不理解的方式，真正听懂了潜水鸟的叫声。
Key Words:
tangled ['tæŋɡld]
adj. 紊乱的；纠缠的；缠结的；复杂的
ramshackle ['ræm,ʃækl]
adj. 摇晃的；放荡的
brawl [brɔ:l]
n. 争吵，大声的吵闹 vi. 争吵，发出大声吵闹
delicately ['delikətli]
adv. 优美地，微妙地，精致地，谨慎地，巧妙地
filigree ['filigri:]
n. 金银丝做的工艺品 vt. 用金银丝装饰
austere [ɔ:'stiə]
adj. 严峻的，严格的，简朴的，禁欲的，苦行的
bizarre [bi'zɑ:]
adj. 奇异的，怪诞的
impart [im'pɑ:t]
vt. 传授，赋予，告知
perseverance [.pə:si'viərəns]
n. 毅力，忍耐，不屈不挠
streak [stri:k]
n. 条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹
chipmunk ['tʃipmʌŋk]
n. [动] 花栗鼠
defiant [di'faiənt]
adj. 挑衅的，目中无人
sullen ['sʌlən]
adj. 愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，阴沉的
参考资料：
- 高级英语第一册(MP3+中英字幕) 第9课:潜水鸟(1)_品牌英语听力 - 可可英语
- 高级英语第一册(MP3+中英字幕) 第9课:潜水鸟(2)_品牌英语听力 - 可可英语
- 高级英语第一册(MP3+中英字幕) 第9课:潜水鸟(3)_品牌英语听力 - 可可英语
- 高级英语第一册(MP3+中英字幕) 第9课:潜水鸟(4)_品牌英语听力 - 可可英语
- 高级英语第一册(MP3+中英字幕) 第9课:潜水鸟(5)_品牌英语听力 - 可可英语
- 高级英语第一册(MP3+中英字幕) 第9课:潜水鸟(6)_品牌英语听力 - 可可英语
- 高级英语第一册(MP3+中英字幕) 第9课:潜水鸟(7)_品牌英语听力 - 可可英语
- 高级英语第一册(MP3+中英字幕) 第9课:潜水鸟(8)_品牌英语听力 - 可可英语
- 高级英语第一册(MP3+中英字幕) 第9课:潜水鸟(9)_品牌英语听力 - 可可英语
- 高级英语第一册(MP3+中英字幕) 第9课:潜水鸟(10)_品牌英语听力 - 可可英语
- http://www.kekenet.com/Article/201511/4118shtml
- 高级英语第一册(MP3+中英字幕) 第9课:潜水鸟(12)_品牌英语听力 - 可可英语
- 高级英语第一册(MP3+中英字幕) 第9课:潜水鸟(13)_品牌英语听力 - 可可英语