The_Chrysanthemums-带译文

The Chrysanthemums by John Steinbeck Elisa is a young married lady working on an isolated farm and proud of her skills in growing flowers. One day, she suddenly feels a desire to communicate with the outside world. What happens to her? Please read the following story. The high grey-flannel fog of winter closed off the Salinas Valley from the sky and from all the rest of the world. On every side it sat like a lid on the mountains and made of the great valley a closed pot. On the broad, level land floor the gang plows bit deep and left the black earth shining like metal where the shares had cut. On the foothill ranches across the Salinas River, the yellow stubble fields seemed to be bathed in pale cold sunshine, but there was no sunshine in the valley now in December. The thick willow scrub along the river flamed with sharp and positive yellow leaves. It was a time of quiet and of waiting. The air was cold and tender. A light wind blew up from the southwest so that the farmers were mildly hopeful of a good rain before long; but fog and rain do not go together. Across the river, on Henry Allens foothill ranch there was little work to be done, for the hay was cut and stored and the orchards were plowed up to receive the rain deeply when it should come. The cattle on the higher slopes were becoming shaggy and rough-coated. Elisa Allen, working in her flower garden, looked down across the yard and saw Henry, her husband, talking to two men in business suits. The three of them stood by the tractor shed, each man with one foot on the side of the little Fordson. They smoked cigarettes and studied the machine as they talked. Elisa watched them for a moment and then went back to her work. She was thirty-five. Her face was lean and strong and her eyes were as clear as water. Her figure looked blocked and heavy in her gardening costume, a mans black hat pulled low down over her eyes, clod-hopper shoes, a figured print dress almost completely covered by a big corduroy apron with four big pockets to hold the snips, the trowel and scratcher, the seeds and the knife she worked with. She wore heavy leather gloves to protect her hands while she worked. She was cutting down the old years chrysanthemum stalks with a pair of short and powerful scissors. She looked down toward the men by the tractor shed now and then. Her face was eager and mature and handsome; even her work with the scissors was over-eager, over-powerful. The chrysanthemum stems seemed too small and easy for her energy. She brushed a cloud of hair out of her eyes with the back of her glove, and left a smudge of earth on her cheek in doing it. Behind her stood the neat white farm house with red geraniums close-banked around it as high as the windows. It was a hard-swept looking little house with hard-polished windows, and a clean mud-mat on the front steps. Elisa cast another glance toward the tractor shed. The strangers were getting into their Ford coupe. She took off a glove and put her strong fingers down into the forest of new green chrysanthemum sprouts that were growing around the old roots. She spread the leaves and looked down among the close-growing stems. No aphids were there, no sowbugs or snails or cutworms. Her terrier fingers destroyed such pests before they could get started. Elisa started at the sound of her husbands voice. He had come near quietly, and he leaned over the wire fence that protected her flower garden from cattle and dogs and chickens. At it again, he said. Youve got a strong new crop coming. Elisa straightened her back and pulled on the gardening glove again: Yes. Theyll be strong this coming year. In her tone and on her face there was a little smugness. Youve got a gift with things, Henry observed. Some of those yellow chrysanthemums you had this year were ten inches across. I wish youd work out in the orchard and raise some apples that big. Her eyes sharpened. Maybe I could do it, too. Ive a gift with things, all right. My mother had it. She could stick anything in the ground and make it grow. She said it was having planters hands that knew how to do it. Well, it sure works with flowers, he said. Henry, who were those men you were talking to? Why, sure, thats what I came to tell you. They were from the Western Meat Company. I sold those thirty head of three-year-old steers. Got nearly my own price, too. Good, she said. Good for you. And I thought, he continued, I thought how its Saturday afternoon, and we might go into Salinas for dinner at a restaurant, and then to a picture show to celebrate, you see. Good, she repeated. Oh, yes. That will be good. Henry put on his joking tone. Theres fights tonight. Howd you like to go to the fights? Oh, no, she said breathlessly. No, I wouldnt like fights. Just fooling, Elisa. Well go to a movie. Lets see. Its two now. Im going to take Scotty and bring down those steers from the hill. Itll take us maybe two hours. Well go in town about five and have dinner at the Cominos Hotel. Like that? Of course Ill like it. Its good to eat away from home. All right, then. Ill go get up a couple of horses. She said, Ill have plenty of time to transplant some of these sets, I guess. She heard her husband calling Scotty down by the barn. And a little later she saw the two men ride up the pale yellow hillside in search of the steers. There was a little square sandy bed kept for rooting the chrysanthemums. With her trowel she turned the soil over and over, and smoothed it and patted it firm. Then she dug ten parallel trenches to receive the sets. Back at the chrysanthemum bed she pulled out the little crisp shoots, trimmed off the leaves of each one with her scissors and laid it on a small orderly pile. A squeak of wheels and plod of hoofs came from the road. Elisa looked up. The country road ran along the dense bank of willows and cottonwoods that bordered the river, and up this road came a curious vehicle, curiously drawn. It was an old spring-wagon, with a round canvas top on it like the cover of a prairie schooner. It was drawn by an old bay horse and a little grey-and-white burro. A big stubble-bearded man sat between the cover flaps and drove the crawling team. Underneath the wagon, between the hind wheels, a lean and rangy mongrel dog walked sedately. Words were painted on the canvas, in clumsy, crooked letters. Pots, pans, knives, scissors, lawn mowers. Fixed. Two rows of articles, and the triumphantly definitive Fixed below. The black paint had run down in little sharp points beneath each letter. Elisa, squatting on the ground, watched to see the crazy, loose-jointed wagon pass by. But it didnt pass. It turned into the farm road in front of her house, crooked old wheels skirling and squeaking. The rangy dog darted from between the wheels and ran ahead. Instantly the two ranch shepherds flew out at him. Then all three stopped, and with stiff and quivering tails, with taut straight legs, with ambassadorial dignity, they slowly circled, sniffing daintily. The caravan pulled up to Elisas wire fence and stopped. Now the newcomer dog, feeling out-numbered, lowered his tail and retired under the wagon with raised hackles and bared teeth. The man on the wagon seat called out, Thats a bad dog in a fight when he gets started. Elisa laughed. I see he is. How soon does he generally get started? The man caught up her laughter and echoed it heartily. Sometimes not for weeks and weeks,” he said. He climbed stiffly down, over the wheel. The horse and the donkey drooped like unwatered flowers. Elisa saw that he was a very big man. Although his hair and beard were greying, he did not look old. His worn black suit was wrinkled and spotted with grease. The laughter had disappeared from his face and eyes the moment his laughing voice ceased. His eyes were dark, and they were full of the brooding that gets in the eyes of teamsters and of sailors. The calloused hands he rested on the wire fence were cracked, and every crack was a black line. He took off his battered hat. Im off my general road, maam, he said. Does this dirt road cut over across the river to the Los Angeles highway? Elisa stood up and shoved the thick scissors in her apron pocket. Well, yes, it does, but it winds around and then fords the river. I dont think your team could pull through the sand. He replied with some asperity, It might surprise you what them beasts can pull through. When they get started? she asked. He smiled for a second. Yes. When they get started. Well, said Elisa, I think youll save time if you go back to the Salinas road and pick up the highway there. He drew a big finger down the chicken wire and made it sing. I aint in any hurry, maam. I go from Seattle to San Diego and back every year. Takes all my time. About six months each way. I aim to follow nice weather. Elisa took off her gloves and stuffed them in the apron pocket with the scissors. She touched the under edge of her mans hat, searching for fugitive hairs. That sounds like a nice kind of a way to live, she said. He leaned confidentially over the fence. Maybe you noticed the writing on my wagon. I mend pots and sharpen knives and scissors. You got any of them things to do? Oh, no, she said quickly. Nothing like that. Her eyes hardened with resistance. Scissors is the worst thing, he explained. Most people just ruin scissors trying to sharpen em, but I know how. I got a special tool. Its a little bobbit kind of thing, and patented. But it sure does the trick. No. My scissors are all sharp. All right, then. Take a pot, he continued earnestly, a bent pot, or a pot with a hole. I can make it like new so you dont have to buy no new ones. Thats a saving for you. No, she said shortly. I tell you I have nothing like that for you to do. His face fell to an exaggerated sadness. His voice took on a whining undertone. I aint had a thing to do today. Maybe I wont have no supper tonight. You see Im off my regular road. I know folks on the highway clear from Seattle to San Diego. They save their things for me to sharpen up because they know I do it so good and save them money. Im sorry, Elisa said irritably. I havent anything for you to do. His eyes left her face and fell to searching the ground. They roamed about until they came to the chrysanthemum bed where she had been working. Whats them plants, maam? The irritation and resistance melted from Elisas face. Oh, those are chrysanthemums, giant whites and yellows. I raise them every year, bigger than anybody around here. Kind of a long-stemmed flower? Looks like a quick puff of colored smoke? he asked. Thats it. What a nice way to describe them. They smell kind of nasty till you get used to them, he said. Its a good bitter smell, she retorted, not nasty at all. He changed his tone quickly. I like the smell myself. I had ten-inch blooms this year, she said. The man leaned farther over the fence. Look. I know a lady down the road a piece, has got the nicest garden you ever seen. Got nearly every kind of flower but no chrysanthemums. Last time I was mending a copper-bottom washtub for her (thats a hard job but I do it good), she said to me, If you ever run across some nice chrysanthemums I wish youd try to get me a few seeds. Thats what she told me.” Elisas eyes grew alert and eager. She couldnt have known much about chrysanthemums. You can raise them from seed, but its much easier to root the little sprouts you see there. Oh, he said. I spose I cant take none to her, then. Why yes you can, Elisa cried. I can put some in damp sand, and you can carry them right along with you. Theyll take root in the pot if you keep them damp. And then she can transplant them. Shed sure like to have some, maam. You say theyre nice ones? Beautiful, she said. Oh, beautiful. Her eyes shone. She tore off the battered hat and shook out her dark pretty hair. Ill put them in a flower pot, and you can take them right with you. Come into the yard. While the man came through the picket gate Elisa ran excitedly along the geranium-bordered path to the back of the house. And she returned carrying a big red flower pot. The gloves were forgotten now. she kneeled on the ground by the starting bed and dug up the sandy soil with her fingers and scooped it into the bright new flower pot. Then she picked up the little pile of shoots she had prepared. With her strong fingers she pressed them into the sand and tamped around them with her knuckles. The man stood over her. Ill tell you what to do, she said. You remember so you can tell the lady. Yes, Ill try to remember. Well, look. These will take root in about a month. Then she must set them out, about a foot apart in good rich earth like this, see? She lifted a handful of dark soil for him to look at. Theyll grow fast and tall. Now remember this: In July tell her to cut them down, about eight inches from the ground. Before they bloom? he asked. Yes, before they bloom. Her face was tight with eagerness. Theyll grow right up again. About the last of September the buds will start. She stopped and seemed perplexed. Its the budding that takes the most care, she said hesitantly. I dont know how to tell you. She looked deep into his eyes, searchingly. Her mouth opened a little, and she seemed to be listening. Ill try to tell you,” she said. “Did you ever hear of planting hands? Cant say I have, maam. Well, I can only tell you what it feels like. Its when youre picking off the buds you dont want. Everything goes right down into your fingertips. You watch your fingers work. They do it themselves. You can feel how it is. They pick and pick the buds. They never make a mistake. Theyre with the plant. Do you see? Your fingers and the plant. You can feel that, right up your arm. They know. They never make a mistake. You can feel it. When youre like that you cant do anything wrong. Do you see that? Can you understand that? She was kneeling on the ground looking up at him. Her breast swelled passionately. The mans eyes narrowed. He looked away self-consciously. Maybe I know, he said. Sometimes in the night in the wagon there Elisas voice grew husky. She broke in on him, Ive never lived as you do, but I know what you mean. When the night is dark why, the stars are sharp-pointed, and theres quiet. Why, you rise up and up! Every pointed star gets driven into your body. Its like that. Hot and sharp and lovely. Kneeling there, her hand went out toward his legs in the greasy black trousers. Her hesitant fingers almost touched the cloth. Then her hand dropped to the ground. She crouched low like a fawning dog. He said, its nice, just like you say. Only when you dont have no dinner, it aint. She stood up then, very straight, and her face was ashamed. She held the flower pot out to him and placed it gently in his arms. Here. Put it in your wagon, on the seat, where you can watch it. Maybe I can find something for you to do. At the back of the house she dug in the can pile and found two old and battered aluminum saucepans. She carried them back and gave them to him. Here, maybe you can fix these. His manner changed. He became professional. Good as new I can fix them. At the back of his wagon he set a little anvil, and out of an oily tool box dug a small machine hammer. Elisa came through the gate to watch him while he pounded out the dents in the kettles. His mouth grew sure and knowing. At a difficult part of the work he sucked his under-lip. You sleep right in the wagon? Elisa asked. Right in the wagon, maam. Rain or shine Im dry as a cow in there. It must be nice, she said. It must be very nice. I wish women could do such things. It aint the right kind of a life for a woman. Her upper lip raised a little, showing her teeth. How do you know? How can you tell? she said. I dont know, maam, he protested. Of course I dont know. Now heres your kettles, done. You dont have to buy no new ones. How much? Oh, fifty centsll do. I keep my prices down and my work good. Thats why I have all them satisfied customers up and down the highway. Elisa brought him a fifty-cent piece from the house and dropped it in his hand. You might be surprised to have a rival some time. I can sharpen scissors, too. And I can beat the dents out of little pots. I could show you what a woman might do. He put his hammer back in the oily box and shoved the little anvil out of sight. It would be a lonely life for a woman, maam, and a scarey life, too, with animals creeping under the wagon all night. He climbed over the singletree, steadying himself with a hand on the burros white rump. He settled himself in the seat, picked up the lines. Thank you kindly, maam, he said. Ill do like you told me; Ill go back and catch the Salinas road. Mind, she called, if youre long in getting there, keep the sand damp. Sand, maam?.sand? Oh, sure. You mean around the chrysanthemums. Sure I will. He clucked his tongue. The beasts leaned luxuriously into their collars. The mongrel dog took his place between the back wheels. The wagon turned and crawled out the entrance road and back the way it had come, along the river. Elisa stood in front of her wire fence watching the slow progress of the caravan. Her shoulders were straight, her head thrown back, her eyes half-closed, so that the scene came vaguely into them. Her lips moved silently, forming the words Good-bye good-bye. Then she whispered, Thats a bright direction. Theres a glowing there. The sound of her whisper startled her. She shook herself free and looked about to see whether anyone had been listening. Only the dogs had heard. They lifted their heads toward her from their sleeping in the dust, and then stretched out their chins and settled asleep again. Elisa turned and ran hurriedly into the house. In the kitchen she reached behind the stove and felt the water tank. It was full of hot water from the noonday cooking. In the bathroom she tore off her soiled clothes and flung them into the corner. And then she scrubbed herself with a little block of pumice, legs and thighs, loins and chest and arms, until her skin was scratched and red. When she had dried herself she stood in front of a mirror in her bedroom and looked at her body. She tightened her stomach and threw out her chest. She turned and looked over her shoulder at her back. After a while she began to dress, slowly. She put on her newest underclothing and her nicest stockings and the dress which was the symbol of her prettiness. She worked carefully on her hair, penciled her eyebrows and rouged her lips. Before she was finished she heard the little thunder of hoofs and the shouts of Henry and his helper as they drove the red steers into the corral. She heard the gate bang shut and set herself for Henrys arrival. His step sounded on the porch. He entered the house calling, Elisa, where are you? In my room, dressing. Im not ready. Theres hot water for your bath. Hurry up. Its getting late. When she heard him splashing in the tub, Elisa laid his dark suit on the bed, and shirt and socks and tie beside it. She stood his polished shoes on the floor beside the bed. Then she went to the porch and sat primly and stiffly down. She looked toward the ri