威廉·福克纳/William Faulkner
威廉·福克纳（1897—1962），20世纪前半期美国最伟大的作家之一，他的作品被批评家看成是20世纪美国南方文学发展的顶峰。他于1949年获得诺贝尔文学奖，1950年获美国国家图书奖，1954年和1963年两次获普利策奖。他的作品几乎概括了整个美国南方社会，涉及各个阶级、阶层的人。其代表作有《圣殿》《声音与疯狂》《八月之光》等。
I
When Miss Emily Grierson died, our whole town went to her funeral: the men through a sort of respectful affection for a fallen monument, the women mostly out of curiosity to see the inside of her house, which no one save an old manservant—a combined gardener and cook—had seen in at least ten years.
It was a big, squarish frame house that had once been white, decorated with cupolas and spires and scrolled balconies in the heavily light some style of the seventies, set on what had once been our most select street. But garages and cotton gins had encroached and obliterated even the august names of that neighborhood; only Miss Emily's house was left, lifting its stubborn and coquettish decay above the cotton wagons and the gasoline pumps—an eyesore among eyesores. And now Miss Emily had gone to join the representatives of those august names where they lay in the cedar-bemused cemetery among the ranked and anonymous graves of Union and Confederate soldiers who fell at the battle of Jefferson.
Alive, Miss Emily had been a tradition, a duty, and a care; a sort of hereditary obligation upon the town, dating from that day in 1894 when Colonel Sartoris, the mayor—he who fathered the edict that no Negro woman should appear on the streets without an apron—remitted her taxes, the dispensation dating from the death of her father on into perpetuity. Not that Miss Emily would have accepted charity. Colonel Sartoris invented an involved tale to the effect that Miss Emily's father had loaned money to the town, which the town, as a matter of business, preferred this way of repaying. Only a man of Colonel Sartoris' generation and thought could have invented it, and only a woman could have believed it.
When the next generation, with its more modern ideas, became mayors and aldermen, this arrangement created some little dissatisfaction. On the first of the year they mailed her a tax notice. February came, and there was no reply. They wrote her a formal letter, asking her to call at the sheriff's office at her convenience. A week later the mayor wrote her himself, offering to call or to send his car for her, and received in reply a note on paper of an archaic shape, in a thin, flowing calligraphy in faded ink, to the effect that she no longer went out at all. The tax notice was also enclosed, without comment.
They called a special meeting of the Board of Aldermen. A deputation waited upon her, knocked at the door through which no visitor had passed since she ceased giving china-painting lessons eight or ten years earlier. They were admitted by the old Negro into a dim hall from which a stairway mounted into still more shadow. It smelled of dust and disuse—a close, dank smell. The Negro led them into the parlor. It was furnished in heavy, leather-covered furniture. When the Negro opened the blinds of one window, they could see that the leather was cracked; and when they sat down, a faint dust rose sluggishly about their thighs, spinning with slow motes in the single sun-ray. On a tarnished gilt easel before the fireplace stood a crayon portrait of Miss Emily's father.
They rose when she entered—a small, fat woman in black, with a thin gold chain descending to her waist and vanishing into her belt, leaning on an ebony cane with a tarnished gold head. Her skeleton was small and spare; perhaps that was why what would have been merely plumpness in another was obesity in her. She looked bloated, like a body long submerged in motionless water, and of that pallid hue. Her eyes, lost in the fatty ridges of her face, looked like two small pieces of coal pressed into a lump of dough as they moved from one face to another while the visitors stated their errand.
She did not ask them to sit. She just stood in the door and listened quietly until the spokesman came to a stumbling halt. Then they could hear the invisible watch ticking at the end of the gold chain.
Her voice was dry and cold. "I have no taxes in Jefferson. Colonel Sartoris explained it to me. Perhaps one of you can gain access to the city records and satisfy yourselves."
"But we have. We are the city authorities, Miss Emily. Didn't you get a notice from the sheriff, signed by him?"
"I received a paper, yes," Miss Emily said. "Perhaps he considers himself the sheriff... I have no taxes in Jefferson."
"But there is nothing on the books to show that, you see. We must go by the—"
"See Colonel Sartoris. I have no taxes in Jefferson."
"But, Miss Emily—"
"See Colonel Sartoris." (Colonel Sartoris had been dead almost ten years.) "I have no taxes in Jefferson. Tobe!" The Negro appeared,"Show these gentlemen out."
II
So she vanquished them, horse and foot, just as she had vanquished their fathers thirty years before about the smell. That was two years after her father's death and a short time after her sweetheart—the one we believed would marry her—had deserted her. After her father's death she went out very little; after her sweetheart went away, people hardly saw her at all. A few of the ladies had the temerity to call, but were not received, and the only sign of life about the place was the Negro man—a young man then—going in and out with a market basket.
"Just as if a man—any man—could keep a kitchen properly." the ladies said; so they were not surprised when the smell developed. It was another link between the gross, teeming world and the high and mighty Griersons.
A neighbor, a woman, complained to the mayor, Judge Stevens, eighty years old.
"But what will you have me do about it, madam?" he said.
"Why, send her word to stop it," the woman said, "Isn't there a law?"
"I'm sure that won't be necessary," Judge Stevens said, "It's probably just a snake or a rat that nigger of hers killed in the yard. I'll speak to him about it."
The next day he received two more complaints, one from a man who came in diffident deprecation. "We really must do something about it, Judge. I'd be the last one in the world to bother Miss Emily, but we've got to do something." That night the Board of Aldermen met—three graybeards and one younger man, a member of the rising generation.
"It's simple enough," he said. "Send her word to have her place cleaned up. Give her a certain time to do it in, and if she don't ..."
"Dammit, sir," Judge Stevens said, "Will you accuse a lady to her face of smelling bad?"
So the next night, after midnight, four men crossed Miss Emily's lawn and slunk about the house like burglars, sniffing along the base of the brickwork and at the cellar openings while one of them performed a regular sowing motion with his hand out of a sack slung from his shoulder. They broke open the cellar door and sprinkled lime there, and in all the outbuildings. As they recrossed the lawn, a window that had been dark was lighted and Miss Emily sat in it, the light behind her, and her upright torso motionless as that of an idol. They crept quietly across the lawn and into the shadow of the locusts that lined the street. After a week or two the smell went away.
That was when people had begun to feel really sorry for her. People in our town, remembering how old lady Wyatt, her greataunt, had gone completely crazy at last, believed that the Griersons held themselves a little too high for what they really were. None of the young men were quite good enough for Miss Emily and such. We had long thought of them as a tableau; Miss Emily a slender figure in white in the background, her father a spraddled silhouette in the foreground, his back to her and clutching a horsewhip, the two of them framed by the back-flung front doors. So when she got to be thirty and was still single, we were not pleased exactly, but vindicated; even with insanity in the family she wouldn't have turned down all of her chances if they had really materialized.
When her father died, it got about that the house was all that was left to her; and in a way, people were glad. At last they could pity Miss Emily. Being left alone, and a pauper, she had become humanized. Now she too would know the old thrill and the old despair of a penny more or less.
The day after his death all the ladies prepared to call at the house and offer condolence and aid, as is our custom. Miss Emily met them at the door, dressed as usual and with no trace of grief on her face. She told them that her father was not dead. She did that for three days, with the ministers calling on her, and the doctors, trying to persuade her to let them dispose of the body. Just as they were about to resort to law and force, she broke down, and they buried her father quickly.
We did not say she was crazy then. We believed she had to do that. We remembered all the young men her father had driven away, and we knew that with nothing left, she would have to cling to that which had robbed her, as people will.
III
She was sick for a long time. When we saw her again, her hair was cut short, making her look like a girl, with a vague resemblance to those angels in colored church windows—sort of tragic and serene.
The town had just let the contracts for paving the sidewalks, and in the summer after her father's death they began to work. The construction company came with niggers and mules and machinery, and a foreman named Homer Barron, a Yankee—a big, dark, ready man, with a big voice and eyes lighter than his face. The little boys would follow in groups to hear him cuss the niggers, and the niggers singing in time to the rise and fall of picks. Pretty soon he knew everybody in town. Whenever you heard a lot of laughing anywhere about the square, Homer Barron would be in the center of the group. Presently we began to see him and Miss Emily on Sunday afternoons driving in the yellow-wheeled buggy and the matched team of bays from the livery stable.
At first we were glad that Miss Emily would have an interest, because the ladies all said, "Of course a Grierson would not think seriously of a Northerner, a day laborer." But there were still others, older people, who said that even grief could not cause a real lady to forget noblesse oblige—without calling it noblesse oblige. They just said, "Poor Emily. Her kinsfolk should come to her." She had some kin in Alabama; but years ago her father had fallen out with them over the estate of old lady Wyatt, the crazy woman, and there was no communication between the two families. They had not even been represented at the funeral.
And as soon as the old people said, "Poor Emily" , the whispering began. "Do you suppose it's really so?" they said to one another. "Of course it is. What else could..." This behind their hands: rustling of craned silk and satin behind jalousies closed upon the sun of Sunday afternoon as the thin, swift clop-clop-clop of the matched team passed:"Poor Emily."
She carried her head high enough—even when we believed that she was fallen. It was as if she demanded more than ever the recognition of her dignity as the last Grierson; as if it had wanted that touch of earthiness to reaffirm her imperviousness. Like when she bought the rat poison, the arsenic. That was over a year after they had begun to say "Poor Emily," and while the two female cousins were visiting her.
"I want some poison." she said to the druggist. She was over thirty then, still a slight woman, though thinner than usual with cold, haughty black eyes in a face the flesh of which was strained across the temples and about the eye-sockets as you imagine a lighthousekeeper's face ought to look. "I want some poison." she said.
"Yes, Miss Emily. What kind? For rats and such? I'd recommend—"
"I want the best you have. I don't care what kind."
The druggist named several. "They'll kill anything up to an elephant. But what you want is—"
"Arsenic," Miss Emily said, "Is that a good one?"
"Is... arsenic? Yes, ma'am. But what you want—"
"I want arsenic."
The druggist looked down at her. She looked back at him, erect, her face like a strained flag. "Why, of course," the druggist said. "If that's what you want. But the law requires you to tell what you are going to use it for."
Miss Emily just stared at him, her head tilted back in order to look him eye for eye, until he looked away and went and got the arsenic and wrapped it up. The Negro delivery boy brought her the package; the druggist didn't come back. When she opened the package at home there was written on the box, under the skull and bones: "For rats."
IV
So the next day we all said, "She will kill herself"; and we said it would be the best thing. When she had first begun to be seen with Homer Barron, we had said,"She will marry him." Then we said, "She will persuade him yet," because Homer himself had remarked—he liked men, and it was known that he drank with the younger men in the Elk's Club—that he was not a marrying man. Later we said, "Poor Emily," behind the jalousies as they passed on Sunday afternoon in the glittering buggy, Miss Emily with her head high and Homer Barron with his hat cocked and a cigar in his teeth, reins and whip in a yellow glove.
Then some of the ladies began to say that it was a disgrace to the town and a bad example to the young people. The men did not want to interfere, but at last the ladies forced the Baptist minister—Miss Emily's people were Episcopal—to call upon her. He would never divulge what happened during that interview, but he refused to go back again. The next Sunday they again drove about the streets, and the following day the minister's wife wrote to Miss Emily's relations in Alabama.
So she had blood-kin under her roof again and we sat back watch developments. At first nothing happened. Then we were sure that they were to be married. We learned that Miss Emily had been to the jeweler's and ordered a man's toilet set in silver, with the letters H.B. on each piece. Two days later we learned that she had bought a complete outfit of men's clothing, including a nightshirt, and we said,"They are married." We were really glad. We were glad because the two female cousins were even more Grierson than Miss Emily had ever been.
So we were not surprised when Homer Barron—the streets had been finished some time since—was gone. We were a little disappointed that there was not a public blowing-off, but we believed that he bad gone on to prepare for Miss Emily's coming, or to give her a chance to get rid of the cousins. (By that time it was a cabal, and we were all Miss Emily's allies to help circumvent the cousins.) Sure enough, after another week they departed. And, as we had expected all along, within three days Homer Barron was back in town. A neighbor saw the Negro man admit him at the kitchen door at dusk one evening.
And that was the last we saw of Homer Barron. And of Miss Emily for some time. The Negro man went in and out with the market basket, but the front door remained closed. Now and then we would see her at a window for a moment, as the men did that night when they sprinkled the lime, but for almost six months she did not appear on the streets. Then we knew that this was to be expected too; as if that quality of her father which had thwarted her woman's life so many times had been too virulent and too furious to die.
When we next saw Miss Emily, she had grown fat and her hair was turning gray. During the next few years it grew grayer and grayer until it attained an even pepper-and-salt iron-gray, when it ceased turning. Up to the day of her death at seventy-four it was still that vigorous iron-gray, like the hair of an active man.
From that time on her front door remained closed, save for a period of six or seven years, when she was about forty, during which she gave lessons in china-painting. She fitted up a studio in one of the downstairs rooms, where the daughters and granddaughters of Colonel Sartoris' contemporaries were sent to her with the same regularity and in the same spirit that they were sent to church on Sundays with a twenty-five cent piece for the collection plate. Meanwhile her taxes had been remitted.
Then the newer generation became the backbone and the spirit of the town, and the painting pupils grew up and fell away and did not send their children to her with boxes of color and tedious brushes and pictures cut from the ladies' magazines. The front door closed upon the last one and remained closed for good. When the town got free postal delivery Miss Emily alone refused to let them fasten the metal numbers above her door and attach a mailbox to it. She would not listen to them.
Daily, monthly, yearly we watched the Negro grow grayer and more stooped, going in and out with the market basket. Each December we sent her a tax notice, which would be returned by the post office a week later, unclaimed. Now and then we would see her in one of the downstairs windows—she had evidently shut up the top floor of the house—like the carven torso of an idol in a niche, looking or not looking at us, we could never tell which. Thus she passed from generation to generation—dear, inescapable, impervious, tranquil, and perverse.
And so she died. Fell ill in the house filled with dust and shadows, with only a doddering Negro man to wait on her. We did not even know she was sick; we had long since given up trying to get any information from the Negro. He talked to no one, probably not even to her, for his voice had grown harsh and rusty, as if from disuse.
She died in one of the downstairs rooms, in a heavy walnut bed with a curtain, her gray head propped on a pillow yellow and moldy with age and lack of sunlight.
V
The Negro met the first of the ladies at the front door and let them in, with their hushed, sibilant voices and their quick, curious glances, and then he disappeared. He walked right through the house and out the back and was not seen again.
The two female cousins came at once. They held the funeral on the second day, with the town coming to look at Miss Emily beneath a mass of bought flowers, with the crayon face of her father musing profoundly above the bier and the ladies sibilant and macabre, and the very old men—some in their brushed Confederate uniforms—on the porch and the lawn, talking of Miss Emily as if she had been a contemporary of theirs, believing that they had danced with her and courted her perhaps, confusing time with its mathematical progression, as the old do, to whom all the past is not a diminishing road, but, instead, a huge meadow which no winter ever quite touches, divided from them now by the narrow bottleneck of the most recent decade of years.
Already we knew that there was one room in that region above stairs which no one had seen in forty years, and which would have to be forced. They waited until Miss Emily was decently in the ground before they opened it.
The violence of breaking down the door seemed to fill this room with pervading dust. A thin, acrid pall as of the tomb seemed to lie everywhere upon this room decked and furnished as for a bridal: upon the valance curtains of faded rose color, upon the rose-shaded lights, upon the dressing table, upon the delicate array of crystal and the man's toilet things backed with tarnished silver, silver so tarnished that the monogram was obscured. Among them lay a collar and tie, as if they had just been removed, which, lifted, left upon the surface a pale crescent in the dust. Upon a chair hung the suit, carefully folded; beneath it the two mute shoes and the discarded socks.
The man himself lay in the bed.
For a long while we just stood there, looking down at the profound and fleshless grin. The body had apparently once lain in the attitude of an embrace, but now the long sleep that outlasts love, that conquers even the grimace of love, had cuckolded him. What was left of him, rotted beneath what was left of the nightshirt, had become inextricable from the bed in which he lay; and upon him and upon the pillow beside him lay that even coating of the patient and biding dust.
Then we noticed that in the second pillow was the indentation of a head. One of us lifted something from it, and leaning forward, that faint and invisible dust dry and acrid in the nostrils, we saw a long strand of iron-gray hair.
一
爱米丽·格里尔生小姐去世的时候，我们镇上所有的人都去参加了她的葬礼：男人们是因为对这座纪念碑的倒下怀着某种敬意；女人们则大部分是出于好奇，想看看她的房子里面。那所房子除了一个老仆人——花匠兼厨子之外，近十多年来，没有一个人进去过。
这是一幢四方形的大木屋，过去曾漆成白色，穹顶、尖塔、涡形花纹的阳台，透出一股19世纪70年代的风格，带有浓厚的轻盈气息。它位于我们镇上当时最考究的街道上。但是，车库和轧棉机之类的东西已经侵占了这一带庄严的名字，把它们抹得没有留下一丝痕迹，只留下爱米丽小姐的房子，兀自耸立在棉花车和汽油泵中，衰败的风姿高踞于上，显得顽固不化——简直是丑中之丑。现在，爱米丽小姐也加入了这些庄严人物的行列，他们长眠在雪松环拥的墓地里——这里一排排的墓地都是南北战争时期在杰斐逊战役中阵亡的无名军人的。
爱米丽小姐在世时，始终是传统和义务的化身，备受人们关注。她在镇上享有一种世袭权利，1894年，镇长萨特里斯上校颁布了一道法令：黑人妇女必须系围裙上街——豁免了她各种税款，这种特惠政策从她父亲去世之日开始，一直到她不在人世之日为止。爱米丽小姐并不是很愿意接受施舍。萨特里斯上校编了个谎言，说她父亲曾借给镇里一笔钱，所以，作为某种交易，镇政府用这种方式来偿还。这只有萨特里斯这代人和他这样的头脑的人才编得出来，也只有妇人才会相信。
当下一代人中更具现代意识的人当上镇长和参议员时，这种约定引起了一些小小的不满。那年元旦，他们寄了一张纳税通知单给她。到了二月份，也没见任何回复。他们又给她写了公函，让她方便时去一趟治安办公室。又过了一个星期，镇长亲自写信给她，提出愿意登门拜访或者派车来接她，结果收到了一张古香古色的信笺便条，字是用褪了色的墨水写的，笔迹纤细流畅。大意是说，她根本不再外出，纳税通知单原样返回，没有任何评论。
参议员召开了一次特殊会议，派出一个代表团去访问她。他们敲了敲门，这扇门自从八年或十年前，她停止教瓷器彩绘课以后，就再也没有人进来过。他们被一个黑人男仆领进幽暗的大厅，再从楼梯上去，显得更加阴暗。屋子封闭已久，一股尘封的气味扑鼻而来，——阴冷潮湿，密不透气。黑人男仆引着他们进入客厅，里面摆着用皮革包裹着的笨重家具。黑人男仆打开一扇百叶窗，只见皮革已经裂开了。当他们坐下来时，大腿两边缓缓升起一阵灰尘，在那一缕阳光中飞舞旋转。壁炉前挂着爱米丽小姐父亲的炭笔画像，画架已经失去了金色的光泽。
她一进屋，他们都站了起来。她是一个矮小肥胖的女人，一袭黑衣，一条细细的金链垂到了腰部，隐在腰带里，手里拄着一根乌木拐杖，镶金的拐杖头已经失去了光泽。她骨架瘦小，也许，这就是为什么在别的女人身上看来是丰满，而在她身上则显得肥胖的原因。她看上去臃肿无比，肤色惨白，就像一具长时间泡在死水里的尸体。她的眼睛凹陷在脸上肥肉的褶皱里，活像挤进生面团里的两个小煤球。当他们开始说明来意时，那两个小煤球便不断地移动，时而瞧瞧这张面孔，时而打量那张面孔。
她没有让他们坐下来，只是站在门口，默默地听着，直到发言人结结巴巴地说完，才听见金链子另一端隐藏着的一块表的滴答声。
她的声音冷若冰霜，“我在杰弗逊没有税。萨特里斯上校早就跟我说过了。你们任何人都可以去查镇政府档案，自己去弄清楚。”
“可我们已经查过了。我们就是政府权力部门，爱米丽小姐。镇长亲自签署的通知，您没有收到吗？”
“我是收到了一份通知，”爱米丽小姐说道，“也许，他自认为是镇长……我在杰弗逊没有税要纳。”
“但是，纳税册上完全没有任何记录，您知道，我们必须根据……”
“去找萨特里斯上校，在杰弗逊我无税可纳。”
“可是，爱米丽小姐……”
“去找萨特里斯上校。”（萨特里斯上校已经死了差不多十年了。）“在杰弗逊我无税可纳，托比！”黑人出现了，“送这些先生们出去！”
二
就这样，她打败了他们，打得他们人仰马翻，就像三十年前，为了那股气味的事，她打败了他们的父辈一样。那是她父亲去世两年后不久，她的心上人——我们都以为他会跟她结婚——抛弃了她。她父亲死后，她就很少出门；她的心上人离开她后，人们根本就看不见她了。有几个妇女鲁莽地去拜访她，都被她拒绝了。那个地方唯一的生命迹象就是黑人男仆——那时他还是个年轻人——挎着一个篮子进进出出。
“好像一个男人——任何男人——都完全能够收拾好厨房似的。”妇女们说。所以，对于越来越浓的气味，她们也就不奇怪了。这也成为芸芸众生与高贵的、有权有势的格里尔生家族的另一种联系。
邻居当中有一个妇女向镇长斯蒂芬斯法官抱怨，镇长当年已经八十岁了。
“可是，太太，这事你叫我怎么办呢？”他说。
“为什么不通知她弄掉气味呢？”妇女说道，“这不是有法可依吗？”
“我肯定没有这个必要，”法官斯蒂芬斯说，“那可能只是她那个黑鬼在院子里打死的一条蛇或一只老鼠。我会跟他说说的。”
第二天，他又接到了两起抱怨，一个男人怯生生地强烈反对道：“我们确实应该做点什么了，法官先生。我是最不想打扰爱米丽小姐的，但是，我们总得采取点什么措施。”那天晚上，全体参议员召开了会议，包括三位老人和一个年轻人——新一代的一员。
“很简单，”他说，“通知她限期把屋子打扫干净，不然……”
“该死的，先生，”法官斯蒂芬斯说，“你能当面指责一位女士她那儿有难闻的味道吗？”
于是，第二天晚上，午夜过后，四个男人穿过爱米丽小姐的草坪，像夜贼一样，绕着屋子潜行，沿着墙角和地窖通风处不停地嗅。其中一个人肩上挎着一个大袋子，不停用手从袋子里抓出什么东西撒播在地上。他们打开地窖门，在那儿撒石灰，所有的外屋也都撒上了。当他们再次穿过草坪时，一扇原本黑暗的窗户亮了，爱米丽小姐坐在里面，身后有一盏灯，她那挺直的身躯一动也不动，活像一尊残缺不全的雕塑。他们蹑手蹑脚地穿过草坪，走进街道两旁的洋槐树阴影下。过了一两个星期，气味消失了。
这时，人们才开始真正为她难过。我们镇上的人记起了韦亚特老太太——她的姑奶奶——最后完全变成了疯子。我们相信格里尔生家族的人都自视甚高，不知道自己真正的地位。对于爱米丽小姐和她这样的人来说，没有哪个年轻人配得上她。长期以来，我们把他们看成是戏剧中的场景：背景处爱米丽小姐身材苗条，一袭白裙。前面是她的父亲叉开腿站着的侧影，他手里举着马鞭，背对着她。向后开的前门刚好框住了他们。所以，当爱米丽小姐年近三十仍然单身时，我们实在没有一丝欣喜，只是更加确信她的家族有着精神错乱的遗传，不然，她总不至于错过所有的机会——如果有的话。
据说，她父亲死后，那所房子就是留给她的全部财产，从某种程度上来说，人们有些高兴了。至少他们可以怜悯一下爱米丽小姐了：孤苦无依、穷困潦倒。她也变得有些人情味了，如今她也知道为多一便士而激动得发抖，为少一便士而痛苦绝望了。
她父亲死后的第二天，所有的妇女都准备去拜访她，表示哀悼和愿意提供援助，这是我们的习俗。爱米丽小姐在门口接见她们，她的穿着打扮和往常一样，脸上一丝哀容也没有。她告诉她们，她的父亲没有死。她这样做了三天后，牧师也来拜访她，医生们都试着劝她，让他们来处理尸体。正当他们准备诉诸法律，使用强制手段时，她累垮了。于是，他们很快把她父亲的尸体埋葬了。
我们那时都没有说她疯了，我们相信她是无法控制自己。我们记得所有的年轻人被她父亲赶走，也知道她现在一无所有，她只好死死拖住抢走了她一切的那个人，就像所有的人都会那样做。
三
爱丽米小姐病了很长一段时间。当我们再次见到她时，她剪短了头发，看起来像个小姑娘，也有些像教堂彩色窗户上的天使——带着几分悲哀肃静。
镇上要铺设人行道，已经签好了合同。那年夏天，也就是她的父亲去世后的那年，建筑公司开始工作了，他们带来大批黑人、骡子和机器。其中有一个工头叫荷默·伯隆，他是一个高大、黝黑、精干的北方人，声音洪亮，眼睛比脸色更明亮。小孩子们一群群地跟在他后面，听他用不堪入耳的话责骂黑人，黑人们则伴着铁镐的起落，唱着歌曲。很快，镇上所有的人都认识他了。在广场上，人们随时随地都可以听到他的哈哈大笑声，荷默·伯隆肯定在人群中心。不久，我们开始看到他和爱米丽小姐在星期天下午驾着轻便马车游玩，黄色车轮与马房里挑出的枣红马十分相称。
刚开始，我们看到爱米丽小姐有了一些兴致，都很高兴。因为妇女们都说，“当然，格里尔生家的人是不会认真对待一个北方佬工人的。”不过其他人特别是老人，也这样说，即使是悲伤也不应该令一个真正的贵妇人忘记“举止高贵”。——尽管他们从未叫过她贵妇人。他们只是说，“可怜的爱米丽，她的亲人应该来看看她了。”她在阿拉巴马州有一些亲戚，但是，很多年前，为了韦亚特老太太——那个疯女人的产权，她的父亲跟他们闹翻了。从此两家再也没有联系，他们甚至都没有来参加葬礼。
一说到“可怜的爱米丽”，老人们就开始窃窃私语了。“你想这是真的吗？”他们交头接耳，用手捂着嘴说道，“当然，是的，不然会是什么呢……”星期日下午，得得的马蹄声过后，人们关上百叶窗阻挡午后的骄阳，还可以听见绸缎沙沙的声音：“可怜的爱米丽。”
她高昂着头——即使是当我们确信她已经落魄后；似乎她作为高贵的格里尔生家族最后一代的尊严，需要得到世俗更多的认可；似乎她需要更多地接触世俗来重申她的坚守。像那次她买老鼠药——砒霜一样，那是人们开始说“可怜的爱米丽”一年多后，她的两个堂姐妹来看她的时候。
“我要买点毒药。”她对药剂师说。那时她已经三十多岁了，仍然消瘦，比以往更显单薄了。一双黑眼睛发出冷漠、高傲的光芒，脸上的肉在太阳穴和眼窝处绷得很紧，就像你想象中的灯塔守望人的表情一样。“我想要一些毒药。”她说。
“好的，爱米丽小姐，你要哪种？灭鼠之类的吗？我建议——”
“我要你这里最有效的，什么种类都行。”
药剂师说出几种，“它们连大象都能毒死，你要哪种呢？”
“砒霜，”爱米丽小姐说，“它是最有效的吗？”
“是……砒霜吗？好的，小姐。可是，你想要……”
“我要砒霜。”
药剂师低头看着她。她挺直身子回望着他，脸像一面绷紧的旗帜。“哦，当然，”药剂师说道，“如果你想要那个的话，按法律规定，你要说明你打算用它来干什么。”
爱米丽小姐只是稍稍往后仰起头，死死地盯着他，直盯得他发憷，他转移视线，然后去拿砒霜，包好后，让黑人送货员拿出来递给她，自己再也没有出来。爱米丽小姐回家打开包装后，看见盒子里一个骷髅头下写着“毒老鼠专用”。
四
所以，第二天我们都说，“她会自杀。”我们都认为这是再好不过的了。当她开始和荷默·伯隆一起露面时，我们说过，“她要跟他结婚了。”后来又说，“不过，她还得劝劝他。”因为，荷默曾说过——他喜欢男人，我们都知道他经常在麋鹿俱乐部和年轻人喝酒——他是个独身主义者。后来，每逢星期天下午，我们在百叶窗后面看见爱米丽小姐高昂着头，荷默歪戴着帽子，嘴里叼着雪茄，手上戴着黄色手套握住了缰绳和马鞭。他们闪亮的轻便马车奔驰而过时，我们都忍不住说，“可怜的爱米丽。”
于是，一些妇女开始说，这是全镇的耻辱，年轻人的坏榜样。男人们都不想理会，但最终，妇女们迫使浸礼会牧师——爱米丽小姐的家族都信奉圣公会——去拜访她。但他从不透露拜访的经过，也拒绝再次拜访。接下来的一个星期天，他们再次驾车出现在大街上。第二天，牧师的妻子给爱米丽小姐在阿拉巴马的亲戚写了信。
于是，她的亲戚们住进她家，我们静观其变。刚开始一切都很平静，后来，我们都确信他们快要结婚了。我们听说爱米丽小姐去过珠宝店，订购了一套银质的男式盥洗用具，每一件上都刻着“荷·伯”的名字。过了两天，我们又听说，她买了全套男式服装，甚至包括睡衣。我们都说，“他们结婚了。”我们确实很高兴，因为比起爱米丽小姐来，她的两位堂姐妹更具格里尔生家族的风范。
所以，对于荷默·伯隆的离开，我们并不感到惊讶，因为街道已经完工一段时间了。我们只是有些失望没有一番热闹的送行，但是，我们相信他的离开只是去筹备迎娶爱米丽小姐，或者给她机会打发走两个堂姐妹。（到这个时候，我们达成了一个共识，都成了爱米丽小姐的同盟，帮助她打发掉这对堂姐妹。）果然不出所料，过了一个星期后，她们都离开了。并且，一如我们所期待的，荷默·伯隆回到了镇上。一天傍晚，一个邻居亲眼看见那个黑人让他从厨房门进去了。
那是我们最后一次见到荷默·伯隆，爱米丽小姐也有很长一段时间没有出现过。只有那个黑人提着购物篮进出，但前门始终关着。我们偶尔看到爱米丽小姐的身影在窗户边停留，就像那晚男人们撒石灰粉时看到的那样。但是，几乎六个多月，她始终没有在大街上出现。后来，我们想这也是意料之中的事，她的父亲曾三番五次地阻挠她作为女人的生活，过于恶毒和狂暴，到现在似乎还余威未尽。
当我们再次见到爱米丽小姐时，她已经发胖，头发变得灰白。接下来的几年里，她的头发越来越灰，直到变成椒盐色的铁灰，便恒定不变了。到她七十四岁去世的那天，这种铁灰色依然旺盛，像壮年男子的头发。
从那以后，她的前门始终紧闭，只有在她四十岁左右的那六七年间，她开授瓷器彩绘课的时候除外。她在楼下的一间房子布置了一个画室，萨特里斯少校那代人，准时把女儿和孙女们送到她那里，如同礼拜天把她们送到教堂一样认真严肃，还每次给她两角五分的酬劳。在这期间，她的税已经被免除了。
后来，新一代的人成了全镇的栋梁和精神，学画的学生们长大以后，纷纷离开了。她们并没有让自己的孩子们带着颜料盒和单调的画笔、从妇女杂志上剪下来的图片到她那儿去。自从最后一个学生离开后，前门也就永远地关闭了。当全镇实行免费邮递之后，唯独爱米丽小姐拒绝让他们在她家门上订金属号码牌和邮箱，她始终不听他们的劝告。
日子一天天、一月月、一年年地过去了，我们看着黑人的头发越来越灰白，背也越来越驼了，依旧提着购物篮出出进进。每年十二月，我们寄一张纳税通知单给她，但总会在一个星期后被退回来——无人认领。我们偶尔能在楼下的一个窗口见到她——很显然，顶楼已经被她封闭起来了——她就像神龛里不完整的雕塑，我们说不清她是不是一直在盯着我们。就这样，一代又一代过去了，她始终——高贵、宁静、怪僻、乖张。
就这样，她走到了生命的尽头。在那栋遍布灰尘、阴暗无比的房子里，她病倒了，只有颤颤巍巍的黑人侍候她。我们甚至不知道她病了，我们早就放弃了从黑人那里打听什么消息。他从不与人交谈，或许对她也是如此。他的嗓子好像因为长期不用，变得嘶哑。
她死在楼下的一间屋子里，一张挂着床帷的胡桃木**。由于多年不见阳光，她灰白头发下的枕头已经黄得发霉了。
五
黑人在前门迎接第一批来的妇女，请她们进屋。她们低沉地窃窃私语，好奇的目光迅速地扫视周围。黑人很快消失了，他径直穿过房子，从后门走出去，从此踪迹全无。
很快，两位堂姐妹赶到了。她们在第二天举办了葬礼，全镇的人都跑来看，爱米丽小姐的尸体上盖满了鲜花，棺材上方悬挂着她父亲的炭笔画像一脸沉思的表情。妇女们低声谈论着死亡，有些老人——穿着他们刷过的盟军制服——在走廊上、草坪上议论着爱米丽小姐的生平事迹，好像她是他们的同代人，相信自己曾与她跳过舞，或许还向她求过爱。他们跟所有的老年人一样，被按数学级数向前推进的时间弄糊涂了。他们总以为过去的岁月不是一条越来越窄的路，而是一片未经任何冬天摧残的广袤大草原，只是近十年来才像狭小的瓶颈，把他们同过去隔断了。
我们已经知道，有一个房间在楼上某个地方，四十多年来从未有人见过，必须撬门才能进入。等到爱米丽小姐体面地下葬后，他们打开了它。
撞门的猛烈震动好像激起了满屋的尘土。这间房子弥漫着坟墓一般的阴森，却装饰得像新房：褪了色的玫瑰色窗帘，玫瑰色的灯饰、梳妆台，精致的水晶陈设，失去光泽的银白色男式盥洗用具，已经无法辨认刻在上面的姓名。其中还有一个上衣领子和领带，好像刚从身上取下来。拿起来时，厚厚的灰尘上留下了一个淡淡的月牙痕迹。一张椅子上放着一套折叠齐整的衣服，下面有一双寂静的鞋，一双被丢弃的袜子。
那个男人躺在**。
很长一段时间，我们只是站在那里，低头看着那个龇牙咧嘴的头骨。很显然，那个尸体曾是一个拥抱的姿势，但是现在，比爱情更长久的死亡征服了爱情的嘲弄，也终止了爱情。他留下的尸体，已经在破碎的睡衣里腐烂，与他躺着的木床黏合在一起，无法分离。在他的身体和枕头周围覆盖了一层厚厚的日积月累的灰尘。
后来，我们注意到旁边那个枕头上有人头压过的痕迹。我们当中有一个人从上面拿起了什么东西，我们凑上前去，鼻孔里立刻钻入一股隐隐的干涩的臭味，我们看见一缕长长的铁灰色头发。
心灵小语
本篇描写了一个女人秘密的一生，可供破解她秘密的线索，是一种奇怪的味道，而侦破秘密的人，却不是一个侦探，甚至不是一个人，而是小镇上的“群体”。这个“群体”历经了数代的光阴，是爱米丽的邻居、窥视者，是不变的“我们”。这个故事是由“我们”来叙述的，这就把爱米丽小姐从“我们”这个复数中孤立出来，成为一个人：她。
W词汇笔记
squarish ['skw??ri?] adj. 似方形的；有点方的
例 Her face is bloated and squarish.
她的脸胖胖的，方方的。
ebony ['eb?ni] adj. 乌木制的；黑檀木制的
例 It is an ebony desk.
这桌子是黑檀木的。
generation [,d?en?'rei??n] n. 产生；一代；一代人；生殖
例 Without reading, civilization would disappear in one generation.
少了阅读，文明在一代内就会消失。
cousin ['k?zn] n. 堂（或表）兄弟（姐妹）
例 That summer, my sister, cousin and I had enrolled in a beginner swimming class.
那年夏天，我和妹妹、表妹参加了一个游泳初级班。
S小试身手
爱米丽小姐在世时，始终是传统和义务的化身，备受人们关注。
译____________________________________________
有几个妇女鲁莽地去拜访她，都被她拒绝了。
译____________________________________________
在他的身体和枕头周围覆盖了一层厚厚的日积月累的灰尘。
译____________________________________________
P短语家族
We remembered all the young men her father had driven away.
drive away：赶走；（把车）开走；离去
造____________________________________________
Then some of the ladies began to say that it was a disgrace to the town and a bad example to the young people.
example to：为……做榜样；是……的教训
造____________________________________________