凯瑟琳读信你说什么,我听不到(1)
Dear Spence,
亲爱的斯宾塞：
Who ever thought that I'd be writing you a letter. You died on the 10th of June in 1967. My golly, Spence, that's twenty-four years ago. That's a long time. Are you happy finally? Is it a nice long rest you're having? Making up for all your tossing and turning in life. You know, I never believed you when you said that you just couldn't get to sleep. I thought, Oh—come on—you sleep—if you didn't sleep you'd be dead. You'd be so worn out. Then remember that night when—oh, I don't know, you felt so disturbed. And I said, Well, go on in—go to bed. And I'll lie on the floor and talk you to sleep. I'll just talk and talk and you'll be so bored, you're bound to drift off.
谁能料想我会给你写信呢。你在1967年6月10日去世。天啊，那是18年以前了，够久的。你现在快乐吗？你的长眠是否安稳？应该是弥补了你生前的辗转难眠吧。你知道的，以前你说你睡不着，我从来都不信。我心想，噢──得了──快睡吧，要是不睡，你会死的，你会精疲力竭的。还记得那天晚上──不知为何，你感觉非常烦躁，我说，好了，去吧，去睡觉。我躺在地板上，对你讲话，直到你睡着。我一直不停地讲，你就会觉得困倦，就一定会渐渐睡着。
Well, I went in and got an old pillow and Lobo the dog. I lay there watching you and stroking Old Dog. I was talking about you and the movie we'd just finished—Guess Who's Coming to Dinner—and my studio and your new tweed coat and the garden and all the nice sleep-making topics and cooking and dull gossip, but you never stopped tossing—to the right, to the left—shove the pillows—pull the covers—on and on and on. Finally—really finally—not just then—you quieted down. I waited a while—and then I crept out.
后来，我走进房间，抱起了一只旧枕头和我们的狗洛博。我躺在那儿看着你，抚摸着我们可爱的狗。我讲着你的事，讲着我们刚拍完的电影──《猜猜谁来吃晚餐》（Guess Who's Coming to Dinner），讲着我的电影公司、你的花呢大衣、花园，讲所有催眠的话题，讲做菜和无聊的八卦。但是你一直辗转反侧──翻过来，又翻过去，扔枕头，扯被子，动个不停。最后—真的是最后，那过程可不短──你静了下来，我等了一会儿，然后蹑手蹑脚地走了出去。
You told me the truth, didn't you? You really could not sleep.
你跟我说的是实话，对吗？你真的睡不着。
And I used to wonder then—why? I still wonder. You took the pills. They were quite strong. I suppose you have to say that otherwise you would never have slept at all. Living wasn't easy for you, was it?
那时候我常常好奇──为什么？我如今依然想知道。你以前吃安眠药，药效很强。我想你一定会说，不吃药的话，你就一点儿也睡不着了。生活对你来说不容易，是吗？
What did you like to do? You loved sailing, especially in stormy weather. You loved polo. But then Will Rogers was killed in that airplane accident. And you never played polo again—never again. Tennis, golf, no, not really. You'd bat a few balls. Fair you were. I don't think that you ever swang a golf club. Is "swang" a word? Swimming? Well, you didn't like cold water. And walking? No, that didn't suit you. That was one of those things where you could think at the same time—of this, of that, of what, Spence? What was it? Was it some specific life thing like Johnny being deaf, or being a Catholic and you felt a bad Catholic? No comfort, no comfort. I remember Father Ciklic telling you that you concentrated on all the bad and none of the good which your religion offered. It must have been something very fundamental and very ever-present.
你喜欢做什么？你爱航海，尤爱在风暴天气出航。你爱马球，但后来威尔·罗杰斯（Will Rogers）坠机遇难，你就再也不打马球了──再也没打过。网球、高尔夫，谈不上喜欢。你时不时挥几下网球拍，打得还不错。我不记得你挥过高尔夫球杆。游泳？嗯……你不喜欢冷水。散步呢？不，那不适合你。散步的时候你一定会胡思乱想──思考这，思考那，思考什么呢，斯宾塞？是什么事情呢？大概是生活上具体的某件事，像是约翰尼失聪，或是你身为天主教徒，却感觉自己并不合格？不得安宁，不得安宁。我记得西克里奇神父告诉过你，你只关注宗教给你的消极一面，不去看任何好的方面。这一定是个根本的、常存的问题。
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