一只貓的憂傷往事

After a certain age—and for some of us that can be very young—there are no new people， beasts， dreams， faces， events: it has all happened before， masked differently， wearing different clothes， another nationality， another colour; but the same， the same， and everything is an echo and a repetition; and there is no grief even that it is not a 1)recurrence of something long out of memory that expresses itself in unbelievable 2)anguish， days of tears， loneliness， knowledge of betrayal and all for a small， thin， dying cat.

當人過了一定的年齡，就覺得不存在什么新人、新動物、新夢想、新面孔和新事件了，而我們當中的某些人可能還非常年輕：因為所有這一切以前都已經歷過了，只是化著不同的妝，穿著不同的衣服，有著另一個國籍，另一種膚色，但本質上都是一模一樣，分毫不差的，而每件事都只是一個回聲，一種重復；也沒有什么悲傷不是某種遺忘已久的記憶重現，那曾經難以置信的痛苦、日以繼夜的淚水、孤獨和背叛感——而所有這一切只因為一只羸弱垂死的小貓。

I was sick that winter. It was inconvenient because my big room was due to be whitewashed. I was put in the little room at the end of the house. The house， nearly but not quite on the crown of the hill， always seemed as if it might slide off into the 3)maize fields below. This tiny room， not more than a slice off the end of the house， had a door， always open， and windows， always open， in spite of the windy cold of a July whose skies were an 4)interminable light clear blue. The sky， full of sunshine; the fields， 5)sunlit. But cold， very cold. The cat， a bluish-grey Persian， arrived purring on my bed， and settled down to share my sickness， my food， my pillow， my sleep. When I woke in the mornings， my face turned to half-frozen 6)linen; the outside of the fur blanket on the bed was cold; the smell of fresh whitewash from next door was cold and 7)antiseptic; the wind lifting and laying the dust outside the door was cold—but in the crook of my arm， a light purring warmth， the cat， my friend.

At the back of the house a wooden tub was let into the earth， outside the bathroom， to catch the bathwater. No pipes carrying water to taps on that farm: water was fetched by ox-drawn cart when it was needed， from the well a couple of miles off. Through the months of the dry season the only water for the garden was the dirty bathwater. The cat fell into this tub when it was full of hot water. She screamed， was pulled out into a chill wind， washed in 8)permanganate， for the tub was 9)filthy and held leaves and dust as well as soapy water， was dried， and put into my bed to warm. But she sneezed and wheezed and then grew burning hot with fever. She had 10)pneumonia. We 11)dosed her with what there was in the house， but that was before 12)antibiotics， and so she died. For a week she lay in my arms purring， purring， in a rough trembling hoarse little voice that became weaker， then was silent; licked my hand; opened enormous green eyes when I called her name and 13)besought her to live; closed them， died， and was thrown into the deep 14)shaft—over a hundred feet deep it was—which had gone dry， because the underground water streams had changed their course one year and left what we had believed was a reliable well， a dry， cracked， rocky shaft that was soon half filled with rubbish， tin cans， and corpses.

That was it. Never again. And for years I matched cats in friends’ houses， cats in shops， cats on farms， cats in the street， cats on walls， cats in memory， with that gentle blue-grey purring creature which for me was the cat， the Cat， never to be replaced.

And besides， for some years my life did not include extras， unnecessaries， 15)adornments. Cats had no place in an existence spent always moving from place to place， room to room. A cat needs a place as mush as it needs a person to make its own.

And so it was not till twenty-five years later that my life had room for a cat.

那年冬天我生病了，令人不便的是，我的大房間到了該粉刷的時候了。于是我被安置在房子末端的小房間里。那所房子雖然不是正正屹立山頂，也可謂在山之巔了，看起來總像是要滑進山下的玉米地里似的。這個小房間頂多算是那所房子末端的一角，有一扇門卻總是開著的，幾扇窗戶也總是開著的，盡管七月的寒風（譯者注：當時作者住在南半球）呼嘯而過，天空卻是一片無限明凈的淡藍。天空中溢滿了陽光，原野被陽光籠罩。但依然寒冷，非常寒冷。那只貓，一只藍灰色的波斯貓，呼嚕呼嚕喘鳴著來到我的床上，并安頓下來，分擔我的疾病，分享我的食物、我的枕頭和我的睡眠。當我每天清晨醒來時，我的臉轉向半凍住的亞麻布；床鋪上靠外面的毛毯冷冰冰的；隔壁傳來的新鮮石灰水的味道寒冷而干凈；門外的冷風將塵土卷起又灑落——但在我的臂彎里有一團輕輕打著呼嚕的溫暖，是那只貓，我的朋友。……