評論
打印
He unfolded a pair of zippicamiknicks, blushed, put them hastily away again;
他打開一件貼身拉鏈衫，不禁羞紅了臉，趕快放到了一邊。
but kissed a perfumed acetate handkerchief and wound a scarf round his neck.
但是親吻了一下一條人造絲手絹，又把一條圍巾圍到了脖子上。
Opening a box, he spilt a cloud of scented powder. His hands were floury with the stuff.
他打開一個盒子，一股香粉噴了出來，噴在他手上。
He wiped them on his chest, on his shoulders, on his bare arms.
他把它擦在胸口、肩膀和光胳臂上。
Delicious perfume!
多好聞的香味！
He shut his eyes; he rubbed his cheek against his own powdered arm.
他閉上眼睛，用臉挨了挨擦了粉的胳臂。
Touch of smooth skin against his face, scent in his nostrils of musky dust–her real presence.
滑膩的皮膚挨緊他的臉，麝昧的粉香透進了他的鼻子——是活生生的她呀。
"Lenina," he whispered. "Lenina!"
“列寧娜，”他輕聲說，“列寧娜！”
A noise made him start, made him guiltily turn. He crammed up his thieveries into the suit-case and shut the lid; then listened again, looked.
有什么響動嚇了他一跳，他心虛地轉過身子，把偷看著的東西塞回提箱，蓋上蓋，又聽了聽，看了看。
Not a sign of life, not a sound.
沒有活動的跡象，也沒有聲音。
And yet he had certainly heard something–something like a sigh, something like the creak of a board.
可他確實聽見過什么東西——好像是有人嘆氣，好像是木頭的吱嘎聲。
He tiptoed to the door and, cautiously opening it, found himself looking on to a broad landing. On the opposite side of the landing was another door, ajar.
他踮起腳，走到門邊，小心翼翼地開了道縫，發現自己望著的是一片寬闊的梯口平臺，平臺對面是另一道虛掩著的門。
He stepped out, pushed, peeped.
他走過去推開門，偷看起來。
There, on a low bed, the sheet flung back,
列寧娜躺在矮床上，睡得正香。
dressed in a pair of pink one-piece zippyjamas, lay Lenina,
她穿著一件粉紅拉鏈睡衣，床單掀開。
fast asleep and so beautiful in the midst of her curls, so touchingly childish with her pink toes and her grave sleeping face, so trustful in the helplessness of her limp hands and melted limbs, that the tears came to his eyes.
髦發襯著她的臉，多么美麗！那粉紅的腳趾，那安詳的熟睡的面龐，像孩子一樣打動人心；那無力松垂的手，那柔軟的胳臂，是那么坦然而無助。他的眼里不禁噙滿了淚水。
With an infinity of quite unnecessary precautions–for nothing short of a pistol shot could have called Lenina back from her soma-holiday before the appointed time–he entered the room,
他采取了無窮的預防措施——其實很不必要，因為除非開槍，是無法把列寧娜從預定的唆麻假日提前驚醒的。
he knelt on the floor beside the bed.
他進了屋子。
He gazed, he clasped his hands, his lips moved.
跪在床邊的地板上，雙手指頭交叉，注視著她。
"Her eyes," he murmured, "Her eyes, her hair, her cheek, her gait, her voice; Handlest in thy discourse.
“她的眼睛。”他喃喃地說道。“你總在言談里說起她的眼睛、頭發、面頰、步態、聲音；
Oh, that her hand.
啊，還有她那纖手！
In whose comparison all whites are ink,
在那雙纖手面前，一切白色都只是污穢，
Writing their own reproach; to whose soft seizure the cygnet's down is harsh …
寫下的全是自我譴責；連小天鵝的茸毛跟它柔膩的一握相比，也透著粗糙……
