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At Twilight
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by Susan Glaspell
苏珊.格拉斯佩尔著（美）
ps：最不能失去的是什么？
A breeze from the May world without blew through the class-room, and as it lifted his papers he had a curious sense of freshness and mustiness meeting. He looked at the group of students before him, half *** iling at the way the breath of spring was teasing the hair of the girls sitting by the window. Anna Lawrence was trying to pin hers back again, but May would have none of such decorum, and only waited long enough for her to finish her work before joyously undoing it. She caught the laughing, admiring eyes of a boy sitting across from her and sought to conceal her pleasure in her unmanageable wealth of hair by a wry little face, and then the eyes of both strayed out to the trees that had scented that breeze for them, looking with frank longing at the campus which stretched before them in all its May glory that sunny afternoon. He remembered having met this boy and girl strolling in the twilight the evening before, and as a buoyant breeze that instant swept his own face he had a sudden, irrelevant consciousness of being seventy-three years old.
Other eyes were straying to the trees and birds and lilacs of that world from which the class-room was for the hour shutting them out. He was used to it--that straying of young eyes in the spring. For more than forty years he had sat at that desk and talked to young men and women about philosophy, and in those forty years there had always been straying eyes in May. The children of some of those boys and girls had in time come to him, and now there were other children who, before many years went by, might be sitting upon those benches, listening to lectures upon what men had thought about life, while their eyes strayed out where life called. So it went on--May, perhaps, the philosopher triumphant.
As, with a considerable effort--for the languor of spring, or some other languor, was upon him too--he brought himself back to the papers they had handed in, he found himself thinking of those first boys and girls, now men and women, and parents of other boys and girls. He hoped that philosophy had, after all, done something more than shut them out from May. He had always tried, not so much to instruct them in what men had thought, as to teach them to think, and perhaps now, when May had become a time for them to watch the straying of other eyes, they were the less desolate because of the habits he had helped them to form. He wanted to think that he had done something more than hold them prisoners.
There was a sadness to-day in his sympathy. He was tired. It was hard to go back to what he had been saying about the different things the worlds philosophers had believed about the immortality of the soul. So, as often when his feeling for his thought dragged, he turned to Gretta Loring. She seldom failed to bring a revival of interest--a freshening. She was his favourite student. He did not believe that in all the years there had been any student who had not only pleased, but helped him as she did.
He had taught her father and mother. And now there was Gretta, clear-eyed and steady of gaze, asking more of life than either of them had asked; asking, not only May, but what May meant. For Gretta there need be no duality. She was one of those rare ones for whom the meaning of life opened new springs to the joy of life, for whom life intensified with the understanding of it. He never said a thing that gratified him as reaching toward the things not easy to say but that he would find Grettas face illumined--and always that eager little leaning ahead for more.
She had that look of waiting now, but to-day it seemed less an expectant than a troubled look. She wanted him to go on with what he had been saying about the immortality of the soul. But it was not so much a demand upon him--he had come to rely upon those demands, as it was--he had an odd, altogether absurd sense of its being a fear for him. She looked uncomfortable, fretted; and suddenly he was startled to see her searching eyes blurred by something that must be tears.
She turned away, and for just a minute it seemed to leave him alone and helpless. He rubbed his forehead with his hand. It felt hot. It got that way sometimes lately when he was tired. And the close of that hour often found him tired.
He believed he knew what she wanted. She would have him declare his own belief. In the youthful flush of her moderni *** she was impatient with that fumbling around with what other men had thought. Despising the muddled thinking of some of her clas *** ates, she would have him put it right to them with "As for yourself--"
He tried to formulate what he would care to say. But, perhaps just because he was too tired to say it right, the life the robin in the nearest tree was that moment celebrating in song seemed more important than anything he had to say about his own feeling toward the things men had thought about the human soul. It was ten minutes before closing time, but suddenly he turned to his class with: "Go out-of-doors and think about it. This is no day to sit within and talk of philosophy. What men have thought about life in the past is less important than what you feel about it He paused, then added, he could not have said why, "And dont let the shadow of either belief or unbelief fall across the days that are here for you now." Again he stopped, then surprised himself by ending, "Philosophy should quicken life, not deaden it."
They were not slow in going, their astonishment in his wanting them to go quickly engulfed in their pleasure in doing so. It was only Gretta her out into the sunshine to care about going there. He thought she was going to come to the desk and speak to him. He was sure she wanted to. But at the last she went hastily, and he thought, just before she turned her face away, that it was a tear he saw on her lashes.
Strange! Was she unhappy, she through whom life surged so richly? And yet was it not true, that where it gave much it exacted much? Feeling much, and understanding what she felt, and feeling for what she understood--must she also suffer much? Must one always pay?
He sighed, and began gathering together his papers. Thoughts about life tired him to-day.
On the steps he paused, unreasonably enough a little saddened as he watched some of them beginning a tennis game. Certainly they were losing no time--eager to let go thoughts about life for its pleasures, very few of them awake to that rich life he had tried to make them ready for. He drooped still more wearily at the thought that perhaps the most real gift he had for them was that unexpected ten minutes.
Remembering a book he must have from the library, he turned back. He went to the alcove where the works on philosophy were to be found, and was reaching up for the volume he wanted, when a sentence from a lowly murmured conversation in the next aisle came to him across the stack of books. "Thats all very well; we know, of course, that he doesnt believe, but what will he do when it comes to himself?"
It arrested him, coming as it did from one of the girls who had just left his class-room. He stood there motionless, his hand still reaching up for the book.
"Do? Why, face it, of course. Face it as squarely as hes faced every other fact of life."
That was Gretta, and though, mindful of the library mandate for silence, her tone was low, it was vibrant with a fine scorn.
"Well," said the first speaker, "I guess hell have to face it before very long."
That was not answered; there was a movement on the other side of the barricade of books--it might have been that Gretta had turned away. His hand dropped down from the high shelf. He was leaning against the books.
"Havent you noticed, Gretta, how hes losing his grip?"
At that his head went up sharply; he stood altogether tense as he waited for Gretta to set the other girl right--Gretta, so sure-seeing, so much wiser and truer than the rest of them. Gretta would laugh!
But she did not laugh. And what his strained ear caught at last was--not her scornful denial, but a little gasp of breath suggesting a sob.
"Noticed it? Why it breaks my heart!"
He stared at the books through which her low, passionate voice had carried. Then he sank to the chair that fortunately was beside him. Power for standing had gone from him.
"Father says--fathers on the board, you know" (it was the first girl who spoke)--"that they dont know what to do about it. Its not justice to the school to let him begin another year. These things are arranged with less embarras *** ent in the big schools, where a man begins emeritus at a certain time. Though of course theyll pension him--hes done a lot for the school."
He thanked Gretta for her little laugh of disdain. The memory of it was more comforting--more satisfying--than any attempt to put it into words could have been.
He heard them move away, their skirts brushing the book-stacks in passing. A little later he saw them out in the sunshine on the campus. Gretta joined one of the boys for a game of tennis. Motionless, he sat looking out at her. She looked so very young as she played.
For an hour he remained at the table in the alcove where he had overheard what his students had to say of him. And when the hour had gone by he took up the pen which was there upon the study table and wrote his resignation to the secretary of the board of trustees. It was very brief--simply that he felt the time had come when a younger man could do more for the school than he, and that he should like his resignation to take effect at the close of the present school year. He had an envelope, and sealed and stamped the letter--ready to drop in the box in front of the building as he left. He had always served the school as best he could; he lost no time now, once convinced, in rendering to it the last service he could offer it--that of making way for the younger man.
Looking things squarely in the face, and it was the habit of a lifetime to look things squarely in the face, he had not been long in seeing that they were right. Things tired him now as they had not once tired him. He had less zest at the beginning of the hour, more relief at the close of it. He seemed stupid in not having seen it for himself, but possibly many people were a little stupid in seeing that their own time was over. Of course he had thought, in a vague way, that his working time couldnt be much longer, but it seemed part of the way human beings managed with themselves that things in even the very near future kept the remoteness of future things.
Now he understood Grettas troubled look and her tears. He knew how those fine nerves of hers must have suffered, how her own mind had wanted to leap to the aid of his, how her own strength must have tormented her in not being able to reach his flagging powers. It seemed part of the whole hardness of life that she who would care the most would be the one to see it most understandingly
What he was trying to do was to see it all very simply, in matter-of-fact fashion, that there might be no bitterness and the least of tragedy. It was nothing unique in human history he was facing. One did ones work; then, when through, one stopped. He tried to feel that it was as simple as it sounded, but he wondered if back of many of those brief letters of resignation that came at quitting-time there was the hurt, the desolation, that there was no use denying to himself was back of his.
He hoped that most men had more to turn to. Most men of seventy-three had grandchildren. That would help, surrounding one with a feeling of the naturalness of it all. But that school had been his only child. And he had loved it with the tenderness one gives a child. That in him which would have gone to the child had gone to the school.
The woman whom he loved had not loved him; he had never married. His life had been called lonely; but lonely though it undeniably had been, the life he won from books and work and thinking had kept the chill from his heart. He had the gift of drawing life from all contact with life. Working with youth, he kept that feeling for youth that does for the life within what sunshine and fresh air do for the room in which one dwells.
It was now that the loneliness that blights seemed waiting for him.... Life used one--and that in the ugly, not the noble sense of being used. Stripped of the fine fancies men wove around it, what was it beyond just a matter of being sucked dry and then thrown aside? Why not admit that, and then face it? And the abundance with which one might have given--the joy in the giving--had no bearing upon the fact that it came at last to that question of getting one out of the way. It was no ones unkindness; it was just that life was like that. Indeed, the bitterness festered around the thought that it was life itself--the way of life--not the brutality of any particular people. "Theyll pension him--hes done a lot for the school." Even the grateful memory of Grettas tremulous, scoffing little laugh for the way it fell short could not follow to the deep place that had been hurt.
Getting himself in hand again, and trying to face this as simply and honestly as he had sought to face the other, he knew that it was true he had done a great deal for the school. He did not believe it too much to say he had done more for it than any other man. Certainly more than any other man he had given it what place it had with men who thought. He had come to it in his early manhood, and at a time when the school was in its infancy--just a crude, struggling little Western college Gretta Lorings grandfather had been one of its founders--founding it in revolt against the cramping sectariani *** of another college. He had gloried in the spirit which gave it birth, and it was he who, through the encroachings of problems of administration and the ensnarements and entanglements of practicality, had fought to keep unattached and unfettered that spirit of freedom in the service of truth.
His own voice had been heard and recognised, and a number of times during the years calls had come from more important institutions, but he had not cared to go. For year by year there deepened that personal love for the little college to which he had given the youthful ardour of his own intellectual passion. All his lifes habits were one with it. His days seemed beaten into the path that cut across the campus. The vines that season after season went a little higher on the wall out there indicated his strivings by their own, and the generation that had worn down even the stones of those front steps had furrowed his forehead and stooped his shoulders. He had grown old along with it!！His days were twined around it.。 It was the place of his efforts and satisfactions (joys perhaps he should not call them), of his falterings and his hopes. He loved it because he had given himself to it; loved it because he had helped to bring it up. On the shelves all around him were books which it had been his pleasure--because during some of those hard years they were to be had in no other way--to order himself and pay for from his own almost ludicrously meagre salary. He remembered the excitement there always was in getting them fresh from the publisher and bringing them over there in his arms; the satisfaction in coming in next day and finding them on the shelves. Such had been his dissipations, his indulgences of self. Many things came back to him as he sat there going back over busy years, the works on philosophy looking down upon him, the shadows of that spring afternoon gathering around him. He looked like a very old man indeed as he at last reached out for the letter he had written to the trustees, relieving them of their embarras *** ent.
Twilight had come on. On the front steps he paused and looked around the campus. It was growing dark in that lingering way it has in the spring--daylight creeping away under protest, night coming gently, as if it knew that the world having been so pleasant, day would be loath to go. The boys and girls were going back and forth upon the campus and the streets. They could not bear to go within. For more than forty years it had been like that. It would be like that for many times forty years--indeed, until the end of the world, for it would be the end of the world when it was not like that. He was glad that they were out in the twilight, not indoors trying to gain from books something of the meaning of life.。That course had its satisfactions along the way, but it was surely no port of peace to which it bore one at the last.
He shrunk from going home. There were so many readjustments he must make, once home. So, lingering, he saw that off among the trees a girl was sitting alone. She threw back her head in a certain way just then, and he knew by the gesture that it was Gretta Loring. He wondered what she was thinking about. What did one who thought think about--over there on the other side of life? Youth and age looked at life from opposite sides. Then they could not see it alike, for what one saw in life seemed to depend so entirely upon how the light was falling from where one stood.
He could not have said just what it was made him cross the campus toward her.。Part of it was the desire for human sympathy--one thing, at least, which age did not deaden. But that was not the whole of it, nor the deepest thing in it. It was an urge of the spirit to find and keep for itself a place where the light was falling backward upon life. 他说
She was quiet in her greeting, and gentle. Her cheeks were still flushed, her hair tumbled from her game, but her eyes were thoughtful and, he thought, sad. He felt that the sadness was because of him; of him and the things of which he made her think. He knew of her affection for him, the warmth there was in her admiration of the things for which he had fought. He had discovered that it hurt her now that others should be seeing and not he, pained her to watch so sorry a thing as his falling below himself, wounded both pride and heart that men whom she would doubtless say had never appreciated him were whispering among themselves about how to get rid of him. Why, the poor child might even be tormenting herself with the idea she ought to tell him!
That was why he told her. He pointed to the address on the envelope, saying: "That carries my resignation, Gretta."
Her start and the tears which rushed to her eyes told him he was right about her feeling. She did not seem able to say anything. Her chin was trembling
"I see that the time has come," he said, "when a younger man can do more for the school than I can hope to do for it."
Still she said nothing at all, but her eyes were deepening and she had that very steadfast, almost inspired look that had so many times quickened him in the class-room.
She was not going to deny it! She was not going to pretend!
After the first feeling of not having got something needed he rose to her high ground--ground she had taken it for granted he would take.
"And will you believe it, Gretta," he said, rising to that ground and there asking, not for the sympathy that bends down, but for a hand in passing, "there comes a hard hour when first one feels the time has come to step aside and be replaced by that younger man?"
She nodded. "It must be," she said, simply; "it must be very much harder than any of us can know till we come to it."
She brought him a sense of his advantage in experience--his riches. To be sure, there was that.
And he was oddly comforted by the honesty in her which could not stoop to dishonest comforting. In what superficially might seem her failure there was a very real victory for them both. And there was nothing of coldness in her reserve! There was the fulness of understanding, and of valuing the moments too highly for anything there was to be said about it There was a great spiritual dignity, a nobility, in the way she was looking at him. It called upon the whole of his own spiritual dignity. It was her old demand upon him, but this time the tears through which her eyes shone were tears of pride in fulfilment, not of sorrowing for failure.
Suddenly he felt that his life had not been spent in vain, that the lives of all those men of his day who had fought the good fight for intellectual honesty--spiritual dignity--had not been spent in vain if they were leaving upon the earth even a few who were like the girl beside them.
It turned him from himself to her. She was what counted--for she was what remained. And he remained in just the measure that he remained through her; counted in so far as he counted for her. It was as if he had been facing in the wrong direction and now a kindly hand had turned him around. It was not in looking back there he would find himself. He was not back there to be found. Only so much of him lived as had been able to wing itself ahead--on in the direction she was moving.
It did not particularly surprise him that when she at last spoke it was to voice a shade of that same feeling. "I was thinking," she began, "of that younger man. Of what he must mean to the man who gives way to him." She was feeling her way as she went--groping among the many dim things that were there. He had always liked to watch her face when she was thinking her way step by step.
"I think you used a word wrongly a minute ago," she said, with a *** ile. "You spoke of being replaced. But that isnt it. A man like you isnt replaced; hes"--she got it after a minute and came forth with it triumphantly--"fulfilled!"
Her face was shining as she turned to him after that. "Dont you see? Hes there waiting to take your place because you got him ready. Why, you made that younger man! Your whole life has been a getting ready for him. He can do his work because you first did yours. Of course he can go farther than you can! Wouldnt it be a sorry commentary on you if he couldnt?"
Her voice throbbed warmly upon that last, and during the pause the light it had brought still played upon her face. "We were talking in class about immortality," she went on, more slowly. "Theres one form of immortality I like to think about. Its that all those who from the very first have given anything to the world are living in the world to-day." There was a rush of tears to her eyes and of affection to her voice as she finished, very low: "Youll never die. Youve deepened the consciousness of life too much for that."
They sat there as twilight drew near to night, the old man and the young girl, silent. The laughter of boys and girls and the good-night calls of the birds were all around them. The fragrance of life was around them. It was one of those silences to which come impressions, faiths, longings, not yet born as thoughts.
Something in the quality of that silence brought the rescuing sense of its having been good to have lived and done ones part--that sense which, from places of desolation and over ways rough and steep and dark, can find its way to the meadows of serenity.
五月的微风没有吹进教室。
当微风卷起桌面的卷子，他有一种强烈的新鲜和腐蚀混合的感觉。看着面前的一群学生，他微笑地看着坐在窗边被春天的气息撩起头发的女孩安娜劳伦斯。安娜试图把头发按住，但是五月的风没有那么温柔，可以先等她做完功课再来调皮捣蛋。她看到对面的一个男孩充满笑意的仰慕的眼光，试图用一张皱起来的小脸来掩饰自己藏在大量难以控制的头发里的快乐。两个孩子的眼光一起飘向微风中散发出清香的树木，那么率真又充满渴望地望着在他们面前延申的五月里那个阳光明媚的下午五光十色的校园。他记得前天晚上遇见这个男孩和女孩在暮光中散步。当一阵轻快的微风拂过他的脸颊，他猛地的发觉自己已经七十三岁了。
一个小时里，其他人的眼光不停地飘向教室外面的树木、小鸟和丁香花。他熟悉这种目光——春光里年轻迷离的目光。四十多年来，他一直坐在那张桌子和年轻的男孩女孩们谈论哲学，四十多年中他经常在五月里看到这样迷离的眼神。男孩和女孩们总在开学时候来到他的面前，许多年过去了，现在，长椅上坐着不同的孩子，听着他讲述人们思考总结的有关生命的课程，目光却游离在外面生命召唤他们的地方。一直如此——五月，也许，哲学家是引以为豪的。
春天使人慵懒，或者其他一些使他慵懒的感觉——他使劲把自己拉回到他们交上来的卷子上，他发现自己在思念着以前那些男孩和女孩，现在是男人和女人，还是一些男孩和女孩的父母们。他希望哲学最终能够做一些不是把他们关在春天之外的事情。他一直在尝试，不是指导他们遵照前人所想，而是教导他们独立思考，也许现在，当五月让他们去注视其他人迷离眼神的时候，在他帮助下形成的习惯就不会让他们觉得孤单，他想的是如何能够让他们不再那么封闭。
他今天心里充满悲伤。他累了，很难再回到他讲的哲学家所相信的不朽灵魂的非凡意义。经常当他感觉为想法所累的时候，他会转向葛丽塔洛林。她总是能够让他重新振作起来——这是保持热情的方法。她是他最喜欢的学生，这么多年来，他不相信还有任何学生能够做到不仅让他高兴而且还可以像她那样帮助他。
他教过她的父母，现在是葛丽塔，她的清亮的眼睛目不转睛地看着他，问题多得超过她的父母，询问的不仅是五月，更多的是五月的意义。葛丽塔是那种极少数的人，对他们来讲生命的意义为他们打开了快乐人生的源泉，对他们来讲越理解生命将会越有意义。当他发现讲到难题时，葛丽塔脸上熠熠生辉——而且身体充满渴望地向前倾，可以说从来没有什么比这点更让他高兴了。
她现在还是那样等着，但是今天好像不是期待而是不安的神色。她需要他继续讲述他讲过的关于灵魂的不朽，但不是那么的强烈要求——他已经依赖这些要求，而好像是——他有一种奇怪的、特别荒谬的感觉——为他担忧。她看起来很难受，烦躁不安，突然他惊讶地看到她疑惑的眼睛变得模糊起来，一定是眼泪。
她转身走开，那一刻好像把他置身于孤独无助的境地。他擦了一下额头，觉得有点发热，最近他累的时候会这样，经常是忙碌了一个小时后觉得很疲惫。
他相信他知道她需要什么——希望他阐明自己的想法。在她现代主义的青年思潮里，她对周遭的人们笨拙的想法感到不耐烦，看不上一些同学的懵懂无知，希望他能矫正他们去“独立思考——”
他试图起草他要讲述的内容，但是可能因为他太累了无法去讲，而附近树上的布谷鸟那生命的气息，那时欢快的歌声，好像比任何他想说的那些人们日思夜想的有关人类灵魂的感受更重要。下课前十分钟，他突然对教室里的学生说：“走出门外去，好好想想，今天不是坐下来讨论哲学的时候。过去人们有关生命的思想都不会比你们自己的感受重要。”他停顿了一下，接着，不知道为什么，“不要让信仰和非信仰的阴影蒙上你们现在在这里的日子。”他又停住了，惊讶地发现自己的结论，“哲学应该让生命活跃，不是让它变得死气沉沉。”
学生们走得并不慢，他们的惊讶快速沉浸于这么做的快乐中，只有葛丽塔会担心这么做的后果。他想她会走到桌前跟他说话，一定会的。但是她匆忙走了，就在她转过脸的时候，他觉得恍惚看到一颗眼泪挂在她的睫毛上。
奇怪！她的人生那么富丽堂皇不开心吗?还是给与太多和追索太多不对吗？感受太多，理解自己的感受，对自己的理解感到担忧——她一定也承受太多吧？总是要付出代价啊？
他叹了口气，开始整理他的案卷，想着今天很累。
他在台阶上停了下来，看到学生当中有一些人开始打网球毫无缘由地感到悲伤。当然他们没有浪费时间——因为急着放弃有关生命乐趣的思考，极少数人意识到他曾经试图让他们为生命的丰富多彩做好准备。想到可能他所给他们的最真实的礼物是那意料不到的十分钟，他越发感到沮丧。
想起有一本要去图书馆借的书，他转身回去，走到陈列哲学文献的壁橱，找到想要的那一本，这时，从通道的书架后面传来一阵低声的窃窃私语。
“很好，我们知道，当然，他不相信，但是涉及到自己他会做什么？”
他被吸引住了，这话来自刚刚离开教室的一位女孩。他站在那里一动不动，手还伸向着那本书。
“嗯？为什么，面对它，当然是。坦诚地面对它就像面对生命中其他任何现象。”
那是葛丽塔，尽管图书馆必须保持安静，她压低声音，却还是饱含讥笑。
“好吧，”第一个说话的人，“我猜想不要很久他就要面对。”
没有回答，书架一侧一阵响动——可能是葛丽塔。他的手从书架高处落下来，转身背靠着书籍。
“你没注意到吗，葛丽塔，他是怎么失去控制？”
这时他抬起头全身紧张地站着，等着葛丽塔纠正另外那个女孩——葛丽塔，很清楚——因为她比其他人聪明正确得多，她会觉得可笑！
但是她没有笑。他紧张的耳朵最后听到的——不是她轻蔑的否认，却是好像低声抽泣的喘息声。
“注意到？为什么会让我伤心！”
他透过书籍盯着她低沉的、激动的声音传来的地方，接着陷进刚好放在他身边的椅子里，他已经无力支撑。
“爸爸说——爸爸在董事会，你知道”（第一个女孩的声音）——“他们不知道怎么处理，学校让他再开始新的学年是不合适的。大学校里安排这样的事情比较不会尴尬，某个时间开始荣誉退休，当然学校会奖励他——他为学校做了很多。”
他感激葛丽塔不屑的笑声，记忆显然更舒服——更令人满意——比起试图用语言的描述。
他听到她们走远的声音，她们走的时候的裙裾撩过书堆。过了一会儿，他看见她们在校园的阳光下，葛丽塔跟一个男孩打网球。他安静地坐着朝外看着她，她打球的时候看起来那么年轻。
足足有一个小时，他一直坐在他无意中听到他的学生讨论他的时候站立的书橱前的桌子边。 一小时过后，他拿起放在书桌上的钢笔，开始给董事会秘书写辞职信。辞职信非常简单——直白说他觉得是时候离开了，会有年轻人可以为学校贡献更多，然后他希望辞职信可以在这个期末生效。他拿了一个信封装起来，贴上邮票——准备在离开的时候扔进这栋大楼的信箱里。他一直以来尽其所能的为学校效力，一旦做出决定，现在他要抓紧时间提供他最后能做的贡献——为年轻人让出一条道。
平心静气地看待事物，平心静气地看待事物是他一生的习惯，他很快明白她们是对的，从来没有过像现在这么令他疲惫。开始上课没有那么热情，结束的时候感觉如释重负。他觉得自己没有看出来是非件常愚蠢的事，但是也许大部分人在明白自己时日不多的时候都是有一点愚蠢。当然，他有模糊地想到他的工作时间不会太久，但是好像人们管理自我的方式是即便事情会在不久的将来发生，都会无视即将发生的事情。
现在他理解了葛丽塔困惑的表情和她的眼泪，理解了她纤细的神经是受到怎样的折磨，她的思想是怎样热切地希望得到他的帮助，而她的力量无法使他振作又是怎样的折磨她。
他要做的是把这整件事情看得非常简单，用实事求是的态度，那么可能就不会痛苦，不致于成为悲剧，他所面临的在人类有史以来也不是什么特别的事。一个人尽他的职责，如果，做完了，那么就停止。他试图让这件事听起来很简单，但是他困惑的是大部分那些简短的辞职信在离开时发出后，是否是伤害是否是孤独，否认自己没有用的，他就是这样。
他希望大多数人可以有更多的依靠。大部分七十三岁的人都有孙子，那就好了，享受天伦之乐的感觉。但是学校是他唯一的孩子，他温柔地爱它就像爱自己的孩子一样，他能够献给孩子的也都献给了学校。
他曾经爱过的女人不爱他，他没有结过婚。他的生命可以称为孤独，尽管孤独不可否认，但是他从书本、工作和思考中赢得的生命让他的心灵保持温暖。他有一种天赋，可以从跟生命的一切接触中汲取生命的灵感。和年轻人一起工作，保持一种年轻的感觉，这对生命的作用，就像阳光和新鲜空气对一间人们居住的房间的作用一样。
现在孤独和颓败好像在等着他….逝去的生命——是丑陋的，逝去的生命不再高尚。剥开人们为之编织的精美假象，生命被吸干和抛弃后会怎样？为什么不承认然后面对它？曾经拥有的丰富多彩——奉献的快乐——没有考虑到最终导致的问题是一个人被排除在外。没有人不近人情，这是生活的现实。是的，想到这是生活本身，痛苦愈甚——生活就是这样——不是某个特别的人的无情。“他们会给他发抚恤金——他为学校做了很多”。即便是葛丽塔颤抖的、略带嘲讽的微笑的美好记忆，都短暂得无法触及被伤害的心灵深处。
他再次控制住自己，试图面对这件事就像曾经面对其他事情一样简单诚实，他知道自己对学校做了很多贡献是真的，但他不太确信，敢说自己比任何人贡献都多。当然，在思想上他比任何人给的更多。他想到自己的年轻时代，那时候，学校还是初始阶段——只是一个原始的、尚在奋斗的小学校。葛丽塔劳瑞的祖父是学校的创办者之一——在反抗另一所大学的宗教主义的压迫下创办的。创立的这种精神令他自豪，是他，避过对管理问题的侵犯、实用性的束缚和纠缠，为独立解放的真理而服务的自由精神战斗着。
他的名声大震，这些年来很多重要的院校都打电话来邀请他，但他都不想去。年复一年，他不断加深曾经将自己的青春 *** 奉献的这所学校的感情，所有的习惯都与这个学校有关，他的日子就像和那条穿过校园的小路钉在一起。一季又一季的葡萄藤越爬越高越过墙头，表明了他的努力不懈，一代又一代的年轻人磨损了门前台阶的石头，也让皱纹爬上他的额头、折弯了他的腰。他也跟着变老了，他的生活只有学校，这是一个他努力和获得满足的地方（快乐他不敢说），是他踌躇和希望的地方。他爱它是因为他为它奉献了自己，爱它是因为他曾经协助壮大了它。书架上围绕着他的是他快乐来源的书籍——因为在那些艰难的岁月里，没有其他办法可以得到——他自己订购，用自己少得可怜的薪水支付。他记得总是从出版商那里得到新鲜书籍抱着回来的那种兴奋，第二天来的时候看到这些书籍放在书架上的满足感。这些是他的消费是他对自己的放纵。他坐在那里，这么多年繁忙的岁月里的许多事情涌现在他眼前，哲学著作俯视着他，那个春天下午的阴影笼罩着他。他看起来真的老了，最后递上的那封写给董事会理事们的信，缓解了他们的尴尬局面。
暮光降临。在楼前台阶上，他停住了，环视着校园。天色慢慢暗了下来，春夜缓缓逶迤——阳光及不乐意地褪去，夜色轻柔地降临，好像知道这个世界是那么美好而极不情愿地离开。男孩和女孩们在校园和街区走动，不想走进室内。四十多年来一直如此，四十多年来多少次都是如此——真的，直到世界尽头，直到世界尽头就不会再是这样。他很高兴他们都呆在室外暮光里，而不是在室内的书本上寻找某些生命的意义。课程是不错，但是它肯定不能最终承载一个人到达和平港湾。
他迟疑着没有回家。回家的话，他需要处理很多事情，一路上磨蹭地，他看到树丛中坐着一个女孩。刚才她那样地仰了仰头，看她姿势，他知道那是葛丽塔劳瑞。不知道她在想什么。一个有想法的人会想什么——在生命的彼岸？年轻人和老人好像分别在生命的两岸。他们看到的东西不一样，一个人在生命中看到什么，全凭他所站立的位置的光线是如何照下来的。
不知是什么驱使他穿过校园走向她，有些是渴望同情——这是原因之一，怎么说老年人还不是死人。但是那不是全部，不是最内在的东西。这是一个焦虑的灵魂想找到一个能为自己保留的地方，好让自己的生命之光可以在那里慢慢暗淡。
她安静温和地招呼他。她的脸颊依然潮红，头发因为运动变得凌乱，但是他觉得她的眼睛充满深深的忧伤。他觉得那个忧伤是因为他，因为那些他让她考虑的事情。他知道她喜欢他，敬佩他为事业奋斗的那种热情。他发现现在伤害她的是其他人，而不是他，她看来如此痛苦是因为他退却了，她感到自尊和情感双重受伤的是那个她毫无疑问的从不欣赏的人在聚众算计着如何排除他。为什么，可怜的孩子，可能还在折磨自己要不要要告诉他。
这是他要告诉她的原因，他指着信封上的地址说：“葛丽塔，这是我的辞职信。”
她吃了一惊，眼泪夺眶而出，说明他对她的感觉是正确的。她好像说不出什么，下巴颤抖着。
“我觉得差不多是时候了，”他说，“一个年轻人能为学校做出比我更多贡献的时候。”
她依然没说什么，但是她的眼光变得深沉，她有一种非常坚定的、鼓舞人心的眼神，那种眼神多次让他在课堂上重新活跃起来。
她不想否认！不想再伪装！
她站到高地——那个她以为他会站的高地。
“你相信吗？葛丽塔，”他说，站到那个高地上，不是为了屈辱的同情，而是为了友谊的双手，“当你第一次感到靠边站要让一位年轻人替代你，那是一个艰难的时刻。”
她点头。“一定是的，”她说，简洁地。“我们任何一个人走到这一步之前，都不知道那有多困难。”
她给他一种感觉，他有经验——这是他的优势，这可以肯定。
她诚实地因为无法用虚伪的方式安慰他，让他感到特别舒服。看似表面上的失败正是他们真正意义上的成功。她的保留完全不是冷淡！而是一种充分的理解，一种对这个时刻太过珍惜以至于无话可说。她看着他的时候带有一种精神上的高度尊重，同时赋予他一种高贵的感觉，唤起了他整个的精神尊严。她依然对他有所要求，但是这次，她眼里流下的是成功骄傲的泪水，不是失败悲伤的泪水。
突然间，他觉得自己的生命没有燃尽，他们年代所有的那些为了理智诚信——精神尊严——已经战斗一生的人，即便离开人世也没有被燃为灰烬，还是有一些这样的女孩站在他们身边。
他转身面对着她。她是一位——为了他而存在。就他对她的期望而论他依然存在是她帮助他留下的。好像他刚才朝着一个错误的方向，现在一双友好的手把他转过来。不要回头，那里他看不到自己，身后是找不到他的。他只有朝前飞跃自己——朝着她前进的方向——才是活着。
他不意外于她最后表达的那种同感：“我在想，”她开始说，“那些年轻人，对于给他让位的人到底意味着什么。”
她走得很清醒——在那些模糊不清的事务中摸索。他一直喜欢看着她的脸，看着她一步步的思考。
“我想你刚刚用了一个错误的词，”她说，带着微笑。“你讲到被替代。不是那样，一位像您这样的人是不会被替代的，他是”——停顿了一下，她想到一个词，然后得意洋洋地说出来——“圆满的！”
她朝着他脸色闪闪发亮。“你不明白吗？他在那里等着替代你的位置是因为你让他准备好了。为什么，是你造就了那位年轻人！你的整个人生都是为了他而准备的，他能做他的工作是因为你先做了的。当然，他会比你做得更好！如果他不会那你的人生不是很遗憾吗？”
说到最后她的声音热情地颤抖着，暮光依然照着她的脸。“我们在课上讨论过不朽，”她继续，说得更慢了，“我想到了一种不朽的方式，所有那些在一开始就为这个世界奉献了一切的人依然活在当今世界。”最后她眼含热泪，饱含深情地低声说：“你永远不会离开，这点你已经深深地植入生命的意识里。”
他们安静地坐着看着黄昏拉近夜色降临，一个老人和一个女孩。男孩女孩们的笑声和鸟儿们互道晚安的声音围绕着他们。他们的身边充满了生命的芬芳。这是一种沉默，随之而来是印象、信任、渴望，然而不是思想。
这种安静重新唤醒了一个人曾经好好活着并尽到自己的职责的美好感觉——那种感觉，从孤独之境，走过粗粝艰险黑暗，走到了通往平静安详的乐园。
《作者简介》
Susan Glaspell (1876 - 1948) co-founded the first modernAmerican theater company, the Provincetown Players, and was a Pulitzerprize-winning playwright, actress, novelist, and journalist. Most of her ninenovels, fourteen plays and over fifty short stories are set in Iowa, where shewas raised. Trifles (1916), her one-act play based on the murder trial she coveredas a young reporter, is considered one of the great works in American theateras well as an important piece of feminist literature.
苏珊格拉斯佩尔（1876-1948），合作创建了首家现代美国电影公司，普罗温斯顿演员，一个普利策奖项获得者——剧作家、演员、作家和记者。她的九篇小说、十四篇剧作和五十多个短篇故事大多是以爱荷华州为背景，她的故乡。《琐事》（1916），是她的独幕剧，以她年轻时期做记者报道的谋杀案为基础，被认为是一篇著名的美国文学和重要的女性主义文学。
ps：英文内容来源于：americanliterature.com
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编辑于20191009
