The Fly 中赏析+英原文_Katherine Mansfield

“苍蝇”的故事情节非常简单：老板的朋友，老伍德菲尔德到他的办公室来闲聊时 提起了老板死去的儿子朋友走后，老板用墨水淹死了一只苍蝇就在这样一个简单的 故事中蕴涵着曼斯菲尔德对灵魂的严肃探究和对生命意义的深刻思考。 曼斯菲尔德首先对人的感情提出了疑问：人的感情真的会经久不变吗？恰恰相反， 整日标榜的深情厚意都是稍纵易逝的。老板的所作所为给出了一个明确的。在 儿子刚刚阵亡时，老板一提到儿子就老泪纵横，不能自已。他不断向周围的人宣称 “时光不会让他忘记痛苦。”可偏偏就是这个人，“由于种种原因”，6 年过去了 他竟然不知道儿子的墓究竟是什么样子，当老伍德菲尔德旧话重提时，他“筹划好 要大哭一场”，结果却滴泪未下，在小说的结尾，老板竟然连自己想什么都记不起 来了。 无独有偶，老伍德菲尔德也从未去看过他自己儿子的墓，也几乎忘记了自己女儿去 比利时给儿子扫墓一事。老板是孤独的，也是可悲的。与其说他是沉浸在刻骨铭心 的丧子之痛中倒不如说他在一种强烈而深切的自怜之中不能自拔，对他来说，人生 的全部意义似乎就在于自己事业的发展。儿子死了，他手中的事业也将随着他的衰 老而消亡。生活的意义也就不复存在了。这才是他沮丧感的真正来源。对事业的偏 执追求导致了情感的物化，在老板的心目中，事业比儿子更重要，真正值得痛苦的 似乎不是一个年轻生命的消失，而是自己事业后继无人的绝望。 萨拉琳•戴利指出：“曼斯菲尔德一直关注人类的潜在暴力，她有许多小说探讨残暴 及其影响[1]。”苍蝇“对此暴力冲动作出了深刻的剖析。小说的第二部分极其细致 地刻画了自哀自怜的老板对一只苍蝇的无情摧残，最后把它淹死。极度沮丧的老板 竭力想寻找一种发泄，但时间之流已将那点一再渲染的悲痛洗刷殆尽，“大哭一场” 已不复是一种解脱。那只苍蝇便顺理成章地成了牺牲品。老板虐待狂般地一次次折 磨苍蝇，从苍蝇的痛苦挣扎中享受刺激与快感，从而暂时忘却了自己的痛苦和绝望。 曼斯菲尔德试图说明：在人的内心深处有一种潜在的暴力倾向当人处在痛苦或困境 之中时，他就会或有意或无心地以暴力方式，通过折磨别人来转移或减轻自身的痛 苦，然而，这种方式并不能真正消除痛苦。老板的结果不是痛苦的减轻或消失，而 是痛苦的累积，他将苍蝇折磨死之后感到的不是轻松和解脱，而是无法忍受的压抑 和恐惧。 但曼斯菲尔德短篇小说的精彩之处往往在于其设置在整个故事框架之中和叙述层面 以下的深刻内涵那就是：生命是脆弱的。生命的延续或终止由一种无法抗拒的力量 所支配;。在命运之神的手中生命的一切抗争都无济于事。这一切都凝聚在苍蝇这一 个象征之中。安纳•芙瑞丝颇有见地地指出：“‘苍蝇’是一个人类生命的形象。它 的抗争象征着坚强的本能;而它的死亡，则表明生命往往不堪命运之打击。”[2] 苍蝇具有多层次的象征意义。在最明显的层面上，它象征着弱小的生灵，竭力抗争 却也难免一死。与之对应，老板则代表着一种神秘莫测而又无法抗拒的破坏力量。 深入挖掘一下便可发现，小说中的所有人物，从老伍德菲尔德到老麦吉到老板之子 再到老板本人，无一不蕴涵在这一象征之中。先看一看老伍德菲尔德吧。老板在他 面前有着明显的优越感，但又不无同情---他对老头子温言以对其辅以威士忌。面对 可怜的苍蝇，老板一方面施以暴力，一方面却也不无同情。看到苍蝇又动了时，他 “不由感到如释重负”，而且还“想对它吹吹气，好让他干得快一点。”两者所受 待遇如出一辙。可怜的老麦吉的遭遇就惨了，在老板面前，他已经失去了人的尊严 “，象一只狗儿企望被主人带出去遛一 遭“，然而，他得到的只是严厉的呵斥。老板叫麦吉拿吸墨纸时的一声呵斥：”赶 快！“与苍蝇临死之际受到的那一声何其相似！老板之子被一种无法抗拒的力量所 摧毁。而苍蝇也在老板的手中丧生。老伍德菲尔德，麦吉，老板之子分别代表苍蝇 在这神秘力量下不断抗争最后死亡的不同阶段，他们遭遇的集合就是苍蝇的历程和 命运。 其实，老板也被包含在苍蝇这个象征之中。不同的是，苍蝇被一双有形的手所操纵 和折磨;而老板却为一双无形的手所控制和捉弄他既是施暴者又是受害者。但最终意 义上，他依然同苍蝇一样为一种自身无法超越的力量所支配。儿子阵亡，事业和生 活的希望都化作梦幻泡影，对他来说，活着本身就成了梦魇。 一切灵感都带有特定生活的印记。读一读曼斯菲尔德创作“苍蝇”前后的书信及日 记，想一想作者当时所面临的处境，不难发现，她选择苍蝇这个象征并非偶然。曼 斯菲尔德于 1917 年染上肺结核病 1920 年以后，身体状况是每况愈下到 1922 年创作 “苍蝇”时病情已严重恶化凯瑟琳养病期间仍然坚持创作这种忘我的创作加速了死 神的降临;。而死神的逼近也正是她思考生命意义的动因和创作灵感的源泉在给丈夫 莫雷的一封信中她写道：“我觉得我象一只苍蝇，掉进了牛奶罐子里爬出来后，身 上依然又湿又粘，半死不活的，无法开始清理[3]。“同年 11 月她在日记中写道：” 苍蝇掉进了牛奶罐中。上帝袖手旁观，且看着开心[4]。“这无不表明凯瑟琳已清醒 地意识到死亡之迫近。“苍蝇”便是作家对自身命运痛苦思索的产物。苍蝇是“人 类生命的形象”，更是凯瑟琳自身命运的写照。她的这篇小说中弥漫着一种幻灭意 识。这种幻灭意识与第一次世界大战后西方的幻灭感是相契合的。也是当时许多作 家所关注的问题。弗吉尼亚•沃尔夫的“飞蛾之死”与此当有异曲同工之妙。 “苍蝇”并不着意营造精彩的故事情节和严密的结构，这是对传统小说格局的一种 突破。曼斯菲尔德以女性特有的敏锐与细腻客观地向读者展示细节。沉郁粗犷不是 她的特点，在她流利晓畅的句法里载满了精细的观察与令人耳目一新的譬喻，她不 再象传统作家那样急于告诉读者什么，而是固执地留下空白，让读者自己去思考去 判断。凯瑟琳以“苍蝇”为代表的短篇小说为现代主义小说的发展奠定了基础。 “The Fly”是 Katherine Mansfield 1922 年写的短篇小说。 巧妙的象征 深刻的内涵——曼斯菲尔德的《苍蝇》赏析 The Fly by Katherine Mansfield "Y'are very snug in here," piped old Mr. Woodifield, and he peered out of the great, green-leather armchair by his friend the boss's desk as a baby peers out of its pram. His talk was over; it was time for him to be off. But he did not want to go. Since he had retired, since his...stroke, the wife and the girls kept him boxed up in the house every day of the week except Tuesday. On Tuesday he was dressed and brushed and allowed to cut back to the City for the day. Though what he did there the wife and girls couldn't imagine. Made a nuisance of himself to his friends, they supposed....Well, perhaps so. All the same, we cling to our last pleasures as the tree clings to its last leaves. So there sat old Woodifield, smoking a cigar and staring almost greedily at the boss, who rolled in his office chair, stout, rosy, five years older than he, and still going strong, still at the helm. It did one good to see him. Wistfully, admiringly, the old voice added, "It's snug in here, upon my word!" "Yes, it's comfortable enough," agreed the boss, and he flipped the Financial Times with a paper-knife. As a matter of fact he was proud of his room; he liked to have it admired, especially by old Woodifield. It gave him a feeling of deep, solid satisfaction to be planted there in the midst of it in full view of that frail old figure in the muffler. "I've had it done up lately," he explained, as he had explained for the past -- how many? -- weeks. "New carpet," and he pointed to the bright red carpet with a pattern of large white rings. "New furniture," and he nodded towards the massive bookcase and the table with legs like twisted treacle. "Electric heating!" He waved almost exultantly towards the five transparent, pearly sausages glowing so softly in the tilted copper pan. But he did not draw old Woodifield's attention to the photograph over the table of a grave-looking boy in uniform standing in one of those spectral photographers' parks with photographers' storm-clouds behind him. It was not new. It had been there for over six years. "There was something I wanted to tell you," said old Woodifield, and his eyes grew dim remembering. "Now what was it? I had it in my mind when I started out this morning." His hands began to tremble, and patches of red showed above his beard. Poor old chap, he's on his last pins, thought the boss. And, feeling kindly, he winked at the old man, and said jokingly, "I tell you what. I've got a little drop of something here that'll do you good before you go out into the cold again. It's beautiful stuff. It wouldn't hurt a child." He took a key off his watch-chain, unlocked a cupboard below his desk, and drew forth a dark, squat bottle. "That's the medicine," said he. "And the man from whom I got it told me on the strict Q.T. it came from the cellars at Windor Castle." Old Woodifield's mouth fell open at the sight. He couldn't have looked more surprised if the boss had produced a rabbit. "It's whisky, ain't it?" he piped feebly. The boss turned the bottle and lovingly showed him the label. Whisky it was. "D'you know," said he, peering up at the boss wonderingly, "they won't let me touch it at home." And he looked as though he was going to cry. "Ah, that's where we know a bit more than the ladies," cried the boss, swooping across for two tumblers that stood on the table with the water-bottle, and pouring a generous finger into each. "Drink it down. It'll do you good. And don't put any water with it. It's sacrilege to tamper with stuff like this. Ah!" He tossed off his, pulled out his handkerchief, hastily wiped his moustaches, and cocked an eye at old Woodifield, who was rolling his in his chaps. The old man swallowed, was silent a moment, and then said faintly, "It's nutty!" But it warmed him; it crept into his chill old brain -- he remembered. "That was it," he said, heaving himself out of his chair. "I thought you'd like to know. The girls were in Belgium last week having a look at poor Reggie's grave, and they happened to come across your boy's. They're quite near each other, it seems." Old Woodifield paused, but the boss made no reply. Only a quiver in his eyelids showed that he heard. "The girls were delighted with the way the place is kept," piped the old voice. "Beautifully looked after. Couldn't be better if they were at home. You've not been across, have yer?" "No, no!" For various reasons the boss had not been across. "There's miles of it," quavered old Woodifield, "and it's all as neat as a garden. Flowers growing on all the graves. Nice broad paths." It was plain from his voice how much he liked a nice broad path. The pause came again. Then the old man brightened wonderfully. "D'you know what the hotel made the girls pay for a pot of jam?" he piped. "Ten francs! Robbery, I call it. It was a little pot, so Gertrude says, no bigger than a half-crown. And she hadn't taken more than a spoonful when they charged her ten francs. Gertrude brought the pot away with her to teach 'em a lesson. Quite right, too; it's trading on our feelings. They think because we're over there having a look round we're ready to pay anything. That's what it is." And he turned towards the door. "Quite right, quite right!" cried the boss, though what was quite right he hadn't the least idea. He came round by his desk, followed the shuffling footsteps to the door, and saw the old fellow out. Woodifield was gone. For a long moment the boss stayed, staring at nothing, while the grey-haired office messenger, watching him, dodged in and out of his cubby-hole like a dog that expects to be taken for a run. Then: "I'll see nobody for half an hour, Macey," said the boss. "Understand? Nobody at all." "Very good, sir." The door shut, the firm heavy steps recrossed the bright carpet, the fat body plumped down in the spring chair, and leaning forward, the boss covered his face with his hands. He wanted, he intended, he had arranged to weep.... It had been a terrible shock to him when old Woodifield sprang that remark upon him about the boy's grave. It was exactly as though the earth had opened and he had seen the boy lying there with Woodifield's girls staring down at him. For it was strange. Although over six years had passed away, the boss never thought of the boy except as lying unchanged, unblemished in his uniform, asleep for ever. "My son!" groaned the boss. But no tears came yet. In the past, in the first few months and even years after the boy's death, he had only to say those words to be overcome by such grief that nothing short of a violent fit of weeping could relieve him. Time, he had declared then, he had told everybody, could make no difference. Other men perhaps might recover, might live their loss down, but not he. How was it possible? His boy was an only son. Ever since his birth the boss had worked at building up this business for him; it had no other meaning if it was not for the boy. Life itself had come to have no other meaning. How on earth could he have slaved, denied himself, kept going all those years without the promise for ever before him of the boy's stepping into his shoes and carrying on where he left off? And that promise had been so near being fulfilled. The boy had been in the office learning the ropes for a year before the war. Every morning they had started off together; they had come back by the same train. And what congratulations he had received as the boy's father! No wonder; he had taken to it marvellously. As to his popularity with the staff, every man jack of them down to old Macey couldn't make enough of the boy. And he wasn't the least spoilt. No, he was just his bright natural self, with the right word for everybody, with that boyish look and his habit of saying, "Simply splendid!" But all that was over and done with as though it never had been. The day had come when Macey had handed him the telegram that brought the whole place crashing about his head. "Deeply regret to inform you..." And he had left the office a broken man, with his life in ruins. Six years ago, six years....How quickly time passed! It might have happened yesterday. The boss took his hands from his face; he was puzzled. Something seemed to be wrong with him. He wasn't feeling as he wanted to feel. He decided to get up and have a look at the boy's photograph. But it wasn't a favourite photograph of his; the expression was unnatural. It was cold, even stern-looking. The boy had never looked like that. At that moment the boss noticed that a fly had fallen into his broad inkpot, and was trying feebly but deperately to clamber out again. Help! help! said those struggling legs. But the sides of the inkpot were wet and slippery; it fell back again and began to swim. The boss took up a pen, picked the fly out of the ink, and shook it on to a piece of blotting-paper. For a fraction of a second it lay still on the dark patch that oozed round it. Then the front legs waved, took hold, and, pulling its small, sodden body up, it began the immense task of cleaning the ink from its wings. Over and under, over and under, went a leg along a wing, as the stone goes over and under the scythe. Then there was a pause, while the fly, seeming to stand on the tips of its toes, tried to expand first one wing and then the other. It succeeded at last, and, sitting down, it began, like a minute cat, to clean its face. Now one could imagine that the little front legs rubbed against each other lightly, joyfully. The horrible danger was over; it had escaped; 1t was ready for life again. But just then the boss had an idea. He plunged his pen back into the ink, leaned his thick wrist on the blotting-paper, and as the fly tried its wings down came a great heavy blot. What would it make of that? What indeed! The little beggar seemed absolutely cowed, stunned, and afraid to move because of what would happen next. But then, as if painfully, it dragged itself forward. The front legs waved, caught hold, and, more slowly this time, the task began from the beginning. He's a plucky little devil, thought the boss, and he felt a real admiration for the fly's courage. That was the way to tackle things; that was the right spirit. Never say die; it was only a question of...But the fly had again finished its laborious task, and the boss had just time to refill his pen, to shake fair and square on the new-cleaned body yet another dark drop. What about it this time? A painful moment of suspense followed. But behold, the front legs were again waving; the boss felt a rush of relief. He leaned over the fly and said to it tenderly, "You artful little b..." And he actually had the brilliant notion of breathing on it to help the drying process. All the same, there was something timid and weak about its efforts now, and the boss decided that this time should be the last, as he dipped the pen deep into the inkpot. It was. The last blot fell on the soaked blotting-paper, and the draggled fly lay in it and did not stir. The back legs were stuck to the body; the front legs were not to be seen. "Come on," said the boss. "Look sharp!" And he stirred it with his pen -- in vain. Nothing happened or was likely to happen. The fly was dead. The boss lifted the corpse on the end of the paper-knife and flung it into the waste-paper basket. But such a grinding feeling of wretchedness seized him that he fe lt positively frightened. He started forward and pressed the bell for Macey. "Bring me some fresh blotting-paper," he said sternly,"and look sharp about it." And while the old dog padded away he fell to wondering what it was he had been thinking about before. What was it? It was...He took out his handkerchief and passed it inside his collar. For the life of him he could not remember. THE END THE STORY The reader is introduced to a man called only ‘The Boss’, watches him entertain a former employee (Old Woodifield), hears Old Woodifield mention the Boss’ dead son, then watches the boss torture and kill a fly. NARRATION This story is typical of Mansfield’s story-telling technique: The reader is moved through a series of incidents, carried along with the action. It is no more than action until the reader discovers causal relationships. Honeymoon, The Voyage and Prelude make use of the same narrative technique. Before long, the reader begins to notice certain positionings that form repetitive patterns that suggest possible relationships: CHARACTER Mr Woodifield is consistently described as a baby even though he is aged and sick. Mr Woodifield is consistently contrasted with the Boss, five years older, but still rosy and strong. The Boss is immensely proud of all his possessions, most of them recently obtained. His geniality is an expression of his feelings of superiority. Mr Woodifield’s perfectly normal response to his own dead son is set next to the Boss’ strange detachment. After Mr Woodifield leaves, readers are brought inside the mind of the Boss as he reflects on his son and relationship with him. What the boss says is in strange contrast to what he appears to be. He says that life had no other meaning except for his son and that when he heard of his son’s death 6 years ago, he had left his office ‘a broken man, with his life in ruins’. But the reader sees he does not look like a broken man and his life does not appear to be in ruins at all. IMAGERY The Fly When the Boss begins to play with the fly, birth imagery appears and readers remembers that Woodifield was described as a baby. As the fly struggles to recover from the persistent blobs of ink the boss drops on him, readers understand that the fly is a symbol for man and struggle is man’s struggle. Flys also ‘fly’. They can soar through the heavens, escaping earth-bound reality. But eventually flies die too. There is the ordinary lifecycle: birth, youth, old age, death. There is struggle. But along with the struggle there are moments of flight, desires, hopes, aspirations. The Boss What role does the Boss play? He appears to be god, giving life and taking it away. This is typical behaviour for him. The Boss is given no name – he is known simply as ‘Boss’ – authority, father figure to both Woodifield and Macey. He gives a little drop of whiskey to Woodifield, insisting it wouldn’t hurt a child, even though alcohol is forbidden to the old man. Did the Boss drop similar metaphorical blobs of ink on his son? Perhaps. The Boss had insisted that the son follow in his footsteps, thereby providing meaning for his own life. The Boss has hoped to accomplish immortality by living through his son but a greater power than him has dropped a blob of ink on the son and on the Boss. Realising the son’s death for the first time, the Boss acts out a symbolic drama, assuming the role of God. THE FINAL SENTENCE The story comes together with the revelation in the last sentence: ‘For the life of him [the Boss], he could not remember.’ The words ‘for the life of him’ are chosen carefully. At this moment he has an intimate though subconscious knowledge of his own mortality. For the reader, things are set back in balance.