以比尔为叙述者讲述《早秋》

毛玉清

【Abstract】Early Autumn， written by Louis Bromfield， is narrated by heterodiegetic narrator. However， the choice of different narrators has different effects. This passage was narrated by Bill， one of the characters in this novel. Compared with the original one， it could be easily found that there are some different effects between different narrators. Whats more， to some degree， this passage is a novel which is rewritten based on the original one.

【Key words】Love，Night，Regret

Unconsciously， I stayed in the front of the Washington Square， leaves falling slowly without wind from the trees. Nearly sunset， the weather is a little bit cold. A girl， named Mary， who I thought I should have forgotten jumped into my mind.

We met each other， knew each other and fell in love with each other under the trees where I was standing， memories flooding back. I seemingly saw her stand before me with her sweetest smile. She was still very fair with a small nose and mouth， and slender， curly golden hair hanging on her tender neck. She was standing in front of me， looking at me with her lovely eyes. However， I know it is just an illusion， because she has left the city for a long time and married another man she thought she loved more than loved me.

As I was deep in thought， suddenly， a soft voice was coming through the shadow made by the street lamps： Bill walker， which awoke me from my thought.

I looked carefully and then found a middle aged woman who was in a black and big coat， with a few stray gray hairs hanging before her wrinkled face， standing before me. I even didnt recognize her at first， and I even couldnt believe the woman who called me was Mary.

“Ma…Ma…Mary， how are you？ “ I felt a little bit surprised， but I tried to hide my emotion.

She looked like withered， lifting her face without consciousness as though wanting a kiss.

“I am…I am not bad. How about you？” she said.

“I am fine. I am a lawyer in a nice firm.”

“Married， yet？”

“Sure， two kids.”

“Oh，” she answered under her voice as if she felt a bit disappointed.

I knew sometimes I would think of the past， but I didnt know if she would. Maybe she wouldnt because she married a nice guy she loved very much. But why？ Why she looked so old？ And I could see from her eyes that she was unhappy.

“And your husband？” I asked her.

“We have three children. I work in the bursars office at Columbia.”

“You are looking very…very well，” I said but actually I just wanted to say that she looked very old.

It was evening and the sun went down， a little windy， a little cold. We stood under the trees， a great many people going past us. People didnt know， and I didnt know， either. I didnt know whether she really lived a happy or not. I wanted to ask her but finally I give up， because her wrinkled face， gray hair and his dress told me that as if she lived a hard life.

“We live on Central Park West，” she said， “Come and see us sometime.”

“Sure， I replied. “You and your husband and your kids must have dinner with my family some night. Any night. Lucille and Id love to have you.”

“Wed love it，” she answered.

“Your kids can play with my kids.” I grinned.

Suddenly， the moon light came on up the whole length of Fifth Avenue， chains of misty brilliance in the blue air.

“Theres my bus，” she said.

I said nothing but “Good-bye.”

She said nothing and turned to the bus. I saw her take on the bus， lights one the avenue blurring， twinkling， blurring. Maybe I should have asked her for her address or I should have given her my address. However， I didnt do that nor did she.

The bus started， leaving me alone with the trees， the wind and the lights. People came and went. People they didnt know. But I knew. Maybe Mary also knew. We couldnt go back. I have my own wife and she belongs to another man.

This world always has regrets which cannot be made up. No matter who made the regret？ Regret is regret. Missing is missing. What we can do just kept the memory in our minds， cherish our present life and move on.

Reference：

1.Early Autumn is a 1926 novel by Louis Bromfield.

2.Louis Bromfield（December 27，1896 March 18，1956） was an American author.