世界名著现实关联读

斯佳丽的卧室正好对着她妈妈的卧室，从儿时起就熟悉了这轻柔的声音：清晨就有黑人光脚在木地板上轻快地走过，轻敲妈妈的房门，随后就有提心吊胆的黑人悄悄说话，说的都是住在那一长排白屋子里的奴仆们的事，谁病了、谁死了、谁生了孩子之类。斯佳丽小时候常常踮起脚尖走到门口，从细小的门缝里往外偷看，总能看见埃伦从她那黑乎乎的房间里走出来，能听见里面传出杰拉尔德那有节奏的呼噜声，一点儿也没有受到惊动。在高举的蜡烛光下，能看见妈妈胳膊下夹着药箱，头发梳得光光的，上衣的扣子每一颗都扣得严严实实。

听见妈妈在走廊里踮着脚尖走路，一边用低低的声音说出坚定而又体贴的话来的时候，斯佳丽心里总感到那么踏实：“嘘，小声点儿。别吵醒杰拉尔德先生。他们不是什么大病，死不了。”

随后她会轻手轻脚地回到床上，心里清楚今夜埃伦不在家，但一切都和她在家一样。

清晨，埃伦和往常一样坐在餐桌旁她的座位上，尽管眼圈有点儿发黑，显得疲倦，但说话的声音里不带有一点儿劳累的迹象。因为老方丹大夫和小方丹大夫都去出诊，所以人们就总来请她去对付接生或料理后事这样一些事情。她那高贵文雅的仪表下面有一种钢铁般的意志，令全家上下都十分敬畏，包括杰拉尔德和女儿们，当然这是杰拉尔德死也不承认的。

有时，斯佳丽会在夜里悄悄走到高个头儿妈妈身边，去亲她的脸颊。她会凝视着妈妈的嘴，上嘴唇太柔软了，也太短了点儿，这时斯佳丽总觉得这嘴太容易受到外界的伤害了，不知道它是不是也曾咧开发出女孩儿那种痴痴的傻笑，或者在漫漫长夜向自己的贴心女友倾吐心底的秘密。但是，不会，这不可能。妈妈从来都是那样，是力量的支柱、智慧的源泉，是一个无所不知的人。

〈待续〉

〈接续〉

Scarlett， whose room lay across the hall from her mother’s， knew from babyhood the soft sound of scu

ying bare black feet on the hardwood floor in the hours of dawn， the urgent tappings on her mother’s door， and the muffled， frightened negro voices that whispered of sickness and birth and death in the long row of whitewashed cabins in th a child， she often had crept to the door and， peeping through the tiniest crack， had seen Ellen emerge from the dark room， where Gerald’s snores were rhythmic and untroubled， into the flickering light of an upheld candle， her medicine case under her arm， her hair smoothed neatly into place， and no button on her basque unlooped.

In the mornings， after all-night sessions at births and deaths， when old Dr. Fontaine and young Dr. Fontaine were both out on calls and uld not be found to help her， Ellen presided at the

这是女儿和妈妈的关系。Scarlett的母亲近乎是一个完美的人，一个有信念、善良、能干、富有同情心的女人，手上还有资源，她是美国南北战争前夕南方一个大庄园的女主人，若没有这场南北内战，Scarlett的母亲将满带幸福感地、极其充实地过完她的一生。但，战争打碎了这一切。

〈待续〉

Yes， it was good to creep back into bed and know that Ellen was a

oad in the night and everything was right.

eakfast table as usual， her dark eyes circled with weariness but her voice and manner revealing none of th was a steely quality under her stately gentleness that awed the whole household， Gerald as well as the girls， though he would have died rather than admit it.

Sometimes when Scarlett tiptoed at night to kiss her tall mother’s cheek， she looked up at the mouth with its too short， too tender upper lip， a mouth too easily hurt by the world， and wondered if it had ever curved in silly girlish giggling or whispered secrets through long nights to intimate gir no， that wasn’ had always been just as she was， a pillar of strength， a fount of wisdom， the one person who knew the answers to everything.

It had always been so soothing to Scarlett to hear her mother whisper， firmly but passionately， as she tiptoed down the hall:“Hush， not s will wake Mr. O’ are not sick enough to die.”