领略原汁原味汉英对照经典名作

四签名

      Sherlock Holmes took his bottle from the corner of the mantel-piece, and his hypodermic syringe from its neat morocco case. With his long, white, nervous fingers he adjusted the delicate needle and rolled back his left shirt cuff. For some little time his eyes rested thoughtfully upon the sinewy forearm and wrist, all dotted and scarred with innumerable puncture marks. Finally, he thrust the point home, pressed down the tiny piston, and sank back into the velvetlined armchair with a long sigh of satisfaction.
      Three times a day for many months I had witnessed this performance, but custom had not reconciled my mind to it. On the contrary, from day to day I had become more irritable at the sight, and my conscience swelled nightly within me at the thought that I had lacked the courage to protest. Again and again I had registered a vow that I should deliver my soul upon the subject;but there was that in the cool, nonchalant air of my companion which made him the last man with whom one would care to take anything approaching to a liberty. His great powers, his masterly manner, and the experience which I had had of many extraordinary qualities, all made me diffident and backward in crossing him. Yet upon that afternoon, whether it was the Beaune which I had taken with my lunch or the additional exasperation produced by the extreme deliberation of his manner, I suddenly felt that I could bold out no longer.
      “Which is it today,” I asked, “morphine or cocaine?”
      He raised his eyes languidly from the old black-letter volume which he had opened.
      “It is cocaine,” he said, “a seven-percent solution. Would you care to try it?”
      “No, indeed,” I answered brusquely. “My constitution has not got over the Afghan campaign yet. I cannot afford to throw any extra strain upon it.”
      He smiled at my vehemence. “Perhaps you are right, Watson,” he said. “I suppose that its influence is physically a bad one. I find it, however, so transcendently stimulating and clarifying to the mind that its secondary action is a matter of small moment.”
      “But consider!” I said earnestly. “Count the cost! Your brain may, as you say, be roused and excited, but it is a pathological and morbid process which involves increased tissue-change and may at least leave a permanent weakness. You know, too, what a black reaction comes upon you. Surely the game is hardly worth the candle. Why should you, for a mere passing pleasure, risk the loss of those great powers with which you have been endowed? Remember that I speak not only as one comrade to another but as a medical man to one for whose constitution he is to some extent answerable.”
      He did not seem offended. On the contrary, he put his finger-tips together, and leaned his elbows on the arms of his chair, like one who has a relish for conversation.
      “My mind,” he said, “rebels at stagnation. Give me problems , give me work, give me the mos t abs t rus e cryptogram, or the most intricate analysis, and I am in my own proper atmosphere. I can dispense then with artificial stimulants. But I abhor the dull routine of existence. I crave for mental exaltation. That is why I have chosen my own particular profession, or rather created it, for I am the only one in the world.”
      “The only unofficial detective?” I said, raising my eyebrows.
      “The only unofficial consulting detective,” he answered.
      “I am the last and highest court of appeal in detection. When Gregson, or Lestrade, or Athelney Jones are out of their depths—which, by the way, is their normal state—the matter is laid before me. I examine the data, as an expert, and pronounce a specialist’s opinion. I claim no credit in such cases. My name figures in no newspaper. The work itself, the pleasure of finding a field for my peculiar powers, is my highest reward. But you have yourself had some experience of my methods of work in the Jefferson Hope case.”
      “Yes, indeed,” said I cordially. “I was never so struck by anything in my life. I even embodied it in a small brochure, with the somewhat fantastic title of ‘A Study in Scarlet.’ ”
      He shook his head sadly.
      “I glanced over it,” said he. “Honestly, I cannot congratulate you upon it. Detection is, or ought to be, an exact science and should be treated in the same cold and unemotional manner. You have attempted to tinge it with romanticism, which produces much the same effect as if you worked a love-story or an elopement into the fifth-proposition of Euclid.”
      “But the romance was there,” I remonstrated. “I could not tamper with the facts.”
      “Some facts should be suppressed, or, at least, a just sense of proportion should be observed in treating them. The only point in the case which deserved mention was the curious analytical reasoning from effects to causes, by which I succeeded in unravelling it.”
      I was annoyed at this criticism of a work which had been specially designed to please him. I confess, too, that I was irritated by the egotism which seemed to demand that every line of my pamphlet should be devoted to his own special doings. More than once during the years that I had lived with him in Baker Street I had observed that a small vanity underlay my companion’s quiet and didactic manner. I made no remark, however, but sat nursing my wounded leg. I had had a Jezail bullet through it some time before, and though it did not prevent me from walking it ached wearily at every change of the weather.
      “My practice has extended recently to the Continent,” said Holmes after a while, filling up his old brier-root pipe. “I was consulted last week by François le Villard, who, as you probably know, has come rather to the front lately in the French detective service. He has all the Celtic power of quick intuition, but he is deficient in the wide range of exact knowledge which is essential to the higher developments of his art. The case was concerned with a will and possessed some features of interest. I was able to refer him to two parallel cases, the one at Riga in 1857, and the other at St. Louis in 1871, which have suggested to him the true solution. Here is the letter which I had this morning acknowledging my assistance.”
      He tossed over, as he spoke, a crumpled sheet of foreign notepaper. I glanced my eyes down it, catching a profusion of notes of admiration, with stray magnifiques, coup-de-mâitres and tours-de-force, all testifying to the ardent admiration of the Frenchman.
      “He speaks as a pupil to his master,” said I.
      “Oh, he rates my assistance too highly,” said Sherlock Holmes slightly. “He has considerable gifts himself. He possesses two out of the three qualities necessary for the ideal detective. He has the power of observation and that of deduction. He is only wanting in knowledge, and that may come in time. He is now translating my small works into French.”


中文翻译
      歇洛克•福尔摩斯从壁炉台的角落拿起一只药瓶,又把一支皮下注射器从整洁的山羊皮匣子里拿了出来。接着,他用修长白皙的手指小心翼翼地装好细细的针头,然后就把左边的衬衫袖口挽了起来。
有那么一小会儿,他只是若有所思地看着自己强健有力的前臂和手腕,上面已经布满了数不清的针眼。到最后,他把针头扎了进去,又把针筒一推到底,跟着就再次倒进那把天鹅绒面的扶手椅,心满意足地长出了一口气。
      好几个月以来,同样的表演我每天都要看三次。不过,看得多并不意味着看得惯。恰恰相反,我对这种场景的反感日益加深,每天晚上都会受到良心的谴责,责备自己缺乏抗议的勇气。我一次又一次地发誓要清除这个良心上的包袱,可是,我室友那种冷漠淡然的架势让人万万不敢在他面前有丝毫放肆。他非凡的本领,高高在上的态度,还有我业已有所领教的一些特异性情,全都让我畏葸退缩,不敢去冒犯他。
      不过,就在这天下午,或者是因为我午餐时和他一起喝了点儿博讷葡萄酒,又或是因为他那副慢条斯理、不厌其烦的样子让人格外烦躁,我突然觉得,再装看不见已经不行了。
       “今天又是什么呢,”我问道,“是吗啡,还是可卡因?”
      他刚刚翻开一本古旧的书籍,此时便无精打采地抬了抬眼皮。
      “是可卡因 ,”他说道,“百分之七的溶液。你想试试吗?”
      “不想,绝对不想,”我粗鲁地答道。“我的身体还没从阿富汗战争当中恢复过来呢,我可不想再让它承受什么新的伤害。”
      看到我激烈的反应,他笑了一笑。“也许你说得对,华生,”他说道。“按我看,从生理上说,它的确是有害的。不过,我发现它特别地提神醒脑,跟这个比起来,副作用也就是小事一
桩了。”
      “可你得想想!”我恳切地说道。“想想其中的代价!它也许的确有你说的那种效力,可以让你的脑子兴奋起来,可是,这个过程是病态的,会加快身体组织的变化,往最轻的方面说也会造成永久性的身体虚弱。它把你弄得多么沮丧,你自己应该也很清楚。毫无疑问,这是件得不偿失的事情。它带来的快感不过是一瞬间,却可能会让你失去那些天生的非凡禀赋,你干吗要冒这样的险呢?
      你一定得记住,我说这话可不光因为咱俩是朋友,还因为我是一名医生,对你的健康负有一定的责任。”
      他好像并没有生气的意思,恰恰相反,他把双手的指尖拢到一起,还把双肘支在了椅子的扶手上,一副谈兴很高的样子。
      “我的脑子,”他说道,“受不了死水一潭的局面。给我个问题,给我件工作,只管把最深奥难解的密码或是最错综复杂的分析扔到我面前,我马上就会进入最佳的状态。那样的话,我就可以放弃这些人造的兴奋剂。可是,我真的是对按部就班的单调生活深恶痛绝,非常渴望精神上的强烈刺激。就是由于这个原因,我才选择了这份特殊的职业,准确说的话,是创造了这份特殊的职业,因为这世上干这行的只有我一个。”
      “私家侦探只有你一个?”我扬起了眉毛。
      “私家顾问侦探只有我一个,”他回答道。“我是侦探行当之中最后也最高的上诉法庭。格雷森啦,雷斯垂德啦,埃瑟尼•琼斯啦,这些人一旦山穷水尽——当然,山穷水尽是他们的正常状态——就会把案子摆到我的面前。作为行业之中的专家,我会检查相关的材料,向他们提供专业的意见。我从不为这些案子邀功请赏,我的名字也不会出现在任何一张报纸上。工作本身就已经是最高的奖赏,因为我为自己的特殊本领找到了一块用武之地。当然喽,我那些工作方法,你应该已经通过杰弗逊•霍普一案有了一点儿切身体会吧。”
      “没错,深有体会,”我诚心诚意地说道。“这辈子我还没见过比它更惊人的事呢。甚至啊,我还把它写成了一本小册子,又起了个稀奇古怪的书名,叫做‘暗红习作’。”他悲哀地摇了摇头。
      “我大概扫了一眼你写的东西,”他说道。“说实在话,我没法向你表示祝贺。侦探工作是,或者说应该是,一门精密的科学,因此就应该像其他精密科学一样,得到不带感情色彩的冷静对待。
可你却试图给它加上一点儿浪漫色彩,最后的效果呢,就跟把爱情故事或者私奔情节塞到欧几里得第五命题当中差不多。”
      “可是,案子里面的确有浪漫的情节啊,”我抗议道。“我总不能篡改事实吧。”
      “有些事实没必要写出来,非要写的话,也得把握好剪裁的分寸。这件案子里只有一点值得一提,也就是那种抽丝剥茧、以果推因的奇妙演绎方法,全靠了它的帮助,我才能够成功破案。”
      我心里觉得很是恼火,因为我写这本东西完全是为了讨他的好,得到的却是他的数落。与此同时,我必须承认,他那种自以为是的态度也是我生气的原因。他似乎是认为,我这本小册子应该专门记述他个人的所作所为,只字不提任何别的东西。跟他一起在贝克街生活的这些年里,我不止一次地注意到,这位室友好为人师的沉静外表下面藏着一点小小的虚荣。不过,这会儿我并没有说什么,只是坐在那里揉自己的伤腿。我这条腿曾经吃过一颗捷泽尔枪弹,虽然不妨碍走路,天气变化的时候却总会疼痛难忍。
      “最近,我的业务已经扩展到了欧洲大陆,”一会儿之后,福尔摩斯一边往他那个古旧的欧石南烟斗里装烟丝,一边开口说道。
      “上个星期,弗朗索瓦•勒•维拉尔来咨询过我,你没准儿也听说过,这个人近来在法国的侦探界很出风头。他完全继承了凯尔特人那种敏锐的直觉,要在侦探领域更进一步却还缺少一个必备的条件,那就是广博而精确的知识。他那件案子牵扯到一份遗嘱,有几个地方也还满有意思。后来我让他去参考两件类似的案子,一件发生在一八五七年的里加,另一件则发生在一八七一年的圣路易斯。这么着,他就找到了正确的答案。你瞧瞧,这是我今天早上收到的感谢信。”
      说话间,他把一张皱巴巴的外国纸片扔了过来。我飞快地扫了一遍,瞥见了一大堆赞美之辞,处处都是“精彩绝伦”、“大师手笔”和“高招妙着”之类的字眼,充分体现了那位法国侦探五体投地的景仰之情。
      “他这完全是学生对老师说话的口气嘛,”我说道。
      “哦,他把我的帮助看得太重要了,”歇洛克•福尔摩斯轻声说了一句。“其实呢,他自己也是很有天赋的。理想的侦探需要三个条件,他已经具备了两个。观察能力和演绎能力他都有,缺的只是知识,而知识也是他迟早会有的东西。眼下,他正在把我的一些拙文译成法文。”

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