英语阅读.doc

完整word)英语阅读
The Story of An Hour
Knowing that Mrs. Mallard was afflicted with a heart trouble, great care was taken to break to her  as gently as possible the news of her husband's death。 It was her sister Josephine who told her， in 
broken sentences； veiled hints that revealed in half concealing。 Her husband’s friend Richards was 
there, too, near her。 It was he who hadbeen in the newspaper office when intelligence of thedisaster was received， with Brently Mallard's name leading the list of "killed。" He had only taken the time 
to assure himself of its truth by a second telegram, and had hastened to forestall any less careful， 
less tender friend in bearing the sad message.  
She did not hear the story as many women have heard the same， with a paralyzed inability to accept its significance. She wept at once, with sudden， wild abandonment， in her sister's arms. When the storm of grief had spent itself she went away to her room alone. She would have no one follow her. There stood, facing the open window， a comfortable, roomy armchair. Into this she sank， pressed down by a physical exhaustion that haunted her body and seemed to reach into her soul.   
She could see in the open square before her house the tops of trees that were all aquiver with the new spring life. The delicious breath of rain was in the air。 In the street below a peddler was crying his wares。 The notes of a distant song which some one was singing reached her faintly, and countless sparrows were twittering in the eaves。  
There were patches of blue sky showing here and there through the clouds that had met and piled one above the other in the west facing her window.  She sat with her head thrown back upon the cushion of the chair， quite motionless, except when a sob came up into her throat and shook her, as a child who has cried itself to sleep continues to sob in its dreams。  
She was young， with a fair， calm face， whose lines bespoke repression and even a certain strength. But now there was a dull stare in her eyes, whose gaze was fixed away off yonder on one of those patches of blue sky. It was not a glance of reflection, but rather indicated a suspension of intelligent thought。  There was something coming to her and she was waiting for it， fearfully. What was it? She did not know; it was too subtle and elusive to name。 But she felt it， creeping out of the sky， reaching toward her through the sounds， the scents, the color that filled the air。  
Now her bosom rose and fell tumultuously。 She was beginning to recognize this thing that was approaching to possess her, and she was striving to beat it back with her will--as powerless as her two white slender hands would have been。  
When she abandoned herself a little whispered word escaped her slightly parted lips. She said it over and over under her breath: ”free, free, free！" The vacant stare and the look of terror that had followed it went from her eyes。 They stayed keen and bright. Her pulses beat fast, and the coursing blood warmed and relaxed every inch of her body。  
She did not stop to ask if it were or were not a monstrous joy that held her。 A clear and exalted perception enabled her to dismiss the suggestion as trivial。  
She knew that she would weep again when she saw the kind， tender hands folded in death; the face that had never looked save with love upon her, fixed and gray and dead。 But she saw beyond that bitter moment a long procession of years to come that would belong to her absolutely. And she opened and spread her arms out to them in welcome.  
There would be no one to live for during those coming years； she would live for herself。 There would be no powerful will bending hers in that blind persistence with which men and women believe they have a right to impose a private will upon a fellow-creature。 A kind intention or a cruel intention made the act seem no less a crime as she looked upon it in that brief moment of illumination.  
And yet she had loved him——sometimes. Often she had not。 What did it matter! What could love， the unsolved mystery, count for in face of this possession of self-assertion which she suddenly recognized as the strongest impulse of her being!  
"Free！ Body and soul free!" she kept whispering。  
Josephine was kneeling before the closed door with her lips to the keyhole, imploring for admission. "Louise, open the door！ I beg， open the door—-you will make yourself ill. What are you doing Louise? For heaven’s sake open the door.”  
”Go away。 I am not making myself ill.” No； she was drinking in a very elixir of life through that open window.  
Her fancy was running riot along those days ahead of her。 Spring days， and summer days, and all sorts of days that would be her own. She breathed a quick prayer that life might be long. It was only yesterday she had thought with a shudder that life might be long。  
She arose at length and opened the door to her sister's importunities。 There was a feverish triumph in her eyes, and she carried herself unwittingly like a goddess of Victory. She clasped her sister’s waist, and together they descended the stairs. Richards stood waiting for them at the bottom.  
Some one was opening the front door with a latchkey. It was Brently Mallard who entered, a little travel—stained， composedly carrying his grip-sack and umbrella。 He had been far from the scene of accident and did not even know there had been one. He stood amazed at Josephine's piercing cry; at Richards’ quick motion to screen him from the view of his wife.  But Richards was too late。  
When the doctors came they said she had died of heart disease-— of joy that kills。 

Early Autumn ---—By Langston Hughes  
  When Bill was very young, they had been in love. Many nights they had spent walking， talking together. Then something not very important had come between them， and they didn’t speak。 Impulsively， she had married a man she thought she loved。 Bill went away, bitter about women.   
  Yesterday, walking across Washington Square, she saw him for the first time in years。   
  “Bill Walker,” she said.   
  He stopped。 At first he did not recognize her； to him she looked so old.   
  “Mary! Where did you come from？”   
  Unconsciously, she lifted her face as though wanting a kiss， but he held out his hand. She took it。   
  “I live in New York now,” she said.   
  “Oh.” -Smiling politely, then a little frown came quickly between his eyes。   
  “Always wondered what happened to you， Bill.”   
  “I’m a lawyer. Nice firm, way downtown.”   
  “Married yet？"   
  “Sure. Two kids。”   
  “Oh，” she said。   
  A great many people went past them through the park。 People they didn't know. It was late afternoon. Nearly sunset. Cold。   
  “And your husband？” he asked her。   
  “We have three children. I work in the bursar’s office（大学财务处) at Columbia."   
  “You are looking very…” (he wanted to say old） “…well，” he said。   
 2 
  She understood。 Under the trees in Washington Square， she found herself desperately reaching back into the past. She had been older than he then in Ohio. Now she was not young at all. Bill was still young。   
  “We live on Central Park West," she said. “Come and see us sometime.”   
  “Sure,” he replied. “You and your husband must have dinner with my family some night。 Any night。 Lucille and I’d love to have you。”   
  The leaves fell slowly from the tree in the Square. Fell without wind。 Autumn dusk。 She felt a little sick.   
  “We'd love it,” she answered.   
  “You ought to see my kids。” He grinned。   
  Suddenly the lights came on up the whole length of Fifth Avenue, chains of misty brilliance in the
 blue air。   
  “There’s my bus," she said.   
  He held out his hand。 “Goodbye。"   
  “When…”, she wanted to say, but the bus was ready to pull off。 The lights on the avenue blurred,
 twinkled， blurred. And she was afraid to open her mouth as she entered the bus. Afraid it would be impossible to utter a word。   
  Suddenly she shrieked very loudly， “Good-bye!” But the bus door had closed。   

  The bus started。 People came between them outside, people crossing the street， people they didn’t know。 Space and people。 She lost sight of Bill. Then she remembered she had forgotten to give him her address—or to ask him for his—or tell him that her youngest boy was named Bill, too。
A  Piece of Yellow Soap 
———— by Frank Sargeson

She is dead now, that woman who used to hold a great piece of soap in her hand as she stood at her kitchen door. I was a milkman in those days。 The woman owed a bill to the firm I worked for，and each Saturday I was expected to collect a sum that would pay for the week's milk,and pay something off the amount overdue. Well, I never collected anything at all。 It was because of that piece of yellow soap.
I shall never forget those Saturday mornings. The woman had two advantages over me。 She used to stand at the top of the steps and I used to stand at the bottom； and she always came out holding a piece of yellow soap. We used to argue。 I would always start off by being very firm。 Didn’t my living depend on my getting money out of the people I served ? but out of this woman I never got a penny。 The more I argued the tighter the woman would curl her fingers on to the soap ;and her fingers， just out of the washtub, were always bloodless and shrunken。 I knew what they must have felt like to her。 I didn’t like getting my own fingers bloodless and shrunken。 My eyes would get fixed on her fingers and the soap， and after a few minutes I would lose all power to look the woman in the face。 I would mumble something to myself and take myself off.
I have often wondered whether the woman knew anything about the power her piece of yellow soap had over me， whether she used it as effectively on other tradesmen as she used it on me。 I can't help feeling that she did know. Sometimes I used to pass her along the street， out of working hours. She acknowledged me only by staring at me， her eyes like pieces of rock。
She had a way too of feeling inside her handbag as she passed me， and I always had the queer feeling that she caried there a piece of soap. It was her talisman powerful to work wonders, to create ound her a circle through which the more desperate harshnesses of the world could never penetrate。
Well， she is dead now, that woman . if she has passed into Heaven I can't help wondering whether she passed in holding tight to a piece of yellow washing soap. I'm not sure that I believe I don’t doubt that when He looked at that piece of yellow washing soap He felt ashamed of Himself。-

The washwoman

Our home had little contact with Gentiles。 But there were the Gentile washwomen who came to the house to fetch our laundry. My story is about one of these. 
She was a small woman， old and wrinkled. When she started washing for us, she was already past seventy。 Most Jewish women of her age were sickly, weak， broken in body。 But this washwoman, small and thin as she was, possessed a strength that came from generations of peasant ancestors. Mother would count out to her a bag of laundry that had accumulated over several weeks。 She would lift the heavy bag, load it on her narrow shoulders, and carry it the long way home. It must have been a walk of an hour and a half. 
She would bring the laundry back about two week later. My mother had never been so pleased with any washwoman。 Every piece of laundry was as clean as polished silver. Every piece was nearly ironed。 Yet she charged no more than the others。 She was a real find。 Mother always had her money ready， because it was too far for the old woman to come a second time。 
Washing clothes was not easy in those days。 The old woman had no tap where she lived, but had to bring in the water from a pump. For the clothes and bedclothes to come out so clean, they had to be scrubbed thoroughly in a washtub， rinsed with washing soda， soaked， boiled in an enormous pot, starched， then ironed。 Every piece was handled ten times or more。 And the drying! It had to be hung in the attic。 
She could have begged at the church door or entered a home for the poor and aged. But there was in her a certain pride and love of labor with which many Gentiles have been blessed. The old woman did not want to become a burden， and so bore her burden. 
The woman had a son who was rich. I no longer remember what sort of business he had。 He was ashamed of his mother， the washwoman， and never came to see her。 Nor did he ever give her any money. The old woman told this without bitterness。 One day the son was married. It seemed that he had made a good match。 The wedding took place in a church。 The son had not invited the old mother to his wedding， but she went to the church and waited at the steps to see her son lead the “young lady” to the altar… 
The story of the faithless son left a deep impression on my mother。 She talked about it for weeks and months。 It was an insult not only to the old woman but to all mothers. Mother would argue， “Does it pay to make sacrifices for children？ The mother uses up her last strength, and he does not even know the meaning of loyalty.” 
That winter was a harsh one。 The streets were icy. No matter how much we heated our stove, the windows were covered with frost。 The newspapers reported that people were dying of the cold. Coal became dear。 The winter had become so severe that parents stopped sending children to school。 
On one such day the washwoman, now nearly eighty years old， came to our house。 A good deal of laundry had accumulated during the past weeks. Mother gave her a pot of tear to warm herself, as well as some bread。 The old woman sat on a kitchen chair trebling and shaking， and warmed her hands against the teapot。 Her fingers were rough from work， and perhaps from arthritis, too。 Her fingernails were strangely white. These hands spoke of the stubbornness of mankind， of the will to work not only as one’s strength permits but beyond the limits of one’s power。 
The bag was big， bigger than usual。 When she woman placed it on her shoulders, it covered her completely. At first she stayed， as though she were about to fall under the load。 But an inner stubbornness seemed to call out: No， you may not fall。 A donkey may permit himself to fall under his burden， but not a human being， the best of creation. 
She disappeared， and mother sighed and prayed for her. 
More than two months passed. The frost had gone， and then a new frost had come， a new wave of cold. One evening， while mother was sitting near the oil lamp mending a shirt， the door opened and a small puff of steam, followed by a gigantic bag， entered the room。 I ran toward the old woman and helped her unload her bag. She was even thinner now， more bent。 Her head shook from side to side as though she were saying no. she could not utter a clear word， but mumbled something with her sunken mouth and