Whatever hour you woke there was a door shutting. From room to room they went, hand in hand, lifting here, opening there, making sure—a ghostly couple.
“Here we left it,” she said. And he added, “Oh, but here too!” “It’s upstairs,” she murmured. “And in the garden,” he whispered “Quietly,” they said, “or we shall wake them.”
But it wasn’t that you woke us. Oh, no. “They’re looking for it; they’re drawing the curtain,” one might say, and so read on a page or two. “Now they’ve found it,” one would be certain, stopping the pencil on the margin. And then, tired of reading, one might rise and see for oneself, the house all empty, the doors standing open, only the wood pigeons bubbling with content and the hum of the threshing machine sounding from the farm. “What did I come in here for? What did I want to find?” My hands were empty. “Perhaps it’s upstairs then?” The apples were in the loft. And so down again, the garden still as ever, only the book had slipped into the grass.
But they had found it in the drawing room. Not that one could ever see them. The window panes reflected apples, reflected roses; all the leaves were green in the glass. If they moved in the drawing room, the apple only turned its yellow side. Yet, the moment after, if the door was opened, spread about the floor, hung upon the walls, pendant from the ceiling—what? My hands were empty. The shadow of a thrush crossed the carpet; from the deepest wells of silence the wood pigeon drew its bubble of sound. “Safe, safe, safe,” the pulse of the house beat softly. “The treasure buried; the room . . . ” the pulse stopped short. Oh, was that the buried treasure?
A moment later the light had faded. Out in the garden then? But the trees spun darkness for a wandering beam of sun. So fine, so rare, coolly sunk beneath the surface the beam I sought always burnt behind the glass. Death was the glass; death was between us; coming to the woman first, hundreds of years ago, leaving the house, sealing all the windows; the rooms were darkened. He left it, left her, went North, went East, saw the stars turned in the Southern sky; sought the house, found it dropped beneath the Downs. “Safe, safe, safe,” the pulse of the house beat gladly. “The Treasure yours.”
The wind roars up the avenue. Trees stoop and bend this way and that. Moonbeams splash and spill wildly in the rain. But the beam of the lamp falls straight from the window. The candle burns stiff and still. Wandering through the house, opening the windows, whispering not to wake us, the ghostly couple seek their joy.
“Here we slept,” she says. And he adds, “Kisses without number.” “Waking in the morning—” “Silver between the trees—” “Upstairs—” “In the garden—” “When summer came—” “In winter snowtime—” The doors go shutting far in the distance, gently knocking like the pulse of a heart.
Nearer they come; cease at the doorway. The wind falls, the rain slides silver down the glass. Our eyes darken; we hear no steps beside us; we see no lady spread her ghostly cloak. His hands shield the lantern. “Look,” he breathes. “Sound asleep. Love upon their lips.”
Stooping, holding their silver lamp above us, long they look and deeply. Long they pause. The wind drives straightly; the flame stoops slightly. Wild beams of moonlight cross both floor and wall, and, meeting, stain the faces bent; the faces pondering; the faces that search the sleepers and seek their hidden joy.
“Safe, safe, safe,” the heart of the house beats proudly. “Long years—” he sighs. “Again you found me.” “Here,” she murmurs, “sleeping; in the garden reading; laughing, rolling apples in the loft. Here we left our treasure—” Stooping, their light lifts the lids upon my eyes. “Safe! safe! safe!” the pulse of the house beats wildly. Waking, I cry “Oh, is this your buried treasure? The light in the heart.”
【关键词】
1、margin （n.） 页边空白
2、wood pigeon （n.） [鸟]斑尾林鸽；斑鸠
3、hum （n.） 嗡嗡声；哼声；
4、threshing machine (n.) 脱粒机
5、loft （n.） 阁楼
6、pendant （adj.） 下垂的
7、thrush （n.） 画眉
8、shield （vt.） 保护
9、stoop （vi.） 弯腰
10、pondering （adj.） 经过深思熟虑的
【译文】鬼屋
弗吉尼亚・伍尔夫
无论你何时醒来，总有一扇门关着。他们手牵手，一个房间一个房间地挨个转悠，动动这儿，开开那儿，在确认什么 —— 一对幽灵夫妇。
“我们把它留这儿了，”她说。他补充道，“嗯，还有这儿！”“在楼上，”她嘀咕道。 “在花园里，”他小声说。 “轻点儿，”他们说，“不然我们会惊醒他们的。”
可你们并没有惊醒我们。呃，没有。 “他们在寻找东西；他们正在拉开窗帘，”有人可能会这么说，于是乎又读上一两页的书。 “现在他们已经找到它了，“有人会这么断定，在书的页边空白处停下铅笔。再者，有人读书倦了，可能会站起身来，对这个空空荡荡的房子亲自察看一番，门是敞开的，只有斑鸠发出的满意的咕咕声和从农场传来的脱粒机的嗡嗡声。“我来这里干什么？我想找到什么？”我双手手空空如也。”也许它在楼上呢？“苹果在阁楼里。然后再次下楼，花园寂静如常，只有书滑落在了草地上。
但是他们在客厅找到了它。并不是说有人会看到他们。窗玻璃反射出苹果，反射出玫瑰；在玻璃上，所有的叶子都是绿的。如果他们走进客厅，苹果仅呈现其黄色一面。然而，此时此刻，如果房门被打开，那些叶子的影子就会洒满在地板上，悬挂在墙上，垂吊在天花板上 —— 什么？我双手空空如也。画眉鸟的影子掠过地毯；遥不可测的沉寂的深处，传来斑鸠的咕咕叫声。 “平安，平安，平安，”房子在轻柔脉动。 “埋藏的宝藏；这个房间......”脉动突然停了。哦，那就是埋藏的宝藏？
不一会儿，灯光渐渐消失了。那么在外面花园里？可是树木伴随着太阳光束的漫游而喜欢转自己的黑影。我追寻的那束太阳光一直在玻璃后燃烧，如此精美，如此罕见，冷静地沉入地下。死亡是玻璃；死亡就在我们之间，首先来到那个女人身边，数百年前，他离开这座房子，密封了所有的窗户；房间变暗了。他离开了房子，离开了她，奔向北方，奔向东方，看到了南方天空的斗转星移;找寻那座房子，发现它沉降于唐斯丘陵下面。 “平安，平安，平安，”房子高兴地脉动着。 “你的宝藏。”
风沿着大街咆哮。树木东倒西歪地扭曲着身躯。大雨，月光缕缕在如注的大雨中飞溅。可是灯的光束却从窗户上直接落下。蜡烛静静地、静静地燃烧着。这对幽灵夫妻寻求着他们的快乐，他们在房子里走来走去，打开窗户，窃窃私语说不要惊醒我们。
“我们睡在这里，”她说。他补充道，“亲吻无数。” “早上醒来 ——”“树林间呈银灰色 —— ”“楼上 —— ”“花园里 —— ”“夏天来临之际 —— ”“冬日飞雪时光 —— ”远处的门砰一声关上了，轻柔的叩击声如同心脏的脉动。
他们越来越近，停在门口。风力弱了，银色的雨水贴着玻璃向下流淌。我们的眼睛暗淡无光；我们听不到身边的脚步声；我们看不到女士张开的她那幽灵般的斗篷。他双手护着灯笼。 “瞧，”他低声说道。 “他们睡得很香。唇上带着爱意。”
他们手握银灯，屈身照耀我们，长久地注视着，深情地注视着。他们久久不肯离去。风儿径直吹来；火苗轻轻摇摆。屡屡月光肆无忌惮地穿越地板和墙壁，会合一处，斑驳陆离地照射着那两张低俯的面孔；沉思的面孔；搜寻酣睡者和寻求潜藏快乐的面孔。
“平安，平安，平安，”房子的心脏骄傲地脉动着。 “岁月漫长 —— ”他叹了口气。 “你又找到了我。” “在这里，”她咕哝道，“在睡觉；在花园里，读书；在阁楼里，笑着滚苹果。我们把宝藏留在了这里—— ”他们弯腰时，灯罩脱落，掉到了我的眼睛上。 “平安！平安！平安！”房子疯狂地脉动着。醒来，我哭了“哦，这是你埋藏的宝藏吗？内心深处的灯。”
（完）
【译后小记】关于作者及其作品《鬼屋》
弗吉尼亚・伍尔芙（Adeline Virginia Woolf，1882年1月25日-1941年3月28日），英国女作家、文学批评家和文学理论家，意识流文学代表人物。
伍尔芙最知名的作品包括《达洛维夫人》（Mrs. Dalloway）、《到灯塔去》（To the Lighthouse）、《雅各的房间》（Jakob's Room）、《奥兰多》（Orlando: a Biography）、《属于自己的房间》（A Room of One's Own，散文）、《鬼屋及其他》（The Haunted House and Others，短篇小说集）等。
伍尔夫被誉为20世纪伟大的小说家，现代主义文学潮流的先锋；她对英语语言革新良多，在小说中尝试意识流的写作方法，试图去描绘在人们心底的潜意识。
伍尔芙的《鬼屋》情节简单，讲述一对鬼夫妻回到生前故居寻找埋藏的宝藏。故事大概发生在19世纪末英国一座带花园的老屋，一对作古的夫妻在故居内来回走动，试图寻找埋藏的财宝。房屋的新主人听到了门窗开开关关的声音,显然意识到了屋内有鬼,但她并不害怕。鬼夫妻搜索了房屋的每个房间,然后一致认为房屋的新主人并没有发现宝藏,它有可能埋在花园里,而且仍然属于他们。直到小说的结尾,作者才告诉我们，鬼夫妻寻找的宝藏是“内心深处的灯”。
《鬼屋》笔调优美，寓意深刻，堪称现代主义文学作品的典范。小说的主人公由于凄美的爱情而显得唯美浪漫，由于幽灵的身份而显得神秘空灵。他们手牵手回到生前居住过的房子，回忆起往日的生活。在《鬼屋》这篇意识流小说中，情感在过去和现在之间交替展现，让人的思绪萦回起伏。
