英文
THE CURIOUS CASE OF BENJAMIN BUTTON X
At the termination of this interview, Benjamin wandered dismally upstairs and stared at himself in the mirror. He had not shaved for three months, but he could find nothing on his face but a faint white down with which it seemed unnecessary to meddle. When he had first come home from Harvard, Roscoe had approached him with the proposition that he should wear eye-glasses and imitation whiskers glued to his cheeks, and it had seemed for a moment that the farce of his early years was to be repeated. But whiskers had itched and made him ashamed. He wept and Roscoe had reluctantly relented.
Benjamin opened a book of boys' stories, The Boy Scouts in Bimini Bay, and began to read. But he found himself thinking persistently about the war. America had joined the Allied cause during the preceding month, and Benjamin wanted to enlist, but, alas, sixteen was the minimum age, and he did not look that old. His true age, which was fifty-seven, would have disqualified him, anyway.
There was a knock at his door, and the butler appeared with a letter bearing a large official legend in the corner and addressed to Mr. Benjamin Button. Benjamin tore it open eagerly, and read the enclosure with delight. It informed him that many reserve officers who had served in the Spanish-American War were being called back into service with a higher rank, and it enclosed his commission as brigadier-general in the United States army with orders to report immediately.
Benjamin jumped to his feet fairly quivering with enthusiasm. This was what he had wanted. He seized his cap, and ten minutes later he had entered a large tailoring establishment on Charles Street, and asked in his uncertain treble to be measured for a uniform.
“Want to play soldier, sonny?” demanded a clerk casually.
Benjamin flushed. “Say! Never mind what I want!” he retorted angrily. “My name's Button and I live on Mt. Vernon Place, so you know I'm good for it.”
“Well,” admitted the clerk hesitantly, “if you're not, I guess your daddy is, all right.”
Benjamin was measured, and a week later his uniform was completed. He had difficulty in obtaining the proper general's insignia because the dealer kept insisting to Benjamin that a nice Y.W.C.A. badge would look just as well and be much more fun to play with.
Saying nothing to Roscoe, he left the house one night and proceeded by train to Camp Mosby, in South Carolina, where he was to command an infantry brigade. On a sultry April day he approached the entrance to the camp, paid off the taxicab which had brought him from the station, and turned to the sentry on guard.
“Get some one to handle my luggage!” he said briskly.
The sentry eyed him reproachfully. “Say,” he remarked, “where you goin' with the general's duds, sonny?”
Benjamin, veteran of the Spanish-American War, whirled upon him with fire in his eye, but with, alas, a changing treble voice.
“Come to attention!” he tried to thunder; he paused for breath—then suddenly he saw the sentry snap his heels together and bring his rifle to the present. Benjamin concealed a smile of gratification, but when he glanced around his smile faded. It was not he who had inspired obedience, but an imposing artillery colonel who was approaching on horseback.
“Colonel!” called Benjamin shrilly.
The colonel came up, drew rein, and looked coolly down at him with a twinkle in his eyes. “Whose little boy are you?” he demanded kindly.
“I'll soon darn well show you whose little boy I am!” retorted Benjamin in a ferocious voice. “Get down off that horse!”
The colonel roared with laughter.
“You want him, eh, general?”
“Here!” cried Benjamin desperately. “Read this.” And he thrust his commission toward the colonel.
The colonel read it, his eyes popping from their sockets.
“Where'd you get this?” he demanded, slipping the document into his own pocket.
“I got it from the Government, as you'll soon find out!”
“You come along with me,” said the colonel with a peculiar look. “We'll go up to headquarters and talk this over. Come along.”
The colonel turned and began walking his horse in the direction of headquarters. There was nothing for Benjamin to do but follow with as much dignity as possible—meanwhile promising himself a stern revenge. But this revenge did not materialise. Two days later, however, his son Roscoe materialised from Baltimore, hot and cross from a hasty trip, and escorted the weeping general, sans uniform, back to his home.
中文
返老还童 十
这次面谈结束后,本杰明闷闷不乐地在楼上徘徊,看着镜子里的自己。他已经三个月没有刮脸了,但是他发现脸上只有一层淡淡的小绒毛,似乎没有必要去管它。他刚从哈佛大学回来的时候,罗斯科来到他面前,建议他戴上眼镜,脸上粘上假胡须。刹那间,他觉得他刚出生时的闹剧似乎又重演了。但是假胡子让他皮肤瘙痒,而且让他觉得羞耻。他哭起来,罗斯科勉强动了点恻隐之心。
本杰明翻开一本儿童故事书《比米尼海湾的童子军》,开始读起来。但是,他发现自己总是对战争念念不忘。上个月,美国加入了协约国,本杰明想去参军。但是,哎,年龄要求至少是十六岁,而他看起来没那么大。他的实际年龄是五十七岁,即使这个年龄也是不合格的。
有人敲门,管家送来一封信,是给本杰明·巴顿的,信角上有一个很大的公章。本杰明急切地打开信封,高兴地读着信。信上说,许多参加过美西战争的预备军官正在被召回军队,并被授予更高的军衔,信里还附有一张委任状,任命本杰明·巴顿为美国陆军准将,并命他立即前去报到。
本杰明跳起来,他因为热血沸腾而微微颤抖,这正合他的心意。他抓起帽子,十分钟后便来到查尔斯街上的一家大型裁缝铺,用尖声尖气、缺乏底气的童声要求为他量身定做一套军装。
“想扮演士兵吗,小兄弟?”裁缝铺的伙计漫不经心地问道。
本杰明的脸红了。“喂!我想干吗不用你操心!”他生气地反驳道,“我姓巴顿,住在弗农山庄,这样你总该明白我出得起做衣服的钱了吧。”
“好吧,”裁缝铺的伙计犹犹豫豫地认可了他的说法,“如果你没钱,那么,我想你爸爸会有的。”
裁缝铺的伙计为本杰明量好尺寸,一个礼拜后军装就做好了。他大费周章才弄到合适的准将肩章,因为裁缝铺老板坚持认为,一枚精致的基督教女青会的徽章同样好看,而且更有趣,更好玩。
一天夜晚,本杰明瞒着罗斯科,不辞而别。他乘坐火车,来到南卡罗来纳州的莫斯比军营,他要在那里统领一个步兵旅。四月的一个湿热难耐的日子,他来到军营的大门口,付清把他从车站送到军营的出租车钱,转身看着站岗的哨兵。
“叫人帮我拿行李!”他居高临下地说。
哨兵用责怪的眼神看着他。“喂,”他说,“你穿着陆军准将的衣服要去哪里,小兄弟?”
本杰明,美西战争的老兵,怒火中烧的他猛然转过身,但是,哎,他的声音却是尖锐的童声。
“立正!”他大声吼道。他停下来喘气——然后,突然之间,他看见哨兵咔的一声并拢脚跟,把步枪举到胸前。本杰明暗暗露出满意的微笑,然而,他向后一看,笑容消失了。士兵并不是服从他的命令,而是看到了骑在马背上正威风凛凛地赶来的炮兵上校。
“上校!”本杰明尖声尖气地大声喊道。
上校策马勒缰,用炯炯有神的目光冷静地俯视着他。“你是谁家的小孩?”他慈祥地问。
“我马上就证明给你看我是谁家的小孩!”本杰明狠狠地训斥他,“还不赶快下马!”
上校放声大笑。
“你想骑马吗,嗯,将军?”
“放肆!”本杰明失望地吼道,“看看这个。”他唰的一声把委任状递给上校。
上校看完委任状,眼珠子都要鼓出来了。
“你从哪里弄来的?”他一边顺手把文件装进自己的衣袋里,一边问。
“政府寄给我的,你很快就会知道了!”
“跟我来,”上校说,他有点丈二和尚摸不着头脑,“我们到军部去商量一下。来吧。”
上校转过身,牵着马朝军部走去。本杰明只好跟着他,最大限度地保持着尊严——同时暗下决心,要狠狠地报复他。
但是这场报复未能实施。两天后,儿子罗斯科突然从巴尔的摩赶来,他行色匆匆,恼羞成怒,护送哭哭啼啼、被没收了军装的准将,回家去了。