Early Autumn
By Langston Hughes
《早秋》
兰斯顿•休斯
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 at Columbia.”
“You’re looking very . . .” (he wanted to say old) “. . . well,” he said.
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 trees 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. “Good-bye.”
“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.
《早秋》
兰斯顿•休斯
他们坠入爱河之时，比尔还年轻。那时他们在一起散步，聊天，度过了无数夜晚。后来，一些似乎并不是很重要的东西隔在了他们中间，使两人行同陌路。
她，冲动地，嫁给了一个她以为爱的男人。比尔则怀着对女人的哀怨，离去。
昨日，在她穿过华盛顿广场时，这些年第一次又见到了他。
“比尔•沃克。” 她叫。
他驻足，一下子并没有认出她。对他来说，她看上去如此苍老。 “玛丽！你从哪儿来？”
她下意识地仰起脸，想等他的一个吻，但他却伸出手。她握了握。“我现在住在纽约，”她说。
“是吗？”－－他礼貌地笑，但很快皱了下眉。 “总想知道你怎么样了，比尔。”
“我现在是个律师。市中心不错的公司。”
“结婚了？” “当然。两个孩子。”
“哦，”她应着。
无数人从他们身边穿过，穿过公园。他们是陌生人。已是傍晚。夕阳西下。寒冷萧瑟。“那么，你丈夫？”他问她。
“我们有三个孩子。我在哥伦比亚大学的财务处工作。”
“你看起来很……”（他想说老）“……健康，”他说。
她明白。在华盛顿广场的树林下，她发现自己不顾一切地向前追忆，回到过去。在俄亥俄州的时候她就比比尔大了。现在，她已完全不再年轻。但比尔依然年轻如故。
“我们住在中央公园西路，” 她说，“什么时候过来看看。”
“一定，”他回答说，“找个晚上，你和你丈夫一定和我家人吃个饭。不管什么时候，露西尔和我都愿意和你聚聚。”
广场上，枯叶从树上慢慢飘落。无风自落。秋天的薄暮。她感到有些不适。
“我们也很愿意。”她回答。
“你应该看看我的孩子。”他露齿一笑。
忽然，路灯亮了，照亮了整个第五大街，在忧郁的空气中凝成两条朦胧的光带。“我等的车来了，”她说。
他挥手，“再见。”
“什么时候……”她正想说，但车门就要关了。路灯在她的视线中模糊，闪烁，模糊。自她上车，她害怕张口说话，害怕自己一个字也说不出来。突然，她大声尖叫：“再见！”但车门已经关上。
车开了。人群从他们身边穿过，穿过街道，他们是陌生人。距离和人群使比尔消失在她的视线中。那时她才想起她忘记给他地址――或向他要地址――或告诉他，她最小的儿子也叫比尔。
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