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此时，我又产生了一个新的焦虑——邻居恐怕会听到这心跳声！老头的死期到啦！我大吼一声，扯开灯罩，跳进屋里。他尖叫了一声——只叫了那么一声。就在那一刹那，我一把把他拖到地板上，把沉重的大床压在他身上。接下来，看到已经万事大吉，我开心地笑了。可是，几分钟过去了，闷声闷气的心跳声还在响个不停。这倒也没惹我生气；墙外是听不见的。后来终于没动静了。老头死了。我把床挪开，审视着尸体。我把手放在他胸口，停留了好几分钟。心脏不再跳动了。他死透了。那只眼睛再也不会惹我烦了。
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你还当我发疯的话，等我给你讲讲我藏匿尸体所采取的明智的预防措施，你就不会这么想了。夜色阑珊，我要抓紧时间干，却不能弄出动静来。我先将尸首肢解开来。
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然后，我再撬起屋里的三块地板，将肢解后的尸体都藏在两根间柱当中。接下来，我把木板归位，干得那么巧妙，那么机智。人的眼睛都看不出有丝毫破绽——就连他的眼睛也看不出。
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大功告成，一切就绪，已经四点钟——夜色沉沉，如同子夜。钟表报时，临街的大门外传来一阵敲门声。我心情愉快地下楼去开门，——我现在还有什么好怕的呢？门外进来三个人，他们做了自我介绍说是警官，绝对的和颜悦色。有个街坊在夜里听到一声尖叫，疑心出了不轨之事，报告了警察局，这三位警官就奉命前来搜查楼里的各个屋子。
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我满脸堆笑，——有什么好怕的呢？我对这三位先生表示欢迎。我说，那声尖叫是我刚才做梦时发出的。我提到老头不在家，到乡下去了。我带着三位来客在家里上上下下走了个遍。我请他们搜查——仔细搜查。我最后还领着他们进了老头的卧房里，指给他们看他的家私都完好无损，原封没动。我心里有谱，还热情洋溢地端进几把椅子，请他们在这间房里歇脚，与此同时，我自鸣得意，还胆大包天地端了把椅子，专门在埋着冤鬼尸体的地方坐了下来。
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警官们心满意足了。我的所作所为让他们心悦诚服。我也异常轻松自在。可是没过多久，我就觉得自己脸色越来越苍白，恨不得他们马上离开。我头痛欲裂，还觉到耳朵里嗡嗡的响；可是他们还坐着，还在东拉西扯。嗡嗡声更清楚了；嗡嗡声在继续，听起来愈发清楚了；我最后终于发现原来声音不是来自耳朵里。
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不消说，我此时的脸色已经特别苍白了；可我的话说得更溜了，嗓门也提高了。可那嗡嗡声越来越大——我该如何是好呢？这是一种低沉的、模糊的、短促的声音——就像包裹在棉布里的一块表发出的声音。我开始气喘吁吁了；——可是这三位警官竟然没听到。我说话的语速更快了，——情绪更热烈了；可是响声却在持续增大。他们为什么还不走呢？我拖着沉重的脚步在房里踱来踱去，仿佛他们三人的看法给我火上浇油似的；可响声还在持续增大。哦，上帝啊！我该如何是好呢？我唾沫星子四溅——我胡言乱语——我破口大骂！我摇晃自己的座椅，在木板上摩擦，可是那个响声却盖过所有的声音，还在持续增大。那个响声越来越大——越来越大——越来越大。可是那三个人还在愉快地东拉西扯，嘻嘻哈哈。难道他们听不见吗？
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他们听见了！——他们怀疑了！——他们知道真相了！——正在嘲笑我这样吓破了胆呢！——我刚才是这么想的，现在还是这么想。可怎么着都比这种痛苦好忍受！怎么着都比这种嘲笑好受！我再也受不了这种皮笑肉不笑啦！我觉得再不尖叫就要死了！——听啊——又来了！——我听到那响声越来越大！越来越大！越来越大！越来越大！
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“坏蛋！”我大声尖叫，“别装啦！我认罪！——撬开地板！这里！这里！——是他那颗可恶的心的心跳声！”
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（张白桦 译）
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西南联大英文课（英汉双语版） [:1705033824]
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18 THE WIDOW AND HER SON
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By Washington Irving
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THE WIDOW AND HER SON, by Washington Irving, in his Sketch Book ,1820.
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Washington Irving （1783-1859）, American author. He was the first American to be generally recognized abroad as a man of letters. A good deal of his importance in American literature is definitely historical. His prose still possesses a quiet charm and delightful undercurrent of kindly humor. The essays “Rip Van Winkle” and “ The Legend of Sleepy Hollow” are his best pieces.
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During my residence in the country, I used frequently to attend at the old village church, which stood in a country filled with ancient families, and contained, within its cold and silent aisles, the congregated dust of many noble generations. Its shadowy aisles, its moldering monuments, its dark oaken paneling, all reverend with the gloom of departed years, seemed to fit it for the haunt of solemn meditation. A Sunday, too, in the country, is so holy in its repose; such a pensive quiet reigns over the face of Nature, that every restless passion is charmed down, and we feel all the natural religion of the soul gently springing up within us:
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Sweet day, so pure, so calm, so bright,
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The bridal of the Earth and Sky!
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I do not pretend to be what is called a devout man; but there are feelings that visit me in a country church, amid the beautiful serenity of Nature, which I experience nowhere else; and, if not a more religious, I think I am a better man on Sunday than on any other day of the seven.
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But in this church I felt myself continually thrown back upon the world by the frigidity and pomp of the poor worms around me. The only being that seemed thoroughly to feel the humble and prostrate piety of a true Christian, was a poor decrepit old woman bending under the weight of years and infirmities. She bore the trace of something better than abject poverty. The lingerings of decent pride were visible in her appearance. Her dress, though humble in the extreme, was scrupulously clean. Some trivial respect, too, had been awarded her, for she did not take her seat among the village poor, but sat alone on the steps of the altar. She seemed to have survived all love, all friendship, all society; and to have nothing left her but the hopes of Heaven. When I saw her feebly rising and bending her aged form in prayer, —habitually conning her prayer book, which her palsied hand and failing eyes would not permit her to read, but which she evidently knew by heart, —I felt persuaded that the faltering voice of that poor woman arose to Heaven far before the responses of the clerk, the swell of the organ, or the chanting of the choir.
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I am fond of loitering about country churches, and this was so delightfully situated, that it frequently attracted me. It stood on a knoll, round which a stream made a beautiful bend, and then wound its way through a long reach of soft meadow scenery. The church was surrounded by yew trees, which seemed almost coeval with itself. Its tall Gothic spire shot up lightly from among them, with rooks and crows generally wheeling about it. I was seated there one still, sunny morning, watching two laborers who were digging a grave. They had chosen one of the most remote and neglected corners of the churchyard, where, from the number of nameless graves around, it would appear that the indigent and friendless were huddled into the earth. I was told that the new-made grave was for the only son of a poor widow.
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While I was meditating on the distinctions of worldly rank, which extend thus down into the very dust, the toll of the bell announced the approach of the funeral. They were the obsequies of poverty, with which pride had nothing to do. A coffin of the plainest materials, without pall or other covering, was borne by some of the villagers. The sexton walked before with an air of cold indifference. There were no mock mourners in the trappings of affected woe; but there was one real mourner who feebly tottered after the corpse. It was the aged mother of the deceased, —the poor old woman whom I had seen seated on the steps of the altar. She was supported by an humble friend, who was endeavoring to comfort her. A few of the neighboring poor had joined the train, and some children of the village were running hand in hand, now shouting with unthinking mirth, and now pausing to gaze, with childish curiosity, on the grief of the mourner.
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As the funeral train approached the grave, the parson issued from the church porch, arrayed in the surplice, with prayer book in hand, and attended by the clerk. The service, however, was a mere act of charity. The deceased had been destitute, and the survivor was penniless. It was shuffled through, therefore, in form, but coldly and unfeelingly. The well-fed priest moved but a few steps from the church door;his voice could scarcely be heard at the grave; and never did I hear the funeral service, that sublime and touching ceremony, turned into such a frigid mummery of words.
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I approached the grave. The coffin was placed on the ground. On it were inscribed the name and age of the deceased, “George Somers, aged 26 years.” The poor mother had been assisted to kneel down at the head of it. Her withered hands were clasped as if in prayer, but I could perceive, by a feeble rocking of the body, and a convulsive motion of the lips, that she was gazing on the last relics of her son with the yearnings of a mother’s heart.