(单词翻译:单击)
听力文本
Our story is called "The Bride Comesto Yellow Sky." It was written by Stephen Crane. Today, we will hear the second and final part of the story. "Don't know whether there will be afight or not," answered one man firmly, "but there'll be some shooting -- some good shooting." The young man who had warned them wavedhis hand. "Oh, there'll be a fight fast enough, if anyone wants it.Anybody can get in a fight out there in the street. There's a fight just waiting." The salesman seemed to be realizing the possibility of personal danger. "What did you say his name was?" he asked. "Scratchy Wilson," voices answered together. "And will he kill anybody? Whatare you going to do? Does this happen often? Can he break in that door?" "No,he can't break in that door," replied the saloon-keeper. "He's triedit three times. But when he comes you'd better lie down on the floor, stranger.He's sure to shoot at the door, and a bullet may come through." After that, the salesman watched the door steadily. The time had not yet come for himto drop to the floor, but he carefully moved near the wall.
"Will he kill anybody?" he asked again. The men laughed, without humor, at the question. "He's here to shoot, and he's here for trouble. I don't see any good in experimenting with him." "But what do you do in a situation like this? What can you do?" A man answered, "Well, he and Jack Potter -- " "But,"the other men interrupted together, "Jack Potter's in San Antonio." "Well,who is he? What's he got to do with this?" "Oh, he's the town policeman. He goes out and fights Scratchy when he starts acting thisway." A nervous, waiting silence was upon them. The salesman saw that the saloon-keeper, without a sound, had taken a gun from a hiding place. Then hesaw the man signal to him, so he moved across the room. "You'd better come with me behind this table." "No, thanks," said the salesman."I'd rather be where I can get out the back door." At that, the saloon-keeper made a kindly but forceful motion. The salesman obeyed, and found himself seated on a box with his head below the level of the table. The saloon-keeper sat comfortably upon a box nearby. "You see," he whispered, "Scratchy Wilson is a wonder with a gun -- a perfect wonder.And when he gets excited, everyone gets out of his path. He's a terror whenhe's drunk. When he's not drinking he's all right -- wouldn't hurt anything—nicest fellow in town. But when he's drunk -- be careful!" There were periods of stillness. "I wish Jack Potter were back from SanAntonio," said the saloon-keeper. "He shot Wilson once, in the leg.He'd come in and take care of this thing. "
Soonthey heard from a distance the sound of a shot, followed by three wild screams.The men looked at each other. "Here he comes," they said. A man in ared shirt turned a corner and walked into the middle of the main street of Yellow Sky. In each hand the man held a long, heavy, blue black gun. Often he screamed, and these cries rang through the seemingly deserted village. The screams sounded sharply over the roofs with a power that seemed to have no relation to the ordinary strength of a man's voice. These fierce cries rang against walls of silence. The man's face flamed in a hot anger born of whiskey. His eyes rolling but watchful, hunted the still doorways and windows. He walked with the movement of a midnight cat. As the thoughts came to him, he roared threatening information. The long guns hung from his hands like feathers, they were moved with electric speed. The muscles of his neck straightened and sank,straightened and sank, as passion moved him. The only sounds were his terrible invitations to battle. The calm houses preserved their dignity at the passing of this small thing in the middle of the street. There was no offer of fight --no offer of fight. The man called to the sky. There were no answers. He screamed and shouted and waved his guns here and everywhere.
Finally, the man was at the closed door ofthe saloon. He went to it, and beating upon it with his gun, demanded drink.The door remained closed. He picked up a bit of paper from the street andnailed it to the frame of the door with a knife. He then turned his back upon this place and walked to the opposite side of the street. Turning quickly andeasily, he fired the guns at the bit of paper. He missed it by a half an inch. He cursed at himself, and went away. Later, he comfortably shot out all the windows of the house of his best friend. Scratchy was playing with this town.It was a toy for him. But still there was no offer of fight. The name of Jack Potter, his ancient enemy, entered his mind. He decided that it would be a good thing if he went to Potter's house, and by shooting at it make him come out and fight. He moved in the direction of his desire, singing some sort of war song. When he arrived at it, Potter's house presented the same still front as had theother homes. Taking a good position, the man screamed an invitation to battle. Butthis house regarded him as a great, stone god might have done. It gave no sign.After a little wait, the man screamed more invitations, mixing them with wonderful curses.
After a while came the sight of a man working himself into deepest anger over the stillness of a house. He screamedat it. He shot again and again. He paused only for breath or to reload his guns.Potter and his bride walked rapidly. Sometimes they laughed together, quietlyand a little foolishly. "Next corner, dear," he said finally. Theyput forth the efforts of a pair walking against a strong wind. Potter was readyto point the first appearance of the new home. Then, as they turned the corner,they came face to face with the man in the red shirt, who was feverishly loading a large gun. Immediately the man dropped his empty gun to the ground and, like lightning, pulled out another. The second gun was aimed at Potter'schest. There was a silence. Potter couldn't open his mouth. Quickly he loosened his arm from the woman's grasp, and dropped the bag to the sand. As for thebride, her face had become the color of an old cloth. She was motionless. Thetwo men faced each other at a distance of nine feet. Behind the gun, Wilson smiled with a new and quiet cruelty.
"Tried to surprise me," he said."Tried to surprise me!" His eyes grew more evil. As Potter made aslight movement, the man pushed his gun sharply forward. "No, don't you doit, Jack Potter. Don't you move a finger toward a gun yet. Don't you move amuscle. The time has come for me to settle with you, and I'm going to do it myown way -- slowly, with no interruption. So just listen to what I tellyou." Potter looked at his enemy. "I haven't got a gun with me,Scratchy," he said. "Honest, I haven't." He was stiffening and steadying, but at the back of his mind floated a picture of the beautiful caron the train. He thought of the glory of the wedding, the spirit of his newlife. "You know I fight when I have to fight, Scratchy Wilson. But Ihaven't got a gun with me. You'll have to do all the shooting yourself." His enemy's face turned pale with anger. He stepped forward and whipped his gun back and forth before Potter's chest. "Don't you tell me you haven't got agun with you, you dog. Don't tell me a lie like that. There isn't a man in Texas who ever saw you without a gun. Don't think I'm a kid." His eyes burned with anger and his breath came heavily.
"Idon't think you're a kid," answered Potter. His feet had not moved an inchbackward. "I think you're a complete fool. I tell you I haven't got a gun,and I haven't. If you're going to shoot me, you'd better begin now; you'llnever get a chance like this again." So much enforced reasoning had weakened Wilson's anger. He was calmer. "If you haven't got a gun, whyhaven't you got a gun?," he asked. "Been to church?" "Ihaven't got a gun because I've just come from San Antonio with my wife. I'm married," said Potter. "And if I had thought there'd be a fool like you here when I brought my wife home, I would have had a gun, and don't you forget it." "Married!" said Scratchy, not at all understanding. "Yes,married. I'm married," said Potter, clearly. "Married?" said Scratchy. Seemingly for the first time, he saw the pale, frightened woman atthe other side. "No!" he said. He was like a creature allowed a glance at another world. He moved a pace backward, and his arm, with the gun,dropped to his side. "Is this the lady?" he asked. "Yes, this isthe lady," answered Potter. There was another period of silence. "Well,"said Wilson at last, slowly. "I suppose we won't fight now." "We won't if you say so, Scratchy. You know I didn't make the trouble." Potter lifted the bag. "Well, I guess we won't fight, Jack," said Wilson. Hewas looking at the ground. "Married!" He was not a student of good manners. It was merely that in the presence of this foreign condition he was asimple child of the wildlands. He picked up his fallen gun, and he went away.His feet made deep tracks in the heavy sand.
重点解析
1.arrive at 到达；达成
As soon as you arrive at your destination, step out of the aircraft and reset your wristwatch.
你一到达目的地，就走出飞机并重新设置手表时间。
2.listen to 倾听；听从
They don't listen to what you say, even when sometimes you know better.
不听你的意见，即使有时你比他们清楚？
3.pick up 拾起；拿起
Ridley picked up a pencil and fiddled with it.
里德利拿起一支铅笔，不停地在手里摆弄着。
4.go away 迫做某事；不得不
When you go away on holiday, you need to take extra security precautions.
外出度假时，需要格外注意安全。
参考译文
我们要听到的故事是斯蒂芬·克莱恩的短篇小说《新娘来到黄天镇》，今天要讲述的是第二部分，也是故事的完结篇。“有没有枪战不清楚，”一个人冷冷地答道，“但会有一些射击——枪法很不错的射击。”刚来报信的年轻人摇了摇手说：“哦，如果有人想参与，枪战马上就开始。只要走到街上，就会卷入枪战。会有一场枪战，只是时机问题。”销售员似乎意识到会有受伤的危险。你说他叫什么名字？”他问。“斯克莱奇·威尔逊”，他们齐声回答。“他会杀人吗？你们打算怎么做？经常这样吗？他能破门而入吗？”“不，他不能破门而入，”酒吧老板回答。“他试三次了，但他来时，你最好躺在地板上，陌生人。他肯定会朝门开枪，子弹可能还会射穿大门。”此后，售货员一直看着门。现在他不用趴在地上，但他还是小心地朝墙边移去。
“他会杀人吗？”他又问了。人们笑了，嘲笑他问出这样的问题。“他来这就是为了射击，出来找麻烦。跟他玩没有什么好处。”“但在这种情况下，你们会怎么做？你们能做什么？”一个人回答说：“好吧，他和杰克·波特——”“但是，”他的话被打断了，其它人异口同声道：“杰克·波特在圣安东尼奥。”“嘿，他是谁？他跟这事有什么关系？”“哦，他是本镇警长。斯克莱奇出来胡闹时，他就去和斯克莱奇对决。”周围很寂静，一种紧张的氛围笼罩着他们。销售员看到酒馆老板一声不吭地从藏匿处拿出把枪，然后看到酒馆老板在向他招手，于是他就穿过房间。“你最好跟我到这张桌子后面去。”“不，谢谢，”销售员说。“我宁愿待在能从后门逃走的地方。”于是，酒馆老板做了一个亲切但不容分说的姿态。销售员照办了，他发现自己坐在一个盒子上，整个身体被桌子挡住。酒吧老板则在旁边的箱子上坐下。“你知道吗，”他低声说，“斯克莱奇·威尔逊是个神枪手——一个十足的神枪手。当他兴奋时，谁也别想挡他的路。他喝醉后简直是个恐怖分子。他清醒时没事，是个非常很好的家伙，不会伤到镇上任何人。但当他喝醉时——一定要小心点！”接着是一阵寂静。“我真希望杰克·波特从圣安东尼奥回来了，”酒馆老板说。“他朝威尔逊的腿开过一枪，他会来处理此事的。”
很快，他们听到远处传来一声枪声，接着是三声野蛮的尖叫。酒吧里的男人们面面相觑。“他来了，”他们说。一个穿红衬衫的男人拐过街角，走到黄天镇的大街中央。他双手各拿一把重重的蓝黑长枪，他经常大声叫喊，这些喊声响彻这个荒芜的村庄。喊声在屋顶上空环绕，简直让人无法相信是人发出的声音。那凶恶的叫喊在寂静的墙壁回荡。那人的脸因喝过威士忌而涨红了，他的眼睛滴溜溜直转，但很警觉，打量着静悄悄的门口和窗户。他走起路来像只在午夜活动的猫，他回过神后变发出充满威胁的咆哮声。长枪像羽毛一样悬在手中，动作快如闪电。可以看出他的情绪很激动，因为他脖子上的肌肉收缩非常明显。小镇上唯一的声响就是他发出的可怕的挑衅声。面对街道上这个小东西的干扰，平静的房屋巍然不动。没人出来回应他的挑衅——没有人。那个男人向着天空呼喊。仍然没有回应。他大声喊叫，举起长枪向四周挥舞。
最后，那个人来到酒吧紧闭的门前。他走过去，用枪猛叩门，说要喝酒。门依旧关着。他从街上捡了一片纸，用刀把它钉在门框上。然后他转身背对着这个地方，走到街对面。他迅速而轻盈地转身，朝着那张纸片开枪。他打偏了，不过就差半英寸。他咒骂了一声，走开了。后来，他又朝自己最好的朋友家的所有窗户扫射。斯克莱奇玩弄着这个小镇，小镇成了他的玩具。但仍然没有人出现回应他的挑衅。突然，宿敌杰克·波特的名字进入了他的脑海。他决定现在去波特家一定是那件不错的事，再朝房子开开枪，逼他出来迎战。于是他一边高唱战歌，一边朝目的地走去。他走到波特的家，波特家的房子从前面看上去和其他房子一样寂静。这个人站稳了脚跟，尖叫着邀请他参加战斗。但是对于他的挑衅，房子里未出现任何动静。没有任何迹象。静静等了一会儿，他又继续喊叫，还夹杂着一些咒骂声。
然而房子里面还是没有任何反应，这个人的愤怒已经达到极点。他冲它尖叫，一次又一次地开枪。他停下来喘口气，重新装上子弹。波特和他的新娘走得很快，有时他们一起轻轻地傻笑。“下一个拐角，亲爱的，”他终于说道。他俩继续快速朝前走，如同顶着疾风前行。新家快出现时，波特准备指给新娘看。当他们转过街角时，正面撞上这个穿红衬衫的男人，他正发疯似地把子弹装进一把大枪。那人立刻把空枪扔到地上，然后像闪电一样又拔出了一把枪。第二把枪对准了波特的胸部。接着是一片沉默。波特十分惊讶，他迅速将胳膊从紧握着他的新娘手中拿开，把手中的袋子扔到沙地上。而此刻的新娘，面如死灰，一动不动地站着。两个男人面对面彼此相距两米多。威尔逊举着枪笑了，笑声中透露着凶残。
“想给我个惊喜，”他说。“想给我个惊喜！”他的眼睛变得更加邪恶。波特轻轻地移动了一下，那人把枪猛地推向前。“不，别这样，杰克·波特。你不要向前对这杆枪动一根指头？别动。我该跟你算账了，我要用我自己的方式行事——慢慢地，不要干扰我。照我说的去做。”波特看着他的对手。“我没有带枪，斯克莱奇，”他说。“老实说，我没枪。”他浑身僵硬，镇定自若，但他脑海中突然浮现出火车上一幅带有漂亮汽车的照片。他想到了婚礼上所有的荣耀和他的新生活。“你知道，我只有在必要时才打斗，斯克莱奇。但我没带枪。你只能一个人开枪。”他的对手因愤怒而脸色苍白，他走上前去，拿着枪在波特的胸口来回挥舞。“别告诉我你没带枪，你这个狗杂种。别对我撒谎。在德克萨斯州，没有人见过你没带枪。“别把我当小孩哄。”他的眼睛闪着怒火，呼吸沉重。
“我没哄你，”波特回答。他的脚没有向后移动一英寸。“我觉得你是个十足的傻瓜。”“我告诉你我没带枪，没有。如果你要开枪，最好现在就动手，再也不会有这样的机会了。”如此强有力的推理熄灭了威尔逊的愤怒。他平静多了。”如果你真没带枪，为什么不带呢？”他问。“去教堂了吗？”“我没带枪，因为我刚和妻子从圣安东尼奥回来。我结婚了，”波特说。 “如果我能想到把妻子带回家的时候，会碰到像你这样的傻子等在这儿，我早就带枪了，你不要忘记。”“你结婚了！”斯克莱奇说道，一点都不能理解。“是的，结婚了。我结婚了，”波特确定无疑地说。“结婚了？”斯克莱奇说。他这才注意到那个脸色苍白、充满恐惧的女人站在旁边。“不！”他说。他像是能瞥见另一个世界的怪物一样，他向后退了一步，握着枪的手臂放了下来。“就是这位夫人吗？”他问。“是的，这是我老婆，”波特回答。又是一阵沉默。“好吧，”威尔逊终于慢慢地说。“我们不打了。”“如果你这么说，我们就不打了，斯克莱奇说。你知道我没惹麻烦。” 波特提起袋子。“好吧，我们不打了，杰克，”威尔逊说，他望着地面。“结婚了！”他并不是一个品行好的人，仅仅是在这种生疏的境况下，他变成了一个荒地里的淳朴孩子。他拾起枪，走开了，双脚在沙地上留下了深深的脚印。
