By Clarence Day

One day when I was about ten years old, and George eight, Father suddenly remembered an intention of his to have us taught music. There were numerous other things that he felt every boy ought to learn, such as swimming, blacking his own shoes, and book-keeping（記賬）; to say nothing of school work,in which he expected a boy to excel（勝過(guò)他人）. He now recalled that music, too, should be included in our education. He held that all children should be taught to play on something, and sing.

He was right, perhaps. At any rate, there is a great deal to be said for his programme. On the other hand,there are children and children. I had no ear for music.

Father was the last man to take this into consideration, however: he looked upon children as raw material that a father should mould（塑造）. When I said I couldn’t sing, he said nonsense. He went to the piano.He played a scale（音階）, cleared his throat, and sang Do, re, mi, and the rest. He did this with relish（享受，喜愛）. He sang it again, high and low. He then turned to me and told me to sing it, too, while he accompanied me.

I was bashful（害羞的）. I again told him earnestly that I couldn’t sing. He laughed. “What do you know about what you can or can’t do?” And he added in a firm, kindly voice, “Do whatever I tell you.” He was always so sure of himself that I couldn’t help having faith in him. For all I knew, he could detect the existence of organs in a boy of which that boy had no evidence. It was astonishing, certainly, but if he said I could sing, I could sing.

I planted myself respectfully before him. He played the first note. He never wasted time in explanations; that was not his way; and I had only the dimmest（最模糊的）understanding of what he wished me to do. But I struck out, haphazard（隨便地，偶然地）, and chanted the extraordinary syllables（音節(jié)）loudly.

克勞倫斯·戴伊（1874—1935）是美國(guó)著名作家，其最著名的作品是《與父親一起生活》，在這部自傳體作品中，作者用幽默的筆法，以他那位專橫固執(zhí)的父親為中心，細(xì)微生動(dòng)地刻畫了他們一家在19世紀(jì)90年代紐約的生活經(jīng)歷。父親的名字也叫Clarence Day。老克勞倫斯·戴伊是一位脾氣暴躁的、頑固刻板、工作壓力過(guò)重的華爾街證券經(jīng)紀(jì)人。他要求家人及周圍的人都按他的規(guī)則和習(xí)慣為人處世，結(jié)果導(dǎo)致種種矛盾和沖突。小克勞倫斯·戴伊筆下的父親的形象以及那些生動(dòng)鮮活的細(xì)節(jié)使讀者讀來(lái)感到親切和幽默，令人捧腹。書中描寫的家庭生活、夫妻關(guān)系、父子關(guān)系及家庭倫理道德都帶有典型的維多利亞時(shí)代的風(fēng)格。

父親很重視兒子們的教育，認(rèn)為男孩子們除了學(xué)校的功課之外，最好再學(xué)學(xué)游泳、記賬和音樂(lè)。父親自己會(huì)彈鋼琴，也喜歡唱歌，所以他覺得兒子們也應(yīng)該學(xué)一門樂(lè)器。但作為老大的克勞倫斯并沒(méi)有遺傳父母的音樂(lè)細(xì)胞，既沒(méi)有靈敏的耳朵也沒(méi)有音準(zhǔn)，根本不是學(xué)音樂(lè)的料。但是父親不愿意承認(rèn)，也不愿輕易放棄，他覺得孩子就像未經(jīng)塑造的陶土，而他就是陶藝師，他想把孩子塑造成什么就塑造成什么。這使得小克勞倫斯痛苦不堪，因?yàn)槊總€(gè)人的天資不同。他為自己是老大感到不幸，羨慕弟弟們的好運(yùn)氣，不用像他那樣總是被父親當(dāng)做試驗(yàn)品。本篇描寫了作者跟父親學(xué)習(xí)唱歌的經(jīng)歷。

“No, no, no!” said Father, disgustedly（厭惡地）.

We tried it again.

“No, no, no!” He struck the notes louder.We tried it repeatedly...

I gradually saw that I was supposed to match the piano, in some way, with my voice. But how such a thing could be done I had no notion whatever.The kind of sound a piano made was different from the sound of a voice. And the various notes—I could hear that each one had its own sound, but that didn’t help me out any: they were all total strangers. One end of the piano made deep noises, the other end shrill（尖銳的，刺耳的）; I could make my voice deep,shrill, or medium; but that was the best I could do.

At the end of what seemed to me an hour, I still stood at attention, while Father still tried energetically to force me to sing. It was an absolute deadlock（僵局，停頓）. He wouldn’t give in, and I couldn’t. Two or three times I had felt for a moment I was getting the hang of it, but my voice wouldn’t do what I wanted; I don’t think it could. Anyhow, my momentary grasp of the problem soon faded. It felt so queer（奇怪的）to be trying to do anything exact with my voice. And Father was so urgent about it, and the words so outlandish（古怪的）. Do, re, mi, fa, sol, la, si, do! What a nightmare!Though by this time he had abandoned his insistence on my learning the scale; he had reduced his demands to my singing one single note: Do. I continually opened my mouth wide, as he had instructed me, and shouted the word Do at random, hoping it might be the pitch（音高）.He snorted（發(fā)哼聲）, and again struck the piano. I again shouted Do.

George sat on the sofa by the parlor（客廳）door, watching me with great sympathy. He always had the easy end of it. George was a good brother; he looked up to me, loved me, and I couldn’t help loving him; but I used to get tired of being his path-breaker（開路人）in encounters with Father. All Father’s experience as a parent was obtained at my hands. He was a man who had many impossible hopes for his children, and it was only as he tried these on me that he slowly became disillusioned（幻想破滅的）. He clung to each hope tenaciously（堅(jiān)持不懈地）: he surrendered（放棄）none without a long struggle; after which he felt baffled（感到困惑的）and indignant（憤慨的）, and I felt done up, too. At such times if only he had repeated the attack on my brothers, it might have been hard on them, but at least it would have given me a slight rest. But no, when he had had a disappointment, he turned to new projects.And as I was the eldest, the new were always tried out on me. George and the others trailed along happily,in comparative peace, while I perpetually（持久地）confronted（面對(duì)）Father in a wrestling match upon some new ground...

Mother came into the room in her long swishing（颼颼響的）skirts. Father was obstinately（頑固地）striking the piano for the nine thousandth time,and I was steadily though hopelessly calling out Do.

“Why, Clare! What are you doing?” Mother cried.

Father jumped up. I suppose that at heart he was relieved at her interruption—it allowed him to stop without facing the fact of defeat. But he strongly wished to execute any such manoe uvre（操作，手段）without loss of dignity（尊嚴(yán)）, and Mother never showed enough regard for this, from his point of view. Besides,he was full of a natural irritation（激怒）at the way things resisted him. He had visited only a part of this on me. The rest he now hurled（猛烈地拋擲）at her.He said would she kindly go away and leave him alone with his sons. He declared he would not be interfered with. He banged the piano lid shut. He said he was “sick and tired of being systematically thwarted（挫?。゛nd hindered（阻礙）,” and he swore he would be damned if he’d stand it. Off he went to his room.

“You’ll only have to come right back down again,”Mother called after him. “The soup’s being put on the table.”

“I don’t want any dinner.”

“Oh, Clare! Please! It’s oyster soup（牡蠣湯）!”

“Don’t want any.” He slammed（使勁關(guān)上）his room door.

We sat down, frightened, at table. I was exhausted.But the soup was a life-saver. It was more like a stew,really. Rich milk, oyster juice, and big oysters. I put lots of small hard crackers（餅干）in mine, and one slice of French toast. That hot toast soaked in soup was delicious, only there wasn’t much of it, and as Father particularly liked it, we had to leave it for him. But there was plenty of soup: a great tureen（湯盤）full.Each boy had two helpings（食物的一份）.

Father came down in the middle of it, still offended, but he ate his full share. I guess he was somewhat in need of a life-saver himself. The chops and peas and potatoes came on. He gradually forgot how we’d wronged him.

There were too many things always happening at our family dinners, too many new vexations（苦惱，煩惱）, or funny things, for him to dwell on（詳述）the past.

But though he was willing enough, usually, to drop small resentments（憤怒）, nevertheless there were certain recollections（回憶，記憶）that remained in his mind—such as the feeling that Mother sometimes failed to understand his plans for our welfare, and made his duty needlessly hard for him by her interference;and the impression that I was an awkward little boy,and great trouble to train.

Not that these thoughts disturbed him, or lessened at all his self-confidence. He lit his cigar after dinner and leaned back philosophically, taking deep vigorous puffs（吸煙）with enjoyment, and drinking black coffee. When I said, “Good night, Father,” he smiled at me like a humorous potter（陶藝家）, pausing to consider—for the moment—an odd bit of clay（黏土）.Then he patted me affectionately on the shoulder and I went up to bed.