nd of him I have twenty reminiscences, but they are all scant and fragmentary. My father—papa, as I called him was the origin of all the punishments I had in those early days. I had an unreasonable wish to be always with him; and to this end, whenever the nurse who had charge of me turned her back, I was apt to escape from the nursery and seek the study. Then I was caught, shaken, and sometimes whipped, which I well deserved.
Whether my father knew how much I prized his presence I cannot pronounce. He was much engaged all day, frequently out, and when at home other gentlemen were with him; but it often happened of an evening that he would suddenly enter the nursery, come up to me as I sat in my little chair, stand a moment looking down at me, and as I held up my arms, full of pleasure, he would stoop, lift me, take me to his heart and say, “Polly may come downstairs now and be papa’s little visitress.”
Papa had a wonderfully interesting style of conversation, intelligible to my childish brain, delightful to my childish heart. He charmed while he taught me. I think he had a quick, fiery temper: his brain was indeed gentle for me, but not always for others. I remember him both hasty and stern, but never with me. I never irritated him, never feared to do so. How I liked to stroke his dark face with my hands, to stand on his knees and comb his hair, to rest my head against his shoulder and thus fall asleep!
我们第一次来到英格兰的时候，正是在最短的白昼即将来临前的严冬。当时我还是个孩子——可能是四岁，或者在四岁至五岁之间。那次航行我仍然记忆犹新；那乳白色的海浪，荡漾的泡沫，阴沉沉的十二月的海景与天光的融合，一闪而过的海鸟和航行的船只，这一切依然历历在目——虽然历经岁月的打磨，但仍令人难以忘却。
我们从哪里来？我们曾住在什么地方？是什么事促成了这次旅行？记忆本身就模模糊糊，回答不了这些问题。她在人行道上低着头，用手指滑过唇边和眼角思索着。打开她的记事簿，在发黄的纸页中翻看那暗淡、简短而支离破碎的记录，她能读到的只有这些——我们来自这样一个地方，那里高楼林立，雄伟壮观，白色的房屋前到处是挺拔如塔楼的树木。那里有条平坦的、走不到尽头的大道。在这条道路上，卷起两股潮流：一股是步行者的潮流，穿着艳丽的丝绸衣物，戴着插有羽毛和玫瑰花的帽子，披巾飘动着，小阳伞像郁金香一样赏心悦目；另一股是轻捷的、静悄悄的马车的潮流。实际上，在那条马路上一切都是静悄悄的——那是一个神奇的地方，到处都是人，但并不吵闹。
我们住在一个地板光滑、没铺地毯的房间里。这里有许多镜子和窗户。在这幢房子里，我清楚地知道有一个大门，门上嵌着紫红色的玻璃，它那色彩斑斓的反光映照在门对面的阴影中。出了这条光线明亮的