1.The Reader of Books

The Reader of Books
It's a funny thing about mothers and fathers. Even when their own child is the most disgusting
little blister you could ever imagine, they still think that he or she is wonderful.
Some parents go further. They become so blinded by adoration they manage to convince
themselves their child has qualities of genius.
Well, there is nothing very wrong with all this. It's the way of the world. It is only when the
parents begin telling us about the brilliance of their own revolting offspring, that we start shouting,
"Bring us a basin! We're going to be sick!"

School teachers suffer a good deal from having to listen to this sort of twaddle from proud parents,
but they usually get their own back when the time comes to write the end-of-term reports. If I were
a teacher I would cook up some real scorchers for the children of doting parents. "Your son
Maximilian", I would write, "is a total wash-out. I hope you have a family business you can push
him into when he leaves school because he sure as heck won't get a job anywhere else." Or if I
were feeling lyrical that day, I might write, "It is a curious truth that grasshoppers have their
hearing-organs in the sides of the abdomen. Your daughter Vanessa, judging by what she's learnt
this term, has no hearing-organs at all."

I might even delve deeper into natural history and say, "The periodical cicada spends six years as a
grub underground, and no more than six days as a free creature of sunlight and air. Your son
Wilfred has spent six years as a grub in this school and we are still waiting for him to emerge from
the chrysalis." A particularly poisonous little girl might sting me into saying, "Fiona has the same
glacial beauty as an iceberg, but unlike the iceberg she has absolutely nothing below the surface."
I
think I might enjoy writing end-of-term reports for the stinkers in my class. But enough of that.
We have to get on.
Occasionally one comes across parents who take the opposite line, who show no interest at all in
their children, and these of course are far worse than the doting ones. Mr and Mrs Wormwood
were two such parents. They had a son called Michael and a daughter called Matilda, and the
parents looked upon Matilda in particular as nothing more than a scab. A scab
is something you have to put up with until the time comes when you can pick it off and flick it
away. Mr and Mrs Wormwood looked forward enormously to the time when they could pick their
little daughter off and flick her away, preferably into the next county or even further than that.
It is bad enough when parents treat ordinary children as though they were scabs and bunions, but
it becomes somehow a lot worse when the child in question is extraordinary,
and by that I mean sensitive and brilliant. Matilda was both of these things, but above all she was
brilliant. Her mind was so nimble and she was so quick to learn that her ability should have been
obvious even to the most half-witted of parents. But Mr and Mrs Wormwood were both so
gormless and so wrapped up in their own silly little lives that they failed to notice anything
unusual about their daughter. To tell the truth, I doubt they would have noticed had she crawled
into the house with a broken leg.
Matilda's brother Michael was a perfectly normal boy, but the sister, as I said, was something to
make your eyes pop. By the age of one and a half her speech was perfect and she knew as many
words as most grown-ups. The parents, instead of applauding her, called her a noisy chatterbox
and told her sharply that small girls should be seen and not heard.
By the time she was three, Matilda had taught herself to read by studying newspapers and
magazines that lay around the house. At the age of four, she could read fast and well and she
naturally began hankering after books. The only book in the whole of this enlightened household
was something called Easy Cooking belonging to her mother, and when she had read this from
cover to cover and had learnt all the recipes by heart, she decided she wanted something more
interesting.
"Daddy," she said, "do you think you could buy me a book?"
"A book?" he said. "What d'you want a flaming book for?"
"To read, Daddy."
"What's wrong with the telly, for heaven's sake? We've got a lovely telly with a twelve-inch screen
and now you come asking for a book! You're getting spoiled, my girl!"
Nearly every weekday afternoon Matilda was left alone in the house. Her brother (five years older
than her) went to school. Her father went to work and her mother went out playing bingo in a town
eight miles away. Mrs Wormwood was hooked on bingo and played it five afternoons a week. On
the afternoon of the day when her father had refused to buy her a book, Matilda set out all by
herself to walk to the public library in the village. When she arrived, she introduced herself to the
librarian, Mrs Phelps. She asked if she might sit awhile and read a book. Mrs Phelps, slightly
taken aback at the arrival of such a tiny girl unacccompanied by a parent, nevertheless told her she
was very welcome.
"Where are the children's books please?" Matilda asked.
"They're over there on those lower shelves," Mrs Phelps told her. "Would you like me to help you
find a nice one with lots of pictures in it?"
"No, thank you," Matilda said. "I'm sure I can manage."
From then on, every afternoon, as soon as her mother had left for bingo, Matilda would toddle
down to the library. The walk took only ten minutes and this allowed her two glorious hours
sitting quietly by herself in a cosy corner devouring one book after another. When she had read
every single children's book in the place, she started wandering round in search of something else.
Mrs Phelps, who had been watching her with fascination for the past few weeks, now got up from
her desk and went over to her. "Can I help you, Matilda?" she asked.
"I'm wondering what to read next," Matilda said. "I've finished all the children's books."
"You mean you've looked at the pictures?"
"Yes, but I've read the books as well."
Mrs Phelps looked down at Matilda from her great height and Matilda looked right back up at her.
"I thought some were very poor," Matilda said, "but others were lovely. I liked The Secret Garden
best of all. It was full of mystery. The mystery of
the room behind the closed door and the mystery of the garden behind the big wall."
Mrs Phelps was stunned. ''Exactly how old are you, Matilda?" she asked.
"Four years and three months," Matilda said.
Mrs Phelps was more stunned than ever, but she had the sense not to show it. "What sort of a book
would you like to read next?" she asked.
Matilda said, "I would like a really good one that grown-ups read. A famous one. I don't know any
names."
Mrs Phelps looked along the shelves, taking her time. She didn't quite know what to bring out.
How, she asked herself, does one choose a famous grown-up book for a four-year-old girl? Her
first thought was to pick a young teenager's romance of the kind that is written for fifteen-year-old
schoolgirls, but for some reason she found herself instinctively walking past that particular shelf.
"Try this," she said at last. "It's very famous and very good. If it's too long for you, just let me
know and I'll find something shorter and a bit easier."
"Great Expectations," Matilda read, "by Charles Dickens. I'd love to try it."
I must be mad, Mrs Phelps told herself, but to Matilda she said, "Of course you may try it."
Over the next few afternoons Mrs Phelps could hardly take her eyes from the small girl sitting for
hour after hour in the big armchair at the far end of the room with the book on her lap. It was
necessary to rest it on the lap because it was too heavy for her to hold up, which meant she had to
sit leaning forward in order to read. And a strange sight it was, this tiny dark-haired person sitting
there with her feet nowhere near touching the floor, totally absorbed in the wonderful adventures
of Pip and old Miss Havisham and her cobwebbed house and by the spell of magic that Dickens
the great story-teller had woven with his words. The only movement from the reader was the
lifting of the hand every now and then to turn over a page, and Mrs Phelps always felt sad when
the time came for her to cross the floor and say ; "It's ten to five, Matilda."
During the first week of Matilda's visits Mrs Phelps had said to her, "Does your mother walk you
down here every day and then take you home?"
"My mother goes to Aylesbury every afternoon to play bingo," Matilda had said. "She doesn't
know I come here."
"But that's surely not right," Mrs Phelps said. "I think you'd better ask her."
"I'd rather not," Matilda said. "She doesn't encourage reading books. Nor does my father."
"But what do they expect you to do every afternoon in an empty house?"
"Just mooch around and watch the telly."
"I see."
"She doesn't really care what I do," Matilda said a little sadly.
Mrs Phelps was concerned about the child's safety on the walk through the fairly busy village
High Street and the crossing of the road, but she decided not to interfere.
Within a week, Matilda had finished Great Expectations which in that edition contained four
hundred and eleven pages. "I loved it," she said to Mrs Phelps. "Has Mr Dickens written any
others?"
"A great number," said the astounded Mrs Phelps. "Shall I choose you another?"
Over the next six months, under Mrs Phelps's
watchful and compassionate eye, Matilda read the following books:
Nicholas Nickleby by Charles Dickens
Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens
Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte
Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen
Tess of the D'Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy
Gone to Earth by Mary Webb
Kim by Rudyard Kipling
The Invisible Man by H. G. Wells
The Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemingway
The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner
The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck
The Good Companions by J. B. Priestley
Brighton Rock by Graham Greene
Animal Farm by George Orwell
It was a formidable list and by now Mrs Phelps was filled with wonder and excitement, but it was
probably a good thing that she did not allow herself to be completely carried away by it all.
Almost anyone else witnessing the achievements of this small child would have been tempted to
make a great fuss and shout the news all over the village and beyond, but not so Mrs Phelps. She
was someone who minded her own business and had long since discovered it was seldom worth
while to interfere with other people's children.
"Mr Hemingway says a lot of things I don't understand," Matilda said to her. "Especially about
men and women. But I loved it all the same. The way he tells it I feel I am right there on the spot
watching it all happen."
''A fine writer will always make you feel that," Mrs Phelps said. "And don't worry about the bits
you can't understand. Sit back and allow the words to wash around you, like music."
"I will, I will."
"Did you know", Mrs Phelps said, "that public libraries like this allow you to borrow books and
take them home?"
"I didn't know that," Matilda said. "Could I do it?"
"Of course," Mrs Phelps said. "When you have chosen the book you want, bring it to me so I can
make a note of it and it's yours for two weeks. You can take more than one if you wish."
From then on, Matilda would visit the library only once a week in order to take out new books and
return the old ones. Her own small bedroom now became her reading-room and there she would
sit and read most afternoons, often with a mug of hot chocolate beside her. She was not quite tall
enough to reach things around the kitchen, but she kept a small box in the outhouse which she
brought in and stood on in order to get whatever she wanted. Mostly it was hot chocolate she
made, warming the milk in a saucepan on the stove before mixing it. Occasionally she made
Bovril or Ovaltine. It was pleasant to take a hot drink up to her room and have it beside her as she
sat in her silent room reading in the empty house in the afternoons. The books transported her into
new worlds and introduced her to amazing people who lived exciting lives. She went on olden-day
sailing ships with Joseph Conrad. She went to Africa with Ernest Hemingway and to India with
Rudyard Kipling. She travelled all over the world while sitting in her little room in an English
village.
1.一个小读者
一个小读者
做爸爸妈妈的有一件事情很滑稽，即使他们的孩子是你所能想象出来的最讨厌的小脓
包，他们仍旧认为他或者她很了不起。
有些爸爸妈妈还要更进一步。他们爱孩子爱到了那么盲目的地步，竟认定他们的孩子天
生就是天才。
不过这一切都没有什么不对的。世界上的事情就是这样的。当爸爸妈妈们当着我们的
面，吹嘘起他们那令人讨厌的孩子如何才华横溢时，我们就会忍不住要叫出来：“快给我们拿
个盆来，我们要吐了！”
学校老师由于不得不听自鸣得意的爸爸妈妈们这种蠢话而苦不堪言，但是到了学期结束
写报告单时，他们通常可以得到报偿。如果我是老师，我准会把这些一味受爸爸妈妈们溺爱
的孩子痛痛快快地挖苦一通。“你们的儿子马克希米利安，”我会写道，“完全是个废物。当他
离开学校的时候，我希望你们是自己开店的，可以让他进去混混日子，因为他不管到哪里，
都绝对找不到工作的。”如果那天我正好诗情勃发，我还可能这么写：“虽说稀奇，却是事
实，蚱蜢在腹部两边还有听觉器官。而你们的女儿凡尼萨，从她本学期的学习成绩看，她连
听觉器官都没有。”
我甚至还会更深地钻到生物学里去说：“周期性的蝉先是幼虫，在地底下过六年，会成为
一只接受阳光和空气的自由生物，以后，顶多只活六天。你们的儿子威尔弗雷德像一条幼虫
在本校已经度过了六年，而我们还在等着，不知道他什么时候可以脱离虫茧。”一个特别令人
讨厌的小姑娘可能让我会这么说：“菲奥娜像一座冰山那样晶亮好看，但是和冰山不同，在表
面下她绝对一无所有。”在学期结束为我班那些淘气精写报告单时，我想我可以得到很大的乐
趣。但是到此为止吧，我们得继续讲故事。
有时候也会碰到截然相反的爸爸妈妈，他们对自己的子女漠不关心，这种父母比那些溺
爱孩子的爸爸妈妈还要糟糕得多。沃姆伍德先生和太太就是这样一对父母。他们有个儿子叫
迈克尔，有个女儿叫玛蒂尔达。他们简直就把这个玛蒂尔达看作是伤口愈合时结的痂。痂这
玩意儿你只好先留着，时候一到，你就可以把它剥下来扔掉。沃姆伍德先生和太太就等着这
个时刻的到来，好把他们这个小女儿像痂那样剥下来扔掉，最好扔到另一个国家去，甚至扔
得更远一点。
爸爸妈妈们把平凡的孩子看作痂或脚上的鸡眼皮，这本来就够糟的了，但那个孩子要是
不平凡，我的意思是，又聪明伶俐又才华横溢，那就更是糟上加糟。玛蒂尔达正是既聪明伶
俐又才华横溢，主要是才华横溢。她的脑子是那么灵，学东西是那么快，她的才能即使对于
最愚蠢的爸爸妈妈来说也是显而易见的。但是沃姆伍德先生和太太这一对过于愚昧的夫妇，
只局限在他们自己无聊的渺小世界里，丝毫没有注意到女儿的不平凡之处。说实在的，我怀
疑她万一断了一条腿爬回家，他们也不会注意到的。
玛蒂尔达的哥哥迈克尔是个完全正常的孩子，可是他的这个妹妹，正如我说的，有些事
情会让你目瞪口呆。一岁半她就完全能说会道，懂得的词汇和大人一样多。可她的爸爸妈妈
不是称赞她，却说她是个叽叽喳喳的多嘴丫头，还狠狠地告诉她，小姑娘都应该是看得见人
而听不到声音的。
三岁时，玛蒂尔达已经自己学会阅读家里的报纸杂志了。到四岁，她已经读得又快又流
利了，自然开始渴望读书了。但在这个有知识的家庭里，仅有的一本书就是她妈妈的《简易
食谱》。等到她把这本书从头到尾读到滚瓜烂熟，背出了书中所有的菜谱以后，她决定要读
些更有趣的东西。
“爸爸，”她说，“你看你能给我买本书吗？”
“买本书？”他说，“你要一本荒唐的书干吗？”
“拿来读啊，爸爸。”
“天啊，电视机还不够？我们有一个漂亮的十二英寸电视机，你却要我买一本书！你给宠
坏了，我的小丫头！”
除了星期六、星期日，玛蒂尔达几乎天天一个人给丢在家里。她的哥哥（比她大五岁）
去上学，她的爸爸去办公，她的妈妈到八英里以外的城里去玩宾戈 [1] 。沃姆伍德太太迷上了
宾戈，一个星期要去玩五个下午。爸爸拒绝给玛蒂尔达买书的那天，她下午一个人去了村里
的公共图书馆。到了那里，她找图书馆管理员费尔普斯太太，问她能不能坐一会儿读本书。
费尔普斯太太看到这么小一个女孩，没有爸爸妈妈陪着就来了，不禁有点吃惊，不过她说很
欢迎她到图书馆来。
“请问儿童书在哪里？”玛蒂尔达问她。
“在那边，矮的书架上。”费尔普斯太太告诉她，“要我帮你找一本好看的图画书吗？”
“不要，谢谢你，”玛蒂尔达说，“我想我自己能找到。”
从此每天下午妈妈一去玩宾戈，玛蒂尔达就到图书馆去。路上只要走十分钟，因此她足
足有两个小时可以一个人静静地坐在舒服的角落里，一本又一本地埋头读书，直到她把那里
的儿童书一本本读完，又开始走来走去找别的书。
费尔普斯太太几个星期来一直着迷地注意着玛蒂尔达，这时她从写字桌旁边站起来，走
到玛蒂尔达身边。“我能帮你什么忙吗，玛蒂尔达？”她问道。
“我不知道接下来读什么好，”玛蒂尔达说，“所有的儿童书我都读完了。”
“你是说，你把图画书都看完了？”
“是的，不过我同时把书里的字也读完了。”
高大的费尔普斯太太低下头来看着玛蒂尔达，玛蒂尔达也仰起头来回望着她。
“我觉得有些书写得很差劲，”玛蒂尔达说，“但有些书很好看。我最喜欢《秘密花园》，
它充满了秘密，锁着的门后面的那个房间的秘密，还有大墙后面那个花园的秘密。”费尔普斯
太太大吃一惊。“你到底几岁了，玛蒂尔达？”她问她。
“四岁零三个月。”玛蒂尔达答道。
费尔普斯太太更吃惊了，但她理智地没有流露出来。“你接下来想读什么书呢？”她问
道。
玛蒂尔达说：“我想读一本真正好的大人书，一本有名的。可我什么书名也不知道。”费
尔普斯太太顺着书架看过去，她不知道抽哪一本好。她在心里问自己，怎么给一个四岁女孩
挑选一本出名的大人书呢？她起先想抽出一本少女小说，写给十五岁的女学生看的，但她想
了想，却本能地离开了那个放这类书的书架。
“试试这一本吧，”她最后说，“这本书非常出名，也非常好。如果你觉得太长，就告诉
我，我可以找本短点儿也浅点儿的。”
“《远大前程》 [2] ，”玛蒂尔达念道，“查尔斯•狄更斯著。我很高兴读读看。”
费尔普斯太太心里说：我一定疯了。但是她对玛蒂尔达说：“当然，你可以读读看。”接
下来几个下午，费尔普斯太太的眼睛几乎没有离开过这个小女孩，她坐在房间远远一头的一
张大扶手椅上，膝上放着那本书，读了一个钟头又一个钟头。她得把书放在膝盖上，因为她
拿起来读太沉了，这也就是说，她得把身体伸出来读这本书。真是看着都稀奇：这个黑头发
小家伙坐在那里，两只小脚连地板也碰不到，完全沉浸在皮普•哈维沙姆小姐的奇妙故事和她
那幢挂满蜘蛛网的房子里，被伟大的讲故事能手狄更斯用他那些字句织成的魔力所迷住。这
位小读者的唯一动作就是不时举起手来翻一页。费尔普斯太太总是感到很抱歉，时间到了，
她不得不走过去对她说：“已经是四点五十分了，玛蒂尔达。”
在玛蒂尔达第一个星期来看书时，费尔普斯太太曾经问过她：“你妈妈每天送你到这里
来，然后又来接你回家吗？”
“我妈妈每天下午去艾尔斯伯里玩宾戈，”玛蒂尔达回答说，“她不知道我上这里来。”
“这可是不对的，”费尔普斯太太说，“我想你最好先问问她。”
“我还是不问的好，”玛蒂尔达说，“她不要我读书，我爸爸也不要。”
“那么他们要你每天下午在空房子里做什么呢？”
“就是在周围闲逛和看电视。”
“我明白了。”
“我做什么我妈妈一点也不管。”玛蒂尔达有点难过地说。
费尔普斯太太担心这孩子在村里车辆相当多的大街上走和过马路不安全，但她决定不去
管这件事。
一个星期，玛蒂尔达就把《远大前程》看完了，这本书的这一个版本足有四百一十一
页。“我喜欢这本书，”她对费尔普斯太太说，“这位狄更斯先生还写过什么别的书吗？”
“他写的书多了，”吃惊的费尔普斯太太说，“要我给你再挑一本吗？”
接下来的六个月，在费尔普斯太太关注和惊讶的目光中，玛蒂尔达一共读了下列这些
书：
查尔斯•狄更斯：《尼古拉斯•尼克尔贝》
查尔斯•狄更斯：《奥利弗•特威斯特》
夏洛蒂•勃朗特：《简•爱》
简•奥斯汀：《傲慢与偏见》
托马斯•哈代：《德伯家的苔丝》
玛丽•韦布：《躲入洞内》
拉迪亚德•吉卜林：《吉姆》
H•G•威尔斯：《隐身人》
欧内斯特•海明威：《老人与海》
威廉•福克纳：《声音与疯狂》
约翰•斯坦贝克：《愤怒的葡萄》
J•B•普里斯特利：《好伙伴》
格雷厄姆•格林：《布赖顿硬糖》
乔治•奥威尔：《兽园》
这是一份惊人的书目，费尔普斯太太充满了惊奇和兴奋。但这也许是件好事，她没有让
自己被这件事完全冲昏头脑。换成别人，几乎都会被这小家伙所做到的事引得大嚷大叫，把
这新闻传遍全村，甚至传到村外去的，可费尔普斯太太没有这样。她是一位关心自己的工作
的人，而且早就发现了一个道理：不要去干预别人家的孩子。
“海明威先生说了许多我不明白的话，”玛蒂尔达对她说，“特别是关于男人和女人的事
情。但是我还是喜欢他的书，他说得就像我正好在场，看到了整件事情的经过。”
“一个好作家总会让你产生这样的感觉，”费尔普斯太太说，“那些不明白的地方你不必去
管它。你就坐着让那些字句在你头脑里荡漾，像听音乐一样。”
“我就这么办，我一定这么办。”
“你知道吗？”费尔普斯太太说，“像我们这样的公共图书馆，书是可以借回家去看的。”
“我不知道，”玛蒂尔达说，“那我可以借吗？”
“当然可以，”费尔普斯太太说，“你选定了要借的书，就来告诉我好了。我记下来，你可
以借回去两星期。如果你希望多借，还可以借不止一本。”
从此以后，玛蒂尔达一星期只去一次图书馆，借新书，还旧书。她自己的小卧室现在成
了她的读书室，大部分下午时间她坐在里面读书，旁边常常放着一杯巧克力。她还不够高，
够不到厨房里的东西，但是她在外屋有一个小箱子，是她搬进去放在那里的，这样她要什么
就可以在里面拿什么。她通常做热巧克力喝，先把牛奶倒进锅里，放在炉子上煮热，然后加
上可可。有时候她冲牛肉汁和阿华田。下午家里没有人，把一杯热饮料拿到自己的卧室里放
在身边，在静悄悄的卧室里坐着读书，这实在再愉快不过了。书把她带进新的天地，向她介
绍着激动人心的生活、使人惊奇的人物。她和约瑟夫•康拉德 [3] 一起驾着老式船去航行，她和
欧内斯特•海明威一起去非洲，和拉迪亚德•吉卜林一起去印度。她人坐在英国乡村的小房间
里，心却在周游世界。
[1]宾戈是一种赌博游戏。
[2]根据这本小说拍成的电影电视译作《孤星血泪》。
[3]约瑟夫•康拉德（1857-1924），英国小说家。他的小说大多写航海生活。
2.Mr Wormwood, the Great Car Dealer
Mr Wormwood, the Great Car Dealer
Matilda's parents owned quite a nice house with three bedrooms upstairs, while on the ground
floor there was a dining-room and a living-room and a kitchen. Her father was a dealer in second-
hand cars and it seemed he did pretty well at it.
"Sawdust", he would say proudly, "is one of the great secrets of my success. And it costs me
nothing. I get it free from the sawmill."
"What do you use it for?" Matilda asked him.
"Ha!" the father said. "Wouldn't you like to know."
"I don't see how sawdust can help you to sell second-hand cars, daddy."
"That's because you're an ignorant little twit," the father said. His speech was never very delicate
but Matilda was used to it. She also knew that he liked to boast and she would egg him on
shamelessly.
"You must be very clever to find a use for something that costs nothing," she said. "I wish I could
do it."
"You couldn't," the father said. "You're too stupid. But I don't mind telling young Mike here about
it seeing he'll be joining me in the business one day." Ignoring Matilda, he turned to his son and
said, "I'm always glad to buy a car when some fool has been crashing the gears so badly they're all
worn out and rattle like mad. I get it cheap. Then all I do is mix a lot of sawdust with the oil in the
gear-box and it runs as sweet as a nut."
"How long will it run like that before it starts rattling again?" Matilda asked him.
"Long enough for the buyer to get a good distance away," the father said, grinning. "About a
hundred miles."
"But that's dishonest, daddy," Matilda said. "It's cheating."
"No one ever got rich being honest," the father said. "Customers are there to be diddled."
Mr Wormwood was a small ratty-looking man whose front teeth stuck out underneath a thin ratty
moustache. He liked to wear jackets with large brightly-coloured checks and he sported ties that
were usually yellow or pale green. "Now take mileage for instance," he went on. "Anyone who's
buying a second-hand car, the first thing he wants to know is how many miles it's done. Right?"
"Right," the son said.
"So I buy an old dump that's got about a hundred and fifty thousand miles on the clock. I get it
cheap. But no one's going to buy it with a mileage like that, are they? And these days you can't just
take the speedometer out and fiddle the numbers back like you used to ten years ago. They've fixed
it so it's impossible to tamper with it unless you're a ruddy watchmaker or something. So what do I
do? I use my brains, laddie, that's what I do."
"How?" young Michael asked, fascinated. He seemed to have inherited his father's love of
crookery.
"I sit down and say to myself, how can I convert a mileage reading of one hundred and fifty
thousand into only ten thousand without taking the speedometer to pieces? Well, if I were to run
the car backwards for long enough then obviously that would do it. The numbers would click
backwards, wouldn't they? But who's going to drive a flaming car in reverse for thousands and
thousands of miles? You couldn't do it!"
"Of course you couldn't," young Michael said.
"So I scratch my head," the father said. "I use my brains. When you've been given a fine brain like
I have, you've got to use it. And all of a sudden, the answer hits me. I tell you, I felt exactly like
that other brilliant fellow must have felt when he discovered penicillin. 'Eureka!' I cried. 'I've got
it!" '
"What did you do, dad?" the son asked him.
"The speedometer", Mr Wormwood said, "is run off a cable that is coupled up to one of the front
wheels. So first I disconnect the cable where it joins the front wheel. Next, I get one of those high-
speed electric drills and I couple that up to the end of the cable in such a way that when the drill
turns, it turns the cable backwards. You got me so far? You following me?"
"Yes, daddy," young Michael said.
"These drills run at a tremendous speed," the father said, "so when I switch on the drill the mileage
numbers on the speedo spin backwards at a fantastic rate. I can knock fifty thousand miles off the
clock in a few minutes with my high-speed electric drill. And by the time I've finished, the car's
only done ten thousand and it's ready for sale. 'She's almost new,' I say to the customer. 'She's
hardly done ten thou. Belonged to an old lady who only used it once a week for shopping.' "
"Can you really turn the mileage back with an electric drill?" young Michael asked.
"I'm telling you trade secrets," the father said. "So don't you go talking about this to anyone else.
You don't want me put in jug, do you?"
"I won't tell a soul," the boy said. "Do you do this to many cars, dad?"
"Every single car that comes through my hands gets the treatment," the father said. "They all have
their mileage cut to under under ten thou before they're offered for sale. And to think I invented
that all by myself," he added proudly. "It's made me a mint."
Matilda, who had been listening closely, said, "But daddy, that's even more dishonest than the
sawdust. It's disgusting. You're cheating people who trust you."
"If you don't like it then don't eat the food in this house," the father said. "It's bought with the
profits."
"It's dirty money," Matilda said. "I hate it."
Two red spots appears on the father's cheeks. "Who the heck do you think you are," he shouted,
"The Archbishop of Canterbury or something, preaching to me about honesty? You're just an
ignorant little squirt who hasn't the foggiest idea what you're talking about!"
"Quite right, Harry," the mother said. And to Matilda she said, "You've got a nerve talking to your
father like that. Now keep your nasty mouth shut so we can all watch this programme in peace."
They were in the living-room eating their suppers on their knees in front of the telly. The suppers
were TV dinners in floppy aluminium containers with separate compartments for the stewed meat,
the boiled potatoes and the peas. Mrs Wormwood sat munching her meal with her eyes glued to
the American soap-opera on the screen. She was a large woman whose hair was dyed platinum
blonde except where you could see the mousy-brown bits growing out from the roots. She wore
heavy makeup and she had one of those unfortunate bulging figures where the flesh appears to be
strapped in all around the body to prevent it from falling out.
"Mummy," Matilda said, "would you mind if I ate my supper in the dining-room so I could read
my book?"
The father glanced up sharply. "I would mind!" he snapped. "Supper is a family gathering and no
one leaves the table till it's over!"
"But we're not at the table," Matilda said. "We never are. We're always eating off our knees and
watching the telly.
"What's wrong with watching the telly, may I ask?" the father said. His voice had suddenly
become soft and dangerous.
Matilda didn't trust herself to answer him, so she kept quiet. She could feel the anger boiling up
inside her. She knew it was wrong to hate her parents like this, but she was finding it very hard not
to do so. All the reading she had done had given her a view of life that they had never seen. If only
they would read a little Dickens or Kipling they would soon discover there was more to life than
cheating people and watching television.
Another thing. She resented being told constantly that she was ignorant and stupid when she knew
she wasn't. The anger inside her went on boiling and boiling, and as she lay in bed that night she
made a decision. She decided that every time her father or her mother was beastly to her, she
would get her own back in some way or another. A small victory or two would help her to tolerate
their idiocies and would stop her from going crazy. You must remember that she was still hardly
five years old and it is not easy for somebody as small as that to score points against an all-
powerful grown-up. Even so, she was determined to have a go. Her father, after what had
happened in front of the telly that evening, was first on her list.
2.大汽车商沃姆伍德先生
大汽车商沃姆伍德先生
玛蒂尔达的爸爸妈妈拥有一座十分漂亮的房子，楼上有三间卧室，楼下有一间餐厅、一
间客厅和一间厨房。她的爸爸是倒卖旧汽车的，看来生意做得很不错。
“木屑，”他会得意地说，“是我成功的重大秘密之一。得到木屑我不用花钱，我免费从锯
木厂拿到它。”
“你用它来做什么呢？”玛蒂尔达问他。
“哈！”爸爸说，“你想知道吗？”
“我看不出木屑能帮你卖掉旧汽车，爸爸。”
“那是因为你是个无知的小捣蛋。”爸爸说。他说话从来不客气，不过玛蒂尔达也听习惯
了。她还知道他喜欢自吹自擂，她会逗他厚颜无耻地说下去。
“你能不花钱就把东西弄到手，你一定非常聪明，”她说，“我希望我也能做到。”
“你做不到的，”爸爸说，“你太笨了。但是我不妨在这里告诉小迈克尔，因为他将来要跟
着我做这行生意。”他不理睬玛蒂尔达，却向他的儿子转过脸去，说：“碰到有些傻瓜把齿轮
弄坏了，一个劲儿嚓嚓响，这种车我一向喜欢买。不费多少钱我就能把它弄到手。买来以
后，我只要在齿轮箱里放进大量木屑，和机油搅拌起来，车子就又能平平滑滑地跑起来啦。”
“它跑多远才嚓嚓响呢？”玛蒂尔达问他。
“足够买主开相当远的，”爸爸咧开嘴笑着说，“大约一百英里。”
“这可是不老实的，爸爸，”玛蒂尔达最后说，“这是骗人。”
“老实人没有一个发财的，”爸爸说，“顾客就是要让人来骗的。”
沃姆伍德先生个子小，老鼠脸，前面的牙齿从几根老鼠胡子底下拱出来。他爱穿鲜艳的
大方格上衣，打的领带不是黄的就是淡绿的。“现在拿里程来说吧，”他说下去，“买旧汽车的
人首先想知道的，就是它已经走过多少路了，对吗？”
“对。”儿子说。
“比方我买进了一辆旧垃圾车，里程表上记着它已经走过十五万英里，买进来很便宜。但
它走了那么多路，谁会买呢？现在我们已经不能像十年前那样可以把里程表拿出来，让数字
倒回去。不行了，它们如今都是装死的，没有办法改数字，除非你是一个技术高超的钟表匠
什么的。那我怎么办呢？我动我的脑筋，好小子，我就是这么办的。”
“怎么动你的脑筋呢？”小迈克尔着了迷似的问道。他看来遗传了他爸爸那种喜欢做坏事
的脾气。
“我坐下来对自己说，我怎么能不拆开里程表而把上面的十五万英里改成只有几万英里
呢？如果我把汽车倒开五万英里，这显然可以做到。数字会倒退，对吗？但谁会把一辆老爷
车倒开五万英里呢？这样做不行！”
“这当然不行。”小迈克尔说。
“因此我抓我的脑袋，”爸爸说，“我动我的脑筋。如果你天生有我这么好的脑筋，就得动
它。忽然之间，答案来了。我告诉你，我这种感觉和发现盘尼西林的聪明人有过的感觉一定
一模一样。‘万岁！’我叫道，‘我想出办法来了！’”
“你是怎么办的，爸爸？”儿子问他。
“里程表走字，”沃姆伍德先生说，“是由于有一根钢丝绳连接在一个前轮上，因此我首先
切断连接着前轮的钢丝绳，然后我弄来一个高速电钻，把它接到钢丝绳头上。这样，电钻一
转，就带动钢丝绳向后转。你听明白了吗？我说的话你跟得上吗？”
“是的，爸爸。”小迈克尔说。
“这电钻是以惊人的速度旋转的，”爸爸说，“因此，我一开电钻，里程表的英里数字也就
以惊人的速度向后退。用这高速电钻，几分钟我就能让里程表减少几万英里。等到我关上电
钻，汽车只走过一万英里，可以出售了。‘它几乎是新的，’我对顾客说，‘走了还不到一万英
里。它原先是一位老太太的，她一星期只用一次，开车去买买东西。’”
“你真能用电钻使里程表倒退吗？”小迈克尔问。
“我在告诉你做生意的秘密，”爸爸说，“因此你对谁也不能说。你不想叫我坐牢，对
吗？”
“我对谁也不说，”儿子说，“许多汽车你都是这么干的吗，爸爸？”
“每一辆经我手的汽车都这么处理过，”爸爸说，“在它们出售以前，走的里程都减到了一
万英里以下。想想吧，这都是我自己发明的。”随后，他得意洋洋地加上一句，“这已经使我
赚了不少钱。”
一直在旁边侧耳听着的玛蒂尔达说：“不过爸爸，这甚至比木屑更加不老实，这叫人讨
厌。你在欺骗信任你的人。”
“如果你不喜欢这样做，你就别吃这家里的饭！”爸爸说，“饭是用赚来的钱买的。”
“那是肮脏的钱，”玛蒂尔达说，“我恨它。”两个红晕出现在爸爸的脸颊上，“你以为你是
什么东西，”他大叫道，“是坎特伯雷的大主教还是什么人，竟敢教训我要老实？你只是一个
无知的小废物！”
“一点不错，哈里。”妈妈说。她对玛蒂尔达说：“你这样跟爸爸说话太不要脸了。现在闭
上你的臭嘴，让我们大家能安安静静地看电视。”
他们在客厅里正坐在电视机前，把晚饭放在膝盖上一边吃一边看。这是顿电视晚饭，用
有点软的铝制餐盘装着，一格格分别放着焖肉、煮土豆和豌豆。沃姆伍德太太坐在那里，正
大声地吧嗒吧嗒嚼着她嘴里的菜，眼睛盯住屏幕上的美国肥皂电视剧看。她是个大块头，头
发染成了淡金黄色，只在头发根上可以看到点刚长出来的鼠褐色头发。她浓妆艳抹，衣服紧
紧地包着身体，只可惜体形太胖，浑身的肉好像束住了，以免掉下来。
“妈妈，”玛蒂尔达说，“我到餐厅去吃晚饭，同时可以看看书，你不介意吧？”
爸爸猛地抬起头来。“我介意！”他很凶地说，“吃晚饭要全家在一起，没吃完谁也不能离
开桌子！”
“可我们不在桌子旁边，”玛蒂尔达说，“我们从来不坐在桌子旁边。我们总是把食物放在
膝盖上一边吃一边看电视。”
“请问看电视又有什么不对啦？”爸爸说。他的声音已经一下子变得温柔而危险了。
玛蒂尔达不敢回答他，于是不再说话。她可以感觉到自己心里在怒火中烧。她知道这样
恨爸爸妈妈是不对的，但她觉得很难不恨他们。她读到的那些书给了她一种他们从不知道的
人生观。只要他们能读一点狄更斯或者吉卜林的书，他们就会马上发现生活不光是骗人和看
电视了。
还有一点，她对于老是被人说成无知和愚蠢感到生气，因为她知道自己既不无知也不愚
蠢。她怒火中烧，越烧越旺，越烧越旺。那天晚上她躺在床上拿定了一个主意。她决定如果
她的爸爸或者妈妈再对她蛮横无理，她就要设法回敬他们。一两个小胜利会帮助她忍受他们
白痴一样的行为，并且可以使她不至于发疯。必须记住，她还不到五岁，对于这么小的孩
子，要对抗全能的大人而赢分是不容易的。尽管如此，她决定干。那天晚上在电视机前发生
了那件事以后，她的爸爸在她的名单中排在第一名。
3.The Hat and the Superglue
The Hat and the Superglue
The following morning, just before the father left for his beastly second-hand car garage, Matilda
slipped into the cloakroom and got hold of the hat he wore each day to work. She had to stand on
her toes and reach up as high as she could with a walking-stick in order to hook the hat off the peg,
and even then she only just made it. The hat itself was one of those flat-topped pork-pie jobs with
a jay's feather stuck in the hat-band and Mr Wormwood was very proud of it. He thought it gave
him a rakish daring look, especially when he wore it at an angle with his loud checked jacket and
green tie.
Matilda, holding the hat in one hand and a thin tube of Superglue in the other, proceeded to
squeeze a line of glue very neatly all round the inside rim of the hat. Then she carefully hooked the
hat back on to the peg with the walking-stick. She timed this operation very carefully, applying the
glue just as her father was getting up from the breakfast table.
Mr Wormwood didn't notice anything when he put the hat on, but when he arrived at the garage he
couldn't get it off. Superglue is very powerful stuff, so powerful it will take your skin off if you
pull too hard. Mr Wormwood didn't want to be
scalped so he had to keep the hat on his head the whole day long, even when putting sawdust in
gear-boxes and fiddling the mileages of cars with his electric drill. In an effort to save face, he
adopted a casual attitude hoping that his staff would think that he actually meant to keep his hat on
all day long just for the heck of it, like gangsters do in the films.
When he got home that evening he still couldn't get the hat off. "Don't be silly," his wife said.
"Come here. I'll take it off for you."
She gave the hat a sharp yank. Mr Wormwood let out a yell that rattled the window-panes. "Ow-
w-w!" he screamed. "Don't do that! Let go! You'll take half the skin off my forehead!"
Matilda, nestling in her usual chair, was watching this performance over the rim of her book with
some interest.
"What's the matter, daddy?" she said. "Has your head suddenly swollen or something?"
The father glared at his daughter with deep suspicion, but said nothing. How could he? Mrs
Wormwood said to him, "It must be Superglue. It couldn't be anything else. That'll teach you to go
playing round with nasty stuff like that. I expect you were trying to stick another feather in your
hat."
"I haven't touched the flaming stuff!" Mr Wormwood shouted. He turned and looked again at
Matilda who looked back at him with large innocent brown eyes.
Mrs Wormwood said to him, "You should read the label on the tube before you start messing with
dangerous products. Always follow the instructions on the label."
"What in heaven's name are you talking about, you stupid witch?" Mr Wormwood shouted,
clutching the brim of his hat to stop anyone trying to pull it off again. "D'you think I'm so stupid
I'd glue this thing to my head on purpose?"
Matilda said, "There's a boy down the road who got some Superglue on his finger without
knowing it and then he put his finger to his nose."
Mr Wormwood jumped. "What happened to him?" he spluttered.
"The finger got stuck inside his nose," Matilda said, "and he had to go around like that for a week.
People kept saying to him, 'Stop picking your nose,' and he couldn't do anything about it. He
looked an awful fool."
"Serve him right," Mrs Wormwood said. "He shouldn't have put his finger up there in the first
place. It's a nasty habit. If all children had Superglue put on their fingers they'd soon stop doing it."
Matilda said, "Grown-ups do it too, mummy. I saw you doing it yesterday in the kitchen."
"That's quite enough from you," Mrs Wormwood said, turning pink.
Mr Wormwood had to keep his hat on all through supper in front of the television. He looked
ridiculous and he stayed very silent.
When he went up to bed he tried again to get the thing off, and so did his wife, but it wouldn't
budge. "How am I going to have my shower?" he demanded.
"You'll just have to do without it, won't you," his wife told him. And later on, as she watched her
skinny little husband skulking around the bedroom in his purple-striped pyjamas with a pork-pie
hat on his head, she thought how stupid he looked. Hardly the kind of man a wife dreams about,
she told herself.
Mr Wormwood discovered that the worst thing about having a permanent hat on his head was
having to sleep in it. It was impossible to lie comfortably on the pillow. "Now do stop fussing
around," his wife said to him after he had been tossing and turning for about an hour. "I expect it
will be loose by the morning and then it'll slip off easily."
But it wasn't loose by the morning and it wouldn't slip off. So Mrs Wormwood took a pair of
scissors and cut the thing off his head, bit by bit, first the top and then the brim. Where the inner
band had stuck to the hair all around the sides and back, she had to chop the hair off right to the
skin so that he finished up with a bald white ring round his head, like some sort of a monk. And in
the front, where the band had stuck directly to the bare skin, there remained a whole lot of small
patches of brown leathery stuff that no amount of washing would get off.
At breakfast Matilda said to him, "You must try to get those bits off your forehead, daddy. It looks
as though you've got little brown insects crawling about all over you. People will think you've got
lice."
"Be quiet!" the father snapped. "Just keep your nasty mouth shut, will you!"
All in all it was a most satisfactory exercise. But it was surely too much to hope that it had taught
the father a permanent lesson.
3.帽子和超级胶
帽子和超级胶
第二天早晨，就在爸爸去他那家倒卖旧汽车的汽车行之前，玛蒂尔达溜进了衣帽间，弄
到了他每天出去时要戴的帽子。她踮起脚尖，把手杖尽可能往高处举，去钩衣钩上的帽子，
即使这样，她也只是勉勉强强够得到，但她总算把帽子从衣钩上钩下来了。这是一顶卷边低
平顶帽子，帽箍上插着一根 鸟羽毛。沃姆伍德先生为这顶帽子感到十分自豪，他认为戴上
它有一种花花公子的泼皮神气，特别是歪戴一点，再配上鲜艳的格子上衣，打上一条绿领
带。
玛蒂尔达一只手拿着帽子，一只手拿着细长的一管超级胶，在帽子里面的皮圈上整整齐
齐地挤上一圈，然后她用手杖把帽子重新挂回衣钩上。她十分仔细地算准行动时间，就在爸
爸从早餐桌上站起来的时候，她去把胶挤上了。
沃姆伍德先生戴上帽子时什么也没有留意，但是到了汽车行，帽子怎么也脱不下来了。
超级胶粘得非常牢，要是拉得太用力，连头皮也会拉掉。沃姆伍德先生不愿拉掉头发，只好
整天戴着帽子，连把木屑放进齿轮箱和用电钻改变汽车里程的时候也戴着。为了顾全面子，
他装出一副随随便便的样子，好让他的伙计以为他是为了好玩存心整天戴着他那顶帽子的，
就像电影里的匪徒那样。
那天晚上他回到家，帽子还是脱不掉。“别傻了，”他的太太说，“过来，我给你脱。”
她把帽子狠狠地往上一拉，沃姆伍德先生发出一声号叫，连窗玻璃都乒乒乓乓响起来
了。“噢—噢—噢！”他尖叫道，“不要拉！快放手！你要把我前面半块头皮剥下来了！”
玛蒂尔达蜷缩在她常坐的椅子上，目光越过她正在读的那本书，很有兴趣地看着这场
戏。
“什么事啊，爸爸？”她说，“是你的头一下子胀大了，还是怎么的？”
爸爸用怀疑的眼光看看女儿，但是什么话也没有说。他能说什么呢？沃姆伍德太太对他
说：“一定是超级胶，不可能是别的东西。这可以教训你以后别摆弄这种脏东西。我想你是要
在你那顶帽子上再粘一根羽毛。”
“我根本就没有碰过那该死的东西！”沃姆伍德叫道。他转过脸又看看玛蒂尔达，她正用
天真无邪的棕色大眼睛回看着他。
沃姆伍德太太对他说：“在你动危险的东西之前，先要看看管子上的说明，永远要照上面
的说明做。”
“你都在胡说些什么呀，你这愚蠢的女巫！”沃姆伍德先生叫道，抓住帽边不让她再拉帽
子，“你以为我会笨到存心把这玩意儿粘到我的头上去吗？”
玛蒂尔达说：“路那头有个孩子，他的手指上有些超级胶，可是后来他把手指放到鼻子里
去了。”
沃姆伍德先生跳起来。“接着他出什么事啦？”他唾沫四溅地问。
“手指粘在鼻子里面了。”玛蒂尔达说，“整整一个星期，他就只好这个样子走来走去。人
们一个劲儿对他说：‘不要挖鼻孔！’可是他毫无办法。他那副模样看上去真像一个大傻瓜。”
“这是他活该。”沃姆伍德太太说，“首先他就不该把手指伸到那里去，这是个肮脏的习
惯。如果在所有孩子的手指上放点超级胶，他们很快就都不会这样做了。”
玛蒂尔达说：“大人也有这样做的，妈妈，我就看见你昨天在厨房里这样做。”
“你说够了吗？”沃姆伍德太太大叫着，脸都红了。
沃姆伍德先生只好一直戴着帽子在电视机前吃完他那顿晚饭。他一句话不说，看着非常
可笑。
上床时他又想把帽子脱掉，他太太也希望如此，但是帽子一动也不动。“我怎么去淋浴
呢？”他问。
“你只好不淋浴了。”他的太太对他说。过了一会儿，她看着她皮包骨头的小个子丈夫穿
着他那身紫色条子睡衣，戴着他那顶卷边低平顶帽子在卧室里偷偷摸摸地走路，心想他那副
样子多么傻。她对自己说，这种男人是妻子做梦也想不到的。
沃姆伍德先生发现头上永远戴着帽子，最糟糕的事莫过于睡觉了，这样在枕头上怎么也
躺不舒服。“现在别再动来动去了。”在他翻来覆去折腾了差不多一个钟头以后，他的太太对
他说，“我想到了早晨帽子也许会松开，很容易就自动脱落了。”
但是到了第二天早晨，帽子还是没有松开脱落下来。于是沃姆伍德太太拿来一把剪刀，
一点一点把他头上的帽子剪去，先是剪帽顶，接下来剪帽边。帽子里面的皮圈团团地粘住了
他的头发，她只好把头发一直剪到头皮，因此到头来，他的头光光地秃了一圈，像个修道
士。前面皮圈直接粘在头皮上，那里的棕色皮子乱七八糟地全留下了，怎么擦怎么洗也弄不
掉。
吃早饭的时候玛蒂尔达对他说：“你必须想办法把你脑门上那些东西弄掉，爸爸。看起来
像是棕色的小虫子在你头上到处乱爬。人们会以为你长了虱子的。”
“别说话！”爸爸很凶地说，“给我闭上你的臭嘴！”
总而言之，这是一个最叫人满意的练习。但如果希望这样就能给她的爸爸一个永远忘不
了的教训，那确实是希望过高了。
4.The Ghost
The Ghost
There was comparative calm in the Wormwood household for about a week after the Superglue
episode. The experience had clearly chastened Mr Wormwood and he seemed temporarily to have
lost his taste for boasting and bullying.
Then suddenly he struck again. Perhaps he had had a bad day at the garage and had not sold
enough crummy second-hand cars. There are many things that make a man irritable when he
arrives home from work in the evening and a sensible wife will usually notice the storm-signals
and will leave him alone until he simmers down.
When Mr Wormwood arrived back from the garage that evening his face was as dark as a
thundercloud and somebody was clearly for the high-jump pretty soon. His wife recognised the
signs immediately and made herself scarce. He then strode into the living-room. Matilda happened
to be curled up in an arm-chair in the corner, totally absorbed in a book. Mr Wormwood switched
on the television. The screen lit up. The programme blared. Mr Wormwood glared at Matilda. She
hadn't moved. She had somehow trained herself by now to block her ears to the ghastly sound of
the dreaded box. She kept right on reading, and for some reason this infuriated the father. Perhaps
his anger was
intensified because he saw her getting pleasure from something that was beyond his reach.
"Don't you ever stop reading?" he snapped at her.
"Oh, hello daddy," she said pleasantly. "Did you have a good day?"
"What is this trash?" he said, snatching the book from her hands.
"It isn't trash, daddy, it's lovely. It's called The Red Pony. It's by John Steinbeck, an American
writer. Why don't you try it? You'll love it."
"Filth," Mr Wormwood said. "If it's by an American it's certain to be filth. That's all they write
about."
"No daddy, it's beautiful, honestly it is. It's about . . ."
"I don't want to know what it's about," Mr Wormwood barked. "I'm fed up with your reading
anyway. Go and find yourself something useful to
do." With frightening suddenness he now began ripping the pages out of the book in handfuls and
throwing them in the waste-paper basket.
Matilda froze in horror. The father kept going. There seemed little doubt that the man felt some
kind of jealousy. How dare she, he seemed to be saying with each rip of a page, how dare she
enjoy reading books when he couldn't? How dare she?
"That's a library book!" Matilda cried. "It doesn't belong to me! I have to return it to Mrs Phelps!"
"Then you'll have to buy another one, won't you?" the father said, still tearing out pages. "You'll
have to save your pocket-money until there's enough in the kitty to buy a new one for your
precious Mrs Phelps, won't you?" With that he dropped the now empty covers of the book into the
basket and marched out of the room, leaving the telly blaring.
Most children in Matilda's place would have burst into floods of tears. She didn't do this. She sat
there very still and white and thoughtful. She seemed to know that neither crying nor sulking ever
got anyone anywhere. The only sensible thing to do when you are attacked is, as Napoleon once
said, to counter-attack. Matilda's wonderfully subtle mind was already at work devising yet
another suitable punishment for the poisonous parent. The plan that was now beginning to hatch in
her mind depended, however, upon whether or not Fred's parrot was really as good a talker as Fred
made out.
Fred was a friend of Matilda's. He was a small boy of six who lived just around the corner from
her, and for days he had been going on about this great talking parrot his father had given him.
So the following afternoon, as soon as Mrs Wormwood had departed in her car for another session
of bingo, Matilda set out for Fred's house to investigate. She knocked on his door and asked if he
would be kind enough to show her the famous bird. Fred was delighted and led her up to his
bedroom where a truly magnificent blue and yellow parrot sat in a tall cage.
"There it is," Fred said. "It's name is Chopper."
"Make it talk," Matilda said.
"You can't make it talk," Fred said. "You have to be patient. It'll talk when it feels like it."
They hung around, waiting. Suddenly the parrot said, "Hullo, hullo, hullo." It was exactly like a
human voice. Matilda said, "That's amazing! What else can it say?"
"Rattle my bones!" the parrot said, giving a wonderful imitation of a spooky voice. "Rattle my
bones!"
"He's always saying that," Fred told her .
"What else can he say?" Matilda asked.
"That's about it," Fred said. "But it is pretty marvellous don't you think?"
"It's fabulous," Matilda said. "Will you lend him to me just for one night?"
"No," Fred said. "Certainly not."
"I'll give you all my next week's pocket-money," Matilda said.
That was different. Fred thought about it for a few seconds. "All right, then," he said, "If you
promise to return him tomorrow."
Matilda staggered back to her own empty house carrying the tall cage in both hands. There was a
large fireplace in the dining-room and she now set about wedging the cage up the chimney and out
of sight. This wasn't so easy, but she managed it in the end.
"Hullo, hullo, hullo!" the bird called down to her. "Hullo, hullo!"
"Shut up, you nut!" Matilda said, and she went out to wash the soot off her hands.
That evening while the mother, the father, the brother and Matilda were having supper as usual in
the living-room in front of the television, a voice came loud and clear from the dining-room across
the hall. "Hullo, hullo, hullo," it said.
"Harry!" cried the mother, turning white. "There's someone in the house! I heard a voice!"
"So did I!" the brother said. Matilda jumped up and switched off the telly. "Ssshh!" she said.
"Listen!"
They all stopped eating and sat there very tense, listening.
"Hullo, hullo, hullo!" came the voice again.
"There it is!" cried the brother.
"It's burglars!" hissed the mother. "They're in the dining-room!"
"I think they are," the father said, sitting tight.
"Then go and catch them, Harry!" hissed the mother. "Go out and collar them red-handed!"
The father didn't move. He seemed in no hurry to dash off and be a hero. His face had turned grey.
"Get on with it!" hissed the mother. "They're probably after the silver!"
The husband wiped his lips nervously with his napkin. "Why don't we all go and look together?"
he said.
"Come on, then," the brother said. "Come on, mum."
"They're definitely in the dining-room," Matilda whispered. "I'm sure they are."
The mother grabbed a poker from the fireplace. The father took a golf-club that was standing in
the corner. The brother seized a table-lamp, ripping the plug out of its socket. Matilda took the
knife she had been eating with, and all four of them crept towards the dining-room door, the father
keeping well behind the others.
"Hullo, hullo, hullo," came the voice again.
"Come on!" Matilda cried and she burst into the room, brandishing her knife. "Stick 'em up!" she
yelled. "We've caught you!" The others followed
her, waving their weapons. Then they stopped. They stared around the room. There was no one
there.
"There's no one here," the father said, greatly relieved.
"I heard him, Harry!" the mother shrieked, still quaking. "I distinctly heard his voice! So did you!"
"I'm certain I heard him!" Matilda cried. "He's in here somewhere!" She began searching behind
the sofa and behind the curtains.
Then came the voice once again, soft and spooky this time, "Rattle my bones," it said. "Rattle my
bones."
They all jumped, including Matilda who was a pretty good actress. They stared round the room.
There was still no one there.
"It's a ghost," Matilda said.
"Heaven help us!" cried the mother, clutching her husband round the neck.
"I know it's a ghost!" Matilda said. "I've heard it here before! This room is haunted! I thought you
knew that."
"Save us!" the mother screamed, almost throttling her husband.
"I'm getting out of here," the father said, greyer than ever now. They all fled, slamming the door
behind them.
The next afternoon, Matilda managed to get a rather sooty and grumpy parrot down from the
chimney and out of the house without being seen. She carried it through the back-door and ran
with it all the way to Fred's house.
"Did it behave itself?" Fred asked her.
"We had a lovely time with it," Matilda said. "My parents adored it."
4.鬼
鬼
在超级胶事件以后，沃姆伍德家相对安静了大约一星期。这个练习显然灭了沃姆伍德先
生的威风，他似乎暂时失去了他那种自吹自擂和恨天恨地的乐趣。
没过多久，他的老毛病忽然又发作了。也许是他在汽车行里不顺心，没有卖掉足够的破
烂汽车。是会有许多事情使一个男人在晚上下班回来时发脾气的，敏感的妻子通常总是注意
到那种暴风雨快到时的征兆，不理他，让他一个人去，直到他的火气平息下来。
那天晚上沃姆伍德先生从汽车行回家就是这副样子，脸黑得像乌云，一看就知道他很快
就要火冒三丈了。他的太太立刻认出这种信号，十分害怕。沃姆伍德先生大踏步走进客厅。
玛蒂尔达正好缩着身体坐在墙角的一把扶手椅上，读书读得入了迷。沃姆伍德先生打开电视
机，屏幕亮了，哇啦哇啦地响起来。沃姆伍德先生看看玛蒂尔达，她一动也没有动。她现在
已经锻炼出来了，塞住她的耳朵不去听那可怕的箱子发出来的可怕声音。她继续读她的书，
这一来更使她的爸爸发火了。更令他感到生气的，也许是因为看到她竟从他不知道的什么东
西中得到了乐趣。
“你读书从来不停一下吗？”他狠狠地对她说。
“噢，你好，爸爸，”她快活地说，“你今天过得好吗？”
“这是什么废物？”他说着把她手里的书抢了过去。
“这不是废物，爸爸，它很好看的，它叫《红马驹》，是美国作家约翰•斯坦贝克写的。你
为什么不也读一读呢？你会喜欢这本书的。”
“下流东西，”沃姆伍德先生说，“只要是美国人写的就准下流，他们写的都是这类货
色。”
“不，爸爸，它很美，真的很美。它写的是……”
“我不想知道它写什么。”沃姆伍德先生咆哮道，“反正我讨厌你读书。你去给自己找点有
用的事情做做吧。”说时迟那时快，真是突然得可怕，他开始一把一把地把书页扯下来，扔到
字纸篓里去。
玛蒂尔达吓得呆住了。爸爸一个劲儿地撕书，毫无疑问，他是在妒忌。“她竟敢读
书。”他似乎每撕一把就对自己说一遍，他不读书，她怎么敢津津有味地读书？
“那是图书馆的书！”玛蒂尔达叫道，“它不是我的！我要把它还给费尔普斯太太的！”
“那么你还得另外买一本去赔，对吗？”爸爸还在撕，一面撕一面说，“那么你得省下零用
钱了，直到小猫存钱罐里的钱够你另外买一本新的，拿去还给你那位尊敬的费尔普斯太太，
对吗？”说着他已经把书页撕光了，把剩下的封面封底也扔进字纸篓，大踏步走出房间，让电
视机哇啦哇啦地响着。
大多数孩子要是处在玛蒂尔达的位置准会泪如雨下，号啕大哭。但是玛蒂尔达不哭，她
十分安静地坐在那里，面色苍白，在动脑筋。她好像知道，哇哇大哭也好，发脾气也好，什
么用处也没有。受到攻击的唯一明智的办法，正如拿破仑有一次说过的，就是反击。玛蒂尔
达极其机灵的脑子已经又在动了，她在想另一个对她恶毒的爸爸合适的惩罚。这个如今开始
在她心中酝酿的计划看全一点，就是弗雷德的鹦鹉是不是真像弗雷德所说的那样会说话。
弗雷德是玛蒂尔达的朋友。他是个六岁的小男孩，就住在她家路口那里。他一直在谈他
爸爸给他的这只说话大师鹦鹉，已经有好些日子了。
因此第二天下午，沃姆伍德太太一上汽车又去玩宾戈了，玛蒂尔达就上弗雷德家去打
听。她敲门问他能不能让她看看这只大名鼎鼎的鹦鹉。弗雷德听了很得意，就带她上楼去他
的卧室，那里的确有只真正出色的蓝夹黄的鹦鹉蹲在一个高鸟笼里。
“就是它，”弗雷德说，“它的名字叫‘伐木者’。”
“你叫它说话吧。”玛蒂尔达说。
“你不能叫它说话，”弗雷德说，“你得耐心等。到它高兴说话的时候它会说的。”
他们于是待在旁边等着。鹦鹉忽然说起来了：“你好，你好，你好。”完全是人的声音。
玛蒂尔达说：“真惊人！它还会说什么？”
“我的骨头格格响！”鹦鹉说，学鬼怪的声音像极了，“我的骨头格格响！”
“它老说这句话。”弗雷德告诉她。
“它还会说什么吗？”玛蒂尔达问道。
“就这些了，”弗雷德说，“不过这已经很了不起啦，你说不是吗？”
“非常了不起！”玛蒂尔达说，“你可以把它借给我吗，就一个晚上？”
“不行，”弗雷德说，“当然不行。”
“我把我下星期的零用钱都给你。”玛蒂尔达说。
“那又另当别论了。”弗雷德想了几秒钟，“那好吧，”他说，“只要你保证明天还给我。”
玛蒂尔达两手捧着那高高的鸟笼，摇摇晃晃地回到空无一人的家里。餐厅里有个大壁
炉，她动手把鸟笼塞进嵌在壁炉上面的烟囱里，不让人看见。这件事不太好办，可是她终于
办成了。
“你好，你好，你好！”鹦鹉在壁炉里面对她叫，“你好，你好！”
“闭嘴，你这傻瓜！”玛蒂尔达说着，出去洗掉手上的煤灰。
那天晚上，当妈妈、爸爸、哥哥和玛蒂尔达照常在客厅里坐在电视机前面吃晚饭的时
候，一个声音又响亮又清楚地从餐厅里传过门厅，“你好，你好，你好！”
“哈里！”妈妈叫起来，脸都白了，“屋里有人！我听见有人在说话！”
“我也听到了！”哥哥说。
玛蒂尔达猛地跳起来，关掉了电视机。“嘘—”她说，“仔细听着！”
他们全都停止吃饭，紧张地坐在那里竖起了耳朵听。
“你好，你好，你好！”那声音又来了。
“它来了！”哥哥叫道。
“是小偷！”妈妈颤抖着说，“他们在餐厅里！”
“我想是的。”爸爸僵坐着说。
“那你去捉住他们，哈里！”妈妈还是颤抖着说，“你出去当场捉住他们！”
爸爸一动不动。他好像一点不急于冲出去当个英雄。他的脸变灰了。
“去吧！”妈妈颤抖着说，“他们可能在偷银餐具！”
她的丈夫用餐巾紧张地擦着嘴唇。“为什么不是我们大家一起去看呢？”他说。
“那么来吧，”哥哥说，“来吧，妈妈。”
“他们百分之一百在餐厅里，”玛蒂尔达悄悄地说，“我断定他们在那里。”
妈妈从壁炉那里抓起一根拨火棒；爸爸拿起墙角一根高尔夫球棒；哥哥从插座拔出插
头，抓起一盏台灯；玛蒂尔达拿着正在吃饭用的餐刀，他们四个向餐厅悄悄走去，爸爸稳当
地走在其他人后面。
“你好，你好，你好。”那声音又来了。
“来吧！”玛蒂尔达一声大叫，高举她的餐刀，带头冲进房间。“把双手举起来！”她哇哇
叫道，“我们已经捉住你了！”其他人晃动着各自的武器跟着她。接着他们停下来环顾整个房
间，里面一个人也没有。
“房间里没有人。”爸爸大大松了口气说。
“我可是听见了他的声音的，哈里！”妈妈仍旧在发抖，尖叫着说，“我清清楚楚听见了他
的声音！你也听见了！”
“我肯定听见了他的声音！”玛蒂尔达叫道，“他准在这里的什么地方！”她开始在沙发后
面窗帘后面找。
接着那声音又来了，这一次温柔而古怪，“我的骨头格格响，”它说，“我的骨头格格
响。”
所有的人跳了起来，包括玛蒂尔达在内，她是个挺好的演员。他们在房间里东看看西看
看，里面还是没有人。
“是鬼。”玛蒂尔达说。
“老天爷保佑我们吧！”妈妈抱住她丈夫的脖子大叫。
“我知道是鬼！”玛蒂尔达说，“我以前在这里也听到过它的声音！这房间有鬼！这件事我
以为你们知道的。”
“救命啊！”妈妈尖声大叫，几乎都要把她的丈夫掐死了。
“我要离开这里。”爸爸说，这会儿他的脸色更白了。他们全都逃了出去，“咣”一声，用
力关上了餐厅的门。
第二天下午，玛蒂尔达好不容易才把浑身是煤灰、大发脾气的鹦鹉从烟囱里拿了出来，
悄悄地把它送走。她捧着它出了后门，一口气跑到了弗雷德家。
“它乖吗？”弗雷德问她。
“我们和它玩得真开心，”玛蒂尔达说，“我的爸爸妈妈很喜欢它。”
5.Arithmetic
Arithmetic
Matilda longed for her parents to be good and loving and understanding and honourable and
intelligent. The fact that they were none of these things was something she had to put up with. It
was not easy to do so. But the new game she had invented of punishing one or both of them each
time they were beastly to her made her life more or less bearable.
Being very small and very young, the only power Matilda had over anyone in her family was
brainpower. For sheer cleverness she could run rings around them all. But the fact remained that
any five-year-old girl in any family was always obliged to do as she was told, however asinine the
orders might be. Thus she was always forced to eat her evening meals out of TV-dinner-trays in
front of the dreaded box. She always had to stay alone on weekday afternoons, and whenever she
was told to shut up, she had to shut up.
Her safety-valve, the thing that prevented her from going round the bend, was the fun of devising
and dishing out these splendid punishments, and the lovely thing was that they seemed to work, at
any rate for short periods. The father in particular became less cocky and unbearable for several
days after receiving a dose of Matilda's magic medicine.
The parrot-in-the-chimney affair quite definitely cooled both parents down a lot and for over a
week they were comparatively civil to their small daughter. But alas, this couldn't last. The next
flare-up came one evening in the sitting-room. Mr Wormwood had just returned from work.
Matilda and her brother were sitting quietly on the sofa waiting for their mother to bring in the TV
dinners on a tray. The television had not yet been switched on.
In came Mr Wormwood in a loud check suit and a yellow tie. The appalling broad orange-and-
green check of the jacket and trousers almost blinded the onlooker. He looked like a low-grade
bookmaker dressed up for his daughter's wedding, and he was clearly very pleased with himself
this evening. He sat down in an armchair and rubbed his hands together and addressed his son in a
loud voice. "Well, my boy," he said, "your father's had a most successful day. He is a lot richer
tonight than he was this morning. He has sold no less than five cars, each one at a tidy profit.
Sawdust in the gear-boxes, the electric-drill on the speedometer cables, a splash of paint here and
there and a few other clever little tricks and the idiots were all falling over themselves to buy."
He fished a bit of paper from his pocket and studied it. "Listen boy," he said, addressing the son
and ignoring Matilda, "seeing as you'll be going into this business with me one day, you've got to
know how to add up the profits you make at the end of each day. Go and get yourself a pad and a
pencil and let's see how clever you are."
The son obediently left the room and returned with the writing materials.
"Write down these figures," the father said, reading from his bit of paper. "Car number one was
bought by me for two hundred and seventy-eight pounds and sold for one thousand four hundred
and twenty-five. Got that?"
The ten-year-old boy wrote the two separate amounts down slowly and carefully.
"Car number two", the father went on, "cost me one hundred and eighteen pounds and sold for
seven hundred and sixty. Got it?"
"Yes, dad," the son said. "I've got that."
''Car number three cost one hundred and eleven pounds and sold for nine hundred and ninety-nine
pounds and fifty pence."
"Say that again," the son said. "How much did it sell for?"
"Nine hundred and ninety-nine pounds and fifty pence," the father said. "And that, by the way, is
another of my nifty little tricks to diddle the customer. Never ask for a big round figure. Always go
just below it. Never say one thousand pounds. Always say nine hundred and ninety-nine fifty. It
sounds much less but it isn't. Clever, isn't it?"
"Very," the son said. "You're brilliant, dad."
"Car number four cost eighty-six pounds -- a real wreck that was -- and sold for six hundred and
ninety-nine pounds fifty."
"Not too fast," the son said, writing the numbers down. "Right. I've got it."
"Car number five cost six hundred and thirty-seven pounds and sold for sixteen hundred and forty-
nine fifty. You got all those figures written down, son?"
"Yes, daddy," the boy said, crouching over his pad and carefully writing.
"Very well," the father said. "Now work out the profit I made on each of the five cars and add up
the total. Then you'll be able to tell me how much money your rather brilliant father made
altogether today."
"That's a lot of sums," the boy said.
"Of course it's a lot of sums," the father answered. "But when you're in big business like I am,
you've got to be hot stuff at arithmetic. I've practically got a computer inside my head. It took me
less than ten minutes to work the whole thing out."
"You mean you did it in your head, dad?" the son asked, goggling.
"Well, not exactly," the father said. "Nobody could do that. But it didn't take me long. When
you're finished, tell me what you think my profit was for the day. I've got the final total written
down here and I'll tell you if you're right."
Matilda said quietly, "Dad, you made exactly four thousand three hundred and three pounds and
fifty pence altogether."
"Don't butt in," the father said. "Your brother and I are busy with high finance."
"But dad . . ."
"Shut up," the father said. "Stop guessing and trying to be clever."
"Look at your answer, dad," Matilda said gently. "If you've done it right it ought to be four
thousand three hundred and three pounds and fifty pence. Is that what you've got, dad?"
The father glanced down at the paper in his hand. He seemed to stiffen. He became very quiet.
There was a silence. Then he said, "Say that again."
"Four thousand three hundred and three pounds fifty," Matilda said.
There was another silence. The father's face was beginning to go dark red.
"I'm sure it's right," Matilda said.
"You . . . you little cheat!" the father suddenly shouted, pointing at her with his finger. "You
looked at my bit of paper! You read it off from what I've got written here!"
"Daddy, I'm the other side of the room," Matilda said. "How could I possibly see it?"
"Don't give me that rubbish!" the father shouted. "Of course you looked! You must have looked!
No one in the world could give the right answer just like that, especially a girl! You're a little
cheat, madam, that's what you are! A cheat and a liar!"
At that point, the mother came in carrying a large tray on which were the four suppers. This time it
was fish and chips which Mrs Wormwood had picked up in the fish and chip shop on her way
home from bingo. It seemed that bingo afternoons left her so exhausted both physically and
emotionally that she never had enough energy left to cook an evening meal. So if it wasn't TV
dinners it had to be fish and chips. "What are you looking so red in the face about, Harry?" she
said as she put the tray down on the coffee-table.
"Your daughter's a cheat and a liar," the father said, taking his plate of fish and placing it on his
knees. "Turn the telly on and let's not have any more talk."
5.算术
算术
玛蒂尔达渴望她的爸爸妈妈又好又可爱，善解人意，老老实实并且有文化，但是他们一
样也不是，这件事她只好认了。不过这也实在不好受，只是在他们每次对她粗暴不讲理时，
她才想出新花样来惩罚他们中的一位，或者同时惩罚两位，这才使她勉强忍受得了这种生
活。
玛蒂尔达个子小，岁数也小，她战胜家中任何人的唯一力量只有智力。由于绝顶聪明，
她能够轻易地取胜。但事实依然是，任何一个五岁女孩总是只能乖乖地做要她做的事，即使
吩咐她做的事十分愚蠢。正是这个缘故，她不得不在那可怕的箱子前面用电视晚餐盘子吃她
的晚饭。一个星期有五个下午她得孤零零一个人待在家里，任何时候要她闭嘴她就得闭嘴。
唯一使她不致发疯的安全阀就是想出并且实施那些了不起的惩罚。有趣的是，它们看来
都很成功，至少在短时期内如此。在吃过一次玛蒂尔达的魔药以后，特别是爸爸，有好几天
变得不那么神气活现和叫人受不了了。
鹦鹉放在烟囱里这事件，十分明显地使爸爸妈妈大为安静下来，有一个多星期他们对小
女儿比较文明。可是天啊，这件事却不能持久。有一天晚上，沃姆伍德先生的老毛病又犯
了。那天，沃姆伍德先生刚下班回家，玛蒂尔达和她哥哥正安静地坐在沙发上，等着他们的
妈妈用托盘把电视晚饭端来。电视机还没有打开。
沃姆伍德先生穿着花哨的格子西装、打着黄色领带进来了。他那套西装的格子图案和可
怕的黄绿颜色几乎使两位观众眼睛都看傻了。他看起来像是一个低级书商穿戴好了要去参加
女儿的婚礼。这天晚上，他的心情显然不错，他在扶手椅上坐下，搓着双手，大声招呼他的
儿子，“喂，我的乖仔，”他说，“你老子今天干得最成功了，他今晚比今早要阔多了。他卖了
至少五辆汽车，而且每一辆都赚大钱。齿轮箱里放上木屑，用电钻转动里程表的钢丝绳，到
处喷上点油漆，还耍了几样聪明的小花招，那几个白痴全都抢着买了。”
他从衣袋里掏出一张纸来仔细看了看。“听我说，乖仔，”他对儿子说，根本无视玛蒂尔
达的存在，“你总有一天要和我一起做这个生意，你必须知道在每天收工的时候怎样把利润加
起来。你去拿纸和铅笔来，让我们看看你有多聪明。”
儿子乖乖地离开房间，拿来纸和铅笔。
“记下这些数字，”爸爸说着，读他那张纸上的东西，“第一辆汽车，我二百七十八英镑买
进，一千四百二十五英镑卖出。记下了吗？”
这个十岁男孩把两个数字慢慢地、小心地记下了。
“第二辆汽车，”爸爸说下去，“一百一十八英镑买进，七百六十英镑卖出。记下了吗？”
“记下来了，爸爸，”儿子说，“我都记下来了。”
“第三辆汽车，一百一十一英镑买进，九百九十九英镑五十便士卖出。”
“再说一遍吧，”儿子说，“多少钱卖出？”
“九百九十九英镑五十便士。”爸爸说，“再说，在这辆汽车上我又耍了另一个巧妙的小花
招骗过了顾客。开价永远不要说一个完整的大数。总要说得比这个数小一丁点儿。永远不要
开价一千英镑，一定要说九百九十九英镑五十便士。听上去数目好像小得多，其实不然。很
聪明，不是吗？”
“聪明极了，”儿子说，“你真了不起，爸爸。”
“第四辆汽车，八十六英镑买进—实在是辆破车，六百九十九英镑五十便士卖出。”
“别说得太快，”儿子一面写数字一面说，“好，写下来了。”
“第五辆汽车，六百三十五英镑买进，一千六百四十九英镑五十便士卖出。你把这些数字
都写下来了吗，乖仔？”
“写下来了，爸爸。”儿子趴在他那张纸上仔细地写着说。
“很好，”爸爸说，“现在把我的五辆车中每辆汽车所赚的钱算出来，然后再加出个总数。
这样你就能够告诉我，你这位出色的爸爸今天一共赚进多少钱了。”
“赚得真多。”儿子说。
“当然很多，”爸爸回答，“但是你要像我这样做大生意，你的算术就得很高明。我实际上
有电子计算器在我的脑子里，不到十分钟我就能全算出来。”
“你是说你用你的脑子算吗，爸爸？”儿子瞪大了眼睛问道。
“这个嘛，也不全是，”爸爸说，“用脑子算没有人能做到。不过我算起来不用花很长时
间。等你算完了，告诉我你算的我今天赚的钱数。我已经把总数写在这张纸上，如果你算得
对，我会告诉你的。”
玛蒂尔达安静地说：“爸爸，你一共赚了四千三百零三英镑五十便士。”
“不要打岔，”爸爸说，“你哥哥和我正忙着算大数目呢。”
“不过，爸爸……”
“闭嘴！”爸爸说，“不要乱猜，装聪明。”
“看看你的答案吧，爸爸，”玛蒂尔达温和地说，“如果你算得对，总数应该是四千三百零
三英镑五十便士。你的得数是这样的吗，爸爸？”
爸爸低头朝手中的纸看了一眼，他像是傻了。他安静下来，一阵沉默，接着他说：“你再
说一遍。”
“四千三百零三英镑五十便士。”玛蒂尔达说。
又是一阵沉默，爸爸的脸开始涨得发紫。
“我断定这错不了。”玛蒂尔达说。
“你……你这个小骗子！”爸爸忽然用他的一个手指指住她大叫，“你偷看了我这张纸！你
是把我写在这上面的数字说出来了！”
“爸爸，我可是在房间的另一头，”玛蒂尔达说，“我怎么会看见它呢？”
“别对我胡说八道了！”爸爸大叫，“你当然偷看过！你一定偷看了！世界上没有人能这么
快就把正确答案说出来的，特别是一个小丫头！你是一个小骗子，小丫头，你正是这种东
西！一个骗子！一个说谎大王！”
正在这时候，妈妈用大托盘把四份晚饭端进来。这一回又是炸鱼和炸土豆片，是沃姆伍
德太太玩完宾戈以后，回家时在路上的炸鱼和炸土豆片店里买的。看起来，下午玩宾戈弄得
她筋疲力尽，她再也没有力气做晚饭了。因此，如果不叫电视晚饭，那就得叫炸鱼和炸土豆
片。“你的脸看上去怎么这样红啊，哈里？”她把托盘在咖啡桌上放下来说。
“你的女儿是个骗子和说谎大王！”爸爸拿起他的一盆炸鱼，放在膝盖上说，“把电视机打
开，我们不要再说话了。”
6.The Platinum-Blond Man
The Platinum-Blond Man
There was no doubt in Matilda's mind that this latest display of foulness by her father deserved
severe punishment, and as she sat eating her awful fried fish and fried chips and ignoring the
television, her brain went to work on various possibilities. By the time she went up to bed her
mind was made up.
The next morning she got up early and went into the bathroom and locked the door. As we already
know, Mrs Wormwood's hair was dyed a brilliant platinum blonde, very much the same glistening
silvery colour as a female tightrope-walker's tights in a circus. The big dyeing job was done twice
a year at the hairdresser's, but every month or so in between, Mrs Wormwood used to freshen it up
by giving it a rinse in the washbasin with something called platinum blonde hair-dye extra strong.
This also served to dye the nasty brown hairs that kept growing from the roots underneath. The
bottle of PLATINUM BLONDE HAIR-DYE EXTRA STRONG was kept in the cupboard in the
bathroom, and underneath the title on the label were written the words Caution, this is peroxide.
Keep away from children. Matilda had read it many times with fascination. Matilda's father had a
fine crop of black hair which he parted in the middle and of which he was exceedingly proud.
"Good strong hair," he was fond of saying, "means there's a good strong brain underneath."
"Like Shakespeare," Matilda had once said to him.
"Like who?"
"Shakespeare, daddy."
"Was he brainy?"
"Very, daddy."
"He had masses of hair, did he?"
"He was bald, daddy."
To which the father had snapped, "If you can't talk sense then shut up."
Anyway, Mr Wormwood kept his hair looking bright and strong, or so he thought, by rubbing into
it every morning large quantities of a lotion called oil of violets hair tonic. A bottle of this smelly
purple mixture always stood on the shelf above the sink in the bathroom alongside all the
toothbrushes, and a very vigorous scalp massage with oil of violets took place daily after shaving
was completed. This hair and scalp massage was always, accompanied by loud masculine grunts
and heavy breathing and gasps of "Ahhh, that's better! That's the stuff! Rub it right into the roots!"
which could be clearly heard by Matilda in her bedroom across the corridor.
Now, in the early morning privacy of the bathroom, Matilda unscrewed the cap of her father's oil
of violets and tipped three-quarters of the contents down the drain. Then she filled the bottle up
with her mother's platinum blonde hair-dye extra strong. She carefully left enough of her father's
original hair tonic in the bottle so that when she gave it a good shake the whole thing still looked
reasonably purple. She then replaced the bottle on the shelf above the sink, taking care to put her
mother's bottle back in the cupboard. So far so good.
At breakfast time Matilda sat quietly at the dining-room table eating her cornflakes. Her brother
sat opposite her with his back to the door devouring hunks of bread smothered with a mixture of
peanut-butter and strawberry jam. The mother was just out of sight around the corner in the
kitchen making Mr Wormwood's breakfast which always had to be two fried eggs on fried bread
with three pork sausages and three strips of bacon and some fried tomatoes.
At this point Mr Wormwood came noisily into the room. He was incapable of entering any room
quietly, especially at breakfast time. He always had to make his appearance felt immediately by
creating a lot of noise and clatter. One could almost hear him saying, "It's me! Here I come, the
great man himself, the master of the house, the wage-earner, the one who makes it possible for all
the rest of you to live so well! Notice me and pay your respects!"
On this occasion he strode in and slapped his son on the back and shouted, "Well my boy, your
father feels he's in for another great money-making day today at the garage! I've got a few little
beauties I'm going to flog to the idiots this morning. Where's my breakfast?"
"It's coming, treasure," Mrs Wormwood called from the kitchen.
Matilda kept her face bent low over her cornflakes. She didn't dare look up. In the first place she
wasn't at all sure what she was going to see. And secondly, if she did see what she thought she was
going to see, she wouldn't trust herself to keep a straight face. The son was looking directly ahead
out of the window stuffing himself with bread and peanut-butter and strawberry jam.
The father was just moving round to sit at the head of the table when the mother came sweeping
out from the kitchen carrying a huge plate piled high with eggs and sausages and bacon and
tomatoes. She looked up. She caught sight of her husband. She stopped dead. Then she let out a
scream that seemed to lift her right up into the air and she dropped the plate with a crash and a
splash on to the floor. Everyone jumped, including Mr Wormwood.
"What the heck's the matter with you, woman?" he shouted. "Look at the mess you've made on the
carpet!"
"Your hair!" the mother was shrieking, pointing a quivering finger at her husband. "Look at your
hair! What've you done to your hair?"
"What's wrong with my hair for heaven's sake?" he said.
"Oh my gawd dad, what've you done to your hair?" the son shouted.
A splendid noisy scene was building up nicely in the breakfast room.
Matilda said nothing. She simply sat there admiring the wonderful effect of her own handiwork.
Mr Wormwood's fine crop of black hair was now a dirty silver, the colour this time of a tightrope-
walker's tights that had not been washed for the entire circus season.
"You've . . . you've . . . you've dyed it!" shrieked the mother. "Why did you do it, you fool! It looks
absolutely frightful! It looks horrendous! You look like a freak!"
"What the blazes are you all talking about?" the father yelled, putting both hands to his hair. "I
most certainly have not dyed it! What d'you mean I've dyed it? What's happened to it? Or is this
some sort of a stupid joke?" His face was turning pale green, the colour of sour apples.
"You must have dyed it, dad," the son said. "It's the same colour as mum's only much dirtier
looking."
"Of course he's dyed it!" the mother cried. "It can't change colour all by itself! What on earth were
you trying to do, make yourself look handsome or something? You look like someone's
grandmother gone wrong!"
"Get me a mirror!" the father yelled. "Don't just stand there shrieking at me! Get me a mirror!"
The mother's handbag lay on a chair at the other end of the table. She opened the bag and got out a
powder compact that had a small round mirror on the inside of the lid. She opened the compact
and handed it to her husband. He grabbed it and held it before his face and in doing so spilled most
of
the powder all over the front of his fancy tweed jacket.
"Be careful!" shrieked the mother. "Now look what you've done! That's my best Elizabeth Arden
face powder!"
"Oh my gawd!" yelled the father, staring into the little mirror. "What's happened to me! I look
terrible! I look just like you gone wrong! I can't go down to the garage and sell cars like this! How
did it happen?" He stared round the room, first at the mother, then at the son, then at Matilda.
"How could it have happened?" he yelled.
"I imagine, daddy," Matilda said quietly, "that you weren't looking very hard and you simply took
mummy's bottle of hair stuff off the shelf instead of your own."
"Of course that's what happened!" the mother cried. "Well really Harry, how stupid can you get?
Why didn't you read the label before you started splashing the stuff all over you! Mine's terribly
strong. I'm only meant to use one tablespoon of it in a whole basin of water and you've gone and
put it all over your head neat! It'll probably take all your hair off in the end! Is your scalp
beginning to burn, dear?"
"You mean I'm going to lose all my hair?" the husband yelled.
"I think you will," the mother said. "Peroxide is a very powerful chemical. It's what they put down
the lavatory to disinfect the pan only they give it another name."
"What are you saying!" the husband cried. "I'm not a lavatory pan! I don't want to be disinfected!"
"Even diluted like I use it," the mother told him, "it makes a good deal of my hair fall out, so
goodness knows what's going to happen to you. I'm surprised it didn't take the whole of the top of
your head off!"
"What shall I do?" wailed the father. "Tell me quick what to do before it starts falling out!"
Matilda said, "I'd give it a good wash, dad, if I were you, with soap and water. But you'll have to
hurry."
"Will that change the colour back?" the father asked anxiously.
"Of course it won't, you twit," the mother said.
"Then what do I do? I can't go around looking like this for ever?"
"You'll have to have it dyed black," the mother said. "But wash it first or there won't be any there
to dye."
"Right!" the father shouted, springing into action. "Get me an appointment with your hairdresser
this instant for a hair-dyeing job! Tell them it's an emergency! They've got to boot someone else
off their list! I'm going upstairs to wash it now!" With that the man dashed out of the room and
Mrs Wormwood, sighing deeply, went to the telephone to call the beauty parlour.
"He does do some pretty silly things now and again, doesn't he, mummy?" Matilda said.
The mother, dialling the number on the phone, said, "I'm afraid men are not always quite as clever
as they think they are. You will learn that when you get a bit older, my girl."
6.金发男人
金发男人
在玛蒂尔达心中，她父亲这一次太可恶了，无疑应该受到严惩。她坐在那里吃着难吃的
炸鱼和炸土豆片，眼睛对电视节目视而不见，脑子里却在想着各种可能的惩罚办法。到她上
床时，她已经拿定了主意。
第二天早晨她一早起来，走进浴室锁上了门。我们已经知道，沃姆伍德太太的头发是染
成亮光闪闪的淡金黄色的，和马戏班走索女演员紧身衣的亮光闪闪的银色差不多。她一年去
美发室大染两次，但在平时，沃姆伍德太太大约一个月总要在洗脸盆的水里放上所谓的“特强
金发染发水”，把头发染一下，使颜色保持鲜亮，同时也把发根上新长出来的难看的棕色头发
染成金黄色。那瓶“特强金发染发水”放在浴室的小柜子里，在商标纸的名称底下还写着：特
别小心，这染发水是过氧化物，万勿让儿童接近！这两句话玛蒂尔达入迷地读过许多次了。
玛蒂尔达的爸爸有一头漂亮的中分黑发，他一直为这头黑发感到自豪。“一头棒棒的一级
头发，”他常说，“这说明它底下有一个棒棒的一级脑袋。”
“就像莎士比亚。”玛蒂尔达有一次对他说。
“像谁？”
“像莎士比亚，爸爸。”
“他很有脑筋吗？”
“非常有脑筋，爸爸。”
“他头发多吗？”
“他是个秃顶，爸爸。”
爸爸一听就火了，说：“如果你不会说有脑筋的话，你干脆闭嘴。”
沃姆伍德先生为了使他的头发看上去又亮又浓，每天早晨用一种叫“紫罗兰生发水”的东
西擦头发。这瓶香喷喷的紫色生发水一直放在浴室洗脸盆上面的架子上，放在大家的牙刷旁
边。他每天早晨刮完胡子就在头上洒这种生发水，用足力气做头皮按摩。他这样抓头发和按
摩头皮的时候，总伴随着很响的哼哼声、沉重的呼吸声和叫声：“啊！啊！啊！舒服极了！用
这玩意儿再好不过了！把它一直擦到发根上去！”这些声音，玛蒂尔达在她隔开走廊的卧室里
都听得清清楚楚。
现在，玛蒂尔达一早走进浴室，把她爸爸那瓶生发水的盖旋开，将四分之三瓶生发水倒
进下水道，接着用她妈妈的“特强金发染发水”把瓶子重新灌满。她先仔细地在瓶子里留下足
够的她爸爸原来用的生发水，这样她灌进染发水以后，只要把瓶子用力地摇匀，整瓶东西看
上去仍旧是原先的紫色。接着她把这瓶东西重新放回到洗脸盆上面的架子上，再小心地把妈
妈的那瓶东西放回小柜子里。一切顺利。
吃早饭的时候，玛蒂尔达静静地坐在餐厅桌子旁边吃她的爆玉米花。她的哥哥坐在她对
面，背对着房门，狼吞虎咽地吃着大片大片抹花生酱和草莓酱的面包。妈妈正在厨房的一个
角落里给沃姆伍德先生做早饭，看不到这里。沃姆伍德先生的早饭总是两只煎鸡蛋放在煎面
包片上，再加上三根猪肉香肠、三片熏肉和一些煎番茄。
就在这时候，沃姆伍德先生吵吵嚷嚷地进餐厅来了。他进任何房间都不能安安静静的，
在吃早饭时更是吵嚷。他总要发出很响的吵闹声使大家知道他正在大驾光临。几乎总是可以
听到他说：“是我！我来了，一位大人物，一家之长，赚钱的人，是我让你们大家能这么舒舒
服服过日子的！注意我，对我要尊敬！”
这一回他也是这么大踏步地走进来，拍拍儿子的背，叫道：“你好啊，我的乖仔，你爸爸
有一个感觉，今天对汽车行来说准又是一个赚大钱的日子！我弄到了几辆漂亮的小汽车，今
天早晨又可以卖给那些白痴了。我的早饭呢？”
“来了，亲爱的。”沃姆伍德太太在厨房里答应他。
玛蒂尔达把她的脸一直低低地垂在爆玉米花上面，她不敢抬起头来看。首先她说不准她
将看到什么，其次如果看到她认为她不该看到的东西，她保证不了自己还能保持严肃的面
孔。儿子却只管对着前面窗外看，一个劲儿地往嘴里塞抹了花生酱和草莓酱的面包。
爸爸刚绕过去在桌子一头的座位上坐下，妈妈就端着一大盘堆得高高的煎鸡蛋、香肠、
熏肉和番茄从厨房里飘也似的出来了。她抬起头，一眼就看到她的丈夫。她一下子停下，呆
呆地一动不动，接着发出一声尖叫，这声尖叫好像把她送上了空中。“吧嗒”一声，她手里的
一大盘东西都掉到了地板上。所有的人都跳了起来，包括沃姆伍德先生。
“出什么事情啦？”他叫道，“瞧你弄得地毯上一塌糊涂！”
“你的头发！”妈妈用发着抖的手指指着她丈夫尖声叫道，“瞧你的头发！你看你的头发怎
么啦？”
“天哪，我的头发怎么啦？”他说。
“噢，天哪，爸爸，你看你的头发怎么啦？”儿子也叫起来。
餐厅里一下子大吵大闹，真够瞧的。
玛蒂尔达一声不响，她只是坐在那里欣赏她自己的杰作造成的惊人效果。沃姆伍德先生
一头美丽的黑发如今变成了肮里肮脏的银色，那颜色活像走索姑娘的紧身衣穿了整整一季没
有洗过一样。
“你……你把它……你把它染过了！”妈妈尖叫着说，“你为什么染它，你这个傻瓜！它看
上去可怕极了！它看上去吓死人了！你的样子像一个怪物！”
“该死，你们都在说些什么？”爸爸用两只手抱住头发叫道，“千真万确我没有染过！你们
说我染了头发是什么意思？它怎么啦？是在跟我开什么愚蠢的玩笑吧？”他的脸色发青，像酸
苹果的颜色。
“你一定把它染过了，爸爸，”儿子说，“它的颜色和妈妈的头发颜色一样，只是看上去脏
得多。”
“还用说，他当然染过了！”妈妈叫嚷着，“头发不会自己变颜色的！天哪，你这是想干什
么呀，要漂亮还是怎么的？你看上去像什么人发了疯的祖母！”
“给我拿面镜子来！”爸爸叫道，“别光站在那里对我大喊大叫！给我拿面镜子来！”
桌子另一头的椅子上放着妈妈的手提包。她打开手提包拿出一个粉盒，里面盖子上有一
面小圆镜。她打开粉盒递给丈夫，他一把抢过来端到自己面前，结果大部分香粉都洒到了他
花哨的花呢上衣的胸前。
“小心！”妈妈尖叫道，“现在你看看你干了什么好事！那是我最好的伊丽莎白•阿顿牌擦脸
香粉！”
“噢，我的天！”爸爸盯住小镜子大叫起来，“我出了什么事啦！我的样子可怕极了！我看
着像发神经了！我不能这个样子再到汽车行去卖汽车！怎么会这样呢？”他环顾整个房间，先
看看妻子，再看看儿子，接着看看玛蒂尔达。“怎么会出这种事情呢？”他叫道。
“我猜想，爸爸，”玛蒂尔达安静地说，“是你心不在焉，不是拿你自己的那瓶东西，却拿
了架子上妈妈的那瓶染发水。”
“当然是这么回事！”妈妈叫道，“说真的，哈里，你怎么会这样笨？你在把水洒到头上的
时候，为什么不先看一看瓶子上的字！我的染发水是超级强烈的，一洗脸盆水我只放一汤
匙，可你准把一瓶染发水都浇到你的头上去了！它可能会使你所有的头发都掉光！你的头皮
是不是开始发烫了，亲爱的？”
“你是说我的头发会掉光？”她的丈夫叫道。
“我想会的，”沃姆伍德太太说，“过氧化物是非常强烈的化学物。它本来是用来在厕所里
给小便盆消毒的，只是给它另取个名字罢了。”
“你说什么！”丈夫叫道，“我不是一个厕所里的小便盆！我不要消毒！”
“即使像我用得那样少，”妈妈告诉他，“它还是使我的头发落掉不少，因此天知道你会闹
出什么事来。我奇怪它怎么没有把你整个头顶都腐蚀掉！”
“我怎么办呢？”爸爸哇哇大叫，“趁头发还没有开始掉，快告诉我怎么办！”
玛蒂尔达说：“如果我是你，爸爸，我就用肥皂和水先把它好好洗一洗。可是得快。”
“那样能使颜色还原吗？”爸爸着急地问。
“当然不能，你这个笨蛋！”妈妈说。
“那么我怎么办？我变成这副模样永远出不去啦！”
“你只好再把它染黑。”妈妈说，“不过先去洗洗看吧，不然的话，连要染的头发也没有
了。”
“说得对！”爸爸叫着跳起来马上行动，“立刻去约你的理发师给我染头发，告诉他这件事
十万火急！他们得在预约名单上划掉别人让我先染！现在我上楼去洗头！”他说着奔出餐厅，
同时沃姆伍德太太深深地叹了口气，走到电话机旁，给美发厅打电话。
“他不时会做出些挺傻的事情来，对吗，妈妈？”玛蒂尔达说。
妈妈一面拨电话一面说：“男人恐怕不是总像他们自以为的那么聪明。你长大一点就明白
了，我的小丫头。”
7.Miss Honey
Miss Honey
Matilda was a little late in starting school. Most children begin Primary School at five or even just
before, but Matilda's parents, who weren't very concerned one way or the other about their
daughter's education, had forgotten to make the proper arrangements in advance. She was five and
a half when she entered school for the first time.
The village school for younger children was a bleak brick building called Crunchem Hall Primary
School. It had about two hundred and fifty pupils aged from five to just under twelve years old.
The head teacher, the boss, the supreme commander of this establishment was a formidable
middle-aged lady whose name was Miss Trunchbull.
Naturally Matilda was put in the bottom class, where there were eighteen other small boys and
girls about the same age as her. Their teacher was called Miss Honey, and she could not have been
more than twenty-three or twenty-four. She had a lovely pale oval madonna face with blue eyes
and her hair was light-brown. Her body was so slim and fragile one got the feeling that if she fell
over she would smash into a thousand pieces, like a porcelain figure.
Miss Jennifer Honey was a mild and quiet person who never raised her voice and was seldom seen
to smile, but there is no doubt she possessed that rare gift for being adored by every small child
under her care. She seemed to understand totally the bewilderment and fear that so often
overwhelms young children who for the first time in their lives are herded into a classroom and
told to obey orders. Some curious warmth that was almost tangible shone out of Miss Honey's face
when she spoke to a confused and homesick newcomer to the class.
Miss Trunchbull, the Headmistress, was something else altogether. She was a gigantic holy terror,
a fierce tyrannical monster who frightened the life out of the pupils and teachers alike. There was
an aura of menace about her even at a distance, and when she came up close you could almost feel
the dangerous heat radiating from her as from a red-hot rod of metal. When she marched -- Miss
Trunchbull never walked, she always marched like a storm-trooper with long strides and arms
aswinging -- when she marched along a corridor you could actually hear her snorting as she went,
and if a group of children happened to be in her path, she ploughed right on through them like a
tank, with small people bouncing off her to left and right. Thank goodness we don't meet many
people like her in this world, although they do exist and all of us are likely to come across at least
one of them in a lifetime. If you ever do, you should behave as you would if you met an enraged
rhinoceros out in the bush -- climb up the nearest tree and stay there until it has gone away. This
woman, in all her eccentricities and in her appearance, is almost im-
possible to describe, but I shall make some attempt to do so a little later on. Let us leave her for
the moment and go back to Matilda and her first day in Miss Honey's class.
After the usual business of going through all the names of the children, Miss Honey handed out a
brand-new exercise-book to each pupil.
"You have all brought your own pencils, I hope," she said.
"Yes, Miss Honey," they chanted.
"Good. Now this is the very first day of school for each one of you. It is the beginning of at least
eleven long years of schooling that all of you are going to have to go through. And six of those
years will be spent right here at Crunchem Hall where, as you know, your Headmistress is Miss
Trunchbull. Let me for your own good tell you something about Miss Trunchbull. She insists upon
strict discipline throughout the school, and if you take my advice you will do your very best to
behave yourselves in her presence. Never argue with her. Never answer her back. Always do as
she says. If you get on the wrong side of Miss Trunchbull she can liquidise you like a carrot in a
kitchen blender. It's nothing to laugh about, Lavender. Take that grin off your face. All of you will
be wise to remember that Miss Trunchbull deals very very severely with anyone who gets out of
line in this school. Have you got the message?"
"Yes, Miss Honey," chirruped eighteen eager little voices.
"I myself", Miss Honey went on, "want to help you to learn as much as possible while you are in
this class. That is because I know it will make things easier for you later on. For example, by the
end of this week I shall expect every one of you to know the two-times table by heart. And in a
year's time I hope you will know all the multiplication tables up to twelve. It will help you
enormously if you do. Now then, do any of you happen to have learnt the two-times table
already?"
Matilda put up her hand. She was the only one.
Miss Honey looked carefully at the tiny girl with dark hair and a round serious face sitting in the
second row. "Wonderful," she said. "Please stand up and recite as much of it as you can."
Matilda stood up and began to say the two-times table. When she got to twice twelve is twenty-
four she didn't stop. She went right on with twice thirteen is twenty-six, twice fourteen is twenty-
eight, twice fifteen is thirty, twice sixteen is . . ."
"Stop!" Miss Honey said. She had been listening slightly spellbound to this smooth recital, and
now she said, "How far can you go?"
"How far?" Matilda said. "Well, I don't really
know, Miss Honey. For quite a long way, I think."
Miss Honey took a few moments to let this curious statement sink in. "You mean", she said, "that
you could tell me what two times twenty-eight is?"
"Yes, Miss Honey."
"What is it?"
"Fifty-six, Miss Honey."
"What about something much harder, like two times four hundred and eighty-seven? Could you
tell me that?"
"I think so, yes," Matilda said.
"Are you sure?"
"Why yes, Miss Honey, I'm fairly sure."
"What is it then, two times four hundred and eighty-seven?"
"Nine hundred and seventy-four," Matilda said immediately. She spoke quietly and politely and
without any sign of showing off.
Miss Honey gazed at Matilda with absolute amazement, but when next she spoke she kept her
voice level. "That is really splendid," she said. "But of course multiplying by two is a lot easier
than some of the bigger numbers. What about the other multiplication tables? Do you know any of
those?"
"I think so, Miss Honey. I think I do."
"Which ones, Matilda? How far have you got?"
"I . . . I don't quite know," Matilda said. "I don't know what you mean."
"What I mean is do you for instance know the three-times table?"
"Yes, Miss Honey."
"And the four-times?"
"Yes, Miss Honey."
"Well, how many do you know, Matilda? Do you know all the way up to the twelve-times table?"
"Yes, Miss Honey."
"What are twelve sevens?"
"Eighty-four," Matilda said.
Miss Honey paused and leaned back in her chair behind the plain table that stood in the middle of
the floor in front of the class. She was considerably shaken by this exchange but took care not to
show it. She had never come across a five-year-old before, or indeed a ten-year-old, who could
multiply with such facility.
"I hope the rest of you are listening to this," she said to the class. "Matilda is a very lucky girl. She
has wonderful parents who have already taught her to multiply lots of numbers. Was it your
mother, Matilda, who taught you?"
"No, Miss Honey, it wasn't."
"You must have a great father then. He must be a brilliant teacher."
"No, Miss Honey," Matilda said quietly. "My father did not teach me."
"You mean you taught yourself?"
"I don't quite know," Matilda said truthfully. "It's just that I don't find it very difficult to multiply
one number by another."
Miss Honey took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She looked again at the small girl with bright
eyes standing beside her desk so sensible and solemn. "You say you don't find it difficult to
multiply one number by another," Miss Honey said. "Could you try to explain that a little bit."
"Oh dear," Matilda said. "I'm not really sure."
Miss Honey waited. The class was silent, all listening.
"For instance," Miss Honey said, "if I asked you to multiply fourteen by nineteen . . . No, that's too
difficult . . ."
"It's two hundred and sixty-six," Matilda said softly.
Miss Honey stared at her. Then she picked up a pencil and quickly worked out the sum on a piece
of paper. "What did you say it was?" she said, looking up.
"Two hundred and sixty-six," Matilda said.
Miss Honey put down her pencil and removed her spectacles and began to polish the lenses with a
piece of tissue. The class remained quiet, watching her and waiting for what was coming next.
Matilda was still standing up beside her desk.
"Now tell me, Matilda," Miss Honey said, still polishing, "try to tell me exactly what goes on
inside your head when you get a multiplication like that to do. You obviously have to work it out
in some way, but you seem able to arrive at the answer almost instantly. Take the one you've just
done, fourteen multiplied by nineteen."
"I . . . I . . . I simply put the fourteen down in my head and multiply it by nineteen," Matilda said.
"I'm afraid I don't know how else to explain it. I've always said to myself that if a little pocket
calculator can do it why shouldn't I?"
"Why not indeed," Miss Honey said. "The human brain is an amazing thing."
"I think it's a lot better than a lump of metal," Matilda said. "That's all a calculator is."
"How right you are," Miss Honey said. "Pocket calculators are not allowed in this school anyway."
Miss Honey was feeling quite quivery. There was no doubt in her mind that she had met a truly
extraordinary mathematical brain, and words like child-genius and prodigy went flitting through
her head. She knew that these sort of wonders do pop up in the world from time to time, but only
once or twice in a hundred years. After all, Mozart was only five when he started composing for
the piano and look what happened to him.
"It's not fair," Lavender said. "How can she do it and we can't?"
"Don't worry, Lavender, you'll soon catch up," Miss Honey said, lying through her teeth.
At this point Miss Honey could not resist the temptation of exploring still further the mind of this
astonishing child. She knew that she ought to be paying some attention to the rest of the class but
she was altogether too excited to let the matter rest.
"Well," she said, pretending to address the whole class, "let us leave sums for the moment and see
if any of you have begun to learn to spell. Hands up anyone who can spell cat."
Three hands went up. They belonged to Lavender, a small boy called Nigel and to Matilda.
"Spell cat, Nigel."
Nigel spelled it.
Miss Honey now decided to ask a question that normally she would not have dreamed of asking
the class on its first day. "I wonder", she said, "whether any of you three who know how to spell
cat have learned how to read a whole group of words when they are strung together in a
sentence?"
"I have," Nigel said.
"So have I," Lavender said.
Miss Honey went to the blackboard and wrote with her white chalk the sentence, I have already
begun to learn how to read long sentences. She had purposely made it difficult and she knew that
there were precious few five-year-olds around who would be able to manage it.
"Can you tell me what that says, Nigel?" she asked.
"That's too hard," Nigel said.
"Lavender?"
"The first word is I," Lavender said.
"Can any of you read the whole sentence?" Miss Honey asked, waiting for the "yes" that she felt
certain was going to come from Matilda.
"Yes," Matilda said.
"Go ahead," Miss Honey said.
Matilda read the sentence without any hesitation at all.
"That really is very good indeed," Miss Honey said, making the understatement of her life. "How
much can you read, Matilda?"
"I think I can read most things, Miss Honey," Matilda said, "although I'm afraid I can't always
understand the meanings."
Miss Honey got to her feet and walked smartly out of the room, but was back in thirty seconds
carrying a thick book. She opened it at random and placed it on Matilda's desk. "This is a book of
humorous poetry," she said. "See if you can read that one aloud."
Smoothly, without a pause and at a nice speed, Matilda began to read:
"An epicure dining at Crewe
Found a rather large mouse in his stew.
Cried the waiter, "Don't shout
And wave it about
Or the rest will be wanting one too."
Several children saw the funny side of the rhyme
and laughed. Miss Honey said, "Do you know what an epicure is, Matilda?"
"It is someone who is dainty with his eating," Matilda said.
"That is correct," Miss Honey said. "And do you happen to know what that particular type of
poetry is called?"
"It's called a limerick," Matilda said. "That's a lovely one. It's so funny."
"It's a famous one," Miss Honey said, picking up the book and returning to her table in front of the
class. "A witty limerick is very hard to write," she added. "They look easy but they most certainly
are not."
"I know," Matilda said. "I've tried quite a few times but mine are never any good."
"You have, have you?" Miss Honey said, more startled than ever. "Well Matilda, I would very
much like to hear one of these limericks you say you have written. Could you try to remember one
for us?"
"Well," Matilda said, hesitating. "I've actually been trying to make up one about you, Miss Honey,
while we've been sitting here."
"About me!" Miss Honey cried. "Well, we've certainly got to hear that one, haven't we?"
"I don't think I want to say it, Miss Honey."
"Please tell it," Miss Honey said. "I promise I won't mind."
"I think you will, Miss Honey, because I have to use your first name to make things rhyme and
that's why I don't want to say it."
"How do you know my first name?" Miss Honey asked.
"I heard another teacher calling you by it just before we came in," Matilda said. "She called you
Jenny."
"I insist upon hearing this limerick," Miss Honey said, smiling one of her rare smiles. "Stand up
and recite it."
Reluctantly Matilda stood up and very slowly, very nervously, she recited her limerick:
"The thing we all ask about Jenny
Is, 'Surely there cannot be many
Young girls in the place
With so lovely a face?'
The answer to that is, 'Not any!' "
The whole of Miss Honey's pale and pleasant face blushed a brilliant scarlet. Then once again she
smiled. It was a much broader one this time, a smile of pure pleasure.
"Why, thank you, Matilda," she said, still smiling. "Although it is
not true, it is really a very good limerick. Oh dear, oh dear, I must try to remember that one."
From the third row of desks, Lavender said, "It's good. I like it."
"It's true as well," a small boy called Rupert said.
"Of course it's true," Nigel said.
Already the whole class had begun to warm towards Miss Honey, although as yet she had hardly
taken any notice of any of them except Matilda.
"Who taught you to read, Matilda?" Miss Honey asked.
"I just sort of taught myself, Miss Honey."
"And have you read any books all by yourself, any children's books, I mean?"
"I've read all the ones that are in the public library in the High Street, Miss Honey."
"And did you like them?"
"I liked some of them very much indeed," Matilda said, "but I thought others were fairly dull."
"Tell me one that you liked."
"I liked The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe," Matilda said. "I think Mr C. S. Lewis is a very
good writer. But he has one failing. There are no funny bits in his books."
"You are right there," Miss Honey said.
"There aren't many funny bits in Mr Tolkien either," Matilda said.
"Do you think that all children's books ought to have funny bits in them?" Miss Honey asked.
"I do," Matilda said. "Children are not so serious as grown-ups and they love to laugh."
Miss Honey was astounded by the wisdom of this tiny girl. She said, "And what are you going to
do now that you've read all the children's books?"
"I am reading other books," Matilda said. "I borrow them from the library. Mrs Phelps is very kind
to me. She helps me to choose them."
Miss Honey was leaning far forward over her work-table and gazing in wonder at the child. She
had completely forgotten now about the rest of the class. "What other books?" she murmured.
"I am very fond of Charles Dickens," Matilda said. "He makes me laugh a lot. Especially Mr
Pickwick."
At that moment the bell in the corridor sounded for the end of class.
7.亨尼小姐
亨尼小姐
玛蒂尔达入学比较晚。大多数孩子小五岁甚至更早一点就进小学了，可是玛蒂尔达的爸
爸妈妈不太关心他们女儿的教育，忘了事先做好安排。她第一次进校门已经是五岁半了。
孩子们读书的区乡村小学是一座经过风吹日晒的砖房，叫克伦彻姆学堂。它约有二百五
十名学生，年龄从五岁到十二岁。校长是一位令人望而生畏的中年女士，叫特朗奇布尔小
姐。
玛蒂尔达自然被放在最低一班，这一班还有十八名男女学生，年龄和她差不多。他们的
老师叫亨尼小姐，顶多二十三四岁。她有一张可爱的苍白的椭圆形圣母脸，蓝眼睛，淡棕色
头发。她的身体是那么纤细脆弱，使人觉得她万一跌倒，就会像瓷人一样碎成上千片。
这位珍妮弗•亨尼小姐温柔恬静，从来不提高她的声音，也难得看见她笑，但是毫无疑
问，她具备少有的天赋能使她的学生个个爱她。孩子们生下来第一次被赶进教室，并被吩咐
要服从命令，通常免不了手足无措和胆战心惊，她似乎完全能够理解他们的这种感觉。当亨
尼小姐对班里某一个怕生和想家的新生说话时，她的脸上就会散发出一种几乎是可以感触到
的奇妙的温暖感觉。
校长特朗奇布尔小姐则完全是另一种人。她是一个神圣不可侵犯的暴君，一个可怕的专
制魔王，会让小学生连命都吓掉，教师们也差不多。甚至从远处就感觉到她那种吓唬人的神
气，等到她走近，你几乎可以感到从她身上透出来的烫人的热，那热和一根火红的金属棒发
出来的一样。当她大踏步走过—特朗奇布尔小姐从来不像普通人那样走路，要走就像一个纳
粹冲锋队员那样摆动着双臂大踏步走，你千真万确可以听到她一边走一边发出的鼻息声，如
果碰巧有一群孩子挡住她的道，她干脆像一辆坦克车那样从他们当中冲过去，把小家伙们冲
得有的向左倒，有的向右倒。真是谢天谢地，世界上她这种人我们碰到的不多，虽然有这种
人，但我们大家一生中大概最多也就碰到一个。万一你碰到了，你应该像在林中碰到一头发
怒的犀牛一样，赶紧爬到最近的一棵树上去，等它走了再下来。这个女人，无论是她所有的
怪癖还是她的外表，几乎都是无法描述的，不过稍后我来试试描述一下看。现在我们先把她
搁一搁，回过头来讲我们的玛蒂尔达，以及她第一天在亨尼小姐班上上课的事。
亨尼小姐在点过所有的孩子名后，照例给每个学生一个崭新的练习本。
“我想你们都自己带铅笔来了。”她说。
“是的，亨尼小姐。”他们异口同声地回答。“很好。今天是你们每个人入学的第一天，以
后你们要在这里度过漫长的至少十一年的学校生活。十一年中，有六年就在这克伦彻姆学堂
度过，你们知道，你们的校长是特朗奇布尔小姐。她坚持在整个学期间要有严格的纪律，如
果你们听我的忠告，她在场时你们要尽可能地守规矩：永远不要和她争论，永远不要顶嘴，
永远要照她说的话做。如果你们得罪了特朗奇布尔小姐，她能够把你们像厨房搅拌器里的胡
萝卜那样榨成汁。这不是什么好笑的事情，拉文德，你不要笑。你们大家都放聪明点，牢牢
记在心里，特朗奇布尔小姐对待违反本校校规的人是非常非常严厉的。我的意思你们听明白
了吗？”
“听明白了，亨尼小姐。”十八个热烈的幼小声音唧唧喳喳地叫道。
“至于我，”亨尼小姐说下去，“只要你们在这个班待一天，我就将帮助你们尽可能地多学
点东西。因为我知道，这样会使你们以后容易生活些。比方说，到这个星期结束，我希望你
们人人都能背出二的乘法表，一年下来，我希望你们背过直到十二的全部乘法表。如果你们
做到了，这将对你们大有好处。好，你们当中，有谁已经学过二的乘法表了？”
玛蒂尔达举起她的手。举手的只有她一个。
亨尼小姐仔细地看着坐在第二排的这个有一张严肃圆脸的黑头发小女孩。“好极了，”她
说，“请站起来背一下，能背多少背多少。”
玛蒂尔达站起来，开始背二的乘法表。她说到二乘十二是二十四时还不停，继续说下
去：“二乘十三是二十六，二乘十四是二十八，二乘十五是三十，二乘十六是……”
“等一等！”亨尼小姐说。玛蒂尔达背得这么流利，她听得都有点入迷了。这时候她
说：“你一直能够背到多少？”
“背到多少？”玛蒂尔达说，“这个嘛，我也不清楚，亨尼小姐。我想还可以背很多很
多。”亨尼小姐花了点时间理解这句奇怪的话。“你是说，”她说，“你能告诉我二乘二十八是
多少吗？”
“是的，亨尼小姐。”
“那么是多少呢？”
“五十六，亨尼小姐。”
“再难些的呢，比方二乘四百八十七？你能告诉我吗？”
“我想能的。”玛蒂尔达说。
“你有把握吗？”
“哦，是的，亨尼小姐，我十分有把握。”
“那么二乘四百八十七是多少？”
“九百七十四。”玛蒂尔达马上说。她说得那么镇静，那么有礼貌，一点儿也没有卖弄的
样子。亨尼小姐用绝对惊讶的眼光看着玛蒂尔达，但她接下来说话时，尽量使声音保持平
静。“这确实很出色，”她说，“不过自然，用二来乘比起用更大的数字来乘要容易得多。其他
数字的乘法表呢？你会用更大的数字来乘吗？”
“我想会的，亨尼小姐。我想我会。”
“哪几个呢，玛蒂尔达？你已经会多少了？”
“我……我不很明白，”玛蒂尔达说，“我不很明白你的意思。”
“我的意思是，比方你会三的乘法表吗？”
“会的，亨尼小姐。”
“那么四呢？”
“也会，亨尼小姐。”
“那么，你到底会多少，玛蒂尔达？一直到十二的乘法表你都会吗？”
“会的，亨尼小姐。”
“十二乘七是多少？”
“八十四。”玛蒂尔达说。
亨尼小姐没有继续问，而是向后靠到了椅子背上。这番交谈使她大为震惊，但她小心着
不表现出来。她以前还没有碰到过一个五岁孩子，或者哪怕一个十岁孩子能这样熟练地做乘
法的。
“我希望你们其余的人都在听着，”她对全班说，“玛蒂尔达非常幸运，她有了不起的父
母，他们已经教会她乘许多数。玛蒂尔达，是你妈妈教你的吗？”
“不，不是，亨尼小姐，不是她教的。”
“那么你一定有一位了不起的爸爸。他一定是一位出色的教师。”
“不，亨尼小姐，”玛蒂尔达轻轻地说，“我爸爸没有教过我。”
“那么你是说，你是自学的？”
“我不清楚，”玛蒂尔达老实地说，“只是我觉得用一个数乘另一个数不太难罢了。”
亨尼小姐深深吸了口气再慢慢地吐出来。她看着这个如此聪明和认真、眼睛明亮、站在
课桌旁边的小姑娘。“你是说，你觉得用一个数乘另一个数不难。”亨尼小姐说，“你能试着稍
微解释一下吗？”
“噢，天啊，”玛蒂尔达说，“我实在说不清楚。”
亨尼小姐等着。全班同学一声不响，竖起了耳朵听。
“比方说，”亨尼小姐说，“如果我请你用十九乘十四……不，那太难了……”
“是二百六十六。”玛蒂尔达轻轻地说。亨尼小姐盯住她看，接着她拿起铅笔，在一张纸
上很快地算了个数。“你说是多少？”她抬起头来说。
“二百六十六。”玛蒂尔达说。
亨尼小姐放下铅笔，摘下眼镜，用一张薄纸擦着镜片。全班同学仍旧一声不响，看着
她，不知道下面将要发生什么。玛蒂尔达仍旧在课桌旁边站着。
“现在告诉我，”亨尼小姐依然擦着眼镜说，“试试看准确地告诉我，当你要乘这个数的时
候你的脑子里是怎么想的。你显然得动脑筋算出来，但你几乎能够立刻就得到答案。就拿你
刚才乘的数来说吧，用十九乘十四。”
“我……我……我只不过先记住十四，再用十九来乘它。”玛蒂尔达说，“我怕没办法换个
办法解释了。我一直想，如果一个袖珍计算器能做到，为什么我就做不到呢？”
“的确，为什么做不到呢？”亨尼小姐说，“人的脑子是一样奇妙的东西。”
“我想它比一块金属好得多，”玛蒂尔达说，“一个计算器只不过是那么一块金属。”
“你说得真对，”亨尼小姐说，“而且袖珍计算器是无论如何不准带到学校来的。”亨尼小
姐感到自己有点发抖。她觉得毫无疑问，她遇到了一个真正与众不同的数学头脑，诸如神童
和奇才等字眼掠过她的脑子。她知道这种奇迹有时的确会在世界上发生，但一百年也只有一
两次。莫扎特开始作钢琴曲时也只有五岁，看他做出什么事情来了。
“这太不公平了，”拉文德说，“为什么她能做到，我们却做不到？”
“不要担心，拉文德，你很快会赶上的。”亨尼小姐咬着牙说谎。
这时候，亨尼小姐实在忍不住要进一步探索一下这惊人的孩子的心。她知道自己应该留
意一下班里的其他学生，但是她实在太激动了，没有办法停下。
“好了，”她装作对全班学生说，“我们暂时不做算术，看看你们当中是不是有人已经开始
学拼字了。会拼‘猫’字的请举手。”
三只手举了起来。举手的是拉文德、一个叫奈杰尔的小男孩和玛蒂尔达。
“你来拼‘猫’这个字吧，奈杰尔。”
奈杰尔拼出来了。
亨尼小姐现在决定问一个问题，如果在平时，第一天上课她是绝对不会想到问学生这个
问题的。“我想，”她说，“你们三个都会拼‘猫’，是不是也学过读组成一个句子的一串字呢？”
“我学过。”奈杰尔说。
“我也学过。”拉文德说。
亨尼小姐走到黑板前面，用白粉笔写下一个句子：我已经开始学读长句子。她存心把句
子写得难些，知道不会有五岁孩子能把它读出来的。
“你能告诉我这个句子说什么吗，奈杰尔？”她问道。
“这句子太难了。”奈杰尔说。
“拉文德，你呢？”
“第一个字是‘我’。”拉文德说。
“你们有人能读出整个句子吗？”亨尼小姐问道，等着听她断定要从玛蒂尔达嘴里说出来
的“我能够”。
“我能够。”玛蒂尔达说了。
“那就读出来吧。”亨尼小姐说。
玛蒂尔达一点不打磕巴地把这个句子读出来了。
“的确很好，”亨尼小姐克制地说，“你能读多少句子啊，玛蒂尔达？”
“我想句子我大都能读出来，亨尼小姐，”玛蒂尔达说，“只是它们的意义我怕不是都明
白。”
亨尼小姐站起来，快步走出教室，三十秒钟就拿着一本厚厚的书回来了。她随便翻开一
页，放在玛蒂尔达的课桌上。“这是一本幽默诗集，”她说，“看看你是不是能大声读出哪一
首。”
玛蒂尔达流利地、毫不停顿地很快读起来：
一个美食家在克鲁，
吃大菜时在炖品里找到一只大老鼠。
服务员喊道：“不要叫，
也不要把它摇，
否则其他客人也要点一只老鼠。”
有几个孩子领悟到这首诗的滑稽意思，哈哈大笑起来。亨尼小姐说：“你知道‘美食家’是
什么意思吗，玛蒂尔达？”
“‘美食家’是吃东西讲究的人。”玛蒂尔达说。
“一点不错，”亨尼小姐说，“那你是不是知道这种特殊的诗体叫什么？”
“叫五行打油诗，”玛蒂尔达说，“这是首好诗。它太滑稽了。”
“这是一首有名的。”亨尼小姐说着把书拿起来，回到她对着全班的桌子后面。“一首机智
的五行打油诗是非常难写的，”她补充说，“它们看起来容易，其实不好写。”
“我知道，”玛蒂尔达说，“我试着写过好几首，但是写出来没有一首是好的。”
“你试写过，是吗？”亨尼小姐问，她更吃惊了，“那么，玛蒂尔达，我很想听你说说你自
己写的这种五行打油诗。你能试试看想出一首来背给我们听吗？”
“这个嘛，”玛蒂尔达犹豫着说，“说实在的，当我们坐在这里的时候，亨尼小姐，我正在
尝试写一首关于你的。”
“关于我！”亨尼小姐叫道，“那好，我们自然该听听这一首，对吗？”
“我不想说出来，亨尼小姐。”
“请说出来吧，”亨尼小姐说，“我保证我不会介意。”
“我想你会的，亨尼小姐，因为我得用你的名字来押韵，这就是我不想说出来的原因。”
“你怎么知道我的名字？”亨尼小姐问道。
“我们进教室以前，我听到一位老师叫你的名字。”玛蒂尔达说，“她叫你珍妮 [1] 。”
“我一定要听这首五行打油诗。”亨尼小姐说，露出她难得有的微笑，“站起来背吧。”玛
蒂尔达勉勉强强地站起来，很慢很紧张地背她的五行打油诗：
我们大家，关于珍妮，
要问的是：“在我们这里，
真的没有几个姑娘，
能有她这样可爱的脸庞？”
答案是：“全都不能比！”
亨尼小姐那张苍白快活的脸一下子红了。接着她再一次露出微笑，这一回笑得更欢，纯
粹是快乐的微笑。
“啊，谢谢你，玛蒂尔达，”她依然微笑着说，“虽然这不是真的，但它确实是一首非常好
的五行打油诗。噢，天啊，噢，天啊，我必须努力记住这首诗。”
拉文德从第三排说：“它真好，我喜欢它。”
“而且是真的。”一个叫鲁珀特的小男孩说。
“当然是真的。”奈杰尔说。
全班同学都已经爱上亨尼小姐，虽然她除了玛蒂尔达没法注意他们。
“什么人教你读书的，玛蒂尔达？”亨尼小姐问道。
“我只是自己学会的，亨利小姐。”
“你自己读过什么书吗？我指的是儿童书。”
“大街上那个公共图书馆里有的我都读了，亨尼小姐。”
“你喜欢它们吗？”
“有一些我实在喜欢，”玛蒂尔达说，“但是，有一些我觉得实在乏味。”
“你能告诉我一本你喜欢的吗？”
“我喜欢《狮子、女巫和衣柜》，”玛蒂尔达说，“我觉得C•S•刘易斯先生是位很好的作
家。但是他有一个缺点，他的那些书一点滑稽的东西都没有。”
“你说得对。”亨尼小姐说。
“托尔金 [2] 先生的书里滑稽的东西也不多。”玛蒂尔达说。
“你认为所有儿童书都应该有滑稽的东西吗？”亨尼小姐问道。
“我认为是的，”玛蒂尔达说，“儿童不像大人那么严肃，他们爱笑。”
亨尼小姐对这小女孩的智慧感到吃惊。她说：“你把所有的儿童书读完了，现在怎么办
呢？”
“我在读别的书，”玛蒂尔达说，“我在图书馆里借。费尔普斯太太对我很好，她帮我挑
选。”
亨尼小姐把身子从她的桌子后面向前伸得远远的，惊奇地看着这个孩子。她现在已经完
全忘了班里的其他学生。“是些什么书？”她喃喃地问道。
“我非常喜欢查尔斯•狄更斯，”玛蒂尔达说，“他一直使我哈哈大笑。特别是那位匹克威克
先生 [3] 。”
正在这时候，外面走廊里下课铃响起来了。
[1]珍妮是珍妮弗的爱称。
[2]托尔金（1892-1973），英国作家，也写童话。
[3]匹克威克先生是狄更斯的著名小说《匹克威克外传》的主人公。
8.The Trunchbull
The Trunchbull
In the interval, Miss Honey left the classroom and headed straight for the Headmistress's study.
She felt wildly excited. She had just met a small girl who possessed, or so it seemed to her, quite
extraordinary qualities of brilliance. There had not been time yet to find out exactly how brilliant
the child was, but Miss Honey had learned enough to realise that something had to be done about
it as soon as possible. It would be ridiculous to leave a child like that stuck in the bottom form.
Normally Miss Honey was terrified of the Headmistress and kept well away from her, but at this
moment she felt ready to take on anybody. She knocked on the door of the dreaded private study.
"Enter!" boomed the deep and dangerous voice of Miss Trunchbull. Miss Honey went in.
Now most head teachers are chosen because they possess a number of fine qualities. They
understand children and they have the children's best interests at heart. They are sympathetic.
They are fair and they are deeply interested in education. Miss Trunchbull possessed none of these
qualities and how she ever got her present job was a mystery.
She was above all a most formidable female. She had once been a famous athlete, and even now
the muscles were still clearly in evidence. You could see them in the bull-neck, in the big
shoulders, in the thick arms, in the sinewy wrists and in the powerful legs. Looking at her, you got
the feeling that this was someone who could bend iron bars and tear telephone directories in half.
Her face, I'm afraid, was neither a thing of beauty nor a joy for ever. She had an obstinate chin, a
cruel mouth and small arrogant eyes. And as for her clothes . . . they were, to say the least,
extremely odd. She always had on a brown cotton smock which was pinched in around the waist
with a wide leather belt. The belt was fastened in front with an enormous silver buckle. The
massive thighs which emerged from out of the smock were encased in a pair of extraordinary
breeches, bottle-green in colour and made of coarse twill. These breeches reached to just below
the knees and from there on down she sported green stockings with turn-up tops, which displayed
her calf muscles to perfection. On her feet she wore flat-heeled brown brogues with leather flaps.
She looked, in short, more like a rather eccentric and bloodthirsty follower of the stag-hounds than
the headmistress of a nice school for children.
When Miss Honey entered the study, Miss Trunchbull was standing beside her huge desk with a
look of scowling impatience on her face. "Yes, Miss Honey," she said. "What is it you want?
You're looking very flushed and flustered this morning. What's the matter with you? Have those
little stinkers been flicking spitballs at you?"
"No, Headmistress. Nothing like that."
"Well, what is it then? Get on with it. I'm a busy
woman." As she spoke, she reached out and poured herself a glass of water from a jug that was
always on her desk.
"There is a little girl in my class called Matilda Wormwood . . ." Miss Honey began.
"That's the daughter of the man who owns Wormwood Motors in the village," Miss Trunchbull
barked. She hardly ever spoke in a normal voice. She either barked or shouted. "An excellent
person, Wormwood," she went on. "I was in there only yesterday. He sold me a car. Almost new.
Only done ten thousand miles. Previous owner was an old lady who took it out once a year at the
most. A terrific bargain. Yes, I liked Wormwood. A real pillar of our society. He told me the
daughter was a bad lot though. He said to watch her. He said if anything bad ever happened in the
school, it was certain to be his daughter who did it. I haven't met the little brat yet, but she'll know
about it when I do. Her father said she's a real wart."
"Oh no, Headmistress, that can't be right!" Miss Honey cried.
"Oh yes, Miss Honey, it darn well is right! In fact, now I come to think of it, I'll bet it was she who
put that stink-bomb under my desk here first thing this morning. The place stank like a sewer! Of
course it was her! I shall have her for that, you see if I don't! What's she look like? Nasty little
worm, I'll be bound. I have discovered, Miss Honey, during my long career as a teacher that a bad
girl is a far more dangerous creature than a bad boy. What's more, they're much harder to squash.
Squashing a bad girl is like trying to squash a bluebottle. You bang down on it and the darn thing
isn't there. Nasty dirty things, little girls are. Glad I never was one."
"Oh, but you must have been a little girl once, Headmistress. Surely you were."
"Not for long anyway," Miss Trunchbull barked, grinning. "I became a woman very quickly."
She's completely off her rocker, Miss Honey told herself. She's barmy as a bedbug. Miss Honey
stood resolutely before the Headmistress. For once she was not going to be browbeaten. "I must
tell you, Headmistress," she said, "that you are completely mistaken about Matilda putting a stink-
bomb under your desk."
"I am never mistaken, Miss Honey!"
"But Headmistress, the child only arrived in school this morning and came straight to the
classroom . . ."
"Don't argue with me, for heaven's sake, woman! This little brute Matilda or whatever her name is
has stink-bombed my study! There's no doubt about it! Thank you for suggesting it."
"But I didn't suggest it, Headmistress."
"Of course you did! Now what is it you want, Miss Honey? Why are you wasting my time?"
"I came to you to talk about Matilda, Headmistress. I have extraordinary things to report about the
child. May I please tell you what happened in class just now?"
"I suppose she set fire to your skirt and scorched your knickers!" Miss Trunchbull snorted.
"No, no!" Miss Honey cried out. "Matilda is a genius."
At the mention of this word, Miss Trunchbull's face turned purple and her whole body seemed to
swell up like a bullfrog's. "A genius!" she shouted. "What piffle is this you are talking, madam?
You must be out of your mind! I have her father's word for it that the child is a gangster!"
"Her father is wrong, Headmistress."
"Don't be a twerp, Miss Honey! You have met the little beast for only half an hour and her father
has known her all her life!"
But Miss Honey was determined to have her say and she now began to describe some of the
amazing things Matilda had done with arithmetic.
"So she's learnt a few tables by heart, has she?" Miss Trunchbull barked. "My dear woman, that
doesn't make her a genius! It makes her a parrot!"
"But Headmistress she can read."
"So can I," Miss Trunchbull snapped.
"It is my opinion", Miss Honey said, "that Matilda should be taken out of my form and placed
immediately in the top form with the eleven-year-olds."
"Ha!" snorted Miss Trunchbull. "So you want to get rid of her, do you? So you can't handle her?
So now you want to unload her on to the wretched Miss Plimsoll in the top form where she will
cause even more chaos?"
"No, no!" cried Miss Honey. "That is not my reason at all!"
"Oh, yes it is!" shouted Miss Trunchbull. "I can see right through your little plot, madam! And my
answer is no! Matilda stays where she is and it is up to you to see that she behaves herself."
"But Headmistress, please . . ."
"Not another word!" shouted Miss Trunchbull. "And in any case, I have a rule in this school that
all children remain in their own age groups regardless of ability. Great Scott, I'm not having a little
five-year-old brigand sitting with the senior girls and boys in the top form. Whoever heard of such
a thing!"
Miss Honey stood there helpless before this great red-necked giant. There was a lot more she
would like to have said but she knew it was useless. She said softly, "Very well, then. It's up to
you, Headmistress."
"You're darn right it's up to me!" Miss Trunchbull bellowed. "And don't forget, madam, that we
are dealing here with a little viper who put a stink-bomb under my desk . . ."
"She did not do that, Headmistress!"
"Of course she did it," Miss Trunchbull boomed. "And I'll tell you what. I wish to heavens I was
still allowed to use the birch and belt as I did in the good old days! I'd have roasted Matilda's
bottom for her so she couldn't sit down for a month!"
Miss Honey turned and walked out of the study feeling depressed but by no means defeated. I am
going to do something about this child, she told herself. I don't know what it will be, but I shall
find a way to help her in the end.
8.特朗奇布尔小姐
特朗奇布尔小姐
课间休息的时候，亨尼小姐离开教室直奔校长办公室。她兴奋无比。她刚遇到一个具有
或者说她觉得具有极不寻常的智力的小女孩。还来不及查明这女孩的智力到底高到何等程
度，但亨尼小姐已经知道得够多了，明白得马上采取措施，越快越好。让这样一个孩子留在
最低班里，那简直太荒唐了。
平时亨尼小姐怕校长，离她越远越舒服，但这一次她决定向前冲。她敲响了那可怕的校
长办公室的门。“进来！”特朗奇布尔小姐低沉而危险的嗓音轰轰响起来。亨尼小姐进去了。
现在大多数校长都是因为具有一定的好品质而被选任的。他们了解孩子，把孩子们最大
的利益放在心中，他们充满同情心，公正，埋头教育事业。但是这种品质特朗奇布尔小姐一
点也没有，她怎么得到了现在这个职位还是个谜。
她首先是个最令人生畏的女人。她曾经是一个出名的运动员，即使现在，她的肌肉还能
清楚地证明这一点。你能在她的牛脖子上、宽肩膀上、粗手臂上、粗手腕上和有力的腿上看
到它们。一看到她，你便会感到这个人能弄弯铁条，把厚厚的电话簿一撕为二。她的脸我看
是既不美也不讨人喜欢。她有一个固执的下巴、一张冷酷的嘴和一双傲慢的小眼睛。至于她
的衣服更是极其古怪。她一直穿一件棕色布罩衫，用一根宽皮带紧束着腰，皮带前面用一个
大银扣扣住。从罩衫下露出来的粗大腿用与众不同的裤子裹住。裤子深绿色，用粗斜纹布做
的，正好到膝盖下面一点。再下去她炫耀着一双翻口的绿色长袜，完美地显出她的小腿肌
肉。她脚上穿一双有皮鞋舌的平跟棕色厚底鞋。总而言之，她看上去更像一个跟着猎狗捕鹿
的嗜血怪人，而不像一所为孩子设立的美好小学的校长。
亨尼小姐走进校长办公室的时候，特朗奇布尔小姐正站在她那张大写字台旁边，一脸责
备和不耐烦的样子。“嗯，亨尼小姐，”她说，“你有什么事？今天早晨你看起来非常激动。你
怎么啦？那些小鬼向你扔湿纸团了吗？”
“不是的，校长。不是那样的事。”
“那么是什么事？说吧，我很忙。”她一面说，一面伸手拿起写字台上的水壶，给自己倒
了一玻璃杯水。
“在我的班里有个小女孩叫玛蒂尔达•沃姆伍德……”亨尼小姐开始说起来。
“她就是在村里开沃姆伍德汽车行的那个人的女儿。”特朗奇布尔小姐厉声尖叫。她难得
用正常的声音好好说话，不是汪汪叫就是哇哇嚷。“这位沃姆伍德是个杰出的人。”她说下
去，“昨天我才去过他那里，他卖给我一辆汽车，几乎是新的，只行驶过一万英里。原来的主
人是位老太太，一年顶多开出来一次。真便宜，是的，我喜欢沃姆伍德，我们社会的一个真
正支柱。不过他对我说了他女儿的许多坏话，他说要看住她，说学校里万一出了什么事，那
准是他女儿干的。我还没见过这个小丫头，但是等我见到了，她会知道我的厉害的。她爸爸
说她是一个真正的累赘。”
“噢，不，校长，这话不可能是真的！”亨尼小姐叫着说。
“噢，是真的，亨尼小姐，真得不能再真！现在我想起来了，我敢打赌是她，今天早晨一
来就把一个恶臭炸弹放在我的写字台底下，弄得这地方跟阴沟一样臭！当然是她干的！我要
找她算账。你瞧着吧，我不会放过她的！她是一副什么模样？我断定是条肮脏的小毛毛虫。
在我当教师的长期生涯中，亨尼小姐，我发现一个坏女孩比一个坏男孩要危险得多，而且她
们更难打扁。打扁一个坏女孩就像打扁一只绿头大苍蝇，你向它一拳打下去，那该死的东西
就不见了。小女孩都是该死的脏东西。幸亏我从来没有当过小女孩。”
“噢，你总得当过一回小女孩呀，校长，你一定当过。”
“反正时间也不会长，”特朗奇布尔龇起牙笑着尖叫着，“我很快就变成一个大女人了。”
亨尼小姐心想：校长完全疯了，她愚蠢得像只臭虫。亨尼小姐坚定地站在校长面前，第
一次不被她吓跑。“我必须告诉你，校长，”她说，“你说玛蒂尔达把恶臭炸弹放在你的写字台
下面，那你完全错了。”
“我从来不会错，亨尼小姐！”
“可是校长，这孩子今天早晨一到学校就直接进教室……”
“看在老天的分上，你不要跟我顶嘴，娘们儿！玛蒂尔达，或者不管她叫什么名字，这小
畜生把我的办公室弄得臭气熏天！这是毫无疑问的！谢谢你提醒了我。”
“但是我没有提过这件事，校长。”
“你当然提了！现在你到底有什么事，亨尼小姐？你为什么来浪费我的时间？”
“我来找你是要谈谈玛蒂尔达的事，校长。关于这孩子，我有些非同寻常的事要向你报
告。我可以说说我的班里刚发生了什么事吗？”
“我想是她放火烧着你的裙子或者烧焦了你的衬裤！”特朗奇布尔小姐哼着鼻子说。
“不，不！”亨尼小姐叫起来，“玛蒂尔达是一个天才。”
一听到这个字眼，特朗奇布尔小姐的脸马上涨成猪肝色，整个身体像只牛蛙那样鼓起
来。“一个天才！”她叫道，“你在说什么蠢话呀，女士？你一定发疯了！正相反，我听她爸爸
说过这孩子是一个小坏蛋！”
“她爸爸错了，校长。”
“别蠢了，亨尼小姐！你碰到这小畜生只有半小时，可她生下来她爸爸就和她在一起，他
更了解她！”
但是亨尼小姐决心把自己的话说下去，现在开始讲玛蒂尔达做算术的惊人事情。
“这么说她记住了一些乘法表，对吗？”特朗奇布尔小姐咆哮道，“我亲爱的娘们儿，这不
能使她成为一个天才！这只能使她成为一只鹦鹉！”
“但是校长，她能读书。”
“我也能读书。”特朗奇布尔小姐厉声说。
“我的意见是，”亨尼小姐说，“玛蒂尔达应该从我的一班马上升到最高一班，和十一岁孩
子一起上课。”
“哼！”特朗奇布尔小姐说，“你是要摆脱掉她，对吗？你对付不了她？你现在是要把她这
个包袱扔到最高一班可怜的普林索尔小姐身上，让她到了那一班把它弄得更加乱糟糟吗？”
“不，不！”亨尼小姐叫道，“我根本不是这个意思！”
“噢，你是这个意思！”特朗奇布尔小姐叫道，“我能够看穿你的小诡计，小姐！我的回答
是不行！玛蒂尔达就留在你的班里。让她规规矩矩的，这完全是你的责任。”
“不过校长，请你……”
“别再说下去了！”特朗奇布尔小姐叫道，“反正在这学校里我就是这条规则，所有的孩子
根据年龄分班，不管他们的才能如何。哼，我不允许一个五岁小强盗和最高一班的大女孩、
大男孩坐在一起。这种事有谁听说过！”
亨尼小姐站在这个脖子涨红的巨人面前束手无策。她本来还有很多话要说，但她知道没
有用。她最后轻轻地说：“那好吧。全依你，校长。”
“全依我，你这话就完全对了！”特朗奇布尔小姐吼叫道，“可别忘了，小姐，我们在这里
谈的是把一个恶臭炸弹放在我写字台底下的一个阴险恶毒的小鬼……”
“这件事她没有做过，校长！”
“她当然做过，”特朗奇布尔小姐哇哇叫，“我告诉你，我恨不得还能像过去那样使用桦树
条和皮带，把玛蒂尔达的屁股打得火辣辣的，让她一个月不能坐下！”
亨尼小姐转身走出校长办公室，她感到很失望，但决不是失败。她心里说，我要为这孩
子做点事。我还不知道该做什么事，但我最终会找出一个办法来帮助她的。
9.The Parents
The Parents
When Miss Honey emerged from the Headmistress's study, most of the children were outside in
the playground. Her first move was to go round to the various teachers who taught the senior class
and borrow from them a number of text-books, books on algebra, geometry, French, English
Literature and the like. Then she sought out Matilda and called her into the classroom.
"There is no point", she said, "in you sitting in class doing nothing while I am teaching the rest of
the form the two-times table and how to spell cat and rat and mouse. So during each lesson I shall
give you one of these text-books to study. At the end of the lesson you can come up to me with
your questions if you have any and I shall try to help you. How does that sound?"
"Thank you, Miss Honey," Matilda said. "That sounds fine."
"I am sure," Miss Honey said, "that we'll be able to get you moved into a much higher form later
on, but for the moment the Headmistress wishes you to stay where you are."
"Very well, Miss Honey," Matilda said. "Thank you so much for getting those books for me."
What a nice child she is, Miss Honey thought. I don't care what her father said about her, she
seems very quiet and gentle to me. And not a bit stuck up in spite of her brilliance. In fact she
hardly seems aware of it.
So when the class reassembled, Matilda went to her desk and began to study a text-book on
geometry which Miss Honey had given her. The teacher kept half an eye on her all the time and
noticed that the child very soon became deeply absorbed in the book. She never glanced up once
during the entire lesson.
Miss Honey, meanwhile, was making another decision. She was deciding that she would go
herself and have a secret talk with Matilda's mother and father as soon as possible. She simply
refused to let the matter rest where it was. The whole thing was ridiculous. She couldn't believe
that the parents were totally unaware of their daughter's remarkable talents. After all, Mr
Wormwood was a successful motor-car dealer so she presumed that he was a fairly intelligent man
himself. In any event, parents never underestimated the abilities of their own children. Quite the
reverse. Sometimes it was well nigh impossible for a teacher to convince the proud father or
mother that their beloved offspring was a complete nitwit. Miss Honey felt confident that she
would have no difficulty in convincing Mr and Mrs Wormwood that Matilda was something very
special indeed. The trouble was going to be to stop them from getting over-enthusiastic.
And now Miss Honey's hopes began to expand even further. She started wondering whether
permission might not be sought from the parents for her to give private tuition to Matilda after
school. The prospect of coaching a child as bright as this appealed enormously to her professional
instinct as a teacher. And suddenly she decided that she would go and call on Mr and Mrs
Wormwood that very evening. She would go fairly late, between nine and ten o'clock, when
Matilda was sure to be in bed.
And that is precisely what she did. Having got the address from the school records, Miss Honey
set out to walk from her own home to the Wormwood's house shortly after nine. She found the
house in a pleasant street where each smallish building was separated from its neighbours by a bit
of garden. It was a modern brick house that could not have been cheap to buy and the name on the
gate said cosy nook. Nosey cook might have been better, Miss Honey thought. She was given to
playing with words in that way. She walked up the path and rang the bell, and while she stood
waiting she could hear the television blaring inside.
The door was opened by a small ratty-looking man with a thin ratty moustache who was wearing a
sports-coat that had an orange and red stripe in the material. "Yes?" he said, peering out at Miss
Honey. "If you're selling raffle tickets I don't want any."
"I'm not," Miss Honey said. "And please forgive me for butting in on you like this. I am Matilda's
teacher at school and it is important I have a word with you and your wife."
"Got into trouble already, has she?" Mr Wormwood said, blocking the doorway. "Well, she's your
responsibility from now on. You'll have to deal with her."
"She is in no trouble at all," Miss Honey said. "I have come with good news about her. Quite
startling news, Mr Wormwood. Do you think I might come in for a few minutes and talk to you
about Matilda?"
"We are right in the middle of watching one of our favourite programmes," Mr Wormwood said.
"This is most inconvenient. Why don't you come back some other time."
Miss Honey began to lose patience. "Mr Wormwood," she said, "if you think some rotten TV
programme is more important than your daughter's future, then you ought not to be a parent! Why
don't you switch the darn thing off and listen to me!"
That shook Mr Wormwood. He was not used to being spoken to in this way. He peered carefully
at the slim frail woman who stood so resolutely out on the porch. "Oh very well then," he snapped.
"Come on in and let's get it over with." Miss Honey stepped briskly inside.
"Mrs Wormwood isn't going to thank you for this," the man said as he led her into the sitting-room
where a large platinum-blonde woman was gazing rapturously at the TV screen.
"Who is it?" the woman said, not looking round.
"Some school teacher," Mr Wormwood said. "She says she's got to talk to us about Matilda." He
crossed to the TV set and turned down the sound but left the picture on the screen.
"Don't do that, Harry!" Mrs Wormwood cried out. "Willard is just about to propose to Angelica!"
"You can still watch it while we're talking," Mr Wormwood said. "This is Matilda's teacher. She
says she's got some sort of news to give us."
"My name is Jennifer Honey," Miss Honey said. "How do you do, Mrs Wormwood."
Mrs Wormwood glared at her and said, "What's the trouble then?"
Nobody invited Miss Honey to sit down so she chose a chair and sat down anyway. "This", she
said, "was your daughter's first day at school."
"We know that," Mrs Wormwood said, ratty about missing her programme. "Is that all you came
to tell us?"
Miss Honey stared hard into the other woman's wet grey eyes, and she allowed the silence to hang
in the air until Mrs Wormwood became uncomfortable. "Do you wish me to explain why I came?"
she said.
"Get on with it then," Mrs Wormwood said.
"I'm sure you know", Miss Honey said, "that children in the bottom class at school are not
expected to be able to read or spell or juggle with numbers when they first arrive. Five-year-olds
cannot do that. But Matilda can do it all. And if I am to believe her . . ."
"I wouldn't," Mrs Wormwood said. She was still ratty at losing the sound on the TV.
"Was she lying, then," Miss Honey said, "when she told me that nobody taught her to multiply or
to read? Did either of you teach her?"
"Teach her what?" Mr Wormwood said.
"To read. To read books," Miss Honey said. "Perhaps you did teach her. Perhaps she was lying.
Perhaps you have shelves full of books all over the house. I wouldn't know. Perhaps you are both
great readers."
"Of course we read," Mr Wormwood said. "Don't be so daft. I read the Autocar and the Motor
from cover to cover every week."
"This child has already read an astonishing number of books," Miss Honey said. "I was simply
trying to find out if she came from a family that loved good literature."
"We don't hold with book-reading," Mr Wormwood said. "You can't make a living from sitting
on your fanny and reading story-books. We don't keep them in the house."
"I see," Miss Honey said. "Well, all I came to tell you was that Matilda has a brilliant mind. But I
expect you knew that already."
"Of course I knew she could read," the mother said. "She spends her life up in her room buried in
some silly book."
"But does it not intrigue you", Miss Honey said, "that a little five-year-old child is reading long
adult novels by Dickens and Hemingway? Doesn't that make you jump up and down with
excitement?"
"Not particularly," the mother said. "I'm not in favour of blue-stocking girls. A girl should think
about making herself look attractive so she can get a good husband later on. Looks is more
important than books, Miss Hunky . . ."
"The name is Honey," Miss Honey said.
"Now look at me," Mrs Wormwood said. "Then look at you. You chose books. I chose looks."
Miss Honey looked at the plain plump person with the smug suet-pudding face who was sitting
across the room. "What did you say?" she asked.
"I said you chose books and I chose looks," Mrs Wormwood said. "And who's finished up the
better off? Me, of course. I'm sitting pretty in a nice house with a successful businessman and
you're left slaving away teaching a lot of nasty little children the ABC."
"Quite right, sugar-plum," Mr Wormwood said, casting a look of such simpering sloppiness at his
wife it would have made a cat sick.
Miss Honey decided that if she was going to get anywhere with these people she must not lose her
temper. "I haven't told you all of it yet," she said. "Matilda, so far as I can gather at this early
stage, is also a kind of mathematical genius. She can multiply complicated figures in her head like
lightning."
"What's the point of that when you can buy a calculator?" Mr Wormwood said.
"A girl doesn't get a man by being brainy," Mrs Wormwood said. "Look at that film-star for
instance," she added, pointing at the silent TV screen where a bosomy female was being embraced
by a craggy actor in the moonlight. "You don't think she got him to do that by multiplying figures
at him, do you? Not likely. And now he's going to marry her, you see if he doesn't, and she's going
to live in a mansion with a butler and lots of maids."
Miss Honey could hardly believe what she was hearing. She had heard that parents like this
existed all over the place and that their children turned out to be delinquents and drop-outs, but it
was still a shock to meet a pair of them in the flesh.
"Matilda's trouble", she said, trying once again, "is that she is so far ahead of everyone else around
her that it might be worth thinking about some extra kind of private tuition. I seriously believe that
she could be brought up to university standard in two or three years with the proper coaching."
"University?" Mr Wormwood shouted, bouncing up in his chair. "Who wants to go to university
for heaven's sake! All they learn there is bad habits!"
"That is not true," Miss Honey said. "If you had a heart attack this minute and had to call a doctor,
that doctor would be a university graduate. If you got sued for selling someone a rotten second-
hand car, you'd have to get a lawyer and he'd be a university graduate, too. Do not despise clever
people, Mr Wormwood. But I can see we're not going to agree. I'm sorry I burst in on you like
this." Miss Honey rose from her chair and walked out of the room.
Mr Wormwood followed her to the front-door and said, "Good of you to come, Miss Hawkes, or is
it Miss Harris?"
"It's neither," Miss Honey said, "but let it go." And away she went.
9.父母
父　母
当亨尼小姐从校长办公室出来的时候，大多数孩子都在外面的操场上。她首先去找教高
年级的老师，借来代数、几何、法语、英国文学等教科书，然后她找到玛蒂尔达，叫她到教
室里。
“当我教这个班里的其他同学学二的乘法和拼‘猫’和‘老鼠’的时候，”她说，“你坐在那里无
所事事总不是个办法。因此每一课我给你一本这样的教科书让你自己读。下课你可以到我这
里来问问题，就是说，如果你有问题的话，我将帮助你解答。你看这个办法怎么样？”
“谢谢你，亨尼小姐，”玛蒂尔达说，“这个办法好极了。”
“我肯定过些日子我们能使你升到更高的班，”亨尼小姐说，“但校长希望你暂时还是留在
这个班里。”
“很好，亨尼小姐，”玛蒂尔达说，“你给我弄来这些书，太感谢你了。”
她是个多么好的孩子啊！亨尼小姐心里说。我不管她爸爸说她什么，我觉得她十分文
静。尽管她才华出众，但是她一点也不自高自大，事实上，她似乎完全不知道这回事。就这
样，当班里上课的时候，玛蒂尔达在她的课桌上开始读亨尼小姐给她的几何教科书。老师一
直用半只眼睛注意她，看到这孩子很快就钻进了那本书里，整堂课她一次也没有把头抬起来
过。
这时候亨尼小姐又作出了另一个决定，她要亲自去找玛蒂尔达的妈妈和爸爸私下谈一
谈，越快越好。她就是不肯罢休。整件事情太荒唐了，她无法相信父母对自己女儿的杰出才
能会全无觉察。沃姆伍德先生到底是一个成功的汽车商，因此她相信他是一个相当有知识的
人。不管怎么样，父母是从来不会低估自己孩子的才能的，只会相反，有时候教师完全没有
办法说服自豪的父亲或者母亲让他们知道他们的宝贝孩子实际上是个十足的笨蛋。亨尼小姐
自信她会毫无困难地就使沃姆伍德先生和太太相信，玛蒂尔达的确与众不同，麻烦的倒是怎
么使他们不要过于兴奋。
亨尼小姐的希望现在更加膨胀了。她开始担心是不是能得到玛蒂尔达的父母同意，让她
下课以后私自给玛蒂尔达补习。要给如此聪明的孩子补习，这个希望出于她当教师的职业本
能。她一下子拿定主意，当天晚上就去见沃姆伍德先生和太太。她可以晚点去，在九点和十
点之间，这时候玛蒂尔达肯定已经上床睡觉了。
她正是这样做的。亨尼小姐从学校的记录里查到了地址，就在九点过后不久离开自己家
去沃姆伍德家。她在一条舒适的街上找到了那座房子，那里每座小巧的房子都有花园和隔壁
人家分开。这是一座时髦的砖房，买来不会便宜。院子门上写着“舒心小屋”。“也可以读成‘屋
小心舒’。”亨尼小姐想，她一向爱这样玩文字游戏。她沿着小径走到房子前面按铃、站在那
里等着的时候，她听见屋内的电视哇啦哇啦地响。
一个穿橘黄色红格子西装，有几根稀疏的老鼠胡子的小个子男人打开了门。“什么
事？”他在门里看看亨尼小姐说，“如果你是卖彩票的，我一张也不买。”
“我不是卖彩票的，”亨尼小姐说，“请原谅我这样打搅你。我是玛蒂尔达的老师，有重要
的话要对你和你太太说。”
“她已经闯祸啦？”沃姆伍德先生堵住门说，“哼，从现在起她要你负责了，你跟她谈
吧。”
“她一点祸也没有闯，”亨尼小姐说，“我是来报告她的好消息的，十分惊人的消息，沃姆
伍德先生。你认为我可以进去几分钟，跟你谈谈玛蒂尔达的事吗？”
“一个我们心爱的节目正好看到一半，”沃姆伍德先生说，“这是最不合适的时候，你何不
换个时间来呢？”
亨尼小姐开始失去耐心了。“沃姆伍德先生，”她说，“如果你认为无聊的电视节目比你女
儿的未来更重要，那么你不该做一个父亲！为什么你不能关掉那鬼东西，听听我的话呢！”
这句话动摇了沃姆伍德先生，他平时没有听过人家这样对他说话。他仔细地审视这个如
此坚决地站在门外的纤弱女人。“噢，那好吧，”他不客气地说，“进来让我们谈谈吧。”亨尼
小姐快步走进屋子。
“你这样做，沃姆伍德太太是不会感谢你的。”他把她引进客厅时说。一个淡金黄色头发
的大块头女人正在里面欢天喜地地盯着电视屏幕看。
“是谁呀？”那女人头也不回地说。
“是位学校老师，”沃姆伍德先生说，“她说要跟我们谈谈玛蒂尔达的事。”他走到电视机
前关小了音量，但留下了屏幕上的画面。
“别这样，哈里！”沃姆伍德太太叫起来，“威拉德正要向安杰莉卡求婚呢！”
“我们谈话的时候你还可以看嘛，”沃姆伍德先生说，“这是玛蒂尔达的老师，她说有消息
要告诉我们。”
“我叫珍妮弗•亨尼，”亨尼小姐说，“你好，沃姆伍德太太。”
沃姆伍德太太看看她说：“到底出了什么麻烦事？”
没有人请亨尼小姐坐下，她只好找了把椅子自己坐下来。“今天，”她说，“你们的女儿第
一天上学。”
“这个我们知道，”沃姆伍德太太说，因为错过了节目她很不高兴，“你来就只为了告诉我
们这件事吗？”
亨尼小姐狠狠地盯着这女人湿漉漉的灰色眼睛，不开口，就让房间里那么寂静着，直到
沃姆伍德太太开始感到难受。“你希望我说明我的来意吗？”亨尼小姐这才问道。
“那么说吧。”沃姆伍德太太说。
“我断定你们知道，”亨尼小姐说，“刚入学进最低一班的孩子，来时是不会读书、拼字或
者数数的。五岁多的孩子还不会这些，但是玛蒂尔达全都会。如果我打算相信她……”
“我不相信。”沃姆伍德太太说。她还是为听不到电视的声音而生气。
“那么是她说谎吗？”亨尼小姐说，“她告诉我说没有人教过她乘法或者阅读。你们当中哪
一位教过她吗？”
“教她什么？”沃姆伍德先生问。
“阅读，读书。”亨尼小姐说，“也许你们是教过她的，也许她是在说谎，也许你们家满屋
子的书架上都是书，也许你们二位都极爱阅读。”
“我们当然阅读，”沃姆伍德先生说，“别那么愚蠢，我每星期把《汽车》和《机动车》杂
志从封面读到封底。”
“可这孩子已经读过数目惊人的书了，”亨尼小姐说，“我只是想弄明白，她是不是出自一
个热爱优秀文学的家庭。”
“我们不赞成读书，”沃姆伍德先生说，“光用屁股坐着读小说混不到饭吃，我们家里没有
书。”
“我明白了，”亨尼小姐说，“那么我来只是要告诉你们，玛蒂尔达有一颗极有才华的心，
不过我想你们都已经知道了。”
“我们当然知道她能读书，”沃姆伍德太太说，“她整天待在她的房间里埋头读些无聊的
书。”
“但你们不觉得奇怪吗？”亨尼小姐说，“五岁的小孩已经在读大人读的书，读狄更斯和海
明威的长篇小说，这不使你们高兴地蹦起来吗？”
“一点也不，”沃姆伍德太太说，“我不欣赏女学究，一个姑娘应该想的是使自己的相貌能
吸引人，好在以后能找到个好丈夫。相貌可是比书本更重要，亨基小姐……”
“我姓亨尼。”亨尼小姐说。
“现在看看我，”沃姆伍德太太说，“再看看你，你选择的是书本，我选择的是相貌。”亨
尼小姐看着坐在房间对面的这位长着板油布丁的脸、正在沾沾自喜的大块头女人。“你说什
么？”她问道。
“我说你选择的是书本，我选择的是相貌。”沃姆伍德太太说，“到底谁的日子过得好？当
然是我。我漂漂亮亮地坐在一座漂漂亮亮的房子里，有一个生意兴隆的丈夫。可你呢，辛辛
苦苦地教一群臭娃娃ABC。”
“很对，甜姐儿。”沃姆伍德先生说，他的妻子叫人恶心地冲他傻笑，连猫见了也要作
呕。
亨尼小姐想要跟这种人谈下去就只好耐着性子不发脾气。“我还没有说完呢，”她说，“就
我初步看到的，玛蒂尔达还是一个数学天才，她的脑子能像闪电那么快地算出极其复杂的数
字。”
“可以买一个电子计算器嘛，这又算得了什么？”沃姆伍德先生说。
“一个姑娘不靠才学来弄到男人。”沃姆伍德太太说。“就说那电影明星吧，”她指着没有
声音的电视屏幕补充说，那上面一个胸部高耸的女人正在月光下被一个粗鲁的男演员拥抱
着，“你不认为她是靠对他乘数字来使他这样做的吧？一点不是。现在那男人要娶她了，那男
人能不娶她？她将住在一个大公馆里，有管家，有许许多多女佣人。”
亨尼小姐简直不能相信她所听到的话。她尽管听说过这样的父母到处都有，他们的孩子
成了少年犯或被学校开除，但亲自遇到一对活生生的这种父母，她还是不由得大吃一惊。
“玛蒂尔达的麻烦是，”她再一次尝试说下去，“她的水平超过周围的同学太多，因此可以
考虑一下给她私人补补课。我确信只要好好给她补课，两三年内她是能够达到大学水平的。”
“大学？”沃姆伍德先生大叫着从他的椅子上跳起来，“见鬼，谁要上大学？那里学的全是
坏习惯！”
“不能这么说，”亨尼小姐说，“如果你这一刹那间心脏病发作要找医生，医生就会是一位
大学毕业生。如果你由于卖给人一辆破的旧汽车受到控告，你就得找律师，他也可能是一位
大学毕业生。你轻视聪明的人吗，沃姆伍德先生？不过我可以看到，我们没法谈到一块儿
去。我很抱歉这样贸然来访。”亨尼小姐从她的椅子上站起来，走出房间。
沃姆伍德先生跟着她来到前门，说：“谢谢你来看我们，霍克斯小姐，或者是哈里斯小
姐？”
“都不是，”亨尼小姐说，“不过算了吧。”她走了。
10.Throwing the Hammer
Throwing the Hammer
The nice thing about Matilda was that if you had met her casually and talked to her you would
have thought she was a perfectly normal five-and-a-half-year-old child. She displayed almost no
outward signs of her brilliance and she never showed off. "This is a very sensible and quiet little
girl," you would have said to yourself. And unless for some reason you had started a discussion
with her about literature or mathematics, you would never have known the extent of her brain-
power.
It was therefore easy for Matilda to make friends with other children. All those in her class liked
her. They knew of course that she was "clever" because they had heard her being questioned by
Miss Honey on the first day of term. And they knew also that she was allowed to sit quietly with a
book during lessons and not pay attention to the teacher. But children of their age do not search
deeply for reasons. They are far too wrapped up in their own small struggles to worry overmuch
about what others are doing and why.
Among Matilda's new-found friends was the girl called Lavender. Right from the first day of term
the two of them started wandering round together during the morning-break and in the lunch-hour.
Lavender was exceptionally small for her age, a skinny little nymph with deep-brown eyes and
with dark hair that was cut in a fringe across her forehead. Matilda liked her because she was
gutsy and adventurous. She liked Matilda for exactly the same reasons.
Before the first week of term was up, awesome tales about the Headmistress, Miss Trunchbull,
began to filter through to the newcomers. Matilda and Lavender, standing in a corner of the
playground during morning-break on the third day, were approached by a rugged ten-year-old
with a boil on her nose, called Hortensia. "New scum, I suppose," Hortensia said to them, looking
down from her great height. She was eating from an extra large bag of potato crisps and digging
the stuff out in handfuls. "Welcome to borstal," she added, spraying bits of crisp out of her mouth
like snow-flakes.
The two tiny ones, confronted by this giant, kept a watchful silence.
"Have you met the Trunchbull yet?" Hortensia asked.
"We've seen her at prayers," Lavender said, "but we haven't met her."
"You've got a treat coming to you," Hortensia said. "She hates very small children. She therefore
loathes the bottom class and everyone in it. She thinks five-year-olds are grubs that haven't yet
hatched out." In went another fistful of crisps and when she spoke again, out sprayed the crumbs.
"If you survive your first year you may just manage to live through the rest of your time here. But
many
don't survive. They get carried out on stretchers screaming. I've seen it often." Hortensia paused to
observe the effect these remarks were having on the two titchy ones. Not very much. They seemed
pretty cool. So the large one decided to regale them with further information.
"I suppose you know the Trunchbull has a lockup cupboard in her private quarters called The
Chokey? Have you heard about The Chokey?"
Matilda and Lavender shook their heads and continued to gaze up at the giant. Being very small,
they were inclined to mistrust any creature that was larger than they were, especially senior girls.
"The Chokey", Hortensia went on, "is a very tall but very narrow cupboard. The floor is only ten
inches square so you can't sit down or squat in it. You have to stand. And three of the walls are
made of cement with bits of broken glass sticking out all over, so you can't lean against them. You
have to stand more or less at attention all the time when you get locked up in there. It's terrible."
"Can't you lean against the door?" Matilda asked.
"Don't be daft," Hortensia said. "The door's got thousands of sharp spikey nails sticking out of it.
They've been hammered through from the outside, probably by the Trunchbull herself."
"Have you ever been in there?" Lavender asked.
"My first term I was in there six times," Hortensia said. "Twice for a whole day and the other
times for two hours each. But two hours is quite bad enough. It's pitch dark and you have to stand
up dead straight and if you wobble at all you get spiked either by the glass on the walls or the nails
on the door.
"Why were you put in?" Matilda asked. "What had you done?"
"The first time", Hortensia said, "I poured half a tin of Golden Syrup on to the seat of the chair the
Trunchbull was going to sit on at prayers. It was wonderful. When she lowered herself into the
chair, there was a loud squelching noise similar to that made by a hippopotamus when lowering its
foot into the mud on the banks of the Limpopo River. But you're too small and stupid to have read
the Just So Stories, aren't you?"
"I've read them," Matilda said.
"You're a liar," Hortensia said amiably. "You can't even read yet. But no matter. So when the
Trunchbull sat down on the Golden Syrup, the squelch was beautiful. And when she jumped up
again, the chair sort of stuck to the seat of those awful green breeches she wears and came up with
her for a few seconds until the thick syrup slowly came unstuck. Then she clasped her hands to the
seat of her breeches and both hands got covered in the muck. You should have heard her bellow."
"But how did she know it was you?" Lavender asked.
"A little squirt called Ollie Bogwhistle sneaked on me," Hortensia said. "I knocked his front teeth
out."
"And the Trunchbull put you in The Chokey for a whole day?" Matilda asked, gulping.
"All day long," Hortensia said. "I was off my rocker when she let me out. I was babbling like an
idiot."
"What were the other things you did to get put in The Chokey?" Lavender asked.
"Oh I can't remember them all now," Hortensia said. She spoke with the air of an old warrior who
has been in so many battles that bravery has become commonplace. "It's all so long ago," she
added, stuffing more crisps into her mouth. "Ah yes, I can remember one. Here's what happened. I
chose a time when I knew the Trunchbull was out of the way teaching the sixth-formers, and I put
up my hand and asked to go to the bogs. But instead of going there, I sneaked into the
Trunchbull's
room. And after a speedy search I found the drawer where she kept all her gym knickers.''
"Go on," Matilda said, spellbound. "What happened next?"
"I had sent away by post, you see, for this very powerful itching-powder," Hortensia said. "It cost
50p a packet and was called The Skin-Scorcher. The label said it was made from the powdered
teeth of deadly snakes, and it was guaranteed to raise welts the size of walnuts on your skin. So I
sprinkled this stuff inside every pair of knickers in the drawer and then folded them all up again
carefully." Hortensia paused to cram more crisps into her mouth.
"Did it work?" Lavender asked.
"Well," Hortensia said, "a few days later, during prayers, the Trunchbull suddenly started
scratching herself like mad down below. A-ha, I said to myself. Here we go. She's changed for
gym already. It was pretty wonderful to be sitting there watching it all and knowing that I was the
only person in the whole school who realised exactly what was going on inside the Trunchbull's
pants. And I felt safe, too. I knew I couldn't be caught. Then the scratching got worse. She couldn't
stop. She must have thought she had a wasp's nest down there. And then, right in the middle of the
Lord's Prayer, she leapt up and grabbed her bottom and rushed out of the room."
Both Matilda and Lavender were enthralled. It was quite clear to them that they were at this
moment standing in the presence of a master. Here was somebody who had brought the art of
skulduggery to the highest point of perfection, somebody, moreover, who was willing to risk life
and limb in pursuit of her calling. They gazed in wonder at this goddess, and suddenly even the
boil on her nose was no longer a blemish but a badge of courage.
"But how did she catch you that time?" Lavender asked, breathless with wonder.
"She didn't," Hortensia said. "But I got a day in The Chokey just the same."
"Why?" they both asked.
"The Trunchbull", Hortensia said, "has a nasty habit of guessing. When she doesn't know who the
culprit is, she makes a guess at it, and the trouble is she's often right. I was the prime suspect this
time because of the Golden Syrup job, and although I knew she didn't have any proof, nothing I
said made any difference. I kept shouting, 'How could I have done it, Miss Trunchbull? I didn't
even know you kept any spare knickers at school! I don't even know what itching-powder is! I've
never heard of it!' But the lying didn't help me in spite of the great performance I put on. The
Trunchbull simply grabbed me by one ear and rushed me to The Chokey at the double and threw
me inside and locked the door. That was my second all-day stretch. It was absolute torture. I was
spiked and cut all over when I came out."
"It's like a war," Matilda said, overawed.
"You're darn right it's like a war," Hortensia cried. "And the casualties are terrific. We are the
crusaders, the gallant army fighting for our lives with hardly any weapons at all and the
Trunchbull is the Prince of Darkness, the Foul Serpent, the Fiery Dragon with all the weapons at
her command. It's a tough life. We all try to support each other."
"You can rely on us," Lavender said, making her height of three feet two inches stretch as tall as
possible.
"No, I can't," Hortensia said. "You're only shrimps. But you never know. We may find a use for
you one day in some undercover job."
"Tell us just a little bit more about what she does," Matilda said. "Please do."
"I mustn't frighten you before you've been here a week," Hortensia said.
"You won't," Lavender said. "We may be small but we're quite tough."
"Listen to this then," Hortensia said. "Only yesterday the Trunchbull caught a boy called Julius
Rottwinkle eating Liquorice Allsorts during the scripture lesson and she simply picked him up by
one arm and flung him clear out of the open classroom window. Our classroom is one floor up and
we saw Julius Rottwinkle go sailing out over the garden like a Frisbee and landing with a thump in
the middle of the lettuces. Then the Trunchbull turned to us and said, "From now on, anybody
caught eating in class goes straight out the window."
"Did this Julius Rottwinkle break any bones?" Lavender asked.
"Only a few," Hortensia said. "You've got to remember that the Trunchbull once threw the
hammer for Britain in the Olympics so she's very proud of her right arm."
"What's throwing the hammer?" Lavender asked.
"The hammer", Hortensia said, "is actually a ruddy great cannon-ball on the end of a long bit of
wire, and the thrower whisks it round and round his or her head faster and faster and then lets it
go. You have to be terrifically strong. The Trunchbull will throw anything around just to keep her
arm in, especially children."
"Good heavens," Lavender said.
"I once heard her say", Hortensia went on, "that a large boy is about the same weight as an
Olympic
hammer and therefore he's very useful for practising with."
At that point something strange happened. The playground, which up to then had been filled with
shrieks and the shouting of children at play, all at once became silent as the grave. "Watch out,"
Hortensia whispered. Matilda and Lavender glanced round and saw the gigantic figure of Miss
Trunchbull advancing through the crowd of boys and girls with menacing strides. The children
drew back hastily to let her through and her progress across the asphalt was like that of Moses
going through the Red Sea when the waters parted. A formidable figure she was too, in her belted
smock and green breeches. Below the knees her calf muscles stood out like grapefruits inside her
stockings. "Amanda Thripp!" she was shouting. "You, Amanda Thripp, come here!"
"Hold your hats," Hortensia whispered.
"What's going to happen?" Lavender whispered back.
"That idiot Amanda", Hortensia said, "has let her long hair grow even longer during the hols and
her mother has plaited it into pigtails. Silly thing to do."
"Why silly?" Matilda asked.
"If there's one thing the Trunchbull can't stand it's pigtails," Hortensia said.
Matilda and Lavender saw the giant in green breeches advancing upon a girl of about ten who had
a pair of plaited golden pigtails hanging over her shoulders. Each pigtail had a blue satin bow at
the end of it and it all looked very pretty. The girl wearing the pigtails, Amanda Thripp, stood
quite still, watching the advancing giant, and the expression on her face was one that you might
find on the face of a person who is trapped in a small field with an enraged bull which is charging
flat-out towards her. The girl was glued to the spot, terror-struck, pop-eyed, quivering, knowing
for certain that the Day of Judgment had come for her at last.
Miss Trunchbull had now reached the victim and stood towering over her. "I want those filthy
pigtails off before you come back to school tomorrow!" she barked. "Chop 'em off and throw 'em
in the dustbin, you understand?"
Amanda, paralysed with fright, managed to stutter, "My m-m-mummy likes them. She p-p-plaits
them for me every morning."
"Your mummy's a twit!" the Trunchbull bellowed. She pointed a finger the size of a salami at the
child's head and shouted, "You look like a rat with a tail coming out of its head!"
"My m-m-mummy thinks I look lovely, Miss T-T-Trunchbull," Amanda stuttered, shaking like a
blancmange.
"I don't give a tinker's toot what your mummy thinks!" the Trunchbull yelled, and with that she
lunged forward and grabbed hold of Amanda's pigtails in her right fist and lifted the girl clear off
the ground. Then she started swinging her round and round her head, faster and faster and Amanda
was screaming blue murder and the Trunchbull was yelling, "I'll give you pigtails, you little rat!"
"Shades of the Olympics," Hortensia murmured. "She's getting up speed now just like she does
with the hammer. Ten to one she's going to throw her."
And now the Trunchbull was leaning back against the weight of the whirling girl and pivoting
expertly on her toes, spinning round and round, and soon Amanda Thripp was travelling so fast
she became a blur, and suddenly, with a mighty grunt, the Trunchbull let go of the pigtails and
Amanda went sailing like a rocket right over the wire fence of the playground and high up into the
sky.
"Well thrown, sir!" someone shouted from across the playground,and Matilda, who was
mesmerised by the whole crazy affair, saw Amanda Thripp descending in a long graceful parabola
on to the playing-field beyond. She landed on the grass and bounced three times and finally came
to rest. Then, amazingly, she sat up. She looked a trifle dazed and who could blame her, but after a
minute or so she was on her feet again and tottering back towards the playground.
The Trunchbull stood in the playground dusting off her hands. "Not bad," she said, "considering
I'm not in strict training. Not bad at all." Then she strode away.
"She's mad," Hortensia said.
"But don't the parents complain?" Matilda asked.
"Would yours?" Hortensia asked. "I know mine wouldn't. She treats the mothers and fathers just
the same as the children and they're all scared to death of her. I'll be seeing you some time, you
two." And with that she sauntered away.
10.掷链球
掷链球
玛蒂尔达有一件事还算好，如果你不经意地遇到她跟她谈话时，只会想到她是一个完全
正常的五岁孩子。她的才华一点也不外露。“这是一个非常伶俐和文静的小姑娘。”你只会这
样想。除非你偶然和她谈起文学或者数学，否则你永远不会知道她有多高的智力。
正因为这个缘故，玛蒂尔达很容易和别的孩子交朋友，班上的孩子都喜欢她。他们当然
知道她“聪明”，因为他们在开学第一天就听到过亨尼小姐问她问题。他们也知道上课时她被
允许一个人静静地坐着看书，不用听老师讲课。但是他们那种年龄的孩子不会刨根问底，把
功课学好已经够他们忙的了，他们再不会有心思去管别人在做什么和为什么那样。
在玛蒂尔达的新朋友当中，有一个女孩叫拉文德。从开学第一天起，她们两个就在上午
的课间休息和午饭时间一起玩。拉文德以她那个年龄来说，长得特别矮小，瘦骨嶙峋，有一
双深褐色的眼睛，前面的黑头发剪成刘海儿。玛蒂尔达喜欢她，因为她胆子大并且爱冒险。
她喜欢玛蒂尔达也完全因为同样的原因。
开学后一个星期不到，关于校长特朗奇布尔小姐的可怕故事已经渗透在所有新生的心
里。第三天，在上午课间休息时，玛蒂尔达和拉文德正站在操场一角，一个衣服肮脏、鼻子
上有个疖子的十岁女孩，叫霍顿霞的，走到她们面前。“我想你们是新生。”霍顿霞居高临下
地看着她们说。她正拿着一个特大的纸袋，从里面一把一把掏出炸土豆片来吃。“欢迎你们到
这所青少年教养院来。”她加上一句，炸土豆片屑像雪片一样从她的嘴里喷出来。
两个小不点面对这个巨人，看着她一声不响。
“你们和特朗奇布尔打过交道没有？”霍顿霞问道。
“做祷告时见过她，”拉文德说，“还没有打过交道。”
“你们会和她打交道的，”霍顿霞说，“她讨厌很小的孩子，因此她憎恨最低班的所有学
生，她认为五岁孩子都是些还没有孵化出来的幼虫。”她又往嘴里塞了一把炸土豆片，因此再
开口说话时，土豆片屑又喷出来了。“如果你们能捱过第一年还活下来，就能在这里度过其他
那些年了，但是许多人捱不过，他们哇哇叫着被担架抬走。我见得多了。”霍顿霞停下来，看
这话对这两个小不点是不是起了作用。作用不大，她们似乎十分冷淡。于是这大高个决定进
一步逗她们。
“我想你们知道，特朗奇布尔在她的办公室里有一个锁着的大柜吧，叫‘监房’的？你们听
说过这个‘监房’吗？”
玛蒂尔达和拉文德摇摇头，抬起头继续看着这个巨人。她们虽然小，但也不大信任比她
们大的人，特别是高班的女孩。
“这‘监房’，”霍顿霞说下去，“是一个很高但是很窄的柜子。它底部只有十英寸见方，因
此在里面不能坐也不能蹲，只能站着。三边柜壁是水泥的，上面插满碎玻璃，因此也不能靠
在上面，给锁进去就只好立正站着，真可怕。”
“靠在门上不行吗？”玛蒂尔达问道。
“别傻了，”霍顿霞说，“门上有几千个很尖的钉子尖突出来，它们是从外面钉进去的，可
能是特朗奇布尔亲自钉的。”
“你给关进去过吗？”拉文德问她。
“我读第一学期就给关过六次，”霍顿霞说，“有两次关了一整天，其他几次各关两个钟
头。可是两个钟头就够你受的。里面漆黑一片，还得笔直站着，只要动一动，不是给柜壁上
的玻璃片刺着，就是给柜门上的钉子刺着。”
“你因为什么给关进去？”玛蒂尔达问道，“你干什么了？”
“第一次，”霍顿霞说，“我在做祷告时往特朗奇布尔要坐的椅子上倒了半罐糖浆，妙极
了，她在椅子上坐下来的时候，只听到很响的‘咕叽’一声，就像非洲林波波河边河马的脚踩到
烂泥里发出的声音那样。但是你们太小太笨了，还没有读过那本《就是如此故事集》 [1] ，对
吗？”
“我读过了。”玛蒂尔达说。
“你撒谎，”霍顿霞友好地说，“你连读书还不会呢，不过没关系。因此，当特朗奇布尔坐
到糖浆上面时，那“咕叽”一声美极了。她重新跳起来，可是椅子粘住了她穿着的可怕的绿裤
子。过了好几秒钟，裤子才从稠稠的糖浆里挣脱出来。接着她用双手抱住屁股，结果两只手
都满是糖浆。她那个号叫啊，你们真该听听。”
“可她怎么知道是你干的呢？”拉文德问道。
“一个叫奥利•博格惠斯尔的小混蛋偷偷告了我的状。”霍顿霞说，“我后来把他的门牙都打
掉了。”
“于是特朗奇布尔把你在‘监房’里关了一整天？”玛蒂尔达喘了口气，问道。
“整整一天，”霍顿霞说，“等到她把我放出来，我都疯疯癫癫了，我像个白痴那样唠唠叨
叨不知讲些什么。”
“你还做了些什么事给关进‘监房’呢？”拉文德问。
“噢，现在我都没法全记起来了。”霍顿霞说。她说话的口气像个身经百战满不在乎的老
战士。“都太久远了。”她加上一句，把更多的炸土豆片往嘴里塞，“啊，对了，我还记得一
件。是这么回事：我趁特朗奇布尔到六年级上课时，举手要去厕所。可是我没去那儿，却溜
进了特朗奇布尔的办公室。我很快就找到了她放她所有的运动短裤的抽屉。”
“快说下去，”玛蒂尔达像入了迷似的说，“接下来怎样？”
“你们知道，我邮购了一种非常厉害的发痒粉，”霍顿霞说，“五十英镑一包，叫‘皮肤火辣
粉’。说明书说，它是用毒蛇的牙磨粉做的，保证能在你的皮肤上鼓出核桃大的肿块。于是我
在抽屉里的每条短裤里面洒上这种粉，再一条一条仔细地叠好。”霍顿霞停下来，把更多的炸
土豆片塞进嘴里。
“有效吗？”拉文德问道。
“哈！”霍顿霞说，“几天以后，在做祷告的时候特朗奇布尔忽然像发疯似的开始拼命抓她
的下身。‘哈哈，’我心里说，‘起作用了，她已经换上了运动短裤。’坐在那里看着，想到全校
只有我一个人清楚特朗奇布尔的裤子里到底是怎么回事，那真是妙不可言。而且我觉得自己
很安全，我知道我不可能被捉住。接着她越抓越厉害，她没有办法停止不抓，她一定以为有
个野蜂窝在她的下身。就在祷告做到一半的时候，她猛地跳起来，抱住屁股就奔出房间去
了。”
玛蒂尔达和拉文德两人都听入了迷。她们很清楚，这时候她们正站在一位大师面前。这
个人已经把恶作剧艺术发挥到尽善尽美的最高境界，而且这个人情愿冒生命危险去追求她心
中的渴望。她们惊讶地看着这位女神，一下子连她鼻子上的那个疖子也不再是缺点，而是一
个表彰其勇敢的奖章。
“那么这一次她又是怎么捉到你的？”拉文德惊讶得气也透不过来，问道。
“她没有捉到我，”霍顿霞说，“不过我还是在那‘监房’里给关了一天。”
“为什么？”她们两个同时问道。
“这特朗奇布尔，”霍顿霞说，“有一个猜疑的恶习，碰到她不知道捣蛋的人是谁她就猜，
糟糕的是总让她猜中了。由于糖浆事件，我成了她猜疑的第一个对象，虽然我知道她没有任
何证据，但怎么说也没有用。我继续叫嚷：‘我怎么会做这件事呢，特朗奇布尔小姐？我甚至
不知道你在学校里放多余的短裤！我甚至不知道发痒粉是什么东西！我从来没有听说过这玩
意儿！’尽管我装得十分逼真，但是抵赖没能帮上我的忙。特朗奇布尔不管三七二十一，抓住
我的一只耳朵把我拉到‘监房’那里，推了进去，锁上了门。这就是我的第二次全天监禁。真是
受大罪，我给刺坏了，出来时全身都是伤。”
“真像一场战争。”玛蒂尔达害怕地说。“你说得对极了，真像一场战争，”霍顿霞叫
道，“损失惨重。我们是十字军，勇敢的军队，简直没有什么武器，为了我们的生命而战斗。
特朗奇布尔是黑暗王子、大毒蛇、火龙，什么武器都有。这真是一种悲惨的生活，我们大家
要千方百计相互支持。”
“你可以信赖我们。”拉文德说，尽力伸长她那三英尺两英寸高的身体。
“不，我不能信赖你们，”霍顿霞说，“你们只是些小不点儿，不过也不能说死。有一些暗
地里做的事情，也许用得上你们。”
“关于她做的事，再给我们讲一点吧，”玛蒂尔达说，“请你再讲一点。”
“你们入学还不到一星期，我不能吓破你们的胆。”霍顿霞说。
“不会的，”拉文德说，“我们人虽小，却很棒。”
“那么听听这件事吧。”霍顿霞说，“就在昨天，特朗奇布尔捉住了一个叫朱利叶斯•罗特温
克尔的，他在上写字课时吃什锦甘草糖。她干脆抓住他一条胳膊把他拎起来，一下子从开着
的窗子抡了出去。我们的教室在上面一层，我们看到朱利叶斯•罗特温克尔像一只飞碟那样飞
过花园，“吧嗒”一声落到一大片莴苣中间。接着特朗奇布尔向我们转过脸来说：“从现在起，
任何人在教室里吃东西被捉住，统统扔出窗子。”
“这个朱利叶斯•罗特温克尔摔断骨头没有？”拉文德问道。
“只断了几根。”霍顿霞说，“你们要记住，特朗奇布尔曾经在奥运会上为英国掷链球，因
此她为她的右臂感到非常自豪。”
“掷链球是什么意思？”拉文德问道。
“链球，”霍顿霞说，“就是一个十足的大炮弹，系在一根长链条的头上，扔的人把它先在
头顶上旋转，越转越快，最后扔出去。掷链球的人得非常强壮。特朗奇布尔扔身边所有的东
西，为的是锻炼她的手臂，特别是扔孩子。”
“天啊！”拉文德说。
“有一次我听她说过，”霍顿霞说下去，“一个跟奥运会的链球差不多重的大男孩对于练习
非常有用。”
就在这时候发生了一件奇怪的事。本来充满了孩子们游戏叫声的操场，一下子静得和墓
地一样。“注意！”霍顿霞悄悄说。玛蒂尔达和拉文德一转头，看到了特朗奇布尔的巨大身
躯，她迈着可怕的大步穿过大群的男孩女孩。孩子们赶紧退后给她让道。她穿过柏油地，就
像摩西 [2] 在水分开时穿过红海那样。她的样子很可怕，身上围着粗皮带的罩衫和绿裤子。膝
盖下面，她的小腿肌肉，在长袜子里像葡萄那样鼓起来。“阿曼达•思里普！”她叫道，“你，阿
曼达•思里普，过来！”
“抓紧你们的帽子。”霍顿霞悄悄说。
“要出什么事呢？”拉文德也悄悄地问。
“阿曼达那白痴，”霍顿霞说，“让她的长头发在假期里长得更长了。她妈妈把它们编成了
辫子。这样做太傻了。”
“为什么傻？”玛蒂尔达问道。
“特朗奇布尔最受不了的就是辫子。”霍顿霞说。
玛蒂尔达和拉文德看到那穿绿裤子的巨人走向一个大约十岁的女孩，她肩上垂着两根金
色的长辫子，每根辫梢上用蓝色缎带打了个蝴蝶结，看上去非常漂亮。梳着辫子的女孩，就
是阿曼达•思里普，她站在那里一动不动，看着巨人过来，脸上的表情像一个困在一块小田地
上逃不掉、而一只狂怒的公牛正低头向他冲过来的人一样。女孩定在那里，吓坏了，鼓起了
眼睛，浑身哆嗦，料定世界末日就要降临到她头上了。
特朗奇布尔这时已经来到这可怜虫面前，像座塔似的居高临下地俯视着她。“明天到学校
来之前，我要你剪掉那两根脏辫子！”她尖叫道，“把它们剪掉扔到垃圾桶里去。你听明白了
吗？”
阿曼达吓傻了，好容易才结结巴巴地说出话来：“我妈……妈……妈妈喜欢它们。她
每……每……每天早晨给我梳辫子。”
“你的妈妈是个傻瓜！”特朗奇布尔哇哇叫着，她用一根香肠般的指头指住女孩的头叫
道，“你像一只尾巴长到了头上的老鼠！”
“我妈……妈……妈妈认为我好看，特……特……特朗奇布尔小姐。”阿曼达结结巴巴地
说，浑身抖得像牛奶冻。
“你妈妈怎么认为我不管！”特朗奇布尔大叫着冲上前，用右手一把抓住阿曼达的两根辫
子把她整个儿离地拎起来，接着开始把她在头顶上旋转，越转越快。阿曼达大叫救命，特朗
奇布尔哇哇叫着说：“我让你梳辫子，你这小老鼠！”
“奥运会的派头。”霍顿霞悄悄说，“现在她加快了，就像掷链球。一、二、三，她要把她
扔出去了。”
这时候特朗奇布尔由于旋转的女孩的重量而身体向后，内行地用她的脚趾作为轴心把身
子转了又转。在她头顶上飞快旋转的阿曼达•思里普很快就变成了一个模糊的点。忽然之间，
特朗奇布尔很响地哼哼一声，扔出了辫子，阿曼达顿时像火箭一样飞过操场的铁丝网，高高
地飞到空中去了。
“扔得好，先生！”操场那边有人叫道，而对这整个疯狂事件看得入了迷的玛蒂尔达只见
阿曼达•思里普呈现长长的美妙抛物线落到了操场外面。她落到草地上还打了三个滚才最后停
下。接着很奇怪，她坐起来了。她看上去头昏眼花，但怎么能怪她呢。过了一分钟左右，她
又站起来了，蹒跚着向操场走回来。
特朗奇布尔站在操场上拍掉手上的灰。“考虑到我没有进行严格的训练，成绩还算不
坏，”她说，“实在不坏。”接着她大踏步走开了。
“她疯啦。”霍顿霞说。
“难道父母不提意见吗？”玛蒂尔达问道。
“你们的父母会提吗？”霍顿霞反问，“我知道我的父母不会。她对待妈妈们和爸爸们就同
对待孩子们一样，他们全怕她怕得要死。什么时候我也会看到你们受这份罪的，你们两
个。”说着，她慢步走开了。
[1]英国作家吉卜林（1865-1936）写的一本关于动物的童话集。
[2]摩西是公元前13世纪希伯来人的领袖，曾率领希伯来人离开埃及，摆脱奴役。传说他
来到红海时，前有海水，后有追兵，但水在他面前分开，他得以过去。
11.Bruce Bogtrotter and the Cake
Bruce Bogtrotter and the Cake
"How can she get away with it?" Lavender said to Matilda. "Surely the children go home and tell
their mothers and fathers. I know my father would raise a terrific stink if I told him the
Headmistress had grabbed me by the hair and slung me over the playground fence."
"No, he wouldn't," Matilda said, "and I'll tell you why. He simply wouldn't believe you."
"Of course he would."
"He wouldn't," Matilda said. "And the reason is obvious. Your story would sound too ridiculous to
be believed. And that is the Trunchbull's great secret."
"What is?" Lavender asked.
Matilda said, "Never do anything by halves if you want to get away with it. Be outrageous. Go the
whole hog. Make sure everything you do is so completely crazy it's unbelievable. No parent is
going to believe this pigtail story, not in a million years. Mine wouldn't. They'd call me a liar."
"In that case", Lavender said, "Amanda's mother isn't going to cut her pigtails off."
"No, she isn't," Matilda said. "Amanda will do it herself. You see if she doesn't."
"Do you think she's mad?" Lavender asked.
"Who?"
"The Trunchbull."
"No, I don't think she's mad," Matilda said. "But she's very dangerous. Being in this school is like
being in a cage with a cobra. You have to be very fast on your feet."
They got another example of how dangerous the Headmistress could be on the very next day.
During lunch an announcement was made that the whole school should go into the Assembly Hall
and be seated as soon as the meal was over.
When all the two hundred and fifty or so boys and girls were settled down in Assembly, the
Trunchbull marched on to the platform. None of the other teachers came in with her. She was
carrying a riding-crop in her right hand. She stood up there on centre stage in her green breeches
with legs apart and riding-crop in hand, glaring at the sea of upturned faces before her.
"What's going to happen?" Lavender whispered.
"I don't know," Matilda whispered back.
The whole school waited for what was coming next.
"Bruce Bogtrotter!" the Trunchbull barked suddenly. "Where is Bruce Bogtrotter?"
A hand shot up among the seated children.
"Come up here!" the Trunchbull shouted. "And look smart about it!"
An eleven-year-old boy who was decidedly large and round stood up and waddled briskly
forward. He climbed up on to the platform.
"Stand over there!" the Trunchbull ordered, pointing. The boy stood to one side. He looked
nervous. He knew very well he wasn't up there to be presented with a prize. He was watching the
Headmistress with an exceedingly wary eye and he kept edging farther and farther away from her
with little shuffles of his feet, rather as a rat might edge away from a terrier that is watching it from
across the room. His plump flabby face had turned grey with fearful apprehension. His stockings
hung about his ankles.
"This clot," boomed the Headmistress, pointing the riding-crop at him like a rapier, "this
blackhead, this foul carbuncle, this poisonous pustule that you see before you is none other than a
disgusting criminal, a denizen of the underworld, a member of the Mafia!"
"Who, me?" Bruce Bogtrotter said, looking genuinely puzzled.
"A thief!" the Trunchbull screamed. "A crook! A pirate! A brigand! A rustler!"
"Steady on," the boy said. "I mean, dash it all, Headmistress."
"Do you deny it, you miserable little gumboil? Do you plead not guilty?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," the boy said, more puzzled than ever.
"I'll tell you what I'm talking about, you suppurating little blister!" the Trunchbull shouted.
"Yesterday morning, during break, you sneaked like a serpent into the kitchen and stole a slice of
my private chocolate cake from my tea-tray! That tray had just been prepared for me personally by
the cook! It was my morning snack! And as for the cake, it was my own private stock! That was
not boy's cake! You don't think for one minute I'm going to eat the filth I give to you? That cake
was made from real butter and real cream! And he, that
robber-bandit, that safe-cracker, that highwayman standing over there with his socks around his
ankles stole it and ate it!"
"I never did," the boy exclaimed, turning from grey to white.
"Don't lie to me, Bogtrotter!" barked the Trunchbull. "The cook saw you! What's more, she saw
you eating it!"
The Trunchbull paused to wipe a fleck of froth from her lips.
When she spoke again her voice was suddenly softer, quieter, more friendly, and she leaned
towards the boy, smiling. "You like my special chocolate cake, don't you, Bogtrotter? It's rich and
delicious, isn't it, Bogtrotter?"
"Very good," the boy mumbled. The words were out before he could stop himself.
"You're right," the Trunchbull said. "It is very good. Therefore I think you should congratulate the
cook. When a gentleman has had a particularly good meal, Bogtrotter, he always sends his
compliments to the chef. You didn't know that, did you, Bogtrotter? But those who inhabit the
criminal underworld are not noted for their good manners."
The boy remained silent.
"Cook!" the Trunchbull shouted, turning her head towards the door. "Come here, cook! Bogtrotter
wishes to tell you how good your chocolate cake is!"
The cook, a tall shrivelled female who looked as though all of her body-juices had been dried out
of her long ago in a hot oven, walked on to the platform wearing a dirty white apron. Her entrance
had clearly been arranged beforehand by the Headmistress.
"Now then, Bogtrotter," the Trunchbull boomed. "Tell cook what you think of her chocolate
cake."
"Very good," the boy mumbled. You could see he was now beginning to wonder what all this was
leading up to. The only thing he knew for certain was that the law forbade the Trunchbull to hit
him with the riding-crop that she kept smacking against her thigh. That was some comfort, but not
much because the Trunchbull was totally unpredictable. One never knew what she was going to do
next.
"There you are, cook," the Trunchbull cried. "Bogtrotter likes your cake. He adores your cake. Do
you have any more of your cake you could give him?"
"I do indeed," the cook said. She seemed to have learnt her lines by heart.
"Then go and get it. And bring a knife to cut it with."
The cook disappeared. Almost at once she was back again staggering under the weight of an
enormous round chocolate cake on a china platter. The cake was fully eighteen inches in diameter
and it was covered with dark-brown chocolate icing. "Put it on the table," the Trunchbull said.
There was a small table centre stage with a chair behind it. The cook placed the cake carefully on
the table. "Sit down, Bogtrotter," the Trunchbull said. "Sit there."
The boy moved cautiously to the table and sat down. He stared at the gigantic cake.
"There you are, Bogtrotter," the Trunchbull said, and once again her voice became soft,
persuasive, even gentle. "It's all for you, every bit of it. As you enjoyed that slice you had
yesterday so very much, I ordered cook to bake you an extra large one all for yourself."
"Well, thank you," the boy said, totally bemused.
"Thank cook, not me," the Trunchbull said.
"Thank you, cook," the boy said.
The cook stood there like a shrivelled bootlace, tight-lipped, implacable, disapproving. She looked
as though her mouth was full of lemon juice.
"Come on then," the Trunchbull said. "Why don't you cut yourself a nice thick slice and try it?"
"What? Now?" the boy said, cautious. He knew
there was a catch in this somewhere, but he wasn't sure where. "Can't I take it home instead?" he
asked.
"That would be impolite," the Trunchbull said, with a crafty grin. "You must show cookie here
how grateful you are for all the trouble she's taken."
The boy didn't move.
"Go on, get on with it," the Trunchbull said. "Cut a slice and taste it. We haven't got all day."
The boy picked up the knife and was about to cut into the cake when he stopped. He stared at the
cake. Then he looked up at the Trunchbull, then at the tall stringy cook with her lemon-juice
mouth. All the children in the hall were watching tensely, waiting for something to happen. They
felt certain it must. The Trunchbull was not a person who would give someone a whole chocolate
cake to eat just out of kindness. Many were guessing that it had been filled with pepper or castor-
oil or some other foul-tasting substance that would make the boy violently sick. It might even be
arsenic and he would be dead in ten seconds flat. Or perhaps it was a booby-trapped cake and the
whole thing would blow up the moment it was cut, taking Bruce Bogtrotter with it. No one in the
school put it past the Trunchbull to do any of these things.
"I don't want to eat it," the boy said.
'Taste it, you little brat," the Trunchbull said. "You're insulting the cook."
Very gingerly the boy began to cut a thin slice of the vast cake. Then he levered the slice out.
Then he put down the knife and took the sticky thing in his fingers and started very slowly to eat
it.
"It's good, isn't it?" the Trunchbull asked.
"Very good," the boy said, chewing and swallowing. He finished the slice.
"Have another," the Trunchbull said.
"That's enough, thank you," the boy murmured.
"I said have another," the Trunchbull said, and now there was an altogether sharper edge to her
voice. "Eat another slice! Do as you are told!"
"I don't want another slice," the boy said.
Suddenly the Trunchbull exploded. "Eat!" she shouted, banging her thigh with the riding-crop. "If
I tell you to eat, you will eat! You wanted cake! You stole cake! And now you've got cake! What's
more, you're going to eat it! You do not leave this platform and nobody leaves this hall until you
have eaten the entire cake that is sitting there in front of you! Do I make myself clear, Bogtrotter?
Do you get my meaning?"
The boy looked at the Trunchbull. Then he looked down at the enormous cake.
"Eat! Eat! Eat!" the Trunchbull was yelling.
Very slowly the boy cut himself another slice and began to eat it.
Matilda was fascinated. "Do you think he can do it?" she whispered to Lavender.
"No," Lavender whispered back. "It's impossible. He'd be sick before he was halfway through."
The boy kept going. When he had finished the second slice, he looked at the Trunchbull,
hesitating.
"Eat!" she shouted. "Greedy little thieves who like to eat cake must have cake! Eat faster boy! Eat
faster! We don't want to be here all day! And don't stop like you're doing now! Next time you stop
before it's all finished you'll go straight into The Chokey and I shall lock the door and throw the
key down the well!"
The boy cut a third slice and started to eat it. He finished this one quicker than the other two and
when that was done he immediately picked up the knife and cut the next slice. In some peculiar
way he seemed to be getting into his stride.
Matilda, watching closely, saw no signs of distress in the boy yet. If anything, he seemed to be
gathering confidence as he went along. "He's doing well," she whispered to Lavender.
"He'll be sick soon," Lavender whispered back. "It's going to be horrid."
When Bruce Bogtrotter had eaten his way through half of the entire enormous cake, he paused for
just a couple of seconds and took several deep breaths.
The Trunchbull stood with hands on hips, glaring at him. "Get on with it!" she shouted. "Eat it
up!"
Suddenly the boy let out a gigantic belch which rolled around the Assembly Hall like thunder.
Many of the audience began to giggle.
"Silence!" shouted the Trunchbull.
The boy cut himself another thick slice and started eating it fast. There were still no signs of
flagging or giving up. He certainly did not look as though he was about to stop and cry out, "I
can't, I can't eat any more! I'm going to be sick!" He was still in there running.
And now a subtle change was coming over the two hundred and fifty watching children in the
audience. Earlier on, they had sensed impending disaster. They had prepared themselves for an
unpleasant scene in which the wretched boy, stuffed to the gills with chocolate cake, would have
to surrender and beg for mercy and then they would have watched the triumphant Trunchbull
forcing more and still more cake into the mouth of the gasping boy.
Not a bit of it. Bruce Bogtrotter was three-quarters of the way through and still going strong. One
sensed that he was almost beginning to enjoy himself. He had a mountain to climb and he was
jolly well going to reach the top or die in the attempt. What is more, he had now become very
conscious of his audience and of how they were all silently rooting for him. This was nothing less
than a battle between him and the mighty Trunchbull.
Suddenly someone shouted, "Come on Brucie! You can make it!"
The Trunchbull wheeled round and yelled, "Silence!" The audience watched intently. They were
thoroughly caught up in the contest. They were longing to start cheering but they didn't dare.
"I think he's going to make it," Matilda whispered.
"I think so too," Lavender whispered back. "I wouldn't have believed anyone in the world could
eat the whole of a cake that size."
"The Trunchbull doesn't believe it either," Matilda whispered. "Look at her. She's turning redder
and redder. She's going to kill him if he wins."
The boy was slowing down now. There was no
doubt about that. But he kept pushing the stuff into his mouth with the dogged perseverance of a
long-distance runner who has sighted the finishing-line and knows he must keep going. As the
very last mouthful disappeared, a tremendous cheer rose up from the audience and children were
leaping on to their chairs and yelling and clapping and shouting, "Well done Brucie! Good for
you, Brucie! You've won a gold medal, Brucie!"
The Trunchbull stood motionless on the platform. Her great horsy face had turned the colour of
molten lava and her eyes were glittering with fury. She glared at Bruce Bogtrotter who was sitting
on his chair like some huge overstuffed grub, replete, comatose, unable to move or to speak. A fine
sweat was beading his forehead but there was a grin of triumph on his face.
Suddenly the Trunchbull lunged forward and grabbed the large empty china platter on which the
cake had rested. She raised it high in the air and brought it down with a crash right on the top of
the wretched Bruce Bogtrotter's head and pieces flew all over the platform.
The boy was by now so full of cake he was like a sackful of wet cement and you couldn't have
hurt him with a sledge-hammer. He simply shook his head a few times and went on grinning.
"Go to blazes!" screamed the Trunchbull and she marched off the platform followed closely by the
cook.
11.布鲁斯·博格特罗特和蛋糕
布鲁斯•博格特罗特和蛋糕
“她这样做怎么能脱身呢？”拉文德对玛蒂尔达说，“孩子回家一定会告诉他们的爸爸妈
妈。如果我告诉我爸爸，说校长抓住我的头发把我扔出操场铁丝网，他准会大吵大闹的。”
“不，他不会。”玛蒂尔达说，“我来告诉你为什么，他根本就不相信你的话。”
“他当然相信。”
“他不会相信。”玛蒂尔达说，“理由很明白：你说的事听上去太荒唐了，叫人没法相信。
那就是特朗奇布尔的巨大秘密。”
“这秘密是什么呢？”拉文德问道。
玛蒂尔达说：“如果你想脱身，做事就永远不能手软。要做得狠。要一不做二不休。要使
你做的每一件事彻底疯狂，没有人能够相信。没有一对父母会相信。这件辫子的事，一百万
年也没有父母会相信。我的爸爸妈妈就不会相信，他们只会说我撒谎。”
“如果这样，”拉文德说，“阿曼德的妈妈就不会把她的辫子剪掉了。”
“她不会剪，”玛蒂尔达说，“阿曼达自己会剪。你看她会不会剪？”
“你认为她是疯了吗？”拉文德问道。
“你说谁？”
“特朗奇布尔呀。”
“不，我不认为她疯了，”玛蒂尔达说，“但是她很危险。待在这所学校里就像一条眼镜蛇
待在一个笼子里，你得跑得快。”
关于校长有多危险，她们第二天又碰到了一个例子。午饭时通知全体学生，一吃完饭就
到大礼堂去坐好。
当两百五十多名男孩女孩在大礼堂里坐好以后，特朗奇布尔大踏步走上讲台，其他教师
一个也没有和她一起进来。她的右手拿着一根短马鞭。她穿着绿裤子，叉开两腿，手持短马
鞭站在台中央，看着她面前一大片抬起来的脸的海洋。
“会出什么事呢？”拉文德悄悄问道。
“不知道。”玛蒂尔达悄悄回答。
全校学生都在等待着接下来将要发生的事。
“布鲁斯•博格特罗特！”特朗奇布尔忽然咆哮道，“布鲁斯•博格特罗特在哪里？”
坐着的孩子当中有一只手举了起来。
“你上来！”特朗奇布尔叫道，“知趣点！”
一个十一岁的大块头男孩站起身子，很快地走出来，登上讲台。
“站在那里！”特朗奇布尔指点着吩咐说。那男孩站在一边，样子很紧张。他很清楚不是
上来领奖。他用异常警惕的眼光看着校长，一点一点地移动着脚步，悄悄地离她远一些，就
像一只老鼠一点一点地移动着，随时逃离从房间对面盯住它的猫一样。他那张鼓着肥肉的胖
脸已经吓得发青，长袜子落到脚踝上。“你们看到的站在你们面前的这个傻瓜，”校长用短马
鞭像斗剑时用剑那样指住他吼叫，“这个寿头，这个臭痈，这个毒脓包，他是一个地道的可恶
罪犯，一个黑社会分子，一个黑手党！”
“你说谁，我吗？”布鲁斯•博格特罗特说。看他那副样子，他真是傻了。
“一个贼！”特朗奇布尔尖叫道，“一个恶棍！一个海盗！一个土匪！一个偷鸡摸狗的！”
“等一等，”男孩说，“我是说，真该死，不是那么回事，校长。”
“你还否认，你这个倒霉的小脓包？你还不认罪？”
“我不明白你在说什么。”男孩说，更觉得莫名其妙了。
“我来告诉你我在说什么，你这个在长脓的小脓包！”特朗奇布尔叫道，“昨天上午课间休
息时，你像条毒蛇那样溜进厨房，从我的碟子里偷了一片巧克力蛋糕！这碟蛋糕是厨师特地
为我做的！这是我上午的点心，这蛋糕是给我吃的！不是给孩子吃的，你总不会以为我会吃
你们吃的那些脏东西吧？那蛋糕是用真正的牛油和真正的奶油做的！而这个站在那边、长袜
子落到脚踝上的强盗，这个撬保险箱的，这个拦路抢劫的竟然偷吃了它！”
“我没有。”男孩叫道，脸色从青变白。
“不要对我抵赖，博格特罗特！”特朗奇布尔哇哇大叫，“厨师看见了你偷，而且看见了你
吃！”
特朗奇布尔停了一下，抹去嘴角上的白沫。
等到再开口，她的口气突然变轻，变温和，变友好了，她微笑着向男孩俯下身来，“你喜
欢我的特制巧克力蛋糕，对吗，博格特罗特？它味道好极了，对不对，博格特罗特？”
“是非常好。”男孩咕哝着说。他来不及刹车，话已经脱口而出了。
“你说得对，”特朗奇布尔说，“是非常好，因此我想你该感谢厨师。一位绅士吃到一顿特
别好的美餐，博格特罗特，总是向大师傅致谢的。你不知道这件事吗，博格特罗特？过惯犯
罪生活的黑社会的人是不注意礼仪的。”
男孩保持沉默。
“厨师！”特朗奇布尔向门口转过脸去叫道，“到这里来，厨师！博格特罗特想要告诉你，
你做的巧克力蛋糕太好吃了！”
厨师，一个高高的干瘪女人，好像全身的汁水在一个热烤箱里早都烤干了似的，围着一
条肮脏的白围裙，走到讲台上。她的出场显然是校长事先安排好的。
“好，博格特罗特，”特朗奇布尔又吼叫起来，“告诉厨师吧，你觉得她做的巧克力蛋糕怎
么样。”
“非常好。”男孩咕哝着说。看得出他这时候正在开始考虑，这件事将会有什么结果。他
心中有数的只有一件事，法律禁止特朗奇布尔用她正吧嗒吧嗒敲着她的大腿的短马鞭来打
他。想到这一点多少是个安慰，但也没有什么用处，因为特朗奇布尔这个人是完全无法预料
的，谁也不知道她接下来会做出什么事。
“瞧，厨师，”特朗奇布尔叫道，“博格特罗尔喜欢你做的蛋糕，他爱吃你做的蛋糕，你还
有蛋糕可以给他吃吗？”
“当然有。”厨师说。她好像把她的台词都背熟了。
“那么去拿来吧，顺便再带把刀来切蛋糕。”
厨师出去了，几乎是转眼间便回来了，用大瓷盘端着一个巨型圆蛋糕，蛋糕太重，她走
起路来踉踉跄跄。这蛋糕直径足有十八英寸，上面罩着一层深褐色的巧克力。“把它放在桌子
上。”特朗奇布尔说。
台中央有一张小桌子，桌子后面有一把椅子。厨师把蛋糕小心地放在桌上。“坐下，博格
特罗特，”特朗奇布尔说，“坐在那里。”
男孩小心地走到桌旁，坐了下来。他看着那个巨型蛋糕。
“蛋糕来了，博格特罗特。”特朗奇布尔说，她的声音又一次变得柔和了，带有劝导性
的，甚至很客气，“全是给你吃的。既然昨天那一片你那么爱吃，我吩咐厨师专门给你烤了一
个特大的。”
“谢谢你。”男孩说，他完全被闹糊涂了。
“该谢的是厨师，不是我。”特朗奇布尔说。
“谢谢你，厨师。”男孩说。
厨师站在那里像根干瘪的鞋带，抿紧嘴唇，绷起了脸，一副难受的样子。她看上去像含
了一嘴柠檬汁。
“那么吃吧。”特朗奇布尔说，“为什么你不切一块尝尝啊？”
“什么？现在吗？”男孩小心地说。他感觉到在什么地方有个圈套等着他钻，但是说不准
在什么地方。“我不能把它拿回家去吃吗？”他问道。
“那就没有礼貌了。”特朗奇布尔装着笑脸说，“你必须在这里让厨师看到，为了她的辛
劳，你是多么感谢她。”
男孩没有动。
“吃啊，动手吧，”特朗奇布尔说，“切一片尝尝。我们可不能等上一天。”
男孩拿起刀，正要切下去，却又停下来。他看看蛋糕，又抬起头来看看特朗奇布尔，再
看看口含柠檬汁似的瘦长厨师。礼堂里所有的孩子紧张地看着，等着什么事情发生。他们断
定准要发生事情。特朗奇布尔不是这种人，会只是出于好意给人吃一整个巧克力蛋糕。许多
人在猜想，蛋糕里或者是放满了胡椒，或者是放上了蓖麻油，或者是放上了什么难吃的东
西，让男孩吃了会生一场大病。甚至可能放上了砒霜，让他吃下去十秒钟就一命呜呼。也可
能放有炸弹，用刀一切就爆炸，把布鲁斯•博格特罗特炸飞。学校里没有人怀疑特朗奇布尔不
会做出这一类事情。
“我不想吃。”男孩说。
“吃吧，你这小家伙，”特朗奇布尔说，“你会得罪厨师的。”
男孩只好战战兢兢地动手在大蛋糕上切下薄薄的一片。接着他把这片蛋糕撬开，放下
刀，用两个手指拿起这片黏糊糊的东西，开始慢慢地吃起来。
“很好吃，对吗？”特朗奇布尔问道。
“非常好吃。”男孩一面说，一面又是嚼又是咽。他把一片蛋糕吃完了。
“再吃一片。”特朗奇布尔说。
“够了，谢谢你。”男孩咕哝道。
“我说再吃一片。”特朗奇布尔说，这一回她的声音更尖厉了，“再吃一片！照我说的
做！”
“我不要再吃了。”男孩说。
特朗奇布尔忽然大发脾气。“吃！”她用短马鞭敲敲她的大腿，大叫着说，“我叫你吃你就
吃！你不是要吃蛋糕吗？你还偷蛋糕吃！现在你有蛋糕吃了！你得吃掉它！不把你面前这整
个蛋糕吃光你不能离开讲台，礼堂里的人也不能离开礼堂！我的话听清楚了没有，博格特罗
特？你听明白我的意思了吗？”
男孩看看特朗奇布尔，接着低头看看那巨型蛋糕。
“吃啊！吃啊！吃啊！”特朗奇布尔已经在声嘶力竭地大叫。
男孩慢腾腾地又给自己切了一片，开始吃起来。
玛蒂尔达吓呆了。“你想他能把这蛋糕吃光吗？”她悄悄地对拉文德说。
“吃不光，”拉文德悄悄地回答，“不可能吃光的。吃不到一半他就要呕吐了。”
男孩继续吃。吃完第二片，他看着特朗奇布尔，犹豫不决。
“吃！”她叫道，“喜欢吃蛋糕的馋嘴小偷必须吃蛋糕！吃得快点吧，小家伙！吃快点！我
们不想在这里待一整天！不要像现在那个样子停下来！再下来，你如果没有吃光就停口，你
将直接进‘监房’，然后我锁上‘监房’门，把钥匙扔到井下面去！”
男孩切下第三片开始吃。这一片他吃得比上两片快，一吃完就立刻拿起刀来切接下来的
一片。他似乎用一种特殊的方式在进行他吃的差使。
玛蒂尔达仔细看着，还看不出男孩有什么难受的表现。如果说有表现，那就是他越吃越
有信心。“他进行得不错。”她悄悄地对拉文德说。
“他很快就要呕吐了。”拉文德悄悄地回答，“事情将变得可怕极了。”
当布鲁斯•博格特罗特用他的方式吃掉整个巨型蛋糕的一半时，他只停了两秒钟深深吸了
几口气。
特朗奇布尔用双手捂住屁股站在那里，盯住他看。“继续吃！”她叫道，“把它都吃了！”
忽然男孩发出一声巨大的打嗝声，它像响雷一样滚过大礼堂。许多观众咯咯笑起来。
“肃静！”特朗奇布尔叫道。
男孩又给自己切了厚厚的一片，开始很快地吃起来。他还是没有败北或者投降的表示，
实在看不出他要停下来叫道：“我吃不下了，我再也吃不下了！我要吐了！”不，他闷着头在
一个劲儿吃下去。
现在二百五十多名小观众开始有一种微妙的变化。原先他们觉得大难马上临头，已经准
备着看一个悲惨的场面：不幸的男孩被巧克力蛋糕堵在喉咙口，最后只好投降，请求开恩，
接着他们还得眼巴巴地看着得胜的特朗奇布尔硬把更多的、还要多的蛋糕往直喘气的男孩的
嘴里塞。
然而根本不是这么一回事。布鲁斯•博格特罗特已经把大蛋糕吃掉四分之三了，而且还在
奋勇地吃下去。可以感觉到，他几乎这时候才开始自得其乐。他在攀登一座高山，很顺利地
在向山顶冲刺，即使死也要试一试爬到山顶。还有，他现在开始注意到下面的观众，注意到
他们默默地在支持他。这不亚于一场他和强大有力的特朗奇布尔之间的战斗。
忽然有人叫起来：“加油，好样的布鲁斯！你能吃完的！”
特朗奇布尔团团转着大叫：“肃静！”观众紧张地看着。他们完全被这场比赛迷住了。他
们渴望着喝彩，但是不敢。
“我想他就要成功了。”玛蒂尔达悄悄地说。
“我也这么想。”拉文德悄悄地回答，“我本不相信世界上有人能吃掉这么大的一整个蛋
糕。”
“特朗奇布尔也不相信。”玛蒂尔达悄悄地说，“你瞧她，她的脸越来越红，越来越红了。
如果布鲁斯赢了，她要杀死他的。”
男孩现在慢下来了。但是他继续把蛋糕往嘴里塞，就像一个看到了终点线并朝那里奔跑
的长跑运动员那样，用顽强的耐力在吃。等到最后一口吃下去，观众欢声雷动，孩子们跳上
他们的椅子欢呼拍手，大喊大叫：“干得好，布鲁斯！祝贺你，布鲁斯！你赢得金牌了，布鲁
斯！”
特朗奇布尔站在讲台上一动不动。她那张大马脸正在变成岩浆的颜色，眼睛里闪着怒
火。她看着布鲁斯•博格特罗特，他正坐在他的椅子上像条吃得过饱的幼虫，胀鼓鼓、懒洋洋
的，不能动也不能说话，满头汗珠，但脸上露出胜利的微笑。
特朗奇布尔忽然冲向前，一把抓住曾经放过那巨型蛋糕的空瓷盘，把它高高举起，“咣
当”一声打在倒霉的布鲁斯•博格特罗特的头顶上，瓷盘的碎片飞得满讲台都是。
不过男孩如今塞满蛋糕，像一大袋湿水泥，双手抡起长柄大铁锤打下去也伤不了他。他
只是摇了几下头，继续傻笑。
“该死！”特朗奇布尔尖叫一声，大踏步走下讲台，后面紧紧地跟着那个厨师。
12.Lavender
Lavender
In the middle of the first week of Matilda's first term, Miss Honey said to the class, "I have some
important news for you, so listen carefully. You too, Matilda. Put that book down for a moment
and pay attention."
Small eager faces looked up and listened.
"It is the Headmistress's custom", Miss Honey went on, "to take over the class for one period each
week. She does this with every class in the school and each class has a fixed day and a fixed time.
Ours is always two o'clock on Thursday afternoons, immediately after lunch. So tomorrow at two
o'clock Miss Trunchbull will be taking over from me for one lesson. I shall be here as well, of
course, but only as a silent witness. Is that understood?"
"Yes, Miss Honey," they chirruped.
"A word of warning to you all," Miss Honey said. "The Headmistress is very strict about
everything. Make sure your clothes are clean, your faces are clean and your hands are clean. Speak
only when spoken to. When she asks you a question, stand up at once before you answer it. Never
argue with her. Never answer back. Never try to be funny. If you do, you will make her angry, and
when the Headmistress gets angry you had better watch out."
"You can say that again," Lavender murmured.
"I am quite sure", Miss Honey said, "that she will be testing you on what you are meant to have
learnt this week, which is your two-times table. So I strongly advise you to swot it up when you
get home tonight. Get your mother or father to hear you on it."
"What else will she test us on?" someone asked.
"Spelling," Miss Honey said. "Try to remember everything you have learned these last few days.
And one more thing. A jug of water and a glass must always be on the table here when the
Headmistress comes in. She never takes a lesson without that. Now who will be responsible for
seeing that it's there?"
"I will,"Lavender said at once.
"Very well, Lavender," Miss Honey said. "It will be your job to go to the kitchen and get the jug
and fill it with water and put it on the table here with a clean empty glass just before the lesson
starts."
"What if the jug's not in the kitchen?" Lavender asked.
"There are a dozen Headmistress's jugs and glasses in the kitchen," Miss Honey said. "They are
used all over the school."
"I won't forget," Lavender said. "I promise I won't."
Already Lavender's scheming mind was going over the possibilities that this water-jug job had
opened up for her. She longed to do something truly heroic. She admired the older girl Hortensia
to distraction for the daring deeds she had performed in the school. She also admired Matilda who
had sworn her to secrecy about the parrot job she had brought off at home, and also the great hair-
oil switch which had bleached her father's hair. It was her turn now to become a heroine if only
she could come up with a brilliant plot.
On the way home from school that afternoon she began to mull over the various possibilities, and
when at last the germ of a brilliant idea hit her, she began to expand on it and lay her plans with
the same kind of care the Duke of Wellington had done before the Battle of Waterloo. Admittedly
the enemy on this occasion was not Napoleon. But you would never have got anyone at Crunchem
Hall to admit that the Headmistress was a less formidable foe than the famous Frenchman. Great
skill would have to be exercised, Lavender told herself, and great secrecy observed if she was to
come out of this exploit alive.
There was a muddy pond at the bottom of Lavender's garden and this was the home of a colony of
newts. The newt, although fairly common in English ponds, is not often seen by ordinary people
because it is a shy and murky creature. It is an incredibly ugly gruesome-looking animal, rather
like a baby crocodile but with a shorter head. It is quite harmless but doesn't look it. It is about six
inches long and very slimy, with a greenish-grey skin on top and an orange-coloured belly
underneath. It is, in fact, an amphibian, which can live in or out of water.
That evening Lavender went to the bottom of the garden determined to catch a newt. They are
swiftly-moving animals and not easy to get hold of. She lay on the bank for a long time waiting
patiently until she spotted a whopper. Then, using her school hat as a net, she swooped and caught
it. She had lined her pencil-box with pond-weed ready to receive the creature, but she discovered
that it
was not easy to get the newt out of the hat and into the pencil-box. It wriggled and squirmed like
quicksilver and, apart from that, the box was only just long enough to take it. When she did get it
in at last, she had to be careful not to trap its tail in the lid when she slid it closed. A boy next door
called Rupert Entwistle had told her that if you chopped off a newt's tail, the tail stayed alive and
grew into another newt ten times bigger than the first one. It could be the size of an alligator.
Lavender didn't quite believe that, but she was not prepared to risk it happening.
Eventually she managed to slide the lid of the pencil-box right home and the newt was hers. Then,
on second thoughts, she opened the lid just the tiniest fraction so that the creature could breathe.
The next day she carried her secret weapon to school in her satchel. She was tingling with
excitement. She was longing to tell Matilda about her plan of battle. In fact, she wanted to tell the
whole class. But she finally decided to tell nobody. It was better that way because then no one,
even when put under the most severe torture, would be able to name her as the culprit.
Lunchtime came. Today it was sausages and baked beans, Lavender's favourite, but she couldn't
eat it.
"Are you feeling all right, Lavender?" Miss Honey asked from the head of the table.
"I had such a huge breakfast", Lavender said, "I really couldn't eat a thing."
Immediately after lunch, she dashed off to the kitchen and found one of the Trunchbull's famous
jugs. It was a large bulging thing made of blue-glazed pottery. Lavender filled it half-full of water
and carried it, together with a glass, into the classroom and set it on the teacher's table. The
classroom was still empty. Quick as a flash, Lavender got her pencil-box from her satchel and slid
open the lid just a tiny bit. The newt was lying quite still. With great care, she held the box over
the neck of the jug and pulled the lid fully open and tipped the newt in. There was a plop as it
landed in the water, then it thrashed around wildly for a few seconds before settling down. And
now, to make the newt feel more at home, Lavender decided to give it all the pond-weed from the
pencil-box as well.
The deed was done. All was ready. Lavender put her
pencils back into the rather damp pencil-box and returned it to its correct place on her own desk.
Then she went out and joined the others in the playground until it was time for the lesson to begin.
12.拉文德
拉文德
玛蒂尔达第一学期的第一星期上到一半的时候，亨尼小姐对全班说：“我有一个重要消息
要告诉你们，你们仔细听好了。你也听着，玛蒂尔达，把你那本书放下一会儿，好好听我
说。”
一张张渴望的小脸抬了起来。
“校长有一个规矩，”亨尼小姐说下去，“每星期到每个班一次，她一个个班轮流去，每个
班有规定日子和规定时间，到我们班来总是在每星期四的下午两点，也就是午饭时间一过就
来。因此明天下午两点，特朗奇布尔小姐要到这班里来代我上一堂课，我当然也在场，不过
只当一个不开口的旁听者。你们听明白了吗？”
“听明白了，亨尼小姐。”大家异口同声回答道。
“先嘱咐你们一声，”亨尼小姐说，“校长对每一件事情都是非常严格的。你们的衣服一定
要清洁；她对你说话你才能开口；她问你问题要马上站起来，然后再回答；绝对不要和她争
论；永远不要回嘴，绝对不要嬉皮笑脸，否则她会生气。校长一生气，你最好小心点。”
“那是你说的。”拉文德咕哝了一声。
“我断定，”亨尼小姐说，“她将问你们这个星期学的东西，那就是二的乘法表。因此我特
别奉劝你们，今晚回家要把它背得滚瓜烂熟，还要请你们的妈妈或者爸爸先听你们背一遍。”
“她还会考我们什么呢？”有人问道。
“拼字。”亨尼小姐说，“努力记住这几天我教的每一个字。还有一件事，校长进来的时
候，这桌子上永远得有一壶水和一个玻璃杯，她上课离不开水。现在谁来负责把这些东西放
在这里？”
“我负责。”拉文德马上说。
“很好，拉文德。”亨尼小姐说，“你到厨房去拿水壶来，装满水，在上课前放在这桌子
上，再放上一个干净的空玻璃杯。”
“万一那水壶不在厨房呢？”拉文德问道。
“厨房里有很多校长的水壶和玻璃杯，”亨尼小姐说，“全校各班都要用。”
“我不会忘记的，”拉文德说，“我保证不会忘记。”
拉文德那诡计多端的脑袋里已经在盘算着这水壶任务给她创造的种种机会。她渴望做一
件真正英雄的事。她疯狂地崇拜那个大女孩霍顿霞，因为她在学校里做出了那些大胆的事；
她也崇拜玛蒂尔达，因为她在家里干了藏鹦鹉和用染发水染了她爸爸头发的大事，是玛蒂尔
达要她发誓保密才告诉她的。只要她想出一个妙计，现在该轮到她成为一个英雄了。
那天下午她回家，一路上思索着各种办法，最后灵机一动，想出了一个绝妙的主意，然
后继续周密地考虑，用威灵顿公爵 [1] 在滑铁卢战役前那种小心谨慎的态度落实她的计划。自
然，在这件事情上敌人不是拿破仑。但是在克伦彻姆学堂里，你是找不到一个人会认为校长
这个敌人在可恨程度上比不上那个著名法国佬的。拉文德告诉自己，如果想完成这个丰功伟
绩而又能死里逃生，就必须练习熟练的技巧，而且必须极端保密。
拉文德家花园的头上有一个泥塘，里面有许多蝾螈。蝾螈在英国各地池塘里虽然十分普
通，但是普通人不大见到，因为这种动物胆小又爱阴暗。它难看得叫人不敢相信，看上去黏
糊糊的，样子有点像小鳄鱼，但是头更短。它完全无害，只是看着不像是这样。它约六英寸
长，很细，背部是灰绿色，下面腹部是橘黄色。事实上它是一种两栖动物，在水里和岸上都
能生活。
那天傍晚，拉文德来到她家的花园尽头，决定要捉到一条蝾螈。它们游得很快，不好
捉。她在岸边趴了很久，耐心地等待，最后才看到了一条。接着她用学校制帽做网兜去捞，
终于把它捉住了。她已经预先在铅笔盒里铺好水草准备接待这位客人，但她发现把蝾螈从帽
子里拿出来放进铅笔盒很不容易。它像水银那样蹿来蹿去，再加上盒子的长度刚刚容得下
它。最后拉文德总算把它装了进去。拉上盒盖时，她小心翼翼地不夹住它的尾巴。邻居一个
叫鲁珀特•恩特威斯尔的男孩告诉过她，万一蝾螈的尾巴断了，断掉的尾巴仍旧会生长，又变
成一条蝾螈，比原来那条要大十倍，那就和一条鳄鱼差不多大了。拉文德不太相信他的话，
但也不打算冒这个险，以免这种事万一真的发生。
最后她总算把铅笔盒盖完全拉上，蝾螈是她的了。接着再一想，她又把盒盖拉开一点，
好让蝾螈能够呼吸。
第二天，她把这秘密武器放在书包里带到了学校。她兴奋得发抖，急于要把她的作战计
划告诉玛蒂尔达。事实上她真想告诉全班同学，但是她终于决定对谁也不说，还是不说好，
这样即使受到最严重的磨难，也没有人能告发是她做的。
午饭时间到了。今天吃拉文德最爱吃的香肠和黄豆，但是她吃不下去。
“你没事吧，拉文德？”亨尼小姐从桌子头上问她。
“我早饭吃得太饱了，”拉文德说，“我实在什么也吃不下去。”
一吃完午饭，她马上奔进厨房，找到特朗奇布尔那些出名的水壶中的一个。这是一个很
大的蓝色大肚瓷壶。拉文德装上半壶水，和一只玻璃杯一起拿进教室，放在老师的桌子上。
教室里还没有人。拉文德快得像闪电一样，从书包里拿出铅笔盒，把盒盖拉开一点儿，蝾螈
一动不动地躺在里面。拉文德小心地把盒子举在壶口上，把盖子完全拉开，将蝾螈斜倒进
去。它“扑通”一声落到了水里，接着疯狂地翻腾了几秒钟，就安定下来了。为了使蝾螈感到
是在自己家里，拉文德决定把铅笔盒里所有的水草也倒进去。
事情办完了，全妥了。拉文德把铅笔放回潮湿的铅笔盒里，把铅笔盒放回自己课桌上的
规定地方。接着她出去到操场上和同学们一起玩，直到上课铃响。
[1]威灵顿公爵（1769-1852），英国著名军事家，1815年6月18日在滑铁卢打败了法国拿
破仑的军队。
13.The Weekly Test
The Weekly Test
At two o'clock sharp the class assembled, including Miss Honey who noted that the jug of water
and the glass were in the proper place. Then she took up a position standing right at the back.
Everyone waited. Suddenly in marched the gigantic figure of the Headmistress in her belted smock
and green breeches.
"Good afternoon, children," she barked.
"Good afternoon, Miss Trunchbull," they chirruped.
The Headmistress stood before the class, legs apart, hands on hips, glaring at the small boys and
girls who sat nervously at their desks in front of her.
"Not a very pretty sight," she said. Her expression was one of utter distaste, as though she were
looking at something a dog had done in the middle of the floor. "What a bunch of nauseating little
warts you are."
Everyone had the sense to stay silent.
"It makes me vomit", she went on, "to think that I am going to have to put up with a load of
garbage like you in my school for the next six years. I can see that I'm going to have to expel as
many of you as possible as soon as possible to save myself from going round the bend." She
paused and snorted several times. It was a curious noise. You can hear the same sort of thing if
you walk through a riding-stable when the horses are being fed. "I suppose", she went on, "your
mothers and fathers tell you you're wonderful. Well, I am here to tell you the opposite, and you'd
better believe me. Stand up everybody!"
They all got quickly to their feet.
"Now put your hands out in front of you. And as I walk past I want you to turn them over so I can
see if they are clean on both sides."
The Trunchbull began a slow march along the rows of desks inspecting the hands. All went well
until she came to a small boy in the second row. "What's your name?" she barked.
"Nigel," the boy said.
"Nigel what?"
"Nigel Hicks," the boy said.
"Nigel Hicks what?" the Trunchbull bellowed. She bellowed so loud she nearly blew the little
chap out of the window.
"That's it," Nigel said. "Unless you want my middle names as well." He was a brave little fellow
and one could see that he was trying not to be scared by the Gorgon who towered above him.
"I do not want your middle names, you blister!" the Gorgon bellowed. "What is my name?"
"Miss Trunchbull," Nigel said.
"Then use it when you address me! Now then, let's try again. What is your name?"
"Nigel Hicks, Miss Trunchbull," Nigel said.
"That's better," the Trunchbull said. "Your
hands are filthy, Nigel! When did you last wash them?"
"Well, let me think," Nigel said. "That's rather difficult to remember exactly. It could have been
yesterday or it could have been the day before."
The Trunchbull's whole body and face seemed to swell up as though she were being inflated by a
bicycle-pump.
"I knew it!" she bellowed. "I knew as soon as I saw you that you were nothing but a piece of filth!
What is your father's job, a sewage-worker?"
"He's a doctor," Nigel said. "And a jolly good one. He says we're all so covered with bugs anyway
that a bit of extra dirt never hurts anyone."
"I'm glad he's not my doctor," the Trunchbull said. "And why, might I ask, is there a baked bean
on the front of your shirt?"
"We had them for lunch, Miss Trunchbull."
"And do you usually put your lunch on the front of your shirt, Nigel? Is that what this famous
doctor father of yours has taught you to do?"
"Baked beans are hard to eat, Miss Trunchbull. They keep falling off my fork."
"You are disgusting!" the Trunchbull bellowed. "You are a walking germ-factory! I don't wish to
see any more of you today! Go and stand in the corner on one leg with your face to the wall!"
"But Miss Trunchbull . . ."
"Don't argue with me, boy, or I'll make you stand on your head! Now do as you're told!"
Nigel went.
"Now stay where you are, boy, while I test you on your spelling to see if you've learnt anything at
all this past week. And don't turn round when you talk to me. Keep your nasty little face to the
wall. Now then, spell 'write'."
"Which one?" Nigel asked. "The thing you do
with a pen or the one that means the opposite of wrong?" He happened to be an unusually bright
child and his mother had worked hard with him at home on spelling and reading.
"The one with the pen, you little fool."
Nigel spelled it correctly which surprised the Trunchbull. She thought she had given him a very
tricky word, one that he wouldn't yet have learned, and she was peeved that he had succeeded.
Then Nigel said, still balancing on one leg and facing the wall, "Miss Honey taught us how to
spell a new very long word yesterday."
"And what word was that?" the Trunchbull asked softly. The softer her voice became, the greater
the danger, but Nigel wasn't to know this.
" 'Difficulty'," Nigel said. "Everyone in the class can spell 'difficulty' now."
"What nonsense," the Trunchbull said. "You are not supposed to learn long words like that until
you are at least eight or nine. And don't try to tell me everybody in the class can spell that word.
You are lying to me, Nigel."
"Test someone," Nigel said, taking an awful chance. "Test anyone you like."
The Trunchbull's dangerous glittering eyes roved around the class-room. "You," she said, pointing
at a tiny and rather daft little girl called Prudence, "Spell 'difficulty'."
Amazingly, Prudence spelled it correctly and without a moment's hesitation.
The Trunchbull was properly taken aback. "Humph!" she snorted. "And I suppose Miss Honey
wasted the whole of one lesson teaching you to spell that one single word?"
"Oh no, she didn't," piped Nigel. "Miss Honey taught it to us in three minutes so we'll never forget
it. She teaches us lots of words in three minutes."
"And what exactly is this magic method, Miss Honey?" asked the Headmistress.
"I'll show you," piped up the brave Nigel again, coming to Miss Honey's rescue. "Can I put my
other foot down and turn round, please, while I show you?"
"You may do neither!" snapped the Trunchbull. "Stay as you are and show me just the same!"
"All right," said Nigel, wobbling crazily on his one leg. "Miss Honey gives us a little song about
each word and we all sing it together and we learn to spell it in no time. Would you like to hear the
song about 'difficulty'?"
"I should be fascinated," the Trunchbull said in a voice dripping with sarcasm.
"Here it is," Nigel said.
"Mrs D, Mrs I, Mrs FFI
Mrs C, Mrs U, Mrs LTY.
That spells difficulty."
"How perfectly ridiculous!" snorted the Trunchbull. "Why are all these women married? And
anyway you're not meant to teach poetry when you're teaching spelling. Cut it out in future, Miss
Honey."
"But it does teach them some of the harder words wonderfully well," Miss Honey murmured.
"Don't argue with me, Miss Honey!" the Headmistress thundered. "Just do as you're told! I shall
now test the class on the multiplication tables to see if Miss Honey has taught you anything at all
in that direction." The Trunchbull had returned to her place in front of the class, and her diabolical
gaze was moving slowly along the rows of tiny pupils. "You!" she barked, pointing at a small boy
called Rupert in the front row. "What is two sevens?"
"Sixteen," Rupert answered with foolish abandon.
The Trunchbull started advancing slow and soft-footed upon Rupert in the manner of a tigress
stalking a small deer. Rupert suddenly became aware of the danger signals and quickly tried again.
"It's eighteen!" he cried. "Two sevens are eighteen, not sixteen!"
"You ignorant little slug!" the Trunchbull bellowed. "You witless weed! You empty-headed
hamster! You stupid glob of glue!" She had now stationed herself directly behind Rupert, and
suddenly she extended a hand the size of a tennis racquet and grabbed all the hair on Rupert's head
in her fist. Rupert had a lot of golden-coloured hair. His mother thought it was beautiful to behold
and took a delight in allowing it to grow extra long. The Trunchbull had as great a dislike for long
hair on boys as she had for plaits and pigtails on girls and she was about to show it. She took a
firm grip on Rupert's long golden tresses with her giant hand and then, by raising her muscular
right arm, she lifted the helpless boy clean out of his chair and held him aloft.
Rupert yelled. He twisted and squirmed and kicked the air and went on yelling like a stuck pig,
and Miss Trunchbull bellowed, "Two sevens are fourteen! Two sevens are fourteen! I am not
letting you go till you say it!"
From the back of the class, Miss Honey cried out, "Miss Trunchbull! Please let him down! You're
hurting him! All his hair might come out!"
"And well it might if he doesn't stop wriggling!" snorted the Trunchbull. "Keep still, you
squirming worm!"
It really was a quite extraordinary sight to see this giant Headmistress dangling the small boy high
in the air and the boy spinning and twisting like something on the end of a string and shrieking his
head off.
"Say it!" bellowed the Trunchbull. "Say two sevens are fourteen! Hurry up or I'll start jerking you
up and down and then your hair really will come out and we'll have enough of it to stuff a sofa!
Get on with it boy! Say two sevens are fourteen and I'll let you go!"
"T-t-two s-sevens are f-f-fourteen," gasped Rupert, whereupon the Trunchbull, true to her word,
opened her hand and quite literally let him go. He was a long way off the ground when she
released him and he plummeted to earth and hit the floor and bounced like a football.
"Get up and stop whimpering," the Trunchbull barked.
Rupert got up and went back to his desk massaging his scalp with both hands. The Trunchbull
returned to the front of the class. The children sat there hypnotised. None of them had seen
anything quite like this before. It was splendid entertainment. It was better than a pantomime, but
with one big difference. In this room there was an enormous human bomb in front of them which
was liable to explode and blow someone to bits any moment. The children's eyes were riveted on
the Headmistress. "I don't like small people," she was saying. "Small people should never be seen
by anybody. They should be kept out of sight in boxes like hairpins and buttons. I cannot for the
life of me see why children have to take so long to grow up. I think they do it on purpose."
Another extremely brave little boy in the front row spoke up and said, "But surely you were a
small person once, Miss Trunchbull, weren't you?"
"I was never a small person," she snapped. "I have been large all my life and I don't see why
others can't be the same way."
"But you must have started out as a baby," the boy said.
"Me! A baby!" shouted the Trunchbull. "How dare you suggest such a thing! What cheek! What
infernal insolence! What's your name, boy? And stand up when you speak to me!"
The boy stood up. "My name is Eric Ink, Miss Trunchbull," he said.
"Eric what?" the Trunchbull shouted.
"Ink," the boy said.
"Don't be an ass, boy! There's no such name!"
"Look in the phone book," Eric said. "You'll see my father there under Ink."
"Very well, then," the Trunchbull said, "You may be Ink, young man, but let me tell you
something. You're not indelible. I'll very soon rub you out if you try getting clever with me. Spell
what."
"I don't understand," Eric said. "What do you want me to spell?"
"Spell what, you idiot! Spell the word 'what'!"
"W . . . O . . . T," Eric said, answering too quickly.
There was a nasty silence.
"I'll give you one more chance," the Trunchbull said, not moving.
"Ah yes, I know," Eric said. "It's got an H in it. W . . . H . . . O . . . T. It's easy."
In two large strides the Trunchbull was behind Eric's desk, and there she stood, a pillar of doom
towering over the helpless boy. Eric glanced fearfully back over his shoulder at the monster. "I
was right, wasn't I?" he murmured nervously.
"You were wrong!" the Trunchbull barked. "In fact you strike me as the sort of poisonous little
pockmark that will always be wrong! You sit wrong! You look wrong! You speak wrong! You are
wrong all round! I will give you one more chance to be right! Spell 'what'!"
Eric hesitated. Then he said very slowly, "It's not W . . . O . . . T, and it's not W . . . H . . . O . . . T.
Ah, I know. It must be W . . . H . . . O . . . T . . . T."
Standing behind Eric, the Trunchbull reached out and took hold of the boy's two ears, one with
each hand, pinching them between forefinger and thumb.
"Ow!" Eric cried. "Ow! You're hurting me!"
"I haven't started yet," the Trunchbull said briskly. And now, taking a firm grip on his two ears,
she lifted him bodily out of his seat and held him aloft.
Like Rupert before him, Eric squealed the house down.
From the back of the class-room Miss Honey cried out, "Miss Trunchbull! Don't! Please let him
go! His ears might come off!"
"They'll never come off," the Trunchbull
shouted back. "I have discovered through long experience, Miss Honey, that the ears of small boys
are stuck very firmly to their heads."
"Let him go, Miss Trunchbull, please," begged Miss Honey. "You could damage him, you really
could! You could wrench them right off!"
"Ears never come off!" the Trunchbull shouted. "They stretch most marvellously, like these are
doing now, but I can assure you they never come off!"
Eric was squealing louder than ever and pedalling the air with his legs.
Matilda had never before seen a boy, or anyone else for that matter, held aloft by his ears alone.
Like Miss Honey, she felt sure both ears were going to come off at any moment with all the weight
that was on them.
The Trunchbull was shouting, "The word 'what' is spelled W . . . H . . . A . . . T. Now spell it, you
little wart!"
Eric didn't hesitate. He had learned from watching Rupert a few minutes before that the quicker
you answered the quicker you were released. "W . . . H . . . A . . . T", he squealed, "spells what!"
Still holding him by the ears, the Trunchbull lowered him back into his chair behind his desk.
Then she marched back to the front of the class, dusting off her hands one against the other like
someone who has been handling something rather grimy.
"That's the way to make them learn, Miss Honey," she said. "You take it from me, it's no good just
telling them. You've got to hammer it into them. There's nothing like a little twisting and twiddling
to encourage them to remember things. It concentrates their minds wonderfully."
"You could do them permanent damage, Miss Trunchbull," Miss Honey cried out.
"Oh, I have, I'm quite sure I have," the Trunchbull answered, grinning. "Eric's ears will have
stretched quite considerably in the last couple of minutes! They'll be much longer now than they
were before. There's nothing wrong with that, Miss Honey. It'll give him an interesting pixie look
for the rest of his life."
"But Miss Trunchbull . . ."
"Oh, do shut up, Miss Honey! You're as wet as any of them. If you can't cope in here then you can
go and find a job in some cotton-wool private school for rich brats. When you have been teaching
for as long as I have you'll realise that it's no good at all being kind to children. Read Nicholas
Nickleby, Miss Honey, by Mr Dickens. Read about Mr Wackford Squeers, the admirable
headmaster of Dotheboys Hall. He knew how to handle the little brutes, didn't he! He knew how to
use the birch, didn't he! He kept their backsides so warm you could have fried eggs and bacon on
them! A fine book, that. But I don't suppose this bunch of morons we've got here will ever read it
because by the look of them they are never going to learn to read any thing!"
"I've read it," Matilda said quietly.
The Trunchbull flicked her head round and looked carefully at the small girl with dark hair and
deep brown eyes sitting in the second row. "What did you say?" she asked sharply.
"I said I've read it, Miss Trunchbull."
"Read what?"
"Nicholas Nickleby, Miss Trunchbull."
"You are lying to me, madam!" the Trunchbull shouted, glaring at Matilda. "I doubt there is a
single child in the entire school who has read that book, and here you are, an unhatched shrimp
sitting in the lowest form there is, trying to tell me a whopping great lie like that! Why do you do
it? You must take me for a fool! Do you take me for a fool, child?"
"Well . . ." Matilda said, then she hesitated. She would like to have said, "Yes, I jolly well do," but
that would have been suicide. "Well . . ." she said
again, still hesitating, still refusing to say "No".
The Trunchbull sensed what the child was thinking and she didn't like it. "Stand up when you
speak to me!" she snapped. "What is your name?"
Matilda stood up and said, "My name is Matilda Wormwood, Miss Trunchbull."
"Wormwood, is it?" the Trunchbull said. "In that case you must be the daughter of that man who
owns Wormwood Motors?"
"Yes, Miss Trunchbull."
"He's a crook!" the Trunchbull shouted. "A week ago he sold me a second-hand car that he said
was almost new. I thought he was a splendid fellow then. But this morning, while I was driving
that car through the village, the entire engine fell out on to the road! The whole thing was filled
with sawdust! The man's a thief and a robber! I'll have his skin for sausages, you see if I don't!"
"He's clever at his business," Matilda said.
"Clever my foot!" the Trunchbull shouted. "Miss Honey tells me that you are meant to be clever,
too! Well madam, I don't like clever people! They are all crooked! You are most certainly crooked!
Before I fell out with your father, he told me some very nasty stories about the way you behaved at
home! But you'd better not try anything in this school, young lady. I shall be keeping a very
careful eye on you from now on. Sit down and keep quiet."
13.星期测验
星期测验
准两点钟，大家又集合在教室里了，包括亨尼小姐。她看到水壶和玻璃杯已经放在该放
的地方，就站到教室后面。每个人都在等着。忽然，用皮带束着罩衫、穿着绿裤子的巨大的
身躯大踏步走进来了。
“下午好，孩子们。”她说道。
“下午好，特朗奇布尔小姐。”孩子们叽叽喳喳叫着回答。
校长站在全班面前，叉开了腿，双手抱着屁股盯住她面前紧张地坐在课桌椅上的男孩和
女孩。
“看上去不大美观。”她说，露出一副极其厌恶的表情，好像在看着狗在地板当中撒的东
西，“你们是一群多么叫人恶心的小废物啊！”
每个人都自觉地保持肃静。
“想到我要在我的学校里和你们这堆垃圾一起熬过六年，”她说下去，“简直令我作呕。显
然我得把你们越多越好、越快越好地赶走，免得我自己发疯。”她停了一下，哼了几声，这是
很古怪的声音。如果你在喂马的时候穿过马棚，就可以听到同样的声音。“我想，”她又说下
去，“你们的妈妈和爸爸对你们说过你们是多么出色。那么我现在在这里可以正告你们，事实
正好相反，你们最好还是相信我的看法。全体立正！”
所有的学生马上站起来。
“现在把你们的双手伸到前面。我走过的时候，我要你们把它们翻过来，让我看看它们是
不是两面都干净。”
特朗奇布尔开始慢慢地在一排排课桌之间穿过，检查学生们的手。一切顺利，只是走到
第二排一个小男孩面前时，她一下子哇哇大叫起来：“你叫什么名字？”
“奈杰尔。”男孩说。
“奈杰尔什么？”
“奈杰尔•希克斯。”男孩说。
“奈杰尔•希克斯什么？”特朗奇布尔咆哮着。她咆哮得那么响，冲出来的口气几乎把这小
家伙吹出窗外去了。
“就叫奈杰尔•希克斯。”奈杰尔说，“除非你还要我多取个名字。”他是个勇敢的小家伙，
可以看出来，他努力要不被在他头顶上像座黑塔似的怪物吓倒。
“我不要你多取个名字，你这脓包！”怪物咆哮道，“我的名字叫什么？”
“特朗奇布尔小姐。”奈杰尔说。
“那么对我说话的时候用上它！好，我们再来一次。你叫什么名字？”
“奈杰尔•希克斯，特朗奇布尔小姐。”奈杰尔说。
“这还差不多。”特朗奇布尔说，“你的手太脏了，奈杰尔！上一次什么时候洗的？”
“这个嘛，让我想想，”奈杰尔说，“很难记准确了，可能是昨天，也可能是前天。”
特朗奇布尔像被自行车打气筒打着气那样，她的整个身体和脸都膨胀了起来。
“我知道！”她咆哮道，“我一看见你就知道，你只是一堆垃圾。你爸爸是干什么的，通阴
沟的吗？”
“他是个医生，”奈杰尔说，“而且是个好医生。他说我们反正满身都是虫子，再脏一点也
没有害处。”
“我很高兴他不是我的医生。”特朗奇布尔说，“那我问你，为什么你的衬衫前面有一颗煮
黄豆？”
“我们午饭吃黄豆，特朗奇布尔小姐。”
“你经常把你的午饭吃到你的衬衫前面吗，奈杰尔？是你那位有名的医生教你这样做的
吗？”
“黄豆很不容易吃，特朗奇布尔小姐。它们老是从我的餐叉上掉下来。”
“你真讨厌！”特朗奇布尔咆哮着，“你是个会移动的细菌工厂！今天我再不要看见你了！
过去站壁角，用一条腿站着，脸对着墙！”
“不过特朗奇布尔小姐……”
“不要和我斗嘴，小家伙，否则我叫你倒过身来用头站！现在照我说的做！”
奈杰尔走过去了。
“现在就待在你那个地方，小家伙。我再来测验你的拼字，看你过去一个星期是不是学会
点什么东西。对我说话的时候你不要回过头来，让你那张小臭脸对着墙，好，现在
拼‘write’（写）。”
“哪一个？”奈杰尔问道，“是用笔的那个还是‘错’的反义词？” [1] 他正好是个少有的聪明孩
子，他的妈妈在家花了不少工夫教他拼拼读读。
“用笔的那个，你这个小傻瓜。”
奈杰尔拼得完全正确，这使特朗奇布尔大为吃惊。她想她给了他一个非常苛刻的字，他
可能还不曾学过，他居然回答对了，她很生气。
接着奈杰尔依然用一条腿平衡着身体站着，面对着墙，说：“昨天亨尼小姐教我们怎样拼
一个非常长的新字。”
“是个什么字？”特朗奇布尔很温柔地问。她说话的声音越温柔危险就越大，可是奈杰尔
还不知道这个道理。
“Difficulty（难）。”奈杰尔说，“现在班里人人都会拼这个字了。”
“多么荒唐，”特朗奇布尔说，“这样的长字至少到八九岁才学。可别对我说这个字班里人
人都会拼。你在对我说谎，奈杰尔。”
“你就找个人考一考吧，”奈杰尔说，干脆冒一下险，“随便找个你喜欢找的人问问。”
特朗奇布尔危险的眼睛在班里闪烁。“你，”她指住一个叫普鲁登斯的很小的女孩说，“你
拼这个字。”
奇怪，普鲁登斯毫不迟疑就正确地拼出来了。
特朗奇布尔当真吃了一惊。“哼！”她又哼了一声，“我想亨尼小姐是浪费了整整一节课的
时间教你们拼这么一个字吧？”
“噢，不，她没有花一节课时间。”奈杰尔尖声叫道，“亨尼小姐只花了三分钟就教会了我
们这个字。我们永远忘不了它。她教了我们许多字，每个字都只花三分钟。”
“这到底是什么魔法呀，亨尼小姐？”校长问道。
“我来做给你看，”勇敢的奈杰尔又尖声叫嚷着来解救亨尼小姐，“我做给你看的时候，请
问我可以把我的另一只脚放下来，并且转过身子吗？”
“两样都不行！”特朗奇布尔厉声说，“就那么单脚站着做给我看。”
“那好吧。”奈杰尔说，一条腿站着晃来晃去，“亨尼小姐每个字教我们一支歌，我们一起
唱，一下子就学会了拼那个字。你想听听唱‘difficulty’的这支歌吗？”
“我会听入迷的。”特朗奇布尔用讽刺口气说。
“是这样唱的，”奈杰尔说，“Mrs [2] D，MrsI, MrsFFI, MrsC, MrsU, MrsLTY，这样拼出来就
是‘difficulty’。”
“真是荒唐透顶！”特朗奇布尔又哼了一声，“为什么所有这些女人都是结了婚的？你是教
拼字可不是教诗歌，以后不许这样教了，亨尼小姐。”
“可是这样教他们难字，效果很好。”亨尼小姐喃喃地说。
“不要和我顶嘴，亨尼小姐！”校长吼叫着，“就照我告诉你的办！现在我来考考乘法表，
看亨尼小姐在这方面是不是教会你们什么。”特朗奇布尔已经回到全班前面，她那双魔鬼眼睛
慢慢地顺着一排排小学生们转。“你！”她指着前排一个叫鲁珀特的小男孩叫道，“二乘七是多
少？”
“十六。”鲁珀特傻乎乎地随口说出来。特朗奇布尔开始轻手轻脚地向鲁珀特慢慢地走过
去，像一头老虎悄悄走近一头小鹿那样。鲁珀特一下子注意到这个危险信号，赶紧再试着回
答，“是十八！”他叫道，“二乘七是十八，不是十六。”
“你这个无知的小鼻涕虫！”特朗奇布尔哇哇叫，“你这个愚蠢的废物！你这个没脑子的小
老鼠！你这团糨糊！”她这时候已经站在鲁珀特的正后方，猛地伸出像乒乓球板大小的大手，
成把抓住鲁珀特的头发。鲁珀特有一头长长的金发，他的妈妈认为这头金发很好看，特地让
它留长。特朗奇布尔却最不喜欢男孩留长发，就像不喜欢女孩梳辫子一样。她要把她这种不
喜欢的态度表示出来，她用巨手抓住鲁珀特的金色长发，接着右臂的肌肉鼓起，一下子把个
呼天天不应叫地地不灵的孩子完全从他的椅子上拎起来，让他悬在空中。
鲁珀特哇哇大叫。他在空中又扭又踢，一个劲儿地像被宰的猪那么哇哇叫个不停。特朗
奇布尔小姐咆哮道：“二乘七是十四！二乘七是十四！你不说我不放你！”
亨尼小姐从全班后面叫起来：“特朗奇布尔小姐！请把他放下来！你要伤着他了！他的头
发会全给拉掉的！”
“他再不停止扭来扭去，是真会给拉掉的！”特朗奇布尔哼哼说，“不要动，你这扭来扭去
的毛毛虫！”
看着这巨人校长把这小男孩悬空晃来晃去，男孩像在一根线的头上那样旋来转去没命地
大叫，真是太不可思议了。
“你说！”特朗奇布尔吼叫，“说二乘七是十四！快说，再不说我要把你上下抻，那你的头
发真要全都脱落下来了，正好够我拿来塞沙发！说吧，小家伙！说二乘七是十四，我就松
手！”
“二……二……二乘七……七是十……十……十……四。”鲁珀特喘着气说出来。特朗奇
布尔真如她所说的那样让他从空中“吧嗒”落到地上，他还像个足球一样跳了几跳。
“起来，不许哭。”特朗奇布尔厉声叫道。
鲁珀特爬起来，双手抱着头回到他的课桌椅上。特朗奇布尔也回到全班前面。孩子们像
被催眠了一样，一动不动地坐在那里。没有一个人以前见过类似的场面。这是一个出色的娱
乐节目，比看哑剧还带劲，但是有一个极大的不同。在这个房间里有一个巨大的人弹在他们
面前，它随时会爆炸，把什么人炸成碎片。孩子们的眼睛紧张地集中在这位校长身上。“我不
喜欢小孩子。”她又在说，“小孩子应该不被任何人看到，他们应该像发夹和纽扣一样放在盒
子里不被人看见。我一辈子也想不出来，孩子为什么要花那么长时间才长大起来。我想他们
是存心这样的。”
前排另一个极其勇敢的小男孩开口说了出来：“可是你曾经也一定是个小孩子啊，特朗奇
布尔小姐，难道不是吗？”
“我从来不是一个小孩子！”她厉声说，“我一辈子都是大人。我不明白别人为什么不能这
样。”
“可是你生下来的时候得是个婴儿。”男孩说。
“我！一个婴儿！”特朗奇布尔大叫，“你怎么敢说出这种话来！这么没有礼貌！真该死！
你叫什么名字？对我说话的时候要站起来！”
男孩站起来。“我叫埃里克•莫水，特朗奇布尔小姐。”他说。
“埃里克什么？”特朗奇布尔叫道。
“莫水。”男孩说。
“别傻了，小家伙！根本没有墨水这个姓！”
“请看看电话簿吧，”埃里克说，“你会在莫水这个姓下面找到我的爸爸。”
“那好吧，”特朗奇布尔说，“你可能是墨水，年轻人，可是让我告诉你点什么。你不是擦
不掉的。如果你想向我卖弄小聪明，我会很快就把你擦掉。你拼what（什么）吧。”
“我不明白你的意思，”埃里克说，“你要我拼什么？”
“拼什么，你这白痴！拼‘what’这个字！”
“W……O……T。”埃里克说，回答得太快了。
一片可怕的寂静。
“我再给你一次机会。”特朗奇布尔动也不动地说。
“啊，对了，我知道了，”埃里克说，“还夹着一个H，W……H……O……T，很简单。”特
朗奇布尔两大步就走到埃里克的课桌椅后面，站在那里，在这个孤立无援的男孩头顶上像一
根死亡之柱。埃里克心惊胆战地回头看这怪物，“我是对的，不是吗？”他紧张地喃喃说。
“你不对！”特朗奇布尔凶巴巴地说，“事实上，我一看你就是那种样样不对的该死小麻
子！你坐的姿势不对！你的样子不对！你说话不对！你什么都不对！我再给你一次机会让你
做得对！拼‘What’！”
埃里克犹豫了一阵，接着他很慢地说：“不是W……O……T，也不是W……H……O……
T，啊，我知道了，一定是W……H……O……T……T。”
站在埃里克后面的特朗奇布尔，伸出双手，抓住男孩的两只耳朵，用食指和大拇指捏
着。
“噢！”埃里克大叫，“噢！你弄痛我了！”
“我还没有开始呢。”特朗奇布尔尖刻地说。现在她狠狠地捏住他的两只耳朵，把他整个
人从他的座位上提起来悬在空中。
埃里克像先前的鲁珀特一样哇哇叫得房子都要倒下来了。
亨尼小姐从教室后面叫起来：“特朗奇布尔小姐！别这样！请放下他！他的耳朵会拉断
的！”
“它们永远不会拉断。”特朗奇布尔叫着回答，“通过我的长期实践，亨尼小姐，我发现小
男孩的耳朵非常牢固地连着他们的头。”
“把他放下来吧，特朗奇布尔小姐，”亨尼小姐恳求她，“你会弄伤他的，真会的！你会一
下子把它们拉断的。”
“耳朵拉不断，”特朗奇布尔叫道，“它们只会极其惊人地被拉长，就像这两只现在的样
子，但我可以向你保证，它们不会拉断！”
埃里克叫得更响了，同时双腿在空中踢动。
玛蒂尔达还从来没有见过一个男孩，或者任何人，这样被拎着耳朵悬在空中。她和亨尼
小姐一样觉得这两只耳朵由于坠着那么重的身体随时都会断掉。
特朗奇布尔在叫：“‘What’这个字应该拼作W……H……A……T。现在给我拼，你这小肉
瘤！”
埃里克毫不迟延，他几分钟前看到鲁珀特已经懂得，回答得越快放得越快。“W……
H……A……T，”他大叫道，“拼成What！”
特朗奇布尔仍旧抓住他的两只耳朵，把他放回课桌后面的椅子上。接着她大踏步回到全
班前面，拍打双手，好像拿过什么十分肮脏的东西似的。
“就得这样让他们学习，亨尼小姐，”她说，“你记住我的话，只是让他们学没有用。你得
用锤子把功课敲进他们的脑袋。再没有比扭和拧更能使他们记住功课的了，这样也能使他们
很好地专心起来。”
“你会使他们受伤治也治不好的，特朗奇布尔小姐。”亨尼小姐叫道。
“噢，我已经做到了，我断定我已经做到了。”特朗奇布尔龇牙咧嘴地笑着回答，“埃里克
的耳朵在最后两分钟里已经拉长！它们现在要比过去长得多了。这没有坏处，亨尼小姐，这
将使他在以后的人生里有一个滑稽的怪模样。”
“可是特朗奇布尔小姐……”
“噢，闭上你的嘴吧，亨尼小姐！你和他们当中任何一个一样蠢。如果你在这里不能适
应，你可以到一所供有钱的少爷小姐读书的软绵绵的私立学校去找份工作。等你教书时间有
我那么长的时候，你就会明白，对小孩子客客气气毫无用处。读读狄更斯先生的《尼古拉斯•
尼克尔贝》吧，亨尼小姐。读读杜塞博伊斯学堂那位可敬的校长瓦克福德•斯奎尔斯吧。他知
道怎样对付小坏蛋，不是吗？他知道怎样用桦树条，不是吗？他把他们的屁股抽打得火辣辣
的，在上面你可以煎鸡蛋煎熏肉！那是本好书。可是我不相信这群笨孩子会读过它，因为一
看他们的样子就知道他们永远学不会读书！”
“我读过。”玛蒂尔达轻轻地说。
特朗奇布尔猛地回过头来，定睛看着坐在第二排的这个黑头发、深棕色眼睛的小女
孩。“你说什么？”她尖声细气地问道。
“我说我读过，特朗奇布尔小姐。”
“读过什么？”
“读过《尼古拉斯•尼克尔贝》，特朗奇布尔小姐。”
“你在对我说谎，小丫头！”特朗奇布尔看着玛蒂尔达大叫，“我不相信整个学校有一个孩
子曾经读过这本书，可是你，最低班的一个还要用尿布的小不点儿，却想向我撒这么个弥天
大谎！你为什么要这样做？你一定把我当傻瓜了！你是把我当傻瓜吗，小丫头？”
“这个嘛……”玛蒂尔达说，接着犹豫了一下，她很想说“是的，我很乐意这样做”，但是
那等于自杀。“这个嘛……”她又说了一遍，还是在犹豫，还是拒绝说“不是。”
特朗奇布尔意识到这孩子在想什么，满肚子不高兴。“和我说话的时候要站起来！”她厉
声说，“你叫什么名字？”
玛蒂尔达站起来说：“我叫玛蒂尔达•沃姆伍德，特朗奇布尔小姐。”
“沃姆伍德，是吗？”特朗奇布尔说，“那么你一定是开沃姆伍德汽车行的那个人的女儿
了？”
“是的，特朗奇布尔小姐。”
“他是一个坏蛋！”特朗奇布尔大叫，“上星期他卖给我一辆旧汽车，说几乎是新的。我当
时以为他是个大好人，可是今天早晨我开着这辆汽车穿过村子的时候整个发动机都掉在路上
了！里面全是木屑！那家伙是个贼，是个强盗！我要拿他的皮做香肠，你看我不这样对付他
才怪！”
“他做他那门生意才聪明呢。”玛蒂尔达说。
“聪明个屁！”特朗奇布尔大叫，“亨尼小姐告诉我说你也很聪明！哼，小姐，我不喜欢聪
明的人！他们全是坏蛋！你一准也是个坏蛋！在我和你爸爸闹翻以前，他对我说了你在家所
做的那些坏透了的事！但是你在这学校里最好别打算做这种事，小姐。从现在起我要仔细地
盯住你。坐下，不许说话。”
[1]在英语里，write（写）和right（对）两字同音，但拼法不同。
[2]Mrs读“蜜色丝”，“太太”的意思。
14.The First Miracle
The First Miracle
Matilda sat down again at her desk. The Trunchbull seated herself behind the teacher's table. It
was the first time she had sat down during the lesson. Then she reached out a hand and took hold
of her water-jug. Still holding the jug by the handle but not lifting it yet, she said, "I have never
been able to understand why small children are so disgusting. They are the bane of my life. They
are like insects. They should be got rid of as early as possible. We get rid of flies with fly-spray
and by hanging up fly-paper. I have often thought of inventing a spray for getting rid of small
children. How splendid it would be to walk into this classroom with a gigantic spray-gun in my
hands and start pumping it. Or better still, some huge strips of sticky paper. I would hang them all
round the school and you'd all get stuck to them and that would be the end of it. Wouldn't that be a
good idea, Miss Honey?"
"If it's meant to be a joke, Headmistress, I don't think it's a very funny one," Miss Honey said from
the back of the class.
"You wouldn't, would you, Miss Honey," the Trunchbull said. "And it's not meant to be a joke.
My idea of a perfect school, Miss Honey, is one that has no children in it at all. One of these days I
shall start up a school like that. I think it will be very successful."
The woman's mad, Miss Honey was telling herself. She's round the twist. She's the one who ought
to be got rid of.
The Trunchbull now lifted the large blue porcelain water-jug and poured some water into her
glass. And suddenly, with the water, out came the long slimy newt straight into the glass, plop!
The Trunchbull let out a yell and leapt off her chair as though a firecracker had gone off
underneath her. And now the children also saw the long thin slimy yellow-bellied lizard-like
creature twisting and turning in the glass, and they squirmed and jumped about as well, shouting,
"What is it? Oh, it's disgusting! It's a snake! It's a baby crocodile! It's an alligator!"
"Look out, Miss Trunchbull!" cried Lavender. "I'll bet it bites!"
The Trunchbull, this mighty female giant, stood there in her green breeches, quivering like a
blancmange. She was especially furious that someone had succeeded in making her jump and yell
like that because she prided herself on her toughness. She stared at the creature twisting and
wriggling in the glass. Curiously enough, she had never seen a newt before. Natural history was
not her strong point. She hadn't the faintest idea what this thing was. It certainly looked extremely
unpleasant. Slowly she sat down again in her chair. She looked at this moment more terrifying
than ever before. The fires of fury and hatred were smouldering in her small black eyes.
"Matilda!" she barked. "Stand up!"
"Who, me?" Matilda said. "What have I done?"
"Stand up, you disgusting little cockroach!"
"I haven't done anything, Miss Trunchbull, honestly I haven't. I've never seen that slimy thing
before!"
"Stand up at once, you filthy little maggot!"
Reluctantly, Matilda got to her feet. She was in the second row. Lavender was in the row behind
her, feeling a bit guilty. She hadn't intended to get her friend into trouble. On the other hand, she
was certainly not about to own up.
''You are a vile, repulsive, repellent, malicious little brute!" the Trunchbull was shouting. "You are
not fit to be in this school! You ought to be behind bars, that's where you ought to be! I shall have
you drummed out of this establishment in utter disgrace! I shall have the prefects chase you down
the corridor and out of the front-door with hockey-sticks! I shall have the staff escort you home
under armed guard! And then I shall make absolutely sure you are sent to a reformatory for
delinquent girls for the minimum of forty years!"
The Trunchbull was in such a rage that her face had taken on a
boiled colour and little flecks of froth were gathering at the corners of her mouth. But she was not
the only one who was losing her cool. Matilda was also beginning to see red. She didn't in the least
mind being accused of having done something she had actually done. She could see the justice of
that. It was, however, a totally new experience for her to be accused of a crime that she definitely
had not committed. She had had absolutely nothing to do with that beastly creature in the glass. By
golly, she thought, that rotten Trunchbull isn't going to pin this one on me!
"I did not do it!" she screamed.
"Oh yes, you did!" the Trunchbull roared back. "Nobody else could have thought up a trick like
that! Your father was right to warn me about you!" The woman seemed to have lost control of
herself completely. She was ranting like a maniac. "You are finished in this school, young lady!"
she shouted. "You are finished everywhere. I shall personally see to it that you are put away in a
place where not even the crows can land their droppings on you! You will probably never see the
light of day again!"
"I'm telling you I did not do it!" Matilda screamed. "I've never even seen a creature like that in my
life!"
"You have put a . . . a . . . a crocodile in my drinking water!" the Trunchbull yelled back. "There is
no worse crime in the world against a Headmistress! Now sit down and don't say a word! Go on,
sit down at once!"
"But I'm telling you . . ." Matilda shouted, refusing to sit down.
"I am telling you to shut up!" the Trunchbull roared. "If you don't shut up at once and sit down I
shall remove my belt and let you have it with the end that has the buckle!"
Slowly Matilda sat down. Oh, the rottenness of it all! The unfairness! How dare they expel her for
something she hadn't done!
Matilda felt herself getting angrier . . . and angrier . . . and angrier . . . so unbearably angry that
something was bound to explode inside her very soon.
The newt was still squirming in the tall glass of water. It looked horribly uncomfortable. The glass
was not big enough for it. Matilda glared at the Trunchbull. How she hated her. She glared at the
glass with the newt in it. She longed to march up and grab the glass and tip the contents, newt and
all, over the Trunchbull's head. She trembled to think what the Trunchbull would do to her if she
did that.
The Trunchbull was sitting behind the teacher's table staring with a mixture of horror and
fascination at the newt wriggling in the glass. Matilda's eyes were also riveted on the glass. And
now, quite slowly, there began to creep over Matilda a most extraordinary and peculiar feeling.
The feeling was mostly in the eyes. A kind of electricity seemed to be gathering inside them. A
sense of power was brewing in those eyes of hers, a feeling of great strength was settling itself
deep inside her eyes. But there was also another feeling which was something else altogether, and
which she could not understand. It was like flashes of lightning. Little waves of lightning seemed
to be flashing out of her eyes. Her eyeballs were beginning to get hot, as though vast energy was
building up somewhere inside them. It was an amazing sensation. She kept her eyes steadily on the
glass, and now the power was concentrating itself in one small part of each eye and growing
stronger and stronger and it felt as though millions of tiny little invisible arms with hands on them
were shooting out of her eyes towards the glass she was staring at.
"Tip it!" Matilda whispered. "Tip it over!"
She saw the glass wobble. It actually tilted backwards a fraction of an inch, then righted itself
again. She kept pushing at it with all those millions of invisible little arms and hands that were
reaching out from her eyes, feeling the power that was flashing straight from the two little black
dots in the very centres of her eyeballs.
"Tip it!" she whispered again. "Tip it over!"
Once more the glass wobbled. She pushed harder still, willing her eyes to shoot out more power.
And then, very very slowly, so slowly she could hardly see it happening, the glass began to lean
backwards, farther and farther and farther backwards until it was balancing on just one edge of its
base. And there it teetered for a few seconds before finally toppling over and falling with a sharp
tinkle on to the desk-top. The water in it and the squirming newt splashed out all over Miss
Trunchbull's enormous bosom. The headmistress let out a yell that must have rattled every
window-pane in the building and for the second time in the last five minutes she shot out of her
chair like a rocket. The newt clutched desperately at the cotton smock where it covered the great
chest and there it clung with its little claw-like feet. The Trunchbull looked down and saw it and
she bellowed even louder and with a swipe of her hand she sent the creature flying across the
class-room. It landed on the floor beside Lavender's desk and very quickly she ducked down and
picked it up and put it into her pencil-box for another time. A newt, she decided, was a useful
thing to have around.
The Trunchbull, her face more like a boiled ham than ever, was standing before the class quivering
with fury. Her massive bosom was heaving in and out and the splash of water down the front of it
made a dark wet patch that had probably soaked right through to her skin.
"Who did it?" she roared. "Come on! Own up! Step forward! You won't escape this time! Who is
responsible for this dirty job? Who pushed over this glass?"
Nobody answered. The whole room remained silent as a tomb.
"Matilda!" she roared. "It was you! I know it was you!"
Matilda, in the second row, sat very still and said nothing. A strange feeling of serenity and
confidence was sweeping over her and all of a sudden she found that she was frightened by
nobody in the world. With the power of her eyes alone she had compelled a glass of water to tip
and spill its contents over the horrible Headmistress, and anybody who could do that could do
anything.
"Speak up, you clotted carbuncle!" roared the Trunchbull. "Admit that you did it!"
Matilda looked right back into the flashing eyes of this infuriated female giant and said with total
calmness, "I have not moved away from my desk, Miss Trunchbull, since the lesson began. I can
say no more."
Suddenly the entire class seemed to rise up against the Headmistress. "She didn't move!" they
cried out. "Matilda didn't move! Nobody moved! You must have knocked it over yourself!"
"I most certainly did not knock it over myself!" roared the Trunchbull. "How dare you suggest a
thing like that! Speak up, Miss Honey! You must have seen everything! Who knocked over my
glass?"
"None of the children did, Miss Trunchbull," Miss Honey answered. "I can vouch for it that
nobody has moved from his or her desk all the time you've been here, except for Nigel and he has
not moved from his corner."
Miss Trunchbull glared at Miss Honey. Miss Honey met her gaze without flinching. "I am telling
you the truth, Headmistress," she said. "You must have knocked it over without knowing it. That
sort of thing is easy to do."
"I am fed up with you useless bunch of midgets!" roared the Trunchbull. "I refuse to waste any
more of my precious time in here!" And with that she marched out of the class-room, slamming
the door behind her.
In the stunned silence that followed, Miss Honey walked up to the front of the class and stood
behind her table. "Phew!" she said. "I think we've had enough school for one day, don't you? The
class is dismissed. You may all go out into the playground and wait for your parents to come and
take you home."
14.第一个奇迹
第一个奇迹
玛蒂尔达在她的课桌椅上重新坐下，特朗奇布尔也坐到老师桌子后面去。上这堂课她还
是第一次坐下来，接着她伸出手去抓她的水壶。她一只手拿着水壶把手，但是没有拿起来，
继续说：“我一直弄不明白，小孩子为什么这样讨厌。他们是我生活中的祸害。他们像虫子，
越早消灭越好。我喷灭蝇药水、挂捕蝇纸来消灭苍蝇，我常想发明一种药水来消灭小孩子。
如果能拿着个巨型喷雾器走进这教室喷这种药水，那该多好啊！再有些巨型黏纸就更妙了。
我要把它们挂满全校，把你们全粘到上面去完事大吉。这个主意好吗，亨尼小姐？”
“如果这只是一个玩笑，校长，我并不觉得怎么滑稽。”亨尼小姐从教室后面说。
“你不觉得，是吗，亨尼小姐？”特朗奇布尔说，“这不是个玩笑。我认为一个完美的学
校，亨尼小姐，应该根本连个孩子也没有。不久我将办这样一所学校，我想会很成功的。”
“这女人疯了。”亨尼小姐心里说，“她太古怪了，应该消灭的是她。”
特朗奇布尔这才拿起蓝色的大瓷水壶，往她的玻璃杯里倒水。忽然之间，那条细长的蝾
螈和水一起落到玻璃杯里了。扑通！
特朗奇布尔发出一声大叫，从椅子上蹦了起来，就像她身下有个炮仗爆炸了。现在孩子
们也看到了那条像蜥蜴的黄肚皮细长蝾螈在玻璃杯里转来转去。他们也转来转去，跳来跳
去，大声叫道：“那是什么？噢，太恶心了！是条蛇！是条小鳄鱼！这是条鳄鱼！”
“小心，特朗奇布尔小姐！”拉文德叫道，“我敢打赌它会咬人！”
特朗奇布尔这位至高无上的女巨人，穿着她那条绿色裤子站在那里浑身颤动有如牛奶
冻。她特别生气的是，竟有人能使她这样大叫着跳起来，因为她一向以自己的天不怕地不怕
而自豪。她定睛看着在玻璃杯里翻腾扭动的细长条，太稀罕了，她还从来没有看见过蝾螈。
动物学不是她的专长，她根本不知道这是什么动物。它看起来实在极不可爱。特朗奇布尔在
她的椅子上慢慢坐下。这会儿她的样子比以往更可怕了，她那双小黑眼睛里充满了愤怒和憎
恨的火焰。
“玛蒂尔达！”她厉声道，“站起来！”
“叫谁，叫我吗？”玛蒂尔达说，“我做什么啦？”
“站起来，你这个讨厌的小蟑螂！”
“我什么也没有做，特朗奇布尔小姐，说实话，我什么也没有做。我生下来还没有见过这
种瘦长的东西。”
“马上站起来，你这肮脏的小蛆！”
玛蒂尔达勉强站起来。她坐在第二排，拉文德在她后面一排，感到有点抱歉。她并不想
给她的朋友带来麻烦，然而她又实在不想自首。
“你是一个卑鄙、可恶、讨厌、恶毒的小畜生！”特朗奇布尔在大叫大嚷，“你不配在这学
校里！你该坐牢，这就是你应该去的地方！我要叫你大丢脸，把你从这所学校轰出去！我要
让班长们用曲棍球棒把你赶出走廊，赶出校门！我要校工押你回家！然后我百分之一百地断
定，你将被送进关犯罪小姑娘的改造所，至少待上四十年！”
特朗奇布尔气得满脸通红，嘴角都是白沫。但是失去冷静的不仅她一个，玛蒂尔达的脸
也开始红起来了。如果真是她做的，她一点也不会感到委屈，她会感到那是公正的。但这种
事她从来没有碰到过，竟说她做了她完全没有做过的事，她跟玻璃杯里那条可怕的东西毫无
关系。天哪，她想，那该死的特朗奇布尔不能把这件事归罪于我！
“我没有做过这件事！”她大声叫道。
“噢，是你做的！”特朗奇布尔咆哮着回答，“没有人会想出这样的恶作剧！你爸爸警告过
我，说你会捣乱。他是对的！”那女人看来完全控制不住自己了。她像个疯子一样胡说八道，
大喊大叫。“你在这个学校算完啦，小姐！”她大嚷，“你在哪里都完了。我要监视着把你赶到
一个连乌鸦屎也落不到你头上的地方！你大概将永远见不到阳光了！”
“我告诉你，我没有做过这件事！”玛蒂尔达大叫，“这种东西我生下来连见也没有见
过！”
“你把一……一……一条鳄鱼放在我喝的水里！”特朗奇布尔咆哮着回答，“世界上没有比
对抗校长更大的罪恶了。现在坐下，一个字也不要说！好了，马上坐下！”
“可是我告诉你……”玛蒂尔达还是大叫，不肯坐下。
“我叫你闭嘴！”特朗奇布尔咆哮道，“你再不马上闭嘴坐下，我就要解下皮带，让你尝尝
有扣子一头的滋味！”
玛蒂尔达慢慢地坐下来。噢！真该死！太不公平了！她怎么敢为了她没有做过的事开除
她！
玛蒂尔达感到自己越来越生气……越来越生气……越来越生气……气得忍不住，马上就
要气炸了。
那蝾螈仍旧在那个高玻璃杯装的水里扭来扭去，看起来让人极不舒服。杯子对它来说太
小了。玛蒂尔达看着特朗奇布尔，她多么恨她呀。她再看那装着蝾螈的玻璃杯，恨不得跑过
去把它拿起来连蝾螈带水泼在特朗奇布尔的头上。她想到她真这样做了的话特朗奇布尔会怎
样对待她，不禁发起抖来。
特朗奇布尔坐在老师桌子后面，既恐惧又着迷地看着蝾螈在玻璃杯里扭动。玛蒂尔达的
眼睛也盯住玻璃杯。这时候，一种极其异常和特别的感觉开始慢慢地冲上玛蒂尔达的头。这
种感觉主要在眼睛里，里面好像积聚起一种电力，一种力的感觉正在她那双眼睛里萌生，她
的眼睛深处渐渐感到了一种巨大力量，但其中还有另一种感觉，她说不出来这是一种什么感
觉，像是闪电。闪电的微波似乎从她的眼睛里放射出来，她的眼球开始发热，仿佛在那里面
什么地方正在积聚着巨大的热能，这是一种惊人的感觉。她两眼继续紧紧盯住玻璃杯，现在
这种力集中在每只眼睛的一点上，越来越强，越来越强，只觉得像是几百万只看不见的小手
从她的两眼射向她正在盯着看的玻璃杯。“把它推翻！”玛蒂尔达悄悄地说，“把它推翻！”
她看到玻璃杯动起来了。它当真向后侧转了一英寸的几分之一，接着又恢复了原状。她
让眼睛里射出来的几百万只看不见的小手继续推那玻璃杯，只觉得这股力是直接从她的两个
眼球中心的两个小黑点里放射出去的。
“把它推翻！”她又悄悄地说，“把它推翻！”
玻璃杯又动了。她推得更用力了，希望她的眼睛放出更多的力。接着很慢很慢，慢得她
都很难看出来，玻璃杯开始向后侧转了，越侧越低，越侧越低，最后只靠杯子的一点底边平
衡着。玻璃杯就这样摇摇欲坠地停了几秒钟，最后一下子很响的“哐当”一声，倒在了桌子
上。杯里的水和扭动着的蝾螈全泼到特朗奇布尔小姐的大胸部上。校长发出一声急叫，全校
每一个玻璃窗准都震动了，同时她在五分钟内第二次从她的椅子上像火箭一样蹿起来。蝾螈
拼命抓住她那件布罩衫的大胸部，用爪子似的小脚抓住了挂在那里。特朗奇布尔低头看见
它，哇哇叫得更厉害了，用手一扫，蝾螈飞了起来，正好落在拉文德课桌旁边的地板上。她
赶紧弯腰把它捡起来，再一次放进她的铅笔盒。她拿定主意，蝾螈在这里可是大有用处。
特朗奇布尔的脸更像熟火腿了，她坐在全班面前气得浑身发抖。她的大胸部一起一伏，
水流下来湿漉漉的，大概已经渗透到里面皮肤上了。
“这是谁干的？”她咆哮道，“说啊！招认吧！走出来。这一次逃不掉了！这件坏事是谁干
的？谁推翻了这个玻璃杯？”
没有人回答，整个教室静得像个坟墓。“玛蒂尔达！”她咆哮道，“是你！我知道是你！”
玛蒂尔达坐在第二排一动也不动，一声也不响。她全身掠过一种镇静和自信的奇怪感
觉，一下子发觉自己天不怕地不怕了。就用她眼睛发出来的这种力，她已经推翻了一杯水，
使水连同蝾螈泼在了可怕的校长身上。能做到这件事的人是什么事也做得到的。
“开口啊，你这个毒瘤！”特朗奇布尔咆哮道，“承认这件事是你做的吧！”
玛蒂尔达笔直地回看她，盯住这气急败坏的女巨人的闪光眼睛，十分平静地说：“从上课
起我就没有离开过我的课桌，特朗奇布尔小姐。我没有别的话说了。”
全班同学好像忽然一致对抗起校长来。“她是没有动过！”他们叫起来，“玛蒂尔达是没有
动过！没有一个人动过！你一定是自己把它打翻了！”
“我自己肯定没有打翻它！”特朗奇布尔咆哮道，“你们怎么敢说出这种话来！你说吧，亨
尼小姐！你一定全都看见了！是谁弄翻了我的玻璃杯？”
“孩子们一个也没做，特朗奇布尔小姐。”亨尼小姐回答说，“我可以担保，你来了以后没
有一个孩子离开过课桌，除了奈杰尔，他也没有离开过他的墙角。”
特朗奇布尔看着亨尼小姐。亨尼小姐接触到她的眼光时一点也不畏缩。“说实话，校
长，”她说，“你一定是把它打翻了自己也不知道。这种事是很容易发生的。”
“你们这群小废物让我受够了！”特朗奇布尔咆哮着，“我不愿意在这里浪费我宝贵的时
间！”她说着大踏步走出教室，随手把门用力地关上。
在接下来的一片寂静中，亨尼小姐走到全班面前，站在她的桌子后面。“呼！”她吐了口
气，“我想我们今天的课上够了，你们说呢？现在下课，你们可以到操场上去等你们的爸爸妈
妈来接你们回家。”
15.The Second Miracle
The Second Miracle
Matilda did not join the rush to get out of the classroom. After the other children had all
disappeared, she remained at her desk, quiet and thoughtful. She knew she had to tell somebody
about what had happened with the glass. She couldn't possibly keep a gigantic secret like that
bottled up inside her. What she needed was just one person, one wise and sympathetic grown-up
who could help her to understand the meaning of this extraordinary happening.
Neither her mother nor her father would be of any use at all. If they believed her story, and it was
doubtful they would, they almost certainly would fail to realise what an astounding event it was
that had taken place in the classroom that afternoon. On the spur of the moment, Matilda decided
that the one person she would like to confide in was Miss Honey.
Matilda and Miss Honey were now the only two left in the class-room. Miss Honey had seated
herself at her table and was riffling through some papers. She looked up and said, "Well, Matilda,
aren't you going outside with the others?"
Matilda said, "Please may I talk to you for a moment?"
"Of course you may. What's troubling you?"
"Something very peculiar has happened to me, Miss Honey."
Miss Honey became instantly alert. Ever since the two disastrous meetings she had had recently
about Matilda, the first with the Headmistress and the second with the dreadful Mr and Mrs
Wormwood, Miss Honey had been thinking a great deal about this child and wondering how she
could help her. And now, here was Matilda sitting in the classroom with a curiously exalted look
on her face and asking if she could have a private talk. Miss Honey had never seen her looking so
wide-eyed and peculiar before.
"Yes, Matilda," she said. "Tell me what has happened to you that is so peculiar."
"Miss Trunchbull isn't going to expel me, is she?" Matilda asked. "Because it wasn't me who put
that creature in her jug of water. I promise you it wasn't."
"I know it wasn't," Miss Honey said.
"Am I going to be expelled?"
"I think not," Miss Honey said. "The Headmistress simply got a little over-excited, that's all."
"Good," Matilda said. "But that isn't what I want to talk to you about."
"What do you want to talk to me about, Matilda?"
"I want to talk to you about the glass of water with the creature in it," Matilda said. "You saw it
spilling all over Miss Trunchbull, didn't you?"
"I did indeed."
"Well, Miss Honey, I didn't touch it. I never went near it."
"I know you didn't," Miss Honey said. "You heard me telling the Headmistress that it couldn't
possibly have been you."
"Ah, but it was me, Miss Honey," Matilda said. "That's exactly what I want to talk to you about."
Miss Honey paused and looked carefully at the child. "I don't think I quite follow you," she said.
"I got so angry at being accused of something I hadn't done that I made it happen."
"You made what happen, Matilda?"
"I made the glass tip over."
"I still don't quite understand what you mean," Miss Honey said gently.
"I did it with my eyes," Matilda said. "I was staring at it and wishing it to tip and then my eyes
went all hot and funny and some sort of power came out of them and the glass just toppled over."
Miss Honey continued to look steadily at Matilda through her steel-rimmed spectacles and Matilda
looked back at her just as steadily.
"I am still not following you," Miss Honey said. "Do you mean you actually willed the glass to tip
over?"
"Yes," Matilda said. "With my eyes."
Miss Honey was silent for a moment. She did not think Matilda was meaning to tell a lie. It was
more likely that she was simply allowing her vivid imagination to run away with her. "You mean
you were sitting where you are now and you told the glass to topple over and it did?"
"Something like that, Miss Honey, yes."
"If you did that, then it is just about the greatest miracle a person has ever performed since the
time of Jesus."
"I did it, Miss Honey."
It is extraordinary, thought Miss Honey, how often small children have flights of fancy like this.
She decided to put an end to it as gently as possible. "Could you do it again?" she asked, not
unkindly.
"I don't know," Matilda said, "but I think I might be able to."
Miss Honey moved the now empty glass to the middle of the table. "Should I put water in it?" she
asked, smiling a little.
"I don't think it matters," Matilda said.
"Very well, then. Go ahead and tip it over."
"It may take some time."
Take all the time you want," Miss Honey said. I'm in no hurry."
Matilda, sitting in the second row about ten feet away from Miss Honey, put her elbows on the
desk and cupped her face in her hands, and this time she gave the order right at the beginning. "Tip
glass, tip!" she ordered, but her lips didn't move and she made no sound. She simply shouted the
words inside her head. And now she concentrated the whole of her mind and her brain and her will
up into her eyes and once again but much more quickly than before she felt the electricity
gathering and the power was beginning to surge and the hotness was coming into the eyeballs, and
then the millions of tiny invisible arms with hands on them were shooting out towards the glass,
and without making any sound at all she kept on shouting inside her head for the glass to go over.
She saw it wobble, then it tilted, then it toppled right over and fell with a tinkle on to the table-top
not twelve inches from Miss Honey's folded arms.
Miss Honey's mouth dropped open and her eyes stretched so wide you could see the whites all
round. She didn't say a word. She couldn't. The shock of seeing the miracle performed had struck
her dumb. She gaped at the glass, leaning well away from it now as though it might be a
dangerous thing. Then slowly she lifted head and looked at Matilda. She saw the child white in the
face, as white as paper, trembling all over, the eyes glazed, staring straight ahead and seeing
nothing. The whole face was transfigured, the eyes round and bright and she was sitting there
speechless, quite beautiful in a blaze of silence.
Miss Honey waited, trembling a little herself and watching the child as she slowly stirred herself
back into consciousness. And then suddenly, click went her face into a look of almost seraphic
calm. "I'm all right," she said and smiled. "I'm quite all right, Miss Honey, so don't be alarmed."
"You seemed so far away," Miss Honey whispered, awestruck.
"Oh, I was. I was flying past the stars on silver wings," Matilda said. "It was wonderful."
Miss Honey was still gazing at the child in absolute wonderment, as though she were The
Creation, The Beginning Of The World, The First Morning.
"It went much quicker this time," Matilda said quietly.
"It's not possible!" Miss Honey was gasping. "I don't believe it! I simply don't believe it!" She
closed her eyes and kept them closed for quite a while, and when she opened them again it seemed
as though she had gathered herself together. "Would you like to come back and have tea at my
cottage?" she asked.
"Oh, I'd love to," Matilda said.
"Good. Gather up your things and I'll meet you outside in a couple of minutes."
"You won't tell anyone about this . . . this thing that I did, will you, Miss Honey?"
"I wouldn't dream of it," Miss Honey said.
15.第二个奇迹
第二个奇迹
玛蒂尔达没有和大家一起奔出教室。其他孩子都走了以后，她留在她的课桌椅上，十分
安静，想着心事。她知道她得找个人说说玻璃杯的事。她不可能把这么大的一个秘密藏在心
里。但她所需要的只是一个人，一个聪明又有同情心的大人，能够帮助她弄明白这件异常事
件的意义。
她的妈妈或者爸爸都不行。即使他们相信她说的话—这是值得怀疑的，他们也绝不可能
理解那天下午在教室里发生的是一件何等惊人的事。玛蒂尔达不假思索就做出了决定，只有
一个人她能吐露秘密，这个人就是亨尼小姐。
如今教室里只剩下玛蒂尔达和亨尼小姐两个人了。亨尼小姐正坐在她的桌子旁边翻着一
些纸。她抬起头来说：“怎么，玛蒂尔达，你没有和其他同学一起出去？”
玛蒂尔达说：“对不起，我可以和你谈一会儿吗？”
“当然可以。你遇到什么麻烦啦？”
“我干了一件非常古怪的事，亨尼小姐。”
亨尼小姐马上竖起耳朵听。为了玛蒂尔达，她最近接连两次找人谈话碰了大钉子，第一
次是和校长谈话，第二次是去找可怕的沃姆伍德先生和太太谈话。这以后，亨尼小姐关于这
孩子考虑了很多，不知道怎样才能帮助她。现在玛蒂尔达就坐在这教室里，脸上带着奇怪的
兴奋表情，问是不是可以和她私下谈谈。亨尼小姐还没有见过她这种样子：眼睛睁得老大，
表情如此古怪。
“好吧，玛蒂尔达，”她说，“你把你干的那件非常古怪的事告诉我吧！”
“特朗奇布尔小姐不会开除我，对吗？”玛蒂尔达问道，“因为不是我把那东西放在她那壶
水里的。我向你保证不是我。”
“我知道不是你。”亨尼小姐说。
“我会被开除吗？”
“我想不会，”亨尼小姐说，“校长只是有点过于激动罢了。”
“那就好。”玛蒂尔达说，“不过这不是我想和你谈的事。”
“那么你要和我谈的是什么事呢，玛蒂尔达？”
“我要和你谈的是装着那只东西的那杯水。”玛蒂尔达说，“你看见它翻倒了，水都泼在特
朗奇布尔小姐身上，对吗？”
“对，我看见了。”
“是这么回事，亨尼小姐，我没有碰它，我根本没有靠近过它。”
“我知道你没有。”亨尼小姐说，“你听见我告诉校长了，这件事不可能是你做的。”
“唉，可这件事是我做的，亨尼小姐。”玛蒂尔达说，“这正是我要和你说的事。”
亨尼小姐沉默不语，仔细地看了她一会儿。“我想我没明白你的意思。”她说。
“被人说我做了我没有做过的事，我太生气了，于是我让这件事情发生了。”
“你让什么事情发生啦，玛蒂尔达？”
“我让那玻璃杯翻倒了。”
“我还是不大明白你的意思。”亨尼小姐轻轻地说。
“我是用我的眼睛做的。”玛蒂尔达说，“我看着它，希望它翻倒，接着我的眼睛热了，很
奇怪，一种力从我的眼睛里发射出来，那玻璃杯就翻倒了。”
亨尼小姐继续透过她的钢丝边眼镜定睛看着玛蒂尔达。玛蒂尔达也同样定睛回看她。
“我还是不明白你的意思。”亨尼小姐说，“你是说当真是你将玻璃杯翻倒的吗？”
“是的，”玛蒂尔达说，“用我的眼睛。”
亨尼小姐沉默了一会儿。她不认为玛蒂尔达是在说谎，更可能是她在驰骋她丰富的想
象。“你是说你坐在你现在坐着的地方吩咐玻璃杯翻倒，它就翻倒了？”
“差不多是这样，亨尼小姐，是这样。”
“如果你真做到了，那么这就是耶稣时代以后一个人所能创造的最伟大的奇迹。”
“我做到了，亨尼小姐。”
“太稀奇了。”亨尼小姐心里说，“小孩子常常会幻想出这样的事情来。”她决定尽可能淡
淡地结束这件事。“你能再做一遍吗？”她说，丝毫不是不客气的样子。
“我不知道，”玛蒂尔达说，“但是我想也许能做到。”
亨尼小姐这时候把空玻璃杯放到桌子当中。“要我倒点水进去吗？”她略带微笑问道。“我
想放不放水没有关系。”玛蒂尔达说。
“那很好。现在让它翻倒吧。”
“可能需要点时间。”
“随你花多少时间，”亨尼小姐说，“我没事情。”
玛蒂尔达坐在第二排，离亨尼小姐约十英尺，用两个胳膊肘撑着课桌，双手捧着脸，这
一回她一开始就下命令。“把玻璃杯推翻，把它推翻！”她吩咐道，但她的嘴唇没有动，也没
有发出声音，她只是在头脑里叫喊这句话。现在她把整个心、整个脑子和全部意志都集中到
她的眼睛里。她再一次—这一次比上次快得多——感到电流聚集起来，力开始涌现，眼球发
热，接着它的几百万只看不见的小手向玻璃杯发射出去。她无声地在头脑里呼唤：把玻璃杯
推翻。她看见它动了，接着侧转，接着“哐当”一声翻倒在桌面上，离亨尼小姐交叉着的手臂
不到十二英寸。
亨尼小姐的嘴张开了，眼睛瞪得可以看到眼珠周围的眼白。她一个字也没有说，她说不
出来。亲眼看到奇迹发生使她震惊得呆住了。她看着玻璃杯，把身子离开远一点，好像它是
一样危险的东西。接着她慢慢地抬起头来看玛蒂尔达，这孩子脸色发白，白得像纸，浑身颤
抖，眼睛闪光，直视着前方却什么也看不见，整张脸变了形，眼睛又圆又亮。她坐在那里一
言不发，在一片寂静中美极了。
亨尼小姐等待着，她也有点发抖，看着这孩子慢慢地恢复神智。接着忽然之间，她的脸
一下子显出几乎天使般的宁静。“我没事，”她微笑着说，“我很好，亨尼小姐，你不要怕。”
“你好像离得那么远。”亨尼小姐敬畏地轻轻说。
“噢，我刚才是这样的。我展开银色的翅膀飞过了星星，”玛蒂尔达说，“真是妙极了。”
亨尼小姐依然极其惊讶地看着这孩子，好像这是开天辟地，是世界的开始，是第一个早
晨。
“这一次快得多。”玛蒂尔达安静地说。“这是不可能的！”亨尼小姐在喘气，“我不相信！
我就是不相信！”她把眼睛闭上好一会儿。等到重新张开，她好像已经振作起来了。“你愿意
去我的农舍吃茶点吗？”
“噢，我太愿意了。”玛蒂尔达说。
“好，你把东西收拾一下，过两分钟我们在外面碰头。”
“你不会把这件……这件我所做的事情告诉任何人的，对吗，亨尼小姐？”
“我想也没想过要告诉别人。”亨尼小姐说。
16.Miss Honey's Cottage
Miss Honey's Cottage
Miss Honey joined Matilda outside the school gates and the two of them walked in silence through
the village High Street. They passed the greengrocer with his window full of apples and oranges,
and the butcher with bloody lumps of meat on display and naked chickens hanging up, and the
small bank, and the grocery store and the electrical shop, and then they came out at the other side
of the village on to the narrow country road where there were no people any more and very few
motor-cars.
And now that they were alone, Matilda all of a sudden became wildly animated. It seemed as
though a valve had burst inside her and a great gush of energy was being released. She trotted
beside Miss Honey with wild little hops and her fingers flew as if she would scatter them to the
four winds and her words went off like fireworks, with terrific speed. It was Miss Honey this and
Miss Honey that and Miss Honey I do honestly feel I could move almost anything in the world,
not just tipping over glasses and little things like that . . . I feel I could topple tables and chairs,
Miss Honey . . . Even when people are sitting in the chairs I think I could push them over, and
bigger things too, much bigger things than chairs and tables . . . I only have to take a moment to
get my eyes strong and then I can push it out, this strongness, at anything at all so long as I am
staring at it hard enough . . . I have to stare at it very hard, Miss Honey, very very hard, and then I
can feel it all happening behind my eyes, and my eyes get hot just as though they were burning but
I don't mind that in the least, and Miss Honey . . .
"Calm yourself down, child, calm yourself down," Miss Honey said. "Let us not get ourselves too
worked up so early in the proceedings."
"But you do think it is interesting, don't you, Miss Honey?"
"Oh, it is interesting all right," Miss Honey said. "It is more than interesting. But we must tread
very carefully from now on, Matilda."
"Why must we tread carefully, Miss Honey?"
"Because we are playing with mysterious forces, my child, that we know nothing about. I do not
think they are evil. They may be good. They may even be divine. But whether they are or not, let
us handle them carefully."
These were wise words from a wise old bird, but Matilda was too steamed up to see it that way. "I
don't see why we have to be so careful?" she said, still hopping about.
"I am trying to explain to you," Miss Honey said patiently, "that we are dealing with the unknown.
It is an unexplainable thing. The right word for it is a phenomenon. It is a phenomenon."
"Am I a phenomenon?" Matilda asked.
"It is quite possible that you are," Miss Honey said. "But I'd rather you didn't think about yourself
as anything in particular at the moment. What I thought we might do is to explore this
phenomenon a little further, just the two of us together, but making sure we take things very
carefully all the time."
"You want me to do some more of it then, Miss Honey?"
"That is what I am tempted to suggest," Miss Honey said cautiously.
"Goody-good," Matilda said.
"I myself," Miss Honey said, "am probably far more bowled over by what you did than you are,
and I am trying to find some reasonable explanation."
"Such as what?" Matilda asked.
"Such as whether or not it's got something to do with the fact that you are quite exceptionally
precocious."
"What exactly does that word mean?" Matilda said.
"A precocious child", Miss Honey said, "is one that shows amazing intelligence early on. You are
an unbelievably precocious child."
"Am I really?" Matilda asked.
"Of course you are. You must be aware of that. Look at your reading. Look at your mathematics."
"I suppose you're right," Matilda said.
Miss Honey marvelled at the child's lack of conceit and self-consciousness.
"I can't help wondering", she said, "whether this sudden ability that has come to you, of being able
to move an object without touching it, whether it might not have something to do with your
brainpower."
"You mean there might not be room in my head for all those brains so something has to push out?"
"That's not quite what I mean," Miss Honey said, smiling. "But whatever happens, and I say it
again, we must tread carefully from now on. I have not forgotten that strange and distant glimmer
on your face after you tipped over the last glass."
"Do you think doing it could actually hurt me? Is that what you're thinking, Miss Honey?"
"It made you feel pretty peculiar, didn't it?"
"It made me feel lovely," Matilda said. "For a moment or two I was flying past the stars on silver
wings. I told you that. And shall I tell you something else, Miss Honey? It was easier the second
time, much much easier. I think it's like anything else, the more you practise it, the easier it gets."
Miss Honey was walking slowly so that the small child could keep up with her without trotting too
fast, and it was very peaceful out there on the narrow road now that the village was behind them. It
was one of those golden autumn afternoons and there were blackberries and splashes of old man's
beard in the hedges, and the hawthorn berries were ripening scarlet for the birds when the cold
winter came along. There were tall trees here and there on either side, oak and sycamore and ash
and occasionally a sweet chestnut. Miss Honey, wishing to change the subject for the moment,
gave the names of all these to Matilda and taught her how to recognise them by the shape of their
leaves and the pattern of the bark on their trunks. Matilda took all this in and stored the knowledge
away carefully in her mind.
They came finally to a gap in the hedge on the left-hand side of the road where there was a five-
barred gate. "This way," Miss Honey said, and she opened the gate and led Matilda through and
closed it again. They were now walking along a narrow lane that was no more than a rutted cart-
track. There was a high hedge of hazel on either side and you could see clusters of ripe brown nuts
in their green jackets. The squirrels would be collecting them all very soon, Miss Honey said, and
storing them away carefully for the bleak months ahead.
"You mean you live down here?" Matilda asked.
"I do," Miss Honey replied, but she said no more.
Matilda had never once stopped to think about where Miss Honey might be living. She had always
regarded her purely as a teacher, a person who turned up out of nowhere and taught at school and
then went away again. Do any of us children, she wondered, ever stop to ask ourselves where our
teachers go when school is over for the day? Do we wonder if they live alone, or if there is a
mother at home or a sister or a husband? "Do you
live all by yourself, Miss Honey?" she asked.
"Yes," Miss Honey said. "Very much so."
They were walking over the deep sun-baked mud-tracks of the lane and you had to watch where
you put your feet if you didn't want to twist your ankle. There were a few small birds around in the
hazel branches but that was all.
"It's just a farm-labourer's cottage," Miss Honey said. "You mustn't expect too much of it. We're
nearly there."
They came to a small green gate half-buried in the hedge on the right and almost hidden by the
overhanging hazel branches. Miss Honey paused with one hand on the gate and said, "There it is.
That's where I live."
Matilda saw a narrow dirt-path leading to a tiny
red-brick cottage. The cottage was so small it looked more like a doll's house than a human
dwelling. The bricks it was built of were old and crumbly and very pale red. It had a grey slate
roof and one small chimney, and there were two little windows at the front. Each window was no
larger than a sheet of tabloid newspaper and there was clearly no upstairs to the place. On either
side of the path there was a wilderness of nettles and blackberry thorns and long brown grass. An
enormous oak tree stood overshadowing the cottage. Its massive spreading branches seemed to be
enfolding and embracing the tiny building, and perhaps hiding it as well from the rest of the world.
Miss Honey, with one hand on the gate which she had not yet opened, turned to Matilda and said,
"A poet called Dylan Thomas once wrote some lines that I think of every time I walk up this
path."
Matilda waited, and Miss Honey, in a rather wonderful slow voice, began reciting the poem:
"Never and never, my girl riding far and near
In the land of the hearthstone tales, and spelled
asleep,
Fear or believe that the wolf in the sheepwhite
hood
Loping and bleating roughly and blithely shall
leap, my dear, my dear,
Out of a lair in the flocked leaves in the dew
dipped year
To eat your heart in the house in the rosy
wood."
There was a moment of silence, and Matilda, who had never before heard great romantic poetry
spoken aloud, was profoundly moved. "It's like music," she whispered.
"It is music," Miss Honey said. And then, as though embarrassed at having revealed such a secret
part of herself, she quickly pushed open the gate and walked up the path. Matilda hung back. She
was a bit frightened of this place now. It seemed so unreal and remote and fantastic and so totally
away from this earth. It was like an illustration in Grimm or Hans Andersen. It was the house
where the poor woodcutter lived with Hansel and Gretel and where Red Riding Hood's
grandmother lived and it was also the house of The Seven Dwarfs and The Three Bears and all the
rest of them. It was straight out of a fairy-tale.
"Come along, my dear," Miss Honey called back, and Matilda followed her up the path.
The front-door was covered with flaky green paint and there was no keyhole. Miss Honey simply
lifted the latch and pushed open the door and went in. Although she was not a tall woman, she had
to stoop low to get through the doorway. Matilda went after her and found herself in what seemed
to be a dark narrow tunnel.
"You can come through to the kitchen and help me make the tea," Miss Honey said, and she led
the way along the tunnel into the kitchen -- that is if you could call it a kitchen. It was not much
bigger than a good-sized clothes cupboard and there was one small window in the back wall with a
sink under the window, but there were no taps over the sink. Against another wall there was a
shelf, presumably for preparing food, and there was a single cupboard above the shelf. On the
shelf itself
there stood a Primus stove, a saucepan and a half-full bottle of milk. A Primus is a little camping-
stove that you fill with paraffin and you light it at the top and then you pump it to get pressure for
the flame.
"You can get me some water while I light the Primus," Miss Honey said. "The well is out at the
back. Take the bucket. Here it is. You'll find a rope in the well. Just hook the bucket on to the end
of the rope and lower it down, but don't fall in yourself." Matilda, more bemused than ever now,
took the bucket and carried it out into the back garden. The well had a little wooden roof over it
and a simple winding device and there was the rope dangling down into a dark bottomless hole.
Matilda pulled up the rope and hooked the handle of the bucket on to the end of it. Then she
lowered it until she heard a splash and the rope went slack. She pulled it up again and lo and
behold, there was water in the bucket.
"Is this enough?" she asked, carrying it in.
"Just about," Miss Honey said. "I don't suppose you've ever done that before?"
"Never," Matilda said. "It's fun. How do you get enough water for your bath?"
"I don't take a bath," Miss Honey said. "I wash standing up. I get a bucketful of water and I heat it
on this little stove and I strip and wash myself all over."
"Do you honestly do that?" Matilda asked.
"Of course I do," Miss Honey said. "Every poor person in England used to wash that way until not
so very long ago. And they didn't have a Primus. They had to heat the water over the fire in the
hearth."
"Are you poor, Miss Honey?"
"Yes," Miss Honey said. "Very. It's a good little stove, isn't it?" The Primus was roaring away with
a powerful blue flame and already the water in the saucepan was beginning to bubble. Miss Honey
got a teapot from the cupboard and put some tea leaves into it. She also found half a small loaf of
brown bread. She cut two thin slices and then, from a plastic container, she took some margarine
and spread it on the bread.
Margarine, Matilda thought. She really must be poor.
Miss Honey found a tray and on it she put two mugs, the teapot, the half bottle of milk and a plate
with the two slices of bread. "I'm afraid I don't have any sugar," she said. "I never use it."
"That's all right," Matilda said. In her wisdom she seemed to be aware of the delicacy of the
situation and she was taking great care not to say anything to embarrass her companion.
"Let's have it in the sitting-room," Miss Honey said, picking up the tray and leading the way out of
the kitchen and down the dark little tunnel into the room at the front. Matilda followed her, but just
inside the doorway of the so-called sitting-room she stopped and stared around her in absolute
amazement. The room was as small and square and bare as a prison cell. The pale daylight that
entered came from a single tiny window in the front wall, but there were no curtains. The only
objects in the entire room were two upturned wooden boxes to serve as chairs and a third box
between them for a table. That was all. There were no pictures on the walls, no carpet on the floor,
only rough unpolished wooden planks, and there were gaps between the planks where dust and
bits of grime had gathered. The ceiling was so low that with a jump Matilda could nearly touch it
with her finger-tips. The walls were white but the whiteness didn't look like paint. Matilda rubbed
her palm against it and a white powder came off on to her skin. It was whitewash, the cheap stuff
that is used in cowsheds and stables and hen-houses.
Matilda was appalled. Was this really where her neat and trimly-dressed school teacher lived?
Was this all she had to come back to after a day's work? It was unbelievable. And what was the
reason for it? There was something very strange going on around here, surely.
Miss Honey put the tray on one of the upturned boxes. "Sit down, my dear, sit down," she said,
"and we'll have a nice hot cup of tea. Help yourself to bread. Both slices are for you. I never eat
anything when I get home. I have a good old tuck-in at the school lunch and that keeps me going
until the next morning."
Matilda perched herself carefully on an upturned box and more out of politeness than anything
else she took a slice of bread and margarine and started to eat it. At home she would have been
having buttered toast and strawberry jam and probably a piece of sponge-cake to round it off. And
yet this was somehow far more fun. There was a mystery here in this house, a great mystery, there
was no doubt about that, and Matilda was longing to find out what it was.
Miss Honey poured the tea and added a little milk to both cups. She appeared to be not in the least
ill at ease sitting on an upturned box in a bare room and drinking tea out of a mug that she
balanced on her knee.
"You know," she said, "I've been thinking very hard about what you did with that glass. It is a
great power you have been given, my child, you know that."
"Yes, Miss Honey, I do," Matilda said, chewing her bread and margarine.
"So far as I know," Miss Honey went on, "nobody else in the history of the world has been able to
compel an object to move without touching it or blowing on it or using any outside help at all."
Matilda nodded but said nothing.
"The fascinating thing", Miss Honey said, "would be to find out the real limit of this power of
yours. Oh, I know you think you can move just about anything there is, but I have my doubts
about that."
"I'd love to try something really huge," Matilda said.
"What about distance?" Miss Honey asked. "Would you always have to be close to the thing you
were pushing?"
"I simply don't know," Matilda said. "But it would be fun to find out."
16.亨尼小姐的农舍
亨尼小姐的农舍
亨尼小姐在校门外和玛蒂尔达碰头，两人一起默默地穿过村子的大街。她们经过橱窗里
摆满苹果和橘子的水果店，经过陈列着血淋淋的一块块肉和吊着一只只光鸡的肉店、小银
行、百货店和电器店，来到村子另一头一条窄路上，那里没有人，也没有什么汽车。
现在只剩下她们两个了，玛蒂尔达忽然变得极其兴奋。她内心里好像打开了阀门，一大
股精力放了出来。她蹦蹦跳跳走在亨尼小姐身边，张舞着手指像是要把它们散发到四面八
方，她的话像连珠炮似的毕毕剥剥说得飞快。亨尼小姐，是这样，亨尼小姐，是那样，亨尼
小姐，我确实感到我能移动世界上几乎任何东西，不仅是弄翻玻璃杯和诸如此类的小东
西……我觉得我能弄翻桌子和椅子，亨尼小姐……甚至人坐在椅子上，我想我也能连人带椅
子弄翻，还能弄翻更大的东西，比椅子和桌子大得多的东西……我只要花时间使我的眼睛加
强力量，然后把这股力量推出去，推到我狠狠地盯住看了足够时间的东西上……我得狠狠盯
着它看，亨尼小姐，非常非常狠地盯着它看，然后我能感觉到我眼睛后面发生变化，我的眼
睛热得像在燃烧，然而我一点儿也不管，最后，亨尼小姐……
“安静下来，孩子，安静下来。”亨尼小姐说，“让我们在事情才开始的时候不要过分激
动。”
“可你的确认为这件事情很有趣，对吗，亨尼小姐？”
“噢，没错，是很有趣，”亨尼小姐说，“而且不仅是有趣。不过从现在起，我们必须非常
谨慎地行动，玛蒂尔达。”
“为什么我们必须谨慎地行动呢，亨尼小姐？”
“因为我们是在玩弄我们一无所知的一种神秘魔力，孩子。我不认为这魔力是邪恶的，它
可能是好的，甚至可能是神圣的。不过不管是抑或不是，让我们谨慎地掌握它们。”
这是聪明人说出来的聪明话，但是玛蒂尔达太激动了，不这么想。“我不明白我们为什么
要这样谨慎？”她说，仍旧在蹦蹦跳跳。
“我正在试图向你解释。”亨尼小姐耐心地说，“我们是在和一种不知道的东西打交道。这
是一种无法解释的东西，正确的说法是一种现象。这是一种现象。”
“我是一种现象吗？”玛蒂尔达问道。
“很可能你是一种现象，”亨尼小姐说，“不过我宁愿你暂时不要把自己想得那么特别，我
想我们可以把这种现象再稍微进一步探索一下，就我们两个，而且保证一直非常谨慎地进
行。”
“那么你要我再做几次吗，亨尼小姐？”
“这正是我想对你建议的。”亨尼小姐小心地说。
“好极了。”玛蒂尔达说。
“我对你所做的事，”亨尼小姐说，“可能比你更感到吃惊，我正在试图找到更合理的解
释。”
“比方说呢？”玛蒂尔达说。
“比方说这和你少有的早熟是不是有关呢？”
“‘早熟’到底是什么意思？”玛蒂尔达说。
“一个早熟的儿童，”亨尼小姐说，“是极早就显示出惊人智力的儿童。你是一个早熟得叫
人无法相信的孩子。”
“我真是这样的孩子吗？”玛蒂尔达问道。
“你当然是的。你必须看到这一点。瞧你的阅读，瞧你的数学。”
“我想你是对的。”玛蒂尔达说。
亨尼小姐很奇怪这孩子会没有意识到这件事并感到得意。
“我不禁想，”她说，“你身上突然产生的这种能力，即不碰就能移动一样东西，是不是可
能和你的智能没有关系。”
“你是说，我的脑袋里可能容不下所有的脑力，因此有些就得推出来吗？”
“我的意思不完全是这样。”亨尼小姐微笑着说，“但不管是怎么回事，我再说一遍，我们
从现在起必须谨慎行事。我还记得你后来一次把玻璃杯推翻以后，你脸上那种奇怪和遥远的
眼光。”
“你认为做这种事真会伤害我吗？这是你正在想的吗，亨尼小姐？”
“它使你感觉十分古怪，对吗？”
“它使我感觉很舒服。”玛蒂尔达说，“有一会儿我展开了银色翅膀飞过星星。这件事我已
经跟你说过了。要我再告诉你点别的事情吗，亨尼小姐？第二次更容易做到，容易得多了。
我想这和别的事情一样，练习得越多，做起来越容易。”
亨尼小姐慢慢地走，玛蒂尔达不用跑得太快，就能跟上她。如今外面这条窄路上十分安
静，村子已经落在她们后面。这是一个金色的秋日下午，树篱里有黑刺莓和一簇簇铁线莲，
山楂果正在成熟，红艳艳的，等着寒冬来时给小鸟吃。路两旁到处有高大的树，橡树、槭树
和桉树，有时候还会有棵栗树。亨尼小姐想暂时改变话题，把这些树名讲给玛蒂尔达听，还
告诉她怎样从它们的叶子形状和树皮纹路认识它们。玛蒂尔达把这些一一记住，仔细地把这
些知识积累在心中。
她们最后来到路左边的一处树篱缺口，那里有一道五根横木做的栅门。“到这儿来。”亨
尼小姐说着打开栅门，带着玛蒂尔达进去，重新把栅门关上。她们现在走在一条狭窄的小径
上，它不比一条大车的车辙宽多少。小径两边各有一排高高的榛树，可以看到一簇簇绿壳包
着的成熟褐色榛果。亨尼小姐说，松鼠很快就能采集它们，小心地把它们储存起来，过快要
来临的阴冷日子。
“你是说，你就住在这里吗？”玛蒂尔达问道。
“我就住在这里。”亨尼小姐回答，但是没有再说什么。
玛蒂尔达从来也没有想过亨尼小姐住在什么地方。她一直只是把她看成一位老师，一个
来自不知道什么地方的人，在学校里教课，教完课又走了。她想：“我们有哪个孩子曾经问过
自己，我们的老师下课以后到什么地方去了呢？我们想过她们是一个人生活的，抑或家里有
个妈妈，或者姐妹，或者丈夫吗？”“你就自己一个人生活，亨尼小姐？”她问道。
“是的，”亨尼小姐说，“是这样。”
她们正走在一些太阳晒干了的深深的泥脚印上，如果想不扭伤脚踝，就得小心看着把脚
往哪里放。周围什么也没有，只有几只小鸟停在附近的榛树树枝上。
“这只是一座农场工人的农舍，”亨尼小姐说，“你可别指望它太好。我们差不多到了。”
她们来到一个绿色小栅门前，它右边一半埋没在树篱里，几乎被悬挂着的榛树树枝遮
住。亨尼小姐把一只手放在栅门上，停了一下才说：“到了，那就是我住的地方。”
玛蒂尔达看到一条很窄的泥路通到一座很小的红砖农舍，它小得更像玩具房子而不是人
住的。房子的砖又旧又脆，红色已经变淡，灰石板砌的屋顶上有个小烟囱。房子前面有两个
小窗子，每个窗子不比一张小报大。一眼就看到门前没有台阶，小路两边是荒芜的荨麻、黑
刺莓矮树丛和高高的棕色乱草。一棵巨大的橡树向农舍投下浓荫，它张开的浓密树枝好像抱
住了这所小房子，也许是要把它藏起来使它和外界隔绝。
亨尼小姐一只手仍旧扶着那还没有打开的栅门，转脸对玛蒂尔达说：“一位叫迪兰•托马斯
[1] 的诗人曾经写过几行诗，每次我一走上这条小路就会想起它们来。”
玛蒂尔达等着，亨尼小姐用十分出色的缓慢声调开始背诵这首诗：
“我的小女孩在炉边故事里来回驰骋，听入了迷，睡着了。可永远永远不要害怕，或者相
信，那只披着白羊皮的狼正慢慢地跑来，装出咩咩的声音叫着，然后，哎哟哟，从它躲着的
浸满露水的积叶中跳出来，要在玫瑰林中这所房子里吃你的心脏。”
静寂了片刻。玛蒂尔达从来没有听过朗诵的伟大的浪漫派诗歌，这时候她被深深感动
了。“它像音乐。”她轻轻地说。
“它是音乐。”亨尼小姐说。接着，她好像因为把自己隐蔽得那么深的心情泄露了出来而
感到很不自在，很快地推开栅门，走上小路。玛蒂尔达畏缩不前。她现在对这个地方有点怕
起来了，它看起来那么不真实，那么偏僻，那么怪异，那么远离现实世界，像《格林童话》
或者《安徒生童话》里的一幅插图。它是贫穷的樵夫跟汉塞尔和格蕾特尔 [2] 住的房子，小红
帽的奶奶住的房子，也是七个小矮人、三只熊和其他童话人物住的房子。它是直接从童话中
走出来的。
“来吧，我亲爱的。”亨尼小姐回头叫她。玛蒂尔达跟着她在小路上走着。
前门上绿漆剥落，没有门锁。亨尼小姐只是提起门闩，就推开门进去了。她个子虽然不
高，但进门时还是要稍稍地弯下腰。玛蒂尔达跟着进去，一下子好像到了一条黑暗的窄隧道
里。
“你到厨房来帮我沏茶。”亨尼小姐说着带路沿隧道走进厨房—如果能把它叫做厨房的
话。它不比一个大的衣橱大多少，后墙有一个小窗，窗下有一个洗物盆，但是盆上没有水龙
头。另一边墙上有一个架子，显然是做菜用的。架子上方有一个小柜子。架子上有一个打气
炉、一个长柄锅和半瓶牛奶。打气炉是野营用的那一种，里面装汽油，在顶上把火点着，一
打气火就旺起来了。
“我点炉子的时候，你去给我打点水来。”亨尼小姐说，“井在屋后面。把水桶拿去，它在
这里。你在井里会找到一根绳子，把水桶钩在绳子头上放下去就行了，不过你自己可小心着
别掉到井里去。”玛蒂尔达这时候更加糊涂了，拿起水桶就到外面后花园去。这口井顶上盖着
个小木棚，井上有个简单的卷绕装置，一根绳子垂到下面的无底洞里。玛蒂尔达把绳子拉上
来，把水桶把手钩到绳子头上。接着她把水桶放下去，直到听见“扑通”一声水响，绳子松开
了。然后她把绳子重新拉上来，一看，水桶里装满水了。
“这桶水够吗？”她把水拿进去时问道。
“够了。”亨尼小姐说，“这种事我想你以前没有做过吧？”
“从来没有。”玛蒂尔达说，“真有趣。你怎么弄到足够的水放满你的浴缸呢？”
“我没有浴缸。”亨尼小姐说，“我站着淋浴。我把一桶水在这小炉子上烧热，然后脱掉衣
服淋身子。”
“你真这么洗澡吗？”玛蒂尔达问道。
“我当然这么洗澡。”亨尼小姐说，“直到不太久以前，英国所有穷人都是这样洗澡的。他
们还没有打气炉，只好在灶上烧水呢。”
“你穷吗，亨尼小姐？”
“是的，”亨尼小姐说，“非常穷。这个小炉子很好，不是吗？”打气炉冒出强烈的蓝色火
焰，咕咕响着熄灭了。锅里的水已经在冒泡。亨尼小姐从小柜子里拿下一个茶壶，放了点茶
叶进去。她找来半个小黑面包，切下薄薄两片，从一个塑料盒里切出一些人造牛油抹在上
面。
“人造牛油。”玛蒂尔达想，“她的确很穷。”
亨尼小姐找来一个托盘，把两个杯子、那把茶壶、半瓶牛奶和装着那两片面包的一个碟
子放在上面。“可惜我没有糖，”她说，“我从来不吃糖。”
“没关系。”玛蒂尔达说。她以她的聪明，似乎注意到不要破坏这美好的情调，竭力小心
着不说什么话使亨尼小姐感到窘迫。
“让我们到客厅里去吃吧。”亨尼小姐说着端起托盘，带路走出厨房，穿过那狭小的黑隧
道走进前面的房间。玛蒂尔达跟在后面，可是一进那个所谓的客厅的门，她一下子停下来
了，吃惊地四下打量。房间四四方方，很小，空荡荡的，像个牢房。暗淡的光线从前面墙上
一个小窗口透进来。房间里就只有这一个窗子，而且没有窗帘。整个房间里仅有的东西就是
两个当椅子用的翻转的木箱，还有一个放在它们中间当桌子用，就这些了。墙上没有画，地
板上没有地毯，只有没漆过的粗糙木板条，木板条间有缝，积着灰尘和污垢。天花板低得玛
蒂尔达一跳就几乎能用手指尖碰到它。墙是白的，不过不像是漆的。玛蒂尔达用手掌去擦擦
它，白粉就粘在了皮肤上。是白灰水，用来粉刷牛栏、马厩、鸡埘的便宜东西。
玛蒂尔达大为震惊。这真是她那位干净和衣着整洁的老师住的地方吗？这就是她工作了
一天回来休息的地方吗？这简直叫人没法相信。为什么会这样呢？这里一定有什么蹊跷。
亨尼小姐把托盘放在一个翻转的木箱上。“坐下吧，我亲爱的，坐下吧。”她说，“我们来
好好喝杯热茶。请吃面包吧，两片面包都是给你的，我回家从来不吃东西。我在学校食堂吃
上一顿中饭，能维持到第二天早晨。”
玛蒂尔达小心地坐在一个翻转的木箱上。主要是出于礼貌，她拿起一片抹上人造牛油的
面包吃起来。在家她可要吃抹上草莓酱和牛油的吐司，也许再加一块松糕。不过这样更有
趣。这座房子里有秘密，有重大的秘密，这是毫无疑问的，玛蒂尔达急于要找出这个秘密是
什么。
亨尼小姐斟好茶，在两杯茶里都加上点牛奶。她坐在空荡荡的房间里一个翻转的木箱
上，喝着平放在膝盖上的一杯茶，一点也没有不舒服的样子。
“你知道，”她说，“我一直在用心想你弄翻玻璃杯的事。你被赋予了巨大的力量，我的孩
子，这你知道。”
“是的，亨尼小姐，我知道。”玛蒂尔达嚼着抹了人造牛油的面包，回答说。
“据我所知，”亨尼小姐说下去，“在世界历史上至今还没有人能够不碰、不吹，完全不靠
外力帮助就能使一样东西移动。”
玛蒂尔达点点头，但是没说什么。
“使人最感兴趣的就是，”亨尼小姐说，“要找到你这种力量的极限。噢，我知道你自以为
能够移动任何东西，但是我怀疑这一点。”
“我很想试一下真正大的东西。”玛蒂尔达说。
“那么距离呢？”亨尼小姐问道，“你一直得靠近你要移动的东西吗？”
“我根本不知道。”玛蒂尔达说，“不过弄清这件事会很有趣。”
[1]迪兰•托马斯（1914-1953），英国最后一位浪漫派抒情诗人。
[2]《格林童话》中的人物。
17.Miss Honey's Story
Miss Honey's Story
"We mustn't hurry this," Miss Honey said, "so let's have another cup of tea. And do eat that other
slice of bread. You must be hungry."
Matilda took the second slice and started eating it slowly. The margarine wasn't at all bad. She
doubted whether she could have told the difference if she hadn't known. "Miss Honey," she said
suddenly, "do they pay you very badly at our school?"
Miss Honey looked up sharply. "Not too badly," she said. "I get about the same as the others."
"But it must still be very little if you are so dreadfully poor," Matilda said. "Do all the teachers live
like this, with no furniture and no kitchen stove and no bathroom?"
"No, they don't," Miss Honey said rather stiffly. "I just happen to be the exception."
"I expect you just happen to like living in a very simple way," Matilda said, probing a little
further. "It must make house cleaning an awful lot easier and you don't have furniture to polish or
any of those silly little ornaments lying around that have to be dusted every day. And I suppose if
you don't have a fridge you don't have to go out and buy all sorts of junky things like eggs and
mayonnaise and ice-cream to fill it up with. It must save a terrific lot of shopping."
At this point Matilda noticed that Miss Honey's face had gone all tight and peculiar-looking. Her
whole body had become rigid. Her shoulders were hunched up high and her lips were pressed
together tight and she sat there gripping her mug of tea in both hands and staring down into it as
though searching for a way to answer these not-quite-so-innocent questions.
There followed a rather long and embarrassing silence. In the space of thirty seconds the
atmosphere in the tiny room had changed completely and now it was vibrating with awkwardness
and secrets. Matilda said, "I am very sorry I asked you
those questions, Miss Honey. It is not any of my business."
At this, Miss Honey seemed to rouse herself. She gave a shake of her shoulders and then very
carefully she placed her mug on the tray.
"Why shouldn't you ask?" she said. "You were bound to ask in the end. You are much too bright
not to have wondered. Perhaps I even wanted you to ask. Maybe that is why I invited you here
after all. As a matter of fact you are the first visitor to come to the cottage since I moved in two
years ago."
Matilda said nothing. She could feel the tension growing and growing in the room.
"You are so much wiser than your years, my dear," Miss Honey went on, "that it quite staggers
me. Although you look like a child, you are not really a child at all because your mind and your
powers of reasoning seem to be fully grown-up. So I suppose we might call you a grown-up child,
if you see what I mean."
Matilda still did not say anything. She was waiting for what was coming next.
"Up to now", Miss Honey went on, "I have found it impossible to talk to anyone about my
problems. I couldn't face the embarrassment, and anyway I lack the courage. Any courage I had
was knocked out of me when I was young. But now, all of a sudden I have a sort of desperate wish
to tell everything to somebody. I know you are only a tiny little girl, but there is some kind of
magic in you somewhere. I've seen it with my own eyes."
Matilda became very alert. The voice she was hearing was surely crying out for help. It must be. It
had to be.
Then the voice spoke again. "Have some more tea," it said. "I think there's still a drop left."
Matilda nodded.
Miss Honey poured tea into both mugs and added milk. Again she cupped her own mug in both
hands and sat there sipping.
There was quite a long silence before she said, "May I tell you a story?"
"Of course," Matilda said.
"I am twenty-three years old," Miss Honey said, "and when I was born my father was a doctor in
this village. We had a nice old house, quite large, red-brick. It's tucked away in the woods behind
the hills. I don't think you'd know it."
Matilda kept silent.
"I was born there," Miss Honey said. "And then came the first tragedy. My mother died when I
was two. My father, a busy doctor, had to have someone to run the house and to look after me. So
he invited my mother's unmarried sister, my aunt, to come and live with us. She agreed and she
came."
Matilda was listening intently. "How old was the aunt when she moved in?" she asked.
"Not very old," Miss Honey said. "I should say about thirty. But I hated her right from the start. I
missed my mother terribly. And the aunt was not a kind person. My father didn't know that
because he was hardly every around but when he did put in an appearance, the aunt behaved
differently."
Miss Honey paused and sipped her tea. "I can't think why I am telling you all this," she said,
embarrassed.
"Go on," Matilda said. "Please."
"Well," Miss Honey said, "then came the second tragedy. When I was five, my father died very
suddenly. One day he was there and the next day he was gone. And so I was left to live alone with
my aunt. She became my legal guardian. She had all the powers of a parent over me. And in some
way or another, she became the actual owner of the house."
"How did your father die?" Matilda asked.
"It is interesting you should ask that," Miss Honey said. "I myself was much too young to question
it at the time, but I found out later that there was a good deal of mystery surrounding his death."
"Didn't they know how he died?" Matilda asked.
"Well, not exactly," Miss Honey said, hesitating, "You see, no one could believe that he would
ever have done it. He was such a very sane and sensible man."
"Done what?" Matilda asked.
"Killed himself."
Matilda was stunned. "Did he?" she gasped.
"That's what it looked like," Miss Honey said. "But who knows?" She shrugged and turned away
and stared out of the tiny window.
"I know what you're thinking," Matilda said. "You're thinking that the aunt killed him and made it
look as though he'd done it himself."
"I am not thinking anything," Miss Honey said. "One must never think things like that without
proof."
The little room became quiet. Matilda noticed that the hands clasping the mug were trembling
slightly. "What happened after that?" she asked. "What happened when you were left all alone
with the aunt? Wasn't she nice to you?"
"Nice?" Miss Honey said. "She was a demon. As soon as my father was out of the way she
became a holy terror. My life was a nightmare."
"What did she do to you?" Matilda asked.
"I don't want to talk about it," Miss Honey said. "It's too horrible. But in the end I became so
frightened of her I used to start shaking when she came into the room. You must understand I was
never a strong character like you. I was always shy and retiring."
"Didn't you have any other relations?" Matilda asked. "Any uncles or aunts or grannies who would
come and see you?"
"None that I knew about," Miss Honey said. "They were all either dead or they'd gone to
Australia. And that's still the way it is now, I'm afraid."
"So you grew up in that house alone with your aunt," Matilda said. "But you must have gone to
school,"
"Of course," Miss Honey said. "I went to the same school you're going to now. But I lived at
home." Miss Honey paused and stared down into her empty tea-mug. "I think what I am trying to
explain to you," she said, "is that over the years I became so completely cowed and dominated by
this monster of an aunt that when she gave me an order, no matter what it was, I obeyed it
instantly. That can happen, you know. And by the time I was ten, I had become her slave. I did all
the housework. I made her bed. I washed and ironed for her. I did all the cooking. I learned how to
do everything."
"But surely you could have complained to somebody?" Matilda said.
"To whom?" Miss Honey said. "And anyway, I was far too terrified to complain. I told you, I was
her slave."
"Did she beat you?"
"Let's not go into details," Miss Honey said.
"How simply awful," Matilda said. "Did you cry nearly all the time?"
"Only when I was alone," Miss Honey said. "I wasn't allowed to cry in front of her. But I lived in
fear."
"What happened when you left school?" Matilda asked.
"I was a bright pupil," Miss Honey said. "I could easily have got into university. But there was no
question of that."
"Why not, Miss Honey?"
"Because I was needed at home to do the work."
"Then how did you become a teacher?" Matilda asked.
"There is a Teacher's Training College in Reading," Miss Honey said. "That's only forty minutes'
bus-ride away from here. I was allowed to go there on condition I came straight home again every
afternoon to do the washing and ironing and to clean the house and cook the supper."
"How old were you then?" Matilda asked.
"When I went into Teacher's Training I was eighteen," Miss Honey said.
"You could have just packed up and walked away," Matilda said.
"Not until I got a job," Miss Honey said. "And don't forget, I was by then dominated by my aunt to
such an extent that I wouldn't have dared. You can't imagine what it's like to be completely
controlled like that by a very strong personality. It turns you to jelly. So that's it. That's the sad
story of my life. Now I've talked enough."
"Please don't stop," Matilda said. "You haven't finished yet. How did you manage to get away
from her in the end and come and live in this funny little house?"
"Ah, that was something," Miss Honey said. "I was proud of that."
"Tell me," Matilda said.
"Well," Miss Honey said, "when I got my teacher's job, the aunt told me I owed her a lot of
money. I asked her why. She said, 'Because I've been feeding you for all these years and buying
your shoes and your clothes!' She told me it added up to thousands and I had to pay her back by
giving her my salary for the next ten years. I'll give you one pound a week pocket-money,' she
said. 'But that's all you're going to get.' She even arranged with the school authorities to have my
salary paid directly into her own bank. She made me sign the paper."
"You shouldn't have done that," Matilda said. "Your salary was your chance of freedom."
"I know, I know," Miss Honey said. "But by then I had been her slave nearly all my life and I
hadn't the courage or the guts to say no. I was still petrified of her. She could still hurt me badly."
"So how did you manage to escape?" Matilda asked.
"Ah," Miss Honey said, smiling for the first time, "that was two years ago. It was my greatest
triumph."
"Please tell me," Matilda said.
"I used to get up very early and go for walks while my aunt was still asleep," Miss Honey said.
"And one day I came across this tiny cottage. It was empty. I found out who owned it. It was a
farmer. I went to see him. Farmers also get up very early. He was milking his cows. I asked him if
I could rent his cottage. 'You can't live there!' he cried. It's got no conveniences, no running water,
no nothing!' "
" 'I want to live there,' I said. I'm a romantic. I've fallen in love with it. Please rent it to me.'
" 'You're mad,' he said. 'But if you insist, you're welcome to it. The rent will be ten pence a week.'
" 'Here's one month's rent in advance,' I said, giving him 40p. 'And thank you so much!' "
"How super!" Matilda cried. "So suddenly you had a house all of your own! But how did you
pluck up the courage to tell the aunt?"
"That was tough," Miss Honey said. "But I steeled myself to do it. One night, after I had cooked
her supper, I went upstairs and packed the few things I possessed in a cardboard box and came
downstairs and announced I was leaving. 'I've rented a house,' I said.
"My aunt exploded. 'Rented a house!' she shouted. 'How can you rent a house when you have only
one pound a week in the world?'
" 'I've done it,' I said.
" 'And how are you going to buy food for yourself?'
" 'I'll manage,' I mumbled and rushed out of the front door."
"Oh, well done you!" Matilda cried. "So you were free at last!"
"I was free at last," Miss Honey said. "I can't tell you how wonderful it was."
"But have you really managed to live here on one pound a week for two years?" Matilda asked.
"I most certainly have," Miss Honey said. "I pay ten pence rent, and the rest just about buys me
paraffin for my stove and for my lamp, and a little milk and tea and bread and margarine. That's all
I need really. As I told you, I have a jolly good tuck-in at the school lunch."
Matilda stared at her. What a marvellously brave thing Miss Honey had done. Suddenly she was a
heroine in Matilda's eyes. "Isn't it awfully cold in the winter?" she asked.
"I've got my little paraffin stove," Miss Honey said. "You'd be surprised how snug I can make it in
here."
"Do you have a bed, Miss Honey?"
"Well not exactly," Miss Honey said, smiling again. "But they say it's very healthy to sleep on a
hard surface."
All at once Matilda was able to see the whole situation with absolute clarity. Miss Honey needed
help. There was no way she could go on existing like this indefinitely. "You would be a lot better
off, Miss Honey," she said, "if you gave up your job and drew unemployment money."
"I would never do that," Miss Honey said. "I love teaching."
"This awful aunt," Matilda said, "I suppose she is still living in your lovely old house?"
"Very much so," Miss Honey said. "She's still only about fifty. She'll be around for a long time
yet."
"And do you think your father really meant her to own the house for ever?"
"I'm quite sure he didn't," Miss Honey said. "Parents will often give a guardian the right to occupy
the house for a certain length of time, but it is nearly always left in trust for the child. It then
becomes the child's property when he or she grows up."
"Then surely it is your house?" Matilda said.
"My father's will was never found," Miss Honey said. "It looks as though somebody destroyed it."
"No prizes for guessing who," Matilda said.
"No prizes," Miss Honey said.
"But if there is no will, Miss Honey, then surely the house goes automatically to you. You are the
next of kin."
"I know I am," Miss Honey said. "But my aunt produced a piece of paper supposedly written by
my father saying that he leaves the house to his sister-in-law in return for her kindness in looking
after me. I am certain it's a forgery. But no one can prove it."
"Couldn't you try?" Matilda said. "Couldn't you hire a good lawyer and make a fight of it."
"I don't have the money to do that," Miss Honey said. "And you must remember that this aunt of
mine is a much respected figure in the community. She has a lot of influence."
"Who is she?" Matilda asked.
Miss Honey hesitated a moment. Then she said softly, "Miss Trunchbull."
17.亨尼小姐的故事
亨尼小姐的故事
“这件事情我们不忙，”亨尼小姐说，“让我们再喝一杯茶吧。请一定吃掉第二片面包，你
一定饿了。”
玛蒂尔达拿起第二片面包，开始慢慢地吃起来。人造牛油根本不坏，如果不知道是人造
牛油，她恐怕说不准自己是不是能分辨出来。“亨尼小姐，”她忽然说，“我们的学校付你的工
钱很少吗？”
亨尼小姐猛地抬起头来。“不太少。”她说，“我得到的工钱和其他老师得到的差不多。”
“如果你穷成这样，那么还是很少的。”玛蒂尔达说，“所有的老师都这样过吗？没有家
具，没有厨房炉灶，没有浴室？”
“不，他们不是这样。”亨尼小姐十分严肃地说，“我只不过正好是个例外。”
“我想你只不过正好是喜欢过非常简朴的生活吧？”玛蒂尔达说，想探听下去，“这样，屋
里打扫起来要容易得多，没有需要擦的家具，没有摆满屋子每天需要擦拭的无聊小摆设。我
还想，你没有冰箱，也就用不着出去买鸡蛋、蛋黄酱和冰淇淋这类乱七八糟的东西把它塞满
了。这样一定省掉许多买东西的麻烦事。”
这时候玛蒂尔达注意到，亨尼小姐的脸绷紧了，神情十分古怪。她的整个身体发僵，双
肩耸起，嘴唇紧抿，坐在那里用双手捧住那杯茶，低头看着它，像是在寻找一个办法回答这
种不太天真的问题。
随之而来的是相当长和使人难受的寂静。在三十秒钟里，小房间的气氛完全变了，现在
它颤动着一种尴尬和神秘的空气。玛蒂尔达说：“我很抱歉问了你这些问题，亨尼小姐。它实
际上和我一点关系也没有。”
亨尼小姐听了这话好像醒悟过来了。她双肩抖了抖，接着很小心地把她的茶杯放到托盘
上。
“为什么你不该问呢？”她说，“到头来你一定会问的。你太聪明了，不会不觉得奇怪。说
不定我甚至要你问，也许正因为这个缘故我才请你到这里来的。老实说，自从我两年前搬到
这农舍来以后，你是第一位来访的人。”
玛蒂尔达没有说话。她能够感觉到房间里的气氛越来越紧张。
“你比同龄的孩子要聪明得多，我亲爱的，”亨尼小姐说下去，“这使我十分震惊。你看上
去像个孩子，但实际上你根本不是个孩子，因为你的心灵和理解力似乎已经完全成熟了。因
此我想，我可以把你称做一个成熟了的孩子，如果你理解我的意思的话。”
玛蒂尔达还是不说话，她在等着听下去。
“直到现在，”亨尼小姐说下去，“我感到我不可能对任何人讲我的问题，我无法面对使我
感到尴尬的局面，总之我缺乏勇气。在我还小的时候，我的勇气就被打掉了，但是现在，我
忽然渴望想要把所有的事情讲给什么人听听。我知道你只是一个很小的小姑娘，但你身上有
一种魔力，我亲眼看到过它了。”
玛蒂尔达竖起了耳朵。她在听着的声音显然是呼救。一定是的，只能是呼救。
接着这声音又响起来。“再喝点茶吧，”她说，“我想还有一点儿。”
玛蒂尔达点点头。
亨尼小姐把茶斟在两个茶杯里，加上点牛奶。她用双手捧着她的茶杯，坐在那里啜饮
着。
很长一阵寂静之后，她说：“我可以给你讲一个故事吗？”
“当然。”玛蒂尔达说。
“我二十三岁了。”亨尼小姐说，“生下来时，我爸爸是这村子里的医生。我们有一座很好
的旧屋，很大，红砖盖的，它藏在山冈后面的林子里。我想你不会知道它。”
玛蒂尔达保持沉默。
“我就生在那里，”亨尼小姐说，“接着发生了第一件不幸的事情：我两岁的时候我的妈妈
去世了。我爸爸是个忙碌的医生，只好请人来管家并且照顾我。于是他请我妈妈没有结婚的
妹妹，我的姨妈，来和我们住在一起。她答应了，她来了。”
玛蒂尔达仔细地听着。“你姨妈来的时候有多大？”她问道。
“不太大，”亨尼小姐说，“我想是三十岁左右吧。但是从她一来我就不喜欢她，我非常想
念我的妈妈。姨妈可不是一个善良的人。这一点我爸爸不知道，因为他难得在家，但只要他
一露脸，姨妈的态度就完全两样了。”
亨尼小姐停下来，啜饮着她的茶。“我想不出我为什么要把这一切告诉你。”她很窘地
说。
“请说下去。”玛蒂尔达说。
“好吧，”亨尼小姐说，“接着又发生了第二件不幸的事情：我五岁那年，我爸爸很突然地
死了。今天他还在，第二天却死了。于是剩下我一个人同我姨妈住在一起。她成了我的法定
监护人，对我享有父母同样的权力，同时她又成了那房子的实际所有者。”
“你爸爸是怎么死的？”玛蒂尔达问道。
“你会问这个问题，真是太有意思了。”亨尼小姐说，“我自己当时太小，还不会问这个问
题。但是后来我发现，围绕着他的死有许多神秘的问题。”
“大家难道不知道他是怎么死的吗？”玛蒂尔达问道。
“不太知道。”亨尼小姐犹豫地说，“你知道，没有人能相信他会做那样的事。他是一个非
常健全和明智的人。”
“他做什么事了？”玛蒂尔达问道。
“自杀。”
玛蒂尔达呆住了。“他这样做了？”她喘了口气。
“看起来好像是这样。”亨尼小姐说，“但是谁知道呢？”她耸耸肩膀，转脸往小窗子外面
看。
“我知道你在想什么，”玛蒂尔达说，“你想是姨妈谋杀了他，却使人看来他是自杀的。”
“我什么也没有想。”亨尼小姐说，“这种事情没有证据绝对不可以这样想。”
小房间里变得很静，玛蒂尔达注意到她捧着茶杯的手在微微发抖。“这以后发生什么事
了？”她问道，“剩下你孤零零一个人和这姨妈在一起住的时候，发生什么事情了？她对你好
吗？”
“好？”亨尼小姐说，“她是一个恶魔。我爸爸一没有，她就变成了一个极其可怕的人。我
的生活像是噩梦。”
“她怎么对待你的？”玛蒂尔达问道。
“我连说都不想说，”亨尼小姐说，“太可怕了。到最后我对她怕成这样，她一进房间我就
浑身发抖。你必须明白，我从来不是一个像你那样坚强的人，我总是胆小怕事。”
“你没有别的亲戚吗？”玛蒂尔达问道，“比如你的叔伯、姑妈或者奶奶？”
“我一个也不认识，”亨尼小姐说，“他们不是死了就是去了澳大利亚。现在还是这样。”
“这么说，你和你的姨妈住在一起，孤零零一个人在那房子里长大。”玛蒂尔达说，“可是
你一定上学了。”
“当然。”亨尼小姐说，“我进了你现在上学的同一所学校，但我还得住在家里。”亨尼小
姐停下来，看着她的空茶杯。“我想我要向你解释的是，”她说，“这些年下来，我完全被我姨
妈这恶魔吓坏和控制住了，只要她吩咐一声，不管什么事我都马上服从。你知道，这种情形
是会有的。到我十岁的时候，我成了她的奴隶，做所有的家务，给她铺床，替她洗熨衣服，
烧饭，学做各种事情。”
“不过你完全可以找人诉苦吧？”玛蒂尔达说。
“找谁？”亨尼小姐说，“而且我吓得不敢诉苦。我对你说过了，我是她的奴隶。”
“她打你吗？”
“细节我们就不要说下去了。”亨尼小姐说。
“真是那么可怕呀！”玛蒂尔达说，“你差不多一直在哭吧？”
“只有剩我一个人的时候才哭。”亨尼小姐说，“在她面前是不许哭的。我生活在恐惧之
中。”
“你离开这学校以后怎么样呢？”玛蒂尔达问道。
“我是个优秀的学生，”亨尼小姐说，“我很容易就可以进大学，但这连想也不要想。”
“为什么，亨尼小姐？”
“因为我要在家里干活。”
“那么你怎么成为教师的？”玛蒂尔达问道。
“雷丁城有一家师范学院，”亨尼小姐说，“从这里去只要坐四十分钟公共汽车。我得到允
许到那里去上课，条件是每天下午一放学就得直接回家洗熨衣服、收拾房子、做晚饭。”
“那时候你几岁？”玛蒂尔达问道。
“我进师范学院那年是十八岁。”亨尼老师说。
“你可以干脆收拾东西走掉啊！”玛蒂尔达说。
“我得找到工作才能走。”亨尼小姐说，“别忘了我当时被我姨妈完全控制住了，这种事连
想也不敢想。你想象不出来，被一个非常强有力的人完全控制住是怎么回事。她使你软弱成
一摊烂泥。就是这样，这是我悲惨的生活故事。现在我已经说得够多了。”
“请不要停止，”玛蒂尔达说，“你还没有说完。你最后是怎么离开了她，住到这所滑稽的
小房子里来的？”
“噢，那倒可以说说，”亨尼小姐说，“这件事我感到自豪。”
“讲给我听吧。”玛蒂尔达说。
“是这样，”亨尼小姐说，“当我得到了我的教师工作，我姨妈说我欠了她一大笔债。我问
她为什么，她说：‘因为我养了你，所有这么些年给你吃，给你买鞋子买衣服。’她说加起来有
好几千英镑，以后十年，我要把我的薪水都给她，好还清这笔债。‘每星期我给你一英镑零用
钱。’她说，‘你能到手的就这么多了。’她甚至和学校当局讲定，把我的薪水直接付到她的银
行账户上去。她迫使我在文件上签了字。”
“你不该这样做，”玛蒂尔达说，“你的薪水是你获得自由的机会。”
“我知道，我知道，”亨尼小姐说，“但那时候我几乎一直都在做她的奴隶，我没有勇气不
答应。我依旧看见她就发怵，她还能够很严重地伤害我。”
“那你是怎样逃出来的？”玛蒂尔达问道。
“啊，”亨尼小姐说，第一次露出微笑，“那是两年以前，这是我最大的胜利。”
“请讲给我听吧。”玛蒂尔达说。
“我一向早起，趁我姨妈还在睡觉的时候去散散步。”亨尼小姐说，“有一天我走过这座小
农舍，它是空的。我打听出这农舍的主人是一个农民。我去看他，农民起得也很早，正在挤
牛奶。我问是不是可以租他的农舍。‘那里你没法住的！’他叫起来，‘它没有生活设施，没有
自来水，什么也没有！’”
“‘我想住在那里，’我说，‘我是一个罗曼蒂克的人，我爱上它了。请把它租给我吧。’”
“‘你疯了。’他说，‘不过你如果一定要租，很欢迎你去住。房租就十个便士一星期吧。’”
“‘这是预付的一个月的房租。’我交给他四十个便士说，‘太谢谢你了！’”
“多么了不起！”玛蒂尔达叫起来，“这样一下子你就有了自己的家！不过你是怎么鼓起勇
气对你姨妈说的呢？”
“那很难办，”亨尼小姐说，“但是我铁了心对她说。一天晚上，我把她的晚饭做好以后，
上楼去把我的几件东西收拾在一个纸板箱里，下楼说我要走了。‘我租了个房子。’我说。”
“我的姨妈发火了。‘租了个房子！’她大叫道，‘你一星期只有一英镑，怎么租房子？’”
“‘我租成了。我说。’”
“‘那你怎么买吃的？’”
“‘我能对付。’我咕哝了一声，奔出了前门。”
“噢，你做得好！”玛蒂尔达叫道，“那么你终于自由了！”
“我终于自由了。”亨尼小姐说，“我真没法告诉你这有多好！”
“靠一星期一英镑的钱，你真能在这里住上两年吗？”玛蒂尔达问道。
“我当然做到了。”亨尼小姐说，“我付掉十便士房租，其余的钱买打气炉和汽油灯用的汽
油，买点牛奶、茶叶、面包和人造牛油。我需要的其实就只有这些。正如我告诉过你的，在
学校吃午饭时我吃得饱饱的。”
玛蒂尔达看着她。亨尼老师做了一件多么大无畏的事情啊！她一下子成了玛蒂尔达心目
中的英雄。“冬天这里冷得不可怕吗？”她问道。
“我有我的小打气炉。”亨尼小姐说，“你可能感到奇怪，我能让它使这里变得这样温
暖。”
“你有床吗，亨尼小姐？”
“没有。”亨尼小姐说，又微笑起来，“不过他们说，睡在硬板上对健康是非常有益的。”
整个处境玛蒂尔达马上一目了然了。亨尼小姐需要帮助，她不能无限期地这样生活下
去。“如果你放弃这个工作去领取失业救济金，”玛蒂尔达说，“你的生活还会好得多。”
“我永远不会这样做，”亨尼小姐说，“我爱教书。”
“这个可怕的姨妈，”玛蒂尔达说，“我想她仍旧住在你那座可爱的老房子里吧？”
“是的。”亨尼小姐说，“她只有五十岁左右。她还要住很久。”
“你认为你爸爸真想让她永远占有那座房子吗？”
“我完全肯定他没有这个意思。”亨尼小姐说，“做父母的通常给予监护人一定期限的托管
权，但几乎都是只把孩子托他管理。等到孩子长大成人，房子就成为孩子的财产了。”
“那么房子当然是你的啦？”玛蒂尔达说。
“我爸爸的遗嘱始终没有找到，”亨尼小姐说，“它好像被什么人销毁了。”
“这个人不用去猜。”玛蒂尔达说。
“是不用猜。”亨尼小姐说。
“不过即使没有遗嘱，亨尼小姐，这房子自然也是你的。你是最近的亲属。”
“我知道我是，”亨尼小姐说，“但是我姨妈拿出了一张字据，说是我爸爸写的，上面说他
把这房子留给妻妹，作为对她好心照顾我的报答。我断定它是伪造的，但是没有人能够证
明。”
“你不能试一试吗？”玛蒂尔达说，“你不能请一位好律师，跟她打一场官司吗？”
“我没有钱请律师，”亨尼小姐，“而且你必须记住，我的这个姨妈在社会上是一个十分受
尊敬的人。她有很大的影响。”
“她是谁？”玛蒂尔达问道。
亨尼小姐犹豫了一下，接着她轻轻地说：“特朗奇布尔小姐。”
18.The Names
The Names
"Miss Trunchbull!" Matilda cried, jumping about a foot in the air. "You mean she is your aunt?
She brought you up?"
"Yes," Miss Honey said.
"No wonder you were terrified!" Matilda cried. "The other day we saw her grab a girl by the
pigtails and throw her over the playground fence!"
"You haven't seen anything," Miss Honey said. "After my father died, when I was five and a half,
she used to make me bath myself all alone. And if she came up and thought I hadn't washed
properly she would push my head under the water and hold it there. But don't get me started on
what she used to do. That won't help us at all."
"No," Matilda said, "it won't."
"We came here", Miss Honey said," to talk about you and I've been talking about nothing but
myself the whole time. I feel like a fool. I am much more interested in just how much you can do
with those amazing eyes of yours."
"I can move things," Matilda said. "I know I can. I can push things over."
"How would you like it", Miss Honey said, "if we made some very cautious experiments to see
just how much you can move and push?"
Quite surprisingly, Matilda said, "If you don't mind, Miss Honey, I think I would rather not. I want
to go home now and think and think about all the things I've heard this afternoon."
Miss Honey stood up at once. "Of course," she said. "I have kept you here far too long. Your
mother will be starting to worry."
"She never does that," Matilda said, smiling. "But I would like to go home now please, if you don't
mind."
"Come along then," Miss Honey said. "I'm sorry I gave you such a rotten tea."
"You didn't at all," Matilda said. "I loved it."
The two of them walked all the way to Matilda's house in complete silence. Miss Honey sensed
that Matilda wanted it that way. The child seemed so lost in thought she hardly looked where she
was walking, and when they reached the gate of Matilda's home, Miss Honey said, "You had
better forget everything I told you this afternoon."
"I won't promise to do that," Matilda said, "but I will promise not to talk about it to anyone any
more, not even to you."
"I think that would be wise," Miss Honey said.
"I won't promise to stop thinking about it, though, Miss Honey," Matilda said. "I've been thinking
about it all the way back from your cottage and I believe I've got just a tiny little bit of an idea."
"You mustn't," Miss Honey said. "Please forget it."
"I would like to ask you three last things before
I stop talking about it," Matilda said. "Please will you answer them, Miss Honey?"
Miss Honey smiled. It was extraordinary, she told herself, how this little snippet of a girl seemed
suddenly to be taking charge of her problems, and with such authority, too. "Well," she said, "that
depends on what the questions are."
"The first thing is this," Matilda said. "What did Miss Trunchbull call your father when they were
around the house at home?"
"I'm sure she called him Magnus," Miss Honey said. "That was his first name."
"And what did your father call Miss Trunchbull?"
"Her name is Agatha," Miss Honey said. "That's what he would have called her."
"And lastly," Matilda said, "what did your father and Miss Trunchbull call you around the house?"
"They called me Jenny," Miss Honey said.
Matilda pondered these answers very carefully. "Let me make sure I've got them right," she said.
"In the house at home, your father was Magnus, Miss Trunchbull was Agatha and you were Jenny.
Am I right?"
"That is correct," Miss Honey said.
"Thank you," Matilda said. "And now I won't mention the subject any more."
Miss Honey wondered what on earth was going on in the mind of this child. "Don't do anything
silly," she said.
Matilda laughed and turned away and ran up the path to her front-door, calling out as she went,
"Good-bye, Miss Honey! Thank you so much for the tea."
18.三个名字
三个名字
“特朗奇布尔小姐！”玛蒂尔达大叫一声，蹦起一英尺高，“你是说她就是你的姨妈？是她
把你带大的？”
“是的。”亨尼小姐说。
“怪不得你害怕了！”玛蒂尔达叫道，“那天我们看到她抓住一个小姑娘的辫子，把她抡过
操场的铁丝网。”
“你还没有把她做的事都看到呢。”亨尼小姐说，“我爸爸死了以后，我才五岁半，她总是
让我自己洗澡。如果她走过来，认为我洗得不够干净，会把我的头按到水里去不放。不过别
让我讲起她常做的事了，那对我们根本没有用处。”
“没有用处，”玛蒂尔达说，“是没有用处。”
“我们到这里来是要谈谈你的事，”亨尼小姐说，“可是我一直光顾着谈我自己的事了。我
觉得自己像一个傻瓜。我更感兴趣的是，你用你那双神奇的眼睛能做出多少事来。”
“我能够移动东西，”玛蒂尔达说，“我知道我能够，我能够把东西推翻。”
“你看怎么样，”亨尼小姐说，“我们来做些小心的试验，看你能够移动和推动到什么程
度？”
没想到玛蒂尔达说：“如果你不介意，亨尼小姐，我想我还是不做了吧。我现在想回家去
仔细想想我今天下午听到的事情。”
亨尼小姐马上站起来。“当然，”她说，“我把你在这儿留得太久了，你的妈妈会担心
的。”
“她从来不担心。”玛蒂尔达微笑着说，“只是你如果不介意，我现在想回家了，对不
起。”
“那么走吧，”亨尼小姐说，“我很抱歉给你喝这么差的茶点。”
“根本不是这样，”玛蒂尔达说，“我喜欢它们。”
她们两个闷声不响地一直走到玛蒂尔达的家。亨尼小姐感觉到玛蒂尔达不想说话。这孩
子似乎只顾埋头想心事，路也难得看。到了她家的院门口，亨尼小姐才说：“你最好忘掉我今
天下午给你讲的所有事情。”
“这一点我不答应。”玛蒂尔达说，“不过我答应再也不把这件事讲给任何人听，甚至对你
也不提。”
“我想这样做是聪明的。”亨尼小姐说。
“只是我不答应不再想它，亨尼小姐。”玛蒂尔达说，“从你的农舍出来，一路上我都在想
这件事。我相信我已经想出点小小的主意了。”
“你千万不要再去想，”亨尼小姐说，“请忘掉它吧。”
“在我不再提这件事之前，我想最后问你三个问题。”玛蒂尔达说，“请问你肯回答它们
吗，亨尼小姐？”
亨尼小姐微笑着。她想：“太稀奇了，这个小不点好像一下子对她的事情负起了责任，而
且那么不容置疑。”“好吧，”她说，“这要看你问的是什么了。”
“第一个问题是，”玛蒂尔达说，“过去在你们家，特朗奇布尔小姐叫你的爸爸什么？”
“我断定她叫他马格纳斯，”亨尼小姐说，“那是他的名字。”
“那么，你的爸爸叫特朗奇布尔小姐什么呢？”
“她的名字叫阿加莎，”亨尼小姐说，“他自然叫她这个名字。”
“最后，”玛蒂尔达说，“在家里，你的爸爸和特朗奇布尔小姐叫你什么呢？”
“他们叫我珍妮。”亨尼小姐说。
玛蒂尔达十分认真地默记了这三个回答。“让我来说一遍，肯定一点也没记错。”她
说，“在你们家，你的爸爸叫马格纳斯，特朗奇布尔小姐叫阿加莎，你叫珍妮。我说得对
吗？”
“说得对。”亨尼小姐说。
“谢谢你。”玛蒂尔达说，“现在我再也不提这件事了。”
亨尼小姐不知道这孩子在动什么脑筋。“不要做任何傻事。”她说。
玛蒂尔达哈哈笑着转过身，沿着小径向她家前门跑去，一边跑一边叫：“再见，亨尼小
姐！多谢你的茶点。”
19.The Practice
The Practice
Matilda found the house empty as usual. Her father was not yet back from work, her mother was
not yet back from bingo and her brother might be anywhere. She went straight into the living-
room and opened the drawer of the sideboard where she knew her father kept a box of cigars. She
took one out and carried it up to her bedroom and shut herself in.
Now for the practice, she told herself. It's going to be tough but I'm determined to do it.
Her plan for helping Miss Honey was beginning to form beautifully in her mind. She had it now in
almost every detail, but in the end it all depended upon her being able to do one very special thing
with her eye-power. She knew she wouldn't manage it right away, but she felt fairly confident that
with a great deal of practice and effort, she would succeed in the end. The cigar was essential. It
was perhaps a bit thicker than she would have liked, but the weight was about right. It would be
fine for practising with.
There was a small dressing-table in Matilda's bedroom with her hairbrush and comb on it and two
library books. She cleared these things to one side and laid the cigar down in the middle of the
dressing-table. Then she walked away and sat on
the end of her bed. She was now about ten feet from the cigar.
She settled herself and began to concentrate, and very quickly this time she felt the electricity
beginning to flow inside her head, gathering itself behind the eyes, and the eyes became hot and
millions of tiny invisible hands began pushing out like sparks towards the cigar. "Move!" she
whispered, and to her intense surprise, almost at once, the cigar with its little red and gold paper
band around its middle rolled away across the top of the dressing-table and fell on to the carpet.
Matilda had enjoyed that. It was lovely doing it. It had felt as though sparks were going round and
round inside her head and flashing out of her eyes. It had given her a sense of power that was
almost ethereal. And how quick it had been this time! How simple!
She crossed the bedroom and picked up the cigar and put it back on the table.
Now for the difficult one, she thought. But if I have the power to push, then surely I also have the
power to lift? It is vital I learn how to lift it. I must learn how to lift it right up into the air and keep
it there. It is not a very heavy thing, a cigar.
She sat on the end of the bed and started again. It was easy now to summon up the power behind
her eyes. It was like pushing a trigger in the brain. "Lift!" she whispered. "Lift! Lift!"
At first the cigar started to roll away. But then, with Matilda concentrating fiercely, one end of it
slowly lifted up about an inch off the table-top.
With a colossal effort, she managed to hold it there for about ten seconds. Then it fell back again.
"Phew!" she gasped. "I'm getting it! I'm starting to do it!"
For the next hour, Matilda kept practising, and in the end she had managed, by the sheer power of
her eyes, to lift the whole cigar clear off the table
about six inches into the air and hold it there for about a minute. Then suddenly she was so
exhausted she fell back on the bed and went to sleep.
That was how her mother found her later in the evening.
"What's the matter with you?" the mother said, waking her up. "Are you ill?"
"Oh gosh," Matilda said, sitting up and looking around. "No. I'm all right. I was a bit tired, that's
all."
From then on, every day after school, Matilda shut herself in her room and practised with the
cigar. And soon it all began to come together in the most wonderful way. Six days later, by the
following Wednesday evening, she was able not only to lift the cigar up into the air but also to
move it around exactly as she wished. It was beautiful. "I can do it!" she cried. "I can really do it! I
can pick the cigar up just with my eye-power and push it and pull it in the air any way I want!"
All she had to do now was to put her great plan into action.
19.练习
练习
玛蒂尔达照常看到家里空空的一个人也没有。她的爸爸还没有下班，她的妈妈去玩宾戈
还没有回来，她的哥哥大概上什么地方去了。她径直走进客厅，拉开她爸爸放着一盒雪茄的
餐具柜抽屉，拿出一枝雪茄，带着它上楼回自己的卧室，关上了房门。
她对自己说，现在开始练习吧。事情不好办，不过我决定去做。
她搭救亨尼小姐的计划在心中开始美美地形成了。现在连细节她都想好了，但最后是否
成功，那全看她的眼力是不是能做成一件非常特别的事情了。她知道自己一下子做不到，但
她很有信心，只要多练习多努力，最后一定能做到的。雪茄必不可少，它也许比她所想要的
稍微粗了一点，但分量差不多，用它来做练习正好。
在玛蒂尔达的卧室里有一张小梳妆台，上面放着她的头发刷子和梳子，还有图书馆借来
的两本书。她把这些东西移到一边，把雪茄放在当中，接着她走开，坐到她那张床的床尾
上。现在她离开雪茄约十英尺。
她定下心来开始凝神贯注，这一次很快她就感觉到头脑里开始充电了，它集中到眼睛后
面，眼睛发热了，几百万只看不见的小手像火星似的射向雪茄。“移动它！”她悄悄说。使她
大为吃惊的是那支雪茄连同它当中的那个金色纸箍几乎马上就滚过梳妆台面，落到了地毯
上。
玛蒂尔达对这件事大为得意，做这件事太舒服了，只觉得火星在她的脑袋里转啊转，接
着从她的眼睛里射出来。她有一种几乎是玄妙的力的感觉。这次这么快！这么简单！
她穿过卧室去捡起雪茄，把它重新放在梳妆台上。
“现在做最难做的一部分了。”她想，“如果我有力量推动它，那么我一定也有力量举起它
吧？学会举起它是性命攸关的。我必须学会把它举起来，让它悬空停在那里。一支雪茄又不
是很重的东西。”
她坐在床尾上，从头再来。现在她很容易就能把力量集中到眼睛后面，就像在脑子里扣
动扳机一样。“举起它！”她悄悄地说，“举起它！举起它！”
雪茄起先开始滚动，但接下来随着玛蒂尔达凝神用力，它的一头慢慢地抬起，离开桌面
约一英寸。她更用力，使它就这样悬了约十秒钟，接着它又落下了。
“嘘！”她吐了口气，“我做到了！我开始做到了！”
玛蒂尔达不停地练习了约一个钟头，最后她用她奇异的眼力已经能够把整支雪茄举起离
梳妆台面大概六英寸，悬空约一分钟。接下来她一下子精疲力竭，在床上一倒下就睡着了。
傍晚她妈妈回家找到她时，她就是这个样子的。
“你怎么啦？”妈妈把她叫醒问，“你病了吗？”
“噢，”玛蒂尔达说着坐起来向四周看，“没有，我很好。我只是有点累罢了。”
从此以后，每天下课回家，玛蒂尔达就把自己关在她的房间里用雪茄做练习。事情很快
就以最奇怪的方式渐渐做到了。六天以后，在星期三的一个傍晚，她已经不但能使雪茄停在
空中，而且能使它完全照她的意思移动。“太棒了，我做到了！”她叫道，“我真做到了！用我
的眼力我就能把雪茄提起来，照我的意思在空中随意推动它！”
现在她要做的就是使她的伟大计划付诸行动。
20.The Third Miracle
The Third Miracle
The next day was Thursday, and that, as the whole of Miss Honey's class knew, was the day on
which the Headmistress would take charge of the first lesson after lunch.
In the morning Miss Honey said to them, "One or two of you did not particularly enjoy the last
occasion when the Headmistress took the class, so let us all try to be especially careful and clever
today. How are your ears, Eric, after your last encounter with Miss Trunchbull?"
"She stretched them," Eric said. "My mother said she's positive they are bigger than they were."
"And Rupert," Miss Honey said, "I am glad to see you didn't lose any of your hair after last
Thursday."
"My head was jolly sore afterwards," Rupert said.
"And you, Nigel," Miss Honey said, "do please try not to be smart-aleck with the Headmistress
today. You were really quite cheeky to her last week."
"I hate her," Nigel said.
"Try not to make it so obvious," Miss Honey said. "It doesn't pay. She's a very strong woman. She
has muscles like steel ropes."
"I wish I was grown up," Nigel said. "I'd knock her flat."
"I doubt you would," Miss Honey said. ''No one has ever got the better of her yet."
"What will she be testing us on this afternoon?" a small girl asked.
"Almost certainly the three-times table," Miss Honey said. "That's what you are all meant to have
learnt this past week. Make sure you know it."
Lunch came and went.
After lunch, the class reassembled. Miss Honey stood at one side of the room. They all sat silent,
apprehensive, waiting. And then, like some giant of doom, the enormous Trunchbull strode into
the room in her green breeches and cotton smock. She went straight to her jug of water and lifted it
up by the handle and peered inside.
"I am glad to see", she said, "that there are no slimy creatures in my drinking-water this time. If
there had been, then something exceptionally unpleasant would have happened to every single
member of this class. And that includes you, Miss Honey."
The class remained silent and very tense. They had learnt a bit about this tigress by now and
nobody was about to take any chances.
"Very well," boomed the Trunchbull. "Let us see how well you know your three-times table. Or to
put it another way, let us see how badly Miss Honey has taught you the three-times table." The
Trunchbull was standing in front of the class, legs apart, hands on hips, scowling at Miss Honey
who stood silent to one side.
Matilda, sitting motionless at her desk in the second row, was watching things very closely.
"You!" the Trunchbull shouted, pointing a finger the size of a rolling-pin at a boy called Wilfred.
Wilfred was on the extreme right of the front row. "Stand up, you!" she shouted at him.
Wilfred stood up.
"Recite the three-times table backwards!" the Trunchbull barked.
"Backwards?" stammered Wilfred. "But I haven't learnt it backwards."
"There you are!" cried the Trunchbull, triumphant. "She's taught you nothing! Miss Honey, why
have you taught them absolutely nothing at all in the last week?"
"That is not true, Headmistress," Miss Honey said. "They have all learnt their three-times table.
But I see no point in teaching it to them backwards. There is little point in teaching anything
backwards. The whole object of life, Headmistress, is to go forwards. I venture to ask whether
even you, for example, can spell a simple word like wrong backwards straight away. I very much
doubt it."
"Don't you get impertinent with me, Miss Honey!" the Trunchbull snapped, then she turned back
to the unfortunate Wilfred. "Very well, boy," she said. "Answer me this. I have seven apples,
seven oranges and seven bananas. How many pieces of fruit do I have altogether? Hurry up! Get
on with it! Give me the answer!"
"That's adding up!" Wilfred cried. "That isn't the three-times table!"
"You blithering idiot!" shouted the Trunchbull. You festering gumboil! You fleabitten fungus!
That is the three-times table! You have three separate lots of fruit and each lot has seven pieces.
Three sevens are twenty-one. Can't you see that, you stagnant cesspool! I'll give you one more
chance. I have eight coconuts, eight monkey-nuts and eight nutty little idiots like you. How many
nuts do I have altogether? Answer me quickly."
Poor Wilfred was properly flustered. "Wait!" he cried. "Please wait! I've got to add up eight
coconuts and eight monkey-nuts . . ." He started counting on his fingers.
"You bursting blister!" yelled the Trunchbull. "You moth-eaten maggot! This is not adding up!
This is multiplication! The answer is three eights! Or is it eight threes? What is the difference
between three eights and eight threes? Tell me that, you mangled little wurzel and look sharp
about it!"
By now Wilfred was far too frightened and bewildered even to speak.
In two strides the Trunchbull was beside him, and by some amazing gymnastic trick, it may have
been judo or karate, she flipped the back of Wilfred's legs with one of her feet so that the boy shot
up off the ground and turned a somersault in the air. But halfway through the somersault she
caught him by an ankle and held him dangling upside-down like a plucked chicken in a shop-
window.
"Eight threes," the Trunchbull shouted, swinging Wilfred from side to side by his ankle, "eight
threes is the same as three eights and three eights are twenty-four! Repeat that!"
At exactly that moment Nigel, at the other end of the room, jumped to his feet and started pointing
excitedly at the blackboard and screaming, "The chalk! The chalk! Look at the chalk! It's moving
all on its own!"
So hysterical and shrill was Nigel's scream that everyone in the place, including the Trunchbull,
looked up at the blackboard. And there, sure enough, a brand-new piece of chalk was hovering
near the grey-black writing surface of the blackboard.
"It's writing something!" screamed Nigel. "The chalk is writing something!"
And indeed it was.
"What the blazes is this?" yelled the Trunchbull. It had shaken her to see her own first name being
written like that by an invisible hand. She dropped Wilfred on to the floor. Then she yelled at
nobody in particular, ''Who's doing this? Who's writing it?
The chalk continued to write.
Everyone in the place heard the gasp that came from the Trunchbull's throat. "No!" she cried, "It
can't be! It can't be Magnus!"
Miss Honey, at the side of the room glanced swiftly at Matilda. The child was sitting very straight
at her desk, the head held high, the mouth compressed, the eyes glittering like two stars.
For some reason everyone now looked at the Trunchbull. The woman's face had turned white as
snow and her mouth was opening and shutting like a halibut out of water and giving out a series of
strangled gasps.
The chalk stopped writing. It hovered for a few moments, then suddenly it dropped to the floor
with a tinkle and broke in two.
Wilfred, who had managed to resume his seat in the front row, screamed, "Miss Trunchbull has
fallen down! Miss Trunchbull is on the floor!"
This was the most sensational bit of news of all and the entire class jumped up out of their seats to
have a really good look. And there she was, the huge figure of the Headmistress, stretched full-
length on her back across the floor, out for the count.
Miss Honey ran forward and knelt beside the prostrate giant. "She's fainted!" she cried. "She's out
cold! Someone go and fetch the matron at once." Three children ran out of the room.
Nigel, always ready for action, leapt up and seized the big jug of water. "My father says cold water
is the best way to wake up someone who's fainted," he said, and with that he tipped the entire
contents of the jug over the Trunchbull's head. No one, not even Miss Honey, protested.
As for Matilda, she continued to sit motionless at her desk. She was feeling curiously elated. She
felt as though she had touched something that was not quite of this world, the highest point of the
heavens, the farthest star. She had felt most wonderfully the power surging up behind her eyes,
gushing like a warm fluid inside her skull, and her eyes had become scorching hot, hotter than ever
before, and things had come bursting out of her eye-sockets and then the piece of chalk had lifted
itself up and had begun to write. It seemed as though she had hardly done anything, it had all been
so simple.
The school matron, followed by five teachers, three women and two men, came rushing into the
room.
"By golly, somebody's floored her at last!" cried one of the men, grinning. "Congratulations, Miss
Honey!"
"Who threw the water over her?" asked the matron.
"I did," said Nigel proudly.
"Good for you," another teacher said. "Shall we get some more?"
"Stop that," the matron said. "We must carry her up to the sick-room."
It took all five teachers and the matron to lift the enormous woman and stagger with her out of the
room.
Miss Honey said to the class, "I think you'd all better go out to the playground and amuse
yourselves until the next lesson." Then she turned and walked over to the blackboard and carefully
wiped out all the chalk writing.
The children began filing out of the classroom. Matilda started to go with them, but as she passed
Miss Honey she paused and her twinkling eyes met the teacher's eyes and Miss Honey ran forward
and gave the tiny child a great big hug and a kiss.
20.第三个奇迹
第三个奇迹
第二天是星期四，亨尼小姐的学生都知道，这一天午饭后校长要来上第一堂课。
亨尼小姐上午就对大家说：“上次校长来上课，你们有一两位同学弄得不太愉快，那么今
天让我们大家设法特别小心和聪明一点儿。埃里克，上次被特朗奇布尔小姐捏过以后，你的
耳朵怎么样了？”
“她把它们使劲地拉长，”埃里克说，“我妈妈说，她肯定它们比原先长了。”
“那么鲁珀特呢，”亨尼小姐说，“我很高兴地看到，在上星期四以后你的头发一根也没
少。”
“只是那以后我的头痛得可厉害了。”鲁珀特说。
“还有你，奈杰尔，”亨尼小姐说，“今天请你千万别对校长样样自作聪明了，上星期你对
她实在没有礼貌。”
“我恨她。”奈杰尔说。
“尽量不要那么明显地表示出来，”亨尼小姐说，“这没有好处。她非常强壮，她的肌肉像
钢缆一样。”
“我盼望自己长大成人，”奈杰尔说，“我就能把她打倒了。”
“我怕你不能，”亨尼小姐说，“还没有人曾经打败过她。”
“今天下午她会考我什么呢？”一个小女孩问道。
“几乎可以肯定，是三的乘法表。”亨尼小姐说，“这是你们上星期要学的，你们一定要
会。”
午饭时间到来了，又过去了。
午饭一过，同学们集合在教室里，亨尼小姐站在教室一边，大家心惊胆战地静静坐着等
待。接着人高马大的特朗奇布尔，像个凶神恶煞似的，穿着她的绿裤子和布罩衫，迈着大步
走进教室。她径直走到那壶水跟前，抓住把手把水壶举起来往里面看。
“我很高兴地看到，”她说，“这一回我的饮用水里没有那种细长的鬼东西了。如果有，这
一班每个人都要倒大霉，包括你，亨尼小姐。”
全班一声不响，非常紧张。他们对这母老虎如今已经有点数了，没有人存一点儿侥幸心
理。
“很好。”特朗奇布尔咆哮着，“让我们来看看你们三的乘法表学得怎么样。或者换句话
说，让我们来看看你们的亨尼小姐三的乘法教得糟到什么地步。”特朗奇布尔站在全班面前，
叉开双腿，手捂着屁股，怒视着一声不响站在一旁的亨尼小姐。
玛蒂尔达坐在第二排她的课桌椅上一动不动，仔细地看着。
“你！”特朗奇布尔举起擀面杖大小的一个手指，指住一个叫威尔弗雷德的男孩。威尔弗
雷德坐在第一排最右边。“你站起来！”她对他叫道。
威尔弗雷德站起来了。
“把三的乘法表倒背一遍！”特朗奇布尔厉声说。
“倒背？”威尔弗雷德结结巴巴地说，“可是我没有倒背过。”
“捉住你了！”特朗奇布尔得意地叫道，“她什么也没有教会你！亨尼小姐，为什么你上星
期什么也没有教会他们？”
“不是这样的，校长，”亨尼小姐说，“他们都学会了三的乘法表。但是我觉得没有必要倒
过来教。不管什么也没有必要倒过来教。整个生活的目的，校长，都是向前的。恕我斗胆问
一句，即使是你，举个例子来说吧，能一下子倒过来拼‘错误’这样一个简单的字吗？我很怀疑
你能拼出来。”
“你别对我无礼，亨尼小姐！”特朗奇布尔厉声说，接着重新向倒霉的威尔弗雷德转过脸
去。“很好，小家伙，”她说，“你回答我这个问题。我有七个苹果、七个橘子和七只香蕉，我
一共有多少个水果？快回答！算吧！把答案告诉我！”
“那是加法！”威尔弗雷德叫道，“不用三的乘法表。”
“你这个头号白痴！”特朗奇布尔叫道，“你这个齿龈脓肿！你这个跳蚤咬的肿块！它是用
三的乘法表！你有三堆水果，每一堆是七个，三乘七是二十一，你看不出来吗？你这个臭水
坑！我再给你一个机会。我有八个鸡蛋、八个鸭蛋、八个像你那样的傻瓜蛋，我一共有多少
个蛋？赶快回答我。”
可怜的威尔弗雷德真吓慌了。“等一等，”他叫道，“请等一等！我得先把八个鸡蛋和八个
鸭蛋加起来……”他开始数手指。
“你这个破了的水疱！”特朗奇布尔哇哇大叫，“你这个臭蛆！这不是加法！这是乘法！答
案是三乘八！或者是八乘三吧？三乘八和八乘三有什么区别？告诉我，你这个给猪吃的小甜
菜，可小心点！”
这时候威尔弗雷德太害怕了，给闹糊涂了，连话也说不出来了。
特朗奇布尔两步就走到他身边，使出惊人的体育招数，可能是柔道或者空手道，用她的
一只脚在威尔弗雷德的双腿后面一扫，那男孩猛地离地空翻，才翻到一半，她又一把抓住他
的一只脚踝，把他倒提着像商店橱窗里一只拔光了毛的鸡那样晃来晃去。
“八乘三，”特朗奇布尔就这样抓住威尔弗雷德的脚踝把他倒提着摇过来摇过去，大叫着
说，“八乘三和三乘八都一样，三乘八是二十四！照说一遍！”
就在这时候，坐在教室另一头的奈杰尔突然跳起来，激动地指着黑板尖叫：“粉笔！粉
笔！瞧粉笔！它完全自己在动！”
奈杰尔的尖叫声是那么歇斯底里和刺耳，在场所有的人，包括特朗奇布尔在内，都抬头
向黑板看过去。一点不假，一支崭新的粉笔正靠近黑板的表面悬空跳动着。
“它在写字！”奈杰尔尖叫，“粉笔在写字！”
它真的在写字：
“阿加莎……”
“真该死，这是怎么回事？”特朗奇布尔大叫。她看到自己的名字被一只看不见的手这样
写出来，吓了个半死。她放了手，让威尔弗雷德扑通落到地板上。接着她也不针对任何人，
哇哇大叫说：“是谁在这样干？是谁在写字？”
粉笔继续往下写：
“阿加莎，我是马格纳斯，我是马格纳斯。”
教室里所有的人听到特朗奇布尔喉咙里发出的喘气声。“不！”她叫道，“不可能！这不可
能是马格纳斯！”
粉笔写下去：
“我是马格纳斯，你还是相信吧。”
在教室一边的亨尼小姐很快地看了看玛蒂尔达。这孩子直挺挺地坐在她的课桌椅上，头
高抬，嘴唇紧闭，眼睛像两颗星星在闪烁。
粉笔在写：
“阿加莎，把我的珍妮的房子还给她。”
现在所有的人都盯住了特朗奇布尔看。这女人的脸变得和雪一样白，嘴一张一闭像一条
大比目鱼离开了水，发出连续的窒息般的喘气声。
“把我的珍妮的薪水还给她。把我的房子还给她。然后你离开这里。如果你不听，我一定
要来杀你。我一定要来杀你，就像你当时杀我一样。我时刻盯住你，阿加莎！”
粉笔写完了。它跳了几跳，接着忽然吧嗒一声落在地板上，断成两半。
已经溜回前排坐下的威尔弗雷德尖叫道：“特朗奇布尔小姐倒下来了！特朗奇布尔小姐倒
在地板上！”
这是最惊人的消息，全班同学都从座位上跳起来要好好看看。校长巨大的身躯脸朝上直
挺挺地横躺在地板上，像被击倒的拳击手那样等着裁判员数数。
亨尼小姐跑上前来，在这平躺的巨人身边跪下。“她昏过去了！”她叫道，“她身上都凉
了！什么人快去把校医马上请来。”三个小朋友跑出了教室。
时刻准备着行动的奈杰尔跳起来，抓住那大水壶。“我爸爸说过，凉水是使昏倒的人醒来
的最好办法。”他说着把整壶水全浇到了特朗奇布尔的头上。所有人，连亨尼小姐都不反对。
至于玛蒂尔达，她仍旧一动不动地坐在她的位子上。她正感到出奇得兴高采烈，她感到
好像触摸到什么不属于这个世界的东西，天空的最高点，最远的星星。她曾经极美妙地感觉
到那股力在她的眼睛后面振荡，像热水那样在她的头颅里汹涌。她的眼睛变得灼热，比以前
任何一次更热，那股力冲出她的眼窝，接着粉笔自己腾空写字。她好像什么事也没有做，一
切是那么轻而易举。
女校医，后面紧跟着五位老师—三位女老师和两位男老师，奔到教室里来。
“天啊，终于有人摆平她了！”其中一位男老师笑着说，“祝贺你，亨尼小姐！”
“是谁把水泼在她头上的？”女校医问道。
“是我。”奈杰尔得意地说。
“做得好。”另一位老师说，“我们要再去弄些水来吗？”
“算了。”女校医说，“我们得把她抬到医务室去。”
五位老师加上女校医一起动手，才总算把这女巨人抬了起来，踉踉跄跄地把她抬出了教
室。
亨尼小姐对全班说：“我想你们大家最好到外面操场上去玩玩，等上下一堂课。”接着，
她走到黑板旁边，小心地把上面所有的粉笔字擦掉。
孩子们开始排队走出教室。玛蒂尔达动身和他们一起走，但是走过亨尼小姐身边时停了
一下。她闪亮的眼睛遇到了老师的眼睛。亨尼小姐跑上来用力地拥抱这小姑娘，给了她一个
吻。
21.A New Home
A New Home
Later that day, the news began to spread that the Headmistress had recovered from her fainting-fit
and had then marched out of the school building tight-lipped and white in the face.
The next morning she did not turn up at school. At lunchtime, Mr Trilby, the Deputy Head,
telephoned her house to enquire if she was feeling unwell. There was no answer to the phone.
When school was over, Mr Trilby decided to investigate further, so he walked to the house where
Miss Trunchbull lived on the edge of the village, the lovely small red-brick Georgian building
known as The Red House, tucked away in the woods behind the hills.
He rang the bell. No answer.
He knocked loudly. No answer.
He called out, "Is anybody at home?" No answer.
He tried the door and to his surprise found it unlocked. He went in.
The house was silent and there was no one in it, and yet all the furniture was still in place. Mr
Trilby went upstairs to the main bedroom. Here also everything seemed to be normal until he
started opening drawers and looking into cupboards. There were no clothes or underclothes or
shoes anywhere. They had all gone.
She's done a bunk, Mr Trilby said to himself and he went away to inform the School Governors
that the Headmistress had apparently vanished.
On the second morning, Miss Honey received by registered post a letter from a firm of local
solicitors informing her that the last will and testament of her late father, Dr Honey, had suddenly
and mysteriously turned up. This document revealed that ever since her father's death, Miss Honey
had in fact been the rightful owner of a property on the edge of the village known as The Red
House, which until recently had been occupied by a Miss Agatha Trunchbull. The will also
showed that her father's lifetime savings, which fortunately were still safely in the bank, had also
been left to her. The solicitor's letter added that if Miss Honey would kindly call in to the office as
soon as possible, then the property and the money could be transferred into her name very rapidly.
Miss Honey did just that, and within a couple of weeks she had moved into The Red House, the
very place in which she had been brought up and where luckily all the family furniture and
pictures were still around. From then on, Matilda was a welcome visitor to The Red House every
single evening after school, and a very close friendship began to develop between the teacher and
the small child.
Back at school, great changes were also taking place. As soon as it became clear that Miss
Trunchbull had completely disappeared from the scene, the excellent Mr Trilby was appointed
Head Teacher in her place. And very soon after that, Matilda was moved up into the top form
where Miss Plimsoll quickly discovered that this amazing child was every bit as bright as Miss
Honey had said.
One evening a few weeks later, Matilda was having tea with Miss Honey in the kitchen of The
Red House after school as they always did, when Matilda said suddenly, "Something strange has
happened to me, Miss Honey."
"Tell me about it," Miss Honey said.
"This morning," Matilda said, "just for fun I tried to push something over with my eyes and I
couldn't do it. Nothing moved. I didn't even feel the hotness building up behind my eyeballs. The
power had gone. I think I've lost it completely."
Miss Honey carefully buttered a slice of brown bread and put a little strawberry jam on it. "I've
been expecting something like that to happen," she said.
"You have? Why?" Matilda asked.
"Well," Miss Honey said, "it's only a guess, but here's what I think. While you were in my class
you had nothing to do, nothing to make you struggle. Your fairly enormous brain was going crazy
with frustration. It was bubbling and boiling away like mad inside your head. There was
tremendous energy bottled up in there with nowhere to go, and somehow or other you were able to
shoot that energy out through your eyes and make objects move. But now things are different. You
are in the top form competing against children more than twice your age and all that mental energy
is being
used up in class. Your brain is for the first time having to struggle and strive and keep really busy,
which is great. That's only a theory, mind you, and it may be a silly one, but I don't think it's far off
the mark."
"I'm glad it's happened," Matilda said. "I wouldn't want to go through life as a miracle-worker."
"You've done enough," Miss Honey said. "I can still hardly believe you made all this happen for
me."
Matilda, who was perched on a tall stool at the kitchen table, ate her bread and jam slowly. She did
so love these afternoons with Miss Honey. She felt completely comfortable in her presence, and
the two of them talked to each other more or less as equals.
"Did you know", Matilda said suddenly, "that the heart of a mouse beats at the rate of six hundred
and fifty times a second?"
"I did not," Miss Honey said smiling. "How absolutely fascinating. Where did you read that?"
"In a book from the library," Matilda said. "And that means it goes so fast you can't even hear the
separate beats. It must sound just like a buzz."
"It must," Miss Honey said.
"And how fast do you think a hedgehog's heart beats?" Matilda asked.
"Tell me," Miss Honey said, smiling again.
"It's not as fast as a mouse," Matilda said. "It's three hundred times a minute. But even so, you
wouldn't have thought it went as fast as that in a creature that moves so slowly, would you, Miss
Honey?"
"I certainly wouldn't," Miss Honey said. "Tell me one more."
"A horse," Matilda said. "That's really slow. It's only forty times a minute."
This child, Miss Honey told herself, seems to be interested in everything. When one is with her it
is impossible to be bored. I love it.
The two of them stayed sitting and talking in the kitchen for an hour or so longer, and then, at
about six o'clock, Matilda said goodnight and set out to walk home to her parent's house, which
was about an eight-minute journey away. When she arrived at her own gate, she saw a large black
Mercedes motor-car parked outside. She didn't take too much notice of that. There were often
strange cars parked outside her father's place. But when she entered the house, she was confronted
by a scene of utter chaos. Her mother and father were both in the hall frantically stuffing clothing
and various objects into suitcases.
"What on earth's going on?" she cried. "What's happening, daddy?"
"We're off," Mr Wormwood said, not looking up. "We're leaving for the airport in half an hour so
you'd better get packed. Your brother's upstairs all ready to go. Get a move on, girl! Get going!"
"Off?" Matilda cried out. "Where to?"
"Spain," the father said. "It's a better climate than this lousy country."
"Spain!" Matilda cried. "I don't want to go to Spain! I love it here and I love my school!"
"Just do as you're told and stop arguing," the father snapped. "I've got enough troubles without
messing about with you!"
"But daddy . . ." Matilda began.
"Shut up!" the father shouted. "We're leaving in thirty minutes! I'm not missing that plane!"
"But how long for, daddy?" Matilda cried. "When are we coming back?"
"We aren't," the father said. "Now beat it! I'm busy!"
Matilda turned away from him and walked out through the open front-door. As soon as she was on
the road she began to run. She headed straight back towards Miss Honey's house and she reached
it in less than four minutes. She flew up the drive and suddenly she saw Miss Honey in the front
garden, standing in the middle of a bed of roses doing something with a pair of clippers. Miss
Honey had heard the sound of Matilda's feet racing
over the gravel and now she straightened up and turned and stepped out of the rose-bed as the
child came running up.
"My, my!" she said. "What in the world is the matter?"
Matilda stood before her, panting, out of breath, her small face flushed crimson all over.
"They're leaving!" she cried. "They've all gone mad and they're filling their suitcases and they're
leaving for Spain in about thirty minutes!"
"Who is?" Miss Honey asked quietly.
"Mummy and daddy and my brother Mike and they say I've got to go with them!"
"You mean for a holiday?" Miss Honey asked.
"For ever!" Matilda cried. "Daddy said we were never coming back!"
There was a brief silence, then Miss Honey said, "Actually I'm not very surprised."
"You mean you knew they were going?" Matilda cried. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"No, darling," Miss Honey said. "I did not know they were going. But the news still doesn't
surprise me."
"Why?" Matilda cried. "Please tell me why." She was still out of breath from the running and from
the shock of it all.
"Because your father", Miss Honey said, "is in with a bunch of crooks. Everyone in the village
knows that. My guess is that he is a receiver of stolen cars from all over the country. He's in it
deep."
Matilda stared at her open-mouthed.
Miss Honey went on, "People brought stolen cars to your father's workshop where he changed the
number-plates and resprayed the bodies a different colour and all the rest of it. And now
somebody's probably tipped him off that the police are on to him and he's doing what they all do,
running off to Spain where they can't get him. He'll have been sending his money out there for
years, all ready and waiting for him to arrive."
They were standing on the lawn in front of the lovely red-brick house with its weathered old red
tiles and its tall chimneys, and Miss Honey still had the pair of garden clippers in one hand. It was
a warm golden evening and a blackbird was singing somewhere near by.
"I don't want to go with them!" Matilda shouted suddenly. "I won't go with them."
"I'm afraid you must," Miss Honey said.
"I want to live here with you," Matilda cried out. "Please let me live here with you!"
"I only wish you could," Miss Honey said. "But I'm afraid it's not possible. You cannot leave your
parents just because you want to. They have a right to take you with them."
"But what if they agreed?" Matilda cried eagerly. "What if they said yes, I can stay with you?
Would you let me stay with you then?"
Miss Honey said softly, "Yes, that would be heaven."
"Well, I think they might!" Matilda cried. "I honestly think they might! They don't actually care
tuppence about me!"
"Not so fast," Miss Honey said.
"We've got to be fast!" Matilda cried. "They're leaving any moment! Come on!" she shouted,
grasping Miss Honey's hand. "Please come with me and ask them! But we'll have to hurry! We'll
have to run!"
The next moment the two of them were running down the drive together and then out on to the
road, and Matilda was ahead, pulling Miss Honey after her by her wrist, and it was a wild and
wonderful dash they made along the country lane and through the village to the house where
Matilda's parents lived. The big black Mercedes was still outside and now its boot and all its doors
were open and Mr and Mrs Wormwood and the brother were scurrying around it like ants, piling
in the suitcases, as Matilda and Miss Honey came dashing up.
"Daddy and mummy!" Matilda burst out, gasping for breath. "I don't want to go with you! I want
to stay here and live with Miss Honey and she says that I can but only if you give me permission!
Please say yes! Go on, daddy, say yes! Say yes, mummy!"
The father turned and looked at Miss Honey. "You're that teacher woman who once came here
to see me, aren't you?" he said. Then he went back to stowing the suitcases into the car.
His wife said to him, "This one'll have to go on the back seat. There's no more room in the boot."
"I would love to have Matilda," Miss Honey said. "I would look after her with loving care, Mr
Wormwood, and I would pay for everything. She wouldn't cost you a penny. But it was not my
idea. It was Matilda's. And I will not agree to take her without your full and willing consent."
"Come on, Harry," the mother said, pushing a suitcase into the back seat. "Why don't we let her go
if that's what she wants. It'll be one less to look after."
"I'm in a hurry," the father said. "I've got a plane
to catch. If she wants to stay, let her stay. It's fine with me."
Matilda leapt into Miss Honey's arms and hugged her, and Miss Honey hugged her back, and then
the mother and father and brother were inside the car and the car was pulling away with the tyres
screaming. The brother gave a wave through the rear window, but the other two didn't even look
back. Miss Honey was still hugging the tiny girl in her arms and neither of them said a word as
they stood there watching the big black car tearing round the corner at the end of the road and
disappearing for ever into the distance.
21.新的家
新的家
那天稍晚些时候，一个消息开始传开，说校长已经从昏迷中醒来，随即大踏步离开学
校，嘴唇抿紧，脸色发白。
第二天早晨她没有到学校来。吃中饭时候代理校长特里尔比先生打电话到她家，想问她
是不是不舒服，但是没有人接电话。
下课后特里尔比先生决定去看看她。他来到村边特朗奇布尔小姐的家，那座被称为“红房
子”的乔治王朝时期风格的可爱的小红砖房，隐藏在山冈后的林子里。
他按门铃，没有人回答。
他很响地敲门，没有人回答。
他叫起来：“有人在家吗？”没有人回答。
他试着开门，使他大为惊讶的是，门没有锁，他走进去了。
屋里很静，没有人，但所有的家具都原封未动。特里尔比先生上楼到大卧室，这里一切
似乎也正常，直到他拉开抽屉打开衣橱看，才发现哪儿也看不见没有衣服、内衣，也没有鞋
子，什么都没有了。
特里尔比先生对自己说，她逃走啦。于是回去报告学校当局，说校长失踪了。
第二天早晨，亨尼小姐收到一封挂号信，是一家地方律师事务所寄来的，告诉她说，她
的已故父亲亨尼医生的遗嘱忽然神秘地出现了。这份文件说明，在她的父亲去世之后，亨尼
小姐事实上已经成为村边那座被称为“红房子”的物业的合法所有人。那房子一直都被一位阿
加莎•特朗奇布尔小姐占用着。遗嘱还表明，她父亲生前的积蓄——它幸亏仍旧安然存在银行
里——也是留给她的。律师的信还加上一句，说亨尼小姐如能尽早光临事务所，物业和款项
将很快就转到她的名下。
亨尼小姐照此办理，两个星期就搬进了“红房子”。她正是在这里出生和长大的，幸好那
里所有的家具和画仍旧原封未动。从那以后，玛蒂尔达成了“红房子”最受欢迎的客人，每天
傍晚下课以后都到那里去，在老师和这位小姑娘之间建立起极其亲密的友谊。
再回过头来说学校，它也发生了巨大的变化。一明确特朗奇布尔小姐完全不知去向以
后，优秀的特里尔比先生便被委任为校长代替她。不久，玛蒂尔达也被升到了最高一班，那
一班的普林索尔小姐一下子就发现，这惊人的女孩正如亨尼小姐说的那样聪明，一点儿也不
假。
几星期后的一天傍晚，玛蒂尔达和亨尼小姐放学后照常在“红房子”的厨房里吃茶点，玛
蒂尔达忽然说：“我发现了些怪事，亨尼小姐。”
“把它告诉我吧。”亨尼小姐说。
“今天早晨，”玛蒂尔达说，“我只是为了好玩，想用我的眼睛推翻什么东西，可是办不
到，什么东西也没动。我甚至感觉不到我眼球后面发热，这股力消失了，我想我已经完全丧
失它了。”
亨尼小姐在一片黑面包上抹上牛油和草莓酱。“我早预料到这种事情会发生。”她说。
“是吗？为什么呢？”玛蒂尔达问道。
“这个嘛，”亨尼小姐说，“也只是一种猜测，但我是这么想的。你在我那班里的时候无事
可做，不必用功，你那十分巨大的脑子于是无聊得发慌。它在你的脑袋里就发疯似的毕毕剥
剥沸腾，大量的热能困在你的脑袋里无处发泄，可也不知怎么搞的，你能通过眼睛把它放出
来使东西移动。现在情况不同了，你在最高一班要和岁数比你大一倍的孩子比赛，于是所有
的智能都在班上用去了。你的脑子第一次需要大动特动，真正忙个不停，这是件好事。不过
告诉你，我这只是推测，也可能很愚蠢，但是我认为离事实不会太远。”
“我很高兴这种事情发生了，”玛蒂尔达说，“我不想一辈子做个奇迹创造者。”
“你已经做够了。”亨尼小姐说，“我还是很难相信，你是为了我使这些事情发生的。”
玛蒂尔达坐在厨房桌子旁边的高凳子上慢慢地吃着她的果酱面包。她实在太喜欢和亨尼
小姐在一起过的这些傍晚了。有亨尼小姐在，她觉得十分舒服，她们两个人是平等地相互交
谈的。
“你知道吗？”玛蒂尔达忽然说，“老鼠的心跳是每秒钟六百五十次。”
“这我倒不知道，”亨尼小姐微笑着说，“的确使人吃惊。你是从哪儿读到的？”
“在图书馆借来的一本书里。”玛蒂尔达说，“这就是说，跳得太快了，就听不到一下一下
的心跳声了。听起来准是一片嗡嗡响。”
“准是这样。”亨尼小姐说。
“你想刺猬的心跳又有多快呢？”玛蒂尔达问道。
“告诉我吧。”亨尼小姐又微笑起来说。
“没有老鼠快，”玛蒂尔达说，“是一分钟三百次。可是即使这样，一只行动那么慢的动物
你不会想到它的心跳会这么快的，对吗，亨尼小姐？”
“我当然想不到。”亨尼小姐说，“再给我讲一样动物吧。”
“比方马，”玛蒂尔达说，“那可真慢，一分钟只跳四十次。”
亨尼小姐心里说，这孩子好像对什么都有兴趣。和她在一起生活，不会感到乏味。我喜
欢这样的生活。
两个人坐在厨房里谈了一个多钟头。六点左右，玛蒂尔达说过晚安，就回家去了。到爸
爸妈妈的房子只要走八分钟，当她来到院子门口时，她看见一辆梅塞德斯牌大型黑汽车停在
外面。她没有怎么注意，她爸爸这儿常常有奇怪的汽车停着。但是她一进屋，只见面前是乱
七八糟的一片。她的妈妈和爸爸都在门厅里，正发疯似的把衣服和各种各样的东西塞进手提
箱。
“这是在干什么呀？”她叫道，“出了什么事啦，爸爸？”
“我们要出门。”沃姆伍德先生头也不抬地说，“我们在半小时内就要赶去飞机场，因此你
最好马上去收拾东西。去吧，小丫头！去收拾吧！”
“出门？”玛蒂尔达叫道，“上哪儿去？”
“西班牙。”爸爸说，“那里气候比这个糟糕的国家要好得多。”
“西班牙！”玛蒂尔达叫道，“我不要去西班牙！我爱这里，我爱我的学校！”
“叫你做什么你就做什么，别抬杠了。”爸爸很凶地说，“有你我已经够烦的啦！”
“不过爸爸……”玛蒂尔达还要说。
“闭嘴！”爸爸叫道，“我们还有三十分钟就要走！我不想误掉那班飞机！”
“不过去多久啊，爸爸？”玛蒂尔达叫道，“我们什么时候回来呀？”
“我们不回来了。”爸爸说，“先滚开！我正忙着！”
玛蒂尔达一转身离开他，走出打开的前门。她一到路上撒腿就跑，一直跑回亨尼小姐家
去，不到四分钟就到了。她飞也似的沿着车道奔，忽然看见亨尼小姐在前面花园里，拿着一
把园艺大剪刀，站在一个玫瑰花坛当中正在干活。亨尼小姐已经听到玛蒂尔达跑过石子路的
脚步声，这时候直起腰转过身子走出花坛。
“天啊，天啊！”亨尼小姐说，“出什么事啦？”
玛蒂尔达站在她面前气都喘不上来，小脸通红。
“他们要走了！”她叫道，“他们全都疯了，正把东西塞进他们的手提箱，要在三十分钟内
上西班牙去！”
“你说谁？”亨尼小姐轻轻地问。
“妈妈、爸爸和我哥哥迈克尔，他们说我也要和他们一起去！”
“你是说去度假吗？”亨尼小姐问道。
“去一辈子！”玛蒂尔达叫道，“爸爸说我们永远不再回来了！”
沉默了一会儿，接着亨尼小姐说：“其实我不怎么觉得奇怪。”
“你是说，你知道他们要走？”玛蒂尔达叫道，“你早先为什么不告诉我？”
“不，亲爱的，”亨尼小姐说，“我不知道他们要走。但是这个消息还是不让我吃惊。”
“为什么？”玛蒂尔达叫道，“请告诉我为什么。”她跑得太急，再加上受到惊吓，气喘还
没有平息下来。
“因为你的爸爸，”亨尼小姐说，“和一帮坏人勾搭上了。村里人人都知道。我猜想他收购
从全国各地偷来的汽车。他深深地陷进去了。”
玛蒂尔达张大了嘴巴看着她。
亨尼小姐说下去：“他们把偷来的汽车送到你爸爸的汽车行，他换掉汽车牌照，把车身喷
成别的颜色，如此等等。现在大概有人把他告发了，警察要来找他，他和所有他们那种人的
做法一样，逃到西班牙去，到了那里就捉不到他了。多年来他一直把钱汇到那里去，一切都
准备好了，就等着他去那里。”
久经风雨的有着高高烟囱的红砖房前面有一片大草地，她们站在那里，亨尼小姐一只手
仍旧拿着那把园艺大剪刀。这是一个温暖的金色黄昏，一只紫色鹩哥在附近什么地方鸣啭。
“我不愿意和他们一起去！”玛蒂尔达忽然叫道，“我不和他们一起去。”
“我怕你必须去。”亨尼小姐说。
“我想和你住在这里。”玛蒂尔达叫出来，“请让我和你住在这里吧！”
“我希望你能和我住在一起，”亨尼小姐说，“不过我怕办不到。你不能想要离开你的父母
就离开你的父母。他们有权把你带走。”
“但如果他们同意呢？”玛蒂尔达急切地叫道，“如果和他们说好了，我就能和你在一起了
吗？那么你肯让我和你住在一起吗？”
亨尼小姐轻轻地说：“是的，那就再美满不过了！”
“嗯，我认为他们会同意的！”玛蒂尔达叫道，“我真的认为他们会同意的！他们实际上一
丁点儿也不在乎我！”
“别急。”亨尼小姐说。
“我们得急！”玛蒂尔达叫道，“他们随时会走！快来！”她抓住亨尼小姐的手，说：“请和
我一起去问问他们！不过我们得快！我们得跑着去！”
紧接着，她们两个已经一起在车道上跑起来，很快跑到了大路上。玛蒂尔达抓住亨尼小
姐的手腕拉着她跑。她们沿着村路狂奔，穿过村子，一直来到玛蒂尔达的爸爸妈妈的房子。
梅塞德斯牌大型黑汽车还在门外，这时候它后面的行李箱和所有的车门都打开了。玛蒂尔达
和亨尼小姐奔到时，沃姆伍德先生和太太以及哥哥正在汽车旁边像蚂蚁般乱钻，把一个个手
提箱塞进去。
“爸爸，妈妈！”玛蒂尔达上气不接下气地叫起来，“我不想和你们一起去！我要留在这里
跟亨尼小姐住在一起。她说只要你们同意，我可以留下来的！请同意吧！说吧，爸爸，说同
意吧！说同意吧，妈妈！”
爸爸转过头来看亨尼小姐。“你就是有一次到这里来看我的那位女老师，对吗？”他说，
紧接着他又继续往汽车里塞手提箱。
他的妻子对他说：“这一个得放在后座上，后面行李箱已经放不下了。”
“我很愿意玛蒂尔达留下和我在一起。”亨尼小姐说，“我会用爱心照顾她的，沃姆伍德先
生，一切费用由我来付。她不会花你一分钱。但这不是我的主意，这是玛蒂尔达的主意。但
不得到你们完全乐意的应允，我是不会答应抚养她的。”
“来吧，哈里，”妈妈说着把一个手提箱推进后座，“既然是她想这样，我们干吗不放她走
呢？这样就少养一个了。”
“我在忙着呢，”爸爸说，“我要去赶飞机。如果她要留下，那就让她留下吧，对我来说再
好不过了。”
玛蒂尔达一下子跳到亨尼小姐的怀里，抱住她。亨尼小姐也抱住了她。接着妈妈、爸爸
和哥哥进了汽车，汽车轮胎滋滋响着开走了。哥哥从后车窗招手，但是其他两个连头也不回
过来看一看。亨尼小姐依旧抱着这小姑娘，她们两个都一声也不吭地站在那里，看着那辆黑
色的大轿车在远远的公路尽头拐了一个弯，便再也看不见了。