在冰冷的海水这头,在远离陆地的地方,我们每晚都等待着雾的到来。终于起雾了,我们给机器上好机油,打开灯塔上的探射灯,照亮雾霭。迈克顿和我就像隐匿在灰色天幕里的两只小鸟,将信号灯指向大海远处——红光,白光,接着又是红光——给那孤独的航船指引航线。但雾中的船儿好像看不见我们的灯光,所以我们总是不得不用自己的声音来召唤它们——灯塔上的雾角发出深沉的巨吼,穿越蒙蒙雾气,回荡在海空之下,结果惊得成群的海鸥像甲板上被波浪震倒的纸牌一样四处飞散。雾角声中,海浪翻卷,泡沫泛起。 At the head of icy sea, far from the land, we await the fog every night. Finally fog, we give the machine a good oil, turn on the searchlight on the lighthouse, light the haze. Like two small birds hidden in a gray canopy, Merton and I pointed the signal to distant parts of the sea - red, white, and then red - to direct the lonely ship. But the boats in the fog do not seem to see our lights, so we always have to summon them in our own voices - the deep, giant roar of the foggy corners of the lighthouse, misty through the mist, reverberating beneath the sea and sky, and as a result The horrifying seagulls flew like a deck of cards knocked down by waves. In the mist angle, the waves rolled up and the bubble burst.