On_a_Bit_of_Seaweed_一簇海草

Copyright©博看网. All Rights Reserved.
英语世界 2022·02
38 文苑·散文
as he or she sniffed at the seaweed, the windows of memory opening out on to the foam of summer seas. And soon the table was enveloped in a rushing tide of recollections—memories of bathing and boating, of barefooted races on the sands, of jolly fishermen who always seemed to be looking out seaward for something that never came, of hunting for shells, and of all the careless raptures of dawn and noon and sunset by the seashore. All awakened by the smell of a bit of seaweed. 2 It is this magic of reminiscence that makes the world such a storehouse of intimacies and confidences. There is hardly a bird that sings, or a flower that blows, or a cloud that sails in the blue that does not bring us some hint from the past, and set us tingling with remembrance. We open a drawer by chance, and the smell of lavender issues forth, and with that lingering perfume the past is unrolled like scroll, and places long unseen leap to the inward eye and voices long unheard are speaking to us:
2022·ቤተ መጻሕፍቲ ባይዱ2 英语世界
Copyright©博看网. All Rights Reserved.
文苑·散文 39
3 Who can see the first daffodils of spring without feeling a sort of spiritual festival that the beauty of the flower alone cannot explain? The memory of all the springs of the past is in their dancing plumes, and the assurance of all the springs to come. They link us up with the pageant of nature, and with the immortals of our kind— with Wordsworth watching them “in sprightly dance”4 by Ullswater5, with Herrick6 finding in them the sweet image of the beauty and transience of life, with Shakespeare greeting them “in the sweet o’ the year” by Avon’s banks long centuries ago. 4 And in this sensitiveness of memory to external suggestion there is infinite variety. It is not a collective memory that is awakened, but a personal memory. That bit of seaweed opened many windows in us, but they all looked out on different scenes and reminds us of something individual and inexplicable, of something which is a part of that ultimate loneliness that belongs to all of us. Everything speaks a private language to each of us that we can never translate to others. I do not know what the lilac says
我们走过他们曾经涉足的 小径。
我们坐在他们园里的果树 下方，
我们像他们那样听见蜂儿 的嗡嗡，
听见玉蜀黍叶片的沙沙声响。
3 出自美国诗人约翰·格林里夫·惠蒂埃（John Greenleaf Whittier，1807—1892）的 长诗《大雪封门》（Snow-bound: A Winter Idyl）。
3 谁看见春天的第一束黄水 仙，能不觉得一种心灵的愉悦， 一种单是花儿的美丽所无法解 释的愉悦？我们对昔时所有春 天的回忆，全都在于轻盈飘舞 的娇艳水仙，在于认定今后所 有春天必来的那份自信。水仙 使我们产生各种联想：大自然 缤纷多姿，人类创作的不朽诗 文——华兹华斯在阿尔斯沃特 湖畔观赏水仙花“翩翩起舞”； 罗伯特·赫里克发现水仙花是 美的理想化身，同时象征着生 命的短暂；几百年前莎士比亚 在艾文河畔“一年中的美好时 节”问候它们。 4 外界的暗示极易触发我们 的记忆，但记忆的内容却迥然 各异。暗示唤起的不是群体的 记忆，而是个体的记忆。那簇 海草打开了我们许多扇心灵的 窗户，然而窗外展现的都是不 同的情景，令我们想起纯系个 人体验而又难以言诠的什么东 西，想起那致使我们极度孤独 的什么东西，这种孤独为我们 所共有。每样东西都以个人私 密的语言向我们每个人倾诉， 那是一种永远无法转述给他人
We tread the path their feet have worn.
We sit beneath their orchard trees, We hear, like them, the hum of bees, And rustle of the bladed corn.3
飞溅的海面敞开记忆的窗扉。 聚在桌边的人们，很快沉浸在 一股骤然涌动的回忆的波涛 中，想起海水浴，海上荡桨泛 舟，沙滩上赤足迅跑，想起乐 呵呵的渔民似乎永远在朝海上 瞭望，留意那从未到来的什么 东西，想起拾捡贝壳，想起黎 明、正午和日落在海边漫步时 不经意间产生的狂喜。引发这 一切的是一簇海草的气味。 2 正是这种怀旧的魔力，才 使世界成为一个珍藏各种深挚 而隐秘情思的偌大宝库。几乎 没有哪一只歌唱的鸟儿，或是 一朵绽放的鲜花，或是一片浮 游于蓝天的云彩，不会带给我 们昔时的些许迹象，使我们因 为感怀往事而心灵震颤。我们 偶然打开一只抽屉，从中逸出 薰衣草的气味，随着那一缕幽 香，往昔岁月像一幅画轴似的 缓缓展开，久已不见的那些地 方蓦然浮现于脑海，久已不闻 的那些声音在向我们诉说：
4 参见英国诗人威廉·华兹华斯的诗《咏水仙》（The Daffodils）。 5 阿尔斯沃特 湖位于湖区（Lake District）坎伯兰（Cumberland）和威斯特摩兰（Westmorland）两 郡的边界上，是湖区第二大湖。这处冰川湖泊周围是连绵起伏的山地，诗人华兹华 斯曾多次来此寻找灵感，写下不少佳作。 6 参见英国诗人罗伯特·赫里克（Robert Herrick，1591—1674）的诗《咏黄水仙》（To Daffodils）。
邮递 员 刚 到， 送 来 若 干 信 件， 其 中 一 封 寄 自 北 威 尔士。这封信鼓胀而绵软，我 们拆开信封，发现里面夹着一 簇海草。寄信人这样做是出于 善意，但它产生了短暂的作用 , 在激起我们对大海无尽向往的 同时 , 也使我们又多了一项对 专断跋扈的上司的谴责。此人 打发我们来乡村度假，以便我 们谨守俭省之道，而不是去海 滨消夏，因为我们在那儿无法 摆脱种种奢靡的诱惑。“哦，它 可是散发着谢灵厄姆的气息。” 一贯主张去东海岸的一位朋友 说。“不，它的清香带有锡德茅 斯、道利什和托基的味道。”酷 爱南德文郡的红色峭壁的另一 位朋友说。如此等等，每个人 细嗅海草香时，都朝夏季白沫
文苑·散文 37
On a Bit of Seaweed
一簇海草
文 / 阿尔弗雷德·乔治·加德纳1 译 / 朱建迅
By Alfred George Gardiner
The postman came just now, and among the letters he had brought was one from North Wales. It was fat and soft and bulgy, and when it was opened we found it contained a bit of seaweed. The thought that prompted the sender was friendly, but the momentary effect was to arouse wild longings for the sea, and to add one more count to the indictment of the Kaiser2, who had sent us for the holidays into the country, where we could obey the duty to economise, rather than to the seaside, where the temptations to extravagance could not be dodged. “Oh, how it smells of Sheringham,” said one whose vote is always for the East Coast. “No, there is the smack of Sidmouth, and Dawlish, and Torquay in its perfume,” said another, whose passion is for the red cliffs of South Devon. And so on, each finding,
1（1865—1946），英国著名作家，一生著述宏富，尤以散文见长。他的散文大多 取材于日常生活中的平凡事件，清新可诵，自然典雅，诙谐幽默，富有哲理。主要 作品有随笔集《岸边卵石》（Pebbles on the Shore）、《风中之叶》（Leaves in the Wind）、《道道畦沟》（Many Furrows）等。本文译自《岸边卵石》。 2 原指神圣 罗马帝国皇帝恺撒，引申为专断跋扈的人。
Copyright©博看网. All Rights Reserved.
英语世界 2022·02
40 文苑·散文
to you, but to me it talks of a gardengate over which it grew long ago. I am a child again, standing within the gate, and I see the red-coated soldiers marching along with jolly jests and snatching the lilac sprays from the tree as they pass. The emotion of pride that these heroes should honour our lilac tree by ravishing its blossoms all come back to me, together with a flood of memories of the old garden and the old home and the vanished faces. Why that momentary picture should have fixed itself in the mind I cannot say; but there it is, as fresh and clear at the end of nearly fifty years as if it were painted yesterday, and the lilac tree bursting into blossom always unveils again. 5 It is these multitudinous associations that give life its colour and its poetry. They are the garnerings of the journey, and unlike material gains they are no burden to our backs and no anxiety to our mind. “The true harvest of my life,” said Thoreau, “is something as intangible and indescribable as the tints of morning and evening.” It was the summary, the essence, of all his experience. We are like bees forever foraging in the garden of the world, and hoarding the honey in the hive of memory. And no hoard is like any other hoard that ever was or ever will be. The cuckoo calling over the valley, the blackbird