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双语·哈代短篇小说选 高岗故人来 一

所属教程:译林版·一个想象力丰富的女人:哈代短篇小说选

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2022年05月20日

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Interlopers at the Knap I

The north road from Casterbridge is tedious and lonely, especially in winter time. Along a part of its course it connects with Long-Ash Lane, a monotonous track without a village or hamlet for many miles, and with very seldom a turning. Unapprised wayfarers who are too old, or too young, or in other respects too weak for the distance to be traversed, but who, nevertheless, have to walk it, say, as they look wistfully ahead, “Once at the top of that hill, and I must surely see the end of Long-Ash Lane!” But they reach the hill-top, and Long-Ash Lane stretches in front as mercilessly as before.

Some few years ago a certain farmer was riding through this lane in the gloom of a winter evening. The farmer's friend, a dairyman, was riding beside him. A few paces in the rear rode the farmer's man. All three were well horsed on strong, round-barrelled cobs; and to be well horsed was to be in better spirits about Long-Ash Lane than poor pedestrians could attain to during its passage.

But the farmer did not talk much to his friend as he rode along. The enterprise which had brought him there filled his mind; for in truth it was important. Not altogether so important was it, perhaps, when estimated by its value to society at large; but if the true measure of a deed be proportionate to the space it occupies in the heart of him who undertakes it, Farmer Charles Darton's business to-night could hold its own with the business of kings.

He was a large farmer. His turnover, as it is called, was probably thirty thousand pounds a year. He had a great many draught horses, a great many milch cows, and of sheep a multitude. This comfortable position was, however, none of his own making. It had been created by his father,a man of a very different stamp from the present representative of the line.

Darton, the father, had been a one-idea'd character, with a buttonedup pocket and a chink-like eye brimming with commercial subtlety. In Darton the son, this trade subtlety had become transmuted into emotional, and the harshness had disappeared; he would have been called a sad man but for his constant care not to divide himself from lively friends by piping notes out of harmony with theirs. Contemplative, he allowed his mind to be a quiet meeting place for memories and hopes. So that, naturally enough, since succeeding to the agricultural calling, and up to his present age of thirty-two, he had neither advanced nor receded as a capitalist—a stationary result which did not agitate one of his unambitious, unstrategic nature, since he had all that he desired. The motive of his expedition tonight showed the same absence of anxious regard for Number One.

The party rode on in the slow, safe trot proper to night-time and bad roads, Farmer Darton's head jigging rather unromantically up and down against the sky, and his motions being repeated with bolder emphasis by his friend Japheth Johns; while those of the latter were travestied in jerks stillness softened by art in the person of the lad who attended them. A pair of whitish objects hung one on each side of the latter, bumping against him at each step, and still further spoiling the grace of his seat. On close inspection they might have been perceived to be open rush baskets—one containing a turkey, and the other some bottles of wine.

“D'ye feel ye can meet your fate like a man, neighbour Darton?” asked Johns, breaking a silence which had lasted while five-and-twenty hedgerow trees had glided by.

Mr. Darton with a half-laugh murmured, “Ay—call it my fate! Hanging and wiving go by destiny.” And then they were silent again.

The darkness thickened rapidly, at intervals shutting down on the land in a perceptible flap, like the wave of a wing. The customary close of day was accelerated by a simultaneous blurring of the air. With the fall of night had come a mist just damp enough to incommode, but not sufficient to saturate them. Countrymen as they were born, as may be said, with only an open door between them and the four seasons—they regarded the mist but as an added obscuration, and ignored its humid quality.

They were travelling in a direction that was enlivened by no modern current of traffic, the place of Darton's pilgrimage being an old-fashioned village—one of the Hintocks (several villages of that name, with a distinctive prefix or affix, lying thereabout)—where the people make the best cider and cider-wine in all Wessex, and where the dunghills smell of pomace instead of stable refuse as elsewhere. The lane was sometimes so narrow that the brambles of the hedge, which hung forward like anglers' rods over a stream, scratched their hats and hooked their whiskers as they passed. Yet this neglected lane had been a highway to Queen Elizabeth's subjects and the cavalcades of the past. Its day was over now, and its history as a national artery done for ever.

“Why I have decided to marry her,” resumed Darton (in a measured musical voice of confidence which revealed a good deal of his composition), as he glanced round to see that the lad was not too near, “is not only that I like her, but that I can do no better, even from a fairly practical point of view. That I might ha' looked higher is possibly true, though it is really all nonsense. I have had experience enough in looking above me. ‘No more superior women for me,’ said I—you know when. Sally is a comely, independent, simple character, with no make-up about her, who'll think me as much a superior to her as I used to think—you know who I mean—was to me.”

“Ay,” said Johns. “However, I shouldn't call Sally Hall simple. Primary, because no Sally is; secondary, because if some could be, this one wouldn't. 'Tis a wrong denomination to apply to a woman, Charles, and affects me, as your best man, like cold water. 'Tis like recommending a stage play by saying there's neither murder, villainy, nor harm of any sort in it, when that's what you've paid your half-crown to see.”

“Well; may your opinion do you good. Mine's a different one.” And turning the conversation from the philosophical to the practical, Darton expressed a hope that the said Sally had received what he'd sent on by the carrier that day.

Johns wanted to know what that was.

“It is a dress,” said Darton. “Not exactly a wedding dress; though she may use it as one if she likes. It is rather serviceable than showy—suitable for the winter weather.”

“Good,” said Johns. “Serviceable is a wise word in a bridegroom. I commend 'ee, Charles.”

“For,” said Darton, “why should a woman dress up like a rope-dancer because she's going to do the most solemn deed of her life except dying?”

“Faith, why? But she will, because she will, I suppose,” said Dairyman Johns.

“H'm,” said Darton.

The lane they followed had been nearly straight for several miles, but they now left it for a smaller one which after winding uncertainly for some distance forked into two. By night country roads are apt to reveal ungainly qualities which pass without observation during day; and though Darton had travelled this way before, he had not done so frequently, Sally having been wooed at the house of a relative near his own. He never remembered seeing at this spot a pair of alternative ways looking so equally probable as these two did now. Johns rode on a few steps.

“Don't be out of heart, sonny,” he cried. “Here's a handpost. Ezra—come and climb this post, and tell us the way.”

The lad dismounted, and jumped into the hedge where the post stood under a tree.

“Unstrap the baskets, or you'll smash up that wine!” cried Darton, as the young man began spasmodically to climb the post, baskets and all.

“Was there ever less head in a brainless world?” said Johns. “Here, simple Ezzy, I'll do it.” He leapt off, and with much puffing climbed the post, striking a match when he reached the top, and moving the light along the arm, the lad standing and gazing at the spectacle.

“I have faced tantalization these twenty years with a temper as mild as milk!” said Japheth; “but such things as this don't come short of devilry!” And flinging the match away, he slipped down to the ground.

“What's the matter?” asked Darton.

“Not a letter, sacred or heathen—not so much as would tell us the way to the town of Smokey hole—ever I should sin to say it! Either the moss and mildew have eat away the words, or we have arrived in a land where the natives have lost the art o' writing, and should ha' brought our compass like Christopher Columbus.”

“Let us take the straightest road,” said Darton placidly; “I shan't be sorry to get there—'tis a tiresome ride. I would have driven if I had known.”

“Nor I neither, sir,” said Ezra. “These straps plough my shoulder like a zull. If 'tis much further to your lady's home, Maister Darton, I shall ask to be let carry half of these good things in my innerds—hee, hee!”

“Don't you be such a reforming radical, Ezra,” said Johns sternly. “Here, I'll take the turkey.”

This being done, they went forward by the right-hand lane, which ascended a hill, the left winding away under a plantation. The pit-a-pat of their horses' hoofs lessened up the slope; and the ironical directingpost stood in solitude as before, holding out its blank arms to the raw breeze, which brought a snore from the wood as if Skrymir the Giant were sleeping there.

高岗故人来 一

沿卡斯特桥镇往北的大路漫长无趣、行人稀少,尤其是在冬季。沿此路前行,可通往长梣树道。长梣树道是一条单调乏味的小径,方圆数英里都看不到村舍与人家,也很少有转弯。不知情的路人,假如过于老迈、年幼或羸弱,走这么远的路会异常吃力。但倘若又非走不可时,他们就只能向往地望望前方,安慰自己,“只要爬上那个小山顶,肯定就能看到长梣树道的尽头了”!然而等他们爬到山顶时,长梣树道却一如既往继续无情地向前伸展。

数年前,曾有一个农场主在一个暮霭沉沉的冬日黄昏骑马走在这条道上。他的朋友,一个奶牛场主,也骑着马与他并肩而行。身后隔几步远处跟着农场主的帮工。三人都骑着浑圆壮实的矮脚马;而在长梣树道上,有好马骑意味着比可怜的徒步行人更容易保持好心情。

不过一路上农场主很少同友人交谈。他的脑子里满是令他来这路上走一遭的那件事,因为那的确是件大事。也许从它对整个社会的价值来衡量并不那么重要,但如果一件事的重要性跟它在做这件事的人心里所占据的空间成正比的话,农场主查尔斯·达顿今晚要做的事几乎可等同于君王的国家大事。

他是个家境殷实的农场主。他的“营业收入”——按专业说法——一年大约有三万英镑。他的农场里驮马奶牛成群,绵羊无数。但这些家业并不是他自己挣来的,而是他的父亲创下的。他父亲同他这个家族血脉的最新代表相比,性格可是完全不同。

老达顿是个一意孤行的人,口袋守得紧紧的,眼睛细细的像条缝,里头满是生意人的精明。而到了儿子这里,这种工于算计的精明却转化成了感性,原来的严苛则完全消失了;若不是他有一群快活的朋友,他也时常小心不跟他们唱反调的话,他简直可以被称为是个忧郁的人。他喜欢沉思,大脑常常成为回忆与希望交汇的静谧场所。因此毫不奇怪,自从他继承家业到现在三十二岁的这些年来,他的家产既未再扩大,也不曾减少。但这故步自封并未让他有丝毫不快,他本就毫无野心也不善计谋,因为他自认为已经拥有了想要的一切。今晚此行的目的同样显示了他对自己不甚在意。

三人的马步缓慢而谨慎,在天色已晚路又难行时这谨慎的确很有必要。在夜色中,农场主达顿的头一上一下颠得很不浪漫。他的好友,杰夫斯·约翰斯,则以更大幅度的抖动与他相应和。而后者的动作又被随从小伙子模仿得毫无美感可言,几近抽搐。随从身上一前一后各搭着一个白色的东西,每走一步就要撞一下,更是破坏了他坐姿的雅观。仔细近看就会发现原来是两个没有盖儿的蒲草篮子——一个装着一只火鸡,另一个装着几瓶酒。

“达顿老兄,你觉得自己真的可以像个男人一样面对命运了哇?”等到他们已经经过了二十五丛树篱后,约翰斯打破了沉默,开口问道。

达顿先生微笑了一下,低声说:“是啊——这就是我的命!娶妻跟上绞刑一样,都是命中注定。”然后两人又不说话了。

夜色迅速变浓,每隔一段时间就能看见它拍动黑翼下降,逐渐笼罩大地。与此同时空气也逐渐凝滞,加速了白昼的结束。随着夜色降临,潮湿的雾气弥漫开来,足以让人不适,但还不至于把人打湿。生为乡下人,可以说他们与四季天气之间只隔着一扇敞开的门——因此他们只把这雾气看作增加了行路的一些障碍,却并不在意它的潮湿。

达顿此次“朝圣”的目的地是一个老式的村庄,因此一路上并没有现代化的车流穿梭增添生气。这个村子是众多欣托克村中的一个(在那片地区有许多村子都叫这个名字,并在前面或后面添个不同的词缀加以区别)——这个村酿的苹果汁和苹果酒是全威塞克斯最好的。村里的堆肥散发出的都是苹果渣的气味,而不像别处尽是牲畜的粪便味。这条小路有些地方非常狭窄,树篱上的刺藤就像是小溪上垂下的钓竿,会挂住他们的帽子或勾住他们的胡须。然而这条人烟稀少的小道在伊丽莎白时代曾是女王的臣民和车马队出行的主要干道。它早已不复当年盛况,作为一条举国闻名的主干道的历史已永远终结。

“我之所以决定娶她,”达顿环视了一下,看到帮工离他们还不算太近,便继续开口(声音悦耳,语气平和,充满自信,充分展示了他的性格气质),“不光是因为我喜欢她,也因为我没有更好的选择了,就算是从很务实的角度来看。有人说我可以找个门第更高的,也许没错,但其实蠢透了。我已经吃过了想高攀的苦头。那以后——你知道是什么时候,我就告诉自己,‘我再也不会去招惹高高在上的女人了。’莎莉长得好,有主见,头脑简单,也不会装腔作势,在她心中我高高在上,就像曾经——你知道是谁——在我心中高高在上一样。”

“对头,”约翰斯回答,“但是我可不觉得莎莉·霍尔头脑简单。第一,莎莉头脑并不简单。第二,就算有的人头脑简单,你的这位也不会。这种说法不应该用来形容一个女人。查尔斯,作为你的伴郎,听到这种话我简直就像遭泼了一盆冷水。感觉就像你花了半个克朗买了一张戏票,结果人家跟你说这出戏里头没有谋杀,没有坏蛋,也没有任何严重伤害一样。”

“哦,你爱怎么想就怎么想吧,反正我的看法跟你完全不同。”接着达顿把对话从哲学思辨转到了世俗现实,说他希望莎莉已经收到了他那天让邮差带给她的东西。

约翰斯问带的是什么。

“是一条长裙,”达顿回答,“不算是结婚礼服,当然如果她愿意也可以当成结婚礼服穿。主要是为了实用而不是为了好看——适合冬天穿。”

“好得很,”约翰斯说,“‘实用’这个词由新郎官说出来简直太明智啦。我要好好表扬你,查尔斯。”

“因为,”达顿辩解说,“结婚就跟死亡一样,都是人一生中最严肃的大事,这种时候为什么要穿得像个走钢丝的杂技演员一样花里胡哨呢?”

“是呀,为啥呢?但是她肯定会穿得花里胡哨,因为她就是要穿得花里胡哨。”奶牛场主约翰斯说。

“哦。”达顿回答。

他们走过的小道一连数英里几乎都是笔直的。现在他们离开了这条道,走上了一条更窄的小路,弯弯曲曲绕了不知道多远后,分成了两条岔路。乡村小路在晚上比白天更容易暴露出丑陋的一面,白天很可能没太留意就过去了。虽然达顿以前走过这条路,但毕竟不常走。他追求莎莉时她住在离他家不远的亲戚家里。他根本不记得在这个地方有两条看起来完全一样的岔路。约翰斯骑马上前几步。

“伙计,不要垂头丧气。”他喊道,“这儿有个路标。伊斯拉——你过来爬上去看一下,告诉我们该走哪条路。”

小伙子翻身下马,跳进了路标所在的一棵树下的灌木丛里。

“把篮子先解下来,不然你会把酒瓶摔碎的!”看见年轻人跟抽筋一样一蹿一蹿地抱着柱子往上爬,身上还背着两个篮子,达顿连忙喊道。

“这个世界已经够没脑子了,你比它还要蠢!”约翰斯说,“算了,蠢蛋伊斯拉,等我来。”他跳下马,吭哧吭哧颇费了些劲儿爬到路标顶端,划了根火柴,借着光察看路牌,小伙子站在下面定定地看着这景象。

“这二十年来我每次被人耍,脾气从来都好得像温开水!”约翰斯说,“但遇到这种事绝对是撞鬼啰!”他把火柴一扔,滑下地来。

“怎么回事?”达顿问。

“牌子上头一个字都没有,既没有圣徒写的字,也没有异端写的字!连去地狱的路咋走都没写——虽然这个话说起来有点罪过!要不就是生霉长苔藓把原来的字吃掉了,要不就是我们到了原始社会,当地人都不会写字喽。我们应该像哥伦布一样带个指南针来才对。”

“我们就走最直的那条路吧,”达顿平静地说,“希望能早点到——骑马还是相当累人的。早知道这样,我就坐马车来了。”

“我也想快点到,先生,”伊斯拉说,“我肩膀上的背带跟犁一样都勒到肉里头去了。要是去您夫人家的路还远的话,达顿老爷,我就要求您让我把这些好东西装一半到我肚子里了——嘻嘻!”

“伊斯拉,不要像个激进党人一样叽叽歪歪,”约翰斯严厉地说,“来,我来拿火鸡。”

等他把火鸡篮子接过来以后,三人踏上了右边的那条小路,小路通往一座小山。左边的那条路则蜿蜒向下通向一片种植林。嗒嗒的马蹄声逐渐上坡远去;那个充满讽刺的路标一如之前,孤零零竖在原地,在阴冷的晚风中伸展着空无一字的手臂,风带来了树林的鼾声,仿佛巨人斯克里米尔正在那里沉睡一般。[1]

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