《四季随笔》节选 - 春 20

《四季随笔》是吉辛的散文代表作。其中对隐士赖克罗夫特醉心于书籍、自然景色与回忆过去生活的描述，其实是吉辛的自述，作者以此来抒发自己的情感，因而本书是一部富有自传色彩的小品文集。

吉辛穷困的一生，对文学名著的爱好与追求，以及对大自然恬静生活的向往，在书中均有充分的反映。本书分为春、夏、秋、冬四个部分，文笔优美，行文流畅，是英国文学中小品文的珍品之一。

以下是由网友分享的《四季随笔》节选 - 春 20的内容，让我们一起来感受吉辛的四季吧!

It has occurred to me that one might define Art as: an expression, satisfying and abiding, of the zest of life. This is applicable to every form of Art devised by man, for, in his creative moment, whether he produce a great drama or carve a piece of foliage in wood, the artist is moved and inspired by supreme enjoyment of some aspect of the world about him; an enjoyment in itself keener than that experienced by another man, and intensified, prolonged, by the power—which comes to him we know not how—of recording in visible or audible form that emotion of rare vitality. Art, in some degree, is within the scope of every human being, were he but the ploughman who utters a few would-be melodious notes, the mere outcome of health and strength, in the field at sunrise; he sings, or tries to, prompted by an unusual gusto in being, and the rude stave is all his own. Another was he23, who also at the plough, sang of the daisy, of the field-mouse, or shaped the rhythmic tale of Tam O' Shanter24. Not only had life a zest for him incalculably stronger and subtler than that which stirs the soul of Hodge25, but he uttered it in word and music such as go to the heart of mankind, and hold a magic power for ages.

我想到我们可以将艺术定义为：一种对生命之热情令人满足和持久的表达。这一定义适用于人们创造的每一种艺术形式。因为在那创造性的一刻，不管艺术家创作了一出伟大戏剧还是在树林里刻了一片树叶，艺术家都是在欣赏周围世界某个方面的极乐中获得了启发和灵感，这种快乐比他人感受到的更强烈，而艺术家拥有一种神秘力量，能够将自己对那种罕见生命力的感受，用可见或可闻的形式记录下来，使之更加深沉和持久。在某种程度上，艺术是人皆能为的，哪怕是一个日出而作的田间农夫，完全是他身体健康有活力的结果，哼出了几句或许称得上悦耳的小调。他唱歌或者试图歌唱，是受到对生命中少有的热情的激发，那粗朴的调子完全是属于他自己的。另外一个这样的农夫，他歌颂雏菊，咏唱田鼠，还写就了《汤姆·奥桑特》这首抑扬顿挫的叙事诗。比之触动霍奇灵魂的热情，生活给予了他一种更加强烈和微妙的热情，而他诉诸文字和音乐，并感动人们的心灵，几百年来始终保有一种神奇的力量。

For some years there has been a great deal of talk about Art in our country. It began, I suspect, when the veritable artistic impulse of the Victorian time had flagged, when the energy of a great time was all but exhausted. Principles always become a matter of vehement discussion when practice is at ebb. Not by taking thought does one become an artist, or grow even an inch in that direction—which is not at all the same as saying that he who is an artist cannot profit by conscious effort. Goethe (the example so often urged by imitators unlike him in every feature of humanity) took thought enough about his Faust; but what of those youth time lyrics, not the least precious of his achievements, which were scribbled as fast as pen could go, thwartwise on the paper, because he could not stop to set it straight? Dare I pen, even for my own eyes, the venerable truth that an artist is born and not made? It seems not superfluous, in times which have heard disdainful criticism of Scott26, on the ground that he had no artistic conscience, that he scribbled without a thought of style, that he never elaborated his scheme before beginning—as Flaubert, of course you know, invariably did. Why, after all, has one not heard that a certain William Shakespeare turned out his so-called works of art with something like criminal carelessness? Is it not a fact that a bungler named Cervantes was so little in earnest about his Art that, having in one chapter described the stealing of Sancho's donkey, he presently, in mere forgetfulness, shows us Sancho riding on Dapple27, as if nothing had happened? Does not one Thackeray28 shamelessly avow on the last page of a grossly "subjective" novel that he had killed Lord Farintosh29's mother at one page and brought her to life again at another? These sinners against Art are none the less among the world's supreme artists, for they LIVED, in a sense, in a degree, unintelligible to these critics of theirs, and their work is an expression, satisfying and abiding, of the zest of life.

在我们国家，对艺术的讨论已经进行了很多年。我猜想它始于维多利亚时代真正的艺术灵感行将枯竭之际，那个大时代的活力几乎耗尽之时。基本原则总会在实践处于低潮时成为大众热议的焦点。一个人靠苦思冥想成不了艺术家，亦无法朝那个方向前进一寸—这并不是说自觉的努力不能让艺术家有所增益。歌德（他的例子经常被那些和他没有任何相似之处的模仿者援引）对《浮士德》确实费尽心思，但他年轻时的诗作也算有很了不起的成就吧，由于文思泉涌无法停笔，那些诗句都是飞快潦草地写下，歪歪斜斜地横在纸上，这又怎么说呢？“艺术家是天生的而不是后天造就的”，这一神圣真理—即便只是给自己看—我敢诉诸笔端吗？我们不时能听到轻蔑批评司各特的声音，这并非系风捕影，根据是司各特没有艺术良心，他草草写作并不考虑风格，在小说开头从不精心构思—这一点就像福楼拜，你当然知道，他写作也一贯如此。难道我们没听说有个威廉·莎士比亚在创作他所谓的艺术作品时，态度草率得简直像犯罪？还有一个拙笨的叫塞万提斯的人，他对待自己的艺术如此不认真，在一章中描写桑科的驴被偷走，接下来他就忘了，很快又写道桑科骑在达普尔身上，就像前面的情节根本没发生过，这不是事实么？那个叫萨克雷的不是也恬不知耻地在小说最后一页承认自己创作了一部非常“主观”的小说，在某一页他杀死了法林托什爵士的母亲，在另一页又让她复活？尽管如此，这些艺术上的罪人都是世界上最顶尖的艺术家，因为他们在某个意义、某种程度上，以他们的批评者无法理解的方式“生活过”，他们的作品是对生命之热情的一种令人满足和持久的表达。

Some one, no doubt, hit upon this definition of mine long ago. It doesn't matter; is it the less original with me? Not long since I should have fretted over the possibility, for my living depended on an avoidance of even seeming plagiarism. Now I am at one with Lord Foppington30, and much disposed to take pleasure in the natural sprouts of my own wit—without troubling whether the same idea has occurred to others. Suppose me, in total ignorance of Euclid31, to have discovered even the simplest of his geometrical demonstrations, shall I be crestfallen when some one draws attention to the book? These natural sprouts are, after all, the best products of our life; it is a mere accident that they may have no value in the world's market. One of my conscious efforts, in these days of freedom, is to live intellectually for myself. Formerly, when in reading I came upon anything that impressed or delighted me, down it went in my note-book, for "use." I could not read a striking verse, or sentence of prose, without thinking of it as an apt quotation in something I might write—one of the evil results of a literary life. Now that I strive to repel this habit of thought, I find myself asking: To what end, then, do I read and remember? Surely as foolish a question as ever man put to himself. You read for your own pleasure, for your solace and strengthening. Pleasure, then, purely selfish? Solace which endures for an hour, and strengthening for no combat? Ay, but I know, I know. With what heart should I live here in my cottage, waiting for life's end, were it not for those hours of seeming idle reading?

毫无疑问，我对艺术的这个定义一定有人想到过。没有关系，这是否意味着我的原创性会打折扣？如果在不久前，我也许会因为这种可能性而烦恼，因为我的谋生手段就在于避免哪怕是貌似的剽窃。现在，我和浮平顿爵士看法一样，很容易为自己头脑自然萌生的智慧而自得其乐了—无需在意别人是否有同样的想法。试想一下，假使我对欧几里得一无所知，却发现了他的几何证明中哪怕是最简单的一种，那么在有人关注他的书时，我应该垂头丧气吗？这些自然萌发的智慧是我们生命的最好结晶，只不过它们凑巧在世界市场上没有价值。在我享受自由的这些日子，我有意识地努力让自己过一种精神的生活。以前在读书时，看到一句让我印象深刻或开心的话，我都会抄在笔记本上以备“应用”。每读到一行精彩的诗，或者散文中的句子，我就情不自禁地想在自己的文章中作为点睛之笔加以引用—这是文学生活养成的恶习。现在我努力摒弃这种思维习惯，但又扪心自问，那现在我读书记诵的目的何在呢？这一定是人类向自己提出的最愚蠢的问题之一。读书是为了让自己心情愉快，得到安慰和力量。那么，这种愉快是纯粹自私的吗？安慰不过只能持续一小时，而没有争斗要力量何用呢？唉，但是我明白，我清楚。如果不是能靠貌似无用的读书来打发时光，那么我住在这个小村舍里，等待生命的尽头，情何以堪？

I think sometimes, how good it were had I some one by me to listen when I am tempted to read a passage aloud. Yes, but is there any mortal in the whole world upon whom I could invariably depend for sympathetic understanding?—nay, who would even generally be at one with me in my appreciation. Such harmony of intelligences is the rarest thing. All through life we long for it: the desire drives us, like a demon, into waste places; too often ends by plunging us into mud and morass. And, after all, we learn that the vision was illusory. To every man is it decreed: thou shalt live alone. Happy they who imagine that they have escaped the common lot; happy, whilst they imagine it. Those to whom no such happiness has ever been granted at least avoid the bitterest of disillusions. And is it not always good to face a truth, however discomfortable? The mind which renounces, once and for ever, a futile hope, has its compensation in ever-growing calm.

有时我会想，当我有兴致大声念出一段文章时，如果有人在身边聆听，那该多好。是啊，但是在整个世界上哪能找到一个人和我始终心有戚戚焉呢？—不能，即使找一个和我阅读欣赏情趣大致相同的人也难。这种思想上的琴瑟和鸣是最难求的。整个一生我们都渴望得到：这种欲望像魔鬼一样，驱使我们到荒凉之地，很多时候将我们拖入了泥潭和沼泽。然而毕竟我们了解到这种想法是虚幻的，每个人生来都注定“将孤独而活”。那些以为自己摆脱宿命的人是幸福的，在他们的想象中他们是幸福的。而没有得到这种幸福的人，起码避免了幻想破灭时的万分痛苦。不管真相让人多么不舒服，面对它的感觉不是很好吗？头脑彻底放弃虚妄的希望，会得到与日俱增的平静作为补偿。