把沉睡的时光摇醒：中英对照(txt+pdf+epub+mobi电子书下载)

作者：(美)亨利·大卫·梭罗等

出版社：中国华侨出版社

格式: AZW3, DOCX, EPUB, MOBI, PDF, TXT

把沉睡的时光摇醒：中英对照试读：

CHAPTER 1 途经你的盛放

生命的加油站

我有生以来最重要的一天，就是安妮·曼斯菲尔德·莎莉文老师来到我身边的那天。那是1887年4月4日，还差三个月我就7岁了。从这一天起，我将开始全新的生活，一想到这儿，我的心中满是惊奇。

那个重要日子的午后，我站在走廊上，一声不吭，满怀期待。从母亲的手势和其他人忙来忙去的样子，我隐约感到要有不同寻常的事情发生。于是，我来到门口，站在台阶上默默地期待着。午后的阳光穿透覆盖在门廊上的一大片金银花，洒在我微微仰起的脸上。我的手指不经意间触到那熟知的花叶上——南方的花朵绽放着来迎接可爱的春天。我不清楚自己的未来会有什么惊喜和奇迹，愤怒和苦痛折磨了我已有一段时间，这种经历过后，我感到心力交瘁。

朋友，你是否曾在茫茫大雾的情况下，还在海上航行？如同一层可以触摸到的白色黑暗将你包围，大船凭借着测深锤和探深绳，紧张忧虑地在大海中探索着上岸的道路。你的心怦怦直跳，期待这将要发生的一切？在我没有接受教育之前，我就如同这样的航船，只不过我既没有指南针，也没有探深绳，无法知道距离岸边还有多远。“光明！光明！快给我光明！”我在心灵深处无声地呼喊。刚好在此时，爱的光明照耀到我的身上。

我听到有脚步向我走来。本以为是母亲，我便马上伸出双手。有个人握住了我的手，把我紧紧地拥在怀里。她就是让我领悟世界万物的人，更重要的是她给予了我爱。

第二天早晨，莎莉文老师把我领到她的房间，然后送给我一个洋娃娃。洋娃娃是珀金斯盲童学校的小学生送的，衣服是劳拉·布里奇曼亲手制作的。不过，这些都是我后来得知的。我和洋娃娃玩了一会儿后，莎莉文小姐抓住我的手，一笔一画地慢慢地在我的手掌上写下了“doll”这个词。我立刻对这个手指游戏产生了兴趣，跟着去模仿她的动作。当我最后成功地拼对这个词时，我露出孩子般的自豪和喜悦，兴奋得满脸通红。我立刻跑下楼找到母亲，伸出自己的手拼写“doll”这个词让她看。我当时并不知道自己在拼写单词，甚至不知道世界上还有文字，我仅仅是用手指模仿莎莉文老师的动作。从那以后，我在懵懵懂懂中，学会拼写好些单词，像“针”、“帽子”、“杯子”什么的，还有像“坐”、“站”、“行”这样的动词。老师来到我身边几个星期后，我才知道原来世间万物都有名称。

有一天，当我正在玩我的新洋娃娃时，莎莉文小姐走了过来，她把那个旧的洋娃娃拿来放在我的膝上，然后在我手上拼写“doll”这个词，试图让我知道新洋娃娃和旧洋娃娃一样都叫作“doll”。那天早上，我和莎莉文小姐刚刚因为“杯”和“水”这两个字发生过争执。她想让我明白“杯”是“杯”、“水”是“水”，可我老是把两个词弄错。她束手无策，只好先把问题放在一边，等以后有机会再说。当她叫我再一次练习拼写“doll”这个词时，我不胜其烦，抓起新洋娃娃，猛地摔在了地上。我能感觉到脚边摔碎的玩具娃娃的碎片，心中十分畅快。出完气后，我没感到一丝惭愧或后悔，我根本不爱洋娃娃。在我那个沉静而黑暗的私人世界里，根本不存在温柔和同情。我觉察到莎莉文小姐把可怜的洋娃娃的碎片扫到炉子边。想到那个给我带来麻烦的东西被移走了，我感到十分满意。莎莉文小姐给我拿来了帽子，我明白又可以去享受外面暖和的阳光了。这一想法——如果无言的感觉可以称做想法的话——让我快活得活蹦乱跳。

我们沿着小路来到井房，房顶上大片盛开的金银花散发出扑鼻的芳香，我们深深地陶醉其中。有人正在那儿取水，莎莉文老师把我的一只手放在喷水口下。随着一股清凉的水从我手上流过，她在我的另一只手上拼写“water”。开始写得很慢，第二次就快了很多。我站在那一动不动，聚精会神地感受她手指的动作。突然间，我茅塞顿开，我模糊地感到心中某种遗忘的东西被唤醒了——恍然大悟的美妙感觉让我情绪高涨。不经意间，我知道了语言文字的奥秘。我随后就明白了“water”这个字意味着正在我手上流过的这种凉爽而神奇的东西。这个活生生的单词唤醒了我的灵魂，并给予我光明、希望、快乐和自由。毫无疑问，生活依旧困难重重，但我始终坚信自己能排除一切障。

The Most Important Day in My Life

The most important day I remember in all my life is the one on which my teacher, Anne Mansfield Sullivan, came to me. I am filled with wonder when I consider the immeasurable contrasts between the two lives which it connects. It was the third of March, 1887, three months before I was seven years old.

On the afternoon of that eventful day, I stood on the porch, dumb, expectant. I guessed vaguely from my mother’s signs and from the hurrying to and fro in the house that something unusual was about to happen, so I went to the door and waited on the steps. The afternoon sun penetrated the mass of honeysuckle that covered the porch, and fell on my upturned face. My fingers fingered almost unconsciously on the familiar leaves and blossoms which had just come forth to greet the sweet southern spring. I did not know what the future held of marvel or surprise for me. Anger and bitterness had preyed upon me continually and a deep languor had succeeded this passionate struggle.

Have you ever been at sea in a dense fog, when it seemed as if a tangible white darkness shut you in, and the great ship, tense and anxious, groped her way toward the shore with plummet and sounding-line, and you waited with beating heart for something to happen? I was like that ship before my education began, only I was without compass or sounding-line, and had no way of knowing how near the harbour was. “ Light! Give me light” was the wordless cry of my oil, and the light of love shone on me in that very tour.

I felt approaching footsteps, I stretched out my hand as I supposed to my mother. Some one took it, and I was caught up and held close in the arms of her who had come to reveal all things to me, and, more than all things else, to love me.

The morning after my teacher came she led me into her room and gave me a doll. The little blind children at the Perkins Institution had sent it and Laura Bridgman had dressed it; but I did not know this until afterward. When I had played with it a little while, Miss Sullivan slowly spelled into my hand the word “d-o-l-l”. I was at once interested in this finger play and tried to imitate it. When I finally succeeded in making the letters correctly I was flushed with childish pleasure and pride. Running downstairs to my mother I held up my hand and made the letters for doll. I did not know that I was spelling a word or even that words existed; I was simply making my fingers go in monkey-like imitation. In the days that followed I learned to spell in this uncomprehending way a great many words, among them pin, hat, cup and a few verbs like sit, stand and walk. But my teacher had been with me several weeks before I understood that everything has a name.

One day, while I was playing with my new doll, Miss Sullivan put my big rag doll into my lap also, spelled “d-o-l-l” and tried to make me understand that “d-o-l-l” applied to both. Earlier in the day we had had a tussle over the words “m-u-g” and “w-a-t-e-r”. Miss Sullivan had tried to impress it upon me that “m-u-g” is mug and that “w-a-t-e-r” is water, but I persisted in confounding the two. In despair she had dropped the subject for the time, only to renew it at the first opportunity. I became impatient at her repeated attempts and, seizing the new doll, I dashed it upon the floor. I was keenly delighted when I felt the fragments of the broken doll at my feet. Neither sorrow nor regret followed my passionate outburst. I had not loved the doll. In the still, dark world in which I lived there was no strong sentiment or tenderness. I felt my teacher sweep the fragments to one side of the hearth, and I had a sense of satisfaction that the cause of my discomfort was removed. She brought me my hat, and I knew I was going out into the warm sunshine. This thought, if a wordless sensation may be called a thought, made me hop and skip with pleasure.

We walked down the path to the well-house, attracted by the fragrance of the honeysuckle with which it was covered. Some one was drawing water and my teacher placed my hand under the spout. As the cool stream gushed over one hand she spelled into the other the word water, first slowly, then rapidly. I stood still, my whole attention fixed upon the motions of her fingers. Suddenly I felt a misty consciousness as of something forgotten — a thrill of returning thought: and somehow the mystery of language was revealed to me. I knew then that “w-a-t-e-r” meant the wonderful cool something that was flowing over my hand. That living word awakened my soul, gave it light, hope, joy, set it free! There were barriers still, it is true, but barriers that could in time be swept away.

两条路

新年之夜，一位上了年纪的人伫立在窗前。他抬起充满哀伤的眼睛，仰望着深蓝色的天空，星星在那里游移着，如同朵朵百合散落在清澈而平静的湖面上。接着，他把目光投向地面，看到几个比他更加绝望的人正走向他们的终点——坟墓。在通往人生终点的道路上，他已经走过了六十个驿站，除了过失和悔恨之外，他一无所获。现在，他健康欠佳，精神空虚，心情忧郁，缺少晚年应有的舒适和安逸。

年轻的时光如梦幻般浮现在他眼前，他回想起父亲将他放在人生道路的入口处时那个关键的时刻。当时，摆在他面前的有两条道路：一条通向和平宁静、阳光灿烂的地方，那里充满花果，回荡着柔和甜美的歌声；另一条则通向黑暗无底的深渊，那里流淌着毒汁而非清水，恶魔肆虐，毒蛇横行。

他仰望着天空，痛苦地叫喊：“啊，青春，请回来吧！啊，父亲，请把我重新放到人生道路的起点上吧，我将会作出更好的选择。”然而，父亲和他的青春都已离他远去。

他看着灯光被黑暗吞没，那就是他虚度的时光；他看见一颗星星从空中陨落、消逝，那正是他自身的写照，悔恨如同利箭深深刺进他的心脏。然后，他回想起儿时的朋友，他们曾与他一同踏上人生的旅程，现在已走在成功的道路上，受到人们的尊敬，此时正沉浸在欢度新年的幸福中。

教堂高塔上的钟声敲响了，这让他回忆起父母早年对他的爱，他们曾给予他谆谆教诲，曾为他的幸福向上帝祈祷。但他偏偏选择了人生的歧途。羞愧和忧伤使他再也不敢正视他父亲所在的天堂。他双眼无神，饱含着泪水，在绝望中，他奋力高喊：“回来吧，我那逝去的岁月！回来吧！”

他的青春真的回来了，因为上面所发生的一切只不过是他在新年所做的一场梦。他依然年轻，当然他也曾真的犯过错误，但还不至于堕入黑暗深渊，他仍然可以自由地走在通向宁静和光明的道路上。

正在人生路口徘徊，正在犹豫是否要选择光明大道的年轻人啊，你们一定要记住——当你青春已逝，在黑暗的群山中举步维艰、跌跌撞撞的时候，你才会痛心疾首、徒劳无功地呼喊：“啊，回来吧，青春！啊，把我美好的年华还给我吧！”

The Two Roads

It was New Year’s Night. An aged man was standing at a window. He raised his mournful eyes towards the deep blue sky, where the stars were floating like white lilies on the surface of a clear calm lake. Then he cast them on the earth, where few more hopeless people than himself now moved towards their certain goal—the tomb. He had already passed sixty of the stages leading to it, and he had brought from his journey nothing but errors and remorse. Now his health was poor, his mind vacant, his heart sorrowful, and his old age short of comforts.

The days of his youth appeared like dreams before him, and he recalled the serious moment when his father placed him at the entrance of the two roads—one leading to a peaceful, sunny place, covered with flowers, fruits and resounding with soft, sweet songs; the other leading to a deep, dark cave, which was endless, where poison flowed instead of water and where devils and poisonous snakes hissed and crawled.

He looked towards the sky and cried painfully, “O, youth, return! O, my father, place me once more at the entrance to life, and I’ll choose the better way!” But both his father and the days of his youth had passed away.

He saw the lights flowing away in the darkness. These were the days of his wasted life; he saw a star fall from the sky and disappeared, and this was the symbol of himself. His remorse, which was like a sharp arrow, struck deeply into his heart. Then he remembered his friends in his childhood, who entered on life together with him. But they had made their way to success and were now honoured and happy on this New Year’ s Night.

The clock in the high church tower struck and the sound made him remember his parents’ early love for him. They had taught him and prayed to God for his good. But he chose the wrong way. With shame and grief he dared no longer look towards that heaven where his father lived. His darkened eyes were full of tears, and with a despairing effort, he burst out a cry, “Come back, my early days! Come back!”

And his youth did return, for all this was only a dream, which he had on New Year’s Night. He was still young though his faults were real; he had not yet entered the deep, dark cave, and he was still free to walk on the road which leads to the peaceful and sunny land.

Those who still linger on the entrance of life, hesitating to choose the bright road, remember that when years are passed and your feet stumble on the dark mountains, you will cry bitterly, but in vain: “O youth, return! O give me back my early days!”

快乐吧！

第一次读到英国桂冠诗人梅斯菲尔德这行诗的时候，我非常惊讶，它真正的寓意是什么呢？不仔细考虑的话，我一直认为这句诗倒过来才对。不过他的冷静与自信却俘获了我，所以我一直无法忘记这句诗。

终于，我好像领会了他的意思，意识到其中蕴涵着深刻的观察思考。快乐带来的智慧存在于清晰的心灵感觉中，不因忧虑、担心而困惑，不因绝望、厌烦而迟钝，不因惶恐而出现盲点。

跳动的快乐——不仅是满足或惬意——会突然到来，就像四月的春雨或是花蕾的绽放，然后你发觉智慧已随快乐而来。草儿更绿，鸟儿的歌声更加美妙，朋友的缺点也变得更加可以理解、原谅。快乐就像一副眼镜，可以修正你精神的视力。

快乐的视野并不受你周围事物的局限。只不过当你不快乐的时候，思想便转向你感情上的苦恼，眼界也就被心灵之墙隔断了。而当你快乐的时候，这道墙便崩塌了。

你的眼界更宽了。脚下的大地，身旁的世界——人们、思想、情感、压力——现在都溶进了一个更加宏伟的情境中，每件事都恰如其分。这就是智慧的开端。

Be Happy!

When I first read this line by England’s Poet Laureate, it startled me. What did Masefield mean? Without thinking about it much, I had always assumed that the opposite was true. But his sober assurance was arresting. I could not forget it.

Finally, I seemed to grasp his meaning and realized that here was a profound observation. The wisdom that happiness makes possible lies in clear perception, not fogged by anxiety nor dimmed by despair and boredom, and without the blind spots caused by fear.

Active happiness—not mere satisfaction or contentment—often comes suddenly, like an April shower or the unfolding of a bud. Then you discover what kind of wisdom has accompanied it. The grass is greener, bird songs are sweeter, the shortcomings of your friends are more understandable and more forgivable. Happiness is like a pair of eyeglasses correcting your spiritual vision.

Nor are the insights of happiness limited to what is near around you. Unhappy, with your thoughts turned in upon your emotional woes, your vision is cut short as though by a wall. Happy, the wall crumbles.

The long vista is there for the seeing. The ground at your feet, the world about you—people, thoughts, emotions, pressures—are now fitted into the larger scene. Everything assumes a fairer proportion. And here is the beginning of wisdom.

人的指导者

在人类历史的这一时刻，对于自然力量的控制，人类已经大大超越了以往所梦想的程度。如果人类希望的话，摆在他们面前的是一个和平与发展的黄金年代。他们仅仅需要征服最后也是最厉害的敌人——自己。

对一个人来说，唯一的指导者是他自己的良心，记忆唯一的护卫是他行为的正直和真诚。如果在人生的旅途之中前行而没有这个保护，是失之轻率的，因为我们常会被希望的破灭所嘲弄，但是有了这个保护，不管命运如何，我们可以永远前进在荣誉的行列中。

我们将一起前行，前方的路很长。旅途中，我们可能会遇到一些黑暗而危险的幽谷，我们必须从那里经过，而且还要与之进行艰苦的斗争。但是只要我们坚持不懈——我们将坚持不懈——我们一定可以走出这些黑暗而危险的幽谷，进入一个人类前所未知的广阔、温暖而持久的光明世界。

Man's Guide

Man in this moment of his history has emerged in greater supremacy over the forces of nature than has ever been dreamed of before. There lies before him, if he wishes, a golden age of peace and progress. He has only to conquer his last and worst enemy—himself.

The only guide to a man is his conscience; the only shield to his memory is the rectitude and sincerity of his actions. It is very imprudent to walk through life without this shield, because we are so often mocked by the failure of our hopes, but with this shield, however the Fates may play, we march always in the ranks of honor.

We shall go forward together. The road upward is long. There are upon our journey dark and dangerous valleys, through which we have to make and fight our way. But it is sure and certain that if we persevere, and we shall persevere, we shall come through these dark and dangerous valleys into a sunlight broader and more genial and more lasting than mankind has ever known.

美腿与丑腿

这世上有两种人，他们拥有着同样的健康、财富以及其他生活上的享受，但是，一种人快乐，另一种人却烦恼。这很大程度上缘于他们对事物的观点不同，比如对人和对事，因此产生了快乐和烦恼的差别。

人无论处于什么境地，总是会遇到“幸”与“不幸”。不管在什么场合，与什么样的人接触并进行交流，总有让他开心或烦心的；无论在什么样的餐桌前吃饭，酒肉总有对味和不对味的，餐具也总有精致和粗糙的；无论在什么气候下，他们总能遭遇好天气或坏天气；无论哪个政府统治，法律条文总有好坏之分；再伟大的诗句或著作中，总能挑出精彩的和平庸的；差不多每一个人的脸上，都有美丽和难看的地方，每一个人，也总有优点和缺点。

在这种情况下，上面所说的两种人注重的东西刚好相反。快乐的人，总是看着事物的长处：交谈中愉快的部分，食物的精致，酒的美味，美好的天气等等，并且满心欢喜地享受这一切。那些不快乐的人，却站在对立的一面，因此他们总是对自己不满意，他们说的话在社交场合很扫兴，既得罪了别人，也让自己闷闷不乐。如果这种性格是与生俱来的，那么真值得同情，可是如果是盲目模仿别人，最后不知不觉成了习惯的，那么他们应该深信不疑这种恶习将对他们幸福的人生产生很不好的影响，即便这种顽固的恶习是可以根除的。我希望这忠告可以给他们一点帮助，改变这不好的习惯。或许这习惯主要作用于心理上，但是却能给生活造成恶劣的影响，带来一些现实的悲伤与不幸。

因为总是得罪人，大家都不喜欢他，顶多表示一些必不可少的礼节，甚至连最起码的尊重都不会给他。这会使他们的生活缺乏情趣，而且会引起各种矛盾和争执。如果他们想增加财富，没有人会祝福他们好运，没有人愿意为他们出谋划策。如果他们招致公众的责难和羞辱，也没有人出来为他们辩护或谅解，有的人甚至夸大其词地攻击他们，使他们变得更讨厌。

如果这些人不改变这些坏习惯，仍旧对那些人们认为美好的事物不屑一顾，一天到晚怨天尤人，那么大家还是少和他接触好，因为这种人很难相处，而且当你卷进他们的争吵时，你会有更大的麻烦。

我有一个哲学家老朋友，他经历过很多人情世故，按照他的阅历，行为谨慎的话，就要尽量避免和这种人打交道。和其他的哲学家一样，他也有一个显示气温的温度计和一个预报天气好坏的气压计，但世上没有人可以发明一种仪器，来预测人的这种坏习惯，因此，他就利用自己的两条腿来测验。他的一条腿长得很好看，另一条腿因为意外事故而成了畸形。如果陌生人初见他时，对他的丑腿比美腿更专注，那么他就会有所疑虑。如果那人只谈论那条丑腿，而不注意他的好腿，那我的朋友就会很快决定不再与他深交。不是每个人都有这样一双腿作为测量仪器，但只要稍加留意，每个人都能看出点那种挑三拣四的人的劣迹，从而避免和这种人交往。所以，我奉劝那些爱挑剔、爱发牢骚、整天愁眉苦脸的人，如果想受人尊敬并且想给自己找乐子，就不要总是盯着别人的丑腿看。

The Handsome and Deformed Leg

There are two sorts of people in the world, who with equal degrees of health ＆ wealth, and the other comforts of life, become, the one happy, and the other miserable. This arises very much from the different views in which they consider things, persons, and events; and the effect of those different views upon their own minds.

In whatever situation Men can be placed, they may find conveniences ＆ inconveniences: In whatever company, they may find persons ＆ conversation more or less pleasing; At whatever table, they may meet with meats ＆ drinks of better and worse taste, dishes better＆ worse dressed; In whatever climate they will find good and bad weather; Under whatever government, they may find good ＆ bad laws, and good ＆ bad administration of those laws. In every poem or work of genius they may see faults and beauties. In almost every face ＆every person, they may discover fine features ＆ defects, good ＆ bad qualities.

Under these circumstances, the two sorts of people above mentioned fix their attention, those who are to be happy, on the conveniencies of things, the pleasant parts of conversation, the well-dressed dishes, the goodness of the wines, the fine weather; ＆ etc., and enjoy all with chearfulness. Those who are to be unhappy think ＆ speak only of the contraries. Hence they are continually discontented themselves, and by their remarks sour the pleasures of society, offend personally many people, and make themselves everywhere disagreeable. If this turn of mind was founded in nature, such unhappy persons would be the more to be pitied. But as the disposition to criticize, ＆be disgusted, is perhaps taken up originally by imitation, and is unawares grown into a habit, which though at present strong may nevertheless be cured when those who have it are convinced of its bad effects on their felicity; I hope this little admonition may be of service to them, and put them on changing a habit, which though in the exercise it is chiefly an act of imagination yet has serious consequences in life, as it brings on real griefs and misfortunes.

For as many are offended by, ＆ nobody well loves this sort of people, no one shows them more than the most common civility and respect, and scarcely that; and this frequently puts them out of humour, and draws them into disputes and contentions. If they aim at obtaining some advantage in rank of fortune, nobody wishes them success, or will stir a step, or speak a word, to favour their pretensions. If they incur public censure or disgrace, no one will defend or excuse, and many join to aggravate their misconduct, and tender them completely odious.

If these people will not change this bad habit, and condescend to be pleased with what is pleasing, without fretting themselves and others about the contraries, it is good for others to avoid an acquaintance with them; which is always disagreeable, and sometimes very inconvenient, especially when one finds one’s self entangled in their quarrels.

An old philosophical friend of mine was grown, form experience, very cautious in this particular, and carefully avoided any intimacy with such people. He had, like other philosophers, a thermometer to show him the heat of the weather, and a barometer to mark when it was likely to prove good or bad; but, there being no instrument invented to discover, at first sight, this unpleasing disposition in a person, he for that purpose made use of his legs; one of which was remarkably handsome, the other, by some accident, crooked and deformed. If a stranger, at the first interview, regarded his ugly leg more than his handsome one, he doubted him. If he spoke of it, ＆ took no notice of the handsome leg, that was sufficient to determine my philosopher to have no further acquaintance with him. Every body has not this two-legged instrument, but every one with a little attention, may observe signs of that carping, fault-finding disposition, ＆take the same resolution of avoiding the acquaintance of those infected with it. I therefore advise those critical, querulous, discontented, unhappy people, that if they wish to be respected and beloved by others, ＆happy in themselves they should leave off looking at the ugly leg.

论人间荣誉之虚渺

人生的工作是什么？那些伟大人物们，被我们称作英雄的人们，他们得意洋洋地走过了世界的舞台又做了些什么呢？难道就是要在众口盛传中变得伟大，以及在历史上占据许多篇章吗？唉！那只不过是编一个故事，供后人阅读，直到它变成了神话或传奇罢了。难道就是要供给诗人们以吟咏的题材，生活在他们那些所谓不朽的诗篇之中吗？说起来那只不过是在将来变为歌谣，由老奶奶唱给凝神静听的孩子，或由卖唱的在街角唱出，以吸引大批的听众，使扒手和穷人多了一个谋生机会而已。

他们所应做的事情，是不是要为自己的荣耀添加上美德和虔诚呢？只有这两样东西才可以使他们进入永生，真正不朽！如果没有美德，荣耀又算什么呢？一个没有宗教信仰的伟人，和一只没有灵魂的巨兽又有什么区别？如果没有价值存在，荣誉又算什么呢？被称作真正有价值的东西，除了那种不仅把一个人造就成伟人，并且使他具有好人的本质之外，还有什么呢？

On the Instability of Human Glory

What then is the work of life? What the business of great men, that pass the stage of the world in seeming triumph as these men we call heroes have done? Is it to grow great in the mouth of fame and take up so many pages in history? Alas! That is no more than making a tale for the reading of posterity till it turns into fable and romance. Is it to furnish subjects to the poets, and live in their immortal rhymes as they call them? That is, in short, no more than to be hereafter turned into ballad and song and be sung by old women to quiet children, or at the corner of the street to gather crowds in aid of the pickpocket and the poor.

Or is their business rather to add virtue and piety to their glory, which alone will pass them into eternity and make them truly immortal?

What is glory without virtue? A great man without religion is no more than a great beast without a soul. What is honour without merit? And what can be called true merit but that which makes a person be a good man as well as a great man?

一个完全相反的地方

让我们承认那个小镇的丑陋吧。它的气氛做作、平静，而且，你需要花时间去发现，它为何与世界其他地方的许多商业中心有所不同。你如何能想象这样的一种景致，例如，一个没有鸽子，没有任何树木或花园的小镇，在这里，听不见鸟儿振翅或树叶的沙沙声——简而言之，这是一个完全相反的地方。

在这里季节只能依靠天空来辨别。春天的来临也只能通过空气的感觉，或是由小贩从郊区带来的一篮篮花儿来感知，春天在市场被叫卖着。在夏天里，房子被太阳烘得干透，灰色的尘埃布满了墙壁，你别无选择，只有躲在拉上的百叶窗后，在室内逃避那些炙热的日子。秋天则泥沙泛滥。只有冬季带来真正愉悦的气候。

也许，了解一个城镇最简单的方法，是了解它的市民如何工作，如何恋爱和如何死亡。在我们的小镇上（不知是否受了天气的影响）这三件事在同样灼热难耐却已司空见惯的空气中，以极为相同的方式完成。实际上，每个人都觉得无聊，便投入到各自爱好的培养中。我们的市民都努力工作，但唯一的目标是发财。他们最主要的兴趣是商业，而生活之首要目的，就如他们自己所说的，是“做生意”。自然，他们也免不了一些像海浴、看电影等简单的娱乐。

但是，他们非常明智地把这些消遣留到周六下午与周日，而其他时间却尽可能地用来赚钱。黄昏，他们离开办公室后，会在固定的时间里聚集在咖啡馆，在相同的林荫大道上散步，或是在阳台上透透气。年轻人的热情强烈但为时不长，年长者的不良嗜好很少超出沉溺于保龄球、宴会和社交的范围，或者是沉湎于那种打出一张牌，就能赚大笔钱的俱乐部。

A Thoroughly Negative Place

The town itself, let us admit, is ugly. It has a smug, placid air and you need time to discover what it is that makes it different from so many business centers in other parts of the world. How to conjure up a picture, for instance, of a town without pigeons, without any trees or gardens, where you never hear the beat of wings or the rustle of leaves—a thoroughly negative place, in short?

The seasons are discriminated only in the sky. All that tells you of spring’s coming is the feel of the air, or the baskets of flowers brought in from the suburbs by peddlers; it’s a spring cried in the market-places. During the summer the sun bakes the houses bone-dry, sprinkles our walls with grayish dust, and you have no option but to survive those days of fire indoors, behind closed shutters. In autumn, on the other hand, we have deluges of mud. Only winter brings really pleasant weather.

Perhaps the easiest way of making a town’s acquaintance is to ascertain how the people in it work, how they love, and how they die. In our little town (is this, one wonders, an effect of the climate?) all three are done on much the same lines, with the same feverish yet casual air. The truth is that everyone is bored, and devotes himself to cultivating habits. Our citizens work hard, but solely with the object of getting rich. Their chief interest is in commerce, and their chief aim in life is, as they call it, “doing business.” Naturally they don’t eschew such simpler pleasures as sea-bathing, going to the pictures.

But, very sensibly, they reserve these pastimes for Saturday afternoons and Sundays and employ the rest of the week in making money, as much as possible. In the evening, on leaving the office, they forgather, at an hour that never varies, in the cafe’ s, stroll the same boulevard, or take the air on their balconies. The passions of the young are violent and short-lived; the vices of older men seldom range beyond an addiction to bowling, to banquets and socials, or clubs where large sums change hands on the fall of a card.

风车

不久前，一个偶然的机会曾使我成为一座风车房的住客。但并不是真的住进去，而且说来遗憾，也不是进去磨点儿什么东西，只是兴致来时进去转了转，从它最上端的窗户遥望港口的船只，或俯视周围的羊群和原野。这座风车又大又白——而且白得很厉害，每当雷雨云绕到它的背后时，整个风车就像一件擦亮的铝器一样。

从风车的其他几个窗口往外看，你还可以看到另外的四个风车，这些风车和它一样，也都闲置着。其中一个已经破损得非常厉害，还有一个也只剩下了两块翼板。但就在下一道山冈，远得望不见的东北方向，有一个风车在那里欢快地转动着。另外，由此再折向西北四五英里的地方，也有一个风车还在运转。所以，这个地方的情形还不至于像全国其他地方那么糟糕，任由阵阵好风从身边白白吹过……

一想起因蒸汽机以及工程师的聪明才智带给英国的种种损失，人们总会把风车的衰落列为其中的第一项。也许如果只从景物的美观别致来说，英国所遭遇的最大不幸是镀锌铁屋顶的发明。不过，毕竟红色屋顶的美好不只是安详富丽与舒适，转动着的风车不仅看起来美丽，而且非常浪漫：一个受制于自然的魔力但情愿为人类服务的温驯家伙，一个飞舞旋转的怪物，往往也是一个让人惧怕的东西。如果谁在风力正强的时候靠近一个风车轰鸣的翼板，心里都会骤然紧张起来——那感觉就像人们在暴风雨中望见水浪冲击堤岸的情景一样。此时待在风车房里面的话，就能对声音的来历有些体会，因为这里就是声音的洞穴。当然，有些孔洞中发出的轰鸣声震耳欲聋，具有很大的威力，但风车的声音大体来说是比较自然的，它们是木头与西南风搏斗时产生的，它充盈于人耳，而不会震耳欲聋。而且，这种效果并没有因为没有风或者磨坊主人及其用人的淡漠而有所减弱，这些人即使是在震耳欲聋的喧闹下，也总是一副文静样子，如同教堂管事人一般有条不紊地办事。

当然，我进入的磨坊并没有如此喧闹，我只是偶尔听到那些闲置的翼板上的横木做几下摆动罢了，一切都是如此寂静。更使人惆怅的是，一切又仿佛已完全就绪，就等着当天开工了。这个风车以前——大约几十年前——也曾是生气勃勃的，但是从那以后，它就永归沉寂，毫无生气，就像一条溪流在夜里突然遭遇封冻，或者像丁尼生《睡美人》诗中的宫殿那样寂寞。这风车并未损坏——它只是失去了魂魄。风车上几个苹果木的榫子已从轮机上脱落下来，地板上的木条也有几根烂掉了，但也仅是如此而已。只要一周的时间，就足以把这一切都修好。但永远没有这种可能了。因此，以前曾经使千千万万个英国风车一起欢舞的阵阵好风，而今只能在英吉利海峡上面徒劳地吹过。

The Windmill

Chance recently made me for a while the tenant of a windmill. Not to live in, and unhappily not to grind corn in, but to visit as the mood arose, and see the ships in the harbour from the topmost window, and look down on the sheep and the green world all around. For this mill stands high and white—so white, indeed, that when there is a thunder-cloud behind it, it seems a thing of polished aluminium.

From its windows you can see four other mills, all like itself, idle, and one merely a ruin and one with only two sweeps left. But just over the next range of hills, out of sight, to the northeast, is a windmill that still merrily goes, and about five miles away to the northwest is another also active; so that things are not quite so bad hereabouts as in many parts of the country, where the good breezes blow altogether in vain…

Thinking over the losses which England has had forced upon her by steam and the ingenuity of the engineer, one is disposed to count the decay of the windmill among the first. Perhaps in the matter of pure picture squeness the most serious thing that ever happened to England was the discovery of galvanized iron roofing; but, after all, there was never anything but quiet and rich and comfortable beauty about red roofs, whereas the living windmill is not only beautiful but romantic too: a willing, man-serving creature, yoked to the elements, a whirling monster, often a thing of terror. No one can stand very near the crashing sweeps of a windmill in half a gale without a tightening of the heart a feeling comparable to that which comes from watching the waves break over a wall in a storm. And to be within the mill at such a time is to know something of sound’s very sources; it is the cave of noise itself. No doubt there are dens of hammering energy which are more shattering, but the noise of a windmill is largely natural, the product of wood striving with the good sou’ wester; it fills the ears rather than assaults them. The effect, moreover, is by no means lessened by the absence of the wind itself and the silent nonchalance of the miller and his man, who move about in the midst of this appalling racket with the quiet efficiency of vergers.

In my mill, of course, there is no such uproar; nothing but the occasional shaking of the cross-pieces of the idle sails. Everything is still; and the pity of it is that everything is in almost perfect order for the day’s work. The mill one day some score years ago was full of life; the next, and ever after, mute and lifeless, like a stream frozen in a night or the palace in Tennyson’s ballad of the “Sleeping Beauty”. There is no decay merely inanition. One or two of the apple-wood cogs have been broken from the great wheel; a few floor planks have been rotted; but that is all. A week’ s overhauling would put everything right. But it will never come, and the cheerful winds that once were to drive a thousand English mills so happily now bustle over the Channel in vain.

书友

读其书，如同读其人；同样，观其朋友，也如同观其人。书如同人，皆可成为伴侣。无论是以书为伴或以人为友，我们都应慎重选择，与佳者为伴。

好书犹如知己。不管过去、现在，还是将来，它都始终如一。它是最有耐心、最令人愉悦的伴侣。困难之际，它也不离不弃。它总是以善意接纳我们，在我们年轻时，好书能陶冶性情，增长知识；我们年老时，它又会给我们以慰藉。

好书可以使人们结为朋友，就像两个人会因为敬慕同一个人而成为朋友一样。古谚说“爱屋及乌”，但是，“爱我及书”这句话有更深的哲理。书是更为牢固和真实的情感纽带。假如拥有共同喜爱的作家，人们可以借此沟通思想感情。他们可以由此和作者产生共鸣。

黑兹利特曾经说过，“书潜移默化人们的内心，诗歌熏陶人们的气质品性。少小所习，老大不忘，恍如身历其事。书籍价廉物美，不啻我们呼吸的空气。”

好书犹如珍藏人一生思想精华的容器。人生的境界，主要就在于他思想的境界。所以，好书蕴藏着优美的语言、深邃的思想，倘若能铭记于心，就将成为我们忠实的伴侣和永恒的慰藉。菲利普·西德尼爵士说得好：“以高尚思想为伴的人永不孤独。”

当我们面临诱惑的时候，美好而纯真的思想就像仁慈的天使，保卫我们的灵魂，使她依旧纯洁。美好纯真的思想还珍藏着行动的胚芽，因为，金玉良言总能激发善行。

书是永恒不朽的，它是迄今为止人类不懈奋斗的珍宝。寺庙会坍塌，神像会朽烂，而书经久长存。在伟大的思想面前，时间显得微不足道。多少年前曾经感动作者的思想，今天依然清新如故。书记载了他们的言论和思想，现在看来依旧生动。时间唯一的作用是淘汰垃圾作品，只有真正的作品才能经受时间的检验而经久长存。

书引导我们迈入最优秀的领域，与历代伟人为伍，使我们如闻其声，如观其行，如见其人，如与他们朝夕相处，同欢喜、共伤悲。我们继承他们的感受，好似觉得在他们所描绘的舞台上跟他们同台献艺。

伟大杰出的人物在这世间不会消逝，书记载着他们的思想，然后传播开来。书是人们至今仍在聆听的思想回声，永远充满活力。因此，我们永远都在受着历代伟人的影响。多少年前的盖世英才，如同在他所生活的时代，今天依然显示着强大的生命力。美好纯真的思想还珍藏着行动的胚芽，因为，金玉良言总能激发善行。

Companionship of Books

A man may usually be known by the books he reads as well as by the company he keeps; for there is a companionship of books as well as of men; and one should always live in the best company, whether it be of books or of men.

A good book may be among the best of friends. It is the same today that it always was, and it will never change. It is the most patient and cheerful of companions. It does not turn its back upon us in times of adversity or distress. It always receives us with the same kindness; amusing and instructing us in youth, and comforting and consoling us in age.

Men often discover their affinity to each other by the love they have each for a book—just as two persons sometimes discover a friend by the admiration which both have for a third. There is an old proverb, “Love me, love my dog.” But there is more wisdom in this: “Love me, love my book.” The book is a truer and higher bond of union. Men can think, feel, and sympathize with each other through their favorite author. They live in him together, and he in them.

“Books,” said Hazlitt, “wind into the heart; the poet’s verse slides in the current of our blood. We read them when young, we remember them when old. We feel that it has happened to ourselves. They are to be had very cheap and good. We breathe but the air of books.”

A good book is often the best urn of a life enshrining the best that life could think out; for the world of a man’s life is, for the most part, but the world of his thoughts. Thus the best books are treasuries of good words, the golden thoughts, which, remembered and cherished, become our constant companions and comforters. “They are never alone,” said Sir Philip Sidney, “that are accompanied by noble thoughts.”

The good and true thought may in times of temptation be as an angel of mercy purifying and guarding the soul. It also enshrines the germs of action, for good words almost always inspire to good works.

Books possess an essence of immortality. They are by far the most lasting products of human effort. Temples and statues decay, but books survive. Time is of no account with great thoughts, which are as fresh today as when they first passed through their author’s minds, ages ago. What was then said and thought still speaks to us as vividly as ever from the printed page. The only effect of time has been to sift out the bad products; for nothing in literature can long survive but what is really good.

Books introduce us into the best society they bring us into the presence of the greatest minds that have ever lived. We hear what they said and did; we see them as if they were really alive; we sympathize with them, enjoy with them, grieve with them; their experience becomes ours, and we feel as if we were in a measure actors with them in the scenes which they describe.

The great and good do not die even in this world. Embalmed in books, their spirits walk abroad. The book is a living voice. It is an intellect to which one still listens. Hence we ever remain under the influence of the great men of old. The imperial intellects of the world are as much alive now as they were ages ago.

CHAPTER 2 被遗忘的时光

梦中儿女

孩子们都爱听长辈们年少时的故事，他们会对素未谋面的叔公或老祖母展开想象。在一个夜晚，正是带着这种精神，我的孩子们围在我身边，听他们老祖母菲尔德的故事。菲尔德住在诺福克郡的一所大房子里（要比我们现在住的大一百倍）。那是一个发生过悲剧的地方——至少当地人都这样认为。孩子们最近从《林中的孩子》这首民谣中知道了诺福克郡大房子里的故事。实际上，孩子们、凶残叔叔和知更鸟的整个故事，竟然被雕刻在那所房子客厅的壁炉架上，直到一个愚蠢而又富有的人把它变成一块现代的大理石。故事讲到这里时，艾丽丝脸上表现出酷似她亲爱的母亲的神情，温柔得让人不忍心再去责难。

接着，我开始讲他们的老祖母是多么虔诚，多么善良，多么受人爱戴与尊敬，尽管她并不是那所房子的主人，而只是一名管家（然而，从某种意义上讲，她也算是女主人），效忠于她的主人。房子的主人更喜欢住在已经买下的附近的那所房子里，它更新，更时髦。而他们的老祖母仍住在那里，好像那房子已成为她自己的一样。在她的有生之年，她尽量维护着那所老房子的体面，后来房子颓败不堪，几乎要倒塌了，而且房屋中古旧的装饰物都被拆卸下来，装到了主人的另一所房子里。这些装饰物竖在那里，像是有人把最近他们看到的被盗古墓里的东西，堆放在贵妇人华丽的镀金客厅里一样。讲到这里，约翰笑了，似乎在说“那的确够愚蠢”。然后，我告诉他们老祖母是怎样、什么时候去世的，方圆数英里的穷人和一些贵族都参加了她的葬礼，以表达对她的怀念与尊敬之情。因为他们的老祖母是那样一个善良、虔诚的女人，她熟记所有的赞美诗，以及《新约》的大部分内容。这时，艾丽丝不禁伸开双手表示敬仰。

再后来，我告诉他们菲尔德老祖母曾经多么地高挑、美丽，年轻时被公认为是最出色的舞者——这时，艾丽丝的小右脚不由自主地踏起了节奏，直到看到我神情严肃，才停止——我正在说他们的老祖母曾是村里跳舞跳得最好的。后来，她得了一种叫癌症的可怕疾病，疾病的痛苦给了她很大打击，然而，从来没有击倒她的精神，也没有使她屈服。她的精神依旧高昂，因为她是那样的善良和虔诚。我还告诉孩子们，她过去是怎样习惯于一个人睡在那所空荡荡的大房子里的。她相信，午夜的时候能看见两个孩子的灵魂，它们在她房间附近的楼梯上滑上滑下。但是，她说：“那两个天真的幽灵并不会伤害我。”尽管现在女佣会陪我睡，但是我还是常常感到害怕，因为我连她的一半善良和虔诚都没有，从来都是。不过，我也从来没有见过那两个鬼魂。这时，约翰挑起他的眉毛，想要表现得很勇敢。

接着，我谈到菲尔德祖母对孙子、孙女有多好。宗教节日的时候，她总会接我们到那所大院里去。在那里，我尤其喜欢一个人待上几个小时，凝视着那12个古老的恺撒——古罗马皇帝的半身像，直到这些古旧的大理石似乎复活了，或者我也同他们一样变成了大理石。那所巨宅里有大而空的房间、破旧的帷帐、舞动的织锦和雕刻的橡木面板（上面的镀金几乎剥蚀干净了）。我曾不知疲倦地在那里游荡。有时，我也会到古式的大花园里去，那里几乎也只是我一个人，除了偶尔会有一个园丁从我身边经过。那里油桃与蜜桃挂满了围墙，可是我从来没有勇气去采摘，因为那些都是禁果，除非偶尔为之。还因为我更喜欢在古老而略显忧郁的紫杉或冷杉间穿行，摘一些红浆果或冷杉球果。除了欣赏，这些东西什么用处都没有。或者躺在鲜嫩的草地上，让花园中各种美好的气息围绕在我身边；或者在橘园晒太阳，在那暖洋洋的阳光里，我幻想着自己同橘子一起慢慢成熟；或者看雅罗鱼在鱼塘里急速地游来游去，在池底，随处可以看到一只阴沉的梭子鱼傲慢地停在水中央，似乎在嘲笑雅罗鱼的鲁莽行为。比起蜜桃、油桃、橘子，以及其他这类对孩子有诱惑的东西，我更喜欢这忙中有闲的娱乐。这时，约翰把一串葡萄偷偷放回盘中，艾丽丝也一定看到了葡萄，约翰原本是想要和她一起分享的，而此刻两人都若无其事地抛弃了它。我也从来没有见过那两个鬼魂。这时，约翰挑起他的眉毛，想要表现得很勇敢。

然后，我稍稍提高了声音继续讲下去。我告诉他们，尽管他们的曾祖母非常疼爱所有的孙子孙女，但是她更宠爱他们的伯伯——约翰，因为他是一个非常英俊、非常勇敢的小伙子，也是我们的孩子王。他不像我们闷闷不乐地独自待在凄凉的角落。在像我们这样大的时候，他就会骑上能找到的最狂野的马，早晨驾驭着它跑遍半个村子，在猎人们出发的时候加入他们的队伍。不过，他也喜欢那座古老的房子和花园，只是他的精力过于旺盛，忍受不了那里的束缚。他们的伯伯成年后，依旧那样英俊神武，让每个人都钦慕不已，他们的曾祖母更是引以为荣。当我由于疼痛不能走路，也就是跛脚的时候，年长于我的伯父便常常背着我走上数英里。再后来，他也瘸了腿，而我恐怕在他烦躁、痛苦的时候，不能总是给他足够的照顾，也不能记起在我腿瘸时，他是怎样悉心呵护我的。而当他死的时候，尽管只过了一个小时，我却觉得过了好久，这就是生与死的距离。起初，我还能让自己平静地接受他的离去，但是后来，这种痛苦时时折磨着我。尽管我没有像其他人那样伤心落泪，幻想自己可以代替他去死，但是我整日整夜地思念他，直到那时我才知道我多么爱他。我想念他的善良，想念他的固执，希望他能活过来，再跟他吵吵架（因为我们有时会吵），而不想失去他。失去他，我的不安就像他被大夫手术时一样令人痛苦。——这时，孩子们哭了。他们问他们身上的丧服是否是为约翰伯伯穿的。他们抬着头，请求我不要再讲述有关伯伯的事情，而是谈谈他们已故的漂亮妈妈。

于是，我给孩子们讲道，在追求那个精灵般的女子七年的时间里，我时而充满希望，时而又失望不已，然而始终不渝。我尽量以孩子们能理解的程度，向他们解释少女身上的羞怯、敏感与回绝——当我突然转向艾丽丝时，第一个艾丽丝的灵魂在小艾丽丝的眼里活生生地出现了，以至于我有些怀疑是站在我的面前。而当我定睛看去时，两个孩子在我的视野中渐渐地变得模糊，越来越远，直到消失，只在最远的地方剩下哀伤的面孔。尽管她们什么也没说，但我仿佛听到了他们的话：“我们不是艾丽丝的孩子，不是你的孩子，我们也不是孩子。艾丽丝的孩子叫巴尔曼爸爸。我们什么也不是，连梦幻都不是。我们只是可能存在的人物，在真实存在之前，我们必须要遗忘河边苦苦等上数百万年，然后才有一个名字。”——我突然惊醒，发现自己静静地坐在我的轮椅上。原来，我在那里睡着了，忠诚的布里吉特还守在我身边，但是约翰（或者詹姆斯）永远失去了踪影。

Dream Children

Children love to listen to stories about their elders, when they were children; to stretch their imagination to the conception of a traditionary great-uncle or great-aunt, whom they never saw. It was in this spirit that my little ones crept about me the other evening to hear about their great-grandmother Field, who lived in a great house in Norfolk (a hundred times bigger than that in which they and papa lived) which had been the scene—so at least it was generally believed in that part of the country—of the tragic incidents which they had lately become familiar with from the ballad of the Children in the Wood. Certain it is that the whole story of the children and their cruel uncle was to be seen fairly carved out in wood upon the chimney-piece of the great hall, the whole story down to the Robin Redbreasts; till a foolish rich person pulled it down to set up a marble one of modern invention in its stead, with no story upon it. Here Alice put out one of her dear mother’s looks, too tender to be called upbraiding.

Then I went on to say, how religious and how good their great-grandmother Field was, how beloved and respected by everybody, though she was not indeed the mistress of this greenhouse, but had only the charge of it (and yet in some respects she might be said to be the mistress of it too) committed to her by the owner, who preferred living in a newer and more fashionable mansion which he had purchased somewhere in the adjoining county; but still she lived in it in a manner as if it had been her own, and kept up the dignity of the great house in a sort while she lived, which afterwards came to decay, and was nearly pulled down, and all its old ornaments stripped and carried away to the owner’s other house, where they were set up, and looked as awkward as if some one were to carry away the old tombs they had seen lately at the Abbey, and stick them up in Lady C.’s tawdry gilt drawing-room. Here John smiled, as much as to say, “that would be foolish indeed.” And then I told how, when she came to die, her funeral was attended by a concourse of all the poor, and some of the gentry too, of the neighborhood for many miles round, to show their respect for her memory, because she had been such a good and religious woman’s good indeed that she knew all the Psaltery by heart, aye, and a great part of the Testament besides. Here little Alice spread her hands.

Then I told what a tall, upright, graceful person their great-grandmother Field once was; and how in her youth she was esteemed the best dancer—here Alice’s little right foot played an involuntary movement, till upon my looking grave, it desisted—the best dancer, I was saying, in the county, till a cruel disease, called a cancer, came, and bowed her down with pain; but it could never bend her good spirits, or make them stoop, but they were still upright, because she was so good and religious. Then I told how she was used to sleep by herself in a lone chamber of the great lone house; and how she believed that an apparition of two infants was to be seen at midnight gliding up and down the great staircase near where she slept, but she said “hose innocents would do her no harm;” and how frightened used to be, though in those days I had my maid to sleep with me, because I was never half so good or religious as she—and yet I never saw the infants. Here John expanded all his eyebrows and tried to look courageous.

Then I told how good she was to all her grand-children, having us to the great house in the holidays, where I in particular used to spend many hours by myself, in gazing upon the old busts of the Twelve Caesars, that had been Emperors of Rome, till the old marble heads would seem to live again, or I to be turned into marble with them, how I never could be fired with roaming about that huge mansion, with its vast empty moms, with their worn-out hangings, fluttering tapestry and carved oaken panicle, with the gilding almost rubbed out—sometimes in the spacious old—fashioned gardens, which I had almost to myself, unless when now and then a solitary gardening man would cross me—and how the nectarines and peaches hung upon the walls, without my ever offering to pluck them, because they were forbidden fruit, unless now and then,—and because I had more pleasure in strolling about among the old melancholy-looking yew trees, or the firs, and picking up the red berries, and the firapples, which were good for nothing but to look at—or in lying about upon the fresh grass, with all the fine garden smells around me—or basking in the orangery, till I could almost fancy myself ripening, too; along with the oranges and the limes in that grateful warmth—or in watching the dace that darted to and fro in the fish pond, at the bottom of the graven, with here and there a great sulky pike hanging midway down the water in slient state, as if it mocked at their impertinent frisking, —I had more pleasure in these busy-idle diversions than in all the sweet flavors of peaches, nectarines, oranges, and such like common baits of children. Here John slyly deposited back upon the plate a bunch of grapes, which, not unobserved by Alice, he had meditated dividing with her, and both seemed willing to relinquish them for the present as irrelevant.

Then, in somewhat a more heightened tone, I told how, though their great-grandmother Field loved all her grand-children, yet in an especial manner she might be said to love their uncle, John L.—, because he was so handsome and spirited a youth, and a king to the rest of us; and, instead of moping about in solitary comers, like some of us, he would mount the most mettlesome horse he could get, when but an imp no bigger than themselves, and make it carry him half over the county in a morning, and join the hunters when there were any out—and yet he loved the old great house and gardens too, but had too much spirit to be always pent up within their bounties—and how their uncle grew up to man’s estate as brave as he was handsome, to the admiration of everybody, but of their great-grandmother Field most especially; and how he used to carry me upon his back when I was a lame—footed boy—for he was a good bit older than me—many a mile when I could not walk for pain; —and how in after life he became lame-footed too, and I did not always (I fear) make allowances enough for him when he was impatient and in pain, nor remember sufficiently how considerate he had been to me when I was lame-footed; and how when he died, though he had not been dead an hour, it seemed as if he had died a great while ago, such a distance there is betwixt life and death; and how I bore his death ask thought pretty well at first, but afterwards it haunted and haunted me; and though I did not cry or take it to heart as some do, and as I think he would have done if I had died, yet I missed him all day long, and knew not till then how much I had loved him, I missed his kindness, and I missed his crossness, and wished him to be alive again, to be quarrelling with him (for we quarreled sometimes), rather than not have him again, and was as uneasy without him, as he their poor uncle must have been when the doctor took off his limbo Here the children fell a crying, and asked if their little mourning which they had on was not for uncle John, and they looked up, and prayed me not to go on about their uncle, but to tell them some stories about their pretty dead mother.

Then I told how for seven long years, in hope sometimes, sometimes in despair, yet persisting ever, I courted the fair Alice W. and, as much as children could understand, I explained to them what coyness, and difficulty, and denial meant in madness—when suddenly turning to Alice, the soul of the first Alice looked out at her eyes with such a reality of representment, that I became in doubt which of them stood there before me, or whose that bright hair was; and while stood gazing, both the children gradually grew fainter to my view, receding, and still receding, fill nothing at last but two mournful features were seen in the utter most distance, which, without speech, strangely impressed upon me the effects of speech: “We are not of Alice, nor of thee, nor are we children at all. The children of Alice call Barman father. We are nothing; less than nothing, and dreams. We are only what might have been, and must wait upon the tedious shores of Lethe millions of ages before we have existence, and a name” and immediately awaking, I found myself quietly seated in my bachelor armchair, where I had fallen asleep, with the faithful Bridget unchanged by my side—but John L. (or James Elia) was gone forever.

人的青春

人的青春是件令人惊奇的事：它充满苦恼和神奇，直到青春逝去，他才明白青春的真正内涵。青春是一个人不肯轻易失去的东西，每当他怀着无尽的悲痛和悔恨，亲眼看着青春流逝，他一定会遗憾终身。但是对于青春的逝去，他又怀着一种忧愁而神秘的快感，即使有种魔力能让他青春永驻，他也永远不愿再次重新体验。

这是为什么呢？因为在青春期，生命的奇异和苦涩表现得最为显著。但是，这种生命的奇异和苦涩的本质是什么呢？它让我们在年轻的时候带着苦痛和喜悦，感觉如此强烈，如此难以形容。其本质就是：即便我们富有，却很贫穷；即便权势在握，却一无所有；即便到处看着、吸着、闻着、尝着这世上不计其数的财富和荣耀，以无可争议的自信断定这精彩人生的所有组成结构——最多的幸运、财富、人类生活中最美好快乐的生活——属于我们——在我们准备一投足、一举手、一开口的瞬间，就会立刻、马上、永远地归我们所有——然而，我们感到能真正保留、维持、带走和拥有的实际上什么都没有。一切都过去了，没有什么会持久不变：我们才把它放到手上，它就烟消云散，不复存在；魔鬼又开始吞噬我们的心灵；然后我们才看清自己，看清我们生命的方向。

年轻人强健、疯狂、自信，同样也会很失落。他拥有一切，却无以致用，他永远都靠着强健的体魄，对着心中的障碍知难而上；他是一股波浪，在无限的苍穹下，在海洋中爆发自己的力量，他伸出手，去抓一缕着色的轻烟；他想拥有一切，渴求世间所有的东西，觉得自己有力量得到它们，结果却徒劳无功。最后，自己的力量毁灭了他，自己的欲望吞噬了他，自己的财富让他变得一贫如洗。在钱财和物质财富积累方面没有规划，到最后还是自己的贪婪打倒了自己——即便是米达斯国王的欲望与其相比，也显得无足轻重。

当青春已逝，每个人都会怀着无尽的悲哀和遗憾回首那段生活，其原因也在于此。一个人自己荒废自己的伟大天赋；自己有成就一切事业的能力，却从未使用，知道了这一切，他就会感到更悲痛、更悔恨。

Man's Youth

Man’s youth is a wonderful thing. It is so full of anguish and of magic and he never comes to know it as it is, until it has gone from him forever. It is the thing he cannot bear to lose, it is the thing whose passing he watches with infinite sorrow and regret, it is the thing whose loss he must lament forever, and it is the thing whose loss he really welcomes with a sad and secret joy, the thing he would never willingly relive again, could it be restored to him by any magic.

Why is this? The reason is that the strange and bitter miracle of life is nowhere else so evident as in our youth. And what is the essence of that strange and bitter miracle of life which we feel so poignantly, so unutterably, with such a bitter pain and joy, when we are young? It is this: that being rich, we are so poor; that being mighty, we can yet have nothing; that seeing, breathing, smelling, tasting all around us the impossible wealth and glory of this earth, feeling with an intolerable certitude that the whole structure of the enchanted life—the most fortunate, wealthy, good and happy life that any man has ever known—is ours—is ours at once, immediately and forever, the moment that we choose to take a step, or stretch a hand, or say a word—we yet know that we can really keep, hold, take, and possess forever—nothing. All passes; nothing lasts; the moment that we put our hand upon it, it melts away like smoke, is gone forever, and the snake is eating at our heart again; we see then what we are and what our lives must come to.

A young man is so strong, so mad, so certain, and so lost. He has everything and he is able to use nothing. He hurls the great shoulder of his strength forever against phantasmal barriers, he is a wave whose power explodes in lost mid-oceans under timeless skies, he reaches out to grip a fume of painted smoke; he wants all, feels the thirst and power for everything, and finally gets nothing. In the end, he is destroyed by his own strength, devoured by his own hunger, improvised by his own wealth. Thoughtless of money or the accumulation of material possessions, he is none the less defeated in the end by his own greed—a greed that makes the avarice of King Midas seem paltry by comparison.

And that is the reason why, when youth is gone, every man will look back upon that period of his life with infinite sorrow and regret. It is the bitter sorrow and regret of a man who knows that once he had a great talent and wasted it, of a man who knows that once he had a great treasure and got nothing from it, of a man who knows that he had strength enough for everything and never used it.

年轻与年老

在我们渐渐变老的过程中，一种平淡而缓慢的感觉替代了强烈的爱憎沉浮；同样的感觉让我们收敛自己的希望，抚慰我们的忧惧。如果说快乐能少几分激情，那么烦恼也变得更加微不足道，更能够忍受。

总之，在这段时间里，我们需要储备一切，以备不时之需。在整个生命的历程中，这段时间是最丰富多彩、最闲适、最幸福的。不仅如此，通过管理自己的行为，跟随快乐的灵感而动，年轻人在竭尽全力赋予自己的时代以安逸的成分。充实、忙碌的青年时代是独立、自由的晚年生活的前奏；那些不能完成这些的人，其晚年生活不可避免是令人厌烦的。

这个世界上，约翰逊博士并不多，在64岁的时候才开始他们的第一次浪漫之旅。如果我们想要丈量勃朗峰，或是穿着潜水服潜水，或是坐着热气球升天，就必须趁着年轻去做，不要等到变得谨小慎微、腿脚不便的时候才想着去做。那样的话，人们就会问我们：“怎么这么不安分？”无论是脑力还是体力上，青年时代都是周游世界的时期。去领略不同国家的人文风情；去聆听午夜的钟声；去观看城市与乡村的日出；去虔诚悔过；去统览玄学，编写牵强的诗句，跑远路去看篝火，还为了给《艾那尼》 喝彩而在剧院等上一天。

Youth and Age

As we grow old, a sort of equable jog-trot of feeling is substituted for the violent ups and downs of passion and disgust; the same influence that restrains our hopes, quiets our apprehensions; if the pleasures are less intense, the troubles are milder and more tolerable; and in a word, this period for which we are asked to hoard up everything as for a time of famine, is, in its own right, the richest, easiest, and happiest of life.

Nay, by managing its own work and following its own happy inspiration, youth is doing the best it can to endow the leisure of age. A full, busy youth is your only prelude to a self-contained and independent age; and the muff inevitably develops into the bore. There are not many Doctor Johnsons, to set forth upon their first romantic voyage at sixty-four. If we wish to scale Mont Blanc or go down in a diving dress or up in a balloon, we must be about it while we are still young.

It will not do to delay until we are clogged with prudence and limping with rheumatism and people begin to ask us: “What does Gravity out of bed?” Youth is the time to go flashing from one end of the world to the other both in mind and body; to try the manners of different nations; to hear the chimes at midnight; to see sunrise in town and country; to be converted at a revival; to circumnavigate the metaphysics, write halting verses, run a mile to see a fire, and wait all day long in the theatre to applaud Hernani.

热爱生活

不管你的生活有多卑微，面对它吧，把生活进行下去，不可逃脱，也不能报以恶言，生活还不及你坏哩。你最富的时候，它反而最贫瘠。人若爱找茬儿，天堂也能被他挑出毛病。哪怕贫穷，你也要热爱生活。快活、激动和光荣的时光甚至在济贫院里也享受得到。反射在那里窗上的落日光芒，和照在有钱人家窗上的阳光是一样地亮堂，门前的积雪也同样都是在早春融化。

在我的眼里，一个心态平和的人，他思想乐观，处世泰然，居住在济贫院里就像居住在皇宫里一样。在我看来，镇上的穷人们往往过着最独立自在的生活。他们一定足够伟大，不然岂能欣然接受。大多数人以为自己不依靠城镇养活，认为自己超凡脱俗，但情况往往是，他们利用不正当的手段作为谋生之计，这些让他们更加名声狼藉。像圣人那样，对待贫穷就像对待园子里的草木，耕耘它吧！不要自找麻烦地去寻求新事物、新朋友或者是新衣服。去找旧的，回归旧有之物。万物并没有改变，变的是我们。衣帽可以卖掉，但思想应该保留。

Love Your Life

However mean your life is, meet it and live it; do not shun it and call it hard names. It is not so bad as you are. It looks poorest when you are richest. The fault, finder will find faults even in paradise. Love your life, poor as it is. You may perhaps have some pleasant, thrilling, glorious hours, even in a poor-house. The setting sun is reflected from the windows of the alms-house as brightly as from the rich man’s abode; the snow melts before its door as early in the spring.

I do not see but a quiet mind may live as contentedly there, and have as cheering thoughts, as in a palace. The town’s poor seem to me often to live the most independent lives of any. Maybe they are simply great enough to receive without misgiving. Most think that they are above being supported by the town; but it often happens that they are not above supporting themselves by dishonest means, which should be more disreputable. Cultivate poverty like a garden herb, like sage. Do not trouble yourself much to get new things, whether clothes or friends. Turn the old, return to them. Things do not change; we change. Sell your clothes and keep your thoughts.

阳光下的时光

写这句话时，梭罗想起孩提时代的瓦尔登湖。

当时伐木者和火车尚未严重破坏湖畔的美丽景致。小男孩可以走向湖中，仰卧小舟，自一岸缓缓漂向另一岸，周遭有鸟儿戏水，燕子翻飞。梭罗喜欢回忆这样的艳阳天和夏日，“这时，慵懒是最迷人也是最具生产力的事情！”

我也曾经是热爱湖塘的小男孩，拥有无数艳阳天与夏日。如今阳光、夏日依旧，男孩和湖塘却已改变。那男孩已长大成人，不再有那么多时间泛舟湖上，而湖塘也为大城市所并。曾有苍鹭觅食的沼泽，如今已枯竭殆尽，上面盖满了房舍。睡莲静静漂浮的湖湾，现在成了汽艇的避风港。总之，男孩所爱的一切都已不复存在——只留在人们的回忆中。

有些人坚持认为只有今日和明日才是重要的，可是如果真的照此生活，我们将是何其可怜！许多今日我们做的事是徒劳不足取的，很快就会被忘记。许多我们期待明天将要做的事情却从来没有发生过。

过去是一所银行，我们将最可贵的财产——记忆珍藏其中。记忆赐予我们生命的意义和深度。

真正珍惜过去的人，不会悲叹旧日美好时光的逝去，因为藏于记忆中的时光永不流失。死亡本身无法止住一个记忆中的声音，或擦除一个记忆中的微笑。对现已长大成人的那个男孩来说，那儿将有一个池塘不会因时间和潮汐而改变，可以让他继续在阳光下享受安静时光。

Hours in the Sun

When Thoreau wrote that line, he was thinking of the Walden. Pond he knew as a boy.

Woodchoppers and the Iron Horse had not yet greatly damaged the beauty of its setting. A boy could go to the pond and lie on his back against the seat of a boat, lazily drifting from shore to shore while the loons dived and the swallows dipped around him. Thoreau loved to recall such sunny hours and summer days “when idleness was the most attractive and productive business.”

I too was once a boy in love with a pond, rich in sunny hours and summer days. Sun and summer are still what they always were, but the boy and the pond changed. The boy, who is now a man, no longer finds much time for idle drifting. The pond has been annexed by a great city. The swamps where herons once hunted are now drained and filled with houses. The bay where water lilies quietly floated is now a harbor for motor boats. In short, everything that the boy loved no longer exists—except in the man’s memory of it.

Some people insist that only today and tomorrow matter. But how much poorer we would be if we really lived by that rule! So much of what we do today is frivolous and futile and soon forgotten. So much of what we hope to do tomorrow never happens.

The past is the bank in which we store our most valuable possession—the memories that give meaning and depth to our lives.

Those who truly treasure the past will not bemoan the passing of the good old days, because days enshrined in memory are never lost. Death itself is powerless to still a remembered voice or erase a remembered smile. And for one boy who is now a man, there is a pond which neither time nor tide can change, where he can still spend a quiet hour in the sun.

初雪

罗伯特·林德曾这样评论简·奥斯汀笔下的人物：“他们是这样的人，在他们的生活中，能遇上一场小雪就算是一件大事。”尽管可能被这位诙谐而温和的评论家看成是伍德豪斯式的人物，我仍然坚持认为，昨晚这里下了一场雪的确是一件大事。清晨，看到这皑皑白雪，我和孩子们不禁兴奋起来，我看到他们在幼儿室的窗户前凝望着外面奇妙的世界，七嘴八舌说个没完，仿佛又要过圣诞节了。事实上，这场雪对我和孩子们来说都是惊奇、迷人的。

这是这里今年冬天的第一场雪，由于去年此时我身在国外，在落雪时节正经历着热带的高温，所以再次看到铺着这洁白地毯的大地，有种久违了的感觉。去年在国外时，我遇上英属圭亚那三个年轻的女孩子，她们刚结束对英国的初访。她们印象最深的两件事是：伦敦街头熙熙攘攘的人群，全都是陌生的面孔（她们强调这一点，是因为她们一直生活在小镇，人们彼此都很熟悉）；另外一件事是在索默塞特某地，一天清晨醒来忽然见到了白雪皑皑的景象。她们欣喜若狂，一扫淑女的矜持，冲出屋子，来回奔跑在那片晶莹洁白的雪地上，在无人踩过的雪毯上，留下了横七竖八快乐的脚印，正像孩子们今天早晨在花园里做的那样。

这场初雪不仅是件大事，而且还是件有魔力的大事。你睡觉时处在一个世界里，而醒来时，却发现你在一个截然不同的世界里。如果这都不让人沉醉，那么，到哪里去找更醉人的东西呢？一切都悄然地在一种神秘的沉静中完成，这更给这场初雪增添了玄妙的色彩。若所有的雪铺天盖地倾泻下来，把我们从午夜的沉睡中惊醒，那么，这就没什么值得欢呼雀跃的了。但它却是趁我们熟睡时，分秒必争，悄无声息地飘落下来。卧室里窗帘拉拢了，外面却发生着翻天覆地的变化，犹如无数的精灵仙童在悄悄地施展魔法，而我们只是翻个身，打个呵欠，伸一下懒腰，对此毫无知觉。然而，这变化是多么巨大呀！我们住的房子仿佛掉进了另一片天地。即使在白雪鞭长莫及的室内，也好像不一样了，每个房间都显得小巧而温馨，好像有某种力量的驱使让它成为一个伐木工的棚屋，或一所温暖舒适的圆木房。你睡觉时处在一个世界里，而醒来时，却发现你在一个截然不同的世界里。

外面，昨天的花园，现在却是晶莹皎洁的一片，远处的村落犹如置于古老德国神话中的一个仙境，不再是你所熟识的一排排房屋了。所有住在那里的人们：戴眼镜的邮政局女局长、鞋匠、退休的小学校长以及其他人，如果你听说他们都改弦更张，成了古怪精灵般的人物，能为你提供隐身帽和魔术鞋，你也不要感到不可思议。你也会觉得自己和昨天不太一样。一切都在变化，你又怎会一成不变呢？屋里萦绕着一种莫名其妙的激动，一种由兴奋而产生的微弱的颤动，让人心神不宁，这和人们将要做一次旅行时所常有的那种感觉没什么两样。孩子们当然无比兴奋，就连大人们在准备开始一天的工作之前，拢在一起聊天的时间也比以往要长一些。任何人都会不由自主地到窗户前去瞧瞧——这种情形就和人们在一艘远行的游轮上一样。

今天早晨起床时，整个世界变成了淡蓝洁白交相呼应的冰封天地。光线从窗户射进来，迷迷离离，竟然使得洗脸、刷牙、刮胡子、穿衣服这些日常小事也显得很离奇古怪。接着太阳出来了，到我坐下来吃早餐时，太阳的光彩已经是绚丽夺目，给雪地添上一抹柔和的淡粉色。餐厅的窗户成了一幅可爱的日本版画，屋外的小梅树愉快地沐浴着日光，枝杈上镶嵌的淡粉色的雪花巧妙地装点着树干。过了一两个小时，万物都成了寒气四溢、白蓝交辉的发光体，世界再次焕然一新，那精巧的日本版画已然消失。我从书房的窗户望去，穿过花园，越过草地，看到那远处的低丘，大地晶莹皎洁，天空一片铅灰，所有的树木都阴森恐怖——确实有种非同寻常的危险蕴藏在这景象之中。它好像把我们这个与英国中心毗邻的宜人乡村变成了一个残忍冷酷的荒原。在那幽暗的矮树林中，似乎有一队骑兵随时都会从里面冲杀出来，随时都会听到刀剑无情的砍杀声，也可能会看到远方某一处雪地被鲜血染红。

——这就是我看到的情景。

这时情况又在变化。光亮已经消逝，那恐怖的迹象也荡然无存。雪下得正紧，大片大片柔软的雪花扬扬洒洒，因而人们几乎看不清对面那浅浅的山谷，厚厚的积雪压着屋顶，树木也都弯下了腰，映着影影绰绰的光芒，乡村教堂的风标依然清晰可见，然而它已变成安徒生笔下的某种动物了。我的书房独立于整所房子，从这儿我可以看到幼儿室的孩子们把鼻尖紧紧地贴在玻璃窗上。突然，我的脑海里响起一首儿歌，虽然音韵不协调，但在我孩提时，每当鼻尖紧贴着冰冷的玻璃凝视着飘舞的雪花，总唱起它：雪花，雪花，飘得快，洁白的雪花真可爱！苏格兰宰了多少鹅，片片鹅毛这边飘落！

First Snow

Mr. Robert Lynd once remarked of Jane Austen’ s characters: they are people in whose lives a slight fall of snow is an event. Even at the risk of appearing to this witty and genial critic as another Mr. Woodhouse, I must insist that last night’s fall of snow here was an event. I was nearly as excited about it this morning as the children, whom I found all peering through the nursery window at the magic outside and chattering as excitedly as if Christmas had suddenly come round again. The fact is, however, that the snow was as strange and enchanting to me as it was to them.

It is the first fall we have had here this winter, and last year I was out of the country, broiling in the tropics, during the snowy season, so that it really does seem an age since I saw the ground so fantastically carpeted. It was while I was away last year that I met the three young girls from British Guiana who had just returned from their first visit to England. The two things that had impressed them most were the endless crowds of people in the London street, all strangers (they emphasized this, for they had spent all their lives in a little town where everybody knows everybody), and the snow-covered landscape they awoke to, one morning when they were staying somewhere in Somerset. They were so thrilled and delighted that they flung away any pretence of being demure young ladies and rushed out of the house to run to and fro across the glittering white expanses, happily scattering footmarks on the untrodden surface, just as the children did in the garden this morning.

The first fall of snow is not only an event but it is a magical event. You go to bed in one kind of world and wake up to find yourself in another quite different, and if this is not enchantment, then where is it to be found? The very stealth, the eerie quietness, of the thing makes it more magical. If all the snow fell at once in one shattering crash, awakening us in the middle of the night the event would be robbed of its wonder. But it flutters down, soundless, hour after hour while we are asleep. Outside the closed curtains of the bedroom a vast transformation scene is taking place, just as if a myriad elves and brownies were at work, and we turn and yawn and stretch and know nothing about it. And then, what an extraordinary change it is! It is as if the house you are in had been dropped down in another continent. Even the inside, which has not been touched, seems different, every room appearing smaller and cosier, just as if some power were trying to turn it into a woodcutter’s hut or a snug log-cabin.

Outside, where the garden was yesterday, there is now a white and glistening level, and the village beyond is no longer your own familiar cluster of roofs but a village in an old German fairy-tale. You would not be surprised to learn that all the people there, the spectacled postmistress, the cobbler, the retired school master, and the rest, had suffered a change too and had become queer elvish beings, purveyors of invisible caps and magic shoes. You yourselves do not feel quite the same people you were yesterday. How could you when so much has been changed? There is a curious stir, a little shiver of excitement, troubling the house, not unlike the feeling there is abroad when a journey has to be made. The children, of course, are all excitement but even the adults hang about and talk to one another longer than usual before settling down to the day’s work. Nobody can resist the windows. It is like being on board a ship.

When I got up this morning the world was a chilled hollow of dead white and faint blues. The light that came through the windows was very queer, and it contrived to make the familiar business of splashing and shaving and brushing and dressing very queer too. Then the sun came out, and by the time I had sat down to breakfast. It was shining bravely and flushing the snow with delicate pinks. The dining room window had been transformed into a lovely Japanese print. The little plum-tree outside, with the faintly flushed snow lining its boughs and artfully disposed along its trunk, stood in full sunlight. An hour or two later everything was a cold glitter of white and blue. The world had completely changed again. The little Japanese prints had all vanished. I looked out of my study window, over the garden, the meadow, to the low hills beyond, and the ground was one long glare, the sky was steely, and all the trees so many black and sinister shapes. There was indeed something curiously sinister about the whole prospect. It was as if our kindly countryside, close to the very heart of England, had been turned into a cruel steppe. At any moment, it seemed, a body of horsemen might be seen breaking out from the black copse, so many instruments of tyranny might be heard and some distant patch of snow be reddened.

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