《四季隨筆》節(jié)選 - 秋 20

《四季隨筆》是吉辛的散文代表作。其中對(duì)隱士賴克羅夫特醉心于書籍、自然景色與回憶過去生活的描述，其實(shí)是吉辛的自述，作者以此來抒發(fā)自己的情感，因而本書是一部富有自傳色彩的小品文集。

吉辛窮困的一生，對(duì)文學(xué)名著的愛好與追求，以及對(duì)大自然恬靜生活的向往，在書中均有充分的反映。本書分為春、夏、秋、冬四個(gè)部分，文筆優(yōu)美，行文流暢，是英國(guó)文學(xué)中小品文的珍品之一。

以下是由網(wǎng)友分享的《四季隨筆》節(jié)選 - 秋 20的內(nèi)容，讓我們一起來感受吉辛的四季吧!

Truly, I grow aged. I have no longer much delight in wine.

我確實(shí)上年紀(jì)了，不再那么享受喝葡萄酒的樂趣了。

But then, no wine ever much rejoiced me save that of Italy. Winedrinking in England is, after all, only make-believe, a mere playing with an exotic inspiration. Tennyson had his port34, whereto clings a good old tradition; sherris35 sack belongs to a nobler age; these drinks are not for us. Let him who will, toy with dubious Bordeaux36 or Burgundy37; to get good of them, soul's good, you must be on the green side of thirty. Once or twice they have plucked me from despair; I would not speak unkindly of anything in cask or bottle which bears the great name of wine. But for me it is a thing of days gone by. Never again shall I know the mellow hour "cum regnat rosa, cum madent capilli"38. Yet how it lives in memory!

從前，我最喜愛的莫過于意大利酒。畢竟，在英格蘭，喝葡萄酒只是一種矯飾，只不過是一場(chǎng)激發(fā)異域風(fēng)情的游戲罷了。丁尼生有他的波爾圖葡萄酒，那是有古老優(yōu)良傳統(tǒng)的，雪利酒屬于一個(gè)更高貴的時(shí)代，這些酒都不適合我們。如果誰要喝味道可疑的波爾多和勃艮第，就隨他去吧；要品出它們的好處，它們靈魂的妙處，得在三十歲之前。有一兩次，它們把我從絕望的谷底救出，我決不會(huì)對(duì)裝在木桶或瓶子里的任何冠以酒名的液體有不敬的言辭。但對(duì)我而言，酒已是屬于逝去歲月的事物。“當(dāng)玫瑰花稱王，頭發(fā)被香水滋潤(rùn)的時(shí)候”，這種甜美的日子我再也不能體味了，但在記憶中它是多么鮮活??！

What call you this wine? I asked of the temple-guardian at Paestum, when he ministered to my thirst. "Vino di Calabria," he answered, and what a glow in the name! There I drank it, seated against the column of Poseidon's temple. There I drank it, my feet resting on acanthus, my eyes wandering from sea to mountain, or peering at little shells niched in the crumbling surface of the sacred stone. The autumn day declined; a breeze of evening whispered about the forsaken shore; on the far summit lay a long, still cloud, and its hue was that of my Calabrian wine.

“你把這種酒叫什么？”我向一個(gè)廟祝問道，那是在帕埃斯圖姆，他給我喝解渴的葡萄酒。“來自卡拉布里亞的酒”，他答道，啊，這名字里就像有一道光芒！我靠著海神廟的柱子坐下，喝著酒。腳放在葉形裝飾板上，視線從大海移到高山，或又凝視著圣石皴裂表面嵌著的小貝殼。那個(gè)秋日逐漸走到盡頭，傍晚的微風(fēng)悄聲訴說著孤獨(dú)海岸的故事；遠(yuǎn)處的山巔之上，躺著一朵長(zhǎng)長(zhǎng)的安靜的云彩，顏色就像我喝的卡拉布里亞酒。

How many such moments come back to me as my thoughts wander! Dim little trattorie in city byways, inns smelling of the sun in forgotten valleys, on the mountain side, or by the tideless shore, where the grape has given me of its blood, and made life a rapture. Who but the veriest fanatic of teetotalism would grudge me those hours so gloriously redeemed? No draught of wine amid the old tombs under the violet sky but made me for the time a better man, larger of brain, more courageous, more gentle. 'Twas a revelry whereon came no repentance. Could I but live for ever in thoughts and feelings such as those born to me in the shadow of the Italian vine! There I listened to the sacred poets; there I walked with the wise of old; there did the gods reveal to me the secret of their eternal calm. I hear the red rillet as it flows into the rustic glass; I see the purple light upon the hills. Fill to me again, thou of the Roman visage and all but Roman speech! Is not yonder the long gleaming of the Appian Way39? Chant in the old measure, the song imperishable

在我的思緒飄蕩之時(shí)，多少這樣的時(shí)刻都回歸心間！在城市僻路上陰暗的小酒館，人跡罕至的山谷中散發(fā)著陽光味道的小客棧，山腰上，或者風(fēng)平浪靜的海岸，葡萄賜給了我它的汁液，讓我的生命迸發(fā)狂喜。除了禁酒令的絕對(duì)支持者，誰會(huì)不愿意讓我享受這些快樂時(shí)光呢？在紫羅蘭色天穹下的古老墓穴間，正是這些酒，讓我當(dāng)時(shí)成為一個(gè)更好的人，更豁達(dá)，更勇敢，也更溫和。這是一場(chǎng)無須任何懺悔的歡宴。當(dāng)時(shí)在意大利葡萄藤的陰涼下生出的那些思想和感覺，如果我能永遠(yuǎn)帶著它們生活，那該多好！在那里，我聆聽神圣的詩(shī)人講話；在那里，我和古代的智者一起散步；在那里，神們向我吐露了他們永恒的平靜的秘密。我聽到紅色小溪流入鄉(xiāng)村酒杯時(shí)的潺潺聲，我看到紫色陽光灑在重重山巒之上。請(qǐng)?jiān)俅螢槲野丫票鍧M，你這有著羅馬人的面孔，說著羅馬語言的人！遠(yuǎn)方那不是長(zhǎng)長(zhǎng)的閃爍的亞壁古道嗎？請(qǐng)用古老的調(diào)子，唱起這首不朽的歌謠吧" dum Capitolium Scandet cum tacita virgine pontifex—” “大祭司與緘默無言的貞女，還登丘比特神堂的時(shí)候” aye, and for how many an age when Pontiff and Vestal sleep in the eternal silence. Let the slave of the iron gods chatter what he will; for him flows no Falernian, for him the Muses have no smile, no melody. Ere the sun set, and the darkness fall about us, fill again! 是啊，大祭司和貞女已經(jīng)在永恒的寂靜中沉睡了無數(shù)個(gè)世紀(jì)。讓鐵神們的奴隸隨心所欲地嘮叨吧，對(duì)他來說，不會(huì)有流淌的法勒納斯白葡萄酒，對(duì)他來說，繆斯女神沒有笑容，沒有音樂。在夕陽西下，黑暗到來之前，請(qǐng)?jiān)俅伟丫票鍧M！ XXI 21 Is there, at this moment, any boy of twenty, fairly educated, but without means, without help, with nothing but the glow in his brain and steadfast courage in his heart, who sits in a London garret, and writes for dear life? There must be, I suppose; yet all that I have read and heard of late years about young writers, shows them in a very different aspect. No garretteers, these novelists and journalists awaiting their promotion. They eat—and entertain their critics—at fashionable restaurants; they are seen in expensive seats at the theatre; they inhabit handsome flats—photographed for an illustrated paper on the first excuse. At the worst, they belong to a reputable club, and have garments which permit them to attend a garden party or an evening at home"" without attracting unpleasant notice. Many biographical sketches have I read, during the last decade, making personal introduction of young Mr. This or young Miss That, whose book was—as the sweet language of the day will have it—”booming”; but never one in which there was a hint of stern struggle, of the pinched stomach and frozen fingers. I surmise that the path of ""literature"" is being made too easy. Doubtless it is a rare thing nowadays for a lad whose education ranks him with the upper middle class to find himself utterly without resources, should he wish to devote himself to the profession of letters. And there is the root of the matter; writing has come to be recognized as a profession, almost as cut-and-dried as church or law; a lad may go into it with full parental approval, with ready avuncular support. I heard not long ago of an eminent lawyer, who had paid a couple of hundred per annum for his son's instruction in the art of fiction—yea, the art of fiction—by a not very brilliant professor of that art. Really, when one comes to think of it, an astonishing fact, a fact vastly significant. Starvation, it is true, does not necessarily produce fine literature; but one feels uneasy about these carpet-authors. To the two or three who have a measure of conscience and vision, I could wish, as the best thing, some calamity which would leave them friendless in the streets. They would perish, perhaps. But set that possibility against the all but certainty of their present prospect—fatty degeneration of the soul; and is it not acceptable?

此時(shí)此刻，有沒有一個(gè)二十歲的年輕人，受過良好的教育，然而身無分文，無人提攜，除了頭腦中閃光的智慧和心中堅(jiān)定的勇氣外一無所有，他正坐在倫敦的某個(gè)閣樓上，拼命地奮筆疾書？我想一定是有的。但是近幾年來，我讀到的和聽說的關(guān)于年輕作家的事情，與此截然不同。沒有誰還住在閣樓上，這些小說家和新聞?dòng)浾叨荚诘戎嘣浦鄙稀Ｋ麄冞x擇豪華飯店就餐——和招待批評(píng)家；劇院昂貴的座位上，可以看見他們；他們住高級(jí)公寓——一有機(jī)會(huì)便拍照刊登在某畫報(bào)上。最不濟(jì)的也是某知名俱樂部的成員，有參加園會(huì)或家庭晚會(huì)的得體禮服，不致招人側(cè)目。在過去十年中，我讀過許多傳記式文章，對(duì)年輕的X先生和Y小姐進(jìn)行介紹，他們的作品——按當(dāng)今時(shí)髦的好話來說——“銷量正節(jié)節(jié)攀升”；而其中卻找不出一丁點(diǎn)艱難掙扎的痕跡，沒有饑腸轆轆，也沒有凍僵的手指。我猜想，“文學(xué)”的道路變得太容易了。如今，如果一個(gè)年輕人受到的教育讓他躋身中上階層，他要想投身文學(xué)事業(yè)，完全沒有資源無疑是不大可能的。這也就是事情的根源所在，寫作已經(jīng)被看成一種職業(yè)，一種幾乎和宗教或法律一樣的常規(guī)職業(yè)；年輕人進(jìn)入這一行業(yè)時(shí)，可能獲得了家長(zhǎng)的完全贊成和前輩的鼎力支持。不久前，我聽說一個(gè)赫赫有名的律師，每年拿出幾百英鎊供兒子學(xué)習(xí)小說技巧——沒錯(cuò)，小說技巧——而老師是一個(gè)在這方面并不出色的教授。細(xì)想的話，這還真是一個(gè)令人吃驚又極富意味的事實(shí)。當(dāng)然，饑餓并不一定就能產(chǎn)生杰出的文學(xué)，但是這些地毯上走出的作家讓我感到不安。對(duì)于其中兩三個(gè)有一定道德良心和想象力的人，我愿他們?cè)庥瞿撤N災(zāi)難，身邊不剩下一個(gè)朋友。他們也許會(huì)失去生命，但是拿這個(gè)可能性對(duì)比他們現(xiàn)有的必然前景——脂肪過多造成的靈魂墮落，這難道是不可接受的嗎？

I thought of this as I stood yesterday watching a noble sunset, which brought back to my memory the sunsets of a London autumn, thirty years ago; more glorious, it seems to me, than any I have since beheld. It happened that, on one such evening, I was by the river at Chelsea, with nothing to do except to feel that I was hungry, and to reflect that, before morning, I should be hungrier still. I loitered upon Battersea Bridge—the old picturesque wooden bridge, and there the western sky took hold upon me. Half an hour later, I was speeding home. I sat down, and wrote a description of what I had seen, and straightway sent it to an evening newspaper, which, to my astonishment, published the thing next day—"On Battersea Bridge." How proud I was of that little bit of writing! I should not much like to see it again, for I thought it then so good that I am sure it would give me an unpleasant sensation now. Still, I wrote it because I enjoyed doing so, quite as much as because I was hungry; and the couple of guineas it brought me had as pleasant a ring as any money I ever earned.

我是昨天想到這些的，當(dāng)時(shí)我佇立在夕陽西下的輝煌景色之中，回憶起了三十年前倫敦秋天的幾次日落的情景；那似乎比我后來看過的所有落日都要壯麗。曾經(jīng)在這樣一個(gè)傍晚，我來到切爾西河畔，無所事事，只感覺腹中饑餓，并想到，次日黎明來臨之前，我會(huì)更加饑餓。我在巴特西橋上閑蕩——這是一座風(fēng)景如畫的古老木橋——就在那里，西方的天空讓我駐目良久。半小時(shí)后，我匆忙趕回家，坐在書桌前，寫文章描述我看到的景象，寫畢便立刻投稿給一家晚報(bào)，讓我吃驚的是，這篇文章第二天就刊登了出來，題目是“在巴特西橋上”。當(dāng)時(shí)我為那篇短小的文章感到多么的驕傲！但是我并不希望再看到它，因?yàn)槲耶?dāng)時(shí)覺得它那樣好，現(xiàn)在來看一定會(huì)讓我有不愉快的感覺。然而，我當(dāng)時(shí)寫下這篇文章，不僅是因?yàn)樾枰铒柖亲?，也是因?yàn)槲蚁矚g這樣做；而它給我?guī)淼膸讉€(gè)硬幣，響聲和我掙得的所有錢一樣悅耳。