Old Man at the Bridge1 坐在橋邊的老人

歐內(nèi)斯特·海明威 譯/青閏

An old man with steel rimmed spectacles and very dusty clothes sat by the side of the road. There was a pontoon bridge across the river and carts， trucks， and men， women and children were crossing it. The mule-drawn carts staggered up the steep bank from the bridge with soldiers helping push against the spokes of the wheels. The trucks ground up and away heading out of it all and the peasants plodded along in the ankle deep dust. But the old man sat there without moving. He was too tired to go any farther.

It was my business to cross the bridge， explore the bridgehead beyond and find out to what point the enemy had advanced. I did this and returned over the bridge. There were not so many carts now and very few people on foot， but the old man was still there.

“Where do you come from？” I asked him.

“From San Carlos，” he said， and smiled.

That was his native town and so it gave him pleasure to mention it and he smiled.

“I was taking care of animals，” he explained.

“Oh，” I said， not quite understanding.

“Yes，” he said， “I stayed， you see， taking care of animals. I was the last one to leave the town of San Carlos.”

He did not look like a shepherd nor a herdsman and I looked at his black dusty clothes and his gray dusty face and his steel rimmed spectacles and said， “What animals were they？”

“Various animals，” he said， and shook his head. “I had to leave them.”

I was watching the bridge and the African looking country of the Ebro Delta and wondering how long now it would be before we would see the enemy， and listening all the while for the first noises that would signal that ever mysterious event called contact， and the old man still sat there.

“What animals were they？” I asked.

“There were three animals altogether，” he explained. “There were two goats and a cat and then there were four pairs of pigeons.”

“And you had to leave them？” I asked.

“Yes. Because of the artillery. The captain told me to go because of the artillery.”

“And you have no family？” I asked， watching the far end of the bridge where a few last carts were hurrying down the slope of the bank.

“No，” he said， “only the animals I stated. The cat， of course， will be all right. A cat can look out for itself， but I cannot think what will become of the others.”

“What politics have you？” I asked.

“I am without politics，” he said. “I am seventy-six years old. I have come twelve kilometers now and I think now I can go no further.”

“This is not a good place to stop，” I said. “If you can make it， there are trucks up the road where it forks for Tortosa.”

“I will wait a while，” he said， “and then I will go. Where do the trucks go？”

“Towards Barcelona，” I told him.

“I know no one in that direction，” he said， “but thank you very much. Thank you again very much.”

He looked at me very blankly and tiredly， then said， having to share his worry with someone， “The cat will be all right， I am sure. There is no need to be unquiet about the cat. But the others. Now what do you think about the others？”

“Why they’ll probably come through it all right.”

“You think so？”

“Why not，” I said， watching the far bank where now there were no carts.

“But what will they do under the artillery when I was told to leave because of the artillery？”

“Did you leave the dove cage unlocked？” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Then they’ll fly.”

“Yes， certainly they’ll fly. But the others. It’s better not to think about the others，” he said.

“If you are rested I would go，” I urged. “Get up and try to walk now.”

“Thank you，” he said and got to his feet， swayed from side to side and then sat down backwards in the dust.

“I was taking care of animals，” he said dully， but no longer to me. “I was only taking care of animals.”

There was nothing to do about him. It was Easter Sunday and the Fascists were advancing toward the Ebro. It was a gray overcast day with a low ceiling so their planes were not up. That and the fact that cats know how to look after themselves was all the good luck that old man would ever have.

一位戴著鋼絲邊眼鏡、衣服滿是灰塵的老人坐在路邊。河上有一座浮橋，騾車、卡車，以及男女老少正在過橋。騾車搖搖晃晃從橋上爬上陡岸，士兵們扳著輪輻在幫著推車。卡車轟隆隆地駛上陡岸，脫離開這一切向前駛?cè)ィr(nóng)民們在深及腳踝的塵土中沉重而緩慢地向前走。但是，老人坐在那里沒動。他累得走不動了。

我的任務是過橋偵察遠處的橋頭堡，查明敵人推進到了什么位置。我完成這個任務，便過橋返回。這時，騾車已經(jīng)沒有那么多了，行人也寥寥無幾，但老人還在那里。

“你從哪里來？”我問他。

“從圣卡洛斯城來。”說著，他微微一笑。

那是他的家鄉(xiāng)，所以提到它，他很高興，于是露出了微笑。

“我原來是在照看動物。”他解釋說。

“噢。”我說，但沒有完全明白。

“是的，”他說，“你明白，我留下來照看動物。我是最后一個離開圣卡洛斯城的。”

他看上去既不像牧羊人，也不像放牛人。我看了看他沾滿塵土的黑衣服、滿是塵土的灰色面孔和鋼絲邊眼鏡，問道：“它們是什么動物？”

“各種各樣的動物。”他說著，搖了搖頭，“我只得丟下它們。”

我注視著浮橋和看上去具有非洲風情的埃布羅河三角洲的鄉(xiāng)野，想知道要過多久才會看到敵人，同時一直側(cè)耳傾聽，等待那第一陣的嘈雜聲，嘈雜聲預示著一直都神秘莫測的遭遇戰(zhàn)將要打響，而老人還坐在那里。

“它們是什么動物？”我問。

“總共有三種動物，”他解釋說，“有兩只山羊、一只貓，還有四對鴿子。”

“而你只得丟下它們，是嗎？”我問。

“是。是因為那些大炮。那個上尉叫我走，就是因為那些大炮。”

“那你沒有家嗎？”我問道，同時注視著浮橋的另一端，那里最后幾輛騾車正匆匆地駛下岸坡。

“沒有，”他說，“只有我剛才說過的那些動物。當然，那只貓不會有問題。貓能照顧自己，但我想不出另幾只動物會怎么樣。”

“你有什么政見？”我問。

“我沒有政見。”他說，“我76歲了。我現(xiàn)在已經(jīng)走了12公里，我想我現(xiàn)在再也走不動了。”

“這不是一個久留的好地方。”我說，“如果你能走過去的話，在岔向托爾托薩的那條路上就有卡車。”

“我要等一會兒，”他說，“然后再走。卡車去哪里？”

“去巴塞羅那。”我告訴他。

“朝那個方向去，我一個人都不認識。”他說，“不過，非常感謝你。再次非常感謝你。”

他非常茫然而又疲憊地看著我，隨后覺得要有個人和他分擔他的憂愁，就說道：“貓會平安無事，我敢保證。不必為貓擔心。可是，還有另幾只動物。你認為另外幾只動物會怎么樣？”

“啊，它們說不定會平安脫險的。”

“你認為是這樣嗎？”

“為什么不是呢。”我注視著對面河岸說，那里現(xiàn)在沒有騾車了。

“可是，它們在炮火下怎么辦？他們叫我走，就是因為那些大炮。”

“你沒有鎖上鴿籠嗎？”我問。

“沒有。”

“那它們會飛的。”

“是的，它們當然會飛。可是，還有另幾只動物。最好還是不要去想另外幾只了。”他說。

“要是你歇夠的話，我就要走了。”我催促道，“現(xiàn)在起來，試著走走看。”

“謝謝你。”他說著站起來，左右搖晃了一下，然后又倒退著坐在塵土上。

“我原來是在照看動物。”他木然地說，但不再是對我說，“我只是在照看動物。”

我對他沒招了。那天是復活節(jié)，法西斯軍隊正在向埃布羅逼近。天色灰蒙蒙、陰沉沉的，云幕壓得很低，所以他們的飛機沒有升空。敵機沒來和貓知道如何照顧自己這兩件事，就是這位老人可能會得到的全部好運了。