On the Downs在山岡上

阿爾弗雷德·喬治·加德納 朱建迅

We spread our lunch on the crown of one of those great billows of the downs2 that stand along the sea. Down in the hollows tiny villages or farmsteads stood in the midst of clumps of trees， and the cultivated lands looked like squares of many-coloured carpets， brown carpets and yellow carpets and green carpets， with the cloud shadows passing over them and moving like battalions3 up the gracious slopes of the downs beyond. A gleam of white in the midst of one of the brown fields caught the eye. It seemed like a patch of snow that had survived the rigours of the English summer， but suddenly it rose as if blown by the wind and came towards us in tiny flakes of white that turned to seagulls. They sailed high above us uttering that querulous4 cry that seems to have in it all the unsatisfied hunger of the sea.

In this splendid spaciousness the familiar forms seem incredibly diminutive. That little speck moving across one of the brown carpets is a ploughman and his team. That white stream that looks like milk flowing over the green carpet is a flock of sheep running before the sheep-dog to another pasture. And the ear no less than the eye learns to translate the faint suggestions into known terms. At first it seems that， save for the larks that spring up here and there with their cascades of song， the whole of this immense vacancy is soundless. But listen. There is “the wind on the heath， brother.”5 And below that， and only audible when you have attuned your ear to the silence， is the low murmur of the sea.

You begin to grow interested in probing the secrecies of this great stillness. That？ Ah， that was the rumble6 of some distant railway train going to Brighton or Eastbourne. But what was that？ Through the voices of the wind and the sea that we have learned to distinguish we catch another sound， curiously hollow and infinitely remote， not vaguely pervasive like the murmur of the sea， but round and precise like the beating of a drum somewhere on the confines of the earth.

“The guns！”

Yes， the guns. Across fifty miles of sea and fifty miles of land the sound is borne to us as we sit in the midst of this great peace of earth and sky. When once detached， as it were7， from the vague murmurs of the breathing air it becomes curiously insistent. It throbs on the ear almost like the beating of a pulse—baleful8， sepulchral9， like the strokes of doom. We begin counting them， wondering whether they are the guns of the enemy or our own， speculating as to the course of the battle.

We have become spectator of the great tragedy， and the throb of the guns touches the scene with new suggestions. Those cloud shadows drifting across the valley and up the slopes of the downs on the other side take on the shapes of massed10 battalions. The apparent solitude does not destroy the impression. There is no solitude so complete to the outward eye as that which broods over the country when the armies face each other in the grips of death. I have looked from the mountains of Rheims11 across just such a valley as this. Twenty miles of battle front lay before me， and in all that great field of vision there was not a moving thing visible. There were no cattle in the fields and no ploughmen following their teams. Roads marched across the landscape， but they were empty roads. It was as though life had vanished from the earth. Yet I knew that all over that great valley the earth was crawling with life and full of immense and sinister secrecies—the galleries12 of the sappers13， the trenches and redoubts14， the hiding-places of great guns， the concealed observations of the watchers. Yes， it was just such a scene as this. The only difference was that you had not to put your ear to the ground to catch the thunder of the guns.

But the voice of war that has broken in upon our peace fades when we are once more on the move over the downs， and the visions it has brought with it seem unreal and phantasmal in their serene and sunlit world. The shadows turn to mere shadows again， and we tread the wild thyme and watch the spiral of the lark with careless rapture. We dip down into a valley to a village hidden among the trees， without fear or thought of bomb-proof shelters and masked batteries15， and there in a cottage with the roses over the porch we take rest and counsel over the teacups. Then once more to the downs. The evening shadows are stretching across the valleys， but to these spacious heights the sunshine still rests. Someone starts singing that jolly old song， “The Farmers Boy，” and soon the air resounds to the chorus：

“To plough and sow， to reap and mow，

And be a farmers boy-o-o-o-oy，

And be a farmers boy.”

No one recalls the throbbing of the guns or stops to catch it from amidst the murmurs of the air. This—this is the reality. That was only an echo from a bad dream from which we have awakened.

And when an hour or two later we reach the little village by the sea we rush for the letters that await us with eager curiosity. There is silence in the room as each of us devours the budget of news awaiting us. I am vaguely conscious as I read that someone has left the room with a sense of haste. I go up to my bedroom， and when I return the sitting-room is empty save for one figure. I see at a glance that something has happened.

“Robert has been killed in battle，” he says. How near the sound of the guns had come！

海邊矗立著形似連綿巨浪的一座座石灰巖山岡，我們在其中一座的頂端擺好午餐。下面的山谷里，幾個小小的村子或農莊坐落于綠樹叢中。一塊塊耕地，好似一方方多彩的地毯，棕色的、黃色的、綠色的地毯，浮云陰影經過耕地上方，猶如排列成陣的士卒爬上耕地盡頭那些壯觀的岡巒。一塊棕色田野中央閃爍著一抹白光，攫住了我們的視線。它恍若歷經英國炎夏猶存的殘雪，可又像是被風刮起似的驟然升空，徑直朝我們而來，從幾片小小的雪花倏而變為幾只海鷗。它們高高地掠過我們頭頂，發出聲聲鳴叫，似在抱怨，其中似乎蘊含了它們對大海永無魘足的渴望。

在這寬闊無際的天地之間，原本熟悉的各種形態似乎皆已縮小到不可思議的地步。那個徐徐移過一張棕毯的斑點，是一名耕夫和他的耕畜。那道流動的白色渾似流過綠毯的牛奶，是一群羊兒在牧羊犬的驅趕下跑向另一片牧場。我們耳目并用，學著將些微跡象轉換成熟悉的語言。起初，除了幾只從各處飛起的云雀連續的歌唱以外，這片廣袤的原野似乎寂靜無聲?？墒乔衣牎＿@里有“荒原上的風，兄弟”。在風下，只有當耳朵適應了寂靜才隱約可聞的，是海濤的喁喁細語。

你漸漸有了興致，很想探究這超乎尋常的寂靜之下的秘密。那是什么聲音？啊，那是遠處某列駛往布萊頓或伊斯特本的火車的隆隆聲?？赡怯质鞘裁绰曇簦客高^我們已經學會分辨的風聲和濤聲，我們捕捉到另一種聲音，異常沉悶，無限遙遠，不像海濤的低語無處不在、似有若無，而是清晰飽滿，如同陸地之上哪里響起的鼓聲。

“槍聲！”

是的，槍聲。穿過50英里的大海和50英里的陸地，這聲音傳到正坐在天地間寧謐氛圍之中的我們身邊。槍聲似乎與微風的低吟分離，變得出奇的持久。它頻頻敲擊我們的耳鼓，幾乎類似脈搏的狂跳——兇險，恐怖，猶如催魂的鐘聲。我們開始細數槍聲，琢磨它們是來自敵軍還是己方，揣測戰事的進展。

我們已經成為一場大型悲劇的旁觀者，噼噼啪啪的槍聲帶有若干新的意味。那些飄過山谷、飄上對面山岡斜坡的云影，開始呈現士卒排列成陣的形態。表面的荒僻沒有破壞這種印象。在旁觀者看來，只有在生死攸關的兩軍對壘之際，他眼前的原野才算是絕對的荒僻。我曾經在蘭斯的山上遠眺與此相似的一片谷地。我的前方橫亙著20英里的作戰陣地，偌大的視野內，竟然看不到一個移動的物體。田野里沒有牛，沒有尾隨耕畜的耕夫。幾條路貫穿其間，但只是闃無人跡的路，仿佛世間的生命俱已消失。然而我知道，那片廣闊的谷地遍布生命，充滿巨大而兇險的秘密——掃雷工兵的坑道，壕塹，防御工事，重機槍的掩體，隱蔽的觀察哨。沒錯，正是眼前的這番景象。唯一的區別是，你無須將耳朵緊貼地面，也能聽見槍炮的呼嘯。

可是，當我們再次翻越一個個山岡時，打破我們安寧的戰聲已然消失，它帶來的各種景象，在這灑滿陽光的寧謐世界，似乎變得虛幻。云影復又變為純粹的云影，我們腳下踩著野生百里香，閑適而歡暢地注視著云雀盤旋升空。我們下到一片谷地，來到一個綠樹掩映的村莊，既不懼怕也沒想到防彈掩體和隱蔽排炮。在一家門廊植有玫瑰的農舍，我們歇息，邊喝茶邊議論，然后再次走向山岡。山谷里暮色在延伸，但是夕暉依然照耀著那些開闊的高地。有人唱起那首歡快的老歌《農家兒郎》，少頃，空氣中回蕩起我們的合唱聲：

“耕地播種，莊稼收割，

當個農家兒郎呀咿嗬，

農家兒郎好快活?！?/p>

沒人想起噠噠噠的槍聲，也沒人駐足捕捉微風中傳來的槍聲。這——這才是現實。槍只是我們從中醒來的噩夢的一聲回響。

一兩個鐘頭過后，我們剛剛抵達海邊的小村，便好奇而急切地趕緊去取那些等候我們的信件。我們每人都在快速瀏覽大量消息，起居室里一片沉寂。我讀著讀著，恍惚覺得有人匆匆離開了房間。我走進自己的房間，回來時起居室內只有一人。我瞟了一眼，便知道出事了。

“羅伯特陣亡了，”他說。傳來的槍聲是那么近！

（譯者單位：揚州大學外國語學院）

1（1865—1946），英國著名作家，一生著述宏富，尤以散文見長。他的散文大多取材于日常生活中的平凡事件，清新可誦，自然典雅，詼諧幽默，富有哲理。主要作品有隨筆集《岸邊卵石》（Pebbles on the Shore）、《風中之葉》（Leaves in the Wind）、《道道畦溝》（Many Furrows）等。本文選自《岸邊卵石》。? 2 downs（野草覆蓋的低矮丘陵，尤指英格蘭東南部兩處以此詞命名的）丘陵地帶。? 3 battalion（軍隊的）營，營部。? 4 querulous愛抱怨的，愛發牢騷的。

5出自英國作家喬治·博羅（George Borrow， 1803—1881）的自傳體小說《拉文格羅》（Lavengro）。? 6 rumble隆隆聲;持續而低沉的聲音。

7 as it were可以說是;在一定程度上。? 8 baleful威脅的。? 9 sepulchral墳墓似的;陰森森的。? 10 massed（大量）集結的，聚集的。? 11法國東北部城市。

12 gallery（礦坑或洞穴中的）水平巷道。? 13 sapper工兵。? 14 redoubt防御工事;掩體。? 15 battery炮組，排炮。