Ivy常春藤

【導(dǎo)讀】

V. S.奈保爾（1932年8月17日—2018年8月11日），出生于中美洲的特立尼達(dá)島，是印度裔英國作家，曾獲得布克獎(jiǎng)、毛姆獎(jiǎng)、英國大衛(wèi)·柯恩文學(xué)獎(jiǎng)等獎(jiǎng)項(xiàng)，并于2001年獲得諾貝爾文學(xué)獎(jiǎng)。

本文節(jié)選自奈保爾的“半自傳體小說”《抵達(dá)之謎》（The Enigma of Arrival， 1987）第三章。該部小說以倒敘的手法再現(xiàn)了奈保爾在英國鄉(xiāng)村莊園以及旅行中對自我和世界的審視。《出版人周刊》評論此書“赤裸裸地展現(xiàn)了他生命中的孤獨(dú)、脆弱、焦慮，以及他敏銳細(xì)膩的感受，這是作為作家的他所擁有的資質(zhì)，也是作為人的他所承受的負(fù)擔(dān)”。

The river curved here. On the opposite bank the down ended abruptly in a wooded cliff， giving a great depth and a hint of surrounding forest to the river color. There was also a new channel here from the bare down， a spring breaking out of the chalk1 and quickly turning into a noisy cascade. So that again， in this neat， tame， smooth landscape， with a bare green-white down and with a river a few feet deep divided neatly into numbered beats， there was a reminder of the unpredictable force of water. Old corrugated2-iron sheets served as hatches3 in the new channel： an unexpected touch， in a landscape without people， of the urban slum.

The water bailiffs4 had released young trout near here， and they hadn’t wandered far. They were unexpectedly unattractive， as nervous as rats， of that color as well， and as swift and devious5 and silent as rats as they made for the camouflage6 of the dark river weeds.

This was the river walk， barely ten minutes， hardly a walk to someone used to walking most days for about an hour and a half. But the walk was always new; the river and what I saw always changed. There was the blue iris I saw in my first spring. Solitary among the weeds and nettles7 at the edge of the water meadow. I was transported at the sight， and instantly had the wish， if I ever were to plant a garden of my own， to try to achieve that effect. And then， in the light-headedness8 of my convalescence9， I began （until I sobered up again） to walk through the nettles to the iris， as though the beauty of what I saw lay not in the setting， but in that particular iris.

There were the scented old roses in the wild rose bed. And the roses I saw that first summer were the last： I was in at that particular death. Because in the autumn Mrs. Phillips pruned10 them， “cut them right back，” as she said; and those old rose bushes， cut down to the quick11， all turned to brier12 again.

There was a time of the spring or summer—every year—when a pale blue lawn weed floated like a blue mist above the daisy-spotted lawn. And always there was the river. It was the river， with its overwhelming beauty of reeds and weeds and moving water and changing reflections， that made me say， long before I felt myself in tune with13 other plants and truly in tune with the seasons： “At least I’ve had a year of this.” And then： “At least I’ve had two years of this.”

And just as， on the walk over the downs past Jack’s cottage， I always in the beginning looked for the warm brown fur of the hares， so on this shorter river walk I looked for the miniature volcano14 of the salmon’s nest in the white chalk of the riverbed; and the still， dark pike waiting in a deep pool where the water was dark in the shadow of reeds. And I looked for the vole or water rat. I knew the little tree on whose lower branch he liked to sun himself， after shaking his fur. I often saw him swimming across the river; and once I saw him so soundly asleep that—thinking he was dead—I went and stood over him. I often heard the surprised plop15 of his fellows as they dived into their river holes， sending up silent muddy clouds.

Every winter and spring created fresh havoc16 in the manor gardens and water meadows. The bridges over the channels decayed and decayed. The gate at the very last （or the first） bridge was eventually left open one year and collapsed finally of its own rot. The river changed its course by a few feet， washing over the path that the water bailiffs had kept clear; and the planks17 that spanned the channels were lost below water. New two-plank bridges were built， one plank plain， one covered with wire netting， for the grip18 it gave both to shoes and to the wheels of the bailiffs’ barrows.

On this walk， as on the longer walk on the downs past Jack’s cottage， I lived not with the idea of decay—that idea I quickly shed—so much as with the idea of change. I lived with the idea of change， of flux19， and learned， profoundly， not to grieve for it. I learned to dismiss this easy cause of so much human grief. Decay implied an ideal， a perfection in the past. But would I have cared to be in my cottage while the sixteen gardeners worked？ When every growing plant aroused anxiety， every failure pain or criticism？ Wasn’t the place now， for me， at its peak？ Finding myself where I was， I thought—after the journey that had begun so long before—that I was blessed.

And then one day， quite unexpectedly， walking with freedom at the back of the manor， walking at the edge of both the ruined water meadow and the wild manor lawn， I saw my landlord.

河流從這里打彎。河對岸，山崖聳立，樹木叢生，一片高地陡然在此消失。流經(jīng)此處的河水映出周圍山巒的倒影，顯得深不見底，林影悠悠。那光禿禿的高地上還有一條新河道，一股泉水從白堊土中噴涌而出，又迅速變成了一條瀑布，嘩嘩流下。這里水光山色，有綠白相間的高地，一條幾英尺深的河流整齊地分成幾條細(xì)流，讓人再次想起流水那變化莫測的力量。在新河道中，舊的瓦楞鐵皮被當(dāng)作艙口：像是在杳無人煙的地方，意外發(fā)現(xiàn)了一點(diǎn)兒城市貧民窟的意味。

河道監(jiān)管員在這附近放養(yǎng)了幼鱒，它們卻并未游遠(yuǎn)。它們膽怯如鼠，顏色也同老鼠一樣。它們游向深色水草掩蓋物時(shí)，也如鼠般敏捷、悄無聲息，一點(diǎn)都不惹人注目，真是出人意料。

這是河畔的步行道，不到十分鐘便可走完，對那些經(jīng)常需要花一個(gè)半小時(shí)散步的人來說，這幾乎算不上一條步行道。但這條道常年都是新的;河水與景物總是在變。這里有我在這里的第一個(gè)春天里見到的藍(lán)色鳶尾花。它孤零零地生長在水草甸邊緣的雜草和蕁麻之中。我被眼前的景象迷住了，心中頓時(shí)產(chǎn)生了一個(gè)愿望，如果有一天我有一座自己的花園，我會(huì)按照眼前的景象來布置。我好似大病初愈昏昏然開始（直到我清醒過來）穿過那片蕁麻，走向那朵鳶尾花，仿佛我所見的美并不在整片景色中，而只在那朵特別的鳶尾花上。

在野玫瑰花壇上，經(jīng)年的玫瑰花芳香四溢。我在來這第一年的夏天里看到的那些玫瑰花也是最后的玫瑰：我目睹了死亡的降臨。那個(gè)秋天，菲利普斯太太將花剪掉了。她說：“直剪到花莖的根部。”那些老玫瑰叢傷及筋骨，讓位給了荊棘叢。

每年春天或夏天的某個(gè)時(shí)候，在點(diǎn)綴著雛菊的草坪上，一種淡藍(lán)色的草就如藍(lán)色的薄霧般漂浮在草坪上方。這條河一直都在。蘆葦遍地，芳草萋萋，流水潺潺，倒影變幻，美得令人沉醉。讓我不禁感嘆：“至少我與這樣的美景相伴了一年。”之后，第二年，我再次感嘆：“至少我與這樣的美景相伴了兩年。”與花草如此親近，與花季如此和諧，這種感覺真是久違了！

杰克小屋旁的高地上方有一條步行道，就像我一開始就總在那里尋找野兔溫暖的棕色毛皮一樣，在這條較短的河岸步行道上，我總要在河床的白堊土中尋找像微型火山一樣的鮭魚窩，還有那黑色的梭子魚。岸邊的蘆葦?shù)褂吃谒校铀念伾@得更深，梭子魚就在深潭中靜候，伺機(jī)而動(dòng)。我也找尋著田鼠或河鼠。它抖一抖皮毛之后就喜歡在小樹的矮枝上曬太陽，我認(rèn)得那棵小樹。我經(jīng)常看到它游過那條河;有一次，我看見它睡得很熟，以為它死了，就走過去站在它身旁俯視著。我經(jīng)常聽到它的同伴受到驚嚇撲通跳進(jìn)河里，鉆進(jìn)河中的洞穴，無聲地激起朵朵渾濁的泥云。

每年的冬天和春天都會(huì)給花園和水草甸帶來一場新的浩劫。架在溝渠上的橋漸漸腐爛，最后一座橋（或者是第一座橋）的大門敞開一年后，最終因腐爛而倒塌。這條河改道了幾英尺，漫過監(jiān)管員保持得很干凈的河道;架在河道兩邊的厚木板最后掉到了水里。人們搭建了新的雙層木板橋，一塊木板是平的，另一塊則是纏繞了鐵絲網(wǎng)的，這樣人們走路過橋和監(jiān)管員推著手推車過橋都可以防滑了。

走在這條步行道上，就像走在杰克小屋旁的高地上那條長長的路上，我心中一直不能接受“腐朽”這種說法，那念頭總是一閃而過。我倒是可以接受“變化”的觀念。我的生活中常有世事變遷、流動(dòng)不居的思想，并深刻體會(huì)到了不必為變化而悲傷。我深知變化是引起人類無數(shù)悲傷的根源，因此學(xué)會(huì)了如何打消這些想法。腐朽意味著某種理想、某種完美已不復(fù)存在。但是，當(dāng)16個(gè)園丁在干活兒，當(dāng)每一株植物的成長引起焦慮，每一次失敗引起痛苦或苛責(zé)，我還會(huì)無動(dòng)于衷端坐在自己的小屋子里嗎？對我來說，現(xiàn)在這個(gè)地位算是如日中天了嗎？長路漫漫之后，我終于找到了自己的所在，竊以為何其有幸！

有一天，當(dāng)我優(yōu)哉游哉地徜徉在莊園后面，漫步在廢棄的水草甸邊和已是荒草遍地的莊園草坪時(shí)，出乎意料地看到了我的房東。

（譯者單位：北京語言大學(xué)）