On a Bit of Seaweed 一簇海草

阿爾弗雷德·喬治·加德納 譯/朱建迅

The postman came just now， and among the letters he had brought was one from North Wales. It was fat and soft and bulgy， and when it was opened we found it contained a bit of seaweed. The thought that prompted the sender was friendly， but the momentary effect was to arouse wild longings for the sea， and to add one more count to the indictment of the Kaiser2， who had sent us for the holidays into the country， where we could obey the duty to economise， rather than to the seaside， where the temptations to extravagance could not be dodged. “Oh， how it smells of Sheringham，” said one whose vote is always for the East Coast. “No， there is the smack of Sidmouth， and Dawlish， and Torquay in its perfume，” said another， whose passion is for the red cliffs of South Devon. And so on， each finding， as he or she sniffed at the seaweed， the windows of memory opening out on to the foam of summer seas. And soon the table was enveloped in a rushing tide of recollections—memories of bathing and boating， of barefooted races on the sands， of jolly fishermen who always seemed to be looking out seaward for something that never came， of hunting for shells， and of all the careless raptures of dawn and noon and sunset by the seashore. All awakened by the smell of a bit of seaweed.

It is this magic of reminiscence that makes the world such a storehouse of intimacies and confidences. There is hardly a bird that sings， or a flower that blows， or a cloud that sails in the blue that does not bring us some hint from the past， and set us tingling with remembrance. We open a drawer by chance， and the smell of lavender issues forth， and with that lingering perfume the past is unrolled like scroll， and places long unseen leap to the inward eye and voices long unheard are speaking to us：

We tread the path their feet have worn.

We sit beneath their orchard trees，

We hear， like them， the hum of bees，

And rustle of the bladed corn.3

Who can see the first daffodils of spring without feeling a sort of spiritual festival that the beauty of the flower alone cannot explain？ The memory of all the springs of the past is in their dancing plumes， and the assurance of all the springs to come. They link us up with the pageant of nature， and with the immortals of our kind—with Wordsworth watching them “in sprightly dance”4 by Ullswater5， with Herrick6 finding in them the sweet image of the beauty and transience of life， with Shakespeare greeting them “in the sweet o’ the year” by Avon’s banks long centuries ago.

And in this sensitiveness of memory to external suggestion there is infinite variety. It is not a collective memory that is awakened， but a personal memory. That bit of seaweed opened many windows in us， but they all looked out on different scenes and reminds us of something individual and inexplicable， of something which is a part of that ultimate loneliness that belongs to all of us. Everything speaks a private language to each of us that we can never translate to others. I do not know what the lilac says to you， but to me it talks of a garden-gate over which it grew long ago. I am a child again， standing within the gate， and I see the red-coated soldiers marching along with jolly jests and snatching the lilac sprays from the tree as they pass. The emotion of pride that these heroes should honour our lilac tree by ravishing its blossoms all come back to me， together with a flood of memories of the old garden and the old home and the vanished faces. Why that momentary picture should have fixed itself in the mind I cannot say; but there it is， as fresh and clear at the end of nearly fifty years as if it were painted yesterday， and the lilac tree bursting into blossom always unveils again.

It is these multitudinous associations that give life its colour and its poetry. They are the garnerings of the journey， and unlike material gains they are no burden to our backs and no anx-iety to our mind. “The true harvest of my life，” said Thoreau， “is something as intangible and indescribable as the tints of morning and evening.” It was the summary， the essence， of all his experience. We are like bees forever foraging in the garden of the world， and hoarding the honey in the hive of memory. And no hoard is like any other hoard that ever was or ever will be. The cuckoo calling over the valley， the blackbird fluting in the low boughs in the even-ing， the solemn majesty of the Abbey， the life of the streets， the ebb and flow of Father Thames—everything whispers to us some secret that it has for no other ear， and touches a chord of memory that echoes in no other brain. Those deeps within us find only a crude expression in the vehicle of words and actions， and our intercourse with men touches but the surface of ourselves. The rest is “as intangible and indescribable as the tints of morning and evening.” It was one of the most companionable of men， William Morris 7， who said：

That God has made each one of us as lone

As He Himself sits.

That is why， in moments of exaltation， our only refuge is silence， and the world of memory within answers the world of suggestion without.

“And what does the seaweed remind you of？” said one， as I looked up after smelling it. “It reminds me，” I said， “of all the seas that wash our shores， and of all the brave sailors who are guarding these seas day and night， while we sit here secure. It reminds me also that I have an article to write， and that its title is ‘A Bit of Seaweed.’”

郵遞員剛到，送來若干信件，其中一封寄自北威爾士。這封信鼓脹而綿軟，我們拆開信封，發現里面夾著一簇海草。寄信人這樣做是出于善意，但它產生了短暫的作用， 在激起我們對大海無盡向往的同時，也使我們又多了一項對專斷跋扈的上司的譴責。此人打發我們來鄉村度假，以便我們謹守儉省之道，而不是去海濱消夏，因為我們在那兒無法擺脫種種奢靡的誘惑。“哦，它可是散發著謝靈厄姆的氣息。”一貫主張去東海岸的一位朋友說。“不，它的清香帶有錫德茅斯、道利什和托基的味道。”酷愛南德文郡的紅色峭壁的另一位朋友說。如此等等，每個人細嗅海草香時，都朝夏季白沫飛濺的海面敞開記憶的窗扉。聚在桌邊的人們，很快沉浸在一股驟然涌動的回憶的波濤中，想起海水浴，海上蕩槳泛舟，沙灘上赤足迅跑，想起樂呵呵的漁民似乎永遠在朝海上瞭望，留意那從未到來的什么東西，想起拾撿貝殼，想起黎明、正午和日落在海邊漫步時不經意間產生的狂喜。引發這一切的是一簇海草的氣味。

正是這種懷舊的魔力，才使世界成為一個珍藏各種深摯而隱秘情思的偌大寶庫。幾乎沒有哪一只歌唱的鳥兒，或是一朵綻放的鮮花，或是一片浮游于藍天的云彩，不會帶給我們昔時的些許跡象，使我們因為感懷往事而心靈震顫。我們偶然打開一只抽屜，從中逸出薰衣草的氣味，隨著那一縷幽香，往昔歲月像一幅畫軸似的緩緩展開，久已不見的那些地方驀然浮現于腦海，久已不聞的那些聲音在向我們訴說：

我們走過他們曾經涉足的小徑。

我們坐在他們園里的果樹下方，

我們像他們那樣聽見蜂兒的嗡嗡，

聽見玉蜀黍葉片的沙沙聲響。

誰看見春天的第一束黃水仙，能不覺得一種心靈的愉悅，一種單是花兒的美麗所無法解釋的愉悅？我們對昔時所有春天的回憶，全都在于輕盈飄舞的嬌艷水仙，在于認定今后所有春天必來的那份自信。水仙使我們產生各種聯想：大自然繽紛多姿，人類創作的不朽詩文——華茲華斯在阿爾斯沃特湖畔觀賞水仙花“翩翩起舞”;羅伯特·赫里克發現水仙花是美的理想化身，同時象征著生命的短暫;幾百年前莎士比亞在艾文河畔“一年中的美好時節”問候它們。

外界的暗示極易觸發我們的記憶，但記憶的內容卻迥然各異。暗示喚起的不是群體的記憶，而是個體的記憶。那簇海草打開了我們許多扇心靈的窗戶，然而窗外展現的都是不同的情景，令我們想起純系個人體驗而又難以言詮的什么東西，想起那致使我們極度孤獨的什么東西，這種孤獨為我們所共有。每樣東西都以個人私密的語言向我們每個人傾訴，那是一種永遠無法轉述給他人的語言。我不知道丁香會對你說些什么，但它對我說起多年前它攀附于其上的那扇園門。我再度成為一個孩子，站在門內，看見身穿紅色軍服的士兵們列隊行進，快樂地說著俏皮話，經過丁香樹時揪下一串串花枝。這些英雄竟然捋走樹上的花朵，如此賞識我們的這棵丁香樹，我心里復又涌起一股自豪感，連同對故園老宅及一張張已逝面龐的一連串回憶。為什么那張瞬間的畫面能定格在腦海里，我無法說出;但它的確存在，將近50年后依然新穎而清晰，仿佛昨天繪就一般，而且那株盛放的丁香樹總是重現眼前。

正是如此眾多的聯想，賦予生活本身色彩和詩意。它們是人生旅途上的點滴收獲，不同于物質利益，它們既不是我們肩頭的負擔，也不是我們內心的煩憂。“我生活中的真正收獲，”梭羅說，“是如同晨曦和晚霞那樣無法觸摸、難以形容的某種東西。”這是他畢生經驗的總結和精髓。我們猶如蜜蜂，一直在世界的花園里尋尋覓覓，在記憶的蜂巢里貯藏甜美的東西。沒有哪一次的貯存之物類似以前或將來的。對著山谷啼鳴的杜鵑，黃昏時分在低垂的樹枝上叫喚的烏鶇，修道院的莊嚴肅穆，街道上的人間煙火氣，泰晤士河的潮漲潮落——每樣東西都在我們耳邊低語著只屬于我們的秘密，觸動著只屬于我們的回憶，這種觸動也不可能在另一人心里產生共鳴。我們內心深處的隱衷只是借助言行約略表達幾分，我們與他人的接觸僅僅涉及我們的表面，余皆“如同晨曦和晚霞那樣無法觸摸、難以形容”。待人特別友善的威廉·莫里斯說過：

上帝使我們每個人孤獨，

如同他自己那般。

正因如此，每當處在狂喜的時刻，靜默是我們唯一的庇護所，以心中記憶的世界回應外在那個充滿暗示的世界。

“這海草讓你想起了什么？”一位朋友問道，此刻我已嗅過海草的氣味抬起頭來。“它讓我想起，”我說，“那些沖刷著我們海岸的遼闊海洋，想起所有那些勇敢的水兵，我們此時安安穩穩地坐在這兒，他們卻在日日夜夜守衛著海疆。它還讓我想起有一篇稿子要寫，題為《一簇海草》。”

（譯者單位：揚州大學外國語學院）