《四季随笔》节选 - 春 12

《四季随笔》是吉辛的散文代表作。其中对隐士赖克罗夫特醉心于书籍、自然景色与回忆过去生活的描述，其实是吉辛的自述，作者以此来抒发自己的情感，因而本书是一部富有自传色彩的小品文集。

吉辛穷困的一生，对文学名著的爱好与追求，以及对大自然恬静生活的向往，在书中均有充分的反映。本书分为春、夏、秋、冬四个部分，文笔优美，行文流畅，是英国文学中小品文的珍品之一。

以下是由网友分享的《四季随笔》节选 - 春 12的内容，让我们一起来感受吉辛的四季吧!

As often as I survey my bookshelves I am reminded of Lamb's "ragged veterans." 5 Not that all my volumes came from the second-hand stall; many of them were neat enough in new covers, some were even stately in fragrant bindings, when they passed into my hands. But so often have I removed, so rough has been the treatment of my little library at each change of place, and, to tell the truth, so little care have I given to its well-being at normal times (for in all practical matters I am idle and inept), that even the comeliest of my books show the results of unfair usage. More than one has been foully injured by a great nail driven into a packing-case—this but the extreme instance of the wrongs they have undergone. Now that I have leisure and peace of mind, I find myself growing more careful—an illustration of the great truth that virtue is made easy by circumstance. But I confess that, so long as a volume hold together, I am not much troubled as to its outer appearance.

每当目光扫过书架，我便会想起兰姆所谓的“衣衫褴褛的老兵”，当然不是说我所有的藏书都来自二手书摊。在它们落入我手时，许多书都是很干净的，连封皮还是崭新的，有一些装订甚至很考究，还散发着芳香。但是我搬家太频繁，每换一次地方，我的小图书馆都要受到残酷的虐待，而且老实说，平时我对它的照顾也很不周到（在一切实际事务中我都是懒惰和无能的），所以连最漂亮的书都显出破损的模样。由于在装箱的时候需要钉钉子，好几本书就这样受了重伤—而这不过是它们受损的极端例子。现在，我有空闲并且心情平静，对待书细心多了—这是美德在顺境下更容易践行的又一例证。但是我得承认，只要一本书还能连在一起，它的外表我是不太在意的。

I know men who say they had as lief read any book in a library copy as in one from their own shelf. To me that is unintelligible. For one thing, I know every book of mine by its SCENT, and I have but to put my nose between the pages to be reminded of all sorts of things. My Gibbon6, for example, my well-bound eight-volume Milman7 edition, which I have read and read and read again for more than thirty years—never do I open it but the scent of the noble page restores to me all the exultant happiness of that moment when I received it as a prize. Or my Shakespeare, the great Cambridge Shakespeare—it has an odour which carries me yet further back in life; for these volumes belonged to my father, and before I was old enough to read them with understanding, it was often permitted me, as a treat, to take down one of them from the bookcase, and reverently to turn the leaves. The volumes smell exactly as they did in that old time, and what a strange tenderness comes upon me when I hold one of them in hand. For that reason I do not often read Shakespeare in this edition. My eyes being good as ever, I take the Globe volume, which I bought in days when such a purchase was something more than an extravagance; wherefore I regard the book with that peculiar affection which results from sacrifice.

我知道有些人觉得读图书馆的书和自己书架上的书没什么分别。对此我无法理解。首先，我了解我的每一本书都有自己独特的“味道”。只要把鼻子伸到书页间，就会联想起各种事情。比如，我的吉本文集，这套装帧精良的米尔曼版八卷本，三十多年来我不知读过多少遍—每次打开它，嗅到高贵的书页散发的味道，就会忆起作为奖品初得此书时的狂喜。还有我剑桥版的莎士比亚文集—它有一股味道，总把我带回久远的岁月；这套藏书是父亲的，小时候还读不懂它时，我经常获准从书架上取下一本，恭敬地翻看那些书页。这些书的味道一点都没变，每次取一本捧在手里，心里都会升起一种奇异的亲切感。因为这个原因，我读莎士比亚通常不用这个版本。因为视力和从前一样好，我会用环球版本，当时买它的时候我可是大出血。为此我对这本书有一种特殊的感情，因为牺牲太大的缘故吧。

Sacrifice—in no drawing-room sense of the word. Dozens of my books were purchased with money which ought to have been spent upon what are called the necessaries of life. Many a time I have stood before a stall, or a bookseller's window, torn by conflict of intellectual desire and bodily need. At the very hour of dinner, when my stomach clamoured for food, I have been stopped by sight of a volume so long coveted, and marked at so advantageous a price, that I COULD not let it go; yet to buy it meant pangs of famine. My Heyne's Tibullus8 was grasped at such a moment. It lay on the stall of the old book-shop in Goodge Street—a stall where now and then one found an excellent thing among quantities of rubbish. Sixpence was the price—sixpence! At that time I used to eat my midday meal (of course my dinner) at a coffee-shop in Oxford Street, one of the real old coffee-shops, such as now, I suppose, can hardly be found. Sixpence was all I had—yes, all I had in the world; it would purchase a plate of meat and vegetables. But I did not dare to hope that the Tibullus would wait until the morrow, when a certain small sum fell due to me. I paced the pavement, fingering the coppers in my pocket, eyeing the stall, two appetites at combat within me. The book was bought and I went home with it, and as I made a dinner of bread and butter I gloated over the pages.

这里的“牺牲”不是交际用语中的那层含义。我有几十本书，当时购买它们的钱本应花在所谓的生活必需品上。好多次我站在书摊或书店橱窗前，对知识的渴望和身体的需要在心里作着激烈的斗争。到了晚饭时间，肚子饿得咕咕叫，而我却拔不动腿，因为看到一本觊觎已久的书，而且价钱实惠，无论如何不能错过；但是买书就意味着饿肚子。我那本海尼编辑的《提布卢斯诗集》就是在这种情况下买到手的。它躺在古德格街一家老店的书摊上—这里你偶尔能在一堆垃圾中找到一本好书。标价是六便士—六便士！那时，我的午餐（当然也算晚餐）通常在牛津街上一家咖啡店解决，那是一家非常古老的咖啡店，我想现在应该找不到了。我身上就只有六便士—没错，六便士是我的全部资产，它可以买到一盘肉和一些蔬菜。虽然第二天我能拿到一点小钱，但我不敢奢望提布卢斯会等我到明天。我在街上踱来踱去，手在衣袋中捻着那几个硬币，眼睛盯着书摊，内心里的两种欲望不停地交锋着。最后我买下书带着它回家了，那天的晚饭是面包抹黄油，我边吃边在书里流连忘返。

In this Tibullus I found pencilled on the last page: "Perlegi, Oct. 4, 1792." Who was that possessor of the book, nearly a hundred years ago? There was no other inscription. I like to imagine some poor scholar, poor and eager as I myself, who bought the volume with drops of his blood, and enjoyed the reading of it even as I did. How much THAT was I could not easily say. Gentle-hearted Tibullus!—of whom there remains to us a poet's portrait9 more delightful, I think, than anything of the kind in Roman literature.

在《提布卢斯诗集》的最后一页，我看到一行铅笔字：“读毕，1792年10月4日”。距今约一百年前的当时，这本书的主人是谁？除了那行铅笔字，再也找不到其他的标记了。我愿意把他想象成一个穷文人—和我一样贫穷但爱书的文人—他用血汗钱买下这本书，并和我一样享受阅读它的乐趣。具体程度如何不好说。心地仁慈的提布卢斯—在他的作品中可以看到一位诗人的自画像，在我眼里，这要比罗马文学中的所有事物都令人愉快。

An tacitum silvas inter reptare salubres,

或是在茂林中默然潜行，

Curantem quidquid dignum sapiente bonoque est?

对适于聪明善良人的事加以深思？

So with many another book on the thronged shelves. To take them down is to recall, how vividly, a struggle and a triumph. In those days money represented nothing to me, nothing I cared to think about, but the acquisition of books. There were books of which I had passionate need, books more necessary to me than bodily nourishment. I could see them, of course, at the British Museum, but that was not at all the same thing as having and holding them, my own property, on my own shelf. Now and then I have bought a volume of the raggedest and wretchedest aspect, dishonoured with foolish scribbling, torn, blotted—no matter, I liked better to read out of that than out of a copy that was not mine. But I was guilty at times of mere self-indulgence; a book tempted me, a book which was not one of those for which I really craved, a luxury which prudence might bid me forego. As, for instance, my Jung-Stilling. It caught my eye in Holywell Street; the name was familiar to me in Wahrheit und Dichtung10, and curiosity grew as I glanced over the pages. But that day I resisted; in truth, I could not afford the eighteenpence, which means that just then I was poor indeed. Twice again did I pass, each time assuring myself that Jung-Stilling had found no purchaser. There came a day when I was in funds. I see myself hastening to Holywell Street (in those days my habitual pace was five miles an hour), I see the little grey old man with whom I transacted my business—what was his name?—the bookseller who had been, I believe, a Catholic priest, and still had a certain priestly dignity about him. He took the volume, opened it, mused for a moment, then, with a glance at me, said, as if thinking aloud: "Yes, I wish I had time to read it."

在拥挤的书架上，许多书都有相似的经历。把它们取下来,我的脑海里就会生动再现一场挣扎和一次胜利。在那些日子，对我来说，钱的唯一意义就在于能买到书，其他的我根本不在意。有些书让我爱不释手，比起营养丰富的食品，它们对我更是必需品。当然，在大英博物馆也可以看书，但这和把它们变成私有财产放在自己的书架上完全不是一回事。偶尔我会买一本破旧不堪的书，里面有愚蠢的涂鸦，扯烂的书页，墨水渍—这些我都不在意，比起读一本不是自己的书，我更愿意读这样的书。然而，有时我也会因为放纵自己而有负罪感。一本书吸引了我，一本我并不迫切需要而且价钱昂贵、慎重考虑之下可能就会放弃的书，比如那本《容-施蒂林集》。我在霍利韦尔街看到了它，在《文与质》上我经常看到这个书名，随手翻看时我的好奇心也增长了。但那一天我克制住了自己，老实说，我根本拿不出十八便士来，这也说明当时的我的确穷得叮当响。我两次经过书摊，每次都会确定一下《容-施蒂林集》是否已找到买主。有一天，我忽然得了些钱，便匆匆赶到霍利韦尔街（那时候我的正常步速是每小时五英里），和那位身材矮小的白发老头进行了交易—他叫什么名字来着？—我想这位书铺老板应该做过天主教神父，他的气质中还保留着某种神父的尊严。他拿起书来打开，沉思了一会儿后看了我一眼，好似自言自语地说道：“是啊，如果我有时间把它读完就好了。”

Sometimes I added the labour of a porter to my fasting endured for the sake of books. At the little shop near Portland Road Station I came upon a first edition of Gibbon, the price an absurdity—I think it was a shilling a volume. To possess those clean-paged quartos I would have sold my coat. As it happened, I had not money enough with me, but sufficient at home. I was living at Islington. Having spoken with the bookseller, I walked home, took the cash, walked back again, and—carried the tomes from the west end of Euston Road to a street in Islington far beyond the Angel. I did it in two journeys—this being the only time in my life when I thought of Gibbon in avoirdupois. Twice—three times, reckoning the walk for the money—did I descend Euston Road and climb Pentonville on that occasion. Of the season and the weather I have no recollection; my joy in the purchase I had made drove out every other thought. Except, indeed, of the weight. I had infinite energy, but not much muscular strength, and the end of the last journey saw me upon a chair, perspiring, flaccid, aching—exultant!

有时，为了书我除了饿肚子外，还会当一把搬运工。在波特兰街车站附近的一家小书店，我看到了第一版的吉本文集，价钱贵得离谱—我记得是一个先令一本。要买这套干净的四开本书籍，我得卖大衣才行。我当时身上带的钱不够，但家里还有足够的钱。那时候我住在伊斯灵顿。和店主打了招呼，我便步行回到家，取钱后又步行返回，搬着这些大部头的书从尤斯顿路西头一直走到距离天使酒店很远的伊斯灵顿的一条街上。这样来回了两趟才搬完—这是我生命中唯一一次将吉本与重量联想在一起。那一天，为了这套书，我两次—算上取钱那趟是三次—走下尤斯顿路又爬上本顿维尔街。我记不清那是什么季节什么天气的事情了，买书的乐趣将其他想法都从头脑中驱逐了出去，当然，除了想着书的重量。我当时有无穷的精力，但肌肉力量有限，把书搬回家后，我累得瘫倒在椅子上，大汗淋漓，四肢发软，肌肉酸痛—但内心着实高兴不已。

The well-to-do person would hear this story with astonishment. Why did I not get the bookseller to send me the volumes? Or, if I could not wait, was there no omnibus along that London highway? How could I make the well-to-do person understand that I did not feel able to afford, that day, one penny more than I had spent on the book? No, no, such labour-saving expenditure did not come within my scope; whatever I enjoyed I earned it, literally, by the sweat of my brow. In those days I hardly knew what it was to travel by omnibus. I have walked London streets for twelve and fifteen hours together without ever a thought of saving my legs, or my time, by paying for waftage. Being poor as poor can be, there were certain things I had to renounce, and this was one of them.

有钱人听到这个故事可能会感到诧异。为什么我不让店主送书上门呢？或者，假使我等不及，伦敦的街上不是有马车吗？我怎么才能让有钱人们理解，那天在付完书款后，我感觉再花不起哪怕一个便士了？不，这种省力的花费不是我能负担的。我享受到的都是我用汗水挣来的，这里的“汗水”可不是比喻。那时候，我几乎不知道乘马车赶路是怎么样的。我在伦敦的街道上一连走了十二到十五个小时，根本没想过花钱乘车来节省腿力和时间。因为贫穷不堪，我必须要放弃一些东西，这就是其中之一。

Years after, I sold my first edition of Gibbon for even less than it cost me; it went with a great many other fine books in folio and quarto, which I could not drag about with me in my constant removals; the man who bought them spoke of them as "tomb-stones." Why has Gibbon no market value? Often has my heart ached with regret for those quartos. The joy of reading the Decline and Fall in that fine type! The page was appropriate to the dignity of the subject; the mere sight of it tuned one's mind. I suppose I could easily get another copy now; but it would not be to me what that other was, with its memory of dust and toil.

多年以后，我把第一版的吉本文集卖掉了，价钱比我买进的时候还便宜。同时卖掉的还有许多对开本和四开本的好书，因为经常搬家，我无法带着它们四处奔波。买书的人把它们叫做“墓碑”。为什么吉本没有市场价值呢？我经常为这些四开本书籍惋惜心痛。阅读那种优美字体印刷的《罗马帝国衰亡史》曾给我带来多大的快乐！书页也很切合主题的庄严，看到它心情就会变得肃然。我想现在买一套应该很容易，但先前那一套带着灰尘和辛苦的记忆，这新的又怎能和它相比？