《四季随笔》节选 - 秋 20

《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 - 秋 20的内容，让我们一起来感受吉辛的四季吧!

Truly, I grow aged. I have no longer much delight in wine.

我确实上年纪了，不再那么享受喝葡萄酒的乐趣了。

But then, no wine ever much rejoiced me save that of Italy. Winedrinking in England is, after all, only make-believe, a mere playing with an exotic inspiration. Tennyson had his port34, whereto clings a good old tradition; sherris35 sack belongs to a nobler age; these drinks are not for us. Let him who will, toy with dubious Bordeaux36 or Burgundy37; to get good of them, soul's good, you must be on the green side of thirty. Once or twice they have plucked me from despair; I would not speak unkindly of anything in cask or bottle which bears the great name of wine. But for me it is a thing of days gone by. Never again shall I know the mellow hour "cum regnat rosa, cum madent capilli"38. Yet how it lives in memory!

从前，我最喜爱的莫过于意大利酒。毕竟，在英格兰，喝葡萄酒只是一种矫饰，只不过是一场激发异域风情的游戏罢了。丁尼生有他的波尔图葡萄酒，那是有古老优良传统的，雪利酒属于一个更高贵的时代，这些酒都不适合我们。如果谁要喝味道可疑的波尔多和勃艮第，就随他去吧；要品出它们的好处，它们灵魂的妙处，得在三十岁之前。有一两次，它们把我从绝望的谷底救出，我决不会对装在木桶或瓶子里的任何冠以酒名的液体有不敬的言辞。但对我而言，酒已是属于逝去岁月的事物。“当玫瑰花称王，头发被香水滋润的时候”，这种甜美的日子我再也不能体味了，但在记忆中它是多么鲜活啊！

What call you this wine? I asked of the temple-guardian at Paestum, when he ministered to my thirst. "Vino di Calabria," he answered, and what a glow in the name! There I drank it, seated against the column of Poseidon's temple. There I drank it, my feet resting on acanthus, my eyes wandering from sea to mountain, or peering at little shells niched in the crumbling surface of the sacred stone. The autumn day declined; a breeze of evening whispered about the forsaken shore; on the far summit lay a long, still cloud, and its hue was that of my Calabrian wine.

“你把这种酒叫什么？”我向一个庙祝问道，那是在帕埃斯图姆，他给我喝解渴的葡萄酒。“来自卡拉布里亚的酒”，他答道，啊，这名字里就像有一道光芒！我靠着海神庙的柱子坐下，喝着酒。脚放在叶形装饰板上，视线从大海移到高山，或又凝视着圣石皴裂表面嵌着的小贝壳。那个秋日逐渐走到尽头，傍晚的微风悄声诉说着孤独海岸的故事；远处的山巅之上，躺着一朵长长的安静的云彩，颜色就像我喝的卡拉布里亚酒。

How many such moments come back to me as my thoughts wander! Dim little trattorie in city byways, inns smelling of the sun in forgotten valleys, on the mountain side, or by the tideless shore, where the grape has given me of its blood, and made life a rapture. Who but the veriest fanatic of teetotalism would grudge me those hours so gloriously redeemed? No draught of wine amid the old tombs under the violet sky but made me for the time a better man, larger of brain, more courageous, more gentle. 'Twas a revelry whereon came no repentance. Could I but live for ever in thoughts and feelings such as those born to me in the shadow of the Italian vine! There I listened to the sacred poets; there I walked with the wise of old; there did the gods reveal to me the secret of their eternal calm. I hear the red rillet as it flows into the rustic glass; I see the purple light upon the hills. Fill to me again, thou of the Roman visage and all but Roman speech! Is not yonder the long gleaming of the Appian Way39? Chant in the old measure, the song imperishable

在我的思绪飘荡之时，多少这样的时刻都回归心间！在城市僻路上阴暗的小酒馆，人迹罕至的山谷中散发着阳光味道的小客栈，山腰上，或者风平浪静的海岸，葡萄赐给了我它的汁液，让我的生命迸发狂喜。除了禁酒令的绝对支持者，谁会不愿意让我享受这些快乐时光呢？在紫罗兰色天穹下的古老墓穴间，正是这些酒，让我当时成为一个更好的人，更豁达，更勇敢，也更温和。这是一场无须任何忏悔的欢宴。当时在意大利葡萄藤的阴凉下生出的那些思想和感觉，如果我能永远带着它们生活，那该多好！在那里，我聆听神圣的诗人讲话；在那里，我和古代的智者一起散步；在那里，神们向我吐露了他们永恒的平静的秘密。我听到红色小溪流入乡村酒杯时的潺潺声，我看到紫色阳光洒在重重山峦之上。请再次为我把酒杯斟满，你这有着罗马人的面孔，说着罗马语言的人！远方那不是长长的闪烁的亚壁古道吗？请用古老的调子，唱起这首不朽的歌谣吧" dum Capitolium Scandet cum tacita virgine pontifex—” “大祭司与缄默无言的贞女，还登丘比特神堂的时候” aye, and for how many an age when Pontiff and Vestal sleep in the eternal silence. Let the slave of the iron gods chatter what he will; for him flows no Falernian, for him the Muses have no smile, no melody. Ere the sun set, and the darkness fall about us, fill again! 是啊，大祭司和贞女已经在永恒的寂静中沉睡了无数个世纪。让铁神们的奴隶随心所欲地唠叨吧，对他来说，不会有流淌的法勒纳斯白葡萄酒，对他来说，缪斯女神没有笑容，没有音乐。在夕阳西下，黑暗到来之前，请再次把酒杯斟满！ XXI 21 Is there, at this moment, any boy of twenty, fairly educated, but without means, without help, with nothing but the glow in his brain and steadfast courage in his heart, who sits in a London garret, and writes for dear life? There must be, I suppose; yet all that I have read and heard of late years about young writers, shows them in a very different aspect. No garretteers, these novelists and journalists awaiting their promotion. They eat—and entertain their critics—at fashionable restaurants; they are seen in expensive seats at the theatre; they inhabit handsome flats—photographed for an illustrated paper on the first excuse. At the worst, they belong to a reputable club, and have garments which permit them to attend a garden party or an evening at home"" without attracting unpleasant notice. Many biographical sketches have I read, during the last decade, making personal introduction of young Mr. This or young Miss That, whose book was—as the sweet language of the day will have it—”booming”; but never one in which there was a hint of stern struggle, of the pinched stomach and frozen fingers. I surmise that the path of ""literature"" is being made too easy. Doubtless it is a rare thing nowadays for a lad whose education ranks him with the upper middle class to find himself utterly without resources, should he wish to devote himself to the profession of letters. And there is the root of the matter; writing has come to be recognized as a profession, almost as cut-and-dried as church or law; a lad may go into it with full parental approval, with ready avuncular support. I heard not long ago of an eminent lawyer, who had paid a couple of hundred per annum for his son's instruction in the art of fiction—yea, the art of fiction—by a not very brilliant professor of that art. Really, when one comes to think of it, an astonishing fact, a fact vastly significant. Starvation, it is true, does not necessarily produce fine literature; but one feels uneasy about these carpet-authors. To the two or three who have a measure of conscience and vision, I could wish, as the best thing, some calamity which would leave them friendless in the streets. They would perish, perhaps. But set that possibility against the all but certainty of their present prospect—fatty degeneration of the soul; and is it not acceptable?

此时此刻，有没有一个二十岁的年轻人，受过良好的教育，然而身无分文，无人提携，除了头脑中闪光的智慧和心中坚定的勇气外一无所有，他正坐在伦敦的某个阁楼上，拼命地奋笔疾书？我想一定是有的。但是近几年来，我读到的和听说的关于年轻作家的事情，与此截然不同。没有谁还住在阁楼上，这些小说家和新闻记者都在等着青云直上。他们选择豪华饭店就餐——和招待批评家；剧院昂贵的座位上，可以看见他们；他们住高级公寓——一有机会便拍照刊登在某画报上。最不济的也是某知名俱乐部的成员，有参加园会或家庭晚会的得体礼服，不致招人侧目。在过去十年中，我读过许多传记式文章，对年轻的X先生和Y小姐进行介绍，他们的作品——按当今时髦的好话来说——“销量正节节攀升”；而其中却找不出一丁点艰难挣扎的痕迹，没有饥肠辘辘，也没有冻僵的手指。我猜想，“文学”的道路变得太容易了。如今，如果一个年轻人受到的教育让他跻身中上阶层，他要想投身文学事业，完全没有资源无疑是不大可能的。这也就是事情的根源所在，写作已经被看成一种职业，一种几乎和宗教或法律一样的常规职业；年轻人进入这一行业时，可能获得了家长的完全赞成和前辈的鼎力支持。不久前，我听说一个赫赫有名的律师，每年拿出几百英镑供儿子学习小说技巧——没错，小说技巧——而老师是一个在这方面并不出色的教授。细想的话，这还真是一个令人吃惊又极富意味的事实。当然，饥饿并不一定就能产生杰出的文学，但是这些地毯上走出的作家让我感到不安。对于其中两三个有一定道德良心和想象力的人，我愿他们遭遇某种灾难，身边不剩下一个朋友。他们也许会失去生命，但是拿这个可能性对比他们现有的必然前景——脂肪过多造成的灵魂堕落，这难道是不可接受的吗？

I thought of this as I stood yesterday watching a noble sunset, which brought back to my memory the sunsets of a London autumn, thirty years ago; more glorious, it seems to me, than any I have since beheld. It happened that, on one such evening, I was by the river at Chelsea, with nothing to do except to feel that I was hungry, and to reflect that, before morning, I should be hungrier still. I loitered upon Battersea Bridge—the old picturesque wooden bridge, and there the western sky took hold upon me. Half an hour later, I was speeding home. I sat down, and wrote a description of what I had seen, and straightway sent it to an evening newspaper, which, to my astonishment, published the thing next day—"On Battersea Bridge." How proud I was of that little bit of writing! I should not much like to see it again, for I thought it then so good that I am sure it would give me an unpleasant sensation now. Still, I wrote it because I enjoyed doing so, quite as much as because I was hungry; and the couple of guineas it brought me had as pleasant a ring as any money I ever earned.

我是昨天想到这些的，当时我伫立在夕阳西下的辉煌景色之中，回忆起了三十年前伦敦秋天的几次日落的情景；那似乎比我后来看过的所有落日都要壮丽。曾经在这样一个傍晚，我来到切尔西河畔，无所事事，只感觉腹中饥饿，并想到，次日黎明来临之前，我会更加饥饿。我在巴特西桥上闲荡——这是一座风景如画的古老木桥——就在那里，西方的天空让我驻目良久。半小时后，我匆忙赶回家，坐在书桌前，写文章描述我看到的景象，写毕便立刻投稿给一家晚报，让我吃惊的是，这篇文章第二天就刊登了出来，题目是“在巴特西桥上”。当时我为那篇短小的文章感到多么的骄傲！但是我并不希望再看到它，因为我当时觉得它那样好，现在来看一定会让我有不愉快的感觉。然而，我当时写下这篇文章，不仅是因为需要填饱肚子，也是因为我喜欢这样做；而它给我带来的几个硬币，响声和我挣得的所有钱一样悦耳。