On the Downs在山冈上

阿尔弗雷德·乔治·加德纳 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！

海边矗立着形似连绵巨浪的一座座石灰岩山冈，我们在其中一座的顶端摆好午餐。下面的山谷里，几个小小的村子或农庄坐落于绿树丛中。一块块耕地，好似一方方多彩的地毯，棕色的、黄色的、绿色的地毯，浮云阴影经过耕地上方，犹如排列成阵的士卒爬上耕地尽头那些壮观的冈峦。一块棕色田野中央闪烁着一抹白光，攫住了我们的视线。它恍若历经英国炎夏犹存的残雪，可又像是被风刮起似的骤然升空，径直朝我们而来，从几片小小的雪花倏而变为几只海鸥。它们高高地掠过我们头顶，发出声声鸣叫，似在抱怨，其中似乎蕴含了它们对大海永无魇足的渴望。

在这宽阔无际的天地之间，原本熟悉的各種形态似乎皆已缩小到不可思议的地步。那个徐徐移过一张棕毯的斑点，是一名耕夫和他的耕畜。那道流动的白色浑似流过绿毯的牛奶，是一群羊儿在牧羊犬的驱赶下跑向另一片牧场。我们耳目并用，学着将些微迹象转换成熟悉的语言。起初，除了几只从各处飞起的云雀连续的歌唱以外，这片广袤的原野似乎寂静无声。可是且听。这里有“荒原上的风，兄弟”。在风下，只有当耳朵适应了寂静才隐约可闻的，是海涛的喁喁细语。

你渐渐有了兴致，很想探究这超乎寻常的寂静之下的秘密。那是什么声音？啊，那是远处某列驶往布莱顿或伊斯特本的火车的隆隆声。可那又是什么声音？透过我们已经学会分辨的风声和涛声，我们捕捉到另一种声音，异常沉闷，无限遥远，不像海涛的低语无处不在、似有若无，而是清晰饱满，如同陆地之上哪里响起的鼓声。

“枪声！”

是的，枪声。穿过50英里的大海和50英里的陆地，这声音传到正坐在天地间宁谧氛围之中的我们身边。枪声似乎与微风的低吟分离，变得出奇的持久。它频频敲击我们的耳鼓，几乎类似脉搏的狂跳——凶险，恐怖，犹如催魂的钟声。我们开始细数枪声，琢磨它们是来自敌军还是己方，揣测战事的进展。

我们已经成为一场大型悲剧的旁观者，噼噼啪啪的枪声带有若干新的意味。那些飘过山谷、飘上对面山冈斜坡的云影，开始呈现士卒排列成阵的形态。表面的荒僻没有破坏这种印象。在旁观者看来，只有在生死攸关的两军对垒之际，他眼前的原野才算是绝对的荒僻。我曾经在兰斯的山上远眺与此相似的一片谷地。我的前方横亘着20英里的作战阵地，偌大的视野内，竟然看不到一个移动的物体。田野里没有牛，没有尾随耕畜的耕夫。几条路贯穿其间，但只是阒无人迹的路，仿佛世间的生命俱已消失。然而我知道，那片广阔的谷地遍布生命，充满巨大而凶险的秘密——扫雷工兵的坑道，壕堑，防御工事，重机枪的掩体，隐蔽的观察哨。没错，正是眼前的这番景象。唯一的区别是，你无须将耳朵紧贴地面，也能听见枪炮的呼啸。

可是，当我们再次翻越一个个山冈时，打破我们安宁的战声已然消失，它带来的各种景象，在这洒满阳光的宁谧世界，似乎变得虚幻。云影复又变为纯粹的云影，我们脚下踩着野生百里香，闲适而欢畅地注视着云雀盘旋升空。我们下到一片谷地，来到一个绿树掩映的村庄，既不惧怕也没想到防弹掩体和隐蔽排炮。在一家门廊植有玫瑰的农舍，我们歇息，边喝茶边议论，然后再次走向山冈。山谷里暮色在延伸，但是夕晖依然照耀着那些开阔的高地。有人唱起那首欢快的老歌《农家儿郎》，少顷，空气中回荡起我们的合唱声：

“耕地播种，庄稼收割，

当个农家儿郎呀咿嗬，

农家儿郎好快活。”

没人想起哒哒哒的枪声，也没人驻足捕捉微风中传来的枪声。这——这才是现实。枪只是我们从中醒来的噩梦的一声回响。

一两个钟头过后，我们刚刚抵达海边的小村，便好奇而急切地赶紧去取那些等候我们的信件。我们每人都在快速浏览大量消息，起居室里一片沉寂。我读着读着，恍惚觉得有人匆匆离开了房间。我走进自己的房间，回来时起居室内只有一人。我瞟了一眼，便知道出事了。

“罗伯特阵亡了，”他说。传来的枪声是那么近！

（译者单位：扬州大学外国语学院）

1（1865—1946），英国著名作家，一生著述宏富，尤以散文见长。他的散文大多取材于日常生活中的平凡事件，清新可诵，自然典雅，诙谐幽默，富有哲理。主要作品有随笔集《岸边卵石》（Pebbles on the Shore）、《风中之叶》（Leaves in the Wind）、《道道畦沟》（Many Furrows）等。本文选自《岸边卵石》。  2 downs（野草覆盖的低矮丘陵，尤指英格兰东南部两处以此词命名的）丘陵地带。  3 battalion（军队的）营，营部。  4 querulous爱抱怨的，爱发牢骚的。

5出自英国作家乔治·博罗（George Borrow， 1803—1881）的自传体小说《拉文格罗》（Lavengro）。  6 rumble隆隆声;持续而低沉的声音。

7 as it were可以说是;在一定程度上。  8 baleful威胁的。  9 sepulchral坟墓似的;阴森森的。  10 massed（大量）集结的，聚集的。  11法国东北部城市。

12 gallery（矿坑或洞穴中的）水平巷道。  13 sapper工兵。  14 redoubt防御工事;掩体。  15 battery炮组，排炮。