手

舍伍德·安德森（Sherwood Anderson）是20世紀早期美国著名的小说家，美国现代文学的先驱者之一，在美国文学史上有着很重要的地位。海明威、菲茨杰拉德、福克纳等著名美国作家都受过他很大的影响，海明威曾说：“他是我们所有人的老师”。安德森厌恶资本主义现代文明，对于小生产方式和闲适纯朴的农村生活十分留恋，其作品多以小城镇为背景，描写小市民的惶惑情绪，带有自然主义和神秘主义色彩，其代表作有《小镇畸人》（Winesburg，Ohio）、《鸡蛋的胜利》（The Triumph of Egg and Other Stories）、《林中之死》（Death in the Woods）等。

《小镇畸人》的故事背景设在俄亥俄州的温斯堡镇，讲述了小镇上形形色色人物从行为方式到精神深层的“怪”，单纯的牧师、芳华虚度的女店员、抑郁的旅馆老板娘、神秘的医生、丑陋的电报员……全书由25个既独立成篇又相互关联的故事构成，年轻记者乔治·威拉德贯穿全书，刻画出一群孤独、与人疏离、渴望与外界交流，却又始终无法挣脱桎梏的“畸人”形象，但是这些“畸人”并不可怕，他们甚至是可爱而美丽的。

《手》是《小镇畸人》里的第一个故事，讲述了一个本应前途无量的年轻男教师飞翼·比德尔鲍姆遭人误解以致于被驱逐出境，成为“畸人”的故事。手是飞翼·比德尔鲍姆与外界交流、表达自我的一个重要手段，但是因为痛苦的过往，他决意把这双手隐于人前，因而变成了一个神经兮兮的老头儿。本期文章节选了《手》的前半部分，让我们从作者的精心刻画中体会飞翼·比德尔鲍姆这双善于表达的手的渴望与挣扎吧！

Upon the half decayed veranda of a small frame house that stood near the edge of a ravine near the town of Winesburg， Ohio， a fat little old man walked nervously up and down. Across a long field that had been seeded for clover， but had produced only a dense crop of yellow mustard weeds， he could see the public highway along which went a wagon filled with berry pickers returning from the fields. The berry pickers， youths and maidens， laughed and shouted boisterously. A boy clad in a blue shirt leaped from the wagon and attempted to drag after him one of the maidens， who screamed and protested shrilly. The feet of the boy in the road kicked up a cloud of dust that floated across the face of the departing sun. Over the long field came a thin girlish voice. “Oh， you Wing Biddlebaum， comb your hair， its falling into your eyes，” commanded the voice to the man， who was bald and whose nervous little hands fiddled about the bare white forehead as though arranging a mass of tangled locks.

Wing Biddlebaum， forever frightened and beset by a ghostly band of doubts， did not think of himself as in any way a part of the life of the town where he had lived for twenty years. Among all the people of Winesburg but one had come close to him. With George Willard， son of Tom Willard， the proprietor of the New Willard House， he had formed something like a friendship. George Willard was the reporter on the Winesburg Eagle and sometimes in the evenings he walked out along the highway to Wing Biddlebaums house. Now as the old man walked up and down on the veranda， his hands moving nervously about， he was hoping that George Willard would come and spend the evening with him. After the wagon containing the berry pickers had passed， he went across the field through the tall mustard weeds and， climbing a rail fence， peered anxiously along the road to the town. For a moment he stood thus， rubbing his hands together and looking up and down the road， and then， fear overcoming him， ran back to walk again upon the porch of his own house.

In the presence of George Willard， Wing Biddlebaum， who for twenty years had been the town mystery， lost something of his timidity， and his shadowy personality， submerged in a sea of doubts， came forth to look at the world. With the young reporter at his side， he ventured in the light of day onto Main Street or strode up and down on the rickety front porch of his own house， talking excitedly. The voice that had been low and trembling became shrill and loud. The bent figure straightened. With a kind of wriggle， like a fish returned to the brook by a fisherman， Biddlebaum the silent began to talk， striving to put into words the ideas that had been accumulated by his mind during long years of silence.

Wing Biddlebaum talked much with his hands. The slender expressive fingers， forever active， forever striving to conceal themselves in his pockets or behind his back， came forth and became the piston rods of his machinery of expression.

The story of Wing Biddlebaum is a story of hands. Their restless activity， like unto the beating of the wings of an imprisoned bird， had given him his name. Some obscure poet of the town had thought of it. The hands alarmed their owner. He wanted to keep them hidden away and looked with amazement at the quiet inexpressive hands of other men who worked beside him in the fields， or passed， driving sleepy teams on country roads.

When he talked to George Willard， Wing Biddlebaum closed his fists and beat with them upon a table or on the walls of his house. The action made him more comfortable. If the desire to talk came to him when the two were walking in the fields， he sought out a stump or the top board of a fence and with his hands pounding busily talked with renewed ease.

The story of Wing Biddlebaums hands is worth a book in itself. Sympathetically set forth it would tap many strange， beautiful qualities in obscure men. It is a job for a poet. In Winesburg， the hands had attracted attention merely because of their activity. With them， Wing Biddlebaum had picked as high as a hundred and forty quarts of strawberries in a day. They became his distinguishing feature， the source of his fame. Also， they made more grotesque an already grotesque and elusive individuality. Winesburg was proud of the hands of Wing Biddlebaum in the same spirit in which it was proud of Banker Whites new stone house and Wesley Moyers bay stallion， Tony Tip， that had won the twofifteen trot at the fall races in Cleveland.

As for George Willard， he had many times wanted to ask about the hands. At times， an almost overwhelming curiosity had taken hold of him. He felt that there must be a reason for their strange activity and their inclination to keep hidden away and only a growing respect for Wing Biddlebaum kept him from blurting out the questions that were often in his mind.

Once he had been at the point of asking. The two were walking in the fields on a summer afternoon and had stopped to sit upon a grassy bank. All afternoon， Wing Biddlebaum had talked as one inspired. By a fence he had stopped， and beating like a giant woodpecker upon the top board had shouted at George Willard， condemning his tendency to be too much influenced by the people about him. “You are destroying yourself，”he cried. “You have the inclination to be alone and to dream and you are afraid of dreams. You want to be like others in town here. You hear them talk and you try to imitate them.”

On the grassy bank， Wing Biddlebaum had tried again to drive his point home. His voice became soft and reminiscent， and with a sigh of contentment he launched into a long rambling talk， speaking as one lost in a dream.

Out of the dream， Wing Biddlebaum made a picture for George Willard. In the picture， men lived again in a kind of pastoral golden age. Across a green open country came clean-limbed young men， some afoot， some mounted upon horses. In crowds the young men came to gather about the feet of an old man who sat beneath a tree in a tiny garden and who talked to them.

Wing Biddlebaum became wholly inspired. For once， he forgot the hands. Slowly， they stole forth and lay upon George Willards shoulders. Something new and bold came into the voice that talked. “You must try to forget all you have learned，” said the old man. “You must begin to dream. From this time on you must shut your ears to the roaring of the voices.”

Pausing in his speech， Wing Biddlebaum looked long and earnestly at George Willard. His eyes glowed. Again he raised the hands to caress the boy and then a look of horror swept over his face.

With a convulsive movement of his body， Wing Biddlebaum sprang to his feet and thrust his hands deep into his trouser pockets. Tears came to his eyes. “I must be getting along home. I can talk no more with you，” he said nervously.

Without looking back， the old man had hurried down the hillside and across a meadow， leaving George Willard perplexed and frightened upon the grassy slope. With a shiver of dread， the boy arose and went along the road toward town. “Ill not ask him about his hands，”he thought， touched by the memory of the terror he had seen in the mans eyes. “Theres something wrong， but I dont want to know what it is. His hands have something to do with his fear of me and of everyone.”

在俄亥俄州温斯堡镇附近的山谷边上坐落着一间小木屋，一矮胖老头在小木屋那破烂半朽的阳台上神经兮兮地来回踱步。越过一片种下苜蓿但却只长出大片茂密黄色芥草的田地，他可以看到一辆货车从公路上驶过，满载着从田里采完浆果归来的少男少女，他们在兴高采烈地大笑大叫。一个身穿蓝色衬衫的男孩从货车上跳了下來，试图把其中一个女孩也拉下，女孩尖声抗议。男孩站在路上踢起一片灰尘，尘埃飘过落日的脸蛋。一个少女般的细薄声音从田地远处传来，“哎，飞翼·比德尔鲍姆，梳梳你的头发，都快要落到你的眼睛了，”这个声音向男人发号施令道，他的脑袋光秃秃的，那双紧张兮兮的小手胡乱地拨弄着雪白的前额，仿佛在整理一大撮乱发。

飞翼·比德尔鲍姆总是一副惊慌失措、疑云缠身的样子。无论如何，他都不把自己视为小镇生活的一部分，即便他已经在这个小镇住了二十年。在温斯堡镇的所有人中，只有一个人能跟他亲近。他与乔治·威拉德——新威拉德旅馆的老板汤姆·威拉德的儿子，形成了一种类似友谊的情感。乔治·威拉德是《温斯堡鹰报》的记者，有时他会在傍晚沿着公路散步，走到飞翼·比德尔鲍姆的房子来。此时，这位在阳台来回踱步、紧张兮兮地摆弄着双手的老头儿，正在盼望着乔治·威拉德过来与他消磨黄昏时光。在满载采莓人的货车开走后，他穿过那片长满高高芥草的田地，爬上栅栏，急切地朝着通往小镇的公路方向望去。他就这样站了一会儿，磨搓着双手，朝公路上来回张望。然后，恐惧压倒了他，他跑了回来，又再次在自己房子的门廊处来回踱步。

二十多年来，飞翼·比德尔鲍姆对小镇来说一直是一个谜，但在乔治·威拉德面前，他少了几分胆怯，他那原本沉潜在疑惑的海洋里的个性也浮上来看了看这个世界。有这位年轻的记者在身边，他敢于在大白天去大街走动，或在他自己房子那摇摇晃晃的前廊大步来回走，激动地说着话儿。那一惯低沉颤抖的嗓音变得大声而尖锐，那弯曲的身躯也挺直了。如同被渔夫放回小河的鱼儿一般，比德尔鲍姆的身子一扭一扭的，这个一贯沉默的人开始说话了，竭力把这么多年沉默积累的思想化为言语。

飞翼·比德尔鲍姆说话时大作手势。他那极富表现力的修长手指，永远都那么活跃，永远都被他极力隐藏在口袋里或者背在身后，终于伸出来了，成为了他表达自我的活塞杆。

飞翼·比德尔鲍姆的故事就是手的故事。它们那永无止境的活力，如同囚笼里的鸟儿那拍动的双翼，就像他的名字一般。镇上一些无名诗人这样想过。这双手惊吓到了它们的主人，他想要将其藏起来，惊奇地看着其他人那些安静、不善表达的手，那些在田里挨着他干活的人的手，或是驱赶着昏沉无话的牲畜经过乡村小路那些人的手。

当他和乔治·威拉德说话时，飞翼·比德尔鲍姆紧握着拳头，敲打着他屋里的桌子或者墙壁。这个动作让他感觉更加舒服。如果他俩在田里散步时，他突然想说话了，他会去找一个树桩或者栅栏顶上的一块板，急急地用手敲在上面，再自在地谈话。

飞翼·比德尔鲍姆这双手的故事，本身就值得写上一本书了。富有感染力地展开，它能发掘出无名小卒身上的许多奇怪、美丽的品质，这本是诗人的工作。在温斯堡镇，这双手之所以引人注目，仅仅是因其活跃程度。靠着它们，飞翼·比德尔鲍姆试过在一天内采到高达一百四十夸脱的草莓。这双手成为了他的特征，促成了他的名声。同时，它们也使一个本已古怪难懂的人更加古怪。温斯堡的人为飞翼·比德尔鲍姆的这双手感到自豪，就如同他们为银行家怀特的新石屋、韦斯利·莫耶的栗色雄马——托尼·提普感到自豪一样，托尼·提普在克利夫兰的秋季赛跑中创下了两分十五秒的纪录。

至于乔治·威拉德，他有好几次都想问有关这双手的事儿。有时候，一股几乎不可抑制的好奇心掌控着他，他感觉到这双手那古怪的活跃程度及其隐于人前的倾向背后一定有着什么原因。只是，出于对飞翼·比德尔鲍姆日渐根深的尊重之心，乔治·威拉德没有将这个时常出现在他脑海中的问题诉诸于口。

有一次，他差点问出了这个问题。在夏天的一个下午，他们正在田里散步，然后停下来坐在草坡上。整个下午，飞翼·比德尔鲍姆就像得到灵感一样高谈阔论。他在一片栅栏前停了下来，像一个巨大的啄木鸟似的敲打着栅栏顶上的木板。他朝乔治·威拉德大叫，谴责他易于被身边的人影响。“你在毁灭你自己，”他大声道。“你有独处以及做梦的倾向，但你害怕做梦。你想要和镇上的其他人一样。你听他们说话，并试图模仿他们。”

坐在草坡上，飞翼·比德尔鲍姆再次试图把他的观点讲清楚。他的声音变得轻柔怀思。他满足地长叹一声后，开始了漫无边际的长篇大论，就像在说梦话一般。

在这个梦境中，飞翼·比德尔鲍姆给乔治·威拉德勾勒出了一幅画。在这幅画中，人们再次生活在了一个类似畜牧黄金时代的年代。越过青翠空旷的乡村，来了一群手足匀称的年轻人，有的徒步，有的骑马。这些年轻人成群结伴而来，聚在了一位年长者的脚边，这位年长者坐在一个小花园的一棵树下，与他们谈天说地。

飞翼·比德尔鲍姆变得万分激昂。他罕见地忘记了他的双手。它们慢慢地溜了出来，搁在了乔治·威拉德的肩膀上。那个说话的声音多了点新奇大胆的东西：“你必须试着忘掉学到的一切，”这老头说道。“你必须开始去梦想。从此刻起，你必须堵住你的耳朵，远离那些喧嚣之声。”

飞翼·比德尔鲍姆的讲话停了下来，他认真地、深深地看着乔治·威拉德。他的眼睛闪闪发光。他再次举起了手，抚慰着男孩。接着，他的脸上出现了一抹惊恐之色。

飞翼·比德尔鲍姆浑身一震，跳起身来，把双手插到裤袋深处。他的眼里涌出泪水。“我得回家了，不能再跟你说话了。”他神经兮兮地说道。

这位老头儿头也不回地冲下山去，穿过草地，把惊疑不定的乔治·威拉德落在了草坡上。这个男孩害怕得抖了抖，站起身来，沿着马路朝镇子走去。“我不会问他关于那双手的事了，”他这样想着，想起了他在那个男人眼里看到的恐惧之色，颇有所感。“这其中一定有什么问题，但我不想知道事情的原委了。他的双手与他对我和对所有人的恐惧有关。”