On a Bit of Seaweed 一簇海草

阿尔弗雷德·乔治·加德纳 译/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.’”

邮递员刚到，送来若干信件，其中一封寄自北威尔士。这封信鼓胀而绵软，我们拆开信封，发现里面夹着一簇海草。寄信人这样做是出于善意，但它产生了短暂的作用， 在激起我们对大海无尽向往的同时，也使我们又多了一项对专断跋扈的上司的谴责。此人打发我们来乡村度假，以便我们谨守俭省之道，而不是去海滨消夏，因为我们在那儿无法摆脱种种奢靡的诱惑。“哦，它可是散发着谢灵厄姆的气息。”一贯主张去东海岸的一位朋友说。“不，它的清香带有锡德茅斯、道利什和托基的味道。”酷爱南德文郡的红色峭壁的另一位朋友说。如此等等，每个人细嗅海草香时，都朝夏季白沫飞溅的海面敞开记忆的窗扉。聚在桌边的人们，很快沉浸在一股骤然涌动的回忆的波涛中，想起海水浴，海上荡桨泛舟，沙滩上赤足迅跑，想起乐呵呵的渔民似乎永远在朝海上瞭望，留意那从未到来的什么东西，想起拾捡贝壳，想起黎明、正午和日落在海边漫步时不经意间产生的狂喜。引发这一切的是一簇海草的气味。

正是这种怀旧的魔力，才使世界成为一个珍藏各种深挚而隐秘情思的偌大宝库。几乎没有哪一只歌唱的鸟儿，或是一朵绽放的鲜花，或是一片浮游于蓝天的云彩，不会带给我们昔时的些许迹象，使我们因为感怀往事而心灵震颤。我们偶然打开一只抽屉，从中逸出薰衣草的气味，随着那一缕幽香，往昔岁月像一幅画轴似的缓缓展开，久已不见的那些地方蓦然浮现于脑海，久已不闻的那些声音在向我们诉说：

我们走过他们曾经涉足的小径。

我们坐在他们园里的果树下方，

我们像他们那样听见蜂儿的嗡嗡，

听见玉蜀黍叶片的沙沙声响。

谁看见春天的第一束黄水仙，能不觉得一种心灵的愉悦，一种单是花儿的美丽所无法解释的愉悦？我们对昔时所有春天的回忆，全都在于轻盈飘舞的娇艳水仙，在于认定今后所有春天必来的那份自信。水仙使我们产生各种联想：大自然缤纷多姿，人类创作的不朽诗文——华兹华斯在阿尔斯沃特湖畔观赏水仙花“翩翩起舞”;罗伯特·赫里克发现水仙花是美的理想化身，同时象征着生命的短暂;几百年前莎士比亚在艾文河畔“一年中的美好时节”问候它们。

外界的暗示极易触发我们的记忆，但记忆的内容却迥然各异。暗示唤起的不是群体的记忆，而是个体的记忆。那簇海草打开了我们许多扇心灵的窗户，然而窗外展现的都是不同的情景，令我们想起纯系个人体验而又难以言诠的什么东西，想起那致使我们极度孤独的什么东西，这种孤独为我们所共有。每样东西都以个人私密的语言向我们每个人倾诉，那是一种永远无法转述给他人的语言。我不知道丁香会对你说些什么，但它对我说起多年前它攀附于其上的那扇园门。我再度成为一个孩子，站在门内，看见身穿红色军服的士兵们列队行进，快乐地说着俏皮话，经过丁香树时揪下一串串花枝。这些英雄竟然捋走树上的花朵，如此赏识我们的这棵丁香树，我心里复又涌起一股自豪感，连同对故园老宅及一张张已逝面庞的一连串回忆。为什么那张瞬间的画面能定格在脑海里，我无法说出;但它的确存在，将近50年后依然新颖而清晰，仿佛昨天绘就一般，而且那株盛放的丁香树总是重现眼前。

正是如此众多的联想，赋予生活本身色彩和诗意。它们是人生旅途上的点滴收获，不同于物质利益，它们既不是我们肩头的负担，也不是我们内心的烦忧。“我生活中的真正收获，”梭罗说，“是如同晨曦和晚霞那样无法触摸、难以形容的某种东西。”这是他毕生经验的总结和精髓。我们犹如蜜蜂，一直在世界的花园里寻寻觅觅，在记忆的蜂巢里贮藏甜美的东西。没有哪一次的贮存之物类似以前或将来的。对着山谷啼鸣的杜鹃，黄昏时分在低垂的树枝上叫唤的乌鸫，修道院的庄严肅穆，街道上的人间烟火气，泰晤士河的潮涨潮落——每样东西都在我们耳边低语着只属于我们的秘密，触动着只属于我们的回忆，这种触动也不可能在另一人心里产生共鸣。我们内心深处的隐衷只是借助言行约略表达几分，我们与他人的接触仅仅涉及我们的表面，余皆“如同晨曦和晚霞那样无法触摸、难以形容”。待人特别友善的威廉·莫里斯说过：

上帝使我们每个人孤独，

如同他自己那般。

正因如此，每当处在狂喜的时刻，静默是我们唯一的庇护所，以心中记忆的世界回应外在那个充满暗示的世界。

“这海草让你想起了什么？”一位朋友问道，此刻我已嗅过海草的气味抬起头来。“它让我想起，”我说，“那些冲刷着我们海岸的辽阔海洋，想起所有那些勇敢的水兵，我们此时安安稳稳地坐在这儿，他们却在日日夜夜守卫着海疆。它还让我想起有一篇稿子要写，题为《一簇海草》。”

（译者单位：扬州大学外国语学院）