徒步旅行赞（节选）

文/阿尔弗雷德·乔治·加德纳 译/张蝶 审订/朱建迅 田德新

几天前，我背着帆布包从凯西克出发，衣兜里揣了盒巴德利牌火柴，身边还有一个伴儿。我徒步旅行时喜欢有人陪伴。“顺便给我找个伴儿，”斯特恩说，“即便只是为了议论夕阳西沉之际影子是如何渐渐拉长的。”这就差不多够了。你不需要一个饶舌的人。徒步旅行本身便是一项工作。起初你可能想尽情聊上一通，但当你对这份工作有了兴致之后，便宁愿默不吭声，把一件又一件事情抛到脑后，将欲说之言留到客栈的餐桌上，留到晚饭后叼着烟斗之时。偶尔开个玩笑，哼支小曲，必要时拿出地图商量一下——一路上有这些声响足矣。

2我们从湖区的上游地带登上一条小船，划着船横渡德文特湖，来到卡特贝尔山脚下的小湖湾。我们从这里舍舟登岸，背上行李一路前行，攀登一座座山峰，翻越一个个隘口。整整一周，我们享受了这片旷野所能提供的无比幽静。我们没有遵循既定的计划。我喜欢为徒步旅行制订计划，但我更乐于打破这些计划。因为徒步旅行的乐趣之一，在于它赋予你的自由感。你不必恪守一份时间表，无须因循哪条路线，不用听命于任何人。如果你喜欢这条路，尽可循路而行；如果你选择这个隘口，那也不妨由此而过；如果你喜欢（并向往）登上山巅，那就越过大盖布尔山、斯科费尔峰、鲁宾逊山和赫尔韦林山吧。条条捷径皆为你而设，条条小道无不涉险成趣。依山奔涌而下的溪流是你举杯痛饮的不尽源泉。你蹲在巨石上，低下头，大口饮着只有受足润泽的群山才能给予你的溪水。之后，你再次踏上旅途并歌唱着：

灌木丛里仰观星辰，

河水权作面包蘸料；

这便是我辈的快乐人生，

人生永远乐逍遥。

3世上哪儿再有这样的自由呢？你彻底切断了与外界的联系，远离电报和报纸，远离你撇在身后的所有纷乱世态，独自一人置身于孤独的群山中、广阔的天空下、自然界的种种景物之间，它们在创世之初便已存在，人类所有苦难终结时它们也不会消失。生命的声音——麻鹬的啭鸣，山地绵羊的叫唤——加重了这种始于远古的幽静。这些声音已经在悬崖峭壁间回荡了千万年之久；这些声音，连同风的呼啸和水的轰鸣，仍将在悬崖峭壁间回荡千万年。此种景象，犹如你脱离了现世，进入千年恍若一日的永恒。这个无始无终的永恒世界无须计日。你惊起峡谷水潭中的一只秃鹰，它大幅度地扇动着翅膀在周围盘旋，它的血统与群山一样古老。你登上埃斯克之巅，兰代尔山峰陡然跃入你的眼帘，眼前所见正与第一个冒险进入这片荒山野岭的野蛮人所见相同。

4太阳渐渐西斜时你才想起，置身于不朽的景物之中，自己只是凡人一个，想起自己双足酸痛，需要找个地方歇息一宿，享受栖身客栈的舒适。我们该去哪儿呢？周遭的山谷都在呼唤我们。我们可以去纽兰兹的宽河谷，或是令人愉悦的博罗代尔，或是孤寂的恩纳代尔，抑或——没错，今晚我们将在沃斯代尔就餐，那家曾由奥尔德·威尔·里特森经营的欢快老客栈，不啻攀岩人的圣地。新年前夕，一群快乐的登山者齐聚于此，聊着他们翻山越岭的英勇壮举，议论手抓点和脚踩点，唱着“绳子啊，绳子”的歌谣，继而加入由店主洪亮嗓音起头的合唱。

5想必我们今晚在那儿见不到加斯帕德了——加斯帕德，一位来自多菲内的快乐而无畏的向导，所有知道沃斯代尔这家偏僻客栈的人们都非常喜欢他。他正在远方的疆场作战，其敌人比大盖布尔山和斯科费尔峰的山岩峭壁还要凶险。不过牧羊人老乔会在那儿——老乔，从没坐过火车，也没见过一个城镇，他有特别引以为荣的一手绝招，他扮的鬼脸比坎伯兰任何人扮的都要难看。他不会轻易为谁扮鬼脸——除非在他兴致盎然之际，而且正和几位挚友相聚于私人客厅。今晚，如果碰得巧，我们会在他高唱“你见过约翰·皮尔吗？”时看到他翻白眼。没错，沃斯代尔将是今晚的歇脚处。于是，我们越过黑帆山脉，沿着崎岖不平的山坡来到这家客栈，只见它白色的墙壁正从远处峡谷渐浓的阴影中向我们致意。

6快乐的日子就这样过去了，有时下雨，有时晴朗，又有时两者兼而有之，但是所有的日子都是快乐的，我们忘记了星期几，除了天气变化和山上的路线外什么都不知道，没有遇到任何徒步者,除了一个跟我们挺像的少见的漫游者——可能是个矿工，因为肩扛绳子，也可能就是游客，因为背着背包。除了远方的山谷旅店外我们没有任何目标，在旅店里我们可以恢复体力，次日起床后的行程将是美好的。

7我开始写文章赞美徒步旅行，并发现自己曾写文章赞美过湖区。但事实上，这两篇赞辞是和谐一致的。如果我没有指出，在这片土地上领略最精致之美的方法就是踏上行人走过的平凡之路，那么我的写作就是徒劳的。骑马穿过湖区的人不知道湖区的秘密，也没感受过它的魅力。 □

I started out the other day from Keswick with a rucksack on my back, a Baddeley in my pocket, and a companion by my side. I like a companion when I go a walking. “Give me a companion by the way,” said Sterne, “if it be only to remark how the shadows lengthen as the sun declines.” That is about enough.You do not want a talkative person.Walking is an occupation in itself. You may give yourself up to chatter at the beginning, but when you are warmed to the job you are disposed to silence, drop perhaps one behind the other, and reserve your talk for the inn table and the after-supper pipe. An occasional joke,an occasional stave of song, a necessary consultation over the map—that is enough for the way.

2At the head of the Lake we got in a boat and rowed across Derwentwater to the tiny bay at the foot of Catbells.There we landed, shouldered our burdens, and set out over the mountains and the passes, and for a week we enjoyed the richest solitude this country can offer. We followed no cut-anddried programme. I love to draw up programmes for a walking tour, but I love still better to break them. For one of the joys of walking is the sense of freedom it gives you. You are tied to no time-table, the slave of no road, the tributary of no man. If you like the road you follow it; if you choose the pass that is yours also; if your fancy (and your wind) is for the mountain tops,then over Great Gable and Scafell, Robinson and Helvellyn be your way. Every short cut is for you, and every track is the path of adventure. The stream that tumbles down the mountain side is your wine cup. You kneel on the boulders,bend your head, and take such draughts as only the healthy thirst of the mountains can give. And then, on your way again singing:

Bed in the bush with the stars to see.

Bread I dip in the river—

There’s the life for a man like me.

There’s the life forever.

3What liberty is there like this?You have cut your moorings from the world, you are far from telegraphs and newspapers and all the frenzies of the life you have left behind you, you are alone with the lonely hills and the wide sky and the elemental things that have been from the beginning and will outlast all the tortured drama of men. The very sounds of life—the whistle of the curlew, the bleating of the mountain sheep—add to the sense of primeval solitude. To these sounds the crags have echoed for a thousand and ten thousand years; to these sounds and to the rushing of the winds and the waters they will echo ten thousand years hence. It is as though you have passed out of time into eternity, where a thousand years are as one day. There is no calendar for this dateless world. The buzzard that you have startled from its pool in the gully and that circles round with wideflapping wings has a lineage as ancient as the hills, and the vision of the pikes of Langdale that bursts on you as you reach the summit of Esk Hause is the same vision that burst on the first savage who adventured into these wild fastnesses of the mountains.

4And then as the sun begins to slope to the west you remember that, if you are among immortal things, you are only a mortal yourself, that you are getting footsore, and that you need a night’s lodging and the comforts of an inn. Whither shall we turn? The valleys call us on every side. Newlands wide vale we can reach, or cheerful Borrowdale, or lonely Ennerdale, or—yes,tonight we will sup at Wasdale, at the jolly old inn that Auld Will Ritson2奥尔德·威尔·里特森是19 世纪沃斯代尔当地的一位农民，因口才流利、幽默风趣而为人熟知。与妻子一起开了大桥客栈（Bridge Inn）后，他经常给客人讲述极其荒诞的故事，逗他们开心。随着他“善于讲荒诞故事”的名声越来越大，周围人称他为“附近最厉害的骗子”。英国的“世界撒谎大赛”就是为了纪念这位“爱撒谎”的传奇人物而举办的。used to keep, that inn sacred to the cragsman,where on New Year’s Eve the gay company of climbers foregather from their brave deeds on the mountains and talk of hand-holds and foot-holds and sing the song of “The rope, the rope,” and join in the chorus as the landlord trolls out.

5We shall not find Gaspard there tonight—Gaspard, the gay and intrepid guide from the Dauphine, beloved of all who know the lonely inn at Wasdale.He is away on the battle-field fighting a sterner foe than the rocks and precipices of Great Gable and Scawfell. But Old Joe, the shepherd, will be there—Old Joe, who has never been in a train or seen a town and whose special glory is that he can pull uglier faces than any man in Cumberland. He will not pull them for anybody—only when he is in a good humor and for his cronies in the back parlor. Tonight, perchance, we shall see his eyes roll as he roars out the chorus of “D’ye ken John Peel?” Yes,Wasdale shall be tonight’s halt. And so over Black Sails, and down the rough mountain side to the inn whose whitewashed walls hail us from a far out of the gathering shadows of the valley.

6And so the jolly days go by, some wet, some fine, some a mixture of both,but all delightful, and we forget the day of the week, know no news except the changes in the weather and the track over the mountains, meet none of our kind except a rare vagabond like ourselves—with rope across his shoulder if he is a rock-man, with rucksack on back if he is a tourist—and with no goal save some far-off valley inn where we shall renew our strength and where the morrow’s uprising to deeds shall be sweet.

7I started to write in praise of walking, and I find I have written in praise of Lakeland. But indeed, the two chants of praise are a single harmony, for I have written in vain if I have not shown that the way to see the most exquisite cabinet of beauties in this land is by the humble path of the pedestrian. He who rides through Lakeland knows nothing of its secrets, has tasted of none of its magic. ■