手

舍伍德·安德森（Sherwood Anderson）是20世紀(jì)早期美國著名的小說家，美國現(xiàn)代文學(xué)的先驅(qū)者之一，在美國文學(xué)史上有著很重要的地位。海明威、菲茨杰拉德、?？思{等著名美國作家都受過他很大的影響，海明威曾說：“他是我們所有人的老師”。安德森厭惡資本主義現(xiàn)代文明，對(duì)于小生產(chǎn)方式和閑適純樸的農(nóng)村生活十分留戀，其作品多以小城鎮(zhèn)為背景，描寫小市民的惶惑情緒，帶有自然主義和神秘主義色彩，其代表作有《小鎮(zhèn)畸人》（Winesburg，Ohio）、《雞蛋的勝利》（The Triumph of Egg and Other Stories）、《林中之死》（Death in the Woods）等。

《小鎮(zhèn)畸人》的故事背景設(shè)在俄亥俄州的溫斯堡鎮(zhèn)，講述了小鎮(zhèn)上形形色色人物從行為方式到精神深層的“怪”，單純的牧師、芳華虛度的女店員、抑郁的旅館老板娘、神秘的醫(yī)生、丑陋的電報(bào)員……全書由25個(gè)既獨(dú)立成篇又相互關(guān)聯(lián)的故事構(gòu)成，年輕記者喬治·威拉德貫穿全書，刻畫出一群孤獨(dú)、與人疏離、渴望與外界交流，卻又始終無法掙脫桎梏的“畸人”形象，但是這些“畸人”并不可怕，他們甚至是可愛而美麗的。

《手》是《小鎮(zhèn)畸人》里的第一個(gè)故事，講述了一個(gè)本應(yīng)前途無量的年輕男教師飛翼·比德爾鮑姆遭人誤解以致于被驅(qū)逐出境，成為“畸人”的故事。手是飛翼·比德爾鮑姆與外界交流、表達(dá)自我的一個(gè)重要手段，但是因?yàn)橥纯嗟倪^往，他決意把這雙手隱于人前，因而變成了一個(gè)神經(jīng)兮兮的老頭兒。本期文章節(jié)選了《手》的前半部分，讓我們從作者的精心刻畫中體會(huì)飛翼·比德爾鮑姆這雙善于表達(dá)的手的渴望與掙扎吧！

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.”

在俄亥俄州溫斯堡鎮(zhèn)附近的山谷邊上坐落著一間小木屋，一矮胖老頭在小木屋那破爛半朽的陽臺(tái)上神經(jīng)兮兮地來回踱步。越過一片種下苜蓿但卻只長出大片茂密黃色芥草的田地，他可以看到一輛貨車從公路上駛過，滿載著從田里采完漿果歸來的少男少女，他們?cè)谂d高采烈地大笑大叫。一個(gè)身穿藍(lán)色襯衫的男孩從貨車上跳了下來，試圖把其中一個(gè)女孩也拉下，女孩尖聲抗議。男孩站在路上踢起一片灰塵，塵埃飄過落日的臉蛋。一個(gè)少女般的細(xì)薄聲音從田地遠(yuǎn)處傳來，“哎，飛翼·比德爾鮑姆，梳梳你的頭發(fā)，都快要落到你的眼睛了，”這個(gè)聲音向男人發(fā)號(hào)施令道，他的腦袋光禿禿的，那雙緊張兮兮的小手胡亂地?fù)芘┌椎那邦~，仿佛在整理一大撮亂發(fā)。

飛翼·比德爾鮑姆總是一副驚慌失措、疑云纏身的樣子。無論如何，他都不把自己視為小鎮(zhèn)生活的一部分，即便他已經(jīng)在這個(gè)小鎮(zhèn)住了二十年。在溫斯堡鎮(zhèn)的所有人中，只有一個(gè)人能跟他親近。他與喬治·威拉德——新威拉德旅館的老板湯姆·威拉德的兒子，形成了一種類似友誼的情感。喬治·威拉德是《溫斯堡鷹報(bào)》的記者，有時(shí)他會(huì)在傍晚沿著公路散步，走到飛翼·比德爾鮑姆的房子來。此時(shí)，這位在陽臺(tái)來回踱步、緊張兮兮地?cái)[弄著雙手的老頭兒，正在盼望著喬治·威拉德過來與他消磨黃昏時(shí)光。在滿載采莓人的貨車開走后，他穿過那片長滿高高芥草的田地，爬上柵欄，急切地朝著通往小鎮(zhèn)的公路方向望去。他就這樣站了一會(huì)兒，磨搓著雙手，朝公路上來回張望。然后，恐懼壓倒了他，他跑了回來，又再次在自己房子的門廊處來回踱步。

二十多年來，飛翼·比德爾鮑姆對(duì)小鎮(zhèn)來說一直是一個(gè)謎，但在喬治·威拉德面前，他少了幾分膽怯，他那原本沉潛在疑惑的海洋里的個(gè)性也浮上來看了看這個(gè)世界。有這位年輕的記者在身邊，他敢于在大白天去大街走動(dòng)，或在他自己房子那搖搖晃晃的前廊大步來回走，激動(dòng)地說著話兒。那一慣低沉顫抖的嗓音變得大聲而尖銳，那彎曲的身軀也挺直了。如同被漁夫放回小河的魚兒一般，比德爾鮑姆的身子一扭一扭的，這個(gè)一貫沉默的人開始說話了，竭力把這么多年沉默積累的思想化為言語。

飛翼·比德爾鮑姆說話時(shí)大作手勢(shì)。他那極富表現(xiàn)力的修長手指，永遠(yuǎn)都那么活躍，永遠(yuǎn)都被他極力隱藏在口袋里或者背在身后，終于伸出來了，成為了他表達(dá)自我的活塞桿。

飛翼·比德爾鮑姆的故事就是手的故事。它們那永無止境的活力，如同囚籠里的鳥兒那拍動(dòng)的雙翼，就像他的名字一般。鎮(zhèn)上一些無名詩人這樣想過。這雙手驚嚇到了它們的主人，他想要將其藏起來，驚奇地看著其他人那些安靜、不善表達(dá)的手，那些在田里挨著他干活的人的手，或是驅(qū)趕著昏沉無話的牲畜經(jīng)過鄉(xiāng)村小路那些人的手。

當(dāng)他和喬治·威拉德說話時(shí)，飛翼·比德爾鮑姆緊握著拳頭，敲打著他屋里的桌子或者墻壁。這個(gè)動(dòng)作讓他感覺更加舒服。如果他倆在田里散步時(shí)，他突然想說話了，他會(huì)去找一個(gè)樹樁或者柵欄頂上的一塊板，急急地用手敲在上面，再自在地談話。

飛翼·比德爾鮑姆這雙手的故事，本身就值得寫上一本書了。富有感染力地展開，它能發(fā)掘出無名小卒身上的許多奇怪、美麗的品質(zhì)，這本是詩人的工作。在溫斯堡鎮(zhèn)，這雙手之所以引人注目，僅僅是因其活躍程度。靠著它們，飛翼·比德爾鮑姆試過在一天內(nèi)采到高達(dá)一百四十夸脫的草莓。這雙手成為了他的特征，促成了他的名聲。同時(shí)，它們也使一個(gè)本已古怪難懂的人更加古怪。溫斯堡的人為飛翼·比德爾鮑姆的這雙手感到自豪，就如同他們?yōu)殂y行家懷特的新石屋、韋斯利·莫耶的栗色雄馬——托尼·提普感到自豪一樣，托尼·提普在克利夫蘭的秋季賽跑中創(chuàng)下了兩分十五秒的紀(jì)錄。

至于喬治·威拉德，他有好幾次都想問有關(guān)這雙手的事兒。有時(shí)候，一股幾乎不可抑制的好奇心掌控著他，他感覺到這雙手那古怪的活躍程度及其隱于人前的傾向背后一定有著什么原因。只是，出于對(duì)飛翼·比德爾鮑姆日漸根深的尊重之心，喬治·威拉德沒有將這個(gè)時(shí)常出現(xiàn)在他腦海中的問題訴諸于口。

有一次，他差點(diǎn)問出了這個(gè)問題。在夏天的一個(gè)下午，他們正在田里散步，然后停下來坐在草坡上。整個(gè)下午，飛翼·比德爾鮑姆就像得到靈感一樣高談闊論。他在一片柵欄前停了下來，像一個(gè)巨大的啄木鳥似的敲打著柵欄頂上的木板。他朝喬治·威拉德大叫，譴責(zé)他易于被身邊的人影響?！澳阍跉缒阕约海彼舐暤?。“你有獨(dú)處以及做夢(mèng)的傾向，但你害怕做夢(mèng)。你想要和鎮(zhèn)上的其他人一樣。你聽他們說話，并試圖模仿他們?！?/p>

坐在草坡上，飛翼·比德爾鮑姆再次試圖把他的觀點(diǎn)講清楚。他的聲音變得輕柔懷思。他滿足地長嘆一聲后，開始了漫無邊際的長篇大論，就像在說夢(mèng)話一般。

在這個(gè)夢(mèng)境中，飛翼·比德爾鮑姆給喬治·威拉德勾勒出了一幅畫。在這幅畫中，人們?cè)俅紊钤诹艘粋€(gè)類似畜牧黃金時(shí)代的年代。越過青翠空曠的鄉(xiāng)村，來了一群手足勻稱的年輕人，有的徒步，有的騎馬。這些年輕人成群結(jié)伴而來，聚在了一位年長者的腳邊，這位年長者坐在一個(gè)小花園的一棵樹下，與他們談天說地。

飛翼·比德爾鮑姆變得萬分激昂。他罕見地忘記了他的雙手。它們慢慢地溜了出來，擱在了喬治·威拉德的肩膀上。那個(gè)說話的聲音多了點(diǎn)新奇大膽的東西：“你必須試著忘掉學(xué)到的一切，”這老頭說道?！澳惚仨氶_始去夢(mèng)想。從此刻起，你必須堵住你的耳朵，遠(yuǎn)離那些喧囂之聲。”

飛翼·比德爾鮑姆的講話停了下來，他認(rèn)真地、深深地看著喬治·威拉德。他的眼睛閃閃發(fā)光。他再次舉起了手，撫慰著男孩。接著，他的臉上出現(xiàn)了一抹驚恐之色。

飛翼·比德爾鮑姆渾身一震，跳起身來，把雙手插到褲袋深處。他的眼里涌出淚水?！拔业没丶伊?，不能再跟你說話了。”他神經(jīng)兮兮地說道。

這位老頭兒頭也不回地沖下山去，穿過草地，把驚疑不定的喬治·威拉德落在了草坡上。這個(gè)男孩害怕得抖了抖，站起身來，沿著馬路朝鎮(zhèn)子走去。“我不會(huì)問他關(guān)于那雙手的事了，”他這樣想著，想起了他在那個(gè)男人眼里看到的恐懼之色，頗有所感?！斑@其中一定有什么問題，但我不想知道事情的原委了。他的雙手與他對(duì)我和對(duì)所有人的恐懼有關(guān)?！?/p>