徒步旅行贊（節(jié)選）

文/阿爾弗雷德·喬治·加德納 譯/張蝶 審訂/朱建迅 田德新

幾天前，我背著帆布包從凱西克出發(fā)，衣兜里揣了盒巴德利牌火柴，身邊還有一個伴兒。我徒步旅行時喜歡有人陪伴?！绊槺憬o我找個伴兒，”斯特恩說，“即便只是為了議論夕陽西沉之際影子是如何漸漸拉長的?！边@就差不多夠了。你不需要一個饒舌的人。徒步旅行本身便是一項工作。起初你可能想盡情聊上一通，但當你對這份工作有了興致之后，便寧愿默不吭聲，把一件又一件事情拋到腦后，將欲說之言留到客棧的餐桌上，留到晚飯后叼著煙斗之時。偶爾開個玩笑，哼支小曲，必要時拿出地圖商量一下——一路上有這些聲響足矣。

2我們從湖區(qū)的上游地帶登上一條小船，劃著船橫渡德文特湖，來到卡特貝爾山腳下的小湖灣。我們從這里舍舟登岸，背上行李一路前行，攀登一座座山峰，翻越一個個隘口。整整一周，我們享受了這片曠野所能提供的無比幽靜。我們沒有遵循既定的計劃。我喜歡為徒步旅行制訂計劃，但我更樂于打破這些計劃。因為徒步旅行的樂趣之一，在于它賦予你的自由感。你不必恪守一份時間表，無須因循哪條路線，不用聽命于任何人。如果你喜歡這條路，盡可循路而行；如果你選擇這個隘口，那也不妨由此而過；如果你喜歡（并向往）登上山巔，那就越過大蓋布爾山、斯科費爾峰、魯賓遜山和赫爾韋林山吧。條條捷徑皆為你而設(shè)，條條小道無不涉險成趣。依山奔涌而下的溪流是你舉杯痛飲的不盡源泉。你蹲在巨石上，低下頭，大口飲著只有受足潤澤的群山才能給予你的溪水。之后，你再次踏上旅途并歌唱著：

灌木叢里仰觀星辰，

河水權(quán)作面包蘸料；

這便是我輩的快樂人生，

人生永遠樂逍遙。

3世上哪兒再有這樣的自由呢？你徹底切斷了與外界的聯(lián)系，遠離電報和報紙，遠離你撇在身后的所有紛亂世態(tài)，獨自一人置身于孤獨的群山中、廣闊的天空下、自然界的種種景物之間，它們在創(chuàng)世之初便已存在，人類所有苦難終結(jié)時它們也不會消失。生命的聲音——麻鷸的囀鳴，山地綿羊的叫喚——加重了這種始于遠古的幽靜。這些聲音已經(jīng)在懸崖峭壁間回蕩了千萬年之久；這些聲音，連同風的呼嘯和水的轟鳴，仍將在懸崖峭壁間回蕩千萬年。此種景象，猶如你脫離了現(xiàn)世，進入千年恍若一日的永恒。這個無始無終的永恒世界無須計日。你驚起峽谷水潭中的一只禿鷹，它大幅度地扇動著翅膀在周圍盤旋，它的血統(tǒng)與群山一樣古老。你登上埃斯克之巔，蘭代爾山峰陡然躍入你的眼簾，眼前所見正與第一個冒險進入這片荒山野嶺的野蠻人所見相同。

4太陽漸漸西斜時你才想起，置身于不朽的景物之中，自己只是凡人一個，想起自己雙足酸痛，需要找個地方歇息一宿，享受棲身客棧的舒適。我們該去哪兒呢？周遭的山谷都在呼喚我們。我們可以去紐蘭茲的寬河谷，或是令人愉悅的博羅代爾，或是孤寂的恩納代爾，抑或——沒錯，今晚我們將在沃斯代爾就餐，那家曾由奧爾德·威爾·里特森經(jīng)營的歡快老客棧，不啻攀巖人的圣地。新年前夕，一群快樂的登山者齊聚于此，聊著他們翻山越嶺的英勇壯舉，議論手抓點和腳踩點，唱著“繩子啊，繩子”的歌謠，繼而加入由店主洪亮嗓音起頭的合唱。

5想必我們今晚在那兒見不到加斯帕德了——加斯帕德，一位來自多菲內(nèi)的快樂而無畏的向?qū)?，所有知道沃斯代爾這家偏僻客棧的人們都非常喜歡他。他正在遠方的疆場作戰(zhàn)，其敵人比大蓋布爾山和斯科費爾峰的山巖峭壁還要兇險。不過牧羊人老喬會在那兒——老喬，從沒坐過火車，也沒見過一個城鎮(zhèn)，他有特別引以為榮的一手絕招，他扮的鬼臉比坎伯蘭任何人扮的都要難看。他不會輕易為誰扮鬼臉——除非在他興致盎然之際，而且正和幾位摯友相聚于私人客廳。今晚，如果碰得巧，我們會在他高唱“你見過約翰·皮爾嗎？”時看到他翻白眼。沒錯，沃斯代爾將是今晚的歇腳處。于是，我們越過黑帆山脈，沿著崎嶇不平的山坡來到這家客棧，只見它白色的墻壁正從遠處峽谷漸濃的陰影中向我們致意。

6快樂的日子就這樣過去了，有時下雨，有時晴朗，又有時兩者兼而有之，但是所有的日子都是快樂的，我們忘記了星期幾，除了天氣變化和山上的路線外什么都不知道，沒有遇到任何徒步者,除了一個跟我們挺像的少見的漫游者——可能是個礦工，因為肩扛繩子，也可能就是游客，因為背著背包。除了遠方的山谷旅店外我們沒有任何目標，在旅店里我們可以恢復(fù)體力，次日起床后的行程將是美好的。

7我開始寫文章贊美徒步旅行，并發(fā)現(xiàn)自己曾寫文章贊美過湖區(qū)。但事實上，這兩篇贊辭是和諧一致的。如果我沒有指出，在這片土地上領(lǐng)略最精致之美的方法就是踏上行人走過的平凡之路，那么我的寫作就是徒勞的。騎馬穿過湖區(qū)的人不知道湖區(qū)的秘密，也沒感受過它的魅力。 □

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奧爾德·威爾·里特森是19 世紀沃斯代爾當?shù)氐囊晃晦r(nóng)民，因口才流利、幽默風趣而為人熟知。與妻子一起開了大橋客棧（Bridge Inn）后，他經(jīng)常給客人講述極其荒誕的故事，逗他們開心。隨著他“善于講荒誕故事”的名聲越來越大，周圍人稱他為“附近最厲害的騙子”。英國的“世界撒謊大賽”就是為了紀念這位“愛撒謊”的傳奇人物而舉辦的。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. ■