七月之草

理查德·杰弗里斯

【導(dǎo)讀】理查德·杰弗里斯（1848—1887），英國著名散文家，以寫英國南部鄉(xiāng)村的自然景色著稱，著有英國鄉(xiāng)村生活的隨筆集凡十余部，而以《我心靈的故事》（The Story of My Heart，1883）、《田野與樹籬》（Field and Hedgerow，1889）名世。英國作家愛德華·托馬斯（Edward Thomas）在《理查德·杰弗里斯：生活及作品》（Richard Jefferies： His Life and Work，1909）一書中盛贊道：“當杰弗里斯寫這些作品時，仿佛他的手參與了塑造那些山地、陽光及天上群星的神圣使命，仿佛他的血脈里流淌著橡樹、榆樹和白蠟樹的汁液，還有自然界飛禽走獸的血液?！?/p>

本文選自其散文集《田野與樹籬》，再現(xiàn)了夏季英國南部鄉(xiāng)村的自然景色之美。文章的主角是草，但作者卻借草展現(xiàn)了夏日的勃勃生機。草地上空有可愛的蠅蟲飛舞，草地之上有錦繡般的地毯交相輝映，草地之側(cè)有海浪拍岸。難怪作者不禁從心中感慨：夏日草地上的一切永遠享受不夠，哪怕我們與天地齊壽。

A July fly went sideways over the long grass. His wings made a burr about him like a net， beating so fast they wrapped him round with a cloud. Every now and then， as he flew over the trees of grass， a taller one than common stopped him， and there he clung， and then the eye had time to see the scarlet spots—the loveliest color—on his wings. The wind swung the bennet and loosened his hold， and away he went again over the grasses， and not one jot did he care if they were Festuca， or Bromus or any other name. Names were nothing to him; all he had to do was to whirl his scarlet spots about in the brilliant sun， rest when he liked， and go on again. I wonder whether it is a joy to have bright scarlet spots， and to be clad in the purple and gold of life; is the color felt by the creature that wears it？ The rose， restful of a dewy morn before the sunbeams have topped the garden wall， must feel a joy in its own fragrance， and know the exquisite hue of its stained petals. The rose sleeps in its beauty.

The fly whirls his scarlet-spotted wings about and splashes himself with sunlight， like the children on the sands. He thinks not of the grass and sun; he does not heed them at all—and that is why he is so happy—any more than the barefoot children ask why the sea is there， or why it does not quite dry up when it ebbs. He is unconscious; he lives without thinking about living; and if the sunshine were a hundred hours long， still it would not be long enough. No， never enough of sun and sliding shadows that come like a hand over the table to lovingly reach our shoulder， never enough of the grass that smells sweet as a flower， not if we could live years and years equal in number to the tides that have ebbed and flowed counting backwards four years to every day and night， backward still till we found out which came first， the night or the day. The scarlet-dotted fly knows nothing of the names of the grasses that grow here where the sward nears the sea， and thinking of him I have decided not to wilfully seek to learn any more of their names either. My big grass book I have left at home， and the dust is settling on the gold of the binding. I have picked a handful this morning of which I know nothing. I will sit here on the turf and the scarlet-dotted flies shall pass over me， as if I too were but a grass. I will not think， I will be unconscious， I will live.

Listen！ That was the low sound of a summer wavelet striking the uncovered rock over there beneath in the green sea. All things that are beautiful are found by chance， like everything that is good. Here by me is a praying-rug， just wide enough to kneel on， of the richest gold inwoven with crimson. All the Sultans of the East never had such beauty as that to kneel on. It is， indeed， too beautiful to kneel on， for the life in these golden flowers must not be broken down even for that purpose. They must not be defaced， not a stem bent; it is more reverent not to kneel on them， for this carpet prays itself I will sit by it and let it pray for me. It is so common， the birds-foot lotus， it grows everywhere; yet if I purposely searched for days I should not have found a plot like this， so rich， so golden， so glowing with sunshine. You might pass by it in one stride， yet it is worthy to be thought of for a week and remembered for a year. Slender grasses， branched round about with slenderer boughs， each tipped with pollen and rising in tiers cone-shaped—too delicate to grow tall—cluster at the base of the mound. They dare not grow tall or the wind would snap them. A great grass， stout and thick， rises three feet by the hedge， with a head another foot nearly， very green and strong and bold， lifting itself right up to you; you must say， “What a fine grass！” Grasses whose awns succeed each other alternately; grasses whose tops seem flattened; others drooping over the shorter blades beneath; some that you can only find by parting the heavier growth around them; hundreds and hundreds， thousands and thousands.

七月里，一只蠅蟲從長長的草地邊飛過，翅膀嗡嗡扇動，像在周身編織了一張網(wǎng)。它的翅膀扇動得飛快，似乎把自己裹在了一團云霧之中。飛過草莖時，它時不時被一株高點兒的擋住，于是就落下來，這時，我們就來得及看到它翅膀上深紅的點了——這可是最可愛的顏色！風(fēng)，搖曳著草梗，它站不住了，于是又飛開，在草地上空盤桓。至于這些草究竟叫羊茅、雀麥還是別的什么，它才不管呢。名稱算什么，蠅蟲就是要在艷陽天里將紅點旋開，想歇就歇，歇夠了繼續(xù)飛。我心想，是不是身著生命的紫衣金裳，點綴著絢麗的紅點，是一件開心事？身著五彩的這個生靈是否感受到這般色彩？恬靜的玫瑰，帶著清晨的露珠，在陽光還沒照到園墻之上時，一定會為自己的芬芳而歡欣，也定會知曉露潤的花瓣呈現(xiàn)的雅致色澤。玫瑰耽眠于自身之美。

蠅蟲飛速拍打著帶紅點的翅膀，在四周飛來飛去，在陽光浴中嬉戲，如同沙灘上的孩童。它沒去想那草地與陽光，它根本不把這些放在心上，就好像赤腳的小孩子不會問海為什么會在那兒，或者問退潮時海水為什么不會干涸——為什么它會如此快樂，原因蓋出于此。它做一切都是無意識的。它生活著，卻不對生活刨根究底。就算還要在陽光下飛上一百個小時，那也遠遠不夠。是，陽光和陽光下滑動的影子啊，永遠也享受不夠，那些影子就像一只手，越過桌面親密地搭向我們的肩膀;還有芬芳如花的萋萋草地，也永遠享受不夠！永遠都不夠啊，就算我們的壽數(shù)能與潮漲潮落之數(shù)一般，不僅是過去四年的每日每夜，哪怕繼續(xù)向世界源頭回溯，直到搞清白天和黑夜究竟誰先誰后。草地靠近海，紅點蠅蟲對這片草地各種草的名稱一無所知;想想它，我也決計不再一味要去了解那些草的名稱了。我有一本關(guān)于草的大書，擱置在家，書的金色封面落滿了灰塵。今天早晨，我采了一小把草，采的什么我也一無所知。我會在草地上席地而坐，紅點蠅蟲會飛過我頭頂，把我也看成了一根草。我不會去想，我要進入無我之境，就這樣生活下去。

聽！那下邊，夏日的綠色海洋，細浪拍打裸露巖石，發(fā)出低沉的聲音。一切的美都在無意間發(fā)現(xiàn)，正如一切的善。我身旁有一條做祈禱用的地毯，寬度剛夠客膝，最富麗的金色和猩紅色交織而成。東方所有蘇丹跪地禮拜時都沒有如此美麗的地毯。確實太漂亮了，讓人不忍跪在上面，這些金色花朵里的生命決不能被蹂躪，即便為了跪拜。這些花兒不許污損，花莖不許折彎。不跪壓花兒更顯敬意，因這塊毯子本身就是在祈禱，我會恭坐其側(cè)，讓其代我祈禱。其實這百脈根很普通，到處可見;然而如果我有意去找，卻幾天都未必能找到這么一塊地，長著如此富麗、金黃的花兒，在陽光照射下灼灼生輝。也許你一步就可以跨過地毯，但它卻值得你回味一個星期，并經(jīng)年不忘。柔嫩的草啊，更嫩的葉片向四周展開著，葉尖上頂著花粉，呈錐形一級級往上長——它們太嬌嫩，因而長不高，一簇簇長在土堆的底部。它們也不敢長高，高了怕風(fēng)吹折。一株大草，草莖粗壯，長在籬笆旁，足有三英尺高，草葉又有近一英尺高，很綠很壯很顯眼，沖人而立。你不禁要感嘆：“真是亭亭玉立啊！”有的草，草芒是互生的;有的草，草尖似乎是扁平的;有的草，新葉垂在矮矮的舊葉上面;還有些草，你得分開周圍長得更濃密的植被才能看到。萋萋芳草，豈可數(shù)計！? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? □