第一章一双手

CHAPTER 1 Hands

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 that 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, it's falling into your eyes, " commanded the voice to the man, who was bald and whose nervous little hands fiddled about the bare white fore—head as though arranging a mass of tangled locks.

在俄亥俄州温斯堡镇旁的山谷边缘附近有一座小木屋。一个矮胖的老头儿正焦急地在半旧的走廊上来回踱步。小木屋前是一片开阔的田野，种的是苜蓿，却只开出了浓密的黄色芥末草。穿过田野，他看到一辆货车正在公路上行驶，车上坐满了刚从地里采完浆果回来的人。采浆果的那些年轻的小伙子和姑娘们大笑着、高声喊叫着。一个穿着蓝色衬衣的小伙子跳下货车，并试图把他身后的一个姑娘拽下来，那女孩尖叫着大声抗议。小伙子的脚踩在地上，扬起一片尘土，漂浮在落日的余晖中。田野那头传来了一个尖细的少女似的声音。噢，温•彼得波姆，你梳梳头发吧，都快掉进眼睛里了！声音所指的那个老头儿，头上光秃秃的，一双小手紧张地摸了摸白净的脑门，就好像在整理一大团凌乱的头发似的。

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 Biddlebaum's 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 on his own house.

这就是温•彼得波姆，一个总是惊惶不安、疑虑重重的老头儿。他在这个镇上住了二十年，却从来不认为自己是镇上生活的一份子。温斯堡镇里只有一个人和他有交情。那个人叫乔治•威拉德，是新威拉德旅社老板汤姆•威拉德的儿子。乔治和温之间建立了一种类似友谊的感情。乔治•威拉德在《温斯堡鹰报》当记者，有时他会在夜晚沿着公路步行到温•彼得波姆的家里。现在，老头儿就在山谷里来回踱步，双手紧张地四处动着，一心希望乔治能来和他共度这个夜晚。载着采浆果的少男少女的货车过去后，彼得波姆就从那片高高的芥末草地中间穿过田野，爬上铁路的围栏，沿着通向镇上的公路急切地眺望着。他在那里站了一会儿，不停地搓着手，来来回回地向公路张望着。接着，恐惧袭向他，他又跑回房子，重新在自家的门廊上踱步。

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 into 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 the 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.

二十年来，温•彼得波姆一直是小镇上的一个谜。但是，在乔治•威拉德面前，他却没那么怯懦了，而他那淹没于疑虑之海里的若隐若现的个性也得以展现出来。当那位年轻的记者站在他身边时，彼得波姆敢在大白天走上大街，也敢在自己家歪斜的门廊里大步徜徉，兴奋地讲话了。以往低沉而颤抖的声音也变得尖锐而响亮。驼着的背也挺得笔直。就像一尾鱼从渔夫的手中一扭身重又潜入小溪，沉默的彼得波姆一旦开始谈话，那股劲头像是要把漫长沉寂岁月里积攒在他脑袋里的思想全部化作语言一般。

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.

温•彼得波姆很善于用手势语言。他十指纤长，富于表现力，尽管非常活跃，却总是被竭力隐藏在口袋里或是背后。可是，现在这双手变成了他传情达意的生力军。

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.

温•彼得波姆的故事就是这双手的故事。这双手无休止的动作就好像是囚鸟在扑扇着双翼，温•彼得波姆也因此而得名（温在英文中和翼同音）。——这是镇上的一位无名诗人想出来的。可是，这双手却吓坏了它们的主人。他想要将它们藏起来，同时，他又惊奇地注视着其他人的手——那些手的主人和他并肩在田地里劳作，或者在乡村大路上赶着瞌睡的牲畜经过——他们的手安静而毫无表现力。

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.

彼得波姆对乔治说话的时候，紧握着拳头，敲打着桌子或者是他房子的墙。这种行为让他更舒服。当他们在田野里散步，彼得波姆想要谈话的时候，他会设法找到一截树桩或者是一块栅栏顶板，然后用手不停地、重重地敲打着，这样，他就能重新从容自在地交谈了。

The story of Wing Biddlebaum's 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 White's new stone house and Wesley Moyer's bay stallion, Tony Tip, that had won the two—fifteen trot at the fall races in Cleveland.

温•彼得波姆这双手的故事真值得大写特写。如果感性地写，那将会探及无名小卒的诸多奇异美好的品质。可这是诗人的工作。在温斯堡，这双手之所以引人注目仅仅是因为它们的动作而已。凭着这双手，温•彼得波姆曾在一天内摘过多达一百四十夸脱的草莓。这双手成了他的显著特征，使他出了名。它们同样使得这个原本怪异而不可捉摸的人变得更加离奇。温斯堡对温•彼得波姆的双手引以为傲，就好像为班克•怀特的新石头房子感到自豪，或者是因为威斯利•摩耶的的栗色雄马托尼•蒂普在克利夫兰秋季赛马中创下二分十五秒的记录而感到骄傲一样。

As for George Willard, he had many times wanted to ask about the hands.

至于乔治•威拉德，他也曾经很多次地想要问问有关这双手的事。

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.

有时，他被一种几乎无法抗拒的好奇心所控制。他感到其中必定有什么原因使得这双手行为奇特却总是深藏不露。但是，他对这双手的主人的尊敬与日俱增，这使得他没能把这萦绕心头的问题脱口说出。

Once he had been on 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. "

有一次，他几乎话到嘴边了。那正是个夏日的午后，他们两人在田野里散步，停下来，坐在草堤边。整个下午，彼得波姆说个不停，情绪高昂。他在篱笆边上停下来，对着乔治•威拉德大声叫嚷着，像只巨型啄木鸟似的，一下一下敲打着顶上的木板。他谴责他太易受旁人左右：你在毁灭自我，他大声喊道，你容易孤独，又喜好做梦，可你又害怕这些梦。你希望和镇上其他的人一样。你听见他们谈话，还试图去模仿。

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.

坐在草堤边上的时候，温•彼得波姆又尽力阐明观点。他声音变得柔和，充满了怀旧情绪。他心满意足地叹了口气，像个迷失在梦境里的人一样开始了漫无边际的长谈。

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.

他为乔治•维拉德描绘了这个梦。在梦境中，人们重又生活在一种田园牧歌式的黄金时代。越过一片苍翠开阔的乡村，一群手足匀称的年轻小伙子走了过来，有的步行，有的骑马。他们走过去，聚集在一位老人的周围。这位老人坐在小花园的一棵树下，正对着他们侃侃而谈。

Wing Biddlebaum became wholly inspired. For once he forgot the hands. Slowly they stole forth and lay upon George Willard's 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. "

彼得波姆整个人变得亢奋起来。就这一次，他忘记了自己的那双手。慢慢地，这双手滑了出来，停在了乔治•威拉德的肩膀上。彼得波姆说话的声音听起来有些不同，透着勇敢。你必须尽力忘掉所有你学过的东西，他说道，你必须开始做梦。从此刻起，你万不可再听信旁人的高谈阔论。

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.

他停顿下来，热切而长久地注视着乔治。他的眼睛里闪闪发光。接下来，他抬起手轻抚着年轻人。而一瞥惊惧之色随即划过了他的脸庞。

With a convulsive movement of his body, Wing Biddlebaum sprang to his feet and thrust his hands deep into his trousers pockets. Tears came to his eyes. "I must be getting along home. I can talk no more with you, " he said nervously.

彼得波姆浑身一震，跳了起来，然后将手深深地插进了自己的裤袋里。泪水随即涌入了他的眼眶。我得回家了。我不能再和你多谈了。他神色慌张地说。

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. "I'll not ask him about his hands, " he thought, touched by the memory of the terror he had seen in the man's eyes. "There's something wrong, but I don't want to know what it is. His hands have something to do with his fear of me and of everyone.

老头儿头也不回地急急忙忙冲下山坡，穿过一片草地，留下乔治困惑又惶恐地坐在绿草如茵的山坡上。年轻人吓得哆嗦了一下，随后站了起来，沿着通向镇上的公路走去。我不想再问他有关那双手的事了。乔治想着，记起他在老人眼中看到的恐惧，不禁动容。肯定有什么隐情，可我也不想弄明白。他对我和其他人的惧怕一定和他的那双手有关。

And George Willard was right. Let us look briefly into the story of the hands. Perhaps our talking of them will arouse the poet who will tell the hidden wonder story of the influence for which the hands were but fluttering pennants of promise.

乔治•威拉德是对的。我们不妨简单地说说这双手的故事吧。也许我们的故事会引起某些诗人的注意。那些诗人愿意谈及感化的隐匿奇迹，对他们而言，这双手也不过是两面感化成功的旌旗罢了。

In his youth Wing Biddlebaum had been a school teacher in a town in Pennsylvania. He was not then known as Wing Biddlebaum, but went by the less euphonic name of Adolph Myers. As Adolph Myers he was much loved by the boys of his school.

温•彼得波姆年轻时曾经在宾夕法尼亚的一个小镇上当过学校老师。那时他并不叫这个名字，而以音调欠佳的阿道夫•迈尔斯为名。作为教师的阿道夫•迈尔斯深受学校男孩子们的喜爱。

Adolph Myers was meant by nature to be a teacher of youth. He was one of those rare, little—understood men who rule by a power so gentle that it passes as a lovable weakness. In their feeling for the boys under their charge such men are not unlike the finer sort of women in their love of men.

阿道夫•迈尔斯生来就是给年轻人当老师的。有些人世上少有，世人难解，性格过分温柔，以至于被当成一种可爱的缺点。他便是其中之一。这类人对于被管教的男孩子们的感情类似于性情温和的女子对于男子的爱情。

And yet that is but crudely stated. It needs the poet there. With the boys of his school, Adolph Myers had walked in the evening or had sat talking until dusk upon the schoolhouse steps lost in a kind of dream. Here and there went his hands, caressing the shoulders of the boys, playing about the tousled heads. As he talked his voice became soft and musical. There was a caress in that also. In a way the voice and the hands, the stroking of the shoulders and the touching of the hair were a part of the schoolmaster's effort to carry a dream into the young minds. By the caress that was in his fingers he expressed himself. He was one of those men in whom the force that creates life is diffused, not centralized. Under the caress of his hands doubt and disbelief went out of the minds of the boys and they began also to dream.

可这还不过是粗略的表述。这里需要诗人来解释。阿道夫•迈尔斯曾经同他学校的男孩子们在傍晚散步，或者坐在校舍的台阶上谈天说地直到黄昏，全然迷失在一种梦境中。他的手四处游走，抚摩男孩子们的肩膀，把玩他们蓬蓬乱发的脑袋。当他说话的时候，声音变得轻柔又富于音律。声音也在爱抚着。在某种意义上，这声音和这双手，轻抚肩膀以及抚摸头发，都是这个老师在以某种方式努力将一个梦灌入那些年轻的头脑中。通过手指的爱抚，他也表达了自己的内心。有些人创造生活的力量是发散而不集中的，他亦是其中之一。在他双手的爱抚下，孩子们内心的疑虑被驱散了，于是也开始做梦。

And then the tragedy. A half—witted boy of the school became enamored of the young master. In his bed at night he imagined unspeakable things and in the morning went forth to tell his dreams as facts. Strange, hideous accusations fell from his loose—hung lips. Through the Pennsylvania town went a shiver. Hidden, shadowy doubts that had been in men's minds concerning Adolph Myers were galvanized into beliefs.

可这便是悲剧的开始。学校里一个懵懂的男孩子迷恋上了这位年轻的老师。他夜里躺在床上时幻想些不可名状的东西，清晨又将梦境当作事实讲了出来。从他那没有遮拦的嘴里说出了奇怪而可怕的控诉。整个宾夕法尼亚小镇为之不寒而栗。那些曾经隐藏在人们心里的对阿道夫•迈尔斯朦朦胧胧的怀疑，如今一下子激变成了让人坚信不移的事实。

The tragedy did not linger. Trembling lads were jerked out of bed and questioned. "He put his arms about me, " said one. "His fingers were always playing in my hair, " said another.

悲剧的势头急转直下。颤栗着的少年们从床上被拽起来问话。他用胳膊搂过我。一个孩子说。他总是用手指抚摸我的头发。另一个说。

One afternoon a man of the town, Henry Bradford, who kept a saloon, came to the schoolhouse door. Calling Adolph Myers into the school yard he began to beat him with his fists. As his hard knuckles beat down into the frightened face of the school—master, his wrath became more and more terrible. Screaming with dismay, the children ran here and there like disturbed insects. "I'll teach you to put your hands on my boy, you beast, " roared the saloon keeper, who, tired of beating the master, had begun to kick him about the yard.

一个下午，镇上的酒吧店主亨利•布莱德福德来到了学校的大门口。他将阿道夫•迈尔斯叫到学校后院，开始用拳头揍他。他坚硬的拳头落在了老师惊恐的脸上，可他的怒火却愈发不可遏止。惶恐不安的孩子们惊声尖叫，四处乱跑，像被惊扰的小虫子。你竟敢把你的脏手伸到我孩子身上，你这个畜生，我得好好教训教训你。酒吧店主咆哮着，打得不解气，就开始蛮院子地又踢又踹。

Adolph Myers was driven from the Pennsylvania town in the night. With lanterns in their hands a dozen men came to the door of the house where he lived alone and commanded that he dress and come forth. It was raining and one of the men had a rope in his hands. They had intended to hang the school—master, but something in his figure, so small, white, and pitiful, touched their hearts and they let him escape. As he ran away into the darkness they repented of their weakness and ran after him, swearing and throwing sticks and great balls of soft mud at the figure that screamed and ran faster and faster into the darkness. For twenty years Adolph Myers had lived alone in Winesburg. He was but forty but looked sixty—five. The name of Biddlebaum he got from a box of goods seen at a freight station as he hurried through an eastern Ohio town. He had an aunt in Winesburg, a black—toothed old woman who raised chickens, and with her he lived until she died. He had been ill for a year after the experience in Pennsylvania, and after his recovery worked as a day laborer in the fields, going timidly about and striving to conceal his hands. Although he did not understand what had happened he felt that the hands must be to blame. Again and again the fathers of the boys had talked of the hands. "Keep your hands to yourself, " the saloon keeper had roared, dancing, with fury in the schoolhouse yard.

夜里，阿道夫•迈尔斯被从宾西尼亚的小镇赶了出去。一群男人，手里拿着灯笼，聚集到他独居的房子门前，命令他穿好衣服出来。天正下着雨，其中一个人手里还拿着一根绳子。他们本打算将他吊死，但是，这个老师看起来瘦小、苍白、可怜兮兮的，他们动了恻隐之心，于是，就让他逃走了。当他逃进黑暗中的时候，他们又懊悔自己心软，便在后面追赶他，一边咒骂着，一边用木棍和大块的软泥砸向他。老师尖声叫着，越跑越快，终于消失在了夜色里。阿道夫•迈尔斯在温斯堡住了二十年，孑然一身。不过四十来岁的人看上去倒有六十五岁。彼得波姆这个名字也是他在慌忙中经过俄亥俄东部的一个小镇时，在货站的一个货物箱上看到而得来的。他有个姑妈住在温斯堡，是个养鸡的老太太，长了一口黑牙，他一直和她住在一起，直到她去世。在经历了宾夕法尼亚的事情之后，他病了一年。身体康复后，他白天便在田里干活，四处走动时也畏畏缩缩地，总是尽力把手藏起来。尽管他不明白那究竟是怎么一回事，可他感到这双手是罪魁祸首。因为那些男孩的父亲们一次次地提到过这双手。管好你的脏手。那个酒吧店主就曾在校园的院子里暴跳如雷地这样咆哮过。

Upon the veranda of his house by the ravine, Wing Biddlebaum continued to walk up and down until the sun had disappeared and the road beyond the field was lost in the grey shadows. Going into his house he cut slices of bread and spread honey upon them. When the rumble of the evening train that took away the express cars loaded with the day's harvest of berries had passed and restored the silence of the summer night, he went again to walk upon the veranda. In the darkness he could not see the hands and they became quiet. Although he still hungered for the presence of the boy, who was the medium through which he expressed his love of man, the hunger became again a part of his loneliness and his waiting. Lighting a lamp, Wing Biddlebaum washed the few dishes soiled by his simple meal and, setting up a folding cot by the screen door that led to the porch, prepared to undress for the night. A few stray white bread crumbs lay on the cleanly washed floor by the table; putting the lamp upon a low stool he began to pick up the crumbs, carrying them to his mouth one by one with unbelievable rapidity. In the dense blotch of light beneath the table, the kneeling figure looked like a priest engaged in some service of his church. The nervous expressive fingers, flashing in and out of the light, might well have been mistaken for the fingers of the devotee going swiftly through decade after decade of his rosary.

在山谷边，小木屋的回廊上，温•彼得波姆又开始来来回回地踱步。他一直徘徊到夕阳西下，直到田野那头的公路也消失在灰色的阴影里。他进了屋，切了几片面包，涂上蜂蜜。当晚间快车载着一天收获的浆果隆隆驶去，夏夜重新恢复寂静时，他又走到前门廊上。在黑夜中，他看不见那双手，手也一动不动。他仍然热切地盼望乔治能够出现。通过这位年轻人，他向人类表达了自己的亲近之情。但是，这种盼望最终也变成了他孤独的一部分，使得他总在等待。他点亮一盏灯，洗了洗那顿简单的晚餐弄脏的几个盘子，在通向门廊的纱门边支起一张折叠床，准备脱衣服睡觉。一些零星的白面包屑掉在桌旁洗涮干净的地板上；他把灯放在一张矮凳上，开始捡面包屑。然后，把它们一个接一个地放进嘴里，速度惊人。在桌子下浓密的阴影里，他跪着的身影看上去像是一个忙于教堂事务的牧师。他那些紧张而充满表现力的手指，在光影里闪现，人们很可能将它们误认为是信徒的手，在快速地、十个十个地数着念珠。

CHAPTER 2 Paper Pills

第一章 一双手

第一章一双手