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Some Kind of Touching Emotion
有一种思念触动心扉
Little compliments mean so much to me sometimes. Children have never been very good at listening to their elders, but they have never failed to imitate them.
有时候，一点微不足道的肯定，对我却意义非凡。孩子们从来不会好好听从长辈的话，可是他们从来忘不了模仿长辈。
E. B. White to His Mother
(Jessie Hart White)
艾温·布鲁克斯·怀特致母亲
（杰西·哈特·怀特）
Beta Theta Pi house
Ohio State University
Columbus, Ohio
26 April 1922
Dearest Mum,
I am hoping this will arrive on April 27 to greet you on your 42nd wedding anniversary, but I am a little late in starting it as usual. Your letter reached me at Mansfield, O. a couple of days ago where it was forwarded from East Aurora. I guess I told you in one of my previous letters that the way to reach me by mail is via 159 Park Place, East Aurora. Mr. Cushman does the forwarding.
So you’ve been gay for forty years
For forty years and two—
Been jolly all through smiles and tears
So you’ve been gay for forty years
A thing one very seldom hears
I send my love to you
So you’ve been gay for forty years
For forty years and two
I hardly think I have written you since we left East Aurora a week ago Monday in the afternoon. We remained over Easter at the Cushman’s and had Easter Sunday dinner at the Roy Croft’s. The next day we left, clanking merrily out of town with our bed upon our back as goes the turtle...
Spring has arrived in Ohio. This is a flat state where red pigs graze in bright green fields and where farms are neat and prosperous—not like New York farms. We roll along through dozens of villages and cities whose names we never heard. They are typical of the Middle West. The oldest inhabitant is generally standing somewhere pulling a long white beard, the smithy door is generally open and the sound of the anvil to be heard, the village flapper is generally flapping up and down along Main Street in front of a group of jobless youths who help hold the drug store up, and somewhere there is always a housewife sweeping off a porch or carrying a spadeful of manure to the garden. Toward evening the country scenes become idyllic—the sort of thing you have seen in the moving pictures and never quite believed in. Sheep come drifting up long green lawns where poplars throw interminable shadows, come drifting up and stand like statues beneath white plum blossoms, while far down the lane and off in the fields a little Ford tractor moves like a snail across the furrows. Lilacs are in full bloom and the lavender iron—wood blossoms are coloring all the roads.
I’ve given up cigarettes until I get to California. Isn’t that a good idea? Cush thinks it’s great. I also am looking forward soon to giving up clean shirts. They’re worse than cigarettes. I’m on my last one now.
The Ford is a tremendous expense. Repairs have cost up 75 cents since we left New York—50 cents for a busted radiator and 25 cents for a fan belt. Pretty heavy going.
New York is the state for roads. Here there are pikes, which are cement on one side and dirt on the other. When you meet another car if you are on the cement side all is well, and when you are on the dirt side you steer to one side, sink down indefinitely, and then get out and lift the car back onto the road again. That’s why Fords can go places where heavier cars have difficulty. Whenever your Ford shows signs of weakening, you can lift it back where it belongs.
Tell Father he ought to read Benchley’s Of All Things if he wants a good time. I read it the other day in Mansfield. It’s about as funny as anything there is on the market today with the exception, of course, of the Cushman—White travelogues which are simply killing.
We’ll be leaving for Kentucky on Friday morning. This place is so beautiful we want to stay for a day or so to become acquainted with it.
Congratulations again on your anniversary. Have a good time at Atlantic City honey mooning. Love to Father—tell him I received his letter and thank you. I mailed the slip to the Trust Company the other day in Mansfield.
Yours, Andy
T. E. Lawrence to
His Mother (I)
托马斯·爱德华·劳伦斯致母亲（1）
Fleece Hotel Colchester
August 13, 1905
Dear Mother,
We came here from Ipswich over a rather hilly road 18 miles long. Still we took two hours over it; and walked about six hills; a proceeding Father does not like. We are feeding splendidly. Father is much better and has not coughed since Lynn.
I have had to give up Bures. We came by the other road because of the wind. Still I hope to get Pebmarsh tomorrow, and I got one rubbing yesterday so I’m not altogether mournful. I have sent off all my rubbings to Miss Powell.Hope she'll like them. I expect you have Will with you now. Will you please tell him not to let you do more work than is necessary to keep you in condition? Also tickle Arnie when he gets up and when he goes to bed all from me. Tell him there are dozens of butterflies fall sorts about here, some Red Admirals; and a lot of other very queer ones. Ask Beadle to come up here as he has never seen a Death’s Head or some such insect. Norwich Museum he would have enjoyed. There was the largest collection of raptorial birds in existence 409 out of 470 species. I wonder if he'll shriek with horror when he hears that I did not look at them but went off and examined the Norman W.C.s. In the hall there was a thrilling stuffed group a boa constrictor strangling a tiger. We hope to return to Oxford Wednesday. Kindly take heaps of love from me for yourself. And when you’ve had enough, divide the remainder into three portions, and give them to the three worms you have with you. I wonder how the Doctor is enjoying Jerry. Don’t forget the Canon’s birthday next Sunday. We have had one post card from Will, one from yourself and one letter from you. Loud snores to all. Love to yourself.
Ned
T. E. Lawrence to His Mother(o)
托马斯·爱德华·劳伦斯致母亲（2）
Evreux
Sunday 11 August 1907
Dear Mother,
Father is out, and so I am at last writing to you. I would have written before, but was so busy taking photos, etc. at Chateau Gaillard. Beauvais was a wonderful place, and I left it with great regret for Gisors which was disappointing, (a large castle, but all the towers locked up), from Gisors we came to Petit Andelys. The Chateau Gaillard was so magnificent, and the post cards so abominable, that I stopped there an extra day. And I did nothing but photograph, from 6.a.m.to 7.p.m. I took ten altogether. And if all are successful, I will have a wonderful series. I will certainly have to start a book. Some of them were very difficult to take, and the whole day was very hard. I think Pt. Andelys would be a good place to stop at. The hotel is cheap, and very pleasant. The Seine runs near the back door. And the bathing is excellent, from a little wooded island in the centre of the river. There are plenty of hills within sight, and many interesting places. Also the scenery all along the river is exceedingly fine. Long strings of barges pulled by a steam—tug pass the hotel occasionally, and the whole place is overshadowed by the hills with the ruins of the Chateau. I have talked so much about this to you that you must know it all by heart, so I had better content myself with saying that its plan is marvelous, the execution wonderful, and the situation perfect. The whole construction bears the unmistakable stamp of genius. Richard I must have been a far greater man than we usually consider him. He must have been a great strategist and a great engineer, as well as a great man—at—arms.
Ernest Hemingway to His Mother
(Grace Hall Hemingway)
欧内斯特·海明威致母亲
（格雷斯·霍尔·海明威）
Gstaad, 5 February 1927
Dear Mother,
Thank you very much for sending me the catalogue of the Marshal Field exhibit with the reproduction of your painting of the Blacksmith Shop in it. It looks very lovely and I should have liked to see the original.
I did not answer when you wrote about the Sun etc. book as I could not help being angry and it is very foolish to write angry letters£»and more than foolish to do so to one’s mother. It is quite natural for you not to like the book and I regret your reading any book that causes you pain or disgust.
On the other hand I am in no way ashamed of the book, except in as I may have failed in accurately portraying the people I wrote of, or in making them really come alive to the reader. I am sure the book is unpleasant. But it is not all unpleasant and I am sure is no more unpleasant than the real inner lives of some of our best Oak Park families. You must remember that in such a book all the worst of the people’s lives is displayed while at home there is a very lovely side for the public and the sort of thing of which I have had some experience in observing behind closed doors. Besides you, as an artist, know that a writer shouldn’t be forced to defend his choice of a subject but should be criticized on how he has treated that subject. The people I wrote of were certainly burned out, hollow and smashed—and that is the way I have attempted to show them. I am only ashamed of the book in whatever way it fails to really give the people I wished to present. I have a long life to write other books and the subjects will not always be the same—except as they will all, I hope, be human beings.
And if the good ladies of the book study club under the guidance of Miss Fanny Butcher, who is not an intelligent reviewer—I would have felt very silly had she praised the book—agree unanimously that I am prostituting a great talent etc. for the lowest ends—why the good ladies are talking about something of which they know nothing and saying very foolish things.
As for Hadley, Bumby and myself—although Hadley and I have not been living in the same house for some time (we have lived apart since last Sept. and by now Hadley may have divorced me) we are the very best of friends. She and Bumby are both well, healthy and happy and all the profits and royalties of The Sun Also Rises, by my order, are being paid directly to Hadley, both from America and England. The book has gone into, by the last ads I saw in January, 5 printings (15000) copies, and is still going strongly. It is published in England in the spring under the title of Fiesta. Hadley is coming to America in the spring so you can see Bumby on the profits of Sun Also Rises. I am not taking one cent of the royalties, which are already running into several thousand dollars, have been drinking nothing but my usual wine or beer with meals, have been leading a very monastic life and trying to write as well as I am able. We have different ideas about what constitutes good writing—that is simply a fundamental disagreement—but you really are deceiving yourself if you allow any Fanny Butchers to tell you that I am pandering to sensation—alism etc. I get letters from Vanity Fair, Cosmopolitan etc. asking me for stories, articles, and serials, but am publishing nothing for six months or a year (a few stories sold to Scribner’s the end of last year and one funny article out) because I know that now is a very crucial time and that it is much more important for me to write in tranquility, trying to write as well as I can, with no eye on any market, nor any thought of what the stuff will bring, or even if it can ever be published—than to fall into the money making trap which handles American writers like the corn husking machine handled my noted relative’s thumb .
I’m sending this letter to both of you because I know you have been worried about me and I am always sorry to cause you worry. But you must not do that—because, although my life may smashup in different ways, I will always do all that I can for the people I love (I don’t write home a lot because I haven’t time and because, writing, I find it very hard to write letters and have to restrict correspondence to the letters I have to write—and my real friends know that I am just as fond of them whether I write or not) that I have never been a drunk nor even a steady drinker (You will hear legends that I am—they are tacked on everyone that ever wrote about people who drink) and that all I want is tranquility and a chance to write. You may never like anything I write—and then suddenly you might like something very much. But you must believe that I am sincere in what I write. Dad has been very loyal and while you, mother, have not been loyal at all I absolutely understand that it is because you believed you owed it to yourself to correct me in a path which seemed to you disastrous.
So maybe we can drop that all. I am sure that, in the course of my life, you will find much cause to feel that I have disgraced you if you believe everything you hear. On the other hand with a little shot of loyalty as an anesthetic you may be able to get through all my obvious disreputability and find, in the end, that I have not disgraced you at all.
Anyhow, best love to you both,
Ernie
Ernest Hemingway to His Father
欧内斯特·海明威致父亲
Hendaye, France, 14 September 1927
Dear Dad,
Thanks very much for your letter and for forwarding the letter to Uncle Tyley. I had a good letter from him yesterday. You cannot know how badly I feel about having caused you and Mother so much shame and suffering—but I could not write you about all of my and Hadley’s troubles even if it were the thing to do. It takes two weeks for a letter to cross the Atlantic and I have tried not to transfer all the hell I have been through to anyone by letter. I love Hadley and I love Bumby—Hadley and I split up—I did not desert her nor was I committing adultery with anyone. I was living in the apartment with Bumby—looking after him while Hadley was away on a trip and it was when she came back from this trip that she decided she wanted the definite divorce. We arranged everything and there was no scandal and no disgrace. Our trouble had been going on for a long time. It was entirely my fault and it is no one’s business. I have nothing but love admiration and respect for Hadley and while we are busted up I have not in any way lost Bumby. He lived with me in Switzerland after the divorce and he is coming back in November and will spend this winter with me in the mountains.
You are fortunate enough to have only been in love with one woman in your life. For over a year I had been in love with two people and had been absolutely faithful to Hadley. When Hadley decided that we had better get a divorce the girl with whom I was in love was in America. I had not heard from her for almost two months. In her last letter she had said that we must not think of each other but of Hadley. You refer to “Love Pirates,” “persons who break up your home etc.” and you know that I am hot tempered but I know that it is easy to wish people in Hell when you know nothing of them. I have seen, suffered, and been through enough so that I do not wish anyone in Hell. It is because I do not want you to suffer with ideas of shame and disgrace that I now write all this. We have not seen much of each other for a long time and in the meantime our lives have been going on and there has been a year of tragedy in mine and I know you can appreciate how difficult and almost impossible it is for me to write about it.
After we were divorced, if Hadley would have wanted me, I would have gone back to her. She said that things were better as they were and that we were both better off. I will never stop loving Hadley nor Bumby nor will I cease to look after them. I will never stop loving Pauline Pfeiffer to whom I am married. I have now responsibility toward three people instead of one. Please understand this and know that it doesn’t make it easier to write about it. I do understand how hard it is for you to have to make explanations and answer questions and not hear from me. I am a rotten correspondent and it is almost impossible for me to write about my private affairs. Without seeking it—through the success of my books—all the profits of which I have turned over to Hadley—both in America, England, Germany and the Scandinavian countries—because of all this there is a great deal of talk. I pay no attention to any of it and neither must you. I have had come back to me, stories people have told about me of every fantastic and scandalous sort—all without foundation. These sorts of stories spring up about all writers—ball players—popular evangelists or any public performers. But it is through the desire to keep my own private life to myself—to give no explanations to anybody—and not to be a public performer personally that I have unwittingly caused you great anxiety. The only way I could keep my private life to myself was to keep it to myself—and I did owe you and Mother a statement on it. But I can’t write about it all the time.
I know you don’t like the sort of thing I write but that is the difference in our taste and all the critics are not Fanny Butcher. I know that I am not disgracing you in my writing but rather doing something that some day you will be proud of. I can’t do it all at once. I feel that eventually my life will not be a disgrace to you either. It also takes a long time to unfold.
You would be so much happier and I would too if you could have confidence in me. When people ask about me, say that Ernie never tells us anything about his private life or even where he is but only writes that he is working hard. Don’t feel responsible for what I write or what I do. I take the responsibility, I make the mistakes and I take the punishment.
William Cullen Bryant to His Mother
威廉·库伦·布莱恩特致母亲
(June, 1821)
Dear Mother,
I hasten to send you the melancholy intelligence of what has lately happened to me.
Early on the evening of the eleventh day of the present month, I was at a neighboring house in this village. Several people of both sexes were assembled in one of the apartments, and three or four others, with myself, were in another. At last came in a little elderly gentleman, pale, thin, with a solemn countenance, hooked nose, and hollow eyes. It was not long before we were summoned to attend in the apartment where he and the rest of the company were gathered. We went in and took our seats; the little elderly gentleman with the hooked nose prayed, and we all stood up. When he had finished, most of us sat down. The gentleman with the hooked nose then muttered certain cabalistical expressions which I was too much frightened to remember, but I recollect that at the conclusion I was given to understand that I was married to a young lady of the name of Frances Fairchild, whom I perceived standing by my side, and I hope in the course of a few months to have the pleasure of introducing to you as your daughter—in—law, which is a matter of some interest to the poor girl, who has neither father nor mother in the world...
I looked only for goodness of heart, an ingenuous and affectionate disposition, a good understanding, etc., and the character of my wife is too frank and single—hearted to suffer me to fear that I may be disappointed. I do myself wrong; I did not look for these nor any other qualities, but they trapped me before I was aware, and now I am married in spite of myself.
Thus the current of destiny carries us along. None but a madman would swim against the stream, and none but a fool would exert himself to swim with it. The best way is to float quietly with the tide...
Your affectionate son,
William
Albert Schweitzer to His Parents(I)
阿尔贝特·施韦泽致父母（1）
Barcelona
Wednesday, 2:00 P. M.
22 October, 1908
My dear parents,
The worst is behind us! That was last night’s organ concert and the lecture preceding it. Quite frankly I was somewhat worried about this lecture since I am not used to giving long talks in French¡ and the hall is enormous: three thousand people. But to my amazement I discovered that I felt as much at home in French as I do in German and that it was easier for me to speak loudly and clearly in French than in German! I stood there without a manuscript, and within three minutes I sensed that I had captured my audience more surely than I had ever done before. I spoke for fifty—five minutes, and next came an organ recital that lasted for one hour. I have never been so successful. When the program ended, they all remained in their seats. I had to go back to my organ and play for another half hour. The audience was sorry to leave... it was half—past midnight!
Here, the concerts are announced for 9:15, but at that time there’s not a soul in the auditorium; toward 9:30 the first few people arrive, strolling about in the hall and the lobby, and toward ten o'clock, after three rings of a bell, the people deign to finally take their seats!
On Saturday, a grand concert with organ and orchestra is scheduled in the morning, and I have long rehearsals in the evening, for the organ is very difficult to play since the sound is always delayed. Luckily, I am well rested, and I am managing to overcome the difficulties. Absolutely everyone addresses me as “cheer ma re”; the art critics settle down in the auditorium during rehearsals; my portrait is displayed in the music stores. It’s such fun.