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儿时，那些梦想...

管理提醒: 本帖被 rob 执行取消锁定操作(2010-06-15)

The dreams of my boyhood? No, they have not been realized. For all who are old, there is something infinitely pathetic about the subject which you have chosen, for in no gray-head’s case can it suggest any but one thing—disappointment. Disappointment is its own reason for its pain: the quality or dignity of the hope that failed is a matter aside.

　　我儿时的那些梦想？全都没有实现，一个也没有。凡是上了年纪的人，聊起这个话题，总会陷入无限的怆然；那些满头华发的老者，此时的心境，怕是唯有遗憾的怅惘。丰盈而骄傲的梦，失落了；加之我们黯然的心绪，痛苦便由此滋生。

　　The dreamer’s valuation of the thing lost—not another man’s—is the only standard to measure it by, and his grief for it makes it large and great and fine, and is worthy of our reverence in all cases. We should carefully remember that.

　　而童年梦想的落空，只有梦想的主人才能真正体悟其间的个中滋味，对此，其他任何人都是没有发言权的。他们的哀伤，使得那个童年的梦看起来更加博大，宏远和美妙，令我们顿生敬畏。所有这一切，都可以细细体悟，铭记心间。

　　There you have it: the measure of the magnitude of a dream-failure is the measure of the disappointment the failure cost the dreamer; the value, in others’ eyes, of the thing lost, has nothing to do with the matter. With this straightening-out and classification of the dreamer’s position to help us, perhaps we can put ourselves in his place and respect his dream—the dreams our friends have cherished and reveal to us.

　　你知道，要想揣度一次梦想的失落有多惨重，就要知晓它带给做梦的人的怅然有多深切。这与旁人的判断毫无关系。理清纷繁的头绪，分门别类地研究那些童年有过梦想的人各自的想法，或许，我们便能把自己放在他们的位置，设身处地尊重他们童年有过的梦想——那些我们的朋友珍惜过，并向我们袒露过的梦想。

　　Some that I call to mind, some that have been revealed to me, are curious enough; but we may not smile at them, for they were precious to the dreamers, and their failure has left scars which give them dignity and pathos. With this theme in my mind, dear heads that were brown when they and mine were young together rise old and white before me now, beseeching me to speak for them, and most lovingly will I do it.

　　对于那些梦想，那些我还能记起的梦想，那些朋友向我倾吐的梦想，尽管难免古怪离奇，但我们不该一笑了之，因为，这些曾被各自的主人珍爱有加的童年梦想，一旦破灭，就会给他的拥有者留下创口，满是悲怆的尊严。想到这样的话题，便有许多亲切的人影在记忆中闪现。他们曾与我共度青春时光。而今，满头青丝已是鬓发如雪。怀着心中的爱，我愿意替他们讲述曾经有过的儿时梦想，因为他们仿佛在热切地期待。

　　Howells, Hay, Aldrich, Matthews, Stockton, Cable, Remus—how their young hopes and ambitions come flooding back to my memory now, out of the vague far past, the beautiful past, the lamented past! I remember it so well—that night we met together—it was in Boston, and Mr. Fields was there, and Mr. Osgood, and Ralph Keeler, and Boyle O’Reilly, lost to us now these many years—and under the seal of confidence revealed to each other what our boyhood dreams had been: dreams which had not as yet been blighted, but over which was stealing the gray of the night that was to come—a night which we prophetically felt, and this feeling oppressed us and made us sad.

　　透过恍惚的旧事尘烟，巡回美丽忧婉的过往。豪威尔斯，海伊，奥尔德里奇，马修斯，斯托克顿，凯布尔，莱摩斯……此时在我脑际激荡澎湃的，是他们年少时的希冀与理想。往事如此真切。那晚我们在波士顿小聚，当时在场的有菲尔德先生，奥斯古德先生，还有拉尔夫·基勒和奥赖利。其中许多人此后多年间杳无消息。那晚，仿佛与外面的世界完全隔离，我们这些彼此信赖的朋友袒露了各自儿时的梦想。那是些此前尚未泯灭的梦。讲述中不知不觉长夜将尽，东方渐白。那晚，我们有心照不宣的相同感受，这样的心绪不禁教人沉郁哀伤。

　　I remember that Howells’s voice broke twice, and it was only with great difficulty that he was able to go on; in the end he wept. For he had hoped to be an auctioneer. He told of his early struggles to climb to his goal, and how at last he attained to within a single step of the coveted summit. But there misfortune after misfortune assailed him, and he went down, and down, and down, until now at last, weary and disheartened, he had for the present given up the struggle and become editor of the Atlantic Monthly. This was in 1830. Seventy years are gone since, and where now is his dream? It will never be fulfilled. And it is best so; he is no longer fitted for the position; no one would take him now; even if he got it, he would not be able to do himself credit in it, on account of his deliberateness of speech and lack of trained professional vivacity; he would be put on real estate, and would have the pain of seeing younger and abler men intrusted with the furniture and other such goods—goods which draw a mix
ed and intellectually low order of customers, who must be beguiled of their bids by a vulgar and specialized humor and sparkle, accompanied with antics.

　　豪威尔斯童年的梦想是做拍卖师。述说中，他的声音两度嘶哑，几乎不能自已，最终竟热泪潸然。早年，他朝着梦想的方向艰难而缓慢地执著前行，终于，热望中梦想的顶峰触手可及。然而就在此时，挫折连着挫折相继袭来，他开始松懈，沉沦，放弃……直到如今，厌倦了，灰心了，他不再白费力气，于是“委身”成为《大西洋月报》的编辑。那是1830年的事情。七十年年华如逝水，而今，他那可爱的童年梦想又在哪里呢？他那可爱的未遂的儿时梦想。不过也许这是上天最好的安排。现在的他，恐怕已经无法担当拍卖师的角色，估计也没什么人会聘用他。就算有人会，只怕的表现也无法令人称道。如今这位老先生，讲话习惯了咬文嚼字，更学不来职业拍卖师们那些训练有素的圆滑表演。假设他的梦想成真，估计只能眼巴巴看着能干而年轻的同行熟练地拍卖家什杂物，引来一堆形形色色的市井俗人，眉飞色舞地讲着听众们心领神会的粗俗段子，时不时还要手舞足蹈地耍宝搞笑，以至主顾们被唬得如痴如醉，甚至忘了出价竞拍。相比之下，这位老先生，以他的身份与矜持，恐怕只适合来主持拍卖房产。看着少年拍卖师那边如火如荼的热闹场面，老眼昏花中，他的心间一定掠过一丝苦楚。

　　But it is not the thing lost that counts, but only the disappointment the loss brings to the dreamer that had coveted that thing and had set his heart of hearts upon it, and when we remember this, a great wave of sorrow for Howells rises in our breasts, and we wish for his sake that his fate could have been different.

　　小小梦想的落空，本身并不值得在意。重要的是随之而来的惆怅。要知道梦想的主人曾经对它专注地觊觎，全情地付出。想到这些，豪威尔斯那忧伤的涟漪就在我们心头升腾、荡漾成一脉悲戚的波澜。出于怜惜，我愿意祈求命运，让他有机会今生重现，一切可以从头再来。

　　At that time Hay’s boyhood dream was not yet past hope of realization, but it was fading, dimming, wasting away, and the wind of a growing apprehension was blowing cold over the perishing summer of his life. In the pride of his young ambition he had aspired to be a steamboat mate; and in fancy saw himself dominating a forecastle some day on the Mississippi and dictating terms to roustabouts in high and wounding tones.

　　那晚，海伊讲述他的童年梦想，侧重点并不是他如何一往情深地希冀梦想的实现；而是随着时光流逝，那小小的童年梦想逐渐暗淡，模糊，消融。潜生暗长的忧虑，如同起于青萍之末的冷风，吹过他失意而孤寒的青春岁月。年少时，他骄人的梦想是想做轮船的大副。迷幻的憧憬中，他可以挺立于船楼，航行在密西西比河上，气宇轩昂，君临天下；可以颐指气使的对水手大声地发号施令。

　　I look back now, from this far distance of seventy years, and note with sorrow the stages of that dream’s destruction. Hay’s history is but Howells’s, with differences of detail. Hay climbed high toward his ideal; when success seemed almost sure, his foot upon the very gang-plank, his eye upon the capstan, misfortune came and his fall began. Down—down—down—ever down: Private Secretary to the President; Colonel in the field; Charge d’Affaires in Paris; Charge d’Affaires in Vienna; Poet; Editor of the Tribune; Biographer of Lincoln; Ambassador to England; and now at last there he lies—Secretary of State, Head of Foreign Affairs. And he has fallen like Lucifer, never to rise again. And his dream—where now is his dream? Gone down in blood and tears with the dream of the auctioneer.

　　跨越七十年的光阴打量过往，可以伤感地体察到那个梦想一步步最终破灭的全过程。海伊的故事与豪威尔斯的故事大同小异。海伊也曾向着他的理想艰难，缓慢的前行，成功仿佛就在前方，他的脚仿佛已经踏上跳板，眼中依稀看到了船上的起锚机，就在这个当口，挫败奔袭而来，顷刻间仿佛让他离梦想一落千丈。松懈，沉沦，放弃，甚至沦落。后来，这位叱咤风云的大副“沦落”成了总统首席私人秘书，“沦落”成了战火中出生入死的上校，“沦落”成了巴黎代理大使、维也纳代理大使、“沦落”成了诗人，成了《论坛报》的编辑，成了林肯的传记作家，而他最终的头衔，是美国的国务卿和外长。他儿时的梦想象晓星一样坠落，注定不会再度升起。他那童年的梦想，如今又该到哪里找寻呢？童年的梦，成为船长或者拍卖师的小小痴想，而今全都了无踪迹，他们的主人，不断地付出心血和努力，却离各自童年的理想越来越远。

　　And the young dream of Aldrich—where is that? I remember yet how he sat there that night fondling it, petting it; seeing it recede and ever recede; trying to be reconciled and give it up, but not able yet to bear the thought; for it had been his hope to be a horse-doctor. He also climbed high, but, like the others, fell; then fell again, and yet again, and again and again. And now at last he can fall no further. He is old now, he has ceased to struggle, and is only a poet. No one would risk a horse with him now. His dream is over.

　　奥尔德里奇年幼时的梦，如今又在何方？记得那晚，他坐在那里，眼光中，儿时梦想的影子渐行渐远，手中仿佛依然爱抚摩挲着她的余温。他也希望着别人能给他些慰藉，然后止住话题，但对往事的追忆却每每让他欲罢不能。童年时，他的希望，是做专门给马看病的兽医。他也曾向着梦想的高度攀登，但如同其他人一样，他从理想的云头跌落。跌落，一次，两次，三四次。而今，他已坠落到理想的谷底。垂垂老矣，他不再为了这个梦打拼，“屈尊”成了一名诗人。如今，估计没什么人敢牵着生病的马匹来求他医治了。他的童年梦想，就此宣告终结。

　　Has any boyhood dream ever been fulfilled? I must doubt it. Look at Brander Matthews. He wanted to be a cowboy. What is he today? Nothing but a professor in a university. Will he ever be a cowboy? It is hardly conceivable.

　　好像没有什么人成就了孩提时代的梦想。对此，我深信不疑。布莱德·马修斯小时候梦想着什么？他梦想着当牛仔。现在呢？他偏偏成了在大学里的教书先生。有生之年，他还会再去圆了当牛仔的梦想吗？我们做梦也不敢想。

　　Look at Stockton. What was Stockton’s young dream? He hoped to be a barkeeper. See where he has landed.

　　斯托克顿小时候梦想着什么职业？是酒吧老板。可他现在又在作着什么营生呢？

　　Is it better with Cable? What was Cable’s young dream? To be ring-master in the circus, and swell around and crack the whip. What is he today? Nothing but a theologian and novelist.

　　凯布尔的情形也好不了多少。小时候，他梦寐以求的工作，是当马戏团的指挥，可以神气十足地一边大声吆喝一边把手里的长鞭挥舞的啪啪作响。现在？他研究神学，还写写小说。

　　And Uncle Remus—what was his young dream? To be a buccaneer. Look at him now.

　　莱摩斯叔叔小时候想做什么？做海盗。如今……还不是一样。

　　Ah, the dreams of our youth, how beautiful they are, and how perishable! The ruins of these might-have-beens, how pathetic! The heart secrets that were revealed that night now so long vanished, how they touch me as I give them voice! Those sweet privacies, how they endeared us to each other! We were under oath never to tell any of these things, and I have always kept that oath inviolate when speaking with persons whom I thought not worthy to hear them.

　　儿时做过的梦啊，总是美丽而柔弱。那些残留的，失落的童年心愿，凄美的让人心痛。消散了，那晚我们彼此吐露的所有心间的秘密；而当我把这一切写成文字，却又再次被它们深深打动。那么多甜美而隐秘的小小心愿，一下子让我们亲近了彼此。我们发誓，那晚的交谈不会对任何人提起。于是我在心头立下神圣的诺言，从不向自己不信赖的人吐露只言片语。

　　Oh, our lost Youth—God keep its memory green in our hearts! for Age is upon us, with the indignity of its infirmities, and Death beckons!

　　哦，我们逝去的青春。沉沉暮色中孱弱老朽的风烛残年，上苍偏偏又让青春的影子青涩鲜活地映入脑海，荡漾心头。

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