THE WIDOW AND HER SON
孤儿寡母
By Washington Irving
华盛顿·欧文
THE WIDOW AND HER SON, by Washington Irving, in his Sketch Book,1820.
Washington Irving （1783-1859）, American author. He was the first American to be generally recognized abroad as a man of letters. A good deal of his importance in American literature is definitely historical. His prose still possesses a quiet charm and delightful undercurrent of kindly humor. The essays “Rip Van Winkle” and “ The Legend of Sleepy Hollow” are his best pieces.
During my residence in the country, I used frequently to attend at the old village church, which stood in a country filled with ancient families, and contained, within its cold and silent aisles, the congregated dust of many noble generations. Its shadowy aisles, its moldering monuments, its dark oaken paneling, all reverend with the gloom of departed years, seemed to fit it for the haunt of solemn meditation. A Sunday, too, in the country, is so holy in its repose; such a pensive quiet reigns over the face of Nature, that every restless passion is charmed down, and we feel all the natural religion of the soul gently springing up within us:
住在乡村的这段日子里，我常常去村里古老的教堂做礼拜。这个村子居住着很多古老的家族，在教堂冷冰冰、静悄悄的耳堂中，聚集了许多代贵族的骨灰。那阴暗的耳堂、日渐剥落的纪念碑、深橡木色的护墙板，全都笼罩着过往岁月的苍凉，让人顿生敬畏之心。这似乎是一个很适合庄重地静思冥想的地方。在乡村，星期日也同样宁静得如此圣洁；在大自然面前，一切都显得这般沉静，每一种躁动的激情都会得到安抚，让人觉得灵魂深处对自然的尊奉会缓缓地从胸中涌出。
Sweet day, so pure, so calm, so bright,
甜美的日子，如此纯洁，如此宁静，如此明丽The bridal of the Earth and Sky!
是大地与天空的婚礼
I do not pretend to be what is called a devout man; but there are feelings that visit me in a country church, amid the beautiful serenity of Nature, which I experience nowhere else; and, if not a more religious, I think I am a better man on Sunday than on any other day of the seven.
我不想装成一个人们所说的虔诚的人，然而，身处周边平静祥和、景致优美的乡村教堂，在这里做礼拜，我有一种在别处不曾有过的特殊感觉。比起其余六天的我，星期日这一天，如果说我并没有变得更虔诚，那么，可以说，我肯定是更好了。
But in this church I felt myself continually thrown back upon the world by the frigidity and pomp of the poor worms around me. The only being that seemed thoroughly to feel the humble and prostrate piety of a true Christian, was a poor decrepit old woman bending under the weight of years and infirmities. She bore the trace of something better than abject poverty. The lingerings of decent pride were visible in her appearance. Her dress, though humble in the extreme, was scrupulously clean. Some trivial respect, too, had been awarded her, for she did not take her seat among the village poor, but sat alone on the steps of the altar. She seemed to have survived all love, all friendship, all society; and to have nothing left her but the hopes of Heaven. When I saw her feebly rising and bending her aged form in prayer, —habitually conning her prayer book, which her palsied hand and failing eyes would not permit her to read, but which she evidently knew by heart, —I felt persuaded that the faltering voice of that poor woman arose to Heaven far before the responses of the clerk, the swell of the organ, or the chanting of the choir.
然而，在教堂里，我不断地被周围芸芸众生的冷漠与浮夸抛回到这个现实的世界。在所有的教众中，看上去完全像个真正虔诚的基督徒那样谦卑恭顺的，唯有一位垂垂老矣的贫苦妇人。岁月与疾病的重负压弯了她的腰，但是，除了让人卑贱的贫穷，从她的外表，隐约可见的是那挥之不去的尊严。她的衣着虽然极其寒酸，却干干净净，整整齐齐。她还得到了一点点微不足道的敬重：不需要坐在村里穷人中间，而是独自坐在神坛的台阶上。她似乎已历经沧桑，除了对天堂的渴望没有别的向往。我看到她虚弱地起身弯着腰祈祷，习惯性地诵读着祈祷书，虽然眼花手抖得已经不能阅读，却很明显已经铭记于心；这时候，我相信，远在上天听到牧师的唱和、风琴的乐音、唱诗班的颂咏之前，这位贫穷老妇颤抖的声音早已传到了天堂。
I am fond of loitering about country churches, and this was so delightfully situated, that it frequently attracted me. It stood on a knoll, round which a stream made a beautiful bend, and then wound its way through a long reach of soft meadow scenery. The church was surrounded by yew trees, which seemed almost coeval with itself. Its tall Gothic spire shot up lightly from among them, with rooks and crows generally wheeling about it. I was seated there one still, sunny morning, watching two laborers who were digging a grave. They had chosen one of the most remote and neglected corners of the churchyard, where, from the number of nameless graves around, it would appear that the indigent and friendless were huddled into the earth. I was told that the new-made grave was for the only son of a poor widow.
我喜爱在乡村教堂消磨时光。这座教堂选址得当，令人心旷神怡，常吸引我前往。它坐落在一个小丘上，一条小溪绕着它缓缓流过，拐了个美丽的弯，然后蜿蜒伸向远方一片柔软的草地。教堂的周围生长着一些看起来跟它一样古老的紫杉树。它那高耸的哥特式尖顶轻盈地穿过紫杉林直插天空，周围常会有白嘴鸦、乌鸦盘旋翻飞。一个静寂、晴朗的清晨，我坐在林中，看见两名工人在挖掘墓穴。他们在墓地最偏僻、最容易被忽视的角落里选了一小块地。那个角落散落了一些无名的坟墓，仿佛那些穷困潦倒、无依无靠的灵魂都挤到一起，在地下相聚了。他们告诉我，新坟是为一位穷寡妇的独子准备的。
While I was meditating on the distinctions of worldly rank, which extend thus down into the very dust, the toll of the bell announced the approach of the funeral. They were the obsequies of poverty, with which pride had nothing to do. A coffin of the plainest materials, without pall or other covering, was borne by some of the villagers. The sexton walked before with an air of cold indifference. There were no mock mourners in the trappings of affected woe; but there was one real mourner who feebly tottered after the corpse. It was the aged mother of the deceased, —the poor old woman whom I had seen seated on the steps of the altar. She was supported by an humble friend, who was endeavoring to comfort her. A few of the neighboring poor had joined the train, and some children of the village were running hand in hand, now shouting with unthinking mirth, and now pausing to gaze, with childish curiosity, on the grief of the mourner.
我思忖着这延伸至尘土的世俗等级差别，这时丧钟敲响，宣布葬礼开始了。这是穷人的葬礼，无关乎逝者的尊严。几个村民抬着最简陋的棺木，棺材上既没有棺罩也没有其他的遮盖物。教堂司事一脸冷漠地走在队伍的前面。没有装腔作势的哭丧人来虚饰亲人的痛苦，只有一位真正的哀悼者跟在棺木后面虚弱地蹒跚而行。她是死者那年迈的母亲，那位我见过的坐在神坛台阶上的贫穷老妇人。一位寒微的朋友搀扶着她，尽量安慰着她。屈指可数的几个住在附近的穷人也加入了送葬的队伍；村里一些孩子手牵手跑着，一会儿傻乐得不管不顾地大喊大叫，嘻嘻哈哈，一会儿又停下来，带着孩子的好奇，盯着这位肝肠寸断的送葬人。
As the funeral train approached the grave, the parson issued from the church porch, arrayed in the surplice, with prayer book in hand, and attended by the clerk. The service, however, was a mere act of charity. The deceased had been destitute, and the survivor was penniless. It was shuffled through, therefore, in form, but coldly and unfeelingly. The well-fed priest moved but a few steps from the church door;his voice could scarcely be heard at the grave; and never did I hear the funeral service, that sublime and touching ceremony, turned into such a frigid mummery of words.
送葬队伍到达墓地时，牧师穿着白色的法衣，手里捧着祈祷书，由教堂执事陪伴着，从教堂的门廊里走了出来。这个简短的葬礼只是一次慈善活动。逝者一贫如洗，遗属身无分文。所以，仪式在草草地进行着，在走形式，冷漠而无情。脑满肠肥的牧师出了教堂的门，只走了几步就停了下来，墓地里送葬的人们几乎听不到他的声音，我也从来没有听说过有这样的葬礼：本应该是庄严、感人的仪式，却变成这样一场冷漠的哑剧。
I approached the grave. The coffin was placed on the ground. On it were inscribed the name and age of the deceased, “George Somers, aged 26 years.” The poor mother had been assisted to kneel down at the head of it. Her withered hands were clasped as if in prayer, but I could perceive, by a feeble rocking of the body, and a convulsive motion of the lips, that she was gazing on the last relics of her son with the yearnings of a mother's heart.
我走近墓地。灵柩已安放在地上，棺盖上刻着逝者的名字和年龄——“乔治·萨默斯，二十六岁”。这位可怜的母亲在他人的搀扶下跪倒在棺木前，干枯的双手紧紧地握着，像是在祷告。可是，从她那微微摇晃的身体和颤抖的嘴唇，我能感受到，她是怀着一个母亲对儿子的无限慈爱凝视着儿子这最后的遗容的。
The service being ended, preparations were made to deposit the coffin in the earth. There was that bustling stir which breaks so harshly on the feelings of grief and affection:directions given in the cold tones of business; the striking of spades into sand and gravel; which, at the grave of those we love, is, of all sounds, the most withering. The bustle around seemed to waken the mother from a wretched revery. She raised her glazed eyes, and looked about with a faint wildness. As the men approached with cords to lower the coffin into the grave, she wrung her hands and broke into an agony of grief. The poor woman who attended her took her by the arm, endeavoring to raise her from the earth, and to whisper something like consolation, “Nay, now, —nay, now, —don't take it so sorely to heart!” She could only shake her head, and wring her hands, as one not to be comforted.
仪式结束了，准备把棺木放入墓穴。一阵喧闹吵嚷那么粗暴地打断了母亲的哀痛和慈爱之情。牧师的口气冷冷的，例行公事地下了指令，人们用铁锨铲起沙石；站在自己深爱的至亲的墓穴前，这种撞击声是最让人受不了的声音。周围的喧闹似乎把这位母亲从痛苦的出神回想中唤醒。她抬起呆滞的眼睛，有些狂乱地环顾周围。看到有人拿着绳子走过来准备把棺木放入墓穴，她绞着双手，恸哭失声。在一边照顾她的穷妇人抓住她的胳膊，使劲地想把她从地上拽起来，低声地劝慰道：“不要这样，好啦。不要这样，好啦。不要太伤心啦。”她只能摇摇头，绞着双手，就像那些谁也安慰不了的人一样。
As they lowered the body into the earth, the creaking of the cords seemed to agonize her; but when, on some accidental obstruction, there was a justling of the coffin, all the tenderness of the mother burst forth; as if any harm could come to him who was far beyond the reach of worldly suffering.
他们把棺木慢慢放进墓穴，绳子嘎吱嘎吱地响着，似乎让她肝肠寸断。但是，棺木意外地撞到了什么阻碍物，母亲的全部慈爱一下子爆发了，好像她的儿子会受到了伤害似的，却不知，人世间的一切痛苦绝对不会降临到他身上了。
I could see no more; my heart swelled into my throat, my eyes filled with tears; I felt as if I were acting a barbarous part, in standing by and gazing idly on this scene of maternal anguish. I wandered to another part of the churchyard, where I remained until the funeral train had dispersed.
我实在不忍继续围观了，我的心胀到了喉咙，我热泪盈眶。我感到自己好像正扮演着一个残忍的角色，袖手旁观孤儿寡母骨肉分离的哀痛。于是，我信步走向教堂墓地的另一边，一直等到葬礼散了才离开。
When I saw the mother slowly and painfully quitting the grave, leaving behind her the remains of all that was dear to her on Earth, and returning to silence and destitution, my heart ached for her. What, thought I, are the distresses of the rich! They have friends to soothe, pleasures to beguile, a world to divert and dissipate their griefs. What are the sorrows of the young! Their growing minds soon close above the wound;their elastic spirits soon rise beneath the pressure; their green and ductile affections soon twine round new objects. But the sorrows of the poor, who have no outward appliances to soothe; the sorrows of the aged, with whom life at best is but a wintry day, and who can look for no after-growth of joy; the sorrows of a widow, aged, solitary, destitute, mourning over an only son, the last solace of her years; —these are indeed sorrows which make us feel the impotency of consolation.
看到这位母亲拖着沉重的脚步吃力地离开了墓地，把仅存的心爱——自己的儿子留在黄土中，回到沉寂而贫穷的生活中去，我为她而心痛不已。我想，富人们会有什么痛楚呢？他们有朋友的安慰，可以追欢卖笑，拥有一个可以转移注意力、消解痛苦的世界。年轻人会有什么忧伤呢？他们正值成长期，他们开朗的精神会很快冲破所承受的压力，充满活力和弹性的眷恋很快就会缠绕到新的对象身上。可是，那些穷人呢？他们没有外在的疏解途径。那些老人呢？他们的生命往好了说不过是人生的冬季，已经无法再有成长的快乐。一个寡妇呢？她已经是风烛残年，孤苦无助，一贫如洗，刚刚在葬礼上与自己晚年最后的慰藉——独子生离死别。这些苦痛确实是我们感觉爱莫能助的。
（张白桦 译）
