On Going a Journey翻译

One of the pleasantest things in the world is going a journey; but I like to go by myself. I can enjoy society in a room; but out of doors,

nature is company enough for me. I am then never less alone than when alone.

“The fields his study, nature was his book.”

I cannot see the wit of walking and talking at the same time. When I am in the country, I wish to vegetate like the country. I am not for

criticising hedgerows and black cattle. I go out of town in order to forget the town and all that it is in it. There are those who for this

purpose go to watering-places, and carry the metropolis with them. I like more elbow-room, and fewer incumbrances. I like solitude,

when I give myself up to it, for the sake of solitude; nor do I ask for

“—a friend in my retreat,

Whom I may whisper solitude is sweet.”

The soul of a journey is liberty, perfect liberty, to think, feel, do just as one pleases. We go a journey chiefly to be free of all impediments

and of all inconveniences; to leave ourselves behind, much more to get rid of others. It is because I want a little breathing-space to muse

on indifferent matters, where Contemplation

“May plume her feathers and let grow her wings,

that in the various bustle of resort

Were all too ruffled, and sometimes impair’d,”

that I absent myself from the town for a while, without feeling at a loss the moment I am left by myself. Instead of a friend in a

post-chaise or in a Tilbury, to exchange good things with and vary the same stale topics over again, for once let me have a truce with

impertinence. Give me the clear blue sky over my head, and the green turf beneath my feet, a winding road before me, and a three hours’

march to dinner — and then to thinking! It is hard if I cannot start some game on these lone heaths. I laugh, I run, I leap, I sing for joy.

From the point of yonder rolling cloud, I plunge into my past being, and revel there, as the sun-burnt Indian plunges headlong into the

wave that wafts him to his native shore. Then long-forgotten things, like “sunken wrack and sumless treasuries,” burst upon my eager

sight, and I begin to feel, think, and be myself again. Instead of an awkward silence, broken by attempts at wit or dull common-places,

mine is that undisturbed silence of the heart which alone is perfect eloquence. No one likes puns, alliterations, antitheses, arguments, and

analysis better than I do; but I sometimes had rather be without them. “Leave, oh, leave me to my repose!” I have just now other business

in hand, which would seem idle to you, but is with me “very stuff of the conscience.” Is not this wild rose sweet without a comment?

Does not this daisy leap to my heart set in its emerald? Yet if I were to explain to you the circumstance that has so endeared it to me, you

would only smile. Had I not better then keep it to myself, and let it serve me to brood over, from here to yonder craggy point, and from

thence onward to the far-distant horizon? I should be but bad company all that way, and therefore prefer being alone. I have heard it said

that you may, when the moody fit comes on, walk or ride on by yourself, and indulge your reveries. But this looks like a breach of

manners, a neglect of others, and you are thinking all the time that you ought to rejoin your party. “Out upon such half-faced fellowship,”

say I. I like to be either entirely to myself, or entirely at the disposal of others; to talk or be silent, to walk or sit still, to be sociable or

solitary. I was pleased with an observation of Mr. Cobbett’s that “he thought it a bad French custom to drink our wine with our meals, and

that an Englishman ought to do only one thing at a time.” so I cannot talk and think, or indulge in melancholy musing and lively

conversation by fits and starts. “Let me have a companion of my way,” says Sterne, “were it but to remark how the shadows lengthen as

the sun declines.” It is beautifully said：but in my opinion this continual comparing of notes interferes with the involuntary impression of

things upon the mind, and hurts the sentiment. If you only hint what you feel in a kind of dumb show, it is insipid: if you have to explain it,

it is making toil of a pleasure. You cannot read the book of nature, without being perpetually put to the trouble of translating it for the

benefit of others. I am for the synthetical method on a journey, in preference to the analytical. I am content to lay in a stock of ideas then,

and to examine and anatomize them afterwards. I want to see my vague notions float like the down of the thistle before the breeze, and

not to have them entangled in the briars and thorns of controversy. For once, I like to have it all my own way; and this is impossible

unless you are alone, or in such company as I do not covet. I have no objection to argue a point with any one for twenty miles of

measured road, but for pleasure. If you remark the scent of a beanfield crossing the road, perhaps your fellow-traveller has no smell. If

you point to a distant object, perhaps he is short-sighted, and has to take out his glass to look at it. There is a feeling in the air, a tone in

the color of a cloud which hits your fancy, but the effect of which you are unable to account for. There is then no sympathy, but an uneasy

craving after it, and a dissatisfaction which pursues you on the way, and in the end probably produces ill humor. Now I never quarrel with

myself, and take all my own conclusions for granted till I find it necessary to defend them against objections. It is not merely that you

may not be of accord on the objects and circumstances that present themselves before you — these may recall a number of objects, and

lead to associations too delicate and refined to be possibly communicated to others. Yet these I love to cherish, and sometimes still fondly

clutch them, when I can escape from the throng to do so. To give way to our feelings before company, seems extravagance or affectation;

and on the other hand, to have to unravel this mystery of our being at every turn, and to make others take an equal interest in it (otherwise

the end is not answered) is a task to which few are competent. We must “give it an understanding, but no tongue.” My old friend C—,

however , could do both. He could go on in the most delightful explanatory way over hill and dale, a summer’s day, and convert a

landscape into a didactic poem or a Pindaric ode. “He talked far above singing.” If I could so clothe my ideas in sounding and flowing

words, I might perhaps wish to have someone with me to admire the swelling theme; Had I words and images at command like these, I

would attempt to wake the thoughts that lie slumbering on golden ridges in the evening clouds: but at the sight of nature my fancy, poor as

it is, droops and closes up its leaves, like flowers at sunset. I can make nothing out on the spot:— I must have time to collect myself.

论出游

威廉·赫士列特

世上最惬意的事情之一便是出游；而我一向性喜孤往。居室内时我还喜欢交往；但是一旦到了户外，自然这个侣伴对我已是足够。那时我身虽孤独而绝不孤独。

田野是书斋，自然供卷轴。

我真不懂，一个人一边散步而又一边谈话会有什么妙处。如果我去了乡间，那我就要安安静静地住在那里，像草木一般地不声不响。我的职务并非是去评论绿篱与黑牛。我走出城市恰恰是为了忘掉城市，以及那里的一切。有些人也曾为了这个目的而去了湖畔水滨，但却把整座城市也都携带了去。我要的是宽绰余裕，而不是拖累障碍。我性耽幽寂，而当我很委身这样做时，我此外并无它求；我并不希冀。

隐居之中，得一友人

相与窃议孤独之乐，亦殊韵事。

须知出游之妙处，端在自由，纯粹的自由，以便思想、感觉、行动，一称一意。我们之所以出游，主要在于摆脱一切之障碍，一切之不便，在于置自我于脑后，更在于甩掉他人。正是因为我渴望稍有余暇来默想种种非切身的问题，而这时思想也

势将丰其羽毛，奋其翮翼，

而以前出没栖息之所却

未免备受局蹙，甚至损害，

我才向城市辞别一个时期，而一旦悠然一身，我也从无若有所失之感。这时既没有与马车上的友人相互絮叨佳肴美味之烦——往往这同一陈旧题目可以变着样地喋喋不休，我乃能暂免简慢冒失之举。这时但愿我能够：头上有蔚蓝之青天，脚下有碧绿的

草地，前面一条幽径，曲曲折折，以及赶上三个小时的路程前去进餐，等等——然后便是去驰骋遐想！我一定能够在那寂静的草原上尽情玩乐。我一定会在那里笑、跑、跳、唱，满心欢喜。我会从那远方滚滚的云端，翻身跃进我的过去，并且沉湎恣乐其中，犹如一个黝黑的东印度人那样，一头栽入碧波之中，然后顺着海浪的飘拂而重新返回故土。于是，久经遗忘的许多东西——“沉埋的遗物，无尽的珍奇”，又会灿然俱呈，赫赫眼前，不禁生我感触，引我深思，大有还我初服之感。这里不再有那种尴尬的沉默，必须靠句勉强的聪明话或无聊俗套来打破一下；我的沉默则是来自心底的无所困扰的上乘沉默，因而乃无异最流丽的谈吐。对于一切双关语、头韵、对仗、辩论与分析，等等，我的喜爱绝不下于他人；但有时我却也宁愿一概不要才好。“让我，啊，让我也得点清静吧！”我现在乃是另有它事在手，这些在你也许视同等闲，但在我却重要得不啻“良心的素材。”难道这株野玫瑰只因为未得人的评论就不芳香了吗？难道这只穿着绿翠衣的雏菊不是跳入我的心坎了吗？但是如果我把这些使我如此心悦的情景对你讲了，你却可能一笑置之。那么这眼前的一切——从近在脚下的景物到远处的巉岩，再从那里到无尽的天边——我又何必不珍藏在自己心底，只供我一人沉思默想？正因为我那样做只会招人厌烦，我才喜欢独自一个。我听人讲，你自己遇到悒郁来袭时也颇能独自驱车或徒步外出，以寄悲思。但这不又要与礼不合，或者说忽视他人，而你的内心则一直巴不得立刻返回你周围的人。“快扔掉你那半心半意的交往吧”，我不禁要说了。至于我自己，我倒宁愿来得彻底一些：要不一己独处，要不悉听人使；要不滔滔不绝，要不保持缄默；要不出去走动，要不端居静坐；要不与人应对，要不闭门谢客。我很欣赏柯贝特先生的一句隽语，即是他认为“一边吃饭一边饮酒完全是法国人的一桩恶习，而一个英国人只应一件做完再做一件”。因此我做不到一边交谈而又一边思考，一边苦心焦虑而又一边谈笑风生。“但愿我能得一素心人朝夕相处”，斯特恩便曾讲过，“哪怕他只讲些太阳一落日影便斜之类的话也好。”旨哉斯言：但以愚见看来，这类不断交换意见的做法终将破坏一个人对事物的自然感受，且易影响其心绪。如果你将自己的一番感受仅以哑剧的方式略加暗示，那当然不会有趣：但如果你要对它加以诠释，那又将把一件乐事变成一桩苦役。那是阅读自然将永远摆脱不掉为人絮絮讲解之烦。在出游这件事上我只赞成综合法而不赞成分析法。我只求先讲种种印象尽量储藏起来，以后再谈检验剖析。我只想见着我的模糊思想仿佛蓟草的冠毛那样随风轻扬，而不愿意它们纠缠系绊在辩论的荆棘丛林。我但愿至少这时诸事能暂从己愿；而这点除非你单独一人（至少周围的人你无须特别讨好），便完全无法办到。我并不反对把一个问题和某个人一路辩论上足足十里八里，只是绝不能管这叫作乐趣。如果你嗅到了豆畦里的花香正阵阵飘过路边，而你的同行者对此却毫无所觉。你指出了远方的一处景物，而他却是个近视，必须取出眼镜才能看见。再如天空中的某种佳氛，云彩上的某种调，忽而便没有了相互了解可言，有的只是苦苦寻索，只是难满人意，结果必然使你一路不快，甚至心绪恶劣。但是一个人却不常与他自己争辩，因而我对自己所得出的结论从不轻易怀疑，只是当这些遭人反驳时才会想到要寻些辩解。这时不仅你与呈现在你面前的种种事物未必完全一致 ——这些还会在你的心中勾起其他，而所引起的联想又过于要眇精微，致使你难以向人言传。不过这些我却一向喜欢将它们储之胸底，抚爱不倦，只要我能逃脱周围人干扰。在稠人广众面前而大动感情，往往不是显得过分，便是显得做作；但另方面，随时随地须将一己的内心隐秘向人不断揭示，以便使他人也能同样感到兴趣（否则这目的便无从达到），也绝不是人人都能胜任的轻松事情。我们必须“使人既能理解，又不费词”。不过我的老友柯——，则能完全做到这点。偶逢一个美好夏日，他确实能够山上溪边地解说一天，娓娓忘倦，把眼前之景变成一篇教训诗或品达式颂歌。“他的议论多过咏歌”。如果我也有本领将我的思想缀饰上铿锵流丽的辞藻，说不定我也同样喜欢经常有人追随左右，以便赞美我的鸿篇伟制„„

假如我在遣词用字上也有这样一支生花彩笔，我也一定要去唤起那沉睡在天际晚云金边缘的绮丽梦幻：但可惜良辰美景当前，我却每感自己的诗兴不济，仿佛日落时分的花朵那样，叶卷瓣落，枯萎凋谢。我往往不能即席有作：——我只能归来慢慢吟哦。