理查德·杰弗里斯

【導读】理查德·杰弗里斯（1848—1887），英国著名散文家，以写英国南部乡村的自然景色著称，著有英国乡村生活的随笔集凡十余部，而以《我心灵的故事》（The Story of My Heart，1883）、《田野与树篱》（Field and Hedgerow，1889）名世。英国作家爱德华·托马斯（Edward Thomas）在《理查德·杰弗里斯：生活及作品》（Richard Jefferies： His Life and Work，1909）一书中盛赞道：“当杰弗里斯写这些作品时，仿佛他的手参与了塑造那些山地、阳光及天上群星的神圣使命，仿佛他的血脉里流淌着橡树、榆树和白蜡树的汁液，还有自然界飞禽走兽的血液。”

本文选自其散文集《田野与树篱》，再现了夏季英国南部乡村的自然景色之美。文章的主角是草，但作者却借草展现了夏日的勃勃生机。草地上空有可爱的蝇虫飞舞，草地之上有锦绣般的地毯交相辉映，草地之侧有海浪拍岸。难怪作者不禁从心中感慨：夏日草地上的一切永远享受不够，哪怕我们与天地齐寿。

A July fly went sideways over the long grass. His wings made a burr about him like a net， beating so fast they wrapped him round with a cloud. Every now and then， as he flew over the trees of grass， a taller one than common stopped him， and there he clung， and then the eye had time to see the scarlet spots—the loveliest color—on his wings. The wind swung the bennet and loosened his hold， and away he went again over the grasses， and not one jot did he care if they were Festuca， or Bromus or any other name. Names were nothing to him; all he had to do was to whirl his scarlet spots about in the brilliant sun， rest when he liked， and go on again. I wonder whether it is a joy to have bright scarlet spots， and to be clad in the purple and gold of life; is the color felt by the creature that wears it？ The rose， restful of a dewy morn before the sunbeams have topped the garden wall， must feel a joy in its own fragrance， and know the exquisite hue of its stained petals. The rose sleeps in its beauty.

The fly whirls his scarlet-spotted wings about and splashes himself with sunlight， like the children on the sands. He thinks not of the grass and sun; he does not heed them at all—and that is why he is so happy—any more than the barefoot children ask why the sea is there， or why it does not quite dry up when it ebbs. He is unconscious; he lives without thinking about living; and if the sunshine were a hundred hours long， still it would not be long enough. No， never enough of sun and sliding shadows that come like a hand over the table to lovingly reach our shoulder， never enough of the grass that smells sweet as a flower， not if we could live years and years equal in number to the tides that have ebbed and flowed counting backwards four years to every day and night， backward still till we found out which came first， the night or the day. The scarlet-dotted fly knows nothing of the names of the grasses that grow here where the sward nears the sea， and thinking of him I have decided not to wilfully seek to learn any more of their names either. My big grass book I have left at home， and the dust is settling on the gold of the binding. I have picked a handful this morning of which I know nothing. I will sit here on the turf and the scarlet-dotted flies shall pass over me， as if I too were but a grass. I will not think， I will be unconscious， I will live.

Listen！ That was the low sound of a summer wavelet striking the uncovered rock over there beneath in the green sea. All things that are beautiful are found by chance， like everything that is good. Here by me is a praying-rug， just wide enough to kneel on， of the richest gold inwoven with crimson. All the Sultans of the East never had such beauty as that to kneel on. It is， indeed， too beautiful to kneel on， for the life in these golden flowers must not be broken down even for that purpose. They must not be defaced， not a stem bent; it is more reverent not to kneel on them， for this carpet prays itself I will sit by it and let it pray for me. It is so common， the birds-foot lotus， it grows everywhere; yet if I purposely searched for days I should not have found a plot like this， so rich， so golden， so glowing with sunshine. You might pass by it in one stride， yet it is worthy to be thought of for a week and remembered for a year. Slender grasses， branched round about with slenderer boughs， each tipped with pollen and rising in tiers cone-shaped—too delicate to grow tall—cluster at the base of the mound. They dare not grow tall or the wind would snap them. A great grass， stout and thick， rises three feet by the hedge， with a head another foot nearly， very green and strong and bold， lifting itself right up to you; you must say， “What a fine grass！” Grasses whose awns succeed each other alternately; grasses whose tops seem flattened; others drooping over the shorter blades beneath; some that you can only find by parting the heavier growth around them; hundreds and hundreds， thousands and thousands.

七月里，一只蝇虫从长长的草地边飞过，翅膀嗡嗡扇动，像在周身编织了一张网。它的翅膀扇动得飞快，似乎把自己裹在了一团云雾之中。飞过草茎时，它时不时被一株高点儿的挡住，于是就落下来，这时，我们就来得及看到它翅膀上深红的点了——这可是最可爱的颜色！风，摇曳着草梗，它站不住了，于是又飞开，在草地上空盘桓。至于这些草究竟叫羊茅、雀麦还是别的什么，它才不管呢。名稱算什么，蝇虫就是要在艳阳天里将红点旋开，想歇就歇，歇够了继续飞。我心想，是不是身着生命的紫衣金裳，点缀着绚丽的红点，是一件开心事？……