A Road to Oneself独行之路

Sometimes， on one of these sunny autumn mornings， when I turn my back on the town and take to the highway， I seem to have the world to myself. I walk forward， as it were， into great sunlit emptiness. Once I am a little way out of the town it is as if the world has been swept clean of men. I pass a few young mothers， who are proudly ushering their round-eyed solemn2 babies into the presence of the morning sun， a lumbering cart or two， and maybe a knot of labourers， who look up from their task with a humorous resignation in their faces; these and others I overtake and pass by， and then there is often an end to my fellows. I alone keep a lounging tryst with the sun， himself， I fancy， a mighty， genial idler and the father of all dreamers and idlers among men.

有时候，在这样一个秋阳朗照的早晨，我转身背对城市走上公路之际，会觉得这世界仿佛为我一人所独有。我径自前行，好似步入一个洒满阳光的巨大空间。一旦我离开城市一小段路，世上的人们似乎就被一扫而空了。我会遇见几个年轻的母亲，她们骄傲地带着自己两眼圆睁、小脸紧绷的婴儿迎接晨光；会经过一两辆缓慢行进的运货马车；也许还会碰到一群工人，他们停下活儿抬头瞧着什么，露出幽默达观的表情。我赶上并从他们旁边走过后，路上就常常再无别人了。为消磨时间，我独自来赴与太阳的约会，我把他想象成万能而和善的闲人，是全天下所有空想家和无所事事者的始祖。

A light mist covers the neighbouring hills， which are almost imperceptible， their shapes and colours showing but faintly， so that they seem to stand aloof—things of dream. As I go further along the shining road I seem to be lounging into a vast empty room. There are sights and sounds in plenty; cows looking over the walls with their great mournful eyes; here and there a thin blue column of smoke; the cawing of rooks about the decaying woods; and distantly sounding， the creak of a cart， a casual shout or two， a vague hammering， and， more distant still， the noise of the town， now the faint murmur of a hive. Yet to me， coming from the crowded， tumultuous streets， it seems empty because I meet no one by the way. The road， for all its thick drift of leaves， deep gold and brown， at either side， seems to lie naked in the sunshine， and I drink in this unexpected solitude as eagerly as a dusty traveller takes his ale. For a time， it comes as a delectable and quickening draught3， and though outwardly a sober， meditatively， almost melancholy pedestrian， I hold high festival in the spirit， drink deep， and revel with the younger gods.

在一片薄雾的笼罩下，附近的群山模糊难辨，山的颜色和轮廓影影绰绰，因而它们好似超然而立，恰如梦中的景物。我沿着亮闪闪的道路继续前行，好像悠闲地走入一间宽敞的空房。耳闻眼见的东西可真不少：母牛睁着忧愁的大眼瞅着墙头外面；偶尔飘起一缕稀薄的蓝烟；秃鼻乌鸦围着朽木呱呱叫唤；远方响起一辆运货马车的嘎吱声、间或一两声呼喊、隐约的敲击声，更远处传来市镇嘈杂的声音，如今变成若有若无的嗡嗡声。然而，对于来自拥挤而喧闹的街道的我来说，这里又好像空荡荡的，因为我路上没遇见一个人。眼前的这条路，尽管两边厚厚地堆积了暗黄和棕色的落叶，却好像赤裸裸地横亘在阳光下。我陶醉于这种料想不到的孤寂中，如同风尘仆仆的旅人畅饮啤酒般急切。有一刻，会感到这种孤寂好似爽口怡神的佳酿。从外表上看，我是一个为人持重、耽于沉思、近乎忧郁的行人，但我却在举行精神上的节日盛宴，与年轻的神灵一起纵情饮酒狂欢。

One of the greatest dangers of living in large towns is that we have too many neighbours and human fellowship is too cheap. We are apt to become wearied of humanity; a solitary green tree sometimes seems dearer to us than an odd thousand of our fellow citizens4. Unless we are hardened， the millions of eyes begin to madden us; and forever pushed and jostled by crowds we begin to take more kindly to Malthus5， and are even willing to think better of Herod6 and other wholesale depopulators. We begin to hate the sight of men who would appear as gods to us if we met them in Turkestan or Patagonia7， we have become thoroughly crowd-sick， we feel that the continued presence of these thousands of other men and women will soon crush， stamp， or press our unique， miraculous individuality into some vile pattern of the streets; we feel that the spirit will perish for want of room to expand in; and we gasp for air untainted by crowded humanity.

生活在大城市的一个极大危险是，我们的邻居太多，而人们之间的交情过于廉价。我们动辄对人感到厌烦；相比一千多个同胞，有时一棵孤零零的绿树似乎更让我们觉得亲切。除非我们变得麻木不仁，那几百万双眼睛真会逼得我们发疯。始终被人群推来搡去的我们，开始对马尔萨斯多了一些好感，甚至愿意重新评价希律和其他一大批嗜好屠戮的恶棍。我们开始讨厌看到那些人——如若在土耳其斯坦或巴塔哥尼亚遇见，他们会被我们视若神明。我们已经变得对人群深恶痛绝。我们觉得，这成千上万不断出现的男男女女将很快粉碎、践踏或压迫我们独特而非凡的个性，使其成为街头某种令人厌恶的样板；我们觉得，精神将因缺乏拓展的空间而颓丧；而我们渴望呼吸未遭人群污染的空气。

Some such thoughts as these came to me， at first， in my curious little glimpse of solitude.8 I am possessed by an ampler mood than men commonly know， and feel that I can fashion the world about me to my changing whims; my spirit overflows， and seems to fill the quiet drooping countryside with sudden light and laughter; the empty road and vacant fields， the golden atmosphere and blue spaces are my kingdom， and I can people them at will with my fancies. Snatches of poetry come into my head， and I repeat a few words， or even only one word， aloud and with passionate emphasis， as if to impress their significance and beauty upon a listening host. Sometimes I break into violent little gusts of laughter， for my own good pleasure. At other times I sing， loudly and with abandon： to a petrified audience of one cow and three trees. I protest melodiously that Phyllis9 has such charming graces that I could love her till I die， and I believe it， too， at the time. I brag to myself， and applaud and flatter myself. I even indulge in one or two of those swaggering day-dreams of boyhood in which one finds oneself suddenly raised to some extraordinary eminence， the idol of millions， a demi-god among men， from which height one looks down with kindly scorn10 on those myopic persons who did not know true greatness when they saw it， sarcastic schoolmasters and jeering relatives for the most part.