但愿你的道路漫长_暖小昕_9787552622140

　“每天读点好英文”系列为中英双语对照读物，优美的语言、深厚的情感、地道的英文，让读者既能欣赏到原汁原味、凝练生动的英文，又能深层次地品读其语言特色与艺术之美，是英语学习爱好者和文学爱好者的必备读物。《你可曾向往诗和远方》选取百余首名诗佳作，每一首诗都极具韵律之美，让人在学习英文之余，陶冶隐藏在字里行间的审美情趣。

　　风　车

　　The Windmill

　　爱德华·凡尔拉莱·卢卡斯 / Edward Verrall Lucas

　　不久前，一个偶然的机会曾使我成为一座风车房的住客。但并不是真的住进去，而且说来遗憾，也不是进去磨点儿什么东西，只是兴致来时进去转了转，从它最上端的窗户遥望港口的船只，或俯视周围的羊群和原野。这座风车又大又白——而且白得很厉害，每当雷雨云绕到它的背后时，整个风车就像一件擦亮的铝器一样。

　　从风车的其他几个窗口往外看，你还可以看到另外的四个风车，这些风车和它一样，也都闲置着。其中一个已经破损得非常厉害，还有一个也只剩下了两块翼板。但就在下一道山冈，远得望不见的东北方向，有一个风车在那里欢快地转动着。另外，由此再折向西北四五英里的地方，也有一个风车还在运转。所以，这个地方的情形还不至于像全国其他地方那么糟糕，任由阵阵好风从身边白白吹过……

　　一想起因蒸汽机以及工程师的聪明才智带给英国的种种损失，人们总会把风车的衰落列为其中的第一项。也许如果只从景物的美观别致来说，英国所遭遇的最大不幸是镀锌铁屋顶的发明。不过，毕竟红色屋顶的美好不只是安详富丽与舒适，转动着的风车不仅看起来美丽，而且非常浪漫：一个受制于自然的魔力但情愿为人类服务的温驯家伙，一个飞舞旋转的怪物，往往也是一个让人惧怕的东西。如果谁在风力正强的时候靠近一个风车轰鸣的翼板，心里都会骤然紧张起来——那感觉就像人们在暴风雨中望见水浪冲击堤岸的情景一样。此时待在风车房里面的话，就能对声音的来历有些体会，因为这里就是声音的洞穴。当然，有些孔洞中发出的轰鸣声震耳欲聋，具有很大的威力，但风车的声音大体来说是比较自然的，它们是木头与西南风搏斗时产生的，它充盈于人耳，而不会震耳欲聋。而且，这种效果并没有因为没有风或者磨坊主人及其用人的淡漠而有所减弱，这些人即使是在震耳欲聋的喧闹下，也总是一副文静样子，如同教堂管事人一般有条不紊地办事。

　　当然，我进入的磨坊并没有如此喧闹，我只是偶尔听到那些闲置的翼板上的横木作几下摆动罢了，一切都是如此寂静。更使人惆怅的是，一切又仿佛已完全就绪，就等着当天开工了。这个风车以前——大约几十年前——也曾是生气勃勃的，但是从那以后，它就永归沉寂，毫无生气，就像一条溪流在夜里突然遭遇封冻，或者像丁尼生《睡美人》诗中的宫殿那样寂寞。这风车并未损坏——它只是失去了魂魄。风车上几个苹果木的榫子已从轮机上脱落下来，地板上的木条也有几根烂掉了，但也仅是如此而已。只要一周的时间，就足以把这一切都修好。但永远没有这种可能了。因此，以前曾经使千千万万个英国风车一起欢舞的阵阵好风，而今只能在英吉利海峡上面徒劳地吹过。

　　Chance recently made me for a while the tenant of a windmill. Not to live in, and unhappily not to grind corn in, but to visit as the mood arose, and see the ships in the harbour from the topmost window, and look down on the sheep and the green world all around. For this mill stands high and white—so white, indeed, that when there is a thunder-cloud behind it, it seems a thing of polished aluminium.

　　From its windows you can see four other mills, all like itself, idle, and one merely a ruin and one with only two sweeps left. But just over the next range of hills, out of sight, to the northeast, is a windmill that still merrily goes, and about five miles away to the northwest is another also active; so that things are not quite so bad hereabouts as in many parts of the country, where the good breezes blow altogether in vain...

　　Thinking over the losses which England has had forced upon her by steam and the ingenuity of the engineer, one is disposed to count the decay of the windmill among the first. Perhaps in the matter of pure picture squeness the most serious thing that ever happened to England was the discovery of galvanized iron roofing; but, after all, there was never anything but quiet and rich and comfortable beauty about red roofs, whereas the living windmill is not only beautiful but romantic too: a willing, man-serving creature, yoked to the elements, a whirling monster, often a thing of terror. No one can stand very near the crashing sweeps of a windmill in half a gale without a tightening of the heart a feeling comparable to that which comes from watching the waves break over a wall in a storm. And to be within the mill at such a time is to know something of sound’s very sources; it is the cave of noise itself. No doubt there are dens of hammering energy which are more shattering, but the noise of a windmill is largely natural, the product of wood striving with the good sou’wester; it fills the ears rather than assaults them. The effect, moreover, is by no means lessened by the absence of the wind itself and the silent nonchalance of the miller and his man, who move about in the midst of this appalling racket with the quiet efficiency of vergers.

　　In my mill, of course, there is no such uproar; nothing but the occasional shaking of the cross-pieces of the idle sails. Everything is still; and the pity of it is that everything is in almost perfect order for the day’s work. The mill one day some score years ago was full of life; the next, and ever after, mute and lifeless, like a stream frozen in a night or the palace in Tennyson’s ballad of the “Sleeping Beauty.” There is no decay merely inanition. One or two of the apple-wood cogs have been broken from the great wheel; a few floor planks have been rotted; but that is all. A week’ s overhauling would put everything right. But it will never come, and the cheerful winds that once were to drive a thousand English mills so happily now bustle over the Channel in vain.

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