第18章 初雪

First Snow

[英]约翰·博因顿·普里斯特利/John Boynton Priestley

罗伯特·林德曾这样评论简·奥斯汀笔下的人物：“他们是这样的人，在他们的生活中，能遇上一场小雪就算是一件大事。”尽管可能被这位诙谐而温和的评论家看成是伍德豪斯式的人物，我仍然坚持认为，昨晚这里下了一场雪的确是一件大事。清晨，看到这皑皑白雪，我和孩子们不禁兴奋起来，我看到他们在幼儿室的窗户前凝望着外面奇妙的世界，七嘴八舌说个没完，仿佛又要过圣诞节了。事实上，这场雪对我和孩子们来说都是惊奇、迷人的。这是这里今年冬天的第一场雪，由于去年此时我身在国外，在落雪时节正经历着热带的高温，所以再次看到铺着这洁白地毯的大地，有种久违了的感觉。去年在国外时，我遇上英属圭亚那三个年轻的女孩子，她们刚结束对英国的初访。她们印象最深的两件事是：伦敦街头熙熙攘攘的人群，全都是陌生的面孔（她们强调这一点，是因为她们一直生活在小镇，人们彼此都很熟悉）；另外一件事是在索默塞特某地，一天清晨醒来忽然见到了白雪皑皑的景象。她们欣喜若狂，一扫淑女的矜持，冲出屋子，来回奔跑在那片晶莹洁白的雪地上，在无人踩过的雪毯上，留下了横七竖八快乐的脚印，正像孩子们今天早晨在花园里做的那样。

这场初雪不仅是件大事，而且还是件有魔力的大事。你睡觉时处在一个世界里，而醒来时，却发现你在一个截然不同的世界里。如果这都不让人沉醉，那么，到哪里去找更醉人的东西呢？一切都悄然地在一种神秘的沉静中完成，这更给这场初雪增添了玄妙的色彩。若所有的雪铺天盖地倾泻下来，把我们从午夜的沉睡中惊醒，那么，这就没什么值得欢呼雀跃的了。但它却是趁我们熟睡时，分秒必争，悄无声息地飘落下来。卧室里窗帘拉拢了，外面却发生着翻天覆地的变化，犹如无数的精灵仙童在悄悄地施展魔法，而我们只是翻个身，打个呵欠，伸一下懒腰，对此毫无知觉。然而，这变化是多么巨大呀！我们住的房子仿佛掉进了另一片天地。即使在白雪鞭长莫及的室内，也好像不一样了，每个房间都显得小巧而温馨，好像有某种力量的驱使让它成为一个伐木工的棚屋，或一所温暖舒适的圆木房。外面，昨天的花园，现在却是晶莹皎洁的一片，远处的村落犹如置于古老德国神话中的一个仙境，不再是你所熟识的一排排房屋了。所有住在那里的人们：戴眼镜的邮政局女局长、鞋匠、退休的小学校长以及其他人，如果你听说他们都改弦易张，成了古怪精灵般的人物，能为你提供隐身帽和魔术鞋，你也不要感到不可思议。你也会觉得自己和昨天不太一样。一切都在变化，你又怎会一成不变呢？屋里萦绕着一种莫名其妙的激动，一种由兴奋而产生的微弱的颤动，让人心神不宁，这和人们将要作一次旅行时所常有的那种感觉没什么两样。孩子们当然无比兴奋，就连大人们在准备开始一天的工作之前，拢在一起聊天的时间也比以往要长一些。任何人都会不由自主地到窗户前去瞧瞧——这种情形就和人们在一艘远行的游轮上一样。

今天早晨起床时，整个世界变成了淡蓝洁白交相呼应的冰封天地。光线从窗户射进来，迷迷离离，竟然使得洗脸、刷牙、刮胡子、穿衣服这些日常小事也显得很离奇古怪。接着太阳出来了，到我坐下来吃早餐时，太阳的光彩已经是绚丽夺目，给雪地添上一抹柔和的淡粉色。餐厅的窗户成了一幅可爱的日本版画，屋外的小梅树愉快地沐浴着日光，枝杈上镶嵌的淡粉色的雪花巧妙地装点着树干。过了一两个小时，万物都成了寒气四溢、白蓝交辉的发光体，世界再次焕然一新，那精巧的日本版画已然消失。我从书房的窗户望去，穿过花园，越过草地，看到那远处的低丘，大地晶莹皎洁，天空一片铅灰，所有的树木都阴森恐怖——确实有种非同寻常的危险蕴藏在这景象之中。它好像把我们这个与英国中心毗邻的宜人乡村变成了一个残忍冷酷的荒原。在那幽暗的矮树林中，似乎有一队骑兵随时都会从里面冲杀出来，随时都会听到刀剑无情的砍杀声，也可能会看到远方某一处雪地被鲜血染红。

——这就是我看到的情景。

这时情况又在变化。光亮已经消逝，那恐怖的迹象也荡然无存。雪下得正紧，大片大片柔软的雪花扬扬洒洒，因而人们几乎看不清对面那浅浅的山谷，厚厚的积雪压着屋顶，树木也都弯下了腰，映着影影绰绰的光芒，乡村教堂的风标依然清晰可见，然而它已变成安徒生笔下的某种动物了。我的书房独立于整所房子，从这儿我可以看到幼儿室的孩子们把鼻尖紧紧地贴在玻璃窗上。突然，我的脑海里响起一首儿歌，虽然音韵不协调，但在我孩提时，每当鼻尖紧贴着冰冷的玻璃凝视着飘舞的雪花，总唱起它：

雪花，雪花，飘得快，

洁白的雪花真可爱！

苏格兰宰了多少鹅，

片片鹅毛这边飘落！

Mr. Robert Lynd once remarked of Jane Austen's characters： They are people in whose lives a slight fall of snow is an event. Even at the risk of appearing to this witty and genial critic as another Mr. Woodhouse， I must insist that last night's fall of snow here was an event. I was nearly as excited about it this morning as the children， whom I found all peering through the nursery window at the magic outside and chattering as excitedly as if Christmas had suddenly come round again. The fact is， however， that the snow was as strange and enchanting to me as it was to them. It is the first fall we have had here this winter， and last year I was out of the country， broiling in the tropics， during the snowy season， so that it really does seem an age since I saw the ground so fantastically carpeted. It was while I was away last year that I met the three young girls from British Guiana who had just returned from their first visit to England. The two things that had impressed them most were the endless crowds of people in the London street， all strangers (they emphasized this， for they had spent all their lives in a little town where everybody knows everybody)， and the snow-covered landscape they awoke to， one morning when they were staying somewhere in Somerset. They were so thrilled and delighted that they flung away any pretence of being demure young ladies and rushed out of the house to run to and fro across the glittering white expanses， happily scattering footmarks on the untrodden surface， just as the children did in the garden this morning.

The first fall of snow is not only an event but it is a magical event. You go to bed in one kind of world and wake up to find yourself in another quite different， and if this is not enchantment， then where is it to be found？ The very stealth， the eerie quietness， of the thing makes it more magical. If all the snow fell at once in one shattering crash， awakening us in the middle of the night the event would be robbed of its wonder. But it flutters down， soundless， hour after hour while we are asleep. Outside the closed curtains of the bedroom a vast transformation scene is taking place， just as if a myriad elves and brownies were at work， and we turn and yawn and stretch and know nothing about it. And then， what an extraordinary change it is！ It is as if the house you are in had been dropped down in another continent. Even theinside， which has not been touched， seems different， every room appearing smaller and cosier， just as if some power were trying to turn it into a woodcutter's hut or a snug log-cabin. Outside， where the garden was yesterday， there is now a white and glistening level， and the village beyond is no longer your own familiar cluster of roofs but a village in an old German fairy-tale. You would not be surprised to learn that all the people there， the spectacled postmistress， the cobbler， the retired school master， and the rest， had suffered a change too and had become queer elvish beings， purveyors of invisible caps and magic shoes. You yourselves donot feel quite the same people you were yesterday. How could you when so much has been changed？ There is a curious stir， a little shiver of excitement， troubling the house， not unlike the feeling there is abroad when a journey has to be made. The children， of course， are all excitement but even the adults hang about and talk to one another longer than usual before settling down to the day's work. Nobody can resist the windows. It is like being on board a ship.

When I got up this morning the world was a chilled hollow of dead white and faint blues. The light that came through the windows was very queer， and it contrived to make the familiar business of splashing and shaving and brushing and dressing very queer too. Then the sun came out， and by the time I had sat down to breakfast. It was shining bravely and flushing the snow with delicate pinks. The dining room window had been transformed into a lovely Japanese print. The little plum-tree outside， with the faintly flushed snow lining its boughs and artfully disposed along its trunk， stood in full sunlight. An hour or two later everything was a cold glitter of white and blue. The world had completely changed again. The little Japanese prints had all vanished. I looked out of my study window， over the garden， the meadow， to the low hills beyond， and the ground was one long glare， the sky was steely， and all the trees so many black and sinister shapes. There was indeed something curiously sinister about the whole prospect. It was as if our kindly countryside， close to the very heart of England， had been turned into a cruel steppe. At any moment， it seemed， a body of horsemen might be seen breaking out from the black copse， so many instruments of tyranny might be heard and some distant patch of snow be reddened. It was that kind of landscape.

Now it has changed again. The glare has gone and no touch of the sinister remains. But the snow is falling heavily， in great soft flakes， so that you can hardly see across the shallow valley， and the roofs are thick and the trees all bending， and the weathercock of the village church， still to be seen through the grey loaded air， has become some creature out of Hans Andersen. From my study， which is part from the house and faces it， I can see the children flattening their noses against the nursery window， and there is running through my head a jangle of rhyme I used to repeat when I was a child and flattened my nose against the cold window watching the falling snow：

Snow， snow faster：

White alabaster！

Killing geese in Scotland，

Sending feathers here！