索尔仁尼琴作品

董继平译

亚历山大·索尔仁尼琴（Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn，1918-2008），俄罗斯作家，二战时加入苏军，因作战勇敢两次获奖，但1945年因通信中有不敬之语而被流放到哈萨克8年，此段经历后来成为其作品的主题。1968年，他因作品《第一圈》无法在苏联出版而在境外发表，被开除出作协，后再因描写极权主义的巨著《古拉格群岛》被驱逐出国。他的其他代表作有《伊凡·杰尼索维奇的一天》《马特辽娜的家》《癌病房》《在转折关头》等。他于1970年获得诺贝尔文学奖，去世后被誉为“俄罗斯的良心”。

塞格登湖

没有人写到这个湖泊，只有低语把它讲起。仿佛前往一座被施了魔法的城堡，通往它的所有道路都被阻拦起来，每条路上都挂着一个禁行标志——一条清晰、生硬的直线。

人或兽，面对着那个标志，我必须转身往回走。某种人世间的势力把那个标志放在那里，没有人可以骑行、步行、爬行，甚或飞行过去。

附近的松林中，佩戴着刀剑和手枪的卫兵潜伏在路旁。

也许你会环绕又环绕这片沉寂的树林，寻找通往湖泊的路，但你找不到人，那里不会有人供你问路，因为没有人进入这片树林，他们都被吓走了。你冒险穿过去的唯一机会将是在一个雨后的下午，沿着一条牛群踩踏出来的小道，尾随叮当作响的牛铃前行。从你第一次瞥见它在树干之间辽阔而微微闪烁，你就知道自己还没到达湖岸边，却在余生中都会对这里魂牵梦绕。

塞格登湖浑圆得就像是用圆规画出来的。如果你要从一边叫喊（但你千万不要叫喊，要不然会被人听见），只有一个渐渐衰退的回音会抵达彼岸。要越过湖面是一条漫漫长路。树林把湖岸完全禁闭起来，一片密林，一行又一行，层层叠叠，中无间断。当你走出树林前往水边，整个被禁止的湖岸尽收眼底：这里是一条狭长的黄沙滩，那里有一片灰白色的芦苇残茬，那边还有长长一片茂盛的青草。湖水光滑、平静，没有泛起波纹，除开湖畔的几片杂草，洁白的湖底透过透亮的水而隐隐闪烁。

秘密的深林中的秘密的湖泊。湖水仰望天空，天空俯视湖水。如果森林那边有一个世界，那也是陌生未知的、看不见的;如果它存在，那它在这里就没有位置。

这里是可以永遠定居的地方，一个人能跟自然元素和谐共存，并得到启发的地方。

然而不可能。一个邪恶的王子，一个斜眼恶棍，声称这个湖泊属于自己：这里有他的房子，这里有他的沐浴地。他那些邪恶的子孙在这里钓鱼，从他的船上射猎野鸭。湖泊上起初冒出一缕蓝烟，片刻之后就传来了枪声。

远在树林那边，人们流汗、喘息，同时，唯恐他们入侵，所有通往这里的道路都被关闭了。鱼和猎物为这个恶棍的娱乐而繁殖。在这里，有人留下了篝火痕迹，但那堆篝火被扑灭了，那个人也被赶走了。

可爱的、空寂无人的湖泊。

我的故土……

LAKE SEGDEN

No one writes about this lake and it is spoken of only in whispers. As though to an enchanted castle， all roads to it are barred and over each one hangs a forbidding sign —— a plain， blunt straight line.

Man or beast， faced by that sign， I must turn back. Some earthly power has put that sign there; past it none may ride， none may walk， crawl， or even fly.

Guards with swords and pistols lurk beside the path in the nearby pine grove.

You may circle and circle the silent wood searching for a way through to the lake， but you will find none and there will be no one to ask， for no one goes into this wood. They have all been frightened away. Your only chance to venture through will be one afternoon in the rain along a cattle track， in the wake of the dull clink of a cowbell. And from your first glimpse of it， vast and shimmering between the tree trunks，you know before you reach its banks that you will be in thrall to this place for the rest of your life.

Segden Lake is as round as though traced out with a pair of compasses. If you were to shout from one side（but you must not shout， or you will be heard）， only a fading echo would reach the other bank. It is a long way across. Woods immure the lakeside entirely， a dense forest of row upon unbroken row of trees. As you come out of the wood to the water’s edge， you can see the whole of the forbidden shore： here a strip of yellow sand， there a grey stubble of reeds， there a lush swathe of grass. The water is smooth， calm， and unruffled， and apart from some patches of weed by the shore， the white lake bed gleams through the translucent water.

A secret lake in a secret forest. The water looks up and the sky gazes down upon it. If there is a world beyond the forest， it is unknown， invisible; if it exists， it has no place here.

Here is somewhere to settle forever， a place where a man could live in harmony with the elements and be inspired.

But it cannot be. An evil prince， a squint-eyed villain， has claimed the lake for his own： there is his house， there is his bathing place. His evil brood goes fishing here， shoots duck from his boat. First a wisp of blue smoke above the lake， then a moment later the shot.

Away beyond the woods，the people sweat and heave， whilst all the roads leading here are closed lest they intrude. Fish and game are bred for the villain' s pleasure. Here there are traces where someone lit a fire; but it was put out and he was driven away.

Beloved， deserted lake.

My native land ...

榆 木

我們在锯柴火的时候，捡起一段榆木，惊讶地叫了一声。自从我们砍倒树干，用拖拉机拖拽它，将它锯成一段一段，然后扔到驳船和运货马车上，一堆堆滚拢，在地面上堆叠起来，已经过了整整一年——然而，这段榆木依然不曾放弃！一根绿色的新苗从它上面茁发而出，让人看到一根厚实、叶茂的枝条，乃至整整一棵全新榆树的希望。

我们把那段木头放在锯木架上，就好像把它放在刽子手的砧板上，但我们无法下决心强迫自己去锯开它。我们怎么会呢？那段木头就像我们一样珍爱生命，确实，它要活下去的强烈欲望，甚至比我们生存的欲望还强烈。

THE ELM LOG

We were sawing firewood when we picked up an elm log and gave a cry of amazement. It was a full year since we had chopped down the trunk， dragged it along behind a tractor， and sawn it up into logs，which we had then thrown onto barges and wagons， rolled into stacks， and piled up on the ground —— and yet this elm log had still not given up！ A fresh green shoot had sprouted from it with a promise of a thick leafy branch， or even a whole new elm tree.

We placed the log on the sawing horse， as though on an executioner’s block， but we could not bring ourselves to bite into it with our saw. How could we？ That log cherished life as dearly as we did; indeed， its urge to live was even stronger than ours.