为了表达对博尔赫斯无限的爱，把《南方》贴出来

Jorge Luis Borges: The South
The man who landed in Buenos Aires in 1871 bore the name of Johannes Dahlmann and he was a minister in the Evangelical Church. In 1939, one of his grandchlidren, Juan Dahlmann, was secretary of a municipal library on Calle Cordoba, and he considered himself profoundly Argentinian. His maternal grandfather had been that Francisco Flores, of the Second Line-Infantry Division, who had died on the frontier of Buenos Aires, run through with a lance by Indians from Catriel; in the discord inherent betweeh his two lines of descent, Juan Dahlmann (perhaps driven to it by his Germanic blood) chose the line represented by his romantic ancestor, his ancestor of the romantic death. An old sword, a leather frame containing the daguerreotype of a blank-faced man with a beard, the dash and grace of certin music, the familiar strophes of Martin Fierro, the passing years, boredom and solitude, all went to foster this voluntary, but never ostentatioous nationalism. At the cost of numerous small privations, Dahlmann had managed to save the empty shell of a ranch in the South which had belonged to the Flores family; he continually recalled the image of the balsamic eucalyptus trees and the great rose-colored house which had once been crimson. His duties, perhaps even indolence, kept him in the city. Summer after summer he contented himself with the abstract idea of possession and with the certitude that his ranch was waiting for him on a precise site in the middle of the plain. Late in February, 1939, something happened to him.
Blind to all fault, destiny can be ruthless at one's slightest distraction. Dahlmann had succeeded in acquiring, on that very afternoon, an imperfect copy of Weil's edition of The Thousand and One Nights. Avid to examine this find, he did not wait for the elevator but hurried up the stairs. In the obscurity, something brushed by his forehead: a bat, a bird? On the face of the woman who opened the door to him he saw horror engraved, and the hand he wiped across his face came away red with blood. The edge of a recently painted door which someone had forgotten to close had caused this wound. Dahlmann was able to fall asleep, but from the moment he awoke at dawn the savor of all things was atrociously poignant. Fever wasted him and the pictures in The Thousand and One Nights served to illustrate nightmares. Friends and relatives paid him visits and, with exaggerated smiles, assured him that they thought he looked fine. Dahlmann listened to them with a kind of feeble stupor and he marveled at their not knowing that he was in hell. A week, eight days passed, and they were like eight centuries. One afternoon, the usual doctor appeared, accompanied by a new doctor, and they carried him off to a sanitarium on the Calle Ecuador, for it was necessary to X-ray him. Dahlmann, in the hackney coach which bore them away, thought that he would, at last, be able to sleep in a room different from his own. He felt happy and communicative. When he arrived at his destination, they undressed him, shaved his head, bound him with metal fastenings to a stretcher; they shone bright lights on him until he was blind and dizzy, auscultated him, and a masked man stuck a needle into his arm. He awoke with a feeling of nausea, covered with a bandage, in a cell with something of a well about it; in the days and nights which followed the operation he came to realize that he had merely been, up until then, in a suburb of hell. Ice in his mouth did not leave the least trace of freshness. During these days Dahlmann hated himself in minute detail: he hated his identity, his bodily necessities, his humiliation, the beard which bristled up on his face. He stoically endured the curative measures, which were painful, but when the surgeon told him he had been on the point of death from septicemia, Dahlmann dissolved in tears of self-pity for his fate. Physical wretchedness and the incessant anticipation of horrible nights had not allowed him time to think of anything so abstact as death. On another day, the surgeon told him he was healing and that, very soon, he would be able to go to his ranch for convalescence. Incredibly enough, the promised day arrived.
Reality favors symmetries and slight anachronisms: Dahlmann had arrived at the sanitarium in a hackney coach and now a hackney coach was to take him to the Constitucion station. The first fresh tang of autumn, after the summer's oppressiveness, seemed like a symbol in nature of his rescue and release from fever and death. The city, at seven in the morning, had not lost that air of an old house lent it by the night; the streets seemed like long vestibules, the plazas were like patios. Dahlmann recognized the city with joy on the edge of vertigo: a second before his eyes registered the phenomena themselves, he recalled the corners, the billboards, the modest variety of Buenos Aires. In the yellow light of the new day, all things returned to him.
Every Argentine knows that the South begins at the other side of Rivadavia. Dahlmann was in the habit of saying that this was no mere convention, that whoever crosses this street enters a more ancient and sterner world. From inside the carriage he sought out, among the new buildings, the iron grill window, the brass knocker, the arched door, the entrance way, the intimate patio.
At the railroad station he noted that he still had thirty minutes. He quickly recalled that in a cafe on the Calle Brazil (a few dozen feet from Yrigoyen's house) there was an enormous cat which allowed itself to be caressed as if it were a disdainful divinity. He entered the cafe. There was the cat, asleep. He ordered a cup of coffee, slowly stirred the sugar, sipped it (this pleasure had been denied him in the clinic), and thought, as he smoothed the cat's black coat, that this contact was an illusion and that the two beings, man and cat, were as good as separated by a glass, for man lives in time, in succession, while the magical animal lives in the present, in the eternity of the instant.
Along the next to the last platform the train lay waiting. Dahlmann walked through the coaches until he found one almost empty. He arranged his baggage in the network rack. When the train started off, he took down his valise and extracted, after some hesitation, the first volume of The Thousand and One Nights. To travel with this book, which was so much a part of the history of his ill-fortune, was a kind of affirmation that his ill-fortune had been annulled; it was a joyous and secret defiance of the frustrated forces of evil.
Along both sides of the train the city dissipated into suburbs; this sight, and then a view of the gardens and villas, delayed the beginning of his reading. The truth was that Dahlmann read very little. The magnetized mountain and the genie who swore to kill his benefactor are - who would deny it? - marvelous, but not so much more than the morning itself and the mere fact of being. The joy of life distracted him from paying attention to Scheherezade and her superfluous miracles. Dahlmann closed his book and allowed himself to live.
Lunch - the bouillon served in shining metal bowls, as in the remote summers of childhood - was one more peaceful and rewarding delight.
Tomorrow I'll wake up at the ranch, he thought, and it was as if he was two men at a time: the man who traveled through the autumn day and across the geography of the fatherland, and the other one, locked up in a sanitarium and subject to methodical servitude. He saw unplastered brick houses, long and angled, timelessly watching the trains go by; he saw horsemen along the dirt roads; he saw gullies and lagoons and ranches; he saw great luminous clouds that resembled marble; and all these things were accidental, casual, like dreams of the plain. He also thought he recognized trees and crop fields; but he would not have been able to name them, for his actual knowledge of the country side was quite inferior to his nostalgic and literary knowledge.
From time to time he slept, and his dreams were animated by the impetus of the train. The intolerable white sun of high noon had already become the yellow sun which precedes nightfall, and it would not be long before it would turn red. The railroad car was now also different; it was not the same as the one which had quit the station siding at Constitucion; the plain and the hours had transfigured it. Outside, the moving shadow of the railroad car stretched toward the horizon. The elemental earth was not perturbed either by settlements or other signs of humanity. The country was vast but at the same time intimate and, in some measure, secret. The limitless country sometimes contained only a solitary bull. The solitude was perfect, perhaps hostile, and it might have occurred to Dahlmann that he was traveiling into the past and not merely south. He was distracted form these considerations by the railroad inspector who, on reading his ticket, advised him that the train would not let him off at the regular station but at another: an earlier stop, one scarcely known to Dahlmann. (The man added an explanation which Dahlmann did not attempt to understand, and which he hardly heard, for the mechanism of events did not concern him.)
The train laboriously ground to a halt, practically in the middle of the plain. The station lay on the other side of the tracks; it was not much more than a siding and a shed. There was no means of conveyance to be seen, but the station chief supposed that the traveler might secure a vehicle from a general store and inn to be found some ten or twelve blocks away.
Dahlmann accepted the walk as a small adventure. The sun had already disappeared from view, but a final splendor, exalted the vivid and silent plain, before the night erased its color. Less to avoid fatigue than to draw out his enjoyment of these sights, Dahmann walked slowly, breathing in the odor of clover with sumptuous joy.
The general store at one time had been painted a deep scarlet, but the years had tempered this violent color for its own good. Something in its poor architecture recalled a steel engraving, perhaps one from an old edition of Paul et Virginie. A number of horses were hitched up to the paling. Once inside, Dahlmann thought he recognized the shopkeeper. Then he realized that he had been deceived by the man's resemblance to one of the male nurses in the sanitarium. When the shopkeeper heard Dahlmann's request, he said he would have the shay made up. In order to add one more event to that day and to kill time, Dahlmann decided to eat at the general store.
Some country louts, to whom Dahlmann did not at first pay any attention, were eating and drinking at one of the tables. On the floor, and hanging on to the bar, squatted an old man, immobile as an object. His years had reduced and polished him as water does a stone or the generations of men do a sentence. He was dark, dried up , diminutive, and seemed outside time, situated in eternity. Dahlmann noted with satisfaction the kerchief, the thick poncho, the long chiripa, and the colt boots, and told himself, as he recalled futile discussions with people from the Northern counties or from the province of Entre Rios, that gauchos like this no longer existed outside the South.
Dahlmann sat down next to the window. The darkness began overcoming the plain, but the odor and sound of the earth penetrated the iron bars of the window. The shop owner brought him sardines, followed by some roast meat. Dahlmann washed the meal down with several glasses of red wine. Idling, he relished the tart savor of the wine, and let his gaze, now grown somewhat drowsy, wander over the shop. A kerosene lamp hung from a beam. There were three customers at the other table: two of them appeared to be farm workers; the third man, whose features hinted at Chinese blood, was drinking with his hat on. Of a sudden, Dahlmann felt something brush lightly against his face. Next to the heavy glass of turbid wine, upon one of the stripes in the table cloth, lay a spit ball of breadcrumb. That was all: but someone had throuwn it there.
The men at the other table seemed totally cut off from him. Perplexed, Dahlmann decided that nothing had happened, and he opened the volume of The Thousand and One Nights, by way of suppressing reality. After a few moments another little ball landed on his table, and now the peones laughed outright. Dahlmann said to himself that he was not frightened, but he reasoned that it would be a major blunder if he, a convalescent, were to allow himself to be dragged by strangers into some chaotic quarrel. He determined to leave, and had already gotten to his feet when the owner came up and exhorted him in an alarmed voice:
"Senor Dahlmann, don't pay any attention to those lads; they're half high."
Dahlmann was not surprised to learn that the other man, now, knew his name. But he felt that these conciliatory words served only to aggravate the situation. Previous to the moment, the peones' provocation was directed againt an unknown face, against no one in particular, almost againt no one at all. Now it was an attack against him, against his name, and his neighbors knew it. Dahlmann pushed the owner aside, confronted the peones, and demanded to know what they wanted of him.
The tough with a Chinese look staggered heavily to his feet. Almost in Juan Dahlmann's face he shouted insults, as if he had been a long way off. He game was to exaggerate constituted ferocious mockery. Between curses and obscenities, he threw a long knife into the air, followed it with his eyes, caught and juggled it, and challenged Dahlmann to a knife fight. The owner objected in a tremulous voice, pointing out that Dahlmann was unarmed. At this point, something unforeseeable occurred.
From a corner of the room, the old ecstatic gaucho - in whom Dahlmann saw a summary and cipher of the South (his South) - threw him a naked dagger, which landed at his feet. It was as if the South had resolved that Dahlmann should accept the duel. Dahlmann bent over to pick up the dagger, and felt two things. The first, that this almost instinctive act bound him to fight. The second, that the weapon, in his torpid hand, was no defense at all, but would merely serve to justify his murder. He had once played with a poniard, like all men, but his idea of fencing and knife-play did not go further than the notion that all strokes should be directed upwards, with the cutting edge held inwards. They would not have allowed such things ot happen to me in the sanitarium, he thought.
"Let's get on our way," said that other man.
They went out and if Dahlmann was without hope, he was also without fear. As he crossed the threshold, he felt that to die in a knife fight, under the open sky, and going forward to the attack, would have been a liberation, a joy, and a festive occasion, on the first night in the sanitarium, when they stuck him with the needle. He felt that if he had been able to choose, then, or to dream his death, this would have been the death he would have chosen or dreamt.
Firmly clutching his knife, which he perhaps would not know how to wield, Dahlmann went out into the plain.
南方 博尔赫斯
译者：王永年
1871年在布宜诺斯艾利斯登岸的那个人名叫约翰尼斯·达尔曼，是福音派教会的牧师；1939年，他的一个孙于，胡安·达尔曼，是坐落在科尔多瓦街的市立图书馆的秘书，自以为是根深蒂固的阿根廷人。他的外祖父是作战步兵二团的弗朗西斯科·弗洛雷斯，被卡特里尔的印第安人在布宜诺斯艾利斯省边境上用长矛刺死；在两个格格不入的家世之间，胡安·达尔曼（或许由于日耳曼血统的原因）选择了浪漫主义的先辈，或者浪漫主义的死亡的家世。一个毫无表情、满脸胡子的人的银版照相，一把古老的剑，某些音乐引起的欢乐和激动，背诵《马丁·菲耶罗》中一些章节的习惯，逝去的岁月，忧郁孤寂，助长了他心甘情愿但从不外露的低人一等的心理。达尔曼省吃俭用，勉强保住南方的一个庄园，那注产业原是弗洛雷斯家族的，现在只剩一个空架子；他经常回忆的是那些香桉树和那幢已经泛白的红色大房子的模样。琐碎的事务和容或有的冷漠使他一直留在城市。年复一年，他满足于拥有一注产业的抽象概念，确信他在平原的家在等他归去。1939年2月下旬，他出了一件事。
　　从不认错的命运对一些小小的疏忽也可能毫不容情。一天下午，达尔曼买到一本不成套的威尔版的《一千零一夜》；他迫不及待地想看看这一新发现，不等电梯下来，就匆匆从楼梯上去；暗地里他的前额被什么刮了一下，不知是蝙蝠还是乌。替他开门的女人脸上一副惊骇的神情，他伸手摸摸额头，全是鲜红的血。谁油漆了窗于，忘了关上，害他划破了头。达尔曼那晚上床睡觉，凌晨就醒了，从那时候开始嘴里苦得难受。高烧把他折磨得死去活来，《一千零一夜》里的插图在他恶梦中频频出现。亲友们来探望他，带着不自然的微笑，反复说他气色很好。达尔曼有点麻木地听他们说话，心想自己在地狱里受煎熬，他们竟然不知道，真叫人纳闷。八天过去了，长得像是八个世纪。一天下午，经常来看他的大夫带了一个陌生的大夫同来，把他送到厄瓜多尔街的一家疗养院，因为要替他拍X光片子。达尔曼在出租马车里想，他终于可以在不是他自己的房间里睡个好觉。他觉得高兴，很健谈；到了疗养院，他们替他脱光衣服，剃光脑袋，用金属带把他在推床上固定，耀眼的灯光使他头晕，他们还替他听诊，一个戴口罩的人在他胳臂上扎下注射针。他苏醒过来时头上扎着绷带，感到恶心，躺在井底似的小房间里，在手术后的日日夜夜里，他体会到以前的难受连地狱的边缘都算不上。他嘴里含的冰块没有一丝凉快的感觉。在那些日子，达尔曼恨透了自己；恨自己这个人，恨自己有解大小便的需要，恨自己要听人摆弄，恨脸上长出的胡子植。他坚强地忍受了那些极其痛苦的治疗，但是当大夫告诉他，他先前得的是败血症，几乎送命的时候，达尔曼为自己的命运感到悲哀，失声哭了。肉体的痛苦和夜里的不是失眠便是梦魇不容他想到死亡那样抽象的事。过了不久，大夫对他说，他开始好转，很快就可以去庄园休养了。难以置信的是，那天居然来到。
　　现实生活喜欢对称和轻微的时间错移；达尔曼是坐出租马车到疗养院的，现在也坐出租马车到孔斯蒂图西昂市。经过夏季的闷热之后，初秋的凉爽仿佛是他从死亡和热病的掌握中获得解救的自然界的象征。早晨七点钟的城市并没有失去夜晚使他产生的老宅的气氛；街道像是长门厅，广场像是院落。达尔曼带着幸福和些许眩晕的感觉认出了这个城市；在他放眼四望的几秒钟之前，他记起了街道的角落、商店的招牌、这个质朴的城市和布宜诺斯艾利斯的差别。在早晨的黄色光线下，往事的回忆纷至沓来。
　　谁都知道里瓦达维亚的那一侧就是南方的开始。达尔曼常说那并非约定俗成，你穿过那条街道就进入一个比较古老踏实的世界。他在马车上从新的建筑物中间寻找带铁栏杆的窗户、门铃、大门的拱顶、门厅和亲切的小院。
　　在火车站的大厅里，他发现还有三十分钟火车才开。他突然记起巴西街的一家咖啡馆（离伊里戈延家不远）有一只好大的猫像冷眼看世界的神道一样，任人抚摩。他走进咖啡馆。猫还在，不过睡着了。他要了一杯咖啡，缓缓加糖搅拌，尝了一口（疗养院里禁止他喝咖啡），一面抚摩猫的黑毛皮，觉得这种接触有点虚幻，仿佛他和猫之间隔着一块玻璃，因为人生活在时间和时间的延续中，而那个神秘的动物却生活在当前，在瞬间的永恒之中。
　　列车停在倒数第二个月台旁边。达尔曼穿过几节车厢，有一节几乎是空的。他把手提箱搁在行李架上；列车起动后，他打开箱子，犹豫一下之后，取出《一千零一夜》的第一册。这部书同他不幸的遭遇密切相连，他带这部书出门就是要表明不幸已经勾销，是对被挫败的邪恶力量一次暗自得意的挑战。
　　列车两旁的市区逐渐成为房屋稀稀落落的郊区；这番景色和随后出现的花园和乡间别墅使他迟迟没有开始看书。事实上，达尔曼看得不多；谁都不否认，磁石山和发誓要杀死恩人的妖精固然奇妙，但是明媚的早晨和生活的乐趣更为奇妙。幸福感使他无心去注意山鲁佐德和她多余的奇迹；达尔曼合上书，充分享受愉悦的时刻。
　　午饭（汤是盛在精光锃亮的金属碗里端来的，像遥远的儿时外出避暑时那样）又是宁静惬意的享受。
　　明天早晨我就在庄园里醒来了，他想道，他有一身而为二人的感觉：一个人是秋日在祖国的大地上行进，另一个给关在疗养院里，忍受着有条不紊的摆布。他看到粉刷剥落的砖房，宽大而棱角分明，在铁路边无休无止地瞅着列车经过；他看到泥路上的骑手；看到沟渠、水塘和农场；看到大理石般的明亮的云层，这一切都是偶遇，仿佛平原上的梦境。他还觉得树木和庄稼地似曾相识，只是叫不出它们的名字，因为他对田野的感性认识远远低于他思念的理性认识。
　　他瞌睡了一会儿，梦中见到的是隆隆向前的列车。中午十二点的难以忍受的白炽太阳已成了傍晚前的黄色，不久又将成为红色。车厢也不一样了；不是在孔斯蒂图西昂离开月台时的模样：平原和时间贯穿并改变了它的形状。车厢在外面的移动的影子朝地平线延伸。漠漠大地没有村落或人的迹象。一切都茫无垠际，但同时又很亲切，在某种意义上有些隐秘。在粗犷的田野上，有时候除了一头牛外空无一物。孤寂达到十足的程度，甚至含有敌意，达尔曼几乎怀疑自己不仅是向南方，而是向过去的时间行进。检票员打断了他这些不真实的遐想，看了他的车票后通知他说，列车不停在惯常的车站，而要停在达尔曼几乎不认识的稍前面的一个车站。（那人还作了解释，达尔曼不想弄明白，甚至不想听，因为他对事情的过程不感兴趣。）
　　列车吃力地停住，周围几乎是一片荒野。铁轨的另一面是车站，只是月台上一个棚子而已。车站附近没有任何车辆，但是站长认为在十来个街口远的一家铺子里也许能找到一辆车。
　　达尔曼决定步行前去，把它当做一次小小的历险。太阳已经西沉，但是余辉在被夜晚抹去之前，把深切阒静的平原映照得更辉煌。达尔曼缓步当车，心醉神迷地深吸着三叶草的气息，他走得很慢，并不是怕累，而是尽量延长这欢快的时刻。
　　杂货铺的房屋本来漆成大红色，日久天长，现在的颜色退得不那么刺眼。简陋的建筑使他想起一帧钢版画，或许是旧版《保尔和弗吉尼亚》①里的插图。木桩上拴着几匹马。达尔曼进门后觉得店主面熟；后来才想起疗养院有个职员长得像他。店主听了他的情况后说是可以套四轮马车送他；为了替那个日子添件事，消磨等车的时光，达尔曼决定在杂货铺吃晚饭。
　　①《保尔和弗吉尼亚》，法国伤感主义作家圣比埃尔（1737—1814）写的小说。主人公保尔和弗吉尼亚从小青梅竹马，但未能结合。小说地理背景是远离文明的当时法属毛里求斯岛。
　　一张桌子旁有几个小伙子又吃又喝，闹闹嚷嚷，达尔曼开头并不理会。一个非常老的男人背靠柜台蹲在地下，像件东西似的一动不动。悠久的岁月使他抽缩，磨光了棱角，正如流水磨光的石头或者几代人锤炼的谚语。他黧黑、瘦小、干瘪，仿佛超越时间之外，处于永恒。达尔曼兴致勃勃地打量着他的头巾、粗呢斗篷、长长的围腰布和小马皮制的靴子，想起自己同北部地区或者恩特雷里奥斯人无益的争论，心想像这样的高乔人除了南方之外，别的地方很难见到了。
　　达尔曼在靠窗的一张桌子旁坐下。外面的田野越来越暗，但是田野的芬芳和声息通过铁横条传来。店主给他先后端来沙丁鱼和烤牛肉。达尔曼就着菜喝了几杯红葡萄酒。他无聊地咂着酒味，懒洋洋地打量着周围。煤油灯挂在一根梁下；另一张桌子有三个主顾：两个像是小庄园的雇工；第三个一副粗俗的样子，帽子也没脱在喝酒。达尔曼突然觉得脸上有什么东西擦过。粗玻璃杯旁边，桌布的条纹上，有一个用面包心搓成的小球。就是这么回事，不过是有人故意朝他扔的。
　　另一张桌子旁的人仿佛并没有注意他。达尔曼有点纳闷，当它什么也没有发生，打开《一千零一夜》，似乎要掩盖现实。几分钟后，另一个小球打中了他，这次那几个雇工笑了。达尔曼对自己说，不值得大惊小怪，不过他大病初愈，被几个陌生人卷进一场斗殴未免荒唐。他决定离开，刚站起身，店主便过来，声调惊慌地央求他：
　　“达尔曼先生，那些小伙子醉了，别理他们。”
　　达尔曼并不因为店主能叫出他的姓而奇怪，但觉得这些排解的话反而把事情搞得更糟。起初，雇工的寻衅只针对一个陌生人，也可以说谁也不是；现在却针对他，针对他的姓氏，闹得无人不知。达尔曼把店主推在一边，面对那些雇工，问他们想干什么。
　　那个长相粗鲁的人摇摇晃晃地站起来。他和胡安·达尔曼相隔只有一步的距离，但他高声叫骂，仿佛隔得老远似的。他故意装得醉态可掬，这种做作是难以容忍的嘲弄。他满口脏话，一面骂声不绝，一面掏出长匕首往上一抛，看它落下时一把接住，胁迫达尔曼同他打斗。店主声音颤抖地反对说，达尔曼没有武器。这时候，发生了一件始料不及的事。
　　蹲在角落里出神的那个老高乔人（达尔曼在他身上看到了自己所属的南方的集中体现），朝他扔出一把亮晃晃的匕首，正好落在他脚下。仿佛南方的风气决定达尔曼应当接受挑战。达尔曼弯腰捡起匕首，心里闪过两个念头。首先，这一几乎出于本能的举动使他有进无退，非打斗不可。其次，这件武器在他笨拙的手里非但起不了防护他的作用，反而给人以杀死他的理由。像所有的男人一样，他生平也玩过刀子，但他只知道刺杀时刀刃应该冲里面，刀子应该从下往上挑。疗养院里绝对不允许这种事情落到我头上，他想道。
　　“咱们到外面去。”对方说。
　　他们出了店门，如果说达尔曼没有希望，他至少也没有恐惧。他跨过门槛时心想，在疗养院的第一晚，当他们把注射针头扎进他胳臂时，如果他能在旷野上持刀拼杀，死于械斗，对他倒是解脱，是幸福，是欢乐。他还想，如果当时他能选择或向往他死的方式，这样的死亡正是他要选择或向往的。
　　达尔曼紧握他不善于使用的匕首，向平原走去。
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