【存】 01 kafka & the hunter
http://www.mypcera.com/book/wai/no/k/kfk/index.html
https://records.viu.ca/~Johnstoi/kafka/kafkatofc.htm
The Hunter Gracchus
Two boys were sitting on the wall by the jetty playing dice. A man was reading a newspaper on the steps of a monument in the shadow of a hero wielding a sabre. A young girl was filling her tub with water at a fountain. A fruit seller was lying close to his produce and looking out to sea. Through the empty openings of the door and window of a bar two men could be seen drinking wine in the back. The landlord was sitting at a table in the front dozing. A small boat glided lightly into the small harbour, as if it were being carried over the water. A man in a blue jacket climbed out onto land and pulled the ropes through the rings. Behind the man from the boat, two other men in dark coats with silver buttons carried a bier, on which, under a large silk scarf with a floral pattern and fringe, a person was obviously lying. No one bothered with the newcomers on the jetty, even when they set the bier down to wait for their helmsman, who was still working with the ropes. No one came up to them, no one asked them any questions, no one took a closer look at them.
The helmsman was further held up a little by a woman with disheveled hair, who now appeared on deck with a child at her breast. Then he moved on, pointing to a yellowish, two-story house which rose close by, directly on the left near the water. The bearers took up their load and carried it through the low door furnished with slender columns. A small boy opened a window, noticed immediately how the group was disappearing into the house, and quickly shut the window again. The door now closed, as well. It had been fashioned with care out of black oak wood. A flock of doves, which up to this point had been flying around the bell tower, came down in front of the house. The doves gathered before the door, as if their food was stored inside the house. One flew right up to the first floor and pecked at the window pane. They were brightly coloured, well cared for, lively animals. With a large sweep of her hand the woman threw some seeds towards them from the boat. They ate them up and then flew over to the woman.
A man in a top hat with a mourning ribbon came down one of the small, narrow, steeply descending lanes which led to the harbour. He looked around him attentively. Everything upset him. He winced at the sight of some garbage in a corner. There were fruit peels on the steps of the monument. As he went by, he pushed them off with his cane. He knocked on the door of the parlour, while at the same time taking off his top hat with his black-gloved right hand. It was opened immediately, and about fifty small boys, lined up in two rows in a long corridor, bowed to him.
The helmsman came down the stairs, welcomed the gentleman, and led him upstairs. On the first floor he accompanied him around the slight, delicately built balcony surrounding the courtyard, and, as the boys crowded behind them at a respectful distance, both men stepped into a large cool room at the back of the house. From it one could not see a facing house, only a bare gray-black rock wall. Those who had carried the bier were busy setting up and lighting some long candles at its head. But these provided no light. They only made the previously still shadows positively jump and flicker across the walls. The shawl was pulled back off the bier. On it lay a man with wildly unkempt hair and beard and a brown skin—he looked rather like a hunter. He lay there motionless, apparently without breathing, his eyes closed, although his surroundings were the only the only thing indicating that it could be a corpse.
The gentleman stepped over to the bier, laid a hand on the forehead of the man lying there, then knelt down and prayed. The helmsman gave a sign to the bearers to leave the room. They went out, drove away the boys who had gathered outside, and shut the door. The gentleman, however, was apparently still not satisfied with this stillness. He looked at the helmsman. The latter understood and went through a side door into the next room. The man on the bier immediately opened his eyes, turned his face with a painful smile towards the gentleman, and said, “Who are you?” Without any surprise, the gentleman got up from his kneeling position and answered, “The burgomaster of Riva.” The man on the bier nodded, pointed to a chair by stretching his arm out feebly, and then, after the burgomaster had accepted his invitation, said, “Yes, I knew that, Burgomaster, but in the first moments I’ve always forgotten it all—everything is going in circles around me, and it’s better for me to ask, even when I know everything. You also presumably know that I am the hunter Gracchus.”
“Of course,” said the burgomaster. “I received the news today, during the night. We had been sleeping for some time. Then around midnight my wife called, ‘Salvatore’—that’s my name—‘look at the dove at the window!’ It was really a dove, but as large as a rooster. It flew up to my ear and said, ‘Tomorrow the dead hunter Gracchus is coming. Welcome him in the name of the city.”
The hunter nodded and pushed the tip of his tongue between his lips. “Yes, the doves fly here before me. But do you believe, Burgomaster, that I am to remain in Riva?”
“That I cannot yet say,” answered the burgomaster. “Are you dead?”
“Yes,” said the hunter, “as you see. Many years ago—it must have been a great many years ago—I fell from a rock in the Black Forest—that’s in Germany—as I was tracking a chamois. Since then I’ve been dead.”
“But you’re also alive,” said the burgomaster.
“To a certain extent,” said the hunter, “to a certain extent I am also alive. My death boat lost its way—a wrong turn of the helm, a moment when the helmsman was not paying attention, a deviation through my wonderful homeland—I don’t know what it was. I only know that I remain on the earth and that since that time my boat has journeyed over earthly waters. So I—who only wanted to live in my own mountains—travel on after my death through all the countries of the earth.”
“And have you no share in the world beyond?” asked the burgomaster wrinkling his brow.
The hunter answered, “I am always on the immense staircase leading up to it. I roam around on this infinitely wide flight of steps, sometimes up, sometimes down, sometimes to the right, sometimes to the left, always in motion. From being a hunter I’ve become a butterfly. Don’t laugh.”
“I’m not laughing,” protested the burgomaster.
“That’s very considerate of you,” said the hunter. “I am always moving. But when I go through the greatest upward motion and the door is already shining right above me, I wake up on my old boat, still drearily stranded in some earthly stretch of water. The basic mistake of my earlier death smirks at me in my cabin. Julia, the wife of the helmsman, knocks and brings to me on the bier the morning drink of the country whose coast we are sailing by at the time. I lie on a wooden plank bed, wearing—I’m no delight to look at—a filthy shroud, my hair and beard, black and gray, are inextricably intertangled, my legs covered by a large silk women’s scarf, with a floral pattern and long fringes. At my head stands a church candle which illuminates me. On the wall opposite me is a small picture, evidently of a bushman aiming his spear at me and concealing himself as much as possible behind a splendidly painted shield. On board ship one comes across many stupid pictures, but this is one of the stupidest. Beyond that my wooden cage is completely empty. Through a hole in the side wall the warm air of the southern nights comes in, and I hear the water lapping against the old boat.
“I have been lying here since the time when I—the still living hunter Gracchus—was pursuing a chamois to its home in the Black Forest and fell. Everything took place as it should. I followed, fell down, bled to death in a ravine, was dead, and this boat was supposed to carry me to the other side. I still remember how happily I stretched myself out here on the planking for the first time. The mountains have never heart me singing the way these four still shadowy walls did then.
“I had been happy to be alive and was happy to be dead. Before I came on board, I gladly threw away my rag-tag collection of guns and bags, and the hunting rifle which I had always carried proudly, and slipped into the shroud like a young girl into her wedding dress. Here I lay down and waited. Then the accident happened.”
“A nasty fate,” said the burgomaster, raising his hand in a gesture of depreciation, “and you are not to blame for it in any way?”
“No,” said the hunter. “I was a hunter. Is there any blame in that? I was raised to be a hunter in the Black Forest, where at that time there were still wolves. I lay in wait, shot, hit the target, removed the skin—is there any blame in that? My work was blessed. ‘The great hunter of the Black Forest’—that’s what they called me. Is that something bad?”
“It not up to me to decide that,” said the burgomaster, “but it seems to me as well that there’s no blame there. But then who is to blame?”
“The boatswain,” said the hunter. “No one will read what I write here, no one will come to help me. If people were assigned the task of helping me, all the doors of all the houses would remain closed, all the windows would be shut, they would all lie in bed, with sheets thrown over their heads, the entire earth would be a hostel for the night. And that makes good sense, for no one knows of me, and if he did, he would have no idea of where I was staying, and if he knew that, he would still not know how to keep me there, and so he would not know how to help me. The thought of wanting to help me is a sickness and has to be cured with bed rest.
“I know that, and so I do not cry out to summon help, even if at moments—as I have no self-control, for example, right now—I do think about that very seriously. But to get rid of such ideas I need only look around and recall where I am and where—and this I can assert with full confidence—I have lived for centuries.”
“That’s extraordinary,” said the burgomaster, “extraordinary. And now are you intending to remain with us in Riva?”
“I have no intentions,” said the hunter with a smile and, to make up for his mocking tone, laid a hand on the burgomaster’s knee. “I am here. I don’t know any more than that. There’s nothing more I can do. My boat is without a helm—it journeys with the wind which blows in the deepest regions of death.”
（这个翻译真讨厌= =
猎人格拉胡斯
文/卡夫卡
译/周新建
码头的墙上，有两个男孩坐在上面掷骰子玩。那尊挥舞着战刀的英雄投下的阴影里，有一男子坐在纪念碑的台阶上在看报。井边有位姑娘正在往她的大木桶里灌水。一个水果商躺在他的货物旁，两眼望着湖面。透过门窗上无遮无掩的洞，可以看到小酒馆深处有两个男人在喝葡萄酒。店主坐在前面的一张桌子边打瞌睡。一只平底船仿佛被托在水面上，悄然飘进这个小港。一个穿蓝色套衫的男人跳上岸，将缆绳套进铁环。另有两个男人身着缀着银钮扣的深色外套，抬着一副尸架出现在水手身后，尸架上那块带鲜花图案和流苏的大丝单下面，分明躺着一个人。
码头上谁也不关心这些刚抵达的人，甚至当他们放下尸架等候还忙着系缆绳的船长时，也没人走近他们，谁也不问他们问题，谁也不仔细打量他们。
这时甲板上出现了一个头发松散怀抱孩子的女人，船长因为她又耽误了一阵儿。后来他过来了，他朝笔直竖在右手水边的一栋两层黄楼一指，抬尸架的人便抬起尸架，穿过了那道低矮但却是由细柱子构成的大门。一个小男孩打开了一扇窗户，正好看到这队人消失在那栋房子里，他又赶紧关上了窗户。连大门现在也关上了，它是用深色橡木精心装修的。在此之前，一群鸽子一直在围着钟楼飞，现在它们落在了那栋楼房前面。仿佛它们的食物存放在屋里，鸽子全挤在大门口。一只鸽子飞上二楼，啄着窗户玻璃。这些浅色羽毛的动物机灵活泼，养得很好。那女人兴冲冲地从甲板上朝它们抛撒着谷粒。它们啄起谷粒，然后朝女人那边飞去。
有好几条又窄又陡的小巷通向港口，一个头戴大礼帽臂带黑纱的男人顺着其中的一条走了下来。他细心打量着四周，什么他都操心，看到一个角落里堆放的垃圾，他的脸都变了样儿。纪念碑的台阶上扔着些水果皮，他路过时顺手用手杖把它们挑了下去。他敲了敲房门，同时摘下大礼帽拿在戴着黑手套的右手里。门立刻开了，大约五十个小男孩在长长的走廊里夹道而立，行着鞠躬礼。
船长从楼梯走下来迎接这位先生，领着他上楼。到了二楼，他带着他绕过一个由简单小巧的敞廊围成的院子。孩子们敬畏地隔着一段距离拥在后面，他俩却走进了顶后头的一间凉爽的大厅，这栋房子对面再没有别的房子，只能看到一堵光秃秃的灰黑色岩壁。抬尸架的人正忙着在尸架上首摆放几支长蜡烛并点燃它们。然而这并没有带来亮光，只有酣睡的黑影被惊醒了，摇着晃着跳上四壁。丝绸单子已从尸架上揭开。一个男人躺在那里，头发胡须乱成一团，肤色黝黑，看样子是个猎人。他躺着一动不动，双眼紧闭，好像不喘气了。
尽管如此，也只有周围的环境表明，他可能是个死人。
那位先生走向尸架，将一只手放在躺在那里的人的额头上，然后双膝跪下祈祷起来。船长示意抬尸架的人离开这间屋子，他们走出去，赶开聚在门外的小男孩，然后关上了门。可那位先生似乎觉得这种寂静还是不够，他望着船长，船长明白了他的意思，从一个侧门走进了隔壁房间。尸架上的人立刻睁开了眼睛，露着痛苦的微笑将脸转向那位先生说：
“你是谁？”
跪着的先生并不惊奇地站起来答道：“里瓦市长。”
尸架上的人点了点头，软弱无力地伸出胳膊指着一把扶手椅，待市长顺从他的邀请坐到椅子上后，他说：
“这我以前知道，市长先生，可我总是立刻就把一切忘得干干净净，一切都在和我兜圈子。最好还是由我来问，尽管什么我都知道。您大概也知道，我是猎人格拉库斯。”
“毫无疑问，”市长说，“关于您的事是昨天夜里告诉我的。当时我们早已睡下。午夜时分我妻子喊道：‘萨尔瓦托尔’——这是我的名字——‘快看窗边的那只鸽子！’那的确是只鸽子，不过大得像只公鸡。它飞到我耳边说：‘已故猎人格拉库斯明天要来，请以本市的名义接待他。’”
猎人点了点头，舌尖在双唇间闪了一下：“是的，那些鸽子是在我之前飞来的。不过市长先生，您认为我该留在里瓦吗？”
“这我还说不上来。”市长回答说。
“您死了吗？”
“不错，”猎人说，“正像您是一个所看到的。那还是很多年以前，不过这很多年肯定是个大数目，在黑森林，那是在德国，在追一只岩羊时，我从一块岩石上摔了下来。从那时起我就死了。”
“可您也还活着。”市长说。
“在某种程度上，”猎人说，“在某种程度上说我也还活着。我的死亡之舟行错了航线，一次错误的转舵，船长走神的那一瞬，我那美丽的故乡的吸引力，我不知道那到底是什么，我只知道，我依旧留在这世上，我那小舟从此就行驶在尘世的水域里。我就这样漫游着，本来只想住在自己山里的我，死后却遍游世间各国。”
“您有一半在那个世界上吧？”市长皱起眉头问。
猎人答道：“我总是在一个通往高处的巨型台阶上。在这广阔无涯的露台阶上，我到处游荡，一会儿在上边，一会儿在下边，一会儿在右边，一会儿在左边，永远处在运动之中。
猎人已经变成一只蝴蝶。您别笑。”
“我没笑。”市长辩解说。
“非常明智。”猎人说，“我总是处在运动中。可就在我最振奋时，就在高处那座大门已经朝我闪闪发光时，我却在我那只寂寞地滞留在尘世某一水域里的旧船上醒了过来。当年我死亡时犯下的原则性错误在船舱里不住在嘲笑我。尤莉亚，就是船长的妻子，敲了敲门，将早晨的饮料给我送到尸架旁，那是我们正沿其海岸航行的那个国家早晨用的饮料。
“我躺在一块木板上——观赏我可不是一种享受，身穿一件肮脏的尸衣，灰白色的头发胡子乱得梳都梳不开，腿上盖着一块带花卉图案和长流苏的披巾。靠头这边竖着根教堂里用的蜡烛照着我。我对面墙上有幅小画，画的显然是一个布须曼人[1]，他用一根投枪瞄着我，并尽量隐蔽在一块画得极美的盾牌后面。乘船时人们总会碰到一些愚蠢的画，而这幅则是最愚蠢的之一。除此之外，我那木笼子里空空荡荡。侧面的一个舱口吹进温暖的夜南风，我听见浪花在拍打着那条破旧的平底船。
“前猎人格拉库斯在故乡黑森林追猎一只岩羊时摔了下来，打那以后我就一直躺在这上面。整个过程有条不紊。我追猎，失身摔下去，在一个山谷里流尽了血，成了死人，那条平底船本该将我送往冥界。我还记得，第一次在这块木板上伸展四肢时我有多么高兴。当时还朦朦胧胧的四壁听我唱的那种歌，故乡的群山从未听过。
“我活得愉快，死得高兴。踏上小船之前，我终于抛掉了那可恶的小盒子、口袋和猎枪，以前我总是自豪地带着它们。我迅速套上尸衣，就像一个姑娘穿她的嫁衣。我躺在这上面等着，后来就发生了那件不幸的事。”
“可真倒霉。”市长像是抵挡着什么抬起手说，“对此您就没有一点过失？”
“没有。”猎人说，“我曾是个猎人，这能算一种过失？我是黑森林的猎人，当时那里还有狼。我潜伏起来，开枪射击，击中猎物，剥下猎物的皮，这也算一种过失？我做这些是受过祝福的。‘黑森林伟大的猎手’就是我。这也是一种过失？”
“我没资格就此做出决断，”市长说，“不过我觉得过失不在于此。可到底是谁的过失呢？”
“是那个水手的。”猎人说，“谁也不会看到我将在这里写下的东西，没有人会来帮助我。假若帮助我成了一项任务，那么所有房子的所有门窗都将紧紧关闭，所有的人都将躺在床上，用被子蒙住头，一家夜间客栈即是整个世界。这样倒好了，因为谁也不会知道我，即使知道我也不会知道我的逗留地，即使知道我的逗留地，他们也知道不可能将我留在那里，他们不知道如何帮助我。要帮助我的想法是一种病，必须治愈才能下床。”
“对这些我一清二楚，因此我从不呼喊别人来救我，尽管我在某些无法自制的时候非常想这样做，比如现在。然而只要我环顾一下四周，具体想象一下我现在所呆的地方，几百年来一直居住的地方——大概我可以这样说——恐怕就足以打消这个念头了。”
“非同寻常，”市长说，“非同寻常。……您打算留在我们里瓦吗？”
“不想留。”猎人微笑着说。为了冲淡嘲讽的味道，他将手放在市长的膝头上。
“我现在在这里，除此之外我什么也不知道，除此之外我什么也不能做。我的小船没有舵，它靠从冥界最深的地方吹来的风行驶。”
[1] 布须曼人：非洲南部的土著人。
https://records.viu.ca/~Johnstoi/kafka/kafkatofc.htm
The Hunter Gracchus
Two boys were sitting on the wall by the jetty playing dice. A man was reading a newspaper on the steps of a monument in the shadow of a hero wielding a sabre. A young girl was filling her tub with water at a fountain. A fruit seller was lying close to his produce and looking out to sea. Through the empty openings of the door and window of a bar two men could be seen drinking wine in the back. The landlord was sitting at a table in the front dozing. A small boat glided lightly into the small harbour, as if it were being carried over the water. A man in a blue jacket climbed out onto land and pulled the ropes through the rings. Behind the man from the boat, two other men in dark coats with silver buttons carried a bier, on which, under a large silk scarf with a floral pattern and fringe, a person was obviously lying. No one bothered with the newcomers on the jetty, even when they set the bier down to wait for their helmsman, who was still working with the ropes. No one came up to them, no one asked them any questions, no one took a closer look at them.
The helmsman was further held up a little by a woman with disheveled hair, who now appeared on deck with a child at her breast. Then he moved on, pointing to a yellowish, two-story house which rose close by, directly on the left near the water. The bearers took up their load and carried it through the low door furnished with slender columns. A small boy opened a window, noticed immediately how the group was disappearing into the house, and quickly shut the window again. The door now closed, as well. It had been fashioned with care out of black oak wood. A flock of doves, which up to this point had been flying around the bell tower, came down in front of the house. The doves gathered before the door, as if their food was stored inside the house. One flew right up to the first floor and pecked at the window pane. They were brightly coloured, well cared for, lively animals. With a large sweep of her hand the woman threw some seeds towards them from the boat. They ate them up and then flew over to the woman.
A man in a top hat with a mourning ribbon came down one of the small, narrow, steeply descending lanes which led to the harbour. He looked around him attentively. Everything upset him. He winced at the sight of some garbage in a corner. There were fruit peels on the steps of the monument. As he went by, he pushed them off with his cane. He knocked on the door of the parlour, while at the same time taking off his top hat with his black-gloved right hand. It was opened immediately, and about fifty small boys, lined up in two rows in a long corridor, bowed to him.
The helmsman came down the stairs, welcomed the gentleman, and led him upstairs. On the first floor he accompanied him around the slight, delicately built balcony surrounding the courtyard, and, as the boys crowded behind them at a respectful distance, both men stepped into a large cool room at the back of the house. From it one could not see a facing house, only a bare gray-black rock wall. Those who had carried the bier were busy setting up and lighting some long candles at its head. But these provided no light. They only made the previously still shadows positively jump and flicker across the walls. The shawl was pulled back off the bier. On it lay a man with wildly unkempt hair and beard and a brown skin—he looked rather like a hunter. He lay there motionless, apparently without breathing, his eyes closed, although his surroundings were the only the only thing indicating that it could be a corpse.
The gentleman stepped over to the bier, laid a hand on the forehead of the man lying there, then knelt down and prayed. The helmsman gave a sign to the bearers to leave the room. They went out, drove away the boys who had gathered outside, and shut the door. The gentleman, however, was apparently still not satisfied with this stillness. He looked at the helmsman. The latter understood and went through a side door into the next room. The man on the bier immediately opened his eyes, turned his face with a painful smile towards the gentleman, and said, “Who are you?” Without any surprise, the gentleman got up from his kneeling position and answered, “The burgomaster of Riva.” The man on the bier nodded, pointed to a chair by stretching his arm out feebly, and then, after the burgomaster had accepted his invitation, said, “Yes, I knew that, Burgomaster, but in the first moments I’ve always forgotten it all—everything is going in circles around me, and it’s better for me to ask, even when I know everything. You also presumably know that I am the hunter Gracchus.”
“Of course,” said the burgomaster. “I received the news today, during the night. We had been sleeping for some time. Then around midnight my wife called, ‘Salvatore’—that’s my name—‘look at the dove at the window!’ It was really a dove, but as large as a rooster. It flew up to my ear and said, ‘Tomorrow the dead hunter Gracchus is coming. Welcome him in the name of the city.”
The hunter nodded and pushed the tip of his tongue between his lips. “Yes, the doves fly here before me. But do you believe, Burgomaster, that I am to remain in Riva?”
“That I cannot yet say,” answered the burgomaster. “Are you dead?”
“Yes,” said the hunter, “as you see. Many years ago—it must have been a great many years ago—I fell from a rock in the Black Forest—that’s in Germany—as I was tracking a chamois. Since then I’ve been dead.”
“But you’re also alive,” said the burgomaster.
“To a certain extent,” said the hunter, “to a certain extent I am also alive. My death boat lost its way—a wrong turn of the helm, a moment when the helmsman was not paying attention, a deviation through my wonderful homeland—I don’t know what it was. I only know that I remain on the earth and that since that time my boat has journeyed over earthly waters. So I—who only wanted to live in my own mountains—travel on after my death through all the countries of the earth.”
“And have you no share in the world beyond?” asked the burgomaster wrinkling his brow.
The hunter answered, “I am always on the immense staircase leading up to it. I roam around on this infinitely wide flight of steps, sometimes up, sometimes down, sometimes to the right, sometimes to the left, always in motion. From being a hunter I’ve become a butterfly. Don’t laugh.”
“I’m not laughing,” protested the burgomaster.
“That’s very considerate of you,” said the hunter. “I am always moving. But when I go through the greatest upward motion and the door is already shining right above me, I wake up on my old boat, still drearily stranded in some earthly stretch of water. The basic mistake of my earlier death smirks at me in my cabin. Julia, the wife of the helmsman, knocks and brings to me on the bier the morning drink of the country whose coast we are sailing by at the time. I lie on a wooden plank bed, wearing—I’m no delight to look at—a filthy shroud, my hair and beard, black and gray, are inextricably intertangled, my legs covered by a large silk women’s scarf, with a floral pattern and long fringes. At my head stands a church candle which illuminates me. On the wall opposite me is a small picture, evidently of a bushman aiming his spear at me and concealing himself as much as possible behind a splendidly painted shield. On board ship one comes across many stupid pictures, but this is one of the stupidest. Beyond that my wooden cage is completely empty. Through a hole in the side wall the warm air of the southern nights comes in, and I hear the water lapping against the old boat.
“I have been lying here since the time when I—the still living hunter Gracchus—was pursuing a chamois to its home in the Black Forest and fell. Everything took place as it should. I followed, fell down, bled to death in a ravine, was dead, and this boat was supposed to carry me to the other side. I still remember how happily I stretched myself out here on the planking for the first time. The mountains have never heart me singing the way these four still shadowy walls did then.
“I had been happy to be alive and was happy to be dead. Before I came on board, I gladly threw away my rag-tag collection of guns and bags, and the hunting rifle which I had always carried proudly, and slipped into the shroud like a young girl into her wedding dress. Here I lay down and waited. Then the accident happened.”
“A nasty fate,” said the burgomaster, raising his hand in a gesture of depreciation, “and you are not to blame for it in any way?”
“No,” said the hunter. “I was a hunter. Is there any blame in that? I was raised to be a hunter in the Black Forest, where at that time there were still wolves. I lay in wait, shot, hit the target, removed the skin—is there any blame in that? My work was blessed. ‘The great hunter of the Black Forest’—that’s what they called me. Is that something bad?”
“It not up to me to decide that,” said the burgomaster, “but it seems to me as well that there’s no blame there. But then who is to blame?”
“The boatswain,” said the hunter. “No one will read what I write here, no one will come to help me. If people were assigned the task of helping me, all the doors of all the houses would remain closed, all the windows would be shut, they would all lie in bed, with sheets thrown over their heads, the entire earth would be a hostel for the night. And that makes good sense, for no one knows of me, and if he did, he would have no idea of where I was staying, and if he knew that, he would still not know how to keep me there, and so he would not know how to help me. The thought of wanting to help me is a sickness and has to be cured with bed rest.
“I know that, and so I do not cry out to summon help, even if at moments—as I have no self-control, for example, right now—I do think about that very seriously. But to get rid of such ideas I need only look around and recall where I am and where—and this I can assert with full confidence—I have lived for centuries.”
“That’s extraordinary,” said the burgomaster, “extraordinary. And now are you intending to remain with us in Riva?”
“I have no intentions,” said the hunter with a smile and, to make up for his mocking tone, laid a hand on the burgomaster’s knee. “I am here. I don’t know any more than that. There’s nothing more I can do. My boat is without a helm—it journeys with the wind which blows in the deepest regions of death.”
（这个翻译真讨厌= =
猎人格拉胡斯
文/卡夫卡
译/周新建
码头的墙上，有两个男孩坐在上面掷骰子玩。那尊挥舞着战刀的英雄投下的阴影里，有一男子坐在纪念碑的台阶上在看报。井边有位姑娘正在往她的大木桶里灌水。一个水果商躺在他的货物旁，两眼望着湖面。透过门窗上无遮无掩的洞，可以看到小酒馆深处有两个男人在喝葡萄酒。店主坐在前面的一张桌子边打瞌睡。一只平底船仿佛被托在水面上，悄然飘进这个小港。一个穿蓝色套衫的男人跳上岸，将缆绳套进铁环。另有两个男人身着缀着银钮扣的深色外套，抬着一副尸架出现在水手身后，尸架上那块带鲜花图案和流苏的大丝单下面，分明躺着一个人。
码头上谁也不关心这些刚抵达的人，甚至当他们放下尸架等候还忙着系缆绳的船长时，也没人走近他们，谁也不问他们问题，谁也不仔细打量他们。
这时甲板上出现了一个头发松散怀抱孩子的女人，船长因为她又耽误了一阵儿。后来他过来了，他朝笔直竖在右手水边的一栋两层黄楼一指，抬尸架的人便抬起尸架，穿过了那道低矮但却是由细柱子构成的大门。一个小男孩打开了一扇窗户，正好看到这队人消失在那栋房子里，他又赶紧关上了窗户。连大门现在也关上了，它是用深色橡木精心装修的。在此之前，一群鸽子一直在围着钟楼飞，现在它们落在了那栋楼房前面。仿佛它们的食物存放在屋里，鸽子全挤在大门口。一只鸽子飞上二楼，啄着窗户玻璃。这些浅色羽毛的动物机灵活泼，养得很好。那女人兴冲冲地从甲板上朝它们抛撒着谷粒。它们啄起谷粒，然后朝女人那边飞去。
有好几条又窄又陡的小巷通向港口，一个头戴大礼帽臂带黑纱的男人顺着其中的一条走了下来。他细心打量着四周，什么他都操心，看到一个角落里堆放的垃圾，他的脸都变了样儿。纪念碑的台阶上扔着些水果皮，他路过时顺手用手杖把它们挑了下去。他敲了敲房门，同时摘下大礼帽拿在戴着黑手套的右手里。门立刻开了，大约五十个小男孩在长长的走廊里夹道而立，行着鞠躬礼。
船长从楼梯走下来迎接这位先生，领着他上楼。到了二楼，他带着他绕过一个由简单小巧的敞廊围成的院子。孩子们敬畏地隔着一段距离拥在后面，他俩却走进了顶后头的一间凉爽的大厅，这栋房子对面再没有别的房子，只能看到一堵光秃秃的灰黑色岩壁。抬尸架的人正忙着在尸架上首摆放几支长蜡烛并点燃它们。然而这并没有带来亮光，只有酣睡的黑影被惊醒了，摇着晃着跳上四壁。丝绸单子已从尸架上揭开。一个男人躺在那里，头发胡须乱成一团，肤色黝黑，看样子是个猎人。他躺着一动不动，双眼紧闭，好像不喘气了。
尽管如此，也只有周围的环境表明，他可能是个死人。
那位先生走向尸架，将一只手放在躺在那里的人的额头上，然后双膝跪下祈祷起来。船长示意抬尸架的人离开这间屋子，他们走出去，赶开聚在门外的小男孩，然后关上了门。可那位先生似乎觉得这种寂静还是不够，他望着船长，船长明白了他的意思，从一个侧门走进了隔壁房间。尸架上的人立刻睁开了眼睛，露着痛苦的微笑将脸转向那位先生说：
“你是谁？”
跪着的先生并不惊奇地站起来答道：“里瓦市长。”
尸架上的人点了点头，软弱无力地伸出胳膊指着一把扶手椅，待市长顺从他的邀请坐到椅子上后，他说：
“这我以前知道，市长先生，可我总是立刻就把一切忘得干干净净，一切都在和我兜圈子。最好还是由我来问，尽管什么我都知道。您大概也知道，我是猎人格拉库斯。”
“毫无疑问，”市长说，“关于您的事是昨天夜里告诉我的。当时我们早已睡下。午夜时分我妻子喊道：‘萨尔瓦托尔’——这是我的名字——‘快看窗边的那只鸽子！’那的确是只鸽子，不过大得像只公鸡。它飞到我耳边说：‘已故猎人格拉库斯明天要来，请以本市的名义接待他。’”
猎人点了点头，舌尖在双唇间闪了一下：“是的，那些鸽子是在我之前飞来的。不过市长先生，您认为我该留在里瓦吗？”
“这我还说不上来。”市长回答说。
“您死了吗？”
“不错，”猎人说，“正像您是一个所看到的。那还是很多年以前，不过这很多年肯定是个大数目，在黑森林，那是在德国，在追一只岩羊时，我从一块岩石上摔了下来。从那时起我就死了。”
“可您也还活着。”市长说。
“在某种程度上，”猎人说，“在某种程度上说我也还活着。我的死亡之舟行错了航线，一次错误的转舵，船长走神的那一瞬，我那美丽的故乡的吸引力，我不知道那到底是什么，我只知道，我依旧留在这世上，我那小舟从此就行驶在尘世的水域里。我就这样漫游着，本来只想住在自己山里的我，死后却遍游世间各国。”
“您有一半在那个世界上吧？”市长皱起眉头问。
猎人答道：“我总是在一个通往高处的巨型台阶上。在这广阔无涯的露台阶上，我到处游荡，一会儿在上边，一会儿在下边，一会儿在右边，一会儿在左边，永远处在运动之中。
猎人已经变成一只蝴蝶。您别笑。”
“我没笑。”市长辩解说。
“非常明智。”猎人说，“我总是处在运动中。可就在我最振奋时，就在高处那座大门已经朝我闪闪发光时，我却在我那只寂寞地滞留在尘世某一水域里的旧船上醒了过来。当年我死亡时犯下的原则性错误在船舱里不住在嘲笑我。尤莉亚，就是船长的妻子，敲了敲门，将早晨的饮料给我送到尸架旁，那是我们正沿其海岸航行的那个国家早晨用的饮料。
“我躺在一块木板上——观赏我可不是一种享受，身穿一件肮脏的尸衣，灰白色的头发胡子乱得梳都梳不开，腿上盖着一块带花卉图案和长流苏的披巾。靠头这边竖着根教堂里用的蜡烛照着我。我对面墙上有幅小画，画的显然是一个布须曼人[1]，他用一根投枪瞄着我，并尽量隐蔽在一块画得极美的盾牌后面。乘船时人们总会碰到一些愚蠢的画，而这幅则是最愚蠢的之一。除此之外，我那木笼子里空空荡荡。侧面的一个舱口吹进温暖的夜南风，我听见浪花在拍打着那条破旧的平底船。
“前猎人格拉库斯在故乡黑森林追猎一只岩羊时摔了下来，打那以后我就一直躺在这上面。整个过程有条不紊。我追猎，失身摔下去，在一个山谷里流尽了血，成了死人，那条平底船本该将我送往冥界。我还记得，第一次在这块木板上伸展四肢时我有多么高兴。当时还朦朦胧胧的四壁听我唱的那种歌，故乡的群山从未听过。
“我活得愉快，死得高兴。踏上小船之前，我终于抛掉了那可恶的小盒子、口袋和猎枪，以前我总是自豪地带着它们。我迅速套上尸衣，就像一个姑娘穿她的嫁衣。我躺在这上面等着，后来就发生了那件不幸的事。”
“可真倒霉。”市长像是抵挡着什么抬起手说，“对此您就没有一点过失？”
“没有。”猎人说，“我曾是个猎人，这能算一种过失？我是黑森林的猎人，当时那里还有狼。我潜伏起来，开枪射击，击中猎物，剥下猎物的皮，这也算一种过失？我做这些是受过祝福的。‘黑森林伟大的猎手’就是我。这也是一种过失？”
“我没资格就此做出决断，”市长说，“不过我觉得过失不在于此。可到底是谁的过失呢？”
“是那个水手的。”猎人说，“谁也不会看到我将在这里写下的东西，没有人会来帮助我。假若帮助我成了一项任务，那么所有房子的所有门窗都将紧紧关闭，所有的人都将躺在床上，用被子蒙住头，一家夜间客栈即是整个世界。这样倒好了，因为谁也不会知道我，即使知道我也不会知道我的逗留地，即使知道我的逗留地，他们也知道不可能将我留在那里，他们不知道如何帮助我。要帮助我的想法是一种病，必须治愈才能下床。”
“对这些我一清二楚，因此我从不呼喊别人来救我，尽管我在某些无法自制的时候非常想这样做，比如现在。然而只要我环顾一下四周，具体想象一下我现在所呆的地方，几百年来一直居住的地方——大概我可以这样说——恐怕就足以打消这个念头了。”
“非同寻常，”市长说，“非同寻常。……您打算留在我们里瓦吗？”
“不想留。”猎人微笑着说。为了冲淡嘲讽的味道，他将手放在市长的膝头上。
“我现在在这里，除此之外我什么也不知道，除此之外我什么也不能做。我的小船没有舵，它靠从冥界最深的地方吹来的风行驶。”
[1] 布须曼人：非洲南部的土著人。
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Delius 赞了这篇日记 2017-02-17 20:01:25
