讀點(diǎn)好英文:Westminster Abbey 西敏大寺

Westminster Abbey 西敏大寺

Washington Irving

On one of those sober and rather melancholy days, in the latter part of Autumn, when the shadows of morning and evening almost mingle together, and throw a gloom over the decline of the year, I passed several hours in rambling about Westminster Abbey. There was something congenial to the season in the mournful magnificence of the old pile; and, as I passed its threshold, seemed like stepping back into the regions of antiquity, and losing myself among the shades of former ages.

I entered from the inner court of Westminster School, through a long, low, vaulted passage, that had an almost subterranean look, being dimly lighted in one part by circular perforations in the massive walls. Through this dark avenue I had a distant view of the cloisters, with the figure of an old verger, in his black gown, moving along their shadowy vaults, and seeming like a spectre from one of the neighboring tombs. The approach to the abbey through these gloomy monastic remains prepares the mind for its solemn contemplation. The cloisters still retain something of the quiet and seclusion of former days. The gray walls are discolored by damps, and crumbling with age; a coat of hoary moss has gathered over the inscriptions of the mural monuments, and obscured the death's—heads, and other funereal emblems. The sharp touches of the chisel are gone from the rich tracery of the arches; the roses which adorned the key-stones have lost their leafy beauty; everything bears marks of the gradual dilapidations of time, which yet has something touching and pleasing in its very decay.

The sun was pouring down a yellow autumnal ray into the square of the cloisters; beaming upon a scanty plot of grass in the center, and lighting up an angle of the vaulted passage with a kind of dusky splendor. From between the arcades, the eye glanced up to a bit of blue sky or a passing cloud, and beheld the sungilt pinnacles of the abbey towering into the azure heaven.

As I paced the cloisters, sometimes contemplating this mingled picture of glory and decay, and sometimes endeavoring to decipher the inscriptions on the tombstones, which formed the pavement beneath my feet, my eye was attracted to three figures, rudely carved in relief, but nearly worn away by the footsteps of many generations. They were the effigies of three of the early abbots; the epitaphs were entirely effaced; the names alone remained, having no doubt been renewed in later times. (Vitalis. Abbas. 1082, and, Gislebert us Crispinus. Abbas. 1114, and Laurentius. Abbas. 1176.) I remained some little while, musing over these casual relics of antiquity, thus left like wrecks upon this distant shore of time, telling no tale but that such beings had been, and had perished; teaching no moral but the futility of that pride which hopes still to exact homage in its ashes and to live in an inscription. A little longer, and even these faint records will be obliterated, and the monument will cease to be a memorial. Whilst I was yet looking down upon these gravestones, I was roused by the sound of the abbey clock, reverberating from buttress to buttress, and echoing among the cloisters. It is almost startling to hear this warning of departed time sounding among the tombs, and telling the lapse of the hour, which, like a billow, has rolled us onward towards the grave. I pursued my walk to an arched door opening to the interior of the abbey. On entering here, the magnitude of the building breaks fully upon the mind, contrasted with the vaults of the cloisters. The eyes gaze with wonder at clustered columns of gigantic dimensions, with arches springing from mem to such an amazing height; and man wandering about their bases, shrunk into insignificance in comparison with his own hand work. The spaciousness and gloom of this vast edifice produce a profound and mysterious awe. We step cautiously and softly about, as if fearful of disturbing the hallowed silence of the tomb; while every football whispers along the walls, and chatters among the sepulchers, making us more sensible of the quiet we have interrupted.

It seems as if the awful nature of the place presses down upon the soul, and hushes the beholder into noiseless reverence. We feel that we are surrounded by the congregated bones of the great men of past times, who have filled history with their deeds, and the earth with their renown.

And yet it almost provokes a smile at the vanity of human ambition, to see how they are crowded together and jostled in the dust; what parsimony is observed in doling out a scanty nook, a gloomy corner, a little portion of earth, to those, whom, when alive, kingdoms could not satisfy; and how many shapes, and forms, and artifices are devised to catch the casual notice of the passenger, and save from forgetfulness, for a few short years, a name which once aspired to occupy ages of the world's thought and admiration.

...

I continued in this way to move from tomb to tomb, and from chapel to chapel. The day was gradually wearing away; the distant tread of loiterers about the abbey grew less and less frequent; the sweet-tongued bell was summoning to evening prayers; and I saw at a distance the choristers, in their white surplices, crossing the aisle and entering the choir. I stood before the entrance to Henry the Seventh's chapel. A flight of steps lead up to it, through a deep and gloomy, but magnificent arch. Great gates of brass, richly and delicately wrought, turn heavily upon their hinges, as if proudly reluctant to admit the feet of common mortals into this most gorgeous of sepulchres.

On entering, the eye is astonished by the pomp of architecture, and the elaborate beauty of sculptured detail. The very walls are wrought into universal ornament, incrusted with tracery, and scooped into niches, crowded with the statutes of saints and martyrs. Stone seems, by the cunning labor of the chisel, to have been robbed of its weight and density, suspended aloft, as if by magic, and the fretted roof achieved with the wonderful minuteness and airy security of a cobweb.

Along the sides of the chapel are the lofty stalls of the Knights of the Bath, richly carved of oak, though with the grotesque decorations of Gothic architecture. On the pinnacles of the stalls are affixed the helmets and crests of the knights, with their scarfs and swords; and above them are suspended their banners, emblazoned with armorial bearings, and contrasting the splendor of gold and purple and crimson with the cold gray fretwork of the roof. In the midst of this grand mausoleum stands the sepulchre of its founder—his effigy, with that of his queen, extended on a sumptuous tomb, and the whole surrounded by a superbly wrought brazen railing.

There is a sad dreariness in this magnificence: this strange mixture of tombs and trophies; these emblems of living and aspiring ambition, close beside mementos which show the dust and oblivion in which all must sooner or later terminate. Nothing impresses the mind with a deeper feeling of loneliness than to tread the silent and deserted scene of former throng and pageant. On looking round on the vacant stalls of the knights and their esquires, and on the rows of dusty but gorgeous banners that were once born before them, my imagination conjured up the scene when this hall was bright with the valor and beauty of the land; glittering with the splendor of jeweled rank and military array; alive with the tread of many feet and the hum of an admiring multitude. All had passed away; the silence of death had settled again upon the which had found their way into the chapel, and built their nests among its friezes and pendants—sure sign of solitariness and desertion.

When I read the names inscribed on the banners, they were those of men scattered far and wide about the world; some tossing upon distant seas; some under arms in distant lands; same mingling in the busy intrigues of courts and cabinets; all seeking to deserve one more distinction in this mansion of shadowy honors: the melancholy reward of a monument.

Two small aisles on each side of this chapel present a touching instance of the equality of the graves; which brings down the oppressor to a level with the oppressed, and mingles the dust of the bitterest enemies together. In one is the sepulchre of the haughty Elizabeth; in the other is that of her victim, the lovely and unfortunate Mary. Not an hour in the day but some ejaculation of pity is uttered over the fate of the latter, mingled with indignation at her oppressor. The walls of Elizabeth's sepulchre continually echo with the sighs of sympathy heaved at the grave of her rival.

A peculiar melancholy reigns over the aisle where Mary lies buried. The light struggles dimly through windows darkened by dust. The greater part of the place is in deep shadow, and the walls are stained and tinted by time and weather. A marble figure of Mary is stretched upon the tomb, round which is an iron railing, much corroded, bearing her national emblem—the thistle. I was weary with wandering, and sat down to rest myself by the monument, revolving in my mind the checked and disastrous story of poor Mary.

The sound of casual footsteps had ceased from the abbey. I could only hear, now and then, the distant voice of the priest repeating the evening service, and the faint responses of the choir, these paused for a time, and all was hushed. The stillness, the desertion and obscurity that were gradually prevailing around, gave a deeper and more solemn interest to the place.

For in the silent grave no conversation,

No joyful tread of friends, no voice of lovers,

No careful father's counsel—nothing's heard,

For nothing is, but all oblivion,

Dust and an endless darkness.

西敏大寺

［美］華盛頓·歐文

正值深秋時(shí)節(jié)，這種天氣讓人感覺(jué)莊重而抑郁，早晨的陰影幾乎和傍晚相互連接，給這歲末的幽情更加籠罩了一層灰蒙蒙的色彩。就是在這樣一天，我一個(gè)人在西敏大寺走了幾個(gè)小時(shí)。在這古老的建筑群中，有一種凄涼的感覺(jué)剛好與這個(gè)季節(jié)的色調(diào)相吻合；我跨進(jìn)門(mén)檻，似乎一腳邁進(jìn)了古老的年代，將自己融入到那些前人的陰影當(dāng)中。

我是從西敏學(xué)校的內(nèi)庭進(jìn)去的，穿過(guò)一條低矮的有著弧頂?shù)拈L(zhǎng)廊，感覺(jué)像是在地下室。周?chē)呛窈竦膲Ρ?，只有墻上的小孔透出絲絲光亮，反而顯得這里更加幽暗了。穿過(guò)這條長(zhǎng)廊，我可以遠(yuǎn)遠(yuǎn)地看見(jiàn)前方的拱廊；一個(gè)上了年紀(jì)的教堂司事，身著黑色長(zhǎng)袍，正從陰影里走過(guò)，那模樣就像是一個(gè)剛剛從附近墓中爬出來(lái)的幽靈。這條路正是古修道院的遺址，景色分外凄涼，我的頭腦也因此陷入了莊嚴(yán)的沉思默想之中。這條道路一如既往地寂靜，與世隔絕?；疑膲Ρ谝?yàn)槭艿匠睗窨諝獾那治g，早已褪了色，而且由于年代久遠(yuǎn)，也逐漸呈現(xiàn)出崩潰的跡象。墻壁上覆蓋了一層灰白的苔蘚，讓人無(wú)法辨認(rèn)清楚上面的碑文、骷髏像和各種喪葬的標(biāo)識(shí)。弧頂上本來(lái)雕刻有華麗富貴的花紋，可如今早已不見(jiàn)了那些斧鑿的痕跡；當(dāng)年拱形石上枝繁葉茂的玫瑰花也不見(jiàn)了昔日的風(fēng)采。這里所有的事物都刻上了歲月流逝的痕跡，然而就是在這樣的頹廢之中，依然有一種讓人怦然心動(dòng)、歡喜愉悅的感覺(jué)。

一道秋意綿綿的金色陽(yáng)光從拱廊的方場(chǎng)上空傾瀉下來(lái)，照耀著場(chǎng)上稀稀拉拉的小草，也給拱廊的一角披上一層陰郁的光線。從拱廊中間抬頭遠(yuǎn)望，可以看見(jiàn)一小片藍(lán)天或時(shí)不時(shí)飄過(guò)的白云，還有那鋪灑了金子般陽(yáng)光的塔尖，正筆直地向藍(lán)天延伸。

我緩慢地走在拱廊上，時(shí)而思索著這融合了輝煌與頹敗的景象，時(shí)而又力求辨析我腳下墓石上的碑文。這時(shí)，三座雕塑工藝粗糙的浮像吸引了我的眼光，經(jīng)過(guò)幾代人在上面來(lái)來(lái)回回地行踏，它們幾乎很難辨認(rèn)清楚了。這是這座寺院早期三位住持的浮像，上面的墓志銘已經(jīng)全被磨掉了，只剩下三個(gè)名字，很明顯這也是由后人重新修整了的。（泰里斯住持，1082年；吉斯勃塔斯·克里斯賓諾斯住持，1114年；勞倫地奧斯住持，1176年。）我在這里停留片刻，默默地看著這些殘缺不全的古人遺跡。它們就像幾艘拋錨了的破船，停靠在悠悠歲月的岸邊，唯一能說(shuō)給人們聽(tīng)的就是這幾個(gè)人曾經(jīng)活著，而現(xiàn)在已經(jīng)不復(fù)存在了。它們所蘊(yùn)涵的道德意義不過(guò)是告誡那些企圖死后還想受人敬仰的人，要依靠墓志銘得以永生簡(jiǎn)直是癡心妄想。再過(guò)些時(shí)日，甚至連這些模糊不清的記錄都將消失，而所謂的紀(jì)念碑也不再是什么紀(jì)念物了。就在我俯視這些墓碑時(shí)，突然被大寺的鐘聲喚醒。鐘聲在墻壁之間回蕩，剎那間整個(gè)拱廊都產(chǎn)生共鳴。從墳?zāi)估飩鞒鰜?lái)的鐘聲，真是讓人不寒而栗，它向人們提醒時(shí)光的消逝，好似巨大的浪潮，不斷地把我們推向墳?zāi)?。我繼續(xù)向前走，到達(dá)了一扇通向大寺里面的拱門(mén)前面。走進(jìn)大門(mén)，只見(jiàn)在拱門(mén)的襯托下，里面的建筑物顯得更加雄偉壯麗。我瞪大了雙眼看著那一根根巨大的圓柱，圓柱上橫架著一支支拱梁，它們這么高，真讓人驚嘆不已。站在柱腳下，人們不禁會(huì)想到，與人類(lèi)自己的建筑比起來(lái)，人類(lèi)自己的確是無(wú)足輕重。這座空曠幽暗的大寺，頓時(shí)讓人產(chǎn)生一種神秘的敬畏之情。我們小心謹(jǐn)慎輕輕地走過(guò)，生怕打破了墓地的肅靜；而每一次四周的墻壁傳出腳步聲時(shí)，墳?zāi)归g也作出了低沉的回應(yīng)，我們也更加深刻地體會(huì)到四周的寧?kù)o，只是此時(shí)的寧?kù)o卻被我們破壞了。

也許是寺院本身莊嚴(yán)肅穆的特性壓抑著游客的心靈，使我們大家都肅然起敬，并且壓低了所有的聲音。我們感覺(jué)周身都被古代偉人的遺骸包圍著，他們的豐功偉績(jī)滿(mǎn)載史冊(cè)，聲名遍譽(yù)世界。

但是，想到人類(lèi)所謂的宏偉抱負(fù)到頭來(lái)不過(guò)是虛幻一場(chǎng)，我不禁要嘲笑他們：如今這些英雄七零八散地?fù)頂D在這塵土之中，想當(dāng)初他們?cè)谑罆r(shí)，整個(gè)帝國(guó)都不曾令他們心滿(mǎn)意足，而死后卻只是在這個(gè)吝嗇的地方里的一個(gè)陰暗角落，分得了一點(diǎn)點(diǎn)貧瘠的土地，過(guò)去他們?cè)噲D讓人們永遠(yuǎn)銘記他們的名字并世世代代瞻仰他們，可如今人們卻在他們的墳?zāi)股舷敕皆O(shè)法地雕刻出各種形狀和花紋——而這么做只是為了吸引游客們不經(jīng)意瞥來(lái)的目光，免得人們過(guò)不了幾年就把他們當(dāng)年顯赫一時(shí)的名字拋之腦后了。

我仍然順著這條路走過(guò)一座座墳?zāi)梗凰Y拜堂。天色慢慢地暗了下來(lái)，從遠(yuǎn)處傳來(lái)的游客的腳步聲也越來(lái)越稀少了。動(dòng)聽(tīng)的鈴聲提醒著人們作晚禱告的時(shí)間到了，遠(yuǎn)遠(yuǎn)地我就能看見(jiàn)唱詩(shī)班的人們穿著白色的法衣穿過(guò)走廊紛紛就位。我站在亨利七世禮拜堂的入口處，大堂前有幾層臺(tái)階，然后要穿過(guò)一道很長(zhǎng)的有些昏暗但很雄偉的拱門(mén)。巨大的銅制大門(mén)上雕滿(mǎn)了精細(xì)華麗的花紋，門(mén)上的鉸鏈發(fā)出沉重的響聲，一副傲氣十足的樣子，似乎是不讓這些凡夫俗子進(jìn)入這最豪華的靈堂。

進(jìn)入大堂內(nèi)，里面華麗的建筑和精美的雕刻簡(jiǎn)直讓人目不暇接。大墻上每一個(gè)地方都布滿(mǎn)了精巧的裝飾，里面鑲嵌著雕花窗格，拼成一座座的壁龕，里面塞滿(mǎn)了圣人和殉難者的雕像。爐火純青的雕琢技術(shù)把石頭雕刻得仿佛失去了它本來(lái)的重量和密度，像被施了魔法似地吊在半空中。還有那屋頂，裝飾著無(wú)比精巧美麗的花紋，好像是一張無(wú)比牢固不能被破壞的蛛網(wǎng)那樣懸在半空中。

在禮拜堂的兩側(cè)，設(shè)有巴斯武士高大的坐席，全部用橡木雕琢得富貴華麗，上面還有哥特式建筑的怪異裝飾。武士的頭盔、綬帶和佩劍被擺放在坐席的頂端上。在這些物品的上方懸掛著武士的旗幟，上面裝飾著紋章，這些金色、紫色和大紅色耀眼奪目，與精雕細(xì)鑿的灰暗屋頂形成鮮明的對(duì)比。在這個(gè)宏偉大廳的正中間，就是這座陵墓的主人——亨利七世的墳?zāi)梗突屎蟮牡裣裉稍谝粔K豪華的墓石上，周?chē)h(huán)繞著鑄煉精細(xì)的黃銅柵欄。

在這種奢華瑰麗的氣氛中，卻讓人有種沉悶壓抑的感覺(jué)，這是一個(gè)把墳?zāi)购蛻?zhàn)利品混合在一起的怪異場(chǎng)合，這些標(biāo)志象征著朝氣蓬勃和雄心壯志，如今卻被擺放在滿(mǎn)是灰塵和被人遺忘的紀(jì)念物中間，而所有的一切最終也會(huì)消逝在這些塵埃和遺忘之中。走在這個(gè)曾經(jīng)熱鬧繁華而如今孤寂蒼涼的地方，頭腦中涌起一種無(wú)法言說(shuō)的落寞感受。環(huán)視周?chē)涫亢退麄兊氖虖膫兛湛杖缫驳淖唬粗h揚(yáng)在他們面前的一排排布滿(mǎn)了灰塵卻依然錦繡華麗的軍旗，我不禁想象起昔日的盛況：全國(guó)上下的英雄和美人都云集在這寬敞明亮的大廳里，這里因?yàn)橛辛诉@些珠光寶氣的仕女和英武的武士行列而璀璨生輝；不絕于耳的腳步聲和贊揚(yáng)聲在整個(gè)大廳回蕩。而這一切突然就消失不見(jiàn)了，重新恢復(fù)了這死氣沉沉的寂靜，偶爾會(huì)有幾聲小鳥(niǎo)的鳴叫作為一點(diǎn)小插曲。連鳥(niǎo)兒都駐扎了這所禮拜堂，并把它們的巢穴建造在梁柱之間——由此可見(jiàn)，這里是多么的荒涼和寂寞。

我讀著旗子上刺繡的人名，這些人曾經(jīng)被派駐在各個(gè)地方，有的遠(yuǎn)渡重洋，有的征戰(zhàn)他鄉(xiāng)，有的在宮廷與內(nèi)閣的陰謀中糾纏，他們有個(gè)共同的愿望就是，使自己的名聲在這所陰暗的墓堂中得到更多的表彰——也就是一塊陰郁的紀(jì)念碑。

在禮拜堂的兩側(cè)設(shè)有小型的側(cè)堂——這樣做的目的是為了明示這座墓地的平等觀念：它把壓迫者和被壓迫者放在同一個(gè)地位，讓世代宿敵的遺骸相聚在一起。其中的一個(gè)側(cè)堂是那位傲慢的伊麗莎白之墓，而另外一個(gè)則是那可愛(ài)又可憐的被她殺死了的瑪麗之墓。對(duì)于后者，每一天里的每個(gè)時(shí)刻都會(huì)有人來(lái)悲憐嘆息她凄慘的命運(yùn)，在這聲聲嘆息中也包含了對(duì)前者悲憤的感情。于是，在伊麗莎白墓地周?chē)膲Ρ谏暇徒?jīng)?；厥幹藗兺楝旣惖穆曇?。

一種怪異陰郁的氣氛籠罩在埋葬著瑪麗的那個(gè)側(cè)堂之上。陽(yáng)光透過(guò)布滿(mǎn)灰塵的窗戶(hù)照射進(jìn)來(lái)，一切都是這么幽暗，大部分的地方都被深深的陰影覆蓋著，歲月和氣候在墻壁上留下了痕跡。一座瑪麗的大理石雕像躺在碑石上面，四周的鐵柵欄銹跡斑斑，上面還雕刻著她的國(guó)徽——蘇格蘭的薊花。我已經(jīng)走得有點(diǎn)累了，于是坐在紀(jì)念碑下歇息，腦海里便不由自主地想起瑪麗坎坷不幸的一生。

?寺院里零零碎碎的腳步聲漸漸地消失了。我的耳邊偶爾傳來(lái)遠(yuǎn)處修士們進(jìn)行晚禱的聲音和唱詩(shī)班輕柔的應(yīng)答聲。當(dāng)所有這些聲音都靜息后，整個(gè)大寺也沉靜下來(lái)了。平靜、荒涼和幽暗慢慢地靠近，使人們對(duì)這個(gè)地方產(chǎn)生了一種更加深邃和莊嚴(yán)的感情。

在寂靜的墓地里沒(méi)有說(shuō)話的聲音，

沒(méi)有朋友們輕快的腳步聲，沒(méi)有情侶們呼喚的聲音，

也沒(méi)有細(xì)心的父親忠誠(chéng)的告誡——什么都聽(tīng)不到，

因?yàn)橐磺卸际翘摕o(wú)，一切都被遺忘，

只有塵土和無(wú)邊無(wú)際的黑暗。

實(shí)戰(zhàn)提升

Practising & Exercise

導(dǎo)讀

華盛頓·歐文（Washington Irving），美國(guó)著名作家，也是19世紀(jì)最偉大的美國(guó)散文家之一。歐文從少年時(shí)代起就喜愛(ài)閱讀司各特、拜倫和彭斯等人的作品。中學(xué)畢業(yè)后，他遵從父命在律師事務(wù)所學(xué)習(xí)法律，但他的志趣卻在文學(xué)方面。《見(jiàn)聞札記》是歐文的代表作。1859年歐文與世長(zhǎng)辭。美國(guó)人民為了懷念這位在文學(xué)方面做出突出貢獻(xiàn)的作家，在紐約降半旗致哀。他的許多優(yōu)秀作品則被人們傳誦至今，成為珍貴的文學(xué)遺產(chǎn)。他本人更被尊稱(chēng)為“美國(guó)文學(xué)之父”。

此文是華盛頓·歐文生平最得意的文章之一。歐文的文筆可謂獨(dú)樹(shù)一幟、溫雅可愛(ài)、感情充沛。文中闡述了作者對(duì)文人地位的反思，文章感人至深，最能體現(xiàn)作者的性情。

核心單詞

sober [?s?ub?] adj. 認(rèn)真的；嚴(yán)肅的，持重的

monastic [m??n?stik] adj. 修道院的；修道士的

tracery [?treis?ri] n. 【建】（哥特式建筑）花飾窗格

cloister [?kl?ist?] n. 回廊

abbot [??b?t] n. 男修道院院長(zhǎng)；大寺院男住持

antiquity [?n?tikwiti] n. 古，古代

martyr [?mɑ?t?] n. 烈士，殉難者

effigy [?efi?i] n. 肖像；模擬像

翻譯

It seems as if the awful nature of the place presses down upon the soul, and hushes the beholder into noiseless reverence.

Nothing impresses the mind with a deeper feeling of loneliness than to tread the silent and deserted scene of former throng and pageant.