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【导读】E. B. 怀特（1899—1985），美国当代著名小说家、散文家，《纽约客》（The New Yorker）专职撰稿人。1971年获美国“国家文学奖章”，1978年获普利策特别文艺奖，代表作《夏洛的网》（Charlotte’s Web，1952）、《精灵鼠小弟》（Stuart Little，1945）等。
本文节选自怀特1942年出版的散文集《人各有异》（One Man’s Meat）中的“再度游湖”（Once More to the Lake）一文。在文中，怀特回忆了自己8月盛夏带儿子重返缅因游湖的经历，并重温了自己儿时父亲带他夏日游湖的快乐记忆。除了描写盛夏的湖光山色，怀特还刻画了人们的夏日生活，有烈日下钓鱼、喝汽水、看海龟、喂鲈鱼的悠闲，也有燥热的夜晚难以入眠的苦恼，还有雷阵雨中游泳嬉戏的畅快。夏日里似曾相识的炎热与激情，使怀特将自己幼时与父亲的游湖经历和现在带儿子游湖的经历交织在了一起，这不仅是怀特对往昔歲月的追忆，也是他对亲情的深刻感悟。
Summertime， oh summertime， pattern of life indelible1， the fade- proof lake， the woods unshatterable， the pasture with the sweet fern and the juniper forever and ever， summer without end; this was the background， and the life along the shore was the design， the cottages with their innocent and tranquil design， their tiny docks with the flagpole and the American flag floating against the white clouds in the blue sky， the little paths over the roots of the trees leading from camp to camp and the paths leading back to the outhouses and the can of lime for sprinkling， and at the souvenir counters at the store the miniature birch-bark canoes and the post cards that showed things looking a little better than they looked. This was the American family at play， escaping the city heat， wondering whether the newcomers at the camp at the head of the cove were “common” or “nice，” wondering whether it was true that the people who drove up for Sunday dinner at the farmhouse were turned away because there wasn’t enough chicken.
We had a good week at the camp. The bass were biting well and the sun shone endlessly， day after day. We would be tired at night and lie down in the accumulated heat of the little bedrooms after the long hot day and the breeze would stir almost imperceptibly outside and the smell of the swamp drift in through the rusty screens. Sleep would come easily and in the morning the red squirrel would be on the roof， tapping out his gay routine. I kept remembering everything， lying in bed in the mornings—the small steamboat that had a long rounded stern like the lip of a Ubangi2， and how quietly she ran on the moonlight sails， when the older boys played their mandolins and the girls sang and we ate doughnuts dipped in sugar， and how sweet the music was on the water in the shining night， and what it had felt like to think about girls then.
After breakfast we would go up to the store and the things were in the same place—the minnows3 in a bottle， the plugs and spinners disarranged and pawed over by the youngsters from the boys’ camp， the fig newtons and the Beeman’s gum. Outside， the road was tarred and cars stood in front of the store. Inside， all was just as it had always been， except there was more Coca Cola and not so much Moxie and root beer and birch beer and sarsaparilla. We would walk out with a bottle of pop apiece and sometimes the pop would backfire up our noses and hurt. We explored the streams， quietly， where the turtles slid off the sunny logs and dug their way into the soft bottom; and we lay on the town wharf and fed worms to the tame bass. Everywhere we went I had trouble making out which was I， the one walking at my side， the one walking in my pants. One afternoon while we were there at that lake a thunderstorm came up. It was like the revival of an old melodrama that I had seen long ago with childish awe. The second-act climax of the drama of the electrical disturbance over a lake in America had not changed in any important respect. This was the big scene， still the big scene. The whole thing was so familiar， the first feeling of oppression and heat and a general air around camp of not wanting to go very far away. In mid-afternoon （it was all the same） a curious darkening of the sky， and a lull in everything that had made life tick; and then the way the boats suddenly swung the other way at their moorings with the coming of a breeze out of the new quarter， and the premonitory rumble. Then the kettle drum， then the snare， then the bass drum and cymbals， then crackling light against the dark， and the gods grinning and licking their chops in the hills. Afterward the calm， the rain steadily rustling in the calm lake， the return of light and hope and spirits， and the campers running out in joy and relief to go swimming in the rain， their bright cries perpetuating the deathless joke about how they were getting simply drenched， and the children screaming with delight at the new sensation of bathing in the rain， and the joke about getting drenched linking the generations in a strong indestructible chain. And the comedian who waded in carrying an umbrella.
夏日啊夏日，那生命中難以磨灭的印记，永远满湖清波，树木挺拔，草场遍布甜蕨和杜松，夏日仿佛永远不会结束。在这样的湖光山色中，湖滨沿岸的生活就成了别出心裁的设计，湖边小屋纯朴而宁静。小小的码头上立着旗杆，美国国旗在蓝天白云下迎风飘扬。小径跨越一个个树根，通向一座座营地，又折回户外厕所和用于喷洒的石灰罐。商店的纪念品柜台上摆放着桦树皮独木舟的微缩模型，还有明信片，明信片上的景物比实物看起来略好些。美国人会逃离城市的暑热，举家来此游玩，他们会琢磨湖湾顶头那块营地新来的游客是“有些粗俗的”还是“较好亲近的”，也会猜想是否真有人星期天晚上驱车前往农庄吃饭却因鸡肉不够而只得打道回府。
我们在营地度过了愉快的一周。鲈鱼频频上钩，太阳始终灿烂，日复一日。经过漫长而炎热的一天，晚上，疲惫的我们躺在小卧室里，这里已经积攒了一天的热气;室外微风徐拂，几乎察觉不到;湿地的气味透过生锈的纱窗袅袅袭来。我们很快进入梦乡。大清早，就有红松鼠蹿上屋顶，跳起欢快的例行舞蹈。那些早晨，我躺在床上，一遍遍回忆着过往——那艘小汽船，又长又圆的船尾活像乌班吉人的嘴唇，在月光下航行是那么安静，这时岁数稍大的男孩弹奏起他们的曼陀林，女孩们唱着歌，我们吃着蘸了糖的甜甜圈。在星光闪闪的夜晚，湖面上飘荡的琴声与歌声是那样悦耳动听！那时想着女孩子们是怎样一种感受啊！
早饭过后，我们去逛商店，所有的东西都还在原来的地方——瓶子里的钓饵小鱼;被男孩营的那些孩子扒拉得乱七八糟的人造鱼饵和旋式鱼饵;还有无花果酥和比曼牌口香糖。店外，马路铺着沥青，店前停着汽车。店内，一如既往，只是可口可乐更多些，莫克西碳酸饮料、根汁汽水、桦木汽水和沙士饮料则没那么多。出商店的时候，我们每个人都拿了一瓶汽水，有时候气会反冲鼻子，很难受。我们静静地沿溪流漫步，那里有海龟从洒满阳光的圆木上滑落，一头钻进松软的河底;我们趴在小镇的码头上，丢虫子给温顺的鲈鱼吃。无论我们走到哪里，我都难以分辨哪个是我——是走在我身边的孩子，还是穿着我裤子的大人。
一天下午，我们在湖边的时候，突然雷雨大作。仿佛我很久以前看过的一场旧时情节剧重现眼前，那时我还小，看得心生敬畏。剧的第二幕高潮是美国一个湖上电闪雷鸣的情景，与我现在眼前所见差别不大。场面壮观，跟以前一样壮观。从最初压抑、炎热的感觉，到营地周围弥漫着的让人不敢走太远的气氛，一切都是那么熟悉。下午三点左右（和情节剧完全一样），天空出奇地暗了下来，一切生命活动也都突然停止;接着，一阵微风从别的方向吹来，锚泊处一侧的小船突然开始荡向另一侧，轰隆隆的雷声预示大雨将至。然后依次响起定音鼓、小军鼓、低音鼓和钹，最后，漆黑的空中劈过一道闪电，众神在山上幸灾乐祸地咧嘴笑着。之后一片沉静，雨滴籁籁落入平静的湖水。光明重现，希望再生，精神焕发，露营者们如释重负，欢喜地冲到屋外，淋着雨下湖畅游，他们笑着自己全身湿透的模样，欢快的叫喊让这种乐趣成为永恒的记忆。孩子们体验着在雨中沐浴的新鲜感觉，兴奋地尖叫，这种全身湿透的乐趣成了一条牢不可破的纽带，将人们不分长幼地连在了一起。那个撑着雨伞蹚水的人则成了记忆中的滑稽人物。
（译者单位：北京语言大学）
本文节选自怀特1942年出版的散文集《人各有异》（One Man’s Meat）中的“再度游湖”（Once More to the Lake）一文。在文中，怀特回忆了自己8月盛夏带儿子重返缅因游湖的经历，并重温了自己儿时父亲带他夏日游湖的快乐记忆。除了描写盛夏的湖光山色，怀特还刻画了人们的夏日生活，有烈日下钓鱼、喝汽水、看海龟、喂鲈鱼的悠闲，也有燥热的夜晚难以入眠的苦恼，还有雷阵雨中游泳嬉戏的畅快。夏日里似曾相识的炎热与激情，使怀特将自己幼时与父亲的游湖经历和现在带儿子游湖的经历交织在了一起，这不仅是怀特对往昔歲月的追忆，也是他对亲情的深刻感悟。
Summertime， oh summertime， pattern of life indelible1， the fade- proof lake， the woods unshatterable， the pasture with the sweet fern and the juniper forever and ever， summer without end; this was the background， and the life along the shore was the design， the cottages with their innocent and tranquil design， their tiny docks with the flagpole and the American flag floating against the white clouds in the blue sky， the little paths over the roots of the trees leading from camp to camp and the paths leading back to the outhouses and the can of lime for sprinkling， and at the souvenir counters at the store the miniature birch-bark canoes and the post cards that showed things looking a little better than they looked. This was the American family at play， escaping the city heat， wondering whether the newcomers at the camp at the head of the cove were “common” or “nice，” wondering whether it was true that the people who drove up for Sunday dinner at the farmhouse were turned away because there wasn’t enough chicken.
We had a good week at the camp. The bass were biting well and the sun shone endlessly， day after day. We would be tired at night and lie down in the accumulated heat of the little bedrooms after the long hot day and the breeze would stir almost imperceptibly outside and the smell of the swamp drift in through the rusty screens. Sleep would come easily and in the morning the red squirrel would be on the roof， tapping out his gay routine. I kept remembering everything， lying in bed in the mornings—the small steamboat that had a long rounded stern like the lip of a Ubangi2， and how quietly she ran on the moonlight sails， when the older boys played their mandolins and the girls sang and we ate doughnuts dipped in sugar， and how sweet the music was on the water in the shining night， and what it had felt like to think about girls then.
After breakfast we would go up to the store and the things were in the same place—the minnows3 in a bottle， the plugs and spinners disarranged and pawed over by the youngsters from the boys’ camp， the fig newtons and the Beeman’s gum. Outside， the road was tarred and cars stood in front of the store. Inside， all was just as it had always been， except there was more Coca Cola and not so much Moxie and root beer and birch beer and sarsaparilla. We would walk out with a bottle of pop apiece and sometimes the pop would backfire up our noses and hurt. We explored the streams， quietly， where the turtles slid off the sunny logs and dug their way into the soft bottom; and we lay on the town wharf and fed worms to the tame bass. Everywhere we went I had trouble making out which was I， the one walking at my side， the one walking in my pants. One afternoon while we were there at that lake a thunderstorm came up. It was like the revival of an old melodrama that I had seen long ago with childish awe. The second-act climax of the drama of the electrical disturbance over a lake in America had not changed in any important respect. This was the big scene， still the big scene. The whole thing was so familiar， the first feeling of oppression and heat and a general air around camp of not wanting to go very far away. In mid-afternoon （it was all the same） a curious darkening of the sky， and a lull in everything that had made life tick; and then the way the boats suddenly swung the other way at their moorings with the coming of a breeze out of the new quarter， and the premonitory rumble. Then the kettle drum， then the snare， then the bass drum and cymbals， then crackling light against the dark， and the gods grinning and licking their chops in the hills. Afterward the calm， the rain steadily rustling in the calm lake， the return of light and hope and spirits， and the campers running out in joy and relief to go swimming in the rain， their bright cries perpetuating the deathless joke about how they were getting simply drenched， and the children screaming with delight at the new sensation of bathing in the rain， and the joke about getting drenched linking the generations in a strong indestructible chain. And the comedian who waded in carrying an umbrella.
夏日啊夏日，那生命中難以磨灭的印记，永远满湖清波，树木挺拔，草场遍布甜蕨和杜松，夏日仿佛永远不会结束。在这样的湖光山色中，湖滨沿岸的生活就成了别出心裁的设计，湖边小屋纯朴而宁静。小小的码头上立着旗杆，美国国旗在蓝天白云下迎风飘扬。小径跨越一个个树根，通向一座座营地，又折回户外厕所和用于喷洒的石灰罐。商店的纪念品柜台上摆放着桦树皮独木舟的微缩模型，还有明信片，明信片上的景物比实物看起来略好些。美国人会逃离城市的暑热，举家来此游玩，他们会琢磨湖湾顶头那块营地新来的游客是“有些粗俗的”还是“较好亲近的”，也会猜想是否真有人星期天晚上驱车前往农庄吃饭却因鸡肉不够而只得打道回府。
我们在营地度过了愉快的一周。鲈鱼频频上钩，太阳始终灿烂，日复一日。经过漫长而炎热的一天，晚上，疲惫的我们躺在小卧室里，这里已经积攒了一天的热气;室外微风徐拂，几乎察觉不到;湿地的气味透过生锈的纱窗袅袅袭来。我们很快进入梦乡。大清早，就有红松鼠蹿上屋顶，跳起欢快的例行舞蹈。那些早晨，我躺在床上，一遍遍回忆着过往——那艘小汽船，又长又圆的船尾活像乌班吉人的嘴唇，在月光下航行是那么安静，这时岁数稍大的男孩弹奏起他们的曼陀林，女孩们唱着歌，我们吃着蘸了糖的甜甜圈。在星光闪闪的夜晚，湖面上飘荡的琴声与歌声是那样悦耳动听！那时想着女孩子们是怎样一种感受啊！
早饭过后，我们去逛商店，所有的东西都还在原来的地方——瓶子里的钓饵小鱼;被男孩营的那些孩子扒拉得乱七八糟的人造鱼饵和旋式鱼饵;还有无花果酥和比曼牌口香糖。店外，马路铺着沥青，店前停着汽车。店内，一如既往，只是可口可乐更多些，莫克西碳酸饮料、根汁汽水、桦木汽水和沙士饮料则没那么多。出商店的时候，我们每个人都拿了一瓶汽水，有时候气会反冲鼻子，很难受。我们静静地沿溪流漫步，那里有海龟从洒满阳光的圆木上滑落，一头钻进松软的河底;我们趴在小镇的码头上，丢虫子给温顺的鲈鱼吃。无论我们走到哪里，我都难以分辨哪个是我——是走在我身边的孩子，还是穿着我裤子的大人。
一天下午，我们在湖边的时候，突然雷雨大作。仿佛我很久以前看过的一场旧时情节剧重现眼前，那时我还小，看得心生敬畏。剧的第二幕高潮是美国一个湖上电闪雷鸣的情景，与我现在眼前所见差别不大。场面壮观，跟以前一样壮观。从最初压抑、炎热的感觉，到营地周围弥漫着的让人不敢走太远的气氛，一切都是那么熟悉。下午三点左右（和情节剧完全一样），天空出奇地暗了下来，一切生命活动也都突然停止;接着，一阵微风从别的方向吹来，锚泊处一侧的小船突然开始荡向另一侧，轰隆隆的雷声预示大雨将至。然后依次响起定音鼓、小军鼓、低音鼓和钹，最后，漆黑的空中劈过一道闪电，众神在山上幸灾乐祸地咧嘴笑着。之后一片沉静，雨滴籁籁落入平静的湖水。光明重现，希望再生，精神焕发，露营者们如释重负，欢喜地冲到屋外，淋着雨下湖畅游，他们笑着自己全身湿透的模样，欢快的叫喊让这种乐趣成为永恒的记忆。孩子们体验着在雨中沐浴的新鲜感觉，兴奋地尖叫，这种全身湿透的乐趣成了一条牢不可破的纽带，将人们不分长幼地连在了一起。那个撑着雨伞蹚水的人则成了记忆中的滑稽人物。
（译者单位：北京语言大学）