The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter

《心是孤独的猎手》是美国作家卡森・麦卡勒斯的第一部长篇小说，也是她一举成名的作品，出版于1940年她23岁之时。书中围绕几个主人公讲述了一个关于孤独的故事。全书的主要情节都围绕着美国南方的一个小镇，麦卡勒斯以她独特的手法诉说着小镇上发生的故事。并无太多跌宕起伏的情节，但有平凡之中见真章的意味。聋哑人辛格在与自己相处了十年的伙伴离开后，陷入深深的孤单；小镇咖啡馆老板徘徊于自己十年如一日的单调生活；出身贫苦的小女孩每天梦想着自己向往至极却触碰不到的音乐梦；还有那些在咖啡馆里喝着冰啤酒的人们，整日在孤独中徘徊；那些期望于改革的人，疯狂绝望却又依然坚定着向前走的决心……作者将每个小人物刻画得入木三分，如在眼前。孤单如同一把沉重的枷锁，将他们牢牢禁锢，每个人都在其中挣扎游荡。如果人和人之间不能够相互理解，那么孤独将是个永恒的话题。

本文节选了小说主人公之一的辛格在伙伴离开后的那种绝望、忧郁，那种在寂寞中等待、压抑的深深的孤独。

作者简介：

卡森・麦卡勒斯（Carson McCullers）是20世纪美国最重要的作家之一，1917年2月19日出生于乔治亚州的哥伦布，17岁就读于哥伦比亚大学，22岁完成第一部长篇小说《心是孤独的猎手》。这部小说在美国“现代文库”所评出的“20世纪百佳英文小说”中列第17位。麦卡勒斯一生备受病痛的折磨，29岁时瘫痪，50岁离世。麦卡勒斯的重要作品还有《伤心咖啡馆之歌》、《婚礼的成员》、《黄金眼睛的映像》、《没有指针的钟》等。其作品多描写孤独的人们，孤独、孤立和疏离是贯穿在麦卡勒斯大多数作品中的主题。

It was a chilly afternoon in late November, and little 1)huffs of breath showed in the air before them.

Charles Parker was to travel with his cousin, but he stood apart from them at the station. Antonapoulos crowded into the bus and settled himself with elaborate preparations on one of the front seats. Singer watched him from the window and his hands began desperately to talk for the last time with his friend. But Antonapoulos was so busy checking over the various items in his lunch box that for a while he paid no attention. Just before the bus pulled away from the 2)curb he turned to Singer and his smile was very bland and remote―as though already they were many miles apart.

The weeks that followed didn’t seem real at all. All day Singer worked over his bench in the back of the jewelry store, and then at night he returned to the house alone. More than anything he wanted to sleep. As soon as he came home from work he would lie on his 3)cot and try to doze a while. Dreams came to him when he lay there half-asleep. And in all of them Antonapoulos was there. His hands would 4)jerk nervously, for in his dreams he was talking to his friend and Antonapoulos was watching him.

Singer tried to think of the time before he had ever known his friend. He tried to recount to himself certain things that had happened when he was young. But none of these things he tried to remember seemed real.

There was one particular fact that he remembered, but it was not at all important to him. Singer recalled that, although he had been deaf since he was an infant, he had not always been a real mute. He was left an orphan very young and placed in an institution for the deaf. He had learned to talk with his hands and to read. Before he was nine years old he could talk with one hand in the American way―and also could employ both of his hands after the method of Europeans. He had learned to follow the movements of people’s lips and to understand what they said. Then finally he had been taught to speak.

At the school he was thought very intelligent. He learned the lessons before the rest of the pupils. But he could never become used to speaking with his lips. It was not natural to him, and his tongue felt like a whale in his mouth. From the blank expression on people’s faces to whom he talked in this way he felt that his voice must be like the sound of some animal or that there was something disgusting in his speech. It was painful for him to try to talk with his mouth, but his hands were always ready to shape the words he wished to say. When he was 22 he had come south to this town from Chicago and he met Antonapoulos immediately. Since that time he had never spoken with his mouth again, because with his friend there was no need for this.

Nothing seemed real except the ten years with Antonapoulos. In his half-dreams he saw his friend very vividly, and when he awakened a great aching loneliness would be in him. Occasionally he would pack up a box for Antonapoulos, but he never received any reply. And so the months passed in this empty, dreaming way.

In the spring a change came over Singer. He could not sleep and his body was very restless. At evening he would walk 5)monotonously around the room, unable to work off a new feeling of energy. If he rested at all it was only during a few hours before dawn―then he would drop 6)bluntly into a sleep that lasted until the morning light struck suddenly beneath his opening eyelids like a 7)scimitar.

He began spending his evenings walking around the town. He could no longer stand the rooms where Antonapoulos had lived, and he rented a place in a shambling boarding-house not far from the center of the town.

……

Each evening the mute walked alone for hours in the street. Sometimes the nights were cold with the sharp, wet winds of March and it would be raining heavily. But to him this did not matter. His 8)gait was 9)agitated and he always kept his hands stuffed tight into the pockets of his trousers. Then as the weeks passed the days grew warm and 10)languorous. His agitation gave way gradually to exhaustion and there was a look about him of deep calm. In his face there came to be a 11)brooding peace that is seen most often in the faces of the very sorrowful or the very wise. But still he wandered through the streets of the town, always silent and alone.

心是孤独的猎手

这是十一月末一个寒冷的下午，眼前已经看得见一小团一小团的哈气。

查尔斯・帕克要和表弟一起去，在站台上却离他们远远地站着。安东尼帕罗斯挤进车厢，在前排的一个座位上夸张地准备了半天，才把自己安顿下来。辛格从窗口望着他，用双手最后一次绝望地与伙伴交谈。可是安东尼帕罗斯忙着检查午餐盒里的各项食品，一时间根本顾不上辛格。车从路边开动的刹那，他才把脸转向辛格，他的笑容平淡而疏离――仿佛他们早已相隔万里。

后面的几个星期恍如梦中。辛格整天俯在珠宝店后面的工作台上，晚上一个人走回家。他最想做的事就是睡觉。下班一到家，他就躺在他的小床上，挣扎着打个盹。半醒半睡之间，他做梦了。所有的梦里，安东尼帕罗斯都在。辛格的手紧张地抽动，因为在梦里他正与伙伴交谈，安东尼帕罗斯则注视着他。

辛格努力回忆认识伙伴以前的岁月。他努力对自己描述年轻时发生过的某些事。可所有这些他努力回想起的事情都显得那么不真实。

他想起一件特别的事，但它对他一点儿不重要。辛格追忆到，尽管他还是婴儿时就聋了，但他从来就不是真正的哑巴。很小的时候他就成了孤儿，被送进聋哑儿收养院。他学会了手语和阅读。九岁以前他就能打美国式的单手手语，也能打欧洲式的双手手语。他学会了唇读。随后他被教会了说话。

在学校里大家都觉得他很聪明。他的功课学得比别的同学都快。但他从不习惯于用嘴说话。这对他不太自然，他感觉自己的舌头在嘴里像一条大鲸鱼。从对方脸上空洞的表情，他能感觉到自己的声音像某种动物或者听起来很恶心。用嘴说话对他来说是件痛苦的事，但他的双手却总能打出他想说的话。二十二岁时，他从芝加哥来到这个南部的小镇，马上就遇到了安东尼帕罗斯。从那以后，他再也没用嘴说过话，因为和伙伴在一起他不需要动嘴。

除了和安东尼帕罗斯在一起的十年，其他的都不像是真的。在迷迷糊糊的梦境中，他的伙伴栩栩如生。醒来后，一种孤独感刺痛了他的心。偶尔，他会寄一箱子东西给安东尼帕罗斯，但从没回音。几个月就在如此的空虚和迷茫中过去了。

春天来了，辛格变了。他无法入睡，身体异常焦躁不安。到了晚上，他在屋子里机械地打转，无法将陌生的情绪发泄掉。只有黎明前的几个小时，他才能稍稍休息一会儿――昏沉地陷入沉睡之中，直到早晨的阳光像一把短刀，突然刺破他的眼皮。

他开始在镇上四处晃悠，消磨掉夜晚。他再也不能忍受安东尼帕罗斯住过的屋子，于是在离镇中心不远的一幢破破烂烂的公寓另租了房间。

……

每个晚上，哑巴一个人在街上闲荡好几个小时。有些夜晚，外面刮着三月里尖利、潮湿的冷风，有时雨下得很大。但对他而言，这些都无所谓。他的步态是焦虑的，双手紧紧插在裤兜里。时间一周周地过去了，天逐渐变暖了，令人昏昏欲睡。焦虑慢慢地化成疲倦，在他身上可以看见一种深深的平静。沉思般的安宁造访了这张脸，如此的安宁你往往能在最悲伤或最智慧的脸上瞥见。是的，他仍然漫步在小镇的大街小巷，一直沉默和孤单。译文参考自上海三联书店版本

陈笑黎译