我与地坛（二）

现在我才想到，当年我总是独自跑到地坛去，曾经给母亲出了一个怎样的难题。

Now I think back to how I used to run alone to the Temple of Earth, and what a dilemma I must have created for my mother.

她不是那种光会疼爱儿子而不懂得理解儿子的母亲。

She was not the kind of mother who could only love her son without understanding him.

她知道我心里的苦闷，知道不该阻止我出去走走，知道我要是老待在家里结果会更糟，但她又担心我一个人在那荒僻的园子里整天都想些什么。

She knew the turmoil in my heart, understood that she shouldn't stop me from going out, and recognized that staying at home would only make matters worse. Yet, she worried about what I might think all day in that remote garden, alone.

我那时脾气坏到极点，经常是发了疯一样地离开家，从那园子里回来又中了魔似的什么话都不说。

At that time, my temper was at its worst. I would often leave home in a frenzy, and upon returning from the garden, it was as though I had been enchanted—unable to say a word.

母亲知道有些事不宜问，便犹犹豫豫地想问而终于不敢问，因为她自己心里也没有答案。

My mother understood that some things were not suitable to ask about, so she hesitated to inquire but ultimately didn’t dare to, for she, too, had no answers deep down.

她料想我不会愿意她跟我一同去，所以她从未这样要求过，她知道得给我一点儿独处的时间，得有这样一段过程。

She figured I wouldn't want her to accompany me, so she never asked. She knew it was essential to give me some time alone and that this was a necessary process.

她只是不知道这过程得要多久和这过程的尽头究竟是什么。

What she didn't know was how long that process would take or what its end would ultimately be.

每次我要动身时，她便无言地帮我准备，帮助我上了轮椅车，看着我摇车拐出小院；这以后她会怎样，当年我不曾想过。

Every time I was about to leave, she would silently help me get ready, assisted me into the wheelchair, and watched me wheel away from the small courtyard; I never considered what she would feel afterward.

有一回我摇车出了小院，想起一件什么事又返身回来，看见母亲仍站在原地，还是送我走时的姿势，望着我拐出小院去的那处墙角，对我的回来竟一时没有反应。

Once, after wheeling out of the courtyard, I recalled something and turned back, only to see my mother still standing there, in the same position as when she had sent me off, gazing towards the corner of the wall where I had exited, momentarily without reaction to my return.

待她再次送我出门的时候，她说：“出去活动活动，去地坛看看书，我说这挺好。”

When she sent me off again, she said, "Go out and get some exercise, visit the Temple of Earth and read a book. I think that's good."

许多年以后我才渐渐听出，母亲这话实际上是自我安慰，是暗自的祷告，是给我的提示，是恳求与嘱咐。

Many years later, I gradually realized that her words were actually self-comforting, a silent prayer, a hint for me, and a plea and admonition wrapped in one.

只是在她猝然去世之后，我才有余暇设想。当我不在家里的那些漫长的时间，她是怎样心神不定坐卧难宁，兼着痛苦与惊恐与一个母亲最低限度的祈求。

Only after her sudden death did I have the time to imagine what she must have felt during the long stretches of time I was away from home—how she sat restlessly, caught between pain and fear, and a mother’s bare minimum of hope.

现在我可以断定，以她的聪慧和坚忍，在那些空落的白天后的黑夜，在那不眠的黑夜后的白天，她思来想去最后准是对自己说：“反正我不能不让他出去，未来的日子是他自己的，如果他真的在那园子里出了什么事，这苦难也只好我来承担。”

Now I can assert that with her wisdom and endurance, on those empty days followed by sleepless nights, she must have reasoned with herself, “After all, I can't stop him from going out; the future is his own. If something should happen to him in that garden, I alone will have to bear the sorrow.”

在那段日子里——那是好几年前的一段日子，我想我一定使母亲做过最坏的准备了，但她从来没有对我说过：“你为我想想。”

During that period—years ago, I’m sure I put my mother through the worst preparation imaginable, but she never said to me, “Think about me.”

事实上我也真的没为她想过。那时她的儿子还太年轻，还来不及为母亲想，他被命运击昏了头，一心以为自己是世上最不幸的一个，不知道儿子的不幸在母亲那儿总是要加倍的。

In fact, I really didn’t think about her. At that time, her son was still too young to consider his mother. He was dazed by fate, convinced that he was the most unfortunate person in the world, unaware that a son's misfortune for a mother is always double.

她有一个长到二十岁上忽然截瘫了的儿子，这是她唯一的儿子；她情愿截瘫的是自己而不是儿子，可这事无法代替；

She had a son who suddenly became paralyzed at the age of twenty; he was her only son. She would have willingly switched places with him, but that was not possible.

她想，只要儿子能活下去哪怕自己去死呢也行，可她又确信一个人不能仅仅是活着，儿子得有一条路走向自己的幸福；而这条路呢，没有谁能保证她的儿子最终能找到——这样一个母亲，注定是活得最苦的母亲。

She thought, as long as her son could live, she would even be willing to die. Yet she firmly believed that a person couldn’t merely exist; her son needed a path to his own happiness. But who could guarantee that her son would ultimately find that path? Such a mother was destined to live the most suffering life.

有一次与一个作家朋友聊天，我问他学写作的最初动机是什么？

Once, while chatting with a writer friend, I asked him what his initial motivation for writing was.

他想了一会儿说：“为我母亲。为了让她骄傲。”

He thought for a moment and said, “For my mother. To make her proud.”

我心里一惊，良久无言。回想自己最初写小说的动机，虽不似这位朋友的那般单纯，但如他一样的愿望我也有，且一经细想，发现这愿望也在全部动机中占了很大比重。

I was startled and remained silent for a long while. Reflecting on my own initial motivation for writing novels, though not as pure as my friend's, I shared a similar wish. Upon deeper consideration, I realized that this desire comprised a significant part of all my motivations.

这位朋友说：“我的动机太低俗了吧？”

My friend said, “Isn’t my motivation too trivial?”

我光是摇头，心想低俗并不见得低俗，只怕是这愿望过于天真了。

I could only shake my head, pondering that triviality didn’t have to equate to being lowly; perhaps this desire was just overly naive.

他又说：“我那时真就是想出名，出了名让别人羡慕我母亲。”

He continued, “I really wanted to be famous back then, so others would envy my mother.”

我想，他比我坦率。我想，他又比我幸福，因为他的母亲还活着。

I thought he was more forthright than I was. And I believed he was happier than I, as his mother was still alive.

而且我想，他的母亲也比我的母亲运气好，他的母亲没有一个双腿残废的儿子，否则事情就不这么简单。

Moreover, I thought his mother was luckier than mine; his mother did not have a son with paralyzed legs; otherwise, things wouldn’t be so simple.

在我的头一篇小说发表的时候，在我的小说第一次获奖的那些日子里，我真是多么希望我的母亲还活着。

When my first novel was published, and during those days when I won my first award, how I wished my mother were still alive.

我便又不能在家里待了，又整天整天独自跑到地坛去，心里是没头没尾的沉郁和哀怨，走遍整个园子却怎么也想不通：母亲为什么就不能再多活两年？

I couldn’t stay at home any longer and spent day after day alone at the Temple of Earth, feeling despondent and resentful, wandering through the entire garden but still unable to understand: Why couldn’t my mother live just two more years?

为什么在她儿子就快要碰撞开一条路的时候，她却忽然熬不住了？莫非她来此世上只是为了替儿子担忧，却不该分享我的一点点快乐？她匆匆离我去时才只有四十九岁呀！

Why, just when her son was about to carve out a path, did she suddenly give in? Had she come to this world solely to worry for her son, but not to share a bit of his joy? She left me at only forty-nine!

有那么一会儿，我甚至对世界对上帝充满了仇恨和厌恶。

For a time, I was filled with hatred and disgust for the world and for God.

后来我在一篇题为《合欢树》的文章中写道：“坐在小公园安静的树林里，我闭上眼睛，想：上帝为什么早早地召母亲回去呢？

Later, I wrote in an article titled "The Silktree": “Sitting in the quiet woods of the small park, I closed my eyes and thought: Why did God call my mother back so early?

很久很久，迷迷糊糊地，我听见了回答：‘她心里太苦了。上帝看她受不住了，就召她回去。’

For a long time, in a daze, I seemed to hear the answer: ‘She was too troubled. God saw that she could no longer bear it and called her back.’

我似乎得到一点儿安慰，睁开眼睛，看见风正从树林里穿过。”小公园，指的也是地坛。

I felt a bit comforted, opened my eyes, and saw the wind blowing through the woods.” The small park also referred to the Temple of Earth.

只是到了这时候，纷纭的往事才在我眼前幻现得清晰，母亲的苦难与伟大才在我心中渗透得深彻。

Only at this moment did the myriad memories reappear clearly before me, and my mother’s suffering and greatness penetrated deeply into my heart.

上帝的考虑，也许是对的。

Perhaps God’s consideration was correct.

摇着轮椅在园中慢慢走，又是雾罩的清晨，又是骄阳高悬的白昼，我只想着一件事：母亲已经不在了。

As I slowly wheeled through the garden, on a foggy morning and again under the blazing sun of midday, one thought occupied my mind: my mother was no longer here.

在老柏树旁停下，在草地上在颓墙边停下，又是处处虫鸣的午后，又是鸟儿归巢的傍晚，我心里只默念着一句话：可是母亲已经不在了。

I paused by the old cedar tree, on the grass, next to the crumbling wall. Again, in the afternoon filled with the sounds of insects, and in the evening when birds returned to their nests, I silently repeated one phrase: but my mother is no longer here.

把椅背放倒，躺下，似睡非睡挨到日没，坐起来，心神恍惚，呆呆地直坐到古祭坛上落满黑暗然后再渐渐浮起月光，心里才有点儿明白，母亲不能再来这园中找我了。

I reclined the back of my chair, lying down, somewhere between sleeping and waking until sunset, then sat up, my mind drifting, sitting blankly until the ancient altar was shrouded in darkness and began to gradually emerge in moonlight. Only then did I somewhat understand that my mother could no longer come to this garden to find me.

曾有过好多回，我在这园子里待得太久了，母亲就来找我。

There were many occasions when I lingered too long in this garden, and my mother would come looking for me.

她来找我又不想让我发觉，只要见我还好好地在这园子里，她就悄悄转身回去，我看见过几次她的背影。

She would search for me without wanting me to notice; as long as she saw me well in this garden, she would quietly turn back. I had caught sight of her back several times.

我也看见过几回她四处张望的情景，她视力不好，端着眼镜像在寻找海上的一条船，她没看见我时我已经看见她了，待我看见她也看见我了我就不去看她，过一会儿我再抬头看她就又看见她缓缓离去的背影。

I also saw her looking around, her vision poor, peering through her glasses as if trying to find a boat on the sea. When she didn’t see me, I had already spotted her, and when I saw her see me, I would stop looking. After a while, I would glance up again and catch sight of her slowly departing figure.

我单是无法知道有多少回她没有找到我。有一回我坐在矮树丛中，树丛很密，我看见她没有找到我；她一个人在园子里走，走过我的身旁，走过我经常待的一些地方，步履茫然又急迫。

I simply couldn’t know how many times she failed to find me. Once, I sat in a cluster of low bushes where the foliage was thick, and I saw that she couldn’t find me; she wandered through the garden alone, passing right by me, walking through the places I often stayed, her steps bewildered yet urgent.

我不知道她已经找了多久还要找多久，我不知道为什么我决意不喊她——但这绝不是小时候的捉迷藏，这也许是出于长大了的男孩子的倔强或羞涩？

I didn’t know how long she had been searching or how long she would continue. I didn’t understand why I resolutely didn’t call out to her—but this was certainly not like childhood games of hide and seek; it was perhaps born out of the stubbornness or shyness of a grown-up boy.

但这倔强只留给我痛悔，丝毫也没有骄傲。我真想告诫所有长大了的男孩子，千万不要跟母亲来这套倔强，羞涩就更不必，我已经懂了可我已经来不及了。

Yet this stubbornness only left me with regret, not the slightest bit of pride. I truly wanted to advise all the grown boys not to be so stubborn with their mothers; there is no need to be shy either. I have understood, but it is now too late.

儿子想使母亲骄傲，这心情毕竟是太真实了，以致使“想出名”这一声名狼藉的念头也多少改变了一点儿形象。

A son wanting to make his mother proud is, after all, a very genuine sentiment that has somewhat altered the tarnished image of that "desire for fame."

这是个复杂的问题，且不去管它了罢。

This is a complicated issue, but let’s set it aside.

随着小说获奖的激动逐日暗淡，我开始相信，至少有一点我是想错了：我用纸笔在报刊上碰撞开的一条路，并不就是母亲盼望我找到的那条路。

As the excitement of winning my novel faded day by day, I began to believe, at least in one regard, that I had been mistaken: the path I had opened with pen and paper in the press was not the one my mother hoped I would find.

年年月月我都到这园子里来，年年月月我都要想，母亲盼望我找到的那条路到底是什么。

Year after year, I came to this garden, month after month, I pondered, what was the path my mother wished for me to discover?

母亲生前没给我留下过什么隽永的哲言，或要我恪守的教诲，只是在她去世之后，她艰难的命运、坚忍的意志和毫不张扬的爱，随光阴流转，在我的印象中愈加鲜明深刻。

My mother left me no enduring maxims or teachings to follow in her lifetime; only after her death did her arduous fate, her resilient will, and her unassuming love become increasingly vivid and profound in my memory as time flowed on.

有一年，十月的风又翻动起安详的落叶，我在园中读书，听见两个散步的老人说：“没想到这园子有这么大。”

One year, when the October wind stirred the peaceful fallen leaves again, I was reading in the garden and overheard two elderly walkers say, “I never expected this garden to be so large.”

我放下书，想，这么大一座园子，要在其中找到她的儿子，母亲走过了多少焦灼的路。

I put down my book, thinking that in such a large garden, how many anxious paths had my mother walked seeking her son.

多年来我头一次意识到，这园中不单是处处都有过我的车辙，有过我的车辙的地方也都有过母亲的脚印。

For the first time in many years, I realized that this garden not only had traces of my own paths, but where my paths had left marks, my mother’s footprints had also been left behind.