双语译林：睡谷的传说

译者序............................................. 1

瑞普·凡·温克..................................... 1

鬼新郎............................................ 23

睡谷的传说........................................ 39

魔鬼和汤姆·沃克.................................. 75

阿拉伯占星家的传说................................ 90

摩尔人遗产的传说................................. 110

Rip Van Winkle.................................................................. 1

The SpectreBridegroom................................................. 25

The Legend ofSleepy Hollow......................................... 44

The Devil and TomWalker............................................. 82

Legend of theArabian Astrologer................................... 99

Legend of theMoor’s Legacy....................................... 121

一天，汤姆·沃克到该地区一个比较远的地方去，返回时走的是沼泽地——他认为走那儿是条捷径。跟大多数捷径一样，凡是快捷之路，必不好走。沼泽地里密密匝匝到处是树，有松树也有铁杉树，那些树又高又大，阴森森的，有的足有九十英尺高，林中即便在正午时分也黑黢黢的，是附近一带猫头鹰的栖息之地。此处遍布水坑和泥潭，有些区域则杂草丛生、青苔铺地。绿色的地面常常会骗住行路人的眼睛，使得他会一脚踏入黑泥潭里窒息而亡。这儿还有许多黑乎乎的、污浊的池塘，成为蝌蚪、牛蛙以及水蛇的家园。松树和铁杉的树干半泡在水里，一半已腐烂，看上去就像睡在泥坑里的鳄鱼一样。

穿过这座险恶的林子，汤姆小心翼翼地择路而行，走啊走，走了许久。深深的泥沼里有着一丛丛的灯芯草和树根可以充当落脚点，但这样的落脚点极其危险，他踏上去时总是提心吊胆。有时，他又会像猫似的，沿着倒下来的树干谨慎前行；时不时会有一只鸬鹚突然尖叫一声，或者一只野鸭呱呱一声长鸣，从荒凉的池塘里飞起，弄得他吃惊不小。最终，他总算踏上了一块结实的土地，此处像个半岛，深入沼泽的腹地。想当年，印第安人同第一批殖民者交战，这儿曾是他们的一个据点。在此，他们建起了一种堡垒，自以为几乎牢不可破，于是便将这儿作为他们妻儿老小的避难所。如今，印第安人的那座堡垒只剩下了几段残垣断壁，而这些残垣和断壁也在逐渐消失，变得跟周围的土地一样平，几处已长满了橡树和其他的树木——这些树木的枝叶跟沼泽里的那些阴森的松树及铁杉树形成了鲜明的对比。

汤姆·沃克走到这座古老的堡垒时，已是暮色苍茫。他留住脚步，想休息休息。除了他，换上谁也不会愿意在这荒凉凄惨的地方歇脚的。跟印第安人打仗时流传下来一些故事，于是一般人都将此处视为不祥之地。据说，那些野蛮人曾经在这儿行法念咒，曾用活人祭祀恶鬼。然而，汤姆·沃克却不信邪，根本不害怕这样的故事。他坐在一棵倒下来的铁杉树树干上休息了一会儿，一边听着蟾蜍那不祥的叫声，一边用手杖向脚边的一堆黑土里捅了捅。他下意识地用手杖将土翻起，谁知手杖碰到了一样硬硬的东西。随即，他把那东西从那堆腐殖土里挖了出来。老天爷，面前的那玩意儿竟然是个裂开的人的头骨，头骨里深深嵌着一把印第安战斧！战斧锈迹斑斑，看得出这致命的一击发生在很久以前。这是一件悲惨的纪念品，纪念这印第安武士的最后据点曾发生过的那场惨烈的战斗。

“哼！” 汤姆·沃克鼻子哼了一声，照着头骨踢了一脚，想把上面的泥土踢掉。

“别碰那头骨！”一个瓮声瓮气的声音说。

汤姆抬起头来，看见一个黑铁塔般的汉子坐在他正对面的树桩上。他惊讶万分，因为他压根就没有看见有人走过来，也没听见过脚步声呀。而更叫他困惑的是：在越来越浓的暮色里，他发现这个陌生人既不是黑人也不是印第安人。此人身穿半印第安式的粗布衣服，腰间系一条红皮带（或布带），一张脸既不是纯黑色的，亦不是古铜色，他的那种黑像是用烟熏过、炭涂过，仿佛长年劳作于打铁炉和熔炉旁造成的。他的头发又黑又粗，乱蓬蓬的，全都竖起来，肩上扛着一把斧头。只见他皱起眉头，瞪圆那双发红的大眼睛，将汤姆打量了一番，然后用瓮声瓮气的粗哑的声音喝问：“你来我的地面有何贵干？”

“你的地面？”汤姆冷笑了一声说，“这地方不属于你，也不属于我，而是属于教堂执事皮博迪。”

“就让教堂执事皮博迪下地狱去吧。”陌生人说，“如果他不多想想自己的罪孽，不对周围的人宽容一些，我敢肯定他终究会有那么一天的。你瞧瞧那边，就知道他会有什么样的结局了。”

汤姆顺着陌生人手指的方向望去，看见了一棵大树——那大树外表枝繁叶茂，漂漂亮亮，但树心已经腐烂，几乎被拦腰砍断，来一阵狂风很可能就会将其刮倒。树皮上刻着教堂执事皮博迪的名字。该执事地位显赫，跟印第安人做买卖很刻薄，发了大财。汤姆环顾四周，发现那些高树上大多都刻着殖民时期某个伟人的名字，多多少少都被斧头砍过，均带有斧痕。他屁股底下坐的这棵树显然刚被砍倒不久，上面刻着克劳宁希尔德的名字。他想起这是一个富翁的名字，此人富得流油，经常俗不可耐地炫耀他的财富，而人们却背地里说他的钱是当海盗抢来的。

One day that TomWalker had been to a distant part of the neighborhood, he took what heconsidered a short cut homewards through the swamp. Like most short cuts, itwas an ill chosen route. The swamp was thickly grown with great gloomy pinesand hemlocks, some of them ninety feet high; which made it dark at noon day,and a retreat for all the owls of the neighborhood. It was full of pits andquagmires, partly covered with weeds and mosses; where the green surfaceoften betrayed the traveller into a gulf of black smothering mud; there werealso dark and stagnant pools, the abodes of the tadpole, the bull frog, andthe water snake, where trunks of pines and hemlocks lay half drowned, halfrotting, looking like alligators, sleeping in the mire.

Tom had long beenpicking his way cautiously through this treacherous forest; stepping fromtuft to tuft of rushes and roots which afforded precarious footholds amongdeep sloughs; or pacing carefully, like a cat, along the prostrate trunks oftrees; startled now and then by the sudden screaming of the bittern, or thequacking of a wild duck, rising on the wing from some solitary pool. Atlength he arrived at a piece of firm ground, which ran out like a peninsulainto the deep bosom of the swamp. It had been one of the strongholds of theold Indians during their wars with the first colonists. Here they had thrownup a kind of fort which they had looked upon as almost impregnable, and hadused as a place of refuge for their squaws and children. Nothing remained ofthe Indian fort but a few embankments gradually sinking to the level of thesurrounding earth, and already overgrown in part by oaks and other foresttrees, the foliage of which formed a contrast to the dark pines and hemlocksof the swamp.

It was late in thedusk of evening when Tom Walker reached the old fort, and he paused there fora while to rest himself. Any one but he would have felt unwilling to lingerin this lonely melancholy place, for the common people had a bad opinion ofit from the stories handed down from the time of the Indian wars; when it wasasserted that the savages held incantations here and made sacrifices to theevil spirit. Tom Walker, however, was not a man to be troubled with any fearsof the kind.

He reposed himselffor some time on the trunk of a fallen hemlock, listening to the boding cryof the tree toad, and delving with his walking staff into a mound of blackmould at his feet. As he turned up the soil unconsciously, his staff struckagainst something hard. He raked it out of the vegetable mould, and lo! acloven skull with an Indian tomahawk buried deep in it, lay before him. The ruston the weapon showed the time that had elapsed since this death blow had beengiven. It was a dreary memento of the fierce struggle that had taken place inthis last foothold of the Indian warriors.

“Humph!” said TomWalker, as he gave the skull a kick to shake the dirt from it.

“Let that skullalone!” said a gruff voice.

Tom lifted up hiseyes and beheld a great black man, seated directly Opposite him on the stumpof a tree. He was exceedingly surprised, having neither seen nor heard anyone approach, and he was still more perplexed on observing, as well as thegathering gloom would permit, that the stranger was neither negro nor Indian.It is true, he was dressed in a rude, half Indian garb, and had a red belt orsash swathed round his body, but his face was neither black nor copper color,but swarthy and dingy and begrimed with soot, as if he had been accustomed totoil among fires and forges. He had a shock of coarse black hair, that stoodout from his head in all directions; and bore an axe on his shoulder.

He scowled for amoment at Tom with a pair of great red eyes.

“What are you doingon my grounds?” said the black man, with a hoarse growling voice.

“Your grounds?”said Tom, with a sneer; “no more your grounds than mine: they belong to DeaconPeabody.”

“Deacon Peabody bed——d,” said the stranger, “as I flatter myself he will be, if he does notlook more to his own sins and less to those of his neighbors. Look yonder,and see how Deacon Peabody is faring.”

Tom looked in thedirection that the stranger pointed, and beheld one of the great trees, fairand flourishing without, but rotten at the core, and saw that it had beennearly hewn through, so that the first high wind was likely to blow it down.On the bark of the tree was scored the name of Deacon Peabody, an eminentman, who had waxed wealthy by driving shreud bargains with the Indians. Henow looked round and found most of the tall trees marked with the name ofsome great man of the colony, and all more or less scored by the axe. The oneon which he had been seated, and which had evidently just been hewn down,bore the name of Crowninshield; and he recollected a mighty rich man of thatname, who made a vulgar display of wealth, which it was whispered he hadacquired by buccaneering.