Garden of Envy

佚名/Anonymous

我對園丁這一行很了解，因為我自己就是園丁，但我覺得學習園藝一點兒用處也沒有。園丁總希望在自己的花園里種上新品種，或是希望在朋友的花園里看到自己不是很想擁有的植物，所以，我理解園丁們的浮躁，深知他們的弱點。

如果我問及的每一個園丁都能確切地說出他們的喜好，我是不會吃驚的。園丁們總會對某種東西懷有強烈而特殊的喜好。無論何時，他們或者對這個感興趣，或者對那個情有獨鐘，在他們眼里，沒有什么東西會令他們反感和憎惡。他們胸中的愛，只有一時，當這一時刻過去，他們就會去回憶，回憶那種特殊的植物、特殊的花，而忽視了曾經與自己相伴過的花木。他們把這些尋常的花木拋之腦后，記得的也只是那些新品種，尤其是那些來自遠方的、遙不可及且杳無人煙的地方（如喜馬拉雅山）的花木。

漫長的童年里，所有快樂的日子總是在花園中度過，所有的甜蜜中總摻雜著對參加園藝勞作的渴望。一個園藝工作者的祖母會種上某種玫瑰，種上這種在黃昏中散發著芳香的玫瑰；當祖母在花園中忙碌，兒時的園丁便會沿著祖母的足跡走著——玫瑰花的香味混合著祖母衣裙上的氣息，這樣的記憶，不論園丁是否徜徉于花園，都將永遠存留，并影響他一生。因而，在與這么一個人（園丁）交談中，一句話，一個想法，就像——“我多大多大時，為了某個我現在不再感興趣的東西去市集，然而，也就是在那里，我第一次看到了我至今沒忘也難以忘卻的東西”——能讓人深思，而說出這話或發出這種感慨的人，正打著赤膊，顫抖著站在你面前，一副感慨頗多、回憶綿綿的樣子。回憶是一個園丁真正的調色板；它喚起了陳年往事，筑就了今天的生活，也描繪出明日的美好。

我種植硬葉綠絨蒿從未成功過，但我腦海中總有一幅硬葉綠絨蒿的畫面，一幅由回憶組成的畫面（我是在很久之前看到它的），一幅由“將來”（未來，回憶的反義詞）組成的畫面，這幅畫面帶給我的震撼太大了，我和它之間發生的任何事情都比不上腦海中的已成印象深刻。我第一次見到它時是在韋恩·溫特羅德的花園里，后來，每每回憶起硬葉綠絨蒿時，也都會想到韋恩；憶起它的同時，我也對自己說，它不會是這個樣子了（我在韋恩的花園看到的那樣）。因為，在韋恩的花園里，它是獨一無二、無可比擬的，但我希望它能在佛蒙特州的山地中自由地生長，遠離它的產地，遠離它那自然生長、被人遺棄的家園，用自己獨特的方式繁衍不息。

第一次來到這座花園時，我懷著一種腳踏實地的想法。踏實的開始就會有切實的結果：從哪里才能得到它，要怎么種。想弄到這種植物并不難，附近就有苗圃。但怎么種呢？帶著這個問題，我翻了很多書，里邊的建議千篇一律。最后，我終于想通了——去別人的花園看看，別人怎么種，我就怎么種。我想，他們也是這樣學會的吧。

然而，不論是否學會，不論是失望還是滿載而歸，覬覦鄰居花園的我們還是得回到自己的園中。

我不可能擁有自己想象中的花園，但對我而言，那正是樂趣之所在，有些事情是永遠無法實現的，因而我們更加有理由去嘗試著實現這些。一座花園，不論有多美，都無法令人完全滿意。畢竟，就如我們所知道的那樣，世界最初就是一個美麗的花園，一個完美的花園——也就是天堂——不久后，這個花園的擁有者和居住者卻想要得到更多。

I know gardeners well， for I am a gardener， too， but I experience gardening as an act of utter futility. I know their fickleness， I know their weakness for wanting in their own gardens the thing they have never seen before， or never possessed before， or saw in a garden (their friends')， something which they do not have and would like to have.

I would not be surprised if every gardener I asked had something definite that they liked or envied. Gardeners always have something they like intensely and in particular； at any moment， they like in particular this， or they like in particular that， nothing in front of them is repulsive and fills them with hatred， or this thing would not be in front of them. They only love， and they only love in the moment； when the moment has passed， they love the memory of the moment， they love the memory of that particular plant or that particular bloom， but the plant or the bloom itself they have moved on from， they have left it behind for something else， something new， especially something from far away， and from so far away， a place where they will never live (the Himalayas， just for example).

Of all the benefits that come from having endured childhood， certainly among them will be the garden and the desire to be involved with gardening. A gardener's grandmother will have grown such， and such a rose， and the smell of that rose at dusk， when the gardener was a child and walking in the grandmother's footsteps as she went about her business in her garden—the memory of that smell of the rose combined with the memory of that smell of the grandmother's skirt will forever inform and influence the life of the gardener， inside or outside the garden itself. And so in a conversation with such a person (a gardener)， a sentence， a thought that goes something like this—"You know when I was such and such an age， I went to the market for a reason that is no longer of any particular interest to me， but it was there I saw for the first time something that I have never and can never forget"—floats out into the clear air， and the person from whom these words or this thought emanates is standing in front of you all bare and trembly， full of feeling， full of memory. Memory is a gardener's real palette； memory as it summons up the past， memory as it shapes the present， memory as it dictates the future.

I have never been able to grow Meconopsis benticifolia with success， but the picture of it that I have in my mind， a picture made up of memory (I saw it some time ago)， a picture made up of "to come" (the future， which is the opposite of remembering)， is so intense that whatever happens between me and this plant will never satisfy the picture I have of it. I first saw it in Wayne Winterrowd's garden， and I shall never see this plant again without thinking of him and saying to myself， it shall never look quite like this (the way I saw it in his garden)， for in his garden it was itself and beyond comparison， and I will always want it to look that way， growing comfortably in the mountains of Vermont， so far away from the place to which it is endemic， so far away from the place in which it was natural， unnoticed， and so going about its own peculiar ways of perpetuating itself.

I first came to the garden with practicality in mind， a real beginning that would lead to a real end： where to get this， how to grow that. Where to get this was always nearby， a nursery was never too far away； how to grow that led me to acquire volume upon volume， books all with the same advice， but in the end I came to know how to grow the things I like to grow through looking—at other people's gardens. I imagine they acquired knowledge of such things in much the same way.

But we who covet our neighbor's garden must finally return to our own with all its ups and downs， its disappointments， its rewards.

I shall never have the garden I have in my mind， but that for me is the joy of it； certain things can never be realized and so all the more reason to attempt them. A garden， no matter how good it is， must never completely satisfy. The world as we know it， after all， began in a very good garden， a completely satisfying garden—Paradise—but after a while the owner and the occupants wanted more.