The Windmill

[英]愛德華·凡爾拉萊·盧卡斯/Edward Verrall Lucas

不久前，一個偶然的機會曾使我成為一座風車房的住客。但并不是真的住進去，而且說來遺憾，也不是進去磨點兒什么東西，只是興致來時進去轉了轉，從它最上端的窗戶遙望港口的船只，或俯視周圍的羊群和原野。這座風車又大又白——而且白得很厲害，每當雷雨云繞到它的背后時，整個風車就像一件擦亮的鋁器一樣。

從風車的其他幾個窗口往外看，你還可以看到另外的四個風車，這些風車和它一樣，也都閑置著。其中一個已經破損得非常厲害，還有一個也只剩下了兩塊翼板。但就在下一道山岡，遠得望不見的東北方向，有一個風車在那里歡快地轉動著。另外，由此再折向西北四五英里的地方，也有一個風車還在運轉。所以，這個地方的情形還不至于像全國其他地方那么糟糕，任由陣陣好風從身邊白白吹過……

一想起因蒸汽機以及工程師的聰明才智帶給英國的種種損失，人們總會把風車的衰落列為其中的第一項。也許如果只從景物的美觀別致來說，英國所遭遇的最大不幸是鍍鋅鐵屋頂的發明。不過，畢竟紅色屋頂的美好不只是安詳富麗與舒適，轉動著的風車不僅看起來美麗，而且非常浪漫：一個受制于自然的魔力但情愿為人類服務的溫馴家伙，一個飛舞旋轉的怪物，往往也是一個讓人懼怕的東西。如果誰在風力正強的時候靠近一個風車轟鳴的翼板，心里都會驟然緊張起來——那感覺就像人們在暴風雨中望見水浪沖擊堤岸的情景一樣。此時待在風車房里面的話，就能對聲音的來歷有些體會，因為這里就是聲音的洞穴。當然，有些孔洞中發出的轟鳴聲震耳欲聾，具有很大的威力，但風車的聲音大體來說是比較自然的，它們是木頭與西南風搏斗時產生的，它充盈于人耳，而不會震耳欲聾。而且，這種效果并沒有因為沒有風或者磨坊主人及其用人的淡漠而有所減弱，這些人即使是在震耳欲聾的喧鬧下，也總是一副文靜樣子，如同教堂管事人一般有條不紊地辦事。

當然，我進入的磨坊并沒有如此喧鬧，我只是偶爾聽到那些閑置的翼板上的橫木作幾下擺動罷了，一切都是如此寂靜。更使人惆悵的是，一切又仿佛已完全就緒，就等著當天開工了。這個風車以前——大約幾十年前——也曾是生氣勃勃的，但是從那以后，它就永歸沉寂，毫無生氣，就像一條溪流在夜里突然遭遇封凍，或者像丁尼生《睡美人》詩中的宮殿那樣寂寞。這風車并未損壞——它只是失去了魂魄。風車上幾個蘋果木的榫子已從輪機上脫落下來，地板上的木條也有幾根爛掉了，但也僅是如此而已。只要一周的時間，就足以把這一切都修好。但永遠沒有這種可能了。因此，以前曾經使千千萬萬個英國風車一起歡舞的陣陣好風，而今只能在英吉利海峽上面徒勞地吹過。

Chance recently made me for a while the tenant of a windmill. Not to live in， and unhappily not to grind corn in， but to visit as the mood arose， and see the ships in the harbour from the topmost window， and look down on the sheep and the green world all around. For this mill stands high and white—so white， indeed， that when there is a thunder-cloud behind it， it seems a thing of polished aluminium.

From its windows you can see four other mills， all like itself， idle， and one merely a ruin and one with only two sweeps left. But just over the next range of hills， out of sight， to the northeast， is a windmill that still merrily goes， and about five miles away to the northwest is another also active； so that things are not quite so bad hereabouts as in many parts of the country， where the good breezes blow altogether in vain…

Thinking over the losses which England has had forced upon her by steam and the ingenuity of the engineer， one is disposed to count the decay of the windmill among the first. Perhaps in the matter of pure picture squeness the most serious thing that ever happened to England was the discovery of galvanized iron roofing； but， after all， there was never anything but quiet and rich and comfortable beauty about red roofs， whereas the living windmill is not only beautiful but romantic too： a willing， man-serving creature， yoked to the elements， a whirling monster， often a thing of terror. No one can stand very near the crashing sweeps of a windmill in half a gale without a tightening of the heart a feeling comparable to that which comes from watching the waves break over a wall in a storm. And to be within the mill at such a time is to know something of sound's very sources； it is the cave of noise itself. No doubt there are dens of hammering energy which are more shattering， but the noise of a windmill is largely natural， the product of wood striving with the good sou'wester； it fills the ears rather than assaults them. The effect， moreover， is by no means lessened by the absence of the wind itself and the silent nonchalance of the miller and his man， who move about in the midst of this appalling racket with the quiet efficiency of vergers.

In my mill， of course， there is no such uproar； nothing but the occasional shaking of the cross-pieces of the idle sails. Everything is still； and the pity of it is that everything is in almost perfect order for the day's work. The mill one day some score years ago was full of life； the next， and ever after， mute and lifeless， like a stream frozen in a night or the palace in Tennyson's ballad of the "Sleeping Beauty." There is no decay merely inanition. One or two of the apple-wood cogs have been broken from the great wheel； a few floor planks have been rotted； but that is all. A week's overhauling would put everything right. But it will never come， and the cheerful winds that once were to drive a thousand English mills so happily now bustle over the Channel in vain.