雨前

何其芳

最后的鸽群带着低弱的笛声在微风里划一个圈子后，也消失了。也许是误认为这灰暗的凄冷的天空为夜色的来袭，或是也预感到风雨的将至，遂过早地飞回它们温暖的木舍。

几天的阳光在柳条上撒下一抹嫩绿，被尘土埋掩得有憔悴色了，是需要一次洗涤。还有干裂的大地和树根也早已期待着雨。雨却迟疑着。

我情想着故乡的雷声和雨声。那隆隆的有力的搏击，从山谷反响到山谷，仿佛春之芽就从冻土里震动，惊醒，而怒茁出来。细草样柔的雨丝又以温存之手抚摸它，使它簇生油绿的枝叶而开出红色的花。这些怀想如乡愁一样萦绕得使我忧郁了。我心里的气候也和这北方大陆一样缺少雨量，一滴温柔的泪在我枯涩的归里，如迟疑在这阴沉的天空里的雨点，久不落下。

白色的鸭也似有一点烦躁了，有不洁的颜色的都市的河沟里传出它们焦急的叫声。有的还未厌倦那船一样的徐徐的划行。有的却倒插它们的长颈在水里，红色的蹼趾伸在尾后，不停地扑击着水以支持身体的平衡。不知是在寻找沟底的细微食物，还是贪那深深的水里的寒冷。

有几个已上岸了。在柳树下来回地作绅士的散步，舒息划行的疲劳。然后参差地站着，用嘴细细地抚理它们遍体白色的羽毛，间或又摇动身子或扑展阔翅，使那缀在羽毛间的水珠坠落。一个已修饰完毕的，弯曲它的颈到背上，长长的红嘴藏没在翅膀里，静静合上它白色的茸毛间的小黑眼，仿佛准备睡眠。可怜的小动物，你就是这样做你的梦吗？

我想起故乡的放雏鸭的人了。一大群鹅黄色的雏鸭游牧在溪流间。清浅的水，两岸青青的草，一根长长的竹竿在牧人的手里。他的小队伍是多么欢欣地发出啾啁声，又多么驯服地随着他的竿头越过一个田野又一个山坡！夜来了，帐幕似的竹篷撑在地上，就是他的家。但这是怎样辽远的想象啊！在这多尘土的国度里，我仅只希望听见一点树叶上的雨声。一点雨声的幽凉滴到憔悴的梦，也许会长成一树圆圆的绿阴来覆荫我自己。

我仰起头。天空低垂如灰色雾幕，落下一些寒冷的碎屑到我脸上。一只远来的鹰隼仿佛带着愤怒，对这沉重的天色的愤怒，平张的双翅不动地从天空斜插下，几乎触到河沟对岸的土阜，而又鼓扑着双翅，作出猛烈的声响腾上了。那样的巨大的翅使我惊异。我看见了它两胁间斑白的羽毛。

接着听了它有力的鸣声，如同一个巨大的心的呼号，或是在黑暗里寻找伴侣的叫唤。

然而雨还是没有来。

Before the Rain

Translated by Robert Neather

With a faint whistling, the last flock of pigeons etched a circle in the light breeze, then disappeared. Perhaps they mistook the darkness of this chilly, lowering sky for the onset of night, or perhaps they sensed the arrival of a storm, and so returned early to the warmth of their wooden pigeonry.

The few days’ sunlight had splashed the willow twigs with the tender green of new growth, but the dust that now covered them made them seem tired and withered, in need of a wash. And the parched, split earth and tree-roots had long since been awaiting rain. But the rain hesitated.

I remember fondly the sounds of my birthplace – the sounds of thunder and of rain. Those mighty crashes rumbled and reverberated from mountain valley to mountain valley, as if they new shoots of spring were shaking in the frozen ground, awakening, and bursting forth with a terrifying vigor. Threads of rain, soft as fine grass, would then caress them with a tender hand, so that clumps of glossy green leaves would sprout forth and red flowers burst open. These fond recollections lingered with me like a kind of homesickness, leaving me dejected. Within my heart, the climate seemed as parched of rain as this northern continent; and like the raindrops, still hesitating in this leaden sky, for a long time not a single tear of tenderness had fallen from my arid eyes.

Even the white ducks seemed a little unsettled, their anxious cries rising from the dirty city stream. Some had not yet wearied of their gentle boat-like padding. But others had stuck their long necks into the water, their red webbed feet stretching out behind their tails, continually thrashing at the water in an attempt to keep their bodies balanced. Perhaps they were searching for morsels of food on the stream-bed; or maybe they sought the chill cold of the deep water.

Some had come up onto the bank. They swaggered back and forth under the willow trees, enjoying a rest from the fatigue of paddling. Then they stood still, in ungainly disarray, smoothing each white feather carefully into place with their beaks; now and then they would shake their bodies or spread their wings, scattering the drops of water caught in their feathers. One that had already finished preening curled its neck up over its back, buried its red beak under its wing, and quietly closed its little black eye, surrounded by soft white down, as if it were preparing to sleep. You poor little creature, is this the way you dream your dreams?

I thought of the person in my birthplace, who used to release the ducklings. A great crowd of light yellow ducklings would be taken to the waters of the creek – limped water, lush green grass on the banks, and a long bamboo staff in the herder’s hand. How happy his little army was, cheeping with noisy delight! And how meekly they followed his staff, over a filed and then a mountain slope! When night came, the bamboo shelter propped up on the ground like a tent was his home. Yet what a distant image this is now! In this country of dust, all I hope for is to hear the sound of raindrops on leaves. The dark cool of the sound of raindrops, dripping into my parched and weary dreams, might grow a rounded canopy of tree-green shade to cover me.

I raised my head. The sky loomed like a grey curtain of fog, dropping a few could shards upon my face. A lone hawk from afar swooped down from the sky, as if angered, angered by these leaden skies, its spread wings unmoving, until it almost hit the earthen slope of the stream’s opposite bank; then it beat its wings and soared back up with a savage stridor. Those huge wings startled me. I could see the grayish feathers of its flanks.

And when I heard its piercing cry, it was like a terrible cry from the heart; or perhaps it was calling for its mate amid the darkness.

Yet still the rain didn’t come.

(摘自《中国翻译》2002年第4期，pp. 95-96)