A Visit to Hemingway's Grave and Memorial

莹然UID: 114007

A Visit to Hemingway's Grave and Memorial
http://www.sina.com.cn 2003/01/10 12:42  《英语学习》


　　It's quiet here at Hemingway's Grave. Sun Valley is filled with late afternoon light and there is a chill in the air. A new red truck drivessintosthe cemetery, parks, and three large men climb out. They come over and askswheresHemingway's grave is. I point to the long stone slab I'm standing next to. It is inscribed: Ernest Miller Hemingway, July 21, 1899—July 2, 1961. Mary lies next to him. Both graves are covered in pine needles from the trees above. One of the men takes a picture. The others look disinterested. Then they all go back to their car and drive away.

　　Alone again, I sit next to Ernest's grave and find his Complete Short Stories and a small flask of whisky in my bag. For some time, I sit reading stories, then take out a photocopied picture of Hemingway's funeral. It shows a small ceremony. In the background are old cars along the road. Behind the cars are the same smooth mountains I see today. Suddenly, it seems strange that the man who wrote these stories is buried next to me, here in Ketchum, Idaho. It is a beautiful place to die. It is especially beautiful now, on this afternoon, with the shadows growing long down the western slopes, and the "leaves yellow on the cottonwoods; leaves floating on the trout streams. And above the hills, the high blue windless sky." Those are Hemingway's words on the plaque at his memorial a few miles out of town.

　　Like this grave, the memorial is a simple affair: a pile of flat stones with a column rising from its middle. A small, diverted stream runs in front. Hemingway's bust sits on the column in profile.

　　It was July 2, 1961, at his house near here, when Ernest Hemingway destroyed that profile with a shotgun blast. It had been two years since he moved to Ketchum,swhereshe'd come to try to write the rest that he had never written. But he was badly depressed and his health was failing. Head injuries and years of abuse were catching up with him. He started losing his grip on reality, and he went to the Mayo Clinic for electroshock therapy. Hemingway came back to Ketchum, but couldn't write anymore. Maybe he had no more stories left in him, or maybe he just didn't know how to get them out. Either way, he knew it was the end.

　　At the Ketchum Cemetery, it's getting colder and the shadows on the hills across the valley are growing longer. I read a few more stories, pour a little whisky on Ernest's grave, and say good-bye. Driving through Ketchum, I imagine it's much different from Hemingway's day. There is a Starbucks, a Visitors' Center, and a large airstrip. There are many new housing developments. There are B & B's. There is a film festival and a famous writers' conference. There are specialty stores and gift shops and parts of the town that have the prefabricated old-fashioned look of every mountain resort town. But when Hemingway first came here, it was just another small mining town with a railroad and one resort. He arrived from Cuba in 1939 with his new love, Martha Gelhorn, and held up in room 206 at the Sun Valley Lodge to work on For Whom the Bell Tolls. In the mornings, he wrote and in the afternoons, he played. Three months later, he left for Key West. The next fall, the couple came back to Ketchum and the book was finished. They checkedsintosroom 206 again, and Ernest shut himself away to make the final changes. When he finished, he was free to hunt and fish in what he called "the loveliest mountains that I know."

　　At the Hemingway Memorial, just past the Sun Valley Resort, it is even quieter. In the background, mountains rise up. There is a curved stone bench, like a tiny amphitheater facing the memorial. I sit for a while and watch the stream swirl around a corner, then look up at Hemingway's image on the column—old, bearded and balding. My mind runs around this strange, complicated person who seemed in so many ways to embody the American Dream. He was a self-made man, a self-made writer, and a self-made celebrity. He was our prodigal son, and we watched him grow up all over the world, but knew that his heart was always here, at home.

　　As the afternoon light fades, I move to a nearby campground and cook dinner. When night comes, the moon is bright and the Milky Way is a wide, pale stripe across the sky. In the north, the big dipper is sinking behind a hill. Next to the campground is Trail Creek, a stream filled with rocks that the water rushes over. In the dark, I go down to the stream, sit next to it and let the bubbling stir my thoughts. Moonlight glints off the water. When it gets too cold, I go back to camp to sleep for the night. But on my way, I hear a rustle and shine my lightswheresthe sound came from. A fox runs past me and its eyes shine in the light. He disappearssintosthe bushes. I stand there. A few seconds later he comes back. The fox stops tentatively, then walks toward me, eyes glowing. He stops again and spins around in three nervous circles. His fur looks gray and black. He is followed by a huge tail. The fox looks at me again and we both stand still for a minute, engaged in some kind of mutual regard. Then he turnssintosthe bushes and disappears.

　　It was his favorite shotgun, and his third try. Things had gone badly for Ernest in his marriage, in his writing and in his mind. He had three big books unfinished, perhaps unfinishable: Islands in the Stream, The Garden of Eden, and True at First Light. Of these, biographer Michael Reynolds said, "They were to be his legacy, his most complex undertaking. It was like working a crossword puzzle in three dimensions. All he needed was time, which, unfortunately, was no longer on his side."

　　His account of the Bullfights in Spain, The Dangerous Summer, was more or less finished, as was his memoir of Paris, A Moveable Feast. But they were not published because Hemingway remained unhappy with them. In his last two years at Ketchum, he worked intermittently on them, sometimes making progress, sometimes not. But things weren't right in Ernest's head. Two decades after he first came to Ketchum, he looked like he had aged four decades. At 61, he was a shadow of the man who arrived at Sun Valley with Martha in 1939 to write For Whom the Bell Tolls and with Mary in 1947 to work on Islands in the Stream. He threatened to kill himself, but Mary talked him out of it. A few days later, he tried again, but was stopped by a friend. The next day he flew to the Mayo clinic for his second course of electroshock. Two months later, he was released from the clinic and drove back to Ketchum with Mary. They arrived on June 30th. Two days later, Ernest Hemingway walked downstairs, put his favorite gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. The shot must have rung out through the valley.

　　At Trail Creek Campground, I wake to the sound of water rushing over rocks. It's cold and my hands are stiff. But the sky is clear and I watch as the sun drips down the hills like honey. I eat some breakfast, make a cup of coffee, and pack up to leave. On the way out, I stop again at the Hemingway Memorial. On the ground I notice small, wet, paw prints. They had come out of the stream by the memorial, wind through the open area by the bench and go up the path fromswheresI just came. I sit for a while and watch the water swirl in the stream. It is so clear you can see to the bottom. In the distance is the rush of Trail Creek, and just above is the profile of Ernest Hemingway framed against, "the high blue windless sky." His head is turned away fromswheresI sit, towards the mountains. The inscription "a eulogy Hemingway wrote for another friend" talks about how he loved the trees and hills and sky. It ends: "Now he will be part of them forever." It is a beautiful place to die.

莹然UID: 114007

太阳照常沉落
　　海明威墓地静谧无声。森瓦利洒满了夕阳的余晖，空气里有一丝凉意。一辆崭新的红色卡车驶进墓地，停下，里面钻出三个魁梧的男子。他们走过来，问海明威墓在什么地方。我指了指身旁的长石板。上面刻着：欧内斯特-米勒-海明威，1899年7月21日—1961年7月2日。玛丽长眠在他的身旁。两座墓都被树上掉下的松针覆盖着。一个男子拍了一张照片。另外两人似乎没多少兴致。随后，他们回到车上，驱车离去。

　　再次独自一人，我在海明威墓畔坐下，从包里找出他的《短篇小说全集》和一小瓶威士忌。我读了一会儿小说，然后取出一张影印的海明威葬礼的照片。那是一个小规模的仪式。远处有沿路停放的旧式汽车。汽车后面是平缓的山，与我今日所见一模一样。忽然，好像有点怪怪的——写这些小说的那个人就埋在我身边，在这儿，在爱达荷州的凯彻姆。这是一个美丽的安息之地。在这个傍晚，在此时此刻，它分外美丽，西边山坡上的阴影正在拉长，“三角叶杨的叶子已经变黄；叶子在满是鲑鱼的溪水里漂流。山顶上，是高远、蔚蓝、无风的天空。”这是海明威的句子，刻在城外几英里处他的纪念碑的饰板上。

　　同海明威墓一样，纪念碑简单朴素：一堆扁平的石头，中间竖着一根柱子。前方一条小溪蜿蜒流过。柱子上安放着海明威的半身侧像。

　　就在1961年7月2日，在离此地很近的家中，欧内斯特-海明威用猎枪摧毁了这尊侧像。他当时搬来凯彻姆已有两年时间，本打算写完未完成的作品。然而，他心情极度沮丧，健康每况愈下。头部的伤痛和长年的酗酒折磨着他。他开始失掉对现实的掌控，去梅奥诊所接受电休克治疗。海明威回到了凯彻姆，但他却再也无力写作了。也许他已没有故事可写，或者他只是不知道如何写出来。不管属于哪种情况，他知道末日已到。

　　在凯彻姆墓地，天愈来愈冷，山上的阴影投到谷里，越来越长。我又读了几个短篇，在欧内斯特的坟前洒了一点威士忌，然后起身离去。驾车经过凯彻姆时，我猜想它与海明威时代的情形已大不相同。现在有了一家星巴克咖啡店，一处访客中心，以及一个大的简易机场。有了许多新的住宅区。有了提供早餐的小旅店。有了电影节和知名作家年会。有了特产店和礼品店。镇上有些地方的建筑特意建成老式陈旧的外观，就像任何一个山区胜地一样。但海明威初来乍到之时，这里不过是一个采矿小镇，仅有一条铁路和一处胜景。他于1939年自古巴来到此地，带着新欢马莎-盖尔霍恩，在森瓦利旅店206号房住下，写作《丧钟为谁而鸣》。他上午写作，下午游乐。三个月后，他动身去基韦斯特岛。次年秋两人返回凯彻姆时，那本书已写完。他们又在206号房登记住下，欧内斯特把自己关在屋里，作最后修改。完成以后，他在这被他称为“我所知的最可爱的山”中尽情地狩猎和垂钓。

　　临近森瓦利胜地的海明威纪念碑畔更是安静。远处，山势渐起。一把微微弯曲的石椅，像一个小小的倾斜看台，正对着纪念碑。我坐了一会儿，看着在转角处打旋的流水，然后抬头望着柱子上的海明威像——老态龙钟、胡子拉碴、头发稀少。脑子里想着这个奇特而复杂的人，他似乎在许多方面体现了美国梦。他是一个靠自我奋斗成功的人，依靠自己的力量成为作家和名流。他是我们的浪子，我们看着他成长，足迹遍布世界，但我们知道他的心始终在这里，在故乡。

　　当傍晚的光线暗淡下去，我来到附近的一处野营地做晚餐。夜幕降临时，明月朗照，银河像一条宽阔浅白的带子横在天上。在北面，北斗七星正向一座山丘后隐去。在野营地近旁是特雷尔溪，溪里满布石头，溪水潺潺流过。黑暗中，我走到溪边坐下，让汩汩的流水撩起我的思绪。月光照在水面，熠熠闪亮。冷极了的时候，我回到帐篷睡觉过夜。在返回途中，我听见一阵的声音，用手电朝声响处照去，一只狐狸从我身边跑过，两眼在手电光中闪烁。它蹿进灌木丛中消失了。我站在那儿。过了片刻，它又回来了，犹犹豫豫地停下脚步。然后，它朝我走来，两眼发亮。然后又停下，紧张地兜了三圈。它的皮毛呈灰黑色，身后拖着条大尾巴。它又看着我。我们都静静地伫立了一会儿，相互注视。然后，它转身消失在灌木丛中。

　　海明威(自杀时)用的是他心爱的猎枪，并且那是他第三次自杀企图。欧内斯特的情况已变得一团糟——婚姻、写作和心情全都糟糕透顶。他有三部大书尚未完成，也许是无法完成了。它们是：《岛在湾流中》、《伊甸园》和《曙光示真》。传记作者迈克尔-雷诺兹对此说道：“它们是他的遗作，是他最复杂的工作。这项工作简直就像做复杂的立体填字游戏。他需要的只是时间，但不幸的是，时间已所剩无几了。”

　　他已大抵写完《危险的夏天》中的《西班牙斗牛》；也已写完《不固定的圣节》，这是他的巴黎回忆录。但海明威并不满意，所以未将它们发表。在凯彻姆的最后两年里，他断断续续地做了一些修改，有时取得些进展，有时却停滞不前。但欧内斯特的脑子出了问题。在他第一次来凯彻姆的二十年后，他看上去苍老了四十岁。当时他六十一岁，但已成了当初来森瓦利时那个精神抖擞的海明威的影子。他1939年携马莎来此写作《丧钟为谁而鸣》，1947年携玛丽来此写作《岛在湾流中》。他威胁着要自杀，但玛丽劝服了他。数日后，他再次试图自杀，被一个朋友阻止。第二天，他飞往梅奥诊所，接受第二个疗程的电休克治疗。两个月后，他离开诊所，同玛丽驱车回到凯彻姆。他们于6月30号抵达。两日后，欧内斯特-海明威走下楼梯，把心爱的猎枪放进口中，抠动了扳机。枪声一定响彻了整个山谷。

　　在特雷尔溪野营地，我一觉醒来，听见溪水冲刷岩石的声音。天气很冷，我的手都冻僵了。但天空明朗，我看着阳光如蜂蜜般泻下山丘。我吃了点早餐，喝了杯咖啡，收拾离去。在出去的路上，我又在海明威纪念碑旁驻足。我发现地面上有小而湿的爪印。它们来自碑畔的溪水中，绕过石椅旁的空地，又走上我刚下来的山路。我坐了片刻，注视着溪中打旋的流水。溪水清澈见底。远处是奔流的特雷尔溪，欧内斯特-海明威的半身侧像正映着“高远、蔚蓝、无风的天空”。从我坐的地方望去，他正转头朝向远山。纪念碑上的铭文——这本是海明威替另一位朋友写的悼词——提到他多么热爱树林、山峦和天空。末尾写道：“现在他将永远成为其中的一部分。”这是一个美丽的安息之地。