LESSON 101

A NEW CITY IN COLORADO

科罗拉多的新城

Helen Hunt Jackson, 1830-1885, was the daughter of the late Professor Nathan W. Fiske, of Amherst College. She was born in Amherst, and educated at Ipswich, Massachusetts, and at New York. Mrs. Jackson was twice married. In the latter years of her life, she became deeply interested in the Indians, and wrote two books, “Ramona,” a novel, and “A Century of Dishonor,” setting forth vividly the wrongs to which the red race has been subjected. She had previously published several books of prose and poetry, less important but charming in their way. The following selection is adapted from “Bits of Travel at Home.”

Garland City is six miles from Fort Garland. The road to it from the fort lies for the last three miles on the top of a sage-grown plateau. It is straight as an arrow, looks in the distance like a brown furrow on the pale gray plain, and seems to pierce the mountains beyond. Up to within an eighth of a mile of Garland City, there is no trace of human habitation. Knowing that the city must be near, you look in all directions for a glimpse of it; the hills ahead of you rise sharply across your way. Where is the city? At your very feet, but you do not suspect it.

The sunset light was fading when we reached the edge of the ravine in which the city lies. It was like looking unawares over the edge of a precipice; the gulch opened beneath us as suddenly as if the earth had that moment parted and made it. With brakes set firm, we drove cautiously down the steep road; the ravine twinkled with lights, and almost seemed to flutter with white tents and wagon tops. At the farther end it widened, opening out on an inlet of the San Luis Park; and, in its center, near this widening mouth, lay the twelve-days-old city. A strange din arose from it.

“What is going on?” we exclaimed. “The building of the city,” was the reply. “Twelve days ago there was not a house here. To-day there are one hundred and five, and in a week more there will be two hundred; each man is building his own home, and working day and night to get it done ahead of his neighbor. There are four sawmills going constantly, but they can’t turn out lumber half fast enough. Everybody has to be content with a board at a time. If it were not for that, there would have been twice as many houses done as there are.”

We drove on down the ravine. A little creek on our right was half hid in willow thickets. Hundreds of white tents gleamed among them: tents with poles; tents made by spreading sailcloth over the tops of bushes; round tents; square tents; big tents; little tents; and for every tent a camp fire; hundreds of white-topped wagons, also, at rest for the night, their great poles propped up by sticks, and their mules and drivers lying and standing in picturesque groups around them.

It was a scene not to be forgotten. Louder and louder sounded the chorus of the hammers as we drew near the center of the “city;” more and more the bustle thickened; great ox teams swaying unwieldily about, drawing logs and planks, backing up steep places; all sorts of vehicles driving at reckless speed up and down; men carrying doors; men walking along inside of window sashes,—the easiest way to carry them; men shoveling; men wheeling wheelbarrows; not a man standing still; not a man with empty hands; every man picking up something, and running to put it down somewhere else, as in a play; and, all the while, “Clink! clink! clink!” ringing above the other sounds,—the strokes of hundreds of hammers, like the “Anvil Chorus.”

“Where is Perry’s Hotel?” we asked. One of the least busy of the throng spared time to point to it with his thumb, as he passed us. In some bewilderment we drew up in front of a large unfinished house, through the many uncased apertures of which we could see only scaffoldings, rough boards, carpenters’ benches, and heaps of shavings. Streams of men were passing in and out through these openings, which might be either doors or windows; no steps led to any of them.

“Oh, yes! oh, yes! can accommodate you all!” was the landlord’s reply to our hesitating inquiries. He stood in the doorway of his dining-room; the streams of men we had seen going in and out were the fed and the unfed guests of the house. It was supper time; we also were hungry. We peered into the dining room: three tables full of men; a huge pile of beds on the floor, covered with hats and coats; a singular wall, made entirely of doors propped upright; a triangular space walled off by sailcloth,—this is what we saw. We stood outside, waiting among the scaffolding and benches. A black man was lighting the candles in a candelabrum made of two narrow bars of wood nailed across each other at right angles, and perforated with holes. The candles sputtered, and the hot fat fell on the shavings below.

“Dangerous way of lighting a room full of shavings,” some one said. The landlord looked up at the swinging candelabra and laughed. “Tried it pretty often,” he said. “Never burned a house down yet.”

I observed one peculiarity in the speech at Garland City. Personal pronouns, as a rule, were omitted; there was no time for a superfluous word.

“Took down this house at Wagon Creek,” he continued, “just one week ago; took it down one morning while the people were eating breakfast; took it down over their heads; putting it up again over their heads now.”

This was literally true. The last part of it we ourselves were seeing while he spoke, and a friend at our elbow had seen the Wagon Creek crisis.

“Waiting for that round table for you,” said the landlord; “ ’ll bring the chairs out here’s fast’s they quit ’em. That’s the only way to get the table.”

So, watching his chances, as fast as a seat was vacated, he sprang into the room, seized the chair and brought it out to us; and we sat there in our “reserved seats,” biding the time when there should be room enough vacant at the table for us to take our places.

What an indescribable scene it was! The strange-looking wall of propped doors which we had seen, was the impromptu wall separating the bedrooms from the dining-room. Bedrooms? Yes, five of them; that is, five bedsteads in a row, with just space enough between them to hang up a sheet, and with just room enough between them and the propped doors for a moderate-sized person to stand upright if he faced either the doors or the bed. Chairs? Oh, no! What do you want of a chair in a bedroom which has a bed in it? Washstands? One tin basin out in the unfinished room. Towels? Uncertain.

The little triangular space walled off by the sailcloth was a sixth bedroom, quite private and exclusive; and the big pile of beds on the dining-room floor was to be made up into seven bedrooms more between the tables, after everybody had finished supper.

Luckily for us we found a friend here,—a man who has been from the beginning one of Colorado’s chief pioneers; and who is never, even in the wildest wilderness, without resources of comfort.

“You can’t sleep here,” he said. “I can do better for you than this.”

“Better!”

He offered us luxury. How movable a thing is one’s standard of comfort! A two-roomed pine shanty, board walls, board floors, board ceilings, board partitions not reaching to the roof, looked to us that night like a palace. To have been entertained at Windsor Castle would not have made us half so grateful.

It was late before the “city” grew quiet; and, long after most of the lights were out, and most of the sounds had ceased, I heard one solitary hammer in the distance, clink, clink, clink. I fell asleep listening to it.

【中文阅读】

花环城距离花环堡有六英里之遥。从城堡通向该城的道路最后三英里，位于一个出过圣人的高原顶端。这条道路像箭一样笔直，在远处看如同在灰暗的平原上犁出的一道褐色垄沟，似乎能穿透高山。花环城方圆八分之一英里范围内，没有人类居住的踪迹。鉴于这座城市很小，只要往各个方向一瞥便一览无余。前面显得突兀的山冈横亘在路上。这座小城在哪儿？就在你的脚下，这一点你不必怀疑。

在我们来到山谷边上时，落日余晖渐渐隐去，小城就位于山谷之中。好像不经意间就能凭眺峭壁的边缘。突然，峡谷在我们下方显露出来，仿佛山谷一霎间分开才形成似的。踩住刹车，我们驱车小心翼翼地驶下陡峭的山道。在车灯的映照下，山谷闪烁出光亮，白色帐篷和车顶棚几乎振翅欲飞。越往下，道路越加宽阔，闪出圣路易斯公园的入口。在公园中央，在宽阔的山嘴附近，坐落着这座只诞生了十二天的小城。这时，从里面传出一阵奇怪的喧闹声。

“什么声音？”我们喊道，“在建城呢。”有人答道。十二天前，这儿连一栋房屋都没有，现在有一百零五栋了，再过一个星期就有二百栋了。大家都在建自己的家园，夜以继日地要赶在邻居之前完工。四家锯木厂不间断地开工，可是最快也只能加工一半的木料，一时间大家不得不同桌共食。如果不这样的话，这里的房子会增加一倍。

我们驱车下了山谷。右手的一条小溪有一半掩在柳树丛里。树丛中间，数以百计的白色帐篷忽明忽暗地泛出光亮。帐篷都是由木杆撑起来的，帆布在灌木顶端向四周摊开；有圆帐篷，也有方帐篷；有大帐篷，也有小帐篷；每个帐篷旁边都有营火。除此之外，还有数以百计的白顶四轮马车，在当天晚上他们那巨大的柱子由木棍支撑着，骡子和车夫在马车四周或躺着或站着，组成一幅生动有趣的画卷。

这是无法令人忘怀的风景。在我们走近“城”中央时，锤子合唱团“奏”出的响声越来越大，越来越忙乱嘈杂。体型硕大的公牛组成的车队拉着圆木和木板，难以驾驭地左摇右摆，将地势陡峭的地方都给塞满了。各种各样的车辆不顾危险地上下奔忙，人们搬着大大小小的门，沿着窗框进进出出——这是搬运房门最便捷的方式。人们挥舞铁锹，推着独轮手推车；没有一个人站着看热闹，没有一个人两手空空地如无其事。大家都在拾着什么，然后跑着将其放到别处，就像戏剧里的场景似的。突然间“叮当，叮当，叮当！”声盖过了其他声响——原来是数以百计锤子一齐砸下的声音，仿佛“铁砧合唱团”大合唱一样。

“佩里旅店在哪儿？”我们打听道。其中一位手里的活儿最少，他从我们身边经过时，用大拇指给我们指了一下。我们仍旧有些茫然，顺着手指的方向来到一幢很大的尚未完工的房子门前。透过露出的缝隙，我们只看到脚手架，没有刷油的桌子，木工用的长凳以及成堆的刨花。人流从那些要么是门要么是窗户的开口处进进出出；他们中没有一个人注意到我们的脚步声。

“啊，天哪，天哪，诸位大驾光临！”这是店主对我们犹疑的询问做出的回答。他站在起居室的门口，我们曾目睹到的进进出出的人流原来是来这里用餐的客人。现在是午餐时间，我们也饥肠辘辘了。我们朝餐厅张望，只见里面放着三张餐桌，都坐满了人。地板上堆着一堆木床，上面搭着帽子和衣服。一面墙上立着做好的门，其他三面墙覆盖着帆布。这就是我们看到的景象。我们站在外面，在脚手架和长条凳之间等待就餐。这时，一个黑人点燃烛台上的蜡烛，这个烛台是用交叉搭成直角形的两根狭窄的木条组成的，上面钻了些小孔以便插蜡烛。蜡烛发出噼噼啪啪的蜡油燃烧的声音，滚烫的蜡油掉在下面的刨花上。

“小心点燃满屋子的刨花，”有人警告道，店主抬头瞥了一眼晃晃悠悠的烛台，笑了起来。“经常这样，”他说，“屋里从没有着过火。”

我在花环城发表的演讲中指出过该城的一大特色。一般来说，人们说话都会省略人称代词，因为根本没有时间听多余的词。

“在停马车的小溪那儿建的房子给拆了，”他继续道。“就在一星期前，一天早晨原来的房子拆了，当时大家都在吃早餐呢，在他们的头顶上拆的房子，现在又在他们头顶上建起来了。”

这倒是真的。在他说话时我们亲眼看到这幢房子最后一部分落成了，我们眼皮底下的一位朋友曾见过车马溪危机。

“你们在那张圆桌就餐，”店主说道，“他们一吃完就给你们添椅子。这是占座的唯一方法。”

于是，我们注意看他的话是否灵验，座位一空出来，他就连忙跑进里面，搬出几张椅子给我们用。我们坐在“预留的座位”上，打赌是否有足够的空桌能容下我们。

这一场景简直难以形容！我们见到的那面用门支撑的样子怪怪的墙是临时搭起来的，卧室和起居室之间用墙来分隔。卧室？不错，有五间卧室。一排有五个床架，这样就有足够的空间来挂帘子，正好有足够的房间来放这些床，支撑起来的门可以容中等身材的人站直，尽管他要么面向门，要么冲着床。椅子？啊，没地方放了，你还希望放了床的卧室里放把椅子？洗脸架？在未完工的房间里有一个铁盆。手巾？不好说有没有。

用帆布围成墙的三角形空间里有六个房间，都是单间，非常私密。起居室放着的那叠床可以供七间卧室使用，待大家用过餐后，就在餐桌之间摆放。

幸运的是我们在这儿找到一位朋友，此人是科罗拉多开拓者之一，即使在荒无人烟的僻壤，他也能自得其乐。

“在这儿你们根本无法入睡，”他说，“我却能睡得香甜。”

“那样更好。”

他向我们提供这儿难得一见的享受。世间最容易改变的事情莫过于一个人的舒适标准了！有两间房子大的用松木搭建的木屋，木板墙，木地板，木头隔墙，那个晚上我们觉得自己就像住在宫殿里。对我们来说，温莎城堡里的设施也不及这里的一半。

“小城”安静下来之前，天色已晚；在大多数灯光都熄了后很久，这里陷入一片寂静，只是远处传来一柄锤子锤击的声音，叮当，叮当，叮当。听着听着，我渐渐睡了。