登勃朗峰

振衣千仞岗濯足万里流

登勃朗峰
                                                     马克·吐温
  
前往勃朗峰的途中，我们先坐火车去了马蒂尼，翌日早晨八点多，便徒步出发。路上有很多人结伴而行，乘坐马车的，骑骡的——因而扬起阵阵尘埃。队伍分散开去，络绎不绝，前后长达一英里左右。路为上坡——一路都为上坡——且相当陡峭。天气灼热难挡，乘坐在缓慢爬行的骡背之上和辚辚移进的马车里的男男女女，焦炙于火辣辣的炎阳之下，其状真是可怜可悯。我们可在树林中避暑纳凉，稍作歇息，可那些人不行。既然花了钱坐车，就一定要使他们的旅行价有所值。

我们取道黑首，抵达高地，沿途不乏秀色美景。有一处需经隧道，穿山而过；俯瞰脚下峡谷，只见一股清流急湍其间，环顾四周，岩壁巉峻，丘岗葱绿，美不胜收。整个黑首道上，到处瀑布倾泻，轰鸣作响。

抵达阿冉提村前约莫半小时，一座巨大的白雪穹顶骤然映入眼帘，日照其上，光艳耀目。穹顶呈V字形，巍峨庄观，此乃一座山门，原来我们已亲眼目睹了被称“阿尔卑斯之王”的勃朗峰。我们拾阶而上，威严的穹顶也随之愈升愈高，耸入蓝天，最后仿佛独据苍穹。

勃朗峰周围的一些山峰奇形怪状——都为浅棕色的光秃尖岩。有些顶端尖峭，并微微倾向一旁，宛如美女的纤指；有一怪峰，形如塔糖，又似主教头上的帽子；因巉岩太过陡峭，皓皓白雪无法堆积，只能在分野处才得以偶见几处。

在逗留高地、向山下的阿冉提村进发之前，我们曾仰面遥望附近的一座峰巅，但见色彩斑斓，彩霞满天，白云缭绕，轻歌曼舞，那朵朵白云精美柔细，宛如游丝蛛网一般。五光十色中的粉红嫩绿，尤为妩媚动人，所有色彩轻淡柔和，交相辉映，妖媚迷人。我们干脆就地而坐，饱览独特美景。这一彩幻只是稍作驻留，顷刻间便飘忽不定，相互交融，暗淡隐去，可又骤然返光灼灼，瞬息万变，真是无穷变幻，纷至沓来；洁白轻薄的云朵，微光闪烁，仿佛身披霓裳羽衣的纯洁天使。

良久，我们终于感悟到，眼前的绚丽色彩以及它们的无穷变幻便是我们从飘浮的肥皂泡中能看到的一切，泡泡所到之处，种种色彩变幻，尽被摄入其中。自然界中最美丽最精致的造物，莫过于肥皂泡泡了：刚才空中的华丽色彩，天衣云锦，恰如那在阳光下破裂并蔓延开去的皂泡。我想，假如世上只有一个肥皂泡，其价值会是多少呢？

从马蒂尼到阿冉提，历时八个小时。有好几次，我们把所有的车骑甩在身后。沿河谷前往沙蒙尼途中，我们雇了一辆敞篷马车，又花上一小时美餐了一顿，那车夫也得以有了纵饮的机会，略显醉意。他有一朋友同行，于是这友人也有暇畅饮一番。

上路后，车夫说我们用饭之际，所有的游客都已赶到，甚至还抢在了我们前面；“但是，”他把握十足地说，“不必为此烦恼——静下心来——不要浮躁——他们虽已扬尘远去，可不久就会消失在我们身后的。你就放下心坐好吧，一切包在我身上——我是车夫之王啊。你看着吧！”

他扬鞭一挥，车便辚辚向前。如此颠簸，我生平从未有过。近来的几场暴雨冲毁了几处路面，但我们不停不息，一如既往地保持着速度，疾驰向前，什么乱石废物，沟壑旷野，一概不顾——有时一两个轮子着地，但大多为腾空而起。那位镇定而善良的狂车夫还时不时地掉转头来，神情威严地冲我们说道：“哈，看到了吗？如我所说吧——我可是名副其实的车夫之王呐。”每当我们险遭不测时，他总是面不改色，和颜悦色地说：“只当是种乐趣吧，先生们，这种情况不常见，但很不寻常——能坐上车王的车的人，可是少之又少啊——看到了吧，真如我说的，我就是车王。”

他说的是法语，还不时地打嗝，像是在加标点符号。他朋友也是法国人，说的却是德语——但标点系统毫无二致。那朋友自称“勃朗队长”，要求我们和他一同登山。他说他爬山的次数比谁都多——四十七次——而他兄弟只有三十七次。除他外，他兄弟是世上最佳的向导——可他自己，对了，请别忘了——他是“勃朗队长”——这个尊号是非他莫属的。

那车王果然信守诺言——像疾风般赶上并超过了那长长的游客车队。结果，到达沙蒙尼旅馆后，我们住进了上等的房间。如果这位王爷的车技略欠敏捷——或者说，不是老天有意安排，在他离开阿冉提时喝得酒气熏熏，那将是不可能的。
  
                                                （林文华译）

                            Mont Blanc
                                                         Mark Twain
  
We took the train and went to Martigny, on the way to Mont Blanc. Next morning we started, about eight o’clock, on foot. We had plenty of company in the way of wagon-loads and mule-loads of tourists—and dust. This scattering procession of travelers was perhaps a mile long. The road was uphill—interminably uphill—and tolerably steep. The weather was blistering hot, and the man or woman who had to sit on a creeping mule or in a crawling wagon, and broil in the beating sun, was an object to be pitied. We could dodge among the bushes, and have the relief shade, but those people could not. They paid for a conveyance, and to get their money’s worth they rode.
We went by the way of Tête Noir, and after we reached high ground there was no lack of fine scenery. In one place the road was tunneled through a shoulder of the mountain; from there one looked down into a gorge with a rushing torrent in it, and on every hand was a charming view of rocky buttresses and wooded heights. There was a liberal allowance of pretty waterfalls, too, on the Tête Noir route.
About half an hour before we reached the village of Argentiere a vast dome of snow, with the sun blazing on it, drifted into view and framed itself in a strong V-shaped gateway of the mountains, and we recognized Mont Blanc, the “monarch of the Alps.” With every step after that this stately dome rose higher and higher into the blue sky, and at last seemed to occupy the zenith.
Some of Mont Blanc’s neighbors—bare, light-brown, steeple-like rocks—were very peculiarly shaped. Some were whittled to a sharp point, and slightly bent at the upper end, like a lady’s finger; one monster sugar-loaf resembled a bishop’s hat; it was too steep to hold snow on its sides, but had some in the division.  
While we were still on very high ground, and before the descent toward Argentiere began, we looked up toward a neighboring mountain-top, and saw exquisite prismatic colors playing about some white clouds which were so delicate as to almost resemble gossamer webs. The faint pinks and greens were peculiarly beautiful; none of the colors were deep, they were the lightest shades. They were bewitchingly commingled. We sat down to study and enjoy this singular spectacle. The tints remained during several minutes—flitting, changing, melting into each other; paling almost away for a moment, then reflushing—a shifting, restless, unstable succession of soft opaline gleams, shimmering over that airy film of white cloud, and turning it into a fabric dainty enough to clothe an angel with.
By and by we perceived what those super-delicate colors, and their continuous play and movement, reminded us of: it is what one sees in a soap-bubble that is drifting along, catching changes of tint from the object it passes. A soap-bubble is the most beautiful thing, and the most exquisite, in nature: that lovely phantom fabric in the sky was suggestive of a soap-bubble split open and spread out in the sun. I wonder how much it would take to buy a soap-bubble if there was only one in the world?
We made the tramp from Martigny to Argentiere in eight hours. We beat all the mules and wagons; we didn’t usually do that. We hired a sort of open baggage-wagon for the trip down the valley to Chamonix, and then devoted an hour to dining. This gave the driver time to get drunk. He had a friend with him, and this friend also had had time to get drunk.
When we drove off, the driver said all the tourists had arrived and gone by while we were at dinner; “but,” said he, impressively, “be not disturbed by that—remain tranquil—give yourselves no uneasiness—their dust rises far before us, you shall see it fade and disappear far behind us. Rest you tranquil, leave all to me—I am the king of drivers. Behold!”
Down came his whip, and away we clattered. I never had such a shaking up in my life. The recent flooding rains had washed the road clear away in places, but we never stopped, we never slowed down, for anything. We tore right along, over rocks, rubbish, gullies, open fields—sometimes with one or two wheels on the ground, but generally with none. Every now and then that calm, good-natured madman would bend majestic look over his shoulder at us and say, “Ah, you perceive? It is as I have said—I am the king of drivers.” Every time we just missed going to destruction he would say, with tranquil happiness, “Enjoy it, gentlemen, it is very rare, it is very unusual—it is given to few to ride with the king of drivers—and observe, it is as I have said, I am he.”
He spoke in French, and punctuated with hiccups. His friend was French too, but spoke in German—using the same system of punctuation, however. The friend called himself the “Captain of Mont Blanc,” and wanted us to make the ascent with him. He said he had made more ascents than any other man—forty-seven—and his brother had made thirty-seven. His brother was the best guide in the world, except himself—but he, yes, observe him well—he was the “Captain of Mont Blanc”—that title belonged to none other.
The king was as good as his word—he overtook that long procession of tourists and went by it like a hurricane. The result was that we got choicer rooms at the hotel in Chamonix than we should have done if his majesty had been a slower artist—or, rather, if he hadn’t most providentially got drunk before he left Argentiere.

振衣千仞岗濯足万里流

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