转向小径分岔的花园 The Garden of Forking Paths

2021年1月20日发(作者：七夕英文)
小径分岔的花园

The Garden of Forking Paths
作者：
〔阿根廷〕博尔赫斯

Jorge Luis Borges

To Victoria Ocampo
In his
A History of the
World
War (page 212), Captain Liddell Hart reports that a
planned
offensive
by
thirteen
British
divisions,
supported
by
fourteen
hundred
artillery pieces, against the German line at Serre-Montauban, scheduled for July 24,
1916, had to be postponed until the morning of the 29th. He comments that torrential
rain
caused
this
delay
一
which
lacked
any
special
significance.
The
following
deposition, dictated by, read
over, and then signed
by Dr. Yu Tsun, former teacher
ofEnglish at the Tsingtao Hochschule, casts unsuspected light
upon this event. The
first two pages are missing.
…and I
hung up the
phone. Immediately I recollected the voice that
had
spoken in
German. It was that of Captain Richard Madden. Madden, in Viktor Runeberg's office,
meant the end of all our work and
一
though this seemed a secondary matter, or should
have seemed so to me
一
of our lives also. His being there meant that Runeberg had

been arrested or murdered.
②
Before the sun set on this same day, I ran the same risk.
Madden was implacable. Rather, to be more accurate, he was obliged to be implacable.
An Irishman in the service of England, a man suspected of equivocal feelings if not of
actual
treachery,
how
could
he
fail
to
welcome
and
seize
upon
this
extraordinary
piece of luck the discovery, capture and perhaps the deaths of two agents of Imperial
Germany
I went up to my
bedroom.
Absurd though the gesture was, I closed and locked the
door. I threw myself down on my narrow iron bed, and waited on my back. The never
changing rooftops filled the window, and the hazy six o'clock sun hung in the sky. It
seemed incredible that this day, a day without warnings or omens, might be that of
my implacable death. In despite of my dead father, in despite of having been a child in
one of the symmetrical gardens of Hai Feng, was I to die now
Then Ireflected that all things happen, happen to one, precisely now. Century follows
century, and things happen only in the present. There are countless men in the air, on
land
and
at
sea,
and
all
that
really
happens
happens
to
me…The
almost
unbearable
memory of Maddens long horseface put an end to these wandering thoughts.
In the midst of my hatred and terror (now that it no longer matters to me to speak of
terror, now that I have outwitted Richard Madden, now that my neck hankers for the
hangman's noose), I knew that the fast-moving and doubtless happy soldier did not
suspect that I possessed the Secret
一
the name of the exact site of the new British
artillery
park
on
the
Ancre.
A
bird
streaked
across
the
misty
sky
and,
absently,
I
turned
it
into
an
airplane
and
then
that
airplane
into
many
in
the
skies
of
France,
shattering
the
artillery
park
under
a
rain
of
bombs.
If
only
my
mouth,
before
it
should be silenced
by a bullet, could shout this name in such
a way that it could be
heard in Germany…My voice, my human voice, was weak. How could it reach the ear of
the Chief The ear of that sick and hateful man who knew nothing of Runeberg or of
me except that we were in Staffordshire. A man who, sitting in his arid Berlin office,
leafed infinitely through newspapers, looking in vain for news from us. I said aloud, I
must flee.

I
sat
up
on
the
bed,
in
senseless
and
perfect
silence,
as
if
Madden
was
already
peering
at
me.
Something
一
perhaps
merely
a
desire
to
prove
my
total
penury
to
myself
一
made me empty out my pockets. I found just what I knew I was going to find.
The
American watch, the
nickel-plated chain and the square coin, the key ring with
the useless but compromising keys to Runeberg's office, the notebook, a letter which
I decided to destroy at once (and which I did not destroy), a five shilling piece, two
single
shillings
and
some
pennies,
a
red
and
blue
pencil,
a
ha
ndkerchief
一
and
a
revolver
with
a
single
bullet.
Absurdly
I
held
it
and
weighed
it
in
my
hand,
to
give
myself
courage.
Vaguely
I
thought
that
a
pistol
shot
can
be
heard
for
a
great
distance.
In ten minutes I had developed my plan. The telephone directory gave me the name of
the one person capable of passing on the information. He lived in a suburb of Fenton,
less than half an hour away by train.
I am a timorous man. I can say it now, now that I have brought my incredibly risky plan
to an end. It was not easy to bring about, and I know that its execution was terrible. I
did not do it for Germany
一
no! Such a barbarous country is of no importance to me,
particularly
since
it
had
degraded
me
by
making
me
become
a
spy.
Furthermore,
I
knew an Englishman
一
a modest man
一
who, for me, is as great as Goethe. I did not
speak with him for more than an hour, but during that time, he was Goethe.
I carried out my plan because I felt the Chief had some fear of those of my race, of
those uncountable forebears whose culmination lies in me. I wished to prove to
him
that
a
yellow
man
could
save
his
armies.
Besides, I
had
to
escape
the
Captain.
His
hands and voice could, at any moment, knock and beckon at my door.

Silently, I dressed, took leave of myself in the mirror, went down the stairs, sneaked
a look at the quiet street, and went out. The station was not far from my house, but I
thought it more prudent to take a cab. I told myself that I thus ran less chance of
being recognized. The truth is that, in the deserted street, I felt
infinitely visible
and vulnerable. I recall that I told the driver to stop short of the main entrance.

I got out with a painful and deliberate slowness.I was going to the village of Ashgrove,
but took a ticket for a station further on. The train would leave in a few minutes, at
eight-fifty. I hurried, for the next would not go until half past nine. There was almost
no one on the platform. I walked through the carriages. I remember some farmers, a
woman
dressed
in
mourning,
a
youth
deep
in
Tacitus'
Annals
and
a
wounded,
happy
soldier.
At last the train pulled out. A man I recognized ran furiously, but vainly, the length of
the platform. It was Captain Richard Madden. Shattered, trembling, I huddled in the
distant corner of the seat, as far as possible from t
he fearful window.
From utter terror I passed into a state of almost abject happiness. I told myself that
the duel
had already started and that I had won the first encounter by besting my
adversary in his first attack-even if it was only for forty minutes
一
by an accident of
fate. I argued that so small a victory prefigured a total victory. I argued that it was
not so trivial, that were it not for the precious accident of the train schedule, I would
be in prison or dead. I argued, with no less sophism, that my timorous happiness was
proof that I was man enough to bring this adventure to a successful conclusion. From
my weakness I drew strength that never left me.

I foresee that man will resign himself each day to
new abominations, that soon
only
soldiers
and
bandits
will
be
left.
To
them
I
offer
this
advice
Whosoever
would
undertake some atrocious enterprise should act as if it were already accomplished,
should impose upon himself a future as irrevocable as the past.
Thus
Iproceeded,
while
with
the
eyes
of
a
man
already
dead,
I
contemplated
the
fluctuations
of
the
day
which
would
probably
be
my
last,
and
watched
the
diffuse
coming of night.
The train crept along gently, amid ash trees. It slowed down and stopped, almost in
the middle
of a field. No one called t
he name of a station.
Ashgrove I asked some
children on the platform. Ashgrove, they replied. I got out.
A lamp lit the platform, but the children's faces remained in a shadow. One of them
asked me Are you going to Dr. Stephen Albert's house Without waiting for my answer,
another said The house is a good distance away but you won't get lost if you take the
road to the left and bear to the left at every crossroad. I threw them a coin (my last),
went down some stone steps and started along a deserted road. At a slight incline, the
road
ran
downhill.
It
was
a
plain
dirt
way,
and
overhead
the
branches
of
trees
intermingled, while a round moon hung low in the sky as if to keep me company.
For
a
moment
I
thought
that
Richard
Madden
might
in
some
way
have
divined
my
desperate intent. At once I realized that this would be impossible. The advice about
turning always to the left reminded me that such was the common formula for finding
the central courtyard of certain labyrinths. I know something about labyrinths. Not
for nothing am I the greatgrandson of Ts'ui Pen. He was Governor of Yunnan and gave
up temporal power to write a novel with more characters than there are in the Hung
Lou
Meng,
and
to
create
a
maze
in
which
all
men
would
lose
themselves.
He
spent
thirteen
years
on
these
oddly
assorted
tasks
before
he
was
assassinated
by
a
stranger. His novel had no sense to it and nobody ever found his labyrinth.
Under the trees of England I meditated on this lost and perhaps mythical labyrinth. I
imagined it untouched and perfect on the secret summit of some mountain; I imagined
it drowned under rice paddies or beneath the sea; I imagined it infinite, made not only
of
eight-sided
pavilions
and
of
twisting
paths
but
also
of
rivers,
provinces
and
kingdoms…I thought of a maze o
f mazes, of a sinuous, ever growing maze which would
take
in
both
past
and
future
and
would
somehow
involve
the
stars.
Lost
in
these
imaginary
illusions
I
forgot
my
destiny
一
that
of
the
hunted.
For
an
undetermined
period of time I felt myself cut off from the world, an abstract spectator. The hazy
and murmuring countryside, the moon, the decline of the evening, stirred within me.
Going down the gently sloping road I could not feel fatigue. The evening was at once
intimate and infinite.
The road kept descending and branching off, through meadows misty in the twilight.
A
high-pitched
and
almost
syllabic
music
kept
coming
and
going,
moving
with
the
breeze, blurred by the leaves and by distance.

I thought that a man might be an enemy of other men, of the differing moments of
other men, but never an enemy of acountry not of fireflies, words, gardens, streams,
or the West wind.
Meditating thus I arrived at a high, rusty iron gate. Through the railings I could see
an avenue bordered with poplar trees and also a kind of summer house or pavilion. Two
things
dawned on me at once, the first trivial and the second almost incredible the
music
came
from
the
pavilion
and
that
music
was
Chinese.
That
was
why
I
had
accepted it fully, without paying it any attention. I do not remember whether there
was a bell, a push-button, or whether I attracted attention by clapping myhands. The
stuttering sparks of the music kept on.
But from the end of the avenue, from the main house, a lantern approached; a lantern
which alternately, from moment to moment, was crisscrossed or put out by the trunks
of the trees; a paper lantern shaped like a drum and colored like the moon. A tall man
carried it. I could not see his face for the light blinded me.
He opened the gate and spoke slowly in my language.
I see that the worthy Hsi P'eng has troubled himself to see to relieving my solitude.
No doubt you want to see the garden
Recognizing the name of one of our consuls, I replied, somewhat taken aback.
The garden
The garden of forking paths.
Something stirred in my memory and I said, with incomprehensible assurance

The garden of my ancestor, Ts'ui Pen.
Your ancestor Your illustrious ancestor Come in.
The damp path zigzagged like those of my childhood. When we reached the house, we
went
into
a
library
filled
with
books
from
both
East
and
West.
I
recognized
some
large
volumes
bound
in
yellow
silk-manuscripts
of
the
Lost
Encyclopedia
which
was
edited by the Third Emperor of the Luminous Dynasty. They had never been printed.
A
phonograph
record
was
spinning
near
a
bronze
phoenix.
I
remember
also
a
rose-glazed jar and yet another, older by many centuries, of that blue color which our
potters copied from the Persians…

Stephen
Albert
was
watching
me
with
a
smile
on
his
face.
He
was,
as
I
have
said,
remarkably
tall.
His
face
was
deeply
lined
and
he
had
gray
eyes
and
a
gray
beard.
There was about him something of the priest, and something of the sailor. Later, he
told
me
he
had
been
a
missionary
in
Tientsinbefore
he
had
aspired
to
become
a
Sinologist.
We sat down, I upon a large, low divan, he with his back to the window and to a large
circular clock. I calculated that my pursuer, Richard Madden, could not arrive in less
than an hour. My irrevocable decision could wait.
A strange destiny, said Stephen
Albert, that of Ts'ui Pen
一
Governor of
his native
province, learned in astronomy, in astrology and tireless in the interpretation of the
canonical books, a chess player, a famous poet and a calligrapher. Yet he abandoned all
to make a book and a labyrinth. He gave up all the pleasures of oppression, justice, of
a
well-stocked
bed,
of
banquets,
and
even
of
erudition,
and
shut
himself
up
in
the