作品原文

季羡林 《加德满都的狗》

我小时候住在农村里，终日与狗为伍，一点也没有感觉到狗这种东西有什么稀奇的地方。但是狗给我留下了极其深刻的印象。我母亲逝世以后，故乡的家中已经空无一人。她养的一条狗——连它的颜色我现在都回忆不清楚了——却仍然日日夜夜卧在我们门口，守着不走。女主人已经离开人世，再没有人喂它了。它好像已经意识到这一点。但是它坚决宁愿忍饥挨饿，也绝不离开我们那破烂的家门口。黄昏时分，我形单影只从村内走回家来，屋子里摆着母亲的棺材，门口卧着这一只失去了主人的狗，泪眼汪汪地望着我这个失去了慈母的孩子，有气无力地摇摆着尾巴，嗅我的脚。茫茫宇宙，好像只剩下这只狗和我。此情此景，我连泪都流不出来了，我流的是血，而这血还是流向我自己的心中。我本来应该同这只狗相依为命，互相安慰。但是，我必须离开故乡，我又无法把它带走。离别时，我流着泪紧紧地搂住了它，我遗弃了它，真正受到良心的谴责。几十年来，我经常想到这一只狗，直到今天，我一想到它，还会不自主地流下眼泪。我相信，我离开家以后，它也绝不会离开我们的门口。它的结局我简直不忍想下去了。母亲有灵，会从这一只狗身上得到我这个儿子无法给她的慰藉吧。

从此，我爱天下一切狗。

但是我迁居大城市以后，看到了狗渐渐少起来了。最近多少年以来，北京根本不许养狗，狗简直成了稀有动物，只有到动物园里才能欣赏了。

我万万没有想到，我到了加德满都以后，一下飞机，在机场受到热情友好的接待，汽车一驶离机场，驶入市内，在不算太宽敞的马路两旁就看到了大狗、小狗、黑狗、黄狗，在一群衣履比较随便的小孩子们中间，摇尾乞食，低头觅食。
这是一件小事，却使我喜出望外：久未晤面的亲爱的狗竟在万里之外的异域会面了。

狗们大概完全不理解我的心情，它们大概连辨别本国人和外国人的本领还没有学到。我这里一往情深，它们却漠然无动于衷，只是在那里摇尾低头，到处嗅着，想找到点什么东西吃吃。

晚上，我们从中国大使馆回旅馆的时候，天已经完全黑了。加德满都的大街上，电灯不算太多，霓虹灯的数目更少一些。我在阴影中又隐隐约约地看到了大狗、小狗、黑狗、黄狗，在那里到处嗅着。回到旅馆，在沐浴后上床的时候，从远处的黑暗中传来了阵阵的犬吠声。古人说，深夜犬吠若豹。我现在听到的不是吠声若豹，而是吠声若犬。这事当然并不稀奇，可这并不稀奇的若犬的犬吠声却给我带来了无尽的甜蜜的回忆。这甜蜜的犬吠声一直把我送入我在加德满都过的第一夜的梦中。

作品译文

Dogs in Katmandu
Ji Xianlin

When I lived in the countryside as a small child, there were dogs all around, and so I got quite accustomed to them, never thinking of them as anything out of the common. Nevertheless, they have since left a most deep impression on me. After mother, the sole occupant of our country home, passed away, the dog she had raised—I’ve now even forgotten what color he was—continued to keep watch at the door, lying there day and night. He must have been aware that nobody was going to feed him after the death of his mistress. But he would rather endure the torments of hunger than forsake his post outside our run-down home. At dusk, when I arrived alone from somewhere in the village at our house, in which lay mother’s coffin, the ownerless dog would fix his tearful eyes on me, the youngster bereaved of his loving mother, wag his tail feebly and sniff at my feet. It seemed as if he and I were left all alone in this vast universe. In face of the sad and dreary scene, I could shed no tears. What I shed was blood which flowed right into my innermost heart. I could have stayed with him to live in mutual dependence and comfort each other in distress, but I had to quit my native place, unable to take him along with me. At the time of parting, I hugged him tightly with tears in my eyes. I felt terribly bad about having to desert him. He has since been in my mind for decades. Even today, I cannot restrain my tears whenever I think of him. I am certain he would never stop standing guard at our door even after I left. I cannot bear to imagine what fate befell him in the bed. May mother’s soul receive from this faithful dog the consolation that I, as her son, have not been able to offer her!

Since then, I have been fond of all dogs in the world.

But I’ve seen a steady dwindling of the canine population ever since I became a city dweller. In recent years, it has been strictly banned in Beijing to raise dogs. Dogs have become a rare animal to be seen only in a zoo.

At Katmandu, the moment I was driven into town after meeting with a warm and friendly reception at the airport, I was greatly surprised to see dogs, big and small, black and yellow, in the midst of casually-dressed children on both sides of a relatively narrow street, wagging their tails or nosing around for food.

Small as the incident was, I was immensely overjoyed to meet out of the blue in a remote foreign land dear dogs that I had not seen for ages.

Presumably these dogs were entirely ignorant of my state of mind and perhaps even incapable of telling a foreigner from a native. They appeared totally apathetic towards me in spite of my partiality for them and kept wagging their tails with lowered heads and nosing around for food.

In the evening, it was already dark when we were on our way to the hotel from the Chinese Embassy. The streets of Katmandu were illuminated by only a few electric lamps, and still fewer neon lights. In the dim light I vaguely saw again dogs, big and small, black and yellow, nosing around here and there. Back in the hotel, when I was getting into bed after a bath, I heard dogs barking again and again in the distant darkness. It remained me of the old saying, “A dog’s bark at dead of night resembles that of a leopard.” To me, however, what I heard was dogs’ barking, pure and simple, having nothing whatever in common with that of leopards. The barking was nothing out of the ordinary, yet it brought back to me one sweet memory after another. The sweet barking sent the me straight into the dreams I had on my first night at Katmandu.