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Death of a Pig ——E.B.White 1. I spent several days and nights in mid-September with an ailing pig and I feel driven to account for this stretch of time, more particularly since the pig died at last, and I lived, and things might easily have gone the other way round and none left to do the accounting. Even now, so close to the event, I cannot recall the hours sharply and am not ready to say whether death came on the third night or the fourth night. This uncertainty afflicts me with a sense of personal deterioration; if I were in decent health I would know how many nights I had sat up with a pig. The scheme of buying a spring pig in blossom time, feeding it through summer and fall, and butchering it when the solid cold weather arrives, is a familiar scheme to me and follows an antique pattern. It is a tragedy enacted on most farms with perfect fidelity to the original script. The murder, being premeditated, is in the first degree but is quick and skillful, and the smoked bacon and ham provide a ceremonial ending whose fitness is seldom questioned. Once in a while something slips - one of the actors goes up in his lines and the whole performance stumbles and halts. My pig simply failed to show up for a meal. The alarm spread rapidly. The classic outline of the tragedy was lost. I found myself cast suddenly in the role of pig's friend and physician - a farcical character with an enema bag for a prop. I had a presentiment, the very first afternoon, that the play would never regain its balance and that my sympathies were now wholly with the pig. This was slapstick - the sort of dramatic treatment which instantly appealed to my old dachshund, Fred, who joined the vigil, held the bag, and, when all was over, presided at the interment. When we slid the body into the grave, we both wore shaken to the core. The loss we felt was not the loss of ham but the loss of pig. He had evidently become precious to me, not that he represented a distant nourishment in a hungry time, but that he had suffered in a suffering world. But I'm running ahead of my story and shall have to go back. My pigpen is at the bottom of an old orchard below the house. The pigs I have raised have lived in a faded building which once was an icehouse. There is a pleasant yard to move about in, shaded by an apple tree which overhangs the low rail fence. A pig couldn't ask for anything better - or none has, at any rate. The sawdust in the icehouse makes a comfortable bottom in which to root, and a warm bed. This sawdust, however, came under suspicion when the pig took sick. One of my neighbors said he thought the pig would have done better on new ground - the same principle that applies in planting potatoes. He said there might be something unhealthy about that sawdust, that he never thought well of sawdust. It was about four o'clock in the afternoon when I first noticed that there was something wrong with the pig. He failed to appear at the trough for his supper, and when a pig (

or a child) refuses supper a chill wave of fear runs through any household, or icehousehold. After 2. 3. 4. 5. examining my pig, who was stretched out in the sawdust inside the building, I went to the phone and cranked it four times. Mr. Henderson answered. "What's good for a sick pig?" I asked. (There is never any identification needed on a country phone; the person on the other end knows who is talking by the sound of the voice and by the character of the question.) 6. "I don't know, I never had a sick pig," said Mr. Henderson, "but I can find out quick enough. You hang up and I'll call Irving." Mr. Henderson was back on the line again in five minutes. "Irving says roll him over on his back and give him two ounces of castor oil or sweet oil, and if that doesn't do the trick give him an injection of soapy water. He says he's almost sure the pig's plugged up, and even if he's wrong, it can't do any harm." 1 thanked Mr. Henderson. I didn't go right down to the pig, though. I sank into a chair and sat still for a few minutes to think about my troubles, and then I got up and went to the barn, catching up on some odds and ends that needed tending to. Unconsciously I held off, for an hour, the deed by which I would officially recognize the collapse of the performance of raising a pig; I wanted no interruption in the regularity of feeding, the steadiness of growth, the even succession of days. I wanted no interruption, wanted no oil, no deviation. I just wanted to keep on raising a pig, full meal after full meal, spring into summer into fall. I didn't even know whether there were two ounces of castor oil on the place. 7. 8. 9. Shortly after five o'clock I remembered that we had been invited out to dinner that night and realized that if I were to dose a pig there was no time to lose. The dinner date seemed a familiar conflict: I move in a desultory society and often a week or two will roll by without my going to anybody's house to dinner or anyone's coming to mine, but when an occasion does arise, and I am summoned, something usually turns up (an hour or two in advance) to make all human intercourse seem vastly inappropriate. I have come to believe that there is in hostesses a special power of divination, and that they deliberately arrange dinners to coincide with pig failure or some other sort of failure. At any rate, it was after five o'clock and I knew I could put off no longer the evil hour. 10. When my son and I arrived at the pigyard, armed with a small bottle of castor oil and a length of clothesline, the pig had emerged from his house and was standing in the middle of his yard, listlessly. He gave us a slim greeting. I could see that he felt uncomfortable and uncertain. I had brought the clothesline thinking I'd have to tie him (the pig weighed more than a hundred pounds) but we never used it. My son reached down, grabbed both front legs, upset him quickly, and when he opened his mouth to scream I turned the oil into his throat - a pink, corruga

ted area I had never seen before. I had just time to read the label while the neck of the bottle was in his mouth. It said Puretest. The screams, slightly muffled by oil, were pitched in the hysterically high range of pigsound, as though torture were being carried out, but they didn't last long: it was all over rather suddenly, and, his legs released, the pig righted himself. 11. In the upset position the corners of his mouth had been turned down, giving him a frowning expression. Back on his feet again, he regained the set smile that a pig wears even in sickness. He stood his ground, sucking slightly at the residue of oil; a few drops leaked out of his lips while his wicked eyes, shaded by their coy little lashes, turned on me in disgust and hatred. I scratched him gently with oily fingers and he remained quiet, as though trying to recall the satisfaction of being scratched when in health, and seeming to rehearse in his mind the indignity to which he had just been subjected. I noticed, as I stood there, four or five small dark spots on his back near the tail end, reddish brown in color, each about the size of a housefly. I could not make out what they were. They did not look troublesome but at the same time they did not look like mere surface bruises or chafe marks. Rather they seemed blemishes of internal origin. His stiff white bristles almost completedly hid them and I had to part the bristles with my fingers to get a good look. 12. Several hours later, a few minutes before midnight, having dined well and at someone else's expense, I returned to the pighouse with a flashlight. The patient was asleep. Kneeling, I felt his ears (as you might put your hand on the forehead of a child) and they seemed cool, and then with the light made a careful examination of the yard and the house for sign that the oil had worked. I found none and went to bed. 13. We had been having an unseasonable spell of weather- hot, close days, with the fog shutting in every night, scaling for a few hours in midday, then creeping back again at dark, drifting in first over the trees on the point, then suddenly blowing across the fields, blotting out the world and taking possession of houses, men, and animals. Everyone kept hoping for a break, but the break failed to come. Next day was another hot one. I visited the pig before breakfast and tried to tempt him with a little milk in his trough. He just stared at it, while I made a sucking sound through my teeth to remind him of past pleasures of the feast. With very small, timid pigs, weanlings, this ruse is often quite successful and will encourage them to eat; but with a large, sick pig the ruse is senseless and the sound I made must have made him feel, if anything, more miserable. He not only did not crave food, he felt a positive revulsion to it. I found a place under the apple tree where he had vomited in the night. 14. At this point, although a depression had settled over me, I didn't suppose that I was going to lose my p

ig. From the lustiness of a healthy pig a man derives a feeling of personal lustiness; the stuff that goes into the trough and is received with such enthusiasm is an earnest of some later feast of his own, and when this suddenly comes to an end and the food lies stale and untouched, souring in the sun, the pig's imbalance becomes the man's, vicariously, and life seems insecure, displaced, transitory. 15. As my own spirits declined, along with the pig's, the spirits of my vile old dachshund rose. The frequency of our trips down the footpath through the orchard to the pigyard delighted him, although he suffers greatly from arthritis, moves with difficulty, and would be bedridden if he could find anyone willing to serve him meals on a tray. 16. He never missed a chance to visit the pig with me, and he made many professional calls on his own. You could see him down there at all hours, his white face parting the grass along the fence as he wobbled and stumbled about, his stethoscope dangling - a happy quack, writing his villainous prescriptions and grinning his corrosive grin. When the enema bag appeared, and the bucket of warm suds, his happiness was complete, and he managed to squeeze his enormous body between the two lowest rails of the yard and then assumed full charge of the irrigation. Once, when I lowered the bag to check the flow, he reached in and hurriedly drank a few mouthfuls of the suds to test their potency. I have noticed that Fred will feverishly consume any substance that is associated with trouble - the bitter flavor is to his liking. When the bag was above reach, he concentrated on the pig and was everywhere at once, a tower of strength and inconvenience. The pig, curiously enough, stood rather quietly through this colonic carnival, and the enema, though ineffective, was not as difficult as I had anticipated. 17. I discovered, though, that once having given a pig an enema there is no turning back, no chance of resuming one of life's more stereotyped roles. The pig's lot and mine were inextricably bound now, as though the rubber tube were the silver cord. From then until the time of his death I held the pig steadily in the bowl of my mind; the task of trying to deliver him from his misery became a strong obsession. His suffering soon became the embodiment of all earthly wretchedness. Along toward the end of the afternoon, defeated in physicking, I phoned the veterinary twenty miles away and placed the case formally in his hands. He was full of questions, and when I casually mentioned the dark spots on the pig's back, his voice changed its tone. 18. "I don't want to scare you," he said, "but when there are spots, erysipelas has to be considered." 19. Together we considered erysipelas, with frequent interruptions from the telephone operator, who wasn't sure the connection had been established. 20. "If a pig has erysipolas can he give it to a person?" I asked. 21. "Yes, he can," replied the vet. 22. "Have they answered?" asked the opera

tor. 23. "Yes, they have," I said. Then I addressed the vet again. "You better come over here and examine this pig right away." 24. "I can't come myself," said the vet, "but McDonald can come this evening if that's all right. Mac knows more about pigs than I do anyway. You needn't worry too much about the spots. To indicate erysipelas they would have to be deep hemorrhagic infarcts." 25. "Deep hemorrhagic what?" I asked. 26. "Infarcts," said the vet. 27. "Have they answered?" asked the operator. 28. "Well," I said, "I don't know what you'd call these spots, except they're about the size of a housefly. If the pig has erysipelas I guess I have it, too, by this time, because we've been very close lately." 29. "McDonald will be over," said the vet. 30. I hung up. My throat felt dry and I went to the cupboard and got a bottle of whiskey. Deep hemorrhagic infarcts - the phrase began fastening its hooks in my head. I had assumed that there could be nothing much wrong with a pig during the months it was being groomed for murder; my confidence in the essential health and endurance of pigs had been strong and deep, particularly in the health of pigs that belonged to me and that were part of my proud scheme. The awakening had been violent and I minded it all the more because I knew that what could be true of my pig could be true also of the rest of my tidy world. 1 tried to put this distasteful idea from me, but it kept recurring. I took a short drink of the whiskey and then, although I wanted to go down to the yard and look for fresh signs, I was scared to. I was certain I had erysipelas. 31. It was long after dark and the supper dishes had been put away when a car drove in and McDonald got out. He had a girl with him. I could just make her out in the darkness -she seemed young and pretty. "This is Miss Wyman," he said. "We've been having a picnic supper on the shore, that's why I'm late." 32. McDonald stood in the driveway and stripped off his jacket, then his shirt. His stocky arms and capable hands showed up in my flashlight's gleam as I helped him find his coverall and get zipped up. The rear seat of his car contained an astonishing amount of paraphernalia, which he soon overhauled, selecting a chain, a syringe, a bottle of oil, a rubber tube, and some other things I couldn't identify. Miss Wyman said she'd go along with us and see the pig. I led the way down the warm slope of the orchard, my light picking out the path for them, and we all three climbed the fence, entered the pighouse, and squatted by the pig while McDonald took a rectal reading. My flashlight picked up the glitter of an engagement ring on the girl's hand. 33. "No elevation," said McDonald, twisting the thermometer in the light. "You needn't worry about erysipelas." He ran his hand slowly over the pig's stomach and at one point the pig cried out in pain. 34. "Poor piggledy-wiggledy!" said Miss Wyman. 35. The treatment I had been giving the pig for two days was then repeated, somewhat m

ore expertly, by the doctor, Miss Wyman and I handing him things as he needed them - holding the chain that he had looped around the pig's upper jaw, holding the syringe, holding the bottle stopper, the end of the tube, all of us working in darkness and in comfort, working with the instinctive teamwork induced by emergency conditions, the pig unprotesting, the house shadowy, protecting, intimate. I went to bed tired but with a feeling of relief that I had turned over part of the responsibility of the case to a licensed doctor. I was beginning to think, though, that the pig was not going to live. 36. He died twenty-four hours later, or it might have been forty-eight - there is a blur in time here, and I may have lost or picked up a day in the telling and the pig one in the dying. At intervals during the last day I took cool fresh water down to him and at such times as he found the strength to get to his feet he would stand with head in the pail and snuffle his snout around. He drank a few sips but no more; yet it seemed to comfort him to dip his nose in water and bobble it about, sucking in and blowing out through his teeth. Much of the time, now, he lay indoors half buried in sawdust. Once, near the last, while I was attending him I saw him try to make a bed for himself but he lacked the strength, and when he set his snout into the dust he was unable to plow even the little furrow he needed to lie down in. 37. He came out of the house to die. When I went down, before going to bed, he lay stretched in the yard a few feet from the door. I knelt, saw that he was dead, and left him there: his face had a mild look, expressive neither of deep peace nor of deep suffering, although I think he had suffered a good deal. I went back up to the house and to bed, and cried internally - deep hemorrhagic intears. I didn't wake till nearly eight the next morning, and when I looked out the open window the grave was already being dug, down beyond the dump under a wild apple. I could hear the spade strike against the small rocks that blocked the way. Never send to know for whom the grave is dug, I said to myself, it's dug for thee. Fred, I well knew, was supervising the work of digging, so I ate breakfast slowly. 38. It was a Saturday morning. The thicket in which I found the gravediggers at work was dark and warm, the sky overcast. Here, among alders and young hackmatacks, at the foot of the apple tree, Howard had dug a beautiful hole, five feet long, three feet wide, three feet deep. He was standing in it, removing the last spadefuls of earth while Fred patrolled the brink in simple but impressive circles, disturbing the loose earth of the mound so that it trickled back in. There had been no rain in weeks and the soil, even three feet down, was dry and powdery. As I stood and stared, an enormous earthworm which had been partially exposed by the spade at the bottom dug itself deeper and made a slow withdrawal, seeking even remoter moistures at even lonelier depths.

And just as Howard stepped out and rested his spade against the tree and lit a cigarette, a small green apple separated itself from a branch overhead and fell into the hole. Everything about this last scene seemed overwritten - the dismal sky, the shabby woods, the imminence of rain, the worm (legendary bedfellow of the dead), the apple (conventional garnish of a pig). 39. But even so, there was a directness and dispatch about animal burial, I thought, that made it a more decent affair than human burial: there was no stopover in the undertaker's foul parlor, no wreath nor spray; and when we hitched a line to the pig's hind legs and dragged him swiftly from his yard, throwing our weight into the harness and leaving a wake of crushed grass and smoothed rubble over the dump, ours was a businesslike procession, with Fred, the dishonorable pallbearer, staggering along in the rear, his perverse bereavement showing in every seam in his face; and the post mortem performed handily and swiftly right at the edge of the grave, so that the inwards which had caused the pig's death preceded him into the ground and he lay at last resting squarely on the cause of his own undoing. 40. I threw in the first shovelful, and then we worked rapidly and without talk, until the job was complete. I picked up the rope, made it fast to Fred's collar (he is a notorious ghoul), and we all three filed back up the path to the house, Fred bringing up the rear and holding back every inch of the way, feigning unusual stiffness. I noticed that although he weighed far less than the pig, he was harder to drag, being possessed of the vital spark. 41. The news of the death of my pig traveled fast and far, and I received many expressions of sympathy from friends and neighbors, for no one took the event lightly and the premature expiration of a pig is, I soon discovered, a departure which the community marks solemnly on its calendar, a sorrow in which it feels fully involved. I have written this account in penitence and in grief, as a man who failed to raise his pig, and to explain my deviation from the classic course of so many raised pigs. The grave in the woods is unmarked, but Fred can direct the mourner to it unerringly and with immense good will, and I know he and I shall often revisit it, singly and together, in seasons of reflection and despair, on flagless memorial days of our own choosing. 猪之死 ——译：朱世达 1. 九月中旬，我和一只罹病的猪共度了数日；我感到我必须把这段时日的经历写出来，特 别是最终猪死了，而我却还活着；事情本来很可能是倒过来的，要真是那样的话，就不 可能有任何的记叙了。即使现在，离那些时日还那么近，我已然无法清晰地忆起每一小 时的活动， 也说不清猪到底是第三夜还是第四夜里死的。 这使我自感到体力已全然衰退 了；要是我体魄健康的话，何以记不清我为一只猪熬了几个夜晚呢？ 春天，

买上一头正在发育的猪仔，喂过夏秋，当酷寒天气来临时，宰掉--这是我非常熟 稔的一种方式， 自古以来一直是这样的。 这是大部分农庄都一板一眼地上演的一种悲剧。 这种****，因为是早有预谋，够得上一级罪愆，屠刀下去，迅疾而干脆利落，最终以烟 熏火腿而隆重结束，从来就没有人对此种行为存有过任何疑问。 时不时会发生闪失——例如，有个演员忘了台词，整个演出就得完蛋。而我的猪有次喂 食时却不见它来光顾。惊讶很快传播开来。悲剧的经典性程序中断了。我发现我很快成 了猪的朋友和医师——一个拿着灌肠袋当道具的可笑角色。 那天下午， 我就有一种预感， 2. 3. 这场戏永远不可能再演好了， 我的同情心一下子全部倾注在猪的身上。 这是一场拙劣的 滑稽戏，——其戏剧性却很快攫住了我的老迈的达克斯狗弗雷特，它衔着灌肠袋，参与 终夜守候在病猪身边， 当一切完了之后， 还主持了葬礼。 当我们将猪的遗体放入墓穴时， 我们俩都十分悲恸。我们并不是感到就此失去了火腿，我们感到我们失去了一头猪。显 然，这头猪，对于我，变得十分珍贵起来，倒不是因为它代表在未来某一个饥饿的时候 的一种营养，而是因为它在一个充满痛苦的世界中遭了罪。我的叙述走得太远了，我还 是最好回到故事本身来。 4. 我的猪舍设在房屋后面一座旧果园的最南端。 我养的猪就住在一座破败的屋子里， 原先 是一座冰窖。 那屋有个可以让猪自由活动的十分可爱的院子， 院子低矮的栅栏边上长着 一棵苹果树，苹果树伞盖遮蔽着院落。作为猪，它不可能再有奢求了——无论如何，不 能再有非分之想了。木屑铺垫在地上，可供猪用鼻子拱地，暖暖地躺着睡觉。然而，当 猪病了，这木屑的作用就存有疑问了。我的一位邻居说，猪要是生活在新地上，也许会 更好些——其道理与种土豆是一样的。他说，也许木屑含有什么有害的东西，他对木屑 从来就没有好感。 下午四点钟光景，我开始发现猪有点不对劲儿。它没来食槽吃晚餐。当有猪(或孩子)拒 绝用餐，那一家人或者说一冰窖的人就会担忧万分。猪伸腿躺在屋子的木屑里，我检查 了它之后，就去摇了四次电话。达默隆先生来接的电话。我问， “猪病了，该怎么办？” (在乡间电话上， 从来不用报名道姓； 从声音和问题的性质上便能明白打电话的人是谁。 ) “我不知道。我从来没诊治过病猪， ”达默隆先生说， “但是我很快就可以知道。你挂上 电话。我给亨利打电话。 ” 达默隆先生五分钟之后便打来电话。 “亨利说，让猪仰面躺着，给它灌两盎司的篦麻油 或橄榄油，要是那不

管用，给它打一针肥皂水。他说，他肯定猪囤食了，即使他错了， 对猪也没害处。 ” 我感谢了达默隆先生。但我没有径直前往猪那里去。我跌坐进一张椅子里，****了好几 分钟， 默想我遭遇的麻烦。 然后， 我站起来，向猪舍走去，瞧瞧那儿还需要我做些什么。 我于不知不觉中推迟了一小时去做那将正式宣告我养猪失败的事；我不想在日常喂养 中，在发育成长中，甚至在日复一日的连续性中发生中断现象。我不想要中断，不想要 篦麻油，不想有任何节外生枝的事。我只想将猪饲养下去，一顿一顿地喂养它，从春天 直到夏日和秋季。我甚至不知道家中是否有两盎司的篦麻油。 5. 6. 7. 8. 五点过后不久，我想起那晚有人邀我们赴晚宴，要是我给猪喂药，就没有时间了。晚宴 的日期安排似乎是一种亘古的冲突： 我搬进了一个古怪的社区， 每每一两个星期无人邀 请赴宴，也没人到我家来造访，然而一有邀约，便有什么事(每每在一两小时之前)使我 觉得所有人与人的交都显得十分的不合适。 我开始相信女主人身上有种特殊的先知先觉 的力量，她们故意将宴席安排在诸如猪死之类不幸事情发生的时候，不管怎么样，那时 五点钟了，我知道我已无法再推迟这倒霉的时光了。 9. ...... 10. 当儿子和我携带一小瓶篦麻油和一长条晒衣绳到达猪舍时， 猪已经离开它的居所， 正站 在院子中央，一副无精打采的样子。它朝我们稍稍打了个招呼。看得出来它正感到十分 难受， 犹豫不决。 我带上晒衣绳， 因为我想可以用它来把猪捆绑(这头猪重一百磅)起来， 但我始终没有用它。我儿子蹲下去，双手一把攫住它的前腿，迅速一拽，它应声倒下， 当它张开大嘴嚎叫时，我将篦麻油灌入它的喉咙里——那是一块粉红色的瓦楞状肉体， 我以前从未见过。我还没来得及看清商标，瓶脖子已经伸进它的嘴里。商标写的是“纯 试” 牌。 那声嘶喊， 虽然因篦麻油的缘故听起来有点闷， 但这歇斯底里的猪嚎尖厉异常， 好像有人正在虐待它；嘶嚎没持续多长时间，它突然停住了，两腿一松，即刻便站了起 来。 11. 当它翻倒在地上时，它嘴角歪扭，仿佛皱着眉头似的。当它立正了之后，它重又显出一 副微笑的样子，所有的猪即使在病中都有的那种微笑。它站在地上，轻轻吮吸洒在地上 的篦麻油；有几滴油从它的唇间漏下来，而它隐藏在腼腆细眉毛底下的狡黠眼睛，充满 了厌恶与仇恨，紧盯在我身上。我用沾满篦麻油的手指轻轻摩挲它，它安安静静地立在 那儿，仿佛回忆着身体健康时被抚爱的情景，似乎心中回想着以往的尊严。我站在那儿 时，注意到在它的尾部有

四至五个小小的深色点状物，红棕色，每一点大小如马蝇。我 无法说清楚它们到底是什么。 它们似乎并不显得有多大危害， 但它们看上去也不像仅仅 是表皮损伤或者擦伤的痕迹。 它们似乎是源自内脏的损伤。 猪那硬梆梆的白毛几乎将它 们全部遮住，我不得不用手指将猪毛拨开，以便好好瞧上一眼。 12. 几小时过去了，将近子夜时分，在别人花钱请客酒足饭饱之后，我提着一只手电筒回到 猪舍。病猪入睡了。我跪下去抚摸它的耳朵(正如你可能摸一下一个病孩的前额一样)， 它们似乎凉凉的，然后，我用手电仔细瞧了一下院子和猪舍，想找出篦麻油奏效的痕迹 来。我没找到任何痕迹，便回屋睡觉。 13. 天气糟透——酷热而憋闷，每到早晨飘起大雾，日中时分有那么几个钟头，雾气逐渐消 退，而天一黑，又慢慢潜回来，起先聚在树梢，然后，一刹那间，弥漫了整个田野，整 个世界变得白茫茫的，屋、人、动物都隐没在雾里了。凉爽的日子却不来造访。第二天 仍然是一个炎热的日子。早餐前，我前往猪舍，试图在食槽里放上一点牛奶来引诱它。 我嘴巴发出猪吮食的声音，好让它回忆起往昔大吃大喝时的快活来。然而，它却只是了 瞧牛奶。对于胆怯的小猪和刚刚断奶的猪豕，这种阴谋诡计每每奏效，能让它们多吃； 然而， 对一只生病的大猪， 这种诡计就毫无意义了我模的咕噜咕噜声无疑使它愈加难受。 它不仅没有食欲，甚至对食物产生厌恶情绪。我在苹果树下发现它半夜呕吐的痕迹。 14. 在这个时候，虽然我很是忧虑，但我并没有想到我会失去这头猪豕。一个人从一头健康 的猪的饱满的生命力汲取他对自己的饱满的生命力的感受； 猪对于食槽里的食物是如此 兴致勃勃，这种兴致勃勃会刺激人自己的食欲；而当这一切都终结了，食物躺在食槽里 兀自腐烂，在阳光下变酸，没有谁去触动它，那么，猪的不平衡因为共鸣的关系就变成 了人的不平衡，生活便变得缺安全感、阴差阳错瞬息即逝了。 15. 正当我和我的猪心灰意懒的时候， 我那只卑劣的老达克斯狗的精神却抖擞了起来。 我们 在果园小径伸向猪舍的路上来回奔忙，却让它感到兴奋，尽管它患有严重的关节炎，行 动不便，要是有人给它送餐的话，它早就躺下等待侍候了。 16. 我每次去瞧猪，它从不会拉，它自己还主动去了好多次，做非常专业性的访问。每时每 刻，你都可以在那儿瞧见它，它用白脸分开栅栏旁的丛草，一颠一拐地往前奔，脖子上 挂着听诊器——一个逍遥自在的江湖医生， 开它的要命处方， 脸上露出一丝邪恶的微笑 来，等拿来灌肠袋和一桶温热的肥皂水时，它

快乐到极点，将它硕大的身躯从院子栅栏 最低的两根栏杆之间挤进来，俨然全权负责灌肠事项。有一次，当我放下灌肠袋，观察 一下肥皂水流得怎么样时，它却爬了上来，急匆匆呷饮几口，想亲自试试它们是不是真 的有效。 发现弗雷特会狂热地吃任何与疾病有关的东西——它喜欢那苦涩的味道。 当狗 够不着灌肠袋时， 它就全身心关注起猪来， 立时无处不在， 十分忠厚可靠， 却碍手碍脚。 十分奇怪在这结肠的欢饮之中，猪却站在那儿，无比安详，而灌肠，虽然不太有效，却 也并我预想的那么困难。 17. 我发现，一旦给猪灌了肠，就义无反顾，你再也不可能回复到更为程式化的生活角色中 了。 猪豕的命运和我的命运从此不可分割地纠缠在一起了， 好像那橡皮输液管本身就是 生命似的。从那时刻起直到猪殁了，我的内心深处一直惦记着它；力图使它摆脱痛苦成 了我的一个强烈愿望。它的痛苦很快变成了世间所有苦难的象征。那天一整个下午，我 筋疲力尽，便给二十里外的兽医打电话，将病猪正式移交给他。他询问了各种各样的问 题，当我漫不经心地提到猪屁股上的黑点时，他声音变了调儿。 18. “我不想吓唬你， ”他说,“要是体表上出现黑点，那人们就得考丹毒的可能。 ” 19. 我们一起讨论丹毒，在此期间电话接线员频频打断我们，她不知道线路是否接通。 20. “要是一头猪患了丹毒，会传染给人吗？”我问。 21. “是的，有可能的。 ”兽医回答道。 22. “电话通了吗？”接线员问。 23. “是的，接通了， ”我说。然后，我跟兽医说话。 “你最好立刻到这儿来一次，给猪检查 一下。 ” 24. “我不可能亲自来， ”兽医说， “要是你愿意，麦克法兰今晚可以到你这儿来出诊。麦克 对猪的了解比我多。 你不必为黑点太忧虑。 要是丹毒的话， 在深部位会有出血性梗塞象。 ” 25. “深部位出血性什么？”我问。 26. “梗塞现象， ”兽医回答。 27. “电话接通了吗？”接线员问。 28. “嗯， ”我说， “我不知道怎么称呼这些黑点，它们就像马那么大。要是猪有丹毒，我想， 我现在也可能患上了，因为我们最的接触十分频繁。 ” 29. “麦克法兰会来的， ”兽医说。 30. 我挂上电话。我感到喉咙发，便走到酒柜旁边，拿了一瓶威士忌。深部位出血性梗塞— —这词就像钩子一般钉在了我的脑海里。 我从没料想过在一头猪从饲养屠宰的过程中会 发生什么不测之事；我对于猪，特别是我饲养的、属于我值得为之骄傲的计划的一部分 的猪的健康和耐力充满坚定的信心。这种省悟具有一种震撼的力量，因为这启示我，对 于猪是这样， 对于我整

个平安世界的其余部分也是这样。 我竭力摆脱掉这种令人不悦的 想法，然而它却总要来搅扰我。我呷了一小口威士忌，虽然我仍然极想前往猪舍，寻找 新的迹象，但是我惧怕了。我肯定我也染上了丹毒。 31. 夜已经很深，晚餐的餐盘刚一撤走，一辆汽车便到了，麦克法兰从汽车里钻了出来。他 还带来一个姑娘。夜色中我只隐约见她——她似乎很年轻，很漂亮。 “这是欧文小姐， ” 他说， “我们一直在海边野餐，这就是为什么我来迟了。 ” 32. 麦克法兰站在车道上，脱去了茄克衫，随后又脱去了衬衣。我那微弱的电筒灯光照着他 长长的手臂和似乎能干的一双手， 我帮他找到工作服， 并拉上拉链他的车后座上放着多 得令人惊异的器具，他很快审视一遍，捡出一根链条，一个注射器，一瓶麻油，一条橡 皮管和其他一些我说不上名字的器物。欧文小姐说，她愿意和我们一起去瞧瞧猪。我带 着他们翻过果园温暖的山坡，我用手电带路，我们三人都翻过栅栏，走到猪舍里，在猪 身边蹲下来，这时，麦克法兰先生测试直肠的体温。我手电的光柱中，姑娘手上戴的订 婚戒指突然闪了一下。 33. “没有隆肿， ”麦克法兰说，就着灯光将体温表叠起来。 “你不必担忧丹毒。 ”他的手在 猪肚子上慢抚摸，当摸到一处时，猪一下子痛苦地嚎叫起来。 34. “可怜的小猪仔！欧文小姐说。 35. 医生又重复了一遍我这两天来给猪治病的方法， 只不过更为熟练而已。 欧文小姐和我递 给他需要的东西——拿住正箍在猪上颚的链子， 握住注射器， 提着瓶塞子和橡皮管的一 端，我们大家在黑暗中工作，干得非常惬意，带着由于急救而形成的一种本能的默契， 猪没有反抗，屋子里朦朦胧胧，给人一种被人守护的亲切之感。我上床时疲惫不堪，但 心中有种释然， 因为我将部分的责任移交给一位持有行医执照的医师。 我开始到猪可能 活不长了。 36. 二十四小时以后，也许是四十八时以后，它死了。对于时间，我有点糊涂了。我有可能 在叙述中少算或多算了一天， 而猪则有可能在死亡的过程中少享有或多占用了一天。 临 终的最后一天，我有时提着阴凉的清水来到它那里，这时候，只要它有支撑的力气，它 就会站将起来，将脑袋伸到桶里，用鼻子到处嗅。它喝了几口，便不再喝了；它将鼻子 放在水中搅动，似乎从中找到慰藉，现在它大部分时间躺在屋里，将身子一半埋在木屑 里。有一次，它大限快到的时候，我在服侍它的时候，发现它想给自己铺个床，却没有 力气，当它想把鼻子埋进木屑时，它都无力刨出一条小小的沟槽来让自己躺下。 37. 猪是走到屋外边

死的。 我临睡前去看它时， 它的腿伸直了， 卧在离门几英尺远的院子里。 我蹲下去，发现它已经死了，就让它留在那儿：我认它受够了苦难。我回到屋里，爬到 床上，心里在哭泣——深部位的出血性哭泣。第二天清晨将近八点钟，我才醒过来，当 我从开着的窗户望出去， 人们正在垃圾场外的一棵苹果树下挖一个墓穴。 我能听见铁铲 与小石子碰击的咚咚声。我对自己说，别问这是为谁而掘，它是为你挖的。我知道得非 常清楚，弗雷特准是在监督整个挖墓工程，所以，我慢吞吞地吃我的早餐。 38. 那是星期六上午。我注意到掘墓人正在干活的那丛灌木林翁郁而温暖。天空是灰暗的。 在桤木和小落叶松树丛中，在苹果树下，莱尼挖了一口漂漂亮亮的洞穴，五英尺长，三 英尺宽， 三英尺深。 莱尼站在洞****， 用铲子铲最后几铲土， 而弗雷特在洞穴边上巡视， 简洁而令人印象深刻地绕着圈儿， 将土堆上的松土又踩回洞****。 已经有好几个星期没 下过雨了，即使三英尺以下的土也是干的，像沙子一样干燥。站在那儿时，我瞧见铲子 在洞穴底部将一条硕大蚯蚓的一半身体暴露出来，蚯蚓正往深处钻，缓缓地缩了进去， 在更为孤独的深处寻觅更为遥远的湿阴。等莱尼爬出洞穴，将铲子靠在树上，点上一支 烟时，一只小小的绿苹果从枝桠上坠落，掉进了洞穴。有关这最后一幕似乎写得太多了 ——阴晦的天气，破败的林丛，即将来临的风雨，虫子(传说中虫子是死者的同眠者)和 苹果(按世俗的习惯，苹果是猪的装饰品)。 39. 但是，即使这样，我想在这头动物的葬礼上能有种直率和急迫，正是这种直率和急迫使 这场动物的葬礼比人的葬礼显得更加庄重： 没在棺木店发散异味的大厅里停留， 没有花 圈，也没有树枝环；当我们在猪后腿上绑上绳子，迅速把它从院子里拉出来，使尽全力 拖曳它，压弯了垃圾场上的青草，磨平了石子路，我们所做的一切，俨然一副正正经经 的样子，而弗雷特，那个丧礼中不称职的抬棺者，摇摇摆摆地尾随在后面，它那颠倒错 乱的丧亲之痛显示在它脸部的所有线条上；在墓穴边上就地进行迅速的验尸，这样，引 起猪死亡的内脏先于它而葬入土中，它终于安详地长眠在导致它毁灭的原因之上。 40. 我铲起第一铲土，我们迅速地、默默地工作，直到活儿干得完美无缺。我捡起绳子，把 绳子绑在弗雷特脖子的项圈上(它是个臭名远扬的食尸鬼)，我们三个沿小道鱼贯而行， 回到屋子里，弗雷特在尾部压阵，每迈一步都显出一副踌躇不前的样子，装出非同寻常 的执拗劲儿。我注意，虽然它比猪豕体重轻许多，但拖曳它却要

费更大的力，因为它拥 有生命的火花。 41. 关于我的猪死亡的消息，一下子传得很远。我收到许多来自朋友邻居的吊唁信，没一个 人把这事看无足轻重， 我很快发现， 我所在的社区在日程中安排了庄重悲痛地悼念我那 头英年早逝的猪。 作为一个没养好一头猪的人， 作为一个无法自圆其说地解释为什么偏 离了养猪的经典方式的人，我怀着忏悔和痛苦写下了此文。丛林间的坟墓没有墓碑，但 弗雷特可以准确无误地、 怀着无限的好意引导吊唁者来到墓前。 我知道它和我将经常造 访这块地，在省悟和绝望的日子里，在我们自己选择的普通而值得纪念的日子里，独个 儿来或者一起来。