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雙語(yǔ)·林肯傳 13

所屬教程:譯林版·林肯傳

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2022年05月17日

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13

In 1854, a tremendous thing happened to Lincoln. It came about as a result of the repeal of the Missouri Compromise. The Missouri Compromise, in brief, was this:

In 1819, Missouri had wanted to come into the Union as a slave State. The North had opposed its doing so and the situation became serious. Finally, the ablest public men of that day arranged what is now known as the Missouri Compromise. The South got what it wanted: the admission of Missouri as a slave State. The North got what it wanted: thereafter slavery was never to be permitted in the West anywhere north of the southern boundary of Missouri.

People thought that would stop the quarreling about slavery, and it did—for a while. But now, a third of a century later, Stephen A. Douglas secured the repeal of the Compromise, and made it possible for a new area lying west of the Mississippi and equal in size to the original thirteen States, to be blighted with the curse of slavery. He fought long and hard in Congress for the repeal. The struggle lasted for months. Once during the bitter debates in the House of Representatives, members leaped on top of their desks, knives flashed, and guns were drawn. But finally, after an impassioned plea by Douglas, lasting from midnight until almost dawn, the Senate passed his bill on March 4, 1854. It was a tremendous event. Messengers ran through the streets of the slumbering city of Washington, shouting the news. Cannon in the Navy Yard boomed to salute the dawn of a new era—a new era that was to be drenched in blood.

Why did Douglas do it? No one seems to know. Historians in skullcaps are still arguing about it. Of this much, however, we are certain: Douglas hoped to be elected President in 1856. He knew this repeal would help him in the South.

But what of the North?

“By God, I know it will raise a hell of a storm there,” he declared.

He was right. It did. It raised a regular tornado that blew both the great parties into bits, and eventually whirled the nation into civil war.

Meetings of protest and indignation flared up spontaneously in hundreds of cities and villages and hamlets. Stephen Arnold Douglas was denounced as the “traitor Arnold.” People said that he had been named after Benedict Arnold. He was branded as a modern Judas, and presented with thirty pieces of silver. He was given a rope and told to hang himself.

The churches leaped into the fight with a holy frenzy. Three thousand and fifty clergymen in New England wrote a protest “in the name of Almighty God and in His presence,” and laid it before the Senate. Fiery and indignant editorials fed the flames of public indignation. In Chicago even the Democratic papers turned upon Douglas with vindictive fierceness.

Congress adjourned in August, and Douglas started home. Amazed at the sights that met his eyes, he declared afterward that he could have traveled all the way from Boston to Illinois by the light of burning effigies of himself hanging by the neck.

Daring and defiant, he announced that he was going to speak in Chicago. The hatred against him there, in his own home town, amounted to nothing less than fanaticism. The press assailed him, and wrathful ministers demanded that he never again be permitted to “pollute the pure air of Illinois with his perfidious breath.” Men rushed to the hardware stores, and, by sundown, there wasn't another revolver left for sale in all the city. His enemies swore that he should never live to defend his infamous deeds.

The moment Douglas entered the city, boats in the harbor lowered their flags to half-mast; and bells in a score of churches tolled, mourning the death of Liberty.

The night that he spoke was one of the hottest Chicago had ever known. Perspiration rolled down the faces of men as they sat idling in their chairs. Women fainted as they struggled to get out to the shore of the lake where they could sleep on the cool sands. Horses fell in their harness and lay dying in the streets.

But notwithstanding the heat, thousands of excited men, guns in their pockets, flocked to hear Douglas. No hall in Chicago could hold the throng. They packed a public square, and hundreds stood on balconies and sat astride the roofs of near-by houses.

The very first sentence that Douglas uttered was greeted with groans and hisses. He continued to talk—or, at least, he continued to try—and the audience yelled and booed and sang insulting songs and called him names that are unprintable.

His excited partizans wanted to start a fight. Douglas begged them to be quiet. He would tame the mob. He kept on trying, but he kept on failing. When he denounced the “Chicago Tribune,” the great gathering cheered the paper. When he threatened to stand there all night unless they let him speak, eight thousand voices sang: “We won't go home until morning. We won't go home until morning.”

It was a Saturday night. Finally, after four hours of futility and insult, Douglas took out his watch and shouted at the howling, bellowing, milling mob: “It is now Sunday morning, I'll go to church. And you can go to hell.”

Exhausted, he gave up and left the speaker's stand. The Little Giant had met humiliation and defeat for the first time in his life.

The next morning the papers told all about it; and down in Springfield, a proud, plump brunette, trembling on the brink of middle age, read it with peculiar satisfaction. Fifteen years before, she had dreamed of being Mrs. Douglas. For years she had watched him mount on wings until he had become the most popular and powerful leader in the nation, while her husband had gone down in humiliating defeat; and, deep in her heart, she resented it.

But now, thank God, the haughty Douglas was doomed. He had split his own party in his own State. And just before the election. This was Lincoln's chance. And Mary Lincoln knew it—his chance to win back the public favor that he had lost in 1848, his chance to reinstate himself politically, his chance to be elected to the United States Senate. True, Douglas still had four more years to serve. But his colleague was coming up for reelection in a few months.

And who was his colleague? A swaggering, pugnacious Irishman named Shields. Mary Lincoln had an old score to settle with Shields, too. Back in 1842, largely because of insulting letters that she herself had written, Shields had challenged Lincoln to a duel; and the two of them, armed with cavalry swords and accompanied by their seconds, had met on a sand-bar in the Mississippi River, prepared to kill each other. But, at the last moment, friends interceded and prevented bloodshed. Since that time, Shields had gone up in politics, but Lincoln had gone down.

But now Lincoln had struck bottom, and had started to rebound. The repeal of the Missouri Compromise had, as he said, “aroused” him. He could no longer remain quiet. He was determined to strike with all the vigor and conviction of his soul.

So he began preparing his speech, working for weeks in the State library, consulting histories, mastering facts, classifying, clarifying, studying all the hot debates that had been thundered back and forth across the Senate chamber during the stormy passage of this bill.

On October 3 the State Fair opened at Springfield. Thousands of farmers poured into town; men bringing their prize hogs and horses, their cattle and corn; women fetching their jellies and jam, their pies and preserves. But these displays were all but forgotten in the excitement of another attraction. For weeks it had been advertised that Douglas was to speak the opening day of the fair, and political leaders from all parts of the State had thronged there to hear him.

That afternoon he spoke for more than three hours, going over his record, explaining, defending, attacking. He hotly denied that he was trying either “to legislate slavery into a territory or to exclude it therefrom.” Let the people in a territory do whatever they pleased about slavery.

“Surely,” he shouted, “if the people of Kansas and Nebraska are able to govern themselves, surely they are able to govern a few miserable Negroes.”

Lincoln sat near the front, listening to every word, weighing every argument. When Douglas finished, Lincoln declared: “I'll hang his hide on the fence to-morrow.”

The next morning handbills were scattered all over town and the fair-grounds, announcing that Lincoln would reply to Douglas. The public interest was intense, and before two o'clock every seat was occupied in the hall where the speaking was to take place. Presently Douglas appeared and sat on the platform. As usual, he was immaculately attired and faultlessly groomed.

Mary Lincoln was already in the audience. Before leaving the house that morning she had vigorously brushed Lincoln's coat, had laid out a fresh collar and carefully ironed his best tie. She was anxious to have him appear to advantage. But the day was hot, and Lincoln knew the air in the hall would be oppressive. So he strode onto the platform without a coat, without a vest, without a collar, without a tie. His long, brown, skinny neck rose out of the shirt that hung loosely on his gaunt frame. His hair was disordered, his boots rusty and unkempt. One single knitted “gallis” held up his short, ill-fitting trousers.

At the first sight of him, Mary Lincoln flushed with anger and embarrassment. She could have wept in her disappointment and despair.

No one dreamed of it at the time, but we know now that this homely man, whose wife was ashamed of him, was starting out that hot October afternoon on a career that was to give him a place among the immortals.

That afternoon, he made the first great speech of his life. If all the addresses that he had made previously were collected and placed in one book, and those that he made from that afternoon on were placed in another volume, you could hardly believe that the same man was the author of them all. It was a new Lincoln speaking that day—a Lincoln stirred to the depths by a mighty wrong, a Lincoln pleading for an oppressed race, a Lincoln touched and moved and lifted up by moral grandeur.

He reviewed the history of slavery, and gave five fiery reasons for hating it.

But with lofty tolerance, he declared: “I have no prejudice against the Southern people. They are just what we would be in their situation. If slavery did not now exist among them, they would not introduce it. If it did now exist among us, we should not instantly give it up. When Southern people tell us they are no more responsible for the origin of slavery than we are, I acknowledge the fact. When it is said that the institution exists, and that it is very difficult to get rid of it in any satisfactory way, I can understand and appreciate the saying. I surely will not blame them for not doing what I should not know how to do myself. If all earthly power were given me, I should not know what to do with the existing institution.”

For more than three hours, with the perspiration rolling down his face, he continued to answer Douglas, revealing the senator's sophistry, showing the utter falseness of his position.

It was a profound speech, and it made a profound impression. Douglas winced and writhed under it. Time after time he rose to his feet and interrupted Lincoln.

The election wasn't far off. Progressive young Democrats were already bolting the ticket and attacking Douglas, and when the voters of Illinois cast their ballots, the Douglas Democrats were overwhelmed.

Senators were chosen in those days by the State legislatures; and the Illinois Legislature met in Springfield on February 8, 1855, for that purpose. Mrs. Lincoln had bought a new dress and hat for the occasion and her brother-in-law, Ninian W. Edwards, had with sanguine anticipation arranged for a reception to be given that night in Senator Lincoln's honor.

On the first ballot, Lincoln led all the other candidates, and came within six votes of victory. But he steadily lost after that; and on the tenth ballot he was definitely defeated, and Lyman W. Trumbull was elected.

Lyman Trumbull had married Julia Jayne, a young woman who had been bridesmaid at Mary Lincoln's wedding and probably had been the most intimate friend that Mrs. Lincoln ever had. Mary and Julia sat side by side in the balcony of the Hall of Representatives that afternoon, watching the senatorial election; and when the victory of Julia's husband was announced, Mrs. Lincoln turned in a temper and walked out of the building. Her anger was so fierce, and her jealousy was so galling, that from that day on, to the end of her life, she never again spoke to Julia Trumbull.

Saddened and depressed, Lincoln returned to his dingy law office with the ink-stain on the wall and the garden seeds sprouting in the dust on top of the bookcase.

A week later he hitched up Old Buck and once more started driving over the unsettled prairies, from one country courthouse to another. But his heart was no longer in the law. He talked now of little else but politics and slavery. He said that the thought of millions of people held in bondage continually made him miserable. His periods of melancholy returned now more frequently than ever; and they were more prolonged and more profound.

One night he was sharing a bed with another lawyer in a country tavern. His companion awoke at dawn and found Lincoln sitting in his nightshirt on the edge of the bed, brooding, dejected, mumbling to himself, lost in unseeing abstraction. When at last he spoke, the first words were:

“I tell you this nation cannot endure permanently half slave and half free.”

Shortly after this a colored woman in Springfield came to Lincoln with a pitiful story. Her son had gone to St. Louis and taken a job on a Mississippi steamboat. When he arrived in New Orleans he was thrown into jail. He had been born free, but he had no papers to prove it. So he was kept in prison until his boat left. Now he was going to be sold as a slave to pay the prison expenses.

Lincoln took the case to the Governor of Illinois. The governor replied that he had no right or power to interfere. In response to a letter, the Governor of Louisiana replied that he couldn't do anything, either. So Lincoln went back to see the Governor of Illinois a second time, urging him to act, but the governor shook his head.

Lincoln rose from his chair, exclaiming with unusual emphasis: “By God, Governor, you may not have the legal power to secure the release of this poor boy, but I intend to make the ground in this country too hot for the foot of a slave-owner.”

The next year Lincoln was forty-six, and he confided to his friend Whitney that he “kinder needed” glasses; so he stopped at a jewelry store and bought his first pair—for thirty-seven and a half cents.

13

一八五四年,林肯身上發(fā)生了一件驚天動(dòng)地的大事。事情的起源是《密蘇里妥協(xié)案》的廢除?!睹芴K里妥協(xié)案》的情況大致是這樣的:

一八一九年,密蘇里想要作為蓄奴州加入聯(lián)邦。北方拒絕了密蘇里的請(qǐng)求,局勢(shì)一下子變得緊張起來(lái)。終于,那個(gè)時(shí)代出色的公眾人物們經(jīng)過(guò)不斷努力和周旋,最終簽署了我們現(xiàn)在熟知的《密蘇里妥協(xié)案》。自此,南方得到了他們想要的:將密蘇里作為蓄奴州納入聯(lián)邦。北方也得到了他們想要的:密蘇里南面邊界以北的任何西部區(qū)域都不允許蓄奴。

人們認(rèn)為這份妥協(xié)案能夠平息關(guān)于奴隸制的紛爭(zhēng),事實(shí)上它確實(shí)起了作用,只是維持的時(shí)間并不長(zhǎng)。但是現(xiàn)在,距妥協(xié)案簽署三十多年后,道格拉斯卻意欲廢除這份協(xié)議。妥協(xié)案一旦廢除,密西西比河以西,面積相當(dāng)于最初十三個(gè)州的大片區(qū)域便會(huì)因奴隸制的禍害而滿(mǎn)目瘡痍。為了廢除妥協(xié)案,道格拉斯在國(guó)會(huì)中進(jìn)行了長(zhǎng)久而又艱難的斗爭(zhēng)。這場(chǎng)斗爭(zhēng)持續(xù)了好幾個(gè)月。議員們?cè)诒娮h院中展開(kāi)了激烈的辯論,甚至有議員跳上桌子,還拿出了閃著寒光的刀槍。后來(lái),道格拉斯進(jìn)行了一場(chǎng)慷慨激昂又動(dòng)人心魄的演講,從午夜一直持續(xù)到黎明。于是一八五四年三月四日,議會(huì)通過(guò)了道格拉斯的提案。這是一件驚天動(dòng)地的大事。信差們穿梭在仍沉睡著的華盛頓市的大街小巷,大聲地宣布著這個(gè)消息。海軍司令部炮聲隆隆,歡迎著一個(gè)新時(shí)代的到來(lái)——一個(gè)注定要浸滿(mǎn)鮮血的時(shí)代。

道格拉斯為什么要這么做?似乎沒(méi)有人知道。戴著無(wú)邊便帽的歷史學(xué)家們至今仍對(duì)此爭(zhēng)論不休。但有一點(diǎn)我們是可以確定的:道格拉斯希望贏得一八五六年的總統(tǒng)大選。他知道廢除妥協(xié)案能幫助他獲得南方的支持。

那北方怎么辦?

“說(shuō)實(shí)話(huà),我知道這件事會(huì)給北方帶來(lái)一場(chǎng)猛烈的風(fēng)暴?!钡栏窭拐f(shuō)。

他說(shuō)得沒(méi)錯(cuò)。事實(shí)也確實(shí)如此。這件事掀起了一場(chǎng)颶風(fēng),兩大黨派也因此被撕扯得支離破碎。最終,這場(chǎng)颶風(fēng)將整個(gè)國(guó)家卷入了內(nèi)戰(zhàn)之中。

充滿(mǎn)憤怒的抗議集會(huì)瞬間燃遍了數(shù)百座城鎮(zhèn)和鄉(xiāng)村。人們瘋狂地譴責(zé)史蒂芬·道格拉斯,稱(chēng)他為“叛徒阿諾德”(2),還說(shuō)他當(dāng)初是按照本尼迪克特·阿諾德取的名字。他被貼上了“現(xiàn)代猶大”的標(biāo)簽。人們送了他三十塊銀幣(3),還給了他一根繩子,讓他自我了斷。

教會(huì)也發(fā)起了憤怒而神圣的抗議。新英格蘭的三千零五十名牧師“以萬(wàn)能的上帝和圣靈之名”,聯(lián)合向參議員遞交了一封抗議信。社會(huì)輿論更是沸沸揚(yáng)揚(yáng),那些激烈的言論助長(zhǎng)著大眾的憤怒。在芝加哥,即便是民主黨的報(bào)紙也開(kāi)始用無(wú)比惡毒的言辭討伐道格拉斯。

八月,國(guó)會(huì)休會(huì),于是道格拉斯返回了家鄉(xiāng)。沿途所見(jiàn)的景象讓他十分震驚。后來(lái)他說(shuō),一路上只見(jiàn)人們焚燒著他那脖子上絞著繩子的肖像,熊熊的火光足以照亮他從波士頓回到伊利諾伊州的路途。

道格拉斯并不是逆來(lái)順受的怯懦之人,于是他宣布要在芝加哥進(jìn)行演說(shuō)。在他的家鄉(xiāng),人們因?yàn)檫@件事幾近瘋狂地憎恨他。報(bào)紙上滿(mǎn)是質(zhì)問(wèn)他的文章。怒不可遏的牧師們聲稱(chēng)絕不允許他“再用口中那不忠的氣息污染伊利諾伊州的空氣”。男人們沖到了五金店,等到了日落的時(shí)候,整個(gè)城市所有的左輪手槍都賣(mài)完了。他的敵人們發(fā)誓不會(huì)讓他活到為自己臭名昭著的罪行辯護(hù)那天。

道格拉斯踏入芝加哥的那一刻,港口的船只全都降了半旗,二十幾個(gè)教堂一齊敲響了喪鐘,哀悼自由的死亡。

他進(jìn)行演說(shuō)的那一晚是芝加哥有史以來(lái)最熱的一晚。男人們懶散地坐在椅子上,汗水順著他們的臉頰流了下來(lái)。女人們爭(zhēng)先恐后地向湖畔蜂擁而去,只為在涼爽的沙地上睡個(gè)好覺(jué)。在推搡的過(guò)程中,好多女人暈了過(guò)去。套著馬具的馬兒熱得倒在大街上,奄奄一息。

盡管天氣十分炎熱,仍有數(shù)以千計(jì)興奮的男人在口袋中塞上槍?zhuān)扇航Y(jié)隊(duì)地去聽(tīng)道格拉斯的演說(shuō)。芝加哥沒(méi)有能容納那么多人的會(huì)堂,因此道格拉斯決定在公共廣場(chǎng)發(fā)表演說(shuō)。廣場(chǎng)里人山人海,還有數(shù)百人站在陽(yáng)臺(tái)上,甚至還有人跨坐在周邊的屋頂上。

道格拉斯一開(kāi)口說(shuō)話(huà),聽(tīng)眾便報(bào)以抱怨的咆哮和噓聲。他繼續(xù)演說(shuō)——或者說(shuō),繼續(xù)嘗試演說(shuō)——聽(tīng)眾則繼續(xù)發(fā)出噓聲,并大聲地謾罵起來(lái),還唱起了侮辱他的歌曲。那連篇的臟話(huà)猥瑣得不堪入耳,實(shí)在是無(wú)法寫(xiě)成文字印刷出版,因此這里便不再細(xì)述了。

道格拉斯的隨從們也激動(dòng)起來(lái),恨不得和這些人打上一架。道格拉斯卻懇求他們安靜,他說(shuō)自己可以制服這些暴徒。他不斷嘗試控制局面,卻不斷失敗。當(dāng)他詆毀《芝加哥論壇報(bào)》的時(shí)候,臺(tái)下的人群便為這份報(bào)紙歡呼。他威脅說(shuō)如果聽(tīng)眾不安靜下來(lái)聽(tīng)他演說(shuō),他就在這里站一整夜。臺(tái)下響起了八千人的合唱聲:“天不亮,我們就不回家。天不亮,我們就不回家?!?/p>

那是周六晚上。最終,經(jīng)過(guò)了四個(gè)小時(shí)徒勞的嘗試,受盡侮辱的道格拉斯拿出了手表,對(duì)著臺(tái)下咆哮著、怒吼著、亂哄哄的人們喊道:“現(xiàn)在已經(jīng)是周日早上了。我要去教堂了,你們也可以去地獄了?!?/p>

精疲力竭的道格拉斯終于放棄了,默默地走下了講臺(tái)。風(fēng)光無(wú)限的小巨人人生中第一次嘗到了失敗和屈辱的滋味。

第二天早上,各大報(bào)紙鋪天蓋地地詳細(xì)報(bào)道了這件事的來(lái)龍去脈。而對(duì)這些報(bào)道最為滿(mǎn)意的,莫過(guò)于遠(yuǎn)在春田市的一位高傲而豐滿(mǎn),有著深褐色頭發(fā)的中年婦女。十五年前,她曾夢(mèng)想成為道格拉斯夫人。這么多年來(lái),她眼睜睜地看著道格拉斯平步青云,成了全國(guó)最受歡迎、最有權(quán)勢(shì)的政治領(lǐng)袖,而與此同時(shí),自己的丈夫卻一次一次地遭受挫折,受盡屈辱,因此她心里是非常痛恨這一切的。

不過(guò)現(xiàn)在,謝天謝地,傲慢的道格拉斯終于倒霉了。他在自己的州內(nèi)分裂了自己的黨派,而且還是在大選前夕。這可是林肯的好機(jī)會(huì)?,旣悺ち挚闲睦锓浅G宄F(xiàn)在是林肯的最佳時(shí)機(jī)——他不僅能贏回一八四八年失去的民眾的支持,還可以借此重回政治舞臺(tái),當(dāng)選為國(guó)會(huì)議員。沒(méi)錯(cuò),道格拉斯確實(shí)還有四年的任期,但他的同事幾個(gè)月后就得面臨改選了。

他的同事是誰(shuí)呢?他的同事便是趾高氣昂而又好斗的愛(ài)爾蘭人希爾茲(Shields)?,旣悺ち挚虾退€有一筆舊賬要算。早在一八四二年,估計(jì)是因?yàn)楝旣悓?xiě)了幾封信羞辱希爾茲,希爾茲一怒之下向林肯發(fā)起決斗。兩個(gè)人配著馬刀,在助手的陪伴下來(lái)到了密西西比河的一處沙堤上,準(zhǔn)備決一死戰(zhàn)。幸好最后關(guān)頭朋友們竭力調(diào)解,最終沒(méi)有發(fā)生流血事件。自那以后,希爾茲的仕途扶搖直上,而林肯卻每況愈下。

但現(xiàn)在,已經(jīng)觸底的林肯開(kāi)始反彈了。他自己也說(shuō),《密蘇里妥協(xié)案》的廢除“喚醒”了他。他再也不能保持沉默?,F(xiàn)在的他已決定加入戰(zhàn)斗,用靈魂中所有的力量和信仰去戰(zhàn)斗。

于是他開(kāi)始準(zhǔn)備自己的演說(shuō)。他在州圖書(shū)館里埋頭工作了幾個(gè)星期,翻閱了很多歷史書(shū)籍,掌握了大量的史實(shí),并將它們分類(lèi)整理。當(dāng)年,這項(xiàng)議案的通過(guò)之路可謂血雨腥風(fēng),議員們你來(lái)我往,進(jìn)行了一連串狂風(fēng)暴雨般的激烈辯論。林肯在準(zhǔn)備演說(shuō)期間也將這些辯論仔細(xì)研究了一番。

十月三日,州集會(huì)在春田市開(kāi)幕了。成千上萬(wàn)的農(nóng)民涌入了市中:男人們帶來(lái)了上等的豬、馬、牛和谷物,女人們拿來(lái)了果凍、果醬、餡餅和蜜餞。但是對(duì)于民眾來(lái)說(shuō),集會(huì)上的這些物品遠(yuǎn)不如另一件事來(lái)得有吸引力。而這件事,早已在這幾個(gè)星期里被宣揚(yáng)得沸沸揚(yáng)揚(yáng):道格拉斯將會(huì)在集會(huì)的第一天發(fā)表演說(shuō)。因此,春田市聚集了州內(nèi)各黨派前來(lái)聆聽(tīng)道格拉斯演講的政客。

那天下午,道格拉斯的演說(shuō)持續(xù)了三個(gè)多小時(shí)。他回顧了自己的言論,并對(duì)此做出解釋。他為自己的觀點(diǎn)辯解,同時(shí)也向反對(duì)意見(jiàn)進(jìn)行了攻擊。他激烈地否認(rèn)自己“試圖在某個(gè)地區(qū)將奴隸制合法化”,同時(shí)也否認(rèn)自己“試圖將奴隸制趕出某個(gè)區(qū)域”。他認(rèn)為,奴隸制的去留應(yīng)該由各州的人民自己做決定。

“當(dāng)然,”他大聲喊道,“如果堪薩斯州和內(nèi)布拉斯加州的人民有能力實(shí)現(xiàn)自治,他們肯定也有能力管好那幾個(gè)可憐的黑奴?!?/p>

林肯坐在前排,仔細(xì)地聆聽(tīng)著道格拉斯說(shuō)的每個(gè)字,默默地權(quán)衡著他的每一個(gè)論據(jù)。待道格拉斯演講結(jié)束后,林肯宣布道:“明天,我將揭開(kāi)他的謬誤之處?!?/p>

第二天早晨,春田市的每個(gè)角落都撒滿(mǎn)了林肯將要答復(fù)道格拉斯的宣傳單,市集中更是俯拾即是。民眾的興趣非常強(qiáng)烈,還不到兩點(diǎn)鐘,演講大廳已經(jīng)座無(wú)虛席。沒(méi)過(guò)多久,道格拉斯也來(lái)了,氣度非凡地坐在演講臺(tái)上。和往常一樣,他仍舊衣著光鮮,打扮得無(wú)可挑剔。

瑪麗·林肯早早便坐在了觀眾席中。那天早晨出門(mén)前,她興奮地為林肯刷干凈外套,并拿出了一件新襯領(lǐng),仔細(xì)地將他最好的領(lǐng)帶熨燙整齊。她非常希望林肯能在儀表上給民眾留下一個(gè)好印象。但是那天非常炎熱,林肯知道講堂里的空氣到時(shí)一定悶熱得令人難受,于是他沒(méi)穿外套,沒(méi)穿背心,沒(méi)戴襯領(lǐng),沒(méi)系領(lǐng)帶,只穿著襯衣便走上了講臺(tái)。他的襯衣松松垮垮地罩在瘦削的骨架上,頎長(zhǎng)而嶙峋的棕色脖子突兀地露在襯衣上方。他的頭發(fā)亂糟糟的,腳上的靴子又臟又破,還有那根被稱(chēng)為“單帶褲”的褲帶,吊著他那條又短又不合身的褲子。

一看到丈夫的模樣,瑪麗·林肯又氣惱又失望。她窘迫得滿(mǎn)臉通紅,差點(diǎn)兒沒(méi)絕望得流下眼淚來(lái)。

當(dāng)時(shí)沒(méi)有人能想到——但是我們很清楚——這個(gè)其貌不揚(yáng)、讓妻子感到羞恥的男人,就在那個(gè)炎熱的十月的下午,走上了一條注定要永垂不朽的道路。

那天下午,他發(fā)表了一生中最偉大的一次演說(shuō)。如果以那天下午作為分界線(xiàn),將林肯在那天下午之前及之后發(fā)表的演說(shuō)分別集結(jié)成冊(cè),再將兩本書(shū)放在一起比較,你很難相信它們出自同一人。因?yàn)槟翘煜挛绨l(fā)表演說(shuō)的是一個(gè)全新的林肯——一個(gè)因?yàn)槭篱g不義而憤然覺(jué)醒的林肯;一個(gè)為了受壓迫的民族而懇切發(fā)聲的林肯;一個(gè)為了人類(lèi)道德尊嚴(yán)而動(dòng)容、振奮的林肯。

他回顧了奴隸制的歷史,并給出了厭棄奴隸制的五個(gè)強(qiáng)有力的理由。

同時(shí),他的演講也表現(xiàn)出了相當(dāng)崇高的寬容。他說(shuō):“我對(duì)南方人民并沒(méi)有偏見(jiàn)。如果處在他們的位置,我們也會(huì)做他們現(xiàn)在做的事。如果他們身邊不存在奴隸制,那么他們也不會(huì)引進(jìn)這一制度。如果我們身邊存在著奴隸制,我們也不會(huì)立刻就摒棄它。所以,當(dāng)南方人民說(shuō),他們和我們一樣,對(duì)奴隸制的興起并不負(fù)責(zé)時(shí),我是贊同的。當(dāng)人們說(shuō)現(xiàn)存的奴隸制很難用一種令人滿(mǎn)意的方式廢除時(shí),我理解同時(shí)也認(rèn)可這種說(shuō)法,因?yàn)槲也粫?huì)為那些我自己也不知道該如何做的事而責(zé)怪別人做得不好。即便我現(xiàn)在權(quán)傾天下,也不知道該如何處理現(xiàn)存的制度?!?/p>

三個(gè)多小時(shí)過(guò)去了。汗水從林肯的臉上滾落,但他卻渾然不知,有理有據(jù)地回應(yīng)道格拉斯,指出那位參議員演說(shuō)中的詭辯和絕對(duì)的立場(chǎng)錯(cuò)誤。

這是一場(chǎng)意義深遠(yuǎn)的演說(shuō),同時(shí)也是一場(chǎng)一定能給人留下深刻記憶的演說(shuō)。道格拉斯坐在臺(tái)下,皺眉蹙額,內(nèi)心翻騰。他甚至?xí)r不時(shí)地站起來(lái)打斷林肯。

新的選舉時(shí)刻就快到了。民主黨中的年輕進(jìn)步人士一邊攻擊道格拉斯,一邊四處爭(zhēng)取選票。于是,當(dāng)伊利諾伊州的選民們投票的時(shí)候,民主黨中支持道格拉斯的成員受到了毀滅性的打擊。

在那個(gè)時(shí)代,參議員是由州議會(huì)選出來(lái)的。為此,伊利諾伊州州議會(huì)于一八五五年二月八日在春田市召開(kāi)了會(huì)議。為了這個(gè)場(chǎng)合,林肯夫人特意買(mǎi)了一件新禮服和一頂新帽子,而她的姐夫尼尼安·愛(ài)德華也信心滿(mǎn)滿(mǎn)地為參議員林肯安排著當(dāng)天晚上的接待會(huì)。

第一輪投票的時(shí)候,林肯領(lǐng)先其他候選人,但僅有六票的優(yōu)勢(shì)。隨著投票的進(jìn)行,他的票數(shù)漸漸落后。到第十輪投票的時(shí)候,他已完全落后了。最后,李曼·特朗布爾(Lyman W. Trumbull)當(dāng)選為州參議員。

李曼·特朗布爾的妻子茱莉亞·杰恩(Julia Jayne)是瑪麗·林肯結(jié)婚時(shí)的女儐相,也曾是瑪麗·林肯最親密的朋友。那天下午,瑪麗和茱莉亞并肩坐在眾議院的包間里,緊張地關(guān)注著參議員的選舉。當(dāng)宣布茱莉亞的丈夫當(dāng)選時(shí),林肯夫人非常生氣,頭也不回地走出了大樓。對(duì)于這樣的結(jié)果,瑪麗怒氣沖沖,妒火中燒,因此從那時(shí)起直至生命終結(jié),她再也沒(méi)有和茱莉亞·特朗布爾說(shuō)過(guò)話(huà)。

悲傷又沮喪的林肯不得不回到他那凌亂的法律事務(wù)所,回到那間墻上染著墨水印子、從書(shū)架頂層的灰塵里長(zhǎng)出野草的辦公室。

一周后,他再次給“老公鹿”套上挽具,踏上不平靜的草原,輾轉(zhuǎn)于各個(gè)鄉(xiāng)村法院之間。但他的心已不在法律上?,F(xiàn)在的他,談?wù)摰脑?huà)題除了政治和奴隸制,幾乎不涉及其他內(nèi)容。他說(shuō),一想到數(shù)百萬(wàn)人縛于枷鎖之中,他的心便痛苦不已。為此,他陷入憂(yōu)郁的次數(shù)比以前更多了,沉浸在悲傷中的時(shí)間也更長(zhǎng)了。他的悲傷變得更加深沉。

一天晚上,林肯和另一位律師一起住在鄉(xiāng)間旅館。這位同伴在凌晨醒來(lái)時(shí),發(fā)現(xiàn)林肯穿著睡衣坐在床沿,神情沮喪,大概是思考著什么。林肯自言自語(yǔ)地咕噥著,陷入了看不見(jiàn)的虛無(wú)之中。最終,林肯回過(guò)神來(lái),他說(shuō):

“我跟你說(shuō),這個(gè)國(guó)家不可能永遠(yuǎn)處于一半奴隸制一半自由的狀態(tài)?!?/p>

這件事之后沒(méi)多久,一位黑人婦女來(lái)到了春田市尋求林肯的幫助。這位婦人十分可憐。她的兒子去了圣路易斯市,在密西西比河上的一艘輪船上找了份工作??墒钱?dāng)他到達(dá)新奧爾良市的時(shí)候,卻被送進(jìn)了監(jiān)獄。他本是自由人,但卻拿不出文件證明這一點(diǎn),于是直到船離開(kāi),他也沒(méi)能出獄?,F(xiàn)在,為了支付監(jiān)獄的費(fèi)用,他將被以奴隸的身份出售。

林肯將這個(gè)案子拿到了伊利諾伊州州長(zhǎng)面前,可是州長(zhǎng)說(shuō)自己無(wú)權(quán)干涉。于是林肯向路易斯安那州的州長(zhǎng)求助,可是這位州長(zhǎng)在回信中也表示自己無(wú)能為力。林肯再次拜訪(fǎng)伊利諾伊州州長(zhǎng),懇求他采取行動(dòng),但州長(zhǎng)仍是搖了搖頭。

林肯從椅子上站起來(lái),無(wú)比堅(jiān)定地大聲說(shuō)道:“上帝作證,州長(zhǎng),你也許確實(shí)沒(méi)有合法權(quán)力釋放那個(gè)可憐的男孩,但是我一定會(huì)使這個(gè)國(guó)家的每片土地都讓奴隸主無(wú)法立足?!?/p>

第二年,林肯四十六歲,他坦誠(chéng)地向好友惠特尼吐露自己“有點(diǎn)兒需要”一副眼鏡了。于是他走進(jìn)了一間飾品店,花了三十七點(diǎn)五美分買(mǎi)了人生中第一副眼鏡。

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