And time after time, his smile became more similar to the ferryman's, became almost just as bright, almost just as thoroughly glowing with bliss, just as shining out of thousand small wrinkles, just as alike to a child's, just as alike to an old man's. Many travelers, seeing the two ferrymen, thought they were brothers. Often, they sat in the evening together by the bank on the log, said nothing and both listened to the water, which was no water to them, but the voice of life, the voice of what exists, of what is eternally taking shape. 一次又一次，他的笑容變得越來越像渡船夫的笑容，變得一樣明媚、一樣容光煥發(fā)、一樣笑出許多皺紋、一樣如同孩子的笑、一樣如同老人的笑。許多旅行者看見這兩個(gè)渡船夫，以為他們是兄弟。晚上，他們經(jīng)常一起坐在河堤邊的原木上，一言不發(fā)，都只是聆聽水的聲音，但對(duì)他們來說水不是水，而是生命的聲音，是萬(wàn)物存在的聲音，是永恒演變的事物的聲音。