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波德莱尔《邀游》

(2008-08-18 16:44:22)
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波德莱尔

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分类: 法语学习、法语文学研究

 

L'invitation au voyage

邀游(彭建华译)

Les Fleurs du malSpleen et idéalLIV

恶之花,忧郁与理想,五四

Mon enfant, ma soeur,

Songe à la douceur

D'aller là-bas vivre ensemble!

Aimer à loisir,

Aimer et mourir

Au pays qui te ressemble!

Les soleils mouillés

De ces ciels brouillés

Pour mon esprit ont les charmes

Si mystérieux

De tes traîtres yeux,

Brillant à travers leurs larmes.

我的孩稚,我的姐妹,

梦想那甜蜜的温柔,

去那里,一起生活!

清闲地,爱恋,

爱与死,在那个

地方,一切都象你啊!

模糊的天空里

湿润的阳光,

对我的心,挥扬着魅力,

你的背叛的眼睛

多么神秘,

太阳的斜晖使它们的泪水光亮。

 

 

Là, tout n'est qu'ordre et beauté,

Luxe, calme et volupté.

那里,全是秩序、美

奢华、平静,和享乐。

 

 

Des meubles luisants,

Polis par les ans,

Décoreraient notre chambre;

Les plus rares fleurs

Mêlant leurs odeurs

Aux vagues senteurs de l'ambre,

Les riches plafonds,

Les miroirs profonds,

La splendeur orientale,

Tout y parlerait

À l'âme en secret

Sa douce langue natale.

发亮的家具,

因岁月变得光洁,

装饰我们的房间;

最珍奇的花,

它的芳香混合着

朦胧的琥珀的香味,

绚丽的(大海的)穹顶,

深邃的镜子,

东方的辉煌灿烂,

所有(这些)对着心灵

神密地说着

温馨的近乡的话语。

 

 

Là, tout n'est qu'ordre et beauté,

Luxe, calme et volupté.

那里,全是秩序、美

奢华、平静,和享乐。

 

 

Vois sur ces canaux

Dormir ces vaisseaux

Dont l'humeur est vagabonde;

C'est pour assouvir

Ton moindre désir

Qu'ils viennent du bout du monde.

Les soleils couchants

Revêtent les champs,

Les canaux, la ville entière,

D'hyacinthe et d'or;

Le monde s'endort

Dans une chaude lumière.

看,运河上,

大船仿佛入梦,

而它却偏爱流浪;

只为了满足你的

小小的希望,

它来自世界的尽头。

--西下的太阳,

笼罩着原野、

运河、和整个城市,

用金色和红色;

这世界入睡了,

在温暖的光里。

 

 

Là, tout n'est qu'ordre et beauté,

Luxe, calme et volupté.

那里,全是秩序、美

奢华、平静,和享乐。


 L'invitation au voyage

Mon enfant, ma soeur,

Songe à la douceur

D'aller là-bas vivre ensemble!

Aimer à loisir,

Aimer et mourir

Au pays qui te ressemble!

Les soleils mouillés

De ces ciels brouillés

Pour mon esprit ont les charmes

Si mystérieux

De tes traîtres yeux,

Brillant à travers leurs larmes.


Là, tout n'est qu'ordre et beauté,

Luxe, calme et volupté.

Des meubles luisants,

Polis par les ans,

Décoreraient notre chambre;

Les plus rares fleurs

Mêlant leurs odeurs

Aux vagues senteurs de l'ambre,

Les riches plafonds,

Les miroirs profonds,

La splendeur orientale,

Tout y parlerait

À l'âme en secret

Sa douce langue natale.


Là, tout n'est qu'ordre et beauté,

Luxe, calme et volupté.

Vois sur ces canaux

Dormir ces vaisseaux

Dont l'humeur est vagabonde;

C'est pour assouvir

Ton moindre désir

Qu'ils viennent du bout du monde.

— Les soleils couchants

Revêtent les champs,

Les canaux, la ville entière,

D'hyacinthe et d'or;

Le monde s'endort

Dans une chaude lumière.


Là, tout n'est qu'ordre et beauté,

Luxe, calme et volupté.

— Charles Baudelaire



Invitation to the Voyage

My child, my sister,

Think of the rapture

Of living together there! 

Of loving at will, 

Of loving till death,

In the land that is like you! 

The misty sunlight 

Of those cloudy skies

Has for my spirit the charms, 

So mysterious, 

Of your treacherous eyes,

Shining brightly through their tears.

There all is order and beauty,

Luxury, peace, and pleasure.

Gleaming furniture,

Polished by the years,

Will ornament our bedroom;

The rarest flowers

Mingling their fragrance

With the faint scent of amber,

The ornate ceilings,

The limpid mirrors,

The oriental splendor,

All would whisper there

Secretly to the soul

In its soft, native language.

There all is order and beauty,

Luxury, peace, and pleasure.

See on the canals 

Those vessels sleeping.

Their mood is adventurous;

It's to satisfy

Your slightest desire

That they come from the ends of the earth.

— The setting suns

Adorn the fields,

The canals, the whole city,

With hyacinth and gold;

The world falls asleep

In a warm glow of light.

There all is order and beauty,

Luxury, peace, and pleasure.

— William Aggeler, The Flowers of Evil (Fresno, CA: Academy Library Guild, 1954)


Invitation to the Voyage


My daughter, my sister, 

Consider the vista 

Of living out there, you and I,

To love at our leisure, 

Then, ending our pleasure, 

In climes you resemble to die. 

There the suns, rainy-wet, 

Through clouds rise and set 

With the selfsame enchantment to charm me 

That my senses receive 

From your eyes, that deceive, 

When they shine through your tears to disarm me.

There'll be nothing but beauty, wealth, pleasure, 

With all things in order and measure.

With old treasures furnished, 

By centuries burnished, 

To gleam in the shade of our chamber, 

While the rarest of flowers 

Vaguely mix through the hours 

Their own with the perfume of amber: 

Each sumptuous ceiling, 

Each mirror revealing 

The wealth of the East, will be hung 

So the part and the whole 

May speak to the soul 

In its native, indigenous tongue.

There'll be nothing but beauty, wealth, pleasure, 

With all things in order and measure.

On the channels and streams 

See each vessel that dreams 

In its whimsical vagabond way, 

Since its for your least whim 

The oceans they swim 

From the ends of the night and the day. 

The sun, going down, With its glory will crown 

Canals, fields, and cities entire, 

While the whole earth is rolled 

In the jacinth and gold 

Of its warming and radiant fire.

There'll be nothing but beauty, wealth, pleasure 

With all things in order and measure.

— Roy Campbell, Poems of Baudelaire (New York: Pantheon Books, 1952)


Invitation to the Voyage

Think, would it not be

Sweet to live with me

All alone, my child, my love? — 

Sleep together, share

All things, in that fair

Country you remind me of? 

Charming in the dawn 

There, the half-withdrawn

Drenched, mysterious sun appears 

In the curdled skies, 

Treacherous as your eyes

Shining from behind their tears.

There, restraint and order bless

Luxury and voluptuousness.

We should have a room 

Never out of bloom:

Tables polished by the palm 

Of the vanished hours 

Should reflect rare flowers

In that amber-scented calm;

Ceilings richly wrought,

Mirrors deep as thought,

Walls with eastern splendor hung,

All should speak apart 

To the homesick heart

In its own dear native tongue.

There, restraint and order bless

Luxury and voluptuousness.

See, their voyage past,

To their moorings fast,

On the still canals asleep, 

These big ships; to bring 

You some trifling thing

They have braved the furious deep.

— Now the sun goes down,

Tinting dyke and town,

Field, canal, all things in sight,

Hyacinth and gold;

All that we behold

Slumbers in its ruddy light.

There, restraint and order bless

Luxury and voluptuousness.

— Edna St. Vincent Millay, Flowers of Evil (NY: Harper and Brothers, 1936)


Invitation to the Voyage 

My child mistress/mother sister/dream

How acceptable all things would be

Were we to live in that land where

The slow and the long, short and the strong

Die in the dance of being less than one another

In a perpetual summer of imageless desire.

Flagellated and forgotten suns

Drink in the step of my azure lost skies

And move to mysterylessness our chemical miseries

Within which the treadling eyes of indefiniteness

Are no more than the tears of the damned.

Take from my heart, a platinum measure

Free of solitude's false grace

And awkward adolescent pleasures.

Here is the furniture

That caresses the dust of the years

And counts the wrinkled set into the brain

On fingers that have made their own doom.

Evil the eyes that look back at us in dreams,

Evil the touch of the deaths that have not loved us

Evil the sorrow which shelters itself from release

And the evils accumulate

Leaving us idle and alone

Though an Eastern splendor,

An Eastern hatred of the idea of loss

Eddies in the river of slime

That has not won us.

Hidden from the waves in still canals

We sit in a small boat that refuses

To set forth.

To satisfy need,

To accommodate our need of forever,

We sit in the boat

And wait for a clearer sky,

A more propitious moment to launch

While thinking of Cortez' 

Miraculous slaughter of and victory over

The children of the sun.

— Will Schmitz


邀游

陈伯祥译

我钟情的女郎,我的小妹,
想想多滋润甜美,
去那儿同你相依相偎,
悠然相爱,
相爱至死永不分离,
在那个多么像你的国度里!

柔和的阳光,
朦胧的天空,
对我的心灵充满魅力,
多么神秘!
就像你那双诱人的媚眼,
透过你的串串泪珠闪耀着光辉。

在那儿,一切井然有序,无比美,
只有宁静、乐趣和华美。

你瞧!
那些停泊在运河上的航船,
它们本性喜好飘泊流浪;
为了满足
你小小的心愿,
它们才来自世界各个地方。

夕阳渐渐西沉,
金紫色的霞光
洒满田野,
洒满运河和整座城市,
而整个大地
已进入温暖光明的睡乡。

在那儿,一切井然有序,无比美,
只有宁静、乐趣和华美。


邀游

郭宏安译


好孩子,我的妹妹, 

想想多甜美, 

到那里跟你住在一起! 

幸福的相爱 

相爱到老死 

在你同样的国土里! 

湿润的太阳 

阴沉的天空 

我的心灵被它吸引, 

多神秘,像你 奸诈的眼睛 

透过泪水闪耀着光辉。 

那里,只有优美、秩序、 

豪华、宁静和快乐。 

被岁月磨得 光亮的家具, 

装饰在我们的闺房; 

奇特的花卉 吐放的芳香 

游荡着琥珀香的香浪, 

富丽的天顶 深深的明镜 

东方风味的辉煌壮丽 

都露出内心 秘密的衷情 

述说甜美的本国言语。 

那里,只有优美、秩序、 

豪华、宁静和快乐。 

看到运河边 沉睡的航船 

心情即想随之飘荡; 

为了满足你 小小的心愿 

它们从天地之边驶来。 

——落日的斜阳 给田野、运河 

整个城市涂上了金黄, 

矿石和黄金 在人类世界 

沉入温暖光辉的梦乡。 

那里,只有优美、秩序, 

豪华、宁静和快乐。


敦请远游


张英伦译

􀀁

我的孩子, 我的姐妹,

想想那甜蜜的滋味:􀀁

到那边去一块儿生活!􀀁

相爱, 不慌不忙,

相爱, 直到死亡

在同你一样毕肖之国!􀀁


那模糊的天上

的湿润的太阳

令我为之心旷神怡。

多么妙不可言,

让你两眼迷乱,

太阳透过泪水光闪熠熠。


那边, 一切都是秩序和美,

豪华、宁静和快慰… …


你看在那河面上

船儿都已进入睡乡,

它们生性喜爱浪迹天外;􀀁

只是为了满足

你微不足道的要求,

它们从世界的尽头赶来。

夕阳的余晖

洒照在田野,

河流和整个城市,

染成青紫和金黄;􀀁

世界沉沉入睡了,

披一身温暖的日光。


那边, 一切都是秩序和美,

豪华、宁静和快慰。 


Charles Baudelaire's

Fleurs du mal / Flowers of Evil


Le Crépuscule du soir

Voici le soir charmant, ami du criminel;

II vient comme un complice, à pas de loup; le ciel

Se ferme lentement comme une grande alcôve,

Et l'homme impatient se change en bête fauve.

Ô soir, aimable soir, désiré par celui

Dont les bras, sans mentir, peuvent dire: Aujourd'hui

Nous avons travaillé! — C'est le soir qui soulage

Les esprits que dévore une douleur sauvage,

Le savant obstiné dont le front s'alourdit,

Et l'ouvrier courbé qui regagne son lit.

Cependant des démons malsains dans l'atmosphère

S'éveillent lourdement, comme des gens d'affaire,

Et cognent en volant les volets et l'auvent.

À travers les lueurs que tourmente le vent

La Prostitution s'allume dans les rues;

Comme une fourmilière elle ouvre ses issues;

Partout elle se fraye un occulte chemin,

Ainsi que l'ennemi qui tente un coup de main;

Elle remue au sein de la cité de fange

Comme un ver qui dérobe à l'Homme ce qu'il mange.

On entend çà et là les cuisines siffler,

Les théâtres glapir, les orchestres ronfler;

Les tables d'hôte, dont le jeu fait les délices,

S'emplissent de catins et d'escrocs, leurs complices,

Et les voleurs, qui n'ont ni trêve ni merci,

Vont bientôt commencer leur travail, eux aussi,

Et forcer doucement les portes et les caisses

Pour vivre quelques jours et vêtir leurs maîtresses.

Recueille-toi, mon âme, en ce grave moment,

Et ferme ton oreille à ce rugissement.

C'est l'heure où les douleurs des malades s'aigrissent!

La sombre Nuit les prend à la gorge; ils finissent

Leur destinée et vont vers le gouffre commun;

L'hôpital se remplit de leurs soupirs. — Plus d'un

Ne viendra plus chercher la soupe parfumée,

Au coin du feu, le soir, auprès d'une âme aimée.

Encore la plupart n'ont-ils jamais connu

La douceur du foyer et n'ont jamais vécu!

— Charles Baudelaire



Twilight

Behold the sweet evening, friend of the criminal; 

It comes like an accomplice, stealthily; the sky 

Closes slowly like an immense alcove, 

And impatient man turns into a beast of prey. 

O evening, kind evening, desired by him 

Whose arms can say, without lying: "Today 

We labored!" — It is the evening that comforts 

Those minds that are consumed by a savage sorrow, 

The obstinate scholar whose head bends with fatigue 

And the bowed laborer who returns to his bed.

Meanwhile in the atmosphere malefic demons 

Awaken sluggishly, like businessmen, 

And take flight, bumping against porch roofs and shutters. 

Among the gas flames worried by the wind 

Prostitution catches alight in the streets; 

Like an ant-hill she lets her workers out; 

Everywhere she blazes a secret path, 

Like an enemy who plans a surprise attack; 

She moves in the heart of the city of mire 

Like a worm that steals from Man what he eats. 

Here and there one hears food sizzle in the kitchens, 

The theaters yell, the orchestras moan;

The gambling dens, where games of chance delight, 

Fill up with whores and cardsharps, their accomplices; 

The burglars, who know neither respite nor mercy, 

Are soon going to begin their work, they also, 

And quietly force open cash-boxes and doors 

To enjoy life awhile and dress their mistresses.

Meditate, O my soul, in this solemn moment, 

And close your ears to this uproar; 

It is now that the pains of the sick grow sharper! 

Somber Night grabs them by the throat; they reach the end 

Of their destinies and go to the common pit; 

The hospitals are filled with their sighs. — More than one 

Will come no more to get his fragrant soup 

By the fireside, in the evening, with a loved one.

However, most of them have never known 

The sweetness of a home, have never lived!

— William Aggeler, The Flowers of Evil (Fresno, CA: Academy Library Guild, 1954)


Evening Twilight


Delightful evening, partner of the crook, 

Steals in, wolf-padded, like a complice: look: 

Heaven, like a garret, closes to the day, 

And Man, impatient, turns a beast of prey.

Sweet evening, loved by those whose arms can tell, 

Without a lie, "Today we've laboured well:" 

Sweet evening, it is she who brings relief 

To men with souls devoured by one fierce grief, 

Obstinate thinkers drowsy in the head, 

And toil-bent workmen groping to their bed.

But insalubrious demons of the airs, 

Like business people, wake to their affairs 

And, flying, knock, like bats, on walls and shutters.

Now Prostitution lights up in the gutters 

Across the glimmering jets the wind torments. 

Like a huge ant-hive it unseals its vents. 

On every side it weaves its hidden tracks 

Like enemies preparing night-attacks. 

It squirms within the City's breast of mire, 

A worm that steals the food that men desire.

One hears the kitchens hissing here and there, 

Operas squealing, orchestras ablare. 

Cheap tables d'hôte, where gaming lights the eyes, 

Fill up with whores, and sharpers, their allies: 

And thieves, whose office knows no truce nor rest, 

Will shortly now start working, too, with zest, 

Gently unhinging doors and forcing tills, 

To live some days and buy their sweethearts frills.

Collect yourself, my soul, in this grave hour 

And shut your ears against the din and stour. 

It is the hour when sick men's pains increase. 

Death grips them by the throat, and soon they cease 

Their destined task, to find the common pit. 

The ward is filled with sighings. Out of it 

Not all return the scented soup to taste, 

Warm at the hearthside, by some loved-one placed.

But then how few among them can recall 

Joys of the hearth, or ever lived at all!

— Roy Campbell, Poems of Baudelaire (New York: Pantheon Books, 1952)


Le Crépuscule du soir

'tis witching night, the criminal's ally;

it comes accomplice-like, wolf-soft; the sky

slowly is closing every giant door,

and man the rebel turns a beast once more.

o Night, delicious Night, they sigh for thee

— all those whose arms complain, and truly: we

have toiled today! her solace and her peace

Night brings to souls where cankering woes increase

— the self-willed scholar, nodding drowsily,

the workman bowed and hurrying bedward, free.

but now the evil demons of the air

wake heavily, like folk with many a care,

and, soaring, dash their heads on wall or blind.

among the gas-jets flickering in the wind

from every door, a hive that swarms a new,

pale Prostitution lights each avenue;

clearing her secret ways where lechers crawl

as might a foe who undermines a wall;

gorging on what we need, she nightly squirms

across the mire and darkness, like the worms.

the kitchens rattle 'round us everywhere,

playhouses roar and bands of music blare,

swindlers and bawds ally themselves to fleece

in wine shops, those who seek the cards' caprice,

while thieves, who truce nor mercy never knew,

will very soon resume their struggles too,

and gently force the door where treasure is

to feed themselves and dress their mistresses.

awake, my soul, in this grave hour of sin

and close thin ear to all its clamorous din.

now is the time when sick men's woes increase!

the murky night is throttling them; — they cease

to breathe, and sink into the Gulf, undone.

their groanings fill the poor house. — more than one 

will seek no more at dusk his savoury bowl

beside the hearth, near some belovèd soul.

and most of these have never known the call

of home, nor had a hearth, nor lived at all!

— Lewis Piaget Shanks, Flowers of Evil (New York: Ives Washburn, 1931)


Evening Twilight

Now is the graceful evening, friend of the criminal; 

Now it comes like an accomplice, stealthily; the sky 

Closes slowly like a gigantic bedroom, 

And Man, impatient, changes to wild beast.

O evening, lovable eveningtime, longed for by him 

Whose arms can truthfully say: Today 

We have worked! — It is evening that lightens 

Spirits consumed by a fierce sorrow, 

The stubborn savant whose forehead grows heavy, 

And the bent laborer gaining again his bed.

Meanwhile unhealthy demons heavily awake,

Like business men, in the atmosphere,

And fly and strike the shutters and the awning.

Across those lights the wind tortures

Prostitution is ignited in the streets;

Like an ant-hill she opens her escapes,

Spawning all over a secret path,

Like an enemy's sudden attack;

She stirs on the breast of the city of dung

Like a worm that steals his meals from Man.

Here and there one hears kitchens hissing,

The screaming of theatres and orchestras roaring;

The plain tables, where gambling throws its pleasures,

Fill up with bawds and cheats, accomplices,

And thieves, who know no truce nor grace,

Soon go to get to work, they also,

Depart to force gently safes and doors

For a few days' living and to clothe their mistresses.

Reflect, O my soul, in this most solemn time,

And close your ears to this roar.

It is the hour when the sorrows of the ill are sharpened.

Dark Night grips them by the throat; they fulfill

Their fate and move into the common whirlpool; 

The hospitals are full of their sighing. — More than one 

Will no more come back to seek the perfumed soup, 

Beside the fire, at night, by a beloved soul.

Still most, most of them have never known 

Home's sweetness nor have they really lived.

— Geoffrey Wagner, Selected Poems of Charles Baudelaire (NY: Grove Press, 1974) 


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