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季羡林的《黄昏》和何朝燕的译文

(2010-03-23 18:35:34)
标签:

季羡林

黄昏

何朝燕

翻译

语用学

川外

校园

季羡林

黄   

 

黄昏是神秘的,只要人们能多活下去一天,在这一天的末尾,他们便有个黄昏。但是,年滚着年,月滚着月,他们活下去。有数不清的天,也就有数不清的黄昏。我要问:有几个人觉得过黄昏的存在呢?——

早晨,当残梦从枕边飞去的时候,他们醒转来,开始去走一天的路。他们走着,走着,走到正午,路陡然转了下去。仿佛只一溜,就溜到一天的末尾,当他们看到远处弥漫着白茫茫的烟,树梢上淡淡涂上了一层金黄色,一群群的暮鸦驮着日色飞回来的时候,仿华中有什么东西轻轻地压在他们的心头。他们知道:夜来了。他们渴望着静息;渴望着梦的来临。不久,薄冥的夜色糊了他们的眼,也糊了他们的心。他们在低隘的小屋里忙乱着;把黄昏关在门外,倘若有人问:你看到黄昏了没有?黄昏真美呵。他们却茫然了。

他们怎能不茫然呢?当他们再从屋里探出头来寻找黄昏的时候,黄昏早随了白茫茫的烟的消失,树梢上金色的消失,鸦背上日色的消失而消失了。只剩下朦胧的夜,这黄昏,像一个春宵的轻梦,不知在什么时候漫了来,在他们心上一掠,又不知什么时候走了。

黄昏走了。走到哪里去了的呢?——不,我先问:黄昏从哪里来的呢?这我说不清。又有谁说得清呢?我不能够抓住一把黄昏,问它到底。从东方么?东方是太阳出的地方。从西方么?西方不正亮着红霞么?从南方么,南方只充满了光和热,看来只有说从北方来的最适宜了。倘若我们想了开去,想到北方的极端,是北冰洋,我们可以在想象里描画出;白茫茫的天地,白茫茫的雪原,和白茫茫的冰山。再往北,在白茫茫的天边上,分不清哪是天,是地,是冰,是雪,只是朦胧的一片灰白。朦胧灰白的黄昏不正应当从这里蜕化出来么?

然而,蜕化出来了,却又扩散开去。漫过了大平原,大草原,留下了一层阴影;漫过了大森林,留下了一片阴郁的黑暗;漫过了小溪,把深灰色的暮色溶入 琮的水声里,水面在阒静里透着微明;漫过了山顶,留给它们星的光和月的光;漫过了小村,留下了苍茫的暮烟……给每个墙角扯下了一片,给每个蜘蛛网网住了一把。以后,又漫过了寂寞的沙漠,来到我们的国土里。我能想象:倘若我迎着黄昏站在沙漠里,我一定能看着黄昏从辽远的天边上跑了来,像——像什么呢?是不是应当像一阵灰蒙的白雾?或者像一片扩散的云影?跑了来,仍然只是留下一片阴影,又跑了去,来到我们的国土里,随了弥漫在远处的白茫茫的烟,随了树梢上的淡淡的金黄色,也随了暮鸦背上的日色,轻轻地落在人们的心头,又被人们关在门外了。

但是,在门外,它却不管人们关心不关心,寂寞地,冷落地,替他们安排好了一个幻变的又充满了诗意的童话般的世界,朦胧,微明,正像反射在镜子里的影子,它给一切东西涂上银灰的梦的色彩。牛乳色的空气仿佛真牛乳似的凝结起来。但似乎又在软软地黏黏地浓浓地流动里。它带来了阒静,你听:一切静静的,像下着大雪的中夜。但是死寂么?却并不,再比现在沉默一点,也会变成坟墓般地死寂。仿佛一点也不多,一点也不少,幽美的轻适的阒静软软地黏黏地浓浓地压在人们的心头,灰的天空像一张薄幕;树木,房屋,烟纹,云缕,都像一张张的剪影,静静地贴在这幕上。这里,那里,点缀着晚霞的紫曛和小星的冷光。黄昏真像一首诗,一支歌,一篇童话;像一片月明楼上传来的悠扬的笛声,一声缭绕在长空里亮唳的鹤鸣;像陈了几十年的绍酒;像一切美到说不出来的东西。说不出来,只能去看;看之不足,只能意会;意会之不足,只能赞叹。——然而却终于给人们关在门外了。

给人们关在门外,是我这样说么?我要小心,因为所谓人们,不是一切人们,也绝不会是一切人们的。我在童年的时候,就常常呆在天井里等候黄昏的来临。我这样说,并不是想表明我比别人强。意思很简单,就是:别人不去,也或者是不愿意去这样作。我(自然也还有别人)适逢其会地常常这样作而已。常常在夏天里,我坐很矮的小凳上,看墙角里渐渐暗了起来,四周的白墙也布上了一层淡淡的黑影。在幽暗里,夜来香的花香一阵阵地沁入我的心里。天空里飞着蝙蝠。檐角上的蜘蛛网,映着灰白的天空,在朦胧里,还可以数出网上的线条和黏在上面的蚊子和苍蝇的尸体。在不经意的时候蓦地再一抬头,暗灰的天空里已经嵌上闪着眼的小星了。在冬天,天井里满铺着白雪。我蜷伏在屋里。当我看到白的窗纸渐渐灰了起来,炉子里在白天里看不出颜色来的火焰渐渐红起来、亮起来的时候,我也会知道:这是黄昏了。我从风门的缝里望出去:灰白的天空,灰白的盖着雪的屋顶。半弯惨淡的凉月印在天上,虽然有点儿凄凉;但仍然掩不了黄昏的美丽。这时,连常常坐在天井里等着它来临的人也不得不蜷伏在屋里。只剩下灰蒙的雪色伴了它在冷清的门外,这幻变的朦胧的世界造给谁看呢?黄昏不觉得寂寞么?

但是寂寞也延长不多久。黄昏仍然要走的。李商隐的诗说:“夕阳无限好,只是近黄昏。”诗人不正慨叹黄昏的不能久留吗?它也真地不能久留,一瞬眼,这黄昏,像一个轻梦,只在人们心上一掠,留下黑暗的夜,带着它的寂寞走了。

走了,真地走了。现在再让我问:黄昏走到哪里去了呢?这我不比知道它从哪里来的更清楚。我也不能抓住黄昏的尾巴,问它到底。但是,推想起来,从北方来的应该到南方去的罢。谁说不是到南方去的呢?我看到它怎样走的了。——漫过了南墙;漫过了南边那座小山,那片树林;漫过了美丽的南国。一直到辽旷的非洲。非洲有耸峭的峻岭;岭上有深邃的永古苍暗的大森林。再想下去,森林里有老虎——老虎?黄昏来了,在白天里只呈露着淡绿的暗光的眼睛该亮起来了罢了。像不像两盏灯呢?森林里还该有莽苍葳蕤的野草,比人高。草里有狮子,有大蚊子,有大蜘蛛,也该有蝙蝠,比平常的蝙蝠大。夕阳的余辉从树叶的稀薄处,透过了架在树枝上的蜘蛛网,漏了进来,一条条的灿烂的金光,照耀得全林子里都发着棕红色,合了草底下毒蛇吐出来的毒气,幻成五色绚烂的彩雾。也该有萤火虫罢。现在一闪一闪地亮了起来了,也该有花;但似乎不应该是夜来香或晚香玉。是什么呢?是一切毒艳的恶之花。在毒气里,不正应该产生恶之花吗?这花的香慢慢溶入棕红色的空气里,溶入绚烂的彩雾里。搅乱成一团;滚成一团暖烘烘的热气。然而,不久这热气就给微明的夜色消溶了。只剩一闪一闪的萤火虫,现在渐渐地更亮了。老虎的眼睛更像两盏灯了,在静默里瞅着暗灰的天空里才露面的星星。

然而,在这里,黄昏仍然要走的。再走到哪里去呢?这却真地没人知道了。——随了淡白的疏稀的冷月的清光爬上暗沉沉的天空里去么?随了瞅着眼的小屋爬上了天河么?压在蝙蝠的翅膀上钻进了屋檐么?随了西天的晕红消溶在远山的后面么?这又有谁能明白地知道呢?我们知道的,只是:它走了,带了它的寂寞和美丽走了,像一丝微飓,像一个春宵的轻梦。

走了,——现在,现在我再有什么可问呢?等候明天么?明天来了,又明天,又明天。当人们看到远处弥漫着白茫茫的烟,树梢上淡淡涂上了一层金黄色,一群群的暮雅驮着日色飞回来的时候,又仿佛有什么东西压在他们的心头,他们又渴望着梦的来临,把门关上了。关在门外的仍然是黄昏,当他们再伸出来找的时候,黄昏早已走了。从北冰洋跑了来,一过路,到非洲森林里去了。再到,再到哪里,谁知道呢?然而,夜来了:漫漫的漆黑的夜,闪着星光和月光的夜,浮动着暗香的夜……只是夜,长长的夜,夜永远也不完,黄昏呢?——黄昏永远不存在在人们的心里的,只一掠,像一个春宵的轻梦。

 

 

The Dusk

By Ji Xianlin

Translated by He Chaoyan

 

The dusk is mysterious. Whoever lives on the planet will experience the twilight at the end of a day. However, year after year and month after month, people live with countless days and numerous evenings passing by. I was wondering: how many people know the dusk’s existence?

 

In the morning, when the dream fades away from the pillow, people wake up and set out on the journey of the day. They walk and walk until the noon, when the path abruptly winds down. It seems as if just a slip could lead them to the end of the day. Seeing the vast expanse of white smoke diffusing remotely, the shining goldenness spreading over the treetops, and a flock of evening birds flying back with the sunset above, they seem to feel something gently press on their minds. They know: the night is coming. They are anxious for the tranquility of sleeping and the arrival of dreams. Soon, their eyes are blurred and so are their hearts. They are bustling around in the low cottages, shutting the dusk outside. If asked by someone: “Have you ever seen the dusk? The dusk is gorgeous”, they however feel at a loss.

 

How can they not feel lost? When they reach out for the dusk, the dusk has gone with the vast expanse of white smoke, the goldenness over the tree-crowns and the sunset above the birds’ backs. Only with the hazy evening remaining, the dusk, like a quiet dream at a spring night, drifts here and sweeps over their minds, and then quietly flies away.

 

The dusk has gone. Where has it gone? Or maybe I should put forward the question first: Where does the dusk come from? It’s beyond my explanation. Then who can make it clear? I can not grab a handful of the twilight and get to the bottom of answers. Does it come from the east? But the east is where the sun rises. From the west? But isn’t the west bright with sunset?From the south? But there is only light and heat; thus probably only the north is the best answer. If we free our thoughts, to the extreme of the north where the Arctic Ocean lies, and then we can picture in our minds the vast white expanse of heaven and earth, the snowfield and the iceberg. Move farther on to the North Pole, at the remotest place, by no means can one differentiate the sky from the earth, the ice from the snow, for there is merely a vast of grayish whiteness. Shouldn’t the dim and grayish white dusk emerge from there?

 

Nevertheless, the dusk emerges and then diffuses away. It glides past the great plains, prairie, leaving a shadow there; it glides past the great forest, leaving gloomy darkness; it glides past the stream, dissolving the dark gray gloaming into the rippling water sound, with the surface of the water shimmering in tranquility; it glides past the top of mountains, leaving them the light of stars and the moon; if glides past the small village, leaving a vast expanse of evening smog…slices of the dusk are torn off by corners of the wall and spider webs. Afterwards, it glides past the lonely sands and comes to our mainland. I can imagine: if I, in the face of the twilight, stand in the sands, I can definitely see the dusk rush here from the remote horizon. It’s just like------like what? Should it be like a puff of grayish white flog? Or like a rag of diffusing cloud? It rushes here and then rushes away, still only leaving a shadow. It arrives on our motherland, with the diffusing white smog in the distance, the light goldenness on the tree crowns and the sunset above the backs of evening birds, gently falling onto and touching people’s hearts. However, it is relentlessly shut outside the door

 

Nevertheless, outside the door, it never cares about whether people care or not, instead it lonely and quietly arranges for them a fairy-tale world of poetic imagery, which just looks like the shadow in the mirror, dim and misty. It paints everything the color of the silver-gray dream. The air in milk white seems to coagulate like real cheese. However, it is seemingly flowing slowly and softly in the mean time. It brings us the tranquility. Just listen: everything is so quite that it resembles the mid-night of heavy snow. Is this dead silence? The answer is however negative, but if the surrounding is slightly quieter than at present, then that could turn into graveyard-like dead silence. Thus, the tranquility is no more and no less, gracefully, gently and quietly touching on the hearts of people, and the gray sky like a flimsy curtain, where the trees, houses, smoke trails and clouds all stuck like pieces of paper-cuts. Here and there are decorated with the purple twilight of the sunset and cool glimmer of small stars. The dusk is really like a poem, a song, or alternatively a fairytale; like the melodious melody of flutes from the Yue Ming tower, or like sprawling resonant hoot of cranes in the sky; or like the Shaoxing rice wine stored for dozens of years; in short, it seems to be what is too beautiful to describe. Since it cannot be described, you can only choose to watch; however to watch is not enough, you can only choose to feel; however to feel is still not enough, then you can only show your praise. Regretfully, it is finally shut outside coldly.

 

The dusk is shut outside by people. Is it I who says so? I should be cautious, because the so-called “people” does not necessarily include all the people and will not indicate all the people, either. When in childhood, I often stayed in the small courtyard for the dusk’s coming. The reason why I say this is not to display I was smarter or nobler than others. The point is as simple as those people did not do such a thing or just would not like to do such a thing. I (There naturally might be some other people.) just happened to do that occasionally. Frequently in summer, I sat on a short stool, seeing the darkness approaching the wall corners and then the whole white walls being clad with a light dark shadow. In the serenity, the fragrance of the evening primrose waveringly spread into my heart. In the sky flied the flies. The spider webs under the eaves took the grayish sky as the background. In the twilight, it’s also possible to count out the lines of the web and the bodies of mosquitoes and flies stuck to those webs. In winter, everywhere of the courtyard was fully covered with snow so that I curled up inside the house. When I saw the white window paper getting darker and the flame in the stove redder and brighter, I of course knew that the dusk came. I peeked through the crack in the air door: the sky was grayish white and roofs were clad with snow. The gloomy half-moon coldly imprinted in the sky, in spite of the slightness of loneliness, the beauty of the dusk still could not be covered. At this time, even the one who always sat in the yard for its coming had to retreat into the house. Only the dimly grayish snow accompanied the dusk outside, then for whom the ever-shifting twilight world was created to appreciate? Couldn’t the dusk feel lonely?

 

However, the loneliness won’t last long. The dusk still will leave. Li Shangyin, the famous Chinese poet wrote: “The setting sun is so charming; however it’s drawing to setting” Isn’t the poet emotionally signing the dusk can’t last long? It indeed cannot remain too long, in a twinkle, the dusk, like a dream, glides past the hearts of people and flies away with its loneliness, only leaving the dark night.

 

Gone, it’s really gone. Now allow me to put forward another question: “Where has the dusk gone?” I know this no better than from where it came. I cannot grab the tail of the dusk to decode the puzzle, either. But since it comes from the north, according to the thinking logic, it should go to the south. Who said it hasn’t gone to the south? I saw how it goes away------glides past the North Wall, the small hill, the woods in the south, and then past the beautiful North Countries. Finally it arrives in the vast and extending Africa, where stand towering and steep mountains on which erects the old dark flourishing forest. Along the thread of thinking, there are tigers in the forest. Tigers?The dusk comes, so the eyes that only shed greenish dim light should be lit now. Are they like lights? There should also be luxuriant weeds higher than people. In the weeds there are lions, big mosquitoes and spiders and also bats which are bigger than usual ones. The setting sunbeams go through the spider webs from where the leaves are sparsest; the brilliant golden light turns the whole woods into brownish red. The golden light merges with the toxic gas of snakes hiding under the weeds and transforms to be splendid colorful fog. Perhaps there are glowworms. Now they begin glimmering. Maybe there are flowers as well, but not evening primroses or tuberoses. What are they? The answer should be all the poisonous and colorful flowers of vice. In the toxic environment, shouldn’t the flowers of vice be developed? The fragrance of those flowers merges into the brownish red air and the gorgeous colorful fog. Finally things are disarranged to be a mix-up and rolled into hot air. However, soon the warm air is dissolved by the dim light. Only the flickering fireflies remain there, getting brighter and brighter. The eyes of tigers are more like lights now, which are silently fixated on the stars emerging only when the sky is dark gray.

 

However, still the dusk is going to leave here. Which place will it leave for then? That’s a tricky question to answer. Is it climbing up into the gloomy sky with the whitish soft moonlight? Or is it climbing up into the Milky Way with the bright small houses? Or is it riding on the backs of bats into the eaves? Or is it dissolving behind the distant mountains with the western sunset glow? Who can clearly know that? What we know is just: it has gone, with its loneliness and beauty, like a light hurricane, or a dream at a spring night. 

 

Gone! Now, about what I can put forward a question? Wait for tomorrow? Tomorrow comes and goes, so it’s with another tomorrow. When people see white strands of smoke spreading in the distance, the tree crown being painted light golden, and a flock of evening birds flying back with the glow clouds, something will seemingly press on their minds again. However, they are so anxious for the coming of dreams that they shut the door relentlessly. It is still the dusk that is to be shut outside, and it has gone again when they reach out for it. The dusk runs here from the Antarctic and quickly passes here to the African forest. Then where is it going? Who knows? However, the evening comes: the long dark night, the night with twinkling stars and moonlight, the night with a delicate fragrance…just night, the long night, which is never ending. How about the dusk? The dusk never lives in people’s mind, instead it just lightly glide past, like a light dream at a spring night.

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