《月亮和六便士》重译02

Chapter II

When so much has been written about Charles Strickland, it may seem unnecessary that I should write more. A painter's monument is his work. It is true I knew him more intimately than most: I met him first before ever he became a painter, and I saw him not infrequently during the difficult years he spent in Paris; but I do not suppose I should ever have set down my recollections if the hazards of the war had not taken me to Tahiti. There, as is notorious, he spent the last years of his life; and there I came across persons who were familiar with him. I find myself in a position to throw light on just that part of his tragic career which has remained most obscure. If they who believe in Strickland's greatness are right, the personal narratives of such as knew him in the flesh can hardly be superfluous. What would we not give for the reminiscences of someone who had been as intimately acquainted with El Greco as I was with Strickland?

第二章

有关司查尔的文章，人们已经写了许多，看来似乎我没必要再费笔墨。画家的丰碑就是他的作品。说句实在话，和绝大多数人相比，我和司查尔之间的关系更为密切：我和他初次见面时，他根本就不是什么画家。他在巴黎那些艰难苦恨的年月里，我和他见面次数并不算少。但要不是战火动乱的原因把我带到太平洋上大溪地岛的话，我绝不会追忆往事，并将这些往事付诸笔端。世人皆知，他正是在那里度过了自己的残生余年，此段经历并不怎么光彩；我在那里碰到过他的一些熟人。他职业生涯多舛，一直鲜为人知，我发现要想阐明他的这些事情，我算是比较合适的人选。如果相信司查尔伟大的人看法正确，由见过他并了解他的人来讲述他的生平，便很难再说是多此一举了。如果某人与葛埃尔关系密切，就像我同司查尔的关系一样密切，为了能读到此人写的葛埃尔回忆录，我们还有什么不愿意付出呢？

But I seek refuge in no such excuses. I forget who it was that recommended men for their soul's good to do each day two things they disliked: it was a wise man, and it is a precept that I have followed scrupulously; for every day I have got up and I have gone to bed. But there is in my nature a strain of asceticism, and I have subjected my flesh each week to a more severe mortification. I have never failed to read the Literary Supplement of The Times. It is a salutary discipline to consider the vast number of books that are written, the fair hopes with which their authors see them published, and the fate which awaits them. What chance is there that any book will make its way among that multitude? And the successful books are but the successes of a season. Heaven knows what pains the author has been at, what bitter experiences he has endured and what heartache suffered, to give some chance reader a few hours' relaxation or to while away the tedium of a journey. And if I may judge from the reviews, many of these books are well and carefully written; much thought has gone to their composition; to some even has been given the anxious labour of a lifetime. The moral I draw is that the writer should seek his reward in the pleasure of his work and in release from the burden of his thought; and, indifferent to aught else, care nothing for praise or censure, failure or success.

但是我绝对无意求助于这些托辞来为自己辩护。我记不得是谁曾建议过，一个人为了使自己的灵魂得到安慰，每天得要做两件他并不喜欢的事情：说这话的人是位智者，我一直谨小慎微地遵守着这条金科玉律；因为我每天黎明即起，人定就寝。但是我生来就有苦行主义的性格，一直保持让我的肉身每周都经受一次更剧烈的磨炼。对于《泰晤士报》的文学副刊，我从来都是一期不落地读完。作家想着自己所写的书籍，卷帙浩繁，眼看着付之梨枣，满怀殷切希望，等待着这些书籍的最后命运，这真是一场有益于身心健康的修炼。一本书想要在这浩如烟海的各种书籍中走红，成功概率会有多少？即使获得了成功，成功顶多也就维持一个季度。天晓得作者为了自己的一本书经受了何种痛苦、忍受了何种折磨、遭受了何种辛酸，只是为了让偶然翻到这本书的读者消遣一晌，或者帮助读者打发旅途中的无聊时间。我看了书评来做评判的话，我会说很多书是作者深思熟虑、认真书写出来的结果，作者在构思方面颇下了一番心思，有些甚至是终生埋头伏案、奋笔疾书的劳动成果。我从这件事中所吸取到的教训就是，作家获取的回报应该来自写作的快乐，以及思想包袱的解脱；对于其他任何一切事情，他都应该泰然处之，作品成功还是失败，受人称赞还是遭人斥责，他都应该毫不在乎。

Now the war has come, bringing with it a new attitude. Youth has turned to gods we of an earlier day knew not, and it is possible to see already the direction in which those who come after us will move. The younger generation, conscious of strength and tumultuous, have done with knocking at the door; they have burst in and seated themselves in our seats. The air is noisy with their shouts. Of their elders some, by imitating the antics of youth, strive to persuade themselves that their day is not yet over; they shout with the lustiest, but the war cry sounds hollow in their mouth; they are like poor wantons attempting with pencil, paint and powder, with shrill gaiety, to recover the illusion of their spring. The wiser go their way with a decent grace. In their chastened smile is an indulgent mockery. They remember that they too trod down a sated generation, with just such clamor and with just such scorn, and they foresee that these brave torch-bearers will presently yield their place also. There is no last word. The new evangel was old when Nineveh reared her greatness to the sky. These gallant words which seem so novel to those that speak them were said in accents scarcely changed a hundred times before. The pendulum swings backwards and forwards. The circle is ever travelled anew.

如今战火已经燃起，社会上也出现了一种新的生活态度。年轻人供奉各路神灵，作为他们的长辈，我们过去对此并不甚了解，而我们已经可以看得出这些晚辈将来的走向了。年轻一代意识到自己精力旺盛，喧闹不已，进入他人房间之前早就免了敲门之礼。他们直接闯入房间，端坐在本该属于我们的位置之上，空气中弥漫着他们的大呼小叫，甚嚣尘上。某些长辈模仿年轻人的古怪滑稽动作，硬要相信自己气数未尽；他们跟着精力最充沛的年轻人一起叫喊，但他们嘴里发出的声音只不过空洞的作战口号而已；他们如同一群楚楚可怜的青楼女子，试图通过描眉画眼、涂脂抹粉、叽叽喳喳、轻浮浪荡，以便重现自己花样年华的幻象。聪明一点的长辈则摆出一副体面端庄的姿态。他们忍俊不禁的微笑中带有一种宽容的蔑视之态。他们记起了自己也是把令人生厌的长辈踩在脚下，也是这样喧闹不止，这样不屑一顾；他们预见到这些高举火把的勇士在不久的将来也要让出自己的位置。在这个世上，谁也没有最终发言权。当尼尼微城的伟大光芒直冲云霄时，新福音书早已过时。前人曾经重复过上百次的豪言壮语，对于那些如今还在说着同样言语的人们而言，好像听起来新颖别致，然而就连他们说话的腔调几乎都和前人没什么两样。时钟的钟摆晃来荡去，时针转过一圈之后，新的一圈又会重新开始。

Sometimes a man survives a considerable time from an era in which he had his place into one which is strange to him, and then the curious are offered one of the most singular spectacles in the human comedy. Who now, for example, thinks of George Crabbe? He was a famous poet in his day, and the world recognised his genius with a unanimity which the greater complexity of modern life has rendered infrequent. He had learnt his craft at the school of Alexander Pope, and he wrote moral stories in rhymed couplets. Then came the French Revolution and the Napoleonic Wars, and the poets sang new songs. Mr. Crabbe continued to write moral stories in rhymed couplets. I think he must have read the verse of these young men who were making so great a stir in the world, and I fancy he found it poor stuff. Of course, much of it was. But the odes of Keats and of Wordsworth, a poem or two by Coleridge, a few more by Shelley, discovered vast realms of the spirit that none had explored before. Mr. Crabbe was as dead as mutton, but Mr. Crabbe continued to write moral stories in rhymed couplets. I have read desultorily the writings of the younger generation. It may be that among them a more fervid Keats, a more ethereal Shelley, has already published numbers the world will willingly remember. I cannot tell. I admire their polish—their youth is already so accomplished that it seems absurd to speak of promise—I marvel at the felicity of their style; but with all their copiousness (their vocabulary suggests that they fingered Roget's Thesaurus in their cradles) they say nothing to me: to my mind they know too much and feel too obviously; I cannot stomach the heartiness with which they slap me on the back or the emotion with which they hurl themselves on my bosom; their passion seems to me a little anaemic and their dreams a trifle dull. I do not like them. I am on the shelf. I will continue to write moral stories in rhymed couplets. But I should be thrice a fool if I did it for aught but my own entertainment.

某人在某个时代曾经地位显赫，有时候其阳寿远超了那个时代，便进入了一个陌生时代，此时在猎奇好事者的面前，便会呈现出人类喜剧中最为独特的其中一幕景象。比如说，现在还有谁会想起柯昭芝？在他生活的那个年代，他曾经是位有名的诗人，全世界公认他的天赋才华，但由于现代生活的特点更为复杂，这种现象就不那么频繁发生了。他从亚历山大●蒲柏派那里学习作诗技巧，用合辙押韵的对偶句编写道德诗。接着法国大革命和拿破仑战争先后爆发，诗人们吟唱起了新的诗歌。柯昭芝先生继续用合辙押韵的对偶句编写道德诗。我想他一定读过这些晚辈的诗歌，他们将这个世界搅得天翻地覆，我可以想象柯昭芝一定会发现这些诗歌质量低劣，不忍卒读。当然，多数新诗固然如此。但是济慈和华兹华斯的颂诗、柯勒律治的一两首诗歌、雪莱更多的几首诗歌，却发掘出了广袤的精神王国，而在此之前人类从未探索过这些王国。柯昭芝的诗歌已经变得陈旧腐朽，但他仍继续用合辙押韵的对偶句作道德诗。我零零星星读过晚辈的诗作，其中或许有些人比济慈更炙热，有些人比雪莱更飘逸，这些人出版颇丰，而且世人心甘情愿地记住这些诗作。对于这一点，我无法断言。我佩服他们的文字洗练——他们这样年轻就已经学有所成，如果再说他们前途无量，就显得有些荒唐可笑了——我对他们措辞贴切的文笔表示赞叹折服；但对于他们所采用的丰富词汇（从词汇量可以看出，他们好像在摇篮中吃奶时就已经翻阅《罗氏词汇宝典》了），对我而言等于什么也没说：在我看来，他们懂得太多，感受过于浅显；他们拍打我的腰背与我套近乎的那股子亲热劲，或是将自己全身投入我的怀抱时的那种激动神情，我都吃不消；他们的激情对我而言似乎显得毫无血色，他们的梦想显得琐碎无聊。我并不喜欢他们。我被他们束置高阁。我继续用对偶句作道德诗。但是如果我写作除了自娱自乐以外，还抱有其他任何非分之想的话，那我就是个傻得不能再傻的大傻瓜了。