上次《致云雀》是第一次尝试使用古文来翻译英文诗,挑战自己,翻译完了以后自己觉得挺高兴。于是我小子不知天高地厚,就给自己搬了块大砖头,想试一试翻译《夜莺颂》。然而,这次《夜莺颂》是我翻译得相当痛苦的一首诗。尤其是翻译到这一节“But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet/ Wherewith the seasonable month endows“, 我不能前进很久,那种不爽,不尽意的感觉非常痛苦。那么好几天,每天想起来都心里膈应得慌,但是又不敢仔细去读,颇有想放弃的念头。那么好几天,每天有空就手头拿着打印了《夜莺颂》的纸,在上面写写画画,可是涂鸦到自己非常不满。
我于是放下翻译的念头,仔细想想为什么我这样挣扎,却不能把诗人的幽怨婉转但又蓬勃浪漫的感情表达出来。我不得不承认,起码于我而言,歌颂美好的诗歌我感觉更容易翻译。而与人至痛的纠缠和死亡,令我的翻译过程中也非常痛苦,因为我不能感受到共鸣。或者说,我是这样憎恨那一切要把我们真挚感情湮灭的黑暗和死亡,我如何能够起歌赞颂它们呢?我如何能够理解诗人到底是想要表达什么呢?我似乎突然想起来,在中国人的文字中,我们并没有对死的浪漫抒情的文字。或者说,中国人从来就没有浪漫的死去过。
这样,我就想起来我可能需要先读两部作品,再回来试着翻译这首诗。第一部是屈原的《招魂》。第二步该是但丁的《神曲》。(在这两部之间,我同时也查到了钱稻孙以楚辞题材翻译的《神曲一脔》。我绝对推荐一读,虽然我不懂意大利语,但于我而言,这部作品绝对是翻译的古典式文学作品中精品的精品)。
可是仔细再读《招魂》并没有给我希望得到的答案,因为在《招魂》中,我读到的一切都是归来。归来,归来,归来这依然痛苦,依然无奈,依然邪恶的时代。于是我就继续仔细读《九歌》,因为这些祭祀之乐,几乎已经是中国古诗歌的浪漫主义的最高成就。但是《九歌》里面描述的,依然是以人间的所有繁华和芳芷来企图淹没人生黑暗的无奈。然而,那是何等痛苦的反差!其实《九歌》里面描写的一切世间的风华厚锦,所起的作用只是一个遮盖。因此我没有找到答案。
我必须承认,在这之前,我从来没有想过要读《神曲》。这么长的一本旧的史诗,与我有什么关系呢?一个异域的灵魂,在沉重的中世纪里哭喊或思考过什么,和我有什么关系呢?而且我对罗马希腊诸神比人类更为直观鲜明的嫉妒和报复从来也没有过什么强烈的兴趣。于是我简单的快速翻阅了地狱,炼狱和天堂的大章节,最后我的目光留在了天堂的章节。当我读到诗人描写他和他的爱人在天堂里的第一章,就被深深吸引住了:“当我们越接近欲望的目的,我们的智慧越深沉,远非记忆所能追踪”。我突然似乎明白了一点,那就是,我或许并不能通过我自己来理解那永恒的美,而我只能通过我之所爱来理解那永恒之美和此世间之序。
为什么?因为不管我们怎样对自己怜爱,我们其实永远一直对自己不满。我们自己的不完美,乃是我们和完美永远隔阂的直接原因。这就是为什么当但丁通过他的爱人娓娓道来那宇宙中的至真至美的时候,我也同样没有任何疑问,因为我也只能借我之所爱而感受人间真爱。如果是这样,那么我的存在或者消失有什么关系呢?只要我之所爱长存,那么我自己的完美的意义才会真正的存在。
那我何怕我是在地狱,炼狱还是天堂呢?我并没有读完但丁的天堂篇章就迫不及待地回来了,因为彼时自大的我觉得我已经得着了去寻找济慈心中真谛的钥匙。
于是我释然回头开始翻译济慈描写的对死亡的渴望。那种渴望,并不是与世界绝望以后以消极厌世生存或者自己了断生命为目的的渴望,而是一种有希望有追求的对死亡的渴望。读到这里,读者你可能会把这种渴望简单归纳为因为宗教的原因而得到的平安。但是我想指出一点的是,这个解读在某种程度上是对的,但是简单这样的理解是不能感受到济慈的快乐和浪漫的,尤其是人的心里没有一个期望和爱的感觉的话。所以,济慈才会写到,安魂曲归如草皮 “To thy high requiem become a sod“。你能够想象吗?那样沉痛的音乐,那样尘归尘土归土的湮灭,那样被青草覆没,在夜莺的一曲高歌下,如露珠般晶莹,在爱抚中若午夜的天籁?
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness,—
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stained mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs,
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;
And mid-May's eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—
To thy high requiem become a sod.
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?