上次《致雲雀》是第一次嚐試使用古文來翻譯英文詩,挑戰自己,翻譯完了以後自己覺得挺高興。於是我小子不知天高地厚,就給自己搬了塊大磚頭,想試一試翻譯《夜鶯頌》。然而,這次《夜鶯頌》是我翻譯得相當痛苦的一首詩。尤其是翻譯到這一節“But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet/ Wherewith the seasonable month endows“, 我不能前進很久,那種不爽,不盡意的感覺非常痛苦。那麽好幾天,每天想起來都心裏膈應得慌,但是又不敢仔細去讀,頗有想放棄的念頭。那麽好幾天,每天有空就手頭拿著打印了《夜鶯頌》的紙,在上麵寫寫畫畫,可是塗鴉到自己非常不滿。
我於是放下翻譯的念頭,仔細想想為什麽我這樣掙紮,卻不能把詩人的幽怨婉轉但又蓬勃浪漫的感情表達出來。我不得不承認,起碼於我而言,歌頌美好的詩歌我感覺更容易翻譯。而與人至痛的糾纏和死亡,令我的翻譯過程中也非常痛苦,因為我不能感受到共鳴。或者說,我是這樣憎恨那一切要把我們真摯感情湮滅的黑暗和死亡,我如何能夠起歌讚頌它們呢?我如何能夠理解詩人到底是想要表達什麽呢?我似乎突然想起來,在中國人的文字中,我們並沒有對死的浪漫抒情的文字。或者說,中國人從來就沒有浪漫的死去過。
這樣,我就想起來我可能需要先讀兩部作品,再回來試著翻譯這首詩。第一部是屈原的《招魂》。第二步該是但丁的《神曲》。(在這兩部之間,我同時也查到了錢稻孫以楚辭題材翻譯的《神曲一臠》。我絕對推薦一讀,雖然我不懂意大利語,但於我而言,這部作品絕對是翻譯的古典式文學作品中精品的精品)。
可是仔細再讀《招魂》並沒有給我希望得到的答案,因為在《招魂》中,我讀到的一切都是歸來。歸來,歸來,歸來這依然痛苦,依然無奈,依然邪惡的時代。於是我就繼續仔細讀《九歌》,因為這些祭祀之樂,幾乎已經是中國古詩歌的浪漫主義的最高成就。但是《九歌》裏麵描述的,依然是以人間的所有繁華和芳芷來企圖淹沒人生黑暗的無奈。然而,那是何等痛苦的反差!其實《九歌》裏麵描寫的一切世間的風華厚錦,所起的作用隻是一個遮蓋。因此我沒有找到答案。
我必須承認,在這之前,我從來沒有想過要讀《神曲》。這麽長的一本舊的史詩,與我有什麽關係呢?一個異域的靈魂,在沉重的中世紀裏哭喊或思考過什麽,和我有什麽關係呢?而且我對羅馬希臘諸神比人類更為直觀鮮明的嫉妒和報複從來也沒有過什麽強烈的興趣。於是我簡單的快速翻閱了地獄,煉獄和天堂的大章節,最後我的目光留在了天堂的章節。當我讀到詩人描寫他和他的愛人在天堂裏的第一章,就被深深吸引住了:“當我們越接近欲望的目的,我們的智慧越深沉,遠非記憶所能追蹤”。我突然似乎明白了一點,那就是,我或許並不能通過我自己來理解那永恒的美,而我隻能通過我之所愛來理解那永恒之美和此世間之序。
為什麽?因為不管我們怎樣對自己憐愛,我們其實永遠一直對自己不滿。我們自己的不完美,乃是我們和完美永遠隔閡的直接原因。這就是為什麽當但丁通過他的愛人娓娓道來那宇宙中的至真至美的時候,我也同樣沒有任何疑問,因為我也隻能借我之所愛而感受人間真愛。如果是這樣,那麽我的存在或者消失有什麽關係呢?隻要我之所愛長存,那麽我自己的完美的意義才會真正的存在。
那我何怕我是在地獄,煉獄還是天堂呢?我並沒有讀完但丁的天堂篇章就迫不及待地回來了,因為彼時自大的我覺得我已經得著了去尋找濟慈心中真諦的鑰匙。
於是我釋然回頭開始翻譯濟慈描寫的對死亡的渴望。那種渴望,並不是與世界絕望以後以消極厭世生存或者自己了斷生命為目的的渴望,而是一種有希望有追求的對死亡的渴望。讀到這裏,讀者你可能會把這種渴望簡單歸納為因為宗教的原因而得到的平安。但是我想指出一點的是,這個解讀在某種程度上是對的,但是簡單這樣的理解是不能感受到濟慈的快樂和浪漫的,尤其是人的心裏沒有一個期望和愛的感覺的話。所以,濟慈才會寫到,安魂曲歸如草皮 “To thy high requiem become a sod“。你能夠想象嗎?那樣沉痛的音樂,那樣塵歸塵土歸土的湮滅,那樣被青草覆沒,在夜鶯的一曲高歌下,如露珠般晶瑩,在愛撫中若午夜的天籟?
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?