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鲁迅《秋夜》英译

2016-03-15    来源:en84    【      美国外教 在线口语培训
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鲁迅《秋夜》英译 

在我的后园,可以看见墙外有两株树,一株是枣树,还有一株也是枣树。

这上面的夜的天空,奇怪而高,我生平没有见过这样奇怪而高的天空。他仿佛要离开人间而去,使人们仰面不再看见。然而现在却非常之蓝,闪闪地睒着几十个星星的眼,冷眼。他的口角上现出微笑,似乎自以为大有深意,而将繁霜洒在我的园里的野花草上。
 
我不知道那些花草真叫什么名字,人们叫他们什么名字。我记得有一种开过极细小的粉红花,现在还开着,但是更极细小了,她在冷的夜气中,瑟缩地做梦,梦见春的到来,梦见秋的到来,梦见瘦的诗人将眼泪擦在她最末的花瓣上,告诉她秋虽然来,冬虽然来,而此后接着还是春,胡蝶乱飞,蜜蜂都唱起春词来了。她于是一笑,虽然颜色冻得红惨惨地,仍然瑟缩着。
 
枣树,他们简直落尽了叶子。先前,还有一两个孩子来打他们,别人打剩的枣子,现在是一个也不剩了,连叶子也落尽了。他知道小粉红花的梦,秋后要有春;他也知道落叶的梦,春后还是秋。他简直落尽叶子,单剩干子,然而脱了当初满树是果实和叶子时候的弧形,欠伸得很舒服。但是,有几枝还低亚着,护定他从打枣的竿梢所得的皮伤,而最直最长的几枝,却已默默地铁似的直刺着奇怪而高的天空,使天空闪闪地鬼眨眼;直刺着天空中圆满的月亮,使月亮窘得发白。
 
鬼睒眼的天空越加非常之蓝,不安了,仿佛想离去人间,避开枣树,只将月亮剩下。然而月亮也暗暗地躲到东边去了。而一无所有的干子,却仍然默默地铁似的直刺着奇怪而高的天空,一意要制他的死命,不管他各式各样地睒着许多蛊惑的眼睛。
 
哇的一声,夜游的恶鸟飞过了。
 
我忽而听到夜半的笑声,吃吃地,似乎不愿意惊动睡着的人,然而四围的空气都应和着笑。夜半,没有别的人,我即刻听出这声音就在我嘴里,我也即刻被这笑声所驱逐,回进自己的房。灯火的带子也即刻被我旋高了。
 
后窗的玻璃上丁丁地响,还有许多小飞虫乱撞。不多久,几个进来了,许是从窗纸的破孔进来的。他们一进来,又在玻璃的灯罩上撞得丁丁地响。一个从上面撞进去了,他于是遇到火,而且我以为这火是真的。两三个却休息在灯的纸罩上喘气。那罩是昨晚新换的罩,雪白的纸,折出波浪纹的叠痕,一角还画出一枝猩红色的栀子。
 
猩红的栀子开花时,枣树又要做小粉红花的梦,青葱地弯成弧形了……我又听到夜半的笑声;我赶紧砍断我的心绪,看那老在白纸罩上的小青虫,头大尾小,向日葵子似的,只有半粒小麦那么大,遍身的颜色苍翠得可爱,可怜。
 
我打一个呵欠,点起一支纸烟,喷出烟来,对着灯默默地敬奠这些苍翠精致的英雄们。
 
一九二四年九月十五日。

Autumn Night

Lu Xun
 
Behind the wall of my backyard you can see two trees: one is a date tree, the other is also a date tree.
 
The night sky above them is strange and high. I have never seen such a strange, high sky. It seems to want to leave this world of men, so that when folk look up they won’t be able to see it. For the moment, though, it is singularly blue; and its scores of starry eyes are blinking coldly. A faint smile plays round its lips, a smile which it seems to think highly significant; and it dusts the wild plants in my courtyard with heavy frost.
 
I have no idea what these plants are called, what names they are commonly known by. One of them, I remember, has minute pink flowers, and its flowers are still lingering on, although more minute than ever. Shivering in the cold night air they dream of the coming of spring, of the coming of autumn, of the lean poet wiping his tears upon their last petals, who tells them autumn will come and winter will come, yet spring will follow when butterflies flit to and fro, and all the bees start humming songs of spring. Then the little pink flowers smile, though they have turned a mournful crimson with cold and are shivering still.
 
As for the date trees, they have lost absolutely all their leaves. Before, one or two boys still came to beat down the dates other people had missed. But now not one date is left, and the trees have lost all their leaves as well. They know the little pink flowers’ dream of spring after autumn; and they know the dream of the fallen leaves of autumn after spring. They may have lost all their leaves and have only their branches left; but these, no longer weighed down with fruit and foliage, are stretching themselves luxuriously. A few boughs, though, are still drooping, nursing the wounds made in their bark by the sticks which beat down the dates; while, rigid as iron, the straightest and longest boughs silently pierce the strange, high sky, making it blink in dismay. They pierce even the full moon in the sky, making it pale and ill at ease.
 
Blinking in dismay, the sky becomes bluer and bluer, more and more uneasy, as if eager to escape from the world of men and avoid the date trees, leaving the moon behind. But the moon, too, is hiding itself in the east; while, silent still and as rigid as iron, the bare boughs pierce the strange, high sky, resolved to inflict on it a mortal wound, no matter in how many ways it winks all its bewitching eyes.
 
With a shriek, a fierce night-bird passes.
 
All of a sudden, I hear midnight laughter. The sound is muffled, as if not to wake those who sleep; yet all around the air resounds to this laughter. Midnight, and no one else is by. At once I realize it is I who am laughing, and at once I am driven by this laughter back to my room. At once I turn up the wick of my paraffin lamp.
 
A pit-a-pat sounds from the glass of the back window, where swarms of insects are recklessly dashing themselves against the pane. Presently some get in, no doubt through a hole in the window paper. Once in, they set up another pit-a-pat by dashing themselves against the chimney of the lamp. One hurls itself into the chimney from the top, falling into the flame, and I fancy the flame is real. On the paper shade two or three others rest, panting. The shade is a new one since last night. Its snow white paper is pleated in wave-like folds, and painted in one corner is a spray of blood-red gardenias.
 
When the blood-red gardenias blossom, the date trees, weighed down with bright foliage, will dream once more the dream of the little pink flowers and I shall hear the midnight laughter again. I hastily break off this train of thought to look at the small green insects still on the paper. Like sunflower seeds with their large heads and small tails, they are only half the size of a grain of wheat, the whole of them an adorable, pathetic green.
 
I yawn, light a cigarette, and puff out the smoke, paying silent homage before the lamp to these green and exquisite heroes.
 
September 15, 1924.
 
(杨宪益、戴乃迭 译)


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