2024pelted翻译

【对照】艾略特《荒原》原文、译文及简短的原注翻译（赵萝蕤） 　　有时间再继续…… 　　【原注之小序译文】缩略概括版：此诗的题目及计划与若干事物的象征都得益于魏士登女士关于圣杯的那本书《自祭仪而神话》（ From Ritual to Romance ）——剑桥版，实在我的受惠之深，魏士登女士的书比我自己的注释，更足以解决这首诗歌的难处。大体来说，我还受益于另外一本人类学的书——《金枝》（ The Golden Bough ），而且我特别应用了 Adonis, Attis, Osiris 这两册。熟识这些著作的人，会在这首诗里立刻认识若干关于繁殖的祭祀的由来. 　　The Waste Land 荒原 　　T. S. Eliot – 1888-1965 艾略特（1888-1965） 　　”Nam Sibyllam quidem Cumis ego ipse oculis meis vidi “是的，我自己亲眼看见在古米有一个 in ampulla pendere, et cum illi pueri dicerent: Σιβυλλα 西比尔吊在笼子里，当孩子们问她： τι θελεις; respondebat illa: αποθανειν θελω.” 西比尔，你要什么？她回答说：我要 　　死。” 【西比尔：女先知】 　　For Ezra Pound 赠埃士勒·旁德 il miglior fabbro. 最伟大的诗人 　　I. The Burial of the Dead 一、死者葬仪 　　April is the cruellest month, breeding 四月天最是残忍，它在 Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing 荒地上生丁香，掺合着 Memory and desire, stirring 回忆和欲望，让春雨 Dull roots with spring rain. 挑拨呆钝的树根。 Winter kept us warm, covering 冬天保我们温暖，大地 Earth in forgetful snow, feeding 给健忘的雪盖着，又叫 A little life with dried tubers. 干了的老根得一点生命。 Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee 夏天来的出人意料，带着一阵雨 With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade, 走过斯丹卜基西；我们在亭子里躲避， And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten, 等太阳出来了又上郝夫加登， And drank coffee, and talked for an hour. 喝咖啡，说了一点钟闲话。 Bin gar kine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch. 我不是俄国人，立陶宛来的，是纯德种 And when we were children, staying at the archduke’s, 而且我们小时候大公爵那里—— My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled, 我表兄家，他带我去滑雪车， And I was frightened. He said, Marie, 我很害怕。他说，玛丽， Marie, hold on tight. And down we went. 玛丽，要抓得紧。我们就冲下。 In the mountains, there you feel free. 走到山上，那里你觉得自由。 I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter. 大半个晚上我念书，冬天我到南方。 　　What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow 什么树根在捉住，什么树枝在从 Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, 这堆石头的零碎中长出？人子啊， You cannot say, or guess, for you know only 你说不出，也猜不到，因为你只知道 A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, 一堆破碎的偶像，承受着太阳的鞭打， And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, 枯死的树没有遮阴，蟋蟀不使人放心， And the dry stone no sound of water. Only 礁石间没有流水的声音。只有 There is shadow under this red rock, 影子在这块红石下， (Come in under the shadow of this red rock), （请走进这块红石下的影子） And I will show you something different from either 我要指点你一件事，它不像 Your shadow at morning striding behind you 你早起的影子，在你身后迈步 Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; 也不想夜间的，站起身来迎着你； I will show you fear in a handful of dust. 我要指点你恐惧在一把尘土里。 Frisch weht der Wind 风吹着很轻快， Der Heimat zu, 吹送我回家园， Mein Irisch Kind, 爱尔兰的小孩， Wo weilest du? 为什么还留恋？ “You gave me hyacinths first a year ago; “一年前你先给了我玉簪花； “They called me the hyacinth girl.” “他们叫我作‘玉簪花的女郎’， –Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden, ——可是等我们回来了，晚了，从 玉簪的园里来， Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not 你的臂膊抱满，你的头发湿，我不能 Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither 说话，眼睛看不见，我不是 Living nor dead, and I knew nothing, 活着，也不死，我什么都不知道， Looking into the heart of light, the silence. 看进这光明的中心，那寂寞。 Oed’ und leer das Meer. 空虚而荒凉是那大海。 　　Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante, 马丹梭梭屈士，有名的女巫， Had a bad cold, nevertheless 害着重伤风，可仍旧是 Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe, 欧罗巴最有智慧的女人， With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she, 带着一套恶纸牌。这里，她说， Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor, 是你的一张，那淹死的非尼夏水手， (Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!) （这些明珠就是他的眼睛。看！） Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks, 这是贝洛岛纳，岩石的主人 The lady of situations. 那多事故的女人。 Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel, 这个人带了三根杖，这是轮盘， And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card 这是个独眼的商人，这张牌 Which is blank, is something he carries on his back, 是空的，他扛在背上 Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find 不许我看见。我找不着 The Hanged Man. Fear death by water. ‘那被绞死的人。’怕水里有死亡。 I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring. 我看见一群人绕着圈子走。 Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone, 谢谢你。若是你看见爱结东太太 Tell her I bring the horoscope myself: 就说我自己给她带那张命书， One must be so careful these days. 这年头人得小心啊。 　　Unreal City, 这飘忽的城， Under the brown fog of a winter dawn, 在冬晨的黄雾下， A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many, 一群人流过伦敦桥，那么多， I had not thought death had undone so many. 我想不到‘死亡’灭了这许多。 Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled, 叹息，短促而稀少，吐出来， And each man fixed his eyes before his feet. 每人的眼光都站住在自己脚上。 Flowed up the hill and down King William Street, 流上山，流下威廉王大街 To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours 到圣马利吴尔诺堂，那里有大钟 With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine. 打着最后的第九下，阴沉的一声。 There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying: “Stetson! 在那里我看见一个熟人，拦住他叫说：”史丹真！ “You who were with me in the ships at Mylae! 你从前在迈来船上和我是在一起的！ “That corpse you planted last year in your garden, 去年你种在花园里的尸首， “Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year? 它长芽了么？今年会开花么？ “Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed? 还是忽来严霜捣坏了它的花床？ “Oh keep the Dog far hence, that’s friend to men, 叫这狗熊星走远，他是人们的朋友 “Or with his nails he’ll dig it up again! 不然用它的爪子会再掘它出来！ “You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable—mon frère!” 你！虚伪的读者——我的同类——我的弟兄！” 　　II. A Game of Chess 　　The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne, Glowed on the marble, where the glass Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines From which a golden Cupidon peeped out (Another hid his eyes behind his wing) Doubled the flames of seven branched candelabra Reflecting light upon the table as The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it, From satin cases poured in rich profusion; In vials of ivory and coloured glass Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes, Unguent, powdered, or liquid—troubled, confused And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air That freshened from the window, these ascended In fattening the prolonged candle-flames, Flung their smoke into the laquearia, Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling. Huge sea-wood-fed with copper Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone, In which sad light a carvèd dolphin swam. Above the antique mantel was displayed. As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale Filled all the desert with inviolable voice And still she cried, and still the world pursues, “Jug Jug” to dirty ears. And other withered stumps of time Were told upon the walls; staring forms Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed. Footsteps shuffled on the stair. Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair Spread out in fiery points Clawed into words, then would be savagely still. 　　”My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me. “Speak to me. Why do you never speak. Speak. “What are you thinking of? What thinking? What? “I never know what you are thinking. Think.” 　　I think we are in rats’ alley Where the dead men lost their bones. 　　”What is that noise?” The wind under the door. “What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?” Nothing again nothing. “Do “You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember “Nothing?” 　　I remember Those are pearls that were his eyes. “Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?” But 　　O O O O that Shakespearean Rag— It’s so elegant So intelligent “What shall I do now? What shall I do?” “I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street “With my hair down, so. What shall we do to-morrow? “What shall we ever do?” The hot water at ten. And if it rains, a closed car at four. And we shall play a game of chess, Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door. 　　When Lil’s husband got demobbed, I said— I didn’t mince my words, I said to her myself, HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME Now Albert’s coming back, make yourself a bit smart. He’ll want to know what you done with that money he gave you To get yourself some teeth. He did, I was there. You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set, He said, I swear, I can’t bear to look at you. And no more can’t I, I said, and think of poor Albert, He’s been in the army four years, he wants a good time, And if you don’t give it him, there’s others will, I said. Oh is there, she said. Something o’ that, I said. Then I’ll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look. HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME If you don’t like it you can get on with it, I said, Others can pick and choose if you can’t. But if Albert makes off, it won’t be for lack of telling. You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique. (And her only thirty-one.) I can’t help it, she said, pulling a long face, It’s them pills I took, to bring it off, she said. (She’s had five already, and nearly died of young George.) The chemist said it would be alright, but I’ve never been the same. You are a proper fool, I said. Well, if Albert won’t leave you alone, there it is, I said, What you get married for if you don’t want children? HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon, And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot— HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME Goodnight Bill. Goodnight Lou. Goodnight May. Goodnight. Ta ta. Goodnight. Goodnight. Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night. 　　III. The Fire Sermon 　　The river’s tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed. Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song. The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers, Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed. And their friends, the loitering heirs of city directors; Departed, have left no addresses. By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept. . . Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song, Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long. But at my back in a cold blast I hear The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear. A rat crept softly through the vegetation Dragging its slimy belly on the bank While I was fishing in the dull canal On a winter evening round behind the gashouse Musing upon the king my brother’s wreck And on the king my father’s death before him. White bodies naked on the low damp ground And bones cast in a little low dry garret, Rattled by the rat’s foot only, year to year. But at my back from time to time I hear The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring. O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter And on her daughter They wash their feet in soda water Et O ces voix d’enfants, chantant dans la coupole! 　　Twit twit twit Jug jug jug jug jug jug So rudely forc’d. Tereu 　　Unreal City Under the brown fog of a winter noon Mr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants C.i.f. London: documents at sight, Asked me in demotic French To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel Followed by a weekend at the Metropole. 　　At the violet hour, when the eyes and back Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits Like a taxi throbbing waiting, I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives, Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea, The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights Her stove, and lays out food in tins. Out of the window perilously spread Her drying combinations touched by the sun’s last rays, On the divan are piled (at night her bed) Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays. I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest— I too awaited the expected guest. He, the young man carbuncular, arrives, A small house agent’s clerk, with one bold stare, One of the low on whom assurance sits As a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire, The time is now propitious, as he guesses, The meal is ended, she is bored and tired, Endeavours to engage her in caresses Which still are unreproved, if undesired. Flushed and decided, he assaults at once; Exploring hands encounter no defence; His vanity requires no response, And makes a welcome of indifference. (And I Tiresias have foresuffered all Enacted on this same divan or bed; I who have sat by Thebes below the wall And walked among the lowest of the dead.) Bestows one final patronising kiss, And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit. . . 　　She turns and looks a moment in the glass, Hardly aware of her departed lover; Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass: “Well now that’s done: and I’m glad it’s over.” When lovely woman stoops to folly and Paces about her room again, alone, She smoothes her hair with automatic hand, And puts a record on the gramophone. 　　”This music crept by me upon the waters” And along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street. O City city, I can sometimes hear Beside a public bar in Lower Thames Street, The pleasant whining of a mandoline And a clatter and a chatter from within Where fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls Of Magnus Martyr hold Inexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold.The river sweats Oil and tar The barges drift With the turning tide Red sails Wide To leeward, swing on the heavy spar. The barges wash Drifting logs Down Greenwich reach Past the Isle of Dogs, Weialala leia Wallala leialala Elizabeth and Leicester Beating oars The stern was formed A gilded shell Red and gold The brisk swell Rippled both shores Southwest wind Carried down stream The peal of bells White towers Weialala leia Wallala leialala “Trams and dusty trees. Highbury bore me. “Richmond and Kew Undid me. By Richmond I raised my knees Supine on the floor of a narrow canoe.” “My feet are at Moorgate, and my heart Under my feet. After the event He wept. He promised ‘a new start.’ I made no comment. What should I resent?” “On Margate Sands. I can connect Nothing with nothing. The broken fingernails of dirty hands. My people humble people who expect Nothing.” la la To Carthage then I came Burning burning burning burning O Lord Thou pluckest me out O Lord Thou pluckest burning 　　IV. Death by Water 　　Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead, Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell And the profit and loss. A current under sea Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell He passed the stages of his age and youth Entering the whirlpool. Gentile or Jew O you who turn the wheel and look to windward, Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you. 　　V. What the Thunder Said 　　After the torchlight red on sweaty faces After the frosty silence in the gardens After the agony in stony places The shouting and the crying Prison and palace and reverberation Of thunder of spring over distant mountains He who was living is now dead We who were living are now dying With a little patience 　　Here is no water but only rock Rock and no water and the sandy road The road winding above among the mountains Which are mountains of rock without water If there were water we should stop and drink Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand If there were only water amongst the rock Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit There is not even silence in the mountains But dry sterile thunder without rain There is not even solitude in the mountains But red sullen faces sneer and snarl From doors of mudcracked houses If there were water And no rock If there were rock And also water And water A spring A pool among the rock If there were the sound of water only Not the cicada And dry grass singing But sound of water over a rock Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop But there is no water 　　Who is the third who walks always beside you? When I count, there are only you and I together But when I look ahead up the white road There is always another one walking beside you Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded I do not know whether a man or a woman —But who is that on the other side of you? 　　What is that sound high in the air Murmur of maternal lamentation Who are those hooded hordes swarming Over endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth Ringed by the flat horizon only What is the city over the mountains Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air Falling towers Jerusalem Athens Alexandria Vienna London Unreal 　　A woman drew her long black hair out tight And fiddled whisper music on those strings And bats with baby faces in the violet light Whistled, and beat their wings And crawled head downward down a blackened wall And upside down in air were towers Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells. 　　In this decayed hole among the mountains In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel There is the empty chapel, only the wind’s home It has no windows, and the door swings, Dry bones can harm no one. Only a cock stood on the rooftree Co co rico co co rico In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust Bringing rain 　　Ganga was sunken, and the limp leaves Waited for rain, while the black clouds Gathered far distant, over Himavant. The jungle crouched, humped in silence, Then spoke the thunder DA Datta: what have we given? My friend, blood shaking my heart The awful daring of a moment’s surrender Which an age of prudence can never retract By this, and this only, we have existed Which is not to be found in our obituaries Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor In our empty rooms DA Dayadhvam: I have heard the key Turn in the door once and turn once only We think of the key, each in his prison Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison Only at nightfall, aethereal rumours Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus DA Damyata: The boat responded Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar The sea was calm, your heart would have responded Gaily, when invited, beating obedient To controlling hands 　　I sat upon the shore Fishing, with the arid plain behind me Shall I at least set my lands in order? London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down Poi s’ascose nel foco che gli affina Quando fiam uti chelidon—O swallow swallow Le Prince d’Aquitaine à la tour abolie These fragments I have shored against my ruins Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo’s mad againe. Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata. Shantih shantih shantih 　　”The Waste Land” – 1922 Edition ① 　　①英文原文来自：https://poets.org/poem/waste-land 　　②译文及原注翻译来自：《赵萝蕤汉译<荒原>手稿》一书