◎董繼平 譯
他們從音樂(lè)會(huì)走來(lái), 匆忙而行, 大笑, 講著笑話, 被寒夜刺激, 在街上的電燈用強(qiáng)烈的金色, 魔幻地照亮的秋葉下面, 在(更高處) 液態(tài)的綠色星星下面——黝黑, 被封閉在里面, 黝黑,黝黑……
“門(mén)德?tīng)査散俣嗝瓷袷グ。?不是嗎? 我不在乎你們?cè)趺凑f(shuō)! 現(xiàn)在那才是音樂(lè)!”
說(shuō)這話的那個(gè)人肆意吹起浪漫的口哨, 仿佛完全沉浸在天國(guó)的靈丹妙藥中, 他那寬大、 白色的圓臉充滿了十足的陰影。
“那么, 舒伯特②又如何呢?” (另一個(gè)人的嗓音歌唱, 轉(zhuǎn)向前一個(gè)人, 緊貼著他的翻領(lǐng), 于是兩張臉一起仰望天空。)“啊, 舒伯特, 屬于我的舒伯特!”
他的眼睛轉(zhuǎn)向上面的天空。
現(xiàn)在他們都默默地奔走, 沉醉于華爾茲和威尼斯船歌的那種陳舊的感傷主義, 沉醉于它們的純音樂(lè)。 他們是一群溫順的綿羊,無(wú)法獲得自由, 這就是他們可憐的靈魂所展現(xiàn)的優(yōu)雅、 精致(在這里, 粗俗的話讓人哭泣), 就像那些隱退的女人的優(yōu)雅、 精致。
就在他們迅疾而沉醉的奔走中, 前面的人突然意識(shí)到另一些熟悉的腳步?jīng)]有跟上他們。
“帕科……” “帕科……” “帕科……”
他們依然抬起眼睛, 開(kāi)始到處尋找……帕科沒(méi)有回應(yīng)。 寒冷、黑暗的沉寂。
然后, 他們?nèi)紤n心忡忡地亂擠在一起, 垂著腦袋而靜立,現(xiàn)在他們盲目的眼睛盯著地面, 害怕像羊羔那樣迷路, 黝黑, 黝黑, 黝黑。
注:①德國(guó)作曲家(1809-1847)。 ②奧地利浪漫主義作曲家(1797-1828)。
They are coming from the concert, hurrying, laughing,joking, stimulated by the cold night, beneath the autumn leaves which the electric street lamps magically illuminate with sharp gold,beneath the liquid green stars (higher up) —— black, shut in,black, black……
“How divine Mendelssohn is, isn’t he? I don’t care what you say! Now that’s music!”
And the one who says this whistles in romantic extravagance as if wholly penetrated by a celestial elixir, his big, white, round face full of the great shadow.
“Then what about Schubert?” (sings another voice, turning to the one before, pressing close to his lapels so that the two faces look up at the sky together), “Ah Schubert, my own Schubert!”
And his eyes roll up to the sky.
They all run silently now, drunk with an antiquated sentimentalism of waltzes and barcaroles, with their pure music; they are a tame herd of sheep not allowed to go free, this is the elegance, the delicacy ( here the vulgar word makes one weep) of their poor souls, like those of sequestered women.
Suddenly in their impetuous and drunken career the ones in front realize that they are not followed by other familiar footsteps.
“Paco……” “Paco……” “Paco……”
And they begin to look here and there, still raising their eyes……Paco doesn’t answer. Cold, dark silence.
Then they all huddle together in a melancholy way and stand still, their heads hanging, their blind eyes now on the ground,afraid of getting lost, like lambs, black, black, black.
在光芒或陰影中, 幾乎看不見(jiàn)背景, (這金色的黑暗, 這寒冷的清澈) 這些工作的人類之手, 從事一切的右手, 理解右手而去協(xié)助它的左手, 給予那完滿的輕觸, 對(duì)于那沉思自己命運(yùn)(以及別的命運(yùn)——即另一種命運(yùn), 而且愈加是他自己的命運(yùn)) 的人,這些手是破解得最清楚的鑰匙。
服從本能和智慧的工作之手, 擺脫了監(jiān)督它們的普遍意識(shí),對(duì)于那種意識(shí), 它們就像神祇的女兒和積極作用, 但因?yàn)樗鼈冮]上而永遠(yuǎn)沒(méi)看見(jiàn)那種意識(shí)。 (有時(shí)候, 它們多么頻繁地服從其他手的思想和情感, 用它們?cè)缫褵o(wú)形的形象創(chuàng)造那可望而不可及的東西。)
朋友, 始終看著工作之手吧。 看著這些熟悉的女性之手, 被左手援助的右手(如此之卑微, 都是靈魂和鋼), 看看那敏感的手, 那深思熟慮的手。 看看它們?cè)鯓幼ゾ鸷头潘桑?怎樣折起和轉(zhuǎn)動(dòng), 怎樣愛(ài)撫, 怎樣抬起, 怎樣勇敢、 溫柔地進(jìn)行攻擊! 然后看看它們拿著一本書(shū), 卻又多么嫻熟地放在那本書(shū)下, 平靜地陪伴那本讀物。
(我擠壓的右手, 我親吻的左手。) 朋友, 想想……死去的手吧, 它們安息, 但再也不是手, 它們的歷史像漸漸冷卻的胸膛,就在它們下面! 有朝一日, 某些手的寂靜, 這些手的寂靜, 會(huì)有好一段歷史(因此也許會(huì)有好一個(gè)傳奇)。
In light or in shade, the background scarcely seen,(this golden dark, this cold clarity) these human hands at work, the right hand which undertakes everything, the left which assists it,understanding it, giving the light touch which completes, these hands are the most clearly deciphered key to him who contemplates his own destiny (and the other destiny which is the other and more his own) .
Working hands which obey instinct and intelligence, free of a pervasive consciousness which oversees them, to which they are like daughters of a god and the active part, but which they never see because they are closed. (And sometimes, how often, they obey the thoughts and emotions of others, creating with their already invisible image, the unattainable.)
Friend, always look at working hands. Look at these familiar feminine hands, the right aided by the left (so small, all soul and steel), look at the sensitive hand, the thoughtful hand. See how they grasp and let go, how they fold themselves and turn, how they caress, how they reach up, how bravely they attack, how gently!And then see them with a book, beneath it yet so skilfully placed,peacefully accompanying the reading matter.
(The right hand which I squeeze, a left that I kiss.) Think,friend……of dead hands, at rest but no longer hands, with their history beneath them, too, like a breast grown cold! And what a history (and perhaps what a legend, then) the stillness of certain hands, one day, of these hands.