罗伯特·勃朗宁诗8章
You'll Love
In a Gondola
He sings.
I send my heart up to thee, all my heart
In this my singing.
For the stars help me, and the sea bears part;
The very night is clinging
Closer to Venice'streets to leave one space
Above me, whence thy face
May light my joyous heart to thee its dwelling-place.
She speaks.
Say after me, and try to say
My very words, as if each word
Came from you of your own accord,
In your own voice, in your own way:
"This woman's heart and soul and brain
Are mine as much as this gold chain
She bids me wear; which" (say again)
"I choose to make by cherishing
A precious thing, or choose to fling
Over the boat-side, ring by ring."
And yet once more say...no word more!
Since words are only words. Give o'er!
Unless you call me, all the same,
Familiarly by my pet name,
Which if the Three should hear you call,
And me reply to, would proclaim
At once our secret to them all.
Ask of me, too, command me, blame—
Do, break down the partition-wall
'Twixt us, the daylight world beholds
Curtained in dusk and splendid folds!
What's left but—all of me to take?
I am the Three's: prevent them, slake
Your thirst! 'Tis said, the Arab sage,
In practising with gems, can loose
Their subtle spirit in his cruce
And leave but ashes: so, sweet mage,
Leave them my ashes when thy use
Sucks out my soul, thy heritage!
He sings.
I
Past we glide, and past, and past!
What's that poor Agnese doing
Where they make the shutters fast?
Grey Zanobi's just a-wooing
To his couch the purchased bride:
Past we glide!
II
Past we glide, and past, and past!
Why's the Pucci Palace flaring
Like a beacon to the blast?
Guests by hundreds, not one caring
If the dear host's neck were wried:
Past we glide!
She sings.
I
The moth's kiss, first!
Kiss me as if you made believe
You were not sure, this eve,
How my face, your flower, had pursed
Its petals up; so, here and there
You brush it, till I grow aware
Who wants me, and wide ope I burst.
II
The bee's kiss, now!
Kiss me as if you entered gay
My heart at some noonday,
A bud that dares not disallow
The claim, so all is rendered up,
And passively its shattered cup
Over your head to sleep I bow.
He sings.
I
What are we two?
I am a Jew,
And carry thee, farther than friends can pursue,
To a feast of our tribe;
Where they need thee to bribe
The devil that blasts them unless he imbibe
Thy...Scatter the vision for ever! And now
As of old, I am I, thou art thou!
II
Say again, what we are?
The sprite of a star,
I lure thee above where the destinies bar
My plumes their full play
Till a ruddier ray
Than my pale one announce there is withering away
Some...Scatter the vision for ever! And now,
As of old, I am I, thou art thou!
He muses.
Oh, which were best, to roam or rest?
The land's lap or the water's breast?
To sleep on yellow millet-sheaves,
Or swim in lucid shallows just
Eluding water-lily leaves,
An inch from Death's black fingers, thrust
To lock you, whom release he must;
Which life were best on Summer eves?
He speaks, musing.
Lie back; could thought of mine improve you?
From this shoulder let there spring
A wing; from this, another wing;
Wings, not legs and feet, shall move you!
Snow-white must they spring, to blend
With your flesh, but I intend
They shall deepen to the end,
Broader, into burning gold,
Till both wings crescent-wise enfold
Your perfect self, from 'neath your feet
To o'er your head, where, lo, they meet
As if a million sword-blades hurled
Defiance from you to the world!
Rescue me thou, the only real!
And scare away this mad ideal
That came, nor motions to depart!
Thanks! Now, stay ever as thou art!
Still he muses.
I
What if the Three should catch at last
Thy serenader? While there's cast
Paul's cloak about my head, and fast
Gian pinions me, Himself has past
His stylet thro'my back; I reel;
And...is it thou I feel?
II
They trail me, these three godless knaves,
Past every church that saints and saves,
Nor stop till, where the cold sea raves
By Lido's wet accursed graves,
They scoop mine, roll me to its brink,
And...on thy breast I sink!
She replies, musing.
Dip your arm o'er the boat-side, elbow-deep,
As I do: thus: were death so unlike sleep,
Caught this way? Death's to fear from flame or steel,
Or poison doubtless; but from water—feel!
Go find the bottom! Would you stay me? There!
Now pluck a great blade of that ribbon-grass
To plait in where the foolish jewel was,
I flung away: since you have praised my hair,
'Tis proper to be choice in what I wear.
He speaks.
Row home? must we row home? Too surely
Know I where its front's demurely
Over the Giudecca piled;
Window just with window mating,
Door on door exactly waiting,
All's the set face of a child:
But behind it, where's a trace
Of the staidness and reserve,
And formal lines without a curve,
In the same child's playing-face?
No two windows look one way
O'er the small sea-water thread
Below them. Ah, the autumn day
I, passing, saw you overhead!
First, out a cloud of curtain blew,
Then a sweet cry, and last came you—
To catch your lory that must needs
Escape just then, of all times then,
To peck a tall plant's fleecy seeds,
And make me happiest of men.
I scarce could breathe to see you reach
So far back o'er the balcony
To catch him ere he climbed too high
Above you in the Smyrna peach
That quick the round smooth cord of gold,
This coiled hair on your head, unrolled,
Fell down you like a gorgeous snake
The Roman girls were wont, of old,
When Rome there was, for coolness'sake
To let lie curling o'er their bosoms.
Dear lory, may his beak retain
Ever its delicate rose stain
As if the wounded lotus-blossoms
Had marked their thief to know again!
Stay longer yet, for others'sake
Than mine! What should your chamber do?
—With all its rarities that ache
In silence while day lasts, but wake
At night-time and their life renew,
Suspended just to pleasure you
Who brought against their will together
These objects, and, while day lasts, weave
Around them such a magic tether
That dumb they look: your harp, believe,
With all the sensitive tight strings
Which dare not speak, now to itself
Breathes slumberously, as if some elf
Went in and out the chords, his wings
Make murmur wheresoe'er they graze,
As an angel may, between the maze
Of midnight palace-pillars, on
And on, to sow God's plagues, have gone
Through guilty glorious Babylon.
And while such murmurs flow, the nymph
Bends o'er the harp-top from her shell
As the dry limpet for the Iymph
Come with a tune he knows so well.
And how your statues'hearts must swell!
And how your pictures must descend
To see each other, friend with friend!
Oh, could you take them by surprise,
You'd find Schidone's eager Duke
Doing the quaintest courtesies
To that prim saint by Haste-thee-Luke!
And, deeper into her rock den,
Bold Castelfranco's Magdalen
You'd find retreated from the ken
Of that robed counsel-keeping Ser—
As if the Tizian thinks of her,
And is not, rather, gravely bent
On seeing for himself what toys
Are these, his progeny invent,
What litter now the board employs
Whereon he signed a document
That got him murdered! Each enjoys
Its night so well, you cannot break
The sport up, so, indeed must make
More stay with me, for others'sake.
She speaks.
I
To-morrow, if a harp-string, say,
Is used to tie the jasmine back
That overfloods my room with sweets,
Contrive your Zorzi somehow meets
My Zanze! If the ribbon's black,
The Three are watching: keep away!
II
Your gondola—let Zorzi wreathe
A mesh of water-weeds about
Its prow, as if he unaware
Had struck some quay or bridge-foot stair!
That I may throw a paper out
As you and he go underneath.
There's Zanze's vigilant taper; safe are we.
Only one minute more to-night with me?
Resume your past self of a month ago!
Be you the bashful gallant, I will be
The lady with the colder breast than snow.
Now bow you, as becomes, nor touch my hand
More than I touch yours when I step to land,
And say, "All thanks, Siora!"—
Heart to heart—
And lips to lips! Yet once more, ere we part,
Clasp me and make me thine, as mine thou art!
[He is surprised, and stabbed]
It was ordained to be so, sweet!—and best
Comes now, beneath thine eyes, upon thy breast.
Still kiss me! Care not for the cowards! Care
Only to put aside thy beauteous hair
My blood will hurt! The Three, I do not scorn
To death, because they never lived: but I
Have lived indeed, and so—(yet one more kiss)—can die!
诅咒我们之间的墙——把它打破，
白天在众目睽睽下的我们，
已被层层壮丽的幽暗遮掩。
还能做什么，除了把我整个拿去？
我是那三个的：抢在他们前面，
解你干渴！据说炼宝石的阿拉伯圣人
能抽出宝石的缥缈的精华
放在他的小罐中，只剩下灰烬，
那么，亲爱的巫师，当你的享用
吸走了我的灵魂——它属于你——
只把我的灰烬留给他们！
他唱
1
我们漂过去，漂过去，漂过去！
可怜的阿涅塞在干什么？
他们紧闭着房间的百叶窗。
灰白头发的扎诺比正央告
买来的新娘走向他的床。
我们漂过去！
2
我们漂过去，漂过去，漂过去！
普奇宫为什么灯光闪烁，
像狂风中的一簇烽火？
成百的宾客，没有一个关心
亲爱的主人是否扭伤了脖颈。
我们漂过去！
她唱
1
先来一个飞蛾的吻！
吻我，就好像你假装
你不能确定：今天晚上，
你的……驱散这幻影！ 永远地！
现在，我还是我，你还是你！
2
再来说：我们是谁？
我是一颗星的精灵，
在天空引诱你，命运之神不让
我尽情展开我的翅膀，
直到一束比我的苍白光芒
更红润的光芒宣告某种东西
正在消退……驱散这幻影！永远地！
现在，我还是我，你还是你！
他沉思
啊，哪样最好？是漫游还是休息？
歇于地的膝盖，还是水的酥胸？
睡在金黄的谷草上，
还是游在清澈的浅湖中？
勉强躲开睡莲叶，离死神黑手
仅一线之差，黑手伸出来抓你，
却又不得不把你放掉；
在夏夜，怎么活着最好？
他沉思着说
向后躺！我的意念能否把你改良？
从这个肩头，叫它迸出一个翅膀；
从这个肩头，叫它迸出另一个翅膀；
你将不用腿脚走路，而靠翅膀飞翔！
它们必须长出来就白如雪花，
好与你的肉体相称，但我计划
它们的末梢要变深浓，变宽大，
变成火热的金色，
直到两个翅膀像月牙似的
包住你的完美的身体，
从头顶到脚底，瞧，它们
就好比是你对世界的抵抗，
就像有万把利剑射向四方！
你救救我，你是唯一真实的！
快吓跑这疯狂的想象，
它来了，却无意离去！
谢谢！现在，你就永远保持这样！
他仍沉思
1
如果那三个终于追上
对你唱夜曲的人，会怎样？
保罗用他的斗篷蒙住了我的头，
吉安把我紧绑，他本人用匕首
刺穿我的背；我踉跄；
于是……我摸到的是你吗？
2
那三个恶棍追踪我，经过一座座
保佑人的教堂，不停地追，直追到
阴湿可厌的利多坟场 ，冰冷的海洋
在旁边咆哮，他们挖好了
我的墓，推我滚到墓穴边上，
于是……我沉进你的怀中。
她沉思着回答
把你的手臂浸在船外，浸到肘部，
像我这样做：如果这样被捉住，
死和睡是否相差很多？死于火、刀、毒
肯定可怕；但死于水——体会一下！
一直沉到底！请你拉住我！好啦，
现在把那长长的草叶摘一片，
编进曾戴过可笑的首饰的头发间，
首饰我已扔掉：既然你赞美我的头发，
最好还是保持它的本色吧。
他说
划回家？我们必须划回家？
那用桩撑着的假正经门面是在哪里
俯视着大运河，我太清楚啦！
窗子和窗子成双对，
门户和门户紧相随，
整个儿像个古板的娃娃脸；
但在它后面，哪有一丁点
那个装样子娃娃脸上的
那种拘谨和庄严，
和毫不弯曲的规矩直线？
没有两个窗子朝一个方向
俯瞰房屋的前方
狭窄的一线海水。啊，那个秋日里，
我经过时，看见了上面的你！
先是有个窗帘飞扬起，
接着是甜蜜的一声喊，最后你来了——
来捉你的小鹦鹉，他正巧
在那时刻，而不在任何别的时刻，
逃去啄食那高枝上的果实，
而使我成为男人中最幸福的一个。
我几乎不能呼吸，当我看见
你远远仰靠到阳台栏杆外面，
要趁他在那棵士麦那桃树上边
爬得太高以前把他捉回来，
你仰得太厉害，这光滑的金色的圆绳，
你盘在头上的金发突然松开，
像条绚丽的蛇落在你身上，
从前——古罗马时代的罗马姑娘
常常让这种蛇——为了图清凉，
让它蜷曲着躺在她们胸膛上。
亲爱的鹦鹉啊，但愿他的嘴
永远保留着精美的玫瑰色斑痕，
好像是被啄伤的莲花给偷花贼
留下了标记，下次好把他辨认！
再多待一会儿，为了别人的缘故，
不是为我！你的房间和它的全部
艺术珍品，将会做什么？
白天他们在沉默中很痛苦，
夜间他们醒来，生命复苏；
生命暂时中止，只是为了让你欢喜，
你违反他们的意愿，把这些东西
凑到一起，他们在白天里
编起一圈魔法绳索束缚自己，
使他们看起来像哑的。你的竖琴，
紧绷着灵敏的弦的竖琴，请相信，
它平时不敢说话，现在正半睡半醒
对自己低吟，仿佛有个小精灵
在弦间飞出飞进，他的翅膀
掠过的地方，就发出沙沙声，
像个天使穿过了巴比伦，
那罪恶而荣耀的城，深夜里他穿行在
宫殿梁柱迷津中，就发出这声音，
他不停地飞呀飞，把上帝的灾祸播种。
当这种沙沙声流动，那仙女就从
她的蚌壳中俯身到竖琴顶上，
像干渴的帽贝 哼着他熟练的曲调
扑向清澈的溪水一样。
你的雕像们一定心潮澎湃！
你的图画们一定走了下来，
互相探望，交交朋友！
嗨，如果你冷不防往房里走，
你会发现斯基多内 的热心的公爵
在对“快干活卢卡”的严肃的圣徒
行一种最奇怪的老式的礼！
你会发现大胆的卡斯特弗兰科的
抹大拉的马利亚 已从谆谆劝诫的
长袍先知的窝棚退避，
躲进她的石窟深处的角落里。
仿佛是那幅提香的画想起了她，
说实在的，他倒并不是认真地
想要亲自看一看，他的后代
创造的这些东西，都是什么玩意，
委员会现在雇了些什么笨蛋，
他只因在委员会签署了一个文件，
便被谋杀！每一张图画都在享受
它的夜晚，你可不能够
打断这游戏，所以你真的一定要
为了别人，再跟我多待些时候。
她说
1
明天，如果我用一根竖琴弦，
比方说，来把茉莉花拴拢——
它的芳香充满我的房间，
就设法叫你的佐尔齐来会见
我的珍婕；如果用的是黑丝带，
那三个在监视，你要走远点。
2
你的贡多拉——让佐尔齐用水藻
在船头周围缠起一张网，
好像是因为他不小心，
把船撞在了码头或桥墩上；
这样我就可以扔出一张纸，
当你和他在下面经过时。
那是珍婕的警戒烛光；我们是
安全的！今夜和我再多待一霎时？
恢复你一个月前的样子！
你做个忸怩殷勤的男子，
我做个冷若冰霜的女士。
现在你鞠躬，那才合适，别拉我的手
比我上岸时扶你的手更长久，
并说：“多谢，西奥拉！”——
心对心，
唇对唇！分别前再次紧抱我，
使我属于你，正像你属于我！
（他突然受袭击，被刺）
注定如此，亲爱的人！——最好的是
现在来临，在你眼前，在你怀抱，
仍在吻我！不必注意懦夫们，只注意
把你的秀发挪开，免被我的血损坏！
我不用我的蔑视去杀死那三个，
因为他们从未活过；但我真正活过了，
因此——（再吻一下）——可以死了！
The Pied Piper of Hamelin
A Child's Story
I
Hamelin Town's in Brunswick,
By famous Hanover city;
The river Weser, deep and wide,
Washes its wall on the southern side;
A pleasanter spot you never spied;
But, when begins my ditty,
Almost five hundred years ago,
To see the townsfolk suffer so
From vermin, was a pity.
II
Rats!
They fought the dogs and killed the cats,
And bit the babies in the cradles,
And ate the cheeses out of the vats,
And licked the soup from the cooks'own ladle's,
Split open the kegs of salted sprats,
Made nests inside men's Sunday hats,
And even spoiled the women's chats
By drowning their speaking
With shrieking and squeaking
In fifty different sharps and flats.
III
At last the people in a body
To the Town Hall came flocking:
"'Tis clear," cried they,"our Mayor's a noddy;
And as for our Corporation—shocking
To think we buy gowns lined with ermine
For dolts that can't or won't determine
What's best to rid us of our vermin!
You hope, because you're old and obese,
To find in the furry civic robe ease?
Rouse up, sirs! Give your brains a racking
To find the remedy we're lacking,
Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing!”
At this the Mayor and Corporation
Quaked with a mighty consternation.
IV
An hour they sat in council,
At length the Mayor broke silence:
"For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell,
I wish I were a mile hence!
It's easy to bid one rack one's brain—
I'm sure my poor head aches again,
I've scratched it so, and all in vain.
Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap!"
Just as he said this, what should hap
At the chamber door but a gentle tap?
"Bless us," cried the Mayor, "what's that?"
(With the Corporation as he sat,
Looking little though wondrous fat;
Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister
Than a too-long-opened oyster,
Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous
For a plate of turtle green and glutinous)
"Only a scraping of shoes on the mat?
Anything like the sound of a rat
Makes my heart go pit-a-pat!”
V
"Come in!"—the Mayor cried, looking bigger:
And in did come the strangest figure!
His queer long coat from heel to head
Was half of yellow and half of red,
And he himself was tall and thin,
With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin,
And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin,
No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin,
But lips where smiles went out and in;
There was no guessing his kith and kin:
And nobody could enough admire
The tall man and his quaint attire.
Quoth one:"It's as my great-grandsire,
Starting up at the Trump of Doom's tone,
Had walked this way from his painted tombstone!”
VI
He advanced to the council-table:
And, "Please your honours," said he, "I'm able,
By means of a secret charm, to draw
All creatures living beneath the sun,
That creep or swim or fly or run,
After me so as you never saw!
And I chiefly use my charm
On creatures that do people harm,
The mole and toad and newt and viper;
And people call me the Pied Piper.”
(And here they noticed round his neck
A scarf of red and yellow stripe,
To match with his coat of the self-same cheque;
And at the scarf's end hung a pipe;
And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying
As if impatient to be playing
Upon this pipe, as low it dangled
Over his vesture so old-fangled.)
"Yet," said he, "poor piper as I am,
In Tartary I freed the Cham,
Last June, from his huge swarms of gnats;
I eased in Asia the Nizam
Of a monstrous brood of vampyre-bats:
And as for what your brain bewilders,
If I can rid your town of rats
Will you give me a thousand guilders?"
"One? fifty thousand!"—was the exclamation
Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation.
VII
Into the street the Piper stept,
Smiling first a little smile,
As if he knew what magic slept
In his quiet pipe the while;
Then, like a musical adept,
To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled,
And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled,
Like a candle-flame where salt is sprinkled;
And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered,
You heard as if an army muttered;
And the muttering grew to a grumbling;
And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling;
And out of the houses the rats came tumbling.
Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats,
Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats,
Grave old plodders, gay young friskers,
Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins,
Cocking tails and pricking whiskers,
Families by tens and dozens,
Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives—
Followed the Piper for their lives.
From street to street he piped advancing,
And step for step they followed dancing,
Until they came to the river Weser,
Wherein all plunged and perished!
—Save one who, stout as Julius Caesar,
Swam across and lived to carry
(As he, the manuscript he cherished)
To Rat-land home his commentary:
Which was, "At the first shrill notes of the pipe,
I heard a sound as of scraping tripe,
And putting apples, wondrous ripe,
Into a cider-press's gripe:
And a moving away of pickle-tub-boards,
And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards,
And a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks,
And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks:
And it seemed as if a voice
(Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery
Is breathed) called out, 'Oh rats, rejoice!
The world is grown to one vast drysaltery!
So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon,
Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon!'
And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon,
All ready staved, like a great sun shone
Glorious scarce an inch before me,
Just as methought it said, 'Come, bore me!'
—I found the Weser rolling o'er me.”
VIII
You should have heard the Hamelin people
Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple.
"Go," cried the Mayor, "and get long poles,
Poke out the nests and block up the holes!
Consult with carpenters and builders,
And leave in our town not even a trace
Of the rats!"—when suddenly, up the face
Of the Piper perked in the market-place,
With a, "First, if you please, my thousand guilders!"
IX
A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue;
So did the Corporation too.
For council dinners made rare havoc
With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock;
And half the money would replenish
Their cellar's biggest butt with Rhenish.
To pay this sum to a wandering fellow
With a gipsy coat of red and yellow!
"Beside," quoth the Mayor with a knowing wink,
"Our business was done at the river's brink;
We saw with our eyes the vermin sink,
And what's dead can't come to life, I think.
So, friend, we're not the folks to shrink
From the duty of giving you something for drink,
And a matter of money to put in your poke;
But as for the guilders, what we spoke
Of them, as you very well know, was in joke.
Beside, our losses have made us thrifty.
A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!"
X
The Piper's face fell, and he cried
"No trifling! I can't wait, beside!
I've promised to visit by dinnertime
Bagdat, and accept the prime
Of the Head-Cook's pottage, all he's rich in,
For having left, in the Caliph's kitchen,
Of a nest of scorpions no survivor:
With him I proved no bargain-driver,
With you, don't think I'll bate a stiver!
And folks who put me in a passion
May find me pipe after another fashion."
XI
"How?" cried the Mayor, "d'ye think I brook
Being worse treated than a Cook?
Insulted by a lazy ribald
With idle pipe and vesture piebald?
You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst,
Blow your pipe there till you burst!"
XII
Once more he stept into the street
And to his lips again
Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane;
And ere he blew three notes (such sweet
Soft notes as yet musician's cunning
Never gave the enraptured air)
There was a rustling that seemed like a bustling
Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling,
Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering,
Little hands clapping and little tongues chattering,
And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scattering,
Out came the children running.
All the little boys and girls,
With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls,
And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls,
Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after
The wonderful music with shouting and laughter.
XIII
The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood
As if they were changed into blocks of wood.
Unable to move a step, or cry
To the children merrily skipping by,
—Could only follow with the eye
That joyous crowd at the Piper's back.
But how the Mayor was on the rack,
And the wretched Council's bosoms beat,
As the Piper turned from the High Street
To where the Weser rolled its waters
Right in the way of their sons and daughters!
However he turned from South to West,
And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed,
And after him the children pressed;
Great was the joy in every breast.
"He never can cross that mighty top!
He's forced to let the piping drop,
And we shall see our children stop!"
When, lo, as they reached the mountain-side,
A wondrous portal opened wide,
As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed;
And the Piper advanced and the children followed,
And when all were in to the very last,
The door in the mountain-side shut fast.
Did I say, all? No! One was lame,
And could not dance the whole of the way;
And in after years, if you would blame
His sadness, he was used to say,—
"It's dull in our town since my playmates left!
I can't forget that I'm bereft
Of all the pleasant sights they see,
Which the Piper also promised me.
For he led us, he said, to a joyous land,
Joining the town and just at hand,
Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew
And flowers put forth a fairer hue,
And everything was strange and new;
The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here,
And their dogs outran our fallow deer,
And honey-bees had lost their stings,
And horses were born with eagles'wings:
And just as I became assured
My lame foot would be speedily cured,
The music stopped and I stood still,
And found myself outside the hill,
Left alone against my will,
To go now limping as before,
And never hear of that country more!"
XIV
Alas, alas for Hamelin!
There came into many a burgher's pate
A text which says that heaven's gate
Opens to the rich at as easy rate
As the needle's eye takes a camel in!
The Mayor sent East, West, North and South,
To offer the Piper, by word of mouth,
Wherever it was men's lot to find him,
Silver and gold to his heart's content,
If he'd only return the way he went,
And bring the children behind him.
But when they saw 'twas a lost endeavour,
And Piper and dancers were gone for ever,
They made a decree that lawyers never
Should think their records dated duly
If, after the day of the month and year,
These words did not as well appear,
"And so long after what happened here
On the Twenty-second of July,
Thirteen hundred and seventy-six:”
And the better in memory to fix
The place of the children's last retreat,
They called it, the Pied Piper's Street—
Where any one playing on pipe or tabor
Was sure for the future to lose his labour.
Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern
To shock with mirth a street so solemn;
But opposite the place of the cavern
They wrote the story on a column,
And on the great church-window painted
The same, to make the world acquainted
How their children were stolen away,
And there it stands to this very day.
And I must not omit to say
That in Transylvania there's a tribe
Of alien people who ascribe
The outlandish ways and dress
On which their neighbours lay such stress,
To their fathers and mothers having risen
Out of some subterraneous prison
Into which they were trepanned
Long time ago in a mighty band
Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land,
But how or why, they don't understand.
XV
So, Willy, let me and you be wipers
Of scores out with all men—especially pipers!
And, whether they pipe us free from rats or from mice,
If we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise!
哈梅林的花衣吹笛人
一个孩子的故事
1
勃伦瑞克有个小镇哈梅林
离著名的汉诺威城不远，
一条又深又宽的威瑟河，
流过小镇南面的城墙边；
啊，从没见过这么宜人的地方！
但是，大约五百年前，
在我的故事开头的时光，
镇上的人遭了一场大灾殃，
那情景没人看了不心伤。
2
老鼠！
它们跟狗打架，它们咬死猫，
它们啃摇篮里的娃娃，
它们吃缸里的奶酪，
它们从厨子勺里抢汤喝，
它们拆散装咸鱼的小桶，
还在男人的礼帽里做窝，
把女人们聊天的兴致也破坏了，
因为老鼠吱吱喳喳地怪叫，
用五十种高音和低调
把女人们的话声完全淹没。
3
最后小镇的全体百姓，
一齐向政府门口涌来。
“很明白，”他们喊，“镇长太痴呆；
官儿们吗——想起来真悲哀，
我们给这些笨蛋买了貂皮袍，
他们却既无决心，也无能耐
帮我们摆脱这场鼠灾！
你们想穿着皮袍享清福，
就凭你们肥胖又老迈？
振作起来，老爷们！绞绞脑汁，
作出个救急的安排，
否则我们定叫你们卷铺盖！”
到这时候，镇长和官儿们
才惊慌地发起抖来。
4
他们在会议室呆坐了一小时，
最后镇长打破了沉寂：
“我情愿拿貂皮袍去卖一盾钱；
但愿我离此地远着点！
叫别人绞脑汁倒是容易——
可是我这可怜的脑袋又疼了，
我拼命挠它，可还是白费力气。
喔，最好有个捕鼠机，捕鼠机！”
正当他说到这里，听，
那不是有人在门上轻轻敲击？
“上帝保佑，”镇长喊，“是什么东西？”
（他跟官儿们坐在一起，
显得矮小，虽然胖得出奇；
他的眼睛晦暗又干涩，
好像打开太久的牡蛎，
只有中午，他的大肚皮
为黏黏的龟肉咕咕叫时，眼才发亮。）
“不过是鞋子擦地的声音吧？
任何一点像是老鼠的声响，
都会使我的心扑通扑通直发慌！”
5
“进来！”镇长叫道，使劲挺了挺身，
于是进来了一个最最奇怪的人！
他的半边黄半边红的怪大衣
从头一直拖到脚后跟；
他的个子高又瘦，
蓝色的眼睛锐利像钢针，
皮肤黑黝黝，头发淡而稀，
脸上光光没胡须，
嘴角微微露笑意——
谁也猜不出他的来历！
看到这高个子和他的古怪外衣，
没有一个人不感到万分惊奇，
有个人说：“这像是我的曾祖父，
被最后审判的号角惊起，
从他的彩绘墓石下跑到了这里！”
6
他迈步走到会议桌旁，
“先生们，”他开口把话讲，
“我能用神秘的魔法力量，
叫太阳下面的各种活物，
不管是跑的、飞的、游的、爬的，
都跟我走，你们肯定没见过！
我主要针对害人的动物
施展我的魔法，比如说——
蝾螈、蟾蜍、鼹鼠和毒蛇；
花衣吹笛人——人们都这样叫我。”
（这时他们注意到他的脖子上
围着一条红黄条子的围巾，
来配他的同样颜色的衣裳，
还有个笛子系在围巾的一头，
他们看见他的手指动个不休，
好像急于在笛子上演奏，
这笛子正摇摇晃晃地
低悬在他的古式袍子前头。）
“不过，”他说，“我虽是个穷笛手，
去年六月在鞑靼，我曾使
可汗从大群蚊子中得救，
在亚洲，我消灭了一大窝
可怕的吸血蝠，解除邦主的忧愁。
说到叫你们晕头转向的这件事，
如果我把老鼠从镇上赶走，
你们能否给我一千盾的报酬？”
“一千？给你五十个一千！”
惊奇的镇长和官儿们喊出了口。
7
吹笛人走上街道，
首先微微地笑了一笑，
似乎他知道有什么魔法
在他安静的笛子里睡觉；
然后他像个内行的音乐家，
撮起嘴唇，吹起曲调，
锐利的眼睛发出绿光和蓝光，
好像撒上盐的烛火闪闪亮，
笛子发出还不到三个尖声音，
人们就听见像有一队士兵在行进，
轻轻的刷刷声变成了嚓嚓声，
嚓嚓声又变成巨大的隆隆声，
老鼠们连滚带爬跑出了屋，
大老鼠、小老鼠、瘦老鼠、壮老鼠，
棕老鼠、黑老鼠、灰老鼠、黄老鼠，
严肃的老老鼠，蹦跳的少老鼠，
老爸、老妈、侄子、叔叔，
翘胡子、竖尾巴，
十只一窝，十二只一家，
兄弟们，姐妹们，老公们，老婆们——
全都拼命地跟着吹笛人。
他经过一条条街，边走边吹，
它们紧跟他脚印，边舞边追，
它们一直跑到威瑟河旁，
跳进河水统统死光！
——只剩一只，它像凯撒那么强壮，
它游过了河，活着把它的报道
（它像凯撒一样，保留着原稿）
带回到老鼠国它的家乡。报道说：
“笛子刚发出第一个尖声，
我就听到刮牛肚的声音，
还听见用熟透的苹果
压榨果酱的声音，
还有打开腌菜缸的声音，
食橱门半闭半开的声音，
拔出油瓶塞的声音，
撬开黄油桶的声音；
仿佛有个说话声夹在其间
（它远比竖琴的声音更甜），
它大声喊：老鼠们，尽情欢宴！
世界变成了一个巨大的食品店！
这样，不停地嚼，嘎吱嘎吱咬，
早餐、午餐、晚餐、正餐！
正当一个庞大的糖桶
——桶上刚好有一个破洞，
像个大太阳在我眼前发光，
我觉得它在说：快钻进来吧！
——我发现身上翻滚着威瑟河的波浪。”
8
你该听听哈梅林人怎样把钟敲，
直敲得钟塔晃晃摇摇。
“快去，”镇长高声叫，“找些长杆来！
把鼠窝捅掉，把鼠洞堵牢，
向木工、瓦工好好请教，
使老鼠的痕迹，在镇上不留丝毫！”
这时吹笛人突然昂着头
出现在市场上，说了声：
“首先，请付我一千盾的酬劳！”
9
一千盾！镇长神情沮丧；
官儿们也跟他一样。
因为议会的宴饮是罕见的灾殃：
红葡萄酒、白葡萄酒、霍克酒，
一半钱要用来买莱茵葡萄酒，
好装满地窖中最大的酒缸。
拿这么多钱付给一个流浪汉！
瞧他那身半红半黄的吉普赛服装！
“何况，”镇长狡猾地眨眨眼说，
“我们的事已在河边办妥，
我们亲眼看见害兽已沉没，
我相信死了的东西不会再复活。
所以，朋友，我们不是那种小气鬼，
甚至舍不得请你喝杯茶，
舍不得给你点零钱花；
至于那些盾嘛，我们当时提到它，
你完全清楚，不过是句玩笑话，
而且损失已使我们变节俭，
一千盾！来，把这五十盾拿去吧！”
10
吹笛人沉下脸来大声嚷：
“别废话！而且我不能等！
我已经答应在午饭时分
到巴格达去访问，
享受大师傅拿手的精美肉汤，
因为我彻底歼灭了
哈里发厨房里的一窝毒蝎，
我跟他凡事好商量，
跟你们嘛，我一分钱也不能让。
谁要是惹我发了火，他会发现
我的笛子吹出另一个样。”
11
“好哇！”镇长喊，“你以为我会容忍
你待我还不如待一个厨子！
容忍你这带着个没用的笛子、
穿件花袍子的痞子来侮辱我？
你威胁我们？拿出厉害的来，小子，
吹你的笛子，直到吹破你的肚子！”
12
他又一次走上街头，
又把笔直光滑的长竹笛
举到唇边吹奏；
他吹出了还不到三个音符
（灵巧的音乐家还从来不曾
奏出过这么甜蜜温柔的乐声）
就传来一阵沙沙声，仿佛有
一群快乐的人在推挤、奔走，
小脚吧嗒吧嗒，木鞋呱啦呱啦，
小手噼啪噼啪，小嘴叽呱叽呱，
孩子们纷纷地冲出了家，
好像农场中抢食的鸡鸭。
所有的男娃娃，女娃娃，
脸蛋像玫瑰，卷发像亚麻，
都有明亮的眼睛，珍珠般的小牙，
他们蹦蹦跳跳，又叫又笑，
快乐地跟着奇妙的音乐跑。
13
镇长惊得目瞪口张，
官儿们似乎变成了木桩，
他们不能动弹，也不能喊叫
那些欢跑过去的小宝宝，
只能用目光追随
吹笛人身后那快乐的纵队。
但是，当吹笛人离开大街转了弯，
一直走到了威瑟河畔，
啊！镇长是多么惶恐不安，
狼狈的官儿们多么心惊胆战，
滚滚河水就在他们孩子的眼前！
然而他从南边转向西边，
一步步走向科佩伯格山，
孩子们紧跟在他后面；
这时大家才把心放宽。
“他绝对翻不过那个高山顶，
他只好中断他的吹笛声，
我们就会看到孩子们把脚停！”
看哪！他们刚刚走上山，
一扇神奇的大门开得宽又宽，
仿佛突然挖出了一个大山洞，
吹笛人朝前走，孩子们跟进山洞中，
等他们全部进到山里边，
洞门马上关得严又严。
我是说“全部”吗？不，还有个瘸小孩，
他不能从头到尾都跳舞；
后来，每当有人来责怪
他的悲哀，他总是这样说：
“自从游伴走掉，镇上十分单调！
我忘不了：自己没能看到
他们看到的一切欢乐景象，
本来吹笛人也答应过我。
因为他说要带我们去快乐乡，
它与小镇相连，就在近旁，
那里泉水喷涌，果树生长，
鲜花开得更美更芬芳，
一切都新鲜而异样；
麻雀比这里的孔雀更辉煌，
狗快得连我们的鹿都追不上，
蜜蜂都掉了蜇人的刺，
马生来就有鹰的翅膀。
正当我感到信心十足，
我的瘸腿马上就能治好，
突然音乐就停止了，我站住了，
发现自己留在山外了，
不情愿地被单独丢下了，
现在还是照老样一瘸一拐，
再听不到那里的音信传出来！”
14
可悲呀，可悲的哈梅林！
有许多哈梅林的居民
都想起了一句谚语：
富人想进天堂的门，
就像骆驼钻针眼那么难！
镇长派人向东、向西、向北、向南，
不论在哪里找到吹笛人，
都要给他把口信传：
要送他金银，直到他满意，
只要他肯顺原路往回转，
让孩子们跟着他把家还。
但当他们明白一切努力都无望，
吹笛人和跳舞人已一去不返，
他们便规定了一条法令：
每当律师们把日期写上案卷，
就必须把下列字样
写在年、月、日的后边：
“一三七六年七月二十二日
在此地发生的事件以后，
已经过去了多少时间。”
为了更好地记住，
孩子们最后经过的地方，
他们把它叫做花衣吹笛人路，
无论谁在此吹笛子或敲伴奏鼓，
他肯定会被主人解雇。
他们也不容许旅店和酒馆
用欢笑声来破坏这条路的肃穆。
但是他们把这个故事
写在山洞对面的一根柱子上，
这故事也画上了教堂的大玻璃窗。
他们要让全世界知道
他们的孩子被偷走的情况；
这画到今天还在那个地方。
还有一点我也不应该漏掉：
在特兰西尔瓦尼亚 地方，
居住着一个外来的宗族，
邻居们十分注意他们
那种外国的服装和风俗，
他们说这些来自他们的父母，
父母们从一个地下监狱走上来——
很久以前他们被勾引，
离开勃伦瑞克的哈梅林，
成群结队向地下监狱跑；
为什么和怎样被勾引，他们不知道。
15
所以，小威廉，让你我来扫除
大家的——尤其是吹笛人的冤仇，
而且不论他为我们赶走小耗子或是大老鼠，
如果我们许过报酬，让我们把诺言遵守。
"How They Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix"
I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he;
I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three;
"Good speed!" cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew;
"Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through;
Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest,
And into the midnight we galloped abreast.
Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace
Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place;
I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight,
Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right,
Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit,
Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.
'Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near
Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear;
At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see;
At Düffeld, 'twas morning as plain as could be;
And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime,
So, Joris broke silence with, "Yet there is time!”
At Aershot, up leaped of a sudden the sun,
And against him the cattle stood black every one,
To stare thro'the mist at us galloping past,
And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last,
With resolute shoulders, each butting away
The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray:
And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back
For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track;
And one eye's black intelligence,—ever that glance
O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance!
And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon
His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on.
By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay spur!
Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her,
We'll remember at Aix"—for one heard the quick wheeze
Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees,
And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank,
As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.
So, we were left galloping, Joris and I,
Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky;
The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh,
'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff;
Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white,
And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight!"
"How they'll greet us!"—and all in a moment his roan
Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone;
And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight
Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate,
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets'rim.
Then I cast loose my buffcoat, each holster let fall,
Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,
Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear,
Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer;
Clapp'd my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good,
Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.
And all I remember is—friends flocking round
As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground;
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,
As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,
Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)
Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent
“他们如何把好消息从根特送到艾克斯”
我跳上鞍，和若里斯，还有他；
我奔驰，迪尔克奔驰，三人齐策马；
栏门开，守门人喊：“好快！”
我们奔出，围墙发出回声：“快！”
在杜费尔德，明明白白已是晨光，
在梅赫伦，听到教堂的钟声响，
若里斯打破沉默：“我们还赶得上！”
在阿尔斯霍特，太阳忽地腾升，
站在太阳前的牛，个个是黑影，
透过薄雾注视着我们驰过面前；
我终于看见了我勇猛的骏马罗兰，
看见他坚毅的肩将晨雾冲破，
像河中陡峭的岬角冲破飞沫。
看见他低下头，他灵敏的耳朵，
一只照常竖起，另一只朝后来听我，
一只黑色慧眼——总是用那种眼神，
越过白眼圈斜瞥着我——他的主人！
他的热烈的唇，在奔驰中不时地
把嘴边浓重的泡沫一片片颠起。
将近哈瑟特，迪尔克抱怨，若里斯发话：
“别再策马，露斯跑得勇敢，错不在她，
到了艾克斯要纪念她”——因为我们已经
听到她的急喘，看到她伸长的颈、
蹒跚的膝、垂落的尾，和腹部
可怕的扇动，当她颤抖而倒伏。
如此，剩下若里斯和我向前飞奔，
过了罗兹，过了通格勒斯，晴空无云，
天上的烈日笑着无情的笑，
脚下踩碎了松脆闪亮的枯草，
一直到了达尔恒，有个白塔高耸起，
“艾克斯已在望，”若里斯喘道，“快骑！”
“他们将怎样热烈地欢迎我们！”突然
他的花马整个翻倒，死得像石头一般。
于是我的罗兰将负起消息的全部重担——
唯独这消息能救艾克斯免于灾难。
他的鼻孔像充满鲜血的水潭，
他的眼窝镶上了两个火红的圈。
接着我脱去皮衣，甩掉长靴，
丢下枪套，扔掉腰带和一切，
立在蹬上，俯身在他耳上拍了几下，
用爱称叫罗兰，我的无双的马；
我拍手大笑，唱歌喧闹，管它好听难听，
直到最后。罗兰奔进了艾克斯，站定。
我只记得，朋友们聚拢围成圈，
我坐着，他的头搁在地上，我的膝间；
没别的话，只有对我的罗兰的赞美，
我把我们仅剩的美酒倒进他的嘴，
他应得（市民们一致通过的）这奖励，
是他从根特送来了好消息。
Fra Lippo Lippi
I am poor brother Lippo, by your leave!
You need not clap your torches to my face.
Zooks, what's to blame? you think you see a monk!
What, 'tis past midnight, and you go the rounds,
And here you catch me at an alley's end
Where sportive ladies leave their doors ajar?
The Carmine's my cloister: hunt it up,
Do, —harry out, if you must show your zeal,
Whatever rat, there, haps on his wrong hole,
And nip each softling of a wee white mouse,
Weke , weke , that's crept to keep him company!
Aha, you know your betters! Then, you'll take
Your hand away that's fiddling on my throat,
And please to know me likewise. Who am I?
Why, one, sir, who is lodging with a friend
Three streets off—he's a certain...how d'ye call?
Master—a...Cosimo of the Medici,
I'the house that caps the corner. Boh! you were best!
Remember and tell me, the day you're hanged,
How you affected such a gullet's-gripe!
But you, sir, it concerns you that your knaves
Pick up a manner nor discredit you:
Zooks, are we pilchards, that they sweep the streets
And count fair prize what comes into their net?
He's Judas to a tittle, that man is!
Just such a face! Why, sir, you make amends.
Lord, I'm not angry! Bid your hangdogs go
Drink out this quarter-florin to the health
Of the munificent House that harbours me
(And many more beside, lads! more beside!)
And all's come square again. I'd like his face—
His, elbowing on his comrade in the door
With the pike and lantern,—for the slave that holds
John Baptist's head a-dangle by the hair
With one hand ("Look you, now," as who should say)
And his weapon in the other, yet unwiped!
It's not your chance to have a bit of chalk,
A wood-coal or the like? or you should see!
Yes, I'm the painter, since you style me so.
What, Brother Lippo's doings, up and down,
You know them and they take you? like enough!
I saw the proper twinkle in your eye—
'Tell you, I liked your looks at very first.
Let's sit and set things straight now, hip to haunch.
Here's spring come, and the nights one makes up bands
To roam the town and sing out carnival,
And I've been three weeks shut up within my mew,
A-painting for the great man, saints and saints
And saints again. I could not paint all night—
Ouf! I leaned out of window for fresh air.
There came a hurry of feet and little feet,
A sweep of lute-strings, laughs, and whifts of song,—
Flower o'the broom,
Take away love, and our earth is a tomb!
Flower o'the quince,
I let Lisa go, and what good in life since?
Flower o'the thyme —and so on. Round they went.
Scarce had they turned the corner when a titter
Like the skipping of rabbits by moonlight, —three slim shapes,
And a face that looked up...zooks, sir, flesh and blood,
That's all I'm made of! Into shreds it went,
Curtain and counterpane and coverlet,
All the bed-furniture—a dozen knots,
There was a ladder! Down I let myself,
Hands and feet, scrambling somehow, and so dropped,
And after them. I came up with the fun
Hard by Saint Laurence, hail fellow, well met, —
Flower o'the rose,
If I've been merry, what matter who knows?
And so as I was stealing back again
To get to bed and have a bit of sleep
Ere I rise up to-morrow and go work
On Jerome knocking at his poor old breast
With his great round stone to subdue the flesh,
You snap me of the sudden. Ah, I see!
Though your eye twinkles still, you shake your head—
Mine's shaved—a monk, you say—the sting's in that!
If Master Cosimo announced himself,
Mum's the word naturally; but a monk!
Come, what am I a beast for? tell us, now!
I was a baby when my mother died
And father died and left me in the street.
I starved there, God knows how, a year or two
On fig-skins, melon-parings, rinds and shucks,
Refuse and rubbish. One fine frosty day,
My stomach being empty as your hat,
The wind doubled me up and down I went.
Old Aunt Lapaccia trussed me with one hand,
(Its fellow was a stinger as I knew)
And so along the wall, over the bridge,
By the straight cut to the convent. Six words there,
While I stood munching my first bread that month:
"So, boy, you're minded," quoth the good fat father
Wiping his own mouth, 'twas refection-time,—
"To quit this very miserable world?
Will you renounce"..."the mouthful of bread?" thought I;
By no means! Brief, they made a monk of me;
I did renounce the world, its pride and greed,
Palace, farm, villa, shop and banking-house,
Trash, such as these poor devils of Medici
Have given their hearts to—all at eight years old.
Well, sir, I found in time, you may be sure,
'Twas not for nothing—the good bellyful,
The warm serge and the rope that goes all round,
And day-long blessed idleness beside!
"Let's see what the urchin's fit for"—that came next.
Not overmuch their way, I must confess.
Such a to-do! They tried me with their books:
Lord, they'd have taught me Latin in pure waste!
Flower o'the clove,
All the Latin I construe is, "amo" I love!
But, mind you, when a boy starves in the streets
Eight years together, as my fortune was,
Watching folk's faces to know who will fling
The bit of half-stripped grape-bunch he desires,
And who will curse or kick him for his pains, —
Which gentleman processional and fine,
Holding a candle to the Sacrament,
Will wink and let him lift a plate and catch
The droppings of the wax to sell again,
Or holla for the Eight and have him whipped, —
How say I?—nay, which dog bites, which lets drop
His bone from the heap of offal in the street, —
Why, soul and sense of him grow sharp alike,
He learns the look of things, and none the less
For admonition from the hunger-pinch.
I had a store of such remarks, be sure,
Which, after I found leisure, turned to use.
I drew men's faces on my copy-books,
Scrawled them within the antiphonary's marge,
Joined legs and arms to the long music-notes,
Found eyes and nose and chin for A's and B's,
And made a string of pictures of the world
Betwixt the ins and outs of verb and noun,
On the wall, the bench, the door. The monks looked black.
"Nay," quoth the Prior, "turn him out, d'ye say?
In no wise. Lose a crow and catch a lark.
What if at last we get our man of parts,
We Carmelites, like those Camaldolese
And Preaching Friars, to do our church up fine
And put the front on it that ought to be!"
And hereupon he bade me daub away.
Thank you! my head being crammed, the walls a blank,
Never was such prompt disemburdening.
First, every sort of monk, the black and white,
I drew them, fat and lean: then, folk at church,
From good old gossips waiting to confess
Their cribs of barrel-droppings, candle-ends,—
To the breathless fellow at the altar-foot,
Fresh from his murder, safe and sitting there
With the little children round him in a row
Of admiration, half for his beard and half
For that white anger of his victim's son
Shaking a fist at him with one fierce arm,
Signing himself with the other because of Christ
(Whose sad face on the cross sees only this
After the passion of a thousand years)
Till some poor girl, her apron o'er her head,
(Which the intense eyes looked through) came at eve
On tiptoe, said a word, dropped in a loaf,
Her pair of earrings and a bunch of flowers
(The brute took growling), prayed, and so was gone.
I painted all, then cried "'Tis ask and have;
Choose, for more's ready!" —laid the ladder flat,
And showed my covered bit of cloister-wall.
The monks closed in a circle and praised loud
Till checked, taught what to see and not to see,
Being simple bodies,—"That's the very man!
Look at the boy who stoops to pat the dog!
That woman's like the Prior's niece who comes
To care about his asthma: it's the life!”
But there my triumph's straw-fire flared and funked;
Their betters took their turn to see and say:
The Prior and the learned pulled a face
And stopped all that in no time. "How? what's here?
Quite from the mark of painting, bless us all!
Faces, arms, legs and bodies like the true
As much as pea and pea! it's devil's-game!
Your business is not to catch men with show,
With homage to the perishable clay,
But lift them over it, ignore it all,
Make them forget there's such a thing as flesh.
Your business is to paint the souls of men—
Man's soul, and it's a fire, smoke...no, it's not...
It's vapour done up like a new-born babe—
(In that shape when you die it leaves your mouth)
It's...well, what matters talking, it's the soul!
Give us no more of body than shows soul!
Here's Giotto, with his Saint a-praising God,
That sets us praising,—why not stop with him?
Why put all thoughts of praise out of our head
With wonder at lines, colours, and what not?
Paint the soul, never mind the legs and arms!
Rub all out, try at it a second time.
Oh, that white smallish female with the breasts,
She's just my niece...Herodias, I would say,—
Who went and danced and got men's heads cut off!
Have it all out!" Now, is this sense, I ask?
A fine way to paint soul, by painting body
So ill, the eye can't stop there, must go further
And can't fare worse! Thus, yellow does for white
When what you put for yellow's simply black,
And any sort of meaning looks intense
When all beside itself means and looks nought.
Why can't a painter lift each foot in turn,
Left foot and right foot, go a double step,
Make his flesh liker and his soul more like,
Both in their order? Take the prettiest face,
The Prior's niece...patron-saint—is it so pretty
You can't discover if it means hope, fear,
Sorrow or joy? won't beauty go with these?
Suppose I've made her eyes all right and blue,
Can't I take breath and try to add life's flash,
And then add soul and heighten them threefold?
Or say there's beauty with no soul at all—
(I never saw it—put the case the same—)
If you get simple beauty and nought else,
You get about the best thing God invents:
That's somewhat: and you'll find the soul you have missed,
Within yourself, when you return him thanks.
"Rub all out!" Well, well, there's my life, in short,
And so the thing has gone on ever since.
I'm grown a man no doubt, I've broken bounds:
You should not take a fellow eight years old
And make him swear to never kiss the girls.
I'm my own master, paint now as I please—
Having a friend, you see, in the Corner-house!
Lord, it's fast holding by the rings in front—
Those great rings serve more purposes than just
To plant a flag in, or tie up a horse!
And yet the old schooling sticks, the old grave eyes
Are peeping o'er my shoulder as I work,
The heads shake still—"It's art's decline, my son!
You're not of the true painters, great and old;
Brother Angelico's the man, you'll find;
Brother Lorenzo stands his single peer:
Fag on at flesh, you'll never make the third!”
Flower o' the pine,
You keep your mistr ...manners, and I'll stick to mine!
I'm not the third, then: bless us, they must know!
Don't you think they're the likeliest to know,
They with their Latin? So, I swallow my rage,
Clench my teeth, suck my lips in tight, and paint
To please them—sometimes do and sometimes don't;
For, doing most, there's pretty sure to come
A turn, some warm eve finds me at my saints—
A laugh, a cry, the business of the world—
(Flower o' the peach,
Death for us all, and his own life for each!)
And my whole soul revolves, the cup runs over,
The world and life's too big to pass for a dream,
And I do these wild things in sheer despite,
And play the fooleries you catch me at,
In pure rage! The old mill-horse, out at grass
After hard years, throws up his stiff heels so,
Although the miller does not preach to him
The only good of grass is to make chaff.
What would men have? Do they like grass or no—
May they or mayn't they? all I want's the thing
Settled for ever one way. As it is,
You tell too many lies and hurt yourself:
You don't like what you only like too much,
You do like what, if given you at your word,
You find abundantly detestable.
For me, I think I speak as I was taught;
I always see the garden and God there
A-making man's wife: and, my lesson learned,
The value and significance of flesh,
I can't unlearn ten minutes afterwards.
You understand me: I'm a beast, I know.
But see, now—why, I see as certainly
As that the morning-star's about to shine,
What will hap some day. We've a youngster here
Comes to our convent, studies what I do,
Slouches and stares and lets no atom drop:
His name is Guidi—he'll not mind the monks—
They call him Hulking Tom, he lets them talk—
He picks my practice up—he'll paint apace,
I hope so—though I never live so long,
I know what's sure to follow. You be judge!
You speak no Latin more than I, belike,
However, you're my man, you've seen the world
—The beauty and the wonder and the power,
The shapes of things, their colours, lights and shades,
Changes, surprises, —and God made it all!
—For what? Do you feel thankful, ay or no,
For this fair town's face, yonder river's line,
The mountain round it and the sky above,
Much more the figures of man, woman, child,
These are the frame to? What's it all about?
To be passed over, despised? or dwelt upon,
Wondered at? oh, this last of course!—you say.
But why not do as well as say,—paint these
Just as they are, careless what comes of it?
God's works—paint any one, and count it crime
To let a truth slip. Don't object, "His works
Are here already; nature is complete:
Suppose you reproduce her—(which you can't)
There's no advantage! you must beat her, then."
For, don't you mark? we're made so that we love
First when we see them painted, things we have passed
Perhaps a hundred times nor cared to see;
And so they are better, painted—better to us,
Which is the same thing. Art was given for that;
God uses us to help each other so,
Lending our minds out. Have you noticed, now,
Your cullion's hanging face? A bit of chalk,
And trust me but you should, though! How much more,
If I drew higher things with the same truth!
That were to take the Prior's pulpit-place,
Interpret God to all of you! Oh, oh,
It makes me mad to see what men shall do
And we in our graves! This world's no blot for us,
Nor blank; it means intensely, and means good:
To find its meaning is my meat and drink.
"Ay, but you don't so instigate to prayer!"
Strikes in the Prior: "when your meaning's plain
It does not say to folk—remember matins,
Or, mind you fast next Friday!" Why, for this
What need of art at all? A skull and bones,
Two bits of stick nailed crosswise, or, what's best,
A bell to chime the hour with, does as well.
I painted a Saint Laurence six months since
At Prato, splashed the fresco in fine style:
"How looks my painting, now the scaffold's down?"
I ask a brother: "Hugely," he returns—
"Already not one phiz of your three slaves
Who turn the Deacon off his toasted side,
But's scratched and prodded to our heart's content,
The pious people have so eased their own
With coming to say prayers there in a rage:
We get on fast to see the bricks beneath.
Expect another job this time next year,
For pity and religion grow i'the crowd—
Your painting serves its purpose!" Hang the fools!
—That is—you'll not mistake an idle word
Spoke in a huff by a poor monk, God wot,
Tasting the air this spicy night which turns
The unaccustomed head like Chianti wine!
Oh, the church knows! don't misreport me, now!
It's natural a poor monk out of bounds
Should have his apt word to excuse himself:
And hearken how I plot to make amends.
I have bethought me: I shall paint a piece
...There's for you! Give me six months, then go, see
Something in Sant'Ambrogio's! Bless the nuns!
They want a cast o'my office. I shall paint
God in the midst, Madonna and her babe,
Ringed by a bowery flowery angel-brood,
Lilies and vestments and white faces, sweet
As puff on puff of grated orris-root
When ladies crowd to Church at midsummer.
And then i'the front, of course a saint or two—
Saint John, because he saves the Florentines,
Saint Ambrose, who puts down in black and white
The convent's friends and gives them a long day,
And Job, I must have him there past mistake,
The man of Uz (and Us without the z,
Painters who need his patience). Well, all these
Secured at their devotion, up shall come
Out of a corner when you least expect,
As one by a dark stair into a great light,
Music and talking, who but Lippo! I!—
Mazed, motionless and moonstruck—I'm the man!
Back I shrink—what is this I see and hear?
I, caught up with my monk's-things by mistake,
My old serge gown and rope that goes all round,
I, in this presence, this pure company!
Where's a hole, where's a corner for escape?
Then steps a sweet angelic slip of a thing
Forward, puts out a soft palm—"Not so fast!”
—Addresses the celestial presence, "nay—
He made you and devised you, after all,
Though he's none of you! Could Saint John there draw—
His camel-hair make up a painting-brush?
We come to brother Lippo for all that,
Iste perfecit opus! " So, all smile—
I shuffle sideways with my blushing face
Under the cover of a hundred wings
Thrown like a spread of kirtles when you're gay
And play hot cockles, all the doors being shut,
Till, wholly unexpected, in there pops
The hothead husband! Thus I scuttle off
To some safe bench behind, not letting go
The palm of her, the little lily thing
That spoke the good word for me in the nick,
Like the Prior's niece...Saint Lucy, I would say.
And so all's saved for me, and for the church
A pretty picture gained. Go, six months hence!
Your hand, sir, and good-bye: no lights, no lights!
The street's hushed, and I know my own way back,
Don't fear me! There's the grey beginning. Zooks!
利波·利比兄弟
我是可怜的利波兄弟，对不起！
你们不必用火把杵到我脸上。我的天，
有什么好责怪的？你们想：怎么回事？
你们在后半夜，看见了一个修士！
你们在巡逻，在这巷口捉到了我——
这儿的风流娘们儿只把大门半掩着。
我是卡尔美尼修道院的，去搜吧，去呀，
袭击它，如果你们想显得热心的话，
在那里找出只大老鼠，他碰巧
跑错了洞，咬住每只悄悄地爬来
和他做伴的温柔的小白鼠，吱吱吱！
啊哈，你们认识你们的上级吧？那么，
你们就会拿开乱掐我脖子的手，
并且认识认识我。这是谁？先生，
是个住在三条街外的朋友家的人——
他就是……你们叫他什么来着？——
哦……科西莫·美第奇 老爷，他住在
拐角的那座房子里。喝！你们真好！
你们被绞死的那天，记住告诉我，
你们是多么喜欢这种掐脖子的把戏！
但是你，先生，这跟你有关系，
叫你的无赖们学文明点免得败坏你名声。
我的天，难道我们是沙丁鱼，他们把
在街上网住的一切都当合法捕捞品？
他是丝毫不差的犹大，我是说那个人！
正是这么一张脸！喔，先生，你在道歉。
啊，我没生气！吩咐这些羞愧的人
拿这点钱去喝几杯吧，去祝愿
那个庇护我的慷慨的家族健康，
也为其他许多人祝酒，小伙子们！
现在已成平局。我愿照着那人的脸——
他靠在同伴身上，在门边，
带着长枪和灯笼——画那个奴隶，
他一手抓住施洗约翰 的头发提着那头，
（“现在请注意，”他会说）
另一手拿着他的武器，还没擦干净！
你不会碰巧有根粉笔木炭什么的？
否则你会明白的！是的，我就是
那个画家，既然你这样称呼我，
什么？利波兄弟的所作所为，一切详情
你都知道，而且喜欢听？很可能！
我看见你的眼睛闪出了得体的光——
告诉你，一开始我就喜欢你的模样。
现在让我们坐下来，把事情说清楚。
春天到了，夜里人们成群结队
在城里转，唱着狂欢节的歌，
而我被关在笼子里已经三周，
为那个大人物画圣人，除了圣人
还是圣人。我不能整夜画画呀——
哎！我探身到窗外去呼吸新鲜空气。
传来急促的脚步声，小小的脚，
一阵阵琴声、笑声和歌声，——
金雀花儿香，
没有爱情，我们的世界像坟场！花儿美，
莉莎走了，我活得还有什么滋味？
百里香花儿——如此等等。她们绕过去。
刚转过墙角，就发出吃吃笑声，
像兔子在月下蹦跳——三个苗条身影——
一张仰望的脸……天哪，先生，有血有肉，
我正是用血肉造成！全部床上用品——
床罩、被单还有窗帘，
全都变成布条，打了十几个结，
梯子有了！我把自己放下去，
手脚并用，连爬带溜，降在她们后面，
到了圣洛伦佐教堂旁边，我追上她们，
跟她们一起玩耍，亲热又随便，——
玫瑰花儿好，
只要我开心了，管他谁知道？
一两年只吃果皮、瓜皮和豆壳、
垃圾和废物。一个霜冻的晴天里，
我的肚子像你的帽子一样空，
风把我吹得蜷起身子来回地走。
拉芭恰老姨妈用一只手揪住我，
据我所知，那另一手是个敲诈者，
这样经过一道墙又走过一座桥，
径直来到修道院。在那里，
当我站着大嚼一个月来第一片面包，
“这么说，孩子，”肥胖的好神父说，
一边擦着他的嘴，那正是茶点时间，——
“你有意抛弃这个悲惨世界？
你愿声明抛弃……”抛弃一口面包？我想；
决不！简言之，他们迫使我做了修士；
我确实抛弃了世界，它的华贵和贪婪，
宫殿、农庄、别墅、银行和商店，
废话……也就是可怜的美第奇家族
醉心的东西——这全是在八岁时发生的。
是啊，先生，我及时找到了——可以肯定，
这不是白得的——吃饱的肚子，
温暖的衣料和围腰的绳子，
还有幸福的终日无所事事！接着是——
“让我们看看这顽童适合干点什么”——
我和他们不太对路，我得承认。
好一阵骚乱！他们用书折磨我，
上帝啊，他们白费劲儿想教我读拉丁文！
丁香花儿开，
我懂的全部拉丁文，就是“amo”我爱！
但是，如果一个小孩在街上挨饿，
总共才八岁，像我的命运那样子，
随时注视人们的脸，看看谁会
把他想要的吃剩的葡萄枝扔过来，
谁将要骂他、踢他，来报答他的辛苦——
哪位手持蜡烛在队列中行进
去参加圣餐礼的好绅士，
会使眼色让他举起一个盘，
接住滴下的蜡油，好拿去卖，
或者叫地方官来把他抽一顿——
噢，不，——我是说，哪只狗咬人，
哪只狗从杂碎堆上把骨头扔下来，——
这样，他的灵魂和感觉都变得很敏锐，
他记住各种事物的外貌，仍是出于
饥饿的痛苦对他的警告。
他有一仓库这种观察心得，相信我，
在我有了闲暇后，它们就有用了。
我在习字本上描画人的脸，
在圣歌集的页边乱涂乱画，
把臂呀腿呀和长长的音符结合起来，
发现鼻、眼、下巴可以代替A和B，
我画了一连串世界的图画
在动词、名词变化的空当里，
在墙上、凳上和门上。修士们满脸怒气。
“不，”院长说，“你们说把他赶出去？
决不。丢了一只乌鸦，捉到一只百灵。
说不定最后我们加尔默罗会修士
可像卡马尔多利修士和多明我修士一样，
让这个天才把我们的教堂装饰漂亮，
给它装上个早就该有的门面！”
于是他们吩咐我不停地乱画。真感谢！
我的头脑已塞满，他们的墙是空白，
从未如此及时地卸去沉重负担。
先是各种修士，黑的和白的，
胖的和瘦的，然后是教堂里的人：
闲聊的好老人，他们等着去忏悔，
因为偷了桶里漏出的东西和蜡烛头，——
和那个上气不接下气的家伙，
他刚杀了个人，安全地坐在祭坛前，
一群小孩惊奇地围着他，
一半是因为他的大胡子，
一半是因为被害者儿子的狂怒，
他用一只狂暴的臂向他挥拳头，
用另一只手对自己画十字，为了基督
（他那十字架上的悲伤的脸只能看见
这个，在他一千多年的受难之后）。
还有那穷姑娘，她的围裙蒙在头上，
急切的眼睛从围裙中向外望，
傍晚她悄悄走来，说了句话，
扔下面包、耳环和一束花，那混蛋
嘟嘟哝哝地接了，她祷告，就走了。
我都画了，然后喊“凡祈求的就得着 ——
随便看吧，更多的已画好！”——梯子放倒，
把盖好的那块修道院墙露出来。
修士们围成一圈，大声称赞，直到有人
制止他们——教他们什么该看什么不该看，
因为他们头脑太简单——“这是那个人！
瞧那个弯腰去拍狗的小男孩！
那女人很像院长的侄女 ，她常来
伺候他的哮喘病：活生生的！”
但我胜利的麦秆火刚烧旺就冒了烟——
轮到他们的上级来观看和评判：
院长和有学问的人士做鬼脸，
马上制止了这一切。“怎么？这是什么？
离绘画的标准太遥远，上帝保佑！
脸、臂、腿和身体都像真的一样，正如
这粒豆和那粒豆那么像！魔鬼的游戏！
你的任务不是通过奇妙的外观，
通过对易朽的肉体的崇敬去迷住人们，
而是把人们提高到肉体之上，
完全忽视它，使人忘记有肉这种东西。
你的任务是描画人们的灵魂——
人的灵魂，它是火，烟……不，它不是……
它是一包新生婴儿形状的蒸汽——
（你死时它以这种形状从你的嘴出去）
它是……嗯，不管怎么说，它是灵魂！
别给我们看超出灵魂的肉体！
这是乔托 ，他画的赞颂上帝的圣徒，
这使你去赞颂——为什么不停在他这里？
为何要用奇妙的线条、色彩，诸如此类，
取代我们头脑中赞颂的念头？
要画灵魂，决不要管那臂和腿！
全部擦掉，试试再画一回。
啊，那个白净小巧、胸部丰满的女子
正是我的侄女……我该说是希罗底，——
她去跳舞，叫人把男人的头割下来 ——
全部擦掉！”这有道理吗？我问，
画灵魂的好办法，是把身体画得很丑，
眼睛看不得，只好继续走，而且
还不能越走越糟！这样，黄当白来用，
你当黄色画上去的简直是黑色，
任何一种含义都显得很强烈，
而其他一切都绝对不重要，不美观。
为什么画家不能轮流提一只脚，
左脚和右脚，两只脚走路，
把肉体画得更像，把灵魂画得更好，
两者各得其所？就说那张最漂亮的脸，
院长的侄女……守护神——它那么漂亮，
你就不能看出它是否表示害怕、希望、
快乐、悲伤？美不能和这些并存吗？
假设我把她的眼睛画得蔚蓝好看，
就不能歇口气再加上生命的闪光，
然后再加灵魂，并使这一切三倍地生色？
或说有种完全没有灵魂的美丽——
（我从未看见过——假定情况如此——）
如果你得到纯粹的美而没有其他，
你几乎得到了上帝创造的最好的东西，
那只说对一点点。当你感谢他时，
你将在自己身上发现你漏掉的灵魂。
“全擦掉！”好吧，总之我的生命在那里。
从那时起事情就一直这样继续。
无疑我已长大成人，我已打破限制——
你不应该抓住一个八岁的小孩子，
迫使他发誓永不亲吻女孩们，现在，
我是自己的主人，想怎么画就怎么画——
有个朋友，你瞧，在拐角的房子里！
上帝，那房子是靠前面的大环站稳的——
那些环不仅可以插旗和拴马，
而且有更大的用处！
但旧时的戒尺，旧时的严肃眼睛
仍在我工作时从我肩后窥视，
那些头仍在摇——“这是艺术的衰退，
我的孩子！你不是真正的大画家，
安吉利科兄弟才是那种人，你会发现；
洛伦佐兄弟是唯一能与他匹敌的。
你在肉体上下功夫，永远成不了第三个！”
松花开满树，
各有各的情（妇），各走各的路！
那么我不是第三个，他们应该知道！
你不认为懂得拉丁文的他们
是最应该知道的吗？这样我吞下怒气，
咬紧牙关，抿紧嘴唇，为满足他们而画——
有时这样做，有时却不然，因为，
做到了极点，肯定会来一个转变，
有个温暖的晚上，我正在画圣人——
声声笑，声声叫，是尘世的事情——
（桃花一朵朵，
人人都有死，各人要自己活！）
我的整个灵魂在旋转，酒杯满溢，
世界和生活太大，一个梦梦不完，
于是我做放荡的事，纯粹出于怨恨；
演出你捉到我时的那种蠢举，
完全是因为愤怒！磨坊老马辛苦多年后，
放到草场上，把僵硬的蹄子踢得那么欢，
虽然磨坊主没对他宣讲；
青草的唯一好处是可以做饲料。
人愿意要什么？他们是否喜欢草？
可以喜欢还是不可以？我就想把这事
用一种办法永远解决：实际上
有些人说谎太多而伤了他们自己。
他们不喜欢的东西恰是他们最喜欢的，
他们很喜欢的，如果真给了他们，
他们发现它是特别令人厌恶的。
我呢？我想是教我什么我就说什么，
我总是看见乐园，看见上帝在那里
制造人的妻子——而我学会的功课，
肉体的价值和意义，
我不能一转眼又把它忘记。
你了解我；我是个畜生，我知道。
但是瞧，现在——我很肯定地看到——
就像晨星快要照耀那么肯定——
什么事将要发生。我们有个小伙子，
来到修道院，学习我这行，
他聚精会神地看，点滴不放过，
他叫圭迪——他将不听修士们那一套——
他们叫他大个汤姆，他随他们去说——
他学会我的经验——他将飞快地画，
我希望如此——虽然我不会活那么久，
我知道情况准会怎样变。你来当评判！
你多半像我一样不懂拉丁文——
然而，你是我的人，你见过世界
——美丽、神奇、力量，
万物的形状，它们的色、光、影，
变化无穷，令人惊奇——全是上帝造的！
——为什么？你感到欣慰吗？喜欢吗？
当你看到这美丽的城市的容貌，
那河的线条，周围的山，上面的天，
不用说还有男人、女人、孩子的身影，
在这些风景里？这都是怎么回事？
忽略它，藐视它？还是凝视它，
感到惊奇？啊，当然是后者！——你说。
但为什么光说不做——为什么不把这些
如实地画出来，不管带来什么后果？
上帝的作品——随便画哪件，漏掉
一点真实，都是罪恶。不要反驳说：
“他的作品已存在——自然是完美的，
假定你复制它——（这个你做不到）
没有好处！那么，你就必须胜过它。”
因为，你没注意到吗？我们生性如此：
我们见过百次却没注意看的东西，
当它们被画出来，我们就喜欢了；
所以画出来后它们就更好了——对于我们，
同样也更好。艺术是为这而给我们的——
上帝使我们习惯于这样互相帮助，
贡献我们的才智。比如说你是否注意到
你的坏蛋的哭丧脸？给我个粉笔头，
你就相信我好了！如果我同样逼真地
去画高深的东西，那就更不用说！
那会占领院长布道的讲坛，
向你们大家解释上帝！啊，想一想，
我们进坟墓后人们将要做什么，
真使我激动万分！这世界不是污点，
也不是空白——它意义重大，它意味着好：
去发现它的意义是我的粮食和饮料。
“嗨，但你没有煽动人们去祷告！”
院长插嘴，“当你的含义太简单，
它不对人们说——记住晨祷，
别忘了下周五你的斋戒日！”唉，为这个，
哪用得着艺术？一个骷髅两根骨头，
两根棍子钉成十字形，或者，
最好是一个报时的铃，也都一样行。
半年前我在普拉托画了一幅圣洛伦佐，
我精细地描绘了那幅壁画：“脚手架
已经拆掉，我的画看起来怎么样？”
我问一个兄弟。“非常好，”他回答——
“把执事 从烤好的一边翻过去的
那三个奴隶的脸，已没有一个是完好的，
个个被抓破、戳烂，直到我们的心满意，
虔诚的百姓也这样做来安慰他们的心，
他们到这里来，在愤怒中念诵祈祷文：
我们很快就会看到里面的墙砖。
你等着明年这时候的另一件工作吧，
因为人们的怜悯和虔诚在增长——
你的画到达了它目的！”该死的傻瓜们！
我是说——你不会误解一个可怜的修士
在气恼中的一番闲聊吧？上帝知道，
因为我闻到了这芬芳的夜晚的空气，
它像美酒使这不习惯的头脑直发晕！
啊，教会知道！不要歪曲地告发我！
当然咯，一个越轨的可怜的修士
自会找到恰当的话来开脱自己：
听明白我计划如何去改正。
我考虑，我将画一幅画……当真的！
给我六个月，再到圣安布罗斯教堂去，
看看那里有什么！上帝保佑修女们！
她们要我的全班人马。我将这样画：
上帝在中间，圣母和她的小宝贝，
被一窝小天使和鲜花枝叶环绕，
百合花、衣裙和白皙的脸，像夏日里，
女士们成群去教堂时发出的
一阵阵鸢尾油香气那么甜蜜。
在前景中，当然有一两个圣徒——
圣约翰，因为他保佑佛罗伦萨人，
圣安布罗斯，他写下的教规制服了
修道院的朋友们，叫他们整天忙个不停，
还有约伯，画上他就保险不犯错误，
他是乌斯人，（换个字母就是我们的人，
我们是缺少他那种耐心的画家们。）
他们全都规矩地祈祷，你料不到，
像是从黑暗的楼梯来到亮光里，
突然从角落里冒出来一个人，
说着唱着，除了利波还有谁？我！——
迷惑，发呆，茫然——这人是我！
我畏缩——我看到了、听到了什么？
我，突然错误地来到这群人里，
这纯洁的一伙中，穿着我的修士装束——
旧哔叽长袍，围腰的绳子！
哪儿有地洞，哪儿有角落让我躲避？
这时一位甜蜜的天使般的小东西
走上前伸出温柔的手——“别忙！”
——她对天国的人们说，“而且——
毕竟是他创造了、设计了你们，虽然
他不是你们中的一个！那圣约翰 会画吗？
他的骆驼毛能做画笔吗？尽管如此，
我们还是来到了利波兄弟这里，
此人完成了这作品！ ”于是我笑吟吟地、
笨手笨脚地溜向旁边，把羞红的脸
藏在一百个翅膀下面，它们像
人们快乐地玩着蒙眼猜人游戏时，
那些张开的裙子；所有的门都关着，
完全没料到，那边突然进来了
暴躁的丈夫！于是我急忙逃走，
逃到后面一条安全的长凳上，
没放开她的手，那小小的百合花，
她在关键时刻替我说好话，
长得像院长的侄女——我该说像圣露西。
如此既保全了我，教堂也得到
一幅漂亮的画。去，六个月以后！
再见，先生，握握手：不用灯火！
街上已静下来，我认识回家的路，
不必怕我！黎明即将来临。我的天！
"Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came"
(See Edgar's song in "LEAR")
My first thought was, he lied in every word,
That hoary cripple, with malicious eye
Askance to watch the working of his lie
On mine, and mouth scarce able to afford
Suppression of the glee, that pursed and scored
Its edge, at one more victim gained thereby.
What else should he be set for, with his staff?
What, save to waylay with his lies, ensnare
All travellers who might find him posted there,
And ask the road? I guessed what skull-like laugh
Would break, what crutch 'gin write my epitaph
For pastime in the dusty thoroughfare,
If at his counsel I should turn aside
Into that ominous tract which, all agree,
Hides the Dark Tower. Yet acquiescingly
I did turn as he pointed: neither pride,
Nor hope rekindling at the end descried,
So much as gladness that some end might be.
For, what with my whole world-wide wandering,
What with my search drawn out thro'years, my hope
Dwindled into a ghost not fit to cope
With that obstreperous joy success would bring,—
I hardly tried now to rebuke the spring
My heart made, finding failure in its scope.
As when a sick man very near to death
Seems dead indeed, and feels begin and end
The tears and takes the farewell of each friend,
And hears one bid the other go, draw breath
Freelier outside, ("since all is o'er," he saith,
"And the blow fallen no grieving can amend;”)
While some discuss if near the other graves
Be room enough for this, and when a day
Suits best for carrying the corpse away,
With care about the banners, scarves and staves:
And still the man hears all, and only craves
He may not shame such tender love and stay.
Thus, I had so long suffered in this quest,
Heard failure prophesied so oft, been writ
So many times among "The Band" —to wit,
The knights who to the Dark Tower's search addressed
Their steps—that just to fail as they, seemed best,
And all the doubt was now—should I be fit?
So, quiet as despair, I turned from him,
That hateful cripple, out of his highway
Into the path he pointed. All the day
Had been a dreary one at best, and dim
Was settling to its close, yet shot one grim
Red leer to see the plain catch its estray.
For mark! no sooner was I fairly found
Pledged to the plain, after a pace or two,
Than, pausing to throw backward a last view
O'er the safe road, 'twas gone; grey plain all round:
Nothing but plain to the horizon's bound.
I might go on; nought else remained to do.
So, on I went. I think I never saw
Such starved ignoble nature; nothing throve:
For flowers—as well expect a cedar grove!
But cockle, spurge, according to their law
Might propagate their kind, with none to awe,
You'd think; a burr had been a treasure-trove.
No! penury, inertness and grimace,
In some strange sort, were the land's portion. "See
Or shut your eyes, "said Nature peevishly,
"It nothing skills: I cannot help my case:
'Tis the Last Judgment's fire must cure this place,
Calcine its clods and set my prisoners free."
If there pushed any ragged thistle-stalk
Above its mates, the head was chopped; the bents
Were jealous else. What made those holes and rents
In the dock's harsh swarth leaves, bruised as to baulk
All hope of greenness? 'tis a brute must walk
Pashing their life out, with a brute's intents.
As for the grass, it grew as scant as hair
In leprosy; thin dry blades pricked the mud
Which underneath looked kneaded up with blood.
One stiff blind horse, his every bone a-stare,
Stood stupefied, however he came there:
Thrust out past service from the devil's stud!
Alive? he might be dead for aught I know,
With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain,
And shut eyes underneath the rusty mane;
Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe;
I never saw a brute I hated so;
He must be wicked to deserve such pain.
I shut my eyes and turned them on my heart.
As a man calls for wine before he fights,
I asked one draught of earlier, happier sights,
Ere fitly I could hope to play my part.
Think first, fight afterwards—the soldier's art:
One taste of the old time sets all to rights.
Not it! I fancied Cuthbert's reddening face
Beneath its garniture of curly gold,
Dear fellow, till I almost felt him fold
An arm in mine to fix me to the place,
That way he used. Alas, one night's disgrace!
Out went my heart's new fire and left it cold.
Giles then, the soul of honour—there he stands
Frank as ten years ago when knighted first.
What honest man should dare (he said) he durst.
Good—but the scene shifts—faugh! what hangman-hands
Pin to his breast a parchment? His own bands
Read it. Poor traitor, spit upon and curst!
Better this present than a past like that;
Back therefore to my darkening path again!
No sound, no sight as far as eye could strain.
Will the night send a howlet or a bat?
I asked: when something on the dismal flat
Came to arrest my thoughts and change their train.
A sudden little river crossed my path
As unexpected as a serpent comes.
No sluggish tide congenial to the glooms;
This, as it frothed by, might have been a bath
For the fiend's glowing hoof—to see the wrath
Of its black eddy bespate with flakes and spumes.
So petty yet so spiteful! All along,
Low scrubby alders kneeled down over it;
Drenched willows flung them headlong in a fit
Of mute despair, a suicidal throng:
The river which had done them all the wrong,
Whate'er that was, rolled by, deterred no whit.
Which, while I forded, —good saints, how I feared
To set my foot upon a dead man's cheek,
Each step, or feel the spear I thrust to seek
For hollows, tangled in his hair or beard!
—It may have been a water-rat I speared,
But, ugh! it sounded like a baby's shriek.
Glad was I when I reached the other bank.
Now for a better country. Vain presage!
Who were the strugglers, what war did they wage,
Whose savage trample thus could pad the dank
Soil to a plash? Toads in a poisoned tank,
Or wild cats in a red-hot iron cage—
The fight must so have seemed in that fell cirque.
What penned them there, with all the plain to choose?
No foot-print leading to that horrid mews,
None out of it. Mad brewage set to work
Their brains, no doubt, like galley-slaves the Turk
Pits for his pastime, Christians against Jews.
And more than that—a furlong on—why, there!
What bad use was that engine for, that wheel,
Or brake, not wheel—that harrow fit to reel
Men's bodies out like silk? with all the air
Of Tophet's tool, on earth left unaware,
Or brought to sharpen its rusty teeth of steel.
Then came a bit of stubbed ground, once a wood,
Next a marsh, it would seem, and now mere earth
Desperate and done with; (so a fool finds mirth,
Makes a thing and then mars it, till his mood
Changes and off he goes!) within a rood—
Bog, clay and rubble, sand and stark black dearth.
Now blotches rankling, coloured gay and grim,
Now patches where some leanness of the soil's
Broke into moss or substances like boils;
Then came some palsied oak, a cleft in him
Like a distorted mouth that splits its rim
Gaping at death, and dies while it recoils.
And just as far as ever from the end!
Nought in the distance but the evening, nought
To point my footstep further! At the thought,
A great black bird, Apollyon's bosom-friend,
Sailed past, nor beat his wide wing dragon-penned
That brushed my cap—perchance the guide I sought.
For, looking up, aware I somehow grew,
'Spite of the dusk, the plain had given place
All round to mountains—with such name to grace
Mere ugly heights and heaps now stolen in view.
How thus they had surprised me,—solve it, you!
How to get from them was no clearer case.
Yet half I seemed to recognize some trick
Of mischief happened to me, God knows when—
In a bad dream perhaps. Here ended, then,
Progress this way. When, in the very nick
Of giving up, one time more, came a click
As when a trap shuts—you're inside the den!
Burningly it came on me all at once,
This was the place! those two hills on the right,
Crouched like two bulls locked horn in horn in fight;
While to the left, a tall scalped mountain...Dunce,
Dotard, a-dozing at the very nonce,
After a life spent training for the sight!
What in the midst lay but the Tower itself?
The round squat turret, blind as the fool's heart,
Built of brown stone, without a counterpart
In the whole world. The tempest's mocking elf
Points to the shipman thus the unseen shelf
He strikes on, only when the timbers start.
Not see? because of night perhaps?—why, day
Came back again for that! before it left,
The dying sunset kindled through a cleft:
The hills, like giants at a hunting, lay,
Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay,—
"Now stab and end the creature—to the heft!"
Not hear? when noise was everywhere! it tolled
Increasing like a bell. Names in my ears
Of all the lost adventurers my peers,—
How such a one was strong, and such was bold,
And such was fortunate, yet each of old
Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years.
There they stood, ranged along the hill-sides, met
To view the last of me, a living frame
For one more picture! in a sheet of flame
I saw them and I knew them all. And yet
Dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set,
And blew. "Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came ."
“罗兰公子来到了暗塔”
（参见《李尔》中爱德伽的歌 ）
我马上感到他的每句话都是说谎。
那个白发瘸子用他恶毒的眼神
观察谎言对我的效果有几分；
他看到又一个牺牲者入罗网，
高兴得几乎嘴都合不上，
弄得他的嘴边全是皱纹。
除了说谎拦截和诱捕每一名
看见他守在那儿就问路的旅行者，
他带根拐杖等着做什么？我猜测
他将发出一阵骷髅的大笑声，
并用那拐杖把我的墓志铭
写在路面的尘土中来取乐。
如果听他的劝告，我该转向一旁
走进那片不祥之地，人人都同意
暗塔就隐藏在那里。我默默地
照他的指点转了弯，与其说前方
看到了在尽头复燃的豪情和希望，
不如说感到了终会有尽头的欢喜。
因为，由于我满世界的颠沛流浪，
由于我多年的探求和寻觅，
我的希望已细微如丝，再也经不起
成功可能带来的热闹和欢畅，
现在我再不去制止我的心脏
因为看到失败的前途而惊悸。
正像临终的病人，看来已经咽气
却仍能听到哭泣开始，哭泣停止，
他接受了每位朋友的告辞，
听见一个告诉另一个，出去呼吸
新鲜空气（“既然一切都已完毕”，
他说，“灾祸既来，哀伤无济于事”）。
有些人讨论那几个坟旁边
还有没有够他用的一块地方，
哪一天最适合给死人出丧，
又谈三角旗、长条幡，和旗杆，
这人还全都听得见，一心只盼
别辜负了亲切的友爱而留在世上。
就这样，我在探险中历尽艰辛，
多少次听到过失败的预言，
多少次已被列入“那一帮”名单——
我只能继续走，别无他途。
因此我往前走。我想我从未见到
如此贫瘠的土，不长草和木，
没有花，也别盼望小松树！
找到颗牛蒡就像挖得了财宝。
你会想，杂草总能自行其道
繁衍种族吧？那势头谁也挡不住。
空想！出奇的贫瘠、荒凉、
丑怪，是这片土地的天数。
大自然抱怨说：“不想看就把眼闭住，
没有办法，我改变不了我的状况，
要等最后审判的火，来医治这地方，
煅烧它的土，释放我的俘虏。”
纵有几根乱蓟秆，突出同伴之上，
它们的头也已砍断——免惹芦苇妒羡。
是什么把阔叶草粗黑的叶片
弄得百孔千疮，毁掉了转绿希望？
准是有恶人走过，出于恶人心肠，
故意把它们的生命摧残。
茅草像麻风病人的头发那么稀，
干瘦的草叶刺进泥泞，
那泥看来是用血揉成。
一匹僵硬的瞎马，骨架上包层皮——
不知怎样走来的——麻木地站在那里，
因老而无用，被赶出魔鬼的马棚！
是活的？说不定是匹死马，
红色的、多皱的脖子布满伤痕，
闭着的眼睛藏在肮脏的鬃毛下；
这么丑又这么惨的东西实在少有；
我从未见过叫我如此厌恶的牲口；
他准是因为邪恶而受此惩罚。
我闭上眼，把目光转向心灵深处。
正如人们要先喝酒再上战场，
我要先回想往日的快乐时光，
才有希望完成我的任务。
先想想，再战斗，是士兵的艺术；
回忆往事会使一切恢复正常！
不灵验！我想起卡思伯特发红的脸，
金色鬈发装饰着他的脸庞，
亲爱的伙伴，我几乎感到他的臂膀
挽住了我，稳稳地把我扶搀，
从前他总是这样。唉！受辱在一夜间！
我心中新的火灭了，它依然冰凉。
然后是光荣的贾尔斯在那边，依旧
像十年前封骑士时一样磊落。
他说凡是君子敢做的，他也敢做，
很好——但景象变了，哪个刽子手
在他胸前别张羊皮纸？他的朋友
读了它。可怜的叛徒，备受鄙薄。
那么个过去，还不如眼前这境地；
因此又回到这渐暗的小路上。
极目远望，什么都不见，也没声响。
夜会派来蝙蝠和猫头鹰吗？我问自己。
这时阴暗的平原上有件东西，
引起我的注意，打断了我的思想。
一条突然出现的小河拦住了我，
像窜出条毒蛇似的出乎料想。
没有怠惰的晚潮伴随暮色苍茫，
来看水沫飞溅的发怒的黑旋涡。
这小河冒着泡流过，它容或
是魔王洗过炽热蹄子的浴缸。
它这么小，却又那么狠心！
瘦小的桤树跪倒在河岸两旁；
浸湿的柳树们怀着无声的绝望
一头扑向河心——是自杀的一群：
不知这条河怎样虐待了她们，
它却滚滚流去，一点不受阻挡。
当我涉水渡河时——天哪！每一步
都提心吊胆，怕踩上个死人的脸，
觉得我插下去探路的矛尖
缠住了他的头发或者络腮胡！
我可能是刺到了一只水老鼠，
但是，呀！那声音却像婴儿在喊。
登上对岸时我很高兴，我要出发
走到较好的地方了。错误的预料！
那些战士是谁？发生了什么战争风暴？
是谁的野蛮的脚把潮湿的地下
踩成了水洼？毒水槽里的蛤蟆，
或是烧红的铁笼里的野猫——
可怕的竞技场的搏斗想必如此。平原茫茫，
何必选择此地圈起他们？没有脚印走进
恐怖的围栏，也没有出来的脚印。
准是疯狂的酿造使他们的头脑发酵膨胀，
像土耳其人为了消遣，令奴隶们互相
搏斗厮杀——基督徒对犹太人。
还有呢？——看，就在不远的地方，
那引擎，那轮子——噢，它是个闸，
还有适于把人体抽成丝的耙，
都有些什么坏用场？它们的模样
很像人祭工具。他们被遗弃在地上，
或是拿到这里来磨快生锈的钢牙。
然后是一片树桩，从前是树林，后来
大概成了沼泽，现已遭废弃；
（正如一个傻子一时兴起，做了件东西
又把它毁掉，情绪变了就走开！）
几亩大的范围里，泥坑、石块、
沙子、淤泥，一片不毛之地。
忽而是树斑在发炎，颜色鲜明可畏，
忽而是块块地皮，土质特别次，
生出苔藓和疖子似的物质；
然后是一颗橡树，瘫痪、枯萎，
身上的裂口像张撕破嘴唇的歪嘴，
它目瞪口呆地望着死神，退缩而死。
目的地还是那么远，跟原来一样！
远处什么都没有，只有暮色笼罩，
没人指路！正想着，一只大黑鸟——
魔王的密友——掠过我身旁，
并不拍动他的龙羽大翅膀——
它擦了我的帽——这许是我寻找的向导。
我抬头望去，尽管夜幕已降下，
不知怎的我发现整个平原已不见，
让位给了山——美其名为山，
实为溜进视野的一片土岗黑压压。
为何它们叫我如此吃惊？——你来回答！
怎样逃脱？这问题不比那个更简单。
我似乎有点意识到中了陷害诡计，
上帝知道在何时——也许在恶梦中。
那么，旅程就这样在这里告终。
当我又一次准备放弃之际，
突然听到像关上陷阱那样的
咔哒一声——你已被关进牢笼！
突然我万分激动地想到，
这就是那个地方！右边两座小山
像两头蹲伏的公牛，斗得犄角相缠，
左边是座高山，它的头皮被剥掉……
笨蛋、傻瓜才在这时候睡大觉——
就为这景象，我受了一辈子锻炼！
那立在中间的不是暗塔又是什么？
低矮的圆塔楼，暗得像白痴的头脑，
这样的褐石塔，世上再也找不到。
在风暴中作弄人的小妖魔
总是这样等到船触礁，将沉没，
才向船夫指出他撞上的暗礁。
看不见？因为天黑？——就为这，
白天回过头来！在白天离去前，
残阳透过一条缝隙射出了光线，
小山像打猎的巨人们，手托下巴颏，
趴着看山坳里的猎物——“此刻
给他狠狠一剑，叫那畜生命归天！”
听不见？然后到处是嘈杂声音！
它像钟声般越敲越响。我听见
许多名字——失败的探险者，我的伙伴，
有的那么强壮，有的那么幸运，
有的那么勇敢，但是所有故人
都毁了，毁了！一刻丧钟奏出多年苦难。
他们站在那边，一溜排在小山根，
聚观这个可装另一幅画的活框架，
看我的最后时刻！在火焰映衬下，
我看见了他们，我认识每一个人。
然而我还是无畏地把号角举向嘴唇，
吹响了。“罗兰公子来到了暗塔。”
The Statue and the Bust
There's a palace in Florence, the world knows well,
And a statue watches it from the square,
And this story of both do our townsmen tell.
Ages ago, a lady there,
At the farthest window facing the East
Asked, "Who rides by with the royal air?"
The bridesmaids'prattle around her ceased;
She leaned forth, one on either hand;
They saw how the blush of the bride increased—
They felt by its beats her heart expand—
As one at each ear and both in a breath
Whispered, "The Great-Duke Ferdinand.”
That selfsame instant, underneath,
The Duke rode past in his idle way,
Empty and fine like a swordless sheath.
Gay he rode, with a friend as gay,
Till he threw his head back—"Who is she?"
—"A bride the Riccardi brings home to-day."
Hair in heaps lay heavily
Over a pale brow spirit-pure—
Carved like the heart of the coal-black tree,
Crisped like a war-steed's encolure—
And vainly sought to dissemble her eyes
Of the blackest black our eyes endure.
And lo, a blade for a knight's emprise
Filled the fine empty sheath of a man,—
The Duke grew straightway brave and wise.
He looked at her, as a lover can;
She looked at him, as one who awakes:
The past was a sleep, and her life began.
Now, love so ordered for both their sakes,
A feast was held that selfsame night
In the pile which the mighty shadow makes.
(For Via Larga is three-parts light,
But the palace overshadows one,
Because of a crime which may God requite!
To Florence and God the wrong was done,
Through the first republic's murder there
By Cosimo and his cursed son.)
The Duke (with the statue's face in the square)
Turned in the midst of his multitude
At the bright approach of the bridal pair.
Face to face the lovers stood
A single minute and no more,
While the bridegroom bent as a man subdued—
Bowed till his bonnet brushed the floor—
For the Duke on the lady a kiss conferred,
As the courtly custom was of yore.
In a minute can lovers exchange a word?
If a word did pass, which I do not think,
Only one out of the thousand heard.
That was the bridegroom. At day's brink
He and his bride were alone at last
In a bedchamber by a taper's blink.
Calmly he said that her lot was cast,
That the door she had passed was shut on her
Till the final catafalk repassed.
The world meanwhile, its noise and stir,
Through a certain window facing the East,
She could watch like a convent's chronicler.
Since passing the door might lead to a feast,
And a feast might lead to so much beside,
He, of many evils, chose the least.
"Freely I choose too," said the bride—
"Your window and its world suffice,"
Replied the tongue, while the heart replied—
"If I spend the night with that devil twice,
May his window serve as my loop of hell
Whence a damned soul looks on paradise!
"I fly to the Duke who loves me well,
Sit by his side and laugh at sorrow
Ere I count another ave-bell.
"'Tis only the coat of a page to borrow,
And tie my hair in a horse-boy's trim,
And I save my soul—but not to-morrow"—
(She checked herself and her eye grew dim)
"My father tarries to bless my state:
I must keep it one day more for him.
"Is one day more so long to wait?
Moreover the Duke rides past, I know;
We shall see each other, sure as fate.”
She turned on her side and slept. Just so!
So we resolve on a thing and sleep:
So did the lady, ages ago.
That night the Duke said, "Dear or cheap
As the cost of this cup of bliss may prove
To body or soul, I will drain it deep."
And on the morrow, bold with love,
He beckoned the bridegroom (close on call,
As his duty bade, by the Duke's alcove)
And smiled "'Twas a very funeral,
Your lady will think, this feast of ours,—
A shame to efface, whate'er befall!
"What if we break from the Arno bowers,
And try if Petraja, cool and green,
Cure last night's fault with this morning's flowers?"
The bridegroom, not a thought to be seen
On his steady brow and quiet mouth,
Said, "Too much favour for me so mean!
"But, alas! my lady leaves the South;
Each wind that comes from the Apennine
Is a menace to her tender youth:
"Nor a way exists, the wise opine,
If she quits her palace twice this year,
To avert the flower of life's decline."
Quoth the Duke, "A sage and a kindly fear.
Moreover Petraja is cold this spring:
Be our feast to-night as usual here!"
And then to himself—"Which night shall bring
Thy bride to her lover's embraces, fool—
Or I am the fool, and thou art the king!
"Yet my passion must wait a night, nor cool—
For to-night the Envoy arrives from France
Whose heart I unlock with thyself, my tool.
"I need thee still and might miss perchance.
To-day is not wholly lost, beside,
With its hope of my lady's countenance:
"For I ride—what should I do but ride?
And passing her palace, if I list,
May glance at its window—well betide!”
So said, so done: nor the lady missed
One ray that broke from the ardent brow,
Nor a curl of the lips where the spirit kissed.
Be sure that each renewed the vow,
No morrow's sun should arise and set
And leave them then as it left them now.
But next day passed, and next day yet,
With still fresh cause to wait one day more
Ere each leaped over the parapet.
And still, as love's brief morning wore,
With a gentle start, half smile, half sigh,
They found love not as it seemed before.
They thought it would work infallibly,
But not in despite of heaven and earth:
The rose would blow when the storm passed by.
Meantime they could profit in winter's dearth
By store of fruits that supplant the rose:
The world and its ways have a certain worth:
And to press a point while these oppose
Were simple policy; better wait:
We lose no friends and we gain no foes.
Meantime, worse fates than a lover's fate,
Who daily may ride and pass and look
Where his lady watches behind the grate!
And she—she watched the square like a book
Holding one picture and only one,
Which daily to find she undertook:
When the picture was reached the book was done,
And she turned from the picture at night to scheme
Of tearing it out for herself next sun.
So weeks grew months, years; gleam by gleam
The glory dropped from their youth and love,
And both perceived they had dreamed a dream;
Which hovered as dreams do, still above:
But who can take a dream for a truth?
Oh, hide our eyes from the next remove!
One day as the lady saw her youth
Depart, and the silver thread that streaked
Her hair, and, worn by the serpent's tooth,
The brow so puckered, the chin so peaked,—
And wondered who the woman was,
Hollow-eyed and haggard-cheeked,
Fronting her silent in the glass—
"Summon here," she suddenly said,
"Before the rest of my old self pass,
"Him, the Carver, a hand to aid,
Who fashions the clay no love will change,
And fixes a beauty never to fade.
"Let Robbia's craft so apt and strange
Arrest the remains of young and fair,
And rivet them while the seasons range.
"Make me a face on the window there,
Waiting as ever, mute the while,
My love to pass below in the square!
"And let me think that it may beguile
Dreary days which the dead must spend
Down in their darkness under the aisle,
"To say, ‘What matters it at the end?
I did no more while my heart was warm
Than does that image, my pale-faced friend.'
"Where is the use of the lip's red charm,
The heaven of hair, the pride of the brow,
And the blood that blues the inside arm—
"Unless we turn, as the soul knows how,
The earthly gift to an end divine?
A lady of clay is as good, I trow."
But long ere Robbia's cornice, fine,
With flowers and fruits which leaves enlace,
Was set where now is the empty shrine—
(And, leaning out of a bright blue space,
As a ghost might lean from a chink of sky,
The passionate pale lady's face—
Eyeing ever, with earnest eye
And quick-turned neck at its breathless stretch,
Some one who ever is passing by—)
The Duke had sighed like the simplest wretch
In Florence, "Youth—my dream escapes!
Will its record stay?" And he bade them fetch
Some subtle moulder of brazen shapes—
"Can the soul, the will, die out of a man
Ere his body find the grave that gapes?
"John of Douay shall effect my plan,
Set me on horseback here aloft,
Alive, as the crafty sculptor can,
"In the very square I have crossed so oft:
That men may admire, when future suns
Shall touch the eyes to a purpose soft,
"While the mouth and the brow stay brave in bronze—
Admire and say, ‘When he was alive
How he would take his pleasure once!'
"And it shall go hard but I contrive
To listen the while, and laugh in my tomb
At idleness which aspires to strive.”
—————
So! While these wait the trump of doom,
How do their spirits pass, I wonder,
Nights and days in the narrow room?
Still, I suppose, they sit and ponder
What a gift life was, ages ago,
Six steps out of the chapel yonder.
Only they see not God, I know,
Nor all that chivalry of his,
The soldier-saints who, row on row,
Burn upward each to his point of bliss—
Since, the end of life being manifest,
He had burned his way thro'the world to this.
I hear you reproach, "But delay was best,
For their end was a crime." —Oh, a crime will do
As well, I reply, to serve for a test,
As a virtue golden through and through,
Sufficient to vindicate itself
And prove its worth at a moment's view!
Must a game be played for the sake of pelf?
Where a button goes, 'twere an epigram
To offer the stamp of the very Guelph.
The true has no value beyond the sham:
As well the counter as coin, I submit,
When your table's a hat, and your prize a dram.
Stake your counter as boldly every whit,
Venture as warily, use the same skill,
Do your best, whether winning or losing it,
If you choose to play! —is my principle.
Let a man contend to the uttermost
For his life's set prize, be it what it will!
The counter our lovers staked was lost
As surely as if it were lawful coin:
And the sin I impute to each frustrate ghost
Is—the unlit lamp and the ungirt loin,
Though the end in sight was a vice, I say.
You of the virtue (we issue join)
How strive you? De te, fabula .
骑马像和胸像
佛罗伦萨有座宫殿闻名于世，
还有个骑马像从广场对它凝望，
当地人会讲宫殿和塑像的故事。
很久很久以前，那里有位女郎，
靠在最远的那个东窗口问道：
“骑马走过的那人是谁？他高贵轩昂！”
身边的两个伴娘停止闲聊，
把探身向前的她夹在当中，
她们看见新娘的脸渐渐发烧，
她们听见她的心怦怦跳动——
她俩一人对她一个耳朵眼，
同声悄悄说：“那是斐迪南大公。”
就在这同一瞬间，就在那下面，
公爵骑马走过，像平时一样懒洋洋，
空洞而漂亮，像个空鞘没装剑。
他欢畅地骑着马，他的朋友同样欢畅，
突然他回头问道：“她是谁？”
——“是里卡迪今天娶来的新娘。”
又浓又密的秀发一堆堆，
覆盖着白皙优雅的额，
黑发像精雕细刻的乌木髓，
又像战马的鬃毛波纹曲折——
却遮不住那双眼睛，它们是那么黑，
是我们见过的最黑的黑颜色。
快看哪！一把剑——骑士的英勇无畏
装进了华丽的剑鞘——一个男人的身子，
公爵顿时浑身充满勇气和智慧。
他看着她，就像一个情人应有的样子；
她看着他，就像一个人刚刚睡醒——
过去是睡眠，现在她的生命刚开始。
正当他俩双双堕入爱河中，
就有一个宴会，当天晚上
在那座投下阴影的宫殿里举行。
（拉尔加街有四分之三很明亮，
但四分之一笼罩着宫殿的黑影子，
这是由于一桩罪行 ——愿上帝将它清偿！
科西莫和他那该死的儿子
搞阴谋把第一共和国扼杀，
对佛罗伦萨和上帝做了恶事。）
在新婚夫妇光临的刹那，
公爵（他长着骑马像的那张脸）
如果他们说了一句——我想不会——
那么一千人中只有一个听到了它。
这人就是新郎。等到天擦黑，
他和新娘终于单独在一块，
在卧室里，伴着蜡烛的幽暗光辉。
他平静地说，她的命运已定下来，
她走进来的这道门已经关上，
要等到运出灵柩时才会再开。
在此期间，她可通过那扇东窗
观看外部世界，它的喧哗和骚动，
像修道院里写日记的人一样。
因为出了这门，就可能走到宴会中，
而宴会可能引起许多别的事，
他便在各种灾祸里，选了最轻的一种。
新娘说：“我愿意选这种方式，
你的窗子和它的世界够宽敞。”
嘴里这样说，而心里的回答是：
“如果我跟那魔鬼过两夜，他的窗
会是我地狱上的一个洞眼，
一个入地狱的幽灵从这洞口望天堂！
“在我数到下一粒念珠以前，
我就要逃到爱我的公爵那里，
坐在他身边，嘲笑忧愁和伤感。
“只要借来一件男仆的外衣，
把头发梳得像马夫一般，
就能救出我的灵魂——但明天不可以”——
（她抑制自己，眼睛变得暗淡）——
“父亲还在这里求神保佑我的身份，
必须为他把这身份再保留一天。
“多等一天又有什么要紧？
而且公爵准会经过这地方
我们会相见，这点毫无疑问。”
她侧过身，很快就进入梦乡。
我们总是决定了一件事就睡觉，
从前的这位女郎也是这样。
“这杯幸福酒，”那夜公爵说道，
“我是喝定了，不管它要我付出
身心两方面的代价有多高。”
到了早晨，公爵因爱而勇气十足，
（当新郎按照职务的需要，来到
公爵府听候吩咐）他向他打招呼。
并且微笑说：“昨晚的宴会很糟糕，
你的夫人会想，我们的晚宴
是个遗憾，应该把它忘掉！
“我们能否冲出阿尔诺河边庭园，
去到凉爽翠绿的皮特拉亚， 看它
能否用今晨的鲜花，弥补昨夜的缺点？”
那新郎不愿意让人觉察
他冷静的面容和沉默的嘴，
便说：“承蒙把过多恩惠赐于在下！
“可惜！我的夫人刚从南方来归；
亚平宁山上吹来的每一阵风，
都会将她娇嫩的青春摧毁：
“智者们认为，如果她在今年中
两次走出宫殿，就无法防止
她的生命之花的凋零和断送。”
公爵说：“这种担忧亲切又明智。
再说今春皮特拉亚也太冷，还是照常
在这里举行今晚的宴会更合适！”
然后对自己说——“某个黑夜必将
送你的新娘到她爱人怀里来，笨蛋——
要不然我就是笨蛋，你是国王！
“然而我的热情必须多等一晚，
而又不冷却——因为今晚法国使节要到，
我要用你——我的工具——去和他周旋。
“我仍需要你——这人有时还用得着。
再说我并没有完全失掉今日，
我还有希望看到爱人的容貌。
“我可以骑马——此外还能做什么事？
只要我愿意，就可以经过她的宫门，
瞥一眼那窗户——这点万无一失！”
说得到，做得到：女郎不仅仅
看到热情的眉眼射来一缕光线，
也没漏掉嘴的一撅——一个精神的吻。
肯定每人都把誓言重复了一遍：
当明天的太阳落山的时候，
他们决不会还像今天这般。
但是明天过去了，后天也很快溜走，
在其中一个跳过那矮墙之前，
总是有再等一天的新理由。
不过，当爱情短暂的早晨渐凋残，
半微笑半叹息的温柔开端已度过，
他们发现爱情并非过去貌似的那般。
他们以为它会永远可靠地工作，
但它不能违反天地而行事——
当暴风经过时，玫瑰终将被吹落。
在这期间，他们可用冬季的果子
代替玫瑰——来应付贫乏的冬季：
这世界及其方式总有它一定的价值！
时运不济还硬要操之过急
是愚蠢的下策；最好还是等待：
我们不会失去朋友，也不会树立仇敌。
同时，如果情人每天可经过爱人窗外，
并看见她在铁栅后面守望，
那么这个情人的命运就不算最坏。
她呢——她像看一本书似地望着广场。
盯住一幅图画看，只看这一幅，
她保证每天都能找到这一张。
这张画翻到了，这本书就算结束，
晚上她离开这幅画，去把计划想：
明天要为自己撕下这张画图。
这样几周化作了几月、几年，——光芒
从他们的青春和爱情中消散，
两人都发现他们做了梦一场；
这梦就像梦一样，仍在上面回旋，——
但是谁能把一个梦当真？
啊，掩住我们的眼睛，别往下看！
有一天，女郎发现自己告别了青春，
乌发中夹上了丝丝银线，
由于撒旦蛇的牙齿的撕啃，
额头起了皱纹，下巴又瘦又尖，
她感到奇怪：这个面颊憔悴、
眼窝深陷、在镜子里面
默默对着她的女人，她是谁？——
“快去叫他来，”她突然说，
“趁过去的我还没有完全消退，
“快把那雕塑家找来，他能帮我！
任何爱情改变不了他做的泥形体，
他能叫美貌常驻，永不凋落。
“让罗比亚 的奇妙的手艺
捕捉住剩下的年华和娇艳，
钉住它们，当四季轮回，斗转星移。
“给我做一张脸，放在那窗前，
像过去一样等待，保持沉寂，
等我的爱人走过广场中间！
“既然当我的心还热时，我并不比
那塑像——我苍白的朋友做得更多，
那么终究又有什么关系？
“这样想想，可能使死人被迫
在教堂地下他们的黑暗中
度过的沉闷岁月比较容易消磨。
“鲜红妩媚的嘴唇，娇好的面容，
秀美的头发，还有在我们身上
流动的血液，都有什么用——
“除非我们按照心灵要求的那样，
把尘世的礼品用于一个神圣的目的？
一个泥塑的女郎也不比我差，我想。”
但是还未等到罗比亚的手艺——
一个花叶缠绕的精致的窗楣
放进现在已空着的那个神龛里，
（那女郎的脸，热烈而憔悴，
在一块蔚蓝的空间里向外伸
像从天空裂缝里探出头来的鬼；
她一直用最热切的眼神——
同时脖子探得气都喘不出——
望着那个总是经过这里的人。）
早在窗楣装上前很久，公爵就仿佛
佛罗伦萨头号可怜虫那样叹息沉吟：
“青春的梦溜了！它的记录能否留住？”
他吩咐去找一位制作铜像的能人：
“在人的躯体找到张口的坟墓以前，
他的热情和心愿是否会耗尽？
“我的计划要由杜埃的约翰 实现，
他将使我高高骑在马背上，尽他的力量
做得像活的一样，竖立在这个地点，
“在这个我经过那么多次的广场上！
当未来的太阳照耀这座雕塑，
一双眼睛要含着温柔的目光，
“而铜铸的嘴和脸仍要勇敢威武，
‘当他在世时，’人们会这样赞美，
‘他一定会有一次把握住他的幸福！’
“这将令我非常难受，但我仍会
静听，并嘲笑自己，躺在我的墓穴
嘲笑我徒然向往奋斗的无所作为。”
————
哦！当他俩等待最后审判的时节，
我倒想知道，他们的鬼魂
如何在狭小空间里度过日日夜夜？
我猜想，他们仍然坐着思忖：
很久以前，在那边教堂门外
几步之处，生命曾是怎样的一件礼品。
不过他们没有见到上帝，我明白，
也没有见到上帝的骑士——
那些圣徒们，他们一排排
燃烧飞升，到达各人的天堂座次——
既然生命的终点已经明了，
他就一路烧过人世，才到这个位置。
我听见你们在指责：“但还是拖延最好，
因为他们的目标是罪行。”——喔，即使
是罪行，也跟纯金的美德一样，我答道，
它也可以充当一种测试，
也足以为自身的清白申辩，
并且明显地证明自己的价值！
难道玩赌博必然是为了钱？
即使赌的是个不值钱的扣子，
也要当作交出一块真正的金元。
真品并不比赝品更有价值：
当你的桌子只是顶帽子，奖赏数目
只是一分钱，我想真币伪币是一回事。
用同样的勇气拿你的筹码下赌注，
像真的一样去冒险，用同样的技巧，
尽你的力量做，不管是赢是输，
只要你决定去赌！——这就是我的信条。
让一个男子竭尽全力去奋斗！去争取
他一生预定的奖赏，不管是什么都好！
我们的一对情人的筹码已经输去，
正像输去一个真币一样肯定。
我想两个失败的鬼魂的罪孽在于
没有束上腰带，没有点亮油灯，
虽然预见的结果有悖于风气。
你们这些道德家（我们在一起论争）
是怎样奋斗的？这故事说的是你们自己！
From
The Ring and the Book
Excerpts from Book VII Pompilia
[Excerpt I]
I am just seventeen years and five months old,
And, if I lived one day more, three full weeks;
'Tis writ so in the church's register,
Lorenzo in Lucina, all my names
At length, so many names for one poor child,
—Francesca Camilla Vittoria Angela
Pompilia Comparini,—laughable!
Also 'tis writ that I was married there
Four years ago: and they will add, I hope,
When they insert my death, a word or two,—
Omitting all about the mode of death,—
This, in its place, this which one cares to know,
That I had been a mother of a son
Exactly two weeks. It will be through grace
O'the Curate, not through any claim I have;
Because the boy was born at, so baptized
Close to, the Villa, in the proper church:
A pretty church, I say no word against,
Yet stranger-like,—while this Lorenzo seems
My own particular place, I always say.
I used to wonder, when I stood scarce high
As the bed here, what the marble lion meant,
With half his body rushing from the wall,
Eating the figure of a prostrate man—
(To the right, it is, of entry by the door)
An ominous sign to one baptized like me,
Married, and to be buried there, I hope.
And they should add, to have my life complete,
He is a boy and Gaetan by name—
Gaetano, for a reason,—if the friar
Don Celestine will ask this grace for me
Of Curate Ottoboni: he it was
Baptized me: he remembers my whole life
As I do his grey hair.
All these few things
I know are true,—will you remember them?
Because time flies. The surgeon cared for me,
To count my wounds,—twenty-two dagger-wounds,
Five deadly, but I do not suffer much—
Or too much pain,—and am to die to-night.
O how good God is that my babe was born,
—Better than born, baptized and hid away
Before this happened, safe from being hurt!
That had been sin God could not well forgive:
He was too young to smile and save himself.
When they took, two days after he was born,
My babe away from me to be baptized
And hidden awhile, for fear his foe should find,—
The country-woman, used to nursing babes,
Said "Why take on so? where is the great loss?
These next three weeks he will but sleep and feed,
Only begin to smile at the month's end;
He would not know you, if you kept him here,
Sooner than that; so, spend three merry weeks
Snug in the Villa, getting strong and stout,
And then I bring him back to be your own,
And both of you may steal to—we know where!"
The month—there wants of it two weeks this day!
Still, I half fancied when I heard the knock
At the Villa in the dusk, it might prove she—
Come to say "Since he smiles before the time,
Why should I cheat you out of one good hour?
Back I have brought him; speak to him and judge!"
Now I shall never see him; what is worse,
When he grows up and gets to be my age,
He will seem hardly more than a great boy;
And if he asks "What was my mother like?”
People may answer "Like girls of seventeen"—
And how can he but think of this and that,
Lucias, Marias, Sofias, who titter or blush
When he regards them as such boys may do?
Therefore I wish some one will please to say
I looked already old though I was young;
Do I not...say, if you are by to speak...
Look nearer twenty? No more like, at least,
Girls who look arch or redden when boys laugh,
Than the poor Virgin that I used to know
At our street-corner in a lonely niche,—
The babe, that sat upon her knees, broke off,—
Thin white glazed clay, you pitied her the more:
She, not the gay ones, always got my rose.
[Excerpt II]
Pietro at least had done no harm, I know;
Nor even Violante, so much harm as makes
Such revenge lawful. Certainly she erred—
Did wrong, how shall I dare say otherwise?—
In telling that first falsehood, buying me
From my poor faulty mother at a price,
To pass off upon Pietro as his child:
If one should take my babe, give him a name,
Say he was not Gaetano and my own,
But that some other woman made his mouth
And hands and feet,—how very false were that!
No good could come of that; and all harm did.
Yet if a stranger were to represent,
"Needs must you either give your babe to me
And let me call him mine forevermore,
Or let your husband get him,"—ah, my God,
That were a trial I refuse to face!
Well, just so here: it proved wrong but seemed right
To poor Violante—for there lay, she said,
My poor real dying mother in her rags,
Who put me from her with the life and all,
Poverty, pain, shame, and disease at once,
To die the easier by what price I fetched—
Also (I hope) because I should be spared
Sorrow and sin,—why may not that have helped?
My father,—he was no one, any one,—
The worse, the likelier,—call him,—he who came,
Was wicked for his pleasure, went his way,
And left no trace to track by; there remained
Nothing but me, the unnecessary life,
To catch up or let fall,—and yet a thing
She could make happy, be made happy with,
This poor Violante,—who would frown thereat?
[Excerpt III]
Beside, up to my marriage, thirteen years
Were, each day, happy as the day was long:
This may have made the change too terrible.
I know that when Violante told me first
The cavalier,—she meant to bring next morn,
Whom I must also let take, kiss my hand,—
Would be at San Lorenzo the same eve
And marry me,—which over, we should go
Home both of us without him as before,
And, till she bade speak, I must hold my tongue,
Such being the correct way with girl-brides,
From whom one word would make a father blush,—
I know, I say, that when she told me this,
—Well, I no more saw sense in what she said
Than a lamb does in people clipping wool;
Only lay down and let myself be clipped.
And when next day the cavalier who came
(Tisbe had told me that the slim young man
With wings at head, and wings at feet, and sword
Threatening a monster, in our tapestry,
Would eat a girl else,—was a cavalier)
When he proved Guido Franceschini,—old
And nothing like so tall as I myself,
Hook-nosed and yellow in a bush of beard,
Much like a thing I saw on a boy's wrist,
He called an owl and used for catching birds,—
And when he took my hand and made a smile—
Why, the uncomfortableness of it all
Seemed hardly more important in the case
Than,—when one gives you, say, a coin to spend,—
Its newness or its oldness; if the piece
Weigh properly and buy you what you wish,
No matter whether you get grime or glare!
Men take the coin, return you grapes and figs.
Here, marriage was the coin, a dirty piece
Would purchase me the praise of those I loved:
About what else should I concern myself?
So, hardly knowing what a husband meant,
I supposed this or any man would serve,
No whit the worse for being so uncouth:
For I was ill once and a doctor came
With a great ugly hat, no plume thereto,
Black jerkin and black buckles and black sword,
And white sharp beard over the ruff in front,
And oh so lean, so sour-faced and austere!—
Who felt my pulse, made me put out my tongue,
Then oped a phial, dripped a drop or two
Of a black bitter something,—I was cured!
What mattered the fierce beard or the grim face?
It was the physic beautified the man,
Master Malpichi,—never met his match
In Rome, they said—so ugly all the same!
However, I was hurried through a storm,
Next dark eve of December's deadest day—
How it rained!—through our street and the Lion's-mouth
And the bit of Corso,—cloaked round, covered close,
I was like something strange or contraband,—
Into blank San Lorenzo, up the aisle,
My mother keeping hold of me so tight,
I fancied we were come to see a corpse
Before the altar which she pulled me toward.
There we found waiting an unpleasant priest
Who proved the brother, not our parish friend,
But one with mischief-making mouth and eye,
Paul, whom I know since to my cost. And then
I heard the heavy church-door lock out help
Behind us: for the customary warmth,
Two tapers shivered on the altar. "Quick—
Lose no time!”—cried the priest. And straightway down
From...what's behind the altar where he hid—
Hawk-nose and yellowness and bush and all,
Stepped Guido, caught my hand, and there was I
O'the chancel, and the priest had opened book,
Read here and there, made me say that and this,
And after, told me I was now a wife,
Honoured indeed, since Christ thus weds the Church,
And therefore turned he water into wine,
To show I should obey my spouse like Christ.
[Excerpt IV]
Well, and there is more! Yes, my end of breath
Shall bear away my soul in being true!
He is still here, not outside with the world,
Here, here, I have him in his rightful place!
'Tis now, when I am most upon the move,
I feel for what I verily find—again
The face, again the eyes, again, through all,
The heart and its immeasurable love
Of my one friend, my only, all my own,
Who put his breast between the spears and me.
Ever with Caponsacchi! Otherwise
Here alone would be failure, loss to me—
How much more loss to him, with life debarred
From giving life, love locked from love's display,
The day-star stopped its task that makes night morn!
O lover of my life, O soldier-saint,
No work begun shall ever pause for death!
Love will be helpful to me more and more
I'the coming course, the new path I must tread,
My weak hand in thy strong hand, strong for that!
Tell him that if I seem without him now,
That's the world's insight! O, he understands!
He is at Civita—do I once doubt
The world again is holding us apart?
He had been here, displayed in my behalf
The broad brow that reverberates the truth,
And flashed the word God gave him, back to man!
I know where the free soul is flown! My fate
Will have been hard for even him to bear:
Let it confirm him in the trust of God,
Showing how holily he dared the deed!
And, for the rest,—say, from the deed, no touch
Of harm came, but all good, all happiness,
Not one faint fleck of failure! Why explain?
What I see, oh, he sees and how much more!
Tell him,—I know not wherefore the true word
Should fade and fall unuttered at the last—
It was the name of him I sprang to meet
When came the knock, the summons, and the end.
"My great heart, my strong hand are back again!”
I would have sprung to these, beckoning across
Murder and hell gigantic and distinct
O'the threshold, posted to exclude me heaven:
He is ordained to call and I to come!
Do not the dead wear flowers when dressed for God?
Say,—I am all in flowers from head to foot!
Say,—not one flower of all he said and did,
Might seem to flit unnoticed, fade unknown,
But dropped a seed has grown a balsam-tree
Whereof the blossoming perfumes the place
At this supreme of moments! He is a priest;
He cannot marry therefore, which is right:
I think he would not marry if he could.
Marriage on earth seems such a counterfeit,
Mere imitation of the inimitable:
In heaven we have the real and true and sure.
'Tis there they neither marry nor are given
In marriage but are as the angels: right,
O, how right that is, how like Jesus Christ
To say that! Marriage-making for the earth,
With gold so much,—birth, power, repute so much,
Or beauty, youth so much, in lack of these!
Be as the angels rather, who, apart,
Know themselves into one, are found at length
Married, but marry never, no, nor give
In marriage; they are man and wife at once
When the true time is: here we have to wait
Not so long neither! Could we by a wish
Have what we will and get the future now,
Would we wish aught done undone in the past?
So, let him wait God's instant men call years;
Meantime hold hard by truth and his great soul,
Do out the duty! Through such souls alone
God stooping shows sufficient of His light
For us i'the dark to rise by. And I rise.
指环与书（选段）
节选自第七卷《庞碧丽雅》
［选段1］
我年十七岁零五个月，
如能再活一天，就是五月零三周；
洛伦佐教堂的登记簿上写得清，
那簿子上写着我的全名，
可怜的孩子有个那么长的名——
弗朗切斯卡·卡米拉·维多利亚·安琪拉·
庞碧丽雅·康帕里尼，——多可笑！
簿上还写着，四年前我在那里
结了婚；我希望他们
登记我的死亡时——不用提
我的死因，——在恰当的地方
再加上一两句：人们愿意知道，
我已经是一个儿子的母亲，
整整两个星期了。要写上这点，
得靠牧师开恩，我本无权要求；
因为男孩生在乡村别墅，
就在那边的教堂受了洗，
是个漂亮的教堂，说不出哪儿不好，
但总有点陌生，——而这座洛伦佐教堂
像是我自己的地方，我常这样说。
当我只有这张床高的时候，
我就老是琢磨教堂大门口
右边那只石头狮子的含义，
它从墙里冲出半个身体，
正在吃一个俯卧的人——对于我——
一个在此受洗、结婚，并（希望）
在此埋葬的人，那是个凶兆吧。
为了写全我的生平，还须加上：
他是个男孩，名叫该塔诺，
起这名有原因——这事也需要
切莱斯蒂诺修士代替我
向奥托博尼牧师去求情——
是他为我施洗，他记得我的一生，
正如我记得他那一头灰发。
这几件事，
我知道那是实情，——你能记住吗？
因为时间飞逝。医生关心我，
数了我的伤口，——二十二处刀伤，
其中五处致命，但我还能忍受，
也不算太痛苦，——今晚我将死去。
上帝多么慈善啊，我的宝宝出生了，
——更好的是他还受洗了，在出事之前
平安地躲开了。没有人能伤害他！
伤害他可是上帝难以饶恕的罪过：
他太小了，还不会微笑来救自己。
宝宝出生两天后，他们把他
从我身边抱去受洗，并暂时躲藏，
怕他的仇人找到他，——临走时
那个帮人带孩子的村妇说：
“何必大惊小怪？你什么损失也没有！
当他长大，到我这个年龄，
他看来不过是个大孩子；
如果他问：“我的妈妈是什么样的？”
人家会说：“就像十七岁的女孩儿们”——
他只能想到那些露西亚、玛丽亚、索菲亚，
当他像男孩们那样瞧她们时，
她们就红着脸笑，他怎能想到别的样子？
因此我希望有人告诉他，
我虽年轻，看起来已不小；
我不像……快二十了吗？你说呢？
至少我不再像那些年轻姑娘们，
男孩子一笑，她们就又调皮又红脸地。——
那个可怜的圣母塑像也不会如此的，
我从小熟悉的那个圣母塑像，
就在我家街角冷清的壁龛里，——
她膝上的宝宝已经掉了——是薄泥胎吗，
你就更加可怜她：正是她，
而不是那些快乐的塑像，常得到我的玫瑰。
［选段2］
至少庇特罗没做过害人的事，我知道；
薇奥朗蒂也没做那么多害人的事，以至于
该得这样的报复，她肯定有错——
做了错事，我怎能不这么说？——
她的第一次欺骗，是从我可怜的、
有错的母亲手里高价买下我，
来冒充庇特罗的孩子：如果有人
带走我的宝宝，给他取个名，
说他不是该塔诺，不是我的儿子，
而是另一个女人造了他的嘴、
手和脚，——那是多大的谎言！
那绝没有好处；只能造成种种伤害。
然而如果一个陌生人过来说：
“你必须把你的宝宝交给我，
让他永远属于我。要不然，
就让你的丈夫带走他。”——啊，上帝，
我决不想面对这样的考验！
事实证明是错的，可怜的薇奥朗蒂
原以为是对的——因为，她说，
我可怜的垂死的生母躺在褴褛中，
她把生命和一切——贫穷、痛苦、
耻辱和疾病全都留给了我，
用卖我的钱，让自己死得舒服些——
（我希望）也是为了我可以避免
悲伤和罪恶；——那有什么不好呢？
我的父亲，——他谁都不是，谁都是，——
这更糟，更可能，——那人来了，
为寻欢而作恶，然后走他的路，
再无踪迹可寻；只留下我这个
多余的生命，可以把它抓起，
也可随它跌落，——然而仍是这么一件东西：
薇奥朗蒂能使之幸福，也能因之得到幸福。
可怜的薇奥朗蒂，——谁能对她不满呢？
［选段3］
而且，我结婚前的十三年，
每天从早到晚都很幸福：
也许正因此，这变化就更加可怕。
当薇奥朗蒂最初告诉我的时候，
她说明早她要带来一个骑士，
我必须让他拿起我的手来吻，
当晚他会到洛伦佐教堂去娶我，——
完事后，我们两人，没有他，
像往常一样回家。在她吩咐我开口前，
我对这件事必须一字不漏，
年轻的新娘们应该这样做才合适，
如果说了，会使父亲感到难堪。——
现在我明白了，当她告诉我这些时，
我并不懂她的话语的含义，
正像羔羊不懂为什么要剪它的毛；
我只是卧下来任人去摆布。
第二天那骑士来了（蒂丝比曾对我说，
我家挂毯上那个瘦高青年，
头上脚上都有翅膀，正举起剑
威胁那个要吃姑娘的怪物，——
蒂丝比说，那青年就是一个骑士），
原来他却是基陀·弗朗切斯奇尼，——
又老又矮，还没有我高呢，
鹰钩鼻，枯草似的黄络腮胡，
活像那站在一个男孩腕上的东西，
他管它叫做猫头鹰，是用来捉鸟的，——
当他拿起我的手，做出一个笑脸——
这一切引起来的不舒服
似乎并不重要，正好像——
有人给你一个钱币去花，
它的新旧并不重要；只要重量对，
能买到东西，那么你得的钱
是脏的还是亮的都没关系！
人家拿走钱，就给你无花果和葡萄。
结婚好比钱币，一个脏钱
能买来我爱的人们的称赞，
我自己何必去关心别的事呢？
这样，我并不知道丈夫的含义，
只以为这个或任何一个都可以，
虽然令人如此难受也是不要紧的：
因为有次我病了，来了个医生，
戴顶没插羽毛的丑陋的大帽子，
黑外套，黑搭扣，黑佩剑，
尖硬的白胡子翘在轮状皱领上边，
身材特别瘦，脸色阴沉严厉！——
他诊我的脉，叫我伸舌头，
然后打开一个小瓶，倒出一两滴
黑苦的东西，——就把我治好了！
讨厌的胡子和阴沉的脸有何关系？
是他高超的医术使他美丽，
马尔皮奇大医师，——人说在罗马
无人能比，——再丑也是一样的！
第二天阴沉的黄昏，腊月里最糟的天气——
我被催促冒着暴风雨出了门——
好大的雨！——出我们的街，过狮子口，
进科索街，——斗篷把我裹得严严实实，
样子很古怪，像件走私品，——
进了洛伦佐教堂，沿过道朝前走，
母亲那么紧地抓住我，我想象
我们是来看祭坛前的一具尸首。
母亲把我往祭坛前面拉，
那里有个可憎的神父在等着，
不是本区的朋友，原来是基陀的兄弟——
贼眉鼠眼的保尔。自那以后，
我付出了代价才算了解他。
我听见沉重的教堂门在身后关上了，
没人救我们了：这里惯常的温暖不见了，
只有两支蜡烛在祭坛上颤抖。
“快——不要耽误时间！”神父喊道。
藏在祭坛后面什么地方的基陀，
那鹰钩鼻、干草堆似的基陀，
突然跑出来抓住了我的手，
我站在高坛上，神父已经打开了书，
这里那里读几句，让我说这说那，
然后告诉我，我现在是个妻子了，
这很光荣，因为基督就是这样
和教会结了婚，因此他把水变成了酒，
所以我该像服从基督那样服从丈夫。
［选段4］
还有！我最后一口气将要带走的
我的灵魂，应该是诚实的！
他还在这里，并不在外面人世间，
就在这里，我见他站在正义的位置上！
正是现在，当我即将动身时，
我寻找我肯定找到了的东西——
又是我的朋友的脸，他的眼睛，
透过这些，是那颗心和无限的爱，
我唯一的朋友，我自己的朋友，
他挺胸站在矛尖和我之间。
我永远和卡蓬萨基在一起！
否则就只有失败和损伤——
他的损伤更大得多，生命被禁锢
不能献出，爱被封锁不能显露，
晨星停止了把夜变成早晨的工作！
啊我生命的爱人，啊战士，圣人，
已开始的工作，决不因死而停止！
在未来，在我必须踏上的新路上，
爱将更多地帮助我，我柔弱的手
牵在你强壮的手中——它为此而强壮！
告诉他，如果说现在我似乎没有他，
那是尘世的见解！啊，他明白！
他在奇维塔——我并不害怕
世界又把我们两人分开。
他曾经在这里，为了我，
显示出他映射着真理的坦荡面容，
闪耀出上帝给他的话语来回击人们！
我知道自由的灵魂已飞向何处！
我的命运，连他也会感到难以承受：
愿他为此而更加坚信上帝，
显示他是如何神圣地完成这功绩！
还有什么要说呢？这件功绩没有带来
一点害处，全是好处，全是幸福，
没有丝毫失败！何必解释呢？
我看到的，他都看到，而且更多更多！
告诉他，——我不想让真实的话
到最后都没有说出来就消失——
当叩门声、召唤和结局来到时，
我正听见了他的名，才跳起去欢迎，
“我的伟大的心，我的强壮的手回来了！”
我必然会冲去开门，尽管那叩门声
引诱我去经历谋杀和地狱，
地狱的巨大门槛把我挡在天堂外。
他命定要来召唤，我命定来应！
死者为上帝穿着时，不都要戴花吗？
告诉他——我从头到脚都在花中！
告诉他——他的一言一行全都是花，
没有一朵被忽视而默默凋谢，
而是每朵都落下种子，长成香脂树，
满树鲜花把这地方薰香了，
在这至关紧要的时刻！他是教士，
因此他不可以结婚，这是对的：
我想即使他可以，他也不会结婚的。
地上的婚姻似是一个仿造品，
只是那不能仿造的东西的仿造品：
天堂才有真诚的、忠实的、可靠的婚姻。
在那里，他们既不娶也不嫁，
而是像天使们一样：正确，多么正确！
多么像耶稣基督说的话！
制造世上的婚姻需要用那么多的钱，——
那么多的出身、权势和名声，
或是那么多美丽、青春而缺少那些东西！
宁愿像天使那样，他们虽分开，
却知道他们自己是一体，最后发现
已经成婚，但永不娶，也永不嫁；
当真正的时刻来到，他们立刻成为夫妻。
现在我们必须等待，不用很久！
如果我们提个愿望就能如愿以偿，
现在就得到未来，那么我们何必
再希望过去未实现的本该实现呢？
所以让他等待上帝的瞬间，人间的多年；
同时依靠真理和他伟大的灵魂努力坚持，
完成职责！上帝只通过这样的灵魂
俯身显示足够的光明，来照亮
我们在黑暗中飞升的路程。我飞升了。
Rephan
How I lived, ere my human life began
In this world of yours, —like you, made man, —
When my home was the Star of my God Rephan?
Come then around me, close about,
World-weary earth-born ones! Darkest doubt
Or deepest despondency keeps you out?
Nowise! Before a word I speak,
Let my circle embrace your worn, your weak,
Brow-furrowed old age, youth's hollow cheek—
Diseased in the body, sick in soul,
Pinched poverty, satiate wealth,—your whole
Array of despairs! Have I read the roll?
All here? Attend, perpend! O Star
Of my God Rephan, what wonders are
In thy brilliance fugitive, faint and far!
Far from me, native to thy realm,
Who shared its perfections which o'erwhelm
Mind to conceive. Let drift the helm,
Let drive the sail, dare unconfined
Embark for the vastitude, O Mind,
Of an absolute bliss! Leave earth behind!
Here, by extremes, at a mean you guess:
There, all's at most—not more, not less:
Nowhere deficiency nor excess.
No want—whatever should be, is now:
No growth—that's change, and change comes—how
To royalty born with crown on brow?
Nothing begins—so needs to end:
Where fell it short at first? Extend
Only the same, no change can mend!
I use your language: mine—no word
Of its wealth would help who spoke, who heard,
To a gleam of intelligence. None preferred,
None felt distaste when better and worse
Were uncontrastable: bless or curse
What—in that uniform universe?
Can your world's phrase, your sense of things
Forth-figure the Star of my God? No springs,
No winters throughout its space. Time brings
No hope, no fear: as to-day, shall be
To-morrow: advance or retreat need we
At our stand-still through eternity?
All happy: needs must we so have been,
Since who could be otherwise? All serene:
What dark was to banish, what light to screen?
Earth's rose is a bud that's checked or grows
As beams may encourage or blasts oppose:
Our lives leapt forth, each a full-orbed rose—
Each rose sole rose in a sphere that spread
Above and below and around—rose-red:
No fellowship, each for itself instead.
One better than I—would prove I lacked
Somewhat: one worse were a jarring fact
Disturbing my faultlessly exact.
How did it come to pass there lurked
Somehow a seed of change that worked
Obscure in my heart till perfection irked?—
Till out of its peace at length grew strife—
Hopes, fears, loves, hates,—obscurely rife,—
My life grown a-tremble to turn your life?
Was it Thou, above all lights that are,
Prime Potency, did Thy hand unbar
The prison-gate of Rephan my Star?
In me did such potency wake a pulse
Could trouble tranquillity that lulls
Not lashes inertion till throes convulse
Soul's quietude into discontent?
As when the completed rose bursts, rent
By ardors till forth from its orb are sent
New petals that mar—unmake the disk—
Spoil rondure: what in it ran brave risk,
Changed apathy's calm to strife, bright, brisk,
Pushed simple to compound, sprang and spread
Till, fresh-formed, facetted, floretted,
The flower that slept woke a star instead?
No mimic of Star Rephan! How long
I stagnated there where weak and strong,
The wise and the foolish, right and wrong,
Are merged alike in a neutral Best,
Can I tell? No more than at whose behest
The passion arose in my passive breast,
And I yearned for no sameness but difference
In thing and thing, that should shock my sense
With a want of worth in them all, and thence
Startle me up, by an Infinite
Discovered above and below me—height
And depth alike to attract my flight,
Repel my descent: by hate taught love.
Oh, gain were indeed to see above
Supremacy ever—to move, remove,
Not reach—aspire yet never attain
To the object aimed at! Scarce in vain,—
As each stage I left nor touched again.
To suffer, did pangs bring the loved one bliss,
Wring knowledge from ignorance,—just for this—
To add one drop to a love-abyss!
Enough: for you doubt, you hope, O men,
You fear, you agonize, die: what then?
Is an end to your life's work out of ken?
Have you no assurance that, earth at end,
Wrong will prove right? Who made shall mend
In the higher sphere to which yearnings tend?
Why should I speak? You divine the test.
When the trouble grew in my pregnant breast
A voice said "So wouldst thou strive, not rest?
"Burn and not smoulder, win by worth,
Not rest content with a wealth that's dearth?
Thou art past Rephan, thy place be Earth!"
莱凡
在我变成人，来到你们世界的环境，
过人的生活以前，当我住在我上帝的星——
莱凡的时候，我的生活是何种情形？
那么，围拢来，靠我近一点，
厌世的地球人！是重重的疑团
和深深的失望，使你们与我疏远？
别这样！在我发言前，让我的这圈人
包括你们疲倦的人、虚弱的人、
双颊凹陷的青年、面孔多皱的老人、
身体有疾的人、灵魂患病的人、
痛苦的穷汉、厌腻的富翁——你们
所有绝望的人！我这名单是否详尽？
到齐了？注意听，仔细想！啊，莱凡——
我上帝的星，在你模糊、遥远、
难以捉摸的光辉里，有多少奇观！
我本是你国度中一土生居民，
我分享你的完美，这完美超越心神
的想象能力。让船随波前进，
让帆乘风升扬。放开胆量，
登船驰向浩瀚的极乐天堂，
啊，思绪，把地球抛在后方！
在这里，你们把中等视为至高，
在那里，全是极度，没有更多或更少，
一切都很充足，也不超过需要。
什么都不缺——该有的，样样齐全，
没有生长——因为生长就是变迁，
而生就头戴王冠者，还能怎么变？
没有东西开始——因此也不需要结束，
从来何曾有过欠缺？延续——依然如故，
没有变化来弥补不足之处！
我说你们的话吧，因为我的语言虽丰富，
却没有一个字能对说者和听者有帮助，
能使我们通信息。既然比较不出
较好和较坏，就没有东西更叫人欢喜，
没有东西更叫人讨厌，在那一律的世界里，
你能祝福什么，又能诅咒什么呢？
你们世界的语言，你们对事物的观念，
怎能描述我上帝的星？它的时间里面
永远没有春天，也没有冬天。
时间不带来希望或恐慌，明天仍将
和今天一样；既处在永恒的停滞状况，
我们何须朝前行或退向后方？
全都幸福：我们不得不这样，
因为谁能是别样？全都安详：
哪有黑暗须驱散？哪有亮光须遮挡？
地球的玫瑰是被抑制的花蕾，它的生长
可能被光照激发，也可能被大风阻挡；
我们的生命跳跃而出，每朵玫瑰充分开放。
每朵玫瑰是一个空间里的独一玫瑰，
玫瑰色的圆形空间伸向上方、下方、四周围，
各人自顾自，没有伙伴想随。
有人比我好——会证明我多少有欠缺，
有人比我坏——事情就不和谐：
它会打乱我的完美的准确。
怎会发生这事呢？不知怎的
一粒潜伏的变化种子，在我心里
悄悄地生长，直到完美使我厌腻。
直到从我心的和平里，有冲突产生——
希望、恐惧、爱、恨——朦胧地充满心灵，
我的生命颤悠悠变成了你们的生命？
是不是你——在一切亮光之上的
至高的力量，是不是你把手一伸，
打开了我的莱凡的牢狱大门？
是不是这力量唤醒我身上一股激情？
它能搅乱助长惰性的平静，
直到阵阵剧痛打破灵魂的安宁，
使安宁变成不满。当完美的玫瑰
爆裂开，被激荡的热情撕碎，
从它的圆形里生出新的花瓣、花蕊，
新的花毁坏了圆形空间
这时候，又是什么东西敢于冒险，
把冷淡变成冲突、活跃、灿烂，
把单纯推向综合，飞跃、展开，
直到这朵新成型的、新开放的
沉睡的花，把另一颗星唤醒来？
不属于莱凡的模式！我在莱凡星
过了多少沉闷日子？我可说不清。
在那里，虚弱和强大，愚蠢和聪明，
对和错，都融为中性的至善的一体。
我同样说不清，是按照谁的旨意，
这股热情在我冷漠的胸中升起，
于是我渴望在事物和事物中，
有区别而不是全相同，万物种种
应当以价值的欠缺使我的感觉震动，
然后我发现一个无限的空间，
使我惊起，它在我的上面和下面——
它的高和深吸引我去飞舞翩跹，
去把我的传统违反：我通过恨学会了爱。
啊！这才是财富：永远去遥望至高以外，
趋前，再趋前，仍不可及；去企盼——
而永远达不到所追求的目标！
当我告别每个阶段，不再回还，
我都不感到遗憾；去受难——
经受剧烈的痛苦，把快乐带给
亲爱的人，从无知中绞出知识——受罪
是为了往爱的海洋中加进一滴水！
够了：因为你们盼望，你们疑虑，
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