The Death of the Moth 飞蛾之死 中英文对照
2014-03-01 13:21阅读：
Note: The Death of the Moth
by Virginia Woolf
Adeline Virginia Woolf ( 25 January 1882
– 28 March 1941) was an English writer, and one of the foremost
modernists
of the twentieth century.
The Death of the Moth
By Virginia Woolf
Moths that fly by day are not properly to be called moths;
they do not excite that pleasant sense of dark autumn nights and
ivy–blossom which the commonest yellow–underwing asleep in the
shadow of the curtain never fails to rouse in us. They are hybrid
creatures, neither gay like butterflies nor sombre like their own
species. Nevertheless the present specimen, with his narrow
hay–coloured wings, fringed with a tassel of the same colour,
seemed
to be content with life. It was a pleasant morning, mid–September,
mild, benignant, yet with a keener breath than that of the summer
months. The plough was already scoring the field opposite the
window, and where the share had been, the earth was pressed flat
and gleamed with moisture. Such vigour came rolling in from the
fields and the down beyond that it was difficult to keep the eyes
strictly turned upon the book. The rooks too were keeping one of
their annual festivities; soaring round the tree tops until it
looked as if a vast net with thousands of black knots in it had
been cast up into the air; which, after a few moments sank slowly
down upon the trees until every twig seemed to have a knot at the
end of it. Then, suddenly, the net would be thrown into the air
again in a wider circle this time, with the utmost clamour and
vociferation, as though to be thrown into the air and settle slowly
down upon the tree tops were a tremendously exciting
experience.
The same energy which inspired the rooks, the ploughmen, the
horses, and even, it seemed, the lean bare–backed downs, sent the
moth fluttering from side to side of his square of the window–pane.
One could not help watching him. One was, indeed, conscious of a
queer feeling of pity for him. The possibilities of pleasure seemed
that morning so enormous and so various that to have only a moth’s
part in life, and a day moth’s at that, appeared a hard fate, and
his zest in enjoying his meagre opportunities to the full,
pathetic. He flew vigorously to one corner of his compartment, and,
after waiting there a second, flew across to the other. What
remained for him but to fly to a third corner and then to a fourth?
That was all he could do, in spite of the size of the downs, the
width of the sky, the far–off smoke of houses, and the romantic
voice, now and then, of a steamer out at sea. What he could do he
did. Watching him, it seemed as if a fibre, very thin but pure, of
the enormous energy of the world had been thrust into his frail and
diminutive body. As often as he crossed the pane, I could fancy
that a thread of vital light became visible. He was little or
nothing but life.
Yet, because he was so small, and so simple a form of the
energy that was rolling in at the open window and driving its way
through so many narrow and intricate corridors in my own brain and
in those of other human beings, there was something marvellous as
well as pathetic about him. It was as if someone had taken a tiny
bead of pure life and decking it as lightly as possible with down
and feathers, had set it dancing and zig–zagging to show us the
true nature of life. Thus displayed one could not get over the
strangeness of it. One is apt to forget all about life, seeing it
humped and bossed and garnished and cumbered so that it has to move
with the greatest circumspection and dignity. Again, the thought of
all that life might have been had he been born in any other shape
caused one to view his simple activities with a kind of
pity.
After a time, tired by his dancing apparently, he settled on
the window ledge in the sun, and, the queer spectacle being at an
end, I forgot about him. Then, looking up, my eye was caught by
him. He was trying to resume his dancing, but seemed either so
stiff or so awkward that he could only flutter to the bottom of the
window–pane; and when he tried to fly across it he failed. Being
intent on other matters I watched these futile attempts for a time
without thinking, unconsciously waiting for him to resume his
flight, as one waits for a machine, that has stopped momentarily,
to start again without considering the reason of its failure. After
perhaps a seventh attempt he slipped from the wooden ledge and
fell, fluttering his wings, on to his back on the window sill. The
helplessness of his attitude roused me. It flashed upon me that he
was in difficulties; he could no longer raise himself; his legs
struggled vainly. But, as I stretched out a pencil, meaning to help
him to right himself, it came over me that the failure and
awkwardness were the approach of death. I laid the pencil down
again.
The legs agitated themselves once more. I looked as if for
the enemy against which he struggled. I looked out of doors. What
had happened there? Presumably it was midday, and work in the
fields had stopped. Stillness and quiet had replaced the previous
animation. The birds had taken themselves off to feed in the
brooks. The horses stood still. Yet the power was there all the
same, massed outside indifferent, impersonal, not attending to
anything in particular. Somehow it was opposed to the little
hay–coloured moth. It was useless to try to do anything. One could
only watch the extraordinary efforts made by those tiny legs
against an oncoming doom which could, had it chosen, have submerged
an entire city, not merely a city, but masses of human beings;
nothing, I knew, had any chance against death. Nevertheless after a
pause of exhaustion the legs fluttered again. It was superb this
last protest, and so frantic that he succeeded at last in righting
himself. One’s sympathies, of course, were all on the side of life.
Also, when there was nobody to care or to know, this gigantic
effort on the part of an insignificant little moth, against a power
of such magnitude, to retain what no one else valued or desired to
keep, moved one strangely. Again, somehow, one saw life, a pure
bead. I lifted the pencil again, useless though I knew it to be.
But even as I did so, the unmistakable tokens of death showed
themselves. The body relaxed, and instantly grew stiff. The
struggle was over. The insignificant little creature now knew
death. As I looked at the dead moth, this minute wayside triumph of
so great a force over so mean an antagonist filled me with wonder.
Just as life had been strange a few minutes before, so death was
now as strange. The moth having righted himself now lay most
decently and uncomplainingly composed. O yes, he seemed to say,
death is stronger than I am
中文译文：
飞蛾之死
[英]弗吉尼亚·伍尔夫
陆谷孙泽
白昼出没的飞蛾，准确地说，不叫飞蛾；它们激发不起关于沉沉秋夜和青藤小花的欣快意念，而藏在帷幕幽暗处沉睡的最普通的'翼底黄'飞蛾却总会唤醒这样的联想。'翼底黄'是杂交的产物，既不像蝴蝶一般色彩鲜艳，也不像飞蛾类那样全身灰暗。尽管如此，眼前这只蛾子，狭狭的双翼显现着枯灰色。翼梢缀有同样颜色的一圈流苏，看上去似乎活得心满意足。这是一个令人神清气爽的早晨。时届九月中旬，气温舒适宜人，而吹过来的风已比夏季清凉。窗户对面，犁耕已经开始。钟片过处，泥土被翻了起来，显得湿液流又乌油油。从田野以及更远处的丘陵，一股勃勃生机扑面而来，使双眼难以完全专注于书本。还有那些白嘴鸦，像是正在欢庆某一次年会，绕着树梢盘旋，远远望去仿佛有一张缀有万千黑点的大网撒开在空中。过了一会，大网慢慢降下，直到林中的每一处枝头落满黑点。随后，大网突然再次撒向天空，这一回，划出的圆弧更大，同时伴以不绝于耳的队队鸦噪，似乎一会儿急急腾空而去，一会儿徐徐栖落枝头，乃是极富刺激性的活动。
一种活力激励着白嘴鸦、掌梨农夫、辕马，影响所及甚至连贫瘠的秃丘也透出了生气。正是这种活力撩拨着飞蛾鼓翅，从正方形窗玻璃的一侧移动到另一侧。你无法不去注视它；你甚至对它产生了一种莫名的怜悯。这天早晨，生命的乐趣表现得淋漓尽致又丰富多样。相比之下，作为一只飞蛾浮生在世，而且是只有一天生命的飞蛾，真是命运不济。虽则机遇不堪，飞蛾却仍在尽情享受，看到这种热情不禁引人稀嘘。它劲儿十足地飞到窗格的一角，在那儿停了一秒钟之后，穿越窗面飞到另一角。除了飞到第三然后又是第四角，它还能做什么呢？这就是它能做的一切，虽然户外丘陵广袤，天空无际，远处的房屋炊烟缭绕，海上的轮船不时发出引人遐思的汽笛声。飞蛾能做到的事，它都做了。注视着它的时候，我觉得在它赢弱的小身体里，仿佛塞进了一缕纤细然而洗炼的世间奇伟的活力。每当它飞越窗面，我总觉得有一丝生命之光亮起。飞蛾虽小，甚至微不足道，却也是生灵。
然而，正因为它微不足道，正因为它以简单的形式体现了从打开的窗户滚滚涌进并在我和其他人大脑错综复杂的狭缝中冲击而过的一种活力，飞蛾不但引人稀嘘，还同样令人惊叹，使人感到似乎有谁取来一颗晶莹的生命之珠，以尽可能轻盈的手法饰以茸羽之后，使其翩跃起舞，左右飞旋，从而向我们显示生命的真谛。这样展示在人们的面前。飞蛾使人无法不啧啧称奇，而在目睹飞蛾弓背凸现的模样的同时，看它装扮着又像背负了重荷，因此动作既谨慎又滞重，人们不禁会全然忘记生命是怎么一回事。人们倒是会又一次想到，生命若以另一种不同于飞蛾的形态诞生将可能变成什么，而这种想法自会使人以某种怜悯的心情去观察飞蛾的简单动作。
过了一会，飞蛾像是飞得累了，便在阳光下的窗沿上落停。飞舞的奇观已经结束，我便把它忘了。待我抬起头来，注意力又被它吸引了去，只见它在试图再次飞起，可是因为身体已太僵直，要不就是姿态别扭，而只能扑闪着翅膀，落到窗玻璃的底部。当它挣扎着往顶部飞时，它已力不从心了。因为我正专注于其他事情，所以只是心不在焉地看着飞蛾徒劳地扑腾。同时，无意识地等着它再一次飞起。犹如等着一台暂时停转的机器重新开动而不去探究停转的原因。也许扑腾了七次，飞蛾终于从木质窗沿滑下，抖动着双翅仰天掉在窗台上。它这种绝望无助的体位唤回了我的注意，我顿时意识到飞蛾陷入了困境，它的细腿一阵乱登，却全无结果，它再也无法把身体挺直。我手持一枝铅笔朝它伸去，想帮它翻一个身，然而就在这时我认识到，扑腾失败和姿态别扭都是死之将至的表征。于是，我放下了铅笔。
细腿又抖动了一次。我像是为了寻找飞蛾与之搏斗的仇敌，便朝户外望去。那儿发生了什么？大概已是中午时分。田畴劳作业已停止。原先的奔忙已被静止所取代。鸟儿飞往小溪觅食；辕马立停。但是，那股力量依然聚集在那儿，一股冷漠超然、非人格化、不针对任何具体对象的力量。不知出于什么原因，与枯灰色的小飞蛾作对的，正是这股力量。试图抗拒这股力量，全然无用，我所能做的，惟有看着飞蛾软弱的细腿作出非凡的挣扎，抵拒那渐渐接近的毁灭伟力。毁灭伟力，只要它愿意，本可埋没整个一座城地；除了城池，还可夺去千万人的生命。我知道，与死神作搏斗，世间万物都无取胜的可能。虽说如此，因为筋疲力尽而小憩之后，细腿又抖动起来。这最后的抗争确属英勇超凡，而挣扎又是如此之狂暴，飞蛾竟然最终翻身成功了。当然，你定会赞同求生的一方。与此同时，在无人过问也无人知晓的情况下，这微不足道的小飞蛾为了维持既无他人重视又无他人意欲保存的生命，竟对如此巨大的伟力作出这样强悍的拼搏，这更使人受到异样的感动。不知怎么的，我又一次见到了那晶莹的生命之珠。虽说意识到一切全是徒劳，我重又提起铅笔。然而正在这时，确凿无误的死亡征状出现了。峨体先是松弛下来，旋即变得僵硬。搏斗告终，这微不足道的小生命死了。看着飞蛾的尸体，看着这股巨大的伟力把这么一个可怜巴巴的对手捎带着战胜，我心头充满了惊异感。几分钟之前，生命曾显得那样奇谲，如今死亡也是同样地奇谲。飞蛾端正了身体，安安静静躺在那儿，端庄而毫无怨尤。哦，是的，它好像在说，死神毕竟比我强大。
译者简介：陆谷孙，复旦大学外国语言文学学院教授、博导。上海翻译家协会理事。中国作家协会上海分会会员。主要从事英美语方文学的教学、研究和翻译工作，专于莎士比亚研究和英汉辞典编纂。主编《英汉大词典》，译有《幼狮》，撰有《逾越空间和时间的哈姆雷特》等论文40余篇。他曾多次应邀参加上海市重大经济或文化国际会议，担任主要口译，多次为上海市市长笔译讲演稿，并担任1990年出访香港、新加坡的上海市经济代表团首席翻译。
