朱自清匆匆中英文賞析

2024-10-15 朱自清

　　朱自清，現代著名散文家，其散文素樸縝密、清雋沉郁，以語言洗煉，文筆清麗著稱，極富有真情實感。　并且他寧可餓死也不領美國的“救濟糧”的故事家喻戶曉。代表作《匆匆》《歌聲》《漿聲燈影里的秦淮河》《溫州的蹤跡》《背影》《航船的文明》《荷塘月色》。

　　以下是朱自清先生的《匆匆》一文的兩個版本的英文譯文，《rush》是朱純深教授翻譯，《Transient Days》張培基老師翻譯，各有千秋，《Transient Days》更加準確，而《rush》更有韻味，更加傳神。

　　匆匆 (朱自清)

　　燕子去了，有再來的時候;楊柳枯了，有再青的時候;桃花謝了，有再開的時候。但是，聰明的，你告訴我，我們的日子為什么一去不復返呢?——是有人偷了他們吧：那是誰?又藏在何處呢?是他們自己逃走了吧：現在又到了哪里呢?

　　我不知道他們給了我多少日子;但我的手確乎是漸漸空虛了。在默默里算著，八千多日子已經從我手中溜去;像針尖上一滴水滴在大海里，我的日子滴在時間的流里，沒有聲音，也沒有影子。我不禁汗涔涔而淚潸潸了。

　　去的盡管去了，來的盡管來著;去來的中間，又怎樣地匆匆呢?早上我起來的時候，小屋里射進兩三方斜斜的太陽。太陽他有腳啊，輕輕悄悄地挪移了;我也茫茫然跟著旋轉。于是——洗手的時候，日子從水盆里過去;吃飯的時候，日子從飯碗里過去;默默時，便從凝然的雙眼前過去。我覺察他去的匆匆了，伸出手遮挽時，他又從遮挽著的手邊過去，天黑時，我躺在床上，他便伶伶俐俐地從我身上跨過，從我腳邊飛去了。等我睜開眼和太陽再見，這算又溜走了一日。我掩著面嘆息。但是新來的日子的影兒又開始在嘆息里閃過了。

　　在逃去如飛的日子里，在千門萬戶的世界里的我能做些什么呢?只有徘徊罷了，只有匆匆罷了;在八千多日的匆匆里，除徘徊外，又剩些什么呢?過去的日子如輕煙，被微風吹散了，如薄霧，被初陽蒸融了;我留著些什么痕跡呢?我何曾留著像游絲樣的痕跡呢?我赤裸裸來到這世界，轉眼間也將赤裸裸的回去罷?但不能平的，為什么偏要白白走這一遭啊?

　　你聰明的，告訴我，我們的日子為什么一去不復返呢?

　　一九二二年三月二十八日

　　Rush (translated by Zhu Chunshen)

　　Swallows may have gone, but there is a time of return; willow trees may have died back, but there is a time of regreening; peach blossoms may have fallen, but they will bloom again. Now, you the wise, tell me, why should our days leave us, never to return? — If they had been stolen by someone, who could it be? Where could he hide then? If they had made the escape themselves, then where could they stay at the moment?

　　I do not know how many days I have been given to spend, but I do feel my hands are getting empty. Taking stock silently, I find that more than eight thousand days has already slid away from me. Like a drop of water from the point of a needle disappearing into the ocean, my days are dripping into the stream of time, soundless, traceless. Already sweat is starting on my forehead, and tears welling up in my eyes.

　　Those that have gone have gone for good, those to come keep coming; yet in between, how swift is the shift, in such a rush? When I get up in the morning, the slanting sun marks its presence in my small room in two or three oblongs. The sun has feet, look, he is treading on, lightly and furtively; and I am caught, blankly, in his revolution. Thus — the day flows away through the sink when I wash my hands, wears off in the bowl when I eat my meal, passes away before my day-dreaming gaze as I reflect in silence. I can feel his haste now, so I reach out my hands to hold him back, but he keeps flowing past my withholding hands. In the evening, as I lie in bed, he strides over my body, glides past my feet, in his agile way. The moment I open my eyes and meet the sun again, one whole day has gone. I bury my face in my hands and heave a sigh. But the new day begins to flash past in the sigh.

　　What can I do, in this bustling world, with my days flying in their escape? Nothing but to hesitate, to rush. What have I been doing in that eight-thousand-day rush, apart from hesitating? Those bygone days have been dispersed as smoke by a light wind, or evaporated as mist by the morning sun. What traces have I left behind me? Have I ever left behind any gossamer traces at all? I have come to this world, stark-naked; am I to go back, in a blink, in the same stark-nakedness? It is not fair though: why should I have made such a trip for nothing!

　　You the wise, tell me, why should our days leave us, never to return?

　　28 March, 1922

　　Transient Days (translated by Zhang Peiji)

　　If swallows go away, they will come back again. If willows wither, they will turn green again. If peach blossoms fade, they will flower again. But, tell me, you the wise, why should our days go by never to return? Perhaps they have been stolen by someone. But who could it be and where could he hide them? Perhaps they have just run away by themselves. But where could they be at the present moment?

　　I don't know how many days I am entitled to altogether, but my quota of them is undoubtedly wearing away. Counting up silently, I find that more than 8,000 days have already slipped away through my fingers. Like a drop of water falling off a needle point into the ocean, my days are quietly dripping into the stream of time without leaving a trace. At the thought of this, sweat oozes from my forehead and tears trickle down my cheeks.

　　What is gone is gone, what is to come keeps coming. How swift is the transition in between! When I get up in the morning, the slanting sun casts two or three squarish patches of light into my small room. The sun has feet too, edging away softly and stealthily. And, without knowing it, I am already caught in its revolution .Thus the day flows away through the sink when I wash my hands; vanishes in the rice bowl when I have my meal; passes away quietly before the fixed gaze of my eyes when I am lost in reverie. Aware of its fleeting presence, I reach out for it only to find it brushing past my out-stretched hands. In the evening, when I lie on my bed, it nimbly strides over my body and flits past my feet. By the time when I open my eyes to meet the sun again, another day is already gone. I heave a sign, my head buried in my hands. But, in the midst of my sighs, a new day is flashing past.

　　Living in this world with its fleeting days and teeming millions, what can I do but waver and wander and live a transient life? What have I been doing during the 8,000 fleeting days except wavering and wandering? The bygone days, like wisps of smoke, have been dispersed by gentle winds, and, like thin mists, have been evaporated by the rising sun. What traces have I left behind? No, nothing, not even gossamer-like traces. I have come to this world stark naked, and in the twinkling of an eye, I am to go to back as stark naked as ever. However, I am taking it very much to heart: why should I be made to pass through this world for nothing at all?

　　O you the wise, would you tell me please: why should our days go by never to return?

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