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我喜欢英语，也喜欢《荷塘月色》，所以在平时就搜集了它的多个译本，在本网站上有《中国文学》翻译的版本，但没有发现其它二个版本（分别是朱纯深和王椒升的译文），故现在一齐发上来，供爱好散文英译爱好者赏鉴！同时也希望大家能给小弟一点鼓励！
荷塘月色---译文对比(三种译文）
荷塘月色
朱自清
这几天心里颇不宁静。今晚在院子里坐着乘凉，忽然想起日日走过的荷塘，在这满月的光里，总该另有一番样子吧。月亮渐渐地升高了，墙外马路上孩子们的欢笑，已经听不见了；妻在屋里拍着闰儿，迷迷糊糊地哼着眠歌。我悄悄地披了大衫，带上门出去。
沿着荷塘，是一条曲折的小煤屑路。这是一条幽僻的路；白天也少人走，夜晚更加寂寞。荷塘四面，长着许多树，蓊蓊郁郁的。路的一旁，是些杨柳，和一些不知道名字的树。没有月亮的晚上，这路上阴森森的，有些怕人。今晚却很好。虽然月光也还是淡淡的。
曲曲折折的荷塘上面，弥望的是田田的叶子。叶子出水很高，像亭亭的舞女的裙。层层的叶子中间，零星地点缀着些白花，有袅娜地开着的，有羞涩地打着朵儿的；正如一粒粒的明珠，又如碧天里的星星，又如刚出浴的美人。微风过处，送来缕缕清香，仿佛远处高楼上渺茫的歌声似的。这时候叶子与花也有一丝的颤动，像闪电般，霎时传过荷塘的那边去了。叶子本是肩并肩密密地挨着，这便宛然有了一道凝碧的波痕。叶子底下是脉脉的流水，遮住了，不能见一些颜色；而叶子却更见风致了。
月光如流水一般，静静地泻在这一片叶子和花上。薄薄的青雾浮起在荷塘里。叶子和花仿佛在牛乳中洗过一样；又像笼着轻纱的梦。虽然是满月，天上却有一层淡淡的云，所以不能朗照；但我以为这恰是到了好处——酣眠固不可少，小睡也别有风味的。月光是隔了树照过来的，高处丛生的灌木，落上参差的斑驳的黑影，峭楞楞如鬼一般；弯弯的杨柳的稀疏的倩影，像是画在荷叶上。塘中的月色并不均匀；但光与影有着和谐的旋律，如梵婀玲上奏着的名曲。
荷塘的四面，远远近近，高高低低都是树,而杨柳最多。这些树将一片荷塘重重围住;只在小路一旁,漏着几段空隙,像是特为月光留下的,树色一例是阴阴的,乍看像一团烟雾;但杨柳的丰姿，便在烟雾里也辨得出。 树梢上隐隐约约的是一带远山，只有些大意罢了。树缝里也漏着一两点路灯光，没精打采的，是瞌睡人的眼。这时候最热闹的，要数树上的蝉声与水里的蛙声，但热闹是他们的，我什么也没有。
忽然想起采莲的事情来了。采莲是江南的旧俗，似乎很早就有，而六朝时为盛；从诗歌里可以约略知道。于是又记起《西洲曲》里的句子：
采莲南塘秋，
莲花过人头；
低头弄莲子，
莲子青如水。
今晚若有采莲人，这儿的莲花也算得“过人头”了；只不见一些流水的影子，是不行的。这令我到底惦着江南了。——这样想着，猛一抬头，不觉已是自己的门前；轻轻地推门进去，什么声息也没有，妻已睡熟好久了。
朱纯深译文
I have felt quite upset recently. Tonight, when I was sitting in the yard enjoying the cool, it occurred to me that the Lotus Pond, which I pass by everyday, must assume quite a different look in such moonlit night. A full moon was rising high in the sky; the laughter of children playing outside had died away; in the room, my wife was patting the son, Run-er, sleepily humming a cradle song. Shrugging on an overcoat, quietly, I made my way out, closing the door behind me.
Alongside the Lotus Pond runs a small cinder footpath. It is peaceful and secluded here, a place not frequented by pedestrians even in the daytime; now at night, it looks more solitary, in a lush, shady ambience of trees all around the pond. On the side where the path is, there are willows, interlaced with some others whose names I do not know. The foliage, which, in a moonless night, would loom somewhat frighteningly dark, looks very nice tonight, although the moonlight is not more than a thin, greyish veil.
All over this winding stretch of water, what meets the eye is a silken field of leaves, reaching rather high above the surface, like the skirts of dancing girls in all their grace. Here and there, layers of leaves are dotted with white lotus blossoms, some in demure bloom, others in shy bud, like scattering pearls, or twinkling stars, or beauties just out of the bath. A breeze stirs, sending over breaths of fragrance, like faint singing drifting from a distant building. At this moment, a tiny thrill shoots through the leaves and flowers, like a streak of lightning, straight across the forest of lotuses. The leaves, which have been standing shoulder to shoulder, are caught trembling in an emerald heave of the pond. Underneath, the exquisite water is covered from view, and none can tell its colour; yet the leaves on top project themselves all the more attractively.
The moon sheds her liquid light silently over the leaves and flowers, which, in the floating transparency of a bluish haze from the pond, look as if they had just been bathed in milk, or like a dream wrapped in a gauzy hood. Although it is a full moon, shining through a film of clouds, the light is not at its brightest; it is, however, just right for me - a profound sleep is indispensable, yet a snatched doze also has a savour of its own. The moon light is streaming down through the foliage, casting bushy shadows on the ground from high above, dark and checkered, like an army of ghosts; whereas the benign figures of the drooping willows, here and there, look like paintings on the lotus leaves. The moonlight is not spread evenly over the pond, but rather in a harmonious rhythm of light and shade, like a famous melody played on a violin.
Around the pond, far and near, high and low, are trees. Most of them are willows. Only on the path side can two or three gaps be seen through the heavy fringe, as if specially reserved for the moon. The shadowy shapes of the leafage at first sight seem diffused into a mass of mist, against which, however, the charm of those willow trees is still discernible. Over the trees appear some distant mountains, but merely in sketchy silhouette. Through the branches are also a couple of lamps, as listless as sleepy eyes. The most lively creatures here, for the moment, must be the cicadas in the trees and the frogs in the pond. But the liveliness is theirs, I have nothing.
Suddenly, something like lotus-gathering crosses my mind. It used to be celebrated as a folk festival in the South, probably dating very far back in history, most popular in the period of Six Dynasties. We can pick up some outlines of this activity in the poetry. Then I recall those lines in Ballad of Xizhou Island:
Gathering the lotus, I am in the South Pond,
The lilies in autumn reach over my head;
Lowering my head I toy with the lotus seeds.
Look, they are as fresh as the water underneath.
If there were somebody gathering lotuses tonight, she could tell that the lilies here are high enough to reach over her head; but one would certainly miss the sight of the water. So my memories drift back to the South after all. Deep in my thoughts, I looked up, just to find myself at the door of my own house. Gently I pushed the door open and walked in. Not a sound inside, my wife had been fast asleep for quite a while.
王椒升译文
Of late, I have been in a rather uneasy frame of mind. Sitting in my courtyard enjoying the cool evening, I suddenly thought of the lotus pond that I pass on my way day in and day out. Tonight, it must have a charm all its own, bathed in the light of the full moon. The moon was now rising slowly. Beyond the wall, the happy laughter of children on the road had died away. So putting on my coat quietly, I went out closing the door softly behind me.
A path paved with coal-dust zigzags along the lotus pond, so secluded as to be little frequented in the daytime, to say nothing of its loneliness at night. Around the pond grows a profusion of luxuriant trees. On one side of the path are some willows and other plants whose names are unknown to me. On moonless nights, the place has a gloomy, somewhat forbidding appearance. But on this particular evening, it had a cheerful outlook, though the moon was pale.
On the uneven surface of the pond, all one could see was a mass of leaves, all interlaced and shooting high above the water like the skirts of slim dancing girls. The leaves were dotted in between the layers with white flowers, some blooming gracefully; others, as if bashfully, still in bud. They were like bright pearls and stars in an azure sky. Their subtle fragrance was wafted by the passing breeze, in whiffs airy as he notes of a song coming faintly from some distant tower. There was a tremor on leaf and flower, which, with the suddenness of lightning, soon drifted to the far end of the pond. The leaves, jostling and overlapping, produced, as it were, a wave of deep green. Under the leaves, softly hidden from view, water was rippling even its colour was not discernible so that the leaves looked more enchanting.
Moonlight was flowing quietly like a stream down to the leaves and flowers. A light mist overspread the lotus pond. Leaf and flower seemed washed in milk. Moolight was glowing from behind the trees, and the dense shrubs above cast down gloomy ghostlike shadows of varying lengths and shades of colour. But the beautiful sparse shadows of the arching willows were like a picture etched on the lotus leaves. Uneven as was the moonlight over the pond, there was a harmony between light and shade, rhythmic as a well-known melody played on the violin.
Skirting the lotus pond, far and near, high and low, are trees among which willows predominate. They entirely envelop the pond, leaving only a few spaces on one side of the path, as if purposely for the moonbeams to penetrate. The trees were now all enshrouded in a heavy gloom, which at first sight looked like a pall of mist, but the lovely shape of the willows remained distinguishable in spite of it. Distant hills loomed above the tree-tops in dim outline. Here and there, a few rays from street-lamps filtered through the trees, listless as the eyes of one who is dozing. At this moment, most lively were the cicadas chirping in the trees and the frogs croaking under the water. But theirs was all the merry-making, in which I did not have the least share.
Then all of a sudden, I was reminded of the custom of plucking lotus seeds prevalent in Jiangnan, handed down probably from a very remote period and becoming quite popular during the Six Dynasties, as may be seen roughly in songs and poems that survive. This in turn revived my memory of the following lines in the “West Islet Ditty”:
In autumn I pluck lotus seeds in the South Pond,
Tall are the lotus plants, taller than me.
My head bent low, with lotus seeds I play,
Green, green as water all the lotus seeds I see.
If there were people plucking lotus seeds here tonight, they might indeed find lotus plants exceeding them in height; but the absence of the merest shadow of flowing water would spoil it. And that is what has set me thinking about Jiangnan.
《中国文学》译文
The last few days have found me very restless. This evening as I sat in the yard to enjoy the cool, it struck me how different the lotus pool I pass every day must look under a full moon. The moon was sailing higher and higher up the heavens, the sound of childish laughter had died away from the lane beyond our wall, and my wife was in the house patting Run’er and humming a lullaby to him. I quietly slipped on a long gown, and walked out leaving the door on the latch.
A cinder-path winds along by the side of the pool. It is off the beaten track and few pass this way even by day, so at night it is still more quiet. Trees grow thick and bosky all around the pool, with willows and other trees I cannot name by the path. On nights when there is no moon the track is almost terrifyingly dark, but tonight it was quite clear, though the moonlight was pale.
As far as eye could see, the pool with its winding margin was covered with trim leaves, which rose high out of the water like the flared skirts of dancing girls. And starring these tiers of leaves were white lotus flowers, alluringly open or bashfully in bud, like glimmering pearls, stars in an azure sky, or beauties fresh from the bath. The breeze carried past gusts of fragrance, like the strains of a song faintly heard from a far-off tower. And leaves and blossoms trembled slightly, while in a flash the scent was carried away. As the closely serried leaves bent, a tide of opaque emerald could be glimpsed. That was the softly running water beneath, hidden from sight, its colour invisible, though the leaves looked more graceful than ever.
Moonlight cascaded like water over the lotus leaves and flowers, and a light blue mist floating up from the pool made them seem washed in milk or caught in a gauzy dream. Though the moon was full, a film of pale clouds in the sky would not allow its rays to shine through brightly; but I felt this was all to the good --- though refreshing sleep is indispensable, short naps have a charm all their own. As the moon shone from behind them, the dense trees on the hills threw checkered shadows, dark forms loomed like devils, and the sparse, graceful shadows of willows seemed painted on the lotus leaves. The moonlight on the pool was not uniform, but light and shadow made up a harmonious rhythm like a beautiful tune played on a violin.
Far and near, high and low around the pool were trees, most of them willows. These trees had the pool entirely hemmed in, the only small clearings left being those by the path, apparently intended for the moon. All the trees were sombre as dense smoke, but among them you could make out the luxuriant willows, while faintly above the tree-tops loomed distant hills --- their general outline only. And between the trees appeared one or two street lamps, listless as the eyes of someone drowsy. The liveliest sounds at this hour were the cicadas chirruping on the trees and the frogs croaking in the pool; but this animation was theirs alone, I had no part in it.
Then lotus-gathering flashed into my mind. This was an old custom south of the Yangtze, which apparently originated very early and was most popular in the period of the Six Kingdoms, as we see from the songs of the time. I remember some lines from the poem West Islet:
When they gather lotus at Nantang in autumn
The lotus blooms are higher than their heads;
They stoop to pick lotus seeds,
Seeds as translucent as water.
If any girls were here now to pick the lotus, the flowers would reach above their heads too --- ah, rippling shadows alone are not enough! I was feeling quite homesick for the south, when I suddenly looked up to discover I had reached my own door. Pushing it softly open and tiptoeing in, I found all quiet inside, and my wife fast asleep. |
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发表于 2009-3-31 09:20:37
英文总是翻译不出那种味道，呵呵
