奥登：石灰岩颂

李景冰 译


如果说它形成了一个风景，令我们，这些无常者
始终思念，这主要是因为
它溶解于水，用百里香芬芳的表面
标出这些圆形的斜坡，下面，
一个溶洞和水系的秘密系统，听到
泉水咯咯地从各个地方喷出，
各自充满一个私有水池，为它的鱼
和雕刻自己的小沟壑，其峭壁
愉悦蝴蝶和蜥蜴；检查这片
狭小的区域和确定的位置：
什么会更像母亲或给她儿子的
适宜背景，那轻浮的男子懒洋洋躺在
阳光下一块岩石上，从未怀疑
那是为了他所有被爱的错误，他的工作
只是将力量延展到魅力？从风化的岩层
到山顶的神殿，从显露的水到
显眼的泉源，从野地到整齐的葡萄园，
都只是一个孩子想要取得比他的兄弟
更多注意的灵巧的几步，不论
通过取悦或强求，轻易地得到。

那么，看，一群对手三三二二
从峭石的狭道攀上攀下，很多次
臂挽臂，但，感谢上帝，从未同一步调；
或聚会于正午广场边的阴影下
滔滔雄辩，彼此太了解了
不会想到有什么重要秘密，不能构想
一个坏脾气的上帝是道德的
并且不会为一句聪明的慌话或性快感
平抚：因为习惯于一个石头的回应，
他们从未勉强用火山口的敬畏罩住面孔，
那不能确定的炽烈的狂暴；
适应山谷的本地需要
所有东西都能触及或步行达到，
他们的眼睛从未通过游牧部落蜂巢的
晶格看到无限的空间；出生幸运，
他们的腿从未遇到过菌类
或丛林的昆虫，怪异的形体
和我们一无所知的生命，我们喜欢共同希望，
因此，当其中一人出错，他的不可思议的
运思方式存留着：变成一个皮条客
或经营假珠宝或毁掉一个优美的男高音
以降低对房子的影响，可能发生在所有的人
除了我们中最好和最坏的。
这就是为什么，我推想，
最好和最坏的从未久留于此而是寻找
极端的土壤，那里美不在外表，
较少公众的光和生活的意义
超出疯狂扎营的某物。“来！”大理石废墟喊，
“你的诙谐是怎样的躲避，你的最友爱的吻
是怎样的偶然，死是怎样的永久。”（可能的圣者
叹息着溜走。）“来！”泥土和沙砾咕噜，
“我们的平原有训练军队的场地；河流
等待驯服，奴隶以豪华的式样
为你建造坟墓：与泥土同样柔软的是人类，
两者都需要被改变。”（监督官凯撒站起
离开，砰然关上门。）但那草率确实被
更老的寒冷声音取来，那大海的低语：
“我是孤独的，什么也没问也没允诺；
那就是我将怎样置于你自由。没有爱；
只有不同种的嫉妒，它们所有都是悲哀的。”

他们是对的，我亲爱的，所有那些声音都是对的
并且现在还是；这土地不像看去那样是甜蜜的家，
一个地区的历史上的平静也不是和平，
那里某种事物被断然决定：一个落后地区
和残破的省，由一个隧道
连接到热闹的大世界，带着某种
不适宜的请求，这就是它现在的一切？不完全：
它有一种尘世的责任尽管它
不能忽略自身，但却勾起了所有
霸权者设想的问题，它扰乱了我们的正义。诗人，
为他称太阳为太阳的真挚习性得到
赞美，他的精神困惑，便是由这些
明显怀疑他的反虚构的虚构的大理石雕像
不自在地造成；并且这些流浪儿（雕像），
用如此生动的供奉，追逐科学家沿着
镶瓦的廊柱，遣责他对大自然最遥远
方面的关注：我，也是被指责的，为何
并且多少你知道。不要浪费时间，不要被赶上，
不要落在后面，不要，请！像野兽
重复它们自己，或像水或石头的物
行为能被预期，这些是我们
共同的祈求，这祈求的最大的安慰是音乐
在任何地方都可产生，看不见，
嗅不着。至于我们不得不期盼的死
这一事实，无疑我们是对的：但如果
罪能被宽恕，肉体从死中复活，
这些事物的更改进入
无辜的竞赛者和做着姿态的泉，
单单是为了愉悦，进一步立论：
受祝福的将不关心他们被重视的角度，
没有任何东西对之隐藏。亲爱的，我对两者
一无所知，但当我试着想像一种完美的爱
或未来的生活，我听到的是
地下川流的低吟，看到的是石灰岩风景。


（译注：这首诗为面对石灰岩风景的沉思，保持着瞬间意识流的思维样态，因而显得绵密、错综，甚至有些芜杂。尤其是其玄学式的思辩语句，将景物编织到一种整体的理念结构里，与之前有名的颂体诗如济慈的《希腊古瓮颂》以及瓦雷里的《海滨墓园》等相比，失去了后者的古雕塑的结构、比例以及音韵。在这里对景物的玄学诠释，成了诗意的主导意趣，有似唐诗与宋诗的区别。给人的感觉是比喻的介入的过多。这首诗的结构方式，可参照史蒂文斯的《科韦斯特岛的秩序观念》。奥登想必受过史蒂文斯这首诗的影响。）


In Praise Of Limestone

If it form the one landscape that we, the inconstant ones,
Are consistently homesick for, this is chiefly
Because it dissolves in water. Mark these rounded slopes
With their surface fragrance of thyme and, beneath,
A secret system of caves and conduits; hear the springs
That spurt out everywhere with a chuckle,
Each filling a private pool for its fish and carving
Its own little ravine whose cliffs entertain
The butterfly and the lizard; examine this region
Of short distances and definite places:
What could be more like Mother or a fitter background
For her son, the flirtatious male who lounges
Against a rock in the sunlight, never doubting
That for all his faults he is loved; whose works are but
Extensions of his power to charm? From weathered outcrop
To hill-top temple, from appearing waters to
Conspicuous fountains, from a wild to a formal vineyard,
Are ingenious but short steps that a child's wish
To receive more attention than his brothers, whether
By pleasing or teasing, can easily take.

Watch, then, the band of rivals as they climb up and down
Their steep stone gennels in twos and threes, at times
Arm in arm, but never, thank God, in step; or engaged
On the shady side of a square at midday in
Voluble discourse, knowing each other too well to think
There are any important secrets, unable
To conceive a god whose temper-tantrums are moral
And not to be pacified by a clever line
Or a good lay: for accustomed to a stone that responds,
They have never had to veil their faces in awe
Of a crater whose blazing fury could not be fixed;
Adjusted to the local needs of valleys
Where everything can be touched or reached by walking,
Their eyes have never looked into infinite space
Through the lattice-work of a nomad's comb; born lucky,
Their legs have never encountered the fungi
And insects of the jungle, the monstrous forms and lives
With which we have nothing, we like to hope, in common.
So, when one of them goes to the bad, the way his mind works
Remains incomprehensible: to become a pimp
Or deal in fake jewellery or ruin a fine tenor voice
For effects that bring down the house, could happen to all
But the best and the worst of us...
That is why, I suppose,
The best and worst never stayed here long but sought
Immoderate soils where the beauty was not so external,
The light less public and the meaning of life
Something more than a mad camp. 'Come!' cried the granite wastes,
"How evasive is your humour, how accidental
Your kindest kiss, how permanent is death." (Saints-to-be
Slipped away sighing.) "Come!" purred the clays and gravels,
"On our plains there is room for armies to drill; rivers
Wait to be tamed and slaves to construct you a tomb
In the grand manner: soft as the earth is mankind and both
Need to be altered." (Intendant Caesars rose and
Left, slamming the door.) But the really reckless were fetched
By an older colder voice, the oceanic whisper:
"I am the solitude that asks and promises nothing;
That is how I shall set you free. There is no love;
There are only the various envies, all of them sad."

They were right, my dear, all those voices were right
And still are; this land is not the sweet home that it looks,
Nor its peace the historical calm of a site
Where something was settled once and for all: A back ward
And dilapidated province, connected
To the big busy world by a tunnel, with a certain
Seedy appeal, is that all it is now? Not quite:
It has a worldy duty which in spite of itself
It does not neglect, but calls into question
All the Great Powers assume; it disturbs our rights. The poet,
Admired for his earnest habit of calling
The sun the sun, his mind Puzzle, is made uneasy
By these marble statues which so obviously doubt
His antimythological myth; and these gamins,
Pursuing the scientist down the tiled colonnade
With such lively offers, rebuke his concern for Nature's
Remotest aspects: I, too, am reproached, for what
And how much you know. Not to lose time, not to get caught,
Not to be left behind, not, please! to resemble
The beasts who repeat themselves, or a thing like water
Or stone whose conduct can be predicted, these
Are our common prayer, whose greatest comfort is music
Which can be made anywhere, is invisible,
And does not smell. In so far as we have to look forward
To death as a fact, no doubt we are right: But if
Sins can be forgiven, if bodies rise from the dead,
These modifications of matter into
Innocent athletes and gesticulating fountains,
Made solely for pleasure, make a further point:
The blessed will not care what angle they are regarded from,
Having nothing to hide. Dear, I know nothing of
Either, but when I try to imagine a faultless love
Or the life to come, what I hear is the murmur
Of underground streams, what I see is a limestone landscape.