LESSON 95

GINEVRA

吉内乌拉

Samuel Rogers, 1763-1855, was the son of a London banker, and, in company with his father, followed the banking business for some years. He began to write at an early age, and published his “Pleasures of Memory,” perhaps his most famous work, in 1792. The next year his father died, leaving him an ample fortune. He now retired from business and established himself in an elegant house in St. James’s Place. This house was a place of resort for literary men during fifty years. In 1822 he published his longest poem, “Italy,” after which he wrote but little. He wrote with care, spending, as he said, nine years on the “Pleasures of Memory,” and sixteen on “Italy.” “His writings are remarkable for elegance of diction, purity of taste, and beauty of sentiment.” It is said that he was very agreeable in conversation and manners, and benevolent in his disposition; but he was addicted to ill-nature and satire in some of his criticisms.

If thou shouldst ever come by choice or chance

To Modena,—where still religiously

Among her ancient trophies, is preserved

Bologna’s bucket (in its chain it hangs

Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandine),—

Stop at a palace near the Reggio gate,

Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini.

Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,

And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses,

Will long detain thee; through their arched walks,

Dim at noonday, discovering many a glimpse

Ofknights and dames such as in old romance,

And lovers such as in heroic song,—

Perhaps the two, for groves were their delight,

That in the springtime, as alone they sate,

Venturing together on a tale of love.

Read only part that day.—A summer sun

Sets ere one half is seen; but, ere thou go,

Enter the house—prithee, forget it not—

And look awhile upon a picture there.

’T is of a lady in her earliest youth,

The very last of that illustrious race,

Done by Zampieri—but by whom I care not.

He who observes it, ere he passes on,

Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again,

That he may call it up when far away.

She sits, inclining forward as to speak,

Her lips half-open, and her finger up,

As though she said, “Beware!” her vest of gold,

Broidered with flowers, and clasped from head to foot,

An emerald stone in every golden clasp;

And on her brow, fairer than alabaster,

A coronet of pearls. But then her face,

So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth,

The overflowings of an innocent heart,—

It haunts me still, though many a year has fled,

Like some wild melody!

Alone it hangs

Over a moldering heirloom, its companion,

An oaken chest, half-eaten by the worm,

But richly carved by Antony of Trent

With scripture stories from the life of Christ;

A chest that came from Venice, and had held

The ducal robes of some old ancestors—

That, by the way, it may be true or false—

But don’t forget the picture; and thou wilt not,

When thou hast heard the tale they told me there.

She was an only child; from infancy

The joy, the pride, of an indulgent sire;

The young Ginevra was his all in life,

Still as she grew, forever in his sight;

And in her fifteenth year became a bride,

Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria,

Her playmate from her birth, and her first love.

Just as she looks there in her bridal dress,

She was all gentleness, all gayety,

Her pranks the favorite theme of every tongue.

But now the day was come, the day, the hour;

Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time,

The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum:

And, in the luster of her youth, she gave

Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco.

Great was the joy; but at the bridal feast,

When all sate down, the bride was wanting there.

Nor was she to be found! Her father cried,

“ ’T is but to make a trial of our love!”

And filled his glass to all; but his hand shook,

And soon from guest to guest the panic spread.

’T was but that instant she had left Francesco,

Laughing and looking back and flying still,

Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger.

But now, alas! she was not to be found;

Nor from that hour could anything be guessed,

But that she was not!—Weary of his life,

Francesco flew to Venice, and forthwith

Flung it away in battle with the Turk.

Orsini lived; and long was to be seen

An old man wandering as in quest of something,

Something he could not find—he knew not what.

When he was gone, the house remained a while

Silent and tenantless—then went to strangers.

Full fifty years were past, and all forgot,

When on an idle day, a day of search

’Mid the old lumber in the gallery,

That moldering chest was noticed; and ’t was said

By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra,

“Why not remove it from its lurking place?”

’T was done as soon as said; but on the way

It burst, it fell; and lo! a skeleton,

With here and there a pearl, an emerald stone,

A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold.

All else had perished, save a nuptial ring,

And a small seal, her mother’s legacy,

Engraven with a name, the name of both,

“Ginevra.”——There then had she found a grave!

Within that chest had she concealed herself,

Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy;

When a spring lock, that lay in ambush there,

Fastened her down forever!

【中文阅读】

如果你曾经有幸去摩德纳——

在她古代战利品中，还保留着

博洛尼亚的水桶（在它的把上，悬于教堂的尖塔，吉尔兰迪内）

在皇宫大门附近停下来，

里面住着一位奥尔西尼老人。

那雄伟的庭园，台阶拾级而上，

到处是喷泉、雕像和翠柏，

令你流连忘返；穿过拱形通道，

在中午就显得暗淡微明，发现武士和宫女凝神一瞥，

恰如旧时浪漫史中的情境，

恰似英雄之歌里的恋人——

也许是两对，在小树林里尽情嬉戏，

那时春光明媚，就他们两人坐在那里，

冒险上演一出爱情传奇。

仅读到那天一部分——夏日阳光

西沉，斜阳一半挂在天际；但是，在你走之前，

进了屋里——求求你，不要把它忘记——

再端详那幅画一会儿。

这是一位正值青春年少的淑女，

系那著名种族最后一位，

这个种族始祖为扎比耶里——不过对他我不在意。

在他侃侃而谈之前，就已经注意到这幅画，

凝神打量，一遍又一遍，

他回忆起那是遥远的过去。

她端坐着，身子前倾似要倾诉，

她的朱唇半张，手指上扬，

仿佛在说，“当心！”她的金背心，

绣着鲜花，从头到脚都扣紧，

在每一金色纽扣上都嵌着祖母绿；

她额头比雪花膏石还要洁白光亮，

戴着珍珠王冠。但是她的脸，

那么可爱，然而弯成拱形，笑意盈盈，

一颗天真无邪的心毕现无遗——

我的心头还萦绕着，尽管已经逝去多年，

就像有点狂野的旋律！

只有它盘旋在一个腐朽的祖物上，和它一样古旧的祖物，

一只橡木柜子，一半被虫子咬过，

但是雕刻有特伦特的安东尼

取自基督生平的圣经故事；

那只柜子来自威尼斯，

里面盛着公爵祖先的袍子——

不论真与假——

都不要把那幅画忘记；

当你听到他们讲给我的故事时，

你就不会忘记的。

她是唯一的孩子；从孩提起

就是纵容的公爵的快乐和骄傲；

年轻的吉内乌拉终其一生都是他的快乐之源，

从来没有离开他的视线；

在她十五岁时成了新娘，

嫁给了独子弗朗西斯科•多利亚，

她从小的玩伴，她的初恋。

画的正是她穿着新娘礼服的样子

万般温柔，快乐在心底，

她的恶作剧让每个佳朋开心。

现在，这一天到来了，这一天，这一刻；

浅笑，蹙眉，这是第一百次了，

保姆，那穿着古代装束的妇人，告诉新娘要端庄得体：

沐浴着少女光辉，她把手连同她的心

一起交给了弗朗西斯科。

欢乐无比；可是在婚宴上，

当所有宾客坐定，新娘却不见了踪影。

谁也没见到她！她父亲喊道，

“这不过是我们爱的考验而已！”

他满了酒杯给所有宾客；但他的手抖个不停，

来宾很快陷入混乱。

就在那一瞬间她已经离开弗朗西斯科，

纵情大笑回首凝望，身子已在飞翔，

她那象牙一般洁白的齿印印在他的手指上。

可是现在，天啊！她不见了踪影；

从那一刻起，一切都变得难以揣测，

但是她不是！——厌倦了他的生活，

弗朗西斯科飞至威尼斯，即刻

投入到与土耳其人的战争。

奥尔西尼还活着；很久以前

见一位老者四处游荡，似乎在找寻什么，

他没有找到寻觅的东西，那幢房子

风雨飘零，无人居住——于是住进了陌生人。

五十载倥偬，皆成一场空，

闲极无聊的一天，在画廊

在一堆旧故中找寻，

于是发现了那腐朽的柜子；据说

是一个年轻人留下的，像吉内乌拉那样轻率地年轻人，

“为什么不从潜伏的地方挪走呢？”

说着就开始行动；可是

它裂开了，散了一地；瞧啊！一具骷髅，

还有一串珠子，一个祖母绿，

镀金的钩子，嵌着金片

除了一只婚戒，别的已然腐朽，

有一枚小印章，她母亲的遗赠，

上面刻着名字，两个人的名字，

“吉内乌拉。”——那里还有她发现的坟墓！

她在柜子里将自己藏起，

快乐得直蹦，那种高兴简直没法形容；

那儿的一把弹簧锁，

将她永远锁住！