LESSON 97

ENOCH ARDEN AT THE WINDOW

窗前的伊诺克·艾登

Alfred Tennyson, 1809-1892, was born in Somerby, Lincolnshire, England; his father was a clergyman noted for his energy and physical stature. Alfred, with his two older brothers, graduated at Trinity College, Cambridge. His first volume of poems appeared in 1830; it made little impression, and was severely treated by the critics. On the publication of his third series, in 1842, his poetic genius began to receive general recognition. On the death of Wordsworth he was made poet laureate, and he was then regarded as the foremost living poet of England. “In Memoriam,” written in memory of his friend Arthur Hallam, appeared in 1850; the “Idyls of the King,” in 1858; and “Enoch Arden,” a touching story in verse, from which the following selection is taken, was published in 1864. In 1883 he accepted a peerage as Baron Tennyson of Aldworth, Sussex, and of Freshwater, Isle of Wight.

But Enoch yearned to see her face again;

“If I might look on her sweet face again

And know that she is happy.” So the thought

Haunted and harassed him, and drove him forth,

At evening when the dull November day

Was growing duller twilight, to the hill.

There he sat down gazing on all below;

There did a thousand memories roll upon him,

Unspeakable for sadness. By and by

The ruddy square of comfortable light,

Far-blazing from the rear of Philip’s house,

Allured him, as the beacon blaze allures

The bird of passage, till he mildly strikes

Against it, and beats out his weary life.

For Philip’s dwelling fronted on the street,

The latest house to landward; but behind,

With one small gate that opened on the waste,

Flourished a little garden, square and walled:

And in it throve an ancient evergreen,

A yew tree, and all round it ran a walk

Of shingle, and a walk divided it:

But Enoch shunned the middle walk, and stole

Up by the wall, behind the yew; and thence

That which he better might have shunned, if griefs

Like his have worse or better, Enoch saw.

For cups and silver on the burnished board

Sparkled and shone; so genial was the hearth:

And on the right hand of the hearth he saw

Philip, the slighted suitor of old times,

Stout, rosy, with his babe across his knees;

And o’er her second father stooped a girl,

A later but a loftier Annie Lee,

Fair-haired and tall, and from her lifted hand

Dangled a length of ribbon and a ring

To tempt the babe, who reared his creasy arms,

Caught at and ever missed it, and they laughed:

And on the left hand of the hearth he saw

The mother glancing often toward her babe,

But turning now and then to speak with him,

Her son, who stood beside her tall and strong,

And saying that which pleased him, for he smiled.

Now when the dead man come to life beheld

His wife, his wife no more, and saw the babe,

Hers, yet not his, upon the father’s knee,

And all the warmth, the peace, the happiness.

And his own children tall and beautiful,

And him, that other, reigning in his place,

Lord of his rights and of his children’s love,

Then he, tho’ Miriam Lane had told him all,

Because things seen are mightier than things heard,

Staggered and shook, holding the branch, and feared

To send abroad a shrill and terrible cry,

Which in one moment, like the blast of doom,

Would shatter all the happiness of the hearth.

He, therefore, turning softly like a thief,

Lest the harsh shingle should grate underfoot,

And feeling all along the garden wall,

Lest he should swoon and tumble and be found,

Crept to the gate, and opened it, and closed,

As lightly as a sick man’s chamber door,

Behind him, and came out upon the waste.

And there he would have knelt but that his knees

Were feeble, so that falling prone he dug

His fingers into the wet earth, and prayed.

“Too hard to bear! why did they take me thence?

O God Almighty, blessed Savior, Thou

That did’st uphold me on my lonely isle,

Uphold me, Father, in my loneliness

A little longer! aid me, give me strength

Not to tell her, never to let her know.

Help me not to break in upon her peace.

My children too! must I not speak to these?

They know me not. I should betray myself.

Never!—no father’s kiss for me!—the girl

So like her mother, and the boy, my son!”

There speech and thought and nature failed a little,

And he lay tranced; but when he rose and paced

Back toward his solitary home again,

All down the long and narrow street he went

Beating it in upon his weary brain,

As tho’ it were the burden of a song,

“Not to tell her, never to let her know.”

【中文阅读】

可是伊诺克渴望再见她一面；

“但愿我能再端详她那甜美的脸

确信她真的幸福快乐。”这个念头

在他心底应萦绕盘旋，驱使他向前，

当那阴冷的十一月白天过去，

到了更阴沉的黄昏，他来到小山丘。

他在那儿坐下，凝视着脚下的一切出神；

历历往事纷纷涌上心头，

难以言传的莫名悲哀。不一会儿，

在菲利普屋后窗户里面，

远远闪烁飘出红红的温暖的灯火。

这灯火吸引他向前，就像灯塔吸引

来来往往的鸟儿，直到它一头撞到窗户上，

它那忙忙碌碌的一生从此了结。

菲利普的宅邸面向那条街，

这幢房子离陆地最近，后面，

有一扇门通向荒野，

有围墙的小花园四四方方，郁郁葱葱：

里面有棵古老的常青树，

还有一棵紫杉，四周是卵石铺成的蜿蜒小道，

有一条小径将花园分成两半：

伊诺克避开中间那条小道，偷偷

爬上围墙，就在紫杉后面；从那里，

他看到最好是回避的景象，

假如对他来说说不上好坏的话。

在油光锃亮的桌面上，银餐具和杯碟

闪闪发光；炉火沁人。

他看到菲利普就坐在壁炉右手，

先前这求爱的人受到冷落，

眼前的他身体壮实脸红润，孩儿绕膝，

一位姑娘乖顺地站在继父一旁——

原来是高傲的安妮•李，

她一头秀发，个子高高，伸出手

摇晃长长的缎带和一只手环

逗着那孩子，小孩扬起胖嘟嘟的双臂，

抓也抓不到，大家哈哈笑：

伊诺克看到壁炉左手

孩子的母亲不时地瞥孩子一眼，

又转脸对儿子说着什么，

他站在母亲身旁，身材高大又健壮，

听了母亲的话他很高兴，脸上的微笑就是明证。

现在这个已经死去的人复活了，

瞧着不再是他妻子的妻子，看到她的而不是

自己的孩子，坐在他真正父亲的膝上，

眼前一片温馨祥和幸福的景象，

他自己的孩子们长得高大仪表非凡，

而这个他取代他的位置

行使他的权力、还有他儿女的爱。

尽管这些米莉亚姆•莱恩全都对他说讲过，

毕竟百闻不如一见，

见此情景，他摇摇晃晃抓住树枝，

生怕自己发出尖厉骇人的叫声

就像发出审判的怒吼，

把壁炉边这家人的所有欢乐顷刻间毁掉。

就这样，他像个小偷轻轻转过身，

免得脚下粗粝的卵石发出声响，

他沿着院墙摸索着向前，

免得昏倒在地被人发现，

蹑足潜踪来到门口，打开门后随手关上，

那声响就像走出病房，

在他身后就是那片荒野。

他本想在那儿跪下，

可他双膝虚弱无力，仰面摔倒，

他的手指抠进湿泥里，默默祈祷。

“天哪，我受不了！他们为什么要带我回来？

啊，万能的上帝，赐福众生的救世主，

既然在荒岛上救我性命，

我的圣父啊，那就求你在我这孤独中

赐我一点希望，助我，给我力量

别告诉她，让她永远不要知道。

帮帮我吧，别扰了她的安宁。

还有我的孩子！我也断不能对他们言讲？

他们不知道我是谁，我该表明身份。

绝对不行！——他们不会吻我这个父亲——那个，

像极了她母亲的姑娘，还有那男孩，我的儿子！”

他气短神疲，声若游丝思若绝，

失神倒地，但当他站起，

回到他那与世隔绝的住处时，

待走下那又长又狭的街道

不停地在他疲倦的脑海敲打的是

恍若一首歌的叠句，

“千万不要讲给她听，绝对不能让她知道。”