LESSON 109

THE RAVEN

乌 鸦

Edgar Allan Poe, 1809-1849, was born in Boston, and died in Baltimore. He was left a destitute orphan at an early age, and was adopted by Mr. John Allan, a wealthy citizen of Richmond. He entered the University of Virginia, at Charlottesville, where he excelled in his studies, and was always at the head of his class; but he was compelled to leave on account of irregularities. He was afterwards appointed a cadet at West Point, but failed to graduate there for the same reason. Poe now quarreled with his benefactor and left his house never to return. During the rest of his melancholy career, he obtained a precarious livelihood by different literary enterprises. His ability as a writer gained him positions with various periodicals in Richmond, New York, and Philadelphia, and during this time he wrote some of his finest prose. The appearance of “The Raven” in 1845, however, at once made Poe a literary lion. He was quite successful for a time, but then fell back into his dissipated habits which finally caused his death. In his personal appearance, Poe was neat and gentlemanly; his face was expressive of intellect and sensibility; and his mental powers in some directions were of a high order. His writings show care, and a great degree of skill in their construction; but their effect is generally morbid.

Once upon a midnight dreary,

While I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious

Volume of forgotten lore—

While I nodded, nearly napping,

Suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping,

Rapping at my chamber door.

“’T is some visitor,” I muttered,

“Tapping at my chamber door—

Only this, and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember,

It was in the bleak December,

And each separate dying ember

Wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow;—

Vainly I had sought to borrow

From my books surcease of sorrow—

Sorrow for the lost Lenore—

For the rare and radiant maiden

Whom the angels name Lenore—

Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain

Rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me,—filled me with fantastic

Terrors, never felt before;

So that now, to still the beating

Of my heart, I stood repeating,

“ ’T is some visitor entreating

Entrance at my chamber door—

Some late visitor entreating

Entrance at my chamber door;

This it is, and nothing more.”

Presently my soul grew stronger;

Hesitating then no longer,

“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly

Your forgiveness I implore;

But the fact is I was napping,

And so gently you came rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping,

Tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you.”—

Here I opened wide the door;—

Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering,

Long I stood there, wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals

Ever dared to dream before;

But the silence was unbroken,

And the stillness gave no token,

And the only word there spoken

Was the whispered word, “Lenore!”

This I whispered, and an echo

Murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—

Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning,

All my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping,

Something louder than before.

“Surely,” said I, “surely, that is

Something at my window lattice;

Let me see then, what thereat is,

And this mystery explore—

Let my heart be still a moment,

And this mystery explore;—

’T is the wind, and nothing more.”

Open here I flung the shutter,

When, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately Raven

Of the saintly days of yore;

Not the least obeisance made he;

Not a minute stopped or stayed he,

But, with mien of lord or lady,

Perched above my chamber door—

Perched upon a bust of Pallas

Just above my chamber door—

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling

My sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum

Of the countenance it wore,

“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven,

Thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,

Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven,

Wandering from the nightly shore,

Tell me what thy lordly name is

On the night’s Plutonian shore!”

Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”

Much I marveled this ungainly

Fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning—

Little relevancy bore;

For we can not help agreeing

That no living human being

Ever yet was blest with seeing

Bird above his chamber door—

Bird or beast upon the sculptured

Bust above his chamber door,

With such name as “Nevermore.”

But the Raven, sitting lonely

On that placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in

That one word he did outpour.

Nothing farther then he uttered,

Not a feather then he fluttered,

Till I scarcely more than muttered,

“Other friends have flown before—

On the morrow he will leave me,

As my Hopes have flown before.”

Then the bird said, “Nevermore.”

Startled at the stillness broken

By reply so aptly spoken,

“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters

Is its only stock and store,

Caught from some unhappy master

Whom unmerciful Disaster

Followed fast and followed faster

Till his songs one burden bore—

Till the dirges of his Hope that

Melancholy burden bore

Of ‘Never—nevermore.’ ”

But the Raven still beguiling

All my sad soul into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in

Front of bird, and bust, and door;

Then, upon the velvet sinking,

I betook myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking

What this ominous bird of yore—

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly,

Gaunt, and ominous bird of yore

Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

This I sat engaged in guessing,

But no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now

Burned into my bosom’s core;

This and more I sat divining,

With my head at ease reclining

On the cushion’s velvet lining

That the lamplight gloated o’er,

But whose velvet violet lining,

With the lamplight gloating o’er

She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser,

Perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim, whose footfalls

Tinkled on the tufted floor.

“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—

By these angels he hath sent thee

Respite—respite and nepenthe

From thy memories of Lenore!

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe,

And forget this lost Lenore!”

Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—

Prophet still, if bird or devil!—

Whether Tempter sent, or whether

Tempest tossed thee here ashore,

Desolate, yet all undaunted,

On this desert land enchanted—

On this home by Horror haunted—

Tell me truly, I implore—

Is there—is there balm in Gilead?

Tell me—tell me, I implore!”

Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil,—

Prophet still, if bird or devil!—

By that heaven that bends above us,

By that God we both adore,

Tell this soul with sorrow laden,

If, within the distant Aidenn,

It shall clasp a sainted maiden

Whom the angels name Lenore—

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden,

Whom the angels name Lenore.”

Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”

“Be that word our sign of parting,

Bird or fiend,” I shrieked, upstarting;

“Get thee back into the tempest

And the night’s Plutonian shore!

Leave no black plume as a token

Of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

Leave my loneliness unbroken!—

Quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and

Take thy form from off my door!”

Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”

And the Raven, never flitting,

Still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas

Just above my chamber door;

And his eyes have all the seeming

Of a demon’s that is dreaming,

And the lamplight o’er him streaming

Throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow,

That lies floating on the floor,

Shall be lifted—nevermore!

【中文阅读】

从前，一个抑郁难耐的子夜，

我殚虑苦思，懒蜷无力，

离奇古怪的念头萦绕脑际

全是遗忘许久的陈年旧事——

恍惚间盹睡袭来，

突然传来轻拍的声音，

好像有人轻声叩击，

轻叩我的房门。

“有客造访，”我轻语，

“轻拍我的房门

除此之外，别无他故。”

啊，我清楚地记得，

那是在阴冷的冬月；

每一团即将熄灭的余烬

都在地上形成鬼魅般的阴影。

我切盼翌日尽快来临；

因为我徒劳地

想用书本来打发哀愁

那因失去丽诺尔而生的悲哀——

那被天使们唤作丽诺尔的少女

光彩明艳，世间罕有，

在这里籍籍无名，永远。

柔软、不成形、沙沙作响的

每一块紫色窗布

我一阵战栗——心中充满异乎寻常

的恐怖，以前从未感知；

此刻，为使我狂跳的心儿平静。

我站起身一再重复，

“这是有客倚门请求

欲登门而入。

夜半更深复倚门请求，

欲登门而入；

除此之外，别无他故。”

不久我的心变得坚硬；

不再犹疑踌躇，

“先生，”我说，“或者夫人，

我真诚请你海涵；

事实上我正睡意正浓，

而你叩门竟那样轻，

敲门何竟如此轻，

轻叩我的房门，

我几乎没听到那声音。”——

说着，我推开门扇；

除了黑魆魆，别无他物。

凝视幽幽夜色，

我站在门边惊惧徜徉许久，

疑惧中仿佛梦到从前没人

敢梦到的梦境；

可寂静被打破了，

没有任何征兆，

只有一个名字我悄声而出，

“丽诺尔！”

我一出口，回声把

“丽诺尔！”悄悄送还，

只此而已，再无他声。

我转身回到房中，

我的心儿被火灼痛，

很快我又听到叩门声，

比刚才更甚。

“肯定，”我说，

“肯定是我窗棂那儿的动静；

我去瞧个究竟，

去把那秘密找寻——

让我的心先平静一会儿，

去把那秘密找寻；——

不过是风，别无他物。”

我砰地推开百叶窗。

听到掠过和振翅的声音，

一只雄壮的乌鸦走了进来，

像往昔那样神圣而不可冒犯；

它既没向我致意问候；

也没有片刻驻留；

而以绅士淑女的风度，

飞到我房门的上头——

在我房门上头

在一尊帕拉斯半身雕像上驻留——

暂栖，坐着，再没有别的。

之后，这只黑鸟把我悲伤的幻觉

哄骗成微笑，

凭的是它那庄严和肃穆的容颜，

“虽然冠毛被剪除，”

我说，“可你肯定不是懦夫，

你这幽灵一般讨厌的古鸦，

从夜的彼岸漂泊至此，

烦请告我尊姓大名，

在永夜的冥府岸边！”

乌鸦幽咽，“永不复还。”

听见如此直率的回答，

这丑陋的老鸦愈发让我惊奇，

尽管它的回答没有什么意义——

又与提问不切题；

因为我们不得不承认

从来没有活着的世人，

曾有幸地看见一只鸟栖在他房门上——

鸟或野兽竟驻留在他房门上方的半身雕像上，

还叫 “永不复还”的名字

可这只独自坐在肃穆的半身雕像上的乌鸦

只吐出这一句话，仿佛它那灵魂

只会倾泻出这么一个字。

然后它便一言不发，

也再抖动羽毛，

直到我脱口喃言，

“其他朋友早已散去——

明晨它也将离我而去，

恰似我的希望了无踪迹。”

这时，这鸟儿却道，“永不复还”。

震惊于那死寂

被如此巧妙的回答打破，

“毫无疑问，”我说，

“这句话是它唯一的全部，

从它郁郁不乐的主人那儿学来

一连串无情灾祸

接踵而至，一次更甚一次，

直到它主人的歌中有了这个词儿——

直到他希望的哀歌中有了这个忧伤的字眼

‘永远，永不复还。’”

可那只乌鸦依旧把我悲伤的灵魂

哄骗得破涕为笑，

我径直拖拉着张软椅到门口

坐在半身雕像上的那只鸟跟前；

然后，我坐在天鹅绒椅垫上，

开始陷入沉思，

浮想联翩而至，猜想这远古便存在的不祥的鸟儿缘何而至

这只狰狞可怖丑陋不堪预示不祥的古鸟何出此言，

为何呱呱叫“永不复还。”

我坐在那儿苦思不解，

没对那鸟说片语只言。

现在，它炯炯发光的眼睛

已燃进我的心间；

这更让我猜想不止，

我的头靠着顿觉舒服，

靠在那沐浴着灯光的天鹅绒衬垫上，

但沐浴着灯光的紫色的天鹅绒衬垫，

她被迫说出，啊，永不复还！

之后，空气仿佛愈发浓密，

看不见的香炉喷出香气，

提香炉的六翼天使，她的脚步声

回荡在成簇状的地板。

“这小可怜，”我叫道，“是上帝派天使来

给你送来忘忧丹，

忘忧丹能终止

你对失去的丽诺尔的思念！

喝吧，啊，快喝下这忘忧药，

忘掉丽诺尔带给你的思念！”

乌鸦说了，“永不复还。”

“先知！”我说“恶魔！——

仍是先知，不管是鸟还是魔鬼！

是否是魔鬼送你，或是暴风雨将你抛到这里的岸边，

孤独但无所畏惧，在这片鬼魅横行的荒原——

在这恐怖的恶魔出没的家里——

求你告诉我真言——

吉利厄德那里有香膏吗？

告诉我，告诉我——求你了！”

乌鸦说“永不复还。”

“先知！”我说，“恶魔！——

仍是先知、不管是鸟是魔鬼！

不管是头上的苍天，

还是上帝，我们都崇拜，

告诉这负载悲伤的灵魂，

能否在遥远的仙境

拥抱被天使叫做丽诺尔的圣洁的姑娘——

拥抱这世间少有娇艳的姑娘。”

乌鸦说“永不复还。”

“让这话就算我们道别吧，

鸟或魔！”我突然尖叫道，

“你回到暴风雨中去吧，

那永夜的冥府岸边！

别留下黑色羽毛作为

你灵魂道出的谎言的象征！

留给我没有破碎的孤独！——

从我门上的雕像上滚开吧！

从我心中带走你的喙；

从我房门带走你的丑样子！”

乌鸦说，“永不复还。”

那乌鸦并没飞去，

它仍然坐在那儿，坐在那儿

还在房门上方

那毫无生气的帕拉斯半身雕像上面；

它的目光与正在做梦的魔鬼一模一样，

映在它身上的灯光

把它的身影投射在地板；

而我的灵魂，会从那团在地板上漂浮的阴暗

得到升华——永不复还！