夜读·经典之夜｜荒原

编者按：把夜哄睡，把自己唤醒。澎湃夜读于每周日晚推出经典朗读版，倾情演绎国内外经典文学名著名篇，与读者“声临其境”感受经典之美、文字之美。

T·S·艾略特（赵萝蕤 译）

录音：孙小美、李佳蓉 混音：陈超

音乐：指环王 Evenstar

一、死者葬礼

四月是最残忍的一个月，荒地上

长着丁香，把回忆和欲望

参合在一起，又让春雨

催促那些迟钝的根芽。

冬天使我们温暖，大地

被助人遗忘的雪覆盖着，又给

枯干的球根提供少许生命。

夏天来得出人意外，在下阵雨的时候

来到了斯丹卜基西；我们在柱廊下躲避，

等太阳出来又进了霍夫加登，

喝咖啡，闲谈了一个小时。

我不是俄国人，我是立陶宛来的，是地道的德国人。

而且我们小时候住在大公那里

我表兄家，他带着我出去滑雪橇，

我很害怕。他说，玛丽，

玛丽，牢牢地揪住。我们就往下冲。

在山上，那里你会觉得自由。

大半个晚上我看书，冬天我到南方。

什么树根在抓紧，什么树根从

这堆乱石块里长出来？人子啊，

你说不出，也猜不到，因为你只知道

一堆破烂的偶像，承受着太阳的鞭打

枯死的树没有遮荫。蟋蟀的声音也不使人放心，

焦石间没有流水的声音。只有

这块红石下有影子，

（请走进这块红石下的影子）

我要指点你一件事，它既不像

你早起的影子，在你后面迈步；

也不像傍晚的，站起身来迎着你；

我要给你看恐惧在一把尘土里。

风吹得很轻快，

吹送我回家去，

爱尔兰的小孩，

你在哪里逗留？

“一年前你先给我的是风信子；

他们叫我做风信子的女郎”，

——可是等我们回来，晚了，从风信子的园里来，

你的臂膊抱满鲜花，你的头发湿漉漉的，我说不出

话，眼睛看不见，我既不是

活的，也未曾死，我什么都不知道，

望着光亮的中心看时，是一片寂静。

荒凉而空虚是那大海。

梭梭屈里士夫人，著名的女相士，

患了重感冒，可仍然是

欧罗巴知名的最有智慧的女人，

带着一副恶毒的纸牌，这里，她说，

是你的一张，那淹死了的腓尼基水手，

（这些珍珠就是他的眼睛，看！）

这是贝洛多纳，岩石的女主人

一个善于应变的女人。

这人带着三根杖，这是“转轮”，

这是那独眼商人，这张牌上面

一无所有，是他背在背上的东西。

是不准我看见的。我没有找到

“那被绞死的人”。怕水里的死亡。

我看见成群的人，在绕着圈子走。

谢谢你。你看见亲爱的爱奎尔太太的时候

就说我自己把天宫图给她带去，

这年头人得小心啊。

并无实体的城，

在冬日破晓的黄雾下，

一群人鱼贯地流过伦敦桥，人数是那么多，

我没想到死亡毁坏了这许多人。

叹息，短促而稀少，吐了出来，

人人的眼睛都盯住在自己的脚前。

流上山，流下威廉王大街，

直到圣马利吴尔诺斯教堂，那里报时的钟声

敲着最后的第九下，阴沉的一声。

在那里我看见了一个熟人，拦住他叫道：“斯代真！”

你从前在迈里的船上是和我在一起的！

去年你种在你花园里的尸首，

它发芽了吗？今年会开花吗？

还是忽来严霜捣坏了它的花床？

叫这狗熊星走远吧，它是人们的朋友，

不然它会用它的爪子再把它挖掘出来！

你！虚伪的读者！——我的同类——我的兄弟！

The Waste Land

T·S·Eliot

I. The Burial of the Dead 

APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding  

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing

Memory and desire, stirring

Dull roots with spring rain.

Winter kept us warm, covering

Earth in forgetful snow, feeding

A little life with dried tubers.

Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee

With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,

And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,    

And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.

Bin gar kine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt deutsch.

And when we were children, staying at the archduke's,

My cousin's, he took me out on a sled,

And I was frightened. He said, Marie,

Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.

In the mountains, there you feel free.

I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow    

Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,

You cannot say, or guess, for you know only

A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,

And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,     

And the dry stone no sound of water. Only

There is shadow under this red rock,

(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),

And I will show you something different from either

Your shadow at morning striding behind you

Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;

I will show you fear in a handful of dust.     

               Frisch weht der Wind     

               Der Heimat zu,

               Mein Irisch Kind,

               Wo weilest du?

"You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;

"They called me the hyacinth girl."

–Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,

Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not

Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither

Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,     

Looking into the heart of light, the silence.

Oed' und leer das Meer.     

Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,

Had a bad cold, nevertheless

Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,

With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,

Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,

(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)

Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,

The lady of situations.     

Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,

And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card

Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,

Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find

The Hanged Man. Fear death by water.

I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.

Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,

Tell her I bring the horoscope myself:

One must be so careful these days.

Unreal City,     

Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,

A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,

I had not thought death had undone so many.     

Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,     

And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.

Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,

To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours

With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.     

There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying: "Stetson!

"You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!     

"That corpse you planted last year in your garden,

"Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?

"Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?

"Oh keep the Dog far hence, that's friend to men,     

"Or with his nails he'll dig it up again!

"You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable—mon frère!"