The-Death-Of-The-Moth原文及译文.doc

THE DEATH OF THE MOTH飞蛾之死Moths that fly by day are not properly to be called moths; they do not excite that pleasant sense of dark autumn nights and ivyblossom which the commonest yellowunderwing asleep in the shadow of the curtain never fails to rouse in us. They are hybrid creatures, neither gay like butterflies nor sombre like their own species. Nevertheless the present specimen, with his narrow haycoloured wings, fringed with a tassel of the same colour, seemed to be content with life. It was a pleasant morning, midSeptember, mild, benignant, yet with a keener breath than that of the summer months. The plough was already scoring the field opposite the window, and where the share had been, the earth was pressed flat and gleamed with moisture. Such vigour came rolling in from the fields and the down beyond that it was difficult to keep the eyes strictly turned upon the book. The rooks too were keeping one of their annual festivities; soaring round the tree tops until it looked as if a vast net with thousands of black knots in it had been cast up into the air; which, after a few moments sank slowly down upon the trees until every twig seemed to have a knot at the end of it. Then, suddenly, the net would be thrown into the air again in a wider circle this time, with the utmost clamour and vociferation, as though to be thrown into the air and settle slowly down upon the tree tops were a tremendously exciting experience.真正的蛾子从不在白天活动，比如最常见的黄夜蛾，它们只是栖息在窗帘的阴影里，让人忍不住联想到黑沉沉的秋夜，还有常春藤花。而那些在白天飞来飞去的蛾子其实是杂交的，所以它们不像普通蛾子那样阴沉，也不像蝴蝶那样欢快。然而我现在看到的这一只似乎还活得挺自在。他翅膀狭窄，颜色像枯草，翅膀边缘有同样颜色的穗。时值9月中旬，一个美丽的清晨，气候温和舒适，有阵阵微风，空气比夏天还清新。窗户对面，人们已经开始犁地。所到之处土壤压得平平整整，泛着湿润的光泽。田野和远处高地上的热闹景象让我难以静下心来看书。树顶上的白嘴鸦们也聚集起来，大声叫嚣着，仿佛在庆祝节日。从远处看去，这一大群白嘴鸦简直像一个打满黑结的大网，这大网撒到空中又慢慢落下，于是每个树枝都落上了一个结。突然，这大网再次抛洒起来，这次抛得更远，白嘴鸦的吵闹声也更大，好像每次的撒网和慢慢地落下都是一件多么激动的事情。The same energy which inspired the rooks, the ploughmen, the horses, and even, it seemed, the lean barebacked downs, sent the moth fluttering from side to side of his square of the windowpane. One could not help watching him. One was, indeed, conscious of a queer feeling of pity for him. The possibilities of pleasure seemed that morning so enormous and so various that to have only a moths part in life, and a day moths at that, appeared a hard fate, and his zest in enjoying his meagre opportunities to the full, pathetic. He flew vigorously to one corner of his compartment, and, after waiting there a second, flew across to the other. What remained for him but to fly to a third corner and then to a fourth? That was all he could do, in spite of the size of the downs, the width of the sky, the faroff smoke of houses, and the romantic voice, now and then, of a steamer out at sea. What he could do he did. Watching him, it seemed as if a fibre, very thin but pure, of the enormous energy of the world had been thrust into his frail and diminutive body. As often as he crossed the pane, I could fancy that a thread of vital light became visible. He was little or nothing but life.犁地的农夫、马和远处的高地所散发的活力不仅鼓舞了白嘴鸦，连这只蛾子也在它所占领的一个小小窗格上扑来扑去，让人忍不住去看他，虽然这让人有一种不舒服的、怜悯的感觉。在这样一个似乎充满无限欢乐的早晨，命运却只让他扮演一只蛾子，这多少有些残忍，而这只蛾子努力地享受着这少得可怜的快乐，又显得多么可悲。他活泼地从窗格的一个角跳到另一个角，停一秒钟，又飞快地跳到第二个角。他还能做什么呢？除了跳到第三个角，再跳到第四个角。这就是他所能做的。远处的高地绵延不绝，天空广阔，炊烟随风飘荡，海上不时传来轮船的汽笛声，引人遐想。而他已经做了他所能做的一切。仿佛有一条线，虽然细如毫发，却承载着全世界的力量，注入他小小的身体。每当他跳跃窗格，那条线仿佛都清晰可见。他虽渺小，却也是活生生的生命。Yet, because he was so small, and so simple a form of the energy that was rolling in at the open window and driving its way through so many narrow and intricate corridors in my own brain and in those of other human beings, there was something marvellous as well as pathetic about him. It was as if someone had taken a tiny bead of pure life and decking it as lightly as possible with down and feathers, had set it dancing and zigzagging to show us the true nature of life. Thus displayed one could not get over the strangeness of it. One is apt to forget all about life, seeing it humped and bossed and garnished and cumbered so that it has to move with the greatest circumspection and dignity. Again, the thought of all that life might have been had he been born in any other shape caused one to view his simple activities with a kind of pity.然而，如此渺小的他，如此简单的一种生命形式，却从敞开的窗户飞进来，努力引起人类的注意和思索，这就显得有点可贵了，同时也愈发可悲。仿佛有人取来一口生命的元气，小心翼翼地用绒毛和羽毛装饰起来，再让这作品翩翩起舞，来展示生命的本质。这样的展示却不能不让人觉得怪异。人们常常忘却生命的本质，只看到生命的匆忙、生命的专横、生命带来的快乐，以及生命的沉重，仿佛必须带着无比的谨慎和高贵才算生活。所以，这只飞蛾不断重复的简单活动难免让人可怜。如果他能以其它形式的生命体存在，又会是怎样的光景呢？After a time, tired by his dancing apparently, he settled on the window ledge in the sun, and, the queer spectacle being at an end, I forgot about him. Then, looking up, my eye was caught by him. He was trying to resume his dancing, but seemed either so stiff or so awkward that he could only flutter to the bottom of the windowpane; and when he tried to fly across it he failed. Being intent on other matters I watched these futile attempts for a time without thinking, unconsciously waiting for him to resume his flight, as one waits for a machine, that has stopped momentarily, to start again without considering the reason of its failure. After perhaps a seventh attempt he slipped from the wooden ledge and fell, fluttering his wings, on to his back on the window sill. The helplessness of his attitude roused me. It flashed upon me that he was in difficulties; he could no longer raise himself; his legs struggled vainly. But, as I stretched out a pencil, meaning to help him to right himself, it came over me that the failure and awkwardness were the approach of death. I laid the pencil down again.一段时间后，显然他跳舞跳得有些累了，于是停在了窗棱上，沐浴在阳光里。他这场奇怪的表演一结束，我也就暂时忘记了他。过了一会儿，我一抬头又注意到了他。他想继续跳舞，但是他的动作不是太僵硬就是太笨拙，只能扑到窗格的底部，当他想尽力飞跃的时候，他失败了。我思考着其它的事情，心不在焉地看着他徒劳的尝试，等着他再次开始跳舞，就像他只是一台暂时停下的机器，而忘了去想他为什么竟会失败。大约试到第七次，他扇着翅膀从窗棱上滑了下来，仰面跌在窗台上。他的无助震动了我。我突然想到，他遇到麻烦了。他的腿徒劳地挣扎着，再也站不起来了。当我拿起一根笔准备去帮他的时候，我才意识到这些失败和笨拙都代表着死之将至。于是我放下了笔。The legs agitated themselves once more. I looked as if for the enemy against which he struggled. I looked out of doors. What had happened there? Presumably it was midday, and work in the fields had stopped. Stillness and quiet had replaced the previous animation. The birds had taken themselves off to feed in the brooks. The horses stood still. Yet the power was there all the same, massed outside indifferent, impersonal, not attending to anything in particular. Somehow it was opposed to the little haycoloured moth. It was useless to try to do anything. One could only watch the extraordinary efforts made by those tiny legs against an oncoming doom which could, had it chosen, have submerged an entire city, not merely a city, but masses of human beings; nothing, I knew, had any chance against death. Nevertheless after a pause of exhaustion the legs fluttered again. It was superb this last protest, and so frantic that he succeeded at last in righting himself. Ones sympathies, of course, were all on the side of life. Also, when there was nobody to care or to know, this gigantic effort on the part of an insignificant little moth, against a power of such magnitude, to retain what no one else valued or desired to keep, moved one strangely. Again, somehow, one saw life, a pure bead. I lifted the pencil again, useless though I knew it to be. But even as I did so, the unmistakable tokens of death showed themselves. The body relaxed, and instantly grew stiff. The struggle was over. The insignificant little creature now knew death. As I looked at the dead moth, this minute wayside triumph of so great a force over so mean an antagonist