MTI文学翻译练习.doc

2012年MTI文学翻译第3周练习一、 英译汉：AI sometimes think that you boys of this generation are a deal tenderer fellows than we used to be. At any rate youre much more comfortable travellers, for I see every one of you with his rug or plaid, and other dodges for preserving the caloric, and most of you going in those fuzzy, dusty, padded first-class carriages. It was another affair altogether, a dark ride on the top of the Tally-ho, I can tell you, in a tight Petersham coat, and your feet dangling six inches from the floor. Then you knew what cold was, and what it was to be without legs, for not a bit of feeling had you in them after the first half-hour. But it had its pleasures, the old dark ride. First there was the consciousness of silent endurance, so dear to every Englishmanof standing out against something, and not giving in. Then there was the music of the rattling harness, and the ring of the horses feet on the hard road, and the glare of the two bright lamps through the steaming hoar frost, over the leaders ears, into the darkness, and the cheery toot of the guards horn, to warn some drowsy pikeman or the hostler at the next change; and the looking forward to daylight; and last, but not least, the delight of returning sensation in your toes.Then the break of dawn and the sunrise, where can they be ever seen in perfection but from a coach roof? You want motion and change and music to see them in their glorynot the music of singing men and singing women, but good, silent music, which sets itself in your own head, the accompaniment of work and getting over the ground.The Tally-ho is past St. Albans, and Tom is enjoying the ride, though half-frozen. The guard, who is alone with him on the back of the coach, is silent, but has muffled Toms feet up in straw, and put the end of an oat-sack over his knees. The darkness has driven him inwards, and he has gone over his little past life, and thought of all his doings and promises, and of his mother and sister, and his fathers last words; and has made fifty good resolutions, and means to bear himself like a brave Brown as he is, though a young one. Then he has been forward into the mysterious boy-future, speculating as to what sort of place Rugby is, and what they do there, and calling up all the stories of public schools which he has heard from big boys in the holidays. He is choke-full of hope and life, notwithstanding the cold, and kicks his heels against the back-board, and would like to sing; only he doesnt know how his friend the silent guard might take it.And now they begin to see, and the early life of the country-side comes outa market cart or two; men in smock-frocks going to their work, pipe in mouth, a whiff of which is no bad smell this bright morning. The sun gets up, and the mist shines like silver gauze. They pass the hounds jogging along to a distant meet, at the heels of the huntsmans back, whose face is about the colour of the tails of his old pink, as he exchanges greetings with coachman and guard. Now they pull up at a lodge, and take on board a well-muffled-up sportsman, with his gun-case and carpet-bag. An early up-coach meets them, and the coachmen gather up their horses, and pass one another with the accustomed lift of the elbow, each team doing eleven miles an hour, with a mile to spare behind if necessary. And here comes breakfast. “Twenty minutes here, gentlemen,” says the coachman, as they pull up at half-past seven at the inn-door.BIt is not easy to see how this house of mine can make to itself a Sunday quiet, for at all times it is well-nigh soundless; yet I find a difference. My housekeeper comes into the room with her Sunday smile; she is happier for the day, and the sight of her happiness gives me pleasure. She speaks, if possible, in a softer voice; she wears a garment which reminds me that there is only the lightest and cleanest housework to be done. She will go to church, morning and evening, and I know that she is better for it. During her absence I sometimes look into rooms which on other days I never enter; it is merely to gladden my eyes with the shining cleanliness, the perfect order, I am sure to find in the good womans domain. But for that spotless and sweet-smelling kitchen, what would it avail me to range my books and hang my pictures? All the tranquility of my life depends upon the honest care of this woman who lives and works unseen. And I am sure that the money I pay her is the least part of her reward. She is such an old-fashioned person that the mere discharge of what she deems a duty is in itself an end to her, and the work in itself a satisfaction, and a pride.When a child, I was permitted to handle on Sunday certain books which could not be exposed to the more careless usage of common days; volumes finely illustrated, or the more handsome editions of familiar authors, or works which, merely by their bulk, demanded special care. Happily, these books were all of the higher rank in literature, and so there came to be established in my mind an association between the day of rest and names which are the greatest in verse and in prose. Through my life this habit has remained with me; I have always wished to spend some part of the Sunday quiet with books which, at most times, it is fatally easy to leave aside, ones very knowledge and love of them serving as an excuse for their neglect in favor of print which has the attractiveness of newness. Homer and Virgil, Milton and Shakespeare; not many Sundays have gone by without my opening one or other of these. Not many Sundays? Nay, that is to exaggerate, as one has the habit of doing. Let me say rather that, on many a rest-day I have found mind and opportunity for such reading. Nowadays mind and opportunity fail me never. I may take down my Homer or my Shakespeare when I choose, but it is still Sunday that I feel it most becoming to seek the privilege of their companionship. For these great ones, crowned with immortality, do not respond to him who approaches them as though hurried by temporal care. There befits the garment of solemn leisure, the thought attuned to peace. I open the volume somewhat formally; is it not sacred, if the words have any meaning at all? And, as I read, no interruption can befall me. The note of the linnet, the humming of a bee, these are the sounds about my sanctuary. The page scarce rustles as it turns.CWilliamson was six foot seven tall. He was no effete product of the academies, or Carltons literary bohemia, but a lecturer in Thermodynamics and Social Psychology at a technical college. Boyishly handsome, with alert eyes under heavy brows, a ready laugh, and shoulder-length brown curls falling over his leather jacket, he became an instant media identity, readily recognisable from photographs, cartoons and television appearances. He was(as he remains) an interviewers dream, readily responsive to questions about himself and his work, while at the same time drawing out the implications of his own experience for the current general situation in theatre, film, and society. His voice was deep and confident, the manner unassuming but quick and decicive, the pharsing eminently quotable. Fluently, wittily, he expounded his views, his gestures indicating the depth of his convictions and his driving energy-an energy that suggested to some early interviewers that he must have felt restless when not writing. (Over the years to come, successive female journalists were to note that his hands were either tensely clenched or gesticulating animatedly.) Humorous and engaging, he was obviously at the same time a very serious and idealistically committed entertainer, someone deeply and critically involved with his own society. He was also well on his way to becoming the most successful Australian playwrigh