口译：John Galsworthy-Felicity 汉译

When God is so good to the fields, of what use are words—those poorhusks of sentiment! There is no painting Felicity on the wing! No way ofbringing on to the canvas the flying glory of things! A single buttercup of thetwenty million in one field is worth all these dry symbols—that can never bodyforth the very spirit of that froth of May breaking over the hedges, the choirof birds and bees, the lost-travelling down of the wind flowers, thewhite-throated swallows in their Odysseys. Just here there are no skylarks, butwhat joy of song and leaf; of lanes lighted with bright trees, the few oaksstill golden brown, and the ashes still spiritual! Only the blackbirds andthrushes can sing-up this day, and cuckoos over the hill. The year has flown sofast that the apple-trees have dropped nearly all their bloom, and in “longmeadow” the “daggers” are out early, beside the narrow bright streams. Orpheussits there on a stone, when nobody is by, and pipes to the ponies; and Pan canoften be seen dancing with his nymphs in the raised beech-grove where it isalways twilight, if you lie still enough against the far bank.

Who can believe in growing old, so long as we are wrapped in thiscloak of colour and wings and song; so long as this unimaginable vision is herefor us to gaze at—the soft-faced sheep about us, and the wool-bags drying outalong the fence, and great numbers of tiny ducks, so trustful that the crowshave taken several.

Blue is the color of youth, and all the blue flowers have a “fey”look. Everything seems young too young to work. There is but one thing busy, astarling, fetching grubs for its little family, above my head—it must take thatflight at least two hundred times a day. The children should be very fat.

When the sky is so happy, and the flowers so luminous, it does notseem possible that the bright angels of this day shall pass into dark night,that slowly these wings shall close, and the cuckoo praise himself to sleep,mad midges dance-in the evening; the grass shiver with dew, wind die, and nobird sing . . . .

Yet so it is. Day has gone—the song and glamour and swoop of wings.Slowly, has passed the daily miracle. It is night. But Felicity has notwithdrawn; she has but changed her robe for silence, velvet, and the pearl fanof the moon. Everything is sleeping, save only a single star, and the pansies.Why they should be more wakeful than the other flowers, I do not know. Theexpressions of their faces, if one bends down into the dusk, are sweeter andmore cunning than ever. They have some compact, no doubt, in hand.

What a number of voices have given up the ghost to this night of butone voice—the murmur of the stream out there in darkness!

With what religion all has been done! Not one buttercup open; theyew-trees already with shadows flung down! No moths are abroad yet; it is tooearly in the year for nightjars; and the owls are quiet. But who shall say thatin this silence, in this hovering wan light, in this air bereft of wings, andof all scent save freshness, there is less of the ineffable, less of thatbefore which words are dumb?

It is strange how this tranquility of night, that seems so final, isinhabited, if one keeps still enough. A lamb is bleating out there on the dimmoor; a bird somewhere, a little one, about three fields away, makes thesweetest kind of chirruping; some cows are still cropping. There is a scent,too, underneath the freshness-sweet-brier, I think, and our Dutch honeysuckle;nothing else could so delicately twine itself with air. And even in thisdarkness the roses have color, more beautiful perhaps than ever. If color be,as they say, but the effect of light on various fiber, one may think of it as atune, the song of thanksgiving that each form puts forth, to sun and moon andstars and fire. These moon-colored roses are singing a most quiet song. I seeall of a sudden that there are many more stars beside that one so red andwatchful. The flown kite is there with its seven pale worlds; it has adventuredvery high and far to-night-with a company of others remoter still. . . .

This serenity of night! What could seem less likely ever more tomove, and change again to day? Surely now the world has found its long sleep;and the pearly glimmer from the moon will last, and the precious silence neveragain yield to clamor; the grape-bloom of this mystery never more pale out intogold . . . .

And yet it is not so. The nightly miracle has passed. It is dawn.Faint light has come. I am waiting for the first sound. The sky as yet is likenothing but grey paper, with the shadows of wild geese passing. The trees arephantoms. And then it comes—that first call of a bird, startled at discoveringday! Just one call—and now, here, there, on all the trees, the sudden answersswelling, of that most sweet and careless choir. Was irresponsibility ever sodivine as this, of birds waking? Then—saffron into the sky, and once moresilence! What is it birds do after the first Chorale? Think of their sins andbusiness? Or just sleep again? The trees are fast dropping unreality, and thecuckoos begin calling. Color is burning up in the flowers already; the dewsmells of them.

The miracle is ended, for the starling has begun its job; and the sunis fretting those dark, busy wings with gold. Full day has come again. But theface of it is a little strange, it is not like yesterday. Queer-to think, noday is like to a day that’s past and no night like a night that’s coming! Why,then, fear death, which is but night? Why care, if next day have different faceand spirit? The sun has lighted buttercup-field now, the wind touches thelime-tree. Something passes over me away up there.

It is Felicity on her wings!

幸福

造物主对大自然原野是如此仁慈，语言又有何用，那只不过是贫乏的情绪宣泄！有谁见过幸福飞扬的画作？画布上根本无法表现出物体在空中穿行的壮丽图景。然而，满身遍野的毛莨草，只要一棵就抵得上所有这些干巴巴的象征——它们永远无法体现五月的生机勃勃；它冲破树篱、小鸟和蜜蜂在嗡嘤啼啭，微风吹拂落英缤纷，白喉燕飞越万水千山。……只有乌鸫和画眉在这一天能够高声欢唱，布谷鸟在山间穿行。这一年的岁月匆匆流逝，苹果树盛开的花朵几乎全部凋谢，在“长长的草地上”，“凤尾兰”早早地吐蕊开花，散落分布在狭窄，清澈的小溪旁。奥菲士坐在那边的一块石头上，无人相伴，正对着矮钟马吹奏乐曲；薄暮时分，如果你能足够安静地躺在远处的堤岸上，还会常常看到人身羊足的潘在高高的山毛榉树林里与仙女们翩翩起舞。

只要我们被亮丽的色彩、五彩的羽翼和美妙的歌声所环绕，只要我们能够凝望这令人难以置信的美景——毛发柔软的羊群在我们周围，一袋袋羊毛在篱笆上晒干，还有大量成群小鸭子，它们天真轻信，被乌鸦抓去了几只——谁能相信自己会渐渐老去呢？

蓝色是青春的色彩，所有蓝色的花朵都透着“轻浮”。一切似乎都暂露新芽，因过于稚嫩而无法经受风雨。只有一只欧椋鸟是忙碌的，它飞过我的头顶，为自己幼小的子女们捉取虫子，它每天至少要飞行200次。幼鸟们一定会被养得胖嘟嘟的。

……白天逝去——莺歌燕舞、迷人景色和飞鸟振翅俯冲的景象都淹没在黑夜中。慢慢地，白天的大自然奇迹消逝而去。黑夜来临。但是，幸福并没有消退；而是悄悄地换上了静谧的长袍，天鹅绒般柔软的质地，珍珠白的扇形月亮升起。一切都沉入了酣睡之中，只有一颗星星，还有三色堇，没有入眠……

奇怪的是，夜晚如此静谧，宛如定格了一般，如果一切都静止不动，生物如何栖息？一头羊羔在朦胧的旷野里咩咩地叫着；某处有只鸟儿，是一只小鸟，大约隔了三块地，发出最甜美的啾啾声；几头奶牛仍在咔哧咔哧地吃草。我想，还有一种气味，从清新甜美的欧石楠下面散发出来，还有荷兰忍冬花的味道；除此以外，再没有什么东西能够与空气如此精妙地萦绕融合在一起。甚至在这片黑夜里，玫瑰也是色彩的，或许比任何时候都更美。若如人们所说，颜色只不过是光照在各种纤维上的作用，人们或许会把它想象成一首曲子，一首以不同的形式向太阳、月亮、星星和火焰表示感恩的颂歌。这些染上月色的玫瑰在静静地歌唱。我突然看见，在那颗红色的明亮星星旁边又有了许多星星……

多么宁静的夜晚！今天，是什么似乎比以往更不可能移动和改变呢？无疑，世界在长眠，月亮将持续发出珍珠般的微光，宝贵的静谧时刻不会再次被喧哗所侵扰；这份神秘的葡萄粉衣不会在金色的阳光下淡去……

然而，事实并非如此。奇妙的夜晚已逝去。黎明到来。天边泛出了微弱的光。我静静地等待着第一个声音的出现。天空仍然是灰蒙蒙的，野雁的身影飞快地划过。树木影影憧憧。终于，传来了第一声鸟鸣，探索的一天开始了！一声过后——这儿，那么，所有树上突然响起此起彼伏的叫声，它们汇成甜美快活的合唱。鸟儿醒来后不负责任的行为，竟然如此动人！接着，番红花染黄了天空，寂静再次降临！第一次合唱过后鸟儿都做什么？反思它们的过错与职责？还是又睡着了？树木很快放弃了幻想，布谷鸟开始鸣唱。鲜花的色彩被点亮；露珠散发出花儿的气味。

奇迹结束，欧椋鸟已然开始工作；太阳驱散了黑暗，蒲扇的翅膀上洒满金色的阳光。新的一天又开始了。但是它的面貌有了一些变化，与昨天不同。没有哪一天会和过去的一天相同，没有哪一夜会与将来的一夜无异，想想这是多么奇妙的事情！既然如此，为何要害怕死亡，它只不过和黑夜一般？如果第二天会有不同的面貌和精神，为何还要忧心在意？太阳现在已经照亮了长满毛莨的田野，风儿轻拂菩提树。就在那儿，有什么东西从我身边掠过。

那是幸福插上了翅膀在飞翔！