茶花女（英文版）

起初的幾頁似乎顯示這是一本落了俗套的愛情故事。讀到最後一頁，最後一段，最後一行，才發現這是一本曠世經典。故事本身沒有太多戲劇，珍貴的在於其中人物的心理，細節的剖析，愛情的投入，價值的取捨，神學的思辨。今天社會不再有書中的人文環境，今人不再有當時的細膩情思，或許也不再面對苦難時的忍受和昇華。但今天和當時始終不變的，是人如何直面自己的人生。

悲劇就是將美好的事物毀滅殆盡，揉碎了給人看。淪落風塵仍懷有崇高靈魂的“茶花女”散發着聖潔美的光芒，卻最終紅顏薄命，玉殞香消於塵世；她與阿爾芒之間超越世俗錢色交易、不摻有任何雜質的純真愛情卻終究敵不過腐朽階級體制價值觀的束縛與男權至上資產階級貴族的壓迫。黑夜寒霜之中那朵純潔無暇的“茶花”悄然凋零，營造出濃郁的悲劇色彩，充滿悲情而悽美動人

Thoughts： 茶花是瑪格麗特最爲喜歡的花朵，所以她也被稱爲茶花女，也是書名的由來，作者也藉此隱喻：雖然瑪格麗特因爲特殊的歷史背景淪爲人所不齒的妓女，但是她對愛情的忠貞如白茶花般潔白無瑕，爲了愛情的追求和戀人所謂的前途又如同紅茶花般熱烈，自我犧牲燃燒殆盡。 無論何時都要保持人性當中的善良。

讓別人幸福的訣竅在於犧牲，無條件的、不計後果的、不求回報的、甘受誤解的犧牲。

幼年讀過的第一本小說。當時就已經在爲兩人的感情而在心裏擔憂、吶喊。

至今還有一些人認爲林紓的翻譯不好，因爲他對外語是實打實的“目不識丁”，翻譯作品都是靠懂外語的才子們口譯而他同時筆譯合作完成，因此總是即興發揮多於復刻還原，同樣被挑剔的還有龐德，但龐德是轉上加轉，更爲走樣。哪怕是在21世紀的翻譯課上，關於英語形合漢語意合的爭執也一直沒個完，何況當年。 林紓最先以翻譯小說出名，英文句法結構犬牙交錯難解難分，而故事脈絡又刻畫得深明入勝，因此得意忘言是最好的立足點，而保證這項立足點就是全人類的情感共通功能。 他翻譯【茶花女】，情節上與以往閨情社態傳奇相去不遠，都是煙花女子與世家子弟的孽緣，最後女方深諳大義誆對方迴歸正途，雙方誤會糾纏，最後女主人公含恨而亡，放到現在就是晉江屠榜爽文“虐妻一時爽，死妻火葬場”，這題材從古到今都算不得新穎，但因爲是文豪寫，所以扣人心絃，大放異彩。林紓要將原著同等規格的華麗文氣騰挪進文言文裏，其中艱險不言而喻，何況他的自由發揮的確巧妙，值得叫好。 他翻譯守墓人的經典臺詞：吾爲彼少年市花置墳上，花值極平，未嘗侵其錙銖，而不知者以爲吾媚死人，吾操業固媚死人者也，長日剷草園中，安有餘閒以講酬應？吾聞巴黎巨家暱馬克者，比比而是，今埋香於此，乃屏跡弗至。 本來只是孤楚小民惺惺相憐的雜聊，翻譯過來卻添了渡口問津的悲韻，原文強調生前風光死後淒涼的反差，對M一生命運的憫惜，譯文卻灌注了浮世草木情，這是專屬於古文言文的氣質，哪怕紋路是法蘭西蕾絲，落下來仍然是長簫木魚聲，誰能不愛看呢？ 是以王教授問的好：難道譯文讀者都喜歡le belles infidels？ 還真就是。

爲什麼在世俗的評判裏，一個女性一旦被歸類爲“交際花”，她的一切愛和付出就自動失去了分量？ 貧困的鄉下姑娘瑪格麗特來到巴黎，因美貌成爲紅極一時的交際花，隨身總帶着一束茶花。青年阿爾芒對她一見鍾情，兩人墜入愛河，瑪格麗特決定放棄過去的一切，與他在鄉下同居。這是她第一次相信自己的生命可以擁有另一種可能。但阿爾芒父親的介入，讓這條路戛然而止。他私下說服瑪格麗特離開阿爾芒，理由不是“你不配”，而是“你的存在會影響我女兒的婚事”。瑪格麗特答應了，寫了絕交信，回到巴黎。阿爾芒誤以爲她變心，當衆羞辱她。她至死沒有解釋。 故事的重量，可能在於瑪格麗特做了一件在當時幾乎不可能的事：她在一個用錢和地位來衡量一切的世界裏，選擇了一次不求回報的犧牲。她不是被拋棄的那個人，她是主動選擇離開的那個人。她用自己的消失，換來了阿爾芒家的名聲。而在那個選擇裏，她第一次掌握了自己的命運——儘管是以失去一切的方式。 書裏寫到她臨終時的場景：債主們等着她死，好變賣她的東西抵債；那些曾經在她身上花過錢的人，沒有一個人來看她。她一個人躺在病牀上，對着天花板說話。而阿爾芒呢？等他得知真相的時候，她已經埋在土裏了。 瑪格麗特會通過佩戴茶花的顏色向情人傳遞信號——白色表示“有空”，紅色表示“不方便”。這個名字本身帶有雙重意味：既是她最愛的花，也暗示着被消費、被物化的身份。但小仲馬寫她的故事，也許正是想挑戰這種物化。他想說，一個被貼上“茶花女”標籤的人，也可以比那些給她貼標籤的人更懂得什麼是愛。 這本書出版於1848年，至今仍在被閱讀。也許是因爲它寫了一個不會被時間沖淡的東西：一個被社會邊緣化的人，怎樣用一次徹底的犧牲，證明了自己內心的重量。她的身份無法被抹去，但她的選擇超越了那個身份。而她在病榻上寫下那些話的時候，可能已經知道，她付出的代價，不會被理解，也不會被回報。但她還是做了。這大概就是“茶花女”這個名字在時間裏留下回音的原因。那束茶花後來不再象徵一種身份，而是一種選擇。

It has been a long time since I read an English novel last time and it really is a touching story.  l start to wonder what kind of women will be able to love in such a passionate way and what does true love means.  I consider myself not a naive teenage girl any more and love has become a much more realistic thing. A kept woman can't marry a noble man because of the hierarchy.  It is the crucial society and our destiny is somewhat deemed since we were born.  But still,  every one deserves love. 

The power of love is immeasurable. It can make men and women better and stronger. Anyone who’s in love is lucky. But with the growth of age, I can’t help but doubt that is there really a kind of love that can resist the test of time and reality ? Is there really a kind of love that can last forever no matter what happens? Anyway，enjoy the happiness love brings to us whatever the end will be，for nobody can foresee it . Live at the moment.

2021年2月20日星期六 祝福早安 天氣晴朗 氣溫7℃ 小仲馬《茶花女》 我今天早晨偶然翻到了《茶花女》，我以前點評過這本書，現在對這書裏描寫的愛情也還是記憶深刻，而我今天早晨關注的點不是他們的愛情故事，而是這本書最後那幾篇帶着日期的信。而剛好就是2月19日，2月20日，2月22日，就是我最近度過的時光，因爲2月19日是我的生日，所以，所有帶219的，我就特別感興趣。如果這本書不是虛構的，故事人物與時間都是真實的，那麼在歷史上的這一天就有很多美好值得回憶。 希望我的每一天也可以用心記錄一下美好吧！或許我不會寫虛構的故事，但我想認真的記錄我生命中每一天的故事，那麼就從書評開始吧！或許讀書是可以用文字把美好定格進永恆的。 February 19TH, midnight. What a sad day we have had to-day, poor M.Armand! This morning Marguerite was stifling;the doctor bled her, and her voice has returned to her a while. The doctor begged her to see a priest.She said "Yes," and he went himself to fetch an abbé' from Saint Roch. Meanwhile Marguerite called me up to her bed,asked me to open a cupboard, and pointed out a cap and a long chemise covered with lace, and said in a feeble voice: "I shall die as soon as I have confessed. Then you will dress me in these things; it is the whim of a dying woman." Then she embraced me with tears and added: "I can speak, but I am stifled when I speak; I am stifling. Air!" I burst into tears, opened the window, and a few minutes afterward the priest entered. I went up to him; when he knew where he was, he seemed afraid of being badly received. "Come in boldly, father," I said to him. He stayed a very short time in the room, and when he came out he said to me: "She lived a sinner, and she will die a Christian." A few minutes afterward he returned with a choir boy bearing a crucifix, and a sacristan who went before them ringing the bell to announce that God was coming to the dying one. They went all three into the bed-room where so many strange words have been said, but was now a sort of holy tabernacle. I fell on my knees. I do not know how long the impression of what I saw will last, but I do not think that, till my turn comes, any human thing can make so deep an impression on me. The priest anointed with holy oil the feet and hands and forehead of the dying woman, repeated a short prayer, and Marguerite was ready to set out for the heaven to which I doubt not she will go, if God has seen the ordeal of her life and the sanctity of her death. Since then she has not said a word or made a movement. Twenty times I should have thought her dead if I had not heard her breathing painfully. February 20TH, 5 P.M. All is over. Marguerite fell into her last agony at about two o'clock. Never did a martyr suffer such torture, to judge by the cries she uttered. Two or three times she sat upright in the bed, as if she would hold on to her life, which was escaping toward God. Two or three times also she said your name;then all was silent, and she fell back on the bed exhausted. Silent tears flowed from her eyes, and she was dead. Then I went up to her; I called her, and as she did not answer I closed her eyes and kissed her on the forehead. Poor, dear Marguerite, I wish I were a holy woman that my kiss might recommend you to God. Then I dressed her as she had asked me to do. I went to find a priest at Saint Roch, I burned two candles for her, and I prayed in the church for an hour. I gave the money she left to the poor. I do not know much about religion, but I think that God will know that my tears were genuine,my prayers fervent, my alms-giving sincere, and that he will have pity on her who, dying young and beautiful, has only had me to close her eyes and put her in her shroud. February 22ND. The burial took place to-day. Many of Marguerite's friends came to the church. Some of them wept with sincerity. When the funeral started on the way to Montmartre only two men followed it: the Comte de G., who came from London on purpose, and the duke, who was supported by two footmen. I write you these details from her house, in the midst of my tears and under the lamp which burns sadly beside a dinner which I can not touch, as you can imagine, but which Nanine has got for me,for I have eaten nothing for twenty-four hours. My life can not retain these sad impressions for long, for my life is not my own any more than Marguerite's was hers; that is why I give you all these details on the very spot where they occurred,in the fear, if a long time elapsedbetween them and your return, that I might not be able to give them to you with all their melancholy exactitude. "You have read it? " said Armand, when I had finished the manuscript. "I understand what you must have suffered, my friend, if all that I read is true." "My father confirmed it in a letter." We talked for some time over the sad destiny which had been accomplished, and I went home to rest a little. Armand, still sad, but a little relieved by the narration of his story, soon recovered, and we went together to pay a visit to Prudence and to Julie Duprat. Prudence had become bankrupt. She told us that Marguerite was the cause of it; that during her illness she had lent her a lot of money in the form of promissory notes, which she could not pay, Marguerite having died without having returned her the money,and without having given her a receipt with which she could present herself as a creditor. By the help of this fable, which Mme. Duvernoy repeated everywhere in order to account for her money difficulties, she extracted a note for a thousand francs from Armand, who did not believe it, but who pretended to, out of respect for all those in whose company Marguerite had lived. Then we called on Julie Duprat, who told us the sad incident which she had witnessed, shedding real tears at the remembrance of her friend. Lastly, we went to Marguerite's grave, on which the first rays of the April sun were bringing the first leaves into bud. One duty remained to Armand—to return to his father. He wished me to accompany him. We arrived at C., where I saw M. Duval, such as I had imagined him from the portrait his son had made of him, tall, dignified, kindly. He welcomed Armand with tears of joy, and clasped my hand affectionately. I was not long in seeing that the paternal sentiment was that which dominated all others in his mind. His daughter, named Blanche, had that transparence of eyes, that serenity of the mouth, which indicates a soul that conceives only holy thoughts and lips that repeat only pious words. She welcomed her brother's return with smiles, not knowing, in the purity of her youth, that far away a courtesan had sacrificed her own happiness at the mere invocation of her name. I remained for some time in their happy family,full of indulgent care for one who brought them the convalescence of his heart. I returned to Paris, where I wrote this story just as it had been told me. It has only one merit, which will perhaps be denied it; that is, that it is true. I do not draw from this story the conclusion that all women like Marguerite are capable of doing all that she did—far from it; but I have discovered that one of them experienced a serious love in the course of her life, that she suffered for it, and that she died of it. I have told the reader all that I learned. It was my duty. I am not the apostle of vice, but I would gladly be the echo of noble sorrow wherever I bear its voice in prayer. The story of Marguerite is an exception, I repeat;had it not been an exception, it would not have been worth the trouble of writing it. The End However (continued Armand after a pause), while I knew myself to be still in love with her, I felt more sure of myself, and part of my desire to speak to Marguerite again was a wish to make her see that I was stronger than she. How many ways does the heart take, how many reasons does it invent for itself, in order to arrive at what it wants! I could not remain in the corridor, and I returned to my place in the stalls, looking hastily around to see what box she was in. She was in a ground-floor box, quite alone. She had changed, as I have told you, and no longer wore an indifferent smile on her lips. She had suffered; she was still suffering. Though it was April, she was still wearing a winter costume, all wrapped up in furs. I gazed at her so fixedly that my eyes attracted hers. She looked at me for a few seconds, put up her opera-glass to see me better, and seemed to think she recognized me, without being quite sure who I was, for when she put down her glasses, a smile～～～