茶花女（英文版）

起初的几页似乎显示这是一本落了俗套的爱情故事。读到最后一页，最后一段，最后一行，才发现这是一本旷世经典。故事本身没有太多戏剧，珍贵的在于其中人物的心理，细节的剖析，爱情的投入，价值的取舍，神学的思辨。今天社会不再有书中的人文环境，今人不再有当时的细腻情思，或许也不再面对苦难时的忍受和升华。但今天和当时始终不变的，是人如何直面自己的人生。

悲剧就是将美好的事物毁灭殆尽，揉碎了给人看。沦落风尘仍怀有崇高灵魂的“茶花女”散发着圣洁美的光芒，却最终红颜薄命，玉殒香消于尘世；她与阿尔芒之间超越世俗钱色交易、不掺有任何杂质的纯真爱情却终究敌不过腐朽阶级体制价值观的束缚与男权至上资产阶级贵族的压迫。黑夜寒霜之中那朵纯洁无暇的“茶花”悄然凋零，营造出浓郁的悲剧色彩，充满悲情而凄美动人

Thoughts： 茶花是玛格丽特最为喜欢的花朵，所以她也被称为茶花女，也是书名的由来，作者也借此隐喻：虽然玛格丽特因为特殊的历史背景沦为人所不齿的妓女，但是她对爱情的忠贞如白茶花般洁白无瑕，为了爱情的追求和恋人所谓的前途又如同红茶花般热烈，自我牺牲燃烧殆尽。 无论何时都要保持人性当中的善良。

让别人幸福的诀窍在于牺牲，无条件的、不计后果的、不求回报的、甘受误解的牺牲。

幼年读过的第一本小说。当时就已经在为两人的感情而在心里担忧、呐喊。

至今还有一些人认为林纾的翻译不好，因为他对外语是实打实的“目不识丁”，翻译作品都是靠懂外语的才子们口译而他同时笔译合作完成，因此总是即兴发挥多于复刻还原，同样被挑剔的还有庞德，但庞德是转上加转，更为走样。哪怕是在21世纪的翻译课上，关于英语形合汉语意合的争执也一直没个完，何况当年。 林纾最先以翻译小说出名，英文句法结构犬牙交错难解难分，而故事脉络又刻画得深明入胜，因此得意忘言是最好的立足点，而保证这项立足点就是全人类的情感共通功能。 他翻译【茶花女】，情节上与以往闺情社态传奇相去不远，都是烟花女子与世家子弟的孽缘，最后女方深谙大义诓对方回归正途，双方误会纠缠，最后女主人公含恨而亡，放到现在就是晋江屠榜爽文“虐妻一时爽，死妻火葬场”，这题材从古到今都算不得新颖，但因为是文豪写，所以扣人心弦，大放异彩。林纾要将原著同等规格的华丽文气腾挪进文言文里，其中艰险不言而喻，何况他的自由发挥的确巧妙，值得叫好。 他翻译守墓人的经典台词：吾为彼少年市花置坟上，花值极平，未尝侵其锱铢，而不知者以为吾媚死人，吾操业固媚死人者也，长日铲草园中，安有余闲以讲酬应？吾闻巴黎巨家昵马克者，比比而是，今埋香于此，乃屏迹弗至。 本来只是孤楚小民惺惺相怜的杂聊，翻译过来却添了渡口问津的悲韵，原文强调生前风光死后凄凉的反差，对M一生命运的悯惜，译文却灌注了浮世草木情，这是专属于古文言文的气质，哪怕纹路是法兰西蕾丝，落下来仍然是长箫木鱼声，谁能不爱看呢？ 是以王教授问的好：难道译文读者都喜欢le belles infidels？ 还真就是。

为什么在世俗的评判里，一个女性一旦被归类为“交际花”，她的一切爱和付出就自动失去了分量？ 贫困的乡下姑娘玛格丽特来到巴黎，因美貌成为红极一时的交际花，随身总带着一束茶花。青年阿尔芒对她一见钟情，两人坠入爱河，玛格丽特决定放弃过去的一切，与他在乡下同居。这是她第一次相信自己的生命可以拥有另一种可能。但阿尔芒父亲的介入，让这条路戛然而止。他私下说服玛格丽特离开阿尔芒，理由不是“你不配”，而是“你的存在会影响我女儿的婚事”。玛格丽特答应了，写了绝交信，回到巴黎。阿尔芒误以为她变心，当众羞辱她。她至死没有解释。 故事的重量，可能在于玛格丽特做了一件在当时几乎不可能的事：她在一个用钱和地位来衡量一切的世界里，选择了一次不求回报的牺牲。她不是被抛弃的那个人，她是主动选择离开的那个人。她用自己的消失，换来了阿尔芒家的名声。而在那个选择里，她第一次掌握了自己的命运——尽管是以失去一切的方式。 书里写到她临终时的场景：债主们等着她死，好变卖她的东西抵债；那些曾经在她身上花过钱的人，没有一个人来看她。她一个人躺在病床上，对着天花板说话。而阿尔芒呢？等他得知真相的时候，她已经埋在土里了。 玛格丽特会通过佩戴茶花的颜色向情人传递信号——白色表示“有空”，红色表示“不方便”。这个名字本身带有双重意味：既是她最爱的花，也暗示着被消费、被物化的身份。但小仲马写她的故事，也许正是想挑战这种物化。他想说，一个被贴上“茶花女”标签的人，也可以比那些给她贴标签的人更懂得什么是爱。 这本书出版于1848年，至今仍在被阅读。也许是因为它写了一个不会被时间冲淡的东西：一个被社会边缘化的人，怎样用一次彻底的牺牲，证明了自己内心的重量。她的身份无法被抹去，但她的选择超越了那个身份。而她在病榻上写下那些话的时候，可能已经知道，她付出的代价，不会被理解，也不会被回报。但她还是做了。这大概就是“茶花女”这个名字在时间里留下回音的原因。那束茶花后来不再象征一种身份，而是一种选择。

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 天气晴朗 气温7℃ 小仲马《茶花女》 我今天早晨偶然翻到了《茶花女》，我以前点评过这本书，现在对这书里描写的爱情也还是记忆深刻，而我今天早晨关注的点不是他们的爱情故事，而是这本书最后那几篇带着日期的信。而刚好就是2月19日，2月20日，2月22日，就是我最近度过的时光，因为2月19日是我的生日，所以，所有带219的，我就特别感兴趣。如果这本书不是虚构的，故事人物与时间都是真实的，那么在历史上的这一天就有很多美好值得回忆。 希望我的每一天也可以用心记录一下美好吧！或许我不会写虚构的故事，但我想认真的记录我生命中每一天的故事，那么就从书评开始吧！或许读书是可以用文字把美好定格进永恒的。 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～～～