The Death Of The Moth原文及译文(推荐文档)

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 ivy–blossom which the commonest yellow–underwing 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 hay–coloured wings, fringed with a tassel of the same colour, seemed to be content with life. It was a pleasant morning, mid–September, 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 bare–backed downs, sent the moth fluttering from side to side of his square of the window–pane. 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 moth’s part in life, and a day moth’s 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 far–off 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