致一位年轻诗人的信Letters to a Young Poet(5)

　　Rome

　　October 29, 1903

　　Dear Sir,

　　I received your letter of August 29 in Florence, and it has taken me this long two months to answer. Please forgive this tardiness, but I don't like to write letters while I am traveling because for letter-writing I need more than the most necessary tools: some silence and solitude and a not too unfamiliar hour.

　　We arrived in Rome about six weeks ago, at a time when it was still the empty, the hot, the notoriously feverish Rome, and this circumstance, along with other practical difficulties in finding a place to live, helped make the restlessness around us seem as if it would never end, and the unfamiliarity lay upon us with the weight of homelessness. In addition, Rome (if one has not yet become acquainted with it) makes one feel stifled with sadness for the first few days: through the gloomy and lifeless museum atmosphere that it exhales, through the abundance of its pasts, which are brought forth and laboriously held up (pasts on which a tiny present subsists), through the terrible overvaluing, sustained by scholars and philologists and imitated by the ordinary tourist in Italy, of all these disfigured and decaying Things, which, after all, are essentially nothing more than accidental remains from another time and from a life that is not and should not be ours. Finally, after weeks of daily resistance, one finds oneself somewhat composed again, even though still a bit confused, and one says to oneself: No, there is not more beauty here than in other places, and all these objects, which have been marveled at by generation after generation, mended and restored by the hands of workmen, mean nothing, are nothing, and have noheart and no value; but there is much beauty here, because every where there is much beauty. Waters infinitely full of life move along the ancient aqueducts into the great city and dance in the many city squares over white basins of stone and spread out in large, spacious pools and murmur by day and lift up their murmuring to the night, which is vast here and starry and soft with winds. And there are gardens here, unforgettable boulevards, and stair cases designed by Michelangelo, staircases constructed on the pattern of downward-gliding waters and, as they descend, widely giving birth to step out of step as if it were wave out of wave. Through such impressions one gathers oneself, wins oneself back from the exacting multiplicity, which speaks and chatters there (and how talkative it is!), and one slowly learns to recognize the very few Things in which something eternal endures that one can love and something solitary that one can gently take part in.

　　I am still living in the city, on the Capitol, not far from the most beautiful equestrian statue that has come down to us from Roman art - the statue of Marcus Aurelius; but in a few weeks I will move into a quiet, simple room, an old summerhouse, which lies lost deep in a large park, hidden from the city, from its noises and incidents. There I will live all winter and enjoy the great silence, from which I expect the gift of happy, work-filled hours....

　　From there, where I will be more at home, I will write you a longer letter, in which I win say something more about what you wrote me. Today I just need to tell you (and perhaps I am wrong not to have done this sooner) that the book you sent me (you said in your letter that it contained some works of yours) hasn't arrived. Was it sent back to you, perhaps from Worpswede? (They will not forward packages to foreign countries.) This is the most hopeful possibility, and I would be glad to have it confirmed. I do hope that the package hasn't been lost - unfortunately, the Italian mail service being what it is, that would not be anything unusual.

　　I would have been glad to have this book (as I am to have anything that comes from you); and any poems that have arisen in the meantime I will always (if you entrust them to me) read and read again and experience as well and as sincerely as I can. With greetings and good wishes,

　　Yours,

　　Rainer Maria Rilke

　　亲爱的先生：

　　我在弗罗伦萨收到了您8月29日的信，但隔了这么长时间--两个月--之后才给您回复。请您原谅我的拖拉--但是我不喜欢在旅行的时候写信。因为在写信时我除了需要那些必备的工具之外，还要一些宁静和孤独以及一个不那么太陌生的时刻。

　　大约6个星期以前我们到达了罗马，那时它还是空虚、炎热、发着高烧的罗马，这种气氛和其他诸如寻找安身之地的实际困难让我们觉得：围绕着我们的混乱将永远无休无止。冷漠压在我们头上，还有那无家可归的沉重心情。除此之外，罗马（如果人们对它还不熟悉的话）会让人在初到的日子里觉得悲哀而沉闷：博物馆式忧郁而无生活气息的氛围，无限的历史包裹着它，并沉重地蔓延着（渺小的今天无奈地呆在昨日的一边），它们过时的骄傲被学者们和哲学家支撑着，被普通的意大利旅游者模仿着，但是，所有这些丑陋而腐朽的东西，都只不过是偶然从另一个不属于我们的时间和生活里留下来的。最后，经过了几周的持续抵抗，人们发现自己也融入了进去，虽然仍有一点困惑，可还是自言自语道：不，这儿其实并不比别的地方好看多少，所有这些东西，尽管在一代又一代的工匠们的修补和保护下显得那么壮观，可它们根本没有意义，它们什么也不是，没有心灵和价值；--但是这儿又确实那么美丽，因为到处都那么美丽。活跃跳荡的水沿着沟渠流入伟大的城市，在广场上白色的石盆里跳舞，然后散成巨大的水池，它们在白日里低语，在夜晚又开始喧闹，声音如此巨大，水面星星闪闪，在风的吹拂下柔柔的。这儿也有许多花园，令人难忘的林荫大道和米开朗基罗设计的楼梯，楼梯的设计是水往下流的样子，从上望下去，台阶环环相扣，就象汹涌着的波涛。带着这些印象，人们找寻着自己，从那说着、唠叨着的繁复的多样性中找回了自己，然后才慢慢认识到只有极少的事物里边蕴藏着人们永久的热爱和可以温柔地触及的孤独。

　　我仍旧在这座城市里生活，在丘比特主神殿上，离我们所熟知的罗马艺术中最美丽的骑士塑像不远--马克斯.里留斯的塑像；但几个星期后我将搬到一个安静、简洁的房间去，那是一座古老的凉亭，坐落在一个巨大的公园深处，把自己和城市、城市的喧嚣和事变隔离开来。我将在那儿度过整个冬天，享受着那儿的安静。希望我在那儿可以得到快乐，并用心地工作．．．．．．

　　到了那儿，我将觉得更象在自己家里，我会给您写一封较长的信，谈一谈您信里提到的内容。今天我只想告诉您（或许我错了，不必如此地匆忙）您送给我的书还没有收到。或许他们已经从沃尔普斯维德寄回给了您（他们不会把包裹送到外国来的）？这种可能性最大，我希望能够得到证实。我真心希望那包裹没有丢失--不幸，意大利的邮政服务通常如此，这种事情实在不足为奇。 否则现在我该多么高兴能有这本书了（我在收到您的其他东西时也是一样）；还有您随信寄来的诗。我总是（如果您委托给了我）读了又读，细心去品味。

　　致我的问候和良好的祝愿于您。

　　您的，

　　瑞那.玛里亚.李尔克

　　罗马 1903年10月29日