STUDY IN CHINA GLOBAL (SCG)作品原文
苏雪林 《烦闷的时候》
不知什么原故这几年来写信给朋友，报告近况时，总有这样一句话：“我近来只是烦闷，烦闷恰似大毒蛇缠住我的灵魂。”这句话的出典，好像是在鲁迅先生《呐喊》的序文里，我很爱引用。因为我觉得烦闷是带着非常的魔性的，它来不知从何处来，缠住人之后，再也摆脱不了，正似印度森林里的被人视为神圣而又妖异的大毒蛇。
我现在居住的地方，风景并不坏，从扶疏绿柳中望过去，可以看见旭日下黄浦江闪射的金色光辉，水上常有船驶过，白帆映着荡漾水光，有如银浦流云，一片片被风移动。打开窗子，可以听见风送来浩渤宏壮江涛激石的声响。宇宙是静谧的，但跳跃着永久生命的脉搏，唱颂着永久生命的歌声。横展在我面前的大自然，是这样庄严、美丽、可爱，不过在我烦闷的时候，这些景色，都成了灰暗的一片，所给我的只有一种漠然的感觉。
我虽尝遍了甜酸苦辣的人生滋味，想到过去的几年，真个是不堪回首，但是当我的心灵为这漠然之感慢慢腐蚀了时，我有时竟愿意旧时痛楚岁月的重临，因为那样还可使我的精神比较振奋。既没有芥川龙之介自杀的勇气，又不能让这漠然之感永久腐蚀我的心灵，我好想法子来消遣了。
生性有点孤寂，对于社会上一切娱乐的事情，不大感到兴味，身居与城市隔绝的郊外，又没有友朋的往来，除了独自一个到田野里去走走，便坐在屋子里拿起一枝笔随意在纸上涂鸦，或者顺手从书架上抽出一本书来读，若遇到惬心之处，便将它抄写下来。无事时翻开来看看，也算得一种读书的随笔。
除了读书之外，同知心的朋友通信，有时也教我感到一点兴奋。因为写信时可以上天下地的无所不谈，谈的话虽然都不关重要，而且大都是杂乱无章，然而不必像对社会说话时要打起什么腔调。也不必像做学术论文时必须严密地构思。有什么话便说什么，想到那里，笔便写到那里，正是个性自然的流露，最真挚心声的倾泻，不但自己得着一种解放的快乐，也教读者同样得着一种解放的快乐。
但是我虽然有几个朋友却都很忙，写了信去，不免要累她们写回信。为了我自己驱遣这漠然之感的缘故，教别人看信和写回信，牺牲宝贵的光阴，我又觉得不安。所以我想了一个方法，自己写了给自己看，算是与自己的心灵通讯。
记得数年前在法国里昂读书的时候，认识了一位女作家，她的丈夫是里昂国立艺术院建筑系主任，里昂有名的福卫尔大教堂便是他设计建筑的。我常到那位女作家家里去玩，看见她家四壁挂许多风景画，都是建筑师的手笔。当然不十分好。因为那不是他专门的研究，但笔致却极其疏朗，透露一股灵秀之气。每个画框上安着铜牌，镌刻了一行字，“烦闷的时候”。
我那时虽然也常常喊着烦闷烦闷，烦闷的真相，还没有深切的感到，但见了那位建筑师，他的画和画框上题的字，我心里便涌起许多莫知其由的感觉。这一位苍髯道貌的大建筑家，脑筋里安得下那一座巍峨峻拔的大教堂，也有被烦闷所袭击的时候？而且他竟将这些画很宝贵地装潢起来，悬挂在客厅和书斋里，似乎当作永久纪念的，这又是什么缘故？
回国以来好久没有同那位女作家通信了，听说她的丈夫已经死了。但那一幅淡青浅赭随意涂抹的画，和那一行字却在我记忆中留下一个深刻的印象。──那是我对于烦闷这两字，第—次引起的注意。
这些杂乱的读书随笔，与朋友或与自己心灵的通讯，都算是我随意涂抹的“心画”。为表示我所受印象深刻起见，我就抄袭了那位大建筑师题画词，冠于我这些“心画”之上，不管它或者别有所本。
作品译文
The Hours of Tedium
Su Xuelin
In my recent year’s correspondence with friends, I frequently mention a word unconsciously. The word, “I only feel tedious; tedium has overwhelmed me like a serpent”, seems to be from Lu Xun’s “Preface” to Calling to Arms, which I have especially like quoting. In my mind, tedium is something with magical powers; once put under its spell, you can never get rid of it, as if wrapped around by the snake in Indian forest, which is both holy and enchanting in the eyes of the locals.
The view around my present dwelling is not bad. Beyond the overhanging trees lies the silver sheet of Huangpu River glittering in the sunlight; sloops in twos or threes floated by every now and then, the reflections of their white bulging sails gliding along the still water, very much like the amber clouds moving slowly forward with the wind; from time to time, the breeze wafts the roar of the sea across the window. Silent is the universe, whose heart though never ceases to beat, and whose song never stops. What nature unfolds before me is so sublime, beautiful and adorable. Yet in the hours so tedium, all these views appear life less and pale to me, and only produce in me a feeling of apathy
I have had many ups and downs in life, and to look back on the past years now is no other than a kind of suffering. Yet when the feeling of apathy gradually encroaches upon my heart, I should wish all the past sorrows came over again, for that way I might have a higher spirit. Since have no courage to commit suicide as Ryunosuke Akutagawa once did, nor would I reconcile myself to the prospect of eternal apathy, I can only find another way to relieve the tedium and idle the time.
A loner by nature, I have little interest in all forms of social entertainment popular nowadays. My living in suburbs has further removed the possibility of anyone calling upon me. Thus apart from taking a personal walk into the fields, I can only stay indoors, doodling on a piece of paper, or taking a book out of the shelf and reading. If coming to wonderful chapters, I would write them down, as a kind of notes, in case I might refer to them later in my leisure time.
Besides reading, corresponding with bosom friends can also delight me to some degree, for in letters I can say what I like. Although our topics are all some trifles, our language in disorder, yet I needn’t weigh my words or measure my tone, nor do I have to organize my ideas in a way as precise as doing a paper. I can write what I think; my pen follows my mind, and goes where my mind chooses to go. Thus letters are indeed the spontaneous overflow of my personality, and the true voice of my heat. I like the casualness in writing letters, and trust my friends who read them must have the same feelings with me.
But the problem is, although I do have several friends, they all have their own business. And if I write to them, they have to take time off their busy schedule and reply to me. I feel sorry that just because I need to relieve my tedium. I should bother them to read my letters and send me replies. Thus the idea occurs to me that I can write to myself, and speak to myself.
I think of a female writer who I got to know when studying in Lyon years ago. Her husband was them Dean of the Architecture Department in Lyon’s Ecole Nationale Des Beaux-Arts, who was the very designer of the famous Fourviere Basilica. I had visited her house for several times, and saw many landscape paintings hanging over their walls, which were all born out of the architect’s hands of course. Those paintings were not so good’ art was not his sphere of specialty after all. But the lines were all thin and light, flashing with inspiration. On one painting framed with a bronze tablet, there was a line of inscription reading The Hours of Tedium.
Although constantly crying tedium then, I had not yet felt in real in bones. But the view of the architect, and his painting with the line of inscription had aroused a strange feeling in me and puzzled me deeply. Can a man as lofty and reverend as him, whose mind could admit a great basilica, also feel tedium sometimes? And it is for what reason that he should frame those paintings and hang them in his living room and study, as if meant to be a lasting memorial to something?
Now it has been a long time since I left France and lost in touch with that female writer. It was said that her husband had passed away. I don’t know whether the news was true or not, but those casual paintings of gray and pink, together with that line of inscription born out of his hands had impressed me greatly. It was the first time I ever paid attention to the word “tedium”.
This small essay, together with those letters I once wrote to friends or to myself, can well be regarded as the paintings of my heart. It is to show the deep impact the architect and his paintings had on me that I cite his line of inscription directly to title this painting of my heart, though it might mean quite otherwise actually.
