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Dear Spence,
親愛的斯賓塞：
Who ever thought that I'd be writing you a letter. You died on the 10th of June in 1967. My golly, Spence, that's twenty-four years ago. That's a long time. Are you happy finally? Is it a nice long rest you're having? Making up for all your tossing and turning in life. You know, I never believed you when you said that you just couldn't get to sleep. I thought, Oh—come on—you sleep—if you didn't sleep you'd be dead. You'd be so worn out. Then remember that night when—oh, I don't know, you felt so disturbed. And I said, Well, go on in—go to bed. And I'll lie on the floor and talk you to sleep. I'll just talk and talk and you'll be so bored, you're bound to drift off.
誰能料想我會給你寫信呢。你在1967年6月10日去世。天啊，那是18年以前了，夠久的。你現在快樂嗎？你的長眠是否安穩？應該是彌補了你生前的輾轉難眠吧。你知道的，以前你說你睡不著，我從來都不信。我心想，噢──得了──快睡吧，要是不睡，你會死的，你會精疲力竭的。還記得那天晚上──不知為何，你感覺非常煩躁，我說，好了，去吧，去睡覺。我躺在地板上，對你講話，直到你睡著。我一直不停地講，你就會覺得困倦，就一定會漸漸睡著。
Well, I went in and got an old pillow and Lobo the dog. I lay there watching you and stroking Old Dog. I was talking about you and the movie we'd just finished—Guess Who's Coming to Dinner—and my studio and your new tweed coat and the garden and all the nice sleep-making topics and cooking and dull gossip, but you never stopped tossing—to the right, to the left—shove the pillows—pull the covers—on and on and on. Finally—really finally—not just then—you quieted down. I waited a while—and then I crept out.
后來，我走進房間，抱起了一只舊枕頭和我們的狗洛博。我躺在那兒看著你，撫摸著我們可愛的狗。我講著你的事，講著我們剛拍完的電影──《猜猜誰來吃晚餐》（Guess Who's Coming to Dinner），講著我的電影公司、你的花呢大衣、花園，講所有催眠的話題，講做菜和無聊的八卦。但是你一直輾轉反側──翻過來，又翻過去，扔枕頭，扯被子，動個不停。最后—真的是最后，那過程可不短──你靜了下來，我等了一會兒，然后躡手躡腳地走了出去。
You told me the truth, didn't you? You really could not sleep.
你跟我說的是實話，對嗎？你真的睡不著。
And I used to wonder then—why? I still wonder. You took the pills. They were quite strong. I suppose you have to say that otherwise you would never have slept at all. Living wasn't easy for you, was it?
那時候我常常好奇──為什么？我如今依然想知道。你以前吃安眠藥，藥效很強。我想你一定會說，不吃藥的話，你就一點兒也睡不著了。生活對你來說不容易，是嗎？
What did you like to do? You loved sailing, especially in stormy weather. You loved polo. But then Will Rogers was killed in that airplane accident. And you never played polo again—never again. Tennis, golf, no, not really. You'd bat a few balls. Fair you were. I don't think that you ever swang a golf club. Is "swang" a word? Swimming? Well, you didn't like cold water. And walking? No, that didn't suit you. That was one of those things where you could think at the same time—of this, of that, of what, Spence? What was it? Was it some specific life thing like Johnny being deaf, or being a Catholic and you felt a bad Catholic? No comfort, no comfort. I remember Father Ciklic telling you that you concentrated on all the bad and none of the good which your religion offered. It must have been something very fundamental and very ever-present.
你喜歡做什么？你愛航海，尤愛在風暴天氣出航。你愛馬球，但后來威爾·羅杰斯（Will Rogers）墜機遇難，你就再也不打馬球了──再也沒打過。網球、高爾夫，談不上喜歡。你時不時揮幾下網球拍，打得還不錯。我不記得你揮過高爾夫球桿。游泳？嗯……你不喜歡冷水。散步呢？不，那不適合你。散步的時候你一定會胡思亂想──思考這，思考那，思考什么呢，斯賓塞？是什么事情呢？大概是生活上具體的某件事，像是約翰尼失聰，或是你身為天主教徒，卻感覺自己并不合格？不得安寧，不得安寧。我記得西克里奇神父告訴過你，你只關注宗教給你的消極一面，不去看任何好的方面。這一定是個根本的、常存的問題。
譯文為可可英語翻譯，未經授權請勿轉載！
