Playing a Violin with Three Strings 斷弦的小提琴

Playing a Violin with Three Strings 斷弦的小提琴

◎ Jack Riemer

On Nov.18, 1995, Itzhak Perlman, the violinist, came on stage to give a concert. If you have ever been to a Perlman concert, you know that getting on stage is no small achievement for him. He was stricken with polio as a child, and so he walks with the aid of two crutches.

1995年11月18日，小提琴家伊扎克·帕爾曼舉辦了一場(chǎng)音樂會(huì)。如果你曾去過他的音樂會(huì)，你會(huì)知道對(duì)他來說走上臺(tái)絕不是一件容易的事。他小的時(shí)候患過小兒麻痹癥，所以他需要靠雙拐才能走路。

The audiences sit quietly while he makes his way across the stage to his chair and begins his play. But this time, something went wrong. Just as he finished the first few bars, one of the strings on his violin broke. We thought that he would have to stop the concert. But he didn’t. Instead, he waited a moment, closed his eyes and then signaled the conductor to begin again.

觀眾們安靜地坐著，等待著他穿過舞臺(tái)坐在椅子上開始演奏。但是這一次，出了一點(diǎn)意外。當(dāng)他剛剛拉完幾小節(jié)，一根琴弦斷了。我們都以為他不得不中斷這次演奏，但他沒有。相反，他停了一下，閉上眼睛，然后向指揮示意，重新開始。

The orchestra began and he played with such passion and such power and such purity as they had never heard before.

樂隊(duì)再一次開始演奏，他的演奏讓聽眾體會(huì)到了前所未有的激情、力量和純凈。

Of course, anyone knows that it is impossible to play a harmonious work with just three strings. I know that, and you know that, but that night Itzhak Perlman refused to know that.

當(dāng)然，人人都知道，僅用三根弦是不可能演奏出和諧的樂曲的。你我都知道，但那一夜，伊扎克·巴爾曼卻拒絕接受這種想法。

When he finished, there was an awesome silence in the room. And then people rose and cheered. There was an extraordinary outburst of applause from every corner of the auditorium.

一曲奏畢，全場(chǎng)一陣可怕的沉寂。接著，人們無不起身為其歡呼喝彩。觀眾席的每個(gè)角落，都傳來熱情似火的掌聲，經(jīng)久不息。

He smiled, wiped the sweat from this brow and then he said—not boastfully, but in a quiet, sacred tone—”You know, sometimes it is the artist’s task to find out how much music you can still make with what you have left.”

他笑了笑，擦去額頭的汗水，沒有一點(diǎn)驕傲——他用平靜的、虔誠(chéng)的語(yǔ)氣說道：“你知道，有時(shí)候藝術(shù)家要懂得用不完整的樂器演奏樂曲。”

This powerful line has stayed in my mind ever since I heard it. And who knows? Perhaps that is the definition of life—not just for artists but for all of us.

從那時(shí)起，這句話就一直盤旋在我的腦海里。誰(shuí)知道呢？也許，這就是對(duì)生活的解釋——不僅僅對(duì)藝術(shù)家，而是對(duì)我們所有的人。

He has prepared all his life to make music on a violin of four strings, but all of a sudden, in the middle of a concert, he finds himself with only three strings; so he makes music with three strings, and the music he made that night with just three strings was more beautiful, more sacred, more memorable, than any that he had ever made before, when he had four strings.

他一生都在作著用四弦的小提琴演奏音樂的準(zhǔn)備，然而，突然間，正在音樂會(huì)演奏時(shí)，他發(fā)現(xiàn)自己只剩下三根琴弦。這樣，他就只用三根琴弦繼續(xù)演奏，然而那晚，他用三根琴弦演奏的音樂卻比四根琴弦要更動(dòng)人、更神圣、更讓人難忘。

So, perhaps our task in this shaky, fast-changing, bewildering world in which we live is to make music, at first with all that we have, and then, when that is no longer possible, to make music with what we have left.

那么，我們要學(xué)會(huì)在這個(gè)動(dòng)蕩多變、撲朔迷離的世界里演奏生命的樂章，也許開始的時(shí)候傾其所有來演奏，但失去了一些東西后，要學(xué)會(huì)用我們剩下的繼續(xù)演奏。