归有光·《项脊轩志》英译
项脊轩，旧南阁子也。室仅方丈，可容一人居。百年老屋，尘泥渗漉，雨泽下注；每移案，顾视无可置者。又北向，不能得日，日过午已昏。余稍为修葺，使不上漏。前辟四窗，垣墙周庭，以当南日，日影反照，室始洞然。又杂植兰桂竹木于庭，旧时栏楯，亦遂增胜。借书满架，偃仰啸歌，冥然兀坐，万籁有声；而庭阶寂寂，小鸟时来啄食，人至不去。三五之夜，明月半墙，桂影斑驳，风移影动，珊珊可爱。
然余居于此，多可喜，亦多可悲。先是庭中通南北为一。迨诸父异爨，内外多置小门，墙往往而是。东犬西吠，客逾庖而宴，鸡栖于厅。庭中始为篱，已为墙，凡再变矣。家有老妪，尝居于此。妪，先大母婢也，乳二世，先妣抚之甚厚。室西连于中闺，先妣尝一至。妪每谓余曰：“某所，而母立于兹。”妪又曰：“汝姊在吾怀，呱呱而泣；娘以指叩门扉曰：‘儿寒乎？欲食乎？’吾从板外相为应答。”语未毕，余泣，妪亦泣。余自束发读书轩中，一日，大母过余曰：“吾儿，久不见若影，何竟日默默在此，大类女郎也？”比去，以手阖门，自语曰：“吾家读书久不效，儿之成，则可待乎！”顷之，持一象笏至，曰：“此吾祖太常公宣德间执此以朝，他日汝当用之！”瞻顾遗迹，如在昨日，令人长号不自禁。
轩东，故尝为厨；人往，从轩前过。余扃牖而居，久之，能以足音辨人。轩凡四遭火，得不焚，殆有神护者。
项脊生曰：“蜀清守丹穴，利甲天下，其后秦皇帝筑女怀清台；刘玄德与曹操争天下，诸葛孔明起陇中。方二人之昧昧于一隅也，世何足以知之？余区区处败屋中，方扬眉瞬目，谓有奇景。人知之者，其谓与坎井之蛙何异？”
余既为此志，后五年，吾妻来归。时至轩中，从余问古事，或凭几学书。吾妻归宁，述诸小妹语曰：“闻姊家有阁子，且何谓阁子也？”其后六年，吾妻死，室坏不修。其后二年，余久卧病无聊，乃使人复葺南阁子，其制稍异于前。然自后余多在外，不常居。
庭有枇杷树，吾妻死之年所手植也，今已亭亭如盖矣。
The Nape
Gui Youguang
The south passageway from our sidedoor known as the “Nape” is barely ten square feet, just big enough to serve as a room for one. Our house is a hundred years old. Dust used to fall and rain to drip through the ceiling, and I could find nowhere else to move my desk. Moreover, facing north and getting no sun, the room grew dark after noon. I patched it up so that it no longer leaked, opened windows in front and built a wall south of the courtyard to reflect the sunlight and brighten up the place. I also planted orchids, cassias and bamboos, showing off the old balustrades to better advantage. My shelves are piled with books, and here I rest and sing or sit quietly listening to the sounds all around in the stillness of the courtyard. Small birds alighting in search of food do not fly off at the approach of men, and when a full moon casts its bright light over half the wall the mottled shadows of the cassia trees stir in the wind with a dappled loveliness.
For me this place has happy occasions as well as sad ones. The north and south buildings were formerly connected, but my uncles divided up the house, adding various small walls and doors here and there, so that a dog on the east side barks at the west side, to enter the dining-room guests have to pass the kitchen, and hens roost in the hall. First fences were built in the courtyard, later walls, renovated more than once. An old family maid used to stay in this little chamber. Because she had been my grandmother's maid and nurse in our house for two generations, my mother showed her special consideration. Her chamber opened into the inner apartments and my mother sometimes visited her there. This old nurse told me where my mother had stood, recalling, “When your elder sister was crying in my lap, your mother would tap on the door and ask, 'Is the child cold? Does she want to be fed?' And I would answer through the wooden door.” Before she finished my eyes were wet, and hers, too.
One day, after I have bound up my hair and started studying in this chamber, my grandmother came in to me and said, “Child, I haven't seen so much as your shadow for days. Why shut yourself up here all the time, quiet as a girl?” On leaving, as she closed the door she mused, “The men of our family have studied all these years without success, but perhaps this child will get somewhere.” So she came back with an ivory tablet and told me, “My grandfather carried this tablet when he went to court as officer of ceremony. Who knows but some day you may use it?” It seems just like yesterday when I look at these relics, the sight of which now sets me weeping, unable to stop.
There used to be a kitchen east of this chamber, and as time went by I learned to recognize the steps of the passersby behind closed doors. Four times the place caught fire but was never destroyed, as if under the protection of kindly spirits.
The Master of the Nape comments: Widow Qing of <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />Sichuan, who kept a cinnabar mine, was the richest women in the land — the First Emperor of Qin built a tower to commemorate her. When Liu Bei and Cao Cao were contesting for power, Zhuge Liang arose in Longzhong. Yet while the widow and the wise man were staying quietly in their different corners, the world knew nothing of them. My content in this shabby room, where I hold forth with dancing eyebrows and sparkling eyes on the wonders around me, must remind those who know me of the proverbial frog in the well. That is why I have made this record.
Five years later, my wife came to our house. She often slipped into this chamber to ask about bygone days or practise her writing at my desk. Returning from a visit to her family, she told me her younger sister wanted to know, “What is that passageway we hear your house has?” Six years later my wife died, I let the place go to ruin. After another two years, lying ill for months with nothing much to do, I got men to rebuild this south passageway with some slight changes. But since then my frequent absences from home have rarely allowed me to stay here. The loquat tree which I planted in the courtyard the year that my wife died has grown up now to give shade.（杨宪益、戴乃迭 译）