喻麗清紀念專輯(1945-2017) - OCWWA
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海外女作家協會第五屆會長，名作家、詩人喻麗清於8月2日清晨在北加州離世。家屬依照她 ... 本會網站推出「喻麗清紀念專輯」，以新詩、短文向她致敬，以表緬懷。部分姊妹 ... 很感寬慰。《盲愛》1993--此書序說，從英文版重譯的.....
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胡適之先生翻譯都德名作的時間為《最後一課》 (1912)、《柏林之圍》(1914)。
郝運先生翻譯《最後一課》、《圍攻柏林》，收入《都德小說選》上海譯文，2000。
換句話說，胡適、郝運的翻譯時間，約相距80年以上。地名等專有名稱都不同了。
胡適之先生的《最後一課》、《柏林之圍》文章，多次收入課本，成為經典。
郝運先生在其《譯本序》中說，
《最後一課》曾教育過好幾代中國的孩子......重新提起他的名字和小說，.......心靈深處的老朋友，.......當然想更多地了解一些有關他的情況。今天重讀胡適之先生和郝運先生翻譯的《最後一課》、《柏林之圍》，有不少溫故知新的心得。
今法國中學並沒有設置都德的《最後一課》，甚至許多法國人也不知道都德是何人。
阿爾薩斯許多老百姓還說德語，不是單純的因為德國對其佔領的奴化教育，而是因為阿爾薩斯在古代本屬於德國哈布斯堡家族的領地，居民都說德語，1552年被法國佔領統治後，當地居民對法語存在抵制傾向。當普法戰爭結束，阿爾薩斯重新成為德國領土後，150萬居民中只有5萬說法語的居民。但在《最後一課》中，寫得似乎全阿爾薩斯的人都把法語當母語，顯然和歷史大相徑庭。
二戰後，法國驅逐了許多１８７１年後移入阿爾薩斯的德裔居民，學校上課一律用法語，街道和店舖名字也只準用法語，但是六十多年也沒能從根本上改變當地生活語言還有德語的現實，或許當地的德裔居民學到了都德的《最後一課》並深受影響，於是以其人之道還治其人之身，依舊牢固地堅持自己的民族語言。
the last class
by
That morning, Franz was taking his way very slowly to school. He had a great dread of being scolded, particularly as the school-master had said that the lesson for the day would be on participles about which Franz did not know a word. Suddenly an idea came to him. He would go through the fields.
It was so warm, so clear. He heard the blackbirds whistling on the borders of the wood, and in the meadow, behind the saw-mill, the Prussians were drilling. Then, as he passed on by the residence of the mayor, Franz saw them putting a notice on the gate. There, for two years, had been given out all the bad news; lost battles for Alsace, calls to arms, the orders of the command. The blacksmith and his apprentice were putting up the notice, and Franz called,
“What has happened, that they are posting a bulletin again?” But the blacksmith spoke gruffly,
“Why do you loiter, little one? It is not safe. Run along quickly to school.”
So Franz made haste at last, although he was sure that the blacksmith was not in earnest, and he arrived all breathless, at his class.
School seemed, somehow, very different to Franz that morning. There was ordinarily a good deal of noise as the children came in from the street, desks were opened, and lessons were repeated out loud and all in unison, and the school-master pounded with his ruler on his table.
Now, however, there was silence.
Although Franz was late, the school-master looked at him without the least anger, and spoke softly as he said, “Go quickly to your place, my little Franz. We have already begun without you.”
Franz seated himself at his desk. Only then, his fear gone, he noticed that the master had on his best green frock coat, his finely plaited shirt and the black silk cap that he never wore except on a day when there were prizes given out in school. All the children were extraordinarily quiet. But what surprised Franz the most was to see at the back of the room, seated on the benches which were ordinarily empty, the people of the village. There was an old soldier with his tri-colored flag, the old mayor of the town, the postman, and many others. Everyone seemed sad. And the old soldier had a spelling book, ragged on the edges, that he held open on his knees, as he followed the pages through his great spectacles.
As little Franz watched all this, astonished, the school-master rose from his chair, and in the same grave, soft voice in which he had spoken to the boy, he said,
“My children, this is the last time that I shall teach your class. The order has come from Berlin that no language but German shall be taught in the schools of Alsace and Lorraine. Your new master arrives to-morrow. To-day, you will have your last lesson in French. I pray that you will be very attentive.”
Franz’s last lesson in French! And he could not write it without mistakes! He remembered all the time that he had wasted, the lessons he had missed in hunting for birds’ nests, or skating on the river. He thought of his books that would remind him always now, of his laziness–his grammar, his history, a present from his friend, the school-master, from whom he must part now with so much pain. In the midst of these thoughts, Franz heard his name called. It was his turn to recite.
He would have given a great deal to be able to recite the famous order of the participles, without a mistake, to give them clearly, and without a fault. But he confused them at the first word, and remained standing beside his desk, his heart trembling, not daring to raise his head. He heard the school-master speaking to him,
“I am not going to rebuke you, little Franz. You are already punished. Every day you have said to yourself, ‘Bah, I have plenty of time; to-morrow I will study.'”
“Ah, that has been the great fault in our Alsace, that of always putting off learning until another day. In the meantime, all the world has been quite right in saying of us, ‘How is it that you pretend to be French, and yet are not able to read and write your own language!’ Of all who are here, my poor little Franz, you are not the only one at fault. We all must reproach ourselves.”
Then the school-master told them of his longing to still teach the children the French language. He said that it would always be the most beautiful language of the world. He said that he wanted it treasured in Alsace and never forgotten, because, when a people fall into slavery it is almost like holding the key to their prison if they can speak to each other in the same tongue. Afterward he took a grammar and went over the lesson with the children. All that he read seemed suddenly quite easy to Franz; he had never attended so well, and never before had he understood how patient the school-master was in his explanations.
When the lesson was finished, writing was begun. For this last day, the master had prepared fresh copies.
France, Alsace. France, Alsace.
The copies were like little flags, floating all over the schoolroom from the tops of the desks. Nothing broke the great silence but the scratching of the pens upon the paper. Suddenly some May bugs flew in through the window, but no one noticed them. On the roof of the school some pigeons began to coo, and Franz thought to himself, “Will it be commanded that the birds, too, speak to us in a foreign language?”
From time to time, as Franz lifted his eyes from his paper, he saw the school-master sitting quietly in his chair, and looking all about him, as if he wanted to remember always every child and every bit of furniture in his little schoolroom. Only think, for forty years, he had been there in his place, with the playground facing him, and his class always as full! Only the benches and the desks which had once been polished were worn from usage now; the walnut trees in the yard had grown very large, and the hop vine that he, himself, had planted twined now above the window and as far as the roof. It was breaking the heart of the school-master to leave all these things.
But he had the courage to carry on the class to the very end. After the writing lesson, he began the lesson in history. Afterward, the little ones sang their A. B. C.’s all together and at the end of the room the old soldier took off his spectacles and, holding his spelling book in his two hands, he read off the letters with them.
Suddenly the clock in the tower of the village church sounded the hour of noon. Instantly, the trumpet call of the Prussians, returning from their drilling, burst through the windows. The school-master rose, quite pale, in his place. Never had he seemed so great to the children.
“My friends,” he said, “my little friends, I–“
But he could say no more; he was not able to speak the words. He turned to the blackboard and, taking a piece of chalk, he wrote upon it,
“Vive la France!”
Afterward, he remained there, his head resting against the wall, and, without speaking, he made a sign with his hand.
“It is finished. You are dismissed.”
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