薇雨 译
To Jenny Marx
My heart’s beloved,
I am writing you again because I am alone and because it troubles me always to have a dialogue with you in my head, without your knowing anything about it or hearing it or being able to answer. Poor as your photograph is, it does perform a service for me, and I now understand how even the “Black Madonna,” the most disgraceful portrait of the Mother of God, could find indestructible admirers, indeed even more admirers than the good portraits. In any case, those Black Madonna pictures have never been more kissed, looked at, and adored than your photograph, which, although not black, is morose and absolutely does not reflect your darling, sweet, kissable face. But I improve upon the sun’s rays, which have painted falsely, and find that my eyes, so spoiled by lamplight and tobacco, can still paint, not only in dream but also while awake. I have you vivaciously before me, and I carry you on my knees and said, “Madame, I love you.” And I truly love you, more than the Moor of Venice ever loved. The false and worthless world views virtually all characters falsely and worthlessly. Who of my many slanderers and snake-tongued enemies had ever reproached me that I am destined to play the role of chief lover in a second-class theater? And yet it is true. If the scoundrels had had wit, they would have painted “the production and direction” on one side, and me lying at your feet on the other. “Look to this picture and to that”——they would have written underneath. But dumb scoundrels they are and dumb they will remain, in all eternity.
Momentary absence is good, for in constant presence things seem too much alike to be differentiated. Proximity dwarfs even towers, while the petty and the commonplace, at close view, grow too big. Small habits, which may physically irritate and take on emotional form, disappear when the immediate object is removed from the eye. Great passions, which through proximity assume the form of petty routine, grow and again take on their natural dimension on account of the magic of distance. So it is with my love. You have only to be snatched away from me even in a mere dream, and I know immediately that the time has only served, as do sun and rain for plants for growth. The moment you are absent, my love for you shows itself to be what it is, a giant, in which are crowded together all the energy of my spirit and all the character of my heart. It makes me feel like a man again, because I feel a great passion; and the multifariousness, in which study and modern education entangle us, and the skepticism which necessarily makes us find fault with all subjective and objective impressions, all of these are entirely designed to make us all small and weak and whining. But love, not love for the Feuerbach-type of man, not for the proletariat, but the love for the beloved and particularly for you, makes a man again a man. You will smile, my sweet heart, and ask, how did I come to all this rhetoric? If I could press your sweet, white heart to my heart, I would keep silent and not say a word. Since I cannot kiss with my lips, I must kiss with my tongue, I must kiss with language and make words…
There are actually many females in the world, and some among them are beautiful. But where could I find again a face, whose every feature, even every wrinkle, is a reminder of the greatest and sweetest memories of my life? Even my endless pains, my irreplaceable losses, I read in your sweet countenance, and I kiss away the pain when I kiss your sweet face. “Buried in her arms, awakened by her kisses.”
Good-bye, my sweet heart. I kiss you and the children many thousand times.
Yours,
Karl
(This letter was written in the summer of 1856, when Jenny went to see her seriously ill mother and separated from Marx for some time.)
我心中的爱人：
我又给你写信了，因为我现在独自一人，而且我总是感到很难过，经常在心里和你交谈，但你一点也不知道，既听不到也不能回答我。虽然你的照片照得不太好，但对我却极有用，现在我终于明白为什么“阴郁的圣母”——最丑陋的圣母像，也能有狂热的崇拜者，甚至比一些优美的像拥有更多的崇拜者。无论怎样，这些阴郁的圣母像中，没有一张像你这张照片那样被吻过这么多次，被这样深情地看过并受到如此的崇拜。照片上的你即使不显得阴郁，至少也是郁闷的，它决不能反映你那可爱、迷人、甜蜜的让人想亲吻的脸。但我把相片挪了挪位，让阳光更好地照到它上面，使相片上的你看起来更好看一些，并且我发现我的视力虽然被灯光和烟草损坏，但我仍能在梦中，甚至在醒着的时候描绘你的模样。你好像真的在我面前，我把你抱到我的膝盖上，说着：“我爱你，夫人！”事实上我对你的爱胜过奥塞罗一生付出的爱情。撒谎和空虚的世界对人的看法也是虚伪而表面的。无数诽谤我、污蔑我的敌人中有谁曾骂过我适合在某个二流戏院扮演头等情人的角色呢？但事实如此。要是这些坏蛋稍微有点幽默感的话，他们会在一边画上“生产和管理”，另一边画上我拜倒在你的脚前，然后在这幅讽刺画下注明：“看看这幅画，再看看那幅”。但是这些坏蛋是笨蛋，而且将永远是笨蛋。
暂时的别离是有益的，因为经常接触会使生活变单调，使事物间的差别逐渐消失。过分接近会让高塔显得低矮，而我们和日常生活琐事接触太密切，琐事就会过度膨胀。细小的、让人不舒服并诉诸感情的习惯，只要它的直接对象在视野中消失，它也就不再存在。深挚的热情由于它的对象的亲近而表现为日常的习惯，在距离的魔力下会壮大起来，并重新具有它固有的力量。我的爱情就是如此。只要我们被空间分隔，即使仅仅是在我的梦里，我就立即明白，时间之于我的爱情正如阳光雨露之于植物─使其滋长。你一不在我身边，我对你的爱情就会显出它的本来面目，彷佛巨人一般，聚集了我全副精神和全部感情。我又一次感到自己是一个真正的人，因为我感受到了一种强烈的热情。现代的教养和教育带给我们的复杂性，以及使我们对一切主客观印象都不相信的怀疑主义，只能使我们变得渺小、孱弱、牢骚不断。然而爱情，不是对费尔巴哈那类型唯物主义哲学家的尊敬，不是对无产阶级的热爱，而是对值得爱的事物尤其是对你的爱，使一个人重新成为真正的人。
我亲爱的，你会微笑，会问：为什么我突然变得这么花言巧语？不过，如果我能把你那温柔而纯洁的心紧贴在自己的心上，我就会默默无言，不作一声。我不能以唇吻你，只能求助于文字，以文字来传达亲吻。
诚然，世间有许多女子，而且有些非常美丽。但是哪里还能找到一张脸，上面的五官，甚至每一条皱纹，都能引起我生命中最强烈最美好的回忆？甚至我无限的悲痛，我无可挽回的损失，我都能从你的笑容中看到，当我吻你那甜美的面庞时，我就能克制这种悲痛。“埋在她的臂膀里，因她的亲吻而苏醒”。
再见了，我亲爱的，千万次地吻你和孩子们。
你的，
卡尔
（此信写于1856年夏。当时，燕妮因去探望病重的母亲，暂时与马克思分离。）
卡尔·马克思致燕妮·马克思
Ｋａｒｌ Ｍａｒｘ，Ｊｕｎｅ ２１，１８６５
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