A fic rec+translation
well, I stumbled across this jewel in recs (btw a great comm for fanfic readers, saves u the agony of bad fanfics) it's Chopin/Liszt, tbh when i first saw the pairing i was like WTF o_O then I decided to give it a go...
man I love the fic something fierce...read the whole thing here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/34949
In fact, I love it so much I wanted to translate this into chinese....Unfortunately I don't have the time to attempt the whole fic, so I just picked out my favourite bits...
I've only translated interviews before, literature is a whole new level of hair-tearing XD
The first time you hear him play it's like someone has opened every bottle of champagne in Paris.
He's polite to everyone else but foul-mouthed and callous with you. He encourages you to write; you think he does it so he can mock you. "As a creator," he says pleasantly, "You are an ass. You will never truly be phenomenal until you let go of the pretensions others have formed for you."
"Whereas you have relied all this time upon sheer talent," you say, as languidly as you can to disguise the anger, "and not upon the fact that ladies swoon when you sit before a piano."
He smiles at that, and plays a trill that could be the beginning of a mazurka, or the end of a waltz, or sheer whimsy. He follows it by an inspired flight up and down the keyboard, and there's the pang you feel whenever he plays; the pang of something desperately sought after and just as desperately unrealized beneath his fingers. You have thoughts about him in such moments, about the way he would move his fingers over a woman's body-or, come to that, over your body. You wonder if he has ever given himself up in bed the way he does over a piano.
"You're one to talk," he says, "about ladies swooning." He does not look up when you join him at the piano.
"I would never be so bold as to presume I know how my playing affects others," you say. His hair curls around the edge of his starched collar. He still doesn't look up when you tangle your fingers in it.
"Paganini changed my life," you tell him. You know he is rolling his eyes even though you aren't looking, but you are intimately concerned with the curve of his hipbone at the moment, and you are determined for once in your goddamned life to be sincere. "I'm serious. It's as if we're on a precipice overlooking the vast canyon of the possible, the possibility of what musical performance could be, and we're all too dumb or afraid to go further, until Paganini hurtles himself over the edge and soars."
He says, without looking at you, "I wrote this when I thought that I was in love." It's a scherzo, written not long after you met, in b flat. He plays it with his eyes closed, and you stand behind him, still naked, with your hands on his shoulders, feeling the throb of his temple echoing in the muscles of his throat.You have heard it before, but you have never tried so hard to listen. When he is finished you kiss him, the only offering you have since your compositions disgust him.
"Your best compositions," he once told you, "are the voice of someone desperately seeking release. When your fingers fly over the keys as if they want to be free of everyone and everything."
"And what if I don't want to be free of everyone?" you asked him, your lips pressed against his temple.
"I think you must," he said. "Or else you would not tour so much. You would not work so hard to escape."
You did work hard. You ran to Europe long before you realized that Europe without Chopin was no escape at all. Long before you realized how much more like prison the world is without Chopin in it.
But you cannot write that in your book, so in the end you say a few generic things about friendship and duty, and that is that.
The one and only time a student attempts to perform Chopin's Scherzo in b minor in your master class you interrupt him halfway through the first bar, and you are screaming.
You let it be known that no one is worthy of it, that there is no one proficient enough even to attempt it save Chopin itself.
You never hear it performed again.
It is 1841 and it will be the last time you hold him. It is during a performance, what will be his last great public concert. He is playing the Military Polonaise, and he is trembling like a leaf about to spiral away into a whirlwind of his own making. You are overwhelmed by him. The entire audience is overwhelmed by him. The Salle Pleyel is packed, standing-room only, and you are slated to write a review for the Parisian afterwards, but all you can do is watch him. He is the most amazing creation you have ever seen.
Near the end of the piece, the violence of his playing increases, and his skin grows so pale that the ladies in the front row begin to whisper behind their fans. He is shaking openly, but his fingers never stop moving. The piano sways beneath the sheer force of each staccato bass note.
You walk up onto the stage, and you wrap your arms around him. Later Sand will imply that your need to upstage him at all costs was greater than anything else. She will imply that this has always been the way of your relationship-that you could not even let him have this simple moment of triumph.
But now-all you know is that he is at the eye of the storm, and he must not be left to endure it alone. When you touch him, when your arms slide around his chest, he never looks up, never pauses. He still trembles inside of your embrace, but you are with him, and he knows that. You can give him this, if nothing else.
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第一次听到他琴声的霎那，你臆想全巴黎的香槟同时被开启。
他在所有人面前都是一般无二彬彬有礼，唯独对你却是牙尖嘴利不留情面。他鼓励你提笔，而你认定他这么作无非是想找个嘲讽的把柄。
‘作为一个作曲家，’他的口气称得上愉快，‘你真是个白痴。要知道你永远不会是伟大的，如果你无法摆脱别人赋予你的那些条条框框。’
‘那么你呢？你的成功从来都是依靠天分？’你压抑怒火尽量轻巧地反问，‘而不仅仅是因为你在钢琴前一坐，那些富家小姐们就神魂颠倒？’
他微笑，且开始弹奏一串颤音---听上去像一首玛祖卡的开头，也可能是一曲华尔兹的结尾，再或者根本就是心血来潮。音阶在琴键表面跳跃起伏，你只觉莫名痛楚；这痛楚来自于他指尖，某些只有他才能触及的，你苦苦寻求却一无所获的东西，甚至连你自己都不清楚在寻求什么。每每在这种时刻，你的思绪无法抑制地紊乱；你想象他的手指游走于无名女子的身体，乃至于你的，你臆想他在床第之间是否和他在钢琴面前一样放纵形骸。
‘让富家小姐们神魂颠倒？’他回嘴，你坐到他身侧时也不抬头，‘这可不是反咬一口。’
‘我可从来不会大胆到自以为我的演奏水准能打动他人。’你这般回答。他的发尾贴了浆硬的衬衣领子蜷曲着，你把手指缠绕进去，他依旧不抬头。
‘帕格尼尼颠覆了我的人生。’你这么告诉他的时候他翻个白眼，虽然你其实看不见他的表情，因为你正专注描绘他胯骨的弧线。不过你决定在你该死的人生当中，至少得真挚这么一回，
‘我是认真的。这么说吧，音乐，乃至于表演，究竟该是怎样模式，我们脚下就是大峡谷一般的无限可能，但所有人都只是踌躇于悬崖边沿，一帮蠢货，胆小鬼。直到帕格尼尼从悬崖上跳了下去开始飞翔。’
‘写这首曲子的时候我深信自己正在热恋。’
他这么说的时候并不看你；那是一首谐谑曲，降B小调，写于你们相遇之后不久。弹琴时他只阖着眼，你光裸着身子站在背后扶了他肩，指尖感觉他太阳穴的搏动，一路牵连到脖颈筋肉。曲调并非陌生，但在这之前你从来没有真正聆听过。一曲终了你吻了他，因为除此之外你想不出还能再赋予他什么，以什么方式---他痛恨你的作品。
他曾经告诫，‘你最出色的曲子，是那些渴求解放的声音。当你的手指在键盘上奔跑，仿佛在试图逃离所有人所有事。’
‘谁说我是在逃跑？’你反问，嘴唇触及他额角。
‘我觉得你是，’他说，‘否则你不会如此频繁地巡演，如此拼命地工作以求解脱。’
回想起来你确实是铆足了劲儿；直到踏上欧洲的土地你方才恍然大悟，就算没有肖邦，欧洲也并非救赎，实际上，缺少肖邦的世界不过是监牢。
但这些字句你无法尽述，最后也只能在敷衍地写些言不由衷的话，比如友情，比如责任，仅此而已。
有一次，也是唯一的一次，你的学生尝试了肖邦的降B小调谐谑曲。只弹了第一小节的一半你就打断了他，近乎歇斯底里。你告诉他们没有谁配弹这首曲子，除了肖邦，没有人能与他匹敌。
你再也没听人弹过降B小调谐谑曲。
1841年是你最后一次拥抱他，在一次音乐会当中，那也是肖邦最后一次公开演出。弹的是军队波洛涅兹舞曲，彼时他战栗得像片骤风中的树叶。你瞠目结舌，他让所有人瞠目结舌，普莱耶音乐厅人满为患，观众们只能站立当地。原本你是想为巴黎音乐界写一篇评论，但你能作的不过呆呆注视他一人。
他是你所邂逅的，最完美的作品。
临近尾声时曲子的情绪越发激烈，他的脸色苍白已极，连前排的女子们都已经开始在羽扇后惶惶私语。已经明显能看出他抖得不能自制，但他的手指分毫不曾停懈，整架钢琴在每一个短促低音的力度下震动。
你径自走上台环抱住他。事后乔治桑会冷嘲热讽道你爱抢他风头的毛病真是无可救药，她会说你们的关系总是如此暗潮汹涌---彼此连一丝一毫的胜利都不肯轻易相让。但此时此刻，你只知他身陷暴风眼中，怎能弃他一人独自承受。
碰触到他的那刻，手臂终究环住他胸口的那刻，他头也不抬琴声依旧。在你怀里他依然轻颤不已，但你在他身边，想来他也明了。
这是你唯一能给他的安抚。