쎈쓰 앤 쎈써빌리티

But if there should by any chance happen to be a woman who is single at seven and twenty, I should not think Colonel Brandon’s being thirty-five any objection to his marrying her.”
27세 여자면, 35세 브랜든 대령이 그여자랑 결혼에 반대할 생각 없어
쎈쓰 앤 쎈써빌리티 가 1811년 출판 인데. 27을 저리 썼어

“A woman of seven and twenty,” said Marianne, after pausing a moment, “can never hope to feel or inspire affection again, and if her home be uncomfortable, or her fortune small, I can suppose that she might bring herself to submit to the offices of a nurse, for the sake of the provision and security of a wife. In his marrying such a woman therefore there would be nothing unsuitable. It would be a compact of convenience, and the world would be satisfied. In my eyes it would be no marriage at all, but that would be nothing. To me it would seem only a commercial exchange, in which each wished to be benefited at the expense of the other.”

여자 27세면 졸 노처녀야. 이때는 결혼이 아니라, 커머셜 익쓰체인지, 상거래 야. 나머지를 비용으로 이익받길 바라는 거야 서로. 디어더 는 감수하는 거고 상대에 주는거지.


매리앤 이 16세 반 살. 17세 직전 이야. 언니 엘리너 는 19세.


her smile was sweet and attractive; and in her eyes, which were very dark, there was a life, a spirit, an eagerness, which could hardly be seen without delight.

눈동자는 매우 다크 해, 거기엔 라이프 , 스피릿, 이거니쓰 가 있어. 딜라이트 가 안보이는 적이 없어.

"My beauty you had early withstood, and as for my manners—my behaviour to you was at least always bordering on the uncivil, and I never spoke to you without rather wishing to give you pain than not. Now be sincere; did you admire me for my impertinence?"

"For the liveliness of your mind I did."

프라이드 앤 프레쥬디스 의 끝부분 인데, 리자 가 달씨에게, 묻거든, 너 내 뷰티 는 별로라미, 내 행동은 언씨빌 수준이었고 너한텐. 상처만 줬는데. 너 나의 임퍼티넌쓰 가 좋았어?

너의 마인드 의 라이블리니쓰 로 난 너를 어드마이어한거야.

마인드 의 생기. 할때 라이블리니쓰 로 쓴거거든 제인 오스틴 은.

눈동자에 라이프 에 스피릿 이 있어. 생 과 스피릿. 제인 은 이 스피릿 을 또한 생기 열정 으로 써.

언씨빌. 야만 이야

씨빌. 문명 이야.

씨빌리티. 이 씨빌 이란 단어가 톰 존스 도 심심하면 나오고, 제인 오스틴 도 자주 쓰는 단어야. 이걸 모두 예의. 예의범절. 영어로 펄라이트 프루던트 씨빌 류의 다양한 숱한 단어들이 번역된게 모두 예의에 맛게 예의지켜 , 최고의 번역가라미 상 받은 이의 저 번역도, 못봐줘 저거. 영어번역 은 전부 시안한 의역이고 중역이고.

원문을 보면, 그 문장들 맛이, 씬택쓰 라고 해, 단어들 절들 문장들 의 방식, 저 맛을 알려면, 영어로 봐. 영어의 맛을 살린 번역은, 이끼업끼


he read with all the sensibility and spirit which Edward had unfortunately wanted.
쎈씨빌리티 와 스피릿으로 낭독했다. 섬세함 과 열정적 으로.

She saw it with concern; for what could a silent man of five and thirty hope, when opposed to a very lively one of five and twenty?
조용한 35세는 무엇을 희망할수? 졸라 라이블리 25세 가 연적이 될때

Perhaps she pitied and esteemed him the more because he was slighted by Willoughby and Marianne, who, prejudiced against him for being neither lively nor young, seemed resolved to undervalue his merits.

엘리너는 35세브랜든에 동정 과 존경. 매리앤 나쁜년은 그를 생기도 젊지도 않다고, 메릿들을 하시해

“My protégé, as you call him, is a sensible man; and sense will always have attractions for me. Yes, Marianne, even in a man between thirty and forty. He has seen a great deal of the world; has been abroad, has read, and has a thinking mind. I have found him capable of giving me much information on various subjects; and he has always answered my inquiries with readiness of good-breeding and good nature.”

나의 프로티지, 그 35세 브랜든은 쎈써블한 사람이고, 쎈쓰는 나에게 호감이 있어. 이것도 완벽한 거짓 번역이던데. 분별력이 브랜든에게 있다며.

나는 쎈쓰 를 갖고 있다 의 유명한 저책의 문장이야. 이것도 시안한 기괴한 주작번역이던데

“Add to which,” cried Marianne, “that he has neither genius, taste, nor spirit. That his understanding has no brilliancy, his feelings no ardour, and his voice no expression.”

지니어쓰 테이스트 스피릿 이 없어. 언더스탠딩은 브릴리언스가 없고 필링은 아더 목소리는 익스프레션이 없어.

저런 워드 의 번역단어들이 모두 일본단어들이거든.

. I can only pronounce him to be a sensible man, well-bred, well-informed, of gentle address, and, I believe, possessing an amiable heart.”

웰인포엄드, 잘 배운겨, 젠틀 어드레쓰 어드레쓰가 젠틀해. 옷입고 나서서 연설하는거야. 폼 좋고 말하는 매너 가 좋은겨이건.

Elinor needed little observation to perceive that her reserve was a mere calmness of manner with which sense had nothing to do

쎈쓰 를 분별력 번역하던데, 카먼쎈쓰 이고, 이성 이 아냐. 시발 모든 쎈쓰는 분별 력 지랄하고 제목은 이성 과 감성. 당췌 시발.

리즌 은 확실히 따로 나와. 이성 이야 이게. 오스틴의. 쎈쓰는 이성 을 포함한 그 이상 이야.

!A few years however will settle her opinions on the reasonable basis of common sense and observation

카먼쎈쓰 와 관찰의 이성적인 기반 을 둔 의견.



이 오스틴 의 단어들 은, 철저한, 철학 단어들 이자 심리학 단어들 이야.


제인 오스틴 은 정말 최고야

톰 존스 랑 냄새를 잇는거고

정말, 이 잉글랜드 잉글리쉬 인간들은 최고야 이건.

온갖 사람들 의 심리묘사 인물분석 성격파악 은

이 잉글리쉬 인간들을 따라갈 수 가 없어.

밝고 가볍게, 저 위 의 전지적 전능한 신 입장에서,

도톱이 처럼 진지할 필요없이, 어듭고 구질한것도 덤덤히 밝게 다 드러내 적나라하게.

잉글리쉬 리터러쳐 는 정말 최고야.

제인오스틴, 아 감탄이야 이여자.

이여자 얼마되지 않는 전집은 원서로 달달달달 보도록해. 정말 위대한 여자야

무엇보다도, 재밌어. 뒤가 궁금해. 별것 아닌 이야긴데.

제인 오스틴 은 셰익스피어 보다 결코 아래가 아냐.

재밌으며 탁월해.

.

아래는 보다가 단어궁금 에, 원래 문장 궁금 해서.

“This will probably be the case,” he replied; “and yet there is something so amiable in the prejudices of a young mind, that one is sorry to see them give way to the reception of more general opinions.”
“I cannot agree with you there,” said Elinor. “There are inconveniences attending such feelings as Marianne’s, which all the charms of enthusiasm and ignorance of the world cannot atone for. Her systems have all the unfortunate tendency of setting propriety at nought; and a better acquaintance with the world is what I look forward to as her greatest possible advantage.”

“I am afraid,” replied Elinor, “that the pleasantness of an employment does not always evince its propriety.”
“On the contrary, nothing can be a stronger proof of it, Elinor; for if there had been any real impropriety in what I did, I should have been sensible of it at the time, for we always know when we are acting wrong, and with such a conviction I could have had no pleasure.”

“But, my dear Marianne, as it has already exposed you to some very impertinent remarks, do you not now begin to doubt the discretion of your own conduct?”

“I want no proof of their affection,” said Elinor; “but of their engagement I do.”

Her sensibility was potent enough!

common sense, common care, common prudence, were all sunk in Mrs. Dashwood’s romantic delicacy.

He was not in spirits, however; he praised their house, admired its prospect, was attentive, and kind; but still he was not in spirits.

“Nay, Edward,” said Marianne, “you need not reproach me. You are not very gay yourself.”
“Why should you think so!” replied he, with a sigh. “But gaiety never was a part of my character.”


You have not been able to bring your sister over to your plan of general civility,” said Edward to Elinor, “Do you gain no ground?”



I never wish to offend, but I am so foolishly shy, that I often seem negligent, when I am only kept back by my natural awkwardness. I have frequently thought that I must have been intended by nature to be fond of low company, I am so little at my ease among strangers of gentility!”

“Marianne has not shyness to excuse any inattention of hers,” said Elinor.
“She knows her own worth too well for false shame,” replied Edward. “Shyness is only the effect of a sense of inferiority in some way or other. If I could persuade myself that my manners were perfectly easy and graceful, I should not be shy.”

“But you would still be reserved,” said Marianne, “and that is worse.”
Edward started—“Reserved! Am I reserved, Marianne?”
“Yes, very.”
“I do not understand you,” replied he, colouring. “Reserved!—how, in what manner? What am I to tell you? What can you suppose?”


Such behaviour as this, so exactly the reverse of her own, appeared no more meritorious to Marianne, than her own had seemed faulty to her. The business of self-command she settled very easily;—with strong affections it was impossible, with calm ones it could have no merit. That her sister’s affections were calm, she dared not deny, though she blushed to acknowledge it; and of the strength of her own, she gave a very striking proof, by still loving and respecting that sister, in spite of this mortifying conviction.

“They mean no less to be civil and kind to us now,”


I am sure I shall be very happy to chaperon you at any time till I am confined, if Mrs. Dashwood should not like to go into public.”



“You and I, Sir John,” said Mrs. Jennings, “should not stand upon such ceremony.”
“Then you would be very ill-bred,” cried Mr. Palmer.
“My love you contradict every body
격식 무식

His temper might perhaps be a little soured by finding, like many others of his sex, that through some unaccountable bias in favour of beauty, he was the husband of a very silly woman—but she knew that this kind of blunder was too common for any sensible man to be lastingly hurt by it.


Elinor well knew that the sweetest girls in the world were to be met with in every part of England, under every possible variation of form, face, temper and understanding.

“John is in such spirits today!” said she, on his taking Miss Steeles’s pocket handkerchief, and throwing it out of window—“He is full of monkey tricks.”
And soon afterwards, on the second boy’s violently pinching one of the same lady’s fingers, she fondly observed, “How playful William is!”

I love to see children full of life and spirits; I cannot bear them if they are tame and quiet.”

“And had you a great many smart beaux there? I suppose you have not so many in this part of the world; for my part, I think they are a vast addition always.”
“But why should you think,” said Lucy, looking ashamed of her sister, “that there are not as many genteel young men in Devonshire as Sussex?”

This specimen of the Miss Steeles was enough. The vulgar freedom and folly of the eldest left her no recommendation, and as Elinor was not blinded by the beauty, or the shrewd look of the youngest, to her want of real elegance and artlessness, she left the house without any wish of knowing them ....

Lucy was naturally clever; her remarks were often just and amusing; and as a companion for half an hour Elinor frequently found her agreeable; but her powers had received no aid from education: she was ignorant and illiterate


she saw, with less tenderness of feeling, the thorough want of delicacy, of rectitude, and integrity of mind, which her attentions, her assiduities, her flatteries at the Park betrayed; and she could have no lasting satisfaction in the company of a person who joined insincerity with ignorance; whose want of instruction prevented their meeting in conversation on terms of equality, and whose conduct toward others made every show of attention and deference towards herself perfectly valueless.

but a correspondence between them by letter, could subsist only under a positive engagement, could be authorised by nothing else
“Writing to each other,” said Lucy, returning the letter into her pocket, “is the only comfort we have in such long separations


could he, were his affection for herself out of the question, with his integrity, his delicacy, and well-informed mind, be satisfied with a wife like her—illiterate, artful, and selfish?
The youthful infatuation of nineteen would naturally blind him to every thing but her beauty and good nature; but the four succeeding years—years, which if rationally spent, give such improvement to the understanding, must have opened his eyes to her defects of education, while the same period of time, spent on her side in inferior society and more frivolous pursuits, had perhaps robbed her of that simplicity which might once have given an interesting character to her beauty.

From their counsel, or their conversation, she knew she could receive no assistance, their tenderness and sorrow must add to her distress, while her self-command would neither receive encouragement from their example nor from their praise. She was stronger alone, and her own good sense so well supported her, that her firmness was as unshaken, her appearance of cheerfulness as invariable, as with regrets so poignant and so fresh, it was possible for them to be.

ringing the bell, requested the footman who answered it to get that letter conveyed for her to the two-penny post.


“Good heavens!” she exclaimed, “he is there—he is there—Oh! why does he not look at me? why cannot I speak to him?”
“Pray, pray be composed,” cried Elinor, “and do not betray what you feel to every body present. Perhaps he has not observed you yet.”

“Engagement!” cried Marianne, “there has been no engagement.”
“No engagement!”
“No, he is not so unworthy as you believe him. He has broken no faith with me.”
“But he told you that he loved you.”
“Yes—no—never absolutely. It was every day implied, but never professedly declared. Sometimes I thought it had been, but it never was.”
“Yet you wrote to him?”
“Yes: could that be wrong after all that had passed? But I cannot talk.”

“It would be impossible to go to-morrow. We owe Mrs. Jennings much more than civility; and civility of the commonest kind must prevent such a hasty removal as that.”

Like half the rest of the world, if more than half there be that are clever and good, Marianne, with excellent abilities and an excellent disposition, was neither reasonable nor candid. She expected from other people the same opinions and feelings as her own, and she judged of their motives by the immediate effect of their actions on herself. Thus a circumstance occurred, while the sisters were together in their own room after breakfast, which sunk the heart of Mrs. Jennings still lower in her estimation; because, through her own weakness, it chanced to prove a source of fresh pain to herself, though Mrs. Jennings was governed in it by an impulse of the utmost goodwill.

“If I am not deceived by the uncertainty, the partiality of tender recollection, there is a very strong resemblance between them, as well in mind as person

“Four months!” cried Marianne again. “So calm! so cheerful! How have you been supported?”
“By feeling that I was doing my duty.—My promise to Lucy, obliged me to be secret. I owed it to her, therefore, to avoid giving any hint of the truth; and I owed it to my family and friends, not to create in them a solicitude about me, which it could not be in my power to satisfy.”
.

Marianne seemed much struck.
“I have very often wished to undeceive yourself and my mother,” added Elinor; “and once or twice I have attempted it;—but without betraying my trust, I never could have convinced you.”
“Four months! and yet you loved him!”
“Yes. But I did not love only him; and while the comfort of others was dear to me, I was glad to spare them from knowing how much I felt. Now, I can think and speak of it with little emotion. I would not have you suffer on my account; for I assure you I no longer suffer materially myself. I have many things to support me. I am not conscious of having provoked the disappointment by any imprudence of my own, I have borne it as much as possible without spreading it farther. I acquit Edward of essential misconduct. I wish him very happy; and I am so sure of his always doing his duty, that though now he may harbour some regret, in the end he must become so. Lucy does not want sense, and that is the foundation on which every thing good may be built. And after all, Marianne, after all that is bewitching in the idea of a single and constant attachment, and all that can be said of one’s happiness depending entirely on any particular person, it is not meant—it is not fit—it is not possible that it should be so. Edward will marry Lucy; he will marry a woman superior in person and understanding to half her sex; and time and habit will teach him to forget that he ever thought another superior to her.”
“If such is your way of thinking,” said Marianne, “if the loss of what is most valued is so easily to be made up by something else, your resolution, your self-command, are, perhaps, a little less to be wondered at.—They are brought more within my comprehension.”
“I understand you. You do not suppose that I have ever felt much. For four months, Marianne, I have had all this hanging on my mind, without being at liberty to speak of it to a single creature; knowing that it would make you and my mother most unhappy whenever it were explained to you, yet unable to prepare you for it in the least. It was told me,—it was in a manner forced on me by the very person herself, whose prior engagement ruined all my prospects; and told me, as I thought, with triumph. This person’s suspicions, therefore, I have had to oppose, by endeavouring to appear indifferent where I have been most deeply interested; and it has not been only once; I have had her hopes and exultation to listen to again and again. I have known myself to be divided from Edward for ever, without hearing one circumstance that could make me less desire the connection. Nothing has proved him unworthy; nor has anything declared him indifferent to me. I have had to contend against the unkindness of his sister, and the insolence of his mother; and have suffered the punishment of an attachment, without enjoying its advantages. And all this has been going on at a time, when, as you know too well, it has not been my only unhappiness. If you can think me capable of ever feeling, surely you may suppose that I have suffered now. The composure of mind with which I have brought myself at present to consider the matter, the consolation that I have been willing to admit, have been the effect of constant and painful exertion; they did not spring up of themselves; they did not occur to relieve my spirits at first. No, Marianne. Then, if I had not been bound to silence, perhaps nothing could have kept me entirely—not even what I owed to my dearest friends—from openly showing that I was very unhappy.”
Marianne was quite subdued.
“Oh! Elinor,” she cried, “you have made me hate myself for ever.—How barbarous have I been to you!—you, who have been my only comfort, who have borne with me in all my misery, who have seemed to be only suffering for me!—Is this my gratitude?—Is this the only return I can make you?—Because your merit cries out upon myself, I have been trying to do it away.”


.
Nothing was wanting on Mrs. Palmer’s side that constant and friendly good humour could do, to make them feel themselves welcome. The openness and heartiness of her manner more than atoned for that want of recollection and elegance which made her often deficient in the forms of politeness; her kindness, recommended by so pretty a face, was engaging; her folly, though evident was not disgusting, because it was not conceited; and Elinor could have forgiven every thing but her laugh.

that though I have been always a blockhead, I have not been always a rascal, to obtain something like forgiveness from Ma— from your sister.”

You did then,” said Elinor, a little softened, “believe yourself at one time attached to her?”
“To have resisted such attractions, to have withstood such tenderness!

Even then, however, when fully determined on paying my addresses to her,

Her affection for me deserved better treatment, and I often, with great self-reproach, recall the tenderness which, for a very short time, had the power of creating any return. I wish—I heartily wish it had never been. But I have injured more than herself; and I have injured one, whose affection for me (may I say it?) was scarcely less warm than hers; and whose mind—Oh! how infinitely superior!”

Elinor made no answer. Her thoughts were silently fixed on the irreparable injury which too early an independence and its consequent habits of idleness, dissipation, and luxury, had made in the mind, the character, the happiness, of a man who, to every advantage of person and talents, united a disposition naturally open and honest, and a feeling, affectionate temper. The world had made him extravagant and vain—Extravagance and vanity had made him cold-hearted and selfish. Vanity, while seeking its own guilty triumph at the expense of another, had involved him in a real attachment, which extravagance, or at least its offspring, necessity, had required to be sacrificed. Each faulty propensity in leading him to evil, had led him likewise to punishment. The attachment, from which against honour, against feeling, against every better interest he had outwardly torn himself, now, when no longer allowable, governed every thought; and the connection, for the sake of which he had, with little scruple, left her sister to misery, was likely to prove a source of unhappiness to himself of a far more incurable nature. From a reverie of this kind she was recalled at the end of some minutes by Willoughby, who, rousing himself from a reverie at least equally painful, started up in preparation for going, and said—

“Colonel Brandon’s character,” said Elinor, “as an excellent man, is well established.”
“I know it is,”—replied her mother seriously, “or after such a warning, I should be the last to encourage such affection, or even to be pleased by it. But his coming for me as he did, with such active, such ready friendship, is enough to prove him one of the worthiest of men.”

“I am thankful to find that I can look with so little pain on the spot! shall we ever talk on that subject, Elinor?” hesitatingly it was said. “Or will it be wrong? I can talk of it now, I hope, as I ought to do.”
Elinor tenderly invited her to be open.
“As for regret,” said Marianne, “I have done with that, as far as he is concerned. I do not mean to talk to you of what my feelings have been for him, but what they are now.

I should have had no confidence, no esteem. Nothing could have done it away to my feelings.”
“I know it—I know it,” cried her mother. “Happy with a man of libertine practices!

“You consider the matter,” said Elinor, “exactly as a good mind and a sound understanding must consider it