Chapter 3 A letter from a strange woman

The famous novelist R went to the mountains to rest for three days, and returned to Vienna early this morning.He bought a newspaper at the station and just glanced at the date and remembered that it was his birthday.It occurred to him at once that he was forty-one years old.He wasn't happy about it, nor was he sad.He casually flipped through the newspaper for a while, then called a car and returned to the apartment.The servant told him that he had had two visitors while he was away, and his telephone calls, and brought him the accumulated letters on a tray.He looked at it casually, and the sender of several letters aroused his interest, so he opened the envelope; there was a letter written in a thick stack with strange handwriting, so he pushed it away first. on the side.Tea was now served, and he settled back in his easy-chair, leafed through the paper and some printed matter again, lit a cigar, and picked up the letter which he had left behind.

The letter was about twenty pages long, and it was written in a strange woman's handwriting. It was written in a flamboyant and scribbled manner. It was more like a manuscript than a letter.Involuntarily, he squeezed the envelope again to see if there were any attachments inside.But the envelope was empty, and neither the envelope nor the paper had the sender's address or signature. "Strange," he thought, taking the letter in his hand again. "You, you who have never met me before!" This sentence was written on the top of the letter as a title and as a title.His eyes froze in astonishment: was this referring to him, or an imaginary hero?Suddenly, his curiosity arose and he began to read:

My child died yesterday—I fought for three days and three nights to save this delicate life.He had the flu, and his poor body was burning hot.I sat by his bedside for forty hours.I put a washcloth soaked in cold water on his burning forehead.Day and night I held his twitching little hands.On the third night I was completely devastated, my eyes could no longer be opened, my eyelids were closed and I didn't even know it.I slept three or four hours sitting in a hard chair, during which time death took his life.The lovable poor child lay there now, in his own little bed, just as he had died.Just his eyes, his wise black eyes closed, his hands folded on his white shirt, and four candles burning high in the four corners of the bed.I didn't dare to look at it, and I didn't dare to move, because when the candle light flickered, his face and closed mouth were blurred, it looked as if his cheeks were moving, and I would think that he was not dead, that he was still alive. Will wake up and say something sweet and childish to me in his silvery voice.But I know that he is dead, and I don't want to look at the bed again, lest I have hope again, or be disappointed again.I know, I know, my child, died yesterday—and now you are all I have in the world, only you, and you know nothing of me.At this moment, you don't feel it at all, you are playing around, or you are having fun with someone, flirting and intimacy.And I only have you now, only you who I have never met before, who I have always loved.

I have taken a fifth candle and placed it on the table here from which I am writing to you.For I cannot be alone with my dead child and not pour out my heart.If I do not speak to you in this dreadful hour, to whom!You were everything to me, and you are everything to me now!Maybe I can't quite explain to you, maybe you don't understand me—my head is heavy now, my temples are throbbing like a mallet, and my limbs are sore.I thought, I have a fever, maybe I have the flu too.Now that the flu is going door to door, that's good, so I can go with my kids and save myself the rest of my life.Sometimes my eyes are dark, and I may not finish this letter—but I must muster up all my strength to tell you once and only once, you, my dear, who I have never known before.

I want to talk to you alone, to tell you everything for the first time, to pour out to you.All my life I want you to know, my life has always been yours, and you have never known anything about my life.But only when I'm dead and you don't have to answer me any more--and now my limbs are hot and cold, if this disease really means the end of my life--then I will let you know my secret.If I survive, I will tear up this letter and keep it in my heart as I have done before, and I will continue to keep silent.But if you have this letter in your hand, then you know that this is a dead woman who is here to tell you about her life, her life that belongs to you, from the time she became sensible to the end. The last moment of her life.As a dead person, she asked for nothing more, neither love nor pity nor consolation.I ask of you only one thing, and that is that you believe what my anguished heart hastily confides to you.Believe all that I say, and all I ask of you is this, that a man cannot lie when his only son dies.

I want to confide my whole life to you.My whole life really started from the day I met you.Before that my life was unhappy and disorganized.It is like a dusty, cobweb-covered, musty-smelling cellar. I have long forgotten the people and things in it.I was thirteen years old when you came, and I lived in the house you live in now.Now you are in this house with this letter in your hand - the last breath of my life.I live on that floor too, right across from your door.You must not remember us, the poor accountant widow (she was always in mourning dress) and the small, half-grown child—we lived in seclusion, living our poor lives of philistines in silence— You probably never heard our names because there is no sign on our room door.No one came, and no one came to inquire about us.What's more, it has been a long time, fifteen or sixteen years.No, you must know nothing, my dear.But I, ah, I think of everything with passion, the day I first heard of you, the day I first saw you, no, that moment, I remember it so clearly now, as if today's business.How could I not remember, because for me, the world only began then.Be patient, dear, I am going to tell you all this from the beginning, I beg you to listen to me for a quarter of an hour, and don't get tired, I have loved you all my life and have never been tired!

Before you came to our house, the family that lived in your house were ugly, fierce, and quarrelsome.They are poor themselves, but they hate the poverty of their neighbours, ours, because we don't want to share with their shabby proletarian brutality.The man in this family was a drunkard and beat his wife; the clattering of chairs and smashing of plates often woke us up in the middle of the night.Once the woman was beaten bloody and fled up the stairs with her hair disheveled, and the drunken man followed her screaming and screaming until everyone came out of the house and warned the man, If you make such a fuss, you have to call the police, and the scene is over.My mother avoided any contact with the family from the start, nor would I speak to their children, and for this reason the children took revenge on me at every opportunity.If they met me in the street, they would come after me and yell dirty words, and once hit me with a hard snowball until my brow was bleeding.Everyone in the building instinctively hated the family.Suddenly something happened--the man got caught for stealing, I think--and the woman had to pack up her bits and pieces and move, which relieved us all.There was a note on the wall at the entrance of the building to rent out the room, and it was removed after a few days.Word soon spread from the cleaners that a writer, a quiet bachelor, had rented the room.That's when I first heard your name.

The apartment was greasy by the original occupants, and after a few days, painters, plasterers, cleaners, and paper-painters came to tidy up the room, hammering hammers, mopping the floor, and scraping the walls.But my mother was quite pleased with that, she said, and now the family with the dirty and messy door across the door was gone at last.And I hadn't seen you when you moved in yourself: the whole move was taken care of by your servant, the little, serious, gray-haired servant in charge.He directs everything with a soft-spoken, stern, condescending air.He touched us all.Firstly, because a servant in charge is a novelty in our suburban house, and secondly, he is very polite to everyone, without thereby reducing himself to an ordinary servant, and he is as good a friend as they are. Chatting all over the world.From the first day he regarded my mother as his wife, and greeted her with respect and respect, and even to me, an ugly girl, always kindly and seriously.He always mentioned your name with a certain reverence, with a peculiar respect—and it was immediately seen that you were related to him far beyond that of ordinary master and servant.How I liked him for that, how I liked good old John!Although I am jealous that he can always serve you by your side.I'm telling you everything, my dear, all these trifles and almost ridiculous little things, so that you can understand that from the very beginning you had that kind of affection for me, a shy and timid boy. magic.Before you yourself intruded into my life, you were surrounded by an aura, a rich, strange, mysterious aura--all of us who live in this small suburban house (these living worlds are very small. people who are always very curious about everything new happening in front of their door), are anxiously waiting for you to move in.One afternoon when I came home from school, I saw a furniture-moving car parked in front of the building. That's when my curiosity about you surged in my heart.Most of the furniture was bulky and bulky, and the porters had already carried it upstairs and were now taking up the odds and ends.I stood at the door and watched, amazed at everything, for all your things are so strange that I have never seen them before.There are statues of Indian gods, Italian sculptures, huge paintings in bright colors and finally books.There are so many such beautiful books, I had never even thought of them before.These books were all piled up by the door, where the servants picked them up one by one and dusted them carefully with sticks and dusters.As I crept curiously around the growing pile of books, your servant didn't tell me to go away, but he didn't encourage me to stay there either.So I dare not touch a book, although I would like to feel the soft leather cover of some books.I had to look timidly at the titles from the side. There were French books, English books, and some books whose characters I didn't know.I thought, I'll watch it for hours.Then my mother called me in.

I couldn't think of you all night, and that was before I knew you.I myself only have a dozen or so cheap, chipboard-bound books, and I can't put them down and read them again and again.At this time, I thought hard: What would this person look like?There are so many beautiful books, and he has read them all, and understands all these words, and he is so rich and so learned at the same time.The thought of so many books fills me with an otherworldly sense of awe.I pictured you in my mind: you're an old man with glasses and a long white beard, kind of like our geography teacher, only kinder, prettier, gentler—I don't know Why was I sure that you were beautiful at that time, because I imagined you as an old man at that time.That very night, before I knew you, I dreamed of you for the first time.

You moved in the next day, but no matter how much I peeped, I still couldn't see your face-this aroused my curiosity even more.When I finally saw you on the third day, it never occurred to me that you were something else entirely, and had nothing in common with my childish imagining of a heavenly father.What I dreamed was a kind old man wearing glasses, and now you are here—you, you still look the same as today, you, the years have passed on you unconsciously, but you have not changed at all!You wore an attractive light gray tracksuit, and when you went up the stairs, you always took two steps at a time with your incomparably brisk, childlike posture.You held the hat in your hand, and I gazed into your animated face with indescribable amazement.You look handsome, with beautiful, lustrous hair.Really, I was taken aback by surprise, you are so young, so beautiful, so slender, so handsome.Isn't this strange?In this first second, I felt very clearly that you are very unique, and I and everyone else felt it in you again and again unexpectedly: you are a double personality, a passionate person. You are a young man who is overflowing, carefree, indulging in fun and seeking flowers and flowers; at the same time, you are a very serious, responsible, knowledgeable and well-cultivated person in your career.I overheard the impression everyone felt in you afterwards, that you lived a double life, with a bright, open side to the world, and a dark side that only you knew— —This most hidden duality, the secret of your life, I, this thirteen-year-old girl who is obsessed with you, felt it from the first sight.

You see now, my dear, what a miracle you were to me then, what a fascinating enigma!A man whom everyone held in awe, who had written books, who was famous in another big world, and now suddenly I saw him as a handsome, happy, childlike young man of twenty-five!Need I tell you that from this day on, in our building, in all my poor children's world, nothing interests me more than you.I have used all the stubbornness and obstinacy of a thirteen-year-old girl to spy on your life and your daily life.I observe you, your habits, and the people who come to you, all of which not only did not reduce, but increased my curiosity about you, because the guests who come to see you are of all kinds, of all kinds, and this reflects you. Duality in character.There are young people who come to you, your classmates, a bunch of ragged college students, and you talk and laugh with them, forgetting about it.Sometimes there are also some wives who come by car.Once, the manager of the opera house came, the great orchestra conductor, whom I had only seen from a distance with admiration before the music stands.And the people who come to you are little girls who are still in business school, and they slip through the door with a little coyness.All in all, there were many, many women among the people who came.I don't think anything special about it, and I don't think it's anything special when I go to school one morning and see a lady with a veil coming out of your house—I'm only thirteen Years old, I listen and watch your movements with feverish curiosity.In the child's mind, he doesn't know that this kind of curiosity is already love. But, my darling, that day, that moment, the day, that moment when I fell in love with you completely and forever, I still remember very well.I walked with a female classmate for a while, and then stood at the gate to chat.Then a car came up, and as soon as it stopped, you jumped off the running board with that anxious, quick gesture of yours--a gesture that still makes me fall in love with you--to go through the door.A kind of subconsciousness forced me to open the door for you, so that I would block your way, and the two of us almost bumped into each other.You looked at me with that warm, soft, affectionate look, which seemed to express affection, and you smiled at me—yes, I can’t say anything else, so I have to say, send my pulse Mai smiled affectionately, and said in a very light, almost intimate voice, "Thank you, miss!" That's how it happened, my dear.But from that moment, from the moment I felt that soft, loving look, I belonged to you.I soon learned that to every woman who walked by, to every shopgirl who sold you, to every maid who opened the door for you, you threw that embracing, alluring look at you. Powerful, sensual and sensual eyes, the eyes of your natural seducer.I also know that the gaze on you is not consciously expressing your heart and admiration, but because you show affection for women, so when you look at them, your gaze becomes soft and tender unconsciously. warm up.But I, a thirteen-year-old child, didn't feel it. There was a fire burning in my heart.I thought your tenderness was only for me, only for me. At this moment, in the heart of my underage girl, I already felt that I was a woman, and this woman belonged to you forever. "Who is this person?" my girlfriend asked.I can't answer her right away.I can't say your name, for one second, this one second, I feel your name is sacred, it's my secret. "Oh, a gentleman who lives in our building," I stammered and clumsily. "Then why do you blush when he looks at you?" my girlfriend said sarcastically, with all the viciousness of an inquiring child.Just because I felt her sarcasm touched my secret, the blood rose to my cheek all of a sudden, and I felt more burning.I was so embarrassed that my attitude became very rude. "Silly girl!" I said angrily.I wish I could strangle her to death.But she laughed louder, and mocked harder, until I felt tears streaming down my face, and I threw her off, and ran upstairs alone. From this second, I'm in love with you.I know a lot of women say that to you spoiled one.But I believe that no woman will love you blindly and selflessly like me.I am true to thee forever, for there is nothing in the world like the love a child secretly conceives, because it is so hopeless, ingratiating, servile, humble, and passionate, that it has nothing to do with grown women. It's not the same kind of horny, visceral provocative love.Only the solitary child can muster all his enthusiasm; the rest abuse their affection in society, and wear it out in mermaids.They have heard a lot about love and read a lot about it.They know that love is the common destiny of people.They play with love like a toy, they boast of it like boys boast of their first cigarette.But me, I have no one to tell my thoughts, no one to enlighten me, no one to warn me, I have no life experience, I don't know anything, I fell into my destiny, like falling into an abyss.You are the only thing that grows and blooms in my heart. I saw you in my dream and regarded you as my bosom friend: my father passed away a long time ago, and my mother is always depressed and sad.She lives on a pension, is cowardly by nature, and is afraid of smashing her head if she drops a leaf, so I don't really get along with her; and I'm disgusted by the female classmates who start to get the bad habits of misbehavior because they are frivolous to play with that which in my mind was the highest passion—and therefore I dedicate to you all the scattered passions, all my heart, compressed together and eager to burst out again. toss.In my heart you are—how can I tell you?No analogy is too strong - you are everything, my whole life.Everything in the world exists only because it is related to you. Everything in my life is meaningful only when it is connected with you.You have changed my whole life.I didn't study hard in school before, and my grades were average, but now I suddenly became the number one.I read a thousand books, often late into the night every day, because I know you like books; suddenly I started to practice the piano with almost stubborn energy, which surprised my mother because I think you like music.I have my own clothes brushed clean and neatly sewn so that you will look clean and neat to your liking; There is a square patch on the side, which is very ugly to me.I was afraid that you would see the patch and look down on me, so when I went upstairs, I always put my schoolbag on the patch, trembling with fright, for fear that you would see it.But what a fool it was, you never, almost never, looked at me again. Besides me, I have been waiting for you all day, spying on your whereabouts, and I can say that I have done nothing other than that.We have a small brass peephole on the door of our house, through which you can see your door across the way.This peephole—no, don't laugh at me, dear, even today, even today, and I'm not ashamed of those moments—this peephole is my eye through which I see the world.In those months and years, I held a book in my hand and sat there all afternoon, sitting in the front room waiting for you, lest my mother be suspicious.My heart is as tense as a harp string, as soon as you appear, it keeps playing.I am always tense and excited for you, but you feel nothing about it, any more than you feel the wind-up of a pocket watch in your pocket.The clockwork of the pocket watch patiently counts your hours in the dark, measures your time, and accompanies your whereabouts with the inaudible heartbeat, and only once in its millions of tick-tock seconds do you rush to it Glanced.I know everything about you, every habit of yours, every tie, every dress of yours, and soon after I know all those friends who can distinguish you from one to another, and divide them into those I like and those I hate. kind.From the age of thirteen to the age of sixteen, I lived every hour on you.Ah, what follies I have done!I kiss the doorknob your hand touches, pick up the butt of a cigar you threw away before you walked in, it's sacred to me because your lips touched it.At night, I made hundreds of excuses to run down to the alleys below to see which of your houses was lit.This way, although I can't see you, I can clearly feel that you are there.Those weeks when you were away—my heart stopped beating every time I saw good John carry your yellow duffel bag downstairs—and I lived as if I were dead during those weeks. Same, pointless.I was sad, bored, and dazed, but I had to be careful not to let my mother see the despair in my eyes swollen from crying. I know what I'm telling you now is all absurd emotion, childish follies.I should be ashamed of these things, but I am not ashamed, for never was my love for you purer and more passionate than in this innocent passion.I could tell you for hours, for days, how I lived with you, and you didn't even know my face, because whenever I met you on the stairs , and when I couldn't dodge it, because I was afraid of your scorching gaze, I would lower my head and run away from you, just like a person jumping into the water to avoid being burned by the fire.I could talk to you for hours, I could talk to you for days, tell you about years you have long forgotten, give you the whole calendar of your life unfolding.But I don't want to tire you, I don't want to torture you.I'm going to tell you nothing but the most beautiful experience of my childhood, and I beg you not to laugh at me, because it's such a small thing, but it's a big thing to me as a kid event.It must have been a Sunday, and you were out, and your servant opened the door and dragged in the heavy rugs which he had beaten clean.He, the good man, worked very hard.In a moment of daring, I walked up to him and asked him if he wanted me to help him.He was amazed, but let me help him so that I could see the inside of your apartment, your world, the desk where you used to sit, with a few flowers in a blue crystal vase, and saw I bought your cupboard, your pictures, your books—I can only tell you with what reverence, even devout admiration, I had!I only took a quick peek at your life, for John, your faithful servant, would never allow me to look at it carefully, but I just took the whole atmosphere into my chest, This has the nutrition of dreaming, and you can dream of you endlessly, whether you are awake or asleep. This, this one quick minute, it was the happiest moment of my childhood.I'm going to tell you about this moment, so that you, who don't know me, can finally begin to feel that there is a life attached to you and dying for you.I will tell you this happiest moment, and I will tell you that moment, the scariest moment, too, unfortunately, these two moments are next to each other.For your sake - as I have just told you - I have forgotten everything, I paid no attention to my mother, I did not care about anyone.I did not notice that an older gentleman, a merchant from Innsbruck, a distant relation of my mother, often visited our house and stayed long on each occasion.Yes, it makes me very happy, because sometimes he takes my mother to the theater, so that I can be alone at home, thinking of you, waiting for you, which is my greatest and only happiness!One day, my mother solemnly called me into her room and said she wanted to have a serious talk with me.My face turned pale with fright, and I heard my heart beating suddenly: Could she feel something, see something?All I thought of right away was you, the secret, the secret that binds me to the world.But mother herself was embarrassed, and she gave me a tender kiss or two (she never kisses me), pulled me to sit next to her on the couch, and began, stammering and timidly, that her A relative, a widower, proposed to her, and she, chiefly for my sake, decided to grant his request.A rush of blood rushed to my heart: I have only one thought in my heart, and all my thoughts are on you. "Are we still living here?" I stammered out the words. "No, we're moving to Innsbruck, where Ferdinand has a nice villa." I heard nothing else.I feel black in front of my eyes.I found out later that I fainted at the time.I heard my mother whisper to my stepfather who was waiting behind the door, and suddenly I threw my arms out and fell back like a piece of lead.What happened in the next few days, how I, a child who couldn't make up her own mind, rebelled against her inflexible will, I can't describe to you.Even now, thinking of it, my hands tremble as I write.My real secret cannot be revealed, so my resistance appears to be pure bullshit, deliberate opposition, and deliberate embarrassment.No one told me anymore, everything was going on behind closed doors.They used my time at school to carry my luggage, and when I got home, they would either lose one thing or sell that one.I watched our house, and my life, fall apart.Once when I came home for lunch, the furniture mover was packing and moving everything.In the empty room are packed boxes and a camp bed each for my mother and me: we will sleep here one more night, the last night, and leave for Innsbruck tomorrow. On this last day, I feel with a sudden determination that I cannot live without you.I can think of no other remedy but you.What was going through my mind, whether I was able to think clearly in that moment of despair, I will never be able to say, but suddenly I stood up, in my school uniform—my mother wasn’t home— Go to the opposite door to where you are.No, I didn't walk. My legs were stiff and my whole body was shaking. I was drawn to your door by a magnetic force.I have told you already, and I myself do not know what is wrong with me: I want to kneel at your feet, and beg you to take me as a maid, as a slave.I'm afraid you'd laugh at the innocent fanaticism of a fifteen-year-old girl, but—my dear, if you knew how I stood in the cold corridor, frozen with fear, and was Pushed forward by an incomprehensible force; and how I tore my arm, the trembling arm, so to speak, from myself, and raised it—a struggle that had only been experienced A few horrible seconds, but it seems like an eternity-finger to press the button of your doorbell.If you knew all this, you would never laugh again.That piercing ring still rings in my ears, followed by silence, and then—when my heart stopped beating, my blood froze—I just pricked up my ears, you Are you here to open the door? But you didn't come.No one came.You were obviously out that afternoon, and John may have been on errands for you.So I staggered—the monotonous harsh doorbell was still ringing in my ears—to our forlorn, empty house, where I collapsed exhausted on a tweed traveling rug.These four steps made me so tired that it seemed like I had been walking for hours in the deep snow.I'm exhausted, but my determination to see you and talk to you before they take me away is still burning, not extinguished.I swear to you there's not a hint of lust in it.I didn't understand at the time that I didn't want anything but you, I just wanted to see you, just one more time, to hold you tightly.And all the night, all the long, terrible night, my dear, I waited for you.As soon as mother went to bed and fell asleep, I tiptoed into the front room and listened to hear when you came home.I've been waiting all night, and it's a cold January night!I was exhausted, my limbs ached, and I wanted to sit, but there weren't any chairs in the room, so I lay flat on the cold floor, with cold wind whizzing through the crack under the door.I was wearing very thin clothes, and without a blanket, lying on the cold floor, my joints and eyes felt tingling.I don't want to be warm, I'm afraid I'll fall asleep when it's warm, and I won't be able to hear your footsteps.It was excruciating, my feet cramped and huddled together, and my arms were shaking.I had to stand up again and again, this dark night really froze to death.But I waited, waited, waited for you, as I waited for my fate. Finally—it must have been two or three o'clock in the morning—I heard the door opening below, followed by footsteps going up the stairs.Immediately, the chill on my body disappeared completely, and a wave of heat surged in my heart. I gently opened the door, and was about to rush to you and lay down at your feet... Ah, I really don’t know, I was a silly girl What will happen.The footsteps were getting closer.Candlelight flickered upstairs.I tremblingly held the handle of the door.Is it really you who came? Yes, it is you, dear - but you are not alone.I heard a provocative chuckle, the rustle of your silk dress and your whispering voice—you brought a woman home. I don't know how I made it through the night.At eight o'clock the next morning they dragged me to Innsbruck; I had no strength left to resist. My child died last night--if I were to go on living, I'd be all alone again.明天要来人了，那些陌生的、黑炭似的大个儿笨汉，他们将抬一口棺材来，收殓我那可怜的、我那唯一的孩子。也许朋友们也会来，送来花圈，但是鲜花放在棺材上又顶什么用？他们会来安慰我，对我说几句，说几句话。但是他们又能帮得了我什么呢？我知道，这以后我又是孤零零一个人了。再也没有什么东西比在人群之中感到孤独更可怕的了。这一点我那时就体会到了，在因斯布鲁克度过的没有尽头的两年岁月里，即从我十六岁到十八岁的时候，像个囚犯，像个被摈弃的人似的。生活在家里的两年时间里，我就体会到了这一点。继父是个生性平和、寡言少语的人，对我很好；我母亲好像为了弥补她无意之中所犯的过失，对我的一切要求总是全部给予满足。年轻人围着我献殷勤，但是我都斩钉截铁地对他们一概加以拒绝。不和你在一起，我就不想幸福地、惬意地生活，我把自己埋进一个晦暗的、寂寞的世界里，自己折磨自己。他们给我买的新花衣服我不穿，我不肯去听音乐会，不肯去看戏，或者跟大家一起兴高采烈地去郊游。我几乎连胡同都不出，你会相信吗，亲爱的，我在这座小城里住了两年，认识的街道还不上十条？我悲伤，我要悲伤，看不见你，我就强迫自己过着清淡的生活，并且还以此为乐。再有，我怀着一股热情，只希望生活在你的心里，我不愿让别的事情来转移这种热情。我独自一人坐在家里，一坐就是几个小时，就是一整天，什么也不做，只是想着你，一次一次地、反反复复地重温对你的数百件细小的回忆，每次见你啦，每次等你啦，就像在剧院里似的，让这些细小的插曲一幕幕从我的心里闪过。因为我把往日的每一秒钟都回味了无数次，因此我的整个童年还都历历在目，那些逝去岁月的每一分钟都让我感到如此灼热和新鲜，仿佛是昨天发生的那样。 那时我的整个身心全都扑在了你的身上。你写的书我全都买了；要是报上登有你的名字，那这天就像我的节日一样。你相信吗，你书里的每一行我都能背下来，我一遍又一遍地把你的书读得滚瓜烂熟。要是有人半夜里把我从睡梦中叫醒，从你的书里抽出一行来念给我听，今天，隔了十三年，今天我还能接着念下去，就像在梦里一样：你的每一句话，对我来说都是福音书和祷告文。整个世界，只有和你有关，它才存在。我在维也纳的报纸上翻阅音乐会和首演的广告，心里只有一个想法，那就是哪些演出会使你感兴趣。一到黄昏，我就在远方陪伴着你：现在他进了剧场大厅，现在他坐下来了。这事我梦见过千百次，因为我曾经有一次，唯一的一次，在一次音乐会上见过你。 可是我说这些干什么呢，说一个被遗弃的孩子的这些疯狂的、自己糟踏自己的，这些如此悲惨、如此绝望的狂热干什么呢？把这些告诉一个对此一无所感、毫无所知的人干什么呢？那时我不确实还是个孩子吗？我长到十七八岁了——年轻人开始在街上转过头来看我了，可是他们只能使我火冒三丈。因为想着和别人，而不是和你谈恋爱，即使只是拿恋爱开个玩笑，我也觉得简直是难以想象、难以理解的，在我看来，受勾引本身就已经犯了罪。我对你的激情始终犹如当年，只是随着我身体的发育和性欲的萌发而变得更加炽烈、更加肉感、更加女性罢了。当时在那个女孩子，那个去按你的门铃的女孩子朦胧无知的意识中没能预感到的东西，现在成了我唯一的思想：把自己献给你，完全委身于你。 我周围的人认为我腼腆，都说我怕羞（我紧咬牙关，关于我的秘密，一个字也不吐露出来）。但是在我心里却滋长了钢铁般的意志。我的全部心思都集中在一点上：回到维也纳，回到你的身边去。我费了好大的劲，终于实现了自己的愿望。在别人看来，我的这个愿望也许是荒谬的，不可理解的。我的继父颇有资财，他把我当做他的亲生女儿。我直闹着要自己挣钱来养活自己，后来终于达到了这个目的。我来到维也纳的一个亲戚家，在一家服装店里当职员。 在一个雾蒙蒙的秋日，我终于，终于来到了维也纳！难道还要我告诉你，我到维也纳以后第一站是往哪儿去的吗？我把箱子存放在火车站，跳上一辆电车——我觉得电车开得多慢呀，每停一站都使我感到恼火——一直奔到那座楼房前面。你的窗户亮着灯，我的整个心灵发出了动听的声音。这座城市，这座曾经如此陌生、如此毫无意义地在我四周喧嚣嘈杂的城市，现在才有了生气，我现在才复活，因为我感觉到你就在近旁，你，我那永恒的梦。我并没有感觉到，无论是隔着多少峡谷、高山、河流，或是在你和我闪着喜悦光芒的目光之间只隔着一层透明的薄玻璃，我对于你的意识来说，实际上都是一样遥远的。我抬头仰望，仰望：这儿有灯光，这儿是楼房，你就在这儿，这儿就是我的世界。对于这一时刻，我已经做了两年的梦了，现在总算赐给了我。这个漫长的、柔和的、云遮雾漫的夜晚，我在你的窗前站了很久，直到你房里的灯熄灭以后，我才去寻找我的住处。 从那以后，我每天晚上都这样站在你的房前。我在店里干活一直干到六点钟才结束，活计很重，很累，但我很喜欢，因为工作很杂乱，我对自己内心的不宁也就不那么感到痛楚了。等到卷帘式铁百叶窗在我身后“哐当”一声落了下来，我就直奔我心爱的目的地。只要看你一眼，只想碰见你一次，只想用我的目光远远地再次抚摸你的脸庞——这就是我唯一的心愿。大约一个星期之后，我终于遇见了你，而且恰恰在我没有预料到的那一瞬间：我正抬头朝你的窗户张望的时候，你横穿马路过来了。突然，我又变成了那个小姑娘，那个十三岁的小姑娘。我感到热血涌上我的面颊，违背我渴望看见你的眼睛的内心冲动，我下意识地低下了头，像是有人在追我似的，从你身边一溜烟跑了过去。后来我为自己这种女学生似的胆怯的逃遁而感到羞愧，因为现在我的目的是一清二楚的：我想遇见你，我在找你。过了那么多渴望的、难熬的岁月，我希望你能认出我来，希望你能注意到我，希望你爱上我。 但是你好长时间都没有注意到我，虽然每天晚上，无论是纷飞的大雪，还是维也纳凛冽刺骨的寒风，我都站在那条胡同里。我往往白等几个小时，有时候等了半天以后，你终于在朋友的陪伴下从屋里走了出来，有两次我还看见你和女人在一起。当我看见一位陌生女人同你紧挽胳膊一起走的时候，我感觉到了自己的成人意识，我的心突然颤了一下，把我的灵魂也撕裂了，这时我感觉到对你有一种新的、异样的感情。我并没有吃惊，我在儿童时代就已经知道女人是陪伴你的常客，可是现在却使我突然感到有种肉体上的痛苦，我心里那根感情之弦绷得紧紧的，对你跟另一个女人的这种明显的、肉体上的亲昵感到非常敌视，同时自己也很想得到。我当时有种孩子气的自尊心，也许今天也还保留着，所以一整天没有到你的屋子跟前去。但是这个抗拒、愤恨的空虚夜晚是多么可怕呀！第二天晚上，我又低声下气地站在你的房子跟前，等呀等，就像我的整个命运，都站在你那关闭的生活之前。 一天晚上，你终于注意到我了。我已经看见你远远地过来了，我就振作起自己的意志，别又躲开你。说也凑巧，有辆货车停在街上要卸货，因而把马路堵得很窄，你就只好紧挨着我的身边走过去。你那心不在焉的目光下意识地扫了我一眼，它刚遇到我全神贯注的目光，就立即变成了——回忆起心里的往事，使我猛然一惊——你那种勾引女人的目光，变成了那种温存的，既脉脉含情、又撩人销魂的，那拥抱式的、盯住不放的目光。这目光从前曾把我这个小姑娘唤醒，使我第一次成了女人，成了正在恋爱的女人。有一两秒钟之久，你的目光就这样凝视着我的目光，而我的目光却不能，也不愿意离开你的目光——随后你就从我身边走了过去。我的心怦怦直跳，我下意识地放慢了脚步，出于一种无法抑制的好奇心，我转过头来，看见你停住了，正在回头看我。从你好奇地、饶有兴趣地注视着我的神态里，我立刻就知道，你没有认出我来。 你没有认出我来，那时候没有，永远，你永远也没有认出我来。亲爱的，我怎么来向你描述那一瞬间的失望呢——当时我是第一次遭受到没有被你认出来的命运啊，这种命运贯穿在我的一生中，并且还带着它离开人世。没有被你认出来，一直没有被你认出来。我怎么来向你描述这种失望呢！因为你看，在因斯布鲁克的两年中，我时刻都想着你，什么也不做，只是想象我们在维也纳的第一次重逢，根据自己的情绪状态，做着最幸福的和最可怕的梦。如果可以这么说的话，一切我都在梦里想过了。在我心情阴郁的时候，我设想过，你会拒我于门外，你会鄙视我，因为我太卑微，太丑陋，太不顾廉耻。你各种各样的怨恨、冷酷、淡漠，这一切我在热烈的幻象中都经历过了——可是这一点，这最最可怕的一点，就是在我心情最阴郁、自卑感最严重的时候，也没有敢去考虑过：你根本丝毫没有注意到我的存在。今天我懂得了——啊，那是你让我懂得的——少女和女人的脸在男人眼里一定是变化无常的，因为脸通常只是一面镜子，时而是热情的镜子，时而是天真烂漫的镜子，时而又是疲惫的镜子，镜子中的形象极易流逝，所以一个男人也就更加容易忘记一个女人的容貌，因为年龄就在这面镜子里带着光和影逐渐流逝，因为服装会把一个女人的脸一下打扮成这样，一下又变成那样。那些听天由命的人，她们才是真正的智者。可是当时我这个少女，对你的健忘还不能理解，因为由于我自己毫无节制、时刻不停地想着你，所以就产生了一种幻景，以为你也一定常常想着我，在等着我。如果我知道，你的心里并没有我，压根儿连想都没有想过我，那我活着还有什么意思！你的目光使我清醒了，你的目光表示，你一点也不认识我了，关于你的生活和我的生活之间，你竟连一根蛛丝那样的些微记忆也没有了。面对这样的目光，我如梦初醒，第一次跌入了现实之中，第一次预感到了自己的命运。 你那时没有认出我来。两天以后我们又再次相遇，你的目光带着点亲昵的神情周身打量着我，这时你依旧没有认出我就是曾经爱过你的、被你唤醒的那个姑娘，你只认出我是那个漂亮的、十八岁姑娘，两天以前曾在同一地点同你迎面相逢。你亲切而惊讶地看着我，嘴角挂着一丝轻柔的微笑。你又从我的身边走过去，马上又放慢了脚步。我颤抖，我狂喜，我祈祷，但愿你来跟我打招呼。我感到，我第一次为你而充满了活力。我也放慢了脚步，没有躲开你。突然，我没有回头便感觉到你在我的身后，我知道，这回我可以第一次听到你对我说话的可爱的声音了。这种期待的心情几乎使我瘫软了，我担心自己可能不得不停下来，心里像有十五个吊桶，七上八下——这时你走到我旁边来了。你用你特有的那种轻松愉快的神情跟我攀谈，仿佛我们是早就认识的老朋友了——啊，你没有感觉出我这个人，你也从来没有感觉出我的生活——你跟我说话的神态是那么富有魅力，那么泰然自若，甚至我也能够跟你答话了。我们一起走了一条胡同，这时你问我，是否愿意一起去吃饭。我说：“好。”我怎敢拒绝你呢？ 我们一起在一家小饭馆里吃饭——你还记得这家饭馆在哪里吗？啊，不，你一定跟其他这样的晚餐分不清了，因为在你心目中，我算得了什么？只不过是数万个女人中的一个，许许多多不胜枚举的风流艳遇中的一桩罢了。你有什么好想起我来的呢？我说得很少，因为在你身边，听你跟我说话，我就感到无限幸福了。我不愿意由于一个问题、一句愚蠢的话而白白浪费一秒钟。我永远不会忘记感谢你的这个时刻，你的心里满满地盛着我热情的崇敬，你的举止如此温存风雅、轻松愉快、识体知礼、毫无迫不及待的妄为，没有匆忙的谄媚讨好的表示，从第一个瞬间起，就亲切自重，如逢知己。我早就把自己的整个身心都献给你了，即使未下这个决心，但单凭你此刻的举止也会赢得我的心的。啊，你可不知道，我傻乎乎地等了你五年，你没有使我失望，你简直使我高兴得忘乎所以了！ 天已经很晚了，我们起身离去。走到饭馆门口，你问我是否急着回家，是否还有点时间。我怎么能瞒着你，不告诉你我乐意听从你的意愿呢？我说，我还有时间。随后，你稍稍迟疑了一下，就问，我是否愿意上你那里去聊一会儿。“好啊！”我自然而然地脱口而出，随后我立即发现，你对我如此迅速的允诺，感到有点儿难堪或者高兴，反正显然感到十分意外。今天我明白了你的这种惊异，我知道，一个女人，即使她心里火烧火燎的，想委身于人，但是她们通常总要否认自己有这种打算，还要装出一副惊恐万状或者怒不可遏的样子，非等男人再三恳求，说一通弥天大谎，赌咒发誓和作出种种许诺，这才愿意平息下来。我知道，也许只有那些吃爱情饭的妓女，或是幼稚天真、年未及笄的小姑娘才会兴高采烈地满口答应那样的邀请。但是在我心里，这件事只不过是——你怎么能料想得到呢——化成了语言的心愿，千百个白天黑夜所凝聚、而现在突然迸发的相思而已。总之，当时你很吃惊，我开始使你对我发生兴趣了。我觉察到，我们一起走的时候，你一边说着话，一边带着某种惊异的神情从侧面打量着我。你的感觉，你那对于一切人性的东西魔术般的十拿九稳的感觉，使你在这里，立即在这位漂亮的、柔顺的姑娘身上嗅出了一种不同寻常的东西，嗅出了一个秘密。于是，你好奇心大发，我觉察到，你想从一连串拐弯抹角的、试探性的问题着手，来摸清这个秘密。可是我避开了你：我宁可显得傻里傻气，也不愿对你泄露我的秘密。 我们上楼到你屋里。请原谅，亲爱的，要是我对你说，你不可能明白，这楼道，这楼梯对我来说意味着什么。当时我的心里充满了何等样的陶醉，何等样的迷乱，何等样的疯狂、痛苦、几乎是致命的幸福啊！我现在想起这些，还不禁泪湿衣襟，然而我已经没有眼泪了。你想一想吧，那里的每一件东西都好像渗透了我的激情，每一样东西都是童年时代，我的憧憬的象征：那大门，我在前面等过你千百次的大门；那楼梯，我在那里倾听你的脚步声，并在那儿第一次看见你的楼梯；那窥视孔，通过这个小孔我看你看得神魂颠倒；你房门口铺的小地毯，有一次我曾在上面跪过；那钥匙的响声，每回一听到这声音，我总是从我潜伏的地方猛的一跃而起。我的整个童年，我的全部激情都寄托在这几平米大的空间里了，我的生命就在这里。而现在命运像暴风雨似的降落到我的头上来了，因为一切，一切都如愿以偿了：我和你在一起走，我和你在你的，在我们的房子里走着。你想想吧——这话听起来毫无意思，可我不知道怎么用别的话来说——一直到你房门口为止，一切都是现实，都是一辈子沉闷的、日常的世界，而从那儿起，孩子的仙境，阿拉丁的王国就开始了。你想一想，这房门我曾急不可待地盯过千百回，如今我飘飘然地走了进去，你将会预料到——但仅仅是预料到，永远也不会完全知道，我亲爱的——这转瞬即逝的一分钟从我的生活里带走了什么。 那个晚上，我在你身边整整待了一夜。你可没有想到，在这以前还从来没有一个男人触摸过我，没有一个男人紧贴着或者看见过我的身子哩。但是亲爱的，你又怎么会想到呢，因为我对你毫无反抗，我压制了因羞怯而产生的忸怩，只是为了使你无法猜到我对你的爱情秘密。要是你猜了出来，准会把你吓一大跳的——你喜欢的只是轻松自在，嬉戏玩耍，怡然自得，你害怕干预别人的命运。你喜欢对所有的女人，像蜜蜂采花似的对世界滥施爱情，而不愿作出任何牺牲。假如我现在对你说，亲爱的，我对你委身的时候还是个处女，那么我求求你，不要误解我！我不埋怨你，你并没有引诱我，欺骗我，勾引我——是我，是我自己硬凑到你跟前、投入你的怀抱、栽进自己的命运中去的。我永远，永远不会埋怨你，不，我只有永远感谢你，因为对我说来那一夜是至极的欢乐、闪光的喜悦、飘飘欲仙的幸福。那天夜里我一睁开眼，感到你在我的身边，总是感到奇怪，星星怎么没有在我头上闪烁，因为我真觉得自己到了天上了——不，我从来没有后悔，我亲爱的，从来没有因为那一刻而后悔。我还记得，你睡着了，我听见你的呼吸，贴着你的身子，感到自己挨你那么近，在黑暗中我流出了幸福的泪水。 第二天一大早我就急着要走。我得到店里去，也想在仆人来到之前就走，可不能让他看见。当我穿好衣服站在你面前，你就把我搂在怀里，久久凝视着我。莫非在你心里激荡着某个模糊而遥远的回忆，或者你只是觉得我当时神采飞扬、容貌美丽呢？然后你在我嘴上吻了一下，我轻轻从你手里挣脱，想走掉。这时你问我：“你带几朵花去，好吗？”我说：“好吧。”你就在书桌上的蓝色水晶花瓶里（啊，这只花瓶我是认识的，小时候我曾偷看过一眼）取出四朵洁白的玫瑰给了我。连着几天我都不住地吻着这几朵玫瑰哩。 我们事前约好在另一个晚上见面。我去了，那晚又是那么美妙。你还赐给了我第三夜。后来你就对我说，你要出门了——噢，我从小就恨你的这种旅行——你答应我，一回来就立即通知我。我给了你一个留局待取的地址——我不愿把我的姓名告诉你。我保守着自己的秘密。你又给了我几朵玫瑰作为临别纪念——作为临别纪念。 这两个月里我每天都去向……唉，算了，向你描述这种期待和绝望的极度痛苦干什么呢！我不埋怨你，我爱你，爱的就是这个你：感情炽烈，生性健忘，一见倾心，爱不忠诚。我爱的你这个人就是这个样，只是这个样，你过去一直是这个样，现在还是这个样。你早就回来了，从你亮着灯的窗户我就断定你回来了，你没有给我写信。在我生命的最后时刻，我也没有收到你的一行字，你的一行字，而我却把自己的生命都给了你。我等着，绝望地等着。你没有叫我，没有给我写一行字……没有写一行字…… 我的孩子昨天死了——他也是你的孩子呀！他也是你的孩子，亲爱的，这是那如胶似漆的三夜所凝结的孩子，这一点我向你发誓。人之将死，其言也真，我快踏上黄泉路了，是不会撒谎的。这是我们的孩子，我向你发誓，因为从我委身于你的那一刻起，到这孩子从我肚子里生出来的这一段时间里，没有任何男人接触过我的身子。我的身子任你紧紧贴过之后，我就有了一种神圣的感觉：我怎么能把自己既给你又给别人呢？你是我的一切，而别人只不过是从我生命边上轻轻擦过的路人。他是我们的孩子，亲爱的，是我那专一不二的爱情和你那漫不经心的、毫不在乎的、几乎是无意识的柔情蜜意所凝成的孩子。他是我俩的孩子，我俩的儿子，我俩唯一的孩子。那么你一定要问——也许吓一大跳，也许只是不胜惊愕——那么你一定要问，我的亲爱的，问我在这多年的漫长岁月里，为什么不把这个孩子告诉你，一直到今天他躺在这里，躺在这黑暗里的时候才谈到他，而此刻他已准备去了，永远不再回来了，永远不再回来了！可是我又怎么能告诉你关于孩子的事呢？我这个与你素昧平生的女人，我这个心甘情愿地跟你过了销魂荡魄的三夜，而且毫无反抗，甚至是渴求地向你敞开了自己心怀的陌生女人，对她，你是永远也不会相信的，你永远不会相信，她这么个跟你短暂地萍水相逢的无名女人，会对你这个不忠诚的男人忠贞不渝，你永远也不会毫无疑虑地承认这孩子是你的亲生骨肉！即使你觉得我的话蛮有道理，真假难分，你也不可能消除这种暗暗的怀疑：我很富有，为此你企图把你在另一次风流欢会时种下的这个孩子硬塞给我。这样你就会对我猜疑，你我之间就会产生一片阴影，一片飘浮不定、腼腆的怀疑的阴影。这我不愿意。再说，我了解你，非常了解你，比你对自己了解得还清楚。我知道，你这个人只喜欢爱情中的无忧无虑、轻松自在、游戏玩耍，要是突然间成了父亲，突然间要对一个生命负责，那你一定会感到难堪而棘手的。你一定会觉得，好像我把你拴住了，而你这个人是只有在自由自在的情况下才能呼吸的。因为我把你拴住了，你一定会因此而恨我的——没错，我知道，你会违背你自己清醒的意志而恨我的。也许只有几小时，也许只有短短的几分钟，你会觉得我是个累赘，会恨我——但是我要保持我的自尊心，我要让你这一辈子想起我的时候没有一丝忧虑。我宁可独自承担一切，也不愿让你背上个包袱，我要使自己成为你所钟情过的女人中的独一无二的一个，让你永远怀着爱情和感激来思念她。可是当然，你从来也没有思念过我，你已经把我忘到九霄云外了。 我不埋怨你，我的亲爱的，不，我不埋怨你。如果我的笔下偶或流露出几滴苦痛的话，那就请你原谅我，请你原谅我——我的孩子——我们的孩子死了，就躺在这里影影绰绰的烛光下。我冲上帝攥紧拳头，管他叫凶手，我的心绪阴郁，神志紊乱。请原谅我倾吐我的哀怨，原谅我吧！我知道，你是善良的，内心深处是乐于助人的，你帮助每一个人，就是素昧平生的人有求于你，你也会给予帮助。你的恩惠非常奇特，它对每个人都是敞开的，因此谁都可以自取，两只手能抓多少就取多少，你的恩惠是博大的，是博大无际的，你的恩惠，但是，它是——请原谅我——懒散的。你的恩惠要别人提醒，要人自己去拿。你帮助人要别人叫你，求你，你帮助人是出于害羞，出于软弱，而不是出于快乐。容我坦率地对你说吧，你可以和别人共幸福，而不愿和人共患难。像你这样的人，即使是其中最有良心的人，求他也是很难的。有一次，那时我还是孩子，我从门上的窥视孔里看见有个乞丐按响了你的门铃，你给了他一点钱。还没等他开口向你要，你就迅速给了他，甚至给得很不少，可是你给他的时候心里有点害怕，是慌慌张张递给他的，好把他立即打发走，仿佛你怕看他的眼睛似的。你帮助别人的时候那种忐忑不安、羞羞答答、怕人感激的神态，我永远忘不了。因此我从来也不来求你。当然，我知道，那时即使你还拿不稳这是你的孩子，你也会帮助我的，你也一定会安慰我，给我钱，给我一笔数目相当可观的钱，可是你心里却会悄悄怀着焦躁的情绪，要把这件煞风景的事从你身上推得一干二净。是的，我相信，你甚至要说服我尽早把胎打掉。这是我顶顶害怕的事，因为你所希望的事，我怎么会不去做呢，我又怎么能拒绝你的要求呢！可是这孩子就是我的一切，他也确实是你的。他就是你，但已经不再是那个我无法驾驭、幸福无忧的你了，而是那个永远——我这样认为——给了我的、禁锢在我的身体里、连着我生命的你了。现在我终于把你捉住了，我可以在自己的血管里感到你在生长，感到你的生命在生长，只要我心里忍不住了，我就可以用食品喂你，用乳汁哺你，可以轻轻抚摸你，温柔地吻你。你瞧，亲爱的，因此当我知道，我怀了你的孩子时，我是多么幸福，所以我没有把这事对你说：因为这样，你就再也不会从我身边逃走了。当然，亲爱的，后来的生活也并不全是我原先所想的那种幸福的日子，也有的日子充满了恐惧和烦恼，充满了对人的卑鄙下流的憎恶。我的日子过得很艰难。为了不让我的亲戚发现我怀了孕，并把这事告诉我家里，因此临产前的几个月我不能再到店里去上班了。我不愿向我母亲要钱——我就把身边有的那点首饰卖掉，这样才勉强维持了分娩前那段时间的生活。分娩前一星期，一个洗衣女工从柜子里偷走了我剩下的最后几枚克朗，因此我只得进了一家妇产医院。只有那些身上分文不名的穷人，那些被抛弃、被遗忘的女人在走投无路的时候才到那里去，置身于贫困的社会渣滓之中。这孩子，你的孩子，就是在那里呱呱坠地的。那儿真是叫人活不下去：陌生，陌生，一切都陌生，躺在那儿的人，互相也都是陌生的。大家寂寞孤独，彼此仇视，大家都是被贫困、被同样的痛苦踢进这间沉闷、充满哥罗芳和血腥气、充满叫喊和呻吟的产房里来的。穷人不得不忍受的轻薄，精神上和肉体上的羞辱，在那里我全受过了：我得跟那些娼妓、那些病人挤在一起，她们惯于对有同样命运的病人使坏；我忍受了年轻医生玩世不恭的态度，他们脸上挂着一丝嘲讽的微笑，掀开我这个毫无反抗力的女人的被单，在身上摸来摸去，美其名曰检查；我忍受着女护理人员贪得无厌的私欲——啊，在那里，人的羞耻心被目光钉上了十字架，任凭语言的鞭笞。只有写着你的名字的那块牌子，在那里只有这块东西还是你自己，因为那床上躺着的，只不过是一块抽搐着的、任凭好奇的人东捏西摸的肉，只不过是一个供观赏和研究的对象而已——啊，那些妇女，那些在自己家里为守候着她们的温存爱抚的丈夫生孩子的妇女，她们不懂得举目无亲、不能防卫、像在实验桌上似的把一个孩子生下来是个什么滋味！要是我今天在哪本书里看到“地狱”这个词，我就仍然会不由自主地想到那间塞得满满的、水汽腾腾的，充满了呻吟、狂笑和惨叫的产房，那间宰割羞耻心的屠场，我就是在那儿遭的罪。 请原谅，请原谅我说了这些事。可是我就谈这一次，以后永远、永远不再说了。这些事十一年来我一句也没说过，不久我就将闭口不语，直到无垠的永恒，但是我得叫喊一次，嚷一次：为了这个孩子，我付出了多么昂贵的代价啊！这孩子就是我的幸福，如今他躺在那里，已经停止了呼吸。我已经忘掉了那些时刻，在孩子的笑容和声音里，在他的幸福中早就把它们忘在九霄云外了。但是现在孩子死了，痛苦又潜入了我的心头，这一次，就这一次，我得把它从心里倾吐出来。但是我并不是埋怨你，我只是埋怨上帝，是他让这些痛苦到处狂奔乱闯的。我不埋怨你，我向你发誓。我从来没有对你发过脾气。即使我腹痛得蜷缩起来的时候，即使在大学生触摸般的目光下我羞愧得无地自容的时候，即使在痛苦撕裂我的灵魂的时候，我都没有在上帝面前控告过你。对于那几夜，我从来都没有后悔过，从来没有责备过我对你的爱情，我始终都爱着你，一直为你所给我的那个时刻而祝福。假如由于那些时刻我还得再进一次地狱，而且事先知道我将受的苦，那么我还愿意再进一次，我亲爱的，愿意再进一次，再进一千次！ 我们的孩子昨天死了——你从来没有见过他。这个活泼可爱的小人儿，你的骨肉，从来没有，就连偶然匆匆相遇也没有过，就是擦身走过时也没有扫视过你的目光。有了这个孩子，我就躲了起来，不见你的面，我对你的相思也不那么痛苦了。自从赐给我这个孩子以后，我觉得我爱你爱得没有先前那么狂热了，至少不像先前那样备受爱情的煎熬了。我不愿把自己分开来，分给你和他两个人，所以我就没有把自己的感情倾注给你，而是一古脑儿全部给了这个孩子，因为你是个幸运儿，你的生活和我不沾边，而这孩子却需要我，我得抚养他，我可以吻他，可以搂着他。看样子我从由于想你——我的厄运——而陷入的神思恍惚的状态中解脱出来了，我是由于这个另外的你，真正属于我的这个你而得救的——只有在很少很少的时候，我的感情才会低三下四地再到你的房前去。我只做一件事：在你生日的时候，我每次都送你一束白玫瑰，和当年我们一起过了第一个恩爱之夜以后，你送给我的一模一样。这十来年当中，你心里是否问过自己，这些鲜花是谁送来的？也许你也想到过你从前送过她这样的玫瑰的那个女人？我不知道，我也不想知道你的回答。我只是暗中把玫瑰给你送过去，一年一次，为了唤醒你对那一时刻的回忆——对我来说，这已经足够了。 你从来没有见过他，没有见过我们可怜的孩子——今天我责备自己，我一直对你隐瞒了他的存在，因为你是会爱他的。你从来没有见过他，没有见过这个可怜的男孩，从来没有见过他的微笑，每当他轻轻抬起眼睑，然后用他那聪明的黑眼睛——你的眼睛——向我，向全世界投来一道明亮而欢快的光芒的时候，他就会微笑，你从来没有见过他的微笑！啊，他是多么快活，多么可爱呀，在他身上天真地再现了你全部轻快的性格，在他身上重演了你那敏捷、驰骋的想象力，他可以接连几小时沉迷在他的玩艺儿里，就像你游戏人生一样，然后他就竖着眉毛，一本正经地坐着看书。他越来越像你了，你所特有的那种既有严肃又有戏谑的性格上的两重性，已经明显在他身上滋长起来了。他越是像你，我就越发爱他。他学习成绩很好，说起法文来真像只小喜鹊，他的作业本是全班最干净的，再说他的模样多好看，穿身黑天鹅绒衣服或是穿件白海员衫是多么帅气。无论走到哪里，他都是最雅致漂亮的。在海滨，我跟他一起散步的时候，女人们都停下来，抚摸他那金色的长发；在，他滑雪橇的时候，大家都朝他转过头来啧啧称羡。他是这么漂亮，这么娇嫩，这么惹人爱。去年他进了，穿了制服，身佩短剑，活像个十八世纪的王室侍从——可是现在他除了身上的一件衬衫之外，别无他物了。这可怜的孩子，他躺在这里，嘴唇苍白，双手交叉叠在一起。 也许你要问我，我怎么能够让孩子在奢华的环境中受教育呢，怎么能够让他享受到上流社会光明、快活的生活的呢？亲爱的，我在黑暗中跟你说话，我没有廉耻了，我要告诉你，但你别吓坏了，亲爱的——我卖淫了。我倒不是那种街头野鸡，不是娼妓，但是我卖淫了。我有很阔的朋友，很阔的情人：先是我去找他们的，后来他们就来找我了，因为我非常之美——不知你注意到没有？每一个我向他委身的男人都喜欢我，感谢我，都依恋我，都爱我——只有你不是，只有你不是，我的亲爱的！ 我对你吐露了我卖淫的真情，你会看不起我吗？不会，我知道，你不会看不起我，我知道，你理解这一切，你也将会理解，我只是为了你，为了你的另一个“我”，为了你的孩子才走这一步的。在妇产医院的那间病房里，我就曾经领略过穷困的可怕。我知道，在这个世界上，穷人总是被践踏、被凌辱的，总是牺