The famous novelist R. returned to Vienna early this morning after a three-day excursion into the mountains and bought a newspaper at the railway station.He glanced at the date and suddenly remembered that today was his birthday. "Forty-one years old", the thought flashed through his mind quickly, and he was neither happy nor sad.He flipped through the pages of the rustling newspaper casually, and then returned to his apartment in a car.The servant told him that during his absence there had been two visitors, several telephone calls, and a tray to hand him the collected mail.He glanced lazily, and the sender of several letters aroused his interest, so he opened the envelope to have a look; there was a letter with unfamiliar handwriting, which felt thick to the touch, so he put it aside first.Now that the servant brought tea, he sank back comfortably in the armchair, flipped through the newspaper and some printed matter once more; then lit a cigar, and then reached for the letter which had been laid aside. bring here.

The letter, about twenty or thirty pages long, was written in a strange woman's handwriting, so scribbled that it was more of a manuscript than a letter.He couldn't help touching the envelope again to see if there were any attachments inside, but the envelope was empty.Neither the envelope nor the paper was addressed to the sender, not even a signature.He thought to himself: "That's weird", and took the letter in his hand to read again. "You, you who have never known me!" This sentence is written at the top, which can be regarded as a title, as a title.He paused in astonishment; did it refer to him, or to an imaginary person?His curiosity was suddenly piqued.He began to read:

My son died yesterday - for three days and three nights I wrestled with death for this little delicate life, I sat at his bedside for forty hours as the flu hit him and he With a high fever, the poor body was burning hot.I put a cold towel on his hot forehead and held his twitching little hands in mine day and night.By the third night I broke down myself.My eyes couldn't take it anymore, and without knowing it, my lids closed.I slept three or four hours in a hard chair, when death snatched him away.The tender, poor child lies there now, in his narrow crib, as when one dies; his eyes, his wise black eyes, have just been closed, his His hands were also folded and placed on top of his white shirt, and four candles were burning high at the four corners of the bed.I didn't dare to look at the bed, and I didn't dare to move, because as soon as the candlelight flickered, the shadow would pass over his face and his tightly closed mouth, so it looked as if the muscles in his face were moving. , I will think that he is not dead, he will wake up, and he will use his clear voice to say some childish and gentle words to me.But I know that he is dead, and I don't want to look on the bed, lest I have hope again, lest I be disappointed again.I know, I know, my son died yesterday--and now I have only you in this world, only you, and you know nothing about me, and you are having fun, knowing nothing, or are Laugh and flirt with people.I only have you, you have never known me, but I have always loved you.

I took the fifth candle and put it on the table from which I am writing to you.How could I guard my dead child alone and not pour out my heartfelt feelings to others?And in this terrible hour, who am I to tell if I don't tell you?You used to be everything to me!Maybe I can't explain clearly to you, maybe you don't understand what I mean - my head is completely numb now, my temples are twitching like someone is hitting with a mallet, and my limbs are aching .I think I'm running a fever, maybe I've got the flu too, and it's going door to door right now, and it'd be nice if I had the flu, and I'd go with my kids and save myself the rest of my life.Sometimes it's dark before my eyes, maybe I can't even write this letter--but I must try my best, cheer up, and talk to you just once, just this once, you, my dear, never You who never knew me!

I want to talk to you alone, and tell you everything for the first time; I want you to know that my whole life has been yours, and that you have never known anything about mine.But I will let you know my secret only when I am dead, and you no longer have to answer me, and the disease that is making my limbs hot and cold at this moment really means that my life is coming to an end.If I have to live, I will tear up this letter, and I will remain silent, as I have always been silent.But if you hold this letter in your hand, you know that a dead woman is here to tell you about her life, about her life, from the time she was conscious until the last moment of her life , her life is always yours.Do not be afraid of what I say; a dead person asks nothing, she asks neither love nor sympathy nor consolation.I have only one request of you, and that is that you believe what I tell you from my aching heart, which confides its secrets to you.Believe what I say, and this is the only request I ask of you: A man cannot lie when his only son is dead.

I am going to tell you my whole life, which really began the day I met you.Before that, my life was just a gloomy mess, and I never think of it again, it was like a cellar, full of dusty people and things, with cobwebs on it, For these, my heart has long been very indifferent.When you came into my life, I was thirteen years old, and I lived in the house you live in now, and you are in this house right now, with this letter in your hand, my last breath.I live on the same floor as you, right across from the door.Surely you will never think of us again, of the shabby accountant's widow (who was always in mourning) and her small, half-grown daughter--we lived reclusively, quietly, as if immersed in our In the poor atmosphere of the petty bourgeoisie, you may never have heard our names, because there is no sign on our door, no one visits us, no one asks us.Besides, it has been a long time, fifteen or sixteen years, you must know nothing, my dear.But I, ah, I recall every detail with ecstasy, I remember vividly the day when I first heard about you, when I first saw you, no, that hour, like It happened today, how could I not remember it?Because that's when the world began for me.Be patient, my dear, when I start from the beginning, I beg you, listen to me talk about myself for a quarter of an hour, don't get tired, I have loved you all my life and I have never tired of it!

Before you moved in, the people who lived in your house were ugly, fierce and quarrelsome.They themselves were terribly poor, but they hated the poverty of their neighbours, and they hated us because we didn't want to share their shabby proletarian roughness.The husband in this family is a drunkard who beats his wife all the time; we often wake up in the middle of the night to the sound of chairs falling and plates breaking, and once the wife was beaten to the top of the stairs with her hair disheveled. The drunk yelled loudly behind her, and finally everyone opened the door and threatened him to call the police.My mother avoided all association with the family from the beginning, forbidding me to play with the children, and they found fault with me at every opportunity.If they met me in the street, they would yell obscenities behind me, and once they threw a hard snowball at me until my forehead bled.All the people in the building hated the family with a common instinct. Suddenly something happened one day. I remember that the man was arrested for stealing, and the wife had to move out with her few possessions. We all breathed a sigh of relief.A note for rent was pasted on the gate for a few days, then it was taken off again, and word spread quickly from the porter that a writer, a single quiet gentleman, had rented the apartment.That was the first time I heard your name.

A few days later, painters, plasterers, cleaners, and paper makers came to clean and tidy up the house, which had been occupied by the original family, and it was extremely dirty.So in the building there was only a sound of knocking, mopping the floor, and scraping the wall, but my mother was very satisfied. She said that this way, the annoying family on the opposite side will never be our neighbor again. .And you yourself, I haven't splashed on your face even when I moved; the whole move was taken care of by your servant, a little serious, gray-haired manservant, always soft-spoken. He directed all the work calmly and calmly with a condescending air.He made a deep impression on us all, firstly because the valet was a very new thing in our suburban house, and secondly because he was extremely polite to everyone, but also Don't lower your status because of this, confuse yourself with ordinary servants, and chat with them intimately.From the first day he greeted my mother with respect, as a lady of distinction; even to me, a little girl, he was always kind and serious.When he mentions your name, he always has an air of respect, a special kind of respect -- others can immediately see that the relationship between him and you is far beyond the relationship that ordinary masters and servants only see.How much I love him for that!This good old John, though I secretly envy him, can always be at your side, and always serve you.

I'll tell you all this, my dear, and babble on and on about the trivial and almost ridiculous things of the past, so that you can understand that from the very beginning you have always had a crush on me, a shy, shy girl. Such enormous power.Before you yourself entered my life, there was an aura around you, an air of richness, strangeness, mystery -- we who live in this suburban house have been waiting for you with great curiosity and impatience Move in (people who live in a small world are always very curious about the new things that happened at the door).One afternoon, when I came home from school, I saw the van parked in front of the building. At this time, my curiosity about you was greatly aroused.Most of the furniture, all heavy and bulky pieces, had already been carried upstairs by the porters; there were also some odd and small pieces being carried up.I stood at the door and looked at everything in amazement, because all your things are very strange, so unique, I have never seen before; there are Indian Buddha statues, Italian sculptures, bright and dazzling oil paintings, and finally moved Here are a lot of books, they are very beautiful. I never thought that the books would be so beautiful.These books are piled up by the door, and your servant picks them up and dusts each one with a duster.Curious, I walked softly around the pile of books that were getting higher and higher, and looked at them as I walked. Your servant neither drove me away nor encouraged me to approach; so I dare not touch a book. , although I really want to touch the soft leather covers of some books.I just timidly looked at the titles of the books from the side: there were French books, English books, and some books in a language I didn't know.I thought, I'm going to just watch it for hours, but my mother called me back.

I couldn't help thinking about you all night, and I didn't know you then.I myself have only a dozen books, all very cheap, and covered with tattered cardboard, and I love them so much that I read them over and over again.At this time, I wondered, this person has so many beautiful books, he has read all of them, he also knows so many words, so rich, and at the same time so knowledgeable, what should this person look like?The thought of so many books fills me with an unearthly sense of awe.I tried to imagine what you would look like: you were an old gentleman with glasses and a long white beard, just like our geography teacher, the only difference was that you were kinder, more beautiful, more gentle--I don't know , Why did I think with certainty at that time that you must be beautiful, because I imagined that you were still an old man.That night, before I knew you, I dreamed of you for the first time.

You moved in the next day, but despite all my scouting, I couldn't meet you--which only made me more curious.Finally, on the third day, I didn't see you.I was surprised and shocked by the fact that you looked so different from what I had imagined, and had nothing to do with my childish imagining of an old man.I dreamed of an amiable old man wearing glasses, but as soon as you appeared--it turns out that your appearance is exactly the same as yours today, and it turns out that you have never changed, even though the years are slowly passing by on you !You are wearing a charming sportswear, and the waiters who go upstairs always take two steps at a time, with light steps, lively and sensitive, and you look very chic.You held the hat in your hand, so I saw at a glance your radiant, expressive face, with your lustrous youthful hair, and my surprise is indescribable: indeed, you are so young, beautiful, and Tall, dexterous and handsome, I was really taken aback.Isn't it strange that you said that, at the very first moment, I could clearly feel the uniqueness of you, not only me, but everyone who knew you had an unexpected feeling for you I feel again and again: You are a person with a dual personality, not only a frivolous, playful, enthusiastic young man who likes adventures, but also an extremely serious, serious, responsible, extremely knowledgeable and knowledgeable person in the art you are engaged in. the elders.Unconsciously, I felt at the time the impression everyone got on you later: that you lived a double life, with a bright side that was open to the outside world, and a very dark side that was only you People know—this deepest duality is the secret of your life. I, a thirteen-year-old girl, felt this duality in you at first sight, and was attracted by you like a demon.