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《我的哀伤向谁说》

雪花绕着刚点燃的街灯懒洋洋地飘
薄薄一层盖在
房顶 马背 布帽 肩膀上

车夫弓着背 一身雪
他和他的老马一动不动
似两个幽灵

“去维堡区!驾!”
车夫抬起冻住的睫毛看向今晚第一单生意
军官抖抖衣帽不耐烦地重复
“你听不见吗?走啊!”
车夫和马
伸长脖子
一个使劲挥鞭 一个使劲拉车

“你他妈往哪走呢?!会不会赶车?靠右!靠右!”
车厢里的军官喊道
街对面的马夫和
被马鼻子顶到的行人也都呵斥他

车夫坐立不安
眼睛茫然看向周围
他看着老马 嘴唇蠕动 哽咽
“你说什么?”军官不耐烦
车夫 说 长官 我儿子这周死了
“哦?怎么死的?”
车夫转过身 说 不知道 大概是发烧 医院躺了三天 然后 死了
车夫说 神的旨意吧
“转回去啊!老不死的!好好看路!”
“快点快点,不然明天都到不了”
车夫再次伸长脖子
他几次回头望向那军官
对方已闭了眼
把军官送到了目的地
他把马车停在街边
白雪再次覆盖二者


“去巡警桥,我们仨,二十块!”
二十块其实太少了 不过他无所谓
一毛也好五块也好
只要有人坐车就好
窄小车厢里三个年轻人你推我挤 都想坐下
一轮粗话过后 驼背的被选中要站着
“快走吧!”驼子叨叨道
“哎我头痛,昨天酒馆里我跟韦斯卡
两个人喝了四瓶白兰地”
“真搞不懂你干嘛总爱吹牛”
“对天发誓,不能再真了!”
“得了吧!”
呵呵呵 你们几个真快活 车夫笑道
“你插什么嘴,赶紧点!”驼子骂道
愤怒 欢快 不同的语调渐渐打散了他心中的哀伤
驼子又骂了一句
另外两个人开始聊女人
车夫回头看了看他们
等不到插话的机会
便自顾自地说 这周 我儿子 死了
“最后谁不都会嘛”驼子感叹

“哎兄弟们我实在是站累了 什么时候才到啊”
“你揍赶车的一拳 催他快点呗”
与其说是感觉到被打了
不如说车夫只是听到了敲在自己身上的
咚一声
呵呵呵 活泼的小子们啊 神保佑你们 他笑道
“赶车的你结婚了没?”
我吗?我老婆就在这片土地里咯 哈哈
我儿子死了 我却活着 怪事啊 死亡敲错门了
车夫转过身准备细说儿子的死亡
“终于到啦!”欢呼声

车夫望着三个身影离去
又只剩他了
刚淡去的哀伤比以往更刺痛
车夫的眼跟随行人来来去去
人们看不到他与他的哀愁
明明只要刺破他的心
里面的满腔哀伤能淹没这世界

车夫决定问候这位迎面走来的行人
朋友啊 现在几点了?
“快十点了,你干嘛停这里啊?快走开,碍事!”

车夫往前赶了赶马车
弯下身子 败给哀伤
算了 不说了

我们回去吧
他的老马默默跑起来

屋子里一帮打鼾的人
空气浑浊 堵塞
车夫后悔自己这么早回来

我挣的钱连马都喂不饱
这才是我伤心的原因
一个知道怎么好好工作 能吃饱肚子的人
总会是轻松的

角落里一个年轻车夫睡眼朦胧地把手伸向水盆
渴啦?车夫问道
“嗯”
多喝点吧 我儿子死了 这周 在医院里
年轻人已经重新打起鼾了
如同年轻人渴望喝水 他渴望诉说
儿子马上就去世一周了 他却还没好好和人说过
他想认真聊聊
说说儿子是怎么病的 怎样痛苦的
说说儿子死前的遗言 还有葬礼的过程
车夫的女儿还在乡下 对 他也想谈谈女儿的事
他有很多想说的
他的倾听者应该感叹 抹泪 哀悼
最好还是个女人
虽然她们有点蠢 但她们的话总是很多

去看看马儿吧
他披上衣服走到马棚
他想着麦片 干草 天气
总之一个人时不能想儿子
他可以对别人谈儿子的事
但绝对不能想儿子

你在吃东西吗
马儿亮晶晶的眼看着他
乖 乖 多吃点 吃不起麦片我们就吃干草吧
对啊 我太老了 不适合赶车了
应该儿子来开的 他赶得可好了
车夫沉默了一会 又继续说道
老伙计 我儿子死啦 毫无意义的死啦
假设你有孩子 一匹小马 小马突然死了 你也会难过的对不对

马儿嚼着干草 竖着耳朵
鼻中的热气喷在主人掌心里
车夫把一切说给了它听





————




短篇作者:契诃夫
改编译者:人土土
(中译英)



————



原著可以上网上搜 Misery by Anton Chekhov

这篇呼应狄金森的《I Measure Every Grief I Meet》
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百年后我们肉体沉入大海 灵魂飘去月球

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感谢审核老师!

我还是在此附上原文吧。

Misery - Anton Chekhov

THE TWILIGHT OF evening. Big flakes of wet snow are whirling lazily about the street lamps, which have just been lighted, and lying in a thin soft layer on roofs, horses' backs, shoulders, caps. Iona Potapov, the sledge-driver, is all white like a ghost. He sits on the box without stirring, bent as double as the living body can be bent. If a regular snowdrift fell on him it seems as though even then he would not think it necessary to shake it off.... His little mare is white and motionless too. Her stillness, the angularity of her lines, and the stick-like straightness of her legs make her look like a halfpenny gingerbread horse. She is probably lost in thought. Anyone who has been torn away from the plough, from the familiar gray landscapes, and cast into this slough, full of monstrous lights, of unceasing uproar and hurrying people, is bound to think.

It is a long time since Iona and his nag have budged. They came out of the yard before dinnertime and not a single fare yet. But now the shades of evening are falling on the town. The pale light of the street lamps changes to a vivid color, and the bustle of the street grows noisier.

'Sledge to Vyborgskaya!' Iona hears. 'Sledge!'

Iona starts, and through his snow-plastered eyelashes sees an officer in a military overcoat with a hood over his head.

'To Vyborgskaya,' repeats the officer. 'Are you asleep? To Vyborgskaya!'

In token of assent Iona gives a tug at the reins which sends cakes of snow flying from the horse's back and shoulders. The officer gets into the sledge. The sledge-driver clicks to the horse, cranes his neck like a swan, rises in his seat, and more from habit than necessity brandishes his whip. The mare cranes her neck, too, crooks her stick-like legs, and hesitatingly sets of....

'Where are you shoving, you devil?' Iona immediately hears shouts from the dark mass shifting to and fro before him. 'Where the devil are you going? Keep to the r-right!'

'You don't know how to drive! Keep to the right,' says the officer angrily.

A coachman driving a carriage swears at him; a pedestrian crossing the road and brushing the horse's nose with his shoulder looks at him angrily and shakes the snow off his sleeve. Iona fidgets on the box as though he were sitting on thorns, jerks his elbows, and turns his eyes about like one possessed as though he did not know where he was or why he was there.

'What rascals they all are!' says the officer jocosely. 'They are simply doing their best to run up against you or fall under the horse's feet. They must be doing it on purpose.'

Iona looks as his fare and moves his lips.... Apparently he means to say something, but nothing comes but a sniff.

'What?' inquires the officer.

Iona gives a wry smile, and straining his throat, brings out huskily: 'My son... er... my son died this week, sir.'

'H'm! What did he die of?'

Iona turns his whole body round to his fare, and says:

'Who can tell! It must have been from fever.... He lay three days in the hospital and then he died.... God's will.'

'Turn round, you devil!' comes out of the darkness. 'Have you gone cracked, you old dog? Look where you are going!'

'Drive on! drive on!...' says the officer. 'We shan't get there till to-morrow going on like this. Hurry up!'

The sledge-driver cranes his neck again, rises in his seat, and with heavy grace swings his whip. Several times he looks round at the officer, but the latter keeps his eyes shut and is apparently disinclined to listen. Putting his fare down at Vyborgskaya, Iona stops by a restaurant, and again sits huddled up on the box.... Again the wet snow paints him and his horse white. One hour passes, and then another....

Three young men, two tall and thin, one short and hunchbacked, come up, railing at each other and loudly stamping on the pavement with their goloshes.

'Cabby, to the Police Bridge!' the hunchback cries in a cracked voice. 'The three of us,... twenty kopecks!'

Iona tugs at the reins and clicks to his horse. Twenty kopecks is not a fair price, but he has no thoughts for that. Whether it is a rouble or whether it is five kopecks does not matter to him now so long as he has a fare.... The three young men, shoving each other and using bad language, go up to the sledge, and all three try to sit down at once. The question remains to be settled: Which are to sit down and which one is to stand? After a long altercation, ill-temper, and abuse, they come to the conclusion that the hunchback must stand because he is the shortest.

'Well, drive on,' says the hunchback in his cracked voice, settling himself and breathing down Iona's neck. 'Cut along! What a cap you've got, my friend! You wouldn't find a worse one in all Petersburg....'

'He-he!... he-he!...' laughs Iona. 'It's nothing to boast of!'

'Well, then, nothing to boast of, drive on! Are you going to drive like this all the way? Eh? Shall I give you one in the neck?'

'My head aches,' says one of the tall ones. 'At the Dukmasovs' yesterday Vaska and I drank four bottles of brandy between us.'

'I can't make out why you talk such stuff,' says the other tall one angrily. 'You lie like a brute.'

'Strike me dead, it's the truth!...'

'It's about as true as that a louse coughs.'

'He-he!' grins Iona. 'Me-er-ry gentlemen!'

'Tfoo! the devil take you!' cries the hunchback indignantly. 'Will you get on, you old plague, or won't you? Is that the way to drive? Give her one with the whip. Hang it all, give it her well.'

Iona feels behind his back the jolting person and quivering voice of the hunchback. He hears abuse addressed to him, he sees people, and the feeling of loneliness begins little by little to be less heavy on his heart. The hunchback swears at him, till he chokes over some elaborately whimsical string of epithets and is overpowered by his cough. His tall companions begin talking of a certain Nadyezhda Petrovna. Iona looks round at them. Waiting till there is a brief pause, he looks round once more and says:

'This week... er... my... er... son died!'

'We shall all die...' says the hunchback with a sigh, wiping his lips after coughing. 'Come, drive on! drive on! My friends, I simply cannot stand crawling like this! When will he get us there?'

'Well, you give him a little encouragement... one in the neck!'

'Do you hear, you old plague? I'll make you smart. If one stands on ceremony with fellows like you one may as well walk. Do you hear, you old dragon? Or don't you care a hang what we say?'

And Iona hears rather than feels a slap on the back of his neck.

'He-he!... ' he laughs. 'Merry gentlemen.... God give you health!'

'Cabman, are you married'?' asks one of the tall ones.

'I? He he! Me-er-ry gentlemen. The only wife for me now is the damp earth.... He-ho-ho!....The grave that is!... Here my son's dead and I am alive.... It's a strange thing, death has come in at the wrong door.... Instead of coming for me it went for my son....'

And Iona turns round to tell them how his son died, but at that point the hunchback gives a faint sigh and announces that, thank God! they have arrived at last. After taking his twenty kopecks, Iona gazes for a long while after the revelers, who disappear into a dark entry. Again he is alone and again there is silence for him.... The misery which has been for a brief space eased comes back again and tears his heart more cruelly than ever. With a look of anxiety and suffering Iona's eyes stray restlessly among the crowds moving to and fro on both sides of the street: can he not find among those thousands someone who will listen to him? But the crowds flit by heedless of him and his misery.... His misery is immense, beyond all bounds. If Iona's heart were to burst and his misery to flow out, it would flood the whole world, it seems, but yet it is not seen. It has found a hiding-place in such an insignificant shell that one would not have found it with a candle by daylight....

Iona sees a house-porter with a parcel and makes up his mind to address him.

'What time will it be, friend?' he asks.

'Going on for ten.... Why have you stopped here? Drive on!'

Iona drives a few paces away, bends himself double, and gives himself up to his misery. He feels it is no good to appeal to people. But before five minutes have passed he draws himself up, shakes his head as though he feels a sharp pain, and tugs at the reins.... He can bear it no longer.

'Back to the yard!" he thinks. "To the yard!'

And his little mare, as though she knew his thoughts, falls to trotting. An hour and a half later Iona is sitting by a big dirty stove. On the stove, on the floor, and on the benches are people snoring. The air is full of smells and stuffiness. Iona looks at the sleeping figures, scratches himself, and regrets that he has come home so early....

'I have not earned enough to pay for the oats, even,' he thinks. 'That's why I am so miserable. A man who knows how to do his work,... who has had enough to eat, and whose horse has had enough to eat, is always at ease....'

In one of the corners a young cabman gets up, clears his throat sleepily, and makes for the water-bucket.

'Want a drink?' Iona asks him.

'Seems so.'

'May it do you good.... But my son is dead, mate.... Do you hear? This week in the hospital.... It's a queer business....'

Iona looks to see the effect produced by his words, but he sees nothing. The young man has covered his head over and is already asleep. The old man sighs and scratches himself.... Just as the young man had been thirsty for water, he thirsts for speech. His son will soon have been dead a week, and he has not really talked to anybody yet.... He wants to talk of it properly, with deliberation.... He wants to tell how his son was taken ill, how he suffered, what he said before he died, how he died.... He wants to describe the funeral, and how he went to the hospital to get his son's clothes. He still has his daughter Anisya in the country.... And he wants to talk about her too.... Yes, he has plenty to talk about now. His listener ought to sigh and exclaim and lament.... It would be even better to talk to women. Though they are silly creatures, they blubber at the first word.

'Let's go out and have a look at the mare,' Iona thinks. 'There is always time for sleep.... You'll have sleep enough, no fear....'

He puts on his coat and goes into the stables where his mare is standing. He thinks about oats, about hay, about the weather.... He cannot think about his son when he is alone.... To talk about him with someone is possible, but to think of him and picture him is insufferable anguish....

'Are you munching?' Iona asks his mare, seeing her shining eyes. 'There, munch away, munch away.... Since we have not earned enough for oats, we will eat hay.... Yes,... I have grown too old to drive.... My son ought to be driving, not I.... He was a real cabman.... He ought to have lived....'

Iona is silent for a while, and then he goes on:

'That's how it is, old girl.... Kuzma Ionitch is gone.... He said good-by to me.... He went and died for no reason.... Now, suppose you had a little colt, and you were own mother to that little colt.... And all at once that same little colt went and died.... You'd be sorry, wouldn't you?...'

The little mare munches, listens, and breathes on her master's hands. Iona is carried away and tells her all about it.
百年后我们肉体沉入大海 灵魂飘去月球
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