Brief van een onbekende

著名小说家R.在山里作了三天令人神清气爽的远足，一大早回到维也纳，在火车站买了一份报纸，目光刚扫过日期，便想起今天是他的生日。第四十一个生日了，他很快想道，这一发现既没让他高兴，也没让他难过。他匆匆翻了翻沙沙作响的报纸，便坐一辆出租汽车回到寓所。仆人禀报说，他不在的这几天有两位客人来访，还有几个电话，随后用托盘把积攒下来的信件送了上来。他漫不经心地看了看这些来件，拆开了几个因寄信人而引起他兴趣的信封；有一封信字迹陌生，看上去又太厚，他便暂且推到一边。这时茶已端了上来，他舒舒服服地靠在扶手椅里，又把报纸和几份印刷品翻了一遍，然后点上一支雪茄，这才伸手去拿那封搁在一旁的信。

When the well-known novelist R. returned to Vienna early one morning from a refreshing three-day excursion into the mountains and bought a newspaper at the station, he had barely glanced at the date before he was reminded that today was his birthday. His forty-first, he quickly reflected, and the realisation neither pleased nor pained him. He leafed hastily through the crackling pages of the newspaper and took a hired motor car to his flat. The manservant reported two visitors and several telephone calls during his absence and brought him the accumulated post on a tray. He looked idly through the letters and tore open a few envelopes whose senders interested him; one letter, addressed in an unfamiliar hand and seemingly too bulky, he pushed aside for the time being. Meanwhile tea had been served; he leaned back comfortably in his armchair, leafed once more through the newspaper and some printed matter; then he lit a cigar and at last reached for the letter he had set aside.

那是大约两打匆匆写成的信纸，出自一个陌生女人之手，字迹凌乱不安，与其说是一封信，不如说是一部手稿。他不由得又摸了摸信封，看看里面是否落下了什么附信。可是信封是空的，和信纸本身一样，既没有寄信人地址，也没有署名。奇怪，他想，又把信拿在手里。“致你，从来不认识我的你”，信的上端这样写着，像是称呼，又像是标题。他惊讶地停了下来：这是写给他的，还是写给一个梦中人的？他的好奇心一下子被唤醒了。于是他开始读信：

It consisted of some two dozen hastily written pages in an unfamiliar, restless woman’s hand, a manuscript rather than a letter. Involuntarily he felt the envelope once more, in case a covering note had been left inside. But the envelope was empty and, like the pages themselves, bore neither a sender’s address nor a signature. Strange, he thought, and took up the letter again. “To you, who never knew me” stood at the top, as a salutation, as a heading. He paused in astonishment: was this meant for him, or for some imagined person? His curiosity was suddenly aroused. And he began to read:

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我的孩子昨天死了——三天三夜，我为这条幼小、娇弱的生命同死神搏斗，流感使他那可怜的、滚烫的身子在高烧中颤抖，我在他床边坐了四十个小时。我把冷毛巾敷在他发烫的额头上，日日夜夜握着他那双不安的小手。第三天晚上，我垮了。我的眼睛再也撑不住，不知不觉就合上了。我在硬椅子上睡了三四个钟头，就在这时，死神把他带走了。现在他躺在那里，这个可爱的、可怜的男孩，躺在他窄小的童床上，和他死去时一模一样；只是人们合上了他的眼睛，他那双聪慧的、乌黑的眼睛，把他的双手交叠在白衬衫上，四支蜡烛在床的四角高高燃着。我不敢朝那边看，不敢动一动，因为蜡烛一摇曳，影子就从他的脸上和紧闭的嘴上掠过，那时就好像他的面容在动，我会以为他没有死，他会重新醒来，用他清脆的声音对我说些孩子气的温柔话。可是我知道，他死了，我不愿再朝那边看，免得再一次心存希望，再一次失望。我知道，我知道，我的孩子昨天死了——如今世上我只有你了，只有你，你对我一无所知，你此刻也许正无忧无虑地玩乐，或是同世间的事物和人们调笑。只有你，你从来不认识我，而我却一直爱着你。

My child died yesterday – for three days and three nights I wrestled with death for this small, tender life; for forty hours I sat at his bedside while influenza shook his poor, burning body with fever. I laid cool cloths on his glowing forehead, I held his restless little hands day and night. On the third evening I collapsed. My eyes could do no more; they closed without my knowing it. For three or four hours I slept on the hard chair, and in the meantime death took him. Now he lies there, my sweet, poor boy, in his narrow little bed, just as he died; they have only closed his eyes, his clever, dark eyes, and folded his hands over his white shirt, and four candles burn tall at the four corners of the bed. I dare not look, I dare not stir, for when the candles flicker, shadows flit across his face and his closed mouth, and then it is as though his features moved, and I could almost believe that he is not dead, that he will wake again and say something tender and childlike to me in his clear voice. But I know it, he is dead; I will not look any more, so as not to hope once again, not to be disappointed once again. I know it, I know it, my child died yesterday – now I have only you left in the world, only you, who know nothing of me, who meanwhile are playing, unsuspecting, or trifling with things and people. Only you, who never knew me and whom I have always loved.