书城外语那些无法拒绝的名篇
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第34章 一个陌生女人的来信 (1)

Letter from an Unknown Woman

《一个陌生女人的来信》是一个对爱情忠贞不贰

的痴情少女的绝笔。一个十三岁的少女喜欢上了她的

邻居——一个青年作家,而她由于母亲的再婚不得不

离开这里。五年后她重返维也纳,每天到他窗下等候,

一心只想委身于他。直到他俩的爱情结晶得病夭折,

她自己也身患重病即将辞世,才写下这封没有具名的

长信。

[ 奥地利] 斯蒂芬·茨威格 (Stephan Iweig)

You took me in your arms. Again I stayed with you for the

whole of one glorious night. But even then you did not recognise

me. While I thrilled to your caresses,it was plain to me that

your passion knew no difference between a loving mistress

and a meretrix,that your spendthrift affections were wholly

concentrated in their own expression. To me,the stranger

picked up at a dancing-hall,you were at once affectionate and

courteous. You would not treat me lightly,and yet you were

full of an enthralling ardour. Dizzy with the old happiness,I was

again aware of the two-sidedness of your nature,of that strange

mingling of intellectual passion with sensual,which had already

enslaved me to you in my childhood. In no other man have I

ever known such complete surrender to the sweetness of the

moment. No other has for the time being given himself so utterly

as did you who,when the hour was past,were to relapse into an

interminable and almost inhuman forgetfulness. But I,too,forgot

myself. Who was I,lying in the darkness beside you? Was I the

impassioned child of former days ;was I the mother of your son ;

was I a stranger? Everything in this wonderful night was at one

and the same time entrancingly familiar and entrancingly new. I

prayed that the joy might last forever.

But morning came. It was late when we rose,and you asked

me to stay to breakfast. Over the tea,which an unseen hand had

discreetly served in the dining-room,we talked quietly. As of

old,you displayed a cordial frankness ;and,as of old,there were

no tactless questions,there was no curiosity about myself. You

did not ask my name,nor where I lived. To you I was,as before,

a casual adventure,a nameless woman,an ardent hour which

leaves no trace when it is over. You told me that you were about

to start on a long journey,that you were going to spend two or

three months in Northern Africa. The words broke in upon my

happiness like a knell:“Past,past,past and forgotten!”I longed

to throw myself at your feet,crying,“Take me with you,that you

may at length came to know me,at length after all these years!”

But I was timid,cowardly,slavish,weak. All I could say was,“What

a pity.”You looked at me with a smile,“Are you really sorry?”

For a moment I was as if frenzied. I stood up and looked

at you fixedly. Then I said,“The man I love has always gone on

a journey.”I looked you straight in the eyes.“Now,now,”I

thought,“now he will recognise me!”You only smiled,and said

consolingly,“One comes back after a time.”I answered,“Yes,

one comes back,but one has forgotten by then.”

I must have spoken with strong feeling,for my tone moved

you. You,too,rose,and looked at me wonderingly and tenderly.

You put your hands on my shoulders,“Good things are not

forgotten,and I shall not forget you.”Your eyes studied me

attentively,as if you wished to form an enduring image of me in

your mind. When I felt this penetrating glance,this exploration

of my whole being,I could not but fancy that the spell of your

blindness would at last be broken.“He will recognise me! He will

recognise me!”My soul trembled with expectation.

But you did not recognise me. No,you did not recognise

me. Never had I been more of a stranger to you than I was at that

moment,for had it been otherwise you could not possibly have

done what you did a few minutes later. You had kissed me again,

had kissed me passionately. My hair had been ruffled,and I had

to tidy it once more. Standing at the glass,I saw in it — and as

I saw,I was overcome with shame and horror — that you were

surreptitiously slipping a couple of banknotes into my muff. I could

hardly refrain from crying out ;I could hardly refrain from slapping

your face. You were paying me for the night I had spent with you,

me who had loved you since childhood,me the mother of your

son. To you I was only a prostitute picked up at a dancing-hall. It

was not enough that you should forget me ;you had to pay me,

and to debase me by doing so.

I hastily gathered up my belongings,that I might escape as

quickly as possible ;the pain was too great. I looked round for

my hat. There it was,on the writing-table,beside the vase with

the white roses,my roses. I had an irresistible desire to make a

last effort to awaken your memory.“Will you give me one of your

white roses?”“Of course,”you answered,lifting them all out

of the vase.“But perhaps they were given you by a woman,a