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