《我的哀伤该向谁说》契诃夫短篇小说转诗歌

人土土

引

语言之间的转换已是一道加工手续 体裁的改变更是删除了许多原作者的想法也添加了一些自己的。
这是翻译的禁忌。
然而若是想读原文翻译我想网上一定有的。
我想做的确实就是表达自己的部分想法 当然也因为我很欣赏原文本身，想让更多人看到。这样的改编像是和原作者的亲密接触。

苏联文学一向是厚重的，然而这篇小说充满哀愁，我觉得挺适合诗歌体裁，就大胆一试。

下面附上我读的英文版以及网上找到的中文版
欢迎各位一起探讨！


《我的哀伤该向谁说》
短篇作者：契诃夫
改编译者：人土土

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
他的老马也像他似的一动不动
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
“你是睡着了吗？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
对面的车夫也吼他
被马鼻子顶到的行人怒视着他

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？”
车夫苦笑 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
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
“别废话了，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
“我们最终都会的”驼子感叹道 “哎兄弟们我实在是站累了 到底什么时候到啊”
“你给赶车的来一拳 刺激刺激他呗”
与其说是感觉到驼子的拳头
不如说车夫是听到了敲在自己背上的咚一声
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
车夫的眼跟随着行人来来去去
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，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的 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
他可以对别人谈他的事
但绝对不能想起儿子

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



附上英文原文 （不识俄语 ）

MISERY
by Anton Chekhov

"To whom shall I tell my grief?"


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.



中文版

苦　　恼
                          契柯夫
        ──我向谁去诉说我的烦恼？……
        暮色晦暗。大片的湿雪绕着刚点亮的街灯懒洋洋地飘飞，落在房顶、马背、肩膀、帽子上，积成又软又薄的一层。车夫姚纳•波达波夫周身白色，像个幽灵。他坐在车座上一动也不动，身子往前伛着，伛到了活人的身子所能伛到的最大限度。哪怕有一大堆雪落在他身上，仿佛他也会觉得用不着抖掉似的……他的小母马也一身白，也一动不动。它那呆呆不动的姿势、它那瘦骨嶙峋的身架、它那棍子一样笔直的四条腿，使得它活像拿一个小钱就可以买到的马形蜜糖饼。它大概在想心事吧。不管是谁，只要被人从犁头上硬拉开，从熟悉的灰色景致里硬拉开，硬给丢到这个充满古怪的亮光、不断的喧哗、熙攘的行人的漩涡里，那他就不会不想心事……
姚纳和他的小马有好久没动了。还是在午饭以前，他俩就走出了院子，至今还没拉到一趟生意。可是现在黄昏的暗影笼罩全城了。街灯的黯淡的光已经变得明亮生动，街上的杂乱也热闹多了。
       “车夫，到维堡区去！”姚纳听见有人喊车。“车夫！”
       姚纳猛地哆嗦一下，从粘着雪的睫毛望出去，看见一个军人，穿一件军大衣，头戴一顶兜囊。
      “到维堡区去！”军人又说一遍，“你是睡着了还是怎么的？拉到维堡区去！”
       为了表示同意，姚纳抖了抖缰绳；这样一来，一片片的雪就从马背上和他的肩膀上纷纷掉下来……军人坐上了雪橇。车夫嘬起嘴唇，对那匹马发出啧的一响〔对那匹马发出啧的一响〕这是叫马往前走的表示。跟天鹅那样伸出脖子，在车座上微微挺起身子，与其说是由于需要还不如说是出于习惯地扬起鞭子。那小母马也伸出脖子，弯一弯像棍子一样笔直的腿，迟迟疑疑地走动了……
      “你往哪儿闯啊，鬼东西？”姚纳立刻听见黑暗里有人嚷起来，一团团黑影在他眼前游过来游过去，“你到底是往哪儿走啊？靠右！”
      “你不会赶车！靠右走！”军人生气地说。
      一个赶四轮轿车的车夫朝他咒骂；一个行人穿过马路，肩膀刚好擦着马鼻子，就狠狠地瞪他一眼，抖掉袖子上的雪。姚纳坐在车座上局促不安，仿佛坐在针尖上似的，他向两旁撑开胳臂肘儿，眼珠乱转，就跟有鬼附了体一样，仿佛他不知道自己在哪儿，也不知道为什么在那儿似的。
     “这些家伙真是混蛋！”军人打趣地说，“他们简直是极力跑来撞你，或者扑到马蹄底下去。他们这是预先商量好的。”
      姚纳回头瞧着他的乘客，张开嘴唇……他分明想要说话，可是喉咙里没吐出一个字来，只是哼了一声。
“什么？”军人问。
      姚纳咧开苦笑的嘴，嗓子里用一下劲，这才干哑地说出来：
      “老爷，我的……嗯……我的儿子在这个星期死了。”
      “哦！……他害什么病死的？”
      姚纳掉转整个身子朝着乘客说：
      “谁说得清呢？多半是热病吧……他在医院里躺了三天就死了……上帝的意旨哟。”
      “拐弯呀，鬼东西！”黑暗里有人喊，“瞎了眼还是怎么的，老狗？用眼睛瞧着！”
      “赶车吧，赶车吧……”乘客说，“照这样走下去，明天也到不了啦。快点赶车吧！”
      车夫又伸出脖子，微微挺起身子，笨重而优雅地挥动他的鞭子。他有好几回转过身去看军官，可是军官闭着眼睛，分明不愿意再听了。姚纳把车赶到维堡区，让乘客下车，再把车子赶到一个饭馆的左近停下来，坐在车座上伛下腰，又不动了……湿雪又把他和他的马涂得挺白。一个钟头过去了，又一个钟头过去了……
      三个青年沿着人行道走过来，两个又高又瘦，一个挺矮，驼背；他们互相谩骂，他们的雨鞋踩出一片响声。
      “车夫，上巡警桥去！”驼背用破锣似的声音喊道，“我们三个人……二十个戈比！”
      姚纳抖动缰绳，把嘴唇嘬得啧啧的响。二十个戈比是不公道的，可是他顾不得讲价了。现在，一个卢布也好，五个戈比也好，在他全是一样，只要有人坐车就行……青年们互相推挤着，骂着下流话，拥上雪橇，三个人想一齐坐下来。这就有了需要解决的问题：该哪两个坐着？该哪一个站着呢？经过很久的吵骂、变卦、责难，他们总算得出了结论：该驼背站着，因为他顶矮。
       “好啦，赶车吧！”驼背站稳，用破锣样的声音说，他的呼吸吹着姚纳的后脑壳，“快走！你戴的这是什么帽子呀，老兄！走遍彼得堡，再也找不到比这更糟的了……”
       “嘻嘻！……嘻嘻！……”姚纳笑，“这帽子本来不行啦！”
       “得了，本来不行了，你啊，赶车吧！你就打算一路上都照这样子赶车吗？啊？要我给你一个脖儿拐吗？……”
       “我的脑袋要炸开了……”一个高个子说，“昨天在杜科玛索夫家里，华斯卡和我两个人一共喝了四瓶白兰地。”
       “我真不懂你为什么要胡说！”另一个高个子生气地说，“你跟下流人似的胡说八道。”
       “要是我胡说，让上帝惩罚我！我说的是实在的情形嘛！……”
       “要是这实在，跳蚤咳嗽就也实在。”
       “嘻嘻！”姚纳笑了，“好有兴致的几位老爷！”
       “呸！滚你的！……”驼背愤愤地喊叫，“你到底肯不肯快点走啊，你这老不死的？难道就这样赶车？给它一鞭子！他妈的！快走！结结实实地抽它一鞭子！”
       姚纳感到了背后那驼背的扭动的身子和颤抖的声音。他听着骂他的话，看着这几个人，孤单的感觉就渐渐从他的胸中消散了。驼背一股劲儿地骂他，诌出一长串稀奇古怪的骂人话，直说得透不过气来，连连咳嗽。那两个高个子开始讲到一个名叫娜节日达•彼得罗芙娜的女人。姚纳不住地回头看他们。等到他们的谈话有了一个短短的停顿，他又回过头去，叽叽咕咕地说：
       “这个星期我……嗯……我的儿子死了！”
       “大家都要死的……”驼背咳了一阵，擦擦嘴唇，叹口气说，“算了，赶车吧！赶车吧！诸位先生啊，车子照这么爬，我简直受不得啦！什么时候他才会把我们拉到啊？”
       “那么，你给他一点小小的鼓励也好……给他一个脖儿拐！”
       “你听见没有，你这老不死的？我要给你一个脖儿拐啦！要是跟你们这班人讲客气，那还不如索性走路的好！……听见没有，你这条老龙，神话中的一条怪龙的名字，住在深山里。这里用做骂人的话。？莫非我们说的话你不在心上吗？”
       于是姚纳，与其说是觉得，不如说是听见脖子后面拍的一响。
       “嘻嘻！……”他笑，“好有兴致的几位老爷……求上帝保佑你们！”
       “赶车的，你结过婚没有？”一个高个子问。
       “我？嘻嘻！……好有兴致的老爷！现在我那个老婆成了烂泥地……嘻嘻嘻！……那就是，在坟里头啦！这会 儿，我儿子也死了，我却活着……真是怪事，死神认错了门啦……它没来找我，却去找了我的儿子……”
姚纳回转身去，想说一说他儿子是怎么死的，可是这当儿驼背轻松地吁一口气，说是谢天谢地，他们总算到了。姚纳收下二十个戈比，对着那几个玩乐的客人的后影瞧了好半天，他们走进一个漆黑的门口，不见了。他又孤单了，寂静又向他侵袭过来……苦恼，刚淡忘了不久，现在又回来了，更为有力地撕扯他的胸膛。姚纳的眼睛焦灼而痛苦地打量大街两边川流不息的人群：难道在那成千上万的人当中，连一个愿意听他讲话的人都找不到吗？人群匆匆地来去，没人理会他和他的苦恼……那苦恼是浩大的，无边无际。要是姚纳的胸裂开，苦恼滚滚地流出来的话，那苦恼仿佛会淹没全世界似的，可是话虽如此，那苦恼偏偏没人看见。那份苦恼竟包藏在这么一个渺小的躯壳里，哪怕在大白天举着火把去找也找不到……



     姚纳看见一个看门人提着一个袋子，就下决心跟他攀谈一下。
       “现在什么时候啦，朋友？”他问。
       “快到十点了……你停在这儿做什么？把车子赶开！”
       姚纳把雪橇赶到几步以外，伛下腰，任凭苦恼来折磨他……他觉得向别人诉说也没有用了。可是还没过上五分钟，他就挺起腰板，摇着头，仿佛感到一阵剧烈的疼痛似的；他拉了拉缰绳……他受不住了。
“回院子里去！”他想，“回院子里去！”
       他那小母马仿佛领会了他的想头似的，踩着小快步跑起来。过了一个半钟头，姚纳已经坐在一个又大又脏的火炉旁边了。炉台上、地板上、凳子上，全睡得有人，正在打鼾。空气又臭又闷……姚纳看一看那些睡熟的人，搔一搔自己的身子，后悔回来得太早了……
       “其实我连买燕麦的钱还没挣到呢，”他想，“这就是为什么我会这么苦恼的缘故了。一个人，要是会料理自己的事……让自己吃得饱饱的，自己的马也吃得饱饱的，那他就会永远心平气和……”
       墙角上，有一个年轻的车夫爬起来，睡意朦胧地嗽了嗽喉咙，走到水桶那儿去。
       “想喝水啦？”姚纳问他。
       “是啊，想喝水！”
       “那就喝吧。……喝点水，身体好……可是，老弟，我的儿子死啦……听见没有？这个星期在医院里死的……真是怪事！”
       姚纳看一看他的话生了什么影响，可是什么影响也没看见。那年轻小伙子已经盖上被子蒙着头，睡着了。老头儿叹口气，搔搔自己的身子……如同那青年想喝水似的，他想说话。他儿子去世快满一个星期了，他却至今还没跟别人好好地谈过这件事……应当有条有理、有声有色地讲一讲……应当讲一讲他儿子怎样得的病，怎样受苦，临死以前说过些什么话，怎样去世的……他要描摹一下儿子怎样下葬，后来他怎样上医院里去取死人的衣服。他还有个女儿阿尼霞住在乡下……他也想谈一谈她……他现在可以讲的话还会少吗？听讲的人应该哀伤，叹息，惋惜……倒还是跟娘们儿谈一谈的好。她们虽是些蠢东西，不过听不上两句话就会呜呜地哭起来。
       “出去看看马吧，”姚纳想，“有的是工夫睡觉……总归睡得够的，不用担心……”
       他穿上大衣，走进马棚，他的马在那儿站着。他想到燕麦，想到干草，想到天气……他孤单单一个人的时候，不敢想儿子……对别人谈一谈儿子倒还可以，至于想他，描出他的模样，那是会可怕得叫人受不了的……
       “你在嚼草吗？”姚纳问他的马，看见它亮晶晶的眼睛，“好的，嚼吧，嚼吧……我们挣的钱既然不够吃燕麦，那就吃干草吧……对了……我呢，岁数大了，赶车不行啦……应当由我儿子来赶车才对，不该由我来赶了……他可是个地道的马车夫……要是他活着才好……”
       姚纳沉默一会儿，接着说：
       “是这么回事，小母马……库司玛？姚尼奇下世了……他跟我说了再会……他一下子就无缘无故死了……哪，打个比方，你生了个小崽子，你就是那小崽子的亲妈了……突然间，比方说，那小崽子跟你告别，死了……你不是要伤心吗？……”
       小母马嚼着干草，听着，闻闻主人的手……
       姚纳讲得有了劲，就把心里的话统统讲给它听了……



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感谢阅读~

叶如钢

很有意思。