第4章 Misery 苦恼

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 off...

“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 back at 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, man! 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!”

“Pooh! 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 body 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 dare not 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.

我该向谁诉说我的忧伤？

暮色苍茫。大片大片的湿雪在刚刚点亮的街灯四周缓慢地盘旋，在屋顶上、马背上、人肩上、帽子上落下了又薄又软的一层。车夫姚纳·波塔波夫浑身雪白，像幽灵一样。他坐在驾驶座上一动不动，向前弯着身子，弯到了活人的身体所能弯的最大程度。就是有整整一堆雪落在他身上，好像他也觉得当时没必要把它抖落……他的小母马也浑身雪白，一动不动。它静立着，瘦骨嶙峋，四条腿像棍子一样挺直，这一切使它看上去像半便士就可买到的一块马形姜饼。它也许在沉思。无论是谁，勉强被人从犁上拽开，从熟悉的灰色景象中被拽走，抛到这个充满怪异灯光、不断喧嚣、来去匆匆的人流的泥沼里，都肯定会去想。

姚纳和他的小马很长时间都没有移动了。他们午饭前就出了院子，还没有拉一个乘客。但现在，黄昏的夜色渐渐笼罩了城市。街灯朦胧的光线变成了清晰的色彩，街上的喧闹变得更加嘈杂。

“去维堡区！”姚纳听到有人喊。“雪橇！”

姚纳猛地一惊，透过覆盖着厚厚一层雪的睫毛望去，看到了一个身穿军大衣、头戴兜帽的军官。

“去维堡区！”军官重复道。“你睡着了吗？去维堡区！”

姚纳猛拽了一下缰绳，表示同意，这使雪块纷纷从马的背上和肩上飞落下来。军官坐上雪橇。车夫冲马吆喝了一声，像天鹅那样伸长脖子，在车座上挺起身子。与其说出于需要，不如说出于习惯，他扬起了鞭子。小母马也伸长脖子，弯了弯像棍子一样的腿，犹豫着出发了……

“你往哪里挤，你这魔鬼？”姚纳马上听到黑暗中有人喊，一团黑影在他面前移来移去。“你到底要往哪里走？靠右—右走！”

“你不知道怎么赶车呀！靠右走，”军官生气地说。

一个赶四轮马车的车夫冲他破口大骂；一个行人穿过马路，肩膀擦到了马鼻子，怒气冲冲地看着他，抖落掉了袖子上的雪。姚纳在车座上局促不安，如坐针毡，猛拉胳膊肘，眼睛四顾，就像着了魔的人一样，仿佛不知道自己身处何处，也不知道自己为什么在那里。

“他们都多么混蛋！”军人开玩笑说。“他们简直是在全力撞你或要倒在马蹄下。他们一定是故意这样做的。”

姚纳回头看着乘客，动了动嘴唇……他显然是想说什么，但什么也没有说出来，只是用力吸了口气。

“什么？”军官问道。

姚纳苦笑了一下，竭尽全力清了清嗓子，声音沙哑地说道：“我的儿子……呃……我的儿子这个礼拜死了，先生。”

“嗯！他是得什么病死的？”

姚纳将整个身子转向乘客，说：“谁能说得清啊！一定是因为热病……他在医院里躺了三天，就死了……是上帝的意旨。”

“转过去，你这魔鬼！”黑暗里有人喊道。“你疯了吗？你这老狗，看路！”

“接着赶车！快赶！……”军官说。“照这样走下去，我们明天才能赶到了。赶快！”

车夫再次伸长脖子，坐直身子，沉重而优雅地挥动鞭子。他好几次回头看那个军官，但军官始终闭着眼睛，显然是不愿听。姚纳把乘客送到维堡区后，在一家饭店旁边停了下来，又蜷缩着坐在了车座上……湿雪再次把他和他的马涂成了白色。一个小时过去了，又一个小时过去了……

三个年轻人走过来，两个又高又瘦，一个又矮又驼，互相责骂着，橡胶套鞋响亮地跺着人行道。

“车夫，去警察桥！”驼背声音嘶哑地喊道。“我们三个人……二十戈比！”

姚纳猛拉了一下缰绳，对马吆喝了一声。二十戈比不是公平价格，但他根本没有想这一点。现在，无论是一卢布，还是五戈比，对他都无所谓，只要他有乘客就行了……

三个年轻人互相推挤，骂着粗话，走上雪橇，三个都想坐。这就有一个问题需要解决：哪两个该坐，哪一个该站？经过好一阵的口角、发火、辱骂，他们最后得出结论：驼背必须站着，因为他最矮。

“好啦，赶车，”驼背声音嘶哑地说着，他已站稳脚跟，呼出的气吹到了姚纳的脖子上。“快赶！你戴的帽子真破，伙计！全彼得堡都找不到这破帽……”

“嗬—嗬！……嗬—嗬！……”姚纳笑道。“这没有什么可夸耀的！”

“那好，没什么可夸耀的，就赶车吧！你打算一路就这样赶车吗？呃？要我给你的脖子上来一下吗？”

“我头疼，”一个高个子说。“昨天在杜克马索夫家，我和瓦斯卡两个人喝了四瓶白兰地。”

“我搞不懂你为什么要这样说，”另一个高个子生气地说。“你胡说八道，像畜生一样。”

“打死我，这也是事实！……”

“这要是真的，跳蚤都咳嗽了。”

“嗬-嗬！”姚纳笑道。“先生们真开—心啊！”

“呸！见鬼去吧！”驼背愤怒地叫道。“你赶快不赶快，你这老不死的？你就这样赶车？给它一鞭子！该死的！狠狠给它一鞭子！”

姚纳感到了背后驼背颠簸摇晃的身体和哆嗦的声音。他听着驼背骂他的话，理解了人们，心上的孤独感也渐渐不再那么沉重了。驼背对他骂骂咧咧，煞费苦心地想出了一连串稀奇古怪骂人的话，直说得他连声咳嗽，透不过气来。他那两个高个子同伴开始谈起了一个名叫娜杰日达·彼得罗芙娜的女人。姚纳回头看了一下他们。等他们的谈话出现一个短暂停顿后，他又回过头，说：“这个礼拜……呃……我的……呃……儿子死了！”

“我们都要死的……”驼背咳嗽过后，擦擦嘴，叹了口气说。“得了，赶车吧！赶车吧！伙计们，车子这样爬，我简直受不了！他什么时候才会把我们送到啊？”

“那你给他一点小小的鼓励……给他的脖子来一下！”

“你听见了吗，你这老不死的，我要狠狠揍你一顿。要是跟你这种家伙客气，那还不如走路。你听见了吗？你这老鬼，要么是你一点也不在乎我们说的话？”

紧接着，姚纳与其说感到不如说听到自己脖颈上啪地挨了一下。

“嗬—嗬！……”他笑道。“先生们真会开心……上帝保佑你们健康！”

“车夫，你结婚了吗？”一个高个子问道。

“我？嗬嗬！先生们真会开心。我现在唯一的妻子就是湿土地……嗬—嗬—嗬！……那就是坟墓啊！儿子死了，我还活着……真是怪事啊，死神走错了门……它没来找我，而是去找了我的儿子……”

姚纳转过身要告诉他们他的儿子是怎么死的，但正在这时，驼背无力地叹了口气，说感谢上帝，他们终于到了。姚纳收了二十戈比后，盯着那几个饮酒狂欢者看了好久。他们走进一个漆黑的入口就不见了。

他又成了孤零零一个人，对他来说四周再次陷入了沉寂……暂时减轻的苦恼再次返回，比先前更加残酷地撕扯着他的心。姚纳的眼睛带着忧虑和痛苦的神色，不安地打量着街道两旁来来往往的人群：难道他在那几千人当中就找不到一个愿意听他说话的人吗？但是，人群来去匆匆，没有人理会他和他的苦恼……他的苦恼无限巨大，漫无边际。要是姚纳的心爆裂，他的苦恼流出来，将会把世界统统淹没；但另一方面，他的苦恼好像又看不见，苦恼隐藏在这样一个微不足道的躯壳里，就是白天举着蜡烛也发现不了……

姚纳看到一个提着一只包裹的看门人，决定跟他谈谈。

“快几点了，朋友？”他问。

“快十点了……你为什么停在这里？接着赶啊！”

姚纳把雪橇赶了几步，弯下腰，又陷入了苦恼之中。他感到向人诉说没用。但是，还没过五分钟，他就直起腰，摇了摇头，好像感到一阵剧痛似的，拽了拽缰绳……他再也受不了了。

“回车场去！”他想。“回场去！”

他那小母马好像明白他的想法，开始小跑起来。一个半小时后，姚纳坐在了一个又大又脏的火炉旁边。炉台上、地板上和凳子上的人正在打鼾。空气中充满了沉闷发臭的味道……姚纳看着那些睡着的人，挠挠头，后悔回来得太早了……

“我连买燕麦片的钱都没有挣到啊，”他想。“这就是我如此苦恼的原因。一个人要是有本事……让自己吃饱，让自己的马吃饱，就会始终舒适自在……”

墙角里，一个年轻的车夫坐起来，睡眼惺忪地清了清嗓子，匆匆走向水桶。

“想喝水？”姚纳问他。

“感觉想喝！”

“水也许对你有好处……可我的儿子死了，伙计……你听见了吗？这个礼拜在医院里……这真是一件不舒服的事儿！”

姚纳指望着看到他的话起作用，但他什么也没看见。那个年轻人已经蒙上头睡着了。老人叹了口气，挠挠头……就像那个年轻人想喝水一样，他想说话呀。他的儿子死了快一礼拜了，他还没有真正对任何人说起过……他想恰当地、慎重地谈谈这件事……他想谈谈儿子是怎么得的病、怎么受罪、临死前都说过什么话、又是怎么死的……他想描述一下葬礼的情景，描述一下他是怎么去医院取儿子的衣服的。他在乡下还有个女儿阿尼西娅……他也想谈谈她……是的，他现在有好多话想说啊。他的听众应该叹息、惊叫、哀伤……这对女人们谈谈会更好。尽管她们糊涂，但她们一听就会痛哭流涕。

“咱们出去看看那匹母马吧，”姚纳想。“睡觉总有时间……你会睡够的，别怕……”

他穿上外套，走进马棚，他的站马在那里。他想到了燕麦，想到了干草，想到了天气……他独自一人时，不敢想到儿子啊……和别人谈谈儿子还可以接受，但要去想他、描述他，却是难以忍受的痛苦……

“你在嚼草吗？”姚纳问他的马，看着它闪亮的眼睛。“好了，嚼吧，不停地嚼吧……我们挣的钱不够买燕麦，那就吃干草吧……对了……我岁数大了，赶不动车了……我的儿子应该赶车，不该是我来赶……他是个真正的车夫……他本应该活着……”

姚纳沉默一会儿，然后接着说道：“是这么回事，老伙计……库兹玛·姚内奇不在了……他和我告别了……他无缘无故死了……现在，假如你生了个小马驹，你就是小马驹的亲妈……突然，那个小马驹死了……你会不会难受啊？……”

小母马嚼着，听着，鼻息喷到了主人的手上。

姚纳难以自制，把所有的一切都告诉了它。