The complete text of the longer passages linked from the reading page — the Chinese translation I read, with the English (the original where the work was written in English, otherwise a published translation).
这是读书页中较长篇段的完整正文——我所读的中译本，附英文（英语原著为原文，其余为出版译文）。
可是有谁——如今还有谁，会年年在你生日那天给你寄去白玫瑰花呢？唉，花瓶将要空了，那一年一度绕着你轻拂的、我生命的小小气息、小小的一缕呼吸，也将随风消散！亲爱的，你听我说，我求你……这是我请求你做的第一件、也是最后一件事……看在我的份上，请你在每年生日那天——那本是一个让人想起自己的日子——买些玫瑰，插进那只花瓶里。照我说的去做吧，亲爱的，就像别人一年一度为一位挚爱的死人做一台弥撒一样。我已经不相信什么天主，我只相信你，我只爱你，我只愿在你身上继续活下一天……唉，哪怕就这一天，静静地、静静地，就像我曾在你身边活过的那样……我求你，去做吧，亲爱的……这是我对你的第一个请求，也是最后一个……我谢谢你……我爱你，我爱你……永别了……
＊
他用颤抖的双手放下了这封信。随后他久久地沉思。有一段模糊的记忆浮了上来——关于一个邻家的孩子，一个少女，一个夜总会里的女人，然而那记忆晦暗而纷乱，就像一块石子在流水深处闪烁、无形地颤动。影子涌来又退去，却始终聚不成一个画面。他感到种种情感的记忆，却终究记不起什么。他仿佛觉得，自己曾梦见过所有这些身影，常常地、深深地梦见过，然而也不过是梦见罢了。这时，他的目光落在面前书桌上那只蓝色的花瓶上。它空着，这是多年来他生日这天第一次空着。他悚然一惊：他觉得仿佛有一扇看不见的门突然被推开了，一股冰冷的穿堂风从另一个世界吹进了他这宁静的房间。他感到了一个人的死，也感到了不朽的爱：他的心灵深处有什么东西迸裂开来，他想起那个看不见的女人，她飘忽不定，又热烈奔放，如一阵遥远的乐声。
But who — who will send you white roses now, every year on your birthday? Ah, the vase will stand empty; that little breath, that little waft of my life which once a year drifted about you, it too will fade away! Beloved, listen, I beg you — it is my first and last request to you — do it for my sake: on every birthday, for that is a day when one thinks of oneself, take roses and put them in the vase. Do it, beloved, do it just as others, once a year, have a mass said for a dear one who has died. But I no longer believe in God, and want no mass; I believe only in you, I love only you, and only in you will I go on living — ah, only one day in the year, quite, quite silently, as I lived beside you. I beg you, do it, beloved — it is my first request to you, and my last — I thank you — I love you, I love you — farewell.
＊
He laid the letter down from his trembling hands. Then he pondered a long while. Confusedly some memory rose up — of a neighbour's child, of a girl, of a woman in a night-café; but a memory dim and confused, as a stone shimmers and quivers formlessly at the bottom of running water. Shadows streamed toward him and away, but no image formed. He felt memories of feeling, and yet did not remember. It seemed to him as though he had dreamed of all these figures, often and deeply dreamed, and yet only dreamed. Then his glance fell on the blue vase before him on the writing-desk. It was empty, for the first time in years empty on his birthday. He started: it seemed to him as if a door had suddenly, invisibly sprung open, and a cold draught from another world were streaming into his tranquil room. He sensed a death, and sensed undying love: something broke open within his soul, and he thought of the invisible woman, bodiless and passionate, as of distant music.
第二次号角响了，等到第三遍号声一响，按照约定，双方就要交手了。现在把他们隔开的只有一小块撒上灰的地方，就在那儿的上空，死神像一头不祥的鸟儿似的盘旋着。第三遍号角还没响，罗特吉爱走到廊柱当中公爵一家人跟前，昂起了他那戴着钢盔的头，扯高了嗓门大嚷起来，回廊的各个角落里都听得见：
“我请天主，您、尊贵的殿下，和这里的整个骑士界作为见证，对于即将流出的鲜血，我是无罪的。”
人们听了他这番话，心里又紧张起来了，因为这个十字军骑士那样自信会得胜。但是心地单纯的兹皮希科却转向他的捷克侍从，说道：
“那个条顿人在自吹自擂，真使人恶心；这种话最好还是等我死了再说，我现在还活着呢。正好那个吹牛皮的人头盔上还插着一簇孔雀毛，当初我起过誓，要拿他们三簇孔雀毛，后来我又发誓要拿双手之数。愿天主准许我兑现！”
“爵爷……”捷克人一边说，一边弯下身子，双手从雪地上捧起一撮灰，免得斧柄在手中打滑：“也许基督会许可我一下子就打发掉那个下流的普鲁士人，那时我即使不能来打败这个条顿人，至少也可以把这个斧柄插在他双膝中间，叫他来个倒栽葱。”
“你别那么干！”兹皮希科连忙嚷道：“那只会使我和你自己丢脸。”
就在这时候，吹起了第三遍号角。两个侍从一听见这声号角，便又快又猛地互扑过去，倒是两个骑士慢慢吞吞，从容不迫，既得体又庄重地来打第一个回合。
人们不大注意这两个侍从，不过那些有经验的人和仆役却一看就知道哈拉伐这一边占有多大优势。那个日耳曼人拿的是较重的斧头，那只盾又很笨重。露在盾下的那两条腿倒是很长，只是远不如这个捷克人那双强健而扎得很紧的腿来得既结实又灵活。
而且哈拉伐来势汹汹地逼近过来，使得万·克里斯特几乎一开始就不得不步步后退。大家马上看出了这个形势：眼看一方很快就要像风暴一样猛袭对方，像闪电一样猛打急攻，对方自知死在临头，看来只能处处招架，尽可能延迟那个可怕时刻的到来。
事实果然如此。那个向来只在迫不得已的情况下才跟人家交手的牛皮大王，这下子才认识到，这个可怕的巨人似的对手，他早该避之唯恐不及，真不该随随便便说出那番大言不惭的话来跟人家交战；他现在才感到，对手的每一下都能砍死一头牛，他完全丧失勇气了。他几乎忘记了光是用后来挡住这些斫击是不够的，还必须还击。他看到那把斧子像闪电一样在他头上闪过，每一下闪光他都认为是致命的最后一击。他举着盾牌，不由自主地吓得一下一下闭住眼睛，担心这对眼睛闭上了是否还能张得开。他自己简直没有主动斫击过，而且根本不敢指望能够斫击到对手，只是把盾牌举得高了又高，遮着头顶，护住脑袋。
终于他感到乏力了，可是那个捷克人的斫击却愈来愈有力。正如一棵高耸的松树，在农夫的斫击之下落下大块大块的碎片来一样，那个日耳曼侍从的甲胄也在这个捷克人的斫劈之下剥落纷飞。盾的上半截边缘被斫弯了，砸碎了，右肩上的铠甲连同给斫下来的鲜血淋漓的皮带一起落到地上。万·克里斯特的头发都倒竖了起来——他感到恐怖万分。他用尽全力在捷克人盾上又析了一两次；最后，他自知无法对抗敌手的可怕膂力，觉得只有出奇制胜，或可自救，于是他突然用尽全身的力量，连同全身甲胄的重量一古脑儿向哈拉伐的两条腿扑过去。双方都摔倒在地上，彼此想制服对方，在雪地上打滚挣扎。但是不一会儿，捷克人就把敌手压在下面了；他花了没多少工夫，就制服了万·克里斯特的垂死挣扎；最后他用膝盖压住他肚皮上的铁甲，从腰带后面拨出一把短短的、三刃“米萃里考地阿”。
“饶命！”万·克里斯特无力地喘着气说，一面抬起眼睛望着捷克人的眼睛。
捷克人却不答话，把整个身子压在他身上，以便够到他的脖子，一剑捅下去，刺穿了那条缚在下巴下面的头盔皮带，在这个倒霉人的喉咙上连刺两刀，刀刃直插进胸口正中央。
万·克里斯特的眼珠顿时在眼窝里陷下去，两手两脚在雪地上乱扑，仿佛要扑掉雪地里的灰似的，过了一会儿就僵硬地躺在那儿一动不动了，只有那猩红的、布满着泡沫的嘴唇还在喘息，全身都浸在血泊里。
捷克人站了起来，把“米萃里考地阿”在日耳曼人的衣服上抹了一抹，然后竖起斧头，身子倚着斧柄，专心望着他的主人和罗特吉爱法师那场更费劲、更顽强的战斗。
西方的骑士们早已过惯舒适和奢侈的生活，而小波兰、大波兰以至玛佐夫舍的贵族们，却依然过着严峻的、吃苦耐劳的生活，因此甚至外国人和敌人都不能不佩服他们的体力和那种经受得起长期或短期的一切艰难困苦的精神。现在又一次获得了证明：兹皮希科的体力之胜过条顿人，正如他的扈从胜过万·克里斯特，虽然人们也看到这个青年在骑士素养方面比他的敌手要逊色一些。
说起来，兹皮希科的运气倒算不坏，因为他选的是斧头决斗，用这种武器不同于击剑。如果用长短剑决斗，那就得懂点儿斫、刺和挡击的技术，那就会让这个日耳曼人占很大优势。话虽如此，兹皮希科和观众们，都从罗特吉爱的动作和使用盾牌的本领上看出这是一个经验丰富而不可等闲视之的敌手，显然不是第一次作这种决战的。兹皮希科每次用斧斫过来，罗特吉爱就用盾牌来挡，而当兹皮希科的斧头猛力斫击在盾牌上的时候，他又轻轻把盾牌往后一缩，这样一来，即使是最有力的斫击，也就失去了作用；既不能劈开、也不能击碎盾牌的光滑的表面。罗特吉爱时而后退，时而进攻，动作安详却又快得叫人无法看清。
公爵很替兹皮希科担心，观众的脸色都很阴郁；他们觉得这个日耳曼人是在故意愚弄他的对手。有一次，兹皮希科一斧头劈过来，他甚至根本不用盾牌来拦，而是闪过一旁，叫他劈个空。这是最叫人提心吊胆的事，因为兹皮希科也许会因此而失去平衡，跌倒下来，那他就无法逃脱灭亡的命运。站在万·克里斯特的尸体旁边的那个捷克人，一见这情形，也为他的主人担起心来，他心里说：“我的天主！如果我的主人倒了下去，我一定要用我斧头的弯钩戳在这个日耳曼人的肩胛骨里，叫他送命。”
可是，兹皮希科毕竟没有倒下来，因为他那两条腿强健有力，又跨得很开，所以即使当他整个身子转动的时候，也撑得住全身的重量。
罗特吉爱马上看出了这点，但是观众却错认为他低估了他的对手。相反，在最初几下斫劈中，他尽管能非常巧妙地缩回盾牌，但是他的手却捏盾牌捏得几乎僵硬了，从此他知道这个青年不好对付，如果不能用妙计把他打倒，这场决斗势必拖得很长，那就十分危险了。他一心期待兹皮希科劈个空，跌在雪地上，可偏偏没让他盼到，他立刻心神不定起来。他打钢脸甲后面看到他的敌手紧紧屏住气的鼻孔和嘴巴，有时还看见他闪闪发光的眼睛，于是他对自己说，这个小伙子既然怒火冲天，准会奋不顾身，大却理智，只管疯斫狂劈，而不顾自卫。可惜他又估计错了。兹皮希科固然不知道怎样侧转身子来避开斫击，可是并没有忘记自己的盾牌，因此当他举起斧头的时候，决不无谓地暴露出自己的身子来。他显然加倍集中了注意力；一看敌手富有经验、技艺熟练，他非但并不鲁莽从事，反而集中思想，更加小心；他的一斫一击，都是经过考虑的，你只有在愤怒中保持冷静，才能制胜，暴躁是不顶事的。
罗特吉爱久经沙场，经历过多次大战和决斗，他凭经验知道，有些人像猛禽一样，得天独厚，生来就会作战，具有着别人需在多年训练之后才能获得的一切本领。同时他也看出，现在他所对付的正是一个这样的人。他同这个小伙子一交手，就知道这个青年浑身都是猛鹰的冲劲，把对手只看作他捕食的对象，一心一意要把他攫在利爪中。虽说他自己孔武有力，他也发觉还是比不上兹皮希科的膂力；如果他还没有来得及作一次有决定性的袭击就精疲力竭了，那末跟这个虽然经验较少。却又不可轻视的小伙于的决斗，准会使他完蛋。他左思右想之后，决定尽量少使力气，把盾牌紧护着自己的身子，进退都不能过猛，而要集中全身力量，以备作一次有决定意义的袭击，他就等着这个机会。
这场可怕的战斗持续得比平常长久。回廊里笼罩着一片死也似的寂静。只听得斧尖或斧刃斫在盾牌上发出的叮当声，或是扑空的所劈声。对于公爵和公爵夫人、骑士和宫廷侍从们说来，这个场面并不新奇，然而却有一种类似恐惧的感觉像铁钳似地紧紧箝住了大家的心。大家都明白，在这场决斗中，决斗者双方都决不是为了显示自己的力量、技艺和勇气，这里包含着一种超乎寻常的愤恨，绝望，不可克服的顽强深沉的仇恨。这一方是为了数不尽的冤屈，为了爱情和无尽的忧伤；那一方是为了整个骑士团的荣誉和深仇大恨；双方就在这个战场上听候天主裁判。
寒冬的暗淡晨光渐渐明亮起来，灰蒙蒙的迷雾消退了，阳光照射在十字军骑士的天蓝色胸甲上，也照射在兹皮希科的米兰制的银色甲胄上。小教堂里敲起了晨祷钟，一群群穴乌一听到钟声便又从城堡的屋顶上飞起来，拍击翅膀，刺耳地叫个不停，仿佛看到雪地上的血迹和僵挺的死尸而乐不可支。罗特吉爱一边交战，一边对那具尸体望上一两眼，突然感到十分孤独。望着他的都是敌人的眼睛，而女人们的祷告、愿望和悄悄的祈求都是为了兹皮希科的。尽管他深信那个侍从不会从背后来袭击他，也不会不守信义地来斫他，无奈眼前这个可怕的躯体这样贴近着他，使他不由得心惊胆战，就像人们一看到没有被关进棚栏的狼、熊或者野牛一样。他摆脱不了这种感觉，特别是看到那个捷克人由于想仔细观看战斗过程，不住移来移去，一会儿走向旁边，一会儿走到后面，一会儿又走到前面，总是紧跟着他们两个交战者——同时还低下头来，凶狠狠地透过铁头盔的脸甲望着他，有时候又好像情不自禁地微微举起他血腥的斧头来；这些叫他看了实在心慌。
这个十字军骑士终于乏力了。他一下接着一下，连劈了两次，又短促又可怕，直对着兹皮希科的右臂斫下来，可是都被盾牌猛力挡了回去，弄得罗特吉爱手里的斧头猛然一震，不得不突然往后一退，免得跌倒；从此以后，他就步步后退。最后，他不仅是力气耗尽了，连那点冷静和耐性也都耗尽了。观众看到他不住后退，不禁从心坎里发出一阵得意扬扬的叫喊声，叫他听了又气恼又绝望。斧子斫劈得越来越密了。双方的眉梢都汗珠涔涔，不住地从咬紧的牙关中透出喘气声。观众再也不能安静了，时时刻刻都听到男男女女的喊声：“劈呀！斫他呀！……天主作主！天主惩罚！天主助你！”
公爵摇了好几次手，叫大家安静下来，但他止不住他们！喧闹声愈来愈响亮，回廊里的孩子们在哭叫，最后就在公爵夫人身旁，一个年轻女人流着眼泪叫喊道：
“为达奴莎报仇，兹皮希科！为达奴莎报仇！”
兹皮希科知道自己此举完全是为了达奴莎。他相信他们俘虏达奴莎时，这个条顿人也是同谋，他现在在同他决斗，就是为她伸冤报仇。只是由于年轻和贪恋战斗，所以他在决斗中想到的只是战斗。但是这声突然的叫喊使他猛然想起了达奴莎的失踪和她所受的苦难。爱情、悲痛和复仇心使他全身的血液沸腾起来。他的心头突然涌起一阵痛苦，因此全身心地投入了如疯如狂的战斗。那个条顿人再也挡不住、再也逃不过那一下又一下雷击似的可怕的斫劈了。兹皮希科使出超人的力量把自己的盾牌朝着他的盾牌猛推过去，使得那个日耳曼人的臂膀突然发僵，无力地垂了下去……罗特吉爱恐惧地蹲下身子往后退，可是就在这一瞬之间，他眼前又闪过那斧头的光芒，斧口像霹雳似的斫在他的右肩上。
观众只听到一声凄厉的哀号：“耶稣！”——接着，罗特吉爱又往后退了一步，咕咚一声仰天倒在地上。回廊里立刻掀起一阵喧闹声和嗡嗡声，仿佛是蜂场里的蜜蜂被阳光晒得热了，骚动了起来，成群飞出窝来。骑士们一大群一大群地奔下阶梯，仆役们跳过雪墙，争着去看那具尸体。到处都响起了叫喊声：“这是天主的裁判……尤仑德后继有人了！光荣归于他，感谢上天！这才是使斧的英雄！”其余的人又喊道：“瞧，真了不起！尤仑德本人也不能斫得比这更出色。”一群好奇的人站在罗特吉爱尸体周围，他仰卧在那里，脸色像雪一样白，张大着嘴，一只血淋淋的手臂非常可怕地从脖子上一直给劈到胳肢窝，藕断丝连似地挂在那儿。
因此人们又说道：“他刚才还那样神气活现，目中无人，昂首阔步，可现在连一个手指都不能动弹了。”说着说着，有些人就赞赏起他的身材来，因为他在决斗场上占了很大一块地方，死后甚至显得比生前更庞大了；有的则去赞赏他那给雪光映衬得色彩绚丽奇幻的孔雀毛帽饰；还有些人在赞赏他那值钱的甲胄。可是捷克人哈拉伐同兹皮希科的两个仆役这时候走过来，要在死者身上剥甲胄了，因此好奇的人们便都围着兹皮希科，赞扬他，把他捧上天，因为他们有理由认为他的名声将为整个玛朱尔和波兰骑士界增光。这时候有人接过了他的盾和斧，使他减轻负担，然后莫卡席夫的姆罗科泰为这年轻的骑士解开头盔，在他那湿漉漉的头上戴上一顶深红色的布帽。
The horn sounded the second time, and, at the third, the opponents, according to agreement, were to advance against each other. A small space strewn with grey ashes now only separated them; over that space hovered in the air like an ominous bird--death. But before the third signal was given, Rotgier approached the pillars between which sat the prince's family, raised his steel-encased head, and began to speak in such a loud voice that he was heard in all corners of the vestibule:
"I take God, you, worthy lord, and the whole knighthood of this soil, as witness that I am not guilty of the blood that is about to be shed."
At these words their hearts were again ready to break with grief, seeing that the Teuton was so confident of himself and his victory. But Zbyszko, having a simple soul, turned to his Bohemian, and said:
"That Teutonic boasting stinks; it would be more appropriate after my death than while I am alive. That boaster moreover has a peacock's plume on his helmet, and at the very outset I made a vow to obtain three of them and afterward as many fingers of the hand. God grant it!"
"Lord ..." said the Bohemian, bending down and picking up in his hands some ashes from the snow, to prevent the axe-handle from slipping in his hand; "perhaps Christ will permit me quickly to despatch that vile Prussian, and then perhaps, if not to defeat this Teuton, at least put the handle of the axe between his knees and upset him."
"God save you!" hastily exclaimed Zbyszko; "you would cover me and yourself with disgrace."
But at that moment the horn sounded the third time. On hearing it, the seconds sprang quickly and furiously at each other, while the knights moved slowly and deliberately, as their dignity and gravity demanded, for the first bout.
Very few paid attention to the seconds, but those of the experienced men and of the domestics who looked at them understood at once how great were the odds on Hlawa's side. The German wielded the heavier axe and his shield was cumbersome. Below the shield were visible his legs which were longer, though not so strong nor active as the sturdy and tightly covered legs of the Bohemian.
Hlawa moreover pressed so vigorously that van Krist, almost from the first moment, was compelled to retreat. It was instantly understood that one of the adversaries would fall upon the other like a tempest; that he would attack and strike like lightning, while the other, under the conviction that death was already upon him, would merely defend himself so as to postpone the terrible moment as long as possible.
And so it actually was. That boaster, who generally stood up to fight only when he could not do otherwise, now recognized that his insolent and heedless words had led him into a fight with a terrible giant whom he ought to have avoided like a perdition; and so, when he now felt that every one of these blows could kill an ox, his heart began to fail entirely. He almost forgot that it is not sufficient to catch the blows on the shield, but that it was also necessary to return them. He saw above him the lightning of the axe and thought that every gleam was the last. Holding up the shield, he involuntarily half closed his eyes with a feeling of terror and doubt whether he would ever open them again. Very rarely he gave a blow himself, but without any hope of reaching his opponent, and raised the shield constantly higher over his head, so as to save it yet for a little.
Finally he began to tire, but the Bohemian struck on constantly more powerfully. Just as from a tall pine-tree great chips fly under the peasant's axe, so under the Bohemian's strokes fragments began to scale off and fly from the German warrior's armor. The upper edge of the shield was bent and shattered, the mail from the right shoulder rolled to the ground, together with the cut and already bloody strap of leather. This made van Krist's hair stand on end--and a deadly fear seized him. He struck with all the force of his arm once and again at the Bohemian's shield; finally, seeing that he had no chance against his adversary's terrible strength and that only some extraordinary exertion could save him, he threw himself suddenly with all the weight of his armor and body against Hlawa's legs. Both fell to the ground and tried to overcome each other, rolling and struggling in the snow. But the Bohemian soon appeared on top; for a moment he still checked the desperate efforts of his opponent; finally he pressed his knee upon the chain-armor covering his belly, and took from the back of his belt a short three-edged "dagger of mercy."[109]
"Spare me!" faintly gasped van Krist, raising his eyes toward those of the Bohemian.
But the latter, instead of answering, stretched himself upon him the easier to reach his neck, and, cutting through the leather fastening of the helmet under the chin, stabbed the unfortunate man twice in the throat, directing the sharp edge downward toward the centre of the breast.
Then van Krist's pupils sank in their sockets, his hands and legs began to beat the snow, as if trying to clean it of the ashes, but after a moment he stiffened out and lay motionless, breathing only with red, foam-covered lips, and bleeding profusely.
But the Bohemian arose, wiped the "dagger of mercy" on the German's clothing, then raised the axe, and, leaning against it, he began to look at the harder and more stubborn fight between his knight and Brother Rotgier.
The western knights were already accustomed to comforts and luxuries, while the landowners in Little Poland and Great Poland, as also in Mazowsze, led a rigorous and hardy life, wherefore they awoke admiration by their bodily strength and endurance of all hardships, whether constant or occasional, even among strangers and foes. Now also it was demonstrated that Zbyszko was as superior to the Teuton in bodily strength as his squire was superior to van Krist, but it was also proven that his youth rendered him the inferior in knightly training.
It was in some measure favorable for Zbyszko that he had chosen a combat with axes, because fencing with that kind of weapon was impossible. With long and short swords, with which it was necessary to know the strokes, thrusts, and how to ward off blows, the German would have had a considerable superiority. But even so, Zbyszko, as well as the spectators, recognized from his motions and management of the shield, that they had before them an experienced and formidable man, who apparently was not entering a combat of this kind for the first time. To each of Zbyszko's blows Rotgier offered his shield, slightly withdrawing it at the concussion, by which means even the most powerful swing lost its force, and could neither cleave nor crush the smooth surface. He at times retreated and at times became aggressive, doing it quietly, though so quickly that the eyes could hardly follow his motions.
The prince was seized with fear for Zbyszko, and the faces of the men looked gloomy; it seemed that the German was purposely trifling with his opponent. Sometimes he did not even interpose the shield, but at the moment when Zbyszko struck, he turned half aside, so that the sharp edge of the axe cut the empty air. This was the most terrifying thing, because Zbyszko might thereby lose his balance and fall, and then his destruction would be inevitable. Seeing this, the Bohemian, standing over the slain van Krist, also became alarmed, and said to himself: "My God! if my master falls, I will strike him with the hook of my axe between the shoulder-blades, and overthrow him also."
However, Zbyszko did not fall, because, being very strong upon his legs and separating them widely, he was able to support the entire weight of his body on either as he swung.
Rotgier observed that instantly, and the onlookers were mistaken in supposing that he underestimated his opponent. On the contrary, after the first strokes, when, in spite of his utmost skill in withdrawing the shield, his hand almost stiffened under it, he understood that he would have a hard time with this youth, and that, if he did not knock him down by some clever manoeuvre, the combat would prove long and dangerous. He expected Zbyszko to fall upon the snow after a vain stroke in the air, and as that did not happen, he immediately became uneasy. He saw, beneath the steel visor, the closely-drawn nostrils and mouth of his opponent, and occasionally his gleaming eyes, and he said to himself that the other would fly into a blind rage and forget himself, lose his head, and madly think more of striking than of defending himself. But he was mistaken in this also. Zbyszko did not know how to avoid a stroke by a half-turn, but he did not forget his shield, and, while raising the axe, did not expose himself more than was necessary. His attention was apparently redoubled, and having recognized the experience and skill of his opponent, instead of forgetting himself he collected his thoughts and became more cautious; and there was that premeditation in his blows which not hot but cool anger only can conquer.
Rotgier, who had fought in many wars and battles, either in troop or singly, knew by experience that there are some people, like birds of prey, who are born to fight, being specially gifted by Nature, who bestows all things, with what others only attain after years of training, and he at the same time observed that he was now dealing with one of those. He understood from the very first strokes that there was in this youth something as in a hawk, who sees in his opponent only his prey, and thinks of nothing but getting him in his claws. Notwithstanding his own strength, he also noticed that it was not equal to Zbyszko's, and should he get exhausted before succeeding in giving a final stroke, the combat with this formidable, although less experienced, stripling, might result in his ruin. Thus reflecting, he determined to fight with the least possible effort, drew the shield closer to him, did not move much either forward or backward, restricted his motions, and gathered all the power of his soul and arm for one decisive stroke, and awaited his opportunity.
The terrible fight lasted longer than usual. A deathlike silence reigned in the porches. The only sounds heard were the sometimes ringing and sometimes hollow blows of the sharp points and edges of the axes against the shields. Such sights were not strange to the princes, knights and courtiers; and nevertheless a feeling, resembling terror, seemed to clutch all hearts as if with tongs. It was understood that this was not a mere exhibition of strength, skill and courage, but that in this fight there was a greater fury and despair, a greater and more inexorable stubbornness, a deeper vengeance. On one side terrible wrongs, love and fathomless sorrow; on the other, the honor of the entire Order and deep hatred, met on this field of battle for the Judgment of God.
Meanwhile the wintry, pale morning brightened, the grey fog cleared away, and the sunrays shone upon the blue cuirass of the Teuton and the silver Milanese armor of Zbyszko. The bell rang in the chapel for early mass, and at the sounds of the bell flights of crows again flew from the castle roofs, flapping their wings and crowing noisily, as if in joy at the sight of blood and the corpse lying motionless in the snow. Rotgier looked at it once and again during the fight, and suddenly began to feel very lonesome. All the eyes that were turned upon him were those of enemies. All the prayers, wishes and silent vows which the women were offering were in Zbyszko's favor. Moreover, although the Teuton was fully convinced that the squire would not cast himself upon him from behind, nor strike him treacherously, nevertheless, the presence and nearness of that terrifying figure involuntarily inspired him with such fear as people are subject to at the sight of a wolf, a bear or a buffalo, from which they are not separated by bars. And he could not shake off this feeling, especially as the Bohemian, in his desire to follow closely the course of the battle, constantly changed his place, stepping in between the fighters from the side, from behind, from the front--bending his head at the same time, and looking at him fiercely through the visor of the helmet, and sometimes slightly raising his bloody weapon, as if involuntarily.
At last the Teuton began to tire. One after another, he gave two blows, short but terrible, directing them at Zbyszko's right arm, but they were met by the shield with such force that the axe trembled in Rotgier's hand, and he himself was compelled to retreat suddenly to save himself from falling; and from that moment, he retreated steadily. Finally, not only his strength but also his coolness and patience began to be exhausted. At the sight of his retreating, a few triumphant shouts escaped from the breasts of the spectators, awakening in him anger and despair. The strokes of the axes became more frequent. Perspiration flowed from the brows of both fighters, and panting breath escaped from their breasts through their clenched teeth. The spectators ceased keeping silence, and now every moment voices, male or female, cried: "Strike! At him!... God's judgment! God's punishment! God help you!"
The prince motioned with his hand several times to silence them, but he could not restrain them! Every moment the noise increased, because children here and there began to cry on the porches, and finally, at the very side of the princess, a youthful, sobbing, female voice called out:
"For Danusia, Zbyszko! for Danusia!"
Zbyszko knew well that it was for Danusia's sake. He was sure that this Teuton had assisted in her capture, and in fighting him, he fought for her wrongs. But being young and eager for battles, during the combat he had thought of that only. But suddenly, that cry brought back to his mind her loss and her sufferings. Love, sorrow and vengeance poured fire into his veins. His heart began to call out with suddenly awakened pain, and he was plainly seized with a fighting frenzy. The Teuton could not any longer catch nor avoid the terrible strokes, resembling thunderbolts. Zbyszko struck his shield against his with such superhuman force, that the German's arm stiffened suddenly and fell.... He retreated in terror and half crouched, but that instant there flashed in his eyes the gleam of the axe, and the sharp edge fell like a thunderbolt upon his right shoulder.
Only a rending cry reached the ears of the onlookers: "Jesus!"--then Rotgier retreated one more step and fell upon his back on the ground. Immediately there was a noise and buzz on the porches, as in a bee-garden in which the bees, warmed by the sun, commence to move and swarm. The knights ran down the stairs in whole throngs, the servants jumped over the snow-walls, to take a look at the corpses. Everywhere resounded the shouts: "This is God's judgment ... Jurand has an heir! Glory to him and thanksgiving! This is a man for the axe!" Others again cried: "Look and marvel! Jurand himself could not strike more nobly." A whole group of curious ones stood around Rotgier's corpse, and he lay on his back with a face as white as snow, with gaping mouth and with a bloody arm so terribly shorn from the neck down to the armpit, that it scarcely held by a few shreds.
Therefore, others again said: "He was alive just now and walked upon the earth with arrogance, but now he cannot even move a finger." And thus speaking, some admired his stature, because he took up a large space on the battlefield, and appeared even larger in death; others again admired his peacock plume, changing colors beautifully in the snow; others again his armor, which was valued at a good village. But the Bohemian, Hlawa, now approached with two of Zbyszko's retainers in order to take it off from the deceased, therefore the curious surrounded Zbyszko, praising and extolling him to the skies, because they justly thought that his fame would redound to the credit of the whole Mazovian and Polish knighthood. Meanwhile the shield and axe were taken from him, to lighten his burden, and Mrokota of Mocarzew unbuckled his helmet and covered his hair, wet with perspiration, with a cap of scarlet cloth.
诸位陪审员，父亲，什么是真正的父亲？这是多么伟大的一个名称？在这个名称里包含着多么伟大的涵义？我们刚才还只不过是约略地指出了，一位真正的父亲是什么，应该是什么。然而我们大家现在正在为它操心、为它痛苦的这个案件里的父亲，去世的费多尔-巴夫洛维奇-卡拉马佐夫，却同我们方才心中所想的那种父亲的概念是完全格格不入的。这真是灾难。的确，有些父亲实在也简直就象是一种灾难。那么现在就让我们把这样一种灾难比较真切地观察一下吧，——诸位陪审员，鉴于我们即将作出的决定的重要性，我们不应当害怕面对任何事实。我们现在尤其不应该害怕，照多才多艺的检察官方才那种精彩的说法，在某一种想法之前畏缩退避，就象小孩子或胆小的女人那样。但是我的可尊敬的对手（而且还在我开口说话以前已经就是对手了，）在他的激烈的演词中曾几次高喊：‘不，我不愿把为被告辩护的权利让给任何人，我不愿把为他辩护的事让给从彼得堡来的律师，——我是检察官，我也是辩护士！’这是他喊过好几次的话，但他却竟忘了提起，如果可怕的被告在整整二十三年中，单只为了从他孩子时代在父亲家里唯一曾给予爱抚的人那里得到一磅胡桃，就生出如此感恩图报的心思，那么反过来，这样的人在这二十三年以来不会不记得，他如何赤着双脚，在父亲的后院乱跑，照仁慈爱人的赫尔岑斯图勃医生的说法：‘没有鞋穿，小裤上只有一个钮扣。’哦，诸位陪审员，我们为什么要对这种‘灾难’进行比较切近的观察，重复大家已经知道的事情呢？我的委托人在回到父亲那里来以后，碰到的究竟是什么遭遇？为什么，为什么要把我的委托人描写成无情而自私的怪物？他缺少克制，他性格暴躁，粗野，我们现在就为了这个而裁判他。但是他遭到这种命运，究竟是谁的错呢？以他原来良好的品质，正直而敏感的心肠，竟受到了那样荒唐的教养，究竟谁应该负责任呢？有人教过他理性没有？在科学方面是不是受到过相当的教育？在童年时代有人多少爱过他没有？我的委托人是在上帝的庇佑下长大的，正和野兽一样。在多年的离别之后，他也许渴想见一见他的父亲，在此以前，也许曾千百次地象在梦中一般想其他的儿童时代，竭力驱除他当时所见的种种可憎的恶梦，衷心渴望拥抱他的父亲，并且加以宽恕。但是怎样呢？他遇到的只是厚颜无耻的讪笑，为银钱争执而引起的猜疑和狡诈手段；他只是每天听到一些在‘喝白兰地酒’时说出的无聊话和处世经验，最后，又看见他的父亲竟用他儿子的钱，夺走儿子的情妇，——唉，诸位陪审员，这是多么的可憎和残忍！可是这老人却竟对大家埋怨他儿子如何的不孝和残忍，竭力在大庭广众中糟蹋他，损他，造他的谣言，收买他的借据，预备把他送进牢监里去！诸位陪审员，象我的委托人那样外表上残忍粗暴、放肆胡行的人，有时候，而且常常是这样，实际上是怀着十分温柔的心肠，只是没表示出来罢了。你们不要笑，不要笑我的这个想法！多才多艺的检察官刚才毫不容情地笑我的委托人，说他爱席勒，爱‘美好高尚的一切’。我处在他的地位上，处在检察官的地位上，是不会笑的！让我来替这类人不易被人了解，而且还常被曲解的天性辩护一下吧。是的，这类人的天性时常似乎正好同自己，同自己的狂暴和残忍相反，渴求温柔、美好和合理的事物，这种渴求尽管是不自觉的，但确实是在渴求着。他们虽表面上激烈、残忍，但却能刻骨铭心地爱，例如爱某一个女人，而且一定是高尚的精神上的爱。请你们还是不要笑，这类天性确实时常是这样的！不过，他们不善于隐藏他们那有时甚至是很粗暴的热情（人家吃惊的就是这一点，人家注意到的也就是这一点，而对他的内心却完全看不见）；相反地，他们会很快地耗尽他们的热情。然而，在正直高尚的人的身旁，这个外表上粗暴而残忍的人也会努力争取重生，争取改过自新，做一个高尚诚实的人，变得‘高尚美好’，——尽管这句话是多么受人嘲笑！我刚才说我不敢触及我的委托人和维尔霍夫采娃小姐间的浪漫史。但是一言半语还是可以说的：我们刚才听到的简直不是供词，而只是一个疯狂而想报复的女人的叫喊，她不能责备人家的变心，因为她自己就变了心！假使她有时间想一想，就不会作出这样的证词！你们不要相信她，我的委托人决不象她所说的是‘混蛋’！那位被人钉在十字架上的仁爱者在走上十字架的时候，曾这样说过：‘我是好牧人。好牧人愿为羊群舍命，只求不毁掉一只羊。……’我们也不应该毁掉一个人的心灵！我刚才问：父亲是什么，并曾说过，父亲是个伟大的名称，宝贵的名称。但是诸位审判员，名称是应该老老实实地应用的，因此我要斗胆地用一项事物本来的名称、应有的名称来称呼这项事物：象被害的老人卡拉马佐夫那样的父亲不能也不配称做父亲。爱一个不值得爱的父亲是荒唐的，不可能的。不能无中生有地去制造爱，惟有上帝才能从虚无中创造。使徒以满腔热爱的心写道：
‘父亲们，不要伤了你们孩子们的心。’我现在引用这句神圣的话并不是为了我的委托人，而是为了提醒所有做父亲的人。谁给了我教训为人父者的权利？谁也没有。但是我以人和公民的资格发出呼吁——vivosvoco！①我们活在人世并不长，而且还常做许多错事，说许多坏话。因此我们更应当随时不放过机会相互交心，以便彼此也能尽量说一些好话。我也是这样：乘我站在这里时，我应该利用我的机会。这个讲坛由最高的权力赐给我们并不是随随便便的，——整个俄罗斯都在倾听我们。我现在并不单只是在对这里的父亲们说话，我是在向世上所有的父亲大声疾呼：
‘父亲们，不要伤了你们孩子们的心！’是的，我们应该自己首先履行基督的教训，然后才能管教我们的孩子！要不然我们不是我们孩子们的父亲，却是他们的仇敌，他们也不是我们的孩子，而是我们的仇敌，而且这是我们自己使他们成为我们的仇敌的。‘你们用什么量器量给人，也必用什么量器量给你们。’——这话不是我说的，那是福音书给我们的教训：应该用人家量给你的量器去量给别人。如果孩子们用我们的量器照样量还给我们，我们怎么能责备他们呢？
新近在芬兰有一个姑娘，在人家充当女仆。人家疑惑她私生了孩子。开始暗中侦察她，结果在搁楼一角的砖头后面发现了她的一口谁也不知道的箱子，打开来一看，里面有一个已被她弄死的新生的婴儿，还在那个箱子里发现了她以前生下来，产后就被她杀死的两个婴孩的骨骸。她当时全供认了。诸位陪审员，她能算是她的孩子们的母亲么？是的，她生了他们出来。但她是不是他们的母亲？我们中间谁敢给她加上母亲这个神圣的称号。我们应该有勇气。诸位陪审员，我们甚至应该大胆，在现在这种时候我们更几乎必须这样，不要害怕某些思想和某些话，象那般莫斯科的女商人那样，连听到‘枪炮’呀，‘老虎’呀等几个字眼都要害怕②。相反地，我们证明近年来时代的进步也触及到了我们自身的进步，可以直截了当地说：光是生出来还不是父亲，生出来而尽到责任的才是父亲。哦，父亲这个名称自然也还有别种含义，别种解释，也有人主张，只要我的父亲生下我来，虽然他是混蛋，虽然他对孩子们是恶棍，却到底还应该算是我的父亲。但是这个含义就有点神秘了，是我用理智所无法理解的，只能用信仰去接受，或者说得正确些，是靠了信仰去接受，好比许多别的事情，我并不理解，可是宗教命令我们去信仰它。但在这种情况下，只能把它划在现实生活的领域以外。至于现实生活，——它不但具有应享的权利，而且本身也给我们加上了极大的责任，——在这个领域内，如果我们想要富于人情，或者归根到底来说，合于基督徒的精神，我们就应该而且必须仅仅只按照经过理智和经验证实，并且由分析的洪炉所考验过的信念来行事，一句话，必须做出有理性的行动，而不能象在梦中和呓语中那样做出无理性的行动，以便不给人造成危害，不折磨人，不伤害人。这才是真正的基督教的事业，而不是神秘的，才是合乎理性的，真正爱人的事业！……
说到这里，从大厅的许多角落里发出了热烈的掌声，但费丘科维奇却甚至连连地摆着手，似乎恳求大家不要打断话头，让他说完。全场立刻寂静下来。演说家继续说下去：
“诸位陪审员，你们以为我们的孩子们，就是在已成为青年，开始懂得思考的时候，也还会不去想这类问题么？不，这是决不可能的，我们也不应该要求他们作这种不可能的克制！眼前摆着一个不值得敬重的父亲，特别在和别个年岁相同的孩子们的值得敬重的父亲相比较的时候，自然而然会在这个青年人的头脑里引起种种痛苦的疑问。对于这些疑问，人家打着官腔回答他：‘他生了你，你是他的亲骨血，因此你就应该爱他。’青年不免会寻思起来：‘难道他生我的时候爱过我么？’他一边问着，一边心里越来越感到奇怪，‘难道是为我而生我的么？他在那个时刻，在也许是被酒刺激得欲火如焚的时刻，他并不知道我，甚至也不知道我是男是女，最多只是把好酒的癖性传给了我，——这就是他的全部恩德。……为什么单只因为他生下了我，但以后一辈子却并不爱我，我就应该爱他呢？’你们也许觉得这些问题是粗暴的，残酷的，但是你不能给青年人的头脑加上办不到的限制，因为‘即使你把自然赶出门去，它也会从窗户里飞进来的。’而且主要的是，主要的是我们不必害怕那些‘枪炮’呀‘老虎’呀之类，应该按照理智和仁爱的要求来解决问题，而不应按照神秘的观念。怎样解决呢？应该这样办：让儿子站在父亲面前，明明白白地问他：‘父亲，请告诉我：我为什么应该爱你？父亲，请你拿出我应该爱你的根据来！’如果这位父亲有力量，能够回答得出，向他提出根据来，那就是真正的、正常的家庭，不只是建筑在神秘的偏见上，而是建立在理智的，负责的，严格合乎人性的基础上。反过来，如果父亲提不出根据，那么这个家庭就立刻完结了。他不成其为父亲，儿子此后也就有充分的自由和权利，可以把父亲看作是陌路人，甚至是仇敌。诸位陪审员，我们的讲坛应该成为真理和健全思想的学校！”
说到这里，演说家的话被一阵抑止不住的、近乎疯狂的掌声所打断了。固然，并不是全场都鼓掌，但是到底有半数的人。父亲们和母亲们全鼓起掌来。从太太们坐着的楼上发生了尖叫和呼喊。有人摇晃起手帕来。首席法官拼命摇铃。他显然对旁听席上的行动生气，但却又断然不敢象刚才所威胁的那样，真把听众“逐出场外”。因为连坐在法官席后面的特座上的大员们，一些大礼服上挂着勋章的老头子们都向演说家又是鼓掌又是摇手帕。因此，等到喧闹的声音寂静下去以后，首席法官也只能仍限于说说以前那句严厉的、“逐出场外”的威胁话。得意洋洋、精神抖擞的费丘科维奇又继续他的演说：
“诸位陪审员，你们还记得在那可怕的一夜里，——这一夜的情形今天讲得很多了，——一个儿子越墙闯进他父亲的屋里，结果跟生出他来的那个仇人和侮辱者狭路相逢。我还要竭力主张，他那时跑进去决不是为了金钱，因为指控他抢劫简直是离奇的，这我早已说过了。他闯进去也决不是想谋杀他；如果他事先有这种打算，至少会预备下一个凶器，至于那个铜杵是他莫名其妙地本能地随手抓来的。即使他用暗号欺哄父亲，即使他闯进了屋里，——我已经说过，我决不信这段神话，但是随它去吧，就算是这样，让我们暂且作这样的假设！诸位陪审员，我可以用一切神圣的名义发誓，如果他不是他的父亲，只是一个不相干的情敌，那么在跑遍各屋，弄清楚这女人并不在这所房子里以后，他一定会赶快离开，对他的情敌不加任何危害，最多打他一下，推他一下，也就完了，因为他顾不得他，他没有时间，他迫切要知道的是她在哪里。但是父亲，父亲，——纯粹是因为一眼看见了父亲，才促成了这一切，这父亲从他小的时候起就恨他，成为他的仇人，现在又变成了丑恶的情敌！仇恨的情感自然而然无法控制地支配了他，没有考虑的余地：一下子全都爆发了！这是疯狂和失掉理智的冲动，但也是自然的冲动，无节制地，无意识地，为它被违反了永恒的法则实行报复，自然界里的一切也都是这样。
但即使这样凶手也并没有杀人，——我要肯定地这样说，我要大声疾呼地这样说，——不，他只是在憎恶的怒火中挥了一下铜杵，并不想杀人，也没想到会杀人。他的手里如果没有那个倒楣的铜杵，他至多也许会打他的父亲一顿，但不会杀他的。他跑走的时候，并不知道被他打倒的老人死了没有。这样的杀人不是谋杀。这样的杀人案也不是逆伦的杀父案。不，杀死这样的父亲并不能称为逆伦的杀父案。这样的杀人案所以被列入逆伦的杀父案，只是由于偏见的缘故！
但是事实上究竟杀没有杀，这是我要一而再、再而三地从我的心灵深处向你们提出呼吁的！诸位陪审员，我们现在给他定了罪，他会对自己说：‘这些人并没有为我的命运、修养、教育做一点事情，以便使我变得好一些，使我成为一个人。这些人并不曾施给我一口饭，一口水，也从不曾到四壁空空的牢监里来探望过我，可现在他们却狠狠地把我判处流放去做苦工。现在我已经欠债还清，从此再不欠他们的债，永远不欠任何人的债了。他们恶狠，我也恶狠。他们残忍，我也残忍。’他将要说这样的话，诸位陪审员！我敢发誓：你们的控诉只能使他感到轻松，使他的良心释去重负，他将诅咒他所犯下的血案，却并不感到遗憾。同时你们也在他身上扼杀了还能做一个人的可能性，因为他将从此一辈子成为狠毒而且盲目的人。你们是不是想要狠狠地严惩他，使用人们所能想象得到的最可怕的刑罚，目的只是想使他的灵魂永远得到拯救和重生？如果是这样的话，那么你们还是用慈悲来降服他吧！你们会看到，你们会听到，他的心灵将怎样战栗震惊。他将会高喊：‘叫我怎么承受这样的恩惠，这样的爱，我是不配的呀！’我知道，诸位陪审员，我知道这颗心，这粗野而又正直的心。它会在你们高贵的行动面前低头膜拜，它渴求伟大的爱的行为，它会炽热起来，永远地得到重生。有些心灵由于本性的狭窄而怨天尤人，但只要一旦用慈悲降服了它，给予它爱，它就将诅咒它的所作所为，因为它里面有着许多善良的因素。心胸会宽阔起来，会看出上帝是慈悲的，人们是善良公正的。忏悔和他今后应尽的无数责任将使他震惊，使他感到沉重。那时候他不会再说：‘我的债还清了，’而将说：‘我对不起所有的人，我不如所有的人。’他会流出忏悔和痛切的悲哀感动之泪，喊道：‘人们比我好，因为他们不想害我，却想拯救我！’是的，你们能够轻而易举地做到这件事，做出这种仁慈的举动，因为在缺乏一切多少带有几分真实性的物证的情况下，你们会实在难于狠心地说出‘是的，被告有罪’这样一句话来。宁可释放十个有罪的人，也不可惩罚一个无辜。你们听见没有？你们听见上世纪我们光荣的历史里这样一个伟大的声音没有？以我这样微不足道的人还用得着对你们提醒，俄罗斯的法庭不仅仅只关心刑罚，而且也致力于拯救失足的人么？让别的国家去净讲求条文和刑罚吧，我们这里应该讲求精神和意义，关心失足者的得救和重生。果真如此，俄罗斯和它的法庭果真如此，它就尽管勇往直前吧。你们不必用所谓疯狂的、使别的民族厌恶地退避三舍的三套马车来吓唬我们！完全不是疯狂的三套马车，而是壮丽的俄罗斯高车大马，将会庄严而平静地驶到它的目的地。我的委托人的命运掌握在你们手里，我们俄罗斯的真理的命运也掌握在你们手里。你们可以拯救它，你们可以维护它，你们可以证明，有人在捍卫着它，它处在可靠的人的手里！”
Gentlemen of the jury, what is a father—a real father? What is the meaning of that great word? What is the great idea in that name? We have just indicated in part what a true father is and what he ought to be. In the case in which we are now so deeply occupied and over which our hearts are aching—in the present case, the father, Fyodor Pavlovitch Karamazov, did not correspond to that conception of a father to which we have just referred. That’s the misfortune. And indeed some fathers are a misfortune. Let us examine this misfortune rather more closely: we must shrink from nothing, gentlemen of the jury, considering the importance of the decision you have to make. It’s our particular duty not to shrink from any idea, like children or frightened women, as the talented prosecutor happily expresses it.
“But in the course of his heated speech my esteemed opponent (and he was my opponent before I opened my lips) exclaimed several times, ‘Oh, I will not yield the defense of the prisoner to the lawyer who has come down from Petersburg. I accuse, but I defend also!’ He exclaimed that several times, but forgot to mention that if this terrible prisoner was for twenty-three years so grateful for a mere pound of nuts given him by the only man who had been kind to him, as a child in his father’s house, might not such a man well have remembered for twenty-three years how he ran in his father’s back-yard, ‘without boots on his feet and with his little trousers hanging by one button’—to use the expression of the kind-hearted doctor, Herzenstube?
“Oh, gentlemen of the jury, why need we look more closely at this misfortune, why repeat what we all know already? What did my client meet with when he arrived here, at his father’s house, and why depict my client as a heartless egoist and monster? He is uncontrolled, he is wild and unruly—we are trying him now for that—but who is responsible for his life? Who is responsible for his having received such an unseemly bringing up, in spite of his excellent disposition and his grateful and sensitive heart? Did any one train him to be reasonable? Was he enlightened by study? Did any one love him ever so little in his childhood? My client was left to the care of Providence like a beast of the field. He thirsted perhaps to see his father after long years of separation. A thousand times perhaps he may, recalling his childhood, have driven away the loathsome phantoms that haunted his childish dreams and with all his heart he may have longed to embrace and to forgive his father! And what awaited him? He was met by cynical taunts, suspicions and wrangling about money. He heard nothing but revolting talk and vicious precepts uttered daily over the brandy, and at last he saw his father seducing his mistress from him with his own money. Oh, gentlemen of the jury, that was cruel and revolting! And that old man was always complaining of the disrespect and cruelty of his son. He slandered him in society, injured him, calumniated him, bought up his unpaid debts to get him thrown into prison.
“Gentlemen of the jury, people like my client, who are fierce, unruly, and uncontrolled on the surface, are sometimes, most frequently indeed, exceedingly tender-hearted, only they don’t express it. Don’t laugh, don’t laugh at my idea! The talented prosecutor laughed mercilessly just now at my client for loving Schiller—loving the sublime and beautiful! I should not have laughed at that in his place. Yes, such natures—oh, let me speak in defense of such natures, so often and so cruelly misunderstood—these natures often thirst for tenderness, goodness, and justice, as it were, in contrast to themselves, their unruliness, their ferocity—they thirst for it unconsciously. Passionate and fierce on the surface, they are painfully capable of loving woman, for instance, and with a spiritual and elevated love. Again do not laugh at me, this is very often the case in such natures. But they cannot hide their passions—sometimes very coarse—and that is conspicuous and is noticed, but the inner man is unseen. Their passions are quickly exhausted; but, by the side of a noble and lofty creature that seemingly coarse and rough man seeks a new life, seeks to correct himself, to be better, to become noble and honorable, ‘sublime and beautiful,’ however much the expression has been ridiculed.
“I said just now that I would not venture to touch upon my client’s engagement. But I may say half a word. What we heard just now was not evidence, but only the scream of a frenzied and revengeful woman, and it was not for her—oh, not for her!—to reproach him with treachery, for she has betrayed him! If she had had but a little time for reflection she would not have given such evidence. Oh, do not believe her! No, my client is not a monster, as she called him!
“The Lover of Mankind on the eve of His Crucifixion said: ‘I am the Good Shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for his sheep, so that not one of them might be lost.’ Let not a man’s soul be lost through us!
“I asked just now what does ‘father’ mean, and exclaimed that it was a great word, a precious name. But one must use words honestly, gentlemen, and I venture to call things by their right names: such a father as old Karamazov cannot be called a father and does not deserve to be. Filial love for an unworthy father is an absurdity, an impossibility. Love cannot be created from nothing: only God can create something from nothing.
“‘Fathers, provoke not your children to wrath,’ the apostle writes, from a heart glowing with love. It’s not for the sake of my client that I quote these sacred words, I mention them for all fathers. Who has authorized me to preach to fathers? No one. But as a man and a citizen I make my appeal—_vivos voco!_ We are not long on earth, we do many evil deeds and say many evil words. So let us all catch a favorable moment when we are all together to say a good word to each other. That’s what I am doing: while I am in this place I take advantage of my opportunity. Not for nothing is this tribune given us by the highest authority—all Russia hears us! I am not speaking only for the fathers here present, I cry aloud to all fathers: ‘Fathers, provoke not your children to wrath.’ Yes, let us first fulfill Christ’s injunction ourselves and only then venture to expect it of our children. Otherwise we are not fathers, but enemies of our children, and they are not our children, but our enemies, and we have made them our enemies ourselves. ‘What measure ye mete it shall be measured unto you again’—it’s not I who say that, it’s the Gospel precept, measure to others according as they measure to you. How can we blame children if they measure us according to our measure?
“Not long ago a servant girl in Finland was suspected of having secretly given birth to a child. She was watched, and a box of which no one knew anything was found in the corner of the loft, behind some bricks. It was opened and inside was found the body of a new-born child which she had killed. In the same box were found the skeletons of two other babies which, according to her own confession, she had killed at the moment of their birth.
“Gentlemen of the jury, was she a mother to her children? She gave birth to them, indeed; but was she a mother to them? Would any one venture to give her the sacred name of mother? Let us be bold, gentlemen, let us be audacious even: it’s our duty to be so at this moment and not to be afraid of certain words and ideas like the Moscow women in Ostrovsky’s play, who are scared at the sound of certain words. No, let us prove that the progress of the last few years has touched even us, and let us say plainly, the father is not merely he who begets the child, but he who begets it and does his duty by it.
“Oh, of course, there is the other meaning, there is the other interpretation of the word ‘father,’ which insists that any father, even though he be a monster, even though he be the enemy of his children, still remains my father simply because he begot me. But this is, so to say, the mystical meaning which I cannot comprehend with my intellect, but can only accept by faith, or, better to say, _on faith_, like many other things which I do not understand, but which religion bids me believe. But in that case let it be kept outside the sphere of actual life. In the sphere of actual life, which has, indeed, its own rights, but also lays upon us great duties and obligations, in that sphere, if we want to be humane—Christian, in fact—we must, or ought to, act only upon convictions justified by reason and experience, which have been passed through the crucible of analysis; in a word, we must act rationally, and not as though in dream and delirium, that we may not do harm, that we may not ill-treat and ruin a man. Then it will be real Christian work, not only mystic, but rational and philanthropic....”
There was violent applause at this passage from many parts of the court, but Fetyukovitch waved his hands as though imploring them to let him finish without interruption. The court relapsed into silence at once. The orator went on.
“Do you suppose, gentlemen, that our children as they grow up and begin to reason can avoid such questions? No, they cannot, and we will not impose on them an impossible restriction. The sight of an unworthy father involuntarily suggests tormenting questions to a young creature, especially when he compares him with the excellent fathers of his companions. The conventional answer to this question is: ‘He begot you, and you are his flesh and blood, and therefore you are bound to love him.’ The youth involuntarily reflects: ‘But did he love me when he begot me?’ he asks, wondering more and more. ‘Was it for my sake he begot me? He did not know me, not even my sex, at that moment, at the moment of passion, perhaps, inflamed by wine, and he has only transmitted to me a propensity to drunkenness—that’s all he’s done for me.... Why am I bound to love him simply for begetting me when he has cared nothing for me all my life after?’
“Oh, perhaps those questions strike you as coarse and cruel, but do not expect an impossible restraint from a young mind. ‘Drive nature out of the door and it will fly in at the window,’ and, above all, let us not be afraid of words, but decide the question according to the dictates of reason and humanity and not of mystic ideas. How shall it be decided? Why, like this. Let the son stand before his father and ask him, ‘Father, tell me, why must I love you? Father, show me that I must love you,’ and if that father is able to answer him and show him good reason, we have a real, normal, parental relation, not resting on mystical prejudice, but on a rational, responsible and strictly humanitarian basis. But if he does not, there’s an end to the family tie. He is not a father to him, and the son has a right to look upon him as a stranger, and even an enemy. Our tribune, gentlemen of the jury, ought to be a school of true and sound ideas.”
(Here the orator was interrupted by irrepressible and almost frantic applause. Of course, it was not the whole audience, but a good half of it applauded. The fathers and mothers present applauded. Shrieks and exclamations were heard from the gallery, where the ladies were sitting. Handkerchiefs were waved. The President began ringing his bell with all his might. He was obviously irritated by the behavior of the audience, but did not venture to clear the court as he had threatened. Even persons of high position, old men with stars on their breasts, sitting on specially reserved seats behind the judges, applauded the orator and waved their handkerchiefs. So that when the noise died down, the President confined himself to repeating his stern threat to clear the court, and Fetyukovitch, excited and triumphant, continued his speech.)
“Gentlemen of the jury, you remember that awful night of which so much has been said to-day, when the son got over the fence and stood face to face with the enemy and persecutor who had begotten him. I insist most emphatically it was not for money he ran to his father’s house: the charge of robbery is an absurdity, as I proved before. And it was not to murder him he broke into the house, oh, no! If he had had that design he would, at least, have taken the precaution of arming himself beforehand. The brass pestle he caught up instinctively without knowing why he did it. Granted that he deceived his father by tapping at the window, granted that he made his way in—I’ve said already that I do not for a moment believe that legend, but let it be so, let us suppose it for a moment. Gentlemen, I swear to you by all that’s holy, if it had not been his father, but an ordinary enemy, he would, after running through the rooms and satisfying himself that the woman was not there, have made off, post-haste, without doing any harm to his rival. He would have struck him, pushed him away perhaps, nothing more, for he had no thought and no time to spare for that. What he wanted to know was where she was. But his father, his father! The mere sight of the father who had hated him from his childhood, had been his enemy, his persecutor, and now his unnatural rival, was enough! A feeling of hatred came over him involuntarily, irresistibly, clouding his reason. It all surged up in one moment! It was an impulse of madness and insanity, but also an impulse of nature, irresistibly and unconsciously (like everything in nature) avenging the violation of its eternal laws.
“But the prisoner even then did not murder him—I maintain that, I cry that aloud!—no, he only brandished the pestle in a burst of indignant disgust, not meaning to kill him, not knowing that he would kill him. Had he not had this fatal pestle in his hand, he would have only knocked his father down perhaps, but would not have killed him. As he ran away, he did not know whether he had killed the old man. Such a murder is not a murder. Such a murder is not a parricide. No, the murder of such a father cannot be called parricide. Such a murder can only be reckoned parricide by prejudice.
“But I appeal to you again and again from the depths of my soul; did this murder actually take place? Gentlemen of the jury, if we convict and punish him, he will say to himself: ‘These people have done nothing for my bringing up, for my education, nothing to improve my lot, nothing to make me better, nothing to make me a man. These people have not given me to eat and to drink, have not visited me in prison and nakedness, and here they have sent me to penal servitude. I am quits, I owe them nothing now, and owe no one anything for ever. They are wicked and I will be wicked. They are cruel and I will be cruel.’ That is what he will say, gentlemen of the jury. And I swear, by finding him guilty you will only make it easier for him: you will ease his conscience, he will curse the blood he has shed and will not regret it. At the same time you will destroy in him the possibility of becoming a new man, for he will remain in his wickedness and blindness all his life.
“But do you want to punish him fearfully, terribly, with the most awful punishment that could be imagined, and at the same time to save him and regenerate his soul? If so, overwhelm him with your mercy! You will see, you will hear how he will tremble and be horror-struck. ‘How can I endure this mercy? How can I endure so much love? Am I worthy of it?’ That’s what he will exclaim.
“Oh, I know, I know that heart, that wild but grateful heart, gentlemen of the jury! It will bow before your mercy; it thirsts for a great and loving action, it will melt and mount upwards. There are souls which, in their limitation, blame the whole world. But subdue such a soul with mercy, show it love, and it will curse its past, for there are many good impulses in it. Such a heart will expand and see that God is merciful and that men are good and just. He will be horror-stricken; he will be crushed by remorse and the vast obligation laid upon him henceforth. And he will not say then, ‘I am quits,’ but will say, ‘I am guilty in the sight of all men and am more unworthy than all.’ With tears of penitence and poignant, tender anguish, he will exclaim: ‘Others are better than I, they wanted to save me, not to ruin me!’ Oh, this act of mercy is so easy for you, for in the absence of anything like real evidence it will be too awful for you to pronounce: ‘Yes, he is guilty.’
“Better acquit ten guilty men than punish one innocent man! Do you hear, do you hear that majestic voice from the past century of our glorious history? It is not for an insignificant person like me to remind you that the Russian court does not exist for the punishment only, but also for the salvation of the criminal! Let other nations think of retribution and the letter of the law, we will cling to the spirit and the meaning—the salvation and the reformation of the lost. If this is true, if Russia and her justice are such, she may go forward with good cheer! Do not try to scare us with your frenzied troikas from which all the nations stand aside in disgust. Not a runaway troika, but the stately chariot of Russia will move calmly and majestically to its goal. In your hands is the fate of my client, in your hands is the fate of Russian justice. You will defend it, you will save it, you will prove that there are men to watch over it, that it is in good hands!”
女皇晏驾了；在这个世界上最大的城市，灰溜溜的天气，就象噙着眼泪似的。在大出丧那天的早上，索米斯穿着皮大衣，戴着大礼帽，带着穿黑皮大衣的安耐特在身边，穿过公园巷，到了海德公园的铁栏杆边上。虽说他对公共事件向来不关心，可是这件事情有极大的象征意义，总结了一个绵长的、富足的时代，因此他的印象也非常深刻。记得一八三七年她登极时，“杜萨特大老板”还是造那些使伦敦变得丑陋的房子，詹姆士那时是个二十六岁的小伙子，正在给自己的律师业务打根底。马车到处驶着；男人都戴皮领子，上唇剃得光光的，吃木箱里装来的生蠔；穿着漂亮的小马夫站在大马车后面摇摇晃晃的；女人开口就是“啦”，而且没有财产权；富人讲礼貌，穷人住狗窝；倒霉的小鬼犯一点点法就处绞刑，而狄更斯不过才开始写小说。两代人将近消逝了——这两代人亲眼看见了轮船、火车、电报、自行车、电灯、电话，眼前又有这些汽车——亲眼看见这么多的财富积累，看见八厘钱跌到三厘钱，和数以千计的福尔赛！社会风气变了，习尚变了，人变得跟猴子更疏远了，上帝变了财神爷——财神爷被人捧得连自己也搞糊涂了。六十四年的太平盛世，助长了财产，造就了中上层阶级；巩固了它，雕琢了它，教化了它，终于使这个阶级的举止、礼貌、言谈、仪表、习惯、灵魂和那些贵族几几乎变得一模无二。这是一个给个人自由镀了金的时代！一个人有钱，他在法律上和事实上都是自由的；一个人没有钱，他在法律上是自由的，但是事实上是不自由的。这是一个尊崇虚伪的时代，只要装得象个上流人士。这是一个伟大的时代，任何东西都逃不脱它的影响，都要变质，逃得过的只是人的本性和宇宙的性质。
现在为了亲眼看着这个时代的消逝，伦敦——时代的宠儿和幻想——正把它的居民从各个入口驱进海德公园——那个维多利亚主义的中心和福尔赛的快乐的逐鹿场所。细雨才停，灰色天空下黑压压的人群都集合在这里看这一幕戏剧。这是他们年高德劭的老女皇最后一次从孤寂生活中②钻出来给伦敦来一个假日。在死神就要经过的那些马路上拥来了大街小巷的人，来自猪狗沟、阿克登、义林、汉普斯太、伊斯林登和比司诺场；来自海克尼、洪西、里顿司东、巴特西和富尔汉；来自福尔赛长得茂盛的那些绿草原——美菲亚和坎辛登，圣詹姆士和贝尔格莱维亚、湾水路和采尔西，和摄政公园；全都要瞻仰一下那种死沉沉的威仪和浮华。再不会有一个女皇在位这样久了，也再没有机会看见那样多的历史为他们的金钱鞠躬尽瘁了。可惜是战争还在拖着，没有能在女皇的灵柩上放上胜利的花圈！其他的一切全都会在这里恭送如仪和悼念她——兵士、水手、外国王侯、半旗、丧钟，特别是那一片波澜壮阔的衣服深暗的人群，在规定的黑衣服里面，他们的心灵深处也许零零落落有那么一点单纯的哀感。说到底话，这里安息了的并不仅仅是个女皇，而是一个排除了忧患，度过自己无咎的一生，苦心孤诣的一生的一个妇人啊！
索米斯杂在人群中间，跟安耐特勾着胳臂靠栏杆等着，是啊！这个时代是过去了。
The Queen was dead, and the air of the greatest city upon earth grey with unshed tears. Fur-coated and top-hatted, with Annette beside him in dark furs, Soames crossed Park Lane on the morning of the funeral procession, to the rails in Hyde Park. Little moved though he ever was by public matters, this event, supremely symbolical, this summing-up of a long rich period, impressed his fancy. In ’37, when she came to the throne, “Superior Dosset” was still building houses to make London hideous; and James, a stripling of twenty-six, just laying the foundations of his practice in the Law. Coaches still ran; men wore stocks, shaved their upper lips, ate oysters out of barrels; “tigers” swung behind cabriolets; women said, “La!” and owned no property; there were manners in the land, and pigsties for the poor; unhappy devils were hanged for little crimes, and Dickens had but just begun to write. Well-nigh two generations had slipped by—of steamboats, railways, telegraphs, bicycles, electric light, telephones, and now these motorcars—of such accumulated wealth, that eight per cent. had become three, and Forsytes were numbered by the thousand! Morals had changed, manners had changed, men had become monkeys twice-removed, God had become Mammon—Mammon so respectable as to deceive himself: Sixty-four years that favoured property, and had made the upper middle class; buttressed, chiselled, polished it, till it was almost indistinguishable in manners, morals, speech, appearance, habit, and soul from the nobility. An epoch which had gilded individual liberty so that if a man had money, he was free in law and fact, and if he had not money he was free in law and not in fact. An era which had canonised hypocrisy, so that to seem to be respectable was to be. A great Age, whose transmuting influence nothing had escaped save the nature of man and the nature of the Universe.
And to witness the passing of this Age, London—its pet and fancy—was pouring forth her citizens through every gate into Hyde Park, hub of Victorianism, happy hunting-ground of Forsytes. Under the grey heavens, whose drizzle just kept off, the dark concourse gathered to see the show. The “good old” Queen, full of years and virtue, had emerged from her seclusion for the last time to make a London holiday. From Houndsditch, Acton, Ealing, Hampstead, Islington, and Bethnal Green; from Hackney, Hornsey, Leytonstone, Battersea, and Fulham; and from those green pastures where Forsytes flourish—Mayfair and Kensington, St. James’ and Belgravia, Bayswater and Chelsea and the Regent’s Park, the people swarmed down on to the roads where death would presently pass with dusky pomp and pageantry. Never again would a Queen reign so long, or people have a chance to see so much history buried for their money. A pity the war dragged on, and that the Wreath of Victory could not be laid upon her coffin! All else would be there to follow and commemorate—soldiers, sailors, foreign princes, half-masted bunting, tolling bells, and above all the surging, great, dark-coated crowd, with perhaps a simple sadness here and there deep in hearts beneath black clothes put on by regulation. After all, more than a Queen was going to her rest, a woman who had braved sorrow, lived well and wisely according to her lights.
Out in the crowd against the railings, with his arm hooked in Annette’s, Soames waited. Yes! the Age was passing!
玛格丽特凭直觉感到，转瞬之间一切就会失控；只要一触即发，在这数百个怒火中烧的男人和不计后果的少年之中，就连桑顿先生的性命也将危在旦夕——再过一刻，狂暴的激情便会冲破一切界限，扫除所有理智的屏障和对后果的顾虑。就在她注视之际，她看见后面的少年们弯腰脱下沉重的木屐——那是他们最趁手的投掷物；她知道这是即将点燃火药桶的火星。她发出一声无人听见的呼喊，冲出房间，奔下楼梯——她以不可抗拒的力量举起门上沉重的铁闩——将大门敞开——她就那样站在了那片愤怒的人海面前，目光如燃烧的箭矢般射向他们，满含责备。
木屐在握着它们的手中停住了——方才还满是凶戾的面孔，此刻变得犹豫不决，仿佛在追问这意味着什么。因为她站在了他们和他们的敌人之间。她说不出话来，只是向他们伸出双臂，直到她缓过气来。
"噢，不要使用暴力！他只有一个人，而你们有这么多人——"但她的话语渐渐消散，因为她的嗓音已无力发声，只剩下沙哑的低语。桑顿先生稍稍站到一侧；他从她身后移开了，仿佛不愿让任何东西挡在他和危险之间。
"走！"她再次喊道（此刻她的声音已如呼号）。"已经派人去叫士兵了——他们正在赶来。和平地离开吧。走吧。不管你们有什么不满，都会得到解决的。"
"那些爱尔兰混蛋会被赶走吗？"人群中有人问道，声音里带着凶狠的威胁。
"绝不会，休想凭你们来命令我！"桑顿先生厉声说道。风暴顿时爆发了。
嘘声四起，充斥了整个天空——但玛格丽特充耳不闻。她的目光紧盯着那群早已将木屐握在手中的少年。她看见了他们的动作——她明白那意味着什么——她读懂了他们的目标。再过一瞬，桑顿先生就可能被击倒——正是她催促、激励他来到这个危险之地的。她满脑子只想着如何救他。她伸出双臂搂住了他；她用自己的身体筑成一道屏障，挡在他和凶暴的人群之间。然而，他依然双臂交叉，将她推开。
"走开，"他用低沉的声音说道，"这里不是你待的地方。"
"这里正是！"她说，"你没有看到我看到的。"
一只木屐呼啸着飞过空中。玛格丽特的眼睛不由自主地追随着它的轨迹；它偏离了目标，她吓得一阵恶心，但没有改变自己的位置，只是将脸埋在桑顿先生的臂弯里。然后她转过身来，再次开口：
"看在上帝的份上！不要因为暴力毁了你们的事业。你们不知道自己在做什么。"
一颗尖锐的石子飞来，擦过她的额头和脸颊，一片刺目的白光在她眼前闪过。她如同死去一般倒在桑顿先生的肩上。他这才展开双臂，用一只手臂将她环抱了片刻：
"你们做得好啊！"他说。"你们来驱赶无辜的外乡人。你们这几百号人——围攻一个人；而当一个女人站到你们面前，为了你们自己的利益请求你们做通情达理的人时，你们怯懦的怒火竟落在了她身上！你们做得真好啊！"
他说话时，他们静默无声。他们瞪大眼睛、张着嘴巴，注视着那一缕暗红的血线——那血线将他们从疯狂的迷醉中唤醒。最靠近大门的人羞愧地溜了出去；整个人群中出现了一阵骚动——一阵后退的骚动。只有一个声音喊道：
"那石头本是要砸你的；可你躲在一个女人后面！"
桑顿先生气得浑身发颤。流血使玛格丽特恢复了意识——模糊的、朦胧的意识。他轻轻地将她放在门阶上，让她的头靠着门框。
"你能在这里歇一下吗？"他问道。但没有等她回答，他便缓步走下台阶，径直走入人群正中。"来杀我吧，如果这是你们野蛮的意愿。这里没有女人为我挡着了。你们可以把我打死——但你们永远也不能让我改变我的决定——你们不能！"
他站在他们中间，双臂交叉，姿态与他站在台阶上时一模一样。
但向大门退去的浪潮已经开始了——同样地不讲道理，也许同样地盲目，一如方才那一齐迸发的怒火。又或许，是士兵将至的念头，是那张苍白的、仰起的脸——双目紧闭，静穆而哀伤，宛如大理石，纵然泪水从长长纠缠的睫毛间涌出、滴落；而比泪水更沉重、更迟缓地溅落下来的，是从她伤口渗出的血。就连最不顾死活的人——布彻本人——也退缩了，踉踉跄跄地退开，皱着眉，最终走了，口里咒骂着那位厂主；而厂主依旧一动不动地站着，以挑衅的目光目送他们退去。就在那退却化为溃逃的一刻（以其本性而言，这原是必然的），他一个箭步冲上台阶，奔向玛格丽特。
她想不靠他的搀扶，自己站起来。
“没什么，”她说，勉强露出一丝病态的微笑。“只是擦破了点皮，我一时被震晕了。噢，他们走了，真是谢天谢地！”说着，她便不加克制地哭了起来。
他无法对她生出同情。他的怒气并未平息；相反，随着眼前危险的消退，那怒气反倒愈发高涨。远处传来了士兵铿锵的脚步声：偏偏迟了五分钟，没能让这群作鸟兽散的暴民领教到权威与秩序的力量。他倒巴望他们撞见军队，好在念及自己侥幸脱险时被震慑住。正当这些念头掠过他心头，玛格丽特扶住门柱想稳住身子：可一层薄翳蒙上了她的双眼——他堪堪及时将她接住。“母亲——母亲！”他喊道，“快下来——他们走了，黑尔小姐受伤了！”他将她抱进餐厅，轻轻放在那里的沙发上；轻轻地放下她，望着她那纯净而苍白的脸，她对他意味着什么——这份感触如此强烈地攫住了他，令他在痛楚中脱口而出：
“噢，我的玛格丽特——我的玛格丽特！没有人知道你对我意味着什么！你冰冷地躺在这里，宛如死去——你是我唯一爱过的女人！噢，玛格丽特——玛格丽特！”
Margaret felt intuitively, that in an instant all would be uproar; the first touch would cause an explosion, in which, among such hundreds of infuriated men and reckless boys, even Mr. Thornton’s life would be unsafe,—that in another instant the stormy passions would have passed their bounds, and swept away all barriers of reason, or apprehension of consequence. Even while she looked, she saw lads in the background stooping to take off their heavy wooden clogs—the readiest missile they could find; she saw it was the spark to the gunpowder, and, with a cry, which no one heard, she rushed out of the room, down stairs,—she had lifted the great iron bar of the door with an imperious force—had thrown the door open wide—and was there, in face of that angry sea of men, her eyes smiting them with flaming arrows of reproach.
The clogs were arrested in the hands that held them — the countenances, so fell not a moment before, now looked irresolute, and as if asking what this meant. For she stood between them and their enemy. She could not speak, but held out her arms towards them till she could recover breath.
'Oh, do not use violence! He is one man, and you are many;' but her words died away, for there was no tone in her voice; it was but a hoarse whisper. Mr. Thornton stood a little on one side; he had moved away from behind her, as if jealous of anything that should come between him and danger.
'Go!' said she, once more (and now her voice was like a cry). 'The soldiers are sent for — are coming. Go peaceably. Go away. You shall have relief from your complaints, whatever they are.'
'Shall them Irish blackguards be packed back again?' asked one from out the crowd, with fierce threatening in his voice.
'Never, for your bidding!' exclaimed Mr. Thornton. And instantly the storm broke.
The hootings rose and filled the air, — but Margaret did not hear them. Her eye was on the group of lads who had armed themselves with their clogs some time before. She saw their gesture — she knew its meaning, — she read their aim. Another moment, and Mr. Thornton might be smitten down, — he whom she had urged and goaded to come to this perilous place. She only thought how she could save him. She threw her arms around him; she made her body into a shield from the fierce people beyond. Still, with his arms folded, he shook her off.
'Go away,' said he, in his deep voice. 'This is no place for you.'
'It is!' said she. 'You did not see what I saw.'
A clog whizzed through the air. Margaret's fascinated eyes watched its progress; it missed its aim, and she turned sick with affright, but changed not her position, only hid her face on Mr. Thornton's arm. Then she turned and spoke again:
'For God's sake! do not damage your cause by this violence. You do not know what you are doing.'
A sharp pebble flew by her, grazing forehead and cheek, and drawing a blinding sheet of light before her eyes. She lay like one dead on Mr. Thornton's shoulder. Then he unfolded his arms, and held her encircled in one for an instant:
'You do well!' said he. 'You come to oust the innocent stranger. You fall — you hundreds — on one man; and when a woman comes before you, to ask you for your own sakes to be reasonable creatures, your cowardly wrath falls upon her! You do well!'
They were silent while he spoke. They were watching, open-eyed and open-mouthed, the thread of dark-red blood which wakened them up from their trance of passion. Those nearest the gate stole out ashamed; there was a movement through all the crowd — a retreating movement. Only one voice cried out:
'Th' stone were meant for thee; but thou wert sheltered behind a woman!'
Mr. Thornton quivered with rage. The blood-flowing had made Margaret conscious — dimly, vaguely conscious. He placed her gently on the door-step, her head leaning against the frame.
'Can you rest there?' he asked. But without waiting for her answer, he went slowly down the steps right into the middle of the crowd. 'Now kill me, if it is your brutal will. There is no woman to shield me here. You may beat me to death — you will never move me from what I have determined upon — not you!'
He stood amongst them, with his arms folded, in precisely the same attitude as he had been in on the steps.
But the retrograde movement towards the gate had begun—as unreasoningly, perhaps as blindly, as the simultaneous anger. Or, perhaps, the idea of the approach of the soldiers, and the sight of that pale, upturned face, with closed eyes, still and sad as marble, though the tears welled out of the long entanglement of eyelashes, and dropped down; and, heavier, slower plash than even tears, came the drip of blood from her wound. Even the most desperate—Boucher himself—drew back, faltered away, scowled, and finally went off, muttering curses on the master, who stood in his unchanging attitude, looking after their retreat with defiant eyes. The moment that retreat had changed into a flight (as it was sure from its very character to do), he darted up the steps to Margaret.
She tried to rise without his help.
'It is nothing,' she said, with a sickly smile. 'The skin is grazed, and I was stunned at the moment. Oh, I am so thankful they are gone!' And she cried without restraint.
He could not sympathise with her. His anger had not abated; it was rising the more as his sense of immediate danger was passing away. The distant clank of the soldiers was heard: just five minutes too late to make this vanished mob feel the power of authority and order. He hoped they would see the troops, and be quelled by the thought of their narrow escape. While these thoughts crossed his mind, Margaret clung to the doorpost to steady herself: but a film came over her eyes—he was only just in time to catch her. 'Mother—mother!' cried he; 'Come down—they are gone, and Miss Hale is hurt!' He bore her into the dining-room, and laid her on the sofa there; laid her down softly, and looking on her pure white face, the sense of what she was to him came upon him so keenly that he spoke it out in his pain:
'Oh, my Margaret—my Margaret! no one can tell what you are to me! Dead—cold as you lie there, you are the only woman I ever loved! Oh, Margaret—Margaret!'
双方之间的距离轻易地缩短了。骑士和马匹的身形变得越来越大。双方骑阵之间的一小块遍地衰草、还留有残雪的乡村公共牧场，完全被马蹄吞没了。葛利高里盯上了跑在自己连队前头约有三匹马那么远的一名敌骑。他骑的那匹深褐色高头大马，像狼一样一纵一纵地跑着。这名骑士在空中挥舞着军官用的军刀，镶银的刀鞘在腰间摇晃，直碰马镫，在阳光中闪烁，像阵阵烈焰。转瞬间，葛利高里就认出了这位骑士。这是一个卡尔金斯克的外来户共产党员，名叫彼得·谢米格拉佐夫。一九一七年——那时候还是个二十四岁的小伙子——他打着一副前所未见的裹腿，头一个从德俄战场上跑回家来；同时还带回了对布尔什维克的信仰和在战火中锻炼出来的坚定刚强的性格。是一名坚定的布尔什维克。在红军中服役，在暴动发生前从部队回到镇上来建立苏维埃政权。正是这个谢米格拉佐夫在信心十足地驾驭着战马，姿势优美地挥舞着在搜查时缴获来的专为检阅用的军官马刀。
葛利高里龇着咬得紧紧的牙齿，抖了抖缰绳，马就听话地加快了速度。
葛利高里在冲锋的时候，有一种他独具的劈刺方式。当他的听觉和视觉辨认出是一位劲敌的时候，或者是当他要不顾一切，准确地给敌人致命的一击的时候，他就采用这种劈刺方式。葛利高里从小就是左撇子。连拿勺子和画十字都用左手。潘苔莱·普罗珂菲耶维奇为此曾狠揍过他不知多少次，连同年的孩子们都管他叫“左撇子葛利什卡”。打骂大概对年幼的葛利什卡发生了作用。从十岁时候起，他就改掉了用左手代替右手的习惯，“左撇子”这个外号也没人叫了。但是他一直到今天还能用左手做右手能做的一切事情。左手的力气甚至更大些。冲锋时，葛利高里利用这种优势，总是非常奏效。他拨马冲向选准的敌人，通常也跟大家一样，从左边绕过去，以便用右手去砍；而那个即将与葛利高里交手的人，也是这样想法。于是等到离敌人只剩十来沙绳远，而且那个人已经把身子略微倾斜，举起马刀的时候，——这时葛利高里陡然，但不动声色拨马绕到右面，把马刀换到左手里去。沮丧的敌人被迫临时改变姿势，因为从右向左，隔着马头，砍起来很不习惯，就失去了信心，感到情况不妙……葛利高里竭尽全力，拼命砍去，同时使劲把刀往后一带。
“锅圈儿”教给葛利高里“巴克拉诺夫劈刺法”，已经是很久以前的事了。在两次战争中，葛利高里已经“锻炼”成了高手。掌握马刀劈刺技术可不像扶犁把那样容易。他在劈刺技术上颇有独到之处。
The distance between the two sides shortened easily. The figures of horsemen and horses grew larger and larger. The little stretch of common pasture between the two lines of cavalry — all withered grass and patches of unmelted snow — was swallowed up under the hooves. Grigory fixed on one enemy rider galloping some three horse-lengths ahead of his own squadron. The tall dark-bay under him came on in short wolfish bounds. The man was brandishing an officer's sabre in the air; its silver-mounted scabbard swung and knocked against the stirrup, glittering in the sun like bursts of flame. In an instant Grigory knew him. It was a communist from Kargin, one of the incomers — Pyotr Semiglazov. In 1917 — he was a lad of twenty-four then — he had been the first to come home from the German front, in puttees such as no one there had ever seen; and he had brought back with him a faith in Bolshevism and a hard, firm temper forged in the fighting. A staunch Bolshevik he remained. He had served in the Red Army, and before the rising he had come back from his unit to the settlement to set up Soviet power. It was this Semiglazov who now rode down on Grigory, handling his horse with perfect assurance and flourishing, in a fine attitude, the parade officer's sabre he had taken in a search.
Grigory bared his tightly clenched teeth and shook the reins, and the horse obediently quickened its pace.
In an attack Grigory had a stroke that was his alone. He fell back on it when his ear and his eye told him the man before him was a strong opponent, or when he meant at all costs to strike home and kill with a single blow. From childhood Grigory had been left-handed. He took his spoon with the left hand and crossed himself with it too. Panteley Prokofyevich had beaten him savagely for it more times than could be counted, and the boys of his own age called him “Grishka the left-hander.” The beatings and the scolding must have told on the young Grishka. From his tenth year he broke the habit of putting the left hand for the right, and the nickname died away with it. But to this day he could do with his left everything he could do with his right, and the left was even the stronger. In an attack Grigory turned this to account, always with success. He would ride at the man he had picked out, coming up on the left as everyone does, so as to cut with the right; and the man about to close with him reckoned on the same thing. Then, when some ten fathoms were left between them and the other had already leaned a little to one side and raised his sabre — at that moment Grigory would swing his horse abruptly, but without any show of it, round to the right, and shift the sabre into his left hand. The disconcerted opponent was forced to change his posture on the instant; cutting from right to left, across the horse's head, is awkward, and he lost his confidence and felt that things were going badly with him… Then Grigory struck with all his strength, with everything he had, dragging the blade back hard as it went in.
It was long ago that “Curly” had taught Grigory the “Baklanov stroke.” In two wars Grigory had broken in his hand. Handling a sabre is not like walking behind a plough. He had come to know a good deal about the art of the cut.