Letter from an Unknown Woman
《一个陌生女人的来信》是一个对爱情忠贞不贰
的痴情少女的绝笔。一个十三岁的少女喜欢上了她的
邻居——一个青年作家，而她由于母亲的再婚不得不
离开这里。五年后她重返维也纳，每天到他窗下等候，
一心只想委身于他。直到他俩的爱情结晶得病夭折，
她自己也身患重病即将辞世，才写下这封没有具名的
长信。
[ 奥地利] 斯蒂芬·茨威格 （Stephan Iweig）
You took me in your arms. Again I stayed with you for the
whole of one glorious night. But even then you did not recognise
me. While I thrilled to your caresses，it was plain to me that
your passion knew no difference between a loving mistress
and a meretrix，that your spendthrift affections were wholly
concentrated in their own expression. To me，the stranger
picked up at a dancing-hall，you were at once affectionate and
courteous. You would not treat me lightly，and yet you were
full of an enthralling ardour. Dizzy with the old happiness，I was
again aware of the two-sidedness of your nature，of that strange
mingling of intellectual passion with sensual，which had already
enslaved me to you in my childhood. In no other man have I
ever known such complete surrender to the sweetness of the
moment. No other has for the time being given himself so utterly
as did you who，when the hour was past，were to relapse into an
interminable and almost inhuman forgetfulness. But I，too，forgot
myself. Who was I，lying in the darkness beside you？ Was I the
impassioned child of former days ；was I the mother of your son ；
was I a stranger？ Everything in this wonderful night was at one
and the same time entrancingly familiar and entrancingly new. I
prayed that the joy might last forever.
But morning came. It was late when we rose，and you asked
me to stay to breakfast. Over the tea，which an unseen hand had
discreetly served in the dining-room，we talked quietly. As of
old，you displayed a cordial frankness ；and，as of old，there were
no tactless questions，there was no curiosity about myself. You
did not ask my name，nor where I lived. To you I was，as before，
a casual adventure，a nameless woman，an ardent hour which
leaves no trace when it is over. You told me that you were about
to start on a long journey，that you were going to spend two or
three months in Northern Africa. The words broke in upon my
happiness like a knell：“Past，past，past and forgotten！”I longed
to throw myself at your feet，crying，“Take me with you，that you
may at length came to know me，at length after all these years！”
But I was timid，cowardly，slavish，weak. All I could say was，“What
a pity.”You looked at me with a smile，“Are you really sorry？”
For a moment I was as if frenzied. I stood up and looked
at you fixedly. Then I said，“The man I love has always gone on
a journey.”I looked you straight in the eyes.“Now，now，”I
thought，“now he will recognise me！”You only smiled，and said
consolingly，“One comes back after a time.”I answered，“Yes，
one comes back，but one has forgotten by then.”
I must have spoken with strong feeling，for my tone moved
you. You，too，rose，and looked at me wonderingly and tenderly.
You put your hands on my shoulders，“Good things are not
forgotten，and I shall not forget you.”Your eyes studied me
attentively，as if you wished to form an enduring image of me in
your mind. When I felt this penetrating glance，this exploration
of my whole being，I could not but fancy that the spell of your
blindness would at last be broken.“He will recognise me！ He will
recognise me！”My soul trembled with expectation.
But you did not recognise me. No，you did not recognise
me. Never had I been more of a stranger to you than I was at that
moment，for had it been otherwise you could not possibly have
done what you did a few minutes later. You had kissed me again，
had kissed me passionately. My hair had been ruffled，and I had
to tidy it once more. Standing at the glass，I saw in it — and as
I saw，I was overcome with shame and horror — that you were
surreptitiously slipping a couple of banknotes into my muff. I could
hardly refrain from crying out ；I could hardly refrain from slapping
your face. You were paying me for the night I had spent with you，
me who had loved you since childhood，me the mother of your
son. To you I was only a prostitute picked up at a dancing-hall. It
was not enough that you should forget me ；you had to pay me，
and to debase me by doing so.
I hastily gathered up my belongings，that I might escape as
quickly as possible ；the pain was too great. I looked round for
my hat. There it was，on the writing-table，beside the vase with
the white roses，my roses. I had an irresistible desire to make a
last effort to awaken your memory.“Will you give me one of your
white roses？”“Of course，”you answered，lifting them all out
of the vase.“But perhaps they were given you by a woman，a
