Short story by Franz Kafka
I was in great difficulty. An urgent journey was facing me. A seriously ill man was waiting for me in a village ten miles distant. A severe snowstorm filled the space between him and me. I had a carriage—a light one, with large wheels, entirely suitable for our country roads. Wrapped up in furs with the bag of instruments in my hand, I was already standing in the courtyard ready for the journey; but the horse was missing—the horse. My own horse had died the previous night, as a result of over exertion in this icy winter. My servant girl was at that very moment running around the village to see if she could borrow a horse, but it was hopeless—I knew that—and I stood there useless, increasingly covered with snow, becoming all the time more immobile. The girl appeared at the gate, alone. She was swinging the lantern. Of course, who is now going to lend her his horse for such a journey? I walked once again across the courtyard. I couldn’t see what to do. Distracted and tormented, I kicked my foot against the cracked door of the pig sty which had not been used for years. The door opened and banged to and fro on its hinges. A warmth and smell as if from horses came out. A dim stall lantern on a rope swayed inside. A man huddled down in the stall below showed his open blue-eyed face. “Shall I hitch up?” he asked, crawling out on all fours. I didn’t know what to say and bent down to see what was still in the stall. The servant girl stood beside me. “One doesn’t know the sorts of things one has stored in one’s own house,” she said, and we both laughed. “Hey, Brother, hey Sister,” the groom cried out, and two horses, powerful animals with strong flanks, shoved their way one behind the other, legs close to the bodies, lowering their well-formed heads like camels, and getting through the door space, which they completely filled, only through the powerful movements of their rumps. But right away they stood up straight, long legged, with thick steaming bodies. “Help him,” I said, and the girl obediently hurried to hand the wagon harness to the groom. But as soon as she was beside him, the groom puts his arms around her and pushes his face against hers. She screams out and runs over to me. On the girl’s cheek were red marks from two rows of teeth. “You brute,” I cry out in fury, “do you want the whip?”. But I immediately remember that he is a stranger, that I don’t know where he comes from, and that he’s helping me out of his own free will, when everyone else is refusing to. As if he knows what I was thinking, he takes no offence at my threat, but turns around to me once more, still busy with the horses. Then he says, “Climb in,” and, in fact, everything is ready. I notice that I have never before traveled with such a beautiful team of horses, and I climb in happily. “But I’ll take the reins.
You don’t know the way,” I say. “Of course,” he says; “I’m not going with you. I’m staying with Rosa.” “No,” screams Rosa and runs into the house, with an accurate premonition of the inevitability of her fate. I hear the door chain rattling as she sets it in place. I hear the lock click. I see how in addition she runs down the corridor and through the rooms putting out all the lights in order to make herself impossible to find. “You’re coming with me,” I say to the groom, "or I’ll give up the journey, no matter how urgent it is. It’s not my intention to give you the girl as the price of the trip.” “Giddy up,” he says and claps his hands. The carriage is torn away, like a piece of wood in a current. I still hear how the door of my house is breaking down and splitting apart under the groom’s onslaught, and then my eyes and ears are filled with a roaring sound which overwhelms all my senses at once. But only for a moment. Then I am already there, as if the farm yard of my invalid opens up immediately in front of my courtyard gate. The horses stand quietly. The snowfall has stopped, moonlight all around. The sick man’s parents rush out of the house, his sister behind them. They almost lift me out of the carriage. I get nothing from their confused talking. In the sick room one can hardly breathe the air. The neglected cooking stove is smoking. I want to push open the window, but first I’ll look at the sick man. Thin, without fever, not cold, not warm, with empty eyes, without a shirt, the young man under the stuffed quilt heaves himself up, hangs around my throat, and whispers in my ear, “Doctor, let me die.” I look around. No one has heard. The parents stand silently, leaning forward, and wait for my opinion. The sister has brought a stool for my handbag. I open the bag and look among my instruments. The young man constantly gropes at me from the bed to remind me of his request. I take some tweezers, test them in the candle light, and put them back. “Yes,” I think blasphemously, “in such cases the gods do help. They send the missing horse, even add a second one because it’s urgent, and even throw in a groom as a bonus.” Now for the first time I think once more of Rosa. What am I doing? How am I saving her? How do I pull her out from under this groom, ten miles away from her, with uncontrollable horses in the front of my carriage? These horses, who have somehow loosened their straps, are pushing open the window from outside, I don’t know how. Each one is sticking its head through a window and, unmoved by the crying of the family, is observing the invalid. “I’ll go back right away,” I think, as if the horses were ordering me to journey back, but I allow the sister, who thinks I am in a daze because of the heat, to take off my fur coat. A glass of rum is prepared for me. The old man claps me on the shoulder; the sacrifice of his treasure justifies this familiarity. I shake my head.
In the narrow circle of the old man’s thinking I was not well; that’s the only reason I refuse to drink. The mother stands by the bed and entices me over. I follow and, as a horse neighs loudly at the ceiling, lay my head on the young man’s chest, which trembles under my wet beard. That confirms what I know: the young man is healthy. His circulation is a little off, saturated with coffee by his caring mother, but he’s healthy and best pushed out of bed with a shove. I’m no improver of the world and let him lie there. I am employed by the district and do my duty to the full, right to the point where it’s almost too much. Badly paid, but I’m generous and ready to help the poor. I still have to look after Rosa, and then the young man may have his way, and I want to die too. What am I doing here in this endless winter! My horse is dead, and there is no one in the village who’ll lend me his. I have to drag my team out of the pig sty. If they hadn’t happened to be horses, I’d have had to travel with pigs. That’s the way it is. And I nod to the family. They know nothing about it, and if they did know, they wouldn’t believe it. Incidentally, it’s easy to write prescriptions, but difficult to come to an understanding with people. Now, at this point my visit might have come to an end—they have once more called for my help unnecessarily. I’m used to that. With the help of my night bell the entire region torments me, but that this time I had to sacrifice Rosa as well, this beautiful girl, who lives in my house all year long and whom I scarcely notice—this sacrifice is too great, and I must somehow in my own head subtly rationalize it away for the moment, in order not to let loose at this family who cannot, even with their best will, give me Rosa back again. But as I am closing up by hand bag and calling for my fur coat, the family is standing together, the father sniffing the glass of rum in his hand, the mother, probably disappointed in me—what more do these people expect?—tearfully biting her lips, and the sister flapping a very bloody hand towel, I am somehow ready, in the circumstances, to concede that the young man is perhaps nonetheless sick. I go to him. He smiles up at me, as if I was bringing him the most nourishing kind of soup—ah, now both horses are whinnying, the noise is probably supposed to come from higher regions in order to illuminate my examination—and now I find out that, yes indeed, the young man is ill. On his right side, in the region of the hip, a wound the size of the palm of one’s hand has opened up. Rose coloured, in many different shadings, dark in the depths, brighter on the edges, delicately grained, with uneven patches of blood, open to the light like a mine. That’s what it looks like from a distance. Close up a complication is apparent.
Who can look at that without whistling softly? Worms, as thick and long as my little finger, themselves rose coloured and also spattered with blood, are wriggling their white bodies with many limbs from their stronghold in the inner of the wound towards the light. Poor young man, there’s no helping you. I have found out your great wound. You are dying from this flower on your side. The family is happy; they see me doing something. The sister says that to the mother, the mother tells the father, the father tells a few guests who are coming in on tip toe through the moonlight of the open door, balancing themselves with outstretched arms. “Will you save me?” whispers the young man, sobbing, quite blinded by the life inside his wound. That’s how people are in my region. Always demanding the impossible from the doctor. They have lost the old faith. The priest sits at home and tears his religious robes to pieces, one after the other. But the doctor is supposed to achieve everything with his delicate surgeon’s hand. Well, it’s what they like to think. I have not offered myself. If they use me for sacred purposes, I let that happen to me as well. What more do I want, an old country doctor, robbed of my servant girl! And they come, the families and the village elders, and take my clothes off. A choir of school children with the teacher at the head stands in front of the house and sings an extremely simple melody with the words
Take his clothes off, then he’ll heal,
and if he doesn’t cure, then kill him.
It’s only a doctor; it’s only a doctor.
Then I am stripped of my clothes and, with my fingers in my beard and my head tilted to one side, I look at the people quietly. I am completely calm and clear about everything and stay that way, too, although it is not helping me at all, for they are now taking me by the head and feet and dragging me into bed. They lay me against the wall on the side of wound. Then they all go out of the room. The door is shut. The singing stops. Clouds move in front of the moon. The bedclothes lie warmly around me. In the open space of the windows the horses’ heads sway like shadows. “Do you know,” I hear someone saying in my ear, “my confidence in you is very small. You were shaken out from somewhere. You don’t come on your own feet. Instead of helping, you give me less room on my deathbed. The best thing would be if I scratch your eyes out.” “Right,” I say, “it’s a disgrace. But now I’m a doctor. What am I supposed to do? Believe me, things are not easy for me either.” “Should I be satisfied with this excuse? Alas, I’ll probably have to be. I always have to make do. I came into the world with a beautiful wound; that was all I was furnished with.” “Young friend,” I say, “your mistake is that you have no perspective. I’ve already been in all the sick rooms, far and wide, and I tell you your wound is not so bad. Made in a tight corner with two blows from an axe.
Many people offer their side and hardly hear the axe in the forest, to say nothing of the fact that it’s coming closer to them.” “Is that really so, or are you deceiving me in my fever?” “It is truly so. Take the word of honour of a medical doctor.” He took my word and grew still. But now it was time to think about my escape. The horses were still standing loyally in place. Clothes, fur coat, and bag were quickly snatched up. I didn’t want to delay by getting dressed; if the horses rushed as they had on the journey out, I should, in fact, be springing out of that bed into my own, as it were. One horse obediently pulled back from the window. I threw the bundle into the carriage. The fur coat flew too far and was caught on a hook by only one arm. Good enough. I swung myself up onto the horse. The reins dragging loosely, one horse barely harnessed to the other, the carriage swaying behind, last of all the fur coat in the snow. “Giddy up,” I said, but there was no giddying up about it. We dragged through the snowy desert like old men; for a long time the fresh but inaccurate singing of the children resounded behind us:
Enjoy yourselves, you patients.
The doctor’s laid in bed with you.
I’ll never come home at this rate. My flourishing practice is lost. A successor is robbing me, but to no avail, for he cannot replace me. In my house the disgusting groom is wreaking havoc. Rosa is his victim. I will not think it through. Naked, abandoned to the frost of this unhappy age, with an earthly carriage and unearthly horses, I drive around by myself, an old man. My fur coat hangs behind the wagon, but I cannot reach it, and no one from the nimble rabble of patients lifts a finger. Betrayed! Betrayed! Once one responds to a false alarm on the night bell, there’s no making it good again—not ever
You don’t know the way,” I say. “Of course,” he says; “I’m not going with you. I’m staying with Rosa.” “No,” screams Rosa and runs into the house, with an accurate premonition of the inevitability of her fate. I hear the door chain rattling as she sets it in place. I hear the lock click. I see how in addition she runs down the corridor and through the rooms putting out all the lights in order to make herself impossible to find. “You’re coming with me,” I say to the groom, "or I’ll give up the journey, no matter how urgent it is. It’s not my intention to give you the girl as the price of the trip.” “Giddy up,” he says and claps his hands. The carriage is torn away, like a piece of wood in a current. I still hear how the door of my house is breaking down and splitting apart under the groom’s onslaught, and then my eyes and ears are filled with a roaring sound which overwhelms all my senses at once. But only for a moment. Then I am already there, as if the farm yard of my invalid opens up immediately in front of my courtyard gate. The horses stand quietly. The snowfall has stopped, moonlight all around. The sick man’s parents rush out of the house, his sister behind them. They almost lift me out of the carriage. I get nothing from their confused talking. In the sick room one can hardly breathe the air. The neglected cooking stove is smoking. I want to push open the window, but first I’ll look at the sick man. Thin, without fever, not cold, not warm, with empty eyes, without a shirt, the young man under the stuffed quilt heaves himself up, hangs around my throat, and whispers in my ear, “Doctor, let me die.” I look around. No one has heard. The parents stand silently, leaning forward, and wait for my opinion. The sister has brought a stool for my handbag. I open the bag and look among my instruments. The young man constantly gropes at me from the bed to remind me of his request. I take some tweezers, test them in the candle light, and put them back. “Yes,” I think blasphemously, “in such cases the gods do help. They send the missing horse, even add a second one because it’s urgent, and even throw in a groom as a bonus.” Now for the first time I think once more of Rosa. What am I doing? How am I saving her? How do I pull her out from under this groom, ten miles away from her, with uncontrollable horses in the front of my carriage? These horses, who have somehow loosened their straps, are pushing open the window from outside, I don’t know how. Each one is sticking its head through a window and, unmoved by the crying of the family, is observing the invalid. “I’ll go back right away,” I think, as if the horses were ordering me to journey back, but I allow the sister, who thinks I am in a daze because of the heat, to take off my fur coat. A glass of rum is prepared for me. The old man claps me on the shoulder; the sacrifice of his treasure justifies this familiarity. I shake my head.
In the narrow circle of the old man’s thinking I was not well; that’s the only reason I refuse to drink. The mother stands by the bed and entices me over. I follow and, as a horse neighs loudly at the ceiling, lay my head on the young man’s chest, which trembles under my wet beard. That confirms what I know: the young man is healthy. His circulation is a little off, saturated with coffee by his caring mother, but he’s healthy and best pushed out of bed with a shove. I’m no improver of the world and let him lie there. I am employed by the district and do my duty to the full, right to the point where it’s almost too much. Badly paid, but I’m generous and ready to help the poor. I still have to look after Rosa, and then the young man may have his way, and I want to die too. What am I doing here in this endless winter! My horse is dead, and there is no one in the village who’ll lend me his. I have to drag my team out of the pig sty. If they hadn’t happened to be horses, I’d have had to travel with pigs. That’s the way it is. And I nod to the family. They know nothing about it, and if they did know, they wouldn’t believe it. Incidentally, it’s easy to write prescriptions, but difficult to come to an understanding with people. Now, at this point my visit might have come to an end—they have once more called for my help unnecessarily. I’m used to that. With the help of my night bell the entire region torments me, but that this time I had to sacrifice Rosa as well, this beautiful girl, who lives in my house all year long and whom I scarcely notice—this sacrifice is too great, and I must somehow in my own head subtly rationalize it away for the moment, in order not to let loose at this family who cannot, even with their best will, give me Rosa back again. But as I am closing up by hand bag and calling for my fur coat, the family is standing together, the father sniffing the glass of rum in his hand, the mother, probably disappointed in me—what more do these people expect?—tearfully biting her lips, and the sister flapping a very bloody hand towel, I am somehow ready, in the circumstances, to concede that the young man is perhaps nonetheless sick. I go to him. He smiles up at me, as if I was bringing him the most nourishing kind of soup—ah, now both horses are whinnying, the noise is probably supposed to come from higher regions in order to illuminate my examination—and now I find out that, yes indeed, the young man is ill. On his right side, in the region of the hip, a wound the size of the palm of one’s hand has opened up. Rose coloured, in many different shadings, dark in the depths, brighter on the edges, delicately grained, with uneven patches of blood, open to the light like a mine. That’s what it looks like from a distance. Close up a complication is apparent.
Who can look at that without whistling softly? Worms, as thick and long as my little finger, themselves rose coloured and also spattered with blood, are wriggling their white bodies with many limbs from their stronghold in the inner of the wound towards the light. Poor young man, there’s no helping you. I have found out your great wound. You are dying from this flower on your side. The family is happy; they see me doing something. The sister says that to the mother, the mother tells the father, the father tells a few guests who are coming in on tip toe through the moonlight of the open door, balancing themselves with outstretched arms. “Will you save me?” whispers the young man, sobbing, quite blinded by the life inside his wound. That’s how people are in my region. Always demanding the impossible from the doctor. They have lost the old faith. The priest sits at home and tears his religious robes to pieces, one after the other. But the doctor is supposed to achieve everything with his delicate surgeon’s hand. Well, it’s what they like to think. I have not offered myself. If they use me for sacred purposes, I let that happen to me as well. What more do I want, an old country doctor, robbed of my servant girl! And they come, the families and the village elders, and take my clothes off. A choir of school children with the teacher at the head stands in front of the house and sings an extremely simple melody with the words
Take his clothes off, then he’ll heal,
and if he doesn’t cure, then kill him.
It’s only a doctor; it’s only a doctor.
Then I am stripped of my clothes and, with my fingers in my beard and my head tilted to one side, I look at the people quietly. I am completely calm and clear about everything and stay that way, too, although it is not helping me at all, for they are now taking me by the head and feet and dragging me into bed. They lay me against the wall on the side of wound. Then they all go out of the room. The door is shut. The singing stops. Clouds move in front of the moon. The bedclothes lie warmly around me. In the open space of the windows the horses’ heads sway like shadows. “Do you know,” I hear someone saying in my ear, “my confidence in you is very small. You were shaken out from somewhere. You don’t come on your own feet. Instead of helping, you give me less room on my deathbed. The best thing would be if I scratch your eyes out.” “Right,” I say, “it’s a disgrace. But now I’m a doctor. What am I supposed to do? Believe me, things are not easy for me either.” “Should I be satisfied with this excuse? Alas, I’ll probably have to be. I always have to make do. I came into the world with a beautiful wound; that was all I was furnished with.” “Young friend,” I say, “your mistake is that you have no perspective. I’ve already been in all the sick rooms, far and wide, and I tell you your wound is not so bad. Made in a tight corner with two blows from an axe.
Many people offer their side and hardly hear the axe in the forest, to say nothing of the fact that it’s coming closer to them.” “Is that really so, or are you deceiving me in my fever?” “It is truly so. Take the word of honour of a medical doctor.” He took my word and grew still. But now it was time to think about my escape. The horses were still standing loyally in place. Clothes, fur coat, and bag were quickly snatched up. I didn’t want to delay by getting dressed; if the horses rushed as they had on the journey out, I should, in fact, be springing out of that bed into my own, as it were. One horse obediently pulled back from the window. I threw the bundle into the carriage. The fur coat flew too far and was caught on a hook by only one arm. Good enough. I swung myself up onto the horse. The reins dragging loosely, one horse barely harnessed to the other, the carriage swaying behind, last of all the fur coat in the snow. “Giddy up,” I said, but there was no giddying up about it. We dragged through the snowy desert like old men; for a long time the fresh but inaccurate singing of the children resounded behind us:
Enjoy yourselves, you patients.
The doctor’s laid in bed with you.
I’ll never come home at this rate. My flourishing practice is lost. A successor is robbing me, but to no avail, for he cannot replace me. In my house the disgusting groom is wreaking havoc. Rosa is his victim. I will not think it through. Naked, abandoned to the frost of this unhappy age, with an earthly carriage and unearthly horses, I drive around by myself, an old man. My fur coat hangs behind the wagon, but I cannot reach it, and no one from the nimble rabble of patients lifts a finger. Betrayed! Betrayed! Once one responds to a false alarm on the night bell, there’s no making it good again—not ever
中譯
作者：卡夫卡
我陷於極大的窘境：我必須立刻啟程到十里之外的一個村子看望一位重病人，但狂風大雪阻塞了我與他之間的茫茫原野。我有一輛馬車，輕便，大輪子，很適合在我們鄉間道路上行駛。我穿上皮大衣，提上出診包，站在院子裡準備啟程，但是，沒有馬，馬沒有啦，我自己的馬在昨天嚴寒的冬夜裡勞累過度而死了。我的女傭現在滿村子裡跑東跑西，想借到一匹馬，然而我知道這純屬徒勞。雪越積越厚，行走越來越困難，我茫然地站在那裡。這時那姑娘出現在門口，獨自一人，搖晃著馬燈。當然，有誰在這種時候會借他的馬給別人跑這差事？我又在院子裡踱來踱去，不知所措。我心煩意亂，苦惱不堪，用腳踢了一下那已經多年不用的豬圈的破門。門開了，擺來擺去拍得門樞啪啪直響。一股熱氣和類似馬的氣味撲面而來，裡面一根繩子上一盞廄燈晃來晃去；低矮的棚圈裡有個人蜷曲蹲在那裡，臉上睜著一雙藍眼睛。他葡匐著爬過來，問道：「要我套馬嗎？」我不知道該說什麼，只是彎下腰，想看看這圈裡還有沒有其他什麼東西。女傭站在我身旁，說道：「人們都不知道自己家裡有什麼東西。」我們兩個都笑了。「喂，兄弟！喂，姑娘！」馬伕喊著，於是兩匹健壯的膘馬相擁而現，它們的腿緊貼著身體，漂亮的馬頭像駱駝一樣低垂著，僅靠著軀體運動的力量從與它們差不多大小的門洞裡一匹跟著一匹擠了出來，但馬上它們都站直了，長長的四肢，渾身散發著熱氣。「去幫幫他，」我說，聽話的女傭便急忙過去給馬伕遞挽具。可是，不等她走近，馬伕就抱住了她，把臉貼向她的臉。她驚叫起來，跑到我身邊，臉頰上深深地留下兩道紅紅的牙印。「畜生！」我憤怒地喊道：「你想挨鞭子嗎？」但轉念又想，他是個陌生人，我不知道他從哪裡來，而且在大家拒絕我的時候自願來幫助我。他好像知道我在想什麼，所以並不計較我的威脅，只是向我轉了一下身體，手裡不停地套著馬車。「上車吧，」他說。一點不假，一切已準備就緒。我發現這套馬車非常漂亮，我還從來沒坐過這麼漂亮的馬車呢。我高興地上了車，說道：「不過，車我來駕，因為你不認識路。」「那當然，」他說，「我壓根就不跟你去，我留在羅莎這裡。」「不！」羅莎直喊，然後，預感到無法逃避的厄運的降臨，跑進屋裡。隨後，我聽到她拴上門鏈發出的叮鐺響聲，又聽見鎖子被鎖上；我看見她還關掉了走廊的燈，又迅速穿過好幾個房間，關滅了所有的燈，以使自己不被人找見。「你跟我一起走，」我對馬伕說，「否則我不去了，不論怎樣急迫。我不能想像為此行而把那姑娘送給你作為代價。」「駕！」他吆喝一聲，又拍拍手，頓時，馬車就像激流之中的木塊一樣奔出。我聽到馬伕衝進我家裡時屋門震裂的聲音，然後，我的眼睛、耳朵以及所有感官只覺得一陣呼嘯風馳電掣般掠過，但這瞬間即逝，因為，那病人家的院子就好像緊挨著我家的院門，我已經到達了。馬兒靜靜地站在那兒，雪也不下了，只有月光撒滿大地。病人的父母急匆匆迎出來，後面跟著他姐姐。我幾乎是被從車裡抬出來的。他們七嘴八舌，而我卻不知所云。病人房間裡空氣污濁，令人無法呼吸，廢舊的爐子冒著煙。我想推開窗戶，但首先我要看看病人。他消瘦、不發燒、不冷、也不熱，兩眼無神。小伙子沒穿襯衣，蓋著羽絨被。他坐起身來，抱住我的脖子，對著我的耳朵悄聲說道：「醫生，讓我死吧。」我看了一下四周，發現沒人聽見這話。病人的父母躬著身子呆站在一旁，等候著我的診斷。他姐姐搬來一把椅子讓我放下診包。我打開包，尋找工具。小伙子不斷地從被窩裡向我爬過來，提醒我別忘了他的請求。我抓出一把鑷子，在燭光下試了試，然後又放回去。「是啊，」我瀆神地想：「在這種情況下眾神相助，送來了需要的馬匹，又因為事情緊迫而送來第二匹，更甚者，還送來了馬伕——」這時，我才又想起了羅莎。距她十里之遙，而拉車之馬又無法駕馭，在這種情況下，怎樣才能救她，怎樣才能把她從馬伕身下拉出來呢？現在，那兩匹馬不知怎麼已經鬆開了韁繩，又不知怎麼把窗戶從外邊頂開了，每匹都把頭伸進一扇窗戶，不受那家人的干擾，觀察著病人。「我要立刻返回去。」我想，好像馬兒也在催我動身。但我卻任憑他姐姐脫掉我的皮大衣，她以為我熱得腦脹。老人給我端來一杯郎姆酒，並拍了拍我的肩膀。獻出心愛的東西表明他對我的信任。我搖了搖頭，在老人狹隘的思想裡我感到不適，僅鑒於此我拒絕喝那酒。他母親站在床邊叫我過去，我走過去，把頭貼在小伙子胸口上，他在我潮濕的鬍鬚下顫抖起來。那邊，一匹馬對著屋頂大聲嘶叫。我知道的事已被證實：小伙子是健康的，只不過是有點供血不足，他那憂心忡忡的母親給他喝了過多的咖啡。然而他卻是健康的，最好乾脆把他從床上趕下來。我並不是救世主，讓他躺著吧。我供職於區上，忠於職守，甚至於過分；我薪俸微薄，但卻慷慨大方，樂於幫助窮人，另外，我還要負擔羅莎的生活。如此看來，小伙子也許是對的，我也想去死。在這漫長的冬日裡，我在這裡幹什麼呀！我的馬死了，而且村子裡又沒人借給我一匹。我得從豬圈裡拉出馬來，如果不是意外得馬，我就要用豬拉車了。事情就是這樣。我向這家人點點頭。他們對此一無所知，即使知道，他們也不會相信的。開個藥方是輕而易舉的，但是與這些人互相交流溝通，卻是件難事。現在，我的探診也該結束了。人們又一次讓我白跑一趟，對此，我已習慣了。這個區的人總是在夜裡來按門鈴，使我備受折磨。然而這次卻還要搭上羅莎。這個漂亮的姑娘，多年來生活在我家裡而沒有得到我多少關心——這個代價太大了。我必須馬上認真考慮一下，以克制自己，不致對這家人發火，雖然他們不管怎樣也不會把羅莎還給我。但當我收拾起診包，把手伸向我的皮大衣時，這家人站在一起，父親嗅了嗅手裡那杯朗姆酒，母親可能對我深感失望——是啊，大家到底想要什麼呢？——她滿眼淚水，緊咬嘴唇；他姐姐擺弄著一塊血跡斑斑的手帕，於是我準備在必要的時候承認這小伙子也許真的病了。我向他走過去，他對我微笑著，好像我給他端來了最美味的湯——啊，這時兩匹馬都叫了起來，這叫聲一定是上面所安排，用以幫助我檢查病人——而這時我發現：的確，這小伙子是病了。在他身體右側靠近臀部的地方發現了一個手掌大小的傷口，玫瑰紅色，有許多暗點，深處呈黑色，周邊泛淺，如同嫩軟的顆粒，不均勻地出現淤血，像露天煤礦一樣張開著。這是遠看的情況，近看則更為嚴重。誰會見此而不驚叫呢？在傷口的深處，有許多和我小手指一樣大小的蟲蛹，身體紫紅，同時又沾滿血污，它們正用白色的小頭和無數小腿蠕動著爬向亮處。可憐的小伙子，你已經無可救藥。我找到了你碩大的傷口，你身上這朵花送你走向死亡。這家人都很高興，他們看著我忙這忙那，姐姐把這情況告訴母親，母親告訴父親，父親又告訴一些客人。這些人正踮著腳尖，張開雙臂以保持平衡，從月光下走進敞開的門。「你會救我嗎？」小伙子如泣如訴地悄聲問我，傷口中蠕動的生命弄得他頭暈目眩。我們這裡的人就是這樣，總是向醫生要求不可能的事情。他們已經喪失了舊有的信仰，牧師閒居家中，一件接著一件撕爛他們的法衣，而卻要求醫生妙手回春，拯救萬物。那麼，隨他們的便吧：我並非不請自到，如果你們要我擔任聖職，我也就只得順從。我一個年邁的鄉村醫生，女傭被人搶去了，我還能企望什麼更好的事情呢！此時，這家人以及村子裡的老者一齊走過來脫掉了我的衣服；一個學生合唱隊在老師的帶領下站在屋前，用極簡單的聲調唱著這樣的歌詞：「脫掉他的衣，他就能醫，若他不醫，就致他於死地！他只是個醫生，他只是個醫生。」然後，我被脫光了衣服，用手指捋著鬍子，側頭靜觀著眾人。我鎮定自若，勝過所有的人，儘管我孤立無援，被他們抱住頭、抓住腳、按倒在床上，但我仍然這樣。他們把我朝牆放下，挨著病人的傷口，然後，都退出小屋，並關上了門；歌聲也嘎然而止，雲塊遮住了月亮，暖暖的被子裹著我，馬頭在窗洞裡忽隱忽現地晃動著。「你知道，」我聽見有人在耳邊說，「我對你缺乏信任，你也不過是在某個地方被人拋棄了而不能自救。你沒有幫我，反倒使我的病榻更小。我恨不得把你的眼睛挖出來。」「不錯，」我說，「這是一種恥辱。但我現在是個醫生，你要我怎樣呢？相信我，事情對我也不容易。」「難道這樣的道歉就會使我滿足嗎？哎，也許我只能這樣，我一向都很知足。帶著一個美麗的傷口我來到人世，這是我的全部嫁妝。」「年輕的朋友，」我說道，「你的缺點是不能總攬全局。我這個人去過附近所有的病房，我告訴你，你的傷並不那麼可怕。傷口比較深，是被斧子砍了兩下所致。許多人將半個身子置於樹林中，卻幾乎聽不到林中斧子的聲音，更不用說斧子向他們逼近。」「事情真是這樣嗎？還是你趁我發燒在欺騙我？」「確實如此。請帶著一個工職醫生用名譽擔保的話去吧。」他相信了，安靜下來不再做聲。然而，現在是我考慮自我解救的時候了。馬匹依然忠實地站在原位，我很快收集起衣服、皮大衣和出診包，也顧不上去穿衣服。馬兒如果還像來時那樣神速，那麼在某種程度上我就是從這張床上一下就跳上我的床。一匹馬馴服地把頭從窗戶中退回去。我把我那包東西扔進車裡，皮大衣丟得好遠，只一個袖子緊緊掛在一個鉤子上。這樣就可以啦。我飛身上馬。韁繩鬆弛下來，馬匹也沒有互相套在一起，而馬車則晃晃悠悠地跟在後面，再後面皮大衣也拖在雪地裡。「駕！」我喊道，但馬並沒有奔馳起來，我們像老人似的慢慢地駛過雪原，耳後久久地迴響著孩子門那新而謬誤的歌：「歡樂吧，病人門，醫生已被放倒在你們的床上！」我從未這樣走進家門。我丟掉了興旺發達的行醫工作，一個後繼者搶走了它。但無濟於事，因為他無法取代我。在我家裡那可憎的馬伕正在施行暴虐，羅莎是他的犧牲品。我不忍再往下想。在這最不幸時代的嚴冬裡，我一個老人赤身裸體，坐在人間的車子上，而駕著非人間的馬，四處奔波，飽受嚴寒的折磨。我的皮大衣掛在馬車後面，而我卻夠不著它，那伙手腳靈活的病人呢，也不肯動一動指頭幫我一把。受騙了！受騙了！只要被夜間的鈴聲捉弄一次——這永遠不可挽回。
我陷於極大的窘境：我必須立刻啟程到十里之外的一個村子看望一位重病人，但狂風大雪阻塞了我與他之間的茫茫原野。我有一輛馬車，輕便，大輪子，很適合在我們鄉間道路上行駛。我穿上皮大衣，提上出診包，站在院子裡準備啟程，但是，沒有馬，馬沒有啦，我自己的馬在昨天嚴寒的冬夜裡勞累過度而死了。我的女傭現在滿村子裡跑東跑西，想借到一匹馬，然而我知道這純屬徒勞。雪越積越厚，行走越來越困難，我茫然地站在那裡。這時那姑娘出現在門口，獨自一人，搖晃著馬燈。當然，有誰在這種時候會借他的馬給別人跑這差事？我又在院子裡踱來踱去，不知所措。我心煩意亂，苦惱不堪，用腳踢了一下那已經多年不用的豬圈的破門。門開了，擺來擺去拍得門樞啪啪直響。一股熱氣和類似馬的氣味撲面而來，裡面一根繩子上一盞廄燈晃來晃去；低矮的棚圈裡有個人蜷曲蹲在那裡，臉上睜著一雙藍眼睛。他葡匐著爬過來，問道：「要我套馬嗎？」我不知道該說什麼，只是彎下腰，想看看這圈裡還有沒有其他什麼東西。女傭站在我身旁，說道：「人們都不知道自己家裡有什麼東西。」我們兩個都笑了。「喂，兄弟！喂，姑娘！」馬伕喊著，於是兩匹健壯的膘馬相擁而現，它們的腿緊貼著身體，漂亮的馬頭像駱駝一樣低垂著，僅靠著軀體運動的力量從與它們差不多大小的門洞裡一匹跟著一匹擠了出來，但馬上它們都站直了，長長的四肢，渾身散發著熱氣。「去幫幫他，」我說，聽話的女傭便急忙過去給馬伕遞挽具。可是，不等她走近，馬伕就抱住了她，把臉貼向她的臉。她驚叫起來，跑到我身邊，臉頰上深深地留下兩道紅紅的牙印。「畜生！」我憤怒地喊道：「你想挨鞭子嗎？」但轉念又想，他是個陌生人，我不知道他從哪裡來，而且在大家拒絕我的時候自願來幫助我。他好像知道我在想什麼，所以並不計較我的威脅，只是向我轉了一下身體，手裡不停地套著馬車。「上車吧，」他說。一點不假，一切已準備就緒。我發現這套馬車非常漂亮，我還從來沒坐過這麼漂亮的馬車呢。我高興地上了車，說道：「不過，車我來駕，因為你不認識路。」「那當然，」他說，「我壓根就不跟你去，我留在羅莎這裡。」「不！」羅莎直喊，然後，預感到無法逃避的厄運的降臨，跑進屋裡。隨後，我聽到她拴上門鏈發出的叮鐺響聲，又聽見鎖子被鎖上；我看見她還關掉了走廊的燈，又迅速穿過好幾個房間，關滅了所有的燈，以使自己不被人找見。「你跟我一起走，」我對馬伕說，「否則我不去了，不論怎樣急迫。我不能想像為此行而把那姑娘送給你作為代價。」「駕！」他吆喝一聲，又拍拍手，頓時，馬車就像激流之中的木塊一樣奔出。我聽到馬伕衝進我家裡時屋門震裂的聲音，然後，我的眼睛、耳朵以及所有感官只覺得一陣呼嘯風馳電掣般掠過，但這瞬間即逝，因為，那病人家的院子就好像緊挨著我家的院門，我已經到達了。馬兒靜靜地站在那兒，雪也不下了，只有月光撒滿大地。病人的父母急匆匆迎出來，後面跟著他姐姐。我幾乎是被從車裡抬出來的。他們七嘴八舌，而我卻不知所云。病人房間裡空氣污濁，令人無法呼吸，廢舊的爐子冒著煙。我想推開窗戶，但首先我要看看病人。他消瘦、不發燒、不冷、也不熱，兩眼無神。小伙子沒穿襯衣，蓋著羽絨被。他坐起身來，抱住我的脖子，對著我的耳朵悄聲說道：「醫生，讓我死吧。」我看了一下四周，發現沒人聽見這話。病人的父母躬著身子呆站在一旁，等候著我的診斷。他姐姐搬來一把椅子讓我放下診包。我打開包，尋找工具。小伙子不斷地從被窩裡向我爬過來，提醒我別忘了他的請求。我抓出一把鑷子，在燭光下試了試，然後又放回去。「是啊，」我瀆神地想：「在這種情況下眾神相助，送來了需要的馬匹，又因為事情緊迫而送來第二匹，更甚者，還送來了馬伕——」這時，我才又想起了羅莎。距她十里之遙，而拉車之馬又無法駕馭，在這種情況下，怎樣才能救她，怎樣才能把她從馬伕身下拉出來呢？現在，那兩匹馬不知怎麼已經鬆開了韁繩，又不知怎麼把窗戶從外邊頂開了，每匹都把頭伸進一扇窗戶，不受那家人的干擾，觀察著病人。「我要立刻返回去。」我想，好像馬兒也在催我動身。但我卻任憑他姐姐脫掉我的皮大衣，她以為我熱得腦脹。老人給我端來一杯郎姆酒，並拍了拍我的肩膀。獻出心愛的東西表明他對我的信任。我搖了搖頭，在老人狹隘的思想裡我感到不適，僅鑒於此我拒絕喝那酒。他母親站在床邊叫我過去，我走過去，把頭貼在小伙子胸口上，他在我潮濕的鬍鬚下顫抖起來。那邊，一匹馬對著屋頂大聲嘶叫。我知道的事已被證實：小伙子是健康的，只不過是有點供血不足，他那憂心忡忡的母親給他喝了過多的咖啡。然而他卻是健康的，最好乾脆把他從床上趕下來。我並不是救世主，讓他躺著吧。我供職於區上，忠於職守，甚至於過分；我薪俸微薄，但卻慷慨大方，樂於幫助窮人，另外，我還要負擔羅莎的生活。如此看來，小伙子也許是對的，我也想去死。在這漫長的冬日裡，我在這裡幹什麼呀！我的馬死了，而且村子裡又沒人借給我一匹。我得從豬圈裡拉出馬來，如果不是意外得馬，我就要用豬拉車了。事情就是這樣。我向這家人點點頭。他們對此一無所知，即使知道，他們也不會相信的。開個藥方是輕而易舉的，但是與這些人互相交流溝通，卻是件難事。現在，我的探診也該結束了。人們又一次讓我白跑一趟，對此，我已習慣了。這個區的人總是在夜裡來按門鈴，使我備受折磨。然而這次卻還要搭上羅莎。這個漂亮的姑娘，多年來生活在我家裡而沒有得到我多少關心——這個代價太大了。我必須馬上認真考慮一下，以克制自己，不致對這家人發火，雖然他們不管怎樣也不會把羅莎還給我。但當我收拾起診包，把手伸向我的皮大衣時，這家人站在一起，父親嗅了嗅手裡那杯朗姆酒，母親可能對我深感失望——是啊，大家到底想要什麼呢？——她滿眼淚水，緊咬嘴唇；他姐姐擺弄著一塊血跡斑斑的手帕，於是我準備在必要的時候承認這小伙子也許真的病了。我向他走過去，他對我微笑著，好像我給他端來了最美味的湯——啊，這時兩匹馬都叫了起來，這叫聲一定是上面所安排，用以幫助我檢查病人——而這時我發現：的確，這小伙子是病了。在他身體右側靠近臀部的地方發現了一個手掌大小的傷口，玫瑰紅色，有許多暗點，深處呈黑色，周邊泛淺，如同嫩軟的顆粒，不均勻地出現淤血，像露天煤礦一樣張開著。這是遠看的情況，近看則更為嚴重。誰會見此而不驚叫呢？在傷口的深處，有許多和我小手指一樣大小的蟲蛹，身體紫紅，同時又沾滿血污，它們正用白色的小頭和無數小腿蠕動著爬向亮處。可憐的小伙子，你已經無可救藥。我找到了你碩大的傷口，你身上這朵花送你走向死亡。這家人都很高興，他們看著我忙這忙那，姐姐把這情況告訴母親，母親告訴父親，父親又告訴一些客人。這些人正踮著腳尖，張開雙臂以保持平衡，從月光下走進敞開的門。「你會救我嗎？」小伙子如泣如訴地悄聲問我，傷口中蠕動的生命弄得他頭暈目眩。我們這裡的人就是這樣，總是向醫生要求不可能的事情。他們已經喪失了舊有的信仰，牧師閒居家中，一件接著一件撕爛他們的法衣，而卻要求醫生妙手回春，拯救萬物。那麼，隨他們的便吧：我並非不請自到，如果你們要我擔任聖職，我也就只得順從。我一個年邁的鄉村醫生，女傭被人搶去了，我還能企望什麼更好的事情呢！此時，這家人以及村子裡的老者一齊走過來脫掉了我的衣服；一個學生合唱隊在老師的帶領下站在屋前，用極簡單的聲調唱著這樣的歌詞：「脫掉他的衣，他就能醫，若他不醫，就致他於死地！他只是個醫生，他只是個醫生。」然後，我被脫光了衣服，用手指捋著鬍子，側頭靜觀著眾人。我鎮定自若，勝過所有的人，儘管我孤立無援，被他們抱住頭、抓住腳、按倒在床上，但我仍然這樣。他們把我朝牆放下，挨著病人的傷口，然後，都退出小屋，並關上了門；歌聲也嘎然而止，雲塊遮住了月亮，暖暖的被子裹著我，馬頭在窗洞裡忽隱忽現地晃動著。「你知道，」我聽見有人在耳邊說，「我對你缺乏信任，你也不過是在某個地方被人拋棄了而不能自救。你沒有幫我，反倒使我的病榻更小。我恨不得把你的眼睛挖出來。」「不錯，」我說，「這是一種恥辱。但我現在是個醫生，你要我怎樣呢？相信我，事情對我也不容易。」「難道這樣的道歉就會使我滿足嗎？哎，也許我只能這樣，我一向都很知足。帶著一個美麗的傷口我來到人世，這是我的全部嫁妝。」「年輕的朋友，」我說道，「你的缺點是不能總攬全局。我這個人去過附近所有的病房，我告訴你，你的傷並不那麼可怕。傷口比較深，是被斧子砍了兩下所致。許多人將半個身子置於樹林中，卻幾乎聽不到林中斧子的聲音，更不用說斧子向他們逼近。」「事情真是這樣嗎？還是你趁我發燒在欺騙我？」「確實如此。請帶著一個工職醫生用名譽擔保的話去吧。」他相信了，安靜下來不再做聲。然而，現在是我考慮自我解救的時候了。馬匹依然忠實地站在原位，我很快收集起衣服、皮大衣和出診包，也顧不上去穿衣服。馬兒如果還像來時那樣神速，那麼在某種程度上我就是從這張床上一下就跳上我的床。一匹馬馴服地把頭從窗戶中退回去。我把我那包東西扔進車裡，皮大衣丟得好遠，只一個袖子緊緊掛在一個鉤子上。這樣就可以啦。我飛身上馬。韁繩鬆弛下來，馬匹也沒有互相套在一起，而馬車則晃晃悠悠地跟在後面，再後面皮大衣也拖在雪地裡。「駕！」我喊道，但馬並沒有奔馳起來，我們像老人似的慢慢地駛過雪原，耳後久久地迴響著孩子門那新而謬誤的歌：「歡樂吧，病人門，醫生已被放倒在你們的床上！」我從未這樣走進家門。我丟掉了興旺發達的行醫工作，一個後繼者搶走了它。但無濟於事，因為他無法取代我。在我家裡那可憎的馬伕正在施行暴虐，羅莎是他的犧牲品。我不忍再往下想。在這最不幸時代的嚴冬裡，我一個老人赤身裸體，坐在人間的車子上，而駕著非人間的馬，四處奔波，飽受嚴寒的折磨。我的皮大衣掛在馬車後面，而我卻夠不著它，那伙手腳靈活的病人呢，也不肯動一動指頭幫我一把。受騙了！受騙了！只要被夜間的鈴聲捉弄一次——這永遠不可挽回。
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