IVAN YEGORITCH KRASNYHIN, a fourth-rate journalist, returns home late at night, grave and careworn, with a peculiar air of concentration. —-
伊凡·叶戈里奇·克拉斯尼洪,一个四流的记者,深夜回到家中,面色凝重,神情专注。 —-

He looks like a man expecting a police-raid or contemplating suicide. —-
他看起来像是一个在等待警察突袭或者在考虑自杀的人。 —-

Pacing about his rooms he halts abruptly, ruffles up his hair, and says in the tone in which Laertes announces his intention of avenging his sister:
在他的房间里踱来踱去,他突然停下来,拨乱了头发,用像莱尔特斯宣布要为妹妹复仇那样的口气说道:

“Shattered, soul-weary, a sick load of misery on the heart . . . and then to sit down and write. —-
“心破碎,灵魂疲倦,心灵上承受着沉重的痛苦……然后坐下来写作。 —-

And this is called life! How is it nobody has described the agonizing discord in the soul of a writer who has to amuse the crowd when his heart is heavy or to shed tears at the word of command when his heart is light? —-
这就是所谓的生活!竟然没有人描述过一个作家心灵的折磨矛盾,当他心里沉重时,必须取悦观众,或者在受命令时流下眼泪,而他内心又轻松愉快。 —-

I must be playful, coldly unconcerned, witty, but what if I am weighed down with misery, what if I am ill, or my child is dying or my wife in anguish!”
我必须要有趣,漠不关心,机智,但是如果我心里负担沉重,如果我生病了,或者我的孩子在垂危,或者我的妻子痛苦呢!”

He says this, brandishing his fists and rolling his eyes. . . . —-
他大声说着,挥舞起拳头,并翻着白眼…… —-

Then he goes into the bedroom and wakes his wife.
然后他走进卧室,把妻子叫醒。

“Nadya,” he says, “I am sitting down to write. . . . Please don’t let anyone interrupt me. —-
“娜迪娅,”他说,“我要坐下来写作……请不要让任何人打扰我。 —-

I can’t write with children crying or cooks snoring. . . . See, too, that there’s tea and . . . —-
我不能在孩子哭闹或炊事员打鼾的时候写作……还有,确保有茶和……牛排之类的……你知道我没有茶就写不了作品…… —-

steak or something. . . . You know that I can’t write without tea. . . . —-
茶是我工作所需的精力的源泉。” —-

Tea is the one thing that gives me the energy for my work.”
回到他的房间,他慢慢脱下上衣,背心和靴子。他做得非常缓慢;

Returning to his room he takes off his coat, waistcoat, and boots. He does this very slowly; —-
然后,他带着一副受委屈的无辜表情坐到桌前。 —-

then, assuming an expression of injured innocence, he sits down to his table.
他的写作桌上没有任何随意和普通之物,最微小的细节都带着严肃、经过精心计划的印记。

There is nothing casual, nothing ordinary on his writing-table, down to the veriest trifle everything bears the stamp of a stern, deliberately planned programme. —-
从字面上来说,一切都体现着这种特质。 —-

Little busts and photographs of distinguished writers, heaps of rough manuscripts, a volume of Byelinsky with a page turned down, part of a skull by way of an ash-tray, a sheet of newspaper folded carelessly, but so that a passage is uppermost, boldly marked in blue pencil with the word “disgraceful. —-
小小的半身像和著名作家的照片,一堆粗糙的手稿,一卷刀丢在那里当烟灰缸,一张报纸随意地折叠着,上面用蓝色铅笔大胆标记着“可耻”。 —-

” There are a dozen sharply- pointed pencils and several penholders fitted with new nibs, put in readiness that no accidental breaking of a pen may for a single second interrupt the flight of his creative fancy.
这里有一打尖锐的铅笔和几只装上新笔尖的钢笔,以防万一有笔碎了,不能让创作的奔放稍微中断一刹那。

Ivan Yegoritch throws himself back in his chair, and closing his eyes concentrates himself on his subject. —-
伊凡·叶戈里奇靠在椅子上,闭上眼睛,全神贯注于他的主题。 —-

He hears his wife shuffling about in her slippers and splitting shavings to heat the samovar. —-
他听到妻子穿着拖鞋在房间里蹭来蹭去,用削好的木屑来加热沙炉。 —-

She is hardly awake, that is apparent from the way the knife and the lid of the samovar keep dropping from her hands. —-
她几乎还没醒来,这从她手里的刀和沙炉的盖子不停掉下来的方式就能看出来。 —-

Soon the hissing of the samovar and the spluttering of the frying meat reaches him. —-
不久,茶炉发出嘶嘶声,煎肉发出噼啪声。 —-

His wife is still splitting shavings and rattling with the doors and blowers of the stove.
他妻子仍然在削木屑,拍打炉子和吹风机。

All at once Ivan Yegoritch starts, opens frightened eyes, and begins to sniff the air.
伊凡·叶戈里奇突然一惊,睁开惊恐的眼睛,开始闻空气。

“Heavens! the stove is smoking!” he groans, grimacing with a face of agony. “Smoking! —-
“天哪!炉子冒烟了!” 他痛苦地呻吟着,“冒烟了!可恶的女人,有意想要毒死我!” —-

That insufferable woman makes a point of trying to poison me! —-
“天哪,以神的名义,我怎么能在这样的环境下写作?请告诉我!” —-

How, in God’s Name, am I to write in such surroundings, kindly tell me that?”
他冲进厨房,用戏剧化的哭声嚷嚷。

He rushes into the kitchen and breaks into a theatrical wail. —-
当妻子稍后小心翼翼地走上脚尖,给他端来一杯茶时,他依旧坐在椅子上,闭着眼睛沉浸在自己的文章中。 —-

When a little later, his wife, stepping cautiously on tiptoe, brings him in a glass of tea, he is sitting in an easy chair as before with his eyes closed, absorbed in his article. —-
他一动不动,用两根手指轻轻敲击额头,装作对妻子的存在毫不知情。 —-

He does not stir, drums lightly on his forehead with two fingers, and pretends he is not aware of his wife’s presence. —-
……他的脸上带着受伤的无辜表情。 —-

. . . His face wears an expression of injured innocence.
……

Like a girl who has been presented with a costly fan, he spends a long time coquetting, grimacing, and posing to himself before he writes the title. —-
像一个收到了一把昂贵的扇子的女孩,他花了很长时间在自己面前调情、作鬼脸、摆姿势,然后才写下标题。 —-

. . . He presses his temples, he wriggles, and draws his legs up under his chair as though he were in pain, or half closes his eyes languidly like a cat on the sofa. —-
. . .他按摩着太阳穴,扭动身体,双腿蜷缩在椅子下,好像在痛苦中,或者懒洋洋地眯起眼睛,就像沙发上的猫一样。 —-

At last, not without hesitation, he stretches out his hand towards the inkstand, and with an expression as though he were signing a death-warrant, writes the title. . . .
最后,他犹豫不决地伸出手去拿墨水瓶,面带一种好像在签署死刑判决书的表情,写下了标题. . .

“Mammy, give me some water!” he hears his son’s voice.
“妈咪,给我些水!”他听到儿子的声音。

“Hush!” says his mother. “Daddy’s writing! Hush!”
“嘘!”他的母亲说道。“爸爸在写东西!小声点!”

Daddy writes very, very quickly, without corrections or pauses, he has scarcely time to turn over the pages. —-
爸爸写得非常非常快,没有修改或停顿的时间,他几乎来不及翻页。 —-

The busts and portraits of celebrated authors look at his swiftly racing pen and, keeping stock still, seem to be thinking: —-
那些著名作家的半身像和肖像看着他飞快的笔迹,一动不动,似乎在思考: —-

“Oh my, how you are going it!”
“哦天哪,你走得好快!”

“Sh!” squeaks the pen.
“嘘!”钢笔尖吱吱地叫着。

“Sh!” whisper the authors, when his knee jolts the table and they are set trembling.
“嘘!”作家们低声说道,当他的膝盖撞到桌子上时,他们会颤抖起来。

All at once Krasnyhin draws himself up, lays down his pen and listens. . . . —-
突然,克拉斯尼欣挺直身子,放下笔,倾听着. . . —-

He hears an even monotonous whispering. . . . —-
他听到一个单调而均匀的低语声. . . —-

It is Foma Nikolaevitch, the lodger in the next room, saying his prayers.
那是隔壁房间的房客弗玛·尼古拉耶维奇在做祷告。

“I say!” cries Krasnyhin. “Couldn’t you, please, say your prayers more quietly? —-
“喂!”克拉斯尼欣喊道。“你能不能安静点做祷告?你让我没法写东西!” —-

You prevent me from writing!”
你们将整处顺序母体相配,标点符号以及标签为准.

“Very sorry. . . .” Foma Nikolaevitch answers timidly.
“非常抱歉……”福马·尼古拉耶维奇小心地回答。

After covering five pages, Krasnyhin stretches and looks at his watch.
翻了五页后,克拉西宁伸了个懒腰,看了看手表。

“Goodness, three o’clock already,” he moans. —-
“天哪,已经三点了,”他抱怨道。 —-

“Other people are asleep while I . . . —-
“其他人都在睡觉,而我……只有我必须工作!” —-

I alone must work!”
精疲力尽的他走到卧室里,一边低头一边对着妻子说道:“娜佳,给我再来点茶!我……感觉虚弱。”

Shattered and exhausted he goes, with his head on one side, to the bedroom to wake his wife, and says in a languid voice:
他写到四点钟,如果他的课题没有被耗尽的话,他会毫不犹豫地写到六点。

“Nadya, get me some more tea! I . . . feel weak.”
在没有任何忘恩负义、挑剔眼光的人面前,他对自己和周围的无生命物体挤眉弄眼,高高在上,欺压和控制着命运所放在他权力之下的这个小蚂蚁世界,这是他生活的甜蜜和调剂。

He writes till four o’clock and would readily have written till six if his subject had not been exhausted. —-
在家里,这个暴君与我们在编辑办公室里习惯看到的那个谦和、温顺、头脑迟钝的小人物相比,是多么不同啊! —-

Coquetting and posing to himself and the inanimate objects about him, far from any indiscreet, critical eye, tyrannizing and domineering over the little anthill that fate has put in his power are the honey and the salt of his existence. —-
“我太疲惫了,恐怕我睡不着……”他上床时说道。 —-

And how different is this despot here at home from the humble, meek, dull-witted little man we are accustomed to see in the editor’s offices!
“我们的工作,这种该死的、毫无报答的艰苦劳作,更使人的灵魂疲惫,而不仅仅是身体……我最好吃点溴化物……只有家人让我坚持下去。”

“I am so exhausted that I am afraid I shan’t sleep . . .” he says as he gets into bed. —-
“啊,按照要求写作!真是太可怕了。” —-

“Our work, this cursed, ungrateful hard labour, exhausts the soul even more than the body. . . . —-
他一直睡到中午十二点或一点,睡得香甜、健康……啊! —-

I had better take some bromide. . . . God knows, if it were not for my family I’d throw up the work. —-
请将这个可恶、忘恩负义、艰苦的工作耗尽了心灵。“……没有我的家庭,我宁愿放弃工作。” —-

. . . To write to order! It is awful.”
他睡到十二点或一点,睡得很沉,很健康……啊!

He sleeps till twelve or one o’clock in the day, sleeps a sound, healthy sleep. . . . Ah! —-
“上帝知道,如果不是因为我的家庭,我会放弃这份工作。” —-

how he would sleep, what dreams he would have, how he would spread himself if he were to become a well-known writer, an editor, or even a sub-editor!
如果他变成了一位知名作家、编辑甚至副编,他会怎样睡觉,会做什么样的梦,以及他会如何传播自己!

“He has been writing all night,” whispers his wife with a scared expression on her face. “Sh!”
“他通宵写作了,”他的妻子用恐惧的表情低声说道。”嘘!”

No one dares to speak or move or make a sound. —-
没有人敢说话、移动或发出声音。 —-

His sleep is something sacred, and the culprit who offends against it will pay dearly for his fault.
他的睡眠是神圣的,冒犯之人将为自己的过错付出惨重代价。

“Hush!” floats over the flat. “Hush!”
“嘘!”从公寓中飘来。”嘘!”