我不必費力追憶，就能記起一件往事的全部細節。那是陰雨綿綿的秋天的一個傍晚，我和父親站在莫斯科的一條熙熙攘攘的大街上，我感到一种奇怪的 病漸漸控制了我。沒有一點疼痛，但兩條腿不由得彎下去，要說的話嘎在喉嚨口，頭無力地歪到一邊……顯然，我很快會倒下去，失去知覺。
這時如果把我送進醫院，醫生們一定會在我的病歷卡上寫上“饑餓”１字樣--這种病在任何醫學教科書里是找不到記載的。
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１原文為拉丁文。
我的親爹挨著我站在人行道上。他穿著很舊的夏季大衣，一頂花條呢帽里露出一團棉花。他的腳上穿一雙又大又重的膠皮雨鞋。這個世俗的人生怕別人看出他光腳穿著雨鞋，便在小腿上再套一副舊皮靴筒。
這個可怜而又有點糊涂的怪人，隨著他那件做工考究的夏季大衣變得越來越破舊和肮髒，我對他的愛卻越來越深厚。他在五個月前來到京城，想謀求一個文書職位。這五個月來他一直在城里東奔西跑，到處找事做，直到今天才下決心跑到大街上來乞討……
在我們對面是幢高大的三層樓房，挂著藍色招牌：“旅店”。我的頭軟弱無力地往后仰，朝兩邊歪，我不由自主地朝上方看，望著旅店那燈火通明的窗 子。窗內閃動著人影。可以看到一架輕便管風琴的右半邊、兩幅粗劣的彩畫和挂著的電燈……我盯住一扇窗子，看到一塊發白的東西。那東西動不動，輪廓方正，在 四周深褐色的背景上十分醒目。我瞪著眼睛細看，認出那是挂在牆上的一塊白色牌子。那上面有字，但究竟是什么宁，我就看不清了……
足足有半個鐘頭，我不讓眼睛离開這塊牌子。那片白色吸引住我的視線，似乎對我的腦子在施催眠術。我竭力想讀出牌子上的字，但我的努力卻是白費。
最后，那奇怪的病汗始顯示威力。
馬車的惋輛聲在我听來像是隆隆的響雷，在大街上的臭气中我能分辨出上千种气味，在我的眼里，那旅店的燈光和街燈成了令人目眩的閃電。我的五种感官都高度緊張，极度靈敏。我開始看到從未看到的東西。
“牡蠣１……”我終于看清了牌子上的字。
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１牡蠣，也稱蛛，海蠣子，海洋軟体動物，肉供食用，是餐館中一道价錢很貴的海鮮。
好古怪的字！我在這世上活了整整八年零三個月，怎么一次也沒听到過這個詞呢？這是什么意思？不會是旅店老板的姓吧，可是姓氏招牌通常挂在大門口，而不是挂在牆上！
“爸爸，牡蠣是什么？”我費力地把臉轉向父親，啞著嗓子問道。
父親沒有听見。他正專心地注視著人群的流動，目送著每一個經過他身邊的人……憑他的眼神我看出，他想對行人說點什么，但那句重如秤砣的要命的 話，卻始終挂在他顫抖的嘴唇上，怎么也吐不出來。他甚至朝一個行人邁出一大步，碰碰他的衣袖，但等那人回過頭來時，他連忙說聲“對不起”，一臉尷尬地倒退 回來。
“爸爸，牡蠣是什么？”我又問一遍。
“一种動物……生活在海洋里……”
我立即想象出這种從未見過的海洋動物是什么模樣。它應當是介于魚蝦之間的一种東西。既然它生活在海洋里，那么用它再加上胡椒和月桂葉肯定能做 出一盆十分鮮美的熱湯，或是做一盆帶脆骨的酸辣湯，或是做成蝦醬似的澆汁，或是加上洋姜做成冷凍……我生動地想象著，人們怎樣從市場上帶回這种動物，赶快 把它收拾干淨，赶快下鍋……快，快，因為大家都餓了……餓极了！從廚房里飄出煎魚和蝦湯的香味。
我感到這股香味惹得我的上顎和鼻孔發痒，而且這种感覺漸漸地遍及全身……旅店，父親，白牌子，我的袖子，全都冒出這种香味。香味濃极了，惹得我開始咀嚼起來。我又嚼又咽，好像我的嘴里當真含著一塊牡蠣肉似的。
我感到极大的滿足，腿卻不由得彎下去，我怕摔倒，便抓住父親的袖子，身子緊緊貼著他那濕淮液的夏季大衣。父親緊縮著身子，直打哆嗦。他發冷……
“爸爸，牡蠣是素燒，還是葷燒？”我問道。
“這東西要生吃……”父親說，“它有殼，像烏龜一樣，不過……它有兩片殼。”
剎那間，鮮美的香味不再惹得我渾身發痒，幻想破滅了……現在我全明白了！
“真惡心，”我小聲說，“真惡心！”
牡蠣原來是這樣！我一直把它想象成青蛙那樣的動物，現在這只青蛙藏在殼里，睜著亮閃閃的眼睛朝外看，不斷擺動它那极難看的下頜。我想象著，人 們怎樣從市場上帶口這种有殼、有螫、眼睛閃亮、皮膚粘乎乎的動物……所有的孩子見了都躲起來，只有廚娘厭惡地皺起眉頭，抓住一只大螫，把它放在盤子里，再 送到飯桌上。大人們拿起來就吃……吃生的，連同它的眼睛、牙齒、爪子都吃進去！可它吱吱直叫，极力咬人的嘴唇……
我皺起眉頭，可是……可是為什么我的牙齒卻開始咀嚼起來？這牡蠣樣子可怕，令人討厭，令人作嘔，可我還是吃它，吃得狼吞虎咽，生怕嘗出它的味 道，聞出它的气味。吃完一只，我已經看到第二只、第三只的亮閃閃的眼睛……我把它們都吃了……最后我吃餐巾，吃盤子，吃父親的膠皮雨鞋，吃那塊白牌子…… 凡是我的眼睛看到的東西，我統統吃下去，因為我感到，只有吃下東西，我的病才會好起來。那些牡蠣可怕地睜著眼睛，其丑無比，我一想到它們就渾身打顫，但我 還是要吃！吃！
“給我牡蠣！給我牡蠣！”這呼喊從我的胸中迸發，我朝前伸出雙手。
“行行好，先生們！”這時我听到父親那低沉而壓抑的聲音，“真不好意思求人，可是，我的上帝，這孩子頂不住了！”
“給我牡蠣！”我呼喊著，揪住父親的大衣后襟。
“小小年紀，難道你會吃牡蠣？”我听見身邊有人發笑。
在我們面前站著兩個戴圓筒禮帽的先生，他們哈哈笑著瞧著我的臉。
“你這個小家伙想吃牡蠣？當真？有意思！你知道怎么吃嗎？”
我記得，這時有一只有力的手把我拖進了燈火通明的旅店。很快身邊就圍上了一堆人，他們哄笑著好奇地瞅著我。我在一張桌旁坐下，開始吃一樣滑溜 溜的東西，那東西很咸，有一股潮气和霉味。我狼吞虎咽般吃起來，不嚼，不看，也不想弄清我吃的是什么。我覺得，如果我睜開眼睛，那我一定會看到一對亮閃閃 的眼睛，螯和尖利的牙齒。
我忽然嚼到一樣硬東西。嘎巴一聲咬碎了。
“哈哈哈！他連殼也吃了！”人們大笑，“小傻瓜，難道這也能吃嗎？”
我記得后來我渴得厲害。我躺在自己床上，卻睡不著，因為我全身的痛，發燙的嘴有一股怪味。我的父親從一個屋角走到另一個屋角，不停地揮著手比划著。
“我好像著涼了，”他嘟噥道，“我感到腦袋里……好像里面有個人……恐怕是因為我今天沒有……那個……沒有吃過東西……我這人，真的，是有點古怪，糊涂……我明明看到那些先生為牡蚜付了十盧布，我怎么不走過去，向他們討几個……借几個錢呢？他們多半會給的。”
到第二天清晨我才睡著，我夢見了一只有螫、有殼、眼珠子老轉動的青蛙。中午我渴得醒過來，睜開眼睛找父親：他依舊走來走去，不停地揮著手比划著……
一八八四年十二月一日
I NEED no great effort of memory to recall, in every detail, the rainy autumn evening when I stood with my father in one of the more frequented streets of Moscow, and felt that I was gradually being overcome by a strange illness. I had no pain at all, but my legs were giving way under me, the words stuck in my throat, my head slipped weakly on one side . . . It seemed as though, in a moment, I must fall down and lose consciousness. If I had been taken into a hospital at that minute, the doctors would have had to write over my bed: Fames, a disease which is not in the manuals of medicine. Beside me on the pavement stood my father in a shabby summer overcoat and a serge cap, from which a bit of white wadding was sticking out. On his feet he had big heavy goloshes. Afraid, vain man, that people would see that his feet were bare under his goloshes, he had drawn the tops of some old boots up round the calves of his legs. This poor, foolish, queer creature, whom I loved the more warmly the more ragged and dirty his smart summer overcoat became, had come to Moscow, five months before, to look for a job as copying-clerk. For those five months he had been trudging about Moscow looking for work, and it was only on that day that he had brought himself to go into the street to beg for alms. Before us was a big house of three storeys, adorned with a blue signboard with the word "Restaurant" on it. My head was drooping feebly backwards and on one side, and I could not help looking upwards at the lighted windows of the restaurant. Human figures were flitting about at the windows. I could see the right side of the orchestrion, two oleographs, hanging lamps . . . . Staring into one window, I saw a patch of white. The patch was motionless, and its rectangular outlines stood out sharply against the dark, brown background. I looked intently and made out of the patch a white placard on the wall. Something was written on it, but what it was, I could not see. . . For half an hour I kept my eyes on the placard. Its white attracted my eyes, and, as it were, hypnotised my brain. I tried to read it, but my efforts were in vain. At last the strange disease got the upper hand. The rumble of the carriages began to seem like thunder, in the stench of the street I distinguished a thousand smells. The restaurant lights and the lamps dazzled my eyes like lightning. My five senses were overstrained and sensitive beyond the normal. I began to see what I had not seen before. "Oysters . . ." I made out on the placard. A strange word! I had lived in the world eight years and three months, but had never come across that word. What did it mean? Surely it was not the name of the restaurant-keeper? But signboards with names on them always hang outside, not on the walls indoors! "Papa, what does 'oysters' mean?" I asked in a husky voice, making an effort to turn my face towards my father. My father did not hear. He was keeping a watch on the movements of the crowd, and following every passer-by with his eyes. . . . From his eyes I saw that he wanted to say something to the passers-by, but the fatal word hung like a heavy weight on his trembling lips and could not be flung off. He even took a step after one passer-by and touched him on the sleeve, but when he turned round, he said, "I beg your pardon," was overcome with confusion, and staggered back. "Papa, what does 'oysters' mean?" I repeated. "It is an animal . . . that lives in the sea." I instantly pictured to myself this unknown marine animal. . . . I thought it must be something midway between a fish and a crab. As it was from the sea they made of it, of course, a very nice hot fish soup with savoury pepper and laurel leaves, or broth with vinegar and fricassee of fish and cabbage, or crayfish sauce, or served it cold with horse-radish. . . . I vividly imagined it being brought from the market, quickly cleaned, quickly put in the pot, quickly, quickly, for everyone was hungry . . . awfully hungry! From the kitchen rose the smell of hot fish and crayfish soup. I felt that this smell was tickling my palate and nostrils, that it was gradually taking possession of my whole body. . . . The restaurant, my father, the white placard, my sleeves were all smelling of it, smelling so strongly that I began to chew. I moved my jaws and swallowed as though I really had a piece of this marine animal in my mouth . . . My legs gave way from the blissful sensation I was feeling, and I clutched at my father's arm to keep myself from falling, and leant against his wet summer overcoat. My father was trembling and shivering. He was cold . . . "Papa, are oysters a Lenten dish?" I asked. "They are eaten alive . . ." said my father. "They are in shells like tortoises, but . . . in two halves." The delicious smell instantly left off affecting me, and the illusion vanished. . . . Now I understood it all! "How nasty," I whispered, "how nasty!" So that's what "oysters" meant! I imagined to myself a creature like a frog. A frog sitting in a shell, peeping out from it with big, glittering eyes, and moving its revolting jaws. I imagined this creature in a shell with claws, glittering eyes, and a slimy skin, being brought from the market. . . . The children would all hide while the cook, frowning with an air of disgust, would take the creature by its claw, put it on a plate, and carry it into the dining-room. The grown-ups would take it and eat it, eat it alive with its eyes, its teeth, its legs! While it squeaked and tried to bite their lips. . . . I frowned, but . . . but why did my teeth move as though I were munching? The creature was loathsome, disgusting, terrible, but I ate it, ate it greedily, afraid of distinguishing its taste or smell. As soon as I had eaten one, I saw the glittering eyes of a second, a third . . . I ate them too. . . . At last I ate the table-napkin, the plate, my father's goloshes, the white placard . . . I ate everything that caught my eye, because I felt that nothing but eating would take away my illness. The oysters had a terrible look in their eyes and were loathsome. I shuddered at the thought of them, but I wanted to eat! To eat! "Oysters! Give me some oysters!" was the cry that broke from me and I stretched out my hand. "Help us, gentlemen!" I heard at that moment my father say, in a hollow and shaking voice. "I am ashamed to ask but--my God!--I can bear no more!" "Oysters!" I cried, pulling my father by the skirts of his coat. "Do you mean to say you eat oysters? A little chap like you!" I heard laughter close to me. Two gentlemen in top hats were standing before us, looking into my face and laughing. "Do you really eat oysters, youngster? That's interesting! How do you eat them?" I remember that a strong hand dragged me into the lighted restaurant. A minute later there was a crowd round me, watching me with curiosity and amusement. I sat at a table and ate something slimy, salt with a flavour of dampness and mouldiness. I ate greedily without chewing, without looking and trying to discover what I was eating. I fancied that if I opened my eyes I should see glittering eyes, claws, and sharp teeth. All at once I began biting something hard, there was a sound of a scrunching. "Ha, ha! He is eating the shells," laughed the crowd. "Little silly, do you suppose you can eat that?" After that I remember a terrible thirst. I was lying in my bed, and could not sleep for heartburn and the strange taste in my parched mouth. My father was walking up and down, gesticulating with his hands. "I believe I have caught cold," he was muttering. "I've a feeling in my head as though someone were sitting on it. . . . Perhaps it is because I have not . . . er . . . eaten anything to-day. . . . I really am a queer, stupid creature. . . . I saw those gentlemen pay ten roubles for the oysters. Why didn't I go up to them and ask them . . . to lend me something? They would have given something." Towards morning, I fell asleep and dreamt of a frog sitting in a shell, moving its eyes. At midday I was awakened by thirst, and looked for my father: he was still walking up and down and gesticulating.
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