午夜时分,我还坐在写字台旁。对那个不幸女人的思念使我不得安宁。我想着那昏暗的后院的房间,里面挂着旧式的图画;想着那张床,床垫被鲜血染红;想着床上那苍白的头颅和半闭的双眼。那是一个阴沉的下雨的早晨。房间另一角,他,这个带来不幸的人,举起斧子砍向母亲头部的儿子,面带倔强的神色,正跷着腿坐在一张椅子上。是的, At midnight, I was sitting beside the desk. I miss peace to that unfortunate woman. I was thinking of the darkened backyard room with old-fashioned drawings hanging over it. Thinking about the bed, the mattress was stained with blood; thinking of the pale head and half-closed eyes in bed. It was a gloomy rainy morning. In the other corner of the room, he, the unfortunate man, raised his ax to the head of his mother’s son, with a stubborn look, sitting on a chair with his legs stilled. Yes,