俺找了大半天 让我给找到了 英文版:
The passengers who had left Rome by the night express had had to stop until dawn at the small station of Fabriano in order to continue their journey by the small old-fashioned local joining the main line with Sulmona.
At dawn, in a stuffy and smoky second-class carriage in which five people had already spent the night, a bulky woman in deep mourning was hosted in—almost like a shapeless bundle. Behind her—puffing and moaning, followed her husband—a tiny man; thin and weakly, his face death-white, his eyes small and bright and looking shy and uneasy.
Having at last taken a seat he politely thanked the passengers who had helped his wife and who had made room for her; then he turned round to the woman trying to pull down the collar of her coat and politely inquired:
"Are you all right, dear?"
The wife, instead of answering, pulled up her collar again to her eyes, so as to hide her face.
"Nasty world," muttered the husband with a sad smile.
And he felt it his duty to explain to his traveling companions that the poor woman was to be pitied for the war was taking away from her her only son, a boy of twenty to whom both had devoted their entire life, even breaking up their home at Sulmona to follow him to Rome, where he had to go as a student, then allowing him to volunteer for war with an assurance, however, that at least six months he would not be sent to the front and now, all of a sudden, receiving a wire saying that he was due to leave in three days' time and asking them to go and see him off.
The woman under the big coat was twisting and wriggling, at times growling like a wild animal, feeling certain that all those explanations would not have aroused even a shadow of sympathy from those people who—most likely—were in the same plight as herself. One of them, who had been listening with particular attention, said:
"You should thank God that your son is only leaving now for the front. Mine has been sent there the first day of the war. He has already come back twice wounded and been sent back again to the front."
"What about me? I have two sons and three nephews at the front," said another passenger.
"Maybe, but in our case it is our only son," ventured the husband.
"What difference can it make? You may spoil your only son by excessive attentions, but you cannot love him
more than you would all your other children if you had any. Parental love is not like bread that can be broken to pieces and split amongst the children in equal shares. A father gives all his love to each one of his children without discrimination, whether it be one or ten, and if I am suffering now for my two sons, I am not suffering half for each of them but double..."
"True...true..." sighed the embarrassed husband, "but suppose (of course we all hope it will never be your case) a father has two sons at the front and he loses one of them, there is still one left to console him...while..."
"Yes," answered the other, getting cross, "a son left to console him but also a son left for whom he must survive, while in the case of the father of an only son if the son dies the father can die too and put an end to his distress. Which of the two positions is worse? Don't you see how my case would be worse than yours?"
"Nonsense," interrupted another traveler, a fat, red-faced man with bloodshot eyes of the palest gray.
He was panting. From his bulging eyes seemed to spurt inner violence of an uncontrolled vitality which his weakened body could hardly contain.
"Nonsense, "he repeated, trying to cover his mouth with his hand so as to hide the two missing front teeth. "Nonsense. Do we give life to our own children for our own benefit?"
The other travelers stared at him in distress. The one who had had his son at the front since the first day of the war sighed: "You are right. Our children do not belong to us, they belong to the country..."
"Bosh," retorted the fat traveler. "Do we think of the country when we give life to our children? Our sons are born because...well, because they must be born and when they come to life they take our own life with them. This is the truth. We belong to them but they never belong to us. And when they reach twenty they are exactly what we were at their age. We too had a father and mother, but there were so many other things
as well...girls, cigarettes, illusions, new ties...and the Country, of course, whose call we would have answered—when we were twenty—even if father and mother had said no. Now, at our age, the love of our Country is still great, of course, but stronger than it is the love of our children. Is there any one of us here who wouldn't gladly take his son's place at the front if he could?"
There was a silence all round, everybody nodding as to approve.
"Why then," continued the fat man, "should we consider the feelings of our children when they are twenty? Isn't it natural that at their age they should consider the love for their Country (I am speaking of decent boys, of course) even greater than the love for us? Isn't it natural that it should be so, as after all they must look upon us as upon old boys who cannot move any more and must sit at home? If Country is a natural necessity like bread of which each of us must eat in order not to die of hunger, somebody must go to defend it. And our sons go, when they are twenty, and they don't want tears, because if they die, they die inflamed and happy (I am speaking, of course, of decent boys). Now, if one dies young and happy, without having the ugly sides of life, the boredom of it, the pettiness, the bitterness of disillusion...what more can we ask for him? Everyone should stop crying; everyone should laugh, as I do...or at least thank God—as I do—because my son, before dying, sent me a message saying that he was dying satisfied at having ended his life in the best way he could have wished. That is why, as you see, I do not even wear mourning..."
He shook his light fawn coat as to show it; his livid lip over his missing teeth was trembling, his eyes were watery and motionless, and soon after he ended with a shrill laugh which might well have been a sob.
"Quite so...quite so..." agreed the others.
The woman who, bundled in a corner under her coat, had been sitting and listening had—for the last three months—tried to find in the words of her husband and her friends something to console her in her deep sorrow, something that might show her how a mother should resign herself to send her son not even to death but to a probable danger of life. Yet not a word had she found amongst the many that had been said...and her grief had been greater in seeing that nobody—as she thought—could share her feelings.
But now the words of the traveler amazed and almost stunned her. She suddenly realized that it wasn't the others who were wrong and could not understand her but herself who could not rise up to the same height of those fathers and mothers willing to resign themselves, without crying, not only to the departure of their sons but even to their death.
She lifted her head, she bent over from her corner trying to listen with great attention to the details which the fat man was giving to his companions about the way his son had fallen as a hero, for his King and his Country, happy and without regrets. It seemed to her that she had stumbled into a world she had never dreamt of, a world so far unknown to her, and she was so pleased to hear everyone joining in congratulating that brave father who could so stoically speak of his child's death.
Then suddenly, just
as if she had heard nothing of what had been said and almost as if waking up from a dream, she turned to the old man, asking him:
"Then...is your son really dead?"
Everyone stared at her. The old man, too, turned to look at her, fixing his great, bulging, horribly watery light gray eyes, deep in her face. For some time he tried to answer, but words failed him. He looked and looked at her, almost as if only then—at that silly, incongruous question—he had suddenly realized at last that his son was really dead—gone for ever—for ever. His face contracted, became horribly distorted, then he snatched in haste a handkerchief from his pocket and, to the amazement of everyone, broke into harrowing, heart-breaking, uncontrollable sobs.
该谁离开罗马的夜晚乘客表示，直到不得不在Fabriano的小站
黎明停止，以便继续由小型的老式地方加入Sulmona的主线与他们的旅程。
黎明时分在一个闷热的黑烟和二等车厢，其中5人已经度过了一夜，一个庞大的妇女在深哀悼，是主办，几乎像一个无形的捆绑。她身后，膨化和呻吟，跟着她的丈夫，一个小的人;薄弱，他面对死亡，白，眼睛明亮，面向小型和害羞和不安。
在去年采取了座位，他礼貌地感谢谁帮助他的妻子，谁乘客经为她作出了房间，然后他转过身对女人试图拉下她的衣领，并礼貌地询问：
“你还好吧，亲爱的？”
而不是回答妻子，拉起她的衣领再次向她的眼睛，以掩饰她的脸。
“肮脏的世界”，自言自语地说了一个悲哀的微笑的丈夫。
他认为自己有责任向公众解释他的旅伴说，可怜的女人，是为战争可怜，正从她的她唯一的儿子，一个20男孩向谁去都投入了他们的整个生活，甚至打破了他们的家在Sulmona的跟随他到罗马，在那里他不得不去当学生，然后让他义务为保证战争，但是，至少6个月，他将不会被发送到前线，现在，突然，接收电线说，他离开是因为在3天的时间，要求他们去送行。
大外衣下的女子被扭曲和扭动，有时像一个野生动物的咆哮，感觉肯定，所有这些解释也不会引起即使是那些人是谁最有可能在相同的处境是同情的阴影自己。其中一人，谁一直特别注意听，说：
“你应该感谢上帝，你的儿子只是离开了front了。矿场已被送往那里的战争的第一天。他已经显示出复苏两次受伤，被送回再次向前方。”
“那我呢？我在前面的两个儿子和三个侄子，说：”另一名乘客。
“也许，但我们的情况下，它是我们唯一的儿子，”冒险的丈夫。
“有什么区别，才能做什么呢？您可能破坏过度关注你唯一的儿子，但你不能爱他比你都将您如果您有任何。父母的爱其他的孩子是像面包是可以被打碎和分裂之间不在同等份额的儿童。一个父亲给了他所有的爱给每个没有歧视他的一个孩子，无论是1或10，如果我为我的两个儿子的痛苦现在，我不是他们的苦难，但每双半...“
“真正的真实... ...”尴尬的丈夫叹了口气，“但假设我们当然都希望它永远不会成为你的情况下）的父亲在前线有两个儿子和他失去了其中一个（左侧还有一个安慰他的同时.. ... “。
“是的，”对方回答，获得过“左儿子安慰他，但也留下了生存的人，他一定要一个儿子，而在只有一个儿子的父亲情况下，如果儿子死了就死了父亲和太把一到了他的不幸结束。哪两个职位更糟糕的是，难道你没看到我的情况怎么会比你更坏？“
“胡说，”中断另一位旅客，一个胖，红面对的palest灰色的眼睛布满血丝的人。
他气喘吁吁。从他的眼睛似乎要喷出膨胀的一个不受控制的生命力，他的身体几乎不能削弱包含内部的暴力行为。
“胡说，”他重复，试图掩盖他与他的手口，以隐藏两名失踪门牙。 “胡说。难道我们给我们的生活，以自己的利益为我们自己的孩子？”
其他游客遇险地盯着他。该谁不得不在战争以来的第一天前他的儿子一感慨地说：“你说得对。我们的孩子不属于我们，他们属于这个国家...”
“波什，”反驳脂肪的旅客。 “难道我们认为该国的生命时，我们给我们的孩子？我们的儿子出生，因为...好，因为他们必须在出生时他们的生活，他们来参加我们与他们自己的生命。这是事实。我们属于他们，但他们从来没有属于我们。当他们达到20他们正是我们在他们的年龄。我们也有一个父亲和母亲，但也有许多其它的事情，以及...女孩，香烟，幻想，新的关系...和这个国家，当然，我们的通话将回答，当我们在20 -即使父亲和母亲说没有。现在，在我们这个时代，我们的国家仍然是伟大的爱，对当然，但强于它是我们的孩子的爱。是否有任何我们在这里谁也不会乐意参与他的儿子在前面的位置，如果他有可能会有？“
有一个全面的沉默，因为每个人都点头批准。
“为什么那么，”胖子继续说，“我们应该考虑孩子的感受时，20？这不是很自然的，在他们的年龄，他们应该考虑为他们的国家（我体面男孩，爱说话的课程）更大的比对我们的爱吗？这不是很自然that是应该的，他们must all as后看不起我们作为老男孩后，谁能够动弹不得，并在一定坐在家？如果Country是一个自然的必要性像面包，我们大家每个人都必须吃，以免死于饥饿，有人必须去捍卫它。而我们的儿子去，当他们20，他们不想流泪，因为如果他们死了，他们死红肿快乐的（我说，当然，体面男孩）。现在，如果一死年轻，快乐，而不必生命的丑恶方面，资讯科技无聊的鸡毛蒜皮的小事，在幻想破灭的痛苦...还有什么可以我们问他呢？每个人都应该停止了哭泣，每个人都应该笑，因为我做...或者至少感谢上帝，我做，因为我的儿子在去世之前，给我一个信息说，他是死在已经结束表示满意他在他的最好方式可能希望的生活。这就是为什么，你看，我什至不戴孝...“
他摇了摇，以显示他的光讨好它大衣，他对他的缺牙铁青嘴唇发抖，他的眼睛水汪汪，一动也不动，不久后，他笑了尖锐而很可能是一个哭泣结束。
“确实如此...这么...”商定的其他人。
谁，在一个角落里捆绑在她的大衣的女人，一直坐着听已为过去3个月，试图找到她的丈夫和她的朋友们一些安慰她深感悲痛，事情可能表明她的话她的母亲应该如何辞职自己送她的儿子甚至没有死，而是一个可能的生命危险。然而，没有一个字，她发现了当中的许多已经说过...和她的悲伤已经没有人看到更大的作为，她认为，可以分享她的感受。
但现在的话感到惊讶的旅客，几乎惊呆了她。她突然意识到，这不是谁错了，别人无法理解她，但她谁也不会上升到那些父亲和母亲愿意辞职自己相同的高度没有哭，不仅是为了他们的儿子离开，但即使他们的死亡。
她抬起头，她从她执意要多听角落非常重视细节的胖男人正在给他的儿子约了一个英雄倒下了，他的同伴的方式，为他的国王和他的国家，快乐和不遗憾。但是，她说，她已经成为一个世界，她做梦也没想到的，迄今未知的世界对她绊倒，她是那么高兴听到大家在祝贺加入父亲的勇敢坚强地说谁可以让他的孩子的死亡。
突然，就好像她什么也没听见了什么有人说，仿佛从梦中醒来时，她转向了老人，问他：
“那...是你的儿子真的死了吗？”
每个人都盯着她。这位老人，也把目光转向她，用他那伟大的，膨胀的，可怕的浅灰色的眼睛流泪，在她的脸上有深深的。有一段时间他试图回答，但他失败的话。他看着看着她，仿佛只有这样，在那个愚蠢的，不协调的问题，他突然在最后，他的儿子是真的死了，永远为一去不复返实现。他的脸签约，成为可怕的扭曲，然后抢去他匆匆从他口袋里的手帕，并在每个人吃惊的是，把痛苦，心伤，无法控制的抽泣爆发。