改编自Sui Sin Far (Edith Maude Eaton)的一本书(1909)

在这篇自传体文章的摘录中，作者描述了她在维多利亚时代的英国长大的经历。

回顾过去的岁月，我看到自己，一个不到四岁的孩子，走在我的护士前面，走在绿色的英国小路上，听她告诉另一个她的同类，我的母亲是中国人。“哦,上帝!消息灵通人士惊呼道。她转过身，好奇地从头到脚打量着我。然后两个女人一起窃窃私语。虽然“中国人”这个词在我心里没有什么意思，但我觉得他们说的是我的父母，我的心里充满了愤怒。到家后，我急忙跑到母亲身边，试图告诉她我所听到的事情。我是一个小孩子。我没能让别人明白我的意思。我妈妈不明白，当护士对她说“小隋小姐是个讲故事的人”时，我妈妈打了我一巴掌。

从那一天起，我已经度过了许多漫长的岁月——我第一次认识到我与别的孩子不同，与众不同，但尽管我的母亲已经忘记了这一点，我并没有忘记。我又看到了自己，老了几岁。我正和另一个孩子在花园里玩。一个女孩从门外经过。“梅米，"她向我的同伴喊道。“如果我是你，我就不跟苏说话。她妈妈是中国人。”

“我不在乎，”我旁边的小家伙回答说。然后对我说，“即使你妈妈是中国人，我也喜欢你胜过喜欢安妮。”

“但我不喜欢你，”我回答，把我的回答在她身上。这是我的第一个有意识的谎言。

我正在参加一个儿童聚会，是一位印度军官的妻子举办的，她的孩子是我的同学。本人只有六岁，却在私立学校上了一年多学，已经知道中国是一个异教国家，被英国开化了。然而，就目前而言，我是一个快乐的嬉闹的孩子。出席的有相当多的成年人。一位是白发老人，女主人叫他注意我。他调整了一下眼镜，挑剔地打量着我。“啊,真的!”他惊呼道。“乍一看，谁会想到呢?然而现在我看到了她和其他孩子的不同。 What a peculiar coloring! Her mother’s eyes and hair and her father’s features, I presume. Very interesting little creature!”

我被叫出来视察。我不回去了。整个晚上，我都躲在大厅的门后，直到该回家的时候才露面。

改编自《地下札记》费奥多尔·陀思妥耶夫斯基的《白夜与其他故事》(反式。加内特,1918。)

事实上，当时阿波罗的粗鲁分散了我的注意力，这是件好事。他使我忍无可忍!他是我生命的祸根，是上天加在我身上的诅咒。多年来，我们一直在争吵，我讨厌他。天哪，我多么恨他!我相信在我的一生中，我从来没有像恨他那样恨过任何人，尤其是在某些时候。他上了年纪，很有风度，还兼职做裁缝。但不知为什么，他对我恨之入骨，难以忍受地瞧不起我。不过，他确实瞧不起每个人。只要看一眼他那梳得光滑的淡黄色的头，看一眼他那梳在前额上抹了葵花籽油的一簇头发，看一眼那张捏成字母V形的庄严的嘴，就会觉得他面对的是一个从不怀疑自己的人。 He was a pedant, to the most extreme point, the greatest pedant I had met on earth, and with that had a vanity only befitting Alexander of Macedon. He was in love with every button on his coat, every nail on his fingers—absolutely in love with them, and he looked it! In his behaviour to me he was a perfect tyrant, he spoke very little to me, and if he chanced to glance at me he gave me a firm, majestically self-confident and invariably ironical look that drove me sometimes to fury. He did his work with the air of doing me the greatest favour, though he did scarcely anything for me, and did not, indeed, consider himself bound to do anything. There could be no doubt that he looked upon me as the greatest fool on earth, and that “he did not get rid of me” was simply that he could get wages from me every month. He consented to do nothing for me for seven roubles a month. Many sins should be forgiven me for what I suffered from him. My hatred reached such a point that sometimes his very step almost threw me into convulsions. What I loathed particularly was his lisp. His tongue must have been a little too long or something of that sort, for he continually lisped, and seemed to be very proud of it, imagining that it greatly added to his dignity. He spoke in a slow, measured tone, with his hands behind his back and his eyes fixed on the ground. He maddened me particularly when he read aloud the psalms to himself behind his partition. Many a battle I waged over that reading! But he was awfully fond of reading aloud in the evenings, in a slow, even, sing-song voice, as though over the dead. It is interesting that that is how he has ended: he hires himself out to read the psalms over the dead, and at the same time he kills rats and makes blacking. But at that time I could not get rid of him, it was as though he were chemically combined with my existence. Besides, nothing would have induced him to consent to leave me. I could not live in furnished lodgings: my lodging was my private solitude, my shell, my cave, in which I concealed myself from all mankind, and Apollon seemed to me, for some reason, an integral part of that flat, and for seven years I could not turn him away.