一瓦西里·卡曼宁一大早走在去奥泽里谢村的路上。他的靴子沾满了泥浆,棕褐色的脖子好久没有洗过,白眼球呈现着黄色,黑眼珠一片浑浊,鬃毛般坚硬的灰发紧抵到眼角。他走路很不平稳,两条腿向外撇着,并且不知怎么总是跟不上前倾的身子。冷风吹打着他后背,两边是一望无际的秋翻地。有的地方垅沟里汪着雨水,象铅液般灰亮——雨接连下了整整一个星期。道路两旁,红褐色的、溅满泥浆的酸模草迎风摇摆。 A Vasily Kamanning walked early in the morning on the way to Ozrici village. His boots were covered with mud, the tan neck had not been washed for a long time, the white eyes were yellow, the black eyes were cloudy, the bristly gray hair reached the corners of his eyes. He walked very unsteadily, his legs leaning outwards, and somehow always could not keep up with the leaning body. Cold wind blows his back, on both sides of the endless autumn fall. In some places, there was rainwater in the gutters and as bright as a lead liquid - the rain lasted for a whole week. On both sides of the road, reddish-brown, muddy mud splashes swaying.