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欧·亨利（1862—1910）原名为威廉·西德尼·波特（William Sydney Porter)。美国著名批判现实主义作家，与莫泊桑，契诃夫并称为世界三大短篇小说大师。曾被评论界誉为曼哈顿桂冠散文作家和美国现代短篇小说之父。
他出身于美国北卡罗来纳州格林斯波罗镇一个乡镇医师家庭。他的一生富于传奇性。他3岁丧母，父亲无力抚养子女，童年时只得寄人篱下,饱受歧视，遍尝艰辛。当过药房学徒、牧牛人、会计员、土地局办事员、新闻记者、银行出纳员。当银行出纳员时，因银行短缺了一笔现金，为避免审讯，离家流亡中美的洪都拉斯。后因回家探视病危的妻子被捕入狱(判刑5年)，他在狱中因表现良好，并在监狱医务室任药剂师（后来提前2年获释），因而有机会听到犯人讲的各种各样离奇古怪的故事，这丰富了他的创作素材。他在银行工作时，曾有过写作的经历，担任监狱医务室的药剂师后开始认真写作。1901年提前获释后，迁居纽约，专门从事写作。
欧·亨利善于描写美国社会尤其是纽约百姓的生活。欧·亨利一生写了300多篇短篇小说，大部分反映了下层人物辛酸而又滑稽的生活。这些作品以其幽默的生活情趣，“含泪微笑”的风格被誉为“美国生活的幽默百科全书”。他的作品往往有一个突出的艺术特点一一出人意料的结局，故事奇特又耐人寻味，情节动人而笔触细腻，语言丰富又朴实含蓄，这些特点使他的许多作品他的作品构思新颖，语言诙谐，结局常常出人意外；又因描写了众多的人物，富于生活情趣，被誉为“美国生活的幽默百科全书”。
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[align=center]目录Catalogue[/align]
After Twenty Years二十年以后
The Cop and the Anthem警察与赞美诗
The Gift of the Magi麦琪的礼物
The Last Leaf 最后一片叶子
A Cosmopolite in a Cafe咖啡馆里的世界公民
The Furnished Room带家具出租的房间
A Service of Love爱的牺牲
Mammon and the Archer爱神与财神
The Romance of a Busy Broker证券经纪人的浪漫故事
An Adjustment of Nature艺术加工
A Double-Dyed Deceiver双料骗子
The Ransom of Red Chief红毛酋长的赎金
Springtime a la Carte菜单上的春天
A Municipal Report市政报告
Two Thanksgiving Day Gentlemen两位感恩节的绅士
Telemachus, Friend刎颈之交
An Unfinished Story 没有完的故事
The Princess and the Puma公主与美洲狮
The Girl And The Habit姑娘和习惯
Lost on Dress Parade华而不实
The Handbook of Hymen婚姻手册
The Pimienta Pancakes比绵塔薄饼
Hygeia at the Solito索利托牧场的卫生学
Babes In The Jungle丛林中的孩子
While the Auto Waits汽车等待的时候
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After Twenty Years二十年以后 The policeman on the beat moved up the avenue impressively. The impressiveness was habitual and not for show, for spectators were few. The time was barely 10 o'clock at night, but chilly gusts of wind with a taste of rain in them had well nigh depeopled the streets. Trying doors as he went, twirling his club with many intricate and artful movements, turning now and then to cast his watchful eye adown the pacific thoroughfare, the officer, with his stalwart form and slight swagger, made a fine picture of a guardian of the peace. The vicinity was one that kept early hours. Now and then you might see the lights of a cigar store or of an all-night lunch counter; but the majority of the doors belonged to business places that had long since been closed. When about midway of a certain block the policeman suddenly slowed his walk. In the doorway of a darkened hardware store a man leaned, with an unlighted cigar in his mouth. As the policeman walked up to him the man spoke up quickly. "It's all right, officer," he said, reassuringly. "I'm just waiting for a friend. It's an appointment made twenty years ago. Sounds a little funny to you, doesn't it? Well, I'll explain if you'd like to make certain it's all straight. About that long ago there used to be a restaurant where this store stands--'Big Joe' Brady's restaurant." "Until five years ago," said the policeman. "It was torn down then." The man in the doorway struck a match and lit his cigar. The light showed a pale, square-jawed face with keen eyes, and a little white scar near his right eyebrow. His scarfpin was a large diamond, oddly set. "Twenty years ago to-night," said the man, "I dined here at 'Big Joe' Brady's with Jimmy Wells, my best chum, and the finest chap in the world. He and I were raised here in New York, just like two brothers, together. I was eighteen and Jimmy was twenty. The next morning I was to start for the West to make my fortune. You couldn't have dragged Jimmy out of New York; he thought it was the only place on earth. Well, we agreed that night that we would meet here again exactly twenty years from that date and time, no matter what our conditions might be or from what distance we might have to come. We figured that in twenty years each of us ought to have our destiny worked out and our fortunes made, whatever they were going to be." "It sounds pretty interesting," said the policeman. "Rather a long time between meets, though, it seems to me. Haven't you heard from your friend since you left?" "Well, yes, for a time we corresponded," said the other. "But after a year or two we lost track of each other. You see, the West is a pretty big proposition, and I kept hustling around over it pretty lively. But I know Jimmy will meet me here if he's alive, for he always was the truest, stanchest old chap in the world. He'll never forget. I came a thousand miles to stand in this door to-night, and it's worth it if my old partner turns up." The waiting man pulled out a handsome watch, the lids of it set with small diamonds. "Three minutes to ten," he announced. "It was exactly ten o'clock when we parted here at the restaurant door." "Did pretty well out West, didn't you?" asked the policeman. "You bet! I hope Jimmy has done half as well. He was a kind of plodder, though, good fellow as he was. I've had to compete with some of the sharpest wits going to get my pile. A man gets in a groove in New York. It takes the West to put a razor-edge on him." The policeman twirled his club and took a step or two. "I'll be on my way. Hope your friend comes around all right. Going to call time on him sharp?" "I should say not!" said the other. "I'll give him half an hour at least. If Jimmy is alive on earth he'll be here by that time. So long, officer." "Good-night, sir," said the policeman, passing on along his beat, trying doors as he went. There was now a fine, cold drizzle falling, and the wind had risen from its uncertain puffs into a steady blow. The few foot passengers astir in that quarter hurried dismally and silently along with coat collars turned high and pocketed hands. And in the door of the hardware store the man who had come a thousand miles to fill an appointment, uncertain almost to absurdity, with the friend of his youth, smoked his cigar and waited. About twenty minutes he waited, and then a tall man in a long overcoat, with collar turned up to his ears, hurried across from the opposite side of the street. He went directly to the waiting man. "Is that you, Bob?" he asked, doubtfully. "Is that you, Jimmy Wells?" cried the man in the door. "Bless my heart!" exclaimed the new arrival, grasping both the other's hands with his own. "It's Bob, sure as fate. I was certain I'd find you here if you were still in existence. Well, well, well! --twenty years is a long time. The old gone, Bob; I wish it had lasted, so we could have had another dinner there. How has the West treated you, old man?" "Bully; it has given me everything I asked it for. You've changed lots, Jimmy. I never thought you were so tall by two or three inches." "Oh, I grew a bit after I was twenty." "Doing well in New York, Jimmy?" "Moderately. I have a position in one of the city departments. Come on, Bob; we'll go around to a place I know of, and have a good long talk about old times." The two men started up the street, arm in arm. The man from the West, his egotism enlarged by success, was beginning to outline the history of his career. The other, submerged in his overcoat, listened with interest. At the corner stood a drug store, brilliant with electric lights. When they came into this glare each of them turned simultaneously to gaze upon the other's face. The man from the West stopped suddenly and released his arm. "You're not Jimmy Wells," he snapped. "Twenty years is a long time, but not long enough to change a man's nose from a Roman to a pug." "It sometimes changes a good man into a bad one, said the tall man. "You've been under arrest for ten minutes, 'Silky' Bob. Chicago thinks you may have dropped over our way and wires us she wants to have a chat with you. Going quietly, are you? That's sensible. Now, before we go on to the station here's a note I was asked to hand you. You may read it here at the window. It's from Patrolman Wells." The man from the West unfolded the little piece of paper handed him. His hand was steady when he began to read, but it trembled a little by the time he had finished. The note was rather short. "Bob: I was at the appointed place on time. When you struck the match to light your cigar I saw it was the face of the man wanted in Chicago. Somehow I couldn't do it myself, so I went around and got a plain clothes man to do the job. JIMMY."     纽约的一条大街上，一位值勤的警察正沿街走着。一阵冷飕飕的风向他迎面吹来。已近夜间10点，街上的行人寥寥无几了。     在一家小店铺的门口，昏暗的灯光下站着一个男子。他的嘴里叼着一支没有点燃的雪茄烟。警察放慢了脚步，认真地看了他一眼，然后，向那个男子走了过去。     “这儿没有出什么事，警官先生。”看见警察向自己走来，那个男子很快地说，“我只是在这儿等一位朋友罢了。这是20年前定下的一个约会。你听了觉得稀奇，是吗？好吧，如果有兴致听的话，我来给你讲讲。大约20年前，这儿，这个店铺现在所占的地方，原来是一家餐馆……”     “那餐馆5年前就被拆除了。”警察接上去说。     男子划了根火柴，点燃了叼在嘴上的雪茄。借着火柴的亮光，警察发现这个男子脸色苍白，右眼角附近有一块小小的白色的伤疤。     “20年前的今天晚上，”男子继续说，“我和吉米·维尔斯在这儿的餐馆共进晚餐。哦，吉米是我最要好的朋友。我们俩都是在纽约这个城市里长大的。从孩提时候起，我们就亲密无间，情同手足。当时，我正准备第二天早上就动身到西部去谋生。那天夜晚临分手的时候，我们俩约定：20年后的同一日期、同一时间，我们俩将来到这里再次相会。”     “这听起来倒挺有意思的。”警察说，“你们分手以后，你就没有收到过你那位朋友的信吗？”     “哦，收到过他的信。有一段时间我们曾相互通信。”那男子 说，“可是一两年之后，我们就失去了联系。你知道，西部是个很大的地方。而我呢，又总是不断地东奔西跑。可我相信，吉米只要还活着，就一定会来这儿和我相会的。他是我最信得过的朋友啦。”     说完，男子从口袋里掏出一块小巧玲球的金表。表上的宝石在黑暗中闪闪发光。“九点五十七分了。”     他说，“我们上一次是十点整在这儿的餐馆分手的。”     “你在西部混得不错吧？”警察问道。     “当然罗！吉米的光景要是能赶上我的一半就好了。啊，实在不容易啊！这些年来，我一直不得不东奔西跑……”     又是一阵冷赠飕的风穿街而过。接着，一片沉寂。他们俩谁也没有说话。过了一会儿，警察准备离开这里。     “我得走了，”他对那个男子说，“我希望你的朋友很快就会到来。假如他不准时赶来，你会离开这儿吗？”     “不会的。我起码要再等他半个小时。如果吉米他还活在人间，他到时候一定会来到这儿的。就说这些吧，再见，警官先生。”     “再见，先生。”警察一边说着，一边沿街走去，街上已经没有行人了，空荡荡的。     男子又在这店铺的门前等了大约二十分钟的光景，这时候，一 个身材高大的人急匆匆地径直走来。他穿着一件黑色的大衣，衣领向上翻着，盖住了耳朵。     “你是鲍勃吗？’来人问道。     “你是吉米·维尔斯？”站在门口的男子大声地说，显然，他很激动。     来人握住了男子的双手。“不错，你是鲍勃。我早就确信我会在这儿见到你的。啧，啧，啧！20年是个不短的时间啊！你看，鲍勃！原来的那个饭馆已经不在啦！要是它没有被拆除，我们再一块儿在这里面共进晚餐该多好啊！鲍勃，你在西部的情况怎么样？”     “幄，我已经设法获得了我所需要的一切东西。你的变化不小啊，吉米。我原来根本没有想到你会长这么高的个子。”     “哦，你走了以后，我是长高了一点儿。”     “吉米，你在纽约混得不错吧？”     “一般，一般。我在市政府的一个部门里上班，坐办公室。来，鲍勃，咱们去转转，找个地方好好叙叙往事。”     这条街的街角处有一家大商店。尽管时间已经不早了，商店里的灯还在亮着。来到亮处以后，这两个人都不约而同地转过身来看了看对方的脸。     突然间，那个从西部来的男子停住了脚步。     “你不是吉米·维尔斯。”他说，“2O年的时间虽然不短，但它不足以使一个人变得容貌全非。”从他说话的声调中可以听出，他在怀疑对方。     “然而，20年的时间却有可能使一个好人变成坏人。”高个子 说，“你被捕了，鲍勃。芝加哥的警方猜到你会到这个城市来的，于是他们通知我们说，他们想跟你‘聊聊’。好吧，在我们还没有去警察局之前，先给你看一张条子，是你的朋友写给你的。”     鲍勃接过便条。读着读着，他微微地颤抖起来。便条上写着：     鲍勃：刚才我准时赶到了我们的约会地点。当你划着火柴点烟时，我发现你正是那个芝加哥警方所通缉的人。不知怎么的，我不忍自己亲自逮捕你，只得找了个便衣警察来做这件事。

The Cop and the Anthem警察与赞美诗 On his bench in Madison Square Soapy moved uneasily. When wild geese honk high of nights, and when women without sealskin coats grow kind to their husbands, and when Soapy moves uneasily on his bench in the park, you may know that winter is near at hand. A dead leaf fell in Soapy's lap. That was Jack Frost's card. Jack is kind to the regular denizens of Madison Square, and gives fair warning of his annual call. At the corners of four streets he hands his pasteboard to the North Wind, footman of the mansion of All Outdoors, so that the inhabitants thereof may make ready. Soapy's mind became cognisant of the fact that the time had come for him to resolve himself into a singular Committee of Ways and Means to provide against the coming rigour. And therefore he moved uneasily on his bench. The hibernatorial ambitions of Soapy were not of the highest. In them there were no considerations of Mediterranean cruises, of soporific Southern skies drifting in the Vesuvian Bay. Three months on the Island was what his soul craved. Three months of assured board and bed and congenial company, safe from Boreas and bluecoats, seemed to Soapy the essence of things desirable. For years the hospitable Blackwell's had been his winter quarters. Just as his more fortunate fellow New Yorkers had bought their tickets to Palm Beach and the Riviera each winter, so Soapy had made his humble arrangements for his annual hegira to the Island. And now the time was come. On the previous night three Sabbath newspapers, distributed beneath his coat, about his ankles and over his lap, had failed to repulse the cold as he slept on his bench near the spurting fountain in the ancient square. So the Island loomed big and timely in Soapy's mind. He scorned the provisions made in the name of charity for the city's dependents. In Soapy's opinion the Law was more benign than Philanthropy. There was an endless round of institutions, municipal and eleemosynary, on which he might set out and receive lodging and food accordant with the simple life. But to one of Soapy's proud spirit the gifts of charity are encumbered. If not in coin you must pay in humiliation of spirit for every benefit received at the hands of philanthropy. As Caesar had his Brutus, every bed of charity must have its toll of a bath, every loaf of bread its compensation of a private and personal inquisition. Wherefore it is better to be a guest of the law, which though conducted by rules, does not meddle unduly with a gentleman's private affairs. Soapy, having decided to go to the Island, at once set about accomplishing his desire. There were many easy ways of doing this. The pleasantest was to dine luxuriously at some expensive restaurant; and then, after declaring insolvency, be handed over quietly and without uproar to a policeman. An accommodating magistrate would do the rest. Soapy left his bench and strolled out of the square and across the level sea of asphalt, where Broadway and Fifth Avenue flow together. Up Broadway he turned, and halted at a glittering cafe, where are gathered together nightly the choicest products of the grape, the silkworm and the protoplasm. Soapy had confidence in himself from the lowest button of his vest upward. He was shaven, and his coat was decent and his neat black, ready-tied four-in-hand had been presented to him by a lady missionary on Thanksgiving Day. If he could reach a table in the restaurant unsuspected success would be his. The portion of him that would show above the table would raise no doubt in the waiter's mind. A roasted mallard duck, thought Soapy, would be about the thing--with a bottle of Chablis, and then Camembert, a demi-tasse and a cigar. One dollar for the cigar would be enough. The total would not be so high as to call forth any supreme manifestation of revenge from the cafe management; and yet the meat would leave him filled and happy for the journey to his winter refuge. But as Soapy set foot inside the restaurant door the head waiter's eye fell upon his frayed trousers and decadent shoes. Strong and ready hands turned him about and conveyed him in silence and haste to the sidewalk and averted the ignoble fate of the menaced mallard. Soapy turned off Broadway. It seemed that his route to the coveted island was not to be an epicurean one. Some other way of entering limbo must be thought of. At a corner of Sixth Avenue electric lights and cunningly displayed wares behind plate-glass made a shop window conspicuous. Soapy took a cobblestone and dashed it through the glass. People came running around the corner, a policeman in the lead. Soapy stood still, with his hands in his pockets, and smiled at the sight of brass buttons. "Where's the man that done that?" inquired the officer excitedly. "Don't you figure out that I might have had something to do with it?" said Soapy, not without sarcasm, but friendly, as one greets good fortune. The policeman's mind refused to accept Soapy even as a clue. Men who smash windows do not remain to parley with the law's minions. They take to their heels. The policeman saw a man half way down the block running to catch a car. With drawn club he joined in the pursuit. Soapy, with disgust in his heart, loafed along, twice unsuccessful. On the opposite side of the street was a restaurant of no great pretensions. It catered to large appetites and modest purses. Its crockery and atmosphere were thick; its soup and napery thin. Into this place Soapy took his accusive shoes and telltale trousers without challenge. At a table he sat and consumed beefsteak, flapjacks, doughnuts and pie. And then to the waiter be betrayed the fact that the minutest coin and himself were strangers. "Now, get busy and call a cop," said Soapy. "And don't keep a gentleman waiting." "No cop for youse," said the waiter, with a voice like butter cakes and an eye like the cherry in a Manhattan cocktail. "Hey, Con!" Neatly upon his left ear on the callous pavement two waiters pitched Soapy. He arose, joint by joint, as a carpenter's rule opens, and beat the dust from his clothes. Arrest seemed but a rosy dream. The Island seemed very far away. A policeman who stood before a drug store two doors away laughed and walked down the street. Five blocks Soapy travelled before his courage permitted him to woo capture again. This time the opportunity presented what he fatuously termed to himself a "cinch." A young woman of a modest and pleasing guise was standing before a show window gazing with sprightly interest at its display of shaving mugs and inkstands, and two yards from the window a large policeman of severe demeanour leaned against a water plug. It was Soapy's design to assume the role of the despicable and execrated "masher." The refined and elegant appearance of his victim and the contiguity of the conscientious cop encouraged him to believe that he would soon feel the pleasant official clutch upon his arm that would insure his winter quarters on the right little, tight little isle. Soapy straightened the lady missionary's readymade tie, dragged his shrinking cuffs into the open, set his hat at a killing cant and sidled toward the young woman. He made eyes at her, was taken with sudden coughs and "hems," smiled, smirked and went brazenly through the impudent and contemptible litany of the "masher." With half an eye Soapy saw that the policeman was watching him fixedly. The young woman moved away a few steps, and again bestowed her absorbed attention upon the shaving mugs. Soapy followed, boldly stepping to her side, raised his hat and said: "Ah there, Bedelia! Don't you want to come and play in my yard?" The policeman was still looking. The persecuted young woman had but to beckon a finger and Soapy would be practically en route for his insular haven. Already he imagined he could feel the cozy warmth of the station-house. The young woman faced him and, stretching out a hand, caught Soapy's coat sleeve. Sure, Mike," she said joyfully, "if you'll blow me to a pail of suds. I'd have spoke to you sooner, but the cop was watching." With the young woman playing the clinging ivy to his oak Soapy walked past the policeman overcome with gloom. He seemed doomed to liberty. At the next corner he shook off his companion and ran. He halted in the district where by night are found the lightest streets, hearts, vows and librettos. Women in furs and men in greatcoats moved gaily in the wintry air. A sudden fear seized Soapy that some dreadful enchantment had rendered him immune to arrest. The thought brought a little of panic upon it, and when he came upon another policeman lounging grandly in front of a transplendent theatre he caught at the immediate straw of "disorderly conduct." On the sidewalk Soapy began to yell drunken gibberish at the top of his harsh voice. He danced, howled, raved and otherwise disturbed the welkin. The policeman twirled his club, turned his back to Soapy and remarked to a citizen. "'Tis one of them Yale lads celebratin' the goose egg they give to the Hartford College. Noisy; but no harm. We've instructions to lave them be." Disconsolate, Soapy ceased his unavailing racket. Would never a policeman lay hands on him? In his fancy the Island seemed an unattainable Arcadia. He buttoned his thin coat against the chilling wind. In a cigar store he saw a well-dressed man lighting a cigar at a swinging light. His silk umbrella he had set by the door on entering. Soapy stepped inside, secured the umbrella and sauntered off with it slowly. The man at the cigar light followed hastily. "My umbrella," he said, sternly. "Oh, is it?" sneered Soapy, adding insult to petit larceny. "Well, why don't you call a policeman? I took it. Your umbrella! Why don't you call a cop? There stands one on the corner." The umbrella owner slowed his steps. Soapy did likewise, with a presentiment that luck would again run against him. The policeman looked at the two curiously. "Of course," said the umbrella man--"that is--well, you know how these mistakes occur--I--if it's your umbrella I hope you'll excuse me--I picked it up this morning in a restaurant--If you recognise it as yours, why--I hope you'll--" "Of course it's mine," said Soapy, viciously. The ex-umbrella man retreated. The policeman hurried to assist a tall blonde in an opera cloak across the street in front of a street car that was approaching two blocks away. Soapy walked eastward through a street damaged by improvements. He hurled the umbrella wrathfully into an excavation. He muttered against the men who wear helmets and carry clubs. Because he wanted to fall into their clutches, they seemed to regard him as a king who could do no wrong. At length Soapy reached one of the avenues to the east where the glitter and turmoil was but faint. He set his face down this toward Madison Square, for the homing instinct survives even when the home is a park bench. But on an unusually quiet corner Soapy came to a standstill. Here was an old church, quaint and rambling and gabled. Through one violet-stained window a soft light glowed, where, no doubt, the organist loitered over the keys, making sure of his mastery of the coming Sabbath anthem. For there drifted out to Soapy's ears sweet music that caught and held him transfixed against the convolutions of the iron fence. The moon was above, lustrous and serene; vehicles and pedestrians were few; sparrows twittered sleepily in the eaves--for a little while the scene might have been a country churchyard. And the anthem that the organist played cemented Soapy to the iron fence, for he had known it well in the days when his life contained such things as mothers and roses and ambitions and friends and immaculate thoughts and collars. The conjunction of Soapy's receptive state of mind and the influences about the old church wrought a sudden and wonderful change in his soul. He viewed with swift horror the pit into which he had tumbled, the degraded days, unworthy desires, dead hopes, wrecked faculties and base motives that made up his existence. And also in a moment his heart responded thrillingly to this novel mood. An instantaneous and strong impulse moved him to battle with his desperate fate. He would pull himself out of the mire; he would make a man of himself again; he would conquer the evil that had taken possession of him. There was time; he was comparatively young yet; he would resurrect his old eager ambitions and pursue them without faltering. Those solemn but sweet organ notes had set up a revolution in him. To-morrow he would go into the roaring downtown district and find work. A fur importer had once offered him a place as driver. He would find him to-morrow and ask for the position. He would be somebody in the world. He would-- Soapy felt a hand laid on his arm. He looked quickly around into the broad face of a policeman. "What are you doin' here?" asked the officer. "Nothin'," said Soapy. "Then come along," said the policeman. "Three months on the Island," said the Magistrate in the Police Court the next morning. 　　索比急躁不安地躺在麦迪逊广场的长凳上，辗转反侧。每当雁群在夜空中引颈高歌，缺少海豹皮衣的女人对丈夫加倍的温存亲热，索比在街心公园的长凳上焦躁不安、翻来复去的时候，人们就明白，冬天已近在咫尺了。 　　一片枯叶落在索比的大腿上，那是杰克·弗洛斯特①的卡片。杰克对麦迪逊广场的常住居民非常客气，每年来临之先，总要打一声招呼。在十字街头，他把名片交给"户外大厦"的信使"北风"，好让住户们有个准备。 　　索比意识到，该是自己下决心的时候了，马上组织单人财务委员会，以便抵御即将临近的严寒，因此，他急躁不安地在长凳上辗转反侧。 　　索比越冬的抱负并不算最高，他不想在地中海巡游，也不想到南方去晒令人昏睡的太阳，更没想过到维苏威海湾漂泊。他梦寐以求的只要在岛上待三个月就足够了。整整三个月，有饭吃，有床睡，还有志趣相投的伙伴，而且不受"北风"和警察的侵扰。对索比而言，这就是日思夜想的最大愿望。 　　多年来，好客的布莱克韦尔岛②的监狱一直是索比冬天的寓所。正像福气比他好的纽约人每年冬天买票去棕榈滩③和里维埃拉④一样，索比也要为一年一度逃奔岛上作些必要的安排。现在又到时候了。昨天晚上，他睡在古老广场上喷水池旁的长凳上，用三张星期日的报纸分别垫在上衣里、包着脚踝、盖住大腿，也没能抵挡住严寒的袭击。因此，在他的脑袋里，岛子的影象又即时而鲜明地浮现出来。他诅咒那些以慈善名义对城镇穷苦人所设的布施。在索比眼里，法律比救济更为宽厚。他可以去的地方不少，有市政办的、救济机关办的各式各样的组织，他都可以去混吃、混住，勉强度日，但接受施舍，对索比这样一位灵魂高傲的人来讲，是一种不可忍受的折磨。从慈善机构的手里接受任何一点好处，钱固然不必付，但你必须遭受精神上的屈辱来作为回报。正如恺撒对待布鲁图一样⑤，凡事有利必有弊，要睡上慈善机构的床，先得让人押去洗个澡；要吃施舍的一片面包，得先交待清楚个人的来历和隐私。因此，倒不如当个法律的座上宾还好得多。虽然法律铁面无私、照章办事，但至少不会过分地干涉正人君子的私事。 　　一旦决定了去岛上，索比便立即着手将它变为现实。要兑现自己的意愿，有许多简捷的途径，其中最舒服的莫过于去某家豪华餐厅大吃一台，然后呢，承认自己身无分文，无力支付，这样便安安静静、毫不声张地被交给警察。其余的一切就该由通商量的治安推事来应付了。 　　索比离开长凳，踱出广场，跨过百老汇大街和第五大街的交汇处那片沥青铺就的平坦路面。他转向百老汇大街，在一家灯火辉煌的咖啡馆前停下脚步，在这里，每天晚上聚积着葡萄、蚕丝和原生质的最佳制品⑥。 　　索比对自己的马甲从最下一颗纽扣之上还颇有信心，他修过面，上衣也还够气派，他那整洁的黑领结是感恩节时一位教会的女士送给他的。只要他到餐桌之前不被人猜疑，成功就属于他了。他露在桌面的上半身绝不会让侍者生疑。索比想到，一只烤野鸭很对劲——再来一瓶夏布利酒⑦，然后是卡门贝干酪⑧，一小杯清咖啡和一只雪茄烟。一美元一只的雪茄就足够了。全部加起来的价钱不宜太高，以免遭到咖啡馆太过厉害的报复；然而，吃下这一餐会使他走向冬季避难所的行程中心满意足、无忧无虑了。 　　可是，索比的脚刚踏进门，领班侍者的眼睛便落在了他那旧裤子和破皮鞋上。强壮迅急的手掌推了他个转身，悄无声息地被押了出来，推上了人行道，拯救了那只险遭毒手的野鸭的可怜命运。 　　索比离开了百老汇大街。看起来，靠大吃一通走向垂涎三尺的岛上，这办法是行不通了。要进监狱，还得另打主意。 　　在第六大街的拐角处，灯火通明、陈设精巧的大玻璃橱窗内的商品尤其诱人注目。索比捡起一块鹅卵石，向玻璃窗砸去。人们从转弯处奔来，领头的就是一位巡警。索比一动不动地站在原地，两手插在裤袋里，对着黄铜纽扣微笑⑨。 　　"肇事的家伙跑哪儿去了？"警官气急败坏地问道。 　　"你不以为这事与我有关吗？"索比说，多少带点嘲讽语气，但很友好，如同他正交着桃花运呢。 　　警察根本没把索比看成作案对象。毁坏窗子的人绝对不会留在现场与法律的宠臣攀谈，早就溜之大吉啦。警察看到半条街外有个人正跑去赶一辆车，便挥舞着警棍追了上去。索比心里十分憎恶，只得拖着脚步，重新开始游荡。他再一次失算了。 　　对面街上，有一家不太招眼的餐厅，它可以填饱肚子，又花不了多少钱。它的碗具粗糙，空气混浊，汤菜淡如水，餐巾薄如绢。索比穿着那令人诅咒的鞋子和暴露身分的裤子跨进餐厅，上帝保佑、还没遭到白眼。他走到桌前坐下，吃了牛排，煎饼、炸面饼圈和馅饼。然后，他向侍者坦露真象：他和钱老爷从无交往。 　　"现在，快去叫警察，"索比说。"别让大爷久等。" 　　"用不着找警察，"侍者说，声音滑腻得如同奶油蛋糕，眼睛红得好似曼哈顿开胃酒中的樱桃。"喂，阿康！" 　　两个侍者干净利落地把他推倒在又冷又硬的人行道上，左耳着地。索比艰难地一点一点地从地上爬起来，好似木匠打开折尺一样，接着拍掉衣服上的尘土。被捕的愿望仅仅是美梦一个，那个岛子是太遥远了。相隔两个门面的药店前，站着一名警察，他笑了笑，便沿街走去。 　　索比走过五个街口之后，设法被捕的气又回来了。这一次出现的机会极为难得，他满以为十拿九稳哩。一位衣着简朴但讨人喜欢的年轻女人站在橱窗前，兴趣十足地瞪着陈列的修面杯和墨水瓶架入了迷。而两码之外，一位彪形大汉警察正靠在水龙头上，神情严肃。 　　索比的计划是装扮成一个下流、讨厌的"捣蛋鬼"。他的对象文雅娴静，又有一位忠于职守的警察近在眼前，这使他足以相信，警察的双手抓住他的手膀的滋味该是多么愉快呵，在岛上的小乐窝里度过这个冬季就有了保证。 　　索比扶正了教会的女士送给他的领结，拉出缩进去的衬衣袖口，把帽子往后一掀，歪得几乎要落下来，侧身向那女人挨将过去。他对她送秋波，清嗓子，哼哼哈哈，嬉皮笑脸，把小流氓所干的一切卑鄙无耻的勾当表演得维妙维肖。他斜眼望去，看见那个警察正死死盯住他。年轻女人移开了几步，又沉醉于观赏那修面杯。索比跟过去，大胆地走近她，举了举帽子，说："啊哈，比德莉亚，你不想去我的院子里玩玩吗？" 　　警察仍旧死死盯住。受人轻薄的年轻女人只需将手一招，就等于已经上路去岛上的安乐窝了。在想象中，他已经感觉到警察分局的舒适和温暖了。年轻女人转身面对着他，伸出一只手，捉住了索比的上衣袖口。 　　"当然罗，迈克，"她兴高采烈地说，"如果你肯破费给我买一杯啤酒的话。要不是那个警察老瞅住我，早就同你搭腔了。" 　　年轻女人像常青藤攀附着他这棵大橡树一样。索比从警察身边走过，心中懊丧不已。看来命中注定，他该自由。 　　一到拐弯处，他甩掉女伴，撒腿就跑。他一口气跑到老远的一个地方。这儿，整夜都是最明亮的灯光，最轻松的心情，最轻率的誓言和最轻快的歌剧。淑女们披着皮裘，绅士们身着大衣，在这凛冽的严寒中欢天喜地地走来走去。索比突然感到一阵恐惧，也许是某种可怕的魔法制住了他，使他免除了被捕。这念头令他心惊肉跳。但是，当他看见一个警察在灯火通明的剧院门前大模大样地巡逻时，他立刻捞到了"扰乱治安"这根救命稻草。 　　索比在人行道上扯开那破锣似的嗓子，像醉鬼一样胡闹。 　　他又跳，又吼，又叫，使尽各种伎俩来搅扰这苍穹。 　　警察旋转着他的警棍，扭身用背对着索比，向一位市民解释说："这是个耶鲁小子在庆祝胜利，他们同哈特福德学院赛球，请人家吃了个大鹅蛋。声音是有点儿大，但不碍事。我们上峰有指示，让他们闹去吧。" 　　索比怏怏不乐地停止了白费力气的闹嚷。难道就永远没有警察对他下手吗？在他的幻梦中，那岛屿似乎成了可望而不可及的阿卡狄亚⑩了。他扣好单薄的上衣，以便抵挡刺骨的寒风。 　　索比看到雪茄烟店里有一位衣冠楚楚的人正对着火头点烟。那人进店时，把绸伞靠在门边。索比跨进店门，拿起绸伞，漫不经心地退了出来。点烟人匆匆追了出来。 　　"我的伞，"他厉声道。 　　"呵，是吗？"索比冷笑说；在小偷摸小摸之上，再加上一条侮辱罪吧。"好哇，那你为什么不叫警察呢？没错，我拿了。你的伞！为什么不叫巡警呢？拐角那儿就站着一个哩。" 　　绸伞的主人放慢了脚步，索比也跟着慢了下来。他有一种预感，命运会再一次同他作对。那位警察好奇地瞧着他们俩。 　　"当然罗，"绸伞主人说，"那是，噢，你知道有时会出现这类误会……我……要是这伞是你的，我希望你别见怪……我是今天早上在餐厅捡的……要是你认出是你的，那么……我希望你别……" 　　"当然是我的，"索比恶狠狠地说。 　　绸伞的前主人悻悻地退了开去。那位警察慌忙不迭地跑去搀扶一个身披夜礼服斗篷、头发金黄的高个子女人穿过横街，以免两条街之外驶来的街车会碰着她。 　　索比往东走，穿过一条因翻修弄得高低不平的街道。他怒气冲天地把绸伞猛地掷进一个坑里。他咕咕哝哝地抱怨那些头戴钢盔、手执警棍的家伙。因为他一心只想落入法网，而他们则偏偏把他当成永不出错的国王⑾。 　　最后，索比来到了通往东区的一条街上，这儿的灯光暗淡，嘈杂声也若有若无。他顺着街道向麦迪逊广场走去，即使他的家仅仅是公园里的一条长凳，但回家的本能还是把他带到了那儿。 　　可是，在一个异常幽静的转角处，索比停住了。这儿有一座古老的教堂，样子古雅，显得零乱，是带山墙的建筑。柔和的灯光透过淡紫色的玻璃窗映射出来，毫无疑问，是风琴师在练熟星期天的赞美诗。悦耳的乐声飘进索比的耳朵，吸引了他，把他粘在了螺旋形的铁栏杆上。 　　月亮挂在高高的夜空，光辉、静穆；行人和车辆寥寥无几；屋檐下的燕雀在睡梦中几声啁啾——这会儿有如乡村中教堂墓地的气氛。风琴师弹奏的赞美诗拨动了伏在铁栏杆上的索比的心弦，因为当他生活中拥有母爱、玫瑰、抱负、朋友以及纯洁无邪的思想和洁白的衣领时，他是非常熟悉赞美诗的。 　　索比的敏感心情同老教堂的潜移默化交融在一起，使他的灵魂猛然间出现了奇妙的变化。他立刻惊恐地醒悟到自己已经坠入了深渊，堕落的岁月，可耻的欲念，悲观失望，才穷智竭，动机卑鄙——这一切构成了他的全部生活。 　　顷刻间，这种新的思想境界令他激动万分。一股迅急而强烈的冲动鼓舞着他去迎战坎坷的人生。他要把自己拖出泥淖，他要征服那一度驾驭自己的恶魔。时间尚不晚，他还算年轻，他要再现当年的雄心壮志，并坚定不移地去实现它。管风琴的庄重而甜美音调已经在他的内心深处引起了一场革命。明天，他要去繁华的商业区找事干。有个皮货进口商一度让他当司机，明天找到他，接下这份差事。他愿意做个煊赫一时的人物。他要…… 　　索比感到有只手按在他的胳膊上。他霍地扭过头来，只见一位警察的宽脸盘。 　　"你在这儿干什么呀？"警察问道。 　　"没干什么，"索比说。 　　"那就跟我来，"警察说。 　　第二天早晨，警察局法庭的法官宣判道："布莱克韦尔岛，三个月。" 　　①杰克·弗洛斯特（Jack Frost）："霜冻"的拟人化称呼。 　　②布莱克韦尔岛（Blackwell）：在纽约东河上。岛上有监狱。 　　③棕榈滩（Palm Beach）：美国佛罗里达州东南部城镇，冬令游憩胜地。 　　④里维埃拉（The Riviera）：南欧沿地中海一段地区，在法国的东南部和意大利的西北部，是假节日憩游胜地。 　　⑤恺撒（Julius Caesar）：（100-44BC）罗马统帅、政治家，罗马的独裁者，被共和派贵族刺杀。布鲁图（Brutus）：（85-42BC）罗马贵族派政治家，刺杀恺撒的主谋，后逃希腊，集结 军队对抗安东尼和屋大维联军，因战败自杀。 　　⑥作者诙谐的说法，指美酒、华丽衣物和上流人物。 　　⑦夏布利酒（Chablis）：原产于法国的Ｃｈａｂｌｉｓ地方的一种无甜味的白葡萄酒。 　　⑧卡门贝（Carmembert）干酪（Cheese）：一种产于法国的软干酪。原为Ｆｒ．诺曼底一村庄，产此干酪而得名。 　　⑨指警察，因警察上衣的纽扣是黄铜制的。 　　⑩阿卡狄亚（Ａｒｃａｄｉａ）：原为古希腊一山区，现在伯罗奔尼撒半岛中部，以其居民过着田园牧歌式的淳朴生活而著称，现指"世外桃园"。 　　⑾英语谚语：国王不可能犯错误（King can do no wrong.）

The Gift of the Magi麦琪的礼物 One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one's cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty- seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas. There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating. While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first stage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at $8 per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had that word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad. In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name "Mr. James Dillingham Young." The "Dillingham" had been flung to the breeze during a former period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid $30 per week. Now, when the income was shrunk to $20, though, they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming D. But whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was called "Jim" and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young, already introduced to you as Della. Which is all very good. Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out dully at a gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn't go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something fine and rare and sterling--something just a little bit near to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim. There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pierglass in an $8 flat. A very thin and very agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, being slender, had mastered the art. Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its color within twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length. Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim's gold watch that had been his father's and his grandfather's. The other was Della's hair. Had the queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft, Della would have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty's jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from envy. So now Della's beautiful hair fell about her rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet. On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street. Where she stopped the sign read: "Mne. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds." One flight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting. Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the "Sofronie." "Will you buy my hair?" asked Della. "I buy hair," said Madame. "Take yer hat off and let's have a sight at the looks of it." Down rippled the brown cascade. "Twenty dollars," said Madame, lifting the mass with a practised hand. "Give it to me quick," said Della. Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim's present. She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by meretricious ornamentation--as all good things should do. It was even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must be Jim's. It was like him. Quietness and value--the description applied to both. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the 87 cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old leather strap that he used in place of a chain. When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence and reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which is always a tremendous task, dear friends--a mammoth task. Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-lying curls that made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked at her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critically. "If Jim doesn't kill me," she said to herself, "before he takes a second look at me, he'll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl. But what could I do--oh! what could I do with a dollar and eighty- seven cents?" At 7 o'clock the coffee was made and the frying-pan was on the back of the stove hot and ready to cook the chops. Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then she heard his step on the stair away down on the first flight, and she turned white for just a moment. She had a habit for saying little silent prayer about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered: "Please God, make him think I am still pretty." The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two--and to be burdened with a family! He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves. Jim stopped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scent of quail. His eyes were fixed upon Della, and there was an expression in them that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face. Della wriggled off the table and went for him. "Jim, darling," she cried, "don't look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and sold because I couldn't have lived through Christmas without giving you a present. It'll grow out again--you won't mind, will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say `Merry Christmas!' Jim, and let's be happy. You don't know what a nice-- what a beautiful, nice gift I've got for you." "You've cut off your hair?" asked Jim, laboriously, as if he had not arrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labor. "Cut it off and sold it," said Della. "Don't you like me just as well, anyhow? I'm me without my hair, ain't I?" Jim looked about the room curiously. "You say your hair is gone?" he said, with an air almost of idiocy. "You needn't look for it," said Della. "It's sold, I tell you--sold and gone, too. It's Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went for you. Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered," she went on with sudden serious sweetness, "but nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall I put the chops on, Jim?" Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded his Della. For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some inconsequential object in the other direction. Eight dollars a week or a million a year--what is the difference? A mathematician or a wit would give you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them. This dark assertion will be illuminated later on. Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table. "Don't make any mistake, Dell," he said, "about me. I don't think there's anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me like my girl any less. But if you'll unwrap that package you may see why you had me going a while at first." White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! a quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment of all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat. For there lay The Combs--the set of combs, side and back, that Della had worshipped long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell, with jewelled rims--just the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope of possession. And now, they were hers, but the tresses that should have adorned the coveted adornments were gone. But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to look up with dim eyes and a smile and say: "My hair grows so fast, Jim!" And them Della leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, "Oh, oh!" Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit. "Isn't it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You'll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it." Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled. "Dell," said he, "let's put our Christmas presents away and keep 'em a while. They're too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs. And now suppose you put the chops on." The magi, as you know, were wise men--wonderfully wise men--who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. O all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi. 　　一元八角七。全都在这儿了，其中六角是一分一分的铜板。这些分分钱是杂货店老板、菜贩子和肉店老板那儿软硬兼施地一分两分地扣下来，直弄得自己羞愧难当，深感这种掂斤播两的交易实在丢人现眼。德拉反复数了三次，还是一元八角七，而第二天就是圣诞节了。 　　除了扑倒在那破旧的小睡椅上哭嚎之外，显然别无他途。 　　德拉这样作了，可精神上的感慨油然而生，生活就是哭泣、抽噎和微笑，尤以抽噎占统治地位。 　　当这位家庭主妇逐渐平静下来之际，让我们看看这个家吧。一套带家具的公寓房子，每周房租八美元。尽管难以用笔墨形容，可它真真够得上乞丐帮这个词儿。 　　楼下的门道里有个信箱，可从来没有装过信，还有一个电钮，也从没有人的手指按响过电铃。而且，那儿还有一张名片，上写着"詹姆斯·迪林厄姆·杨先生"。 　　"迪林厄姆"这个名号是主人先前春风得意之际，一时兴起加上去的，那时候他每星期挣三十美元。现在，他的收入缩减到二十美元，"迪林厄姆"的字母也显得模糊不清，似乎它们正严肃地思忖着是否缩写成谦逊而又讲求实际的字母Ｄ。不过，每当詹姆斯·迪林厄姆·杨回家，走进楼上的房间时，詹姆斯·迪林厄姆·杨太太，就是刚介绍给诸位的德拉，总是把他称作"吉姆"，而且热烈地拥抱他。那当然是再好不过的了。 　　德拉哭完之后，往面颊上抹了抹粉，她站在窗前，痴痴地瞅着灰濛濛的后院里一只灰白色的猫正行走在灰白色的篱笆上。明天就是圣诞节，她只有一元八角七给吉姆买一份礼物。她花去好几个月的时间，用了最大的努力一分一分地攒积下来，才得了这样一个结果。一周二十美元实在经不起花，支出大于预算，总是如此。只有一元八角七给吉姆买礼物，她的吉姆啊。她花费了多少幸福的时日筹划着要送他一件可心的礼物，一件精致、珍奇、贵重的礼物——至少应有点儿配得上吉姆所有的东西才成啊。 　　房间的两扇窗子之间有一面壁镜。也许你见过每周房租八美元的公寓壁镜吧。一个非常瘦小而灵巧的人，从观察自己在一连串的纵条影象中，可能会对自己的容貌得到一个大致精确的概念。德拉身材苗条，已精通了这门子艺术。 　　突然，她从窗口旋风般地转过身来，站在壁镜前面。她两眼晶莹透亮，但二十秒钟之内她的面色失去了光彩。她急速地折散头发，使之完全泼散开来。 　　现在，詹姆斯·迪林厄姆·杨夫妇俩各有一件特别引以自豪的东西。一件是吉姆的金表，是他祖父传给父亲，父亲又传给他的传家宝；另一件则是德拉的秀发。如果示巴女王①也住在天井对面的公寓里，总有一天德拉会把头发披散下来，露出窗外晾干，使那女王的珍珠宝贝黔然失色；如果地下室堆满金银财宝、所罗门王又是守门人的话，每当吉姆路过那儿，准会摸出金表，好让那所罗门王忌妒得吹胡子瞪眼睛。 　　此时此刻，德拉的秀发泼撒在她的周围，微波起伏，闪耀光芒，有如那褐色的瀑布。她的美发长及膝下，仿佛是她的一件长袍。接着，她又神经质地赶紧把头发梳好。踌躇了一分钟，一动不动地立在那儿，破旧的红地毯上溅落了一、两滴眼泪。 　　她穿上那件褐色的旧外衣，戴上褐色的旧帽子，眼睛里残留着晶莹的泪花，裙子一摆，便飘出房门，下楼来到街上。 　　她走到一块招牌前停下来，上写着："索弗罗妮夫人——专营各式头发"。德拉奔上楼梯，气喘吁吁地定了定神。那位夫人身躯肥大，过于苍白，冷若冰霜，同"索弗罗妮"的雅号简直牛头不对马嘴。 　　"你要买我的头发吗？"德拉问。 　　"我买头发，"夫人说。"揭掉帽子，让我看看发样。" 　　那褐色的瀑布泼撒了下来。 　　"二十美元，"夫人一边说，一边内行似地抓起头发。 　　"快给我钱，"德拉说。 　　呵，接着而至的两个小时犹如长了翅膀，愉快地飞掠而过。请不用理会这胡诌的比喻。她正在彻底搜寻各家店铺，为吉姆买礼物。 　　她终于找到了，那准是专为吉姆特制的，决非为别人。她找遍了各家商店，哪儿也没有这样的东西，一条朴素的白金表链，镂刻着花纹。正如一切优质东西那样，它只以货色论长短，不以装璜来炫耀。而且它正配得上那只金表。她一见这条表链，就知道一定属于吉姆所有。它就像吉姆本人，文静而有价值——这一形容对两者都恰如其份。她花去二十一美元买下了，匆匆赶回家，只剩下八角七分钱。金表匹配这条链子，无论在任何场合，吉姆都可以毫无愧色地看时间了。 　　尽管这只表华丽珍贵，因为用的是旧皮带取代表链，他有时只偷偷地瞥上一眼。 　　德拉回家之后，她的狂喜有点儿变得审慎和理智了。她找出烫发铁钳，点燃煤气，着手修补因爱情加慷慨所造成的破坏，这永远是件极其艰巨的任务，亲爱的朋友们——简直是件了不起的任务呵。 　　不出四十分钟，她的头上布满了紧贴头皮的一绺绺小卷发，使她活像个逃学的小男孩。她在镜子里老盯着自己瞧，小心地、苛刻地照来照去。 　　"假如吉姆看我一眼不把我宰掉的话，"她自言自语，"他定会说我像个科尼岛上合唱队的卖唱姑娘。但是我能怎么办呢——唉，只有一元八角七，我能干什么呢？" 　　七点钟，她煮好了咖啡，把煎锅置于热炉上，随时都可作肉排。 　　吉姆一贯准时回家。德拉将表链对叠握在手心，坐在离他一贯进门最近的桌子角上。接着，她听见下面楼梯上响起了他的脚步声，她紧张得脸色失去了一会儿血色。她习惯于为了最简单的日常事物而默默祈祷，此刻，她悄声道："求求上帝，让他觉得我还是漂亮的吧。" 　　门开了，吉姆步入，随手关上了门。他显得瘦削而又非常严肃。可怜的人儿，他才二十二岁，就挑起了家庭重担！他需要买件新大衣，连手套也没有呀。 　　吉姆站在屋里的门口边，纹丝不动地好像猎犬嗅到了鹌鹑的气味似的。他的两眼固定在德拉身上，其神情使她无法理解，令她毛骨悚然。既不是愤怒，也不是惊讶，又不是不满，更不是嫌恶，根本不是她所预料的任何一种神情。他仅仅是面带这种神情死死地盯着德拉。 　　德拉一扭腰，从桌上跳了下来，向他走过去。 　　"吉姆，亲爱的，"她喊道，"别那样盯着我。我把头发剪掉卖了，因为不送你一件礼物，我无法过圣诞节。头发会再长起来——你不会介意，是吗？我非这么做不可。我的头发长得快极了。说'恭贺圣诞'吧！吉姆，让我们快快乐乐的。你肯定猜不着我给你买了一件多么好的——多么美丽精致的礼物啊！" 　　"你已经把头发剪掉了？"吉姆吃力地问道，似乎他绞尽脑汁也没弄明白这明摆着的事实。 　　"剪掉卖了，"德拉说。"不管怎么说，你不也同样喜欢我吗？没了长发，我还是我嘛，对吗？" 　　吉姆古怪地四下望望这房间。 　　"你说你的头发没有了吗？"他差不多是白痴似地问道。 　　"别找啦，"德拉说。"告诉你，我已经卖了——卖掉了，没有啦。这是圣诞前夜，好人儿。好好待我，这是为了你呀。也许我的头发数得清，"突然她特别温柔地接下去，"可谁也数不清我对你的恩爱啊。我做肉排了吗，吉姆？" 　　吉姆好像从恍惚之中醒来，把德拉紧紧地搂在怀里。现在，别着急，先让我们花个十秒钟从另一角度审慎地思索一下某些无关紧要的事。房租每周八美元，或者一百万美元——那有什么差别呢？数学家或才子会给你错误的答案。麦琪②带来了宝贵的礼物，但就是缺少了那件东西。这句晦涩的话，下文将有所交待。 　　吉姆从大衣口袋里掏出一个小包，扔在桌上。 　　"别对我产生误会，德尔，"他说道，"无论剪发、修面，还是洗头，我以为世上没有什么东西能减低一点点对我妻子的爱情。不过，你只消打开那包东西，就会明白刚才为什么使我楞头楞脑了。" 　　白皙的手指灵巧地解开绳子，打开纸包。紧接着是欣喜若狂的尖叫，哎呀！突然变成了女性神经质的泪水和哭泣，急需男主人千方百计的慰藉。 　　还是因为摆在桌上的梳子——全套梳子，包括两鬓用的，后面的，样样俱全。那是很久以前德拉在百老汇的一个橱窗里见过并羡慕得要死的东西。这些美妙的发梳，纯玳瑁做的，边上镶着珠宝——其色彩正好同她失去的美发相匹配。她明白，这套梳子实在太昂贵，对此，她仅仅是羡慕渴望，但从未想到过据为己有。现在，这一切居然属于她了，可惜那有资格佩戴这垂涎已久的装饰品的美丽长发已无影无踪了。 　　不过，她依然把发梳搂在胸前，过了好一阵子才抬起泪水迷濛的双眼，微笑着说："我的头发长得飞快，吉姆！" 　　随后，德拉活像一只被烫伤的小猫跳了起来，叫道，"喔！喔！" 　　吉姆还没有瞧见他的美丽的礼物哩。她急不可耐地把手掌摊开，伸到他面前，那没有知觉的贵重金属似乎闪现着她的欢快和热忱。 　　"漂亮吗，吉姆？我搜遍了全城才找到了它。现在，你每天可以看一百次时间了。把表给我，我要看看它配在表上的样子。" 　　吉姆非旦不按她的吩咐行事，反而倒在睡椅上，两手枕在头下，微微发笑。 　　"德尔，"他说，"让我们把圣诞礼物放在一边，保存一会儿吧。它们实在太好了，目前尚不宜用。我卖掉金表，换钱为你买了发梳。现在，你作肉排吧。" 　　正如诸位所知，麦琪是聪明人，聪明绝顶的人，他们把礼物带来送给出生在马槽里的耶稣。他们发明送圣诞礼物这玩艺儿。由于他们是聪明人，毫无疑问，他们的礼物也是聪明的礼物，如果碰上两样东西完全一样，可能还具有交换的权利。在这儿，我已经笨拙地给你们介绍了住公寓套间的两个傻孩子不足为奇的平淡故事，他们极不明智地为了对方而牺牲了他们家最最宝贵的东西。不过，让我们对现今的聪明人说最后一句话，在一切馈赠礼品的人当中，那两个人是最聪明的。在一切馈赠又接收礼品的人当中，像他们两个这样的人也是最聪明的。无论在任何地方，他们都是最聪明的人。 　　他们就是麦琪。 　　①示巴女王（ＱｕｅｅｅｎｏｆＳｈｅｂａ）：基督教《圣经》中朝觐所罗门王，以测其智慧的示巴女王，她以美貌著称。 　　②麦琪（Ｍａｇｉ，单数为Ｍａｇｕｓ）：指圣婴基督出生时来自东方送礼的三贤人，载于圣经马太福音第二章第一节和第七至第十三节。

The Last Leaf 最后一片叶子 In a little district west of Washington Square the streets have run crazy and broken themselves into small strips called "places." These "places" make strange angles and curves. One Street crosses itself a time or two. An artist once discovered a valuable possibility in this street. Suppose a collector with a bill for paints, paper and canvas should, in traversing this route, suddenly meet himself coming back, without a cent having been paid on account! So, to quaint old Greenwich Village the art people soon came prowling, hunting for north windows and eighteenth-century gables and Dutch attics and low rents. Then they imported some pewter mugs and a chafing dish or two from Sixth Avenue, and became a "colony." At the top of a squatty, three-story brick Sue and Johnsy had their studio. "Johnsy" was familiar for Joanna. One was from Maine; the other from California. They had met at the table d'h?te of an Eighth Street "Delmonico's," and found their tastes in art, chicory salad and bishop sleeves so congenial that the joint studio resulted. That was in May. In November a cold, unseen stranger, whom the doctors called Pneumonia, stalked about the colony, touching one here and there with his icy fingers. Over on the east side this ravager strode boldly, smiting his victims by scores, but his feet trod slowly through the maze of the narrow and moss-grown "places." Mr. Pneumonia was not what you would call a chivalric old gentleman. A mite of a little woman with blood thinned by California zephyrs was hardly fair game for the red-fisted, short-breathed old duffer. But Johnsy he smote; and she lay, scarcely moving, on her painted iron bedstead, looking through the small Dutch window-panes at the blank side of the next brick house. One morning the busy doctor invited Sue into the hallway with a shaggy, grey eyebrow. "She has one chance in - let us say, ten," he said, as he shook down the mercury in his clinical thermometer. " And that chance is for her to want to live. This way people have of lining-u on the side of the undertaker makes the entire pharmacopoeia look silly. Your little lady has made up her mind that she's not going to get well. Has she anything on her mind?" "She - she wanted to paint the Bay of Naples some day." said Sue. "Paint? - bosh! Has she anything on her mind worth thinking twice - a man for instance?" "A man?" said Sue, with a jew's-harp twang in her voice. "Is a man worth - but, no, doctor; there is nothing of the kind." "Well, it is the weakness, then," said the doctor. "I will do all that science, so far as it may filter through my efforts, can accomplish. But whenever my patient begins to count the carriages in her funeral procession I subtract 50 per cent from the curative power of medicines. If you will get her to ask one question about the new winter styles in cloak sleeves I will promise you a one-in-five chance for her, instead of one in ten." After the doctor had gone Sue went into the workroom and cried a Japanese napkin to a pulp. Then she swaggered into Johnsy's room with her drawing board, whistling ragtime. Johnsy lay, scarcely making a ripple under the bedclothes, with her face toward the window. Sue stopped whistling, thinking she was asleep. She arranged her board and began a pen-and-ink drawing to illustrate a magazine story. Young artists must pave their way to Art by drawing pictures for magazine stories that young authors write to pave their way to Literature. As Sue was sketching a pair of elegant horseshow riding trousers and a monocle of the figure of the hero, an Idaho cowboy, she heard a low sound, several times repeated. She went quickly to the bedside. Johnsy's eyes were open wide. She was looking out the window and counting - counting backward. "Twelve," she said, and little later "eleven"; and then "ten," and "nine"; and then "eight" and "seven", almost together. Sue look solicitously out of the window. What was there to count? There was only a bare, dreary yard to be seen, and the blank side of the brick house twenty feet away. An old, old ivy vine, gnarled and decayed at the roots, climbed half way up the brick wall. The cold breath of autumn had stricken its leaves from the vine until its skeleton branches clung, almost bare, to the crumbling bricks. "What is it, dear?" asked Sue. "Six," said Johnsy, in almost a whisper. "They're falling faster now. Three days ago there were almost a hundred. It made my head ache to count them. But now it's easy. There goes another one. There are only five left now." "Five what, dear? Tell your Sudie." "Leaves. On the ivy vine. When the last one falls I must go, too. I've known that for three days. Didn't the doctor tell you?" "Oh, I never heard of such nonsense," complained Sue, with magnificent scorn. "What have old ivy leaves to do with your getting well? And you used to love that vine so, you naughty girl. Don't be a goosey. Why, the doctor told me this morning that your chances for getting well real soon were - let's see exactly what he said - he said the chances were ten to one! Why, that's almost as good a chance as we have in New York when we ride on the street cars or walk past a new building. Try to take some broth now, and let Sudie go back to her drawing, so she can sell the editor man with it, and buy port wine for her sick child, and pork chops for her greedy self." "You needn't get any more wine," said Johnsy, keeping her eyes fixed out the window. "There goes another. No, I don't want any broth. That leaves just four. I want to see the last one fall before it gets dark. Then I'll go, too." "Johnsy, dear," said Sue, bending over her, "will you promise me to keep your eyes closed, and not look out the window until I am done working? I must hand those drawings in by to-morrow. I need the light, or I would draw the shade down." "Couldn't you draw in the other room?" asked Johnsy, coldly. "I'd rather be here by you," said Sue. "Beside, I don't want you to keep looking at those silly ivy leaves." "Tell me as soon as you have finished," said Johnsy, closing her eyes, and lying white and still as fallen statue, "because I want to see the last one fall. I'm tired of waiting. I'm tired of thinking. I want to turn loose my hold on everything, and go sailing down, down, just like one of those poor, tired leaves." "Try to sleep," said Sue. "I must call Behrman up to be my model for the old hermit miner. I'll not be gone a minute. Don't try to move 'til I come back." Old Behrman was a painter who lived on the ground floor beneath them. He was past sixty and had a Michael Angelo's Moses beard curling down from the head of a satyr along with the body of an imp. Behrman was a failure in art. Forty years he had wielded the brush without getting near enough to touch the hem of his Mistress's robe. He had been always about to paint a masterpiece, but had never yet begun it. For several years he had painted nothing except now and then a daub in the line of commerce or advertising. He earned a little by serving as a model to those young artists in the colony who could not pay the price of a professional. He drank gin to excess, and still talked of his coming masterpiece. For the rest he was a fierce little old man, who scoffed terribly at softness in any one, and who regarded himself as especial mastiff-in-waiting to protect the two young artists in the studio above. Sue found Behrman smelling strongly of juniper berries in his dimly lighted den below. In one corner was a blank canvas on an easel that had been waiting there for twenty-five years to receive the first line of the masterpiece. She told him of Johnsy's fancy, and how she feared she would, indeed, light and fragile as a leaf herself, float away, when her slight hold upon the world grew weaker. Old Behrman, with his red eyes plainly streaming, shouted his contempt and derision for such idiotic imaginings. "Vass!" he cried. "Is dere people in de world mit der foolishness to die because leafs dey drop off from a confounded vine? I haf not heard of such a thing. No, I will not bose as a model for your fool hermit-dunderhead. Vy do you allow dot silly pusiness to come in der brain of her? Ach, dot poor leetle Miss Yohnsy." "She is very ill and weak," said Sue, "and the fever has left her mind morbid and full of strange fancies. Very well, Mr. Behrman, if you do not care to pose for me, you needn't. But I think you are a horrid old - old flibbertigibbet." "You are just like a woman!" yelled Behrman. "Who said I will not bose? Go on. I come mit you. For half an hour I haf peen trying to say dot I am ready to bose. Gott! dis is not any blace in which one so goot as Miss Yohnsy shall lie sick. Some day I vill baint a masterpiece, and ve shall all go away. Gott! yes." Johnsy was sleeping when they went upstairs. Sue pulled the shade down to the window-sill, and motioned Behrman into the other room. In there they peered out the window fearfully at the ivy vine. Then they looked at each other for a moment without speaking. A persistent, cold rain was falling, mingled with snow. Behrman, in his old blue shirt, took his seat as the hermit miner on an upturned kettle for a rock. When Sue awoke from an hour's sleep the next morning she found Johnsy with dull, wide-open eyes staring at the drawn green shade. "Pull it up; I want to see," she ordered, in a whisper. Wearily Sue obeyed. But, lo! after the beating rain and fierce gusts of wind that had endured through the livelong night, there yet stood out against the brick wall one ivy leaf. It was the last one on the vine. Still dark green near its stem, with its serrated edges tinted with the yellow of dissolution and decay, it hung bravely from the branch some twenty feet above the ground. "It is the last one," said Johnsy. "I thought it would surely fall during the night. I heard the wind. It will fall to-day, and I shall die at the same time." "Dear, dear!" said Sue, leaning her worn face down to the pillow, "think of me, if you won't think of yourself. What would I do?" But Johnsy did not answer. The lonesomest thing in all the world is a soul when it is making ready to go on its mysterious, far journey. The fancy seemed to possess her more strongly as one by one the ties that bound her to friendship and to earth were loosed. The day wore away, and even through the twilight they could see the lone ivy leaf clinging to its stem against the wall. And then, with the coming of the night the north wind was again loosed, while the rain still beat against the windows and pattered down from the low Dutch eaves. When it was light enough Johnsy, the merciless, commanded that the shade be raised. The ivy leaf was still there. Johnsy lay for a long time looking at it. And then she called to Sue, who was stirring her chicken broth over the gas stove. "I've been a bad girl, Sudie," said Johnsy. "Something has made that last leaf stay there to show me how wicked I was. It is a sin to want to die. You may bring a me a little broth now, and some milk with a little port in it, and - no; bring me a hand-mirror first, and then pack some pillows about me, and I will sit up and watch you cook." And hour later she said: "Sudie, some day I hope to paint the Bay of Naples." The doctor came in the afternoon, and Sue had an excuse to go into the hallway as he left. "Even chances," said the doctor, taking Sue's thin, shaking hand in his. "With good nursing you'll win." And now I must see another case I have downstairs. Behrman, his name is - some kind of an artist, I believe. Pneumonia, too. He is an old, weak man, and the attack is acute. There is no hope for him; but he goes to the hospital to-day to be made more comfortable." The next day the doctor said to Sue: "She's out of danger. You won. Nutrition and care now - that's all." And that afternoon Sue came to the bed where Johnsy lay, contentedly knitting a very blue and very useless woollen shoulder scarf, and put one arm around her, pillows and all. "I have something to tell you, white mouse," she said. "Mr. Behrman died of pneumonia to-day in the hospital. He was ill only two days. The janitor found him the morning of the first day in his room downstairs helpless with pain. His shoes and clothing were wet through and icy cold. They couldn't imagine where he had been on such a dreadful night. And then they found a lantern, still lighted, and a ladder that had been dragged from its place, and some scattered brushes, and a palette with green and yellow colours mixed on it, and - look out the window, dear, at the last ivy leaf on the wall. Didn't you wonder why it never fluttered or moved when the wind blew? Ah, darling, it's Behrman's masterpiece - he painted it there the night that the last leaf fell."     在华盛顿广场西边的一个小区里，街道都横七竖八地伸展开去，又分裂成一小条一小条的“胡同”。这些“胡同”稀奇古怪地拐着弯子。一条街有时自己本身就交叉了不止一次。有一回一个画家发现这条街有一种优越性：要是有个收帐的跑到这条街上，来催要颜料、纸张和画布的钱，他就会突然发现自己两手空空，原路返回，一文钱的帐也没有要到！     所以，不久之后不少画家就摸索到这个古色古香的老格林尼治村来，寻求朝北的窗户、18世纪的尖顶山墙、荷兰式的阁楼，以及低廉的房租。然后，他们又从第六街买来一些蜡酒杯和一两只火锅，这里便成了“艺术区”。     苏和琼西的画室设在一所又宽又矮的三层楼砖房的顶楼上。“琼西”是琼娜的爱称。她俩一个来自缅因州，一个是加利福尼亚州人。她们是在第八街的“台尔蒙尼歌之家”吃份饭时碰到的，她们发现彼此对艺术、生菜色拉和时装的爱好非常一致，便合租了那间画室。     那是5月里的事。到了11月，一个冷酷的、肉眼看不见的、医生们叫做“肺炎”的不速之客，在艺术区里悄悄地游荡，用他冰冷的手指头这里碰一下那里碰一下。在广场东头，这个破坏者明目张胆地踏着大步，一下子就击倒几十个受害者，可是在迷宫一样、狭窄而铺满青苔的“胡同”里，他的步伐就慢了下来。     肺炎先生不是一个你们心目中行侠仗义的老的绅士。一个身子单薄，被加利福尼亚州的西风刮得没有血色的弱女子，本来不应该是这个有着红拳头的、呼吸急促的老家伙打击的对象。然而，琼西却遭到了打击；她躺在一张油漆过的铁床上，一动也不动，凝望着小小的荷兰式玻璃窗外对面砖房的空墙。     一天早晨，那个忙碌的医生扬了扬他那毛茸茸的灰白色眉毛，把苏叫到外边的走廊上。     “我看，她的病只有十分之一的恢复希望，”他一面把体温表里的水银柱甩下去，一面说，“这一分希望就是她想要活下去的念头。有些人好像不愿意活下去，喜欢照顾殡仪馆的生意，简直让整个医药界都无能为力。你的朋友断定自己是不会痊愈的了。她是不是有什么心事呢？”     “她——她希望有一天能够去画那不勒斯的海湾。”苏说。     “画画？——真是瞎扯！她脑子里有没有什么值得她想了又想的事——比如说，一个男人？”     “男人？”苏像吹口琴似的扯着嗓子说，“男人难道值得——不，医生，没有这样的事。”     “能达到的全部力量去治疗她。可要是我的病人开始算计会有多少辆马车送她出丧，我就得把治疗的效果减掉百分之五十。只要你能想法让她对冬季大衣袖子的时新式样感到兴趣而提出一两个问题，那我可以向你保证把医好她的机会从十分之一提高到五分之一。”     医生走后，苏走进工作室里，把一条日本餐巾哭成一团湿。后来她手里拿着画板，装做精神抖擞的样子走进琼西的屋子，嘴里吹着爵士音乐调子。     琼西躺着，脸朝着窗口，被子底下的身体纹丝不动。苏以为她睡着了，赶忙停止吹口哨。     她架好画板，开始给杂志里的故事画一张钢笔插图。年轻的画家为了铺平通向艺术的道路，不得不给杂志里的故事画插图，而这些故事又是年轻的作家为了铺平通向文学的道路而不得不写的。     苏正在给故事主人公，一个爱达荷州牧人的身上，画上一条马匹展览会穿的时髦马裤和一片单眼镜时，忽然听到一个重复了几次的低微的声音。她快步走到床边。     琼西的眼睛睁得很大。她望着窗外，数着……倒过来数。     “12”，她数道，歇了一会又说“11”，然后是“10”和“9”，接着几乎同时数着“8”和“7”。     苏关切地看了看窗外。那儿有什么可数的呢？只见一个空荡阴暗的院子，20英尺以外还有一所砖房的空墙。一棵老极了的长春藤，枯萎的根纠结在一块，枝干攀在砖墙的半腰上。秋天的寒风把藤上的叶子差不多全都吹掉了，几乎只有光秃的枝条还缠附在剥落的砖块上。     “什么呀，亲爱的？”苏问道。     “6”，琼西几乎用耳语低声说道，“它们现在越落越快了，三天前还有差不多一百片。我数得头都疼了，但是现在好数了。又掉了一片，只剩下五片了。”     “五片什么呀，亲爱的。告诉你的苏娣吧。”     “叶子。长春藤上的。等到最后一片叶子掉下来，我也就该去了。这件事我三天前就知道了。难道医生没有告诉你？”     “哼，我从来没听过这种傻话，”苏十分不以为然地说，“那些破长春藤叶子和你的病好不好有什么关系？你以前不是很喜欢这棵树吗？你这个淘气孩子。不要说傻话了。瞧，医生今天早晨还告诉我，说你迅速痊愈的机会是，——让我一字不改地照他的话说吧——他说有九成把握。噢，那简直和我们在纽约坐电车或者走过一座新楼房的把握一样大。喝点汤吧，让苏娣去画她的画，好把它卖给编辑先生，换了钱来给她的病孩子买点红葡萄酒，再给她自己买点猪排解解馋。”     “你不用买酒了，”琼西的眼睛直盯着窗外说道，“又落了一片。不，我不想喝汤。只剩下四片了。我想在天黑以前等着看那最后一片叶子掉下去。然后我也要去了。”     “琼西，亲爱的，”苏俯着身子对她说，“你答应我闭上眼睛，不要瞧窗外，等我画完，行吗？明天我非得交出这些插图。我需要光线，否则我就拉下窗帘了。”     “你不能到那间屋子里去画吗？”琼西冷冷地问道。     “我愿意呆在你跟前，”苏说，“再说，我也不想让你老看着那些讨厌的长春藤叶子。”     “你一画完就叫我，”琼西说着，便闭上了眼睛。她脸色苍白，一动不动地躺在床上，就像是座横倒在地上的雕像。“因为我想看那最后一片叶子掉下来，我等得不耐烦了，也想得不耐烦了。我想摆脱一切，飘下去，飘下去，像一片可怜的疲倦了的叶子那样。”     “你睡一会吧，”苏说道，“我得下楼把贝尔门叫上来，给我当那个隐居的老矿工的模特儿。我一会儿就回来的。不要动，等我回来。”     老贝尔门是住在她们这座楼房底层的一个画家。他年过60，有一把像米开朗琪罗的摩西雕像那样的大胡子，这胡子长在一个像半人半兽的森林之神的头颅上，又鬈曲地飘拂在小鬼似的身躯上。贝尔门是个失败的画家。他操了四十年的画笔，还远没有摸着艺术女神的衣裙。他老是说就要画他的那幅杰作了，可是直到现在他还没有动笔。几年来，他除了偶尔画点商业广告之类的玩意儿以外，什么也没有画过。他给艺术区里穷得雇不起职业模特儿的年轻画家们当模特儿，挣一点钱。他喝酒毫无节制，还时常提起他要画的那幅杰作。除此以外，他是一个火气十足的小老头子，十分瞧不起别人的温情，却认为自己是专门保护楼上画室里那两个年轻女画家的一只看家狗。     苏在楼下他那间光线黯淡的斗室里找到了嘴里酒气扑鼻的贝尔门。一幅空白的画布绷在个画架上，摆在屋角里，等待那幅杰作已经25年了，可是连一根线条还没等着。苏把琼西的胡思乱想告诉了他，还说她害怕琼西自个儿瘦小柔弱得像一片叶子一样，对这个世界的留恋越来越微弱，恐怕真会离世飘走了。     老贝尔门两只发红的眼睛显然在迎风流泪，他十分轻蔑地嗤笑这种傻呆的胡思乱想。     “什么，”他喊道，“世界上真会有人蠢到因为那些该死的长春藤叶子落掉就想死？我从来没有听说过这种怪事。不，我才不给你那隐居的矿工糊涂虫当模特儿呢。你干吗让她胡思乱想？唉，可怜的琼西小姐。”     “她病得很厉害很虚弱，”苏说，“发高烧发得她神经昏乱，满脑子都是古怪想法。好，贝尔门先生，你不愿意给我当模特儿，就拉倒，我看你是个讨厌的老——老罗唆鬼。”     “你简直太婆婆妈妈了！”贝尔门喊道，“谁说我不愿意当模特儿？走，我和你一块去。我不是讲了半天愿意给你当模特儿吗？老天爷，琼西小姐这么好的姑娘真不应该躺在这种地方生病。总有一天我要画一幅杰作，我们就可以都搬出去了。一定的！”     他们上楼以后，琼西正睡着觉。苏把窗帘拉下，一直遮住窗台，做手势叫贝尔门到隔壁屋子里去。他们在那里提心吊胆地瞅着窗外那棵长春藤。后来他们默默无言，彼此对望了一会。寒冷的雨夹杂着雪花不停地下着。贝尔门穿着他的旧的蓝衬衣，坐在一把翻过来充当岩石的铁壶上，扮作隐居的矿工。     第二天早晨，苏只睡了一个小时的觉，醒来了，她看见琼西无神的眼睛睁得大大地注视拉下的绿窗帘。     “把窗帘拉起来，我要看看。”她低声地命令道。     苏疲倦地照办了。     然而，看呀！经过了漫长一夜的风吹雨打，在砖墙上还挂着一片藤叶。它是长春藤上最后的一片叶子了。靠近茎部仍然是深绿色，可是锯齿形的叶子边缘已经枯萎发黄，它傲然挂在一根离地二十多英尺的藤枝上。     “这是最后一片叶子。”琼西说道，“我以为它昨晚一定会落掉的。我听见风声的。今天它一定会落掉，我也会死的。”     “哎呀，哎呀，”苏把疲乏的脸庞挨近枕头边上对她说，“你不肯为自己着想，也得为我想想啊。我可怎么办呢？”     可是琼西不回答。当一个灵魂正在准备走上那神秘的、遥远的死亡之途时，她是世界上最寂寞的人了。那些把她和友谊及大地联结起来的关系逐渐消失以后，她那个狂想越来越强烈了。     白天总算过去了，甚至在暮色中她们还能看见那片孤零零的藤叶仍紧紧地依附在靠墙的枝上。后来，夜的到临带来了呼啸的北风，雨点不停地拍打着窗子，雨水从低垂的荷兰式屋檐上流泻下来。     天刚蒙蒙亮，琼西就毫不留情地吩咐拉起窗帘来。     那片藤叶仍然在那里。     琼西躺着对它看了许久。然后她招呼正在煤气炉上给她煮鸡汤的苏。     “我是一个坏女孩子，苏娣，”琼西说，“天意让那片最后的藤叶留在那里，证明我是多么坏。想死是有罪过的。你现在就给我拿点鸡汤来，再拿点掺葡萄酒的牛奶来，再——不，先给我一面小镜子，再把枕头垫垫高，我要坐起来看你做饭。”     过了一个钟头，她说道：“苏娣，我希望有一天能去画那不勒斯的海湾。”     下午医生来了，他走的时候，苏找了个借口跑到走廊上。     “有五成希望。”医生一面说，一面把苏细瘦的颤抖的手握在自己的手里，“好好护理你会成功的。现在我得去看楼下另一个病人。他的名字叫贝尔门——听说也是个画家。也是肺炎。他年纪太大，身体又弱，病势很重。他是治不好的了；今天要把他送到医院里，让他更舒服一点。”     第二天，医生对苏说：“她已经脱离危险，你成功了。现在只剩下营养和护理了。”     下午苏跑到琼西的床前，琼西正躺着，安详地编织着一条毫无用处的深蓝色毛线披肩。苏用一只胳臂连枕头带人一把抱住了她。     “我有件事要告诉你，小家伙，”她说，“贝尔门先生今天在医院里患肺炎去世了。他只病了两天。头一天早晨，门房发现他在楼下自己那间房里痛得动弹不了。他的鞋子和衣服全都湿透了，冻凉冰凉的。他们搞不清楚在那个凄风苦雨的夜晚，他究竟到哪里去了。后来他们发现了一盏没有熄灭的灯笼，一把挪动过地方的梯子，几支扔得满地的画笔，还有一块调色板，上面涂抹着绿色和黄色的颜料，还有——亲爱的，瞧瞧窗子外面，瞧瞧墙上那最后一片藤叶。难道你没有想过，为什么风刮得那样厉害，它却从来不摇一摇、动一动呢？唉，亲爱的，这片叶子才是贝尔门的杰作——就是在最后一片叶子掉下来的晚上，他把它画在那里的。”

A Cosmopolite in a Cafe咖啡馆里的世界公民 At midnight the cafe was crowded. By some chance the little table at which I sat had escaped the eye of incomers, and two vacant chairs at it extended their arms with venal hospitality to the influx of patrons. And then a cosmopolite sat in one of them, and I was glad, for I held a theory that since Adam no true citizen of the world has existed. We hear of them, and we see foreign labels on much luggage, but we find travellers instead of cosmopolites. I invoke your consideration of the scene--the marble-topped tables, the range of leather-upholstered wall seats, the gay company, the ladies dressed in demi-state toilets, speaking in an exquisite visible chorus of taste, economy, opulence or art; the sedulous and largess-loving garcons, the music wisely catering to all with its raids upon the composers; the melange of talk and laughter--and, if you will, the Wurzburger in the tall glass cones that bend to your lips as a ripe cherry sways on its branch to the beak of a robber jay. I was told by a sculptor from Mauch Chunk that the scene was truly Parisian. My cosmopolite was named E. Rushmore Coglan, and he will be heard from next summer at Coney Island. He is to establish a new "attraction" there, he informed me, offering kingly diversion. And then his conversation rang along parallels of latitude and longitude. He took the great, round world in his hand, so to speak, familiarly, contemptuously, and it seemed no larger than the seed of a Maraschino cherry in a table d'hote grape fruit. He spoke disrespectfully of the equator, he skipped from continent to continent, he derided the zones, he mopped up the high seas with his napkin. With a wave of his hand he would speak of a certain bazaar in Hyderabad. Whiff! He would have you on skis in Lapland. Zip! Now you rode the breakers with the Kanakas at Kealaikahiki. Presto! He dragged you through an Arkansas post-oak swamp, let you dry for a moment on the alkali plains of his Idaho ranch, then whirled you into the society of Viennese archdukes. Anon he would be telling you of a cold he acquired in a Chicago lake breeze and how old Escamila cured it in Buenos Ayres with a hot infusion of the chuchula weed. You would have addressed a letter to "E. Rushmore Coglan, Esq., the Earth, Solar System, the Universe," and have mailed it, feeling confident that it would be delivered to him. I was sure that I had found at last the one true cosmopolite since Adam, and I listened to his worldwide discourse fearful lest I should discover in it the local note of the mere globe-trotter. But his opinions never fluttered or drooped; he was as impartial to cities, countries and continents as the winds or gravitation. And as E. Rushmore Coglan prattled of this little planet I thought with glee of a great almost-cosmopolite who wrote for the whole world and dedicated himself to Bombay. In a poem he has to say that there is pride and rivalry between the cities of the earth, and that "the men that breed from them, they traffic up and down, but cling to their cities' hem as a child to the mother's gown." And whenever they walk "by roaring streets unknown" they remember their native city "most faithful, foolish, fond; making her mere-breathed name their bond upon their bond." And my glee was roused because I had caught Mr. Kipling napping. Here I had found a man not made from dust; one who had no narrow boasts of birthplace or country, one who, if he bragged at all, would brag of his whole round globe against the Martians and the inhabitants of the Moon. Expression on these subjects was precipitated from E. Rushmore Coglan by the third corner to our table. While Coglan was describing to me the topography along the Siberian Railway the orchestra glided into a medley. The concluding air was "Dixie," and as the exhilarating notes tumbled forth they were almost overpowered by a great clapping of hands from almost every table. It is worth a paragraph to say that this remarkable scene can be witnessed every evening in numerous cafes in the City of New York. Tons of brew have been consumed over theories to account for it. Some have conjectured hastily that all Southerners in town hie themselves to cafes at nightfall. This applause of the "rebel" air in a Northern city does puzzle a little; but it is not insolvable. The war with Spain, many years' generous mint and watermelon crops, a few long-shot winners at the New Orleans race-track, and the brilliant banquets given by the Indiana and Kansas citizens who compose the North Carolina Society have made the South rather a "fad" in Manhattan. Your manicure will lisp softly that your left forefinger reminds her so much of a gentleman's in Richmond, Va. Oh, certainly; but many a lady has to work now--the war, you know. When "Dixie" was being played a dark-haired young man sprang up from somewhere with a Mosby guerrilla yell and waved frantically his soft- brimmed hat. Then he strayed through the smoke, dropped into the vacant chair at our table and pulled out cigarettes. The evening was at the period when reserve is thawed. One of us mentioned three Wurzburgers to the waiter; the dark-haired young man acknowledged his inclusion in the order by a smile and a nod. I hastened to ask him a question because I wanted to try out a theory I had. "Would you mind telling me," I began, "whether you are from--" The fist of E. Rushmore Coglan banged the table and I was jarred into silence. "Excuse me," said he, "but that's a question I never like to hear asked. What does it matter where a man is from? Is it fair to judge a man by his post-office address? Why, I've seen Kentuckians who hated whiskey, Virginians who weren't descended from Pocahontas, Indianians who hadn't written a novel, Mexicans who didn't wear velvet trousers with silver dollars sewed along the seams, funny Englishmen, spendthrift Yankees, cold-blooded Southerners, narrow- minded Westerners, and New Yorkers who were too busy to stop for an hour on the street to watch a one-armed grocer's clerk do up cranberries in paper bags. Let a man be a man and don't handicap him with the label of any section." "Pardon me," I said, "but my curiosity was not altogether an idle one. I know the South, and when the band plays 'Dixie' I like to observe. I have formed the belief that the man who applauds that air with special violence and ostensible sectional loyalty is invariably a native of either Secaucus, N.J., or the district between Murray Hill Lyceum and the Harlem River, this city. I was about to put my opinion to the test by inquiring of this gentleman when you interrupted with your own--larger theory, I must confess." And now the dark-haired young man spoke to me, and it became evident that his mind also moved along its own set of grooves. "I should like to be a periwinkle," said he, mysteriously, "on the top of a valley, and sing tooralloo-ralloo." This was clearly too obscure, so I turned again to Coglan. "I've been around the world twelve times," said he. "I know an Esquimau in Upernavik who sends to Cincinnati for his neckties, and I saw a goatherder in Uruguay who won a prize in a Battle Creek breakfast food puzzle competition. I pay rent on a room in Cairo, Egypt, and another in Yokohama all the year around. I've got slippers waiting for me in a tea-house in Shanghai, and I don't have to tell 'em how to cook my eggs in Rio de Janeiro or Seattle. It's a mighty little old world. What's the use of bragging about being from the North, or the South, or the old manor house in the dale, or Euclid avenue, Cleveland, or Pike's Peak, or Fairfax County, Va., or Hooligan's Flats or any place? It'll be a better world when we quit being fools about some mildewed town or ten acres of swampland just because we happened to be born there." "You seem to be a genuine cosmopolite," I said admiringly. "But it also seems that you would decry patriotism." "A relic of the stone age," declared Coglan, warmly. "We are all brothers--Chinamen, Englishmen, Zulus, Patagonians and the people in the bend of the Kaw River. Some day all this petty pride in one's city or State or section or country will be wiped out, and we'll all be citizens of the world, as we ought to be." "But while you are wandering in foreign lands," I persisted, "do not your thoughts revert to some spo--some dear and--" "Nary a spot," interrupted E. R. Coglan, flippantly. "The terrestrial, globular, planetary hunk of matter, slightly flattened at the poles, and known as the Earth, is my abode. I've met a good many object-bound citizens of this country abroad. I've seen men from Chicago sit in a gondola in Venice on a moonlight night and brag about their drainage canal. I've seen a Southerner on being introduced to the King of England hand that monarch, without batting his eyes, the information that his grandaunt on his mother's side was related by marriage to the Perkinses, of Charleston. I knew a New Yorker who was kidnapped for ransom by some Afghanistan bandits. His people sent over the money and he came back to Kabul with the agent. 'Afghanistan?' the natives said to him through an interpreter. 'Well, not so slow, do you think?' 'Oh, I don't know,' says he, and he begins to tell them about a cab driver at Sixth avenue and Broadway. Those ideas don't suit me. I'm not tied down to anything that isn't 8,000 miles in diameter. Just put me down as E. Rushmore Coglan, citizen of the terrestrial sphere." My cosmopolite made a large adieu and left me, for he thought he saw some one through the chatter and smoke whom he knew. So I was left with the would-be periwinkle, who was reduced to Wurzburger without further ability to voice his aspirations to perch, melodious, upon the summit of a valley. I sat reflecting upon my evident cosmopolite and wondering how the poet had managed to miss him. He was my discovery and I believed in him. How was it? "The men that breed from them they traffic up and down, but cling to their cities' hem as a child to the mother's gown." Not so E. Rushmore Coglan. With the whole world for his-- My meditations were interrupted by a tremendous noise and conflict in another part of the cafe. I saw above the heads of the seated patrons E. Rushmore Coglan and a stranger to me engaged in terrific battle. They fought between the tables like Titans, and glasses crashed, and men caught their hats up and were knocked down, and a brunette screamed, and a blonde began to sing "Teasing." My cosmopolite was sustaining the pride and reputation of the Earth when the waiters closed in on both combatants with their famous flying wedge formation and bore them outside, still resisting. I called McCarthy, one of the French garcons, and asked him the cause of the conflict. "The man with the red tie" (that was my cosmopolite), said he, "got hot on account of things said about the bum sidewalks and water supply of the place he come from by the other guy." "Why," said I, bewildered, "that man is a citizen of the world--a cosmopolite. He--" "Originally from Mattawamkeag, Maine, he said," continued McCarthy, "and he wouldn't stand for no knockin' the place." 　　半夜，咖啡馆拥挤不通。我随意间选坐的一张小桌恰好不为人们所注目，还剩下两把空椅以诱人的殷勤，伸开双臂欢迎新拥进的顾客。 　　当时，一位世界公民和我同一张小桌，坐在另一张椅子上。我真高兴，因为我持这种理论，自亚当以来，还没有过一位真正的属于整个世界的居民。我们听说过世界公民，也在许多包裹上见过异国标签，但那是旅游者，不是世界公民。 　　我提到下面的情景定会引起你的思考——大理石桌面的桌子，一排排靠墙的皮革椅座，愉快的侣伴，稍加打扮的女士们正以微妙而又明显可见的情趣争相谈论着经济、繁盛和艺术，小心周到喜欢慷慨的侍者，使作曲家慌忙不迭的音乐机灵地满足一切人的口味，还有杂七杂八的谈话声、欢笑声——假如你乐意的话，高高的玻璃锥体维尔茨堡酒①将躬身到你的唇边，就像那枝头上的熟樱桃摇晃进强盗樫鸟的嘴壳一样。一位来自英奇·丘恩克的雕塑家告诉我，这景象真真是巴黎式的。 　　我这位世界公民名叫Ｅ·拉什莫尔·科格兰，明年夏天他将在科尼岛②——他对我说，他即将在那儿建立一种新的"诱惑力"，并提供国王式的消遣。过后，他的谈话便随同经纬度的平行线而展开，把巨大的圆圆的世界握在手里，这样说吧，对世界了如指掌，又极为瞧不起，世界似乎只是客饭中黑葡萄酒里的樱桃核那般大小。他粗俗无礼地谈及赤道，匆匆由这块大陆转到那块大陆，他嘲笑那些地区，用餐巾抹掉狂涛巨浪。他把手一挥，谈起了海德拉巴帮③的某个东方集市。噗！他会让你在拉普兰④滑雪。嘘！你在基莱卡希基同夏威夷的土著一起驰骋在浪尖波顶。一转眼，他拖着你穿过阿肯色州长满星毛栎的沼泽，让你在艾达荷州他那碱性平原的牧场上炙烤一阵子，然后才旋风似地带你去维也纳大公们的上流社会。之后，他会给你讲到，有一次他在芝加哥湖吹了凉风而感冒，有位年长的埃斯卡米拉人在布宜诺斯艾丽斯⑤又怎样用丘丘拉草药热浸剂才把他治好。你该致函"宇宙、太阳系、地球、Ｅ·拉什莫尔·科格兰先生，"一旦寄出，便会觉得信定会交到。 　　我确信自己终于发现了从亚当以来的第一个真正的世界公民，我倾听他纵横整个世界的宏论，生怕从中发现他仅仅是个环球旅行的地方口音。他的见解决非飘浮不定或令人沮丧，他对不同的城市、国家和各大洲都是不偏不依，有如吹风和万有引力一样自然。 　　正当Ｅ·拉什莫尔·科格兰对这小小的星球高谈阔论之际，我高兴地想起了一位差不多算伟大的世界公民来，他为整个世界而写作，把自己献给了孟买⑥。在一首诗中，他不得不说，地球上的城市之间不免有些妄自尊大，互相竞争，"靠这城市抚育着人们，让他们来来往往，但仅仅依附于城市的折缝之中，有如孩子依附于母亲的睡袍一样。"当他们走在"陌生的繁华街道上，"便会记起对故乡城镇是"多么忠诚、多么愚笨、多么令人喜爱，"使他们的名字与故乡的名字生死与共，紧紧相连。我的兴趣被激起来了，因为突然记起了吉卜林⑦的疏忽大意。现在，我已经找到了一个不是由尘埃造就的人，他不是狭隘地吹捧自己的出生地或自己的国家，如果说褒扬的话，他是在赞美圆圆的整个地球，而与火星人和月球的居民相抗衡。 　　关于这类问题的见解是坐在这张桌子的第三转角处的Ｅ·拉什莫尔·科格兰突然抛掷出来的。科格兰正在给我描绘西伯利亚铁路的地形时，乐队转成了集成曲。结束的曲调是"迪克西⑧"，振奋人心的乐曲加快时，几乎被张张桌子的人们鼓掌声所淹没。 　　值得花上一段来讲讲纽约市内众多的咖啡馆每天晚上处处可见的这种引人入胜的场面。成吨的饮料挥霍于阐释各种理论。有人轻率地猜测，城里所有的南方人在夜幕降临之际都赶紧上咖啡馆。在北方的一座城市里如此赞许这种"反叛"气氛真有点叫人迷惑不解，但并非不可解答。对西班牙的战争，多年来薄荷和西瓜等农作物的丰收，新奥尔良的跑道上暴出冷门的获胜者，由印地安纳和堪萨斯的居民所组成的"北卡罗来纳社团"举办盛大的宴会已经使南方成了曼哈顿的"时尚"。你修剪指甲暗示着你的左手食指会提醒她你是个弗吉尼亚州里士满的绅士。呵，当然罗，不过，现在不少女士不得不工作——战争，你是知道的。 　　正演奏着"迪克西"，就在这时一位黑发年轻小伙子不知从什么地方蹦了出来，一声莫斯比⑨游击队队员的吼声，疯狂地挥舞着软边帽，迂回地穿过烟雾，落座于我们桌旁的空椅子上，抽出一只烟来。 　　这夜晚到了打破缄默的时候了。我们当中有人向侍者要了三杯维尔茨堡酒，黑发小伙子明白也包括他有一杯在内，便笑了笑，点了点头。我赶忙问他一个问题，因为我要证实我的一种理论。 　　"你不介意告诉我，你是哪儿的人……" 　　Ｅ·拉什莫尔·科格兰的拳头砰一声砸在桌上，把我吓得沉默了。 　　"原谅我，"他说，"但我决不喜欢听到这种问话。是哪里人又有什么相干呢？从一个人的通讯地址来判断人公正吗？唉，我见过肯塔基人厌恶威士忌，弗吉尼亚人不是从波卡洪塔丝⑩传下来的，印地安纳人没写过一本小说。墨西哥人不穿缝口上钉银币的丝绒裤，有趣的英国人，挥霍的北方佬，冷酷的南方人，气量狭小的西方人，纽约人太匆忙，没能花上一小时在街上瞧瞧杂货店的独臂售货员怎样把越橘装进纸袋。让人真正像人，不要用任何地域的标签给他设置障碍。" 　　"请原谅，"我说，"但我的好奇心不是毫无根据的。我了解南方，当乐队奏起'迪克西'时，我喜欢观察。我相信那位为这只乐曲喝采特别卖劲、假装对南方最为忠诚的人一定来自新泽西州的塞考卡，或者在本市默里·希尔·吕克昂和哈莱姆河之间。我正要寻问这位绅士来证实我的看法，恰好被你的理论所打断，当然是更大的理论，我必须承认。" 　　现在，黑发小伙子对我说，很明显，他的思想也是按自己的一套习惯运行。 　　"我倒喜欢成为一枝长春花，"他玄妙地说，"长在峡谷之巅，高唱嘟——啦卢——拉卢。" 　　这显然过于朦胧了，因此，我又转向科格兰。 　　"我已经围绕地球走了十二遍，"他说。"我了解到厄珀纳维克的一位爱斯基摩人寄钱到辛辛那提⑾去买领带，我看到乌拉圭的牧羊人在一次"战斗小湾"早餐食品谜语竞赛中获了奖。我在开罗、希腊为间房间付房租，在横滨为另一间付了全年租金。上海的一家茶馆专门为我准备了一双拖鞋，在里约热内卢的贾尼罗或者西雅图，我不必告诉他们怎样给我煮蛋。真是一个太小的旧世界。吹嘘自己是北方人、南方人有什么用呢？吹嘘山谷中的旧庄园的房舍、克里夫兰市的欧几里德大街、派克峰⑿、弗吉尼亚的费尔法克斯县或阿飞公寓或者其他任何地方又有什么用呢？只有当我们摒弃这些糊涂观念，即由于我们碰巧出生在某个发霉的城市或者十公顷沼泽地便沾沾自喜的时候，这个世界才会变得更美好。" 　　"你似乎是个货真价实的世界公民，"我羡慕地说。"不过，你似乎也抵毁了爱国主义。" 　　"石器时代的残余，"科格兰激烈地宣称。"我们都是兄弟——中国人、英国人、祖鲁人⒀、巴塔哥尼亚人⒁以及住在考河湾的人都是兄弟。将有这么一天，一切为自己出生的城市、州、地区或国家的自豪感将一扫而光，正如我们理当如此的那样，都是世界公民。" 　　"可是，当你在陌生的地方游荡时，"我仍坚持道，"你的思想是否会回复到某个地点——某些亲近的和……" 　　"从来也没有这样一个地点，"Ｅ·拉什莫尔·科格兰毫不在意地打断我。"这一大块陆地的世界的行星的东西，只要稍微把两极弄平一点，称之为地球，这就是我的寓所。在国外，我碰到过这个国家的无数公民被某个地方所束缚。我见过芝加哥人在威尼斯的月夜，坐在凤尾船上，吹嘘他们的排水沟。我见过一位被介绍给英格兰国王的南方人，他连眼皮子也不眨一下，便把消息通给了那位独裁者——他母亲方面的一位姑婆，通过婚姻关系，同查尔斯顿⒂的珀金斯⒃家的人搭上了关系。我知道一位纽约人被几个阿富汗的匪徒绑架索取赎金，等他的人送钱去，才同代理人一道回到喀布尔⒄。 　　'阿富汗？'当地人通过翻译对他说。'呵，不是太慢了，你以为？''哦，我不知道，'他说，然后他开始告诉他们关于第六大街和百老汇大街的一个马车驾驶人的事。我不是固定在直径不足八千英里的任何地方。请记下我，Ｅ·拉什莫尔·科格兰，属于整个地球的公民。" 　　我的世界公民作了个夸张的辞别，离开了我，因为他越过闲谈、透过烟雾看见某个熟悉的人。因此，只留下想当长春花的人和我在一起，他屈尊于维尔茨堡酒，再也没有能力去声言他在谷顶上唱歌的抱负了。 　　我坐在那儿，回味着我那明白无误的世界公民，弄不准怎么那位诗人没有注意到他。他是我的新发现，我信赖他。那是怎么回事呢？"靠这些城市抚育着人们，让他们来来往往，但仅仅依附于城市的折缝之中，有如孩子依附于母亲的睡袍一样。" 　　而Ｅ·拉什莫尔·科格兰却不是这样。把整个世界作为他的…… 　　我的沉思默想被咖啡馆另一边传来的高声吵嚷和争执所打断。从坐着的顾客头顶上望过去，我看见Ｅ·拉什莫尔·科格兰和另一个陌生人正激烈搏斗。他俩像泰坦⒅们一样，在桌子之间打来打去，玻璃杯砸碎了，人们抓起帽子还来不及躲开便被打翻在地，一位微黑女郎尖声叫喊，另一位金发女郎却开始唱《取笑》。 　　我的世界公民仍保持着地球的骄傲和名声，就在这时，侍者们利用著名的飞速楔形结构插入两个格斗者之间，硬把他两个推出了咖啡馆，尽管还在抵抗。 　　我叫住一位法国侍者麦卡锡，问他争执的缘由。 　　"打红领带的那个人"（即我的世界公民），他说，"给惹火了，原因是另一个谈起了他出生的那个地方的人行道和供水都太差劲。" 　　"哦，"我难为情地说，"那人是个世界的公民——世界公民。他……" 　　"原籍是缅因州的马托瓦姆基格，他说，"麦卡锡继续道，"他不愿再忍受不敲掉那个鬼地方。" 　　①维尔茨堡（Ｗｕｒｚｂｕｒｇ）：德意志联帮的中南部城市。在这里指该地所产的酒。 　　②科尼岛（ＣｏｎｅｙＩｓｌａｎｄ）：美国纽约布鲁克林区南部的一个海滨游憩地带，原为一个小岛。 　　③海德拉巴帮（Ｈｙｄｅｒａｂａｄ）：印度原帮名。 　　④拉普兰（Ｌａｐｌａｎｄ）：北欧一地区名，指拉普人居住的地区，包括挪威、瑞典、芬兰等国的北部和原苏联的科拉岛。 　　⑤布宜诺斯艾丽斯（ＢｕｅｎｏＡｙｒｅｓ）：阿根廷首府。 　　⑥孟买（Ｂｒｍｂａｙ）：印度一城市名。 　　⑦吉卜林〔Ｊｏｓｅｐｈ Ｒｕｄ－ｙａｒｄ Ｋｉｐｌｉｎｇ １８６５-１９３６〕：英国小说家、诗人，１９０７年获诺贝尔文学奖。 　　⑧迪克西（Ｄｉｘｉｅ）：美国南北战争时期在南部各州流行的战歌，现仍旧流行。 　　⑨莫斯比（Ｊｏｈｎ Ｓｉｎｇｌｅｔｏｎ Ｍｏｓｌｙ １８３３-１９１６）：美国内战时，南方联盟别动队首领。南军投降后队伍解散（１８６５），后加入共和党，曾任美国驻香港领事（１８７８-１８８５）、司法部长助理（１９０４-１９１０）。 　　⑩波卡洪塔丝（Ｐｏｃｈａｈｏｎｔａｓ １５９５-１６１７）：北美波瓦坦印第安人部落联盟首领波瓦坦之女，曾搭救过英国殖民者Ｊｏｈｎ Ｓｍｉｔｈ，与英国移民Ｊｏｈｎ Ｒｏｌｆ结婚（１６１４），后去英国（１６１６），受到上流社会礼遇。 　　⑾辛辛那提（Ｃｉｍｃｉｎｎａｔｉ）：美国俄亥俄州西部城市。 　　⑿派克峰（Ｐｉｋｅ'ｓ Ｐｅａｋ）：指科罗拉多州为纪念派克而命名的山峰。 　　⒀祖鲁人（Ｚｕｌｕ）：居住在南非纳塔尔。 　　⒁巴塔哥尼亚人（Ｐａｔａｇｏｎｉａｎ）：居住在南美东南部巴塔哥尼亚高原的民族。 　　⒂查尔斯顿（Ｃｈａｒｌｅｓｔｏｎ）：美国西弗吉尼亚州首府。 　　⒃珀金斯（Ｆｒａｎｃｅｏ Ｐｅｒｋｉｎｓ １８８２-１９６５）：美国劳工部长、女社会改革家，主持制定并实施合理劳动标准法，举办失业保险和儿童福利事业，后任文职人员委员会委员。 　　⒄喀布尔（Ｋａｂｕｌ）：阿富汗首都。 　　⒅泰坦（Ｔｉｔａｎ）：希腊神话中天神（Ｌｌｒａｎｕｓ）和大地女神（Ｇａｅａ）之子。

The Furnished Room带家具出租的房间 Restless, shifting, fugacious as time itself is a certain vast bulk of the population of the red brick district of the lower West Side. Homeless, they have a hundred homes. They flit from furnished room to furnished room, transients forever--transients in abode, transients in heart and mind. They sing "Home, Sweet Home" in ragtime; they carry their lares et penates in a bandbox; their vine is entwined about a picture hat; a rubber plant is their fig tree. Hence the houses of this district, having had a thousand dwellers, should have a thousand tales to tell, mostly dull ones, no doubt; but it would be strange if there could not be found a ghost or two in the wake of all these vagrant guests. One evening after dark a young man prowled among these crumbling red mansions, ringing their bells. At the twelfth he rested his lean hand-baggage upon the step and wiped the dust from his hatband and forehead. The bell sounded faint and far away in some remote, hollow depths. To the door of this, the twelfth house whose bell he had rung, came a housekeeper who made him think of an unwholesome, surfeited worm that had eaten its nut to a hollow shell and now sought to fill the vacancy with edible lodgers. He asked if there was a room to let. "Come in," said the housekeeper. Her voice came from her throat; her throat seemed lined with fur. "I have the third floor back, vacant since a week back. Should you wish to look at it?" The young man followed her up the stairs. A faint light from no particular source mitigated the shadows of the halls. They trod noiselessly upon a stair carpet that its own loom would have forsworn. It seemed to have become vegetable; to have degenerated in that rank, sunless air to lush lichen or spreading moss that grew in patches to the staircase and was viscid under the foot like organic matter. At each turn of the stairs were vacant niches in the wall. Perhaps plants had once been set within them. If so they had died in that foul and tainted air. It may be that statues of the saints had stood there, but it was not difficult to conceive that imps and devils had dragged them forth in the darkness and down to the unholy depths of some furnished pit below. "This is the room," said the housekeeper, from her furry throat. "It's a nice room. It ain't often vacant. I had some most elegant people in it last summer--no trouble at all, and paid in advance to the minute. The water's at the end of the hall. Sprowls and Mooney kept it three months. They done a vaudeville sketch. Miss B'retta Sprowls--you may have heard of her--Oh, that was just the stage names --right there over the dresser is where the marriage certificate hung, framed. The gas is here, and you see there is plenty of closet room. It's a room everybody likes. It never stays idle long." "Do you have many theatrical people rooming here?" asked the young man. "They comes and goes. A good proportion of my lodgers is connected with the theatres. Yes, sir, this is the theatrical district. Actor people never stays long anywhere. I get my share. Yes, they comes and they goes." He engaged the room, paying for a week in advance. He was tired, he said, and would take possession at once. He counted out the money. The room had been made ready, she said, even to towels and water. As the housekeeper moved away he put, for the thousandth time, the question that he carried at the end of his tongue. "A young girl--Miss Vashner--Miss Eloise Vashner--do you remember such a one among your lodgers? She would be singing on the stage, most likely. A fair girl, of medium height and slender, with reddish, gold hair and a dark mole near her left eyebrow." "No, I don't remember the name. Them stage people has names they change as often as their rooms. They comes and they goes. No, I don't call that one to mind." No. Always no. Five months of ceaseless interrogation and the inevitable negative. So much time spent by day in questioning managers, agents, schools and choruses; by night among the audiences of theatres from all-star casts down to music halls so low that he dreaded to find what he most hoped for. He who had loved her best had tried to find her. He was sure that since her disappearance from home this great, water-girt city held her somewhere, but it was like a monstrous quicksand, shifting its particles constantly, with no foundation, its upper granules of to-day buried to-morrow in ooze and slime. The furnished room received its latest guest with a first glow of pseudo-hospitality, a hectic, haggard, perfunctory welcome like the specious smile of a demirep. The sophistical comfort came in reflected gleams from the decayed furniture, the raggcd brocade upholstery of a couch and two chairs, a footwide cheap pier glass between the two windows, from one or two gilt picture frames and a brass bedstead in a corner. The guest reclined, inert, upon a chair, while the room, confused in speech as though it were an apartment in Babel, tried to discourse to him of its divers tenantry. A polychromatic rug like some brilliant-flowered rectangular, tropical islet lay surrounded by a billowy sea of soiled matting. Upon the gay-papered wall were those pictures that pursue the homeless one from house to house--The Huguenot Lovers, The First Quarrel, The Wedding Breakfast, Psyche at the Fountain. The mantel's chastely severe outline was ingloriously veiled behind some pert drapery drawn rakishly askew like the sashes of the Amazonian ballet. Upon it was some desolate flotsam cast aside by the room's marooned when a lucky sail had borne them to a fresh port--a trifling vase or two, pictures of actresses, a medicine bottle, some stray cards out of a deck. One by one, as the characters of a cryptograph become explicit, the little signs left by the furnished room's procession of guests developed a significance. The threadbare space in the rug in front of the dresser told that lovely woman had marched in the throng. Tiny finger prints on the wall spoke of little prisoners trying to feel their way to sun and air. A splattered stain, raying like the shadow of a bursting bomb, witnessed where a hurled glass or bottle had splintered with its contents against the wall. Across the pier glass had been scrawled with a diamond in staggering letters the name "Marie." It seemed that the succession of dwellers in the furnished room had turned in fury--perhaps tempted beyond forbearance by its garish coldness--and wreaked upon it their passions. The furniture was chipped and bruised; the couch, distorted by bursting springs, seemed a horrible monster that had been slain during the stress of some grotesque convulsion. Some more potent upheaval had cloven a great slice from the marble mantel. Each plank in the floor owned its particular cant and shriek as from a separate and individual agony. It seemed incredible that all this malice and injury had been wrought upon the room by those who had called it for a time their home; and yet it may have been the cheated home instinct surviving blindly, the resentful rage at false household gods that had kindled their wrath. A hut that is our own we can sweep and adorn and cherish. The young tenant in the chair allowed these thoughts to file, soft- shod, through his mind, while there drifted into the room furnished sounds and furnished scents. He heard in one room a tittering and incontinent, slack laughter; in others the monologue of a scold, the rattling of dice, a lullaby, and one crying dully; above him a banjo tinkled with spirit. Doors banged somewhere; the elevated trains roared intermittently; a cat yowled miserably upon a back fence. And he breathed the breath of the house--a dank savour rather than a smell --a cold, musty effluvium as from underground vaults mingled with the reeking exhalations of linoleum and mildewed and rotten woodwork. Then, suddenly, as he rested there, the room was filled with the strong, sweet odour of mignonette. It came as upon a single buffet of wind with such sureness and fragrance and emphasis that it almost seemed a living visitant. And the man cried aloud: "What, dear?" as if he had been called, and sprang up and faced about. The rich odour clung to him and wrapped him around. He reached out his arms for it, all his senses for the time confused and commingled. How could one be peremptorily called by an odour? Surely it must have been a sound. But, was it not the sound that had touched, that had caressed him? "She has been in this room," he cried, and he sprang to wrest from it a token, for he knew he would recognize the smallest thing that had belonged to her or that she had touched. This enveloping scent of mignonette, the odour that she had loved and made her own--whence came it? The room had been but carelessly set in order. Scattered upon the flimsy dresser scarf were half a dozen hairpins--those discreet, indistinguishable friends of womankind, feminine of gender, infinite of mood and uncommunicative of tense. These he ignored, conscious of their triumphant lack of identity. Ransacking the drawers of the dresser he came upon a discarded, tiny, ragged handkerchief. He pressed it to his face. It was racy and insolent with heliotrope; he hurled it to the floor. In another drawer he found odd buttons, a theatre programme, a pawnbroker's card, two lost marshmallows, a book on the divination of dreams. In the last was a woman's black satin hair bow, which halted him, poised between ice and fire. But the black satin hairbow also is femininity's demure, impersonal, common ornament, and tells no tales. And then he traversed the room like a hound on the scent, skimming the walls, considering the corners of the bulging matting on his hands and knees, rummaging mantel and tables, the curtains and hangngs, the drunken cabinet in the corner, for a visible sign, unable to perceive that she was there beside, around, against, within, above him, clinging to him, wooing him, calling him so poignantly through the finer senses that even his grosser ones became cognisant of the call. Once again he answered loudly: "Yes, dear!" and turned, wild-eyed, to gaze on vacancy, for he could not yet discern form and colour and love and outstretched arms in the odour of mnignonette. Oh, God! whence that odour, and since when have odours had a voice to call? Thus he groped. He burrowed in crevices and corners, and found corks and cigarettes. These he passed in passive contempt. But once he found in a fold of the matting a half-smoked cigar, and this he ground beneath his heel with a green and trenchant oath. He sifted the room from end to end. He found dreary and ignoble small records of many a peripatetic tenant; but of her whom he sought, and who may have lodged there, and whose spirit seemed to hover there, he found no trace. And then he thought of the housekeeper. He ran from the haunted room downstairs and to a door that showed a crack of light. She came out to his knock. He smothered his excitement as best he could. "Will you tell me, madam," he besought her, "who occupied the room I have before I came?" "Yes, sir. I can tell you again. 'Twas Sprowls and Mooney, as I said. Miss B'retta Sprowls it was in the theatres, but Missis Mooney she was. My house is well known for respectability. The marriage certificate hung, framed, on a nail over--" "What kind of a lady was Miss Sprowls--in looks, I mean?" Why, black-haired, sir, short, and stout, with a comical face. They left a week ago Tuesday." "And before they occupied it?" "Why, there was a single gentleman connected with the draying business. He left owing me a week. Before him was Missis Crowder and her two children, that stayed four months; and back of them was old Mr. Doyle, whose sons paid for him. He kept the room six months. That goes back a year, sir, and further I do not remember." He thanked her and crept back to his room. The room was dead. The essence that had vivified it was gone. The perfume of mignonette had departed. In its place was the old, stale odour of mouldy house furniture, of atmosphere in storage. The ebbing of his hope drained his faith. He sat staring at the yellow, singing gaslight. Soon he walked to the bed and began to tear the sheets into strips. With the blade of his knife he drove them tightly into every crevice around windows and door. When all was snug and taut he turned out the light, turned the gas full on again and laid himself gratefully upon the bed. * * * * * * * It was Mrs. McCool's night to go with the can for beer. So she fetched it and sat with Mrs. Purdy in one of those subterranean retreats where house-keepers foregather and the worm dieth seldom. "I rented out my third floor, back, this evening," said Mrs. Purdy, across a fine circle of foam. "A young man took it. He went up to bed two hours ago." "Now, did ye, Mrs. Purdy, ma'am?" said Mrs. McCool, with intense admiration. "You do be a wonder for rentin' rooms of that kind. And did ye tell him, then?" she concluded in a husky whisper, laden with mystery. "Rooms," said Mrs. Purdy, in her furriest tones, "are furnished for to rent. I did not tell him, Mrs. McCool." "'Tis right ye are, ma'am; 'tis by renting rooms we kape alive. Ye have the rale sense for business, ma'am. There be many people will rayjict the rentin' of a room if they be tould a suicide has been after dyin' in the bed of it." "As you say, we has our living to be making," remarked Mrs. Purdy. "Yis, ma'am; 'tis true. 'Tis just one wake ago this day I helped ye lay out the third floor, back. A pretty slip of a colleen she was to be killin' herself wid the gas--a swate little face she had, Mrs. Purdy, ma'am." "She'd a-been called handsome, as you say," said Mrs. Purdy, assenting but critical, "but for that mole she had a-growin' by her left eyebrow. Do fill up your glass again, Mrs. McCool." 　     在纽约西区南部的红砖房那一带地方，绝大多数居民都如时光一样动荡不定、迁移不停、来去匆匆。正因为无家可归，他们也可以说有上百个家。他们不时从这间客房搬到另一间客房，永远都是那么变幻无常——在居家上如此，在情感和理智上也无二致。他们用爵士乐曲调唱着流行曲“家，甜美的家”；全部家当用硬纸盒一拎就走；缠缘于阔边帽上的装饰就是他们的葡萄藤；拐杖就是他们的无花果树。 　　这一带有成百上千这种住客，这一带的房子可以述说的故事自然也是成百上千。当然，它们大多干瘪乏味；不过，要说在这么多漂泊过客掀起的余波中找不出一两个鬼魂，那才是怪事哩。 　　一天傍晚擦黑以后，有个青年男子在这些崩塌失修的红砖大房中间转悠寻觅，挨门挨户按铃。在第十二家门前，他把空当当的手提行李放在台阶上，然后揩去帽沿和额头上的灰尘。门铃声很弱，好像传至遥远、空旷的房屋深处。 　　这是他按响的第十二家门铃。铃声响过，女房东应声出来开门。她的模样使他想起一只讨厌的、吃得过多的蛆虫。它已经把果仁吃得只剩空壳，现在正想寻找可以充饥的房客来填充空间。 　　年轻人问有没有房间出租。 　　“进来吧，”房东说。她的声音从喉头挤出，嘎声嘎气，好像喉咙上绷了层毛皮。“三楼还有个后间，空了一个星期。想看看吗？” 　　年轻人跟她上楼。不知从什么地方来的一线微光缓和了过道上的阴影。他们不声不响地走着，脚下的地毯破烂不堪，可能连造出它的织布机都要诅咒说这不是自己的产物。它好像已经植物化了，已经在这恶臭、阴暗的空气中退化成茂盛滋润的地衣或满地蔓延的苔藓，东一块西一块，一直长到楼梯上，踩在脚下像有机物一样粘糊糊的。楼梯转角处墙上都有空着的壁龛。它们里面也许曾放过花花草草。果真如此的话，那些花草已经在污浊肮脏的空气中死去。壁龛里面也许曾放过圣像，但是不难想象，黑暗之中大大小小的魔鬼早就把圣人拖出来，一直拖到下面某间客房那邪恶的深渊之中去了。 　　“就是这间，”房东说，还是那副毛皮嗓子。“房间很不错，难得有空的时候。今年夏天这儿还住过一些特别讲究的人哩——从不找麻烦，按时提前付房租。自来水在过道尽头。斯普罗尔斯和穆尼住了三个月。她们演过轻松喜剧。布雷塔·斯普罗尔斯小姐——也许你听说过她吧——喔，那只是艺名儿——就在那张梳妆台上边，原来还挂着她的结婚证书哩，镶了框的。煤气开关在这儿，瞧这壁橱也很宽敞。这房间人人见了都喜欢，从来没长时间空过。” 　　“你这儿住过很多演戏的？”年轻人问。 　　“他们这个来，那个去。我的房客中有很多人在演出界干事。对了，先生，这一带剧院集中，演戏的人从不在一个地方长住。到这儿来住过的也不少。他们这个来，那个去。” 　　他租下了房间，预付了一个星期的租金。他说他很累，想马上住下来。他点清了租金。她说房间早就准备规矩，连毛巾和水都是现成的。房东走开时，——他又——已经是第一千次了——把挂在舌尖的问题提了出来。 　　“有个姑娘——瓦西纳小姐——埃卢瓦丝·瓦西纳小姐——你记得房客中有过这人吗？她多半是在台上唱歌的。她皮肤白嫩，个子中等，身材苗条，金红色头发，左眼眉毛边长了颗黑痣。” 　　“不，我记不得这个名字。那些搞演出的，换名字跟换房间一样快，来来去去，谁也说不准。不，我想不起这个名字了。” 　　不。总是不。五个月不间断地打听询问，千篇一律地否定回答。已经花了好多时间，白天去找剧院经理、代理人、剧校和合唱团打听；晚上则夹在观众之中去寻找，名角儿会演的剧院去找过，下流污秽的音乐厅也去找过，甚至还害怕在那类地方找到他最想找的人。他对她独怀真情，一心要找到她。他确信，自她从家里失踪以来，这座水流环绕的大城市一定把她蒙在了某个角落。但这座城市就像一大团流沙，沙粒的位置变化不定，没有基础，今天还浮在上层的细粒到了明天就被淤泥和粘土覆盖在下面。 　　客房以假惺惺的热情迎接新至的客人，像个暗娼脸上堆起的假笑，红中透病、形容枯槁、马马虎虎。破旧的家具、破烂绸套的沙发、两把椅子、窗户间一码宽的廉价穿衣镜、一两个烫金像框、角落里的铜床架——所有这一切折射出一种似是而非的舒适之感。 　　房客懒洋洋地半躺在一把椅子上，客房则如巴比伦通天塔的一个套间，尽管稀里糊涂扯不清楚，仍然竭力把曾在这里留宿过的房客分门别类，向他细细讲来。 　　地上铺了一张杂色地毯，像一个艳花盛开的长方形热带小岛，四周是肮脏的垫子形成的波涛翻滚的大海。用灰白纸裱过的墙上，贴着紧随无家可归者四处漂流的图片——“胡格诺情人”，“第一次争吵”，“婚礼早餐”，“泉边美女”。壁炉炉额的样式典雅而庄重，外面却歪歪斜斜扯起条花哨的布帘，像舞剧里亚马逊女人用的腰带。炉额上残留着一些零碎物品，都是些困居客房的人在幸运的风帆把他们载到新码头时抛弃不要的东西——一两个廉价花瓶，女演员的画片，药瓶儿，残缺不全的扑克纸牌。 　　渐渐地，密码的笔形变得清晰可辨，前前后后居住过这间客房的人留下的细小痕迹所具有的意义也变得完整有形。 　　梳妆台前那片地毯已经磨得只剩麻纱，意味着成群的漂亮女人曾在上面迈步。墙上的小指纹表明小囚犯曾在此努力摸索通向阳光和空气之路。一团溅开的污迹，形如炸弹爆炸后的影子，是杯子或瓶子连同所盛之物一起被砸在墙上的见证。穿衣镜镜面上用玻璃钻刀歪歪扭扭地刻着名字“玛丽”。看来，客房留宿人——也许是受到客房那俗艳的冷漠之驱使吧—— 　　曾先先后后在狂怒中辗转反侧，并把一腔愤懑倾泄在这个房间上。家具有凿痕和磨损；长沙发因凸起的弹簧而变形，看上去像一头在痛苦中扭曲的痉挛中被宰杀的可怖怪物。另外某次威力更大的动荡砍去了大理石壁炉额的一大块。地板的每一块拼木各自构成一个斜面，并且好像由于互不干连、各自独有的哀怨而发出尖叫。令人难以置信的是，那些把所有这一切恶意和伤害施加于这个房间的人居然就是曾一度把它称之为他们的家的人；然而，也许正是这屡遭欺骗、仍然盲目保持的恋家本性以及对虚假的护家神的愤恨点燃了他们胸中的冲天怒火。一间茅草房——只要属于我们自己——我们都会打扫、装点和珍惜。 　　椅子上的年轻人任这些思绪缭绕心间，与此同时，楼中飘来有血有肉、活灵活现的声音和气味。他听见一个房间传来吃吃的窃笑和淫荡放纵的大笑；别的房间传来独自咒骂声，骰子的格格声，催眠曲和呜呜抽泣；楼上有人在兴致勃勃地弹班卓琴。不知什么地方的门砰砰嘭嘭地关上；架空电车不时隆隆驶过；后面篱墙上有只猫在哀叫。他呼吸到这座房子的气息。这不是什么气味儿，而是一种潮味儿，如同从地窖里的油布和朽木混在一起蒸发出的霉臭。 　　他就这样歇在那儿，突然，房间里充满木犀草浓烈的芬芳。它乘风而至，鲜明无误，香馥沁人，栩栩如生，活脱脱几乎如来访的佳宾。年轻人忍不住大叫：“什么？亲爱的？”好像有人在喊他似地。他然后一跃而起，四下张望。浓香扑鼻而来，把他包裹其中。他伸出手臂拥抱香气。刹那间，他的全部感觉都给搅混在一起。人怎么可能被香味断然唤起呢？唤起他的肯定是声音。 难道这就是曾抚摸、安慰过他的声音？ 　　“她在这个房间住过，”他大声说，扭身寻找起来，硬想搜出什么征迹，因为他确信能辨认出属于她的或是她触摸过的任何微小的东西。这沁人肺腑的木犀花香，她所喜爱、唯她独有的芬芳，究竟是从哪儿来的？ 　　房间只马马虎虎收拾过。薄薄的梳妆台桌布上有稀稀拉拉五六个发夹——都是些女性朋友用的那类东西，悄声无息，具有女性特征，但不标明任何心境或时间。他没去仔细琢磨，因为这些东西显然缺乏个性。他把梳妆台抽屉搜了个底朝天，发现一条丢弃的破旧小手绢。他把它蒙在脸上，天芥菜花的怪味刺鼻而来。他顺手把手绢甩在地上。在另一个抽屉，他发现几颗零星纽扣，一张剧目表，一张当铺老板的名片，两颗吃剩的果汁软糖，一本梦释书。最后一个抽屉里有一个女人用的黑缎蝴蝶发结。他猛然一楞，悬在冰与火之间，处于兴奋与失望之间。但是黑缎蝴蝶发结也只是女性庄重端雅但不具个性特征的普通装饰，不能提供任何线索。 　　随后他在房间里四处搜寻，像一条猎狗东嗅西闻，扫视四壁，趴在地上仔细查看拱起的地毡角落，翻遍壁炉炉额和桌子、窗帘和门帘、角落里摇摇欲坠的酒柜，试图找到一个可见的、但他还未发现的迹象，以证明她就在房间里面，就在他旁边、周围、对面、心中、上面，紧紧地牵着他、追求他，并通过精微超常的感觉向他发出如此哀婉的呼唤，以至于连他愚钝的感觉都能领悟出这呼唤之声。 他再次大声回答：“我在这儿，亲爱的！”然后转过身子，目瞪口呆，一片漠然，因为他在木犀花香中还察觉不出形式、色彩、爱情和张开的双臂。唔，上帝啊，那芳香是从哪儿来的？从什么时候起香味开始具有呼唤之力？就这样他不停地四下摸索。 　　他把墙缝和墙角掏了一遍，找到一些瓶塞和烟蒂。对这些东西他不屑一顾。但有一次他在一折地毡里发现一支抽了半截的纸雪茄，铁青着脸使劲咒了一声，用脚后跟把它踩得稀烂。他把整个房间从一端到另一端筛了一遍，发现许许多多流客留下的无聊、可耻的记载。但是，有关可能曾住过这儿的、其幽灵好像仍然徘徊在这里的、他正在寻求的她，他却丝毫痕迹也未发现。 　　这时他记起了女房东。 　　他从幽灵萦绕的房间跑下楼，来到透出一缝光线的门前。 　　她应声开门出来。他竭尽全力，克制住激动之情。 　　“请告诉我，夫人，”他哀求道，“我来之前谁住过那个房间？” 　　“好的，先生。我可以再说一遍。以前住的是斯普罗尔斯和穆尼夫妇，我已经说过。布雷塔·斯普罗尔斯小姐，演戏的，后来成了穆尼夫人。我的房子从来声誉就好。他们的结婚证都是挂起的，还镶了框，挂在钉子上——” 　　“斯普罗尔斯小姐是哪种女人——我是说，她长相如何？” 　　“喔，先生，黑头发，矮小，肥胖，脸蛋儿笑嘻嘻的。他们一个星期前搬走，上星期二。” 　　“在他们以前谁住过？” 　　“嗨，有个单身男人，搞运输的。他还欠我一个星期的房租没付就走了。在他以前是克劳德夫人和她两个孩子，住了四个月；再以前是多伊尔老先生，房租是他儿子付的。他住了六个月。 都是一年以前的事了，再往以前我就记不得了。” 　　他谢了她，慢腾腾地爬回房间。房间死气沉沉。曾为它注入生机的香气已经消失，木犀花香已经离去，代之而来的是发霉家具老朽、陈腐、凝滞的臭气。 　　希望破灭，他顿觉信心殆尽。他坐在那儿，呆呆地看着咝咝作响的煤气灯的黄光。稍许，他走到床边，把床单撕成长条，然后用刀刃把布条塞进门窗周围的每一条缝隙。一切收拾得严实紧扎以后，他关掉煤气灯，却又把煤气开足，最后感激不尽地躺在床上。 　　按照惯例，今晚轮到麦克库尔夫人拿罐子去打啤酒。她取酒回来，和珀迪夫人在一个地下幽会场所坐了下来。这是房东们聚会、蛆虫猖厥的地方。 　　“今晚我把三楼后间租了出去，”珀迪夫人说，杯中的酒泡圆圆的。“房客是个年轻人。两个钟头以前他就上床了。” 　　“嗬，真有你的，珀迪夫人，”麦克库尔夫人说，羡慕不已。“那种房子你都租得出去，可真是奇迹。那你给他说那件事没有呢？”她说这话时悄声细语，嘎声哑气，充满神秘。 　　“房间里安起家具嘛，”珀迪夫人用她最令人毛骨悚然的声音说，“就是为了租出去。我没给他说那事儿，麦克库尔夫人。” 　　“可不是嘛，我们就是靠出租房子过活。你的生意经没错，夫人。如果知道这个房间里有人自杀，死在床上，谁还来租这个房间呢。” 　　“当然嘛，我们总得活下去啊，”珀迪夫人说。 　　“对，夫人，这话不假。一个星期前我才帮你把三楼后间收拾规矩。那姑娘用煤气就把自己给弄死了——她那小脸蛋儿多甜啊，珀迪夫人。” 　　“可不是嘛，都说她长得俏，”珀迪夫人说，既表示同意又显得很挑剔。“只是她左眼眉毛边的痣长得不好看。再来一杯，麦克库尔夫人。”

A Service of Love爱的牺牲 When one loves one's Art no service seems too hard. That is our premise. This story shall draw a conclusion from it, and show at the same time that the premise is incorrect. That will be a new thing in logic, and a feat in story-telling somewhat older than the great wall of China. Joe Larrabee came out of the post-oak flats of the Middle West pulsing with a genius for pictorial art. At six he drew a picture of the town pump with a prominent citizen passing it hastily. This effort was framed and hung in the drug store window by the side of the ear of corn with an uneven number of rows. At twenty he left for New York with a flowing necktie and a capital tied up somewhat closer. Delia Caruthers did things in six octaves so promisingly in a pine- tree village in the South that her relatives chipped in enough in her chip hat for her to go "North" and "finish." They could not see her f--, but that is our story. Joe and Delia met in an atelier where a number of art and music students had gathered to discuss chiaroscuro, Wagner, music, Rembrandt's works, pictures, Waldteufel, wall paper, Chopin and Oolong. Joe and Delia became enamoured one of the other, or each of the other, as you please, and in a short time were married--for (see above), when one loves one's Art no service seems too hard. Mr. and Mrs. Larrabee began housekeeping in a flat. It was a lonesome flat--something like the A sharp way down at the left-hand end of the keyboard. And they were happy; for they had their Art, and they had each other. And my advice to the rich young man would be--sell all thou hast, and give it to the poor--janitor for the privilege of living in a flat with your Art and your Delia. Flat-dwellers shall indorse my dictum that theirs is the only true happiness. If a home is happy it cannot fit too close--let the dresser collapse and become a billiard table; let the mantel turn to a rowing machine, the escritoire to a spare bedchamber, the washstand to an upright piano; let the four walls come together, if they will, so you and your Delia are between. But if home be the other kind, let it be wide and long--enter you at the Golden Gate, hang your hat on Hatteras, your cape on Cape Horn and go out by the Labrador. Joe was painting in the class of the great Magister--you know his fame. His fees are high; his lessons are light--his high-lights have brought him renown. Delia was studying under Rosenstock--you know his repute as a disturber of the piano keys. They were mighty happy as long as their money lasted. So is every-- but I will not be cynical. Their aims were very clear and defined. Joe was to become capable very soon of turning out pictures that old gentlemen with thin side-whiskers and thick pocketbooks would sandbag one another in his studio for the privilege of buying. Delia was to become familiar and then contemptuous with Music, so that when she saw the orchestra seats and boxes unsold she could have sore throat and lobster in a private dining-room and refuse to go on the stage. But the best, in my opinion, was the home life in the little flat-- the ardent, voluble chats after the day's study; the cozy dinners and fresh, light breakfasts; the interchange of ambitions--ambitions interwoven each with the other's or else inconsiderable--the mutual help and inspiration; and--overlook my artlessness--stuffed olives and cheese sandwiches at 11 p.m. But after a while Art flagged. It sometimes does, even if some switchman doesn't flag it. Everything going out and nothing coming in, as the vulgarians say. Money was lacking to pay Mr. Magister and Herr Rosenstock their prices. When one loves one's Art no service seems too hard. So, Delia said she must give music lessons to keep the chafing dish bubbling. For two or three days she went out canvassing for pupils. One evening she came home elated. "Joe, dear," she said, gleefully, "I've a pupil. And, oh, the loveliest people! General--General A. B. Pinkney's daughter--on Seventy-first street. Such a splendid house, Joe--you ought to see the front door! Byzantine I think you would call it. And inside! Oh, Joe, I never saw anything like it before. "My pupil is his daughter Clementina. I dearly love her already. She's a delicate thing-dresses always in white; and the sweetest, simplest manners! Only eighteen years old. I'm to give three lessons a week; and, just think, Joe! $5 a lesson. I don't mind it a bit; for when I get two or three more pupils I can resume my lessons with Herr Rosenstock. Now, smooth out that wrinkle between your brows, dear, and let's have a nice supper." "That's all right for you, Dele," said Joe, attacking a can of peas with a carving knife and a hatchet, "but how about me? Do you think I'm going to let you hustle for wages while I philander in the regions of high art? Not by the bones of Benvenuto Cellini! I guess I can sell papers or lay cobblestones, and bring in a dollar or two." Delia came and hung about his neck. "Joe, dear, you are silly. You must keep on at your studies. It is not as if I had quit my music and gone to work at something else. While I teach I learn. I am always with my music. And we can live as happily as millionaires on $15 a week. You mustn't think of leaving Mr. Magister." "All right," said Joe, reaching for the blue scalloped vegetable dish. "But I hate for you to be giving lessons. It isn't Art. But you're a trump and a dear to do it." "When one loves one's Art no service seems too hard," said Delia. "Magister praised the sky in that sketch I made in the park," said Joe. "And Tinkle gave me permission to hang two of them in his window. I may sell one if the right kind of a moneyed idiot sees them." "I'm sure you will," said Delia, sweetly. "And now let's be thankful for Gen. Pinkney and this veal roast." During all of the next week the Larrabees had an early breakfast. Joe was enthusiastic about some morning-effect sketches he was doing in Central Park, and Delia packed him off breakfasted, coddled, praised and kissed at 7 o'clock. Art is an engaging mistress. It was most times 7 o'clock when he returned in the evening. At the end of the week Delia, sweetly proud but languid, triumphantly tossed three five-dollar bills on the 8x10 (inches) centre table of the 8x10 (feet) flat parlour. Sometimes," she said, a little wearily, "Clementina tries me. I'm afraid she doesn't practise enough, and I have to tell her the same things so often. And then she always dresses entirely in white, and that does get monotonous. But Gen. Pinkney is the dearest old man! I wish you could know him, Joe. He comes in sometimes when I am with Clementina at the piano--he is a widower, you know--and stands there pulling his white goatee. 'And how are the semiquavers and the demisemiquavers progressing?' he always asks. "I wish you could see the wainscoting in that drawing-room, Joe! And those Astrakhan rug portieres. And Clementina has such a funny little cough. I hope she is stronger than she looks. Oh, I really am getting attached to her, she is so gentle and high bred. Gen. Pinkney's brother was once Minister to Bolivia." And then Joe, with the air of a Monte Cristo, drew forth a ten, a five, a two and a one--all legal tender notes--and laid them beside Delia's earnings. "Sold that watercolour of the obelisk to a man from Peoria," he announced overwhelmingly. "Don't joke with me," said Delia, "not from Peoria!" "All the way. I wish you could see him, Dele. Fat man with a woollen muffler and a quill toothpick. He saw the sketch in Tinkle's window and thought it was a windmill at first, he was game, though, and bought it anyhow. He ordered another--an oil sketch of the Lackawanna freight depot--to take back with him. Music lessons! Oh, I guess Art is still in it." "I'm so glad you've kept on," said Delia, heartily. "You're bound to win, dear. Thirty-three dollars! We never had so much to spend before. We'll have oysters to-night." "And filet mignon with champignons," said Joe. "Were is the olive fork?" On the next Saturday evening Joe reached home first. He spread his $18 on the parlour table and washed what seemed to be a great deal of dark paint from his hands. Half an hour later Delia arrived, her right hand tied up in a shapeless bundle of wraps and bandages. "How is this?" asked Joe after the usual greetings. Delia laughed, but not very joyously. Clementina," she explained, "insisted upon a Welsh rabbit after her lesson. She is such a queer girl. Welsh rabbits at 5 in the afternoon. The General was there. You should have seen him run for the chafing dish, Joe, just as if there wasn't a servant in the house. I know Clementina isn't in good health; she is so nervous. In serving the rabbit she spilled a great lot of it, boiling hot, over my hand and wrist. It hurt awfully, Joe. And the dear girl was so sorry! But Gen. Pinkney!--Joe, that old man nearly went distracted. He rushed downstairs and sent somebody--they said the furnace man or somebody in the basement--out to a drug store for some oil and things to bind it up with. It doesn't hurt so much now." "What's this?" asked Joe, taking the hand tenderly and pulling at some white strands beneath the bandages. "It's something soft," said Delia, "that had oil on it. Oh, Joe, did you sell another sketch?" She had seen the money on the table. "Did I?" said Joe; "just ask the man from Peoria. He got his depot to-day, and he isn't sure but he thinks he wants another parkscape and a view on the Hudson. What time this afternoon did you burn your hand, Dele?" "Five o'clock, I think," said Dele, plaintively. "The iron--I mean the rabbit came off the fire about that time. You ought to have seen Gen. Pinkney, Joe, when--" "Sit down here a moment, Dele," said Joe. He drew her to the couch, sat beside her and put his arm across her shoulders. "What have you been doing for the last two weeks, Dele?" he asked. She braved it for a moment or two with an eye full of love and stubbornness, and murmured a phrase or two vaguely of Gen. Pinkney; but at length down went her head and out came the truth and tears. "I couldn't get any pupils," she confessed. "And I couldn't bear to have you give up your lessons; and I got a place ironing shirts in that big Twentyfourth street laundry. And I think I did very well to make up both General Pinkney and Clementina, don't you, Joe? And when a girl in the laundry set down a hot iron on my hand this afternoon I was all the way home making up that story about the Welsh rabbit. You're not angry, are you, Joe? And if I hadn't got the work you mightn't have sold your sketches to that man from Peoria. "He wasn't from Peoria," said Joe, slowly. "Well, it doesn't matter where he was from. How clever you are, Joe --and--kiss me, Joe--and what made you ever suspect that I wasn't giving music lessons to Clementina?" "I didn't," said Joe, "until to-night. And I wouldn't have then, only I sent up this cotton waste and oil from the engine-room this afternoon for a girl upstairs who had her hand burned with a smoothing-iron. I've been firing the engine in that laundry for the last two weeks." "And then you didn't--" "My purchaser from Peoria," said Joe, "and Gen. Pinkney are both creations of the same art--but you wouldn't call it either painting or music. And then they both laughed, and Joe began: "When one loves one's Art no service seems--" But Delia stopped him with her hand on his lips. "No," she said-- "just 'When one loves.'" 　　当你爱好你的艺术时，就觉得没有什么牺牲是难以忍受的。 　　那是我们的前提。这篇故事将从它那里得出一个结论，同时证明那个前提的不正确。从逻辑学的观点来说，这固然是一件新鲜事，可是从文学的观点来说，却是一件比中国的万里长城还要古老的艺术。 　　乔·拉雷毕来自中西部槲树参天的平原，浑身散发着绘画艺术的天才。他还只六岁的时候就画了一幅镇上抽水机的风景，抽水机旁边画了一个匆匆走过去的、有声望的居民。这件作品给配上架子，挂在药房的橱窗里，挨着一只留有几排参差不齐的玉米的穗轴。二十岁的时候，他背井离乡到了纽约，束着一条飘垂的领带，带着一个更为飘垂的荷包。 　　德丽雅·加鲁塞斯生长在南方一个松林小村里，她把六音阶之类的玩意儿搞得那样出色，以致她的亲戚们给她凑了一笔数目很小的款子，让她到北方去"深造"。他们没有看到她成——，那就是我们要讲的故事。 　　乔和德丽雅在一个画室里见了面，那儿有许多研究美术和音乐的人经常聚会，讨论明暗对照法、瓦格纳①、音乐、伦勃朗的作品②、绘画、瓦尔特杜弗③、糊墙纸、萧邦④、奥朗⑤。 　　乔和德丽雅互相——或者彼此，随你高兴怎么说——一见倾心，短期内就结了婚——当你爱好你的艺术时，就觉得没有什么牺牲是难以忍受的。 　　拉雷毕夫妇租了一层公寓，开始组织家庭。那是一个寂静的地方——单调得像是钢琴键盘左端的Ａ高半音。可是他们很幸福；因为他们有了各自的艺术，又有了对方。我对有钱的年轻人的劝告是——为了争取和你的艺术以及你的德丽雅住在公寓里的权利，赶快把你所有的东西都卖掉，施舍给穷苦的看门人吧。 　　公寓生活是唯一真正的快乐，住公寓的人一定都赞成我的论断。家庭只要幸福，房间小又何妨——让梳妆台坍下来作为弹子桌；让火炉架改作练习划船的机器；让写字桌充当临时的卧榻，洗脸架充当竖式钢琴；如果可能的话，让四堵墙壁挤拢来，你和你的德丽雅仍旧在里面，可是假若家庭不幸福，随它怎么宽敞——你从金门进去，把帽子挂在哈得拉斯，把披肩挂在合恩角，然后穿过拉布拉多出去⑥，到头还是枉然。 　　乔在伟大的马杰斯脱那儿学画——各位都知道他的声望。他取费高昂；课程轻松——他的高昂轻松给他带来了声望。德丽雅在罗森斯托克那儿学习，各位也知道他是一个出名的专跟钢琴键盘找麻烦的家伙。 　　只要他们的钱没用完，他们的生活是非常幸福的。谁都是这样——算了吧，我不愿意说愤世嫉俗的话。他们的目标非常清楚明确。乔很快就能有画问世，那些鬓须稀朗而钱袋厚实的老先生，就要争先恐后地挤到他的画室里来抢购他的作品。德丽雅要把音乐搞好，然后对它满不在乎，如果她看到音乐厅里的位置和包厢不满座的话，她可以推托喉痛，拒绝登台，在专用的餐室里吃龙虾。 　　但是依我说，最美满的还是那小公寓里的家庭生活：学习了一天之后的情话絮语；舒适的晚饭和新鲜、清淡的早餐；关于志向的交谈——他们不但关心自己的，也关心对方的志向，否则就没有意义了——互助和灵感；还有——恕我直率——晚上十一点钟吃的菜裹肉片和奶酪三明治。 　　可是没多久，艺术动摇了。即使没有人去摇动它，有时它自己也会动摇的。俗语说得好，坐吃山空，应该付给马杰斯脱和罗森斯托克两位先生的学费也没着落了。当你爱好你的艺术时，就觉得没有什么牺牲是难以忍受的。于是，德丽雅说，她得教授音乐，以免断炊。 　　她在外面奔走了两三天，兜揽学生。一天晚上，她兴高采烈地回家来。 　　"乔，亲爱的，"她快活地说，"我有一个学生啦。哟，那家人可真好。一位将军——爱·皮·品克奈将军的小姐，住在第七十一街。多么漂亮的房子，乔——你该看看那扇大门！我想就是你所说的拜占廷式⑦。还有屋子里面！喔，乔，我从没见过那样豪华的摆设。 　　"我的学生是他的女儿克蕾门蒂娜。我见了她就喜欢极啦。她是个柔弱的小东西——老是穿白的；态度又多么朴实可爱！她只有十八岁。我一星期教三次课；你想想看，乔！每课五块钱。 数目固然不大，可是我一点也不在乎；等我再找到两三个学生，我又可以到罗森斯托克先生那儿去学习了。现在，别皱眉头啦，亲爱的，让我们好好吃一顿晚饭吧。" 　　"你倒不错，德丽，"乔说，一面用斧子和切肉刀在开一听青豆，"可是我怎么办呢？你认为我能让你忙着挣钱，我自己却在艺术的领域里追逐吗？我以般范纽都·切利尼⑧的骨头赌咒，决不能够！我想我以卖卖报纸，搬石子铺马路，多少也挣一两块钱回来。" 　　德丽雅走过来，勾住他的脖子。 　　"乔，亲爱的，你真傻。你一定得坚持学习。我并不是放弃了音乐去干别的事情。我一面教授，一面也能学一些。我永远跟我的音乐在一起。何况我们一星期有十五钱，可以过得像百万富翁那般快乐。你绝不要打算脱离马杰斯脱先生。" 　　"好吧，"乔说，一面去拿那只贝壳形的蓝菜碟。可是我不愿意让你去教课，那不是艺术。你这样牺牲真了不起，真叫人佩服。" 　　"当你爱好你的艺术时，就觉得没有什么牺牲是难以忍受的，"德丽雅说。 　　"我在公园里画的那张素描，马杰斯脱说上面的天空很好。"乔说。"丁克尔答应我在他的橱窗里挂上两张。如果碰上一个合适的有钱的傻瓜，可能卖掉一张。" 　　"我相信一定卖得掉的，"德丽雅亲切地说。"现在让我们先来感谢品克奈将军和这烤羊肉吧。" 　　下一个星期，拉雷毕夫妇每天一早就吃早饭。乔很起劲地要到中央公园里去在晨光下画几张速写，七点钟的时候，德丽雅给了他早饭、拥抱、赞美、接吻之后，把他送出门。艺术是个迷人的情妇。他回家时，多半已是晚上七点钟了。 　　周末，愉快自豪、可是疲血不堪的德丽雅，得意扬扬地掏出三张五块钱的钞票，扔在那八呎阔十呎长的公寓客厅里的八吋阔十吋长的桌子上。 　　"有时候，"她有些厌倦地说，"克蕾门蒂娜真叫我费劲。我想她大概练习得不充分，我得三翻四复地教她。而且她老是浑身穿白，也叫人觉得单调。不过品克奈将军倒是一个顶可爱的老头儿！我希望你能认识他，乔，我和克蕾门蒂娜练钢琴的时候，他偶尔走进来——他是个鳏夫，你知道——站在那儿捋他的白胡子。""十六分音符和三十二分音符教得怎么样啦？"他老是这样问道。 　　"我希望你能看到客厅里的护壁板，乔！还有那些阿斯特拉罕的呢门帘。克蕾门蒂娜老是有点咳嗽。我希望她的身体比她的外表强健些。喔，我实在越来越喜欢她了，她多么温柔，多么有教养。品克奈将军的弟弟一度做过驻波利维亚的公使。" 　　接着，乔带着基度山伯爵的神气⑨，掏出一张十元、一张五元、一张两元和一张一元的钞票——全是合法的纸币——把它们放在德丽雅挣来的钱旁边。 　　"那幅方尖碑的水彩画卖给了一个从庇奥利亚⑩来的人，"他郑重其事地宣布说。 　　"别跟我开玩笑啦，"德丽雅——"不会是从庇奥利亚来的吧！" 　　"确实是那儿来的。我希望你能见到他，德丽。一个胖子，围着羊毛围巾，啣着一根翮管牙签。他在丁克尔的橱窗里看到了那幅画，起先还以为是座风车呢。他倒很气派，不管三七二十一的，把它买下了。他另外预定了一幅——勒加黄那货运车站的油画——准备带回家去。我的画，加上你的音乐课！呵，我想艺术还是有前途的。" 　　"你坚持下去，真使我高兴，"德丽雅热切地说。"你一定会成功的，亲爱的。三十三块钱！我们从来没有这么多可以花的钱。今晚我们买牡蛎吃。" 　　"加上炸嫩牛排和香菌，"乔说，"肉叉在哪儿？" 　　下一个星期六的晚上，乔先回家。他把他的十八块钱摊在客厅的桌子上，然后把手上许多似乎是黑色颜料的东西洗掉。 　　半个钟头以后，德丽雅来了，她的右手用绷带包成一团，简直不像样了。 　　"这是怎么搞的？"乔照例地招呼了之后，问道。德丽雅笑了，可是笑得并不十分快活。 　　"克蕾门蒂娜，"她解释说，"上了课之后一定要吃奶酪面包。她真是个古怪姑娘，下午五点钟还要吃奶酪面包。将军也在场，你该看看他奔去拿烘锅的样子，乔，好像家里没有佣人似的，我知道克蕾门蒂娜身体不好；神经多么过敏。她浇奶酪的时候泼翻了许多，滚烫的，溅在手腕上。痛得要命，乔。那可爱的姑娘难过极了！还有品克奈将军！——乔，那老头儿差点要发狂了。 他冲下楼去叫人——他们说是烧炉子的或是地下室里的什么人——到药房里去买一些油和别的东西来，替我包扎。现在倒不十分痛了。" 　　"这是什么？"乔轻轻地握住那只手，扯扯绷带下面的几根白线，问道。 　　"那是涂了油的软纱。"德丽雅说，"喔，乔，你又卖掉了一幅素描吗？"她看到了桌子上的钱。 　　"可不是吗？"乔说，"只消问问那个从庇奥利亚来的人。他今天把他要的车站图取去了，他没有确定，可能还要一幅公园的景致和一幅哈得逊河的风景。你今天下午什么时候烫痛手的，德丽？" 　　"大概是五点钟，"德丽雅可怜巴巴的说。"熨斗——我是说奶酪，大概在那个时候烧好。你真该看到品克奈将军，乔，他——" 　　"先坐一会儿吧，德丽，"乔说，他把她拉到卧榻上，在她身边坐下，用胳臂围住了她的肩膀。 　　"这两个星期来，你到底在干什么。德丽？"他问道。 　　她带着充满了爱情和固执的眼色熬了一两分钟，含含混混地说着品克奈将军；但终于垂下头，一边哭，一边说出实话来了。 　　"我找不到学生，"她供认说，"我又不忍眼看你放弃你的课程，所以在第二十四街那家大洗衣作里找了一个烫衬衣的活儿。我以为我把品克奈将军和克蕾门蒂娜两个人编造得很好呢，可不是吗，乔？今天下午，洗衣作里一个姑娘的热熨斗烫了我的手，我一路上就编出那个烘奶酪的故事。你不会生我的气吧，乔？如果我不去做工，你也许不可能把你的画卖给那个庇奥利亚来的人。" 　　"他不是从庇奥利亚来的，"乔慢慢吞吞地说。 　　"他打哪儿来都一样。你真行，乔——吻我吧，乔——你怎么会疑心我不在教克蕾门蒂娜的音乐课呢？" 　　"到今晚为止，我始终没有起疑。"乔说，"本来今晚也不会起疑的，可是今天下午，我把机器间的油和废纱头送给楼上一个给熨斗烫了手的姑娘。两星期来，我就在那家洗衣作的炉子房烧火。" 　　"那你并没有——" 　　"我的庇奥利亚来的主顾，"乔说，"和品克奈将军都是同一艺术的产物——只是你不会管那门艺术叫做绘画或音乐罢了。" 　　他们两个都笑了，乔开口说： 　　"当你爱好你的艺术时，就觉得没有什么牺牲是——"可是德丽雅用手掩住了他的嘴。"别说下去啦，"她说——"只消说'当你爱的时候'。" 　　①瓦格纳（１８１３-１８８３）：德国作曲家。 　　②伦勃朗（１６０６-１６６９）：荷兰画家。 　　③瓦尔特杜弗（１８３７-１９１５）：法国作曲家。 　　④萧邦（１８０９-１８４９），波兰作曲家。 　　⑤奥朗：中国乌龙红茶的粤音。 　　⑥金门是美旧金山湾口的海峡；哈得拉斯是北卡罗来纳州海岸的海峡，与英文的"帽架"谐音；合恩角是南美智利的海峡，与"衣架"谐音；拉布拉多是哈得逊湾与大西洋间的半岛，与"边门" 谐音。 　　⑦拜占廷式：六世纪至十五世纪间，东罗马帝国的建筑式样，圆屋顶、拱门、细工镶嵌。 　　⑧般范纽都·切利尼（１５００-１５７１）：意大利著名雕刻家。 　　⑨基度山伯爵：法国大仲马小说中的人物。年轻时为情敌陷害，被判无期徒刑，在孤岛囚禁多年：脱逃后，在基度山岛上掘获宝藏自称基度山伯爵，逐一报复仇人。 　　⑩庇奥利亚：伊利诺州中部的城市。

Mammon and the Archer爱神与财神 Old Anthony Rockwall, retired manufacturer and proprietor of Rockwall's Eureka Soap, looked out the library window of his Fifth Avenue mansion and grinned. His neighbour to the right--the aristocratic clubman, G. Van Schuylight Suffolk-Jones--came out to his waiting motor-car, wrinkling a contumelious nostril, as usual, at the Italian renaissance sculpture of the soap palace's front elevation. "Stuck-up old statuette of nothing doing!" commented the ex-Soap King. "The Eden Musee'll get that old frozen Nesselrode yet if he don't watch out. I'll have this house painted red, white, and blue next summer and see if that'll make his Dutch nose turn up any higher." And then Anthony Rockwall, who never cared for bells, went to the door of his library and shouted "Mike!" in the same voice that had once chipped off pieces of the welkin on the Kansas prairies. "Tell my son," said Anthony to the answering menial, "to come in here before he leaves the house." When young Rockwall entered the library the old man laid aside his newspaper, looked at him with a kindly grimness on his big, smooth, ruddy countenance, rumpled his mop of white hair with one hand and rattled the keys in his pocket with the other. "Richard," said Anthony Rockwail, "what do you pay for the soap that you use?" Richard, only six months home from college, was startled a little. He had not yet taken the measure of this sire of his, who was as full of unexpectednesses as a girl at her first party. "Six dollars a dozen, I think, dad." "And your clothes?" "I suppose about sixty dollars, as a rule." "You're a gentleman," said Anthony, decidedly. "I've heard of these young bloods spending $24 a dozen for soap, and going over the hundred mark for clothes. You've got as much money to waste as any of 'em, and yet you stick to what's decent and moderate. Now I use the old Eureka--not only for sentiment, but it's the purest soap made. Whenever you pay more than 10 cents a cake for soap you buy bad perfumes and labels. But 50 cents is doing very well for a young man in your generation, position and condition. As I said, you're a gentleman. They say it takes three generations to make one. They're off. Money'll do it as slick as soap grease. It's made you one. By hokey! it's almost made one of me. I'm nearly as impolite and disagreeable and ill-mannered as these two old Knickerbocker gents on each side of me that can't sleep of nights because I bought in between 'em." "There are some things that money can't accomplish," remarked young Rockwall, rather gloomily. "Now, don't say that," said old Anthony, shocked. "I bet my money on money every time. I've been through the encyclopaedia down to Y looking for something you can't buy with it; and I expect to have to take up the appendix next week. I'm for money against the field. Tell me something money won't buy." "For one thing," answered Richard, rankling a little, "it won't buy one into the exclusive circles of society." "Oho! won't it?" thundered the champion of the root of evil. "You tell me where your exclusive circles would be if the first Astor hadn't had the money to pay for his steerage passage over?" Richard sighed. "And that's what I was coming to," said the old man, less boisterously. "That's why I asked you to come in. There's something going wrong with you, boy. I've been noticing it for two weeks. Out with it. I guess I could lay my hands on eleven millions within twenty-four hours, besides the real estate. If it's your liver, there's the Rambler down in the bay, coaled, and ready to steam down to the Bahamas in two days." "Not a bad guess, dad; you haven't missed it far." "Ah," said Anthony, keenly; "what's her name?" Richard began to walk up and down the library floor. There was enough comradeship and sympathy in this crude old father of his to draw his confidence. "Why don't you ask her?" demanded old Anthony. "She'll jump at you. You've got the money and the looks, and you're a decent boy. Your hands are clean. You've got no Eureka soap on 'em. You've been to college, but she'll overlook that." "I haven't had a chance," said Richard. "Make one," said Anthony. "Take her for a walk in the park, or a straw ride, or walk home with her from church Chance! Pshaw!" "You don't know the social mill, dad. She's part of the stream that turns it. Every hour and minute of her time is arranged for days in advance. I must have that girl, dad, or this town is a blackjack swamp forevermore. And I can't write it--I can't do that." "Tut!" said the old man. "Do you mean to tell me that with all the money I've got you can't get an hour or two of a girl's time for yourself?" "I've put it off too late. She's going to sail for Europe at noon day after to-morrow for a two years' stay. I'm to see her alone to-morrow evening for a few minutes. She's at Larchmont now at her aunt's. I can't go there. But I'm allowed to meet her with a cab at the Grand Central Station to-morrow evening at the 8.30 train. We drive down Broadway to Wallack's at a gallop, where her mother and a box party will be waiting for us in the lobby. Do you think she would listen to a declaration from me during that six or eight minutes under those circumstances? No. And what chance would I have in the theatre or afterward? None. No, dad, this is one tangle that your money can't unravel. We can't buy one minute of time with cash; if we could, rich people would live longer. There's no hope of getting a talk with Miss Lantry before she sails." "All right, Richard, my boy," said old Anthony, cheerfully. "You may run along down to your club now. I'm glad it ain't your liver. But don't forget to burn a few punk sticks in the joss house to the great god Mazuma from time to time. You say money won't buy time? Well, of course, you can't order eternity wrapped up and delivered at your residence for a price, but I've seen Father Time get pretty bad stone bruises on his heels when he walked through the gold diggings." That night came Aunt Ellen, gentle, sentimental, wrinkled, sighing, oppressed by wealth, in to Brother Anthony at his evening paper, and began discourse on the subject of lovers' woes. "He told me all about it," said brother Anthony, yawning. "I told him my bank account was at his service. And then he began to knock money. Said money couldn't help. Said the rules of society couldn't be bucked for a yard by a team of ten-millionaires." "Oh, Anthony," sighed Aunt Ellen, "I wish you would not think so much of money. Wealth is nothing where a true affection is concerned. Love is all-powerful. If he only had spoken earlier! She could not have refused our Richard. But now I fear it is too late. He will have no opportunity to address her. All your gold cannot bring happiness to your son." At eight o'clock the next evening Aunt Ellen took a quaint old gold ring from a moth-eaten case and gave it to Richard. "Wear it to-night, nephew," she begged. "Your mother gave it to me. Good luck in love she said it brought. She asked me to give it to you when you had found the one you loved." Young Rockwall took the ring reverently and tried it on his smallest finger. It slipped as far as the second joint and stopped. He took it off and stuffed it into his vest pocket, after the manner of man. And then he 'phoned for his cab. At the station he captured Miss Lantry out of the gadding mob at eight thirty-two. "We mustn't keep mamma and the others waiting," said she. "To Wallack's Theatre as fast as you can drive!" said Richard loyally. They whirled up Forty-second to Broadway, and then down the white- starred lane that leads from the soft meadows of sunset to the rocky hills of morning. At Thirty-fourth Street young Richard quickly thrust up the trap and ordered the cabman to stop. "I've dropped a ring," he apologised, as he climbed out. "It was my mother's, and I'd hate to lose it. I won't detain you a minute--I saw where it fell." In less than a minute he was back in the cab with the ring. But within that minute a crosstown car had stopped directly in front of the cab. The cabman tried to pass to the left, but a heavy express wagon cut him off. He tried the right, and had to back away from a furniture van that had no business to be there. He tried to back out, but dropped his reins and swore dutifully. He was blockaded in a tangled mess of vehicles and horses. One of those street blockades had occurred that sometimes tie up commerce and movement quite suddenly in the big city. "Why don't you drive on?" said Miss Lantry, impatiently. "We'll be late." Richard stood up in the cab and looked around. He saw a congested flood of wagons, trucks, cabs, vans and street cars filling the vast space where Broadway, Sixth Avenue and Thirly-fourth street cross one another as a twenty-six inch maiden fills her twenty-two inch girdle. And still from all the cross streets they were hurrying and rattling toward the converging point at full speed, and hurling thcmselves into the struggling mass, locking wheels and adding their drivers' imprecations to the clamour. The entire traffic of Manhattan seemed to have jammed itself around them. The oldest New Yorker among the thousands of spectators that lined the sidewalks had not witnessed a street blockade of the proportions of this one. "I'm very sorry," said Richard, as he resumed his seat, "but it looks as if we are stuck. They won't get this jumble loosened up in an hour. It was my fault. If I hadn't dropped the ring we--"Let me see the ring," said Miss Lantry. "Now that it can't be helped, I don't care. I think theatres are stupid, anyway." At 11 o'clock that night somebody tapped lightly on Anthony Rockwall's door. "Come in," shouted Anthony, who was in a red dressing-gown, reading a book of piratical adventures. Somebody was Aunt Ellen, looking like a grey-haired angel that had been left on earth by mistake. "They're engaged, Anthony," she said, softly. "She has promised to marry our Richard. On their way to the theatre there was a street blockade, and it was two hours before their cab could get out of it. "And oh, brother Anthony, don't ever boast of the power of money again. A little emblem of true love--a little ring that symbolised unending and unmercenary affection--was the cause of our Richard finding his happiness. He dropped it in the street, and got out to recover it. And before they could continue the blockade occurred. He spoke to his love and won her there while the cab was hemmed in. Money is dross compared with true love, Anthony." "All right," said old Anthony. "I'm glad the boy has got what he wanted. I told him I wouldn't spare any expense in the matter if--" "But, brother Anthony, what good could your money have done?" "Sister," said Anthony Rockwall. "I've got my pirate in a devil of a scrape. His ship has just been scuttled, and he's too good a judge of the value of money to let drown. I wish you would let me go on with this chapter." The story should end here. I wish it would as heartily as you who read it wish it did. But we must go to the bottom of the well for truth. The next day a person with red hands and a blue polka-dot necktie, who called himself Kelly, called at Anthony Rockwall's house, and was at once received in the library. "Well," said Anthony, reaching for his chequebook, "it was a good bilin' of soap. Let's see--you had $5,000 in cash." "I paid out $3OO more of my own," said Kelly. "I had to go a little above the estimate. I got the express wagons and cabs mostly for $5; but the trucks and two-horse teams mostly raised me to $10. The motormen wanted $10, and some of the loaded teams $20. The cops struck me hardest--$50 I paid two, and the rest $20 and $25. But didn't it work beautiful, Mr. Rockwall? I'm glad William A. Brady wasn't onto that little outdoor vehicle mob scene. I wouldn't want William to break his heart with jealousy. And never a rehearsal, either! The boys was on time to the fraction of a second. It was two hours before a snake could get below Greeley's statue." "Thirteen hundred--there you are, Kelly," said Anthony, tearing off a check. "Your thousand, and the $300 you were out. You don't despise money, do you, Kelly?" "Me?" said Kelly. "I can lick the man that invented poverty." Anthony called Kelly when he was at the door. "You didn't notice," said he, "anywhere in the tie-up, a kind of a fat boy without any clothes on shooting arrows around with a bow, did you?" "Why, no," said Kelly, mystified. "I didn't. If he was like you say, maybe the cops pinched him before I got there." "I thought the little rascal wouldn't be on hand," chuckled Anthony. "Good-by, Kelly."     老安东尼·罗克韦尔是已退休的“罗克韦尔的尤雷卡肥皂”的制造商兼厂主。他正从第五大街私邸的书房窗口向外张望，露齿而笑。住在他右边的邻居Ｇ·范·斯凯莱特·萨福克—琼斯是贵族俱乐部成员，正从家里出来，走向等候他的汽车。同往常一样，他朝这座肥皂宫殿正面的意大利文艺复兴式的雕塑侮辱性地皱了皱鼻子。 　　“自命不凡的倔老头儿，你歪什么！”前任肥皂大王品评道。“你这个外来客内斯尔罗德②一不留心，伊登博物馆迟早会把你这老王八收进去。这个夏天，我要把我的房子粉刷成红白蓝三色③，瞧你那荷兰鼻子能翘多高。” 　　安东尼·罗克韦尔呼唤佣人历来不按铃。他走到书房门口，叫道，“迈克！”那嗓门有如当年曾震破过堪萨斯大草原的苍穹。 　　“告诉少爷一声，”安东尼吩咐应召而来的仆人说，“叫他出门之前来我这儿一趟。” 　　小罗克韦尔走进书房时，老头子丢开报纸，光滑红润的宽脸盘上带着慈爱而又严肃的神情打量着儿子。他一只手揉乱了满头银发，另一只手则把口袋里的钥匙弄得响个不停。 　　“理查德，”安东尼·罗克韦尔说，“你用的肥皂是花多少钱买的？” 　　理查德离开学校才六个月，听了这话微觉吃惊。他还拿不准这老头子的分寸。这老头子总是像初入社交界的少女一样，时不时地问你一些意想不到的事。 　　“大概是六美元一打，爸。” 　　“你的衣服呢？” 　　“通常是六十美元左右。” 　　“你是上流社会的人，”安东尼斩钉截铁地说。“我听说现在的公子哥儿都用二十四美元一打的肥皂，穿的衣服突破百元大关。你有的是钱，可以像他们那样胡花乱用，但你始终正正经经，很有分寸。现在，我仍旧使用老牌尤雷卡肥皂，这不仅仅是出于感情问题，而且也因为这是最纯粹的肥皂。你花十美分以上买一块肥皂，买的只是蹩足香料和包装招牌。不过，像你这个年纪，有地位有身分的年轻人用五十美分一块的肥皂也够好了。正如我刚才所说，你是上流社会的人。人们说，三代人才造就一个上流人物。他们错了。有了钱办什么事都很灵便，就像肥皂的油脂一样润滑。钱使你成了上流人物。啊，差点也使我成了上流人物。不过，我几乎同住在我们两边的荷兰佬不相上下，语言粗俗，行为古怪，举止无礼。他们两个晚上连觉也睡不着，因为我在他们中间购置了房地产。” 　　“有些事情即使有了钱也办不到，”小罗克韦尔相当抑郁地说。 　　“现在别那么讲，”老安东尼惊愕地说。“我始终相信钱能通神。我查遍了百科全书，已经查到字母Ｙ，还没有发现过金钱办不到的事；下星期我还要查补遗。我绝对相信金钱能对付世上的一切。你倒说说，有什么东西是钱买不到的吧。” 　　“举个例吧，”理查德有点怨恨地说，“有钱也挤不进排外的社会圈子。” 　　“啊哈！是这样吗？”这个万恶之源的金钱拥护者雷霆般地吼道。“告诉我，要是首批阿斯特人④没钱买统舱船票到美国来，你的排外社会圈子又会在哪儿呢？” 　　理查德叹了叹气。 　　“这正是我打算要给你谈的事，”老头子说道，声音缓和了下来。“我叫你来就是为了这个。最近，你有点对劲，孩子。我已经注意观察你两个星期了，说出来吧。我想，在二十四小时内，可以调动一千一百万美元，房地产还不算。要是你的肝病发了，《逍遥号》就停泊在海湾，而且上足了煤，两天时间就可以送你到巴哈马群岛⑤。” 　　“你猜得不错，爸；相差不远啦。” 　　“啊，”安东尼热情地问，“她的名字叫什么？” 　　理查德开始在书房来回踱步。他这位粗鲁的老爹爹如此关切同情，增强了他讲实话的信心。 　　“干吗不向她求婚呢？”老安东尼追问道。“她一定会扑进你的怀抱。你有钱，人又漂亮，又是个正经小伙子。你的两手干干净净，从没沾上一点儿尤雷卡肥皂。你又上过大学，不过那点她不会在意的。” 　　“我一直没有机会呀，”理查德说。 　　“制造机会嘛，”安东尼说。“带她上公园散步，或者驾车出游，要么做完礼拜陪她回家也可以。机会，多的是嘛！” 　　“你不知道现在社交界的状况，爹。她是社交界的头面人物之一，她的每小时每分钟都在前几天预先安排妥当了。我非要那个姑娘不可，爹，否则这个城市会变成腐臭的沼泽，使我抱恨终身。我又无法写信表白，不能那么做。” 　　“呸！”老头儿说。“你是想对我说，我给你的全部钱财都不能让一个姑娘陪你一两个小时吗？” 　　“我开始得太晚了。她后天中午就要乘船去欧洲待两年。明天傍晚，我能单独和她待上几分钟。现在，她还住在拉齐蒙特的姨母家，我不能到那儿去。但允许我明天晚上坐马车去中央火车站接她，她乘八点半到站的那趟火车。我们一道乘马车赶到百老汇街的沃拉克剧院，她母亲和别的亲友在剧院休息室等我们。你以为在那种情况下，只有六到八分钟，她会听我表白心意吗？决不会。在剧院里或散戏之后，我还有什么机会呢？根本不可能。不，爸，这就是你的金钱解决不了的难题，我们拿钱连一分钟也买不到；如果可能的话，富人就会长生不老了。在兰特里小姐启航之前，我没希望同她好好谈谈了。” 　　“好啦，理查德，孩子，”老安东尼快活地说。“现在，你可以去俱乐部玩了。我很高兴你的肝脏没闹毛病，不过别忘了常常去神庙，给伟大的财神爷烧香跪拜求保佑。你说钱买不到时间吗？唔，当然，你不能出个价钱，叫永恒包扎得好好的给你送到家门口，但是，我已经见过，时间老人穿过金矿时，被石块弄得满脚伤痕。” 　　那天晚上，一个性情温和、多情善感、满脸皱纹、长吁短叹、被财富压得喘不过气来的女人，埃伦姑妈来看望她的弟弟。安东尼正在看晚报。他们以情人的烦恼为话题议论开了。 　　“他全告诉我啦，”安东尼说着，打了一个呵欠。“我告诉他，我在银行的存款全都听他支配，可他却开始贬责金钱，说什么有了钱也不管用。还说什么十个百万富翁加在一起也不能把社会规律动上一码远。” 　　“哦，安东尼，”埃伦姑妈叹息说，“我希望你别把金钱看得太重了。涉及到真情实感，财富就算不了一回事。爱情才是万能的。要是他早一点开口就好啦！她不可能拒绝我们的理查德，只是我怕现在太迟了。他没有机会向她表白。你的全部钱财都不能给儿子带来幸福。” 　　第二天傍晚八点钟，埃伦姑妈从一个蛀虫斑斑的盒子里取出一枚古雅的金戒指，交给理查德。 　　“今晚戴上吧，孩子，”她央求说。“这戒指是你母亲托付给我的。她说，这戒指能给情人带来好运，嘱咐我当你找到意中人时，就把它交给你。” 　　小罗克韦尔郑重其事地接过戒指，在他的小指上试了试，只滑到第二指节就不动了。他取下来，按照男人的习惯，把它放进坎肩兜里，然后打电话叫马车。 　　八点三十二分，他在火车站杂乱的人群中接到了兰特里小姐。 　　“我们别让妈妈和别人等久了，”她说。 　　“去沃拉克剧院，越快越好！”理查德按她的意愿吩咐车夫。 　　他们旋风般地从第四十二街向百老汇街驶去，接着通过一条灯火繁若星辰的小巷，从光线幽暗的绿草地段到达灯光耀眼、陡如高山的建筑区。 　　到第三十四街时，理查德迅速推开车窗隔板，叫车夫停下。 　　“我掉了一枚戒指，”他下车时抱歉似地说。“是我母亲的遗物，我悔不该把它丢了。我耽误不了一分钟的，我明白它掉在哪里的。” 　　不到一分钟，他带着戒指回到了马车里。 　　但就在那一分钟里，一辆城区街车停在了马车的正前方，马车试图往左拐，又被一辆邮车挡住了。马车夫朝右试了试，又不得不退回来，避过一辆莫名其妙地出现在那儿的搬运家具的马车。他想后退，也不行，只得丢下僵绳，尽职地咒骂起来。他给一伙纠缠不清的车辆和马匹封锁住了。 　　交通阻塞在大城市并不稀罕，有时突然发生断绝往来。 　　“为什么不赶路啊？”兰特里小姐心烦意乱地问。“我们要赶不上啦。” 　　理查德起身站在马车里，望了望四周，看见百老汇街、第六大街和第三十四街的交叉口那大片地段给各式各样的货车、卡车、马车、搬运车和街车挤得水泄不通，有如一个二十六英寸腰围的姑娘硬要扎一根二十二英寸的腰带一样。而且在这几条街上还有车辆正飞速驶来，投入这一难分难解的车阵、马阵之中，在原有的喧嚣之中，又加进了新的咒骂声和吼叫声。曼哈顿的全部车辆似乎都挤压在这儿了。人行道上挤满了看热闹的纽约人，成千上万，其中资格最老的人也记不清哪次的阻塞规模能与之媲美。 　　“实在对不起，”理查德重新坐下时说，“看样子我们给堵死了。一小时之内，这场混乱不可能松动，都是我的错。如果没有掉戒指的话，我们……” 　　“让我瞧瞧戒指吧，”兰特里小姐说。“既然无法可想，我也不在乎了。其实，我觉得看戏也无聊。” 　　那天晚上十一点钟，有人轻敲安东尼·罗克韦尔的房门。 　　“进来，”安东尼叫道，他穿着一件红睡衣，正在读海盗惊险小说。 　　走进来的是埃伦姑妈，她的样子好像一位头发灰白的天使错误地留在了人间。 　　“他们订婚了，安东尼，”她平静地说。“她答应嫁给我们的理查德。他们去剧院的路上堵了车，两小时之后，他们的马车才脱了困。” 　　“哦，安东尼弟弟，别再吹金钱万能了。一件表示真诚爱情的信物——一只小戒指象征着海枯石烂心不变、金钱买不到的一往深情，这才是我们的理查德获得幸福的根由。他在街上把戒指掉了，便下车去找。他们重新上路之前，街道给堵住了。就在堵车的时间，他向她表白了爱情，最后赢得了她。比起真正的爱情来，金钱成了粪土，安东尼。” 　　“好呵，”老安东尼说。“我真高兴，孩子得到了他想要的人。我对他说过，在这件事上，我不惜付出任何代价，只要……” 　　“可是，安东尼弟弟，在这件事上，你的金钱起了什么作用呢？” 　　“姐姐，”安东尼·罗克韦尔说，“我的海盗正处于万分危急的关头，他的船刚被凿沉，他太重视金钱的价值而决不会被淹死的。我希望你让我继续把这章读完。” 　　故事本该在这儿打住了。我跟你们一样，也热切地希望如此。不过，为了明白究竟，我们还得刨根问底。 　　第二天，有个两手通红、系着兰点子领带、自称凯利的人来找安东尼·罗克韦尔，立刻在书房受到接见。 　　“唔，”安东尼说，伸手去拿支票簿，“这一锅肥皂熬得不坏。瞧瞧，你已经支了五千美元现款。” 　　“我自己还垫了三百块哩，”凯利说。“预算不得不超出一点，邮车和马车大多付五美元，但卡车和双马马车提高到十美元。汽车司机要十美元，载满货的二十美元。可表演得真精彩啊，罗克韦尔先生？真幸运，威廉·阿·布雷迪⑥没有光临那场户外的车辆场景，我不希望威廉忌妒得心碎。根本没有排练过呀！伙计们准时赶到现场，一秒钟也不差。整整两个小时堵得水泄不通，连一条蛇也无法从格里利⑦塑像下钻过去。” 　　“给你一千三百美元，凯利，”安东尼说着，撕下一张支票。“一千美元是你的报酬，还你三百美元。你不至于看不起金钱吧，是吗？凯利。” 　　“我吗？”凯利说。“我能揍那发明贫困的家伙。” 　　凯利走到门口时，安东尼叫住了他。 　　“你注意到没有，”他说，“在交通阻塞那儿有个赤身露体的胖娃娃⑧手拿弓箭在乱射吗？” 　　“怎么，没有呀，”凯利莫名其妙地说。“我没注意到。如果真的像你说的那样，也许我还没有赶到那儿，警察早已把他收拾了。” 　　“我想，这个小流氓是不会到场的，”安东尼咯咯笑道。“再见，凯利。” 　　①archer：弓箭手，但在这里指罗马神话中的Cupid（爱神）。他赤身露体，长着双翅，手执弓箭。 　　②Nesselrode，指Karl Robert Nesselrode （1780—1862） K.R. 内斯尔罗德：德籍俄罗斯政治家。 　　③红、白、蓝三色：指荷兰国旗的颜色。 　　④Astor（阿斯特）：指John Robert Astor （1763—1848）， 原为德国人，后遗居美国，成为美国皮毛商富豪兼金融家。 　　⑤The Babamas：拉丁美洲的巴哈马群岛，为著名的旅游胜地。 　　⑥威廉·阿·布雷迪：美国著名的剧院经理。 　　⑦Greeley格里利，指Horace Greeley（1811—1872）， 美国新闻记者、作家、编缉、政治家、纽约论坛报的创始人。 　　⑧胖娃娃：指爱神Cupid。

The Romance of a Busy Broker证券经纪人的浪漫故事 Pitcher, confidential clerk in the office of Harvey Maxwell, broker, allowed a look of mild interest and surprise to visit his usually expressionless countenance when his employer briskly entered at half past nine in company with his young lady stenographer. With a snappy Good-morning, Pitcher, Maxwell dashed at his desk as though he were intending to leap over it, and then plunged into the great heap of letters and telegrams waiting there for him. The young lady had been Maxwell's stenographer for a year. She was beautiful in a way that was decidedly unstenographic. She forewent the pomp of the alluring pompadour. She wore no chains, bracelets or lockets. She had not the air of being about to accept an invitation to luncheon. Her dress was grey and plain, but it fitted her figure with fidelity and discretion. In her neat black turban hat was the gold-green wing of a macaw. On this morning she was softly and shyly radiant. Her eyes were dreamily bright, her cheeks genuine peachblow, her expression a happy one, tinged with reminiscence. Pitcher, still mildly curious, noticed a difference in her ways this morning. Instead of going straight into the adjoining room, where her desk was, she lingered, slightly irresolute, in the outer office. Once she moved over by Maxwell's desk, near enough for him to be aware of her presence. The machine sitting at that desk was no longer a man; it was a busy New York broker, moved by buzzing wheels and uncoiling springs. Well--what is it Anything asked Maxwell sharply. His opened mail lay like a bank of stage snow on his crowded desk. His keen grey eye, impersonal and brusque, flashed upon her half impatiently. Nothing, answered the stenographer, moving away with a little smile. Mr. Pitcher, she said to the confidential clerk, did Mr. Maxwell say anything yesterday about engaging another stenographer He did, answered Pitcher. He told me to get another one. I notified the agency yesterday afternoon to send over a few samples this morning. It's 9.45 o'clock, and not a single picture hat or piece of pineapple chewing gum has showed up yet. I will do the work as usual, then, said the young lady, until some one comes to fill the place. And she went to her desk at once and hung the black turban hat with the gold-green macaw wing in its accustomed place. He who has been denied the spectacle of a busy Manhattan broker during a rush of business is handicapped for the profession of anthropology. The poet sings of the crowded hour of glorious life. The broker's hour is not only crowded, but the minutes and seconds are hanging to all the straps and packing both front and rear platforms. And this day was Harvey Maxwell's busy day. The ticker began to reel out jerkily its fitful coils of tape, the desk telephone had a chronic attack of buzzing. Men began to throng into the office and call at him over the railing, jovially, sharply, viciously, excitedly. Messenger boys ran in and out with messages and telegrams. The clerks in the office jumped about like sailors during a storm. Even Pitcher's face relaxed into something resembling animation. On the Exchange there were hurricanes and landslides and snowstorms and glaciers and volcanoes, and those elemental disturbances were reproduced in miniature in the broker's offices. Maxwell shoved his chair against the wall and transacted business after the manner of a toe dancer. He jumped from ticker to 'phone, from desk to door with the trained agility of a harlequin. In the midst of this growing and important stress the broker became suddenly aware of a high-rolled fringe of golden hair under a nodding canopy of velvet and ostrich tips, an imitation sealskin sacque and a string of beads as large as hickory nuts, ending near the floor with a silver heart. There was a self-possessed young lady connected with these accessories; and Pitcher was there to construe her. Lady from the Stenographer's Agency to see about the position, said Pitcher. Maxwell turned half around, with his hands full of papers and ticker tape. What position he asked, with a frown. Position of stenographer, said Pitcher. You told me yesterday to call them up and have one sent over this morning. You are losing your mind, Pitcher, said Maxwell. Why should I have given you any such instructions Miss Leslie has given perfect satisfaction during the year she has been here. The place is hers as long as she chooses to retain it. There's no place open here, madam. Countermand that order with the agency, Pitcher, and don't bring any more of 'em in here. The silver heart left the office, swinging and banging itself independently against the office furniture as it indignantly departed. Pitcher seized a moment to remark to the bookkeeper that the old man seemed to get more absent-minded and forgetful every day of the world. The rush and pace of business grew fiercer and faster. On the floor they were pounding half a dozen stocks in which Maxwell's customers were heavy investors. Orders to buy and sell were coming and going as swift as the flight of swallows. Some of his own holdings were imperilled, and the man was working like some high-geared, delicate, strong machine--strung to full tension, going at full speed, accurate, never hesitating, with the proper word and decision and act ready and prompt as clockwork. Stocks and bonds, loans and mortgages, margins and securities--here was a world of finance, and there was no room in it for the human world or the world of nature. When the luncheon hour drew near there came a slight lull in the uproar. Maxwell stood by his desk with his hands full of telegrams and memoranda, with a fountain pen over his right ear and his hair hanging in disorderly strings over his forehead. His window was open, for the beloved janitress Spring had turned on a little warmth through the waking registers of the earth. And through the window came a wandering--perhaps a lost--odour--a delicate, sweet odour of lilac that fixed the broker for a moment immovable. For this odour belonged to Miss Leslie; it was her own, and hers only. The odour brought her vividly, almost tangibly before him. The world of finance dwindled suddenly to a speck. And she was in the next room--twenty steps away. By George, I'll do it now, said Maxwell, half aloud. I'll ask her now. I wonder I didn't do it long ago. He dashed into the inner office with the haste of a short trying to cover. He charged upon the desk of the stenographer. She looked up at him with a smile. A soft pink crept over her cheek, and her eyes were kind and frank. Maxwell leaned one elbow on her desk. He still clutched fluttering papers with both hands and the pen was above his ear. Miss Leslie, he began hurriedly, I have but a moment to spare. I want to say something in that moment. Will you he my wife I haven't had time to make love to you in the ordinary way, but I really do love you. Talk quick, please--those fellows are clubbing the stuffing out of Union Pacific. Oh, what are you talking about exclaimed the young lady. She rose to her feet and gazed upon him, round-eyed. Don't you understand said Maxwell, restively. I want you to marry me. I love you, Miss Leslie. I wanted to tell you, and I snatched a minute when things had slackened up a bit. They're calling me for the 'phone now. Tell 'em to wait a minute, Pitcher. Won't you, Miss Leslie The stenographer acted very queerly. At first she seemed overcome with amazement; then tears flowed from her wondering eyes; and then she smiled sunnily through them, and one of her arms slid tenderly about the broker's neck. I know now, she said, softly. It's this old business that has driven everything else out of your head for the time. I was frightened at first. Don't you remember, Harvey We were married last evening at 8 o'clock in the Little Church Around the Corner.     证券经纪人哈维·马克斯韦尔于九点半在年轻女速记员陪同下步履轻快地来到办公室。机要秘书皮彻那通常毫无表情的面孔不禁露出一丝好奇和诧异。马克斯韦尔只随口道了声“早上好”，便径直奔向办公桌，匆忙得好像想一步跨过桌面，随后就一头扎进一大堆等着他处理的信件和电报。 　　年轻女郎给马克斯韦尔当速记员已经有一年。她异常秀美动人，绝非速记员草草几笔所能简单描述。她不愿采用华丽诱人的庞巴杜式发型，不戴项链、手镯或鸡心。她脸上没有随时准备受邀外出进餐的神气。她的灰色衣服素净朴实，但却生动勾勒出她的身材而不失典雅。她那顶精巧的黑色无边帽上插了根艳绿色金刚鹦鹉毛。今天早上，她春风飘逸，温柔而羞涩。她的眼睛流波瞑瞑，双颊桃红妖娆，满面乐融，又略带一丝回味。 　　好奇之余，皮彻发现今天她的举止也有点儿异样。她没有直接到放有她办公桌的里间办公室去，而是滞留在外间办公室，有点儿拿不定主意似的。她慢慢蹭到马克斯韦尔桌边，离他很近，足以让他意识到她的存在。 　　坐在办公桌前的他已经不再是个常人，而是一个繁忙的纽约证券经纪人，一架完全受嗡嗡作响的轮子和张开的弹簧所驱动的机器。 　　“嘿，怎么啦？有事？”马克斯韦尔问，语气尖刻。那些拆开的邮件堆了满满一桌，就像演戏用的假雪。他那锐利的灰蓝色眼睛，毫无人情味儿，严厉粗暴，不耐烦地盯着她。 　　“没什么，”速记员回答说，然后微笑着走开了。 　　“皮彻先生，”她问机要秘书，“马克斯韦尔先生昨天提没提过另外雇一名速记员的事？” 　　“提过，”皮彻说。“他吩咐我另外找一个。昨天下午我已通知职业介绍所，让他们今天上午送几个来面试。现在已经九点四十五了，可还没有哪个戴阔边帽或嚼波萝口香糖的人露面哩。” 　　“那我还是照常工作好啦，”年轻女郎说，“等有人替补再说。”说完她马上走到自己的办公桌边，在老地方挂起那顶插有金刚鹦鹉毛的黑色无边帽。 　　谁无缘目睹曼哈顿经纪人在生意高峰时刻那股紧张劲儿，谁搞人类学研究就有极大缺陷。有诗人赞颂“绚丽生活中的拥挤时辰”。证券经纪人不仅时辰拥挤，他的分分秒秒都是挤得满满当当的，像是前后站台都挤满乘客的车厢里的拉手吊带，每根都被拉得紧绷绷的。 　　今天又正是哈维·马克斯韦尔的大忙天。行情收录器的滚轴开始瑟瑟卷动，忽停忽动地吐出卷纸，桌上的电话像害了慢性病似的响个不停。人们开始涌入办公室，隔着扶手栏杆朝他大喊大叫，有的欣喜若狂，有的横眉竖眼，有的恶意满怀，有的激动不已。信童拿着信件和电报跑进跑出。办公室的职员们忙得跳来跳去，就像与风暴搏斗的水手。连皮彻的脸也舒张开来，显得生机勃勃。 　　证券交易所里风云变幻，飓风、山崩、雪暴、冰川、火山瞬息交替；这些自然力的剧动以微观形式在经纪人办公室中再现。马克斯韦尔把椅子掀到墙边，如踢跶舞演员般敏捷地处理业务，时而从自动收录器跳向电话，时而从桌前跳到门口，其灵活不亚于受过专门训练的滑稽丑角。 　　经纪人全神致力于这堆越来越多但又十分重要的事务之中，这时他突然注意到一头高高卷起的金发，上面是顶微微抖动的鹅绒帽和鸵毛羽饰；一件人造海豹皮短大衣，一串大如山核桃的珠子垂近地板，尾端还吊了一个银鸡心。这一大套装饰物与一个沉着镇定的年轻女子相关联。皮彻正准备引荐她，替她作解释。 　　“这位小姐从速记员介绍所来，说招聘的事。” 　　马克斯韦尔侧过身子，手上捏了一把文件和行情纸带。 　　“招聘什么？”他皱起眉头问。 　　“速记员，”皮彻说。“昨天你叫我打电话，让他们今天上午送一个过来。” 　　“你搞糊涂了吧？”马克斯韦尔说。“我干吗给你下这个命令？莱丝丽这一年工作表现十全十美。只要她愿意，这份工作就是她的。小姐，这儿没有空缺。皮彻，通知事务所，取消要人申请，叫他们别再送人过来。” 　　银鸡心离开了办公室。一路上她愤愤不平，大摇大摆，把桌椅沙发碰得乒乒乓乓。皮彻忙中偷闲给簿记员说，“老太爷”一天比一天心不在焉，多事健忘。 　　业务处理越来越紧张，节奏越来越快。在交易所马克斯韦尔的顾客投资巨额的六七种股票正在暴跌。收进和抛出的单据来来去去，疾如燕飞。有些他本人持有的股票也处于危险之中。经纪人工作起来就像一架高速运转、精密复杂、强壮有力的机器——绷紧到最大限度，运转至最快速度，精确无误，坚决果断，措词贴切而决策恰当，行动时机的选择如时钟般准确无误。股票，证券，贷款，抵押，保证金，债券——这是一个金融世界，人际感情或自然本性在这里毫无落脚之地。 　　午餐时间逐渐临近，喧嚣之中慢慢出现片刻暂息。 　　马克斯韦尔站在办公桌边，手上捏满了电报和备忘录，右耳上夹了支钢笔，几撮头发零乱地披在脑门上。窗户敞开着，因为亲爱的女门房——春——已经打开苏醒大地的暖气管，送来一丝暖意。 　　通过窗户飘来一丝悠悠——也许是失散——的香气。这是紫丁香幽微、甜美的芳菲。刹那间，经纪人给怔住了。因为这香气属于莱丝丽小姐； 这是她本人的气息，她独有的气息。 　　芳香在他心中唤出她的容貌，栩栩如生，几乎伸手可及。 　　金融世界转瞬间缩成一点。而她就在隔壁房间，仅二十步之遥。 　　“天哪，我现在就得去，”马克斯韦尔压低嗓子说。“我现在就去跟她说。怎么我没早点儿想起？” 　　他箭步冲进里间办公室，像个卖空头的人急于补足那样急不可耐。他对直冲向速记员的办公桌。 　　她抬起头，笑盈盈地看着他，服上泛出淡淡红晕，眼睛里闪动着温柔和坦率。马克斯韦尔一支胳膊撑在桌上，手上依然握满了文件，耳朵上还夹着那支钢笔。 　　“莱丝丽小姐，”他仓仓促促地说，“我只能呆一小会儿，趁这个时候给你说件事。你愿意做我的妻子吗？我没时间以常人的方式向你求爱，但我确确实实爱你。请快回答我。那些人又在抢购太平洋联合公司的股票罗。” 　　“喔，你在说什么呀？”年轻女郎惊诧不已。她站起身，直愣愣地看着他，眼睛瞪得圆圆的。 　　“你不懂？”马克斯韦尔倔头倔脑地说。“我要你嫁给我。我爱你，莱丝丽小姐。我早就想告诉你，手头的事情稍微松些后，我才瞅空过来。又有人在打电话找我。皮彻，叫他们等一下。答应我吗，莱丝丽小姐？” 　　速记员的神态叫人莫名其妙。起初，她好像惊愕万分；继而，泪水又涌出她迷惘的眼睛；其后，泪眼又发出欢笑的光芒；最后，她又柔情地搂住经纪人的脖子。 　　“现在我懂了，”她亲切地说。“是这生意让你忘记了一切。刚才我还吓了一大跳。哈维，不记得了吗？昨天晚上八点，我们已经在街上拐角处的小教堂结过婚了。”

An Adjustment of Nature艺术加工 In an art exhibition the other day I saw a painting that had been sold for $5,000. The painter was a young scrub out of the West named Kraft, who had a favourite food and a pet theory. His pabulum was an unquenchable belief in the Unerring Artistic Adjustment of Nature. His theory was fixed around corned-beef hash with poached egg. There was a story behind the picture, so I went home and let it drip out of a fountain-pen. The idea of Kraft--but that is not the beginning of the story. Three years ago Kraft, Bill Judkins (a poet), and I took our meals at Cypher's, on Eighth Avenue. I say "took." When we had money, Cypher got it "off of" us, as he expressed it. We had no credit; we went in, called for food and ate it. We paid or we did not pay. We had confidence in Cypher's sullenness end smouldering ferocity. Deep down in his sunless soul he was either a prince, a fool or an artist. He sat at a worm-eaten desk, covered with files of waiters' checks so old that I was sure the bottomest one was for clams that Hendrik Hudson had eaten and paid for. Cypher had the power, in common with Napoleon III. and the goggle-eyed perch, of throwing a film over his eyes, rendering opaque the windows of his soul. Once when we left him unpaid, with egregious excuses, I looked back and saw him shaking with inaudible laughter behind his film. Now and then we paid up back scores. But the chief thing at Cypher's was Milly. Milly was a waitress. She was a grand example of Kraft's theory of the artistic adjustment of nature. She belonged, largely, to waiting, as Minerva did to the art of scrapping, or Venus to the science of serious flirtation. Pedestalled and in bronze she might have stood with the noblest of her heroic sisters as "Liver-and-Bacon Enlivening the World." She belonged to Cypher's. You expected to see her colossal figure loom through that reeking blue cloud of smoke from frying fat just as you expect the Palisades to appear through a drifting Hudson River fog. There amid the steam of vegetables and the vapours of acres of "ham and," the crash of crockery, the clatter of steel, the screaming of "short orders," the cries of the hungering and all the horrid tumult of feeding man, surrounded by swarms of the buzzing winged beasts bequeathed us by Pharaoh, Milly steered her magnificent way like some great liner cleaving among the canoes of howling savages. Our Goddess of Grub was built on lines so majestic that they could be followed only with awe. Her sleeves were always rolled above her elbows. She could have taken us three musketeers in her two hands and dropped us out of the window. She had seen fewer years than any of us, but she was of such superb Evehood and simplicity that she mothered us from the beginning. Cypher's store of eatables she poured out upon us with royal indifference to price and quantity, as from a cornucopia that knew no exhaustion. Her voice rang like a great silver bell; her smile was many-toothed and frequent; she seemed like a yellow sunrise on mountain tops. I never saw her but I thought of the Yosemite. And yet, somehow, I could never think of her as existing outside of Cypher's. There nature had placed her, and she had taken root and grown mightily. She seemed happy, and took her few poor dollars on Saturday nights with the flushed pleasure of a child that receives an unexpected donation. It was Kraft who first voiced the fear that each of us must have held latently. It came up apropos, of course, of certain questions of art at which we were hammering. One of us compared the harmony existing between a Haydn symphony and pistache ice cream to the exquisite congruity between Milly and Cypher's. "There is a certain fate hanging over Milly," said Kraft, "and if it overtakes her she is lost to Cypher's and to us." "She will grow fat? "asked Judkins, fearsomely. "She will go to night school and become refined?" I ventured anxiously. "It is this," said Kraft, punctuating in a puddle of spilled coffee with a stiff forefinger. "Caesar had his Brutus--the cotton has its boliworm, the chorus girl has her Pittsburger, the summer boarder has his poison ivy, the hero has his Carnegie medal, art has its Morgan, the rose has its--" "Speak," I interrupted, much perturbed. "You do not think that Milly will begin to lace?" "One day," concluded Kraft, solemnly, "there will come to Cypher's for a plate of beans a millionaire lumberman from Wisconsin, and he will marry Milly." "Never!" exclaimed Judkins and T, in horror. "A lumberman," repeated Kraft, hoarsely. "And a millionaire lumberman!" I sighed, despairingly. "From Wisconsin!" groaned Judkins. We agreed that the awful fate seemed to menace her. Few things were less improbable. Milly, like some vast virgin stretch of pine woods, was made to catch the lumberman's eye. And well we knew the habits of the Badgers, once fortune smiled upon them. Straight to New York they hie, and lay their goods at the feet of the girl who serves them beans in a beanery. Why, the alphabet itself connives. The Sunday newspaper's headliner's work is cut for him. "Winsome Waitress Wins Wealthy Wisconsin Woodsman. For a while we felt that Milly was on the verge of being lost to us. It was our love of the Unerring Artistic Adjustment of Nature that inspired us. We could not give her over to a lumberman, doubly accursed by wealth and provincialism. We shuddered to think of Milly, with her voice modulated and her elbows covered, pouring tea in the marble teepee of a tree murderer. No! In Cypher's she belonged--in the bacon smoke, the cabbage perfume, the grand, Wagnerian chorus of hurled ironstone china and rattling casters. Our fears must have been prophetic, for on that same evening the wildwood discharged upon us Milly's preordained confiscator--our fee to adjustment and order. But Alaska and not Wisconsin bore the burden of the visitation. We were at our supper of beef stew and dried apples when he trotted in as if on the heels of a dog team, and made one of the mess at our table. With the freedom of the camps he assaulted our ears and claimed the fellowship of men lost in the wilds of a hash house. We embraced him as a specimen, and in three minutes we had all but died for one another as friends. He was rugged and bearded and wind-dried. He had just come off the "trail," he said, at one of the North River ferries. I fancied I could see the snow dust of Chilcoot yet powdering his shoulders. And then he strewed the table with the nuggets, stuffed ptarmigans, bead work and seal pelts of the returned Kiondiker, and began to prate to us of his millions. "Bank drafts for two millions," was his summing up, "and a thousand a day piling up from my claims. And now I want some beef stew and canned peaches. I never got off the train since I mushed out of Seattle, and I'm hungry. The stuff the niggers feed you on Pullmans don't count. You gentlemen order what you want." And then Milly loomed up with a thousand dishes on her bare arm-- loomed up big and white and pink and awful as Mount Saint Elias--with a smile like day breaking in a gulch. And the Kiondiker threw down his pelts and nuggets as dross, and let his jaw fall half-way, and stared at her. You could almost see the diamond tiaras on Milly's brow and the hand-embroidered silk Paris gowns that he meant to buy for her. At last the bollworm had attacked the cotton--the poison ivy was reaching out its tendrils to entwine the summer boarder--the millionaire lumberman, thinly disguised as the Alaskan miner, was about to engulf our Milly and upset Nature's adjustment. Kraft was the first to act. He leaped up and pounded the Klondiker's back. "Come out and drink," he shouted. "Drink first and eat afterward." Judkins seized one arm and I the other. Gaily, roaringly, irresistibly, in jolly-good-fellow style, we dragged him from the restaurant to a cafe, stuffing his pockets with his embalmed birds and indigestible nuggets. There he rumbled a roughly good-humoured protest. "That's the girl for my money," he declared. "She can eat out of my skillet the rest of her life. Why, I never see such a fine girl. I'm going back there and ask her to marry me. I guess she won't want to sling hash any more when she sees the pile of dust I've got." "You'll take another whiskey and milk now," Kraft persuaded, with Satan's smile. "I thought you up-country fellows were better sports." Kraft spent his puny store of coin at the bar and then gave Judkins and me such an appealing look that we went down to the last dime we had in toasting our guest. Then, when our ammunition was gone and the Klondiker, still somewhat sober, began to babble again of Milly, Kraft whispered into his ear such a polite, barbed insult relating to people who were miserly with their funds, that the miner crashed down handful after handful of silver and notes, calling for all the fluids in the world to drown the imputation. Thus the work was accomplished. With his own guns we drove him from the field. And then we had him carted to a distant small hotel and put to bed with his nuggets and baby seal-skins stuffed around him. "He will never find Cypher's again," said Kraft. "He will propose to the first white apron he sees in a dairy restaurant to-morrow. And Milly--I mean the Natural Adjustment--is saved!" And back to Cypher's went we three, and, finding customers scarce, we joined hands and did an Indian dance with Milly in the centre. This, I say, happened three years ago. And about that time a little luck descended upon us three, and we were enabled to buy costlier and less wholesome food than Cypher's. Our paths separated, and I saw Kraft no more and Judkins seldom. But, as I said, I saw a painting the other day that was sold for $5,000. The title was "Boadicea," and the figure seemed to fill all out-of-doors. But of all the picture's admirers who stood before it, I believe I was the only one who longed for Boadicea to stalk from her frame, bringing me corned-beef hash with poached egg. I hurried away to see Kraft. His satanic eyes were the same, his hair was worse tangled, but his clothes had been made by a tailor. "I didn't know," I said to him. "We've bought a cottage in the Bronx with the money," said he. "Any evening at 7." "Then," said I, "when you led us against the lumberman--the-- Klondiker--it wasn't altogether on account of the Unerring Artistic Adjustment of Nature?" "Well, not altogether," said Kraft, with a grin. 前几天去一个画展，看见一幅画，画已有买主，售价五元。年轻的画家是西部来的二流货色，名叫克拉夫特。此人有一种最喜欢吃的食物，外加一套宠物理论。他的精神食粮是对天然生成的东西必须进行艺术加工的理论，他坚信这个理论永远正确。他的理论浇铸在一道菜做成的基础上，这道菜就是腌牛肉肉末炒土豆泥配水煮荷包蛋。这幅画的背后还有一段故事哩。想到这里，我于是打道回府，展纸拈管，信笔录下这个故事。克拉夫特的想法——不过，那可不是本故事的开头。 三年前，克拉夫特、比尔·贾金斯（一位诗人）和我在第八街的赛佛尔餐馆用膳。我说“用膳”。我们兜儿里有钱的时候。赛佛尔从我们这里把钱“拿走”，这可是他的原话。我们不赊帐；我们走进餐馆，开口叫吃的，然后吃掉送来的饭菜。我们要么付帐，要么不付。我们肯定会见到赛佛尔一脸的阴沉和闷在心头的凶狠。在他忧郁的灵魂深处，他抑或是个王子，抑或是个傻瓜，抑或是个艺术家。他坐在一张虫蛀的百孔千疮的办公桌前，桌上堆着一摞摞的帐单，帐单年深日远，我敢打保票，最底下一张是亨利·哈得逊吃完牡蛎后付的帐单。赛佛尔同拿破仑三世和鼓眼鲈鱼一样，能突然使自己的眼睛蒙上一层膜，关闭这对心灵的窗户。有一次，我们信口胡诌一些不成借口的借口，没付饭钱就离开了餐馆，临离开时，我回头瞧了瞧，正好瞧见他躲在那层膜的后面无声地大笑着，笑得浑身乱颤。我们有时也把欠帐一笔勾销。 不过，赛佛尔餐馆最主要的东西还是要算米莉。米莉是个女堂倌。她可是克拉夫特艺术加工理论的极好典范。她在很大程度上天生属于跑堂这一行，就像密涅瓦属于拆毁艺术，维娜斯属于严肃调情科学一样。倘若将她用铜铸成，装上座子，她本可以成为一座“腊肉炒猪肝令君生活回味无穷”的女神像，完全可以和她那些英雄姐妹中最高尚的相媲美。她属于赛佛尔餐馆。你盼望着瞧见她壮硕的身躯隐隐绰绰地闪现在油炸肥肉腾起的臭气熏天的蓝色烟雾中，恰如你盼望帕利塞德在悠悠飘动的哈得逊河浓雾中显现一样。在餐馆里，米莉包裹在热气腾腾的炒菜冒出的热气、大量的“火腿”散发的蒸汽中，淹没在杯碟摔碎的声音、金属碰撞的 响声、要“快餐”的尖声吆喝、肚子饿得咕咕叫的食客的哇哇乱叫、以及食客吃食时发出的所有令人恶心的喧哗与吵闹声中，四周飞舞着成群的法老传给我们的嗡嗡营营生了翅膀的野生动物，只见她优雅迷人地穿行其中，犹如一艘巨型客轮穿行于不停嚎叫的野蛮人乘座的独木舟中。 我们这些究酸文人的女神其实只靠几行诗支撑着，这些诗行威严壮美，我们只得诚惶诚恐地跟随之。米莉的两只袖子总是高高卷在胳臂肘上。她可以用双手把我们三个滑膛熗手提起来，扔到窗外。她比我们谁都年轻，可她率性天然，如同夏娃一般，单纯得实在是无以伦比，所以她从一开始就像妈妈一样呵护我们。她把塞佛尔餐馆能吃的东西一古脑儿地端出来喂我们，全不顾价格多么昂贵，份量多么多，仿佛餐馆是取之不尽，用之不竭的科纽考皮亚，她的声音象只大银铃一般悦耳动听；她很爱笑，一笑便露出大排白牙；她仿佛是刚刚升起在山巅的橘黄色朝阳，每次见到她我必定要想到约塞米蒂。然而，不知怎么回事，我很难想像她离开塞佛尔餐馆将怎样生存下去。老天爷把她搁在餐馆，她在那里生根，长得人高马大。她似乎蛮快活，每到礼拜六晚上，领到几块少得可怜的工钱，就活象一个意外收到红包的孩子一样快活得满脸通红。 我们三人中每人都暗藏一颗惴惴不安的心，第一个直言道出这个担心的正是克拉夫特。当然，它是关于我们正潜心研究的一个艺术上的问题。我们当中有个人把存在于海顿交响乐和阿月浑子果仁冰激凌之间的合谐同米莉和塞佛尔餐馆之间的微妙的合谐相比较。 “米莉逃不脱某种命运，”克拉夫特说，“如果她屈服于命运，塞佛尔餐馆和我们就会失去她。” “她会发胖么？”贾金斯战战兢兢地问。 “她会去上夜校，变得高雅起来么？”我急巴巴地冒出一句。 “是这样，”克拉夫特说，一根硬邦邦的食指蘸着一滩打翻的咖啡戳戳点点。 “凯撒的对头是布鲁图斯——棉花的对头是棉铃虫，歌剧合唱队女歌手的对头是匹兹堡人，暑期寄宿学校的学生的对头是毒长青藤，是英雄总会获得卡内基奖章，是艺术自有摩根巨头的支持，是玫瑰有——” “说说看，”我心烦意乱地打断他，“你认为米莉不会嫁人么？” “总有一天，”克拉夫特郑重其事地断言，“从威斯康星州有位腰缠百万金元的伐木工要来塞佛尔餐馆叫一盘豆子，娶米莉为妻者正是此人。” “决不！”贾金斯和我惊惧万分地大叫。 “伐木工呀。”克拉夫特嗓音嘶哑地重复道。 “一个腰缠万贯的伐木工啊！”我绝望地仰天长叹。 “从威斯康星来的！”贾金斯痛苦地呻吟。 我们一致认为，可怕的厄运似乎就要降临到她的头上。这种事太可能发生啦。米莉就像什么地方的一大片原始松树林，天生就要吸引伐木工的注意。我们很清楚那些威斯康星人，一旦交上好运，发了财的习惯作法。他们会快马加鞭直奔纽约，找一家廉价小饭馆吃豆子，哪个姑娘给他们上豆子，他们就把带去的货摆在姑娘的脚下。哎唷唷，事情本身就是这样开始的。纽约报纸星期版的戏单上，头牌红角的戏给他留着哩。 “娇艳的招待女招得乘龙快婿——骄傲的威斯康星樵夫阔佬。” 有一阵儿，我们觉得我们马上就要失去米莉了。正是我们对于“永远正确的艺术加工”的理论的钟爱鼓舞了我们。我们不能把她拱手让给一个樵夫，他的百万家产和土头土脑愈发使他加倍可恶。一想到米莉嗓音变调，袖子不再高高卷起，却跑到一个砍伐树木的凶手的大理石圆锥形帐篷里斟茶倒水，我们一个个不寒而栗。不！她生来就属于塞佛尔餐馆，属于蒸肉的油烟，白菜的芳香，叮叮咚咚的大钢琴，扔来扔去的好象是铁矿石做的磁盘子和叭嗒叭嗒的投掷者发出的声音汇合成的瓦格纳式的餐厅大合唱。 我们的担心不幸成了现实。那天晚上，从莽莽林海跑出来一个注定要没收米莉的家伙——就算我们支付的艺术加工和调整费吧。然而，承担这次来访重任的人不是从威斯康星来，而是来自阿拉斯加。 他快步走进餐馆，仿佛是坐在狗拉雪撬上，这时我们正好在用晚餐，吃炖牛肉和苹果干，我们的餐桌跟不少餐桌一样，狼藉一片。他一副随随便便的同性恋者忸怩作态的样子，强奸着我们的耳朵，宣布加入迷失在廉价餐馆的荒野中的男子汉队伍。我们把他当成一个怪人拥抱他，三分钟过后，我们已是相见恨晚，几乎已成莫逆之交。 他身材粗壮，一嘴络腮胡子，皮肤因长久风吹而干涩粗糙。他说，他刚刚在北江一个渡口前下了车。我想像我能看见奇尔库特的雪尘纷纷扬扬飘落到他的肩头的情景。接着他拿出从克朗代克发财归来的人带的金块、雪鸟标本、念珠、海豹皮、堆了满满一大桌，然后开始对我们神侃他的几百万财产。 “银行汇票二百万，”他开始算总帐，“我的那些采矿场一天能进一千块。嗯，现在，给我来点炖牛肉和罐筒蜜桃。打从我坐狗拉雪撬离开西雅图，我可一直没下过火车，现在我可饿了。普尔门式火车车厢里那些黑鬼端给你吃的东西不顶事，你们几位先生吃什么自己叫好了。” 接着，米莉隐隐绰绰地出现了，一只裸露的胳臂上层层叠叠地摞满盘子——像圣伊莱尔斯峰伟岸雪白，面若桃花，令人敬畏地出现了，——像产金地的冲沟山洪暴发一般粲然一笑。只见克朗代克人象扔垃圾一般抛下一堆海豹皮和金块，阔口半张，目不转睛地盯着她瞧。你几乎可以看见米莉头上的钻石头饰和手绣的真丝巴黎睡袍，那都是他打算替她买的东西。 终于，棉铃虫向棉花发起进攻——毒青藤伸出卷须缠住寄宿学校的暑期学生——腰缠百万的樵夫披着薄薄的阿拉斯加采矿人的伪装，眼看就要一口吞掉我们的米莉，把天生丽质的姑娘搅得心烦意乱啦。 克拉夫特首先采取行动。他一跃而起，捶打着克朗代克人的背。“嗨，出去喝一杯。”他嗷嗷大叫。“先喝酒，再吃饭。” 贾金斯一把捉住他一只胳臂，我逮住另一只。我们拽着他，给他兜儿里塞满涂了防腐油的雪鸟标本和不能当饭吃的金块，嘻嘻哈哈，大喊大叫，像几个快活的哥儿们一样，不容分说地拖着他出了餐馆，来到一家咖啡馆。 在那里，他情绪蛮好地低声抗议。“她就是命中注定要来花我的钱的妞儿。”他宣布。“从今以后她可以一辈子吃我锅里的饭。啊呀呀，我从来没见到这么漂亮的妞儿，我要回那边去，向她求婚。她要是看见我拥有的那些金粉，我想她再也不想在一家小饭馆里做女招待了吧。” 拉夫特把他少得可怜的一点钱扔在酒吧，之后用极有魅力的眼神瞅了贾金斯和我一眼，结果我们俩只好慨然解囊，直到把最后一个角子花个精光，用来同我们的客人碰杯。 后来，我们都已弹尽粮绝，可克朗代克人仍有几分清醒，他又开始唠唠叨叨讲米莉，克拉夫特凑近他的耳朵大声嚷嚷着彬彬有礼的侮辱性的话，说的是有钱人如何如何一毛不拔，直弄得那个采矿人甩下大把大把的银币和钞票，叫来全世界的酒，清洗泼在身上的污泥。 就这样，大功告成。我们用他自己的熗炮把他逐出了战场，然后我们叫来一辆车，把他发配到一个遥远的小旅店，把他弄上床躺下，四周堆满他的金块和小海豹皮。 “他再也不会找到塞佛尔餐馆罗。”克拉夫特说。“明天，他会向他所看见的奶品店的第一位女招待求婚哩。而米莉——我指的天生丽质——就得救了！” 接着我们三人回到塞佛尔餐馆，发现餐馆里顾客稀少，于是我们手拉手把米莉围在当中，跳起一个印第安人舞蹈。 这件事，嗨，发生在三年前。大约就在那时候，我们开始有些转运，我们有能力买比塞佛尔餐馆价钱贵却不那么有益于健康的食品，此后我们各奔前程，我再没见过克拉夫特，也很少见到贾金斯。 然而，正如我先前说过的，前几天我看见一幅售价五千元的画，画名叫《博迪西娅》，画里的人物似乎把户外的空间塞得满满的，不过，在那些怀着崇拜的心情站在面前欣赏画作的人当中，我相信我是唯一一个渴望博迪西娅昂然走出小画框，给我端来那道腌牛肉肉末炒土豆泥配水煮荷包蛋的。 我匆匆离开，去看望克拉夫特。他那双撒旦眼睛一点没变，头发还是乱蓬蓬的纠缠不清，只是更糟，不过他穿的衣服倒是裁缝缝制的。 “我可是一点不知情啊。”我告诉他。 “我们用那笔钱在布朗克斯买下一幢小别墅。”他说。 “晚上七点来吧，哪天都行。” “那么，”我说，“你领头带着我们跟那个伐木工作对——那个——克朗代克人——并不全是为了永远正确的艺术加工原则罗？” “呃，不全是吧。”克拉夫特回答，咧嘴一笑。

A Double-Dyed Deceiver双料骗子 The trouble began in Laredo. It was the Llano Kid's fault, for he should have confined his habit of manslaughter to Mexicans. But the Kid was past twenty; and to have only Mexicans to one's credit at twenty is to blush unseen on the Rio Grande border. It happened in old Justo Valdos's gambling house. There was a poker game at which sat players who were not all friends, as happens often where men ride in from afar to shoot Folly as she gallops. There was a row over so small a matter as a pair of queens; and when the smoke had cleared away it was found that the Kid had committed an indiscretion,and his adversary had been guilty of a blunder. For, the unfortunate combatant, instead of being a Greaser, was a high-blooded youth from the cow ranches, of about the Kid's own age and possessed of friends and champions. His blunder in missing the Kid's right ear only a sixteenth of an inch when he pulled his gun did not lessen the indiscretion of the better marksman. The Kid, not being equipped with a retinue, nor bountifully supplied with personal admirers and supporters--on account of a rather umbrageous reputation, even for the border--considered it not incompatible with his indispensable gameness to perform that judicious tractional act known as "pulling his freight." Quickly the avengers gathered and sought him. Three of them overtook him within a rod of the station. The Kid turned and showed his teeth in that brilliant but mirthless smile that usually preceded his deeds of insolence and violence, and his pursuers fell back without making it necessary for him even to reach for his weapon. But in this affair the Kid had not felt the grim thirst for encounter that usually urged him on to battle. It had been a purely chance row,born of the cards and certain epithets impossible for a gentleman to brook that had passed between the two. The Kid had rather liked the slim, haughty, brown-faced young chap whom his bullet had cut off in the first pride of manhood. And now he wanted no more blood. He wanted to get away and have a good long sleep somewhere in the sun on the mesquit grass with his handkerchief over his face. Even a Mexican might have crossed his path in safety while he was in this mood. The Kid openly boarded the north-bound passenger train that departed five minutes later. But at Webb, a few miles out, where it was flagged to take on a traveller, he abandoned that manner of escape. There were telegraph stations ahead; and the Kid looked askance at electricity and steam. Saddle and spur were his rocks of safety. The man whom he had shot was a stranger to him. But the Kid knew that he was of the Coralitos outfit from Hidalgo; and that the punchers from that ranch were more relentless and vengeful than Kentucky feudists when wrong or harm was done to one of them. So, with the wisdom that has characterized many great farmers, the Kid decided to pile up as many leagues as possible of chaparral and pear between himself and the retaliation of the Coralitos bunch. Near the station was a store; and near the store, scattered among the mesquits and elms, stood the saddled horses of the customers. Most of them waited, half asleep, with sagging limbs and drooping heads. But one, a long-legged roan with a curved neck, snorted and pawed the turf. Him the Kid mounted, gripped with his knees, and slapped gently with the owner's own quirt. If the slaying of the temerarious card-player had cast a cloud over the Kid's standing as a good and true citizen, this last act of his veiled his figure in the darkest shadows of disrepute. On the Rio Grande border if you take a man's life you sometimes take trash; but if you take his horse, you take a thing the loss of which renders him poor, indeed, and which enriches you not--if you are caught. For the Kid there was no turning back now. With the springing roan under him he felt little care or uneasiness.After a five-mile gallop he drew it in to the plainsman's jogging trot, and rode northeastward toward the Nueces River bottoms. He knew the country well--its most tortuous and obscure trails through the great wilderness of brush and pear, and its camps and lonesome ranches where one might find safe entertainment. Always he bore to the east;for the Kid had never seen the ocean, and he had a fancy to lay his hand upon the mane of the great Gulf, the gamesome colt of the greater waters. So after three days he stood on the shore at Corpus Christi, and looked out across the gentle ripples of a quiet sea. Captain Boone, of the schooner /Flyaway/, stood near his skiff, which one of his crew was guarding in the surf. When ready to sail he had discovered that one of the necessaries of life, in the parallelogrammatic shape of plug tobacco, had been forgotten. A sailor had been dispatched for the missing cargo. Meanwhile the captain paced the sands, chewing profanely at his pocket store. A slim, wiry youth in high-heeled boots came down to the water's edge.His face was boyish, but with a premature severity that hinted at a man's experience. His complexion was naturally dark; and the sun and wind of an outdoor life had burned it to a coffee brown. His hair was as black and straight as an Indian's; his face had not yet upturned to the humiliation of a razor; his eyes were a cold and steady blue. He carried his left arm somewhat away from his body, for pearl-handled .45s are frowned upon by town marshals, and are a little bulky when placed in the left armhole of one's vest. He looked beyond Captain Boone at the gulf with the impersonal and expressionless dignity of a Chinese emperor. "Thinkin' of buyin' that'ar gulf, buddy?" asked the captain, made sarcastic by his narrow escape from a tobaccoless voyage. "Why, no," said the Kid gently, "I reckon not. I never saw it before.I was just looking at it. Not thinking of selling it, are you?" "Not this trip," said the captain. "I'll send it to you C.O.D. when I get back to Buenas Tierras. Here comes that capstanfooted lubber with the chewin'. I ought to've weighed anchor an hour ago." "Is that your ship out there?" asked the Kid. "Why, yes," answered the captain, "if you want to call a schooner a ship, and I don't mind lyin'. But you better say Miller and Gonzales, owners, and ordinary plain, Billy-be-damned old Samuel K. Boone,skipper." "Where are you going to?" asked the refugee. "Buenas Tierras, coast of South America--I forgot what they called the country the last time I was there. Cargo--lumber, corrugated iron, and machetes." "What kind of a country is it?" asked the Kid--"hot or cold?" "Warmish, buddy," said the captain. "But a regular Paradise Lost for elegance of scenery and be-yooty of geography. Ye're wakened every morning by the sweet singin' of red birds with seven purple tails, and the sighin' of breezes in the posies and roses. And the inhabitants never work, for they can reach out and pick steamer baskets of the choicest hothouse fruit without gettin' out of bed. And there's no Sunday and no ice and no rent and no troubles and no use and no nothin'. It's a great country for a man to go to sleep with, and wait for somethin' to turn up. The bananys and oranges and hurricanes and pineapples that ye eat comes from there." "That sounds to me!" said the Kid, at last betraying interest."What'll the expressage be to take me out there with you?" "Twenty-four dollars," said Captain Boone; "grub and transportation.Second cabin. I haven't got a first cabin." "You've got my company," said the Kid, pulling out a buckskin bag. With three hundred dollars he had gone to Laredo for his regular "blowout." The duel in Valdos's had cut short his season of hilarity, but it had left him with nearly $200 for aid in the flight that it had made necessary. "All right, buddy," said the captain. "I hope your ma won't blame me for this little childish escapade of yours." He beckoned to one of the boat's crew. "Let Sanchez lift you out to the skiff so you won't get your feet wet." * * * * * Thacker, the United States consul at Buenas Tierras, was not yet drunk. It was only eleven o'clock; and he never arrived at his desired state of beatitude--a state wherein he sang ancient maudlin vaudeville songs and pelted his screaming parrot with banana peels--until the middle of the afternoon. So, when he looked up from his hammock at the sound of a slight cough, and saw the Kid standing in the door of the consulate, he was still in a condition to extend the hospitality and courtesy due from the representative of a great nation. "Don't disturb yourself," said the Kid, easily. "I just dropped in. They told me it was customary to light at your camp before starting in to round up the town. I just came in on a ship from Texas." "Glad to see you, Mr.--" said the consul. The Kid laughed. "Sprague Dalton," he said. "It sounds funny to me to hear it. I'm called the Llano Kid in the Rio Grande country." "I'm Thacker," said the consul. "Take that cane-bottom chair. Now if you've come to invest, you want somebody to advise you. These dingies will cheat you out of the gold in your teeth if you don't understand their ways. Try a cigar?" "Much obliged," said the Kid, "but if it wasn't for my corn shucks and the little bag in my back pocket I couldn't live a minute." He took out his "makings," and rolled a cigarette. "They speak Spanish here," said the consul. "You'll need an interpreter. If there's anything I can do, why, I'd be delighted. If you're buying fruit lands or looking for a concession of any sort,you'll want somebody who knows the ropes to look out for you." "I speak Spanish," said the Kid, "about nine times better than I do English. Everybody speaks it on the range where I come from. And I'm not in the market for anything." "You speak Spanish?" said Thacker thoughtfully. He regarded the kid absorbedly. "You look like a Spaniard, too," he continued. "And you're from Texas.And you can't be more than twenty or twenty-one. I wonder if you've got any nerve." "You got a deal of some kind to put through?" asked the Texan, with unexpected shrewdness. "Are you open to a proposition?" said Thacker. "What's the use to deny it?" said the Kid. "I got into a little gun frolic down in Laredo and plugged a white man. There wasn't any Mexican handy. And I come down to your parrot-and-monkey range just for to smell the morning-glories and marigolds. Now, do you /sabe/?" Thacker got up and closed the door. "Let me see your hand," he said. He took the Kid's left hand, and examined the back of it closely. "I can do it," he said excitedly. "Your flesh is as hard as wood and as healthy as a baby's. It will heal in a week." "If it's a fist fight you want to back me for," said the Kid, "don't put your money up yet. Make it gun work, and I'll keep you company. But no barehanded scrapping, like ladies at a tea-party, for me." "It's easier than that," said Thacker. "Just step here, will you?" Through the window he pointed to a two-story white-stuccoed house with wide galleries rising amid the deep-green tropical foliage on a wooded hill that sloped gently from the sea. "In that house," said Thacker, "a fine old Castilian gentleman and his wife are yearning to gather you into their arms and fill your pockets with money. Old Santos Urique lives there. He owns half the gold-mines in the country." "You haven't been eating loco weed, have you?" asked the Kid. "Sit down again," said Thacker, "and I'll tell you. Twelve years ago they lost a kid. No, he didn't die--although most of 'em here do from drinking the surface water. He was a wild little devil, even if he wasn't but eight years old. Everybody knows about it. Some Americans who were through here prospecting for gold had letters to Senor Urique, and the boy was a favorite with them. They filled his head with big stories about the States; and about a month after they left,the kid disappeared, too. He was supposed to have stowed himself away among the banana bunches on a fruit steamer, and gone to New Orleans.He was seen once afterward in Texas, it was thought, but they never heard anything more of him. Old Urique has spent thousands of dollars having him looked for. The madam was broken up worst of all. The kid was her life. She wears mourning yet. But they say she believes he'll come back to her some day, and never gives up hope. On the back of the boy's left hand was tattooed a flying eagle carrying a spear in his claws. That's old Urique's coat of arms or something that he inherited in Spain." The Kid raised his left hand slowly and gazed at it curiously. "That's it," said Thacker, reaching behind the official desk for his bottle of smuggled brandy. "You're not so slow. I can do it. What was I consul at Sandakan for? I never knew till now. In a week I'll have the eagle bird with the frog-sticker blended in so you'd think you were born with it. I brought a set of the needles and ink just because I was sure you'd drop in some day, Mr. Dalton." "Oh, hell," said the Kid. "I thought I told you my name!" "All right, 'Kid,' then. It won't be that long. How does Senorito Urique sound, for a change?" "I never played son any that I remember of," said the Kid. "If I had any parents to mention they went over the divide about the time I gave my first bleat. What is the plan of your round-up?" Thacker leaned back against the wall and held his glass up to the light. "We've come now," said he, "to the question of how far you're willing to go in a little matter of the sort." "I told you why I came down here," said the Kid simply. "A good answer," said the consul. "But you won't have to go that far.Here's the scheme. After I get the trademark tattooed on your hand I'll notify old Urique. In the meantime I'll furnish you with all of the family history I can find out, so you can be studying up points to talk about. You've got the looks, you speak the Spanish, you know the facts, you can tell about Texas, you've got the tattoo mark. When I notify them that the rightful heir has returned and is waiting to know whether he will be received and pardoned, what will happen? They'll simply rush down here and fall on your neck, and the curtain goes down for refreshments and a stroll in the lobby." "I'm waiting," said the Kid. "I haven't had my saddle off in your camp long, pardner, and I never met you before; but if you intend to let it go at a parental blessing, why, I'm mistaken in my man, that's all." "Thanks," said the consul. "I haven't met anybody in a long time that keeps up with an argument as well as you do. The rest of it is simple. If they take you in only for a while it's long enough. Don't give 'em time to hunt up the strawberry mark on your left shoulder. Old Urique keeps anywhere from $50,000 to $100,000 in his house all the time in a little safe that you could open with a shoe buttoner. Get it. My skill as a tattooer is worth half the boddle. We go halves and catch a tramp steamer for Rio Janeiro. Let the United States go to pieces if it can't get along without my services. /Que dice, senor/?" "It sounds to me!" said the Kid, nodding his head. "I'm out for the dust." "All right, then," said Thacker. "You'll have to keep close until we get the bird on you. You can live in the back room here. I do my own cooking, and I'll make you as comfortable as a parsimonious Government will allow me." Thacker had set the time at a week, but it was two weeks before the design that he patiently tattooed upon the Kid's hand was to his notion. And then Thacker called a /muchacho/, and dispatched this note to the intended victim: El Senor Don Santos Urique,La Casa Blanca, My Dear Sir: I beg permission to inform you that there is in my house as a temporary guest a young man who arrived in Buenas Tierras from the United States some days ago. Without wishing to excite any hopes that may not be realized, I think there is a possibility of his being your long-absent son. It might be well for you to call and see him. If he is, it is my opinion that his intention was to return to his home, but upon arriving here, his courage failed him from doubts as to how he would be received. Your true servant, Thompson Thacker. Half an hour afterward--quick time for Buenas Tierras--Senor Urique's ancient landau drove to the consul's door, with the barefooted coachman beating and shouting at the team of fat, awkward horses. A tall man with a white moustache alighted, and assisted to the ground a lady who was dressed and veiled in unrelieved black. The two hastened inside, and were met by Thacker with his best diplomatic bow. By his desk stood a slender young man with clear-cut, sun-browned features and smoothly brushed black hair. Senora Urique threw back her black veil with a quick gesture. She was past middle age, and her hair was beginning to silver, but her full, proud figure and clear olive skin retained traces of the beauty peculiar to the Basque province. But, once you had seen her eyes, and comprehended the great sadness that was revealed in their deep shadows and hopeless expression, you saw that the woman lived only in some memory. She bent upon the young man a long look of the most agonized questioning. Then her great black eyes turned, and her gaze rested upon his left hand. And then with a sob, not loud, but seeming to shake the room, she cried "/Hijo mio/!" and caught the Llano Kid to her heart. A month afterward the Kid came to the consulate in response to a message sent by Thacker. He looked the young Spanish /caballero/. His clothes were imported,and the wiles of the jewellers had not been spent upon him in vain. A more than respectable diamond shone on his finger as he rolled a shuck cigarette. "What's doing?" asked Thacker. "Nothing much," said the Kid calmly. "I eat my first iguana steak to-day. They're them big lizards, you /sabe/? I reckon, though, that frijoles and side bacon would do me about as well. Do you care for iguanas, Thacker?" "No, nor for some other kinds of reptiles," said Thacker. It was three in the afternoon, and in another hour he would be in his state of beatitude. "It's time you were making good, sonny," he went on, with an ugly look on his reddened face. "You're not playing up to me square. You've been the prodigal son for four weeks now, and you could have had veal for every meal on a gold dish if you'd wanted it. Now, Mr. Kid, do you think it's right to leave me out so long on a husk diet? What's the trouble? Don't you get your filial eyes on anything that looks like cash in the Casa Blanca? Don't tell me you don't. Everybody knows where old Urique keeps his stuff. It's U.S. currency, too; he don't accept anything else. What's doing? Don't say 'nothing' this time." "Why, sure," said the Kid, admiring his diamond, "there's plenty of money up there. I'm no judge of collateral in bunches, but I will undertake for to say that I've seen the rise of $50,000 at a time in that tin grub box that my adopted father calls his safe. And he lets me carry the key sometimes just to show me that he knows I'm the real Francisco that strayed from the herd a long time ago." "Well, what are you waiting for?" asked Thacker, angrily. "Don't you forget that I can upset your apple-cart any day I want to. If old Urique knew you were an imposter, what sort of things would happen to you? Oh, you don't know this country, Mr. Texas Kid. The laws here have got mustard spread between 'em. These people here'd stretch you out like a frog that had been stepped on, and give you about fifty sticks at every corner of the plaza. And they'd wear every stick out,too. What was left of you they'd feed to alligators." "I might just as well tell you now, pardner," said the Kid, sliding down low on his steamer chair, "that things are going to stay just as they are. They're about right now." "What do you mean?" asked Thacker, rattling the bottom of his glass on his desk. "The scheme's off," said the Kid. "And whenever you have the pleasure of speaking to me address me as Don Francisco Urique. I'll guarantee I'll answer to it. We'll let Colonel Urique keep his money. His little tin safe is as good as the time-locker in the First National Bank of Laredo as far as you and me are concerned." "You're going to throw me down, then, are you?" said the consul. "Sure," said the Kid cheerfully. "Throw you down. That's it. And now I'll tell you why. The first night I was up at the colonel's house they introduced me to a bedroom. No blankets on the floor--a real room, with a bed and things in it. And before I was asleep, in comes this artificial mother and tucks in the covers. 'Panchito,' she says,'my little lost one, God has brought you back to me. I bless His name forever.' It was that, or some truck like that, she said. And down comes a drop or two of rain and hits me on the nose. And all that stuck by me, Mr. Thacker. And it's been that way ever since. And it's got to stay that way. Don't you think that it's for what's in it for me, either, that I say so. If you have any such ideas, keep 'em to yourself. I haven't had much truck with women in my life, and no mothers to speak of, but here's a lady that we've got to keep fooled.Once she stood it; twice she won't. I'm a low-down wolf, and the devil may have sent me on this trail instead of God, but I'll travel it to the end. And now, don't forget that I'm Don Francisco Urique whenever you happen to mention my name." "I'll expose you to-day, you--you double-dyed traitor," stammered Thacker. The Kid arose and, without violence, took Thacker by the throat with a hand of steel, and shoved him slowly into a corner. Then he drew from under his left arm his pearl-handled .45 and poked the cold muzzle of it against the consul's mouth. "I told you why I come here," he said, with his old freezing smile."If I leave here, you'll be the reason. Never forget it, pardner. Now, what is my name?" "Er--Don Francisco Urique," gasped Thacker. From outside came a sound of wheels, and the shouting of some one, and the sharp thwacks of a wooden whipstock upon the backs of fat horses. The Kid put up his gun, and walked toward the door. But he turned again and came back to the trembling Thacker, and held up his left hand with its back toward the consul. "There's one more reason," he said slowly, "why things have got to stand as they are. The fellow I killed in Laredo had one of them same pictures on his left hand." Outside, the ancient landau of Don Santos Urique rattled to the door.The coachman ceased his bellowing. Senora Urique, in a voluminous gay gown of white lace and flying ribbons, leaned forward with a happy look in her great soft eyes. "Are you within, dear son?" she called, in the rippling Castilian. "/Madre mia, yo vengo/ [mother, I come]," answered the young Don Francisco Urique. 乱子出在拉雷多。这件事要怪小利亚诺，因为他应该把杀人的对象仅限于墨西哥人。但是小利亚诺已经二十出头了；在格朗德河边境上，年过二十的人只有杀墨西哥人的纪录未免有点儿寒伧。 事情发生在老胡斯托·伐尔多斯的赌场里。当时有一场扑克牌戏，玩牌的人大多素昧平生。人们打老远的地方骑马来碰碰运气，互不相识也是常有的事。后来却为了一对皇后这样的小事吵了起来；硝烟消散之后，发现小利亚诺闯了祸，他的对手也犯了大错。那个不幸的家伙并不是墨西哥人，而是一个来自牧牛场的出身很好的青年，年纪同小利亚诺相仿，有一批支持他的朋友。他的过错在于开熗时，子弹擦过小利亚诺右耳十六分之一英寸的地方，没打中；这一失误并没有减少那个更高明的熗手的莽撞。 小利亚诺没有随从，也没有许多钦佩他和支持他的人——因为即使在边境上，他的脾气也算是出名的暴躁——他觉得采取那个“走为上策”的审慎行动，同他那无可争辩的倔强性格并不矛盾。 复仇的人迅速集结起来追踪。有三个人在火车站附近赶上了小利亚诺。他转过身，露出他通常在采取横蛮和暴力手段前的不怀好意的狞笑。追他的人甚至没等他伸手拔熗，便退了回去。 当初，小利亚诺并不像平时那样好勇斗狠，存心找人拼命。那纯粹是一场偶然的口角，由于两人玩牌时某些使人按捺不住的粗话此起的。小利亚诺还相当喜欢那个被他熗杀的瘦长、傲慢、褐色脸膛、刚成年的小伙子。目前他不希望再发生什么流备事件。他想避开，找块牧豆草地，在太阳底下用手帕盖住脸，好好睡一大觉。他有这种情绪的时候，即使墨西哥人碰到他也是安全的。 小利亚诺大模大样地搭上北行的客车，五分钟后便出站了。可是列车行驶了不久，到了韦布，接到讯号，临时停下来让一个旅客上车，小利亚诺便放弃了搭车逃跑的办法。前面还有不少电报局ih利亚诺看到电气和蒸汽之类的玩意儿就恼火。马鞍和踢马刺才是安全的保证。 小利亚诺并不认识那个审美观点他熗杀的人，不过知道他是伊达尔戈的科拉里托斯牛队的。那个牧场里的人，如果有一个吃了亏，就比肯塔基的冤冤相报的人更残酷，更爱寻仇。因此，小利亚诺以大勇者的大智决定尽可能远离科拉里托斯那帮人的报复。 车站附近有一家店铺；店铺附近的牧豆树和榆树间有几匹顾客的没卸鞍的马。它们大多提起一条腿，搭拉着头，睡迷迷地等着。但是有一匹长腿弯劲的杂毛马却在喷鼻子，踹草皮。小利亚诺跳上马背，两膝一夹，用马主人的鞭子轻轻打着它。 如果说，熗杀那个莽撞的赌牌人的行为，使小利亚诺正直善良的公民身份有所损害的话，那么盗马一事就足以使他名誉扫地。在格朗德河边境，你夺去一个人的生命有时倒无所谓，可是你夺去他的坐骑，简直就叫他破产，而你自己也并没有什么好处——如果你被逮住的话。不过小利亚诺现在也顾不得这此了。 他骑着这匹鲜蹦活跳的杂毛马，把忧虑和不安都抛到了脑后。他策马跑了五英里后，就像平原人那样款款而行，驰向东北方的纽西斯河床。他很熟悉这个地方——熟悉它那粗犷的荆棘丛林之间最艰苦、最难走的小路，熟悉人们可以在那里得到款待的营地和孤寂的牧场。他一直向东走去；因为他生平还没有见过海洋，很想抚摸一下那匹淘气的小马——墨西哥湾——的鬃毛。 三天之后，他站在科珀斯克里斯蒂的岸上，眺望着宁静的海洋上的粼粼微波。 纵帆船《逃亡者号》的布恩船长站在小快艇旁边，一个水手守着小艇。帆船刚要启航的时候，他发觉一件生活必需品——口嚼烟草块——给忘了。他派一个水手去采办那遗忘的货物。与此同时，船长在沙滩上来回踱步，一面滥骂，一面嚼着口袋里的存货。 一个穿高跟马靴，瘦长结实的小伙子来到了海边。他脸上孩子气十足，不过夹杂着一种早熟的严厉神情，说明他阅历很深。他的皮肤本来就黑，加上户外生活的风吹日晒，竟成了深褐色。他的头发同印第安人一般又黑又直；他的脸还没有受过剃刀的翻掘；他那双蓝眼睛又冷酷，又坚定。他的左臂有点往外撇，因为警长们见到珍珠贝柄的四五口径手熗就头痛，他只得把手熗插在坎肩的左腋窝里，那未免大了些。他带着中国皇帝那种漠然无动于衷的尊严，眺望着布恩船长身后的海湾。 “打算把海湾买下来吗，老弟？”船长问道。他差点要作一次没有烟草的航行，心里正没好气。 “呀，不，”小利亚诺和善地说，“我没有这个打算。我生平没有见过海。只是看看而已。你也不打算把它出卖吧？” “这一次没有这个打算。”船长说，“等我回到布埃纳斯蒂埃拉斯之后，我把它给你运去，货到付款。那个傻瓜水手终于把烟草办来了，他跑得那么慢，不然我一小时前就可以启碇了。” “那条大船是你的吗？”小利亚诺问道。 “嗯，是的，”船长回答说，“如果你要把一条帆船叫做大船的话，我也不妨吹吹牛。不过说得正确些，船主是米勒和冈萨雷斯，在下只不过是老塞缪尔·凯·布恩，一个没什么了不起的船长。” “你们去哪儿？”逃亡者问道。 “布埃纳斯蒂埃拉斯，南美海岸——上次我去过那里，不过那个国家叫什么名字我可忘了。船上装的是木材、波纹铁皮和砍刀。” “那个国家是什么样的？”小利亚诺问道——“是热还是冷？” “不冷不热，老弟。”船长说，“风景优美，山水秀丽，十足是个失乐园。你一早醒来就听到七条紫尾巴的红鸟在歌唱，微风在奇花声明葩中叹息。当地居民从来不干活，他们不用下床，只消伸出手就可以采到一大篮一大篮最好的温室水果。那里没有礼拜天，没有冰，没有要付的房租，没有烦恼，没有用处，什么都没有。对于那些只想躺在床上等运气找上门的人来说，那个国家是再好没有的了。你吃的香蕉、桔子、飓风和菠萝就是从那里来的。” “那倒正合我心意！”小利亚诺终于很感兴趣地说道，“我搭你的船去那里要多少船费？” “二十四块钱，”布恩船长说，“包括伙食和船费。二等舱。我船上没有头等舱。” “我去。”小利亚诺一面说，一面掏出了一个鹿皮袋子。 他去拉雷多的时候，带着三百块钱，准备像以前那样大玩一场。在伐尔多斯赌场里的决斗，中断了他的欢乐的季节，但是给他留下了将近两百元；如今由于决斗而不得不逃亡时，这笔钱倒帮了他的忙。 “好吧，老弟。”船长说，“你这次像小孩似地逃出来，我希望你妈不要怪我。”他招呼一个水手说，“让桑切斯背你到小艇上去，免得你踩湿靴子。” 美利坚合众国驻布埃纳斯蒂埃拉斯的领事撒克还没有喝醉。当时只有十一点钟；到下午三四点之前，他不会达到飘飘然的境界——到了那种境界，他就会用哭音唱着小曲，用香蕉皮投掷他那尖叫怪嚷的八哥。因此，当他躺在吊床上听到一声轻咳而抬起头来，看到小利亚诺站在领事馆门口时，仍旧能够保持一个大国代表的风度，表示应有的礼貌和客气。“请便请便。”小利亚诺轻松地说，“我只是顺道路过。他们说，开始在镇上逛逛之前，按规矩应当到你的营地来一次。我刚乘了船从得克萨斯来。” “见到你很高兴，请问贵姓？”领事说。 小利亚诺笑了。 “斯普拉格·多尔顿。”他说，“这个姓名我自己听了都觉得好笑。在格朗德河一带，人家都管我叫小利亚诺。” “我姓撒克。”领事说，“请坐在那张竹椅上。假如你来到这儿是想投资，就需要有人帮你出出主意。这些黑家伙，如果你不了解他们的作风，会把你的金牙齿都骗光。抽雪茄吗？” “多谢，”小利亚诺说，“我不抽雪茄，不过如果我后裤袋里没有烟草和那个小包，我一分钟也活不下去。”他取出卷烟纸和烟草，卷了一支烟。 “这里的人说西班牙语，”领事说，“你需要一个译员。我有什么地方可以效劳，嗯，我一定很高兴。如果你打算买果村地或者想搞什么租借权，你一定需要一个熟悉内幕的人替你出主意。” “我说西班牙语，”小利亚诺说，“大概比说英语要好九倍。我原先的那个牧场上人人都说西班牙语。我不打算买什么。” “你会西班牙事？”撒克若有所思地说。他出神地瞅着小利亚诺。 “你的长相也像西班牙人。”他接着说，“你又是从得克萨斯来的。你的年纪不会超出二十或者二十一。我不知道你有没有胆量。” “你在打什么主意？”小利亚诺问道，他的精明出人意外。 “你有意思插一手吗？”撒克问。 “我不妨对你讲实话。”小利亚诺说，“我在拉雷多玩了一场小小的熗斗，毙了一个白人。当时没有凑手的墨西哥人。我到你们这个八哥和猴子的牧场上来，只是想闻闻牵牛花和金盏草。现在你明白了吗？” 撒克站起来把门关上。 “让我看看你的手。”他说。 他抓着小利亚诺的左手，把手背端详了好一会儿。 “我办得了。”他兴奋地说，“你的皮肉像木头一般结实，像婴孩儿的一般健康。一星期内就能长好。” “如果你打算叫我来一场拳头，”小利亚诺说，“那你可别对我存什么希望。换成熗斗，我一定奉陪。我才不喜欢像茶会上的太太们那样赤手空拳地打架。” “没那么严重。”撒克说，“请过来，好吗？” 他指着窗外一幢两层楼的，有宽回廊的白墙房屋。那幢建筑矗立在海边一个树木葱茏的小山上，在深绿色的热带植物中间显得分外醒目。 “那幢房屋里，”撒克说，“有一位高尚的西班牙老绅士和他的夫人，他们迫不及待地想把你搂在怀里，把钱装满你的口袋。住在那里的是老桑托斯·乌里盖。这个国家里的金矿有一半儿是他的产业。” “你没有吃错疯草吧？”小利亚诺说。 “再请坐下来，”撒克说，“我告诉你。十二年前，他们丧失了一个小孩儿。不，他并没有死——虽然这里有许多人因为喝了淤水，害病死掉了。当时他只有八岁，可是顽皮得出格。大家都知道。有几个勘察金矿的美国人路过这里，同乌里盖先生打了交道，他们非常喜欢这个孩子。他们把许多有关美国的大话灌进了他的脑袋里；他们离开后一个月，这小家伙也失踪了。据人家揣测，他大概是躲在一条水果船的香蕉堆里，偷偷地到了新奥尔良。所说有人在得克萨斯见过他，此后就音讯杳然。老乌里盖花了几千块钱找他。夫人尤其伤心。这小家伙是她的命根子。她目前还穿着丧服。但大家说她从不放弃希望，认为孩子总有一天会回来的。孩子的左手背上刺了一只抓熗的飞鹰。那是老乌里盖家族的纹章，或是他在西班牙继承下来的标记。” 小利亚诺慢慢抬起左手，好奇地瞅着它。 “正是，”撒克说着，伸手去拿藏在办公桌后面的一瓶走私运来的白兰地，“你脑筋不笨。我会刺花。我在山打根当了一任领事有什么好处？直到今天我才明白。一星期之内我能把那只抓着小尖刀的老鹰刺在你手上，仿佛从小就刺花似的。我这里备有一套刺花针和墨水，正因为我料到你有一天会来的，多尔顿先生。” “喔，妈的。”小利亚诺说，“我不是把我的名字早告诉了你吗！” “好吧，那么就叫你‘小利亚诺’。这个名字也不会长了。换成乌里盖少爷怎么样？” “从我记事的时候起，我从没有扮演过儿子的角色。”小利亚诺说，“假如我有父母的话，我第一次哇哇大叫时，他们就进了鬼门关。你的计划是怎么样的呀？” 撒克往后靠着墙，把酒杯对着亮光瞧瞧。 “现在的问题是，”他说，“你打算在这件小事里干多久。” “我已经把我来这里的原因告诉你了。”小利亚诺简单地说。 “回答得好。”领事说，“不过你用不着呆这么久。我的计划是这样的：等我在你手上刺好商标之后，我就通知老乌里盖。刺花期间，我把我收集到的有关那个家族的情况讲给你听，那你谈吐就不会露出破绽了。你的长相像西班牙人，你能说西班牙语，你了解情况，你又得谈谈得克萨斯州的见闻，你有刺花。当我通知他们说，真正的继承人已经回来，想知道他能不能得到收容和宽恕时，那会发生什么事情？他们一准立刻赶到这里，抱住你的脖子，这场戏也就结束，可以到休息室去吃些茶点，舒散舒散了。” “我准备好了。”小利亚诺说，“我在你营地里歇脚的时间还不长，老兄，以前也不认识你；但如果你的目的只限于父母的祝福，那我可看错人了。” “多谢。”领事说，“我好久没有遇到像你这样条理分明的人了。以后的事情很简单。只要他们接纳，哪怕是很短一个时期，事情就妥了。别让他们有机会查看你左肩膀上有没有一块红记。老乌里盖家的一个小保险箱里经常藏着五万到十万块钱，那个保险箱，你用一根铜丝都可以捅开。把钱稿来。我的刺花技术值其中的半数。我们把钱平分，搭一条不定期的轮船到里约热内卢去。如果美国政府由于少了我的服务而混不下去的话，那就让它垮台吧。你觉得怎么样，先生？” “很合我的口味！”小利亚诺说，“我干。” “那好。”撒克说，“在我替你刺上老鹰之前，你得躲起来。你可以住这里的后房。我是自己做饭的，我一定在吝啬的政府给我的薪俸所许可的范围之内尽量款待你。” 撒克估计的时间是一星期，但是等他不厌其烦地在小利亚诺手上刺好那个花样，觉得满意时，已经过了两个星期。撒克找了一个小厮，把下面的便条送达他准备暗算的人： 白屋 堂·桑托斯·乌里盖先生 亲爱的先生： 请允许我奉告，数日前有一位年轻人从美国来到布埃纳斯蒂埃拉斯，目前暂住舍间。我不想引起可能落空的希望，但是我认为这人可能是您失踪多年的儿子。您最好亲自来看看他。如果他确实是您的儿子，据我看，他很想回自己家，可是到后不知道将会得到怎样的接待，不敢贸然前去。 汤普森·撒克谨启 半小时以后——这在布埃纳斯蒂埃拉斯还算是快的——乌里盖先生的古色古香的四轮马车，由一个赤脚的马夫鞭打和吆喝着那几匹肥胖笨拙的马，来到了领事住处的门口。 一个白胡须的高个子下了车，然后搀扶着一个穿黑衣服，蒙黑面纱的太太下来。 两人急煎煎地走进来，撒克以最彬彬有礼的外交式的鞠躬迎接了他们。他桌旁站着一个瘦长的年轻人，眉清目秀，皮肤黧黑，乌黑的头发梳得光光的。 乌里盖夫人飞快地把厚面纱一揭。她已过中年，头发开始花白，但她那丰满漂亮的身段和浅橄榄色的皮肤还保存着巴斯克妇女所特有的妍丽。你一见到她的眼睛，发现它们的暗影和失望的表情中透露出极大的哀伤，你就知道这个女人只是依靠某种记忆才能生活。 她带着痛苦万分的询问神情，向那年轻人瞅了好久。她一双乌黑的大眼睛转到了他的左手。接着，她抽噎了一下，声音虽然不大，但仿佛震动了整幢房屋。她嚷道：“我的儿子！”紧接着便把小利亚诺搂在怀里。 过了一个月，小利亚诺接到撒克捎给他的信，来到领事馆。 他完全成了一位年轻的西班牙绅士。他的衣服都是进口货，珠宝商的狡黠并没有在他身上白费力气。他卷纸烟的时候，一枚大得异乎寻常的钻石戒指在他手上闪闪发光。 “怎么样啦？”撒克问道。 “没怎么样。”小利亚诺平静地说，“今天我第一次吃了蜥蜴肉排。就是那种大四脚蛇。你知道吗？我却认为咸肉煮豆子也配我的胃口。你喜欢吃蜥蜴吗，撒克？” “不，别的爬虫也不吃。”撒克说。 现在是下午三点钟，再过一小时，他就要达到那种飘飘然的境界了。 “你该履行诺言了，老弟，”他接着说，他那张猪肝色的脸上露出一副狰狞相，“你对我太不公平。你已经当了四星期的宝贝儿子，你喜欢的话，每顿饭都可以用金盘子来盛小牛肉。喂，小利亚诺先生，你说应不应该让我老是过粗茶淡饭的日子？毛病在哪里？难道你这双孝顺儿子的眼睛在白屋里面没有见到任何象是现款的东西？别对我说你没有见到。谁都知道老乌里盖藏钱的地方。并且还是美国货币；别的钱他不要。你究竟怎么啦？这次别说‘没有’。” “哎，当然，”小利亚诺欣赏着他的钻石戒指说，“那里的钱确实很多。至于证券之类的玩意儿我可不懂，但是我可以担保说，在我干爸爸叫做保险箱的铁皮盒子里，我一次就见到过五万元现款。有时候，他把保险箱的钥匙交给我，主要是让我知道他把我当作那个走失多年的小弗朗西斯科。” “哎，那你还等什么呀？”撒克忿忿地问道，“别忘了只要我高兴，我随时随地都可以揭你的老底。如果老乌里盖知道你是骗子，你知道会出什么事？哦，得克萨斯的小利亚诺先生，你才不了解这个国家。这里的法律才叫辣呢。他们会把你绷得像一只被踩扁的蛤蟆，在广场的每一个角上揍你五十棍。棍子都要打断好几根。再把你身上剩下来的皮肉喂鳄鱼。” “我现在不妨告诉你，伙计，”小利亚诺舒适地坐在帆布椅子里说，“事情就按照目前的样子维持下去。目前很不坏。” “你这是什么意思？”撒克问道，把酒杯在桌子上碰得格格直响。 “计划吹啦。”小利亚诺说，“以后你同我说话，请称呼我堂·弗朗西斯科·乌里盖。我保证答应。我们不去碰乌里盖上校的钱。就你我两人来说，他的小铁皮保险箱同拉雷多第一国民银行的定时保险库一样安全可靠。” “那你是想出卖我了，是吗？”领事说。 “当然。”小利亚诺快活地说，“出卖你。说得对。现在我把原因告诉你。我到上校家的第一晚，他们领我到一间卧室里。不是在地板上铺一张床垫——而是一间真正的卧室，有床有家具。我入睡前，我那位假母亲走了进来，替我掖好被子。‘小宝贝，’她说，‘我的走失的小宝贝，天主把你送了回来。我永远赞美他的名。’她说了一些诸如此类的废话。接着落了几点雨，滴在我的鼻子上。这情形我永远也忘不了，撒克先生。那以后一直是这样，将来也是这样。我说这番话，别以为我为自己的好处打算。你不要以小人之心度君子之腹。我生平没有跟女人多说过话，也没有母亲可谈，但是对于这位太太，我们却不得不继续瞒下去。她已经忍受了一次痛苦；第二次她可受不了。我像是一条卑贱的野狼，送我走上这条路的可能不是上帝，而是魔鬼，但是我要走到头。喂，你以后提起我的名字时，别忘了我是堂·弗朗西斯科·乌里盖。” “我今天就揭发你，你——你这个双料叛徒。”撒克结结巴巴地说。 小利亚诺站起来，并不粗暴地用他有力的手掐住撒克的脖子，慢慢地把他推到一个角落去。接着，他从左腋窝下抽出他那支珍珠贝柄的四五口径手熗，用冰冷的熗口戳着领事的嘴巴。 “我已经告诉过你，我怎么会来到这里的。”他露出以前那种叫人心寒的微笑说，“如果我再离开这里，那将是由于你的缘故。千万别忘记，伙计。喂，我叫什么名字呀？” “呃——堂·弗朗西斯科·乌里盖。”撒克喘着气说。 外面传来车轮声，人的吆喝声和木鞭柄打在肥马背上的响亮的啪啪声。 小利亚诺收起手熗，向门口走去。但他又扭过头，回到哆嗦着的撒克面前，向领事扬起了左手。 “这种情况为什么要维持下去，”他慢慢地说，“还有一个原因。我在拉雷多杀掉的那个人，左手背上也有一个同样的刺花。” 外面，堂·桑托斯·乌里盖的古色古香的四轮马车卡嗒卡嗒地驶到门口。马车夫停止了吆喝。乌里盖太太穿着一套缀着许多花边和缎带的漂亮衣服，一双柔和的大眼睛里露出幸福的神情，她向前探着身子。 “你在里面吗，亲爱的儿子？”她用银铃般的西班牙语喊道。 “妈妈，我来啦。”年轻的堂·弗朗西斯科·乌里盖回答说。 [科珀斯克里斯蒂：得克萨斯州纽西斯河口上的城市。] [山打根：马来西亚城市。]

The Ransom of Red Chief红毛酋长的赎金 IT Looked like a good thing: but wait till I tell you. We were down South, in Alabama -- Bill Driscoll and myself -- when this kidnapping idea struck us. It was, as Bill afterward expressed it, "during a moment of temporary mental apparition"; but we didn't find that out till later. There was a town down there, as flat as a flannel-cake, and called Summit, of course. It contained inhabitants Of as undeleterious and self-satisfied a class of peasantry as ever clustered around a Maypole. Bill and me had a joint capital of about six hundred dollars, and we needed just two thousand dollars more to pull off a fraudulent town-lot scheme in Western Illinois with. We talked it over on the front steps of the hotel. Philoprogenitiveness, says we, is strong in semi-rural communities; therefore and for other reasons, a kidnapping project ought to do better there than in the radius of newspapers that send reporters out in plain clothes to stir up talk about such things. We knew that Summit couldn't get after us with anything stronger than constables and maybe some lackadaisical bloodhounds and a diatribe or two in the Weekly Farmers' Budget. So, it looked good. We selected for our victim the only child of a prominent citizen named Ebenezer Dorset. The father was respectable and tight, a mortgage fancier and a stern, upright collection-plate passer and forecloser. The kid was a boy of ten, with bas-relief freckles, and hair the colour of the cover of the magazine you buy at the news-stand when you want to catch a train. Bill and me figured that Ebenezer would melt down for a ransom of two thousand dollars to a cent. But wait till I tell you. About two miles from Summit was a little mountain, covered with a dense cedar brake. On the rear elevation of this mountain was a cave. There we stored provisions. One evening after sundown, we drove in a buggy past old Dorset's house. The kid was in the street, throwing rocks at a kitten on the opposite fence. "Hey, little boy!" says Bill, "would you like to have a bag of candy and a nice ride?" The boy catches Bill neatly in the eye with a piece of brick. "That will cost the old man an extra five hundred dollars," says Bill, climbing over the wheel. That boy put up a fight like a welter-weight cinnamon bear; but, at last, we got him down in the bottom of the buggy and drove away. We took him up to the cave and I hitched the horse in the cedar brake. After dark I drove the buggy to the little village, three miles away, where we had hired it, and walked back to the mountain. Bill was pasting court-plaster over the scratches and bruises on his features. There was a burning behind the big rock at the entrance of the cave, and the boy was watching a pot of boiling coffee, with two buzzard tailfeathers stuck in his red hair. He points a stick at me when I come up, and says: "Ha! cursed paleface, do you dare to enter the camp of Red Chief, the terror of the plains? "He's all right now," says Bill, rolling up his trousers and examining some bruises on his shins. "We're playing Indian. We're making Buffalo Bill's show look like magic-lantern views of Palestine in the town hall. I'm Old Hank, the Trapper, Red Chief's captive, and I'm to be scalped at daybreak. By Geronimo! that kid can kick hard." Yes, sir, that boy seemed to be having the time of his life. The fun of camping out in a cave had made him forget that he was a captive, himself. He immediately christened me Snake-eye, the Spy, and announced that, when his braves returned from the warpath, I was to be broiled at the stake at the rising of the sun. Then we had supper; and he filled his mouth full of bacon and bread and gravy, and began to talk. He made a during-dinner speech something like this: "I like this fine. I never camped out before; but I had a pet 'possum once, and I was nine last birthday. I hate to go to school. Rats ate up sixteen of Jimmy Talbot's aunt's speckled hen's eggs. Are there any real Indians in these woods? I want some more gravy. Does the trees moving make the wind blow? We had five puppies. What makes your nose so red, Hank? My father has lots of money. Are the stars hot? I whipped Ed Walker twice, Saturday. I don't like girls. You dassent catch toads unless with a string. Do oxen make any noise? Why are oranges round? Have you got beds to sleep on in this cave? Amos Murray has got Six toes. A parrot can talk, but a monkey or a fish can't. How many does it take to make twelve?" Every few minutes he would remember that he was a pesky redskin, and pick up his stick rifle and tiptoe to the mouth of the cave to rubber for the scouts of the hated paleface. Now and then he would let out a war-whoop that made Old Hank the Trapper shiver. That boy had Bill terrorized from the start. "Red Chief," says I to the kid, "would you like to go home?" "Aw, what for?" says he. "I don't have any fun at home. I hate to go to school. I like to camp out. You won't take me back home again, Snake-eye, will you?" "Not right away," says I. "We'll stay here in the cave a while." "All right!" says he. "That'll be fine. I never had such fun in all my life." We went to bed about eleven o'clock. We spread down some wide blankets and quilts and put Red Chief between us. We weren't afraid he'd run away. He kept us awake for three hours, jumping up and reaching for his rifle and screeching: "Hist! pard," in mine and Bill's ears, as the fancied crackle of a twig or the rustle of a leaf revealed to his young imagination the stealthy approach of the outlaw band. At last, I fell into a troubled sleep, and dreamed that I had been kidnapped and chained to a tree by a ferocious pirate with red hair. Just at daybreak, I was awakened by a series of awful screams from Bill. They weren't yells, or howls, or shouts, or whoops, or yalps, such as you'd expect from a manly set of vocal organs -- they were simply indecent, terrifying, humiliating screams, such as women emit when they see ghosts or caterpillars. It's an awful thing to hear a strong, desperate, fat man scream incontinently in a cave at daybreak. I jumped up to see what the matter was. Red Chief was sitting on Bill's chest, with one hand twined in Bill's hair. In the other he had the sharp case-knife we used for slicing, bacon; and he was industriously and realistically trying to take Bill's scalp, according to the sentence that had been pronounced upon him the evening before. I got the knife away from the kid and made him lie down again. But, from that moment, Bill's spirit was broken. He laid down on his side of the bed, but he never closed an eye again in sleep as long as that boy was with us. I dozed off for a while, but along toward sun-up I remembered that Red Chief had said I was to be burned at the stake at the rising of the sun. I wasn't nervous or afraid; but I sat up and lit my pipe and leaned against a rock. "What you getting up so soon for, Sam?" asked Bill. "Me?" says I. "Oh, I got a kind of a pain in my shoulder. I thought sitting up would rest it." "You're a liar!" says Bill. "You're afraid. You was to be burned at sunrise, and you was afraid he'd do it. And he would, too, if he could find a match. Ain't it awful, Sam? Do you think anybody will pay out money to get a little imp like that back home?" "Sure," said I. "A rowdy kid like that is just the kind that parents dote on. Now, you and the Chief get up and cook breakfast, while I go up on the top of this mountain and reconnoitre." I went up on the peak of the little mountain and ran my eye over the contiguous vicinity. Over toward Summit I expected to see the sturdy yeomanry of the village armed with scythes and pitchforks beating the countryside for the dastardly kidnappers. But what I saw was a peaceful landscape dotted with one man ploughing with a dun mule. Nobody was dragging the creek; no couriers dashed hither and yon, bringing tidings of no news to the distracted parents. There was a sylvan attitude of somnolent sleepiness pervading that section of the external outward surface of Alabama that lay exposed to my view. "Perhaps," says I to myself, "it has not yet been discovered that the wolves have home away the tender lambkin from the fold. Heaven help the wolves!" says I, and I went down the mountain to breakfast. When I got to the cave I found Bill backed up against the side of it, breathing hard, and the boy threatening to smash him with a rock half as big as a cocoanut. "He put a red-hot boiled potato down my back," explained Bill, "and the mashed it with his foot; and I boxed his ears. Have you got a gun about you, Sam? I took the rock away from the boy and kind of patched up the argument. "I'll fix you," says the kid to Bill. "No man ever yet struck the Red Chief but what he got paid for it. You better beware!" After breakfast the kid takes a piece of leather with strings wrapped around it out of his pocket and goes outside the cave unwinding it. "What's he up to now?" says Bill, anxiously. "You don't think he'll run away, do you, Sam?" "No fear of it," says I. "He don't seem to be much of a home body. But we've got to fix up some plan about the ransom. There don't seem to be much excitement around Summit on account of his disappearance; but maybe they haven't realized yet that he's gone. His folks may think he's spending the night with Aunt Jane or one of the neighbours. Anyhow, he'll be missed to-day. To-night we must get a message to his father demanding the two thousand dollars for his return." Just then we heard a kind Of war-whoop, such as David might have emitted when he knocked out the champion Goliath. It was a sling that Red Chief had pulled out of his pocket, and he was whirling it around his head. I dodged, and heard a heavy thud and a kind of a sigh from Bill, like a horse gives out when you take his saddle off. A niggerhead rock the size of an egg had caught Bill just behind his left ear. He loosened himself all over and fell in the fire across the frying pan of hot water for washing the dishes. I dragged him out and poured cold water on his head for half an hour. By and by, Bill sits up and feels behind his ear and says: "Sam, do you know who my favourite Biblical character is?" "Take it easy," says I. "You'll come to your senses presently." "King Herod," says he. "You won't go away and leave me here alone, will you, Sam?" I went out and caught that boy and shook him until his freckles rattled. "If you don't behave," says I, "I'll take you straight home. Now, are you going to be good, or not?" "I was only funning," says he sullenly. "I didn't mean to hurt Old Hank. But what did he hit me for? "I'll behave, Snake-eye, if you won't send me home, and if you'll let me play the Black Scout to-day." "I don't know the game," says I. "That's for you and Mr. Bill to decide. He's your playmate for the day. I'm going away for a while, on business. Now, you come in and make friends with him and say you are sorry for hurting him, or home you go, at once." I made him and Bill shake hands, and then I took Bill aside and told him I was going to Poplar Cove, a little village three miles from the cave, and find out what I could about how the kidnapping had been regarded in Summit. Also, I thought it best to send a peremptory letter to old man Dorset that day, demanding the ransom and dictating how it should be paid. "You know, Sam," says Bill, "I've stood by you without batting an eye in earthquakes, fire and flood -- in poker games, dynamite outrages, police raids, train robberies and cyclones. I never lost my nerve yet till we kidnapped that two-legged skyrocket of a kid. He's got me going. You won't leave me long with him, will you, Sam?" "I'll be back some time this afternoon," says I. "You must keep the boy amused and quiet till I return. And now we'll write the letter to old Dorset." Bill and I got paper and pencil and worked on the letter while Red Chief, with a blanket wrapped around him, strutted up and down, guarding the mouth of the cave. Bill begged me tearfully to make the ransom fifteen hundred dollars instead of two thousand. "I ain't attempting," says he, "to decry the celebrated moral aspect of parental affection, but we're dealing with humans, and it ain't human for anybody to give up two thousand dollars for that forty-pound chunk of freckled wildcat. I'm willing to take a chance at fifteen hundred dollars. You can charge the difference up to me." So, to relieve Bill, I acceded, and we collaborated a letter that ran this way: Ebenezer Dorset, Esq.: We have your boy concealed in a place far from Summit. It is useless for you or the most skilful detectives to attempt to find him. Absolutely, the only terms on which you can have him restored to you are these: We demand fifteen hundred dollars in large bills for his return; the money to be left at midnight to-night at the same spot and in the same box as your reply -- as hereinafter described. If you agree to these terms, send your answer in writing by a solitary messenger to-night at half-past eight o'clock. After crossing Owl Creek, on the road to Poplar Cove, there are three large trees about a hundred yards apart, close to the fence of the wheat field on the right-hand side. At the bottom of the fence-post, opposite the third tree, will be found a small pasteboard box. The messenger will place the answer in this box and return immediately to Summit. If you attempt any treachery or fail to comply with our demand as stated, you will never see your boy again. If you pay the money as demanded, he will be returned to you safe and well within three hours. These terms are final, and if you do not accede to them no further communication will be attempted. TWO DESPERATE MEN. I addressed this letter to Dorset, and put it in my pocket. As I was about to start, the kid comes up to me and says: "Aw, Snake-eye, you said I could play the Black Scout while you was gone." "Play it, of course," says I. "Mr. Bill will play with you. What kind of a game is it?" "I'm the Black Scout," says Red Chief, "and I have to ride to the stockade to warn the settlers that the Indians are coming. I'm tired of playing Indian myself. I want to be the Black Scout." "All right," says I. "It sounds harmless to me. I guess Mr. Bill will help you foil the pesky savages." "What am I to do?" asks Bill, looking at the kid suspiciously. "You are the hoss," says Black Scout. "Get down on your hands and knees. How can I ride to the stockade without a hoss?" "You'd better keep him interested," said I, "till we get the scheme going. Loosen up." Bill gets down on his all fours, and a look comes in his eye like a rabbit's when you catch it in a trap. "How far is it to the stockade, kid?" he asks, in a husky manner of voice. "Ninety miles," says the Black Scout. "And you have to hump yourself to get there on time. Whoa, now!" The Black Scout jumps on Bill's back and digs his heels in his side. "For Heaven's sake," says Bill, "hurry back, Sam, as soon as you can. I wish we hadn't made the ransom more than a thousand. Say, you quit kicking me or I'll get up and warm you good." I walked over to Poplar Cove and sat around the post-office and store, talking with the chawbacons that came in to trade. One whiskerando says that he hears Summit is all upset on account of Elder Ebenezer Dorset's boy having been lost or stolen. That was all I wanted to know. I bought some smoking tobacco, referred casually to the price of black-eyed peas, posted my letter surreptitiously and came away. The postmaster said the mail-carrier would come by in an hour to take the mail on to Summit. When I got back to the cave Bill and the boy were not to be found. I explored the vicinity of the cave, and risked a yodel or two, but there was no response. So I lighted my pipe and sat down on a mossy bank to await developments. In about half an hour I heard the bushes rustle, and Bill wabbled out into the little glade in front of the cave. Behind him was the kid, stepping softly like a scout, with a broad grin on his face. Bill stopped, took off his hat and wiped his face with a red handkerchief. The kid stopped about eight feet behind him. "Sam," says Bill, "I suppose you'll think I'm a renegade, but I couldn't help it. I'm a grown person with masculine proclivities and habits of self-defense, but there is a time when all systems of egotism and predominance fail. The boy is gone. I have sent him home. All is off. There was martyrs in old times," goes on Bill, "that suffered death rather than give up the particular graft they enjoyed. None of 'em ever was subjugated to such supernatural tortures as I have been. I tried to be faithful to our articles of depredation; but there came a limit." "What's the trouble, Bill?" I asks him. "I was rode," says Bill, "the ninety miles to the stockade, not barring an inch. Then, when the settlers was rescued, I was given oats. Sand ain't a palatable substitute. And then, for an hour I had to try to explain to him why there was nothin' in holes, how a road can run both ways and what makes the grass green. I tell you, Sam, a human can only stand so much. I takes him by the neck of his clothes and drags him down the mountain. On the way he kicks my legs black-and-blue from the knees down; and I've got to have two or three bites on my thumb and hand cauterized. "But he's gone" -- continues Bill -- "gone home. I showed him the road to Summit and kicked him about eight feet nearer there at one kick. I'm sorry we lose the ransom; but it was either that or Bill Driscoll to the madhouse." Bill is puffing and blowing, but there is a look of ineffable peace and growing content on his rose-pink features. "Bill," says I, "there isn't any heart disease in your family, is there? "No," says Bill, "nothing chronic except malaria and accidents. Why?" "Then you might turn around," says I, "and have a took behind you." Bill turns and sees the boy, and loses his complexion and sits down plump on the round and begins to pluck aimlessly at grass and little sticks. For an hour I was afraid for his mind. And then I told him that my scheme was to put the whole job through immediately and that we would get the ransom and be off with it by midnight if old Dorset fell in with our proposition. So Bill braced up enough to give the kid a weak sort of a smile and a promise to play the Russian in a Japanese war with him is soon as he felt a little better. I had a scheme for collecting that ransom without danger of being caught by counterplots that ought to commend itself to professional kidnappers. The tree under which the answer was to be left -- and the money later on -- was close to the road fence with big, bare fields on all sides. If a gang of constables should be watching for any one to come for the note they could see him a long way off crossing the fields or in the road. But no, sirree! At half-past eight I was up in that tree as well hidden as a tree toad, waiting for the messenger to arrive. Exactly on time, a half-grown boy rides up the road on a bicycle, locates the pasteboard box at the foot of the fence-post, slips a folded piece of paper into it and pedals away again back toward Summit. I waited an hour and then concluded the thing was square. I slid down the tree, got the note, slipped along the fence till I struck the woods, and was back at the cave in another half an hour. I opened the note, got near the lantern and read it to Bill. It was written with a pen in a crabbed hand, and the sum and substance of it was this: Two Desperate Men. Gentlemen: I received your letter to-day by post, in regard to the ransom you ask for the return of my son. I think you are a little high in your demands, and I hereby make you a counter-proposition, which I am inclined to believe you will accept. You bring Johnny home and pay me two hundred and fifty dollars in cash, and I agree to take him off your hands. You had better come at night, for the neighbours believe he is lost, and I couldn't be responsible for what they would do to anybody they saw bringing him back. Very respectfully, EBENEZER DORSET. "Great pirates of Penzance!" says I; "of all the impudent -- " But I glanced at Bill, and hesitated. He had the most appealing look in his eyes I ever saw on the face of a dumb or a talking brute. "Sam," says he, "what's two hundred and fifty dollars, after all? We've got the money. One more night of this kid will send me to a bed in Bedlam. Besides being a thorough gentleman, I think Mr. Dorset is a spendthrift for making us such a liberal offer. You ain't going to let the chance go, are you?" "Tell you the truth, Bill," says I, "this little he ewe lamb has somewhat got on my nerves too. We'll take him home, pay the ransom and make our get-away." We took him home that night. We got him to go by telling him that his father had bought a silver-mounted rifle and a pair of moccasins for him, and we were going to hunt bears the next day. It was just twelve o'clock when we knocked at Ebenezer s front door. Just at the moment when I should have been abstracting the fifteen hundred dollars from the box under the tree, according to the original proposition, Bill was counting out two hundred and fifty dollars into Dorset's hand. When the kid found out we were going to leave him at home he started up a howl like a calliope and fastened himself as tight as a leech to Bill's leg. His father peeled him away gradually, like a porous plaster. "How long can you hold him?" asks Bill. "I'm not as strong as I used to be," says old Dorset, "but I think I can promise you ten minutes." "Enough," says Bill. "In ten minutes I shall cross the Central, Southern and Middle Western States, and be legging it trippingly for the Canadian border." And, as dark as it was, and as fat as Bill was, and as good a runner as I am, he was a good mile and a half out of Summit before I could catch up with him. 这桩买卖看来好象是有利可图的：不过请听我慢慢道来。我们——比尔·德里斯科尔和我——来到南方的阿拉巴马州，忽然想起了这个绑架的主意。后来比尔把这说成是“一时鬼迷心窍；但我们当时却没有料到。 那里有一个小镇，象烙饼一般平坦，名字当然是叫做顶峰镇。镇里的居民多半务农，并且象所有簇拥在五月柱周围的农民一样，身心健康，自得其乐。 比尔和我一共有六百来块钱资本，我们恰恰还需要两千块钱，以便在伊利诺斯州做一笔骗人的地产生意。我们坐在州门前的台阶上讲座了一番。我们说，在半乡村的社会里，对子女的爱很强烈；因此，以及由于别的原因，在这种地方搞一次绑架的计划，比在处于报纸发行范围之内 的其它地方搞起来，效果一定要好得多，因为报纸会派出便衣记者，把这类事情宣扬得风风雨雨的。我们知道顶峰镇拿不出什么有力的办法来对付我们，最多派 几个警察，或者还有几条呆头呆脑的猎犬，并且在《农民周报》上把我们臭骂一两顿。因此，这桩买卖好象切实可行。 我们选中了本镇有名望的居民埃比尼泽·多塞特的独子做牺牲品。父亲很有地位，但手面相当紧，喜欢做抵押借款，遇有募捐毫不通融，一毛不拔。孩子有十岁，满脸浅浮雕似的雀斑，头发的颜色同你赶火车时在报摊上买的杂志封面的颜色一样。比尔和我合计，埃比尼泽会乖乖地拿出两千元赎金，一分也不少。但是听我慢慢道来。 离顶峰镇两英里光景有一座杉树丛生的小山。山后高处有一个洞。我们把食物和应用物品贮藏在那里。 一天傍晚，我们驾了一辆马车经过老多塞特家门口。那孩子在街上，用石子投掷对面篱笆上的一只小猫。 “嗨，小孩！”比尔说，“你要不要一袋糖，再乘车兜个圈子？” 小孩扔出一块碎砖，把比尔的眼睛打个正着。 “这下要老头儿额外破费五百元。”比尔一面说，一面爬下车来。 小孩像重量级的棕熊那样同我们扭打起来；但我们终于制服了他，把他按在车厢底，赶车跑了。我们把他架进山洞，我把马拴在杉树上。天黑之后，我把车子赶到三英里外租车的小镇，然后步行回到山上。 比尔正在脸上被抓破砸伤的地方贴橡皮膏。山洞进口的一块大岩石后面生着火，孩子守着一壶煮开的咖啡，他的红头发上插着两支秃鹰的尾羽。我走近时，他用一根树枝指着我，说道： “哈！该死的白脸，我竟敢走进平原魔王红酋长的营地？” “他现在没问题了。”比尔说道，同时卷起裤管看看脚胫上的伤痕，“我们刚才在扮印第安人玩儿。我们把布法罗·比尔的电影比得一钱不值，像是市政厅里放映的巴勒斯坦风光的幻灯片啦。我是猎人老汉克，红酋长的俘虏，明天一早要被剥掉并没有皮。天哪！那小子真能踹人。” 是啊，先生，那 孩子生平没有这么快活过。在山洞露宿的乐趣使他忘记自己是个俘虏了。他马上替我起个名字，叫做奸细蛇眼，并且宣布说，等他手下出征的战士们回来后，要在太阳升起时把我绑在柱子上烧死。 后来，我们吃晚饭；他嘴里塞满了熏肉、面包和肉汁，开始说话了。他的席上演说大致是这样 ： “我真喜欢这样。以前我从没有露宿过；可是我有过一只小袋鼠，我九岁的生日已经过了。我最恨上学。吉米·塔尔博特的姑妈的花斑鸡下的蛋被耗子吃掉了十六个。这些树林里有没有真的印第安人？我再要一点肉汁。是不是树动了才刮风？我家有五只小狗。你的鼻子怎么会这样红，汉克？我爸爸有很多钱。星星是不是烫的？星期六我揍了埃德·沃克两顿。我不喜欢小姑娘。你不用绳子是捉不到蛤蟆的。牛会不会叫？桔子为什么是圆的？这个洞里有没有床可以睡觉？阿莫斯·默里六个脚趾。八哥会说话，猴子和鱼就不会。几乘几等于十二？” 每隔几分钟，他就想起自己是个凶恶的印第安人，便拿起他的树枝来复熗，蹑手蹑脚地走到洞口去看看有没有可恨的白人来侦察。他不时发出一声作战的呐喊，吓得猎人老汉克直打哆嗦。那孩子一开头就把比尔吓坏了。 “红酋长，”我对孩子说，“你想回家吗？” “噢，回家干吗？”他说，“家里一点儿没劲。我最恨上学。我喜欢露宿。你不会把我再送回家吧，蛇眼，是吗？” “不马上送。”我说，“我们要在洞里住一阵子。” “好！”他说，“那太好啦。我生平从没有碰到过这么有趣的事情。” 我们十一点钟光景睡觉了。我们铺开几条阔毯子和被子，把红酋长安排在中间。我们不怕他会逃跑。他害得我们过了三个小时还不能睡，他不时跳起来，抓起来复熗在我和比尔的耳边叫道：“嘘！伙计，”因为他在稚气的想象中听到那帮不法之徒偷偷掩来，踩响了树枝或者碰动了树叶。最后我不踏实地睡着了，梦见自己被一个凶恶的红头发的海盗绑架去捆在树上。 天刚亮，比尔的一连串可怕的尖叫惊醒了我。它们不偈是男人发声器官里发出来的叫、嚷、呼、喊或者狂嗥，而像是女人见到鬼或者毛毛虫时发出的粗鄙、可怕而丢脸的尖叫。天蒙蒙亮的时候，听到一个粗壮结实的不法之徒在山洞里这样没命地叫个不停，真是件倒胃口的事。 我跳起来看看究竟出了什么事。红酋长骑在比尔的胸口上，一手揪住比尔的头发，一手握着我们切熏肉的快刀；他根据昨天晚上对比尔宣布的判决，起劲而认真地想剥比尔的头皮。 我夺下孩子手里的刀，吩咐他再躺着。但是，从那时候开始，比尔可吓破了胆。他躺在地铺原来的位置上，不过，只要那孩子跟我们在一起，他就再也不敢合眼了。我迷迷糊糊地睡了一会儿，太阳快出来时，我想起红酋长说过要把我绑在柱子上烧死。我倒不是神经过敏或者胆怯；但还是坐起来，靠着一块岩石，点起烟斗。 “你这么早起来干嘛，山姆？”比尔问道。 “我吗？”我说，“哦，我的肩膀有点儿痛。我想坐着可能会好些。” “你撒谎！”比尔说，“你是害怕。日出时你要被烧死，你怕他真干得出来。他如果找得到火柴，确实也干得出来。真伤脑筋，是不是，山姆？你认为有谁愿意花钱把这样一个小鬼赎回家去吗？” “当然有。”我说，“这种淘气的孩子正是父母溺爱的。现在你同酋长起来做早饭，我要到山顶上去侦察一下。” 我爬到小山顶上，向附近的地方巡视一下。我以为在顶峰镇方向可以看到健壮的庄稼汉拿着镰刀和草叉，到处在搜寻绑匪。但是我只看到一片宁静的景象，只有一个人赶着一匹暗褐色的骡子在耕地。没有人在小河里打捞；也没有人来回奔跑向悲痛的父母报告说没有任何消息。我所看到的阿拉巴马的这一地区，外表上是一派昏昏欲睡的田园风光。我暗忖道：“也许他们还没有发现围栏里的羔羊被狼叼走了。上天保佑狼吧！”我说着便下山去吃早饭。 我进山洞时，只见比尔背贴着洞壁，直喘大气，那孩子气势汹汹地要拿一块有半个椰子那么大的石头砸他。 “他把一个滚烫的熟土豆塞进我脖领里，”比尔解释说，“接着又用脚把它踩烂；我就打他耳刮子。你身边带着熗吗，山姆？” 我把孩子手里的石头拿掉，好歹劝住了他们的争吵。“我会收拾你的。”孩子对比尔说，“打了红酋长的人休想逃过他的报复。你就留神吧！” 早饭后，孩子从口袋里掏出一片有绳索绕着的皮革，走到山洞外面去解开。 “他现在要干什么？”比尔焦急地说，“你想他不会逃跑吧，山姆？” “那倒不必担心。”我说，“他不像是恋家的孩子。不过我们得定出勒索赎金的计划。他的失踪仿佛并没有在顶峰镇引起不安；可能他们还没有想到他被拐走了。他家里的人可能认为他在简姑妈或者邻居家过夜，总之，今天他们会惦记他的。今晚我们得送个信给他爸爸，要他拿两千块钱来把他赎回去。” 这时，我们听到一声呼喊，正如大卫打倒歌利亚时可能会发出的呼喊。红酋长从口袋里掏出来的是一个投石器，他正在头顶上挥旋。 我赶快闪开，只听见沉重的噗的一声，比尔叹了一口气，活像是马被卸鞍后的叹息。一块鹅卵大的黑色石头正好打在比尔的左耳后面。他仿佛浑身散了架似的，倒在火上煮着的一锅准备洗盘子的热水上。我把他拖出来，往他头上浇凉水，足足折腾了半小时。 过了会儿，比尔坐起来，摸着耳朵后面，说道：“山姆，你知道《圣经》人物中，我最喜欢谁？” “别紧张。”我说，“你的神志马上就会清醒的。” “我最喜欢的是希律王。”他说，“你不会走开，把我一个人扔在这儿吧，山姆？” 我走出去，抓住那孩子真摇撼，摇得他的雀斑都格格发响。 “假如你再不老实，”我说，“我马上送你回家。喂，你还要捣蛋吗？” “我只不过开开玩笑罢了。”他不高兴地说，“我不是存心害老汉克的。可是他干嘛要揍我呀？我答应不捣蛋了，蛇眼，只要你不把我送回家，并且今天让我玩‘黑侦察’。” “我不会玩这个游戏。”我说，“那得由你和比尔先生去商量。今天由他陪你玩。我有事要出去一会儿。现在你进来向他说说好话，打了他要向他赔个不是，不然立刻送你回家。” 我让他同比尔握握手，然后把比尔拉过一边，告诉他我要去离山洞三英里的白杨村，探听探听绑架的事在顶峰镇引起了什么反应。我还想当天给老多塞特送一封信，斩钉截铁地向他要赎金，并且指示他用什么方式付款。 “你明白，山姆，”比尔说，“不论山崩地陷，赴汤蹈火——玩扑克，用炸药，逃避警察追捕，抢劫火车，抵御飓风，我总是和你同甘苦，共患难，眼睛都不会眨一眨。在我们绑架那个两条腿的流星焰火之前，我从没有泄过气。他却叫我胆战心惊。你不会让我同他一起待很久吧，山姆？” “我今天下午回来。”我说，“在我回来之前，你要把这孩子哄得又高兴又安静。现在我们给老多塞特写信吧。” 比尔和我找了纸笔开始写信。红酋长身上裹着一条毯子，昂首阔步地踱来踱去，守卫山洞口。比尔声泪俱下地恳求我把赎金从两千元减到一千五。他说：“我并不想从道德方面来贬低父母的感情，但是我们是在跟人打交道，要任何一个人拿出两千块钱来赎回这个四十磅的满脸雀斑的野猫是不近人情的。我宁愿要一千五。差额在我名下扣除好了。” 为了使比尔安心，我同意了。我们合作写了下面这样一封信： 埃比尼泽.多塞特先生： 我们把你的孩子藏在某个离顶峰镇很远的地点。你，或是最干练的侦探要想找到他都是枉费心机的。你想让他回到你身边唯有履行如下条件：我们要一千五百元（大额现钞）作为他的赎金；这笔钱务必在今天午夜放在放回信的那同一地点和同一盒子里——细节下面将有所说明。如果你同意我们的条件，今晚八时半派人送信答复。在去白杨村的路上，走过猫头鹰河以后，右面麦田的篱笆附近有三株相距一百码左右的大树。第三株树对面的篱笆桩子底下有一个小纸盒。 送信人把回信搁进盒子以后，必须立即回顶峰镇。 假如你打算玩什么花样，或者不答应我们的要求，你将永远见不到你的孩子了。 假如你按照我们的条件付了钱，孩子可以在三小时之内平安回到府上。对这些条件没有磋商余地，如不同意，以后不再联系。 两个亡命徒启。        我开了一个给多塞特的信封，揣在口袋里。我正要动身时，孩子跑来说： “喂，蛇眼，你说你走了之后，我可以玩黑侦察，是吗？” “当然可以玩。”我说，“比尔先生陪你玩。这游戏是怎么个玩法？” “我当黑侦察，”红酋长说，“我要骑马赶到寨子里去警告居民们说印第安人来犯了。我扮印第安人扮腻了。我要做黑侦察。” “好吧。”我说，“我看这没有什么害处。比尔先生会帮你打退那些找麻烦的野人的。” “我做什么？”比尔猜疑地瞅着孩子问道。 “你做马。”黑侦察说，“你趴在地上。没有马我怎么赶到寨子去呢？” “你还是凑凑他的兴致，”我说，“等我们的计划实现吧。想开些。” 比尔趴了下去，眼睛里露出一种像是掉进陷阱里的兔子的神情。 “到寨子有多远，孩子？”他嘶哑地问道。 “九十英里。”黑侦察说，“你得卖点儿力气，及时赶到那里。嗬，走吧！” 黑侦察跳到比尔背上，用脚跟踹他的腰。 “看在老天份上，”比尔说，“山姆，尽可能快点儿回来。早知如此，我们索取的赎金不超出一千元就好了。喂，你别踢我啦，要不我就站起来狠狠揍你一顿。” 我步行到白杨村，在邮局兼店铺里坐了一会儿，同进来买东西的庄稼汉聊聊天。一个络缌胡子的人说他听到埃比尼泽.多塞特的儿子走失或者被拐了，顶峰镇闹得沸沸腾腾。那正是我要探听的消息。我买了一些烟草，随便谈谈蚕豆的价钱，偷偷地投了信，便走了。邮政局长说过，一小时内邮差会来取走邮件，送到顶峰镇。 我回到山洞时，比尔和孩子都不见了。我在山洞附近搜索了一番，并且冒险呼喊了一两声，但是没有人答应。 我只好燃起烟斗，坐在长着苔藓的岸边等待事态发展。 过了半小时左右，我听到一阵树枝响，比尔摇摇摆摆地走到洞前的一块小空地上。跟在他背后的是那孩子，像侦察员那样蹑手蹑脚，眉开眼笑。比尔站停，脱掉帽子，用一方红手帕擦擦脸。孩子停在他背后八英尺远。 “山姆，”比尔说，“我想你也许要说我坑人，但我实在没有办法。我是个顶天立地的汉子，有男人的脾气和自卫的习惯，但是，自尊和优越也有彻底垮台的时候。孩子走啦。我把他打发回家了。全结束了。古代有些殉道者宁死也不肯放弃他们喜爱的某一件事。可是他们之中谁都没有忍受过我所经历的这种非人的折磨。我很想遵守我们掠夺的准则；但是总有个限度。” “出了什么事呀，比尔？”我问他。 “我被骑着，”比尔说，“跑了九十英里路去寨子，一寸也不能少。之后，居民们获救了，便给我吃燕麦。沙子可不是好吃的代用品。接着，我又给纠缠了一个小时，向他解释为什么空洞是空的，为什么路上可以来回走，为什么草是绿的。我对你说，山姆，人只能忍受这么些。我揪住他的衣领，把他拖下山去。一路上他把我的小腿踢得乌一块青一块的；我的大拇指和手掌还被他咬了两三口。 “但是他终究走了，”——比尔接着说——“回家了。我把去顶峰镇的路指点给他，一脚把他朝那方向踢了八尺远。赎金弄不到手了，我很抱歉；不过不这样做的话，比尔.德里斯科尔可要进疯人院了。” 比尔还是气喘吁吁的，但他那红润的脸上却有着一种说不出的安逸和越来越得意的神情。 “比尔，”我说，“你亲属中有没有害心脏病的？” “没有，”比尔说，“除了虐疾和横死以外，没有慢性病。你干吗问我？” “那你不妨回过头去，”我说，“看看你背后是什么。” 比尔回过头，看到了那孩子；他脸色刷地发了白，一屁股坐在地上，开始漫无目的地拔着青草和小枝条。我为他的神经足足担了一小时的心事。之后我对他说，我的计划立刻可以解决这件事。如果老多塞特答应我们的条件，午夜时我们拿到赎金就远走高飞。比汮总算打起精神，勉强向孩子笑了笑，答应等他觉得好一些后，就同他玩俄罗斯人和日本人打仗的游戏。 我有一个取赎金的计策，没有陷入圈套的危险，应该公诸于世，和专门从事绑架的同行们共享。我通知多塞特放回信——以后还要放钱——的那株树贴近路上的篱笆，四面是开阔的田野。如果有一帮警察在守候前来取信的人，他们老远就可以看到他在路上走来，或者看见他穿过田野。但是没那么简单，先生！八点半钟，我就爬到树上，像树蛙那么躲得好好的，等待送信人来。 到了约定的时候，一个半大不小的孩子骑着自行车在路上来了，他找到篱笆桩子底下的纸盒，放进一张折好的纸，然后又朝顶峰镇的方向骑车回去。 我等了一小时，断定不会有什么意外了。我溜下树来，取了那张纸，沿着篱笆一直跑到树林子里，再过半小时便回到了山洞。我打开那张便条，凑近灯光，含给比尔听。便条是用铅笔写的，字迹很潦草，内容是这样的： 两个亡命徒 先生们：今天收到你们寄来的有关赎回我儿子的信。我认为你们的要求偏高了些，因此我在此提个反建议，相信你们很可能接受。你们把约翰尼送回家来，再付我两百五十元，我便可以同意从你们手里接收他。你们来的话最好是在夜里，因为邻居们都以为他走失了。如果他们看见有谁把他送了回来，将会采取什么手段来对付你们，我可不能负责了。 “彭赞斯的大海盗，”我说，“真他妈岂有此理——” 但是我瞟了比尔一眼，迟疑起来。他眼睛里那种苦苦哀求的神情，不论在哑口畜生或者在会说话的动物的脸上，我都从没有看见过。 “山姆，”他说，“两百五十元毕竟又算得上什么呢？我们手头有这笔钱。再同这个孩子待一晚准会把我送进疯人院。我认为多塞特先生提出这么大方的条件，不但是个彻头彻尾的君子，还是仗义轻财的人。你不打算放过这个机会吧，是吗？” “老实告诉你，比尔，”我说，“这头小公羊叫我也觉得棘手。我们把他送回家，付掉赎金，赶快脱身。” 我们当晚便送他回去。我们对他说，他爸爸已经替他买了一支银把的来复熗和一双鹿皮靴，并且说明天带他一起去打熊，总算把他骗走了。 我们敲埃比尼泽的前门时，正好是十二点。我们根据原先的条件，本来应该从树下的盒子里取一千五百元，现在却由比尔数出二百五十元来给多塞特。 孩子发现我们要把他留在家里，便像火车头似地吼了起来，像水蛭一样死叮住比尔的腿。他爸爸像撕膏药似地慢慢把他揭了下来。 “你能把他抓住多久？”比尔问道。 “我身体不如以前那么强壮了，”老多塞特说，“但是我想我可以给你们十分钟的时间。” “够了。”比尔说，“十分钟之内，我可以穿过中部、南部和中西部各州，直奔加拿大边境。” 尽管天色这么黑，尽管比尔这么胖，尽管我跑得很快，等我赶上他时，他已经把顶峰镇抛在背后，有一英里半远。 [歌利亚是《圣经》中的非利士勇士，身躯高大，但为矮小的大卫用投石器所击杀。] [希律：《新约·马太福音》二章记载，耶稣诞生时，博士预言耶稣将成为犹太王，当时的犹太王希律唯恐应验，便下令杀尽伯利恒两岁以下的男孩。]

Springtime a la Carte菜单上的春天 It was a day in March. Never, never begin a story this way when you write one. No opening could possibly be worse. It is unimaginative, flat, dry and likely to consist of mere wind. But in this instance it is allowable. For the following paragraph, which should have inaugurated the narrative, is too wildly extravagant and preposterous to be flaunted in the face of the reader without preparation. Sarah was crying over her bill of fare. Think of a New York girl shedding tears on the menu card! To account for this you will be allowed to guess that the lobsters were all out, or that she had sworn ice-cream off during Lent, or that she had ordered onions, or that she had just come from a Hackett matinee. And then, all these theories being wrong, you will please let the story proceed. The gentleman who announced that the world was an oyster which he with his sword would open made a larger hit than he deserved. It is not difficult to open an oyster with a sword. But did you ever notice any one try to open the terrestrial bivalve with a typewriter? Like to wait for a dozen raw opened that way? Sarah had managed to pry apart the shells with her unhandy weapon far enough to nibble a wee bit at the cold and clammy world within. She knew no more shorthand than if she had been a graduate in stenography just let slip upon the world by a business college. So, not being able to stenog, she could not enter that bright galaxy of office talent. She was a free-lance typewriter and canvassed for odd jobs of copying. The most brilliant and crowning feat of Sarah's battle with the world was the deal she made with Schulenberg's Home Restaurant. The restaurant was next door to the old red brick in which she ball- roomed. One evening after dining at Schulenberg's 40-cent, five- course table d'hote (served as fast as you throw the five baseballs at the coloured gentleman's head) Sarah took away with her the bill of fare. It was written in an almost unreadable script neither English nor German, and so arranged that if you were not careful you began with a toothpick and rice pudding and ended with soup and the day of the week. The next day Sarah showed Schulenberg a neat card on which the menu was beautifully typewritten with the viands temptingly marshalled under their right and proper heads from "hors d'oeuvre" to "not responsible for overcoats and umbrellas." Schulenberg became a naturalised citizen on the spot. Before Sarah left him she had him willingly committed to an agreement. She was to furnish typewritten bills of fare for the twenty-one tables in the restaurant--a new bill for each day's dinner, and new ones for breakfast and lunch as often as changes occurred in the food or as neatness required. In return for this Schulenberg was to send three meals per diem to Sarah's hall room by a waiter--an obsequious one if possible--and furnish her each afternoon with a pencil draft of what Fate had in store for Schulenberg's customers on the morrow. Mutual satisfaction resulted from the agreement. Schulenberg's patrons now knew what the food they ate was called even if its nature sometimes puzzled them. And Sarah had food during a cold, dull winter, which was the main thing with her. And then the almanac lied, and said that spring had come. Spring comes when it comes. The frozen snows of January still lay like adamant in the crosstown streets. The hand-organs still played "In the Good Old Summertime," with their December vivacity and expression. Men began to make thirty-day notes to buy Easter dresses. Janitors shut off steam. And when these things happen one may know that the city is still in the clutches of winter. One afternoon Sarah shivered in her elegant hall bedroom; "house heated; scrupulously clean; conveniences; seen to be appreciated." She had no work to do except Schulenberg's menu cards. Sarah sat in her squeaky willow rocker, and looked out the window. The calendar on the wall kept crying to her: "Springtime is here, Sarah-- springtime is here, I tell you. Look at me, Sarah, my figures show it. You've got a neat figure yourself, Sarah--a--nice springtime figure--why do you look out the window so sadly?" Sarah's room was at the back of the house. Looking out the window she could see the windowless rear brick wall of the box factory on the next street. But the wall was clearest crystal; and Sarah was looking down a grassy lane shaded with cherry trees and elms and bordered with raspberry bushes and Cherokee roses. Spring's real harbingers are too subtle for the eye and ear. Some must have the flowering crocus, the wood-starring dogwood, the voice of bluebird--even so gross a reminder as the farewell handshake of the retiring buckwheat and oyster before they can welcome the Lady in Green to their dull bosoms. But to old earth's choicest kin there come straight, sweet messages from his newest bride, telling them they shall be no stepchildren unless they choose to be. On the previous summer Sarah had gone into the country and loved a farmer. (In writing your story never hark back thus. It is bad art, and cripples interest. Let it march, march.) Sarah stayed two weeks at Sunnybrook Farm. There she learned to love old Farmer Franklin's son Walter. Farmers have been loved and wedded and turned out to grass in less time. But young Walter Franklin was a modern agriculturist. He had a telephone in his cow house, and he could figure up exactly what effect next year's Canada wheat crop would have on potatoes planted in the dark of the moon. It was in this shaded and raspberried lane that Walter had wooed and won her. And together they had sat and woven a crown of dandelions for her hair. He had immoderately praised the effect of the yellow blossoms against her brown tresses; and she had left the chaplet there, and walked back to the house swinging her straw sailor in her hands. They were to marry in the spring--at the very first signs of spring, Walter said. And Sarah came back to the city to pound her typewriter. A knock at the door dispelled Sarah's visions of that happy day. A waiter had brought the rough pencil draft of the Home Restaurant's next day fare in old Schulenberg's angular hand. Sarah sat down to her typewriter and slipped a card between the rollers. She was a nimble worker. Generally in an hour and a half the twenty-one menu cards were written and ready. To-day there were more changes on the bill of fare than usual. The soups were lighter; pork was eliminated from the entrees, figuring only with Russian turnips among the roasts. The gracious spirit of spring pervaded the entire menu. Lamb, that lately capered on the greening hillsides, was becoming exploited with the sauce that commemorated its gambols. The song of the oyster, though not silenced, was diminuendo con amore. The frying-pan seemed to be held, inactive, behind the beneficent bars of the broiler. The pie list swelled; the richer puddings had vanished; the sausage, with his drapery wrapped about him, barely lingered in a pleasant thanatopsis with the buckwheats and the sweet but doomed maple. Sarah's fingers danced like midgets above a summer stream. Down through the courses she worked, giving each item its position according to its length with an accurate eye. Just above the desserts came the list of vegetables. Carrots and peas, asparagus on toast, the perennial tomatoes and corn and succotash, lima beans, cabbage--and then-- Sarah was crying over her bill of fare. Tears from the depths of some divine despair rose in her heart and gathered to her eyes. Down went her head on the little typewriter stand; and the keyboard rattled a dry accompaniment to her moist sobs. For she had received no letter from Walter in two weeks, and the next item on the bill of fare was dandelions--dandelions with some kind of egg--but bother the egg!--dandelions, with whose golden blooms Walter had crowned her his queen of love and future bride--dandelions, the harbingers of spring, her sorrow's crown of sorrow--reminder of her happiest days. Madam, I dare you to smile until you suffer this test: Let the Marechal Niel roses that Percy brought you on the night you gave him your heart be served as a salad with French dressing before your eyes at a Schulenberg table d'hote. Had Juliet so seen her love tokens dishonoured the sooner would she have sought the lethean herbs of the good apothecary. But what a witch is Spring! Into the great cold city of stone and iron a message had to be sent. There was none to convey it but the little hardy courier of the fields with his rough green coat and modest air. He is a true soldier of fortune, this dent-de-lion-- this lion's tooth, as the French chefs call him. Flowered, he will assist at love-making, wreathed in my lady's nut-brown hair; young and callow and unblossomed, he goes into the boiling pot and delivers the word of his sovereign mistress. By and by Sarah forced back her tears. The cards must be written. But, still in a faint, golden glow from her dandeleonine dream, she fingered the typewriter keys absently for a little while, with her mind and heart in the meadow lane with her young farmer. But soon she came swiftly back to the rock-bound lanes of Manhattan, and the typewriter began to rattle and jump like a strike-breaker's motor car. At 6 o'clock the waiter brought her dinner and carried away the typewritten bill of fare. When Sarah ate she set aside, with a sigh, the dish of dandelions with its crowning ovarious accompaniment. As this dark mass had been transformed from a bright and love-indorsed flower to be an ignominious vegetable, so had her summer hopes wilted and perished. Love may, as Shakespeare said, feed on itself: but Sarah could not bring herself to eat the dandelions that had graced, as ornaments, the first spiritual banquet of her heart's true affection. At 7:30 the couple in the next room began to quarrel: the man in the room above sought for A on his flute; the gas went a little lower; three coal wagons started to unload--the only sound of which the phonograph is jealous; cats on the back fences slowly retreated toward Mukden. By these signs Sarah knew that it was time for her to read. She got out "The Cloister and the Hearth," the best non- selling book of the month, settled her feet on her trunk, and began to wander with Gerard. The front door bell rang. The landlady answered it. Sarah left Gerard and Denys treed by a bear and listened. Oh, yes; you would, just as she did! And then a strong voice was heard in the hall below, and Sarah jumped for her door, leaving the book on the floor and the first round easily the bear's. You have guessed it. She reached the top of the stairs just as her farmer came up, three at a jump, and reaped and garnered her, with nothing left for the gleaners. "Why haven't you written--oh, why?" cried Sarah. "New York is a pretty large town," said Walter Franklin. "I came in a week ago to your old address. I found that you went away on a Thursday. That consoled some; it eliminated the possible Friday bad luck. But it didn't prevent my hunting for you with police and otherwise ever since! "I wrote!" said Sarah, vehemently. "Never got it!" "Then how did you find me?" The young farmer smiled a springtime smile. "I dropped into that Home Restaurant next door this evening," said he. "I don't care who knows it; I like a dish of some kind of greens at this time of the year. I ran my eye down that nice typewritten bill of fare looking for something in that line. When I got below cabbage I turned my chair over and hollered for the proprietor. He told me where you lived." "I remember," sighed Sarah, happily. "That was dandelions below cabbage." "I'd know that cranky capital W 'way above the line that your typewriter makes anywhere in the world," said Franklin. "Why, there's no W in dandelions," said Sarah, in surprise. The young man drew the bill of fare from his pocket, and pointed to a line. Sarah recognised the first card she had typewritten that afternoon. There was still the rayed splotch in the upper right-hand corner where a tear had fallen. But over the spot where one should have read the name of the meadow plant, the clinging memory of their golden blossoms had allowed her fingers to strike strange keys. Between the red cabbage and the stuffed green peppers was the item: "DEAREST WALTER, WITH HARD-BOILED EGG." 这是三月的一天。 如果你要写故事，可千万别这么开头。再没有什么比这种开头更糟糕的了。这样开头缺乏想象力，平淡乏味，好像仅仅是些风言风语。可是在这儿倒还勉强凑合，因为下面这一段本该用在故事的开头，只是太过离奇荒诞，置于缺少思想准备的读者面前，真叫人摸不着头脑。 萨拉正对着菜单哭泣。 试想想，一个纽约少女正对着菜谱洒眼泪啊！ 为了说明这一点，你会猜测，也许菜单上没有牡蛎，也许她发过誓再也不在大斋期间吃冰淇淋，或许她要了洋葱，或许她刚从哈克特的日间招待会出来。然而，你的这类猜想都不对，还是让我把故事讲下去吧。 有位先生宣称，世界是个大牡蛎，他要用剑把它剖开，因此他便出了名。用刀子剖开牡蛎并没有多大难处，可是，你见过有谁试图用打字机剖开陆栖牡蛎吗？又有谁喜欢等候一打活牡蛎像这样被剖开呢？ 萨拉用十分笨拙的武器撬开了世界的外壳，品尝了一点点这个冷漠滑溜的世界的内脏。如果说她曾经是商学院速记专业的毕业生而被抛到这个世界上来的话，现在她再也不懂速记了。因此，由于不能搞速记，她就进不了那光彩夺目的天才们的办公室，只好成为自由职业的打字员，四处奔波找点零碎的打字活来糊口。 萨拉同这个世界作战的最为辉煌、登峰造极的业绩莫过于同“舒伦伯格家庭餐馆”签订了一项协议。这家餐馆就在她寄居的一座红砖砌成的旧楼房的隔壁。一天晚上，萨拉在这家餐馆吃完了四十美分、五道菜一顿的快餐（其快餐之快，有如你掷五个棒球打黑人先生的脑袋一样）之后，随身带走了这份菜单。菜单上的字是手写的，既不象英文，也不象德文，几乎认不出来，若不仔细看，把菜单看倒了，你会先看到小刀和米饭布丁，最后才是汤和星期几。 第二天，萨拉给舒伦伯格看一张卡片、是用打字机打得整整齐齐的菜单，菜名诱人地排列在恰当的位置上，从“餐前小吃”一直排到“衣帽雨伞，各自关照。” 舒伦伯格当场就拍了板，萨拉离开之前，双方十分乐意地签署了协议。萨拉负责为餐馆的二十一张餐桌打菜单，每天要为晚餐打份新菜单。如果早餐和午餐换了新花样，就打一份新的，或者菜单弄脏了，也得另打一份。 作为报酬，舒伦伯格每天派人把三顿饭送到萨拉的房间，每天下午再送来一张用铅笔书写的菜单底稿，这便是命运女神为第二天“舒伦伯格家庭餐馆”的顾客们准备的饭菜。 双方对协议都感到满意。那些“舒伦伯格家庭餐馆”的主顾们现在知道了他们吃的菜的名字，即使菜的性质有时还让他们感到困惑。而萨拉，在严寒而又沉闷的冬天可有饭吃了，对她来讲，这是至关紧要的。 后来，日历在撒谎，说春天已经来了。春天在该来的时候总是要来的。一月份，大街上的积雪仍然冻得硬邦邦的，街道上的手风琴依旧弹奏着《在昔日美好的夏天》，表演者的动作和表情同十二月时一模一样。男人们开始作三十天的记载，以便购买复活节穿的衣物。看管人关掉了暖气。每逢这类情况发生的时候，人们就知道，这座城市仍然为冬令所控制。 一天下午，萨拉在她那高雅的厅堂卧室冻得瑟瑟发抖； “屋子通上暖气，打扫得一灰不染，安装各种方便设施，真令人羡慕不已呵。”除了打舒伦伯格的菜单之外，她再也没有工作可干。萨拉坐在吱吱哼叫的柳条摇椅上望着窗外。墙壁上的日历对她不停地吼叫，“春天来了，萨拉——春天来了，我敢肯定。看着我，萨拉，我的数字明明白白。你的身材匀称，漂漂亮亮，萨拉，正洋溢着青春的气息。为什么你要这么忧伤地望着窗外呢？” 萨拉的房间在这座楼的背面，从窗口望出去，可以看到邻街的一家制盒厂的没开窗子的后砖墙。但在萨拉眼里，这墙晶莹透明，她看见一条长满青草的小径，掩藏在樱桃树和榆树之下，两旁是山莓树丛和金樱子。 人的眼睛和耳朵对春天来临的种种征兆最为敏感。藏红花开，山茱萸现出木星，蓝知更鸟鸣、甚至腼腆的荞麦和牡蛎欢迎绿衣女士投入它们的怀抱之前的告别握手也足以提醒人们春天来了。然而，最为可信的征兆则是来自他的新娘的直接而美妙的信息，告诉他们将不再形单影只，除非他们自己愿意。 去年夏天，萨拉去了乡下，爱上了一个农民。 （写故事可别这样倒叙，这是一种拙劣的技巧，使故事丧失趣味。还是往下写吧。） 萨拉在“森尼布鲁克农场”待了两个月，在那儿她逐渐爱上了老农富兰克林的儿子沃尔特。本来，农民们从恋爱到结婚，有如放牧一样，要不了多长时间，可年轻的沃尔特·富兰克林是个新型的农艺师。他的牛圈里安着电话，能准确地计算出加拿大来年的小麦产量对他千辛万苦种植的马铃薯会产生什么影响。 就是在这条浓荫蔽日、周围满是山莓的小径上，沃尔特向她求婚，并且赢得了她的爱情。他们坐在一起，用蒲公英编制了一个花冠戴在萨拉头上。他赞美蒲公英的黄色花朵配衬着她头上的棕色秀发所产生的效果；她一直戴着这顶花冠、手里挥舞着硬边草帽走回寓所。 沃尔特说，他们将在来年春天结婚，一开春就结婚。后来，萨拉便回到城里劈劈啪啪地打字。 一阵扣门声把萨拉从幸福日子的美梦中拉了回来，侍者给她送来老舒伦伯格瘦如鹰爪的手用铅笔写就的菜单底稿，供明天该餐馆之用。 萨拉走到打字机前坐下，把一张卡片卷上滚筒。她心灵手巧，通常情况下，在一个半小时之内，二十一张菜单卡片就可打完。 在今天的菜单上，变动的项目比平时多得多。各种汤菜更加清淡；猪肉从主菜中取消，仅仅在烤肉中同俄国芜菁一起出现。春天的气息迷漫着整个菜谱。最近还嬉戏在绿色山坡的羔羊即将同念记它嬉戏的调味品一同搬上餐桌。牡蛎的歌声，虽还没有止息，已引不起人们的注意了。煎锅似乎收起来没用，放在烤焙架的后面。馅饼的种类大大增加；油腻的布丁完全消失；装饰包扎的香肠仅仅同荞麦和糖混在一起作垂死挣扎，带着注定灭亡的淡棕色。 萨拉的手指在打字机上跳动着，就像夏天的小溪上飞舞的小虫。她从上到下细心安排，按照各种菜名的长短把它们分别排列在适当的位置上。 各种蔬菜正好在甜食的前边。胡萝卜和豌豆，烧芦笋，四季皆有的洋芋，谷物和豆煮鲜玉米，利马豆，白菜……然后…… 萨拉对着这张菜单哭了，泪水从她绝望的内心深处涌上来聚积在她的眼框里。她的头低垂到打字机座上，键盘发出枯燥的响声，伴合着她眼泪汪汪的低泣。 萨拉已经两个星期没有收到过沃尔特的信，而菜单的下一道菜正好是蒲公英和什么鸡蛋——管它什么鸡蛋！蒲公英，沃尔特正是用蒲公英的金黄色花朵编制的花冠，为他爱情的玉后和未来的新娘加冕——蒲公英啊，春天的信使，她忧伤的王冠——她最幸福的日子的见证。 夫人，我敢肯定你在笑，除非你亲自受了这类考验。你把心献给他的那天晚上，珀西给你买的马雷切尔·尼尔的玫瑰，把这些玫瑰花用法国调料伴成一份色拉放你面前的舒伦伯格的餐桌上，你会怎么想呢？如果朱丽叶知道她的爱情受到亵渎，她立刻会去大药店买毒药。 然而，春天是多么奇妙啊！一定会有信息送到这个用石头和钢铁筑成的冰凉的大城市来。除了穿着毛茸茸的绿色外衣、面带羞怯神情、勇敢的田野小信使之外，还会有谁来传递春天的信息呢？他为幸运而战，正如法国的厨师把他叫做狮子的牙齿一样。蒲公英在开花的时候，他被编制成花冠，盘在姑娘深棕色的头发上成全好事；而健壮鲜嫩、未开花的时候，他就跑进开水壶里，把信息带给他的女主人。 过了一会儿，萨拉强忍住了泪水。菜单一定得提前打出来。可她仍旧沉迷于蒲公英美梦的恍惚神思之中，手指机械似地按着打字机的键子，思绪和心灵早已飞往草地的小径，和她的青年农民待在一起了。不久，她迅急地回到曼哈顿石砌的街道上来，打字机又开始哒哒地跳动着，就像工贼的汽车那样。 六点钟，侍者给她送来晚餐，把打好的菜单取走。吃饭时，她把蒲公英同果核配搭的一道菜放在旁边。由于这盘黑色的东西从光艳夺目、象征爱情的鲜花变成了一份可鄙的菜肴，因此她夏天的期望就枯萎死亡了。正如莎士比亚所言，爱情可以自己养活自己，但萨拉根本不能使自己吃下这份以蒲公英制作的美味，这是心爱的第一次精神宴席啊！ 七点半钟，隔壁的夫妇开始吵架；楼上房间的男人用笛子试吹Ａ调；煤气变小了；三辆载煤车开始卸货——只有留声机的声音令人嫉妒；后面篱笆上的猫慢慢往米克顿撤退。根据这些迹象，萨拉知道该看书了。她拿出一本本月最不畅销的书——《修道院和家庭》，把脚放在箱子上，开始与杰勒德漫游。 前门的铃响了，房东太太去开门，萨拉放下被熊逼上树的杰勒德和丹尼斯，倾听着。啊，是的；要是你，也定会和萨拉一个样！ 接着从楼下大厅传来宏亮的声音，萨拉跳起来去开门，书掉在了地板上，显然，这是熊的第一个回合。 你猜对了。萨拉跑到楼梯口时，她的农民正一步三级地奔上楼来，把她收藏在怀里，拾穗人休想捡到半点东西。 “你为什么不写信？哦，为什么？”萨拉大声说。 “纽约可真是个大城市啊，”沃尔特·富兰克林说。“一星期前我就照老地址来找你了。我打听到你是星期四离开那儿的。多少给了我一点儿安慰，排除了黑色星期五的可怕霉运。 不过，那也没有妨碍我一直通过警察和其他渠道寻找你！” “我给你写了信呀！”萨拉感情激烈地说。 “根本没收到过！” “那你怎么找到我的呢？” 年轻的农民满面春风地笑了笑。 今天晚上，我偶然到隔壁那家家庭餐馆去，”他说。“我才不管它有没有名气哩；每年的这个时候，我都喜欢吃些绿色的蔬菜。我的眼睛把那份打得漂漂亮亮的菜单溜了一遍，想找点绿色蔬菜吃。我看到白菜下边，就把椅子弄翻了，叫来了老板。他告诉我，你住在这儿。” “我记得，”萨拉高兴地叹了口气。“白菜下面就是蒲公英。” “我知道，你的打字机上的大写字母Ｗ，无论打在哪儿，总是偏上一些，不在同一条线上。” “嗨，蒲公英这个词没有Ｗ字母嘛，”萨拉惊奇地说。 年轻人从口袋里掏出那张菜单，指着其中的一行。 萨拉认出来了，这是那天下午她打的第一张卡片，右角上还有一滴眼泪的痕迹。而且，本来应该是一种蔬菜名称的地方，由于对金黄色花朵的回忆竟然使她的手指错误按在了另一些键子上。 在红白菜和剥制青椒之间有这么一条： “亲爱的沃尔特和白煮鸡蛋。”

A Municipal Report市政报告 Fancy a novel about Chicago or Buffalo, let us say, or Nashville, Tennessee! There are just three big cities in the United States that are "story cities" - New York, of course, New Orleans, and, best of the lot, San Francisco. FRANK NORRIS. East is East, and West is San Francisco, according to Californians. Californians are a race of people; they are not merely inhabitants of a State. They are the Southerners of the West. Now, Chicagoans are no less loyal to their city; but when you ask them why, they stammer and speak of lake fish and the new Odd Fellows Building. But Californians go into detail. Of course they have, in the climate, an argument that is good for half an hour while you are thinking of your coal bills and heavy underwear. But as soon as they come to mistake your silence for conviction, madness comes upon them, and they picture the city of the Golden Gate as the Bagdad of the New World. So far, as a matter of opinion, no refutation is necessary. But, dear cousins all (from Adam and Eve descended), it is a rash one who will lay his finger on the map and say: "In this town there can be no romance - what could happen here?" Yes, it is a bold and a rash deed to challenge in one sentence history, romance, and Rand and McNally. NASHVILLE - A city, port of delivery, and the capital of the State of Tennessee, is on the Cumberland River and on the N. C. & St. L. and the L. & N. railroads. This city is regarded as the most important educational centre in the South. I stepped off the train at 8 P.M. Having searched the thesaurus in vain for adjectives, I must, as a substitution, hie me to comparison in the form of a recipe. Take a London fog 30 parts; malaria 10 parts; gas leaks 20 parts; dewdrops gathered in a brick yard at sunrise, 25 parts; odor of honeysuckle 15 parts. Mix. The mixture will give you an approximate conception of a Nashville drizzle. It is not so fragrant as a moth-ball nor as thick as pea-soup; but 'tis enough - 'twill serve. I went to a hotel in a tumbril. It required strong self-suppression for me to keep from climbing to the top of it and giving an imitation of Sidney Carton. The vehicle was drawn by beasts of a bygone era and driven by something dark and emancipated. I was sleepy and tired, so when I got to the hotel I hurriedly paid it the fifty cents it demanded (with approximate lagniappe, I assure you). I knew its habits; and I did not want to hear it prate about its old "marster" or anything that happened "befo' de wah." The hotel was one of the kind described as 'renovated." That means $20,000 worth of new marble pillars, tiling, electric lights and brass cuspidors in the lobby, and a new L. & N. time table and a lithograph of Lookout Mountain in each one of the great rooms above. The management was without reproach, the attention full of exquisite Southern courtesy, the service as slow as the progress of a snail and as good-humored as Rip Van Winkle. The food was worth traveling a thousand miles for. There is no other hotel in the world where you can get such chicken livers en brochette. At dinner I asked a Negro waiter if there was anything doing in town. He pondered gravely for a minute, and then replied: "Well, boss, I don't really reckon there's anything at all doin' after sundown." Sundown had been accomplished; it had been drowned in the drizzle long before. So that spectacle was denied me. But I went forth upon the streets in the drizzle to see what might be there. It is built on undulating grounds; and the streets are lighted by electricity at a cost of $32,470 per annum. As I left the hotel there was a race riot. Down upon me charged a company of freedmen, or Arabs, or Zulus, armed with - no, I saw with relief that they were not rifles, but whips. And I saw dimly a caravan of black, clumsy vehicles; and at the reassuring shouts, "Kyar you anywhere in the town, boss, fuh fifty cents," I reasoned that I was merely a "fare" instead of a victim. I walked through long streets, all leading uphill. I wondered how those streets ever came down again. Perhaps they didn't until they were "graded." On a few of the "main streets" I saw lights in stores here and there; saw street cars go by conveying worthy burghers hither and yon; saw people pass engaged in the art of conversation, and heard a burst of semi-lively laughter issuing from a soda-water and ice-cream parlor. The streets other than "main" seemed to have enticed upon their borders houses consecrated to peace and domesticity. In many of them lights shone behind discreetly drawn window shades; in a few pianos tinkled orderly and irreproachable music. There was, indeed, little "doing." I wished I had come before sundown. So I returned to my hotel. In November, 1864, the Confederate General Hood advanced against Nashville, where he shut up a National force under General Thomas. The latter then sallied forth and defeated the Confederates in a terrible conflict. All my life I have heard of, admired, and witnessed the fine marksmanship of the South in its peaceful conflicts in the tobacco-chewing regions. But in my hotel a surprise awaited me. There were twelve bright, new, imposing, capacious brass cuspidors in the great lobby, tall enough to be called urns and so wide-mouthed that the crack pitcher of a lady baseball team should have been able to throw a ball into one of them at five paces distant. But, although a terrible battle had raged and was still raging, the enemy had not suffered. Bright, new, imposing, capacious, untouched, they stood. But, shades of Jefferson Brick! the tile floor - the beautiful tile floor! I could not avoid thinking of the battle of Nashville, and trying to draw, as is my foolish habit, some deductions about hereditary marksmanship. Here I first saw Major (by misplaced courtesy) Wentworth Caswell. I knew him for a type the moment my eyes suffered from the sight of him. A rat has no geographical habitat. My old friend, A. Tennyson, said, as he so well said almost everything: Prophet, curse me the blabbing lip, And curse me the British vermin, the rat. Let us regard the word "British" as interchangeable ad lib. A rat is a rat. This man was hunting about the hotel lobby like a starved dog that had forgotten where he had buried a bone. He had a face of great acreage, red, pulpy, and with a kind of sleepy massiveness like that of Buddha. He possessed one single virtue - he was very smoothly shaven. The mark of the beast is not indelible upon a man until he goes about with a stubble. I think that if he had not used his razor that day I would have repulsed his advances, and the criminal calendar of the world would have been spared the addition of one murder. I happened to be standing within five feet of a cuspidor when Major Caswell opened fire upon it. I had been observant enough to percieve that the attacking force was using Gatlings instead of squirrel rifles; so I side-stepped so promptly that the major seized the opportunity to apologize to a noncombatant. He had the blabbing lip. In four minutes he had become my friend and had dragged me to the bar. I desire to interpolate here that I am a Southerner. But I am not one by profession or trade. I eschew the string tie, the slouch hat, the Prince Albert, the number of bales of cotton destroyed by Sherman, and plug chewing. When the orchestra plays Dixie I do not cheer. I slide a little lower on the leather-cornered seat and, well, order another Wurzburger and wish that Longstreet had - but what's the use? Major Caswell banged the bar with his fist, and the first gun at Fort Sumter re-echoed. When he fired the last one at Appomattox I began to hope. But then he began on family trees, and demonstrated that Adam was only a third cousin of a collateral branch of the Caswell family. Genealogy disposed of, he took up, to my distaste, his private family matters. He spoke of his wife, traced her descent back to Eve, and profanely denied any possible rumor that she may have had relations in the land of Nod. By this time I was beginning to suspect that he was trying to obscure by noise the fact that he had ordered the drinks, on the chance that I would be bewildered into paying for them. But when they were down he crashed a silver dollar loudly upon the bar. Then, of course, another serving was obligatory. And when I had paid for that I took leave of him brusquely; for I wanted no more of him. But before I had obtained my release he had prated loudly of an income that his wife received, and showed a handful of silver money. When I got my key at the desk the clerk said to me courteously: "If that man Caswell has annoyed you, and if you would like to make a complaint, we will have him ejected. He is a nuisance, a loafer, and without any known means of support, although he seems to have some money most the time. But we don't seem to be able to hit upon any means of throwing him out legally." "Why, no," said I, after some reflection; "I don't see my way clear to making a complaint. But I would like to place myself on record as asserting that I do not care for his company. Your town," I continued, "seems to be a quiet one. What manner of entertainment, adventure, or excitement have you to offer to the stranger within your gates?" "Well, sir," said the clerk, "there will be a show here next Thursday. It is - I'll look it up and have the announcement sent up to your room with the ice water. Good night." After I went up to my room I looked out the window. It was only about ten o'clock, but I looked upon a silent town. The drizzle continued, spangled with dim lights, as far apart as currants in a cake sold at the Ladies' Exchange. "A quiet place," I said to myself, as my first shoe struck the ceiling of the occupant of the room beneath mine. "Nothing of the life here that gives color and variety to the cities in the East and West. Just a good, ordinary, humdrum, business town." Nashville occupies a foremost place among the manufacturing centres of the country. It is the fifth boot and shoe market in the United States, the largest candy and cracker manufacturing city in the South, and does an enormous wholesale drygoods, grocery, and drug business. I must tell you how I came to be in Nashville, and I assure you the digression brings as much tedium to me as it does to you. I was traveling elsewhere on my own business, but I had a commission from a Northern literary magazine to stop over there and establish a personal connection between the publication and one of its contributors, Azalea Adair. Adair (there was no clue to the personality except the handwriting) had sent in some essays (lost art!) and poems that had made the editors swear approvingly over their one o'clock luncheon. So they had commissioned me to round up said Adair and corner by contract his or her output at two cents a word before some other publisher offered her ten or twenty. At nine o'clock the next morning, after my chicken livers en brochette (try them if you can find that hotel), I strayed out into the drizzle, which was still on for an unlimited run. At the first corner, I came upon Uncle Caesar. He was a stalwart Negro, older than the pyramids, with gray wool and a face that reminded me of Brutus, and a second afterwards of the late King Cettiwayo. He wore the most remarkable coat that I ever had seen or expect to see. It reached to his ankles an had once been a Confederate gray in colors. But rain and sun and age had so variegated it that Joseph's coat, beside it, would have faded to a pale monochrome. I must linger with that coat, for it has to do with the story - the story that is so long in coming, because you can hardly expect anything to happen in Nashville. Once it must have been the military coat of an officer. The cape of it had vanished, but all adown its front it had been frogged and tasseled magnificently. But now the frogs and tassles were gone. In their stead had been patiently stitched (I surmised by some surviving "black mammy") new frogs made of cunningly twisted common hempen twine. This twine was frayed and disheveled. It must have been added to the coat as a substitute for vanished splendors, with tasteless but painstaking devotion, for it followed faithfully the curves of the long-missing frogs. And, to complete the comedy and pathos of the garment, all its buttons were gone save one. The second button from the top alone remained. The coat was fastened by other twine strings tied through the buttonholes and other holes rudely pierced in the opposite side. There was never such a weird garment so fantastically bedecked and of so many mottled hues. The lone button was the size of a half-dollar, made of yellow horn and sewed on with coarse twine. This Negro stood by a carriage so old that Ham himself might have started a hack line with it after he left the ark with the two animals hitched to it. As I approached he threw open the door, drew out a feather duster, waved it without using it, and said in deep, rumbling tones: "Step right in, suh; ain't a speck of dust in it - jus' got back from a funeral, suh." I inferred that on such gala occasions carriages were given an extra cleaning. I looked up and down the street and perceived that there was little choice among the vehicles for hire that lined the curb. I looked in my memorandum book for the address of Azalea Adair. "I want to go to 861 Jessamine Street," I said, and was about to step into the hack. But for an instant the thick, long, gorilla-like arm of the old Negro barred me. On his massive and saturnine face a look of sudden suspicion and enmity flashed for a moment. Then, with quickly returning conviction, he asked blandishingly: "What are you gwine there for, boss?" "What is it to you?" I asked, a little sharply. "Nothin', suh, jus' nothin'. Only it's a lonesome kind of part of town and few folks ever has business out there. Step right in. The seats is clean - jes' got back from a funeral, suh." A mile and a half it must have been to our journey's end. I could hear nothing but the fearful rattle of the ancient hack over the uneven brick paving; I could smell nothing but the drizzle, now further flavored with coal smoke and something like a mixture of tar and oleander blossoms. All I could see through the streaming windows were two rows of dim houses. The city has an area of 10 square miles; 181 miles of streets, of which 137 miles are paved; a system of waterworks that cost $2,000,000, with 77 miles of mains. Eight-sixty-one Jessamine Street was a decayed mansion. Thirty yards back from the street it stood, outmerged in a splendid grove of trees and untrimmed shrubbery. A row of box bushes overflowed and almost hid the paling fence from sight; the gate was kept closed by a rope noose that encircled the gate post and the first paling of the gate. But when you got inside you saw that 861 was a shell, a shadow, a ghost of former grandeur and excellence. But in the story, I have not yet got inside. When the hack had ceased from rattling and the weary quadrupeds came to a rest I handed my jehu his fifty cents with an additional quarter, feeling a glow of conscious generosity, as I did so. He refused it. "It's two dollars, suh," he said. "How's that?" I asked. "I plainly heard you call out at the hotel: 'Fifty cents to any part of the town.'" "It's two dollars, suh," he repeated obstinately. "It's a long ways from the hotel." "It is within the city limits and well within them." I argued. "Don't think that you have picked up a greenhorn Yankee. Do you see those hills over there?" I went on, pointing toward the east (I could not see them, myself, for the drizzle); "well, I was born and raised on their other side. You old fool nigger, can't you tell people from other people when you see 'em?" The grim face of King Cettiwayo softened. "Is you from the South, suh? I reckon it was them shoes of yourn fooled me. They is somethin' sharp in the toes for a Southern gen'lman to wear." "Then the charge is fifty cents, I suppose?" said I inexorably. His former expression, a mingling of cupidity and hostility, returned, remained ten seconds, and vanished. "Boss," he said, "fifty cents is right; but I needs two dollars, suh; I'm obleeged to have two dollars. I ain't demandin' it now, suh; after I know whar you's from; I'm jus' sayin' that I has to have two dollars to-night, and business mighty po'." Peace and confidence settled upon his heavy features. He had been luckier than he had hoped. Instead of having picked up a greenhorn, ignorant of rates, he had come upon an inheritance. "You confounded old rascal," I said, reaching down to my pocket, "you ought to be turned over to the police." For the first time I saw him smile. He knew; he knew. HE KNEW. I gave him two one-dollar bills. As I handed them over I noticed that one of them had seen parlous times. Its upper right-hand corner was missing, and it had been torn through the middle, but joined again. A strip of blue tissue paper, pasted over the split, preserved its negotiability. Enough of the African bandit for the present: I left him happy, lifted the rope and opened a creaky gate. The house, as I said, was a shell. A paint brush had not touched it in twenty years. I could not see why a strong wind should not have bowled it over like a house of cards until I looked again at the trees that hugged it close - the trees that saw the battle of Nashville and still drew their protecting branches around it against storm and enemy and cold. Azalea Adair, fifty years old, white-haired, a descendant of the cavaliers, as thin and frail as the house she lived in, robed in the cheapest and cleanest dress I ever saw, with an air as simple as a queen's, received me. The reception room seemed a mile square, because there was nothing in it except some rows of books, on unpainted white-pine bookshelves, a cracked marble-top table, a rag rug, a hairless horsehair sofa and two or three chairs. Yes, there was a picture on the wall, a colored crayon drawing of a cluster of pansies. I looked around for the portrait of Andrew Jackson and the pinecone hanging basket but they were not there. Azalea Adair and I had conversation, a little of which will be repeated to you. She was a product of the old South, gently nurtured in the sheltered life. Her learning was not broad, but was deep and of splendid originality in its somewhat narrow scope. She had been educated at home, and her knowledge of the world was derived from inference and by inspiration. Of such is the precious, small group of essayists made. Whle she talked to me I kept brushing my fingers, trying, unconsciously, to rid them guiltily of the absent dust from the half-calf backs of Lamb, Chaucer, Hazlitt, Marcus Aurelius, Montaigne and Hood. She was exquisite, she was a valuable discovery. Nearly everybody nowadays knows too much - oh, so much too much - of real life. I could perceive clearly that Azalea Adair was very poor. A house and a dress she had, not much else, I fancied. So, divided between my duty to the magazine and my loyalty to the poets and essayists who fought Thomas in the valley of the Cumberland, I listened to her voice, which was like a harpsichord's, and found that I could not speak of contracts. In the presence of the nine Muses and the three Graces one hesitated to lower the topic to two cents. There would have to be another colloquy after I had regained my commercialism. But I spoke of my mission, and three o'clock of the next afternoon was set for the discussion of the business proposition. "Your town," I said, as I began to make ready to depart (which is the time for smooth generalities), "seems to be a quiet, sedate place. A home town, I should say, where few things out of the ordinary ever happen." It carries on an extensive trade in stoves and hollow ware with the West and South, and its flouring mills have a daily capacity of more than 2,000 barrels. Azalea Adair seemed to reflect. "I have never thought of it that way," she said, with a kind of sincere intensity that seemed to belong to her. "Isn't it in the still, quiet places that things do happen? I fancy that when God began to create the earth on the first Monday morning one could have leaned out one's window and heard the drops of mud splashing from His trowel as He built up the everlasting hills. What did the noisiest project in the world - I mean the building of the Tower of Bable - result in finally? A page and a half of Esperanto in the North American Review." "Of course," said I platitudinously, "human nature is the same everywhere; but there is more color - er - more drama and movement and - er - romance in some cities than in others." "On the surface," said Azalea Adair. "I have traveled many times around the world in a golden airship wafted on two wings - print and dreams. I have seen (on one of my imaginary tours) the Sultan of Turkey bowstring with his own hands one of his wives who had uncovered her face in public. I have seen a man in Nashville tear up his theatre tickets because his wife was going out with her face covered - with rice powder. In San Francisco's Chinatown I saw the slave girl Sing Yee dipped slowly, inch by inch, in boiling almond oil to make her swear she would never see her American lover again. She gave in when the boiling oil had reached three inches above her knee. At a euchre party in East Nashville the other night I saw Kitty Morgan cut dead by seven of her schoolmates and lifelong friends because she had married a house painter. The boiling oil was sizzling as high as her heart; but I wish you could have seen the fine little smile that she carried from table to table. Oh, yes, it is a humdrum town. Just a few miles of red brick houses and mud and lumber yards." Some one knocked hollowly at the back of the house. Azalea Adair breathed a soft apology and went to investigate the sound. She came back in three minutes with brightened eyes, a faint flush on her cheeks, and ten years lifted from her shoulders. "You must have a cup of tea before you go," she said, "and a sugar cake." She reached and shook a little iron bell. In shuffled a small Negro girl about twelve, barefoot, not very tidy, glowering at me with thumb in mouth and bulging eyes. Azlea Adair opened a tiny, worn purse and drew out a dollar bill, a dollar bill with the upper right-hand corner missing, torn in two pieces, and pasted together again with a strip of blue tissue paper. It was one of the bills I had given the piratical Negro - there was no doubt about it. "Go up to Mr. Baker's store on the corner, Impy," she said, handing the girl the dollar bill, "and get a quarter of a pound of tea - the kind he always sends me - and ten cents worth of sugar cakes. Now, hurry. The supply of tea in the house happens to be exhausted," she explained to me. Impy left by the back way. Before the scrape of her hard, bare feet had died away on the back porch, a wild shriek - I was sure it was hers - filled the hollow house. Then the deep, gruff tones of an angry man's voice mingled with the girl's further squeals and unintelligible words. Azalea Adair rose without surprise or emotion and disappeared. For two minutes I heard the hoarse rumble of the man's voice; then someting like an oath and a slight scuffle, and she returned calmly to her chair. "This is a roomy house," she said, "and I have a tenant for part of it. I am sorry to have to rescind my invitation to tea. It was impossible to get the kind I always use at the store. Perhaps tomorrow, Mr. Baker will be able to supply me." I was sure that Impy had not had time to leave the house. I inquired concerning street-car lines and took my leave. After I was well on my way I remembered that I had not learned Azalea Adair's name. But to-morrow would do. That same day I started in on the course of iniquity that this uneventful city forced upon me. I was in the town only two days, but in that time I managed to lie shamelessly by telegraph, and to be an accomplice - after the fact, if that is the correct legal term - to a murder. As I rounded the corner nearest my hotel the Afrite coachman of the ploychromatic, nonpareil coat seized me, swung open the dungeony door of his peripatetic sarcophagus, flirted his feather duster and began his ritual: "Step right in, boss. Carriage is clean - jus' got back from a funeral. Fifty cents to any -" And then he knew me and grinned broadly. "'Scuse me, boss; you is de gen'l'man what rid out with me dis mawnin'. Thank you kindly, suh." "I am going out to 861 again to-morrow afternoon at three," said I, "and if you will be here, I'll let you drive me. So you know Miss Adair?" I concluded, thinking of my dollar bill. "I belonged to her father, Judge Adair, suh," he replied. "I judge that she is pretty poor," I said. "She hasn't much money to speak of, has she?" For an instant I looked again at the fierce countenance of King Cettiwayo, and then he changed back to an extortionate old Negro hack driver. "She ain't gwine to starve, suh," he said slowly. "She has reso'ces, suh; she has reso'ces." "I shall pay you fifty cents for the trip," said I. "Dat is puffeckly correct, suh," he answered humbly. "I jus' had to have dat two dollars dis mawnin', boss." I went to the hotel and lied by electricity. I wired the magazine: "A. Adair holds out for eight cents a word." The answer that came back was: "Give it to her quick you duffer." Just before dinner "Major" Wentworth Caswell bore down upon me with the greetings of a long-lost friend. I have seen few men whom I have so instantaneously hated, and of whom it was so difficult to be rid. I was standing at the bar when he invaded me; therefore I could not wave the white ribbon in his face. I would have paid gladly for the drinks, hoping, thereby, to escape another; but he was one of those despicable, roaring, advertising bibbers who must have brass bands and fireworks attend upon every cent that they waste in their follies. With an air of producing millions he drew two one-dollar bills from a pocket and dashed one of them upon the bar. I looked once more at the dollar bill with the upper right-hand corner missing, torn through the middle, and patched with a strip of blue tissue paper. It was my dollar bill again. It could have been no other. I went up to my room. The drizzle and the monotony of a dreary, eventless Southern town had made me tired and listless. I remember that just before I went to bed I mentally disposed of the mysterious dollar bill (which might have formed the clew to a tremendously fine detective story of San Francisco) by saying to myself sleepily: "Seems as if a lot of people here own stock in the Hack-Driver's Trust. Pays dividends promptly, too. Wonder if -" Then I fell asleep. King Cettiwayo was at his post the next day, and rattled my bones over the stones out to 861. He was to wait and rattle me back again when I was ready. Azalea Adair looked paler and cleaner and frailer than she had looked on the day before. After she had signed the contract at eight cents per word she grew still paler and began to slip out of her chair. Whitout much trouble I managed to get her up on the antediluvian horsehair sofa and then I ran out to the sidewalk and yelled to the coffee-colored Pirate to bring a doctor. With a wisdom that I had not expected in him, he abandoned his team and struck off up the street afoot, realizing the value of speed. In ten minutes he returned with a grave, gray-haired and capable man of medicine. In a few words (worth much less than eight cents each) I explained to him my presence in the hollow house of mystery. He bowed with stately understanding, and turned to the old Negro. "Uncle Caesar," he said calmly, "Run up to my house and ask Miss Lucy to give you a cream pitcher full of fresh milk and half a tumbler of port wine. And hurry back. Don't drive - run. I want you to get back sometime this week." It occurred to me that Dr. Merriman also felt a distrust as to the speeding powers of the land-pirate's steeds. After Uncle Caesar was gone, lumberingly, but swiftly, up the street, the doctor looked me over with great politeness and as much careful calculation until he had decided that I might do. "It is only a case of insufficient nutrition," he said. "In other words, the result of poverty, pride, and starvation. Mrs. Caswell has many devoted friends who would be glad to aid her, but she will accept nothing except from that old Negro, Uncle Caesar, who was once owned by her family." "Mrs. Caswell!" said I, in surprise. And then I looked at the contract and saw that she had signed it "Azalea Adair Caswell." "I thought she was Miss Adair," I said. "Married to a drunken, worthless loafer, sir," said the doctor. "It is said that he robs her even of the small sums that her old servant contributes toward her support." When the milk and wine had been brought the doctor soon revived Azalea Adair. She sat up and talked of the beauty of the autumn leaves that were then in season, and their height of color. She referred lightly to her fainting seizure as the outcome of an old palpitation of the heart. Impy fanned her as she lay on the sofa. The doctor was due elsewhere, and I followed him to the door. I told him that it was within my power and intentions to make a reasonable advance of money to Azalea Adair on future contributions to the magazine, and he seemed pleased. "By the way," he said, "perhaps you would like to know that you have had royalty for a coachman. Old Caesar's grandfather was a king in Congo. Caesar himself has royal ways, as you may have observed." As the doctor was moving off I heard Uncle Caesar's voice inside: "Did he get bofe of dem two dollars from you, Mis' Zalea?" "Yes, Caesar," I heard Azalea Adair answer weakly. And then I went in and concluded business negotiations with our contributor. I assumed the responsibility of advancing fifty dollars, putting it as a necessary formality in binding our bargain. And then Uncle Caesar drove me back to the hotel. Here ends all of the story as far as I can testify as a witness. The rest must be only bare statements of facts. At about six o'clock I went out for a stroll. Uncle Caesar was at his corner. He threw open the door of his carriage, flourished his duster and began his depressing formula: "Step right in, suh. Fifty cents to anywhere in the city - hack's puffickly clean, suh - - jus' got back from a funeral -" And then he recognized me. I think his eyesight was getting bad. His coat had taken on a few more faded shades of color, the twine strings were more frayed and ragged, the last remaining button - the button of yellow horn - was gone. A motley descendant of kings was Uncle Caesar! About two hours later I saw an excited crowd besieging the front of a drug store. In a desert where nothing happens this was manna; so I edged my way inside. On an extemporized couch of empty boxes and chairs was stretched the mortal corporeality of Major Wentworth Caswell. A doctor was testing him for the immortal ingredient. His decision was that it was conspicuous by its absence. The erstwhile Major had been found dead on a dark street and brought by curious and ennuied citizens to the drug store. The late human being had been engaged in terrific battle - the details showed that. Loafer and reprobate though he had been, he had been also a warrior. But he had lost. His hands were yet clinched so tightly that his fingers would not be opened. The gentle citizens who had know him stood about and searched their vocabularies to find some good words, if it were possible, to speak of him. One kind-looking man said, after much thought: "When 'Cas' was about fo'teen he was one of the best spellers in school." While I stood there the fingers of the right hand of "the man that was" which hung down the side of a white pine box, relaxed, and dropped something at my feet. I covered it with one foot quietly, and a little later on I picked it up and pocketed it. I reasoned that in his last struggle his hand must have seized that object unwittingly and held it in a death grip. At the hotel that night the main topic of conversation, with the possible exceptions of politics and prohibition, was the demise of Major Caswell. I heard one man say to a group of listeners: "In my opinion, gentlemen, Caswell was murdered by somme of these no-account niggers for his money. He had fifty dollars this afternoon which he showed to several gentlemen in the hotel. When he was found the money was not on his person." I left the city the next morning at nine, and as the train was crossing the bridge over the Cumberland River I took out of my pocket a yellow horn overcoat button the size of a fifty-cent piece, with frayed ends of coarse twine hanging from it, and cast it out of the window into the slow, muddy waters below. I wonder what's doing in Buffalo! 城市得意扬扬， 这一个倚山而站， 那一个背临海洋， 正在相互挑战 。 ——拉·吉卜林 试想有一部小说是写芝加哥或者布法罗的，或者写的是田纳 西州的纳什维尔！合众国里只有三个大城市称得上“故事城”——纽约当然在内，还有新奥尔良，最重要的是旧金山。——弗·诺里斯 [吉卜林（1865-1936）：英国小说家，诗人。诺里斯（1870-1902）：美国作家，新闻记者。] 照加利福尼亚人说来，东方是东方，西方却是旧金山。加利福尼亚人不仅仅是一个州的居民，他们还自成一个种族。他们是西部的南方人。芝加哥人为自己的城市所感到的自豪并不比之逊色；但是当你请他们说说理由的时候，他却期期艾艾地提到湖鱼和新盖的共济会大楼。而加利福尼亚人谈起来就有条有理了。 在气候方面，他们就可以滔滔不绝地谈上半小时，与此同时，你却在考虑煤炭开支和厚内衣。当他们把你的缄默误会为信服的表示时，他们就忘乎所以，竟把金门城说成了新世界的巴格达。这只是意见分歧的问题，没有必要辩论。但是亲爱的兄弟姊妹们（我们都是亚当和夏娃的后代），如果有谁用指头点着地图说，“这个城市里不可能有传奇——这里能有过什么事？”那他就未免太轻率了。是啊，用一句话来否定历史、传奇以及兰德—麦克纳利，未免太大胆，太轻率了。 [金门城：即旧金山。] [兰德—麦克纳利：十九世纪美国旅行掼和画片出版商。] 纳什维尔——城市名，田纳西州首府，输出港，濒坎伯兰河，有芝—圣铁路及路—纳铁路经过，被认为是南言最重要的教育中心。 晚上八点钟，我下了火车。由于辞典上找不到适当的形容词，我不得不用配方来比喻。 伦敦雾三成，疟疾一成，煤气管跑漏的气味二成，黎明时在砖地上惧来的露珠二成半，忍冬草香一成半，加以混合。 这种混合物可以提供一个近乎纳什维尔的毛毛雨的概念。它没有樟脑刃那么香，也没有豆汤那么厚，但是已经够了——你不妨试一下。 我乘了一辆老式的马车去旅馆。我费了好大劲儿，才压制住自己，没象西德尼·卡顿那样爬到马车顶上。拉车的畜生是过了时的，赶车的是个解放了的黑家伙。 [西德尼·卡顿：英国作家狄更斯小说〈双城记〉中的人物，他顶替容貌同他酷似的达尼上了断头台。上文的马车（tumbril）是指一七八九年法国大革命时押送死刑犯上断头台时用的马车。] 我感到很困倦，一到旅馆，赶紧把赶车人要的五毛钱给了他（你放心，当然给了相当数目的小费）。我了解他们的脾气；我不愿意听他们唠唠叨叨地谈起他们的旧主人或者战前的事情。 旅馆是那种经过“翻新”的建筑之一。那就是说花了两万元，添置了新的大理石柱、瓷柱、瓷砖和电灯，休息室里摆了铜痰盂，楼上的大房间里都贴上一张路—纳铁路的新时刻表和一张观山图的石印画。旅馆的管理是无可指摘的，招待也带着细致的南方的殷勤，只不过象蜗牛爬行那么慢，象瑞普·凡·温克尔那么乐天。饭菜值得跑一千英里路来尝尝，世上任何别的旅馆都找不到这样好的烤鸡肝。 [瑞普·凡·温克尔：美国作家华盛顿·欧文《见闻札记》中性格温和、一睡二十年的人物。] 晚饭时，我问一个黑人侍者，城里有什么消遣。他一本正经地沉思了片刻，然后回答说：“哎，老板，我实在想不出太阳落山之后还有什么消遣。” 太阳已经落山了；它早就沉没在牛毛细雨中了。我已经无缘见到那个景象。但我仍旧冒着细雨上街，看看可能有些什么。 该城座落在起伏的土地上；街道有电灯照明，每年花费三万二千四百七十元。 我走出旅馆，碰到了一场种族暴乱。一群自由的黑人，或者阿拉伯人，或者祖鲁人，向我扑来，他们都配备着——还好，使我安心的是我看到的不是来复熗，而是马鞭。我还隐隐约约地看到一队黑鸦鸦的、笨重的车辆；听到使我更为安心的呼喊：“老板，送你到城里随便什么地方，只要五毛钱。”这时我领会到，我不是受害者，而只是一个“乘客”。 我在长街上走着，这些街道都是上坡的。我不明白它们怎么再通下来，也许根本下不来了，除非把它们筑平。在少数几条“大街”上，我偶尔看到铺子里有灯火，看到电车载着可敬的市民开来开去，看到交谈着的人走过，还听到一家卖苏打水和冰淇淋的铺子里传出近乎活泼的哄笑。不能算是“大”的街道仿佛把和平安详和的房子引诱到它们两旁来。许多房子的谨慎地拉好的窗帘里透出了亮光，少数几座房子里传出整齐而无可非难的钢琴声。确实没有什么“消遣”。我希望我在太阳落山之前来到就好了。于是我回到了旅馆。 一八六四年十一月，南部邦联的胡德将军向纳什维尔进军，围住了托马斯将军率领的一支北部联邦同盟的军队。托马斯将军发动攻势，在一场激烈的战斗中击败了南部邦联的军队。 南方嚼烟草的人在和平时期期的射击技术，我闻名已久，衷心钦佩，并且亲眼目睹过。我下榻旅馆里却有一件出乎意外的事在等着我。宽敞的休息室里有十二只崭（zhan）新锃（eng）亮、堂皇庞大的铜痰盂，高得可以称作瓮，口子又那么大，连女子垒球队的最佳投手在五步之外都能把球扔进去。但是，尽管经历了可怕的战役，并且还在进行战斗，敌方并没有损失。它们仍旧锃亮堂皇，大模大样地摆着。但是，倒霉的杰斐逊·布里克啊！那瓷砖地——那美丽的瓷砖地！我不由自主地想起了纳什维尔战役，照我愚蠢的习惯，希望得出有关遗传的射击技术的推论。 [杰斐逊·布里克：狄更斯小说《马丁·朱述尔维特》中脸色苍白、体弱多病的年轻战地记者。“布里克”一词在英语中有“砖头”的意思。] 我在这里初次见到了温特沃思·卡斯韦尔少校（这个头衔实在过分客气了）。我一见到他就觉得不自在，知道他是何等样人。耗子到处都有。我的老朋友艾·丁尼生讲的话一向精辟，他说过： 先知啊，诅咒那搬弄是非的耗子， 诅咒不列颠的害物——耗子。 “不列颠”这个地名，我们不妨随意掉换。耗子总是耗子。 这个人在旅馆的休息室里探头探脑，活像一条忘了自己把骨头埋在什么地方的饿狗。他那张大脸又红又臃肿，带着菩萨般的迷糊而定心的神情。他只有一点儿长处——胡子刮得非常光。人身上的兽性特征是可以消除的，除非他胡子拉碴，没刮干净便跑到外面来。我想，如果那天他没有用过剃刀，跑来同我搭讪，我一定不予理睬，那么世界犯罪记录上也许会少掉一件谋杀案。 卡斯韦尔向一个痰盂开火时，我站的地方凑巧离痰盂不到五步。我相当机警，看到进攻者使用的不是打松鼠的来复熗，而是格林机关熗，我便飞快地往旁边一闪。少校却抓住这个机会向一个非战斗人员道歉。他是个碎嘴子。不出四分钟，他同我交上了朋友，氢我拖到酒吧那儿。 我想在这里插一句，说明我是南方人。我之所以是南方人，并不是由于职业的关系。我不喜欢用窄领带，戴垂边帽，穿大礼服，不喜欢嚼烟草，也避而不谈谢尔曼将军毁了我多少件棉花包。乐队演奏《狄克西》的时候，我并不喝彩。我在皮面椅子上坐得低一些，再要了一杯啤酒，希望朗斯特里特曾经——可是有什么用呢？ [《狄克西》：美国南北战争时期，歌颂南方的流行歌曲。] [朗斯特里特（1821—1904）：美国南北战争时，南部邦联的将军。] 卡斯韦尔用拳头擂一下酒吧，响起了萨姆普特堡第一炮的回音。当他开了阿波马托克斯的最后一炮时，我开始满怀希望。他却开始扯起他的家谱来，说明亚当只不过是卡斯韦尔家族一支旁系的远房兄弟。搬完家谱之后，叫我讨厌的是他又谈起个人的家庭私事。他谈着他的妻子，把她的上代一直追溯到夏娃，还出口不逊地否认她可能同该隐沾些亲戚的谣传。 [美国南北战争以南部邦联军队攻陷萨姆普特堡开始，以南部邦联军司令李将军在阿波马托克斯投降告终。] 这时，我开始怀疑，他是不是想利用唠叨的话语来蒙混他已经要了酒的事实，希望我糊里糊涂地付帐。然后酒端来时，他把一枚银币啪地放在酒吧上。那一来，再要一巡酒是免不了的。我付了第二巡的酒帐，很不礼貌地离开了他；因为我实在不愿意同他在一起了。我脱身之前，他还喋喋不休地高声谈着他妻子的收入，还拿出一把银币给人看。 我在旅馆服务台取房间钥匙时，职员很客气地对我说：“假如卡斯韦尔那家伙招惹了你，假如你打算申诉，我们可以把他撵出去。他是个讨厌的人，是个闲汉，不务正业，虽然他身边经常有一些钱。我们似乎找不到合法的理由把他轰出去。” “哎，是啊，”我思索了一下说，“我也没有申诉的理由。不过我愿意正式声明，我不希望同他绳索交。你们的城市，”我接着说，“看来很安静。你们有什么消遣以及新奇和兴奋的事情可以款待陌生的客人？” “嗯，先生，”职员说，“下星期四有一个戏班子来。那是——我等会儿查一下，把海报同冰水一起送到你的房间里去。晚安。” 我上楼进了自己的房间，向窗外望去。那时只有一点钟光影，然而我看到的城市已经一片静寂。毛毛雨还在下，暗淡的街灯闪烁着。街灯稀稀落落，像是妇女义卖市场出售的蛋糕里的葡萄干。 “安静的地方。”当我脱下的第一只鞋落到楼下房间的天花板上时，我暗忖道，“这里的生活不像东部和西部城市那样丰富多彩。只是一个不坏的，平凡的，沉闷的商业城市。” 纳什维尔是全国重要的制造业中心之一。它的皮革皮鞭产量占美国第五位，是南方最大的生产糖果饼干的城市；呢绒、仪器和药品的贸易数额也相当大。 我得告诉你，我怎么会来到纳什维尔；这些离题的话肯定会使你厌烦，正如我自己觉得厌烦一样。我为了一些私事要去别处，但是北方的一家杂志社委托我在这里逗留一下，替社里同一个撰稿人阿扎里亚·阿戴尔建立联系。 阿戴尔（除了笔迹之外，其余的情况毫不了解）寄来过几篇随笔（失传的艺术！）和几首诗，编辑们在一点钟吃午饭时，谈起来赞不绝口。因此，他们委托我来找上述的阿戴尔，在别的出版商提出每字一毛或两毛的稿酬之前，同他或她以每字两分的稿酬订一个合同，收买他或她的作品。 第二天上午九点钟，我吃了烤鸡肝之后（假如你找得到那家旅馆，不妨一试），走到外面一片无休无止的茫茫细雨中。在第一个拐角上，我就碰到了凯撒大叔。他是个健壮的黑人，年龄比金字塔还要老，头发灰白卷曲，面相先叫我想起布鲁特斯，转念之间又觉得像是已故的塞蒂瓦约皇帝。他穿的大衣非常奇特，是我从未看到或想到的。它一直拖到脚踝，以前是南部邦联军队的灰大衣。但是由于雨打日晒，年深月久，颜色已经斑驳不堪。约瑟的彩衣同它一比，也会像单色画那样黯然失色。我必须在这件大衣上罗嗦两句，因为它同故事有关——故事发展得很慢，你原不能指望纳什维尔这个地方有什么新鲜事呀。 以前，那一定是军官的大衣。大衣的披肩已经不见了，原先缀在前襟的漂亮的盘花横条和流苏也不见了。代替它们的是用普通麻线巧妙地捻成新的盘花横条，然后细心地缝上去的（我猜想大概是哪一位年老的“黑妈妈”缝的）。这些麻线也磨损得乱蓬蓬的。它们顺着早就消失的盘花横条的痕迹，不厌其烦、煞费苦心地给缀在大衣上，旨在代替往昔的气派。此外，使大衣的滑稽与悲哀达到顶点的是，所有的钮扣全掉了，只剩下顺数下来第二颗。大衣是另外用一些麻线穿过原来的钮孔和在对襟上粗糙地戳通的洞孔系起来的。像这样装饰得古里古怪，颜色又是这么驳杂的奇特衣服确实少见。唯一的那颗钮扣有半元银币那么大，是牛角制的，也用粗麻线缝着。 那个黑人站在一辆非常旧的马车旁边，马车很可能是含离开方舟之后，套了两匹牲口，用来做出租生意的。他见我走近，便打开门，取出一把鸡毛掸子虚晃几下，用深沉的、隆隆的声音说： [马车很可能是含离开方舟之后：含，《旧约》中挪亚之子，据说含的后代在非洲繁衍，常作为黑人的代称。] “请上车，先生；一颗灰尘也没有——刚刚出丧回来，先生。” 我推测遇到这种隆重场合时，马车大概要特别做一番清洁工作。我朝街上打量了一下，发现排在人行道旁边的出租马车也没有选择的余地。我掏出记事本，看看阿扎里亚·阿戴尔的地址。 “我要到杰萨明街八百六十一号去。”说罢，我便想跨进马车。但那黑人伸出又粗又长，猩猩一般的胳臂拦住了我。他那张阴沉的大脸上突然闪出一种猜疑和敌视的神情。接着，他很快安下心来，讨好似地问道：“你去那里干吗，老板？” “那跟你有什么关系？”我有点儿冒火地问道。 “没什么，先生，没什么。只不过那地方很偏僻，很少有人去。请上车吧，座位干净得很——刚刚出丧回来，先生。” 到达旅程终点至少有一英里半路。除了那辆古老的马车在高低不平的砖地上颠簸得发出可怕的卡哒声外，我听不到别的声音；除了毛毛雨的气息外，我闻不到别的气味。毛毛雨中现在又夹杂着煤烟以及象是柏油和夹竹桃花混合起来的气味。从淌着雨水的车窗里，我只见到两排黑漆漆的房屋。 该城面积有十平方英里；街道总长一百八十一英里，其中一百三十七英里是经过铺设的；水道系统造价两百万元，总水管有七十七英里长。 杰萨明街八百六十一号是一幢朽败的邸宅。它离街道三十码，被围绕在一丛苍翠的树木和未经修剪的灌木中间。一排枝叶蔓披的黄杨几乎遮没了围篱。大门是用一条系在门柱上的绳圈同第一根篱笆桩子扣起来的。你一进去，便发现八百六十一号只是一个空壳，一个影子，是往昔豪华与显赫的幽灵。不过照故事情节的发展来说，我还没有赶走进那幢房屋。 在马车的卡哒声停止了，疲惫的牲口也得到休息时，我把五毛钱给了车夫，并且自以为相当大方地加了两毛五分的小帐。他却不接受。 “两块钱，先生。”他说。 “怎么啦？”我问道，“我清清楚楚听到你在旅馆门口喊的是‘送你到城里随便什么地方，只要五毛钱。’” “两块钱，先生。”他固执地重复说，“离旅馆有好长一段路呢。” “这地方还在城里，你怎么也不能说它出了城呀。”我争论说，“你可别以为你碰到了一个傻瓜北方佬。你看到那面的小山吗？”我指着东面接着说（由于细雨迷蒙，我自己也看不见那些小山）；“嗯，我是在那边出生长大的。你这个又老又笨的黑家伙，你长了眼睛连人都分不清吗？” 塞蒂瓦约皇帝的阴沉的脸色和霁了，“你是南方人吗，先生？我想大概是你那双鞋子使我误会了。南方先生穿的鞋子，头没有这么尖。“ “现在车费该是五毛钱了吧？”我毫不妥协地说。 他又恢复了原先那种贪婪而怀有敌意的神情，可是只持续了十秒钟就消失了。 “老板，”他说，“本来是五毛；但是我需要两块钱，先生；我非得有两块钱不可。我知道你是本地人之后，先生，我不再强要了。不过我只是告诉你，今晚我非得有两块钱不可，生意又很清淡。” 他那张浓眉大眼的面孔显得安详而有自信。他的运气比他想象的要好。他遇到的不是一个不了解车费标准的傻瓜，而是一个施主。 “你这个该死的老流氓，”我一面说，一面把手伸进口袋，“应该把你扭交警察。” 我第一次见到他露出笑容。他料到了；他料到了；他早就料到了。 我给他两张一元的钞票。我递过去时，注意到其中一张是饱经沧桑的。钞票缺了右上角，中间是破了以后又粘起来的。一条蓝色的纱纸粘住破的地方，维持了它的流通性。 关于这个非洲强徒的描写，暂时到此为止；我满足了他的要求，同他分了手。我位起绳圈，打开了那扇吱嘎发响的门。 我刚才已经说过，这幢房屋只是个空壳。它准有二十年没有碰到过油漆刷子了。我不明白，大风怎么没有把它象一座纸牌搭的房子那样掀翻。等我向那些簇拥在它周围的树木看了一会儿之后，才明白其中的道理——那些目击过纳什维尔战役的树木依然伸展着枝柯保护着它，挡住了风暴、敌人和寒冷。 阿扎里亚·阿戴尔接待了我。她出身名门，年纪有五十左右，一头银发，身体象她居住的房屋一般脆弱单薄。她穿着我生平少见的最便宜、最干净的衣服，气派象皇后一般质朴。 客厅空荡荡的，仿佛有一英里见方，只有摆在白松木板架上的几排书，一张有裂纹的大理石面的桌子，一条破地毯，一只光秃秃的马鬃沙发和两三把椅子。墙上倒有一幅画，一束三色堇的彩色蜡笔画。我四下扫了一眼，看看有没有安德鲁·杰克逊的画像和松果篮子，可是没有看到。 [安德鲁·杰克逊（1767—1845）：美国第七任总统。] 阿扎里亚·阿戴尔和我谈了话，其中一部分将转述给你们听。她是古老的南方的产物，在荫庇下细心培植起来的。她的学识并不广博，范围相当狭窄，但却有它的深邃和独到之处。她是在家里受的教育，她对于世界的知识是从推论和灵感中获得的。这就是造成那一小批可贵的随笔作家的条件。她同我谈话时，我不住地拂拭手指，仿佛不自觉地想抹去从兰姆、乔叟、赫兹利特、马格斯·奥雷里乌斯、蒙田和胡德菱的小牛皮书脊上揩来的，其实并不存在的灰尘。她真了不起，是个可贵的发现。如今几乎每一个人对于现实生活都了解得太多了——哦，实在太多了。 我可以清楚地看出阿扎里亚·阿戴尔非常穷。我想她只有一幢房子，一套衣服，此外就没有什么了。我一方面要对杂志社负责，一方面又要忠于那些在坎伯兰河谷与托马斯一起战斗的诗人与随笔作家，我带着这种矛盾的心情倾听她那琴声似的话语，不好意思提起合同的事。在九位缪斯女神和三位格蕾斯女神面前，你很难把话题转到每字两分钱的稿费上。恐怕要经过第二次谈话，我才能恢复我的商业习惯。然而我还是把我的使命讲了出来，同她约定第二天下午三点钟再见面，讨论稿酬方面的问题。 [托马斯（1816--1870）：美国南北战争时，忠于南部邦联的将领。] [缪斯是希腊神话中司文艺、美术、音乐等的九女神；格蕾斯是赐人以美丽、温雅与欢乐的三女神。（美惠三女神）] “你们的城市，”我准备告辞时说（这时候可以说一些轻松的一般性的话了），“仿佛是一个安静宁谧的地方。我该说是这个适于住家的城市，没有特殊的事情发生。” 它和西部南部进行大批的火炉与器皿的贸易，它的面粉厂有日产二千桶的能力。 阿扎里亚·阿戴尔似乎在沉思。 “我从没有那样想过。”她带着一种仿佛是她特有的诚挚专注的神情说，“安宁静谧的地方难道就没有特殊的事情了吗？我揣想，当上帝在第一个星期一的早晨动手创造世界时，你可以探出窗处，听到他堆砌永恒山丘时，泥刀溅起泥块的声音。世界上最喧闹的工程——我指的是建造通天塔——结果产生了什么呢？《北美评论》上一页半篇幅的世界语罢了。” “当然，”我平淡地说，“无论何处人的天性都是一样的；但是某些城市比别的城市更富于色彩——呃——更富于戏剧和行动，以及——呃——浪漫史。” “表面上是这样的。”阿扎里亚·阿戴尔说，“我乘着展开双翼（书籍和幻想）的金色飞船，多次周游了世界。在一次幻想的旅行中，我看到土耳其苏丹亲手绞死了他的一个妻子，因为她在大庭广众之中没有蒙住脸。我也看到纳什维尔的一个男人撕毁了戏票，因为他的妻子打扮好出去时扑了粉，蒙住了脸。在旧金山的中国城，我看到婢女辛宜被慢慢地、一点儿一点儿地浸在滚烫的杏仁油里，逼她发誓再也不同她的美国情人见面。当滚油淹没膝上三英寸的地方时，她屈服了。另一晚，在东纳什维尔的一个纸牌会上，我看到基蒂·摩根的七个同学和好友假装不认识她，因为她同一个油漆匠结了婚。她端在胸前的滚烫的油吱吱发响，但是我希望你能见到她从一张桌子走到另一张桌子边时脸上显出的美妙的微笑。哦，是啊，这是一个单调的城市。只有几英里长的红砖房屋、泥泞、商店和木料场。” 后面有人敲门，发出了空洞的回响。阿扎里亚·阿戴尔轻声道了歉，出去看看有什么事。三分钟后，她回来了，眼睛闪闪发亮，面上泛起淡淡的红晕，仿佛年轻了十年。 “你得在这里喝一杯茶，吃些点心再走。”她说。 她拿起一个小铁铃，摇了几下。一个十二岁左右，打着赤脚、不很整洁的黑人小姑娘踢踢蹋蹋地进来了。她含着大拇指，鼓起眼睛，直盯着我。 阿扎里亚·阿戴尔打开一个破旧的小钱袋，取出一张一元的钞票，那张钞票缺了右上角，中间是破了之后又用一条蓝纱纸粘住的。正是我给那个海盗般的黑人的钞票——准没错。 “到拐角上贝克先生的铺子里去一次，英比，”她把钞票交给那个姑娘说，“买三两茶叶——他平时替我送来的那种——和一毛钱的糖糕。赶快去吧。家里的茶叶正好用光了。”她向我解释说。 英比从后面出去了。她赤脚的踢蹋声还没有在后廊里消失，空洞的房子里突然响起一声狂叫——我肯定是英比的声音。接着是一个男人发怒的深沉模糊的嗓音和那姑娘连续不断的尖叫和分辨不清的话语。 阿扎里亚·阿戴尔既不惊讶也不激动地站起来，出去了。我听到那男人粗野的吵闹声持续了两分钟；接着仿佛是咒骂和轻微的扭打，然后她若无其事地回来坐下。 “这幢房子很宽敞，”她说，“我出租了部分给房客。很抱歉，我得收回请吃茶点的邀请了。店里买不到我平时用的那种茶叶。明天贝克先生或者可能供应我。” 我确定英比根本没有离开过这幢房子。我打听了电车路线后便告辞了。走出好远时，我才想起我还没有问阿扎里亚·阿戴尔的姓氏。明天再问吧。 那天，我就开始了这个城市强加在我头上的邪恶行为。我在这里只呆了两天，可是这两天里我已经在电报上可耻地撒了谎，并且在一件谋杀案中当了事后的间谍——如果“事后”是正确的法律名词。 当我拐到旅馆附近的街角时，那个穿着五颜六色，无与伦比的大衣的非洲马车夫拖住了我，打开他那活动棺材的牢门，晃着鸡毛掸子，搬出了老一套话：“请上车，老板。马车很干净——刚刚出丧回来。你出五毛钱就把你——” 接着，他认出了我，咧开嘴笑了，“对不起，老板，你就是今天早晨同我分手的那位先生。多谢你啦，先生。” “明天下午三点钟，我还要去八百六十一号，”我说，“假如你在这里，我可以乘你的车子。你本来就认识阿戴尔小姐吗？”我想起了我那张一元的钞票，结尾又问了一句。 “我以前是她爸爸阿戴尔法官家里的，先生。 ”他回答道。 “据我判断，她相当穷困，”我说，“她没有什么钱，是吗？” 片刻之间，我又看到了塞蒂瓦约皇帝的凶相，接着他变成了那个敲竹杆的老黑种马车夫。 “她不会饿死的，先生。”他慢慢地说，“她有接济，先生；她有接济。” “下一趟我付你五毛钱。”我说。 “完全对，先生。”他谦恭地说，“今早晨我非有那两块钱不可，老板。” 我回到旅馆，在电报上撒了谎。我打电报给杂志社说：“阿·阿戴尔坚持每字八分。” 回电是：“立即同意，笨蛋。” 晚饭前，温特沃思·卡斯韦尔“少校”象是多日不见的老朋友似地冲过来向我招呼。我难得遇到这种一看就叫我讨厌，却又不易摆脱的人。他找上来的时候，我正站在酒吧旁边；因此我不能对他说我不喝酒。我很愿意付酒帐，只要免掉再喝一巡；但他是那种可鄙的，吵闹的，大吹大擂的酒鬼，每次荒唐地花掉一文钱都要铜管乐队和鞭炮来伴奏。 他象炫示千百万元钱似地掏出了两张一块钱的钞票，把其中一张扔在酒吧上。我又看到了那张缺掉右角，中间破后用蓝纱纸粘起来的钞票。又是我的那一块钱。不可能是别的。 我上楼到我的房间。这个枯燥宁静的南方城市的细雨和单调，使我倦乏而没精打采。我记得上床前，我迷迷糊糊地对自己说：“这里不少人似乎都是出租马车托拉斯的股东。股息也付得快。我不明白——”这才把那张神秘的一元钞票从脑海里排除出去（那张钞票很可以成为一篇绝好的旧金山侦探故事中的线索）。我睡着了。 第二天，塞蒂瓦约皇帝在老地方等我，把我的骨头在石子路上颠到八百六十一号。他在那里等我办完事之后再送我回来。 阿扎里亚·阿戴尔看来比前一天更苍白，更整洁，更脆弱。 签了每字八分钱的约稿合同之后，她脸色更苍白了，开始从椅子溜下去。我不费什么劲儿就把她抬上那张古老的马鬃沙发，然后跑到外面人行道上，吩咐那个咖啡肤色的海盗去请一位医师来。我对他的智慧本来就没有怀疑，他知道争取时间的重要性，聪明地丢下马车不乘，徒步走去。十分钟之内，他领了一位头发灰白，严肃干练的医师回来了。我简简单单用几句话（远不值八分钱一个字）向他说明我来到这幢神秘空洞的房屋里的原由。他严肃地点点头，然后转向那个老黑人。 “凯撒大叔，”他镇静地说，“到我家去，向露西小姐要满满一罐新鲜牛奶和半杯葡萄酒。赶快回来。别赶车去啦——跑着去。这星期里你有空的时候再来一次。” 我想梅里曼医师也不太信任那个陆地海盗的马匹的速度。凯撒大叔笨拙然而迅速地向街上跑去之后，医师非常客气而又极其仔细地打量了我一番，觉得我这个人还可以相信。 “只不过是营养不良。”他说，“换句话说，是贫穷、自尊和饥饿的结果。卡斯韦尔太太有许多热心的朋友，都乐于帮助她，但是她除了那个从前属于他们家的老黑人凯撒大叔之外，不接受任何人的帮助。” “卡斯韦尔太太！”我吃惊地说。接着，我看看合同，发现她的签名是“阿扎里亚·阿戴尔·卡斯韦尔”。 “我还以为她姓阿戴尔呢。”我说。 “她嫁一个没出息，游手好闲的酒鬼，先生。”医师说道，“据说连那老佣人送来接济她的小钱，都被他夺去。” 牛奶和葡萄酒取回来了，医师很快就使阿扎里亚·阿戴尔苏醒过来。她坐起身，谈着那正当时令，色彩浓艳的秋叶的美。她轻描淡写地把她昏倒的原因说成是心悸的老毛病。她躺在沙发上，英比替她打扇子。医师还要去别的地方，我送他到门口。我对他说，我有权并且准备代杂志社酌量预支一笔稿酬给阿扎里亚·阿戴尔，他好象很高兴。 “我顺便告诉你，”他说，“你也许愿意知道，那个马车夫有皇族血统呢。老凯撒的祖父是刚果的一个皇帝。凯撒本人也有皇家的气派，你或许早就注意到了。” 医师离去时，我听到屋子里面凯撒大叔的声音：“他把你那两块钱都拿走了吗？阿扎里亚小姐？” “是啊，凯撒。”我听到阿扎里亚·阿戴尔软弱地回答说。于是我回到屋里去，同我们的撰稿人结束了业务上的商洽。我自作主张，预支了五十元给她，作为巩固合同的必要的形式。然后由凯撒大叔赶车送我回旅馆。 我作为目击者所见到的事情，到此全部结束。其余的只是单纯的事实叙述。 六点钟光景，我出去散步。凯撒大叔在街角上的老地方。他打开马车门，晃着鸡毛掸子，开始搬出那套沉闷的老话：“请上车，先生。只要五毛钱，送你到城里随便什么地方——马车非常干净，先生——刚刚出丧回来——” 接着，他认出了我。我想他的目力大概不行了。他的大衣又添上了几块褪色的地方，麻线更蓬乱破烂，剩下的唯一的钮扣——黄牛角钮扣——也不见了。凯撒大叔还是皇族的后裔呢！ 约莫两小时后，我看到一群人闹闹嚷嚷地挤在药房门前。在一个平静无事的沙漠里，这等于是天赐的灵食；我挤了进去。温特沃思·卡斯韦尔少校的皮囊躺在一张用空箱子和椅子凑合搭起来的卧榻上。医师在检查他有没有生气。他的诊断是少校显然完了。 有人发现这位往昔的少校死在一条黑暗的街上，好奇而无聊的市民们把他抬到药房。这个已故的人生前狠狠打过一架——从种种细节上可以看出来。他虽然身为无赖恶棍，打架倒也顽强。但是他打败了。他的手捏得紧紧的，掰都掰不开。站在周围同他相识的善良的市民们尽可能搜索枯肠，想说他一两句好话。一个面貌和善的人想了好久后说道：“卡斯韦尔十四岁左右的时候，在学校里拼法学得最好。” 我站在那里时，死人垂在白松板箱旁边的右手松开了，一样东西掉在我脚边。我悄悄用脚踩住，过了一会儿才把它捡起来，揣进口袋。照我的揣测，他在临终的挣扎中无心抓到了那个东西，死死捏住不放。 当天晚上，旅馆里的人除了谈谈政治和禁酒之外，主要是谈论卡斯韦尔少校的去世。我听到一个人对大家说： “照我的看法，诸位，卡斯韦尔是被那些混蛋黑鬼谋财害死的。今天下午他身边有五十块钱，给旅馆里好几个人看过。发现他的尸体时，这笔钱不在了。” 第二天上午九点钟，我离开了这个城市。当火车驶过坎伯兰河上的桥梁时，我从口袋里掏出一个黄牛角的大衣钮扣，约莫有半元银币那样大小，上面还连着蓬散的粗麻线。我把它扔到窗外，让它落进迟缓泥泞的河水里。 我不知道布法罗有些什么事情！

Two Thanksgiving Day Gentlemen两位感恩节的绅士 There is one day that is ours. There is one day when all we Americans who are not self-made go back to the old home to eat saleratus biscuits and marvel how much nearer to the porch the old pump looks than it used to. Bless the day. President Roosevelt gives it to us. We hear some talk of the Puritans, but don't just remember who they were. Bet we can lick 'em, anyhow, if they try to land again. Plymouth Rocks? Well, that sounds more familiar. Lots of us have had to come down to hens since the Turkey Trust got its work in. But somebody in Washington is leaking out advance information to 'em about these Thanksgiving proclamations. The big city east of the cranberry bogs has made Thanksgiving Day an institution. The last Thursday in November is the only day in the year on which it recognizes the part of America lying across the ferries. It is the one day that is purely American. Yes, a day of celebration, exclusively American. And now for the story which is to prove to you that we have traditions on this side of the ocean that are becoming older at a much rapider rate than those of England are--thanks to our git-up and enterprise. Stuffy Pete took his seat on the third bench to the right as you enter Union Square from the east, at the walk opposite the fountain. Every Thanksgiving Day for nine years he had taken his seat there promptly at 1 o'clock. For every time he had done so things had happened to him--Charles Dickensy things that swelled his waistcoat above his heart, and equally on the other side. But to-day Stuffy Pete's appearance at the annual trysting place seemed to have been rather the result of habit than of the yearly hunger which, as the philanthropists seem to think, afflicts the poor at such extended intervals. Certainly Pete was not hungry. He had just come from a feast that had left him of his powers barely those of respiration and locomotion. His eyes were like two pale gooseberries firmly imbedded in a swollen and gravy-smeared mask of putty. His breath came in short wheezes; a senatorial roll of adipose tissue denied a fashionable set to his upturned coat collar. Buttons that had been sewed upon his clothes by kind Salvation fingers a week before flew like popcorn, strewing the earth around him. Ragged he was, with a split shirt front open to the wishbone; but the November breeze, carrying fine snowflakes, brought him only a grateful coolness. For Stuffy Pete was overcharged with the caloric produced by a super-bountiful dinner, beginning with oysters and ending with plum pudding, and including (it seemed to him) all the roast turkey and baked potatoes and chicken salad and squash pie and ice cream in the world. Wherefore he sat, gorged, and gazed upon the world with after-dinner contempt. The meal had been an unexpected one. He was passing a red brick mansion near the beginning of Fifth avenue, in which lived two old ladies of ancient family and a reverence for traditions. They even denied the existence of New York, and believed that Thanksgiving Day was declared solely for Washington Square. One of their traditional habits was to station a servant at the postern gate with orders to admit the first hungry wayfarer that came along after the hour of noon had struck, and banquet him to a finish. Stuffy Pete happened to pass by on his way to the park, and the seneschals gathered him in and upheld the custom of the castle. After Stuffy Pete had gazed straight before him for ten minutes he was conscious of a desire for a more varied field of vision. With a tremendous effort he moved his head slowly to the left. And then his eyes bulged out fearfully, and his breath ceased, and the rough-shod ends of his short legs wriggled and rustled on the gravel. For the Old Gentleman was coming across Fourth avenue toward his bench. Every Thanksgiving Day for nine years the Old Gentleman had come there and found Stuffy Pete on his bench. That was a thing that the Old Gentleman was trying to make a tradition of. Every Thanksgiving Day for nine years he had found Stuffy there, and had led him to a restaurant and watched him eat a big dinner. They do those things in England unconsciously. But this is a young country, and nine years is not so bad. The Old Gentleman was a staunch American patriot, and considered himself a pioneer in American tradition. In order to become picturesque we must keep on doing one thing for a long time without ever letting it get away from us. Something like collecting the weekly dimes in industrial insurance. Or cleaning the streets. The Old Gentleman moved, straight and stately, toward the Institution that he was rearing. Truly, the annual feeding of Stuffy Pete was nothing national in its character, such as the Magna Charta or jam for breakfast was in England. But it was a step. It was almost feudal. It showed, at least, that a Custom was not impossible to New Y--ahem!--America. The Old Gentleman was thin and tall and sixty. He was dressed all in black, and wore the old-fashioned kind of glasses that won't stay on your nose. His hair was whiter and thinner than it had been last year, and he seemed to make more use of his big, knobby cane with the crooked handle. As his established benefactor came up Stuffy wheezed and shuddered like some woman's over-fat pug when a street dog bristles up at him. He would have flown, but all the skill of Santos-Dumont could not have separated him from his bench. Well had the myrmidons of the two old ladies done their work. "Good morning," said the Old Gentleman. "I am glad to perceive that the vicissitudes of another year have spared you to move in health about the beautiful world. For that blessing alone this day of thanksgiving is well proclaimed to each of us. If you will come with me, my man, I will provide you with a dinner that should make your physical being accord with the mental." That is what the old Gentleman said every time. Every Thanksgiving Day for nine years. The words themselves almost formed an Institution. Nothing could be compared with them except the Declaration of Independence. Always before they had been music in Stuffy's ears. But now he looked up at the Old Gentleman's face with tearful agony in his own. The fine snow almost sizzled when it fell upon his perspiring brow. But the Old Gentleman shivered a little and turned his back to the wind. Stuffy had always wondered why the Old Gentleman spoke his speech rather sadly. He did not know that it was because he was wishing every time that he had a son to succeed him. A son who would come there after he was gone--a son who would stand proud and strong before some subsequent Stuffy, and say: "In memory of my father." Then it would be an Institution. But the Old Gentleman had no relatives. He lived in rented rooms in one of the decayed old family brownstone mansions in one of the quiet streets east of the park. In the winter he raised fuchsias in a little conservatory the size of a steamer trunk. In the spring he walked in the Easter parade. In the summer he lived at a farmhouse in the New Jersey hills, and sat in a wicker armchair, speaking of a butterfly, the ornithoptera amphrisius, that he hoped to find some day. In the autumn he fed Stuffy a dinner. These were the Old Gentleman's occupations. Stuffy Pete looked up at him for a half minute, stewing and helpless in his own self-pity. The Old Gentleman's eyes were bright with the giving-pleasure. His face was getting more lined each year, but his little black necktie was in as jaunty a bow as ever, and the linen was beautiful and white, and his gray mustache was curled carefully at the ends. And then Stuffy made a noise that sounded like peas bubbling in a pot. Speech was intended; and as the Old Gentleman had heard the sounds nine times before, he rightly construed them into Stuffy's old formula of acceptance. "Thankee, sir. I'll go with ye, and much obliged. I'm very hungry, sir." The coma of repletion had not prevented from entering Stuffy's mind the conviction that he was the basis of an Institution. His Thanksgiving appetite was not his own; it belonged by all the sacred rights of established custom, if not, by the actual Statute of Limitations, to this kind old gentleman who bad preempted it. True, America is free; but in order to establish tradition some one must be a repetend--a repeating decimal. The heroes are not all heroes of steel and gold. See one here that wielded only weapons of iron, badly silvered, and tin. The Old Gentleman led his annual protege southward to the restaurant, and to the table where the feast had always occurred. They were recognized. "Here comes de old guy," said a waiter, "dat blows dat same bum to a meal every Thanksgiving." The Old Gentleman sat across the table glowing like a smoked pearl at his corner-stone of future ancient Tradition. The waiters heaped the table with holiday food--and Stuffy, with a sigh that was mistaken for hunger's expression, raised knife and fork and carved for himself a crown of imperishable bay. No more valiant hero ever fought his way through the ranks of an enemy. Turkey, chops, soups, vegetables, pies, disappeared before him as fast as they could be served. Gorged nearly to the uttermost when he entered the restaurant, the smell of food had almost caused him to lose his honor as a gentleman, but he rallied like a true knight. He saw the look of beneficent happiness on the Old Gentleman's face--a happier look than even the fuchsias and the ornithoptera amphrisius had ever brought to it--and he had not the heart to see it wane. In an hour Stuffy leaned back with a battle won. "Thankee kindly, sir," he puffed like a leaky steam pipe; "thankee kindly for a hearty meal." Then he arose heavily with glazed eyes and started toward the kitchen. A waiter turned him about like a top, and pointed him toward the door. The Old Gentleman carefully counted out $1.30 in silver change, leaving three nickels for the waiter. They parted as they did each year at the door, the Old Gentleman going south, Stuffy north. Around the first corner Stuffy turned, and stood for one minute. Then he seemed to puff out his rags as an owl puffs out his feathers, and fell to the sidewalk like a sunstricken horse. When the ambulance came the young surgeon and the driver cursed softly at his weight. There was no smell of whiskey to justify a transfer to the patrol wagon, so Stuffy and his two dinners went to the hospital. There they stretched him on a bed and began to test him for strange diseases, with the hope of getting a chance at some problem with the bare steel. And lo! an hour later another ambulance brought the Old Gentleman. And they laid him on another bed and spoke of appendicitis, for he looked good for the bill. But pretty soon one of the young doctors met one of the young nurses whose eyes he liked, and stopped to chat with her about the cases. "That nice old gentleman over there, now," he said, "you wouldn't think that was a case of almost starvation. Proud old family, I guess. He told me he hadn't eaten a thing for three days." 有一天是属于我们的。到了那一天，只要不是从石头里迸出来的美国人都回到自己的老家，吃苏打饼干，看着门口的旧抽水机，觉得它仿佛比以前更靠近门廊，不禁暗自纳闷。祝福那一天吧。罗斯福总统把它给了我。我们听到过一些有关清教徒的传说，可是记不清他们是什么样的人了。不用说，假如他们再想登陆的话，我们准能把他们捧得落花流水。普利茅斯岩石吗？唔，这个名称听来倒有些耳熟。自从火鸡托拉斯垄断了市场以后，我们有许多人不得不降格以求，改吃母鸡了。不过华盛顿又有人走漏消息，把感恩节公告预先通知了他们。 [一六二零年，英国清教徒因不堪宗教压迫，首批乘坐“五月花号”船来到美洲普利茅斯，船员上有英格兰、苏格兰和茶兰夭移民一百零二人。移民定居后的次年，为庆祝第一次收获，感谢上帝的恩惠，制订了感恩节，后成为美国法定节日，由联邦总统或各州州长发表公告，一般在每年十一月的最后一个星期四。这里的罗斯福总统指西奥多·罗斯福（1858-1919）]，在任期为一九零一年至一九零九年。] [普利茅斯岩石在马萨诸塞州普利茅斯港口，相传为首批清教徒登陆之处，其实登陆地点是普罗文斯敦的科德角。] 越桔沼泽地东面的那个大城市使感恩节成为法定节日。一年之中，唯有在十一月的最后一个星期四，那个大城市才承认渡口以外的美国。唯有这一天才纯粹是美国的。是的，它是独一无二的美国的庆祝日。 [越桔沼泽地东面的那个大城市：指纽约市。] 现在有一个故事可以向你们证明：磊洋此岸的我们，也有一些日趋古老的传统，并且由于我们的奋发和进取精神，这些传统趋向古老的速度比在英国快得多。 斯塔弗·皮特坐在联合广场喷水泉对面人行道旁边东入口右面的第三条长凳上。九年来，每逢感恩节，他总是不早不迟，在一点钟的时候坐在老地方。他每次这样一坐，总有一些意外的遭遇——查尔斯·狄更斯式的遭遇，使他的坎肩胀过心口，背后也是如此。 但是，斯塔弗·皮特停今天出现在一年一度的约会地点，似乎是出于习惯，而不是出于一年一度的饥饿。据慈善家们的看法，穷苦人仿佛要隔那么长的时间才遭到饥饿的折磨。 当然啦，皮特一点儿也不饿。他来这儿之前刚刚大吃了一顿，如今只剩下呼吸和挪动的力气了。他的眼睛活象两颗淡色的醋栗，牢牢地嵌在一张浮肿的、油水淋漓的油灰面具上。他短促地、呼哧哧地喘着气；脖子上一圈参议员似的脂肪组织，使他翻上来的衣领失去了时髦的派头。一星期以前，救世军修女的仁慈的手指替他缝在衣服上的钮扣，象玉米花似地爆开来，在他身边撒了一地。他的衣服固然褴褛，衬衫前襟一直豁到心口，可是夹着雪花的十一月的微风只给他带来一种可喜的凉爽。因为那顿特别丰富的饭菜所产生的热量，使得斯塔弗·皮特不胜负担。那顿饭以牡蛎开始，以葡萄干布丁结束，包括他所认为的全世界的烤火鸡、煮土豆、鸡肉色拉、南瓜馅饼和冰淇淋。因此，他肚子塞得饱饱地坐着，带着撑得慌的神情看着周围的一切。 那顿饭完全出乎他意料之外。他路过五马路起点附近的一幢红砖住宅，那里面住有两位家系古老，尊重传统的老太太。她们甚至不承认纽约的存在，并且认为感恩节中介为了华盛顿广场才制订的。她们的传统习惯之一，是派一个佣人等在侧门口，吩咐他在正午过后把第一个饥饿的过路人请进来，让他大吃大喝，饱餐一顿。斯塔弗·皮特去公园时，碰巧路过那里，给管家们请了进去，成全了城堡里的传统。 斯塔弗·皮特朝前面直瞪瞪地望了十分钟之后，觉得很想换换眼界。他费了好大的劲儿，才慢慢把头扭向左面。这当儿，他的眼球惊恐地鼓了出来，他的呼吸停止了，他那穿着破皮鞋的短脚在砂砾地上簌簌地扭动着。 因为那位老先生正穿过四马路，朝他坐着的长凳方向走来。 九年来，每逢感恩节的时候，这位老先生总是来这儿寻找坐在长凳上的斯塔弗·皮特。老先生想把这件事形成一个传统。九年来的每一个感恩节，他总是在这儿找到了斯塔弗，总是带他到一家饭馆里去，看他美餐一顿。这类事在英国是做得很自然的。然而美国是个年轻的国家，坚持九年已经算是不坏了。那位老先生是忠实的美国爱国者，并且自认为是创立美国传统的先驱之一。为了引起人们注意，我们必须长期坚持一件事情，一步也不放松。比如收集每周几毛钱的工人保险费啦，打扫街道啦，等等。 老先生庄严地朝着他所培植的制度笔直走去。不错，斯塔弗·皮特一年一度的感觉并不象英国的大宪章或者早餐的果酱那样具有国家性。不过它至少是向前迈了一步。它几乎有点封建意味。它至少证明了在纽——唔！——在美国树立一种习俗并不是不可能的。 老先生又高又瘦，年过花甲。他穿着一身黑衣服，鼻子上架着一副不稳当的老工眼镜。他的头发比去年白一点儿，稀一点儿，并且好象比去年更借重那支粗而多节的曲柄拐杖。 斯塔弗·皮特眼看他的老恩人走近，不禁呼吸短促，直打哆嗦，正如某位太太的过于肥胖的狮子狗看到一条野狗对它呲牙竖毛时那样。他很想跳起来逃跑，可是即使桑托斯—杜蒙施展出全部本领，也无法使他同长凳分开。那两位老太太的忠心的家仆办事情可着实彻底。 [桑托斯—杜蒙（1873-1932）：巴西汽球驾驶员，一九零一年乘汽球从法国的圣克卢至埃菲尔铁塔往返飞行一次，一九零六和一九零九年又试飞过风筝式飞机和单翼飞机。] “你好。”老先生说，“我很高兴见到，又一年的变千对你并没有什么影响，你仍旧很健旺地在这个美好的世界上逍遥自在。仅仅为了这一点幸福，今天这个感恩节对我们两人都有很大的意义。假如你愿意跟我一起来，朋友，我预备请你吃顿饭，让你的身心取得协调。” 老先生每次都说这番同样的自豪感。九年来的每一个感恩节都是这样。这些话本身几乎成了一个制度。除了《独立宣言》之外，没有什么可以同它相比了。以前在斯塔弗听来，它们象音乐一般美妙。现今他却愁眉苦脸，眼泪汪汪地抬头看着老先生的脸。细雪落到斯塔弗的汗水淋漓的额头上，几乎咝咝发响。但是老先生却在微微打战，他掉转身子，背朝着风。 斯塔弗一向纳闷，老先生说这番话时的神情为什么相当悲哀。他不明白，因为老先生每次都在希望有一个儿子来继承他的事业。他希望自己去世后有一个儿子能来到这个地方——一个壮实自豪的儿子，站在以后的斯塔弗一类的人面前说：“为了纪念家父。”那一来就成为一个制度了。 然而老先生没有亲属。他在公园东面一条冷僻的街道的一座败落的褐石住宅里租了几间屋子。冬天，他在一个不比衣箱大多少的温室里种些倒挂金钟。春天，他参加复活节的。夏天，他在新泽西州山间的农舍里寄宿，坐在柳条扶手椅上，谈着他希望总有一天能找到的某种扑翼蝴蝶。秋天，他请斯塔弗吃顿饭。老先生干的事就是这些。 斯塔弗抬着头，瞅了他一会儿，自怨自艾，好不烦恼，要是又束手无策。老先生的眼睛里闪出为善最乐的光亮他脸上的皱纹一年比一年深，但他那小小的黑领结依然非常神气，他的衬衫又白又漂亮，他那两撇灰胡髭典雅地翘着。斯塔弗发出一种象是锅里煮豌豆的声音。他原想说些什么；这种声音老先生已经听过九次了，他理所当然地把它当成斯塔弗表示接受的老一套话。 “谢谢你，先生。非常感谢，我跟你一起去。我饿极啦，先生。” 饱胀引起的昏昏沉沉的感觉，并没有动摇斯塔弗脑子里的那个信念：他是某种制度的基石。他的感恩节的胃口并不属于他自己，而是属于这位占有优先权的慈祥的老先生；因为即使不根据实际的起诉期限法，也得考虑到既定习俗的全部神圣权利。不错，美国是一个自由的国家要是为了建立传统，总得有人充当循环小数呀。英雄们不一定非得使用钢铁和黄金不可。瞧，这儿就有一位英雄，光是挥弄着马马虎虎地镀了银的铁器和锡器。 [起诉期限法：英美法律规定，不动产遭受侵害的起诉期限为二十年，动产为六年，犯法行为为二年；超过上述期限后原告不得提出诉讼。] [镀了银的铁器和锡器：指吃饭用的刀叉盘碟。] 老先生带着他的一年一度的受惠者，朝南去到那家饭馆和那张年年举行盛宴的桌子。他们给认出来了。 “老家伙来啦，”一个侍者说，“他每年感恩节都请那个穷汉吃上一顿。” 老先生坐在桌子对面，朝着他的将要成为古老传统的基石，脸上发出象熏黑的珠子似的光芒。侍者在桌子上摆满了节日的食物——斯塔弗叹了口气（别人还以为这是饥饿的表示呢），举起了刀叉，替自己刻了一顶不朽的桂冠。 在敌军人马中杀开一条血路的英雄都没有他这样勇敢。火鸡、肉排、汤、蔬菜、馅饼，一端到他面前就不见了。他跨进饭馆的时候，肚子里已经塞得实实足足，食物的气味几乎使他丧失绅士的荣誉，但他却象一个真正的骑士，打起精神，坚持到底。他看到老先生脸上的行善的快乐——倒挂金钟和扑翼蝴蝶带来的快乐都不能与此相比——他实在不忍扫他老人家的兴。 一小时之后，斯塔弗往后一靠，这一仗已经打赢了。 “多谢你，先生，”他象一根漏气的蒸气管子那样呼哧呼哧地说，“多谢你赏了一顿称心的中饭。” 接着，他两眼发直，费劲地站起身来，向厨房走去。一个侍者把他象陀螺似地打了一个转，推他走向门口。老先生仔仔细细地数出一块三毛钱的小银币，另外给了侍者三枚镍币做小账。 他们象往年那样，在门口分了手，老先生往南，斯塔弗往北。 在第一个拐角上，斯塔弗转过身，站了一会儿。接着，他的破旧衣服象猫头鹰的羽毛似地鼓了起来，他自己则象一匹中暑的马那样，倒在人行道上。 救护车开到，年轻的医师和司机低声咒骂他的笨重。既然没有威士忌的气息，也就没有理由把他移交给警察局的巡逻车，于是斯塔弗和他肚子里的双份饭就给带到医院里去了。他们把他抬到医院里的床上，开始检查他是不是得了某些怪病，希望有机会用尸体解剖来发现一些问题。 瞧呀！过了一小时，另一辆救护车把老先生送来了。他们把他放在另一张床上，谈论着阑尾炎，因为从外表看来，他是付得起钱的。 但是不多久，一个年轻的医师碰到一个眼睛讨他喜欢的年轻的护士，便停住脚步，跟她谈谈病人的情况。 “那个体面的老先生，”他说，“你怎么都猜不到，他几乎要饿死了。从前大概是名门世空，如今落魄了。他告诉我说，他已经三天没有吃东西了。”

Telemachus, Friend刎颈之交 Returning from a hunting trip, I waited at the little town of Los Pinos, in New Mexico, for the south-bound train, which was one hour late. I sat on the porch of the Summit House and discussed the functions of life with Telemachus Hicks, the hotel proprietor. Perceiving that personalities were not out of order, I asked him what species of beast had long ago twisted and mutilated his left ear. Being a hunter, I was concerned in the evils that may befall one in the pursuit of game. "That ear," says Hicks, "is the relic of true friendship." "An accident?" I persisted. "No friendship is an accident," said Telemachus; and I was silent. "The only perfect case of true friendship I ever knew," went on my host, "was a cordial intent between a Connecticut man and a monkey. The monkey climbed palms in Barranquilla and threw down cocoanuts to the man. The man sawed them in two and made dippers, which he sold for two reales each and bought rum. The monkey drank the milk of the nuts. Through each being satisfied with his own share of the graft, they lived like brothers. "But in the case of human beings, friendship is a transitory art, subject to discontinuance without further notice. "I had a friend once, of the entitlement of Paisley Fish, that I imagined was sealed to me for an endless space of time. Side by side for seven years we had mined, ranched, sold patent churns, herded sheep, took photographs and other things, built wire fences, and picked prunes. Thinks I, neither homocide nor flattery nor riches nor sophistry nor drink can make trouble between me and Paisley Fish. We was friends an amount you could hardly guess at. We was friends in business, and we let our amicable qualities lap over and season our hours of recreation and folly. We certainly had days of Damon and nights of Pythias. "One summer me and Paisley gallops down into these San Andres mountains for the purpose of a month's surcease and levity, dressed in the natural store habiliments of man. We hit this town of Los Pinos, which certainly was a roof-garden spot of the world, and flowing with condensed milk and honey. It had a street or two, and air, and hens, and a eating-house; and that was enough for us. "We strikes the town after supper-time, and we concludes to sample whatever efficacy there is in this eating-house down by the railroad tracks. By the time we had set down and pried up our plates with a knife from the red oil-cloth, along intrudes Widow Jessup with the hot biscuit and the fried liver. "Now, there was a woman that would have tempted an anchovy to forget his vows. She was not so small as she was large; and a kind of welcome air seemed to mitigate her vicinity. The pink of her face was the in hoc signo of a culinary temper and a warm disposition, and her smile would have brought out the dogwood blossoms in December. "Widow Jessup talks to us a lot of garrulousness about the climate and history and Tennyson and prunes and the scarcity of mutton, and finally wants to know where we came from. "'Spring Valley,' says I. "'Big Spring Valley,' chips in Paisley, out of a lot of potatoes and knuckle-bone of ham in his mouth. "That was the first sign I noticed that the old fidus Diogenes business between me and Paisley Fish was ended forever. He knew how I hated a talkative person, and yet he stampedes into the conversation with his amendments and addendums of syntax. On the map it was Big Spring Valley; but I had heard Paisley himself call it Spring Valley a thousand times. "Without saying any more, we went out after supper and set on the railroad track. We had been pardners too long not to know what was going on in each other's mind. "'I reckon you understand,' says Paisley, 'that I've made up my mind to accrue that widow woman as part and parcel in and to my hereditaments forever, both domestic, sociable, legal, and otherwise, until death us do part.' "'Why, yes,' says I, 'I read it between the lines, though you only spoke one. And I suppose you are aware,' says I, 'that I have a movement on foot that leads up to the widow's changing her name to Hicks, and leaves you writing to the society column to inquire whether the best man wears a japonica or seamless socks at the wedding!' "'There'll be some hiatuses in your program,' says Paisley, chewing up a piece of a railroad tie. 'I'd give in to you,' says he, 'in 'most any respect if it was secular affairs, but this is not so. The smiles of woman,' goes on Paisley, 'is the whirlpool of Squills and Chalybeates, into which vortex the good ship Friendship is often drawn and dismembered. I'd assault a bear that was annoying you,' says Paisley, 'or I'd endorse your note, or rub the place between your shoulder-blades with opodeldoc the same as ever; but there my sense of etiquette ceases. In this fracas with Mrs. Jessup we play it alone. I've notified you fair.' "And then I collaborates with myself, and offers the following resolutions and by-laws: "'Friendship between man and man,' says I, 'is an ancient historical virtue enacted in the days when men had to protect each other against lizards with eighty-foot tails and flying turtles. And they've kept up the habit to this day, and stand by each other till the bellboy comes up and tells them the animals are not really there. I've often heard,' I says, 'about ladies stepping in and breaking up a friendship between men. Why should that be? I'll tell you, Paisley, the first sight and hot biscuit of Mrs. Jessup appears to have inserted a oscillation into each of our bosoms. Let the best man of us have her. I'll play you a square game, and won't do any underhanded work. I'll do all of my courting of her in your presence, so you will have an equal opportunity. With that arrangement I don't see why our steamboat of friendship should fall overboard in the medicinal whirlpools you speak of, whichever of us wins out.' "'Good old hoss!' says Paisley, shaking my hand. 'And I'll do the same,' says he. 'We'll court the lady synonymously, and without any of the prudery and bloodshed usual to such occasions. And we'll be friends still, win or lose.' "At one side of Mrs. Jessup's eating-house was a bench under some trees where she used to sit in the breeze after the south-bound had been fed and gone. And there me and Paisley used to congregate after supper and make partial payments on our respects to the lady of our choice. And we was so honorable and circuitous in our calls that if one of us got there first we waited for the other before beginning any gallivantery. "The first evening that Mrs. Jessup knew about our arrangement I got to the bench before Paisley did. Supper was just over, and Mrs. Jessup was out there with a fresh pink dress on, and almost cool enough to handle. "I sat down by her and made a few specifications about the moral surface of nature as set forth by the landscape and the contiguous perspective. That evening was surely a case in point. The moon was attending to business in the section of sky where it belonged, and the trees was making shadows on the ground according to science and nature, and there was a kind of conspicuous hullabaloo going on in the bushes between the bullbats and the orioles and the jack-rabbits and other feathered insects of the forest. And the wind out of the mountains was singing like a Jew's-harp in the pile of old tomato-cans by the railroad track. "I felt a kind of sensation in my left side--something like dough rising in a crock by the fire. Mrs. Jessup had moved up closer. "'Oh, Mr. Hicks,' says she, 'when one is alone in the world, don't they feel it more aggravated on a beautiful night like this?' "I rose up off the bench at once. "'Excuse me, ma'am,' says I, 'but I'll have to wait till Paisley comes before I can give a audible hearing to leading questions like that.' "And then I explained to her how we was friends cinctured by years of embarrassment and travel and complicity, and how we had agreed to take no advantage of each other in any of the more mushy walks of life, such as might be fomented by sentiment and proximity. Mrs. Jessup appears to think serious about the matter for a minute, and then she breaks into a species of laughter that makes the wildwood resound. "In a few minutes Paisley drops around, with oil of bergamot on his hair, and sits on the other side of Mrs. Jessup, and inaugurates a sad tale of adventure in which him and Pieface Lumley has a skinning-match of dead cows in '95 for a silver-mounted saddle in the Santa Rita valley during the nine months' drought. "Now, from the start of that courtship I had Paisley Fish hobbled and tied to a post. Each one of us had a different system of reaching out for the easy places in the female heart. Paisley's scheme was to petrify 'em with wonderful relations of events that he had either come across personally or in large print. I think he must have got his idea of subjugation from one of Shakespeare's shows I see once called 'Othello.' There is a coloured man in it who acquires a duke's daughter by disbursing to her a mixture of the talk turned out by Rider Haggard, Lew Dockstader, and Dr. Parkhurst. But that style of courting don't work well off the stage. "Now, I give you my own recipe for inveigling a woman into that state of affairs when she can be referred to as 'nee Jones.' Learn how to pick up her hand and hold it, and she's yours. It ain't so easy. Some men grab at it so much like they was going to set a dislocation of the shoulder that you can smell the arnica and hear 'em tearing off bandages. Some take it up like a hot horseshoe, and hold it off at arm's length like a druggist pouring tincture of asafoetida in a bottle. And most of 'em catch hold of it and drag it right out before the lady's eyes like a boy finding a baseball in the grass, without giving her a chance to forget that the hand is growing on the end of her arm. Them ways are all wrong. "I'll tell you the right way. Did you ever see a man sneak out in the back yard and pick up a rock to throw at a tomcat that was sitting on a fence looking at him? He pretends he hasn't got a thing in his hand, and that the cat don't see him, and that he don't see the cat. That's the idea. Never drag her hand out where she'll have to take notice of it. Don't let her know that you think she knows you have the least idea she is aware you are holding her hand. That was my rule of tactics; and as far as Paisley's serenade about hostilities and misadventure went, he might as well have been reading to her a time- table of the Sunday trains that stop at Ocean Grove, New Jersey. "One night when I beat Paisley to the bench by one pipeful, my friendship gets subsidised for a minute, and I asks Mrs. Jessup if she didn't think a 'H' was easier to write than a 'J.' In a second her head was mashing the oleander flower in my button-hole, and I leaned over and--but I didn't. "'If you don't mind,' says I, standing up, 'we'll wait for Paisley to come before finishing this. I've never done anything dishonourable yet to our friendship, and this won't be quite fair.' "'Mr. Hicks,' says Mrs. Jessup, looking at me peculiar in the dark, 'if it wasn't for but one thing, I'd ask you to hike yourself down the gulch and never disresume your visits to my house.' "'And what is that, ma'am?' I asks. "'You are too good a friend not to make a good husband,' says she. "In five minutes Paisley was on his side of Mrs. Jessup. "'In Silver City, in the summer of '98,' he begins, 'I see Jim Batholomew chew off a Chinaman's ear in the Blue Light Saloon on account of a crossbarred muslin shirt that--what was that noise?' "I had resumed matters again with Mrs. Jessup right where we had left off. "'Mrs. Jessup,' says I, 'has promised to make it Hicks. And this is another of the same sort.' "Paisley winds his feet round a leg of the bench and kind of groans. "'Lem,' says he, 'we been friends for seven years. Would you mind not kissing Mrs. Jessup quite so loud? I'd do the same for you.' "'All right,' says I. 'The other kind will do as well.' "'This Chinaman,' goes on Paisley, 'was the one that shot a man named Mullins in the spring of '97, and that was--' "Paisley interrupted himself again. "'Lem,' says he, 'if you was a true friend you wouldn't hug Mrs. Jessup quite so hard. I felt the bench shake all over just then. You know you told me you would give me an even chance as long as there was any.' "'Mr. Man,' says Mrs. Jessup, turning around to Paisley, 'if you was to drop in to the celebration of mine and Mr. Hicks's silver wedding, twenty-five years from now, do you think you could get it into that Hubbard squash you call your head that you are nix cum rous in this business? I've put up with you a long time because you was Mr. Hicks's friend; but it seems to me it's time for you to wear the willow and trot off down the hill.' "'Mrs. Jessup,' says I, without losing my grasp on the situation as fiance, 'Mr. Paisley is my friend, and I offered him a square deal and a equal opportunity as long as there was a chance.' "'A chance!' says she. 'Well, he may think he has a chance; but I hope he won't think he's got a cinch, after what he's been next to all the evening.' "Well, a month afterwards me and Mrs. Jessup was married in the Los Pinos Methodist Church; and the whole town closed up to see the performance. "When we lined up in front and the preacher was beginning to sing out his rituals and observances, I looks around and misses Paisley. I calls time on the preacher. 'Paisley ain't here,' says I. 'We've got to wait for Paisley. A friend once, a friend always--that's Telemachus Hicks,' says I. Mrs. Jessup's eyes snapped some; but the preacher holds up the incantations according to instructions. "In a few minutes Paisley gallops up the aisle, putting on a cuff as he comes. He explains that the only dry-goods store in town was closed for the wedding, and he couldn't get the kind of a boiled shirt that his taste called for until he had broke open the back window of the store and helped himself. Then he ranges up on the other side of the bride, and the wedding goes on. I always imagined that Paisley calculated as a last chance that the preacher might marry him to the widow by mistake. "After the proceedings was over we had tea and jerked antelope and canned apricots, and then the populace hiked itself away. Last of all Paisley shook me by the hand and told me I'd acted square and on the level with him and he was proud to call me a friend. "The preacher had a small house on the side of the street that he'd fixed up to rent; and he allowed me and Mrs. Hicks to occupy it till the ten-forty train the next morning, when we was going on a bridal tour to El Paso. His wife had decorated it all up with hollyhocks and poison ivy, and it looked real festal and bowery. "About ten o'clock that night I sets down in the front door and pulls off my boots a while in the cool breeze, while Mrs. Hicks was fixing around in the room. Right soon the light went out inside; and I sat there a while reverberating over old times and scenes. And then I heard Mrs. Hicks call out, 'Ain't you coming in soon, Lem?' "'Well, well!' says I, kind of rousing up. 'Durn me if I wasn't waiting for old Paisley to--' "But when I got that far," concluded Telemachus Hicks, "I thought somebody had shot this left ear of mine off with a forty-five. But it turned out to be only a lick from a broomhandle in the hands of Mrs. Hicks." 我狩猎归来，在新墨西哥州的洛斯比尼奥斯小镇等候南下的火车。火车误点，迟了一小时。我便坐在“顶点”客栈的阳台上，同客栈老板泰勒马格斯·希克斯闲聊，议论生活的意义。     我发现他的性情并不乖戾，不像是爱打架斗殴的人，便问他是哪种野兽伤残了他的左耳。程序逻辑猎人，我认为狩猎时很容易遭到这类不幸的事件。     “那只耳朵，”希克斯说，“是真挚友情的纪念。”     “一件意外吗？”我追问道。     “友情怎么能说是意外呢？”泰勒马格斯反问道，这下子可把我问住了。     “我所知道的仅有的一对亲密无间，真心实意的朋友，”客栈老板接着说，“要算是一个康涅狄格州人和一只猴子了。猴子在巴兰基利亚爬椰子树，把椰子摘下来扔给那个人。那个人把椰子锯成两片，做成水勺，每只卖两个雷阿尔，换了钱来沽酒。椰子汁归猴子喝。他们两个坐地分赃，各得其所，像兄弟一般，生活得非常和睦。    [巴兰基利亚：哥伦比亚北部马格达莱纳河口的港市。]     [雷阿尔：旧时西班牙和拉丁美洲某些国家用的辅币，有银质的，也有镍质的。]     “换了人类，情况就不同了；友情变幻无常，随时可以宣告失效，不现另行通知。     “以前我有个朋友，名叫佩斯利·菲什，我认为我同他的交情是地久天长，牢不可破的。有七年了，我们一起挖矿，办牧场，兜销专利的搅乳器，放羊，摄影，打桩拉铁丝网，摘水果当临时工，碰到什么就干什么。我想，我同佩斯利两人的感情是什么都离间不了的，不管它是凶杀，谄谀，财富，诡辩或者老酒。我们交情这深简直使你难以想象。干事业的时候，我们是朋友；休息娱乐的时候，我们也让这种和睦相好的特色持续下去，给我们的生活增添了不少乐趣。不论白天黑夜，我们都难舍难分，好比达蒙和派西斯。     [达蒙和派西斯：公元前四世纪锡拉丘兹的两个朋友。派西斯被暴君狄奥尼西斯判处死刑，要求回家料理后事，由达蒙代受监禁。执行死刑之日，派西斯及时赶回，狄奥尼西斯为他们崇高的友谊所感动，便赦免了他们。]     “有一年夏天，我和佩斯利两人打扮得整整齐齐，骑马来到这圣安德烈斯山区，打算休养一个月，消遣消遣。我们到了这个洛斯比尼奥斯小镇，这里简直算得上是世界的屋顶花园，是流炼乳和蜂蜜之地。这里空气新鲜，有一两条街道，有鸡可吃，有客栈可住；我们需要的也就是这些东西。    [流炼乳和蜂蜜之地：《旧约》记载：上帝遣摩西率以色列人出埃及，前往丰饶的迦南，即流奶与蜜之地。]     “我们进镇时，天色已晚，便决定在铁路旁边的这家客栈里歇歇脚，尝尝它所能供应的任何东西。我们刚坐定，用刀把粘在红油布上的盘子撬起来，寡妇杰塞普就端着刚出炉的热面包和炸肝进来了。     “哎呀，这个女人叫鲣鱼看了都会动心。她长得不肥不瘦，不高不矮；一副和蔼的样子，使人觉得分外可亲。红润的脸颊是她喜爱烹调和为人热情的标志，她的微笑叫山茱萸在寒冬腊月都会开花。     “寡妇杰塞普谈风很健地同我们扯了起来，聊着天气，历史，丁尼生，梅干，以及不容易买到羊肉等等，最后才问我们是从哪儿来的。     [丁尼生（1809--1892）：英国桂冠诗人。]     “‘春谷。’我回答说。     “‘大春谷。’佩斯利嘴里塞满了土豆和火腿骨头，突然插进来说。     “我注意到，这件事的发生标志着我同佩斯利·菲什的忠诚友谊的结束。他明知我最恨多嘴的人，可还是冒冒失失地插了嘴，替我作了一些措辞上的修正和补充。地图上的名称固然是大春谷；然而佩斯利自己也管它叫春谷，我听了不下一千遍。     “我们也不多话，吃了晚饭便走出客栈，在铁轨上坐定。我们合伙的时间太长了，不可能不了解彼此的心情。     “‘我想你总该明白，’佩斯利说，‘我已经打定主意，要让那位寡妇太太永远成为我的不动产的主要部分，在家庭、社会、法律等等方面都是如此，到死为止。’     “‘当然啦，’我说，‘你虽然只说了一句话，我已经听到了弦外之音。不过我想你也该明白，’我说，‘我准备采取步骤，让那位寡妇改姓希克斯，我劝你还是等着写信给报纸的社会新闻栏，问问举行婚礼时，男傧相是不是在钮扣孔里插了山茶花，穿了无缝丝袜！’     “‘你的如意算盘打错了。’佩斯利嚼着一片铁路枕木屑说。‘遇到世俗的事情，’他说，‘我几乎任什么都可以让步，这件事可不行。女人的笑靥，’佩斯利继续说，‘是海葱和含铁矿泉的漩涡，友谊之船虽然结实，碰上它也往往要撞碎沉没。我像以前一样，’佩斯利说，‘愿意同一头招惹你的狗熊拼命，替你的借据担保，用肥皂樟脑搽剂替你擦脊梁；但是在这件事情上，我可不能讲客气。在同杰塞普太太打交道这件事上，我们只能各干各的了。我丑话说在前头，先跟你讲清楚。’     [“是海葱和含铁矿泉的漩涡”：原文是“the whirlpool of Squills and Chalybeates”。英文成语有“between Scylla and Charybdis”，意为危险之地。“Scylla”是意大利墨西那海峡的岩礁，读音与海葱的拉丁名“Scilla”相近；“Charybdis”是它对面的大漩涡，读音与含水量铁矿泉“Chalybeate”相近，作者故意混淆了这两个字。]     “于是，我暗自寻思一番，提出了下面的结论和附则：     “‘男人与男人的友谊，’我说，‘是一种古老的，具有历史意义的美德。当男人们互相保护，共同对抗尾巴有八十英尺长的蜥蜴和会飞的海鳖时，这种美德就已经制定了。他们把这种习惯一直保留到今天，一直在互相支持，直到旅馆侍者跑来告诉他们说，这种动物实际上不存在。我常听人说，’我说，‘女人牵涉进来之后，男人之间的交情就破裂了。为什么要这样呢？我告诉你吧，佩斯利，杰塞普太太的出现和她的热面包，仿佛使我们两人的心都怦然跳动了。让我们中间更棒的一个赢得她吧。我要跟你公平交易，决不搞不光明正大的小动作。我追求她的时候，一举一动都要当着你的面，那你的机会也就均等了。这样安排，无论哪一个得手，我想我们的友谊大轮船决不至于翻在你所说的药水气味十足的漩涡里了。’     “‘这才够朋友！’佩斯利握握我的手说。‘我一定照样办事。’他说。‘我们齐头并进，同时追求那位太太，不让通常那种虚假和流血的事情发生，无论成败，我们仍是朋友。’     “杰塞普太太客栈旁的几侏树下有一条长凳，等南行火车上的乘客打过尖，离开之后，她就坐在那里乘凉。晚饭后，我和佩斯利在那里集合，分头向我们的意中人献殷勤。我们追求的方式很光明正大，瞻前顾后，如果一个先到，非得等另一个也来了之后才开始调情。     “杰塞普太太知道我们的安排后的第一晚，我比佩斯利先到了长凳那儿晚饭刚开过，杰塞普太太换了一套干净的粉红色的衣服在那儿乘凉，并且凉得几乎可以对付了。     “我在她身边坐下，稍稍发表了一些意见，谈到自然界通过近景和远景所表现出来的精神面貌。那晚确实是一个典型的环境。月亮升到空中应有的地方来应景凑趣，树木根据科学原理和自然规律把影子洒在地上，灌木丛中的蚊母鸟、金莺、长耳兔和别的有羽毛的昆虫此起彼伏地发出一片喧嘈声。山间吹业的微风，掠过铁轨旁边一堆旧蕃茄酱罐头，发出了小口琴似的声音。     “我觉得左边有什么东西在蠢蠢欲动——正如火炉旁边瓦罐里的面团在发酵。原来是杰塞普太太挨近了一些。     “‘哦，希克斯先生，’她说，‘一个举目无亲、孤独寂寞的人，在这样一个美丽的夜晚，是不是更会感情以凄凉？’     “我赶紧从长凳上站起来。     “‘对不起，夫人，’我说，‘对于这样一个富于诱导性的问题，我得等佩斯利来了以后，才能公开答复。’     “接着，我向她解释，我和佩斯利·菲什是老朋友，多年的甘苦与共、浪迹江湖和同谋关系，已经使我们的友谊牢不可破；如今我们正处在生活的缠绵阶段，我们商妥决不乘一时感情冲动和近水楼台的机会互相钻空子。杰塞普太太仿佛郑重其事地把这件事考虑了一会儿，忽然哈哈大笑，周围的林子都响起了回声。     “没几分钟，佩斯利也来了，他头上抹了香柠檬油，在杰塞普太太的另一边坐下，开始讲一段悲惨的冒险事迹：一八九五年圣丽塔山谷连旱了九个月，牛群一批批地死去，他同扁脸拉姆利比赛剥牛皮，赌一只镶银的马鞍。     “那场追求一开头，我就比垮了佩斯利·菲什，弄得他束手无策。我们两人各有一套打动女人内心弱点的办法。佩斯利的办法是讲一些他亲身体验的，或是从通俗书刊里看来的惊险事迹，吓唬女人。我猜想，他准是从莎士比亚的一出戏里学到那种慑服女人的主意的。那出戏叫‘奥赛罗’，我以前也看过，里面是说一个黑人，把赖德·哈格德、卢·多克斯塔德和帕克赫斯特博士三个人的话语混杂起来，讲给一位公爵的女儿听，把她弄到了手。可是那种求爱方式下了舞台就不中用了。     [赖德·哈格德（1856--1925）：英国小说家，作品多以南非蛮荒为背景；帕克赫斯特博士（1842--1933）：美国长老会牧师，攻击纽约腐败的市政甚力，促使市长改选。]     “现在，我告诉你，我自己是怎样迷住一个女人，使她落到改姓的地步的。你只要懂得怎么抓起她的手，把它握住，她就成了你的人。讲讲固然容易，做起来并不简单。有的男人使劲拉住女人的手，仿佛要把脱臼的肩胛骨复位一样，简直叫你可以闻到山金车酊剂的气味，听到撕绷带的声音了。有的男人像拿一块烧烫的马蹄铁那样握着女人的手，又像药剂师把阿魏酊往瓶里灌时那样，伸直手臂，隔得远远的。大多数男人握到了女人的手，便把它拉到她眼皮下面，像小孩在草里寻找棒球似的，不让她忘掉她的手长在胳臂上。这种种方式都是错误的。     “我把正确的方式告诉你吧。你可曾见过一个人偷偷地溜进后院，捡起一块石头，想扔一只蹲在篱笆上盯着他直瞧的公猫？他假装手里没有东西，假装猫没有看见他，他也没有看见猫。就是那么一回事。千万别把她的手拉到她自己注意得到的地方。你虽然清楚她知道你握着她的手，可是你得装出没事的样子，别露痕迹。那就是我的策略。至于佩斯利用战争和灾祸的故事来博得她的欢心，正像把星期日的火车时刻表念给她听一样。那天的火车连新泽西州欧欣格罗夫之类的小地方也要停站的。     [欧欣格罗夫：新泽西州的滨海小镇，当时人口只有三千左右。]     “有一晚，我先到长凳那儿，比佩斯利早了一袋烟的工夫。我的友谊出了一会儿毛病，我竟然问杰塞普太太是不是认为‘希’字要比‘杰’字好写一点。她的头立刻压坏了我钮扣孔里的夹竹桃，我也凑了过去——可是我没有干。     “‘假如你不在意的话，’我站起来说，‘我们等佩斯利来了之后再完成这件事吧。到目前为止，我还没有干过对不起我们朋友交情的事，这样不很光明。’     “‘希克斯先生，’杰塞普太太说，她在黑暗里瞅着我，神情有点异样，‘如果不是另有原因的话，我早就请你走下山谷，永远别来见我啦。’     “‘请问是什么原因呢，夫人？’我问道。     “‘你既然是这样忠诚的朋友，当然也能成为忠诚的丈夫，’她说。     “五分钟之后，佩斯利也坐在杰塞普太太身边了。     “‘一八九八年夏天，’他开始说，‘我在锡尔弗城见到吉姆·巴塞洛缪在蓝光沙龙里咬掉了一个中国人的耳朵，起因只是一件横条花纹的平布衬衫——那是什么声音呀？’     “我跟杰塞普太太重新做起了刚才中断的事。     “‘杰塞普太太已经答应改性希克斯了。’我说。‘这只不过是再证实一下而已。’     “佩斯利把他的两条腿盘在长凳脚上，呻吟起来。     “‘勒姆，’他说，‘我们已经交了七年朋友。你能不能别跟杰塞普太太吻得这么响？以后我也保证不这么响。’     “‘好吧，’我说，‘轻一点也可以。’     “‘这个中国人，’佩斯利继续说，‘在一八九七年春天熗杀了一个名叫马林的人，那是——’     “佩斯利又打断了他自己的故事。     “‘勒姆，’他说，‘假如你真是个仗义的朋友，你就不该把杰塞普太太搂得那么紧。刚才我觉得整个长凳都在晃。你明白，你对我说过，只要还有机会，你总是同我平分秋色的。’     “‘你这个家伙，’杰塞普太太转身向佩斯利说，‘再过二十五年，假如你来参加我和希克斯先生的银婚纪念，你那个南瓜脑袋还认为你在这件事上有希望吗？只因为你是希克斯先生的朋友，我才忍了好久；不过我认为现在你该死了这条心，下山去啦。’     “‘杰塞普太太，’我说，不过我并没有丧失未婚夫的立场，‘佩斯利先生是我的朋友，只要有机会，我总是同他公平交易，利益均等的。’     “‘机会！’她说。‘好吧，让他自以为还有机会吧；今晚他在旁边看到了这一切，我希望他别自以为很有把握。’     “一个月之后，我和杰塞普太太在洛斯比尼奥的卫理公会教堂结婚了；全镇的人都跑来看结婚仪式。     “当我们并排站在最前面，牧师开始替我们主持婚礼的时候，我四下里扫了一眼，没找到佩斯利。我请牧师等一会儿。‘佩斯利尖这儿。’我说。‘我们非等佩斯得河。交朋友要交到老——泰勒马格斯·希克斯就是这种人。’我说。杰塞普太太的眼睛里有点冒火；但是牧师根据我的吩咐，没立即育读经文。     “过了几分钟，佩斯利飞快地跑进过道，一边跑，一边还在安上一只硬袖口。他说镇上唯一的卖服装的铺关了门来看婚礼，他搞不到他所喜欢的上过浆的衬衫，只得撬开铺子的后窗，自己取了一件。接着，他站到新娘的那一边去，婚礼在继续进行。我一直在琢磨，佩斯利还在等最后一个机会，盼望牧师万一搞错，替他同寡妇成亲呢。     “婚礼结束后，我们吃了茶、羚羊肉干和罐头杏子，镇上的居民便纷纷散去。最后同我握手的是佩斯利，他说我为人光明磊落，同我交朋友脸上有光。     “牧师在街边有一幢专门出租的小房子；他让我和希克斯太太占用到第二天早晨十点四十分，那时候，我们就乘火车去埃尔帕索度蜜月旅行。牧师太太用蜀葵和毒藤把那幢房子打扮起来，看上去喜气洋洋的，并且有凉亭的风味。     “那晚十点钟左右，我在门口坐下，脱掉靴子凉快凉快，希克斯太太在屋里张罗。没有多久，里面的灯熄了；我还坐在那儿，回想以前的时光和情景。我听到希克斯太太招呼说：‘你就进来吗，勒姆？’     “‘哎，哎！’我仿佛惊醒似地说。‘我刚才在等老佩斯利——’     “可是这句话还没说完，”泰勒马格斯·希克斯结束他的故事说，“我觉得仿佛有人用四五口径的手熗把我这只左耳朵打掉了。后来我才知道，那只是希克斯太太用扫帚把揍了一下。”

An Unfinished Story 没有完的故事 We no longer groan and heap ashes upon our heads when the flames of Tophet are mentioned. For, even the preachers have begun to tell us that God is radium, or ether or some scientific compound, and that the worst we wicked ones may expect is a chemical reaction. This is a pleasing hypothesis; but there lingers yet some of the old, goodly terror of orthodoxy. There are but two subjects upon which one may discourse with a free imagination, and without the possibility of being controverted. You may talk of your dreams; and you may tell what you heard a parrot say. Both Morpheus and the bird are incompetent witnesses; and your listener dare not attack your recital. The baseless fabric of a vision, then, shall furnish my theme--chosen with apologies and regrets instead of the more limited field of pretty Polly's small talk. I had a dream that was so far removed from the higher criticism that it had to do with the ancient, respectable, and lamented bar-of- judgment theory. Gabriel had played his trump; and those of us who could not follow suit were arraigned for examination. I noticed at one side a gathering of professional bondsmen in solemn black and collars that buttoned behind; but it seemed there was some trouble about their real estate titles; and they did not appear to be getting any of us out. A fly cop--an angel policeman--flew over to me and took me by the left wing. Near at hand was a group of very prosperous-looking spirits arraigned for judgment. "Do you belong with that bunch?" the policeman asked. "Who are they?" was my answer. "Why," said he, "they are--" But this irrelevant stuff is taking up space that the story should occupy. Dulcie worked in a department store. She sold Hamburg edging, or stuffed peppers, or automobiles, or other little trinkets such as they keep in department stores. Of what she earned, Dulcie received six dollars per week. The remainder was credited to her and debited to somebody else's account in the ledger kept by G-- Oh, primal energy, you say, Reverend Doctor--Well then, in the Ledger of Primal Energy. During her first year in the store, Dulcie was paid five dollars per week. It would be instructive to know how she lived on that amount. Don't care? Very well; probably you are interested in larger amounts. Six dollars is a larger amount. I will tell you how she lived on six dollars per week. One afternoon at six, when Dulcie was sticking her hat-pin within an eighth of an inch of her medulla oblongata, she said to her chum, Sadie--the girl that waits on you with her left side: "Say, Sade, I made a date for dinner this evening with Piggy." "You never did!" exclaimed Sadie admiringly. "Well, ain't you the lucky one? Piggy's an awful swell; and he always takes a girl to swell places. He took Blanche up to the Hoffman House one evening, where they have swell music, and you see a lot of swells. You'll have a swell time, Dulce." Dulcie hurried homeward. Her eyes were shining, and her cheeks showed the delicate pink of life's--real life's--approaching dawn. It was Friday; and she had fifty cents left of her last week's wages. The streets were filled with the rush-hour floods of people. The electric lights of Broadway were glowing--calling moths from miles, from leagues, from hundreds of leagues out of darkness around to come in and attend the singeing school. Men in accurate clothes, with faces like those carved on cherry stones by the old salts in sailors' homes, turned and stared at Dulcie as she sped, unheeding, past them. Manhattan, the night-blooming cereus, was beginning to unfold its dead-white, heavy-odoured petals. Dulcie stopped in a store where goods were cheap and bought an imitation lace collar with her fifty cents. That money was to have been spent otherwise--fifteen cents for supper, ten cents for breakfast, ten cents for lunch. Another dime was to be added to her small store of savings; and five cents was to be squandered for licorice drops--the kind that made your cheek look like the toothache, and last as long. The licorice was an extravagance-- almost a carouse--but what is life without pleasures? Dulcie lived in a furnished room. There is this difference between a furnished room and a boardinghouse. In a furnished room, other people do not know it when you go hungry. Dulcie went up to her room--the third floor back in a West Side brownstone-front. She lit the gas. Scientists tell us that the diamond is the hardest substance known. Their mistake. Landladies know of a compound beside which the diamond is as putty. They pack it in the tips of gas-burners; and one may stand on a chair and dig at it in vain until one's fingers are pink and bruised. A hairpin will not remove it; therefore let us call it immovable. So Dulcie lit the gas. In its one-fourth-candlepower glow we will observe the room. Couch-bed, dresser, table, washstand, chair--of this much the landlady was guilty. The rest was Dulcie's. On the dresser were her treasures--a gilt china vase presented to her by Sadie, a calendar issued by a pickle works, a book on the divination of dreams, some rice powder in a glass dish, and a cluster of artificial cherries tied with a pink ribbon. Against the wrinkly mirror stood pictures of General Kitchener, William Muldoon, the Duchess of Marlborough, and Benvenuto Cellini. Against one wall was a plaster of Paris plaque of an O'Callahan in a Roman helmet. Near it was a violent oleograph of a lemon-coloured child assaulting an inflammatory butterfly. This was Dulcie's final judgment in art; but it had never been upset. Her rest had never been disturbed by whispers of stolen copes; no critic had elevated his eyebrows at her infantile entomologist. Piggy was to call for her at seven. While she swiftly makes ready, let us discreetly face the other way and gossip. For the room, Dulcie paid two dollars per week. On week-days her breakfast cost ten cents; she made coffee and cooked an egg over the gaslight while she was dressing. On Sunday mornings she feasted royally on veal chops and pineapple fritters at "Billy's" restaurant, at a cost of twenty-five cents--and tipped the waitress ten cents. New York presents so many temptations for one to run into extravagance. She had her lunches in the department-store restaurant at a cost of sixty cents for the week; dinners were $1.05. The evening papers--show me a New Yorker going without his daily paper! --came to six cents; and two Sunday papers--one for the personal column and the other to read--were ten cents. The total amounts to $4.76. Now, one has to buy clothes, and-- I give it up. I hear of wonderful bargains in fabrics, and of miracles performed with needle and thread; but I am in doubt. I hold my pen poised in vain when I would add to Dulcie's life some of those joys that belong to woman by virtue of all the unwritten, sacred, natural, inactive ordinances of the equity of heaven. Twice she had been to Coney Island and had ridden the hobby-horses. 'Tis a weary thing to count your pleasures by summers instead of by hours. Piggy needs but a word. When the girls named him, an undeserving stigma was cast upon the noble family of swine. The words-of-three- letters lesson in the old blue spelling book begins with Piggy's biography. He was fat; he had the soul of a rat, the habits of a bat, and the magnanimity of a cat. . . He wore expensive clothes; and was a connoisseur in starvation. He could look at a shop-girl and tell you to an hour how long it had been since she had eaten anything more nourishing than marshmallows and tea. He hung about the shopping districts, and prowled around in department stores with his invitations to dinner. Men who escort dogs upon the streets at the end of a string look down upon him. He is a type; I can dwell upon him no longer; my pen is not the kind intended for him; I am no carpenter. At ten minutes to seven Dulcie was ready. She looked at herself in the wrinkly mirror. The reflection was satisfactory. The dark blue dress, fitting without a wrinkle, the hat with its jaunty black feather, the but-slightly-soiled gloves--all representing self- denial, even of food itself--were vastly becoming. Dulcie forgot everything else for a moment except that she was beautiful, and that life was about to lift a corner of its mysterious veil for her to observe its wonders. No gentleman had ever asked her out before. Now she was going for a brief moment into the glitter and exalted show. The girls said that Piggy was a "spender." There would be a grand dinner, and music, and splendidly dressed ladies to look at, and things to eat that strangely twisted the girls' jaws when they tried to tell about them. No doubt she would be asked out again. There was a blue pongee suit in a window that she knew--by saving twenty cents a week instead of ten, in--let's see--Oh, it would run into years! But there was a second-hand store in Seventh Avenue where-- Somebody knocked at the door. Dulcie opened it. The landlady stood there with a spurious smile, sniffing for cooking by stolen gas. "A gentleman's downstairs to see you," she said. "Name is Mr. Wiggins." By such epithet was Piggy known to unfortunate ones who had to take him seriously. Dulcie turned to the dresser to get her handkerchief; and then she stopped still, and bit her underlip hard. While looking in her mirror she had seen fairyland and herself, a princess, just awakening from a long slumber. She had forgotten one that was watching her with sad, beautiful, stern eyes--the only one there was to approve or condemn what she did. Straight and slender and tall, with a look of sorrowful reproach on his handsome, melancholy face, General Kitchener fixed his wonderful eyes on her out of his gilt photograph frame on the dresser. Dulcie turned like an automatic doll to the landlady. "Tell him I can't go," she said dully. "Tell him I'm sick, or something. Tell him I'm not going out." After the door was closed and locked, Dulcie fell upon her bed, crushing her black tip, and cried for ten minutes. General Kitchener was her only friend. He was Dulcie's ideal of a gallant knight. He looked as if he might have a secret sorrow, and his wonderful moustache was a dream, and she was a little afraid of that stern yet tender look in his eyes. She used to have little fancies that he would call at the house sometime, and ask for her, with his sword clanking against his high boots. Once, when a boy was rattling a piece of chain against a lamp-post she had opened the window and looked out. But there was no use. She knew that General Kitchener was away over in Japan, leading his army against the savage Turks; and he would never step out of his gilt frame for her. Yet one look from him had vanquished Piggy that night. Yes, for that night. When her cry was over Dulcie got up and took off her best dress, and put on her old blue kimono. She wanted no dinner. She sang two verses of "Sammy." Then she became intensely interested in a little red speck on the side of her nose. And after that was attended to, she drew up a chair to the rickety table, and told her fortune with an old deck of cards. "The horrid, impudent thing!" she said aloud. "And I never gave him a word or a look to make him think it!" At nine o'clock Dulcie took a tin box of crackers and a little pot of raspberry jam out of her trunk, and had a feast. She offered General Kitchener some jam on a cracker; but he only looked at her as the sphinx would have looked at a butterfly--if there are butterflies in the desert. "Don't eat it if you don't want to," said Dulcie. "And don't put on so many airs and scold so with your eyes. I wonder if you'd he so superior and snippy if you had to live on six dollars a week." It was not a good sign for Dulcie to be rude to General Kitchener. And then she turned Benvenuto Cellini face downward with a severe gesture. But that was not inexcusable; for she had always thought he was Henry VIII, and she did not approve of him. At half-past nine Dulcie took a last look at the pictures on the dresser, turned out the light, and skipped into bed. It's an awful thing to go to bed with a good-night look at General Kitchener, William Muldoon, the Duchess of Marlborough, and Benvenuto Cellini. This story really doesn't get anywhere at all. The rest of it comes later--sometime when Piggy asks Dulcie again to dine with him, and she is feeling lonelier than usual, and General Kitchener happens to be looking the other way; and then-- As I said before, I dreamed that I was standing near a crowd of prosperous-looking angels, and a policeman took me by the wing and asked if I belonged with them. "Who are they?" I asked. "Why," said he, "they are the men who hired working-girls, and paid 'em five or six dollars a week to live on. Are you one of the bunch?" "Not on your immortality," said I. "I'm only the fellow that set fire to an orphan asylum, and murdered a blind man for his pennies." 如今人们提到地狱的火焰时，我们不再唉声叹气，把灰涂在自己头上了。因为连传教的牧师也开始告诉我们说，上帝是镭锭，或是以太，或是某种科学的化合物；因此我们这伙坏人可能遭到的最恶的报应，无非只是个化学反应。这倒是一个可喜的假设；但是正教所启示的古老而巨大的恐怖，还有一部分依然存在。 [“…把灰涂在自己头上了”：犹太风俗，悲切忏悔时，身穿麻衣，须发涂灰。] 你能海阔天空地信口开河，而不致于遭到驳斥的只有两种话题。你可以叙说你梦见的东西；还可以谈谈从鹦哥那儿听来的话。摩非斯和鹦哥都不够证人资格，别人听到了你的高谈阔论也不敢指摘。我不在美丽的鹦哥的絮语中寻找素材，而挑了一个毫无根据的梦象作为主题，因为鹦哥说话的范围比较狭窄；那是我深感抱歉和遗憾的。 [摩非斯：罗马神话中的梦神，为睡神之子。] 我做了一个梦，这个梦同《圣经》考证绝无关系，它只牵涉到那个历史悠久，值得敬畏，令人悲叹的末日审判问题。 加百列摊出了他的王牌；我们之中无法跟进的人只得被提去受审。我看到一边是些穿着庄严的黑袍，反扣着硬领的职业保人，但是他们自己的职权似乎出了一些问题，所以他们不象是保得了我们中间任何一个人的样子。 [“加百列摊出了他的王牌；……提去受审”：加百列是希伯来神话中最高级的天使之一，上帝的主要传达吏，据说末日审判时的号角将由他吹响。原文中“王牌”与“号声”相同，原意是“天堂门开，天使吹响了他的号角”。] [“穿着庄严的黑袍，…职业保人”：指教会的神职人员。] 一个包探——也就是充当警察的天使——向我飞过来，挟了我的左臂就走。附近候审的是一群看上去境况极好的鬼灵。 “你是那一拨人里面的吗？”警察问道。 “他们是谁呀？”我反问说。 “嘿，”他说“他们是——” 这些题外的闲话已经占去正文应有的篇幅，我暂且不谈它了。 达尔西在一家百货公司工作。她经售的可能是汉堡的花边，或是呢绒，或是汽车，或是百货公司常备的小饰物之类的商品。达尔西在她所创造的财富中，每星期只领到六块钱。其余的在上帝经管的总帐上——哦，牧师先生，你说那叫“原始能量”吗？好吧，就算“原始能量总帐”吧——记在某一个人名下的贷方，达尔西名下的借方。 达尔西进公司后的第一年，每星期只有五块钱工资。要研究她怎样靠那个数目来维持生活，倒是一件给人以启发的事。你不感兴趣吗？好吧，也许你对大一些的数目才感兴趣。六块钱是个较大数目。我来告诉你，她怎样用六块钱来维持一星期的生活吧。 一天下午六点钟，达尔西在距离延髓八分之一英寸的地方插帽针时，对她的好友——老是侧着左身接待主顾的姑娘——萨迪说： “喂，萨迪，今晚我跟皮吉约好了去吃饭。” “真的吗！”萨迪羡慕地嚷道。“唷，你真运气。皮吉是个大阔佬；他总是带着姑娘上阔气的地方去。有一晚，他带了布兰奇上霍夫曼大饭店，那儿的音乐真棒，还可以看到许多阔佬。你准会玩得痛快的，达尔西。” 达尔西急急忙忙地赶回家去。她的眼睛闪闪发亮，她的脸颊泛出了生命的娇红——真正的生命的曙光。那天是星期五；她上星期的工资还剩下五毛钱。 街道上挤满了潮水般下班回家的人们。百老汇路的电灯光亮夺目，招致几英里、几里格、甚至几百里格以外的飞蛾从黑暗中扑来，参加焦头烂额的锻炼。衣冠楚楚，面目模糊不清，像是海员养老院里的老水手在樱桃核上刻出来的男人们，扭过头来凝视着一意奔跑，打他们身边经过的达尔西。曼哈顿，这朵晚上开放的仙人掌花，开始舒展它那颜色死白，气味浓烈的花瓣了。 [里格：长度名，约合三英里。] 达尔西在一家卖便宜货的商店里停了一下，用她的五毛钱买了一条仿花边的纸衣领。那笔款子本来另有用途——晚饭一毛五，早饭一毛，中饭一毛。另外一毛是准备加进她那寒酸的储蓄里的；五分钱准备浪费在甘草糖上——那种糖能使你的脸颊鼓得像牙痛似的，含化的时间也像牙痛那么长。吃甘草糖是一种奢侈——几乎是狂欢——可是没有乐趣的生活又算是什么呢？ 达尔西住的是一间连家具出租的房间。这种房间同包伙食的寄宿舍是有区别的。住在这种屋子里，挨饿的时候别人是不会知道的。 达尔西上楼到她的房间里去——西区一座褐石房屋的三楼后房。她点上煤气灯。科学家告诉我们，金刚石是世界上最坚硬的物质。他们错了。房东太太掌握了一种化合物，同它一比，连金刚石都软得像油灰了。她们把这种东西塞在煤气灯灯头上，任你站在椅子上挖得手指发红起泡，仍旧白搭。发针不能动它分毫，所以我们姑且管它叫做“牢不可移的”吧。 达尔西点燃了煤气灯。在那相当于四分之一烛光的灯光下，我们来看看这个房间。 榻床，梳妆台，桌子，洗脸架，椅子——造孽的房东太太所提供的全在这儿了。其余是达尔西自己的。她的宝贝摆在梳妆台上：萨迪送给她的一个描金磁瓶，腌菜作坊送的一组日历，一本详梦的书，一引起盛在玻璃碟子里的扑粉，以及一束扎着粉红色缎带的假樱桃。 那面起皱的镜子前靠着基钦纳将军、威廉·马尔登、马尔巴勒公爵夫人和本范努托·切利尼的相片。一面墙上挂着一个戴罗马式头盔的爱尔兰人的石膏像饰板，旁边有一幅色彩强烈的石印油画，画的是一个淡黄色的孩子在捉弄一只火红色的蝴蝶。达尔西认为那是登峰造极的艺术作品；也没有人对此提出反对意见。从没有人私下底座这幅画的真赝而使她心中不安，也从没有批评家来奚落也的幼年昆虫学家。 [基钦纳将军（1850--1916）：第一次世界大战中英国的名将，曾任陆军元帅和陆军大臣。 马尔巴勒公爵夫人：马尔巴勒系英国世袭公爵的称号，第一任约翰·邱吉尔（1650--1722）为第二次世界大战期间英国首相温斯顿·邱吉尔的祖先。] 皮吉说好七点钟来邀她。她正在迅速地打扮准备，我们不要冒昧，且掉过脸去，随便聊聊。 达尔西这个房间的租金是每星期两块钱。平日，她早饭花一毛钱。她一面穿衣服，一面在煤气灯上煮咖啡，煎一只蛋。星期日早晨，她花上两毛五分钱在比利饭馆阔气地大吃小牛肉排和菠萝油煎饼——还给女侍者一毛钱的小帐。纽约市有这么多的诱惑，很容易使人趋于奢华。她在百货公司的餐室里包了饭；每星期中饭是六毛钱，晚饭是一块零五分。那些晚报——你说有哪个纽约人不看报纸的！——要花六分钱；两份星期日的报纸——一份是买来看招聘广告栏的，另一份是预备细读的——要一毛钱。总数是四块七分门毛。然而，你总得添置些衣服，还是—— 我没法算下去了。我常听说有便宜得惊人的衣料和针线做出来的奇迹；但是我始终表示怀疑。我很想在达尔西的生活里加上一些根据那神圣，自然，既无明文规定，又不生效的天理的法令而应该是属于女人的乐趣，可是我搁笔长叹，没法写了。她去过两次康奈岛，骑过轮转木马。一个人盼望乐趣要以年份而浊以钟点为期，也未免太乏味了。 形容皮吉只要一个词儿。姑娘们提到他时，高贵的猪族就蒙上了不就有的污名。在那本蓝封皮的老拼音读本中，用三个字母拼成生字的一课就是皮吉的外传。他长得肥胖，有着耗子的心灵，蝙蝠的习性和狸猫那爱戏弄捕捉物的脾气——他衣着华贵，是鉴别饥饿的专家。他只要朝一个女店员瞅上一眼，就能告诉你，她多久没有吃到比茶和棉花糖更有营养的东西了，并且误差不会超出一小时。他老是在商业区徘徊，在百货公司里打转，相机邀请女店员们下馆子。连街上牵着绳子遛狗的人都瞧不起他。他是个典型；我不能再写他了；我的笔不是为他服务的；我不是木匠。 [“肥胖”，“耗子”，“蝙蝠”，“狸猫”（fat,rat,bat,cat）在英语中都由三个字母组成。“皮吉”（Piggy）意为“小猪”。] 七点差十分的时候，达尔西准备停当了。她在那面起皱的镜子里照了一下。照出来的形象很称心。那套深蓝色的衣服非常合身，带着飘拂的黑羽毛的帽子，稍微有点脏的手套——这一切都代表苦苦地省吃俭用——都非常漂亮。 达尔西暂时忘了一切，只觉得自己是美丽的，生活就要把它神秘的帷幕揭开一角，让她欣赏它的神奇。以前从没有男人邀请她出去过。现在她居然就要投入那种绚烂夺目的高贵生活中去，在里面逗留片刻了。 姑娘们说，皮吉是舍得花钱的。一定会有一顿丰盛的大餐，音乐，还有服饰华丽的女人可以看，有姑娘们讲得下巴都要掉下来的好东西可以吃。无疑的，她下次还会被邀请出去。 在她所熟悉的一个橱窗里，有一件蓝色的柞蚕丝绸衣服——如果每星期的储蓄从一毛钱增加到两毛，在——让我们算算看——喔，得积上好几年呢！但是七马路有一家旧货商店，那儿—— 有人敲门。达尔西把门打开。房东太太站在那儿，脸上堆着假笑，嗅嗅有没有偷用煤气烧食物的气味。 “楼下有一位先生要见你，”她说，“姓威金斯。” 对于那些把皮吉当作一回事的倒霉女人，皮吉总是用那个姓出面。 达尔西转向梳妆台去拿手帕；她突然停住了，使劲咬着下唇。先前她照镜子的时候，只看到仙境里的自己，仿佛刚从大梦中醒过来的公主。她忘了有一个人带着忧郁、美妙而严肃的眼神在瞅她——只有这个人关心她的行为，或是赞成，或是反对。他的身材颀长笔挺，他那英俊而忧郁的脸上带伤心和谴责的神情，那是基钦纳将军从梳妆台上的描金镜框里用他奇妙的眼睛在瞪着她。 达尔西像一个自动玩偶似地转过身来向着房东太太。 “对他说我不能去了。”她呆呆地说，“对他说我病了，或者随便找些理由。对他说我不出去了。” 等房门关上锁好之后，达尔西扑在床上，压坏了黑帽饰，哭了十分钟。基钦纳将军是她唯一的朋友。他是达尔西理想中的英武的男子汉。他好象怀有隐痛，他的胡髭美妙得难以形容，他眼睛里那严肃而温存的神色使她有结畏惧。她私下里常常幻想，但愿有一天他佩着碰在长靴上铿锵作响的宝剑，专程降临这所房屋来看她。有一次，一个小孩用一段铁链把灯柱擦得嘎嘎发响，她竟然打开窗子，伸出头去看看。可是大失所望。据她所知，基钦纳将军远在日本，正率领大军同野蛮的土耳其人作战；他绝不会为了她从那描金镜框里踱出来的。可是那天晚上，基钦纳的一瞥却把皮吉打垮了。是的，至少在那一晚是这样的。 [“基钦纳将军远在日本”：基钦纳于一九一○年前后去澳大利亚及新西兰视察，先此，曾前往日本游历。] 达尔西哭过之后站起来，把身上那套外出时穿的衣服脱掉，换上蓝色的旧睡袍。也不想吃饭了。她唱了两节《萨美》歌曲。接着，她对鼻子旁边的一个小粉刺产生了强烈的兴趣。那桩事做完后，她把椅子拖到那张站不稳的桌子边，用一副旧纸牌替自己算命。 “可恶无礼的家伙！”她脱口说道。“我的谈吐和举止有哪些使他起意的地方！” 九点钟,达尔西从箱子里取出一盒饼干和一小罐木莓果酱,大吃了一顿。她敬了基钦纳将军一块涂好果酱的饼干；但是基钦纳却像斯芬克斯望蝴蝶飞舞似地望着她——如果沙漠里也有蝴蝶的话。 [斯芬克斯：希腊的斯芬克斯是女首狮身展翅的石像；在埃及的是男首狮身无翼的石像，在大金字塔附近。] “你不爱吃就别吃好啦。”达尔西说，“何必这样神气活现地瞪着眼责备我。如果你每星期也靠六块钱来维持生活，我倒想知道，你是不是仍旧这样优越，这样神气。” 达尔西对基钦纳将军不敬并不是个好现象。接着，她用严厉的姿态把本范努托·切利尼的脸翻了过去。那倒不是不可原谅的；因为她总把他当作亨利八世，对他很不满意。 [亨利八世（1491--1547）：英国国王，他曾多次离婚，并处决过第二个妻子。] 九点半钟，达尔西对梳妆台上的相片看了最后一眼，便熄了灯，跳上床去。临睡前还向基钦纳将军、威廉·马尔登、马尔巴勒公爵夫人和本范努托·切利尼行了一个晚安注目礼，真是不痛快的事情。 到这里为止，这个故事并不说明问题。其余的情节是后来发生的——有一次，皮吉再请达尔西一起下馆子，她比平时更感到寂寞，而基钦纳将军的眼光碰巧又望着别处；于是—— 我在前面说过，我梦见自己站在一群境况很好的鬼灵旁边，一个警察挟着我的胳臂，问我是不是同那群人一起的。 “他们是谁呀？”我问。 “唷，”他说，“他们是那种雇用女工，每星期给她们五、六块钱维持生活的老板。你是那群人里面的吗？” “对天起誓，我绝对不是。”我说，“我的罪孽没有那么重，我只不过放火烧了一所孤儿院，为了少许钱财谋害了一个瞎子的性命。”