歐·亨利 聞春國

Miss Martha Meacham kept the little bakery on the corner （the one where you go up three steps， and the bell tinkles when you open the door）.

Miss Martha was forty， her bank-book showed a credit of two thousand dollars， and she possessed two false teeth and a sympathetic heart. Many people have married whose chances to do so were much inferior to Miss Marthas.

Two or three times a week a customer came in in whom she began to take an interest. He was a middle-aged man， wearing spectacles and a brown beard trimmed to a careful point.

He spoke English with a strong German accent. His clothes were worn and darned in places， and wrinkled and baggy in others. But he looked neat， and had very good manners.

He always bought two loaves of stale bread. Fresh bread was five cents a loaf. Stale ones were two for five. Never did he call for anything but stale bread.

Once Miss Martha saw a red and brown stain on his fingers. She was sure then that he was an artist and very poor. No doubt he lived in a garret， where he painted pictures and ate stale bread and thought of the good things to eat in Miss Marthas bakery.

Often when Miss Martha sat down to her chops and light rolls and jam and tea she would sigh， and wish that the gentle-mannered artist might share her tasty meal instead of eating his dry crust in that draughty attic. Miss Marthas heart， as you have been told， was a sympathetic one.

In order to test her theory as to his occupation， she brought from her room one day a painting that she had bought at a sale， and set it against the shelves behind the bread counter.

It was a Venetian scene. A splendid marble palazzio stood in the foreground—or rather forewater. For the rest there were gondolas （with the lady trailing her hand in the water）， clouds， sky， and chiaro-oscuro in plenty. No artist could fail to notice it.

Two days afterward the customer came in.

“Two loafs of stale bread， if you blease.

“You haf here a fine bicture， madame，” he said while she was wrapping up the bread.

“Yes？” says Miss Martha， reveling in her own cunning. “I do so admire art and” （no， it would not do to say “artists” thus early） “and paintings，” she substituted. “You think it is a good picture？”

“Der balance，” said the customer， “is not in good drawing. Der bairspective of it is not true. Goot morning， madame.”

He took his bread， bowed， and hurried out.

Yes， he must be an artist. Miss Martha took the picture back to her room.40C76890-AA4A-4E25-83E2-8E57BD8B7F75

How gentle and kindly his eyes shone behind his spectacles！ What a broad brow he had！ To be able to judge perspective at a glance–and to live on stale bread！ But genius often has to struggle before it is recognized.

What a thing it would be for art and perspective if genius were backed by two thousand dollars in bank， a bakery， and a sympathetic heart to–But these were day-dreams， Miss Martha.

Often now when he came he would chat for a while across the showcase. He seemed to crave Miss Marthas cheerful words.

He kept on buying stale bread. Never a cake， never a pie， never one of her delicious Sally Lunns.

She thought he began to look thinner and discouraged. Her heart ached to add something good to eat to his meagre purchase， but her courage failed at the act. She did not dare affront him. She knew the pride of artists.

Miss Martha took to wearing her blue-dotted silk waist behind the counter. In the back room she cooked a mysterious compound of quince seeds and borax. Ever so many people use it for the complexion.

One day the customer came in as usual， laid his nickel on the showcase， and called for his stale loaves. While Miss Martha was reaching for them there was a great tooting and clanging， and a fire-engine came lumbering past.

The customer hurried to the door to look， as any one will. Suddenly inspired， Miss Martha seized the opportunity.

On the bottom shelf behind the counter was a pound of fresh butter that the dairyman had left ten minutes before. With a bread knife Miss Martha made a deep slash in each of the stale loaves， inserted a generous quantity of butter， and pressed the loaves tight again.

When the customer turned once more she was tying the paper around them.

When he had gone， after an unusually pleasant little chat， Miss Martha smiled to herself， but not without a slight fluttering of the heart.

Had she been too bold？ Would he take offense？ But surely not. There was no language of edibles. Butter was no emblem of unmaidenly forwardness.

For a long time that day her mind dwelt on the subject. She imagined the scene when he should discover her little deception.

He would lay down his brushes and palette. There would stand his easel with the picture he was painting in which the perspective was beyond criticism.

He would prepare for his luncheon of dry bread and water. He would slice into a loaf–ah！

Miss Martha blushed. Would he think of the hand that placed it there as he ate？ Would he–40C76890-AA4A-4E25-83E2-8E57BD8B7F75

The front door bell jangled viciously. Somebody was coming in， making a great deal of noise.

Miss Martha hurried to the front. Two men were there. One was a young man smoking a pipe–a man she had never seen before. The other was her artist.

His face was very red， his hat was on the back of his head， his hair was wildly rumpled. He clinched his two fists and shook them ferociously at Miss Martha. At Miss Martha.

“Dummkopf！” he shouted with extreme loudness; and then “Tausendonfer！” or something like it in German.

The young man tried to draw him away.

“I vill not go，” he said angrily， “else I shall told her.”

He made a bass drum of Miss Marthas counter.

“You haf shpoilt me，” he cried， his blue eyes blazing behind his spectacles. “I vill tell you. You vas von meddingsome old cat！”

Miss Martha leaned weakly against the shelves and laid one hand on her blue-dotted silk waist. The young man took the other by the collar.

“Come on，” he said， “youve said enough.” He dragged the angry one out at the door to the sidewalk， and then came back.

“Guess you ought to be told， maam，” he said， “what the row is about. Thats Blumberger. Hes an architectural draftsman. I work in the same office with him.

“Hes been working hard for three months drawing a plan for a new city hall. It was a prize competition. He finished inking the lines yesterday. You know， a draftsman always makes his drawing in pencil first. When its done he rubs out the pencil lines with handfuls of stale bread crumbs. Thats better than India rubber.

“Blumbergers been buying the bread here. Well， to-day–well， you know， maam， that butter isnt–well， Blumbergers plan isnt good for anything now except to cut up into railroad sandwiches.”

Miss Martha went into the back room. She took off the blue-dotted silk waist and put on the old brown serge she used to wear. Then she poured the quince seed and borax mixture out of the window into the ash can.

瑪莎·米查姆小姐在街角開了一家面包店，就是那家要登上三級臺階，開門時(shí)會聽到一陣鈴聲的小店。

瑪莎小姐芳齡四十，有兩千美元的銀行存款，有兩顆假牙，還有一顆溫柔多情的心。許多條件遠(yuǎn)不如瑪莎小姐的人都已結(jié)了婚，可她還是獨(dú)身一人。

有一位顧客每周來店兩三次，瑪莎小姐開始對他產(chǎn)生了好感。那是一個中年男子，戴著一副眼鏡，棕色的胡須總是修得整整齊齊。

他說英語帶有濃重的德國口音。他的衣服有的地方破了縫補(bǔ)過，有的地方皺巴巴、松垮垮。不過，他這人看起來還挺精神，對人也彬彬有禮。

這位顧客總是買兩個陳面包。新鮮面包是五美分一個，陳面包是五美分兩個。除了陳面包，他從來沒有買過其他東西。

有一次，瑪莎小姐看到他的手指上有一塊紅褐色的污漬。于是，她斷定他是一位藝術(shù)家，而且非常窮。毫無疑問，他住在一間閣樓里，在那里畫著畫，吃著陳面包，心里想著瑪莎小姐面包店里的各種美食。

每當(dāng)瑪莎小姐坐下來喝著茶，享用她的肉排、面包卷、果醬時(shí)，她都會嘆息一聲，真希望這位溫文爾雅的藝術(shù)家能夠分享她美味可口的飯菜，而不是待在四處透風(fēng)的閣樓里啃干面包。要知道，我們的瑪莎小姐有著一副菩薩心腸。40C76890-AA4A-4E25-83E2-8E57BD8B7F75

有一天，為了印證自己對他職業(yè)的判斷正確與否，她從住處拿來一幅在一次促銷時(shí)買下的畫，并將它擺在面包柜臺后面的架子上。

這是一幅威尼斯的風(fēng)景畫。畫面的前景（更確切地說是前面的水中）矗立著一座富麗堂皇的大理石宮殿。畫面其他部分有幾條平底小船（船上有位女士把手伸進(jìn)水里劃動著）、云彩、天空，并大量采用明暗光影技法。對于這樣的一幅畫，任何藝術(shù)家都不會視而不見的。

兩天后，這位顧客又來了。

“新（請）給我拿兩個陳面包。”

“夫人，您這里還育（有）一幅不錯的侉（畫）呢?！彼诎姘鼤r(shí)，他說。

“是嗎？”瑪莎小姐說道，得意于自己的這一妙計(jì)?！拔曳浅Ｏ矚g藝術(shù)和——”（哦，不，這會兒就說“藝術(shù)家”為時(shí)過早）“尤其是繪畫?！彼目诘?，“您覺得這畫畫得還不錯？”

“則（這）宏（宮）殿，”這位顧客說道，“畫得不太好。它拉（那）個斗（透）視效果不夠真實(shí)。栽（再）見，夫人?！?/p>

他拿上面包，鞠了一躬，匆匆離開了。

沒錯了，他肯定是位藝術(shù)家?，斏〗惆涯欠嬆没亓俗√帯?/p>

他那雙眼睛透過鏡片閃爍著多么和善的光芒！他的額頭多寬??！一眼就能判斷出畫的透視好不好——卻靠啃陳面包過活！不過，自古天才多磨難。

如果一個天才能有兩千美元存款、一個面包店和一顆同情心作后盾，那對藝術(shù)靈感和透視效果該會有多大好處啊——可這些都是白日夢，瑪莎小姐。

現(xiàn)在，他來了之后總是隔著展示柜跟瑪莎小姐聊上一會兒。他似乎渴望聽到瑪莎小姐那令人愉悅的話語。

他還是買陳面包。從不買蛋糕，不買餡餅，也不買她那些美味的莎莉甜餅。

她覺得，他看上去開始消瘦了，還有點(diǎn)兒沮喪。她很想在他買的寒磣的食物里增添一些好吃的東西，只是沒有這樣做的勇氣。她不敢冒犯他。她了解藝術(shù)家的那股傲氣。

在店里站柜臺時(shí)，瑪莎小姐穿上了她那件藍(lán)點(diǎn)的真絲背心。在里屋，她調(diào)制了一種木瓜籽和硼砂的神秘混合物——許多人用它來護(hù)膚養(yǎng)顏。

有一天，這位顧客像往常一樣來到了面包店。他將一枚五分鎳幣放在柜臺上，還是買陳面包。就在瑪莎小姐伸手拿面包的時(shí)候，外面響起了一陣刺耳的喇叭聲和警鈴的叮當(dāng)聲，一輛消防車從門前隆隆駛過。

人都有好奇心，這位顧客也跑到門口去張望。瑪莎小姐靈機(jī)一動，抓住了這次機(jī)會。

柜臺后面底層的貨架上有一磅新鮮黃油，是奶牛場十分鐘前剛送來的?，斏〗阌妹姘对诿總€陳面包上劃了一道深口子，往里面加了好多黃油，然后再把切口壓緊了。

當(dāng)這位顧客轉(zhuǎn)身走過來時(shí)，瑪莎小姐已經(jīng)用紙把面包包好了。

在非常愉快地聊了幾句之后，這位顧客走了，瑪莎小姐暗自里笑了笑，但心頭不免也有一絲忐忑。

她這膽子是不是太大了？他會不會生氣呢？應(yīng)該不會吧。食物又不會說話。送點(diǎn)兒黃油也不是干了什么不檢點(diǎn)的事。

那一天，這件事老是縈繞在她的心頭?，斏〗阆胂笾?，當(dāng)他發(fā)現(xiàn)自己的小伎倆時(shí)會出現(xiàn)怎樣的情景。

他會放下手中的畫筆和調(diào)色板。畫架上放著還未完成的畫，那透視無可挑剔。

午餐時(shí)間到了，他準(zhǔn)備了干面包和白開水。他切開一個面包——??！

想到這兒，瑪莎小姐不禁臉紅了。他吃面包的時(shí)候，會想起在里面加黃油的她嗎？他會——

這時(shí)候，門鈴劇烈地響了起來。有人吵吵嚷嚷要沖進(jìn)來。

瑪莎小姐急忙趕到門口。有兩個男人站在那兒。一個年輕人嘴里叼著煙斗，這人她以前從未見過;另一個就是她的藝術(shù)家。

他的臉漲得通紅，帽子戴在了后腦勺，頭發(fā)亂蓬蓬的。他握緊兩個拳頭，憤怒地朝瑪莎小姐揮舞著。竟然朝著瑪莎小姐。

“你這個蠢貨！”他拼命嚷嚷，又用德語嚷嚷著什么“一千美元啊！”之類的話。

年輕人試圖把他拉走。

“我撲（不）走?！彼鷼獾卣f，“我還得跟她說個明白。”

他把瑪莎小姐的柜臺拍得山響，像敲低音鼓。

“你怕（把）我給廢（毀）了?！彼碌?，那雙藍(lán)眼睛透過鏡片噴射著熊熊怒火，“我妖（要）告訴你，你求（就）是個愛管閑事的老太婆！”

瑪莎小姐無力地靠在貨架上，一只手按著身上的藍(lán)點(diǎn)真絲背心。年輕人抓住了同伴的衣領(lǐng)。

“行了，”他說，“罵夠了吧。”他把怒氣沖天的同伴拖到門外的人行道上，自己又返了回來。

“夫人，我想應(yīng)該告訴您他大吵大鬧的原因。”他說，“他叫布盧姆伯格，是個建筑繪圖員。我跟他一個辦公室。

“他在為新的市政大樓繪制設(shè)計(jì)圖，已經(jīng)辛辛苦苦干了三個月。這是一次有獎比賽。他昨天給線條上好了墨。您知道，繪圖員總是先用鉛筆打好底稿;完事后再用一把把陳面包屑擦去鉛筆線條。陳面包屑比橡皮擦好用。

“布盧姆伯格一直在您這里買陳面包。嗯，今天——嗯，夫人，您知道，那黃油可壞了事了——唉，布盧姆伯格的圖樣現(xiàn)在成了廢紙，大概只能裁了去包鐵路上兜售的三明治了?！?/p>

瑪莎小姐走進(jìn)里屋。她脫下藍(lán)點(diǎn)真絲背心，換上了平日老穿的那件舊的棕色嗶嘰背心。然后，她將木瓜籽和硼砂熬制的混合物一股腦倒進(jìn)了窗外的垃圾桶。40C76890-AA4A-4E25-83E2-8E57BD8B7F75