Witches’Loaves女巫的面包

欧·亨利 闻春国

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.

玛莎·米查姆小姐在街角开了一家面包店，就是那家要登上三级台阶，开门时会听到一阵铃声的小店。

玛莎小姐芳龄四十，有两千美元的银行存款，有两颗假牙，还有一颗温柔多情的心。许多条件远不如玛莎小姐的人都已结了婚，可她还是独身一人。

有一位顾客每周来店两三次，玛莎小姐开始对他产生了好感。那是一个中年男子，戴着一副眼镜，棕色的胡须总是修得整整齐齐。

他说英语带有浓重的德国口音。他的衣服有的地方破了缝补过，有的地方皱巴巴、松垮垮。不过，他这人看起来还挺精神，对人也彬彬有礼。

这位顧客总是买两个陈面包。新鲜面包是五美分一个，陈面包是五美分两个。除了陈面包，他从来没有买过其他东西。

有一次，玛莎小姐看到他的手指上有一块红褐色的污渍。于是，她断定他是一位艺术家，而且非常穷。毫无疑问，他住在一间阁楼里，在那里画着画，吃着陈面包，心里想着玛莎小姐面包店里的各种美食。

每当玛莎小姐坐下来喝着茶，享用她的肉排、面包卷、果酱时，她都会叹息一声，真希望这位温文尔雅的艺术家能够分享她美味可口的饭菜，而不是待在四处透风的阁楼里啃干面包。要知道，我们的玛莎小姐有着一副菩萨心肠。40C76890-AA4A-4E25-83E2-8E57BD8B7F75

有一天，为了印证自己对他职业的判断正确与否，她从住处拿来一幅在一次促销时买下的画，并将它摆在面包柜台后面的架子上。

这是一幅威尼斯的风景画。画面的前景（更确切地说是前面的水中）矗立着一座富丽堂皇的大理石宫殿。画面其他部分有几条平底小船（船上有位女士把手伸进水里划动着）、云彩、天空，并大量采用明暗光影技法。对于这样的一幅画，任何艺术家都不会视而不见的。

两天后，这位顾客又来了。

“新（请）给我拿两个陈面包。”

“夫人，您这里还育（有）一幅不错的侉（画）呢。”她在包面包时，他说。

“是吗？”玛莎小姐说道，得意于自己的这一妙计。“我非常喜欢艺术和——”（哦，不，这会儿就说“艺术家”为时过早）“尤其是绘画。”她改口道，“您觉得这画画得还不错？”

“则（这）宏（宫）殿，”这位顾客说道，“画得不太好。它拉（那）个斗（透）视效果不够真实。栽（再）见，夫人。”

他拿上面包，鞠了一躬，匆匆离开了。

没错了，他肯定是位艺术家。玛莎小姐把那幅画拿回了住处。

他那双眼睛透过镜片闪烁着多么和善的光芒！他的额头多宽啊！一眼就能判断出画的透视好不好——却靠啃陈面包过活！不过，自古天才多磨难。

如果一個天才能有两千美元存款、一个面包店和一颗同情心作后盾，那对艺术灵感和透视效果该会有多大好处啊——可这些都是白日梦，玛莎小姐。

现在，他来了之后总是隔着展示柜跟玛莎小姐聊上一会儿。他似乎渴望听到玛莎小姐那令人愉悦的话语。

他还是买陈面包。从不买蛋糕，不买馅饼，也不买她那些美味的莎莉甜饼。

她觉得，他看上去开始消瘦了，还有点儿沮丧。她很想在他买的寒碜的食物里增添一些好吃的东西，只是没有这样做的勇气。她不敢冒犯他。她了解艺术家的那股傲气。

在店里站柜台时，玛莎小姐穿上了她那件蓝点的真丝背心。在里屋，她调制了一种木瓜籽和硼砂的神秘混合物——许多人用它来护肤养颜。

有一天，这位顾客像往常一样来到了面包店。他将一枚五分镍币放在柜台上，还是买陈面包。就在玛莎小姐伸手拿面包的时候，外面响起了一阵刺耳的喇叭声和警铃的叮当声，一辆消防车从门前隆隆驶过。

人都有好奇心，这位顾客也跑到门口去张望。玛莎小姐灵机一动，抓住了这次机会。

柜台后面底层的货架上有一磅新鲜黄油，是奶牛场十分钟前刚送来的。玛莎小姐用面包刀在每个陈面包上划了一道深口子，往里面加了好多黄油，然后再把切口压紧了。

当这位顾客转身走过来时，玛莎小姐已经用纸把面包包好了。

在非常愉快地聊了几句之后，这位顾客走了，玛莎小姐暗自里笑了笑，但心头不免也有一丝忐忑。

她这胆子是不是太大了？他会不会生气呢？应该不会吧。食物又不会说话。送点儿黄油也不是干了什么不检点的事。

那一天，这件事老是萦绕在她的心头。玛莎小姐想象着，当他发现自己的小伎俩时会出现怎样的情景。

他会放下手中的画笔和调色板。画架上放着还未完成的画，那透视无可挑剔。

午餐时间到了，他准备了干面包和白开水。他切开一个面包——啊！

想到这儿，玛莎小姐不禁脸红了。他吃面包的时候，会想起在里面加黄油的她吗？他会——

这时候，门铃剧烈地响了起来。有人吵吵嚷嚷要冲进来。

玛莎小姐急忙赶到门口。有两个男人站在那儿。一个年轻人嘴里叼着烟斗，这人她以前从未见过;另一个就是她的艺术家。

他的脸涨得通红，帽子戴在了后脑勺，头发乱蓬蓬的。他握紧两个拳头，愤怒地朝玛莎小姐挥舞着。竟然朝着玛莎小姐。

“你这个蠢货！”他拼命嚷嚷，又用德语嚷嚷着什么“一千美元啊！”之类的话。

年轻人试图把他拉走。

“我扑（不）走。”他生气地说，“我还得跟她说个明白。”

他把玛莎小姐的柜台拍得山响，像敲低音鼓。

“你怕（把）我给废（毁）了。”他嚷道，那双蓝眼睛透过镜片喷射着熊熊怒火，“我妖（要）告诉你，你求（就）是个爱管闲事的老太婆！”

玛莎小姐无力地靠在货架上，一只手按着身上的蓝点真丝背心。年轻人抓住了同伴的衣领。

“行了，”他说，“骂够了吧。”他把怒气冲天的同伴拖到门外的人行道上，自己又返了回来。

“夫人，我想应该告诉您他大吵大闹的原因。”他说，“他叫布卢姆伯格，是个建筑绘图员。我跟他一个办公室。

“他在为新的市政大楼绘制设计图，已经辛辛苦苦干了三个月。这是一次有奖比赛。他昨天给线条上好了墨。您知道，绘图员总是先用铅笔打好底稿;完事后再用一把把陈面包屑擦去铅笔线条。陈面包屑比橡皮擦好用。

“布卢姆伯格一直在您这里买陈面包。嗯，今天——嗯，夫人，您知道，那黄油可坏了事了——唉，布卢姆伯格的图样现在成了废纸，大概只能裁了去包铁路上兜售的三明治了。”

玛莎小姐走进里屋。她脱下蓝点真丝背心，换上了平日老穿的那件旧的棕色哔叽背心。然后，她将木瓜籽和硼砂熬制的混合物一股脑倒进了窗外的垃圾桶。40C76890-AA4A-4E25-83E2-8E57BD8B7F75