嘉莉妹妹(Sister Carrie) 第四十五章
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Chapter 45 CURIOUS SHIFTS OF THE POOR The gloomy Hurstwood, sitting in his cheap hotel, where he had taken refuge with seventy dollars -- the price of his furniture -- between him and nothing, saw a hot summer out and a cool fall in, reading. He was not wholly indifferent to the fact that his money was slipping away. As fifty cents after fifty cents were paid out for a day's lodging he became uneasy, and finally took a cheaper room -- thirty-five cents a day -- to make his money last longer. Frequently he saw notices of Carrie. Her picture was in the "World" once or twice, and an old "Herald" he found in a chair informed him that she had recently appeared with some others at a benefit for something or other. He read these things with mingled feelings. Each one seemed to put her farther and farther away into a realm which became more imposing as it receded from him. On the bill-boards, too, he saw a pretty poster, showing her as the Quaker Maid, demure and dainty. More than once he stopped and looked at these, gazing at the pretty face in a sullen sort of way. His clothes were shabby, and he presented a marked contrast to all that she now seemed to be. Somehow, so long as he knew she was at the Casino, though he had never any intention of going near her, there was a subconscious comfort for him -- he was not quite alone. The show seemed such a fixture that, after a month or two, he began to take it for granted that it was still running. In September it went on the road and he did not notice it. When all but twenty dollars of his money was gone, he moved to a fifteen-cent lodging-house in the Bowery, where there was a bare lounging-room filled with tables and benches as well as some chairs. Here his preference was to close his eyes and dream of other days, a habit which grew upon him. It was not sleep at first, but a mental hearkening back to scenes and incidents in his Chicago life. As the present became darker, the past grew brighter, and all that concerned it stood in relief. He was unconscious of just how much this habit had hold of him until one day he found his lips repeating an old answer he had made to one of his friends. They were in Fitzgerald and Moy's. It was as if he stood in the door of his elegant little office, comfortably dressed, talking to Sagar Morrison about the value of South Chicago real estate in which the latter was about to invest. "How would you like to come in on that with me?" he heard Morrison say. "Not me," he answered, just as he had years before. "I have my hands full now." The movement of his lips aroused him. He wondered whether he had really spoken. The next time he noticed anything of the sort he did talk. "Why don't you jump, you bloody fool?" he was saying. "Jump!" It was a funny English story he was telling to a company of actors, Even as his voice recalled him, he was smiling. A crusty old codger, sitting near by seemed disturbed; at least, he stared in a most pointed way. Hurstwood straightened up. The humour of the memory fled in an instant and he felt ashamed. For relief, he left his chair and strolled out into the streets. One day, looking down the ad. columns of the "Evening World," he saw where a new play was at the Casino. Instantly, he came to a mental halt. Carrie had gone! He remembered seeing a poster of her only yesterday, but no doubt it was one left uncovered by the new signs. Curiously, this fact shook him up. He had almost to admit that somehow he was depending upon her being in the city. Now she was gone. He wondered how this important fact had skipped him. Goodness knows when she would be back now. Impelled by a nervous fear, he rose and went into the dingy hall, where he counted his remaining money, unseen. There were but ten dollars in all. He wondered how all these other lodging-house people around him got along. They didn't seem to do anything. Perhaps they begged -- unquestionably they did. Many was the dime he had given to such as they in his day. He had seen other men asking for money on the streets. Maybe he could get some that way. There was horror in this thought. Sitting in the lodging-house room, he came to his last fifty cents. He had saved and counted until his health was affected. His stoutness had gone. With it, even the semblance of a fit in his clothes. Now he decided he must do something, and, walking about, saw another day go by, bringing him down to his last twenty cents -- not enough to eat for the morrow. Summoning all his courage, he crossed to Broadway and up to the Broadway Central hotel. Within a block he halted, undecided. A big, heavy-faced porter was standing at one of the side entrances, looking out. Hurstwood purposed to appeal to him. Walking straight up, he was upon him before he could turn away. "My friend," he said, recognising even in his plight the man's inferiority, "is there anything about this hotel that I could get to do?" The porter stared at him the while he continued to talk. "I'm out of work and out of money and I've got to get something -- it doesn't matter what. I don't care to talk about what I've been, but if you'd tell me how to get something to do, I'd be much obliged to you. It wouldn't matter if it only lasted a few days just now. I've got to have something." The porter still gazed, trying to look indifferent. Then, seeing that Hurstwood was about to go on, he said: "I've nothing to do with it. You'll have to ask inside." Curiously, this stirred Hurstwood to further effort. "I thought you might tell me." The fellow shook his head irritably. Inside went the ex-manager and straight to an office off the clerk's desk. One of the managers of the hotel happened to be there. Hurstwood looked him straight in the eye. "Could you give me something to do for a few days?" he said. "I'm in a position where I have to get something at once." The comfortable manager looked at him, as much as to say: "Well, I should judge so." "I came here," explained Hurstwood, nervously, "because I've been a manager myself in my day. I've had bad luck in a way, but I'm not here to tell you that. I want something to do, if only for a week." The man imagined he saw a feverish gleam in the applicant's eye. "What hotel did you manage?" he inquired. "It wasn't a hotel," said Hurstwood. "I was manager of Fitzgerald and Moy's place in Chicago for fifteen years." "Is that so?" said the hotel man. "How did you come to get out of that?" The figure of Hurstwood was rather surprising in contrast to the fact. "Well, by foolishness of my own. It isn't anything to talk about now. You could find out if you wanted to. I'm 'broke' now and, if you will believe me, I haven't eaten anything to-day." The hotel man was slightly interested in this story. He could hardly tell what to do with such a figure, and yet Hurstwood's earnestness made him wish to do something. "Call Olsen," he said, turning to the clerk. In reply to a bell and a disappearing hall-boy, Olsen, the head porter, appeared. "Olsen," said the manager, "is there anything downstairs you could find for this man to do? I'd like to give him something." "I don't know, sir," said Olsen. "We have about all the help we need. I think I could find something, sir, though, if you like." "Do. Take him to the kitchen and tell Wilson to give him something to eat." "All right, sir," said Olsen. Hurstwood followed. Out of the manager's sight, the head porter's manner changed. "I don't know what the devil there is to do," he observed. Hurstwood said nothing. To him the big trunk hustler was a subject for private contempt. "You're to give this man something to eat," he observed to the cook. The latter looked Hurstwood over, and seeing something keen and intellectual in his eyes, said: "Well, sit down over there." Thus was Hurstwood installed in the Broadway Central, but not for long. He was in no shape or mood to do the scrub work that exists about the foundation of every hotel. Nothing better offering, he was set to aid the fireman, to work about the basement, to do anything and everything that might offer. Porters, cooks, firemen, clerks -- all were over him. Moreover his appearance did not please these individuals -- his temper was too lonely -- and they made it disagreeable for him. With the stolidity and indifference of despair, however, he endured it all, sleeping in an attic at the roof of the house, eating what the cook gave him, accepting a few dollars a week, which he tried to save. His constitution was in no shape to endure. One day the following February he was sent on an errand to a large coal company's office. It had been snowing and thawing and the streets were sloppy. He soaked his shoes in his progress and came back feeling dull and weary. All the next day he felt unusually depressed and sat about as much as possible, to the irritation of those who admired energy in others. In the afternoon some boxes were to be moved to make room for new culinary supplies. He was ordered to handle a truck. Encountering a big box, he could not lift it. "What's the matter there?" said the head porter. "Can't you handle it?" He was straining hard to lift it, but now he quit. "No," he said, weakly. The man looked at him and saw that he was deathly pale. "Not sick, are you?" he asked. "I think I am," returned Hurstwood. "Well, you'd better go sit down, then." This he did, but soon grew rapidly worse. It seemed all he could do to crawl to his room, where he remained for a day. "That man Wheeler's sick," reported one of the lackeys to the night clerk. "What's the matter with him?" "I don't know. He's got a high fever." The hotel physician looked at him. "Better send him to Bellevue," he recommended. "He's got pneumonia." Accordingly, he was carted away. In three weeks the worst was over, but it was nearly the first of May before his strength permitted him to be turned out. Then he was discharged. No more weakly looking object ever strolled out into the spring sunshine than the once hale, lusty manager. All his corpulency had fled. His face was thin and pale, his hands white, his body flabby. Clothes and all, he weighed but one hundred and thirty-five pounds. Some old garments had been given him -- a cheap brown coat and misfit pair of trousers. Also some change and advice. He was told to apply to the charities. Again he resorted to the Bowery lodging-house, brooding over where to look. From this it was but a step to beggary. "What can a man do?" he said. "I can't starve." His first application was in sunny Second Avenue. A well-dressed man came leisurely strolling toward him out of Stuyvesant Park. Hurstwood nerved himself and sidled near. "Would you mind giving me ten cents?" he said, directly. "I'm in a position where I must ask someone." The man scarcely looked at him, but fished in his vest pocket and took out a dime. "There you are," he said. "Much obliged," said Hurstwood, softly, but the other paid no more attention to him. Satisfied with his success and yet ashamed of his situation, he decided that he would only ask for twenty-five cents more, since that would be sufficient. He strolled about sizing up people, but it was long before just the right face and situation arrived. When he asked, he was refused. Shocked by this result, he took an hour to recover and then asked again. This time a nickel was given him. By the most watchful effort he did get twenty cents more, but it was painful. The next day he resorted to the same effort, experiencing a variety of rebuffs and one or two generous receptions. At last it crossed his mind that there was a science of faces, and that a man could pick the liberal countenance if he tried. It was no pleasure to him, however, this stopping of passers-by. He saw one man taken up for it and now troubled lest he should be arrested. Nevertheless, he went on, vaguely anticipating that indefinite something which is always better. It was with a sense of satisfaction, then, that he saw announced one morning the return of the Casino Company, "with Miss Carrie Madenda." He had thought of her often enough in days past. How successful she was -- how much money she must have! Even now, however, it took a severe run of ill-luck to decide him to appeal to her. He was truly hungry before he said: "I'll ask her. She won't refuse me a few dollars." Accordingly, he headed for the Casino one afternoon, passing it several times in an effort to locate the stage entrance. Then he sat in Bryant Park, a block away, waiting. "She can't refuse to help me a little," he kept saying to himself. Beginning with half-past six, he hovered like a shadow about the Thirty-ninth Street entrance, pretending always to be a hurrying pedestrian and yet fearful lest he should miss his object. He was slightly nervous, too, now that the eventful hour had arrived; but being weak and hungry, his ability to suffer was modified. At last he saw that the actors were beginning to arrive, and his nervous tension increased, until it seemed as if he could not stand much more. Once he thought he saw Carrie coming and moved forward, only to see that he was mistaken. "She can't be long, now," he said to himself, half fearing to encounter her and equally depressed at the thought that she might have gone in by another way. His stomach was so empty that it ached. Individual after individual passed him, nearly all well dressed, almost all indifferent. He saw coaches rolling by, gentlemen passing with ladies -- the evening's merriment was beginning in this region of theatres and hotels. Suddenly a coach rolled up and the driver jumped down to open the door. Before Hurstwood could act, two ladies flounced across the broad walk and disappeared in the stage door. He thought he saw Carrie, but it was so unexpected, so elegant and far away, he could hardly tell. He waited a while longer, growing feverish with want, and then seeing that the stage door no longer opened, and that a merry audience was arriving, he concluded it must have been Carrie and turned away. "Lord," he said, hastening out of the street into which the more fortunate were pouring, "I've got to get something." At that hour, when Broadway is wont to assume its most interesting aspect, a peculiar individual invariably took his stand at the corner of Twenty-sixth Street and Broadway -- a spot which is also intersected by Fifth Avenue. This was the hour when the theatres were just beginning to receive their patrons. Fire signs announcing the night's amusements blazed on every hand. Cabs and carriages, their lamps gleaming like yellow eyes, pattered by. Couples and parties of three and four freely mingled in the common crowd, which poured by in a thick stream, laughing and jesting. On Fifth Avenue were loungers -- a few wealthy strollers, a gentleman in evening dress with his lady on his arm, some clubmen passing from one smoking-room to another. Across the way the great hotels showed a hundred gleaming windows, their cafes and billiard-rooms filled with a comfortable, well-dressed, and pleasure-loving throng. All about was the night, pulsating with the thoughts of pleasure and exhilaration -- the city bent upon finding joy in a thousand different ways. This unique individual was no less than an ex-soldier turned religionist, who, having suffered the whips and privations of our peculiar social system, had concluded that his duty to the God which he conceived lay in aiding his fellow-man. The form of aid which he chose to administer was entirely original with himself. It consisted of securing a bed for all such homeless wayfarers as should apply to him at this particular spot, though he had scarcely the wherewithal to provide a comfortable habitation for himself. Taking his place amid this lightsome atmosphere, he would stand, his stocky figure cloaked in a great cape overcoat, his head protected by a broad slouch hat, awaiting the applicants who had in various ways learned the nature of his charity. For a while he would stand alone, gazing like any idler upon an ever-fascinating scene. On the evening in question, a policeman passing saluted him as "captain," in a friendly way. An urchin who had frequently seen him before, stopped to gaze. All others took him for nothing out of the ordinary, save in the matter of dress, and conceived of him as a stranger whistling and idling for his own amusement. As the first half-hour waned, certain characters appeared. Here and there in the passing crowds one might see, now and then, a loiterer edging interestedly near. A slouchy figure crossed the opposite corner and glanced furtively in his direction. Another came down Fifth Avenue to the corner of Twenty-sixth Street, took a general survey, and bobbled off again. Two or three noticeable Bowery types edged along the Fifth Avenue side of Madison Square, but did not venture over. The soldier, in his cape overcoat, walked a short line of ten feet at his corner, to and fro, indifferently whistling. As nine o'clock approached, some of the hubbub of the earlier hour passed. The atmosphere of the hotels was not so youthful. The air, too, was colder. On every hand curious figures were moving -- watchers and peepers, without an imaginary circle, which they seemed afraid to enter -- a dozen in all. Presently, with the arrival of a keener sense of cold, one figure came forward. It crossed Broadway from out the shadow of Twenty-sixth Street, and, in a halting, circuitous way, arrived close to the waiting figure. There was something shamefaced or diffident about the movement, as if the intention were to conceal any idea of stopping until the very last moment. Then suddenly, close to the soldier, came the halt. The captain looked in recognition, but there was no especial greeting. The newcomer nodded slightly and murmured something like one who waits for gifts. The other simply motioned toward the edge of the walk. "Stand over there," he said. By this the spell was broken. Even while the soldier resumed his short, solemn walk, other figures shuffled forward. They did not so much as greet the leader, but joined the one, sniffling and hitching and scraping their feet. "Cold, ain't it?" "I'm glad winter's over." "Looks as though it might rain." The motley company had increased to ten. One or two knew each other and conversed. Others stood off a few feet, not wishing to be in the crowd and yet not counted out. They were peevish, crusty, silent, eying nothing in particular and moving their feet. There would have been talking soon, but the soldier gave them no chance. Counting sufficient to begin, he came forward. "Beds, eh, all of you?" There was a general shuffle and murmur of approval. "Well, line up here. I'll see what I can do. I haven't a cent myself." They fell into a sort of broken, ragged line. One might see, now, some of the chief characteristics by contrast. There was a wooden leg in the line. Hats were all drooping, a group that would ill become a second-hand Hester Street basement collection. Trousers were all warped and frayed at the bottom and coats worn and faded. In the glare of the store lights, some of the faces looked dry and chalky; others were red with blotches and puffed in the cheeks and under the eyes; one or two were rawboned and reminded one of railroad hands. A few spectators came near, drawn by the seemingly conferring group, then more and more, and quickly there was a pushing, gaping crowd. Some one in the line began to talk. "Silence!" exclaimed the captain. "Now, then, gentlemen, these men are without beds. They have to have some place to sleep to-night. They can't lie out in the streets. I need twelve cents to put one of them to bed. Who will give it to me?" No reply. "Well, we'll have to wait here, boys, until some one does. Twelve cents isn't so very much for one man." "Here's fifteen," exclaimed a young man, peering forward with strained eyes. "It's all I can afford." "All right. Now I have fifteen. Step out of the line," and seizing one by the shoulder, the captain marched him off a little way and stood him up alone. Coming back, he resumed his place and began again. "I have three cents left. These men must be put to bed somehow. There are" -- counting -- "one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve men. Nine cents more will put the next man to bed; give him a good, comfortable bed for the night. I go right along and look after that myself. Who will give me nine cents?" One of the watchers, this time a middle-aged man, handed him a five-cent piece. "Now, I have eight cents. Four more will give this man a bed. Come, gentlemen. We are going very slow this evening. You all have good beds. How about these?" "Here you are," remarked a bystander, putting a coin into his hand. "That," said the, captain, looking at the coin, "pays for two beds for two men and gives me five on the next one. Who will give me seven cents more?" "I will," said a voice. Coming down Sixth Avenue this evening, Hurstwood chanced to cross east through Twenty-sixth Street toward Third Avenue. He was wholly disconsolate in spirit, hungry to what he deemed an almost mortal extent, weary, and defeated. How should he get at Carrie now? It would be eleven before the show was over. If she came in a coach, she would go away in one. He would need to interrupt under most trying circumstances. Worst of all, he was hungry and weary, and at best a whole day must intervene, for he had not heart to try again to-night. He had no food and no bed. When he neared Broadway, he noticed the captain's gathering of wanderers, but thinking it to be the result of a street preacher or some patent medicine fakir, was about to pass on. However, in crossing the street toward Madison Square Park, he noticed the line of men whose beds were already secured, stretching out from the main body of the crowd. In the glare of the neighbouring electric light he recognised a type of his own kind -- the figures whom he saw about the streets and in the lodging-houses, drifting in mind and body like himself. He wondered what it could be and turned back. There was the captain curtly pleading as before. He heard with astonishment and a sense of relief the oft-repeated words: "These men must have a bed." Before him was the line of unfortunates whose beds were yet to be had, and seeing a newcomer quietly edge up and take a position at the end of the line, he decided to do likewise. What use to contend? He was weary to-night. It was a simple way out of one difficulty, at least. Tomorrow, maybe, he would do better. Back of him, where some of those were whose beds were safe, a relaxed air was apparent. The strain of uncertainty being removed, he heard them talking with moderate freedom and some leaning toward sociability. Politics, religion, the state of the government, some newspaper sensations, and the more notorious facts the world over, found mouthpieces and auditors there. Cracked and husky voices pronounced forcibly upon odd matters. Vague and rambling observations were made in reply. There were squints, and leers, and some dull, ox-like stares from those who were too dull or too weary to converse. Standing tells. Hurstwood became more weary waiting. He thought he should drop soon and shifted restlessly from one foot to the other. At last his turn came. The man ahead had been paid for and gone to the blessed line of success. He was now first, and already the captain was talking for him. "Twelve cents, gentlemen -- twelve cents puts this man to bed. He wouldn't stand here in the cold if he had any place to go." Hurstwood swallowed something that rose to his throat. Hunger and weakness had made a coward of him. "Here you are," said a stranger, handing money to the captain. Now the latter put a kindly hand on the ex-manager's shoulder. "Line up over there," he said. Once there, Hurstwood breathed easier. He felt as if the world were not quite so bad with such a good man in it. Others seemed to feel like himself about this. "Captain's a great feller, ain't he?" said the man ahead -- a little, woe-begone, helpless-looking sort of in dividual, who looked as though he had ever been the sport and care of fortune. "Yes," said Hurstwood, indifferently. "Hub! there's a lot back there yet," said a man farther up, leaning out and looking back at the applicants for whom the captain was pleading. "Yes. Must be over a hundred to-night," said another. "Look at the guy in the cab," observed a third. A cab had stopped. Some gentleman in evening dress reached out a bill to the captain, who took it with simple thanks and turned away to his line. There was a general craning of necks as the jewel in the white shirt front sparkled and the cab moved off. Even the crowd gaped in awe. "That fixes up nine men for the night," said the captain, counting out as many of the line near him. "Line up over there. Now, then, there are only seven. I need twelve cents." Money came slowly. In the course of time the crowd thinned out to a meagre handful. Fifth Avenue, save for an occasional cab or foot passenger, was bare. Broadway was thinly peopled with pedestrians. Only now and then a stranger passing noticed the small group, handed out a coin, and went away, unheeding. The captain remained stolid and determined. He talked on, very slowly, uttering the fewest words and with a certain assurance, as though he could not fail. "Come; I can't stay out here all night. These men are getting tired and cold. Some one give me four cents." There came a time when he said nothing at all. Money was handed him, and for each twelve cents he singled out a man and put him in the other line. Then he walked up and down as before, looking at the ground. The theatres let out. Fire signs disappeared. A clock struck eleven. Another half-hour and he was down to the last two men. "Come, now," he exclaimed to several curious observers; "eighteen cents will fix us all up for the night. Eighteen cents. I have six. Somebody give me the money. Remember, I have to go over to Brooklyn yet to-night. Before that I have to take these men down and put them to bed. Eighteen cents." No one responded. He walked to and fro, looking down for several minutes, occasionally saying softly: "Eighteen cents." It seemed as if this paltry sum would delay the desired culmination longer than all the rest had. Hurstwood, buoyed up slightly by the long line of which he was a part, refrained with an effort from groaning, he was so weak. At last a lady in opera cape and rustling skirts came down Fifth Avenue, accompanied by her escort. Hurstwood gazed wearily, reminded by her both of Carrie in her new world and of the time when he had escorted his own wife in like manner. While he was gazing, she turned and, looking at the remarkable company, sent her escort over. He came, holding a bill in his fingers, all elegant and graceful. "Here you are," he said. "Thanks," said the captain, turning to the two remaining applicants. "Now we have some for to-morrow night," he added. Therewith he lined up the last two and proceeded to the head, counting as he went. "One hundred and thirty-seven," he announced. "Now, boys, line up. Right dress there. We won't be much longer about this. Steady, now." He placed himself at the head and called out "Forward." Hurstwood moved with the line. Across Fifth Avenue, through Madison Square by the winding paths, east on Twenty-third Street, and down Third Avenue wound the long, serpentine company. Midnight pedestrians and loiterers stopped and stared as the company passed. Chatting policemen, at various corners, stared indifferently or nodded to the leader, whom they had seen before. On Third Avenue they marched, a seemingly weary way, to Eighth Street, where there was a lodging-house, closed, apparently, for the night. They were expected, however. Outside in the gloom they stood, while the leader parleyed within. Then doors swung open and they were invited in with a "Steady, now." Some one was at the head showing rooms, so that there was no delay for keys. Toiling up the creaky stairs, Hurstwood looked back and saw the captain, watching; the last one of the line being included in his broad solicitude. Then he gathered his cloak about him and strolled out into the night. "I can't stand much of this," said Hurstwood, whose legs ached him painfully, as he sat down upon the miserable bunk in the small, lightless chamber allotted to him. "I've got to eat, or I'll die." 第四十五章 穷人的奇特生计
他不止一次地停下来，看着这些，眼睛盯着那美丽的面孔闷闷发呆。他衣衫褴褛，和她现在的情况相比，他恰恰形成了一个鲜明的对照。 不知怎么地，只要他知道她还在卡西诺戏院里演出，虽然他从未有过要走近她的想法，他就下意识地感到有一种安慰--他还不完全是孤单一人。这出戏似乎成了一场雷打不动的固定演出，所以过了一两个月，他开始想当然地以为它还要演下去。９月里，剧团出去巡回演出，他也没有发觉。当他的钱用到只剩下２０块的时候，他搬到波威里街一个１毛５分钱一天的寄宿处，那里只有一个四壁空空的休息室，里面放满了桌子、长凳，还有几把椅子。在这里，他喜欢闭上眼睛，回想过去的日子，这个习惯在他身上越来越根深蒂固了。开始时这并不是沉睡，而只是在心里回想起他在芝加哥的生活中的情景和事件。因为眼前的日子越来越黑暗，过去的时光就越发显得光明，而和过去有关的一切都变得分外突出。 他还没有意识到这个习惯对他的影响有多大，直到有一天他发现自己嘴里在重复着他曾经回答他的一个朋友的老话。他们正在费莫酒店里。好像他就站在他那个雅致的小办公室门口，衣冠楚楚的，和萨加·莫里森谈论着芝加哥南部某处地产的价值，后者正准备在那里投资。 “你愿意和我一起在那上面投资吗？”他听到莫里森说。 “我不行，”他回答，就像他多年前的回答一样，“我眼下腾不出手来。”他的嘴唇在动，这惊醒了他。他不知道自己是不是真的说了出来。第二次他发觉这种情况时，他真的是在说话。 “你为什么不跳呢，你这个大傻瓜？”他在说，“跳呀！”这是他在向一群演员讲的一个好笑的英国故事。甚至当他被自己的声音弄醒的时候，他还在笑着。坐在旁边的一个顽固的怪老头看上去像是受了打扰，至少，他瞪眼看的样子十分尖刻。赫斯渥挺起身来。记忆中的这段笑话立刻消失了，他感到有些害臊。于是他离开他那把椅子，踱出门外，到街上找消遣去了。 一天，他在浏览《世界晚报》的广告栏时，看到上面说卡西诺戏院正在上演一出新戏。他心里当即一愣。嘉莉已经走了！ 他记得就在昨天还看见她的一张海报，但是毫无疑问，那是没有被新海报覆盖而留下的。说来奇怪，这件事震惊了他。他几乎只得承认，不知怎么地，他是靠知道她还在这座城市里才支撑了下来。现在她却走了。他不明白怎么会漏掉这么重要的消息。天知道现在她要到什么时候才能回来。一种精神上的恐惧促使他站起身来，走进阴暗的过道，那里没人看见他。他数了数自己剩下的钱，总共只有１０块钱了。 他想知道他周围这些住在寄宿处的其他人都是怎么过活的。他们好像什么事都不干。也许他们靠乞讨生活--对，他们肯定是靠乞讨生活。当初他得意的时候，就曾经给过他们这种人无数的小钱。他也曾看到过别人在街上讨钱。或许，他可以同样地讨点钱。这种想法简直令人恐怖。 坐在寄宿处的房间里，他用得只剩下最后５毛钱了，他省了又省，算了又算，终于影响了健康。他已不再强壮。这样一来，连他的衣服也显得很不合身了。这时他决定必须做些事情，但是，四处走走之后，眼看着一天又过去了，只剩下最后的２毛钱，已不够明天吃饭了。 他鼓足勇气，来到百老汇大街，朝百老汇中央旅馆走去。 在离开那里一条横马路的地方，他停住脚，犹豫起来。一个面带愁容的大个子茶房正站在一个侧门口，向外看着。赫斯渥打算去求他帮忙。他一直走上前去，不等对方转身走开，就招呼起来。 “朋友，”他说，虽然自己身处困境，也能看出这个人的地位之低。“你们旅馆有什么事可以给我做吗？”这个茶房瞪大眼睛看着他，这时他接着说。 “我没有工作，也没有钱，我必须找些事情做--不管什么事情都行！我不想谈论我的过去，但是倘若你能告诉我怎样可以找到事情做，我将十分感激你。即使只能在眼下工作几天也没有关系。我非得找到事做不可。”茶房还在盯着他看，想做出无动于衷的样子。然后，看见赫斯渥还要往下说，茶房就打断了他。 “这和我无关。你得到里面去问。” 奇怪的是，这句话反倒促使赫斯渥去作进一步的努力。 “我还以为你可以告诉我的。” 那个家伙不耐烦地摇了摇头。 这位前经理进到里面，径直走到办公室里办事员的写字台边。这家旅馆的一位经理正巧在那里。赫斯渥直视着这位经理的眼睛。 “你能给个什么事情让我做几天吗？”他说，"我已经到了非立刻找些事情做不可的地步了。"这位悠闲自在的经理看着他，像是在说：“是啊，我看是这样的。”“我到这里来，”赫斯渥不安地解释说，“因为我得意的时候也曾当过经理。我碰到了某种厄运，但是我来这里不是为了告诉你这个。我想要些事情做，哪怕只做一个星期也行。”这个人觉得自己从这位求职者的眼睛里看到了一丝狂热的光芒。 “你当过哪家旅馆的经理？”他问。 “不是旅馆，”赫斯渥说道，“我曾经在芝加哥的费莫酒店当过十五年的经理。”“这是真的吗？”这位旅馆经理说，“你怎么会离开那里的呢？”赫斯渥的形象和这个事实相对照，确实令人吃惊。 “喔，因为我自己干了蠢事。现在不谈这个了吧。如果你想知道的话，你会弄清楚的。我现在一个钱也没有了，而且，如果你肯相信我的话，我今天还没有吃过任何东西。”这位旅馆经理对这个故事有点感兴趣了。他几乎不知道该怎样对待这样一个人物，可是赫斯渥的真诚使他愿意想些办法。 “叫奥尔森来。”他对办事员说。 一声铃响，一个小茶房来领命跑出去叫人，随后茶房领班奥尔森走了进来。 “奥尔森，”经理说，“你能在楼下给这个人找些事情做吗？ 我想给他一些事情做。” “我不知道，先生”奥尔森说，“我们需要的人手差不多都已经有了。不过如果你愿意的话，我想我可以找到一些事情的。”“就这么办吧。带他去厨房，告诉威尔逊给他一些东西吃。”“好的，先生，”奥尔森说。 赫斯渥跟着他去了。一等经理看不见他们，茶房领班就改变了态度。 “我不知道究竟有什么事情可做，”他说。 赫斯渥没有说话。他私下里很瞧不起这个替人搬箱子的大个子家伙。 “叫你给这个人一些东西吃”他对厨子说。 厨子打量了一番赫斯渥，发现他的眼睛里有些敏锐且聪明的神色，说道：“好的，坐到那边去吧。”就这样，赫斯渥被安顿在百老汇中央旅馆里，但是没过多久。他既没有体力又没有心情来干每家旅馆都有的最基本的拖地板擦桌椅之类的活儿。由于没有更好的事可干，他被派去替火伕当下手，去地下室干活。凡是可能让他做的事，他都得去做。那些茶房、厨子、火伕、办事员都在他之上。此外，他的样子也不讨这些人的喜欢，他的脾气太孤僻，他们都不给他好脸色看。 然而，他以绝望中的人的麻木不仁和无动于衷，忍受着这一切。他睡在旅馆屋顶的一间小阁楼里，厨子给他什么他就吃什么，每周领取几块钱的工钱，这些钱他还想攒起来。他的身体已经支撑不住了。 ２月里的一天，他被派到一家大煤炭公司的办公室去办事。天一直在下雪，雪又一直在融化，街上泥泞不堪。他在路上把鞋湿透了，回来就感到头晕而且疲倦。第二天一整天，他觉得异常的情绪低落，于是尽量地闲坐在一边，惹得那些喜欢别人精力充沛的人很不高兴。 那天下午，要搬掉一些箱子，腾出地方来安放新的厨房用具。他被派去推手推车。碰到一只大箱子，他搬不起来。 “你怎么啦？”茶房领班说，“你搬不动吗？”他正拼命地要把它搬起来，但是这时他放了手。 “不行，”他虚弱地说。 这人看看他，发现他的脸色像死人一样苍白。 “你是不是生病了？”他问。 “我想是病了，”赫斯渥回答。 “哦，那你最好去坐一会儿。” 他照做了，但是不久病情就迅速加重。看来他只能慢慢地爬进自己的房间了，他一天没出房间。 “那个叫惠勒的人病了，”一个茶房向夜班办事员报告说。 “他怎么啦？” “我不知道，他在发高烧。” 旅馆的医生去看了他。 “最好送他去贝列佛医院，”他建议道，“他得了肺炎。”于是，他被车拉走了。 三个星期之后，危险期过去了。但是差不多到了５月１号，他的体力才允许他出院。这时他已经被解雇了。 当这位过去身强体壮、精力充沛的经理出院慢步走进春天的阳光里时，没有谁会比他看上去更虚弱了。他从前的那身肥肉已全然不知去向，他的脸又瘦又苍白，双手没有血色，全身肌肉松驰。衣服等等加在一起，他的体重只有１３５磅。有人给了他一些旧衣服--一件廉价的棕色上衣和一条不合身的裤子。还有一些零钱和忠告。他被告知该去申请救济。 他又回到波威里街的寄宿处，盘算着去哪里申请救济。这只差一步就沦为乞丐了。 “有什么办法呢？”他说，“我不能挨饿呀。”他的第一次乞讨是在阳光灿烂的第二大道上。一个衣冠楚楚的人从施托伊弗桑特公园里出来，正不慌不忙地朝他踱过来。赫斯渥鼓起勇气，侧身走近了他。 “请给我１毛钱好吗？”他直截了当地说。“我已经到了非得乞讨不可的地步了。”这人看也不看他一眼，伸手去摸背心口袋，掏出一枚１角银币。 “给你，”他说。 “多谢多谢。”赫斯渥轻声说，但对方不再理睬他了。 他对自己的成功感到满意，但又为自己的处境感到羞愧，他决定只再讨２毛５分钱，因为那就够了。他四处游荡，观察着路人，但过了很久才等到合适的人和机会。当他开口讨钱时，却遭到了拒绝。他被这个结果惊呆了，过了一个钟头才恢复过来，然后又开口气讨。这一次他得到了一枚５分镍币。经过十分谨慎的努力，他真的又讨到了２毛钱，但这事多么让人难受。 第二天他又去做同样的努力，遭遇了种种挫折，也得到了一两次慷慨的施舍。最后，他突然想到人的面孔是一门大学问，只要去研究一下，就可以看脸色挑中愿意慷慨解囊的人。 然而，这种拦路乞讨对他来说并不是什么愉快的事。他曾看到过一个人因此而被捕，所以他现在生怕自己也会被捕。可是他还是继续干着这一行，心中模模糊糊地期待着，说不准什么时候总能碰上个好运。 此后的一天早晨，他带着一种满意的感觉看到了由“嘉莉·麦登达小姐领衔主演”的卡西诺剧团回来的通告。在过去的这些日子里，他常常想到她。她演得那么成功--她该会有多少钱啊！然而，即使是现在，也是因为运气太坏，一直都讨不到钱，他才决定向她求助的。他真是饿极了，才想起说：“我去向她要。她不会不给我几块钱的。”于是，他有一天下午就朝卡西诺戏院走去，在戏院前来回走了几次，想找到后台的入口。然后，他就坐在过去一条横马路的布赖恩特公园里，等待着。“她不会不帮我一点忙的，”他不停地对自己说。 从６点半钟开始，他就像个影子似地在三十九街入口处的附近徘徊，总是假装成一个匆匆赶路的行人，可又生怕自己会漏掉要等的目标。现在到了紧要关头，他也有点紧张。但是，因为又饿又虚弱，他已经不大能够感觉得到痛苦了。他终于看见演员们开始到来，他那紧张的神经绷得更紧，直到他觉得似乎已经忍受不住了。 有一次，他自以为看见嘉莉过来了，就走上前去，结果发现自己看错了人。 “现在，她很快就会来了，”他对自己说，有点害怕见到她，但是想到她可能已经从另一个门进去了，又感到有些沮丧。他的肚子都饿疼了。 人们一个又一个地从他身边经过，几乎全都是衣冠楚楚，神情冷漠。他看着马车驶过，绅士们伴着女士们走过。这个戏院和旅馆集中的地区就此开始了晚上的欢乐。 突然，一辆马车驶过来，车夫跳下来打开车门。赫斯渥还没有来得及行动，两位女士已经飞快地穿过宽阔的人行道，从后台入口消失了。他认为自己看见的是嘉莉，但是来得如此突然，如此优雅，而且如此高不可攀，他就说不准了。他又等了一会儿，开始感到饿得发慌。看见后台入口的门不再打开，而且兴高采烈的观众正在到达，他便断定刚才看见的肯定是嘉莉，转身走开了。 “天哪，”他说着，匆匆离开这条街，而那些比他幸运的人们正朝这条街上涌来。“我得吃些东西了。”就在这个时候，就在百老汇大街惯于呈现其最有趣的面貌的时候，总是有一个怪人站在二十六街和百老汇大街的拐角处--那地方也和第五大道相交。在这个时候，戏院正开始迎接观众。到处闪耀着灯光招牌，告诉人们晚上的种种娱乐活动。公共马车和私人马车嗒嗒地驶过，车灯像一双双黄色的眼睛闪闪发亮。成双成对和三五成群的人们嬉笑打闹着，无拘无束地汇入川流不息的人群之中。第五大道上有一些闲荡的人--几个有钱的人在散步，一个穿晚礼服的绅士挽着一位太太，几个俱乐部成员从一家吸烟室到另一家吸烟室去。街对面那些大旅馆亮着成百扇灯火通明的窗户，里面的咖啡室和弹子房挤满了悠闲自在、喜欢寻欢作乐的人群。四周是一片夜色，跳动着对快乐和幸福的向往--是一个大都市一心要千方百计地追求享乐的奇妙的狂热之情。 这个怪人不过就是一个退伍军人变成的宗教狂而已。他遭受过我们这个特殊的社会制度给他的种种鞭挞和剥削，因而他断定自己心目中对上帝的责任就在于帮助他的同胞。他所选择的实施帮助的形式完全是他自己独创的。这就是要为来这个特定的地方向他提出请求的所有的无家可归的流浪汉找一个过夜的地方，尽管他也没有足够的钱为自己提供一个舒适的住处。 他在这个轻松愉快的环境中找到了自己的位置，就站在那里，魁梧的身上披着一件带斗篷的大衣，头上戴着一顶阔软边呢帽，等待着那些通过各种渠道了解到他的慈善事业的性质的申请者。有一段时间，他会独自站在那里，像一个游手好闲的人一样注视着一个始终迷人的场面。在我们的故事发生的那天晚上，一个警察从他身边走过，行了个礼，友好地称他作“上尉”。一个以前常在那里看见他的顽童，停下来观望着。 其他的人则觉得除了穿着之外，他没有什么不同寻常的地方，以为他无非是个自得其乐地在那里吹着口哨闲荡的陌生人。 半个钟头过去后，某些人物开始出现了。在四周过往的人群中，不时可以看见个把闲逛的人有目的地磨蹭着挨近了他。 一个无精打采的人走过对面的拐角，偷偷地朝他这个方向看着。另一个人则沿着第五大道来到二十六街的拐角处，打量了一下整个的情形，又蹒跚地走开了。有两三个显然是住在波威里街的角色，沿着麦迪逊广场靠第五大道的一边磨磨蹭蹭地走着，但是没敢过来。这位军人披着他那件带斗篷的大衣，在他所处的拐角十英尺的范围之内，来回走动着，漫不经心地吹着口哨。 等到将近９点钟的时候，在此之前的喧闹声已经有所减弱，旅馆里的气氛也不再那么富有青春气息。天气也变得更冷了。四处都有稀奇古怪的人在走动，有观望的，有窥探的。他们站在一个想象的圈子外面，似乎害怕走进圈子里面--总共有十二个人。不久，因为更加感到寒冷难忍，有一个人走上前来。这个人从二十六街的阴影处出来。穿过百老汇大街，犹豫不决地绕着弯子走近了那个正在等待的人。这人的行动有些害羞或者有些胆怯，好像不到最后一刻都不打算暴露任何要停下来的想法。然后，到了军人身边，突然就停了下来。 上尉看了一眼他，算是打了招呼，但并没有表示什么特别的欢迎。来人轻轻点了点头，像一个等待施舍的人那样咕哝了几句。对方只是指了指人行道边。 “站到那边去，”他说。 这一下打破了拘束。当这个军人又继续他那一本正经的短距离踱步时，其他的人就拖着脚走上前来。他们并没有招呼这位领袖，而是站到先来的那个人身边，抽着鼻子，步履蹒跚，两脚擦着地。 “好冷，是不是？” “我很高兴冬天过去了。” “看来像是要下雨了。” 这群乌合之众已经增加到了十个人。其中有一两个相互认识的人在交谈着。另一些人则站在几英尺之外，不想挤在这群人当中，但又不想被漏掉。他们乖戾、执拗、沉默，眼睛不知在看着什么，两脚一直动个不停。 他们本来很快就会交谈起来，但是军人没有给他们开口的机会。他数数人数已经够了，可以开始了，就走上前来。 “要铺位，是吗？你们都要吗？” 这群人发出一阵杂乱的移动脚步的声音，并低声表示着同意。 “好吧，在这里排好队。我看看我能做些什么。我自己也身无分文。”他们排成了断断续续、参差不齐的一队。这样一对比，就可以看出他们的一些主要特点来。队伍里有一个装着假腿的家伙。这些人的帽子全都耷拉在头上，这些帽子都不配放在海斯特街的地下室旧货店里。裤子全都是歪歪斜斜的，裤脚已经磨损，上衣也已破旧并且褪了色。在商店的耀眼的灯光下，起中有些人的脸显得干枯而苍白，另一些人的脸则因为生了疱疮而呈红色，面颊和眼睛下面都浮肿了。有一两个人骨瘦如柴，使人想起铁路工人来。有几个看热闹的人被这群像是在集会的人所吸引，走近前来。接着来的人越来越多，很快就聚集了一大群人，在那里你推我挤地张大眼睛望着。队伍里有人开始说话了。 “安静！”上尉喊道，“好了，先生们，这些人无处过夜。今天晚上，他们得有个地方睡觉才行。他们不能露宿街头。我需要１毛２分钱安排一个人住宿。谁愿意给我这笔钱？”没有人回答。 “那么，我们只能在这里等着，孩子们，等到有人愿意出钱。一个人出１毛２分钱并不很多嘛。”“给你１毛５分钱，”一个小伙子叫道，瞪大眼睛注视着前面。“我只拿得出这么多。”“很好。现在我有了１毛５分钱。出列，”上尉说着抓住一个人的肩膀，把他朝一边拉了几步路，让他一个人站在那里。 他回到原来的位置，又开始喊叫。 “我还剩下３分钱。这些人总得有个地方睡觉埃一共有，”他数着，“一，二，三，四，五，六，七，八，九，十，十一，十二个人。再加９分钱就可以给下一个找个铺位。请让他好好舒服地过上一夜吧。我要跟着去，亲自照料这件事。谁愿意给我９分钱？"这一回是个看热闹的中年人，递给他一枚５分的镍币。 “现在，我有８分钱了。再有４分钱就可以给这人一个铺位。请吧，先生们。今天晚上我们进展很慢。你们都有好地方睡觉。可是这些人怎么办呢？”“给你，”一个旁观者说，把一些硬币放到他的手上。 “这些钱，”上尉看着硬币说，“够给两个人找铺位，还多出５分钱可以给下一个，谁愿意再给我７分钱？”“我给，”一个声音说。 这天晚上，赫斯渥沿着第六大道往南走，正巧朝东穿过二十六街，向着第三大道走去。他精神萎靡不振，疲惫不堪，肚子饿得要死。现在他该怎么去找嘉莉呢？散戏要到１１点钟。如果她是乘马车来的，一定还会乘马车回去。他只有在令人十分难堪的情况下才能拦住她。最糟糕的是，他现在又饿又累，而且至少还要熬过整整一天，因为今天夜里他已经没有勇气再去尝试了。他既没有东西吃，也没有地方睡觉。 当他走近百老汇大街时，他注意到上尉身边聚集的那些流浪汉。但他以为这是什么街头传教士或是什么卖假药的骗子招来的人群，正准备从旁边走过去。可是，正当他穿过街道朝麦迪逊广场公园走去的时候，他看见了那队已经得到铺位的人，这支队伍从人群中伸展了出来。借着附近耀眼的灯光，他认出这是一群和他自己同类的人，是一些他在街头和寄宿处看到过的人物。这些人像他一样，身心两方面都漂泊不定，他想知道这是怎么回事，就转身往回走。 上尉还在那里像先前一样三言两语地恳求着。当赫斯渥听到“这些人得有个铺位过夜”这句不断重复的话时，感到又是惊讶又有点宽慰。他面前站着一队还没有得到铺位的不幸的人，当他看见一个新来的人悄悄地挤上来，站到队伍的末尾时，他决定也照着做。再去奋斗有什么用呢？今天夜里他已经累了。这至少可以不费劲地解决一个困难。明天也许他会干得好一些。 在他身后，那些铺位已经有了着落的人站的地方，显然有着一种轻松的气氛。由于不再担心无处过夜，他听到他们的谈话没什么拘束，还带着一些想交朋结友的味道。这里既有谈论的人，也有听众，话题涉及政治、宗教、政府的现状、报上的一些轰动一时的新闻以及世界各地的丑闻。粗哑的声音在使劲地讲述着稀奇古怪的事情。回答的是一些含糊杂乱的意见。 还有一些人只是斜眼瞟着，或是像公牛那样瞪大眼睛呆望着，这些人因为太迟钝或太疲倦而没有交谈。 站着开始叫人吃不消了。赫斯渥越等越疲惫。他觉得自己快要倒下去了，就不停地换着脚支撑着身体的重量。终于轮到了他。前面的一个人已经拿到了钱，站到幸运的成功者的队伍里去了。现在，他成了第一个，而且上尉已经在为他说情。 “１毛２分钱，先生们。１毛２分钱就可以给这个人找个铺位。倘若他有地方可去，就不会站在这里受冻了。”有什么东西涌上了赫斯渥的喉头，他把它咽了回去。饥饿和虚弱使他变成了胆小鬼。 “给你，”一个陌生人说，把钱递给了上尉。 这时上尉把一只和蔼的手放在这位前经理的肩上。 “站到那边的队伍里去吧，”他说。 一站到那边。赫斯渥的呼吸都轻松了一些。他觉得有这么一个好人存在，这个世界仿佛并不太糟糕。对这一点，其他的人似乎也和他有同感。 “上尉真是个了不起的人，是不？”前面的一个人说。这是个愁眉苦脸、可怜巴巴的个子矮小的人，看上去他好像总是要么受到命运的戏弄，要么得到命运的照顾。 “是的，”赫斯渥冷漠地说。 “嘿！后面还有很多人呢，”更前面一些的一个人说着，从队伍里探出身子朝后看着那些上尉正在为之请求的申请者。 “是埃今天晚上肯定要超过一百人，”另一个人说。 “看那马车里的家伙，”第三个人说。 一辆马车停了下来。一位穿晚礼服的绅士伸出手来，递给上尉一张钞票。上尉接了钱，简单地道了谢，就转向他的队伍。 大家都伸长了脖子，看着那白衬衫前襟上闪闪发亮的宝石，目送着马车离去。连围观的人群也肃然起敬，看得目瞪口呆。 “这笔钱可以安排九个人过夜，”上尉说着，从他身边的队伍里，依次点出九个人。“站到那边的队伍里去。好啦，现在只有七个人了。我需要１毛２分钱。”钱来得很慢。过了一段时间，围观的人群渐渐散去，只剩下寥寥几个人。第五大道上，除了偶尔有辆公共马车或者有个步行的过路人之外，已经空空荡荡。百老汇大街上稀稀落落地还有些行人。偶尔有个陌生人路过这里，看见这一小群人，拿出一枚硬币，然后就扬长而去。 上尉坚定不移地站在那里。他还在继续说着，说得很慢很少，但却带着自信，好像他是不会失败的。 “请吧，我不能整夜都站在这里。这些人越来越累、越来越冷了。有谁给我４分钱。”有一阵子他干脆一句话都不说。钱到了他的手里，每够了１毛２分钱，他就点出一个人，让他站到另一支队伍里去。然后他又像先前一样来回踱着步，眼睛看着地上。 戏院散场了。灯光招牌也看不见了。时钟敲了１１点。又过了半个钟头，他只剩下了最后两个人。 “请吧，”他对几个好奇的旁观者叫道，“现在１毛８分钱就可以使我们都有地方过夜了。１毛８分钱，我已有了６分钱。有谁愿意给我钱。请记着，今天晚上我还得赶到布鲁克林去。在此之前，我得把这些人带走，安排他们睡下。１毛８分钱。”没有人响应。他来回踱着步，朝地上看了几分钟，偶尔轻声说道：“１毛８分钱。”看样子，这小小的一笔钱似乎比前面所有的钱都更久地耽误实现大家盼望的目标。赫斯渥因为自己是这长长的队伍中的一员，稍稍振作了一些，好不容易才忍住没有呻吟，他太虚弱了。 最后，出现了一位太太。她戴着歌剧里戴的斗篷，穿着沙沙作响的长裙，由她的男伴陪着沿第五大道走过来。赫斯渥疲倦地呆望着，由她而想到了在新的世界里的嘉莉和他当年也这样陪伴他太太的情景。 当他还在呆望着的时候，她回头看见了这个奇怪的人群，就叫她的男伴过来。他来了，手指间夹着一张钞票，样子优雅之极。 “给你，”他说。 “谢谢，”上尉说完，转向最后剩下的两个申请者。“现在我们还有些钱可以明天晚上用，”他补充说。 说罢，他让最后两个人站到队伍里，然后自己朝队首走去，边走边数着人数。 “一百三十七个，”他宣布说。“现在，孩子们，排好队。向右看齐。我们不会再耽搁多久了。喂，别急。”他自己站到了队首，大声喊道：“开步走。”赫斯渥跟着队伍前进。这支长长的、蜿蜒的队伍，跨过第五大道，沿着弯弯曲曲的小路穿过麦迪逊广场，往东走上二十三街，再顺着第三大道向南行进。当队伍走过时，半夜的行人和闲荡者都驻足观望。在各个拐角处聊天的警察，冷漠地注视着，向这位他们以前见过的领队点点头。他们在第三大道上行进着，像是经过了一段令人疲惫的长途跋涉，才走到了八街。那里有一家寄宿处，显然是夜里已经打了烊。不过，这里知道他们要来。 他们站在门外的暗处，领队则在里面谈判。然后大门打开了，随着一声“喂，别急，”他们被请了进去。 有人在前头指点房间，以免耽搁拿钥匙。赫斯渥吃力地爬上嘎嘎作响的楼梯。回头望望，看见上尉在那里注视着。他那份博爱关怀备至，他要看着最后一个人也被安顿好了才能放心。然后，他裹紧了带斗篷的大衣，慢步出门，走进夜色之中。 “这样下去我可受不了啦，”赫斯渥说，他在指定给他的黑暗的小卧室里那张破烂的床铺上坐下来时，感到两条腿疼痛难忍。“我得吃点东西才行，否则我会饿死的。” |
