Between Rounds

The May moon shone bright upon the private boarding-house of Mrs. Murphy. By reference to the almanac a large amount of territory will be discovered upon which its rays also fell. Spring was in its heydey, with hay fever soon to follow. The parks were green with new leaves and buyers for the Western and Southern trade. Flowers and summer-resort agents were blowing; the air and answers to Lawson were growing milder; hand-organs, fountains and pinochle were playing everywhere.

五月的月光皎洁地照耀着墨菲太太的私人公寓。翻翻历书就知道，这月光洒下的范围可广得很呢。春天正当盛时，花粉热也快要跟着来了。公园里新叶正绿，来做西部和南部生意的采购商也是络绎不绝。鲜花和避暑胜地的中介都在四处招揽生意；空气渐渐暖和，回应劳森的言论也渐渐缓和下来；手摇风琴、喷泉和纸牌游戏到处都在热闹着。

The windows of Mrs. Murphy’s boarding-house were open. A group of boarders were seated on the high stoop upon round, flat mats like German pancakes.

墨菲太太公寓的窗户都敞开着。一群房客坐在高高的门廊台阶上，坐在一个个圆圆扁扁、像德国煎饼似的垫子上。

In one of the second-floor front windows Mrs. McCaskey awaited her husband. Supper was cooling on the table. Its heat went into Mrs. McCaskey.

二楼临街的一扇窗户里，麦卡斯基太太正等着丈夫回来。晚饭在桌上渐渐凉了下去。那份热气，倒是转移到了麦卡斯基太太的心头。

At nine Mr. McCaskey came. He carried his coat on his arm and his pipe in his teeth; and he apologised for disturbing the boarders on the steps as he selected spots of stone between them on which to set his size 9, width Ds.

九点钟，麦卡斯基先生回来了。他把外套搭在胳膊上，烟斗叼在嘴里；他一边挑着台阶上那些房客之间的空隙落脚，好安放他那双九码宽D的大脚，一边向他们道歉，说打扰他们了。

As he opened the door of his room he received a surprise. Instead of the usual stove-lid or potato-masher for him to dodge, came only words.

他打开自己房门的时候，倒吃了一惊。往常该扔过来的炉盖或土豆捣泥器都没见着，迎面而来的只有一通话语。

Mr. McCaskey reckoned that the benign May moon had softened the breast of his spouse.

麦卡斯基先生心想，这皎洁的五月月光，兴许把妻子的心肠也软化了。

“I heard ye,” came the oral substitutes for kitchenware. “Ye can apollygise to riff-raff of the streets for settin’ yer unhandy feet on the tails of their frocks, but ye’d walk on the neck of yer wife the length of a clothes-line without so much as a ‘Kiss me fut,’ and I’m sure it’s that long from rubberin’ out the windy for ye and the victuals cold such as there’s money to buy after drinkin’ up yer wages at Gallegher’s every Saturday evenin’, and the gas man here twice to-day for his.”

“我听见你了，”那本该是厨房器皿发出的声音，此刻却化作了话语。“你倒是有本事跟街上那些破衣烂衫的人赔不是，就因为你那双笨手笨脚的大脚踩了人家裙摆，可你对自己的老婆呢，从这头走到那头，跟晾衣绳一样长的路，也不带说一句‘亲亲我的脚’的，我在窗口望眼欲穿地盼你回来，这时间怕是比那晾衣绳还长，饭菜都凉了，好不容易攒的那点钱还都是你星期六晚上在加拉赫酒馆喝光工钱之后剩下的，煤气公司的人今天都上门催了两回了。”

“Woman!” said Mr. McCaskey, dashing his coat and hat upon a chair, “the noise of ye is an insult to me appetite. When ye run down politeness ye take the mortar from between the bricks of the foundations of society. ’Tis no more than exercisin’ the acrimony of a gentleman when ye ask the dissent of ladies blockin’ the way for steppin’ between them. Will ye bring the pig’s face of ye out of the windy and see to the food?”

“婆娘！”麦卡斯基先生说着，把外套和帽子往椅子上一摔，“你这吵闹声简直是对我胃口的一种侮辱。你要是把礼貌都糟践了，那可就是把社会大厦砖缝里的灰浆都抽走了。绅士嘛，遇到女士挡了道，客客气气地请她们让个道，从她们中间穿过去，这不过是礼貌罢了，算不得什么。你能不能把你那猪脸从窗口收回来，去看看吃的？”

Mrs. McCaskey arose heavily and went to the stove. There was something in her manner that warned Mr. McCaskey. When the corners of her mouth went down suddenly like a barometer it usually foretold a fall of crockery and tinware.

麦卡斯基太太沉重地站起身，走向炉子。她那副神情里透着点什么，让麦卡斯基先生心生警觉。她嘴角一下子耷拉下去，就像气压计骤降一样，这通常预示着接下来要有一场瓷器和铁皮器皿的“暴风雨”了。

“Pig’s face, is it?” said Mrs. McCaskey, and hurled a stewpan full of bacon and turnips at her lord.

“猪脸，是吧？”麦卡斯基太太说着，把满满一锅培根和萝卜朝她的夫君砸了过去。

Mr. McCaskey was no novice at repartee. He knew what should follow the entrée. On the table was a roast sirloin of pork, garnished with shamrocks. He retorted with this, and drew the appropriate return of a bread pudding in an earthen dish. A hunk of Swiss cheese accurately thrown by her husband struck Mrs. McCaskey below one eye. When she replied with a well-aimed coffee-pot full of a hot, black, semi-fragrant liquid the battle, according to courses, should have ended.

麦卡斯基先生在这方面可不是新手。他知道正菜之后该上什么。桌上正好有一份带三叶草点缀的烤猪腰肉，他便拿这个回敬过去，随即换来一盘面包布丁作为对等的回礼。她丈夫精准地扔出一块瑞士奶酪，正中麦卡斯基太太的一只眼睛下方。等她瞄准还了一壶热气腾腾、黑乎乎、略带香气的咖啡时，按照上菜的顺序，这场战斗本该就此结束了。

But Mr. McCaskey was no 50-cent table d’hôter. Let cheap Bohemians consider coffee the end, if they would. Let them make that faux pas. He was foxier still. Finger-bowls were not beyond the compass of his experience. They were not to be had in the Pension Murphy; but their equivalent was at hand. Triumphantly he sent the granite-ware wash basin at the head of his matrimonial adversary. Mrs. McCaskey dodged in time. She reached for a flatiron, with which, as a sort of cordial, she hoped to bring the gastronomical duel to a close. But a loud, wailing scream downstairs caused both her and Mr. McCaskey to pause in a sort of involuntary armistice.

可麦卡斯基先生绝不是那种五毛钱套餐的顾客。让那些廉价的波希米亚人去把咖啡当作终章吧，随他们去犯这个错。他可比这精明多了。洗手盂对他来说也不算陌生。墨菲公寓里倒是没有这玩意儿，可现成的替代品却是有的。他得意洋洋地把一只搪瓷洗脸盆朝他的“配偶对手”的脑袋扔了过去。麦卡斯基太太及时躲开了。她伸手去够一把熨斗，指望用它来给这场“美食决斗”作个总结，权当一杯饭后甜酒。可楼下传来一声响亮的、凄厉的尖叫，让她和麦卡斯基先生都不由自主地停了手，仿佛达成了一场休战。

On the sidewalk at the corner of the house Policeman Cleary was standing with one ear upturned, listening to the crash of household utensils.

在房子拐角的人行道上，克利里警官正竖起一只耳朵，站在那儿听着屋里家什碰撞的声响。

“’Tis Jawn McCaskey and his missis at it again,” meditated the policeman. “I wonder shall I go up and stop the row. I will not. Married folks they are; and few pleasures they have. ’Twill not last long. Sure, they’ll have to borrow more dishes to keep it up with.”

“又是约翰·麦卡斯基和他老婆干上了，”警官心里琢磨着。“我要不要上去把这场架给拦下来呢？我才不去呢。他们是两口子；日子过得也没什么乐趣。这架吵不了多久的。他们总得再去借点碗碟才能接着吵下去呢。”

And just then came the loud scream below-stairs, betokening fear or dire extremity. “’Tis probably the cat,” said Policeman Cleary, and walked hastily in the other direction.

正在这时，楼下又传来一声响亮的尖叫，听着像是害怕，又像是遇上了什么绝境。“大概是那只猫吧，”克利里警官说着，便匆匆朝相反的方向走去。

The boarders on the steps were fluttered. Mr. Toomey, an insurance solicitor by birth and an investigator by profession, went inside to analyse the scream. He returned with the news that Mrs. Murphy’s little boy, Mike, was lost. Following the messenger, out bounced Mrs. Murphy—two hundred pounds in tears and hysterics, clutching the air and howling to the sky for the loss of thirty pounds of freckles and mischief. Bathos, truly; but Mr. Toomey sat down at the side of Miss Purdy, millinery, and their hands came together in sympathy. The two old maids, Misses Walsh, who complained every day about the noise in the halls, inquired immediately if anybody had looked behind the clock.

台阶上的房客们都骚动起来。图米先生，一位生来就是干保险推销这行、干起来倒像是个侦探的人，走进屋去弄清楚这尖叫是怎么回事。他回来带来的消息是，墨菲太太的小儿子麦克不见了。紧跟在报信人身后，墨菲太太也冲了出来——两百磅重的一身眼泪和歇斯底里，双手在空中乱抓，朝着天空哀号，哭喊着自己那三十磅的雀斑和捣蛋鬼不见了。这情形说实话有点滑稽可悲；可图米先生却趁机坐到了做女帽生意的珀迪小姐身边，两人的手在一片同情之中握到了一起。那两位每天都要抱怨走廊太吵的沃尔什老姑娘姐妹俩，立刻问有没有人去钟后面找过。

Major Grigg, who sat by his fat wife on the top step, arose and buttoned his coat. “The little one lost?” he exclaimed. “I will scour the city.” His wife never allowed him out after dark. But now she said: “Go, Ludovic!” in a baritone voice. “Whoever can look upon that mother’s grief without springing to her relief has a heart of stone.” “Give me some thirty or—sixty cents, my love,” said the Major. “Lost children sometimes stray far. I may need carfares.”

坐在最上一级台阶上、挨着他那位胖太太的格里格少校站起身来，扣上外套。“小家伙不见了？”他惊呼道。“我这就去满城搜一搜。”他太太向来不准他天黑之后出门，可这回她却用一种男低音说道：“去吧，卢多维克！谁要是眼睁睁看着那母亲这般痛苦，还无动于衷不去帮忙，那这人的心肠可真是铁石做的。”“亲爱的，给我三十——或者六十美分吧，”少校说道。“走失的孩子有时候会跑得老远。我兴许还得坐车呢。”

Old man Denny, hall room, fourth floor back, who sat on the lowest step, trying to read a paper by the street lamp, turned over a page to follow up the article about the carpenters’ strike. Mrs. Murphy shrieked to the moon: “Oh, ar-r-Mike, f’r Gawd’s sake, where is me little bit av a boy?”

丹尼老头，住四楼后厢的单人房，坐在最低的一级台阶上，借着路灯的光想读报纸，他翻了一页，接着看那篇关于木匠罢工的报道。墨菲太太对着月亮哀号道：“哦，麦——麦克啊，看在老天爷的份上，我那可怜的小男孩到底在哪儿啊？”

“When’d ye see him last?” asked old man Denny, with one eye on the report of the Building Trades League.

“你最后一次看见他是什么时候？”丹尼老头问道，一只眼睛还盯着建筑行业联盟的那篇报道。

“Oh,” wailed Mrs. Murphy, “’twas yisterday, or maybe four hours ago! I dunno. But it’s lost he is, me little boy Mike. He was playin’ on the sidewalk only this mornin’—or was it Wednesday? I’m that busy with work, ’tis hard to keep up with dates. But I’ve looked the house over from top to cellar, and it’s gone he is. Oh, for the love av Hiven—”

“哦，”墨菲太太哭喊道，“是昨天，或者也许是四个钟头前的事！我也说不准。反正他是不见了，我那小男孩麦克。他今天早上还在人行道上玩来着——还是星期三来着？我忙得脚不沾地，日子都记不清了。可我把这房子从头到脚、从楼上到地窖都找遍了，他就是不见了。哦，看在老天爷的份上——”

Silent, grim, colossal, the big city has ever stood against its revilers. They call it hard as iron; they say that no pulse of pity beats in its bosom; they compare its streets with lonely forests and deserts of lava. But beneath the hard crust of the lobster is found a delectable and luscious food. Perhaps a different simile would have been wiser. Still, nobody should take offence. We would call no one a lobster without good and sufficient claws.

沉默、冷峻、庞然大物般的大城市，一向不理会那些诽谤它的人。人们说它铁石心肠；说它胸腔里根本不跳动着丝毫怜悯的脉搏；把它的街道比作孤寂的森林和熔岩的荒漠。可就在龙虾那坚硬的外壳之下，藏着的却是鲜美可口的肉。也许换个别的比喻会更妥当些。不过谁也不必因此见怪。我们绝不会无缘无故地把谁比作龙虾，除非它确实长着一副厉害的螯钳。

No calamity so touches the common heart of humanity as does the straying of a little child. Their feet are so uncertain and feeble; the ways are so steep and strange.

人世间最能触动人心深处的，莫过于一个小孩子的走失了。他们的脚步是那样不稳，那样孱弱；道路又是那样陡峭，那样陌生。

Major Griggs hurried down to the corner, and up the avenue into Billy’s place. “Gimme a rye-high,” he said to the servitor. “Haven’t seen a bow-legged, dirty-faced little devil of a six-year-old lost kid around here anywhere, have you?”

格里格少校匆匆赶到街角，又沿着大道走进了比利酒馆。“给我来一杯黑麦威士忌兑高球水，”他对侍者说道。“你有没有见过一个罗圈腿、脏兮兮脸蛋的六岁小鬼在这附近晃悠？”

Mr. Toomey retained Miss Purdy’s hand on the steps. “Think of that dear little babe,” said Miss Purdy, “lost from his mother’s side—perhaps already fallen beneath the iron hoofs of galloping steeds—oh, isn’t it dreadful?”

图米先生在台阶上一直握着珀迪小姐的手。“想想那可怜的小宝贝吧，”珀迪小姐说道，“从母亲身边走失了——说不定已经倒在飞奔的骏马铁蹄之下了——哦，这可太可怕了！”

“Ain’t that right?” agreed Mr. Toomey, squeezing her hand. “Say I start out and help look for um!”

“可不是嘛？”图米先生附和道，一边捏了捏她的手。“要不我这就出去帮忙找找他吧！”

“Perhaps,” said Miss Purdy, “you should. But, oh, Mr. Toomey, you are so dashing—so reckless—suppose in your enthusiasm some accident should befall you, then what—”

“也许吧，”珀迪小姐说道，“你是该去。可是，哦，图米先生，你这人太勇猛了——太不管不顾了——万一你这一腔热情之下出了什么意外，那可怎么办呢——”

Old man Denny read on about the arbitration agreement, with one finger on the lines.

丹尼老头用一根手指顺着字行，继续读着那篇关于仲裁协议的报道。

In the second floor front Mr. and Mrs. McCaskey came to the window to recover their second wind. Mr. McCaskey was scooping turnips out of his vest with a crooked forefinger, and his lady was wiping an eye that the salt of the roast pork had not benefited. They heard the outcry below, and thrust their heads out of the window.

在二楼临街的窗前，麦卡斯基夫妇来到窗口，缓过刚才那阵子的“战斗”。麦卡斯基先生正用一根弯曲的食指从背心里往外掏萝卜块，他太太则擦着一只眼睛，那眼睛被烤猪肉的盐汁弄得可不好受。他们听见楼下的喧闹声，便探出头去。

“’Tis little Mike is lost,” said Mrs. McCaskey, in a hushed voice, “the beautiful, little, trouble-making angel of a gossoon!”

“是小麦克不见了，”麦卡斯基太太压低了声音说道，“那可爱的、总爱惹事的小天使似的男孩！”

“The bit of a boy mislaid?” said Mr. McCaskey, leaning out of the window. “Why, now, that’s bad enough, entirely. The childer, they be different. If ’twas a woman I’d be willin’, for they leave peace behind ’em when they go.”

“那小家伙走丢了？”麦卡斯基先生说着，探出窗外。“哎呀，这可真够糟糕的。孩子嘛，跟别的可不一样。要是丢的是个女人，我倒无所谓，反正她们一走，留下的倒是清净。”

Disregarding the thrust, Mrs. McCaskey caught her husband’s arm.

麦卡斯基太太没理会这番讥讽，一把抓住了丈夫的胳膊。

“Jawn,” she said, sentimentally, “Missis Murphy’s little bye is lost. ’Tis a great city for losing little boys. Six years old he was. Jawn, ’tis the same age our little bye would have been if we had had one six years ago.”

“约翰，”她动情地说道，“墨菲太太的小男孩不见了。这座大城市啊，丢小男孩可真是拿手。他才六岁。约翰，要是六年前咱们也有个孩子，如今也该是这么大了。”

“We never did,” said Mr. McCaskey, lingering with the fact.

“咱们从来就没有过孩子，”麦卡斯基先生咬着这个事实说道。

“But if we had, Jawn, think what sorrow would be in our hearts this night, with our little Phelan run away and stolen in the city nowheres at all.”

“可要是咱们有的话，约翰，想想看，今晚咱们心里该有多难过啊，咱们的小费兰在这城里不知哪个角落里走丢了、被人拐走了。”

“Ye talk foolishness,” said Mr. McCaskey. “’Tis Pat he would be named, after me old father in Cantrim.”

“你尽说些糊涂话，”麦卡斯基先生说道。“要真有，他该叫帕特，跟我在坎特里姆的老爹一个名字。”

“Ye lie!” said Mrs. McCaskey, without anger. “Me brother was worth tin dozen bog-trotting McCaskeys. After him would the bye be named.” She leaned over the window-sill and looked down at the hurrying and bustle below.

“你胡说！”麦卡斯基太太说道，语气里倒没有怒气。“我兄弟一个人就顶得上十来打乡巴佬麦卡斯基。这孩子该随我兄弟的名字才对。”她探身靠在窗台上，俯视着楼下匆忙纷乱的人群。

“Jawn,” said Mrs. McCaskey, softly, “I’m sorry I was hasty wid ye.”

“约翰，”麦卡斯基太太柔声说道，“我对你这么急躁，真是对不住。”

“’Twas hasty puddin’, as ye say,” said her husband, “and hurry-up turnips and get-a-move-on-ye coffee. ’Twas what ye could call a quick lunch, all right, and tell no lie.”

“你倒是急躁得跟做速食布丁一样，”她丈夫说道，“还有那火急火燎的萝卜，还有那催命似的咖啡。这倒真能算是一顿‘快餐’了，一点不假。”

Mrs. McCaskey slipped her arm inside her husband’s and took his rough hand in hers.

麦卡斯基太太把胳膊挽进丈夫的胳膊里，握住了他那双粗糙的手。

“Listen at the cryin’ of poor Mrs. Murphy,” she said. “’Tis an awful thing for a bit of a bye to be lost in this great big city. If ’twas our little Phelan, Jawn, I’d be breakin’ me heart.”

“听听可怜的墨菲太太在哭喊，”她说道。“一个小男孩在这么大的城市里走丢了，可真是件可怕的事。约翰，要是丢的是咱们的小费兰，我这心啊，非得碎了不可。”

Awkwardly Mr. McCaskey withdrew his hand. But he laid it around the nearing shoulder of his wife.

麦卡斯基先生局促地把手抽了回来。可他随即又把手臂搭在了妻子渐渐靠近的肩膀上。

“’Tis foolishness, of course,” said he, roughly, “but I’d be cut up some meself if our little Pat was kidnapped or anything. But there never was any childer for us. Sometimes I’ve been ugly and hard with ye, Judy. Forget it.”

“这话说起来当然是糊涂话，”他粗声粗气地说道，“可要是咱们的小帕特真被拐走了，或者出了什么事，我自己心里也不好受。不过咱们从来就没有过孩子。朱迪，我有时候待你挺凶、挺不讲理的。都忘了它吧。”

They leaned together, and looked down at the heart-drama being acted below.

他们靠在一起，俯视着楼下正上演的这出扣人心弦的戏码。

Long they sat thus. People surged along the sidewalk, crowding, questioning, filling the air with rumours, and inconsequent surmises. Mrs. Murphy ploughed back and forth in their midst, like a soft mountain down which plunged an audible cataract of tears. Couriers came and went.

他们就这样坐了好久好久。人们在人行道上涌来涌去，挤挤攘攘，互相打听，空气中满是流言和毫无根据的猜测。墨菲太太在人群中来回穿梭，就像一座柔软的山，山下奔涌着一道听得见声响的泪水瀑布。信使们来来去去。

Loud voices and a renewed uproar were raised in front of the boarding-house.

公寓门前又爆发出一阵响亮的喧哗和骚动。

“What’s up now, Judy?” asked Mr. McCaskey.

“这又是怎么回事，朱迪？”麦卡斯基先生问道。

“’Tis Missis Murphy’s voice,” said Mrs. McCaskey, harking. “She says she’s after finding little Mike asleep behind the roll of old linoleum under the bed in her room.”

“是墨菲太太的声音，”麦卡斯基太太侧耳听着说道。“她说她找到小麦克了，原来他睡在她房里床底下那卷旧油毡后头呢。”

Mr. McCaskey laughed loudly.

麦卡斯基先生放声大笑起来。

“That’s yer Phelan,” he shouted, sardonically. “Divil a bit would a Pat have done that trick. If the bye we never had is strayed and stole, by the powers, call him Phelan, and see him hide out under the bed like a mangy pup.”

“这就是你说的‘费兰’干的好事，”他讥讽地嚷道。“帕特可干不出这种把戏来。要是咱们从没生过的那个孩子真走丢了、被拐了，凭良心说，就该管他叫费兰，看他像条癞皮小狗似的躲到床底下去。”

Mrs. McCaskey arose heavily, and went toward the dish closet, with the corners of her mouth drawn down.

麦卡斯基太太沉重地站起身，嘴角耷拉着，朝碗柜走去。

Policeman Cleary came back around the corner as the crowd dispersed. Surprised, he upturned an ear toward the McCaskey apartment, where the crash of irons and chinaware and the ring of hurled kitchen utensils seemed as loud as before. Policeman Cleary took out his timepiece.

克利里警官等人群散去之后，又绕回了街角。他惊讶地侧起一只耳朵，朝着麦卡斯基家的方向听去，只听得铁器瓷器碰撞、厨房用具乱扔叮当作响的声音，似乎跟先前一样响亮。克利里警官掏出他的怀表来看。

“By the deported snakes!” he exclaimed, “Jawn McCaskey and his lady have been fightin’ for an hour and a quarter by the watch. The missis could give him forty pounds weight. Strength to his arm.”

“我的老天爷啊！”他惊叹道，“约翰·麦卡斯基跟他太太，按表算已经吵了一个钟头零一刻钟了。他太太的体重能比他重四十磅呢。他这胳膊可真够卖力气的。”

Policeman Cleary strolled back around the corner.

克利里警官悠悠然又绕回了街角。

Old man Denny folded his paper and hurried up the steps just as Mrs. Murphy was about to lock the door for the night.

丹尼老头折起报纸，匆匆走上台阶，这时墨菲太太正打算把门锁上，准备过夜了。