Two Thanksgiving Day Gentlemen

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.

有一天是属于我们的。有一天，我们这些不是白手起家的美国人，都会回到老家去吃苏打饼干，惊叹那口老水泵怎么看着比记忆中离门廊更近了。这一天真是要感谢老天。是罗斯福总统赐给我们的。我们听人谈起过清教徒，可具体是谁却记不太清楚了。不过要是他们再想登陆一次，我们敢打赌准能把他们打得落花流水。普利茅斯岩？嗯，这个名字倒是听着耳熟些。自从火鸡托拉斯插手以来，我们不少人都不得不退而求其次，改吃母鸡了。可华盛顿总有人提前把这些感恩节公告的消息透露给他们。

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.

那座位于蔓越莓沼泽以东的大城市，把感恩节变成了一项制度。十一月的最后一个星期四，是这一年里它唯一肯正眼看看渡轮对岸那部分美国的日子。这是唯一一个纯粹属于美国的日子。是的，一个庆祝的日子，专属于美国的日子。

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.

现在来讲讲这个故事，好向诸位证明，我们这大洋这边也有传统，而且这传统形成的速度，比英国那边快得多——多亏了我们这股干劲和闯劲。

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.

“饱食彼得”坐在从东边进入联合广场后右手边数第三条长椅上，正对着喷泉的那条小径。九年来，每逢感恩节，他都会准时在下午一点钟坐到那个位置上。因为每次他这么坐着，总会有些事情发生在他身上——那种狄更斯式的好事，把他背心上心口那块地方撑得鼓鼓的，另一边也同样鼓了起来。

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.

可今天，“饱食彼得”出现在这年度的约会地点，看起来更像是出于习惯，而不是那种慈善家们以为穷人每逢这样的年度佳节便会犯的饥饿感。

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.

彼得确实不饿。他刚从一场盛宴中出来，那场盛宴几乎耗尽了他的一切力气，只剩下呼吸和走路的本事还在。他的眼睛就像两颗淡色的醋栗果，牢牢嵌在一张肿胀发亮、沾满肉汁的面团似的脸上。他的呼吸变成一阵阵短促的喘息；一圈参议员般肥厚的脂肪，让他那竖起的大衣领子怎么也摆不出时髦的样子来。一星期前救世军的好心人才给他缝上的纽扣，此刻噼里啪啦地崩飞出去，撒了他一身一地。

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.

他衣衫褴褛，衬衫前襟裂开，直露到锁骨；可十一月的微风裹挟着细碎的雪花，吹在他身上却只带来一阵令人惬意的凉爽。因为“饱食彼得”体内积攒了太多热量，全是那顿丰盛无比的大餐带来的，从生蚝开始，一路吃到梅子布丁收尾，其间（在他看来）几乎囊括了世上所有的烤火鸡、烤土豆、鸡肉沙拉、南瓜派和冰淇淋。于是他坐在那里，撑得饱饱的，用一种饭后特有的轻蔑目光望着这个世界。

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.

这顿饭原是他没料到的。他路过第五大道起点附近一栋红砖大宅时，那里住着两位出身古老世家、笃信传统的老太太。她们甚至不承认纽约的存在，认定感恩节这个日子，专是为华盛顿广场而设的。她们的传统习惯之一，便是派一个仆人守在后门，吩咐他放正午钟声敲过之后第一个路过的饥饿行人进来，一直款待到他吃饱为止。“饱食彼得”恰巧路过那儿，正往公园走去，那位“总管”便把他请了进去，延续了这座“城堡”的老规矩。

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.

“饱食彼得”直直地望着前方十分钟之后，忽然觉得该换换视野了。他费了九牛二虎之力，慢慢把头转向左边。就在这时，他的眼珠子骇然凸了出来，呼吸也止住了，他那两条短腿套着破鞋的脚在砾石地上抖动、沙沙作响。

For the Old Gentleman was coming across Fourth avenue toward his bench.

因为那位老先生正从第四大道那边朝他的长椅走来。

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.

九年来，每逢感恩节，这位老先生都会来到这里，在长椅上找到“饱食彼得”。这正是老先生一直想把它变成一项传统的事。九年来，每逢感恩节，他都会在这里找到彼得，把他带到一家餐馆，看着他吃下一顿丰盛的大餐。这种事在英国人们做起来是不假思索的。可这是个年轻的国家，九年也算不错了。

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.

这位老先生是个坚定的美国爱国者，自认为是美国传统的先驱之一。要想变得别具一格，我们就得长年累月地坚持做一件事，绝不让它从我们手中溜走。就像每周挨家收取工业保险的角子钱一样。或者像打扫街道一样。

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.

老先生笔直而庄重地朝着他正在建立的这项“制度”走去。说实话，每年请“饱食彼得”吃这顿饭，本身并不具备什么全国性的意义，不像英国的《大宪章》或是早餐吃果酱那样。可这总归是一步。它几乎带着封建色彩。至少它证明了，纽约——呃，美国，也未必就建立不起一项习俗来。

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.

老先生瘦削高挑，年届六旬。他一身黑衣打扮，戴着一副老式眼镜，怎么也架不稳在鼻梁上。他的头发比去年更白也更稀疏了，他似乎也更倚重那根带弯柄的大疙瘩手杖了。

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.

他这位定期的恩人走近时，彼得喘着气，浑身发抖，就像哪位妇人养得过肥的哈巴狗，见了街上的野狗朝它龇牙咧嘴时那副模样。他本想飞奔而逃，可就算桑托斯·杜蒙的全部飞行本领，也没法把他从这条长椅上分开。那两位老太太手下的仆从们，把差事办得可真到位。

“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.”

“早上好，”老先生说道。“看到又一年的沧桑变迁没有伤到你，你依然能够健健康康地在这美丽的世间走动，我甚感欣慰。单凭这一份福气，这感恩的日子就值得我们每个人好好宣扬。若你愿意跟我走一趟，我的朋友，我便请你吃一顿大餐，好让你的身体也配得上你的精神。”

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.

这是老先生每次都要说的话。九年来，每逢感恩节都是如此。这几句话本身几乎已经自成一项“制度”了。除了《独立宣言》，简直没有什么能与之相提并论。以往每一次，这些话在彼得听来都如同音乐一般。可这一回，他抬起头望着老先生的脸，眼里满是含泪的痛苦。细雪落在他汗湿的额头上，几乎要“嗞”地一声化掉。可老先生却微微打了个寒战，转身背对着风。

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.

彼得一直纳闷，老先生说这番话时，语气为何总带着几分伤感。他并不知道，那是因为老先生每次都盼着自己有个儿子来继承这份传统。一个日后能站到这里的儿子——一个能在日后某个“饱食彼得”面前，骄傲而坚定地站着，说一句“为了纪念先父”的儿子。那样一来，这才真正成了一项“制度”。

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.

可老先生并没有什么亲人。他租住在公园以东一条僻静街道上的一栋破败的老式褐石大宅里。冬天，他在一间跟航海皮箱差不多大的小温室里种倒挂金钟。春天，他去参加复活节游行。夏天，他住在新泽西山区的一处农舍里，坐在一把柳条扶手椅上，谈论着一种叫“凤尾蛱蝶”的蝴蝶，希望有朝一日能亲眼见到它。秋天，他便请彼得吃一顿饭。这些便是老先生的全部营生。

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.

“饱食彼得”望着他，愣了足足半分钟，深陷在自怜自艾之中，一筹莫展。老先生的眼中闪着施与之乐的光彩。他的脸上皱纹一年比一年多了，可他那条黑色小领带，依旧打成一个神气的蝴蝶结，衬衫的浆领洁白漂亮，灰白的胡子两端也仔细地卷翘着。这时彼得发出一阵声音，听着就像锅里煮豆子咕嘟咕嘟的声响。他本意是要说话；老先生九年来已经听过这声音九遍，正确地把它解读成了彼得那句老套的应允之词。

“Thankee, sir. I’ll go with ye, and much obliged. I’m very hungry, sir.”

“多谢您了，先生。我这就跟您走，多谢多谢。我实在是饿坏了，先生。”

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 had 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.

尽管已经饱得昏昏沉沉，彼得心里却仍然存着一份笃信：自己正是一项“制度”的根基所在。他这份感恩节的胃口，早已不再属于他自己了；按照既定习俗的种种神圣权利来说，即便法律上的时效已过，它也该归属于这位早已把它据为己有的和善老先生。诚然，美国是自由的；可若要建立起一项传统，总得有人充当那个循环往复的角色——就像循环小数一样。英雄们并非个个都是钢铁与黄金铸就的英雄。这里便有一位，手中挥舞的不过是些粗铁，镀银也镀得马马虎虎，还有些锡铁罢了。

The Old Gentleman led his annual protégé southward to the restaurant, and to the table where the feast had always occurred. They were recognized.

老先生领着他这位年度门徒往南走，来到那家餐馆，来到那张年年上演这场盛宴的餐桌前。他们两个都被认出来了。

“Here comes de old guy,” said a waiter, “dat blows dat same bum to a meal every Thanksgiving.”

“这老家伙又来了，”一个侍者说道，“每年感恩节都要请那个流浪汉吃一顿。”

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.

老先生坐在桌子对面，脸上泛着烟熏珍珠般的光彩，仿佛正端坐在他未来那份古老传统的奠基石上。侍者们把节日大餐堆满了餐桌——彼得叹了口气，这声叹息被误当作了饥饿的表示，他举起刀叉，为自己雕琢出了一顶永不凋谢的桂冠。

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.

再没有哪位勇士能像他这样，奋力冲杀过敌军的阵列。火鸡、排骨、汤水、蔬菜、馅饼，一上桌便被他风卷残云般地消灭掉。他进餐馆的时候本就已经撑得几乎到了极限，那阵阵食物的香气差点让他有失绅士的体面，可他还是像一位真正的骑士那样振作了起来。他看见老先生脸上那副慈祥满足的神情——那神情比倒挂金钟和凤尾蛱蝶带给他的欢喜还要更深——他实在不忍心看着它黯淡下去。

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.

一个钟头之后，彼得靠在椅背上，仿佛打赢了一场硬仗。“多谢您了，先生，”他像一根漏气的蒸汽管一样喘着气说道，“多谢您请我吃这顿丰盛的饭。”随后他费力地站起身来，双眼呆滞，朝厨房走去。一个侍者像转陀螺似的把他掉了个方向，指向大门。老先生仔细数出一元三角的银角子，另外留了三枚五分镍币给侍者作小费。

They parted as they did each year at the door, the Old Gentleman going south, Stuffy north.

他们像往年一样在门口分了手，老先生往南走，彼得往北走。

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.

彼得转过第一个街角，站住停了一分钟。随后他仿佛猫头鹰抖开羽毛似的，把身上的破衣衫抖了抖，就像被日头晒昏了的马一样，一头栽倒在人行道上。

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.

救护车赶来时，年轻的外科医生和司机低声咒骂着他的分量。他身上没有威士忌的味道，够不上转送巡逻车的资格，于是彼得，连同他肚子里的两顿大餐，一起被送进了医院。他们把他放到病床上，开始给他检查各种稀奇古怪的病症，指望能借此机会亮一亮手上的钢刀。

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.

瞧啊！一个钟头之后，又一辆救护车把老先生送了来。他们把他也放到另一张病床上，议论着阑尾炎，因为看他的样子，倒是个付得起账单的病人。

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.

不多时，一位年轻的医生遇见了一位他中意的年轻护士，便停下来跟她聊起这几个病例来。

“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.”

“喏，那边那位和气的老先生，”他说道，“你绝想不到，那竟是个几乎快饿死的病例。我猜是名门望族出身的老人吧。他跟我说，他已经整整三天没吃过一口东西了。”