第3章 Witches' Loaves 女巫的面包

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 Martha's.

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 Martha's 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 Martha's 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 (so it said on the picture) 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.

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 Martha's 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—

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 Martha's 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, “you've said enough.”He dragged the angry one out at the door to the sidewalk, and then came back.

“Guess you ought to be told, ma'am,” he said, “what the row is about. That's Blumberger. He's an architectural draftsman. I work in the same office with him.

“He's 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 it's done he rubs out the pencil lines with handfuls of stale bread crumbs. That's better than India rubber.

“Blumberger's been buying the bread here. Well, to-day—well, you know, ma'am, that butter isn't—well, Blumberger's plan isn't 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·米查姆小姐在拐角处开了一家小面包店（就是你走上三级台阶，打开门时，门铃丁当作响的那种小店）。

玛莎小姐四十岁，银行存折显示她有两千美元存款，她还有两颗假牙和一颗同情心。许多运气完全不如玛莎小姐的人都已经结婚了。

一个顾客每周到店里来两、三次，玛莎小姐开始对他产生了兴趣。他人到中年，戴着眼镜，棕色胡子修剪得齐齐整整。

他说英语时带有浓重的德国口音，衣服有的地方磨损，打着补丁，有的地方皱皱巴巴，松松垮垮。但是，他看上去整洁，很有礼貌。

他总是买两块陈面包。新鲜面包五分钱一条。陈面包五分钱两条。除了陈面包，他从来不买其他东西。

有一次，玛莎小姐看到他手指上有一块红褐相间的污斑，于是确信他是一位艺术家，而且很穷。毫无疑问，他住在阁楼，在那里作画，一边吃陈面包，一边想着玛莎小姐面包店里各种好吃的东西。

每当玛莎小姐坐下吃排骨、松软的面包卷、果酱、喝茶时，常常会叹息，希望那个温文尔雅的艺术家能分享她的可口饭菜，而不是在四面透风的阁楼里啃吃干面包皮。我曾经说过，玛莎小姐有一颗同情心。

有一天，为了检验她对这个人职业的推测，她从房间里搬出了她特价买来的一幅画，靠在面包柜台后面的架子上。

那是一幅威尼斯风景画。一座富丽堂皇的大理石宫殿（画上是这样标明的）矗立在画面的前景——或者更准确地说，前面的水景。此外，有几艘平底船（那位女士的一只手曳行在水里），有云彩，有天空，还有许多明暗变化的画笔。艺术家不可能不注意到这一点。

两天后，那位顾客来到了店里。

“清（请）拿两块陈面包。”

“夫人，你这里又（有）一幅好化（画），”她在包裹面包时，他说。

“是吗？”玛莎小姐说，对自己的计谋洋洋得意。“我的确非常钦佩艺术和——”（不，这么说“艺术家”尚早）“和绘画。”她换了一种说法，“你认为这是一幅好画吗？”

“贡（宫）殿，”顾客说，“画得不好。偷（透）视法不真实。在（再）见，夫人。”

他拿起面包，躬了躬身，匆匆出了店门。

是的，他一定是一位艺术家。玛莎小姐把画搬回了房间。

他眼镜后面的目光是多么温和亲切！他的前额是多么宽阔！一眼就能看出透视画法——竟靠陈面包生活！但在得到公众认可之前，天才常常不得不奋斗。

要是天才有两千美元银行存款、一家面包店和一颗同情心作后盾，这对艺术和透视画法将会是多好的事儿啊！——但这不过是白日梦，玛莎小姐。

现在每当他来时，总会隔着陈列柜聊一会儿，好像渴望玛莎小姐的愉快谈话。

他继续买陈面包，从不买蛋糕，也不买馅饼，更不买她店里可口的萨利伦甜饼。

她觉得他看上去渐渐消瘦、灰心。她一心渴望在他买的寒酸食物里加一些好吃东西，但她没有勇气去做。她不敢冒犯他。她了解艺术家的自尊。

玛莎小姐站柜台时开始喜欢穿那件蓝点丝绸胸衣。她在里屋熬起了神秘的榅桲籽和硼砂的合剂。许许多多人用这种合剂美容。

有一天，那位顾客又像往常那样走进来，把五分镍币放在柜台上，要求买陈面包。玛莎小姐伸手去拿面包时，喇叭嘟嘟声和丁当声大作，一辆消防车隆隆驶过。

顾客赶忙跑到门口去看，谁都会这样做。玛莎小姐突然灵机一动，抓住了这个机会。

柜台后面最底层的搁板上放着一磅新鲜黄油，送奶人送来才十分钟。

玛莎小姐用切面包刀把各个陈面包都深深地划了一刀，塞进了大量黄油，然后又把面包压紧。

顾客又转过身时，她正在用纸裹着面包。

他们十分愉快地聊了一小会儿。顾客走后，玛莎小姐暗自微笑，但心里不免有点儿慌乱。

她是不是过于莽撞呢？他会见怪吗？不过，肯定不会。食物绝不代表语言。黄油也绝不象征有失少女身份的鲁莽行为。

那天，她在这件事上细想了好一阵子，想象他发现她的小小伎俩时的情景。

他会放下画笔和调色板。那里会支着他的画架，画架上是他正在作的画，其中所用的透视法无可厚非。

他会准备干面包和水，作为午饭。他将切开一块面包——啊！

玛莎小姐脸色羞红了。他吃面包时会想到那只放黄油的手吗？他会——

前门铃恶狠狠地响了起来。有人大吵大闹着走进来。

玛莎小姐匆匆赶到前台。那里有两个男人。一个是叼着烟斗的年轻人——她以前从未见过，另一个是她的艺术家。

他脸色通红，帽子戴在后脑勺上，头发弄得乱七八糟。他紧握两只拳头，气势汹汹地朝玛莎小姐摇晃着。冲着玛莎小姐摇晃。

“笨蛋！”他扯开嗓子喊道，随后又喊了一声“见鬼！”之类的德国话。

那个年轻人竭力想把他拽走。

“我不回（会）走的，”他愤怒地说，“我非要高（告）诉她不可。”

他咚咚咚敲着玛莎小姐的柜台。

“你会（毁）了我。”他喊道，蓝眼睛在镜片后面冒着火。“我腰（要）告诉你。你是以（一）只埃（爱）管闲事的老太婆！”

玛莎小姐无力地靠在货架上，一只手放在蓝点丝绸胸衣上。年轻人抓住同伴的衣领。

“走吧，”他说，“你已经说够了。”他把那个怒气冲冲的人拽到门外的人行道上，然后又折了回来。

“夫人，我想应该把这次吵嚷的原因告诉你，”他说，“那位是布鲁姆伯格。他是一名建筑绘图员。我和他在同一个办公室工作。

“他一直在绘制一张新市政厅平面图，辛辛苦苦地绘了三个月，准备参加有奖竞赛。他昨天刚上完墨。你知道，绘图员总是先用铅笔打底稿。打完底稿后，他用几把陈面包屑擦掉铅笔线。陈面包屑要比弹性橡皮效果好。

“布鲁姆伯格一直买这里的面包。啊，今天——啊，夫人，你知道，那黄油不——啊，布鲁姆伯格的平面图现在没有一点用了，只能割成铁路复合板了。”

玛莎小姐走进里屋，脱下蓝点丝绸胸衣，换上原来那件棕色哔叽衣服，随后把榅桲籽和硼砂的合剂泼到了窗外的垃圾箱里。