第7章 The Mammon and the Archer 财神与爱神

Old Anthony Rockwall, retired manufacturer and proprietor of Rockwall's Eureka Soap, looked out the library window of his Fifth Avenue mansion and grinned. His neighbour to the right—the aristocratic clubman, G. Van Schuylight Suffolk-Jones—came out to his waiting motor-car, wrinkling a contumelious nostril, as usual, at the Italian renaissance sculpture of the soap palace's front elevation.

“Stuck-up old statuette of nothing doing!” commented the ex-Soap King. “The Eden Musee'll get that old frozen Nesselrode yet if he don't watch out. I'll have this house painted red, white, and blue next summer and see if that'll make his Dutch nose turn up any higher.”

And then Anthony Rockwall, who never cared for bells, went to the door of his library and shouted “Mike!” in the same voice that had once chipped off pieces of the welkin on the Kansas prairies.

“Tell my son,” said Anthony to the answering menial, “to come in here before he leaves the house.”

When young Rockwall entered the library the old man laid aside his newspaper, looked at him with a kindly grimness on his big, smooth, ruddy countenance, rumpled his mop of white hair with one hand and rattled the keys in his pocket with the other.

“Richard,” said Anthony Rockwail, “what do you pay for the soap that you use?”

Richard, only six months home from college, was startled a little. He had not yet taken the measure of this sire of his, who was as full of unexpectednesses as a girl at her first party.

“Six dollars a dozen, I think, dad.”

“And your clothes?”

“I suppose about sixty dollars, as a rule.”

“You're a gentleman,” said Anthony, decidedly. “I've heard of these young bloods spending$24 a dozen for soap, and going over the hundred mark for clothes. You've got as much money to waste as any of’ em, and yet you stick to what's decent and moderate. Now I use the old Eureka—not only for sentiment, but it's the purest soap made. Whenever you pay more than 10 cents a cake for soap you buy bad perfumes and labels. But 50 cents is doing very well for a young man in your generation, position and condition. As I said, you're a gentleman. They say it takes three generations to make one. They're off. Money'll do it as slick as soap grease. It's made you one. By hokey! it's almost made one of me. I'm nearly as impolite and disagreeable and ill-mannered as these two old Knickerbocker gents on each side of me that can't sleep of nights because I bought in between ‘em.”

“There are some things that money can't accomplish,” remarked young Rockwall, rather gloomily.

“Now, don't say that,” said old Anthony, shocked. “I bet my money on money every time. I've been through the encycopaedia down to Y looking for something you can't buy with it; and I expect to have to take up the appendix next week. I'm for money against the field. Tell me something money won't buy.”

“For one thing,” answered Richard, rankling a little, “it won't buy one into the exclusive circles of society.”“Oho! won't it?” thundered the champion of the root of evil. “You tell me where your exclusive circles would be if the first Astor hadn't had the money to pay for his steerage passage over?”

Richard sighed.

“And that's what I was coming to,” said the old man, less boisterously. “That's why I asked you to come in. There's something going wrong with you, boy. I've been noticing it for two weeks. Out with it. I guess I could lay my hands on eleven millions within twenty-four hours, besides the real estate. If it's your liver, there's the Rambler down in the bay, coaled, and ready to steam down to the Bahamas in two days.”

“Not a bad guess, dad; you haven't missed it far.”

“Ah,” said Anthony, keenly; “what's her name?”

Richard began to walk up and down the library floor. There was enough comradeship and sympathy in this crude old father of his to draw his confidence.

“Why don't you ask her?” demanded old Anthony. “She'll jump at you. You've got the money and the looks, and you're a decent boy. Your hands are clean. You've got no Eureka soap on 'em. You've been to college, but she'll overlook that.”

“I haven't had a chance,” said Richard.

“Make one,” said Anthony. “Take her for a walk in the park, or a straw ride, or walk home with her from church Chance! Pshaw!”

“You don't know the social mill, dad. She's part of the stream that turns it. Every hour and minute of her time is arranged for days in advance. I must have that girl, dad, or this town is a blackjack swamp forevermore. And I can't write it—I can't do that.”

“Tut!” said the old man. “Do you mean to tell me that with all the money I've got you can't get an hour or two of a girl's time for yourself?”

“I've put it off too late. She's going to sail for Europe at noon day after to-morrow for a two years' stay. I'm to see her alone to-morrow evening for a few minutes. She's at Larchmont now at her aunt's. I can't go there. But I'm allowed to meet her with a cab at the Grand Central Station to-morrow evening at the . train. We drive down Broadway to Wallack's at a gallop, where her mother and a box party will be waiting for us in the lobby. Do you think she would listen to a declaration from me during that six or eight minutes under those circumstances? No. And what chance would I have in the theatre or afterward? None. No, dad, this is one tangle that your money can't unravel. We can't buy one minute of time with cash; if we could, rich people would live longer. There's no hope of getting a talk with Miss Lantry before she sails.”

“All right, Richard, my boy,” said old Anthony, cheerfully. “You may run along down to your club now. I'm glad it ain't your liver. But don't forget to burn a few punk sticks in the joss house to the great god Mazuma from time to time. You say money won't buy time? Well, of course, you can't order eternity wrapped up and delivered at your residence for a price, but I've seen Father Time get pretty bad stone bruises on his heels when he walked through the gold diggings.”

That night came Aunt Ellen, gentle, sentimental, wrinkled, sighing, oppressed by wealth, in to Brother Anthony at his evening paper, and began discourse on the subject of lovers' woes.

“He told me all about it,” said brother Anthony, yawning. “I told him my bank account was at his service. And then he began to knock money. Said money couldn't help. Said the rules of society couldn't be bucked for a yard by a team of ten-millionaires.”

“Oh, Anthony,” sighed Aunt Ellen, “I wish you would not think so much of money. Wealth is nothing where a true affection is concerned. Love is all-powerful. If he only had spoken earlier! She could not have refused our Richard. But now I fear it is too late. He will have no opportunity to address her. All your gold cannot bring happiness to your son.”

At eight o'clock the next evening Aunt Ellen took a quaint old gold ring from a moth-eaten case and gave it to Richard.

“Wear it to-night, nephew,” she begged. “Your mother gave it to me. Good luck in love she said it brought. She asked me to give it to you when you had found the one you loved.”

Young Rockwall took the ring reverently and tried it on his smallest finger. It slipped as far as the second joint and stopped. He took it off and stuffed it into his vest pocket, after the manner of man. And then he phoned for his cab.

At the station he captured Miss Lantry out of the gadding mob at eight thirty-two.

“We mustn't keep mamma and the others waiting,” said she.

“To Wallack's Theatre as fast as you can drive!” said Richard loyally.

They whirled up Forty-second to Broadway, and then down the white-starred lane that leads from the soft meadows of sunset to the rocky hills of morning.

At Thirty-fourth Street young Richard quickly thrust up the trap and ordered the cabman to stop.

“I've dropped a ring,” he apologised, as he climbed out. “It was my mother's, and I'd hate to lose it. I won't detain you a minute—I saw where it fell.”

In less than a minute he was back in the cab with the ring.

But within that minute a crosstown car had stopped directly in front of the cab. The cabman tried to pass to the left, but a heavy express wagon cut him off. He tried the right, and had to back away from a furniture van that had no business to be there. He tried to back out, but dropped his reins and swore dutifully. He was blockaded in a tangled mess of vehicles and horses.

One of those street blockades had occurred that sometimes tie up commerce and movement quite suddenly in the big city.

“Why don't you drive on?” said Miss Lantry, impatiently. “We'll be late.”

Richard stood up in the cab and looked around. He saw a congested flood of wagons, trucks, cabs, vans and street cars filling the vast space where Broadway, Sixth Avenue and Thirty-fourth street cross one another as a twenty-six inch maiden fills her twenty-two inch girdle. And still from all the cross streets they were hurrying and rattling toward the converging point at full speed, and hurling themselves into the struggling mass, locking wheels and adding their drivers' imprecations to the clamour. The entire traffic of Manhattan seemed to have jammed itself around them. The oldest New Yorker among the thousands of spectators that lined the sidewalks had not witnessed a street blockade of the proportions of this one.

“I'm very sorry,” said Richard, as he resumed his seat, “but it looks as if we are stuck. They won't get this jumble loosened up in an hour. It was my fault. If I hadn't dropped the ring we—”Let me see the ring,” said Miss Lantry. “Now that it can't be helped, I don't care. I think theatres are stupid, anyway.”

At 11 o'clock that night somebody tapped lightly on Anthony Rockwall's door.

“Come in,” shouted Anthony, who was in a red dressing-gown, reading a book of piratical adventures.

Somebody was Aunt Ellen, looking like a grey-haired angel that had been left on earth by mistake.

“They're engaged, Anthony,” she said, softly. “She has promised to marry our Richard. On their way to the theatre there was a street blockade, and it was two hours before their cab could get out of it.

“And oh, brother Anthony, don't ever boast of the power of money again. A little emblem of true love—a little ring that symbolised unending and unmercenary affection—was the cause of our Richard finding his happiness. He dropped it in the street, and got out to recover it. And before they could continue the blockade occurred. He spoke to his love and won her there while the cab was hemmed in. Money is dross compared with true love, Anthony.”

“All right,” said old Anthony. “I'm glad the boy has got what he wanted. I told him I wouldn't spare any expense in the matter if—”

“But, brother Anthony, what good could your money have done?”

“Sister,” said Anthony Rockwall. “I've got my pirate in a devil of a scrape. His ship has just been scuttled, and he's too good a judge of the value of money to let drown. I wish you would let me go on with this chapter.”

The story should end here. I wish it would as heartily as you who read it wish it did. But we must go to the bottom of the well for truth.

The next day a person with red hands and a blue polka-dot necktie, who called himself Kelly, called at Anthony Rockwall's house, and was at once received in the library.

“Well,” said Anthony, reaching for his chequebook, “it was a good bilin' of soap. Let's see—you had $5,000, in cash.”

“I paid out $300 more of my own,” said Kelly. “I had to go a little above the estimate. I got the express wagons and cabs mostly for $5; but the trucks and two-horse teams mostly raised me to $10. The motormen wanted $10, and some of the loaded teams $20. The cops struck me hardest—$50 I paid two, and the rest $20 and $25. But didn't it work beautiful, Mr. Rockwall? I'm glad William A. Brady wasn't onto that little outdoor vehicle mob scene. I wouldn't want William to break his heart with jealousy. And never a rehearsal, either! The boys was on time to the fraction of a second. It was two hours before a snake could get below Greeley's statue.”

“Thirteen hundred—there you are, Kelly,” said Anthony, tearing off a check. “Your thousand, and the $300 you were out. You don't despise money, do you, Kelly?”

“Me?” said Kelly. “I can lick the man that invented poverty.”

Anthony called Kelly when he was at the door.

“You didn't notice,” said he, “anywhere in the tie-up, a kind of a fat boy without any clothes on shooting arrows around with a bow, did you?”

“Why, no,” said Kelly, mystified. “I didn't. If he was like you say, maybe the cops pinched him before I got there.”

“I thought the little rascal wouldn't be on hand,” chuckled Anthony. “Good-by, Kelly.”

老安东尼·洛克韦尔是洛氏尤里卡肥皂的制造商兼专利人，已经退休了。此刻，他从位于第五大道的私邸书房的窗口向外望去，咧嘴笑了笑。他的右邻——贵族俱乐部会员G·范·萨福克-琼斯先生——正从家里出来走向等候他的汽车。像往常一样，萨福克-琼斯朝这座肥皂宫殿正面的意大利文艺复兴时期的雕像轻蔑地皱了皱鼻子。

“自命不凡无所事事的老雕像！”前任肥皂大王评论说。“你这个僵化的纳斯尔罗德，一不留神伊登博物馆就会把你收进去。这个夏天，我要把我的房子漆得五光十色，瞧你那荷兰鼻子能翘到哪里去。”

安东尼·洛克韦尔呼唤佣人向来不用按铃。他走到书房门口，大叫一声：

“迈克！”那嗓门过去大得能震破堪萨斯大草原的天空，如今依然如此。

“告诉少爷，”安东尼吩咐应声而来的佣人，“出门前到我这里来一趟。”

小洛克韦尔走进书房时，老头子放下报纸，打量着他，光滑红润的宽脸盘上带着慈爱严肃的神情。他一只手把满头白发揉得乱糟糟的，另一只手则把口袋里的钥匙弄得响个不停。

“理查德，”安东尼·洛克韦尔说，“你用的肥皂是花多少钱买的？”

理查德离开学校才六个月，听了这话觉得有点儿吃惊。他还没摸透老爸的脾气，这老头子像是初次加入社交场合的女孩一样，总问些让人意想不到的问题。

“大概是六美元一打，爸爸。”

“你的衣服呢？”

“我想一般是六十美元左右。”

“你是绅士，”安东尼斩钉截铁地说。“我听说现在的公子哥都用二十四美元一打的肥皂，衣服要花上一百美元。你有的是钱，可以像他们那样胡花乱用，但你始终正正经经，很有分寸。现在我还是用老牌的尤里卡肥皂——不仅是因为有感情，而且也因为这是最纯粹的肥皂。每当你超过一角买一块肥皂，你买的只是劣质的香料和牌子。不过，像你这样年龄、地位和身份的年轻人，用五十美分一块的肥皂就够好了。就像我刚才说的，你是绅士。人们都说三代人才能造就一个绅士。他们错了。有了钱办什么事都跟肥皂的油脂一样滑润。

钱使你成了绅士。啊，差点儿也使我成了绅士。我和住左右邻的两个荷兰老家伙差不多，语言粗俗，行为古怪，举止无礼。他们两个晚上连觉都睡不着，因为我买的房子插在了他们中间。”

“有些事即使有钱也办不了，”小洛克韦尔相当抑郁地说。

“好了，别这么说，”老洛克韦尔震惊地说。“我始终相信钱无所不能。我查遍了百科全书，已经查到字母Y，看有没有金钱办不到的事儿；下星期我还要查一遍附录。我绝对相信金钱能应对一切。告诉我，有什么东西用钱买不到。”

“举个例吧，”理查德有点怨恨地说，“有钱也挤不进高级社交圈。”

“噢嗬，不是吗？”万恶之根的拥护者吼道。“那你告诉我，要是阿斯特人的老祖宗们没钱买统舱船票到美国来，你的高级社交圈又在哪里呢？”

理查德叹了口气。

“这正是我打算跟你谈的事儿，”老头子声音缓和地说。“这就是我叫你来的原因。最近你有点儿不对劲，孩子，我已经注意你两周了。说出来吧。我想我能在二十四小时内调动一千一百万美元，房产还不算。要是你的肝病犯了，‘逍遥号’就停在海湾，已经上足了煤，两天内就能到巴哈马群岛。”

“你猜得不错，爸爸；差不远了。”

“啊，”老安东尼热情地问。“她叫什么名字？”

理查德开始在书房里走来走去。看到粗鲁的老爸对这件事嘘寒问暖，他增强了讲实话的信心。

“为什么不向她求婚呢？”老安东尼追问道。“她一定会扑进你的怀抱的。你有钱，相貌英俊，又是个正派的小伙子。你两手干干净净，没有沾上尤里卡肥皂。你进过大学，但这一点她不会在意。”

“我一直没有机会，”理查德说。

“制造机会嘛，”安东尼说。“带她上公园散步，或者驾车郊游，要么做完礼拜陪她回家。机会！呸！”

“您不知道现在社交界的情况，爸爸。她是头面人物之一。每时每分都在几天前就安排好了。爸爸，我非得到那个姑娘不可，不然这座城市就会变成一片让我抱恨终身的腐臭沼泽。我又不能写信表白——我不能那么做。”

“呸！”老头子说。“你是想告诉我，用我给你的所有的钱，也买不来一个姑娘的一、两个小时吗？”

“我想得太晚了。后天中午，她就要坐船去欧洲，在那里待两年。明天傍晚，我能单独和她待上几分钟。现在她在拉齐蒙特的姨妈家，我不能到那里去。但是，她允许我明天晚上坐马车去中央火车站接她，她坐八点半的那趟火车来。我们一起坐马车赶到百老汇街的沃拉克剧院，她母亲和别的亲友在剧院大厅等我们。在那种情况下，只有六到八分钟的时间，您认为她会听我表白吗？不会的。在剧院里或散戏之后，我还有什么机会呢？根本没有。不，爸爸，这就是你的金钱解决不了的难题。我们用钱连一分钟也买不到；要是可能的话，富人就会活得更长。在兰特丽小姐启航之前，我没希望和她谈了。”

“好了，理查德，我的孩子，”老安东尼快乐地说。“现在你可以去你的俱乐部了。我很高兴不是你的肝出了毛病。不过，别忘了多去庙里烧烧香，拜拜财神爷。你是说钱买不来时间？唔，当然，你不能出个价，叫人把‘永恒’包得好好的，送到你的家门口，但我曾见过时间老人走过金矿时，石块弄得他满脚伤痕。”

当晚，埃伦姑妈来看望她的哥哥。她性情温和，多情善感，满脸沧桑，长吁短叹，在财富的重压下喘不过气来。安东尼正在看晚报。他们以情人的烦恼展开话题。

“他全告诉我了，”安东尼打了个呵欠说。“我告诉他说，我的银行存款全都听他支配。可他却开始贬低金钱。说有钱也没什么用。还说什么十个百万富翁加在一起也不能把社会规则拖动一步。”

“噢，安东尼，”埃伦姑妈叹了口气说，“我希望你别把金钱看得太重了。涉及到真实的情感，财富就算不了什么了。爱情才是万能的。要是他早一点说就好了！那姑娘不可能拒绝我们的理查德，只是现在太晚了。他没有机会向她表白了。你的全部钱财都不能给儿子带来幸福。”

第二天晚上八点钟，埃伦姑妈从一个虫蛀斑斑的盒子里取出一枚古雅的金戒指，交给理查德。

“今晚戴上它，孩子，”她央求说。“这是你妈妈托付给我的。她说这枚戒指能给爱情带来好运。她请求我在你找到意中人时，把它交给你。”

小洛克韦尔虔诚地接过戒指，在小指上试了试，但只到第二个指节就下不去了。他取下戒指，按照男人的习惯把它放进坎肩口袋里，然后打电话叫马车。

八点三十二分，他在火车站杂乱的人群中接到了兰特丽小姐。

“我们不能让妈妈和其他人久等，”她说。

“去沃拉克剧院，越快越好！”理查德按照小姐的意愿吩咐车夫。

他们飞速地从第四十二大街向百老汇驶去，接着穿过一条灯火通明的小巷，从草地遍布的西区驶向高楼耸立的东区。

到达第三十四街时，理查德快速地推开车窗隔板，叫车夫停车。

“我把戒指掉了，”他下车时抱歉地说。“这是我母亲的遗物，我不能把它丢掉。我耽误不了你一分钟——我看见它掉哪里了。”

不到一分钟，他拿着戒指回到车上。

然而，就在那一分钟里，一辆城区的汽车在马车的正前方停住了。车夫试图往左拐，又被一辆快运货车挡住去路。车夫朝右试了试，又只得往回退，躲开一辆莫名其妙出现在那里的装运家具的马车。后退也行不通。车夫只得丢下僵绳，尽职地咒骂起来。他被乱糟糟的车辆和马匹挡住了去路。

在大城市中，马路上的交通阻塞时有发生，会突然间切断所有往来。

“你为什么不赶路啊？”兰特丽小姐不耐烦地问。“我们要迟到了。”

理查德在车里站起身望了望四周，只见百老汇街、第六大道和第三十四街交汇的地段被各式各样的货车、卡车、马车、搬运车和街车挤了个水泄不通，就像一个二十六英寸腰围的姑娘塞进一个二十二英寸的紧身褡一样。而且在这几条街上，还有车辆在朝着这个地方全速驶来，将自己投入到这一片混乱之中，原有的喧嚣又加入了车夫们的咒骂声。曼哈顿的所有车辆好像都堵塞在这里了。成千上万的纽约人挤在人行道上看热闹，年龄最大的人也没有见过这种拥堵的场面。

“真对不起，”理查德重新坐下时说，“看样子我们被堵死了。一小时也疏通不了。都是我的错。要是没掉戒指的话，我们——”

“让我看看戒指，”兰特丽小姐说。“既然这样，我就不在乎了。本来我就觉得看戏无聊。”

当晚十一点，有人轻轻敲响了安东尼·洛克韦尔的房门。

“进来吧，”安东尼喊道，他此时正穿着一件红色睡衣，阅读一本海盗惊险小说。

走进来的是埃伦姑妈，看上去她就好像是一位不小心被留在地球上的灰发天使。

“安东尼，他们订婚了，”她柔声说道。“她答应嫁给我们的理查德。他们在去剧院的路上遇到大堵车了，两小时后才解脱出来。”

“噢，安东尼哥哥，别再吹嘘金钱的威力了。一件表示真爱的信物——一枚象征着永恒不变、一往深情的小戒指——这才是我们的理查德获得幸福的根源。他在街上掉了戒指，下车去捡。他们正要重新上路，路就堵了。就在堵车时，他向她表白了爱情，最后赢得了她。和真正的爱情相比，金钱就是粪土，安东尼。”

“好吧，”老安东尼说。“我很高兴那小子得到了他想要的。我告诉过他，在这件事上我会不惜任何代价，只要——”

“可是，安东尼哥哥，你的钱起了什么作用呢？”

“妹妹，”安东尼·洛克韦尔说。“我的海盗船正处在万分危急的关头。他的船刚被凿沉，他重视金钱的价值，绝不会让自己淹死。我希望你能让我接着把这章读完。”

故事本该到这里结束了。我跟你们一样，也热切希望如此。不过，为了弄清事情真相，我们需要探个究竟。

第二天，一个两手通红、系着蓝点领带、自称凯利的人找上门来，安东尼·洛克韦尔立刻在书房接待了他。

“唔，”安东尼伸手去拿支票簿说，“这一锅肥皂熬得不赖。让我们瞧瞧——你已经支了五千现金。”

“我自己还垫了三百呢，”凯利说。“比预算的超出一点点，快运货车和马车大部分付五美元，但卡车和双驾马车把价钱提到了十美元。汽车司机要十美元，有些货车要二十。警察要得最狠了——两个各要五十，另外两个一个要二十，一个要二十五。不过，效果还很不错，是不是，洛克韦尔先生？真幸运，威廉·A·布兰迪先生没有在现场。我是不希望威廉先生忌妒死。而且是从来没有排练过！伙计们准时赶到现场，一秒都不差。整整堵了两个小时，连条蛇都别想从格里利的塑像下钻过去。”

“这一千三百美元给你，凯利，”安东尼说着，撕下一张支票。“一千美元是给你的报酬，三百美元是还你垫付的。你不会看不起金钱吧，凯利？”

“我？”凯利说。“我真想揍那个发明贫穷的家伙。”

凯利走到门口时，安东尼叫住了他。

“你有没有注意到，”他问，“堵车时，一个光屁股胖小子手拿弓箭到处乱射？”

“啊，没有，”凯利莫名其妙地说。“我没注意到。要是像您说的那样，也许我到那里之前，警察早把他收拾了。”

“我想这个小坏蛋不会到场，”安东尼轻声笑道。“再见，凯利。”