A Municipal Report市政报告
Fancy a novel about Chicago or Buffalo, let us say, or Nashville, Tennessee! There are just three big cities in the United States that are "story cities" - New York, of course, New Orleans, and, best of the lot, San Francisco.
FRANK NORRIS.
East is East, and West is San Francisco, according to Californians. Californians are a race of people; they are not merely inhabitants of a State. They are the Southerners of the West. Now, Chicagoans are no less loyal to their city; but when you ask them why, they stammer and speak of lake fish and the new Odd Fellows Building. But Californians go into detail.
Of course they have, in the climate, an argument that is good for half an hour while you are thinking of your coal bills and heavy underwear. But as soon as they come to mistake your silence for conviction, madness comes upon them, and they picture the city of the Golden Gate as the Bagdad of the New World. So far, as a matter of opinion, no refutation is necessary. But, dear cousins all (from Adam and Eve descended), it is a rash one who will lay his finger on the map and say: "In this town there can be no romance - what could happen here?" Yes, it is a bold and a rash deed to challenge in one sentence history, romance, and Rand and McNally.
NASHVILLE - A city, port of delivery, and the capital of the State of Tennessee, is on the Cumberland River and on the N. C. & St. L. and the L. & N. railroads. This city is regarded as the most important educational centre in the South.
I stepped off the train at 8 P.M. Having searched the thesaurus in vain for adjectives, I must, as a substitution, hie me to comparison in the form of a recipe.
Take a London fog 30 parts; malaria 10 parts; gas leaks 20 parts; dewdrops gathered in a brick yard at sunrise, 25 parts; odor of honeysuckle 15 parts. Mix.
The mixture will give you an approximate conception of a Nashville drizzle. It is not so fragrant as a moth-ball nor as thick as pea-soup; but 'tis enough - 'twill serve.
I went to a hotel in a tumbril. It required strong self-suppression for me to keep from climbing to the top of it and giving an imitation of Sidney Carton. The vehicle was drawn by beasts of a bygone era and driven by something dark and emancipated.
I was sleepy and tired, so when I got to the hotel I hurriedly paid it the fifty cents it demanded (with approximate lagniappe, I assure you). I knew its habits; and I did not want to hear it prate about its old "marster" or anything that happened "befo' de wah."
The hotel was one of the kind described as 'renovated." That means $20,000 worth of new marble pillars, tiling, electric lights and brass cuspidors in the lobby, and a new L. & N. time table and a lithograph of Lookout Mountain in each one of the great rooms above. The management was without reproach, the attention full of exquisite Southern courtesy, the service as slow as the progress of a snail and as good-humored as Rip Van Winkle. The food was worth traveling a thousand miles for. There is no other hotel in the world where you can get such chicken livers en brochette.
At dinner I asked a Negro waiter if there was anything doing in town. He pondered gravely for a minute, and then replied: "Well, boss, I don't really reckon there's anything at all doin' after sundown."
Sundown had been accomplished; it had been drowned in the drizzle long before. So that spectacle was denied me. But I went forth upon the streets in the drizzle to see what might be there. It is built on undulating grounds; and the streets are lighted by electricity at a cost of $32,470 per annum. As I left the hotel there was a race riot. Down upon me charged a company of freedmen, or Arabs, or Zulus, armed with - no, I saw with relief that they were not rifles, but whips. And I saw dimly a caravan of black, clumsy vehicles; and at the reassuring shouts, "Kyar you anywhere in the town, boss, fuh fifty cents," I reasoned that I was merely a "fare" instead of a victim.
I walked through long streets, all leading uphill. I wondered how those streets ever came down again. Perhaps they didn't until they were "graded." On a few of the "main streets" I saw lights in stores here and there; saw street cars go by conveying worthy burghers hither and yon; saw people pass engaged in the art of conversation, and heard a burst of semi-lively laughter issuing from a soda-water and ice-cream parlor. The streets other than "main" seemed to have enticed upon their borders houses consecrated to peace and domesticity. In many of them lights shone behind discreetly drawn window shades; in a few pianos tinkled orderly and irreproachable music. There was, indeed, little "doing." I wished I had come before sundown. So I returned to my hotel.
In November, 1864, the Confederate General Hood advanced against Nashville, where he shut up a National force under General Thomas. The latter then sallied forth and defeated the Confederates in a terrible conflict.
All my life I have heard of, admired, and witnessed the fine marksmanship of the South in its peaceful conflicts in the tobacco-chewing regions. But in my hotel a surprise awaited me. There were twelve bright, new, imposing, capacious brass cuspidors in the great lobby, tall enough to be called urns and so wide-mouthed that the crack pitcher of a lady baseball team should have been able to throw a ball into one of them at five paces distant. But, although a terrible battle had raged and was still raging, the enemy had not suffered. Bright, new, imposing, capacious, untouched, they stood. But, shades of Jefferson Brick! the tile floor - the beautiful tile floor! I could not avoid thinking of the battle of Nashville, and trying to draw, as is my foolish habit, some deductions about hereditary marksmanship.
Here I first saw Major (by misplaced courtesy) Wentworth Caswell. I knew him for a type the moment my eyes suffered from the sight of him. A rat has no geographical habitat. My old friend, A. Tennyson, said, as he so well said almost everything:
Prophet, curse me the blabbing lip, And curse me the British vermin, the rat.
Let us regard the word "British" as interchangeable ad lib. A rat is a rat.
This man was hunting about the hotel lobby like a starved dog that had forgotten where he had buried a bone. He had a face of great acreage, red, pulpy, and with a kind of sleepy massiveness like that of Buddha. He possessed one single virtue - he was very smoothly shaven. The mark of the beast is not indelible upon a man until he goes about with a stubble. I think that if he had not used his razor that day I would have repulsed his advances, and the criminal calendar of the world would have been spared the addition of one murder.
I happened to be standing within five feet of a cuspidor when Major Caswell opened fire upon it. I had been observant enough to percieve that the attacking force was using Gatlings instead of squirrel rifles; so I side-stepped so promptly that the major seized the opportunity to apologize to a noncombatant. He had the blabbing lip. In four minutes he had become my friend and had dragged me to the bar.
I desire to interpolate here that I am a Southerner. But I am not one by profession or trade. I eschew the string tie, the slouch hat, the Prince Albert, the number of bales of cotton destroyed by Sherman, and plug chewing. When the orchestra plays Dixie I do not cheer. I slide a little lower on the leather-cornered seat and, well, order another Wurzburger and wish that Longstreet had - but what's the use?
Major Caswell banged the bar with his fist, and the first gun at Fort Sumter re-echoed. When he fired the last one at Appomattox I began to hope. But then he began on family trees, and demonstrated that Adam was only a third cousin of a collateral branch of the Caswell family. Genealogy disposed of, he took up, to my distaste, his private family matters. He spoke of his wife, traced her descent back to Eve, and profanely denied any possible rumor that she may have had relations in the land of Nod.
By this time I was beginning to suspect that he was trying to obscure by noise the fact that he had ordered the drinks, on the chance that I would be bewildered into paying for them. But when they were down he crashed a silver dollar loudly upon the bar. Then, of course, another serving was obligatory. And when I had paid for that I took leave of him brusquely; for I wanted no more of him. But before I had obtained my release he had prated loudly of an income that his wife received, and showed a handful of silver money.
When I got my key at the desk the clerk said to me courteously: "If that man Caswell has annoyed you, and if you would like to make a complaint, we will have him ejected. He is a nuisance, a loafer, and without any known means of support, although he seems to have some money most the time. But we don't seem to be able to hit upon any means of throwing him out legally."
"Why, no," said I, after some reflection; "I don't see my way clear to making a complaint. But I would like to place myself on record as asserting that I do not care for his company. Your town," I continued, "seems to be a quiet one. What manner of entertainment, adventure, or excitement have you to offer to the stranger within your gates?"
"Well, sir," said the clerk, "there will be a show here next Thursday. It is - I'll look it up and have the announcement sent up to your room with the ice water. Good night."
After I went up to my room I looked out the window. It was only about ten o'clock, but I looked upon a silent town. The drizzle continued, spangled with dim lights, as far apart as currants in a cake sold at the Ladies' Exchange.
"A quiet place," I said to myself, as my first shoe struck the ceiling of the occupant of the room beneath mine. "Nothing of the life here that gives color and variety to the cities in the East and West. Just a good, ordinary, humdrum, business town."
Nashville occupies a foremost place among the manufacturing centres of the country. It is the fifth boot and shoe market in the United States, the largest candy and cracker manufacturing city in the South, and does an enormous wholesale drygoods, grocery, and drug business.
I must tell you how I came to be in Nashville, and I assure you the digression brings as much tedium to me as it does to you. I was traveling elsewhere on my own business, but I had a commission from a Northern literary magazine to stop over there and establish a personal connection between the publication and one of its contributors, Azalea Adair.
Adair (there was no clue to the personality except the handwriting) had sent in some essays (lost art!) and poems that had made the editors swear approvingly over their one o'clock luncheon. So they had commissioned me to round up said Adair and corner by contract his or her output at two cents a word before some other publisher offered her ten or twenty.
At nine o'clock the next morning, after my chicken livers en brochette (try them if you can find that hotel), I strayed out into the drizzle, which was still on for an unlimited run. At the first corner, I came upon Uncle Caesar. He was a stalwart Negro, older than the pyramids, with gray wool and a face that reminded me of Brutus, and a second afterwards of the late King Cettiwayo. He wore the most remarkable coat that I ever had seen or expect to see. It reached to his ankles an had once been a Confederate gray in colors. But rain and sun and age had so variegated it that Joseph's coat, beside it, would have faded to a pale monochrome. I must linger with that coat, for it has to do with the story - the story that is so long in coming, because you can hardly expect anything to happen in Nashville.
Once it must have been the military coat of an officer. The cape of it had vanished, but all adown its front it had been frogged and tasseled magnificently. But now the frogs and tassles were gone. In their stead had been patiently stitched (I surmised by some surviving "black mammy") new frogs made of cunningly twisted common hempen twine. This twine was frayed and disheveled. It must have been added to the coat as a substitute for vanished splendors, with tasteless but painstaking devotion, for it followed faithfully the curves of the long-missing frogs. And, to complete the comedy and pathos of the garment, all its buttons were gone save one. The second button from the top alone remained. The coat was fastened by other twine strings tied through the buttonholes and other holes rudely pierced in the opposite side. There was never such a weird garment so fantastically bedecked and of so many mottled hues. The lone button was the size of a half-dollar, made of yellow horn and sewed on with coarse twine.
This Negro stood by a carriage so old that Ham himself might have started a hack line with it after he left the ark with the two animals hitched to it. As I approached he threw open the door, drew out a feather duster, waved it without using it, and said in deep, rumbling tones:
"Step right in, suh; ain't a speck of dust in it - jus' got back from a funeral, suh."
I inferred that on such gala occasions carriages were given an extra cleaning. I looked up and down the street and perceived that there was little choice among the vehicles for hire that lined the curb. I looked in my memorandum book for the address of Azalea Adair.
"I want to go to 861 Jessamine Street," I said, and was about to step into the hack. But for an instant the thick, long, gorilla-like arm of the old Negro barred me. On his massive and saturnine face a look of sudden suspicion and enmity flashed for a moment. Then, with quickly returning conviction, he asked blandishingly: "What are you gwine there for, boss?"
"What is it to you?" I asked, a little sharply.
"Nothin', suh, jus' nothin'. Only it's a lonesome kind of part of town and few folks ever has business out there. Step right in. The seats is clean - jes' got back from a funeral, suh."
A mile and a half it must have been to our journey's end. I could hear nothing but the fearful rattle of the ancient hack over the uneven brick paving; I could smell nothing but the drizzle, now further flavored with coal smoke and something like a mixture of tar and oleander blossoms. All I could see through the streaming windows were two rows of dim houses.
The city has an area of 10 square miles; 181 miles of streets, of which 137 miles are paved; a system of waterworks that cost $2,000,000, with 77 miles of mains.
Eight-sixty-one Jessamine Street was a decayed mansion. Thirty yards back from the street it stood, outmerged in a splendid grove of trees and untrimmed shrubbery. A row of box bushes overflowed and almost hid the paling fence from sight; the gate was kept closed by a rope noose that encircled the gate post and the first paling of the gate. But when you got inside you saw that 861 was a shell, a shadow, a ghost of former grandeur and excellence. But in the story, I have not yet got inside.
When the hack had ceased from rattling and the weary quadrupeds came to a rest I handed my jehu his fifty cents with an additional quarter, feeling a glow of conscious generosity, as I did so. He refused it.
"It's two dollars, suh," he said.
"How's that?" I asked. "I plainly heard you call out at the hotel: 'Fifty cents to any part of the town.'"
"It's two dollars, suh," he repeated obstinately. "It's a long ways from the hotel."
"It is within the city limits and well within them." I argued. "Don't think that you have picked up a greenhorn Yankee. Do you see those hills over there?" I went on, pointing toward the east (I could not see them, myself, for the drizzle); "well, I was born and raised on their other side. You old fool nigger, can't you tell people from other people when you see 'em?"
The grim face of King Cettiwayo softened. "Is you from the South, suh? I reckon it was them shoes of yourn fooled me. They is somethin' sharp in the toes for a Southern gen'lman to wear."
"Then the charge is fifty cents, I suppose?" said I inexorably.
His former expression, a mingling of cupidity and hostility, returned, remained ten seconds, and vanished.
"Boss," he said, "fifty cents is right; but I needs two dollars, suh; I'm obleeged to have two dollars. I ain't demandin' it now, suh; after I know whar you's from; I'm jus' sayin' that I has to have two dollars to-night, and business mighty po'."
Peace and confidence settled upon his heavy features. He had been luckier than he had hoped. Instead of having picked up a greenhorn, ignorant of rates, he had come upon an inheritance.
"You confounded old rascal," I said, reaching down to my pocket, "you ought to be turned over to the police."
For the first time I saw him smile. He knew; he knew. HE KNEW.
I gave him two one-dollar bills. As I handed them over I noticed that one of them had seen parlous times. Its upper right-hand corner was missing, and it had been torn through the middle, but joined again. A strip of blue tissue paper, pasted over the split, preserved its negotiability.
Enough of the African bandit for the present: I left him happy, lifted the rope and opened a creaky gate.
The house, as I said, was a shell. A paint brush had not touched it in twenty years. I could not see why a strong wind should not have bowled it over like a house of cards until I looked again at the trees that hugged it close - the trees that saw the battle of Nashville and still drew their protecting branches around it against storm and enemy and cold.
Azalea Adair, fifty years old, white-haired, a descendant of the cavaliers, as thin and frail as the house she lived in, robed in the cheapest and cleanest dress I ever saw, with an air as simple as a queen's, received me.
The reception room seemed a mile square, because there was nothing in it except some rows of books, on unpainted white-pine bookshelves, a cracked marble-top table, a rag rug, a hairless horsehair sofa and two or three chairs. Yes, there was a picture on the wall, a colored crayon drawing of a cluster of pansies. I looked around for the portrait of Andrew Jackson and the pinecone hanging basket but they were not there.
Azalea Adair and I had conversation, a little of which will be repeated to you. She was a product of the old South, gently nurtured in the sheltered life. Her learning was not broad, but was deep and of splendid originality in its somewhat narrow scope. She had been educated at home, and her knowledge of the world was derived from inference and by inspiration. Of such is the precious, small group of essayists made. Whle she talked to me I kept brushing my fingers, trying, unconsciously, to rid them guiltily of the absent dust from the half-calf backs of Lamb, Chaucer, Hazlitt, Marcus Aurelius, Montaigne and Hood. She was exquisite, she was a valuable discovery. Nearly everybody nowadays knows too much - oh, so much too much - of real life.
I could perceive clearly that Azalea Adair was very poor. A house and a dress she had, not much else, I fancied. So, divided between my duty to the magazine and my loyalty to the poets and essayists who fought Thomas in the valley of the Cumberland, I listened to her voice, which was like a harpsichord's, and found that I could not speak of contracts. In the presence of the nine Muses and the three Graces one hesitated to lower the topic to two cents. There would have to be another colloquy after I had regained my commercialism. But I spoke of my mission, and three o'clock of the next afternoon was set for the discussion of the business proposition.
"Your town," I said, as I began to make ready to depart (which is the time for smooth generalities), "seems to be a quiet, sedate place. A home town, I should say, where few things out of the ordinary ever happen." It carries on an extensive trade in stoves and hollow ware with the West and South, and its flouring mills have a daily capacity of more than 2,000 barrels.
Azalea Adair seemed to reflect.
"I have never thought of it that way," she said, with a kind of sincere intensity that seemed to belong to her. "Isn't it in the still, quiet places that things do happen? I fancy that when God began to create the earth on the first Monday morning one could have leaned out one's window and heard the drops of mud splashing from His trowel as He built up the everlasting hills. What did the noisiest project in the world - I mean the building of the Tower of Bable - result in finally? A page and a half of Esperanto in the North American Review."
"Of course," said I platitudinously, "human nature is the same everywhere; but there is more color - er - more drama and movement and - er - romance in some cities than in others."
"On the surface," said Azalea Adair. "I have traveled many times around the world in a golden airship wafted on two wings - print and dreams. I have seen (on one of my imaginary tours) the Sultan of Turkey bowstring with his own hands one of his wives who had uncovered her face in public. I have seen a man in Nashville tear up his theatre tickets because his wife was going out with her face covered - with rice powder. In San Francisco's Chinatown I saw the slave girl Sing Yee dipped slowly, inch by inch, in boiling almond oil to make her swear she would never see her American lover again. She gave in when the boiling oil had reached three inches above her knee. At a euchre party in East Nashville the other night I saw Kitty Morgan cut dead by seven of her schoolmates and lifelong friends because she had married a house painter. The boiling oil was sizzling as high as her heart; but I wish you could have seen the fine little smile that she carried from table to table. Oh, yes, it is a humdrum town. Just a few miles of red brick houses and mud and lumber yards."
Some one knocked hollowly at the back of the house. Azalea Adair breathed a soft apology and went to investigate the sound. She came back in three minutes with brightened eyes, a faint flush on her cheeks, and ten years lifted from her shoulders.
"You must have a cup of tea before you go," she said, "and a sugar cake."
She reached and shook a little iron bell. In shuffled a small Negro girl about twelve, barefoot, not very tidy, glowering at me with thumb in mouth and bulging eyes.
Azlea Adair opened a tiny, worn purse and drew out a dollar bill, a dollar bill with the upper right-hand corner missing, torn in two pieces, and pasted together again with a strip of blue tissue paper. It was one of the bills I had given the piratical Negro - there was no doubt about it.
"Go up to Mr. Baker's store on the corner, Impy," she said, handing the girl the dollar bill, "and get a quarter of a pound of tea - the kind he always sends me - and ten cents worth of sugar cakes. Now, hurry. The supply of tea in the house happens to be exhausted," she explained to me.
Impy left by the back way. Before the scrape of her hard, bare feet had died away on the back porch, a wild shriek - I was sure it was hers - filled the hollow house. Then the deep, gruff tones of an angry man's voice mingled with the girl's further squeals and unintelligible words.
Azalea Adair rose without surprise or emotion and disappeared. For two minutes I heard the hoarse rumble of the man's voice; then someting like an oath and a slight scuffle, and she returned calmly to her chair.
"This is a roomy house," she said, "and I have a tenant for part of it. I am sorry to have to rescind my invitation to tea. It was impossible to get the kind I always use at the store. Perhaps tomorrow, Mr. Baker will be able to supply me."
I was sure that Impy had not had time to leave the house. I inquired concerning street-car lines and took my leave. After I was well on my way I remembered that I had not learned Azalea Adair's name. But to-morrow would do.
That same day I started in on the course of iniquity that this uneventful city forced upon me. I was in the town only two days, but in that time I managed to lie shamelessly by telegraph, and to be an accomplice - after the fact, if that is the correct legal term - to a murder.
As I rounded the corner nearest my hotel the Afrite coachman of the ploychromatic, nonpareil coat seized me, swung open the dungeony door of his peripatetic sarcophagus, flirted his feather duster and began his ritual: "Step right in, boss. Carriage is clean - jus' got back from a funeral. Fifty cents to any -"
And then he knew me and grinned broadly. "'Scuse me, boss; you is de gen'l'man what rid out with me dis mawnin'. Thank you kindly, suh."
"I am going out to 861 again to-morrow afternoon at three," said I, "and if you will be here, I'll let you drive me. So you know Miss Adair?" I concluded, thinking of my dollar bill.
"I belonged to her father, Judge Adair, suh," he replied.
"I judge that she is pretty poor," I said. "She hasn't much money to speak of, has she?"
For an instant I looked again at the fierce countenance of King Cettiwayo, and then he changed back to an extortionate old Negro hack driver.
"She ain't gwine to starve, suh," he said slowly. "She has reso'ces, suh; she has reso'ces."
"I shall pay you fifty cents for the trip," said I.
"Dat is puffeckly correct, suh," he answered humbly. "I jus' had to have dat two dollars dis mawnin', boss."
I went to the hotel and lied by electricity. I wired the magazine: "A. Adair holds out for eight cents a word."
The answer that came back was: "Give it to her quick you duffer."
Just before dinner "Major" Wentworth Caswell bore down upon me with the greetings of a long-lost friend. I have seen few men whom I have so instantaneously hated, and of whom it was so difficult to be rid. I was standing at the bar when he invaded me; therefore I could not wave the white ribbon in his face. I would have paid gladly for the drinks, hoping, thereby, to escape another; but he was one of those despicable, roaring, advertising bibbers who must have brass bands and fireworks attend upon every cent that they waste in their follies.
With an air of producing millions he drew two one-dollar bills from a pocket and dashed one of them upon the bar. I looked once more at the dollar bill with the upper right-hand corner missing, torn through the middle, and patched with a strip of blue tissue paper. It was my dollar bill again. It could have been no other.
I went up to my room. The drizzle and the monotony of a dreary, eventless Southern town had made me tired and listless. I remember that just before I went to bed I mentally disposed of the mysterious dollar bill (which might have formed the clew to a tremendously fine detective story of San Francisco) by saying to myself sleepily: "Seems as if a lot of people here own stock in the Hack-Driver's Trust. Pays dividends promptly, too. Wonder if -" Then I fell asleep.
King Cettiwayo was at his post the next day, and rattled my bones over the stones out to 861. He was to wait and rattle me back again when I was ready.
Azalea Adair looked paler and cleaner and frailer than she had looked on the day before. After she had signed the contract at eight cents per word she grew still paler and began to slip out of her chair. Whitout much trouble I managed to get her up on the antediluvian horsehair sofa and then I ran out to the sidewalk and yelled to the coffee-colored Pirate to bring a doctor. With a wisdom that I had not expected in him, he abandoned his team and struck off up the street afoot, realizing the value of speed. In ten minutes he returned with a grave, gray-haired and capable man of medicine. In a few words (worth much less than eight cents each) I explained to him my presence in the hollow house of mystery. He bowed with stately understanding, and turned to the old Negro.
"Uncle Caesar," he said calmly, "Run up to my house and ask Miss Lucy to give you a cream pitcher full of fresh milk and half a tumbler of port wine. And hurry back. Don't drive - run. I want you to get back sometime this week."
It occurred to me that Dr. Merriman also felt a distrust as to the speeding powers of the land-pirate's steeds. After Uncle Caesar was gone, lumberingly, but swiftly, up the street, the doctor looked me over with great politeness and as much careful calculation until he had decided that I might do.
"It is only a case of insufficient nutrition," he said. "In other words, the result of poverty, pride, and starvation. Mrs. Caswell has many devoted friends who would be glad to aid her, but she will accept nothing except from that old Negro, Uncle Caesar, who was once owned by her family."
"Mrs. Caswell!" said I, in surprise. And then I looked at the contract and saw that she had signed it "Azalea Adair Caswell."
"I thought she was Miss Adair," I said.
"Married to a drunken, worthless loafer, sir," said the doctor. "It is said that he robs her even of the small sums that her old servant contributes toward her support."
When the milk and wine had been brought the doctor soon revived Azalea Adair. She sat up and talked of the beauty of the autumn leaves that were then in season, and their height of color. She referred lightly to her fainting seizure as the outcome of an old palpitation of the heart. Impy fanned her as she lay on the sofa. The doctor was due elsewhere, and I followed him to the door. I told him that it was within my power and intentions to make a reasonable advance of money to Azalea Adair on future contributions to the magazine, and he seemed pleased.
"By the way," he said, "perhaps you would like to know that you have had royalty for a coachman. Old Caesar's grandfather was a king in Congo. Caesar himself has royal ways, as you may have observed."
As the doctor was moving off I heard Uncle Caesar's voice inside: "Did he get bofe of dem two dollars from you, Mis' Zalea?"
"Yes, Caesar," I heard Azalea Adair answer weakly. And then I went in and concluded business negotiations with our contributor. I assumed the responsibility of advancing fifty dollars, putting it as a necessary formality in binding our bargain. And then Uncle Caesar drove me back to the hotel.
Here ends all of the story as far as I can testify as a witness. The rest must be only bare statements of facts.
At about six o'clock I went out for a stroll. Uncle Caesar was at his corner. He threw open the door of his carriage, flourished his duster and began his depressing formula: "Step right in, suh. Fifty cents to anywhere in the city - hack's puffickly clean, suh - - jus' got back from a funeral -"
And then he recognized me. I think his eyesight was getting bad. His coat had taken on a few more faded shades of color, the twine strings were more frayed and ragged, the last remaining button - the button of yellow horn - was gone. A motley descendant of kings was Uncle Caesar!
About two hours later I saw an excited crowd besieging the front of a drug store. In a desert where nothing happens this was manna; so I edged my way inside. On an extemporized couch of empty boxes and chairs was stretched the mortal corporeality of Major Wentworth Caswell. A doctor was testing him for the immortal ingredient. His decision was that it was conspicuous by its absence.
The erstwhile Major had been found dead on a dark street and brought by curious and ennuied citizens to the drug store. The late human being had been engaged in terrific battle - the details showed that. Loafer and reprobate though he had been, he had been also a warrior. But he had lost. His hands were yet clinched so tightly that his fingers would not be opened. The gentle citizens who had know him stood about and searched their vocabularies to find some good words, if it were possible, to speak of him. One kind-looking man said, after much thought: "When 'Cas' was about fo'teen he was one of the best spellers in school."
While I stood there the fingers of the right hand of "the man that was" which hung down the side of a white pine box, relaxed, and dropped something at my feet. I covered it with one foot quietly, and a little later on I picked it up and pocketed it. I reasoned that in his last struggle his hand must have seized that object unwittingly and held it in a death grip.
At the hotel that night the main topic of conversation, with the possible exceptions of politics and prohibition, was the demise of Major Caswell. I heard one man say to a group of listeners:
"In my opinion, gentlemen, Caswell was murdered by somme of these no-account niggers for his money. He had fifty dollars this afternoon which he showed to several gentlemen in the hotel. When he was found the money was not on his person."
I left the city the next morning at nine, and as the train was crossing the bridge over the Cumberland River I took out of my pocket a yellow horn overcoat button the size of a fifty-cent piece, with frayed ends of coarse twine hanging from it, and cast it out of the window into the slow, muddy waters below.
I wonder what's doing in Buffalo!
城市得意扬扬，
这一个倚山而站，
那一个背临海洋，
正在相互挑战 。
——拉·吉卜林
试想有一部小说是写芝加哥或者布法罗的，或者写的是田纳 西州的纳什维尔！合众国里只有三个大城市称得上“故事城”——纽约当然在内，还有新奥尔良，最重要的是旧金山。——弗·诺里斯
[吉卜林（1865-1936）：英国小说家，诗人。诺里斯（1870-1902）：美国作家，新闻记者。]
照加利福尼亚人说来，东方是东方，西方却是旧金山。加利福尼亚人不仅仅是一个州的居民，他们还自成一个种族。他们是西部的南方人。芝加哥人为自己的城市所感到的自豪并不比之逊色；但是当你请他们说说理由的时候，他却期期艾艾地提到湖鱼和新盖的共济会大楼。而加利福尼亚人谈起来就有条有理了。
在气候方面，他们就可以滔滔不绝地谈上半小时，与此同时，你却在考虑煤炭开支和厚内衣。当他们把你的缄默误会为信服的表示时，他们就忘乎所以，竟把金门城说成了新世界的巴格达。这只是意见分歧的问题，没有必要辩论。但是亲爱的兄弟姊妹们（我们都是亚当和夏娃的后代），如果有谁用指头点着地图说，“这个城市里不可能有传奇——这里能有过什么事？”那他就未免太轻率了。是啊，用一句话来否定历史、传奇以及兰德—麦克纳利，未免太大胆，太轻率了。
[金门城：即旧金山。]
[兰德—麦克纳利：十九世纪美国旅行掼和画片出版商。]
纳什维尔——城市名，田纳西州首府，输出港，濒坎伯兰河，有芝—圣铁路及路—纳铁路经过，被认为是南言最重要的教育中心。
晚上八点钟，我下了火车。由于辞典上找不到适当的形容词，我不得不用配方来比喻。
伦敦雾三成，疟疾一成，煤气管跑漏的气味二成，黎明时在砖地上惧来的露珠二成半，忍冬草香一成半，加以混合。
这种混合物可以提供一个近乎纳什维尔的毛毛雨的概念。它没有樟脑刃那么香，也没有豆汤那么厚，但是已经够了——你不妨试一下。
我乘了一辆老式的马车去旅馆。我费了好大劲儿，才压制住自己，没象西德尼·卡顿那样爬到马车顶上。拉车的畜生是过了时的，赶车的是个解放了的黑家伙。
[西德尼·卡顿：英国作家狄更斯小说〈双城记〉中的人物，他顶替容貌同他酷似的达尼上了断头台。上文的马车（tumbril）是指一七八九年法国大革命时押送死刑犯上断头台时用的马车。]
我感到很困倦，一到旅馆，赶紧把赶车人要的五毛钱给了他（你放心，当然给了相当数目的小费）。我了解他们的脾气；我不愿意听他们唠唠叨叨地谈起他们的旧主人或者战前的事情。
旅馆是那种经过“翻新”的建筑之一。那就是说花了两万元，添置了新的大理石柱、瓷柱、瓷砖和电灯，休息室里摆了铜痰盂，楼上的大房间里都贴上一张路—纳铁路的新时刻表和一张观山图的石印画。旅馆的管理是无可指摘的，招待也带着细致的南方的殷勤，只不过象蜗牛爬行那么慢，象瑞普·凡·温克尔那么乐天。饭菜值得跑一千英里路来尝尝，世上任何别的旅馆都找不到这样好的烤鸡肝。
[瑞普·凡·温克尔：美国作家华盛顿·欧文《见闻札记》中性格温和、一睡二十年的人物。]
晚饭时，我问一个黑人侍者，城里有什么消遣。他一本正经地沉思了片刻，然后回答说：“哎，老板，我实在想不出太阳落山之后还有什么消遣。”
太阳已经落山了；它早就沉没在牛毛细雨中了。我已经无缘见到那个景象。但我仍旧冒着细雨上街，看看可能有些什么。
该城座落在起伏的土地上；街道有电灯照明，每年花费三万二千四百七十元。
我走出旅馆，碰到了一场种族暴乱。一群自由的黑人，或者阿拉伯人，或者祖鲁人，向我扑来，他们都配备着——还好，使我安心的是我看到的不是来复熗，而是马鞭。我还隐隐约约地看到一队黑鸦鸦的、笨重的车辆；听到使我更为安心的呼喊：“老板，送你到城里随便什么地方，只要五毛钱。”这时我领会到，我不是受害者，而只是一个“乘客”。
我在长街上走着，这些街道都是上坡的。我不明白它们怎么再通下来，也许根本下不来了，除非把它们筑平。在少数几条“大街”上，我偶尔看到铺子里有灯火，看到电车载着可敬的市民开来开去，看到交谈着的人走过，还听到一家卖苏打水和冰淇淋的铺子里传出近乎活泼的哄笑。不能算是“大”的街道仿佛把和平安详和的房子引诱到它们两旁来。许多房子的谨慎地拉好的窗帘里透出了亮光，少数几座房子里传出整齐而无可非难的钢琴声。确实没有什么“消遣”。我希望我在太阳落山之前来到就好了。于是我回到了旅馆。
一八六四年十一月，南部邦联的胡德将军向纳什维尔进军，围住了托马斯将军率领的一支北部联邦同盟的军队。托马斯将军发动攻势，在一场激烈的战斗中击败了南部邦联的军队。
南方嚼烟草的人在和平时期期的射击技术，我闻名已久，衷心钦佩，并且亲眼目睹过。我下榻旅馆里却有一件出乎意外的事在等着我。宽敞的休息室里有十二只崭（zhan）新锃（eng）亮、堂皇庞大的铜痰盂，高得可以称作瓮，口子又那么大，连女子垒球队的最佳投手在五步之外都能把球扔进去。但是，尽管经历了可怕的战役，并且还在进行战斗，敌方并没有损失。它们仍旧锃亮堂皇，大模大样地摆着。但是，倒霉的杰斐逊·布里克啊！那瓷砖地——那美丽的瓷砖地！我不由自主地想起了纳什维尔战役，照我愚蠢的习惯，希望得出有关遗传的射击技术的推论。
[杰斐逊·布里克：狄更斯小说《马丁·朱述尔维特》中脸色苍白、体弱多病的年轻战地记者。“布里克”一词在英语中有“砖头”的意思。]
我在这里初次见到了温特沃思·卡斯韦尔少校（这个头衔实在过分客气了）。我一见到他就觉得不自在，知道他是何等样人。耗子到处都有。我的老朋友艾·丁尼生讲的话一向精辟，他说过：
先知啊，诅咒那搬弄是非的耗子，
诅咒不列颠的害物——耗子。
“不列颠”这个地名，我们不妨随意掉换。耗子总是耗子。
这个人在旅馆的休息室里探头探脑，活像一条忘了自己把骨头埋在什么地方的饿狗。他那张大脸又红又臃肿，带着菩萨般的迷糊而定心的神情。他只有一点儿长处——胡子刮得非常光。人身上的兽性特征是可以消除的，除非他胡子拉碴，没刮干净便跑到外面来。我想，如果那天他没有用过剃刀，跑来同我搭讪，我一定不予理睬，那么世界犯罪记录上也许会少掉一件谋杀案。
卡斯韦尔向一个痰盂开火时，我站的地方凑巧离痰盂不到五步。我相当机警，看到进攻者使用的不是打松鼠的来复熗，而是格林机关熗，我便飞快地往旁边一闪。少校却抓住这个机会向一个非战斗人员道歉。他是个碎嘴子。不出四分钟，他同我交上了朋友，氢我拖到酒吧那儿。
我想在这里插一句，说明我是南方人。我之所以是南方人，并不是由于职业的关系。我不喜欢用窄领带，戴垂边帽，穿大礼服，不喜欢嚼烟草，也避而不谈谢尔曼将军毁了我多少件棉花包。乐队演奏《狄克西》的时候，我并不喝彩。我在皮面椅子上坐得低一些，再要了一杯啤酒，希望朗斯特里特曾经——可是有什么用呢？
[《狄克西》：美国南北战争时期，歌颂南方的流行歌曲。]
[朗斯特里特（1821—1904）：美国南北战争时，南部邦联的将军。]
卡斯韦尔用拳头擂一下酒吧，响起了萨姆普特堡第一炮的回音。当他开了阿波马托克斯的最后一炮时，我开始满怀希望。他却开始扯起他的家谱来，说明亚当只不过是卡斯韦尔家族一支旁系的远房兄弟。搬完家谱之后，叫我讨厌的是他又谈起个人的家庭私事。他谈着他的妻子，把她的上代一直追溯到夏娃，还出口不逊地否认她可能同该隐沾些亲戚的谣传。
[美国南北战争以南部邦联军队攻陷萨姆普特堡开始，以南部邦联军司令李将军在阿波马托克斯投降告终。]
这时，我开始怀疑，他是不是想利用唠叨的话语来蒙混他已经要了酒的事实，希望我糊里糊涂地付帐。然后酒端来时，他把一枚银币啪地放在酒吧上。那一来，再要一巡酒是免不了的。我付了第二巡的酒帐，很不礼貌地离开了他；因为我实在不愿意同他在一起了。我脱身之前，他还喋喋不休地高声谈着他妻子的收入，还拿出一把银币给人看。
我在旅馆服务台取房间钥匙时，职员很客气地对我说：“假如卡斯韦尔那家伙招惹了你，假如你打算申诉，我们可以把他撵出去。他是个讨厌的人，是个闲汉，不务正业，虽然他身边经常有一些钱。我们似乎找不到合法的理由把他轰出去。”
“哎，是啊，”我思索了一下说，“我也没有申诉的理由。不过我愿意正式声明，我不希望同他绳索交。你们的城市，”我接着说，“看来很安静。你们有什么消遣以及新奇和兴奋的事情可以款待陌生的客人？”
“嗯，先生，”职员说，“下星期四有一个戏班子来。那是——我等会儿查一下，把海报同冰水一起送到你的房间里去。晚安。”
我上楼进了自己的房间，向窗外望去。那时只有一点钟光影，然而我看到的城市已经一片静寂。毛毛雨还在下，暗淡的街灯闪烁着。街灯稀稀落落，像是妇女义卖市场出售的蛋糕里的葡萄干。
“安静的地方。”当我脱下的第一只鞋落到楼下房间的天花板上时，我暗忖道，“这里的生活不像东部和西部城市那样丰富多彩。只是一个不坏的，平凡的，沉闷的商业城市。”
纳什维尔是全国重要的制造业中心之一。它的皮革皮鞭产量占美国第五位，是南方最大的生产糖果饼干的城市；呢绒、仪器和药品的贸易数额也相当大。
我得告诉你，我怎么会来到纳什维尔；这些离题的话肯定会使你厌烦，正如我自己觉得厌烦一样。我为了一些私事要去别处，但是北方的一家杂志社委托我在这里逗留一下，替社里同一个撰稿人阿扎里亚·阿戴尔建立联系。
阿戴尔（除了笔迹之外，其余的情况毫不了解）寄来过几篇随笔（失传的艺术！）和几首诗，编辑们在一点钟吃午饭时，谈起来赞不绝口。因此，他们委托我来找上述的阿戴尔，在别的出版商提出每字一毛或两毛的稿酬之前，同他或她以每字两分的稿酬订一个合同，收买他或她的作品。
第二天上午九点钟，我吃了烤鸡肝之后（假如你找得到那家旅馆，不妨一试），走到外面一片无休无止的茫茫细雨中。在第一个拐角上，我就碰到了凯撒大叔。他是个健壮的黑人，年龄比金字塔还要老，头发灰白卷曲，面相先叫我想起布鲁特斯，转念之间又觉得像是已故的塞蒂瓦约皇帝。他穿的大衣非常奇特，是我从未看到或想到的。它一直拖到脚踝，以前是南部邦联军队的灰大衣。但是由于雨打日晒，年深月久，颜色已经斑驳不堪。约瑟的彩衣同它一比，也会像单色画那样黯然失色。我必须在这件大衣上罗嗦两句，因为它同故事有关——故事发展得很慢，你原不能指望纳什维尔这个地方有什么新鲜事呀。
以前，那一定是军官的大衣。大衣的披肩已经不见了，原先缀在前襟的漂亮的盘花横条和流苏也不见了。代替它们的是用普通麻线巧妙地捻成新的盘花横条，然后细心地缝上去的（我猜想大概是哪一位年老的“黑妈妈”缝的）。这些麻线也磨损得乱蓬蓬的。它们顺着早就消失的盘花横条的痕迹，不厌其烦、煞费苦心地给缀在大衣上，旨在代替往昔的气派。此外，使大衣的滑稽与悲哀达到顶点的是，所有的钮扣全掉了，只剩下顺数下来第二颗。大衣是另外用一些麻线穿过原来的钮孔和在对襟上粗糙地戳通的洞孔系起来的。像这样装饰得古里古怪，颜色又是这么驳杂的奇特衣服确实少见。唯一的那颗钮扣有半元银币那么大，是牛角制的，也用粗麻线缝着。
那个黑人站在一辆非常旧的马车旁边，马车很可能是含离开方舟之后，套了两匹牲口，用来做出租生意的。他见我走近，便打开门，取出一把鸡毛掸子虚晃几下，用深沉的、隆隆的声音说：
[马车很可能是含离开方舟之后：含，《旧约》中挪亚之子，据说含的后代在非洲繁衍，常作为黑人的代称。]
“请上车，先生；一颗灰尘也没有——刚刚出丧回来，先生。”
我推测遇到这种隆重场合时，马车大概要特别做一番清洁工作。我朝街上打量了一下，发现排在人行道旁边的出租马车也没有选择的余地。我掏出记事本，看看阿扎里亚·阿戴尔的地址。
“我要到杰萨明街八百六十一号去。”说罢，我便想跨进马车。但那黑人伸出又粗又长，猩猩一般的胳臂拦住了我。他那张阴沉的大脸上突然闪出一种猜疑和敌视的神情。接着，他很快安下心来，讨好似地问道：“你去那里干吗，老板？”
“那跟你有什么关系？”我有点儿冒火地问道。
“没什么，先生，没什么。只不过那地方很偏僻，很少有人去。请上车吧，座位干净得很——刚刚出丧回来，先生。”
到达旅程终点至少有一英里半路。除了那辆古老的马车在高低不平的砖地上颠簸得发出可怕的卡哒声外，我听不到别的声音；除了毛毛雨的气息外，我闻不到别的气味。毛毛雨中现在又夹杂着煤烟以及象是柏油和夹竹桃花混合起来的气味。从淌着雨水的车窗里，我只见到两排黑漆漆的房屋。
该城面积有十平方英里；街道总长一百八十一英里，其中一百三十七英里是经过铺设的；水道系统造价两百万元，总水管有七十七英里长。
杰萨明街八百六十一号是一幢朽败的邸宅。它离街道三十码，被围绕在一丛苍翠的树木和未经修剪的灌木中间。一排枝叶蔓披的黄杨几乎遮没了围篱。大门是用一条系在门柱上的绳圈同第一根篱笆桩子扣起来的。你一进去，便发现八百六十一号只是一个空壳，一个影子，是往昔豪华与显赫的幽灵。不过照故事情节的发展来说，我还没有赶走进那幢房屋。
在马车的卡哒声停止了，疲惫的牲口也得到休息时，我把五毛钱给了车夫，并且自以为相当大方地加了两毛五分的小帐。他却不接受。
“两块钱，先生。”他说。
“怎么啦？”我问道，“我清清楚楚听到你在旅馆门口喊的是‘送你到城里随便什么地方，只要五毛钱。’”
“两块钱，先生。”他固执地重复说，“离旅馆有好长一段路呢。”
“这地方还在城里，你怎么也不能说它出了城呀。”我争论说，“你可别以为你碰到了一个傻瓜北方佬。你看到那面的小山吗？”我指着东面接着说（由于细雨迷蒙，我自己也看不见那些小山）；“嗯，我是在那边出生长大的。你这个又老又笨的黑家伙，你长了眼睛连人都分不清吗？”
塞蒂瓦约皇帝的阴沉的脸色和霁了，“你是南方人吗，先生？我想大概是你那双鞋子使我误会了。南方先生穿的鞋子，头没有这么尖。“
“现在车费该是五毛钱了吧？”我毫不妥协地说。
他又恢复了原先那种贪婪而怀有敌意的神情，可是只持续了十秒钟就消失了。
“老板，”他说，“本来是五毛；但是我需要两块钱，先生；我非得有两块钱不可。我知道你是本地人之后，先生，我不再强要了。不过我只是告诉你，今晚我非得有两块钱不可，生意又很清淡。”
他那张浓眉大眼的面孔显得安详而有自信。他的运气比他想象的要好。他遇到的不是一个不了解车费标准的傻瓜，而是一个施主。
“你这个该死的老流氓，”我一面说，一面把手伸进口袋，“应该把你扭交警察。”
我第一次见到他露出笑容。他料到了；他料到了；他早就料到了。
我给他两张一元的钞票。我递过去时，注意到其中一张是饱经沧桑的。钞票缺了右上角，中间是破了以后又粘起来的。一条蓝色的纱纸粘住破的地方，维持了它的流通性。
关于这个非洲强徒的描写，暂时到此为止；我满足了他的要求，同他分了手。我位起绳圈，打开了那扇吱嘎发响的门。
我刚才已经说过，这幢房屋只是个空壳。它准有二十年没有碰到过油漆刷子了。我不明白，大风怎么没有把它象一座纸牌搭的房子那样掀翻。等我向那些簇拥在它周围的树木看了一会儿之后，才明白其中的道理——那些目击过纳什维尔战役的树木依然伸展着枝柯保护着它，挡住了风暴、敌人和寒冷。
阿扎里亚·阿戴尔接待了我。她出身名门，年纪有五十左右，一头银发，身体象她居住的房屋一般脆弱单薄。她穿着我生平少见的最便宜、最干净的衣服，气派象皇后一般质朴。
客厅空荡荡的，仿佛有一英里见方，只有摆在白松木板架上的几排书，一张有裂纹的大理石面的桌子，一条破地毯，一只光秃秃的马鬃沙发和两三把椅子。墙上倒有一幅画，一束三色堇的彩色蜡笔画。我四下扫了一眼，看看有没有安德鲁·杰克逊的画像和松果篮子，可是没有看到。
[安德鲁·杰克逊（1767—1845）：美国第七任总统。]
阿扎里亚·阿戴尔和我谈了话，其中一部分将转述给你们听。她是古老的南方的产物，在荫庇下细心培植起来的。她的学识并不广博，范围相当狭窄，但却有它的深邃和独到之处。她是在家里受的教育，她对于世界的知识是从推论和灵感中获得的。这就是造成那一小批可贵的随笔作家的条件。她同我谈话时，我不住地拂拭手指，仿佛不自觉地想抹去从兰姆、乔叟、赫兹利特、马格斯·奥雷里乌斯、蒙田和胡德菱的小牛皮书脊上揩来的，其实并不存在的灰尘。她真了不起，是个可贵的发现。如今几乎每一个人对于现实生活都了解得太多了——哦，实在太多了。
我可以清楚地看出阿扎里亚·阿戴尔非常穷。我想她只有一幢房子，一套衣服，此外就没有什么了。我一方面要对杂志社负责，一方面又要忠于那些在坎伯兰河谷与托马斯一起战斗的诗人与随笔作家，我带着这种矛盾的心情倾听她那琴声似的话语，不好意思提起合同的事。在九位缪斯女神和三位格蕾斯女神面前，你很难把话题转到每字两分钱的稿费上。恐怕要经过第二次谈话，我才能恢复我的商业习惯。然而我还是把我的使命讲了出来，同她约定第二天下午三点钟再见面，讨论稿酬方面的问题。
[托马斯（1816--1870）：美国南北战争时，忠于南部邦联的将领。]
[缪斯是希腊神话中司文艺、美术、音乐等的九女神；格蕾斯是赐人以美丽、温雅与欢乐的三女神。（美惠三女神）]
“你们的城市，”我准备告辞时说（这时候可以说一些轻松的一般性的话了），“仿佛是一个安静宁谧的地方。我该说是这个适于住家的城市，没有特殊的事情发生。”
它和西部南部进行大批的火炉与器皿的贸易，它的面粉厂有日产二千桶的能力。
阿扎里亚·阿戴尔似乎在沉思。
“我从没有那样想过。”她带着一种仿佛是她特有的诚挚专注的神情说，“安宁静谧的地方难道就没有特殊的事情了吗？我揣想，当上帝在第一个星期一的早晨动手创造世界时，你可以探出窗处，听到他堆砌永恒山丘时，泥刀溅起泥块的声音。世界上最喧闹的工程——我指的是建造通天塔——结果产生了什么呢？《北美评论》上一页半篇幅的世界语罢了。”
“当然，”我平淡地说，“无论何处人的天性都是一样的；但是某些城市比别的城市更富于色彩——呃——更富于戏剧和行动，以及——呃——浪漫史。”
“表面上是这样的。”阿扎里亚·阿戴尔说，“我乘着展开双翼（书籍和幻想）的金色飞船，多次周游了世界。在一次幻想的旅行中，我看到土耳其苏丹亲手绞死了他的一个妻子，因为她在大庭广众之中没有蒙住脸。我也看到纳什维尔的一个男人撕毁了戏票，因为他的妻子打扮好出去时扑了粉，蒙住了脸。在旧金山的中国城，我看到婢女辛宜被慢慢地、一点儿一点儿地浸在滚烫的杏仁油里，逼她发誓再也不同她的美国情人见面。当滚油淹没膝上三英寸的地方时，她屈服了。另一晚，在东纳什维尔的一个纸牌会上，我看到基蒂·摩根的七个同学和好友假装不认识她，因为她同一个油漆匠结了婚。她端在胸前的滚烫的油吱吱发响，但是我希望你能见到她从一张桌子走到另一张桌子边时脸上显出的美妙的微笑。哦，是啊，这是一个单调的城市。只有几英里长的红砖房屋、泥泞、商店和木料场。”
后面有人敲门，发出了空洞的回响。阿扎里亚·阿戴尔轻声道了歉，出去看看有什么事。三分钟后，她回来了，眼睛闪闪发亮，面上泛起淡淡的红晕，仿佛年轻了十年。
“你得在这里喝一杯茶，吃些点心再走。”她说。
她拿起一个小铁铃，摇了几下。一个十二岁左右，打着赤脚、不很整洁的黑人小姑娘踢踢蹋蹋地进来了。她含着大拇指，鼓起眼睛，直盯着我。
阿扎里亚·阿戴尔打开一个破旧的小钱袋，取出一张一元的钞票，那张钞票缺了右上角，中间是破了之后又用一条蓝纱纸粘住的。正是我给那个海盗般的黑人的钞票——准没错。
“到拐角上贝克先生的铺子里去一次，英比，”她把钞票交给那个姑娘说，“买三两茶叶——他平时替我送来的那种——和一毛钱的糖糕。赶快去吧。家里的茶叶正好用光了。”她向我解释说。
英比从后面出去了。她赤脚的踢蹋声还没有在后廊里消失，空洞的房子里突然响起一声狂叫——我肯定是英比的声音。接着是一个男人发怒的深沉模糊的嗓音和那姑娘连续不断的尖叫和分辨不清的话语。
阿扎里亚·阿戴尔既不惊讶也不激动地站起来，出去了。我听到那男人粗野的吵闹声持续了两分钟；接着仿佛是咒骂和轻微的扭打，然后她若无其事地回来坐下。
“这幢房子很宽敞，”她说，“我出租了部分给房客。很抱歉，我得收回请吃茶点的邀请了。店里买不到我平时用的那种茶叶。明天贝克先生或者可能供应我。”
我确定英比根本没有离开过这幢房子。我打听了电车路线后便告辞了。走出好远时，我才想起我还没有问阿扎里亚·阿戴尔的姓氏。明天再问吧。
那天，我就开始了这个城市强加在我头上的邪恶行为。我在这里只呆了两天，可是这两天里我已经在电报上可耻地撒了谎，并且在一件谋杀案中当了事后的间谍——如果“事后”是正确的法律名词。
当我拐到旅馆附近的街角时，那个穿着五颜六色，无与伦比的大衣的非洲马车夫拖住了我，打开他那活动棺材的牢门，晃着鸡毛掸子，搬出了老一套话：“请上车，老板。马车很干净——刚刚出丧回来。你出五毛钱就把你——”
接着，他认出了我，咧开嘴笑了，“对不起，老板，你就是今天早晨同我分手的那位先生。多谢你啦，先生。”
“明天下午三点钟，我还要去八百六十一号，”我说，“假如你在这里，我可以乘你的车子。你本来就认识阿戴尔小姐吗？”我想起了我那张一元的钞票，结尾又问了一句。
“我以前是她爸爸阿戴尔法官家里的，先生。 ”他回答道。
“据我判断，她相当穷困，”我说，“她没有什么钱，是吗？”
片刻之间，我又看到了塞蒂瓦约皇帝的凶相，接着他变成了那个敲竹杆的老黑种马车夫。
“她不会饿死的，先生。”他慢慢地说，“她有接济，先生；她有接济。”
“下一趟我付你五毛钱。”我说。
“完全对，先生。”他谦恭地说，“今早晨我非有那两块钱不可，老板。”
我回到旅馆，在电报上撒了谎。我打电报给杂志社说：“阿·阿戴尔坚持每字八分。”
回电是：“立即同意，笨蛋。”
晚饭前，温特沃思·卡斯韦尔“少校”象是多日不见的老朋友似地冲过来向我招呼。我难得遇到这种一看就叫我讨厌，却又不易摆脱的人。他找上来的时候，我正站在酒吧旁边；因此我不能对他说我不喝酒。我很愿意付酒帐，只要免掉再喝一巡；但他是那种可鄙的，吵闹的，大吹大擂的酒鬼，每次荒唐地花掉一文钱都要铜管乐队和鞭炮来伴奏。
他象炫示千百万元钱似地掏出了两张一块钱的钞票，把其中一张扔在酒吧上。我又看到了那张缺掉右角，中间破后用蓝纱纸粘起来的钞票。又是我的那一块钱。不可能是别的。
我上楼到我的房间。这个枯燥宁静的南方城市的细雨和单调，使我倦乏而没精打采。我记得上床前，我迷迷糊糊地对自己说：“这里不少人似乎都是出租马车托拉斯的股东。股息也付得快。我不明白——”这才把那张神秘的一元钞票从脑海里排除出去（那张钞票很可以成为一篇绝好的旧金山侦探故事中的线索）。我睡着了。
第二天，塞蒂瓦约皇帝在老地方等我，把我的骨头在石子路上颠到八百六十一号。他在那里等我办完事之后再送我回来。
阿扎里亚·阿戴尔看来比前一天更苍白，更整洁，更脆弱。
签了每字八分钱的约稿合同之后，她脸色更苍白了，开始从椅子溜下去。我不费什么劲儿就把她抬上那张古老的马鬃沙发，然后跑到外面人行道上，吩咐那个咖啡肤色的海盗去请一位医师来。我对他的智慧本来就没有怀疑，他知道争取时间的重要性，聪明地丢下马车不乘，徒步走去。十分钟之内，他领了一位头发灰白，严肃干练的医师回来了。我简简单单用几句话（远不值八分钱一个字）向他说明我来到这幢神秘空洞的房屋里的原由。他严肃地点点头，然后转向那个老黑人。
“凯撒大叔，”他镇静地说，“到我家去，向露西小姐要满满一罐新鲜牛奶和半杯葡萄酒。赶快回来。别赶车去啦——跑着去。这星期里你有空的时候再来一次。”
我想梅里曼医师也不太信任那个陆地海盗的马匹的速度。凯撒大叔笨拙然而迅速地向街上跑去之后，医师非常客气而又极其仔细地打量了我一番，觉得我这个人还可以相信。
“只不过是营养不良。”他说，“换句话说，是贫穷、自尊和饥饿的结果。卡斯韦尔太太有许多热心的朋友，都乐于帮助她，但是她除了那个从前属于他们家的老黑人凯撒大叔之外，不接受任何人的帮助。”
“卡斯韦尔太太！”我吃惊地说。接着，我看看合同，发现她的签名是“阿扎里亚·阿戴尔·卡斯韦尔”。
“我还以为她姓阿戴尔呢。”我说。
“她嫁一个没出息，游手好闲的酒鬼，先生。”医师说道，“据说连那老佣人送来接济她的小钱，都被他夺去。”
牛奶和葡萄酒取回来了，医师很快就使阿扎里亚·阿戴尔苏醒过来。她坐起身，谈着那正当时令，色彩浓艳的秋叶的美。她轻描淡写地把她昏倒的原因说成是心悸的老毛病。她躺在沙发上，英比替她打扇子。医师还要去别的地方，我送他到门口。我对他说，我有权并且准备代杂志社酌量预支一笔稿酬给阿扎里亚·阿戴尔，他好象很高兴。
“我顺便告诉你，”他说，“你也许愿意知道，那个马车夫有皇族血统呢。老凯撒的祖父是刚果的一个皇帝。凯撒本人也有皇家的气派，你或许早就注意到了。”
医师离去时，我听到屋子里面凯撒大叔的声音：“他把你那两块钱都拿走了吗？阿扎里亚小姐？”
“是啊，凯撒。”我听到阿扎里亚·阿戴尔软弱地回答说。于是我回到屋里去，同我们的撰稿人结束了业务上的商洽。我自作主张，预支了五十元给她，作为巩固合同的必要的形式。然后由凯撒大叔赶车送我回旅馆。
我作为目击者所见到的事情，到此全部结束。其余的只是单纯的事实叙述。
六点钟光景，我出去散步。凯撒大叔在街角上的老地方。他打开马车门，晃着鸡毛掸子，开始搬出那套沉闷的老话：“请上车，先生。只要五毛钱，送你到城里随便什么地方——马车非常干净，先生——刚刚出丧回来——”
接着，他认出了我。我想他的目力大概不行了。他的大衣又添上了几块褪色的地方，麻线更蓬乱破烂，剩下的唯一的钮扣——黄牛角钮扣——也不见了。凯撒大叔还是皇族的后裔呢！
约莫两小时后，我看到一群人闹闹嚷嚷地挤在药房门前。在一个平静无事的沙漠里，这等于是天赐的灵食；我挤了进去。温特沃思·卡斯韦尔少校的皮囊躺在一张用空箱子和椅子凑合搭起来的卧榻上。医师在检查他有没有生气。他的诊断是少校显然完了。
有人发现这位往昔的少校死在一条黑暗的街上，好奇而无聊的市民们把他抬到药房。这个已故的人生前狠狠打过一架——从种种细节上可以看出来。他虽然身为无赖恶棍，打架倒也顽强。但是他打败了。他的手捏得紧紧的，掰都掰不开。站在周围同他相识的善良的市民们尽可能搜索枯肠，想说他一两句好话。一个面貌和善的人想了好久后说道：“卡斯韦尔十四岁左右的时候，在学校里拼法学得最好。”
我站在那里时，死人垂在白松板箱旁边的右手松开了，一样东西掉在我脚边。我悄悄用脚踩住，过了一会儿才把它捡起来，揣进口袋。照我的揣测，他在临终的挣扎中无心抓到了那个东西，死死捏住不放。
当天晚上，旅馆里的人除了谈谈政治和禁酒之外，主要是谈论卡斯韦尔少校的去世。我听到一个人对大家说：
“照我的看法，诸位，卡斯韦尔是被那些混蛋黑鬼谋财害死的。今天下午他身边有五十块钱，给旅馆里好几个人看过。发现他的尸体时，这笔钱不在了。”
第二天上午九点钟，我离开了这个城市。当火车驶过坎伯兰河上的桥梁时，我从口袋里掏出一个黄牛角的大衣钮扣，约莫有半元银币那样大小，上面还连着蓬散的粗麻线。我把它扔到窗外，让它落进迟缓泥泞的河水里。
我不知道布法罗有些什么事情！
|
