內容介紹
《警察與讚美詩》作者簡介
歐·亨利（O. Henry, 1862-1910），原名威廉·西德尼·波特（William Sydney Porter），是美國最著名的短篇小說家之一，曾被評論界譽為曼哈頓桂冠散文作家和美國現代短篇小說之父。他出身於美國北卡羅來納州格林斯波羅鎮一個醫師家庭。
他的一生富於傳奇性，當過藥房學徒、牧牛人、會計員、土地局辦事員、新聞記者、銀行出納員。當銀行出納員時，因銀行短缺了一筆現金，為避免審訊，離家流亡中美的宏都拉斯。後因回家探視病危的妻子被捕入獄，並在監獄醫務室任藥劑師。他在銀行工作時，曾有過寫作的經歷，擔任監獄醫務室的藥劑師後開始認真寫作。1901年提前獲釋後，遷居紐約，專門從事寫作。
歐·亨利善於描寫美國社會尤其是紐約百姓的生活。他的作品構思新穎，語言詼諧，結局常常出人意外；又因描寫了眾多的人物，富於生活情趣，被譽為“美國生活的幽默百科全書”。代表作有小說集《白菜與國王》、《四百萬》、《命運之路》等。其中一些名篇如《愛的犧牲》、《警察與讚美詩》、《帶家具出租的房間》、《麥琪的禮物》、《最後一片藤葉》等使他獲得了世界聲譽。
小說人物
《警察與讚美詩》歐·亨利小說中的人物大多是些平凡的小人物，是社會底層的人。作者從社會的某個角落裡找到了他們，用不多的筆墨將他們的行為、內心等特點表現出來。《警察與讚美詩》中寫蘇貝沒有著力於他的外部表現，而是著重寫了他的內心想法。從中，我們可以由內而外地窺視到當時的社會：這是一個讓人寧願去監獄，也不去慈善機構的充滿虛偽的社會。因為"要睡慈善機關的床鋪，就先得被迫洗個澡"，所以"還是做法律的客人來得痛快"。這對小說中的其他人物，就只作了簡單的外部描寫，寥寥幾筆就抓住了人物的特點。例如飯店門口的侍者，一眼就注意到了蘇貝的舊褲子與破皮鞋，把他趕了出去，活脫一個勢利小人的形象。又如蘇貝調戲一位婦女，卻不料這位貌似高貴的婦人一下子就"貼"了過來。一個在路邊裝模做樣地想要勾搭男人的女郎形象就躍然紙上了。綜合主人公蘇貝內心對社會的看法及其眼中形形色色的各類人物的表現，讀者對當時的社會也應該有一個大致的了解了。
作品特色
情節結構上的特點：在情節安排上最大的特點是既出人意料，又合乎情理。後稱其為歐·亨利式結尾。一個“罪惡累累”的人竟一次次地被認定為無罪，這出人意料的結局，使讀者的心情由緊張而化為輕鬆，進而會發出微笑（康德說過，笑產生於忽然化為烏有的期待）；而一個決定改過向善的人卻遭逮捕入獄。兩種荒謬背後的深刻內容：為非作歹者無人過問，有心從善者反進牢門。這正是資本主義社會最本質的表現，主人公生活在那樣的社會裡，最終的結局必然是這樣的。巧妙的情節安排，充分地表現了小說的主題。
語言運用上的特點：這篇小說語言最大的特點是“幽默”，幽默是一種語調輕鬆但卻包含深刻意義的諷刺，它不同於一般的俏皮話，而是為內容服務的，它表現了作者對人物的情感傾向和事件的態度。小說中通過誇張、比喻、擬人、反語等修辭手法，來使語言達到幽默的藝術效果的。有些幽默語言看似輕鬆，實則沉重。例如“多年來，好客的布萊克威島監獄一直是他冬季的寓所。”這裡用反語“好客”、“冬季寓所”，說得幽默輕鬆，實際上揭示了下層勞動人民悲慘的活動境遇，蘊含著無家可歸的流浪漢的無限的辛酸。類似的例子在上文談蘇比反常心理時已舉過很多。有些幽默的語言直接諷刺社會現實，看以風趣，實則辛辣尖利。如“每天晚上，這裡匯集著葡萄、蠶絲與原生質的最佳製品。”作者不直接說出人物的身份，而且反語和借代的修辭手法，辛辣地諷刺了達官富豪們窮奢極欲的腐朽生活，與廣大下層勞動人民的艱辛生活形成鮮明的對比，突出了資本主義社會的貧富懸殊，也揭示了蘇比等下層勞動人民生活艱辛的社會根源，從而增強了小說的社會意義。
漢語譯文
1.過冬計畫
蘇比躺在麥迪生廣場他那條長凳上，輾轉反側。每當雁群在夜空引吭高鳴，每當沒有海豹皮大衣的女人跟丈夫親熱起來，每當蘇比躺在街心公園長凳上輾轉反側，這時候，你就知道冬天迫在眉睫了。
一張枯葉飄落在蘇比的膝頭。這是傑克·弗洛斯特的名片。傑克對麥迪生廣場的老住戶很客氣，每年光臨之前，總要先打個招呼。他在十字街頭把名片遞給“露天公寓”的門公佬“北風”，好讓房客們有所準備。
蘇比明白，為了抵禦寒冬，由他親自出馬組織一個單人財務委員會的時候到了。為此，他在長凳上輾轉反側，不能入寐。
蘇比的冬居計畫並不過奢。他沒打算去地中海游弋，也不想去曬南方令人昏昏欲睡的太陽，更沒考慮到維蘇威灣去漂流。他衷心企求的僅僅是去島上度過三個月。整整三個月不愁食宿，夥伴們意氣相投，再沒有“北風”老兒和警察老爺來糾纏不清，在蘇比看來，人生的樂趣也莫過於此了。
多年來，好客的布萊克威爾島監獄一直是他的冬季寓所。正如福氣比他好的紐約人每年冬天要買票去棕櫚灘和里維埃拉一樣，蘇比也不免要為一年一度的“冬狩”作些最必要的安排。現在，時候到了。昨天晚上，他躺在古老的廣場噴泉和近的長凳上，把三份星期天的厚報紙塞在上衣里，蓋在腳踝和膝頭上，都沒有能擋住寒氣。這就使蘇比的腦海里迅速而鮮明地浮現出島子的影子。他瞧不起慈善事業名下對地方上窮人所作的布施。在蘇比眼裡，法律比救濟仁慈得多。他可去的地方多的是，有市政府辦的，有救濟機關辦的，在那些地方他都能混吃混住。當然，生活不能算是奢侈。可是對蘇比這樣一個靈魂高傲的人來說，施捨的辦法是行不通的。從慈善機構手裡每得到一點點好處，錢固然不必花，卻得付出精神上的屈辱來回報。真是凡事有利必有弊，要睡慈善單位的床鋪，先得讓人押去洗上一個澡；要吃他一塊麵包，還得先一五一十交代清個人的歷史。因此，還是當法律的客人來得強。法律雖然鐵面無私，照章辦事，至少沒那么不知趣，會去干涉一位大爺的私事。
既然已經打定主意去島上，蘇比立刻準備實現自己的計畫。省事的辦法倒也不少。最舒服的莫過於在哪家豪華的餐館裡美美地吃上一頓，然後聲明自己不名一錢，這就可以悄悄地、安安靜靜地交到警察手裡。其餘的事，自有一位識相的推事來料理。
蘇比離開長凳，踱出廣場，穿過百老匯路和五馬路匯合處那處平坦的柏油路面。他拐到百老匯路，在一家燈火輝煌的餐館門前停了下來，每天晚上，這裡匯集著葡萄、蠶絲與原生質的最佳製品。
蘇比對自己西服背心最低一顆紐扣以上的部分很有信心。他刮過臉，他的上裝還算過得去，他那條幹乾淨淨的活結領帶是感恩節那天一位教會裡的女士送給他的。只要他能走到餐桌邊不引人生疑，那就是勝券在握了。他露出桌面的上半身還不至於讓侍者起懷疑。一隻烤野鴨，蘇比尋思，那就差不離——再來一瓶夏白立酒然後是一份戛曼包乾酪，一小杯濃咖啡，再來一支雪茄菸。一塊錢一支的那種也就湊合了。總數既不會大得讓飯店柜上發狠報復，這頓牙祭又能讓他去冬宮的旅途上無牽無掛，心滿意足。
可是蘇比剛邁進飯店的門，侍者領班的眼光就落到他的舊褲子和破皮鞋上。粗壯利落的手把他推了個轉身，悄悄而迅速地把他打發到人行道上，那隻險遭暗算的野鴨的不體面命運也從而得以扭轉。
蘇比離開了百老匯路。看來靠打牙祭去那個日思夜想的島是不成的了。要進地獄，還是想想別的辦法。
在六馬路拐角上有一家鋪子，燈光通明，陳設別致，大玻璃櫥窗很惹眼。蘇比撿起塊鵝卵石往大玻璃上砸去。人們從拐角上跑來，領頭的是個巡警。蘇比站定了不動，兩手插在口袋裡，對著銅紐扣直笑。
“肇事的傢伙在哪兒？”警察氣急敗壞地問。
“你難道看不出我也許跟這事有點牽連嗎？”蘇比說，口氣雖然帶點嘲諷，卻很友善，仿佛好運在等著他。
在警察的腦子裡蘇比連個旁證都算不上。砸櫥窗的人沒有誰會留下來和法律的差役打交道。他們總是一溜煙似地跑。警察看見半條街外有個人跑著去趕搭車子。他抽出警棍，去追那個倒霉的人。蘇比心裡窩火極了，他拖著步子走了開去。兩次了，都砸了鍋。
街對面有家不怎么起眼的飯館。它投合胃口大錢包小的吃客。它那兒的盤盞和氣氛都粗里粗氣，它那兒的菜湯和餐巾都稀得透光。蘇比挪動他那雙暴露身份的皮鞋和泄露真相的褲子跨時飯館時倒沒遭到白眼。他在桌子旁坐下來，消受了一塊牛排、
一份煎餅、一份油炸糖圈，以及一份餡兒餅。吃完後他向侍者坦白：他無緣結識錢大爺，錢大爺也與他素昧平生。
“手腳麻利些，去請個警察來，”蘇比說，“別讓大爺久等。”
“用不著驚動警察老爺，”侍者說，嗓音油膩得像奶油蛋糕，眼睛紅得像雞尾酒里浸泡的櫻桃，“喂，阿康！”
兩個侍者乾淨利落地把蘇比往外一叉，正好讓他左耳貼地摔在鐵硬的人行道上。他一節一節地撐了起來，像木匠在打開一把摺尺，然後又撣去衣服上的塵土。被捕仿佛只是一個絆色的夢。那個島遠在天邊。兩個門面之外一家藥鋪前就站著個警察，他光是笑了笑，順著街走開去了。
蘇比一直過了五個街口，才再次鼓起勇氣去追求被捕。這一回機會好極了，他還滿以為十拿九穩，萬無一失呢。一個衣著簡樸頗為討人喜歡的年輕女子站在櫥窗前，興味十足地盯著陳列的剃鬚缸與墨水台。而離店兩碼遠，就有一位彪形大漢——警察，表情嚴峻地靠在救火龍頭上。
蘇比的計畫是扮演一個下流的、討厭的小流氓。他的對象文雅嫻靜，又有一位忠於職守的巡警近在咫尺，使他很有理由相信，警察那雙可愛的手很快就會落到他身上，使他在島上冬蟄的小安樂窩裡吃喝不愁。
蘇比把教會女士送的活結領帶拉挺，把縮進袖口的襯衫袖子拉出來，把帽子往後一推，歪得馬上要掉下來，向那女子挨將過去。他厚著麵皮把小流氓該乾的那一套噁心勾當一段段表演下去。蘇比把眼光斜掃過去，只見那警察在盯住他。年輕女人挪動了幾步，又專心致志地看起剃鬚缸來。蘇比跟了過去，大膽地挨到她的身邊，把帽子舉了一舉，說：
“啊哈，我說，貝蒂麗亞！你不是說要到我院子裡去玩兒嗎？”
警察還在盯著。那受人輕薄的女子只消將手指一招，蘇比就等於進安樂島了。他想像中已經感到了巡捕房的舒適和溫暖。年輕的女士轉過臉來，伸出一隻手，抓住蘇比的袖子。
“可不是嗎，邁克，”她興致勃勃地說，“不過你先得破費給我買杯貓尿。要不是那巡警老盯著，我早就要跟你搭腔了。”
那娘們像常春藤一樣緊緊攀住蘇比這棵橡樹，蘇比好不懊喪地在警察身邊走了過去。看來他的自由是命中注定的了。
一拐彎，他甩掉女伴撒腿就走。他一口氣來到一個地方，一到晚上，最輕佻的燈光，最輕鬆的心靈，最輕率的盟誓，最輕快的歌劇，都在這裡薈萃。身穿輕裘大氅的淑女紳士在寒冷的空氣里興高采烈地走動。蘇比突然感到一陣恐懼，會不會有什麼可怕的魔法鎮住了他，使他永遠也不會被捕呢？這個念頭使他有點發慌，但是當他遇見一個警察大模大樣在燈火通明的劇院門前巡邏時，他馬上就撈起“擾亂治安”這根稻草來。
蘇比在人行道上扯直他那破鑼似的嗓子，像醉鬼那樣亂嚷嚷。他又是跳，又是吼，又是罵，用盡了辦法大吵大鬧。
警察讓警棍打著鏇，身子轉過去背對蘇比，向一個市民解釋道：
“這是個耶魯的小伙子在慶祝勝利，他們跟哈德福學院賽球，請人家吃了鴨蛋。夠吵的，可是不礙事。我們有指示，讓他們只管鬧去。”
蘇比怏怏地停止了白費氣力的吵鬧。難道就沒有一個警察來抓他了嗎？在他的幻想中。那島已成為可望不可即的仙島。他扣好單薄的上衣以抵擋刺骨的寒風。
他看見雪茄菸店裡一個衣冠楚楚的人對著搖曳的火頭在點菸。那人進店時，將一把綢傘靠在門邊。蘇比跨進店門，拿起綢傘，慢吞吞地退了出去。對火的人趕緊追出來。
“我的傘。”他厲聲說道。
“噢，是嗎？”蘇比冷笑說；在小偷小摸的罪名上又加上侮辱這一條。“好，那你幹嗎不叫警察？不錯，是我拿的。你的傘！你怎么不叫巡警？那邊拐角上就有一個。”
傘主人放慢了腳步，蘇比也放慢腳步。他有一種預感：他又一次背運了。那警察好奇地瞅著這兩個人。
“當然，”傘主人說，“嗯……是啊，你知道有時候會發生誤會……我……要是這傘是你的我希望你別見怪……我是今天早上在一家飯店裡撿的……要是你認出來這是你的，那么……我希望你別……”
“當然是我的。”蘇比惡狠狠地說。
傘的前任主人退了下去。好警察急匆匆地跑去攙一位穿晚禮服的金髮高個兒女士過馬路，免得她被在兩條街以外往這邊駛來的電車撞著。
蘇比往東走，穿過一條因為翻修而高低不平的馬路。他忿忿地把傘扔進一個坑。他嘟嘟噥噥咒罵起那些頭戴鋼盔，手拿警棍的傢伙來。因為他想落入法網，而他們偏偏認為他是個永遠不會犯錯誤的國王①。
最後，蘇比來到通往東區的一條馬路上，這兒燈光暗了下來，嘈雜聲傳來也是隱隱約約的。他順著街往麥迪生廣場走去，因為即使他的家僅僅是公園裡的一條長凳，他仍然有夜深知歸的本能。
可是，在一個異常幽靜的地段，蘇比停住了腳步。這時有一座古老的教堂，建築古雅，不很規整，是有山牆的那種房子。柔和的燈光透過淡紫色花玻璃窗子映射出來，風琴師為了練熟星期天的讚美詩，在鍵盤上按過來按過去。動人的樂音飄進蘇比的耳朵，吸引了他，把他膠著在螺鏇形的鐵欄桿上。
明月懸在中天，光輝、靜穆；車輛與行人都很稀少；檐下的凍雀睡夢中啁啾了幾聲——這境界一時之間使人想起鄉村教堂邊上的墓地。風琴師奏出的讚美詩使鐵欄桿前的蘇比入定了，因為當他在生活中有母愛、玫瑰、雄心、朋友以及潔白無瑕的思想與衣領時，讚美詩對他來說是很熟悉的。
蘇比這時敏感的心情和老教堂的潛移默化會合在一起，使他靈魂里突然起了奇妙的變化。他猛然對他所落入的泥坑感到憎厭。那墮落的時光，低俗的欲望，心灰意懶，才能衰退，動機不良——這一切現在都構成了他的生活內容。
一剎那間，新的意境醒醐灌頂似地激盪著他。一股強烈迅速的衝動激勵著他去向坎坷的命運奮鬥。他要把自己拉出泥坑，他要重新做一個好樣兒的人。他要征服那已經控制了他的罪惡。時間還不晚，他還算年輕，他要重新振作當年的雄心壯志，堅定不移地把它實現。管風琴莊嚴而甜美的音調使他內心起了一場革命。明天他要到熙熙攘攘的商業區去找事做。有個皮貨進口商曾經讓他去趕車。他明天就去找那商人，把這差使接下來。他要做個烜赫一時的人。他要——
蘇比覺得有一隻手按在他胳膊上。他霍地扭過頭，只見是警察的一張胖臉。
“你在這兒乾什麼？”那警察問。
“沒幹什麼。”蘇比回答。
“那你跟我來。”警察說，“你因為閒蕩的罪名被捕了。”
第二天早上，警察局法庭上的推事宣判道：“布萊克威爾島，三個月。”
英語原文
The Cop and the Anthem by O • Henry
On his bench in Madison Square Soapy moved uneasily. When wild goose honk high of nights, and when women without sealskin coats grow kind to their husbands, and when Soapy moves uneasily on his bench in the park, you may know that winter is near at hand.
A dead leaf fell in Soapy’s lap. That was Jack Frost’s card. Jack is kind to the regular denizens of Madison Square, and gives fair warning of his annual call. At the corners of four streets he hands his pasteboard to the North Wind, Footman of the mansion of All Outdoors, so that the inhabitants thereof may make ready.
Soapy’s mind became cognisant of the fact that the time had come for him to resolve himself into a singular Committee of Ways and Means to provide against the coming rigour. And therefore he moved uneasily on his bench.
The hibernatorial ambitions of Soapy were not of the highest. In them were no considerations of Mediterranean cruises, of soporific Southern skies or drifting in the Vesuvian Bay. Three months on the Island was what his soul craved. Three months of assured board and bed and congenial company, safe from Boreas and bluecoats, seemed to Soapy the essence of things desirable.
For years the hospitable Blackwell’s had been his winter quarters. Just as his more fortunate fellow New Yorkers had bought their tickets to Palm Beach and the Riviera each winter, so Soapy had made his humble arrangements for his annual Hegira to the Island. And now the time was come. On the previous night three Sabbath newspapers, distributed beneath his coat, about his ankles and over his lap, had failed to repulse the cold as he slept on his bench near the spurting fountain in the ancient square. So the Island loomed large and timely in Soapy’s mind. He scorned the provisions made in the name of charity for the city’s dependents. In Soapy’s opinion the Law was more benign than Philanthropy. There was an endless round of institutions, municipal and eleemosynary, on which he might set out and receive lodging and food accordant with the simple life. But to one of Soapy’s proud spirit the gifts of charity are encumbered. If not in coin you must pay in humiliation of spirit for every benefit received at the hands of philanthropy. As Cesar had his Brutus, every bed of charity must have its toll of a bath, every loaf of bread its compensation of a private and personal inquisition. wherefore it is better to be a guest of the law, which though conducted by rules, does not meddle unduly with a gentleman’s private affairs.
Soapy, having decided to go to the Island, at once set about accomplishing his desire. There were many easy ways of doing this. The pleasantest was to dine luxuriously at some expensive restaurant; and then, after declaring insolvency, be handed over quietly and without uproar to a policeman. An accommodating magistrate would do the rest.
Soapy left his bench and strolled out of the square and across the level sea of asphalt, where Broadway and Fifth Avenue flow together. Up Broadway he turned, and halted at a glittering café, where are gathered together nightly the choicest products of the grape, the silkworm and the protoplasm.
Soapy had confidence in himself from the lowest button of his vest upward. He was shaven, and his coat was decent and his neat black, ready-tied four-in-hand had been presented to him by a lady missionary on Thanksgiving Day. If he could reach a table in the restaurant unsuspected, success would be his. The portion of him that would show above the table would raise no doubt in the waiter’s mind. A roasted mallard duck, thought Soapy, would be about the thing—with a bottle of Chablis, and then Camembert, a demi-tasse and a cigar. One dollar for the cigar would be enough. The total would not be so high as to call forth any supreme manifestation of revenge from the café management; and yet the meat would leave him filled and happy for the journey to his winter refuge.
But as Soapy set foot inside the restaurant door the head waiter’s eye fell upon his frayed trousers and decadent shoes. Strong and ready hands turned him about and conveyed him in silence and haste to the sidewalk and averted the ignoble fate of the menaced mallard.
Soapy turned off Broadway. It seemed that his route to the coveted island was not to be an Epicurean one. Some other way of entering limbo must be thought of.
At a corner of Sixth Avenue electric lights and cunningly displayed wares behind plate-glass made a shop window conspicuous. Soapy took a cobble-stone and dashed it through the glass. People came running round the corner, a policeman in the lead. Soapy stood still, with his hands in his pockets, and smiled at the sight of brass buttons.
“Where’s the man that done that?” inquired the officer excitedly.
“Don’t you figure out that I might have had something to do with it?” said Soapy, not without sarcasm, but friendly, as one greets good fortune.
The policeman’s mind refused to accept Soapy even as a clue. Men who smash windows do not remain to parley with the law’s minions. They take to their heels. The policeman saw a man halfway down the block running to catch a car. With drawn club he joined in the pursuit. Soapy, with disgust in his heart, loafed along, twice unsuccessful.
On the opposite side of the street was a restaurant of no great pretensions. It catered to large appetites and modest purses. Its crockery and atmosphere were thick; its soup and napery thin. Into this place Soapy took his accusive shoes and tell-tale trousers without challenge. At a table he sat and consumed beefsteak, flap-jacks, doughnuts, and pie. And then to the waiter he betrayed the fact that the minutest coin and himself were strangers.
“Now, get busy and call a cop,” said Soapy. “And don’t keep a gentleman waiting.”
“No cop for youse,” said the waiter, with a voice like butter cakes and an eye like the cherry in a Manhattan cocktail. “Hey, Con!”
Neatly upon his left ear on the callous pavement two waiters pitched Soapy. He arose, joint by joint, as a carpenter’s rule opens, and beat the dust from his clothes. Arrest seemed but a rosy dream. The Island seemed very far away. A policeman who stood before a drug store two doors away laughed and walked down the street.
Five blocks Soapy travelled before his courage permitted him to woo capture again. This time the opportunity presented what he fatuously termed to himself a “cinch.” A young woman of a modest and pleasing guise was standing before a show window gazing with sprightly interest at its display of shaving mugs and inkstands, and two yards from the window a large policeman of severe demeanour leaned against a water-plug.
It was Soapy’s design to assume the rule of the despicable and execrated “masher.” The refined and elegant appearance of his victim and the contiguity of the conscientious cop encouraged him to believe that he would soon feel the pleasant official clutch upon his arm that would ensure his winter quarters of the right little, tight little isle.
Soapy straightened the lady missionary’s ready-made tie, dragged his shrinking cuffs into the open, set his hat at a killing cant and sidled toward the young women. He made eyes at her, was taken with sudden coughs and “hems,” smiled, smirked, and went brazenly through the impudent and contemptible litany of the “masher.” With half an eye Soapy saw that the policeman was watching him fixedly. The young woman moved away a few steps, and again bestowed her absorbed attention upon the shaving mugs. Soapy followed, boldly stepping to her side, raised his hat and said: “Ah there, Bedelia! Don’t you want to come and play in my yard?”
The policeman was still looking. The persecuted young woman had but to beckon a finger and Soapy would be practically en route for his insular haven. Already he imagined he could feel the cosy warmth of the station-house. The young woman faced him and, stretching out a hand, caught Soapy’s coat sleeve.
“Sure, Mike,” she said joyfully, “if you’ll blow me to a pail of SUDS. I’d have spoke to you sooner, but the cop was watching.”
With the young woman playing the clinging ivy to his oak Soapy walked past the policeman overcome with gloom. He seemed doomed to liberty.
At the next corner he shook off his companion and ran. He halted in the district where by night are found the lightest streets, hearts, vows, and librettos. Women in furs and men in greatcoats moved gaily in the wintry air. A sudden fear seized Soapy that some dreadful enchantment had rendered him immune to arrest. The thought brought a little of panic upon it, and when he came upon another policeman lounging grandly in front of a transplendent theatre he caught at the immediate straw of “disorderly conduct.”
On the sidewalk Soapy began to yell drunken gibberish at the top of his harsh voice. He danced, howled, raved, and otherwise disturbed the welkin.
The policeman twirled his club, turned his back to Soapy and remarked to a citizen: “’Tis one of them Yale LADS celebratin’ the goose egg they give to the Hartford College. Noisy; but no harm. We’ve instructions to lave them be.”
Disconsolate, Soapy ceased his unavailing racket. Would never a policeman lay hands on him? In his fancy the Island seemed an unattainable Arcadia. He buttoned his thin coat against the chilling wind.
In a cigar store he saw a well-dressed man lighting a cigar at a swinging light. His silk umbrella he had set by the door on entering. Soapy stepped inside, secured the umbrella and sauntered off with it slowly. The man at the cigar light followed hastily.
“My umbrella,” he said sternly.
“Oh, is it?” sneered Soapy, adding insult to petit larceny. “Well, why don’t you call a policeman? I took it. Your umbrella! Why don’t you call a cop? There stands one on the corner.”
The umbrella owner slowed his steps. Soapy did likewise, with a presentiment that luck would run against him. The policeman looked at the two curiously.
“Of course,” said the umbrella man—“that is—well, you know how these mistakes occur—I—if it’s your umbrella I hope you’ll excuse me—I picked it up this morning in a restaurant—If you recognise it as yours, why—I hope you’ll—“
“Of course it’s mine,” said Soapy viciously.
The ex-umbrella man retreated. The policeman hurried to assist a tall blonde in an opera cloak across the street in front of a street car that was approaching two blocks away.
Soapy walked eastward through a street damaged by improvements. He hurled the umbrella wrathfully into an excavation. He muttered against the men who wear helmets and carry clubs. Because he wanted to fall into their clutches, they seemed to regard him as a king who could do no wrong.
At length Soapy reached one of the AVENUES to the east where the glitter and turmoil was but faint. He set his face down this toward Madison Square, for the homing instinct survives even when the home is a park bench.
But on an unusually quiet corner Soapy came to a standstill. Here was an old church, quaint and rambling and gabled. Through one violet-stained window a soft light glowed, where, no doubt, the organist loitered over the keys, making sure of his mastery of the coming Sabbath anthem. For there drifted out to Soapy’s ears sweet music that caught and held him transfixed against the convolutions of the iron fence.
The moon was above, LUSTROUS and serene; vehicles and pedestrains were few; sparrows twittered sleepily in the eaves—for a little while the scene might have been a country churchyard. And the anthem that the organist played cemented Soapy to the iron fence, for he had known it well in the days when his life contained such things as mothers and roses and ambitions and friends and immaculate thoughts and collars.
The conjunction of Soapy’s receptive state of mind and the influences about the old church wrought a sudden and wonderful change in his soul. He viewed with swift horror the pit into which he had tumbled, the degraded days, unworthy desires, dead hopes, wrecked faculties, and base motives that made up his existence.
And also in a moment his heart responded thrillingly to this novel mood. An instantaneous and strong impulse moved him to battle with his desperate fate. He would pull himself out of the mire; he would make a man of himself again; he would conquer the evil that had taken possession of him. There was time; he was comparatively young yet; he would resurrect his old eager ambitions and pursue them without faltering. Those solemn but sweet organ notes had set up a revolution in him. Tomorrow he would go into the roaring down-town district and find work. A fur importer had once offered him a place as driver. He would find him to-morrow and ask for the position. He would be somebody in the world. He would—
Soapy felt a hand laid on his arm. He looked quickly round into the broad face of a policeman.
“What are you doin’ here?” asked the officer.
“Nothing’,” said Soapy.
“Then come along,” said the policeman.
“Three months on the Island,” said the Magistrate in the Police Court the next morning.
寫作背景
西歐批判現實主義文學開始衰落的時候，美國現實社會的深刻變化（南北戰爭之後）引起文學的變化，這就是現實主義的興起和發展。它出現在美國資本主義日趨腐朽的階段，即由自由資本主義過渡到帝國主義的時代。當時社會貧富對立，階級矛盾日益激化。這時期一些出身於中小資產階級的作家，從自身的階層出發，一方面，譴責資本主義制度的罪惡，描寫人民的悲慘生活，反映人民對資產階級統治的不滿情緒；另一方面，他們又對美國資產階級的民主存有幻想，提出種種改良措施。可是當帝國主義的濁流來到時，他們又懷著悲觀絕望的情緒探索個人的命運和歸宿。然而，馬克思主義思想的傳播，也引起較大震動，使美國作家群體分化，一些來自下層而又傾向進步的作家，受到工人運動的影響，經歷了思想探索的過程，為社會主義理想所吸引，參加了工人運動，開始創作一些較先進的文學作品。作品取材於現實生活，反映了下層勞動人民的悲慘生活，揭露了壟斷資產階級殘酷的本性，控訴了統治者對人民的迫害。內容豐富，揭露深刻，手法多樣，是美國文壇上不可少的一支生力軍，在美國文學史上留下光輝的一頁。
