Miss Martha was forty, her bank-book showed a credit of two thousand dollars, and she possessed2 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-aged3 man, wearing spectacles and a brown beard trimmed to a careful point.
He spoke4 English with a strong German accent. His clothes were worn and darned in places, and wrinkled and baggy5 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 attic6. 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 gondolas7 (with the lady trailing her hand in the water), clouds, sky, and chiaro-oscuro in plenty. No artist could fail to notice it.
"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, revelling9 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 kindly10 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 crave11 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 affront12 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 complexion13.
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 lumbering14 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 slash15 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 offense16? But surely not. There was no language of edibles17. Butter was no emblem18 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 deception19.
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.
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 rumpled21. He clinched22 his two fists and shook them ferociously23 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."
"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 crumbs25. 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.
点击收听单词发音
1 tinkles | |
丁当声,铃铃声( tinkle的名词复数 ); 一次电话 | |
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2 possessed | |
adj.疯狂的;拥有的,占有的 | |
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3 middle-aged | |
adj.中年的 | |
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4 spoke | |
n.(车轮的)辐条;轮辐;破坏某人的计划;阻挠某人的行动 v.讲,谈(speak的过去式);说;演说;从某种观点来说 | |
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5 baggy | |
adj.膨胀如袋的,宽松下垂的 | |
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6 attic | |
n.顶楼,屋顶室 | |
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7 gondolas | |
n.狭长小船( gondola的名词复数 );货架(一般指商店,例如化妆品店);吊船工作台 | |
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8 afterward | |
adv.后来;以后 | |
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9 revelling | |
v.作乐( revel的现在分词 );狂欢;着迷;陶醉 | |
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10 kindly | |
adj.和蔼的,温和的,爽快的;adv.温和地,亲切地 | |
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11 crave | |
vt.渴望得到,迫切需要,恳求,请求 | |
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12 affront | |
n./v.侮辱,触怒 | |
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13 complexion | |
n.肤色;情况,局面;气质,性格 | |
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14 lumbering | |
n.采伐林木 | |
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15 slash | |
vi.大幅度削减;vt.猛砍,尖锐抨击,大幅减少;n.猛砍,斜线,长切口,衣衩 | |
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16 offense | |
n.犯规,违法行为;冒犯,得罪 | |
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17 edibles | |
可以吃的,可食用的( edible的名词复数 ); 食物 | |
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18 emblem | |
n.象征,标志;徽章 | |
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19 deception | |
n.欺骗,欺诈;骗局,诡计 | |
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20 luncheon | |
n.午宴,午餐,便宴 | |
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21 rumpled | |
v.弄皱,使凌乱( rumple的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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22 clinched | |
v.(尤指两人)互相紧紧抱[扭]住( clinch的过去式和过去分词 );解决(争端、交易),达成(协议) | |
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23 ferociously | |
野蛮地,残忍地 | |
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24 bass | |
n.男低音(歌手);低音乐器;低音大提琴 | |
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25 crumbs | |
int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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