Without a doubt much of the spirit and genius of the Caliph Harun Al Rashid descended1 to the Margrave August Michael von Paulsen Quigg.
Quigg's restaurant is in Fourth Avenue - that street that the city seems to have forgotten in its growth. Fourth Avenue - born and bred in the Bowery - staggers northward2 full of good resolutions.
Where it crosses Fourteenth Street it struts3 for a brief moment proudly in the glare of the museums and cheap theatres. It may yet become a fit mate for its high-born sister boulevard to the west, or its roaring, polyglot4, broad-waisted cousin to the east. It passes Union Square; and here the hoofs5 of the dray horses seem to thunder in unison6, recalling the tread of marching hosts - Hooray! But now come the silent and terrible mountains - buildings square as forts, high as the clouds, shutting out the sky, where thousands of slaves bend over desks all day. On the ground floors are only little fruit shops and laundries and book shops, where you see copies of "Littell's Living Age" and G. W. M. Reynold's novels in the windows. And next - poor Fourth Avenue! - the street glides7 into a mediaeval solitude8. On each side are shops devoted9 to "Antiques."
Let us say it is night. Men in rusty10 armor stand in the windows and menace the hurrying cars with raised, rusty iron gauntlets. Hauberks and helms, blunderbusses, Cromwellian breastplates, matchlocks, creeses, and the swords and daggers11 of an army of dead-and-gone gallants gleam dully in the ghostly light. Here and there from a corner saloon (lit with Jack-o'-lanterns or phosphorus), stagger forth12 shuddering13, home-bound citizens, nerved by the tankards within to their fearsome journey adown that eldrich avenue lined with the bloodstained weapons of the fighting dead. What street could live inclosed by these mortuary relics14, and trod by these spectral15 citizens in whose sunken hearts scarce one good whoop16 or tra-la-la remained?
Not Fourth Avenue. Not after the tinsel but enlivening glories of the Little Rialto - not after the echoing drum-beats of Union Square. There need be no tears, ladies and gentlemen; 'tis but the suicide of a street. With a shriek17 and a crash Fourth Avenue dives headlong into the tunnel at Thirty-fourth and is never seen again.
Near the sad scene of the thoroughfare's dissolution stood the modest restaurant of Quigg. It stands there yet if you care to view its crumbling18 red-brick front, its show window heaped with oranges, tomatoes, layer cakes, pies, canned asparagus - its papier-mache lobster19 and two Maltese kittens asleep on a bunch of lettuce20 - if you care to sit at one of the little tables upon whose cloth has been traced in the yellowest of coffee stains the trail of the Japanese advance - to sit there with one eye on your umbrella and the other upon the bogus bottle from which you drop the counterfeit21 sauce foisted22 upon us by the cursed charlatan23 who assumes to be our dear old lord and friend, the "Nobleman in India."
Quigg's title came through his mother. One of her ancestors was a Margravine of Saxony. His father was a Tammany brave. On account of the dilution24 of his heredity he found that he could neither become a reigning25 potentate26 nor get a job in the City Hall. So he opened a restaurant. He was a man full of thought and reading. The business gave him a living, though he gave it little attention. One side of his house bequeathed to him a poetic27 and romantic adventure. The other have him the restless spirit that made him seek adventure. By day he was Quigg, the restaurateur. By night he was the Margrave - the Caliph - the Prince of Bohemia - going about the city in search of the odd, the mysterious, the inexplicable28, the recondite29.
One night at 9, at which hour the restaurant closed, Quigg set forth upon his quest. There was a mingling30 of the foreign, the military and the artistic31 in his appearance as he buttoned his coat high up under his short-trimmed brown and gray beard and turned westward32 toward the more central life conduits of the city. In his pocket he had stored an assortment33 of cards, written upon, without which he never stirred out of doors. Each of those cards was good at his own restaurant for its face value. Some called simply for a bowl of soup or sandwiches and coffee; others entitled their bearer to one, two, three or more days of full meals; a few were for single regular meals; a very few were, in effect, meal tickets good for a week.
Of riches and power Margrave Quigg had none; but he had a Caliph's heart - it may be forgiven him if his head fell short of the measure of Harun Al Rashid's. Perhaps some of the gold pieces in Bagdad had put less warmth and hope into the complainants among the bazaars34 than had Quigg's beef stew35 among the fishermen and one-eyed calenders of Manhattan.
Continuing his progress in search of romance to divert him, or of distress36 that he might aid, Quigg became aware of a fast-gathering crowd that whooped37 and fought and eddied38 at a corner of Broadway and the crosstown street that he was traversing. Hurrying to the spot he beheld39 a young man of an exceedingly melancholy40 and preoccupied41 demeanor42 engaged in the pastime of casting silver money from his pockets in the middle of the street. With each motion of the generous one's hand the crowd huddled43 upon the falling largesse44 with yells of joy. Traffic was suspended. A policman in the centre of the mob stooped often to the ground as he urged the blockaders to move on.
The Margrave saw at a glance that here was food for his hunger after knowledge concerning abnormal working of the human heart. He made his way swiftly to the young man's side and took his arm. "Come with me at once," he said, in the low but commanding voice that his waiters had learned to fear.
"Pinched," remarked the young man, looking up at him with expressionless eyes. "Pinched by a painless dentist. Take me away, flatty, and give me gas. Some lay eggs and some lay none. When is a hen?"
Still deeply seized by some inward grief, but tractable45, he allowed Quigg to lead him away and down the street to a little park.
There, seated on a bench, he upon whom a corner of the great Caliph's mantle46 has descended, spake with kindness and discretion47, seeking to know what evil had come upon the other, disturbing his soul and driving him to such ill-considered and ruinous waste of his substance and stores.
"I was doing the Monte Cristo act as adapted by Pompton, N. J., wasn't I?" asked the young man.
"You were throwing small coins into the street for the people to scramble48 after," said the Margrave.
"That's it. You buy all the beer you can hold, and then you throw chicken feed to - Oh, curse that word chicken, and hens, feathers, roosters, eggs, and everything connected with it!"
"Young sir," said the Margrave kindly49, but with dignity, "though I do not ask your confidence, I invite it. I know the world and I know humanity. Man is my study, though I do not eye him as the scientist eyes a beetle50 or as the philanthropist gazes at the objects of his bounty51 - through a veil of theory and ignorance. It is my pleasure and distraction52 to interest myself in the peculiar53 and complicated misfortunes that life in a great city visits upon my fellow-men. You may be familiar with the history of that glorious and immortal54 ruler, the Caliph Harun Al Rashid, whose wise and beneficent excursions among his people in the city of Bagdad secured him the privilege of relieving so much of their distress. In my humble56 way I walk in his footsteps. I seek for romance and adventure in city streets - not in ruined castles or in crumbling palaces. To me the greatest marvels57 of magic are those that take place in men's hearts when acted upon by the furious and diverse forces of a crowded population. In your strange behavior this evening I fancy a story lurks58. I read in your act something deeper than the wanton wastefulness59 of a spendthrift. I observe in your countenance60 the certain traces of consuming grief or despair. I repeat - I invite your confidence. I am not without some power to alleviate61 and advise. Will you not trust me?"
"Gee62, how you talk!" exclaimed the young man, a gleam of admiration63 supplanting64 for a moment the dull sadness of his eyes. "You've got the Astor Library skinned to a synopsis65 of preceding chapters. I mind that old Turk you speak of. I read 'The Arabian Nights' when I was a kid. He was a kind of Bill Devery and Charlie Schwab rolled into one. But, say, you might wave enchanted66 dishrags and make copper67 bottles smoke up coon giants all night without ever touching68 me. My case won't yield to that kind of treatment."
"If I could hear your story," said the Margrave, with his lofty, serious smile.
"I'll spiel it in about nine words," said the young man, with a deep sigh, "but I don't think you can help me any. Unless you're a peach at guessing it's back to the Bosphorous for you on your magic linoleum69." THE STORY OF THE YOUNG MAN AND THE HARNESS MAKER70'S RIDDLE71
"I work in Hildebrant's saddle and harness shop down in Grant Street. I've worked there five years. I get $18 a week. That's enough to marry on, ain't it? Well, I'm not going to get married. Old Hildebrant is one of these funny Dutchmen - you know the kind - always getting off bum72 jokes. He's got about a million riddles73 and things that he faked from Rogers Brothers' great-grandfather. Bill Watson works there, too. Me and Bill have to stand for them chestnuts74 day after day. Why do we do it? Well, jobs ain't to be picked off every Anheuser bush - And then there's Laura.
"What? The old man's daughter. Comes in the shop every day. About nineteen, and the picture of the blonde that sits on the palisades of the Rhine and charms the clam-diggers into the surf. Hair the color of straw matting, and eyes as black and shiny as the best harness blacking - think of that!
"Me? well, it's either me or Bill Watson. She treats us both equal. Bill is all to the psychopathic about her; and me? - well, you saw me plating the roadbed of the Great Maroon75 Way with silver tonight. That was on account of Laura. I was spiflicated, Your Highness, and I wot not of what I wouldst.
"How? Why, old Hildebrandt say to me and Bill this afternoon: 'Boys, one riddle have I for you gehabt haben. A young man who cannot riddles antworten, he is not so good by business for ein family to provide - is not that - hein?' And he hands us a riddle - a conundrum76, some calls it - and he chuckles77 interiorly and gives both of us till to-morrow morning to work out the answer to it. And he says whichever of us guesses the repartee78 end of it goes to his house o' Wednesday night to his daughter's birthday party. And it means Laura for whichever of us goes, for she's naturally aching for a husband, and it's either me or Bill Watson, for old Hildebrant likes us both, and wants her to marry somebody that'll carry on the business after he's stitched his last pair of traces.
"The riddle? Why, it was this: 'What kind of a hen lays the longest? Think of that! What kind of a hen lays the longest? Ain't it like a Dutchman to risk a man's
happiness on a fool proposition like that? Now, what's the use? What I don't know about hens would fill several incubators. You say you're giving imitations of the old Arab guy that gave away - libraries in Bagdad. Well, now, can you whistle up a fairy that'll solve this hen query79, or not?"
When the young man ceased the Margrave arose and paced to and fro by the park bench for several minutes. Finally he sat again, and said, in grave and impressive tones:
"I must confess, sir, that during the eight years that I have spent in search of adventure and in relieving distress I have never encountered a more interesting or a more perplexing case. I fear that I have overlooked hens in my researches and observations. As to their habits, their times and manner of laying, their many varieties and cross-breedings, their span of life, their -"
"Oh, don't make an Ibsen drama of it!" interrupted the young man, flippantly. "Riddles - especially old Hildebrant's riddles - don't have to be worked out seriously.
They are light themes such as Sim Ford81 and Harry82 Thurston Peck like to handle. But, somehow, I can't strike just the answer. Bill Watson may, and he may not. To-morrow will tell. Well, Your Majesty83, I'm glad anyhow that you butted84 in and whiled the time away. I guess Mr. Al Rashid himself would have bounced back if one of his constituents85 had conducted him up against this riddle. I'll say good night. Peace fo' yours, and what-you-may-call-its of Allah."
The Margrave, still with a gloomy air, held out his hand.
"I cannot exppress my regret," he said, sadly. "Never before have I found myself unable to assist in some way. 'What kind of a hen lays the longest? It is a baffling problem. There is a hen, I believe, called the Plymouth Rock that -"
"Cut it out," said the young man. "The Caliph trade is a mighty86 serious one. I don't suppose you'd even see anything funny in a preacher's defense87 of John D. Rockefeller. Well, good night, Your Nibs88."
From habit the Margrave began to fumble89 in his pockets. He drew forth a card and handed it to the young man.
"Do me the favor to accept this, anyhow," he said. "The time may come when it might be of use to you."
"Thanks!" said the young man, pocketing it carelessly. "My name is Simmons."
***
Shame to him who would hint that the reader's interest shall altogether pursue the Margrave August Michael von Paulsen Quigg. I am indeed astray if my hand fail in keeping the way where my peruser's heart would follow. Then let us, on the morrow, peep quickly in at the door of Hildebrant, harness maker.
Hildebrant's 200 pounds reposed90 on a bench, silverbuckling a raw leather martingale.
Bill Watson came in first.
"Vell," said Hildebrant, shaking all over with the vile55 conceit91 of the joke-maker, "haf you guessed him? 'Vat80 kind of a hen lays der longest?'"
"Er - why, I think so," said Bill, rubbing a servile chin. "I think so, Mr. Hildebrant - the one that lives the longest - Is that right?"
"Nein!" said Hildebrant, shaking his head violently. "You haf not guessed der answer."
Bill passed on and donned a bed-tick apron92 and bachelorhood.
In came the young man of the Arabian Night's fiasco - pale, melancholy, hopeless.
"Vell," said Hildebrant, "haf you guessed him? 'Vat kind of a hen lays der longest?'"
Simmons regarded him with dull savagery93 in his eye. Should he curse this mountain of pernicious humor - curse him and die? Why should - But there was Laura.
Dogged, speechless, he thrust his hands into his coat pockets and stood. His hand encountered the strange touch of the Margrave's card. He drew it out and looked at it, as men about to be hanged look at a crawling fly. There was written on it in Quigg's bold, round hand: "Good for one roast chicken to bearer."
Simmons looked up with a flashing eye.
"A dead one!" said he.
"Goot!" roared Hildebrant, rocking the table with giant glee. "Dot is right! You gome at mine house at 8 o'clock to der party."
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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struts
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| （框架的）支杆( strut的名词复数 )； 支柱； 趾高气扬的步态； （尤指跳舞或表演时）卖弄 | |
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polyglot
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| adj.通晓数种语言的；n.通晓多种语言的人 | |
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hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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unison
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| n.步调一致，行动一致 | |
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glides
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| n.滑行( glide的名词复数 )；滑音；音渡；过渡音v.滑动( glide的第三人称单数 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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daggers
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| 匕首，短剑( dagger的名词复数 ) | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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spectral
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| adj.幽灵的，鬼魂的 | |
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whoop
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| n.大叫，呐喊，喘息声；v.叫喊，喘息 | |
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shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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lobster
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| n.龙虾，龙虾肉 | |
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lettuce
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| n.莴苣；生菜 | |
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counterfeit
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| vt.伪造，仿造；adj.伪造的，假冒的 | |
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foisted
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| 强迫接受，把…强加于( foist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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charlatan
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| n.骗子；江湖医生；假内行 | |
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dilution
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| n.稀释，淡化 | |
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reigning
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| adj.统治的，起支配作用的 | |
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potentate
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| n.统治者；君主 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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recondite
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| adj.深奥的，难解的 | |
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mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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assortment
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| n.分类，各色俱备之物，聚集 | |
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bazaars
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| （东方国家的）市场( bazaar的名词复数 )； 义卖； 义卖市场； （出售花哨商品等的）小商品市场 | |
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stew
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| n.炖汤，焖，烦恼；v.炖汤，焖，忧虑 | |
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distress
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whooped
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| 叫喊( whoop的过去式和过去分词 )； 高声说； 唤起 | |
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eddied
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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melancholy
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preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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demeanor
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| n.行为；风度 | |
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huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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largesse
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| n.慷慨援助，施舍 | |
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tractable
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| adj.易驾驭的；温顺的 | |
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mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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scramble
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| v.爬行，攀爬，杂乱蔓延，碎片，片段，废料 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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beetle
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| n.甲虫，近视眼的人 | |
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bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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marvels
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| n.奇迹( marvel的名词复数 )；令人惊奇的事物（或事例）；不平凡的成果；成就v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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lurks
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| n.潜在，潜伏；（lurk的复数形式）vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的第三人称单数形式） | |
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wastefulness
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| 浪费，挥霍，耗费 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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alleviate
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| v.减轻，缓和，缓解(痛苦等) | |
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gee
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| n.马；int.向右！前进！，惊讶时所发声音；v.向右转 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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supplanting
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| 把…排挤掉，取代( supplant的现在分词 ) | |
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synopsis
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| n.提要，梗概 | |
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enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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68
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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linoleum
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| n.油布，油毯 | |
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maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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71
riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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bum
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| n.臀部；流浪汉，乞丐；vt.乞求，乞讨 | |
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73
riddles
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| n.谜（语）( riddle的名词复数 )；猜不透的难题，难解之谜 | |
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74
chestnuts
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| n.栗子( chestnut的名词复数 )；栗色；栗树；栗色马 | |
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maroon
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| v.困住，使（人）处于孤独无助之境；n.逃亡黑奴；孤立的人；酱紫色，褐红色；adj.酱紫色的，褐红色的 | |
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76
conundrum
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| n.谜语；难题 | |
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77
chuckles
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的名词复数 ) | |
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repartee
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| n.机敏的应答 | |
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query
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| n.疑问，问号，质问；vt.询问，表示怀疑 | |
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vat
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| n.(=value added tax)增值税，大桶 | |
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81
Ford
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| n.浅滩，水浅可涉处；v.涉水，涉过 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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83
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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butted
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| 对接的 | |
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85
constituents
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| n.选民( constituent的名词复数 )；成分；构成部分；要素 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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87
defense
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| n.防御，保卫；[pl.]防务工事；辩护，答辩 | |
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88
nibs
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| 上司，大人物； 钢笔尖，鹅毛管笔笔尖( nib的名词复数 )； 可可豆的碎粒； 小瑕疵 | |
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fumble
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| vi.笨拙地用手摸、弄、接等，摸索 | |
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90
reposed
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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93
savagery
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| n.野性 | |
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