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  外语解密学习法 逆读法(Reverse Reading Method)   解读法(Decode-Reading Method)训练范文 ——                 

解密目标语言:英语                                解密辅助语言:汉语
              Language to be decoded:  English             Auxiliary Language :  Chinese  

  
                    
解密文本:     《一个忙碌证券经纪人的罗曼史》   [美] 欧亨利 原著      
 

 

            The Romance of a Busy Broker        
                                                                     by   O. Henry   
                                                                

          只看英语(English Only)                                        英汉对照(English & Chinese)                                     只看汉语(Chinese Only)


  


       Pitcher, confidential clerk in the office of Harvey Maxwell, broker, allowed a look of mild interest and surprise to visit his usually expressionless countenance when his employer briskly entered at half past nine in company with his young lady stenographer. With a snappy "Good-morning, Pitcher," Maxwell dashed at his desk as though he were intending to leap over it, and then plunged into the great heap of letters and telegrams waiting there for him.

The young lady had been Maxwell's stenographer for a year. She was beautiful in a way that was decidedly unstenographic. She forewent the pomp of the alluring pompadour. She wore no chains, bracelets or lockets. She had not the air of being about to accept an invitation to luncheon. Her dress was grey and plain, but it fitted her figure with fidelity and discretion. In her neat black turban hat was the gold-green wing of a macaw. On this morning she was softly and shyly radiant. Her eyes were dreamily bright, her cheeks genuine peachblow, her expression a happy one, tinged with reminiscence.

Pitcher, still mildly curious, noticed a difference in her ways this morning. Instead of going straight into the adjoining room, where her desk was, she lingered, slightly irresolute, in the outer office. Once she moved over by Maxwell's desk, near enough for him to be aware of her presence.

The machine sitting at that desk was no longer a man; it was a busy New York broker, moved by buzzing wheels and uncoiling springs.

"Well—what is it? Anything?" asked Maxwell sharply. His opened mail lay like a bank of stage snow on his crowded desk. His keen grey eye, impersonal and brusque, flashed upon her half impatiently.

"Nothing," answered the stenographer, moving away with a little smile.

"Mr. Pitcher," she said to the confidential clerk, did Mr. Maxwell say anything yesterday about engaging another stenographer?"

"He did," answered Pitcher. "He told me to get another one. I notified the agency yesterday afternoon to send over a few samples this morning. It's 9.45 o'clock, and not a single picture hat or piece of pineapple chewing gum has showed up yet."

"I will do the work as usual, then," said the young lady, "until some one comes to fill the place." And she went to her desk at once and hung the black turban hat with the gold-green macaw wing in its accustomed place.

He who has been denied the spectacle of a busy Manhattan broker during a rush of business is handicapped for the profession of anthropology. The poet sings of the "crowded hour of glorious life." The broker's hour is not only crowded, but the minutes and seconds are hanging to all the straps and packing both front and rear platforms.

And this day was Harvey Maxwell's busy day. The ticker began to reel out jerkily its fitful coils of tape, the desk telephone had a chronic attack of buzzing. Men began to throng into the office and call at him over the railing, jovially, sharply, viciously, excitedly. Messenger boys ran in and out with messages and telegrams. The clerks in the office jumped about like sailors during a storm. Even Pitcher's face relaxed into something resembling animation.

On the Exchange there were hurricanes and landslides and snowstorms and glaciers and volcanoes, and those elemental disturbances were reproduced in miniature in the broker's offices. Maxwell shoved his chair against the wall and transacted business after the manner of a toe dancer. He jumped from ticker to 'phone, from desk to door with the trained agility of a harlequin.

In the midst of this growing and important stress the broker became suddenly aware of a high-rolled fringe of golden hair under a nodding canopy of velvet and ostrich tips, an imitation sealskin sacque and a string of beads as large as hickory nuts, ending near the floor with a silver heart. There was a self-possessed young lady connected with these accessories; and Pitcher was there to construe her.

"Lady from the Stenographer's Agency to see about the position," said Pitcher.

Maxwell turned half around, with his hands full of papers and ticker tape.

"What position?" he asked, with a frown.

"Position of stenographer," said Pitcher. "You told me yesterday to call them up and have one sent over this morning."

"You are losing your mind, Pitcher," said Maxwell. "Why should I have given you any such instructions? Miss Leslie has given perfect satisfaction during the year she has been here. The place is hers as long as she chooses to retain it. There's no place open here, madam. Countermand that order with the agency, Pitcher, and don't bring any more of 'em in here."

The silver heart left the office, swinging and banging itself independently against the office furniture as it indignantly departed. Pitcher seized a moment to remark to the bookkeeper that the "old man" seemed to get more absent-minded and forgetful every day of the world.

The rush and pace of business grew fiercer and faster. On the floor they were pounding half a dozen stocks in which Maxwell's customers were heavy investors. Orders to buy and sell were coming and going as swift as the flight of swallows. Some of his own holdings were imperilled, and the man was working like some high-geared, delicate, strong machine—strung to full tension, going at full speed, accurate, never hesitating, with the proper word and decision and act ready and prompt as clockwork. Stocks and bonds, loans and mortgages, margins and securities—here was a world of finance, and there was no room in it for the human world or the world of nature.

When the luncheon hour drew near there came a slight lull in the uproar.

Maxwell stood by his desk with his hands full of telegrams and memoranda, with a fountain pen over his right ear and his hair hanging in disorderly strings over his forehead. His window was open, for the beloved janitress Spring had turned on a little warmth through the waking registers of the earth.

And through the window came a wandering—perhaps a lost—odour—a delicate, sweet odour of lilac that fixed the broker for a moment immovable. For this odour belonged to Miss Leslie; it was her own, and hers only.

The odour brought her vividly, almost tangibly before him. The world of finance dwindled suddenly to a speck. And she was in the next room—twenty steps away.

"By George, I'll do it now," said Maxwell, half aloud. "I'll ask her now. I wonder I didn't do it long ago."

He dashed into the inner office with the haste of a short trying to cover. He charged upon the desk of the stenographer.

She looked up at him with a smile. A soft pink crept over her cheek, and her eyes were kind and frank. Maxwell leaned one elbow on her desk. He still clutched fluttering papers with both hands and the pen was above his ear.

"Miss Leslie," he began hurriedly, "I have but a moment to spare. I want to say something in that moment. Will you be my wife? I haven't had time to make love to you in the ordinary way, but I really do love you. Talk quick, please—those fellows are clubbing the stuffing out of Union Pacific."

"Oh, what are you talking about?" exclaimed the young lady. She rose to her feet and gazed upon him, round-eyed.

"Don't you understand?" said Maxwell, restively. "I want you to marry me. I love you, Miss Leslie. I wanted to tell you, and I snatched a minute when things had slackened up a bit. They're calling me for the 'phone now. Tell 'em to wait a minute, Pitcher. Won't you, Miss Leslie?"

The stenographer acted very queerly. At first she seemed overcome with amazement; then tears flowed from her wondering eyes; and then she smiled sunnily through them, and one of her arms slid tenderly about the broker's neck.

"I know now," she said, softly. "It's this old business that has driven everything else out of your head for the time. I was frightened at first. Don't you remember, Harvey? We were married last evening at 8 o'clock in the Little Church Around the Corner."

 

 


       证券经纪人哈维马克斯韦尔于九点半在年轻女速记员陪同下步履轻快地来到办公室。机要秘书皮彻那通常毫无表情的面孔不禁露出一丝好奇和诧异。马克斯韦尔只随口道了声“早上好”,便径直奔向办公桌,匆忙得好像想一步跨过桌面,随后就一头扎进一大堆等着他处理的信件和电报。
  年轻女郎给马克斯韦尔当速记员已经有一年。她异常秀美动人,绝非速记员草草几笔所能简单描述。她不愿采用华丽诱人的庞巴杜式发型,不戴项链、手镯或鸡心。她脸上没有随时准备受邀外出进餐的神气。她的灰色衣服素净朴实,但却生动勾勒出她的身材而不失典雅。她那顶精巧的黑色无边帽上插了根艳绿色金刚鹦鹉毛。今天早上,她春风飘逸,温柔而羞涩。她的眼睛流波瞑瞑,双颊桃红妖娆,满面乐融,又略带一丝回味。
  好奇之余,皮彻发现今天她的举止也有点儿异样。她没有直接到放有她办公桌的里间办公室去,而是滞留在外间办公室,有点儿拿不定主意似的。她慢慢蹭到马克斯韦尔桌边,离他很近,足以让他意识到她的存在。
  坐在办公桌前的他已经不再是个常人,而是一个繁忙的纽约证券经纪人,一架完全受嗡嗡作响的轮子和张开的弹簧所驱动的机器。
  “嘿,怎么啦?有事?”马克斯韦尔问,语气尖刻。那些拆开的邮件堆了满满一桌,就像演戏用的假雪。他那锐利的灰蓝色眼睛,毫无人情味儿,严厉粗暴,不耐烦地盯着她。
  “没什么,”速记员回答说,然后微笑着走开了。
  “皮彻先生,”她问机要秘书,“马克斯韦尔先生昨天提没提过另外雇一名速记员的事?”
  “提过,”皮彻说。“他吩咐我另外找一个。昨天下午我已通知职业介绍所,让他们今天上午送几个来面试。现在已经九点四十五了,可还没有哪个戴阔边帽或嚼波萝口香糖的人露面哩。”
  “那我还是照常工作好啦,”年轻女郎说,“等有人替补再说。”说完她马上走到自己的办公桌边,在老地方挂起那顶插有金刚鹦鹉毛的黑色无边帽。
  谁无缘目睹曼哈顿经纪人在生意高峰时刻那股紧张劲儿,谁搞人类学研究就有极大缺陷。有诗人赞颂“绚丽生活中的拥挤时辰”。证券经纪人不仅时辰拥挤,他的分分秒秒都是挤得满满当当的,像是前后站台都挤满乘客的车厢里的拉手吊带,每根都被拉得紧绷绷的。
  今天又正是哈维马克斯韦尔的大忙天。行情收录器的滚轴开始瑟瑟卷动,忽停忽动地吐出卷纸,桌上的电话像害了慢性病似的响个不停。人们开始涌入办公室,隔着扶手栏杆朝他大喊大叫,有的欣喜若狂,有的横眉竖眼,有的恶意满怀,有的激动不已。信童拿着信件和电报跑进跑出。办公室的职员们忙得跳来跳去,就像与风暴搏斗的水手。连皮彻的脸也舒张开来,显得生机勃勃。
  证券交易所里风云变幻,飓风、山崩、雪暴、冰川、火山瞬息交替;这些自然力的剧动以微观形式在经纪人办公室中再现。马克斯韦尔把椅子掀到墙边,如踢跶舞演员般敏捷地处理业务,时而从自动收录器跳向电话,时而从桌前跳到门口,其灵活不亚于受过专门训练的滑稽丑角。
  经纪人全神致力于这堆越来越多但又十分重要的事务之中,这时他突然注意到一头高高卷起的金发,上面是顶微微抖动的鹅绒帽和鸵毛羽饰;一件人造海豹皮短大衣,一串大如山核桃的珠子垂近地板,尾端还吊了一个银鸡心。这一大套装饰物与一个沉着镇定的年轻女子相关联。皮彻正准备引荐她,替她作解释。
  “这位小姐从速记员介绍所来,说招聘的事。”
  马克斯韦尔侧过身子,手上捏了一把文件和行情纸带。
  “招聘什么?”他皱起眉头问。
  “速记员,”皮彻说。“昨天你叫我打电话,让他们今天上午送一个过来。”
  “你搞糊涂了吧?”马克斯韦尔说。“我干吗给你下这个命令?莱丝丽这一年工作表现十全十美。只要她愿意,这份工作就是她的。小姐,这儿没有空缺。皮彻,通知事务所,取消要人申请,叫他们别再送人过来。”
  银鸡心离开了办公室。一路上她愤愤不平,大摇大摆,把桌椅沙发碰得乒乒乓乓。皮彻忙中偷闲给簿记员说,“老太爷”一天比一天心不在焉,多事健忘。
  业务处理越来越紧张,节奏越来越快。在交易所马克斯韦尔的顾客投资巨额的六七种股票正在暴跌。收进和抛出的单据来来去去,疾如燕飞。有些他本人持有的股票也处于危险之中。经纪人工作起来就像一架高速运转、精密复杂、强壮有力的机器——绷紧到最大限度,运转至最快速度,精确无误,坚决果断,措词贴切而决策恰当,行动时机的选择如时钟般准确无误。股票,证券,贷款,抵押,保证金,债券——这是一个金融世界,人际感情或自然本性在这里毫无落脚之地。
  午餐时间逐渐临近,喧嚣之中慢慢出现片刻暂息。
  马克斯韦尔站在办公桌边,手上捏满了电报和备忘录,右耳上夹了支钢笔,几撮头发零乱地披在脑门上。窗户敞开着,因为亲爱的女门房——春——已经打开苏醒大地的暖气管,送来一丝暖意。
  通过窗户飘来一丝悠悠——也许是失散——的香气。这是紫丁香幽微、甜美的芳菲。刹那间,经纪人给怔住了。因为这香气属于莱丝丽小姐;这是她本人的气息,她独有的气息。
  芳香在他心中唤出她的容貌,栩栩如生,几乎伸手可及。
  金融世界转瞬间缩成一点。而她就在隔壁房间,仅二十步之遥。
  “天哪,我现在就得去,”马克斯韦尔压低嗓子说。“我现在就去跟她说。怎么我没早点儿想起?”
  他箭步冲进里间办公室,像个卖空头的人急于补足那样急不可耐。他对直冲向速记员的办公桌。
  她抬起头,笑盈盈地看着他,服上泛出淡淡红晕,眼睛里闪动着温柔和坦率。马克斯韦尔一支胳膊撑在桌上,手上依然握满了文件,耳朵上还夹着那支钢笔。
  “莱丝丽小姐,”他仓仓促促地说,“我只能呆一小会儿,趁这个时候给你说件事。你愿意做我的妻子吗?我没时间以常人的方式向你求爱,但我确确实实爱你。请快回答我。那些人又在抢购太平洋联合公司的股票罗。”
  “喔,你在说什么呀?”年轻女郎惊诧不已。她站起身,直愣愣地看着他,眼睛瞪得圆圆的。
  “你不懂?”马克斯韦尔倔头倔脑地说。“我要你嫁给我。我爱你,莱丝丽小姐。我早就想告诉你,手头的事情稍微松些后,我才瞅空过来。又有人在打电话找我。皮彻,叫他们等一下。答应我吗,莱丝丽小姐?”
  速记员的神态叫人莫名其妙。起初,她好像惊愕万分;继而,泪水又涌出她迷惘的眼睛;其后,泪眼又发出欢笑的光芒;最后,她又柔情地搂住经纪人的脖子。
  “现在我懂了,”她亲切地说。“是这生意让你忘记了一切。刚才我还吓了一大跳。哈维,不记得了吗?昨天晚上八点,我们已经在街上拐角处的小教堂结过婚了。”

  


 

 

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    Categories:  Xie's Multilingual Corpus >> English-Chinese >> O. Henry >> Short Novel                                                  
    

 

 



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