A Service of Love
欧·亨利/O.Henry
当一个人爱着他的艺术时，就没有什么牺牲是不可以忍受的。
这是我们的前提条件。下面这个故事将由此衍生出结论，但同时也证明了这个前提条件是不正确的。这在逻辑学上算得上是新鲜事，但从讲故事的技巧而言，它却比中国的长城还要古老。
乔·拉若比来自中西部毛栎丛生的洼地，天生有着画家的气质。他六岁时，曾画过一幅镇上抽水泵的风景画，抽水泵旁还有一位镇里颇具名望的人物匆匆走过。后来，这幅画被镶上镜框，挂在一家杂货铺的橱窗里，与旁边一个颗粒参差不齐的玉米棒并排陈列着。二十岁那年，他胸前飘着领带，带着一个干瘪的钱包，离开家乡只身来到纽约。
德丽雅·卡鲁塞斯生长在南方一个长满松树的小村子里。她的六弦琴弹得非常出色，亲戚们都认为她将来肯定会有所成就，于是凑了一小笔钱，塞在她棕榈叶编的帽子里让她去北方深造。但他们没有看到她学有所成——而这正是我们下面要讲的故事。
乔和德丽雅是在一个工作室里认识的。那里经常聚集着一些研究美术和音乐的学生，他们讨论绘画、音乐、瓦格纳、伦勃朗、瓦尔德托费尔、肖邦等人的作品，还有什么明暗对比、壁纸和乌龙茶之类的话题。
乔和德丽雅，也许是其中一个爱上了另一个，也许是彼此都爱上了对方。不管你怎么想，反正他们是一见钟情，很快就结了婚。因为（从上面可以知道），当一个人爱着他的艺术时，就没有什么牺牲是不可以忍受的。
拉若比夫妇住进公寓，开始了他们的家庭生活。那是一套冷清的公寓房，就好像钢琴键盘左下方上端的A半高音琴键。但他们感到幸福，因为除了艺术，他们还拥有彼此。因此，我想向那些有钱的年轻人提出建议——卖掉你所拥有的一切，施舍给那些穷苦的守门人，这样你就可以带着你的艺术和你的德丽雅优先住进公寓了。
寓所的人都会赞同我的看法：只有他们才拥有真正的幸福。一个幸福的家庭，房子小点也不会觉得拥挤——就让梳妆台放倒成为台球桌；把壁炉架拆下来当练习划船用的器械；写字台可以改做床铺，洗脸架也能当作竖琴。即使四面墙壁一起挤压过来，如果它们可以的话，中间也恰好是你和你的德丽雅。但家庭生活要是另一种形式的话，不管房间有多宽敞——你从金门进去，在哈特拉斯挂上帽子，在合恩角挂上披肩，然后从拉布拉多出去，也没什么意思。
乔在大师玛其斯脱班上学画——你应该知道他的大名。他收费很高，课程却很轻松——这带给他很高的声望。德丽雅则拜在罗森斯托克门下——你也应该听说过，因为他的拿手本领就是和钢琴键盘过不去。
只要钱不短缺，他们就很幸福，每个人都一样。我这样说并不是愤世嫉俗。他们的目标非常明确：乔希望能迅速提高技巧，早日有作品问世，能吸引那些长着稀稀拉拉的连鬓胡子、腰包鼓鼓的老先生们竞相涌进他的画室购买他的作品。德丽雅呢，则要熟悉熟悉乐曲，并学会摆摆架子，如果知道剧场前排和包厢座位没卖出去的话，她就以喉咙痛为借口拒绝登台演出，而到专用餐厅里大嚼龙虾去了。
不过在我看来，最好的，还是小公寓里的家庭生活：学习一天归来后的那些情意绵绵的话语；舒适的晚餐和新鲜、清淡的早餐；交流时，对彼此共同理想和抱负的相互切磋与激励——要不然，就没什么意义了。还有——坦白说——就是晚上11点享用的那一顿牛肉奶酪三明治的美味夜宵。
但是不久，艺术之花就开始凋零，有时，事情就是这样，即使没人去摇动它。他们的日子就像俗语说的那样，只出不进，坐吃山空。要交给玛其斯脱和罗森斯托克两位先生的学费已经不够了。当一个人爱着他的艺术时，就没有什么牺牲是不可以忍受的。因此，德丽雅说，她必须去教几节音乐课来维持生活的日常开销。
接下来的两三天，她都出去招募学生了。一天晚上，她回到家，脸上有几分喜气。
“乔，亲爱的，”她兴高采烈地说，“我找到学生了，嗯，那可是个好人家。一位将军——第七十一大街阿·彼·品克尼将军家的千金。那是一幢多么有气势的房子啊，乔！你应该去看看那座房子的大门，我想你肯定会说那是拜占庭风格。那里面多气派！噢，乔，我从未见过那样的房子！”
“他的女儿——克莱门蒂娜就是我的学生，我已经深深地爱上她了。她是个纤弱的小孩子——总是一身洁白，举止温柔而天真！她才十八岁。每个星期我给她上三次课。嗯，想想看，乔，每次五块。我不在乎钱多钱少，等我有了两三个或者更多的学生，我就可以继续我的学业了。好啦，亲爱的，别皱着眉头啦！让我们吃顿好点的晚餐吧！”
“你的运气不差，德丽，”乔说着，拿起切肉刀和小斧子打开一听豌豆罐头，“但我呢，你认为我会让你为了钱四处奔走，我却在高雅的殿堂里和艺术不真实地恋爱吗？我要在本维纽托·切里尼的骸骨面前发誓，我决不那样做！我想我去卖报纸，或者修马路什么的，挣一两美元还是可以的。”
德丽雅走过来，搂住了他的脖子。
“乔，亲爱的，你真傻。你必须继续你的学业。我又不是放弃音乐而去做其他的事情。我教的时候也是在学啊，我决不会放弃音乐的！只要一星期有十五美元，我们就可以过得像百万富翁一样快乐。你可千万别想着离开玛其斯脱先生。”
“好吧！”乔说着，伸手去拿那只蓝色的贝壳形菜碟，“但一想到你要去给别人上课，我的心里就不好受，因为那不是艺术。但你对我真的是太好了！”
“当一个人爱着他的艺术时，就没有什么牺牲是不可以忍受的。”德丽雅说。
“玛其斯脱表扬了那张素描画上的天空，那是我在公园画的，”乔说，“丁克尔也答应在他的橱窗里挂上两幅我的画。要是刚好有个有钱的傻瓜看上的话，我也许能卖出一张呢！”
“我相信你会的，”德丽雅甜蜜地说，“那现在，让我们感谢品克尼将军和这份刚烤的乳牛肉吧！”
自此以后的一个星期，拉若比夫妇每天都早早地吃完早餐。乔总是**满怀地赶到中央公园，去晨光中画几张素描。德丽雅照料他吃完早饭，七点，他们相互拥抱、激励、吻别。艺术真像是个情意绵绵的爱人。乔每天回家时，通常都已经是晚上七点了。
周末到了，自豪而略显疲惫的德丽雅，骄傲地把三张五块钱的钞票扔在了10英尺长、8英尺宽的小公寓中央的那张10英寸长、8英寸宽的桌子上。
“有时，”她显得有点疲倦，说道，“克莱门蒂娜让我很累。我担心她练得不够多，所以不得不重复告诉她很多遍。还有，她总是一成不变地一身白衣服，让人觉得很单调。但品克尼将军是个极可爱的老头！我希望你认识他，乔，我和克莱门蒂娜弹钢琴时，他偶尔过来一下——你知道的，他单身——他就站在那里捋着他的白色山羊胡子。‘十六分音符和三十二分音符进展如何？’他老是这样问。”
“要是你能去看看那客厅里的护墙板就好了，乔。还有那些阿斯特拉罕的皮门帘！克莱门蒂娜有个咳嗽的毛病，但愿她比看起来要健康些。哦，我真被她迷住了。她真优雅，又高贵！品克尼将军的兄弟还曾经做过驻玻利维亚的公使呢！”
这时，乔摆出一副基督山伯爵的架势，掏出一张十元、一张五元、一张两元和一张一元的钞票——都是法定的纸币——把它们放在了德丽雅挣来的钱旁边。
“那幅方尖石塔的水彩画被一个皮奥里亚人买走了。”他以优胜者的姿态告诉德丽雅。
“别和我开玩笑了，”德丽雅说，“一定不是来自皮奥里亚的！”
“绝对是！真希望你见过他，德丽。那是个系着羊毛围巾、叼着根羽毛管牙签的胖家伙。我的那幅画挂在丁克尔的橱窗里，他起初还以为画的是风车呢！他看起来很气派，不管怎样，他都买下了。他还订了另一幅——拉卡瓦那货运车站的油画——打算带回去。音乐课！嘿，我想，这里边仍然蕴含着艺术！”
“你能坚持下来，我真高兴。”德丽雅衷心地说，“你一定会成功的，亲爱的。三十三块！我们从未有过这么多钱啊！今晚，我们吃牡蛎吧！”
“再来份菲力牛排和香菇，”乔说，“吃肉片的叉子在哪儿呢？”
接下来的那个星期六晚上，乔先回家。他把他的十八块钱摊开放在客厅的桌子上，随后洗去手上那看起来像是大片黑色油漆的污垢。
半个小时后，德丽雅也回来了，她的右手胡乱地包着纱布和绷带。
“怎么啦？”习惯性地招呼后，乔问道。德丽雅笑了笑，看起来不是很高兴。
“克莱门蒂娜，”她解释道，“课后她非得吃威尔士干酪面包不可。她就是这么古怪的一个小姑娘，非要在下午五点吃威尔士干酪面包。当时将军也在。你真该看看她是怎么跑去拿煎锅的，乔，就好像家里没有佣人似的。我知道克莱门蒂娜身体不好，她特别紧张。倒奶酪时，她泼出了很多，滚烫的奶酪泼到我的手腕上。我快疼死了，乔！那可爱的姑娘难过得要命！品克尼将军，乔，那老头都快急疯了。他冲下楼叫人——据说是个锅炉工，或者是在地下室里干活的什么人——去药房买了一些油膏和一些包扎用品。不过，现在倒不怎么疼了。”
“这是什么？”乔小心地托起那只手，抽出几根露在绷带外的白线。
“是软纱之类的东西，”德丽雅说，“上面涂了油膏。喔，乔，你又卖了一幅素描吗？”她看到了桌上的钱。
“我吗？”乔说，“得问问从皮奥里亚来的那个人了。今天他取走了那幅画。还有，尽管不确定，但他还想要一幅公园的风景画和一幅哈得孙河的风光画。德丽，今天下午你是什么时候把手烫伤的？”
“五点吧，我想，”德丽雅伤感地说，“那熨斗——我是说那奶酪恰好那时候从烤炉上掉下来。你真该看到品克尼将军，乔，当时——”
“到这里坐一会儿，德丽。”乔说。他把她拉到沙发上，自己坐在她的身旁，然后用胳膊拥住她的肩。
“这两个星期你到底在做什么，德丽？”他问道。
她勇敢地盯了他一两分钟，眼神里满是爱意和倔强，随后低声嘟哝了一两句有关品克尼将军的话，但最后还是低下头，含泪吐出了实情。
“我找不到一个学生，”她承认道，“可我又不能眼看着你放弃学业，所以就在二十四街的一家大洗衣店里找了一个烫衣服的活儿。我以为我那个关于品克尼将军和克莱门蒂娜的故事已经编得挺好了。不是吗，乔？今天下午，店里的一个姑娘无意中把热熨斗放到我的手上，我只好在回家的路上编了那个有关奶酪的故事。你没有生气对不对，乔？要是我不出去做事，你也许就没有那幅素描可以卖给来自皮奥里亚的那个人了。”
“他不是从皮奥里亚来的。”乔拉长声音说。
“好啦，他从哪里来都没关系。你真聪明，乔——吻我一下吧，乔！——可到底是什么让你怀疑我不是在给克莱门蒂娜上课呢？”
“我从未怀疑过，”乔说，“直到今天晚上。本来，今晚我也不会怀疑的，但下午的时候，楼上的一个姑娘被熨斗烫伤了手，是我从锅炉房拿了废纱头和油膏送给她的。这两个星期我都在那家洗衣店烧锅炉。”
“这么说来，你没有——”
“我说的那个来自皮奥里亚的买主，”乔说，“和你的品克尼将军一样，都是艺术的虚构——不过，你不能把它称为绘画或音乐罢了。”
说到这里，他们都笑了起来。乔接着说：
“当一个人爱着他的艺术时，就没有什么牺牲是——”
但德丽雅用手捂住了他的嘴巴，打断他的话。“不，”她说，“只要‘当爱着一个人的时候’就够了。”
When one loves one's Art no service seems too hard.
That is our premise.This story shall draw a conclusion from it， and show at the same time that the premise is incorrect.That will be a new thing in logic， and a feat in storytelling somewhat older than the Great Wall of China.
Joe Larrabee came out of the post-oak flats of the Middle West pulsing with a genius for pictorial art.At six he drew a picture of the town pump with a prominent citizen passing it hastily.This effort was framed and hung in the drugstore window by the side of the ear of corn with an uneven number of rows.At twenty he left for New York with a flowing necktie and a capital tied up somewhat closer.
Delia Caruthers did things in six octaves so promisingly in a pine-tree village in the South that her relatives chipped in enough in her chip hat for her to go "North" and "finish". They could not see her finish， but that is our story.
Joe and Delia met in an atelier where a number of art and music students had gathered to discuss chiaroscuro， Wagner， music， Rembrandt's works， pictures， Waldteufel， wall paper， Chopin and Oolong.
Joe and Delia became enamored one of the other， or each of the other， as you please， and in a short time were married—for(see above)， when one loves one's Art no service seems too hard.
Mr.and Mrs.Larrabee began housekeeping in a flat.It was a lonesome flat—something like the A sharp way down at the left-hand end of the keyboard.And they were happy； for they had their Art， and they had each other.And my advice to the rich young man would be—sell all thou hast， and give it to the poor janitor—for the privilege of living in a flat with your Art and your Delia.
Flat-dwellers shall indorse my dictum that theirs is the only true happiness.If a home is happy it cannot fit too close—let the dresser collapse and become a billiard table； let the mantel turn to a rowing machine， the escritoire to a spare bedchamber， the washstand to an upright piano； let the four walls come together， if they will， so you and your Delia are between.But if home be the other kind， let it be wide and long—enter you at the Golden Gate， hang your hat on Hatteras， your cape on Cape Horn and go out by the Labrador.
Joe was painting in the class of the great Magister—you know his fame.His fees are high； his lessons are light—his high-lights have brought him renown.Delia was studying under Rosenstoek—you know his repute as a disturber of the piano keys.
They were mighty happy as long as their money lasted.So is every—but I will not be cynical.Their aims were very clear and defined.Joe was to become capable very soon of turning out pictures that old gentlemen with thin sidewhiskers and thick pocketbooks would sandbag one another in his studio for the privilege of buying.Delia was to become familiar and then contemptuous with Music， so that when she saw the orchestra seats and boxes unsold she could have sore throat and lobster in a private dining room and refuse to go on the stage.
But the best， in my opinion， was the home life in the little flat—the ardent， voluble chats after the day's study； the cozy dinners and fresh， light breakfasts； the interchange of ambitions—ambitions interwoven each with the other's or else inconsiderable—the mutual help and inspiration； and—overlook my artlessness—stuffed olives and cheese sandwiches at 11 P.M.
But after a while Art flagged.It sometimes does， even if some switchman doesn't flag it.Everything going out and nothing coming in， as the vulgarians say.Money was lacking to pay Mr.Magister and Herr Rosenstock their prices.When one loves one's Art no service seems too hard.So， Delia said she must give music lessons to keep the chafing dish bubbling.
For two or three days she went out canvassing for pupils.One evening she came home elated.
"Joe， dear，" she said， gleefully， "I've a pupil.And， oh， the loveliest people. General—General A.B.Pinkney's daughter—on Seventy-first Street.Such a splendid house， Joe—you ought to see the front door！ Byzantine I think you would call it.And inside！ Oh， Joe， I never saw anything like it before."
"My pupil is his daughter Clementina.I dearly love her already.She's a delicate thing—dresses always in white； and the sweetest， simplest manners！ Only eighteen years old.I'm to give three lessons a week； and， just think， Joe！ $5 a lesson.I don't mind it a bit； for when I get two or three more pupils I can resume my lessons with Herr Rosenstock.Now， smooth out that wrinkle between your brews， dear， and let's have a nice supper."
"That's all right for you， Dele，" said Joe， attacking a can of peas with a carving knife and a hatchet， "but how about me？ Do you think I'm going to let you hustle for wages while I philander in the regions of high art？ Not by the bones of Benvenuto Cellini！ I guess I can sell papers or lay cobblestones， and bring in a dollar or two."
Delia came and hung about his neck.
"Joe， dear， you are silly.You must keep on at your studies.It is not as if I had quit my music and gone to work at something else.While I teach I learn.I am always with my music.And we can live as happily as millionaires on $15 a week.You mustn't think of leaving Mr.Magister."
"All fight，" said Joe， reaching for the blue scalloped vegetable dish. "But I hate for you to be giving lessons.It isn't Art.But you're a trump and a dear to do it."
"When one loves one's Art no service seems too hard." said Delia.
"Magister praised the sky in that sketch I made in the park，" said Joe. "And Tinkle gave me permission to hang two of them in his window.I may sell one if the right kind of a moneyed idiot sees them."
"l'm sure you will，" said Delia， sweetly. "And now let's be thankful for Gen.Pinkney and this veal roast."
During all of the next week the Larrabees had an early breakfast.Joe was enthusiastic about some morning-effect sketches he was doing in Central Park， and Delia packed him off breakfasted， coddled， praised and kissed at 7 o'clock.Art is an engaging mistress.It was most times 7 o'clock when he returned in the evening.
At the end of the week Delia， sweetly proud but languid， triumphantly tossed three five-dollar bills on the 8 × 10(inches) centre table of the 8 × 10 (feet) flat parlor.
"Sometimes，" she said， a little wearily， "Clementina tires me.I'm afraid she doesn't practise enough， and I have to tell her the same things so often.And then she always dresses entirely in white， and that does get monotonous.But Gen.Pinkney is the dearest old man！ I wish you could know him， Joe.He comes in sometimes when I am with Clementina at the piano—he is a widower， you know—and stands there pulling his white goatee.'And how are the semiquavers and the demisemiquavers progressing？' he always asks."
"I wish you could see the wainscoting in that drawing room， Joe！ And those As trakhan rug portieres.And Clementina has such a funny little cough.I hope she is stronger than she looks.Oh， I really am getting attached to her， she is so gentle and high bred.Gen.Pinkney's brother was once Minister to Bolivia."
And then Joe， with the air of Monte Cristo， drew forth a ten， a five， a two and a one—all legal tender notes—and laid them beside Delia's earnings.
"Sold that watercolor of the obelisk to a man from Peoria." he announced， over-whelmingly.
"Don't joke with me，" said Delia， "not from Peoria！"
"All the way.I wish you could see him， Dele.Fat man with a woolen muffler and a quill toothpick.He saw the sketch in Tinkle's window and thought it was a windmill at first.He was game， though， and bought it anyhow.He ordered another—an oil sketch of the Lackawanna freight depot—to take back with him.Music lessons！ Oh， I guess Art is still in it."
"I'm so glad you've kept on，" said Delia， heartily. "You're bound to win， dear.Thirty-three dollars！ We never had so much to spend before.We'll have oysters tonight."
"And filet mignon with champignons，" said Joe， "Where is the olive fork？"
On the next Saturday evening Joe reached home first.He spread his $18 on the parlor table and washed what seemed to be a great deal of dark paint from his hands.
Half an hour later Delia arrived， her right hand tied up in a shapeless bundle of wraps and bandages.
"How is this？" asked Joe after the usual greetings.Delia laughed， but not very joy ously.
"Clementina，" she explained， "insisted upon a Welsh rabbit after her lesson.She is such a queer girl.Welsh rabbits at 5 in the afternoon.The General was there.You should have seen him run for the chafing dish， Joe， just as if there wasn't a servant in the house.I know Clementina isn't in good health； she is so nervous.In serving the rabbit she spilled a great lot of it， boiling hot， over my hand and wrist.It hurt awfully， Joe.And the dear girl was so sorry！ But Gen.Pinkney！ —Joe， that old man nearly went distracted.He rushed downstairs and sent somebody—they said the furnace man or somebody in the basement—out to a drug store for some oil and things to bind it up with.It doesn't hurt so much now."
"What's this？" asked Joe， taking the hand tenderly and pulling at some white strands beneath the bandages.
"It's something soft，" said Delia， "that had oil on it.Oh， Joe， did you sell another sketch？" she had seen the money on the table.
"Did I？" said Joe， "just ask the man from Peoria.He got his depot to day， and he isn't sure but he thinks he wants another parkscape and a view on the Hudson.What time this afternoon did you burn your hand， Dele？"
"Five o'clock， I think，" said Dele， plaintively. "The iron—I mean the rabbit came off the fire about that time.You ought to have seen Gen.Pinkney， Joe， when—"
"Sit down here a moment， Dele，" said Joe.He drew her to the couch， sat beside her and put his arm across her shoulders.
"What have you been doing for the last two weeks Dele？" he asked.
She braved it for a moment or two with an eye full of love and stubbornness， and murmured a phrase or two vaguely of Gen.Pinkney； but at length down went her head and out came the truth and tears.
"I couldn't get any pupils，" she confessed， "And I couldn't bear to have you give up your lessons； and I got a place ironing shirts in that big Twenty-fourth Street laundry.And I think I did very well to make up both General Pinkney and Clementina， don't you， Joe？ And when a girl in the laundry set down a hot iron on my hand this afternoon I was all the way home making up that story about the Welsh rabbit.You're not angry， are you， Joe？ And if I hadn't got the work you mightn't have sold your sketches to that man from Peoria."
"He wasn't from Peoria." said Joe， slowly.
"Well， it doesn't matter where he was from.How clever you are， Joe—and—kiss me， Joe—and what made you ever suspect that I wasn't giving music lessons to Clementina？"
"I didn't，" said Joe， "until to night.And I wouldn't have then， only I sent up this cotton waste and oil from the engine room this afternoon for a girl upstairs who had her hand burned with a smoothing iron.I've been firing the engine in that laundry for the last two weeks."
"And then you didn't—"
"My purchaser from Peoria，" said Joe， "and Gen.Pinkney are both creations of the same art—but you wouldn't call it either painting or music."
And then they both laughed， and Joe began：
"When one loves one's Art no service seems—"
But Delia stopped him with her hand on his lips. "No，" she said—"just 'When one loves.'"