第4章 The Cop and the Anthem 警察与圣歌

On his bench in Madison Square Soapy moved uneasily. When wild geese 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 there were no considerations of Mediterranean cruises, of soporific Southern skies 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 big 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 Caesar 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 cafe, 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 cafe 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 cobblestone and dashed it through the glass. People came running around 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 half way 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 telltale trousers without challenge. At a table he sat and consumed beefsteak, flapjacks, doughnuts and pie. And then to the waiter be 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 role 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 insure his winter quarters on the right little, tight little isle.

Soapy straightened the lady missionary's readymade tie, dragged his shrinking cuffs into the open, set his hat at a killing cant and sidled toward the young woman. 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 cozy 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 again 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 pedestrians 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. To-morrow he would go into the roaring downtown 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 around into the broad face of a policeman.

“What are you doin' here?” asked the officer.

“Nothin',” said Soapy.

“Then come along,” said the policeman.

“Three months on the Island,” said the Magistrate in the Police Court the next morning.

苏比躺在麦迪逊广场的长椅上辗转不安。当雁群在夜空高声鸣叫，当缺少海豹皮大衣的女人渐渐对丈夫温存，当苏比在公园的长椅上辗转不安，你就会知道冬天就要到了。

一片枯叶飘落在苏比的膝盖上。那是严寒的名片。严寒对麦迪逊广场的常住居民非常友好，每年来临总要打声招呼。在十字街头，他把名片交给“户外大厦”的门房“北风”，以便那里的居民作好准备。

苏比意识到，为了应对即将来临的寒冬，该是他下决心组成一个单人筹备委员会的时候了。所以，他在长椅上辗转不安。

苏比过冬的抱负并不算最高。他既不想去地中海巡游，也不想去南方昏错欲睡晒太阳，更没想过到维苏威海湾游荡。他梦想的只要在岛上待三个月。衣食无忧的三个月，还有志趣相投的人陪伴，免受“北风”和警察的侵扰，对苏比来说这就是梦寐以求的事儿。

多年来，殷勤好客的布莱克韦尔岛监狱一直是苏比过冬的场所。就像运气比他好的纽约人每年冬天买票去棕榈滩和里维埃拉一样，苏比也要为一年一度逃奔岛上作些准备。现在又到时候了。昨晚，他睡在古老广场喷水池旁的长椅上，用三份安息日的报纸分别垫进上衣，包住脚踝，裹住膝盖，还是没能抵挡住严寒的侵袭。因此，布莱克韦尔岛的影像又马上鲜明地浮现在苏比的脑海里。他诅咒那些以慈善名义对城镇穷苦人所设的布施。在苏比看来，法律比救济更宽厚。他有的是地方可去，有市政府办的，有救济机关办的，各式各样的组织，他都可以去混吃混住，简单度日。然而，要靠施舍过活，对苏比这样一位灵魂高傲的人来说，简直难以忍受。从慈善机构的手里接受任何一点好处，固然不必破费，但你必须遭受精神上的屈辱。正如恺撒对待布鲁图一样，凡事有利必有弊——要睡上慈善机构的床，先得被迫洗个澡；要吃上一片面包，个人的隐私就会被问个底朝天。所以，还是做法律的客人好。尽管法律照章办事，但至少不会过分干涉正人君子的私事。

已经决定去岛上，苏比立马开始准备。有许多简单办法可以用，最开心的莫过于到某家豪华餐厅大模大样美餐一顿，然后说明自己身无分文之后，便悄无声息地被交到警察手里。剩下的，自有一个与人方便的地方法官来安排。

苏比从长椅上站起身，走出广场，跨过百老汇大街和第五大街的交汇处那片沥青铺就的平坦路面，拐向百老汇大街，在一家灯火辉煌的餐馆前停下来。这里每晚都是美酒、华服和上流人物汇聚的地方。

苏比对自己上半身的衣着有信心。他刮过脸，上衣还算体面，那个有活扣的黑领结也挺干净，那是感恩节时一位女教士送的。只要他能走到餐馆的桌子旁而不被人猜疑，就算成功了。他暴露在桌子上面的部分不会引起侍者的疑心。一只烤野鸭就可以了，苏比想——再来一瓶夏布利酒、一份卡门贝干酪、一小杯咖啡和一支雪茄。一美元一支的雪茄就行了。总价不能太高，以免遭到餐馆老板狠心的报复；然而，吃下去的肉可以让他在去冬季避难所的路上感到饱食的快乐。

然而，苏比的脚刚踏进门，领班侍者的目光便落到了他那旧裤子和破皮鞋上。强壮而利索的手把他推了个转身，悄无声息快速地将他搡到了人行道上，拯救了那只险遭毒手的可怜的野鸭。

苏比离开了百老汇大街。看来自己设计的那套办法行不通。要进监狱，还得另打主意。

在第六大街的一个拐角处，灯火璀璨、陈设精巧的大玻璃橱窗内的商品引人注目。苏比捡起一块鹅卵石，砸穿了玻璃窗。人们从转弯处奔来，领头的就是一位警察。苏比站定不动，两手插在裤袋里，一看到黄纽扣就露出了微笑。

“砸玻璃的人在哪里？”警官气急败坏地问道。

“难道你看不出这事儿跟我有关吗？”苏比说，尽管不无嘲讽，但很友好，好像在迎接好运的到来似的。

警察打心里就没把苏比看成作案对象。砸橱窗的人不会呆在现场与法律的走卒攀谈；他们早就溜之大吉了。警察看到半条街前面有个人正跑着去赶一辆公车。他抽出警棍，追了上去。苏比心里充满憎恶，垂头丧气地走开了。两次都不成功。

街对面有一家不大起眼的餐馆。那是一个可以填饱肚子、又不花多少钱的地方。那里的碗具粗糙，空气混浊，汤淡而无味，餐巾薄透。苏比穿着那令人诅咒的鞋子和暴露身分的裤子跨进餐馆，没有受到任何阻拦。他在一张桌子前坐下，吃了牛排、煎饼、炸面饼圈和馅饼，然后向侍者透露了真相，说他一分钱也没有。

“快去叫警察，”苏比说。“别让老子等着。”

“对你这种人用不着找叫警察，”侍者说，声音腻得像奶油蛋糕，眼红得好似曼哈顿鸡尾酒中的樱桃。“来，阿康！”

两个侍者干净利落地把苏比拽出门外，他的左耳贴地倒在又冷又硬的人行道上。苏比一点点艰难地从地上爬起来，好似木匠打开折尺一样，拍掉衣服上的尘土。被捕的愿望仅仅是一个美好的梦想，那个岛仿佛非常遥远。隔着两个门的药店门前站着一名警察，他笑了笑，便沿街走去。

走过五个街区后，苏比设法被捕的勇气又回来了。这次的机会看来是十拿九稳，必赢无疑。一位衣着简朴讨人喜欢的年轻女子站在橱窗前，正兴趣盎然地地盯着陈列在里面的刮脸用杯子和墨水瓶架；而两码开外，一名身材高大、神情严肃的警察正倚靠在水龙头上。

苏比的计划是装扮成一个下流讨厌的“浪荡鬼”。他的受害者文雅娴静，又有一位忠于职守的警察在旁边，这足以使他相信，马上他就能痛痛快快地被逮住，在岛上的小安乐窝里过冬就有保证了。

苏比拉正了正女教士送给他的活扣领结，拽出皱缩的衬衣袖口，帽子往后一歪，侧身向那女子挨过去。他对她挤眉弄眼，嘴里哼哼哈哈，嬉皮笑脸地摆出一副“浪荡鬼”卑鄙下流的模样。苏比从眼角瞥见那个警察正死死盯住他。年轻女子移开了几步，又接着专心看橱窗里刮胡子用的杯子。苏比跟过去，大胆地靠近她，举了举帽子，说：

“啊来呀，美人儿！想不想到我那里去玩玩？”

警察还在盯着。受人纠缠的年轻女子只需举手一招，他就可以毫无疑问地被送到安身岛上了。他已经想象出了警察局的舒适温暖。年轻女人转向苏比，伸出一只手，抓住了他的上衣袖口。

“要是你肯请我喝啤酒的话，当然可以，迈克，”她兴高采烈地说，“要不是那个警察盯着，我早就跟你搭腔了。”

年轻女人像常青藤攀住橡树般靠住他。苏比从警察身边走过，心里懊丧不已。看来命中注定他该是自由的。

一到拐弯处，他甩掉女伴，撒腿就跑，一口气跑到一个地方，这里整夜都有最明亮的灯光、最轻松的心情、最轻率的誓言和最轻快的歌声。

那些身着皮裘的女人和身披大氅的男人在凛冽的寒风中欢天喜地走来走去。一阵突然的恐惧抓住了苏比，他感到似乎有一种可怕的魔力使他免于被捕。这个念头令他感到有点儿心惊肉跳；然而，当看见一个警察在灯火通明的剧院门前大模大样地巡逻时，他立刻抓到了“扰乱治安”这根救命稻草。

在人行道上，苏比声嘶力竭叫喊一些乱七八糟的醉话。他又跳又吼又叫，使出浑身解数，搅乱一切。

警察飞旋着警棍，背对苏比，向一位市民解释。

“这个耶鲁小子在庆祝胜利。他们跟哈特福德学院赛球，让对方吃了个鹅蛋。有点儿喧闹，但不碍事。我们接到指示，不管他们。”

苏比闷闷不乐，停止了无用的胡闹。难道就永远没有警察对他下手吗？在他的想象中，那岛屿简直成了可望不可及的世外桃源。他扣好单薄的上衣，以便抵挡住刺骨的寒风。

雪茄烟店里，苏比看见一位衣冠楚楚的男子正对着火头点烟。那人进店时，把丝绸雨伞靠在了门边。苏比跨进店门，拿起雨伞，慢慢悠悠扬长而去。点烟人匆匆追了出来。

“那是我的伞，”他厉声说道。

“噢，是吗？”苏比冷笑着说，在小偷的罪名上加上了侮辱罪。“好哇，那你为什么不叫警察？没错，我拿了。你的伞！为什么不叫警察呢？拐角那里就站着一个。”

伞主放慢了脚步。苏比也慢了下来。他有一种预感，命运会再次跟他作对。那位警察好奇地瞧着他们俩。

“当然，”伞主说，“那是——噢，你知道有时会出现这类误会——我——要是这伞是你的，我希望你会原谅我——我是今天早上在餐厅捡到的——要是你认出是你的，那么——我希望你会——”

“当然是我的，”苏比恶狠狠地说。

前伞主退去。那位警察急忙跑去搀扶一个身穿晚礼服的高个金发女人穿过街道，前面距离两个街区正驶来一辆轿车。

苏比向东走，穿过一条因翻修而破损的街道。他忿忿不平地把雨伞扔进一个坑里。他诅咒那些头戴钢盔、手拎警棍的家伙。他一心想落入他们的手里，他们却好像把他当成了不会出错的国王。

最后，苏比来到一条通往东区的街上，这里灯光暗淡，嘈杂声也弱了些。

他的方向是麦迪逊广场。回家的本能把他带向那里，尽管他的家只是公园里的一张长椅。

然而，在一个十分安静的拐角处，苏比停住了脚步。这里是一座古色古香、带有山墙的教堂，已经有些年久失修，柔和的灯光透过紫罗兰色的玻璃窗映射出来。毫无疑问，是风琴师正在为即将到来的安息日加紧练习圣歌。

悠扬悦耳的琴声飘进苏比的耳朵，他靠在螺旋形的铁栏杆上听得入神。

月亮在上，皎洁安详；街上的行人和车辆寥寥无几；屋檐下的燕雀在睡梦中发出几声啁啾——这里有着乡村教堂墓地般的氛围。风琴师悠扬的琴声让苏比的脚步无法从铁栏杆旁移开；当他生活中拥有母爱、玫瑰、抱负、朋友以及纯洁的思想和整洁的衣服时，他对这一切非常熟悉。

此时此刻，苏比敏感的心境跟古老教堂的氛围交织在一起，使他的灵魂突然出现了奇妙的变化。他惊恐地意识到了自己已经坠入的深渊，意识到了构成生命那些堕落的岁月、可耻的欲念、破灭的希望、受损的才能和卑鄙的动机。

一时间，他的内心对这种新奇的感受产生了深刻变化。一股强烈的瞬间冲动，促使他要与坎坷人生进行抗争。他要把自己拉出泥潭；他要重新做人；他要征服已经控制自己的邪恶。时间还不晚；他还算年轻；他要再现当年的雄心壮志，去不懈追求。肃穆悠扬的管风琴曲在他内心深处掀起了一场革命。明天，他就去闹市找一份工作。一个皮货进口商曾叫他去开车。明天就去找他把这份差事应下来。他要堂堂正正活在世上，他要——苏比觉得有一只手按在了他的胳膊上。他迅速转过头，一位宽脸警察出现在了他面前。

“你在这里干什么？”警察问。

“没干什么，”苏比答道。

“那就跟我走吧，”警察说。

“布莱克韦尔岛，三个月，”第二天上午，警庭的法官宣判道。