“Here comes de |манера произносить артикль the| old guy,” said a waiter, “dat |that| blows dat same bum |бродягу| to a meal every Thanksgiving.”
The Old Gentleman sat across the table glowing like a smoked pearl at his corner-stone of future ancient Tradition |в сторону краеугольного камня – Стаффи – будущей древней традиции|. The waiters heaped |завалили| the table with holiday food – and Stuffy, with a sigh that was mistaken |со вздохом, который был ошибочно принят за…| for hunger’s expression, raised knife and fork and carved for himself a crown of imperishable bay |идиома. Русский аналог – ринулся в бой стяжать себе бессмертные лавры|.
No more valiant hero ever fought his way through the ranks |сквозь ряды| of an enemy. Turkey, chops, soups, vegetables, pies, disappeared before him as fast as they could be served. Gorged nearly to the uttermost |сытый по горло| when he entered the restaurant, the smell of food had almost caused him to lose his honor as a gentleman, but he rallied |поборол слабость| like a true knight. He saw the look of beneficent happiness on the Old Gentleman’s face – a happier look than even the fuchsias and the ornithoptera amphrisius had ever brought to it – and he had not the heart |не осмелился| to see it wane |ослабнуть|.
In an hour Stuffy leaned back |откинулся| with a battle won. “Thankee kindly, sir,” he puffed like a leaky steam pipe |пропыхтел он как дырявая паровая труба|; “thankee kindly for a hearty meal.” Then he arose heavily with glazed eyes and started toward the kitchen. A waiter turned him about like a top |крутанул его как волчок|, and pointed him toward the door. The Old Gentleman carefully counted out $1.30 in silver change, leaving three nickels |a nickel – это 5 центов| for the waiter.
They parted |расстались| as they did each year at the door, the Old Gentleman going south, Stuffy north.
Around the first corner Stuffy turned, and stood for one minute. Then he seemed to puff out his rags as an owl puffs out his feathers |казалось, что он распушил свои лохмотья, как сова пушит свои перья|, and fell to the sidewalk like a sunstricken horse.
When the ambulance came the young surgeon |хирург| and the driver cursed softly at his weight |тихо выругались по поводу веса Стаффи|. There was no smell of whiskey to justify a transfer to the patrol wagon |в полицейский участок|, so Stuffy and his two dinners went to the hospital. There they stretched him on a bed and began to test him for strange diseases, with the hope of getting a chance at some problem with the bare steel |которую можно вылечить стальным скальпелем|.
And lo! |архаичное восклицание, вроде русского “и глянь!”| an hour later another ambulance brought the Old Gentleman. And they laid him on another bed and spoke of appendicitis, for he looked good for the bill |его внешность внушала надежду на оплату счета за лечение|.
But pretty soon one of the young doctors met one of the young nurses whose eyes he liked, and stopped to chat with her about the cases.
“That nice old gentleman over there, now,” he said, “you wouldn’t think that was a case of almost starvation |истощение от голода|. Proud old family, I guess. He told me he hadn’t eaten a thing |не ел ни крошки| for three days.”
In a little district west of Washington Square the streets have run crazy |улицы сошли с ума| and broken themselves into small strips called “places.” These “places” make strange angles and curves. One Street crosses itself a time or two |Одна улица можем пересекать себя раз или два|. An artist once discovered a valuable possibility in this street. Suppose a collector with a bill for paints |сборщик счетов за краски|, paper and canvas should, in traversing this route |по прохождении этого пути|, suddenly meet himself |встречает себя же| coming back, without a cent having been paid on account |без цента, оплаченного по счету|!
So, to quaint |странный| old Greenwich Village the art people soon came prowling |блуждая|, hunting for north windows and eighteenth-century gables |мезонины| and Dutch attics and low rents. Then they imported some pewter mugs and a chafing dish |оловянные кружки и жаровню| or two from Sixth Avenue, and became a “colony.”
At the top of a squatty, three-story brick |трехэтажного кирпичного дома| Sue and Johnsy had their studio. “Johnsy” was familiar for |уменьшительное от| Joanna. One was from Maine; the other from California. They had met at the table d’hôte |ресторанчика| of an Eighth Street “Delmonico’s,” and found their tastes in art, chicory salad and bishop sleeves so congenial |схожими| that the joint studio resulted.
That was in May. In November a cold, unseen stranger, whom the doctors called Pneumonia, stalked about |ходил вокруг да около| the colony, touching one here and there with his icy fingers. Over on the east side this ravager strode boldly |этот душегуб шагал смело|, smiting |поражая| his victims by scores |кучами|, but his feet trod slowly |его ноги медленно плелись| through the maze of the narrow and moss-grown |в лабиринте узких и поросших мхом…| “places.”
Mr. Pneumonia was not what you would call a chivalric |галантным| old gentleman. A mite |миниатюрная| of a little woman with blood thinned by California zephyrs |зефиры – южные ветры| was hardly fair game for the red-fisted, short-breathed old duffer |едва ли была достойным соперником для дюжего старого тупицы с красными кулаками и одышкой|. But Johnsy he