第6章 The Romance of a Busy Broker 忙碌经纪人的浪漫史

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 he 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.”

九点半，在年轻女速记员的陪同下，证券经纪人哈维·马克斯韦尔如履春风般走进了公司。机要秘书皮彻一向毫无表情的面孔不禁闪过了一丝好奇和诧异。

马克斯韦尔抛下一句“早上好，皮彻”，直奔办公桌，匆忙得像要一跃而过，一头扎进桌子上那一大堆等着他处理的信件和电报里。

那位年轻女郎给马克斯韦尔当速记员已有一年了。她美艳动人，绝不是三言两语所能描绘。她一改华丽诱人的高卷式发型，从不佩戴项链、手镯或心形像坠。她脸上没有打算受邀外出进餐的神情。尽管灰色套装素净简洁，但恰如其分完美地勾勒出她动人的身材。黑色典雅的无边圆帽上饰着金刚鹦鹉金绿色的翅羽。今天早上，她温婉娇羞，光彩照人，一双眼睛如流萤般迷离，两颊粉若桃花，一脸幸福，沉浸在回味之中。

皮彻发现她今天神态举止异常，越发不解。她没有径直走进隔间——那里放着她的办公桌，而是有些迟疑地在外间徘徊。她一度挪到马克斯维尔办公桌旁，近得足以让他意识到她的存在。

坐在办公桌前的工作狂已不再是一个男人，而是一个忙碌的纽约证券经纪人，一台被隆隆作响的轮子和上了劲的弹簧驱动的机器。

“嗯，怎么回事？有事吗？”马克斯韦尔问，语气尖刻。铺开的信纸就像一层白雪覆盖在拥挤的桌子上。他锐利的灰蓝色眼睛冷漠无情，不耐烦地扫了她一眼。

“没什么，”速记员答道，笑靥轻轻地飘走了。

“皮彻先生，”她问机要秘书，“马克斯韦尔先生昨天有没有提过另雇一名速记员的事儿？”

“提过，”皮彻回答说。“他吩咐我另找一个。昨天下午，我通知了职业介绍所，让他们今天上午送几个像样的来面试。现在已经九点四十五了，还没见哪个戴阔边帽或嚼口香糖的菠萝头露面。”

“那我还是照常工作好了，”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，在老地方挂起那顶饰有金刚鹦鹉金绿色翅羽的黑色无边帽。

不论哪个人类学家要是质疑曼哈顿经纪人在交易高峰期时的忙碌，那么他的职业生涯就不会那么完美。有诗人赞颂“忙碌铸就辉煌人生”。经纪人的时间不仅每个小时都被排得满满的，而且每分每秒都被拴牢套死，分派给前前后后的事务。

今天又是哈维·马克斯韦尔的忙碌日。行情收录器迅速转动断断续续吐出一卷一卷的纸，台式电话持续响个不停。人群开始涌入办公室，隔着栏杆冲他叫嚷，神情各异，有的和颜悦色，有的尖声刻薄，有的痛不欲生，有的激动万分。信童拿着电话留言和电报跑进跑出。办公室里职员们忙得来回蹿动，好似遭遇暴风雨的水手一般。连皮彻的脸也不再僵硬，有了些生气。

证券交易所里风云变幻，时而飓风、山崩、暴雪，时而冰川解体、火山爆发；这些自然界的剧变在经纪人办公室的微观世界里重复上演。马克斯韦尔把椅子猛地推到墙边，如踢跶舞演员般敏捷地处理着业务。他穿梭于收录机和电话、办公桌和门之间，机敏干练，就像训练有素的滑稽小丑。

正处于压力持续增长，形势越加严重的节骨眼上，经纪人猛然注意到有那么一丛金色刘海从颤巍巍的天鹅绒和鸵鸟毛饰物下高高卷起，一件仿海豹皮敞篷，一串大如胡桃的珍珠项链，下端坠着一颗银质心形像坠，几乎都要贴着地面了。这套行头都与一位沉着冷静的年轻女士有关，皮彻正在那引荐她。

“这位女士是速记员介绍所推荐来应聘的，”皮彻说。

马克斯韦尔侧过身，满手都是文件和行情纸带。

“应聘什么职位？”他皱起眉头问。

“速记员职位，”皮彻说。“昨天您吩咐我致电给他们，让他们今天上午送一个过来。”

“你昏头了？”马克斯韦尔说。“我怎么会给你这样的指示呢？莱斯利小姐在职这一年表现无可挑剔。只要她愿意留下，这个位置就是她的。女士，这里没有职位空缺。皮彻，通知事务所，取消招聘计划，别再带人进来了。”

银像坠离开了办公室。一路上她愤愤不平，只顾生气离开，把办公桌椅碰得乒乓作响。皮彻忙里偷闲跟簿记员调侃道：“头儿的世俗记性一天比一天差喽。”

交易量和交易频率不断攀升加快。在证券交易区，他们正在注巨资哄抬/猛砸几支由马克斯维尔客户巨额投资的股票。收进和抛出的单据来来去去，如飞燕一般。他自己持有的几支股票也岌岌可危。这个男人工作起来，如同一台高速精确运转的强大机器——神经绷紧，全力以赴，精准无误，坚决果断，用词准确，决策无误，步步为营、出手及时，像时钟般牢靠。股票、证券、贷款、抵押、保证金、债券——这是一个金融世界，世间的人情冷暖自然天性在这里没有立足之地。

午餐时间临近，喧嚷混乱的气氛才稍稍平息了下来。

马克斯韦尔站在办公桌边，手里塞满了电报和买卖契约，右耳后夹了一支钢笔，几撮头发散落在前额之上。办公室的窗敞开着，因为可爱的春神已经吹来一阵暖意，使大地开始复苏。

窗外一阵幽香若隐若现飘然而入，是丁香淡淡的甜味，它也许让这位经纪人一时失了神儿。因为这香味是属于莱斯利小姐的；是她特有的气息，也只有她的气息。

这香味让她化影眼前，栩栩如生，几乎触手可及。金融世界突然衰变成一粒尘土。而她就在隔壁，近在咫尺。

“天哪，我现在就得去，”马克斯韦尔低声说道。“我现在就去跟她说。怎么我没早点儿想起？”

他箭步跑进办公室隔间，像急于买回卖空出去的股票一般，扑到速记员办公桌上。

她抬起头，冲他莞尔一笑，两颊泛起一丝红晕，一双明眸温柔而真诚。马克斯韦尔一支胳膊撑在桌上，手里还攥着微微乱颤的文件，钢笔依然夹在耳后。

“莱斯利小姐，”他匆匆开口说道，“我没有多少时间，趁这会儿我想跟你说一件重要事情。你愿意做我的妻子吗？我没有时间以常人的方式向你求爱，但我真心爱你。请快回答我。那帮人正联手抢购太平洋联盟的股票了？”

“噢，你在说什么？”年轻女郎惊叫道。她起身站立，盯着他，双目圆睁。

“你不明白吗？”马克斯韦尔倔强地说。“我要你嫁给我。我爱你，莱斯利小姐。我早想告诉你，情况稍一好转，我得空就过来了。他们这会儿又找我接电话了。皮彻，让他们稍等。答应我好吗，莱斯利小姐？”

速记员举动非常奇怪。起初，她好像万分惊讶；随后，泪水又涌出了她惊奇的眼睛；接着，泪眼又发出了欢笑的光芒；最后，她伸出一只胳膊柔情地搂住了经纪人的脖子。

“现在我明白了，”她柔声说道。“是这讨厌的生意让你忘了其他所有的事儿。刚才我吓坏了。你不记得了吗，哈维？昨晚八点，我们在拐角处小教堂结婚了。”