A beggar was coming down the avenue just as Mr. Parsons emerged from his hotel.
He was a blind beggar walking down the street carefully, using a cane to determine if there were any objects in his path. He was a shaggy1, thick-necked fellow; his coat was old and dirty. He carried a black sack over his shoulder. Apparently he had something to sell.
The air was rich with spring; the sun was warm and yellowed on the asphalt2. Mr. Parsons, standing there in front of his hotel and noting the clack-clack approach of the sightless man, felt a sudden and foolish sort of pity for all blind creatures.
And, thought Mr. Parsons, he was very glad to be alive. Until a few years ago he had a poor paying job; now he was successful, respected, admired... Insurance... And he had done it alone, unaided, struggling beneath handicaps3... And he was still young.
He took a step forward just as the tap-taping blind man passed him by. Quickly the shabby4 fellow turned.
“Listen, guv’nor. Just a minute of your time.”
Mr. Parsons said, “It’s late. I have an appointment. Do you want me to give you something?”
“I ain’t no beggar, guv’nor. You bet I ain’t. I got a handy little article here”—he searched in his sack and pulled out a small object placing it into Mr. Parsons’ hand—“that I sell. One buck. Best cigarette lighter made.”
Mr. Parsons stood there, somewhat annoyed and embarrassed. He was a handsome figure with his beautiful gray suit and gray hat and Malacca stick5. Of course the man with the cigarette lighters could not see him...“But I don’t smoke,” he said.
“Listen. I bet you know plenty people who smoke. Nice little present,” persuaded the man. “And mister, you wouldn’t mind helping a poor guy out?” he clung to Mr. Parsons’ sleeve.
Mr. Parsons sighed and felt in his vest pocket. He brought out two half dollars and pressed them into the man’s hand. “Certainly I’ll help you out. As you say, I can give it to someone. Maybe the elevator boy would—” He hesitated, wanting to ask a question but not wishing to be rude. “Have you lost your sight entirely?”
The shabby man pocketed the two half dollars. “Fourteen years, guv’nor.” Then he added with an insane6 sort of pride: “Westbury, sir. I was one of them.”
“Westbury,” repeated Mr. Parsons. “Ah, yes. The chemical explosion... The papers haven’t mentioned it for years. But at the time it was supposed to be one of the greatest disasters in—”
“They’ve all forgot about it.” The fellow shifted his feet wearily7. “I’ll tell you, guv’nor, a man who was in it won’t forget about it. Last thing I ever saw was C shop going up in one grand smudge8, and that damn’ gas pouring in at all the busted windows.”
Mr. Parsons coughed. But the blind peddler9 was caught up with the train of one dramatic reminiscence10. And, also, he was thinking that there might be more half dollars in Mr. Parsons’ pocket.
“Just think about it, guv’nor. There was a hundred and eight people killed, about two hundred injured, and over fifty of them lost their eyes. Blind as bats—” He placed his dirty hand forward until it rested against Mr. Parsons coat. “I tell you, sir, there wasn’t nothing worse than that in the war. If I had lost my eyes in the war, okay, I would have been well taken care of. But I was just a workman, working for what was in it. And I got it. You’re damn’ right I got it, while the capitalists were making their dough! They was insured, don’t worry about that. They—”
“Insured,” repeated his listener. “Yes. That’s what I sell—”
“You want to know how I lost my eyes?” cried the man. “Well, here it is!” His words fell with the bitter and studied drama of a story often told, and told for money. “I was there in C shop, last of all the folks rushing out. Out in the air there was a chance, even with buildings exploding right and left. A lot of guys made it safe out the door and got away. And just when I was about there, crawling along between those big vats11, a guy behind me grabs my leg. He says, Let me past, you—! Maybe he was nuts. I dunno. I try to forgive him in my heart, guy’nor. But he was bigger than me. He hauls me back and climbs right over me, tramples12 me into the dirt. And he gets out, and I lie there with all that poison gas pouring down on all sides of me, and flame and stuff...” He swallowed13—a studied sob—and stood dumbly expectant. He could imagine the next words: Tough luck, my man. Damned tough. Now I want to— “That’s the story, guv’nor.”
“Not quite,” said Mr. Parsons.
The blind peddler shivered crazily. “Not quite? What you mean, you—?”
“The story is true,” Mr. Parsons said, “except that it was the other way around.”
“Other way around?” he cried unamiably14. “Say, guv’nor—”
“I was in C shop,” said Mr. Parsons. “It was the other way around. You were the fellow who hauled back on me and climbed over me. You were bigger than I was, Markwardt.”
The blind man stood for a long time, swallowing hoarsely15. He shouted, “Parsons. By God. By God! I thought you—” And then he screamed, “Yes. Maybe so. But I’m blind, and you’ve been standing here listening, and laughing at me every minute! I’m blind!”
People in the street turned to stare at him.
“You got away, but I’m blind! Do you hear? I’m—”
“Well,” said Mr. Parsons, “don’t make such a disturbance, Markwardt... So am I.”
帕森斯先生刚从旅馆里出来，一个乞丐恰好从街上走过来。
乞丐是个瞎子，拄着一根拐杖，小心翼翼，一路摸索着向前走去。他邋里邋遢，脖子很粗；衣服又旧又脏，肩上背着一只黑布袋，显然，他有东西要向人们兜售。
空气中洋溢着春天的气息；太阳暖洋洋的，柏油马路上铺着一层黄色的光。帕森斯先生站在旅馆前，听到瞎子笃笃走近的声音，一种对盲人的同情心油然而生。
而且，帕森斯先生想，自己能活着，就是一件高兴的事儿。几年前，他只不过是一个穷打工仔；现在，他成功了，受人尊敬、令人艳羡……从事保险业……全凭自己一个人，没人帮忙，在困难中挣扎……而且自己还年轻。
他迈开步子向前走，这时，瞎子笃笃笃地擦身而过。这个邋遢家伙猛地转过身来。
“喂，先生，只耽误你一分钟。”
帕森斯先生说：“来不及了，我有个约会。你要我给你什么东西吗？”
“先生，我不是乞丐。你看得出，我不是。我这里有个小玩意儿”——他在口袋里摸索了一会儿，终于把一个小东西塞到帕森斯先生的手中——“这就是我卖的东西。一块钱。最好的打火机。”
帕森斯先生站在那里，有点儿恼火，又有点尴尬。他长得很英俊，穿着一身漂亮的灰色西装，戴着一顶灰色礼帽，拄着一根上流社会的文明棍。当然，卖打火机的看不见这些……“可是我并不吸烟呀。”他说。
“你听我说。我敢肯定，你认识许多吸烟的人，非常精致的小礼物啊。”那瞎子缠住不放，“先生，你不会介意帮助一个穷人吧？”他拉住帕森斯先生的袖子。
帕森斯先生叹了口气，从胸前的口袋里开始掏钱。他拿出两枚五角硬币，塞到瞎子手中。“当然，我会帮你。正如你所说的，我可以把打火机送人。也许开电梯的那个小伙子……”他迟疑了一下，想到一个问题，却又不愿显得无礼。“你真的一点都看不见吗？”
那个邋遢家伙把两枚五角硬币揣进口袋，“十四年了，先生，”接着，用一种近乎荒唐的骄傲，他说，“韦斯特伯里，先生，我是受害人之一。”
“韦斯特伯里，” 帕森斯先生重复了一句，“啊，是的，那次化工厂爆炸……报纸上已有好几年没有提这件事了。不过，在当时，据说这是一次最严重的灾难——”
“他们早把它忘得一干二净了。”那家伙可能感到累了，就把身体重心移到另一只脚上。“我对你说，先生，当事人是不会忘记它的。我记得的最后一件事是，第三车间成了一团浓雾，毒气从炸碎的窗子涌进来，直往里面灌。”
帕森斯先生咳嗽起来，可是那个瞎子小贩，却沉浸在一连串戏剧性回忆之中。而且，他还想，帕森斯先生的口袋里，可能还有五角硬币。
“先生，你想想吧。108个人死掉了，大约200个人受伤，50多人失明，像蝙蝠那样看不见——”他向前挪了挪脚步，把一只脏手搁在帕森斯先生的大衣上。“先生，我告诉你，连战争都没这么糟糕。如果我在战争中失去了眼睛，那么，我会得到很好的照顾。但是我是一个工人，干活就得冒风险。我倒了霉，我他妈倒了八辈子霉，资本家却赚足了钱！他们保了险，用不着为此担心。他们——”
“保险，”听的人重复了一遍。“是的，我推销的正是它——”
“你想知道我是怎么失明的吗？”那人叫了起来，“好吧，我讲给你听！”这故事他讲了很多遍，讲它是为了钱，所以，话语中带有一种辛酸的做作的戏剧性腔调。“我在第三车间，是最后一个跑出来的人。尽管建筑物左右都在爆炸，然而跑出来就有一线希望，许多人安全地跑了出去，活了下来。当时我在那里，在那些大桶之间爬着，有个家伙在后面拽住我的腿。他喊道：‘让我过去，你——’也许他发疯了。我不知道。先生，我心里一直想原谅他。但是，他比我块头大。他把我拽到身后，从我身上爬了过去！我被踩在尘土中。他逃出去了，我却躺在地上，毒气从四面八方向我袭来，还有烟火……”他咽了口唾沫——故意抽泣起来——站着不动，期待着听众的反应。他想像着下面的安慰：真不幸，老兄。太惨了。现在，我要——“这就是事情的经过，先生。”
“不完全是这样的，”帕森斯先生说。
瞎子小贩哆嗦起来，发疯似地说：“不完全是这样的？你意思是……”
“事情是真实的，”帕森斯先生说，“不过，情节正好相反。”
“相反？”他充满敌意地吼道，“你倒说说看，先生——”
“当时我就在第三车间，”帕森斯先生说，“所以说正好相反。正是你这个家伙，拽住我的脚，并从我的身上踩了过去。你的块头比我大，马克瓦特。”
瞎子站了好长时间，才喘着粗气。他叫道：“帕森斯。上帝啊，我的上帝！我原以为——”接着，他尖叫起来，“是的，也许你是对的。但是我现在是个瞎子。你站在这里，让我唠唠叨叨地讲给你听，而你每分钟都在笑话我！笑我是一个瞎子。”
街上的行人转过身，盯着他看。
“你逃出去了，而我却成了瞎子！你听到了吗？我——”
“算了吧，”帕森斯先生说，“不要再现丑了，马克瓦特……我也是个瞎子。”
1. shaggy adj. 邋遢的，不修边幅的
2. asphalt n. 沥青
3. handicap n. 障碍，不利条件
4. shabby adj. 褴褛的
5. Malacca stick 马六甲白藤做的拐棍，曾经很时尚。从这句话可以看出帕森斯是上流社会人士。
6. insane adj. 极其愚蠢的，脱离实际的
7. wearily adv. 疲倦地
8. smudge n. 浓烟
9. peddler n. （沿街叫卖的）商贩，货郎
10. reminiscence n. 回忆，缅怀往事
11. vat n. 大桶
12. trample v. 踩，践踏
13. swallow v. 吞下，咽下
14. unamiably adv. 不可亲地，不友好地
15. hoarsely adv. （声音）嘶哑地