A String of Blue Beads
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Pete Richard was the loneliest man in town on the day Jean Grace opened the door of his shop. It’s a small shop which had come down to him from his grandfather. The little front window was strewn with a disarray of oldfashioned things: bracelets and lockets worn in days before the Civil War, gold rings and silver boxes, images of jade and ivory, porcelain figurines1. On this winter’s afternoon a child was standing there, her forehead against the glass, earnest and enormous eyes studying each treasure as if she were looking for something quite special. Finally she straightened up with a satisfied air and entered the store.
The shadowy interior of Pete Richard’s establishment was even more cluttered than his show window. Shelves were stacked with jewel caskets, dueling pistols, clocks and lamps, and the floor was heaped with irons, mandolins and things hard to find a name for. Behind the counter stood Pete himself, a man not more than thirty but with hair already turning gray. There was a bleak air about him as he looked at the small customer who flattened her ungloved hands on the counter.
“Mister,” she began, “would you please let me look at the string of blue beads in the window？” Pete parted the draperies and lifted out a necklace. The turquoise2 stones gleamed brightly against the pallor of his palm as he spread the ornament before her. “They’re just perfect,” said the child, entirely to herself. “Will you wrap them up pretty for me, please？”
Pete studied her with a stony air. “Are you buying these for someone？” “They’re for my big sister. She takes care of me. You see, this will be the first Christmas since mother died. I’ve been looking for the most wonderful Christmas present for my sister.”
“How much money do you have？” asked Pete warily. She had been busily untying the knots in a handkerchief and now she poured out a handful of pennies on the counter. “I emptied my bank.” she explained simply.
Pete looked at her thoughtfully. Then he carefully drew back the necklace. The price tag was visible to him but not to her. How could he tell her？ The trusting look of her blue eyes smote3 him like the pain of an old wound. “Just a minute,” he said, and turned toward the back of the store. Over his shoulder he called, “What’s your name？” He was very busy about something. “Jean Grace.”
When Pete returned to where Jean Grace waited, a package lay in his hand, wrapped in scarlet paper and tied with a bow of green. “There you are,” he said shortly, “Don’t lose it on the way home.”
She smiled happily over her shoulder as she ran out the door. Through the window he watched her go, while desolation flooded his thoughts. Something about Jean Grace and her string of beads had stirred him to the depths of a grief that would not stay buried. The child’s hair was wheat yellow, her eyes sea blue, and once upon a time, not long before, Pete had been in love with a girl with hair of that same yellow and with eyes just as blue. And the turquoise necklace was to have been hers.
But there had come a rainy night—a truck skidding on a slippery road—and the life was crushed out of his dream. Since then, Pete had lived too much with his grief in solitude. He was politely attentive to customers, but after hours his world seemed irrevocably4 empty. He was trying to forget in a selfpitying haze that deepened day by day. The blue eyes of Jean Grace jolted him into acute remembrance of what he had lost. The pain of it made him recoil from the exuberance of holiday shoppers. During the next ten days trade was brisk; chattering women swarmed in, fingering trinkets, trying to bargain. When the last customer had gone, late on Christmas Eve, he sighed with relief. It was over for another year. But for Pete the night was not quite over.
The door opened and a young woman hurried in. With an inexplicable start, he realized that she looked familiar, yet he could not remember when or where he had seen her before. Her hair was golden yellow and her large eyes were blue. Without speaking, she drew from her purse a package loosely unwrapped in its red paper, a bow of green ribbon with it. Presently the string of blue beads lay gleaming again before him.
“Did this come from your shop？” she asked.
Pete raised his eyes to hers and answered softly, “Yes, it did.”
“Are the stones real？”
“Yes. Not the finest quality—but real.”
“Can you remember who it was you sold them to？”
“She was a small girl. Her name was Jean. She bought them for her older sister’s Christmas present.”
“How much are they worth？”
“The price, ”he told her solemnly, “is always a confidential matter between the seller and the customer.”
“But Jean has never had more than a few pennies of spending money. How could she pay for them？”
“She paid the biggest price anyone can ever pay,” he said. “She gave all she had.”
There was a silence then that filled the little curio shop. He saw the faraway steeple, a bell began ringing. The sound of the distant chiming, the little package lying on the counter, the question in the eyes of the girl, and the strange feeling of renewal struggling unreasonably in the heart of Pete, all had come to be because of the love of a child.
“But why did you do it？”
He held out5 the gift in his hand.
“It’s already Christmas morning,” he said. “And it’s my misfortune that I have no one to give anything to. Will you let me see you home and wish you a Merry Christmas at your door？”
And so, to the sound of many bells and in the midst of happy people, Pete Richard and a girl whose name he had yet to hear, walked out into the beginning of the great day that brings hope into the world for us all.
譯文：
珍 格雷斯走進皮特 理查德小店的那天，恰恰是皮特最感孤寂的日子。這間小店是祖父傳給他的，各種古玩雜亂地堆放在前面小小的櫥窗里：有內戰前人們戴的手鐲和紀念品盒，有金戒指、銀盒子、翡翠、象牙制品和精美的小雕像等。在這個冬日的下午，一個小孩站在那兒，前額頂在櫥窗上，瞪大眼睛，認真地看著每一件物品，仿佛在尋找什么奇特的寶貝。最后，她站直了身子，臉上露出滿意的神情。然后，走進了店里。
店里很陰暗，里面的擺設比櫥窗里還凌亂，首飾盒、決斗手槍、鐘和燈等塞在架子上；熨斗、曼陀林和一些不知名的東西則堆在地上。皮特站在柜臺后面，他是一個不到30歲的男人，卻滿頭白發。看著這個沒戴手套的小顧客把手放在柜臺上，他不禁有些不悅。
“先生，”她開口說，“您能把櫥窗里那串藍寶石項鏈拿給我看看嗎？”皮特拉開簾子，拿出項鏈，攤在掌心給她看，藍綠色的寶石在他蒼白的手中閃爍著明亮的光芒。“好美啊，”孩子說，近乎自言自語地說，“您能幫我把項鏈包裝得漂亮些嗎？”
皮特冷冷地問：“你想買這個送給誰？”“送給我大姐，她一直照顧著我，這是媽媽去世后的第一個圣誕節。我想送姐姐一份最棒的圣誕禮物。”
“你有多少錢？”皮特謹慎地問道。她急忙解開一塊裹著的手帕，把所有的便士都倒在柜臺上。“我把所有的錢都拿出來了。”她簡單解釋道。
皮特若有所思地看著她。然后，他小心地抽回了拿著項鏈的手。這時價格標簽露了出來，但只是他能看到，小女孩看不到。怎么跟她說呢？小女孩晶瑩的藍眼睛中充滿了信任，這眼神觸動了他隱隱作痛的舊傷。“你等等，”說著，他轉身走進儲藏室后面。“你叫什么名字？”他邊忙邊回頭問道。“珍 格雷斯。”
皮特從儲藏室出來，手里拿著一個盒子，盒子外面包著鮮艷的紅色包裝紙，上面還系著一條打著蝴蝶結的綠絲帶。“給你，”他淡淡地說道，“路上別弄丟了。”
她高興地跑出去，出門時回頭對他微笑。透過窗戶，皮特看著她遠去的身影，一片悲涼猛然襲上心頭。他內心深處無法掩飾的悲傷，被珍 格雷斯的某些東西和那串項鏈再次喚醒。這個孩子有著麥黃色的頭發，海水般深藍色的眼睛。不久前，皮特曾愛上一個女孩，她也有著同樣的麥黃色頭發和海水般深藍色的眼睛，而那串藍寶石項鏈本該是她的。
然而，一個雨夜——一輛卡車在光滑的路面上緊急剎車——她的生命就這樣消失了，他的夢就這樣破碎了。從那以后，皮特就陷入了極端的孤苦與悲痛的煎熬之中。工作時，皮特把注意力全放在顧客身上，但到了晚上，他的世界幾乎就是一片空白。于是，他極力想沖出日漸強烈的自憐自憫的陰霾。然而，珍 格雷斯的藍眼睛又勾起了他對已逝至愛的回憶。這些苦痛，讓他在節日中歡愉購物的顧客面前顯得有些畏縮了。接下來的10天中，店里的生意很好，善于砍價的女士們蜂擁而入，她們撫弄著店中各式各樣的飾品，討價還價。最后一個顧客走出店時，已經是圣誕節前夕的深夜了，皮特舒了一口氣。又過去了一年，然而對于皮特來說，這一夜還是很漫長的。
門開了，一個長著金黃色頭發、深藍色雙眸的年輕女子匆匆走進了店中。不知道為什么，皮特覺得她看起來很面熟，但又記不起來何時何地見過她。她從手提包中拿出一個用紅紙松散包著的小盒子，上面還系著一條打著蝴蝶結的綠絲帶。她打開盒子，一串閃閃發光的藍寶石項鏈立刻映入了皮特的眼簾。
“這是在您的店里買的嗎？”她問道。
皮特抬起頭，看著她，輕聲說：“是的，是我賣的。”
“寶石是真的嗎？”
“當然是真的。質地雖不是最上乘的——但這的確是真的。”
“您還記得把它賣給誰了嗎？”
“我賣給了一個叫珍的小姑娘。她想把它作為圣誕禮物送給她姐姐。”
“這串項鏈多少錢呢？”
“價格，”他嚴肅地告訴她，“是商家與顧客之間的秘密。”
“但珍是買不起這個的。她只有幾便士的零花錢，怎么買得起這串寶石項鏈呢？”
“她給出的是最高價，”他說，“她支付了她所有的錢。”
沉默籠罩著這個小古玩店。皮特看著遠處正在響著鐘聲的教堂尖塔。那鳴響的鐘聲，柜臺上的小盒子，姑娘眼中的疑問，皮特心中難以名狀的生命復蘇感——這一切都源于一個小孩的愛。
“您為什么要這么做呢？”
皮特把手中的禮物遞給她。
“已經是圣誕節早上了，”他說，“我想送禮物，但沒什么人可送的，這太令人傷心了。我能送你回家，然后到你家的門口對你說一句圣誕快樂嗎？”
于是，皮特和這位不知姓名的姑娘走出了店門，在給世界帶來幸福的新年伊始，他們伴著齊鳴的鐘聲，走進了快樂的人群中。
本文標題：A String of Blue Beads - 英語短文_英語美文_英文美文The shadowy interior of Pete Richard’s establishment was even more cluttered than his show window. Shelves were stacked with jewel caskets, dueling pistols, clocks and lamps, and the floor was heaped with irons, mandolins and things hard to find a name for. Behind the counter stood Pete himself, a man not more than thirty but with hair already turning gray. There was a bleak air about him as he looked at the small customer who flattened her ungloved hands on the counter.
“Mister,” she began, “would you please let me look at the string of blue beads in the window？” Pete parted the draperies and lifted out a necklace. The turquoise2 stones gleamed brightly against the pallor of his palm as he spread the ornament before her. “They’re just perfect,” said the child, entirely to herself. “Will you wrap them up pretty for me, please？”
Pete studied her with a stony air. “Are you buying these for someone？” “They’re for my big sister. She takes care of me. You see, this will be the first Christmas since mother died. I’ve been looking for the most wonderful Christmas present for my sister.”
“How much money do you have？” asked Pete warily. She had been busily untying the knots in a handkerchief and now she poured out a handful of pennies on the counter. “I emptied my bank.” she explained simply.
Pete looked at her thoughtfully. Then he carefully drew back the necklace. The price tag was visible to him but not to her. How could he tell her？ The trusting look of her blue eyes smote3 him like the pain of an old wound. “Just a minute,” he said, and turned toward the back of the store. Over his shoulder he called, “What’s your name？” He was very busy about something. “Jean Grace.”
When Pete returned to where Jean Grace waited, a package lay in his hand, wrapped in scarlet paper and tied with a bow of green. “There you are,” he said shortly, “Don’t lose it on the way home.”
She smiled happily over her shoulder as she ran out the door. Through the window he watched her go, while desolation flooded his thoughts. Something about Jean Grace and her string of beads had stirred him to the depths of a grief that would not stay buried. The child’s hair was wheat yellow, her eyes sea blue, and once upon a time, not long before, Pete had been in love with a girl with hair of that same yellow and with eyes just as blue. And the turquoise necklace was to have been hers.
But there had come a rainy night—a truck skidding on a slippery road—and the life was crushed out of his dream. Since then, Pete had lived too much with his grief in solitude. He was politely attentive to customers, but after hours his world seemed irrevocably4 empty. He was trying to forget in a selfpitying haze that deepened day by day. The blue eyes of Jean Grace jolted him into acute remembrance of what he had lost. The pain of it made him recoil from the exuberance of holiday shoppers. During the next ten days trade was brisk; chattering women swarmed in, fingering trinkets, trying to bargain. When the last customer had gone, late on Christmas Eve, he sighed with relief. It was over for another year. But for Pete the night was not quite over.
The door opened and a young woman hurried in. With an inexplicable start, he realized that she looked familiar, yet he could not remember when or where he had seen her before. Her hair was golden yellow and her large eyes were blue. Without speaking, she drew from her purse a package loosely unwrapped in its red paper, a bow of green ribbon with it. Presently the string of blue beads lay gleaming again before him.
“Did this come from your shop？” she asked.
Pete raised his eyes to hers and answered softly, “Yes, it did.”
“Are the stones real？”
“Yes. Not the finest quality—but real.”
“Can you remember who it was you sold them to？”
“She was a small girl. Her name was Jean. She bought them for her older sister’s Christmas present.”
“How much are they worth？”
“The price, ”he told her solemnly, “is always a confidential matter between the seller and the customer.”
“But Jean has never had more than a few pennies of spending money. How could she pay for them？”
“She paid the biggest price anyone can ever pay,” he said. “She gave all she had.”
There was a silence then that filled the little curio shop. He saw the faraway steeple, a bell began ringing. The sound of the distant chiming, the little package lying on the counter, the question in the eyes of the girl, and the strange feeling of renewal struggling unreasonably in the heart of Pete, all had come to be because of the love of a child.
“But why did you do it？”
He held out5 the gift in his hand.
“It’s already Christmas morning,” he said. “And it’s my misfortune that I have no one to give anything to. Will you let me see you home and wish you a Merry Christmas at your door？”
And so, to the sound of many bells and in the midst of happy people, Pete Richard and a girl whose name he had yet to hear, walked out into the beginning of the great day that brings hope into the world for us all.
譯文：
珍 格雷斯走進皮特 理查德小店的那天，恰恰是皮特最感孤寂的日子。這間小店是祖父傳給他的，各種古玩雜亂地堆放在前面小小的櫥窗里：有內戰前人們戴的手鐲和紀念品盒，有金戒指、銀盒子、翡翠、象牙制品和精美的小雕像等。在這個冬日的下午，一個小孩站在那兒，前額頂在櫥窗上，瞪大眼睛，認真地看著每一件物品，仿佛在尋找什么奇特的寶貝。最后，她站直了身子，臉上露出滿意的神情。然后，走進了店里。
店里很陰暗，里面的擺設比櫥窗里還凌亂，首飾盒、決斗手槍、鐘和燈等塞在架子上；熨斗、曼陀林和一些不知名的東西則堆在地上。皮特站在柜臺后面，他是一個不到30歲的男人，卻滿頭白發。看著這個沒戴手套的小顧客把手放在柜臺上，他不禁有些不悅。
“先生，”她開口說，“您能把櫥窗里那串藍寶石項鏈拿給我看看嗎？”皮特拉開簾子，拿出項鏈，攤在掌心給她看，藍綠色的寶石在他蒼白的手中閃爍著明亮的光芒。“好美啊，”孩子說，近乎自言自語地說，“您能幫我把項鏈包裝得漂亮些嗎？”
皮特冷冷地問：“你想買這個送給誰？”“送給我大姐，她一直照顧著我，這是媽媽去世后的第一個圣誕節。我想送姐姐一份最棒的圣誕禮物。”
“你有多少錢？”皮特謹慎地問道。她急忙解開一塊裹著的手帕，把所有的便士都倒在柜臺上。“我把所有的錢都拿出來了。”她簡單解釋道。
皮特若有所思地看著她。然后，他小心地抽回了拿著項鏈的手。這時價格標簽露了出來，但只是他能看到，小女孩看不到。怎么跟她說呢？小女孩晶瑩的藍眼睛中充滿了信任，這眼神觸動了他隱隱作痛的舊傷。“你等等，”說著，他轉身走進儲藏室后面。“你叫什么名字？”他邊忙邊回頭問道。“珍 格雷斯。”
皮特從儲藏室出來，手里拿著一個盒子，盒子外面包著鮮艷的紅色包裝紙，上面還系著一條打著蝴蝶結的綠絲帶。“給你，”他淡淡地說道，“路上別弄丟了。”
她高興地跑出去，出門時回頭對他微笑。透過窗戶，皮特看著她遠去的身影，一片悲涼猛然襲上心頭。他內心深處無法掩飾的悲傷，被珍 格雷斯的某些東西和那串項鏈再次喚醒。這個孩子有著麥黃色的頭發，海水般深藍色的眼睛。不久前，皮特曾愛上一個女孩，她也有著同樣的麥黃色頭發和海水般深藍色的眼睛，而那串藍寶石項鏈本該是她的。
然而，一個雨夜——一輛卡車在光滑的路面上緊急剎車——她的生命就這樣消失了，他的夢就這樣破碎了。從那以后，皮特就陷入了極端的孤苦與悲痛的煎熬之中。工作時，皮特把注意力全放在顧客身上，但到了晚上，他的世界幾乎就是一片空白。于是，他極力想沖出日漸強烈的自憐自憫的陰霾。然而，珍 格雷斯的藍眼睛又勾起了他對已逝至愛的回憶。這些苦痛，讓他在節日中歡愉購物的顧客面前顯得有些畏縮了。接下來的10天中，店里的生意很好，善于砍價的女士們蜂擁而入，她們撫弄著店中各式各樣的飾品，討價還價。最后一個顧客走出店時，已經是圣誕節前夕的深夜了，皮特舒了一口氣。又過去了一年，然而對于皮特來說，這一夜還是很漫長的。
門開了，一個長著金黃色頭發、深藍色雙眸的年輕女子匆匆走進了店中。不知道為什么，皮特覺得她看起來很面熟，但又記不起來何時何地見過她。她從手提包中拿出一個用紅紙松散包著的小盒子，上面還系著一條打著蝴蝶結的綠絲帶。她打開盒子，一串閃閃發光的藍寶石項鏈立刻映入了皮特的眼簾。
“這是在您的店里買的嗎？”她問道。
皮特抬起頭，看著她，輕聲說：“是的，是我賣的。”
“寶石是真的嗎？”
“當然是真的。質地雖不是最上乘的——但這的確是真的。”
“您還記得把它賣給誰了嗎？”
“我賣給了一個叫珍的小姑娘。她想把它作為圣誕禮物送給她姐姐。”
“這串項鏈多少錢呢？”
“價格，”他嚴肅地告訴她，“是商家與顧客之間的秘密。”
“但珍是買不起這個的。她只有幾便士的零花錢，怎么買得起這串寶石項鏈呢？”
“她給出的是最高價，”他說，“她支付了她所有的錢。”
沉默籠罩著這個小古玩店。皮特看著遠處正在響著鐘聲的教堂尖塔。那鳴響的鐘聲，柜臺上的小盒子，姑娘眼中的疑問，皮特心中難以名狀的生命復蘇感——這一切都源于一個小孩的愛。
“您為什么要這么做呢？”
皮特把手中的禮物遞給她。
“已經是圣誕節早上了，”他說，“我想送禮物，但沒什么人可送的，這太令人傷心了。我能送你回家，然后到你家的門口對你說一句圣誕快樂嗎？”
于是，皮特和這位不知姓名的姑娘走出了店門，在給世界帶來幸福的新年伊始，他們伴著齊鳴的鐘聲，走進了快樂的人群中。
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