生生不息的愛

Any apples today？” a cheery voice asked at my studio window. “2）Winesap， 3）Wealthy， 4）Northern Spy？ Can’t you use a 5）bushel？”

I stepped out into the haze of an October noon to take a look. At first glance， the woman seemed older than the world’s aunt. Her face， wrinkled with twice my years （I was then an arrogant 26）， was an herbish bouquet that made you think of 6）tansy and 7）thyme. But the most remarkable thing about her was the light that burned in her wonderful brown eyes.

I followed her to a small truck. She plied me with samples， and I ended up buying a bushel of redcheeked Winesaps. On credit， of course. Cash was the one thing in the world I lacked just then. I had a wife， a baby， ambition—everything but money. “Pay me whenever you like，” said Effie， climbing into her truck.

All 8）pretense of payment was dropped during that desperate autumn while our funds， food， and fuel 9）ebbed to alarming lows. Euphemia came often， always bearing some gift： a gallon of maple syrup or a jar of peaches.

She guessed that my work was not marching and could see that I was too young， too inexperienced， to make it march. Well， there was nothing she could do about that. But she could do something about my woodpile—and she did. One day before Christmas， she rode up in her truck. It was covered with pine boughs， and under the holiday 10）camouflage was a half cord of 11）seasoned rock oak sawed into just the right lengths for my drum stove. There were other generosities， always 12）unobtrusive. For instance， when our baby was not doing well， Effie financed my wife’s trip to New York to consult with a specialist.

And we were not the only recipients of her kindness. Effie’s soul was a house of many mansions， jammed with people whom she had befriended. One day she read in the paper that a pregnant mother traveling from San Francisco had arrived penniless in New York， only to learn that her husband had been killed in an accident. Effie cashed a $500 bond and sent her the entire amount. A lifelong correspondence with an intelligent and grateful human being was Effie’s 13）recompense.

Effie was not a rich woman. Her income， derived from investments she had made while running an interiordecorating shop in New York， had never exceeded $200 a month. The 1929 crash reduced this to a 14）pittance， which she 15）eked out by peddling her apples. But even when her funds were at their lowest， she always managed to help someone poorer.

One of Effie’s 16）cardinal principles was never to “lend” money. She preferred to give it outright. Surprisingly often， the money came back. Many times， I saw her come out of the post office waving a check.“Bread cast on the waters，” she’d say triumphantly—adding， with a touch of 17）rue at the wasting years—“ever so long ago.”

In dealing with touchy customers like myself， Effie tried to conceal her generosity under the guise of a business arrangement. For instance， her father， who had been a painter， had written his autobiography. In the 18）trough of my worst financial crisis， Effie dug out the dusty manuscript and offered me a fee for editing it. Not until after her death did I learn that she had sold another bond to pay me for this job.

Effie’s chief delight was conversation or， rather， a kind of 19）Scheherazade storytelling. I would sit 20）enthralled while she depicted the lives and loves of people she had known in Paris， Rome， or New York， furnishing her discourse with heroes， heroines， and 21）villains.

One day she told me her own story. At the age of 30， she had dared break the taboos of her day by having a secret love affair. Five years later， her lover died. The remainder of her life was spent “in unmourning remembrance” of her short-lived happiness. This memory gave Effie her special sympathy for young husbands， wives， and lovers.

Years passed before I was able to return the money that Effie had given me from time to time. She was ill now and had aged rapidly in the last year. “Here， darling，” I said， “is the negotiable part of what I owe you.”

Tears were in her eyes as she handed back my check. “Don’t give it to me all at once，” she pleaded.

“Why not， Effie？”

Her face was very old， tired， and beautiful as she said， “Give it back as I gave it to you—a little at a time.” I think she believed there was magic in the slow discharge of a love debt—some secret 22）talisman that would shield her against death till the account was closed.

The simple fact is that I never repaid the whole amount to Effie， for she died a few weeks later. At that time it seemed that my debt would forever go unsettled. But a curious thing began to happen.

Whenever I saw a fellow human in financial 23）straits， I was moved to help him—as Effie had helped me—by small outright gifts of money. I can’t afford to do this always， but in the ten years since Effie’s death， I have indirectly repaid my debt to her a dozen times.

The oddest part of the whole affair is this： People whom I help often help others later on. By now， the few dollars that Euphemia gave me have been multiplied a hundred-fold. So the account can never be marked closed， for Effie’s love will go on compounding interest in hearts that have never known her.

今天要來點蘋果嗎？”一個歡快的聲音在我工作室的窗邊問道。“晚熟果、紅秋果、君袖果？你不能用個蒲式耳容器來裝嗎？”

我走出去瞧了一瞧，十月的正午，外面一片陰霾。乍一看，這個女人看起來似乎比世界上所有的大嬸都要蒼老。她臉上的皺紋是我年歲的兩倍（我當時26歲，傲慢無知），整張臉就像是一束香草捧花，讓你想到艾菊和百里香。但是她身上最引人注目的地方是她那雙美麗的棕色眼睛里閃爍著的光芒。

我跟著她走到了一輛小卡車旁。她把各種蘋果塞給我嘗，我最后買了一蒲式耳紅艷欲滴的晚熟果。當然了，賒賬買來的。那時，我在這個世界上最缺的一樣東西就是現錢。我有一個妻子、一個孩子、還有雄心壯志—所有的一切，除了錢。“你什么時候付給我都行”，埃菲說道，爬進了她的卡車。

在那個令人絕望的秋天，我們的資金、食物、燃油都降到了令人驚恐的低水平，我不再假意付款。尤菲米婭經常過來，總是帶上一些禮物：一加侖的楓糖或是一瓶桃子。

她猜想我的工作沒有進展，還猜到了其中的原因是我太過年輕、經驗不足。嗯，對此，她幫不上什么忙。但是她能為我的柴垛出幾分力—她也這樣做了。在圣誕節到來前的某一天，她開著她的卡車來到這里。車上裝著一些松樹枝，在這一節日裝飾掩蓋下的是半捆干巖櫟，被鋸成了剛好適合我那鼓形爐子的長短。她還有過其他慷慨之舉，總是低調不顯唐突。比如說，當我們孩子的狀況不太好時，埃菲資助了我妻子去紐約咨詢專門醫師的費用。……