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In an art exhibition the other day I saw a painting that had been sold for 5,000 dollars.
前些日子我在一个美术展上看到一幅已以五千美元售出的画。
The painter was a young scrub out of the West named Kraft, who had a favourite food and a pet theory.
画家是一位名叫克拉夫特的年轻西部二流画家，他有钟爱的食粮和引以为豪的理论。
His pabulum was an unquenchable belief in the Unerring Artistic Adjustment of Nature.
他的食粮是对自然界那万无一失的艺术调节能力不熄的信念。
His theory was fixed around corned-beef hash with poached egg.
他的理论固定于腌牛肉末和水煮蛋。
There was a story behind the picture, so I went home and let it drip out of a fountain-pen.
这幅画背后有一个故事，我便回家提起钢笔把它写了下来。
The idea of Kraft--but that is not the beginning of the story.
克拉夫特的想法——不过，那还不是故事的开端。
Three years ago Kraft, Bill Judkins (a poet), and I took our meals at Cypher's, on Eighth Avenue. I say "took."
三年前我和克拉夫特、比尔·贾金斯（一位诗人）常在第八大道的塞弗餐馆吃饭。我说的是“吃饭”。
When we had money, Cypher got it "off of" us, as he expressed it.
我们有钱的时候，塞弗让我们“掏”出来，他如此说。
We had no credit; we went in, called for food and ate it.
我们不能佘账；我们走进餐馆，叫了餐，吃完。
We paid or we did not pay. We had confidence in Cypher's sullenness end smouldering ferocity.
我们有时付账，有时不付。我们对塞弗的阴沉和郁积的凶猛深信不疑。
Deep down in his sunless soul he was either a prince, a fool or an artist. He sat at a worm-eaten desk,
在他阴暗的心灵深处，他要么是一个王子，要么是一个傻瓜，要么是一个艺术家。他坐在虫蛀的桌子旁，
covered with files of waiters' checks so old that I was sure the bottomest one was for clams that Hendrik Hudson had eaten and paid for.
桌上堆着一叠叠陈旧的侍者账单，我敢肯定最底下那份定是当年亨德里克·哈得孙吃蛤蚌所付的账单。
Cypher had the power, in common with Napoleon III. and the goggle-eyoud perch, of throwing a film over his eyes,
塞弗有着和拿破仑三世和突眼鲈鱼一样的能力，能让双眼覆上一层薄膜，
rendering opaque the windows of his soul.
让这对心灵的窗户变得模糊。
Once when we left him unpaid, with egregious excuses,
有一回我们找了个极糟的借口不付帐就走人，
I looked back and saw him shaking with inaudible laughter behind his film.
我回头时看见他那薄膜后面透出一阵几不可闻的笑声，笑得浑身直抖。
