English Original
In the year 1867, a thin, prematurely old and gray young man of about twenty-six came to work at No. 145 Broadway. No one knew anything about him. He quietly joined our ranks, coming and going each day without drawing much interest. He was very quiet, speaking only when addressed, and then in a low, sweetly musical voice. Everyone conceded he was intelligent and well-educated, but he showed no disposition to mix with the general throng. Consequently, the group, almost without thinking, came to speak of him with more respect than his nickname "old George Phipps" implied, and largely left him to himself.
He sat across the aisle from me. I often studied his sad yet pleasant face, and soon categorized him in my mind with other men I had met—men with histories. I was moderately sure George Phipps had a history, and I longed to know it, eager to offer my young, boyish friendship. But months passed, and we knew no more about him than when he arrived, except that he was a magnificent operator, as sweet as a June day yet as sad as the melancholy days of late autumn. His voice and manner always reminded me of falling October leaves and the autumn wind surging through leafless branches. Yet, glorious sunbeams seemed always to rest on his head, making his life and character sweet and loveable.
One night, during a severe sleet storm that left hardly a wire intact, the full force was on duty, waiting for the lines to be restored. We gathered in little knots, telling stories and speculating about working until morning. For a time, I joined a small group, but finding the topic uninteresting and seeing George Phipps sitting alone, I approached him.
After a brief exchange of commonplaces, I asked abruptly, "Are you a married man, Mr. Phipps?"
The reply came slowly: "No."
That single syllable could not have been colder had it been kept on ice for a century. I saw I had been imprudent, awkwardly touching a sacred chord in the man's heart. I was very sorry and, being young and inexperienced in hiding my emotions, failed miserably. Tears welled in my eyes, my lip trembled, and I felt wretched.
He saw my state at a glance and said kindly, "I beg your pardon, John. I didn't mean to be rude, but I had just been thinking of events scarcely six years old—such bitter, hopeless memories that it seems I've lived a thousand years since that page was turned down in the book of Fate, turned down forever."
He paused, and I said nothing.
"I have never spoken of these things," he continued, "but I think I was something like you at twenty. How sadly I have changed since then!"
He stopped again, then continued, "I don't mind telling you my story, if you would care to hear it."
As I eagerly answered, "Do tell me," he resumed:
"It is a sad story, my little friend. It concerns a woman. Some say hearts do not break; others say women's hearts sometimes do, but a man's is tough and can bear disaster to the affections without material injury. Perhaps that is true, generally speaking, but there are exceptions—the exceptions, I suppose," he said musingly, "that philosophers would tell you prove the rule. You see me today, old and prematurely gray. I have never been a dissipated man. I inherited a fine constitution from my father. I have lived regularly and never suffered from disease, yet I am as you see me. Do you ask if I am heartbroken? I cannot say that, but I have mourned over dead and buried hopes for five years. God's beautiful world will never look so fair and sweet to me again as the hour I close my eyes upon it forever."
He moved slightly in his chair and said, as if studying the matter, "It looks like a case of a broken heart, doesn't it?"
中文翻译
1867年，一个约莫二十六岁、身材瘦削、过早衰老、头发灰白的年轻人来到百老汇145号工作。没人知道他的来历。他悄无声息地加入了我们，日复一日地来去，并未引起旁人太多兴趣。他非常安静，只在被问及时才开口说话，声音低沉悦耳，富有乐感。大家都承认他聪明且受过良好教育，但他丝毫没有与众人交往的倾向。因此，大伙儿几乎不假思索地开始用比他的绰号“老乔治·菲普斯”所暗示的更多的尊重来谈论他，并基本上让他独处。
他坐在我对面的过道旁。我常常端详他那悲伤却和善的面容，很快就在心里把他归入了我曾见过的另一类人——有故事的人。我相当确信乔治·菲普斯有段故事，我渴望了解它，并热切地想献上我年轻、孩子气的友谊。但几个月过去了，我们对这位同事的了解并不比他刚来时多，只知道他是一位出色的操作员，像六月天一样和善，却又如我所说，像深秋忧郁哀叹的日子一样悲伤。他的声音和举止总让我想起十月纷飞的落叶，以及秋风掠过光秃枝头的呼啸。然而，灿烂的阳光似乎总是笼罩着他的头顶，使他的生命和品格显得甜美可爱。
一天晚上，一场严重的雨夹雪风暴几乎摧毁了所有线路。全体人员奉命值班，等待线路恢复。我们三五成群地聚在一起，讲故事，猜测着是否要工作到天亮。有一阵子，我也加入了一个小团体，但对讨论的话题不太感兴趣，又看到乔治·菲普斯独自坐着，我便走向了他。
简短地寒暄了几句后，我唐突地问道：“菲普斯先生，您结婚了吗？”
回答来得很慢：“没有。”
这个单音节词冰冷刺骨，仿佛在冰里封存了一个世纪。我意识到自己太冒失了，笨拙地触动了这个男人心中神圣的琴弦。我非常抱歉，但由于年轻且不善于隐藏情绪，我彻底失败了。泪水涌上我的眼眶，嘴唇颤抖，我感到痛苦不堪。
他一眼就看出了我的状态，和善地说：“请原谅，约翰。我不是有意粗鲁，只是我刚才正在回想不到六年前的事——那些如此苦涩、无望的记忆，自从命运之书上写下它们的那一页被折起——永远地折起，仿佛我已经活了一千年。”
他停顿了一下，我什么也没说。
“我从未对人提起过这些事，”他继续说道，“但我想我二十岁时和你有些相像。自那以后，我的变化多么可悲啊！”
他又停了一下，然后接着说：“如果你愿意听，我不介意告诉你我的故事。”
当我急切地回答“请告诉我吧”时，他继续说道：
“这是个悲伤的故事，小朋友。它和一个女人有关。有人说心不会碎；也有人说女人的心有时会碎，但男人的心很坚韧，能承受情感上的灾难而不受实质伤害。也许一般来说这是对的，但也有例外——我想，”他沉思着说，“哲学家会告诉你，这些例外恰恰证明了规律。你看我今天，苍老而早生华发。我从未是个放荡的人。我从父亲那里继承了强健的体魄。我生活规律，从未患过病，然而我还是成了你现在看到的模样。你问我是否心碎了吗？我不能这么说，但我已经为死去并被埋葬的希望哀悼了五年。上帝创造的美丽世界，在我永远闭上双眼的那一刻，再也不会像从前那样显得美好甜蜜了。”
他在椅子上微微动了动，仿佛在思考这件事，说道：“这看起来像是个心碎的案例，不是吗？”