A String of Blue Beads
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.
译文：
珍 格雷斯走进皮特 理查德小店的那天，恰恰是皮特最感孤寂的日子。这间小店是祖父传给他的，各种古玩杂乱地堆放在前面小小的橱窗里：有内战前人们戴的手镯和纪念品盒，有金戒指、银盒子、翡翠、象牙制品和精美的小雕像等。在这个冬日的下午，一个小孩站在那儿，前额顶在橱窗上，瞪大眼睛，认真地看着每一件物品，仿佛在寻找什么奇特的宝贝。最后，她站直了身子，脸上露出满意的神情。然后，走进了店里。
店里很阴暗，里面的摆设比橱窗里还凌乱，首饰盒、决斗手枪、钟和灯等塞在架子上；熨斗、曼陀林和一些不知名的东西则堆在地上。皮特站在柜台后面，他是一个不到30岁的男人，却满头白发。看着这个没戴手套的小顾客把手放在柜台上，他不禁有些不悦。
“先生，”她开口说，“您能把橱窗里那串蓝宝石项链拿给我看看吗？”皮特拉开帘子，拿出项链，摊在掌心给她看，蓝绿色的宝石在他苍白的手中闪烁着明亮的光芒。“好美啊，”孩子说，近乎自言自语地说，“您能帮我把项链包装得漂亮些吗？”
皮特冷冷地问：“你想买这个送给谁？”“送给我大姐，她一直照顾着我，这是妈妈去世后的第一个圣诞节。我想送姐姐一份最棒的圣诞礼物。”
“你有多少钱？”皮特谨慎地问道。她急忙解开一块裹着的手帕，把所有的便士都倒在柜台上。“我把所有的钱都拿出来了。”她简单解释道。
皮特若有所思地看着她。然后，他小心地抽回了拿着项链的手。这时价格标签露了出来，但只是他能看到，小女孩看不到。怎么跟她说呢？小女孩晶莹的蓝眼睛中充满了信任，这眼神触动了他隐隐作痛的旧伤。“你等等，”说着，他转身走进储藏室后面。“你叫什么名字？”他边忙边回头问道。“珍 格雷斯。”
皮特从储藏室出来，手里拿着一个盒子，盒子外面包着鲜艳的红色包装纸，上面还系着一条打着蝴蝶结的绿丝带。“给你，”他淡淡地说道，“路上别弄丢了。”
她高兴地跑出去，出门时回头对他微笑。透过窗户，皮特看着她远去的身影，一片悲凉猛然袭上心头。他内心深处无法掩饰的悲伤，被珍 格雷斯的某些东西和那串项链再次唤醒。这个孩子有着麦黄色的头发，海水般深蓝色的眼睛。不久前，皮特曾爱上一个女孩，她也有着同样的麦黄色头发和海水般深蓝色的眼睛，而那串蓝宝石项链本该是她的。
然而，一个雨夜——一辆卡车在光滑的路面上紧急刹车——她的生命就这样消失了，他的梦就这样破碎了。从那以后，皮特就陷入了极端的孤苦与悲痛的煎熬之中。工作时，皮特把注意力全放在顾客身上，但到了晚上，他的世界几乎就是一片空白。于是，他极力想冲出日渐强烈的自怜自悯的阴霾。然而，珍 格雷斯的蓝眼睛又勾起了他对已逝至爱的回忆。这些苦痛，让他在节日中欢愉购物的顾客面前显得有些畏缩了。接下来的10天中，店里的生意很好，善于砍价的女士们蜂拥而入，她们抚弄着店中各式各样的饰品，讨价还价。最后一个顾客走出店时，已经是圣诞节前夕的深夜了，皮特舒了一口气。又过去了一年，然而对于皮特来说，这一夜还是很漫长的。
门开了，一个长着金黄色头发、深蓝色双眸的年轻女子匆匆走进了店中。不知道为什么，皮特觉得她看起来很面熟，但又记不起来何时何地见过她。她从手提包中拿出一个用红纸松散包着的小盒子，上面还系着一条打着蝴蝶结的绿丝带。她打开盒子，一串闪闪发光的蓝宝石项链立刻映入了皮特的眼帘。
“这是在您的店里买的吗？”她问道。
皮特抬起头，看着她，轻声说：“是的，是我卖的。”
“宝石是真的吗？”
“当然是真的。质地虽不是最上乘的——但这的确是真的。”
“您还记得把它卖给谁了吗？”
“我卖给了一个叫珍的小姑娘。她想把它作为圣诞礼物送给她姐姐。”
“这串项链多少钱呢？”
“价格，”他严肃地告诉她，“是商家与顾客之间的秘密。”
“但珍是买不起这个的。她只有几便士的零花钱，怎么买得起这串宝石项链呢？”
“她给出的是最高价，”他说，“她支付了她所有的钱。”
沉默笼罩着这个小古玩店。皮特看着远处正在响着钟声的教堂尖塔。那鸣响的钟声，柜台上的小盒子，姑娘眼中的疑问，皮特心中难以名状的生命复苏感——这一切都源于一个小孩的爱。
“您为什么要这么做呢？”
皮特把手中的礼物递给她。
“已经是圣诞节早上了，”他说，“我想送礼物，但没什么人可送的，这太令人伤心了。我能送你回家，然后到你家的门口对你说一句圣诞快乐吗？”
于是，皮特和这位不知姓名的姑娘走出了店门，在给世界带来幸福的新年伊始，他们伴着齐鸣的钟声，走进了快乐的人群中。
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.
译文：
珍 格雷斯走进皮特 理查德小店的那天，恰恰是皮特最感孤寂的日子。这间小店是祖父传给他的，各种古玩杂乱地堆放在前面小小的橱窗里：有内战前人们戴的手镯和纪念品盒，有金戒指、银盒子、翡翠、象牙制品和精美的小雕像等。在这个冬日的下午，一个小孩站在那儿，前额顶在橱窗上，瞪大眼睛，认真地看着每一件物品，仿佛在寻找什么奇特的宝贝。最后，她站直了身子，脸上露出满意的神情。然后，走进了店里。
店里很阴暗，里面的摆设比橱窗里还凌乱，首饰盒、决斗手枪、钟和灯等塞在架子上；熨斗、曼陀林和一些不知名的东西则堆在地上。皮特站在柜台后面，他是一个不到30岁的男人，却满头白发。看着这个没戴手套的小顾客把手放在柜台上，他不禁有些不悦。
“先生，”她开口说，“您能把橱窗里那串蓝宝石项链拿给我看看吗？”皮特拉开帘子，拿出项链，摊在掌心给她看，蓝绿色的宝石在他苍白的手中闪烁着明亮的光芒。“好美啊，”孩子说，近乎自言自语地说，“您能帮我把项链包装得漂亮些吗？”
皮特冷冷地问：“你想买这个送给谁？”“送给我大姐，她一直照顾着我，这是妈妈去世后的第一个圣诞节。我想送姐姐一份最棒的圣诞礼物。”
“你有多少钱？”皮特谨慎地问道。她急忙解开一块裹着的手帕，把所有的便士都倒在柜台上。“我把所有的钱都拿出来了。”她简单解释道。
皮特若有所思地看着她。然后，他小心地抽回了拿着项链的手。这时价格标签露了出来，但只是他能看到，小女孩看不到。怎么跟她说呢？小女孩晶莹的蓝眼睛中充满了信任，这眼神触动了他隐隐作痛的旧伤。“你等等，”说着，他转身走进储藏室后面。“你叫什么名字？”他边忙边回头问道。“珍 格雷斯。”
皮特从储藏室出来，手里拿着一个盒子，盒子外面包着鲜艳的红色包装纸，上面还系着一条打着蝴蝶结的绿丝带。“给你，”他淡淡地说道，“路上别弄丢了。”
她高兴地跑出去，出门时回头对他微笑。透过窗户，皮特看着她远去的身影，一片悲凉猛然袭上心头。他内心深处无法掩饰的悲伤，被珍 格雷斯的某些东西和那串项链再次唤醒。这个孩子有着麦黄色的头发，海水般深蓝色的眼睛。不久前，皮特曾爱上一个女孩，她也有着同样的麦黄色头发和海水般深蓝色的眼睛，而那串蓝宝石项链本该是她的。
然而，一个雨夜——一辆卡车在光滑的路面上紧急刹车——她的生命就这样消失了，他的梦就这样破碎了。从那以后，皮特就陷入了极端的孤苦与悲痛的煎熬之中。工作时，皮特把注意力全放在顾客身上，但到了晚上，他的世界几乎就是一片空白。于是，他极力想冲出日渐强烈的自怜自悯的阴霾。然而，珍 格雷斯的蓝眼睛又勾起了他对已逝至爱的回忆。这些苦痛，让他在节日中欢愉购物的顾客面前显得有些畏缩了。接下来的10天中，店里的生意很好，善于砍价的女士们蜂拥而入，她们抚弄着店中各式各样的饰品，讨价还价。最后一个顾客走出店时，已经是圣诞节前夕的深夜了，皮特舒了一口气。又过去了一年，然而对于皮特来说，这一夜还是很漫长的。
门开了，一个长着金黄色头发、深蓝色双眸的年轻女子匆匆走进了店中。不知道为什么，皮特觉得她看起来很面熟，但又记不起来何时何地见过她。她从手提包中拿出一个用红纸松散包着的小盒子，上面还系着一条打着蝴蝶结的绿丝带。她打开盒子，一串闪闪发光的蓝宝石项链立刻映入了皮特的眼帘。
“这是在您的店里买的吗？”她问道。
皮特抬起头，看着她，轻声说：“是的，是我卖的。”
“宝石是真的吗？”
“当然是真的。质地虽不是最上乘的——但这的确是真的。”
“您还记得把它卖给谁了吗？”
“我卖给了一个叫珍的小姑娘。她想把它作为圣诞礼物送给她姐姐。”
“这串项链多少钱呢？”
“价格，”他严肃地告诉她，“是商家与顾客之间的秘密。”
“但珍是买不起这个的。她只有几便士的零花钱，怎么买得起这串宝石项链呢？”
“她给出的是最高价，”他说，“她支付了她所有的钱。”
沉默笼罩着这个小古玩店。皮特看着远处正在响着钟声的教堂尖塔。那鸣响的钟声，柜台上的小盒子，姑娘眼中的疑问，皮特心中难以名状的生命复苏感——这一切都源于一个小孩的爱。
“您为什么要这么做呢？”
皮特把手中的礼物递给她。
“已经是圣诞节早上了，”他说，“我想送礼物，但没什么人可送的，这太令人伤心了。我能送你回家，然后到你家的门口对你说一句圣诞快乐吗？”
于是，皮特和这位不知姓名的姑娘走出了店门，在给世界带来幸福的新年伊始，他们伴着齐鸣的钟声，走进了快乐的人群中。
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