《帶家具出租的房間》是美國作家歐·亨利的短篇小說，作者用神秘的氣氛渲染了一對愛人先後在同一個房間裡自盡的悲劇。
基本介紹
- 中文名：《帶家具出租的房間》
- 作者：歐·亨利
- 譯者：羅達十
- 類型：悲劇
- 地區：美國
- 小說類型：短篇小說
背景,作者簡介,評析,
背景
歐·亨利的小說在藝術處理上的最大特點就是它們的“意外結局”。情節的發展似乎明明朝著一個方向在發展，結果卻來個出其不意。這意外的結局一般說來是比較令人寬慰的，即便是悲哀的結局，也常包含著某種光明之處，這就是所謂“帶淚的微笑”。像《帶家具出租的房間》這樣的悲劇在歐·亨利的筆下是很少發生的。
帶家具出租的房間
歐·亨利（著 ） 羅達十（譯）
在紐約西區南部的紅磚房那一帶地方，絕大多數居民都如時光一樣動盪不定、遷移不停、來去匆匆。正因為無家可歸，他們也可以說有上百個家。他們不時從這間客房搬到另一間客房，永遠都是那么變幻無常——在居家上如此，在情感和理智上也無二致。他們用爵士樂曲調唱著流行曲“家，甜美的家”；全部家當用硬紙盒一拎就走；纏緣於闊邊帽上的裝飾就是他們的葡萄藤；拐杖就是他們的無花果樹。
一天傍晚擦黑以後，有個青年男子在這些崩塌失修的紅磚大房中間轉悠尋覓，挨門挨戶按鈴。在第十二家門前，他把空噹噹的手提行李放在台階上，然後揩去帽沿和額頭上的灰塵。門鈴聲很弱，好像傳至遙遠、空曠的房屋深處。
這是他按響的第十二家門鈴。鈴聲響過，女房東應聲出來開門。她的模樣使他想起一隻討厭的、吃得過多的蛆蟲。它已經把果仁吃得只剩空殼，現在正想尋找可以充飢的房客來填充空間。
年輕人問有沒有房間出租。
“進來吧，”房東說。她的聲音從喉頭擠出，嘎聲嘎氣，好像喉嚨上繃了層毛皮。“三樓還有個後間，空了一個星期。想看看嗎？”
年輕人跟她上樓。不知從什麼地方來的一線微光緩和了過道上的陰影。他們不聲不響地走著，腳下的地毯破爛不堪，可能連造出它的織布機都要詛咒說這不是自己的產物。它好像已經植物化了，已經在這惡臭、陰暗的空氣中退化成茂盛滋潤的地衣或滿地蔓延的苔蘚，東一塊西一塊，一直長到樓梯上，踩在腳下像有機物一樣粘糊糊的。樓梯轉角處牆上都有空著的壁龕。它們裡面也許曾放過花花草草。果真如此的話，那些花草已經在污濁骯髒的空氣中死去。壁龕裡面也許曾放過聖像，但是不難想像，黑暗之中大大小小的魔鬼早就把聖人拖出來，一直拖到下面某間客房那邪惡的深淵之中去了。
“就是這間，”房東說，還是那副毛皮嗓子。“房間很不錯，難得有空的時候。今年夏天這兒還住過一些特別講究的人哩——從不找麻煩，按時提前付房租。自來水在過道盡頭。斯普羅爾斯和穆尼住了三個月。她們演過輕鬆喜劇。布雷塔·斯普羅爾斯小姐——也許你聽說過她吧——喔，那只是藝名兒——就在那張梳妝檯上邊，原來還掛著她的結婚證書哩，鑲了框的。煤氣開關在這兒，瞧這壁櫥也很寬敞。這房間人人見了都喜歡，從來沒長時間空過。”
“你這兒住過很多演戲的？”年輕人問。
“他們這個來，那個去。我的房客中有很多人在演出界幹事。對了，先生，這一帶劇院集中，演戲的人從不在一個地方長住。到這兒來住過的也不少。他們這個來，那個去。”
他租下了房間，預付了一個星期的租金。他說他很累，想馬上住下來。他點清了租金。她說房間早就準備規矩，連毛巾和水都是現成的。房東走開時，——他又——已經是第一千次了——把掛在舌尖的問題提了出來。
“有個姑娘——瓦西納小姐——埃盧瓦絲·瓦西納小姐——你記得房客中有過這人嗎？她多半是在台上唱歌的。她皮膚白嫩，個子中等，身材苗條，金紅色頭髮，左眼眉毛邊長了顆黑痣。”
“不，我記不得這個名字。那些搞演出的，換名字跟換房間一樣快，來來去去，誰也說不準。不，我想不起這個名字了。”
不。總是不。五個月不間斷地打聽詢問，千篇一律地否定回答。已經花了好多時間，白天去找劇院經理、代理人、劇校和合唱團打聽；晚上則夾在觀眾之中去尋找，名角兒會演的劇院去找過，下流污穢的音樂廳也去找過，甚至還害怕在那類地方找到他最想找的人。他對她獨懷真情，一心要找到她。他確信，自她從家裡失蹤以來，這座水流環繞的大城市一定把她蒙在了某個角落。但這座城市就像一大團流沙，沙粒的位置變化不定，沒有基礎，今天還浮在上層的細粒到了明天就被淤泥和粘土覆蓋在下面。
客房以假惺惺的熱情迎接新至的客人，像個暗娼臉上堆起的假笑，紅中透病、形容枯槁、馬馬虎虎。破舊的家具、破爛綢套的沙發、兩把椅子、窗戶間一碼寬的廉價穿衣鏡、一兩個燙金像框、角落裡的銅床架——所有這一切折射出一種似是而非的舒適之感。
房客懶洋洋地半躺在一把椅子上，客房則如巴比倫通天塔的一個套間，儘管稀里糊塗扯不清楚，仍然竭力把曾在這裡留宿過的房客分門別類，向他細細講來。
地上鋪了一張雜色地毯，像一個艷花盛開的長方形熱帶小島，四周是骯髒的墊子形成的波濤翻滾的大海。用灰白紙裱過的牆上，貼著緊隨無家可歸者四處漂流的圖片——“胡格諾情人”，“第一次爭吵”，“婚禮早餐”，“泉邊美女”。壁爐爐額的樣式典雅而莊重，外面卻歪歪斜斜扯起條花哨的布簾，像舞劇里亞馬遜女人用的腰帶。爐額上殘留著一些零碎物品，都是些困居客房的人在幸運的風帆把他們載到新碼頭時拋棄不要的東西——一兩個廉價花瓶，女演員的畫片，藥瓶兒，殘缺不全的撲克紙牌。
漸漸地，密碼的筆形變得清晰可辨，前前後後居住過這間客房的人留下的細小痕跡所具有的意義也變得完整有形。
梳妝檯前那片地毯已經磨得只剩麻紗，意味著成群的漂亮女人曾在上面邁步。牆上的小指紋表明小囚犯曾在此努力摸索通向陽光和空氣之路。一團濺開的污跡，形如炸彈爆炸後的影子，是杯子或瓶子連同所盛之物一起被砸在牆上的見證。穿衣鏡鏡面上用玻璃鑽刀歪歪扭扭地刻著名字“瑪麗”。看來，客房留宿人——也許是受到客房那俗艷的冷漠之驅使吧——
曾先先後後在狂怒中輾轉反側，並把一腔憤懣傾泄在這個房間上。家具有鑿痕和磨損；長沙發因凸起的彈簧而變形，看上去像一頭在痛苦中扭曲的痙攣中被宰殺的恐怖怪物。另外某次威力更大的動盪砍去了大理石壁爐額的一大塊。地板的每一塊拼木各自構成一個斜面，並且好像由於互不乾連、各自獨有的哀怨而發出尖叫。令人難以置信的是，那些把所有這一切惡意和傷害施加於這個房間的人居然就是曾一度把它稱之為他們的家的人；然而，也許正是這屢遭欺騙、仍然盲目保持的戀家本性以及對虛假的護家神的憤恨點燃了他們胸中的沖天怒火。一間茅草房——只要屬於我們自己——我們都會打掃、裝點和珍惜。
他就這樣歇在那兒，突然，房間裡充滿木犀草濃烈的芬芳。它乘風而至，鮮明無誤，香馥沁人，栩栩如生，活脫脫幾乎如來訪的佳賓。年輕人忍不住大叫：“什麼？親愛的？”好像有人在喊他似地。他然後一躍而起，四下張望。濃香撲鼻而來，把他包裹其中。他伸出手臂擁抱香氣。剎那間，他的全部感覺都給攪混在一起。人怎么可能被香味斷然喚起呢？喚起他的肯定是聲音。難道這就是曾撫摸、安慰過他的聲音？
“她在這個房間住過，”他大聲說，扭身尋找起來，硬想搜出什麼徵跡，因為他確信能辨認出屬於她的或是她觸摸過的任何微小的東西。這沁人肺腑的木犀花香，她所喜愛、唯她獨有的芬芳，究竟是從哪兒來的？
房間只馬馬虎虎收拾過。薄薄的梳妝檯桌布上有稀稀拉拉五六個髮夾——都是些女性朋友用的那類東西，悄聲無息，具有女性特徵，但不標明任何心境或時間。他沒去仔細琢磨，因為這些東西顯然缺乏個性。他把梳妝檯抽屜搜了個底朝天，發現一條丟棄的破舊小手絹。他把它蒙在臉上，天芥菜花的怪味刺鼻而來。他順手把手絹甩在地上。在另一個抽屜，他發現幾顆零星紐扣，一張劇目表，一張當鋪老闆的名片，兩顆吃剩的果汁軟糖，一本夢釋書。最後一個抽屜里有一個女人用的黑緞蝴蝶髮結。他猛然一楞，懸在冰與火之間，處於興奮與失望之間。但是黑緞蝴蝶髮結也只是女性莊重端雅但不具個性特徵的普通裝飾，不能提供任何線索。
隨後他在房間裡四處搜尋，像一條獵狗東嗅西聞，掃視四壁，趴在地上仔細查看拱起的地氈角落，翻遍壁爐爐額和桌子、窗簾和門帘、角落裡搖搖欲墜的酒櫃，試圖找到一個可見的、但他還未發現的跡象，以證明她就在房間裡面，就在他旁邊、周圍、對面、心中、上面，緊緊地牽著他、追求他，並通過精微超常的感覺向他發出如此哀婉的呼喚，以至於連他愚鈍的感覺都能領悟出這呼喚之聲。他再次大聲回答“我在這兒，親愛的！”然後轉過身子，目瞪口呆，一片漠然，因為他在木犀花香中還察覺不出形式、色彩、愛情和張開的雙臂。唔，上帝啊，那芳香是從哪兒來的？從什麼時候起香味開始具有呼喚之力？就這樣他不停地四下摸索。
他把牆縫和牆角掏了一遍，找到一些瓶塞和菸蒂。對這些東西他不屑一顧。但有一次他在一折地氈里發現一支抽了半截的紙雪茄，鐵青著臉使勁咒了一聲，用腳後跟把它踩得稀爛。他把整個房間從一端到另一端篩了一遍，發現許許多多流客留下的無聊、可恥的記載。但是，有關可能曾住過這兒的、其幽靈好像仍然徘徊在這裡的、他正在尋求的她，他卻絲毫痕跡也未發現。
這時他記起了女房東。
他從幽靈縈繞的房間跑下樓，來到透出一縫光線的門前。
她應聲開門出來。他竭盡全力，克制住激動之情。
“請告訴我，夫人，”他哀求道，“我來之前誰住過那個房間？”
“好的，先生。我可以再說一遍。以前住的是斯普羅爾斯和穆尼夫婦，我已經說過。布雷塔·斯普羅爾斯小姐，演戲的，後來成了穆尼夫人。我的房子從來聲譽就好。他們的結婚證都是掛起的，還鑲了框，掛在釘子上——”
“斯普羅爾斯小姐是哪種女人——我是說，她長相如何？”
“喔，先生，黑頭髮，矮小，肥胖，臉蛋兒笑嘻嘻的。他們一個星期前搬走，上星期二。”
“在他們以前誰住過？”
他謝了她，慢騰騰地爬回房間。房間死氣沉沉。曾為它注入生機的香氣已經消失，木犀花香已經離去，代之而來的是發霉家具老朽、陳腐、凝滯的臭氣。
希望破滅，他頓覺信心殆盡。他坐在那兒，呆呆地看著噝噝作響的煤氣燈的黃光。稍許，他走到床邊，把床單撕成長條，然後用刀刃把布條塞進門窗周圍的每一條縫隙。一切收拾得嚴實緊扎以後，他關掉煤氣燈，卻又把煤氣開足，最後感激不盡地躺在床上。
按照慣例，今晚輪到麥克庫爾夫人拿罐子去打啤酒。她取酒回來，和珀迪夫人在一個地下幽會場所坐了下來。這是房東們聚會、蛆蟲猖獗的地方。
“今晚我把三樓後間租了出去，”珀迪夫人說，杯中的酒泡圓圓的。“房客是個年輕人。兩個鐘頭以前他就上床了。”
“嗬，真有你的，珀迪夫人，”麥克庫爾夫人說，羨慕不已。“那種房子你都租得出去，可真是奇蹟。那你給他說那件事沒有呢？”她說這話時悄聲細語，嘎聲啞氣，充滿神秘。
“房間裡安起家具嘛，”珀迪夫人用她最令人毛骨悚然的聲音說，“就是為了租出去。我沒給他說那事兒，麥克庫爾夫人。”
“可不是嘛，我們就是靠出租房子過活。你的生意經沒錯，夫人。如果知道這個房間裡有人自殺，死在床上，誰還來租這個房間呢。”
“當然嘛，我們總得活下去啊，”珀迪夫人說。
“對，夫人，這話不假。一個星期前我才幫你把三樓後間收拾規矩。那姑娘用煤氣就把自己給弄死了——她那小臉蛋兒多甜啊，珀迪夫人。”
“可不是嘛，都說她長得俏，”珀迪夫人說，既表示同意又顯得很挑剔。“只是她左眼眉毛邊的痣長得不好看。再來一杯，麥克庫爾夫人。”
英語
The Furnished Room
Restless, shifting, fugacious as time itself is a certain vast bulk
of the population of the red brick district of the lower West Side.
Homeless, they have a hundred homes. They flit from furnished room
to furnished room, transients forever--transients in abode,
transients in heart and mind. They sing "Home, Sweet Home" in
ragtime; they carry their ~lares et penates~ in a bandbox; their vine
is entwined about a picture hat; a rubber plant is their fig tree.
Hence the houses of this district, having had a thousand dwellers,
should have a thousand tales to tell, mostly dull ones, no doubt; but
it would be strange if there could not be found a ghost or two in the
wake of all these vagrant guests.
One evening after dark a young man prowled among these crumbling red
mansions, ringing their bells. At the twelfth he rested his lean
hand-baggage upon the step and wiped the dust from his hatband and
forehead. The bell sounded faint and far away in some remote, hollow
depths.
To the door of this, the twelfth house whose bell he had rung, came
a housekeeper who made him think of an unwholesome, surfeited worm
that had eaten its nut to a hollow shell and now sought to fill the
vacancy with edible lodgers.
He asked if there was a room to let.
"Come in," said the housekeeper. Her voice came from her throat; her
throat seemed lined with fur. "I have the third floor back, vacant
since a week back. Should you wish to look at it?"
The young man followed her up the stairs. A faint light from no
particular source mitigated the shadows of the halls. They trod
noiselessly upon a stair carpet that its own loom would have
forsworn. It seemed to have become vegetable; to have degenerated in
that rank, sunless air to lush lichen or spreading moss that grew in
patches to the staircase and was viscid under the foot like organic
matter. At each turn of the stairs were vacant niches in the wall.
Perhaps plants had once been set within them. If so they had died in
that foul and tainted air. It may be that statues of the saints had
stood there, but it was not difficult to conceive that imps and
devils had dragged them forth in the darkness and down to the unholy
depths of some furnished pit below.
"This is the room," said the housekeeper, from her furry throat.
"It's a nice room. It ain't often vacant. I had some most elegant
people in it last summer--no trouble at all, and paid in advance to
the minute. The water's at the end of the hall. Sprowls and Mooney
kept it three months. They done a vaudeville sketch. Miss B'retta
Sprowls--you may have heard of her--Oh, that was just the stage names
--right there over the dresser is where the marriage certificate
hung, framed. The gas is here, and you see there is plenty of closet
room. It's a room everybody likes. It never stays idle long."
"Do you have many theatrical people rooming here?" asked the young
man.
"They comes and goes. A good proportion of my lodgers is connected
with the theatres. Yes, sir, this is the theatrical district. Actor
people never stays long anywhere. I get my share. Yes, they comes
and they goes."
He engaged the room, paying for a week in advance. He was tired, he
said, and would take possession at once. He counted out the money.
The room had been made ready, she said, even to towels and water. As
the housekeeper moved away he put, for the thousandth time, the
question that he carried at the end of his tongue.
"A young girl--Miss Vashner--Miss Eloise Vashner--do you remember
such a one among your lodgers? She would be singing on the stage,
most likely. A fair girl, of medium height and slender, with
reddish, gold hair and a dark mole near her left eyebrow."
"No, I don't remember the name. Them stage people has names they
change as often as their rooms. They comes and they goes. No, I
don't call that one to mind."
No. Always no. Five months of ceaseless interrogation and the
inevitable negative. So much time spent by day in questioning
managers, agents, schools and choruses; by night among the audiences
of theatres from all-star casts down to music halls so low that he
dreaded to find what he most hoped for. He who had loved her best
had tried to find her. He was sure that since her disappearance from
home this great, water-girt city held her somewhere, but it was like
a monstrous quicksand, shifting its particles constantly, with no
foundation, its upper granules of to-day buried to-morrow in ooze and
slime.
The furnished room received its latest guest with a first glow of
pseudo-hospitality, a hectic, haggard, perfunctory welcome like the
specious smile of a demirep. The sophistical comfort came in
reflected gleams from the decayed furniture, the raggcd brocade
upholstery of a couch and two chairs, a footwide cheap pier glass
between the two windows, from one or two gilt picture frames and a
brass bedstead in a corner.
The guest reclined, inert, upon a chair, while the room, confused in
speech as though it were an apartment in Babel, tried to discourse to
him of its divers tenantry.
A polychromatic rug like some brilliant-flowered rectangular,
tropical islet lay surrounded by a billowy sea of soiled matting.
Upon the gay-papered wall were those pictures that pursue the
homeless one from house to house--The Huguenot Lovers, The First
Quarrel, The Wedding Breakfast, Psyche at the Fountain. The mantel's
chastely severe outline was ingloriously veiled behind some pert
drapery drawn rakishly askew like the sashes of the Amazonian ballet.
Upon it was some desolate flotsam cast aside by the room's marooned
when a lucky sail had borne them to a fresh port--a trifling vase or
two, pictures of actresses, a medicine bottle, some stray cards out
of a deck.
One by one, as the characters of a cryptograph become explicit, the
little signs left by the furnished room's procession of guests
developed a significance. The threadbare space in the rug in front
of the dresser told that lovely woman had marched in the throng.
Tiny finger prints on the wall spoke of little prisoners trying to
feel their way to sun and air. A splattered stain, raying like the
shadow of a bursting bomb, witnessed where a hurled glass or bottle
had splintered with its contents against the wall. Across the pier
glass had been scrawled with a diamond in staggering letters the name
"Marie." It seemed that the succession of dwellers in the furnished
room had turned in fury--perhaps tempted beyond forbearance by its
garish coldness--and wreaked upon it their passions. The furniture
was chipped and bruised; the couch, distorted by bursting springs,
seemed a horrible monster that had been slain during the stress of
some grotesque convulsion. Some more potent upheaval had cloven a
great slice from the marble mantel. Each plank in the floor owned
its particular cant and shriek as from a separate and individual
agony. It seemed incredible that all this malice and injury had been
wrought upon the room by those who had called it for a time their
home; and yet it may have been the cheated home instinct surviving
blindly, the resentful rage at false household gods that had kindled
their wrath. A hut that is our own we can sweep and adorn and
cherish.
The young tenant in the chair allowed these thoughts to file, soft-
shod, through his mind, while there drifted into the room furnished
sounds and furnished scents. He heard in one room a tittering and
incontinent, slack laughter; in others the monologue of a scold, the
rattling of dice, a lullaby, and one crying dully; above him a banjo
tinkled with spirit. Doors banged somewhere; the elevated trains
roared intermittently; a cat yowled miserably upon a back fence. And
he breathed the breath of the house--a dank savour rather than a smell
--a cold, musty effluvium as from underground vaults mingled with the
reeking exhalations of linoleum and mildewed and rotten woodwork.
Then, suddenly, as he rested there, the room was filled with the
strong, sweet odour of mignonette. It came as upon a single buffet
of wind with such sureness and fragrance and emphasis that it almost
seemed a living visitant. And the man cried aloud: "What, dear?" as
if he had been called, and sprang up and faced about. The rich odour
clung to him and wrapped him around. He reached out his arms for it,
all his senses for the time confused and commingled. How could one
be peremptorily called by an odour? Surely it must have been a
sound. But, was it not the sound that had touched, that had caressed
him?
"She has been in this room," he cried, and he sprang to wrest from it
a token, for he knew he would recognize the smallest thing that had
belonged to her or that she had touched. This enveloping scent of
mignonette, the odour that she had loved and made her own--whence
came it?
The room had been but carelessly set in order. Scattered upon the
flimsy dresser scarf were half a dozen hairpins--those discreet,
indistinguishable friends of womankind, feminine of gender, infinite
of mood and uncommunicative of tense. These he ignored, conscious of
their triumphant lack of identity. Ransacking the drawers of the
dresser he came upon a discarded, tiny, ragged handkerchief. He
pressed it to his face. It was racy and insolent with heliotrope; he
hurled it to the floor. In another drawer he found odd buttons, a
theatre programme, a pawnbroker's card, two lost marshmallows, a book
on the divination of dreams. In the last was a woman's black satin
hair bow, which halted him, poised between ice and fire. But the
black satin hairbow also is femininity's demure, impersonal, common
ornament, and tells no tales.
And then he traversed the room like a hound on the scent, skimming
the walls, considering the corners of the bulging matting on his
hands and knees, rummaging mantel and tables, the curtains and
hangngs, the drunken cabinet in the corner, for a visible sign,
unable to perceive that she was there beside, around, against,
within, above him, clinging to him, wooing him, calling him so
poignantly through the finer senses that even his grosser ones became
cognisant of the call. Once again he answered loudly: "Yes, dear!"
and turned, wild-eyed, to gaze on vacancy, for he could not yet
discern form and colour and love and outstretched arms in the odour
of mnignonette. Oh, God! whence that odour, and since when have
odours had a voice to call? Thus he groped.
He burrowed in crevices and corners, and found corks and cigarettes.
These he passed in passive contempt. But once he found in a fold of
the matting a half-smoked cigar, and this he ground beneath his heel
with a green and trenchant oath. He sifted the room from end to end.
He found dreary and ignoble small records of many a peripatetic
tenant; but of her whom he sought, and who may have lodged there, and
whose spirit seemed to hover there, he found no trace.
And then he thought of the housekeeper.
He ran from the haunted room downstairs and to a door that showed a
crack of light. She came out to his knock. He smothered his
excitement as best he could.
"Will you tell me, madam," he besought her, "who occupied the room I
have before I came?"
"Yes, sir. I can tell you again. 'Twas Sprowls and Mooney, as I
said. Miss B'retta Sprowls it was in the theatres, but Missis Mooney
she was. My house is well known for respectability. The marriage
certificate hung, framed, on a nail over--"
"What kind of a lady was Miss Sprowls--in looks, I mean?"
Why, black-haired, sir, short, and stout, with a comical face. They
left a week ago Tuesday."
"And before they occupied it?"
"Why, there was a single gentleman connected with the draying
business. He left owing me a week. Before him was Missis Crowder
and her two children, that stayed four months; and back of them was
old Mr. Doyle, whose sons paid for him. He kept the room six months.
That goes back a year, sir, and further I do not remember."
He thanked her and crept back to his room. The room was dead. The
essence that had vivified it was gone. The perfume of mignonette had
departed. In its place was the old, stale odour of mouldy house
furniture, of atmosphere in storage.
The ebbing of his hope drained his faith. He sat staring at the
yellow, singing gaslight. Soon he walked to the bed and began to
tear the sheets into strips. With the blade of his knife he drove
them tightly into every crevice around windows and door. When all
was snug and taut he turned out the light, turned the gas full on
again and laid himself gratefully upon the bed.
* * * * * * *
It was Mrs. McCool's night to go with the can for beer. So she
fetched it and sat with Mrs. Purdy in one of those subterranean
retreats where house-keepers foregather and the worm dieth seldom.
"I rented out my third floor, back, this evening," said Mrs. Purdy,
across a fine circle of foam. "A young man took it. He went up to
bed two hours ago."
"Now, did ye, Mrs. Purdy, ma'am?" said Mrs. McCool, with intense
admiration. "You do be a wonder for rentin' rooms of that kind. And
did ye tell him, then?" she concluded in a husky whisper, laden with
mystery.
"Rooms," said Mrs. Purdy, in her furriest tones, "are furnished for
to rent. I did not tell him, Mrs. McCool."
"'Tis right ye are, ma'am; 'tis by renting rooms we kape alive. Ye
have the rale sense for business, ma'am. There be many people will
rayjict the rentin' of a room if they be tould a suicide has been
after dyin' in the bed of it."
"As you say, we has our living to be making," remarked Mrs. Purdy.
"Yis, ma'am; 'tis true. 'Tis just one wake ago this day I helped ye
lay out the third floor, back. A pretty slip of a colleen she was to
be killin' herself wid the gas--a swate little face she had, Mrs.
Purdy, ma'am."
"She'd a-been called handsome, as you say," said Mrs. Purdy,
assenting but critical, "but for that mole she had a-growin' by her
left eyebrow. Do fill up your glass again, Mrs. McCool."
作者簡介
歐·亨利是其筆名，原名為威廉·西德尼·波特(William Sydney Porter)。美國著名批判現實主義作家，世界三大短篇小說大師之一。曾被評論界譽為曼哈頓桂冠散文作家和美國現代短篇小說之父。他的作品構思新穎，語言詼諧，結局常常出人意外，代表作有小說集《白菜與國王》、《四百萬》、《命運之路》等。其中一些名篇如《愛的犧牲》、《警察與讚美詩》、《帶家具出租的房間》、《賢人的禮物》、《最後一片藤葉》等使他獲得了世界聲譽。
評析
在《帶家具出租的房間》中的男主人公，我們不知道他的名字，他只是“眾多把聖像裝在帽盒裡隨身帶著，葡萄藤攀結在一頂寬沿帽上”，輾轉在不同的帶家具出租的房間之間的一個普通的青年，不同的是他在尋找。而當青年在找尋昔日的情人失敗後，他選擇了死亡的這樣一種方式。這似乎是對當時生活在社會上的小人物在社會的泥淖中苦苦掙扎後，最終失敗，徹底掉進了深淵。也許這是一種逃避的做法，但是，在當時人單力薄的情況下，又怎能苛求他們超越自己的時代，成為時代更替的推動者，不要忘記了，他們也只是最普通的人，而且是生活在社會深淵的受迫害者。
而在描寫女房東這樣的冷酷無情、麻木殘忍的小資產者的時候，歐·亨利並沒有手下留情。最令人作嘔的“蛀蟲”來形容他們，寄生於社會中，靠榨乾勞動者的心血的吸血鬼。女房東就是當時資產者們的一個縮影，甚至要更加的殘忍腐惡。從小小的帶家具出租的房間，不能不看作是當時混雜的社會的縮影，使我們具體、真是地感受到了當時社會的潮濕、陰暗、腐朽、墮落、死氣沉沉。在社會的大樓在蛀蟲們的啃食下，在逐漸地坍塌。
《帶家具出租的房間》中的男主人公和他找尋的女孩不僅死在了同一個房間中，甚至選擇了相同的方式，也許有人會說，在這樣的房間中，煤氣自殺最為方便，是自殺的首選。但是，我們仍不能排除其他的可能。這樣的一種看似偶然的巧合在歐·亨利的安排下，似乎處於意料之外，又處於情理之中。而在小說中導致悲劇的結局的重要因素，我想女房東起著一定的作用。女房東為了出租房間，不惜欺騙男主人公，這不得不看做是資產階級自私的醜惡嘴臉的一種體現。
但是換一個角度想，如果女房東把女孩的死告訴了青年，那青年又會作何選擇呢？不妨有兩種假設，或者是青年心灰意冷，同樣選擇了死亡；或者是放棄尋找，渾渾噩噩地生活在社會上。這也許就更加地取決於男主人公的性格因素了，他能在這樣的環境中感覺到木樨香的味道，那么自然能夠看出他敏感、神經質的個性，這樣的個性又是否能承擔情人的去世，自己找尋的結果完全落空，理想完全破沒呢？答案可想而知。而男主人公為什麼選擇死亡來結束自己的生命？是因為木樨香味消散，心灰意冷，對生活完全放棄的希望，意志達到了崩潰的邊緣，還是另有原因，我想前者的原因更讓人接受。偶然的巧合在歐·亨利的邏輯思維的安排下將情節在結尾進行突轉，給讀者一種強烈的震撼，並且在結尾處，小說的思想內涵的得到了升華。在逐漸地回味這無限可能的巧合時，逐漸提升到思索人性的角度，不論是男主人公的痴情的人性美，抑或是女房東自私自立的狹隘的人性惡，都為我們提供了更加曠闊的思考的空間。
