Chapter 1
At midnight the cafe was crowded. By some chance the little table at which I sat had escaped the eye of incomers, and two vacant chairs at it extended their arms with venal hospitality to the influx of patrons.
And then a cosmopolite sat in one of them, and I was glad, for I held a theory that since Adam no true citizen of the world has existed. We hear of them, and we see foreign labels on much luggage, but we find travellers instead of cosmopolites.
I invoke your consideration of the scene--the marble-topped tables, the range of leather-upholstered wall seats, the gay company, the ladies dressed in demi-state toilets, speaking in an exquisite visible chorus of taste, economy, opulence or art; the sedulous and largess-loving garcons, the music wisely catering to all with its raids upon the composers; the melange of talk and laughter--and, if you will, the Wurzburger in the tall glass cones that bend to your lips as a ripe cherry sways on its branch to the beak of a robber jay. I was told by a sculptor from Mauch Chunk that the scene was truly Parisian.
My cosmopolite was named E. Rushmore Coglan, and he will be heard from next summer at Coney Island. He is to establish a new "attraction" there, he informed me, offering kingly diversion. And then his conversation rang along parallels of latitude and longitude. He took the great, round world in his hand, so to speak, familiarly, contemptuously, and it seemed no larger than the seed of a Maraschino cherry in a table d'hote grape fruit. He spoke disrespectfully of the equator, he skipped from continent to continent, he derided the zones, he mopped up the high seas with his napkin. With a wave of his hand he would speak of a certain bazaar in Hyderabad. Whiff! He would have you on skis in Lapland. Zip! Now you rode the breakers with the Kanakas at Kealaikahiki. Presto! He dragged you through an Arkansas post-oak swamp, let you dry for a moment on the alkali plains of his Idaho ranch, then whirled you into the society of Viennese archdukes. Anon he would be telling you of a cold he acquired in a Chicago lake breeze and how old Escamila cured it in Buenos Ayres with a hot infusion of the chuchula weed. You would have addressed a letter to "E. Rushmore Coglan, Esq., the Earth, Solar System, the Universe," and have mailed it, feeling confident that it would be delivered to him.
半夜，咖啡馆拥挤不通。我随意间选坐的一张小桌恰好不为人们所注目，还剩下两把空椅以诱人的殷勤，伸开双臂欢迎新拥进的顾客。
当时，一位世界公民和我同一张小桌，坐在另一张椅子上。我真高兴，因为我持这种理论，自亚当以来，还没有过一位真正的属于整个世界的居民。我们听说过世界公民，也在许多包裹上见过异国标签，但那是旅游者，不是世界公民。
我提到下面的情景定会引起你的思考——大理石桌面的桌子，一排排靠墙的皮革椅座，愉快的侣伴，稍加打扮的女士们正以微妙而又明显可见的情趣争相谈论着经济、繁盛和艺术，小心周到喜欢慷慨的侍者，使作曲家慌忙不迭的音乐机灵地满足一切人的口味，还有杂七杂八的谈话声、欢笑声——假如你乐意的话，高高的玻璃锥体维尔茨堡酒①将躬身到你的唇边，就像那枝头上的熟樱桃摇晃进强盗樫鸟的嘴壳一样。一位来自英奇·丘恩克的雕塑家告诉我，这景象真真是巴黎式的。
我这位世界公民名叫Ｅ·拉什莫尔·科格兰，明年夏天他将在科尼岛②——他对我说，他即将在那儿建立一种新的"诱惑力"，并提供国王式的消遣。过后，他的谈话便随同经纬度的平行线而展开，把巨大的圆圆的世界握在手里，这样说吧，对世界了如指掌，又极为瞧不起，世界似乎只是客饭中黑葡萄酒里的樱桃核那般大小。他粗俗无礼地谈及赤道，匆匆由这块大陆转到那块大陆，他嘲笑那些地区，用餐巾抹掉狂涛巨浪。他把手一挥，谈起了海德拉巴帮③的某个东方集市。噗！他会让你在拉普兰④滑雪。嘘！你在基莱卡希基同夏威夷的土著一起驰骋在浪尖波顶。一转眼，他拖着你穿过阿肯色州长满星毛栎的沼泽，让你在艾达荷州他那碱性平原的牧场上炙烤一阵子，然后才旋风似地带你去维也纳大公们的上流社会。之后，他会给你讲到，有一次他在芝加哥湖吹了凉风而感冒，有位年长的埃斯卡米拉人在布宜诺斯艾丽斯⑤又怎样用丘丘拉草药热浸剂才把他治好。你该致函"宇宙、太阳系、地球、Ｅ·拉什莫尔·科格兰先生，"一旦寄出，便会觉得信定会交到。
①维尔茨堡（Ｗｕｒｚｂｕｒｇ）：德意志联帮的中南部城市。在这里指该地所产的酒。
②科尼岛（ＣｏｎｅｙＩｓｌａｎｄ）：美国纽约布鲁克林区南部的一个海滨游憩地带，原为一个小岛。
③海德拉巴帮（Ｈｙｄｅｒａｂａｄ）：印度原帮名。
④拉普兰（Ｌａｐｌａｎｄ）：北欧一地区名，指拉普人居住的地区，包括挪威、瑞典、芬兰等国的北部和原苏联的科拉岛。
⑤布宜诺斯艾丽斯（ＢｕｅｎｏＡｙｒｅｓ）：阿根廷首府。
