老妇人的故事 英文版The Old Wives' Tale
阿诺德.本涅特 Arnold Bennett
V
At half-past two they were alone in the little salon of therestaurant, and vaguely in their dreamy and feverish minds thatwere too preoccupied to control with precision their warm, relaxedbodies, there floated the illusion that the restaurant belonged tothem and that in it they were at home. It was no longer arestaurant, but a retreat and shelter from hard life. The chef andhis wife were dozing in an inner room. The champagne was drunk;the adorable cheese was eaten; and they were sipping Marc deBourgogne. They sat at right angles to one another, close to oneanother, with brains aswing; full of good nature and quicksympathy; their flesh content and yet expectant. In a pause of theconversation (which, entirely banal and fragmentary, had seemed toreach the acme of agreeableness), Chirac put his hand on the handof Sophia as it rested limp on the littered table. Accidentallyshe caught his eye; she had not meant to do so. They both becameself-conscious. His thin, bearded face had more than ever thatwistfulness which always softened towards him theuncompromisingness of her character. He had the look of a child.For her, Gerald had sometimes shown the same look. But indeed shewas now one of those women for whom all men, and especially allmen in a tender mood, are invested with a certain incurablequality of childishness. She had not withdrawn her hand at once,and so she could not withdraw it at all.
He gazed at her with timid audacity. Her eyes were liquid.
"What are you thinking about?" she asked.
"I was asking myself what I should have done if you had refused tocome."
"And what SHOULD you have done?"
"Assuredly something terribly inconvenient," he replied, with thelarge importance of a man who is in the domain of puresupposition. He leaned towards her. "My very dear friend," he saidin a different voice, getting bolder.
It was infinitely sweet to her, voluptuously sweet, this baskingin the heat of temptation. It certainly did seem to her, then, theone real pleasure in the world. Her body might have been saying tohis: "See how ready I am!" Her body might have been saying to his:"Look into my mind. For you I have no modesty. Look and see allthat is there." The veil of convention seemed to have been rent.Their attitude to each other was almost that of lover andmistress, between whom a single glance may be charged with thesecrets of the past and promises for the future. Morally she washis mistress in that moment.
He released her hand and put his arm round her waist.
"I love thee," he whispered with great emotion.
Her face changed and hardened. "You must not do that," she said,coldly, unkindly, harshly. She scowled. She would not abate onecrease in her forehead to the appeal of his surprised glance. Yetshe did not want to repulse him. The instinct which repulsed himwas not within her control. Just as a shy man will obstinatelyrefuse an invitation which he is hungering to accept, so, thoughnot from shyness, she was compelled to repulse Chirac. Perhaps ifher desires had not been laid to sleep by excessive physicalindustry and nervous strain, the sequel might have been different.
Chirac, like most men who have once found a woman weak, imaginedthat he understood women profoundly. He thought of women as theOccidental thinks of the Chinese, as a race apart, mysterious butcapable of being infallibly comprehended by the application of afew leading principles of psychology. Moreover he was in earnest;he was hard driven, and he was honest. He continued, respectfullyobedient in withdrawing his arm:
"Very dear friend," he urged with undaunted confidence, "you mustknow that I love you."
She shook her head impatiently, all the time wondering what it wasthat prevented her from slipping into his arms. She knew that shewas treating him badly by this brusque change of front; but shecould not help it. Then she began to feel sorry for him.
"We have been very good friends," he said. "I have always admiredyou enormously. I did not think that I should dare to love youuntil that day when I overheard that old villain Niepce make hisadvances. Then, when I perceived my acute jealousy, I knew that Iwas loving you. Ever since, I have thought only of you. I swear toyou that if you will not belong to me, it is already finished forme! Altogether! Never have I seen a woman like you! So strong, soproud, so kind, and so beautiful! You are astonishing, yes,astonishing! No other woman could have drawn herself out of animpossible situation as you have done, since the disappearance ofyour husband. For me, you are a woman unique. I am very sincere.Besides, you know it ... Dear friend!"
She shook her head passionately.
She did not love him. But she was moved. And she wanted to lovehim. She wanted to yield to him, only liking him, and to loveafterwards. But this obstinate instinct held her back. "I do notsay, now," Chirac went on. "Let me hope."
The Latin theatricality of his gestures and his tone made hersorrowful for him.
"My poor Chirac!" she plaintively murmured, and began to put onher gloves.
"I shall hope!" he persisted.
She pursed her lips. He seized her violently by the waist. Shedrew her face away from his, firmly. She was not hard, not angrynow. Disconcerted by her compassion, he loosed her.
"My poor Chirac," she said, "I ought not to have come. I must go.It is perfectly useless. Believe me."
"No, no!" he whispered fiercely.
She stood up and the abrupt movement pushed the table gratinglyacross the floor. The throbbing spell of the flesh was snappedlike a stretched string, and the scene over. The landlord, rousedfrom his doze, stumbled in. Chirac had nothing but the bill as areward for his pains. He was baffled.
They left the restaurant, silently, with a foolish air.
Dusk was falling on the mournful streets, and the lamp-lighterswere lighting the miserable oil lamps that had replaced gas. Theytwo, and the lamplighters, and an omnibus were alone in thestreets. The gloom was awful; it was desolating. The universalsilence seemed to be the silence of despair. Steeped in woe,Sophia thought wearily upon the hopeless problem of existence. Forit seemed to her that she and Chirac had created this woe out ofnothing, and yet it was an incurable woe!