老妇人的故事 英文版The Old Wives' Tale
阿诺德.本涅特 Arnold Bennett
I
Matthew Peel-Swynnerton sat in the long dining-room of the PensionFrensham, Rue Lord Byron, Paris; and he looked out of place there.It was an apartment about thirty feet in length, and of the widthof two windows, which sufficiently lighted one half of a very longtable with round ends. The gloom of the other extremity wasillumined by a large mirror in a tarnished gilt frame, whichfilled a good portion of the wall opposite the windows. Near themirror was a high folding-screen of four leaves, and behind thisscreen could be heard the sound of a door continually shutting andopening. In the long wall to the left of the windows were twodoors, one dark and important, a door of state, through which aprocession of hungry and a procession of sated solemn self-conscious persons passed twice daily, and the other, a smallerdoor, glazed, its glass painted with wreaths of roses, not anoriginal door of the house, but a late breach in the wall, thatseemed to lead to the dangerous and to the naughty. The wall-paperand the window drapery were rich and forbidding, dark in hue,mysterious of pattern. Over the state-door was a pair of antlers.And at intervals, so high up as to defy inspection, engravings andoil-paintings made oblong patches on the walls. They were hungfrom immense nails with porcelain heads, and they appeared todepict the more majestic aspect of man and nature. One engraving,over the mantelpiece and nearer earth than the rest, unmistakablyshowed Louis Philippe and his family in attitudes of virtue.Beneath this royal group, a vast gilt clock, flanked by pendantsof the same period, gave the right time--a quarter past seven.
And down the room, filling it, ran the great white table, borderedwith bowed heads and the backs of chairs. There were over thirtypeople at the table, and the peculiarly restrained noisiness oftheir knives and forks on the plates proved that they were adiscreet and a correct people. Their clothes--blouses, bodices,and jackets--did not flatter the lust of the eye. Only two orthree were in evening dress. They spoke little, and generally in atimorous tone, as though silence had been enjoined. Somebody wouldhalf-whisper a remark, and then his neighbour, absently fingeringher bread and lifting gaze from her plate into vacancy, wouldconscientiously weigh the remark and half-whisper in reply: "Idare say." But a few spoke loudly and volubly, and were regardedby the rest, who envied them, as underbred.
Food was quite properly the chief preoccupation. The diners ate asthose eat who are paying a fixed price per day for as much as theycan consume while observing the rules of the game. Without movingtheir heads they glanced out of the corners of their eyes,watching the manoeuvres of the three starched maids who served.They had no conception of food save as portions laid out in rowson large silver dishes, and when a maid bent over themdeferentially, balancing the dish, they summed up the offering inan instant, and in an instant decided how much they could decentlytake, and to what extent they could practise the theoretic libertyof choice. And if the food for any reason did not tempt them, orif it egregiously failed to coincide with their aspirations, theyconsidered themselves aggrieved. For, according to the game, theymight not command; they had the right to seize all that waspresented under their noses, like genteel tigers; and they had theright to refuse: that was all. The dinner was thus a series ofemotional crises for the diners, who knew only that full dishesand clean plates came endlessly from the banging door behind thescreen, and that ravaged dishes and dirty plates vanishedendlessly through the same door. They were all eating similar foodsimultaneously; they began together and they finished together.The flies that haunted the paper-bunches which hung from thechandeliers to the level of the flower-vases, were more free. Thesole event that chequered the exact regularity of the repast wasthe occasional arrival of a wine-bottle for one of the guests. Thereceiver of the wine-bottle signed a small paper in exchange forit and wrote largely a number on the label of the bottle; then,staring at the number and fearing that after all it might bemisread by a stupid maid or an unscrupulous compeer, he would re-write the number on another part of the label, even more largely.
Matthew Peel-Swynnerton obviously did not belong to this world. Hewas a young man of twenty-five or so, not handsome, but elegant.Though he was not in evening dress, though he was, as a fact, in avery light grey suit, entirely improper to a dinner, he waselegant. The suit was admirably cut, and nearly new; but he woreit as though he had never worn anything else. Also his demeanour,reserved yet free from self-consciousness, his method of handlinga knife and fork, the niceties of his manner in transferring foodfrom the silver dishes to his plate, the tone in which he orderedhalf a bottle of wine--all these details infallibly indicated tothe company that Matthew Peel-Swynnerton was their superior. Somefolks hoped that he was the son of a lord, or even a lord. Hehappened to be fixed at the end of the table, with his back to thewindow, and there was a vacant chair on either side of him; thissituation favoured the hope of his high rank. In truth, he was theson, the grandson, and several times the nephew, of earthenwaremanufacturers. He noticed that the large 'compote' (as it wascalled in his trade) which marked the centre of the table, was theproduction of his firm. This surprised him, for Peel, Swynnertonand Co., known and revered throughout the Five Towns as 'Peels,'did not cater for cheap markets. A late guest startled the room, afat, flabby, middle-aged man whose nose would have roused theprovisional hostility of those who have convinced themselves thatJews are not as other men. His nose did not definitely brand himas a usurer and a murderer of Christ, but it was suspicious. Hisclothes hung loose, and might have been anybody's clothes. Headvanced with brisk assurance to the table, bowed, somewhat tooeffusively, to several people, and sat down next to Peel-Swynnerton. One of the maids at once brought him a plate of soup,and he said: "Thank you, Marie," smiling at her. He was evidentlya habitue of the house. His spectacled eyes beamed the superioritywhich comes of knowing girls by their names. He was seriouslyhandicapped in the race for sustenance, being two and a halfcourses behind, but he drew level with speed and then, havingaccomplished this, he sighed, and pointedly engaged Peel-Swynnerton with his sociable glance.
"Ah!" he breathed out. "Nuisance when you come in late, sir!"
Peel-Swynnerton gave a reluctant affirmative.
"Doesn't only upset you! It upsets the house! Servants don't likeit!"
"No," murmured Peel-Swynnerton, "I suppose not."
"However, it's not often _I_'m late," said the man. "Can't help itsometimes. Business! Worst of these French business people is thatthey've no notion of time. Appointments ...! God bless my soul!"
"Do you come here often?" asked Peel-Swynnerton. He detested thefellow, quite inexcusably, perhaps because his serviette wastucked under his chin; but he saw that the fellow was one of yourdetermined talkers, who always win in the end. Moreover, as beingclearly not an ordinary tourist in Paris, the fellow mildlyexcited his curiosity.
"I live here," said the other. "Very convenient for a bachelor,you know. Have done for years. My office is just close by. You mayknow my name--Lewis Mardon."
Peel-Swynnerton hesitated. The hesitation convicted him of not'knowing his Paris' well.
"House-agent," said Lewis Mardon, quickly.
"Oh yes," said Peel-Swynnerton, vaguely recalling a vision of thename among the advertisements on newspaper kiosks.
"I expect," Mr. Mardon went on, "my name is as well-known asanybody's in Paris."
"I suppose so," assented Peel-Swynnerton.
The conversation fell for a few moments.
"Staying here long?" Mr. Mardon demanded, having added up Peel-Swynnerton as a man of style and of means, and being puzzled byhis presence at that table.
"I don't know," said Peel-Swynnerton.
This was a lie, justified in the utterer's opinion as a repulse toMr. Mardon's vulgar inquisitiveness, such inquisitiveness as mighthave been expected from a fellow who tucked his serviette underhis chin. Peel-Swynnerton knew exactly how long he would stay. Hewould stay until the day after the morrow; he had only about fiftyfrancs in his pocket. He had been making a fool of himself inanother quarter of Paris, and he had descended to the PensionFrensham as a place where he could be absolutely sure of spendingnot more than twelve francs a day. Its reputation was high, and itwas convenient for the Galliera Museum, where he was making somedrawings which he had come to Paris expressly to make, and withoutwhich he could not reputably return to England. He was capable offoolishness, but he was also capable of wisdom, and scarcely anypressure of need would have induced him to write home for money toreplace the money spent on making himself into a fool.
Swynnerton hesitated. The hesitation convicted.
Mr. Mardon was conscious of a check. But, being of anaccommodating disposition, he at once tried another direction.
"Good food here, eh?" he suggested.
"Very," said Peel-Swynnerton, with sincerity. "I was quite--"
At that moment, a tall straight woman of uncertain age pushed openthe principal door and stood for an instant in the doorway. Peel-Swynnerton had just time to notice that she was handsome and pale,and that her hair was black, and then she was gone again, followedby a clipped poodle that accompanied her. She had signed with abrief gesture to one of the servants, who at once set aboutlighting the gas-jets over the table.
"Who is that?" asked Peel-Swynnerton, without reflecting that itwas now he who was making advances to the fellow whose napkincovered all his shirt-front.
"That's the missis, that is," said Mr. Mardon, in a lower andsemi-confidential voice.
"Oh! Mrs. Frensham?"
"Yes. But her real name is Scales," said Mr. Mardon, proudly.
"Widow, I suppose?"
"Yes."
"And she runs the whole show?"
"She runs the entire contraption," said Mr. Mardon, solemnly; "anddon't you make any mistake!" He was getting familiar.
Peel-Swynnerton beat him off once more, glancing with careful,uninterested nonchalance at the gas-burners which exploded oneafter another with a little plop under the application of themaid's taper. The white table gleamed more whitely than ever underthe flaring gas. People at the end of the room away from thewindow instinctively smiled, as though the sun had begun to shine.The aspect of the dinner was changed, ameliorated; and with thereiterated statement that the evenings were drawing in though itwas only July, conversation became almost general. In two minutesMr. Mardon was genially talking across the whole length of thetable. The meal finished in a state that resembled conviviality.
Matthew Peel-Swynnerton might not go out into the crepusculardelights of Paris. Unless he remained within the shelter of thePension, he could not hope to complete successfully his re-conversion from folly to wisdom. So he bravely passed through thesmall rose-embroidered door into a small glass-covered courtyard,furnished with palms, wicker armchairs, and two small tables; andhe lighted a pipe and pulled out of his pocket a copy of TheReferee. That retreat was called the Lounge; it was the only partof the Pension where smoking was not either a positive crime or atransgression against good form. He felt lonely. He said tohimself grimly in one breath that pleasure was all rot, and in thenext he sullenly demanded of the universe how it was that pleasurecould not go on for ever, and why he was not Mr. Barney Barnato.Two old men entered the retreat and burnt cigarettes with manyprecautions. Then Mr. Lewis Mardon appeared and sat down boldlynext to Matthew, like a privileged friend. After all, Mr. Mardonwas better than nobody whatever, and Matthew decided to sufferhim, especially as he began without preliminary skirmishing totalk about life in Paris. An irresistible subject! Mr. Mardon saidin a worldly tone that the existence of a bachelor in Paris mighteasily be made agreeable. But that, of course, for himself--well,he preferred, as a general rule, the Pension Frensham sort ofthing; and it was excellent for his business. Still he could not... he knew ... He compared the advantages of what he called'knocking about' in Paris, with the equivalent in London. Hisinformation about London was out of date, and Peel-Swynnerton wasable to set him right on important details. But his informationabout Paris was infinitely precious and interesting to the youngerman,, who saw that he had hitherto lived under strangemisconceptions.
"Have a whiskey?" asked Mr. Mardon, suddenly. "Very good here!" headded.
Swynnerton, vaguely recalling a vision of thename among the advertisements on newspaper kiosks.
"Thanks!" drawled Peel-Swynnerton.
The temptation to listen to Mr. Mardon as long as Mr. Mardon wouldtalk was not to be overcome. And presently, when the old men haddeparted, they were frankly telling each other stories in thedimness of the retreat. Then, when the supply of stories came toan end, Mr. Mardon smacked his lips over the last drop of whiskeyand ejaculated: "Yes!" as if giving a general confirmation to allthat had been said.
"Do have one with me," said Matthew, politely. It was the least hecould do.
The second supply of whiskies was brought into the Lounge by Mr.Mardon's Marie. He smiled on her familiarly, and remarked that hesupposed she would soon be going to bed after a hard day's work.She gave a moue and a flounce in reply, and swished out.
"Carries herself well, doesn't she?" observed Mr. Mardon, asthough Marie had been an exhibit at an agricultural show. "Tenyears ago she was very fresh and pretty, but of course it takes itout of 'em, a place like this!"
"But still," said Peel-Swynnerton, "they must like it or theywouldn't stay--that is, unless things are very different here fromwhat they are in England."
The conversation seemed to have stimulated him to examine thewoman question in all its bearings, with philosophic curiosity.
"Oh! They LIKE it," Mr. Mardon assured him, as one who knew."Besides, Mrs. Scales treats 'em very well. I know THAT. She'stold me. She's very particular"--he looked around to see if wallshad ears--"and, by Jove, you've got to be; but she treats 'emwell. You'd scarcely believe the wages they get, and pickings. Nowat the Hotel Moscow--know the Hotel Moscow?"
Happily Peel-Swynnerton did. He had been advised to avoid itbecause it catered exclusively for English visitors, but in thePension Frensham he had accepted something even more exclusivelyBritish than the Hotel Moscow. Mr. Mardon was quite relieved athis affirmative.
"The Hotel Moscow is a limited company now,' said he; "English."
"Really?"
"Yes. I floated it. It was my idea. A great success! That's how Iknow all about the Hotel Moscow." He looked at the walls again. "Iwanted to do the same here," he murmured, and Peel-Swynnerton hadto show that he appreciated this confidence. "But she never wouldagree. I've tried her all ways. No go! It's a thousand pities."
"Paying thing, eh?"
"This place? I should say it was! And I ought to be able to judge,I reckon. Mrs. Scales is one of the shrewdest women you'd meet ina day's march. She's made a lot of money here, a lot of money. Andthere's no reason why a place like this shouldn't be five times asbig as it is. Ten times. The scope's unlimited, my dear sir. Allthat's wanted is capital. Naturally she has capital of her own,and she could get more. But then, as she says, she doesn't wantthe place any bigger. She says it's now just as big as she canhandle. That isn't so. She's a woman who could handle anything--aborn manager--but even if it was so, all she would have to dowould be to retire--only leave us the place and the name. It's thename that counts. And she's made the name of Frensham worthsomething, I can tell you!"
"Did she get the place from her husband?" asked Peel-Swynnerton.Her own name of Scales intrigued him.
were regular. runs the entire contraption," said Mr. Mardon.
Mr. Mardon shook his head. "Bought it on her own, after thehusband's time, for a song--a song! I know, because I knew theoriginal Frenshams."
"You must have been in Paris a long time," said Peel-Swynnerton.
Mr. Mardon could never resist an opportunity to talk abouthimself. His was a wonderful history. And Peel-Swynnerton, whilescorning the man for his fatuity, was impressed. And when that wasfinished--
"Yes!" said Mr. Mardon after a pause,, reaffirming everything ingeneral by a single monosyllable.
Shortly afterwards he rose, saying that his habits were regular.
"Good-night,' he said with a mechanical smile.
"G-good-night," said Peel-Swynnerton, trying to force the tone offellowship and not succeeding. Their intimacy, which had sprung uplike a mushroom, suddenly fell into dust. Peel-Swynnerton'sunspoken comment to Mr. Mardon's back was: "Ass!" Still, the sumof Peel-Swynnerton's knowledge had indubitably been increasedduring the evening. And the hour was yet early. Half-past ten! TheFolies-Marigny, with its beautiful architecture and its crowds ofwhite toilettes, and its frothing of champagne and of beer, andits musicians in tight red coats, was just beginning to be alive--and at a distance of scarcely a stone's-throw! Peel-Swynnertonpictured the terraced, glittering hall, which had been the primeorigin of his exceeding foolishness. And he pictured all the otherresorts, great and small, garlanded with white lanterns, in theChamps Elysees; and the sombre aisles of the Champs Elysees wheremysterious pale figures walked troublingly under the shade oftrees, while snatches of wild song or absurd brassy music floatedup from the resorts and restaurants. He wanted to go out and spendthose fifty francs that remained in his pocket. After all, why nottelegraph to England for more money? "Oh, damn it!" he saidsavagely, and stretched his arms and got up. The Lounge was verysmall, gloomy and dreary.
One brilliant incandescent light burned in the hall, crudelyilluminating the wicker fauteuils, a corded trunk with a blue-and-red label on it, a Fitzroy barometer, a map of Paris, a colouredposter of the Compagnie Transatlantique, and the mahogany retreatof the hall-portress. In that retreat was not only the hall-portress--an aged woman with a white cap above her wrinkled pinkface--but the mistress of the establishment. They were murmuringtogether softly; they seemed to be well disposed to one another.The portress was respectful, but the mistress was respectful also.The hall, with its one light tranquilly burning, was bathed in anhonest calm, the calm of a day's work accomplished, of gradualrelaxation from tension, of growing expectation of repose. In itssimplicity it affected Peel-Swynnerton as a medicine tonic fornerves might have affected him. In that hall, though exteriornocturnal life was but just stirring into activity, it seemed thatthe middle of the night had come, and that these two women alonewatched in a mansion full of sleepers. And all the recitals whichPeel-Swynnerton and Mr. Mardon had exchanged sank to the level ofpitiably foolish gossip. Peel-Swynnerton felt that his duty to thehouse was to retire to bed. He felt, too, that he could not leavethe house without saying that he was going out, and that he lackedthe courage deliberately to tell these two women that he was goingout--at that time of night! He dropped into one of the chairs andmade a second attempt to peruse The Referee. Useless! Either hismind was outside in the Champs Elysees, or his gaze would wandersurreptitiously to the figure of Mrs. Scales. He could not welldistinguish her face because it was in the shadow of the mahogany.
Then the portress came forth from her box, and, slightly bent,sped actively across the hall, smiling pleasantly at the guest asshe passed him, and disappeared up the stairs. The mistress wasalone in the retreat. Peel-Swynnerton jumped up brusquely,dropping the paper with a rustle, and approached her.
"Excuse me," he said deferentially. "Have any letters come for meto-night?"
Yes. Cyril Povey, of Bursley--in the Five Towns."philosophic curiosity.I suppose?"Whenshe .
He knew that the arrival of letters for him was impossible, sincenobody knew his address.
"What name?" The question was coldly polite, and the questionerlooked him full in the face. Undoubtedly she was a handsome woman.Her hair was greying at the temples, and the skin was withered andcrossed with lines. But she was handsome. She was one of thosewomen of whom to their last on earth the stranger will say: "Whenshe was young she must have been worth looking at!"--with a littletransient regret that beautiful young women cannot remain for everyoung. Her voice was firm and even, sweet in tone, and yet morallyharsh from incessant traffic--with all varieties of human nature.Her eyes were the impartial eyes of one who is always judging. Andevidently she was a proud, even a haughty creature, with hercareful, controlled politeness. Evidently she considered herselfsuperior to no matter what guest. Her eyes announced that she hadlived and learnt, that she knew more about life than any one whomshe was likely to meet, and that having pre-eminently succeeded inlife, she had tremendous confidence in herself. The proof of hersuccess was the unique Frensham's. A consciousness of theuniqueness of Frensham's was also in those eyes. TheoreticallyMatthew Peel-Swynnerton's mental attitude towards lodging-housekeepers was condescending, but here it was not condescending. Ithad the real respectfulness of a man who for the moment at anyrate is impressed beyond his calculations. His glance fell as hesaid--
"Peel-Swynnerton." Then he looked up again.
He said the words awkwardly, and rather fearfully, as if awarethat he was playing with fire. If this Mrs. Scales was the long-vanished aunt of his friend, Cyril Povey, she must know those twonames, locally so famous. Did she start? Did she show a sign ofbeing perturbed? At first he thought he detected a symptom ofemotion, but in an instant he was sure that he had detectednothing of the sort, and that it was silly to suppose that he wastreading on the edge of a romance. Then she turned towards theletter-rack at her side, and he saw her face in profile. It bore asudden and astonishing likeness to the profile of Cyril Povey; aresemblance unmistakable and finally decisive. The nose, and thecurve of the upper lip were absolutely Cyril's. Matthew Peel-Swynnerton felt very queer. He felt like a criminal in peril ofbeing caught in the act, and he could not understand why he shouldfeel so. The landlady looked in the 'P' pigeon-hole, and in the'S' pigeon-hole.
"No," she said quietly, "I see nothing for you."
Taken with a swift rash audacity, he said: "Have you had any onenamed Povey here recently?"
"Povey?"
"Yes. Cyril Povey, of Bursley--in the Five Towns."
He was very impressionable, very sensitive, was Matthew Peel-Swynnerton. His voice trembled as he spoke. But hers also trembledin reply.
"Not that I remember! No! Were you expecting him to be here?"
"Well, it wasn't at all sure," he muttered. "Thank you. Good-night."
"Good-night," she said, apparently with the simple perfunctorinessof the landlady who says good-night to dozens of strangers everyevening.
He hurried away upstairs, and met the portress coming down. "Well,well!" he thought. "Of all the queer things--!" And he keptnodding his head. At last he had encountered something REALLYstrange in the spectacle of existence. It had fallen to him todiscover the legendary woman who had fled from Bursley before hewas born, and of whom nobody knew anything. What news for Cyril!What a staggering episode! He had scarcely any sleep that night.He wondered whether he would be able to meet Mrs. Scales withoutself-consciousness on the morrow. However, he was spared thecurious ordeal of meeting her. She did not appear at all on thefollowing day; nor did he see her before he left. He could notfind a pretext for asking why she was invisible.