老妇人的故事 英文版The Old Wives' Tale
阿诺德.本涅特 Arnold Bennett
V
"My darling Sophia--"
The inevitable miracle had occurred. Her suspicions concerningthat Mr. Peel-Swynnerton were well-founded, after all! Here was aletter from Constance! The writing on the envelope was notConstance's; but even before examining it she had had a peculiarqualm. She received letters from England nearly every day askingabout rooms and prices (and on many of them she had to paythreepence excess postage, because the writers carelessly orcarefully forgot that a penny stamp was not sufficient); there wasnothing to distinguish this envelope, and yet her first glance atit had startled her; and when, deciphering the smudged post-mark,she made out the word 'Bursley,' her heart did literally seem tostop, and she opened the letter in quite violent tremulation,thinking to herself: "The doctor would say this is very bad forme." Six days had elapsed since her attack, and she waswonderfully better; the distortion of her face had almostdisappeared. But the doctor was grave; he ordered no medicine,merely a tonic; and monotonously insisted on 'repose the mostabsolute,' on perfect mental calm. He said little else, allowingSophia to judge from his silences the seriousness of hercondition. Yes, the receipt of such a letter must be bad for her!
She controlled herself while she read it, lying in her dressing-gown against several pillows on the bed; a mist did not form inher eyes, nor did she sob, nor betray physically that she was notreading an order for two rooms for a week. But the expenditure ofnervous force necessary to self-control was terrific.
Constance's handwriting had changed; it was, however, easilyrecognizable as a development of the neat calligraphy of the girlwho could print window-tickets. The 'S' of Sophia was formed inthe same way as she had formed it in the last letter which she hadreceived from her at Axe!
"MY DARLING SOPHIA,
"I cannot tell you how overjoyed I was to learn that after allthese years you are alive and well, and doing so well too. I longto see you, my dear sister. It was Mr. Peel-Swynnerton who toldme. He is a friend of Cyril's. Cyril is the name of my son. Imarried Samuel in 1867. Cyril was born in 1874 at Christmas. He isnow twenty-two, and doing very well in London as a student ofsculpture, though so young. He won a National Scholarship. Therewere only eight, of which he won one, in all England. Samuel diedin 1888. If you read the papers you must have seen about the Poveyaffair. I mean of course Mr. Daniel Povey, Confectioner. It wasthat that killed poor Samuel. Poor mother died in 1875. It doesn'tseem so long. Aunt Harriet and Aunt Maria are both dead. Old Dr.Harrop is dead, and his son has practically retired. He has apartner, a Scotchman. Mr. Critchlow has married Miss Insull. Didyou ever hear of such a thing? They have taken over the shop, andI live in the house part, the other being bricked up. Business inthe Square is not what it used to be. The steam trams take all thecustom to Hanbridge, and they are talking of electric trams, but Idare say it is only talk. I have a fairly good servant. She hasbeen with me a long time, but servants are not what they were. Ikeep pretty well, except for my sciatica and palpitation. SinceCyril went to London I have been very lonely. But I try to cheerup and count my blessings. I am sure I have a great deal to bethankful for. And now this news of you! Please write to me a longletter, and tell me all about yourself. It is a long way to Paris.But surely now you know I am still here, you will come and pay mea visit--at least. Everybody would be most glad to see you. And Ishould be so proud and glad. As I say, I am all alone. Mr.Critchlow says I am to say there is a deal of money waiting foryou. You know he is the trustee. There is the half-share ofmother's and also of Aunt Harriet's, and it has been accumulating.By the way, they are getting up a subscription for Miss Chetwynd,poor old thing. Her sister is dead, and she is in poverty. I haveput myself down for L20. Now, my dear sister, please do write tome at once. You see it is still the old address. I remain, mydarling Sophia, with much love, your affectionate sister,
"CONSTANCE POVEY.
"P.S.--I should have written yesterday, but I was not fit. Everytime I sat down to write, I cried."
"Of course," said Sophia to Fossette, "she expects me to go toher, instead of her coming to me! And yet who's the busiest?"
But this observation was not serious. It was merely a trifle ofaffectionate malicious embroidery that Sophia put on the edge ofher deep satisfaction. The very spirit of simple love seemed toemanate from the paper on which Constance had written. And thisspirit woke suddenly and completely Sophia's love for Constance.Constance! At that moment there was assuredly for Sophia nocreature in the world like Constance. Constance personified forher the qualities of the Baines family. Constance's letter was agreat letter, a perfect letter, perfect in its artlessness; thenatural expression of the Baines character at its best. Not anawkward reference in the whole of it! No clumsy expression ofsurprise at anything that she, Sophia, had done, or failed to do!No mention of Gerald! Just a sublime acceptance of the situationas it was, and the assurance of undiminished love! Tact? No; itwas something finer than tact! Tact was conscious, skilful. Sophiawas certain that the notion of tactfulness had not enteredConstance's head. Constance had simply written out of her heart.And that was what made the letter so splendid. Sophia wasconvinced that no one but a Baines could have written such aletter. She felt that she must rise to the height of that letter,that she too must show her Baines blood. And she went primly toher desk, and began to write (on private notepaper) in thatimperious large hand of hers that was so different fromConstance's. She began a little stiffly, but after a few lines hergenerous and passionate soul was responding freely to the appealof Constance. She asked that Mr. Critchlow should pay L20 for herto the Miss Chetwynd fund. She spoke of her Pension and of Paris,and of her pleasure in Constance's letter. But she said nothing asto Gerald, nor as to the possibility of a visit to the Five Towns.She finished the letter in a blaze of love, and passed from it asfrom a dream to the sterile banality of the daily life of thePension Frensham, feeling that, compared to Constance's affection,nothing else had any worth.
But she would not consider the project of going to Bursley. Never,never would she go to Bursley. If Constance chose to come to Parisand see her, she would be delighted, but she herself would notbudge. The mere notion of any change in her existence intimidatedher. And as for returning to Bursley itself ... no, no!
Nevertheless, at the Pension Frensham, the future could not be asthe past. Sophia's health forbade that. She knew that the doctorwas right. Every time that she made an effort, she knew intimatelyand speedily that the doctor was right. Only her will-power wasunimpaired; the machinery by which will-power is converted intoaction was mysteriously damaged. She was aware of the fact. Butshe could not face it yet. Time would have to elapse before shecould bring herself to face that fact. She was getting an oldwoman. She could no longer draw on reserves. Yet she persisted toevery one that she was quite recovered, and was abstaining fromher customary work simply from an excess of prudence. Certainlyher face had recovered. And the Pension, being a machine all ofwhose parts were in order, continued to run, apparently, with itsusual smoothness. It is true that the excellent chef began topeculate, but as his cuisine did not suffer, the result was notnoticeable for a long period. The whole staff and many of theguests knew that Sophia had been indisposed; and they knew nomore.
When by hazard Sophia observed a fault in the daily conduct of thehouse, her first impulse was to go to the root of it and cure it,her second was to leave it alone, or to palliate it by somesuperficial remedy. Unperceived, and yet vaguely suspected byvarious people, the decline of the Pension Frensham had set in.The tide, having risen to its highest, was receding, but so littlethat no one could be sure that it had turned. Every now and thenit rushed up again and washed the furthest stone.
Sophia and Constance exchanged several letters. Sophia saidrepeatedly that she could not leave Paris. At length she roundlyasked Constance to come and pay her a visit. She made thesuggestion with fear--for the prospect of actually seeing herbeloved Constance alarmed her--but she could do no less than makeit. And in a few days she had a reply to say that Constance wouldhave come, under Cyril's charge, but that her sciatica wassuddenly much worse, and she was obliged to lie down every dayafter dinner to rest her legs. Travelling was impossible for her.The fates were combining against Sophia's decision.
And now Sophia began to ask herself about her duty to Constance.The truth was that she was groping round to find an excuse forreversing her decision. She was afraid to reverse it, yet tempted.She had the desire to do something which she objected to doing. Itwas like the desire to throw one's self over a high balcony. Itdrew her, drew her, and she drew back against it. The Pension wasnow tedious to her. It bored her even to pretend to be thesupervising head of the Pension. Throughout the house disciplinehad loosened.
She wondered when Mr. Mardon would renew his overtures for thetransformation of her enterprise into a limited company. In spiteof herself she would deliberately cross his path and give himopportunities to begin on the old theme. He had never before lefther in peace for so long a period. No doubt she had, upon his lastassault, absolutely convinced him that his efforts had no smallestchance of success, and he had made up his mind to cease them. Witha single word she could wind him up again. The merest hint, oneday when he was paying his bill, and he would be beseeching her.But she could not utter the word.
Then she began to say openly that she did not feel well, that thehouse was too much for her, and that the doctor had imperativelycommanded rest. She said this to every one except Mardon. Andevery one somehow persisted in not saying it to Mardon. The doctorhaving advised that she should spend more time in the open air,she would take afternoon drives in the Bois with Fossette. It wasOctober. But Mr. Mardon never seemed to hear of those drives.
One morning he met her in the street outside the house.
"I'm sorry to hear you're so unwell," he said confidentially,after they had discussed the health of Fossette.
"So unwell!" she exclaimed as if resenting the statement. "Whotold you I was so unwell?"
, nor betray physically that she was notreading an order for two rooms.
"Jacqueline. She told me you often said that what you needed was acomplete change. And it seems the doctor says so, too."
"Oh! doctors!" she murmured, without however denying the truth ofJacqueline's assertion. She saw hope in Mr. Mardon's eyes.
"Of course, you know," he said, still more confidentially, "if youSHOULD happen to change your mind, I'm always ready to form alittle syndicate to take this"--he waved discreetly at thePension--"off your hands."
She shook her head violently, which was strange, considering thatfor weeks she had been wishing to hear such words from Mr. Mardon.
"You needn't give it up altogether," he said. "You could retainyour hold on it. We'd make you manageress, with a salary and ashare in the profits. You'd be mistress just as much as you arenow."
"Oh!" said she carelessly. "IF _I_ GAVE IT UP, _I_ SHOULD GIVE ITUP ENTIRELY. No half measures for me."
She knew that the doctorwas right. Every time that she made an.
With the utterance of that sentence, the history of Frensham's asa private understanding was brought to a close. Sophia knew it.Mr. Mardon knew it. Mr. Mardon's heart leapt. He saw in hisimagination the formation of the preliminary syndicate, withhimself at its head, and then the re-sale by the syndicate to alimited company at a profit. He saw a nice little profit for hisown private personal self of a thousand or so--gained in a moment.The plant, his hope, which he had deemed dead, blossomed withmiraculous suddenness.
"Well," he said. "Give it up entirely, then! Take a holiday forlife. You've deserved it, Mrs. Scales."
She shook her head once again.
"Think it over," he said.
known throughout Europe and America. Itwas like the desire to throw one's self over a high .
"I gave you my answer years ago," she said obstinately, whilefearing lest he should take her at her word.
"Oblige me by thinking it over," he said. "I'll mention it to youagain in a few days."
"It will be no use," she said.
He took his leave, waddling down the street in his vague clothes,conscious of his fame as Lewis Mardon, the great house-agent ofthe Champs Elysees, known throughout Europe and America.
In a few days he did mention it again.
"There's only one thing that makes me dream of it even for amoment," said Sophia. "And that is my sister's health."
"Your sister!" he exclaimed. He did not know she had a sister.Never had she spoken of her family.
"Yes. Her letters are beginning to worry me."
"Does she live in Paris?"
"No. In Staffordshire. She has never left home."
And to preserve her pride intact she led Mr. Mardon to think thatConstance was in a most serious way, whereas in truth Constancehad nothing worse than her sciatica, and even that was somewhatbetter.
Thus she yielded.