老妇人的故事 英文版The Old Wives' Tale
阿诺德.本涅特 Arnold Bennett
I
Soon after dinner one day in the following spring, Mr. Critchlowknocked at Constance's door. She was seated in the rocking-chairin front of the fire in the parlour. She wore a large 'rough'apron, and with the outlying parts of the apron she was rubbingthe moisture out of the coat of a young wire-haired fox-terrier,for whom no more original name had been found than 'Spot.' It istrue that he had a spot. Constance had more than once called theworld to witness that she would never have a young dog again,because, as she said, she could not be always running about afterthem, and they ate the stuffing out of the furniture. But her lastdog had lived too long; a dog can do worse things than eatfurniture; and, in her natural reaction against age in dogs, andalso in the hope of postponing as long as possible the inevitablesorrow and upset which death causes when it takes off a domesticpet, she had not known how to refuse the very desirable fox-terrier aged ten months that an acquaintance had offered to her.Spot's beautiful pink skin could be seen under his disturbed hair;he was exquisitely soft to the touch, and to himself he wasloathsome. His eyes continually peeped forth between corners ofthe agitated towel, and they were full of inquietude and shame.
Amy was assisting at this performance, gravely on the watch to seethat Spot did not escape into the coal-cellar. She opened the doorto Mr. Critchlow's knock. Mr. Critchlow entered without anyformalities, as usual. He did not seem to have changed. He had thesame quantity of white hair, he wore the same long white apron,and his voice (which showed however an occasional tendency toshrillness) had the same grating quality. He stood fairlystraight. He was carrying a newspaper in his vellum hand.
"Well, missis!" he said.
"That will do, thank you, Amy," said Constance, quietly. Amy wentslowly.
"So ye're washing him for her!" said Mr. Critchlow.
"Yes," Constance admitted. Spot glanced sharply at the aged man.
"An' ye seen this bit in the paper about Sophia?" he asked,holding the Signal for her inspection.
"About Sophia?" cried Constance. "What's amiss?"
"Nothing's amiss. But they've got it. It's in the 'Staffordshireday by day' column. Here! I'll read it ye." He drew a long woodenspectacle-case from his waistcoat pocket, and placed a second pairof spectacles on his nose. Then he sat down on the sofa, his kneessticking out pointedly, and read: "'We understand that Mrs. SophiaScales, proprietress of the famous Pension Frensham in the RueLord Byron, Paris'--it's that famous that nobody in th' Five Townshas ever heard of it--'is about to pay a visit to her native town,Bursley, after an absence of over thirty years. Mrs. Scalesbelonged to the well-known and highly respected family of Baines.She has recently disposed of the Pension Frensham to a limitedcompany, and we are betraying no secret in stating that the pricepaid ran well into five figures.' So ye see!" Mr. Critchlowcommented.
"How do those Signal people find out things?" Constance murmured.
"Eh, bless ye, I don't know," said Mr. Critchlow.
This was an untruth. Mr. Critchlow had himself given theinformation to the new editor of the Signal, who had soon beenmade aware of Critchlow's passion for the press, and who knew howto make use of it.
"I wish it hadn't appeared just to-day," said Constance.
"Why?"
"Oh! I don't know, I wish it hadn't."
"Well, I'll be touring on, missis," said Mr. Critchlow, meaningthat he would go.
He left the paper, and descended the steps with seniledeliberation. It was characteristic that he had shown no curiositywhatever as to the details of Sophia's arrival.
Constance removed her apron,, wrapped Spot up in it, and put himin a corner of the sofa. She then abruptly sent Amy out to buy apenny time-table.
"I thought you were going by tram to Knype," Amy observed.
"I have decided to go by train," said Constance, with colddignity, as if she had decided the fate of nations. She hated suchobservations from Amy, who unfortunately lacked, in an increasingdegree, the supreme gift of unquestioning obedience.
When Amy came breathlessly back, she found Constance in herbedroom, withdrawing crumpled balls of paper from the sleeves ofher second-best mantle. Constance scarcely ever wore this mantle.In theory it was destined for chapel on wet Sundays; in practiceit had remained long in the wardrobe, Sundays having beenobstinately fine for weeks and weeks together. It was a mantlethat Constance had never really liked. But she was not going toKnype to meet Sophia in her everyday mantle; and she had nointention of donning her best mantle for such an excursion. Tomake her first appearance before Sophia in the best mantle shehad--this would have been a sad mistake of tactics! Not only wouldit have led to an anti-climax on Sunday, but it would have givento Constance the air of being in awe of Sophia. Now Constance wasin truth a little afraid of Sophia; in thirty years Sophia mighthave grown into anything, whereas Constance had remained justConstance. Paris was a great place; and it was immensely far off.And the mere sound of that limited company business wasintimidating. Imagine Sophia having by her own efforts createdsomething which a real limited company wanted to buy and hadbought! Yes, Constance was afraid, but she did not mean to showher fear in her mantle. After all, she was the elder. And she hadher dignity too--and a lot of it--tucked away in her secret heart,hidden within the mildness of that soft exterior. So she haddecided on the second-best mantle, which, being seldom used, hadits sleeves stuffed with paper to the end that they might keeptheir shape and their 'fall.' The little balls of paper werestrewed over the bed.
"There's a train at a quarter to three, gets to Knype at tenminutes past." said Amy. officiously. "But supposing it was onlythree minutes late and the London train was prompt, then you mightmiss her. Happen you'd better take the two fifteen to be on thesafe side."
"Let me look," said Constance, firmly. "Please put all this paperin the wardrobe."
She would have preferred not to follow Amy's suggestion, but itwas so incontestably wise that she was obliged to accept it.
"Unless ye go by tram," said Amy. "That won't mean starting quiteso soon."
But Constance would not go by tram. If she took the tram she wouldbe bound to meet people who had read the Signal, and who wouldsay, with their stupid vacuity: "Going to meet your sister atKnype?" And then tiresome conversations would follow. Whereas, inthe train, she would choose a compartment, and would be far lesslikely to encounter chatterers.
There was now not a minute to lose. And the excitement which hadbeen growing in that house for days past, under a pretence ofcalm, leapt out swiftly into the light of the sun, and wasunashamed. Amy had to help her mistress make herself as comely asshe could be made without her best dress, mantle, and bonnet. Amywas frankly consulted as to effects. The barrier of class waslowered for a space. Many years had elapsed since Constance hadbeen conscious of a keen desire to look smart. She was reminded ofthe days when, in full fig for chapel, she would dash downstairson a Sunday morning, and, assuming a pose for inspection at thethreshold of the parlour, would demand of Samuel: "Shall I do?"Yes, she used to dash downstairs, like a child, and yet in thosedays she had thought herself so sedate and mature! She sighed,half with lancinating regret, and half in gentle disdain of thatmercurial creature aged less than thirty. At fifty-one sheregarded herself as old. And she was old. And Amy had the tricksand manners of an old spinster. Thus the excitement in the housewas an 'old' excitement, and, like Constance's desire to looksmart, it had its ridiculous side, which was also its tragic side,the side that would have made a boor guffaw, and a hysterical foolcry, and a wise man meditate sadly upon the earth's fashion ofrenewing itself.
At half-past one Constance was dressed, with the exception of hergloves. She looked at the clock a second time to make sure thatshe might safely glance round the house without fear of missingthe train. She went up into the bedroom on the second-floor, herand Sophia's old bedroom, which she had prepared with enormouscare for Sophia. The airing of that room had been an enterprise ofdays, for, save by a minister during the sittings of the WesleyanMethodist Conference at Bursley, it had never been occupied sincethe era when Maria Insull used occasionally to sleep in the house.Cyril clung to his old room on his visits. Constance had an amplesupply of solid and stately furniture, and the chamber destinedfor Sophia was lightened in every corner by the reflections ofpolished mahogany. It was also fairly impregnated with the odourof furniture paste--an odour of which no housewife need beashamed. Further, it had been re-papered in a delicate blue, withone of the new 'art' patterns. It was a 'Baines' room. AndConstance did not care where Sophia came from, nor what Sophia hadbeen accustomed to, nor into what limited company Sophia had beentransformed--that room was adequate! It could not have beenimproved upon. You had only to look at the crocheted mats--eventhose on the washstand under the white-and-gold ewer and otherutensils. It was folly to expose such mats to the splashings of awashstand, but it was sublime folly. Sophia might remove them ifshe cared. Constance was house-proud; house-pride had slumberedwithin her; now it blazed forth.
A fire brightened the drawing-room, which was a truly magnificentapartment, a museum of valuables collected by the Baines and theMaddack families since the year 1840, tempered by the latestnovelties in antimacassars and cloths. In all Bursley there couldhave been few drawing-rooms to compare with Constance's. Constanceknew it. She was not afraid of her drawing-room being seen byanybody.
She passed for an instant into her own bedroom, where Amy waspatiently picking balls of paper from the bed.
"Now you quite understand about tea?" Constance asked.
"Oh yes, 'm," said Amy, as if to say: "How much oftener are yougoing to ask me that question?" "Are you off now, 'm?"
"Yes," said Constance. "Come and fasten the front-door after me."
They descended together to the parlour. A white cloth for tea layfolded on the table. It was of the finest damask that skill couldchoose and money buy. It was fifteen years old, and had never beenspread. Constance would not have produced it for the first meal,had she not possessed two other of equal eminence. On theharmonium were ranged several jams and cakes, a Bursley pork-pie,and some pickled salmon; with the necessary silver. All was there.Amy could not go wrong. And crocuses were in the vases on themantelpiece. Her 'garden,' in the phrase which used to causeSamuel to think how extraordinarily feminine she was! It was along time since she had had a 'garden' on the mantelpiece. Herinterest in her chronic sciatica and in her palpitations had grownat the expense of her interest in gardens. Often, when she hadfinished the complicated processes by which her furniture andother goods were kept in order, she had strength only to 'rest.'She was rather a fragile, small, fat woman, soon out of breath,easily marred. This business of preparing for the advent of Sophiahad appeared to her genuinely colossal. However, she had comethrough it very well. She was in pretty good health; only a littletired, and more than a little anxious and nervous, as she gave thelast glance.
"Take away that apron, do!" she said to Amy, pointing to the roughapron in the corner of the sofa. "By the way, where is Spot?"
"Spot, m'm?" Amy ejaculated.
Both their hearts jumped. Amy instinctively looked out of thewindow. He was there, sure enough, in the gutter, studying theindescribabilities of King Street. He had obviously escaped whenAmy came in from buying the time-table. The woman's face wasguilty.
"Amy, I wonder AT you!" exclaimed Constance, tragically. Sheopened the door.
downwards at thefolds of her mantle. touring on, missis.
"Well, I never did see the like of that dog!" murmured Amy.
"Spot!" his mistress commanded. "Come here at once. Do you hearme?"
Spot turned sharply and gazed motionless at Constance. Then with atoss of the head he dashed off to the corner of the Square, andgazed motionless again. Amy went forth to catch him. After an ageshe brought him in, squealing. He was in a state exceedinglyoffensive to the eye and to the nose. He had effectively got ridof the smell of soap, which he loathed. Constance could have wept.It did really appear to her that nothing had gone right that day.And Spot had the most innocent, trustful air. Impossible to makehim realize that his aunt Sophia was coming. He would have soldhis entire family into servitude in order to buy ten yards of KingStreet gutter.
"You must wash him in the scullery, that's all there is for it,"said Constance, controlling herself. "Put that apron on, and don'tforget one of your new aprons when you open the door. Better shuthim up in Mr. Cyril's bedroom when you've dried him."
And she went, charged with worries, clasping her bag and herumbrella and smoothing her gloves, and spying downwards at thefolds of her mantle.
"That's a funny way to go to Bursley Station, that is," said Amy,observing that Constance was descending King Street instead ofcrossing it into Wedgwood Street. And she caught Spot 'a fairclout on the head,' to indicate to him that she had him alone inthe house now.
Constance was taking a round-about route to the station, so that,if stopped by acquaintances, she should not be too obviously goingto the station. Her feelings concerning the arrival of Sophia, andconcerning the town's attitude towards it, were very complex.
She was forced to hurry. And she had risen that morning with plansperfectly contrived for the avoidance of hurry. She disliked hurrybecause it always 'put her about.'