老妇人的故事 英文版The Old Wives' Tale
阿诺德.本涅特 Arnold Bennett
III
The next morning, after a night varied by periods of wakefulnessnot unpleasant, Sophia arose and, taking due precautions againstcold, went to the window. It was Saturday; she had left Paris onthe Thursday. She looked forth upon the Square, holding aside theblind. She had expected, of course, to find that the Square hadshrunk in size; but nevertheless she was startled to see how smallit was. It seemed to her scarcely bigger than a courtyard. Shecould remember a winter morning when from the window she hadwatched the Square under virgin snow in the lamplight, and theSquare had been vast, and the first wayfarer, crossing itdiagonally and leaving behind him the irregular impress of hisfeet, had appeared to travel for hours over an interminable whitewaste before vanishing past Holl's shop in the direction of theTown Hall. She chiefly recalled the Square under snow; coldmornings, and the coldness of the oil-cloth at the window, and thedraught of cold air through the ill-fitting sash (it was put rightnow)! These visions of herself seemed beautiful to her; herchildish existence seemed beautiful; the storms and tempests ofher girlhood seemed beautiful; even the great sterile expanse oftedium when, after giving up a scholastic career, she had servedfor two years in the shop--even this had a strange charm in hermemory.
And she thought that not for millions of pounds would she live herlife over again.
In its contents the Square had not surprisingly changed during theimmense, the terrifying interval that separated her from hervirginity. On the east side, several shops had been thrown intoone, and forced into a semblance of eternal unity by means of acoat of stucco. And there was a fountain at the north end whichwas new to her. No other constructional change! But the moralchange, the sad declension from the ancient proud spirit of theSquare--this was painfully depressing. Several establishmentslacked tenants, had obviously lacked tenants for a long time; 'Tolet' notices hung in their stained and dirty upper windows, andclung insecurely to their closed shutters. And on the sign-boardsof these establishments were names that Sophia did not know. Thecharacter of most of the shops seemed to have worsened; they hadbecome pettifogging little holes, unkempt, shabby, poor; they hadno brightness, no feeling of vitality. And the floor of the Squarewas littered with nondescript refuse. The whole scene, paltry,confined, and dull, reached for her the extreme of provinciality.It was what the French called, with a pregnant intonation, laprovince. This--being said, there was nothing else to say.Bursley, of course, was in the provinces; Bursley must, in thenature of things, be typically provincial. But in her mind it hadalways been differentiated from the common province; it had alwayshad an air, a distinction, and especially St. Luke's Square! Thatillusion was now gone. Still, the alteration was not wholly inherself; it was not wholly subjective. The Square really hadchanged for the worse; it might not be smaller, but it haddeteriorated. As a centre of commerce it had assuredly approachedvery near to death. On a Saturday morning thirty years ago itwould have been covered with linen-roofed stalls, and chatteringcountry-folk, and the stir of bargains. Now, Saturday morning waslike any other morning in the Square, and the glass-roof of St.Luke's market in Wedgwood Street, which she could see from herwindow, echoed to the sounds of noisy commerce. In that instancebusiness had simply moved a few yards to the east; but Sophiaknew, from hints in Constance's letters and in her talk, thatbusiness in general had moved more than a few yards, it had moveda couple of miles--to arrogant and pushing Hanbridge, with itselectric light and its theatres and its big, advertising shops.The heaven of thick smoke over the Square, the black deposit onpainted woodwork, the intermittent hooting of steam syrens, showedthat the wholesale trade of Bursley still flourished. But Sophiahad no memories of the wholesale trade of Bursley; it meantnothing to the youth of her heart; she was attached by intimatelinks to the retail traffic of Bursley, and as a mart old Bursleywas done for.
She thought: "It would kill me if I had to live here. It'sdeadening. It weighs on you. And the dirt, and the horribleugliness! And the--way they talk, and the way they think! I feltit first at Knype station. The Square is rather picturesque, butit's such a poor, poor little thing! Fancy having to look at itevery morning of one's life! No!" She almost shuddered.
For the time being she had no home. To Constance she was 'paying avisit.'
Constance did not appear to realize the awful conditions of dirt,decay, and provinciality in which she was living. Even Constance'shouse was extremely inconvenient, dark, and no doubt unhealthy.Cellar-kitchen, no hall, abominable stairs, and as to hygiene,simply mediaeval. She could not understand why Constance hadremained in the house. Constance had plenty of money and mightlive where she liked, and in a good modern house. Yet she stayedin the Square. "I daresay she's got used to it," Sophia thoughtleniently. "I daresay I should be just the same in her place." Butshe did not really think so, and she could not understandConstance's state of mind.
Certainly she could not claim to have 'added up' Constance yet.She considered that her sister was in some respects utterlyprovincial--what they used to call in the Five Towns a 'body.'Somewhat too diffident, not assertive enough, not erect enough;with curious provincial pronunciations, accents, gestures,mannerisms, and inarticulate ejaculations; with a curiousnarrowness of outlook! But at the same time Constance was veryshrewd, and she was often proving by some bit of a remark that sheknew what was what, despite her provinciality. In judgments uponhuman nature they undoubtedly thought alike, and there was astrong natural general sympathy between them. And at the bottom ofConstance was something fine. At intervals Sophia discoveredherself secretly patronizing Constance, but reflection wouldalways cause her to cease from patronage and to examine her owndefences. Constance, besides being the essence of kindness, was nofool. Constance could see through a pretence, an absurdity, asquickly as any one. Constance did honestly appear to Sophia to besuperior to any Frenchwoman that she had ever encountered. She sawsupreme in Constance that quality which she had recognized in theporters at Newhaven on landing--the quality of an honest and naivegoodwill, of powerful simplicity. That quality presented itself toher as the greatest in the world, and it seemed to be in the veryair of England. She could even detect it in Mr. Critchlow, whom,for the rest, she liked, admiring the brutal force of hischaracter. She pardoned his brutality to his wife. She found itproper. "After all," she said, "supposing he hadn't married her,what would she have been? Nothing but a slave! She's infinitelybetter off as his wife. In fact she's lucky. And it would beabsurd for him to treat her otherwise than he does treat her."(Sophia did not divine that her masterful Critchlow had oncewanted Maria as one might want a star.)
But to be always with such people! To be always with Constance! Tobe always in the Bursley atmosphere, physical and mental!
She pictured Paris as it would be on that very morning--bright,clean, glittering; the neatness of the Rue Lord Byron, and themagnificent slanting splendour of the Champs Elysees. Paris hadalways seemed beautiful to her; but the life of Paris had notseemed beautiful to her. Yet now it did seem beautiful. She coulddelve down into the earlier years of her ownership of the Pension,and see a regular, placid beauty in her daily life there. Her lifethere, even so late as a fortnight ago, seemed beautiful; sad, butbeautiful. It had passed into history. She sighed when she thoughtof the innumerable interviews with Mardon, the endless formalitiesrequired by the English and the French law and by theparticularity of the Syndicate. She had been through all that. Shehad actually been through it and it was over. She had bought thePension for a song and sold it for great riches. She had developedfrom a nobody into the desired of Syndicates. And after long,long, monotonous, strenuous years of possession the day had come,the emotional moment had come, when she had yielded up the keys ofownership to Mr. Mardon and a man from the Hotel Moscow, and hadpaid her servants for the last time and signed the last receiptedbill. The men had been very gallant, and had requested her to stayin the Pension as their guest until she was ready to leave Paris.But she had declined that. She could not have borne to remain inthe Pension under the reign of another. She had left at once andgone to a hotel with her few goods while finally disposing ofcertain financial questions. And one evening Jacqueline had cometo see her, and had wept.
Her exit from the Pension Frensham struck her now as poignantlypathetic, in its quickness and its absence of ceremonial. Tensteps, and her career was finished, closed. Astonishing with whatliquid tenderness she turned and looked back on that hard,fighting, exhausting life in Paris! For, even if she hadunconsciously liked it, she had never enjoyed it. She had alwayscompared France disadvantageously with England, always resentedthe French temperament in business, always been convinced that'you never knew where you were' with French tradespeople. And nowthey flitted before her endowed with a wondrous charm; so politein their lying, so eager to spare your feelings and to reassureyou, so neat and prim. And the French shops, so exquisitelyarranged! Even a butcher's shop in Paris was a pleasure to theeye, whereas the butcher's shop in Wedgwood Street, which sheremembered of old, and which she had glimpsed from the cab--what abloody shambles! She longed for Paris again. She longed to stretchher lungs in Paris. These people in Bursley did not suspect whatParis was. They did not appreciate and they never would appreciatethe marvels that she had accomplished in a theatre of marvels.They probably never realized that the whole of the rest of theworld was not more or less like Bursley. They had no curiosity.Even Constance was a thousand times more interested in relatingtrifles of Bursley gossip than in listening to details of life inParis. Occasionally she had expressed a mild, vapid surprise atthings told to her by Sophia; but she was not really impressed,because her curiosity did not extend beyond Bursley. She, like therest, had the formidable, thrice-callous egotism of the provinces.And if Sophia had informed her that the heads of Parisians grewout of their navels she would have murmured: "Well, well! Blessus! I never heard of such things! Mrs. Brindley's second boy hasgot his head quite crooked, poor little fellow!"
Why should Sophia feel sorrowful? She did not know. She was free;free to go where she liked and do what she liked, She had noresponsibilities, no cares. The thought of her husband had longago ceased to rouse in her any feeling of any kind. She was rich.Mr. Critchlow had accumulated for her about as much money as shehad herself acquired. Never could she spend her income! She didnot know how to spend it. She lacked nothing that was procurable.She had no desires except the direct desire for happiness. Ifthirty thousand pounds or so could have bought a son like Cyril,she would have bought one for herself. She bitterly regretted thatshe had no child. In this, she envied Constance. A child seemed tobe the one commodity worth having. She was too free, too exemptfrom responsibilities. In spite of Constance she was alone in theworld. The strangeness of the hazards of life overwhelmed her.Here she was at fifty, alone.
But the idea of leaving Constance, having once rejoined her, didnot please Sophia. It disquieted her. She could not see herselfliving away from Constance. She was alone--but Constance wasthere.
She was downstairs first, and she had a little conversation withAmy. And she stood on the step of the front-door while Fossettemade a preliminary inspection of Spot's gutter. She found the airnipping.
Constance, when she descended, saw stretching across one side ofthe breakfast-table an umbrella, Sophia's present to her fromParis. It was an umbrella such that a better could not be bought.It would have impressed even Aunt Harriet. The handle was of gold,set with a circlet of opalines. The tips of the ribs were also ofgold. It was this detail which staggered Constance. Frankly, thisdevelopment of luxury had been unknown and unsuspected in theSquare. That the tips of the ribs should match the handle ... thatdid truly beat everything! Sophia said calmly that the device wasquite common. But she did not conceal that the umbrella wasstrictly of the highest class and that it might be shown to queenswithout shame. She intimated that the frame (a 'Fox's Paragon'),handle, and tips, would outlast many silks. Constance was childishwith pleasure.
They decided to go out marketing together. The unspoken thought intheir minds was that as Sophia would have to be introduced to thetown sooner or later, it might as well be sooner. Constance lookedat the sky. "It can't possibly rain," she said. "I shall take myumbrella."