老妇人的故事 英文版The Old Wives' Tale
阿诺德.本涅特 Arnold Bennett
VI Page 1
A week before Easter the guests of the Rutland Hotel in the BroadWalk, Buxton, being assembled for afternoon tea in the "lounge" ofthat establishment, witnessed the arrival of two middle-agedladies and two dogs. Critically to examine newcomers was one ofthe amusements of the occupants of the lounge. This apartment,furnished "in the oriental style," made a pretty show among thephotographs in the illustrated brochure of the hotel, and, thoughdraughty, it was of all the public rooms the favourite. It wasdraughty because only separated from the street (if the Broad Walkcan be called a street) by two pairs of swinging-doors--in chargeof two page-boys. Every visitor entering the hotel was obliged topass through the lounge, and for newcomers the passage was anordeal; they were made to feel that they had so much to learn, somuch to get accustomed to; like passengers who join a ship at aport of call, they felt that the business lay before them ofcreating a niche for themselves in a hostile and haughty society.The two ladies produced a fairly favourable impression at theoutset by reason of their two dogs. It is not every one who hasthe courage to bring dogs into an expensive private hotel; tobring one dog indicates that you are not accustomed to denyyourself small pleasures for the sake of a few extra shillings; tobring two indicates that you have no fear of hotel-managers andthat you are in the habit of regarding your own whim as nature'slaw. The shorter and stouter of the two ladies did not imposeherself with much force on the collective vision of the Rutland;she was dressed in black, not fashionably, though with a certainunpretending richness; her gestures were timid and nervous;evidently she relied upon her tall companion to shield her in thefirst trying contacts of hotel life. The tall lady was of adifferent stamp. Handsome, stately, deliberate, and handsomelydressed in colours, she had the assured hard gaze of a person whois thoroughly habituated to the inspection of strangers. Shecurtly asked one of the page-boys for the manager, and themanager's wife tripped rapidly down the stairs in response, andwas noticeably deferential--Her voice was quiet and commanding,the voice of one who gives orders that are obeyed. The opinion ofthe lounge was divided as to whether or not they were sisters.
They vanished quietly upstairs in convoy of the manager's wife,and they did not re-appear for the lounge tea, which in any casewould have been undrinkably stewed. It then became known, by theagency of one of those guests, to be found in every hotel, whoacquire all the secrets of the hotel by the exercise of unabashedcuriosity on the personnel, that the two ladies had engaged twobedrooms, Nos. 17 and 18, and the sumptuous private parlour with abalcony on the first floor, styled "C" in the nomenclature ofrooms. This fact definitely established the position of the newarrivals in the moral fabric of the hotel. They were wealthy. Theyhad money to throw away. For even in a select hotel like theRutland it is not everybody who indulges in a private sitting-room; there were only four such apartments in the hotel, asagainst fifty bedrooms.
At dinner they had a small table to themselves in a corner. Theshort lady wore a white shawl over her shoulders. Her almostapologetic manner during the meal confirmed the view that she mustbe a very simple person, unused to the world and its ways. Theother continued to be imperial. She ordered half-a-bottle of wineand drank two glasses. She stared about her quite self-unconsciously, whereas the little woman divided her glancesbetween her companion and her plate. They did not talk much.Immediately after dinner they retired. "Widows in easycircumstances" was the verdict; but the contrast between the pairheld puzzles that piqued the inquisitive.
Sophia had conquered again. Once more Sophia had resolved toaccomplish a thing and she had accomplished it. Events had fallenout thus. The advertisement for a general servant in the Signalhad been a disheartening failure. A few answers were received, butof an entirely unsatisfactory character. Constance, a great dealmore than Sophia, had been astounded by the bearing and thedemands of modern servants. Constance was in despair. If Constancehad not had an immense pride she would have been ready to suggestto Sophia that Amy should be asked to 'stay on.' But Constancewould have accepted a modern impudent wench first. It was MariaCritchlow who got Constance out of her difficulty by giving herparticulars of a reliable servant who was about to leave asituation in which she had stayed for eight years. Constance didnot imagine that a servant recommended by Maria Critchlow wouldsuit her, but, being in a quandary, she arranged to see theservant, and both she and Sophia were very pleased with the girl--Rose Bennion by name. The mischief was that Rose would not be freeuntil about a month after Amy had left. Rose would have left herold situation, but she had a fancy to go and spend a fortnightwith a married sister at Manchester before settling into newquarters. Constance and Sophia felt that this caprice of Rose'swas really very tiresome and unnecessary. Of course Amy might havebeen asked to 'stay on' just for a month. Amy would probably havevolunteered to do so had she been aware of the circumstances. Shewas not, however, aware of the circumstances. And Constance wasdetermined not to be beholden to Amy for anything. What could thesisters do? Sophia, who conducted all the interviews with Rose andother candidates, said that it would be a grave error to let Roseslip. Besides, they had no one to take her place, no one who couldcome at once.
The dilemma was appalling. At least, it seemed appalling toConstance, who really believed that no mistress had ever been so'awkwardly fixed.' And yet, when Sophia first proposed hersolution, Constance considered it to be a quite impossiblesolution. Sophia's idea was that they should lock up the house andleave it on the same day as Amy left it, to spend a few weeks insome holiday resort. To begin with, the idea of leaving the houseempty seemed to Constance a mad idea. The house had never beenleft empty. And then--going for a holiday in April! Constance hadnever been for a holiday except in the month of August. No! Theproject was beset with difficulties and dangers which could not beovercome nor provided against. For example, "We can't come back toa dirty house," said Constance. "And we can't have a strangeservant coming here before us." To which Sophia had replied: "Thenwhat SHALL you do?" And Constance, after prodigious reflection onthe frightful pass to which destiny had brought her, had said thatshe supposed she would have to manage with a charwoman untilRose's advent. She asked Sophia if she remembered old Maggie.Sophia, of course, perfectly remembered. Old Maggie was dead, aswell as the drunken, amiable Hollins, but there was a young Maggie(wife of a bricklayer) who went out charing in the spare time leftfrom looking after seven children. The more Constance meditatedupon young Maggie, the more was she convinced that young Maggiewould meet the case. Constance felt she could trust young Maggie.
This expression of trust in Maggie was Constance's undoing. Whyshould they not go away, and arrange with Maggie to come to thehouse a few days before their return, to clean and ventilate? Theweight of reason overbore Constance. She yielded unwillingly, butshe yielded. It was the mention of Buxton that finally moved her.She knew Buxton. Her old landlady at Buxton was dead, andConstance had not visited the place since before Samuel's death;nevertheless its name had a reassuring sound to her ears, and forsciatica its waters and climate were admitted to be the best inEngland. Gradually Constance permitted herself to be embarked onthis perilous enterprise of shutting up the house for twenty-fivedays. She imparted the information to Amy, who was astounded. Thenshe commenced upon her domestic preparations. She wrapped Samuel'sFamily Bible in brown paper; she put Cyril's straw-framed copy ofSir Edwin Landseer away in a drawer, and she took ten thousandother precautions. It was grotesque; it was farcical; it was whatyou please. And when, with the cab at the door and the luggage onthe cab, and the dogs chained together, and Maria Critchlowwaiting on the pavement to receive the key, Constance put the keyinto the door on the outside, and locked up the empty house,Constance's face was tragic with innumerable apprehensions. AndSophia felt that she had performed a miracle. She had.
On the whole the sisters were well received in the hotel, thoughthey were not at an age which commands popularity. In thecriticism which was passed upon them--the free, realistic andrelentless criticism of private hotels--Sophia was at first setdown as overbearing. But in a few days this view was modified, andSophia rose in esteem. The fact was that Sophia's behaviourchanged after forty-eight hours. The Rutland Hotel was very good.It was so good as to disturb Sophia's profound beliefs that therewas in the world only one truly high-class pension, and thatnobody could teach the creator of that unique pension anythingabout the art of management. The food was excellent; theattendance in the bedrooms was excellent (and Sophia knew howdifficult of attainment was excellent bedroom attendance); and tothe eye the interior of the Rutland presented a spectacle farricher than the Pension Frensham could show. The standard ofcomfort was higher. The guests had a more distinguishedappearance. It is true that the prices were much higher. Sophiawas humbled. She had enough sense to adjust her perspective.Further, she found herself ignorant of many matters which by theother guests were taken for granted and used as a basis forconversation. Prolonged residence in Paris would not justify thisignorance; it seemed rather to intensify its strangeness. Thus,when someone of cosmopolitan experience, having learnt that shehad lived in Paris for many years, asked what had been going onlately at the Comedie Francaise, she had to admit that she had notbeen in a French theatre for nearly thirty years. And when, on aSunday, the same person questioned her about the English chaplainin Paris, lo! she knew nothing but his name, had never even seenhim. Sophia's life, in its way, had been as narrow as Constance's.Though her experience of human nature was wide, she had been in agroove as deep as Constance's. She had been utterly absorbed indoing one single thing.
By tacit agreement she had charge of the expedition. She paid allthe bills. Constance protested against the expensiveness of theaffair several times, but Sophia quietened her by sheer force ofindividuality. Constance had one advantage over Sophia. She knewBuxton and its neighbourhood intimately, and she was therefore ina position to show off the sights and to deal with localpeculiarities. In all other respects Sophia led.
They very soon became acclimatized to the hotel. They moved easilybetween Turkey carpets and sculptured ceilings; their eyes grewused to the eternal vision of themselves and other slow-movingdignities in gilt mirrors, to the heaviness of great oil-paintingsof picturesque scenery, to the indications of surreptitious dirtbehind massive furniture, to the grey-brown of the shirt-fronts ofthe waiters, to the litter of trays, boots and pails in longcorridors; their ears were always awake to the sounds of gongs andbells. They consulted the barometer and ordered the daily carriagewith the perfunctoriness of habit. They discovered what can belearnt of other people's needlework in a hotel on a wet day. Theyperformed co-operative outings with fellow-guests. They invitedfellow-guests into their sitting-room. When there was anentertainment they did not avoid it. Sophia was determined to doeverything that could with propriety be done, partly as an outletfor her own energy (which since she left Paris had beenaccumulating), but more on Constance's account. She remembered allthat Dr. Stirling had. said, and the heartiness of her ownagreement with his opinions. It was a great day when, undertuition of an aged lady and in the privacy of their parlour, theyboth began to study the elements of Patience. Neither had everplayed at cards. Constance was almost afraid to touch cards, asthough in the very cardboard there had been something unrighteousand perilous. But the respectability of a luxurious private hotelmakes proper every act that passes within its walls. And Constanceplausibly argued that no harm could come from a game which youplayed by yourself. She acquired with some aptitude severalvarieties of Patience. She said: "I think I could enjoy that, if Ikept at it. But it does make my head whirl."
Nevertheless Constance was not happy in the hotel. She worried thewhole time about her empty house. She anticipated difficulties andeven disasters. She wondered again and again whether she couldtrust the second Maggie in her house alone, whether it would notbe better to return home earlier and participate personally in thecleaning. She would have decided to do so had it not been that shehesitated to subject Sophia to the inconvenience of a house upsidedown. The matter was on her mind, always. Always she wasrestlessly anticipating the day when they would leave. She hadcarelessly left her heart behind in St. Luke's Square. She hadnever stayed in a hotel before, and she did not like it. Sciaticaoccasionally harassed her. Yet when it came to the point she wouldnot drink the waters. She said she never had drunk them, andseemed to regard that as a reason why she never should. Sophia hadachieved a miracle in getting her to Buxton for nearly a month,but the ultimate grand effect lacked brilliance.
Then came the fatal letter, the desolating letter, whichvindicated Constance's dark apprehensions. Rose Bennion calmlywrote to say that she had decided not to come to St. Luke'sSquare. She expressed regret for any inconvenience which mightpossibly be caused; she was polite. But the monstrousness of it!Constance felt that this actually and truly was the deepest depthof her calamities. There she was, far from a dirty home, with noservant and no prospect of a servant! She bore herself bravely,nobly; but she was stricken. She wanted to return to the dirtyhome at once.
Sophia felt that the situation created by this letter would demandher highest powers of dealing with situations, and she determinedto deal with it adequately. Great measures were needed, forConstance's health and happiness were at stake. She alone couldact. She knew that she could not rely upon Cyril. She still had animmense partiality for Cyril; she thought him the most charmingyoung man she had ever known; she knew him to be industrious andclever; but in his relations with his mother there was a hardness,a touch of callousness. She explained it vaguely by saying that'they did not get on well together'; which was strange,considering Constance's sweet affectionateness. Still, Constancecould be a little trying--at times. Anyhow, it was soon clear toSophia that the idea of mother and son living together in Londonwas entirely impracticable. No! If Constance was to be saved fromherself, there was no one but Sophia to save her.
After half a morning spent chiefly in listening to Constance'shopeless comments on the monstrous letter, Sophia said suddenlythat she must take the dogs for an airing. Constance did not feelequal to walking out, and she would not drive. She did not wantSophia to 'venture,' because the sky threatened. However, Sophiadid venture, and she returned a few minutes late for lunch, fullof vigour, with two happy dogs. Constance was moodily awaiting herin the dining-room. Constance could not eat. But Sophia ate, andshe poured out cheerfulness and energy as from a sourceinexhaustible. After lunch it began to rain. Constance said shethought she should retire directly to the sitting-room. "I'mcoming too," said Sophia, who was still wearing her hat and coatand carried her gloves in her hand. In the pretentious and banalsitting-room they sat down on either side the fire. Constance puta little shawl round her shoulders, pushed her spectacles into hergrey hair, folded her hands, and sighed an enormous sigh: "Oh,dear!" She was the tragic muse, aged, and in black silk.
"I tell you what I've been thinking," said Sophia, folding up hergloves.
"What?" asked Constance, expecting some wonderful solution to comeout of Sophia's active brain.
"There's no earthly reason why you should go back to Bursley. Thehouse won't run away, and it's costing nothing but the rent. Whynot take things easy for a bit?"
"And stay here?" said Constance, with an inflection thatenlightened Sophia as to the intensity of her dislike of theexistence at the Rutland.
"No, not here," Sophia answered with quick deprecation. "There areplenty of other places we could go to."
"I don't think I should be easy in my mind," said Constance. "Whatwith nothing being settled, the house----"
"What does it matter about the house?"
"It matters a great deal," said Constance, seriously, and slightlyhurt. "I didn't leave things as if we were going to be away for along time. It wouldn't do."
"I don't see that anything could come to any harm, I reallydon't!" said Sophia, persuasively. "Dirt can always be cleaned,after all. I think you ought to go about more. It would do yougood--all the good in the world. And there is no reason why youshouldn't go about. You are perfectly free. Why shouldn't we goabroad together, for instance, you and I? I'm sure you would enjoyit very much."
"Abroad?" murmured Constance, aghast, recoiling from theproposition as from a grave danger.
"Yes," said Sophia, brightly and eagerly. She was determined totake Constance abroad. "There are lots of places we could go to,and live very comfortably among nice English people." She thoughtof the resorts she had visited with Gerald in the sixties. Theyseemed to her like cities of a dream. They came back to her as adream recurs.
"I don't think going abroad would suit me," said Constance.
"But why not? You don't know. You've never tried, my dear." Shesmiled encouragingly. But Constance did not smile. Constance wasinclined to be grim.
"I don't think it would," said she, obstinately. "I'm one of yourstay-at-homes. I'm not like you. We can't all be alike," sheadded, with her 'tart' accent.
Sophia suppressed a feeling of irritation. She knew that she had astronger individuality than Constance's.
"Well, then," she said, with undiminished persuasiveness, "inEngland or Scotland. There are several places I should like tovisit--Torquay, Tunbridge Wells. I've always under-stood thatTunbridge Wells is a very nice town indeed, with very superiorpeople, and a beautiful climate."
"I think I shall have to be getting back to St. Luke's Square,"said Constance, ignoring all that Sophia had said. "There's somuch to be done."
Then Sophia looked at Constance with a more serious and resoluteair; but still kindly, as though looking thus at Constance forConstance's own good.