老妇人的故事 英文版The Old Wives' Tale
阿诺德.本涅特 Arnold Bennett
I
'Equisite, 1s. 11d.'
These singular signs were being painted in shiny black on anunrectangular parallelogram of white cardboard by Constance oneevening in the parlour. She was seated, with her left side to thefire and to the fizzing gas, at the dining-table, which wascovered with a checked cloth in red and white. Her dress was ofdark crimson; she wore a cameo brooch and a gold chain round herneck; over her shoulders was thrown a white knitted shawl, for theweather was extremely cold, the English climate being much moreserious and downright at that day than it is now. She bent low tothe task, holding her head slightly askew, putting the tip of hertongue between her lips, and expending all the energy of her souland body in an intense effort to do what she was doing as well asit could be done.
"Splendid!" said Mr. Povey.
Mr. Povey was fronting her at the table; he had his elbows on thetable, and watched her carefully, with the breathless and divineanxiety of a dreamer who is witnessing the realization of hisdream. And Constance, without moving any part of her frame excepther head, looked up at him and smiled for a moment, and he couldsee her delicious little nostrils at the end of her snub nose.
Those two, without knowing or guessing it, were making history--the history of commerce. They had no suspicion that they were theforces of the future insidiously at work to destroy what theforces of the past had created, but such was the case. They wereconscious merely of a desire to do their duty in the shop and tothe shop; probably it had not even occurred to them that thisdesire, which each stimulated in the breast of the other, hadassumed the dimensions of a passion. It was ageing Mr. Povey, andit had made of Constance a young lady tremendously industrious andpreoccupied.
Mr. Povey had recently been giving attention to the question oftickets. It is not too much to say that Mr. Povey, to whom heavenhad granted a minimum share of imagination, had neverthelessdiscovered his little parcel of imagination in the recesses ofbeing, and brought it effectively to bear on tickets. Tickets ranin conventional grooves. There were heavy oblong tickets forflannels, shirting, and other stuffs in the piece; there weresmaller and lighter tickets for intermediate goods; and there werediamond-shaped tickets (containing nothing but the price) forbonnets, gloves, and flimflams generally. The legends on thetickets gave no sort of original invention. The words 'lasting,''durable,' 'unshrinkable,' 'latest,' 'cheap,' 'stylish,''novelty,' 'choice' (as an adjective), 'new,' and 'tasteful,'exhausted the entire vocabulary of tickets. Now Mr. Povey attachedimportance to tickets, and since he was acknowledged to be thebest window-dresser in Bursley, his views were entitled torespect. He dreamed of other tickets, in original shapes, withoriginal legends. In brief, he achieved, in regard to tickets, therare feat of ridding himself of preconceived notions, and ofapproaching a subject with fresh, virginal eyes. When he indicatedthe nature of his wishes to Mr. Chawner, the wholesale stationerwho supplied all the Five Towns with shop-tickets, Mr. Chawnergrew uneasy and worried; Mr. Chawner was indeed shocked. For Mr.Chawner there had always been certain well-defined genera oftickets, and he could not conceive the existence of other genera.When Mr. Povey suggested circular tickets--tickets with a blue anda red line round them, tickets with legends such as'unsurpassable,' 'very dainty,' or 'please note,' Mr. Chawnerhummed and hawed, and finally stated that it would be impossibleto manufacture these preposterous tickets, these tickets whichwould outrage the decency of trade.
If Mr. Povey had not happened to be an exceedingly obstinate man,he might have been defeated by the crass Toryism of Mr. Chawner.But Mr. Povey was obstinate, and he had resources of ingenuitywhich Mr. Chawner little suspected. The great, tramping march ofprogress was not to be impeded by Mr. Chawner. Mr. Povey began tomake his own tickets. At first he suffered as all reformers andinventors suffer. He used the internal surface of collar-boxes andordinary ink and pens, and the result was such as to givecustomers the idea that Baineses were too poor or too mean to buytickets like other shops. For bought tickets had an ivory-tintedgloss, and the ink was black and glossy, and the edges were verystraight and did not show yellow between two layers of white.Whereas Mr. Povey's tickets were of a bluish-white, without gloss;the ink was neither black nor shiny, and the edges wereamateurishly rough: the tickets had an unmistakable air of havingbeen 'made out of something else'; moreover, the lettering had notthe free, dashing style of Mr. Chawner's tickets.
And did Mrs. Baines encourage him in his single-minded enterpriseon behalf of HER business? Not a bit! Mrs. Baines's attitude, whennot disdainful, was inimical! So curious is human nature, so blindis man to his own advantage! Life was very complex for Mr. Povey.It might have been less complex had Bristol board and Chinese inkbeen less expensive; with these materials he could have achievedmarvels to silence all prejudice and stupidity; but they were toocostly. Still, he persevered, and Constance morally supported him;he drew his inspiration and his courage from Constance. Instead ofthe internal surface of collar-boxes, he tried the externalsurface, which was at any rate shiny. But the ink would not 'take'on it. He made as many experiments as Edison was to make, and asmany failures. Then Constance was visited by a notion for mixingsugar with ink. Simple, innocent creature--why should providencehave chosen her to be the vessel of such a sublime notion?Puzzling enigma, which, however, did not exercise Mr. Povey! Hefound it quite natural that she should save him. Save him she did.Sugar and ink would 'take' on anything, and it shone like a'patent leather' boot. Further, Constance developed a 'hand' forlettering which outdid Mr. Povey's. Between them they manufacturedtickets by the dozen and by the score--tickets which, whilepossessing nearly all the smartness and finish of Mr. Chawner'stickets, were much superior to these in originality andstrikingness. Constance and Mr. Povey were delighted andfascinated by them. As for Mrs. Baines, she said little, but themodern spirit was too elated by its success to care whether shesaid little or much. And every few days Mr. Povey thought of somenew and wonderful word to put on a ticket.
His last miracle was the word 'exquisite.' 'Exquisite,' pinned ona piece of broad tartan ribbon, appeared to Constance and Mr.Povey as the finality of appropriateness. A climax worthy to closethe year! Mr. Povey had cut the card and sketched the word andfigures in pencil, and Constance was doing her executive portionof the undertaking. They were very happy, very absorbed, in thisstrictly business matter. The clock showed five minutes past ten.Stern duty, a pure desire for the prosperity of the shop, had keptthem at hard labour since before eight o'clock that morning!
The stairs-door opened, and Mrs. Baines appeared, in bonnet andfurs and gloves, all clad for going out. She had abandoned thecocoon of crape, but still wore weeds. She was stouter than ever.
"What!" she cried. "Not ready! Now really!"
"Oh, mother! How you made me jump!" Constance protested. "Whattime is it? It surely isn't time to go yet!"
"Look at the clock!" said Mrs. Baines, drily.
"Well, I never!" Constance murmured, confused.
"Come, put your things together, and don't keep me waiting," saidMrs. Baines, going past the table to the window, and lifting theblind to peep out. "Still snowing," she observed. "Oh, the band'sgoing away at last! I wonder how they can play at all in thisweather. By the way, what was that tune they gave us just now? Icouldn't make out whether it was 'Redhead,' or--"
"Band?" questioned Constance--the simpleton!
Neither she nor Mr. Povey had heard the strains of the BursleyTown Silver Prize Band which had been enlivening the seasonaccording to its usual custom. These two practical, duteous,commonsense young and youngish persons had been so absorbed intheir efforts for the welfare of the shop that they had positivelynot only forgotten the time, but had also failed to notice theband! But if Constance had had her wits about her she would atleast have pretended that she had heard it.
"What's this?" asked Mrs. Baines, bringing her vast form to thetable and picking up a ticket.
Mr. Povey said nothing. Constance said: "Mr. Povey thought of itto-day. Don't you think it's very good, mother?"
"I'm afraid I don't," Mrs. Baines coldly replied.
She had mildly objected already to certain words; but 'exquisite'seemed to her silly; it seemed out of place; she considered thatit would merely bring ridicule on her shop. 'Exquisite' writtenupon a window-ticket! No! What would John Baines have thought of'exquisite'?
"'Exquisite!'" She repeated the word with a sarcastic inflection,putting the accent, as every one put it, on the second syllable."I don't think that will quite do."
"But why not, mother?"
"It's not suitable, my dear."
She dropped the ticket from her gloved hand. Mr. Povey had darklyflashed. Though he spoke little, he was as sensitive as he wasobstinate. On this occasion he said nothing. He expressed hisfeelings by seizing the ticket and throwing it into the fire.
The situation was extremely delicate. Priceless employes like Mr.Povey cannot be treated as machines, and Mrs. Baines of courseinstantly saw that tact was needed.
"Go along to my bedroom and get ready, my pet," said she toConstance. "Sophia is there. There's a good fire. I must justspeak to Maggie." She tactfully left the room.
Mr. Povey glanced at the fire and the curling red remains of theticket. Trade was bad; owing to weather and war, destitution wasabroad; and he had been doing his utmost for the welfare of theshop; and here was the reward!
Constance's eyes were full of tears. "Never mind!" she murmured,and went upstairs.
It was all over in a moment.