老妇人的故事 英文版The Old Wives' Tale
阿诺德.本涅特 Arnold Bennett
II
In the Wesleyan Methodist Chapel on Duck Bank there was a full andinfluential congregation. For in those days influential peoplewere not merely content to live in the town where their fathershad lived, without dreaming of country residences and smokelessair--they were content also to believe what their fathers hadbelieved about the beginning and the end of all. There was no suchthing as the unknowable in those days. The eternal mysteries wereas simple as an addition sum; a child could tell you with absolutecertainty where you would be and what you would be doing a millionyears hence, and exactly what God thought of you. Accordingly,every one being of the same mind, every one met on certainoccasions in certain places in order to express the universalmind. And in the Wesleyan Methodist Chapel, for example, insteadof a sparse handful of persons disturbingly conscious of being ina minority, as now, a magnificent and proud majority hadcollected, deeply aware of its rightness and its correctness.
And the minister, backed by minor ministers, knelt and covered hisface in the superb mahogany rostrum; and behind him, in what wasthen still called the 'orchestra' (though no musical instrumentsexcept the grand organ had sounded in it for decades), the choirknelt and covered their faces; and all around in the richlypainted gallery and on the ground-floor, multitudinous rows ofpeople, in easy circumstances of body and soul, knelt in high pewsand covered their faces. And there floated before them, in theintense and prolonged silence, the clear vision of Jehovah on athrone, a God of sixty or so with a moustache and a beard, and anon-committal expression which declined to say whether or not hewould require more bloodshed; and this God, destitute of pinions,was surrounded by white-winged creatures that wafted themselves toand fro while chanting; and afar off was an obscene monstrosity,with cloven hoofs and a tail very dangerous and rude andinterfering, who could exist comfortably in the middle of a coal-fire, and who took a malignant and exhaustless pleasure in coaxingyou by false pretences into the same fire; but of course you hadtoo much sense to swallow his wicked absurdities. Once a year, forten minutes by the clock, you knelt thus, in mass, and bymeditation convinced yourself that you had too much sense toswallow his wicked absurdities. And the hour was very solemn, themost solemn of all the hours.
Strange that immortal souls should be found with the temerity toreflect upon mundane affairs in that hour! Yet there wereundoubtedly such in the congregation; there were perhaps many towhom the vision, if clear, was spasmodic and fleeting. And amongthem the inhabitants of the Baines family pew! Who would havesupposed that Mr. Povey, a recent convert from Primitive Methodismin King Street to Wesleyan Methodism on Duck Bank, was dwellingupon window-tickets and the injustice of women, instead of uponhis relations with Jehovah and the tailed one? Who would havesupposed that the gentle-eyed Constance, pattern of daughters, wasrisking her eternal welfare by smiling at the tailed one, who,concealing his tail, had assumed the image of Mr. Povey? Who wouldhave supposed that Mrs. Baines, instead of resolving that Jehovahand not the tailed one should have ultimate rule over her, wasresolving that she and not Mr. Povey should have ultimate ruleover her house and shop? It was a pew-ful that belied its highlysatisfactory appearance. (And possibly there were other pew-fulsequally deceptive.)
Sophia alone, in the corner next to the wall, with her beautifulstern face pressed convulsively against her hands, was truly busywith immortal things. Turbulent heart, the violence of herspiritual life had made her older! Never was a passionate, proudgirl in a harder case than Sophia! In the splendour of her remorsefor a fatal forgetfulness, she had renounced that which she lovedand thrown herself into that which she loathed. It was her natureso to do. She had done it haughtily, and not with kindness, butshe had done it with the whole force of her will. Constance hadbeen compelled to yield up to her the millinery department, forSophia's fingers had a gift of manipulating ribbons and feathersthat was beyond Constance. Sophia had accomplished miracles in themillinery. Yes, and she would be utterly polite to customers; butafterwards, when the customers were gone, let mothers, sisters,and Mr. Poveys beware of her fiery darts!
But why, when nearly three months had elapsed after her father'sdeath, had she spent more and more time in the shop, secretlyaflame with expectancy? Why, when one day a strange travellerentered the shop and announced himself the new representative ofBirkinshaws--why had her very soul died away within her and anawful sickness seized her? She knew then that she had been her owndeceiver. She recognized and admitted, abasing herself lower thanthe lowest, that her motive in leaving Miss Chetwynd's and joiningthe shop had been, at the best, very mixed, very impure. Engagedat Miss Chetwynd's, she might easily have never set eyes on GeraldScales again. Employed in the shop, she could not fail to meethim. In this light was to be seen the true complexion of thesplendour of her remorse. A terrible thought for her! And shecould not dismiss it. It contaminated her existence, this thought!And she could confide in no one. She was incapable of showing awound. Quarter had succeeded quarter, and Gerald Scales was nomore heard of. She had sacrificed her life for worse than nothing.She had made her own tragedy. She had killed her father, cheatedand shamed herself with a remorse horribly spurious, exchangedcontent for misery and pride for humiliation--and with it all,Gerald Scales had vanished! She was ruined.
She took to religion, and her conscientious Christian virtues,practised with stern inclemency, were the canker of the family.Thus a year and a half had passed.
And then, on this last day of the year, the second year of hershame and of her heart's widowhood, Mr. Scales had reappeared. Shehad gone casually into the shop and found him talking to hermother and Mr. Povey. He had come back to the provincial round andto her. She shook his hand and fled, because she could not havestayed. None had noticed her agitation, for she had held her bodyas in a vice. She knew the reason neither of his absence nor ofhis return. She knew nothing. And not a word had been said atmeals. And the day had gone and the night come; and now she was inchapel, with Constance by her side and Gerald Scales in her soul!Happy beyond previous conception of happiness! Wretched beyond anunutterable woe! And none knew! What was she to pray for? To whatpurpose and end ought she to steel herself? Ought she to hope, orought she to despair? "O God, help me!" she kept whispering toJehovah whenever the heavenly vision shone through the wrack ofher meditation. "O God, help me!" She had a conscience that, whenit was in the mood for severity, could be unspeakably cruel toher.
And whenever she looked, with dry, hot eyes, through her glovedfingers, she saw in front of her on the wall a marble tabletinscribed in gilt letters, the cenotaph! She knew all the lines byheart, in their spacious grandiloquence; lines such as:
EVER READY WITH HIS TONGUE HIS PEN AND HIS PURSE TO HELP THECHURCH OF HIS FATHERS IN HER HE LIVED AND IN HER HE DIEDCHERISHING A DEEP AND ARDENT AFFECTION FOR HIS BELOVED FAITH ANDCREED.
and Constance.THEDISTRICT WITH GREAT ACCEPTANCE AND USEFULNESS.in her?
And again:
HIS SYMPATHIES EXTENDED BEYOND HIS OWN COMMUNITY HE WAS ALWAYS TOTHE FORE IN GOOD WORKS AND HE SERVED THE CIRCUIT THE TOWN AND THEDISTRICT WITH GREAT ACCEPTANCE AND USEFULNESS.
Thus had Mr. Critchlow's vanity been duly appeased.
As the minutes sped in the breathing silence of the chapel theemotional tension grew tighter; worshippers sighed heavily, orcalled upon Jehovah for a sign, or merely coughed an invocation.And then at last the clock in the middle of the balcony gave forththe single stroke to which it was limited; the ministers rose, andthe congregation after them; and everybody smiled as though it wasthe millennium, and not simply the new year, that had set in.Then, faintly, through walls and shut windows, came the sound ofbells and of steam syrens and whistles. The superintendentminister opened his hymn-book, and the hymn was sung which hadbeen sung in Wesleyan Chapels on New Year's morn since the era ofJohn Wesley himself. The organ finished with a clanguor of all itspipes; the minister had a few last words with Jehovah, and nothingwas left to do except to persevere in well-doing. The peopleleaned towards each other across the high backs of the pews.
"A happy New Year!"
"Eh, thank ye! The same to you!"
"Eh. yes!" And a sigh.
Then the aisles were suddenly crowded, and there was a good-humoured, optimistic pushing towards the door. In the Corinthianporch occurred a great putting-on of cloaks, ulsters, goloshes,and even pattens, and a great putting-up of umbrellas. And thecongregation went out into the whirling snow, dividing intoseveral black, silent-footed processions, down Trafalgar Road, uptowards the playground, along the market-place, and across DuckSquare in the direction of St. Luke's Square.
Mr. Povey was between Mrs. Baines and Constance.
"You must take my arm, my pet," said Mrs. Baines to Sophia.
Then Mr. Povey and Constance waded on in front through the drifts.Sophia balanced that enormous swaying mass, her mother. Owing totheir hoops, she had much difficulty in keeping close to her. Mrs.Baines laughed with the complacent ease of obesity, yet a fallwould have been almost irremediable for her; and so Sophia had tolaugh too. But, though she laughed, God had not helped her. Shedid not know where she was going, nor what might happen to hernext.
terribly afraid. as they turned the cornerinto King Street. "There's some one!
"Why, bless us!" exclaimed Mrs. Baines, as they turned the cornerinto King Street. "There's some one sitting on our door-step!"
There was: a figure swathed in an ulster, a maud over the ulster,and a high hat on the top of all. It could not have been therevery long, because it was only speckled with snow. Mr. Poveyplunged forward.
"It's Mr. Scales, of all people!" said Mr. Povey.
"Mr. Scales!" cried Mrs. Baines.
And, "Mr. Scales!" murmured Sophia, terribly afraid.
Perhaps she was afraid of miracles. Mr. Scales sitting on hermother's doorstep in the middle of the snowy night had assuredlythe air of a miracle, of something dreamed in a dream, ofsomething pathetically and impossibly appropriate--'pat,' as theysay in the Five Towns. But he was a tangible fact there. And yearsafterwards, in the light of further knowledge of Mr. Scales,Sophia came to regard his being on the doorstep as the mostnatural and characteristic thing in the world. Real miracles neverseem to be miracles, and that which at the first blush resemblesone usually proves to be an instance of the extremely prosaic.