老妇人的故事 英文版The Old Wives' Tale
阿诺德.本涅特 Arnold Bennett
I
"Well," said Mr. Povey, rising from the rocking-chair that in aprevious age had been John Baines's, "I've got to make a startsome time, so I may as well begin now!"
And he went from the parlour into the shop. Constance's eyefollowed him as far as the door, where their glances met for aninstant in the transient gaze which expresses the tenderness ofpeople who feel more than they kiss.
It was on the morning of this day that Mrs. Baines, relinquishingthe sovereignty of St. Luke's Square, had gone to live as ayounger sister in the house of Harriet Maddack at Axe. Constanceguessed little of the secret anguish of that departure. She onlyknew that it was just like her mother, having perfectly arrangedthe entire house for the arrival of the honeymoon couple fromBuxton, to flit early away so as to spare the natural blushingdiffidence of the said couple. It was like her mother'scommonsense and her mother's sympathetic comprehension. Further,Constance did not pursue her mother's feelings, being far too busywith her own. She sat there full of new knowledge and newimportance, brimming with experience and strange, unexpectedaspirations, purposes, yes--and cunnings! And yet, though the verycurves of her cheeks seemed to be mysteriously altering, the oldConstance still lingered in that frame, an innocent soulhesitating to spread its wings and quit for ever the body whichhad been its home; you could see the timid thing peeping wistfullyout of the eyes of the married woman.
Constance rang the bell for Maggie to clear the table; and as shedid so she had the illusion that she was not really a marriedwoman and a house-mistress, but only a kind of counterfeit. Shedid most fervently hope that all would go right in the house--atany rate until she had grown more accustomed to her situation.
The hope was to be disappointed. Maggie's rather silly, obsequioussmile concealed but for a moment the ineffable tragedy that hadlain in wait for unarmed Constance.
Now, before the wedding Maggie had already, with tears ofaffection, given Constance a pair of blue glass vases (in order topurchase which she had been obliged to ask for special permissionto go out), and Constance wondered what was coming now fromMaggie's pocket. A small piece of folded paper came from Maggie'spocket. Constance accepted of it, and read: "I begs to give onemonth's notice to leave. Signed Maggie. June 10, 1867."
"Maggie!" exclaimed the old Constance, terrified by thisincredible occurrence, ere the married woman could strangle her.
"I never give notice before, Mrs. Povey," said Maggie, "so I don'tknow as I know how it ought for be done--not rightly. But I hopeas you'll accept of it, Mrs. Povey."
"Oh! of course," said Mrs. Povey, primly, just as if Maggie wasnot the central supporting pillar of the house, just as if Maggiehad not assisted at her birth, just as if the end of the world hadnot abruptly been announced, just as if St. Luke's Square were notinconceivable without Maggie. "But why--"
"Well, Mrs. Povey, I've been a-thinking it over in my kitchen, andI said to myself: 'If there's going to be one change there'dbetter be two,' I says. Not but what I wouldn't work my fingers tothe bone for ye, Miss Constance."
Here Maggie began to cry into the tray.
abruptly been announced,
Constance looked at her. Despite the special muslin of that dayshe had traces of the slatternliness of which Mrs. Baines hadnever been able to cure her. She was over forty, big, gawky. Shehad no figure, no charms of any kind. She was what was left of awoman after twenty-two years in the cave of a philanthropicfamily. And in her cave she had actually been thinking thingsover! Constance detected for the first time, beneath thedehumanized drudge, the stirrings of a separate and perhapscapricious individuality. Maggie's engagements had never been realto her employers. Within the house she had never been, inpractice, anything but 'Maggie'--an organism. And now she waspermitting herself ideas about changes!
"You'll soon be suited with another, Mrs. Povey," said Maggie."There's many a--many a--" She burst into sobs.
"But if you really want to leave, what are you crying for,Maggie?" asked Mrs. Povey, at her wisest. "Have you told mother?"
"No, miss," Maggie whimpered, absently wiping her wrinkled cheekswith ineffectual muslin. "I couldn't seem to fancy telling yourmother. And as you're the mistress now, I thought as I'd save itfor you when you come home. I hope you'll excuse me, Mrs. Povey."
"Of course I'm very sorry. You've been a very good servant. And inthese days--"
The child had acquired this turn of speech from her mother. It didnot appear to occur to either of them that they were living in thesixties.
"Thank ye, miss."
"And what are you thinking of doing, Maggie? You know you won'tget many places like this."
"To tell ye the truth, Mrs. Povey, I'm going to get marriedmysen."
"Indeed!" murmured Constance, with the perfunctoriness of habit inreplying to these tidings.
"Oh! but I am, mum," Maggie insisted. "It's all settled. Mr.Hollins, mum."
"Not Hollins, the fish-hawker!"
"Yes, mum. I seem to fancy him. You don't remember as him and mewas engaged in '48. He was my first, like. I broke it off becausehe was in that Chartist lot, and I knew as Mr. Baines would neverstand that. Now he's asked me again. He's been a widower this longtime."
"I'm sure I hope you'll be happy, Maggie. But what about hishabits?"
"He won't have no habits with me, Mrs. Povey."
A woman was definitely emerging from the drudge.
When Maggie, having entirely ceased sobbing, had put the foldedcloth in the table-drawer and departed with the tray, her mistressbecame frankly the girl again. No primness about her as she stoodalone there in the parlour; no pretence that Maggie's notice toleave was an everyday document, to be casually glanced at--as oneglances at an unpaid bill! She would be compelled to find a newservant, making solemn inquiries into character, and to train thenew servant, and to talk to her from heights from which she hadnever addressed Maggie. At that moment she had an illusion thatthere were no other available, suitable servants in the wholeworld. And the arranged marriage? She felt that this time--thethirteenth or fourteenth time--the engagement was serious andwould only end at the altar. The vision of Maggie and Hollins atthe altar shocked her. Marriage was a series of phenomena, and ageneral state, very holy and wonderful--too sacred, somehow, forsuch creatures as Maggie and Hollins. Her vague, instinctiverevolt against such a usage of matrimony centred round the idea ofa strong, eternal smell of fish. However, the projected outrage ona hallowed institution troubled her much less than the imminentproblem of domestic service.
She ran into the shop--or she would have run if she had notchecked her girlishness betimes--and on her lips, ready to bewhispered importantly into a husband's astounded ear, were thewords, "Maggie has given notice! Yes! Truly!" But Samuel Povey wasengaged. He was leaning over the counter and staring at anoutspread paper upon which a certain Mr. Yardley was makingstrokes with a thick pencil. Mr. Yardley, who had a long redbeard, painted houses and rooms. She knew him only by sight. Inher mind she always associated him with the sign over his premisesin Trafalgar Road, "Yardley Bros., Authorised plumbers. Painters.Decorators. Paper-hangers. Facia writers." For years, inchildhood, she had passed that sign without knowing what sort ofthings 'Bros,' and 'Facia' were, and what was the mysterioussimilarity between a plumber and a version of the Bible. She couldnot interrupt her husband, he was wholly absorbed; nor could shestay in the shop (which appeared just a little smaller thanusual), for that would have meant an unsuccessful endeavour tofront the young lady-assistants as though nothing in particularhad happened to her. So she went sedately up the showroom stairsand thus to the bedroom floors of the house--her house! Mrs.Povey's house! She even climbed to Constance's old bedroom; hermother had stripped the bed--that was all, except a slightdiminution of this room, corresponding to that of the shop! Thento the drawing-room. In the recess outside the drawing-room doorthe black box of silver plate still lay. She had expected hermother to take it; but no! Assuredly her mother was one to dothings handsomely--when she did them. In the drawing-room, not atassel of an antimacassar touched! Yes, the fire-screen, theluscious bunch of roses on an expanse of mustard, which Constancehad worked for her mother years ago, was gone! That her mothershould have clung to just that one souvenir, out of all the heavyopulence of the drawing-room, touched Constance intimately. Sheperceived that if she could not talk to her husband she must writeto her mother. And she sat down at the oval table and wrote,"Darling mother, I am sure you will be very surprised to hear. ...She means it. ... I think she is making a serious mistake. Ought Ito put an advertisement in the Signal, or will it do if. ...Please write by return. We are back and have enjoyed ourselvesvery much. Sam says he enjoys getting up late. ..." And so on tothe last inch of the fourth scolloped page.
She was obliged to revisit the shop for a stamp, stamps being keptin Mr. Povey's desk in the corner--a high desk, at which youstood. Mr. Povey was now in earnest converse with Mr. Yardley atthe door, and twilight, which began a full hour earlier in theshop than in the Square, had cast faint shadows in corners behindcounters.
"Will you just run out with this to the pillar, Miss Dadd?"
"With pleasure, Mrs. Povey."
"Where are you going to?" Mr. Povey interrupted his conversationto stop the flying girl.
"She's just going to the post for me," Constance called out fromthe region of the till.
"Oh! All right!"
notice toleave was an everyday document, to be casually glanced at--as.
A trifle! A nothing! Yet somehow, in the quiet customerless shop,the episode, with the scarce perceptible difference in Samuel'stone at his second remark, was delicious to Constance. Somehow itwas the REAL beginning of her wifehood. (There had been about nineother real beginnings in the past fortnight.)
Mr. Povey came in to supper, laden with ledgers and similar workswhich Constance had never even pretended to understand. It was asign from him that the honeymoon was over. He was proprietor now,and his ardour for ledgers most justifiable. Still, there was thequestion of her servant.
"Never!" he exclaimed, when she told him all about the end of theworld. A 'never' which expressed extreme astonishment and theliveliest concern!
But Constance had anticipated that he would have been just alittle more knocked down, bowled over, staggered, stunned,flabbergasted. In a swift gleam of insight she saw that she hadbeen in danger of forgetting her role of experienced, capablemarried woman.
"I shall have to set about getting a fresh one," she said hastily,with an admirable assumption of light and easy casualness.
Mr. Povey seemed to think that Hollins would suit Maggie prettywell. He made no remark to the betrothed when she answered thefinal bell of the night.
He opened his ledgers, whistling.
"I think I shall go up, dear," said Constance. "I've a lot ofthings to put away."
"Do," said he. "Call out when you've done."