老妇人的故事 英文版The Old Wives' Tale
阿诺德.本涅特 Arnold Bennett
II
The drawing-room was full of visitors, in frocks of ceremony. Theold drawing-room, but newly and massively arranged with the finestVictorian furniture from dead Aunt Harriet's house at Axe; two"Canterburys," a large bookcase, a splendid scintillant tablesolid beyond lifting, intricately tortured chairs and armchairs!The original furniture of the drawing-room was now down in theparlour, making it grand. All the house breathed opulence; it wasgorged with quiet, restrained expensiveness; the leastconsiderable objects, in the most modest corners, were what Mrs.Baines would have termed 'good.' Constance and Samuel had half ofall Aunt Harriet's money and half of Mrs. Baines's; the other halfwas accumulating for a hypothetical Sophia, Mr. Critchlow beingthe trustee. The business continued to flourish. People knew thatSamuel Povey was buying houses. Yet Samuel and Constance had notmade friends; they had not, in the Five Towns phrase, 'branchedout socially,' though they had very meetly branched out onsubscription lists. They kept themselves to themselves(emphasizing the preposition). These guests were not their guests;they were the guests of Cyril.
He had been named Samuel because Constance would have him namedafter his father, and Cyril because his father secretly despisedthe name of Samuel; and he was called Cyril; 'Master Cyril,' byAmy, definite successor to Maggie. His mother's thoughts were onCyril as long as she was awake. His father, when not planningCyril's welfare, was earning money whose unique object could benothing but Cyril's welfare. Cyril was the pivot of the house;every desire ended somewhere in Cyril. The shop existed now solelyfor him. And those houses that Samuel bought by private treaty, orwith a shamefaced air at auctions--somehow they were aimed atCyril. Samuel and Constance had ceased to be self-justifyingbeings; they never thought of themselves save as the parents ofCyril.
They realized this by no means fully. Had they been accused ofmonomania they would have smiled the smile of people confident intheir commonsense and their mental balance. Nevertheless, theywere monomaniacs. Instinctively they concealed the fact as much aspossible; They never admitted it even to themselves. Samuel,indeed, would often say: "That child is not everybody. That childmust be kept in his place." Constance was always teaching himconsideration for his father as the most important person in thehousehold. Samuel was always teaching him consideration for hismother as the most important person in the household. Nothing wasleft undone to convince him that he was a cipher, a nonentity, whoought to be very glad to be alive. But he knew all about hisimportance. He knew that the entire town was his. He knew that hisparents were deceiving themselves. Even when he was punished hewell knew that it was because he was so important. He neverimparted any portion of this knowledge to his parents; a primevalwisdom prompted him to retain it strictly in his own bosom.
He was four and a half years old, dark, like his father; handsomelike his aunt, and tall for his age; not one of his featuresresembled a feature of his mother's, but sometimes he 'had herlook.' From the capricious production of inarticulate sounds, andthen a few monosyllables that described concrete things andobvious desires, he had gradually acquired an astonishingidiomatic command over the most difficult of Teutonic languages;there was nothing that he could not say. He could walk and run,was full of exact knowledge about God, and entertained no doubtconcerning the special partiality of a minor deity called Jesustowards himself.
Now, this party was his mother's invention and scheme. His father,after flouting it, had said that if it was to be done at all, itshould be done well, and had brought to the doing all hisorganizing skill. Cyril had accepted it at first--merely acceptedit; but, as the day approached and the preparations increased inmagnitude, he had come to look on it with favour, then withenthusiasm. His father having taken him to Daniel Povey'sopposite, to choose cakes, he had shown, by his solemn andfastidious waverings, how seriously he regarded the affair.
Of course it had to occur on a Thursday afternoon. The season wassummer, suitable for pale and fragile toilettes. And the eightchildren who sat round Aunt Harriet's great table glittered likethe sun. Not Constance's specially provided napkins could hidethat wealth and profusion of white lace and stitchery. Never inafter-life are the genteel children of the Five Towns so richlyclad as at the age of four or five years. Weeks of labour,thousands of cubic feet of gas, whole nights stolen from repose,eyesight, and general health, will disappear into the manufactureof a single frock that accidental jam may ruin in ten seconds.Thus it was in those old days; and thus it is to-day. Cyril'sguests ranged in years from four to six; they were chiefly olderthan their host; this was a pity, it impaired his importance; butup to four years a child's sense of propriety, even of commondecency, is altogether too unreliable for a respectable party.
Round about the outskirts of the table were the elders, ladies themajority; they also in their best, for they had to meet eachother. Constance displayed a new dress, of crimson silk; afterhaving mourned for her mother she had definitely abandoned theblack which, by reason of her duties in the shop, she hadconstantly worn from the age of sixteen to within a few months ofCyril's birth; she never went into the shop now, except casually,on brief visits of inspection. She was still fat; the destroyer ofher figure sat at the head of the table. Samuel kept close to her;he was the only male, until Mr. Critchlow astonishingly arrived;among the company Mr. Critchlow had a grand-niece. Samuel, if notin his best, was certainly not in his everyday suit. With hislarge frilled shirt-front, and small black tie, and his littleblack beard and dark face over that, he looked very nervous andself-conscious. He had not the habit of entertaining. Nor hadConstance; but her benevolence ever bubbling up to the calmsurface of her personality made self-consciousness impossible forher. Miss Insull was also present, in shop-black, 'to help.'Lastly there was Amy, now as the years passed slowly assuming thecharacter of a faithful retainer, though she was only twenty-three. An ugly, abrupt, downright girl, with convenient notions ofpleasure! For she would rise early and retire late in order tocontrive an hour to go out with Master Cyril; and to be allowed toput Master Cyril to bed was, really, her highest bliss.
All these elders were continually inserting arms into the fringeof fluffy children that surrounded the heaped table; removingdangerous spoons out of cups into saucers, replacing plates,passing cakes, spreading jam, whispering consolations,explanations, and sage counsel. Mr. Critchlow, snow-white now butunbent, remarked that there was 'a pretty cackle,' and he sniffed.Although the window was slightly open, the air was heavy with thenatural human odour which young children transpire. More than onemother, pressing her nose into a lacy mass, to whisper, inhaledthat pleasant perfume with a voluptuous thrill.
Cyril, while attending steadily to the demands of his body, was ina mood which approached the ideal. Proud and radiant, he combinedurbanity with a certain fine condescension. His bright eyes, andhis manner of scraping up jam with a spoon, said: "I am the kingof this party. This party is solely in my honour. I know that. Weall know it. Still, I will pretend that we are equals, you and I."He talked about his picture-books to a young woman on his rightnamed Jennie, aged four, pale, pretty, the belle in fact, and Mr.Critchlow's grand-niece. The boy's attractiveness wasindisputable; he could put on quite an aristocratic air. It wasthe most delicious sight to see them, Cyril and Jennie, so softand delicate, so infantile on their piles of cushions and books,with their white socks and black shoes dangling far distant fromthe carpet; and yet so old, so self-contained! And they weremerely an epitome of the whole table. The whole table was bathedin the charm and mystery of young years, of helpless fragility,gentle forms, timid elegance, unshamed instincts, and wakingsouls. Constance and Samuel were very satisfied; full of praisefor other people's children, but with the reserve that of courseCyril was hors concours. They both really did believe, at thatmoment, that Cyril was, in some subtle way which they felt butcould not define, superior to all other infants.
Some one, some officious relative of a visitor, began to pass acertain cake which had brown walls, a roof of cocoa-nut icing, anda yellow body studded with crimson globules. Not a conspicuouslygorgeous cake, not a cake to which a catholic child would belikely to attach particular importance; a good, average cake! Whocould have guessed that it stood, in Cyril's esteem, as the cakeof cakes? He had insisted on his father buying it at CousinDaniel's, and perhaps Samuel ought to have divined that for Cyrilthat cake was the gleam that an ardent spirit would follow throughthe wilderness. Samuel, however, was not a careful observer, andseriously lacked imagination. Constance knew only that Cyril hadmentioned the cake once or twice. Now by the hazard of destinythat cake found much favour, helped into popularity as it was bythe blundering officious relative who, not dreaming what volcanoshe was treading on, urged its merits with simpering enthusiasm.One boy took two slices, a slice in each hand; he happened to bethe visitor of whom the cake-distributor was a relative, and sheprotested; she expressed the shock she suffered. Whereupon bothConstance and Samuel sprang forward and swore with angelic smilesthat nothing could be more perfect than the propriety of that dearlittle fellow taking two slices of that cake. It was thishullaballoo that drew Cyril's attention to the evanescence of thecake of cakes. His face at once changed from calm pride to adreadful anxiety. His eyes bulged out. His tiny mouth grew andgrew, like a mouth in a nightmare. He was no longer human; he wasa cake-eating tiger being balked of his prey. Nobody noticed him.The officious fool of a woman persuaded Jennie to take the lastslice of the cake, which was quite a thin slice.
Then every one simultaneously noticed Cyril, for he gave a yell.It was not the cry of a despairing soul who sees his beautifuliridescent dream shattered at his feet; it was the cry of thestrong, masterful spirit, furious. He turned upon Jennie, sobbing,and snatched at her cake. Unaccustomed to such behaviour fromhosts, and being besides a haughty put-you-in-your-place beauty ofthe future, Jennie defended her cake. After all, it was not shewho had taken two slices at once. Cyril hit her in the eye, andthen crammed most of the slice of cake into his enormous mouth. Hecould not swallow it, nor even masticate it, for his throat wasrigid and tight. So the cake projected from his red lips, and bigtears watered it. The most awful mess you can conceive! Jenniewept loudly, and one or two others joined her in sympathy, but therest went on eating tranquilly, unmoved by the horror whichtransfixed their elders.
A host to snatch food from a guest! A host to strike a guest! Agentleman to strike a lady!
Constance whipped up Cyril from his chair and flew with him to hisown room (once Samuel's), where she smacked him on the arm andtold him he was a very, very naughty boy and that she didn't knowwhat his father would say. She took the food out of his disgustingmouth--or as much of it as she could get at--and then she lefthim, on the bed. Miss Jennie was still in tears when, blushingscarlet and trying to smile, Constance returned to the drawing-room. Jennie would not be appeased. Happily Jennie's mother (beingabout to present Jennie with a little brother--she hoped) was notpresent. Miss Insull had promised to see Jennie home, and it wasdecided that she should go. Mr. Critchlow, in high sardonicspirits, said that he would go too; the three departed together,heavily charged with Constance's love and apologies. Then allpretended, and said loudly, that what had happened was naught,that such things were always happening at children's parties. Andvisitors' relatives asseverated that Cyril was a perfect darlingand that really Mrs. Povey must not ...
But the attempt to keep up appearance was a failure.
The Methuselah of visitors, a gaping girl of nearly eight years,walked across the room to where Constance was standing, and saidin a loud, confidential, fatuous voice:
"Cyril HAS been a rude boy, hasn't he, Mrs. Povey?"
The clumsiness of children is sometimes tragic.
Later, there was a trickling stream of fluffy bundles down thecrooked stairs and through the parlour and so out into KingStreet. And Constance received many compliments and sundry appealsthat darling Cyril should be forgiven.
"I thought you said that boy was in his bedroom," said Samuel toConstance, coming into the parlour when the last guest had gone.Each avoided the other's eyes.
"Yes, isn't he?"
"No."
"The little jockey!" ("Jockey," an essay in the playful, towardsmaking light of the jockey's sin!) "I expect he's been in searchof Amy."
She went to the top of the kitchen stairs and called out: "Amy, isMaster Cyril down there?"
"Master Cyril? No, mum. But he was in the parlour a bit ago, afterthe first and second lot had gone. I told him to go upstairs andbe a good boy."
Not for a few moments did the suspicion enter the minds of Samueland Constance that Cyril might be missing, that the house mightnot contain Cyril. But having once entered, the suspicion became acertainty. Amy, cross-examined, burst into sudden tears, admittingthat the side-door might have been open when, having sped 'thesecond lot,' she criminally left Cyril alone in the parlour inorder to descend for an instant to her kitchen. Dusk wasgathering. Amy saw the defenceless innocent wandering about allnight in the deserted streets of a great city. A similar visionwith precise details of canals, tramcar-wheels, and cellar-flaps,disturbed Constance. Samuel said that anyhow he could not have gotfar, that some one was bound to remark and recognize him, andrestore him. "Yes, of course," thought sensible Constance. "Butsupposing--"
They all three searched the entire house again. Then, in thedrawing-room (which was in a sad condition of anticlimax) Amyexclaimed:
"Eh, master! There's town-crier crossing the Square. Hadn't yebetter have him cried?"
"Run out and stop him," Constance commanded.
And Amy flew.
Samuel and the aged town-crier parleyed at the side door, thewomen in the background.
"I canna' cry him without my bell," drawled the crier, strokinghis shabby uniform. "My bell's at wum (home). I mun go and fetchmy bell. Yo' write it down on a bit o' paper for me so as I canread it, and I'll foot off for my bell. Folk wouldna' listen to meif I hadna' gotten my bell."
Thus was Cyril cried.
"Amy," said Constance, when she and the girl were alone, "there'sno use in you standing blubbering there. Get to work and clear upthat drawing-room, do! The child is sure to be found soon. Yourmaster's gone out, too."
Brave words! Constance aided in the drawing-room and kitchen.Theirs was the woman's lot in a great crisis. Plates have alwaysto be washed.
Very shortly afterwards, Samuel Povey came into the kitchen by theunderground passage which led past the two cellars to the yard andto Brougham Street. He was carrying in his arms an obscene blackmass. This mass was Cyril, once white.
Constance screamed. She was at liberty to give way to herfeelings, because Amy happened to be upstairs.
"Stand away!" cried Mr. Povey. "He isn't fit to touch."
And Mr. Povey made as if to pass directly onward, ignoring themother.
"Wherever did you find him?"
"I found him in the far cellar," said Mr. Povey, compelled tostop, after all. "He was down there with me yesterday, and it justoccurred to me that he might have gone there again."
"What! All in the dark?"
"He'd lighted a candle, if you please! I'd left a candle-stick anda box of matches handy because I hadn't finished that shelving."
"Well!" Constance murmured. "I can't think how ever he dared gothere all alone!"
"Can't you?" said Mr. Povey, cynically. "I can. He simply did itto frighten us."
"Oh, Cyril!" Constance admonished the child. "Cyril!"
The child showed no emotion. His face was an enigma. It might havehidden sullenness or mere callous indifference, or a perfectunconsciousness of sin.
"Give him to me," said Constance.
"I'll look after him this evening," said Samuel, grimly.
"But you can't wash him," said Constance, her relief yielding toapprehension.
"Why not?" demanded Mr. Povey. And he moved off.
"But Sam--"
"I'll look after him, I tell you!" Mr. Povey repeated,threateningly.
"But what are you going to do?" Constance asked with fear.
"Well," said Mr. Povey, "has this sort of thing got to be dealtwith, or hasn't it?" He departed upstairs.
Constance overtook him at the door of Cyril's bedroom.
Mr. Povey did not wait for her to speak. His eyes were blazing.
"See here!" he admonished her cruelly. "You get away downstairs,mother!"
did you find him?" said Constance.s town-crier crossing the Square. Hadn.
And he disappeared into the bedroom with his vile and helplessvictim.
A moment later he popped his head out of the door. Constance wasdisobeying him. He stepped into the passage and shut the door sothat Cyril should not hear.
"Now please do as I tell you," he hissed at his wife. "Don't let'shave a scene, please."
She descended, slowly, weeping. And Mr. Povey retired again to theplace of execution.
Amy nearly fell on the top of Constance with a final tray ofthings from the drawing-room. And Constance had to tell the girlthat Cyril was found. Somehow she could not resist the instinct totell her also that the master had the affair in hand. Amy thenwept.
After about an hour Mr. Povey at last reappeared. Constance wastrying to count silver teaspoons in the parlour.
"He's in bed now," said Mr. Povey, with a magnificent attempt tobe nonchalant. "You mustn't go near him."
"But have you washed him?" Constance whimpered.
"I've washed him," replied the astonishing Mr. Povey.
"I've punished him, of course," said Mr. Povey, like a god who isabove human weaknesses. "What did you expect me to do? Someone hadto do it."
Constance wiped her eyes with the edge of the white apron whichshe was wearing over her new silk dress. She surrendered; sheaccepted the situation; she made the best of it. And all theevening was spent in dismally and horribly pretending that theirhearts were beating as one. Mr. Povey's elaborate, cheerykindliness was extremely painful.
They went to bed, and in their bedroom Constance, as she stoodclose to Samuel, suddenly dropped the pretence, and with eyes andvoice of anguish said:
"You must let me look at him."
They faced each other. For a brief instant Cyril did not exist forConstance. Samuel alone obsessed her, and yet Samuel seemed astrange, unknown man. It was in Constance's life one of thosecrises when the human soul seems to be on the very brink ofmysterious and disconcerting cognitions, and then, the waverecedes as inexplicably as it surged up.
"Why, of course!" said Mr. Povey, turning away lightly, as thoughto imply that she was making tragedies out of nothing.
She gave an involuntary gesture of almost childish relief.
Cyril slept calmly. It was a triumph for Mr. Povey.
Constance could not sleep. As she lay darkly awake by her husband,her secret being seemed to be a-quiver with emotion. Not exactlysorrow; not exactly joy; an emotion more elemental than these! Asensation of the intensity of her life in that hour; troubling,anxious, yet not sad! She said that Samuel was quite right, quiteright. And then she said that the poor little thing wasn't yetfive years old, and that it was monstrous. The two had to bereconciled. And they never could be reconciled. Always she wouldbe between them, to reconcile them, and to be crushed by theirimpact. Always she would have to bear the burden of both of them.There could be no ease for her, no surcease from a tremendouspreoccupation and responsibility. She could not change Samuel;besides, he was right! And though Cyril was not yet five, she feltthat she could not change Cyril either. He was just asunchangeable as a growing plant. The thought of her mother andSophia did not present itself to her; she felt, however, somewhatas Mrs. Baines had felt on historic occasions; but, being moresoftly kind, younger, and less chafed by destiny, she wasconscious of no bitterness, conscious rather of a solemnblessedness.