老妇人的故事 英文版The Old Wives' Tale
阿诺德.本涅特 Arnold Bennett
I
"Now, Master Cyril," Amy protested, "will you leave that firealone? It's not you that can mend my fires."
A boy of nine, great and heavy for his years, with a full face andvery short hair, bent over the smoking grate. It was about fiveminutes to eight on a chilly morning after Easter. Amy, hastilyclad in blue, with a rough brown apron, was setting the breakfasttable. The boy turned his head, still bending.
"Shut up, Ame," he replied, smiling. Life being short, he usuallycalled her Ame when they were alone together. "Or I'll catch youone in the eye with the poker."
its owner's appetite dead.be an ordinary.
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself," said Amy. "And you knowyour mother told you to wash your feet this morning, and youhaven't done. Fine clothes is all very well, but--"
"Who says I haven't washed my feet?" asked Cyril, guiltily.
Amy's mention of fine clothes referred to the fact that he wasthat morning wearing his Sunday suit for the first time on a week-day.
"I say you haven't," said Amy.
She was more than three times his age still, but they had beentreating each other as intellectual equals for years.
"And how do you know?" asked Cyril, tired of the fire.
"I know," said Amy.
"Well, you just don't, then!" said Cyril. "And what about YOURfeet? I should be sorry to see your feet, Ame."
Amy was excusably annoyed. She tossed her head. "My feet are asclean as yours any day," she said. "And I shall tell your mother."
But he would not leave her feet alone, and there ensued one ofthose endless monotonous altercations on a single theme whichoccur so often between intellectual equals when one is a young sonof the house and the other an established servant who adores him.Refined minds would have found the talk disgusting, but thesentiment of disgust seemed to be unknown to either of thewranglers. At last, when Amy by superior tactics had cornered him,Cyril said suddenly:
"Oh, go to hell!"
Amy banged down the spoon for the bacon gravy. "Now I shall tellyour mother. Mark my words, this time I SHALL tell your mother."
Cyril felt that in truth he had gone rather far. He was perfectlysure that Amy would not tell his mother. And yet, supposing thatby some freak of her nature she did! The consequences would beunutterable; the consequences would more than extinguish hisprivate glory in the use of such a dashing word. So he laughed, arather silly, giggling laugh, to reassure himself.
"You daren't," he said.
"Daren't I?" she said grimly. "You'll see. _I_ don't know whereyou learn! It fair beats me. But it isn't Amy Bates as is going tobe sworn at. As soon as ever your mother comes into this room!"
The door at the foot of the stairs creaked and Constance came intothe room. She was wearing a dress of majenta merino, and a goldchain descended from her neck over her rich bosom. She hadscarcely aged in five years. It would have been surprising if shehad altered much, for the years had passed over her head at anincredible rate. To her it appeared only a few months sinceCyril's first and last party.
"Are you all ready, my pet? Let me look at you." Constance greetedthe boy with her usual bright, soft energy.
Cyril glanced at Amy, who averted her head, putting spoons intothree saucers.
"Yes, mother," he replied in a new voice.
"Did you do what I told you?"
"Yes, mother," he said simply.
"That's right."
Amy made a faint noise with her lips, and departed.
He was saved once more. He said to himself that never again wouldhe permit his soul to be disturbed by any threat of old Ame's.
Constance's hand descended into her pocket and drew out a hardpaper packet, which she clapped on to her son's head.
"Oh, mother!" He pretended that she had hurt him, and then heopened the packet. It contained Congleton butterscotch, reputed aharmless sweetmeat.
"Good!" he cried, "good! Oh! Thanks, mother."
"Now don't begin eating them at once."
"Just one, mother."
"No! And how often have I told you to keep your feet off thatfender. See how it's bent. And it's nobody but you."
"Sorry."
"It's no use being sorry if you persist in doing it."
"Oh, mother, I had such a funny dream!"
They chatted until Amy came up the stairs with tea and bacon. Thefire had developed from black to clear red.
"Run and tell father that breakfast is ready."
After a little delay a spectacled man of fifty, short andstoutish, with grey hair and a small beard half grey and halfblack, entered from the shop. Samuel had certainly very much aged,especially in his gestures, which, however, were still quick. Hesat down at once--his wife and son were already seated--and servedthe bacon with the rapid assurance of one who needs not to inquireabout tastes and appetites. Not a word was said, except a briefgrace by Samuel. But there was no restraint. Samuel had a mild,benignant air. Constance's eyes were a fountain of cheerfulness.The boy sat between them and ate steadily.
Mysterious creature, this child, mysteriously growing and growingin the house! To his mother he was a delicious joy at all timessave when he disobeyed his father. But now for quite aconsiderable period there had been no serious collision. The boyseemed to be acquiring virtue as well as sense. And really he wascharming. So big, truly enormous (every one remarked on it), andyet graceful, lithe, with a smile that could ravish. And he wasdistinguished in his bearing. Without depreciating Samuel in herfaithful heart, Constance saw plainly the singular differencesbetween Samuel and the boy. Save that he was dark, and that hisfather's 'dangerous look' came into those childish eyesoccasionally, Cyril had now scarcely any obvious resemblance tohis father. He was a Baines. This naturally deepened Constance'sfamily pride. Yes, he was mysterious to Constance, though probablynot more so than any other boy to any other parent. He was equallymysterious to Samuel, but otherwise Mr. Povey had learned toregard him in the light of a parcel which he was always attemptingto wrap up in a piece of paper imperceptibly too small. When hesuccessfully covered the parcel at one corner it burst out atanother, and this went on for ever, and he could never get thestring on. Nevertheless, Mr. Povey had unabated confidence in hisskill as a parcel-wrapper. The boy was strangely subtle at times,but then at times he was astoundingly ingenuous, and then hisdodges would not deceive the dullest. Mr. Povey knew himself morethan a match for his son. He was proud of him because he regardedhim as not an ordinary boy; he took it as a matter of course thathis boy should not be an ordinary boy. He never, or very rarely,praised Cyril. Cyril thought of his father as a man who, inresponse to any request, always began by answering with athoughtful, serious 'No, I'm afraid not.'
"So you haven't lost your appetite!" his mother commented.
Cyril grinned. "Did you expect me to, mother?"
"Let me see," said Samuel, as if vaguely recalling an unimportantfact. "It's to-day you begin to go to school, isn't it?"
"I wish father wouldn't be such a chump!" Cyril reflected. And,considering that this commencement of school (real school, not agirls' school, as once) had been the chief topic in the house fordays, weeks; considering that it now occupied and filled allhearts, Cyril's reflection was excusable.
"Now, there's one thing you must always remember, my boy," saidMr. Povey. "Promptness. Never be late either in going to school orin coming home. And in order that you may have no excuse"--Mr.Povey pressed on the word 'excuse' as though condemning Cyril inadvance--"here's something for you!" He said the last wordsquickly, with a sort of modest shame.
It was a silver watch and chain.
Cyril was staggered. So also was Constance, for Mr. Povey couldkeep his own counsel. At long intervals he would prove, thus, thathe was a mighty soul, capable of sublime deeds. The watch was theunique flowering of Mr. Povey's profound but harsh affection. Itlay on the table like a miracle. This day was a great day, asupremely exciting day in Cyril's history, and not less so in thehistory of his parents.
The watch killed its owner's appetite dead.
Routine was ignored that morning. Father did not go back into theshop. At length the moment came when father put on his hat andovercoat to take Cyril, and Cyril's watch and satchel, to theEndowed School, which had quarters in the Wedgwood Institutionclose by. A solemn departure, and Cyril could not pretend by hisdemeanour that it was not! Constance desired to kiss him, butrefrained. He would not have liked it. She watched them from thewindow. Cyril was nearly as tall as his father; that is to say,not nearly as tall, but creeping up his father's shoulder. Shefelt that the eyes of the town must be on the pair. She was veryhappy, and nervous.
At dinner-time a triumph seemed probable, and at tea-time, whenCyril came home under a mortar-board hat and with a satchel fullof new books and a head full of new ideas, the triumph wasactually and definitely achieved. He had been put into the thirdform, and he announced that he should soon be at the top of it. Hewas enchanted with the life of school; he liked the other boys,and it appeared that the other boys liked him. The fact was that,with a new silver watch and a packet of sweets, he had begun hisnew career in the most advantageous circumstances. Moreover, hepossessed qualities which ensure success at school. He was big,and easy, with a captivating smile and a marked aptitude to learnthose things which boys insist on teaching to their new comrades.He had muscle, a brave demeanour, and no conceit.
During tea the parlour began, to accustom itself to a newvocabulary, containing such words as 'fellows,' 'kept in,'m'lines,' 'rot,' 'recess,' 'jolly.' To some of these words theparents, especially Mr. Povey, had an instinct to object, but theycould not object, somehow they did not seem to get an opportunityto object; they were carried away on the torrent, and after all,their excitement and pleasure in the exceeding romantic novelty ofexistence were just as intense and nearly as ingenuous as theirson's.
He demonstrated that unless he was allowed to stay up later thanaforetime he would not be able to do his home-work, and hencewould not keep that place in the school to which his talentsentitled him. Mr. Povey suggested, but only with half a heart,that he should get up earlier in the morning. The proposal fellflat. Everybody knew and admitted that nothing save the scorpionsof absolute necessity, or a tremendous occasion such as thatparticular morning's, would drive Cyril from his bed until thesmell of bacon rose to him from the kitchen. The parlour table wasconsecrated to his lessons. It became generally known that 'Cyrilwas doing his lessons.' His father scanned the new text-bookswhile Cyril condescendingly explained to him that all others weresuperseded and worthless. His father contrived to maintain an airof preserving his mental equilibrium, but not his mother; she gaveit up, she who till that day had under his father's directiontaught him nearly all that he knew, and Cyril passed above herinto regions of knowledge where she made no pretence of being ableto follow him.
When the lessons were done, and Cyril had wiped his fingers onbits of blotting-paper, and his father had expressed qualifiedapproval and had gone into the shop, Cyril said to his mother,with that delicious hesitation which overtook him sometimes:
"Mother."
"Well, my pet."
"I want you to do something for me."
"Well, what is it?"
"No, you must promise."
"I'll do it if I can."
"But you CAN. It isn't doing. It's NOT doing."
"Come, Cyril, out with it."
"I don't want you to come in and look at me after I'm asleep anymore."
"But, you silly boy, what difference can it make to you if you'reasleep?"
"I don't want you to. It's like as if I was a baby. You'll have tostop doing it some day, and so you may as well stop now."
It was thus that he meant to turn his back on his youth.
She smiled. She was incomprehensibly happy. She continued tosmile.
"Now you'll promise, won't you, mother?"
She rapped him on the head with her thimble, lovingly. He took thegesture for consent.
I want you to do something for me."
"You are a baby," she murmured.
"Now I shall trust you," he said, ignoring this. "Say 'honourbright.'"
"Honour bright."
With what a long caress her eyes followed him, as he went up tobed on his great sturdy legs! She was thankful that school had notcontaminated her adorable innocent. If she could have been Ame fortwenty-four hours, she perhaps would not have hesitated to putbutter into his mouth lest it should melt.
Mr. Povey and Constance talked late and low that night. They couldneither of them sleep; they had little desire to sleep.Constance's face said to her husband: "I've always stuck up forthat boy, in spite of your severities, and you see how right Iwas!" And Mr. Povey's face said: "You see now the brilliantsuccess of my system. You see how my educational theories havejustified themselves. Never been to a school before, except thatwretched little dame's school, and he goes practically straight tothe top of the third form--at nine years of age!" They discussedhis future. There could be no sign of lunacy in discussing hisfuture up to a certain point, but each felt that to discuss theultimate career of a child nine years old would not be the act ofa sensible parent; only foolish parents would be so fond. Yet eachwas dying to discuss his ultimate career. Constance yielded firstto the temptation, as became her. Mr. Povey scoffed, and then, tohumour Constance, yielded also. The matter was soon fairly on thecarpet. Constance was relieved to find that Mr. Povey had nothought whatever of putting Cyril in the shop. No; Mr. Povey didnot desire to chop wood with a razor. Their son must and wouldascend. Doctor! Solicitor! Barrister! Not barrister--barrister wasfantastic. When they had argued for about half an hour Mr. Poveyintimated suddenly that the conversation was unworthy of theirpractical commonsense, and went to sleep.