老妇人的故事 英文版The Old Wives' Tale
阿诺德.本涅特 Arnold Bennett
III
Cyril, though constantly successful at school, a rising man, aninfallible bringer-home of excellent reports, and a regular takerof prizes, became gradually less satisfactory in the house. He was'kept in' occasionally, and although his father pretended to holdthat to be kept in was to slur the honour of a spotless family,Cyril continued to be kept in; a hardened sinner, lost to shame.But this was not the worst. The worst undoubtedly was that Cyrilwas 'getting rough.' No definite accusation could be laid againsthim; the offence was general, vague, everlasting; it was in all hedid and said, in every gesture and movement. He shouted, whistled,sang, stamped, stumbled, lunged. He omitted such empty rites assaying 'Yes' or 'Please,' and wiping his nose. He replied grufflyand nonchalantly to polite questions, or he didn't reply until thequestions were repeated, and even then with a 'lost' air that wasnot genuine. His shoelaces were a sad sight, and his finger-nailsno sight at all for a decent woman; his hair was as rough as hisconduct; hardly at the pistol's point could he be forced to putoil on it. In brief, he was no longer the nice boy that he used tobe. He had unmistakably deteriorated. Grievous! But what can youexpect when YOUR boy is obliged, month after month and year afteryear, to associate with other boys? After all, he was a GOOD boy,said Constance, often to herself and now and then to Samuel. ForConstance, his charm was eternally renewed. His smile, hisfrequent ingenuousness, his funny self-conscious gesture when hewanted to 'get round' her--these characteristics remained; and hispure heart remained; she could read that in his eyes. Samuel wasinimical to his tastes for sports and his triumphs therein. ButConstance had pride in all that. She liked to feel him and to gazeat him, and to smell that faint, uncleanly odour of sweat thathung in his clothes.
In this condition he reached the advanced age of thirteen. And hisparents, who despite their notion of themselves as wide-awakeparents were a simple pair, never suspected that his heart,conceived to be still pure, had become a crawling, horrible massof corruption.
One day the head-master called at the shop. Now, to see a head-master walking about the town during school-hours is a startlingspectacle, and is apt to give you the same uncanny sensation aswhen, alone in a room, you think you see something move whichought not to move. Mr. Povey was startled. Mr. Povey had athumping within his breast as he rubbed his hands and drew thehead-master to the private corner where his desk was. "What can Ido for you to-day?" he almost said to the head-master. But he didnot say it. The boot was emphatically not on that leg. The head-master talked to Mr. Povey, in tones carefully low, for about aquarter of an hour, and then he closed the interview. Mr. Poveyescorted him across the shop, and the head-master said withordinary loudness: "Of course it's nothing. But my experience isthat it's just as well to be on the safe side, and I thought I'dtell you. Forewarned is forearmed. I have other parents to see."They shook hands at the door. Then Mr. Povey stepped out on to thepavement and, in front of the whole Square, detained an unwillinghead-master for quite another minute.
His face was deeply flushed as he returned into the shop. Theassistants bent closer over their work. He did not instantly rushinto the parlour and communicate with Constance. He had droppedinto a way of conducting many operations by his own unaided brain.His confidence in his skill had increased with years. Further, atthe back of his mind, there had established itself a vision of Mr.Povey as the seat of government and of Constance and Cyril as asort of permanent opposition. He would not have admitted that hesaw such a vision, for he was utterly loyal to his wife; but itwas there. This unconfessed vision was one of several causes whichhad contributed to intensify his inherent tendency towardsMachiavellianism and secretiveness. He said nothing to Constance,nothing to Cyril; but, happening to encounter Amy in the showroom,he was inspired to interrogate her sharply. The result was thatthey descended to the cellar together, Amy weeping. Amy wascommanded to hold her tongue. And as she went in mortal fear ofMr. Povey she did hold her tongue.
Nothing occurred for several days. And then one morning--it wasConstance's birthday: children are nearly always horribly unluckyin their choice of days for sin--Mr. Povey, having executedmysterious movements in the shop after Cyril's departure toschool, jammed his hat on his head and ran forth in pursuit ofCyril, whom he intercepted with two other boys, at the corner ofOldcastle Street and Acre Passage.
Cyril stood as if turned into salt. "Come back home!" said Mr.Povey, grimly; and for the sake of the other boys: "Please."
"But I shall be late for school, father," Cyril weakly urged.
"Never mind."
They passed through the shop together, causing a terrificconcealed emotion, and then they did violence to Constance byappearing in the parlour. Constance was engaged in cutting strawsand ribbons to make a straw-frame for a water-colour drawing of amoss-rose which her pure-hearted son had given her as a birthdaypresent.
"Why--what--?" she exclaimed. She said no more at the momentbecause she was sure, from the faces of her men, that the time wasbig with fearful events.
"Take your satchel off," Mr. Povey ordered coldly. "And yourmortar-board," he added with a peculiar intonation, as if gladthus to prove that Cyril was one of those rude boys who have to betold to take their hats off in a room.
"Whatever's amiss?" Constance murmured under her breath, as Cyrilobeyed the command. "Whatever's amiss?"
Mr. Povey made no immediate answer. He was in charge of theseproceedings, and was very anxious to conduct them with dignity andwith complete effectiveness. Little fat man over fifty, with awizened face, grey-haired and grey-bearded, he was as nervous as ayouth. His heart beat furiously. And Constance, the portly matronwho would never see forty again, was just as nervous as a girl.Cyril had gone very white. All three felt physically sick.
"What money have you got in your pockets?" Mr. Povey demanded, asa commencement.
Cyril, who had had no opportunity to prepare his case, offered noreply.
"You heard what I said," Mr. Povey thundered.
"I've got three-halfpence," Cyril murmured glumly, looking down atthe floor. His lower lip seemed to hang precariously away from hisgums.
"Where did you get that from?"
"It's part of what mother gave me," said the boy.
"I did give him a threepenny bit last week," Constance put inguiltily. "It was a long time since he had had any money."
"If you gave it him, that's enough," said Mr. Povey, quickly, andto the boy: "That's all you've got?"
"You're sure?"
"Yes, father."
Cyril was playing a hazardous game for the highest stakes, andunder grave disadvantages; and he acted for the best. He guardedhis own interests as well as he could.
Mr. Povey found himself obliged to take a serious risk. "Emptyyour pockets, then."
Cyril, perceiving that he had lost that particular game, emptiedhis pockets.
"Cyril," said Constance, "how often have I told you to change yourhandkerchiefs oftener! Just look at this!"
Astonishing creature! She was in the seventh hell of sickapprehension, and yet she said that!
After the handkerchief emerged the common schoolboy stock ofarticles useful and magic, and then, last, a silver florin!
Mr. Povey felt relief.
"Oh, Cyril!" whimpered Constance.
"Give it your mother," said Mr. Povey.
The boy stepped forward awkwardly, and Constance, weeping, tookthe coin.
"Please look at it, mother," said Mr. Povey. "And tell me ifthere's a cross marked on it."
Constance's tears blurred the coin. She had to wipe her eyes.
"Yes," she whispered faintly. "There's something on it."
"I thought so," said Mr. Povey. "Where did you steal it from?" hedemanded.
"Out of the till," answered Cyril.
"Have you ever stolen anything out of the till before?"
"Yes."
"Yes, what."
"Yes, father."
"Take your hands out of your pockets and stand up straight, if youcan. How often?"
"I--I don't know, father."
"I blame myself," said Mr. Povey, frankly. "I blame myself. Thetill ought always to be locked. All tills ought always to belocked. But we felt we could trust the assistants. If anybody hadtold me that I ought not to trust you, if anybody had told me thatmy own son would be the thief, I should have--well, I don't knowwhat I should have said!"
Mr. Povey was quite justified in blaming himself. The fact wasthat the functioning of that till was a patriarchal survival,which he ought to have revolutionized, but which it had neveroccurred to him to revolutionize, so accustomed to it was he. Inthe time of John Baines, the till, with its three bowls, two forsilver and one for copper (gold had never been put into it), wasinvariably unlocked. The person in charge of the shop took changefrom it for the assistants, or temporarily authorized an assistantto do so. Gold was kept in a small linen bag in a locked drawer ofthe desk. The contents of the till were never checked by anysystem of book-keeping, as there was no system of book-keeping;when all transactions, whether in payment or receipt, are in cash--the Baineses never owed a penny save the quarterly wholesaleaccounts, which were discharged instantly to the travellers--asystem of book-keeping is not indispensable. The till was situateimmediately at the entrance to the shop from the house; it was inthe darkest part of the shop, and the unfortunate Cyril had topass it every day on his way to school. The thing was a perfectdevice for the manufacture of young criminals.
Cyril's hands slipped into his pockets again. Then, noticing thelapse, he dragged them out.
"Sweets," said he.
"Anything else?"
"Sweets and things."
"Oh!" said Mr. Povey. "Well, now you can go down into the cinder-cellar and bring up here all the things there are in that littlebox in the corner. Off you go!"
And off went Cyril. He had to swagger through the kitchen.
"What did I tell you, Master Cyril?" Amy unwisely asked of him."You've copped it finely this time."
'Copped' was a word which she had learned from Cyril.
"Go on, you old bitch!" Cyril growled.
As he returned from the cellar, Amy said angrily:
"I told you I should tell your father the next time you called methat, and I shall. You mark my words."
"Cant! cant!" he retorted. "Do you think I don't know who's beencanting? Cant! cant!"
Upstairs in the parlour Samuel was explaining the matter to hiswife. There had been a perfect epidemic of smoking in the school.The head-master had discovered it and, he hoped, stamped it out.What had disturbed the head-master far more than the smoking wasthe fact that a few boys had been found to possess somewhat costlypipes, cigar-holders, or cigarette-holders. The head-master, wily,had not confiscated these articles; he had merely informed theparents concerned. In his opinion the articles came from onesingle source, a generous thief; he left the parents to ascertainwhich of them had brought a thief into the world.
Further information Mr. Povey had culled from Amy, and there couldremain no doubt that Cyril had been providing his chums with theutensils of smoking, the till supplying the means. He had told Amythat the things which he secreted in the cellar had been presentedto him by blood-brothers. But Mr. Povey did not believe that.Anyhow, he had marked every silver coin in the till for threenights, and had watched the till in the mornings from behind themerino-pile; and the florin on the parlour-table spoke of hissuccess as a detective.
Constance felt guilty on behalf of Cyril. As Mr. Povey outlinedhis case she could not free herself from an entirely irrationalsensation of sin; at any rate of special responsibility. Cyrilseemed to be her boy and not Samuel's boy at all. She avoided herhusband's glance. This was very odd.
Then Cyril returned, and his parents composed their faces and hedeposited, next to the florin, a sham meerschaum pipe in a case, atobacco-pouch, a cigar of which one end had been charred but theother not cut, and a half-empty packet of cigarettes without alabel.
Nothing could be hid from Mr. Povey. The details were distressing.
"So Cyril is a liar and a thief, to say nothing of this smoking!"Mr. Povey concluded.
He spoke as if Cyril had invented strange and monstrous sins. Butdeep down in his heart a little voice was telling him, as regardsthe smoking, that HE had set the example. Mr. Baines had neversmoked. Mr. Critchlow never smoked. Only men like Daniel smoked.
Thus far Mr. Povey had conducted the proceedings to his ownsatisfaction. He had proved the crime. He had made Cyril confess.The whole affair lay revealed. Well--what next? Cyril ought tohave dissolved in repentance; something dramatic ought to haveoccurred. But Cyril simply stood with hanging, sulky head, andgave no sign of proper feeling.
Mr. Povey considered that, until something did happen, he mustimprove the occasion.
"Here we have trade getting worse every day," said he (it wastrue), "and you are robbing your parents to make a beast ofyourself, and corrupting your companions! I wonder your mothernever smelt you!"
"I never dreamt of such a thing!" said Constance, grievously.
Besides, a young man clever enough to rob a till is usually cleverenough to find out that the secret of safety in smoking is to usecachous and not to keep the stuff in your pockets a minute longerthan you can help.
"There's no knowing how much money you have stolen," said Mr.Povey. "A thief!"
If Cyril had stolen cakes, jam, string, cigars, Mr. Povey wouldnever have said 'thief' as he did say it. But money! Money wasdifferent. And a till was not a cupboard or a larder. A till was atill. Cyril had struck at the very basis of society.
"And on your mother's birthday!" Mr. Povey said further.
"There's one thing I can do!" he said. "I can burn all this. Builton lies! How dared you?"
And he pitched into the fire--not the apparatus of crime, but thewater-colour drawing of a moss-rose and the straws and the blueribbon for bows at the corners.
"How dared you?" he repeated.
"You never gave me any money," Cyril muttered.
He thought the marking of coins a mean trick, and the dragging-inof bad trade and his mother's birthday roused a familiar devilthat usually slept quietly in his breast.
"What's that you say?" Mr. Povey almost shouted.
"You never gave me any money," the devil repeated in a louder tonethan Cyril had employed.
(It was true. But Cyril 'had only to ask' and he would havereceived all that was good for him.)
Mr. Povey sprang up. Mr. Povey also had a devil. The two devilsgazed at each other for an instant; and then, noticing thatCyril's head was above Mr. Povey's, the elder devil controlleditself. Mr. Povey had suddenly had as much drama as he wanted.
"Get away to bed!" said he with dignity.
Cyril went, defiantly.
"He's to have nothing but bread and water, mother," Mr. Poveyfinished. He was, on the whole, pleased with himself.
Later in the day Constance reported, tearfully, that she had beenup to Cyril and that Cyril had wept. Which was to Cyril's credit.But all felt that life could never be the same again. During theremainder of existence this unspeakable horror would lift itsobscene form between them. Constance had never been so unhappy.Occasionally, when by herself, she would rebel for a brief moment,as one rebels in secret against a mummery which one is obliged totreat seriously. "After all," she would whisper, "suppose he HAStaken a few shillings out of the till! What then? What does itmatter?" But these moods of moral insurrection against society andMr. Povey were very transitory. They were come and gone in aflash.