老妇人的故事 英文版The Old Wives' Tale
阿诺德.本涅特 Arnold Bennett
I
Constance, alone in the parlour, stood expectant by the set tea-table. She was not wearing weeds; her mother and she, on the deathof her father, had talked of the various disadvantages of weeds;her mother had worn them unwillingly, and only because a publicopinion not sufficiently advanced had intimidated her. Constancehad said: "If ever I'm a widow I won't wear them," positively, inthe tone of youth; and Mrs. Baines had replied: "I hope you won't,my dear." That was over twenty years ago, but Constance perfectlyremembered. And now, she was a widow! How strange and howimpressive was life! And she had kept her word; not positively,not without hesitations; for though times were changed, Bursleywas still Bursley; but she had kept it.
This was the first Monday after Samuel's funeral. Existence in thehouse had been resumed on the plane which would henceforth be thenormal plane. Constance had put on for tea a dress of black silkwith a jet brooch of her mother's. Her hands, just meticulouslywashed, had that feeling of being dirty which comes fromroughening of the epidermis caused by a day spent in fingeringstuffs. She had been 'going through' Samuel's things, and her own,and ranging all anew. It was astonishing how little the man hadcollected, of 'things,' in the course of over half a century. Allhis clothes were contained in two long drawers and a short one. Hehad the least possible quantity of haberdashery and linen, for heinvariably took from the shop such articles as he required, whenhe required them, and he would never preserve what was done with.He possessed no jewellery save a set of gold studs, a scarf-ring,and a wedding-ring; the wedding-ring was buried with him. Once,when Constance had offered him her father's gold watch and chain,he had politely refused it, saying that he preferred his own--asilver watch (with a black cord) which kept excellent time; he hadsaid later that she might save the gold watch and chain for Cyrilwhen he was twenty-one. Beyond these trifles and a half-empty boxof cigars and a pair of spectacles, he left nothing personal tohimself. Some men leave behind them a litter which takes months tosift and distribute. But Samuel had not the mania for owning.Constance put his clothes in a box. to be given away gradually(all except an overcoat and handkerchiefs which might do forCyril); she locked up the watch and its black cord, the spectaclesand the scarf-ring; she gave the gold studs to Cyril; she climbedon a chair and hid the cigar-box on the top of her wardrobe; andscarce a trace of Samuel remained!
By his own wish the funeral had been as simple and private aspossible. One or two distant relations, whom Constance scarcelyknew and who would probably not visit her again until she too wasdead, came--and went. And lo! the affair was over. The simplecelerity of the funeral would have satisfied even Samuel, whosetremendous self-esteem hid itself so effectually behind suchexternals that nobody had ever fully perceived it. Not evenConstance quite knew Samuel's secret opinion of Samuel. Constancewas aware that he had a ridiculous side, that his greatest lackhad been a lack of spectacular dignity. Even in the coffin, wherenevertheless most people are finally effective, he had not beenimposing--with his finicky little grey beard persistently stickingup.
The vision of him in his coffin--there in the churchyard, just atthe end of King Street!--with the lid screwed down on thatunimportant beard, recurred frequently in the mind of the widow,as something untrue and misleading. She had to say to herself:"Yes, he is really there! And that is why I have this particularfeeling in my heart." She saw him as an object pathetic andwistful, not majestic. And yet she genuinely thought that therecould not exist another husband quite so honest, quite so just,quite so reliable, quite so good, as Samuel had been. What aconscience he had! How he would try, and try, to be fair with her!Twenty years she could remember, of ceaseless, constant endeavouron his part to behave rightly to her! She could recall many anoccasion when he had obviously checked himself, striving againsthis tendency to cold abruptness and to sullenness, in order togive her the respect due to a wife. What loyalty was his! How shecould depend on him! How much better he was than herself (shethought with modesty)!
His death was an amputation for her. But she faced it withcalmness. She was not bowed with sorrow. She did not nurse theidea that her life was at an end; on the contrary, she obstinatelyput it away from her, dwelling on Cyril. She did not indulge inthe enervating voluptuousness of grief. She had begun in the firsthours of bereavement by picturing herself as one marked out forthe blows of fate. She had lost her father and her mother, and nowher husband. Her career seemed to be punctuated by interments. Butafter a while her gentle commonsense came to insist that mosthuman beings lose their parents, and that every marriage must endin either a widower or a widow, and that all careers arepunctuated by interments. Had she not had nearly twenty-one yearsof happy married life? (Twenty-one years--rolled up! The suddenthought of their naive ignorance of life, hers and his, when theywere first married, brought tears into her eyes. How wise andexperienced she was now!) And had she not Cyril? Compared to manywomen, she was indeed very fortunate.
The one visitation which had been specially hers was thedisappearance of Sophia. And yet even that was not worse than thedeath outright of Sophia, was perhaps not so bad. For Sophia mightreturn out of the darkness. The blow of Sophia's flight had seemedunique when it was fresh, and long afterwards; had seemed toseparate the Baines family from all other families in a particularshame. But at the age of forty-three Constance had learnt thatsuch events are not uncommon in families, and strange sequels tothem not unknown. Thinking often of Sophia, she hoped wildly andfrequently.
She looked at the clock; she had a little spasm of nervousnesslest Cyril might fail to keep his word on that first day of theirnew regular life together. And at the instant he burst into theroom, invading it like an armed force, having previously laidwaste the shop in his passage.
"I'm not late, mother! I'm not late!" he cried proudly.
She smiled warmly, happy in him, drawing out of him balm andsolace. He did not know that in that stout familiar body beforehim was a sensitive, trembling soul that clutched at himecstatically as the one reality in the universe. He did not knowthat that evening meal, partaken of without hurry after school hadreleased him to her, was to be the ceremonial sign of theirintimate unity and their interdependence, a tender and deliciousproof that they were 'all in all to each other': he saw only histea, for which he was hungry--just as hungry as though his fatherwere not scarcely yet cold in the grave.
But he saw obscurely that the occasion demanded something notquite ordinary, and so exerted himself to be boyishly charming tohis mother. She said to herself 'how good he was.' He felt at easeand confident in the future, because he detected beneath hercustomary judicial, impartial mask a clear desire to spoil him.
After tea, she regretfully left him, at his home-lessons, in orderto go into the shop. The shop was the great unsolved question.What was she to do with the shop? Was she to continue the businessor to sell it? With the fortunes of her father and her aunt, andthe economies of twenty years, she had more than sufficient means.She was indeed rich, according to the standards of the Square;nay, wealthy! Therefore she was under no material compulsion tokeep the shop. Moreover, to keep it would mean personalsuperintendence and the burden of responsibility, from which hercalm lethargy shrank. On the other hand, to dispose of thebusiness would mean the breaking of ties and leaving the premises:and from this also she shrank. Young Lawton, without being asked,had advised her to sell. But she did not want to sell. She wantedthe impossible: that matters should proceed in the future as inthe past, that Samuel's death should change nothing save in herheart.
funeral card."can she want?" said Constance, leaving.
In the meantime Miss Insull was priceless. Constance thoroughlyunderstood one side of the shop; but Miss Insull understood both,and the finance of it also. Miss Insull could have directed theestablishment with credit, if not with brilliance. She was indeeddirecting it at that moment. Constance, however, felt jealous ofMiss Insull; she was conscious of a slight antipathy towards thefaithful one. She did not care to be in the hands of Miss Insull.
There were one or two customers at the millinery counter. Theygreeted her with a deplorable copiousness of tact. Most tactfullythey avoided any reference to Constance's loss; but by their tone,their glances, at Constance and at each other, and theirheroically restrained sighs, they spread desolation as though theyhad been spreading ashes instead of butter on bread. Theassistants, too, had a special demeanour for the poor lone widowwhich was excessively trying to her. She wished to be natural, andshe would have succeeded, had they not all of them apparentlyconspired together to make her task impossible.
She moved away to the other side of the shop, to Samuel's desk, atwhich he used to stand, staring absently out of the little windowinto King Street while murmurously casting figures. She lightedthe gas-jet there, arranged the light exactly to suit her, andthen lifted the large flap of the desk and drew forth some accountbooks.
"Miss Insull!" she called, in a low, clear voice, with a touch ofhaughtiness and a touch of command in it. The pose, a comicalcontradiction of Constance's benevolent character, wasdeliberately adopted; it illustrated the effects of jealousy oneven the softest disposition.
Miss Insull responded. She had no alternative but to respond. Andshe gave no sign of resenting her employer's attitude. But thenMiss Insull seldom did give any sign of being human.
The customers departed, one after another, obsequiously sped bythe assistants, who thereupon lowered the gases somewhat,according to secular rule; and in the dim eclipse, as theyrestored boxes to shelves, they could hear the tranquil, regular,half-whispered conversation of the two women at the desk,discussing accounts; and then the chink of gold.
Suddenly there was an irruption. One of the assistants spranginstinctively to the gas; but on perceiving that the disturber ofpeace was only a slatternly girl, hatless and imperfectly clean,she decided to leave the gas as it was, and put on acondescending, suspicious demeanour.
"If you please, can I speak to the missis?" said the girl,breathlessly.
She seemed to be about eighteen years of age, fat and plain. Herblue frock was torn, and over it she wore a rough brown apron,caught up at one corner to the waist. Her bare forearms were ofbrick-red colour.
"What is it?" demanded the assistant.
Miss Insull looked over her shoulder across the shop. "It must beMaggie's--Mrs. Hollins's daughter!" said Miss Insull under herbreath.
"What can she want?" said Constance, leaving the desk instantly;and to the girl, who stood sturdily holding her own against thegroup of assistants: "You are Mrs. Hollins's daughter, aren'tyou?"
"Yes, mum."
"What's your name?"
shelves, they could hear the tranquil, regular,half-whispered conversation of the two women?
"Maggie, mum. And, if you please, mother's sent me to ask ifyou'll kindly give her a funeral card."
"A funeral card?"
"Yes. Of Mr. Povey. She's been expecting of one, and she thoughtas how perhaps you'd forgotten it, especially as she wasn't askedto the funeral."
The girl stopped.
Constance perceived that by mere negligence she had seriouslywounded the feelings of Maggie, senior. The truth was, she hadnever thought of Maggie. She ought to have remembered that funeralcards were almost the sole ornamentation of Maggie's abominablecottage.
"Certainly," she replied after a pause. "Miss Insull, there are afew cards left in the desk, aren't there? Please put me one in anenvelope for Mrs. Hollins."
She gave the heavily bordered envelope to the ruddy wench, whoenfolded it in her apron, and with hurried, shy thanks ran off.
"Tell your mother I send her a card with pleasure," Constancecalled after the girl.
The strangeness of the hazards of life made her thoughtful. She,to whom Maggie had always seemed an old woman, was a widow, butMaggie's husband survived as a lusty invalid. And she guessed thatMaggie, vilely struggling in squalor and poverty, was somehowhappy in her frowsy, careless way.
corner to the waist. Her bare forearms were ofbrick-red colour. proudly.your mother I send.
She went back to the accounts, dreaming.