老妇人的故事 英文版The Old Wives' Tale
阿诺德.本涅特 Arnold Bennett
I
In the summer of that year the occurrence of a white rash ofposters on hoardings and on certain houses and shops, wassymptomatic of organic change in the town. The posters wereiterations of a mysterious announcement and summons, which beganwith the august words: "By Order of the Trustees of the lateWilliam Clews Mericarp, Esq." Mericarp had been a considerableowner of property in Bursley. After a prolonged residence atSouthport, he had died, at the age of eighty-two, leaving hisproperty behind. For sixty years he had been a name, not a figure;and the news of his death, which was assuredly an event, incitedthe burgesses to gossip, for they had come to regard him as one ofthe invisible immortals. Constance was shocked, though she hadnever seen Mericarp. ("Everybody dies nowadays!" she thought.) Heowned the Baines-Povey shop, and also Mr. Critchlow's shop.Constance knew not how often her father and, later, her husband,had renewed the lease of those premises that were now hers; butfrom her earliest recollections rose a vague memory of her fathertalking to her mother about 'Mericarp's rent,' which was andalways had been a hundred a year. Mericarp had earned thereputation of being 'a good landlord.' Constance said sadly: "Weshall never have another as good!" When a lawyer's clerk calledand asked her to permit the exhibition of a poster in each of hershop-windows, she had misgivings for the future; she was worried;she decided that she would determine the lease next year, so as tobe on the safe side; but immediately afterwards she decided thatshe could decide nothing.
The posters continued: "To be sold by auction, at the Tiger Hotelat six-thirty for seven o'clock precisely." What six-thirty had todo with seven o'clock precisely no one knew. Then, after statingthe name and credentials of the auctioneer, the posters at lengtharrived at the objects to be sold: "All those freehold messuagesand shops and copyhold tenements namely." Houses were never soldby auction in Bursley. At moments of auction burgesses werereminded that the erections they lived in were not houses, as theyhad falsely supposed, but messuages. Having got as far as 'namely'the posters ruled a line and began afresh: "Lot I. All thatextensive and commodious shop and messuage with the offices andappurtenances thereto belonging situate and being No. 4 St. Luke'sSquare in the parish of Bursley in the County of Stafford and atpresent in the occupation of Mrs. Constance Povey widow under alease expiring in September 1889." Thus clearly asserting that allConstance's shop was for sale, its whole entirety, and not afraction or slice of it merely, the posters proceeded: "Lot 2. Allthat extensive and commodious shop and messuage with the officesand appurtenances thereto belonging situate and being No. 3 St.Luke's Square in the parish of Bursley in the County of Staffordand at present in the occupation of Charles Critchlow chemistunder an agreement for a yearly tenancy." The catalogue ran tofourteen lots. The posters, lest any one should foolishly imaginethat a non-legal intellect could have achieved such explicit andcomprehensive clarity of statement, were signed by a powerful firmof solicitors in Hanbridge. Happily in the Five Towns there wereno metaphysicians; otherwise the firm might have been expected toexplain, in the 'further particulars and conditions' which theposters promised, how even a messuage could 'be' the thing atwhich it was 'situate.'
Within a few hours of the outbreak of the rash, Mr. Critchlowabruptly presented himself before Constance at the millinerycounter; he was waving a poster.
"Well!" he exclaimed grimly. "What next, eh?"
"Yes, indeed!" Constance responded.
"Are ye thinking o' buying?" he asked. All the assistants,including Miss Insull, were in hearing, but he ignored theirpresence.
"Buying!" repeated Constance. "Not me! I've got quite enough houseproperty as it is."
Like all owners of real property, she usually adopted towards herpossessions an attitude implying that she would be willing to paysomebody to take them from her.
"Shall you?" she added, with Mr. Critchlow's own brusqueness.
"Me! Buy property in St. Luke's Square!" Mr. Critchlow sneered.And then left the shop as suddenly as he had entered it.
The sneer at St. Luke's Square was his characteristic expressionof an opinion which had been slowly forming for some years. TheSquare was no longer what it had been, though individualbusinesses might be as good as ever. For nearly twelve months twoshops had been to let in it. And once, bankruptcy had stained itsannals. The tradesmen had naturally searched for a cause in everydirection save the right one, the obvious one; and naturally theyhad found a cause. According to the tradesmen, the cause was 'thisfootball.' The Bursley Football Club had recently swollen into agenuine rival of the ancient supremacy of the celebrated KnypeClub. It had transformed itself into a limited company, and renteda ground up the Moorthorne Road, and built a grand stand. TheBursley F.C. had 'tied' with the Knype F.C. on the Knype ground--aprodigious achievement, an achievement which occupied a column ofthe Athletic News one Monday morning! But were the tradesmencivically proud of this glory? No! They said that 'this football'drew people out of the town on Saturday afternoons, to thecomplete abolition of shopping. They said also that people thoughtof nothing but 'this football;' and, nearly in the same breath,that only roughs and good-for-nothings could possibly beinterested in such a barbarous game. And they spoke of gate-money,gambling, and professionalism, and the end of all true sport inEngland. In brief, something new had come to the front and wassubmitting to the ordeal of the curse.
The sale of the Mericarp estate had a particular interest forrespectable stake-in-the-town persons. It would indicate to whatextent, if at all, 'this football' was ruining Bursley. Constancementioned to Cyril that she fancied she might like to go to thesale, and as it was dated for one of Cyril's off-nights Cyril saidthat he fancied he might like to go too. So they went together;Samuel used to attend property sales, but he had never taken hiswife to one. Constance and Cyril arrived at the Tiger shortlyafter seven o'clock, and were directed to a room furnished andarranged as for a small public meeting of philanthropists. A fewgentlemen were already present, but not the instigating trustees,solicitors, and auctioneers. It appeared that 'six-thirty forseven o'clock precisely' meant seven-fifteen. Constance took aWindsor chair in the corner nearest the door, and motioned Cyrilto the next chair; they dared not speak; they moved on tiptoe;Cyril inadvertently dragged his chair along the floor, andproduced a scrunching sound; he blushed, as though he haddesecrated a church, and his mother made a gesture of horror. Theremainder of the company glanced at the corner, apparently painedby this negligence. Some of them greeted Constance, but self-consciously, with a sort of shamed air; it might have been thatthey had all nefariously gathered together there for thecommitting of a crime. Fortunately Constance's widowhood hadalready lost its touching novelty, so that the greetings, if self-conscious, were at any rate given without unendurablecommiseration and did not cause awkwardness.
When the official world arrived, fussy, bustling, bearingdocuments and a hammer, the general feeling of guilty shame wasintensified. Useless for the auctioneer to try to dissipate thegloom by means of bright gestures and quick, cheerful remarks tohis supporters! Cyril had an idea that the meeting would open witha hymn, until the apparition of a tapster with wine showed him hiserror. The auctioneer very particularly enjoined the tapster tosee to it that no one lacked for his thirst, and the tapsterbecame self-consciously energetic. He began by choosing Constancefor service. In refusing wine, she blushed; then the fellowoffered a glass to Cyril, who went scarlet, and mumbled 'No' witha lump in his throat; when the tapster's back was turned, hesmiled sheepishly at his mother. The majority of the companyaccepted and sipped. The auctioneer sipped and loudly smacked, andsaid: "Ah!"
Mr. Critchlow came in.
And the auctioneer said again: "Ah! I'm always glad when thetenants come. That's always a good sign."
He glanced round for approval of this sentiment. But everybodyseemed too stiff to move. Even the auctioneer was self-conscious.
"Waiter! Offer wine to Mr. Critchlow!" he exclaimed bullyingly, asif saying: "Man! what on earth are you thinking of, to neglect Mr.Critchlow?"
"Yes, sir; yes, sir," said the waiter, who was dispensing wine asfast as a waiter can.
The auction commenced.
Seizing the hammer, the auctioneer gave a short biography ofWilliam Clews Mericarp, and, this pious duty accomplished, calledupon a solicitor to read the conditions of sale. The solicitorcomplied and made a distressing exhibition of self-consciousness.The conditions of sale were very lengthy, and apparently composedin a foreign tongue; and the audience listened to this elocutionwith a stoical pretence of breathless interest.
Then the auctioneer put up all that extensive and commodiousmessuage and shop situate and being No. 4, St. Luke's Square.Constance and Cyril moved their limbs surreptitiously, as thoughbeing at last found out. The auctioneer referred to John Bainesand to Samuel Povey, with a sense of personal loss, and thenexpressed his pleasure in the presence of 'the ladies;' he meantConstance, who once more had to blush.
"Now, gentlemen," said the auctioneer, "what do you say for thesefamous premises? I think I do not exaggerate when I use the word'famous.'"
Some one said a thousand pounds, in the terrorized voice of adelinquent.
"A thousand pounds," repeated the auctioneer, paused, sipped, andsmacked.
"Guineas," said another voice self-accused of iniquity.
"A thousand and fifty," said the auctioneer.
Then there was a long interval, an interval that tightened thenerves of the assembly.
"Now, ladies and gentlemen," the auctioneer adjured.
The first voice said sulkily: "Eleven hundred."
And thus the bids rose to fifteen hundred, lifted bit by bit, asit were, by the magnetic force of the auctioneer's personality.The man was now standing up, in domination. He bent down to thesolicitor's head; they whispered together.
"Gentlemen," said the auctioneer, "I am happy to inform you thatthe sale is now open." His tone translated better than words hiscalm professional beatitude. Suddenly in a voice of wrath hehissed at the waiter: "Waiter, why don't you serve thesegentlemen?"
"Yes, sir; yes, sir."
The auctioneer sat down and sipped at leisure, chatting with hisclerk and the solicitor and the solicitor's clerk.
When he rose it was as a conqueror. "Gentlemen, fifteen hundred isbid. Now, Mr. Critchlow."
Mr. Critchlow shook his head. The auctioneer threw a courteousglance at Constance, who avoided it.
After many adjurations, he reluctantly raised his hammer,pretended to let it fall, and saved it several times.
And then Mr. Critchlow said: "And fifty."
"Fifteen hundred and fifty is bid," the auctioneer informed thecompany, electrifying the waiter once more. And when he had sippedhe said, with feigned sadness: "Come, gentlemen, you surely don'tmean to let this magnificent lot go for fifteen hundred and fiftypounds?"
But they did mean that.
The hammer fell, and the auctioneer's clerk and the solicitor'sclerk took Mr. Critchlow aside and wrote with him.
Nobody was surprised when Mr. Critchlow bought Lot No. 2, his ownshop.
Constance whispered then to Cyril that she wished to leave. Theyleft, with unnatural precautions, but instantly regained theirnatural demeanour in the dark street.
"Well, I never! Well, I never!" she murmured outside, astonishedand disturbed.
She hated the prospect of Mr. Critchlow as a landlord. And yet shecould not persuade herself to leave the place, in spite ofdecisions.
The sale demonstrated that football had not entirely underminedthe commercial basis of society in Bursley; only two Lots had tobe withdrawn.