老妇人的故事 英文版The Old Wives' Tale
阿诺德.本涅特 Arnold Bennett
II
On a hot day in August, just before they were to leave Bursley fora month in the Isle of Man, Cyril came home, pale and perspiring,and dropped on to the sofa. He wore a grey alpaca suit, and,except his hair, which in addition to being very untidy was dampwith sweat, he was a masterpiece of slim elegance, despite theheat. He blew out great sighs, and rested his head on theantimacassared arm of the sofa.
"Well, mater," he said, in a voice of factitious calm, "I've gotit." He was looking up at the ceiling.
"Got what?"
"The National Scholarship. Swynnerton says it's a sheer fluke. ButI've got it. Great glory for the Bursley School of Art!"
"National Scholarship?" she said. "What's that? What is it?"
"Now, mother!" he admonished her, not without testiness. "Don't goand say I've never breathed a word about it!"
He lit a cigarette, to cover his self-consciousness, for heperceived that she was moved far beyond the ordinary.
Never, in fact, not even by the death of her husband, had shereceived such a frightful blow as that which the dreamy Cyril hadjust dealt her.
It was not a complete surprise, but it was nearly a completesurprise. A few months previously he certainly had mentioned, inhis incidental way, the subject of a National Scholarship. Aproposof a drinking-cup which he had designed, he had said that thedirector of the School of Art had suggested that it was goodenough to compete for the National, and that as he was otherwisequalified for the competition he might as well send the cup toSouth Kensington. He had added that Peel-Swynnerton had laughed atthe notion as absurd. On that occasion she had comprehended that aNational Scholarship involved residence in London. She ought tohave begun to live in fear, for Cyril had a most disturbing habitof making a mere momentary reference to matters which he deemedvery important and which occupied a large share of his attention.He was secretive by nature, and the rigidity of his father's rulehad developed this trait in his character. But really he hadspoken of the competition with such an extreme casualness thatwith little effort she had dismissed it from her anxieties asinvolving a contingency so remote as to be negligible. She had,genuinely, almost forgotten it. Only at rare intervals had itwakened in her a dull transitory pain--like the herald of a fatalmalady. And, as a woman in the opening stage of disease, she hadhastily reassured herself: "How silly of me! This can't possiblybe anything serious!"
And now she was condemned. She knew it. She knew there could be noappeal. She knew that she might as usefully have besought mercyfrom a tiger as from her good, industrious, dreamy son.
"It means a pound a week," said Cyril, his self-consciousnessintensified by her silence and by the dreadful look on her face."And of course free tuition."
School of Art!"hot day in August, just before they were.
"For how long?" she managed to say.
"Well," said he, "that depends. Nominally for a year. But if youbehave yourself it's always continued for three years." If hestayed for three years he would never come back: that was acertainty.
How she rebelled, furious and despairing, against the fortuitouscruelty of things! She was sure that he had not, till then,thought seriously of going to London. But the fact that theGovernment would admit him free to its classrooms and give him apound a week besides, somehow forced him to go to London. It wasnot the lack of means that would have prevented him from going.Why, then, should the presence of means induce him to go? Therewas no logical reason. The whole affair was disastrously absurd.The art-master at the Wedgwood Institution had chanced, merelychanced, to suggest that the drinking-cup should be sent to SouthKensington. And the result of this caprice was that she wassentenced to solitude for life! It was too monstrously, tooincredibly wicked!
With what futile and bitter execration she murmured in her heartthe word 'If.' If Cyril's childish predilections had not beenencouraged! If he had only been content to follow his father'strade! If she had flatly refused to sign his indenture at Peel'sand pay the premium! If he had not turned from, colour to clay! Ifthe art-master had not had that fatal 'idea'! If the judges forthe competition had decided otherwise! If only she had broughtCyril up in habits of obedience, sacrificing temporary peace topermanent security!
For after all he could not abandon her without her consent. He wasnot of age. And he would want a lot more money, which he couldobtain from none but her. She could refuse. ...
No! She could not refuse. He was the master, the tyrant. For thesake of daily pleasantness she had weakly yielded to him at thestart! She had behaved badly to herself and to him. He wasspoiled. She had spoiled him. And he was about to repay her withlifelong misery, and nothing would deflect him from his course.The usual conduct of the spoilt child! Had she not witnessed it,and moralized upon it, in other families?
"You don't seem very chirpy over it, mater!" he said.
She went out of the room. His joy in the prospect of departurefrom the Five Towns, from her, though he masked it, was moremanifest than she could bear.
The Signal, the next day, made a special item of the news. Itappeared that no National Scholarship had been won in the FiveTowns for eleven years. The citizens were exhorted to rememberthat Mr. Povey had gained his success in open competition with thecleverest young students of the entire kingdom--and in a branch ofart which he had but recently taken up; and further, that theGovernment offered only eight scholarships each year. The name ofCyril Povey passed from lip to lip. And nobody who met Constance,in street or shop, could refrain from informing her that she oughtto be a proud mother, to have such a son, but that truly they werenot surprised ... and how proud his poor father would have been! Afew sympathetically hinted that maternal pride was one of thoseluxuries that may cost too dear.