老妇人的故事 英文版The Old Wives' Tale
阿诺德.本涅特 Arnold Bennett
I
Her soberly rich dress had a countrified air, as she waited, readyfor the streets, in the bedroom of the London hotel on theafternoon of the first of July, 1866; but there was nothing of theprovincial in that beautiful face, nor in that bearing at once shyand haughty; and her eager heart soared beyond geographicalboundaries.
It was the Hatfield Hotel, in Salisbury Street, between the Strandand the river. Both street and hotel are now gone, lost in thevast foundations of the Savoy and the Cecil; but the type of theHatfield lingers with ever-increasing shabbiness in Jermyn Street.In 1866, with its dark passages and crooked stairs, its candles,its carpets and stuffs which had outlived their patterns, itsnarrow dining-room where a thousand busy flies ate together at onelong table, its acrid stagnant atmosphere, and its disturbingsensation of dirt everywhere concealing itself, it stood forth inrectitude as a good average modern hotel. The patched and seniledrabness of the bedroom made an environment that emphasizedSophia's flashing youth. She alone in it was unsullied.
There was a knock at the door, apparently gay and jaunty. But shethought, truly: "He's nearly as nervous as I am!" And in her sicknervousness she coughed, and then tried to take full possession ofherself. The moment had at last come which would divide her lifeas a battle divides the history of a nation. Her mind in aninstant swept backwards through an incredible three months.
The schemings to obtain and to hide Gerald's letters at the shop,and to reply to them! The far more complex and dangerous duplicitypractised upon her majestic aunt at Axe! The visits to the Axepost-office! The three divine meetings with Gerald at earlymorning by the canal-feeder, when he had told her of hisinheritance and of the harshness of his uncle Boldero, and with arush of words had spread before her the prospect of eternal bliss!The nights of fear! The sudden, dizzy acquiescence in his plan,and the feeling of universal unreality which obsessed her! Theaudacious departure from her aunt's, showering a cascade ofappalling lies! Her dismay at Knype Station! Her blush as sheasked for a ticket to London! The ironic, sympathetic glance ofthe porter, who took charge of her trunk! And then the thunder ofthe incoming train! Her renewed dismay when she found that it wasvery full, and her distracted plunge into a compartment with sixpeople already in it! And the abrupt reopening of the carriage-door and that curt inquisition from an inspector: "Where for,please? Where for? Where for?" Until her turn was reached: "Wherefor, miss?" and her weak little reply: "Euston"! And more violentblushes! And then the long, steady beating of the train over therails, keeping time to the rhythm of the unanswerable voice withinher breast: "Why are you here? Why are you here?" And then Rugby;and the awful ordeal of meeting Gerald, his entry into thecompartment, the rearrangement of seats, and their excruciatinglypainful attempts at commonplace conversation in the publicity ofthe carriage! (She had felt that that part of the enterprise hadnot been very well devised by Gerald.) And at last London; thethousands of cabs, the fabulous streets, the general roar, alldream-surpassing, intensifying to an extraordinary degree theobsession of unreality, the illusion that she could not reallyhave done what she had done, that she was not really doing whatshe was doing!
Supremely and finally, the delicious torture of the clutch ofterror at her heart as she moved by Gerald's side through theimpossible adventure! Who was this rash, mad Sophia? Surely notherself!
The knock at the door was impatiently repeated.
"Come in," she said timidly.
Gerald Scales came in. Yes, beneath that mien of a commercialtraveller who has been everywhere and through everything, he wasvery nervous. It was her privacy that, with her consent, he hadinvaded. He had engaged the bedroom only with the intention ofusing it as a retreat for Sophia until the evening, when they wereto resume their travels. It ought not to have had any disturbingsignificance. But the mere disorder on the washstand, a towellying on one of the cane chairs, made him feel that he wasaffronting decency, and so increased his jaunty nervousness. Themoment was painful; the moment was difficult beyond his skill tohandle it naturally.
Approaching her with factitious ease, he kissed her through herveil, which she then lifted with an impulsive movement, and hekissed her again, more ardently, perceiving that her ardour wasexceeding his. This was the first time they had been alonetogether since her flight from Axe. And yet, with his worldlyexperience, he was naive enough to be surprised that he could notput all the heat of passion into his embrace, and he wondered whyhe was not thrilled at the contact with her! However, the powerfulclinging of her lips somewhat startled his senses, and alsodelighted him by its silent promise. He could smell the stuff ofher veil, the sarsenet of her bodice, and, as it were wrapped inthese odours as her body was wrapped in its clothes, the faintfleshly perfume of her body itself. Her face, viewed so close thathe could see the almost imperceptible down on those fruit-likecheeks, was astonishingly beautiful; the dark eyes wereexquisitely misted; and he could feel the secret loyalty of hersoul ascending to him. She was very slightly taller than herlover; but somehow she hung from him, her body curved backwards,and her bosom pressed against his, so that instead of looking upat her gaze he looked down at it. He preferred that; perfectlyproportioned though he was, his stature was a delicate point withhim. His spirits rose by the uplift of his senses. His fearsslipped away; he began to be very satisfied with himself. He wasthe inheritor of twelve thousand pounds, and he had won thisunique creature. She was his capture; he held her close,permittedly scanning the minutiae of her skin, permittedlycrushing her flimsy silks. Something in him had forced her to layher modesty on the altar of his desire. And the sun brightlyshone. So he kissed her yet more ardently, and with the slightesttouch of a victor's condescension; and her burning response morethan restored the self-confidence which he had been losing.
"I've got no one but you now," she murmured in a melting voice.
She fancied in her ignorance that the expression of this sentimentwould please him. She was not aware that a man is usually ratherchilled by it, because it proves to him that the other is thinkingabout his responsibilities and not about his privileges. Certainlyit calmed Gerald, though without imparting to him her sense of hisresponsibilities. He smiled vaguely. To Sophia his smile was amiracle continually renewed; it mingled dashing gaiety with a hintof wistful appeal in a manner that never failed to bewitch her. Aless innocent girl than Sophia might have divined from thatadorable half-feminine smile that she could do anything withGerald except rely on him. But Sophia had to learn.
"Are you ready?" he asked, placing his hands on her shoulders andholding her away from him.
"Yes," she said, nerving herself. Their faces were still very neartogether.
"Well, would you like to go and see the Dore pictures?"
A simple enough question! A proposal felicitous enough! Dore wasbecoming known even in the Five Towns, not, assuredly, by hisillustrations to the Contes Drolatiques of Balzac--but by hisshuddering Biblical conceits. In pious circles Dore was saving artfrom the reproach of futility and frivolity. It was indubitably atasteful idea on Gerald's part to take his love of a summer'safternoon to gaze at the originals of those prints which had sodeeply impressed the Five Towns. It was an idea that sanctifiedthe profane adventure.
Yet Sophia showed signs of affliction. Her colour went and came;her throat made the motion of swallowing; there was a muscularcontraction over her whole body. And she drew herself from him.Her glance, however, did not leave him, and his eyes fell beforehers.
"But what about the--wedding?" she breathed.
That sentence seemed to cost all her pride; but she was obliged toutter it, and to pay for it.
"Oh," he said lightly and quickly, just as though she had remindedhim of a detail that might have been forgotten, "I was just goingto tell you. It can't be done here. There's been some change inthe rules. I only found out for certain late last night. But I'veascertained that it'll be as simple as ABC before the EnglishConsul at Paris; and as I've got the tickets for us to go over to-night, as we arranged ..." He stopped.
She sat down on the towel-covered chair, staggered. She believedwhat he said. She did not suspect that he was using the classicdevice of the seducer. It was his casualness that staggered her.Had it really been his intention to set off on an excursion andremark as an afterthought: "BY THE WAY, we can't be married as Itold you at half-past two to-day"? Despite her extreme ignoranceand innocence, Sophia held a high opinion of her own commonsenseand capacity for looking after herself, and she could scarcelybelieve that he was expecting her to go to Paris, and at night,without being married. She looked pitiably young, virgin, raw,unsophisticated; helpless in the midst of dreadful dangers. Yether head was full of a blank astonishment at being mistaken for asimpleton! The sole explanation could be that Gerald, in somematters, must himself be a confiding simpleton. He had notreflected. He had not sufficiently realized the immensity of hersacrifice in flying with him even to London. She felt sorry forhim. She had the woman's first glimpse of the necessity for someadjustment of outlook as an essential preliminary to uninterruptedhappiness.
"It'll be all right!" Gerald persuasively continued.
"Oh no!" she exclaimed curtly. "Oh no!"
"Oh no what?"
"We can't possibly go like that," she said.
"But don't I tell you it'll be all right?" he protested. "If westay here and they come after you ...! Besides, I've got thetickets and all."
"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" she demanded.
"But how could I?" he grumbled. "Have we had a single minutealone?"
"Now, could we?" he pressed.
"And you talk about going to see pictures!" was her reply.
Undoubtedly this had been a grave error of tact. He recognizedthat it was a stupidity. And so he resented it, as though she hadcommitted it and not he.
"My dear girl," he said, hurt, "I acted for the best. It isn't myfault if rules are altered and officials silly."
prevented her from going back.
"You ought to have told me before," she persisted sullenly.
"But how could I?"
He almost believed in that moment that he had really intended tomarry her, and that the ineptitudes of red-tape had prevented himfrom achieving his honourable purpose. Whereas he had done nothingwhatever towards the marriage.
"Oh no! Oh no!" she repeated, with heavy lip and liquid eye. "Ohno!"
He gathered that she was flouting his suggestion of Paris.
Slowly and nervously he approached her. She did not stir nor lookup. Her glance was fixed on the washstand. He bent down andmurmured:
"Come, now. It'll be all right. You'll travel in the ladies'saloon on the steam-packet."
She did not stir. He bent lower and touched the back of her neckwith his lips. And she sprang up, sobbing and angry. Because shewas mad for him she hated him furiously. All tenderness hadvanished.
to thebed, falling on it with the upper part.
"I'll thank you not to touch me!" she said fiercely. She had givenhim her lips a moment ago, but now to graze her neck was aninsult.
He smiled sheepishly. "But really you must be reasonable," heargued. "What have I done?"
"It's what you haven't done, I think!" she cried. "Why didn't youtell me while we were in the cab?"
"I didn't care to begin worrying you just then," he replied: whichwas exactly true.
The fact was, he had of course shirked telling her that nomarriage would occur that day. Not being a professional seducer ofyoung girls, he lacked skill to do a difficult thing simply.
"Now come along, little girl," he went on, with just a trifle ofimpatience. "Let's go out and enjoy ourselves. I assure you thateverything will be all right in Paris."
"That's what you said about coming to London," she retortedsarcastically through her sobs. "And look at you!"
Did he imagine for a single instant that she would have come toLondon with him save on the understanding that she was to bemarried immediately upon arrival? This attitude of an indignantquestion was not to be reconciled with her belief that his excusesfor himself were truthful. But she did not remark the discrepancy.
Her sarcasm wounded his vanity.
"Oh, very well!" he muttered. "If you don't choose to believe whatI say!" He shrugged his shoulders.
She said nothing; but the sobs swept at intervals through herframe, shaking it.
Reading hesitation in her face, he tried again. "Come along,little girl. And wipe your eyes." And he approached her. Shestepped back.
"I can tell you what I shan't do," she said. "I shan't go toParis." Her sobs were less frequent.
"That's not my question," he said icily. "I want to know what youwill do."
There was now no pretence of affectionateness either on her partor on his. They might, to judge from their attitudes, have beennourished from infancy on mutual hatred.
"What's that got to do with you?" she demanded.
"It's got everything to do with me," he said.
"Well, you can go and find out!" she said.
It was girlish; it was childish; it was scarcely according to thecanons for conducting a final rupture; but it was not the lesstragically serious. Indeed, the spectacle of this young girlabsurdly behaving like one, in a serious crisis, increased thetragicalness of the situation even if it did not heighten it. Theidea that ran through Gerald's brain was the ridiculous folly ofhaving anything to do with young girls. He was quite blind to herbeauty.
"'Go'?" he repeated her word. "You mean that?"
"Of course I mean it," she answered promptly.
The coward in him urged him to take advantage of her ignorant,helpless pride, and leave her at her word. He remembered the sceneshe had made at the pit shaft, and he said to himself that hercharm was not worth her temper, and that he was a fool ever tohave dreamed that it was, and that he would be doubly a fool nownot to seize the opportunity of withdrawing from an insaneenterprise.
"I am to go?" he asked, with a sneer.
She nodded.
"Of course if you order me to leave you, I must. Can I do anythingfor you?"
She signified that he could not,
"Nothing? You're sure?"
She frowned.
"Well, then, good-bye." He turned towards the door.
"I suppose you'd leave me here without money or anything?" shesaid in a cold, cutting voice. And her sneer was far moredestructive than his. It destroyed in him the last trace ofcompassion for her.
"Oh, I beg pardon!" he said, and swaggeringly counted out fivesovereigns on to a chest of drawers.
She rushed at them. "Do you think I'll take your odious money?"she snarled, gathering the coins in her gloved hand.
Her first impulse was to throw them in his face; but she pausedand then flung them into a corner of the room.
"Pick them up!" she commanded him.
"No, thanks," he said briefly; and left, shutting the door.
Only a very little while, and they had been lovers, exudingtenderness with every gesture, like a perfume! Only a very littlewhile, and she had been deciding to telegraph condescendingly toher mother that she was 'all right'! And now the dream was utterlydissolved. And the voice of that hard commonsense which spake toher in her wildest moods grew loud in asserting that theenterprise could never have come to any good, that it was from itsinception an impossible enterprise, unredeemed by the slightestjustification. An enormous folly! Yes, an elopement; but not likea real elopement; always unreal! She had always known that it wasonly an imitation of an elopement, and must end in some awfuldisappointment. She had never truly wanted to run away; butsomething within her had pricked her forward in spite of herprotests. The strict notions of her elderly relatives were rightafter all. It was she who had been wrong. And it was she who wouldhave to pay.
"I've been a wicked girl," she said to herself grimly, in themidst of her ruin.
She faced the fact. But she would not repent; at any rate shewould never sit on that stool. She would not exchange the remainsof her pride for the means of escape from the worst misery thatlife could offer. On that point she knew herself. And she set towork to repair and renew her pride.
Whatever happened she would not return to the Five Towns. Shecould not, because she had stolen money from her Aunt Harriet. Asmuch as she had thrown back at Gerald, she had filched from heraunt, but in the form of a note. A prudent, mysterious instincthad moved her to take this precaution. And she was glad. She wouldnever have been able to dart that sneer at Gerald about money ifshe had really needed money. So she rejoiced in her crime; though,since Aunt Harriet would assuredly discover the loss at once, thecrime eternally prevented her from going back to her family.Never, never would she look at her mother with the eyes of athief!
(In truth Aunt Harriet did discover the loss, and very creditablysaid naught about it to anybody. The knowledge of it would havetwisted the knife in the maternal heart.)
Sophia was also glad that she had refused to proceed to Paris. Therecollection of her firmness in refusing flattered her vanity as agirl convinced that she could take care of herself. To go to Parisunmarried would have been an inconceivable madness. The merethought of the enormity did outrage to her moral susceptibilities.No, Gerald had most perfectly mistaken her for another sort ofgirl; as, for instance, a shop-assistant or a barmaid!
With this the catalogue of her satisfactions ended. She had noidea at all as to what she ought to do, or could do. The mereprospect of venturing out of the room intimidated her. Had Geraldleft her trunk in the hall? Of course he had. What a question! Butwhat would happen to her? London ... London had merely dazed her.She could do nothing for herself. She was as helpless as a rabbitin London. She drew aside the window-curtain and had a glimpse ofthe river. It was inevitable that she should think of suicide; forshe could not suppose that any girl had ever got herself into aplight more desperate than hers. "I could slip out at night anddrown myself," she thought seriously. "A nice thing that would befor Gerald!"
Then loneliness, like a black midnight, overwhelmed her, swiftlywasting her strength, disintegrating her pride in its horridflood. She glanced about for support, as a woman in the openstreet who feels she is going to faint, and went blindly to thebed, falling on it with the upper part of her body, in an attitudeof abandonment. She wept, but without sobbing.