老妇人的故事 英文版The Old Wives' Tale
阿诺德.本涅特 Arnold Bennett
II Page 1
It was after midnight when they went into the Restaurant Sylvain;Gerald, having decided not to go to the hotel, had changed hismind and called there, and having called there, had remained along time: this of course! Sophia was already accustoming herselfto the idea that, with Gerald, it was impossible to predictaccurately more than five minutes of the future.
As the chasseur held open the door for them to enter, and Sophiapassed modestly into the glowing yellow interior of therestaurant, followed by Gerald in his character of man-of-the-world, they drew the attention of Sylvain's numerous andglittering guests. No face could have made a more provocativecontrast to the women's faces in those screened rooms than theface of Sophia, so childlike between the baby's bonnet and thehuge bow of ribbon, so candid, so charmingly conscious of its ownpure beauty and of the fact that she was no longer a virgin, butthe equal in knowledge of any woman alive. She saw around her,clustered about the white tables, multitudes of violently redlips, powdered cheeks, cold, hard eyes, self-possessed arrogantfaces, and insolent bosoms. What had impressed her more thananything else in Paris, more even than the three-horsed omnibuses,was the extraordinary self-assurance of all the women, theirunashamed posing, their calm acceptance of the public gaze. Theyseemed to say: "We are the renowned Parisiennes." They frightenedher: they appeared to her so corrupt and so proud in theircorruption. She had already seen a dozen women in varioussituations of conspicuousness apply powder to their complexionswith no more ado than if they had been giving a pat to their hair.She could not understand such boldness. As for them, theymarvelled at the phenomena presented in Sophia's person; theyadmired; they admitted the style of the gown; but they enviedneither her innocence nor her beauty; they envied nothing but heryouth and the fresh tint of her cheeks.
settle thish outside?"why I sh'd tell you?
"Encore des Anglais!" said some of them, as if that explained all.
Gerald had a very curt way with waiters; and the more obsequiousthey were, the haughtier he became; and a head-waiter was no moreto him than a scullion. He gave loud-voiced orders in French ofwhich both he and Sophia were proud, and a table was laid for themin a corner near one of the large windows. Sophia settled herselfon the bench of green velvet, and began to ply the ivory fan whichGerald had given her. It was very hot; all the windows were wideopen, and the sounds of the street mingled clearly with the tinkleof the supper-room. Outside, against a sky of deepest purple,Sophia could discern the black skeleton of a gigantic building; itwas the new opera house.
"All sorts here!" said Gerald, contentedly, after he had orderediced soup and sparkling Moselle. Sophia did not know what Mosellewas, but she imagined that anything would be better thanchampagne.
Sylvain's was then typical of the Second Empire, and particularlyfamous as a supper-room. Expensive and gay, it provided, with itsdiscreet decorations, a sumptuous scene where lorettes, actresses,respectable women, and an occasional grisette in luck, couldsatisfy their curiosity as to each other. In its catholicity itwas highly correct as a resort; not many other restaurants in thecentre could have successfully fought against the rivalattractions of the Bois and the dim groves of the Champs Elyseeson a night in August. The complicated richness of the dresses, theyards and yards of fine stitchery, the endless ruching, the hints,more or less incautious, of nether treasures of embroidered linen;and, leaping over all this to the eye, the vivid colourings ofsilks and muslins, veils, plumes and flowers, piled as it werepell-mell in heaps on the universal green cushions to the furthestvista of the restaurant, and all multiplied in gilt mirrors--thespectacle intoxicated Sophia. Her eyes gleamed. She drank the soupwith eagerness, and tasted the wine, though no desire on her partto like wine could make her like it; and then, seeing pineappleson a large table covered with fruits, she told Gerald that sheshould like some pineapple, and Gerald ordered one.
She gathered her self-esteem and her wits together, and began togive Gerald her views on the costumes. She could do so withimpunity, because her own was indubitably beyond criticism. Someshe wholly condemned, and there was not one which earned herunreserved approval. All the absurd fastidiousness of herschoolgirlish provinciality emerged in that eager, affectedtorrent of remarks. However, she was clever enough to read, aftera time, in Gerald's tone and features, that she was making atedious fool of herself. And she adroitly shifted her criticismfrom the taste to the WORK--she put a strong accent on the word--and pronounced that to be miraculous beyond description. Shereckoned that she knew what dressmaking and millinery were, andher little fund of expert knowledge caused her to picture a wholenecessary cityful of girls stitching, stitching, and stitching dayand night. She had wondered, during the few odd days that they hadspent in Paris, between visits to Chantilly and other places, atthe massed luxury of the shops; she had wondered, starting withSt. Luke's Square as a standard, how they could all thrive. Butnow in her first real glimpse of the banal and licentiousprofusion of one among a hundred restaurants, she wondered thatthe shops were so few. She thought how splendid was all thisexpensiveness for trade. Indeed, the notions chasing each otherwithin that lovely and foolish head were a surprising medley.
"Well, what do you think of Sylvain's?" Gerald asked, impatient tobe assured that his Sylvain's had duly overwhelmed her.
"Oh, Gerald!" she murmured, indicating that speech was inadequate.And she just furtively touched his hand with hers.
The ennui due to her critical disquisition on the shortcomings ofParisian costume cleared away from Gerald's face.
"What do you suppose those people there are talking about?" hesaid with a jerk of the head towards a chattering group of threegorgeous lorettes and two middle-aged men at the next table butone.
"What are they talking about?"
"They're talking about the execution of the murderer Rivain thattakes place at Auxerre the day after to-morrow. They're arrangingto make up a party and go and see it."
"Oh, what a horrid idea!" said Sophia.
"Guillotine, you know!" said Gerald.
"But can people see it?"
"Yes, of course."
"Well, I think it's horrible."
"Yes, that's why people like to go and see it. Besides, the manisn't an ordinary sort of criminal at all. He's very young andgood-looking, and well connected. And he killed the celebratedClaudine. ..."
"Claudine?"
"Claudine Jacquinot. Of course you wouldn't know. She was atremendous--er--wrong 'un here in the forties. Made a lot ofmoney, and retired to her native town."
Sophia, in spite of her efforts to maintain the role of a womanwho has nothing to learn, blushed.
"Thirty-five years older, if a day."
"What did he kill her for?"
"She wouldn't give him enough money. She was his mistress--orrather one of 'em. He wanted money for a young lady friend, yousee. He killed her and took all the jewels she was wearing.Whenever he went to see her she always wore all her best jewels--and you may bet a woman like that had a few. It seems she had beenafraid for a long time that he meant to do for her."
"Then why did she see him? And why did she wear her jewels?"
"Because she liked being afraid, goose! Some women only enjoythemselves when they're terrified. Queer, isn't it?"
Gerald insisted on meeting his wife's gaze as he finished theserevelations. He pretended that such stories were the commonestthings on earth, and that to be scandalized by them was infantile.Sophia, thrust suddenly into a strange civilization perfectlyfrank in its sensuality and its sensuousness, under the guidanceof a young man to whom her half-formed intelligence was a mostdiverting toy--Sophia felt mysteriously uncomfortable, disturbedby sinister, flitting phantoms of ideas which she only dimlyapprehended. Her eyes fell. Gerald laughed self-consciously. Shewould not eat any more pineapple.
Immediately afterwards there came into the restaurant anapparition which momentarily stopped every conversation in theroom. It was a tall and mature woman who wore over a dress ofpurplish-black silk a vast flowing sortie de bal of vermilionvelvet, looped and tasselled with gold. No other costume couldlive by the side of that garment, Arab in shape, Russian incolour, and Parisian in style. It blazed. The woman's heavycoiffure was bound with fillets of gold braid and crimsonrosettes. She was followed by a young Englishman in evening dressand whiskers of the most exact correctness. The woman sailed, alittle breathlessly, to a table next to Gerald's, and tookpossession of it with an air of use, almost of tedium. She satdown, threw the cloak from her majestic bosom, and expanded herchest. Seeming to ignore the Englishman, who superciliouslyassumed the seat opposite to her, she let her large scornful eyestravel round the restaurant, slowly and imperiously meeting thecuriosity which she had evoked. Her beauty had undoubtedly beendazzling, it was still effulgent; but the blossom was about tofall. She was admirably rouged and powdered; her arms wereglorious; her lashes were long. There was little fault, save theexcessive ripeness of a blonde who fights in vain against obesity.And her clothes combined audacity with the propriety of fashion.She carelessly deposed costly trinkets on the table, and then,having intimidated the whole company, she accepted the menu fromthe head-waiter and began to study it.
"That's one of 'em!" Gerald whispered to Sophia.
"One of what?" Sophia whispered.
Gerald raised his eyebrows warningly, and winked. The Englishmanhad overheard; and a look of frigid displeasure passed across hisproud face. Evidently he belonged to a rank much higher thanGerald's; and Gerald, though he could always comfort himself bythe thought that he had been to a university with the best, felthis own inferiority and could not hide that he felt it. Gerald waswealthy; he came of a wealthy family; but he had not the habit ofwealth. When he spent money furiously, he did it with bravado, tooconscious of grandeur and too conscious of the difficulties ofacquiring that which he threw away. For Gerald had earned money.This whiskered Englishman had never earned money, never known thevalue of it, never imagined himself without as much of it as hemight happen to want. He had the face of one accustomed to giveorders and to look down upon inferiors. He was absolutely sure ofhimself. That his companion chiefly ignored him did not appear toincommode him in the least. She spoke to him in French. He repliedin English, very briefly; and then, in English, he commanded thesupper. As soon as the champagne was served he began to drink; inthe intervals of drinking he gently stroked his whiskers. Thewoman spoke no more.
Gerald talked more loudly. With that aristocratic Englishmanobserving him, he could not remain at ease. And not only did hetalk more loudly; he brought into his conversation references tomoney, travels, and worldly experiences. While seeking to impressthe Englishman, he was merely becoming ridiculous to theEnglishman; and obscurely he was aware of this. Sophia noticed andregretted it. Still, feeling very unimportant herself, she wasreconciled to the superiority of the whiskered Englishman as to anatural fact. Gerald's behaviour slightly lowered him in heresteem. Then she looked at him--at his well-shaped neatness, hisvivacious face, his excellent clothes, and decided that he wasmuch to be preferred to any heavy-jawed, long-nosed aristocratalive.
The woman whose vermilion cloak lay around her like afortification spoke to her escort. He did not understand. He triedto express himself in French, and failed. Then the womanrecommenced, talking at length. When she had done he shook hishead. His acquaintance with French was limited to the vocabularyof food.
"Guillotine!" he murmured, the sole word of her discourse that hehad understood.
if a day."the humorous Gerald in English, .
"Oui, oui! Guillotine. Enfin ...!" cried the woman excitedly.Encouraged by her success in conveying even one word of herremarks, she began a third time.
"Excuse me," said Gerald. "Madame is talking about the executionat Auxerre the day after to-morrow. N'est-ce-pas, madame, que vousparliez de Rivain?"
The Englishman glared angrily at Gerald's officious interruption.But the woman smiled benevolently on Gerald, and insisted ontalking to her friend through him. And the Englishman had to makethe best of the situation.
"There isn't a restaurant in Paris to-night where they aren'ttalking about that execution," said Gerald on his own account.
"Indeed!" observed the Englishman.
Wine affected them in different ways.
Now a fragile, short young Frenchman, with an extremely pale faceending in a thin black imperial, appeared at the entrance. Helooked about, and, recognizing the woman of the scarlet cloak,very discreetly saluted her. Then he saw Gerald, and his worn,fatigued features showed a sudden, startled smile. He came rapidlyforward, hat in hand, seized Gerald's palm and greeted himeffusively.
"My wife," said Gerald, with the solemn care of a man who isdetermined to prove that he is entirely sober.
The young man became grave and excessively ceremonious. He bowedlow over Sophia's hand and kissed it. Her impulse was to laugh,but the gravity of the young man's deference stopped her. Sheglanced at Gerald, blushing, as if to say: "This comedy is not myfault." Gerald said something, the young man turned to him and hisface resumed its welcoming smile.
"This is Monsieur Chirac," Gerald at length completed theintroduction, "a friend of mine when I lived in Paris."
He was proud to have met by accident an acquaintance in arestaurant. It demonstrated that he was a Parisian, and improvedhis standing with the whiskered Englishman and the vermilioncloak.
"It is the first time you come Paris, madame?" Chirac addressedhimself to Sophia, in limping, timorous English.
"Yes," she giggled. He bowed again.
Chirac, with his best compliments, felicitated Gerald upon hismarriage.
"Don't mention it!" said the humorous Gerald in English, amused athis own wit; and then: "What about this execution?"
"Ah!" replied Chirac, breathing out a long breath, and smiling atSophia. "Rivain! Rivain!" He made a large, important gesture withhis hand.
It was at once to be seen that Gerald had touched the topic whichsecretly ravaged the supper-world as a subterranean fire ravages amine.
"I go!" said Chirac, with pride, glancing at Sophia, who smiledself-consciously.
Chirac entered upon a conversation with Gerald in French. Sophiacomprehended that Gerald was surprised and impressed by whatChirac told him and that Chirac in turn was surprised. Then Geraldlaboriously found his pocket-book, and after some fumbling with ithanded it to Chirac so that the latter might write in it.
"Madame!" murmured Chirac, resuming his ceremonious stiffness inorder to take leave. "Alors, c'est entendu, mon cher ami!" he saidto Gerald, who nodded phlegmatically. And Chirac went away to thenext table but one, where were the three lorettes and the twomiddle-aged men. He was received there with enthusiasm.
Sophia began to be teased by a little fear that Gerald was notquite his usual self. She did not think of him as tipsy. The ideaof his being tipsy would have shocked her. She did not thinkclearly at all. She was lost and dazed in the labyrinth of new andvivid impressions into which Gerald had led her. But her prudencewas awake.
"I think I'm tired," she said in a low voice.
"You don't want to go, do you?" he asked, hurt.
"Well--"
"Oh, wait a bit!"
The owner of the vermilion cloak spoke again to Gerald, who showedthat he was flattered. While talking to her he ordered a brandy-and-soda. And then he could not refrain from displaying to her hisfamiliarity with Parisian life, and he related how he had metHortense Schneider behind a pair of white horses. The vermilioncloak grew even more sociable at the mention of this resoundingname, and chattered with the most agreeable vivacity. Her friendstared inimically.
"Do you hear that?" Gerald explained to Sophia, who was sittingsilent. "About Hortense Schneider--you know, we met her to-night.It seems she made a bet of a louis with some fellow, and when helost he sent her the louis set in diamonds worth a hundredthousand francs. That's how they go on here."
"Oh!" cried Sophia, further than ever in the labyrinth.
"'Scuse me," the Englishman put in heavily. He had heard the words'Hortense Schneider,' 'Hortense Schneider,' repeating themselvesin the conversation, and at last it had occurred to him that theconversation was about Hortense Schneider. "'Scuse me," he beganagain. "Are you--do you mean Hortense Schneider?"
"Yes," said Gerald. "We met her to-night."
"She's in Trouville," said the Englishman, flatly.
Gerald shook his head positively.
"I gave a supper to her in Trouville last night," said theEnglishman. "And she plays at the Casino Theatre to-night."
Gerald was repulsed but not defeated. "What is she playing in to-night? Tell me that!" he sneered.
"Hm!" Gerald retorted. "If what you say is true, it's a verystrange thing I should have seen her in the Champs Elysees to-night, isn't it?"
The Englishman drank more wine. "If you want to insult me, sir--"he began coldly.
"Gerald!" Sophia urged in a whisper.
"Be quiet!" Gerald snapped.
A fiddler in fancy costume plunged into the restaurant at thatmoment and began to play wildly. The shock of his strange adventmomentarily silenced the quarrel; but soon it leaped up again,under the shelter of the noisy music,--the common, tedious,tippler's quarrel. It rose higher and higher. The fiddler lookedaskance at it over his fiddle. Chirac cautiously observed it.Instead of attending to the music, the festal company attended tothe quarrel. Three waiters in a group watched it with an impartialsporting interest. The English voices grew more menacing.
Then suddenly the whiskered Englishman, jerking his head towardsthe door, said more quietly:
"Hadn't we better settle thish outside?"
"At your service!" said Gerald, rising.
The owner of the vermilion cloak lifted her eyebrows to Chirac infatigued disgust, but she said nothing. Nor did Sophia sayanything. Sophia was overcome by terror.
The swain of the cloak, dragging his coat after him across thefloor, left the restaurant without offering any apology orexplanation to his lady.
"Wait here for me," said Gerald defiantly to Sophia. "I shall beback in a minute."
"But, Gerald!" She put her hand on his sleeve.
He snatched his arm away. "Wait here for me, I tell you," herepeated.
The doorkeeper obsequiously opened the door to the two unsteadycarousers, for whom the fiddler drew back, still playing.