老妇人的故事 英文版The Old Wives' Tale
阿诺德.本涅特 Arnold Bennett
III Page 1
In the evening, just after night had fallen, Sophia on the bedheard the sound of raised and acrimonious voices in MadameFoucault's room. Nothing except dinner had happened since thearrival of Madame Foucault and the young man. These two hadevidently dined informally in the bedroom on a dish or so preparedby Madame Foucault, who had herself served Sophia with herinvalid's repast. The odours of cookery still hung in the air.
The noise of virulent discussion increased and continued, and thenSophia could hear sobbing, broken by short and fierce phrases fromthe man. Then the door of the bedroom opened brusquely. "J'en aisoupe!" exclaimed the man, in tones of angry disgust. "Laisse-moi,je te prie!" And then a soft muffled sound, as of a struggle, aquick step, and the very violent banging of the front door. Afterthat there was a noticeable silence, save for the regular sobbing.Sophia wondered when it would cease, that monotonous sobbing.
"What is the matter?" she called out from her bed.
The sobbing grew louder, like the sobbing of a child who hasdetected an awakening of sympathy and instinctively begins topractise upon it. In the end Sophia arose and put on the peignoirwhich she had almost determined never to wear again. The broadcorridor was lighted by a small, smelling oil-lamp with a crimsonglobe. That soft, transforming radiance seemed to paint the wholecorridor with voluptuous luxury: so much so that it was impossibleto believe that the smell came from the lamp. Under the lamp layMadame Foucault on the floor, a shapeless mass of lace, frilledlinen, and corset; her light brown hair was loose and spread aboutthe floor. At the first glance, the creature abandoned to griefmade a romantic and striking picture, and Sophia thought for aninstant that she had at length encountered life on a plane thatwould correspond to her dreams of romance. And she was impressed,with a feeling somewhat akin to that of a middling commoner whenconfronted with a viscount. There was, in the distance, somethingimposing and sensational about that prone, trembling figure. Thetragic works of love were therein apparently manifest, in a sortof dignified beauty. But when Sophia bent over Madame Foucault,and touched her flabbiness, this illusion at once vanished; andinstead of being dramatically pathetic the woman was ridiculous.Her face, especially as damaged by tears, could not support theordeal of inspection; it was horrible; not a picture, but apalette; or like the coloured design of a pavement artist after aheavy shower. Her great, relaxed eyelids alone would have renderedany face absurd; and there were monstrous details far worse thanthe eyelids. Then she was amazingly fat; her flesh seemed to beescaping at all ends from a corset strained to the utmost limit.And above her boots--she was still wearing dainty, high-heeled,tightly laced boots--the calves bulged suddenly out.
As a woman of between forty and fifty, the obese sepulchre of adead vulgar beauty, she had no right to passions and tears andhomage, or even the means of life; she had no right to exposeherself picturesquely beneath a crimson glow in all the panoply ofribboned garters and lacy seductiveness. It was silly; it wasdisgraceful. She ought to have known that only youth and slimnesshave the right to appeal to the feelings by indecent abandonments.
Such were the thoughts that mingled with the sympathy of thebeautiful and slim Sophia as she bent down to Madame Foucault. Shewas sorry for her landlady, but at the same time she despised her,and resented her woe.
"What is the matter?" she asked quietly.
"He has chucked me!" stammered Madame Foucault. "And he's thelast. I have no one now!"
She rolled over in the most grotesque manner, kicking up her legs,with a fresh outburst of sobs. Sophia felt quite ashamed for her.
"Come and lie down. Come now!" she said, with a touch ofsharpness. "You musn't lie there like that."
Madame Foucault's behaviour was really too outrageous. Sophiahelped her, morally rather than physically, to rise, and thenpersuaded her into the large bedroom. Madame Foucault fell on thebed, of which the counterpane had been thrown over the foot.Sophia covered the lower part of her heaving body with thecounterpane.
"Now, calm yourself, please!"
This room too was lit in crimson, by a small lamp that stood onthe night-table, and though the shade of the lamp was cracked, thegeneral effect of the great chamber was incontestably romantic.Only the pillows of the wide bed and a small semi-circle of floorwere illuminated, all the rest lay in shadow. Madame Foucault'shead had dropped between the pillows. A tray containing dirtyplates and glasses and a wine-bottle was speciously picturesque onthe writing-table.
"I have not a single friend now," stammered Madame Foucault.
"Oh, yes, you have," said Sophia, cheerfully. "You have MadameLaurence."
"Laurence--that is not a friend. You know what I mean."
"And me! I am your friend!" said Sophia, in obedience to herconscience.
"You are very kind," replied Madame Foucault, from the pillow."But you know what I mean."
The fact was that Sophia did know what she meant. The terms oftheir intercourse had been suddenly changed. There was nopretentious ceremony now, but the sincerity that disaster brings.The vast structure of make-believe, which between them they hadgradually built, had crumbled to nothing.
"I never treated badly any man in my life," whimpered MadameFoucault. "I have always been a--good girl. There is not a man whocan say I have not been a good girl. Never was I a girl like therest. And every one has said so. Ah! when I tell you that once Ihad a hotel in the Avenue de la Reine Hortense. Four horses ... Ihave sold a horse to Madame Musard. ... You know Madame Musard.... But one cannot make economies. Impossible to make economies!Ah! In 'fifty-six I was spending a hundred thousand francs a year.That cannot last. Always I have said to myself: 'That cannotlast.' Always I had the intention. ... But what would you? Iinstalled myself here, and borrowed money to pay for thefurniture. There did not remain to me one jewel. The men arepoltroons, all! I could let three bedrooms for three hundred andfifty francs a month, and with serving meals and so on I couldlive."
"Then that," Sophia interrupted, pointing to her own bedroomacross the corridor, "is your room?"
"Yes," said Madame Foucault. "I put you in it because at themoment all these were let. They are so no longer. Only one--Laurence--and she does not pay me always. What would you? Tenants--that does not find itself at the present hour. ... I havenothing, and I owe. And he quits me. He chooses this moment toquit me! And why? For nothing. For nothing. That is not for hismoney that I regret him. No, no! You know, at his age--he istwenty-five--and with a woman like me--one is not generous! No. Iloved him. And then a man is a moral support, always. I loved him.It is at my age, mine, that one knows how to love. Beauty goesalways, but not the temperament! Ah, that--No! ... I loved him. Ilove him."
Sophia's face tingled with a sudden emotion caused by therepetition of those last three words, whose spell no usage canmar. But she said nothing.
"Do you know what I shall become? There is nothing but that forme. And I know of such, who are there already. A charwoman! Yes, acharwoman! More soon or more late. Well, that is life. What wouldyou? One exists always." Then in a different tone: "I demand yourpardon, madame, for talking like this. I ought to have shame."
And Sophia felt that in listening she also ought to be ashamed.But she was not ashamed. Everything seemed very natural, and evenordinary. And, moreover, Sophia was full of the sense of hersuperiority over the woman on the bed. Four years ago, in theRestaurant Sylvain, the ingenuous and ignorant Sophia had shylysat in awe of the resplendent courtesan, with her haughty stare,her large, easy gestures, and her imperturbable contempt for theman who was paying. And now Sophia knew that she, Sophia, knew allthat was to be known about human nature. She had not merely youth,beauty, and virtue, but knowledge--knowledge enough to reconcileher to her own misery. She had a vigorous, clear mind, and a cleanconscience. She could look any one in the face, and judge everyone too as a woman of the world. Whereas this obscene wreck on thebed had nothing whatever left. She had not merely lost hereffulgent beauty, she had become repulsive. She could never havehad any commonsense, nor any force of character. Her haughtinessin the day of glory was simply fatuous, based on stupidity. Shehad passed the years in idleness, trailing about all day in stuffyrooms, and emerging at night to impress nincompoops; continuallymeaning to do things which she never did, continually surprised atthe lateness of the hour, continually occupied with the mostfoolish trifles. And here she was at over forty writhing about onthe bare floor because a boy of twenty-five (who MUST be aworthless idiot) had abandoned her after a scene of ridiculousshoutings and stampings. She was dependent on the caprices of ayoung scamp, the last donkey to turn from her with loathing!Sophia thought: "Goodness! If I had been in her place I shouldn'thave been like that. I should have been rich. I should have savedlike a miser. I wouldn't have been dependent on anybody at thatage. If I couldn't have made a better courtesan than this pitiablewoman, I would have drowned myself."
In the harsh vanity of her conscious capableness and youngstrength she thought thus, half forgetting her own follies, andhalf excusing them on the ground of inexperience.
Sophia wanted to go round the flat and destroy every crimsonlampshade in it. She wanted to shake Madame Foucault into self-respect and sagacity. Moral reprehension, though present in hermind, was only faint. Certainly she felt the immense gulf betweenthe honest woman and the wanton, but she did not feel it as shewould have expected to feel it. "What a fool you have been!" shethought; not: "What a sinner!" With her precocious cynicism, whichwas somewhat unsuited to the lovely northern youthfulness of thatface, she said to herself that the whole situation and theirrelative attitudes would have been different if only MadameFoucault had had the wit to amass a fortune, as (according toGerald) some of her rivals had succeeded in doing.
And all the time she was thinking, in another part of her mind: "Iought not to be here. It's no use arguing. I ought not to be here.Chirac did the only thing for me there was to do. But I must gonow."
Madame Foucault continued to recite her woes, chiefly financial,in a weak voice damp with tears; she also continued to apologizefor mentioning herself. She had finished sobbing, and lay lookingat the wall, away from Sophia, who stood irresolute near the bed,ashamed for her companion's weakness and incapacity.
"You must not forget," said Sophia, irritated by the unrelieveddarkness of the picture drawn by Madame Foucault, "that at least Iowe you a considerable sum, and that I am only waiting for you totell me how much it is. I have asked you twice already, I think."
"Oh, you are still suffering!" said Madame Foucault.
"I am quite well enough to pay my debts," said Sophia.
"I do not like to accept money from you," said Madame Foucault.
"But why not?"
"You will have the doctor to pay."
"Please do not talk in that way," said Sophia. "I have money, andI can pay for everything, and I shall pay for everything."
She was annoyed because she was sure that Madame Foucault was onlymaking a pretence of delicacy, and that in any case her delicacywas preposterous. Sophia had remarked this on the two previousoccasions when she had mentioned the subject of bills. MadameFoucault would not treat her as an ordinary lodger, now that theillness was past. She wanted, as it were, to complete brilliantlywhat she had begun, and to live in Sophia's memory as a uniquefigure of lavish philanthropy. This was a sentiment, a luxury thatshe desired to offer herself: the thought that she had playedprovidence to a respectable married lady in distress; shefrequently hinted at Sophia's misfortunes and helplessness. Butshe could not afford the luxury. She gazed at it as a poor womangazes at costly stuffs through the glass of a shop-window. Thetruth was, she wanted the luxury for nothing. For a double reasonSophia was exasperated: by Madame Foucault's absurd desire, and bya natural objection to the role of a subject for philanthropy. Shewould not admit that Madame Foucault's devotion as a nurseentitled her to the satisfaction of being a philanthropist whenthere was no necessity for philanthropy.
"How long have I been here?" asked Sophia.
"I don't know." murmured Madame Foucault. "Eight weeks--or is itnine?"
"Suppose we say nine," said Sophia.
"Very well," agreed Madame Foucault, apparently reluctant.
"Now, how much must I pay you per week?"
"I don't want anything--I don't want anything! You are a friend ofChirac's. You---"
"Not at all!" Sophia interrupted, tapping her foot and bit-ing herlip. "Naturally I must pay."
Madame Foucault wept quietly.
"Shall I pay you seventy-five francs a week?" said Sophia, anxiousto end the matter.
"It is too much!" Madame Foucault protested, insincerely.
"What? For all you have done for me?"
"I speak not of that," Madame Foucault modestly replied.
If the devotion was not to be paid for, then seventy-five francs aweek was assuredly too much, as during more than half the timeSophia had had almost no food. Madame Foucault was thereforewithin the truth when she again protested, at sight of the bank-notes which Sophia brought from her trunk:
much it is. I have asked you twice already.
"I am sure that it is too much."
"Not at all!" Sophia repeated. "Nine weeks at seventy-five. Thatmakes six hundred and seventy-five. Here are seven hundreds."
"I have no change," said Madame Foucault. "I have nothing."
"That will pay for the hire of the bath," said Sophia.
She laid the notes on the pillow. Madame Foucault looked at themgluttonously, as any other person would have done in her place.She did not touch them. After an instant she burst into wildtears.
"But why do you cry?" Sophia asked, softened.
"I--I don't know!" spluttered Madame Foucault. "You are sobeautiful. I am so content that we saved you." Her great wet eyesrested on Sophia.
It was sentimentality. Sophia ruthlessly set it down assentimentality. But she was touched. She was suddenly moved. Thosewomen, such as they were in their foolishness, probably had savedher life--and she a stranger! Flaccid as they were, they had beencapable of resolute perseverance there. It was possible to saythat chance had thrown them upon an enterprise which they couldnot have abandoned till they or death had won. It was possible tosay that they hoped vaguely to derive advantage from theirlabours. But even then? Judged by an ordinary standard, thosewomen had been angels of mercy. And Sophia was despising them,cruelly taking their motives to pieces, accusing them ofincapacity when she herself stood a supreme proof of theircapacity in, at any rate, one direction! In a rush of emotion shesaw her hardness and her injustice.
She bent down. "Never can I forget how kind you have been to me.It is incredible! Incredible!" She spoke softly, in tones loadedwith genuine feeling. It was all she said. She could not embroideron the theme. She had no talent for thanksgiving.
Madame Foucault made the beginning of a gesture, as if she meantto kiss Sophia with those thick, marred lips; but refrained. Herhead sank back, and then she had a recurrence of the fit ofnervous sobbing. Immediately afterwards there was the sound of alatchkey in the front-door of the flat; the bedroom door was open.Still sobbing very violently, she cocked her ear, and pushed thebank-notes under the pillow.
Madame Laurence--as she was called: Sophia had never heard hersurname--came straight into the bedroom, and beheld the scene withastonishment in her dark twinkling eyes. She was usually dressedin black, because people said that black suited her, and becauseblack was never out of fashion; black was an expression of heridiosyncrasy. She showed a certain elegance, and by comparisonwith the extreme disorder of Madame Foucault and the deshabille ofSophia her appearance, all fresh from a modish restaurant, wasbrilliant; it gave her an advantage over the other two--that moraladvantage which ceremonial raiment always gives.
"What is it that passes?" she demanded.
"He has chucked me, Laurence!" exclaimed Madame Foucault, in asort of hysteric scream which seemed to force its way through hersobs. From the extraordinary freshness of Madame Foucault's woe,it might have been supposed that her young man had only thatinstant strode out.
Laurence and Sophia exchanged a swift glance; and Laurence, ofcourse, perceived that Sophia's relations with her landlady andnurse were now of a different, a more candid order. She indicatedher perception of the change by a single slight movement of theeyebrows.
"But listen, Aimee," she said authoritatively. "You must not letyourself go like that. He will return."
"Never!" cried Madame Foucault. "It is finished. And he is thelast!"
Laurence, ignoring Madame Foucault, approached Sophia. "You havean air very fatigued," she said, caressing Sophia's shoulder withher gloved hand. "You are pale like everything. All this is notfor you. It is not reasonable to remain here, you still suffering!At this hour! Truly not reasonable!"
Her hands persuaded Sophia towards the corridor. And, in fact,Sophia did then notice her own exhaustion. She departed from theroom with the ready obedience of physical weakness, and shut herdoor.
After about half an hour, during which she heard confused noisesand murmurings, her door half opened.
"May I enter, since you are not asleep?" It was Laurence's voice.Twice, now, she had addressed Sophia without adding the formal'madame.'
"Enter, I beg you," Sophia called from the bed. "I am reading."
Laurence came in. Sophia was both glad and sorry to see her. Shewas eager to hear gossip which, however, she felt she ought todespise. Moreover, she knew that if they talked that night theywould talk as friends, and that Laurence would ever afterwardstreat her with the familiarity of a friend. This she dreaded.Still, she knew that she would yield, at any rate, to thetemptation to listen to gossip.