The Old Wives' Tale

by Arnold Bennett

  When he had silently sipped some hot milk, he drew a thick bunch of papers, white and blue, from his bulging breast-pocket.

  “Now, Maria Critchlow,” he called, edging round his chair slightly. “Ye’d best go back home.”

  Maria Critchlow was biting a bit of walnut cake, while in her right hand, all seamed with black lines, she held a cup of coffee.

  “But, Mr Critchlow—” Constance protested.

  “I’ve got business with Sophia, and I must get it done. I’ve got for to render an account of my stewardship to Sophia, under her father’s will, and her mother’s will, and her aunt’s will, and it’s nobody’s business but mine and Sophia’s, I reckon. Now then,” he glanced at his wife, “off with ye!”

  Maria rose, half-kittenish and half-ashamed.

  “Surely you don’t want to go into all that tonight,” said Sophia. She spoke softly, for she had already fully perceived that Mr Critchlow must be managed with the tact which the capricious obstinacies of advanced age demanded. “Surely you can wait a day or two. I’m in no hurry.”

  “Haven’t I waited long enough?” he retorted fiercely.

  There was a pause. Maria Critchlow moved.

  “As for you being in no hurry, Sophia,” the old man went on, “nobody can say as you’ve been in a hurry.”

  Sophia had suffered a check. She glanced hesitatingly at Constance.

  “Mrs Critchlow and I will go down into the parlour,” said Constance, quickly. “There’s a bit of fire there.”

  “Oh no. I won’t hear of such a thing!”

  “Yes, we will, won’t we, Mrs Critchlow?” Constance insisted, cheerfully but firmly. She was determined that in her house Sophia should have all the freedom and conveniences that she could have had in her own. If a private room was needed for discussions between Sophia and her trustee, Constance’s pride was piqued to supply that room. Further, Constance was glad to get Maria out of Sophia’s sight. She was accustomed to Maria; with her it did not matter; but she did not care that the teeth of Sophia should be set on edge by the ridiculous demeanour of Maria. So those two left the drawing-room, and the old man began to open the papers which he had been preparing for weeks.

  There was very little fire in the parlour, and Constance, in addition to being bored by Mrs Critchlow’s inane and inquisitive remarks, felt chilly, which was bad for her sciatica. She wondered whether Sophia would have to confess to Mr Critchlow that she was not certainly a widow. She thought that steps ought to be taken to ascertain, through Birkinshaws, if anything was known of Gerald Scales. But even that course was set with perils. Supposing that he still lived, an unspeakable villain (Constance could only think of him as an unspeakable villain), and supposing that he molested Sophia,—what scenes! What shame in the town! Such frightful thoughts ran endlessly through Constance’s mind as she bent over the fire endeavouring to keep alive a silly conversation with Maria Critchlow.

  Amy passed through the parlour to go to bed. There was no other way of reaching the upper part of the house.

  “Are you going to bed, Amy?”

  “Yes’m.”

  “Where is Fossette?”

  “In the kitchen, m’m,” said Amy, defending herself. “Mrs Scales told me the dog might sleep in the kitchen with Spot, as they were such good friends. I’ve opened the bottom drawer, and Fossit is lying in that.”

  “Mrs Scales has brought a dog with her!” exclaimed Maria.

  “Yes’m!” said Amy, dryly, before Constance could answer. She implied everything in that affirmative.

  “You are a family for dogs,” said Maria. “What sort of dog is it?”

  “Well,” said Constance, “I don’t know exactly what they call it. It’s a French dog, one of those French dogs.” Amy was lingering at the stairfoot, “Good night, Amy, thank you.”

  Amy ascended, shutting the door.

  “Oh! I see!” Maria muttered. “Well, I never!”

  It was ten o’clock before sounds above indicated that the first interview between trustee and beneficiary was finished.

  “I’ll be going on to open our side-door,” said Maria. “Say good night to Mrs Scales for me.” She was not sure whether Charles Critchlow had really meant her to go home, or whether her mere absence from the drawing-room had contented him. So she departed. He came down the stairs with the most tiresome slowness, went through the parlour in silence, ignoring Constance, and also Sophia, who was at his heels, and vanished.

  As Constance shut and bolted the front-door, the sisters looked at each other, Sophia faintly smiling. It seemed to them that they understood each other better when they did not speak. With a glance, they exchanged their ideas on the subject of Charles Critchlow and Maria, and learnt that their ideas were similar. Constance said nothing as to the private interview. Nor did Sophia. At present, on this the first day, they could only achieve intimacy by intermittent flashes.

  “What about bed?” asked Sophia.

  “You must be tired,” said Constance.

  Sophia got to the stairs, which received a little light from the corridor gas, before Constance, having tested the window-fastening, turned out the gas in the parlour. They climbed the lower flight of stairs together.

  “I must see that your room is all right,” Constance said.

  “Must you?” Sophia smiled.

  They climbed the second flight, slowly. Constance was out of breath.

  “Oh, a fire! How nice!” cried Sophia. “But why did you go to all that trouble? I told you not to.”

  “It’s no trouble at all,” said Constance, raising the gas in the bedroom. Her tone implied that bedroom fires were a quite ordinary incident of daily life in a place like Bursley.

  “Well, my dear, I hope you’ll find everything comfortable,” said Constance.

  “I’m sure I shall. Good night, dear.”

  “Good night, then.”

  They looked at each other again, with timid affectionateness. They did not kiss. The thought in both their minds was: “We couldn’t keep on kissing every day.” But there was a vast amount of quiet restrained affection, of mutual confidence and respect, even of tenderness, in their tones.

  About half an hour later a dreadful hullabaloo smote the ear of Constance. She was just getting into bed. She listened intently, in great alarm. It was undoubtedly those dogs fighting, and fighting to the death. She pictured the kitchen as a battlefield, and Spot slain. Opening the door, she stepped out into the corridor.

  “Constance,” said a low voice above her. She jumped. “Is that you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, don’t bother to go down to the dogs; they’ll stop in a moment. Fossette won’t bite. I’m so sorry she’s upsetting the house.”

  Constance stared upwards, and discerned a pale shadow. The dogs did soon cease their altercation. This short colloquy in the dark affected Constance strangely.

  III

  The next morning, after a night varied by periods of wakefulness not unpleasant, Sophia rose and, taking due precautions against cold, went to the window. It was Saturday; she had left Paris on the Thursday. She looked forth upon the Square, holding aside the blind. She had expected, of course, to find that the Square had shrunk in size; but nevertheless she was startled to see how small it was. It seemed to her scarcely bigger than a courtyard. She could remember a winter morning when from the window she had watched the Square under virgin snow in the lamplight, and the Square had been vast, and the first way-farer, crossing it diagonally and leaving behind him the irregular impress of his feet, had appeared to travel for hours over an interminable white waste before vanishing past Holl’s shop in the direction of the Town Hall. She chiefly recalled the Square under snow; cold mornings, and the coldness of the oil-cloth at the window, and the draught of cold air through the ill-fitting sash (it was put right now)! These visions of herself seemed beautiful to her, her childish existence seemed beautiful; the storms and tempests of her girlhood seemed beautiful; even the great sterile expanse
of tedium when, after giving up a scholastic career, she had served for two years in the shop—even this had a strange charm in her memory.

  And she thought that not for millions of pounds would she live her life over again.

  In its contents the Square had not surprisingly changed during the immense, the terrifying interval that separated her from her virginity. On the east side, several shops had been thrown into one, and forced into a semblance of eternal unity by means of a coat of stucco. And there was a fountain at the north end which was new to her. No other constructional change! But the moral change, the sad declension from the ancient proud spirit of the Square—this was painfully depressing. Several establishments lacked tenants, had obviously lacked tenants for a long time; “To let” notices hung in their stained and dirty upper windows, and clung insecurely to their closed shutters. And on the signboards of these establishments were names that Sophia did not know. The character of most of the shops seemed to have worsened; they had become pettifogging little holes, unkempt, shabby, poor; they had no brightness, no feeling of vitality. And the floor of the Square was littered with nondescript refuse. The whole scene, paltry, confined, and dull, reached for her the extreme of provinciality. It was what the French called, with a pregnant intonation, la province. This being said, there was nothing else to say. Bursley, of course, was in the provinces; Bursley must, in the nature of things, be typically provincial. But in her mind it had always been differentiated from the common province; it had always had an air, a distinction, and especially St Luke’s Square! That illusion was now gone. Still, the alteration was not wholly in herself, it was not wholly subjective. The Square really had changed for the worse; it might not be smaller, but it had deteriorated. As a centre of commerce it had assuredly approached very near to death. On a Saturday morning thirty years ago it would have been covered with linen-roofed stalls, and chattering countryfolk, and the stir of bargains. Now, Saturday morning was like any other morning in the Square, and the glass-roof of St Luke’s market in Wedgwood Street, which she could see from her window, echoed to the sounds of noisy commerce. In that instance business had simply moved a few yards to the east; but Sophia knew, from hints in Constance’s letters and in her talk, that business in general had moved more than a few yards, it had moved a couple of miles—to arrogant and pushing Hanbridge, with its electric light and its theatres and its big, advertising shops. The heaven of thick smoke over the Square, the black deposit on painted woodwork, the intermittent hooting of steam sirens, showed that the wholesale trade of Bursley still flourished. But Sophia had no memories of the wholesale trade of Bursley; it meant nothing to the youth of her heart; she was attached by intimate links to the retail traffic of Bursley, and as a mart old Bursley was done for.

  She thought: “It would kill me if I had to live here. It’s deadening. It weighs on you. And the dirt, and the horrible ugliness! And the way they talk, and the way they think! I felt it first at Knype station. The Square is rather picturesque, but it’s such a poor, poor little thing! Fancy having to look at it every morning of one’s life! No!” She almost shuddered.

  For the time being she had no home. To Constance she was “paying a visit.”

  Constance did not appear to realize the awful conditions of dirt, decay, and provinciality in which she was living. Even Constance’s house was extremely inconvenient, dark, and no doubt unhealthy. Cellar-kitchen, no hall, abominable stairs, and as to hygiene, simply medieval. She could not understand why Constance had remained in the house. Constance had plenty of money, and might live where she liked, and in a good modern house. Yet she stayed in the Square. “I dare say she’s got used to it,” Sophia thought leniently. “I dare say I should be just the same in her place.” But she did not really think so, and she could not understand Constance’s state of mind.

  Certainly she could not claim to have “added up” Constance yet. She considered that her sister was in some respects utterly provincial—what they used to call in the Five Towns a “body.” Somewhat too diffident, not assertive enough, not erect enough; with curious provincial pronunciations, accents, gestures, mannerisms, and inarticulate ejaculations; with a curious narrowness of outlook! But at the same time Constance was very shrewd, and she was often proving by some bit of a remark that she knew what was what, despite her provinciality. In judgements upon human nature they undoubtedly thought alike, and there was a strong natural general sympathy between them. And at the bottom of Constance was something fine. At intervals Sophia discovered herself secretly patronizing Constance, but reflection would always cause her to cease from patronage and to examine her own defences. Constance, besides being the essence of kindness, was no fool. Constance could see through a pretence, an absurdity, as quickly as anyone. Constance did honestly appear to Sophia to be superior to any French-woman that she had ever encountered. She saw supreme in Constance that quality which she had recognized in the porters at Newhaven on landing—the quality of an honest and naïve goodwill, of powerful simplicity. That quality presented itself to her as the greatest in the world, and it seemed to be in the very air of England. She could even detect it in Mr Critchlow, whom, for the rest, she liked, admiring the brutal force of his character. She pardoned his brutality to his wife. She found it proper. “After all,” she said, “supposing he hadn’t married her, what would she have been? Nothing but a slave! She’s infinitely better off as his wife. In fact she’s lucky. And it would be absurd for him to treat her otherwise than he does treat her.” (Sophia did not divine that her masterful Critchlow had once wanted Maria as one might want a star.)

  But to be always with such people! To be always with Constance! To be always in the Bursley atmosphere, physical and mental!

  She pictured Paris as it would be on that very morning—bright, clean, glittering; the neatness of the Rue Lord Byron, and the magnificent slanting splendour of the Champs Elysées. Paris had always seemed beautiful to her; but the life of Paris had not seemed beautiful to her. Yet now it did seem beautiful. She could delve down into the earlier years of her ownership of the Pension, and see a regular, placid beauty in her daily life there. Her life there, even so late as a fortnight ago, seemed beautiful; sad, but beautiful. It had passed into history. She sighed when she thought of the innumerable interviews with Mardon, the endless formalities required by the English and the French law and by the particularity of the Syndicate. She had been through all that. She had actually been through it and it was over. She had bought the Pension for a song and sold it for great riches. She had developed from a nobody into the desired of Syndicates. And after long, long, monotonous, strenuous years of possession the day had come, the emotional moment had come, when she had yielded up the keys of ownership to Mr Mardon and a man from the Hotel Moscow, and had paid her servants for the last time and signed the last receipted bill. The men had been very gallant, and had requested her to stay in the Pension as their guest until she was ready to leave Paris. But she had declined that. She could not have borne to remain in the Pension under the reign of another. She had left at once and gone to a hotel with her few goods while finally disposing of certain financial questions. And one evening Jacqueline had come to see her, and had wept.

  Her exit from the Pension Frensham struck her now as poignantly pathetic, in its quickness and its absence of ceremonial. Ten steps, and her career was finished, closed. Astonishing, with what liquid tenderness she turned and looked back on that hard, fighting, exhausting life in Paris! For, even if she had unconsciously liked it, she had never enjoyed it. She had always compared France disadvantageously with England, always resented the French temperament in business, always been convinced that “you never knew where you were” with French tradespeople. And now they flitted before her endowed with a wondrous charm; so polite in their lying, so eager to spare your feelings and to reassure you, so neat and prim. And the French shops, so exquisitely arranged! Even a butcher’s shop in Paris was a pleasure to the eye, whereas the butcher’s shop in Wedgwood Street, whi
ch she remembered of old, and which she had glimpsed from the cab—what a bloody shambles! She longed for Paris again. She longed to stretch her lungs in Paris. These people in Bursley did not suspect what Paris was. They did not appreciate and they never would appreciate the marvels that she had accomplished in a theatre of marvels. They probably never realized that the whole of the rest of the world was not more or less like Bursley. They had no curiosity. Even Constance was a thousand times more interested in relating trifles of Bursley gossip than in listening to details of life in Paris. Occasionally she had expressed a mild, vapid surprise at things told to her by Sophia; but she was not really impressed, because her curiosity did not extend beyond Bursley. She, like the rest, had the formidable, thrice-callous egotism of the provinces. And if Sophia had informed her that the heads of Parisians grew out of their navels she would have murmured: “Well, well! Bless us! I never heard of such things! Mrs Brindley’s second boy has got his head quite crooked, poor little fellow!”

  Why should Sophia feel sorrowful? She did not know. She was free; free to go where she liked and do what she liked. She had no responsibilities, no cares. The thought of her husband had long ago ceased to rouse in her any feeling of any kind. She was rich. Mr Critchlow had accumulated for her about as much money as she had herself acquired. Never could she spend her income! She did not know how to spend it. She lacked nothing that was procurable. She had no desires except the direct desire for happiness. If thirty thousand pounds or so could have bought a son like Cyril, she would have bought one for herself. She bitterly regretted that she had no child. In this she envied Constance. A child seemed to be the one commodity worth having. She was too free, too exempt from responsibilities. In spite of Constance she was alone in the world. The strangeness of the hazards of life overwhelmed her. Here she was at fifty, alone.