Array Коллектив авторов - 30 лучших рассказов британских писателей / 30 Best British Short Stories

Polly sat for a little time on the side of the bed, crying. Then she dried her eyes and went over to the looking-glass. She dipped the end of the towel in the water-jug and refreshed her eyes with the cool water. She looked at herself in profile and readjusted a hairpin above her ear. Then she went back to the bed again and sat at the foot. She regarded the pillows for a long time and the sight of them awakened in her mind secret, amiable memories. She rested the nape of her neck against the cool iron bed-rail and fell into a reverie. There was no longer any perturbation visible on her face.

She waited on patiently, almost cheerfully, without alarm, her memories gradually giving place to hopes and visions of the future. Her hopes and visions were so intricate that she no longer saw the white pillows on which her gaze was fixed or remembered that she was waiting for anything.

At last she heard her mother calling. She started to her feet and ran to the banisters.

‘Polly! Polly!’

‘Yes, mamma?’

‘Come down, dear. Mr. Doran wants to speak to you.’

Then she remembered what she had been waiting for.

There was a woman who was beautiful, who started with all the advantages, yet she had no luck. She married for love, and the love turned to dust. She had bonny children, yet she felt they had been thrust upon her, and she could not love them. They looked at her coldly, as if they were finding fault with her. And hurriedly she felt she must cover up some fault in herself. Yet what it was that she must cover up she never knew. Nevertheless, when her children were present, she always felt the centre of her heart go hard. This troubled her, and in her manner she was all the more gentle and anxious for her children, as if she loved them very much. Only she herself knew that at the centre of her heart was a hard little place that could not feel love, no, not for anybody. Everybody else said of her: ‘She is such a good mother. She adores her children.’ Only she herself, and her children themselves, knew it was not so. They read it in each other’s eyes.

There were a boy and two little girls. They lived in a pleasant house, with a garden, and they had discreet servants, and felt themselves superior to anyone in the neighbourhood.

Although they lived in style, they felt always an anxiety in the house. There was never enough money. The mother had a small income, and the father had a small income, but not nearly enough for the social position which they had to keep up. The father went in to town to some office. But though he had good prospects, these prospects never materialised. There was always the grinding sense of the shortage of money, though the style was always kept up.

At last the mother said, ‘I will see if I can’t make something.’ But she did not know where to begin. She racked her brains, and tried this thing and the other, but could not find anything successful. The failure made deep lines come into her face. Her children were growing up, they would have to go to school. There must be more money, there must be more money. The father, who was always very handsome and expensive in his tastes, seemed as if he never would be able to do anything worth doing. And the mother, who had a great belief in herself, did not succeed any better, and her tastes were just as expensive.

And so the house came to be haunted by the unspoken phrase: There must be more money! There must be more money! The children could hear it all the time, though nobody said it aloud. They heard it at Christmas, when the expensive and splendid toys filled the nursery. Behind the shining modern rocking-horse, behind the smart doll’s-house, a voice would start whispering: ‘There must be more money! There must be more money!’ And the children would stop playing, to listen for a moment. They would look into each other’s eyes, to see if they had all heard. And each one saw in the eyes of the other two that they too had heard. ‘There must be more money! There must be more money!’

It came whispering from the springs of the still-swaying rocking-horse, and even the horse, bending his wooden, champing head, heard it. The big doll, sitting so pink and smirking in her new pram, could hear it quite plainly, and seemed to be smirking all the more self-consciously because of it. The foolish puppy, too, that took the place of the teddy-bear, he was looking so extraordinarily foolish for no other reason but that he heard the secret whisper all over the house: ‘There must be more money.’

Yet nobody ever said it aloud. The whisper was everywhere, and therefore no one spoke it. Just as no one ever says: ‘We are breathing!’ in spite of the fact that breath is coming and going all the time.

‘Mother!’ said the boy Paul one day. ‘Why don’t we keep a car of our own? Why do we always use uncle’s, or else a taxi?’

‘Because we’re the poor members of the family,’ said the mother.

‘But why are we, mother?’

‘Well – I suppose,’ she said slowly and bitterly, ‘it’s because your father has no luck.’

The boy was silent for some time.

‘Is luck money, mother?’ he asked, rather timidly.

‘No, Paul! Not quite. It’s what causes you to have money.’

‘Oh!’ said Paul vaguely. ‘I thought when Uncle Oscar said filthy lucker, it meant money.’

‘ Filthy lucre does mean money,’ said the mother. ‘But it’s lucre, not luck.’

‘Oh!’ said the boy. ‘Then what is luck, mother?’

‘It’s what causes you to have money. If you’re lucky you have money. That’s why it’s better to be born lucky than rich. If you’re rich, you may lose your money. But if you’re lucky, you will always get more money.’

‘Oh! Will you! And is father not lucky?’

‘Very unlucky, I should say,’ she said bitterly.

The boy watched her with unsure eyes.

‘Why?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know. Nobody ever knows why one person is lucky and another unlucky.’

‘Don’t they? Nobody at all? Does nobody know?’

‘Perhaps God! But He never tells.’

‘He ought to, then. And aren’t you lucky either, mother?’

‘I can’t be, if I married an unlucky husband.’

‘But by yourself, aren’t you?’

‘I used to think I was, before I married. Now I think I am very unlucky indeed.’

‘Why?’

‘Well – never mind! Perhaps I’m not really,’ she said.

The child looked at her, to see if she meant it. But he saw, by the lines of her mouth, that she was only trying to hide something from him.

‘Well, anyhow,’ he said stoutly, ‘I’m a lucky person.’

‘Why?’ said his mother, with a sudden laugh.

He stared at her. He didn’t even know why he had said it.

‘God told me,’ he asserted, brazening it out.

‘I hope He did, dear!’ she said, again with a laugh, but rather bitter.

‘He did, mother!’

‘Excellent!’ said the mother, using one of her husband’s exclamations.

The boy saw she did not believe him; or rather, that she paid no attention to his assertion. This angered him somewhere, and made him want to compel her attention.

He went off by himself, vaguely, in a childish way, seeking for the clue to ‘luck’. Absorbed, taking no heed of other people, he went about with a sort of stealth, seeking inwardly for luck. He wanted luck, he wanted it, he wanted it. When the two girls were playing dolls, in the nursery, he would sit on his big rocking-horse, charging madly into space, with a frenzy that made the little girls peer at him uneasily. Wildly the horse careered, the waving dark hair of the boy tossed, his eyes had a strange glare in them. The little girls dared not speak to him.