霍华德庄园 英文版 Howards End
爱德华.摩根.福斯特 Edward Morgan Forster
Chapter 10
Several days passed.
Was Mrs. Wilcox one of the unsatisfactory people--thereare many of them--who dangle intimacy and then withdraw it?They evoke our interests and affections, and keep the lifeof the spirit dawdling round them. Then they withdraw.When physical passion is involved, there is a definite namefor such behaviour--flirting--and if carried far enough itis punishable by law. But no law--not public opinioneven--punishes those who coquette with friendship, thoughthe dull ache that they inflict, the sense of misdirectedeffort and exhaustion, may be as intolerable. Was she oneof these?
Margaret feared so at first, for, with a Londoner'simpatience, she wanted everything to be settled upimmediately. She mistrusted the periods of quiet that areessential to true growth. Desiring to book Mrs. Wilcox as afriend, she pressed on the ceremony, pencil, as it were, inhand, pressing the more because the rest of the family wereaway, and the opportunity seemed favourable. But the elderwoman would not be hurried. She refused to fit in with theWickham Place set, or to reopen discussion of Helen andPaul, whom Margaret would have utilized as a short-cut. Shetook her time, or perhaps let time take her, and when thecrisis did come all was ready.
The crisis opened with a message: would Miss Schlegelcome shopping? Christmas was nearing, and Mrs. Wilcox feltbehind-hand with the presents. She had taken some more daysin bed, and must make up for lost time. Margaret accepted,and at eleven o'clock one cheerless morning they started outin a brougham.
"First of all," began Margaret, "we must make a list andtick off the people's names. My aunt always does, and thisfog may thicken up any moment. Have you any ideas?"
"I thought we would go to Harrod's or the HaymarketStores," said Mrs. Wilcox rather hopelessly. "Everything issure to be there. I am not a good shopper. The din is soconfusing, and your aunt is quite right--one ought to make alist. Take my notebook, then, and write your own name atthe top of the page."
"Oh, hooray!" said Margaret, writing it. "How very kindof you to start with me!" But she did not want to receiveanything expensive. Their acquaintance was singular ratherthan intimate, and she divined that the Wilcox clan wouldresent any expenditure on outsiders; the more compactfamilies do. She did not want to be thought a second Helen,who would snatch presents since she could not snatch youngmen, nor to be exposed, like a second Aunt Juley, to theinsults of Charles. A certain austerity of demeanour wasbest, and she added: "I don't really want a Yuletide gift,though. In fact, I'd rather not."
"Why?"
"Because I've odd ideas about Christmas. Because I haveall that money can buy. I want more people, but no more things."
Perhaps I shallthink of something .
"I should like to give you something worth youracquaintance, Miss Schlegel, in memory of your kindness tome during my lonely fortnight. It has so happened that Ihave been left alone, and you have stopped me frombrooding. I am too apt to brood."
"If that is so," said Margaret, "if I have happened tobe of use to you, which I didn't know, you cannot pay meback with anything tangible."
Because I've odd ideas about Christmas. Because?
" I suppose not, but one would like to. Perhaps I shallthink of something as we go about."
Her name remained at the head of the list, but nothingwas written opposite it. They drove from shop to shop. Theair was white, and when they alighted it tasted like coldpennies. At times they passed through a clot of grey. Mrs.Wilcox's vitality was low that morning, and it was Margaretwho decided on a horse for this little girl, a golliwog forthat, for the rector's wife a copper warming-tray. "Wealways give the servants money." "Yes, do you, yes, mucheasier," replied Margaret, but felt the grotesque impact ofthe unseen upon the seen, and saw issuing from a forgottenmanger at Bethlehem this torrent of coins and toys.Vulgarity reigned. Public-houses, besides their usualexhortation against temperance reform, invited men to "Joinour Christmas goose club"--one bottle of gin, etc., or two,according to subscription. A poster of a woman in tightsheralded the Christmas pantomime, and little red devils, whohad come in again that year, were prevalent upon theChristmas-cards. Margaret was no morbid idealist. She didnot wish this spate of business and self-advertisementchecked. It was only the occasion of it that struck herwith amazement annually. How many of these vacillatingshoppers and tired shop-assistants realized that it was adivine event that drew them together? She realized it,though standing outside in the matter. She was not aChristian in the accepted sense; she did not believe thatGod had ever worked among us as a young artisan. Thesepeople, or most of them, believed it, and if pressed, wouldaffirm it in words. But the visible signs of their beliefwere Regent Street or Drury Lane, a little mud displaced, alittle money spent, a little food cooked, eaten, andforgotten. Inadequate. But in public who shall express theunseen adequately? It is private life that holds out themirror to infinity; personal intercourse, and that alone,that ever hints at a personality beyond our daily vision.
"No, I do like Christmas on the whole," she announced."In its clumsy way, it does approach Peace and Goodwill.But oh, it is clumsier every year."
"Is it? I am only used to country Christmases."
"We are usually in London, and play the game withvigour--carols at the Abbey, clumsy midday meal, clumsydinner for the maids, followed by Christmas-tree and dancingof poor children, with songs from Helen. The drawing-roomdoes very well for that. We put the tree in thepowder-closet, and draw a curtain when the candles arelighted, and with the looking-glass behind it looks quitepretty. I wish we might have a powder-closet in our nexthouse. Of course, the tree has to be very small, and thepresents don't hang on it. No; the presents reside in asort of rocky landscape made of crumpled brown paper."
"You spoke of your 'next house,' Miss Schlegel. Thenare you leaving Wickham Place?"
"Yes, in two or three years, when the lease expires. Wemust."
"Have you been there long?"
"All our lives."
"You will be very sorry to leave it."
"I suppose so. We scarcely realize it yet. Myfather--" She broke off, for they had reached the stationerydepartment of the Haymarket Stores, and Mrs. Wilcox wantedto order some private greeting cards.
"If possible, something distinctive," she sighed. Atthe counter she found a friend, bent on the same errand, andconversed with her insipidly, wasting much time. "Myhusband and our daughter are motoring."
"Bertha too? Oh, fancy, what a coincidence!" Margaret,though not practical, could shine in such company as this.While they talked, she went through a volume of specimencards, and submitted one for Mrs. Wilcox's inspection. Mrs.Wilcox was delighted--so original, words so sweet; she wouldorder a hundred like that, and could never be sufficientlygrateful. Then, just as the assistant was booking theorder, she said: "Do you know, I'll wait. On secondthoughts, I'll wait. There's plenty of time still, isn'tthere, and I shall be able to get Evie's opinion."
They returned to the carriage by devious paths; whenthey were in, she said, "But couldn't you get it renewed?"
"I beg your pardon?" asked Margaret.
"The lease, I mean."
"Oh, the lease! Have you been thinking of that all thetime? How very kind of you!"
"Surely something could be done."
"No; values have risen too enormously. They mean topull down Wickham Place, and build flats like yours."
"But how horrible!"
"Landlords are horrible."
Then she said vehemently: "It is monstrous, MissSchlegel; it isn't right. I had no idea that this washanging over you. I do pity you from the bottom of myheart. To be parted from your house, your father'shouse--it oughtn't to be allowed. It is worse than dying.I would rather die than--Oh, poor girls! Can what they callcivilization be right, if people mayn't die in the roomwhere they were born? My dear, I am so sorry--"
Margaret did not know what to say. Mrs. Wilcox had beenovertired by the shopping, and was inclined to hysteria.
"Howards End was nearly pulled down once. It would havekilled me."
"Howards End must be a very different house to ours. Weare fond of ours, but there is nothing distinctive aboutit. As you saw, it is an ordinary London house. We shalleasily find another."
"So you think."
"Again my lack of experience, I suppose!" said Margaret,easing away from the subject. "I can't say anything whenyou take up that line, Mrs. Wilcox. I wish I could seemyself as you see me--foreshortened into a backfisch. Quitethe ingenue. Very charming--wonderfully well read for myage, but incapable--"
Mrs. Wilcox would not be deterred. "Come down with meto Howards End now," she said, more vehemently than ever."I want you to see it. You have never seen it. I want tohear what you say about it, for you do put things so wonderfully."
Margaret glanced at the pitiless air and then at thetired face of her companion. "Later on I should love it,"she continued, "but it's hardly the weather for such anexpedition, and we ought to start when we're fresh. Isn'tthe house shut up, too?"
She received no answer. Mrs. Wilcox appeared to be annoyed.
"Might I come some other day?"
Mrs. Wilcox bent forward and tapped the glass. "Back toWickham Place, please!" was her order to the coachman.Margaret had been snubbed.
"A thousand thanks, Miss Schlegel, for all your help."
"Not at all."
"It is such a comfort to get the presents off mymind--the Christmas-cards especially. I do admire your choice."
It was her turn to receive no answer. In her turnMargaret became annoyed.
"My husband and Evie will be back the day aftertomorrow. That is why I dragged you out shopping today. Istayed in town chiefly to shop, but got through nothing, andnow he writes that they must cut their tour short, theweather is so bad, and the police-traps have been sobad--nearly as bad as in Surrey. Ours is such a carefulchauffeur, and my husband feels it particularly hard thatthey should be treated like roadhogs."
"Why?"
"Well, naturally he--he isn't a road-hog."
"He was exceeding the speed-limit, I conclude. He mustexpect to suffer with the lower animals."
Mrs. Wilcox was silenced. In growing discomfort theydrove homewards. The city seemed Satanic, the narrowerstreets oppressing like the galleries of a mine. No harmwas done by the fog to trade, for it lay high, and thelighted windows of the shops were thronged with customers.It was rather a darkening of the spirit which fell back uponitself, to find a more grievous darkness within. Margaretnearly spoke a dozen times, but something throttled her.She felt petty and awkward, and her meditations on Christmasgrew more cynical. Peace? It may bring other gifts, but isthere a single Londoner to whom Christmas is peaceful? Thecraving for excitement and for elaboration has ruined thatblessing. Goodwill? Had she seen any example of it in thehordes of purchasers? Or in herself. She had failed torespond to this invitation merely because it was a littlequeer and imaginative--she, whose birthright it was tonourish imagination! Better to have accepted, to have tiredthemselves a little by the journey, than coldly to reply,"Might I come some other day?" Her cynicism left her.There would be no other day. This shadowy woman would neverask her again.
They parted at the Mansions. Mrs. Wilcox went in afterdue civilities, and Margaret watched the tall, lonely figuresweep up the hall to the lift. As the glass doors closed onit she had the sense of an imprisonment. The beautiful headdisappeared first, still buried in the muff, the longtrailing skirt followed. A woman of undefinable rarity wasgoing up heaven-ward, like a specimen in a bottle. And intowhat a heaven--a vault as of hell, sooty black, from whichsoots descended!
At lunch her brother, seeing her inclined for silence,insisted on talking. Tibby was not ill-natured, but frombabyhood something drove him to do the unwelcome and theunexpected. Now he gave her a long account of theday-school that he sometimes patronized. The account wasinteresting, and she had often pressed him for it before,but she could not attend now, for her mind was focussed onthe invisible. She discerned that Mrs. Wilcox, though aloving wife and mother, had only one passion in life--herhouse--and that the moment was solemn when she invited afriend to share this passion with her. To answer "anotherday" was to answer as a fool. "Another day" will do forbrick and mortar, but not for the Holy of Holies into whichHowards End had been transfigured. Her own curiosity wasslight. She had heard more than enough about it in thesummer. The nine windows, the vine, and the wych-elm had nopleasant connections for her, and she would have preferredto spend the afternoon at a concert. But imaginationtriumphed. While her brother held forth she determined togo, at whatever cost, and to compel Mrs. Wilcox to go, too.When lunch was over she stepped over to the flats.
Mrs. Wilcox had just gone away for the night.
Margaret said that it was of no consequence, hurrieddownstairs, and took a hansom to King's Cross. She wasconvinced that the escapade was important, though it wouldhave puzzled her to say why. There was a question ofimprisonment and escape, and though she did not know thetime of the train, she strained her eyes for the St.Pancras' clock.
Then the clock of King's Cross swung into sight, asecond moon in that infernal sky, and her cab drew up at thestation. There was a train for Hilton in five minutes. Shetook a ticket, asking in her agitation for a single. As shedid so, a grave and happy voice saluted her and thanked her.
"I will come if I still may," said Margaret, laughing nervously.
"You are coming to sleep, dear, too. It is in themorning that my house is most beautiful. You are coming tostop. I cannot show you my meadow properly except atsunrise. These fogs"--she pointed at the stationroof--"never spread far. I dare say they are sitting in thesun in Hertfordshire, and you will never repent joining them.
"I shall never repent joining you."
"It is the same."
They began the walk up the long platform. Far at itsend stood the train, breasting the darkness without. Theynever reached it. Before imagination could triumph, therewere cries of "Mother! Mother!" and a heavy-browed girldarted out of the cloak-room and seized Mrs. Wilcox by the arm.
"Evie!" she gasped. "Evie, my pet--"
The girl called, "Father! I say! look who's here."
"Evie, dearest girl, why aren't you in Yorkshire?"
"No--motor smash--changed plans--Father's coming."
"Why, Ruth!" cried Mr. Wilcox, joining them. "What inthe name of all that's wonderful are you doing here, Ruth?"
Mrs. Wilcox had recovered herself.
"Oh, Henry dear! --here's a lovely surprise--but let meintroduce--but I think you know Miss Schlegel."
"Oh, yes," he replied, not greatly interested. "Buthow's yourself, Ruth?"
"Fit as a fiddle," she answered gaily.
"So are we and so was our car, which ran A-1 as far asRipon, but there a wretched horse and cart which a fool of adriver--"
"Miss Schlegel, our little outing must be for another day."
"I was saying that this fool of a driver, as thepoliceman himself admits--"
"Another day, Mrs. Wilcox. Of course."
"--But as we've insured against third party risks, itwon't so much matter--"
"--Cart and car being practically at right angles--"
The voices of the happy family rose high. Margaret wasleft alone. No one wanted her. Mrs. Wilcox walked out ofKing's Cross between her husband and her daughter, listeningto both of them.