霍华德庄园 英文版 Howards End
爱德华.摩根.福斯特 Edward Morgan Forster
Chapter 11
The funeral was over. The carriages rolled away through thesoft mud, and only the poor remained. They approached tothe newly-dug shaft and looked their last at the coffin, nowalmost hidden beneath the spadefuls of clay. It was theirmoment. Most of them were women from the dead woman'sdistrict, to whom black garments had been served out by Mr.Wilcox's orders. Pure curiosity had brought others. Theythrilled with the excitement of a death, and of a rapiddeath, and stood in groups or moved between the graves, likedrops of ink. The son of one of them, a wood-cutter, wasperched high above their heads, pollarding one of thechurchyard elms. From where he sat he could see the villageof Hilton, strung upon the North Road, with its accretingsuburbs; the sunset beyond, scarlet and orange, winking athim beneath brows of grey; the church; the plantations; andbehind him an unspoilt country of fields and farms. But he,too, was rolling the event luxuriously in his mouth. Hetried to tell his mother down below all that he had feltwhen he saw the coffin approaching: how he could not leavehis work, and yet did not like to go on with it; how he hadalmost slipped out of the tree, he was so upset; the rookshad cawed, and no wonder--it was as if rooks knew too. Hismother claimed the prophetic power herself--she had seen astrange look about Mrs. Wilcox for some time. London haddone the mischief, said others. She had been a kind lady;her grandmother had been kind, too--a plainer person, butvery kind. Ah, the old sort was dying out! Mr. Wilcox, hewas a kind gentleman. They advanced to the topic again andagain, dully, but with exaltation. The funeral of a richperson was to them what the funeral of Alcestis or Opheliais to the educated. It was Art; though remote from life, itenhanced life's values, and they witnessed it avidly.
The grave-diggers, who had kept up an undercurrent ofdisapproval--they disliked Charles; it was not a moment tospeak of such things, but they did not like CharlesWilcox--the grave-diggers finished their work and piled upthe wreaths and crosses above it. The sun set over Hilton:the grey brows of the evening flushed a little, and werecleft with one scarlet frown. Chattering sadly to eachother, the mourners passed through the lych-gate andtraversed the chestnut avenues that led down to thevillage. The young wood-cutter stayed a little longer,poised above the silence and swaying rhythmically. At lastthe bough fell beneath his saw. With a grunt, he descended,his thoughts dwelling no longer on death, but on love, forhe was mating. He stopped as he passed the new grave; asheaf of tawny chrysanthemums had caught his eye. "Theydidn't ought to have coloured flowers at buryings," hereflected. Trudging on a few steps, he stopped again,looked furtively at the dusk, turned back, wrenched achrysanthemum from the sheaf, and hid it in his pocket.
After him came silence absolute. The cottage thatabutted on the churchyard was empty, and no other housestood near. Hour after hour the scene of the intermentremained without an eye to witness it. Clouds drifted overit from the west; or the church may have been a ship,high-prowed, steering with all its company towardsinfinity. Towards morning the air grew colder, the skyclearer, the surface of the earth hard and sparkling abovethe prostrate dead. The wood-cutter, returning after anight of joy, reflected: "They lilies, they chrysants; it'sa pity I didn't take them all."
Up at Howards End they were attempting breakfast.Charles and Evie sat in the dining-room, with Mrs. Charles.Their father, who could not bear to see a face, breakfastedupstairs. He suffered acutely. Pain came over him inspasms, as if it was physical, and even while he was aboutto eat, his eyes would fill with tears, and he would laydown the morsel untasted.
He remembered his wife's even goodness during thirtyyears. Not anything in detail--not courtship or earlyraptures--but just the unvarying virtue, that seemed to hima woman's noblest quality. So many women are capricious,breaking into odd flaws of passion or frivolity. Not so hiswife. Year after year, summer and winter, as bride andmother, she had been the same, he had always trusted her.Her tenderness! Her innocence! The wonderful innocencethat was hers by the gift of God. Ruth knew no more ofworldly wickedness and wisdom than did the flowers in hergarden, or the grass in her field. Her idea ofbusiness--"Henry, why do people who have enough money try toget more money?" Her idea of politics--"I am sure that ifthe mothers of various nations could meet, there would be nomore wars." Her idea of religion--ah, this had been a cloud,but a cloud that passed. She came of Quaker stock, and heand his family, formerly Dissenters, were now members of theChurch of England. The rector's sermons had at firstrepelled her, and she had expressed a desire for "a moreinward light," adding, "not so much for myself as for baby"(Charles). Inward light must have been granted, for heheard no complaints in later years. They brought up theirthree children without dispute. They had never disputed.
She lay under the earth now. She had gone, and as if tomake her going the more bitter, had gone with a touch ofmystery that was all unlike her. "Why didn't you tell meyou knew of it?" he had moaned, and her faint voice hadanswered: "I didn't want to, Henry--I might have beenwrong--and every one hates illnesses." He had been told ofthe horror by a strange doctor, whom she had consultedduring his absence from town. Was this altogether just?Without fully explaining, she had died. It was a fault onher part, and--tears rushed into his eyes--what a littlefault! It was the only time she had deceived him in thosethirty years.
He rose to his feet and looked out of the window, forEvie had come in with the letters, and he could meet noone's eye. Ah yes--she had been a good woman--she had beensteady. He chose the word deliberately. To him steadinessincluded all praise.
He himself, gazing at the wintry garden, is inappearance a steady man. His face was not as square as hisson's, and, indeed, the chin, though firm enough in outline,retreated a little, and the lips, ambiguous, were curtainedby a moustache. But there was no external hint ofweakness. The eyes, if capable of kindness andgoodfellowship, if ruddy for the moment with tears, were theeyes of one who could not be driven. The forehead, too, waslike Charles's. High and straight, brown and polished,merging abruptly into temples and skull, it has the effectof a bastion that protected his head from the world. Attimes it had the effect of a blank wall. He had dweltbehind it, intact and happy, for fifty years.
"The post's come, Father," said Evie awkwardly.
"Thanks. Put it down."
"Has the breakfast been all right?"
"Yes, thanks."
The girl glanced at him and at it with constraint. Shedid not know what to do.
"Charles says do you want the TIMES?"
"No, I'll read it later."
"Ring if you want anything, Father, won't you?"
"I've all I want."
Having sorted the letters from the circulars, she wentback to the dining-room.
"Father's eaten nothing," she announced, sitting downwith wrinkled brows behind the tea-urn--
Charles did not answer, but after a moment he ranquickly upstairs, opened the door, and said: "Look here,Father, you must eat, you know"; and having paused for areply that did not come, stole down again. "He's going toread his letters first, I think," he said evasively; "I daresay he will go on with his breakfast afterwards." Then hetook up the TIMES, and for some time there was no soundexcept the clink of cup against saucer and of knife on plate.
Poor Mrs. Charles sat between her silent companions,terrified at the course of events, and a little bored. Shewas a rubbishy little creature, and she knew it. A telegramhad dragged her from Naples to the death-bed of a woman whomshe had scarcely known. A word from her husband had plungedher into mourning. She desired to mourn inwardly as well,but she wished that Mrs. Wilcox, since fated to die, couldhave died before the marriage, for then less would have beenexpected of her. Crumbling her toast, and too nervous toask for the butter, she remained almost motionless, thankfulonly for this, that her father-in-law was having hisbreakfast upstairs.
At last Charles spoke. "They had no business to bepollarding those elms yesterday," he said to his sister.
"No indeed."
"I must make a note of that," he continued. "I amsurprised that the rector allowed it."
"Perhaps it may not be the rector's affair."
"Whose else could it be?"
"The lord of the manor."
"Impossible."
gardener, sir."Presumably she knows-.
"Butter, Dolly?"
"Thank you, Evie dear. Charles--"
"I didn't know one could pollard elms. I thought oneonly pollarded willows."
"Oh no, one can pollard elms."
"Then why oughtn't the elms in the churchyard to be pollarded?"
Charles frowned a little, and turned again to hissister. "Another point. I must speak to Chalkeley."
"Yes, rather; you must complain to Chalkeley.
"It's no good him saying he is not responsible for thosemen. He is responsible."
"Yes, rather."
Brother and sister were not callous. They spoke thus,partly because they desired to keep Chalkeley up to themark--a healthy desire in its way--partly because theyavoided the personal note in life. All Wilcoxes did. Itdid not seem to them of supreme importance. Or it may be asHelen supposed: they realized its importance, but wereafraid of it. Panic and emptiness, could one glance behind.They were not callous, and they left the breakfast-tablewith aching hearts. Their mother never had come in tobreakfast. It was in the other rooms, and especially in thegarden, that they felt her loss most. As Charles went outto the garage, he was reminded at every step of the womanwho had loved him and whom he could never replace. Whatbattles he had fought against her gentle conservatism! Howshe had disliked improvements, yet how loyally she hadaccepted them when made! He and his father--what troublethey had had to get this very garage! With what difficultyhad they persuaded her to yield them to the paddock forit--the paddock that she loved more dearly than the gardenitself! The vine--she had got her way about the vine. Itstill encumbered the south wall with its unproductivebranches. And so with Evie, as she stood talking to thecook. Though she could take up her mother's work inside thehouse, just as the man could take it up without, she feltthat something unique had fallen out of her life. Theirgrief, though less poignant than their father's, grew fromdeeper roots, for a wife may be replaced; a mother never.
Charles would go back to the office. There was littleto do at Howards End. The contents of his mother's will hadbeen long known to them. There were no legacies, noannuities, none of the posthumous bustle with which some ofthe dead prolong their activities. Trusting her husband,she had left him everything without reserve. She was quitea poor woman--the house had been all her dowry, and thehouse would come to Charles in time. Her water-colours Mr.Wilcox intended to reserve for Paul, while Evie would takethe jewellery and lace. How easily she slipped out oflife! Charles thought the habit laudable, though he did notintend to adopt it himself, whereas Margaret would have seenin it an almost culpable indifference to earthly fame.Cynicism--not the superficial cynicism that snarls andsneers, but the cynicism that can go with courtesy andtenderness--that was the note of Mrs. Wilcox's will. Shewanted not to vex people. That accomplished, the earthmight freeze over her for ever.
No, there was nothing for Charles to wait for. He couldnot go on with his honeymoon, so he would go up to Londonand work--he felt too miserable hanging about. He and Dollywould have the furnished flat while his father restedquietly in the country with Evie. He could also keep an eyeon his own little house, which was being painted anddecorated for him in one of the Surrey suburbs, and in whichhe hoped to install himself soon after Christmas. Yes, hewould go up after lunch in his new motor, and the townservants, who had come down for the funeral, would go up by train.
He found his father's chauffeur in the garage, said,"Morning" without looking at the man's face, and, bendingover the car, continued: "Hullo! my new car's been driven!"
"Has it, sir?"
"Yes," said Charles, getting rather red; "and whoever'sdriven it hasn't cleaned it properly, for there's mud on theaxle. Take it off."
The man went for the cloths without a word. He was achauffeur as ugly as sin--not that this did him disservicewith Charles, who thought charm in a man rather rot, and hadsoon got rid of the little Italian beast with whom they had started.
"Charles--" His bride was tripping after him over thehoar-frost, a dainty black column, her little face andelaborate mourning hat forming the capital thereof.
"One minute, I'm busy. Well, Crane, who's been drivingit, do you suppose?"
"Don't know, I'm sure, sir. No one's driven it sinceI've been back, but, of course, there's the fortnight I'vebeen away with the other car in Yorkshire."
The mud came off easily.
"Charles, your father's down. Something's happened. Hewants you in the house at once. Oh, Charles!"
"Wait, dear, wait a minute. Who had the key to thegarage while you were away, Crane?"
"The gardener, sir."
"Do you mean to tell me that old Penny can drive a motor?"
"No, sir; no one's had the motor out, sir."
"Then how do you account for the mud on the axle?"
"I can't, of course, say for the time I've been inYorkshire. No more mud now, sir."
Charles was vexed. The man was treating him as a fool,and if his heart had not been so heavy he would havereported him to his father. But it was not a morning forcomplaints. Ordering the motor to be round after lunch, hejoined his wife, who had all the while been pouring out someincoherent story about a letter and a Miss Schlegel.
"Now, Dolly, I can attend to you. Miss Schlegel? Whatdoes she want?"
When people wrote a letter Charles always asked whatthey wanted. Want was to him the only cause of action. Andthe question in this case was correct, for his wife replied,"She wants Howards End."
"Howards End? Now, Crane, just don't forget to put onthe Stepney wheel."
"No, sir."
"Now, mind you don't forget, for I--Come, little woman."When they were out of the chauffeur's sight he put his armaround her waist and pressed her against him. All hisaffection and half his attention--it was what he granted herthroughout their happy married life.
"But you haven't listened, Charles--"
"What's wrong?"
"I keep on telling you--Howards End. Miss Schlegels gotit."
"Got what?" asked Charles, unclasping her. "What thedickens are you talking about?"
"Now, Charles, you promised not to say those naughty--"
"Look here, I'm in no mood for foolery. It's no morningfor it either."
"I tell you--I keep on telling you--Miss Schlegel--she'sgot it--your mother's left it to her--and you've all got tomove out!"
"HOWARDS END?"
"HOWARDS END!" she screamed, mimicking him, and as shedid so Evie came dashing out of the shrubbery.
"Dolly, go back at once! My father's much annoyed withyou. Charles"--she hit herself wildly--"come in at once toFather. He's had a letter that's too awful."
Charles began to run, but checked himself, and steppedheavily across the gravel path. There the house was--thenine windows, the unprolific vine. He exclaimed, "Schlegelsagain!" and as if to complete chaos, Dolly said, "Oh no, thematron of the nursing home has written instead of her."
"Come in, all three of you!" cried his father, no longerinert. "Dolly, why have you disobeyed me?"
"Oh, Mr. Wilcox--"
"I told you not to go out to the garage. I've heard youall shouting in the garden. I won't have it. Come in."
He couldnot go on with his honeymoon, so he would go .
He stood in the porch, transformed, letters in his hand.
"Into the dining-room, every one of you. We can'tdiscuss private matters in the middle of all the servants.Here, Charles, here; read these. See what you make."
Charles took two letters, and read them as he followedthe procession. The first was a covering note from thematron. Mrs. Wilcox had desired her, when the funeralshould be over, to forward the enclosed. The enclosed--itwas from his mother herself. She had written: "To myhusband: I should like Miss Schlegel (Margaret) to haveHowards End."
"I suppose we're going to have a talk about this?" heremarked, ominously calm.
"Certainly. I was coming out to you when Dolly--"
"Well, let's sit down."
"Come, Evie, don't waste time, sit down."
In silence they drew up to the breakfast-table. Theevents of yesterday--indeed, of this morning--suddenlyreceded into a past so remote that they seemed scarcely tohave lived in it. Heavy breathings were heard. They werecalming themselves. Charles, to steady them further, readthe enclosure out loud: "A note in my mother's handwriting,in an envelope addressed to my father, sealed. Inside: 'Ishould like Miss Schlegel (Margaret) to have Howards End.'No date, no signature. Forwarded through the matron of thatnursing home. Now, the question is--"
Dolly interrupted him. "But I say that note isn'tlegal. Houses ought to be done by a lawyer, Charles, surely."
Her husband worked his jaw severely. Little lumpsappeared in front of either ear--a symptom that she had notyet learnt to respect, and she asked whether she might seethe note. Charles looked at his father for permission, whosaid abstractedly, "Give it her." She seized it, and at onceexclaimed: "Why, it's only in pencil! I said so. Pencilnever counts."
"We know that it is not legally binding, Dolly," saidMr. Wilcox, speaking from out of his fortress. "We areaware of that. Legally, I should be justified in tearing itup and throwing it into the fire. Of course, my dear, weconsider you as one of the family, but it will be better ifyou do not interfere with what you do not understand."
Charles, vexed both with his father and his wife, thenrepeated: "The question is--" He had cleared a space of thebreakfast-table from plates and knives, so that he coulddraw patterns on the tablecloth. "The question is whetherMiss Schlegel, during the fortnight we were all away,whether she unduly--" He stopped.
"I don't think that," said his father, whose nature wasnobler than his son's
"Don't think what?"
"That she would have--that it is a case of undueinfluence. No, to my mind the question is the--theinvalid's condition at the time she wrote."
"My dear father, consult an expert if you like, but Idon't admit it is my mother's writing."
"Why, you just said it was!" cried Dolly.
"Never mind if I did," he blazed out; "and hold your tongue."
The poor little wife coloured at this, and, drawing herhandkerchief from her pocket, shed a few tears. No onenoticed her. Evie was scowling like an angry boy. The twomen were gradually assuming the manner of thecommittee-room. They were both at their best when servingon committees. They did not make the mistake of handlinghuman affairs in the bulk, but disposed of them item byitem, sharply. Calligraphy was the item before them now,and on it they turned their well-trained brains. Charles,after a little demur, accepted the writing as genuine, andthey passed on to the next point. It is the best--perhapsthe only--way of dodging emotion. They were the averagehuman article, and had they considered the note as a wholeit would have driven them miserable or mad. Considered itemby item, the emotional content was minimized, and all wentforward smoothly. The clock ticked, the coals blazedhigher, and contended with the white radiance that poured inthrough the windows. Unnoticed, the sun occupied his sky,and the shadows of the tree stems, extraordinarily solid,fell like trenches of purple across the frosted lawn. Itwas a glorious winter morning. Evie's fox terrier, who hadpassed for white, was only a dirty grey dog now, so intensewas the purity that surrounded him. He was discredited, butthe blackbirds that he was chasing glowed with Arabiandarkness, for all the conventional colouring of life hadbeen altered. Inside, the clock struck ten with a rich andconfident note. Other clocks confirmed it, and thediscussion moved towards its close.
To follow it is unnecessary. It is rather a moment whenthe commentator should step forward. Ought the Wilcoxes tohave offered their home to Margaret? I think not. Theappeal was too flimsy. It was not legal; it had beenwritten in illness, and under the spell of a suddenfriendship; it was contrary to the dead woman's intentionsin the past, contrary to her very nature, so far as thatnature was understood by them. To them Howards End was ahouse: they could not know that to her it had been a spirit,for which she sought a spiritual heir. And--pushing onestep farther in these mists--may they not have decided evenbetter than they supposed? Is it credible that thepossessions of the spirit can be bequeathed at all? Has thesoul offspring? A wych-elm tree, a vine, a wisp of hay withdew on it--can passion for such things be transmitted wherethere is no bond of blood? No; the Wilcoxes are not to beblamed. The problem is too terrific, and they could noteven perceive a problem. No; it is natural and fitting thatafter due debate they should tear the note up and throw iton to their dining-room fire. The practical moralist mayacquit them absolutely. He who strives to look deeper mayacquit them--almost. For one hard fact remains. They didneglect a personal appeal. The woman who had died did sayto them, "Do this," and they answered, "We will not."
The incident made a most painful impression on them.Grief mounted into the brain and worked theredisquietingly. Yesterday they had lamented: "She was a dearmother, a true wife: in our absence she neglected her healthand died." Today they thought: "She was not as true, asdear, as we supposed." The desire for a more inward lighthad found expression at last, the unseen had impacted on theseen, and all that they could say was "Treachery." Mrs.Wilcox had been treacherous to the family, to the laws ofproperty, to her own written word. How did she expectHowards End to be conveyed to Miss Schlegel? Was herhusband, to whom it legally belonged, to make it over to heras a free gift? Was the said Miss Schlegel to have a lifeinterest in it, or to own it absolutely? Was there to be nocompensation for the garage and other improvements that theyhad made under the assumption that all would be theirs someday? Treacherous! treacherous and absurd! When we thinkthe dead both treacherous and absurd, we have gone fartowards reconciling ourselves to their departure. Thatnote, scribbled in pencil, sent through the matron, wasunbusinesslike as well as cruel, and decreased at once thevalue of the woman who had written it.
"Ah, well!" said Mr. Wilcox, rising from the table. "Ishouldn't have thought it possible."
"Mother couldn't have meant it," said Evie, still frowning.
"No, my girl, of course not."
"Mother believed so in ancestors too--it isn't like herto leave anything to an outsider, who'd never appreciate. "
"The whole thing is unlike her," he announced. "If MissSchlegel had been poor, if she had wanted a house, I couldunderstand it a little. But she has a house of her own.Why should she want another? She wouldn't have any use ofHowards End."
"That time may prove," murmured Charles.
"How?" asked his sister.
"Presumably she knows--mother will have told her. Shegot twice or three times into the nursing home. Presumablyshe is awaiting developments."
"What a horrid woman!" And Dolly, who had recovered,cried, "Why, she may be coming down to turn us out now!"
Charles put her right. "I wish she would," he saidominously. "I could then deal with her."
"So could I," echoed his father, who was feeling ratherin the cold. Charles had been kind in undertaking thefuneral arrangements and in telling him to eat hisbreakfast, but the boy as he grew up was a littledictatorial, and assumed the post of chairman too readily."I could deal with her, if she comes, but she won't come.You're all a bit hard on Miss Schlegel."
"That Paul business was pretty scandalous, though."
"I want no more of the Paul business, Charles, as I saidat the time, and besides, it is quite apart from thisbusiness. Margaret Schlegel has been officious and tiresomeduring this terrible week, and we have all suffered underher, but upon my soul she's honest. She's not in collusionwith the matron. I'm absolutely certain of it. Nor was shewith the doctor. I'm equally certain of that. She did nothide anything from us, for up to that very afternoon she wasas ignorant as we are. She, like ourselves, was a dupe--"He stopped for a moment. "You see, Charles, in her terriblepain your poor mother put us all in false positions. Paulwould not have left England, you would not have gone toItaly, nor Evie and I into Yorkshire, if only we had known.Well, Miss Schlegel's position has been equally false. Takeall in all, she has not come out of it badly."
Evie said: "But those chrysanthemums--"
"Or coming down to the funeral at all--" echoed Dolly.
"Why shouldn't she come down? She had the right to, andshe stood far back among the Hilton women. Theflowers--certainly we should not have sent such flowers, butthey may have seemed the right thing to her, Evie, and forall you know they may be the custom in Germany. "
"Oh, I forget she isn't really English," cried Evie."That would explain a lot."
"She's a cosmopolitan," said Charles, looking at hiswatch. "I admit I'm rather down on cosmopolitans. Myfault, doubtless. I cannot stand them, and a Germancosmopolitan is the limit. I think that's about all, isn'tit? I want to run down and see Chalkeley. A bicycle willdo. And, by the way, I wish you'd speak to Crane sometime. I'm certain he's had my new car out."
"Has he done it any harm?"
"No."
"In that case I shall let it pass. It's not worth whilehaving a row."
Charles and his father sometimes disagreed. But theyalways parted with an increased regard for one another, andeach desired no doughtier comrade when it was necessary tovoyage for a little past the emotions. So the sailors ofUlysses voyaged past the Sirens, having first stopped oneanother's ears with wool.