霍华德庄园 英文版 Howards End
爱德华.摩根.福斯特 Edward Morgan Forster
Chapter 13
Over two years passed, and the Schlegel household continuedto lead its life of cultured but not ignoble ease, stillswimming gracefully on the grey tides of London. Concertsand plays swept past them, money had been spent and renewed,reputations won and lost, and the city herself, emblematicof their lives, rose and fell in a continual flux, while hershallows washed more widely against the hills of Surrey andover the fields of Hertfordshire. This famous building hadarisen, that was doomed. Today Whitehall had beentransformed: it would be the turn of Regent Streettomorrow. And month by month the roads smelt more stronglyof petrol, and were more difficult to cross, and humanbeings heard each other speak with greater difficulty,breathed less of the air, and saw less of the sky. Naturewithdrew: the leaves were falling by midsummer; the sunshone through dirt with an admired obscurity.
To speak against London is no longer fashionable. TheEarth as an artistic cult has had its day, and theliterature of the near future will probably ignore thecountry and seek inspiration from the town. One canunderstand the reaction. Of Pan and the elemental forces,the public has heard a little too much--they seem Victorian,while London is Georgian--and those who care for the earthwith sincerity may wait long ere the pendulum swings back toher again. Certainly London fascinates. One visualizes itas a tract of quivering grey, intelligent without purpose,and excitable without love; as a spirit that has alteredbefore it can be chronicled; as a heart that certainlybeats, but with no pulsation of humanity. It lies beyondeverything: Nature, with all her cruelty, comes nearer to usthan do these crowds of men. A friend explains himself: theearth is explicable--from her we came, and we must return toher. But who can explain Westminster Bridge Road orLiverpool Street in the morning--the city inhaling--or thesame thoroughfares in the evening--the city exhaling herexhausted air? We reach in desperation beyond the fog,beyond the very stars, the voids of the universe areransacked to justify the monster, and stamped with a humanface. London is religion's opportunity--not the decorousreligion of theologians, but anthropomorphic, crude. Yes,the continuous flow would be tolerable if a man of our ownsort--not anyone pompous or tearful--were caring for us upin the sky.
The Londoner seldom understands his city until it sweepshim, too, away from his moorings, and Margaret's eyes werenot opened until the lease of Wickham Place expired. Shehad always known that it must expire, but the knowledge onlybecame vivid about nine months before the event. Then thehouse was suddenly ringed with pathos. It had seen so muchhappiness. Why had it to be swept away? In the streets ofthe city she noted for the first time the architecture ofhurry, and heard the language of hurry on the mouths of itsinhabitants--clipped words, formless sentences, pottedexpressions of approval or disgust. Month by month thingswere stepping livelier, but to what goal? The populationstill rose, but what was the quality of the men born? Theparticular millionaire who owned the freehold of WickhamPlace, and desired to erect Babylonian flats upon it--whatright had he to stir so large a portion of the quiveringjelly? He was not a fool--she had heard him exposeSocialism--but true insight began just where hisintelligence ended, and one gathered that this was the casewith most millionaires. What right had such men--ButMargaret checked herself. That way lies madness. Thankgoodness she, too, had some money, and could purchase a new home.
Tibby, now in his second year at Oxford, was down forthe Easter vacation, and Margaret took the opportunity ofhaving a serious talk with him. Did he at all know where hewanted to live? Tibby didn't know that he did know. Did heat all know what he wanted to do? He was equally uncertain,but when pressed remarked that he should prefer to be quitefree of any profession. Margaret was not shocked, but wenton sewing for a few minutes before she replied:
"I was thinking of Mr. Vyse. He never strikes me asparticularly happy."
"Ye-es," said Tibby, and then held his mouth open in acurious quiver, as if he, too, had thoughts of Mr. Vyse, hadseen round, through, over, and beyond Mr. Vyse, had weighedMr. Vyse, grouped him, and finally dismissed him as havingno possible bearing on the subject under discussion. Thatbleat of Tibby's infuriated Helen. But Helen was now downin the dining-room preparing a speech about politicaleconomy. At times her voice could be heard declaimingthrough the floor.
"But Mr. Vyse is rather a wretched, weedy man, don't youthink? Then there's Guy. That was a pitiful business.Besides"--shifting to the general--" every one is the betterfor some regular work."
Groans.
"I shall stick to it," she continued, smiling. "I amnot saying it to educate you; it is what I really think. Ibelieve that in the last century men have developed thedesire for work, and they must not starve it. It's a newdesire. It goes with a great deal that's bad, but in itselfit's good, and I hope that for women, too, 'not to work'will soon become as shocking as 'not to be married' was ahundred years ago."
"I have no experience of this profound desire to whichyou allude," enunciated Tibby.
"Then we'll leave the subject till you do. I'm notgoing to rattle you round. Take your time. Only do thinkover the lives of the men you like most, and see how they'vearranged them."
"I like Guy and Mr. Vyse most," said Tibby faintly, andleant so far back in his chair that he extended in ahorizontal line from knees to throat.
"And don't think I'm not serious because I don't use thetraditional arguments--making money, a sphere awaiting you,and so on--all of which are, for various reasons, cant." Shesewed on. "I'm only your sister. I haven't any authorityover you, and I don't want to have any. Just to put beforeyou what I think the truth. You see"--she shook off thepince-nez to which she had recently taken--"in a few yearswe shall be the same age practically, and I shall want youto help me. Men are so much nicer than women."
"Labouring under such a delusion, why do you not marry?"
"I sometimes jolly well think I would if I got the chance."
"Has nobody arst you?"
"Only ninnies."
"Do people ask Helen?"
"Plentifully."
"Tell me about them."
"No."
"Tell me about your ninnies, then."
"They were men who had nothing better to do," said hissister, feeling that she was entitled to score this point."So take warning: you must work, or else you must pretend towork, which is what I do. Work, work, work if you'd saveyour soul and your body. It is honestly a necessity, dearboy. Look at the Wilcoxes, look at Mr. Pembroke. With alltheir defects of temper and understanding, such men give memore pleasure than many who are better equipped and I thinkit is because they have worked regularly and honestly.
"Spare me the Wilcoxes," he moaned.
"I shall not. They are the right sort."
"Oh, goodness me, Meg!" he protested, suddenly sittingup, alert and angry. Tibby, for all his defects, had agenuine personality.
"Well, they're as near the right sort as you can imagine."
"No, no--oh, no!"
"I was thinking of the younger son, whom I once classedas a ninny, but who came back so ill from Nigeria. He'sgone out there again, Evie Wilcox tells me--out to his duty."
"Duty" always elicited a groan.
"He doesn't want the money, it is work he wants, thoughit is beastly work--dull country, dishonest natives, aneternal fidget over fresh water and food. A nation who canproduce men of that sort may well be proud. No wonderEngland has become an Empire."
"EMPIRE!"
"I can't bother over results," said Margaret, a littlesadly. "They are too difficult for me. I can only look atthe men. An Empire bores me, so far, but I can appreciatethe heroism that builds it up. London bores me, but whatthousands of splendid people are labouring to make London--"
"What it is," he sneered.
"What it is, worse luck. I want activity withoutcivilization. How paradoxical! Yet I expect that is whatwe shall find in heaven."
"And I," said Tibby, "want civilization withoutactivity, which, I expect, is what we shall find in theother place."
"You needn't go as far as the other place, Tibbi-kins,if you want that. You can find it at Oxford."
"Stupid--"
"If I'm stupid, get me back to the house-hunting. I'lleven live in Oxford if you like--North Oxford. I'll liveanywhere except Bournemouth, Torquay, and Cheltenham. Ohyes, or Ilfracombe and Swanage and Tunbridge Wells andSurbiton and Bedford. There on no account."
"London, then."
"I agree, but Helen rather wants to get away fromLondon. However, there's no reason we shouldn't have ahouse in the country and also a flat in town, provided weall stick together and contribute. Though of course--Oh,how one does maunder on, and to think, to think of thepeople who are really poor. How do they live? Not to moveabout the world would kill me."
As she spoke, the door was flung open, and Helen burstin in a state of extreme excitement.
"Oh, my dears, what do you think? You'll never guess.A woman's been here asking me for her husband. Her WHAT?"(Helen was fond of supplying her own surprise.) "Yes, forher husband, and it really is so."
"Not anything to do with Bracknell?" cried Margaret, whohad lately taken on an unemployed of that name to clean theknives and boots.
"I offered Bracknell, and he was rejected. So wasTibby. (Cheer up, Tibby!) It's no one we know. I said,'Hunt, my good woman; have a good look round, hunt under thetables, poke up the chimney, shake out the antimacassars.Husband? husband?' Oh, and she so magnificently dressed andtinkling like a chandelier."
"Now, Helen, what did happen really?"
"What I say. I was, as it were, orating my speech.Annie opens the door like a fool, and shows a femalestraight in on me, with my mouth open. Then we began--verycivilly. 'I want my husband, what I have reason to believeis here.' No--how unjust one is. She said 'whom,' not'what.' She got it perfectly. So I said, 'Name, please?'and she said, 'Lan, Miss,' and there we were.
"Lan?"
"Lan or Len. We were not nice about our vowels. Lanoline."
"But what an extraordinary--"
"I said, 'My good Mrs. Lanoline, we have some gravemisunderstanding here. Beautiful as I am, my modesty iseven more remarkable than my beauty, and never, never hasMr. Lanoline rested his eyes on mine.'"
"I hope you were pleased," said Tibby.
"Of course," Helen squeaked. "A perfectly delightfulexperience. Oh, Mrs. Lanoline's a dear--she asked for ahusband as if he was an umbrella. She mislaid him Saturdayafternoon--and for a long time suffered no inconvenience.But all night, and all this morning her apprehensions grew.Breakfast didn't seem the same--no, no more did lunch, andso she strolled up to 2, Wickham Place as being the mostlikely place for the missing article."
"But how on earth--"
"Don't begin how on earthing. 'I know what I know,' shekept repeating, not uncivilly, but with extreme gloom. Invain I asked her what she did know. Some knew what othersknew, and others didn't, and if they didn't, then othersagain had better be careful. Oh dear, she was incompetent!She had a face like a silkworm, and the dining-room reeks oforris-root. We chatted pleasantly a little about husbands,and I wondered where hers was too, and advised her to go tothe police. She thanked me. We agreed that Mr. Lanoline'sa notty, notty man, and hasn't no business to go on thelardy-da. But I think she suspected me up to the last.Bags I writing to Aunt Juley about this. Now, Meg,remember--bags I."
"Bag it by all means," murmured Margaret, putting downher work. "I'm not sure that this is so funny, Helen. Itmeans some horrible volcano smoking somewhere, doesn't it?"
"I don't think so--she doesn't really mind. Theadmirable creature isn't capable of tragedy."
You needn't go as far as the other place, Tibbi-kins.
"Her husband may be, though," said Margaret, moving tothe window.
"Oh, no, not likely. No one capable of tragedy couldhave married Mrs. Lanoline."
"Was she pretty?"
"Her figure may have been good once."
The flats, their only outlook, hung like an ornatecurtain between Margaret and the welter of London. Herthoughts turned sadly to house-hunting. Wickham Place hadbeen so safe. She feared, fantastically, that her ownlittle flock might be moving into turmoil and squalor, intonearer contact with such episodes as these.
Lan?"you want that. You can find it at Oxford."
"Tibby and I have again been wondering where we'll livenext September," she said at last.
"Tibby had better first wonder what he'll do," retortedHelen; and that topic was resumed, but with acrimony. Thentea came, and after tea Helen went on preparing her speech,and Margaret prepared one, too, for they were going out to adiscussion society on the morrow. But her thoughts werepoisoned. Mrs. Lanoline had risen out of the abyss, like afaint smell, a goblin football, telling of a life where loveand hatred had both decayed.