霍华德庄园 英文版 Howards End
爱德华.摩根.福斯特 Edward Morgan Forster
Chapter 17
The Age of Property holds bitter moments even for aproprietor. When a move is imminent, furniture becomesridiculous, and Margaret now lay awake at nights wonderingwhere, where on earth they and all their belongings would bedeposited in September next. Chairs, tables, pictures,books, that had rumbled down to them through thegenerations, must rumble forward again like a slide ofrubbish to which she longed to give the final push, and sendtoppling into the sea. But there were all their father'sbooks--they never read them, but they were their father's,and must be kept. There was the marble-toppedchiffonier--their mother had set store by it, they could notremember why. Round every knob and cushion in the housesentiment gathered, a sentiment that was at times personal,but more often a faint piety to the dead, a prolongation ofrites that might have ended at the grave.
It was absurd, if you came to think of it; Helen andTibby came to think of it: Margaret was too busy with thehouse-agents. The feudal ownership of land did bringdignity, whereas the modern ownership of movables isreducing us again to a nomadic horde. We are reverting tothe civilization of luggage, and historians of the futurewill note how the middle classes accreted possessionswithout taking root in the earth, and may find in this thesecret of their imaginative poverty. The Schlegels werecertainly the poorer for the loss of Wickham Place. It hadhelped to balance their lives, and almost to counsel them.Nor is their ground-landlord spiritually the richer. He hasbuilt flats on its site, his motor-cars grow swifter, hisexposures of Socialism more trenchant. But he has spilt theprecious distillation of the years, and no chemistry of hiscan give it back to society again.
Margaret grew depressed; she was anxious to settle on ahouse before they left town to pay their annual visit toMrs. Munt. She enjoyed this visit, and wanted to have hermind at ease for it. Swanage, though dull, was stable, andthis year she longed more than usual for its fresh air andfor the magnificent downs that guard it on the north. ButLondon thwarted her; in its atmosphere she could notconcentrate. London only stimulates, it cannot sustain; andMargaret, hurrying over its surface for a house withoutknowing what sort of a house she wanted, was paying for manya thrilling sensation in the past. She could not even breakloose from culture, and her time was wasted by concertswhich it would be a sin to miss, and invitations which itwould never do to refuse. At last she grew desperate; sheresolved that she would go nowhere and be at home to no oneuntil she found a house, and broke the resolution in half anhour.
Once she had humorously lamented that she had never beento Simpson's restaurant in the Strand. Now a note arrivedfrom Miss Wilcox, asking her to lunch there. Mr. Cahill wascoming, and the three would have such a jolly chat, andperhaps end up at the Hippodrome. Margaret had no strongregard for Evie, and no desire to meet her fiance, and shewas surprised that Helen, who had been far funnier aboutSimpson's, had not been asked instead. But the invitationtouched her by its intimate tone. She must know Evie Wilcoxbetter than she supposed, and declaring that she "simplymust," she accepted.
But when she saw Evie at the entrance of the restaurant,staring fiercely at nothing after the fashion of athleticwomen, her heart failed her anew. Miss Wilcox had changedperceptibly since her engagement. Her voice was gruffer,her manner more downright, and she was inclined to patronizethe more foolish virgin. Margaret was silly enough to bepained at this. Depressed at her isolation, she saw notonly houses and furniture, but the vessel of life itselfslipping past her, with people like Evie and Mr. Cahill on board.
There are moments when virtue and wisdom fail us, andone of them came to her at Simpson's in the Strand. As shetrod the staircase, narrow, but carpeted thickly, as sheentered the eating-room, where saddles of mutton were beingtrundled up to expectant clergymen, she had a strong, iferroneous, conviction of her own futility, and wished shehad never come out of her backwater, where nothing happenedexcept art and literature, and where no one ever got marriedor succeeded in remaining engaged. Then came a littlesurprise. "Father might be of the party--yes, Father was."With a smile of pleasure she moved forward to greet him, andher feeling of loneliness vanished.
"I thought I'd get round if I could," said he. "Evietold me of her little plan, so I just slipped in and secureda table. Always secure a table first. Evie, don't pretendyou want to sit by your old father, because you don't. MissSchlegel, come in my side, out of pity. My goodness, butyou look tired! Been worrying round after your young clerks?"
"No, after houses," said Margaret, edging past him intothe box. "I'm hungry, not tired; I want to eat heaps."
"That's good. What'll you have?"
"Fish pie," said she, with a glance at the menu.
"Fish pie! Fancy coming for fish pie to Simpson's.It's not a bit the thing to go for here. "
"Go for something for me, then," said Margaret, pullingoff her gloves. Her spirits were rising, and his referenceto Leonard Bast had warmed her curiously.
"Saddle of mutton," said he after profound reflection:"and cider to drink. That's the type of thing. I like thisplace, for a joke, once in a way. It is so thoroughly OldEnglish. Don't you agree?"
"Yes," said Margaret, who didn't. The order was given,the joint rolled up, and the carver, under Mr. Wilcox'sdirection, cut the meat where it was succulent, and piledtheir plates high. Mr. Cahill insisted on sirloin, butadmitted that he had made a mistake later on. He and Eviesoon fell into a conversation of the "No, I didn't; yes, youdid" type--conversation which, though fascinating to thosewho are engaged in it, neither desires nor deserves theattention of others.
"It's a golden rule to tip the carver. Tip everywhere'smy motto."
"Perhaps it does make life more human."
"Then the fellows know one again. Especially in theEast, if you tip, they remember you from year's end toyear's end.
"Have you been in the East?"
"Oh, Greece and the Levant. I used to go out for sportand business to Cyprus; some military society of a sortthere. A few piastres, properly distributed, help to keepone's memory green. But you, of course, think thisshockingly cynical. How's your discussion society gettingon? Any new Utopias lately?"
"No, I'm house-hunting, Mr. Wilcox, as I've already toldyou once. Do you know of any houses?"
"Afraid I don't."
"Well, what's the point of being practical if you can'tfind two distressed females a house? We merely want a smallhouse with large rooms, and plenty of them."
"Evie, I like that! Miss Schlegel expects me to turnhouse agent for her!"
"What's that, Father?
"I want a new home in September, and someone must findit. I can't."
"Percy, do you know of anything?"
"I can't say I do," said Mr. Cahill.
"How like you! You're never any good."
"Never any good. Just listen to her! Never any good.Oh, come!"
"Well, you aren't. Miss Schlegel, is he?"
The torrent of their love, having splashed these dropsat Margaret, swept away on its habitual course. Shesympathized with it now, for a little comfort had restoredher geniality. Speech and silence pleased her equally, andwhile Mr. Wilcox made some preliminary inquiries aboutcheese, her eyes surveyed the restaurant, and admired itswell-calculated tributes to the solidity of our past.Though no more Old English than the works of Kipling, it hadselected its reminiscences so adroitly that her criticismwas lulled, and the guests whom it was nourishing forimperial purposes bore the outer semblance of Parson Adamsor Tom Jones. Scraps of their talk jarred oddly on theear. "Right you are! I'll cable out to Uganda thisevening," came from the table behind. "Their Emperor wantswar; well, let him have it," was the opinion of aclergyman. She smiled at such incongruities. "Next time,"she said to Mr. Wilcox, "you shall come to lunch with me atMr. Eustace Miles's."
"With pleasure."
"No, you'd hate it," she said, pushing her glass towardshim for some more cider. "It's all proteids andbody-buildings, and people come up to you and beg yourpardon, but you have such a beautiful aura."
"A what?"
"Never heard of an aura? Oh, happy, happy man! I scrubat mine for hours. Nor of an astral plane?"
He had heard of astral planes, and censured them.
"Funny experiences seem to come to you two girls. Noone's ever asked me about my--what d'ye call it? PerhapsI've not got one."
"You're bound to have one, but it may be such a terriblecolour that no one dares mention it."
"Tell me, though, Miss Schlegel, do you really believein the supernatural and all that?"
"Too difficult a question."
"Why's that? Gruyere or Stilton?"
"Gruyere, please."
"Better have Stilton."
"Stilton. Because, though I don't believe in auras, andthink Theosophy's only a halfway-house--"
"--Yet there may be something in it all the same," heconcluded, with a frown.
"Not even that. It may be halfway in the wrongdirection. I can't explain. I don't believe in all thesefads, and yet I don't like saying that I don't believe in them."
ll you have?"Socialists, but.
He seemed unsatisfied, and said: "So you wouldn't giveme your word that you DON'T hold with astral bodies and allthe rest of it?"
"I could," said Margaret, surprised that the point wasof any importance to him. "Indeed, I will. When I talkedabout scrubbing my aura, I was only trying to be funny. Butwhy do you want this settled?"
"I don't know."
"Now, Mr. Wilcox, you do know."
"Yes, I am," "No, you're not," burst from the loversopposite. Margaret was silent for a moment, and thenchanged the subject.
"How's your house?"
"Much the same as when you honoured it last week."
"I don't mean Ducie Street. Howards End, of course."
"Why 'of course'?"
"Can't you turn out your tenant and let it to us? We'renearly demented."
"Let me think. I wish I could help you. But I thoughtyou wanted to be in town. One bit of advice: fix yourdistrict, then fix your price, and then don't budge. That'show I got both Ducie Street and Oniton. I said to myself,'I mean to be exactly here,' and I was, and Oniton's a placein a thousand."
"But I do budge. Gentlemen seem to mesmerizehouses--cow them with an eye, and up they come, trembling.Ladies can't. It's the houses that are mesmerizing me.I've no control over the saucy things. Houses are alive. No?"
"I'm out of my depth," he said, and added: "Didn't youtalk rather like that to your office boy?"
"Did I? --I mean I did, more or less. I talk the sameway to every one--or try to."
"Yes, I know. And how much do you suppose that heunderstood of it?"
"That's his lookout. I don't believe in suiting myconversation to my company. One can doubtless hit upon somemedium of exchange that seems to do well enough, but it's nomore like the real thing than money is like food. There'sno nourishment in it. You pass it to the lower classes, andthey pass it back to you, and this you call 'socialintercourse' or 'mutual endeavour,' when it's mutualpriggishness if it's anything. Our friends at Chelsea don'tsee this. They say one ought to be at all costsintelligible, and sacrifice--"
"Lower classes," interrupted Mr. Wilcox, as it werethrusting his hand into her speech. "Well, you do admitthat there are rich and poor. That's something."
Margaret could not reply. Was he incredibly stupid, ordid he understand her better than she understood herself?
"You do admit that, if wealth was divided up equally, ina few years there would be rich and poor again just thesame. The hard-working man would come to the top, thewastrel sink to the bottom."
"Every one admits that."
"Your Socialists don't."
"My Socialists do. Yours mayn't; but I strongly suspectyours of being not Socialists, but ninepins, which you haveconstructed for your own amusement. I can't imagine anyliving creature who would bowl over quite so easily."
He would have resented this had she not been a woman.But women may say anything--it was one of his holiestbeliefs--and he only retorted, with a gay smile: "I don'tcare. You've made two damaging admissions, and I'm heartilywith you in both."
In time they finished lunch, and Margaret, who hadexcused herself from the Hippodrome, took her leave. Eviehad scarcely addressed her, and she suspected that theentertainment had been planned by the father. He and shewere advancing out of their respective families towards amore intimate acquaintance. It had begun long ago. She hadbeen his wife's friend, and, as such, he had given her thatsilver vinaigrette as a memento. It was pretty of him tohave given that vinaigrette, and he had always preferred herto Helen--unlike most men. But the advance had beenastonishing lately. They had done more in a week than intwo years, and were really beginning to know each other.
She did not forget his promise to sample Eustace Miles,and asked him as soon as she could secure Tibby as hischaperon. He came, and partook of body-building dishes withhumility.
Next morning the Schlegels left for Swanage. They hadnot succeeded in finding a new home.