霍华德庄园 英文版 Howards End
爱德华.摩根.福斯特 Edward Morgan Forster
Chapter 22
Margaret greeted her lord with peculiar tenderness on themorrow. Mature as he was, she might yet be able to help himto the building of the rainbow bridge that should connectthe prose in us with the passion. Without it we aremeaningless fragments, half monks, half beasts, unconnectedarches that have never joined into a man. With it love isborn, and alights on the highest curve, glowing against thegrey, sober against the fire. Happy the man who sees fromeither aspect the glory of these outspread wings. The roadsof his soul lie clear, and he and his friends shall find easy-going.
It was hard-going in the roads of Mr. Wilcox's soul.From boyhood he had neglected them. "I am not a fellow whobothers about my own inside." Outwardly he was cheerful,reliable, and brave; but within, all had reverted to chaos,ruled, so far as it was ruled at all, by an incompleteasceticism. Whether as boy, husband, or widower, he hadalways the sneaking belief that bodily passion is bad, abelief that is desirable only when held passionately.Religion had confirmed him. The words that were read aloudon Sunday to him and to other respectable men were the wordsthat had once kindled the souls of St. Catharine and St.Francis into a white-hot hatred of the carnal. He could-notbe as the saints and love the Infinite with a seraphicardour, but he could be a little ashamed of loving a wife."Amabat, amare timebat." And it was here that Margarethoped to help him.
It did not seem so difficult. She need trouble him withno gift of her own. She would only point out the salvationthat was latent in his own soul, and in the soul of everyman. Only connect! That was the whole of her sermon. Onlyconnect the prose and the passion, and both will be exalted,and human love will be seen at its height. Live infragments no longer. Only connect, and the beast and themonk, robbed of the isolation that is life to either, will die.
Nor was the message difficult to give. It need not takethe form of a good "talking." By quiet indications thebridge would be built and span their lives with beauty.
But she failed. For there was one quality in Henry forwhich she was never prepared, however much she remindedherself of it: his obtuseness. He simply did not noticethings, and there was no more to be said. He never noticedthat Helen and Frieda were hostile, or that Tibby was notinterested in currant plantations; he never noticed thelights and shades that exist in the grayest conversation,the finger-posts, the milestones, the collisions, theillimitable views. Once--on another occasion--she scoldedhim about it. He was puzzled, but replied with a laugh: "Mymotto is Concentrate. I've no intention of frittering awaymy strength on that sort of thing." "It isn't fritteringaway the strength," she protested. "It's enlarging thespace in which you may be strong." He answered: "You're aclever little woman, but my motto's Concentrate." And thismorning he concentrated with a vengeance.
They met in the rhododendrons of yesterday. In thedaylight the bushes were inconsiderable and the path wasbright in the morning sun. She was with Helen, who had beenominously quiet since the affair was settled. "Here we allare!" she cried, and took him by one hand, retaining hersister's in the other.
"Here we are. Good-morning, Helen."
Helen replied, "Good-morning, Mr. Wilcox."
"Henry, she has had such a nice letter from the queer,cross boy--Do you remember him? He had a sad moustache, butthe back of his head was young."
"I have had a letter too. Not a nice one--I want totalk it over with you:" for Leonard Bast was nothing to himnow that she had given him her word; the triangle of sex wasbroken for ever.
"Thanks to your hint, he's clearing out of the Porphyrion."
"Not a bad business that Porphyrion," he said absently,as he took his own letter out of his pocket.
"Not a BAD--" she exclaimed, dropping his hand."Surely, on Chelsea Embankment--"
"Here's our hostess. Good-morning, Mrs. Munt. Finerhododendrons. Good morning, Frau Liesecke; we manage togrow flowers in England, don't we?"
"Not a BAD business?"
"No. My letter's about Howards End. Bryce has beenordered abroad, and wants to sublet it. I am far from surethat I shall give him permission. There was no clause inthe agreement. In my opinion, subletting is a mistake. Ifhe can find me another tenant, whom I consider suitable, Imay cancel the agreement. Morning, Schlegel. Don't youthink that's better than subletting?"
Helen had dropped her hand now, and he had steered herpast the whole party to the seaward side of the house.Beneath them was the bourgeois little bay, which must haveyearned all through the centuries for just such awatering-place as Swanage to be built on its margin. Thewaves were colourless, and the Bournemouth steamer gave afurther touch of insipidity, drawn up against the pier andhooting wildly for excursionists.
"When there is a sublet I find that damage--"
"Do excuse me, but about the Porphyrion. I don't feeleasy--might I just bother you, Henry?"
Her manner was so serious that he stopped, and asked hera little sharply what she wanted.
"You said on Chelsea Embankment, surely, that it was abad concern, so we advised this clerk to clear out. Hewrites this morning that he's taken our advice, and now yousay it's not a bad concern. "
"A clerk who clears out of any concern, good or bad,without securing a berth somewhere else first, is a fool,and I've no pity for him."
"He has not done that. He's going into a bank in CamdenTown, he says. The salary's much lower, but he hopes tomanage--a branch of Dempster's Bank. Is that all right?"
"Dempster! My goodness me, yes."
"More right than the Porphyrion?"
"Yes, yes, yes; safe as houses--safer."
"Very many thanks. I'm sorry--if you sublet--?"
"If he sublets, I shan't have the same control. Intheory there should be no more damage done at Howards End;in practice there will be. Things may be done for which nomoney can compensate. For instance, I shouldn't want thatfine wych-elm spoilt. It hangs--Margaret, we must go andsee the old place some time. It's pretty in its way. We'llmotor down and have lunch with Charles."
"I should enjoy that," said Margaret bravely.
"What about next Wednesday?"
"Wednesday? No, I couldn't well do that. Aunt Juleyexpects us to stop here another week at least."
"But you can give that up now."
"Er--no," said Margaret, after a moment's thought.
"Oh, that'll be all right. I'll speak to her."
"This visit is a high solemnity. My aunt counts on ityear after year. She turns the house upside down for us;she invites our special friends--she scarcely knows Frieda,and we can't leave her on her hands. I missed one day, andshe would be so hurt if I didn't stay the full ten."
"But I'll say a word to her. Don't you bother."
"Henry, I won't go. Don't bully me."
"You want to see the house, though?"
"PIGS' TEETH?"
"And you chew the bark for toothache."
"What a rum notion! Of course not!"
"Perhaps I have confused it with some other tree. Thereare still a great number of sacred trees in England, it seems."
But he left her to intercept Mrs. Munt, whose voicecould be heard in the distance: to be intercepted himself byHelen.
"Oh, Mr. Wilcox, about the Porphyrion--" she began, andwent scarlet all over her face.
"It's all right," called Margaret, catching them up."Dempster's Bank's better."
"But I think you told us the Porphyrion was bad, andwould smash before Christmas."
"Did I? It was still outside the Tariff Ring, and hadto take rotten policies. Lately it came in--safe as houses now."
"In other words, Mr. Bast need never have left it."
"No, the fellow needn't."
"--and needn't have started life elsewhere at a greatlyreduced salary."
"He only says 'reduced,'" corrected Margaret, seeingtrouble ahead.
"With a man so poor, every reduction must be great. Iconsider it a deplorable misfortune."
Mr. Wilcox, intent on his business with Mrs. Munt, wasgoing steadily on, but the last remark made him say: "What?What's that? Do you mean that I'm responsible?"
't bully me." the rest."intercepted.
"You're ridiculous, Helen."
"You seem to think--" He looked at his watch. "Let meexplain the point to you. It is like this. You seem toassume, when a business concern is conducting a delicatenegotiation, it ought to keep the public informed stage bystage. The Porphyrion, according to you, was bound to say,'I am trying all I can to get into the Tariff Ring. I amnot sure that I shall succeed, but it is the only thing thatwill save me from insolvency, and I am trying.' My dear Helen--"
"Is that your point? A man who had little money hasless--that's mine."
"I am grieved for your clerk. But it is all in theday's work. It's part of the battle of life."
"A man who had little money," she repeated, "has less,owing to us. Under these circumstances I do not consider'the battle of life' a happy expression."
"Oh come, come!" he protested pleasantly. "You're notto blame. No one's to blame."
"Is no one to blame for anything?"
"I wouldn't say that, but you're taking it far tooseriously. Who is this fellow?"
"We have told you about the fellow twice already," saidHelen. "You have even met the fellow. He is very poor andhis wife is an extravagant imbecile. He is capable ofbetter things. We--we, the upper classes--thought we wouldhelp him from the height of our superior knowledge--andhere's the result!"
He raised his finger. "Now, a word of advice."
"I require no more advice."
"A word of advice. Don't take up that sentimentalattitude over the poor. See that she doesn't, Margaret.The poor are poor, and one's sorry for them, but there itis. As civilization moves forward, the shoe is bound topinch in places, and it's absurd to pretend that anyone isresponsible personally. Neither you, nor I, nor myinformant, nor the man who informed him, nor the directorsof the Porphyrion, are to blame for this clerk's loss ofsalary. It's just the shoe pinching--no one can help it;and it might easily have been worse."
Helen quivered with indignation.
"By all means subscribe to charities--subscribe to themlargely--but don't get carried away by absurd schemes ofSocial Reform. I see a good deal behind the scenes, and youcan take it from me that there is no Social Question--exceptfor a few journalists who try to get a living out of thephrase. There are just rich and poor, as there always havebeen and always will be. Point me out a time when men havebeen equal--"
"I didn't say--"
"Point me out a time when desire for equality has madethem happier. No, no. You can't. There always have beenrich and poor. I'm no fatalist. Heaven forbid! But ourcivilization is moulded by great impersonal forces" (hisvoice grew complacent; it always did when he eliminated thepersonal), "and there always will be rich and poor. Youcan't deny it" (and now it was a respectful voice)--"and youcan't deny that, in spite of all, the tendency ofcivilization has on the whole been upward."
"Owing to God, I suppose," flashed Helen.
He stared at her.
"You grab the dollars. God does the rest."
It was no good instructing the girl if she was going totalk about God in that neurotic modern way. Fraternal tothe last, he left her for the quieter company of Mrs. Munt.He thought, "She rather reminds me of Dolly."
Helen looked out at the sea.
"Don't even discuss political economy with Henry,"advised her sister. "It'll only end in a cry."
"But he must be one of those men who have reconciledscience with religion," said Helen slowly. "I don't likethose men. They are scientific themselves, and talk of thesurvival of the fittest, and cut down the salaries of theirclerks, and stunt the independence of all who may menacetheir comfort, but yet they believe that somehow good--andit is always that sloppy 'somehow'--will be the outcome, andthat in some mystical way the Mr. Basts of the future willbenefit because the Mr. Basts of today are in pain."
"He is such a man in theory. But oh, Helen, in theory!"
stared at her.is such.
"But oh, Meg, what a theory!"
"Why should you put things so bitterly, dearie?"
"Because I'm an old maid," said Helen, biting her lip."I can't think why I go on like this myself." She shook offher sister's hand and went into the house. Margaret,distressed at the day's beginning, followed the Bournemouthsteamer with her eyes. She saw that Helen's nerves wereexasperated by the unlucky Bast business beyond the boundsof politeness. There might at any minute be a realexplosion, which even Henry would notice. Henry must be removed.
"Margaret!" her aunt called. "Magsy! It isn't true,surely, what Mr. Wilcox says, that you want to go away earlynext week?"
"Not 'want,'" was Margaret's prompt reply; "but there isso much to be settled, and I do want to see the Charles'."
"But going away without taking the Weymouth trip, oreven the Lulworth?" said Mrs. Munt, coming nearer. "Withoutgoing once more up Nine Barrows Down?"
"I'm afraid so."
Mr. Wilcox rejoined her with, "Good! I did the breakingof the ice."
A wave of tenderness came over her. She put a hand oneither shoulder, and looked deeply into the black, brighteyes. What was behind their competent stare? She knew, butwas not disquieted.