霍华德庄园 英文版 Howards End
爱德华.摩根.福斯特 Edward Morgan Forster
Chapter 23
Margaret had no intention of letting things slide, and theevening before she left Swanage she gave her sister athorough scolding. She censured her, not for disapprovingof the engagement, but for throwing over her disapproval aveil of mystery. Helen was equally frank. "Yes," she said,with the air of one looking inwards, "there is a mystery. Ican't help it. It's not my fault. It's the way life hasbeen made." Helen in those days was over-interested in thesubconscious self. She exaggerated the Punch and Judyaspect of life, and spoke of mankind as puppets, whom aninvisible showman twitches into love and war. Margaretpointed out that if she dwelt on this she, too, wouldeliminate the personal. Helen was silent for a minute, andthen burst into a queer speech, which cleared the air. "Goon and marry him. I think you're splendid; and if anyonecan pull it off, you will." Margaret denied that there wasanything to "pull off," but she continued: "Yes, there is,and I wasn't up to it with Paul. I can only do what'seasy. I can only entice and be enticed. I can't, and won'tattempt difficult relations. If I marry, it will either bea man who's strong enough to boss me or whom I'm strongenough to boss. So I shan't ever marry, for there aren'tsuch men. And Heaven help any one whom I do marry, for Ishall certainly run away from him before you can say 'JackRobinson.' There! Because I'm uneducated. But you, you'redifferent; you're a heroine."
"Oh, Helen! Am I? Will it be as dreadful for poorHenry as all that?"
"You mean to keep proportion, and that's heroic, it'sGreek, and I don't see why it shouldn't succeed with you.Go on and fight with him and help him. Don't ask ME forhelp, or even for sympathy. Henceforward I'm going my ownway. I mean to be thorough, because thoroughness is easy.I mean to dislike your husband, and to tell him so. I meanto make no concessions to Tibby. If Tibby wants to livewith me, he must lump me. I mean to love YOU more thanever. Yes, I do. You and I have built up something real,because it is purely spiritual. There's no veil of mysteryover us. Unreality and mystery begin as soon as one touchesthe body. The popular view is, as usual, exactly the wrongone. Our bothers are over tangible things--money, husbands,house-hunting. But Heaven will work of itself."
Margaret was grateful for this expression of affection,and answered, "Perhaps." All vistas close in the unseen--noone doubts it--but Helen closed them rather too quickly forher taste. At every turn of speech one was confronted withreality and the absolute. Perhaps Margaret grew too old formetaphysics, perhaps Henry was weaning her from them, butshe felt that there was something a little unbalanced in themind that so readily shreds the visible. The business manwho assumes that this life is everything, and the mystic whoasserts that it is nothing, fail, on this side and on that,to hit the truth. "Yes, I see, dear; it's about halfwaybetween," Aunt Juley had hazarded in earlier years. No;truth, being alive, was not halfway between anything. Itwas only to be found by continuous excursions into eitherrealm, and though proportion is the final secret, to espouseit at the outset is to insure sterility.
Helen, agreeing here, disagreeing there, would havetalked till midnight, but Margaret, with her packing to do,focussed the conversation on Henry. She might abuse Henrybehind his back, but please would she always, be civil tohim in company? "I definitely dislike him, but I'll do whatI can," promised Helen. "Do what you can with my friends inreturn."
This conversation made Margaret easier. Their innerlife was so safe that they could bargain over externals in away that would have been incredible to Aunt Juley, andimpossible for Tibby or Charles. There are moments when theinner life actually "pays," when years of self-scrutiny,conducted for no ulterior motive, are suddenly of practicaluse. Such moments are still rare in the West; that theycome at all promises a fairer future. Margaret, thoughunable to understand her sister, was assured againstestrangement, and returned to London with a more peaceful mind.
The following morning, at eleven o'clock, she presentedherself at the offices of the Imperial and West AfricanRubber Company. She was glad to go there, for Henry hadimplied his business rather than described it, and theformlessness and vagueness that one associates with Africahad hitherto brooded over the main sources of his wealth.Not that a visit to the office cleared things up. There wasjust the ordinary surface scum of ledgers and polishedcounters and brass bars that began and stopped for nopossible reason, of electric-light globes blossoming intriplets, of little rabbit hutches faced with glass or wire,of little rabbits. And even when she penetrated to theinner depths, she found only the ordinary table and Turkeycarpet, and though the map over the fireplace did depict ahelping of West Africa, it was a very ordinary map. Anothermap hung opposite, on which the whole continent appeared,looking like a whale marked out for blubber, and by its sidewas a door, shut, but Henry's voice came through it,dictating a "strong" letter. She might have been at thePorphyrion, or Dempster's Bank, or her own wine-merchant's.Everything seems just alike in these days. But perhaps shewas seeing the Imperial side of the company rather than itsWest African, and Imperialism always had been one of herdifficulties.
"One minute!" called Mr. Wilcox on receiving her name.He touched a bell, the effect of which was to produce Charles.
Charles had written his father an adequate letter--moreadequate than Evie's, through which a girlish indignationthrobbed. And he greeted his future stepmother with propriety.
"I hope that my wife--how do you do? --will give you adecent lunch," was his opening. "I left instructions, butwe live in a rough-and-ready way. She expects you back totea, too, after you have had a look at Howards End. Iwonder what you'll think of the place. I wouldn't touch itwith tongs myself. Do sit down! It's a measly little place."
"I shall enjoy seeing it," said Margaret, feeling, forthe first time, shy.
"You'll see it at its worst, for Bryce decamped abroadlast Monday without even arranging for a charwoman to clearup after him. I never saw such a disgraceful mess. It'sunbelievable. He wasn't in the house a month."
"I've more than a little bone to pick with Bryce,"called Henry from the inner chamber.
"Why did he go so suddenly?"
"Invalid type; couldn't sleep."
"Poor fellow!"
"Poor fiddlesticks!" said Mr. Wilcox, joining them. "Hehad the impudence to put up notice-boards without as much assaying with your leave or by your leave. Charles flung themdown."
"Yes, I flung them down," said Charles modestly.
"I've sent a telegram after him, and a pretty sharp one,too. He, and he in person is responsible for the upkeep ofthat house for the next three years."
"The keys are at the farm; we wouldn't have the keys."
"Quite right."
"Dolly would have taken them, but I was in, fortunately."
"What's Mr. Bryce like?" asked Margaret.
But nobody cared. Mr. Bryce was the tenant, who had noright to sublet; to have defined him further was a waste oftime. On his misdeeds they descanted profusely, until thegirl who had been typing the strong letter came out withit. Mr. Wilcox added his signature. "Now we'll be off,"said he.
A motor-drive, a form of felicity detested by Margaret,awaited her. Charles saw them in, civil to the last, and ina moment the offices of the Imperial and West African RubberCompany faded away. But it was not an impressive drive.Perhaps the weather was to blame, being grey and banked highwith weary clouds. Perhaps Hertfordshire is scarcelyintended for motorists. Did not a gentleman once motor soquickly through Westmoreland that he missed it? and ifWestmoreland can be missed, it will fare ill with a countywhose delicate structure particularly needs the attentiveeye. Hertfordshire is England at its quietest, with littleemphasis of river and hill; it is England meditative. IfDrayton were with us again to write a new edition of hisincomparable poem, he would sing the nymphs of Hertfordshireas indeterminate of feature, with hair obfuscated by theLondon smoke. Their eyes would be sad, and averted fromtheir fate towards the Northern flats, their leader not Isisor Sabrina, but the slowly flowing Lea. No glory of raimentwould be theirs, no urgency of dance; but they would be realnymphs.
The chauffeur could not travel as quickly as he hadhoped, for the Great North Road was full of Easter traffic.But he went quite quick enough for Margaret, a poor-spiritedcreature, who had chickens and children on the brain.
"They're all right," said Mr. Wilcox. "They'lllearn--like the swallows and the telegraph-wires."
"Yes, but, while they're learning--"
"The motor's come to stay," he answered. "One must getabout. There's a pretty church--oh, you aren't sharpenough. Well, look out, if the road worries you--rightoutward at the scenery. "
She looked at the scenery. It heaved and merged likeporridge. Presently it congealed. They had arrived.
Charles's house on the left; on the right the swellingforms of the Six Hills. Their appearance in such aneighbourhood surprised her. They interrupted the stream ofresidences that was thickening up towards Hilton. Beyondthem she saw meadows and a wood, and beneath them shesettled that soldiers of the best kind lay buried. Shehated war and liked soldiers--it was one of her amiableinconsistencies.
But here was Dolly, dressed up to the nines, standing atthe door to greet them, and here were the first drops of therain. They ran in gaily, and after a long wait in thedrawing-room sat down to the rough-and-ready lunch, everydish in which concealed or exuded cream. Mr. Bryce was thechief topic of conversation. Dolly described his visit withthe key, while her father-in-law gave satisfaction bychaffing her and contradicting all she said. It wasevidently the custom to laugh at Dolly. He chaffedMargaret, too, and Margaret, roused from a grave meditation,was pleased, and chaffed him back. Dolly seemed surprised,and eyed her curiously. After lunch the two children camedown. Margaret disliked babies, but hit it off better withthe two-year-old, and sent Dolly into fits of laughter bytalking sense to him. "Kiss them now, and come away," saidMr. Wilcox. She came, but refused to kiss them: it was suchhard luck on the little things, she said, and though Dollyproffered Chorly-worly and Porgly-woggles in turn, she was obdurate.
By this time it was raining steadily. The car cameround with the hood up, and again she lost all sense ofspace. In a few minutes they stopped, and Crane opened thedoor of the car.
"What's happened?" asked Margaret.
"What do you suppose?" said Henry.
to produce Charles."We are."down," said Charles modestly.
A little porch was close up against her face.
"Are we there already?"
"We are."
"Well, I never! In years ago it seemed so far away."
Smiling, but somehow disillusioned, she jumped out, andher impetus carried her to the front-door. She was about toopen it, when Henry said: "That's no good; it's locked.Who's got the key?"
As he had himself forgotten to call for the key at thefarm, no one replied. He also wanted to know who had leftthe front gate open, since a cow had strayed in from theroad, and was spoiling the croquet lawn. Then he saidrather crossly: "Margaret, you wait in the dry. I'll godown for the key. It isn't a hundred yards.
"Mayn't I come too?"
"No; I shall be back before I'm gone."
Then the car turned away, and it was as if a curtain hadrisen. For the second time that day she saw the appearanceof the earth.
There were the greengage-trees that Helen had oncedescribed, there the tennis lawn, there the hedge that wouldbe glorious with dog-roses in June, but the vision now wasof black and palest green. Down by the dell-hole more vividcolours were awakening, and Lent Lilies stood sentinel onits margin, or advanced in battalions over the grass.Tulips were a tray of jewels. She could not see thewych-elm tree, but a branch of the celebrated vine, studdedwith velvet knobs, had covered the porch. She was struck bythe fertility of the soil; she had seldom been in a gardenwhere the flowers looked so well, and even the weeds she wasidly plucking out of the porch were intensely green. Whyhad poor Mr. Bryce fled from all this beauty? For she hadalready decided that the place was beautiful.
"Naughty cow! Go away!" cried Margaret to the cow, butwithout indignation.
Harder came the rain, pouring out of a windless sky, andspattering up from the notice-boards of the house-agents,which lay in a row on the lawn where Charles had hurledthem. She must have interviewed Charles in anotherworld--where one did have interviews. How Helen would revelin such a notion! Charles dead, all people dead, nothingalive but houses and gardens. The obvious dead, theintangible alive, and--no connection at all between them!Margaret smiled. Would that her own fancies were asclear-cut! Would that she could deal as high-handedly withthe world! Smiling and sighing, she laid her hand upon thedoor. It opened. The house was not locked up at all.
She hesitated. Ought she to wait for Henry? He feltstrongly about property, and might prefer to show her overhimself. On the other hand, he had told her to keep in thedry, and the porch was beginning to drip. So she went in,and the drought from inside slammed the door behind.
Desolation greeted her. Dirty finger-prints were on thehall-windows, flue and rubbish on its unwashed boards. Thecivilization of luggage had been here for a month, and thendecamped. Dining-room and drawing room--right andleft--were guessed only by their wall-papers. They werejust rooms where one could shelter from the rain. Acrossthe ceiling of each ran a great beam. The dining-room andhall revealed theirs openly, but the drawing-room's wasmatch-boarded--because the facts of life must be concealedfrom ladies? Drawing-room, dining-room, and hall--how pettythe names sounded! Here were simply three rooms wherechildren could play and friends shelter from the rain. Yes,and they were beautiful.
Then she opened one of the doors opposite--there weretwo--and exchanged wall-papers for whitewash. It was theservants' part, though she scarcely realized that: justrooms again, where friends might shelter. The garden at theback was full of flowering cherries and plums. Farther onwere hints of the meadow and a black cliff of pines. Yes,the meadow was beautiful.
Penned in by the desolate weather, she recaptured thesense of space which the motor had tried to rob from her.She remembered again that ten square miles are not ten timesas wonderful as one square mile, that a thousand squaremiles are not practically the same as heaven. The phantomof bigness, which London encourages, was laid for ever whenshe paced from the hall at Howards End to its kitchen andheard the rains run this way and that where the watershed ofthe roof divided them.
Now Helen came to her mind, scrutinizing half Wessexfrom the ridge of the Purbeck Downs, and saying: "You willhave to lose something." She was not so sure. For instance,she would double her kingdom by opening the door thatconcealed the stairs.
Now she thought of the map of Africa; of empires; of herfather; of the two supreme nations, streams of whose lifewarmed her blood, but, mingling, had cooled her brain. Shepaced back into the hall, and as she did so the house reverberated.
"Is that you, Henry?" she called.
There was no answer, but the house reverberated again.
"Henry, have you got in?"
But it was the heart of the house beating, faintly atfirst, then loudly, martially. It dominated the rain.
It is the starved imagination, not the well-nourished,that is afraid. Margaret flung open the door to thestairs. A noise as of drums seemed to deafen her. A woman,an old woman, was descending, with figure erect, with faceimpassive, with lips that parted and said dryly:
"Oh! Well, I took you for Ruth Wilcox."
Margaret stammered: "I--Mrs. Wilcox--I?"
"In fancy, of course--in fancy. You had her way ofwalking. Good-day." And the old woman passed out into therain.