霍华德庄园 英文版 Howards End
爱德华.摩根.福斯特 Edward Morgan Forster
Chapter 33
Up the avenue Margaret strolled slowly, stopping towatch the sky that gleamed through the upper branches of thechestnuts, or to finger the little horseshoes on the lowerbranches. Why has not England a great mythology? Ourfolklore has never advanced beyond daintiness, and thegreater melodies about our country-side have all issuedthrough the pipes of Greece. Deep and true as the nativeimagination can be, it seems to have failed here. It hasstopped with the witches and the fairies. It cannot vivifyone fraction of a summer field, or give names to half adozen stars. England still waits for the supreme moment ofher literature--for the great poet who shall voice her, or,better still, for the thousand little poets whose voicesshall pass into our common talk.
At the church the scenery changed. The chestnut avenueopened into a road, smooth but narrow, which led into theuntouched country. She followed it for over a mile. Itslittle hesitations pleased her. Having no urgent destiny,it strolled downhill or up as it wished, taking no troubleabout the gradients, nor about the view, which neverthelessexpanded. The great estates that throttle the south ofHertfordshire were less obtrusive here, and the appearanceof the land was neither aristocratic nor suburban. Todefine it was difficult, but Margaret knew what it was not:it was not snobbish. Though its contours were slight, therewas a touch of freedom in their sweep to which Surrey willnever attain, and the distant brow of the Chilterns toweredlike a mountain. "Left to itself," was Margaret's opinion,"this county would vote Liberal." The comradeship, notpassionate, that is our highest gift as a nation, waspromised by it, as by the low brick farm where she calledfor the key.
But the inside of the farm was disappointing. A mostfinished young person received her. "Yes, Mrs. Wilcox; no,Mrs. Wilcox; oh yes, Mrs. Wilcox, auntie received yourletter quite duly. Auntie has gone up to your little placeat the present moment. Shall I send the servant to directyou?" Followed by: "Of course, auntie does not generallylook after your place; she only does it to oblige aneighbour as something exceptional. It gives her somethingto do. She spends quite a lot of her time there. Myhusband says to me sometimes, 'Where's auntie?' I say, 'Needyou ask? She's at Howards End.' Yes, Mrs. Wilcox. Mrs.Wilcox, could I prevail upon you to accept a piece of cake?Not if I cut it for you?"
Margaret refused the cake, but unfortunately thisacquired her gentility in the eyes of Miss Avery's niece.
away. This is no moment for your hat.
"I cannot let you go on alone. Now don't. You reallymustn't. I will direct you myself if it comes to that. Imust get my hat. Now"--roguishly--"Mrs. Wilcox, don't youmove while I'm gone."
Stunned, Margaret did not move from the best parlour,over which the touch of art nouveau had fallen. But theother rooms looked in keeping, though they conveyed thepeculiar sadness of a rural interior. Here had lived anelder race, to which we look back with disquietude. Thecountry which we visit at week-ends was really a home to it,and the graver sides of life, the deaths, the partings, theyearnings for love, have their deepest expression in theheart of the fields. All was not sadness. The sun wasshining without. The thrush sang his two syllables on thebudding guelder-rose. Some children were playinguproariously in heaps of golden straw. It was the presenceof sadness at all that surprised Margaret, and ended bygiving her a feeling of completeness. In these Englishfarms, if anywhere, one might see life steadily and see itwhole, group in one vision its transitoriness and itseternal youth, connect--connect without bitterness until allmen are brothers. But her thoughts were interrupted by thereturn of Miss Avery's niece, and were so tranquillizingthat she suffered the interruption gladly.
It was quicker to go out by the back door, and, afterdue explanations, they went out by it. The niece was nowmortified by unnumerable chickens, who rushed up to her feetfor food, and by a shameless and maternal sow. She did notknow what animals were coming to. But her gentilitywithered at the touch of the sweet air. The wind wasrising, scattering the straw and ruffling the tails of theducks as they floated in families over Evie's pendant. Oneof those delicious gales of spring, in which leaves stiff inbud seem to rustle, swept over the land and then fellsilent. "Georgia," sang the thrush. "Cuckoo," camefurtively from the cliff of pine-trees. "Georgia, prettyGeorgia," and the other birds joined in with nonsense. Thehedge was a half-painted picture which would be finished ina few days. Celandines grew on its banks, lords and ladiesand primroses in the defended hollows; the wild rose-bushes,still bearing their withered hips, showed also the promiseof blossom. Spring had come, clad in no classical garb, yetfairer than all springs; fairer even than she who walksthrough the myrtles of Tuscany with the graces before herand the zephyr behind.
The two women walked up the lane full of outwardcivility. But Margaret was thinking how difficult it was tobe earnest about furniture on such a day, and the niece wasthinking about hats. Thus engaged, they reached HowardsEnd. Petulant cries of "Auntie!" severed the air. Therewas no reply, and the front door was locked.
"Are you sure that Miss Avery is up here?" asked Margaret.
"Oh yes, Mrs. Wilcox, quite sure. She is here daily."
Margaret tried to look in through the dining-roomwindow, but the curtain inside was drawn tightly. So withthe drawing-room and the hall. The appearance of thesecurtains was familiar, yet she did not remember them beingthere on her other visit: her impression was that Mr. Brycehad taken everything away. They tried the back. Here againthey received no answer, and could see nothing; thekitchen-window was fitted with a blind, while the pantry andscullery had pieces of wood propped up against them, whichlooked ominously like the lids of packing-cases. Margaretthought of her books, and she lifted up her voice also. Atthe first cry she succeeded.
"Well, well!" replied someone inside the house. "If itisn't Mrs. Wilcox come at last!"
"Have you got the key, auntie?"
"Madge, go away," said Miss Avery, still invisible.
"Auntie, it's Mrs. Wilcox--"
Margaret supported her. "Your niece and I have come together--"
"Madge, go away. This is no moment for your hat."
The poor woman went red. "Auntie gets more eccentriclately," she said nervously.
"Miss Avery!" called Margaret. "I have come about thefurniture. Could you kindly let me in?"
"Yes, Mrs. Wilcox," said the voice, "of course." Butafter that came silence. They called again withoutresponse. They walked round the house disconsolately.
"I hope Miss Avery is not ill," hazarded Margaret.
"Well, if you'll excuse me," said Madge, "perhaps Iought to be leaving you now. The servants need seeing to atthe farm. Auntie is so odd at times." Gathering up herelegancies, she retired defeated, and, as if her departurehad loosed a spring, the front door opened at once.
Miss Avery said, "Well, come right in, Mrs. Wilcox!"quite pleasantly and calmly.
"Thank you so much," began Margaret, but broke off atthe sight of an umbrella-stand. It was her own.
"Come right into the hall first," said Miss Avery. Shedrew the curtain, and Margaret uttered a cry of despair.For an appalling thing had happened. The hall was fitted upwith the contents of the library from Wickham Place. Thecarpet had been laid, the big work-table drawn up near thewindow; the bookcases filled the wall opposite thefireplace, and her father's sword--this is what bewilderedher particularly--had been drawn from its scabbard and hungnaked amongst the sober volumes. Miss Avery must haveworked for days.
"I'm afraid this isn't what we meant," she began. "Mr.Wilcox and I never intended the cases to be touched. Forinstance, these books are my brother's. We are storing themfor him and for my sister, who is abroad. When you kindlyundertook to look after things, we never expected you to doso much."
"The house has been empty long enough," said the old woman.
Margaret refused to argue. "I dare say we didn'texplain," she said civilly. "It has been a mistake, andvery likely our mistake."
"Mrs. Wilcox, it has been mistake upon mistake for fiftyyears. The house is Mrs. Wilcox's, and she would not desireit to stand empty any longer."
To help the poor decaying brain, Margaret said:
"Yes, Mrs. Wilcox's house, the mother of Mr. Charles."
"Mistake upon mistake," said Miss Avery. "Mistake upon mistake."
"Well, I don't know," said Margaret, sitting down in oneof her own chairs. "I really don't know what's to bedone." She could not help laughing.
.' Yes, Mrs. Wilcox. Mrs.Wilcox, could I prevail upon.
The other said: "Yes, it should be a merry house enough."
"I don't know--I dare say. Well, thank you very much,Miss Avery. Yes, that's all right. Delightful."
"There is still the parlour." She went through the dooropposite and drew a curtain. Light flooded the drawing-roomand the drawing-room furniture from Wickham Place. "And thedining-room." More curtains were drawn, more windows wereflung open to the spring. "Then through here--" Miss Averycontinued passing and repassing through the hall. Her voicewas lost, but Margaret heard her pulling up the kitchenblind. "I've not finished here yet," she announced,returning. "There's still a deal to do. The farm lads willcarry your great wardrobes upstairs, for there is no need togo into expense at Hilton."
"It is all a mistake," repeated Margaret, feeling thatshe must put her foot down. "A misunderstanding. Mr.Wilcox and I are not going to live at Howards End."
"Oh, indeed. On account of his hay fever?"
"We have settled to build a new home for ourselves inSussex, and part of this furniture--my part--will go downthere presently." She looked at Miss Avery intently, tryingto understand the kink in her brain. Here was no maunderingold woman. Her wrinkles were shrewd and humorous. Shelooked capable of scathing wit and also of high butunostentatious nobility.
"You think that you won't come back to live here, Mrs.Wilcox, but you will."
"That remains to be seen," said Margaret, smiling. "Wehave no intention of doing so for the present. We happen toneed a much larger house. Circumstances oblige us to givebig parties. Of course, some day--one never knows, does one?"
work-table drawn up near thewindow; the bookcases filled the wall opposite.
Miss Avery retorted: "Some day! Tcha! tcha! Don'ttalk about some day. You are living here now."
"Am I?"
"You are living here, and have been for the last tenminutes, if you ask me."
It was a senseless remark, but with a queer feeling ofdisloyalty Margaret rose from her chair. She felt thatHenry had been obscurely censured. They went into thedining-room, where the sunlight poured in upon her mother'schiffonier, and upstairs, where many an old god peeped froma new niche. The furniture fitted extraordinarily well. Inthe central room--over the hall, the room that Helen hadslept in four years ago--Miss Avery had placed Tibby's oldbassinette.
Margaret turned away without speaking.
At last everything was seen. The kitchen and lobby werestill stacked with furniture and straw, but, as far as shecould make out, nothing had been broken or scratched. Apathetic display of ingenuity! Then they took a friendlystroll in the garden. It had gone wild since her lastvisit. The gravel sweep was weedy, and grass had sprung upat the very jaws of the garage. And Evie's rockery was onlybumps. Perhaps Evie was responsible for Miss Avery'soddness. But Margaret suspected that the cause lay deeper,and that the girl's silly letter had but loosed theirritation of years.
"It's a beautiful meadow," she remarked. It was one ofthose open-air drawing-rooms that have been formed, hundredsof years ago, out of the smaller fields. So the boundaryhedge zigzagged down the hill at right angles, and at thebottom there was a little green annex--a sort ofpowder-closet for the cows.
"Yes, the maidy's well enough," said Miss Avery, "forthose that is, who don't suffer from sneezing." And shecackled maliciously. "I've seen Charlie Wilcox go out to mylads in hay time--oh, they ought to do this--they mustn't dothat--he'd learn them to be lads. And just then thetickling took him. He has it from his father, with otherthings. There's not one Wilcox that can stand up against afield in June--I laughed fit to burst while he was courting Ruth."
"My brother gets hay fever too," said Margaret.
"This house lies too much on the land for them.Naturally, they were glad enough to slip in at first. ButWilcoxes are better than nothing, as I see you've found."
Margaret laughed.
"They keep a place going, don't they? Yes, it is just that."
"They keep England going, it is my opinion."
But Miss Avery upset her by replying: "Ay, they breedlike rabbits. Well, well, it's a funny world. But He whomade it knows what He wants in it, I suppose. If Mrs.Charlie is expecting her fourth, it isn't for us to repine."
"They breed and they also work," said Margaret,conscious of some invitation to disloyalty, which was echoedby the very breeze and by the songs of the birds. "Itcertainly is a funny world, but so long as men like myhusband and his sons govern it, I think it'll never be a badone--never really bad."
"No, better'n nothing," said Miss Avery, and turned tothe wych-elm.
On their way back to the farm she spoke of her oldfriend much more clearly than before. In the house Margarethad wondered whether she quite distinguished the first wifefrom the second. Now she said: "I never saw much of Ruthafter her grandmother died, but we stayed civil. It was avery civil family. Old Mrs. Howard never spoke againstanybody, nor let anyone be turned away without food. Thenit was never 'Trespassers will be prosecuted' in their land,but would people please not come in. Mrs. Howard was nevercreated to run a farm."
"Had they no men to help them?" Margaret asked.
Miss Avery replied: "Things went on until there were no men."
"Until Mr. Wilcox came along," corrected Margaret,anxious that her husband should receive his dues.
"I suppose so; but Ruth should have married a--nodisrespect to you to say this, for I take it you wereintended to get Wilcox any way, whether she got him first orno."
"Whom should she have married?"
"A soldier!" exclaimed the old woman. "Some real soldier."
Margaret was silent. It was a criticism of Henry'scharacter far more trenchant than any of her own. She feltdissatisfied.
"But that's all over," she went on. "A better time iscoming now, though you've kept me long enough waiting. In acouple of weeks I'll see your lights shining through thehedge of an evening. Have you ordered in coals?"
"We are not coming," said Margaret firmly. Sherespected Miss Avery too much to humour her. "No. Notcoming. Never coming. It has all been a mistake. Thefurniture must be repacked at once, and I am very sorry butI am making other arrangements, and must ask you to give methe keys."
"Certainly, Mrs. Wilcox," said Miss Avery, and resignedher duties with a smile.
Relieved at this conclusion, and having sent hercompliments to Madge, Margaret walked back to the station.She had intended to go to the furniture warehouse and givedirections for removal, but the muddle had turned out moreextensive than she expected, so she decided to consultHenry. It was as well that she did this. He was stronglyagainst employing the local man whom he had previouslyrecommended, and advised her to store in London after all.
But before this could be done an unexpected trouble fellupon her.