霍华德庄园 英文版 Howards End
爱德华.摩根.福斯特 Edward Morgan Forster
Chapter 34
It was not unexpected entirely. Aunt Juley's health hadbeen bad all the winter. She had had a long series of coldsand coughs, and had been too busy to get rid of them. Shehad scarcely promised her niece "to really take my tiresomechest in hand," when she caught a chill and developed acutepneumonia. Margaret and Tibby went down to Swanage. Helenwas telegraphed for, and that spring party that after allgathered in that hospitable house had all the pathos of fairmemories. On a perfect day, when the sky seemed blueporcelain, and the waves of the discreet little bay beatgentlest of tattoos upon the sand, Margaret hurried upthrough the rhododendrons, confronted again by thesenselessness of Death. One death may explain itself, butit throws no light upon another: the groping inquiry mustbegin anew. Preachers or scientists may generalize, but weknow that no generality is possible about those whom welove; not one heaven awaits them, not even one oblivion.Aunt Juley, incapable of tragedy, slipped out of life withodd little laughs and apologies for having stopped in it solong. She was very weak; she could not rise to theoccasion, or realize the great mystery which all agree mustawait her; it only seemed to her that she was quite doneup--more done up than ever before; that she saw and heardand felt less every moment; and that, unless somethingchanged, she would soon feel nothing. Her spare strengthshe devoted to plans: could not Margaret take some steamerexpeditions? were mackerel cooked as Tibby liked them? Sheworried herself about Helen's absence, and also that shecould be the cause of Helen's return. The nurses seemed tothink such interests quite natural, and perhaps hers was anaverage approach to the Great Gate. But Margaret saw Deathstripped of any false romance; whatever the idea of Deathmay contain, the process can be trivial and hideous.
"Important--Margaret dear, take the Lulworth when Helen comes."
"Helen won't be able to stop, Aunt Juley. She hastelegraphed that she can only get away just to see you. Shemust go back to Germany as soon as you are well."
"How very odd of Helen! Mr. Wilcox--"
"Yes, dear?"
"Can he spare you?"
Henry wished her to come, and had been very kind. Yetagain Margaret said so.
Mrs. Munt did not die. Quite outside her will, a moredignified power took hold of her and checked her on thedownward slope. She returned, without emotion, as fidgetyas ever. On the fourth day she was out of danger.
"Margaret--important," it went on: "I should like you tohave some companion to take walks with. Do try Miss Conder."
"I have been a little walk with Miss Conder."
"But she is not really interesting. If only you had Helen."
"I have Tibby, Aunt Juley."
"No, but he has to do his Chinese. Some real companionis what you need. Really, Helen is odd."
"Helen is odd, very," agreed Margaret.
Why?" he said. "That's theproblem.
"Not content with going abroad, why does she want to goback there at once?"
"No doubt she will change her mind when she sees us.She has not the least balance."
That was the stock criticism about Helen, but Margaret'svoice trembled as she made it. By now she was deeply painedat her sister's behaviour. It may be unbalanced to fly outof England, but to stop away eight months argues that theheart is awry as well as the head. A sick-bed could recallHelen, but she was deaf to more human calls; after a glimpseat her aunt, she would retire into her nebulous life behindsome poste restante. She scarcely existed; her letters hadbecome dull and infrequent; she had no wants and nocuriosity. And it was all put down to poor Henry'saccount! Henry, long pardoned by his wife, was still tooinfamous to be greeted by his sister-in-law. It was morbid,and, to her alarm, Margaret fancied that she could trace thegrowth of morbidity back in Helen's life for nearly fouryears. The flight from Oniton; the unbalanced patronage ofthe Basts; the explosion of grief up on the Downs--allconnected with Paul, an insignificant boy whose lips hadkissed hers for a fraction of time. Margaret and Mrs.Wilcox had feared that they might kiss again. Foolishly:the real danger was reaction. Reaction against the Wilcoxeshad eaten into her life until she was scarcely sane. Attwenty-five she had an idee fixe. What hope was there forher as an old woman?
The more Margaret thought about it the more alarmed shebecame. For many months she had put the subject away, butit was too big to be slighted now. There was almost a taintof madness. Were all Helen's actions to be governed by atiny mishap, such as may happen to any young man or woman?Can human nature be constructed on lines so insignificant?The blundering little encounter at Howards End was vital.It propagated itself where graver intercourse lay barren; itwas stronger than sisterly intimacy, stronger than reason orbooks. In one of her moods Helen had confessed that shestill "enjoyed" it in a certain sense. Paul had faded, butthe magic of his caress endured. And where there isenjoyment of the past there may also bereaction--propagation at both ends.
Well, it is odd and sad that our minds should be suchseed-beds, and we without power to choose the seed. But manis an odd, sad creature as yet, intent on pilfering theearth, and heedless of the growths within himself. Hecannot be bored about psychology. He leaves it to thespecialist, which is as if he should leave his dinner to beeaten by a steam-engine. He cannot be bothered to digesthis own soul. Margaret and Helen have been more patient,and it is suggested that Margaret has succeeded--so far assuccess is yet possible. She does understand herself, shehas some rudimentary control over her own growth. WhetherHelen has succeeded one cannot say.
The day that Mrs. Munt rallied Helen's letter arrived.She had posted it at Munich, and would be in London herselfon the morrow. It was a disquieting letter, though theopening was affectionate and sane.
Dearest Meg,
Give Helen's love to Aunt Juley. Tell her that Ilove, and have loved, her ever since I can remember. Ishall be in London Thursday.
Forgive me, dearest Meg. This must read like rathera tiresome letter, but all letters are from your loving
Helen
It was a tiresome letter, for it tempted Margaret totell a lie. If she wrote that Aunt Juley was still indanger her sister would come. Unhealthiness is contagious.We cannot be in contact with those who are in a morbid statewithout ourselves deteriorating. To "act for the best"might do Helen good, but would do herself harm, and, at therisk of disaster, she kept her colours flying a littlelonger. She replied that their aunt was much better, andawaited developments.
Tibby approved of her reply. Mellowing rapidly, he wasa pleasanter companion than before. Oxford had done muchfor him. He had lost his peevishness, and could hide hisindifference to people and his interest in food. But he hadnot grown more human. The years between eighteen andtwenty-two, so magical for most, were leading him gentlyfrom boyhood to middle age. He had never knownyoung-manliness, that quality which warms the heart tilldeath, and gives Mr. Wilcox an imperishable charm. He wasfrigid, through no fault of his own, and without cruelty.He thought Helen wrong and Margaret right, but the familytrouble was for him what a scene behind footlights is formost people. He had only one suggestion to make, and thatwas characteristic.
"Why don't you tell Mr. Wilcox?"
across that sort of thing.
"About Helen?"
"Perhaps he has come across that sort of thing."
"He would do all he could, but--"
"Oh, you know best. But he is practical."
It was the student's belief in experts. Margaretdemurred for one or two reasons. Presently Helen's answercame. She sent a telegram requesting the address of thefurniture, as she would now return at once. Margaretreplied, "Certainly not; meet me at the bankers at four."She and Tibby went up to London. Helen was not at thebankers, and they were refused her address. Helen hadpassed into chaos.
Margaret put her arm round her brother. He was all thatshe had left, and never had he seemed more unsubstantial.
"Tibby love, what next?"
He replied: "It is extraordinary."
"Dear, your judgment's often clearer than mine. Haveyou any notion what's at the back?"
"None, unless it's something mental."
"Oh--that!" said Margaret. "Quite impossible." But thesuggestion had been uttered, and in a few minutes she tookit up herself. Nothing else explained. And London agreedwith Tibby. The mask fell off the city, and she saw it forwhat it really is--a caricature of infinity. The familiarbarriers, the streets along which she moved, the housesbetween which she had made her little journeys for so manyyears, became negligible suddenly. Helen seemed one withgrimy trees and the traffic and the slowly-flowing slabs ofmud. She had accomplished a hideous act of renunciation andreturned to the One. Margaret's own faith held firm. Sheknew the human soul will be merged, if it be merged at all,with the stars and the sea. Yet she felt that her sisterhad been going amiss for many years. It was symbolic thecatastrophe should come now, on a London afternoon, whilerain fell slowly.
Henry was the only hope. Henry was definite. He mightknow of some paths in the chaos that were hidden from them,and she determined to take Tibby's advice and lay the wholematter in his hands. They must call at his office. Hecould not well make it worse. She went for a few momentsinto St. Paul's, whose dome stands out of the welter sobravely, as if preaching the gospel of form. But within,St. Paul's is as its surroundings--echoes and whispers,inaudible songs, invisible mosaics, wet footmarks crossingand recrossing the floor. Si monumentum requiris,circumspice: it points us back to London. There was no hopeof Helen here.
Henry was unsatisfactory at first. That she hadexpected. He was overjoyed to see her back from Swanage,and slow to admit the growth of a new trouble. When theytold him of their search, he only chaffed Tibby and theSchlegels generally, and declared that it was "just likeHelen" to lead her relatives a dance.
"That is what we all say," replied Margaret. "But whyshould it be just like Helen? Why should she be allowed tobe so queer, and to grow queerer?"
"Don't ask me. I'm a plain man of business. I live andlet live. My advice to you both is, don't worry. Margaret,you've got black marks again under your eyes. You knowthat's strictly forbidden. First your aunt--then yoursister. No, we aren't going to have it. Are we,Theobald?" He rang the bell. "I'll give you some tea, andthen you go straight to Ducie Street. I can't have my girllooking as old as her husband."
"All the same, you have not quite seen our point," said Tibby.
Mr. Wilcox, who was in good spirits, retorted, "I don'tsuppose I ever shall." He leant back, laughing at thegifted but ridiculous family, while the fire flickered overthe map of Africa. Margaret motioned to her brother to goon. Rather diffident, he obeyed her.
"Margaret's point is this," he said. "Our sister may bemad."
Charles, who was working in the inner room, looked round.
"Come in, Charles," said Margaret kindly. "Could youhelp us at all? We are again in trouble."
"I'm afraid I cannot. What are the facts? We are allmad more or less, you know, in these days."
"The facts are as follows," replied Tibby, who had attimes a pedantic lucidity. "The facts are that she has beenin England for three days and will not see us. She hasforbidden the bankers to give us her address. She refusesto answer questions. Margaret finds her letterscolourless. There are other facts, but these are the moststriking."
"She has never behaved like this before, then?" asked Henry.
"Of course not!" said his wife, with a frown.
"Well, my dear, how am I to know?"
A senseless spasm of annoyance came over her. "You knowquite well that Helen never sins against affection," shesaid. "You must have noticed that much in her, surely."
"Oh yes; she and I have always hit it off together."
"No, Henry--can't you see? --I don't mean that."
She recovered herself, but not before Charles hadobserved her. Stupid and attentive, he was watching the scene.
"I was meaning that when she was eccentric in the past,one could trace it back to the heart in the long run. Shebehaved oddly because she cared for someone, or wanted tohelp them. There's no possible excuse for her now. She isgrieving us deeply, and that is why I am sure that she isnot well. 'Mad' is too terrible a word, but she is notwell. I shall never believe it. I shouldn't discuss mysister with you if I thought she was well--trouble you abouther, I mean."
Henry began to grow serious. Ill-health was to himsomething perfectly definite. Generally well himself, hecould not realize that we sink to it by slow gradations.The sick had no rights; they were outside the pale; onecould lie to them remorselessly. When his first wife wasseized, he had promised to take her down into Hertfordshire,but meanwhile arranged with a nursing-home instead. Helen,too, was ill. And the plan that he sketched out for hercapture, clever and well-meaning as it was, drew its ethicsfrom the wolf-pack.
"You want to get hold of her?" he said. "That's theproblem, isn't it? She has got to see a doctor."
"For all I know she has seen one already."
"Yes, yes; don't interrupt." He rose to his feet andthought intently. The genial, tentative host disappeared,and they saw instead the man who had carved money out ofGreece and Africa, and bought forests from the natives for afew bottles of gin. "I've got it," he said at last. "It'sperfectly easy. Leave it to me. We'll send her down toHowards End."
"How will you do that?"
"After her books. Tell her that she must unpack themherself. Then you can meet her there."
"Of course you won't tell her you're going. When she isthere, looking at the cases, you'll just stroll in. Ifnothing is wrong with her, so much the better. But there'llbe the motor round the corner, and we can run her up to aspecialist in no time."
Margaret shook her head. "It's quite impossible."
"Why?"
"It doesn't seem impossible to me," said Tibby; "it issurely a very tippy plan."
"It is impossible, because--" She looked at her husbandsadly. "It's not the particular language that Helen and Italk if you see my meaning. It would do splendidly forother people, whom I don't blame."
"But Helen doesn't talk," said Tibby. "That's our wholedifficulty. She won't talk your particular language, and onthat account you think she's ill."
"No, Henry; it's sweet of you, but I couldn't."
"I see," he said; "you have scruples."
"I suppose so."
"And sooner than go against them you would have yoursister suffer. You could have got her down to Swanage by aword, but you had scruples. And scruples are all verywell. I am as scrupulous as any man alive, I hope; but whenit is a case like this, when there is a question of madness--"
"I deny it's madness."
"You said just now--"
"It's madness when I say it, but not when you say it."
Henry shrugged his shoulders. "Margaret! Margaret!" hegroaned. "No education can teach a woman logic. Now, mydear, my time is valuable. Do you want me to help you or not?"
"Not in that way."
"Answer my question. Plain question, plain answer. Do--"
Charles surprised them by interrupting. "Pater, we mayas well keep Howards End out of it," he said.
"Why, Charles?"
Charles could give no reason; but Margaret felt as if,over tremendous distance, a salutation had passed between them.
"The whole house is at sixes and sevens," he saidcrossly. "We don't want any more mess."
"Who's 'we'?" asked his father. "My boy, pray, who's 'we'?"
"I am sure I beg your pardon," said Charles. "I appearalways to be intruding."
By now Margaret wished she had never mentioned hertrouble to her husband. Retreat was impossible. He wasdetermined to push the matter to a satisfactory conclusion,and Helen faded as he talked. Her fair, flying hair andeager eyes counted for nothing, for she was ill, withoutrights, and any of her friends might hunt her. Sick atheart, Margaret joined in the chase. She wrote her sister alying letter, at her husband's dictation; she said thefurniture was all at Howards End, but could be seen onMonday next at 3 p.m., when a charwoman would be inattendance. It was a cold letter, and the more plausiblefor that. Helen would think she was offended. And onMonday next she and Henry were to lunch with Dolly, and thenambush themselves in the garden.
After they had gone, Mr. Wilcox said to his son: "Ican't have this sort of behaviour, my boy. Margaret's toosweet-natured to mind, but I mind for her."
Charles made no answer.
"Is anything wrong with you, Charles, this afternoon?"
"No, pater; but you may be taking on a bigger businessthan you reckon."
"How?"
"Don't ask me."