霍华德庄园 英文版 Howards End
爱德华.摩根.福斯特 Edward Morgan Forster
Chapter 37
Margaret bolted the door on the inside. Then she would havekissed her sister, but Helen, in a dignified voice, thatcame strangely from her, said:
"Convenient! You did not tell me that the books wereunpacked. I have found nearly everything that I want.
"I told you nothing that was true."
"It has been a great surprise, certainly. Has AuntJuley been ill?"
"Helen, you wouldn't think I'd invent that?"
"I suppose not," said Helen, turning away, and crying avery little. "But one loses faith in everything after this."
"We thought it was illness, but even then--I haven'tbehaved worthily."
Helen selected another book.
"I ought not to have consulted anyone. What would ourfather have thought of me?"
She did not think of questioning her sister, nor ofrebuking her. Both might be necessary in the future, butshe had first to purge a greater crime than any that Helencould have committed--that want of confidence that is thework of the devil.
"Yes, I am annoyed," replied Helen. "My wishes shouldhave been respected. I would have gone through this meetingif it was necessary, but after Aunt Juley recovered, it wasnot necessary. Planning my life, as I now have to do--"
"Come away from those books," called Margaret. "Helen,do talk to me."
"I was just saying that I have stopped livinghaphazard. One can't go through a great deal of"--shemissed out the noun--"without planning one's actions inadvance. I am going to have a child in June, and in thefirst place conversations, discussions, excitement, are notgood for me. I will go through them if necessary, but onlythen. In the second place I have no right to troublepeople. I cannot fit in with England as I know it. I havedone something that the English never pardon. It would notbe right for them to pardon it. So I must live where I amnot known."
"But why didn't you tell me, dearest?"
"Yes," replied Helen judicially. "I might have, butdecided to wait."
" I believe you would never have told me."
"Oh yes, I should. We have taken a flat in Munich."
Margaret glanced out of window.
"By 'we' I mean myself and Monica. But for her, I amand have been and always wish to be alone."
"I have not heard of Monica."
"You wouldn't have. She's an Italian--by birth atleast. She makes her living by journalism. I met heroriginally on Garda. Monica is much the best person to seeme through."
"You are very fond of her, then."
"She has been extraordinarily sensible with me."
Margaret guessed at Monica's type--"Italiano Inglesiato"they had named it: the crude feminist of the South, whom onerespects but avoids. And Helen had turned to it in herneed!
"You must not think that we shall never meet," saidHelen, with a measured kindness. "I shall always have aroom for you when you can be spared, and the longer you canbe with me the better. But you haven't understood yet, Meg,and of course it is very difficult for you. This is a shockto you. It isn't to me, who have been thinking over ourfutures for many months, and they won't be changed by aslight contretemps, such as this. I cannot live in England."
"Helen, you've not forgiven me for my treachery. YouCOULDN'T talk like this to me if you had."
"Oh, Meg dear, why do we talk at all?" She dropped abook and sighed wearily. Then, recovering herself, shesaid: "Tell me, how is it that all the books are down here?"
"Series of mistakes."
"And a great deal of the furniture has been unpacked."
"All."
"Who lives here, then?"
"No one."
"I suppose you are letting it though--"
"The house is dead," said Margaret with a frown. "Whyworry on about it?"
"But I am interested. You talk as if I had lost all myinterest in life. I am still Helen, I hope. Now thishasn't the feel of a dead house. The hall seems more aliveeven than in the old days, when it held the Wilcoxes' own things."
"Interested, are you? Very well, I must tell you, Isuppose. My husband lent it on condition we--but by amistake all our things were unpacked, and Miss Avery,instead of--" She stopped. "Look here, I can't go on likethis. I warn you I won't. Helen, why should you be somiserably unkind to me, simply because you hate Henry?"
"I don't hate him now," said Helen. "I have stoppedbeing a schoolgirl, and, Meg, once again, I'm not beingunkind. But as for fitting in with your English life--no,put it out of your head at once. Imagine a visit from me atDucie Street! It's unthinkable."
Margaret could not contradict her. It was appalling tosee her quietly moving forward with her plans, not bitter orexcitable, neither asserting innocence nor confessing guilt,merely desiring freedom and the company of those who wouldnot blame her. She had been through--how much? Margaretdid not know. But it was enough to part her from old habitsas well as old friends.
"Tell me about yourself," said Helen, who had chosen herbooks, and was lingering over the furniture.
"There's nothing to tell."
"But your marriage has been happy, Meg?"
"Yes, but I don't feel inclined to talk."
"You feel as I do."
"Not that, but I can't."
"No more can I. It is a nuisance, but no good trying."
Something had come between them. Perhaps it wasSociety, which henceforward would exclude Helen. Perhaps itwas a third life, already potent as a spirit. They couldfind no meeting-place. Both suffered acutely, and were notcomforted by the knowledge that affection survived.
"Look here, Meg, is the coast clear?"
"You mean that you want to go away from me?"
"Certainly, dearest."
"For that is all we can do."
It seemed so. Most ghastly of all was Helen's commonsense: Monica had been extraordinarily good for her.
"I am glad to have seen you and the things." She lookedat the bookcase lovingly, as if she was saying farewell tothe past.
Margaret unbolted the door. She remarked: "The car hasgone, and here's your cab."
before dark. I.
She led the way to it, glancing at the leaves and thesky. The spring had never seemed more beautiful. Thedriver, who was leaning on the gate, called out, "Please,lady, a message," and handed her Henry's visiting-cardthrough the bars.
"How did this come?" she asked.
Crane had returned with it almost at once.
She read the card with annoyance. It was covered withinstructions in domestic French. When she and her sisterhad talked she was to come back for the night to Dolly's."Il faut dormir sur ce sujet." While Helen was to be found"une comfortable chambre a l'hotel." The final sentencedispleased her greatly until she remembered that theCharles' had only one spare room, and so could not invite athird guest.
"Henry would have done what he could," she interpreted.
Helen had not followed her into the garden. The dooronce open, she lost her inclination to fly. She remained inthe hall, going from bookcase to table. She grew more likethe old Helen, irresponsible and charming.
"This is Mr. Wilcox's house?" she inquired.
"Surely you remember Howards End?"
"Remember? I who remember everything! But it looks tobe ours now."
lawn."done what he could," she.
"Miss Avery was extraordinary," said Margaret, her ownspirits lightening a little. Again she was invaded by aslight feeling of disloyalty. But it brought her relief,and she yielded to it. "She loved Mrs. Wilcox, and wouldrather furnish her house with our things than think of itempty. In consequence here are all the library books. "
"Not all the books. She hasn't unpacked the Art Books,in which she may show her sense. And we never used to havethe sword here."
"The sword looks well, though."
"Magnificent."
"Yes, doesn't it?"
"Where's the piano, Meg?"
"I warehoused that in London. Why?"
"Nothing."
"Curious, too, that the carpet fits."
"The carpet's a mistake," announced Helen. "I know thatwe had it in London, but this floor ought to be bare. It isfar too beautiful."
"You still have a mania for under-furnishing. Would youcare to come into the dining-room before you start? There'sno carpet there.
They went in, and each minute their talk became more natural.
"Oh, WHAT a place for mother's chiffonier!" cried Helen.
"Look at the chairs, though."
"Oh, look at them! Wickham Place faced north, didn't it?"
"North-west."
"Anyhow, it is thirty years since any of those chairshave felt the sun. Feel. Their little backs are quite warm."
"But why has Miss Avery made them set to partners? Ishall just--"
"Over here, Meg. Put it so that any one sitting willsee the lawn."
Margaret moved a chair. Helen sat down in it.
"Ye-es. The window's too high."
"Try a drawing-room chair."
"No, I don't like the drawing-room so much. The beamhas been match-boarded. It would have been so beautifulotherwise. "
"Helen, what a memory you have for some things! You'reperfectly right. It's a room that men have spoilt throughtrying to make it nice for women. Men don't know what wewant--"
"And never will."
"I don't agree. In two thousand years they'll know."
"But the chairs show up wonderfully. Look where Tibbyspilt the soup."
"Coffee. It was coffee surely."
Helen shook her head. "Impossible. Tibby was far tooyoung to be given coffee at that time."
"Was Father alive?"
"Yes."
"Then you're right and it must have been soup. I wasthinking of much later--that unsuccessful visit of AuntJuley's, when she didn't realize that Tibby had grown up.It was coffee then, for he threw it down on purpose. Therewas some rhyme, 'Tea, coffee--coffee, tea,' that she said tohim every morning at breakfast. Wait a minute--how did it go?"
would mean.
"I know--no, I don't. What a detestable boy Tibby was!"
"But the rhyme was simply awful. No decent person couldhave put up with it."
"Ah, that greengage tree," cried Helen, as if the gardenwas also part of their childhood. "Why do I connect it withdumbbells? And there come the chickens. The grass wantscutting. I love yellow-hammers--"
Margaret interrupted her. "I have got it," sheannounced.
'Tea, tea, coffee, tea,Or chocolaritee.'
"That every morning for three weeks. No wonder Tibbywas wild."
"Tibby is moderately a dear now," said Helen.
"There! I knew you'd say that in the end. Of coursehe's a dear."
A bell rang.
"Listen! what's that?"
Helen said, "Perhaps the Wilcoxes are beginning the siege."
"What nonsense--listen!"
And the triviality faded from their faces, though itleft something behind--the knowledge that they never couldbe parted because their love was rooted in common things.Explanations and appeals had failed; they had tried for acommon meeting-ground, and had only made each otherunhappy. And all the time their salvation was lying roundthem--the past sanctifying the present; the present, withwild heart-throb, declaring that there would after all be afuture, with laughter and the voices of children. Helen,still smiling, came up to her sister. She said, "It isalways Meg." They looked into each other's eyes. The innerlife had paid.
Solemnly the clapper tolled. No one was in the front.Margaret went to the kitchen, and struggled betweenpacking-cases to the window. Their visitor was only alittle boy with a tin can. And triviality returned.
"Little boy, what do you want?"
"Please, I am the milk."
"Did Miss Avery send you?" said Margaret, rather sharply.
"Yes, please."
"Then take it back and say we require no milk." Whileshe called to Helen, "No, it's not the siege, but possiblyan attempt to provision us against one."
"But I like milk," cried Helen. "Why send it away?"
"Do you? Oh, very well. But we've nothing to put itin, and he wants the can."
"Please, I'm to call in the morning for the can," saidthe boy.
"The house will be locked up then."
"In the morning would I bring eggs, too?"
"Are you the boy whom I saw playing in the stacks last week?"
The child hung his head.
"Well, run away and do it again."
"Nice little boy," whispered Helen. "I say, what's yourname? Mine's Helen."
"Tom."
That was Helen all over. The Wilcoxes, too, would ask achild its name, but they never told their names in return.
"Tom, this one here is Margaret. And at home we'veanother called Tibby."
"Mine are lop-eared," replied Tom, supposing Tibby to bea rabbit.
"You're a very good and rather a clever little boy.Mind you come again.--Isn't he charming?"
"Undoubtedly," said Margaret. "He is probably the son ofMadge, and Madge is dreadful. But this place has wonderful powers."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know."
"Because I probably agree with you."
"It kills what is dreadful and makes what is beautiful live."
"I do agree," said Helen, as she sipped the milk. "Butyou said that the house was dead not half an hour ago."
"Meaning that I was dead. I felt it."
"Yes, the house has a surer life than we, even if it wasempty, and, as it is, I can't get over that for thirty yearsthe sun has never shone full on our furniture. After all,Wickham Place was a grave. Meg, I've a startling idea."
"What is it?"
"Drink some milk to steady you."
Margaret obeyed.
"No, I won't tell you yet," said Helen, "because you maylaugh or be angry. Let's go upstairs first and give therooms an airing."
They opened window after window, till the inside, too,was rustling to the spring. Curtains blew, picture-framestapped cheerfully. Helen uttered cries of excitement as shefound this bed obviously in its right place, that in itswrong one. She was angry with Miss Avery for not havingmoved the wardrobes up. "Then one would see really." Sheadmired the view. She was the Helen who had written thememorable letters four years ago. As they leant out,looking westward, she said: "About my idea. Couldn't youand I camp out in this house for the night?"
"I don't think we could well do that," said Margaret.
"Here are beds, tables, towels--"
"I know; but the house isn't supposed to be slept in,and Henry's suggestion was--"
"I require no suggestions. I shall not alter anythingin my plans. But it would give me so much pleasure to haveone night here with you. It will be something to look backon. Oh, Meg lovey, do let's!"
"But, Helen, my pet," said Margaret, "we can't withoutgetting Henry's leave. Of course, he would give it, but yousaid yourself that you couldn't visit at Ducie Street now,and this is equally intimate."
"Ducie Street is his house. This is ours. Ourfurniture, our sort of people coming to the door. Do let uscamp out, just one night, and Tom shall feed us on eggs andmilk. Why not? It's a moon."
"I know he won't like it," said Helen. "But I am goingto pass out of their lives. What difference will it make inthe long run if they say, 'And she even spent the night atHowards End'?"
"How do you know you'll pass out of their lives? Wehave thought that twice before."
"Because my plans--"
"--which you change in a moment."
"Then because my life is great and theirs are little,"said Helen, taking fire. "I know of things they can't knowof, and so do you. We know that there's poetry. We knowthat there's death. They can only take them on hearsay. Weknow this is our house, because it feels ours. Oh, they maytake the title-deeds and the doorkeys, but for this onenight we are at home."
"It would be lovely to have you once more alone," saidMargaret. "It may be a chance in a thousand."
"Yes, and we could talk." She dropped her voice. "Itwon't be a very glorious story. But under thatwych-elm--honestly, I see little happiness ahead. Cannot Ihave this one night with you?"
"I needn't say how much it would mean to me."
"Then let us."
"It is no good hesitating. Shall I drive down to Hiltonnow and get leave?"
"Oh, we don't want leave."
But Margaret was a loyal wife. In spite of imaginationand poetry--perhaps on account of them--she could sympathizewith the technical attitude that Henry would adopt. Ifpossible, she would be technical, too. A night'slodging--and they demanded no more--need not involve thediscussion of general principles.
don't know what.
"Charles may say no," grumbled Helen.
"We shan't consult him."
"Go if you like; I should have stopped without leave."
It was the touch of selfishness, which was not enough tomar Helen's character, and even added to its beauty. Shewould have stopped without leave, and escaped to Germany thenext morning. Margaret kissed her.
"Expect me back before dark. I am looking forward to itso much. It is like you to have thought of such a beautifulthing."
"Not a thing, only an ending," said Helen rather sadly;and the sense of tragedy closed in on Margaret again as soonas she left the house.
She was afraid of Miss Avery. It is disquieting tofulfil a prophecy, however superficially. She was glad tosee no watching figure as she drove past the farm, but onlylittle Tom, turning somersaults in the straw.