霍华德庄园 英文版 Howards End
爱德华.摩根.福斯特 Edward Morgan Forster
Chapter 44
Tom's father was cutting the big meadow. He passed againand again amid whirring blades and sweet odours of grass,encompassing with narrowing circles the sacred centre of thefield. Tom was negotiating with Helen.
"I haven't any idea," she replied. "Do you suppose babymay, Meg?"
Margaret put down her work and regarded them absently."What was that?" she asked.
"Tom wants to know whether baby is old enough to playwith hay?"
"I haven't the least notion," answered Margaret, andtook up her work again.
"Now, Tom, baby is not to stand; he is not to lie on hisface; he is not to lie so that his head wags; he is not tobe teased or tickled; and he is not to be cut into two ormore pieces by the cutter. Will you be as careful as all that?"
Tom held out his arms.
"That child is a wonderful nursemaid," remarked Margaret.
"He is fond of baby. That's why he does it!" wasHelen's answer. They're going to be lifelong friends."
"Starting at the ages of six and one?"
"Of course. It will be a great thing for Tom."
"It may be a greater thing for baby."
Fourteen months had passed, but Margaret still stoppedat Howards End. No better plan had occurred to her. Themeadow was being recut, the great red poppies were reopeningin the garden. July would follow with the little redpoppies among the wheat, August with the cutting of thewheat. These little events would become part of her yearafter year. Every summer she would fear lest the wellshould give out, every winter lest the pipes should freeze;every westerly gale might blow the wych-elm down and bringthe end of all things, and so she could not read or talkduring a westerly gale. The air was tranquil now. She andher sister were sitting on the remains of Evie's mockery,where the lawn merged into the field.
to conquer anyone,had charged straight!
"What a time they all are!" said Helen. "What can theybe doing inside?" Margaret, who was growing less talkative,made no answer. The noise of the cutter cameintermittently, like the breaking of waves. Close by them aman was preparing to scythe out one of the dell-holes.
"I wish Henry was out to enjoy this," said Helen. "Thislovely weather and to be shut up in the house! It's very hard."
"It has to be," said Margaret. "The hay-fever is hischief objection against living here, but he thinks it worth while."
"Meg, is or isn't he ill? I can't make out."
"Not ill. Eternally tired. He has worked very hard allhis life, and noticed nothing. Those are the people whocollapse when they do notice a thing."
"I suppose he worries dreadfully about his part of the tangle."
"Dreadfully. That is why I wish Dolly had not come,too, today. Still, he wanted them all to come. It has to be."
"Why does he want them?"
Margaret did not answer.
"Meg, may I tell you something? I like Henry."
"You'd be odd if you didn't," said Margaret.
"I usen't to."
"Usen't!" She lowered her eyes a moment to the blackabyss of the past. They had crossed it, always exceptingLeonard and Charles. They were building up a new life,obscure, yet gilded with tranquillity. Leonard was dead;Charles had two years more in prison. One usen't always tosee clearly before that time. It was different now.
"I like Henry because he does worry."
"And he likes you because you don't."
Margaret never stopped working.
"I mean a woman's love for a man. I supposed I shouldhang my life on to that once, and was driven up and down andabout as if something was worrying through me. Buteverything is peaceful now; I seem cured. That HerrForstmeister, whom Frieda keeps writing about, must be anoble character, but he doesn't see that I shall never marryhim or anyone. It isn't shame or mistrust of myself. Isimply couldn't. I'm ended. I used to be so dreamy about aman's love as a girl, and think that for good or evil lovemust be the great thing. But it hasn't been; it has beenitself a dream. Do you agree?"
"I do not agree. I do not."
"I ought to remember Leonard as my lover," said Helen,stepping down into the field. "I tempted him, and killedhim and it is surely the least I can do. I would like tothrow out all my heart to Leonard on such an afternoon asthis. But I cannot. It is no good pretending. I amforgetting him." Her eyes filled with tears. "How nothingseems to match--how, my darling, my precious--" She brokeoff. "Tommy!"
"Yes, please?"
"Baby's not to try and stand.--There's something wantingin me. I see you loving Henry, and understanding him betterdaily, and I know that death wouldn't part you in theleast. But I--Is it some awful appalling, criminal defect?"
Margaret silenced her. She said: "It is only thatpeople are far more different than is pretended. All overthe world men and women are worrying because they cannotdevelop as they are supposed to develop. Here and therethey have the matter out, and it comforts them. Don't fretyourself, Helen. Develop what you have; love your child. Ido not love children. I am thankful to have none. I canplay with their beauty and charm, but that is all--nothingreal, not one scrap of what there ought to be. Andothers--others go farther still, and move outside humanityaltogether. A place, as well as a person, may catch theglow. Don't you see that all this leads to comfort in theend? It is part of the battle against sameness.Differences--eternal differences, planted by God in a singlefamily, so that there may always be colour; sorrow perhaps,but colour in the daily grey. Then I can't have youworrying about Leonard. Don't drag in the personal when itwill not come. Forget him."
Mrs. Wilcox gave a.
"Perhaps an adventure."
"Is that enough?"
"Not for us. But for him."
Helen took up a bunch of grass. She looked at thesorrel, and the red and white and yellow clover, and thequaker grass, and the daisies, and the bents that composedit. She raised it to her face.
"Is it sweetening yet?" asked Margaret.
"No, only withered."
"It will sweeten tomorrow."
Helen smiled. "Oh, Meg, you are a person," she said."Think of the racket and torture this time last year. Butnow I couldn't stop unhappy if I tried. What a change--andall through you!"
"Oh, we merely settled down. You and Henry learnt tounderstand one another and to forgive, all through theautumn and the winter."
"Yes, but who settled us down?"
Margaret did not reply. The scything had begun, and shetook off her pince-nez to watch it.
"You!" cried Helen. "You did it all, sweetest, thoughyou're too stupid to see. Living here was your plan--Iwanted you; he wanted you; and every one said it wasimpossible, but you knew. Just think of our lives withoutyou, Meg--I and baby with Monica, revolting by theory, hehanded about from Dolly to Evie. But you picked up thepieces, and made us a home. Can't it strike you--even for amoment--that your life has been heroic? Can't you rememberthe two months after Charles's arrest, when you began toact, and did all?"
"You were both ill at the time," said Margaret. "I didthe obvious things. I had two invalids to nurse. Here wasa house, ready furnished and empty. It was obvious. Ididn't know myself it would turn into a permanent home. Nodoubt I have done a little towards straightening the tangle,but things that I can't phrase have helped me."
"I hope it will be permanent," said Helen, drifting awayto other thoughts.
"I think so. There are moments when I feel Howards Endpeculiarly our own."
"All the same, London's creeping."
She pointed over the meadow--over eight or nine meadows,but at the end of them was a red rust.
"You see that in Surrey and even Hampshire now," shecontinued. "I can see it from the Purbeck Downs. AndLondon is only part of something else, I'm afraid. Life'sgoing to be melted down, all over the world."
And you, Dolly?"held out his?
Margaret knew that her sister spoke truly. Howards End,Oniton, the Purbeck Downs, the Oderberge, were allsurvivals, and the melting-pot was being prepared for them.Logically, they had no right to be alive. One's hope was inthe weakness of logic. Were they possibly the earth beatingtime?
"Because a thing is going strong now, it need not gostrong for ever," she said. "This craze for motion has onlyset in during the last hundred years. It may be followed bya civilization that won't be a movement, because it willrest on the earth. All the signs are against it now, but Ican't help hoping, and very early in the morning in thegarden I feel that our house is the future as well as the past."
They turned and looked at it. Their own memoriescoloured it now, for Helen's child had been born in thecentral room of the nine. Then Margaret said, "Oh, takecare--!" for something moved behind the window of the hall,and the door opened.
"The conclave's breaking at last. I'll go."
It was Paul.
haven't the least notion," answered Margaret.
Helen retreated with the children far into the field.Friendly voices greeted her. Margaret rose, to encounter aman with a heavy black moustache.
"My father has asked for you," he said with hostility.She took her work and followed him.
"We have been talking business," he continued, "but Idare say you knew all about it beforehand."
you didn't," said Margaret!
"Yes, I did."
Clumsy of movement--for he had spent all his life in thesaddle--Paul drove his foot against the paint of the frontdoor. Mrs. Wilcox gave a little cry of annoyance. She didnot like anything scratched; she stopped in the hall to takeDolly's boa and gloves out of a vase.
Her husband was lying in a great leather chair in thedining-room, and by his side, holding his hand ratherostentatiously, was Evie. Dolly, dressed in purple, satnear the window. The room was a little dark and airless;they were obliged to keep it like this until the carting ofthe hay. Margaret joined the family without speaking; thefive of them had met already at tea, and she knew quite wellwhat was going to be said. Averse to wasting her time, shewent on sewing. The clock struck six.
"Is this going to suit every one?" said Henry in a wearyvoice. He used the old phrases, but their effect wasunexpected and shadowy. "Because I don't want you allcoming here later on and complaining that I have been unfair."
"It's apparently got to suit us," said Paul.
not."He is fond of baby. That?
"I beg your pardon, my boy. You have only to speak, andI will leave the house to you instead."
Paul frowned ill-temperedly, and began scratching at hisarm. "As I've given up the outdoor life that suited me, andI have come home to look after the business, it's no good mysettling down here," he said at last. "It's not really thecountry, and it's not the town."
"Very well. Does my arrangement suit you, Evie?"
"Of course, Father."
"And you, Dolly?"
Dolly raised her faded little face, which sorrow couldwither but not steady. "Perfectly splendidly," she said."I thought Charles wanted it for the boys, but last time Isaw him he said no, because we cannot possibly live in thispart of England again. Charles says we ought to change ourname, but I cannot think what to, for Wilcox just suitsCharles and me, and I can't think of any other name."
There was a general silence. Dolly looked nervouslyround, fearing that she had been inappropriate. Paulcontinued to scratch his arm.
"Then I leave Howards End to my wife absolutely," saidHenry. "And let every one understand that; and after I amdead let there be no jealousy and no surprise."
Margaret did not answer. There was something uncanny inher triumph. She, who had never expected to conquer anyone,had charged straight through these Wilcoxes and broken uptheir lives.
"In consequence, I leave my wife no money," said Henry."That is her own wish. All that she would have had will bedivided among you. I am also giving you a great deal in mylifetime, so that you may be independent of me. That is herwish, too. She also is giving away a great deal of money.She intends to diminish her income by half during the nextten years; she intends when she dies to leave the house toher--to her nephew, down in the field. Is all that clear?Does every one understand?"
Paul rose to his feet. He was accustomed to natives,and a very little shook him out of the Englishman. Feelingmanly and cynical, he said: "Down in the field? Oh, come!I think we might have had the whole establishment,piccaninnies included."
Mrs. Cahill whispered: "Don't, Paul. You promised you'dtake care." Feeling a woman of the world, she rose andprepared to take her leave.
Her father kissed her. "Good-bye, old girl," he said;"don't you worry about me. "
Then it was Dolly's turn. Anxious to contribute, shelaughed nervously, and said: "Good-bye, Mr. Wilcox. It doesseem curious that Mrs. Wilcox should have left MargaretHowards End, and yet she get it, after all."
From Evie came a sharply-drawn breath. "Good-bye," shesaid to Margaret, and kissed her.
And again and again fell the word, like the ebb of adying sea.
"Good-bye."
"Good-bye, Dolly."
"So long, Father."
"Good-bye, my boy; always take care of yourself."
"Good-bye, Mrs. Wilcox."
"Good-bye.
Margaret saw their visitors to the gate. Then shereturned to her husband and laid her head in his hands. Hewas pitiably tired. But Dolly's remark had interested her.At last she said: "Could you tell me, Henry, what was thatabout Mrs. Wilcox having left me Howards End?"
Tranquilly he replied: "Yes, she did. But that is avery old story. When she was ill and you were so kind toher she wanted to make you some return, and, not beingherself at the time, scribbled 'Howards End' on a piece ofpaper. I went into it thoroughly, and, as it was clearlyfanciful, I set it aside, little knowing what my Margaretwould be to me in the future."
Margaret was silent. Something shook her life in itsinmost recesses, and she shivered.
"I didn't do wrong, did I?" he asked, bending down.
"You didn't, darling. Nothing has been done wrong."
From the garden came laughter. "Here they are at last!"exclaimed Henry, disengaging himself with a smile. Helenrushed into the gloom, holding Tom by one hand and carryingher baby on the other. There were shouts of infectious joy.
"The field's cut!" Helen cried excitedly--"the bigmeadow! We've seen to the very end, and it'll be such acrop of hay as never!"
Weybridge, 1908-1910.