霍华德庄园 英文版 Howards End
爱德华.摩根.福斯特 Edward Morgan Forster
Chapter 5 Page 1
It will be generally admitted that Beethoven's FifthSymphony is the most sublime noise that has ever penetratedinto the ear of man. All sorts and conditions are satisfiedby it. Whether you are like Mrs. Munt, and tapsurreptitiously when the tunes come--of course, not so as todisturb the others--; or like Helen, who can see heroes andshipwrecks in the music's flood; or like Margaret, who canonly see the music; or like Tibby, who is profoundly versedin counterpoint, and holds the full score open on his knee;or like their cousin, Fraulein Mosebach, who remembers allthe time that Beethoven is "echt Deutsch"; or like FrauleinMosebach's young man, who can remember nothing but FrauleinMosebach: in any case, the passion of your life becomes morevivid, and you are bound to admit that such a noise is cheapat two shillings. It is cheap, even if you hear it in theQueen's Hall, dreariest music-room in London, though not asdreary as the Free Trade Hall, Manchester; and even if yousit on the extreme left of that hall, so that the brassbumps at you before the rest of the orchestra arrives, it isstill cheap.
"Who is Margaret talking to?" said Mrs. Munt, at theconclusion of the first movement. She was again in Londonon a visit to Wickham Place.
Helen looked down the long line of their party, and saidthat she did not know.
"Would it be some young man or other whom she takes aninterest in?"
"I expect so," Helen replied. Music enwrapped her, andshe could not enter into the distinction that divides youngmen whom one takes an interest in from young men whom one knows.
"You girls are so wonderful in always having--Oh dear!one mustn't talk."
For the Andante had begun--very beautiful, but bearing afamily likeness to all the other beautiful Andantes thatBeethoven had written, and, to Helen's mind, ratherdisconnecting the heroes and shipwrecks of the firstmovement from the heroes and goblins of the third. Sheheard the tune through once, and then her attentionwandered, and she gazed at the audience, or the organ, orthe architecture. Much did she censure the attenuatedCupids who encircle the ceiling of the Queen's Hall,inclining each to each with vapid gesture, and clad insallow pantaloons, on which the October sunlight struck."How awful to marry a man like those Cupids!" thoughtHelen. Here Beethoven started decorating his tune, so sheheard him through once more, and then she smiled at hercousin Frieda. But Frieda, listening to Classical Music,could not respond. Herr Liesecke, too, looked as if wildhorses could not make him inattentive; there were linesacross his forehead, his lips were parted, his pince-nez atright angles to his nose, and he had laid a thick, whitehand on either knee. And next to her was Aunt Juley, soBritish, and wanting to tap. How interesting that row ofpeople was! What diverse influences had gone to themaking! Here Beethoven, after humming and hawing with greatsweetness, said "Heigho," and the Andante came to an end.Applause, and a round of "wunderschoning" and"prachtvolleying" from the German contingent. Margaretstarted talking to her new young man; Helen said to heraunt: "Now comes the wonderful movement: first of all thegoblins, and then a trio of elephants dancing;" and Tibbyimplored the company generally to look out for thetransitional passage on the drum.
"On the what, dear?"
"On the DRUM, Aunt Juley."
"No; look out for the part where you think you have donewith the goblins and they come back," breathed Helen, as themusic started with a goblin walking quietly over theuniverse, from end to end. Others followed him. They werenot aggressive creatures; it was that that made them soterrible to Helen. They merely observed in passing thatthere was no such thing as splendour or heroism in theworld. After the interlude of elephants dancing, theyreturned and made the observation for the second time.Helen could not contradict them, for, once at all events,she had felt the same, and had seen the reliable walls ofyouth collapse. Panic and emptiness! Panic and emptiness!The goblins were right.
Her brother raised his finger: it was the transitionalpassage on the drum.
For, as if things were going too far, Beethoven tookhold of the goblins and made them do what he wanted. Heappeared in person. He gave them a little push, and theybegan to walk in major key instead of in a minor, andthen--he blew with his mouth and they were scattered! Gustsof splendour, gods and demigods contending with vast swords,colour and fragrance broadcast on the field of battle,magnificent victory, magnificent death! Oh, it all burstbefore the girl, and she even stretched out her gloved handsas if it was tangible. Any fate was titanic; any contestdesirable; conqueror and conquered would alike be applaudedby the angels of the utmost stars.
And the goblins--they had not really been there at all?They were only the phantoms of cowardice and unbelief? Onehealthy human impulse would dispel them? Men like theWilcoxes, or President Roosevelt, would say yes. Beethovenknew better. The goblins really had been there. They mightreturn--and they did. It was as if the splendour of lifemight boil over--and waste to steam and froth. In itsdissolution one heard the terrible, ominous note, and agoblin, with increased malignity, walked quietly over theuniverse from end to end. Panic and emptiness! Panic andemptiness! Even the flaming ramparts of the world might fall.
Beethoven chose to make all right in the end. He builtthe ramparts up. He blew with his mouth for the second time,and again the goblins were scattered. He brought back thegusts of splendour, the heroism, the youth, the magnificenceof life and of death, and, amid vast roarings of asuperhuman joy, he led his Fifth Symphony to itsconclusion. But the goblins were there. They couldreturn. He had said so bravely, and that is why one cantrust Beethoven when he says other things.
Helen pushed her way out during the applause. Shedesired to be alone. The music summed up to her all thathad happened or could happen in her career. She read it asa tangible statement, which could never be superseded. Thenotes meant this and that to her, and they could have noother meaning, and life could have no other meaning. Shepushed right out of the building, and walked slowly down theoutside staircase, breathing the autumnal air, and then shestrolled home.
"Margaret," called Mrs. Munt, "is Helen all right?"
"Oh yes."
"She is always going away in the middle of a programme,"said Tibby.
"The music has evidently moved her deeply," saidFraulein Mosebach.
"Excuse me," said Margaret's young man, who had for sometime been preparing a sentence, "but that lady has, quiteinadvertently, taken my umbrella."
"Oh, good gracious me! --I am so sorry. Tibby, runafter Helen."
"I shall miss the Four Serious Songs if I do."
"Tibby love, you must go."
"It isn't of any consequence," said the young man, intruth a little uneasy about his umbrella.
"But of course it is. Tibby! Tibby!"
Tibby rose to his feet, and wilfully caught his personon the backs of the chairs. By the time he had tipped upthe seat and had found his hat, and had deposited his fullscore in safety, it was "too late" to go after Helen. TheFour Serious Songs had begun, and one could not move duringtheir performance.
"My sister is so careless," whispered Margaret.
"Not at all," replied the young man; but his voice wasdead and cold.
"If you would give me your address--"
"Oh, not at all, not at all;" and he wrapped hisgreatcoat over his knees.
Then the Four Serious Songs rang shallow in Margaret'sears. Brahms, for all his grumbling and grizzling, hadnever guessed what it felt like to be suspected of stealingan umbrella. For this fool of a young man thought that sheand Helen and Tibby had been playing the confidence trick onhim, and that if he gave his address they would break intohis rooms some midnight or other and steal his walkingsticktoo. Most ladies would have laughed, but Margaret reallyminded, for it gave her a glimpse into squalor. To trustpeople is a luxury in which only the wealthy can indulge;the poor cannot afford it. As soon as Brahms had gruntedhimself out, she gave him her card and said, "That is wherewe live; if you preferred, you could call for the umbrellaafter the concert, but I didn't like to trouble you when ithas all been our fault."
His face brightened a little when he saw that WickhamPlace was W. It was sad to see him corroded with suspicion,and yet not daring to be impolite, in case thesewell-dressed people were honest after all. She took it as agood sign that he said to her, "It's a fine programme thisafternoon, is it not?" for this was the remark with which hehad originally opened, before the umbrella intervened.
"What, what?" called Herr Liesecke, overhearing. "ThePOMP AND CIRCUMSTANCE will not be fine?"
"Oh, Margaret, you tiresome girl!" cried her aunt."Here have I been persuading Herr Liesecke to stop for POMPAND CIRCUMSTANCE, and you are undoing all my work. I am soanxious for him to hear what we are doing in music. Oh, youmustn't run down our English composers, Margaret."
"For my part, I have heard the composition at Stettin,"said Fraulein Mosebach. "On two occasions. It is dramatic,a little."
"Frieda, you despise English music. You know you do.And English art. And English Literature, except Shakespeareand he's a German. Very well, Frieda, you may go."
The lovers laughed and glanced at each other. Moved bya common impulse, they rose to their feet and fled from POMPAND CIRCUMSTANCE.
these sisters quarrelled.for sometime been preparing a sentence.
"We have this call to play in Finsbury Circus, it istrue," said Herr Liesecke, as he edged past her and reachedthe gangway just as the music started.
"Margaret--" loudly whispered by Aunt Juley. "Margaret,Margaret! Fraulein Mosebach has left her beautiful littlebag behind her on the seat."
Sure enough, there was Frieda's reticule, containing heraddress book, her pocket dictionary, her map of London, andher money.
"Oh, what a bother--what a family we are! Fr-Frieda!"
"Hush!" said all those who thought the music fine.
"But it's the number they want in Finsbury Circus--"
"Might I--couldn't I--" said the suspicious young man,and got very red.
"Oh, I would be so grateful."
He took the bag--money clinking inside it--and slippedup the gangway with it. He was just in time to catch themat the swing-door, and he received a pretty smile from theGerman girl and a fine bow from her cavalier. He returnedto his seat up-sides with the world. The trust that theyhad reposed in him was trivial, but he felt that itcancelled his mistrust for them, and that probably he wouldnot be "had" over his umbrella. This young man had been"had" in the past--badly, perhaps overwhelmingly--and nowmost of his energies went in defending himself against theunknown. But this afternoon--perhaps on account ofmusic--he perceived that one must slack off occasionally, orwhat is the good of being alive? Wickham Place, W., thougha risk, was as safe as most things, and he would risk it.
walked on in silence, chaperoned bythe voice of Mrs. Munt, who was getting!
So when the concert was over and Margaret said, "We livequite near; I am going there now. Could you walk aroundwith me, and we'll find your umbrella?" he said, "Thankyou," peaceably, and followed her out of the Queen's Hall.She wished that he was not so anxious to hand a ladydownstairs, or to carry a lady's programme for her--hisclass was near enough her own for its manners to vex her.But she found him interesting on the whole--every oneinterested the Schlegels on the whole at that time--andwhile her lips talked culture, her heart was planning toinvite him to tea.
"How tired one gets after music!" she began.
"Do you find the atmosphere of Queen's Hall oppressive?"
"Yes, horribly."
"But surely the atmosphere of Covent Garden is even moreoppressive."
"Do you go there much?"
"When my work permits, I attend the gallery for, theRoyal Opera."
Helen would have exclaimed, "So do I. I love thegallery," and thus have endeared herself to the young man.Helen could do these things. But Margaret had an almostmorbid horror of "drawing people out," of "making thingsgo." She had been to the gallery at Covent Garden, but shedid not "attend" it, preferring the more expensive seats;still less did she love it. So she made no reply.
"This year I have been three times--to FAUST, TOSCA,and--" Was it "Tannhouser" or "Tannhoyser"? Better not riskthe word.
Margaret disliked TOSCA and FAUST. And so, for onereason and another, they walked on in silence, chaperoned bythe voice of Mrs. Munt, who was getting into difficultieswith her nephew.
"I do in a WAY remember the passage, Tibby, but whenevery instrument is so beautiful, it is difficult to pickout one thing rather than another. I am sure that you andHelen take me to the very nicest concerts. Not a dull notefrom beginning to end. I only wish that our German friendswould have stayed till it finished."
"But surely you haven't forgotten the drum steadilybeating on the low C, Aunt Juley?" came Tibby's voice. "Noone could. It's unmistakable."
"A specially loud part?" hazarded Mrs. Munt. "Of courseI do not go in for being musical," she added, the shotfailing. "I only care for music--a very different thing.But still I will say this for myself--I do know when I likea thing and when I don't. Some people are the same aboutpictures. They can go into a picture gallery--Miss Condercan--and say straight off what they feel, all round thewall. I never could do that. But music is so different topictures, to my mind. When it comes to music I am as safeas houses, and I assure you, Tibby, I am by no means pleasedby everything. There was a thing--something about a faun inFrench--which Helen went into ecstasies over, but I thoughtit most tinkling and superficial, and said so, and I held tomy opinion too."
"Do you agree?" asked Margaret. "Do you think music isso different to pictures?"
"I--I should have thought so, kind of," he said.
"So should I. Now, my sister declares they're just thesame. We have great arguments over it. She says I'm dense;I say she's sloppy." Getting under way, she cried: "Now,doesn't it seem absurd to you? What is the good of the Artsif they are interchangeable? What is the good of the ear ifit tells you the same as the eye? Helen's one aim is totranslate tunes into the language of painting, and picturesinto the language of music. It's very ingenious, and shesays several pretty things in the process, but what'sgained, I'd like to know? Oh, it's all rubbish, radicallyfalse. If Monet's really Debussy, and Debussy's reallyMonet, neither gentleman is worth his salt--that's my opinion.
Evidently these sisters quarrelled.
"Now, this very symphony that we've just beenhaving--she won't let it alone. She labels it with meaningsfrom start to finish; turns it into literature. I wonder ifthe day will ever return when music will be treated asmusic. Yet I don't know. There's my brother--behind us.He treats music as music, and oh, my goodness! He makes meangrier than anyone, simply furious. With him I daren'teven argue."
An unhappy family, if talented.
"But, of course, the real villain is Wagner. He hasdone more than any man in the nineteenth century towards themuddling of arts. I do feel that music is in a very seriousstate just now, though extraordinarily interesting. Everynow and then in history there do come these terriblegeniuses, like Wagner, who stir up all the wells of thoughtat once. For a moment it's splendid. Such a splash asnever was. But afterwards--such a lot of mud; and thewells--as it were, they communicate with each other tooeasily now, and not one of them will run quite clear.That's what Wagner's done."
Her speeches fluttered away from the young man likebirds. If only he could talk like this, he would havecaught the world. Oh to acquire culture! Oh, to pronounceforeign names correctly! Oh, to be well informed,discoursing at ease on every subject that a lady started!But it would take one years. With an hour at lunch and afew shattered hours in the evening, how was it possible tocatch up with leisured women, who had been reading steadilyfrom childhood? His brain might be full of names, he mighthave even heard of Monet and Debussy; the trouble was thathe could not string them together into a sentence, he couldnot make them "tell," he could not quite forget about hisstolen umbrella. Yes, the umbrella was the real trouble.Behind Monet and Debussy the umbrella persisted, with thesteady beat of a drum. "I suppose my umbrella will be allright," he was thinking. "I don't really mind about it. Iwill think about music instead. I suppose my umbrella willbe all right." Earlier in the afternoon he had worried aboutseats. Ought he to have paid as much as two shillings?Earlier still he had wondered, "Shall I try to do without aprogramme?" There had always been something to worry himever since he could remember, always something thatdistracted him in the pursuit of beauty. For he did pursuebeauty, and therefore, Margaret's speeches did flutter awayfrom him like birds.
Margaret talked ahead, occasionally saying, "Don't youthink so? don't you feel the same?" And once she stopped,and said "Oh, do interrupt me!" which terrified him. Shedid not attract him, though she filled him with awe. Herfigure was meagre, her face seemed all teeth and eyes, herreferences to her sister and brother were uncharitable. Forall her cleverness and culture, she was probably one ofthose soulless, atheistical women who have been so shown upby Miss Corelli. It was surprising (and alarming) that sheshould suddenly say, "I do hope that you'll come in and havesome tea."
"I do hope that you'll come in and have some tea. Weshould be so glad. I have dragged you so far out of your way."
They had arrived at Wickham Place. The sun had set, andthe backwater, in deep shadow, was filling with a gentlehaze. To the right of the fantastic skyline of the flatstowered black against the hues of evening; to the left theolder houses raised a square-cut, irregular parapet againstthe grey. Margaret fumbled for her latchkey. Of course shehad forgotten it. So, grasping her umbrella by its ferrule,she leant over the area and tapped at the dining-room window.
"Helen! Let us in!"
"All right," said a voice.
"You've been taking this gentleman's umbrella."
"Taken a what?" said Helen, opening the door. "Oh,what's that? Do come in! How do you do?"
"Helen, you must not be so ramshackly. You took thisgentleman's umbrella away from Queen's Hall, and he has hadthe trouble of coming for it."
"Oh, I am so sorry!" cried Helen, all her hair flying.She had pulled off her hat as soon as she returned, and hadflung herself into the big dining-room chair. "I do nothingbut steal umbrellas. I am so very sorry! Do come in andchoose one. Is yours a hooky or a nobbly? Mine's anobbly--at least, I THINK it is."