霍华德庄园 英文版 Howards End
爱德华.摩根.福斯特 Edward Morgan Forster
Chapter 6
We are not concerned with the very poor. They areunthinkable, and only to be approached by the statisticianor the poet. This story deals with gentlefolk, or withthose who are obliged to pretend that they are gentlefolk.
The boy, Leonard Bast, stood at the extreme verge ofgentility. He was not in the abyss, but he could see it,and at times people whom he knew had dropped in, and countedno more. He knew that he was poor, and would admit it: hewould have died sooner than confess any inferiority to therich. This may be splendid of him. But he was inferior tomost rich people, there is not the least doubt of it. Hewas not as courteous as the average rich man, nor asintelligent, nor as healthy, nor as lovable. His mind andhis body had been alike underfed, because he was poor, andbecause he was modern they were always craving better food.Had he lived some centuries ago, in the brightly colouredcivilizations of the past, he would have had a definitestatus, his rank and his income would have corresponded.But in his day the angel of Democracy had arisen,enshadowing the classes with leathern wings, andproclaiming, "All men are equal--all men, that is to say,who possess umbrellas," and so he was obliged to assertgentility, lest he slipped into the abyss where nothingcounts, and the statements of Democracy are inaudible.
As he walked away from Wickham Place, his first care wasto prove that he was as good as the Miss Schlegels.Obscurely wounded in his pride, he tried to wound them inreturn. They were probably not ladies. Would real ladieshave asked him to tea? They were certainly ill-natured andcold. At each step his feeling of superiority increased.Would a real lady have talked about stealing an umbrella?Perhaps they were thieves after all, and if he had gone intothe house they could have clapped a chloroformedhandkerchief over his face. He walked on complacently asfar as the Houses of Parliament. There an empty stomachasserted itself, and told him he was a fool.
"Evening, Mr. Bast."
"Evening, Mr. Dealtry."
"Nice evening."
"Evening."
Mr. Dealtry, a fellow clerk, passed on, and Leonardstood wondering whether he would take the tram as far as apenny would take him, or whether he would walk. He decidedto walk--it is no good giving in, and he had spent moneyenough at Queen's Hall--and he walked over WestminsterBridge, in front of St. Thomas's Hospital, and through theimmense tunnel that passes under the South-Western main lineat Vauxhall. In the tunnel he paused and listened to theroar of the trains. A sharp pain darted through his head,and he was conscious of the exact form of his eye sockets.He pushed on for another mile, and did not slacken speeduntil he stood at the entrance of a road called CameliaRoad, which was at present his home.
Here he stopped again, and glanced suspiciously to rightand left, like a rabbit that is going to bolt into itshole. A block of flats, constructed with extreme cheapness,towered on either hand. Farther down the road two moreblocks were being built, and beyond these an old house wasbeing demolished to accommodate another pair. It was thekind of scene that may be observed all over London, whateverthe locality--bricks and mortar rising and falling with therestlessness of the water in a fountain, as the cityreceives more and more men upon her soil. Camelia Roadwould soon stand out like a fortress, and command, for alittle, an extensive view. Only for a little. Plans wereout for the erection of flats in Magnolia Road also. Andagain a few years, and all the flats in either road might bepulled down, and new buildings, of a vastness at presentunimaginable, might arise where they had fallen.
"Evening, Mr. Bast."
"Evening, Mr. Cunningham."
"Very serious thing this decline of the birth-rate in Manchester."
"I beg your pardon?"
What?" that?"conception: he hoped to come to Culturesuddenly!
"Very serious thing this decline of the birth-rate inManchester," repeated Mr. Cunningham, tapping the Sundaypaper, in which the calamity in question had just beenannounced to him.
"Ah, yes," said Leonard, who was not going to let onthat he had not bought a Sunday paper.
"If this kind of thing goes on the population of Englandwill be stationary in 1960."
"You don't say so."
"I call it a very serious thing, eh?"
"Good-evening, Mr. Cunningham."
"Good-evening, Mr. Bast."
Then Leonard entered Block B of the flats, and turned,not upstairs, but down, into what is known to house agentsas a semi-basement, and to other men as a cellar. He openedthe door, and cried "Hullo!" with the pseudo-geniality ofthe Cockney. There was no reply. "Hullo!" he repeated.The sitting-room was empty, though the electric light hadbeen left burning. A look of relief came over his face, andhe flung himself into the armchair.
The sitting-room contained, besides the armchair, twoother chairs, a piano, a three-legged table, and a cosycorner. Of the walls, one was occupied by the window, theother by a draped mantelshelf bristling with Cupids.Opposite the window was the door, and beside the door abookcase, while over the piano there extended one of themasterpieces of Maud Goodman. It was an amorous and notunpleasant little hole when the curtains were drawn, and thelights turned on, and the gas-stove unlit. But it struckthat shallow makeshift note that is so often heard in themodem dwelling-place. It had been too easily gained, andcould be relinquished too easily.
As Leonard was kicking off his boots he jarred thethree-legged table, and a photograph frame, honourablypoised upon it, slid sideways, fell off into the fireplace,and smashed. He swore in a colourless sort of way, andpicked the photograph up. It represented a young ladycalled Jacky, and had been taken at the time when youngladies called Jacky were often photographed with theirmouths open. Teeth of dazzling whiteness extended alongeither of Jacky's jaws, and positively weighted her headsideways, so large were they and so numerous. Take my wordfor it, that smile was simply stunning, and it is only youand I who will be fastidious, and complain that true joybegins in the eyes, and that the eyes of Jacky did notaccord with her smile, but were anxious and hungry.
Leonard tried to pull out the fragments of glass, andcut his fingers and swore again. A drop of blood fell onthe frame, another followed, spilling over on to the exposedphotograph. He swore more vigorously, and dashed to thekitchen, where he bathed his hands. The kitchen was thesame size as the sitting room; through it was a bedroom.This completed his home. He was renting the flat furnished:of all the objects that encumbered it none were his ownexcept the photograph frame, the Cupids, and the books.
"Damn, damn, damnation!" he murmured, together with suchother words as he had learnt from older men. Then he raisedhis hand to his forehead and said, "Oh, damn it all--" whichmeant something different. He pulled himself together. Hedrank a little tea, black and silent, that still survivedupon an upper shelf. He swallowed some dusty crumbs ofcake. Then he went back to the sitting-room, settledhimself anew, and began to read a volume of Ruskin.
"Seven miles to the north of Venice--"
How perfectly the famous chapter opens! How supreme itscommand of admonition and of poetry! The rich man isspeaking to us from his gondola.
"Seven miles to the north of Venice the banks of sandwhich nearer the city rise little above low-water markattain by degrees a higher level, and knit themselves atlast into fields of salt morass, raised here and there intoshapeless mounds, and intercepted by narrow creeks of sea."
Leonard was trying to form his style on Ruskin: heunderstood him to be the greatest master of English Prose.He read forward steadily, occasionally making a few notes.
"Let us consider a little each of these characters insuccession, and first (for of the shafts enough has beensaid already), what is very peculiar to this church--its luminousness."
Was there anything to be learnt from this finesentence? Could he adapt it to the needs of daily life?Could he introduce it, with modifications, when he nextwrote a letter to his brother, the lay-reader? For example--
"Let us consider a little each of these characters insuccession, and first (for of the absence of ventilationenough has been said already), what is very peculiar to thisflat--its obscurity. "
Something told him that the modifications would not do;and that something, had he known it, was the spirit ofEnglish Prose. "My flat is dark as well as stuffy." Thosewere the words for him.
And the voice in the gondola rolled on, pipingmelodiously of Effort and Self-Sacrifice, full of highpurpose, full of beauty, full even of sympathy and the loveof men, yet somehow eluding all that was actual andinsistent in Leonard's life. For it was the voice of onewho had never been dirty or hungry, and had not guessedsuccessfully what dirt and hunger are.
Leonard listened to it with reverence. He felt that hewas being done good to, and that if he kept on with Ruskin,and the Queen's Hall Concerts, and some pictures by Watts,he would one day push his head out of the grey waters andsee the universe. He believed in sudden conversion, abelief which may be right, but which is peculiarlyattractive to a half-baked mind. It is the bias of muchpopular religion: in the domain of business it dominates theStock Exchange, and becomes that "bit of luck" by which allsuccesses and failures are explained. "If only I had a bitof luck, the whole thing would come straight. . . . He'sgot a most magnificent place down at Streatham and a 20h.-p. Fiat, but then, mind you, he's had luck. . . . I'msorry the wife's so late, but she never has any luck overcatching trains." Leonard was superior to these people; hedid believe in effort and in a steady preparation for thechange that he desired. But of a heritage that may expandgradually, he had no conception: he hoped to come to Culturesuddenly, much as the Revivalist hopes to come to Jesus.Those Miss Schlegels had come to it; they had done thetrick; their hands were upon the ropes, once and for all.And meanwhile, his flat was dark, as well as stuffy.
Presently there was a noise on the staircase. He shutup Margaret's card in the pages of Ruskin, and opened thedoor. A woman entered, of whom it is simplest to say thatshe was not respectable. Her appearance was awesome. Sheseemed all strings and bell-pulls--ribbons, chains, beadnecklaces that clinked and caught--and a boa of azurefeathers hung round her neck, with the ends uneven. Herthroat was bare, wound with a double row of pearls, her armswere bare to the elbows, and might again be detected at theshoulder, through cheap lace. Her hat, which was flowery,resembled those punnets, covered with flannel, which wesowed with mustard and cress in our childhood, and whichgerminated here yes, and there no. She wore it on the backof her head. As for her hair, or rather hairs, they are toocomplicated to describe, but one system went down her back,lying in a thick pad there, while another, created for alighter destiny, rippled around her forehead. The face--theface does not signify. It was the face of the photograph,but older, and the teeth were not so numerous as thephotographer had suggested, and certainly not so white.Yes, Jacky was past her prime, whatever that prime may havebeen. She was descending quicker than most women into thecolourless years, and the look in her eyes confessed it.
"What ho!" said Leonard, greeting that apparition withmuch spirit, and helping it off with its boa.
Jacky, in husky tones, replied, "What ho!"
"Been out?" he asked. The question sounds superfluous,but it cannot have been really, for the lady answered, "No,"adding, "Oh, I am so tired."
"You tired?"
"Eh?"
"I'm tired," said he, hanging the boa up.
"Oh, Len, I am so tired."
"I've been to that classical concert I told you about,"said Leonard.
"What's that?"
"I came back as soon as it was over."
"Any one been round to our place?" asked Jacky.
"Not that I've seen. I met Mr. Cunningham outside, andwe passed a few remarks."
"What, not Mr. Cunnginham?"
"Yes."
"Oh, you mean Mr. Cunningham."
"Yes. Mr. Cunningham."
"I've been out to tea at a lady friend's."
Her secret being at last given to the world, and thename of the lady-friend being even adumbrated, Jacky made nofurther experiments in the difficult and tiring art ofconversation. She never had been a great talker. Even inher photographic days she had relied upon her smile and herfigure to attract, and now that she was--
"On the shelf,On the shelf,Boys, boys, I'm on the shelf,"
she was not likely to find her tongue. Occasionalbursts of song (of which the above is an example) stillissued from her lips, but the spoken word was rare.
She sat down on Leonard's knee, and began to fondlehim. She was now a massive woman of thirty-three, and herweight hurt him, but he could not very well say anything.Then she said, "Is that a book you're reading?" and he said,"That's a book," and drew it from her unreluctant grasp.Margaret's card fell out of it. It fell face downwards, andhe murmured, "Bookmarker."
"Len--"
"What is it?" he asked, a little wearily, for she onlyhad one topic of conversation when she sat upon his knee.
"You do love me?"
"Jacky, you know that I do. How can you ask such questions!"
"But you do love me, Len, don't you?"
"Of course I do."
A pause. The other remark was still due.
"Len--"
"Well? What is it?"
"Len, you will make it all right?"
"I can't have you ask me that again," said the boy,flaring up into a sudden passion. "I've promised to marryyou when I'm of age, and that's enough. My word's my word.I've promised to marry you as soon as ever I'm twenty-one,and I can't keep on being worried. I've worries enough. Itisn't likely I'd throw you over, let alone my word, whenI've spent all this money. Besides, I'm an Englishman, andI never go back on my word. Jacky, do be reasonable. Ofcourse I'll marry you. Only do stop badgering me."
"When's your birthday, Len?"
"I've told you again and again, the eleventh of Novembernext. Now get off my knee a bit; someone must get supper, Isuppose."
Jacky went through to the bedroom, and began to see toher hat. This meant blowing at it with short sharp puffs.Leonard tidied up the sitting-room, and began to preparetheir evening meal. He put a penny into the slot of thegas-meter, and soon the flat was reeking with metallicfumes. Somehow he could not recover his temper, and all thetime he was cooking he continued to complain bitterly.
"It really is too bad when a fellow isn't trusted. Itmakes one feel so wild, when I've pretended to the peoplehere that you're my wife--all right, you shall be mywife--and I've bought you the ring to wear, and I've takenthis flat furnished, and it's far more than I can afford,and yet you aren't content, and I've also not told the truthwhen I've written home." He lowered his voice. "He'd stopit." In a tone of horror, that was a little luxurious, herepeated: "My brother'd stop it. I'm going against thewhole world, Jacky.
"That's what I am, Jacky. I don't take any heed of whatanyone says. I just go straight forward, I do. That'salways been my way. I'm not one of your weak knock-kneedchaps. If a woman's in trouble, I don't leave her in thelurch. That's not my street. No, thank you.
"I'll tell you another thing too. I care a good dealabout improving myself by means of Literature and Art, andso getting a wider outlook. For instance, when you came inI was reading Ruskin's STONES OF VENICE. I don't say this toboast, but just to show you the kind of man I am. I cantell you, I enjoyed that classical concert this afternoon."
To all his moods Jacky remained equally indifferent.When supper was ready--and not before--she emerged from thebedroom, saying: "But you do love me, don't you?"
They began with a soup square, which Leonard had justdissolved in some hot water. It was followed by thetongue--a freckled cylinder of meat, with a little jelly atthe top, and a great deal of yellow fat at thebottom--ending with another square dissolved in water(jelly: pineapple), which Leonard had prepared earlier inthe day. Jacky ate contentedly enough, occasionally lookingat her man with those anxious eyes, to which nothing else inher appearance corresponded, and which yet seemed to mirrorher soul. And Leonard managed to convince his stomach thatit was having a nourishing meal.
After supper they smoked cigarettes and exchanged a fewstatements. She observed that her "likeness" had beenbroken. He found occasion to remark, for the second time,that he had come straight back home after the concert atQueen's Hall. Presently she sat upon his knee. Theinhabitants of Camelia Road tramped to and fro outside thewindow, just on a level with their heads, and the family inthe flat on the ground-floor began to sing, "Hark, my soul,it is the Lord."
"That tune fairly gives me the hump," said Leonard.
Jacky followed this, and said that, for her part, shethought it a lovely tune.
"No; I'll play you something lovely. Get up, dear, fora minute."
He went to the piano and jingled out a little Grieg. Heplayed badly and vulgarly, but the performance was notwithout its effect, for Jacky said she thought she'd begoing to bed. As she receded, a new set of interestspossessed the boy, and he began to think of what had beensaid about music by that odd Miss Schlegel--the one thattwisted her face about so when she spoke. Then the thoughtsgrew sad and envious. There was the girl named Helen, whohad pinched his umbrella, and the German girl who had smiledat him pleasantly, and Herr someone, and Aunt someone, andthe brother--all, all with their hands on the ropes. Theyhad all passed up that narrow, rich staircase at WickhamPlace, to some ample room, whither he could never followthem, not if he read for ten hours a day. Oh, it was notgood, this continual aspiration. Some are born cultured;the rest had better go in for whatever comes easy. To seelife steadily and to see it whole was not for the likes of him.
From the darkness beyond the kitchen a voice called, "Len?"
"You in bed?" he asked, his forehead twitching.
"M'm."
"All right."
Presently she called him again.
"I must clean my boots ready for the morning," he answered.
Presently she called him again.
"I rather want to get this chapter done."
"What?"
He closed his ears against her.
round to our place?" asked Jacky!
"What's that?"
"All right, Jacky, nothing; I'm reading a book."
"What?"
"What?" he answered, catching her degraded deafness.
Presently she called him again.
Ruskin had visited Torcello by this time, and wasordering his gondoliers to take him to Murano. It occurredto him, as he glided over the whispering lagoons, that thepower of Nature could not be shortened by the folly, nor herbeauty altogether saddened by the misery, of such asLeonard.