Houses have their own ways of dying, falling as variously as the generations of men, some with a tragic1 roar, some quietly, but to an after-life in the city of ghosts, while from others--and thus was the death of Wickham Place--the spirit slips before the body perishes. It had decayed in the spring, disintegrating2 the girls more than they knew, and causing either to accost3 unfamiliar4 regions. By September it was a corpse5, void of emotion, and scarcely hallowed by the memories of thirty years of happiness. Through its round-topped doorway6 passed furniture, and pictures, and books, until the last room was gutted7 and the last van had rumbled8 away. It stood for a week or two longer, open-eyed, as if astonished at its own emptiness. Then it fell. Navvies came, and spilt it back into the grey. With their muscles and their beery good temper, they were not the worst of undertakers for a house which had always been human, and had not mistaken culture for an end.
The furniture, with a few exceptions, went down into Hertfordshire, Mr. Wilcox having most kindly9 offered Howards End as a warehouse10. Mr. Bryce had died abroad--an unsatisfactory affair--and as there seemed little guarantee that the rent would be paid regularly, he cancelled the agreement, and resumed possession himself. Until he relet the house, the Schlegels were welcome to stack their furniture in the garage and lower rooms. Margaret demurred11, but Tibby accepted the offer gladly; it saved him from coming to any decision about the future. The plate and the more valuable pictures found a safer home in London, but the bulk of the things went country-ways, and were entrusted12 to the guardianship13 of Miss Avery.
Shortly before the move, our hero and heroine were married. They have weathered the storm, and may reasonably expect peace. To have no illusions and yet to love--what stronger surety can a woman find? She had seen her husband's past as well as his heart. She knew her own heart with a thoroughness that commonplace people believe impossible. The heart of Mrs. Wilcox was alone hidden, and perhaps it is superstitious14 to speculate on the feelings of the dead. They were married quietly--really quietly, for as the day approached she refused to go through another Oniton. Her brother gave her away, her aunt, who was out of health, presided over a few colourless refreshments15. The Wilcoxes were represented by Charles, who witnessed the marriage settlement, and by Mr. Cahill. Paul did send a cablegram. In a few minutes, and without the aid of music, the clergyman made them man and wife, and soon the glass shade had fallen that cuts off married couples from the world. She, a monogamist, regretted the cessation of some of life's innocent odours; he, whose instincts were polygamous, felt morally braced16 by the change, and less liable to the temptations that had assailed17 him in the past.
They spent their honeymoon18 near Innsbruck. Henry knew of a reliable hotel there, and Margaret hoped for a meeting with her sister. In this she was disappointed. As they came south, Helen retreated over the Brenner, and wrote an unsatisfactory postcard from the shores of the Lake of Garda, saying that her plans were uncertain and had better be ignored. Evidently she disliked meeting Henry. Two months are surely enough to accustom20 an outsider to a situation which a wife has accepted in two days, and Margaret had again to regret her sister's lack of self-control. In a long letter she pointed19 out the need of charity in sexual matters: so little is known about them; it is hard enough for those who are personally touched to judge; then how futile21 must be the verdict of Society. "I don't say there is no standard, for that would destroy morality; only that there can be no standard until our impulses are classified and better understood." Helen thanked her for her kind letter--rather a curious reply. She moved south again, and spoke22 of wintering in Naples.
Mr. Wilcox was not sorry that the meeting failed. Helen left him time to grow skin over his wound. There were still moments when it pained him. Had he only known that Margaret was awaiting him--Margaret, so lively and intelligent, and yet so submissive--he would have kept himself worthier23 of her. Incapable24 of grouping the past, he confused the episode of Jacky with another episode that had taken place in the days of his bachelorhood. The two made one crop of wild oats, for which he was heartily25 sorry, and he could not see that those oats are of a darker stock which are rooted in another's dishonour26. Unchastity and infidelity were as confused to him as to the Middle Ages, his only moral teacher. Ruth (poor old Ruth!) did not enter into his calculations at all, for poor old Ruth had never found him out.
His affection for his present wife grew steadily27. Her cleverness gave him no trouble, and, indeed, he liked to see her reading poetry or something about social questions; it distinguished28 her from the wives of other men. He had only to call, and she clapped the book up and was ready to do what he wished. Then they would argue so jollily, and once or twice she had him in quite a tight corner, but as soon as he grew really serious, she gave in. Man is for war, woman for the recreation of the warrior29, but he does not dislike it if she makes a show of fight. She cannot win in a real battle, having no muscles, only nerves. Nerves make her jump out of a moving motor-car, or refuse to be married fashionably. The warrior may well allow her to triumph on such occasions; they move not the imperishable plinth of things that touch his peace.
Margaret had a bad attack of these nerves during the honeymoon. He told her--casually, as was his habit--that Oniton Grange was let. She showed her annoyance30, and asked rather crossly why she had not been consulted.
"I didn't want to bother you," he replied. "Besides, I have only heard for certain this morning."
"Where are we to live?" said Margaret, trying to laugh. "I loved the place extraordinarily31. Don't you believe in having a permanent home, Henry?"
He assured her that she misunderstood him. It is home life that distinguishes us from the foreigner. But he did not believe in a damp home.
"This is news. I never heard till this minute that Oniton was damp."
"My dear girl!"--he flung out his hand--"have you eyes? have you a skin? How could it be anything but damp in such a situation? In the first place, the Grange is on clay, and built where the castle moat must have been; then there's that destestable little river, steaming all night like a kettle. Feel the cellar walls; look up under the eaves. Ask Sir James or anyone. Those Shropshire valleys are notorious. The only possible place for a house in Shropshire is on a hill; but, for my part, I think the country is too far from London, and the scenery nothing special. "
Margaret could not resist saying, "Why did you go there, then?"
"I--because--" He drew his head back and grew rather angry. "Why have we come to the Tyrol, if it comes to that? One might go on asking such questions indefinitely."
One might; but he was only gaining time for a plausible32 answer. Out it came, and he believed it as soon as it was spoken.
"The truth is, I took Oniton on account of Evie. Don't let this go any further."
"Certainly not."
"I shouldn't like her to know that she nearly let me in for a very bad bargain. No sooner did I sign the agreement than she got engaged. Poor little girl! She was so keen on it all, and wouldn't even wait to make proper inquiries33 about the shooting. Afraid it would get snapped up--just like all of your sex. Well, no harm's done. She has had her country wedding, and I've got rid of my house to some fellows who are starting a preparatory school."
"Where shall we live, then, Henry? I should enjoy living somewhere."
"I have not yet decided34. What about Norfolk?"
Margaret was silent. Marriage had not saved her from the sense of flux35. London was but a foretaste of this nomadic36 civilization which is altering human nature so profoundly, and throws upon personal relations a stress greater than they have ever borne before. Under cosmopolitanism37, if it comes, we shall receive no help from the earth. Trees and meadows and mountains will only be a spectacle, and the binding38 force that they once exercised on character must be entrusted to Love alone. May Love be equal to the task!
"It is now what?" continued Henry. "Nearly October. Let us camp for the winter at Ducie Street, and look out for something in the spring.
"If possible, something permanent. I can't be as young as I was, for these alterations39 don't suit me. "
"But, my dear, which would you rather have--alterations or rheumatism40?"
"I see your point," said Margaret, getting up. "If Oniton is really damp, it is impossible, and must be inhabited by little boys. Only, in the spring, let us look before we leap. I will take warning by Evie, and not hurry you. Remember that you have a free hand this time. These endless moves must be bad for the furniture, and are certainly expensive."
"What a practical little woman it is! What's it been reading? Theo--theo--how much?"
"Theosophy."
So Ducie Street was her first fate--a pleasant enough fate. The house, being only a little larger than Wickham Place, trained her for the immense establishment that was promised in the spring. They were frequently away, but at home life ran fairly regularly. In the morning Henry went to the business, and his sandwich--a relic41 this of some prehistoric42 craving--was always cut by her own hand. He did not rely upon the sandwich for lunch, but liked to have it by him in case he grew hungry at eleven. When he had gone, there was the house to look after, and the servants to humanize, and several kettles of Helen's to keep on the boil. Her conscience pricked43 her a little about the Basts; she was not sorry to have lost sight of them. No doubt Leonard was worth helping44, but being Henry's wife, she preferred to help someone else. As for theatres and discussion societies, they attracted her less and less. She began to "miss" new movements, and to spend her spare time re-reading or thinking, rather to the concern of her Chelsea friends. They attributed the change to her marriage, and perhaps some deep instinct did warn her not to travel further from her husband than was inevitable45. Yet the main cause lay deeper still; she had outgrown46 stimulants47, and was passing from words to things. It was doubtless a pity not to keep up with Wedekind or John, but some closing of the gates is inevitable after thirty, if the mind itself is to become a creative power.
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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disintegrating
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| v.（使）破裂[分裂，粉碎]，（使）崩溃( disintegrate的现在分词 ) | |
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accost
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| v.向人搭话，打招呼 | |
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unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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gutted
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| adj.容易消化的v.毁坏（建筑物等）的内部( gut的过去式和过去分词 )；取出…的内脏 | |
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rumbled
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| 发出隆隆声，发出辘辘声( rumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 轰鸣着缓慢行进； 发现…的真相； 看穿（阴谋） | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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warehouse
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| n.仓库；vt.存入仓库 | |
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demurred
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| v.表示异议，反对( demur的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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guardianship
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| n. 监护, 保护, 守护 | |
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superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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refreshments
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| n.点心,便餐;(会议后的)简单茶点招 待 | |
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braced
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| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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accustom
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| vt.使适应，使习惯 | |
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futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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worthier
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| 应得某事物( worthy的比较级 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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dishonour
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| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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flux
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| n.流动；不断的改变 | |
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nomadic
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| adj.流浪的；游牧的 | |
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cosmopolitanism
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| n. 世界性,世界主义 | |
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binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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alterations
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| n.改动( alteration的名词复数 )；更改；变化；改变 | |
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rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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prehistoric
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| adj.（有记载的）历史以前的，史前的，古老的 | |
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pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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outgrown
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| 长[发展] 得超过（某物）的范围( outgrow的过去分词 )； 长[发展]得不能再要（某物）； 长得比…快； 生长速度超过 | |
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47
stimulants
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| n.兴奋剂( stimulant的名词复数 )；含兴奋剂的饮料；刺激物；激励物 | |
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