It was not unexpected entirely1. Aunt Juley's health had been bad all the winter. She had had a long series of colds and coughs, and had been too busy to get rid of them. She had scarcely promised her niece "to really take my tiresome2 chest in hand," when she caught a chill and developed acute pneumonia3. Margaret and Tibby went down to Swanage. Helen was telegraphed for, and that spring party that after all gathered in that hospitable4 house had all the pathos5 of fair memories. On a perfect day, when the sky seemed blue porcelain6, and the waves of the discreet7 little bay beat gentlest of tattoos8 upon the sand, Margaret hurried up through the rhododendrons, confronted again by the senselessness of Death. One death may explain itself, but it throws no light upon another: the groping inquiry9 must begin anew. Preachers or scientists may generalize, but we know that no generality is possible about those whom we love; not one heaven awaits them, not even one oblivion. Aunt Juley, incapable10 of tragedy, slipped out of life with odd little laughs and apologies for having stopped in it so long. She was very weak; she could not rise to the occasion, or realize the great mystery which all agree must await her; it only seemed to her that she was quite done up--more done up than ever before; that she saw and heard and felt less every moment; and that, unless something changed, she would soon feel nothing. Her spare strength she devoted11 to plans: could not Margaret take some steamer expeditions? were mackerel cooked as Tibby liked them? She worried herself about Helen's absence, and also that she could be the cause of Helen's return. The nurses seemed to think such interests quite natural, and perhaps hers was an average approach to the Great Gate. But Margaret saw Death stripped of any false romance; whatever the idea of Death may contain, the process can be trivial and hideous12.
"Important--Margaret dear, take the Lulworth when Helen comes."
"Helen won't be able to stop, Aunt Juley. She has telegraphed that she can only get away just to see you. She must go back to Germany as soon as you are well."
"How very odd of Helen! Mr. Wilcox--"
"Yes, dear?"
"Can he spare you?"
Henry wished her to come, and had been very kind. Yet again Margaret said so.
Mrs. Munt did not die. Quite outside her will, a more dignified13 power took hold of her and checked her on the downward slope. She returned, without emotion, as fidgety as ever. On the fourth day she was out of danger.
"Margaret--important," it went on: "I should like you to have some companion to take walks with. Do try Miss Conder."
"I have been a little walk with Miss Conder."
"But she is not really interesting. If only you had Helen."
"I have Tibby, Aunt Juley."
"No, but he has to do his Chinese. Some real companion is what you need. Really, Helen is odd."
"Helen is odd, very," agreed Margaret.
"Not content with going abroad, why does she want to go back there at once?"
"No doubt she will change her mind when she sees us. She has not the least balance."
That was the stock criticism about Helen, but Margaret's voice trembled as she made it. By now she was deeply pained at her sister's behaviour. It may be unbalanced to fly out of England, but to stop away eight months argues that the heart is awry14 as well as the head. A sick-bed could recall Helen, but she was deaf to more human calls; after a glimpse at her aunt, she would retire into her nebulous life behind some poste restante. She scarcely existed; her letters had become dull and infrequent; she had no wants and no curiosity. And it was all put down to poor Henry's account! Henry, long pardoned by his wife, was still too infamous15 to be greeted by his sister-in-law. It was morbid16, and, to her alarm, Margaret fancied that she could trace the growth of morbidity17 back in Helen's life for nearly four years. The flight from Oniton; the unbalanced patronage18 of the Basts; the explosion of grief up on the Downs--all connected with Paul, an insignificant19 boy whose lips had kissed hers for a fraction of time. Margaret and Mrs. Wilcox had feared that they might kiss again. Foolishly: the real danger was reaction. Reaction against the Wilcoxes had eaten into her life until she was scarcely sane20. At twenty-five she had an idee fixe. What hope was there for her as an old woman?
The more Margaret thought about it the more alarmed she became. For many months she had put the subject away, but it was too big to be slighted now. There was almost a taint21 of madness. Were all Helen's actions to be governed by a tiny mishap22, such as may happen to any young man or woman? Can human nature be constructed on lines so insignificant? The blundering little encounter at Howards End was vital. It propagated itself where graver intercourse23 lay barren; it was stronger than sisterly intimacy24, stronger than reason or books. In one of her moods Helen had confessed that she still "enjoyed" it in a certain sense. Paul had faded, but the magic of his caress25 endured. And where there is enjoyment26 of the past there may also be reaction--propagation at both ends.
Well, it is odd and sad that our minds should be such seed-beds, and we without power to choose the seed. But man is an odd, sad creature as yet, intent on pilfering27 the earth, and heedless of the growths within himself. He cannot be bored about psychology28. He leaves it to the specialist, which is as if he should leave his dinner to be eaten by a steam-engine. He cannot be bothered to digest his own soul. Margaret and Helen have been more patient, and it is suggested that Margaret has succeeded--so far as success is yet possible. She does understand herself, she has some rudimentary control over her own growth. Whether Helen has succeeded one cannot say.
The day that Mrs. Munt rallied Helen's letter arrived. She had posted it at Munich, and would be in London herself on the morrow. It was a disquieting29 letter, though the opening was affectionate and sane.
Dearest Meg,
Give Helen's love to Aunt Juley. Tell her that I love, and have loved, her ever since I can remember. I shall be in London Thursday.
My address will be care of the bankers. I have not yet settled on a hotel, so write or wire to me there and give me detailed30 news. If Aunt Juley is much better, or if, for a terrible reason, it would be no good my coming down to Swanage, you must not think it odd if I do not come. I have all sorts of plans in my head. I am living abroad at present, and want to get back as quickly as possible. Will you please tell me where our furniture is. I should like to take out one or two books; the rest are for you.
Forgive me, dearest Meg. This must read like rather a tiresome letter, but all letters are from your loving
Helen
It was a tiresome letter, for it tempted31 Margaret to tell a lie. If she wrote that Aunt Juley was still in danger her sister would come. Unhealthiness is contagious32. We cannot be in contact with those who are in a morbid state without ourselves deteriorating33. To "act for the best" might do Helen good, but would do herself harm, and, at the risk of disaster, she kept her colours flying a little longer. She replied that their aunt was much better, and awaited developments.
Tibby approved of her reply. Mellowing34 rapidly, he was a pleasanter companion than before. Oxford35 had done much for him. He had lost his peevishness36, and could hide his indifference37 to people and his interest in food. But he had not grown more human. The years between eighteen and twenty-two, so magical for most, were leading him gently from boyhood to middle age. He had never known young-manliness, that quality which warms the heart till death, and gives Mr. Wilcox an imperishable charm. He was frigid38, through no fault of his own, and without cruelty. He thought Helen wrong and Margaret right, but the family trouble was for him what a scene behind footlights is for most people. He had only one suggestion to make, and that was characteristic.
"Why don't you tell Mr. Wilcox?"
"About Helen?"
"Perhaps he has come across that sort of thing."
"He would do all he could, but--"
"Oh, you know best. But he is practical."
It was the student's belief in experts. Margaret demurred39 for one or two reasons. Presently Helen's answer came. She sent a telegram requesting the address of the furniture, as she would now return at once. Margaret replied, "Certainly not; meet me at the bankers at four." She and Tibby went up to London. Helen was not at the bankers, and they were refused her address. Helen had passed into chaos40.
Margaret put her arm round her brother. He was all that she had left, and never had he seemed more unsubstantial.
"Tibby love, what next?"
He replied: "It is extraordinary."
"Dear, your judgment's often clearer than mine. Have you any notion what's at the back?"
"None, unless it's something mental."
"Oh--that!" said Margaret. "Quite impossible." But the suggestion had been uttered, and in a few minutes she took it up herself. Nothing else explained. And London agreed with Tibby. The mask fell off the city, and she saw it for what it really is--a caricature of infinity41. The familiar barriers, the streets along which she moved, the houses between which she had made her little journeys for so many years, became negligible suddenly. Helen seemed one with grimy trees and the traffic and the slowly-flowing slabs42 of mud. She had accomplished43 a hideous act of renunciation and returned to the One. Margaret's own faith held firm. She knew the human soul will be merged44, if it be merged at all, with the stars and the sea. Yet she felt that her sister had been going amiss for many years. It was symbolic45 the catastrophe46 should come now, on a London afternoon, while rain fell slowly.
Henry was the only hope. Henry was definite. He might know of some paths in the chaos that were hidden from them, and she determined47 to take Tibby's advice and lay the whole matter in his hands. They must call at his office. He could not well make it worse. She went for a few moments into St. Paul's, whose dome48 stands out of the welter so bravely, as if preaching the gospel of form. But within, St. Paul's is as its surroundings--echoes and whispers, inaudible songs, invisible mosaics49, wet footmarks crossing and recrossing the floor. Si monumentum requiris, circumspice: it points us back to London. There was no hope of Helen here.
Henry was unsatisfactory at first. That she had expected. He was overjoyed to see her back from Swanage, and slow to admit the growth of a new trouble. When they told him of their search, he only chaffed Tibby and the Schlegels generally, and declared that it was "just like Helen" to lead her relatives a dance.
"That is what we all say," replied Margaret. "But why should it be just like Helen? Why should she be allowed to be so queer, and to grow queerer?"
"Don't ask me. I'm a plain man of business. I live and let live. My advice to you both is, don't worry. Margaret, you've got black marks again under your eyes. You know that's strictly50 forbidden. First your aunt--then your sister. No, we aren't going to have it. Are we, Theobald?" He rang the bell. "I'll give you some tea, and then you go straight to Ducie Street. I can't have my girl looking as old as her husband."
"All the same, you have not quite seen our point," said Tibby.
Mr. Wilcox, who was in good spirits, retorted, "I don't suppose I ever shall." He leant back, laughing at the gifted but ridiculous family, while the fire flickered51 over the map of Africa. Margaret motioned to her brother to go on. Rather diffident, he obeyed her.
"Margaret's point is this," he said. "Our sister may be mad."
Charles, who was working in the inner room, looked round.
"Come in, Charles," said Margaret kindly52. "Could you help us at all? We are again in trouble."
"I'm afraid I cannot. What are the facts? We are all mad more or less, you know, in these days."
"The facts are as follows," replied Tibby, who had at times a pedantic53 lucidity54. "The facts are that she has been in England for three days and will not see us. She has forbidden the bankers to give us her address. She refuses to answer questions. Margaret finds her letters colourless. There are other facts, but these are the most striking."
"She has never behaved like this before, then?" asked Henry.
"Of course not!" said his wife, with a frown.
"Well, my dear, how am I to know?"
A senseless spasm55 of annoyance56 came over her. "You know quite well that Helen never sins against affection," she said. "You must have noticed that much in her, surely."
"Oh yes; she and I have always hit it off together."
"No, Henry--can't you see? --I don't mean that."
She recovered herself, but not before Charles had observed her. Stupid and attentive57, he was watching the scene.
"I was meaning that when she was eccentric in the past, one could trace it back to the heart in the long run. She behaved oddly because she cared for someone, or wanted to help them. There's no possible excuse for her now. She is grieving us deeply, and that is why I am sure that she is not well. 'Mad' is too terrible a word, but she is not well. I shall never believe it. I shouldn't discuss my sister with you if I thought she was well--trouble you about her, I mean."
Henry began to grow serious. Ill-health was to him something perfectly58 definite. Generally well himself, he could not realize that we sink to it by slow gradations. The sick had no rights; they were outside the pale; one could lie to them remorselessly. When his first wife was seized, he had promised to take her down into Hertfordshire, but meanwhile arranged with a nursing-home instead. Helen, too, was ill. And the plan that he sketched59 out for her capture, clever and well-meaning as it was, drew its ethics60 from the wolf-pack.
"You want to get hold of her?" he said. "That's the problem, isn't it? She has got to see a doctor."
"For all I know she has seen one already."
"Yes, yes; don't interrupt." He rose to his feet and thought intently. The genial61, tentative host disappeared, and they saw instead the man who had carved money out of Greece and Africa, and bought forests from the natives for a few bottles of gin. "I've got it," he said at last. "It's perfectly easy. Leave it to me. We'll send her down to Howards End."
"How will you do that?"
"After her books. Tell her that she must unpack62 them herself. Then you can meet her there."
"But, Henry, that's just what she won't let me do. It's part of her--whatever it is--never to see me."
"Of course you won't tell her you're going. When she is there, looking at the cases, you'll just stroll in. If nothing is wrong with her, so much the better. But there'll be the motor round the corner, and we can run her up to a specialist in no time."
Margaret shook her head. "It's quite impossible."
"Why?"
"It doesn't seem impossible to me," said Tibby; "it is surely a very tippy plan."
"It is impossible, because--" She looked at her husband sadly. "It's not the particular language that Helen and I talk if you see my meaning. It would do splendidly for other people, whom I don't blame."
"But Helen doesn't talk," said Tibby. "That's our whole difficulty. She won't talk your particular language, and on that account you think she's ill."
"No, Henry; it's sweet of you, but I couldn't."
"I see," he said; "you have scruples63."
"I suppose so."
"And sooner than go against them you would have your sister suffer. You could have got her down to Swanage by a word, but you had scruples. And scruples are all very well. I am as scrupulous64 as any man alive, I hope; but when it is a case like this, when there is a question of madness--"
"I deny it's madness."
"You said just now--"
"It's madness when I say it, but not when you say it."
Henry shrugged65 his shoulders. "Margaret! Margaret!" he groaned66. "No education can teach a woman logic67. Now, my dear, my time is valuable. Do you want me to help you or not?"
"Not in that way."
"Answer my question. Plain question, plain answer. Do--"
Charles surprised them by interrupting. "Pater, we may as well keep Howards End out of it," he said.
"Why, Charles?"
Charles could give no reason; but Margaret felt as if, over tremendous distance, a salutation had passed between them.
"The whole house is at sixes and sevens," he said crossly. "We don't want any more mess."
"Who's 'we'?" asked his father. "My boy, pray, who's 'we'?"
"I am sure I beg your pardon," said Charles. "I appear always to be intruding68."
By now Margaret wished she had never mentioned her trouble to her husband. Retreat was impossible. He was determined to push the matter to a satisfactory conclusion, and Helen faded as he talked. Her fair, flying hair and eager eyes counted for nothing, for she was ill, without rights, and any of her friends might hunt her. Sick at heart, Margaret joined in the chase. She wrote her sister a lying letter, at her husband's dictation; she said the furniture was all at Howards End, but could be seen on Monday next at 3 p.m., when a charwoman would be in attendance. It was a cold letter, and the more plausible69 for that. Helen would think she was offended. And on Monday next she and Henry were to lunch with Dolly, and then ambush70 themselves in the garden.
After they had gone, Mr. Wilcox said to his son: "I can't have this sort of behaviour, my boy. Margaret's too sweet-natured to mind, but I mind for her."
Charles made no answer.
"Is anything wrong with you, Charles, this afternoon?"
"No, pater; but you may be taking on a bigger business than you reckon."
"How?"
"Don't ask me."
收听单词发音 |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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pneumonia
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| n.肺炎 | |
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hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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porcelain
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| n.瓷；adj.瓷的，瓷制的 | |
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discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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tattoos
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| n.文身( tattoo的名词复数 )；归营鼓；军队夜间表演操；连续有节奏的敲击声v.刺青，文身( tattoo的第三人称单数 )；连续有节奏地敲击；作连续有节奏的敲击 | |
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inquiry
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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awry
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| adj.扭曲的，错的 | |
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infamous
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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morbidity
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| n.病态；不健全；发病；发病率 | |
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patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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insignificant
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sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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taint
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mishap
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intercourse
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intimacy
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caress
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enjoyment
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pilfering
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| v.偷窃（小东西），小偷( pilfer的现在分词 )；偷窃（一般指小偷小摸） | |
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psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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disquieting
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| adj.令人不安的，令人不平静的v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的现在分词 ) | |
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detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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tempted
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contagious
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deteriorating
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| 恶化，变坏( deteriorate的现在分词 ) | |
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mellowing
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Oxford
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peevishness
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| 脾气不好；爱发牢骚 | |
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indifference
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frigid
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demurred
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chaos
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infinity
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slabs
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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merged
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| （使）混合( merge的过去式和过去分词 )； 相融； 融入； 渐渐消失在某物中 | |
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symbolic
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catastrophe
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determined
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dome
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mosaics
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| n.马赛克( mosaic的名词复数 )；镶嵌；镶嵌工艺；镶嵌图案 | |
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strictly
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flickered
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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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pedantic
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lucidity
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spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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sketched
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ethics
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| n.伦理学；伦理观，道德标准 | |
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61
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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62
unpack
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| vt.打开包裹（或行李），卸货 | |
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63
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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64
scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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65
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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66
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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67
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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68
intruding
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| v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的现在分词)；把…强加于 | |
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69
plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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70
ambush
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| n.埋伏(地点)；伏兵；v.埋伏；伏击 | |
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