霍华德庄园 英文版 Howards End
爱德华.摩根.福斯特 Edward Morgan Forster
Chapter 40
Leonard--he would figure at length in a newspaper report,but that evening he did not count for much. The foot of thetree was in shadow, since the moon was still hidden behindthe house. But above, to right, to left, down the longmeadow the moonlight was streaming. Leonard seemed not aman, but a cause.
Perhaps it was Helen's way of falling in love--a curiousway to Margaret, whose agony and whose contempt of Henrywere yet imprinted with his image. Helen forgot people.They were husks that had enclosed her emotion. She couldpity, or sacrifice herself, or have instincts, but had sheever loved in the noblest way, where man and woman, havinglost themselves in sex, desire to lose sex itself incomradeship?
Margaret wondered, but said no word of blame. This wasHelen's evening. Troubles enough lay ahead of her--the lossof friends and of social advantages, the agony, the supremeagony, of motherhood, which is even yet not a matter ofcommon knowledge. For the present let the moon shinebrightly and the breezes of the spring blow gently, dyingaway from the gale of the day, and let the earth, who bringsincrease, bring peace. Not even to herself dare she blameHelen. She could not assess her trespass by any moral code;it was everything or nothing. Morality can tell us thatmurder is worse than stealing, and group most sins in anorder all must approve, but it cannot group Helen. Thesurer its pronouncements on this point, the surer may we bethat morality is not speaking. Christ was evasive when theyquestioned Him. It is those that cannot connect who hastento cast the first stone.
This was Helen's evening--won at what cost, and not tobe marred by the sorrows of others. Of her own tragedyMargaret never uttered a word.
"One isolates," said Helen slowly. "I isolated Mr.Wilcox from the other forces that were pulling Leonarddownhill. Consequently, I was full of pity, and almost ofrevenge. For weeks I had blamed Mr. Wilcox only, and so,when your letters came--"
"I need never have written them," sighed Margaret."They never shielded Henry. How hopeless it is to tidy awaythe past, even for others!"
"I did not know that it was your own idea to dismiss theBasts."
"Looking back, that was wrong of me."
"Looking back, darling, I know that it was right. It isright to save the man whom one loves. I am lessenthusiastic about justice now. But we both thought youwrote at his dictation. It seemed the last touch of hiscallousness. Being very much wrought up by this time--andMrs. Bast was upstairs. I had not seen her, and had talkedfor a long time to Leonard--I had snubbed him for no reason,and that should have warned me I was in danger. So when thenotes came I wanted us to go to you for an explanation. Hesaid that he guessed the explanation--he knew of it, and youmustn't know. I pressed him to tell me. He said no onemust know; it was something to do with his wife. Right upto the end we were Mr. Bast and Miss Schlegel. I was goingto tell him that he must be frank with me when I saw hiseyes, and guessed that Mr. Wilcox had ruined him in twoways, not one. I drew him to me. I made him tell me. Ifelt very lonely myself. He is not to blame. He would havegone on worshipping me. I want never to see him again,though it sounds appalling. I wanted to give him money andfeel finished. Oh, Meg, the little that is known aboutthese things!"
She laid her face against the tree.
They were silent for a little. It was Helen's evening!
"The little, too, that is known about growth! Bothtimes it was loneliness, and the night, and panicafterwards. Did Leonard grow out of Paul?"
Margaret did not speak for a moment. So tired was shethat her attention had actually wandered to the teeth--theteeth that had been thrust into the tree's bark to medicateit. From where she sat she could see them gleam. She hadbeen trying to count them. "Leonard is a better growth thanmadness," she said. "I was afraid that you would reactagainst Paul until you went over the verge."
"I did react until I found poor Leonard. I am steadynow. I shan't ever like your Henry, dearest Meg, or evenspeak kindly about him, but all that blinding hate is over.I shall never rave against Wilcoxes any more. I understandhow you married him, and you will now be very happy."
Margaret did not reply.
newspaper report,but that?
"Except Mrs. Wilcox, dearest, no one understands ourlittle movements."
"Because in death--I agree."
"Not quite. I feel that you and I and Henry are onlyfragments of that woman's mind. She knows everything. Sheis everything. She is the house, and the tree that leansover it. People have their own deaths as well as their ownlives, and even if there is nothing beyond death, we shalldiffer in our nothingness. I cannot believe that knowledgesuch as hers will perish with knowledge such as mine. Sheknew about realities. She knew when people were in love,though she was not in the room. I don't doubt that she knewwhen Henry deceived her."
"Good-night, Mrs. Wilcox," called a voice.
"Oh, good-night, Miss Avery."
"Why should Miss Avery work for us?" Helen murmured.
"Why, indeed?"
Miss Avery crossed the lawn and merged into the hedgethat divided it from the farm. An old gap, which Mr. Wilcoxhad filled up, had reappeared, and her track through the dewfollowed the path that he had turfed over, when he improvedthe garden and made it possible for games.
"This is not quite our house yet," said Helen. "WhenMiss Avery called, I felt we are only a couple of tourists."
"We shall be that everywhere, and for ever."
"But affectionate tourists--"
"But tourists who pretend each hotel is their home."
"I can't pretend very long," said Helen. "Sitting underthis tree one forgets, but I know that tomorrow I shall seethe moon rise out of Germany. Not all your goodness canalter the facts of the case. Unless you will come with me."
Margaret thought for a moment. In the past year she hadgrown so fond of England that to leave it was a real grief.Yet what detained her? No doubt Henry would pardon heroutburst, and go on blustering and muddling into a ripe oldage. But what was the good? She had just as soon vanishfrom his mind.
"Are you serious in asking me, Helen? Should I get onwith your Monica?"
would not, but I am serious in asking you.
"You would not, but I am serious in asking you."
"Still, no more plans now. And no more reminiscences."
They were silent for a little. It was Helen's evening.
The present flowed by them like a stream. The treerustled. It had made music before they were born, and wouldcontinue after their deaths, but its song was of themoment. The moment had passed. The tree rustled again.Their senses were sharpened, and they seemed to apprehendlife. Life passed. The tree nestled again.
"Sleep now," said Margaret.
The peace of the country was entering into her. It hasno commerce with memory, and little with hope. Least of allis it concerned with the hopes of the next five minutes. Itis the peace of the present, which passes understanding.Its murmur came "now," and "now" once more as they trod thegravel, and "now," as the moonlight fell upon their father'ssword. They passed upstairs, kissed, and amidst the endlessiterations fell asleep. The house had enshadowed the treeat first, but as the moon rose higher the two disentangled,and were clear for a few moments at midnight. Margaretawoke and looked into the garden. How incomprehensible thatLeonard Bast should have won her this night of peace! Washe also part of Mrs. Wilcox's mind?