霍华德庄园 英文版 Howards End
爱德华.摩根.福斯特 Edward Morgan Forster
Chapter 41
Far different was Leonard's development. The months afterOniton, whatever minor troubles they might bring him, wereall overshadowed by Remorse. When Helen looked back shecould philosophize, or she could look into the future andplan for her child. But the father saw nothing beyond hisown sin. Weeks afterwards, in the midst of otheroccupations, he would suddenly cry out, "Brute--you brute, Icouldn't have--" and be rent into two people who helddialogues. Or brown rain would descend, blotting out facesand the sky. Even Jacky noticed the change in him. Mostterrible were his sufferings when he awoke from sleep.Sometimes he was happy at first, but grew conscious of aburden hanging to him and weighing down his thoughts whenthey would move. Or little irons scorched his body. Or asword stabbed him. He would sit at the edge of his bed,holding his heart and moaning, "Oh what SHALL I do, whateverSHALL I do?" Nothing brought ease. He could put distancebetween him and the trespass, but it grew in his soul.
Remorse is not among the eternal verities. The Greekswere right to dethrone her. Her action is too capricious,as though the Erinyes selected for punishment only certainmen and certain sins. And of all means to regenerationRemorse is surely the most wasteful. It cuts away healthytissues with the poisoned. It is a knife that probes fardeeper than the evil. Leonard was driven straight throughits torments and emerged pure, but enfeebled--a better man,who would never lose control of himself again, but also asmaller, who had less to control. Nor did purity meanpeace. The use of the knife can become a habit as hard toshake off as passion itself, and Leonard continued to startwith a cry out of dreams.
He built up a situation that was far enough from thetruth. It never occurred to him that Helen was to blame.He forgot the intensity of their talk, the charm that hadbeen lent him by sincerity, the magic of Oniton underdarkness and of the whispering river. Helen loved theabsolute. Leonard had been ruined absolutely, and hadappeared to her as a man apart, isolated from the world. Areal man, who cared for adventure and beauty, who desired tolive decently and pay his way, who could have travelled moregloriously through life than the Juggernaut car that wascrushing him. Memories of Evie's wedding had warped her,the starched servants, the yards of uneaten food, the rustleof overdressed women, motor-cars oozing grease on thegravel, rubbish on a pretentious band. She had tasted thelees of this on her arrival: in the darkness, after failure,they intoxicated her. She and the victim seemed alone in aworld of unreality, and she loved him absolutely, perhapsfor half an hour.
In the morning she was gone. The note that she left,tender and hysterical in tone, and intended to be most kind,hurt her lover terribly. It was as if some work of art hadbeen broken by him, some picture in the National Galleryslashed out of its frame. When he recalled her talents andher social position, he felt that the first passerby had aright to shoot him down. He was afraid of the waitress andthe porters at the railway-station. He was afraid at firstof his wife, though later he was to regard her with astrange new tenderness, and to think, "There is nothing tochoose between us, after all."
The expedition to Shropshire crippled the Bastspermanently. Helen in her flight forgot to settle the hotelbill, and took their return tickets away with her; they hadto pawn Jacky's bangles to get home, and the smash came afew days afterwards. It is true that Helen offered him fivethousands pounds, but such a sum meant nothing to him. Hecould not see that the girl was desperately rightingherself, and trying to save something out of the disaster,if it was only five thousand pounds. But he had to livesomehow. He turned to his family, and degraded himself to aprofessional beggar. There was nothing else for him to do.
"A letter from Leonard," thought Blanche, his sister;"and after all this time." She hid it, so that her husbandshould not see, and when he had gone to his work read itwith some emotion, and sent the prodigal a little money outof her dress allowance.
"A letter from Leonard!" said the other sister, Laura, afew days later. She showed it to her husband. He wrote acruel insolent reply, but sent more money than Blanche, soLeonard soon wrote to him again.
And during the winter the system was developed. Leonardrealized that they need never starve, because it would betoo painful for his relatives. Society is based on thefamily, and the clever wastrel can exploit thisindefinitely. Without a generous thought on either side,pounds and pounds passed. The donors disliked Leonard, andhe grew to hate them intensely. When Laura censured hisimmoral marriage, he thought bitterly, "She minds that!What would she say if she knew the truth?" When Blanche'shusband offered him work, he found some pretext for avoidingit. He had wanted work keenly at Oniton, but too muchanxiety had shattered him; he was joining the unemployable.When his brother, the lay-reader, did not reply to a letter,he wrote again, saying that he and Jacky would come down tohis village on foot. He did not intend this as blackmail.Still, the brother sent a postal order, and it became partof the system. And so passed his winter and his spring.
In the horror there are two bright spots. He neverconfused the past. He remained alive, and blessed are thosewho live, if it is only to a sense of sinfulness. Theanodyne of muddledom, by which most men blur and blend theirmistakes, never passed Leonard's lips--
And if I drink oblivion of a day,So shorten I the stature of my soul.
It is a hard saying, and a hard man wrote it, but itlies at the foot of all character.
And the other bright spot was his tenderness for Jacky.He pitied her with nobility now--not the contemptuous pityof a man who sticks to a woman through thick and thin. Hetried to be less irritable. He wondered what her hungryeyes desired--nothing that she could express, or that he orany man could give her. Would she ever receive the justicethat is mercy--the justice for by-products that the world istoo busy to bestow? She was fond of flowers, generous withmoney, and not revengeful. If she had borne him a child hemight have cared for her. Unmarried, Leonard would neverhave begged; he would have flickered out and died. But thewhole of life is mixed. He had to provide for Jacky, andwent down dirty paths that she might have a few feathers anddishes of food that suited her.
One day he caught sight of Margaret and her brother. Hewas in St. Paul's. He had entered the cathedral partly toavoid the rain and partly to see a picture that had educatedhim in former years. But the light was bad, the picture illplaced, and Time and Judgment were inside him now. Deathalone still charmed him, with her lap of poppies, on whichall men shall sleep. He took one glance, and turnedaimlessly away towards a chair. Then down the nave he sawMiss Schlegel and her brother. They stood in the fairway ofpassengers, and their faces were extremely grave. He wasperfectly certain that they were in trouble about their sister.
Once outside--and he fled immediately--he wished that hehad spoken to them. What was his life? What were a fewangry words, or even imprisonment? He had done wrong--thatwas the true terror. Whatever they might know, he wouldtell them everything he knew. He re-entered St. Paul's.But they had moved in his absence, and had gone to lay theirdifficulties before Mr. Wilcox and Charles.
The sight of Margaret turned remorse into new channels.He desired to confess, and though the desire is proof of aweakened nature, which is about to lose the essence of humanintercourse, it did not take an ignoble form. He did notsuppose that confession would bring him happiness. It wasrather that he yearned to get clear of the tangle. So doesthe suicide yearn. The impulses are akin, and the crime ofsuicide lies rather in its disregard for the feelings ofthose whom we leave behind. Confession need harm no one--itcan satisfy that test--and though it was un-English, andignored by our Anglican cathedral, Leonard had a right todecide upon it.
Moreover, he trusted Margaret. He wanted her hardnessnow. That cold, intellectual nature of hers would be just,if unkind. He would do whatever she told him, even if hehad to see Helen. That was the supreme punishment she wouldexact. And perhaps she would tell him how Helen was. Thatwas the supreme reward.
He knew nothing about Margaret, not even whether she wasmarried to Mr. Wilcox, and tracking her out took severaldays. That evening he toiled through the wet to WickhamPlace, where the new flats were now appearing. Was he alsothe cause of their move? Were they expelled from society onhis account? Thence to a public library, but could find nosatisfactory Schlegel in the directory. On the morrow hesearched again. He hung about outside Mr. Wilcox's officeat lunch time, and, as the clerks came out said: "Excuse me,sir, but is your boss married?" Most of them stared, somesaid, "What's that to you?" but one, who had not yetacquired reticence, told him what he wished. Leonard couldnot learn the private address. That necessitated moretrouble with directories and tubes. Ducie Street was notdiscovered till the Monday, the day that Margaret and herhusband went down on their hunting expedition to Howards End.
He called at about four o'clock. The weather hadchanged, and the sun shone gaily on the ornamentalsteps--black and white marble in triangles. Leonard loweredhis eyes to them after ringing the bell. He felt in curioushealth: doors seemed to be opening and shutting inside hisbody, and he had been obliged to steep sitting up in bed,with his back propped against the wall. When theparlourmaid came he could not see her face; the brown rainhad descended suddenly.
"Does Mrs. Wilcox live here?" he asked.
"She's out," was the answer.
"When will she be back?"
"I'll ask," said the parlourmaid.
Margaret had given instructions that no one whomentioned her name should ever be rebuffed. Putting thedoor on the chain--for Leonard's appearance demandedthis--she went through to the smoking-room, which wasoccupied by Tibby. Tibby was asleep. He had had a goodlunch. Charles Wilcox had not yet rung him up for thedistracting interview. He said drowsily: "I don't know.Hilton. Howards End. Who is it?"
"I'll ask, sir."
"No, don't bother."
"They have taken the car to Howards End," said theparlourmaid to Leonard.
He thanked her, and asked whereabouts that place was.
"You appear to want to know a good deal," she remarked.But Margaret had forbidden her to be mysterious. She toldhim against her better judgment that Howards End was inHertfordshire.
"Is it a village, please?"
"Village! It's Mr. Wilcox's private house--at least,it's one of them. Mrs. Wilcox keeps her furniture there.Hilton is the village."
"Yes. And when will they be back?"
"Mr. Schlegel doesn't know. We can't know everything,can we?" She shut him out, and went to attend to thetelephone, which was ringing furiously.
He loitered away another night of agony. Confessiongrew more difficult. As soon as possible he went to bed.He watched a patch of moonlight cross the floor of theirlodging, and, as sometimes happens when the mind isovertaxed, he fell asleep for the rest of the room, but keptawake for the patch of moonlight. Horrible! Then began oneof those disintegrating dialogues. Part of him said: "Whyhorrible? It's ordinary light from the room." "But itmoves." "So does the moon." "But it is a clenched fist.""Why not?" "But it is going to touch me." "Let it." And,seeming to gather motion, the patch ran up his blanket.Presently a blue snake appeared; then another, parallel toit. "Is there life in the moon?" "Of course." "But Ithought it was uninhabited." "Not by Time, Death, Judgment,and the smaller snakes." "Smaller snakes!" said Leonardindignantly and aloud. "What a notion!" By a rendingeffort of the will he woke the rest of the room up. Jacky,the bed, their food, their clothes on the chair, graduallyentered his consciousness, and the horror vanished outwards,like a ring that is spreading through water.
"I say, Jacky, I'm going out for a bit."
She was breathing regularly. The patch of light fellclear of the striped blanket, and began to cover the shawlthat lay over her feet. Why had he been afraid? He went tothe window, and saw that the moon was descending through aclear sky. He saw her volcanoes, and the bright expansesthat a gracious error has named seas. They paled, for thesun, who had lit them up, was coming to light the earth.Sea of Serenity, Sea of Tranquillity, Ocean of the LunarStorms, merged into one lucent drop, itself to slip into thesempiternal dawn. And he had been afraid of the moon!
He dressed among the contending lights, and went throughhis money. It was running low again, but enough for areturn ticket to Hilton. As it clinked Jacky opened her eyes.
"Hullo, Len! What ho, Len!"
"What ho, Jacky! see you again later."
She turned over and slept.
The house was unlocked, their landlord being a salesmanat Convent Garden. Leonard passed out and made his way downto the station. The train, though it did not start for anhour, was already drawn up at the end of the platform, andhe lay down in it and slept. With the first jolt he was indaylight; they had left the gateways of King's Cross, andwere under blue sky. Tunnels followed, and after each thesky grew bluer, and from the embankment at Finsbury Park hehad his first sight of the sun. It rolled along behind theeastern smokes--a wheel, whose fellow was the descendingmoon--and as yet it seemed the servant of the blue sky, notits lord. He dozed again. Over Tewin Water it was day. Tothe left fell the shadow of the embankment and its arches;to the right Leonard saw up into the Tewin Woods and towardsthe church, with its wild legend of immortality. Six foresttrees--that is a fact--grow out of one of the graves inTewin churchyard. The grave's occupant--that is thelegend--is an atheist, who declared that if God existed, sixforest trees would grow out of her grave. These things inHertfordshire; and farther afield lay the house of ahermit--Mrs. Wilcox had known him--who barred himself up,and wrote prophecies, and gave all he had to the poor.While, powdered in between, were the villas of business men,who saw life more steadily, though with the steadiness ofthe half-closed eye. Over all the sun was streaming, to allthe birds were singing, to all the primroses were yellow,and the speedwell blue, and the country, however theyinterpreted her, was uttering her cry of "now." She did notfree Leonard yet, and the knife plunged deeper into hisheart as the train drew up at Hilton. But remorse hadbecome beautiful.
Hilton was asleep, or at the earliest, breakfasting.Leonard noticed the contrast when he stepped out of it intothe country. Here men had been up since dawn. Their hourswere ruled, not by a London office, but by the movements ofthe crops and the sun. That they were men of the finesttype only the sentimentalist can declare. But they kept tothe life of daylight. They are England's hope. Clumsilythey carry forward the torch of the sun, until such time asthe nation sees fit to take it up. Half clodhopper, halfboard-school prig, they can still throw back to a noblerstock, and breed yeomen.
At the chalk pit a motor passed him. In it was anothertype, whom Nature favours--the Imperial. Healthy, ever inmotion, it hopes to inherit the earth. It breeds as quicklyas the yeoman, and as soundly; strong is the temptation toacclaim it as a super-yeoman, who carries his country'svirtue overseas. But the Imperialist is not what he thinksor seems. He is a destroyer. He prepares the way forcosmopolitanism, and though his ambitions may be fulfilled,the earth that he inherits will be grey.
To Leonard, intent on his private sin, there came theconviction of innate goodness elsewhere. It was not theoptimism which he had been taught at school. Again andagain must the drums tap, and the goblins stalk over theuniverse before joy can be purged of the superficial. Itwas rather paradoxical, and arose from his sorrow. Deathdestroys a man, but the idea of death saves him--that is thebest account of it that has yet been given. Squalor andtragedy can beckon to all that is great in us, andstrengthen the wings of love. They can beckon; it is notcertain that they will, for they are not love's servants.But they can beckon, and the knowledge of this incredibletruth comforted him.
As he approached the house all thought stopped.Contradictory notions stood side by side in his mind. Hewas terrified but happy, ashamed, but had done no sin. Heknew the confession: "Mrs. Wilcox, I have done wrong," butsunrise had robbed its meaning, and he felt rather on asupreme adventure.
He entered a garden, steadied himself against amotor-car that he found in it, found a door open and entereda house. Yes, it would be very easy. From a room to theleft he heard voices, Margaret's amongst them. His own namewas called aloud, and a man whom he had never seen said,"Oh, is he there? I am not surprised. I now thrash himwithin an inch of his life."
"Mrs. Wilcox," said Leonard, "I have done wrong."
The man took him by the collar and cried, "Bring me astick." Women were screaming. A stick, very bright,descended. It hurt him, not where it descended, but in theheart. Books fell over him in a shower. Nothing had sense.
"Get some water," commanded Charles, who had all throughkept very calm. "He's shamming. Of course I only used theblade. Here, carry him out into the air."
Thinking that he understood these things, Margaretobeyed him. They laid Leonard, who was dead, on the gravel;Helen poured water over him.
"That's enough," said Charles.
"Yes, murder's enough," said Miss Avery, coming out ofthe house with the sword.