霍华德庄园 英文版 Howards End
爱德华.摩根.福斯特 Edward Morgan Forster
Chapter 43
Out of the turmoil and horror that had begun with AuntJuley's illness and was not even to end with Leonard'sdeath, it seemed impossible to Margaret that healthy lifeshould re-emerge. Events succeeded in a logical, yetsenseless, train. People lost their humanity, and tookvalues as arbitrary as those in a pack of playing-cards. Itwas natural that Henry should do this and cause Helen to dothat, and then think her wrong for doing it; natural thatshe herself should think him wrong; natural that Leonardshould want to know how Helen was, and come, and Charles beangry with him for coming--natural, but unreal. In thisjangle of causes and effects what had become of their trueselves? Here Leonard lay dead in the garden, from naturalcauses; yet life was a deep, deep river, death a blue sky,life was a house, death a wisp of hay, a flower, a tower,life and death were anything and everything, except thisordered insanity, where the king takes the queen, and theace the king. Ah, no; there was beauty and adventurebehind, such as the man at her feet had yearned for; therewas hope this side of the grave; there were truerrelationships beyond the limits that fetter us now. As aprisoner looks up and sees stars beckoning, so she, from theturmoil and horror of those days, caught glimpses of thediviner wheels.
And Helen, dumb with fright, but trying to keep calm forthe child's sake, and Miss Avery, calm, but murmuringtenderly, "No one ever told the lad he'll have achild"--they also reminded her that horror is not the end.To what ultimate harmony we tend she did not know, but thereseemed great chance that a child would be born into theworld, to take the great chances of beauty and adventurethat the world offers. She moved through the sunlit garden,gathering narcissi, crimson-eyed and white. There wasnothing else to be done; the time for telegrams and angerwas over, and it seemed wisest that the hands of Leonardshould be folded on his breast and be filled with flowers.Here was the father; leave it at that. Let Squalor beturned into Tragedy, whose eyes are the stars, and whosehands hold the sunset and the dawn.
And even the influx of officials, even the return of thedoctor, vulgar and acute, could not shake her belief in theeternity of beauty. Science explained people, but could notunderstand them. After long centuries among the bones andmuscles it might be advancing to knowledge of the nerves,but this would never give understanding. One could open theheart to Mr. Mansbridge and his sort without discovering itssecrets to them, for they wanted everything down in blackand white, and black and white was exactly what they wereleft with.
They questioned her closely about Charles. She neversuspected why. Death had come, and the doctor agreed thatit was due to heart disease. They asked to see her father'ssword. She explained that Charles's anger was natural, butmistaken. Miserable questions about Leonard followed, allof which she answered unfalteringly. Then back to Charlesagain. "No doubt Mr. Wilcox may have induced death," shesaid; "but if it wasn't one thing it would have beenanother, as you yourselves know." At last they thanked her,and took the sword and the body down to Hilton. She beganto pick up the books from the floor.
Helen had gone to the farm. It was the best place forher, since she had to wait for the inquest. Though, as ifthings were not hard enough, Madge and her husband hadraised trouble; they did not see why they should receive theoffscourings of Howards End. And, of course, they wereright. The whole world was going to be right, and amplyavenge any brave talk against the conventions. "Nothingmatters," the Schlegels had said in the past, "except one'sself-respect and that of one's friends." When the time came,other things mattered terribly. However, Madge had yielded,and Helen was assured of peace for one day and night, andtomorrow she would return to Germany.
As for herself, she determined to go too. No messagecame from Henry; perhaps he expected her to apologize. Nowthat she had time to think over her own tragedy, she wasunrepentant. She neither forgave him for his behaviour norwished to forgive him. Her speech to him seemed perfect.She would not have altered a word. It had to be utteredonce in a life, to adjust the lopsidedness of the world. Itwas spoken not only to her husband, but to thousands of menlike him--a protest against the inner darkness in highplaces that comes with a commercial age. Though he wouldbuild up his life without hers, she could not apologize. Hehad refused to connect, on the clearest issue that can belaid before a man, and their love must take the consequences.
No, there was nothing more to be done. They had triednot to go over the precipice but perhaps the fall wasinevitable. And it comforted her to think that the futurewas certainly inevitable: cause and effect would go janglingforward to some goal doubtless, but to none that she couldimagine. At such moments the soul retires within, to floatupon the bosom of a deeper stream, and has communion withthe dead, and sees the world's glory not diminished, butdifferent in kind to what she has supposed. She alters herfocus until trivial things are blurred. Margaret had beentending this way all the winter. Leonard's death broughther to the goal. Alas! that Henry should fade, away asreality emerged, and only her love for him should remainclear, stamped with his image like the cameos we rescue outof dreams.
With unfaltering eye she traced his future. He wouldsoon present a healthy mind to the world again, and what didhe or the world care if he was rotten at the core? He wouldgrow into a rich, jolly old man, at times a littlesentimental about women, but emptying his glass withanyone. Tenacious of power, he would keep Charles and therest dependent, and retire from business reluctantly and atan advanced age. He would settle down--though she could notrealize this. In her eyes Henry was always moving andcausing others to move, until the ends of the earth met.But in time he must get too tired to move, and settle down.What next? The inevitable word. The release of the soul toits appropriate Heaven.
Would they meet in it? Margaret believed in immortalityfor herself. An eternal future had always seemed natural toher. And Henry believed in it for himself. Yet, would theymeet again? Are there not rather endless levels beyond thegrave, as the theory that he had censured teaches? And hislevel, whether higher or lower, could it possibly be thesame as hers?
Thus gravely meditating, she was summoned by him. Hesent up Crane in the motor. Other servants passed likewater, but the chauffeur remained, though impertinent anddisloyal. Margaret disliked Crane, and he knew it.
"Is it the keys that Mr. Wilcox wants?" she asked.
"He didn't say, madam."
"You haven't any note for me?"
"He didn't say, madam."
After a moment's thought she locked up Howards End. Itwas pitiable to see in it the stirrings of warmth that wouldbe quenched for ever. She raked out the fire that wasblazing in the kitchen, and spread the coals in thegravelled yard. She closed the windows and drew thecurtains. Henry would probably sell the place now.
She was determined not to spare him, for nothing new hadhappened as far as they were concerned. Her mood mightnever have altered from yesterday evening. He was standinga little outside Charles's gate, and motioned the car tostop. When his wife got out he said hoarsely: "I prefer todiscuss things with you outside."
"It will be more appropriate in the road, I am afraid,"said Margaret. "Did you get my message?"
"What about?"
"I am going to Germany with my sister. I must tell younow that I shall make it my permanent home. Our talk lastnight was more important than you have realized. I amunable to forgive you and am leaving you."
"I am extremely tired," said Henry, in injured tones."I have been walking about all the morning, and wish to sit down."
"Certainly, if you will consent to sit on the grass."
"Here are your keys," said Margaret. She tossed themtowards him. They fell on the sunlit slope of grass, and hedid not pick them up.
"I have something to tell you," he said gently.
She knew this superficial gentleness, this confession ofhastiness, that was only intended to enhance her admirationof the male.
"I don't want to hear it," she replied. "My sister isgoing to be ill. My life is going to be with her now. Wemust manage to build up something, she and I and her child."
"Where are you going?"
"Munich. We start after the inquest, if she is not too ill."
"After the inquest?"
"Yes."
"Have you realized what the verdict at the inquest will be?"
"Yes, heart disease."
"No, my dear; manslaughter."
Margaret drove her fingers through the grass. The hillbeneath her moved as if it was alive.
"Manslaughter," repeated Mr. Wilcox. "Charles may go toprison. I dare not tell him. I don't know what to do--whatto do. I'm broken--I'm ended. "
No sudden warmth arose in her. She did not see that tobreak him was her only hope. She did not enfold thesufferer in her arms. But all through that day and the nexta new life began to move. The verdict was brought in.Charles was committed for trial. It was against all reasonthat he should be punished, but the law, being made in hisimage, sentenced him to three years' imprisonment. ThenHenry's fortress gave way. He could bear no one but hiswife, he shambled up to Margaret afterwards and asked her todo what she could with him. She did what seemedeasiest--she took him down to recruit at Howards End.