CHAPTER XXVII
關燈
小
中
大
hings.Ihaveguessed.Iamfrightfully,dreadfullysorry,butitdoesnotmaketheleastdifferencetome.Ishallfeeljustthesametobothofyou.Iblame,notyourwifeforthesethings,butmen.”
Leonardleftitatthat—solongasshedidnotguesstheman.Shestoodatthewindowandslowlypulleduptheblinds.Thehotellookedoveradarksquare.Themistshadbegun.Whensheturnedbacktohimhereyeswereshining.“Don’tyouworry,”hepleaded.“Ican’tbearthat.WeshallbeallrightifIgetwork.IfIcouldonlygetwork—somethingregulartodo.Thenitwouldn’tbesobadagain.Idon’ttroubleafterbooksasIused.Icanimaginethatwithregularworkweshouldsettledownagain.Itstopsonethinking.”
“Settledowntowhat?”
“Oh,justsettledown.”
“Andthat’stobelife!”saidHelen,withacatchinherthroat.“Howcanyou,withallthebeautifulthingstoseeanddo—withmusic—withwalkingatnight—”
“Walkingiswellenoughwhenaman’sinwork,”heanswered.“Oh,Ididtalkalotofnonsenseonce,butthere’snothinglikeabailiffinthehousetodriveitoutofyou.WhenIsawhimfingeringmyRuskinsandStevensons,Iseemedtoseelifestraightandreal,anditisn’taprettysight.Mybooksarebackagain,thankstoyou,butthey’llneverbethesametomeagain,andIshan’teveragainthinknightinthewoodsiswonderful.”
“Whynot?”askedHelen,throwingupthewindow.
“BecauseIseeonemusthavemoney.”
“Well,you’rewrong.”
“IwishIwaswrong,but—theclergyman—hehasmoneyofhisown,orelsehe’spaidthepoetorthemusician—justthesamethetramp—he’snodifferent.Thetrampgoestotheworkhouseintheend,andispaidforwithotherpeople’smoney.MissSchlegel,therealthing’smoney,andalltherestisadream.”
“You’restillwrong.You’veforgottenDeath.”
Leonardcouldnotunderstand.
“Ifwelivedforever,whatyousaywouldbetrue.Butwehavetodie,wehavetoleavelifepresently.Injusticeandgreedwouldbetherealthingifwelivedforever.Asitis,wemustholdtootherthings,becauseDeathiscoming.IloveDeath—notmorbidly,butbecauseHeexplains.HeshowsmetheemptinessofMoney.DeathandMoneyaretheeternalfoes.NotDeathandLife.Never
