One grave to me was given.
?One watch till Judgement Day;
And God looked down from Heaven
?And rolled the stone away.
One day in all the years.
?One hour in that one day.
His Angel saw my tears.
?And rolled the stone away!
EVERY one in the village knew that Helen Turrell did her duty by all her world, and by none more honourably1 than by her only brother’s unfortunate child. The village knew, too, that George Turrell had tried his family severely2 since early youth, and were not surprised to be told that, after many fresh starts given and thrown away, he, an Inspector3 of Indian Police, had entangled4 himself with the daughter of a retired5 noncommissioned officer, and had died of a fall from a horse a few weeks before his child was born. Mercifully, George’s father and mother were both dead, and though Helen, thirty-five and independent, might well have washed her hands of the whole disgraceful affair, she most nobly took charge, though she was, at the time, under threat of lung trouble which had driven her to the South of France. She arranged for the passage of the child and a nurse from Bombay, met them at Marseilles, nursed the baby through an attack of infantile dysentery due to the carelessness of the nurse, whom she had had to dismiss, and at last, thin and worn but triumphant6, brought the boy late in the autumn, wholly restored, to her Hampshire home.
All these details were public property, for Helen was as open as the day, and held that scandals are only increased by hushing them up. She admitted that George had always been rather a black sheep, but things might have been much worse if the mother had insisted on her right to keep the boy. Luckily, it seemed that people of that class would do almost anything for money, and, as George had always turned to her in his scrapes, she felt herself justified7 — her friends agreed with her — in cutting the whole non-commissioned officer connection, and giving the child every advantage. A christening, by the Rector, under the name of Michael, was the first step. So far as she knew herself, she was not, she said, a child-lover, but, for all his faults, she had been very fond of George, and she pointed8 out that little Michael had his father’s mouth to a line; which made something to build upon.
As a matter of fact, it was the Turrell forehead, broad, low, and well-shaped, with the widely spaced eyes beneath it, that Michael had most faithfully reproduced. His mouth was somewhat better cut than the family type. But Helen, who would concede nothing good to his mother’s side, vowed9 he was a Turrell all over, and, there being no one to contradict, the likeness10 was established.
In a few years Michael took his place, as accepted as Helen had always been — fearless, philosophical11, and fairly good-looking. At six, he wished to know why he could not call her ‘Mummy’, as other boys called their mothers. She explained that she was only his auntie, and that aunties were not quite the same as mummies, but that, if it gave him pleasure, he might call her ‘Mummy’ at bedtime, for a pet-name between themselves.
Michael kept his secret most loyally, but Helen, as usual, explained the fact to her friends; which when Michael heard, he raged.
‘Why did you tell? Why did you tell?’ came at the end of the storm.
‘Because it’s always best to tell the truth,’ Helen answered, her arm round him as he shook in his cot.
‘All right, but when the troof’s ugly I don’t think it’s nice.’
‘Don’t you, dear!’
‘No, I don’t, and’— she felt the small body stiffen13 —‘now you’ve told, I won’t call you “Mummy” any more — not even at bedtimes.
‘But isn’t that rather unkind?’ said Helen softly.
‘I don’t care! You’ve hurted me in my insides and I’l hurt you back. I’ll hurt you as long as I live!’
‘Don’t, oh, don’t talk like that, dear! You don’t know what —’
‘I will! And when I’m dead I’ll hurt you worse!’
‘Thank goodness, I shall be dead long before you, darling.’
‘Huh! Emma says, “‘Never know your luck.”’ (Michael had been talking to Helen’s elderly flat-faced maid.) ‘Lots of little boys die quite soon. So’ll I. Then you’ll see!’
Helen caught her breath and moved towards the door, but the wail14 of ‘Mummy! Mummy!’ drew her back again, and the two wept together.
At ten years old, after two terms at a prep. school, something or somebody gave him the idea that his civil status was not quite regular. He attacked Helen on the subject, breaking down her stammered15 defences with the family directness.
‘Don’t believe a word of it,’ he said, cheerily, at the end. ‘People wouldn’t have talked like they did if my people had been married. But don’t you bother, Auntie. I’ve found out all about my sort in English Hist’ry and the Shakespeare bits. There was William the Conqueror16 to begin with, and — oh, heaps more, and they all got on first-rate. ‘Twon’t make any difference to you, my being that — will it?’
‘As if anything could —’ she began.
‘All right. We won’t talk about it any more if it makes you cry.’ He never mentioned the thing again of his own will, but when, two years later, he skilfully17 managed to have measles18 in the holidays, as his temperature went up to the appointed one hundred and four he muttered of nothing else, till Helen’s voice, piercing at last his delirium19, reached him with assurance that nothing on earth or beyond could make any difference between them.
The terms at his public school and the wonderful Christmas, Easter, and Summer holidays followed each other, variegated20 and glorious as jewels on a string; and as jewels Helen treasured them. In due time Michael developed his own interests, which ran their courses and gave way to others; but his interest in Helen was constant and increasing throughout. She repaid it with all that she had of affection or could command of counsel and money; and since Michael was no fool, the War took him just before what was like to have been a most promising21 career.
He was to have gone up to Oxford22, with a scholarship, in October. At the end of August he was on the edge of joining the first holocaust23 of public-school boys who threw themselves into the Line; but the captain of his OTC, where he had been sergeant24 for nearly a year, headed him off and steered25 him directly to a commission in a battalion26 so new that half of it still wore the old Army red, and the other half was breeding meningitis through living overcrowdedly in damp tents. Helen had been shocked at the idea of direct enlistment27. ‘But it’s in the family,’ Michael laughed.
‘You don’t mean to tell me that you believed that old story all this time?’ said Helen. (Emma, her maid, had been dead now several years.) ‘I gave you my word of honour — and I give it again — that — that it’s all right. It is indeed.’
‘Oh, that doesn’t worry me. It never did,’ he replied valiantly28. ‘What I meant was, I should have got into the show earlier if I’d enlisted29 — like my grandfather.
‘Don’t talk like that! Are you afraid of its ending so soon, then!’
‘No such luck. You know what K says.’
‘Yes. But my banker told me last Monday it couldn’t possibly last beyond Christmas — for financial reasons.’
‘Hope he’s right, but our Colonel — and he’s a Regular — says it’s going to be a long job.’
Michael’s battalion was fortunate in that, by some chance which meant several ‘leaves’, it was used for coast-defence among shallow trenches30 on the Norfolk coast; thence sent north to watch the mouth of a Scotch31 estuary32, and, lastly, held for weeks on a baseless rumour33 of distant service. But, the very day that Michael was to have met Helen for four whole hours at a railway-junction up the line, it was hurled34 out, to help make good the wastage of Loos, and he had only just time to send her a wire of farewell.
In France luck again helped the battalion. It was put down near the Salient, where it led a meritorious35 and unexacting life, while the Somme was being manufactured; and enjoyed the peace of the Armentieres and Laventie sectors36 when that battle began. Finding that it had sound views on protecting its own flanks and could dig, a prudent37 Commander stole it out of its own Division, under pretence38 of helping39 to lay telegraphs, and used it round Ypres at large.
A month later, just after Michael had written Helen that there was nothing special doing and therefore no need to worry, a shell-splinter dropping out of a wet dawn killed him at once. The next shell uprooted40 and laid down over the body what had been the foundation of a barn wall, so neatly41 that none but an expert would have guessed that anything unpleasant had happened.
By this time the village was old in experience of war, and, English fashion, had evolved a ritual to meet it. When the postmistress handed her seven-year-old daughter the official telegram to take to Miss Turrell, she observed to the Rector’s gardener: ‘It’s Miss Helen’s turn now.’ He replied, thinking of his own son: ‘Well, he’s lasted longer than some.’ The child herself came to the front-door weeping aloud, because Master Michael had often given her sweets. Helen, presently, found herself pulling down the house-blinds one after one with great care, and saying earnestly to each: ‘Missing always means dead.’ Then she took her place in the dreary42 procession that was impelled43 to go through an inevitable44 series of unprofitable emotions. The Rector, of course, preached hope and prophesied45 word, very soon, from a prison camp. Several friends, too, told her perfectly46 truthful47 tales, but always about other women, to whom, after months and months of silence, their missing had been miraculously48 restored. Other people urged her to communicate with infallible Secretaries of organizations who could communicate with benevolent49 neutrals, who could extract accurate information from the most secretive of Hun prison commandants. Helen did and wrote and signed everything that was suggested or put before her.
Once, on one of Michael’s leaves, he had taken her over munition50 factory, where she saw the progress of a shell from blank-iron to the all but finished article. It struck her at the time that the wretched thing was never left alone for a single second; and ‘I’m being manufactured into a bereaved51 next of kin12,’ she told herself, as she prepared her documents.
In due course, when all the organizations had deeply or sincerely regretted their inability to trace, etc., something gave way within her and all sensation — save of thankfulness for the release — came to an end in blessed passivity. Michael had died and her world had stood still and she had been one with the full shock of that arrest. Now she was standing52 still and the world was going forward, but it did not concern her — in no way or relation did it touch her. She knew this by the ease with which she could slip Michael’s name into talk and incline her head to the proper angle, at the proper murmur53 of sympathy.
In the blessed realization54 of that relief, the Armistice55 with all its bells broke over her and passed unheeded. At the end of another year she had overcome her physical loathing56 of the living and returned young, so that she could take them by the hand and almost sincerely wish them well. She had no interest in any aftermath, national or personal, of the war, but, moving at an immense distance, she sat on various relief committees and held strong views — she heard herself delivering them — about the site of the proposed village War Memorial.
Then there came to her, as next of kin, an official intimation, backed by a page of a letter to her in indelible pencil, a silver identity-disc, and a watch, to the effect that the body of Lieutenant57 Michael Turrell had been found, identified, and re-interred in Hagenzeele Third Military Cemetery58 — the letter of the row and the grave’s number in that row duly given.
So Helen found herself moved on to another process of the manufacture — to a world full of exultant59 or broken relatives, now strong in the certainty that there was an altar upon earth where they might lay their love. These soon told her, and by means of time-tables made clear, how easy it was and how little it interfered60 with life’s affairs to go and see one’s grave.
‘So different,’ as the Rector’s wife said, ‘if he’d been killed in Mesopotamia, or even Gallipoli.’
The agony of being waked up to some sort of second life drove Helen across the Channel, where, in a new world of abbreviated61 titles, she learnt that Hagenzeele Third could be comfortably reached by an afternoon train which fitted in with the morning boat, and that there was a comfortable little hotel not three kilometres from Hagenzeele itself, where one could spend quite a comfortable night and see one’s grave next morning. All this she had from a Central Authority who lived in a board and tar-paper shed on the skirts of a razed62 city full of whirling lime-dust and blown papers.
‘By the way,’ said he, ‘you know your grave, of course!’
‘Yes, thank you,’ said Helen, and showed its row and number typed on Michael’s own little typewriter. The officer would have checked it, out of one of his many books; but a large Lancashire woman thrust between them and bade him tell her where she might find her son, who had been corporal in the A.S.C. His proper name, she sobbed63, was Anderson, but, coming of respectable folk, he had of course enlisted under the name of Smith; and had been killed at Dickiebush, in early ‘Fifteen. She had not his number nor did she know which of his two Christian64 names he might have used with his alias65; but her Cook’s tourist ticket expired at the end of Easter week, and if by then she could not find her child she should go mad. Whereupon she fell forward on Helen’s breast; but the officer’s wife came out quickly from a little bedroom behind the office, and the three of them lifted the woman on to the cot.
‘They are often like this,’ said the officer’s wife, loosening the tight bonnet-strings. ‘Yesterday she said he’d been killed at Hooge. Are you sure you know your grave? It makes such a difference.’
‘Yes, thank you,’ said Helen, and hurried out before the woman on the bed should begin to lament66 again.
Tea in a crowded mauve and blue striped wooden structure, with a false front, carried her still further into the nightmare. She paid her bill beside a stolid67, plain-featured Englishwoman, who, hearing her inquire about the train to Hagenzeele, volunteered to come with her.
‘I’m going to Hagenzeele myself,’ she explained .‘Not to Hagenzeele Third; mine is Sugar Factory, but they call it La Rosiere now. It’s just south of Hagenzeele Three. Have you got your room at the hotel there!’
‘Oh yes, thank you. I’ve wired.’
‘That’s better. Sometimes the place is quite full, and at others there’s hardly a soul. But they’ve put bathrooms into the old Lion d’Or — that’s the hotel on the west side of Sugar Factory — and it draws off a lot of people, luckily.’
‘It’s all new to me. This is the first time I’ve been over.’
‘Indeed! This is my ninth time since the Armistice. Not on my own account. I haven’t lost any one, thank God — but, like every one else, I’ve a lot of friends at home who have. Coming over as often as I do, I find it helps them to have some one just look at the — the place and tell them about it afterwards. And one can take photos for them, too. I get quite a list of commissions to execute.’ She laughed nervously68 and tapped her slung69 Kodak. ‘There are two or three to see at Sugar Factory this time, and plenty of others in the cemeteries70 all about. My system is to save them up, and arrange them, you know. And when I’ve got enough commissions for one area to make it worth while, I pop over and execute them. It does comfort people.’
‘I suppose so,’ Helen answered, shivering as they entered the little train.
‘Of course it does. (Isn’t it lucky we’ve got window-seats!) It must do or they wouldn’t ask one to do it, would they! I’ve a list of quite twelve or fifteen commissions here’— she tapped the Kodak again —‘I must sort them out tonight. Oh, I forgot to ask you. What’s yours!’
‘My nephew,’ said Helen. ‘But I was very fond of him.’
‘Ah, yes! I sometimes wonder whether they know after death! What do you think?’
‘Oh, I don’t — I haven’t dared to think much about that sort of thing,’ said Helen, almost lifting her hands to keep her off.
‘Perhaps that’s better,’ the woman answered. ‘The sense of loss must be enough, I expect. Well, I won’t worry you any more.’
Helen was grateful, but when they reached the hotel Mrs Scarsworth (they had exchanged names) insisted on dining at the same table with her, and after the meal, in the little, hideous71 salon72 full of low-voiced relatives, took Helen through her ‘commissions’ with biographies of the dead, where she happened to know them, and sketches73 of their next of kin. Helen endured till nearly half-past nine, ere she fled to her room.
Almost at once there was a knock at her door and Mrs Scarsworth entered; her hands, holding the dreadful list, clasped before her.
‘Yes — yes — I know,’ she began. ‘You’re sick of me, but I want to tell you something. You — you aren’t married, are you? Then perhaps you won’t . . . But it doesn’t matter. I’ve got to tell some one. I can’t go on any longer like this.’
‘But please —’ Mrs Scarsworth had backed against the shut door, and her mouth worked dryly.
In a minute,’ she said. ‘You — you know about these graves of mine I was telling you about downstairs, just now! They really are commissions. At least several of them are.’ Her eye wandered round the room. ‘What extraordinary wall-papers they have in Belgium, don’t you think? . . . Yes. I swear they are commissions. But there’s one, d’you see, and — and he was more to me than anything else in the world. Do you understand?’
Helen nodded.
‘More than any one else. And, of course, he oughtn’t to have been. He ought to have been nothing to me. But he was. He is. That’s why I do the commissions, you see. That’s all.’
‘But why do you tell me!’ Helen asked desperately74.
‘Because I’m so tired of lying. Tired of lying — always lying — year in and year out. When I don’t tell lies I’ve got to act ’em and I’ve got to think ’em, always. You don’t know what that means. He was everything to me that he oughtn’t to have been — the one real thing — the only thing that ever happened to me in all my life; and I’ve had to pretend he wasn’t. I’ve had to watch every word I said, and think out what lie I’d tell next, for years and years!’
‘How many years?’ Helen asked.
‘Six years and four months before, and two and three-quarters after. I’ve gone to him eight times, since. Tomorrow’ll make the ninth, and — and I can’t — I can’t go to him again with nobody in the world knowing. I want to be honest with some one before I go. Do you understand! It doesn’t matter about me. I was never truthful, even as a girl. But it isn’t worthy75 of him. So I— I had to tell you. I can’t keep it up any longer. Oh, I can’t.’
She lifted her joined hands almost to the level of her mouth and brought them down sharply, still joined, to full arms’ length below her waist. Helen reached forward, caught them, bowed her head over them, and murmured: ‘Oh, my dear! My —’ Mrs Scarsworth stepped back, her face all mottled.
‘My God!’ said she. ‘Is that how you take it!’
Helen could not speak, and the woman went out; but it a long while before Helen was able to sleep.
Next morning Mrs Scarsworth left early on her round of commissions, and Helen walked alone to Hagenzeele Third. The place was still in the making, and stood some five or feet above the metalled road, which it flanked for hundred yards. Culverts across a deep ditch served for entrances through the unfinished boundary wall. She climbed a few wooden-faced earthen steps and then met the entire crowded level of the thing in one held breath. She did not know Hagenzeele Third counted twenty-one thousand dead already. All she saw was a merciless sea of black crosses, bearing little strips of stamped tin at all angles across their faces. She could distinguish no order or arrangement in their mass; nothing but a waist-high wilderness76 as of weeds stricken dead, rushing at her. She went forward, moved to the left and the right hopelessly, wondering by what guidance she should ever come to her own. A great distance away there was a line of whiteness. It proved to be a block of some two or three hundred graves whose headstones had already been set, whose flowers planted out, and whose new-sown grass showed green. Here she could see clear-cut letters at the ends of the rows, referring to her slip, realized that it was not here she must look.
A man knelt behind a line of headstones — evidently a gardener, for he was firming a young plant in the soft earth. She went towards him, her paper in her hand. He rose at her approach and without prelude77 or salutation asked: ‘Who are you looking for?’
‘Lieutenant Michael Turrell — my nephew,’ said Helen slowly and word for word, as she had many thousands of times in her life.
The man lifted his eyes and looked at her with infinite compassion78 before he turned from the fresh-sown grass toward the naked black crosses.
‘Come with me,’ he said, ‘and I will show you where your son lies.’
When Helen left the Cemetery she turned for a last look. In the distance she saw the man bending over his young plants; and she went away, supposing him to be the gardener.
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honourably
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| adv.可尊敬地，光荣地，体面地 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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inspector
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| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
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entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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philosophical
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kin
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stiffen
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| v.(使)硬，(使)变挺，(使)变僵硬 | |
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wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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conqueror
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skilfully
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measles
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| n.麻疹，风疹，包虫病，痧子 | |
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delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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variegated
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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holocaust
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| n.大破坏；大屠杀 | |
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sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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steered
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| v.驾驶( steer的过去式和过去分词 )；操纵；控制；引导 | |
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battalion
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| n.营；部队；大队(的人) | |
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enlistment
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| n.应征入伍，获得，取得 | |
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valiantly
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| adv.勇敢地，英勇地；雄赳赳 | |
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enlisted
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| adj.应募入伍的v.（使）入伍， （使）参军( enlist的过去式和过去分词 )；获得（帮助或支持） | |
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trenches
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| 深沟，地沟( trench的名词复数 )； 战壕 | |
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scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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estuary
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| n.河口，江口 | |
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rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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hurled
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meritorious
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| adj.值得赞赏的 | |
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sectors
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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uprooted
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| v.把（某物）连根拔起( uproot的过去式和过去分词 )；根除；赶走；把…赶出家园 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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impelled
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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prophesied
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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miraculously
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| ad.奇迹般地 | |
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benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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munition
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| n.军火；军需品；v.给某部门提供军火 | |
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bereaved
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| adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的过去式和过去分词)；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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armistice
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| n.休战，停战协定 | |
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loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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exultant
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| adj.欢腾的，狂欢的，大喜的 | |
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interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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abbreviated
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| adj. 简短的，省略的 动词abbreviate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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razed
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| v.彻底摧毁，将…夷为平地( raze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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alias
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| n.化名；别名；adv.又名 | |
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lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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stolid
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| adj.无动于衷的，感情麻木的 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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cemeteries
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| n.（非教堂的）墓地，公墓( cemetery的名词复数 ) | |
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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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72
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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76
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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prelude
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| n.序言，前兆，序曲 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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