Howard's End :: Concordance

Howard's End by E.M. Forster Chapters 1-10
Chapters 1-10 Chapters 11-20 Chapters 21-30 Chapters 31-40 Chapters 41-44 This is a hypertextual, self-referential edition of Howard's End by E.M. Forster. The text was prepared using the Project Gutenberg edition. Click on any word to see its occurrences in the text; click on line numbers to go to that line; click on chapter names to go to that chapter; or search using the form below. Search terms can contain spaces and punctuation. The concordance for Howard's End ordered alphanumerically, and listed in order of word frequency. Click here for more texts.
[1] [2] Chapter 1 [3] [4] One may as well begin with Helen's letters to her sister. [5] [6] [7] HOWARDS END, [8] TUESDAY. [9] [10] Dearest Meg, [11] [12] It isn't going to be what we expected. It is old and [13] little, and altogether delightful--red brick. We can [14] scarcely pack in as it is, and the dear knows what will [15] happen when Paul (younger son) arrives tomorrow. From hall [16] you go right or left into dining-room or drawing-room. Hall [17] itself is practically a room. You open another door in it, [18] and there are the stairs going up in a sort of tunnel to the [19] first-floor. Three bedrooms in a row there, and three [20] attics in a row above. That isn't all the house really, but [21] it's all that one notices--nine windows as you look up from [22] the front garden. [23] [24] Then there's a very big wych-elm--to the left as you [25] look up--leaning a little over the house, and standing on [26] the boundary between the garden and meadow. I quite love [27] that tree already. Also ordinary elms, oaks--no nastier [28] than ordinary oaks--pear-trees, apple-trees, and a vine. No [29] silver birches, though. However, I must get on to my host [30] and hostess. I only wanted to show that it isn't the least [31] what we expected. Why did we settle that their house would [32] be all gables and wiggles, and their garden all [33] gamboge-coloured paths? I believe simply because we [34] associate them with expensive hotels--Mrs. Wilcox trailing [35] in beautiful dresses down long corridors, Mr. Wilcox [36] bullying porters, etc. We females are that unjust. [37] [38] I shall be back Saturday; will let you know train [39] later. They are as angry as I am that you did not come too; [40] really Tibby is too tiresome, he starts a new mortal disease [41] every month. How could he have got hay fever in London? [42] and even if he could, it seems hard that you should give up [43] a visit to hear a schoolboy sneeze. Tell him that Charles [44] Wilcox (the son who is here) has hay fever too, but he's [45] brave, and gets quite cross when we inquire after it. Men [46] like the Wilcoxes would do Tibby a power of good. But you [47] won't agree, and I'd better change the subject. [48] [49] This long letter is because I'm writing before [50] breakfast. Oh, the beautiful vine leaves! The house is [51] covered with a vine. I looked out earlier, and Mrs. Wilcox [52] was already in the garden. She evidently loves it. No [53] wonder she sometimes looks tired. She was watching the [54] large red poppies come out. Then she walked off the lawn to [55] the meadow, whose corner to the right I can just see. [56] Trail, trail, went her long dress over the sopping grass, [57] and she came back with her hands full of the hay that was [58] cut yesterday--I suppose for rabbits or something, as she [59] kept on smelling it. The air here is delicious. Later on I [60] heard the noise of croquet balls, and looked out again, and [61] it was Charles Wilcox practising; they are keen on all [62] games. Presently he started sneezing and had to stop. Then [63] I hear more clicketing, and it is Mr. Wilcox practising, and [64] then, 'a-tissue, a-tissue': he has to stop too. Then Evie [65] comes out, and does some calisthenic exercises on a machine [66] that is tacked on to a greengage-tree--they put everything [67] to use--and then she says 'a-tissue,' and in she goes. And [68] finally Mrs. Wilcox reappears, trail, trail, still smelling [69] hay and looking at the flowers. I inflict all this on you [70] because once you said that life is sometimes life and [71] sometimes only a drama, and one must learn to distinguish [72] t'other from which, and up to now I have always put that [73] down as 'Meg's clever nonsense.' But this morning, it really [74] does seem not life but a play, and it did amuse me [75] enormously to watch the W's. Now Mrs. Wilcox has come in. [76] [77] I am going to wear [omission]. Last night Mrs. Wilcox [78] wore an [omission], and Evie [omission]. So it isn't [79] exactly a go-as-you-please place, and if you shut your eyes [80] it still seems the wiggly hotel that we expected. Not if [81] you open them. The dog-roses are too sweet. There is a [82] great hedge of them over the lawn--magnificently tall, so [83] that they fall down in garlands, and nice and thin at the [84] bottom, so that you can see ducks through it and a cow. [85] These belong to the farm, which is the only house near us. [86] There goes the breakfast gong. Much love. Modified love to [87] Tibby. Love to Aunt Juley; how good of her to come and keep [88] you company, but what a bore. Burn this. Will write again [89] Thursday. [90] [91] Helen [92] [93] [94] HOWARDS END, [95] FRIDAY. [96] [97] Dearest Meg, [98] [99] I am having a glorious time. I like them all. Mrs. [100] Wilcox, if quieter than in Germany, is sweeter than ever, [101] and I never saw anything like her steady unselfishness, and [102] the best of it is that the others do not take advantage of [103] her. They are the very happiest, jolliest family that you [104] can imagine. I do really feel that we are making friends. [105] The fun of it is that they think me a noodle, and say so--at [106] least Mr. Wilcox does--and when that happens, and one [107] doesn't mind, it's a pretty sure test, isn't it? He says [108] the most horrid things about women's suffrage so nicely, and [109] when I said I believed in equality he just folded his arms [110] and gave me such a setting down as I've never had. Meg, [111] shall we ever learn to talk less? I never felt so ashamed [112] of myself in my life. I couldn't point to a time when men [113] had been equal, nor even to a time when the wish to be equal [114] had made them happier in other ways. I couldn't say a [115] word. I had just picked up the notion that equality is good [116] from some book--probably from poetry, or you. Anyhow, it's [117] been knocked into pieces, and, like all people who are [118] really strong, Mr. Wilcox did it without hurting me. On the [119] other hand, I laugh at them for catching hay fever. We live [120] like fighting-cocks, and Charles takes us out every day in [121] the motor--a tomb with trees in it, a hermit's house, a [122] wonderful road that was made by the Kings of [123] Mercia--tennis--a cricket match--bridge--and at night we [124] squeeze up in this lovely house. The whole clan's here [125] now--it's like a rabbit warren. Evie is a dear. They want [126] me to stop over Sunday--I suppose it won't matter if I do. [127] Marvellous weather and the view's marvellous--views westward [128] to the high ground. Thank you for your letter. Burn this. [129] [130] Your affectionate [131] Helen [132] [133] [134] HOWARDS END, [135] SUNDAY. [136] [137] Dearest, dearest Meg,--I do not know what you will say: [138] Paul and I are in love--the younger son who only came here [139] Wednesday. [140] [141] [142] Chapter 2 [143] [144] Margaret glanced at her sister's note and pushed it over the [145] breakfast-table to her aunt. There was a moment's hush, and [146] then the flood-gates opened. [147] [148] "I can tell you nothing, Aunt Juley. I know no more [149] than you do. We met--we only met the father and mother [150] abroad last spring. I know so little that I didn't even [151] know their son's name. It's all so--" She waved her hand [152] and laughed a little. [153] [154] "In that case it is far too sudden." [155] [156] "Who knows, Aunt Juley, who knows?" [157] [158] "But, Margaret dear, I mean we mustn't be unpractical [159] now that we've come to facts. It is too sudden, surely." [160] [161] "Who knows!" [162] [163] "But Margaret dear--" [164] [165] "I'll go for her other letters," said Margaret. "No, I [166] won't, I'll finish my breakfast. In fact, I haven't them. [167] We met the Wilcoxes on an awful expedition that we made from [168] Heidelberg to Speyer. Helen and I had got it into our heads [169] that there was a grand old cathedral at Speyer--the [170] Archbishop of Speyer was one of the seven electors--you [171] know--'Speyer, Maintz, and Koln.' Those three sees once [172] commanded the Rhine Valley and got it the name of Priest Street." [173] [174] "I still feel quite uneasy about this business, Margaret." [175] [176] "The train crossed by a bridge of boats, and at first [177] sight it looked quite fine. But oh, in five minutes we had [178] seen the whole thing. The cathedral had been ruined, [179] absolutely ruined, by restoration; not an inch left of the [180] original structure. We wasted a whole day, and came across [181] the Wilcoxes as we were eating our sandwiches in the public [182] gardens. They too, poor things, had been taken in--they [183] were actually stopping at Speyer--and they rather liked [184] Helen insisting that they must fly with us to Heidelberg. [185] As a matter of fact, they did come on next day. We all took [186] some drives together. They knew us well enough to ask Helen [187] to come and see them--at least, I was asked too, but Tibby's [188] illness prevented me, so last Monday she went alone. That's [189] all. You know as much as I do now. It's a young man out [190] the unknown. She was to have come back Saturday, but put [191] off till Monday, perhaps on account of--I don't know. [192] [193] She broke off, and listened to the sounds of a London [194] morning. Their house was in Wickham Place, and fairly [195] quiet, for a lofty promontory of buildings separated it from [196] the main thoroughfare. One had the sense of a backwater, or [197] rather of an estuary, whose waters flowed in from the [198] invisible sea, and ebbed into a profound silence while the [199] waves without were still beating. Though the promontory [200] consisted of flats--expensive, with cavernous entrance [201] halls, full of concierges and palms--it fulfilled its [202] purpose, and gained for the older houses opposite a certain [203] measure of peace. These, too, would be swept away in time, [204] and another promontory would rise upon their site, as [205] humanity piled itself higher and higher on the precious soil [206] of London. [207] [208] Mrs. Munt had her own method of interpreting her [209] nieces. She decided that Margaret was a little hysterical, [210] and was trying to gain time by a torrent of talk. Feeling [211] very diplomatic, she lamented the fate of Speyer, and [212] declared that never, never should she be so misguided as to [213] visit it, and added of her own accord that the principles of [214] restoration were ill understood in Germany. "The Germans," [215] she said, "are too thorough, and this is all very well [216] sometimes, but at other times it does not do." [217] [218] "Exactly," said Margaret; "Germans are too thorough." [219] And her eyes began to shine. [220] [221] "Of course I regard you Schlegels as English," said Mrs. [222] Munt hastily--"English to the backbone." [223] [224] Margaret leaned forward and stroked her hand. [225] [226] "And that reminds me--Helen's letter--" [227] [228] "Oh, yes, Aunt Juley, I am thinking all right about [229] Helen's letter. I know--I must go down and see her. I am [230] thinking about her all right. I am meaning to go down" [231] [232] "But go with some plan," said Mrs. Munt, admitting into [233] her kindly voice a note of exasperation. "Margaret, if I [234] may interfere, don't be taken by surprise. What do you [235] think of the Wilcoxes? Are they our sort? Are they likely [236] people? Could they appreciate Helen, who is to my mind a [237] very special sort of person? Do they care about Literature [238] and Art? That is most important when you come to think of [239] it. Literature and Art. Most important. How old would the [240] son be? She says 'younger son.' Would he be in a position [241] to marry? Is he likely to make Helen happy? Did you gather--" [242] [243] "I gathered nothing." [244] [245] They began to talk at once. [246] [247] "Then in that case--" [248] [249] "In that case I can make no plans, don't you see." [250] [251] "On the contrary--" [252] [253] "I hate plans. I hate lines of action. Helen isn't a baby." [254] [255] "Then in that case, my dear, why go down?" [256] [257] Margaret was silent. If her aunt could not see why she [258] must go down, she was not going to tell her. She was not [259] going to say "I love my dear sister; I must be near her at [260] this crisis of her life." The affections are more reticent [261] than the passions, and their expression more subtle. If she [262] herself should ever fall in love with a man, she, like [263] Helen, would proclaim it from the house-tops, but as she [264] only loved a sister she used the voiceless language of sympathy. [265] [266] "I consider you odd girls," continued Mrs. Munt, "and [267] very wonderful girls, and in many ways far older than your [268] years. But--you won't be offended? --frankly I feel you are [269] not up to this business. It requires an older person. [270] Dear, I have nothing to call me back to Swanage." She spread [271] out her plump arms. "I am all at your disposal. Let me go [272] down to this house whose name I forget instead of you." [273] [274] "Aunt Juley"--she jumped up and kissed her--"I must, [275] must go to Howards End myself. You don't exactly [276] understand, though I can never thank you properly for offering." [277] [278] "I do understand," retorted Mrs. Munt, with immense [279] confidence. "I go down in no spirit of interference, but to [280] make inquiries. Inquiries are necessary. Now, I am going [281] to be rude. You would say the wrong thing; to a certainty [282] you would. In your anxiety for Helen's happiness you would [283] offend the whole of these Wilcoxes by asking one of your [284] impetuous questions--not that one minds offending them." [285] [286] "I shall ask no questions. I have it in Helen's writing [287] that she and a man are in love. There is no question to ask [288] as long as she keeps to that. All the rest isn't worth a [289] straw. A long engagement if you like, but inquiries, [290] questions, plans, lines of action--no, Aunt Juley, no." [291] [292] Away she hurried, not beautiful, not supremely [293] brilliant, but filled with something that took the place of [294] both qualities--something best described as a profound [295] vivacity, a continual and sincere response to all that she [296] encountered in her path through life. [297] [298] "If Helen had written the same to me about a [299] shop-assistant or a penniless clerk--" [300] [301] "Dear Margaret, do come into the library and shut the [302] door. Your good maids are dusting the banisters." [303] [304] "--or if she had wanted to marry the man who calls for [305] Carter Paterson, I should have said the same." Then, with [306] one of those turns that convinced her aunt that she was not [307] mad really and convinced observers of another type that she [308] was not a barren theorist, she added: "Though in the case of [309] Carter Paterson I should want it to be a very long [310] engagement indeed, I must say." [311] [312] "I should think so," said Mrs. Munt; "and, indeed, I can [313] scarcely follow you. Now, just imagine if you said anything [314] of that sort to the Wilcoxes. I understand it, but most [315] good people would think you mad. Imagine how disconcerting [316] for Helen! What is wanted is a person who will go slowly, [317] slowly in this business, and see how things are and where [318] they are likely to lead to." [319] [320] Margaret was down on this. [321] [322] "But you implied just now that the engagement must be [323] broken off." [324] [325] "I think probably it must; but slowly." [326] [327] "Can you break an engagement off slowly?" Her eyes lit [328] up. "What's an engagement made of, do you suppose? I think [329] it's made of some hard stuff, that may snap, but can't [330] break. It is different to the other ties of life. They [331] stretch or bend. They admit of degree. They're different." [332] [333] "Exactly so. But won't you let me just run down to [334] Howards House, and save you all the discomfort? I will [335] really not interfere, but I do so thoroughly understand the [336] kind of thing you Schlegels want that one quiet look round [337] will be enough for me." [338] [339] Margaret again thanked her, again kissed her, and then [340] ran upstairs to see her brother. [341] [342] He was not so well. [343] [344] The hay fever had worried him a good deal all night. [345] His head ached, his eyes were wet, his mucous membrane, he [346] informed her, was in a most unsatisfactory condition. The [347] only thing that made life worth living was the thought of [348] Walter Savage Landor, from whose IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS she [349] had promised to read at frequent intervals during the day. [350] [351] It was rather difficult. Something must be done about [352] Helen. She must be assured that it is not a criminal [353] offence to love at first sight. A telegram to this effect [354] would be cold and cryptic, a personal visit seemed each [355] moment more impossible. Now the doctor arrived, and said [356] that Tibby was quite bad. Might it really be best to accept [357] Aunt Juley's kind offer, and to send her down to Howards End [358] with a note? [359] [360] Certainly Margaret was impulsive. She did swing rapidly [361] from one decision to another. Running downstairs into the [362] library, she cried--"Yes, I have changed my mind; I do wish [363] that you would go." [364] [365] There was a train from King's Cross at eleven. At [366] half-past ten Tibby, with rare self-effacement, fell asleep, [367] and Margaret was able to drive her aunt to the station. [368] [369] "You will remember, Aunt Juley, not to be drawn into [370] discussing the engagement. Give my letter to Helen, and say [371] whatever you feel yourself, but do keep clear of the [372] relatives. We have scarcely got their names straight yet, [373] and besides, that sort of thing is so uncivilized and wrong. [374] [375] "So uncivilized?" queried Mrs. Munt, fearing that she [376] was losing the point of some brilliant remark. [377] [378] "Oh, I used an affected word. I only meant would you [379] please only talk the thing over with Helen." [380] [381] "Only with Helen." [382] [383] "Because--" But it was no moment to expound the personal [384] nature of love. Even Margaret shrank from it, and contented [385] herself with stroking her good aunt's hand, and with [386] meditating, half sensibly and half poetically, on the [387] journey that was about to begin from King's Cross. [388] [389] Like many others who have lived long in a great capital, [390] she had strong feelings about the various railway termini. [391] They are our gates to the glorious and the unknown. Through [392] them we pass out into adventure and sunshine, to them alas! [393] we return. In Paddington all Cornwall is latent and the [394] remoter west; down the inclines of Liverpool Street lie [395] fenlands and the illimitable Broads; Scotland is through the [396] pylons of Euston; Wessex behind the poised chaos of [397] Waterloo. Italians realize this, as is natural; those of [398] them who are so unfortunate as to serve as waiters in Berlin [399] call the Anhalt Bahnhof the Stazione d'Italia, because by it [400] they must return to their homes. And he is a chilly [401] Londoner who does not endow his stations with some [402] personality, and extend to them, however shyly, the emotions [403] of fear and love. [404] [405] To Margaret--I hope that it will not set the reader [406] against her--the station of King's Cross had always [407] suggested Infinity. Its very situation--withdrawn a little [408] behind the facile splendours of St. Pancras--implied a [409] comment on the materialism of life. Those two great arches, [410] colourless, indifferent, shouldering between them an [411] unlovely clock, were fit portals for some eternal adventure, [412] whose issue might be prosperous, but would certainly not be [413] expressed in the ordinary language of prosperity. If you [414] think this ridiculous, remember that it is not Margaret who [415] is telling you about it; and let me hasten to add that they [416] were in plenty of time for the train; that Mrs. Munt, though [417] she took a second-class ticket, was put by the guard into a [418] first (only two seconds on the train, one smoking and the [419] other babies--one cannot be expected to travel with babies); [420] and that Margaret, on her return to Wickham Place, was [421] confronted with the following telegram: [422] [423] ALL OVER. WISH I HAD NEVER WRITTEN. TELL NO ONE. [424] --HELEN [425] [426] But Aunt Juley was gone--gone irrevocably, and no power [427] on earth could stop her. [428] [429] [430] Chapter 3 [431] [432] Most complacently did Mrs. Munt rehearse her mission. Her [433] nieces were independent young women, and it was not often [434] that she was able to help them. Emily's daughters had never [435] been quite like other girls. They had been left motherless [436] when Tibby was born, when Helen was five and Margaret [437] herself but thirteen. It was before the passing of the [438] Deceased Wife's Sister Bill, so Mrs. Munt could without [439] impropriety offer to go and keep house at Wickham Place. [440] But her brother-in-law, who was peculiar and a German, had [441] referred the question to Margaret, who with the crudity of [442] youth had answered, "No, they could manage much better [443] alone." Five years later Mr. Schlegel had died too, and Mrs. [444] Munt had repeated her offer. Margaret, crude no longer, had [445] been grateful and extremely nice, but the substance of her [446] answer had been the same. "I must not interfere a third [447] time," thought Mrs. Munt. However, of course she did. She [448] learnt, to her horror, that Margaret, now of age, was taking [449] her money out of the old safe investments and putting it [450] into Foreign Things, which always smash. Silence would have [451] been criminal. Her own fortune was invested in Home Rails, [452] and most ardently did she beg her niece to imitate her. [453] "Then we should be together, dear." Margaret, out of [454] politeness, invested a few hundreds in the Nottingham and [455] Derby Railway, and though the Foreign Things did admirably [456] and the Nottingham and Derby declined with the steady [457] dignity of which only Home Rails are capable, Mrs. Munt [458] never ceased to rejoice, and to say, "I did manage that, at [459] all events. When the smash comes poor Margaret will have a [460] nest-egg to fall back upon." This year Helen came of age, [461] and exactly the same thing happened in Helen's case; she [462] also would shift her money out of Consols, but she, too, [463] almost without being pressed, consecrated a fraction of it [464] to the Nottingham and Derby Railway. So far so good, but in [465] social matters their aunt had accomplished nothing. Sooner [466] or later the girls would enter on the process known as [467] throwing themselves away, and if they had delayed hitherto, [468] it was only that they might throw themselves more vehemently [469] in the future. They saw too many people at Wickham [470] Place--unshaven musicians, an actress even, German cousins [471] (one knows what foreigners are), acquaintances picked up at [472] Continental hotels (one knows what they are too). It was [473] interesting, and down at Swanage no one appreciated culture [474] more than Mrs. Munt; but it was dangerous, and disaster was [475] bound to come. How right she was, and how lucky to be on [476] the spot when the disaster came! [477] [478] The train sped northward, under innumerable tunnels. It [479] was only an hour's journey, but Mrs. Munt had to raise and [480] lower the window again and again. She passed through the [481] South Welwyn Tunnel, saw light for a moment, and entered the [482] North Welwyn Tunnel, of tragic fame. She traversed the [483] immense viaduct, whose arches span untroubled meadows and [484] the dreamy flow of Tewin Water. She skirted the parks of [485] politicians. At times the Great North Road accompanied her, [486] more suggestive of infinity than any railway, awakening, [487] after a nap of a hundred years, to such life as is conferred [488] by the stench of motor-cars, and to such culture as is [489] implied by the advertisements of antibilious pills. To [490] history, to tragedy, to the past, to the future, Mrs. Munt [491] remained equally indifferent; hers but to concentrate on the [492] end of her journey, and to rescue poor Helen from this [493] dreadful mess. [494] [495] The station for Howards End was at Hilton, one of the [496] large villages that are strung so frequently along the North [497] Road, and that owe their size to the traffic of coaching and [498] pre-coaching days. Being near London, it had not shared in [499] the rural decay, and its long High Street had budded out [500] right and left into residential estates. For about a mile a [501] series of tiled and slated houses passed before Mrs. Munt's [502] inattentive eyes, a series broken at one point by six Danish [503] tumuli that stood shoulder to shoulder along the highroad, [504] tombs of soldiers. Beyond these tumuli habitations [505] thickened, and the train came to a standstill in a tangle [506] that was almost a town. [507] [508] The station, like the scenery, like Helen's letters, [509] struck an indeterminate note. Into which country will it [510] lead, England or Suburbia? It was new, it had island [511] platforms and a subway, and the superficial comfort exacted [512] by business men. But it held hints of local life, personal [513] intercourse, as even Mrs. Munt was to discover. [514] [515] "I want a house," she confided to the ticket boy. "Its [516] name is Howards Lodge. Do you know where it is?" [517] [518] "Mr. Wilcox!" the boy called. [519] [520] A young man in front of them turned round. [521] [522] "She's wanting Howards End." [523] [524] There was nothing for it but to go forward, though Mrs. [525] Munt was too much agitated even to stare at the stranger. [526] But remembering that there were two brothers, she had the [527] sense to say to him, "Excuse me asking, but are you the [528] younger Mr. Wilcox or the elder?" [529] [530] "The younger. Can I do anything for you?" [531] [532] "Oh, well"--she controlled herself with difficulty. [533] "Really. Are you? I--" She moved away from the ticket boy [534] and lowered her voice. "I am Miss Schlegels aunt. I ought [535] to introduce myself, oughtn't I? My name is Mrs. Munt." [536] [537] She was conscious that he raised his cap and said quite [538] coolly, "Oh, rather; Miss Schlegel is stopping with us. Did [539] you want to see her?" [540] [541] "Possibly--" [542] [543] "I'll call you a cab. No; wait a mo--" He thought. [544] "Our motor's here. I'll run you up in it." [545] [546] "That is very kind--" [547] [548] "Not at all, if you'll just wait till they bring out a [549] parcel from the office. This way." [550] [551] "My niece is not with you by any chance?" [552] [553] "No; I came over with my father. He has gone on north [554] in your train. You'll see Miss Schlegel at lunch. You're [555] coming up to lunch, I hope?" [556] [557] "I should like to come UP," said Mrs. Munt, not [558] committing herself to nourishment until she had studied [559] Helen's lover a little more. He seemed a gentleman, but had [560] so rattled her round that her powers of observation were [561] numbed. She glanced at him stealthily. To a feminine eye [562] there was nothing amiss in the sharp depressions at the [563] corners of his mouth, nor in the rather box-like [564] construction of his forehead. He was dark, clean-shaven and [565] seemed accustomed to command. [566] [567] "In front or behind? Which do you prefer? It may be [568] windy in front." [569] [570] "In front if I may; then we can talk." [571] [572] "But excuse me one moment--I can't think what they're [573] doing with that parcel." He strode into the booking-office [574] and called with a new voice: "Hi! hi, you there! Are you [575] going to keep me waiting all day? Parcel for Wilcox, [576] Howards End. Just look sharp!" Emerging, he said in [577] quieter tones: "This station's abominably organized; if I [578] had my way, the whole lot of 'em should get the sack. May I [579] help you in?" [580] [581] "This is very good of you," said Mrs. Munt, as she [582] settled herself into a luxurious cavern of red leather, and [583] suffered her person to be padded with rugs and shawls. She [584] was more civil than she had intended, but really this young [585] man was very kind. Moreover, she was a little afraid of [586] him: his self-possession was extraordinary. "Very good [587] indeed," she repeated, adding: "It is just what I should [588] have wished." [589] [590] "Very good of you to say so," he replied, with a slight [591] look of surprise, which, like most slight looks, escaped [592] Mrs. Munt's attention. "I was just tooling my father over [593] to catch the down train." [594] [595] "You see, we heard from Helen this morning." [596] [597] Young Wilcox was pouring in petrol, starting his engine, [598] and performing other actions with which this story has no [599] concern. The great car began to rock, and the form of Mrs. [600] Munt, trying to explain things, sprang agreeably up and down [601] among the red cushions. "The mater will be very glad to see [602] you," he mumbled. "Hi! I say. Parcel for Howards End. [603] Bring it out. Hi!" [604] [605] A bearded porter emerged with the parcel in one hand and [606] an entry book in the other. With the gathering whir of the [607] motor these ejaculations mingled: "Sign, must I? Why [608] the--should I sign after all this bother? Not even got a [609] pencil on you? Remember next time I report you to the [610] station-master. My time's of value, though yours mayn't [611] be. Here"--here being a tip. [612] [613] "Extremely sorry, Mrs. Munt." [614] [615] "Not at all, Mr. Wilcox." [616] [617] "And do you object to going through the village? It is [618] rather a longer spin, but I have one or two commissions." [619] [620] "I should love going through the village. Naturally I [621] am very anxious to talk things over with you." [622] [623] As she said this she felt ashamed, for she was [624] disobeying Margaret's instructions. Only disobeying them in [625] the letter, surely. Margaret had only warned her against [626] discussing the incident with outsiders. Surely it was not [627] "uncivilized or wrong" to discuss it with the young man [628] himself, since chance had thrown them together. [629] [630] A reticent fellow, he made no reply. Mounting by her [631] side, he put on gloves and spectacles, and off they drove, [632] the bearded porter--life is a mysterious business--looking [633] after them with admiration. [634] [635] The wind was in their faces down the station road, [636] blowing the dust into Mrs. Munt's eyes. But as soon as they [637] turned into the Great North Road she opened fire. "You can [638] well imagine," she said, "that the news was a great shock to [639] us." [640] [641] "What news?" [642] [643] "Mr. Wilcox," she said frankly. "Margaret has told me [644] everything--everything. I have seen Helen's letter." [645] [646] He could not look her in the face, as his eyes were [647] fixed on his work; he was travelling as quickly as he dared [648] down the High Street. But he inclined his head in her [649] direction, and said, "I beg your pardon; I didn't catch." [650] [651] "About Helen. Helen, of course. Helen is a very [652] exceptional person--I am sure you will let me say this, [653] feeling towards her as you do--indeed, all the Schlegels are [654] exceptional. I come in no spirit of interference, but it [655] was a great shock." [656] [657] They drew up opposite a draper's. Without replying, he [658] turned round in his seat, and contemplated the cloud of dust [659] that they had raised in their passage through the village. [660] It was settling again, but not all into the road from which [661] he had taken it. Some of it had percolated through the open [662] windows, some had whitened the roses and gooseberries of the [663] wayside gardens, while a certain proportion had entered the [664] lungs of the villagers. "I wonder when they'll learn wisdom [665] and tar the roads," was his comment. Then a man ran out of [666] the draper's with a roll of oilcloth, and off they went again. [667] [668] "Margaret could not come herself, on account of poor [669] Tibby, so I am here to represent her and to have a good talk." [670] [671] "I'm sorry to be so dense," said the young man, again [672] drawing up outside a shop. "But I still haven't quite understood." [673] [674] "Helen, Mr. Wilcox--my niece and you." [675] [676] He pushed up his goggles and gazed at her, absolutely [677] bewildered. Horror smote her to the heart, for even she [678] began to suspect that they were at cross-purposes, and that [679] she had commenced her mission by some hideous blunder. [680] [681] "Miss Schlegel and myself." he asked, compressing his lips. [682] [683] "I trust there has been no misunderstanding," quavered [684] Mrs. Munt. "Her letter certainly read that way." [685] [686] "What way?" [687] [688] "That you and she--" She paused, then drooped her eyelids. [689] [690] "I think I catch your meaning," he said stickily. "What [691] an extraordinary mistake!" [692] [693] "Then you didn't the least--" she stammered, getting [694] blood-red in the face, and wishing she had never been born. [695] [696] "Scarcely, as I am already engaged to another lady." [697] There was a moment's silence, and then he caught his breath [698] and exploded with, "Oh, good God! Don't tell me it's some [699] silliness of Paul's." [700] [701] "But you are Paul." [702] [703] "I'm not." [704] [705] "Then why did you say so at the station?" [706] [707] "I said nothing of the sort." [708] [709] "I beg your pardon, you did." [710] [711] "I beg your pardon, I did not. My name is Charles." [712] [713] "Younger" may mean son as opposed to father, or second [714] brother as opposed to first. There is much to be said for [715] either view, and later on they said it. But they had other [716] questions before them now. [717] [718] "Do you mean to tell me that Paul--" [719] [720] But she did not like his voice. He sounded as if he was [721] talking to a porter, and, certain that he had deceived her [722] at the station, she too grew angry. [723] [724] "Do you mean to tell me that Paul and your niece--" [725] [726] Mrs. Munt--such is human nature--determined that she [727] would champion the lovers. She was not going to be bullied [728] by a severe young man. "Yes, they care for one another very [729] much indeed," she said. "I dare say they will tell you [730] about it by-and-by. We heard this morning." [731] [732] And Charles clenched his fist and cried, "The idiot, the [733] idiot, the little fool!" [734] [735] Mrs. Munt tried to divest herself of her rugs. "If that [736] is your attitude, Mr. Wilcox, I prefer to walk." [737] [738] "I beg you will do no such thing. I'll take you up this [739] moment to the house. Let me tell you the thing's [740] impossible, and must be stopped." [741] [742] Mrs. Munt did not often lose her temper, and when she [743] did it was only to protect those whom she loved. On this [744] occasion she blazed out. "I quite agree, sir. The thing is [745] impossible, and I will come up and stop it. My niece is a [746] very exceptional person, and I am not inclined to sit still [747] while she throws herself away on those who will not [748] appreciate her." [749] [750] Charles worked his jaws. [751] [752] "Considering she has only known your brother since [753] Wednesday, and only met your father and mother at a stray hotel--" [754] [755] "Could you possibly lower your voice? The shopman will overhear." [756] [757] "Esprit de classe"--if one may coin the phrase--was [758] strong in Mrs. Munt. She sat quivering while a member of [759] the lower orders deposited a metal funnel, a saucepan, and a [760] garden squirt beside the roll of oilcloth. [761] [762] "Right behind?" [763] [764] "Yes, sir." And the lower orders vanished in a cloud of dust. [765] [766] "I warn you: Paul hasn't a penny; it's useless." [767] [768] "No need to warn us, Mr. Wilcox, I assure you. The [769] warning is all the other way. My niece has been very [770] foolish, and I shall give her a good scolding and take her [771] back to London with me." [772] [773] "He has to make his way out in Nigeria. He couldn't [774] think of marrying for years and when he does it must be a [775] woman who can stand the climate, and is in other ways--Why [776] hasn't he told us? Of course he's ashamed. He knows he's [777] been a fool. And so he has--a damned fool." [778] [779] She grew furious. [780] [781] "Whereas Miss Schlegel has lost no time in publishing [782] the news." [783] [784] "If I were a man, Mr. Wilcox, for that last remark I'd [785] box your ears. You're not fit to clean my niece's boots, to [786] sit in the same room with her, and you dare--you actually [787] dare--I decline to argue with such a person." [788] [789] "All I know is, she's spread the thing and he hasn't, [790] and my father's away and I--" [791] [792] "And all that I know is--" [793] [794] "Might I finish my sentence, please?" [795] [796] "No." [797] [798] Charles clenched his teeth and sent the motor swerving [799] all over the lane. [800] [801] She screamed. [802] [803] So they played the game of Capping Families, a round of [804] which is always played when love would unite two members of [805] our race. But they played it with unusual vigour, stating [806] in so many words that Schlegels were better than Wilcoxes, [807] Wilcoxes better than Schlegels. They flung decency aside. [808] The man was young, the woman deeply stirred; in both a vein [809] of coarseness was latent. Their quarrel was no more [810] surprising than are most quarrels--inevitable at the time, [811] incredible afterwards. But it was more than usually [812] futile. A few minutes, and they were enlightened. The [813] motor drew up at Howards End, and Helen, looking very pale, [814] ran out to meet her aunt. [815] [816] "Aunt Juley, I have just had a telegram from Margaret; [817] I--I meant to stop your coming. It isn't--it's over." [818] [819] The climax was too much for Mrs. Munt. She burst into tears. [820] [821] "Aunt Juley dear, don't. Don't let them know I've been [822] so silly. It wasn't anything. Do bear up for my sake." [823] [824] "Paul," cried Charles Wilcox, pulling his gloves off. [825] [826] "Don't let them know. They are never to know." [827] [828] "Oh, my darling Helen--" [829] [830] "Paul! Paul!" [831] [832] A very young man came out of the house. [833] [834] "Paul, is there any truth in this?" [835] [836] "I didn't--I don't--" [837] [838] "Yes or no, man; plain question, plain answer. Did or [839] didn't Miss Schlegel--" [840] [841] "Charles dear," said a voice from the garden. "Charles, [842] dear Charles, one doesn't ask plain questions. There aren't [843] such things." [844] [845] They were all silent. It was Mrs. Wilcox. [846] [847] She approached just as Helen's letter had described her, [848] trailing noiselessly over the lawn, and there was actually a [849] wisp of hay in her hands. She seemed to belong not to the [850] young people and their motor, but to the house, and to the [851] tree that overshadowed it. One knew that she worshipped the [852] past, and that the instinctive wisdom the past can alone [853] bestow had descended upon her--that wisdom to which we give [854] the clumsy name of aristocracy. High born she might not [855] be. But assuredly she cared about her ancestors, and let [856] them help her. When she saw Charles angry, Paul frightened, [857] and Mrs. Munt in tears, she heard her ancestors say, [858] "Separate those human beings who will hurt each other most. [859] The rest can wait." So she did not ask questions. Still [860] less did she pretend that nothing had happened, as a [861] competent society hostess would have done. She said, "Miss [862] Schlegel, would you take your aunt up to your room or to my [863] room, whichever you think best. Paul, do find Evie, and [864] tell her lunch for six, but I'm not sure whether we shall [865] all be downstairs for it." And when they had obeyed her, she [866] turned to her elder son, who still stood in the throbbing [867] stinking car, and smiled at him with tenderness, and without [868] a word, turned away from him towards her flowers. [869] [870] "Mother," he called, "are you aware that Paul has been [871] playing the fool again?" [872] [873] "It's all right, dear. They have broken off the engagement." [874] [875] "Engagement--!" [876] [877] "They do not love any longer, if you prefer it put that [878] way," said Mrs. Wilcox, stooping down to smell a rose. [879] [880] [881] Chapter 4 [882] [883] Helen and her aunt returned to Wickham Place in a state of [884] collapse, and for a little time Margaret had three invalids [885] on her hands. Mrs. Munt soon recovered. She possessed to a [886] remarkable degree the power of distorting the past, and [887] before many days were over she had forgotten the part played [888] by her own imprudence in the catastrophe. Even at the [889] crisis she had cried, "Thank goodness, poor Margaret is [890] saved this!" which during the journey to London evolved [891] into, "It had to be gone through by someone," which in its [892] turn ripened into the permanent form of "The one time I [893] really did help Emily's girls was over the Wilcox [894] business." But Helen was a more serious patient. New ideas [895] had burst upon her like a thunder clap, and by them and by [896] her reverberations she had been stunned. [897] [898] The truth was that she had fallen in love, not with an [899] individual, but with a family. [900] [901] Before Paul arrived she had, as it were, been tuned up [902] into his key. The energy of the Wilcoxes had fascinated [903] her, had created new images of beauty in her responsive [904] mind. To be all day with them in the open air, to sleep at [905] night under their roof, had seemed the supreme joy of life, [906] and had led to that abandonment of personality that is a [907] possible prelude to love. She had liked giving in to Mr. [908] Wilcox, or Evie, or Charles; she had liked being told that [909] her notions of life were sheltered or academic; that [910] Equality was nonsense, Votes for Women nonsense, Socialism [911] nonsense, Art and Literature, except when conducive to [912] strengthening the character, nonsense. One by one the [913] Schlegel fetiches had been overthrown, and, though [914] professing to defend them, she had rejoiced. When Mr. [915] Wilcox said that one sound man of business did more good to [916] the world than a dozen of your social reformers, she had [917] swallowed the curious assertion without a gasp, and had [918] leant back luxuriously among the cushions of his motor-car. [919] When Charles said, "Why be so polite to servants? they [920] don't understand it," she had not given the Schlegel retort [921] of, "If they don't understand it, I do." No; she had vowed [922] to be less polite to servants in the future. "I am swathed [923] in cant," she thought, "and it is good for me to be stripped [924] of it." And all that she thought or did or breathed was a [925] quiet preparation for Paul. Paul was inevitable. Charles [926] was taken up with another girl, Mr. Wilcox was so old, Evie [927] so young, Mrs. Wilcox so different. Round the absent [928] brother she began to throw the halo of Romance, to irradiate [929] him with all the splendour of those happy days, to feel that [930] in him she should draw nearest to the robust ideal. He and [931] she were about the same age, Evie said. Most people thought [932] Paul handsomer than his brother. He was certainly a better [933] shot, though not so good at golf. And when Paul appeared, [934] flushed with the triumph of getting through an examination, [935] and ready to flirt with any pretty girl, Helen met him [936] halfway, or more than halfway, and turned towards him on the [937] Sunday evening. [938] [939] He had been talking of his approaching exile in Nigeria, [940] and he should have continued to talk of it, and allowed [941] their guest to recover. But the heave of her bosom [942] flattered him. Passion was possible, and he became [943] passionate. Deep down in him something whispered, "This [944] girl would let you kiss her; you might not have such a [945] chance again." [946] [947] That was "how it happened," or, rather, how Helen [948] described it to her sister, using words even more [949] unsympathetic than my own. But the poetry of that kiss, the [950] wonder of it, the magic that there was in life for hours [951] after it--who can describe that? It is so easy for an [952] Englishman to sneer at these chance collisions of human [953] beings. To the insular cynic and the insular moralist they [954] offer an equal opportunity. It is so easy to talk of [955] "passing emotion," and how to forget how vivid the emotion [956] was ere it passed. Our impulse to sneer, to forget, is at [957] root a good one. We recognize that emotion is not enough, [958] and that men and women are personalities capable of [959] sustained relations, not mere opportunities for an [960] electrical discharge. Yet we rate the impulse too highly. [961] We do not admit that by collisions of this trivial sort the [962] doors of heaven may be shaken open. To Helen, at all [963] events, her life was to bring nothing more intense than the [964] embrace of this boy who played no part in it. He had drawn [965] her out of the house, where there was danger of surprise and [966] light; he had led her by a path he knew, until they stood [967] under the column of the vast wych-elm. A man in the [968] darkness, he had whispered "I love you" when she was [969] desiring love. In time his slender personality faded, the [970] scene that he had evoked endured. In all the variable years [971] that followed she never saw the like of it again. [972] [973] "I understand," said Margaret--"at least, I understand [974] as much as ever is understood of these things. Tell me now [975] what happened on the Monday morning." [976] [977] "It was over at once." [978] [979] "How, Helen?" [980] [981] "I was still happy while I dressed, but as I came [982] downstairs I got nervous, and when I went into the [983] dining-room I knew it was no good. There was Evie--I can't [984] explain--managing the tea-urn, and Mr. Wilcox reading the [985] TIMES." [986] [987] "Was Paul there?" [988] [989] "Yes; and Charles was talking to him about Stocks and [990] Shares, and he looked frightened." [991] [992] By slight indications the sisters could convey much to [993] each other. Margaret saw horror latent in the scene, and [994] Helen's next remark did not surprise her. [995] [996] "Somehow, when that kind of man looks frightened it is [997] too awful. It is all right for us to be frightened, or for [998] men of another sort--father, for instance; but for men like [999] that! When I saw all the others so placid, and Paul mad [1000] with terror in case I said the wrong thing, I felt for a [1001] moment that the whole Wilcox family was a fraud, just a wall [1002] of newspapers and motor-cars and golf-clubs, and that if it [1003] fell I should find nothing behind it but panic and [1004] emptiness. " [1005] [1006] "I don't think that. The Wilcoxes struck me as being [1007] genuine people, particularly the wife." [1008] [1009] "No, I don't really think that. But Paul was so [1010] broad-shouldered; all kinds of extraordinary things made it [1011] worse, and I knew that it would never do--never. I said to [1012] him after breakfast, when the others were practising [1013] strokes, 'We rather lost our heads,' and he looked better at [1014] once, though frightfully ashamed. He began a speech about [1015] having no money to marry on, but it hurt him to make it, and [1016] I--stopped him. Then he said, 'I must beg your pardon over [1017] this, Miss Schlegel; I can't think what came over me last [1018] night.' And I said, 'Nor what over me; never mind.' And then [1019] we parted--at least, until I remembered that I had written [1020] straight off to tell you the night before, and that [1021] frightened him again. I asked him to send a telegram for [1022] me, for he knew you would be coming or something; and he [1023] tried to get hold of the motor, but Charles and Mr. Wilcox [1024] wanted it to go to the station; and Charles offered to send [1025] the telegram for me, and then I had to say that the telegram [1026] was of no consequence, for Paul said Charles might read it, [1027] and though I wrote it out several times, he always said [1028] people would suspect something. He took it himself at last, [1029] pretending that he must walk down to get cartridges, and, [1030] what with one thing and the other, it was not handed in at [1031] the Post Office until too late. It was the most terrible [1032] morning. Paul disliked me more and more, and Evie talked [1033] cricket averages till I nearly screamed. I cannot think how [1034] I stood her all the other days. At last Charles and his [1035] father started for the station, and then came your telegram [1036] warning me that Aunt Juley was coming by that train, and [1037] Paul--oh, rather horrible--said that I had muddled it. But [1038] Mrs. Wilcox knew." [1039] [1040] "Knew what?" [1041] [1042] "Everything; though we neither of us told her a word, [1043] and had known all along, I think." [1044] [1045] "Oh, she must have overheard you." [1046] [1047] "I suppose so, but it seemed wonderful. When Charles and [1048] Aunt Juley drove up, calling each other names, Mrs. Wilcox [1049] stepped in from the garden and made everything less [1050] terrible. Ugh! but it has been a disgusting business. To [1051] think that--" She sighed. [1052] [1053] "To think that because you and a young man meet for a [1054] moment, there must be all these telegrams and anger," [1055] supplied Margaret. [1056] [1057] Helen nodded. [1058] [1059] "I've often thought about it, Helen. It's one of the [1060] most interesting things in the world. The truth is that [1061] there is a great outer life that you and I have never [1062] touched--a life in which telegrams and anger count. [1063] Personal relations, that we think supreme, are not supreme [1064] there. There love means marriage settlements, death, death [1065] duties. So far I'm clear. But here my difficulty. This [1066] outer life, though obviously horrid, often seems the real [1067] one--there's grit in it. It does breed character. Do [1068] personal relations lead to sloppiness in the end?" [1069] [1070] "Oh, Meg, that's what I felt, only not so clearly, when [1071] the Wilcoxes were so competent, and seemed to have their [1072] hands on all the ropes. " [1073] [1074] "Don't you feel it now?" [1075] [1076] "I remember Paul at breakfast," said Helen quietly. "I [1077] shall never forget him. He had nothing to fall back upon. [1078] I know that personal relations are the real life, for ever [1079] and ever. [1080] [1081] "Amen!" [1082] [1083] So the Wilcox episode fell into the background, leaving [1084] behind it memories of sweetness and horror that mingled, and [1085] the sisters pursued the life that Helen had commended. They [1086] talked to each other and to other people, they filled the [1087] tall thin house at Wickham Place with those whom they liked [1088] or could befriend. They even attended public meetings. In [1089] their own fashion they cared deeply about politics, though [1090] not as politicians would have us care; they desired that [1091] public life should mirror whatever is good in the life [1092] within. Temperance, tolerance, and sexual equality were [1093] intelligible cries to them; whereas they did not follow our [1094] Forward Policy in Thibet with the keen attention that it [1095] merits, and would at times dismiss the whole British Empire [1096] with a puzzled, if reverent, sigh. Not out of them are the [1097] shows of history erected: the world would be a grey, [1098] bloodless place were it entirely composed of Miss [1099] Schlegels. But the world being what it is, perhaps they [1100] shine out in it like stars. [1101] [1102] A word on their origin. They were not "English to the [1103] backbone," as their aunt had piously asserted. But, on the [1104] other band, they were not "Germans of the dreadful sort." [1105] Their father had belonged to a type that was more prominent [1106] in Germany fifty years ago than now. He was not the [1107] aggressive German, so dear to the English journalist, nor [1108] the domestic German, so dear to the English wit. If one [1109] classed him at all it would be as the countryman of Hegel [1110] and Kant, as the idealist, inclined to be dreamy, whose [1111] Imperialism was the Imperialism of the air. Not that his [1112] life had been inactive. He had fought like blazes against [1113] Denmark, Austria, France. But he had fought without [1114] visualizing the results of victory. A hint of the truth [1115] broke on him after Sedan, when he saw the dyed moustaches of [1116] Napoleon going grey; another when he entered Paris, and saw [1117] the smashed windows of the Tuileries. Peace came--it was [1118] all very immense, one had turned into an Empire--but he knew [1119] that some quality had vanished for which not all [1120] Alsace-Lorraine could compensate him. Germany a commercial [1121] Power, Germany a naval Power, Germany with colonies here and [1122] a Forward Policy there, and legitimate aspirations in the [1123] other place, might appeal to others, and be fitly served by [1124] them; for his own part, he abstained from the fruits of [1125] victory, and naturalized himself in England. The more [1126] earnest members of his family never forgave him, and knew [1127] that his children, though scarcely English of the dreadful [1128] sort, would never be German to the backbone. He had [1129] obtained work in one of our provincial Universities, and [1130] there married Poor Emily (or Die Englanderin as the case may [1131] be), and as she had money, they proceeded to London, and [1132] came to know a good many people. But his gaze was always [1133] fixed beyond the sea. It was his hope that the clouds of [1134] materialism obscuring the Fatherland would part in time, and [1135] the mild intellectual light re-emerge. "Do you imply that [1136] we Germans are stupid, Uncle Ernst?" exclaimed a haughty and [1137] magnificent nephew. Uncle Ernst replied, "To my mind. You [1138] use the intellect, but you no longer care about it. That I [1139] call stupidity." As the haughty nephew did not follow, he [1140] continued, "You only care about the' things that you can [1141] use, and therefore arrange them in the following order: [1142] Money, supremely useful; intellect, rather useful; [1143] imagination, of no use at all. No"--for the other had [1144] protested--"your Pan-Germanism is no more imaginative than [1145] is our Imperialism over here. It is the vice of a vulgar [1146] mind to be thrilled by bigness, to think that a thousand [1147] square miles are a thousand times more wonderful than one [1148] square mile, and that a million square miles are almost the [1149] same as heaven. That is not imagination. No, it kills it. [1150] When their poets over here try to celebrate bigness they are [1151] dead at once, and naturally. Your poets too are dying, your [1152] philosophers, your musicians, to whom Europe has listened [1153] for two hundred years. Gone. Gone with the little courts [1154] that nurtured them--gone with Esterhaz and Weimar. What? [1155] What's that? Your Universities? Oh, yes, you have learned [1156] men, who collect more facts than do the learned men of [1157] England. They collect facts, and facts, and empires of [1158] facts. But which of them will rekindle the light within?" [1159] [1160] To all this Margaret listened, sitting on the haughty [1161] nephew's knee. [1162] [1163] It was a unique education for the little girls. The [1164] haughty nephew would be at Wickham Place one day, bringing [1165] with him an even haughtier wife, both convinced that Germany [1166] was appointed by God to govern the world. Aunt Juley would [1167] come the next day, convinced that Great Britain had been [1168] appointed to the same post by the same authority. Were both [1169] these loud-voiced parties right? On one occasion they had [1170] met, and Margaret with clasped hands had implored them to [1171] argue the subject out in her presence. Whereat they [1172] blushed, and began to talk about the weather. "Papa" she [1173] cried--she was a most offensive child--"why will they not [1174] discuss this most clear question?" Her father, surveying [1175] the parties grimly, replied that he did not know. Putting [1176] her head on one side, Margaret then remarked, "To me one of [1177] two things is very clear; either God does not know his own [1178] mind about England and Germany, or else these do not know [1179] the mind of God." A hateful little girl, but at thirteen she [1180] had grasped a dilemma that most people travel through life [1181] without perceiving. Her brain darted up and down; it grew [1182] pliant and strong. Her conclusion was, that any human being [1183] lies nearer to the unseen than any organization, and from [1184] this she never varied. [1185] [1186] Helen advanced along the same lines, though with a more [1187] irresponsible tread. In character she resembled her sister, [1188] but she was pretty, and so apt to have a more amusing time. [1189] People gathered round her more readily, especially when they [1190] were new acquaintances, and she did enjoy a little homage [1191] very much. When their father died and they ruled alone at [1192] Wickham Place, she often absorbed the whole of the company, [1193] while Margaret--both were tremendous talkers--fell flat. [1194] Neither sister bothered about this. Helen never apologized [1195] afterwards, Margaret did not feel the slightest rancour. [1196] But looks have their influence upon character. The sisters [1197] were alike as little girls, but at the time of the Wilcox [1198] episode their methods were beginning to diverge; the younger [1199] was rather apt to entice people, and, in enticing them, to [1200] be herself enticed; the elder went straight ahead, and [1201] accepted an occasional failure as part of the game. [1202] [1203] Little need be premised about Tibby. He was now an [1204] intelligent man of sixteen, but dyspeptic and difficile. [1205] [1206] [1207] Chapter 5 [1208] [1209] It will be generally admitted that Beethoven's Fifth [1210] Symphony is the most sublime noise that has ever penetrated [1211] into the ear of man. All sorts and conditions are satisfied [1212] by it. Whether you are like Mrs. Munt, and tap [1213] surreptitiously when the tunes come--of course, not so as to [1214] disturb the others--; or like Helen, who can see heroes and [1215] shipwrecks in the music's flood; or like Margaret, who can [1216] only see the music; or like Tibby, who is profoundly versed [1217] in counterpoint, and holds the full score open on his knee; [1218] or like their cousin, Fraulein Mosebach, who remembers all [1219] the time that Beethoven is "echt Deutsch"; or like Fraulein [1220] Mosebach's young man, who can remember nothing but Fraulein [1221] Mosebach: in any case, the passion of your life becomes more [1222] vivid, and you are bound to admit that such a noise is cheap [1223] at two shillings. It is cheap, even if you hear it in the [1224] Queen's Hall, dreariest music-room in London, though not as [1225] dreary as the Free Trade Hall, Manchester; and even if you [1226] sit on the extreme left of that hall, so that the brass [1227] bumps at you before the rest of the orchestra arrives, it is [1228] still cheap. [1229] [1230] "Who is Margaret talking to?" said Mrs. Munt, at the [1231] conclusion of the first movement. She was again in London [1232] on a visit to Wickham Place. [1233] [1234] Helen looked down the long line of their party, and said [1235] that she did not know. [1236] [1237] "Would it be some young man or other whom she takes an [1238] interest in?" [1239] [1240] "I expect so," Helen replied. Music enwrapped her, and [1241] she could not enter into the distinction that divides young [1242] men whom one takes an interest in from young men whom one knows. [1243] [1244] "You girls are so wonderful in always having--Oh dear! [1245] one mustn't talk." [1246] [1247] For the Andante had begun--very beautiful, but bearing a [1248] family likeness to all the other beautiful Andantes that [1249] Beethoven had written, and, to Helen's mind, rather [1250] disconnecting the heroes and shipwrecks of the first [1251] movement from the heroes and goblins of the third. She [1252] heard the tune through once, and then her attention [1253] wandered, and she gazed at the audience, or the organ, or [1254] the architecture. Much did she censure the attenuated [1255] Cupids who encircle the ceiling of the Queen's Hall, [1256] inclining each to each with vapid gesture, and clad in [1257] sallow pantaloons, on which the October sunlight struck. [1258] "How awful to marry a man like those Cupids!" thought [1259] Helen. Here Beethoven started decorating his tune, so she [1260] heard him through once more, and then she smiled at her [1261] cousin Frieda. But Frieda, listening to Classical Music, [1262] could not respond. Herr Liesecke, too, looked as if wild [1263] horses could not make him inattentive; there were lines [1264] across his forehead, his lips were parted, his pince-nez at [1265] right angles to his nose, and he had laid a thick, white [1266] hand on either knee. And next to her was Aunt Juley, so [1267] British, and wanting to tap. How interesting that row of [1268] people was! What diverse influences had gone to the [1269] making! Here Beethoven, after humming and hawing with great [1270] sweetness, said "Heigho," and the Andante came to an end. [1271] Applause, and a round of "wunderschoning" and [1272] "prachtvolleying" from the German contingent. Margaret [1273] started talking to her new young man; Helen said to her [1274] aunt: "Now comes the wonderful movement: first of all the [1275] goblins, and then a trio of elephants dancing;" and Tibby [1276] implored the company generally to look out for the [1277] transitional passage on the drum. [1278] [1279] "On the what, dear?" [1280] [1281] "On the DRUM, Aunt Juley." [1282] [1283] "No; look out for the part where you think you have done [1284] with the goblins and they come back," breathed Helen, as the [1285] music started with a goblin walking quietly over the [1286] universe, from end to end. Others followed him. They were [1287] not aggressive creatures; it was that that made them so [1288] terrible to Helen. They merely observed in passing that [1289] there was no such thing as splendour or heroism in the [1290] world. After the interlude of elephants dancing, they [1291] returned and made the observation for the second time. [1292] Helen could not contradict them, for, once at all events, [1293] she had felt the same, and had seen the reliable walls of [1294] youth collapse. Panic and emptiness! Panic and emptiness! [1295] The goblins were right. [1296] [1297] Her brother raised his finger: it was the transitional [1298] passage on the drum. [1299] [1300] For, as if things were going too far, Beethoven took [1301] hold of the goblins and made them do what he wanted. He [1302] appeared in person. He gave them a little push, and they [1303] began to walk in major key instead of in a minor, and [1304] then--he blew with his mouth and they were scattered! Gusts [1305] of splendour, gods and demigods contending with vast swords, [1306] colour and fragrance broadcast on the field of battle, [1307] magnificent victory, magnificent death! Oh, it all burst [1308] before the girl, and she even stretched out her gloved hands [1309] as if it was tangible. Any fate was titanic; any contest [1310] desirable; conqueror and conquered would alike be applauded [1311] by the angels of the utmost stars. [1312] [1313] And the goblins--they had not really been there at all? [1314] They were only the phantoms of cowardice and unbelief? One [1315] healthy human impulse would dispel them? Men like the [1316] Wilcoxes, or President Roosevelt, would say yes. Beethoven [1317] knew better. The goblins really had been there. They might [1318] return--and they did. It was as if the splendour of life [1319] might boil over--and waste to steam and froth. In its [1320] dissolution one heard the terrible, ominous note, and a [1321] goblin, with increased malignity, walked quietly over the [1322] universe from end to end. Panic and emptiness! Panic and [1323] emptiness! Even the flaming ramparts of the world might fall. [1324] [1325] Beethoven chose to make all right in the end. He built [1326] the ramparts up. He blew with his mouth for the second time, [1327] and again the goblins were scattered. He brought back the [1328] gusts of splendour, the heroism, the youth, the magnificence [1329] of life and of death, and, amid vast roarings of a [1330] superhuman joy, he led his Fifth Symphony to its [1331] conclusion. But the goblins were there. They could [1332] return. He had said so bravely, and that is why one can [1333] trust Beethoven when he says other things. [1334] [1335] Helen pushed her way out during the applause. She [1336] desired to be alone. The music summed up to her all that [1337] had happened or could happen in her career. She read it as [1338] a tangible statement, which could never be superseded. The [1339] notes meant this and that to her, and they could have no [1340] other meaning, and life could have no other meaning. She [1341] pushed right out of the building, and walked slowly down the [1342] outside staircase, breathing the autumnal air, and then she [1343] strolled home. [1344] [1345] "Margaret," called Mrs. Munt, "is Helen all right?" [1346] [1347] "Oh yes." [1348] [1349] "She is always going away in the middle of a programme," [1350] said Tibby. [1351] [1352] "The music has evidently moved her deeply," said [1353] Fraulein Mosebach. [1354] [1355] "Excuse me," said Margaret's young man, who had for some [1356] time been preparing a sentence, "but that lady has, quite [1357] inadvertently, taken my umbrella." [1358] [1359] "Oh, good gracious me! --I am so sorry. Tibby, run [1360] after Helen." [1361] [1362] "I shall miss the Four Serious Songs if I do." [1363] [1364] "Tibby love, you must go." [1365] [1366] "It isn't of any consequence," said the young man, in [1367] truth a little uneasy about his umbrella. [1368] [1369] "But of course it is. Tibby! Tibby!" [1370] [1371] Tibby rose to his feet, and wilfully caught his person [1372] on the backs of the chairs. By the time he had tipped up [1373] the seat and had found his hat, and had deposited his full [1374] score in safety, it was "too late" to go after Helen. The [1375] Four Serious Songs had begun, and one could not move during [1376] their performance. [1377] [1378] "My sister is so careless," whispered Margaret. [1379] [1380] "Not at all," replied the young man; but his voice was [1381] dead and cold. [1382] [1383] "If you would give me your address--" [1384] [1385] "Oh, not at all, not at all;" and he wrapped his [1386] greatcoat over his knees. [1387] [1388] Then the Four Serious Songs rang shallow in Margaret's [1389] ears. Brahms, for all his grumbling and grizzling, had [1390] never guessed what it felt like to be suspected of stealing [1391] an umbrella. For this fool of a young man thought that she [1392] and Helen and Tibby had been playing the confidence trick on [1393] him, and that if he gave his address they would break into [1394] his rooms some midnight or other and steal his walkingstick [1395] too. Most ladies would have laughed, but Margaret really [1396] minded, for it gave her a glimpse into squalor. To trust [1397] people is a luxury in which only the wealthy can indulge; [1398] the poor cannot afford it. As soon as Brahms had grunted [1399] himself out, she gave him her card and said, "That is where [1400] we live; if you preferred, you could call for the umbrella [1401] after the concert, but I didn't like to trouble you when it [1402] has all been our fault." [1403] [1404] His face brightened a little when he saw that Wickham [1405] Place was W. It was sad to see him corroded with suspicion, [1406] and yet not daring to be impolite, in case these [1407] well-dressed people were honest after all. She took it as a [1408] good sign that he said to her, "It's a fine programme this [1409] afternoon, is it not?" for this was the remark with which he [1410] had originally opened, before the umbrella intervened. [1411] [1412] "The Beethoven's fine," said Margaret, who was not a [1413] female of the encouraging type. "I don't like the Brahms, [1414] though, nor the Mendelssohn that came first--and ugh! I [1415] don't like this Elgar that's coming." [1416] [1417] "What, what?" called Herr Liesecke, overhearing. "The [1418] POMP AND CIRCUMSTANCE will not be fine?" [1419] [1420] "Oh, Margaret, you tiresome girl!" cried her aunt. [1421] "Here have I been persuading Herr Liesecke to stop for POMP [1422] AND CIRCUMSTANCE, and you are undoing all my work. I am so [1423] anxious for him to hear what we are doing in music. Oh, you [1424] mustn't run down our English composers, Margaret." [1425] [1426] "For my part, I have heard the composition at Stettin," [1427] said Fraulein Mosebach. "On two occasions. It is dramatic, [1428] a little." [1429] [1430] "Frieda, you despise English music. You know you do. [1431] And English art. And English Literature, except Shakespeare [1432] and he's a German. Very well, Frieda, you may go." [1433] [1434] The lovers laughed and glanced at each other. Moved by [1435] a common impulse, they rose to their feet and fled from POMP [1436] AND CIRCUMSTANCE. [1437] [1438] "We have this call to play in Finsbury Circus, it is [1439] true," said Herr Liesecke, as he edged past her and reached [1440] the gangway just as the music started. [1441] [1442] "Margaret--" loudly whispered by Aunt Juley. "Margaret, [1443] Margaret! Fraulein Mosebach has left her beautiful little [1444] bag behind her on the seat." [1445] [1446] Sure enough, there was Frieda's reticule, containing her [1447] address book, her pocket dictionary, her map of London, and [1448] her money. [1449] [1450] "Oh, what a bother--what a family we are! Fr-Frieda!" [1451] [1452] "Hush!" said all those who thought the music fine. [1453] [1454] "But it's the number they want in Finsbury Circus--" [1455] [1456] "Might I--couldn't I--" said the suspicious young man, [1457] and got very red. [1458] [1459] "Oh, I would be so grateful." [1460] [1461] He took the bag--money clinking inside it--and slipped [1462] up the gangway with it. He was just in time to catch them [1463] at the swing-door, and he received a pretty smile from the [1464] German girl and a fine bow from her cavalier. He returned [1465] to his seat up-sides with the world. The trust that they [1466] had reposed in him was trivial, but he felt that it [1467] cancelled his mistrust for them, and that probably he would [1468] not be "had" over his umbrella. This young man had been [1469] "had" in the past--badly, perhaps overwhelmingly--and now [1470] most of his energies went in defending himself against the [1471] unknown. But this afternoon--perhaps on account of [1472] music--he perceived that one must slack off occasionally, or [1473] what is the good of being alive? Wickham Place, W., though [1474] a risk, was as safe as most things, and he would risk it. [1475] [1476] So when the concert was over and Margaret said, "We live [1477] quite near; I am going there now. Could you walk around [1478] with me, and we'll find your umbrella?" he said, "Thank [1479] you," peaceably, and followed her out of the Queen's Hall. [1480] She wished that he was not so anxious to hand a lady [1481] downstairs, or to carry a lady's programme for her--his [1482] class was near enough her own for its manners to vex her. [1483] But she found him interesting on the whole--every one [1484] interested the Schlegels on the whole at that time--and [1485] while her lips talked culture, her heart was planning to [1486] invite him to tea. [1487] [1488] "How tired one gets after music!" she began. [1489] [1490] "Do you find the atmosphere of Queen's Hall oppressive?" [1491] [1492] "Yes, horribly." [1493] [1494] "But surely the atmosphere of Covent Garden is even more [1495] oppressive." [1496] [1497] "Do you go there much?" [1498] [1499] "When my work permits, I attend the gallery for, the [1500] Royal Opera." [1501] [1502] Helen would have exclaimed, "So do I. I love the [1503] gallery," and thus have endeared herself to the young man. [1504] Helen could do these things. But Margaret had an almost [1505] morbid horror of "drawing people out," of "making things [1506] go." She had been to the gallery at Covent Garden, but she [1507] did not "attend" it, preferring the more expensive seats; [1508] still less did she love it. So she made no reply. [1509] [1510] "This year I have been three times--to FAUST, TOSCA, [1511] and--" Was it "Tannhouser" or "Tannhoyser"? Better not risk [1512] the word. [1513] [1514] Margaret disliked TOSCA and FAUST. And so, for one [1515] reason and another, they walked on in silence, chaperoned by [1516] the voice of Mrs. Munt, who was getting into difficulties [1517] with her nephew. [1518] [1519] "I do in a WAY remember the passage, Tibby, but when [1520] every instrument is so beautiful, it is difficult to pick [1521] out one thing rather than another. I am sure that you and [1522] Helen take me to the very nicest concerts. Not a dull note [1523] from beginning to end. I only wish that our German friends [1524] would have stayed till it finished." [1525] [1526] "But surely you haven't forgotten the drum steadily [1527] beating on the low C, Aunt Juley?" came Tibby's voice. "No [1528] one could. It's unmistakable." [1529] [1530] "A specially loud part?" hazarded Mrs. Munt. "Of course [1531] I do not go in for being musical," she added, the shot [1532] failing. "I only care for music--a very different thing. [1533] But still I will say this for myself--I do know when I like [1534] a thing and when I don't. Some people are the same about [1535] pictures. They can go into a picture gallery--Miss Conder [1536] can--and say straight off what they feel, all round the [1537] wall. I never could do that. But music is so different to [1538] pictures, to my mind. When it comes to music I am as safe [1539] as houses, and I assure you, Tibby, I am by no means pleased [1540] by everything. There was a thing--something about a faun in [1541] French--which Helen went into ecstasies over, but I thought [1542] it most tinkling and superficial, and said so, and I held to [1543] my opinion too." [1544] [1545] "Do you agree?" asked Margaret. "Do you think music is [1546] so different to pictures?" [1547] [1548] "I--I should have thought so, kind of," he said. [1549] [1550] "So should I. Now, my sister declares they're just the [1551] same. We have great arguments over it. She says I'm dense; [1552] I say she's sloppy." Getting under way, she cried: "Now, [1553] doesn't it seem absurd to you? What is the good of the Arts [1554] if they are interchangeable? What is the good of the ear if [1555] it tells you the same as the eye? Helen's one aim is to [1556] translate tunes into the language of painting, and pictures [1557] into the language of music. It's very ingenious, and she [1558] says several pretty things in the process, but what's [1559] gained, I'd like to know? Oh, it's all rubbish, radically [1560] false. If Monet's really Debussy, and Debussy's really [1561] Monet, neither gentleman is worth his salt--that's my opinion. [1562] [1563] Evidently these sisters quarrelled. [1564] [1565] "Now, this very symphony that we've just been [1566] having--she won't let it alone. She labels it with meanings [1567] from start to finish; turns it into literature. I wonder if [1568] the day will ever return when music will be treated as [1569] music. Yet I don't know. There's my brother--behind us. [1570] He treats music as music, and oh, my goodness! He makes me [1571] angrier than anyone, simply furious. With him I daren't [1572] even argue." [1573] [1574] An unhappy family, if talented. [1575] [1576] "But, of course, the real villain is Wagner. He has [1577] done more than any man in the nineteenth century towards the [1578] muddling of arts. I do feel that music is in a very serious [1579] state just now, though extraordinarily interesting. Every [1580] now and then in history there do come these terrible [1581] geniuses, like Wagner, who stir up all the wells of thought [1582] at once. For a moment it's splendid. Such a splash as [1583] never was. But afterwards--such a lot of mud; and the [1584] wells--as it were, they communicate with each other too [1585] easily now, and not one of them will run quite clear. [1586] That's what Wagner's done." [1587] [1588] Her speeches fluttered away from the young man like [1589] birds. If only he could talk like this, he would have [1590] caught the world. Oh to acquire culture! Oh, to pronounce [1591] foreign names correctly! Oh, to be well informed, [1592] discoursing at ease on every subject that a lady started! [1593] But it would take one years. With an hour at lunch and a [1594] few shattered hours in the evening, how was it possible to [1595] catch up with leisured women, who had been reading steadily [1596] from childhood? His brain might be full of names, he might [1597] have even heard of Monet and Debussy; the trouble was that [1598] he could not string them together into a sentence, he could [1599] not make them "tell," he could not quite forget about his [1600] stolen umbrella. Yes, the umbrella was the real trouble. [1601] Behind Monet and Debussy the umbrella persisted, with the [1602] steady beat of a drum. "I suppose my umbrella will be all [1603] right," he was thinking. "I don't really mind about it. I [1604] will think about music instead. I suppose my umbrella will [1605] be all right." Earlier in the afternoon he had worried about [1606] seats. Ought he to have paid as much as two shillings? [1607] Earlier still he had wondered, "Shall I try to do without a [1608] programme?" There had always been something to worry him [1609] ever since he could remember, always something that [1610] distracted him in the pursuit of beauty. For he did pursue [1611] beauty, and therefore, Margaret's speeches did flutter away [1612] from him like birds. [1613] [1614] Margaret talked ahead, occasionally saying, "Don't you [1615] think so? don't you feel the same?" And once she stopped, [1616] and said "Oh, do interrupt me!" which terrified him. She [1617] did not attract him, though she filled him with awe. Her [1618] figure was meagre, her face seemed all teeth and eyes, her [1619] references to her sister and brother were uncharitable. For [1620] all her cleverness and culture, she was probably one of [1621] those soulless, atheistical women who have been so shown up [1622] by Miss Corelli. It was surprising (and alarming) that she [1623] should suddenly say, "I do hope that you'll come in and have [1624] some tea." [1625] [1626] "I do hope that you'll come in and have some tea. We [1627] should be so glad. I have dragged you so far out of your way." [1628] [1629] They had arrived at Wickham Place. The sun had set, and [1630] the backwater, in deep shadow, was filling with a gentle [1631] haze. To the right of the fantastic skyline of the flats [1632] towered black against the hues of evening; to the left the [1633] older houses raised a square-cut, irregular parapet against [1634] the grey. Margaret fumbled for her latchkey. Of course she [1635] had forgotten it. So, grasping her umbrella by its ferrule, [1636] she leant over the area and tapped at the dining-room window. [1637] [1638] "Helen! Let us in!" [1639] [1640] "All right," said a voice. [1641] [1642] "You've been taking this gentleman's umbrella." [1643] [1644] "Taken a what?" said Helen, opening the door. "Oh, [1645] what's that? Do come in! How do you do?" [1646] [1647] "Helen, you must not be so ramshackly. You took this [1648] gentleman's umbrella away from Queen's Hall, and he has had [1649] the trouble of coming for it." [1650] [1651] "Oh, I am so sorry!" cried Helen, all her hair flying. [1652] She had pulled off her hat as soon as she returned, and had [1653] flung herself into the big dining-room chair. "I do nothing [1654] but steal umbrellas. I am so very sorry! Do come in and [1655] choose one. Is yours a hooky or a nobbly? Mine's a [1656] nobbly--at least, I THINK it is." [1657] [1658] The light was turned on, and they began to search the [1659] hall, Helen, who had abruptly parted with the Fifth [1660] Symphony, commenting with shrill little cries. [1661] [1662] "Don't you talk, Meg! You stole an old gentleman's silk [1663] top-hat. Yes, she did, Aunt Juley. It is a positive fact. [1664] She thought it was a muff. Oh, heavens! I've knocked the [1665] In and Out card down. Where's Frieda? Tibby, why don't you [1666] ever--No, I can't remember what I was going to say. That [1667] wasn't it, but do tell the maids to hurry tea up. What [1668] about this umbrella?" She opened it. "No, it's all gone [1669] along the seams. It's an appalling umbrella. It must be mine." [1670] [1671] But it was not. [1672] [1673] He took it from her, murmured a few words of thanks, and [1674] then fled, with the lilting step of the clerk. [1675] [1676] "But if you will stop--" cried Margaret. "Now, Helen, [1677] how stupid you've been!" [1678] [1679] "Whatever have I done?" [1680] [1681] "Don't you see that you've frightened him away? I meant [1682] him to stop to tea. You oughtn't to talk about stealing or [1683] holes in an umbrella. I saw his nice eyes getting so [1684] miserable. No, it's not a bit of good now." For Helen had [1685] darted out into the street, shouting, "Oh, do stop!" [1686] [1687] "I dare say it is all for the best," opined Mrs. Munt. [1688] "We know nothing about the young man, Margaret, and your [1689] drawing-room is full of very tempting little things." [1690] [1691] But Helen cried: "Aunt Juley, how can you! You make me [1692] more and more ashamed. I'd rather he HAD been a thief and [1693] taken all the apostle spoons than that I--Well, I must shut [1694] the front-door, I suppose. One more failure for Helen." [1695] [1696] "Yes, I think the apostle spoons could have gone as [1697] rent," said Margaret. Seeing that her aunt did not [1698] understand, she added: "You remember 'rent.' It was one of [1699] father's words--Rent to the ideal, to his own faith in human [1700] nature. You remember how he would trust strangers, and if [1701] they fooled him he would say, 'It's better to be fooled than [1702] to be suspicious'--that the confidence trick is the work of [1703] man, but the want-of-confidence-trick is the work of the devil." [1704] [1705] "I remember something of the sort now," said Mrs. Munt, [1706] rather tartly, for she longed to add, "It was lucky that [1707] your father married a wife with money." But this was unkind, [1708] and she contented herself with, "Why, he might have stolen [1709] the little Ricketts picture as well." [1710] [1711] "Better that he had," said Helen stoutly. [1712] [1713] "No, I agree with Aunt Juley," said Margaret. "I'd [1714] rather mistrust people than lose my little Ricketts. There [1715] are limits." [1716] [1717] Their brother, finding the incident commonplace, had [1718] stolen upstairs to see whether there were scones for tea. [1719] He warmed the teapot--almost too deftly--rejected the Orange [1720] Pekoe that the parlour-maid had provided, poured in five [1721] spoonfuls of a superior blend, filled up with really boiling [1722] water, and now called to the ladies to be quick or they [1723] would lose the aroma. [1724] [1725] "All right, Auntie Tibby," called Helen, while Margaret, [1726] thoughtful again, said: "In a way, I wish we had a real boy [1727] in the house--the kind of boy who cares for men. It would [1728] make entertaining so much easier." [1729] [1730] "So do I," said her sister. "Tibby only cares for [1731] cultured females singing Brahms." And when they joined him [1732] she said rather sharply: "Why didn't you make that young man [1733] welcome, Tibby? You must do the host a little, you know. [1734] You ought to have taken his hat and coaxed him into [1735] stopping, instead of letting him be swamped by screaming women." [1736] [1737] Tibby sighed, and drew a long strand of hair over his forehead. [1738] [1739] "Oh, it's no good looking superior. I mean what I say." [1740] [1741] "Leave Tibby alone!" said Margaret, who could not bear [1742] her brother to be scolded. [1743] [1744] "Here's the house a regular hen-coop!" grumbled Helen. [1745] [1746] "Oh, my dear!" protested Mrs. Munt. "How can you say [1747] such dreadful things! The number of men you get here has [1748] always astonished me. If there is any danger it's the other [1749] way round." [1750] [1751] "Yes, but it's the wrong sort of men, Helen means." [1752] [1753] "No, I don't," corrected Helen. "We get the right sort [1754] of man, but the wrong side of him, and I say that's Tibby's [1755] fault. There ought to be a something about the house--an--I [1756] don't know what." [1757] [1758] "A touch of the W.'s, perhaps?" [1759] [1760] Helen put out her tongue. [1761] [1762] "Who are the W.'s?" asked Tibby. [1763] [1764] "The W.'s are things I and Meg and Aunt Juley know about [1765] and you don't, so there!" [1766] [1767] "I suppose that ours is a female house," said Margaret, [1768] "and one must just accept it. No, Aunt Juley, I don't mean [1769] that this house is full of women. I am trying to say [1770] something much more clever. I mean that it was irrevocably [1771] feminine, even in father's time. Now I'm sure you [1772] understand! Well, I'll give you another example. It'll [1773] shock you, but I don't care. Suppose Queen Victoria gave a [1774] dinner-party, and that the guests had been Leighton, [1775] Millais, Swinburne, Rossetti, Meredith, Fitzgerald, etc. Do [1776] you suppose that the atmosphere of that dinner would have [1777] been artistic? Heavens no! The very chairs on which they [1778] sat would have seen to that. So with our house--it must be [1779] feminine, and all we can do is to see that it isn't [1780] effeminate. Just as another house that I can mention, but I [1781] won't, sounded irrevocably masculine, and all its inmates [1782] can do is to see that it isn't brutal." [1783] [1784] "That house being the W.'s house, I presume," said Tibby. [1785] [1786] "You're not going to be told about the W.'s, my child," [1787] Helen cried, "so don't you think it. And on the other hand, [1788] I don't the least mind if you find out, so don't you think [1789] you've done anything clever, in either case. Give me a cigarette." [1790] [1791] "You do what you can for the house," said Margaret. [1792] "The drawing-room reeks of smoke." [1793] [1794] "If you smoked too, the house might suddenly turn [1795] masculine. Atmosphere is probably a question of touch and [1796] go. Even at Queen Victoria's dinner-party--if something had [1797] been just a little different--perhaps if she'd worn a [1798] clinging Liberty tea-gown instead of a magenta satin--" [1799] [1800] "With an Indian shawl over her shoulders--" [1801] [1802] "Fastened at the bosom with a Cairngorm-pin--" [1803] [1804] Bursts of disloyal laughter--you must remember that they [1805] are half German--greeted these suggestions, and Margaret [1806] said pensively, "How inconceivable it would be if the Royal [1807] Family cared about Art." And the conversation drifted away [1808] and away, and Helen's cigarette turned to a spot in the [1809] darkness, and the great flats opposite were sown with [1810] lighted windows, which vanished and were relit again, and [1811] vanished incessantly. Beyond them the thoroughfare roared [1812] gently--a tide that could never be quiet, while in the east, [1813] invisible behind the smokes of Wapping, the moon was rising. [1814] [1815] "That reminds me, Margaret. We might have taken that [1816] young man into the dining-room, at all events. Only the [1817] majolica plate--and that is so firmly set in the wall. I am [1818] really distressed that he had no tea." [1819] [1820] For that little incident had impressed the three women [1821] more than might be supposed. It remained as a goblin [1822] football, as a hint that all is not for the best in the best [1823] of all possible worlds, and that beneath these [1824] superstructures of wealth and art there wanders an ill-fed [1825] boy, who has recovered his umbrella indeed, but who has left [1826] no address behind him, and no name. [1827] [1828] [1829] Chapter 6 [1830] [1831] We are not concerned with the very poor. They are [1832] unthinkable, and only to be approached by the statistician [1833] or the poet. This story deals with gentlefolk, or with [1834] those who are obliged to pretend that they are gentlefolk. [1835] [1836] The boy, Leonard Bast, stood at the extreme verge of [1837] gentility. He was not in the abyss, but he could see it, [1838] and at times people whom he knew had dropped in, and counted [1839] no more. He knew that he was poor, and would admit it: he [1840] would have died sooner than confess any inferiority to the [1841] rich. This may be splendid of him. But he was inferior to [1842] most rich people, there is not the least doubt of it. He [1843] was not as courteous as the average rich man, nor as [1844] intelligent, nor as healthy, nor as lovable. His mind and [1845] his body had been alike underfed, because he was poor, and [1846] because he was modern they were always craving better food. [1847] Had he lived some centuries ago, in the brightly coloured [1848] civilizations of the past, he would have had a definite [1849] status, his rank and his income would have corresponded. [1850] But in his day the angel of Democracy had arisen, [1851] enshadowing the classes with leathern wings, and [1852] proclaiming, "All men are equal--all men, that is to say, [1853] who possess umbrellas," and so he was obliged to assert [1854] gentility, lest he slipped into the abyss where nothing [1855] counts, and the statements of Democracy are inaudible. [1856] [1857] As he walked away from Wickham Place, his first care was [1858] to prove that he was as good as the Miss Schlegels. [1859] Obscurely wounded in his pride, he tried to wound them in [1860] return. They were probably not ladies. Would real ladies [1861] have asked him to tea? They were certainly ill-natured and [1862] cold. At each step his feeling of superiority increased. [1863] Would a real lady have talked about stealing an umbrella? [1864] Perhaps they were thieves after all, and if he had gone into [1865] the house they could have clapped a chloroformed [1866] handkerchief over his face. He walked on complacently as [1867] far as the Houses of Parliament. There an empty stomach [1868] asserted itself, and told him he was a fool. [1869] [1870] "Evening, Mr. Bast." [1871] [1872] "Evening, Mr. Dealtry." [1873] [1874] "Nice evening." [1875] [1876] "Evening." [1877] [1878] Mr. Dealtry, a fellow clerk, passed on, and Leonard [1879] stood wondering whether he would take the tram as far as a [1880] penny would take him, or whether he would walk. He decided [1881] to walk--it is no good giving in, and he had spent money [1882] enough at Queen's Hall--and he walked over Westminster [1883] Bridge, in front of St. Thomas's Hospital, and through the [1884] immense tunnel that passes under the South-Western main line [1885] at Vauxhall. In the tunnel he paused and listened to the [1886] roar of the trains. A sharp pain darted through his head, [1887] and he was conscious of the exact form of his eye sockets. [1888] He pushed on for another mile, and did not slacken speed [1889] until he stood at the entrance of a road called Camelia [1890] Road, which was at present his home. [1891] [1892] Here he stopped again, and glanced suspiciously to right [1893] and left, like a rabbit that is going to bolt into its [1894] hole. A block of flats, constructed with extreme cheapness, [1895] towered on either hand. Farther down the road two more [1896] blocks were being built, and beyond these an old house was [1897] being demolished to accommodate another pair. It was the [1898] kind of scene that may be observed all over London, whatever [1899] the locality--bricks and mortar rising and falling with the [1900] restlessness of the water in a fountain, as the city [1901] receives more and more men upon her soil. Camelia Road [1902] would soon stand out like a fortress, and command, for a [1903] little, an extensive view. Only for a little. Plans were [1904] out for the erection of flats in Magnolia Road also. And [1905] again a few years, and all the flats in either road might be [1906] pulled down, and new buildings, of a vastness at present [1907] unimaginable, might arise where they had fallen. [1908] [1909] "Evening, Mr. Bast." [1910] [1911] "Evening, Mr. Cunningham." [1912] [1913] "Very serious thing this decline of the birth-rate in Manchester." [1914] [1915] "I beg your pardon?" [1916] [1917] "Very serious thing this decline of the birth-rate in [1918] Manchester," repeated Mr. Cunningham, tapping the Sunday [1919] paper, in which the calamity in question had just been [1920] announced to him. [1921] [1922] "Ah, yes," said Leonard, who was not going to let on [1923] that he had not bought a Sunday paper. [1924] [1925] "If this kind of thing goes on the population of England [1926] will be stationary in 1960." [1927] [1928] "You don't say so." [1929] [1930] "I call it a very serious thing, eh?" [1931] [1932] "Good-evening, Mr. Cunningham." [1933] [1934] "Good-evening, Mr. Bast." [1935] [1936] Then Leonard entered Block B of the flats, and turned, [1937] not upstairs, but down, into what is known to house agents [1938] as a semi-basement, and to other men as a cellar. He opened [1939] the door, and cried "Hullo!" with the pseudo-geniality of [1940] the Cockney. There was no reply. "Hullo!" he repeated. [1941] The sitting-room was empty, though the electric light had [1942] been left burning. A look of relief came over his face, and [1943] he flung himself into the armchair. [1944] [1945] The sitting-room contained, besides the armchair, two [1946] other chairs, a piano, a three-legged table, and a cosy [1947] corner. Of the walls, one was occupied by the window, the [1948] other by a draped mantelshelf bristling with Cupids. [1949] Opposite the window was the door, and beside the door a [1950] bookcase, while over the piano there extended one of the [1951] masterpieces of Maud Goodman. It was an amorous and not [1952] unpleasant little hole when the curtains were drawn, and the [1953] lights turned on, and the gas-stove unlit. But it struck [1954] that shallow makeshift note that is so often heard in the [1955] modem dwelling-place. It had been too easily gained, and [1956] could be relinquished too easily. [1957] [1958] As Leonard was kicking off his boots he jarred the [1959] three-legged table, and a photograph frame, honourably [1960] poised upon it, slid sideways, fell off into the fireplace, [1961] and smashed. He swore in a colourless sort of way, and [1962] picked the photograph up. It represented a young lady [1963] called Jacky, and had been taken at the time when young [1964] ladies called Jacky were often photographed with their [1965] mouths open. Teeth of dazzling whiteness extended along [1966] either of Jacky's jaws, and positively weighted her head [1967] sideways, so large were they and so numerous. Take my word [1968] for it, that smile was simply stunning, and it is only you [1969] and I who will be fastidious, and complain that true joy [1970] begins in the eyes, and that the eyes of Jacky did not [1971] accord with her smile, but were anxious and hungry. [1972] [1973] Leonard tried to pull out the fragments of glass, and [1974] cut his fingers and swore again. A drop of blood fell on [1975] the frame, another followed, spilling over on to the exposed [1976] photograph. He swore more vigorously, and dashed to the [1977] kitchen, where he bathed his hands. The kitchen was the [1978] same size as the sitting room; through it was a bedroom. [1979] This completed his home. He was renting the flat furnished: [1980] of all the objects that encumbered it none were his own [1981] except the photograph frame, the Cupids, and the books. [1982] [1983] "Damn, damn, damnation!" he murmured, together with such [1984] other words as he had learnt from older men. Then he raised [1985] his hand to his forehead and said, "Oh, damn it all--" which [1986] meant something different. He pulled himself together. He [1987] drank a little tea, black and silent, that still survived [1988] upon an upper shelf. He swallowed some dusty crumbs of [1989] cake. Then he went back to the sitting-room, settled [1990] himself anew, and began to read a volume of Ruskin. [1991] [1992] "Seven miles to the north of Venice--" [1993] [1994] How perfectly the famous chapter opens! How supreme its [1995] command of admonition and of poetry! The rich man is [1996] speaking to us from his gondola. [1997] [1998] "Seven miles to the north of Venice the banks of sand [1999] which nearer the city rise little above low-water mark [2000] attain by degrees a higher level, and knit themselves at [2001] last into fields of salt morass, raised here and there into [2002] shapeless mounds, and intercepted by narrow creeks of sea." [2003] [2004] Leonard was trying to form his style on Ruskin: he [2005] understood him to be the greatest master of English Prose. [2006] He read forward steadily, occasionally making a few notes. [2007] [2008] "Let us consider a little each of these characters in [2009] succession, and first (for of the shafts enough has been [2010] said already), what is very peculiar to this church--its luminousness." [2011] [2012] Was there anything to be learnt from this fine [2013] sentence? Could he adapt it to the needs of daily life? [2014] Could he introduce it, with modifications, when he next [2015] wrote a letter to his brother, the lay-reader? For example-- [2016] [2017] "Let us consider a little each of these characters in [2018] succession, and first (for of the absence of ventilation [2019] enough has been said already), what is very peculiar to this [2020] flat--its obscurity. " [2021] [2022] Something told him that the modifications would not do; [2023] and that something, had he known it, was the spirit of [2024] English Prose. "My flat is dark as well as stuffy." Those [2025] were the words for him. [2026] [2027] And the voice in the gondola rolled on, piping [2028] melodiously of Effort and Self-Sacrifice, full of high [2029] purpose, full of beauty, full even of sympathy and the love [2030] of men, yet somehow eluding all that was actual and [2031] insistent in Leonard's life. For it was the voice of one [2032] who had never been dirty or hungry, and had not guessed [2033] successfully what dirt and hunger are. [2034] [2035] Leonard listened to it with reverence. He felt that he [2036] was being done good to, and that if he kept on with Ruskin, [2037] and the Queen's Hall Concerts, and some pictures by Watts, [2038] he would one day push his head out of the grey waters and [2039] see the universe. He believed in sudden conversion, a [2040] belief which may be right, but which is peculiarly [2041] attractive to a half-baked mind. It is the bias of much [2042] popular religion: in the domain of business it dominates the [2043] Stock Exchange, and becomes that "bit of luck" by which all [2044] successes and failures are explained. "If only I had a bit [2045] of luck, the whole thing would come straight. . . . He's [2046] got a most magnificent place down at Streatham and a 20 [2047] h.-p. Fiat, but then, mind you, he's had luck. . . . I'm [2048] sorry the wife's so late, but she never has any luck over [2049] catching trains." Leonard was superior to these people; he [2050] did believe in effort and in a steady preparation for the [2051] change that he desired. But of a heritage that may expand [2052] gradually, he had no conception: he hoped to come to Culture [2053] suddenly, much as the Revivalist hopes to come to Jesus. [2054] Those Miss Schlegels had come to it; they had done the [2055] trick; their hands were upon the ropes, once and for all. [2056] And meanwhile, his flat was dark, as well as stuffy. [2057] [2058] Presently there was a noise on the staircase. He shut [2059] up Margaret's card in the pages of Ruskin, and opened the [2060] door. A woman entered, of whom it is simplest to say that [2061] she was not respectable. Her appearance was awesome. She [2062] seemed all strings and bell-pulls--ribbons, chains, bead [2063] necklaces that clinked and caught--and a boa of azure [2064] feathers hung round her neck, with the ends uneven. Her [2065] throat was bare, wound with a double row of pearls, her arms [2066] were bare to the elbows, and might again be detected at the [2067] shoulder, through cheap lace. Her hat, which was flowery, [2068] resembled those punnets, covered with flannel, which we [2069] sowed with mustard and cress in our childhood, and which [2070] germinated here yes, and there no. She wore it on the back [2071] of her head. As for her hair, or rather hairs, they are too [2072] complicated to describe, but one system went down her back, [2073] lying in a thick pad there, while another, created for a [2074] lighter destiny, rippled around her forehead. The face--the [2075] face does not signify. It was the face of the photograph, [2076] but older, and the teeth were not so numerous as the [2077] photographer had suggested, and certainly not so white. [2078] Yes, Jacky was past her prime, whatever that prime may have [2079] been. She was descending quicker than most women into the [2080] colourless years, and the look in her eyes confessed it. [2081] [2082] "What ho!" said Leonard, greeting that apparition with [2083] much spirit, and helping it off with its boa. [2084] [2085] Jacky, in husky tones, replied, "What ho!" [2086] [2087] "Been out?" he asked. The question sounds superfluous, [2088] but it cannot have been really, for the lady answered, "No," [2089] adding, "Oh, I am so tired." [2090] [2091] "You tired?" [2092] [2093] "Eh?" [2094] [2095] "I'm tired," said he, hanging the boa up. [2096] [2097] "Oh, Len, I am so tired." [2098] [2099] "I've been to that classical concert I told you about," [2100] said Leonard. [2101] [2102] "What's that?" [2103] [2104] "I came back as soon as it was over." [2105] [2106] "Any one been round to our place?" asked Jacky. [2107] [2108] "Not that I've seen. I met Mr. Cunningham outside, and [2109] we passed a few remarks." [2110] [2111] "What, not Mr. Cunnginham?" [2112] [2113] "Yes." [2114] [2115] "Oh, you mean Mr. Cunningham." [2116] [2117] "Yes. Mr. Cunningham." [2118] [2119] "I've been out to tea at a lady friend's." [2120] [2121] Her secret being at last given to the world, and the [2122] name of the lady-friend being even adumbrated, Jacky made no [2123] further experiments in the difficult and tiring art of [2124] conversation. She never had been a great talker. Even in [2125] her photographic days she had relied upon her smile and her [2126] figure to attract, and now that she was-- [2127] [2128] "On the shelf, [2129] On the shelf, [2130] Boys, boys, I'm on the shelf," [2131] [2132] she was not likely to find her tongue. Occasional [2133] bursts of song (of which the above is an example) still [2134] issued from her lips, but the spoken word was rare. [2135] [2136] She sat down on Leonard's knee, and began to fondle [2137] him. She was now a massive woman of thirty-three, and her [2138] weight hurt him, but he could not very well say anything. [2139] Then she said, "Is that a book you're reading?" and he said, [2140] "That's a book," and drew it from her unreluctant grasp. [2141] Margaret's card fell out of it. It fell face downwards, and [2142] he murmured, "Bookmarker." [2143] [2144] "Len--" [2145] [2146] "What is it?" he asked, a little wearily, for she only [2147] had one topic of conversation when she sat upon his knee. [2148] [2149] "You do love me?" [2150] [2151] "Jacky, you know that I do. How can you ask such questions!" [2152] [2153] "But you do love me, Len, don't you?" [2154] [2155] "Of course I do." [2156] [2157] A pause. The other remark was still due. [2158] [2159] "Len--" [2160] [2161] "Well? What is it?" [2162] [2163] "Len, you will make it all right?" [2164] [2165] "I can't have you ask me that again," said the boy, [2166] flaring up into a sudden passion. "I've promised to marry [2167] you when I'm of age, and that's enough. My word's my word. [2168] I've promised to marry you as soon as ever I'm twenty-one, [2169] and I can't keep on being worried. I've worries enough. It [2170] isn't likely I'd throw you over, let alone my word, when [2171] I've spent all this money. Besides, I'm an Englishman, and [2172] I never go back on my word. Jacky, do be reasonable. Of [2173] course I'll marry you. Only do stop badgering me." [2174] [2175] "When's your birthday, Len?" [2176] [2177] "I've told you again and again, the eleventh of November [2178] next. Now get off my knee a bit; someone must get supper, I [2179] suppose." [2180] [2181] Jacky went through to the bedroom, and began to see to [2182] her hat. This meant blowing at it with short sharp puffs. [2183] Leonard tidied up the sitting-room, and began to prepare [2184] their evening meal. He put a penny into the slot of the [2185] gas-meter, and soon the flat was reeking with metallic [2186] fumes. Somehow he could not recover his temper, and all the [2187] time he was cooking he continued to complain bitterly. [2188] [2189] "It really is too bad when a fellow isn't trusted. It [2190] makes one feel so wild, when I've pretended to the people [2191] here that you're my wife--all right, you shall be my [2192] wife--and I've bought you the ring to wear, and I've taken [2193] this flat furnished, and it's far more than I can afford, [2194] and yet you aren't content, and I've also not told the truth [2195] when I've written home." He lowered his voice. "He'd stop [2196] it." In a tone of horror, that was a little luxurious, he [2197] repeated: "My brother'd stop it. I'm going against the [2198] whole world, Jacky. [2199] [2200] "That's what I am, Jacky. I don't take any heed of what [2201] anyone says. I just go straight forward, I do. That's [2202] always been my way. I'm not one of your weak knock-kneed [2203] chaps. If a woman's in trouble, I don't leave her in the [2204] lurch. That's not my street. No, thank you. [2205] [2206] "I'll tell you another thing too. I care a good deal [2207] about improving myself by means of Literature and Art, and [2208] so getting a wider outlook. For instance, when you came in [2209] I was reading Ruskin's STONES OF VENICE. I don't say this to [2210] boast, but just to show you the kind of man I am. I can [2211] tell you, I enjoyed that classical concert this afternoon." [2212] [2213] To all his moods Jacky remained equally indifferent. [2214] When supper was ready--and not before--she emerged from the [2215] bedroom, saying: "But you do love me, don't you?" [2216] [2217] They began with a soup square, which Leonard had just [2218] dissolved in some hot water. It was followed by the [2219] tongue--a freckled cylinder of meat, with a little jelly at [2220] the top, and a great deal of yellow fat at the [2221] bottom--ending with another square dissolved in water [2222] (jelly: pineapple), which Leonard had prepared earlier in [2223] the day. Jacky ate contentedly enough, occasionally looking [2224] at her man with those anxious eyes, to which nothing else in [2225] her appearance corresponded, and which yet seemed to mirror [2226] her soul. And Leonard managed to convince his stomach that [2227] it was having a nourishing meal. [2228] [2229] After supper they smoked cigarettes and exchanged a few [2230] statements. She observed that her "likeness" had been [2231] broken. He found occasion to remark, for the second time, [2232] that he had come straight back home after the concert at [2233] Queen's Hall. Presently she sat upon his knee. The [2234] inhabitants of Camelia Road tramped to and fro outside the [2235] window, just on a level with their heads, and the family in [2236] the flat on the ground-floor began to sing, "Hark, my soul, [2237] it is the Lord." [2238] [2239] "That tune fairly gives me the hump," said Leonard. [2240] [2241] Jacky followed this, and said that, for her part, she [2242] thought it a lovely tune. [2243] [2244] "No; I'll play you something lovely. Get up, dear, for [2245] a minute." [2246] [2247] He went to the piano and jingled out a little Grieg. He [2248] played badly and vulgarly, but the performance was not [2249] without its effect, for Jacky said she thought she'd be [2250] going to bed. As she receded, a new set of interests [2251] possessed the boy, and he began to think of what had been [2252] said about music by that odd Miss Schlegel--the one that [2253] twisted her face about so when she spoke. Then the thoughts [2254] grew sad and envious. There was the girl named Helen, who [2255] had pinched his umbrella, and the German girl who had smiled [2256] at him pleasantly, and Herr someone, and Aunt someone, and [2257] the brother--all, all with their hands on the ropes. They [2258] had all passed up that narrow, rich staircase at Wickham [2259] Place, to some ample room, whither he could never follow [2260] them, not if he read for ten hours a day. Oh, it was not [2261] good, this continual aspiration. Some are born cultured; [2262] the rest had better go in for whatever comes easy. To see [2263] life steadily and to see it whole was not for the likes of him. [2264] [2265] From the darkness beyond the kitchen a voice called, "Len?" [2266] [2267] "You in bed?" he asked, his forehead twitching. [2268] [2269] "M'm." [2270] [2271] "All right." [2272] [2273] Presently she called him again. [2274] [2275] "I must clean my boots ready for the morning," he answered. [2276] [2277] Presently she called him again. [2278] [2279] "I rather want to get this chapter done." [2280] [2281] "What?" [2282] [2283] He closed his ears against her. [2284] [2285] "What's that?" [2286] [2287] "All right, Jacky, nothing; I'm reading a book." [2288] [2289] "What?" [2290] [2291] "What?" he answered, catching her degraded deafness. [2292] [2293] Presently she called him again. [2294] [2295] Ruskin had visited Torcello by this time, and was [2296] ordering his gondoliers to take him to Murano. It occurred [2297] to him, as he glided over the whispering lagoons, that the [2298] power of Nature could not be shortened by the folly, nor her [2299] beauty altogether saddened by the misery, of such as [2300] Leonard. [2301] [2302] [2303] Chapter 7 [2304] [2305] "Oh, Margaret," cried her aunt next morning, "such a most [2306] unfortunate thing has happened. I could not get you alone." [2307] [2308] The most unfortunate thing was not very serious. One of [2309] the flats in the ornate block opposite had been taken [2310] furnished by the Wilcox family, "coming up, no doubt, in the [2311] hope of getting into London society." That Mrs. Munt should [2312] be the first to discover the misfortune was not remarkable, [2313] for she was so interested in the flats, that she watched [2314] their every mutation with unwearying care. In theory she [2315] despised them--they took away that old-world look--they cut [2316] off the sun--flats house a flashy type of person. But if [2317] the truth had been known, she found her visits to Wickham [2318] Place twice as amusing since Wickham Mansions had arisen, [2319] and would in a couple of days learn more about them than her [2320] nieces in a couple of months, or her nephew in a couple of [2321] years. She would stroll across and make friends with the [2322] porters, and inquire what the rents were, exclaiming for [2323] example: "What! a hundred and twenty for a basement? [2324] You'll never get it!" And they would answer: "One can but [2325] try, madam." The passenger lifts, the provision lifts, the [2326] arrangement for coals (a great temptation for a dishonest [2327] porter), were all familiar matters to her, and perhaps a [2328] relief from the politico-economical-aesthetic atmosphere that [2329] reigned at the Schlegels'. [2330] [2331] Margaret received the information calmly, and did not [2332] agree that it would throw a cloud over poor Helen's life. [2333] [2334] "Oh, but Helen isn't a girl with no interests," she [2335] explained. "She has plenty of other things and other people [2336] to think about. She made a false start with the Wilcoxes, [2337] and she'll be as willing as we are to have nothing more to [2338] do with them." [2339] [2340] "For a clever girl, dear, how very oddly you do talk. [2341] Helen'll HAVE to have something more to do with them, now [2342] that they're all opposite. She may meet that Paul in the [2343] street. She cannot very well not bow." [2344] [2345] "Of course she must bow. But look here; let's do the [2346] flowers. I was going to say, the will to be interested in [2347] him has died, and what else matters? I look on that [2348] disastrous episode (over which you were so kind) as the [2349] killing of a nerve in Helen. It's dead, and she'll never be [2350] troubled with it again. The only things that matter are the [2351] things that interest one. Bowing, even calling and leaving [2352] cards, even a dinner-party--we can do all those things to [2353] the Wilcoxes, if they find it agreeable; but the other [2354] thing, the one important thing--never again. Don't you see?" [2355] [2356] Mrs. Munt did not see, and indeed Margaret was making a [2357] most questionable statement--that any emotion, any interest [2358] once vividly aroused, can wholly die. [2359] [2360] "I also have the honour to inform you that the Wilcoxes [2361] are bored with us. I didn't tell you at the time--it might [2362] have made you angry, and you had enough to worry you--but I [2363] wrote a letter to Mrs. W., and apologized for the trouble [2364] that Helen had given them. She didn't answer it." [2365] [2366] "How very rude!" [2367] [2368] "I wonder. Or was it sensible?" [2369] [2370] "No, Margaret, most rude." [2371] [2372] "In either case one can class it as reassuring." [2373] [2374] Mrs. Munt sighed. She was going back to Swanage on the [2375] morrow, just as her nieces were wanting her most. Other [2376] regrets crowded upon her: for instance, how magnificently [2377] she would have cut Charles if she had met him face to face. [2378] She had already seen him, giving an order to the porter--and [2379] very common he looked in a tall hat. But unfortunately his [2380] back was turned to her, and though she had cut his back, she [2381] could not regard this as a telling snub. [2382] [2383] "But you will be careful, won't you?" she exhorted. [2384] [2385] "Oh, certainly. Fiendishly careful." [2386] [2387] "And Helen must be careful, too," [2388] [2389] "Careful over what?" cried Helen, at that moment coming [2390] into the room with her cousin. [2391] [2392] "Nothing," said Margaret, seized with a momentary awkwardness. [2393] [2394] "Careful over what, Aunt Juley?" [2395] [2396] Mrs. Munt assumed a cryptic air. "It is only that a [2397] certain family, whom we know by name but do not mention, as [2398] you said yourself last night after the concert, have taken [2399] the flat opposite from the Mathesons--where the plants are [2400] in the balcony." [2401] [2402] Helen began some laughing reply, and then disconcerted [2403] them all by blushing. Mrs. Munt was so disconcerted that [2404] she exclaimed, "What, Helen, you don't mind them coming, do [2405] you?" and deepened the blush to crimson. [2406] [2407] "Of course I don't mind," said Helen a little crossly. [2408] "It is that you and Meg are both so absurdly grave about it, [2409] when there's nothing to be grave about at all." [2410] [2411] "I'm not grave," protested Margaret, a little cross in [2412] her turn. [2413] [2414] "Well, you look grave; doesn't she, Frieda?" [2415] [2416] "I don't feel grave, that's all I can say; you're going [2417] quite on the wrong tack." [2418] [2419] "No, she does not feel grave," echoed Mrs. Munt. "I can [2420] bear witness to that. She disagrees--" [2421] [2422] "Hark!" interrupted Fraulein Mosebach. "I hear Bruno [2423] entering the hall." [2424] [2425] For Herr Liesecke was due at Wickham Place to call for [2426] the two younger girls. He was not entering the hall--in [2427] fact, he did not enter it for quite five minutes. But [2428] Frieda detected a delicate situation, and said that she and [2429] Helen had much better wait for Bruno down below, and leave [2430] Margaret and Mrs. Munt to finish arranging the flowers. [2431] Helen acquiesced. But, as if to prove that the situation [2432] was not delicate really, she stopped in the doorway and said: [2433] [2434] "Did you say the Mathesons' flat, Aunt Juley? How [2435] wonderful you are! I never knew that the woman who laced [2436] too tightly's name was Matheson." [2437] [2438] "Come, Helen," said her cousin. [2439] [2440] "Go, Helen," said her aunt; and continued to Margaret [2441] almost in the same breath: "Helen cannot deceive me, She [2442] does mind." [2443] [2444] "Oh, hush!" breathed Margaret. "Frieda'll hear you, and [2445] she can be so tiresome." [2446] [2447] "She minds," persisted Mrs. Munt, moving thoughtfully [2448] about the room, and pulling the dead chrysanthemums out of [2449] the vases. "I knew she'd mind--and I'm sure a girl ought [2450] to! Such an experience! Such awful coarse-grained people! [2451] I know more about them than you do, which you forget, and if [2452] Charles had taken you that motor drive--well, you'd have [2453] reached the house a perfect wreck. Oh, Margaret, you don't [2454] know what you are in for. They're all bottled up against [2455] the drawing-room window. There's Mrs. Wilcox--I've seen [2456] her. There's Paul. There's Evie, who is a minx. There's [2457] Charles--I saw him to start with. And who would an elderly [2458] man with a moustache and a copper-coloured face be?" [2459] [2460] "Mr. Wilcox, possibly." [2461] [2462] "I knew it. And there's Mr. Wilcox." [2463] [2464] "It's a shame to call his face copper colour," [2465] complained Margaret. "He has a remarkably good complexion [2466] for a man of his age." [2467] [2468] Mrs. Munt, triumphant elsewhere, could afford to concede [2469] Mr. Wilcox his complexion. She passed on from it to the [2470] plan of campaign that her nieces should pursue in the [2471] future. Margaret tried to stop her. [2472] [2473] "Helen did not take the news quite as I expected, but [2474] the Wilcox nerve is dead in her really, so there's no need [2475] for plans." [2476] [2477] "It's as well to be prepared." [2478] [2479] "No--it's as well not to be prepared." [2480] [2481] "Because--' [2482] [2483] Her thought drew being from the obscure borderland. She [2484] could not explain in so many words, but she felt that those [2485] who prepare for all the emergencies of life beforehand may [2486] equip themselves at the expense of joy. It is necessary to [2487] prepare for an examination, or a dinner-party, or a possible [2488] fall in the price of stock: those who attempt human [2489] relations must adopt another method, or fail. "Because I'd [2490] sooner risk it," was her lame conclusion. [2491] [2492] "But imagine the evenings," exclaimed her aunt, pointing [2493] to the Mansions with the spout of the watering-can. "Turn [2494] the electric light on her or there, and it's almost the same [2495] room. One evening they may forget to draw their blinds [2496] down, and you'll see them; and the next, you yours, and [2497] they'll see you. Impossible to sit out on the balconies. [2498] Impossible to water the plants, or even speak. Imagine [2499] going out of the front-door, and they come out opposite at [2500] the same moment. And yet you tell me that plans are [2501] unnecessary, and you'd rather risk it." [2502] [2503] "I hope to risk things all my life." [2504] [2505] "Oh, Margaret, most dangerous." [2506] [2507] "But after all," she continued with a smile, "there's [2508] never any great risk as long as you have money." [2509] [2510] "Oh, shame! What a shocking speech!" [2511] [2512] "Money pads the edges of things," said Miss Schlegel. [2513] "God help those who have none." [2514] [2515] "But this is something quite new!" said Mrs. Munt, who [2516] collected new ideas as a squirrel collects nuts, and was [2517] especially attracted by those that are portable. [2518] [2519] "New for me; sensible people have acknowledged it for [2520] years. You and I and the Wilcoxes stand upon money as upon [2521] islands. It is so firm beneath our feet that we forget its [2522] very existence. It's only when we see someone near us [2523] tottering that we realize all that an independent income [2524] means. Last night, when we were talking up here round the [2525] fire, I began to think that the very soul of the world is [2526] economic, and that the lowest abyss is not the absence of [2527] love, but the absence of coin." [2528] [2529] "I call that rather cynical." [2530] [2531] "So do I. But Helen and I, we ought to remember, when we [2532] are tempted to criticize others, that we are standing on [2533] these islands, and that most of the others, are down below [2534] the surface of the sea. The poor cannot always reach those [2535] whom they want to love, and they can hardly ever escape from [2536] those whom they love no longer. We rich can. Imagine the [2537] tragedy last June, if Helen and Paul Wilcox had been poor [2538] people, and couldn't invoke railways and motor-cars to part them." [2539] [2540] "That's more like Socialism," said Mrs. Munt suspiciously. [2541] [2542] "Call it what you like. I call it going through life [2543] with one's hand spread open on the table. I'm tired of [2544] these rich people who pretend to be poor, and think it shows [2545] a nice mind to ignore the piles of money that keep their [2546] feet above the waves. I stand each year upon six hundred [2547] pounds, and Helen upon the same, and Tibby will stand upon [2548] eight, and as fast as our pounds crumble away into the sea [2549] they are renewed--from the sea, yes, from the sea. And all [2550] our thoughts are the thoughts of six-hundred-pounders, and [2551] all our speeches; and because we don't want to steal [2552] umbrellas ourselves, we forget that below the sea people do [2553] want to steal them, and do steal them sometimes, and that [2554] what's a joke up here is down there reality--" [2555] [2556] "There they go--there goes Fraulein Mosebach. Really, [2557] for a German she does dress charmingly. Oh--!" [2558] [2559] "What is it?" [2560] [2561] "Helen was looking up at the Wilcoxes' flat." [2562] [2563] "Why shouldn't she?" [2564] [2565] "I beg your pardon, I interrupted you. What was it you [2566] were saying about reality?" [2567] [2568] "I had worked round to myself, as usual," answered [2569] Margaret in tones that were suddenly preoccupied. [2570] [2571] "Do tell me this, at all events. Are you for the rich [2572] or for the poor?" [2573] [2574] "Too difficult. Ask me another. Am I for poverty or [2575] for riches? For riches. Hurrah for riches!" [2576] [2577] "For riches!" echoed Mrs. Munt, having, as it were, at [2578] last secured her nut. [2579] [2580] "Yes. For riches. Money for ever!" [2581] [2582] "So am I, and so, I am afraid, are most of my [2583] acquaintances at Swanage, but I am surprised that you agree [2584] with us." [2585] [2586] "Thank you so much, Aunt Juley. While I have talked [2587] theories, you have done the flowers." [2588] [2589] "Not at all, dear. I wish you would let me help you in [2590] more important things." [2591] [2592] "Well, would you be very kind? Would you come round [2593] with me to the registry office? There's a housemaid who [2594] won't say yes but doesn't say no." [2595] [2596] On their way thither they too looked up at the Wilcoxes' [2597] flat. Evie was in the balcony, "staring most rudely," [2598] according to Mrs. Munt. Oh yes, it was a nuisance, there [2599] was no doubt of it. Helen was proof against a passing [2600] encounter but--Margaret began to lose confidence. Might it [2601] reawake the dying nerve if the family were living close [2602] against her eyes? And Frieda Mosebach was stopping with [2603] them for another fortnight, and Frieda was sharp, abominably [2604] sharp, and quite capable of remarking, "You love one of the [2605] young gentlemen opposite, yes?" The remark would be untrue, [2606] but of the kind which, if stated often enough, may become [2607] true; just as the remark, "England and Germany are bound to [2608] fight," renders war a little more likely each time that it [2609] is made, and is therefore made the more readily by the [2610] gutter press of either nation. Have the private emotions [2611] also their gutter press? Margaret thought so, and feared [2612] that good Aunt Juley and Frieda were typical specimens of [2613] it. They might, by continual chatter, lead Helen into a [2614] repetition of the desires of June. Into a repetition--they [2615] could not do more; they could not lead her into lasting [2616] love. They were--she saw it clearly--Journalism; her [2617] father, with all his defects and wrong-headedness, had been [2618] Literature, and had he lived, he would have persuaded his [2619] daughter rightly. [2620] [2621] The registry office was holding its morning reception. [2622] A string of carriages filled the street. Miss Schlegel [2623] waited her turn, and finally had to be content with an [2624] insidious "temporary," being rejected by genuine housemaids [2625] on the ground of her numerous stairs. Her failure depressed [2626] her, and though she forgot the failure, the depression [2627] remained. On her way home she again glanced up at the [2628] Wilcoxes' flat, and took the rather matronly step of [2629] speaking about the matter to Helen. [2630] [2631] "Helen, you must tell me whether this thing worries you." [2632] [2633] "If what?" said Helen, who was washing her hands for lunch. [2634] [2635] "The W.'s coming." [2636] [2637] "No, of course not." [2638] [2639] "Really?" [2640] [2641] "Really." Then she admitted that she was a little [2642] worried on Mrs. Wilcox's account; she implied that Mrs. [2643] Wilcox might reach backward into deep feelings, and be [2644] pained by things that never touched the other members of [2645] that clan. "I shan't mind if Paul points at our house and [2646] says, 'There lives the girl who tried to catch me.' But she might." [2647] [2648] "If even that worries you, we could arrange something. [2649] There's no reason we should be near people who displease us [2650] or whom we displease, thanks to our money. We might even go [2651] away for a little." [2652] [2653] "Well, I am going away. Frieda's just asked me to [2654] Stettin, and I shan't be back till after the New Year. Will [2655] that do? Or must I fly the country altogether? Really, [2656] Meg, what has come over you to make such a fuss?" [2657] [2658] "Oh, I'm getting an old maid, I suppose. I thought I [2659] minded nothing, but really I--I should be bored if you fell [2660] in love with the same man twice and"--she cleared her [2661] throat--"you did go red, you know, when Aunt Juley attacked [2662] you this morning. I shouldn't have referred to it otherwise." [2663] [2664] But Helen's laugh rang true, as she raised a soapy hand [2665] to heaven and swore that never, nowhere and nohow, would she [2666] again fall in love with any of the Wilcox family, down to [2667] its remotest collaterals. [2668] [2669] [2670] Chapter 8 [2671] [2672] The friendship between Margaret and Mrs. Wilcox, which was [2673] to develop so--quickly and with such strange results, may [2674] perhaps have had its beginnings at Speyer, in the spring. [2675] Perhaps the elder lady, as she gazed at the vulgar, ruddy [2676] cathedral, and listened to the talk of Helen and her [2677] husband, may have detected in the other and less charming of [2678] the sisters a deeper sympathy, a sounder judgment. She was [2679] capable of detecting such things. Perhaps it was she who [2680] had desired the Miss Schlegels to be invited to Howards End, [2681] and Margaret whose presence she had particularly desired. [2682] All this is speculation: Mrs. Wilcox has left few clear [2683] indications behind her. It is certain that she came to call [2684] at Wickham Place a fortnight later, the very day that Helen [2685] was going with her cousin to Stettin. [2686] [2687] "Helen!" cried Fraulein Mosebach in awestruck tones (she [2688] was now in her cousin's confidence)--"his mother has [2689] forgiven you!" And then, remembering that in England the [2690] new-comer ought not to call before she is called upon, she [2691] changed her tone from awe to disapproval, and opined that [2692] Mrs. Wilcox was "keine Dame." [2693] [2694] "Bother the whole family!" snapped Margaret. "Helen, [2695] stop giggling and pirouetting, and go and finish your [2696] packing. Why can't the woman leave us alone?" [2697] [2698] "I don't know what I shall do with Meg," Helen retorted, [2699] collapsing upon the stairs. "She's got Wilcox and Box upon [2700] the brain. Meg, Meg, I don't love the young gentleman; I [2701] don't love the young gentleman, Meg, Meg. Can a body speak plainer?" [2702] [2703] "Most certainly her love has died," asserted Fraulein Mosebach. [2704] [2705] "Most certainly it has, Frieda, but that will not [2706] prevent me from being bored with the Wilcoxes if I return [2707] the call." [2708] [2709] Then Helen simulated tears, and Fraulein Mosebach, who [2710] thought her extremely amusing, did the same. "Oh, boo hoo! [2711] boo hoo hoo! Meg's going to return the call, and I can't. [2712] 'Cos why? 'Cos I'm going to German-eye." [2713] [2714] "If you are going to Germany, go and pack; if you [2715] aren't, go and call on the Wilcoxes instead of me." [2716] [2717] "But, Meg, Meg, I don't love the young gentleman; I [2718] don't love the young--0 lud, who's that coming down the [2719] stairs? I vow 'tis my brother. 0 crimini!" [2720] [2721] A male--even such a male as Tibby--was enough to stop [2722] the foolery. The barrier of sex, though decreasing among [2723] the civilized, is still high, and higher on the side of [2724] women. Helen could tell her sister all, and her cousin much [2725] about Paul; she told her brother nothing. It was not [2726] prudishness, for she now spoke of "the Wilcox ideal" with [2727] laughter, and even with a growing brutality. Nor was it [2728] precaution, for Tibby seldom repeated any news that did not [2729] concern himself. It was rather the feeling that she [2730] betrayed a secret into the camp of men, and that, however [2731] trivial it was on this side of the barrier, it would become [2732] important on that. So she stopped, or rather began to fool [2733] on other subjects, until her long-suffering relatives drove [2734] her upstairs. Fraulein Mosebach followed her, but lingered [2735] to say heavily over the banisters to Margaret, "It is all [2736] right--she does not love the young man--he has not been [2737] worthy of her." [2738] [2739] "Yes, I know; thanks very much." [2740] [2741] "I thought I did right to tell you." [2742] [2743] "Ever so many thanks." [2744] [2745] "What's that?" asked Tibby. No one told him, and he [2746] proceeded into the dining-room, to eat Elvas plums. [2747] [2748] That evening Margaret took decisive action. The house [2749] was very quiet, and the fog--we are in November now--pressed [2750] against the windows like an excluded ghost. Frieda and [2751] Helen and all their luggage had gone. Tibby, who was not [2752] feeling well, lay stretched on a sofa by the fire. Margaret [2753] sat by him, thinking. Her mind darted from impulse to [2754] impulse, and finally marshalled them all in review. The [2755] practical person, who knows what he wants at once, and [2756] generally knows nothing else, will excuse her of [2757] indecision. But this was the way her mind worked. And when [2758] she did act, no one could accuse her of indecision then. [2759] She hit out as lustily as if she had not considered the [2760] matter at all. The letter that she wrote Mrs. Wilcox glowed [2761] with the native hue of resolution. The pale cast of thought [2762] was with her a breath rather than a tarnish, a breath that [2763] leaves the colours all the more vivid when it has been wiped [2764] away. [2765] [2766] [2767] Dear Mrs. Wilcox, [2768] [2769] I have to write something discourteous. It would be [2770] better if we did not meet. Both my sister and my aunt [2771] have given displeasure to your family, and, in my [2772] sister's case, the grounds for displeasure might recur. [2773] As far as I know, she no longer occupies her thoughts [2774] with your son. But it would not be fair, either to her [2775] or to you, if they met, and it is therefore right that [2776] our acquaintance which began so pleasantly, should end. [2777] [2778] I fear that you will not agree with this; indeed, I [2779] know that you will not, since you have been good enough [2780] to call on us. It is only an instinct on my part, and no [2781] doubt the instinct is wrong. My sister would, [2782] undoubtedly, say that it is wrong. I write without her [2783] knowledge, and I hope that you will not associate her [2784] with my discourtesy. [2785] [2786] Believe me, [2787] Yours truly, [2788] M. J. Schlegel [2789] [2790] [2791] Margaret sent this letter round by post. Next morning [2792] she received the following reply by hand: [2793] [2794] [2795] Dear Miss Schlegel, [2796] [2797] You should not have written me such a letter. I [2798] called to tell you that Paul has gone abroad. [2799] [2800] Ruth Wilcox [2801] [2802] [2803] Margaret's cheeks burnt. She could not finish her [2804] breakfast. She was on fire with shame. Helen had told her [2805] that the youth was leaving England, but other things had [2806] seemed more important, and she had forgotten. All her [2807] absurd anxieties fell to the ground, and in their place [2808] arose the certainty that she had been rude to Mrs. Wilcox. [2809] Rudeness affected Margaret like a bitter taste in the [2810] mouth. It poisoned life. At times it is necessary, but woe [2811] to those who employ it without due need. She flung on a hat [2812] and shawl, just like a poor woman, and plunged into the fog, [2813] which still continued. Her lips were compressed, the letter [2814] remained in her hand, and in this state she crossed the [2815] street, entered the marble vestibule of the flats, eluded [2816] the concierges, and ran up the stairs till she reached the [2817] second-floor. [2818] [2819] She sent in her name, and to her surprise was shown [2820] straight into Mrs. Wilcox's bedroom. [2821] [2822] "Oh, Mrs. Wilcox, I have made the baddest blunder. I am [2823] more, more ashamed and sorry than I can say." [2824] [2825] Mrs. Wilcox bowed gravely. She was offended, and did [2826] not pretend to the contrary. She was sitting up in bed, [2827] writing letters on an invalid table that spanned her knees. [2828] A breakfast tray was on another table beside her. The light [2829] of the fire, the light from the window, and the light of a [2830] candle-lamp, which threw a quivering halo round her hands, [2831] combined to create a strange atmosphere of dissolution. [2832] [2833] "I knew he was going to India in November, but I forgot." [2834] [2835] "He sailed on the 17th for Nigeria, in Africa." [2836] [2837] "I knew--I know. I have been too absurd all through. I [2838] am very much ashamed." [2839] [2840] Mrs. Wilcox did not answer. [2841] [2842] "I am more sorry than I can say, and I hope that you [2843] will forgive me." [2844] [2845] "It doesn't matter, Miss Schlegel. It is good of you to [2846] have come round so promptly." [2847] [2848] "It does matter," cried Margaret. "I have been rude to [2849] you; and my sister is not even at home, so there was not [2850] even that excuse. [2851] [2852] "Indeed?" [2853] [2854] "She has just gone to Germany." [2855] [2856] "She gone as well," murmured the other. "Yes, [2857] certainly, it is quite safe--safe, absolutely, now." [2858] [2859] "You've been worrying too!" exclaimed Margaret, getting [2860] more and more excited, and taking a chair without [2861] invitation. "How perfectly extraordinary! I can see that [2862] you have. You felt as I do; Helen mustn't meet him again." [2863] [2864] "I did think it best." [2865] [2866] "Now why?" [2867] [2868] "That's a most difficult question," said Mrs. Wilcox, [2869] smiling, and a little losing her expression of annoyance. [2870] "I think you put it best in your letter--it was an instinct, [2871] which may be wrong." [2872] [2873] "It wasn't that your son still--" [2874] [2875] "Oh no; he often--my Paul is very young, you see." [2876] [2877] "Then what was it?" [2878] [2879] She repeated: "An instinct which may be wrong." [2880] [2881] "In other words, they belong to types that can fall in [2882] love, but couldn't live together. That's dreadfully [2883] probable. I'm afraid that in nine cases out of ten Nature [2884] pulls one way and human nature another." [2885] [2886] "These are indeed 'other words,'" said Mrs. Wilcox." I [2887] had nothing so coherent in my head. I was merely alarmed [2888] when I knew that my boy cared for your sister." [2889] [2890] "Ah, I have always been wanting to ask you. How did you [2891] know? Helen was so surprised when our aunt drove up, and [2892] you stepped forward and arranged things. Did Paul tell you?" [2893] [2894] "There is nothing to be gained by discussing that," said [2895] Mrs. Wilcox after a moment's pause. [2896] [2897] "Mrs. Wilcox, were you very angry with us last June? I [2898] wrote you a letter and you didn't answer it." [2899] [2900] "I was certainly against taking Mrs. Matheson's flat. I [2901] knew it was opposite your house." [2902] [2903] "But it's all right now?" [2904] [2905] "I think so." [2906] [2907] "You only think? You aren't sure? I do love these [2908] little muddles tidied up?" [2909] [2910] "Oh yes, I'm sure," said Mrs. Wilcox, moving with [2911] uneasiness beneath the clothes. "I always sound uncertain [2912] over things. It is my way of speaking." [2913] [2914] "That's all right, and I'm sure too." [2915] [2916] Here the maid came in to remove the breakfast-tray. [2917] They were interrupted, and when they resumed conversation it [2918] was on more normal lines. [2919] [2920] "I must say good-bye now--you will be getting up." [2921] [2922] "No--please stop a little longer--I am taking a day in [2923] bed. Now and then I do." [2924] [2925] "I thought of you as one of the early risers." [2926] [2927] "At Howards End--yes; there is nothing to get up for in London." [2928] [2929] "Nothing to get up for?" cried the scandalized [2930] Margaret. "When there are all the autumn exhibitions, and [2931] Ysaye playing in the afternoon! Not to mention people." [2932] [2933] "The truth is, I am a little tired. First came the [2934] wedding, and then Paul went off, and, instead of resting [2935] yesterday, I paid a round of calls." [2936] [2937] "A wedding?" [2938] [2939] "Yes; Charles, my elder son, is married." [2940] [2941] "Indeed!" [2942] [2943] "We took the flat chiefly on that account, and also that [2944] Paul could get his African outfit. The flat belongs to a [2945] cousin of my husband's, and she most kindly offered it to [2946] us. So before the day came we were able to make the [2947] acquaintance of Dolly's people, which we had not yet done." [2948] [2949] Margaret asked who Dolly's people were. [2950] [2951] "Fussell. The father is in the Indian army--retired; [2952] the brother is in the army. The mother is dead." [2953] [2954] So perhaps these were the "chinless sunburnt men" whom [2955] Helen had espied one afternoon through the window. Margaret [2956] felt mildly interested in the fortunes of the Wilcox [2957] family. She had acquired the habit on Helen's account, and [2958] it still clung to her. She asked for more information about [2959] Miss Dolly Fussell that was, and was given it in even, [2960] unemotional tones. Mrs. Wilcox's voice, though sweet and [2961] compelling, had little range of expression. It suggested [2962] that pictures, concerts, and people are all of small and [2963] equal value. Only once had it quickened--when speaking of [2964] Howards End. [2965] [2966] "Charles and Albert Fussell have known one another some [2967] time. They belong to the same club, and are both devoted to [2968] golf. Dolly plays golf too, though I believe not so well, [2969] and they first met in a mixed foursome. We all like her, [2970] and are very much pleased. They were married on the 11th, a [2971] few days before Paul sailed. Charles was very anxious to [2972] have his brother as best man, so he made a great point of [2973] having it on the 11th. The Fussells would have preferred it [2974] after Christmas, but they were very nice about it. There is [2975] Dolly's photograph--in that double frame." [2976] [2977] "Are you quite certain that I'm not interrupting, Mrs. Wilcox?" [2978] [2979] "Yes, quite." [2980] [2981] "Then I will stay. I'm enjoying this." [2982] [2983] Dolly's photograph was now examined. It was signed "For [2984] dear Mims," which Mrs. Wilcox interpreted as "the name she [2985] and Charles had settled that she should call me." Dolly [2986] looked silly, and had one of those triangular faces that so [2987] often prove attractive to a robust man. She was very [2988] pretty. From her Margaret passed to Charles, whose features [2989] prevailed opposite. She speculated on the forces that had [2990] drawn the two together till God parted them. She found time [2991] to hope that they would be happy. [2992] [2993] "They have gone to Naples for their honeymoon." [2994] [2995] "Lucky people!" [2996] [2997] "I can hardly imagine Charles in Italy." [2998] [2999] "Doesn't he care for travelling?" [3000] [3001] "He likes travel, but he does see through foreigners [3002] so. What he enjoys most is a motor tour in England, and I [3003] think that would have carried the day if the weather had not [3004] been so abominable. His father gave him a car of his own [3005] for a wedding present, which for the present is being stored [3006] at Howards End." [3007] [3008] "I suppose you have a garage there?" [3009] [3010] "Yes. My husband built a little one only last month, to [3011] the west of the house, not far from the wych-elm, in what [3012] used to be the paddock for the pony." [3013] [3014] The last words had an indescribable ring about them. [3015] [3016] "Where's the pony gone?" asked Margaret after a pause. [3017] [3018] "The pony? Oh, dead, ever so long ago." "The wych-elm I [3019] remember. Helen spoke of it as a very splendid tree." [3020] [3021] "It is the finest wych-elm in Hertfordshire. Did your [3022] sister tell you about the teeth?" [3023] [3024] "No." [3025] [3026] "Oh, it might interest you. There are pigs' teeth stuck [3027] into the trunk, about four feet from the ground. The [3028] country people put them in long ago, and they think that if [3029] they chew a piece of the bark, it will cure the toothache. [3030] The teeth are almost grown over now, and no one comes to the [3031] tree." [3032] [3033] "I should. I love folklore and all festering superstitions." [3034] [3035] "Do you think that the tree really did cure toothache, [3036] if one believed in it?" [3037] [3038] "Of course it did. It would cure anything--once." [3039] [3040] "Certainly I remember cases--you see I lived at Howards [3041] End long, long before Mr. Wilcox knew it. I was born there." [3042] [3043] The conversation again shifted. At the time it seemed [3044] little more than aimless chatter. She was interested when [3045] her hostess explained that Howards End was her own [3046] property. She was bored when too minute an account was [3047] given of the Fussell family, of the anxieties of Charles [3048] concerning Naples, of the movements of Mr. Wilcox and Evie, [3049] who were motoring in Yorkshire. Margaret could not bear [3050] being bored. She grew inattentive, played with the [3051] photograph frame, dropped it, smashed Dolly's glass, [3052] apologized, was pardoned, cut her finger thereon, was [3053] pitied, and finally said she must be going--there was all [3054] the housekeeping to do, and she had to interview Tibby's [3055] riding-master. [3056] [3057] Then the curious note was struck again. [3058] [3059] "Good-bye, Miss Schlegel, good-bye. Thank you for [3060] coming. You have cheered me up." [3061] [3062] "I'm so glad!" [3063] [3064] "I--I wonder whether you ever think about yourself.?" [3065] [3066] "I think of nothing else," said Margaret, blushing, but [3067] letting her hand remain in that of the invalid. [3068] [3069] "I wonder. I wondered at Heidelberg." [3070] [3071] "I'M sure!" [3072] [3073] "I almost think--" [3074] [3075] "Yes?" asked Margaret, for there was a long pause--a [3076] pause that was somehow akin to the flicker of the fire, the [3077] quiver of the reading-lamp upon their hands, the white blur [3078] from the window; a pause of shifting and eternal shadows. [3079] [3080] "I almost think you forget you're a girl." [3081] [3082] Margaret was startled and a little annoyed. "I'm [3083] twenty-nine," she remarked. "That not so wildly girlish." [3084] [3085] Mrs. Wilcox smiled. [3086] [3087] "What makes you say that? Do you mean that I have been [3088] gauche and rude?" [3089] [3090] A shake of the head. "I only meant that I am fifty-one, [3091] and that to me both of you--Read it all in some book or [3092] other; I cannot put things clearly." [3093] [3094] "Oh, I've got it--inexperience. I'm no better than [3095] Helen, you mean, and yet I presume to advise her." [3096] [3097] "Yes. You have got it. Inexperience is the word." [3098] [3099] "Inexperience," repeated Margaret, in serious yet [3100] buoyant tones. "Of course, I have everything to [3101] learn--absolutely everything--just as much as Helen. Life's [3102] very difficult and full of surprises. At all events, I've [3103] got as far as that. To be humble and kind, to go straight [3104] ahead, to love people rather than pity them, to remember the [3105] submerged--well, one can't do all these things at once, [3106] worse luck, because they're so contradictory. It's then [3107] that proportion comes in--to live by proportion. Don't [3108] BEGIN with proportion. Only prigs do that. Let proportion [3109] come in as a last resource, when the better things have [3110] failed, and a deadlock--Gracious me, I've started preaching!" [3111] [3112] "Indeed, you put the difficulties of life splendidly," [3113] said Mrs. Wilcox, withdrawing her hand into the deeper [3114] shadows. "It is just what I should have liked to say about [3115] them myself." [3116] [3117] [3118] Chapter 9 [3119] [3120] Mrs. Wilcox cannot be accused of giving Margaret much [3121] information about life. And Margaret, on the other hand, [3122] has made a fair show of modesty, and has pretended to an [3123] inexperience that she certainly did not feel. She had kept [3124] house for over ten years; she had entertained, almost with [3125] distinction; she had brought up a charming sister, and was [3126] bringing up a brother. Surely, if experience is attainable, [3127] she had attained it. [3128] [3129] Yet the little luncheon-party that she gave in Mrs. [3130] Wilcox's honour was not a success. The new friend did not [3131] blend with the "one or two delightful people" who had been [3132] asked to meet her, and the atmosphere was one of polite [3133] bewilderment. Her tastes were simple, her knowledge of [3134] culture slight, and she was not interested in the New [3135] English Art Club, nor in the dividing-line between [3136] Journalism and Literature, which was started as a [3137] conversational hare. The delightful people darted after it [3138] with cries of joy, Margaret leading them, and not till the [3139] meal was half over did they realize that the principal guest [3140] had taken no part in the chase. There was no common topic. [3141] Mrs. Wilcox, whose life had been spent in the service of [3142] husband and sons, had little to say to strangers who had [3143] never shared it, and whose age was half her own. Clever [3144] talk alarmed her, and withered her delicate imaginings; it [3145] was the social; counterpart of a motorcar, all jerks, and [3146] she was a wisp of hay, a flower. Twice she deplored the [3147] weather, twice criticized the train service on the Great [3148] Northern Railway. They vigorously assented, and rushed on, [3149] and when she inquired whether there was any news of Helen, [3150] her hostess was too much occupied in placing Rothenstein to [3151] answer. The question was repeated: "I hope that your sister [3152] is safe in Germany by now." Margaret checked herself and [3153] said, "Yes, thank you; I heard on Tuesday." But the demon of [3154] vociferation was in her, and the next moment she was off again. [3155] [3156] "Only on Tuesday, for they live right away at Stettin. [3157] Did you ever know any one living at Stettin?" [3158] [3159] "Never," said Mrs. Wilcox gravely, while her neighbour, [3160] a young man low down in the Education Office, began to [3161] discuss what people who lived at Stettin ought to look [3162] like. Was there such a thing as Stettininity? Margaret [3163] swept on. [3164] [3165] "People at Stettin drop things into boats out of [3166] overhanging warehouses. At least, our cousins do, but [3167] aren't particularly rich. The town isn't interesting, [3168] except for a clock that rolls its eyes, and the view of the [3169] Oder, which truly is something special. Oh, Mrs. Wilcox, [3170] you would love the Oder! The river, or rather rivers--there [3171] seem to be dozens of them--are intense blue, and the plain [3172] they run through an intensest green." [3173] [3174] "Indeed! That sounds like a most beautiful view, Miss Schlegel." [3175] [3176] "So I say, but Helen, who will muddle things, says no, [3177] it's like music. The course of the Oder is to be like [3178] music. It's obliged to remind her of a symphonic poem. The [3179] part by the landing-stage is in B minor, if I remember [3180] rightly, but lower down things get extremely mixed. There [3181] is a slodgy theme in several keys at once, meaning [3182] mud-banks, and another for the navigable canal, and the exit [3183] into the Baltic is in C sharp major, pianissimo." [3184] [3185] "What do the overhanging warehouses make of that?" asked [3186] the man, laughing. [3187] [3188] "They make a great deal of it," replied Margaret, [3189] unexpectedly rushing off on a new track. "I think it's [3190] affectation to compare the Oder to music, and so do you, but [3191] the overhanging warehouses of Stettin take beauty seriously, [3192] which we don't, and the average Englishman doesn't, and [3193] despises all who do. Now don't say 'Germans have no taste,' [3194] or I shall scream. They haven't. But--but--such a [3195] tremendous but! --they take poetry seriously. They do take [3196] poetry seriously. [3197] [3198] "Is anything gained by that?" [3199] [3200] "Yes, yes. The German is always on the lookout for [3201] beauty. He may miss it through stupidity, or misinterpret [3202] it, but he is always asking beauty to enter his life, and I [3203] believe that in the end it will come. At Heidelberg I met a [3204] fat veterinary surgeon whose voice broke with sobs as he [3205] repeated some mawkish poetry. So easy for me to laugh--I, [3206] who never repeat poetry, good or bad, and cannot remember [3207] one fragment of verse to thrill myself with. My blood [3208] boils--well, I'm half German, so put it down to [3209] patriotism--when I listen to the tasteful contempt of the [3210] average islander for things Teutonic, whether they're [3211] Bocklin or my veterinary surgeon. 'Oh, Bocklin,' they say; [3212] 'he strains after beauty, he peoples Nature with gods too [3213] consciously.' Of course Bocklin strains, because he wants [3214] something--beauty and all the other intangible gifts that [3215] are floating about the world. So his landscapes don't come [3216] off, and Leader's do." [3217] [3218] "I am not sure that I agree. Do you?" said he, turning [3219] to Mrs. Wilcox. [3220] [3221] She replied: "I think Miss Schlegel puts everything [3222] splendidly"; and a chill fell on the conversation. [3223] [3224] "Oh, Mrs. Wilcox, say something nicer than that. It's [3225] such a snub to be told you put things splendidly. " [3226] [3227] "I do not mean it as a snub. Your last speech [3228] interested me so much. Generally people do not seem quite [3229] to like Germany. I have long wanted to hear what is said on [3230] the other side." [3231] [3232] "The other side? Then you do disagree. Oh, good! Give [3233] us your side." [3234] [3235] "I have no side. But my husband"--her voice softened, [3236] the chill increased--"has very little faith in the [3237] Continent, and our children have all taken after him." [3238] [3239] "On what grounds? Do they feel that the Continent is in [3240] bad form?" [3241] [3242] Mrs. Wilcox had no idea; she paid little attention to [3243] grounds. She was not intellectual, nor even alert, and it [3244] was odd that, all the same, she should give the idea of [3245] greatness. Margaret, zigzagging with her friends over [3246] Thought and Art, was conscious of a personality that [3247] transcended their own and dwarfed their activities. There [3248] was no bitterness in Mrs. Wilcox; there was not even [3249] criticism; she was lovable, and no ungracious or [3250] uncharitable word had passed her lips. Yet she and daily [3251] life were out of focus: one or the other must show blurred. [3252] And at lunch she seemed more out of focus than usual, and [3253] nearer the line that divides life from a life that may be of [3254] greater importance. [3255] [3256] "You will admit, though, that the Continent--it seems [3257] silly to speak of 'the Continent,' but really it is all more [3258] like itself than any part of it is like England. England is [3259] unique. Do have another jelly first. I was going to say [3260] that the Continent, for good or for evil, is interested in [3261] ideas. Its Literature and Art have what one might call the [3262] kink of the unseen about them, and this persists even [3263] through decadence and affectation. There is more liberty of [3264] action in England, but for liberty of thought go to [3265] bureaucratic Prussia. People will there discuss with [3266] humility vital questions that we here think ourselves too [3267] good to touch with tongs." [3268] [3269] "I do not want to go to Prussian" said Mrs. Wilcox--"not [3270] even to see that interesting view that you were describing. [3271] And for discussing with humility I am too old. We never [3272] discuss anything at Howards End." [3273] [3274] "Then you ought to!" said Margaret. "Discussion keeps a [3275] house alive. It cannot stand by bricks and mortar alone." [3276] [3277] "It cannot stand without them," said Mrs. Wilcox, [3278] unexpectedly catching on to the thought, and rousing, for [3279] the first and last time, a faint hope in the breasts of the [3280] delightful people. "It cannot stand without them, and I [3281] sometimes think--But I cannot expect your generation to [3282] agree, for even my daughter disagrees with me here." [3283] [3284] "Never mind us or her. Do say!" [3285] [3286] "I sometimes think that it is wiser to leave action and [3287] discussion to men." [3288] [3289] There was a little silence. [3290] [3291] "One admits that the arguments against the suffrage are [3292] extraordinarily strong," said a girl opposite, leaning [3293] forward and crumbling her bread. [3294] [3295] "Are they? I never follow any arguments. I am only too [3296] thankful not to have a vote myself." [3297] [3298] "We didn't mean the vote, though, did we?" supplied [3299] Margaret. "Aren't we differing on something much wider, [3300] Mrs. Wilcox? Whether women are to remain what they have [3301] been since the dawn of history; or whether, since men have [3302] moved forward so far, they too may move forward a little [3303] now. I say they may. I would even admit a biological change." [3304] [3305] "I don't know, I don't know." [3306] [3307] "I must be getting back to my overhanging warehouse," [3308] said the man. "They've turned disgracefully strict. [3309] [3310] Mrs. Wilcox also rose. [3311] [3312] "Oh, but come upstairs for a little. Miss Quested [3313] plays. Do you like MacDowell? Do you mind him only having [3314] two noises? If you must really go, I'll see you out. Won't [3315] you even have coffee?" [3316] [3317] They left the dining-room, closing the door behind them, [3318] and as Mrs. Wilcox buttoned up her jacket, she said: "What [3319] an interesting life you all lead in London!" [3320] [3321] "No, we don't," said Margaret, with a sudden revulsion. [3322] "We lead the lives of gibbering monkeys. Mrs. [3323] Wilcox--really--We have something quiet and stable at the [3324] bottom. We really have. All my friends have. Don't [3325] pretend you enjoyed lunch, for you loathed it, but forgive [3326] me by coming again, alone, or by asking me to you." [3327] [3328] "I am used to young people," said Mrs. Wilcox, and with [3329] each word she spoke the outlines of known things grew dim. [3330] "I hear a great deal of chatter at home, for we, like you, [3331] entertain a great deal. With us it is more sport and [3332] politics, but--I enjoyed my lunch very much, Miss Schlegel, [3333] dear, and am not pretending, and only wish I could have [3334] joined in more. For one thing, I'm not particularly well [3335] just today. For another, you younger people move so quickly [3336] that it dazes me. Charles is the same, Dolly the same. But [3337] we are all in the same boat, old and young. I never forget that." [3338] [3339] They were silent for a moment. Then, with a newborn [3340] emotion, they shook hands. The conversation ceased suddenly [3341] when Margaret re-entered the dining-room: her friends had [3342] been talking over her new friend, and had dismissed her as [3343] uninteresting. [3344] [3345] [3346] Chapter 10 [3347] [3348] Several days passed. [3349] [3350] Was Mrs. Wilcox one of the unsatisfactory people--there [3351] are many of them--who dangle intimacy and then withdraw it? [3352] They evoke our interests and affections, and keep the life [3353] of the spirit dawdling round them. Then they withdraw. [3354] When physical passion is involved, there is a definite name [3355] for such behaviour--flirting--and if carried far enough it [3356] is punishable by law. But no law--not public opinion [3357] even--punishes those who coquette with friendship, though [3358] the dull ache that they inflict, the sense of misdirected [3359] effort and exhaustion, may be as intolerable. Was she one [3360] of these? [3361] [3362] Margaret feared so at first, for, with a Londoner's [3363] impatience, she wanted everything to be settled up [3364] immediately. She mistrusted the periods of quiet that are [3365] essential to true growth. Desiring to book Mrs. Wilcox as a [3366] friend, she pressed on the ceremony, pencil, as it were, in [3367] hand, pressing the more because the rest of the family were [3368] away, and the opportunity seemed favourable. But the elder [3369] woman would not be hurried. She refused to fit in with the [3370] Wickham Place set, or to reopen discussion of Helen and [3371] Paul, whom Margaret would have utilized as a short-cut. She [3372] took her time, or perhaps let time take her, and when the [3373] crisis did come all was ready. [3374] [3375] The crisis opened with a message: would Miss Schlegel [3376] come shopping? Christmas was nearing, and Mrs. Wilcox felt [3377] behind-hand with the presents. She had taken some more days [3378] in bed, and must make up for lost time. Margaret accepted, [3379] and at eleven o'clock one cheerless morning they started out [3380] in a brougham. [3381] [3382] "First of all," began Margaret, "we must make a list and [3383] tick off the people's names. My aunt always does, and this [3384] fog may thicken up any moment. Have you any ideas?" [3385] [3386] "I thought we would go to Harrod's or the Haymarket [3387] Stores," said Mrs. Wilcox rather hopelessly. "Everything is [3388] sure to be there. I am not a good shopper. The din is so [3389] confusing, and your aunt is quite right--one ought to make a [3390] list. Take my notebook, then, and write your own name at [3391] the top of the page." [3392] [3393] "Oh, hooray!" said Margaret, writing it. "How very kind [3394] of you to start with me!" But she did not want to receive [3395] anything expensive. Their acquaintance was singular rather [3396] than intimate, and she divined that the Wilcox clan would [3397] resent any expenditure on outsiders; the more compact [3398] families do. She did not want to be thought a second Helen, [3399] who would snatch presents since she could not snatch young [3400] men, nor to be exposed, like a second Aunt Juley, to the [3401] insults of Charles. A certain austerity of demeanour was [3402] best, and she added: "I don't really want a Yuletide gift, [3403] though. In fact, I'd rather not." [3404] [3405] "Why?" [3406] [3407] "Because I've odd ideas about Christmas. Because I have [3408] all that money can buy. I want more people, but no more things." [3409] [3410] "I should like to give you something worth your [3411] acquaintance, Miss Schlegel, in memory of your kindness to [3412] me during my lonely fortnight. It has so happened that I [3413] have been left alone, and you have stopped me from [3414] brooding. I am too apt to brood." [3415] [3416] "If that is so," said Margaret, "if I have happened to [3417] be of use to you, which I didn't know, you cannot pay me [3418] back with anything tangible." [3419] [3420] " I suppose not, but one would like to. Perhaps I shall [3421] think of something as we go about." [3422] [3423] Her name remained at the head of the list, but nothing [3424] was written opposite it. They drove from shop to shop. The [3425] air was white, and when they alighted it tasted like cold [3426] pennies. At times they passed through a clot of grey. Mrs. [3427] Wilcox's vitality was low that morning, and it was Margaret [3428] who decided on a horse for this little girl, a golliwog for [3429] that, for the rector's wife a copper warming-tray. "We [3430] always give the servants money." "Yes, do you, yes, much [3431] easier," replied Margaret, but felt the grotesque impact of [3432] the unseen upon the seen, and saw issuing from a forgotten [3433] manger at Bethlehem this torrent of coins and toys. [3434] Vulgarity reigned. Public-houses, besides their usual [3435] exhortation against temperance reform, invited men to "Join [3436] our Christmas goose club"--one bottle of gin, etc., or two, [3437] according to subscription. A poster of a woman in tights [3438] heralded the Christmas pantomime, and little red devils, who [3439] had come in again that year, were prevalent upon the [3440] Christmas-cards. Margaret was no morbid idealist. She did [3441] not wish this spate of business and self-advertisement [3442] checked. It was only the occasion of it that struck her [3443] with amazement annually. How many of these vacillating [3444] shoppers and tired shop-assistants realized that it was a [3445] divine event that drew them together? She realized it, [3446] though standing outside in the matter. She was not a [3447] Christian in the accepted sense; she did not believe that [3448] God had ever worked among us as a young artisan. These [3449] people, or most of them, believed it, and if pressed, would [3450] affirm it in words. But the visible signs of their belief [3451] were Regent Street or Drury Lane, a little mud displaced, a [3452] little money spent, a little food cooked, eaten, and [3453] forgotten. Inadequate. But in public who shall express the [3454] unseen adequately? It is private life that holds out the [3455] mirror to infinity; personal intercourse, and that alone, [3456] that ever hints at a personality beyond our daily vision. [3457] [3458] "No, I do like Christmas on the whole," she announced. [3459] "In its clumsy way, it does approach Peace and Goodwill. [3460] But oh, it is clumsier every year." [3461] [3462] "Is it? I am only used to country Christmases." [3463] [3464] "We are usually in London, and play the game with [3465] vigour--carols at the Abbey, clumsy midday meal, clumsy [3466] dinner for the maids, followed by Christmas-tree and dancing [3467] of poor children, with songs from Helen. The drawing-room [3468] does very well for that. We put the tree in the [3469] powder-closet, and draw a curtain when the candles are [3470] lighted, and with the looking-glass behind it looks quite [3471] pretty. I wish we might have a powder-closet in our next [3472] house. Of course, the tree has to be very small, and the [3473] presents don't hang on it. No; the presents reside in a [3474] sort of rocky landscape made of crumpled brown paper." [3475] [3476] "You spoke of your 'next house,' Miss Schlegel. Then [3477] are you leaving Wickham Place?" [3478] [3479] "Yes, in two or three years, when the lease expires. We [3480] must." [3481] [3482] "Have you been there long?" [3483] [3484] "All our lives." [3485] [3486] "You will be very sorry to leave it." [3487] [3488] "I suppose so. We scarcely realize it yet. My [3489] father--" She broke off, for they had reached the stationery [3490] department of the Haymarket Stores, and Mrs. Wilcox wanted [3491] to order some private greeting cards. [3492] [3493] "If possible, something distinctive," she sighed. At [3494] the counter she found a friend, bent on the same errand, and [3495] conversed with her insipidly, wasting much time. "My [3496] husband and our daughter are motoring." [3497] [3498] "Bertha too? Oh, fancy, what a coincidence!" Margaret, [3499] though not practical, could shine in such company as this. [3500] While they talked, she went through a volume of specimen [3501] cards, and submitted one for Mrs. Wilcox's inspection. Mrs. [3502] Wilcox was delighted--so original, words so sweet; she would [3503] order a hundred like that, and could never be sufficiently [3504] grateful. Then, just as the assistant was booking the [3505] order, she said: "Do you know, I'll wait. On second [3506] thoughts, I'll wait. There's plenty of time still, isn't [3507] there, and I shall be able to get Evie's opinion." [3508] [3509] They returned to the carriage by devious paths; when [3510] they were in, she said, "But couldn't you get it renewed?" [3511] [3512] "I beg your pardon?" asked Margaret. [3513] [3514] "The lease, I mean." [3515] [3516] "Oh, the lease! Have you been thinking of that all the [3517] time? How very kind of you!" [3518] [3519] "Surely something could be done." [3520] [3521] "No; values have risen too enormously. They mean to [3522] pull down Wickham Place, and build flats like yours." [3523] [3524] "But how horrible!" [3525] [3526] "Landlords are horrible." [3527] [3528] Then she said vehemently: "It is monstrous, Miss [3529] Schlegel; it isn't right. I had no idea that this was [3530] hanging over you. I do pity you from the bottom of my [3531] heart. To be parted from your house, your father's [3532] house--it oughtn't to be allowed. It is worse than dying. [3533] I would rather die than--Oh, poor girls! Can what they call [3534] civilization be right, if people mayn't die in the room [3535] where they were born? My dear, I am so sorry--" [3536] [3537] Margaret did not know what to say. Mrs. Wilcox had been [3538] overtired by the shopping, and was inclined to hysteria. [3539] [3540] "Howards End was nearly pulled down once. It would have [3541] killed me." [3542] [3543] "Howards End must be a very different house to ours. We [3544] are fond of ours, but there is nothing distinctive about [3545] it. As you saw, it is an ordinary London house. We shall [3546] easily find another." [3547] [3548] "So you think." [3549] [3550] "Again my lack of experience, I suppose!" said Margaret, [3551] easing away from the subject. "I can't say anything when [3552] you take up that line, Mrs. Wilcox. I wish I could see [3553] myself as you see me--foreshortened into a backfisch. Quite [3554] the ingenue. Very charming--wonderfully well read for my [3555] age, but incapable--" [3556] [3557] Mrs. Wilcox would not be deterred. "Come down with me [3558] to Howards End now," she said, more vehemently than ever. [3559] "I want you to see it. You have never seen it. I want to [3560] hear what you say about it, for you do put things so wonderfully." [3561] [3562] Margaret glanced at the pitiless air and then at the [3563] tired face of her companion. "Later on I should love it," [3564] she continued, "but it's hardly the weather for such an [3565] expedition, and we ought to start when we're fresh. Isn't [3566] the house shut up, too?" [3567] [3568] She received no answer. Mrs. Wilcox appeared to be annoyed. [3569] [3570] "Might I come some other day?" [3571] [3572] Mrs. Wilcox bent forward and tapped the glass. "Back to [3573] Wickham Place, please!" was her order to the coachman. [3574] Margaret had been snubbed. [3575] [3576] "A thousand thanks, Miss Schlegel, for all your help." [3577] [3578] "Not at all." [3579] [3580] "It is such a comfort to get the presents off my [3581] mind--the Christmas-cards especially. I do admire your choice." [3582] [3583] It was her turn to receive no answer. In her turn [3584] Margaret became annoyed. [3585] [3586] "My husband and Evie will be back the day after [3587] tomorrow. That is why I dragged you out shopping today. I [3588] stayed in town chiefly to shop, but got through nothing, and [3589] now he writes that they must cut their tour short, the [3590] weather is so bad, and the police-traps have been so [3591] bad--nearly as bad as in Surrey. Ours is such a careful [3592] chauffeur, and my husband feels it particularly hard that [3593] they should be treated like roadhogs." [3594] [3595] "Why?" [3596] [3597] "Well, naturally he--he isn't a road-hog." [3598] [3599] "He was exceeding the speed-limit, I conclude. He must [3600] expect to suffer with the lower animals." [3601] [3602] Mrs. Wilcox was silenced. In growing discomfort they [3603] drove homewards. The city seemed Satanic, the narrower [3604] streets oppressing like the galleries of a mine. No harm [3605] was done by the fog to trade, for it lay high, and the [3606] lighted windows of the shops were thronged with customers. [3607] It was rather a darkening of the spirit which fell back upon [3608] itself, to find a more grievous darkness within. Margaret [3609] nearly spoke a dozen times, but something throttled her. [3610] She felt petty and awkward, and her meditations on Christmas [3611] grew more cynical. Peace? It may bring other gifts, but is [3612] there a single Londoner to whom Christmas is peaceful? The [3613] craving for excitement and for elaboration has ruined that [3614] blessing. Goodwill? Had she seen any example of it in the [3615] hordes of purchasers? Or in herself. She had failed to [3616] respond to this invitation merely because it was a little [3617] queer and imaginative--she, whose birthright it was to [3618] nourish imagination! Better to have accepted, to have tired [3619] themselves a little by the journey, than coldly to reply, [3620] "Might I come some other day?" Her cynicism left her. [3621] There would be no other day. This shadowy woman would never [3622] ask her again. [3623] [3624] They parted at the Mansions. Mrs. Wilcox went in after [3625] due civilities, and Margaret watched the tall, lonely figure [3626] sweep up the hall to the lift. As the glass doors closed on [3627] it she had the sense of an imprisonment. The beautiful head [3628] disappeared first, still buried in the muff, the long [3629] trailing skirt followed. A woman of undefinable rarity was [3630] going up heaven-ward, like a specimen in a bottle. And into [3631] what a heaven--a vault as of hell, sooty black, from which [3632] soots descended! [3633] [3634] At lunch her brother, seeing her inclined for silence, [3635] insisted on talking. Tibby was not ill-natured, but from [3636] babyhood something drove him to do the unwelcome and the [3637] unexpected. Now he gave her a long account of the [3638] day-school that he sometimes patronized. The account was [3639] interesting, and she had often pressed him for it before, [3640] but she could not attend now, for her mind was focussed on [3641] the invisible. She discerned that Mrs. Wilcox, though a [3642] loving wife and mother, had only one passion in life--her [3643] house--and that the moment was solemn when she invited a [3644] friend to share this passion with her. To answer "another [3645] day" was to answer as a fool. "Another day" will do for [3646] brick and mortar, but not for the Holy of Holies into which [3647] Howards End had been transfigured. Her own curiosity was [3648] slight. She had heard more than enough about it in the [3649] summer. The nine windows, the vine, and the wych-elm had no [3650] pleasant connections for her, and she would have preferred [3651] to spend the afternoon at a concert. But imagination [3652] triumphed. While her brother held forth she determined to [3653] go, at whatever cost, and to compel Mrs. Wilcox to go, too. [3654] When lunch was over she stepped over to the flats. [3655] [3656] Mrs. Wilcox had just gone away for the night. [3657] [3658] Margaret said that it was of no consequence, hurried [3659] downstairs, and took a hansom to King's Cross. She was [3660] convinced that the escapade was important, though it would [3661] have puzzled her to say why. There was a question of [3662] imprisonment and escape, and though she did not know the [3663] time of the train, she strained her eyes for the St. [3664] Pancras' clock. [3665] [3666] Then the clock of King's Cross swung into sight, a [3667] second moon in that infernal sky, and her cab drew up at the [3668] station. There was a train for Hilton in five minutes. She [3669] took a ticket, asking in her agitation for a single. As she [3670] did so, a grave and happy voice saluted her and thanked her. [3671] [3672] "I will come if I still may," said Margaret, laughing nervously. [3673] [3674] "You are coming to sleep, dear, too. It is in the [3675] morning that my house is most beautiful. You are coming to [3676] stop. I cannot show you my meadow properly except at [3677] sunrise. These fogs"--she pointed at the station [3678] roof--"never spread far. I dare say they are sitting in the [3679] sun in Hertfordshire, and you will never repent joining them. [3680] [3681] "I shall never repent joining you." [3682] [3683] "It is the same." [3684] [3685] They began the walk up the long platform. Far at its [3686] end stood the train, breasting the darkness without. They [3687] never reached it. Before imagination could triumph, there [3688] were cries of "Mother! Mother!" and a heavy-browed girl [3689] darted out of the cloak-room and seized Mrs. Wilcox by the arm. [3690] [3691] "Evie!" she gasped. "Evie, my pet--" [3692] [3693] The girl called, "Father! I say! look who's here." [3694] [3695] "Evie, dearest girl, why aren't you in Yorkshire?" [3696] [3697] "No--motor smash--changed plans--Father's coming." [3698] [3699] "Why, Ruth!" cried Mr. Wilcox, joining them. "What in [3700] the name of all that's wonderful are you doing here, Ruth?" [3701] [3702] Mrs. Wilcox had recovered herself. [3703] [3704] "Oh, Henry dear! --here's a lovely surprise--but let me [3705] introduce--but I think you know Miss Schlegel." [3706] [3707] "Oh, yes," he replied, not greatly interested. "But [3708] how's yourself, Ruth?" [3709] [3710] "Fit as a fiddle," she answered gaily. [3711] [3712] "So are we and so was our car, which ran A-1 as far as [3713] Ripon, but there a wretched horse and cart which a fool of a [3714] driver--" [3715] [3716] "Miss Schlegel, our little outing must be for another day." [3717] [3718] "I was saying that this fool of a driver, as the [3719] policeman himself admits--" [3720] [3721] "Another day, Mrs. Wilcox. Of course." [3722] [3723] "--But as we've insured against third party risks, it [3724] won't so much matter--" [3725] [3726] "--Cart and car being practically at right angles--" [3727] [3728] The voices of the happy family rose high. Margaret was [3729] left alone. No one wanted her. Mrs. Wilcox walked out of [3730] King's Cross between her husband and her daughter, listening [3731] to both of them. [3732] [3733]

Howard's End by E.M. Forster Chapters 1-10

Howard's End by E.M. Forster
Chapters 1-10