Works of E M Forster

by E. M. Forster

  “Mrs. Honeychurch,” he said, “go to Greece she must. Come up to the house and let’s talk it over. Do you, in the first place, mind her breaking with Vyse?”

  “Mr. Beebe, I’m thankful — simply thankful.”

  “So am I,” said Freddy.

  “Good. Now come up to the house.”

  They conferred in the dining-room for half an hour.

  Lucy would never have carried the Greek scheme alone. It was expensive and dramatic — both qualities that her mother loathed. Nor would Charlotte have succeeded. The honours of the day rested with Mr. Beebe. By his tact and common sense, and by his influence as a clergyman — for a clergyman who was not a fool influenced Mrs. Honeychurch greatly — he bent her to their purpose, “I don’t see why Greece is necessary,” she said; “but as you do, I suppose it is all right. It must be something I can’t understand. Lucy! Let’s tell her. Lucy!”

  “She is playing the piano,” Mr. Beebe said. He opened the door, and heard the words of a song:

  “Look not thou on beauty’s charming.”

  “I didn’t know that Miss Honeychurch sang, too.”

  “Sit thou still when kings are arming,

  Taste not when the wine-cup glistens— “

  “It’s a song that Cecil gave her. How odd girls are!”

  “What’s that?” called Lucy, stopping short.

  “All right, dear,” said Mrs. Honeychurch kindly. She went into the drawing-room, and Mr. Beebe heard her kiss Lucy and say: “I am sorry I was so cross about Greece, but it came on the top of the dahlias.”

  Rather a hard voice said: “Thank you, mother; that doesn’t matter a bit.”

  “And you are right, too — Greece will be all right; you can go if the Miss Alans will have you.”

  “Oh, splendid! Oh, thank you!”

  Mr. Beebe followed. Lucy still sat at the piano with her hands over the keys. She was glad, but he had expected greater gladness. Her mother bent over her. Freddy, to whom she had been singing, reclined on the floor with his head against her, and an unlit pipe between his lips. Oddly enough, the group was beautiful. Mr. Beebe, who loved the art of the past, was reminded of a favourite theme, the Santa Conversazione, in which people who care for one another are painted chatting together about noble things — a theme neither sensual nor sensational, and therefore ignored by the art of to-day. Why should Lucy want either to marry or to travel when she had such friends at home?

  “Taste not when the wine-cup glistens,

  Speak not when the people listens,”

  she continued.

  “Here’s Mr. Beebe.”

  “Mr. Beebe knows my rude ways.”

  “It’s a beautiful song and a wise one,” said he. “Go on.”

  “It isn’t very good,” she said listlessly. “I forget why — harmony or something.”

  “I suspected it was unscholarly. It’s so beautiful.”

  “The tune’s right enough,” said Freddy, “but the words are rotten. Why throw up the sponge?”

  “How stupidly you talk!” said his sister. The Santa Conversazione was broken up. After all, there was no reason that Lucy should talk about Greece or thank him for persuading her mother, so he said good-bye.

  Freddy lit his bicycle lamp for him in the porch, and with his usual felicity of phrase, said: “This has been a day and a half.”

  “Stop thine ear against the singer— “

  “Wait a minute; she is finishing.”

  “From the red gold keep thy finger;

  Vacant heart and hand and eye

  Easy live and quiet die.”

  “I love weather like this,” said Freddy.

  Mr. Beebe passed into it.

  The two main facts were clear. She had behaved splendidly, and he had helped her. He could not expect to master the details of so big a change in a girl’s life. If here and there he was dissatisfied or puzzled, he must acquiesce; she was choosing the better part.

  “Vacant heart and hand and eye— “

  Perhaps the song stated “the better part” rather too strongly. He half fancied that the soaring accompaniment — which he did not lose in the shout of the gale — really agreed with Freddy, and was gently criticizing the words that it adorned:

  “Vacant heart and hand and eye

  Easy live and quiet die.”

  However, for the fourth time Windy Corner lay poised below him — now as a beacon in the roaring tides of darkness.

  Chapter XIX: Lying to Mr. Emerson

  The Miss Alans were found in their beloved temperance hotel near Bloomsbury — a clean, airless establishment much patronized by provincial England. They always perched there before crossing the great seas, and for a week or two would fidget gently over clothes, guide-books, mackintosh squares, digestive bread, and other Continental necessaries. That there are shops abroad, even in Athens, never occurred to them, for they regarded travel as a species of warfare, only to be undertaken by those who have been fully armed at the Haymarket Stores. Miss Honeychurch, they trusted, would take care to equip herself duly. Quinine could now be obtained in tabloids; paper soap was a great help towards freshening up one’s face in the train. Lucy promised, a little depressed.

  “But, of course, you know all about these things, and you have Mr. Vyse to help you. A gentleman is such a stand-by.”

  Mrs. Honeychurch, who had come up to town with her daughter, began to drum nervously upon her card-case.

  “We think it so good of Mr. Vyse to spare you,” Miss Catharine continued. “It is not every young man who would be so unselfish. But perhaps he will come out and join you later on.”

  “Or does his work keep him in London?” said Miss Teresa, the more acute and less kindly of the two sisters.

  “However, we shall see him when he sees you off. I do so long to see him.”

  “No one will see Lucy off,” interposed Mrs. Honeychurch. “She doesn’t like it.”

  “No, I hate seeings-off,” said Lucy.

  “Really? How funny! I should have thought that in this case— “

  “Oh, Mrs. Honeychurch, you aren’t going? It is such a pleasure to have met you!”

  They escaped, and Lucy said with relief: “That’s all right. We just got through that time.”

  But her mother was annoyed. “I should be told, dear, that I am unsympathetic. But I cannot see why you didn’t tell your friends about Cecil and be done with it. There all the time we had to sit fencing, and almost telling lies, and be seen through, too, I dare say, which is most unpleasant.”

  Lucy had plenty to say in reply. She described the Miss Alans’ character: they were such gossips, and if one told them, the news would be everywhere in no time.

  “But why shouldn’t it be everywhere in no time?”

  “Because I settled with Cecil not to announce it until I left England. I shall tell them then. It’s much pleasanter. How wet it is! Let’s turn in here.”

  “Here” was the British Museum. Mrs. Honeychurch refused. If they must take shelter, let it be in a shop. Lucy felt contemptuous, for she was on the tack of caring for Greek sculpture, and had already borrowed a mythical dictionary from Mr. Beebe to get up the names of the goddesses and gods.

  “Oh, well, let it be shop, then. Let’s go to Mudie’s. I’ll buy a guide-book.”

  “You know, Lucy, you and Charlotte and Mr. Beebe all tell me I’m so stupid, so I suppose I am, but I shall never understand this hole-and-corner work. You’ve got rid of Cecil — well and good, and I’m thankful he’s gone, though I did feel angry for the minute. But why not announce it? Why this hushing up and tip-toeing?”

  “It’s only for a few days.”

  “But why at all?”

  Lucy was silent. She was drifting away from her mother. It was quite easy to say, “Because George Emerson has been bothering me, and if he hears I’ve given up Cecil may begin again” — quite easy, and it had the incidental advantage of being true. But she could not say it. She disliked confidences, for
they might lead to self-knowledge and to that king of terrors — Light. Ever since that last evening at Florence she had deemed it unwise to reveal her soul.

  Mrs. Honeychurch, too, was silent. She was thinking, “My daughter won’t answer me; she would rather be with those inquisitive old maids than with Freddy and me. Any rag, tag, and bobtail apparently does if she can leave her home.” And as in her case thoughts never remained unspoken long, she burst out with: “You’re tired of Windy Corner.”

  This was perfectly true. Lucy had hoped to return to Windy Corner when she escaped from Cecil, but she discovered that her home existed no longer. It might exist for Freddy, who still lived and thought straight, but not for one who had deliberately warped the brain. She did not acknowledge that her brain was warped, for the brain itself must assist in that acknowledgment, and she was disordering the very instruments of life. She only felt, “I do not love George; I broke off my engagement because I did not love George; I must go to Greece because I do not love George; it is more important that I should look up gods in the dictionary than that I should help my mother; every one else is behaving very badly.” She only felt irritable and petulant, and anxious to do what she was not expected to do, and in this spirit she proceeded with the conversation.

  “Oh, mother, what rubbish you talk! Of course I’m not tired of Windy Corner.”

  “Then why not say so at once, instead of considering half an hour?”

  She laughed faintly, “Half a minute would be nearer.”

  “Perhaps you would like to stay away from your home altogether?”

  “Hush, mother! People will hear you”; for they had entered Mudie’s. She bought Baedeker, and then continued: “Of course I want to live at home; but as we are talking about it, I may as well say that I shall want to be away in the future more than I have been. You see, I come into my money next year.”

  Tears came into her mother’s eyes.

  Driven by nameless bewilderment, by what is in older people termed “eccentricity,” Lucy determined to make this point clear. “I’ve seen the world so little — I felt so out of things in Italy. I have seen so little of life; one ought to come up to London more — not a cheap ticket like to-day, but to stop. I might even share a flat for a little with some other girl.”

  “And mess with typewriters and latch-keys,” exploded Mrs. Honeychurch. “And agitate and scream, and be carried off kicking by the police. And call it a Mission — when no one wants you! And call it Duty — when it means that you can’t stand your own home! And call it Work — when thousands of men are starving with the competition as it is! And then to prepare yourself, find two doddering old ladies, and go abroad with them.”

  “I want more independence,” said Lucy lamely; she knew that she wanted something, and independence is a useful cry; we can always say that we have not got it. She tried to remember her emotions in Florence: those had been sincere and passionate, and had suggested beauty rather than short skirts and latch-keys. But independence was certainly her cue.

  “Very well. Take your independence and be gone. Rush up and down and round the world, and come back as thin as a lath with the bad food. Despise the house that your father built and the garden that he planted, and our dear view — and then share a flat with another girl.”

  Lucy screwed up her mouth and said: “Perhaps I spoke hastily.”

  “Oh, goodness!” her mother flashed. “How you do remind me of Charlotte Bartlett!”

  “Charlotte!” flashed Lucy in her turn, pierced at last by a vivid pain.

  “More every moment.”

  “I don’t know what you mean, mother; Charlotte and I are not the very least alike.”

  “Well, I see the likeness. The same eternal worrying, the same taking back of words. You and Charlotte trying to divide two apples among three people last night might be sisters.”

  “What rubbish! And if you dislike Charlotte so, it’s rather a pity you asked her to stop. I warned you about her; I begged you, implored you not to, but of course it was not listened to.”

  “There you go.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Charlotte again, my dear; that’s all; her very words.”

  Lucy clenched her teeth. “My point is that you oughtn’t to have asked Charlotte to stop. I wish you would keep to the point.” And the conversation died off into a wrangle.

  She and her mother shopped in silence, spoke little in the train, little again in the carriage, which met them at Dorking Station. It had poured all day and as they ascended through the deep Surrey lanes showers of water fell from the over-hanging beech-trees and rattled on the hood. Lucy complained that the hood was stuffy. Leaning forward, she looked out into the steaming dusk, and watched the carriage-lamp pass like a search-light over mud and leaves, and reveal nothing beautiful. “The crush when Charlotte gets in will be abominable,” she remarked. For they were to pick up Miss Bartlett at Summer Street, where she had been dropped as the carriage went down, to pay a call on Mr. Beebe’s old mother. “We shall have to sit three a side, because the trees drop, and yet it isn’t raining. Oh, for a little air!” Then she listened to the horse’s hoofs— “He has not told — he has not told.” That melody was blurred by the soft road. “CAN’T we have the hood down?” she demanded, and her mother, with sudden tenderness, said: “Very well, old lady, stop the horse.” And the horse was stopped, and Lucy and Powell wrestled with the hood, and squirted water down Mrs. Honeychurch’s neck. But now that the hood was down, she did see something that she would have missed — there were no lights in the windows of Cissie Villa, and round the garden gate she fancied she saw a padlock.

  “Is that house to let again, Powell?” she called.

  “Yes, miss,” he replied.

  “Have they gone?”

  “It is too far out of town for the young gentleman, and his father’s rheumatism has come on, so he can’t stop on alone, so they are trying to let furnished,” was the answer.

  “They have gone, then?”

  “Yes, miss, they have gone.”

  Lucy sank back. The carriage stopped at the Rectory. She got out to call for Miss Bartlett. So the Emersons had gone, and all this bother about Greece had been unnecessary. Waste! That word seemed to sum up the whole of life. Wasted plans, wasted money, wasted love, and she had wounded her mother. Was it possible that she had muddled things away? Quite possible. Other people had. When the maid opened the door, she was unable to speak, and stared stupidly into the hall.

  Miss Bartlett at once came forward, and after a long preamble asked a great favour: might she go to church? Mr. Beebe and his mother had already gone, but she had refused to start until she obtained her hostess’s full sanction, for it would mean keeping the horse waiting a good ten minutes more.

  “Certainly,” said the hostess wearily. “I forgot it was Friday. Let’s all go. Powell can go round to the stables.”

  “Lucy dearest— “

  “No church for me, thank you.”

  A sigh, and they departed. The church was invisible, but up in the darkness to the left there was a hint of colour. This was a stained window, through which some feeble light was shining, and when the door opened Lucy heard Mr. Beebe’s voice running through the litany to a minute congregation. Even their church, built upon the slope of the hill so artfully, with its beautiful raised transept and its spire of silvery shingle — even their church had lost its charm; and the thing one never talked about — religion — was fading like all the other things.

  She followed the maid into the Rectory.

  Would she object to sitting in Mr. Beebe’s study? There was only that one fire.

  She would not object.

  Some one was there already, for Lucy heard the words: “A lady to wait, sir.”

  Old Mr. Emerson was sitting by the fire, with his foot upon a gout-stool.

  “Oh, Miss Honeychurch, that you should come!” he quavered; and Lucy saw an alteration in him since last Sunday.

  Not a
word would come to her lips. George she had faced, and could have faced again, but she had forgotten how to treat his father.

  “Miss Honeychurch, dear, we are so sorry! George is so sorry! He thought he had a right to try. I cannot blame my boy, and yet I wish he had told me first. He ought not to have tried. I knew nothing about it at all.”

  If only she could remember how to behave!

  He held up his hand. “But you must not scold him.”

  Lucy turned her back, and began to look at Mr. Beebe’s books.

  “I taught him,” he quavered, “to trust in love. I said: ‘When love comes, that is reality.’ I said: ‘Passion does not blind. No. Passion is sanity, and the woman you love, she is the only person you will ever really understand.’” He sighed: “True, everlastingly true, though my day is over, and though there is the result. Poor boy! He is so sorry! He said he knew it was madness when you brought your cousin in; that whatever you felt you did not mean. Yet” — his voice gathered strength: he spoke out to make certain— “Miss Honeychurch, do you remember Italy?”

  Lucy selected a book — a volume of Old Testament commentaries. Holding it up to her eyes, she said: “I have no wish to discuss Italy or any subject connected with your son.”

  “But you do remember it?”

  “He has misbehaved himself from the first.”

  “I only was told that he loved you last Sunday. I never could judge behaviour. I — I — suppose he has.”

  Feeling a little steadier, she put the book back and turned round to him. His face was drooping and swollen, but his eyes, though they were sunken deep, gleamed with a child’s courage.

  “Why, he has behaved abominably,” she said. “I am glad he is sorry. Do you know what he did?”

  “Not ‘abominably,’” was the gentle correction. “He only tried when he should not have tried. You have all you want, Miss Honeychurch: you are going to marry the man you love. Do not go out of George’s life saying he is abominable.”

  “No, of course,” said Lucy, ashamed at the reference to Cecil. “‘Abominable’ is much too strong. I am sorry I used it about your son. I think I will go to church, after all. My mother and my cousin have gone. I shall not be so very late— “