“Thanks to your hint, he’s clearing out of the Porphyrion.”
“Not a bad business that Porphyrion,” he said absently, as he took his own letter out of his pocket.
“Not a BAD— “ she exclaimed, dropping his hand. “Surely, on Chelsea Embankment— “
“Here’s our hostess. Good-morning, Mrs. Munt. Fine rhododendrons. Good-morning, Frau Liesecke; we manage to grow flowers in England, don’t we?”
“Not a BAD business?”
“No. My letter’s about Howards End. Bryce has been ordered abroad, and wants to sublet it — I am far from sure that I shall give him permission. There was no clause in the agreement. In my opinion, subletting is a mistake. If he can find me another tenant, whom I consider suitable, I may cancel the agreement. Morning, Schlegel. Don’t you think that’s better than subletting?”
Helen had dropped her hand now, and he had steered her past the whole party to the seaward side of the house. Beneath them was the bourgeois little bay, which must have yearned all through the centuries for just such a watering-place as Swanage to be built on its margin.
The waves were colourless, and the Bournemouth steamer gave a further touch of insipidity, drawn up against the pier and hooting wildly for excursionists.
“When there is a sublet I find that damage— “
“Do excuse me, but about the Porphyrion. I don’t feel easy — might I just bother you, Henry?”
Her manner was so serious that he stopped, and asked her a little sharply what she wanted.
“You said on Chelsea Embankment, surely, that it was a bad concern, so we advised this clerk to clear out. He writes this morning that he’s taken our advice, and now you say it’s not a bad concern.”
“A clerk who clears out of any concern, good or bad, without securing a berth somewhere else first, is a fool, and I’ve no pity for him.”
“He has not done that. He’s going into a bank in Camden Town, he says. The salary’s much lower, but he hopes to manage — a branch of Dempster’s Bank. Is that all right?”
“Dempster! Why goodness me, yes.”
“More right than the Porphyrion?”
“Yes, yes, yes; safe as houses — safer.”
“Very many thanks. I’m sorry — if you sublet — ?”
“If he sublets, I shan’t have the same control. In theory there should be no more damage done at Howards End; in practice there will be. Things may be done for which no money can compensate. For instance, I shouldn’t want that fine wych-elm spoilt. It hangs — Margaret, we must go and see the old place some time. It’s pretty in its way. We’ll motor down and have lunch with Charles.”
“I should enjoy that,” said Margaret bravely.
“What about next Wednesday?”
“Wednesday? No, I couldn’t well do that. Aunt Juley expects us to stop here another week at least.”
“But you can give that up now.”
“Er — no,” said Margaret, after a moment’s thought.
“Oh, that’ll be all right. I’ll speak to her.”
“This visit is a high solemnity. My aunt counts on it year after year. She turns the house upside down for us; she invites our special friends — she scarcely knows Frieda, and we can’t leave her on her hands. I missed one day, and she would be so hurt if I didn’t stay the full ten.”
“But I’ll say a word to her. Don’t you bother.”
“Henry, I won’t go. Don’t bully me.”
“You want to see the house, though?”
“Very much — I’ve heard so much about it, one way or the other. Aren’t there pigs’ teeth in the wych-elm?”
“PIGS TEETH?”
“And you chew the bark for toothache.”
“What a rum notion! Of course not!”
“Perhaps I have confused it with some other tree. There are still a great number of sacred trees in England, it seems.”
But he left her to intercept Mrs. Munt, whose voice could be heard in the distance; to be intercepted himself by Helen.
“Oh. Mr. Wilcox, about the Porphyrion— “ she began and went scarlet all over her face.
“It’s all right,” called Margaret, catching them up. “Dempster’s Bank’s better.”
“But I think you told us the Porphyrion was bad, and would smash before Christmas.”
“Did I? It was still outside the Tariff Ring, and had to take rotten policies. Lately it came in — safe as houses now.”
“In other words, Mr. Bast need never have left it.”
“No, the fellow needn’t.”
“ — and needn’t have started life elsewhere at a greatly reduced salary.”
“He only says ‘reduced,’” corrected Margaret, seeing trouble ahead.
“With a man so poor, every reduction must be great. I consider it a deplorable misfortune.”
Mr. Wilcox, intent on his business with Mrs. Munt, was going steadily on, but the last remark made him say: “What? What’s that? Do you mean that I’m responsible?”
“You’re ridiculous, Helen.”
“You seem to think— “ He looked at his watch. “Let me explain the point to you. It is like this. You seem to assume, when a business concern is conducting a delicate negotiation, it ought to keep the public informed stage by stage. The Porphyrion, according to you, was bound to say, ‘I am trying all I can to get into the Tariff Ring. I am not sure that I shall succeed, but it is the only thing that will save me from insolvency, and I am trying.’ My dear Helen— “
“Is that your point? A man who had little money has less — that’s mine.”
“I am grieved for your clerk. But it is all in the days work. It’s part of the battle of life.”
“A man who had little money— “ she repeated, “has less, owing to us. Under these circumstances I consider ‘the battle of life’ a happy expression.
“Oh come, come!” he protested pleasantly, “you’re not to blame. No one’s to blame.”
“Is no one to blame for anything?”
“I wouldn’t say that, but you’re taking it far too seriously. Who is this fellow?”
“We have told you about the fellow twice already,” said Helen. “You have even met the fellow. He is very poor and his wife is an extravagant imbecile. He is capable of better things. We — we, the upper classes — thought we would help him from the height of our superior knowledge — and here’s the result!”
He raised his finger. “Now, a word of advice.”
“I require no more advice.”
“A word of advice. Don’t take up that sentimental attitude over the poor. See that she doesn’t, Margaret. The poor are poor, and one’s sorry for them, but there it is. As civilisation moves forward, the shoe is bound to pinch in places, and it’s absurd to pretend that any one is responsible personally. Neither you, nor I, nor my informant, nor the man who informed him, nor the directors of the Porphyrion, are to blame for this clerk’s loss of salary. It’s just the shoe pinching — no one can help it; and it might easily have been worse.”
Helen quivered with indignation.
“By all means subscribe to charities — subscribe to them largely — but don’t get carried away by absurd schemes of Social Reform. I see a good deal behind the scenes, and you can take it from me that there is no Social Question — except for a few journalists who try to get a living out of the phrase. There are just rich and poor, as there always have been and always will be. Point me out a time when men have been equal— “
“I didn’t say— “
“Point me out a time when desire for equality has made them happier. No, no. You can’t. There always have been rich and poor. I’m no fatalist. Heaven forbid! But our civilisation is moulded by great impersonal forces” (his voice grew complacent; it always did when he eliminated the personal), “and there always will be rich and poor. You can’t deny it” (and now it was a respectful voice)— “and you can’t deny that, in spite of all, the tendency of civilisation has on the whole been upward.”<
br />
“Owing to God, I suppose,” flashed Helen.
He stared at her.
“You grab the dollars. God does the rest.”
It was no good instructing the girl if she was going to talk about God in that neurotic modern way. Fraternal to the last, he left her for the quieter company of Mrs. Munt. He thought, “She rather reminds me of Dolly.”
Helen looked out at the sea.
“Don’t ever discuss political economy with Henry,” advised her sister. “It’ll only end in a cry.”
“But he must be one of those men who have reconciled science with religion,” said Helen slowly. “I don’t like those men. They are scientific themselves, and talk of the survival of the fittest, and cut down the salaries of their clerks, and stunt the independence of all who may menace their comfort, but yet they believe that somehow good — it is always that sloppy ‘somehow’ will be the outcome, and that in some mystical way the Mr. Basts of the future will benefit because the Mr. Brits of today are in pain.”
“He is such a man in theory. But oh, Helen, in theory!”
“But oh, Meg, what a theory!”
“Why should you put things so bitterly, dearie?”
“Because I’m an old maid,” said Helen, biting her lip. “I can’t think why I go on like this myself.” She shook off her sister’s hand and went into the house. Margaret, distressed at the day’s beginning, followed the Bournemouth steamer with her eyes. She saw that Helen’s nerves were exasperated by the unlucky Bast business beyond the bounds of politeness. There might at any minute be a real explosion, which even Henry would notice. Henry must be removed.
“Margaret!” her aunt called. “Magsy! It isn’t true, surely, what Mr. Wilcox says, that you want to go away early next week?”
“Not ‘want,’” was Margaret’s prompt reply; “but there is so much to be settled, and I do want to see the Charles’s.”
“But going away without taking the Weymouth trip, or even the Lulworth?” said Mrs. Munt, coming nearer. “Without going once more up Nine Barrows Down?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Mr. Wilcox rejoined her with, “Good! I did the breaking of the ice.”
A wave of tenderness came over her. She put a hand on either shoulder, and looked deeply into the black, bright eyes. What was behind their competent stare? She knew, but was not disquieted.
CHAPTER XXIII
Margaret had no intention of letting things slide, and the evening before she left Swanage she gave her sister a thorough scolding. She censured her, not for disapproving of the engagement, but for throwing over her disapproval a veil of mystery. Helen was equally frank. “Yes,” she said, with the air of one looking inwards, “there is a mystery. I can’t help it. It’s not my fault. It’s the way life has been made.” Helen in those days was over-interested in the subconscious self. She exaggerated the Punch and Judy aspect of life, and spoke of mankind as puppets, whom an invisible showman twitches into love and war. Margaret pointed out that if she dwelt on this she, too, would eliminate the personal. Helen was silent for a minute, and then burst into a queer speech, which cleared the air. “Go on and marry him. I think you’re splendid; and if any one can pull it off, you will.” Margaret denied that there was anything to “pull off,” but she continued: “Yes, there is, and I wasn’t up to it with Paul. I can do only what’s easy. I can only entice and be enticed. I can’t, and won’t, attempt difficult relations. If I marry, it will either be a man who’s strong enough to boss me or whom I’m strong enough to boss. So I shan’t ever marry, for there aren’t such men. And Heaven help any one whom I do marry, for I shall certainly run away from him before you can say ‘Jack Robinson.’ There! Because I’m uneducated. But you, you’re different; you’re a heroine.”
“Oh, Helen! Am I? Will it be as dreadful for poor Henry as all that?”
“You mean to keep proportion, and that’s heroic, it’s Greek, and I don’t see why it shouldn’t succeed with you. Go on and fight with him and help him. Don’t ask me for help, or even for sympathy. Henceforward I’m going my own way. I mean to be thorough, because thoroughness is easy. I mean to dislike your husband, and to tell him so. I mean to make no concessions to Tibby. If Tibby wants to live with me, he must lump me. I mean to love you more than ever. Yes, I do. You and I have built up something real, because it is purely spiritual. There’s no veil of mystery over us. Unreality and mystery begin as soon as one touches the body. The popular view is, as usual, exactly the wrong one. Our bothers are over tangible things — money, husbands, house-hunting. But Heaven will work of itself.”
Margaret was grateful for this expression of affection, and answered, “Perhaps.” All vistas close in the unseen — no one doubts it — but Helen closed them rather too quickly for her taste. At every turn of speech one was confronted with reality and the absolute. Perhaps Margaret grew too old for metaphysics, perhaps Henry was weaning her from them, but she felt that there was something a little unbalanced in the mind that so readily shreds the visible. The business man who assumes that this life is everything, and the mystic who asserts that it is nothing, fail, on this side and on that, to hit the truth. “Yes, I see, dear; it’s about half-way between,” Aunt Juicy had hazarded in earlier years. No; truth, being alive, was not half-way between anything. It was only to be found by continuous excursions into either realm, and though proportion is the final secret, to espouse it at the outset is to insure sterility.
Helen, agreeing here, disagreeing there, would have talked till midnight, but Margaret, with her packing to do, focussed the conversation on Henry. She might abuse Henry behind his back, but please would she always be civil to him in company? “I definitely dislike him, but I’ll do what I can,” promised Helen. “Do what you can with my friends in return.”
This conversation made Margaret easier. Their inner life was so safe that they could bargain over externals in a way that would have been incredible to Aunt Juley, and impossible for Tibby or Charles. There are moments when the inner life actually “pays,” when years of self-scrutiny, conducted for no ulterior motive, are suddenly of practical use. Such moments are still rare in the West; that they come at all promises a fairer future. Margaret, though unable to understand her sister, was assured against estrangement, and returned to London with a more peaceful mind.
The following morning, at eleven o’clock, she presented herself at the offices of the Imperial and West African Rubber Company. She was glad to go there, for Henry had implied his business rather than described it, and the formlessness and vagueness that one associates with Africa itself had hitherto brooded over the main sources of his wealth. Not that a visit to the office cleared things up. There was just the ordinary surface scum of ledgers and polished counters and brass bars that began and stopped for no possible reason, of electric-light globes blossoming in triplets, of little rabbit-hutches faced with glass or wire, of little rabbits. And even when she penetrated to the inner depths, she found only the ordinary table and Turkey carpet, and though the map over the fireplace did depict a helping of West Africa, it was a very ordinary map. Another map hung opposite, on which the whole continent appeared, looking like a whale marked out for a blubber, and by its side was a door, shut, but Henry’s voice came through it, dictating a “strong” letter. She might have been at the Porphyrion, or Dempster’s Bank, or her own wine-merchant’s. Everything seems just alike in these days. But perhaps she was seeing the Imperial side of the company rather than its West African, and Imperialism always had been one of her difficulties.
“One minute!” called Mr. Wilcox on receiving her name. He touched a bell, the effect of which was to produce Charles.
Charles had written his father an adequate letter — more adequate than Evie’s, through which a girlish indignation throbbed. And he greeted his future stepmother with propriety.
“I hope that my wife — how do you do? — will give you a decent lunch,” was his opening. “I left instructions, but we live in a rough-and-ready
way. She expects you back to tea, too, after you have had a look at Howards End. I wonder what you’ll think of the place. I wouldn’t touch it with tongs myself. Do sit down! It’s a measly little place.”
“I shall enjoy seeing it,” said Margaret, feeling, for the first time, shy.
“You’ll see it at its worst, for Bryce decamped abroad last Monday without even arranging for a charwoman to clear up after him. I never saw such a disgraceful mess. It’s unbelievable. He wasn’t in the house a month.”
“I’ve more than a little bone to pick with Bryce,” called Henry from the inner chamber.
“Why did he go so suddenly?”
“Invalid type; couldn’t sleep.”
“Poor fellow!”
“Poor fiddlesticks!” said Mr. Wilcox, joining them. “He had the impudence to put up notice-boards without as much as saying with your leave or by your leave. Charles flung them down.”
“Yes, I flung them down,” said Charles modestly.
“I’ve sent a telegram after him, and a pretty sharp one, too. He, and he in person, is responsible for the upkeep of that house for the next three years.”
“The keys are at the farm; we wouldn’t have the keys.”
“Quite right.”
“Dolly would have taken them, but I was in, fortunately.”
“What’s Mr. Bryce like?” asked Margaret.
But nobody cared. Mr. Bryce was the tenant, who had no right to sublet; to have defined him further was a waste of time. On his misdeeds they descanted profusely, until the girl who had been typing the strong letter game out with it. Mr. Wilcox added his signature. “Now we’ll be off,” said he.
A motor-drive, a form of felicity detested by Margaret, awaited her. Charles saw them in, civil to the last, and in a moment the offices of the Imperial and West African Rubber Company faded away. But it was not an impressive drive. Perhaps the weather was to blame, being grey and banked high with weary clouds. Perhaps Hertfordshire is scarcely intended for motorists. Did not a gentleman once motor so quickly through Westmoreland that he missed it? and if Westmoreland can be missed, it will fare ill with a county whose delicate structure particularly needs the attentive eye. Hertfordshire is England at its quietest, with little emphasis of river and hill; it is England meditative. If Drayton were with us again to write a new edition of his incomparable poem, he would sing the nymphs of Hertfordshire as indeterminate of feature, with hair obfuscated by the London smoke. Their eyes would be sad, and averted from their fate towards the Northern flats, their leader not Isis or Sabrina, but the slowly flowing Lea. No glory of raiment would be theirs, no urgency of dance; but they would be real nymphs.
Works of E M Forster Page 85