Howards End

by E. M. Forster

  “There’s this other point, and then I must go back to my hotel and write some letters. What’s to be done now about the house in Ducie Street?”

  “Keep it on—at least, it depends. When do you want to marry me?”

  She raised her voice, as too often, and some youths, who were also taking the evening air, overheard her. “Getting a bit hot, eh?” said one. Mr. Wilcox turned on them, and said sharply: “I say!” There was silence. “Take care I don’t report you to the police.” They moved away quietly enough, but were only biding their time, and the rest of the conversation was punctuated by peals of ungovernable laughter.

  Lowering his voice and infusing a hint of reproof into it, he said: “Evie will probably be married in September. We could scarcely think of anything before then. ”

  “The earlier the nicer, Henry. Females are not supposed to say such things, but the earlier the nicer.”

  “How about September for us too?” he asked, rather dryly.

  “Right. Shall we go into Ducie Street ourselves in September? Or shall we try to bounce Helen and Tibby into it? That’s rather an idea. They are so unbusinesslike, we could make them do anything by judicious management. Look here—yes. We’ll do that. And we ourselves could live at Howards End or Shropshire.”

  He blew out his cheeks. “Heavens! how you women do fly round! My head’s in a whirl. Point by point, Margaret. Howards End’s impossible. I let it to Hamar Bryce on a three years’ agreement last March. Don’t you remember? Oniton. Well, that is much, much too far away to rely on entirely. You will be able to be down there entertaining a certain amount, but we must have a house within easy reach of Town. Only Ducie Street has huge drawbacks. There’s a mews behind.”

  Margaret could not help laughing. It was the first she had heard of the mews behind Ducie Street. When she was a possible tenant it had suppressed itself, not consciously, but automatically. The breezy Wilcox manner, though genuine, lacked the clearness of vision that is imperative for truth. When Henry lived in Ducie Street, he remembered the mews; when he tried to let, he forgot it; and if anyone had remarked that the mews must be either there or not, he would have felt annoyed, and afterwards have found some opportunity of stigmatizing the speaker as academic. So does my grocer stigmatize me when I complain of the quality of his sultanas, and he answers in one breath that they are the best sultanas, and how can I expect the best sultanas at that price? It is a flaw inherent in the business mind, and Margaret may do well to be tender to it, considering all that the business mind has done for England.

  “Yes, in summer especially, the mews is a serious nuisance. The smoking-room, too, is an abominable little den. The house opposite has been taken by operatic people. Ducie Street’s going down, it’s my private opinion.”

  “How sad! It’s only a few years since they built those pretty houses.”

  “Shows things are moving. Good for trade.”

  “I hate this continual flux of London. It is an epitome of us at our worst—eternal formlessness; all the qualities, good, bad, and indifferent, streaming away—streaming, streaming for ever. That’s why I dread it so. I mistrust rivers, even in scenery. Now, the sea—”

  “High tide, yes.”

  “Hoy toid”—from the promenading youths.

  “And these are the men to whom we give the vote,” observed Mr. Wilcox, omitting to add that they were also the men to whom he gave work as clerks—work that scarcely encouraged them to grow into other men. “However, they have their own lives and interests. Let’s get on.”

  He turned as he spoke, and prepared to see her back to The Bays. The business was over. His hotel was in the opposite direction, and if he accompanied her his letters would be late for the post. She implored him not to come, but he was obdurate.

  “A nice beginning, if your aunt saw you slip in alone!”

  “But I always do go about alone. Considering I’ve walked over the Apennines, it’s common sense. You will make me so angry. I don’t the least take it as a compliment.”

  He laughed, and lit a cigar. “It isn’t meant as a compliment, my dear. I just won’t have you going about in the dark. Such people about too! It’s dangerous.”

  “Can’t I look after myself? I do wish—”

  “Come along, Margaret; no wheedling.”

  A younger woman might have resented his masterly ways, but Margaret had too firm a grip of life to make a fuss. She was, in her own way, as masterly. If he was a fortress she was a mountain peak, whom all might tread, but whom the snows made nightly virginal. Disdaining the heroic outfit, excitable in her methods, garrulous, episodical, shrill, she misled her lover much as she had misled her aunt. He mistook her fertility for weakness. He supposed her “as clever as they make ‘em,” but no more, not realizing that she was penetrating to the depths of his soul, and approving of what she found there.

  And if insight were sufficient, if the inner life were the whole of life, their happiness has been assured.

  They walked ahead briskly. The parade and the road after it were well lighted, but it was darker in Aunt Juley’s garden. As they were going up by the side-paths, through some rhododendrons, Mr. Wilcox, who was in front, said “Margaret” rather huskily, turned, dropped his cigar, and took her in his arms.

  She was startled, and nearly screamed, but recovered herself at once, and kissed with genuine love the lips that were pressed against her own. It was their first kiss, and when it was over he saw her safely to the door and rang the bell for her, but disappeared into the night before the maid answered it. On looking back, the incident displeased her. It was so isolated. Nothing in their previous conversation had heralded it, and, worse still, no tenderness had ensued. If a man cannot lead up to passion, he can at all events lead down from it, and she had hoped, after her complaisance, for some interchange of gentle words. But he had hurried away as if ashamed, and for an instant she was reminded of Helen and Paul.

  Chapter XXI

  Charles had just been scolding his Dolly. She deserved the scolding, and had bent before it, but her head, though bloody, was unsubdued, and her chirrupings began to mingle with his retreating thunder.

  “You’ve woken the baby. I knew you would. (Rum-ti-foo, Rackety-tackety-Tompkin!) I’m not responsible for what Uncle Percy does, nor for anybody else or anything, so there!”

  “Who asked him while I was away? Who asked my sister down to meet him? Who sent them out in the motor day after day?”

  “Charles, that reminds me of some poem.”

  “Does it indeed? We shall all be dancing to a very different music presently. Miss Schlegel has fairly got us on toast.”

  “I could simply scratch that woman’s eyes out, and to say it’s my fault is most unfair.”

  “It’s your fault, and five months ago you admitted it.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “You did.”

  “Tootle, tootle, playing on the pootle!” exclaimed Dolly, suddenly devoting herself to the child.

  “It’s all very well to turn the conversation, but Father would never have dreamt of marrying as long as Evie was there to make him comfortable. But you must needs start match-making. Besides, Cahill’s too old.”

  “Of course, if you’re going to be rude to Uncle Percy—”

  “Miss Schlegel always meant to get hold of Howards End, and, thanks to you, she’s got it.”

  “I call the way you twist things round and make them hang together most unfair. You couldn’t have been nastier if you’d caught me flirting. Could he, diddums?”

  “We’re in a bad hole, and must make the best of it. I shall answer the pater’s letter civilly. He’s evidently anxious to do the decent thing. But I do not intend to forget these Schlegels in a hurry. As long as they’re on their best behaviour—Dolly, are you listening?—we’ll behave, too. But if I find them giving themselves airs, or monopolizing my father, or at all ill-treating him, or worrying him with their artistic beastliness, I intend to put my foot down, yes, firmly. Taking
my mother’s place! Heaven knows what poor old Paul will say when the news reaches him.”

  The interlude closes. It has taken place in Charles’s garden at Hilton. He and Dolly are sitting in deck-chairs, and their motor is regarding them placidly from its garage across the lawn. A short-frocked edition of Charles also regards them placidly; a perambulator edition is squeaking; a third edition is expected shortly. Nature is turning out Wilcoxes in this peaceful abode, so that they may inherit the earth.

  Chapter XXII

  Margaret greeted her lord with peculiar tenderness on the morrow. Mature as he was, she might yet be able to help him to the building of the rainbow bridge that should connect the prose in us with the passion. Without it we are meaningless fragments, half monks, half beasts, unconnected arches that have never joined into a man. With it love is born, and alights on the highest curve, glowing against the grey, sober against the fire. Happy the man who sees from either aspect the glory of these outspread wings. The roads of his soul lie clear, and he and his friends shall find easy going.

  It was hard going in the roads of Mr. Wilcox’s soul. From boyhood he had neglected them. “I am not a fellow who bothers about my own inside.” Outwardly he was cheerful, reliable, and brave; but within, all had reverted to chaos, ruled, so far as it was ruled at all, by an incomplete asceticism. Whether as boy, husband, or widower, he had always the sneaking belief that bodily passion is bad, a belief that is desirable only when held passionately. Religion had confirmed him. The words that were read aloud on Sunday to him and to other respectable men were the words that had once kindled the souls of St. Catharine and St. Francis into a white-hot hatred of the carnal. He could not be as the saints and love the Infinite with a seraphic ardour, but he could be a little ashamed of loving a wife. “Amabat, amare timebat.” And it was here that Margaret hoped to help him.

  It did not seem so difficult. She need trouble him with no gift of her own. She would only point out the salvation that was latent in his own soul, and in the soul of every man. Only connect! That was the whole of her sermon. Only connect the prose and the passion, and both will be exalted, and human love will be seen at its height. Live in fragments no longer. Only connect, and the beast and the monk, robbed of the isolation that is life to either, will die.

  Nor was the message difficult to give. It need not take the form of a good “talking.” By quiet indications the bridge would be built and span their lives with beauty.

  But she failed. For there was one quality in Henry for which she was never prepared, however much she reminded herself of it: his obtuseness. He simply did not notice things, and there was no more to be said. He never noticed that Helen and Frieda were hostile, or that Tibby was not interested in currant plantations; he never noticed the lights and shades that exist in the greyest conversation, the finger-posts, the mile-stones, the collisions, the illimitable views. Once—on another occasion—she scolded him about it. He was puzzled, but replied with a laugh: “My motto is Concentrate. I’ve no intention of frittering away my strength on that sort of thing.” “It isn’t frittering away the strength,” she protested. “It’s enlarging the space in which you may be strong.” He answered: “You’re a clever little woman, but my motto’s Concentrate.” And this morning he concentrated with a vengeance.

  They met in the rhododendrons of yesterday. In the daylight the bushes were inconsiderable and the path was bright in the morning sun. She was with Helen, who had been ominously quiet since the affair was settled. “Here we all are!” she cried, and took him by one hand, retaining her sister’s in the other.

  “Here we are. Good morning, Helen.”

  Helen replied: “Good morning, Mr. Wilcox.”

  “Henry, she has had such a nice letter from the queer, cross boy. Do you remember him? He had a sad moustache, but the back of his head was young.”

  “I have had a letter too. Not a nice one—I want to talk it over with you”: for Leonard Bast was nothing to him now that she had given him her word; the triangle of sex was broken for ever.

  “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! My 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 interc
epted 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 day’s 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 do not consider ‘the battle of life’ a happy expression.”