Works of E M Forster

by E. M. Forster

  These, too, would be swept away in time, and another promontory would arise upon their site, as humanity piled itself higher and higher on the precious soil of London.

  Mrs. Munt had her own method of interpreting her nieces. She decided that Margaret was a little hysterical, and was trying to gain time by a torrent of talk. Feeling very diplomatic, she lamented the fate of Speyer, and declared that never, never should she be so misguided as to visit it, and added of her own accord that the principles of restoration were ill understood in Germany. “The Germans,” she said, “are too thorough, and this is all very well sometimes, but at other times it does not do.”

  “Exactly,” said Margaret; “Germans are too thorough.” And her eyes began to shine.

  “Of course I regard you Schlegels as English,” said Mrs. Munt hastily— “English to the backbone.”

  Margaret leaned forward and stroked her hand.

  “And that reminds me — Helen’s letter.”

  “Oh yes, Aunt Juley, I am thinking all right about Helen’s letter. I know — I must go down and see her. I am thinking about her all right. I am meaning to go down.”

  “But go with some plan,” said Mrs. Munt, admitting into her kindly voice a note of exasperation. “Margaret, if I may interfere, don’t be taken by surprise. What do you think of the Wilcoxes? Are they our sort? Are they likely people? Could they appreciate Helen, who is to my mind a very special sort of person? Do they care about Literature and Art? That is most important when you come to think of it. Literature and Art. Most important. How old would the son be? She says ‘younger son.’ Would he be in a position to marry? Is he likely to make Helen happy? Did you gather— “

  “I gathered nothing.”

  They began to talk at once.

  “Then in that case— “

  “In that case I can make no plans, don’t you see.”

  “On the contrary— “

  “I hate plans. I hate lines of action. Helen isn’t a baby.”

  “Then in that case, my dear, why go down?”

  Margaret was silent. If her aunt could not see why she must go down, she was not going to tell her. She was not going to say, “I love my dear sister; I must be near her at this crisis of her life.” The affections are more reticent than the passions, and their expression more subtle. If she herself should ever fall in love with a man, she, like Helen, would proclaim it from the housetops, but as she loved only a sister she used the voiceless language of sympathy.

  “I consider you odd girls,” continued Mrs. Munt, “and very wonderful girls, and in many ways far older than your years. But — you won’t be offended? frankly, I feel you are not up to this business. It requires an older person. Dear, I have nothing to call me back to Swanage.” She spread out her plump arms. “I am all at your disposal. Let me go down to this house whose name I forget instead of you.”

  “Aunt Juley” — she jumped up and kissed her— “I must, must go to Howards End myself. You don’t exactly understand, though I can never thank you properly for offering.”

  “I do understand,” retorted Mrs. Munt, with immense confidence. “I go down in no spirit of interference, but to make inquiries. Inquiries are necessary. Now, I am going to be rude. You would say the wrong thing; to a certainty you would. In your anxiety for Helen’s happiness you would offend the whole of these Wilcoxes by asking one of your impetuous questions — not that one minds offending them.”

  “I shall ask no questions. I have it in Helen’s writing that she and a man are in love. There is no question to ask as long as she keeps to that. All the rest isn’t worth a straw. A long engagement if you like, but inquiries, questions, plans, lines of action — no, Aunt Juley, no.”

  Away she hurried, not beautiful, not supremely brilliant, but filled with something that took the place of both qualities — something best described as a profound vivacity, a continual and sincere response to all that she encountered in her path through life.

  “If Helen had written the same to me about a shop assistant or a penniless clerk— “

  “Dear Margaret, do come into the library and shut the door. Your good maids are dusting the banisters.”

  “ — or if she had wanted to marry the man who calls for Carter Paterson, I should have said the same.” Then, with one of those turns that convinced her aunt that she was not mad really, and convinced observers of another type that she was not a barren theorist, she added: “Though in the case of Carter Paterson I should want it to be a very long engagement indeed, I must say.”

  “I should think so,” said Mrs. Munt; “and, indeed, I can scarcely follow you. Now, just imagine if you said anything of that sort to the Wilcoxes. I understand it, but most good people would think you mad. Imagine how disconcerting for Helen! What is wanted is a person who will go slowly, slowly in this business, and see how things are and where they are likely to lead to.”

  Margaret was down on this.

  “But you implied just now that the engagement must be broken off.”

  “I think probably it must; but slowly.”

  “Can you break an engagement off slowly?” Her eyes lit up. “What’s an engagement made of, do you suppose? I think it’s made of some hard stuff that may snap, but can’t break. It is different to the other ties of life. They stretch or bend. They admit of degree. They’re different.”

  “Exactly so. But won’t you let me just run down to Howards House, and save you all the discomfort? I will really not interfere, but I do so thoroughly understand the kind of thing you Schlegels want that one quiet look round will be enough for me.”

  Margaret again thanked her, again kissed her, and then ran upstairs to see her brother.

  He was not so well.

  The hay fever had worried him a good deal all night. His head ached, his eyes were wet, his mucous membrane, he informed her, in a most unsatisfactory condition. The only thing that made life worth living was the thought of Walter Savage Landor, from whose Imaginary Conversations she had promised to read at frequent intervals during the day.

  It was rather difficult. Something must be done about Helen. She must be assured that it is not a criminal offence to love at first sight. A telegram to this effect would be cold and cryptic, a personal visit seemed each moment more impossible. Now the doctor arrived, and said that Tibby was quite bad. Might it really be best to accept Aunt Juley’s kind offer, and to send her down to Howards End with a note?

  Certainly Margaret was impulsive. She did swing rapidly from one decision to another. Running downstairs into the library, she cried: “Yes, I have changed my mind; I do wish that you would go.”

  There was a train from King’s Cross at eleven. At half-past ten Tibby, with rare self-effacement, fell asleep, and Margaret was able to drive her aunt to the station.

  “You will remember, Aunt Juley, not to be drawn into discussing the engagement. Give my letter to Helen, and say whatever you feel yourself, but do keep clear of the relatives. We have scarcely got their names straight yet, and, besides, that sort of thing is so uncivilised and wrong.”

  “So uncivilised?” queried Mrs. Munt, fearing that she was losing the point of some brilliant remark.

  “Oh, I used an affected word. I only meant would you please talk the thing over only with Helen.”

  “Only with Helen.”

  “Because— “ But it was no moment to expound the personal nature of love. Even Margaret shrank from it, and contented herself with stroking her good aunt’s hand, and with meditating, half sensibly and half poetically, on the journey that was about to begin from King’s Cross.

  Like many others who have lived long in a great capital, she had strong feelings about the various railway termini. They are our gates to the glorious and the unknown. Through them we pass out into adventure and sunshine, to them, alas! we return. In Paddington all Cornwall is latent and the remoter west; down the inclines of Liverpool Street lie fenlands and the illimitable Broads; Scotland is through the pylons of Euston; Wessex behin
d the poised chaos of Waterloo. Italians realise this, as is natural; those of them who are so unfortunate as to serve as waiters in Berlin call the Anhalt Bahnhof the Stazione d’Italia, because by it they must return to their homes. And he is a chilly Londoner who does not endow his stations with some personality, and extend to them, however shyly, the emotions of fear and love.

  To Margaret — I hope that it will not set the reader against her — the station of King’s Cross had always suggested Infinity. Its very situation — withdrawn a little behind the facile splendours of St. Pancras — implied a comment on the materialism of life. Those two great arches, colourless, indifferent, shouldering between them an unlovely clock, were fit portals for some eternal adventure, whose issue might be prosperous, but would certainly not be expressed in the ordinary language of prosperity. If you think this ridiculous, remember that it is not Margaret who is telling you about it; and let me hasten to add that they were in plenty of time for the train; that Mrs. Munt, though she took a second-class ticket, was put by the guard into a first (only two “seconds” on the train, one smoking and the other babies — one cannot be expected to travel with babies); and that Margaret, on her return to Wickham Place, was confronted with the following telegram:

  “All over. Wish I had never written. Tell no one — , HELEN.”

  But Aunt Juley was gone — gone irrevocably, and no power on earth could stop her.

  CHAPTER III

  Most complacently did Mrs. Munt rehearse her mission. Her nieces were independent young women, and it was not often that she was able to help them. Emily’s daughters had never been quite like other girls. They had been left motherless when Tibby was born, when Helen was five and Margaret herself but thirteen. It was before the passing of the Deceased Wife’s Sister Bill, so Mrs. Munt could without impropriety offer to go and keep house at Wickham Place. But her brother-in-law, who was peculiar and a German, had referred the question to Margaret, who with the crudity of youth had answered, “No, they could manage much better alone.” Five years later Mr. Schlegel had died too, and Mrs. Munt had repeated her offer. Margaret, crude no longer, had been grateful and extremely nice, but the substance of her answer had been the same. “I must not interfere a third time,” thought Mrs. Munt. However, of course she did. She learnt, to her horror, that Margaret, now of age, was taking her money out of the old safe investments and putting it into Foreign Things, which always smash. Silence would have been criminal. Her own fortune was invested in Home Rails, and most ardently did she beg her niece to imitate her. “Then we should be together, dear.” Margaret, out of politeness, invested a few hundreds in the Nottingham and Derby Railway, and though the Foreign Things did admirably and the Nottingham and Derby declined with the steady dignity of which only Home Rails are capable, Mrs. Munt never ceased to rejoice, and to say, “I did manage that, at all events. When the smash comes poor Margaret will have a nest-egg to fall back upon.” This year Helen came of age, and exactly the same thing happened in Helen’s case; she also would shift her money out of Consols, but she, too, almost without being pressed, consecrated a fraction of it to the Nottingham and Derby Railway. So far so good, but in social matters their aunt had accomplished nothing. Sooner or later the girls would enter on the process known as throwing themselves away, and if they had delayed hitherto, it was only that they might throw themselves more vehemently in the future. They saw too many people at Wickham Place — unshaven musicians, an actress even, German cousins (one knows what foreigners are), acquaintances picked up at Continental hotels (one knows what they are too). It was interesting, and down at Swanage no one appreciated culture more than Mrs. Munt; but it was dangerous, and disaster was bound to come. How right she was, and how lucky to be on the spot when the disaster came!

  The train sped northward, under innumerable tunnels. It was only an hour’s journey, but Mrs. Munt had to raise and lower the window again and again. She passed through the South Welwyn Tunnel, saw light for a moment, and entered the North Welwyn Tunnel, of tragic fame. She traversed the immense viaduct, whose arches span untroubled meadows and the dreamy flow of Tewin Water. She skirted the parks of politicians. At times the Great North Road accompanied her, more suggestive of infinity than any railway, awakening, after a nap of a hundred years, to such life as is conferred by the stench of motor-cars, and to such culture as is implied by the advertisements of antibilious pills. To history, to tragedy, to the past, to the future, Mrs. Munt remained equally indifferent; hers but to concentrate on the end of her journey, and to rescue poor Helen from this dreadful mess.

  The station for Howards End was at Hilton, one of the large villages that are strung so frequently along the North Road, and that owe their size to the traffic of coaching and pre-coaching days. Being near London, it had not shared in the rural decay, and its long High Street had budded out right and left into residential estates. For about a mile a series of tiled and slated houses passed before Mrs. Munt’s inattentive eyes, a series broken at one point by six Danish tumuli that stood shoulder to shoulder along the highroad, tombs of soldiers. Beyond these tumuli, habitations thickened, and the train came to a standstill in a tangle that was almost a town.

  The station, like the scenery, like Helen’s letters, struck an indeterminate note. Into which country will it lead, England or Suburbia? It was new, it had island platforms and a subway, and the superficial comfort exacted by business men. But it held hints of local life, personal intercourse, as even Mrs. Munt was to discover.

  “I want a house,” she confided to the ticket boy. “Its name is Howards Lodge. Do you know where it is?”

  “Mr. Wilcox!” the boy called.

  A young man in front of them turned around.

  “She’s wanting Howards End.”

  There was nothing for it but to go forward, though Mrs. Munt was too much agitated even to stare at the stranger. But remembering that there were two brothers, she had the sense to say to him, “Excuse me asking, but are you the younger Mr. Wilcox or the elder?”

  “The younger. Can I do anything for you?”

  “Oh, well” — she controlled herself with difficulty. “Really. Are you? I— “ She moved; away from the ticket boy and lowered her voice. “I am Miss Schlegel’s aunt. I ought to introduce myself, oughtn’t I? My name is Mrs. Munt.”

  She was conscious that he raised his cap and said quite coolly, “Oh, rather; Miss Schlegel is stopping with us. Did you want to see her?”

  “Possibly.”

  “I’ll call you a cab. No; wait a mo— “ He thought. “Our motor’s here. I’ll run you up in it.”

  “That is very kind.”

  “Not at all, if you’ll just wait till they bring out a parcel from the office. This way.”

  “My niece is not with you by any chance?”

  “No; I came over with my father. He has gone on north in your train. You’ll see Miss Schlegel at lunch. You’re coming up to lunch, I hope?”

  “I should like to come UP,” said Mrs. Munt, not committing herself to nourishment until she had studied Helen’s lover a little more. He seemed a gentleman, but had so rattled her round that her powers of observation were numbed. She glanced at him stealthily.

  To a feminine eye there was nothing amiss in the sharp depressions at the corners of his mouth, or in the rather box-like construction of his forehead. He was dark, clean-shaven, and seemed accustomed to command.

  “In front or behind? Which do you prefer? It may be windy in front.”

  “In front if I may; then we can talk.”

  “But excuse me one moment — I can’t think what they’re doing with that parcel.” He strode into the booking-office, and called with a new voice: “Hi! hi, you there! Are you going to keep me waiting all day? Parcel for Wilcox, Howards End. Just look sharp!”

  Emerging, he said in quieter tones: “This station’s abominably organised; if I had my way, the whole lot of ’em should get the sack. May I help you in?”

  “This is very good of you,” sa
id Mrs. Munt, as she settled herself into a luxurious cavern of red leather, and suffered her person to be padded with rugs and shawls. She was more civil than she had intended, but really this young man was very kind. Moreover, she was a little afraid of him; his self-possession was extraordinary. “Very good indeed,” she repeated, adding: “It is just what I should have wished.”

  “Very good of you to say so,” he replied, with a slight look of surprise, which, like most slight looks, escaped Mrs. Munt’s attention. “I was just tooling my father over to catch the down train.”

  “You see, we heard from Helen this morning.”

  Young Wilcox was pouring in petrol, starting his engine, and performing other actions with which this story has no concern. The great car began to rock, and the form of Mrs. Munt, trying to explain things, sprang agreeably up and down among the red cushions. “The mater will be very glad to see you,” he mumbled. “Hi! I say. Parcel. Parcel for Howards End. Bring it out. Hi!”

  A bearded porter emerged with the parcel in one hand and an entry book in the other. With the gathering whir of the motor these ejaculations mingled: “Sign, must I? Why the — should I sign after all this bother? Not even got a pencil on you? Remember next time I report you to the station-master. My time’s of value, though yours mayn’t be. Here” — here being a tip.

  “Extremely sorry, Mrs. Munt.”

  “Not at all, Mr. Wilcox.”

  “And do you object to going through the village? It is rather a longer spin, but I have one or two commissions.”

  “I should love going through the village. Naturally I am very anxious to talk things over with you.”

  As she said this she felt ashamed, for she was disobeying Margaret’s instructions. Only disobeying them in the letter, surely. Margaret had only warned her against discussing the incident with outsiders. Surely it was not “uncivilised or wrong” to discuss it with the young man himself, since chance had thrown them together.

  A reticent fellow, he made no reply. Mounting by her side, he put on gloves and spectacles, and off they drove, the bearded porter — life is a mysterious business — looking after them with admiration.