Works of E M Forster

by E. M. Forster

  “Yes, horribly.”

  “But surely the atmosphere of Covent Garden is even more oppressive.”

  “Do you go there much?”

  “When my work permits, I attend the gallery for the Royal Opera.”

  Helen would have exclaimed, “So do I. I love the gallery,” and thus have endeared herself to the young man. Helen could do these things. But Margaret had an almost morbid horror of “drawing people out,” of “making things go.” She had been to the gallery at Covent Garden, but she did not “attend” it, preferring the more expensive seats; still less did she love it. So she made no reply.

  “This year I have been three times — to ‘Faust,’ ‘Tosca,’ and— “ Was it “Tannhouser” or “Tannhoyser”? Better not risk the word.

  Margaret disliked “Tosca” and “Faust.” And so, for one reason and another, they walked on in silence, chaperoned by the voice of Mrs. Munt, who was getting into difficulties with her nephew.

  “I do in a WAY remember the passage, Tibby, but when every instrument is so beautiful, it is difficult to pick out one thing rather than another. I am sure that you and Helen take me to the very nicest concerts. Not a dull note from beginning to end. I only wish that our German friends had stayed till it finished.”

  “But surely you haven’t forgotten the drum steadily beating on the low C, Aunt Juley?” came Tibby’s voice. “No one could. It’s unmistakable.”

  “A specially loud part?” hazarded Mrs. Munt. “Of course I do not go in for being musical,” she added, the shot failing. “I only care for music — a very different thing. But still I will say this for myself — I do know when I like a thing and when I don’t. Some people are the same about pictures. They can go into a picture gallery — Miss Conder can — and say straight off what they feel, all round the wall. I never could do that. But music is so different from pictures, to my mind. When it comes to music I am as safe as houses, and I assure you, Tibby, I am by no means pleased by everything. There was a thing — something about a faun in French — which Helen went into ecstasies over, but I thought it most tinkling and superficial, and said so, and I held to my opinion too.”

  “Do you agree?” asked Margaret. “Do you think music is so different from pictures?”

  “I — I should have thought so, kind of,” he said.

  “So should I. Now, my sister declares they’re just the same. We have great arguments over it. She says I’m dense; I say she’s sloppy.” Getting under way, she cried: “Now, doesn’t it seem absurd to you? What is the good of the Arts if they ‘re interchangeable? What is the good of the ear if it tells you the same as the eye? Helen’s one aim is to translate tunes into the language of painting, and pictures into the language of music. It’s very ingenious, and she says several pretty things in the process, but what’s gained, I’d like to know? Oh, it’s all rubbish, radically false. If Monet’s really Debussy, and Debussy’s really Monet, neither gentleman is worth his salt — that’s my opinion.”

  Evidently these sisters quarrelled.

  “Now, this very symphony that we’ve just been having — she won’t let it alone. She labels it with meanings from start to finish; turns it into literature. I wonder if the day will ever return when music will be treated as music. Yet I don’t know. There’s my brother — behind us. He treats music as music, and oh, my goodness! He makes me angrier than any one, simply furious. With him I daren’t even argue.”

  An unhappy family, if talented.

  “But, of course, the real villain is Wagner. He has done more than any man in the nineteenth century towards the muddling of the arts. I do feel that music is in a very serious state just now, though extraordinarily interesting. Every now and then in history there do come these terrible geniuses, like Wagner, who stir up all the wells of thought at once. For a moment it’s splendid. Such a splash as never was. But afterwards — such a lot of mud; and the wells — as it were, they communicate with each other too easily now, and not one of them will run quite clear. That’s what Wagner’s done.”

  Her speeches fluttered away from the young man like birds. If only he could talk like this, he would have caught the world. Oh, to acquire culture! Oh, to pronounce foreign names correctly! Oh, to be well informed, discoursing at ease on every subject that a lady started! But it would take one years. With an hour at lunch and a few shattered hours in the evening, how was it possible to catch up with leisured women, who had been reading steadily from childhood? His brain might be full of names, he might have even heard of Monet and Debussy; the trouble was that he could not string them together into a sentence, he could not make them “tell,” he could not quite forget about his stolen umbrella. Yes, the umbrella was the real trouble. Behind Monet and Debussy the umbrella persisted, with the steady beat of a drum. “I suppose my umbrella will be all right,” he was thinking. “I don’t really mind about it. I will think about music instead. I suppose my umbrella will be all right.” Earlier in the afternoon he had worried about seats. Ought he to have paid as much as two shillings? Earlier still he had wondered, “Shall I try to do without a programme?” There had always been something to worry him ever since he could remember, always something that distracted him in the pursuit of beauty. For he did pursue beauty, and, therefore, Margaret’s speeches did flutter away from him like birds.

  Margaret talked ahead, occasionally saying, “Don’t you think so? don’t you feel the same?” And once she stopped, and said, “Oh, do interrupt me!” which terrified him. She did not attract him, though she filled him with awe. Her figure was meagre, her face seemed all teeth and eyes, her references to her sister and her brother were uncharitable. For all her cleverness and culture, she was probably one of those soulless, atheistical women who have been so shown up by Miss Corelli. It was surprising (and alarming) that she should suddenly say, “I do hope that you’ll come in and have some tea. We should be so glad. I have dragged you so far out of your way.”

  They had arrived at Wickham Place. The sun had set, and the backwater, in deep shadow, was filling with a gentle haze. To the right the fantastic sky-line of the flats towered black against the hues of evening; to the left the older houses raised a square-cut, irregular parapet against the grey. Margaret fumbled for her latch-key. Of course she had forgotten it. So, grasping her umbrella by its ferrule, she leant over the area and tapped at the dining-room window.

  “Helen! Let us in!”

  “All right,” said a voice.

  “You’ve been taking this gentleman’s umbrella.”

  “Taken a what?” said Helen, opening the door. “Oh, what’s that? Do come in! How do you do?”

  “Helen, you must not be so ramshackly. You took this gentleman’s umbrella away from Queen’s Hall, and he has had the trouble of coming round for it.”

  “Oh, I am so sorry!” cried Helen, all her hair flying. She had pulled off her hat as soon as she returned, and had flung herself into the big dining-room chair. “I do nothing but steal umbrellas. I am so very sorry! Do come in and choose one. Is yours a hooky or a nobbly? Mine’s a nobbly — at least, I THINK it is.”

  The light was turned on, and they began to search the hall, Helen, who had abruptly parted with the Fifth Symphony, commenting with shrill little cries.

  “Don’t you talk, Meg! You stole an old gentleman’s silk top-hat. Yes, she did, Aunt Juley. It is a positive fact. She thought it was a muff. Oh, heavens! I’ve knocked the In-and-Out card down. Where’s Frieda? Tibby, why don’t you ever — No, I can’t remember what I was going to say. That wasn’t it, but do tell the maids to hurry tea up. What about this umbrella?” She opened it. “No, it’s all gone along the seams. It’s an appalling umbrella. It must be mine.”

  But it was not.

  He took it from her, murmured a few words of thanks, and then fled, with the lilting step of the clerk.

  “But if you will stop— “ cried Margaret. “Now, Helen, how stupid you’ve been!”

  “Whatever have I done?”

  �
�Don’t you see that you’ve frightened him away? I meant him to stop to tea. You oughtn’t to talk about stealing or holes in an umbrella. I saw his nice eyes getting so miserable. No, it’s not a bit of good now.” For Helen had darted out into the street, shouting, “Oh, do stop!”

  “I dare say it is all for the best,” opined Mrs. Munt. “We know nothing about the young man, Margaret, and your drawing-room is full of very tempting little things.”

  But Helen cried: “Aunt Juley, how can you! You make me more and more ashamed. I’d rather he had been a thief and taken all the apostle spoons than that I — Well, I must shut the front-door, I suppose. One more failure for Helen.”

  “Yes, I think the apostle spoons could have gone as rent,” said Margaret. Seeing that her aunt did not understand, she added: “You remember ‘rent’? It was one of father’s words — Rent to the ideal, to his own faith in human nature. You remember how he would trust strangers, and if they fooled him he would say, ‘It’s better to be fooled than to be suspicious’ — that the confidence trick is the work of man, but the want-of-confidence trick is the work of the devil.”

  “I remember something of the sort now,” said Mrs. Munt, rather tartly, for she longed to add, “It was lucky that your father married a wife with money.” But this was unkind, and she contented herself with, “Why, he might have stolen the little Ricketts picture as well.”

  “Better that he had,” said Helen stoutly.

  “No, I agree with Aunt Juley,” said Margaret. “I’d rather mistrust people than lose my little Ricketts. There are limits.”

  Their brother, finding the incident commonplace, had stolen upstairs to see whether there were scones for tea. He warmed the teapot — almost too deftly — rejected the orange pekoe that the parlour-maid had provided, poured in five spoonfuls of a superior blend, filled up with really boiling water, and now called to the ladies to be quick or they would lose the aroma.

  “All right, Auntie Tibby,” called Heien, while Margaret, thoughtful again, said: “In a way, I wish we had a real boy in the house — the kind of boy who cares for men. It would make entertaining so much easier.”

  “So do I,” said her sister. “Tibby only cares for cultured females singing Brahms.” And when they joined him she said rather sharply: “Why didn’t you make that young man welcome, Tibby? You must do the host a little, you know. You ought to have taken his hat and coaxed him into stopping, instead of letting him be swamped by screaming women.”

  Tibby sighed, and drew a long strand of hair over his forehead.

  “Oh, it’s no good looking superior. I mean what I say.”

  “Leave Tibby alone!” said Margaret, who could not bear her brother to be scolded.

  “Here’s the house a regular hen-coop!” grumbled Helen.

  “Oh, my dear!” protested Mrs. Munt. “How can you say such dreadful things! The number of men you get here has always astonished me. If there is any danger it’s the other way round.”

  “Yes, but it’s the wrong sort of men, Helen means.”

  “No, I don’t,” corrected Helen. “We get the right sort of man, but the wrong side of him, and I say that’s Tibby’s fault. There ought to be a something about the house — an — I don’t know what.”

  “A touch of the W’s, perhaps?”

  Helen put out her tongue.

  “Who are the W’s?” asked Tibby.

  “The W’s are things I and Meg and Aunt Juley know about and you don’t, so there!”

  “I suppose that ours is a female house,” said Margaret, “and one must just accept it. No, Aunt Juley, I don’t mean that this house is full of women. I am trying to say something much more clever. I mean that it was irrevocably feminine, even in father’s time. Now I’m sure you understand! Well, I’ll give you another example. It’ll shock you, but I don’t care. Suppose Queen Victoria gave a dinner-party, and that the guests had been Leighton, Millais, Swinburne, Rossetti, Meredith, Fitzgerald, etc. Do you suppose that the atmosphere of that dinner would have been artistic? Heavens, no! The very chairs on which they sat would have seen to that. So with out house — it must be feminine, and all we can do is to see that it isn’t effeminate. Just as another house that I can mention, but won’t, sounded irrevocably masculine, and all its inmates can do is to see that it isn’t brutal.”

  “That house being the W’s house, I presume,” said Tibby.

  “You’re not going to be told about the W’s, my child,” Helen cried, “so don’t you think it. And on the other hand, I don’t the least mind if you find out, so don’t you think you’ve done anything clever, in either case. Give me a cigarette.”

  “You do what you can for the house,” said Margaret. “The drawing-room reeks of smoke.”

  “If you smoked too, the house might suddenly turn masculine. Atmosphere is probably a question of touch and go. Even at Queen Victoria’s dinner-party — if something had been just a little Different — perhaps if she’d worn a clinging Liberty tea-gown instead of a magenta satin.”

  “With an India shawl over her shoulders— “

  “Fastened at the bosom with a Cairngorm-pin.”

  Bursts of disloyal laughter — you must remember that they are half German — greeted these suggestions, and Margaret said pensively, “How inconceivable it would be if the Royal Family cared about Art.” And the conversation drifted away and away, and Helen’s cigarette turned to a spot in the darkness, and the great flats opposite were sown with lighted windows which vanished and were refit again, and vanished incessantly. Beyond them the thoroughfare roared gently — a tide that could never be quiet, while in the east, invisible behind the smokes of Wapping, the moon was rising.

  “That reminds me, Margaret. We might have taken that young man into the dining-room, at all events. Only the majolica plate — and that is so firmly set in the wall. I am really distressed that he had no tea.”

  For that little incident had impressed the three women more than might be supposed. It remained as a goblin footfall, as a hint that all is not for the best in the best of all possible worlds, and that beneath these superstructures of wealth and art there wanders an ill-fed boy, who has recovered his umbrella indeed, but who has left no address behind him, and no name.

  CHAPTER VI

  WE are not concerned with the very poor. They are unthinkable and only to be approached by the statistician or the poet. This story deals with gentlefolk, or with those who are obliged to pretend that they are gentlefolk.

  The boy, Leonard Bast, stood at the extreme verge of gentility. He was not in the abyss, but he could see it, and at times people whom he knew had dropped in, and counted no more. He knew that he was poor, and would admit it; he would have died sooner than confess any inferiority to the rich. This may be splendid of him. But he was inferior to most rich people, there is not the least doubt of it. He was not as courteous as the average rich man, nor as intelligent, nor as healthy, nor as lovable. His mind and his body had been alike underfed, because he was poor, and because he was modern they were always craving better food. Had he lived some centuries ago, in the brightly coloured civilisations of the past, he would have had a definite status, his rank and his income would have corresponded. But in his day the angel of Democracy had arisen, enshadowing the classes with leathern wings, and proclaiming, “All men are equal — all men, that is to say, who possess umbrellas,” and so he was obliged to assert gentility, lest he slip into the abyss where nothing counts, and the statements of Democracy are inaudible.

  As he walked away from Wickham Place, his first care was to prove that he was as good as the Miss Schlegels. Obscurely wounded in his pride, he tried to wound them in return. They were probably not ladies. Would real ladies have asked him to tea? They were certainly ill-natured and cold. At each step his feeling of superiority increased. Would a real lady have talked about stealing an umbrella? Perhaps they were thieves after all, and if he had gone into the house they would have clapped a chloroformed handkerchief over his face. He w
alked on complacently as far as the Houses of Parliament. There an empty stomach asserted itself, and told him that he was a fool.

  “Evening, Mr. Bast.”

  “Evening, Mr. Dealtry.”

  “Nice evening.”

  “Evening.”

  Mr. Dealtry, a fellow clerk, passed on, and Leonard stood wondering whether he would take the tram as far as a penny would take him, or whether he would walk. He decided to walk — it is no good giving in, and he had spent money enough at Queen’s Hall — and he walked over Westminster Bridge, in front of St. Thomas’s Hospital, and through the immense tunnel that passes under the South-Western main line at Vauxhall. In the tunnel he paused and listened to the roar of the trains. A sharp pain darted through his head, and he was conscious of the exact form of his eye sockets. He pushed on for another mile, and did not slacken speed until he stood at the entrance of a road called Camelia Road which was at present his home.

  Here he stopped again, and glanced suspiciously to right and left, like a rabbit that is going to bolt into its hole. A block of flats, constructed with extreme cheapness, towered on either hand. Farther down the road two more blocks were being built, and beyond these an old house was being demolished to accommodate another pair. It was the kind of scene that may be observed all over London, whatever the locality — bricks and mortar rising and falling with the restlessness of the water in a fountain as the city receives more and more men upon her soil. Camelia Road would soon stand out like a fortress, and command, for a little, an extensive view. Only for a little. Plans were out for the erection of flats in Magnolia Road also. And again a few years, and all the flats in either road might be pulled down, and new buildings, of a vastness at present unimaginable, might arise where they had fallen.

  “Evening, Mr. Bast.”

  “Evening, Mr. Cunningham.”

  “Very serious thing this decline of the birth-rate in Manchester.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Very serious thing this decline of the birth-rate in Manchester,” repeated Mr. Cunningham, tapping the Sunday paper, in which the calamity in question had just been announced to him.