Works of E M Forster

by E. M. Forster

  “I think I’ll go round to the police-station,” said his father when breakfast was over.

  “What for?” cried Dolly, who had still not been “told.”

  “Very well, sir. Which car will you have?”

  “I think I’ll walk.”

  “It’s a good half-mile,” said Charles, stepping into the garden. “The sun’s very hot for April. Shan’t I take you up, and then, perhaps, a little spin round by Tewin?”

  “You go on as if I didn’t know my own mind,” said Mr. Wilcox fretfully. Charles hardened his mouth. “You young fellows’ one idea is to get into a motor. I tell you, I want to walk; I’m very fond of walking.”

  “Oh, all right; I’m about the house if you want me for anything. I thought of not going up to the office to-day, if that is your wish.”

  “It is, indeed, my boy,” said Mr. Wilcox, and laid a hand on his sleeve.

  Charles did not like it; he was uneasy about his father, who did not seem himself this morning. There was a petulant touch about him — more like a woman. Could it be that he was growing old? The Wilcoxes were not lacking in affection; they had it royally, but they did not know how to use it. It was the talent in the napkin, and, for a warm-hearted man, Charles had conveyed very little joy. As he watched his father shuffling up the road, he had a vague regret — a wish that something had been different somewhere — a wish (though he did not express it thus) that he had been taught to say “I” in his youth. He meant to make up for Margaret’s defection, but knew that his father had been very happy with her until yesterday. How had she done it? By some dishonest trick, no doubt — but how?

  Mr. Wilcox reappeared at eleven, looking very tired. There was to be an inquest on Leonard’s body to-morrow, and the police required his son to attend.

  “I expected that,” said Charles. “I shall naturally be the most important witness there.”

  CHAPTER XLIII

  Out of the turmoil and horror that had begun with Aunt Juley’s illness and was not even to end with Leonard’s death, it seemed impossible to Margaret that healthy life should re-emerge. Events succeeded in a logical, yet senseless, train. People lost their humanity, and took values as arbitrary as those in a pack of playing-cards. It was natural that Henry should do this and cause Helen to do that, and then think her wrong for doing it; natural that she herself should think him wrong; natural that Leonard should want to know how Helen was, and come, and Charles be angry with him for coming — natural, but unreal. In this jangle of causes and effects what had become of their true selves? Here Leonard lay dead in the garden, from natural causes; yet life was a deep, deep river, death a blue sky, life was a house, death a wisp of hay, a flower, a tower, life and death were anything and everything, except this ordered insanity, where the king takes the queen, and the ace the king. Ah, no; there was beauty and adventure behind, such as the man at her feet had yearned for; there was hope this side of the grave; there were truer relationships beyond the limits that fetter us now. As a prisoner looks up and sees stars beckoning, so she, from the turmoil and horror of those days, caught glimpses of the diviner wheels.

  And Helen, dumb with fright, but trying to keep calm for the child’s sake, and Miss Avery, calm, but murmuring tenderly, “No one ever told the lad he’ll have a child” — they also reminded her that horror is not the end. To what ultimate harmony we tend she did not know, but there seemed great chance that a child would be born into the world, to take the great chances of beauty and adventure that the world offers. She moved through the sunlit garden, gathering narcissi, crimson-eyed and white. There was nothing else to be done; the time for telegrams and anger was over and it seemed wisest that the hands of Leonard should be folded on his breast and be filled with flowers. Here was the father; leave it at that. Let Squalor be turned into Tragedy, whose eyes are the stars, and whose hands hold the sunset and the dawn.

  And even the influx of officials, even the return of the doctor, vulgar and acute, could not shake her belief in the eternity of beauty. Science explained people, but could not understand them. After long centuries among the bones and muscles it might be advancing to knowledge of the nerves, but this would never give understanding. One could open the heart to Mr. Mansbridge and his sort without discovering its secrets to them, for they wanted everything down in black and white, and black and white was exactly what they were left with.

  They questioned her closely about Charles. She never suspected why. Death had come, and the doctor agreed that it was due to heart disease. They asked to see her father’s sword. She explained that Charles’s anger was natural, but mistaken. Miserable questions about Leonard followed, all of which she answered unfalteringly. Then back to Charles again. “No doubt Mr. Wilcox may have induced death,” she said; “but if it wasn’t one thing it would have been another as you know.” At last they thanked her and took the sword and the body down to Hilton. She began to pick up the books from the floor.

  Helen had gone to the farm. It was the best place for her, since she had to wait for the inquest. Though, as if things were not hard enough, Madge and her husband had raised trouble; they did not see why they should receive the offscourings of Howards End. And, of course, they were right. The whole world was going to be right, and amply avenge any brave talk against the conventions. “Nothing matters,” the Schlegels had said in the past, “except one’s self-respect and that of one’s friends.” When the time came, other things mattered terribly. However, Madge had yielded, and Helen was assured of peace for one day and night, and to-morrow she would return to Germany.

  As for herself, she determined to go too. No message came from Henry; perhaps he expected her to apologise. Now that she had time to think over her own tragedy, she was unrepentant. She neither forgave him for his behaviour nor wished to forgive him. Her speech to him seemed perfect. She would not have altered a word. It had to be uttered once in a life, to adjust the lopsidedness of the world. It was spoken not only to her husband, but to thousands of men like him — a protest against the inner darkness in high places that comes with a commercial age. Though he would build up his life without hers, she could not apologise. He had refused to connect, on the clearest issue that can be laid before a man, and their love must take the consequences.

  No, there was nothing more to be done. They had tried not to go over the precipice, but perhaps the fall was inevitable. And it comforted her to think that the future was certainly inevitable; cause and effect would go jangling forward to some goal doubtless, but to none that she could imagine. At such moments the soul retires within, to float upon the bosom of a deeper stream, and has communion with the dead, and sees the world’s glory not diminished, but different in kind to what she has supposed. She alters her focus until trivial things are blurred. Margaret had been tending this way all the winter. Leonard’s death brought her to the goal. Alas! that Henry should fade away as reality emerged, and only her love for him should remain clear, stamped with his image like the cameos we rescue out of dreams.

  With unfaltering eye she traced his future. He would soon present a healthy mind to the world again, and what did he or the world care if he was rotten at the core? He would grow into a rich, jolly old man, at times a little sentimental about women, but emptying his glass with anyone. Tenacious of power, he would keep Charles and the rest dependent, and retire from business reluctantly and at an advanced age. He would settle down — though she could not realise this. In her eyes Henry was always moving and causing others to move, until the ends of the earth met. But in time he must get too tired to move, and settle down. What next? The inevitable word. The release of the soul to its appropriate Heaven.

  Would they meet in it? Margaret believed in immortality for herself. An eternal future had always seemed natural to her. And Henry believed in it for himself. Yet, would they meet again? Are there not rather endless levels beyond the grave, as the theory that he had censured teaches? And his level, whether higher or lower, could it possibly be the same as hers?
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br />   Thus gravely meditating, she was summoned by him. He sent up Crane in the motor. Other servants passed like water, but the chauffeur remained, though impertinent and disloyal. Margaret disliked Crane, and he knew it.

  “Is it the keys that Mr. Wilcox wants?” she asked.

  “He didn’t say, madam.”

  “You haven’t any note for me?”

  “He didn’t say, madam.”

  After a moment’s thought she locked up Howards End. It was pitiable to see in it the stirrings of warmth that would be quenched for ever. She raked out the fire that was blazing in the kitchen, and spread the coals in the gravelled yard. She closed the windows and drew the curtains. Henry would probably sell the place now.

  She was determined not to spare him, for nothing new had happened as far as they were concerned. Her mood might never have altered from yesterday evening. He was standing a little outside Charles’s gate, and motioned the car to stop. When his wife got out he said hoarsely: “I prefer to discuss things with you outside.”

  “It will be more appropriate in the road, I am afraid,” said Margaret. “Did you get my message?”

  “What about?”

  “I am going to Germany with my sister. I must tell you now that I shall make it my permanent home. Our talk last night was more important than you have realised. I am unable to forgive you and am leaving you.”

  “I am extremely tired,” said Henry, in injured tones. “I have been walking about all the morning, and wish to sit down.”

  “Certainly, if you will consent to sit on the grass.”

  The Great North Road should have been bordered all its length with glebe. Henry’s kind had filched most of it. She moved to the scrap opposite, wherein were the Six Hills. They sat down on the farther side, so that they could not be seen by Charles or Dolly.

  “Here are your keys,” said Margaret. She tossed them towards him. They fell on the sunlit slope of grass, and he did not pick them up.

  “I have something to tell you,” he said gently.

  She knew this superficial gentleness, this confession of hastiness, that was only intended to enhance her admiration of the male.

  “I don’t want to hear it,” she replied. “My sister is going to be ill. My life is going to be with her now. We must manage to build up something, she and I and her child.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Munich. We start after the inquest, if she is not too ill.”

  “After the inquest?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you realised what the verdict at the inquest will be?”

  “Yes, heart disease.”

  “No, my dear; manslaughter.”

  Margaret drove her fingers through the grass. The hill beneath her moved as if it were alive.

  “Manslaughter,” repeated Mr. Wilcox. “Charles may go to prison. I dare not tell him. I don’t know what to do — what to do. I’m broken — I’m ended.”

  No sudden warmth arose in her. She did not see that to break him was her only hope. She did not enfold the sufferer in her arms. But all through that day and the next a new life began to move. The verdict was brought in. Charles was committed for trial. It was against all reason that he should be punished, but the law, notwithstanding, sentenced him to three years’ imprisonment. Then Henry’s fortress gave way. He could bear no one but his wife; he shambled up to Margaret afterwards and asked her to do what she could with him. She did what seemed easiest — she took him down to recruit at Howards End.

  CHAPTER XLIV

  Tom’s father was cutting the big meadow. He passed again and again amid whirring blades and sweet odours of grass, encompassing with narrowing circles the sacred centre of the field. Tom was negotiating with Helen. “I haven’t any idea,” she replied. “Do you suppose baby may, Meg?”

  Margaret put down her work and regarded them absently. “What was that?” she asked.

  “Tom wants to know whether baby is old enough to play with hay?”

  “I haven’t the least notion,” answered Margaret, and took up her work again.

  “Now, Tom, baby is not to stand; he is not to lie on his face; he is not to lie so that his head wags; he is not to be teased or tickled; and he is not to be cut into two or more pieces by the cutter. Will you be as careful as all that?”

  Tom held out his arms.

  “That child is a wonderful nursemaid,” remarked Margaret.

  “He is fond of baby. That’s why he does it!” was Helen’s answer. “They’re going to be lifelong friends.”

  “Starting at the ages of six and one?”

  “Of course. It will be a great thing for Tom.”

  “It may be a greater thing for baby.”

  Fourteen months had passed, but Margaret still stopped at Howards End. No better plan had occurred to her. The meadow was being recut, the great red poppies were reopening in the garden. July would follow with the little red poppies among the wheat, August with the cutting of the wheat. These little events would become part of her year after year. Every summer she would fear lest the well should give out, every winter lest the pipes should freeze; every westerly gale might blow the wych-elm down and bring the end of all things, and so she could not read or talk during a westerly gale. The air was tranquil now. She and her sister were sitting on the remains of Evie’s rockery, where the lawn merged into the field.

  “What a time they all are!” said Helen. “What can they be doing inside?” Margaret, who was growing less talkative, made no answer. The noise of the cutter came intermittently, like the breaking of waves. Close by them a man was preparing to scythe out one of the dell-holes.

  “I wish Henry was out to enjoy this,” said Helen. “This lovely weather and to be shut up in the house! It’s very hard.”

  “It has to be,” said Margaret. “The hay fever is his chief objection against living here, but he thinks it worth while.”

  “Meg, is or isn’t he ill? I can’t make out.”

  “Not ill. Eternally tired. He has worked very hard all his life, and noticed nothing. Those are the people who collapse when they do notice a thing.”

  “I suppose he worries dreadfully about his part of the tangle.”

  “Dreadfully. That is why I wish Dolly had not come, too, to-day. Still, he wanted them all to come. It has to be.”

  “Why does he want them?”

  Margaret did not answer.

  “Meg, may I tell you something? I like Henry.”

  “You’d be odd if you didn’t,” said Margaret.

  “I usen’t to.”

  “Usen’t!” She lowered her eyes a moment to the black abyss of the past. They had crossed it, always excepting Leonard and Charles. They were building up a new life, obscure, yet gilded with tranquillity. Leonard was dead; Charles had two years more in prison. One usen’t always to see clearly before that time. It was different now.

  “I like Henry because he does worry.”

  “And he likes you because you don’t.”

  Helen sighed. She seemed humiliated, and buried her face in her hands. After a time she said: “About love,” a transition less abrupt than it appeared.

  Margaret never stopped working.

  “I mean a woman’s love for a man. I supposed I should hang my life on to that once, and was driven up and down and about as if something was worrying through me. But everything is peaceful now; I seem cured. That Herr Forstmeister, whom Frieda keeps writing about, must be a noble character, but he doesn’t see that I shall never marry him or anyone. It isn’t shame or mistrust of myself. I simply couldn’t. I’m ended. I used to be so dreamy about a man’s love as a girl, and think that for good or evil love must be the great thing. But it hasn’t been; it has been itself a dream. Do you agree?”

  “I do not agree. I do not.”

  “I ought to remember Leonard as my lover,” said Helen, stepping down into the field. “I tempted him, and killed him, and it is surely the least I can do. I would like to throw out all my heart to
Leonard on such an afternoon as this. But I cannot. It is no good pretending. I am forgetting him.” Her eyes filled with tears. “How nothing seems to match — how, my darling, my precious— “ She broke off. “Tommy!”

  “Yes, please?”

  “Baby’s not to try and stand. — There’s something wanting in me. I see you loving Henry, and understanding him better daily, and I know that death wouldn’t part you in the least. But I — Is it some awful, appalling, criminal defect?”

  Margaret silenced her. She said: “It is only that people are far more different than is pretended. All over the world men and women are worrying because they cannot develop as they are supposed to develop. Here and there they have the matter out, and it comforts them. Don’t fret yourself, Helen. Develop what you have; love your child. I do not love children. I am thankful to have none. I can play with their beauty and charm, but that is all — nothing real, not one scrap of what there ought to be. And others — others go farther still, and move outside humanity altogether. A place, as well as a person, may catch the glow. Don’t you see that all this leads to comfort in the end? It is part of the battle against sameness. Differences, eternal differences, planted by God in a single family, so that there may always be colour; sorrow perhaps, but colour in the daily grey. Then I can’t have you worrying about Leonard. Don’t drag in the personal when it will not come. Forget him.”

  “Yes, yes, but what has Leonard got out of life?”

  “Perhaps an adventure.”

  “Is that enough?”

  “Not for us. But for him.”

  Helen took up a bunch of grass. She looked at the sorrel, and the red and white and yellow clover, and the quaker grass, and the daisies, and the bents that composed it. She raised it to her face.

  “Is it sweetening yet?” asked Margaret.

  “No, only withered.”

  “It will sweeten to-morrow.”