 19. If one wanted to show a foreigner, England, perhaps the wisest course would be to take him to the final section of the Purbeck Hills, and stand him on their summit a few miles to the east of Cawth. Then, system after system of our island would roll together under his feet. Beneath him is the valley of the Frome, and all the wildlands that come tossing down from Dorchester, black and gold, to mirror their gorse in the expanses of Bull. The valley of the Stour is beyond unaccountable stream, dirty at Blandford, pure at Wimborn, the Stour sliding out of fact fields to marry the Avon beneath the tower of Christchurch. The valley of the Avon, invisible but far to the north, the trained eye may see clearberry ring that guards it, and the imagination may leap beyond that onto Salisbury Plain itself, and beyond the plain to all the glorious downs of central England. Nor is Suburbia absent, Bournemouth's ignoble coast cowers to the right, heralding the pine trees that mean, for all their beauty, red houses, and the stock exchange, and extend to the gates of London itself. So tremendous is the city's trail. But the cliffs of freshwater it shall never touch, and the island will guard the island's purity to the end of time. Seen from the west, the white is beautiful beyond all laws of beauty. It is as if a fragment of England floated forward to greet the foreigner, chalk of our chalk, turf of our turf, epitome of what will follow. And behind the fragment lies Southampton, hostess to the nations, and Portsmouth, a latent fire, and all around it with double and treble collision of tides, swells the sea. How many villages appear in this view? How many castles? How many churches banished or triumphant? How many ships, railways, and roads? What incredible variety of men working beneath that loosened sky to what final end? The reason fails, like a wave on the swanage beach. The imagination swells, spreads, and deepens, until it becomes geographic and encircles England. So Frieda Mosebach, now Frau Architecht Liesiker, and mother to her husband's baby, was brought up to these heights to be impressed, and after a prolonged gaze she said that the hills were more swelling here than in Pomerania, which was true, but did not seem to Mrs. Munt opposite. Paul Harbour was dry, which led her to praise the absence of muddy foreshore at Friederisch-Wilhelmsbart, Rügen where beach trees hang over the tideless Baltic, and cows may contemplate the brine. Rather unhealthy, Mrs. Munt thought this would be, water being safer when it moved about. And your English lakes, Windermere, Grasmere, are they then unhealthy? No, Frau Liesiker, but that is because they are fresh water and different. Salt water ought to have tides and go up and down a great deal, or else it smells, look for instance at an aquarium. An aquarium? Oh Mrs. Munt, you mean to tell me that fresh aquarium stink less than salt? Why, when Victor, my brother-in-law, collected many tadpoles, you were not to say stink, interrupted Helen, at least you may say it, but you must pretend you are being funny while you say it. Then smell, and the mud of your pool down there does it not smell, or may I say stink, haha. There always has been mud in Pool Harbour, said Mrs. Munt, with a slight frown, the rivers bring it down, and the most valuable oyster fishery depends upon it. Yes, that is so, conceded Frieder, and another international incident was closed. Bournemouth is, resumed their hostess, quoting a local rhyme to which she was much attached, Bournemouth is, Pool was, and Swanage is to be, the most important town of all, and biggest of the three. Now, Frau Lisaka, I have shown you Bournemouth, and I have shown you Pool, so let us walk backwards a little, and look down again at Swanage. Aunt Julie, wouldn't that be Meg's train? A tiny puff of smoke had been circling the harbour, and now was bearing southwards towards them, over the black and the gold. Oh, dearest Margaret, I do hope she won't be overtired. Oh, I do wonder, I do wonder whether she's taken the house. I hope she hasn't been hasty. So do I. Oh, so do I. Will it be as beautiful as Wiccan Place? Frieder asked. I should think it would. Trust Mr. Wilcox for doing himself proud. All those juicy street houses are beautiful in their modern way, and I can't think why he doesn't keep on with it, but it's really for Evie that he went there, and now that Evie's going to be married. Ah! You've never seen Miss Wilcox, Frieder? How absurdly matrimonial you are. But sister to that Paul? Yes. And to that Charles? said Mrs. Mundt with feeling. Oh, Helen, Helen, what a time that was. Helen laughed. Meg and I haven't got such tender hearts. If there's a chance of a cheap house, we go for it. Now look, Frau Liseker, at my niece's train. You see it is coming towards us, coming, coming, and when it gets to Cawth it will actually go through the downs on which we are standing, so that if we walk over, as I suggested, and look down on Swanage, we shall see it coming on the other side, shall we? Frieder assented, and in a few minutes they had crossed the ridge and exchanged the greater view for the lesser, rather a dull valley lay below, back by the slope of the coastward downs. They were looking across the Isle of Purbeck and onto Swanage, soon to be the most important town of all, and ugliest of the three. Margaret's train reappeared as promised, and was greeted with approval by her aunt. It came to a standstill in the middle distance, and there it had been planned that Tibi should meet her, and drive her, and a tea basket up to join them. You see continued Helen to her cousin. The Wilcox's collect houses as your victor collects tadpoles. They have one, Ducie Street, two, Howard's End, where my great Rampus was, three, a country seat in Shropshire, four, Charles has a house in Hilton, and five, another near Epsom, and six, Evie will have a house when she marries, and probably a pied-à-terre in the country, which makes seven. Oh yes, and Paul, a hut in Africa, makes eight. I wish we could get Howard's End. That was something like a dear little house. Didn't you think so, aren't you, Julie? I had too much to do, dear, to look at it, said Mrs. Munt, with a gracious dignity. I had everything to settle and explain, and Charles Wilcox to keep in his place besides. It isn't likely I should remember much. I just remember having lunch in your bedroom. Yes, so do I. But, oh, dear, dear, how dead it all seems! And in the autumn there began that anti-Pauline movement, you and Frida and Meg, and Mrs. Wilcox, all obsessed with the idea that I might yet marry Paul. You yet may, said Frida, despondently. Helen shook her head. The great Wilcox Perel will never return. If I'm certain of anything, it's of that. One is certain of nothing but the truth of one's own emotions. The remark fell dampely on the conversation, but Helen slipped her arm round her cousin, somehow liking her the better for making it. It was not an original remark, nor had Frida appropriated it passionately, for she had a patriotic rather than a philosophic mind. Yet it betrayed that interest in the universal, which the average tuton possesses, and the average Englishman does not. It was, however, illogically, the good, the beautiful, the true, as opposed to the respectable, the pretty, the adequate. It was a landscape of Berklin's, beside a landscape of leaders. Strident and ill-considered, but quivering into supernatural life. It sharpened idealism, stirred the soul. It may have been a bad preparation for what followed. Look, cried Aunt Julie, hurrying away from the generalities over the narrow summit of the down. Stand where I stand, and you will see the pony cart coming. I see the pony cart coming. They stood and saw the pony cart coming. Margaret and Tibbie were presently seen coming in it. Leaving the outskirts of Swanage, it drove for a little through the budding lanes, and then began the ascent. Have you got the house, they shouted, long before she could possibly hear? Helen ran down to meet her. The high road passed over a saddle, and a track went thence at right angles along the ridge of the down. Have you got the house? Margaret shook her head. Oh, what a nuisance! So were as we were. Not exactly. She got out, looking tired. Some mystery said Tibbie. We are to be enlightened presently. Margaret came close up to her, and whispered that she had had a proposal of marriage from Mr Wilcox. Helen was amused. She opened the gates onto the downs, so that her brother might lead the pony through. It's just like a widower, she remarked. They've cheek enough for anything, and invariably select one of their first wife's friends. Margaret's face flushed despair. That type, she broke off with a cry. Meg, not anything wrong with you. Wait one minute, said Margaret, whispering always. But you've never conceivably. You've never. She pulled herself together. Tibbie, hurry up through. I can't hold this gate indefinitely. Aunt Julie, I say. Aunt Julie, make the tea will you, and freed her. We've got to talk houses, and I'll come on afterwards. And then, turning her face to her sisters, she burst into tears. Margaret was stupefied. She heard herself saying, Oh, really. She felt herself touched with a hand that trembled. Don't, sob tell, and don't. Don't, Meg, don't. She seemed incapable of saying any other word. Margaret, trembling herself, let her forward up the road till they strayed through another gate onto the down. Don't, don't do such a thing. I tell you not to. Don't, I know. Don't. What do you know? Panic and actinous, sob tell, and don't. Then Margaret thought, Helen is a little selfish. I've never behaved like this when there has seemed a chance of her marrying. She said, But we would still see each other very often, and you. It's not a thing like that, sob tell, and she broke right away, and wandered distractedly upwards, stretching her hands towards the view and crying. What's happened to you, called Margaret, following through the wind that gathers at sundowns on the northern slopes of hills. But it's stupid. And suddenly stupidity seized her, and the immense landscape was blurred. But Helen turned back. Meg. Meg. I don't know what's happened to either of us, said Margaret, wiping her eyes. We must both have gone mad. Then Helen wiped hers, and they even laughed a little. Look here, sit down. All right, I'll sit down if you'll sit down. There. One kiss. Now, whatever, whatever is the matter. I do mean what I said. Don't. It wouldn't do. Oh, Helen, stop saying don't. It's ignorant. It's as if your head wasn't out of the slime. Don't is probably what Mrs. Bast says all day to Mr. Bast. Helen was silent. Well, tell me about it first, and meanwhile, perhaps, I'll have got my head out of the slime. That's better. But where shall I begin, when I arrived at Waterloo? No. I'll go back before that, because I'm anxious you should know everything from the first. The first was about ten days ago. It was the day Mr. Bast came to tea and lost his temper. I was defending him, and Mr. Wilcox became jealous about me, however slightly. I thought it was the involuntary thing which men can't help any more than we can. You know, at least, I know in my own case, when a man had said to me, So-and-so's a pretty girl. I'm seized with a momentary soundness against So-and-so, and longed to tweak her ear. It's a tiresome feeling, but not an important one, and one easily manages it. But it wasn't only this in Mr. Wilcox's case I gather now. Then you love him. Margaret considered. It is wonderful knowing that a real man cares for you, she said. The mere fact of that grows more tremendous. Remember, I've known and liked him steadily for nearly three years. But loved him? Margaret peered into her past. It is pleasant to analyse feelings, while they are still only feelings, and unembodied in the social fabric, with her arm round Helen, and her eyes shifting over the view, as if this county or that could reveal the secret of her own heart. She meditated honestly, and said, No. But you will. Yes, said Margaret, of that I'm pretty sure. Indeed, I began the moment he spoke to me. And have you settled to marry him? I had, but I'm wanting a long talk about it now. What is it against him, Helen? You must try and say. Helen, in her turn, looked outwards. It is ever since Paul, she said, finally. But what has Mr. Wilcox to do with Paul? But he was there. They were all there that morning, when I came down to breakfast, and saw that Paul was frightened. The man who loved me frightened, and all his paraphernalia fallen, so that I knew it was impossible, because personal relations are the important thing for ever and ever, and not this outer life of telegrams and anger. She poured the sentence forth in one breath, but her sister understood it, because it touched on thoughts that were familiar between them. That's foolish. In the first place, I disagree about the outer life. Well, we've often argued that. The real point is that there is the widest gulf between my lovemaking and yours. Yours was romance. Mine will be prose. I'm not running it down. A very good kind of prose, but well considered, well thought out. For instance, I know all Mr. Wilcox's faults. He's afraid of emotion. He cares too much about success, too little about the past. His sympathy lacks poetry, and so isn't sympathy, really. I'd even say, she looked at the shining lagoons, that spiritually he's not as honest as I am. Doesn't that satisfy you? No, it doesn't, said Helen. It makes me feel worse and worse. You must be mad. Margaret made a movement of irritation. I don't intend him, or any man, or any woman, to be all my life. Good heavens, no. There are heaps of things in me that he doesn't and never shall understand. Thus she spoke before the wedding ceremony and the physical union, before the astonishing glass shade had fallen that interposes between married couples and the world. She was to keep her independence more than do most women as yet. Marriage was to alter her fortunes rather than her character, and she was not far wrong in boasting that she understood her future husband. Yet he did alter her character a little. There was an unforeseen surprise, a cessation of the winds and odours of life, a social pressure that would have her think conjugally. So with him she continued, there are heaps of things in him, more especially things that he does, that will always be hidden from me. He has all those public qualities which you so despise and enable all this. She waved her hand at the landscape, which confirmed anything. If Wilcox's hadn't worked and died in England for thousands of years, you and I couldn't sit here without having our throats cut. There would be no trains, no ships to carry us literary people about in, no fields even, just savagery. No, perhaps not even that. Without their spirit life might never have moved out of protoplasm. More and more do I refuse to draw my income and sneer at those who guarantee it. There are times when it seems to me, and to me and to all women, so one kissed Paul. That's brutal, said Margaret. Mine is an absolutely different case. I've thought things out. It makes no difference thinking things out. They come to the same, rubbish. There was a long silence during which the tide returned into Paul Harbour. One would lose something, murmured Helen, apparently to herself. The water crept over the mudflats towards the gorse and the blackened heather. Branxy Island lost its immense foreshores and became a somber episode of Trees. Frone was forced inward towards Dorchester, Stour against Wimborn, Avon towards Salisbury, and over the immense displacement the sun presided, leading it to triumph ere he sank to rest. England was alive, throbbing through all her estuaries, crying for joy through the mouths of all her gulls, and the north wind, with contrary motion, blew stronger against her rising seas. What did it mean? For what end are her fair complexities, her changes of soil, her sinuous coast? Does she belong to those who have moulded her and made her feared by other lands, or to those who have added nothing to her power, but have somehow seen her, seen the whole island at once, lying as a jewel in a silver sea, sailing as a ship of souls, with all the brave world's fleet accompanying her towards eternity? And of Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Howard's End This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, this reading by Lucy Burgoyne. Howard's End by Edward Morgan Forster Chapter 20 Margaret had often wondered at the disturbance that takes place in the world's waters, when love, who seems so tiny, a pebble slips in. Whom does love concern beyond the beloved and the lover? Yet his impact deluges a hundred shores. No doubt the disturbance is really the spirit of the generations, welcoming the new generation, and choking against the ultimate fate, who holds all the seas in the palm of her hand. But love cannot understand this. He cannot comprehend another's infinity. He is conscious only of his own flying sunbeam, falling rose, pebble that asks for one quiet plunge below the fretting interplay of space and time. He knows that he will survive at the end of things, and be gathered by fate as a jewel from the slime. And be handed with admiration round the assembly of the gods. Men did produce this, they will say, and saying they will give men immortality. But meanwhile, what agitations meanwhile? The foundations of property and propriety are laid bare, twin rocks, family pride flounders to the surface, puffing and blowing, and refusing to be comforted. Theology, vaguely ascetic, gets up a nasty grand swell. Then the lawyers are aroused, cold brood, and creep out of their holes. They do what they can, they tidy up property and propriety, reassure theology and family pride. Half guineas are poured on the troubled waters. The lawyers creep back, and, if all has gone well, love joins one man and woman together in matrimony. Margaret had expected the disturbance, and was not irritated by it. For a sensitive woman, she had steady nerves, and could bear with the incongruous and the grotesque. And besides, there was nothing excessive about her love affair. Good humour was the dominant note of her relations with Mr Wilcox, or, as I must now call him, Henry. Henry did not encourage romance, and she was no girl to fidget for it. An acquaintance had become a lover, might become a husband, but would retain all that she had noted in the acquaintance, and love must confirm an old relation, rather than reveal a new one. In this spirit, she promised to marry him. He was in swanage on the morrow, bearing the engagement ring. They greeted one another with a hearty cordiality that impressed Aunt Julie. Henry dined at the base, but he had engaged a bedroom in the principal hotel. He was one of those men who knew the principal hotel by instinct. After dinner, he asked Margaret if she wouldn't care for a turn on the parade. She accepted, and could not repress, a little tremor. It would be her first real loved scene. But as she put on her hat, and she burst out laughing, love was so unlike the article served up in books. The joy, though genuine, was different, the mystery, and unexpected mystery. For one thing, Mr. Wilcox still seemed a stranger. For a time, they talked about the ring. Then she said, Do you remember the embankment at Chelsea? It can't be ten days ago. Yes, he said, laughing, and you and your sister were head and ears, deep in some quesotic scheme. Ah well, a little thought then, certainly. Did you? I don't know about that. I shouldn't like to say. Why was it earlier? She cried. Did you think of me this way earlier? How extraordinarily interesting, Henry, tell me. But Henry had no intention of telling. Perhaps he could not have told, that his mental states became obscure, as soon as he had passed through them. He misliked the very word, interesting, connoting it with wasted energy, and even with morbidity. Hard facts were enough for him. I didn't think of it, she pursued. No, when you spoke to me in the drawing room, that was practically the first. It was all so different from what it's supposed to be. On the stage, or in books, a proposal is, how shall I put it, a full-blown affair, a kind of bouquet. It loses its literal meaning. But in life, a proposal really is a proposal. By the way, a suggestion, a seed, she concluded, and the thought flew away into the darkness. I was thinking, if you didn't mind, that we ought to spend this evening in a business talk. There will be so much to settle. I think so too. Tell me, in the first place, how did you get on with Tibby? With your brother? Yes, during cigarettes. Oh, very well. I am so glad, she answered. A little surprised. What did you talk about? Me, presumably. About grease, too. Grease was a very good card, Henry. Tibby's only a boy still, and one has to pick and choose subjects a little. Well done. I was telling him I have shares in a current farm, near Calamatter. What a delightful thing to have shares in. Can't we go there for our honeymoon? What to do? To eat the currents, and isn't there marvellous scenery? Moderately, but it's not the kind of place one could possibly go to with a lady. Why not? No hotels. Some ladies do without hotels. Are you aware that Helen and I have walked alone over the Apennines with our luggage on our backs? I wasn't aware, and if I can manage it, you will never do such a thing again. She said more gravely. You haven't found time for a talk with Helen yet, I suppose. No. Do before you go. I am so anxious you too should be friends. Your sister and I have always hit it off, he said negligently. But we're drifting away from our business. Let me begin at the beginning. You know that Evie is going to marry Percy Carhill. Dolly's uncle? Exactly. The girls madly in love with him. A very good sort of fellow. But he demands, and rightly, a suitable provision with her. And in the second place, you will naturally understand. There is Charles. Before leaving town, I wrote Charles a very careful letter. You see, he has an increasing family and increasing expenses. And the I and WA is nothing particular just now, though capable of development. Poor fellow, murmured Margaret, looking out to sea and not understanding. Charles being the elder son, someday Charles will have Howard's end. But I am anxious, in my own happiness, not to be unjust to others. Of course not, she begun, and then gave a little cry. You mean money? How stupid I am. Of course not. Oddly enough, he winced a little at the word. Yes, money, since you put it so frankly. I am determined to be just to all, just to you, just to them. I am determined that my children shall have no case against me. Be generous to them, she said sharply, by the justice. I am determined and have already written to Charles to that effect. But how much have you got? What? How much have you a year? I've six hundred. My income? Yes, we must begin with how much you have, before we can settle how much you can give Charles. Justice and even generosity depend on that. I must say, you're a downright young woman, he observed, patting your arm and laughing a little. What a question to spring on a fellow. Don't you know your income? Or don't you want to tell it me? I, that's all right. Now she patted him. Don't tell me. I don't want to know. I can do the sum just as well by proportion. Divide your income into ten parts. How many parts would you give to Evie? How many to Charles? How many to Paul? The fact is, my dear, I hadn't any intention of bothering you with details. I only wanted to let you know that, well, that something must be done for the others. And you've understood me perfectly. So let's pass on to the next point. Yes, we've settled that, said Margaret, undisturbed by his strategic blunderings. Go ahead, give away all you can, bearing in mind I've a clear six hundred. What a mercy it is to have all this money about one. With none too much, I assure you, you're marrying a poor man. Helen wouldn't agree with me here, she continued. Helen dared sling the rich, being rich herself, but she would like to. There's an odd notion that I haven't yet got hold of, running about at the back of her brain. The poverty is somehow real. She dislikes all organization and probably confuses wealth with the technique of wealth. Sovereignty in a stocking wouldn't bother her. Checks do. Helen is too relentless. One can't deal in a high-handed manner with the world. 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 Juicy 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 was 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 peels 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 Juicy Street ourselves in September? Or shall we try to bounce Helen and Tibbie into it? That's rather an idea. They are so un-business-like, we can make them do anything by judicious management. Look here, yes. We'll do that. And we ourselves could live at Howard's End, or Shropshire. He blew out his cheeks. Heavens, how you women do fly around. My head's in a whirl. Point by point, Margaret. Howard's End's impossible. I let it to Homer Bryce on a three-year agreement last March. Don't you remember? Honiton. Well, that is much. Much too far away to rely on and tiling. You will be able to be down there entertaining a certain amount, but we must have a house within easy reach of town. Only Juicy Street has huge drawbacks. There's a muse behind. Margaret could not help barking. It was the first she had heard of the muse behind Juicy Street. When she was a possible tenor, 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 Juicy Street, he remembered the muse. When he tried to let, he forgot it. And if anyone had remarked that the muse 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 plur 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 muse is a serious nuisance. The smoking room, too, is an abominable little den. The house opposite has been taken by operatic people. Ducey 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 forever. That's why I dread it so. I mistrust rivers, even in scenery. Now the sea. High tide, yes. Hoitoid from the promenading youths. And these are the men to whom we give the vote. Observe Mr Wilcox, admitting 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 had their own lives and interests. Let's get on. He turned as he spoke, and prepared to see her back to the base. 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 a durant. A nice beginning if your aunts saw you slipping 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 at 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 wiggling. A younger woman might have resented his masterly ways, but Margaret had too firm a grip of light to make her 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. Distaining the heroic outfit, excitable in her methods, guerrillas, 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 him, but no more, not realising that she was penetrating to the depths of his soul, and approving of what she found there. And if insight was 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 Julie'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 softly to the door, and rung 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, 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 complacence, for some interchange of gentle words, that he had hurried away as if ashamed, and for an instant she was reminded of Helen and Paul. End Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Howards End This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, all to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This reading by Lucy Burgoyne. Howards End by Edward Morgan Forster Chapter 21 Charles had just been scolding his die. She deserved the scolding, and had bent before it, but her head, though bloody, was unsubdued, and her chiropenes began to mingle with his retreating thunder. You've woken the baby. I knew you would. Rump to foo, recordy-tattity Tomkin. 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 Flengel 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. Tuttle-tittle, playing on the puttle, 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 need start much-making. Besides, Carr Hill's too old. Of course, if you're going to be rude to Uncle Percy. Miss Flengel always meant to get hold of Howard's 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. Cootie, diddums, we're in a bad hole, and must make the best of it. I shall answer the patas 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 monopolising 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 Wilcox's in this peaceful abode, so that they may inherit the earth. End of Chapter 21 Chapter 22 of Howard's End This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Howard's End by Edward Morgan Forester Chapter 22 Margaret included her Lord with peculiar tenderness on the morrow. Mature as he was, she might yet be able to help him to the building or the rainbow bridge that should connect the pros and 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 in a light on the highest curve, glowing against the gray, 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 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. Catherine and St. Francis into a white, hot hatred of the carnal. He could not be as the saint and love the infinite with a surrithic ardor, but he could be a little ashamed of loving a wife. I'm a bat, I'm a ray, I'm a bat, and it was here that Margaret helped 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 laden 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 his life to either will die. Nor was the message difficult to give. He 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 he reminded herself of it. His obtuseness. He simply did not notice things. There was no more to be said. He never noticed that Helen and Frida were hostile, or that Tibi was not interested in current plantations. He never noticed the lights and shades that exist in the greatest conversation. The finger posts, the milestones, 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 have no intention of frittering away my strength on that sort of thing. He doesn't fritter 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 is concentrate. End of this morning he concentrated with a vengeance. They met and wrote a dendrons 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 sisters 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 crossboy. You remember him? He had a sad mustache, but the back of his head was young. I've 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 our word. The triangle of sex was broken forever. Thanks to your hint, he's clearing out of the Porphyrian. Not a bad business, that Porphyrian, he said, absolutely, 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. Mundt. Pine wrote a dendrons. Good morning, frowly sick. We manage to grow flowers in England, don't we? Not a bad business. No. My letter's about Howard's end. Bryce has been ordered abroad and wants to sublet it. I'm far from sure that I shall give him permission. There was no clause in the agreement. In my opinion, subletting is a mistake. If you can find me another tenant, whom I consider suitable, I may cancel the agreement. Good morning, Schlegel. Don't you think that's better than subletting? Helen had dropped her hands 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 colorless, and the burn with the steamer gave a further touch of insipidity, drawn up against the pier, and hooting wildly for excursionists. Where there's a sublet, I find that damage do excuse me, but about the porphyrian? I don't feel easy. Might I just bother you, Henry? Hermana 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, and that securing a birth somewhere else first, is a fool, and I have no pity for him. He has not done that. He's going into a bank in Camden Town, he says. The salary is 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 porphyrian. Yes, yes, yes, safe as houses, safer. Very many thanks. I'm sorry, if you sublet, if you sublet I shan't have the same control. In theory there should be no more damage done at Howard's End. In practice, there will be. Things may be done for which no money can compensate. For instance, I shouldn't want that fine witch elm spoiled. It hangs, Margaret. We must go and see the old place sometime. 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 Julie expects us to stop here for another week at least. But you can give that up now. Her... 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 Frida, and we can't leave her on our hands. I miss one day, and she'd be so hurt if I didn't stay the full 10. 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. Not the pig's teeth and the witch-elm. Pig's teeth? And you chew the bark for toothache. What a rum notion, of course not. Perhaps I have it confused with some other tree. There is still a great number of sacred trees in England, it seems. But he left her to intercept him this month, whose voice could be heard in the distance. To be intercepted himself by Helen. Oh, Mr. Wilcox, about the Porphyrian she began, and went scarlet all over her face. It's all right, called Margaret, catching up. Dempster's bank's better. But I think you told us the Porphyrian was bad, and would smash before Christmas. Did I? You were 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. Mont, 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 Porphyrian, 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 a 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. And oh, come, come, he protested, pleasantly. You're not to blame. No one's to blame. There's 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. The civilization moves forward, and the shoe is bound to pinch in places, and it's absurd to pretend that anyone is responsible personally. Neither you, nor I, nor my informant, nor the man who informed him, nor the directors of the Porphyrian are to blame for this clerk's loss of salary. It's just the shoe pinching. No one can help it. And it might have easily 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. They are just rich and poor, as there always have been and always will be. Point me at a time when men have been equal. I didn't say point me at a time when desire for equality has made them happier. No, no, you can't. There have always been rich and poor. I'm no fatalist. Heaven forbid. But our civilization is molded by great impersonal forces. His voice grew complacent. It always did when he eliminated the personal. And there will always 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 civilization has, on the whole, been upward, owing to God, I suppose, flashed Helen. He stared at her. You grab the dollars, and God does the rest. It was no good instructing the girl if she's going to talk about God in that neurotic, modern way. Who turned on to the last, he left her, the quieter company of Mrs. Mont. He thought, she rather reminds me of Dolly. Helen looked out at the sea. Don't even discuss political economy with Henry, advise your 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, and it is always that sloppy somehow, will be the outcome. And that in some mystical way, the Mr. Baths of the future will benefit, because the Mr. Baths of today are in pain. He is such a man in theory, but, oh, Helen, 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 burn with steamer with her eyes. She saw that Helen's nerves were exasperated by the unlucky Baths 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 way with the trip, or even the low worth, said Mrs. Mont, coming near, 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 his black, bright eye. What was behind the competent stare? She knew, but was not disquieted. End of Chapter 22. Recording by Chris Leslie Heinen in Iowa City, Iowa, and Portland, Oregon, reachable at chrislesleyheinen at gmail.com. Chapter 23 of Howard's End. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Howard's End by Edward Morgan Forster, Chapter 23. Margaret had no intention of letting things slide, and 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 an 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 on those days was over-interested in the subconscious self. She exaggerated the punch and duty 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 anyone 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 only do it easy. I can only entice and be enticed. I can't and won't attempt difficult relations. If I marry, he'll 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. I haven't helped anyone whom I do marry, for I shall certainly run away from them before you can say Jack Robinson. There, because I'm uneducated. But you, you're different. You're a heroine. Oh, Helen, am I? Be as dreadful for poor Henry is 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. Henceforth I'm going my own way. I mean to be thorough, because thoroughness is easy. I mean to dislike your husband, and to tell himself. I mean to make no concessions to Tibbie. If Tibbie 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. On reality 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 their own scene. No one doubts it, but Helen glows them reddit too quickly for her taste. And every turn of speech one was confronted with reality in the absolute. Perhaps Margaret grew too old for metaphysics, and 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 businessman 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 halfway between, on Julie had hazarded in earlier years. No, truth, being alive, was not halfway between anything. It was only to be found by continuous excursions into either realm, and no proportion is the final secret. To espouse it at the outset is to ensure sterility. Helen, agreeing here, disagreeing there, would have talked till midnight, but Margaret, with her packing to do, focused the conversation on Henry. She might abuse Henry behind his back, but please would she always be civil to him and 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 want Julie, and impossible for Tibby or Charles. There are moments when the inner life actually paved, 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 of fairer future. Margaret, though unable to understand her sister, was assured against estrangement in return to London with a more peaceful mind. The following morning, at 11 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 had hitherto brooded over the main sources of as well. Now that a visit to the office cleared things up. There were 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 and 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 in Turkey carpet. Another map over the fireplace did depict the helping of West Africa, and it was a very ordinary map. Another map hung opposite, on which the whole continent appeared, looking like a whale marked out from 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 Porphyrian, or Dempster's Bank, or her own wine merchants. 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 the bell, the effect of which was to reduce 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 hoped that my wife, how do you do, would give you a decent lunch, was his opening. I left instructions, but we live in a rough and ready way. Expects you back to tea, too, after you've had a look at Howard's End. I wonder what you'll think of the place. I wouldn't touch it with tongs myself. I do sit down, and 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, with Bryce decamped abroad last Monday without even arranging for a charwoman to clean up after him. I never saw such a disgraceful mess. It's unbelievable. He was in the house a month, and I've got 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 fiddled sticks, said Mr. Wilcox, joining them. He had the impudence to put up notice boards without as much 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. Keys are at the farm, and 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 discounted profusely, until the girl who had been typing the strong letter came out with it. Mr. Wilcox added in his signature. Now we'll be off, said he. A motor drive, a form of flicity 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 gray and banked high with weary clouds. Perhaps Hertfordshire was 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 smirk. Their eyes would be sad and inverted from their fate towards the northern flats. Their leader not Isis or Sabrina, but the slowly flowing Lee. No glory of raiment would be theirs, no urgency of dance. But they would be real nymphs. The chauffeur could not travel as quickly as he had hoped, that the Great North Road was full of Easter traffic. But he went quite quick enough for Margaret, a poor-spirited creature, who had chickens and children on the brain. There are rites at Mr. Wilcox. They'll learn, like the swallows in the telegraph wires. Yes, but while they're learning, their motors come to stay, he answered. One must get about. Well, there's a pretty church style, you won't sharpen up. Well, look out. If the road worries you, right outward at the scenery. She looked at the scenery. It heaved and merged like porridge. Presently, it congealed. They had arrived. Charles's house on the left, on the right, the swelling forms of the six hills. Their appearance in such a neighborhood surprised her. They interrupted the stream of residences that was thickening up towards Hilton. Behind them she saw meadows and a wood, and beneath them she settled that soldiers of the best kind lay buried. She hated war and liked soldiers, and was one of her amiable inconsistencies. But here was Dolly, dressed up at the nines, standing at the door to greet them, and here were the first drops of the rain. They ran in gaily, and after a long wait in the dining room sat down to the rough and ready lunch, every dish in which concealed or exuded cream. Mr. Bryce was the chief topic of conversation. Dolly described his visit with a key, while her father-in-law gave satisfaction by chaffing her and contradicting all she said. It was evidently the custom to laugh at Dolly. He chaffed Margaret too, and Margaret, roused from a grave meditation, was pleased and chapped him back. Dolly seemed surprised, and eyed her curiously. After lunch the two children came down. Margaret disliked babies, but pitted off better with the two-year-old, and sent Dolly into fits of laughter by talking sense to him. She kissed them now and came away, said Mr. Wilcox. She came, but refused to kiss them, and was such hard luck on the little thing she said, and though Dolly proffered cheerly-warly and poorly waggles in turn, she was obdurate. By this time it was raining steadily. The car came around with the hood up, and again she lost all sense of space. In a few minutes they stopped, and craned open the door of the car. What's happened, that's Margaret. What do you suppose, said Henry? The little porch was close up against her face. Are we there already? We are. Well, I never. In years ago it seemed so far away. Smiling, but somehow disillusioned, she jumped out, and her impotence carried her to the front door. He was about to open it, and Henry said, that's no good, it's locked. Who's got the key? As he had himself forgotten to call for the key at the farm, no one replied. He also wanted to know who had left the front gate open, since a cow had strayed in from the road, and was spoiling the croquet long. Then he said rather crossly, Margaret, you wait in the dry. I'll go down for the key. It is in a hundred yards, and until I come to, no, I shall be back before I'm gone. Then the car turned away, and it was as if a curtain had risen. For the second time that day she saw the appearance of the earth. There were the green-gauge trees, that Helen had once described, there the tennis long, there the hedge that would be glorious with dog roses in June. But the vision now was of black and palest green. Down by the delho, more vivid colors were awakening, and Lent Millies stood sentinel on its margin, or advanced in battalions over the grass. Two lips were a tray of jewels. She could not see the witch elm tree, but a branch of the celebrated vine, studded with velvet knobs, had covered the porch. She was struck by the fertility of the soil. She had seldom been in the garden where the flowers looked so well, and even the weeds she was idly plucking out of the porch were intensely green. Why had poor Mr. Bryce fled from all this beauty? For she had already decided that the place would be beautiful. Naughty cow, go away, cried Margaret to the cow, but without indignation. Harder came the rain, pouring out of a windless sky, and spattering up from the notice boards of the house agents, which lay in a row on the longward shawls and hurled them. She must have interviewed Charles in another world, where one did have interviews. How Helen would rev one such a notion? Charles dead, all people dead, nothing alive but houses and gardens. The obvious dead, the intangible alive, and no connection at all between them. Margaret smiled. Without her own fancies it was a clear cut. Would it she could deal as high-handedly with the world? Smiling and sighing, she laid her hand upon the door. It opened. The house was not locked up at all. She hesitated. Weren't she to wait for Henry? He felt strongly about property, and might prefer to show her over himself. On the other hand, he had told her to keep in the dry, and the porch was beginning to drip. So she went in, and the draft from inside slammed the door behind. Desolation greeted her. Dirty fingerprints were on the hall windows, flew and rubbish on its unwashed boards. The civilization of luggage had been here for a month, and then decanted. Dining room and drawing room, right and left, were guessed only by their wallpapers. They were just rooms where one could shelter from the rain. Across the ceiling of each ran a great beam. The dining room and hall revealed theirs openly, but the drawing rooms was match-boarded, because the effects of life must be concealed from ladies. Drawing room and dining room and hall, how petty the names sounded. Here were simply three rooms where children could play and friend shelter from the rain. Yes, and they were beautiful. Then she opened one of the doors opposite. There were two, and exchanged wallpapers for whitewalls. It was the servant's part, but she scarcely recognized that. Just rooms again where friends might shelter. The garden at the back was full of flowering cherries and clones. Father-on were hints of the meadow and a black cliff of pines. Yes, the meadow was beautiful. Then, then by the desolate weather, she recaptured the sense of space which the motor had tried to rob from her. She remembered again that ten square miles are not ten times as wonderful as one square mile, that a thousand square miles are not practically the same as heaven. The phantom of bigness, which London encourages, was laid forever when she paced from the hall at Howard's End to its kitchen, and heard the rains running this way and that where the watershed of the roof divided them. Now Helen came to her mind, scrutinizing half Wessex from the ridges, perv-backed downs, and saying, we will have to lose something. She was not so sure. For instance, she would double her kingdom by opening the door that concealed the stair. Now she thought of the map of Africa, of empires, of her father, or the two supreme nations, streams of whose life warmed her blood, but, mingling, she'd cooled her brain. She paced back into the hall, and as she did so, the house reverberated. Is that you, Henry, she called? There was no answer, but the house reverberated again. Henry, have you got in? But it was the heart of the house beating, faintly at first, then loudly, marshally, it dominated the rain. It is the star of the imagination, not the well-nourished, that is afraid. Margaret flung open the door to the stairs, and always as if drums seemed to deafen her. A woman, an old woman, was descending, with figure erect, with face impassive, with lips that parted and said, dryly, Oh, well, I took you for Ruth Wilcox. Margaret stammered, I? Mrs. Wilcox, I? In fancy, of course. In fancy, you had her way of walking. Good day. And the old woman passed out into the rain. End of Chapter 23. Recording by Chris Leslie Heinen in Portland, Oregon, and Iowa City, Iowa. Reachable at chrislesleyheinen.com. Chapter 24 of Howard's End. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Kristen McQuillan. Howard's End by Edward Morgan Forster. Chapter 24. It gave her quite a turn, said Mr. Wilcox, when retelling the incident to Dolly at tea-time. None of you girls have any nerves, really. Of course, a word from me put it all right, but silly old Miss Avery, she frightened you, didn't she, Margaret? There you stood, clutching a bunch of weeds. She might have said something, instead of coming down the stairs with that alarming bonnet on. I passed her as I came in, enough to make a car shy. I believe Miss Avery goes in for being a character, some old maids do. He lit a cigarette. It's their last resource. Heaven knows what she was doing in the place, but that's Bryce's business, not mine. I wasn't as foolish as you suggest, said Margaret. She only startled me, for the house had been silent so long. Did you take her for a spook? asked Dolly, for whom spooks, and going to church, summarized the unseen. Not exactly. She really did frighten you, said Henry, who was far from discouraging, timidity, and females. Poor Margaret, and very naturally, uneducated classes are so stupid. Is Miss Avery uneducated classes? Margaret asked, and found herself looking at the decoration scheme of Dolly's drawing rooms. She's just one of the crew at the farm. People like that always assume things. She assumed you'd know who she was. She left all the Howard's End keys in the front lobby, and assumed you'd see them as you came in, that you'd lock up the house when you'd done and would bring them on down to her. And there was her niece hunting for them down on the farm. Lack of education makes people very casual. Hilton was full of women like Miss Avery once. I shouldn't have disliked it, perhaps. Or Miss Avery gave me a wedding present, said Dolly. Which was illogical, but interesting. Through Dolly, Margaret was destined to learn a good deal. But Charles said I must not try to mind, because she had known his grandmother. As usual, you've got the story wrong, my good Dorothea. I mean great-grandmother. The one who left Mrs. Wilcox the house, weren't both of them and Miss Avery friends when Howard's End II was a farm? Her father-in-law blew out a shaft of smoke. His attitude to his dead wife was curious. He would allude to her, and hear her discussed, but never mentioned her by name. Nor was he interested in the dim, bucolic past. Dolly was, for the following reason. Then hadn't Mrs. Wilcox a brother or was it an uncle? Anyhow, he popped the question, and Miss Avery, she said no. Just imagine if she had said yes, she would have been Charles' aunt. Oh, I say that's rather good, Charlie's aunt. I must chaff him about that this evening. And then the man went out and was killed. Yes, I'm certain I've got it right now. Tom Howard, he was the last of them. I believe so, said Mr. Wilcox negligently. I say, Howard's End, Howard's Ended, cried Dolly. I'm rather on the spot this evening, eh? I wish you'd ask where their cranes ended. Oh, Mr. Wilcox, how can you? Because if he's had enough tea, we ought to go. Dolly's a good little woman, he continued, but a little of her goes a long way. I couldn't live near her if you paid me. Margaret smiled. Though presenting a firm front to outsiders, no Wilcox could live near or near the possessions of any other Wilcox. They had the colonial spirit, and were always making for some spot where the white man might carry his burden unobserved. Of course Howard's End was impossible so long as the younger couple were established in Hilton. His objections to the house were plain as daylight now. Crane had had enough tea, and was sent to the garage, where their car had been trickling muddy water over Charles's. The downpour had surely penetrated the six hills by now, bringing news of our restless civilization. Curious mounds, said Henry, but in with you now another time. He had to be up in London by seven, if possible by six thirty. Once more she lost the sense of space. Once more, trees, houses, people, animals, hills, merged and heaved into one dirtiness, and she was at Wickham Place. Her evening was pleasant. The sense of flux which had haunted her all the year had disappeared for a time. She forgot the luggage and the motor-cars, the hurrying men who knew so much and connect so little. She recaptured the sense of space, which is the basis of all earthly beauty, and starting from Howard's End she attempted to realize England. She failed. Visions do not come when we try, though they may come through trying. But an unexpected love of the island awoke in her, connecting on this side with the joys of the flesh, and with that on the inconceivable. Helen and her father had known this love. Poor Leonard Bast was groping after it, but it had been hidden from Margaret till this afternoon. It had certainly come through the house and old Miss Avery. Through them. The notion of through persisted. Her mind trembled towards a conclusion which only the unwise have put into words. Then, veering back into warmth, it dwelt unready bricks, flowering plum-trees, and all the tangible joys of spring. Henry, after allaying her agitation, had taken her over his property and had explained to her the use and dimensions of the various rooms. He had sketched the history of the little estate. It is so unlucky, ran the monologue, that the money wasn't put into it about fifty years ago. Then it had four or five times the land, thirty acres at least. One could have made something out of it then, a small park, or at all events shrubberies, and rebuilt the house further away from the road. What was the good of taking it in hand now? Nothing but the meadow left, and even that was heavily mortgaged when I first had to do with things. Yes, in the house, too. Oh, it was no joke. She saw two women as he spoke. One old, the other young, watching their inheritance melt away. She saw them greet him as a deliverer. Mismanagement did it. Besides, the days for small farms are over. It doesn't pay, except with intensive cultivation. Small holdings back to the land—the philanthropic bunkum. Take it as a rule, but nothing pays on a small scale. Most of the land you see, they were standing in an upper window, the only one which faced west, belongs to the people at the park. They made their pile over copper, good chaps. Avery's farm? See she's what they call the common, where you see that ruined oak. One after the other fell in, and so did this as near as no matter. But Henry saved it without fine feelings or deep insight, but he saved it, and she loved him for the deed. When I had more control, I did what I could. Sold off the two and a half animals in the main jeep pony and the superannuated tools. Pulled down the outhouses, drained, thinned out, I don't know how many gilder roses and elder trees. And inside the house I turned the old kitchen into a hall, and made a kitchen behind where the dairy was. Garage and so came later, but one could tell it's still been an old farm. And yet it isn't the place that would fetch one of your artistic crew. No, it wasn't, and if he did not quite understand it, the artistic crew would still less. It was English, and the witch-elm she saw from the window was an English tree. No report had prepared her for its particular glory. It was neither warrior nor lover nor god. In none of those roles did the English excel. It was a comrade, bending over the house, strength and adventure in its roots, but in its utmost fingers tenderness. And the girth, that a dozen men could not expand, became in the end evanescent, till pale bud clusters seemed to float in the air. It was a comrade. House and tree transcended any similes of sex. Margaret thought of them now and was to think of them through many a windy night and London day, but to compare either to man to woman always dwarfed the vision. Yet they kept within limits of the human. Their message was not of eternity, but of hope on this side of the grave. As she stood in the one, gazing at the other, truer relationship had gleamed. Another touch and the account of her day as finished. They entered the garden for a minute, and to Mr. Wilcox's surprise she was right. Teeth. Pig's teeth could be seen in the bark of the witch-elm tree, just the white tips of them showing. Extraordinary! he cried. Who told you? I heard of it one winter in London, was her answer, for she too avoided mentioning Mrs. Wilcox by name. Tournament. And her play went simply to pot. That she should marry and leave him had seemed naturally enough, that he, left alone, should do the same was deceitful, and now Charles and Dolly said that it was all her fault. But I never dreamed of such a thing, she grumbled. Dad took me to call now and then, and made me ask her to Simpson's. Well, I'm altogether off, Dad. It was also an insult to their mother's memory. There they were agreed. And Evie had the idea of returning Mrs. Wilcox's lace and jewellery as a protest. Against what it would protest she was not clear, but being only eighteen, the idea of renunciation appealed to her the more as she did not care for jewellery or lace. Dolly then suggested that she and Uncle Percy should pretend to break off their engagement, and then perhaps Mr. Wilcox would quarrel with Miss Schlegel and break off his, or Paul might be cabled for. But at this point Charles told them not to talk nonsense. So Evie settled to marry as soon as possible. It was no good hanging about with these Schlegels eyeing her. The date of her wedding was consequently put forward from September to August, and in the intoxication of presents she recovered much of her good humour. Margaret found that she was expected to figure at this function, and to figure largely. It would be such an opportunity, said Henry, for her to get to know his set. Sir James Bidder would be there, and all the car-hills and the fuzzles, and his sister-in-law Mrs. Warrington Wilcox had fortunately got back from her tour around the world. Henry she loved, but his set promised to be another matter. He had not the knack of surrounding himself with nice people. Indeed, for a man of ability and virtue, his choice had been singularly unfortunate. He had no guiding principle beyond a certain preference for mediocrity. He was content to settle one of the greatest things in life haphazard, and so, while his investments went right, his friends generally went wrong. She would be told, Oh, so and so is a good sort, a thundering good sort, and find, on meeting him, that he was a brute or a bore. If Henry had shown real affection, she would have understood, for affection explains everything. But he seemed without sentiment that thundering good sort might at any moment become a fellow for whom I never did have much use and have less now, and be shaken off cheerily into oblivion. Margaret had done the same as a schoolgirl. Now she never forgot anyone for whom she had once cared. She connected, though the connection might be bitter, and she hoped that someday Henry would do the same. Evie was not to be married from Juicy Street. She had a fancy for something rural, and besides, no one would be in London then, so she left her boxes for a few weeks at Onnett and Grange, and her bands were duly published in the parish church, and for a couple of days the little town, dreaming between the ruddy hills, was roused by the clang of our civilisation, and drew up by the roadside to let the motors pass. Onnetton had been a discovery of Mr Wilcox's, a discovery of which he was not altogether proud. It was up towards the Welsh border, and so difficult of access, that he had concluded it must be something special. A ruined castle stood in the grounds, but having got there, what was one to do? The shooting was bad, the fishing indifferent, and womenfolk reported the scenery as nothing much. The place turned out to be in the wrong part of Shropshire, damn it, and though he never damned his own property aloud, he was only waiting to get it off his hands, and then to let fly. Evie's marriage was its last appearance in public. As soon as the tenant was found, it became a house for which he never had had much use, and had less now, and, like Howard's End, faded into limbo. But on Margaret, Onnetton was destined to make a lasting impression. She regarded it as her future home, and was anxious to start straight with the clergy, etc., and, if possible, to see something of the local life. It was a market town, as tiny a one as England possesses, and had for ages served that lonely valley, and guarded our marches against the Kelt. In spite of the occasion, in spite of the numbing hilarity that greeted her as soon as she got into the reserved saloon at Paddington, her senses were awake and watching, and though Onnetton was to prove one of her innumerable false starts, she never forgot it, nor the things that happened there. The London party only numbered eight, the Fussells, Father and Son, two Anglo-Indian ladies named Mrs. Plinlamon and Lady Edser, Mrs. Warrington Wilcox, and her daughter, and lastly the little girl, very smart and quiet, who figures at so many weddings, and who kept a watchful eye on Margaret, the bride-elect. Dolly was absent, a domestic event detained her at Hilton. Paul had cabled a humorous message. Charles was to meet them with a trio of motors at Shrewsbury. Helen had refused her invitation. Tivvy had never answered his. The management was excellent, as was to be expected with anything that Henry undertook. One was conscious of his sensible and generous brain in the background. They were his guests as soon as they reached the train, a special label for their luggage, a courier, a special lunch. They had only to look pleasant and, where possible, pretty. Margaret thought with dismay of her own nuptials, presumably under the management of Tivvy. Mr. Theobald Schlagel and Ms. Helen Schlagel request the pleasure, request the pleasure of Mrs. Plinlamon's company on the occasion of the marriage of their sister Margaret. The formula is incredible, but it must soon be printed and sent, and though we can place need not compete with Onnerton, it must feed its guests properly, and provide them with sufficient chairs. Her wedding would either be Ram Shackley or Bourgeois, she hopes the latter. Such an affair as the present, staged through the deftness that was almost beautiful, lay beyond her powers and those of her friends. The low-rich pair of a great Western Express is not the worst background for conversation, and the journey passed pleasantly enough. Nothing could have exceeded the kindness of the two men. They raised windows for some ladies and lowered them for others. They rang the bell for the servant. They identified the colleges as the trains slipped past Oxford. They caught books or bagpasses in the act of tumbling onto the floor. Yet there was nothing finicky about their politeness. It had the public school touch, and, though sedulous, was virile. More battles than Waterloo had been won on our playing fields, and Margaret bowed to a charm of which she did not wholly approve, and said nothing when the Oxford colleges were identified wrongly. Malon Female created he them. The journey to Shrewsbury confirmed this questionable statement, and the long glass saloon that moved so easily and felt so comfortable became a forcing house for the idea of sex. At Shrewsbury came fresh air. Margaret was all for sightseeing, and while the others were finishing their tea at the Raven, she annexed a motor and hurried over the astonishing city. Her chauffeur was not the faithful Crane, but an Italian who dearly loved making her late. Charles, watch in hand, though with a level brow, was standing in front of the hotel when they returned. It was perfectly all right, he told her. She was by no means the last. And then he dived into the coffee-room, and she heard him say, For God's sake, hurry the women up, we shall never be off. And Albert Fussell replied, Not I, I've done my share. And Colonel Fussell opined that the ladies were getting themselves up to kill. Presently Myra, Mrs. Warrington's daughter, appeared, and as she was his cousin, Charles blew her up a little. She had been changing her smart travelling hat for a smart motor hat. Then Mrs. Warrington herself, leading the quiet child, the two Anglo-Indian ladies were always last. Maids, courier, heavy luggage, had already gone on by a branch line to a station near Onnerton. But there were five hat boxes and four dressing-bags to be packed, and five dust cloaks to be put on, and to be put off at the last moment, because Charles declared them not necessary. The men presiding over everything with unfailing good humour. By half-past five the party was ready, and went out of Shrewsbury by the Welsh bridge. Shropshire had not the reticence of Hartfordshire, though robbed of half its magic by swift movement, it still conveyed the sense of hills. They were nearing the buttresses that forced the seven eastern and make it an English stream, and the sun, sinking over the sentinels of Wales, was straight in their eyes. Having picked up another guest, they turned southward, avoiding the greater mountains, but conscious of an occasional summit, rounded and mild, whose colouring differed in quality from that of the lower earth, and whose contours altered more slowly. Quiet mysteries were in progress behind those tossing horizons. The West, as ever, was retreating with some secret, which may not be worth the discovery, but which no practical man will ever discover. They spoke of tariff reform. Mrs. Warrington was just back from the colonies. Like many other critics of empire, her mouth had been stopped with food, and she could only exclaim at the hospitality with which she had been received, and warn the mother country against trifling with young titans. They threatened to cut the painter, she cried, and where shall we be then? Miss Schlegel, you'll undertake to keep Henry sound about tariff reform. It is our last hope. Margaret playfully confessed herself on the other side, and they began to quote from their respective handbooks, while the motor carried them deep into the hills. Curious these were, rather than impressive, for their outlines lacked beauty, and the pink fields on their summits suggested the handkerchiefs of a giant spread out to dry. An occasional outcrop of rock, an occasional wood, an occasional forest, treeless and brown, all hinted at wildness to follow, but the main colour was an agricultural green. The air grew cooler, they had surmounted the last gradient, and Onerton lay below them with its church, its radiating houses, its castle, its river gert peninsula. Close to the castle was a grey mansion, unintellectual but kindly, stretching with its grounds across the peninsula's neck, the sort of mansion that was built all over England in the beginning of the last century, while architecture was still an expression of the national character. That was the grange remarked Albert over his shoulder, and then he jammed the brake on, and the motor slowed down and stopped. I'm sorry, said he, turning round. Do you mind getting out, by the door on the right? Steady on. What's happened, asked Mrs. Warrington. Then the car behind them drew up, and the voice of Charles was heard saying, Get out the women at once. There was a concourse of males, and Margaret and her companions were hustled out and received into the second car. What had happened, as it started off again, the door of a cottage opened, and a girl screamed wildly at them. What is it, the ladies cried. Charles drove them a hundred yards without speaking. Then he said, It's all right, your car just touched a dog. But stop, cried Margaret, horrified. It didn't hurt him. Didn't really hurt him, asked Myra. No. Do please stop, said Margaret, leaning forward. She was standing up in her car, the other occupants holding her knees to steady her. I want to go back, please. Charles took no notice. We've left Mr. Fussell behind, said another, and Angelo and Crane. Yes, but no woman. I expect a little more of. Mrs. Warrington scratched her palm. Will be more to the point than one of us. The insurance company sees to that remark, Charles, and Albert will do the talking. I want to go back, though, I say, repeated Margaret getting angry. Charles took no notice. The motor, loaded with refugees, continued to travel very slowly down the hill. The men are there, chorused the others. Men will see to it. The men can't see to it. Oh, this is ridiculous. Charles, I ask you to stop. Stopping's no good, drilled Charles. Isn't it? said Margaret, and jumped straight out of the car. She fell on her knees, cut her gloves, shook her hat over her ear. Cries of alarm followed her. You've hurt yourself, exclaimed Charles, jumping after her. Of course I've hurt myself, she retorted. May I ask what? There's nothing to ask, said Margaret. Your hand's bleeding. I know. I'm in for a frightful row from the pater. You should have thought of that sooner, Charles. Charles had never been in such a position before. It was a woman in revolt who was hobbling away from him, and the sight was too strange to leave any room for anger. He recovered himself when the others caught them up. Their sort he understood. He commanded them to go back. Albert Fussell was seen walking towards them. It's all right, he called. It wasn't a dog, it was a cat. There exclaimed Charles triumphantly. It's only a rotten cat. Got room in your car for a little, and I cut as soon as I saw it wasn't a dog. The chauffeurs are tackling the girl. But Margaret walked forward steadily. Why should the chauffeurs tackle the girl? Ladies sheltering behind men, men sheltering behind servants. The whole system's wrong, and she must challenge it. Miss Schlegel, upon my word, you've hurt your hand. I'm just going to see, said Margaret. Don't you wait, Mr. Fussell. The second motor came round the corner. It's all right, madam, said Crane in his turn. He had taken to calling her madam. What's all right, the cat? Yes, madam. The girl will receive compensation for it. She was a very rude d'aggala, said Angelo from the third motor thoughtfully. Wouldn't you have been rude? The Italian spread out his hands, implying that he had not thought of rudeness, but would produce it if it pleased her. The situation became absurd. The gentleman were again buzzing round Miss Schlegel with offers of assistance, and Lady Edser began to bind up her hands. She yielded, apologising slightly, and was led back to the car, and soon the landscape resumed its motion. The lonely cottage disappeared, the castle swelled on its cushion of turf, and they had arrived. No doubt she had disgraced herself, but she felt their whole journey from London had been unreal. They had no part with the earth and its emotions. They were dust, and a stink, and cosmopolitan chatter, and the girl whose cat had been killed had lived more deeply than they. Oh, Henry! she exclaimed. I have been so naughty, before she had decided to take up this line. We ran over a cat. Charles told me not to jump out, but I would, and look. She held out her bandaged hand. Your poor Meg went such a flop. Mr. Wilcox looked bewildered. In evening dress he was standing to welcome his guests in the hall, thinking it was a dog, added Mrs. Warrington. Ah, a dog's a companion, said Colonel Fussell. A dog will remember you. Have you hurt yourself, Margaret? Not to speak about, and it's my left hand. Well, hurry up and change. She obeyed, as did the others. Mr. Wilcox then turned to his son. Now, Charles, what's happened? Charles was absolutely honest. He described what he believed to have happened. Albert had flattened out a cat, and Miss Schlegel had lost her nerve, as any woman might. She had been got safely into the other car, but when it was in motion, had let out, again in spite of all that they could say. After walking a little on the road, she had calmed down, and had said that she was sorry. His father accepted this explanation, and neither knew that Margaret had artfully prepared the way for it. It fitted in too well with their view of feminine nature. In the smoking-room, after dinner, the Colonel put forward the view that Miss Schlegel had jumped it out of devilry. Well, he remembered as a young man, in the harbour of Gibraltar once, how a girl, a handsome girl, too, had jumped overboard for a bet. He could see her now, and all the lads overboard after her. But Charles and Mr. Wilcox agreed. It was much more probably nerves in Miss Schlegel's case. Charles was depressed. That woman had a tongue. She would bring worse disgrace on his father before she had done with them. He strolled out onto the castle mound to think the matter over. The evening was exquisite. On three sides of him a little river whistled, full of messages from the West. Above his head the ruins made patterns against the sky. He carefully reviewed their dealings with this family, until he fitted Helen and Margaret and Aunt Julie into an orderly conspiracy. Paternity had made him suspicious. He had two children to look after, and more coming, and day by day they seemed less likely to grow up rich men. It is all very well, he reflected, the Pater saying that he will be just to all, but one can't be just indefinitely. Money isn't elastic. What's to happen if Evie has a family? And come to that, so may the Pater. There'll not be enough to go round for there's none coming in, either through Dolly or Percy. It's damnable. He looked enviously at the Grange, whose windows poured light and laughter. First and last this wedding would cost a pretty penny. Two ladies were strolling up and down the Garden Terrace, and as the syllables imperialism were wafted to his ears, he guessed that one of them was his aunt. She might have helped him if she too had not had a family to provide for, everyone for himself, he repeated, a maxim which had cheered him in the past, but which rang grimly enough among the ruins of Onniton. He lacked his father's ability in business, and so had an ever higher regard for money. Unless he could inherit plenty, he feared to leave his children poor. As he sat thinking, one of the ladies left the Terrace and walked into the meadow. He recognised her as Margaret by the white bandage that gleamed on her arm, and put out his cigar lest the gleam should betray him. She climbed up the mound in zigzags, and at times stooped down as if she was stroking the turf. It sounds absolutely incredible, but for a moment Charles thought that she was in love with him, and had come out to tempt him. Charles believed in temptresses, who are indeed the strong man's necessary compliments, and having no sense of humour, he could not perch himself of the thought by a smile. Margaret, who was engaged to his father, and his sister's wedding guest, kept on her way without noticing him, and he admitted that he had wronged her on this point. But what was she doing? Why was she stumbling about amongst the rubble and catching her dress in brambles and burrs? As she edged round the keep, she must have got to leeward and smelt his cigar smoke, before she exclaimed, Hello, who's that? Charles made no answer. Saxon or Kelt, she continued, laughing in the darkness. But it doesn't matter. Whichever you are, you will have to listen to me. I love this place. I love Shropshire. I hate London. I am glad that this will be my home. Ah, dear! She was now moving back towards the house. What a comfort to have arrived! That woman means mischief, thought Charles, and compressed his lips. In a few minutes he followed her indoors, as the ground was getting damp. Mists were rising from the river, and presently it became invisible, though it whispered more loudly. There had been a heavy downpour in the Welsh hills. End of Chapter 25, Recording by Philippa Willis