otto sitzecke wohnzimmer

howards end by e. m. forsterchapter 1 one may as well begin with helen's lettersto her sister. howards end, tuesday.dearest meg, it isn't going to be what we expected.it is old and little, and altogether delightful--red brick. we can scarcely pack in as it is, and thedear knows what will happen when paul (younger son) arrives tomorrow.from hall you go right or left into dining- room or drawing-room. hall itself is practically a room.you open another door in it, and there are

the stairs going up in a sort of tunnel tothe first-floor. three bedrooms in a row there, and threeattics in a row above. that isn't all the house really, but it'sall that one notices--nine windows as you look up from the front garden. then there's a very big wych-elm--to theleft as you look up--leaning a little over the house, and standing on the boundarybetween the garden and meadow. i quite love that tree already. also ordinary elms, oaks--no nastier thanordinary oaks--pear-trees, apple-trees, and a vine.no silver birches, though.

however, i must get on to my host andhostess. i only wanted to show that it isn't theleast what we expected. why did we settle that their house would beall gables and wiggles, and their garden all gamboge-coloured paths? i believe simply because we associate themwith expensive hotels--mrs. wilcox trailing in beautiful dresses down long corridors,mr. wilcox bullying porters, etc. we females are that unjust. i shall be back saturday; will let you knowtrain later. they are as angry as i am that you did notcome too; really tibby is too tiresome, he

starts a new mortal disease every month. how could he have got hay fever in london?and even if he could, it seems hard that you should give up a visit to hear aschoolboy sneeze. tell him that charles wilcox (the son whois here) has hay fever too, but he's brave, and gets quite cross when we inquire afterit. men like the wilcoxes would do tibby apower of good. but you won't agree, and i'd better changethe subject. this long letter is because i'm writingbefore breakfast. oh, the beautiful vine leaves!the house is covered with a vine.

i looked out earlier, and mrs. wilcox wasalready in the garden. she evidently loves it.no wonder she sometimes looks tired. she was watching the large red poppies comeout. then she walked off the lawn to the meadow,whose corner to the right i can just see. trail, trail, went her long dress over thesopping grass, and she came back with her hands full of the hay that was cutyesterday--i suppose for rabbits or something, as she kept on smelling it. the air here is delicious.later on i heard the noise of croquet balls, and looked out again, and it wascharles wilcox practising; they are keen on

all games. presently he started sneezing and had tostop. then i hear more clicketing, and it is mr.wilcox practising, and then, 'a-tissue, a- tissue': he has to stop too. then evie comes out, and does somecalisthenic exercises on a machine that is tacked on to a greengage-tree--they puteverything to use--and then she says 'a- tissue,' and in she goes. and finally mrs. wilcox reappears, trail,trail, still smelling hay and looking at the flowers.

i inflict all this on you because once yousaid that life is sometimes life and sometimes only a drama, and one must learnto distinguish t'other from which, and up to now i have always put that down as'meg's clever nonsense.' but this morning, it really does seem notlife but a play, and it did amuse me enormously to watch the w's. now mrs. wilcox has come in.i am going to wear [omission]. last night mrs. wilcox wore an [omission],and evie [omission]. so it isn't exactly a go-as-you-pleaseplace, and if you shut your eyes it still seems the wiggly hotel that we expected.not if you open them.

the dog-roses are too sweet. there is a great hedge of them over thelawn--magnificently tall, so that they fall down in garlands, and nice and thin at thebottom, so that you can see ducks through it and a cow. these belong to the farm, which is the onlyhouse near us. there goes the breakfast gong.much love. modified love to tibby. love to aunt juley; how good of her to comeand keep you company, but what a bore. burn this.will write again thursday.

helen howards end, friday.dearest meg, i am having a glorious time.i like them all. mrs. wilcox, if quieter than in germany, issweeter than ever, and i never saw anything like her steady unselfishness, and the bestof it is that the others do not take advantage of her. they are the very happiest, jolliest familythat you can imagine. i do really feel that we are makingfriends. the fun of it is that they think me anoodle, and say so--at least mr. wilcox

does--and when that happens, and onedoesn't mind, it's a pretty sure test, isn't it? he says the most horrid things aboutwomen's suffrage so nicely, and when i said i believed in equality he just folded hisarms and gave me such a setting down as i've never had. meg, shall we ever learn to talk less?i never felt so ashamed of myself in my life. i couldn't point to a time when men hadbeen equal, nor even to a time when the wish to be equal had made them happier inother ways.

i couldn't say a word. i had just picked up the notion thatequality is good from some book--probably from poetry, or you. anyhow, it's been knocked into pieces, and,like all people who are really strong, mr. wilcox did it without hurting me.on the other hand, i laugh at them for catching hay fever. we live like fighting-cocks, and charlestakes us out every day in the motor--a tomb with trees in it, a hermit's house, awonderful road that was made by the kings of mercia--tennis--a cricket match--bridge-

-and at night we squeeze up in this lovelyhouse. the whole clan's here now--it's like arabbit warren. evie is a dear. they want me to stop over sunday--i supposeit won't matter if i do. marvellous weather and the view'smarvellous--views westward to the high ground. thank you for your letter.burn this. your affectionate helen howards end, sunday.dearest, dearest meg,--i do not know what

you will say: paul and i are in love--theyounger son who only came here wednesday. > howards end by e. m. forsterchapter 2 margaret glanced at her sister's note andpushed it over the breakfast-table to her aunt.there was a moment's hush, and then the flood-gates opened. "i can tell you nothing, aunt juley.i know no more than you do. we met--we only met the father and motherabroad last spring. i know so little that i didn't even knowtheir son's name.

it's all so--" she waved her hand andlaughed a little. "in that case it is far too sudden." "who knows, aunt juley, who knows?""but, margaret dear, i mean we mustn't be unpractical now that we've come to facts.it is too sudden, surely." "who knows!" "but margaret dear--""i'll go for her other letters," said margaret."no, i won't, i'll finish my breakfast. in fact, i haven't them. we met the wilcoxes on an awful expeditionthat we made from heidelberg to speyer.

helen and i had got it into our heads thatthere was a grand old cathedral at speyer-- the archbishop of speyer was one of theseven electors--you know--'speyer, maintz, and koln.' those three sees once commanded the rhinevalley and got it the name of priest street.""i still feel quite uneasy about this business, margaret." "the train crossed by a bridge of boats,and at first sight it looked quite fine. but oh, in five minutes we had seen thewhole thing. the cathedral had been ruined, absolutelyruined, by restoration; not an inch left of

the original structure. we wasted a whole day, and came across thewilcoxes as we were eating our sandwiches in the public gardens. they too, poor things, had been taken in--they were actually stopping at speyer--and they rather liked helen insisting that theymust fly with us to heidelberg. as a matter of fact, they did come on nextday. we all took some drives together. they knew us well enough to ask helen tocome and see them--at least, i was asked too, but tibby's illness prevented me, solast monday she went alone.

that's all. you know as much as i do now.it's a young man out the unknown. she was to have come back saturday, but putoff till monday, perhaps on account of--i don't know. she broke off, and listened to the soundsof a london morning. their house was in wickham place, andfairly quiet, for a lofty promontory of buildings separated it from the mainthoroughfare. one had the sense of a backwater, or ratherof an estuary, whose waters flowed in from the invisible sea, and ebbed into aprofound silence while the waves without

were still beating. though the promontory consisted of flats--expensive, with cavernous entrance halls, full of concierges and palms--it fulfilledits purpose, and gained for the older houses opposite a certain measure of peace. these, too, would be swept away in time,and another promontory would rise upon their site, as humanity piled itself higherand higher on the precious soil of london. mrs. munt had her own method ofinterpreting her nieces. she decided that margaret was a littlehysterical, and was trying to gain time by a torrent of talk.

feeling very diplomatic, she lamented thefate of speyer, and declared that never, never should she be so misguided as tovisit it, and added of her own accord that the principles of restoration were illunderstood in germany. "the germans," she said, "are too thorough,and this is all very well sometimes, but at other times it does not do." "exactly," said margaret; "germans are toothorough." and her eyes began to shine. "of course i regard you schlegels asenglish," said mrs. munt hastily--"english to the backbone."margaret leaned forward and stroked her

hand. "and that reminds me--helen's letter--""oh, yes, aunt juley, i am thinking all right about helen's letter.i know--i must go down and see her. i am thinking about her all right. i am meaning to go down""but go with some plan," said mrs. munt, admitting into her kindly voice a note ofexasperation. "margaret, if i may interfere, don't betaken by surprise. what do you think of the wilcoxes?are they our sort? are they likely people?

could they appreciate helen, who is to mymind a very special sort of person? do they care about literature and art?that is most important when you come to think of it. literature and art.most important. how old would the son be?she says 'younger son.' would he be in a position to marry? is he likely to make helen happy?did you gather--" "i gathered nothing."they began to talk at once. "then in that case--"

"in that case i can make no plans, don'tyou see." "on the contrary--""i hate plans. i hate lines of action. helen isn't a baby.""then in that case, my dear, why go down?" margaret was silent.if her aunt could not see why she must go down, she was not going to tell her. she was not going to say "i love my dearsister; i must be near her at this crisis of her life."the affections are more reticent than the passions, and their expression more subtle.

if she herself should ever fall in lovewith a man, she, like helen, would proclaim it from the house-tops, but as she onlyloved a sister she used the voiceless language of sympathy. "i consider you odd girls," continued mrs.munt, "and very wonderful girls, and in many ways far older than your years.but--you won't be offended? --frankly i feel you are not up to thisbusiness. it requires an older person.dear, i have nothing to call me back to swanage." she spread out her plump arms."i am all at your disposal.

let me go down to this house whose name iforget instead of you." "aunt juley"--she jumped up and kissed her--"i must, must go to howards end myself. you don't exactly understand, though i cannever thank you properly for offering." "i do understand," retorted mrs. munt, withimmense confidence. "i go down in no spirit of interference,but to make inquiries. inquiries are necessary. now, i am going to be rude.you would say the wrong thing; to a certainty you would. in your anxiety for helen's happiness youwould offend the whole of these wilcoxes by

asking one of your impetuous questions--notthat one minds offending them." "i shall ask no questions. i have it in helen's writing that she and aman are in love. there is no question to ask as long as shekeeps to that. all the rest isn't worth a straw. a long engagement if you like, butinquiries, questions, plans, lines of action--no, aunt juley, no." away she hurried, not beautiful, notsupremely brilliant, but filled with something that took the place of bothqualities--something best described as a

profound vivacity, a continual and sincere response to all that she encountered in herpath through life. "if helen had written the same to me abouta shop-assistant or a penniless clerk--" "dear margaret, do come into the libraryand shut the door. your good maids are dusting the banisters." "--or if she had wanted to marry the manwho calls for carter paterson, i should have said the same." then, with one of those turns thatconvinced her aunt that she was not mad really and convinced observers of anothertype that she was not a barren theorist,

she added: "though in the case of carter paterson i should want it to be a very longengagement indeed, i must say." "i should think so," said mrs. munt; "and,indeed, i can scarcely follow you. now, just imagine if you said anything ofthat sort to the wilcoxes. i understand it, but most good people wouldthink you mad. imagine how disconcerting for helen! what is wanted is a person who will goslowly, slowly in this business, and see how things are and where they are likely tolead to." margaret was down on this.

"but you implied just now that theengagement must be broken off." "i think probably it must; but slowly.""can you break an engagement off slowly?" her eyes lit up. "what's an engagement made of, do yousuppose? i think it's made of some hard stuff, thatmay snap, but can't break. it is different to the other ties of life. they stretch or bend.they admit of degree. they're different.""exactly so. but won't you let me just run down tohowards house, and save you all the

discomfort? i will really not interfere, but i do sothoroughly understand the kind of thing you schlegels want that one quiet look roundwill be enough for me." margaret again thanked her, again kissedher, and then ran upstairs to see her brother.he was not so well. the hay fever had worried him a good dealall night. his head ached, his eyes were wet, hismucous membrane, he informed her, was in a most unsatisfactory condition. the only thing that made life worth livingwas the thought of walter savage landor,

from whose imaginary conversations she hadpromised to read at frequent intervals during the day. it was rather difficult.something must be done about helen. she must be assured that it is not acriminal offence to love at first sight. a telegram to this effect would be cold andcryptic, a personal visit seemed each moment more impossible.now the doctor arrived, and said that tibby was quite bad. might it really be best to accept auntjuley's kind offer, and to send her down to howards end with a note?certainly margaret was impulsive.

she did swing rapidly from one decision toanother. running downstairs into the library, shecried--"yes, i have changed my mind; i do wish that you would go." there was a train from king's cross ateleven. at half-past ten tibby, with rare self-effacement, fell asleep, and margaret was able to drive her aunt to the station. "you will remember, aunt juley, not to bedrawn into discussing the engagement. give my letter to helen, and say whateveryou feel yourself, but do keep clear of the relatives.

we have scarcely got their names straightyet, and besides, that sort of thing is so uncivilized and wrong. "so uncivilized?" queried mrs. munt,fearing that she was losing the point of some brilliant remark."oh, i used an affected word. i only meant would you please only talk thething over with helen." "only with helen.""because--" but it was no moment to expound the personal nature of love. even margaret shrank from it, and contentedherself with stroking her good aunt's hand, and with meditating, half sensibly and halfpoetically, on the journey that was about

to begin from king's cross. like many others who have lived long in agreat capital, she had strong feelings about the various railway termini.they are our gates to the glorious and the unknown. through them we pass out into adventure andsunshine, to them alas! we return. in paddington all cornwall is latent andthe remoter west; down the inclines of liverpool street lie fenlands and theillimitable broads; scotland is through the pylons of euston; wessex behind the poisedchaos of waterloo. italians realize this, as is natural; thoseof them who are so unfortunate as to serve

as waiters in berlin call the anhaltbahnhof the stazione d'italia, because by it they must return to their homes. and he is a chilly londoner who does notendow his stations with some personality, and extend to them, however shyly, theemotions of fear and love. to margaret--i hope that it will not setthe reader against her--the station of king's cross had always suggested infinity. its very situation--withdrawn a littlebehind the facile splendours of st. pancras--implied a comment on thematerialism of life. those two great arches, colourless,indifferent, shouldering between them an

unlovely clock, were fit portals for someeternal adventure, whose issue might be prosperous, but would certainly not be expressed in the ordinary language ofprosperity. if you think this ridiculous, remember thatit is not margaret who is telling you about it; and let me hasten to add that they werein plenty of time for the train; that mrs. munt, though she took a second-class ticket, was put by the guard into a first(only two seconds on the train, one smoking and the other babies--one cannot beexpected to travel with babies); and that margaret, on her return to wickham place,was confronted with the following telegram:

all over.wish i had never written. tell no one.--helen but aunt juley was gone--gone irrevocably,and no power on earth could stop her. howards end by e. m. forsterchapter 3 most complacently did mrs. munt rehearseher mission. her nieces were independent young women,and it was not often that she was able to help them. emily's daughters had never been quite likeother girls. they had been left motherless when tibbywas born, when helen was five and margaret

herself but thirteen. it was before the passing of the deceasedwife's sister bill, so mrs. munt could without impropriety offer to go and keephouse at wickham place. but her brother-in-law, who was peculiarand a german, had referred the question to margaret, who with the crudity of youth hadanswered, "no, they could manage much better alone." five years later mr. schlegel had died too,and mrs. munt had repeated her offer. margaret, crude no longer, had beengrateful and extremely nice, but the substance of her answer had been the same.

"i must not interfere a third time,"thought mrs. munt. however, of course she did. she learnt, to her horror, that margaret,now of age, was taking her money out of the old safe investments and putting it intoforeign things, which always smash. silence would have been criminal. her own fortune was invested in home rails,and most ardently did she beg her niece to imitate her."then we should be together, dear." margaret, out of politeness, invested a fewhundreds in the nottingham and derby railway, and though the foreign things didadmirably and the nottingham and derby

declined with the steady dignity of which only home rails are capable, mrs. muntnever ceased to rejoice, and to say, "i did manage that, at all events.when the smash comes poor margaret will have a nest-egg to fall back upon." this year helen came of age, and exactlythe same thing happened in helen's case; she also would shift her money out ofconsols, but she, too, almost without being pressed, consecrated a fraction of it tothe nottingham and derby railway. so far so good, but in social matters theiraunt had accomplished nothing. sooner or later the girls would enter onthe process known as throwing themselves

away, and if they had delayed hitherto, itwas only that they might throw themselves more vehemently in the future. they saw too many people at wickham place--unshaven musicians, an actress even, german cousins (one knows what foreigners are),acquaintances picked up at continental hotels (one knows what they are too). it was interesting, and down at swanage noone appreciated culture more than mrs. munt; but it was dangerous, and disasterwas bound to come. how right she was, and how lucky to be onthe spot when the disaster came! the train sped northward, under innumerabletunnels.

it was only an hour's journey, but mrs.munt had to raise and lower the window again and again. she passed through the south welwyn tunnel,saw light for a moment, and entered the north welwyn tunnel, of tragic fame. she traversed the immense viaduct, whosearches span untroubled meadows and the dreamy flow of tewin water.she skirted the parks of politicians. at times the great north road accompaniedher, more suggestive of infinity than any railway, awakening, after a nap of ahundred years, to such life as is conferred by the stench of motor-cars, and to such

culture as is implied by the advertisementsof antibilious pills. to history, to tragedy, to the past, to thefuture, mrs. munt remained equally indifferent; hers but to concentrate on theend of her journey, and to rescue poor helen from this dreadful mess. the station for howards end was at hilton,one of the large villages that are strung so frequently along the north road, andthat owe their size to the traffic of coaching and pre-coaching days. being near london, it had not shared in therural decay, and its long high street had budded out right and left into residentialestates.

for about a mile a series of tiled andslated houses passed before mrs. munt's inattentive eyes, a series broken at onepoint by six danish tumuli that stood shoulder to shoulder along the highroad,tombs of soldiers. beyond these tumuli habitations thickened,and the train came to a standstill in a tangle that was almost a town. the station, like the scenery, like helen'sletters, struck an indeterminate note. into which country will it lead, england orsuburbia? it was new, it had island platforms and asubway, and the superficial comfort exacted by business men.

but it held hints of local life, personalintercourse, as even mrs. munt was to discover."i want a house," she confided to the ticket boy. "its name is howards lodge.do you know where it is?" "mr. wilcox!" the boy called.a young man in front of them turned round. "she's wanting howards end." there was nothing for it but to go forward,though mrs. munt was too much agitated even to stare at the stranger. but remembering that there were twobrothers, she had the sense to say to him,

"excuse me asking, but are you the youngermr. wilcox or the elder?" "the younger. can i do anything for you?""oh, well"--she controlled herself with difficulty."really. are you? i--" she moved away from the ticket boyand lowered her voice. "i am miss schlegels aunt.i ought to introduce myself, oughtn't i? my name is mrs. munt." she was conscious that he raised his capand said quite coolly, "oh, rather; miss

schlegel is stopping with us.did you want to see her?" "possibly--" "i'll call you a cab.no; wait a mo--" he thought. "our motor's here.i'll run you up in it." "that is very kind--" "not at all, if you'll just wait till theybring out a parcel from the office. this way.""my niece is not with you by any chance?" "no; i came over with my father. he has gone on north in your train.you'll see miss schlegel at lunch.

you're coming up to lunch, i hope?" "i should like to come up," said mrs. munt,not committing herself to nourishment until she had studied helen's lover a littlemore. he seemed a gentleman, but had so rattledher round that her powers of observation were numbed.she glanced at him stealthily. to a feminine eye there was nothing amissin the sharp depressions at the corners of his mouth, nor in the rather box-likeconstruction of his forehead. he was dark, clean-shaven and seemedaccustomed to command. "in front or behind?which do you prefer?

it may be windy in front." "in front if i may; then we can talk.""but excuse me one moment--i can't think what they're doing with that parcel." he strode into the booking-office andcalled with a new voice: "hi! hi, you there!are you going to keep me waiting all day? parcel for wilcox, howards end. just look sharp!"emerging, he said in quieter tones: "this station's abominably organized; if i had myway, the whole lot of 'em should get the sack.

may i help you in?""this is very good of you," said mrs. munt, as she settled herself into a luxuriouscavern of red leather, and suffered her person to be padded with rugs and shawls. she was more civil than she had intended,but really this young man was very kind. moreover, she was a little afraid of him:his self-possession was extraordinary. "very good indeed," she repeated, adding:"it is just what i should have wished." "very good of you to say so," he replied,with a slight look of surprise, which, like most slight looks, escaped mrs. munt'sattention. "i was just tooling my father over to catchthe down train."

"you see, we heard from helen thismorning." young wilcox was pouring in petrol,starting his engine, and performing other actions with which this story has noconcern. the great car began to rock, and the formof mrs. munt, trying to explain things, sprang agreeably up and down among the redcushions. "the mater will be very glad to see you,"he mumbled. "hi! i say.parcel for howards end. bring it out. hi!"a bearded porter emerged with the parcel in

one hand and an entry book in the other.with the gathering whir of the motor these ejaculations mingled: "sign, must i? why the--should i sign after all thisbother? not even got a pencil on you?remember next time i report you to the station-master. my time's of value, though yours mayn't be.here"--here being a tip. "extremely sorry, mrs. munt.""not at all, mr. wilcox." "and do you object to going through thevillage? it is rather a longer spin, but i have oneor two commissions."

"i should love going through the village. naturally i am very anxious to talk thingsover with you." as she said this she felt ashamed, for shewas disobeying margaret's instructions. only disobeying them in the letter, surely. margaret had only warned her againstdiscussing the incident with outsiders. surely it was not "uncivilized or wrong" todiscuss it with the young man himself, since chance had thrown them together. a reticent fellow, he made no reply.mounting by her side, he put on gloves and spectacles, and off they drove, the beardedporter--life is a mysterious business--

looking after them with admiration. the wind was in their faces down thestation road, blowing the dust into mrs. munt's eyes.but as soon as they turned into the great north road she opened fire. "you can well imagine," she said, "that thenews was a great shock to us." "what news?""mr. wilcox," she said frankly. "margaret has told me everything--everything. i have seen helen's letter." he could not look her in the face, as hiseyes were fixed on his work; he was

travelling as quickly as he dared down thehigh street. but he inclined his head in her direction,and said, "i beg your pardon; i didn't catch.""about helen. helen, of course. helen is a very exceptional person--i amsure you will let me say this, feeling towards her as you do--indeed, all theschlegels are exceptional. i come in no spirit of interference, but itwas a great shock." they drew up opposite a draper's. without replying, he turned round in hisseat, and contemplated the cloud of dust

that they had raised in their passagethrough the village. it was settling again, but not all into theroad from which he had taken it. some of it had percolated through the openwindows, some had whitened the roses and gooseberries of the wayside gardens, whilea certain proportion had entered the lungs of the villagers. "i wonder when they'll learn wisdom and tarthe roads," was his comment. then a man ran out of the draper's with aroll of oilcloth, and off they went again. "margaret could not come herself, onaccount of poor tibby, so i am here to represent her and to have a good talk.""i'm sorry to be so dense," said the young

man, again drawing up outside a shop. "but i still haven't quite understood.""helen, mr. wilcox--my niece and you." he pushed up his goggles and gazed at her,absolutely bewildered. horror smote her to the heart, for even shebegan to suspect that they were at cross- purposes, and that she had commenced hermission by some hideous blunder. "miss schlegel and myself." he asked,compressing his lips. "i trust there has been nomisunderstanding," quavered mrs. munt. "her letter certainly read that way." "what way?""that you and she--" she paused, then

drooped her eyelids."i think i catch your meaning," he said stickily. "what an extraordinary mistake!""then you didn't the least--" she stammered, getting blood-red in the face,and wishing she had never been born. "scarcely, as i am already engaged toanother lady." there was a moment's silence, and then hecaught his breath and exploded with, "oh, good god! don't tell me it's some silliness ofpaul's." "but you are paul.""i'm not."

"then why did you say so at the station?" "i said nothing of the sort.""i beg your pardon, you did." "i beg your pardon, i did not.my name is charles." "younger" may mean son as opposed tofather, or second brother as opposed to first.there is much to be said for either view, and later on they said it. but they had other questions before themnow. "do you mean to tell me that paul--"but she did not like his voice. he sounded as if he was talking to aporter, and, certain that he had deceived

her at the station, she too grew angry."do you mean to tell me that paul and your niece--" mrs. munt--such is human nature--determinedthat she would champion the lovers. she was not going to be bullied by a severeyoung man. "yes, they care for one another very muchindeed," she said. "i dare say they will tell you about it by-and-by. we heard this morning." and charles clenched his fist and cried,"the idiot, the idiot, the little fool!" mrs. munt tried to divest herself of herrugs.

"if that is your attitude, mr. wilcox, iprefer to walk." "i beg you will do no such thing.i'll take you up this moment to the house. let me tell you the thing's impossible, andmust be stopped." mrs. munt did not often lose her temper,and when she did it was only to protect those whom she loved. on this occasion she blazed out."i quite agree, sir. the thing is impossible, and i will come upand stop it. my niece is a very exceptional person, andi am not inclined to sit still while she throws herself away on those who will notappreciate her."

charles worked his jaws. "considering she has only known yourbrother since wednesday, and only met your father and mother at a stray hotel--""could you possibly lower your voice? the shopman will overhear." "esprit de classe"--if one may coin thephrase--was strong in mrs. munt. she sat quivering while a member of thelower orders deposited a metal funnel, a saucepan, and a garden squirt beside theroll of oilcloth. "right behind?" "yes, sir."and the lower orders vanished in a cloud of

dust."i warn you: paul hasn't a penny; it's useless." "no need to warn us, mr. wilcox, i assureyou. the warning is all the other way. my niece has been very foolish, and i shallgive her a good scolding and take her back to london with me.""he has to make his way out in nigeria. he couldn't think of marrying for years andwhen he does it must be a woman who can stand the climate, and is in other ways--why hasn't he told us? of course he's ashamed.

he knows he's been a fool.and so he has--a damned fool." she grew furious."whereas miss schlegel has lost no time in publishing the news." "if i were a man, mr. wilcox, for that lastremark i'd box your ears. you're not fit to clean my niece's boots,to sit in the same room with her, and you dare--you actually dare--i decline to arguewith such a person." "all i know is, she's spread the thing andhe hasn't, and my father's away and i--" "and all that i know is--""might i finish my sentence, please?" "no."

charles clenched his teeth and sent themotor swerving all over the lane. she screamed. so they played the game of cappingfamilies, a round of which is always played when love would unite two members of ourrace. but they played it with unusual vigour,stating in so many words that schlegels were better than wilcoxes, wilcoxes betterthan schlegels. they flung decency aside. the man was young, the woman deeplystirred; in both a vein of coarseness was latent.

their quarrel was no more surprising thanare most quarrels--inevitable at the time, incredible afterwards.but it was more than usually futile. a few minutes, and they were enlightened. the motor drew up at howards end, andhelen, looking very pale, ran out to meet her aunt. "aunt juley, i have just had a telegramfrom margaret; i--i meant to stop your coming.it isn't--it's over." the climax was too much for mrs. munt. she burst into tears."aunt juley dear, don't.

don't let them know i've been so silly.it wasn't anything. do bear up for my sake." "paul," cried charles wilcox, pulling hisgloves off. "don't let them know.they are never to know." "oh, my darling helen--" "paul!paul!" a very young man came out of the house."paul, is there any truth in this?" "i didn't--i don't--" "yes or no, man; plain question, plainanswer.

did or didn't miss schlegel--""charles dear," said a voice from the garden. "charles, dear charles, one doesn't askplain questions. there aren't such things."they were all silent. it was mrs. wilcox. she approached just as helen's letter haddescribed her, trailing noiselessly over the lawn, and there was actually a wisp ofhay in her hands. she seemed to belong not to the youngpeople and their motor, but to the house, and to the tree that overshadowed it.

one knew that she worshipped the past, andthat the instinctive wisdom the past can alone bestow had descended upon her--thatwisdom to which we give the clumsy name of aristocracy. high born she might not be.but assuredly she cared about her ancestors, and let them help her. when she saw charles angry, paulfrightened, and mrs. munt in tears, she heard her ancestors say, "separate thosehuman beings who will hurt each other most. the rest can wait." so she did not ask questions.still less did she pretend that nothing had

happened, as a competent society hostesswould have done. she said, "miss schlegel, would you takeyour aunt up to your room or to my room, whichever you think best. paul, do find evie, and tell her lunch forsix, but i'm not sure whether we shall all be downstairs for it." and when they had obeyed her, she turned toher elder son, who still stood in the throbbing stinking car, and smiled at himwith tenderness, and without a word, turned away from him towards her flowers. "mother," he called, "are you aware thatpaul has been playing the fool again?"

"it's all right, dear.they have broken off the engagement." "engagement--!" "they do not love any longer, if you preferit put that way," said mrs. wilcox, stooping down to smell a rose. howards end by e. m. forsterchapter 4 helen and her aunt returned to wickhamplace in a state of collapse, and for a little time margaret had three invalids onher hands. mrs. munt soon recovered. she possessed to a remarkable degree thepower of distorting the past, and before

many days were over she had forgotten thepart played by her own imprudence in the catastrophe. even at the crisis she had cried, "thankgoodness, poor margaret is saved this!" which during the journey to london evolvedinto, "it had to be gone through by someone," which in its turn ripened into the permanent form of "the one time ireally did help emily's girls was over the wilcox business."but helen was a more serious patient. new ideas had burst upon her like a thunderclap, and by them and by her reverberations she had been stunned.the truth was that she had fallen in love,

not with an individual, but with a family. before paul arrived she had, as it were,been tuned up into his key. the energy of the wilcoxes had fascinatedher, had created new images of beauty in her responsive mind. to be all day with them in the open air, tosleep at night under their roof, had seemed the supreme joy of life, and had led tothat abandonment of personality that is a possible prelude to love. she had liked giving in to mr. wilcox, orevie, or charles; she had liked being told that her notions of life were sheltered oracademic; that equality was nonsense, votes

for women nonsense, socialism nonsense, art and literature, except when conducive tostrengthening the character, nonsense. one by one the schlegel fetiches had beenoverthrown, and, though professing to defend them, she had rejoiced. when mr. wilcox said that one sound man ofbusiness did more good to the world than a dozen of your social reformers, she hadswallowed the curious assertion without a gasp, and had leant back luxuriously amongthe cushions of his motor-car. when charles said, "why be so polite toservants? they don't understand it," she had not given the schlegel retort of, "ifthey don't understand it, i do."

no; she had vowed to be less polite toservants in the future. "i am swathed in cant," she thought, "andit is good for me to be stripped of it." and all that she thought or did or breathedwas a quiet preparation for paul. paul was inevitable. charles was taken up with another girl, mr.wilcox was so old, evie so young, mrs. wilcox so different. round the absent brother she began to throwthe halo of romance, to irradiate him with all the splendour of those happy days, tofeel that in him she should draw nearest to the robust ideal.

he and she were about the same age, eviesaid. most people thought paul handsomer than hisbrother. he was certainly a better shot, though notso good at golf. and when paul appeared, flushed with thetriumph of getting through an examination, and ready to flirt with any pretty girl,helen met him halfway, or more than halfway, and turned towards him on thesunday evening. he had been talking of his approachingexile in nigeria, and he should have continued to talk of it, and allowed theirguest to recover. but the heave of her bosom flattered him.

passion was possible, and he becamepassionate. deep down in him something whispered, "thisgirl would let you kiss her; you might not have such a chance again." that was "how it happened," or, rather, howhelen described it to her sister, using words even more unsympathetic than my own. but the poetry of that kiss, the wonder ofit, the magic that there was in life for hours after it--who can describe that?it is so easy for an englishman to sneer at these chance collisions of human beings. to the insular cynic and the insularmoralist they offer an equal opportunity.

it is so easy to talk of "passing emotion,"and how to forget how vivid the emotion was ere it passed. our impulse to sneer, to forget, is at roota good one. we recognize that emotion is not enough,and that men and women are personalities capable of sustained relations, not mereopportunities for an electrical discharge. yet we rate the impulse too highly. we do not admit that by collisions of thistrivial sort the doors of heaven may be shaken open. to helen, at all events, her life was tobring nothing more intense than the embrace

of this boy who played no part in it. he had drawn her out of the house, wherethere was danger of surprise and light; he had led her by a path he knew, until theystood under the column of the vast wych- elm. a man in the darkness, he had whispered "ilove you" when she was desiring love. in time his slender personality faded, thescene that he had evoked endured. in all the variable years that followed shenever saw the like of it again. "i understand," said margaret--"at least, iunderstand as much as ever is understood of these things.

tell me now what happened on the mondaymorning." "it was over at once.""how, helen?" "i was still happy while i dressed, but asi came downstairs i got nervous, and when i went into the dining-room i knew it was nogood. there was evie--i can't explain--managingthe tea-urn, and mr. wilcox reading the times.""was paul there?" "yes; and charles was talking to him aboutstocks and shares, and he looked frightened."by slight indications the sisters could convey much to each other.

margaret saw horror latent in the scene,and helen's next remark did not surprise her."somehow, when that kind of man looks frightened it is too awful. it is all right for us to be frightened, orfor men of another sort--father, for instance; but for men like that! when i saw all the others so placid, andpaul mad with terror in case i said the wrong thing, i felt for a moment that thewhole wilcox family was a fraud, just a wall of newspapers and motor-cars and golf- clubs, and that if it fell i should findnothing behind it but panic and emptiness."

"i don't think that.the wilcoxes struck me as being genuine people, particularly the wife." "no, i don't really think that.but paul was so broad-shouldered; all kinds of extraordinary things made it worse, andi knew that it would never do--never. i said to him after breakfast, when theothers were practising strokes, 'we rather lost our heads,' and he looked better atonce, though frightfully ashamed. he began a speech about having no money tomarry on, but it hurt him to make it, and i--stopped him. then he said, 'i must beg your pardon overthis, miss schlegel; i can't think what

came over me last night.'and i said, 'nor what over me; never mind.' and then we parted--at least, until iremembered that i had written straight off to tell you the night before, and thatfrightened him again. i asked him to send a telegram for me, forhe knew you would be coming or something; and he tried to get hold of the motor, butcharles and mr. wilcox wanted it to go to the station; and charles offered to send the telegram for me, and then i had to saythat the telegram was of no consequence, for paul said charles might read it, andthough i wrote it out several times, he always said people would suspect something.

he took it himself at last, pretending thathe must walk down to get cartridges, and, what with one thing and the other, it wasnot handed in at the post office until too late. it was the most terrible morning.paul disliked me more and more, and evie talked cricket averages till i nearlyscreamed. i cannot think how i stood her all theother days. at last charles and his father started forthe station, and then came your telegram warning me that aunt juley was coming bythat train, and paul--oh, rather horrible-- said that i had muddled it.

but mrs. wilcox knew.""knew what?" "everything; though we neither of us toldher a word, and had known all along, i think." "oh, she must have overheard you.""i suppose so, but it seemed wonderful. when charles and aunt juley drove up,calling each other names, mrs. wilcox stepped in from the garden and madeeverything less terrible. ugh! but it has been a disgusting business. to think that--" she sighed."to think that because you and a young man meet for a moment, there must be all thesetelegrams and anger," supplied margaret.

helen nodded. "i've often thought about it, helen.it's one of the most interesting things in the world. the truth is that there is a great outerlife that you and i have never touched--a life in which telegrams and anger count.personal relations, that we think supreme, are not supreme there. there love means marriage settlements,death, death duties. so far i'm clear.but here my difficulty. this outer life, though obviously horrid,often seems the real one--there's grit in

it.it does breed character. do personal relations lead to sloppiness inthe end?" "oh, meg, that's what i felt, only not soclearly, when the wilcoxes were so competent, and seemed to have their handson all the ropes." "don't you feel it now?" "i remember paul at breakfast," said helenquietly. "i shall never forget him.he had nothing to fall back upon. i know that personal relations are the reallife, for ever and ever. "amen!"

so the wilcox episode fell into thebackground, leaving behind it memories of sweetness and horror that mingled, and thesisters pursued the life that helen had commended. they talked to each other and to otherpeople, they filled the tall thin house at wickham place with those whom they liked orcould befriend. they even attended public meetings. in their own fashion they cared deeplyabout politics, though not as politicians would have us care; they desired thatpublic life should mirror whatever is good in the life within.

temperance, tolerance, and sexual equalitywere intelligible cries to them; whereas they did not follow our forward policy inthibet with the keen attention that it merits, and would at times dismiss the whole british empire with a puzzled, ifreverent, sigh. not out of them are the shows of historyerected: the world would be a grey, bloodless place were it entirely composedof miss schlegels. but the world being what it is, perhapsthey shine out in it like stars. a word on their origin.they were not "english to the backbone," as their aunt had piously asserted.

but, on the other band, they were not"germans of the dreadful sort." their father had belonged to a type thatwas more prominent in germany fifty years ago than now. he was not the aggressive german, so dearto the english journalist, nor the domestic german, so dear to the english wit. if one classed him at all it would be asthe countryman of hegel and kant, as the idealist, inclined to be dreamy, whoseimperialism was the imperialism of the air. not that his life had been inactive. he had fought like blazes against denmark,austria, france.

but he had fought without visualizing theresults of victory. a hint of the truth broke on him aftersedan, when he saw the dyed moustaches of napoleon going grey; another when heentered paris, and saw the smashed windows of the tuileries. peace came--it was all very immense, onehad turned into an empire--but he knew that some quality had vanished for which not allalsace-lorraine could compensate him. germany a commercial power, germany a navalpower, germany with colonies here and a forward policy there, and legitimateaspirations in the other place, might appeal to others, and be fitly served by

them; for his own part, he abstained fromthe fruits of victory, and naturalized himself in england. the more earnest members of his familynever forgave him, and knew that his children, though scarcely english of thedreadful sort, would never be german to the backbone. he had obtained work in one of ourprovincial universities, and there married poor emily (or die englanderin as the casemay be), and as she had money, they proceeded to london, and came to know agood many people. but his gaze was always fixed beyond thesea.

it was his hope that the clouds ofmaterialism obscuring the fatherland would part in time, and the mild intellectuallight re-emerge. "do you imply that we germans are stupid,uncle ernst?" exclaimed a haughty and magnificent nephew.uncle ernst replied, "to my mind. you use the intellect, but you no longercare about it. that i call stupidity." as the haughty nephew did not follow, hecontinued, "you only care about the' things that you can use, and therefore arrangethem in the following order: money, supremely useful; intellect, rather useful;imagination, of no use at all.

no"--for the other had protested--"yourpan-germanism is no more imaginative than is our imperialism over here. it is the vice of a vulgar mind to bethrilled by bigness, to think that a thousand square miles are a thousand timesmore wonderful than one square mile, and that a million square miles are almost thesame as heaven. that is not imagination.no, it kills it. when their poets over here try to celebratebigness they are dead at once, and naturally. your poets too are dying, yourphilosophers, your musicians, to whom

europe has listened for two hundred years.gone. gone with the little courts that nurturedthem--gone with esterhaz and weimar. what?what's that? your universities? oh, yes, you have learned men, who collectmore facts than do the learned men of england.they collect facts, and facts, and empires of facts. but which of them will rekindle the lightwithin?" to all this margaret listened, sitting onthe haughty nephew's knee.

it was a unique education for the littlegirls. the haughty nephew would be at wickhamplace one day, bringing with him an even haughtier wife, both convinced that germanywas appointed by god to govern the world. aunt juley would come the next day,convinced that great britain had been appointed to the same post by the sameauthority. were both these loud-voiced parties right? on one occasion they had met, and margaretwith clasped hands had implored them to argue the subject out in her presence.whereat they blushed, and began to talk about the weather.

"papa" she cried--she was a most offensivechild--"why will they not discuss this most clear question?"her father, surveying the parties grimly, replied that he did not know. putting her head on one side, margaret thenremarked, "to me one of two things is very clear; either god does not know his ownmind about england and germany, or else these do not know the mind of god." a hateful little girl, but at thirteen shehad grasped a dilemma that most people travel through life without perceiving.her brain darted up and down; it grew pliant and strong.

her conclusion was, that any human beinglies nearer to the unseen than any organization, and from this she nevervaried. helen advanced along the same lines, thoughwith a more irresponsible tread. in character she resembled her sister, butshe was pretty, and so apt to have a more amusing time. people gathered round her more readily,especially when they were new acquaintances, and she did enjoy a littlehomage very much. when their father died and they ruled aloneat wickham place, she often absorbed the whole of the company, while margaret--bothwere tremendous talkers--fell flat.

neither sister bothered about this. helen never apologized afterwards, margaretdid not feel the slightest rancour. but looks have their influence uponcharacter. the sisters were alike as little girls, butat the time of the wilcox episode their methods were beginning to diverge; theyounger was rather apt to entice people, and, in enticing them, to be herself enticed; the elder went straight ahead, andaccepted an occasional failure as part of the game.little need be premised about tibby. he was now an intelligent man of sixteen,but dyspeptic and difficile.

howards end by e. m. forsterchapter 5 it will be generally admitted thatbeethoven's fifth symphony is the most sublime noise that has ever penetrated intothe ear of man. all sorts and conditions are satisfied byit. whether you are like mrs. munt, and tapsurreptitiously when the tunes come--of course, not so as to disturb the others--;or like helen, who can see heroes and shipwrecks in the music's flood; or like margaret, who can only see the music; orlike tibby, who is profoundly versed in counterpoint, and holds the full score openon his knee; or like their cousin, fraulein

mosebach, who remembers all the time that beethoven is "echt deutsch"; or likefraulein mosebach's young man, who can remember nothing but fraulein mosebach: inany case, the passion of your life becomes more vivid, and you are bound to admit thatsuch a noise is cheap at two shillings. it is cheap, even if you hear it in thequeen's hall, dreariest music-room in london, though not as dreary as the freetrade hall, manchester; and even if you sit on the extreme left of that hall, so that the brass bumps at you before the rest ofthe orchestra arrives, it is still cheap. "who is margaret talking to?" said mrs.munt, at the conclusion of the first

movement. she was again in london on a visit towickham place. helen looked down the long line of theirparty, and said that she did not know. "would it be some young man or other whomshe takes an interest in?" "i expect so," helen replied. music enwrapped her, and she could notenter into the distinction that divides young men whom one takes an interest infrom young men whom one knows. "you girls are so wonderful in alwayshaving--oh dear! one mustn't talk." for the andante had begun--very beautiful,but bearing a family likeness to all the

other beautiful andantes that beethoven hadwritten, and, to helen's mind, rather disconnecting the heroes and shipwrecks of the first movement from the heroes andgoblins of the third. she heard the tune through once, and thenher attention wandered, and she gazed at the audience, or the organ, or thearchitecture. much did she censure the attenuated cupidswho encircle the ceiling of the queen's hall, inclining each to each with vapidgesture, and clad in sallow pantaloons, on which the october sunlight struck. "how awful to marry a man like thosecupids!" thought helen.

here beethoven started decorating his tune,so she heard him through once more, and then she smiled at her cousin frieda. but frieda, listening to classical music,could not respond. herr liesecke, too, looked as if wildhorses could not make him inattentive; there were lines across his forehead, hislips were parted, his pince-nez at right angles to his nose, and he had laid athick, white hand on either knee. and next to her was aunt juley, so british,and wanting to tap. how interesting that row of people was! what diverse influences had gone to themaking!

here beethoven, after humming and hawingwith great sweetness, said "heigho," and the andante came to an end. applause, and a round of "wunderschoning"and "prachtvolleying" from the german contingent. margaret started talking to her new youngman; helen said to her aunt: "now comes the wonderful movement: first of all thegoblins, and then a trio of elephants dancing;" and tibby implored the company generally to look out for the transitionalpassage on the drum. "on the what, dear?""on the drum, aunt juley."

"no; look out for the part where you thinkyou have done with the goblins and they come back," breathed helen, as the musicstarted with a goblin walking quietly over the universe, from end to end. others followed him.they were not aggressive creatures; it was that that made them so terrible to helen. they merely observed in passing that therewas no such thing as splendour or heroism in the world. after the interlude of elephants dancing,they returned and made the observation for the second time.

helen could not contradict them, for, onceat all events, she had felt the same, and had seen the reliable walls of youthcollapse. panic and emptiness! panic and emptiness!the goblins were right. her brother raised his finger: it was thetransitional passage on the drum. for, as if things were going too far,beethoven took hold of the goblins and made them do what he wanted.he appeared in person. he gave them a little push, and they beganto walk in major key instead of in a minor, and then--he blew with his mouth and theywere scattered!

gusts of splendour, gods and demigodscontending with vast swords, colour and fragrance broadcast on the field of battle,magnificent victory, magnificent death! oh, it all burst before the girl, and sheeven stretched out her gloved hands as if it was tangible. any fate was titanic; any contestdesirable; conqueror and conquered would alike be applauded by the angels of theutmost stars. and the goblins--they had not really beenthere at all? they were only the phantoms of cowardiceand unbelief? one healthy human impulse would dispelthem?

men like the wilcoxes, or presidentroosevelt, would say yes. beethoven knew better. the goblins really had been there.they might return--and they did. it was as if the splendour of life mightboil over--and waste to steam and froth. in its dissolution one heard the terrible,ominous note, and a goblin, with increased malignity, walked quietly over the universefrom end to end. panic and emptiness!even the flaming ramparts of the world might fall.beethoven chose to make all right in the end.

he built the ramparts up.he blew with his mouth for the second time, and again the goblins were scattered. he brought back the gusts of splendour, theheroism, the youth, the magnificence of life and of death, and, amid vast roaringsof a superhuman joy, he led his fifth symphony to its conclusion. but the goblins were there.they could return. he had said so bravely, and that is why onecan trust beethoven when he says other things. helen pushed her way out during theapplause.

she desired to be alone.the music summed up to her all that had happened or could happen in her career. she read it as a tangible statement, whichcould never be superseded. the notes meant this and that to her, andthey could have no other meaning, and life could have no other meaning. she pushed right out of the building, andwalked slowly down the outside staircase, breathing the autumnal air, and then shestrolled home. "margaret," called mrs. munt, "is helen allright?" "oh yes.""she is always going away in the middle of

a programme," said tibby. "the music has evidently moved her deeply,"said fraulein mosebach. "excuse me," said margaret's young man, whohad for some time been preparing a sentence, "but that lady has, quiteinadvertently, taken my umbrella." "oh, good gracious me! --i am so sorry.tibby, run after helen." "i shall miss the four serious songs if ido." "tibby love, you must go." "it isn't of any consequence," said theyoung man, in truth a little uneasy about

his umbrella."but of course it is. tibby! tibby!"tibby rose to his feet, and wilfully caught his person on the backs of the chairs. by the time he had tipped up the seat andhad found his hat, and had deposited his full score in safety, it was "too late" togo after helen. the four serious songs had begun, and onecould not move during their performance. "my sister is so careless," whisperedmargaret. "not at all," replied the young man; buthis voice was dead and cold.

"if you would give me your address--""oh, not at all, not at all;" and he wrapped his greatcoat over his knees. then the four serious songs rang shallow inmargaret's ears. brahms, for all his grumbling andgrizzling, had never guessed what it felt like to be suspected of stealing anumbrella. for this fool of a young man thought thatshe and helen and tibby had been playing the confidence trick on him, and that if hegave his address they would break into his rooms some midnight or other and steal hiswalkingstick too. most ladies would have laughed, butmargaret really minded, for it gave her a

glimpse into squalor. to trust people is a luxury in which onlythe wealthy can indulge; the poor cannot afford it. as soon as brahms had grunted himself out,she gave him her card and said, "that is where we live; if you preferred, you couldcall for the umbrella after the concert, but i didn't like to trouble you when ithas all been our fault." his face brightened a little when he sawthat wickham place was w. it was sad to see him corroded withsuspicion, and yet not daring to be impolite, in case these well-dressed peoplewere honest after all.

she took it as a good sign that he said toher, "it's a fine programme this afternoon, is it not?" for this was the remark withwhich he had originally opened, before the umbrella intervened. "the beethoven's fine," said margaret, whowas not a female of the encouraging type. "i don't like the brahms, though, nor themendelssohn that came first--and ugh! i don't like this elgar that's coming." "what, what?" called herr liesecke,overhearing. "the pomp and circumstance will not befine?" "oh, margaret, you tiresome girl!" criedher aunt.

"here have i been persuading herr liesecketo stop for pomp and circumstance, and you are undoing all my work. i am so anxious for him to hear what we aredoing in music. oh, you mustn't run down our englishcomposers, margaret." "for my part, i have heard the compositionat stettin," said fraulein mosebach. "on two occasions.it is dramatic, a little." "frieda, you despise english music. you know you do.and english art. and english literature, except shakespeareand he's a german.

very well, frieda, you may go." the lovers laughed and glanced at eachother. moved by a common impulse, they rose totheir feet and fled from pomp and circumstance. "we have this call to play in finsburycircus, it is true," said herr liesecke, as he edged past her and reached the gangwayjust as the music started. "margaret--" loudly whispered by auntjuley. "margaret, margaret!fraulein mosebach has left her beautiful little bag behind her on the seat."

sure enough, there was frieda's reticule,containing her address book, her pocket dictionary, her map of london, and hermoney. "oh, what a bother--what a family we are! fr-frieda!""hush!" said all those who thought the music fine."but it's the number they want in finsbury circus--" "might i--couldn't i--" said the suspiciousyoung man, and got very red. "oh, i would be so grateful."he took the bag--money clinking inside it-- and slipped up the gangway with it.

he was just in time to catch them at theswing-door, and he received a pretty smile from the german girl and a fine bow fromher cavalier. he returned to his seat up-sides with theworld. the trust that they had reposed in him wastrivial, but he felt that it cancelled his mistrust for them, and that probably hewould not be "had" over his umbrella. this young man had been "had" in the past--badly, perhaps overwhelmingly--and now most of his energies went in defending himselfagainst the unknown. but this afternoon--perhaps on account ofmusic--he perceived that one must slack off occasionally, or what is the good of beingalive?

wickham place, w., though a risk, was assafe as most things, and he would risk it. so when the concert was over and margaretsaid, "we live quite near; i am going there now. could you walk around with me, and we'llfind your umbrella?" he said, "thank you," peaceably, and followed her out of thequeen's hall. she wished that he was not so anxious tohand a lady downstairs, or to carry a lady's programme for her--his class wasnear enough her own for its manners to vex her. but she found him interesting on the whole--every one interested the schlegels on the

whole at that time--and while her lipstalked culture, her heart was planning to invite him to tea. "how tired one gets after music!" shebegan. "do you find the atmosphere of queen's halloppressive?" "yes, horribly." "but surely the atmosphere of covent gardenis even more oppressive." "do you go there much?""when my work permits, i attend the gallery for, the royal opera." helen would have exclaimed, "so do i.i love the gallery," and thus have endeared

herself to the young man.helen could do these things. but margaret had an almost morbid horror of"drawing people out," of "making things go." she had been to the gallery at coventgarden, but she did not "attend" it, preferring the more expensive seats; stillless did she love it. so she made no reply. "this year i have been three times--tofaust, tosca, and--" was it "tannhouser" or "tannhoyser"?better not risk the word. margaret disliked tosca and faust.

and so, for one reason and another, theywalked on in silence, chaperoned by the voice of mrs. munt, who was getting intodifficulties with her nephew. "i do in a way remember the passage, tibby,but when every instrument is so beautiful, it is difficult to pick out one thingrather than another. i am sure that you and helen take me to thevery nicest concerts. not a dull note from beginning to end.i only wish that our german friends would have stayed till it finished." "but surely you haven't forgotten the drumsteadily beating on the low c, aunt juley?" came tibby's voice."no one could.

it's unmistakable." "a specially loud part?" hazarded mrs.munt. "of course i do not go in for beingmusical," she added, the shot failing. "i only care for music--a very differentthing. but still i will say this for myself--i doknow when i like a thing and when i don't. some people are the same about pictures. they can go into a picture gallery--missconder can--and say straight off what they feel, all round the wall.i never could do that. but music is so different to pictures, tomy mind.

when it comes to music i am as safe ashouses, and i assure you, tibby, i am by no means pleased by everything. there was a thing--something about a faunin french--which helen went into ecstasies over, but i thought it most tinkling andsuperficial, and said so, and i held to my opinion too." "do you agree?" asked margaret."do you think music is so different to pictures?""i--i should have thought so, kind of," he said. "so should i.now, my sister declares they're just the

same.we have great arguments over it. she says i'm dense; i say she's sloppy." getting under way, she cried: "now, doesn'tit seem absurd to you? what is the good of the arts if they areinterchangeable? what is the good of the ear if it tells youthe same as the eye? helen's one aim is to translate tunes intothe language of painting, and pictures into the language of music. it's very ingenious, and she says severalpretty things in the process, but what's gained, i'd like to know?oh, it's all rubbish, radically false.

if monet's really debussy, and debussy'sreally monet, neither gentleman is worth his salt--that's my opinion.evidently these sisters quarrelled. "now, this very symphony that we've justbeen having--she won't let it alone. she labels it with meanings from start tofinish; turns it into literature. i wonder if the day will ever return whenmusic will be treated as music. yet i don't know.there's my brother--behind us. he treats music as music, and oh, mygoodness! he makes me angrier than anyone, simplyfurious. with him i daren't even argue."

an unhappy family, if talented."but, of course, the real villain is wagner. he has done more than any man in thenineteenth century towards the muddling of arts. i do feel that music is in a very seriousstate just now, though extraordinarily interesting. every now and then in history there do comethese terrible geniuses, like wagner, who stir up all the wells of thought at once.for a moment it's splendid. such a splash as never was.

but afterwards--such a lot of mud; and thewells--as it were, they communicate with each other too easily now, and not one ofthem will run quite clear. that's what wagner's done." her speeches fluttered away from the youngman like birds. if only he could talk like this, he wouldhave caught the world. oh to acquire culture! oh, to pronounce foreign names correctly!oh, to be well informed, discoursing at ease on every subject that a lady started!but it would take one years. with an hour at lunch and a few shatteredhours in the evening, how was it possible

to catch up with leisured women, who hadbeen reading steadily from childhood? his brain might be full of names, he mighthave even heard of monet and debussy; the trouble was that he could not string themtogether into a sentence, he could not make them "tell," he could not quite forgetabout his stolen umbrella. yes, the umbrella was the real trouble.behind monet and debussy the umbrella persisted, with the steady beat of a drum. "i suppose my umbrella will be all right,"he was thinking. "i don't really mind about it.i will think about music instead. i suppose my umbrella will be all right."

earlier in the afternoon he had worriedabout seats. ought he to have paid as much as twoshillings? earlier still he had wondered, "shall i tryto do without a programme?" there had always been something to worryhim ever since he could remember, always something that distracted him in thepursuit of beauty. for he did pursue beauty, and therefore,margaret's speeches did flutter away from him like birds. margaret talked ahead, occasionally saying,"don't you think so? don't you feel the same?"and once she stopped, and said "oh, do

interrupt me!" which terrified him. she did not attract him, though she filledhim with awe. her figure was meagre, her face seemed allteeth and eyes, her references to her sister and brother were uncharitable. for all her cleverness and culture, she wasprobably one of those soulless, atheistical women who have been so shown up by misscorelli. it was surprising (and alarming) that sheshould suddenly say, "i do hope that you'll come in and have some tea.""i do hope that you'll come in and have some tea.

we should be so glad.i have dragged you so far out of your way." they had arrived at wickham place.the sun had set, and the backwater, in deep shadow, was filling with a gentle haze. to the right of the fantastic skyline ofthe flats towered black against the hues of evening; to the left the older housesraised a square-cut, irregular parapet against the grey. margaret fumbled for her latchkey.of course she had forgotten it. so, grasping her umbrella by its ferrule,she leant over the area and tapped at the dining-room window.

"helen!let us in!" "all right," said a voice."you've been taking this gentleman's umbrella." "taken a what?" said helen, opening thedoor. "oh, what's that?do come in! how do you do?" "helen, you must not be so ramshackly.you took this gentleman's umbrella away from queen's hall, and he has had thetrouble of coming for it." "oh, i am so sorry!" cried helen, all herhair flying.

she had pulled off her hat as soon as shereturned, and had flung herself into the big dining-room chair. "i do nothing but steal umbrellas.i am so very sorry! do come in and choose one.is yours a hooky or a nobbly? mine's a nobbly--at least, i think it is." the light was turned on, and they began tosearch the hall, helen, who had abruptly parted with the fifth symphony, commentingwith shrill little cries. "don't you talk, meg! you stole an old gentleman's silk top-hat.yes, she did, aunt juley.

it is a positive fact.she thought it was a muff. oh, heavens! i've knocked the in and out card down.where's frieda? tibby, why don't you ever--no, i can'tremember what i was going to say. that wasn't it, but do tell the maids tohurry tea up. what about this umbrella?"she opened it. "no, it's all gone along the seams. it's an appalling umbrella.it must be mine." but it was not.

he took it from her, murmured a few wordsof thanks, and then fled, with the lilting step of the clerk."but if you will stop--" cried margaret. "now, helen, how stupid you've been!" "whatever have i done?""don't you see that you've frightened him away?i meant him to stop to tea. you oughtn't to talk about stealing orholes in an umbrella. i saw his nice eyes getting so miserable.no, it's not a bit of good now." for helen had darted out into the street,shouting, "oh, do stop!" "i dare say it is all for the best," opinedmrs. munt.

"we know nothing about the young man,margaret, and your drawing-room is full of very tempting little things."but helen cried: "aunt juley, how can you! you make me more and more ashamed. i'd rather he had been a thief and takenall the apostle spoons than that i--well, i must shut the front-door, i suppose.one more failure for helen." "yes, i think the apostle spoons could havegone as rent," said margaret. seeing that her aunt did not understand,she added: "you remember 'rent.' it was one of father's words--rent to theideal, to his own faith in human nature. you remember how he would trust strangers,and if they fooled him he would say, 'it's

better to be fooled than to be suspicious'--that the confidence trick is the work of man, but the want-of-confidence-trick isthe work of the devil." "i remember something of the sort now,"said mrs. munt, rather tartly, for she longed to add, "it was lucky that yourfather married a wife with money." but this was unkind, and she contentedherself with, "why, he might have stolen the little ricketts picture as well.""better that he had," said helen stoutly. "no, i agree with aunt juley," saidmargaret. "i'd rather mistrust people than lose mylittle ricketts. there are limits."

their brother, finding the incidentcommonplace, had stolen upstairs to see whether there were scones for tea. he warmed the teapot--almost too deftly--rejected the orange pekoe that the parlour- maid had provided, poured in five spoonfulsof a superior blend, filled up with really boiling water, and now called to the ladiesto be quick or they would lose the aroma. "all right, auntie tibby," called helen,while margaret, thoughtful again, said: "in a way, i wish we had a real boy in thehouse--the kind of boy who cares for men. it would make entertaining so much easier." "so do i," said her sister."tibby only cares for cultured females

singing brahms." and when they joined him she said rathersharply: "why didn't you make that young man welcome, tibby?you must do the host a little, you know. you ought to have taken his hat and coaxedhim into stopping, instead of letting him be swamped by screaming women."tibby sighed, and drew a long strand of hair over his forehead. "oh, it's no good looking superior.i mean what i say." "leave tibby alone!" said margaret, whocould not bear her brother to be scolded. "here's the house a regular hen-coop!"grumbled helen.

"oh, my dear!" protested mrs. munt."how can you say such dreadful things! the number of men you get here has alwaysastonished me. if there is any danger it's the other wayround." "yes, but it's the wrong sort of men, helenmeans." "no, i don't," corrected helen. "we get the right sort of man, but thewrong side of him, and i say that's tibby's fault.there ought to be a something about the house--an--i don't know what." "a touch of the w.'s, perhaps?"helen put out her tongue.

"who are the w.'s?" asked tibby."the w.'s are things i and meg and aunt juley know about and you don't, so there!" "i suppose that ours is a female house,"said margaret, "and one must just accept it.no, aunt juley, i don't mean that this house is full of women. i am trying to say something much moreclever. i mean that it was irrevocably feminine,even in father's time. now i'm sure you understand! well, i'll give you another example.it'll shock you, but i don't care.

suppose queen victoria gave a dinner-party,and that the guests had been leighton, millais, swinburne, rossetti, meredith,fitzgerald, etc. do you suppose that the atmosphere of thatdinner would have been artistic? heavens no!the very chairs on which they sat would have seen to that. so with our house--it must be feminine, andall we can do is to see that it isn't effeminate. just as another house that i can mention,but i won't, sounded irrevocably masculine, and all its inmates can do is to see thatit isn't brutal."

"that house being the w.'s house, ipresume," said tibby. "you're not going to be told about thew.'s, my child," helen cried, "so don't you think it. and on the other hand, i don't the leastmind if you find out, so don't you think you've done anything clever, in eithercase. give me a cigarette." "you do what you can for the house," saidmargaret. "the drawing-room reeks of smoke.""if you smoked too, the house might suddenly turn masculine.

atmosphere is probably a question of touchand go. even at queen victoria's dinner-party--ifsomething had been just a little different- -perhaps if she'd worn a clinging libertytea-gown instead of a magenta satin--" "with an indian shawl over her shoulders--" "fastened at the bosom with a cairngorm-pin--" bursts of disloyal laughter--you mustremember that they are half german--greeted these suggestions, and margaret saidpensively, "how inconceivable it would be if the royal family cared about art." and the conversation drifted away and away,and helen's cigarette turned to a spot in

the darkness, and the great flats oppositewere sown with lighted windows, which vanished and were relit again, and vanishedincessantly. beyond them the thoroughfare roared gently--a tide that could never be quiet, while in the east, invisible behind the smokes ofwapping, the moon was rising. "that reminds me, margaret. we might have taken that young man into thedining-room, at all events. only the majolica plate--and that is sofirmly set in the wall. i am really distressed that he had no tea." for that little incident had impressed thethree women more than might be supposed.

it remained as a goblin football, as a hintthat all is not for the best in the best of all possible worlds, and that beneath thesesuperstructures of wealth and art there wanders an ill-fed boy, who has recovered his umbrella indeed, but who has left noaddress behind him, and no name. howards end by e. m. forsterchapter 6 we are not concerned with the very poor.they are unthinkable, and only to be approached by the statistician or the poet. this story deals with gentlefolk, or withthose who are obliged to pretend that they are gentlefolk.the boy, leonard bast, stood at the extreme

verge of gentility. he was not in the abyss, but he could seeit, and at times people whom he knew had dropped in, and counted no more. he knew that he was poor, and would admitit: he would have died sooner than confess any inferiority to the rich.this may be splendid of him. but he was inferior to most rich people,there is not the least doubt of it. he was not as courteous as the average richman, nor as intelligent, nor as healthy, nor as lovable. his mind and his body had been alikeunderfed, because he was poor, and because

he was modern they were always cravingbetter food. had he lived some centuries ago, in thebrightly coloured civilizations of the past, he would have had a definite status,his rank and his income would have corresponded. but in his day the angel of democracy hadarisen, enshadowing the classes with leathern wings, and proclaiming, "all menare equal--all men, that is to say, who possess umbrellas," and so he was obliged to assert gentility, lest he slipped intothe abyss where nothing counts, and the statements of democracy are inaudible.

as he walked away from wickham place, hisfirst care was to prove that he was as good as the miss schlegels.obscurely wounded in his pride, he tried to wound them in return. they were probably not ladies.would real ladies have asked him to tea? they were certainly ill-natured and cold.at each step his feeling of superiority increased. would a real lady have talked aboutstealing an umbrella? perhaps they were thieves after all, and ifhe had gone into the house they could have clapped a chloroformed handkerchief overhis face.

he walked on complacently as far as thehouses of parliament. there an empty stomach asserted itself, andtold him he was a fool. "evening, mr. bast." "evening, mr. dealtry.""nice evening." "evening." mr. dealtry, a fellow clerk, passed on, andleonard stood wondering whether he would take the tram as far as a penny would takehim, or whether he would walk. he decided to walk--it is no good givingin, and he had spent money enough at queen's hall--and he walked overwestminster bridge, in front of st.

thomas's hospital, and through the immense tunnel that passes under the south-westernmain line at vauxhall. in the tunnel he paused and listened to theroar of the trains. a sharp pain darted through his head, andhe was conscious of the exact form of his eye sockets. he pushed on for another mile, and did notslacken speed until he stood at the entrance of a road called camelia road,which was at present his home. here he stopped again, and glancedsuspiciously to right and left, like a rabbit that is going to bolt into its hole.a block of flats, constructed with extreme

cheapness, towered on either hand. farther down the road two more blocks werebeing built, and beyond these an old house was being demolished to accommodate anotherpair. it was the kind of scene that may beobserved all over london, whatever the locality--bricks and mortar rising andfalling with the restlessness of the water in a fountain, as the city receives moreand more men upon her soil. camelia road would soon stand out like afortress, and command, for a little, an extensive view. only for a little.plans were out for the erection of flats in

magnolia road also. and again a few years, and all the flats ineither road might be pulled down, and new buildings, of a vastness at presentunimaginable, might arise where they had fallen. "evening, mr. bast.""evening, mr. cunningham." "very serious thing this decline of thebirth-rate in manchester." "i beg your pardon?" "very serious thing this decline of thebirth-rate in manchester," repeated mr. cunningham, tapping the sunday paper, inwhich the calamity in question had just

been announced to him. "ah, yes," said leonard, who was not goingto let on that he had not bought a sunday paper. "if this kind of thing goes on thepopulation of england will be stationary in 1960.""you don't say so." "i call it a very serious thing, eh?" "good-evening, mr. cunningham.""good-evening, mr. bast." then leonard entered block b of the flats,and turned, not upstairs, but down, into what is known to house agents as a semi-basement, and to other men as a cellar.

he opened the door, and cried "hullo!" withthe pseudo-geniality of the cockney. there was no reply."hullo!" he repeated. the sitting-room was empty, though theelectric light had been left burning. a look of relief came over his face, and heflung himself into the armchair. the sitting-room contained, besides thearmchair, two other chairs, a piano, a three-legged table, and a cosy corner. of the walls, one was occupied by thewindow, the other by a draped mantelshelf bristling with cupids. opposite the window was the door, andbeside the door a bookcase, while over the

piano there extended one of themasterpieces of maud goodman. it was an amorous and not unpleasant littlehole when the curtains were drawn, and the lights turned on, and the gas-stove unlit. but it struck that shallow makeshift notethat is so often heard in the modem dwelling-place.it had been too easily gained, and could be relinquished too easily. as leonard was kicking off his boots hejarred the three-legged table, and a photograph frame, honourably poised uponit, slid sideways, fell off into the fireplace, and smashed.

he swore in a colourless sort of way, andpicked the photograph up. it represented a young lady called jacky,and had been taken at the time when young ladies called jacky were often photographedwith their mouths open. teeth of dazzling whiteness extended alongeither of jacky's jaws, and positively weighted her head sideways, so large werethey and so numerous. take my word for it, that smile was simplystunning, and it is only you and i who will be fastidious, and complain that true joybegins in the eyes, and that the eyes of jacky did not accord with her smile, butwere anxious and hungry. leonard tried to pull out the fragments ofglass, and cut his fingers and swore again.

a drop of blood fell on the frame, anotherfollowed, spilling over on to the exposed photograph.he swore more vigorously, and dashed to the kitchen, where he bathed his hands. the kitchen was the same size as thesitting room; through it was a bedroom. this completed his home. he was renting the flat furnished: of allthe objects that encumbered it none were his own except the photograph frame, thecupids, and the books. "damn, damn, damnation!" he murmured,together with such other words as he had learnt from older men.

then he raised his hand to his forehead andsaid, "oh, damn it all--" which meant something different.he pulled himself together. he drank a little tea, black and silent,that still survived upon an upper shelf. he swallowed some dusty crumbs of cake. then he went back to the sitting-room,settled himself anew, and began to read a volume of ruskin."seven miles to the north of venice--" how perfectly the famous chapter opens! how supreme its command of admonition andof poetry! the rich man is speaking to us from hisgondola.

"seven miles to the north of venice thebanks of sand which nearer the city rise little above low-water mark attain bydegrees a higher level, and knit themselves at last into fields of salt morass, raised here and there into shapeless mounds, andintercepted by narrow creeks of sea." leonard was trying to form his style onruskin: he understood him to be the greatest master of english prose. he read forward steadily, occasionallymaking a few notes. "let us consider a little each of thesecharacters in succession, and first (for of the shafts enough has been said already),what is very peculiar to this church--its

luminousness." was there anything to be learnt from thisfine sentence? could he adapt it to the needs of dailylife? could he introduce it, with modifications,when he next wrote a letter to his brother, the lay-reader?for example-- the absence of ventilation enough has beensaid already), what is very peculiar to this flat--its obscurity." something told him that the modificationswould not do; and that something, had he known it, was the spirit of english prose."my flat is dark as well as stuffy."

those were the words for him. and the voice in the gondola rolled on,piping melodiously of effort and self- sacrifice, full of high purpose, full ofbeauty, full even of sympathy and the love of men, yet somehow eluding all that wasactual and insistent in leonard's life. for it was the voice of one who had neverbeen dirty or hungry, and had not guessed successfully what dirt and hunger are. leonard listened to it with reverence. he felt that he was being done good to, andthat if he kept on with ruskin, and the queen's hall concerts, and some pictures bywatts, he would one day push his head out

of the grey waters and see the universe. he believed in sudden conversion, a beliefwhich may be right, but which is peculiarly attractive to a half-baked mind. it is the bias of much popular religion: inthe domain of business it dominates the stock exchange, and becomes that "bit ofluck" by which all successes and failures are explained. "if only i had a bit of luck, the wholething would come straight.... he's got a most magnificent place down atstreatham and a 20 h.-p. fiat, but then, mind you, he's had luck....

i'm sorry the wife's so late, but she neverhas any luck over catching trains." leonard was superior to these people; hedid believe in effort and in a steady preparation for the change that he desired. but of a heritage that may expandgradually, he had no conception: he hoped to come to culture suddenly, much as therevivalist hopes to come to jesus. those miss schlegels had come to it; theyhad done the trick; their hands were upon the ropes, once and for all.and meanwhile, his flat was dark, as well as stuffy. presently there was a noise on thestaircase.

he shut up margaret's card in the pages ofruskin, and opened the door. a woman entered, of whom it is simplest tosay that she was not respectable. her appearance was awesome. she seemed all strings and bell-pulls--ribbons, chains, bead necklaces that clinked and caught--and a boa of azurefeathers hung round her neck, with the ends uneven. her throat was bare, wound with a doublerow of pearls, her arms were bare to the elbows, and might again be detected at theshoulder, through cheap lace. her hat, which was flowery, resembled thosepunnets, covered with flannel, which we

sowed with mustard and cress in ourchildhood, and which germinated here yes, and there no. she wore it on the back of her head. as for her hair, or rather hairs, they aretoo complicated to describe, but one system went down her back, lying in a thick padthere, while another, created for a lighter destiny, rippled around her forehead. the face--the face does not signify.it was the face of the photograph, but older, and the teeth were not so numerousas the photographer had suggested, and certainly not so white.

yes, jacky was past her prime, whateverthat prime may have been. she was descending quicker than most womeninto the colourless years, and the look in her eyes confessed it. "what ho!" said leonard, greeting thatapparition with much spirit, and helping it off with its boa.jacky, in husky tones, replied, "what ho!" "been out?" he asked. the question sounds superfluous, but itcannot have been really, for the lady answered, "no," adding, "oh, i am sotired." "you tired?"

"eh?""i'm tired," said he, hanging the boa up. "oh, len, i am so tired.""i've been to that classical concert i told you about," said leonard. "what's that?""i came back as soon as it was over." "any one been round to our place?" askedjacky. "not that i've seen. i met mr. cunningham outside, and we passeda few remarks." "what, not mr. cunnginham?""yes." "oh, you mean mr. cunningham."

"yes.mr. cunningham." "i've been out to tea at a lady friend's." her secret being at last given to theworld, and the name of the lady-friend being even adumbrated, jacky made nofurther experiments in the difficult and tiring art of conversation. she never had been a great talker.even in her photographic days she had relied upon her smile and her figure toattract, and now that she was-- "on the shelf, on the shelf, boys, boys,i'm on the shelf," she was not likely to find her tongue.

occasional bursts of song (of which theabove is an example) still issued from her lips, but the spoken word was rare.she sat down on leonard's knee, and began to fondle him. she was now a massive woman of thirty-three, and her weight hurt him, but he could not very well say anything. then she said, "is that a book you'rereading?" and he said, "that's a book," and drew it from her unreluctant grasp.margaret's card fell out of it. it fell face downwards, and he murmured,"bookmarker." "len--"

"what is it?" he asked, a little wearily,for she only had one topic of conversation when she sat upon his knee."you do love me?" "jacky, you know that i do. how can you ask such questions!""but you do love me, len, don't you?" "of course i do."a pause. the other remark was still due. "len--""well? what is it?""len, you will make it all right?" "i can't have you ask me that again," saidthe boy, flaring up into a sudden passion.

"i've promised to marry you when i'm ofage, and that's enough. my word's my word. i've promised to marry you as soon as everi'm twenty-one, and i can't keep on being worried.i've worries enough. it isn't likely i'd throw you over, letalone my word, when i've spent all this money.besides, i'm an englishman, and i never go back on my word. jacky, do be reasonable.of course i'll marry you. only do stop badgering me.""when's your birthday, len?"

"i've told you again and again, theeleventh of november next. now get off my knee a bit; someone must getsupper, i suppose." jacky went through to the bedroom, andbegan to see to her hat. this meant blowing at it with short sharppuffs. leonard tidied up the sitting-room, andbegan to prepare their evening meal. he put a penny into the slot of the gas-meter, and soon the flat was reeking with metallic fumes. somehow he could not recover his temper,and all the time he was cooking he continued to complain bitterly."it really is too bad when a fellow isn't

trusted. it makes one feel so wild, when i'vepretended to the people here that you're my wife--all right, you shall be my wife--andi've bought you the ring to wear, and i've taken this flat furnished, and it's far more than i can afford, and yet you aren'tcontent, and i've also not told the truth when i've written home."he lowered his voice. "he'd stop it." in a tone of horror, that was a littleluxurious, he repeated: "my brother'd stop it.i'm going against the whole world, jacky.

"that's what i am, jacky. i don't take any heed of what anyone says.i just go straight forward, i do. that's always been my way.i'm not one of your weak knock-kneed chaps. if a woman's in trouble, i don't leave herin the lurch. that's not my street.no, thank you. "i'll tell you another thing too. i care a good deal about improving myselfby means of literature and art, and so getting a wider outlook.for instance, when you came in i was reading ruskin's stones of venice.

i don't say this to boast, but just to showyou the kind of man i am. i can tell you, i enjoyed that classicalconcert this afternoon." to all his moods jacky remained equallyindifferent. when supper was ready--and not before--sheemerged from the bedroom, saying: "but you do love me, don't you?" they began with a soup square, whichleonard had just dissolved in some hot water. it was followed by the tongue--a freckledcylinder of meat, with a little jelly at the top, and a great deal of yellow fat atthe bottom--ending with another square

dissolved in water (jelly: pineapple), which leonard had prepared earlier in theday. jacky ate contentedly enough, occasionallylooking at her man with those anxious eyes, to which nothing else in her appearancecorresponded, and which yet seemed to mirror her soul. and leonard managed to convince his stomachthat it was having a nourishing meal. after supper they smoked cigarettes andexchanged a few statements. she observed that her "likeness" had beenbroken. he found occasion to remark, for the secondtime, that he had come straight back home

after the concert at queen's hall. presently she sat upon his knee. the inhabitants of camelia road tramped toand fro outside the window, just on a level with their heads, and the family in theflat on the ground-floor began to sing, "hark, my soul, it is the lord." "that tune fairly gives me the hump," saidleonard. jacky followed this, and said that, for herpart, she thought it a lovely tune. "no; i'll play you something lovely. get up, dear, for a minute."he went to the piano and jingled out a

little grieg. he played badly and vulgarly, but theperformance was not without its effect, for jacky said she thought she'd be going tobed. as she receded, a new set of interestspossessed the boy, and he began to think of what had been said about music by that oddmiss schlegel--the one that twisted her face about so when she spoke. then the thoughts grew sad and envious. there was the girl named helen, who hadpinched his umbrella, and the german girl who had smiled at him pleasantly, and herrsomeone, and aunt someone, and the brother-

-all, all with their hands on the ropes. they had all passed up that narrow, richstaircase at wickham place, to some ample room, whither he could never follow them,not if he read for ten hours a day. oh, it was not good, this continualaspiration. some are born cultured; the rest had bettergo in for whatever comes easy. to see life steadily and to see it wholewas not for the likes of him. from the darkness beyond the kitchen avoice called, "len?" "you in bed?" he asked, his foreheadtwitching. "m'm.""all right."

presently she called him again. "i must clean my boots ready for themorning," he answered. presently she called him again."i rather want to get this chapter done." "what?" he closed his ears against her."what's that?" "all right, jacky, nothing; i'm reading abook." "what?" he answered, catching her degradeddeafness. ruskin had visited torcello by this time,and was ordering his gondoliers to take him to murano.

it occurred to him, as he glided over thewhispering lagoons, that the power of nature could not be shortened by the folly,nor her beauty altogether saddened by the misery, of such as leonard. howards end by e. m. forsterchapter 7 "oh, margaret," cried her aunt nextmorning, "such a most unfortunate thing has happened.i could not get you alone." the most unfortunate thing was not veryserious. one of the flats in the ornate blockopposite had been taken furnished by the wilcox family, "coming up, no doubt, in thehope of getting into london society."

that mrs. munt should be the first todiscover the misfortune was not remarkable, for she was so interested in the flats,that she watched their every mutation with unwearying care. in theory she despised them--they took awaythat old-world look--they cut off the sun-- flats house a flashy type of person. but if the truth had been known, she foundher visits to wickham place twice as amusing since wickham mansions had arisen,and would in a couple of days learn more about them than her nieces in a couple ofmonths, or her nephew in a couple of years. she would stroll across and make friendswith the porters, and inquire what the

rents were, exclaiming for example: "what!a hundred and twenty for a basement? you'll never get it!" and they would answer: "one can but try,madam." the passenger lifts, the provision lifts,the arrangement for coals (a great temptation for a dishonest porter), wereall familiar matters to her, and perhaps a relief from the politico-economical- aesthetic atmosphere that reigned at theschlegels'. margaret received the information calmly,and did not agree that it would throw a cloud over poor helen's life.

"oh, but helen isn't a girl with nointerests," she explained. "she has plenty of other things and otherpeople to think about. she made a false start with the wilcoxes,and she'll be as willing as we are to have nothing more to do with them.""for a clever girl, dear, how very oddly you do talk. helen'll have to have something more to dowith them, now that they're all opposite. she may meet that paul in the street.she cannot very well not bow." "of course she must bow. but look here; let's do the flowers.i was going to say, the will to be

interested in him has died, and what elsematters? i look on that disastrous episode (overwhich you were so kind) as the killing of a nerve in helen.it's dead, and she'll never be troubled with it again. the only things that matter are the thingsthat interest one. bowing, even calling and leaving cards,even a dinner-party--we can do all those things to the wilcoxes, if they find itagreeable; but the other thing, the one important thing--never again. don't you see?"mrs. munt did not see, and indeed margaret

was making a most questionable statement--that any emotion, any interest once vividly aroused, can wholly die. "i also have the honour to inform you thatthe wilcoxes are bored with us. i didn't tell you at the time--it mighthave made you angry, and you had enough to worry you--but i wrote a letter to mrs. w.,and apologized for the trouble that helen had given them. she didn't answer it.""how very rude!" "i wonder.or was it sensible?" "no, margaret, most rude."

"in either case one can class it asreassuring." mrs. munt sighed. she was going back to swanage on themorrow, just as her nieces were wanting her most. other regrets crowded upon her: forinstance, how magnificently she would have cut charles if she had met him face toface. she had already seen him, giving an orderto the porter--and very common he looked in a tall hat. but unfortunately his back was turned toher, and though she had cut his back, she

could not regard this as a telling snub."but you will be careful, won't you?" she exhorted. "oh, certainly.fiendishly careful." "and helen must be careful, too," "careful over what?" cried helen, at thatmoment coming into the room with her cousin."nothing," said margaret, seized with a momentary awkwardness. "careful over what, aunt juley?"mrs. munt assumed a cryptic air. "it is only that a certain family, whom weknow by name but do not mention, as you

said yourself last night after the concert,have taken the flat opposite from the mathesons--where the plants are in thebalcony." helen began some laughing reply, and thendisconcerted them all by blushing. mrs. munt was so disconcerted that sheexclaimed, "what, helen, you don't mind them coming, do you?" and deepened theblush to crimson. "of course i don't mind," said helen alittle crossly. "it is that you and meg are both soabsurdly grave about it, when there's nothing to be grave about at all." "i'm not grave," protested margaret, alittle cross in her turn.

"well, you look grave; doesn't she,frieda?" "i don't feel grave, that's all i can say;you're going quite on the wrong tack." "no, she does not feel grave," echoed mrs.munt. "i can bear witness to that. she disagrees--""hark!" interrupted fraulein mosebach. "i hear bruno entering the hall."for herr liesecke was due at wickham place to call for the two younger girls. he was not entering the hall--in fact, hedid not enter it for quite five minutes. but frieda detected a delicate situation,and said that she and helen had much better

wait for bruno down below, and leavemargaret and mrs. munt to finish arranging helen acquiesced.but, as if to prove that the situation was not delicate really, she stopped in thedoorway and said: "did you say the mathesons' flat, auntjuley? how wonderful you are!i never knew that the woman who laced too tightly's name was matheson." "come, helen," said her cousin."go, helen," said her aunt; and continued to margaret almost in the same breath:"helen cannot deceive me, she does mind." "oh, hush!" breathed margaret.

"frieda'll hear you, and she can be sotiresome." "she minds," persisted mrs. munt, movingthoughtfully about the room, and pulling the dead chrysanthemums out of the vases. "i knew she'd mind--and i'm sure a girlought to! such an experience!such awful coarse-grained people! i know more about them than you do, whichyou forget, and if charles had taken you that motor drive--well, you'd have reachedthe house a perfect wreck. oh, margaret, you don't know what you arein for. they're all bottled up against the drawing-room window.

there's mrs. wilcox--i've seen her. there's paul.there's evie, who is a minx. there's charles--i saw him to start with.and who would an elderly man with a moustache and a copper-coloured face be?" "mr. wilcox, possibly.""i knew it. and there's mr. wilcox.""it's a shame to call his face copper colour," complained margaret. "he has a remarkably good complexion for aman of his age." mrs. munt, triumphant elsewhere, couldafford to concede mr. wilcox his

complexion. she passed on from it to the plan ofcampaign that her nieces should pursue in the future.margaret tried to stop her. "helen did not take the news quite as iexpected, but the wilcox nerve is dead in her really, so there's no need for plans.""it's as well to be prepared." "no--it's as well not to be prepared." "because--'her thought drew being from the obscure borderland. she could not explain in so many words, butshe felt that those who prepare for all the

emergencies of life beforehand may equipthemselves at the expense of joy. it is necessary to prepare for anexamination, or a dinner-party, or a possible fall in the price of stock: thosewho attempt human relations must adopt another method, or fail. "because i'd sooner risk it," was her lameconclusion. "but imagine the evenings," exclaimed heraunt, pointing to the mansions with the spout of the watering-can. "turn the electric light on her or there,and it's almost the same room. one evening they may forget to draw theirblinds down, and you'll see them; and the

next, you yours, and they'll see you. impossible to sit out on the balconies.impossible to water the plants, or even speak.imagine going out of the front-door, and they come out opposite at the same moment. and yet you tell me that plans areunnecessary, and you'd rather risk it." "i hope to risk things all my life.""oh, margaret, most dangerous." "but after all," she continued with asmile, "there's never any great risk as long as you have money.""oh, shame! what a shocking speech!"

"money pads the edges of things," said missschlegel. "god help those who have none." "but this is something quite new!" saidmrs. munt, who collected new ideas as a squirrel collects nuts, and was especiallyattracted by those that are portable. "new for me; sensible people haveacknowledged it for years. you and i and the wilcoxes stand upon moneyas upon islands. it is so firm beneath our feet that weforget its very existence. it's only when we see someone near ustottering that we realize all that an independent income means.

last night, when we were talking up hereround the fire, i began to think that the very soul of the world is economic, andthat the lowest abyss is not the absence of love, but the absence of coin." "i call that rather cynical.""so do i. but helen and i, we ought to remember, whenwe are tempted to criticize others, that we are standing on these islands, and thatmost of the others, are down below the surface of the sea. the poor cannot always reach those whomthey want to love, and they can hardly ever escape from those whom they love no longer.we rich can.

imagine the tragedy last june, if helen andpaul wilcox had been poor people, and couldn't invoke railways and motor-cars topart them." "that's more like socialism," said mrs.munt suspiciously. "call it what you like.i call it going through life with one's hand spread open on the table. i'm tired of these rich people who pretendto be poor, and think it shows a nice mind to ignore the piles of money that keeptheir feet above the waves. i stand each year upon six hundred pounds,and helen upon the same, and tibby will stand upon eight, and as fast as our poundscrumble away into the sea they are renewed-

-from the sea, yes, from the sea. and all our thoughts are the thoughts ofsix-hundred-pounders, and all our speeches; and because we don't want to stealumbrellas ourselves, we forget that below the sea people do want to steal them, and do steal them sometimes, and that what's ajoke up here is down there reality--" "there they go--there goes frauleinmosebach. really, for a german she does dresscharmingly. oh--!""what is it?" "helen was looking up at the wilcoxes'flat."

"why shouldn't she?""i beg your pardon, i interrupted you. what was it you were saying about reality?" "i had worked round to myself, as usual,"answered margaret in tones that were suddenly preoccupied."do tell me this, at all events. are you for the rich or for the poor?" "too difficult.ask me another. am i for poverty or for riches?for riches. hurrah for riches!" "for riches!" echoed mrs. munt, having, asit were, at last secured her nut.

"yes. for riches.money for ever!" "so am i, and so, i am afraid, are most ofmy acquaintances at swanage, but i am surprised that you agree with us.""thank you so much, aunt juley. while i have talked theories, you have donethe flowers." "not at all, dear.i wish you would let me help you in more important things." "well, would you be very kind?would you come round with me to the registry office?there's a housemaid who won't say yes but doesn't say no."

on their way thither they too looked up atthe wilcoxes' flat. evie was in the balcony, "staring mostrudely," according to mrs. munt. oh yes, it was a nuisance, there was nodoubt of it. helen was proof against a passing encounterbut--margaret began to lose confidence. might it reawake the dying nerve if thefamily were living close against her eyes? and frieda mosebach was stopping with themfor another fortnight, and frieda was sharp, abominably sharp, and quite capableof remarking, "you love one of the young gentlemen opposite, yes?" the remark would be untrue, but of the kindwhich, if stated often enough, may become

true; just as the remark, "england andgermany are bound to fight," renders war a little more likely each time that it is made, and is therefore made the morereadily by the gutter press of either nation.have the private emotions also their gutter press? margaret thought so, and feared that goodaunt juley and frieda were typical specimens of it. they might, by continual chatter, leadhelen into a repetition of the desires of june.into a repetition--they could not do more;

they could not lead her into lasting love. they were--she saw it clearly--journalism;her father, with all his defects and wrong- headedness, had been literature, and had helived, he would have persuaded his daughter rightly. the registry office was holding its morningreception. a string of carriages filled the street. miss schlegel waited her turn, and finallyhad to be content with an insidious "temporary," being rejected by genuinehousemaids on the ground of her numerous stairs.

her failure depressed her, and though sheforgot the failure, the depression remained. on her way home she again glanced up at thewilcoxes' flat, and took the rather matronly step of speaking about the matterto helen. "helen, you must tell me whether this thingworries you." "if what?" said helen, who was washing herhands for lunch. "the w.'s coming." "no, of course not.""really?" "really."

then she admitted that she was a littleworried on mrs. wilcox's account; she implied that mrs. wilcox might reachbackward into deep feelings, and be pained by things that never touched the othermembers of that clan. "i shan't mind if paul points at our houseand says, 'there lives the girl who tried to catch me.' but she might.""if even that worries you, we could arrange something. there's no reason we should be near peoplewho displease us or whom we displease, thanks to our money.we might even go away for a little."

"well, i am going away. frieda's just asked me to stettin, and ishan't be back till after the new year. will that do?or must i fly the country altogether? really, meg, what has come over you to makesuch a fuss?" "oh, i'm getting an old maid, i suppose. i thought i minded nothing, but really i--ishould be bored if you fell in love with the same man twice and"--she cleared herthroat--"you did go red, you know, when aunt juley attacked you this morning. i shouldn't have referred to it otherwise."

but helen's laugh rang true, as she raiseda soapy hand to heaven and swore that never, nowhere and nohow, would she againfall in love with any of the wilcox family, down to its remotest collaterals.

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