Howards End
He discovered that he was going bareheaded down Regent Street. London
came back with a rush. Few were about at this hour, but all whom he
passed looked at him with a hostility that was the more impressive
because it was unconscious. He put his hat on. It was too big; his head
disappeared like a pudding into a basin, the ears bending outwards at
the touch of the curly brim. He wore it a little backwards, and its
effect was greatly to elongate the face and to bring out the distance
between the eyes and the moustache. Thus equipped, he escaped criticism.
No one felt uneasy as he titupped along the pavements, the heart of a
man ticking fast in his chest.
CHAPTER XV
The sisters went out to dinner full of their adventure, and when they
were both full of the same subject, there were few dinner-parties that
could stand up against them. This particular one, which was all ladies,
had more kick in it than most, but succumbed after a struggle. Helen at
one part of the table, Margaret at the other, would talk of Mr. Bast
and of no one else, and somewhere about the entree their monologues
collided, fell ruining, and became common property. Nor was this all.
The dinner-party was really an informal discussion club; there was a
paper after it, read amid coffee-cups and laughter in the drawing-room,
but dealing more or less thoughtfully with some topic of general
interest. After the paper came a debate, and in this debate Mr. Bast
also figured, appearing now as a bright spot in civilisation, now as a
dark spot, according to the temperament of the speaker. The subject of
the paper had been, “How ought I to dispose of my money?” the reader
professing to be a millionaire on the point of death, inclined to
bequeath her fortune for the foundation of local art galleries, but open
to conviction from other sources. The various parts had been assigned
beforehand, and some of the speeches were amusing. The hostess assumed
the ungrateful role of “the millionaire’s eldest son,” and implored her
expiring parent not to dislocate Society by allowing such vast sums
to pass out of the family. Money was the fruit of self-denial, and the
second generation had a right to profit by the self-denial of the first.
What right had “Mr. Bast” to profit? The National Gallery was good
enough for the likes of him. After property had had its say--a saying
that is necessarily ungracious--the various philanthropists stepped
forward. Something must be done for “Mr. Bast”; his conditions must
be improved without impairing his independence; he must have a free
library, or free tennis-courts; his rent must be paid in such a way that
he did not know it was being paid; it must be made worth his while to
join the Territorials; he must be forcibly parted from his uninspiring
wife, the money going to her as compensation; he must be assigned a
Twin Star, some member of the leisured classes who would watch over him
ceaselessly (groans from Helen); he must be given food but no clothes,
clothes but no food, a third-return ticket to Venice, without either
food or clothes when he arrived there. In short, he might be given
anything and everything so long as it was not the money itself.
And here Margaret interrupted.
“Order, order, Miss Schlegel!” said the reader of the paper. “You are
here, I understand, to advise me in the interests of the Society for the
Preservation of Places of Historic Interest or Natural Beauty. I cannot
have you speaking out of your role. It makes my poor head go round, and
I think you forget that I am very ill.”
“Your head won’t go round if only you’ll listen to my argument,” said
Margaret. “Why not give him the money itself? You’re supposed to have
about thirty thousand a year.”
“Have I? I thought I had a million.”
“Wasn’t a million your capital? Dear me! we ought to have settled that.
Still, it doesn’t matter. Whatever you’ve got, I order you to give as
many poor men as you can three hundred a year each.”
“But that would be pauperising them,” said an earnest girl, who liked
the Schlegels, but thought them a little unspiritual at times.
“Not if you gave them so much. A big windfall would not pauperise a man.
It is these little driblets, distributed among too many, that do the
harm. Money’s educational. It’s far more educational than the things
it buys.” There was a protest. “In a sense,” added Margaret, but the
protest continued. “Well, isn’t the most civilized thing going, the man
who has learnt to wear his income properly?”
“Exactly what your Mr. Basts won’t do.”
“Give them a chance. Give them money. Don’t dole them out poetry-books
and railway-tickets like babies. Give them the wherewithal to buy these
things. When your Socialism comes it may be different, and we may think
in terms of commodities instead of cash. Till it comes give people
cash, for it is the warp of civilisation, whatever the woof may be. The
imagination ought to play upon money and realise it vividly, for it’s
the--the second most important thing in the world. It is so slurred over
and hushed up, there is so little clear thinking--oh, political economy,
of course, but so few of us think clearly about our own private incomes,
and admit that independent thoughts are in nine cases out of ten the
result of independent means. Money: give Mr. Bast money, and don’t
bother about his ideals. He’ll pick up those for himself.”
She leant back while the more earnest members of the club began to
misconstrue her. The female mind, though cruelly practical in daily
life, cannot bear to hear ideals belittled in conversation, and Miss
Schlegel was asked however she could say such dreadful things, and what
it would profit Mr. Bast if he gained the whole world and lost his own
soul. She answered, “Nothing, but he would not gain his soul until
he had gained a little of the world.” Then they said, “No, we do not
believe it,” and she admitted that an overworked clerk may save his soul
in the superterrestrial sense, where the effort will be taken for the
deed, but she denied that he will ever explore the spiritual resources
of this world, will ever know the rarer joys of the body, or attain to
clear and passionate intercourse with his fellows. Others had attacked
the fabric of Society--Property, Interest, etc.; she only fixed her eyes
on a few human beings, to see how, under present conditions, they could
be made happier. Doing good to humanity was useless: the many-coloured
efforts thereto spreading over the vast area like films and resulting in
an universal grey. To do good to one, or, as in this case, to a few, was
the utmost she dare hope for.
Between the idealists, and the political economists, Margaret had a
bad time. Disagreeing elsewhere, they agreed in disowning her, and
in keeping the administration of the millionaire’s money in their
own hands. The earnest girl brought forward a scheme of “personal
supervision and mutual help,” the effect of which was to alter poor
people until they became exactly like people who were not so poor. The
hostess pertinently remarked that she, as eldest son, might surely rank
among the millionaire’s legatees. Margaret weakly admitted the claim,
and another claim was at once set up by Helen, who declared that she
had been the millionaire’s housemaid for over forty years, overfed and
underpaid; was nothing to be done for her, so corpulent and poor? The
millionaire then read out her last will and testament, in which she left
the whole of her fortune to the Chancellor of the Exchequer. Then she
died. The serious parts of the discussion had been of higher merit than
the playful--in a men’s debate is the reverse more general?--but the
meeting broke up hilariously enough, and a dozen happy ladies dispersed
to their homes.
Helen and Margaret walked with the earnest girl as far as Battersea
Bridge Station, arguing copiously all the way. When she had gone
they were conscious of an alleviation, and of the great beauty of the
evening. They turned back towards Oakley Street. The lamps and the
plane-trees, following the line of the embankment, struck a note of
dignity that is rare in English cities. The seats, almost deserted, were
here and there occupied by gentlefolk in evening dress, who had strolled
out from the houses behind to enjoy fresh air and the whisper of the
rising tide. There is something continental about Chelsea Embankment. It
is an open space used rightly, a blessing more frequent in Germany than
here. As Margaret and Helen sat down, the city behind them seemed to
be a vast theatre, an opera-house in which some endless trilogy was
performing, and they themselves a pair of satisfied subscribers, who did
not mind losing a little of the second act.
“Cold?”
“No.”
“Tired?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
The earnest girl’s train rumbled away over the bridge.
“I say, Helen--”
“Well?”
“Are we really going to follow up Mr. Bast?”
“I don’t know.”
“I think we won’t.”
“As you like.”
“It’s no good, I think, unless you really mean to know people. The
discussion brought that home to me. We got on well enough with him in a
spirit of excitement, but think of rational intercourse. We mustn’t play
at friendship. No, it’s no good.”
“There’s Mrs. Lanoline, too,” Helen yawned. “So dull.”
“Just so, and possibly worse than dull.”
“I should like to know how he got hold of your card.”
“But he said--something about a concert and an umbrella.”
“Then did the card see the wife--”
“Helen, come to bed.”
“No, just a little longer, it is so beautiful. Tell me; oh yes; did you
say money is the warp of the world?”
“Yes.”
“Then what’s the woof?”
“Very much what one chooses,” said Margaret. “It’s something that isn’t
money--one can’t say more.”
“Walking at night?”
“Probably.”
“For Tibby, Oxford?”
“It seems so.”
“For you?”
“Now that we have to leave Wickham Place, I begin to think it’s that.
For Mrs. Wilcox it was certainly Howards End.”
One’s own name will carry immense distances. Mr. Wilcox, who was sitting
with friends many seats away, heard this, rose to his feet, and strolled
along towards the speakers.
“It is sad to suppose that places may ever be more important than
people,” continued Margaret.
“Why, Meg? They’re so much nicer generally. I’d rather think of that
forester’s house in Pomerania than of the fat Herr Forstmeister who
lived in it.”
“I believe we shall come to care about people less and less, Helen. The
more people one knows the easier it becomes to replace them. It’s one
of the curses of London. I quite expect to end my life caring most for a
place.”
Here Mr. Wilcox reached them. It was several weeks since they had met.
“How do you do?” he cried. “I thought I recognised your voices. Whatever
are you both doing down here?”
His tones were protective. He implied that one ought not to sit out
on Chelsea Embankment without a male escort. Helen resented this, but
Margaret accepted it as part of the good man’s equipment.
“What an age it is since I’ve seen you, Mr. Wilcox. I met Evie in the
Tube, though, lately. I hope you have good news of your son.”
“Paul?” said Mr. Wilcox, extinguishing his cigarette, and sitting down
between them. “Oh, Paul’s all right. We had a line from Madeira. He’ll
be at work again by now.”
“Ugh--” said Helen, shuddering from complex causes.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Isn’t the climate of Nigeria too horrible?”
“Some one’s got to go,” he said simply. “England will never keep her
trade overseas unless she is prepared to make sacrifices. Unless we get
firm in West Africa, Ger--untold complications may follow. Now tell me
all your news.”
“Oh, we’ve had a splendid evening,” cried Helen, who always woke up at
the advent of a visitor. “We belong to a kind of club that reads papers,