Howards End
“Yes, I know. The darlings are regular sunbeams. Let me give you a
plate.”
“How do you like your work?” interposed Margaret.
He, too, was drawn up short. He would not have these women prying into
his work. They were Romance, and so was the room to which he had at last
penetrated, with the queer sketches of people bathing upon its walls,
and so were the very tea-cups, with their delicate borders of wild
strawberries. But he would not let romance interfere with his life.
There is the devil to pay then.
“Oh, well enough,” he answered.
“Your company is the Porphyrion, isn’t it?”
“Yes, that’s so.”--becoming rather offended. “It’s funny how things get
round.”
“Why funny?” asked Helen, who did not follow the workings of his mind.
“It was written as large as life on your card, and considering we wrote
to you there, and that you replied on the stamped paper--”
“Would you call the Porphyrion one of the big Insurance Companies?”
pursued Margaret.
“It depends on what you call big.”
“I mean by big, a solid, well-established concern, that offers a
reasonably good career to its employes.”
“I couldn’t say--some would tell you one thing and others another,” said
the employee uneasily. “For my own part”--he shook his head--“I only
believe half I hear. Not that even; it’s safer. Those clever ones come
to the worse grief, I’ve often noticed. Ah, you can’t be too careful.”
He drank, and wiped his moustache, which was going to be one of those
moustaches that always droop into tea-cups--more bother than they’re
worth, surely, and not fashionable either.
“I quite agree, and that’s why I was curious to know; is it a solid,
well-established concern?”
Leonard had no idea. He understood his own corner of the machine,
but nothing beyond it. He desired to confess neither knowledge nor
ignorance, and under these circumstances, another motion of the head
seemed safest. To him, as to the British public, the Porphyrion was the
Porphyrion of the advertisement--a giant, in the classical style, but
draped sufficiently, who held in one hand a burning torch, and pointed
with the other to St. Paul’s and Windsor Castle. A large sum of money
was inscribed below, and you drew your own conclusions. This giant
caused Leonard to do arithmetic and write letters, to explain the
regulations to new clients, and re-explain them to old ones. A giant
was of an impulsive morality--one knew that much. He would pay for
Mrs. Munt’s hearthrug with ostentatious haste, a large claim he would
repudiate quietly, and fight court by court. But his true fighting
weight, his antecedents, his amours with other members of the commercial
Pantheon--all these were as uncertain to ordinary mortals as were the
escapades of Zeus. While the gods are powerful, we learn little about
them. It is only in the days of their decadence that a strong light
beats into heaven.
“We were told the Porphyrion’s no go,” blurted Helen. “We wanted to tell
you; that’s why we wrote.”
“A friend of ours did think that it is insufficiently reinsured,” said
Margaret.
Now Leonard had his clue.
He must praise the Porphyrion. “You can tell your friend,” he said,
“that he’s quite wrong.”
“Oh, good!”
The young man coloured a little. In his circle to be wrong was fatal.
The Miss Schlegels did not mind being wrong. They were genuinely glad
that they had been misinformed. To them nothing was fatal but evil.
“Wrong, so to speak,” he added.
“How ‘so to speak’?”
“I mean I wouldn’t say he’s right altogether.”
But this was a blunder. “Then he is right partly,” said the elder woman,
quick as lightning.
Leonard replied that every one was right partly, if it came to that.
“Mr. Bast, I don’t understand business, and I dare say my questions are
stupid, but can you tell me what makes a concern ‘right’ or ‘wrong’?”
Leonard sat back with a sigh.
“Our friend, who is also a business man, was so positive. He said before
Christmas--”
“And advised you to clear out of it,” concluded Helen. “But I don’t see
why he should know better than you do.”
Leonard rubbed his hands. He was tempted to say that he knew nothing
about the thing at all. But a commercial training was too strong for
him. Nor could he say it was a bad thing, for this would be giving
it away; nor yet that it was good, for this would be giving it away
equally. He attempted to suggest that it was something between the two,
with vast possibilities in either direction, but broke down under the
gaze of four sincere eyes. And yet he scarcely distinguished between
the two sisters. One was more beautiful and more lively, but “the Miss
Schlegels” still remained a composite Indian god, whose waving arms and
contradictory speeches were the product of a single mind.
“One can but see,” he remarked, adding, “as Ibsen says, ‘things
happen.’” He was itching to talk about books and make the most of his
romantic hour. Minute after minute slipped away, while the ladies, with
imperfect skill, discussed the subject of reinsurance or praised their
anonymous friend. Leonard grew annoyed--perhaps rightly. He made vague
remarks about not being one of those who minded their affairs being
talked over by others, but they did not take the hint. Men might have
shown more tact. Women, however tactful elsewhere, are heavy-handed
here. They cannot see why we should shroud our incomes and our prospects
in a veil. “How much exactly have you, and how much do you expect to
have next June?” And these were women with a theory, who held that
reticence about money matters is absurd, and that life would be truer
if each would state the exact size of the golden island upon which he
stands, the exact stretch of warp over which he throws the woof that is
not money. How can we do justice to the pattern otherwise?
And the precious minutes slipped away, and Jacky and squalor came
nearer. At last he could bear it no longer, and broke in, reciting
the names of books feverishly. There was a moment of piercing joy when
Margaret said, “So YOU like Carlyle” and then the door opened, and “Mr.
Wilcox, Miss Wilcox” entered, preceded by two prancing puppies.
“Oh, the dears! Oh, Evie, how too impossibly sweet!” screamed Helen,
falling on her hands and knees.
“We brought the little fellows round,” said Mr. Wilcox.
“I bred ’em myself.”
“Oh, really! Mr. Bast, come and play with puppies.”
“I’ve got to be going now,” said Leonard sourly.
“But play with puppies a little first.”
“This is Ahab, that’s Jezebel,” said Evie, who was one of those who name
animals after the less successful characters of Old Testament history.
“I’ve got to be going.”
Helen was too much occupied with puppies to notice him.
“Mr. Wilcox, Mr. Ba--Must you be really? Good-bye!”
“Come again,” said Helen from the floor.
Then Leonard’s gorge arose. Why should he come again? What was the good
of it? He said roundly: “No, I shan’t; I knew it would be a failure.”
Most people would have let him go. “A little mistake. We tried knowing
another class--impossible.”
But the Schlegels had never played with life. They had attempted
friendship, and they would take the consequences. Helen retorted, “I
call that a very rude remark. What do you want to turn on me like that
for?” and suddenly the drawing-room re-echoed to a vulgar row.
“You ask me why I turn on you?”
“Yes.”
“What do you want to have me here for?’
“To help you, you silly boy!” cried Helen. “And don’t shout.”
“I don’t want your patronage. I don’t want your tea. I was quite happy.
What do you want to unsettle me for?” He turned to Mr. Wilcox. “I put it
to this gentleman. I ask you, sir, am I to have my brain picked?”
Mr. Wilcox turned to Margaret with the air of humorous strength that he
could so well command. “Are we intruding, Miss Schlegel? Can we be of
any use, or shall we go?”
But Margaret ignored him.
“I’m connected with a leading insurance company, sir. I receive what I
take to be an invitation from these--ladies” (he drawled the word). “I
come, and it’s to have my brain picked. I ask you, is it fair?”
“Highly unfair,” said Mr. Wilcox, drawing a gasp from Evie, who knew
that her father was becoming dangerous.
“There, you hear that? Most unfair, the gentleman says. There! Not
content with”--pointing at Margaret--“you can’t deny it.” His voice
rose; he was falling into the rhythm of a scene with Jacky. “But as
soon as I’m useful it’s a very different thing. ‘Oh yes, send for him.
Cross-question him. Pick his brains.’ Oh yes. Now, take me on the whole,
I’m a quiet fellow: I’m law-abiding, I don’t wish any unpleasantness;
but I--I--”
“You,” said Margaret--“you--you--”
Laughter from Evie as at a repartee.
“You are the man who tried to walk by the Pole Star.”
More laughter.
“You saw the sunrise.”
Laughter.
“You tried to get away from the fogs that are stifling us all--away past
books and houses to the truth. You were looking for a real home.”
“I fail to see the connection,” said Leonard, hot with stupid anger.
“So do I.” There was a pause. “You were that last Sunday--you are this
to-day. Mr. Bast! I and my sister have talked you over. We wanted to
help you; we also supposed you might help us. We did not have you here
out of charity--which bores us--but because we hoped there would be a
connection between last Sunday and other days. What is the good of your
stars and trees, your sunrise and the wind, if they do not enter into
our daily lives? They have never entered into mine, but into yours,
we thought--Haven’t we all to struggle against life’s daily greyness,
against pettiness, against mechanical cheerfulness, against suspicion?
I struggle by remembering my friends; others I have known by remembering
some place--some beloved place or tree--we thought you one of these.”
“Of course, if there’s been any misunderstanding,” mumbled Leonard, “all
I can do is to go. But I beg to state--” He paused. Ahab and Jezebel
danced at his boots and made him look ridiculous. “You were picking my
brain for official information--I can prove it--I--” He blew his nose
and left them.
“Can I help you now?” said Mr. Wilcox, turning to Margaret. “May I have
one quiet word with him in the hall?”
“Helen, go after him--do anything--anything--to make the noodle
understand.”
Helen hesitated.
“But really--” said their visitor. “Ought she to?”
At once she went.
He resumed. “I would have chimed in, but I felt that you could polish
him off for yourselves--I didn’t interfere. You were splendid, Miss
Schlegel--absolutely splendid. You can take my word for it, but there
are very few women who could have managed him.”
“Oh yes,” said Margaret distractedly.
“Bowling him over with those long sentences was what fetched me,” cried
Evie.
“Yes, indeed,” chuckled her father; “all that part about ‘mechanical
cheerfulness’--oh, fine!”
“I’m very sorry,” said Margaret, collecting herself. “He’s a nice
creature really. I cannot think what set him off. It has been most
unpleasant for you.”
“Oh, I didn’t mind.” Then he changed his mood. He asked if he might
speak as an old friend, and, permission given, said: “Oughtn’t you
really to be more careful?”
Margaret laughed, though her thoughts still strayed after Helen. “Do you
realise that it’s all your fault?” she said. “You’re responsible.”
“I?”
“This is the young man whom we were to warn against the Porphyrion. We
warn him, and--look!”
Mr. Wilcox was annoyed. “I hardly consider that a fair deduction,” he
said.
“Obviously unfair,” said Margaret. “I was only thinking how tangled
things are. It’s our fault mostly--neither yours nor his.”
“Not his?”
“No.”
“Miss Schlegel, you are too kind.”
“Yes, indeed,” nodded Evie, a little contemptuously.
“You behave much too well to people, and then they impose on you. I know