Howards End by E. M. Forster (best book recommendations .TXT) 📕

must lead to the question, ‘Who am I?’ and so to Pity and to Justice. He only says ‘want.’ ‘Want Europe,’ if he’s Napoleon; ‘want wives,’ if he’s Bluebeard; ‘want Botticelli,’ if he’s Pierpont Morgan. Never the ‘I’; and if you could pierce through the superman, you’d find panic and emptiness in the middle.”

Leonard was silent for a moment. Then he said: “May I take it, Miss Schlegel, that you and I are both the sort that say ‘I’?”

“Of course.”

“And your sister, too?”

“Of course,” repeated Helen, a little sharply. She was annoyed with Margaret, but did not want her discussed. “All presentable people say ‘I.’ ”

“But Mr. Wilcox⁠—he is not perhaps⁠—”

“I don’t know that it’s any good discussing Mr. Wilcox either.”

“Quite so, quite so,” he agreed. Helen asked herself why she had snubbed him. Once or twice during the day she had encouraged him to criticise, and then had pulled him up short. Was she afraid of him presuming? If so, it was disgusting of her.

But he was thinking the snub quite natural. Everything she did was natural, and incapable of causing offence. While the Miss Schlegels were together he had felt them scarcely human⁠—a sort of admonitory whirligig. But a Miss Schlegel alone was different. She was in Helen’s case unmarried, in Margaret’s about to be married, in neither case an echo of her sister. A light had fallen at last into this rich upper world, and he saw that it was full of men and women, some of whom were more friendly to him than others. Helen had become “his” Miss Schlegel, who scolded him and corresponded with him, and had swept down yesterday with grateful vehemence. Margaret, though not unkind, was severe and remote. He would not presume to help her, for instance. He had never liked her, and began to think that his original impression was true, and that her sister did not like her either. Helen was certainly lonely. She, who gave away so much, was receiving too little. Leonard was pleased to think that he could spare her vexation by holding his tongue and concealing what he knew about Mr. Wilcox. Jacky had announced her discovery when he fetched her from the lawn. After the first shock, he did not mind for himself. By now he had no illusions about his wife, and this was only one new stain on the face of a love that had never been pure. To keep perfection perfect, that should be his ideal, if the future gave him time to have ideals. Helen, and Margaret for Helen’s sake, must not know.

Helen disconcerted him by turning the conversation to his wife. “Mrs. Bast⁠—does she ever say ‘I’?” she asked, half mischievously, and then, “Is she very tired?”

“It’s better she stops in her room,” said Leonard.

“Shall I sit up with her?”

“No, thank you; she does not need company.”

“Mr. Bast, what kind of woman is your wife?”

Leonard blushed up to his eyes.

“You ought to know my ways by now. Does that question offend you?”

“No, oh no, Miss Schlegel, no.”

“Because I love honesty. Don’t pretend your marriage has been a happy one. You and she can have nothing in common.”

He did not deny it, but said shyly: “I suppose that’s pretty obvious; but Jacky never meant to do anybody any harm. When things went wrong, or I heard things, I used to think it was her fault, but, looking back, it’s more mine. I needn’t have married her, but as I have I must stick to her and keep her.”

“How long have you been married?”

“Nearly three years.”

“What did your people say?”

“They will not have anything to do with us. They had a sort of family council when they heard I was married, and cut us off altogether.”

Helen began to pace up and down the room. “My good boy, what a mess!” she said gently. “Who are your people?”

He could answer this. His parents, who were dead, had been in trade; his sisters had married commercial travellers; his brother was a lay-reader.

“And your grandparents?”

Leonard told her a secret that he had held shameful up to now. “They were just nothing at all,” he said, “⁠—agricultural labourers and that sort.”

“So! From which part?”

“Lincolnshire mostly, but my mother’s father⁠—he, oddly enough, came from these parts round here.”

“From this very Shropshire. Yes, that is odd. My mother’s people were Lancashire. But why do your brother and your sisters object to Mrs. Bast?”

“Oh, I don’t know.”

“Excuse me, you do know. I am not a baby. I can bear anything you tell me, and the more you tell the more I shall be able to help. Have they heard anything against her?”

He was silent.

“I think I have guessed now,” said Helen very gravely.

“I don’t think so, Miss Schlegel; I hope not.”

“We must be honest, even over these things. I have guessed. I am frightfully, dreadfully sorry, but it does not make the least difference to me. I shall feel just the same to both of you. I blame, not your wife for these things, but men.”

Leonard left it at that⁠—so long as she did not guess the man. She stood at the window and slowly pulled up the blinds. The hotel looked over a dark square. The mists had begun. When she turned back to him her eyes were shining. “Don’t you worry,” he pleaded. “I can’t bear that. We shall be all right if I get work. If I could only get work⁠—something regular to do. Then it wouldn’t be so bad again. I don’t trouble after books as I used. I can imagine that with regular work we should settle down again. It stops one thinking.”

“Settle down to what?”

“Oh, just settle down.”

“And that’s to be life!” said Helen, with a catch in her throat. “How can you, with all the beautiful things to see and do⁠—with music⁠—with walking at night⁠—”

“Walking is well enough when a man’s in work,” he answered. “Oh, I did talk a lot of nonsense once, but there’s nothing like a bailiff in the house to drive it out of