Howards End, E. M. Forster [fox in socks read aloud TXT] 📗

“Margaret⁠—” loudly whispered by Aunt Juley.

“Margaret, Margaret! Fräulein 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 her money.

“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 suspicious young 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 the swing-door, and he received a pretty smile from the German girl and a fine bow from her cavalier. He returned to his seat upsides with the world. The trust that they had reposed in him was trivial, but he felt that it cancelled his mistrust for them, and that probably he would 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 himself against the unknown. But this afternoon⁠—perhaps on account of music⁠—he perceived that one must slack off occasionally or what is the good of being alive? Wickham Place, W., though a risk, was as safe as most things, and he would risk it.

So when the concert was over and Margaret said, “We live quite near; I am going there now. Could you walk round with me, and we’ll find your umbrella?” he said, “Thank you,” peaceably, and followed her out of the Queen’s Hall. She wished that he was not so anxious to hand a lady downstairs, or to carry a lady’s programme for her⁠—his class was near enough her own for its manners to vex her. But she found him interesting on the whole⁠—everyone interested the Schlegels on the whole at that time⁠—and while her lips talked culture, her heart was planning to invite him to tea.

“How tired one gets after music!” she began.

“Do you find the atmosphere of Queen’s Hall oppressive?”

“Yes, horribly.”

“But surely the atmosphere of Covent Garden is 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 Covent Garden, but she did not “attend” it, preferring the more expensive seats; still less did she love it. So she made no reply.

“This year I have been three times⁠—to Faust, Tosca, and⁠—” Was it “Tannhouser” or “Tannhoyser”? Better not risk the word.

Margaret disliked Tosca and Faust. And so, for one reason and another, they walked on in silence, chaperoned by the voice of Mrs. Munt, who was getting into difficulties 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 thing rather than another. I am sure that you and Helen take me to the very nicest concerts. Not a dull note from beginning to end. I only wish that our German friends had stayed till it finished.”

“But surely you haven’t forgotten the drum steadily 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 being musical,” she added, the shot failing. “I only care for music⁠—a very different thing. But still I will say this for myself⁠—I do know when I like a thing and when I don’t. Some people are the same about pictures. They can go into a picture gallery⁠—Miss Conder can⁠—and say straight off what they feel, all round the wall. I never could do that. But music is so different from pictures, to my mind. When it comes to music I am as safe as houses, and I assure you, Tibby, I am by no means pleased by everything. There was a thing⁠—something about a faun in French⁠—which Helen went into ecstasies over, but I thought it most tinkling and superficial, and said so, and I held to my opinion too.”

“Do you agree?” asked Margaret. “Do you think music is so different from 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’t it seem absurd to you? What is the good of the Arts if they’re interchangeable? What is the good of the ear if it tells you the same as the eye? Helen’s one aim is to translate tunes into the language of painting, and pictures into the language of music. It’s very ingenious, and she says several pretty 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’s really Monet, neither gentleman is worth his salt⁠—that’s my opinion.”

Evidently these sisters quarrelled.

“Now, this very symphony that we’ve just been having⁠—she won’t let it alone. She labels it with meanings from start to finish; turns it into literature. I wonder if the day will ever return when music will be treated as music. Yet I don’t know. There’s my brother⁠—behind us. He treats music as music, and oh, my goodness! He makes me angrier than anyone, simply furious. 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 the nineteenth century towards the muddling of the arts. I do feel that music is in a very serious state just now, though extraordinarily interesting. Every now and then in history there do come these terrible geniuses, like Wagner, who stir up all the