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

Groans.

“I shall stick to it,” she continued, smiling. “I am not saying it to educate you; it is what I really think. I believe that in the last century men have developed the desire for work, and they must not starve it. It’s a new desire. It goes with a great deal that’s bad, but in itself it’s good, and I hope that for women, too, ‘not to work’ will soon become as shocking as ‘not to be married’ was a hundred years ago.”

“I have no experience of this profound desire to which you allude,” enunciated Tibby.

“Then we’ll leave the subject till you do. I’m not going to rattle you round. Take your time. Only do think over the lives of the men you like most, and see how they’ve arranged them.”

“I like Guy and Mr. Vyse most,” said Tibby faintly, and leant so far back in his chair that he extended in a horizontal line from knees to throat.

“And don’t think I’m not serious because I don’t use the traditional arguments⁠—making money, a sphere awaiting you, and so on⁠—all of which are, for various reasons, cant.” She sewed on. “I’m only your sister. I haven’t any authority over you, and I don’t want to have any. Just to put before you what I think the Truth. You see”⁠—she shook off the pince-nez to which she had recently taken⁠—“in a few years we shall be the same age practically, and I shall want you to help me. Men are so much nicer than women.”

“Labouring under such a delusion, why do you not marry?”

“I sometimes jolly well think I would if I got the chance.”

“Has nobody arst you?”

“Only ninnies.”

“Do people ask Helen?”

“Plentifully.”

“Tell me about them.”

“No.”

“Tell me about your ninnies, then.”

“They were men who had nothing better to do,” said his sister, feeling that she was entitled to score this point. “So take warning; you must work, or else you must pretend to work, which is what I do. Work, work, work if you’d save your soul and your body. It is honestly a necessity, dear boy. Look at the Wilcoxes, look at Mr. Pembroke. With all their defects of temper and understanding, such men give me more pleasure than many who are better equipped, and I think it is because they have worked regularly and honestly.”

“Spare me the Wilcoxes,” he moaned.

“I shall not. They are the right sort.”

“Oh, goodness me, Meg⁠—!” he protested, suddenly sitting up, alert and angry. Tibby, for all his defects, had a genuine personality.

“Well, they’re as near the right sort as you can imagine.”

“No, no⁠—oh, no!”

“I was thinking of the younger son, whom I once classed as a ninny, but who came back so ill from Nigeria. He’s gone out there again, Evie Wilcox tells me⁠—out to his duty.”

“Duty” always elicited a groan.

“He doesn’t want the money, it is work he wants, though it is beastly work⁠—dull country, dishonest natives, an eternal fidget over fresh water and food⁠ ⁠… A nation that can produce men of that sort may well be proud. No wonder England has become an empire.”

“Empire!”

“I can’t bother over results,” said Margaret, a little sadly. “They are too difficult for me. I can only look at the men. An Empire bores me, so far, but I can appreciate the heroism that builds it up. London bores me, but what thousands of splendid people are labouring to make London⁠—”

“What it is,” he sneered.

“What it is, worse luck. I want activity without civilisation. How paradoxical! Yet I expect that is what we shall find in heaven.”

“And I,” said Tibby, “want civilisation without activity, which, I expect, is what we shall find in the other place.”

“You needn’t go as far as the other place, Tibbikins, if you want that. You can find it at Oxford.”

“Stupid⁠—”

“If I’m stupid, get me back to the house-hunting. I’ll even live in Oxford if you like⁠—North Oxford. I’ll live anywhere except Bournemouth, Torquay, and Cheltenham. Oh yes, or Ilfracombe and Swanage and Tunbridge Wells and Surbiton and Bedford. There on no account.”

“London, then.”

“I agree, but Helen rather wants to get away from London. However, there’s no reason we shouldn’t have a house in the country and also a flat in town, provided we all stick together and contribute. Though of course⁠—Oh, how one does maunder on and to think, to think of the people who are really poor. How do they live? Not to move about the world would kill me.”

As she spoke, the door was flung open, and Helen burst in in a state of extreme excitement.

“Oh, my dears, what do you think? You’ll never guess. A woman’s been here asking me for her husband. Her what?” (Helen was fond of supplying her own surprise.) “Yes, for her husband, and it really is so.”

“Not anything to do with Bracknell?” cried Margaret, who had lately taken on an unemployed of that name to clean the knives and boots.

“I offered Bracknell, and he was rejected. So was Tibby. (Cheer up, Tibby!) It’s no one we know. I said, ‘Hunt, my good woman; have a good look round, hunt under the tables, poke up the chimney, shake out the antimacassars. Husband? husband?’ Oh, and she so magnificently dressed and tinkling like a chandelier.”

“Now, Helen, what did really happen?”

“What I say. I was, as it were, orating my speech. Annie opens the door like a fool, and shows a female straight in on me, with my mouth open. Then we began⁠—very civilly. ‘I want my husband, what I have reason to believe is here.’ No⁠—how unjust one is. She said ‘whom,’ not ‘what.’ She got it perfectly. So I said, ‘Name, please?’ and she said, ‘Lan, Miss,’ and there we were.”

“Lan?”

“Lan or Len. We were not nice about our vowels. Lanoline.”

“But what an extraordinary⁠—”

“I said, ‘My good Mrs. Lanoline, we have some grave misunderstanding here. Beautiful as I am, my modesty is even more remarkable than my beauty, and never, never has Mr. Lanoline rested his eyes on mine.’ ”

“I hope you were pleased,” said Tibby.

“Of course,” Helen squeaked.