Leonard Woolf: A Life by Victoria Glendinning (2006)

Leonard and Virginia were agreed that his chief fault was cowardice, and hers was snobbery.
(page 151)

‘If it were not for the divine goodness of L. how many times I should be thinking of death.’
(Virginia Woolf diary 28 May 1931, quoted p.291)

Having read most of Virginia Woolf’s adult work, why read a biography of her husband, Leonard, and not her?

1) Because I’d had enough of Virginia: the essays finished me off, my cup overflowed with Woolf style, snobbery and delirium. 2) I’d learned most of the important facts about her life from the short biographies and notes in each of her novels, and the essays. 3) These notes sometimes referred to books by Leonard, notably a book he wrote called Quack! Quack! mocking the 1930s dictators, Mussolini and Hitler, which intrigued me. He wrote two novels, over 15 books of political science, was a committed socialist, literary editor, publisher, and wrote six volumes of autobiography. Does anyone ever read these? No.

So 4) Leonard is the underdog. The critical industry around Woolf is now mountainous – as Glendinning puts it, ‘There is a small mountain of books and articles on the life and work of Virginia Woolf’ (p.502) – and will only increase year by year. She is a patron saint of feminist writing, as iconic as fellow feminist saints Frida Kahlo and Sylvia Plath. There are lots of biographies of her, hundreds of books and tens of thousands of critical essays about her writing. But what about the mystery man who loved and supported her throughout the years of her great achievements, who tried to manage her recurring bouts of mental illness, who co-founded and ran their famous Hogarth Press? Let’s find out.

Jewish

Woolf was Jewish. He came from a large and extensive Jewish family. I enjoyed Glendinning’s handy summary of the history of the Jews in England, their slow liberation from various legal and customary restrictions during the nineteenth century, and then the transformation in the size of the Jewish population and in attitudes towards them triggered by the mass immigration of Jews from Russia in the 1880s and ’90s.

This more than quadrupled the size of the Jewish community in England and, because so many of them were very poor, from peasant communities, and often settled in the slummiest parts of the East End, it was this mass influx which gave rise to the casual antisemitism you find (distressingly) in so many Edwardian and Georgian writers (Saki and D.H. Lawrence spring to mind. The fact that Virginia includes antisemitic comments in some of her novels, and was regularly casually antisemitic in her letters and diaries – ‘I do not like the Jewish voice, I do not like the Jewish laugh,’ (p.189) – requires a separate explanation).

Father

Woolf was born in London in 1880, the third of ten children of Solomon Rees Sidney Woolf (known as Sidney Woolf), a barrister and Queen’s Counsel, and his wife Marie, maiden name de Jongh). Both parents were Jewish, and from extended families. This is why Glendinning needed four pages to depict the full, extended family trees of both parents. At various points, family members are quoted jokingly referring to it as ‘the Woolf pack’. From time to time grown-up Leonard, feeling sorry for himself, referred to himself as ‘a lone Woolf’.

The family lived at 101 Lexham Gardens off the Earl’s Court Road. The household was:

an example of a typical, well-to-do Victorian way of life, underpinned by an unquestioned social hierarchy and set of values. (p.13)

As a young man Leonard was conscious of ‘the snugness and smugness, snobbery, its complacent exploitation of economic, sexual and racial classes’ (quoted p.15).

We are told all kinds of things about Sidney Woolf but the single most important fact is that he died in his prime, in 1892, aged 47 (p.23). He had earned a lot as a lawyer and that income ended overnight. Now relatively impoverished his widow, Marie, was fortunate enough to have a legacy to live off. She hung on at Lexham Gardens for two years then moved the family to a smaller house further out of town – 9 Colinette Road, off the Upper Richmond Road in Putney.

School

After prep school, Leonard was sent to the prestigious St Paul’s School in west London. Lots of anecdotes, prizes and whatnot, but the important thing is that it was as a slight, shy, Jewish teenager that he developed what he called his ‘carapace’, the protective shell he was to deploy for the rest of his life.

Trinity College, Cambridge

In 1899 he won a classical scholarship to Trinity College, Cambridge. Glendinning vividly paints how he encountered a small group of fellow undergraduates who became soul mates, including the flamboyant Lytton Strachey and the hulking great Thoby Stephen, nicknamed The Goth, son of the biographer Sir Lesley Stephen and brother of the sisters, Vanessa and Virginia Stephen, the second of which Leonard was, of course to marry. But Strachey was the man. Before he’d arrived at Cambridge Strachey was a fully-formed individual with outrageous views and a particular way of speaking which influenced all his friends. Leonard became closer to Lytton Strachey than anyone else in the world, calling him ‘the most charming and witty of human beings since Voltaire’ (p.189).

I tend to think of E.M. Forster as being an old man, but he was actually a year younger than Leonard and they got to know each other at Cambridge.

Leonard was elected to the elite discussion society called The Cambridge Apostles and it is fascinating to learn the rules of this elite club and the kind of topics they discussed. When I was a sixth-former I read A.J. Ayer, learned about Logical Positivism, and went on to read Wittgenstein, all of which convinced me that talk of Beauty and Love and Truth and God is enjoyable, entertaining but ultimately meaningless.

More precisely, they may have a psychological importance and impact on the people who discuss, write and read about such topics, but they don’t really relate to anything in the real world. They derive from a misunderstanding of language. Because we talk about a good meal, a good person and a good day, it’s easy to be deluded into thinking there must be something they have in common. Plato started the ball rolling by writing dialogues in which Socrates and his followers endless debate the True Nature of The Good. Two and a half thousand years later, clever undergraduates at Cambridge were doing just the same.

I follow Wittgenstein in believing there can be no answer to these kinds of questions because they are non-questions based on a misapplication of language. Viewed from a correct understanding of language i.e. that language consists of a vast number of language games – then any given use of language may or may not be appropriate to the vast number of language games people continually play, invent and evolve and self-important Oxbridge discussions of these great big concepts simply take their place among myriads of other linguistic interactions.

Anyway, all this was to come. For the time being these clever young men thought Truth and Beauty were excellent subjects to write long papers about and present at gatherings of like-minded chaps who all considered themselves part of a literally self-selecting intellectual elite, the Apostles. Members of the Apostles included Leonard, Strachey, E. M. Forster and a year or so later, John Maynard Keynes. Thoby Stephen (his future wife’s brother) was friendly with the Apostles, though not a member himself. What comes over from Glendinning’s comprehensive accounts of these meetings and discussions is how absolutely irrelevant everything they discussed is to us today. Here are the dates of Leonard and significant contemporaries:

  • E.M. Forster b. 1879
  • Lytton Strachey b.1880
  • Thoby Stephen b.1880
  • Leonard Woolf b. 1880
  • Clive Bell b.1881
  • John Maynard Keynes b.1883

G.E. Moore

All of them were deeply in thrall to the moral philosopher George Edward (G. E.) Moore (1873 to 1958), himself an older member of the Apostles. They were still undergraduates when Moore published his influential book, Principia Ethica, in 1903, which was concerned with that age-old problem, What is the good? Moore decides that ‘the good’ is ultimately unknowable, so that:

By far the most valuable thing, which we can know or can imagine, are certain states of consciousness, which may roughly be described as the pleasures of human intercourse and the enjoyment of beautiful objects.’ (p.63)

1. The pleasures of human intercourse and 2. the enjoyment of beautiful objects. Friends, lovers and art. Or, as Wikipedia summarises it:

that the summum bonum lies in achieving a high quality of humanity, in experiencing delectable states of mind, and in intensifying experience by contemplating great works of art,

Moore’s conclusions led his book to be treated as a kind of Bible by the network of friends which came to be known as the Bloomsbury Group, validating their belief that human relationships are what count most: Love and Beauty. Sounds like Keats, doesn’t it, from almost a century earlier? Glendinning quotes John Maynard Keynes’s extravagant response to Moore’s theory: ‘It seemed the opening of a new heaven on a new earth’ (p.64).

The thing to understand is that the younger generation experienced this as a tremendous liberation from the oppressive burden of Victorian beliefs in duty and honour and nation and empire and queen and country and all the rest of it. For believers like Leonard the book stripped away centuries of oppressive religious beliefs, shedding the calm light of common sense on the agonising questions of how to live and what to believe.

‘Isn’t that the supreme, the only thing – to be loved.’ (Strachey, quote p.98)

But there were plenty of critics who mocked these earnest young believers. Glendinning quotes Beatrice Webb’s shrewish view that the book had little or no value and simply gave the young generation who worshipped it ‘a metaphysical justification for doing what you like’ (p.65).

Glendinning herself criticises the Principia because:

  1. Its unquestioning definition of The Beautiful was heavily Victorian and becoming out of date as the new aesthetics of the 20th century kicked in
  2. Moore’s idea of the good life was very passive and quiescent i.e. simply ignored the active life of politicians, engineers, administrators, people who did things. It was a privileged academic’s conclusion that the best possible way of life was… to be a privileged academic.
  3. No sex please, we’re British: Moore’s ‘asexual mind-set seemed to preclude the “intrinsic value” of any “state of consciousness” elicited by anything more urgent than affection’ (p.63). In other words, Moore’s was a very pallid, underpowered, sexless view of human emotions.

Choice of career and the Civil Service exam

Woolf was awarded his BA in 1902 but stayed on at Cambridge for another year to study for the Civil Service examinations which he took in the summer of 1904. He got a low pass, 69th in the list, and was offered a job as an imperial administrator in Ceylon. First he went the round saying goodbye to his uni friends and this included dinner at the Stephens new house. Sir Leslie Stephen had recently died (February 1904) and his children had moved out of the gloomy family house in Hyde Park Gate to a roomier lighter one in Bloomsbury. Visiting his friend Thoby (the Goth), meant meeting the two beautiful sisters, Vanessa and Virginia. Glendinning points out that the latter was still recovering from the nervous breakdown triggered by her father’s death, one of what was to become a string of breakdowns and mental health problems. During this breakdown she had made the first of several suicide attempts (p.129).

Ceylon

Woolf was in Ceylon for 7 long years, 1904 to 1911. Glendinning makes the point that he met hundreds of native Sinhalese and Tamils but never became friendly with one of them. He liked Ceylon, some of the scenery was breath-taking. He wrote that the jungle:

‘is a cruel and dangerous place, and, being a cowardly person, I was always afraid of it. Yet I could not keep away from it.’ (quoted p.109)

, but he became an increasingly conflicted imperialist. As he was slowly, systematically promoted, he found himself adjudicating law cases and arguments and realised the only thing to do was be as strict and impartial as possible. At the same time he came to hate the impact many imperial laws and restrictions had on the natives.

Glendinning gives a vivid and fascinating account of all this, based on the twin sources of the official diary he kept of his duties, along with the many letters he exchanged with his friends back in England, Thoby, a friend called Saxon but above all Lytton Strachey.

He lost his virginity to a Singhalese woman and seems to have had occasional sexual encounters, but didn’t keep a native mistress as many other young male imperial administrators did.

The conversation of whores is more amusing than the conversation of bores.

The correspondence with Lytton back in England, in Cambridge, is extraordinarily candid about sex. Lytton deploys what he himself calls ‘the dialect of their intimacy’ (p.146). Lytton was a promiscuous homosexual who needed to be falling in love with new young men all the time. Glendinning quotes liberally from his letters which depict not just his sex life, but the sex lives of those in their set or circle, including Duncan Grant, Clive Bell and Keynes. For example, where he explains that he is having an affair with Duncan Grant, who is also sleeping with Keynes. Lytton and the others delighted in using the word ‘copulate’, in a self-mocking tone.

‘I copulated with him [Duncan] again this afternoon, and at the present moment he is in Cambridge copulating with Keynes.’ (p.115)

As always, it’s the promiscuity of gay men which staggers me, compared with the, as far as I can tell, complete chastity of their female contemporaries, specifically Virginia and Vanessa.

A note that Leonard’s sister, Bella, came out to Ceylon in 1907. She married a colonial administrator, Robert Heath Lock, Assistant Director of the Peradeniya Botanical Gardens, near Kandy in 1910. She wrote children’s books and the first tourist guide to Ceylon. She was one of many voices advising Leonard to get married. She merits a Wikipedia page of her own.

The Longest Journey

While Leonard was in Ceylon, his friend E.M. Forster published an autobiographical novel, The Longest Journey which describes the coming-to-maturity of young Frederick ‘Rickie’ Elliott, including lengthy descriptions of his time as an undergraduate at Cambridge. Critics think the character of Stewart Ansell, the clever student which Rickie’s and their circle look up to, is at least partly based on Woolf. Certainly the flashy pseudo-philosophical conversations at Cambridge which the novel opens with, are based on The Apostles. Woolf and Strachey both hated it.

Back from Ceylon

After seven years service Leonard was given an extended leave to return to England. Glendinning quotes many of the colleagues and managers in the Colonial Service who advised him to get married. it’s interesting to read the opinions of quite a few contemporaries all advising that marriage is the best thing or only thing which a young man can do to acquire focus and purpose in his life. ‘Marriage was the only way forward’ (p.120).

We know from their letters and diaries that it was Lytton who first proposed to Virginia, in a panic that she might accept (p.114). You have to have followed the text quite closely to understand why this flamboyant queer would even consider such a mad move in the first place. She sensibly turned him down.

Virginia’s character As the focus of the story turns towards Virginia Stephen, Glendinning gives a useful profile and description of her (pages 128 to 130). The bit that stood out for me was the notion that her mother was aloof and distant, so that the girl Virginia hardly ever had time with her alone.

In adolescence and beyond, she became emotionally attached to older women. (p.128)

Aha, I thought – this sheds light on the warmth and fondness for mother figures and older women which you find in her fiction – Betty Flanders, Clarissa Dalloway, Mrs Ramsay, Lucy Swithin.

Virginia’s physicians We learn about the wonderfully named Dr Savage, the physician treating her mental illness, and that he had treated her father for depression, and one of her cousins, who ended up committing suicide. Also, we learn that her sister, Vanessa, was also prey to anxiety and depression. She had her own ‘nerve doctor’, Dr Maurice Craig of 87 Harley Street. So was it genetic?

Brunswick Square The Stephens children moved again, to 38 Brunswick Square, and invited several friends to move in and take rooms. Among these was Leonard who moved in on 20 November 1911. Their wooing was slow and painful.

The Aspasia Papers Constant company led Leonard to fell deeper and deeper in love with the beautiful, mercurial, charismatic Virginia, who he came to nickname Aspasia. This was the name of the wife of Pericles (495 to 429 BC), leader of Athens during its so-called Golden Age. He wrote descriptions of her and these expanded to become sketches of the entire social circle or set, all under pen-names, eventually called the Aspasia Papers. The whole gang he joking referred to as The Olympians.

Leonard proposes to Virginia On 10 January 1912 he proposed to her. This upset her so much she took to her bed. But over the following weeks he maintained his suit and the great day came on Wednesday 29 May when she acknowledged the loved him. They told the gang who reacted in different ways. Rupert Brooke claimed it was Leonard’s sexual know-how that got her. He described her eyes lighting up when Leonard described having sex with prostitutes in Ceylon. Put simply, he was the only man she knew who wasn’t gay and had had sex. With a woman!

He was 31, she was 30, both getting on a bit.

Quits the Colonial Service The Colonial Office required him to end his leave and return to Ceylon by May at the latest but Leonard realised he couldn’t go back, and after some surprising shows of flexibility by Whitehall, he eventually resigned his position. Now what was he going to do? He was writing a novel and had written some short stories, but hadn’t made any money from them.

Wedding They were married on Saturday 10 August 1912 at St Pancras Registry Office, a very small low-key affair. As Glendinning puts it:

Leonard and Virginia were agreed that his chief fault was cowardice, and hers was snobbery.
(p.151)

And both faults lay behind his failure to invite his mother to the wedding. Not being invited to the most important day of a son for whom she had made such sacrifices as a single mother deeply hurt her.

Sex

Glendinning (like all their friends) moves onto the subject of sex. Virginia seems to have got to the ripe old age of 30 without every experiencing sexual feelings. This is what you’d deduce from her novels and essays which have a kind of hallucinatory sexlessness. So she didn’t have a clue and he wasn’t savvy enough to be a teacher. He’d only slept with a few Singhalese prostitutes and prostitutes are 1) experienced and 2) compliant. Apparently when Leonard went to make his move, Virginia became increasingly anxious and over-excited in the way which preceded her breakdowns so he had to desist. Permanently.

Glendinning cites a letter exchange of 1933 with Ethel Smyth the feminist composer, where they talk about a news story that young women are having operations to break their hymens ahead of getting married, and joke about going to have the operation themselves. Woolf was 51 and apparently serious. Glendinning concludes from this and plenty of other evidence that Leonard and Virginia never had penetrative sex, so the marriage was never consummated in the normal way. Within a year they took to sleeping in separate rooms and never again slept together.

Events

Breakdown and suicide attempt After the marriage Virginia’s anxiety, nerves and depression grew worse. She became extremely anxious about the likely reception of her first novel, ‘The Voyage Out’. They went to the country hotel to celebrate the first anniversary of their honeymoon but it was a disaster. Virginia had high anxieties about food and refused to eat. Back in Brunswick Square, unattended for a few hours, she took an overdose of veronal (100 grains of veronal) sleeping pills. Prompt action by Keynes’s brother, Geoffrey who was staying in the house, and a stomach pump, saved her life but this necessitated a round of carers, nurses, consultations with the three physicians now treating her.

The Village in the Jungle In the middle of all this Leonard’s first novel, The Village in the Jungle, was published to good reviews. It’s set in Ceylon but not among the white ex-pat and colonial community, instead it entirely habits the minds of poor Singhalese villagers. And it’s written in what, for the times, was very plain factual English, what Glendinning calls ‘spare and unmannered’. Woolf’s old boss, Sir Hugh Clifford, wrote that:

‘Your book is the best study of Oriental peasant life that has ever been written, or that I have ever read.’ (p.168)

It’s available online and I’ve read and reviewed it for this blog.

Virginia Woolf was five feet ten inches tall. She had a ‘cut glass accent’ (p.299).

The Women’s Co-operative Guild The misery with Virginia lasted for months. Throughout this period Leonard became involved with the Women’s Co-Operative Guild, led by its young and energetic president, Margaret Llewelyn Davies. He went to meetings and the annual conference and write articles to promote their work.

He was by this stage writing lots of articles and reviews for a variety of journals, including the New Statesman.

Exempted from war service When the war came the army was at first fuelled with volunteers. The Military Service Act of 1916 widened the age of conscription to all men aged between 16 and 41. Leonard was 35 but underweight and anxious, with a permanent tremor in his hands. In the next three years he underwent three medical examinations but each time presented a letter from his doctor exempting him, predicting that if he were conscripted he would have a physical and mental breakdown within months.

The Fabian Society As well as the Women’s Co-Operative, Leonard had been collared by Sidney and Beatrice Webb, leading lights of the Fabian Society, who were always recruiting likely young chaps for their cause. Sympathetic to gradualist socialism based on facts and figures, Leonard was commissioned to research and write various reports. Thus in 1916 was published the result of extensive researches, his International Government. The book’s central proposal was for an international agency to enforce world peace, and he went on to join a number of the organisations lobbying for a League of Nations to be set up, becoming friendly with the genial H.G. Wells in the process.

Labour Party Leonard joined the Labour Party and helped research and write policy papers. Women’s Co-Operative, League of Nations charities, Fabians and Labour, he wrote research papers, pamphlets and books for all of them. His next book was the thoroughly researched Empire and Commerce in Africa.

1917 Club As a left-winger Leonard welcomed the Russian Revolution. As promptly as December 1917 he helped set up the 1917 Club in Soho as a discussion forum.

The Hogarth Press In 1917 the couple bought an old printing press for £19 and set it up on the dining room table of Hogarth House in Richmond and taught themselves how to use it, to print pages and stitch them together into books. Their first publication was Two Stories, one by Leonard, one by Virginia. Hers was The Mark On The Wall, a free-associating flight of fancy. It was her first published story. His old friend Lytton Strachey immediately saw it was a work of genius. But as Virginia’s confidence grew, Leonard’s shrank. He had published two novels but began to lose faith. He was happier writing factual books.

Mark Gertler, Lady Morrell, Katherine Mansfield They make friends with Mark Gertler, self-obsessed Jewish painter and lover of Dora Carrington. At Garsington Manor, home of Lady Ottoline Morell, they meet the New Zealand short story writer Katherine Mansfield and her husband, the editor John Middleton Murray. They agreed to published Mansfield’s 68-page story The Prelude on their press

Leonard produced another book, Co-operation and the Future of Industry and agreed to edit a journal called International Review. The publishing sensation of 1918 was his old friend, Lytton Strachey’s debunking work of biography, Eminent Victorians.

In the war one of Leonard’s brothers, Cecil, was killed and one, Philip, badly wounded.

Recap When the war ended Glendinning summarises that Woolf had established himself as a documentary journalist and political propagandist, an experienced public speaker and author of distinguished books, as well as a seasoned book reviewer, and publisher in his own right. He was a behind-the-scenes figure in the growing Labour Party and was offered a seat to contest as an MP but, after some hesitation, turned it down.

James Joyce In April 1918 Harriet Weaver, patron of The Egoist magazine, approached them with the unfinished manuscript of James Joyce’s Ulysses but they had to turn it down. Far too big for their expertise, it was rejected on the grounds of obscenity by the two commercial printers they approached. Obscenity was Virginia’s central objection to Joyce, see her essay Mr Bennett and Mrs Brown (1923). She couldn’t get past her snobbish aversion to his references to peeing, pooing and the male anatomy. (The book’s central character, Leopold Bloom, has a bath and idly watches his willy floating in the water.) In her own fictions, almost all references to the body, let alone sex (God forbid) are rigorously excluded, which helps to give them their strange, bloodless, ethereal character.

Woolf’s problematic reaction to Joyce (admiration, envy, rivalry, disgust at his physicality) are explored in two excellent essays by James Heffernan:

T.S. Eliot Conversation with Weaver turned to her other protegé, T.S. Eliot, who they invited to tea to discuss whether he had anything to publish. As a result they published seven of his poems in a small edition of 140 in November 1919. Initially stiff and inhibited, Eliot became friends with Virginia who referred to him, unpretentiously, as Tom. He, like Leonard, was to become carer to a mad wife. He was six years younger than Virginia (born 1888 to Virginia’s 1882). (Later Glendinning wryly notes that ‘Eliot continued to consult Leonard as an expert on mad wives,’ p.265. Ten years later they could have both helped Scott Fitzgerald with Zelda.)

Monk House In 1919 they were meant to go down to Cornwall to join the ménage which had been set up by D.H. Lawrence, his wife Frieda, Middleton Murray and Mansfield – but never did. They had been used to a place in the country named Asheham House but it was sold by the owner. They looked around and settled on Monks House in the village of Rodmell in Sussex. They paid £580 plus £120 for the freehold. This is now a National Trust property. When they moved in it had no running water, electricity or toilet facilities. These two highbrows put up with conditions which would nowadays as unfit for human habitation. Leonard became addicted to working in the garden and had to be dragged away to take Virginia for constitutional walks.

Back in London they bought a bigger press and began to consider the Hogarth Press as a commercial venture. They published Virginia’s story, Kew Gardens. It was 1919 the year of the Paris Peace Conference and Leonard nearly went. They printed Leonard’s Three Tales from the East with a cover by Dora Carrington, to very positive reviews.

Friends’ success Lytton had become a famous name with his Eminent Victorians and Keynes became famous for writing a scathing indictment of the peace terms imposed on Germany in The Economic Consequences of the Peace (December 1919). But although much of Leonard’s research for International Government was used by the British government or other organisations at the Conference, he got little recognition.

Empire and Commerce in Africa: A Study in Economic Imperialism (1920) a scathing indictment of British imperial policy in Africa. He was writing for the New Statesman and wrote leading articles on foreign affairs for the Nation. He was secretary to the Labour Party Committee on International and Imperial Questions. He was in the loop.

The Memoir Club Molly McCarthy set up the Memoir Club to bring together old pals from Cambridge to read works in progress. A propos of this you realise that Leonard, the man, was the objective authoritative and grounded one; Virginia, the woman, was flighty, solipsistic, experimental (p.237).

Gorki and the Russians In 1919 Maxim Gorky sent a friend of theirs, Kotelianski, a manuscript of his life of Trotsky, which he brought to the Woolfs. Thus began a series of careful translations of contemporary Russian literature by the Hogarth Press.

Teeth out In June 1921 Virginia had another nervous collapse. It is mind-boggling to read that some experts thought that having your teeth extracted was a cure from mental illness. On this occasion she had three pulled out. By the end of her life she’d had all her teeth pulled out by these experts.

Jacob’s Room In November 1921 she finished writing Jacob’s Room but with the end of any book came a rush of doubt, anxiety and sometimes collapse. She had come to rely on Leonard entirely, and he had evolved to know his place was by her side and supporting. At the time of the peace conference he had been asked to travel abroad, the Webbs asked him to visit Bolshevik Russia and report back, but he turned all offers down in order to remain by Virginia’s side. This makes him a hero, doesn’t it?

Passage To India Leonard played a key role in helping Morgan Foster complete his most important novel, A Passage To India, when Forster had severe doubts and thought of abandoning it (p.242). Passage was published in 1926 and made Forster famous and financially secure. Leonard was the grey eminence behind it.

Stands for Parliament Leonard stood as a Labour candidate for Liverpool in the 1922 General Election but, thanks to his lacklustre speeches about international affairs and against imperialism, came bottom of the poll. It was a relief.

Literary editor

‘I expect you have heard that, having failed as a) a civil servant b) a novelist c) an editor d) a publicist, I have now sunk to the last rung… literary journalism. I am now Literary Editor of The Nation and Athenaeum.’ (letter to Lytton Strachey, 4 May 1923)

The salary, £500 a year, gave the couple some financial stability and coincided with the start of ‘the most prolific and successful period of Virginia’s writing life’ (p.248). She had published Jacob’s Room and started the long process of writing Mrs Dalloway and was, in addition, writing important essays and reviews.

Leonard’s literary positions Wikipedia gives a handy list of Leonard’s editorial positions:

  • 1919 – editor of the International Review
  • 1920 to 1922 edited the international section of the Contemporary Review from 1920 to 1922
  • 1923 to 1930 – literary editor of The Nation and Athenaeum (generally referred to simply as The Nation)
  • 1931 to 1959 – joint founder and editor of The Political Quarterly from 1931 to 1959

The Waste Land It’s a bit mind-boggling to learn that the Hogarth Press published The Waste Land and the type was set in the household larder. ‘Tom’ was pleased with the typescript and layout. In the same year he established a literary magazine of his own, the Criterion and he and Leonard now were friendly and conspiring literary editors, swapping reviewers and ideas. Tom became a regular visitor to their house, mostly alone, in fact maybe a bit too often as his marriage with the mentally unstable Vivian sank into misery.

Glendinning very entertainingly punctuates the key events of Leonard’s life with a roundup of what all the other Bloomsburies were doing, which is mainly having hetero or bisexual affairs with each other. A little grenade was thrown into the mix when Keynes announced he was not only in love with, but going to marry a dancer from the Ballets Russes, Lydia Lopokova (p.249).

52 Tavistock Square Virginia felt out of it in Richmond and wanted to socialise more. So they sold Hogarth House (for £1,350) and rented 52 Tavistock Square for £140 a year.

Vita Sackville-West At this time Virginia met and became friends with socialite and author Vita Sackville-West. She was married to diplomat Harold Nicholson but they led separate lives, he with a string of boyfriends, she having affairs with women and, eventually, with Virginia. They became ‘tentative’ lovers for about three years. But sex was alien to Virginia’s nature and Vita was a passionate collector of conquests.

Labour As well as working full time as literary editor of the Nation, he continued to be secretary to Labour’s Advisory Committee on International and Imperial Questions. He drafted the foreign policy section of Labour’s 1929 manifesto. Throughout the 1920s he campaigned for India and Ceylon to be given independence. If they had, he later wrote, the murder and mayhem of the independence struggle and the catastrophe of partition would never have happened.

Freud The Hogarth Press embarked on publishing the complete works of Freud being translated by James and Alix Strachey. This project carried on into the 1960s, long after Leonard had parted company with Hogarth, and they’re the edition I own, as republished by Penguin. Despite this, Leonard grew more anti-analysis as he grew older. I’ve reviewed quite a few of Freud’s works:

Vita It became a love affair in December 1925. They took trouble to conceal the full depth of it from Leonard.

Car In August 1927 he bought a car. He drove Virginia all round the country. They drove to the south of France. He wrote that nothing changed his life as much as owning a car.

Mrs Dalloway was published by the Hogarth Press on 14 May 1925. The Common Reader, a volume of 21 short literary essays, was published the same year, and the following year was the first one in which Virginia’s income exceeded Leonard’s. In 1927 her masterpiece To The Lighthouse was published. In 1928 she earned £1,540 to his £394.

Nicknames Virginia never called him Len, she called him Leo. From the start of the marriage they had numerous nicknames for each other but the enduring ones were the Mongoose and the Mandrill. Before she married, Virginia’s nickname in the Stephen household was ‘the Goat’.

They went to Berlin to visit Harold Nicholson, it was a long draining visit with many late nights, and on her return she had a relapse and was in bed for three weeks. Glendinning quotes her as saying she really wanted ‘the maternal protection which… is what I have always wished from everyone’. Suddenly, reading that, I saw how Woolf was a child, endlessly seeking reassurance. And it made me see her novels as essentially childlike, a sexless, jobless, workless, child’s-eye view of life.

Orlando: A Biography was published on 11 October 1928 and sold well, securing their finances. A year later, in October 1929, A Room of One’s Own was also successful.

Richard Kennedy, 24, was the latest young graduate taken on to help out at the Hogarth Press. He describes how Leonard was:

the magician who keeps us all going by his strength of will… and Mrs W is a beautiful, magical doll, very precious but sometimes rather uncontrollable.’

He describes how, when she was lifting off into one of her manic spells, Leonard would gently tap her on the shoulder and she would stop talking, and quietly follow him, go to her bedroom where he talked quietly, read to her and calmed her down. Leonard had to warn new people what they could not say to Virginia to avoid a problem/getting her over-excited. I hadn’t realised she was this on the edge, all the time.

Ethel Smyth During 1930 Virginia gets to know the deaf, feminist composer Ethel Smyth and they become regular, and sometimes bawdy, correspondents. Smyth was 72, Virginia 48. Here’s Smyth’s most famous work, The March of The Women. Very worthy, but heavily Victorian and boring.

New Fabian research Bureau Leonard is appointed to its executive committee in 1931.

Kingsley Martin, an earnest young nonconformist, is appointed editor of the New Statesman which he would remain for 30 years. Leonard became joint editor of the Political Quarterly which he remained for the next 27 years.

The Hogarth Press published 31 books or pamphlets in 1930, 34 in 1931.

John Lehmann just down from Trinity Cambridge, was hired to work on the Press. He lasted two years. While here he published New Signatures, the selection which introduced the poets of the Auden generation. He introduced the Woolfs to Christopher Isherwood. They published Laurens van der Post’s first book. The more I read about the Hogarth press, the more impressive it becomes.

Glendinning cites eye witness accounts from Lehmann, Barbara Bagenal and Harold Nicholson of how Virginia needed Leonard to calm her when she got over-excited or had a fugue, a loss of awareness of where she was or what she was doing (p.294).

There are plenty of eye witnesses testifying to how happy Leonard and Virginia were at Monks House, how relaxed with each other and a civilised routine. Visitors heard Virginia endlessly talking to herself, in the bath, as she pottered round the big garden, and along country lanes, so that the locals came to think of her as bonkers. The servant Louie Everest came to recognise when Virginia was having one of her bad headaches because she pottered round the garden, bumping into trees.

1932

21 January: Lytton Strachey died of cancer. Leonard wrote a sensitive obituary. He had been Leonard’s best friend in their youth. His death confirmed Leonard was middle aged.

11 March, Lytton’s partner, the painter Dora Carrington, shot herself.

Mains water is brought to Monks House and they get a telephone, Lewes 832. Virginia buys new beds from Heals.

1 October Oswald Mosley founded the British Union of Fascists. Marches, rallies and violence in the East End. The Woolfs were connected to all this because up till this point Virginia’s lover, Vita Sackville West’s husband, Harold Nicholson, had been secretary to Mosley. Now he quit.

Conversely, T.S. Eliot‘s mentally unstable wife, Vivian, joined the Fascists. Eliot separated from her and never saw her but she stalked him and made public scenes. Virginia sympathised and ‘Tom’ became a good friend and regular visitor to their London or Sussex house.

1933

1933: Victor Gollancz asked Leonard to edit An Intelligent Man’s Way to Prevent War. This is the same subject as prompted Virginia’s great book, Three Guineas. In April Mosley held a rally for 10,000 followers at the Albert Hall. Leonard and the Fabians thought he might be in power in five years’ time.

1934

July: they visited the fabulously wealthy Victor Rothschild and promised to look after his pet marmoset while he went abroad. It was called Mitzy and became so attached to Leonard’s kindness that she never went back. She perched on Leonard’s shoulder or head and the back of his jacked was routinely strewn with her poo.

5 to 10 September: Leonard listens to the Nazi Nurenberg rally, relayed on the radio. He was inspired to write his satire on the totalitarian regimes, Quack Quack!

9 September: art critic and populariser of the French post-impressionist painters, Roger Fry, died. Vanessa had had a fiercely sexual affair with him (13 years older than her) and was inconsolable. Slowly the idea crystallised that Virginia should write his biography. This was to turn into a chore and produce a not very good book.

1935

May: Driving to Italy Leonard decided to take a detour through Nazi Germany. Glendinning points out that in his autobiographies he doesn’t mention the antisemitism of the 1930s, doesn’t mention Mosley or the British Union of fascists. She thinks this is because he didn’t want to put down in black and white even the possibility of his country’s rejection of himself, as a Jew. The British Foreign Office advised Jews not to visit Hitler’s Germany. Brief description of their journey through Nazi Germany, soldiers everywhere, public notices against Jews, mobs of children giving the Nazi salute. They had taken Mitzy the marmoset with them who made people laugh and defused tensions.

June: published his attack on the Fascist governments, Quack Quack!

September: Nazi Nuremberg Race Laws Jews legally different from their non-Jewish neighbours introducing all kinds of legal discrimination.

September: Leonard and Virginia attended the Labour Party Conference where Ernest Bevin argued that Britain had to rearm to face the Fascist powers, annihilating pacifist speaker in the process.

2 October: Mussolini invaded Abyssinia. Sanctions were useless as didn’t include Germany or the USA. Leonard wrote bleakly about the failure of the League of Nations. He had spent 20 years arguing that the only way to keep peace was international co-operation. Now he was forced to abandon that position and agree with Bevin that Britain needed to re-arm and make itself strong.

1 November: UK General Election in which Labour were thrashed and the new coalition government of Conservatives along with small breakaway factions of the Labour and Liberal parties, was headed by Conservative Stanley Baldwin.

Tom Eliot brought Emily Hale, a former love and confidante, to meet Leonard and Virginia, who left a record of their tea, finding Leonard more sympathetic, warm and tired.

1936

20 January: King George V died, succeeded by his son, Edward VIII.

6 March: Hitler’s troops reoccupied the Rhineland in breach of the Versailles Treaty. The atmosphere of growing antisemitism in Britain. British Union of Fascists symbols drawn on the walls.

Trying to finalise The Years and separate out the polemical book which was to become Three Guineas brought Virginia closer to breakdown than she’d been since 1913. She lost half a stone and for over three months was unable to work, an unusual hiatus. Only in the last 3 months of the year could she resume work on what was to be her longest novel.

July: Spanish Civil War broke out with the army’s coup against the republican, anti-clerical socialist government. Leonard concluded the international system had collapsed and a European war was inevitable.

Sunday 4 October: the Battle of Cable Street as anti-fascists attacked a march by the British Union of Fascists through the East End.

5 to 31 October: the Jarrow march.

19 December: after a prolonged constitutional crisis, Edward VIII abdicates because of the Establishment’s refusal to let him marry the American divorcee, Wallis Simpson.

1937

Leonard was ill for an extended period of time. Glendinning thinks it expressed his anguish about the international situation and dread for the plight of the Jews. He tried various consultants who thought it was diabetes or prostate trouble i.e. didn’t have a clue.

April: the bombing of Guernica.

24 June: Leonard and Virginia were among many artists and performers onstage at the Albert Hall for a concert to raise money for Basque orphans.

20 July: the terrible news that Virginia’s nephew (Vanessa’s son) Julian Bell had been killed after volunteering to drive an ambulance in Spain.

Leonard was diagnosed with numerous ailments and prescribed loads of medicines none of which worked. He even went to see the inventor of the Alexander technique, Frederick Alexander, but gave it up as too arduous. His ongoing illness prompted love and support from Virginia. Glendinning quotes Virginia’s diary describing them walking round Tavistock Square like a lovestruck couple:

‘love-making – after 25 years can’t bear to be separate…you see it is enormous pleasure being wanted: a wife. And our marriage so complete.’ (Virginia’s diary 22 October 1937)

21 October: after a long gestation, Virginia’s final and longest novel, The Years was published. It received good reviews and was her most commercially successful novel although Leonard thought it was her worst.

In late 1937 John Lehmann became a partner in the Hogarth press, buying out Virginia’s share for £3,000.

1938

March: Lehmann started full time as co-director of the Hogarth Press. Endless bickering with Leonard. But it was making more money than ever, £6,000 in this tax year.

March: Leonard installs a wireless in 52 Tavistock Square. He himself makes regular radio broadcasts.

12 March: the Anschluss, Nazi Germany marches into Austria and takes it over. At the Labour Party Executive Leonard argues for a coalition with the Conservatives and the introduction of conscription.

April: Lady Ottoline Morrell, hostess of the literary salon at Garsington Manor, died.

June: Three Guineas published. Leonard thought it typified Virginia’s impeccable feminism but their friends didn’t like it. Forster thought it cantankerous, Keynes thought it silly, Vita thought it unpatriotic. I think its structure (like a lot of Woolf’s writing) is eccentrically oblique and sometimes confusing, but the picture she builds up, especially through the extended notes, of the patriarchy which held back British women, is magnificent, radiating scorn and quiet rage.

August: Tom Eliot’s wife Vivian was certified insane and sent to a lunatic asylum where she spent the last 9 years of her life. Eliot never visited her.

September: the Munich Crisis, Neville Chamberlain flies to Munich and along with the French Prime Minister allows Hitler to annex the Sudetenland, part of Czechoslovakia with a large German population. Leonard predicted war. Virginia is still very much in love with him. She bakes a loaf of bread and calls out to the garden, where he’s up a ladder ‘where he looked so beautiful my heart stood still with pride that he had ever married me’ (letter to Vanessa Bell, October 1938).

9 November: Kristallnacht when the Nazis unleashed stormtroopers on Jewish homes, business and synagogues across Germany. Hundreds of synagogues throughout Germany, Austria and the Sudetenland were damaged, over 7,000 Jewish businesses were damaged or destroyed, and 30,000 Jewish men were arrested and incarcerated in concentration camps. Leonard has a recurrence of the painful rash which covers his back and other parts. He sees doctors but Glendinning thinks it was psychosomatic, stress, and to do with the persecution of the Jews.

December: Leonard finished the first volume of After the Deluge, an analysis of Enlightenment thought into the early nineteenth century. His aim was to show the psychological and sociological process which bring about wars, and so avoid them. Fat chance. When it was published in September 1939 it sold pitifully.

1939

January: Leonard and Virginia go to tea with Sigmund Freud, recently escaped from Nazi Vienna. The Hogarth press had been publishing his works for 15 years. Leonard was struck by Freud’s aura of greatness. Freud died a few weeks into the war, on 23 September 1939.

15 March: German army annexes the rest of Czechoslovakia and claims the country has ceased to exist. France and Britain bring forward their rearmament programmes. Leonard’s psychosomatic rash returns with a vengeance.

23 June: their friend the artist Mark Gertler gassed himself. He was suffering from financial difficulties, his wife had recently left him, his most recent exhibition had been slammed, he was still depressed by the death of his mother and the suicide of Dora Carrington with whom he’d been madly in love, and was fearful of the imminent world war.

Victor Gollancz commissioned Leonard to write a book in defence of civilisation and tolerance for the Left Book Club for £500. But the final manuscript of Barbarians at the Gate contained criticisms of the Soviet Union which were unacceptable to the communists at the club, leading to a prolonged exchange of angry letters.

2 July: Leonard’s mother died. He was unsentimental.

The Woolfs moved to 37 Mecklenburg Square, taking their thousands of books and the Hogarth printing press.

23 August: Germany and Russia signed their non-aggression pact. 1 September Germany invaded Poland. 3 September Britain was at war with Germany.

November: The Barbarians at the Gate was published and slated by left-wing fellow travellers.

1940

The War for Peace published in which Leonard defended what critics called his utopianism in international relations.

June: France collapsed. Hitler enters Paris. Dunkirk. Leonard was shaken.

September: the Blitz began and was to last until May 1941. The blackout is enforced in Rodmell (the village where they had their country home). Virginia spoke to the local Women’s Institute then became its secretary. Like many others they equipped themselves with means of committing suicide should the Germans invade (p.353).

Correspondents: Virginia was still writing letters about her everyday life to Ethel Smyth who didn’t die until May 1944. Leonard still wrote letters to Margaret Llewelyn Davies of the Women’s Co-operative Guild.

They drove to London but couldn’t get as far as Mecklenburgh Square because of the bombing. A pill box was built in the field beyond their garden. German planes flew overhead every day. The flat in Mecklenburgh had its windows blown out by bombs, but their old place at 52 Tavistock Square was reduced to rubble. The Hogarth press machinery was evacuated to Letchworth. The books from Mecklenburgh were shipped down to Monks House where they packed the corridors.

23 November: Virginia finishes first draft of Between the Acts. She slowly fell into a depression, Her hand started to shake.

1941

25 January: Virginia turned 59 and Leonard began to be worried about her persistent depression. She was revising Between the Acts, always a dangerous time. They socialise, Virginia telling people her new novel is no good, though Leonard praised it.

March: she went for a walk in the fields and fell into the river whose banks had broken and flooded some of their land. Leonard returned from giving a talk to find her staggering back towards the house, wet and upset. Vanessa visits and tries to cheer her up.

Monday 24 1941: he realised she was becoming suicidal. The situation was as bad as her collapse in 1913. He consults a friend, Octavia Wilberforce, about whether to his nurses and force 24 hour supervision on Virginia against her will. But this is what had triggered furious psychotic breakdowns in the past so they decided to try and gentler approach, of Leonard calmly supporting and encouraging her.

Next day was a series of humdrum chores, recorded by Leonard and the house servant, and Virginia said she was going for a walk before lunch. An hour or so later Leonard went up to his sitting room and found two letters there, one for Vanessa one for himself, suicide notes. The letter to him is so full of love it made me cry. She thanked him and said she had had a wonderful life but she could feel her madness coming on, she was hearing voices, she couldn’t read, he would be better off without her.

Obviously he came running downstairs, hailed all the servants, sent one to get the police and help and spent the day till sunset searching the flooded river Ouse. He found Virginia’s walking stick lying on the bank. In subsequent days the river was dragged for the body. Eventually the authorities gave up the search for her body.

Three weeks later he body was discovered floating in the river by some teenagers having a picnic. They called the police. Leonard had to identify it. Coroner’s report etc. Leonard drove on his own to the cremation.

All his friends tried to console him, saying she was better off dead than really mad, but Leonard swore she would have recovered from this attack as from previous ones. He buried her ashes under two elm trees in the garden at Monks House which they had jocularly named after themselves.

Joyce and death Born February 2, 1882, Joyce was precisely eight days younger than Virginia. Two days after his death on January 13, 1941, she noted in her diary that he was ‘about a fortnight younger’ (D 5: 352-53). She outlived him by just a little over ten weeks.

Virginia asked Leonard to destroy all her papers

He disobeyed and in the years to come Virginia Woolf’s diaries and letters, autobiographical writings and unpublished works, were to be published and pored over in ever greater detail. The shape of her legacy, and the broader picture of the Bloomsbury Group, would have been very different if he’d obeyed her wishes.

Was he right to ignore her explicit, direct request, as Max Brod disobeyed Kafka’s request to burn his papers?

The shocked response of friends and family, other writers, journalists, and the wider world, are described and done with by about page 380 of this 500-page book. Leonard Woolf still had 28 years to live (died 14 August 1969). A man who was born the year Gladstone replaced Disraeli as Prime Minister (1880) lived to see men land on the moon. The twentieth century, century of marvels but also cataclysmic disasters.

After Virginia

What’s interesting is the power of the biography completely evaporates with Virginia’s death. I hadn’t realised how much Leonard’s story had come to be entwined with hers, and his existence justified by his support of her as she wrote her masterpieces. When it’s back to just him it remains sort of interesting in a journalistic gossipy way but the pressure drops right down.

Twenty-eight more years of living, writing, politicking, editing, publishing and loving – one year less than his marriage to Virginia (1912 to 1941). According to Glendinning ‘Few people are so fortunate in their later life as Leonard Woolf’ and he had many happy years. But for this reader, at any rate, all the life went out of the book when Virginia died.

Trekkie

In the next few years he fell in love with a woman called Trekkie (real name Margaret Tulip) Parsons, a keen but nondescript painter, married to Ian Parsons, an editor at Chatto and Windus, a handsome charming man. Ian sort of permitted a menage a trois to develop though it’s doubtful that Leonard and Trekkie ever had sex, and I hate myself for reading about other people’s sex lives, though this is an unavoidable aspect of modern biography. Ian meanwhile was having an affair with his editorial assistant Norah Smallwood so… so people will be people.

Superficial though it sounds, the relationship with Trekkie lasted for the rest of their lives.

The growth of Bloomsbury

The other theme which emerges is the slow steady growth of the Bloomsbury industry. Post-war interest in Virginia and other figures just kept on growing. The surviving members of the network –published books every year and fed the market throughout the 1950s (p.433). The advent of the swinging 60s, sexual liberation, the decriminalisation of homosexuality in 1967, a greater openness about sex, made the Bloomsburies, with their fluid sexuality and open relationships, seem forebears and founders.

The members wrote autobiographies and memoirs, and a steadily growing tribe of academics wrote books about them. Glendinning describes some of the early Virginia scholars who began to approach Leonard asking for help, advice, an interview, and whatever papers he could spare.

Glendinning records Leonard’s growing involvement with not just American scholars but professional buyers of manuscripts such as Hamill and Barker, to whom he sold off packets and parcels of letters, manuscripts and diaries, through the 1950s and ’60s, for lucrative sums (pages 427, 450).

The schism between academics and public intellectuals

This move to biography was encouraged by the growing schism between general, freelance public intellectuals such as Leonard, and the growing number of professional academics housed in the growing number of postwar universities. When Virginia and Leonard started writing all intellectuals were on about the same level, with some being experts at universities, but many freelance writers knowing quite as much across a broad range of subjects. The tone of discourse across public writers and academics was comparable. In the new era of academic specialisation, academics developed technical terms and jargon, assumed specialist knowledge, which increasingly cut them off from generalists let alone the man in the street.

Leonard fell victim to this specialisation with his book on international politics, After the Deluge, published in 1955. He intended it to form the third part of a trilogy (the previous books published in 1931 and 1939) which he allowed himself to be persuaded to give the grandiose title Principia Politica. This begged comparisons with the masterworks of Newton (Philosophiæ Naturalis Principia Mathematica), Whitehead and Russell’s Principia Mathematica or GE Moore’s Principia Ethica, but it was nothing of the kind, as reviewers were quick to point out. Compared to the new ranks of professional academics, Leonard appeared discursive, repetitive, anecdotal and amateurish (p.444).

The spread of universities and growth of a class of specialist academics was epitomised by the opening, in 1961, of the University of Sussex, just outside Brighton and only 5 miles from Leonard’s rural retreat in the village of Rodmer (p.465).

For the public intellectual locked out of the growing ivory tower of academia, there remained publishing (he continued to be a director of the Hogarth Press), ‘the higher journalism’ (he continued to edit the Political Quarterly, and biography and memoirs. So this feeds back into the growth of Bloomsbury books – none of the survivors (Vanessa, Duncan, Quentin and so on) were really expert, scholarly expert-level on anything except… themselves.

Leonard himself epitomised the trend. Having had his masterwork of political commentary rubbished he retreated to the safer territory of his own life, and commenced his own autobiography which ended up taking no fewer than six volumes:

  • Sowing: An Autobiography of the Years 1880 to 1904 (1960)
  • Growing: An Autobiography of the Years 1904 to 1911 (1961)
  • Diaries in Ceylon 1908 to 1911, and Stories from the East: Records of a Colonial Administrator (1963)
  • Beginning Again: An Autobiography of the Years 1911 to 1918 (1964)
  • Downhill All the Way: An Autobiography of the Years 1919 to 1939 (1967)
  • The Journey Not the Arrival Matters: An Autobiography of the Years 1939 to 1969 (1969)

I’d never heard of these but they won him prizes. Beginning Again won the W.H. Smith book prize and the handy sum of £1,000.

Michael Holroyd’s two-volume biography of Lytton Strachey published in 1967-8 proved to be a turning point. Its openness about Strachey’s homosexuality, his numerous affairs, his thousands of camp letters, shed a completely new light on the Bloomsburies, rendering much that had been written up to that point obsolete, but confirming their reputation as sexual pioneeers (p.475).

Pointless

In the last volume of his autobiography Leonard candidly, devastatingly, adjudged that a lifetime of political activism, sitting on innumerable committees, spending years researching and writing position papers and polemical books (calling for international co-operation for peace) achieved more or less nothing.

‘I see clearly that I achieved practically nothing.’ (quoted p.484)

Thoughts

Authoritative, thorough, empathetic, insightful, fascinating and often very funny, nonetheless Glendinning’s definitive biography becomes increasingly focused on the mental illness of poor Virginia, relentlessly building up to Virginia’s suicide which is so terrible, so upsetting, so devastating, that I could barely read on and stopped trying to review it after that point.


Credit

‘Leonard Woolf: A Life’ by Victoria Glendinning was first published by Simon and Schuster in 2006. Page references are to the 2007 Pocket Books paperback edition.

Related links

Virginia explaining and justifying her technique in ‘Modern Novels’ (TLS 10 April 1919):

The mind, exposed to the ordinary course of life, receives upon its surface a myriad impressions–trivial, fantastic, evanescent, or engraved with the sharpness of steel. From all sides they come, an incessant shower of innumerable atoms, composing in their sum what we might venture to call life itself; and to figure further as the semi-transparent envelope, or luminous halo, surrounding us from the beginning of consciousness to the end. Is it not perhaps the chief task of the novelist to convey this incessantly varying spirit with whatever stress or sudden deviation it may display, and as little admixture of the alien and external as possible.

Let us record the atoms as they fall upon the mind in the order in which they fall, let us trace the pattern, however disconnected and incoherent in appearance, which each sight or incident scores upon the consciousness. Let us not take it for granted that life exists more in what is commonly thought big than in what is commonly thought small.

Revised as ‘Modern Fiction’ in The Common Reader (1925).

Jacob’s Room by Virginia Woolf (1922)

Words have been used too often; touched and turned, and left exposed to the dust of the street…
(Woolf’s sense of exhaustion and futility, page 88)

What people go through in half an hour!
(Woolf’s profound sense of the unhappiness of life)

Virginia Woolf was mad* and, I think, in this book as elsewhere, it really shows. She had a lifelong history of mental illness and ended up committing suicide. Reading this book, her third novel, helps you, I think, to understand why.

The basic subject matter is simple, insultingly simple, really: it’s another Bildungsroman or coming-of-age or growing-up novel about a clever young man from ‘the provinces’ named Jacob Flanders. The novel twist is the way the nominal protagonist, Jacob, is actually absent from most of the narrative.

We first meet Jacob as a boy on a beach holiday in Cornwall with his (widowed) mother, Betty Flanders. Then we see him roaming up the hill behind the family house in Scarborough. The local vicar and schoolmaster recommend him for Cambridge and lo and behold, in the following chapter we meet him there, hanging with other undergraduates, declaring, as if he’d invented the thought, that Greek literature is better than all modern literature. Virginia takes the opportunity to mock crusty old dons.  Then he graduates and moves to London where he meets ‘Life’ in the form of boring parties, does boring research at the British Museum and, as far as I could tell from the text, becomes involved with a prostitute, Florinda (in fact, I was wrong: Wikipedia tells me that Florinda is a sexually permissive art student; my mistake indicative of the way it’s often hard to make out exactly what’s going on.)

So far, so boring, so very like E.M. Forster’s worst novel, The Longest Journey, which describes the growth from boyhood of another provincial youth who goes up to Cambridge, knocks around with other callow undergraduates who all worship Greek literature and think they’ve invented being clever, before going on to discover how disappointing the world of work is (he becomes a teacher and is slowly crushed by the mundanity of it). So far, so dull, narrow and predictable.

But in literature it’s not the (over-familiar) subject matter, it’s the treatment of it which you pay for, and it’s here that Woolf is either a genius or a deeply disturbed individual, depending on your point of view.

A personal digression on mental illness

My sister had serious post-natal depression for years and is still on medication. Both her kids have mental health issues. At uni I went out with a woman whose mother was a schizophrenic, a trait she passed onto my girlfriend’s (deeply disturbed) brother and which darkened the lives of everyone in their family. My best friend at school had a nervous breakdown at university, jacked it in and ran off to the Continent, to the distress of his parents. Both of my children had troubled teenage years, my daughter cutting herself, my son developing month-long psychosomatic migraines which kept him off school for over two years. In the end I packed in my job to look after them both and try to get their lives back on track, but I found myself suffering a kind of secondary stress from the endless worry and ended up needing anti-depressant medication myself.

A few years ago my wife had the bright idea of taking me to see the stage production of ‘The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time’ in the West End. The production used flashing white lights and loud sound affects to do an excellent job of taking you inside the mind of a severely autistic boy, so good that after ten minutes or so I had a panic attack and, at first, sat with my fingers jammed in my ears, rocking backwards and forwards, humming loudly myself to try and block out the chaos. Eventually I could stand it no longer and pushed along the aisle of seats and ran through the labyrinth of corridors till I burst out into the fresh air of Soho, leaned against a lamp-post and threw up. It took me the rest of the evening to calm down and days and days to get back to feeling ‘normal’ and being able to smile.

Reading ‘Jacob’s Room’ made me feel a bit like that. I experienced it as a kind of assault on my mental health and equilibrium. I’m glad it is so short (160 pages) because much more would have been bad for my sanity. Having finished it I went out in the garden and start the weeding and pruning, in the winter sunshine, to try and regain my balance.

Fragments

‘Jacob’s Room’ was Woolf’s third novel and the one in which she really announced herself as an experimental novelist, shedding Victorian novelistic conventions left, right and centre in order to achieve her effects. Fans of Woolf focus on her concern to ignore the traditional contexts of plot, scene or character, and instead zero in on fragments and details. These include:

  • focusing on very peripheral details of a scene or location
  • giving fragments of speech with no attempt to report a complete or coherent dialogue
  • jumping from one half-completed scene to a completely new scene with no explanation or introduction
  • jumping into the middle of conversations without bothering to report the start or finish
  • mentioning characters as if we ought to know who they are despite never having mentioned them before (e.g. ‘old Mrs. Temple’ who pops up for a passing appearance in chapter 7)

The London chapters are littered with descriptions of London street scenes which describe random passers-by, people begging or pitifully selling shoe laces or whatnot, crammed into paragraphs which either convey a marvellous panorama of London life or are the dazed fragments of an alienated mind, according to taste.

The book is all about fragments and a deliberately skittish, mosquito jumping from fragment to fragment. At moments I enjoyed this, at others I didn’t. Why?

I very much liked the opening chapter which is, I think, brilliant. It starts with Jacob’s mum, Mrs Betty Flanders, on holiday in Cornwall, sitting on the beach writing a letter, and something’s made her start to cry and the scene is depicted through her tears.

Slowly welling from the point of her gold nib, pale blue ink dissolved the full stop; for there her pen stuck; her eyes fixed, and tears slowly filled them. The entire bay quivered; the lighthouse wobbled; and she had the illusion that the mast of Mr. Connor’s little yacht was bending like a wax candle in the sun. She winked quickly. Accidents were awful things. She winked again. The mast was straight; the waves were regular; the lighthouse was upright; but the blot had spread.

I see what Woolf did here, I understand the effect she’s aiming for, I thought it was brilliant and fresh. Incidentally the sentence ‘Accidents were awful things’, jarringly pasted into the stream of her thoughts, indicates the cause of her crying, thinking about an accident in which a friend has died. So you have a brilliant description of what she sees through tears and a deliberately hyper-elliptical reference to the cause of the tears.

It starts to rain and Betty makes her kids pack up their things and scamper from the beach up to the boarding house. Here she gives them tea and puts them to bed as the rainstorm continues outside and the chapter ends by zooming in on one of the kids’ buckets abandoned in the garden.

Outside the rain poured down more directly and powerfully as the wind fell in the early hours of the morning. The aster was beaten to the earth. The child’s bucket was half-full of rainwater; and the opal-shelled crab slowly circled round the bottom, trying with its weakly legs to climb the steep side; trying again and falling back, and trying again and again.

Brilliant.

I think I liked the two details I’ve selected, crying on the beach and the garden in the rain, (or I understood them) because they are both visual effects, they paint a very vivid visual picture indeed. In subsequent chapters the incidence of these visual details falls away as the book becomes increasingly psychological. As Jacob grows into a student he becomes steadily less interesting (having had two of my own, I know that student-aged people are a lot, lot less interesting than small children: small children are joyous and funny, students not so much). By the time we see Jacob attend some posh party or studying in the British Museum or walking through the busy streets, the disconnected fragments are no longer visual but psychological.

So Woolf finds herself applying her technique of fragments and pieces to people and situations which are 1) increasingly psychological and 2) of increasingly narrow subject matter (students at Cambridge, Cambridge graduates in London) and so 3) increasingly boring.

And unbearable to the narrator. What I found increasingly hard to read was not so much the tedious portraits of bright Cambridge students (God help us) or the descriptions of dinner parties or tea parties (give me strength) but the strong feeling Woolf gives of these things being too much for her.

In chapter 3 Jacob is invited to a tea party with his Cambridge tutor and wife and finds it stiflingly conventional and boring and, the second he escapes from the house,

‘Oh God, oh God, oh God!’ exclaimed Jacob, as the four undergraduates left the house. ‘Oh, my God!’ Bloody beastly!’ he said, scanning the street for lilac or bicycle — anything to restore his sense of freedom.

That’s how I felt every time I put this book down and I escaped from the prison house of mental illness, of a narrator who comes under such pressure she feels she’ll start screaming – and back into my world of birds in my garden and sunshine and freedom.

There’s a vivid example of this Woolf pressure-cooker effect in chapter 4 when Jacob takes Florinda, a girl who fancies him (I think), to dinner at some restaurant. As more and more people come in, the noise level in the big echoing restaurant goes up and up:

The room was filling; the heat increasing. Talk in a restaurant is dazed sleep-walkers’ talk, so many things to look at — so much noise — other people talking. Can one overhear?

Until:

The room got fuller and fuller; talk louder; knives more clattering.

Knives more clattering. As you read, you can feel the mental stress of the narrator building and building until, the next thing we know, someone at a nearby table, a woman, suddenly leaps to her feet, sweeps the contents of the table onto the floor and shouts something at the man she’s lunching with, clearly the climax of some kind of argument.

I can see how Woolf fans would appreciate the technique used here and it’s powerfully vivid. But what I took from it was the sense of a super-sensitive sensibility being overloaded, being oppressed by the growing roar of the large echoing room, by the clattering of the knives and then… snapping, standing screaming, smashing plates, making a scene. I felt like I was standing outside that West End theatre again, my insides screaming in distress, pushed over the edge and beyond.

Why would I read a book that makes me feel like I’m having a panic attack? And when I wasn’t having panic attack flashbacks, I just felt desperately sad for her, for Woolf. She has, it seems to me, two modes: pent-up screaming panic mode or, when her mania is under control, a sense of glum, defeated depression. At the end of chapter 4 the narrator observes:

The thought saddened him. It’s not catastrophes, murders, deaths, diseases, that age and kill us; it’s the way people look and laugh, and run up the steps of omnibuses.

Woolf was 36 when ‘Jacob’s Room’ was published. Reading that little bit of authorial wisdom didn’t strike me as very wise, it just made me feel sorry for her. Sorry for a woman who found the most commonplace sights and sounds too much to bear, which either made her want to scream and run out the room, or made her feel like they were aging and killing her. All her thoughts saddened me.

Tired of life

Here are some more examples of Woolf just sounding tired:

‘Holborn straight ahead of you,’ says the policeman. Ah, but where are you going if instead of brushing past the old man with the white beard, the silver medal, and the cheap violin, you let him go on with his story, which ends in an invitation to step somewhere, to his room, presumably, off Queen’s Square, and there he shows you a collection of birds’ eggs and a letter from the Prince of Wales’s secretary, and this (skipping the intermediate stages) brings you one winter’s day to the Essex coast, where the little boat makes off to the ship, and the ship sails and you behold on the skyline the Azores; and the flamingoes rise; and there you sit on the verge of the marsh drinking rum-punch, an outcast from civilization, for you have committed a crime, are infected with yellow fever as likely as not, and — fill in the sketch as you like. As frequent as street corners in Holborn are these chasms in the continuity of our ways. Yet we keep straight on. (p.91)

Is this an inspiring flight of fantasy? Or a kind of delirium? You can choose to be thrilled by the imaginative fantasia she projects onto the old man with the white beard she walks past in a London street – yes, excellent – or notice the tone of the last sentence: how we all ignore the fantasies of the street, walk straight past, missing out, leading blinkered lives. A sad thought.

And in the following, the never-ending people you see, lost and abandoned in the street, carries over into the powerful sense of the futility of trying to find meaning anywhere, which spills (characteristically) into the futility of reading, of seeking an answer which can’t be found.

The little man fingering the meat must have squatted before the fire in innumerable lodging-houses, and heard and seen and known so much that it seems to utter itself even volubly from dark eyes, loose lips, as he fingers the meat silently, his face sad as a poet’s, and never a song sung. Shawled women carry babies with purple eyelids; boys stand at street corners; girls look across the road — rude illustrations, pictures in a book whose pages we turn over and over as if we should at last find what we look for. Every face, every shop, bedroom window, public-house, and dark square is a picture feverishly turned — in search of what? It is the same with books. What do we seek through millions of pages? Still hopefully turning the pages… (p.92)

She has lots of these descriptions of London streets, London street scenes, which are superficially attractive – which, as a Londoner, I really enjoyed – except that they all end on the same note of futility or exhaustion. ‘Yet we keep on… What do we seek…?’

‘Come to tea, come to dinner, what’s the truth of the story? have you heard the news? life in the capital is gay; the Russian dancers….’ These are our stays and props. These lace our days together and make of life a perfect globe. And yet, and yet… when we go to dinner, when pressing finger-tips we hope to meet somewhere soon, a doubt insinuates itself; is this the way to spend our days? the rare, the limited, so soon dealt out to us — drinking tea? dining out? And the notes accumulate. And the telephones ring. And everywhere we go wires and tubes surround us to carry the voices that try to penetrate before the last card is dealt and the days are over. ‘Try to penetrate,’ for as we lift the cup, shake the hand, express the hope, something whispers, Is this all? Can I never know, share, be certain? Am I doomed all my days to write letters, send voices, which fall upon the tea-table, fade upon the passage, making appointments, while life dwindles, to come and dine? Yet letters are venerable; and the telephone valiant, for the journey is a lonely one, and if bound together by notes and telephones we went in company, perhaps — who knows? — we might talk by the way.

Doubt, doom, is this all? She sounds as depressed as T.S. Eliot:

For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;

So that eventually I learned that whenever she sets off on one of her digressions, I know it’s going to end up being depressing. ‘Is this all? Am I doomed? Why do we bother reading books? We have to keep on.’ On every page of this book there is the heavy, lowering sense of Woolf’s struggle against depression and futility.

He sat at the table reading the Globe. The pinkish sheet was spread flat before him. He propped his face in his hand, so that the skin of his cheek was wrinkled in deep folds. Terribly severe he looked, set, and defiant. (What people go through in half an hour! But nothing could save him. These events are features of our landscape. A foreigner coming to London could scarcely miss seeing St. Paul’s.) He judged life. These pinkish and greenish newspapers are thin sheets of gelatine pressed nightly over the brain and heart of the world. They take the impression of the whole. Jacob cast his eye over it. A strike, a murder, football, bodies found; vociferation from all parts of England simultaneously. How miserable it is that the Globe newspaper offers nothing better to Jacob Flanders!

‘How miserable it is…’ could be Woolf’s motto.

A window tinged yellow about two feet across alone combated the white fields and the black trees …. At six o’clock a man’s figure carrying a lantern crossed the field …. A raft of twig stayed upon a stone, suddenly detached itself, and floated towards the culvert …. A load of snow slipped and fell from a fir branch …. Later there was a mournful cry …. A motor car came along the road shoving the dark before it …. The dark shut down behind it….

Spaces of complete immobility separated each of these movements. The land seemed to lie dead …. Then the old shepherd returned stiffly across the field. Stiffly and painfully the frozen earth was trodden under and gave beneath pressure like a treadmill. The worn voices of clocks repeated the fact of the hour all night long.

Mrs Jarvis wonders why we all run round doing foolish unnecessary things, in tones which sound just like her creator:

‘I never pity the dead,’ said Mrs. Jarvis, shifting the cushion at her back, and clasping her hands behind her head. Betty Flanders did not hear, for her scissors made so much noise on the table. ‘They are at rest,’ said Mrs. Jarvis. ‘And we spend our days doing foolish unnecessary things without knowing why.’ (p.124)

Chapter 9 contains an extended description of scholars working in the British Museum Reading Room. I suppose it’s intended to be satirical but the effect isn’t funny, it’s just sad. It conveys all too vividly the immense waste of life in futile scribbling.

Nobody laughed in the reading-room. There were shirtings, murmurings, apologetic sneezes, and sudden unashamed devastating coughs. The lesson hour was almost over. Ushers were collecting exercises. Lazy children wanted to stretch. Good ones scribbled assiduously — ah, another day over and so little done! And now and then was to be heard from the whole collection of human beings a heavy sigh, after which the humiliating old man would cough shamelessly, and Miss Marchmont hinnied like a horse. (p.101)

There’s lots of sighing in the book.

‘The Daily Mail isn’t to be trusted,’ Jacob said to himself, looking about for something else to read. And he sighed again, being indeed so profoundly gloomy that gloom must have been lodged in him to cloud him at any moment… (p.132)

What is the point, of this, of anything?

It all seemed to him very distasteful. Something ought to be done about it. And from being moderately depressed he became like a man about to be executed…

This gloom, this surrender to the dark waters which lap us about, is a modern invention.

The artist’s model, Fanny Elmer, falls in love with Jacob but he doesn’t even notice which makes her feel suicidal.

‘Anyhow, I can drown myself in the Thames,’ Fanny cried, as she hurried past the Foundling Hospital. (p.132)

Hard not to read that and remember that Woolf, of course, eventually killed herself by drowning. On every page the characters sigh, are filled with gloom, wonder what the point is of all this fuss and fret.

Jacob went to the window and stood with his hands in his pockets. There he saw three Greeks in kilts; the masts of ships; idle or busy people of the lower classes strolling or stepping out briskly, or falling into groups and gesticulating with their hands. Their lack of concern for him was not the cause of his gloom; but some more profound conviction — it was not that he himself happened to be lonely, but that all people are. (p.133)

Lonely, lonely and sad. The over-familiar line from Pink Floyd came to mind: ‘Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way.’ In this book Woolf seemed to me a perfect epitome of quiet, well-mannered desperation.

Strolling in at dusk, Sandra would open the books and her eyes would brighten (but not at the print), and subsiding into the arm-chair she would suck back again the soul of the moment; or, for sometimes she was restless, would pull out book after book and swing across the whole space of her life like an acrobat from bar to bar. She had had her moments. Meanwhile, the great clock on the landing ticked and Sandra would hear time accumulating, and ask herself, ‘What for? What for?‘ (p.153)

‘What for? What for?’ I wonder if Woolf made repeated suicide attempts before she finally succeeded. It sounds like it. Misery dribbles from every page of this grimly depressing book.

The thought saddened him. It’s not catastrophes, murders, deaths, diseases, that age and kill us; it’s the way people look and laugh, and run up the steps of omnibuses.

(A few days later, I read in the notes to the Oxford University Press edition of ‘Mrs Dalloway’ that Woolf suffered mental collapses in 1895, 1904 and 1913 to 1915; that she tried to kill herself by jumping out a window in 1895 (aged 13) and again in 1913 (aged 31). In 1922 when she felt another attack coming on, she went to see a Harley Street specialist who was, predictably, useless. Anyway: I wasn’t wrong to feel through the pages of this book a profound experience of barely controlled unhappiness, gloom, misery and mental dislocation.)

Muddle

It’s odd that the ‘serious’ authors of the 1900s, 1910s and 1920s went out of their way to indicate how puzzled and perplexed they were by the world around them. The buzzword which recurs in so many of these novelists is ‘muddle’, as they throw up their hands and declare: ‘It’s too complicated for me to understand; it’s all a big muddle’. E.M. Forster routinely gives up trying to understand his own narratives and admits it’s all a ‘muddle’. Woolf isn’t much better. Here she is in the Cornish holiday home in chapter 1:

There was a click in the front sitting-room. Mr. Pearce had extinguished the lamp. The garden went out. It was but a dark patch. Every inch was rained upon. Every blade of grass was bent by rain. Eyelids would have been fastened down by the rain. Lying on one’s back one would have seen nothing but muddle and confusion — clouds turning and turning, and something yellow-tinted and sulphurous in the darkness.

And now in central London:

Indeed, drums and trumpets is no phrase. Indeed, Piccadilly and Holborn, and the empty sitting-room and the sitting-room with fifty people in it are liable at any moment to blow music into the air. Women perhaps are more excitable than men. It is seldom that any one says anything about it, and to see the hordes crossing Waterloo Bridge to catch the non-stop to Surbiton one might think that reason impelled them. No, no. It is the drums and trumpets. Only, should you turn aside into one of those little bays on Waterloo Bridge to think the matter over, it will probably seem to you all a muddle — all a mystery. (p.106)

So many of Woolf’s digressions kick off with bold declaration, with fine phrases, then get bogged down in her digressive meandering, and then completely give up, admitting it’s ‘all a muddle — all a mystery.’ Joseph Conrad’s more discursive passages quickly turn into moralising about Man and the Cruel Universe. E.M. Forster’s frequent digressions tend to bring in the Greek gods. Woolf’s digressions again and again end in the admission of defeat, failure to understand and a stifling sense of futility.

Send your hero abroad…

Like so many of the authors of the day, when Woolf couldn’t think what to do with her protagonist she sent him off abroad in the hope that something interesting might crop up, first to Italy, then to Greece. Just like Forster sending Lucy Honeychurch to Florence (A Room with a View) and Lawrence sending Aaron to Florence (Aaron’s Rod). So we are treated to descriptions of train journeys across Italy, views of the hot dry landscape, sturdy Italian peasants, Florence, the Colosseum blah blah, then – shazam! – we are in Greece, Patras, more trains, even hotter drier landscapes, Athens, the Parthenon.

Woolf may be a clever writer but this feels like a desperately tired expedience. Her views on the timeless beauty of the Acropolis join the exact same views of the thousands and thousands of other British tourists and diarists and journal-writers and essayists and archaeologists and historians and novelists who preceded her. Boring. And her protagonist is (rightly) bored. He diligently visits all the sights, reads all the guidebook facts but is stubbornly ‘morose’ (p.141).

I was hoping he’d get run over and killed by a tram, in the completely pointless way the protagonist of ‘The Longest Journey’ is run over by a train at the abrupt ending of that book, but no such luck. Instead, in Italy he falls in with an older couple, Evan Wentworth Williams who is a frustrated would-be politician, and his wife, Sandra Wentworth Williams, who sensitively swans around Athens in a long white dress.

It is made clear that Sandra wants to collect Jacob, to leech on to his youthful gaucheness, and that her husband acquiesces, staying behind in their hotel while Sandra and Jacob go for a walk up the Parthenon in the moonlight. But then, in a characteristic move to frustrate our conventional expectations, just as we are expecting something to happen (a kiss in the moonlight!), the narrative cuts away to Jacob’s mother in bed in her house in Scarborough. And after a few pages with her, when it cuts back to Athens, Jacob and Sandra have disappeared. It is a deliberate strategy of obliquity and evasion.

Then it’s the next morning, they all get up early and journey on to Constantinople. I don’t think anything at all happened between them, even a kiss. The only practical outcome is that Jacob gives Sandra the copy of John Donne’s poems which he’s reading and annotating and we are told it joins the select number of volumes the older lady keeps on her dressing table, and occasionally picks up as she moons over her old lovers. He has been collected.

All the important moments in these little scenes is deliberately omitted leaving a narrative made of fragments built around absences. The central character and all his key experiences, those character-forming experiences you expect from a Bildungsroman, have been carefully excised to leave a hole in the middle of the text.

… then bring him back

The penultimate chapter, chapter 13, gives a kind of panoramic overview of all the characters we have met so far, in the course of one day of coming and going, mostly in London.

Jacob is back in London, lean, brown and boring everyone with his trite opinions about the glories of Greece. He is walking through Hyde Park with his best buddy Dick Bonamy who is unhappy (of course) because of his frustrated love affair with the elusive Clara Durrant.

From one point of view the entire History of The Novel is a record of the long, pitifully useless efforts of adult human beings to manage even the simplest affairs of the heart, to manage their love lives. Whenever anybody gets up on their hind legs and starts pontificating about ‘human wisdom’ and what a clever species we are, even before you get out the history books with their mountainous records of wars and tortures, just hand them a couple of classic novels and say ‘Here: this is the evidence against’. Here are a half dozen examples of the human race who couldn’t manage the most basic aspects of human relationships and ended up killing themselves – Madame Bovary, Anna Karenina.

We are introduced to Mr Bowley, a new character, an older gentleman, who accompanies Clara as she puts her dog Troy on a leash and takes him for a walk in the park. They are disturbed when a horse which has thrown its rider goes galloping by. Characteristically for Woolf, this tear in the fragile surface of good manners and etiquette, is all it takes to trigger Clara to tears, just like the slow crescendo of knives and forks clattering triggered the unnamed woman in the restaurant.

“‘This statue was erected by the women of England…'” Clara read out with a foolish little laugh. ‘Oh, Mr. Bowley! Oh!’ Gallop—gallop—gallop—a horse galloped past without a rider. The stirrups swung; the pebbles spurted. ‘Oh, stop! Stop it, Mr. Bowley!’ she cried, white, trembling, gripping his arm, utterly unconscious, the tears coming. (p.159)

‘White, trembling, gripping his arm.’ It is my contention that this hysteria lies just below the surface of every sentence, every perception in the book, just waiting to burst out. Nice polite well-mannered young women are poised to snap and burst into tears at the slightest provocation.

This horse bolting is a symbol which is used to bring together disparate strands right at the end of the book. Assiduous visitor of the sick, Mrs Julia Eliot, saw the incident too, en route to her appointment with Lady Congreve in Bruton Street.

At that precise moment Florinda (the sexually permissive art student) who’s discovered she’s pregnant, watches the arrival of the painter Nick Bramham, at the restaurant, Verrey’s, where she’s booked a table. Have they agreed to marry? Has he agreed to pretend to be the father? Is he the father? Or is he stepping in for Jacob who is the real father? I can see that the way it isn’t spelled out is deliberate and artful. It joins the collection of many other issues which are elided and cut off. It creates the sense of a panorama of puzzles, allusions, mysteries, which is clearly how Woolf saw life.

At that moment far away in her country house, Sandra Wentworth Evans fondles the volume of Donne and wonders whether she can emotionally manipulate Jacob. Meanwhile, back in Hyde Park, abandoned by a cross Bonamy, Jacob idly draws in the dirt with the end of his umbrella what may or may not be a sort of diagram of the Parthenon.

A deckchair attendant asks him for a penny, but Jacob can only find half a crown which he gives the man, with some asperity.

Fanny Elmer loves Jacob more than ever and writes him notes and postcards which she never sends. She’s taken to hanging round the British Museum in the hope of sighting him. Why did no-one tell her that life is grim and frustrating?

‘One’s godmothers ought to have told one,’ said Fanny, looking in at the window of Bacon, the mapseller, in the Strand — told one that it is no use making a fuss; this is life, they should have said, as Fanny said it now, looking at the large yellow globe marked with steamship lines. ‘This is life. This is life,’ said Fanny. (p.163)

At which point, with Woolfian misery, she bursts into tears. She catches a bus which is held up in the Charing Cross Road because there’s a big political rally marching down Whitehall, past the various government ministries and Woolf gives us the last of what have been quite a few page-long digressions about international politics, about the enormous reach of the British Empire and the need to address issues with Kaisers and Rajahs and so on all around the world. Because of my own personal interest in history, these were the only bits of the novel I really enjoyed, because of their sense of range, of the wider world rising above the petty, small-minded backbiting of most of the ‘characters’.

Back to individuals: Timmy Durrant (Clara’s brother) is at work in one of these government departments which Fanny is walking past. He is aided by Miss Thomas, one of the typists who doesn’t want to be late to meet her beau at the Gaiety Theatre.

Jacob gets up from his deckchair. It’s past five and the sun is setting. Far away in Scarborough his mother is writing a letter to his older brother, Archer, who works in Singapore.

Coming out of Carter’s shop in Piccadilly, the Reverend Andrew Lloyd half recognises Jacob as he walks past because it was he, Floyd, back in chapter 2, who recommended Betty to try her son for Cambridge i.e. had a hand in the formation of Jacob’s personality, in a sense is partly responsible for the entire narrative. But he hesitates to approach Jacob just long enough for the latter to disappear into the crowd. It is a world of lost opportunities. Fleeting glimpses and unfulfillment.

In a cab in a traffic jam in Long Acre sit smooth Mr Wortley, Clara and her mother Mrs Durrant, who is concerned about arriving late to the opera and missing the overture.

Far away on the edge of the moors overlooking the sea, Mrs Pasco watches two ships pass each other out on the waves.

Even further away, Greek housewives knit their stockings while the sunset colours the Parthenon red. Artillery fires over the Piraeus to mark the end of the day.

Betty Flanders is woken by a distant booming but can hear nothing distinct. It connects back to the guns in Greece but (being 1920), was it a prolepsis or anticipation of the sound of the guns of the Great War which was to sweep all this away?

I liked the panoramic effect of this chapter very much, although maybe it was simply from the relief of having gotten to the end of the book on one piece.

Chapter 14

The final chapter is precisely one page long and shows Jacob’s friend Dick Bonamy in Jacob’s room tutting about the chaos and the letters scattered everywhere. Then Jacob’s mother, Betty, enters, asking what is she to do with these, holding up a pair of Jacob’s old shoes? Is Jacob dead? Thank God! But how? There is no clue whatsoever, so I turned to the internet for help.

The SuperSummary web page tells me that:

When World War I breaks out in Europe, Jacob enlists in the British army and is killed in combat. The novel ends with a scene of Betty Flanders and Richard Bonamy clearing out Jacob’s London apartment in the wake of Jacob’s death.

Ah. OK. but none of that is expressed in the text. I had picked up on the booming of the guns but was misled because I thought Betty heard them on the same evening when Jacob was strolling through Hyde Park. No. Turns out that all the events the SuperSummary lists (war breaking out, Jacob enlisting, training, being shipped to France, fighting, dying, Betty receiving notification of his death and travelling to his London room) takes place with no mention or description in the narrative. Offstage. That’s a really significant amount of information, data, events, to completely omit from your story, wouldn’t you say?

It was already a strikingly non-conformist book, a revolutionary book in its understated way, simply ignoring most of the conventions of the novel up to that date. This highly elliptical conclusion really rams that home. Contemporary readers must have been mystified.

The implied author

I happily admit that the picture I’ve built up here of Woolf-the-author may bear no close relationship to the actual Virginia Woolf of 1920. Here’s the Wikipedia definition of ‘the implied author’:

The implied author is a concept of literary criticism developed in the 20th century. Distinct from the author and the narrator, the term refers to the ‘authorial character’ that a reader infers from a text based on the way a literary work is written. In other words, the implied author is a construct, the image of the writer produced by a reader as called forth from the text. The implied author may or may not coincide with the author’s expressed intentions or known personality traits.

Many people’s main reaction to a novel they’re reading, whether they like it or not, is in fact a response to the character of its implied author – whether they find them warm and sympathetic or cold and brutal, whimsical and funny or difficult and literary, etc.

And canny authors exploit this, creating a persona which is not identical even with the narrator, but a larger thing – the book’s personality. As every reader knows, liking or disliking a novel often relies on your response to the total mood of the text, to the implied author, to the book’s personality.

I like literature which adds something to life, which adds factually or psychologically a richness or strangeness. Everything by D.H. Lawrence explodes with life and enhanced perception, even when he’s at his most messianic and delusional. My enthusiasm even extends to the wildest of Samuel Beckett’s prose works, a man renowned for concentrating on futility and despair, works such as the very strange How It Is. What is exhilarating about Beckett’s works is the totality of their commitment. They are bleak as hell but written with a visionary intensity.

By comparison, Woolf, to me, seems half-hearted. She is like E.M. Forster seen through a kaleidoscope, a distorting mirror. Her works radiate a kind of wet unhappiness. She – well the author implied by this book, its authorial persona – is very clever, very perceptive, very artful, but very wounded.

* A note on the word madness

I wondered whether I’m allowed to use the term ‘mad’ and ‘madness’. Surely I should be more sympathetic, up-to-date and use terms like ‘mental illness’ or ‘neurodivergent’? So I was struck by the way the author biography on the inner sleeves of the Granada paperback editions of Woolf’s works which I read bluntly states:

Recurring bouts of madness plagued both her childhood and married life and in April 1941 Virginia Woolf took her own life.

And it’s not just here. Throughout Victorian Glendinning’s excellent biography of Leonard Woolf, Glendinning refers to Virginia’s ‘madness’. And in her own writings and diary, Woolf freely uses the term mad and madness. She used it in the intensely moving suicide note she left for her husband – ‘Dearest, I feel certain I am going mad again’. So I’m not using the word flippantly or insensitively. I’m using the same word used by her editors, publishers, biographers and by Virginia herself to describe her condition.


Credit

‘Jacob’s Room’ by Virginia Woolf was first published by the Hogarth Press in 1922. References are to the 1965 Penguin paperback edition, 1971 reprint.

Related links

Related reviews

Howards End by E.M. Forster (1910)

‘What a mercy it is to have all this money about one!’
(Margaret Schlegel unwittingly expressing the fundamental premise underlying all Forster’s fiction, Howards End, page 182)

‘Howard’s End’ immediately feels better than ‘The Longest Day’. That felt like a late-Victorian novel wasting a huge amount of space on the relatively worthless character of one callow, useless Cambridge undergraduate in a text littered with the worst of Forster’s dreamy, pagan visions. ‘Howard’s End’ immediately feels like a return to a story, a strong narrative with multiple characters having lots of interactions, the elements which made ‘A Room with a View’ so entertaining. It is also Forster’s longest, most complex novel, with a wide range of subjects and themes, from gentle social comedy to bitter tragedy.

Three families

There’s a good enough plot summary on the Wikipedia page. Rather than produce my own version, this blog post is more of a list of the book’s themes and issues, or the ones which struck me.

In essence, ‘Howards End’ describes the interactions of three families:

The Schlegel sisters

The main focus of the novel is on the grown-up Schlegel sisters, Margaret (29) and Helen (21), arty and cultured. Their mother Emily died giving birth to their brother Theobald (Tibby). For five years they were raised by their father but then he died and so Emily’s sister, Juley Munt (Mrs Munt, Aunt Juley) moved into their home, Wickham Place, London, to look after them. When Margaret (‘a sensitive woman’) came of age and started to run the household (i.e. manage the servants) Aunt Juley returned to her home in Swanage where she is a leading light of local literary and arts societies, although she spends much of the novel on extended visits. During the course of the novel Tibby comes of age and attends Oxford.

The Wilcox family

Brisk no-nonsense philistines led by successful businessman Mr Henry Wilcox, married to dreamy gardening Mrs Ruth Wilcox (51), and their grown-up children, stern Charles, Evie and ineffective Paul. After a rocky start Mrs Wilcox and Margaret develop a strange friendship. A third of the way through Mrs Wilcox dies, having concealed her illness (cancer?) from her husband and children. The remaining two-thirds of the novel chronicle the unlikely falling in love of the apparent opposites, in both age and temperament, of Henry Wilcox (mid-50s) and Margaret Schlegel (late 20s).

The Basts

Poor Leonard Bast is a gauche young man who works as a clerk in an insurance company but has aspirations to Art and Culture, pathetically trying to achieve the cultural capital privileged Margaret and Helen were born into.

He is trapped in a relationship with a hard-core working class woman, Jacky who, at the start of the novel, has lost her looks, dresses like a slattern, and thereafter goes steadily downhill, turning Len’s home life into a nightmare of endless sordid arguments. Later on, Forster describes Jacky as ‘bestially stupid’ (p.224).

The boy, Leonard Bast, stood at the extreme verge of gentility. He was not in the abyss, but he could see it, and at times people whom he knew had dropped in, and counted no more. He knew that he was poor, and would admit it: he would have died sooner than confess any inferiority to the rich. This may be splendid of him. But he was inferior to most rich people, there is not the least doubt of it. He was not as courteous as the average rich man, nor as intelligent, nor as healthy, nor as lovable. His mind and his body had been alike underfed, because he was poor, and because he was modern they were always craving better food. Had he lived some centuries ago, in the brightly coloured civilizations of the past, he would have had a definite status, his rank and his income would have corresponded. But in his day the angel of Democracy had arisen, enshadowing the classes with leathern wings, and proclaiming, ‘All men are equal — all men, that is to say, who possess umbrellas,’ and so he was obliged to assert gentility, lest he slipped into the abyss where nothing counts, and the statements of Democracy are inaudible.

Not quite in the abyss, but whenever he appears, to the sensitive noses of the Schlegel sisters he trails ‘odours of the abyss’ (p.124).

Counterpoints and ironies

A whole host of issues, or social codes and conventions, are raised and dramatised by the book. These include the contrast between the hard factual Wilcox family and the dreamy arty Schlegel ladies, which is also a contrast between their German blood (their father fought in the Franco-Prussian war then emigrated to England from the Fatherland) and the Wilcox’s pure Englishness. There are continual comparisons between men and women, conceived almost as separate species with separate ways of looking at everything. There’s the contrast between young vivacious Helen and her older, more serious sister Margaret. The contrast between all the above and the hapless working class man, Leonard Bast, perched on the edge of the abyss. The contrasting attitudes towards the working classes of the Wilcox men (keep them at a distance) and the Schlegel sisters (try to help and elevate them). On a geographical level, the perennial contrast between London and the countryside (at Howards End in Hertfordshire, Oniton Grange in Shropshire, or Aunt Juley’s place in Swanage).

All these contrasts are continually being sounded, like an orchestra playing an extended piece of classical music based on multiple themes or motivs, which are continually sounding then reappearing, in new combinations, between different characters, in difference circumstances. In music this is called counterpoint but, because words have meanings, the orchestration of a long novel like this amounts to sets of interlocking ironies, where different systems of values, personal affections, codes of behaviour, expectations and opinions are constantly clashing and interacting.

Readers identify with sensitive ladies

The main focus is on the Schlegel sisters, nice upper middle-class young women, rentiers living on unearned incomes, who’ve never done a day’s work in their lives but who they and their friends simply assume, in that Bloomsbury way, are everso special, intelligent, cultured, sensitive etc.

Emily’s daughters had never been quite like other girls.

‘Helen is a very exceptional person – I am sure you will let me say this, feeling towards her as you do – indeed, all the Schlegels are exceptional.’ (p.32)

‘My niece is a very exceptional person, and I am not inclined to sit still while she throws herself away on those who will not appreciate her.’

Admittedly, those passages can all be dismissed as Aunt Juley’s entirely biased opinion of her brilliant nieces, but this next passage describing wafting Mrs Wilcox in a similarly privileged vein, is the narrator’s opinion:

She seemed to belong not to the young people and their motor, but to the house, and to the tree that overshadowed it. One knew that she worshipped the past, and that the instinctive wisdom the past can alone bestow had descended upon her — that wisdom to which we give the clumsy name of aristocracy. High born she might not be. But assuredly she cared about her ancestors, and let them help her. (p.36)

Many readers love ‘Howards End’. Only a little way into the book, it occurred to me that this is because readers, specifically women readers, are encouraged to identify with the characters in book, specifically the sensitive ladies, Helen and Margaret and Mrs W, who are repeatedly described as ‘special’, gifted with special insights and above all, depths of feeling, which any female reader might be flatter to identify with.

Not out of them are the shows of history erected: the world would be a grey, bloodless place were it entirely composed of Miss Schlegels. But the world being what it is, perhaps they shine out in it like stars.

Away she hurried, not beautiful, not supremely brilliant, but filled with something that took the place of both qualities — something best described as a profound vivacity, a continual and sincere response to all that she encountered in her path through life. (p.25)

What lady reader of Great Literature would not feel that she, also, possesses ‘a profound vivacity, a continual and sincere response to all that she encountered in her path through life’? And what older female reader wouldn’t sympathise with the calm wisdom of tall, elegant, other-worldly Mrs Wilcox, trailing around her beautifully tended garden, effortlessly dispensing the wisdom of her ancestors?

The rentier mentality

As privileged rentiers (people who live off investments) the Schlegel sisters and Miss Munt can afford an attitude of disliking and condemning everything about the ghastly modern world because they make no contribution to it and have no responsibility for it.

At one point Margaret explains that she and Helen each have an unearned income of £600 a year and brother Tibby, when he comes of age, will have £800. Most significantly, she admits that the sisters’ thoughts are determined by their financial and class position.

‘And all our thoughts are the thoughts of six-hundred-pounders, and all our speeches… Last night, when we were talking up here round the fire, I began to think that the very soul of the world is economic, and that the lowest abyss is not the absence of love, but the absence of coin.’ (p.73)

Presented as some great intellectual breakthrough, like so many of the sisters’ trite thoughts about ‘society’ or ‘life’, the realisation that just possibly having or not having money is more important than ‘love’ is characteristically thick. Into these dense, pampered middle-class minds, a vaguely socialist concern for ‘equality’ sometimes creeps in but not when it counts. It’s a frivolous dabbling. When push comes to shove they both (a little unexpectedly and crudely) worship money, riches, wealth (see below).

Snobbery and comedy

The book is riddled with English class snobbery. In ‘A Room with a View’ English snobbery, and especially snobbery about Art and Love, were very amusingly skewered in the range of preposterously snooty English guests staying at the Pension Bertolini in Florence.

One of the problems of ‘The Longest Journey’ is that the compulsion Forster apparently felt to write ceaselessly about Art and Philosophy and Life and Love or to pop in passages comparing everyone to the pagan gods, was mostly restricted to commentary on poor Rickie Elliott who is, ultimately, too feeble a character (‘a milksop’, as his aunt’s servant describes him) to bear such a heavy freight of meaning.

By happy contrast, here in ‘Howard’s End’, a lot of this satirical and/or classical material is distributed out among multiple characters, so the purple patches feel more rationed and, when they occur, relate to a wider range of characters and so feel more fully dramatised. In ‘The Longest Journey’ Forster was too close to his central protagonist (a transparently autobiographical figure). Here he returns to the distance from all the characters which allows him to be more consistently ironic and so entertaining.

Thus Aunt Juley (Mrs Munt) is an enjoyable satire on the busybody upper middle-class rentier who considers themselves an expert on Art and Literature. Here she is quizzing Margaret Schlegel:

‘What do you think of the Wilcoxes? Are they our sort? Are they likely people? Could they appreciate Helen, who is to my mind a very special sort of person? Do they care about Literature and Art? That is most important when you come to think of it. Literature and Art. Most important.’

But instead of actually making Aunt Juley an expert on Literature and Art, the whole point is that she is as expert in names but empty of thought as all the snobs in ‘A Room with a View’. When Forster tells us she is a leading light in the literary world of Swanage, it is a deft piece of social put-down. This is drily comical (or maybe ironic) and once someone is established as a comic character it gives you permission to smile at everything they say and do. And out from Aunt Juley radiates irony and droll amusement at most of the other characters, creating the gently comic note which colours most of the proceedings. And, on a different level, the sisters’ pampered, thoughtless lifestyle along with their complete inability to manage anything effectively whenever called upon, makes them figures of fun. Forster intends them seriously, maybe even tragically, but they are absurd.

The focus on personal relationships

If the Bloomsbury Group had an ideology it was that personal relations – family, friendship and love – trumped everything else, certainly all those dusty old Victorian notions of Duty and Progress. But it is a limited worldview and they knew it. Forster dramatises it in the contrast between the men of the Wilcox family, Charles senior and junior, and the drifting sensitive Schlegel sisters. Contact with the Wilcox family and its manly menfolk early in the narrative, make Helen realise there’s a big world out there:

‘The truth is that there is a great outer life that you and I have never touched — a life in which telegrams and anger count. Personal relations, that we think supreme, are not supreme there. There love means marriage settlements, death, death duties. So far I’m clear. But here my difficulty. This outer life, though obviously horrid, often seems the real one — there’s grit in it. It does breed character. Do personal relations lead to sloppiness in the end?’

But in the morning, over breakfast, she saw the younger Wilcox son she had rashly fallen in love with, Paul, completely daunted by his brisk businesslike family, realised how weak and fragile his facade was and so (rather illogically) concludes that personal relationships are all that matters.

‘I remember Paul at breakfast,’ said Helen quietly. ‘I shall never forget him. He had nothing to fall back upon. I know that personal relations are the real life, for ever and ever.’

She is relieved to realise she was right all along, she and Margaret and Aunt Juley and all the sensitive spiritual types they invite to their house and enjoy bantering with over dinner cooked and served by the faceless servants, they’re all right to more or less ignore the wider world and gossip about their personal affairs.

This basic premise of the Bloomsbury worldview is repeated umpteen times, in different wording, as if a great truth was being worked out.

It is private life that holds out the mirror to infinity; personal intercourse, and that alone, that ever hints at a personality beyond our daily vision. (p.91)

‘I believe in personal responsibility. Don’t you? And in personal everything…’ (p.232)

‘Nothing matters,’ the Schlegels had said in the past, ‘except one’s self-respect and that of one’s friends.’ (p.322)

It’s not surprising that these pampered characters – never having to work for a living, never having to apply or be interviewed for jobs, never having to worry about commuting, about office politics, never holding any responsibilities for anything at all, with nothing to occupy their minds except their personal relationships – should come to the amazing conclusion that the only thing that matters in the world is… personal relationships!

What is surprising is that, given that they only have one job to do i.e. to manage their handful of significant relationships (with a small family and a small number of friends) they manage to make such a complete horlicks, such an almighty mess of it!

Margaret Schlegel is depicted as the sterner, brainier of the two sisters (she enjoys ‘a reputation as an emancipated woman’, p.156), and yet she makes howlingly embarrassing errors at every point of her relationship with the Wilcox family, over and over again: dispatching Aunt Juley to Howard’s End to sort out Helen’s rash engagement; angering Charles Wilcox so much that they aren’t talking by the end of the drive to the house; writing a clumsily offensive letter to Mrs Wilcox about keeping Paul and Helen apart; visiting her to apologise and promptly smashing her photo of her son’s wedding; then having a massive argument with her in the cab back from Christmas shopping – Margaret Schlegel is depicted as a clumsy, incompetent social disaster! The novel routinely transcribes her conversations with Helen or Aunt Juley as if she is dropping pearls of wisdom and yet time after time we see, in practice, that she’s the last person to take advice from.

The phrase is given to Helen a lot later in the book, when Margaret tells her Mr Wilcox has proposed to her. Helene is appalled and her repetition of the idea has an air of desperately clinging to a notion which no longer suffices.

‘They were all there that morning when I came down to breakfast, and saw that Paul was frightened — the man who loved me frightened and all his paraphernalia fallen, so that I knew it was impossible, because personal relations are the important thing for ever and ever, and not this outer life of telegrams and anger.’ (p.177)

I suppose from one angle the novel is a test of this thesis, an experiment in characters and plot which put it to the test and repeatedly find it failing but don’t exactly come up with anything better.

The shallowness of Edwardian feminism

The Schlegel sisters are portrayed, in detail, with much sympathy, as typically know-nothing feminists. They ‘care deeply’ about politics although they don’t understand actual politics as practiced by politicians. They know nothing about business.

‘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’?’

They know nothing of economics except that they love capitalism. Here is a typically laughable exchange between the great social critics, Margaret Schlegel and her Aunt Juley:

AUNT JULY: ‘Do tell me this, at all events. Are you for the rich or for the poor?’
MARGARET: ‘Too difficult. Ask me another. Am I for poverty or for riches? For riches. Hurrah for riches!’
AUNT JULEY: ‘For riches!’ echoed Mrs. Munt…
MARGARET: ‘Yes. For riches. Money for ever!’

They know nothing of working class people i.e. the majority of the population, and they understand nothing about the economics, politics, military importance of the British Empire which helps fund their pampered lifestyles and empty-headed beliefs.

Imperialism always had been one of her difficulties. (p.197)

They did not follow our Forward Policy in Thibet with the keen attention that it merits, and would at times dismiss the whole British Empire with a puzzled, if reverent, sigh.

‘Puzzled’, that’s the key word. It’s all a bit complicated, isn’t it? Best go back to lecturing everyone about how wonderful Beethoven is and the importance of the personal life. Although they occasionally fret about it, the Schlegel sisters are proud of their wilful ignorance of the world outside the tiny circle of their family, friends and acquaintances.

The only things that matter are the things that interest one.

But Forster tells us that these pampered, blinkered, ignorant young women do believe in fine abstract qualities.

Temperance, tolerance, and sexual equality were intelligible cries to them…

From time to time Margaret, the brainier one, does realise how pampered, blinkered and empty her way of life is, she realises she lives in a delightful irrelevant backwater.

There are moments when virtue and wisdom fail us, and one of them came to her at Simpson’s in the Strand. As she trod the staircase, narrow, but carpeted thickly, as she entered the eating-room, where saddles of mutton were being trundled up to expectant clergymen, she had a strong, if erroneous, conviction of her own futility, and wished she had never come out of her backwater, where nothing happened except art and literature, and where no one ever got married or succeeded in remaining engaged. (p.156)

Anyway, it’s the Edwardian era and the Schlegel sisters hold forth about ‘equality’ in a world they are proud to say they understand absolutely nothing about, at dinner parties and at meetings of their little women’s group. But when push comes to shove, they submit to the opinions and decisions of their menfolk – as Margaret, for all her emancipated freethinking, in essence submits to Mr Wilcox’s character and requirements, ‘Margaret, so lively and intelligent, and yet so submissive’.

He had only to call, and she clapped the book up and was ready to do what he wished. (p.255)

And well before the end of the book she has become her soulless husband’s main supporter, a Melania to his Donald:

‘It certainly is a funny world, but so long as men like my husband and his sons govern it, I think it’ll never be a bad one — never really bad.’ (p.269)

A note on the suffragettes

The suffragettes dominated newspaper headlines throughout the Edwardian decade.

But there were cogent arguments against giving women the vote, particularly the progressive Liberal argument that, since the vote would only be given to better-off women, any government which gave women the vote would in effect be handing the Tories a permanent majority and thus bring to a grinding halt all the Liberals’ hopes for broader social reform, fairer taxes, establishing a welfare state and so on.

Anyway, once she has married brisk, businesslike Mr Wilcox, Margaret realises that she has to learn to ‘manage’ him through lateral manoeuvres and psychological tricks rather than straightforward argument. And at one point she is reminded of one of the anti-suffrage arguments put forward by women of her own class.

Now she understood why some women prefer influence to rights. Mrs Plynlimmon, when condemning suffragettes, had said: ‘The woman who can’t influence her husband to vote the way she wants ought to be ashamed of herself.’ Margaret had winced, but she was influencing Henry now, and though pleased at her little victory, she knew that she had won it by the methods of the harem. (p.228)

Margaret’s biological clock

Apparently the phrase biological clock was first coined in 1978. For centuries before that women experienced (I think) social and personal psychological pressure to hurry up and get married. Half way through the book Forster has the elder of the two sisters, Margaret, become acutely aware that she’s getting old. This is by way of explaining why she quite suddenly finds herself susceptible to Mr Wilcox. Forster seeds the issue, preparing us for the plot development.

‘Really, Meg, what has come over you to make such a fuss?’
‘Oh, I’m getting an old maid, I suppose.’ (chapter 7)

At Southampton she waved to Frieda: Frieda was on her way down to join them at Swanage, and Mrs Munt had calculated that their trains would cross. But Frieda was looking the other way, and Margaret travelled on to town feeling solitary and old-maidish. How like an old maid to fancy that Mr. Wilcox was courting her! She had once visited a spinster — poor, silly and unattractive — whose mania it was that every man who approached her fell in love. How Margaret’s heart had bled for the deluded thing! How she had lectured, reasoned, and in despair acquiesced! “I may have been deceived by the curate, my dear, but the young fellow who brings the midday post really is fond of me, and has, as a matter fact—’ It had always seemed to her the most hideous corner of old age, yet she might be driven into it herself by the mere pressure of virginity. (p.164)

She is descending into what Forster, describing raddled Jacky, describes as ‘the colourless years’, the long years of female invisibility that so many modern women complain about – what has, in fact, like so many aspects of modern life, acquired a snappy American name, invisible woman syndrome.

All of which explains the overwhelming sensation of relief she experiences when Mr Wilcox gets round, a few pages later, to proposing to her.

An immense joy came over her. It was indescribable. It had nothing to do with humanity, and most resembled the all-pervading happiness of fine weather. (p.168)

As she sat trying to do accounts in her empty house, amidst beautiful pictures and noble books, waves of emotion broke, as if a tide of passion was flowing through the night air. (p.169)

A Victorian anecdote painting, The Old Maid’s Relief. But also begging the question, Can Forster be expected to really understand the social and biological and psychological pressure a young Edwardian woman was under to marry?

Dismissing the lower classes

The upper middle-class womenfolk put themselves in the hands of the upper middle-class men partly because the latter know how to deal with the lower orders. This is the point of the scene at Hilton station, where Aunt Juley first encounters dashing young Charles Wilcox. ‘He seemed a gentleman… He was dark, clean-shaven and seemed accustomed to command,’ which he demonstrates by giving the lazy oiks who man the parcel office a good talking to!

‘Hi! hi, you there! Are you going to keep me waiting all day? Parcel for Wilcox, Howards End. Just look sharp!” Emerging, he said in quieter tones: ‘This station’s abominably organized; if I had my way, the whole lot of ’em should get the sack.’

A bearded porter emerged with the parcel in one hand and an entry book in the other. With the gathering whir of the motor these ejaculations mingled: ‘Sign, must I? Why the — should I sign after all this bother? Not even got a pencil on you? Remember next time I report you to the station-master. My time’s of value, though yours mayn’t be. Here’ — here being a tip.

As in ‘A Room with a View’, Forster lets his characters condemn themselves out of their own words. This is the deft irony everyone likes about Forster. This skewering of its characters is a big part of the novel’s appeal. Because of my obsession with history, I can see this commanding young man blowing his whistle and unhesitatingly ordering his men over the top of the trenches four years later.

In the drive from the station, Charles Wilcox has to stop to pick up items from various local businesses and tells Aunt Juley to stop her incessant questioning about Helen.

‘Could you possibly lower your voice? The shopman will overhear.’
Esprit de classe — if one may coin the phrase — was strong in Mrs. Munt. She sat quivering while a member of the lower orders deposited a metal funnel, a saucepan, and a garden squirt beside the roll of oilcloth.
‘Right behind?’
‘Yes, sir.’ And the lower orders vanished in a cloud of dust. (p.34)

I understand that this is irony but, it seems to me, irony concealing actual belief. Forster mocks Charles Wilcox’s dismissive attitude to the lower orders but, as the novel progresses, it turns out all the other characters have more or less the same attitude and so, in the end, does Forster himself.

Having just read H.G. Wells’s social novels, I have been sympathising with his young men and women who work long hours in haberdashers and drapers shops, serving people exactly like Charles Wilcox and being treated with exactly the same dismissive scorn.

Forster’s classical compulsions

A third of the way through the novel the winsome, dress-trailing, ancestor-attuned Mrs Wilcox dies. There is a funeral attended by the family who leave after the ceremony is over.

Only the poor remained. They approached to the newly-dug shaft and looked their last at the coffin, now almost hidden beneath the spadefuls of clay. It was their moment….The funeral of a rich person was to them what the funeral of Alcestis or Ophelia is to the educated. It was Art; though remote from life, it enhanced life’s values, and they witnessed it avidly.

How does Forster know? Expert on the rural poor, was he? Of course not. In fact, look at the last two sentences. What he’s done is assimilate the rural poor to his values, somehow making this event (as so many other things in these workshy pampered people’s lives) all about Art and Literature. It’s as if Forster and his friends couldn’t think of anything at all apart from Literature and Art. Sometimes it feels as if absolutely everything that happens to everyone can only be seen and expressed through the prism of Art and Literature, and has to have some reference to classical or English literature dumped on it. Alcestis. Ophelia.

The result is a continual softening and blurring of everything. Everything is made genteel. The trouble with the author mocking Aunt Juley’s insistence on making everything about Literature and Art is that when Forster wants to make everything about Literature and Art, it’s difficult to tell the two apart. The mockery he has aroused about Aunt Juley rebounds on its author.

Later on in the story, Mr Wilcox tells Margaret that the insurance company Leonard Bast works for, the Porphyrion Fire Insurance Company, is about to go bankrupt. A day or two later the sisters invite Leonard round and gently try to warn him about this but he bridles at ladies claiming to know more than he does about his own place of work. So far, so psychologically plausible. But then look at what Forster does to the scene when Margaret asks Len point blank whether the company is financially sound.

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 hearth-rug 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. (p.145)

‘His amours with other members of the commercial Pantheon’? Forster knows nothing about finance or business and so adopts his classic tactic, the tactic we see him adopt in all his novels, which is to draw the reader away from the specifics into a ridiculous but prolonged simile comparing an insurance company with the gods of ancient Greece.

It is a retreat from reality into fog. It is an escape from financial expertise into Aunt Juley’s genteel world of Literature and Art. To go back to the funeral, Forster is happier wittering about Alcestis and Ophelia than actually conveying the sights and sounds of a country burial. Imagine what Thomas Hardy or D.H. Lawrence would have made of it. But with Forster it’s all Alcestis and Ophelia. This habit is central to Forster’s mentality: the escape into the vague.

Earlier, in chapter 11, Charles Senior and Junior have a disagreement about Margaret Schlegel and Forster deftly shows us how they come around to reconciling their different perspectives. But what makes it really Forsterian is the punchline to the scene.

Charles and his father sometimes disagreed. But they always parted with an increased regard for one another, and each desired no doughtier comrade when it was necessary to voyage for a little past the emotions. So the sailors of Ulysses voyaged past the Sirens, having first stopped one another’s ears with wool.

Does he think roping in Ulysses and the Sirens really helps us understand the father and sons’ relationship because it doesn’t, really. Sometimes it feels as if Forster cannot leave his own scenes well alone but is compelled to add a little classical reference, just to make it twee and whimsical, more homely, something Aunt Juley could happily put on her mantlepiece next to the nice little statuette from Greece.

And, towards the end, this description; first half vivid, second half tripe:

The hedge was a half-painted picture which would be finished in a few days. Celandines grew on its banks, lords and ladies and primroses in the defended hollows; the wild rose-bushes, still bearing their withered hips, showed also the promise of blossom. Spring had come, clad in no classical garb, yet fairer than all springs; fairer even than she who walks through the myrtles of Tuscany with the graces before her and the zephyr behind. (p.264)

The unthinkable poor

Forster is permanently aware of his own limitations, the limitations of his class and is quite open about them.

We are not concerned with the very poor. They are unthinkable, and only to be approached by the statistician or the poet. This story deals with gentlefolk, or with those who are obliged to pretend that they are gentlefolk.

Well, the very poor were not ‘unthinkable’ to Dickens or – closer to Forster’s time – to Kipling in his London stories, to the novels of Arthur Morrison or Somerset Maugham. Just to Forster. Why were they ‘unthinkable’ to Forster? Because he knew nothing about them? Because they gave no scope to the witterings about Art and Life which his bourgeois women so enjoy and Forster so enjoys repeating at such length?

All this might be taken as lightly whimsical, self-deprecating irony except that at frequent moments he means it. He really states that

The intrusive narrator

Forster is considered a 20th century classic and yet it’s easy to overlook the way he directly addresses the reader as unashamedly as any 18th or 19th century author, in a very retro way.

To Margaret — I hope that it will not set the reader against her…

If you think this ridiculous, remember that it is not Margaret who is telling you about it; and let me hasten to add that they were in plenty of time for the train…

Take my word for it, that smile was simply stunning…

Not only intrusive but deliberately casual. With a breezy upper middle-class nonchalance. The first words of the long novel are:

One may as well begin with Helen’s letters to her sister…

Oh well, if one simply has to write a novel, one supposes this is where one might as well start. It sets a tone of slightly puffed-out, shoulder-shrugging defeatism about the whole thing.

becomes the Commentator p.107

Wisdom writing

Stepping back, right out of the realm of literature, it’s odd how many writers consider themselves experts on human psychology and litter their texts with words of wisdom and special insights. Looking back years later, Forster described ‘Howard’s End’ as containing ‘a goodly amount of wisdom’. By this I imagine he mostly means the wisdom implicit in the plot, in the dovetailing storylines, in the central one of Margaret’s clear-eyed acceptance of Mr Wilcox’s proposal. But I suppose he also means the regular passages where he shares some ‘insights’ about human nature, routinely doled out on every page.

The affections are more reticent than the passions, and their expression more subtle…

There are moments when the inner life actually ‘pays’, when years of self-scrutiny, conducted for no ulterior motive, are suddenly of practical use. Such moments are still rare in the West; that they come at all promises a fairer future.

The question is, whether any of this kind of thing actually is ‘wisdom’ or just rhythmic truisms? Pretty mental scenery? Or just not true at all?

Some leave our life with tears, others with an insane frigidity; Mrs. Wilcox had taken the middle course, which only rarer natures can pursue. She had kept proportion. She had told a little of her grim secret to her friends, but not too much; she had shut up her heart —almost, but not entirely. It is thus, if there is any rule, that we ought to die — neither as victim nor as fanatic, but as the seafarer who can greet with an equal eye the deep that he is entering, and the shore that he must leave.

Do you feel that you ought to die ‘as the seafarer who can greet with an equal eye the deep that he is entering, and the shore that he must leave’? Or is it just lulling rhetoric, very close to the motto in a birthday card?

It is so easy to talk of ‘passing emotion’, and how to forget how vivid the emotion was ere it passed. Our impulse to sneer, to forget, is at root a good one. We recognize that emotion is not enough, and that men and women are personalities capable of sustained relations, not mere opportunities for an electrical discharge. Yet we rate the impulse too highly. We do not admit that by collisions of this trivial sort the doors of heaven may be shaken open.

I freely admit to not understanding this. Maybe it is too subtle for me. Or maybe it’s hogwash. But in its fine-sounding obtuseness, it is very characteristic of Forster, and very characteristic is the way it starts off sound reasonable but ends with bombastic rhetoric about ‘the doors of heaven’.

Same in the following passage which starts off reasonably enough, stating that real life is confusing and we waste our energy on all kinds of plans that never come off. But the conclusion? About Greeks and romance?

Looking back on the past six months, Margaret realized the chaotic nature of our daily life, and its difference from the orderly sequence that has been fabricated by historians. Actual life is full of false clues and sign-posts that lead nowhere. With infinite effort we nerve ourselves for a crisis that never comes. The most successful career must show a waste of strength that might have removed mountains, and the most unsuccessful is not that of the man who is taken unprepared, but of him who has prepared and is never taken. On a tragedy of that kind our national morality is duly silent. It assumes that preparation against danger is in itself a good, and that men, like nations, are the better for staggering through life fully armed. The tragedy of preparedness has scarcely been handled, save by the Greeks. Life is indeed dangerous, but not in the way morality would have us believe. It is indeed unmanageable, but the essence of it is not a battle. It is unmanageable because it is a romance, and its essence is romantic beauty.

The essence of life is romantic beauty? Really? Or is this just another pretty sentiment, to go on a piece of embroidery Aunt Juley can hang on her wall, or can be a polite topic at one of Helen and Margaret’s discussion groups? Like many other pretty doilies, all of which follow the same patter of starting in the present moment and moving towards gassy generalisations, and then the invocation of some classical gods of figure from English Literature, preferably Shakespeare:

How wide the gulf between Henry as he was and Henry as Helen thought he ought to be! And she herself — hovering as usual between the two, now accepting men as they are, now yearning with her sister for Truth. Love and Truth — their warfare seems eternal. Perhaps the whole visible world rests on it, and if they were one, life itself, like the spirits when Prospero was reconciled to his brother, might vanish into air, into thin air. (p.228)

A few pages later here is an example of Helen’s philosophising:

To Helen the paradox became clearer and clearer. ‘Death destroys a man: the idea of Death saves him.’ Behind the coffins and the skeletons that stay the vulgar mind lies something so immense that all that is great in us responds to it. Men of the world may recoil from the charnel-house that they will one day enter, but Love knows better. Death is his foe, but his peer, and in their age-long struggle the thews of Love have been strengthened, and his vision cleared, until there is no one who can stand against him. (p.237)

Only connect

The book is littered with passages about Love, that subject so many scores of thousands of novelists have felt compelled to enlighten us about.

Margaret greeted her lord with peculiar tenderness on the morrow. Mature as he was, she might yet be able to help him to the building of the rainbow bridge that should connect the prose in us with the passion. Without it we are meaningless fragments, half monks, half beasts, unconnected arches that have never joined into a man. With it love is born, and alights on the highest curve, glowing against the grey, sober against the fire. Happy the man who sees from either aspect the glory of these outspread wings. The roads of his soul lie clear, and he and his friends shall find easy-going.

Do you understand what that means? Have you built a rainbow bridge to connect your prose and your passion? This is the prelude to the famous passage explaining the motto and central motif of the novel, which is ‘only connect’. Connect what? The passion and the prose.

Only connect! That was the whole of her sermon. Only connect the prose and the passion, and both will be exalted, and human love will be seen at its height. Live in fragments no longer. Only connect, and the beast and the monk, robbed of the isolation that is life to either, will die. Nor was the message difficult to give. It need not take the form of a good ‘talking’. By quiet indications the bridge would be built and span their lives with beauty. (p.188)

Inevitably, it’s hurrying men (the ones who do the work and run the businesses and manage the Empire and make the products which Helen and Margaret so blithely take for granted) who fail to connect. Silly men.

Her evening was pleasant. The sense of flux which had haunted her all the year disappeared for a time. She forgot the luggage and the motor-cars, and the hurrying men who know so much and connect so little. (p.204)

A rude joke

I was flabbergasted when, in chapter 17, it is revealed that Mr Wilcox had had slatternly Jacky Bast as a mistress while he was still married to the saintly Mrs Wilcox. Firstly flabbergasted by the way this bumbling narrative about sensitive ladies suddenly lurched into gaudy Victorian melodrama. But then a crude joke occurred to me: only a few pages earlier Margaret had been complaining at length that men don’t connect enough, specifically connecting ‘the prose and the passion’. Well, here was a prime example of a ‘prosey’ man all-too-solidly connecting the ‘passionate’ Jacky. He connected alright but in the wrong way. He had not connected Margaret’s Mills and Boon notions of ‘passion’ and ‘prose’, but his **** to Jacky’s **** and that, to the supposedly freethinking, emancipated, independent woman, Margaret, was as unacceptable as to all her Victorian forebears.

I laughed when Margaret – staggered and appalled at this revelation that her intended had a mistress, furiously pondering and cogitating – thinks her way all the way through to the amazing conclusion that:

Men must be different, even to want to yield to such a temptation. (p.238)

Men must be different from women when it comes to sex!? She figured that out all by herself. And she’s the brainy one.

But, in fact, Margaret cannot bear to face the facts and so takes refuge from reality, as women have from time immemorial, in spiritual tripe, described in a typical Forster paragraph which begins fairly rationally and ends with the gods in heaven.

Are the sexes really races, each with its own code of morality, and their mutual love a mere device of Nature to keep things going? Strip human intercourse of the proprieties, and is it reduced to this? Her judgment told her no. She knew that out of Nature’s device we have built a magic that will win us immortality. Far more mysterious than the call of sex to sex is the tenderness that we throw into that call; far wider is the gulf between us and the farmyard than between the farmyard and the garbage that nourishes it. We are evolving, in ways that Science cannot measure, to ends that Theology dares not contemplate. ‘Men did produce one jewel,’ the gods will say, and, saying, will give us immortality. (p.238)

‘We are evolving, in ways that Science cannot measure, to ends that Theology dares not contemplate.’ This is the most complete tripe.

And then, in a sequence which surely recalls the tritest clichés of 18th and 19th century novelettes, Margaret’s response to the revelation that her intended is a man of flesh and blood who’s had sex is to decide that she will devote her life to making Henry ‘a better man’ (p.240).

Pity was at the bottom of her actions all through this crisis. Pity, if one may generalize, is at the bottom of woman. When men like us, it is for our better qualities, and however tender their liking, we dare not be unworthy of it, or they will quietly let us go. But unworthiness stimulates woman. It brings out her deeper nature, for good or for evil. Here was the core of the question. Henry must be forgiven, and made better by love; nothing else mattered. (p.240)

Is this true, about women? Was it ever true or is it sentimental hogwash? As to the brainy one in the family, the most liberated feminist, deciding she will devote her life to making Wilcox ‘better by love’…

It unwittingly hilarious that after this torrent of Mills and Boon clichés, at her titanic intellectual achievement of realising that men are men, and then her melodramatic decision to devote her life to redeeming her man… that after this torrent of scientific illiteracy and desperate clichés, Margaret (and Forster) take it upon themselves to comment on Henry’s ‘intellectual confusion’ (p.240). Henry strikes me as being the only clear-headed character in the book.

London

‘Howards End’ contains numerous descriptions of London which are worth recording. The endless building:

Their house was in Wickham Place, and fairly quiet, for a lofty promontory of buildings separated it from the main thoroughfare. One had the sense of a backwater, or rather of an estuary, whose waters flowed in from the invisible sea, and ebbed into a profound silence while the waves without were still beating. Though the promontory consisted of flats—expensive, with cavernous entrance halls, full of concierges and palms—it fulfilled its purpose, and gained for the older houses opposite a certain measure of peace. These, too, would be swept away in time, and another promontory would rise upon their site, as humanity piled itself higher and higher on the precious soil of London.

And rebuilding:

Here he stopped again, and glanced suspiciously to right and left, like a rabbit that is going to bolt into its hole. A block of flats, constructed with extreme cheapness, towered on either hand. Farther down the road two more blocks were being built, and beyond these an old house was being demolished to accommodate another pair. It was the kind of scene that may be observed all over London, whatever the locality—bricks and mortar rising and falling with the restlessness of the water in a fountain, as the city receives more and more men upon her soil. Camelia Road would soon stand out like a fortress, and command, for a little, an extensive view. Only for a little. Plans were out for the erection of flats in Magnolia Road also. And again a few years, and all the flats in either road might be pulled down, and new buildings, of a vastness at present unimaginable, might arise where they had fallen.

And pulling down:

They mean to pull down Wickham Place, and build flats like yours.’
‘But how horrible!’
‘Landlords are horrible.’
Then she said vehemently: ‘It is monstrous, Miss Schlegel; it isn’t right. I had no idea that this was hanging over you. I do pity you from the bottom of my heart. To be parted from your house, your father’s house – it oughtn’t to be allowed. It is worse than dying. I would rather die than – Oh, poor girls! Can what they call civilization be right, if people mayn’t die in the room where they were born?

Which all produces an endless flux (see also the Home section, below):

‘I hate this continual flux of London. It is an epitome of us at our worst — eternal formlessness; all the qualities, good, bad, and indifferent, streaming away — streaming, streaming for ever. That’s why I dread it so. I mistrust rivers, even in scenery. Now, the sea —’

London relentlessly expanding:

Over two years passed, and the Schlegel household continued to lead its life of cultured but not ignoble ease, still swimming gracefully on the grey tides of London. Concerts and plays swept past them, money had been spent and renewed, reputations won and lost, and the city herself, emblematic of their lives, rose and fell in a continual flux, while her shallows washed more widely against the hills of Surrey and over the fields of Hertfordshire. This famous building had arisen, that was doomed. Today Whitehall had been transformed: it would be the turn of Regent Street tomorrow. And month by month the roads smelt more strongly of petrol, and were more difficult to cross, and human beings heard each other speak with greater difficulty, breathed less of the air, and saw less of the sky. Nature withdrew: the leaves were falling by midsummer; the sun shone through dirt with an admired obscurity.

To speak against London is no longer fashionable. The Earth as an artistic cult has had its day, and the literature of the near future will probably ignore the country and seek inspiration from the town. One can understand the reaction. Of Pan and the elemental forces, the public has heard a little too much — they seem Victorian, while London is Georgian — and those who care for the earth with sincerity may wait long ere the pendulum swings back to her again. Certainly London fascinates. One visualizes it as a tract of quivering grey, intelligent without purpose, and excitable without love; as a spirit that has altered before it can be chronicled; as a heart that certainly beats, but with no pulsation of humanity. It lies beyond everything: Nature, with all her cruelty, comes nearer to us than do these crowds of men. A friend explains himself: the earth is explicable — from her we came, and we must return to her. But who can explain Westminster Bridge Road or Liverpool Street in the morning — the city inhaling — or the same thoroughfares in the evening — the city exhaling her exhausted air? We reach in desperation beyond the fog, beyond the very stars, the voids of the universe are ransacked to justify the monster, and stamped with a human face. London is religion’s opportunity — not the decorous religion of theologians, but anthropomorphic, crude. Yes, the continuous flow would be tolerable if a man of our own sort—not anyone pompous or tearful — were caring for us up in the sky.

(Note the typical Forsterian escalation, starting from an ordinary situation then moving via his favourite god, Pan [see his short stories] to an absurd vision of God in his heaven.)

London stations:

Like many others who have lived long in a great capital, she had strong feelings about the various railway termini. They are our gates to the glorious and the unknown. Through them we pass out into adventure and sunshine, to them alas! we return. In Paddington all Cornwall is latent and the remoter west; down the inclines of Liverpool Street lie fenlands and the illimitable Broads; Scotland is through the pylons of Euston; Wessex behind the poised chaos of Waterloo. Italians realize this, as is natural; those of them who are so unfortunate as to serve as waiters in Berlin call the Anhalt Bahnhof the Stazione d’Italia, because by it they must return to their homes. And he is a chilly Londoner who does not endow his stations with some personality, and extend to them, however shyly, the emotions of fear and love.

London at dusk:

London was beginning to illuminate herself against the night. Electric lights sizzled and jagged in the main thoroughfares, gas-lamps in the side streets glimmered a canary gold or green. The sky was a crimson battlefield of spring, but London was not afraid. Her smoke mitigated the splendour, and the clouds down Oxford Street were a delicately painted ceiling, which adorned while it did not distract. She has never known the clear-cut armies of the purer air. (p.129)

Margaret looking for a new home:

But London thwarted her; in its atmosphere she could not concentrate. London only stimulates, it cannot sustain; and Margaret, hurrying over its surface for a house without knowing what sort of a house she wanted, was paying for many a thrilling sensation in the past. She could not even break loose from culture, and her time was wasted by concerts which it would be a sin to miss, and invitations which it would never do to refuse. (p.155)

Against the modern world

As privileged rentiers, the Schlegel sisters and Miss Munt can afford a hoity-toity attitude of disliking and condemning everything about the ghastly modern world. What comes across is that this is Forster’s attitude, too. See the passages about London, above. Or his entertainingly consistent hatred of motor cars (and modern advertising).

Awakening, after a nap of a hundred years, to such life as is conferred by the stench of motor-cars, and to such culture as is implied by the advertisements of antibilious pills.

The railway station for Howards End:

Was new, it had island platforms and a subway, and the superficial comfort exacted by business men.

Business men, yuk! Cars recur whenever Forster’s feeling bilious about the modern world:

The Schlegels were certainly the poorer for the loss of Wickham Place. It had helped to balance their lives, and almost to counsel them. Nor is their ground-landlord spiritually the richer. He has built flats on its site, his motor-cars grow swifter, his exposures of Socialism more trenchant. But he has spilt the precious distillation of the years, and no chemistry of his can give it back to society again. (p. 154)

A motor-drive, a form of felicity detested by Margaret, awaited her… But it was not an impressive drive. Perhaps the weather was to blame, being grey and banked high with weary clouds. Perhaps Hertfordshire is scarcely intended for motorists… ‘Look out, if the road worries you — right outward at the scenery.’ She looked at the scenery. It heaved and merged like porridge. Presently it congealed. They had arrived. (p.199)

MR WILCOX: ‘You young fellows’ one idea is to get into a motor. I tell you, I want to walk: I’m very fond of walking.’ (p.319)

Nostalgia for the Middle Ages

Everything new tends to be bad, an attitude which crops up in a hundred details and throwaway remarks. A little more striking is the several places where Forster appears to be pining for the good old Middle Ages where everyone knew their place and there was none of this ghastly modern muddle. When the Schlegel sisters have to leave Wickham Place, Forster laments:

The feudal ownership of land did bring dignity, whereas the modern ownership of movables is reducing us again to a nomadic horde.

And speaking of poor Leonard:

Had he lived some centuries ago, in the brightly coloured civilizations of the past, he would have had a definite status, his rank and his income would have corresponded. But in his day the angel of Democracy had arisen…

Ah, the angel of Democracy, curse of the modern world.

The authentic earth

Forster despises the motor car partly because it disconnects its passengers from The Earth. Surprisingly for such an etiolated townie, in Forster contact with The Earth implies authenticity. Racing through the landscape so fast that it becomes a blur indicates rootlessness and disconnection.

She felt their whole journey from London had been unreal. They had no part with the earth and its emotions. They were dust, and a stink, and cosmopolitan chatter… (p.213)

The sense of flux which had haunted her all the year disappeared for a time. She forgot the luggage and the motor-cars, and the hurrying men who know so much and connect so little. She recaptured the sense of space, which is the basis of all earthly beauty, and, starting from Howards End, she attempted to realize England.

The feudal ownership of land did bring dignity, whereas the modern ownership of movables is reducing us again to a nomadic horde. We are reverting to the civilization of luggage, and historians of the future will note how the middle classes accreted possessions without taking root in the earth, and may find in this the secret of their imaginative poverty.

We need to reconnect with The Earth and this is the feeling Margaret has when she finally visits Howards End, abandoned by its tenant, in the dark, in the rain. Alone in the darkened house she hears the beating of the building’s ancient heart which is, of course, the heartbeat of England, too.

Moving house / finding a home

In his afterword to ‘A Room with a View’, Forster casually mentioned that all of his fictions are about people trying to find a home. In an increasingly migrant, transient world, that was a shrewd issue to make so central to his stories, yet easy to overlook in all the guff about Art and Love.

Quite clearly Howards End possesses powerful symbolism as some kind of ‘heart of England’ emblem and its disputed ownership is similarly symptomatic of rapidly changing social and class boundaries.

But the Schlegel sisters are also themselves radically homeless. The home where they were born and brought up was never owned by the family but just leased. And when the lease expires half way through the novel there is a great deal of upheaval and upset. The theme is briefly expressed in Margaret’s conversation with Mr Wilcox on the Thames Embankment.

‘Do remind Evie to come and see us — two, Wickham Place. We shan’t be there very long, either.’
‘You, too, on the move?’
‘Next September,’ Margaret sighed.
‘Every one moving! Good-bye.’ (p.143)

And this simple exchange is very deftly placed as the characters look out over the River Thames at the turning of the tide, subtly symbolising the way that nothing ever says the same, everything is in a continual state of flux, one of the novel’s key words.

‘I hate this continual flux of London. It is an epitome of us at our worst — eternal formlessness; all the qualities, good, bad, and indifferent, streaming away — streaming, streaming for ever. That’s why I dread it so. I mistrust rivers, even in scenery. Now, the sea —’

Margaret was silent. Marriage had not saved her from the sense of flux. London was but a foretaste of this nomadic civilization which is altering human nature so profoundly, and throws upon personal relations a stress greater than they have ever borne before. Under cosmopolitanism, if it comes, we shall receive no help from the earth. Trees and meadows and mountains will only be a spectacle, and the binding force that they once exercised on character must be entrusted to Love alone. May Love be equal to the task! (p.257)

Oniton

It’s at Oniton Grange Mr Wilcox has bought in a remote corner of Shropshire, that he hosts Evie’s wedding, and whither Helen rashly brings Leonard Bast and his wife Jacky, who drunkenly recognises Henry as her seducer.

The relevance of Oniton to the ‘moving house’ theme is that, 1) never having liked it (damp, miles from anywhere) and 2) associating it with the revelation of his infidelity, Wilcox sells it. Thus Margaret, who had arrived with such high hopes and a fervent desire to put down roots and become known in the neighbourhood, is again disappointed. And Forster turns it into one of his many, many moralising passages, in this case lamenting the fundamental rootlessness of modern people.

She never saw it again. Day and night the river flows down into England, day after day the sun retreats into the Welsh mountains, and the tower chimes, ‘See the Conquering Hero’. But the Wilcoxes have no part in the place, nor in any place. It is not their names that recur in the parish register. It is not their ghosts that sigh among the alders at evening. They have swept into the valley and swept out of it, leaving a little dust and a little money behind.

The novel ends with the sisters inheriting or moving into Howards End as if it were the most natural thing. Their superior spiritual life, their emotional depth and so on, simply entitle them to it. They alone ‘see life steadily and see it whole’ (as they tiresomely repeat) and value the heart’s affections and understand emotion and know how to use the pronoun ‘I’, and so they deserve it.

Eustace Miles

The gender food gap. Mr Wilcox invites Margaret to Simpsons in the Strand, a place dressed up to the nines to portray Olde England, serving chops and steak to imperial administrators. Mr Wilcox knowledgably recommends saddle of mutton with cider. Man = meat and money. By way of return. Margaret invites Wilcox to dine at Eustace Miles, which she describes as ‘all proteids and body-buildings’ and people coming up to ask you about your aura and your astral plane. Woman = vegetarianism and spiritualism.

I was intrigued by all this and so looked up Eustace Miles to discover that he was a noted food faddist and writer about numerous health diets. Look how many books about health and diet he published during the Edwardian decade, 20 by my count!

I was struck by the title of ‘Better Food for Boys’ (1901). One hundred and twenty-three years after Miles was campaigning for a better diet, Britain is experiencing what some commentators call an obesity epidemic and government agencies I’ve worked in spend a fortune on campaigns to encourage healthier eating among the general population while the problem gets steadily, obstinately worse.

Like talk of vegetarianism, saving the environment, avoiding war, gender equality, socialism, political reform, improving education – you realise that these issues have been around, have been written about, talked about, promoted and debated, for over a hundred years and yet we’re still wasting vast acreage of newsprint, digital spaces, social media and so on, worrying about them.

At some point you are forced to conclude that these are just the permanent background noise of our society, like traffic congestion or the drone of airplanes overhead. They will always be here. People will always complain about them. Nothing will change.

Imperialism

I was surprised that the British Empire plays a small but non-negligible role in the story. The younger Wilcox son, Paul, is scheduled to go out to Nigeria to work in some business, and there are scattered references, later on, to the wretched heat and the impossible natives that he has to deal with. And Henry Wilcox himself is said to have made his fortune in West Africa, something to do with rubber. Here’s the full paragraph in which we get most detail. As you can see, Forster is more interested in sly digs and sarcasm than bothering to understand anything. And he makes it crystal clear that his posh ladies find it all far too complicated, an irritating distraction from their core activity of endlessly discussing each others’ feelings.

The following morning, at eleven o’clock, she [Margaret] presented herself at the offices of the Imperial and West African Rubber Company. She was glad to go there, for Henry had implied his business rather than described it, and the formlessness and vagueness that one associates with Africa had hitherto brooded over the main sources of his wealth. Not that a visit to the office cleared things up. There was just the ordinary surface scum of ledgers and polished counters and brass bars that began and stopped for no possible reason, of electric-light globes blossoming in triplets, of little rabbit hutches faced with glass or wire, of little rabbits. And even when she penetrated to the inner depths, she found only the ordinary table and Turkey carpet, and though the map over the fireplace did depict a helping of West Africa, it was a very ordinary map. Another map hung opposite, on which the whole continent appeared, looking like a whale marked out for blubber, and by its side was a door, shut, but Henry’s voice came through it, dictating a ‘strong’ letter. She might have been at the Porphyrion, or Dempster’s Bank, or her own wine-merchant’s. Everything seems just alike in these days. But perhaps she was seeing the Imperial side of the company rather than its West African, and Imperialism always had been one of her difficulties.

Of course, as a good Liberal Forster was against the British Empire, and all the preposterous swank surrounding it, the gaudy ceremonies and the maps and the jingoistic boasting, and the no-nonsense practical talk of business men like Mr Wilcox. It forms into one aspect of the recurring comparison between Germany and Britain, namely that these cultured nations have manoeuvred themselves into a ridiculous rivalry (just how ridiculous would become clear four years later).

That when Margaret marries Henry Wilcox, she begins to enjoy the trappings of wealth derived from exploiting Africa’s resources and people troubles neither character nor author at all. The soul and the spirit and the holiness of the heart’s affections, seeing life steadily and seeing it whole, that’s what fills Margaret’s pampered mind, no matter that vast amounts of actual life are completely hidden from her blinkered view. Here are her thoughts in the days after Leonard’s sudden death:

Yet life was a deep, deep river, death a blue sky, life was a house, death a wisp of hay, a flower, a tower, life and death were anything and everything, except this ordered insanity, where the king takes the queen, and the ace the king. Ah, no; there was beauty and adventure behind, such as the man at her feet had yearned for; there was hope this side of the grave; there were truer relationships beyond the limits that fetter us now. As a prisoner looks up and sees stars beckoning, so she, from the turmoil and horror of those days, caught glimpses of the diviner wheels. (p.320)

At such moments the soul retires within, to float upon the bosom of a deeper stream, and has communion with the dead, and sees the world’s glory not diminished, but different in kind to what she has supposed. (p.322)

With people who think like this, no rational communication can really be held. But many people love the deep ‘spirituality’ and emotional depth of the Schlegel sisters and think life is all about shimmering emotions and arranging flowers in vases. Different strokes.

The ropes of life

Forster repeatedly uses the image of ‘the ropes’ of life to denote control of society and the economy. It is, therefore, always associated with the clear-headed practical Wilcox men. It is a striking image which, at the same time, conveys his characteristic ignorance, and lack of interest, in how things actually work.

The Wilcoxes continued to play a considerable part in her thoughts. She had seen so much of them in the final week. They were not ‘her sort,’ they were often suspicious and stupid, and deficient where she excelled; but collision with them stimulated her, and she felt an interest that verged into liking, even for Charles. She desired to protect them, and often felt that they could protect her, excelling where she was deficient. Once past the rocks of emotion, they knew so well what to do, whom to send for; their hands were on all the ropes…

‘Oh, Meg, that’s what I felt, only not so clearly, when the Wilcoxes were so competent, and seemed to have their hands on all the ropes.’

Which is just how head of the Wilcox clan, Henry Wilcox, feels about himself:

The man of business smiled. Since his wife’s death he had almost doubled his income. He was an important figure at last, a reassuring name on company prospectuses, and life had treated him very well… With a good dinner inside him and an amiable but academic woman on either flank, he felt that his hands were on all the ropes of life, and that what he did not know could not be worth knowing.

For Leonard Bast, who’s outside everything, the ropes symbolise all the mysterious elements of cultural capital which he’ll never achieve or understand:

Those Miss Schlegels had come to it; they had done the trick; their hands were upon the ropes, once and for all.

There was the girl named Helen, who had pinched his umbrella, and the German girl who had smiled at him pleasantly, and Herr someone, and Aunt someone, and the brother — all, all with their hands on the ropes. They had all passed up that narrow, rich staircase at Wickham Place, to some ample room, whither he could never follow them, not if he read for ten hours a day.

Can a middle-aged gay man describe the feelings of a young straight woman?

Obviously that’s what the art of fiction is all about, creating characters beyond your own experience and persuading the reader that they’re ‘real’. Personally, I struggle with the notion of ‘character’ in any work of fiction. Some characters in Shakespeare and Dickens appear ‘real’ to me, almost all the others I’ve ever encountered feel like cyphers created for the plot.

Back to Forster, can a gay middle-aged man depict a straight young woman in love? No. I don’t think he can. The feelings of Margaret for Mr Wilcox and Helen for Leonard Bast are both carefully prepared and sensitively described and I don’t really believe either.

I’m not alone. Many critics at the time and since have criticised the completely improbable notion that beautiful young Helen would be so overcome with Leonard Bast’s plight that, not only would she drag him and his ragged wife all the way by train to rural Shropshire in order to confront Mr Wilcox, but that then, with his wife staying in the same hotel and likely to return from Evie’s wedding party at any moment, under these fraught circumstances she impulsively has sex with him. Given the awesome social and psychological strictures against sex of any kind, given Helen’s fastidious character and all the sisters’ Bloomsbury talk about Art and Literature and Spirit and Romance, given Margaret’s disgusted recoil from the revelation that Henry had a working class mistress, the thought that Helen gives Leonard a mercy fuck is as wildly improbable as a spaceship landing in the middle of the story.

It feels, in these scenes, as if Forster twists and distorts his own characters in order to create a melodramatic climax to his novel, just as he did in the similarly garish climaxes of ‘Where Angels Fear To Tread’ and ‘The Longest Journey’.

It’s one of the oddities of this odd writer that, after 300 pages of middle-class ladies wafting in and out of book-lined rooms, vapouring about Art and the Spirit, a plotless ambience which could trail on for years, maybe forever, the only way he can think of bringing these domestic ramblings to an end is by the twin shocks of wildly improbable sex or sudden, grotesque violence. His brutal climaxes leave a harsh metallic flavour in the mind which sheds a strange shadow over all the sensitive thoughts and fancies which preceded them for hundreds of pages.

An anti-man novel

No, is the short answer. Forster does the ever-changing moods of the wafting, sensitive Schlegel sisters so well that Howards End remains vibrant and alive to this day. But look at the men in it! Tibby, their brother, is an unfeeling, asocial nerd who is always described from the outside. Leonard Bast is a cypher, a valiant attempt at understanding the respectable working classes which doesn’t succeed. Charles Wilcox is depicted as an unfeeling brute. And Henry Wilcox, despite the acres of words devoted to him, never really becomes real. He remains the type of the brisk, no-nonsense, self-deceiving and emotionally undeveloped Business Man.

And pretty much all the other male figures receive short shrift, too. It becomes really clear at the end just how much Margaret / Forster dislikes them. She dislikes the Wilcox’s chauffeur, Lane. She makes a point of disliking the local doctor called to attend Leonard’s corpse, Dr Mansbridge (odd name), describing him as ‘vulgar and acute’. He is quickly transformed into a symbol of Forster’s dislike of science in general.

Science explained people, but could not understand them. After long centuries among the bones and muscles it might be advancing to knowledge of the nerves, but this would never give understanding. One could open the heart to Mr. Mansbridge and his sort without discovering its secrets to them, for they wanted everything down in black and white, and black and white was exactly what they were left with.

‘Mr. Mansbridge and his sort’ eh? Damn these doctors and scientists, coming up with cures for everything all the time. Don’t they realise that the only way to be is to live off other people’s labour and ponce around in long skirts, picking flowers and talking about your soul? Anybody who doesn’t realise this obvious truth is so ghastly and so vulgar.

I thought this anti-man animus really came to the fore in the last few pages. As well as hating doctors and scientists, Margaret also, of course, hates her husband, his son and everything they stand for. Thus the speech she delivers to Henry telling him what an insensitive brute he is for not letting Helen spend the night at Howards End is actually an attack on all men.

It was spoken not only to her husband, but to thousands of men like him — a protest against the inner darkness in high places that comes with a commercial age. Though he would build up his life without hers, she could not apologize. He had refused to connect, on the clearest issue that can be laid before a man, and their love must take the consequences.

Men, men, men! refusing to connect the passion and the prose, the only thing that matters. What a ghastly little man he is.

With unfaltering eye she traced his future. He would soon present a healthy mind to the world again, and what did he or the world care if he was rotten at the core? He would grow into a rich, jolly old man, at times a little sentimental about women, but emptying his glass with anyone. Tenacious of power, he would keep Charles and the rest dependent, and retire from business reluctantly and at an advanced age. (p.323)

‘Rotten at the core’. When Margaret asks Henry to talk to her, and sit on the grass, Forster makes even this little thing a way of complaining about men.

The Great North Road should have been bordered all its length with glebe. Henry’s kind had filched most of it.

Greedy bastards. When Henry offers to say something, her response is hard.

She knew this superficial gentleness, this confession of hastiness, that was only intended to enhance her admiration of the male. (p.324)

Fear the male. Resist the male. Hate the male. Men exploiting the world. Men filching the land. Men playing their emotional games. Men demanding to be worshipped. Oh why why why can’t men be more like spiritual sensitive Margaret, vivacious caring Helen, or Mrs Wilcox wafting through the garden of her ancestors? At its climax, I couldn’t help feeling the book was asking, Why can’t horrible beastly men be more like lovely sensitive women?

The blinkered bourgeois hypocrisy of this view is beautifully expressed in the last scene, set fourteen months after Leonard’s death, with Helen and her baby and Margaret now installed in Howards End. The scene opens with them lazing in the garden, enjoying the tranquility and thinking about flowers and life and eternity, as they do. Meanwhile, in the background, men work. The labouring men who kept the estate and all Edwardian estates functioning, are hard at work. The text tells us that Tom’s father is cutting the big meadow with a mowing machine while another (unnamed) labourer is ‘scything out the dell holes’.

These men are doing hard physical labour to provide lovely settings for pampered middle-class ladies to spend all day long, from morning to night, talking about their fine feelings. Margaret and Helen never have done, and never will do, a day’s work in their lives.

Margaret did not reply. The scything had begun, and she took off her pince-nez to watch it.

Watching other people, watching working class men, work. And yet these parasites take it upon themselves to dislike the male servants and despise businessmen and yawn at the empire, dismissing and mocking the men who labour night and day to provide them with their lives of luxury, ‘gilded with tranquillity’, as Forster admiringly puts it (p.326).

The sentimental reader sighs with satisfaction that the spiritual sisters have finally inherited Howards End as spiritual Mrs Wilcox, and the entire Spirit of England, always intended them to.

‘There are moments when I feel Howards End peculiarly our own.’ (p.329)

In direct contrast, I note that Margaret and Helen acquire this idyllic rural home only after the central male characters have been killed (Leonard), imprisoned (Charles) or broken (Henry). And a fleet of male servants and labourers are conveniently in place to silently serve them. It is as corrupt as the ancient Roman pouring special wines for his pampered guests surrounded by the slaves who make his whole life of luxury possible.

Howards End is traditionally seen as a novel about the triumph of two sensitive spiritual sisters over terrible adversities. I see it as their triumphant conquest of Men. Forster knows this. When, on the last page, Henry Wilcox, broken in spirit by the imprisonment of his son, announces to the rest of his family that he is giving Howards End to his wife, Margaret feels not happiness or relief but triumph.

Margaret did not answer. There was something uncanny in her triumph. She, who had never expected to conquer anyone, had charged straight through these Wilcoxes and broken up their lives.

Leonard dead. Charles in prison. Henry a broken man. Margaret’s victory is usually seen as a victory of sensibility over philistine materialism but she senses it represents something bigger. She has won the battle of the sexes at which point you wonder, Is this what the entire novel has been about all along? Effete gay E.M. Forster’s profound hatred of active, purposeful straight men.

Forster’s prose

I suppose E.M. Forster is a big writer, part of the canon, a classic, and much loved by his fans. But I don’t think I read a single sentence which I enjoyed. Lots of scenes are very acutely imagined and described – days later I remember Margaret arguing with Charles Wilcox in the car and Margaret arguing with Mrs Wilcox in the Christmas shopping trip. Margaret could start an argument with a brick wall. But Forster’s writing, as prose, I often found commonplace. Arguably it comes most alive, is at its most Forsterian, when it launches into those long gassy paragraphs which end up citing Alceste or Ulysses or God, the great intellectual-sounding flights of fancy which are, more often than not, the ripest tripe.


Credit

Howards End by E.M Forster was published by Edward and Arnold in 1910. References are to the 1982 Penguin paperback edition.

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The Longest Journey by E.M. Forster (1907)

He was not an inquisitive boy; but as he leant against the tree he wondered what it was all about, and whether he would ever know.
(E.M. Forster’s milksop protagonist limply pondering in The Longest Journey, page 137)

Forster’s second novel, The Longest Journey, is the diametric opposite of his first, Where Angels Fear To Tread. Angels is short (160 pages), focused, and its main narrative moves at speed. Journey is long (290 pages), slow, digressive and self indulgent. It opens abruptly and a bit confusingly, with a series of scenes depicting Frederick ‘Rickie’ Elliott as an undergraduate at Cambridge, having jokey philosophical debates with his close friends led by the boy they all look up to, Stewart Ansell, before – confusingly – going into a flashback describing Rickie’s earlier life and how he ended up at Cambridge.

Rickie has a deformed foot which gives him a pronounced limp and requires him to wear specially adjusted shoes. As a boy he came to realise that his parents never loved each other; then they both died within 11 days of each other, leaving him an orphan. He inherited a tidy sum of money and was sent to live with a family called the Silts, ‘needy cousins of his father’s’. He had already begun at a public school as a day boy and continued there till he passes his exams to go up to Cambridge and it is here that we catch up with the scenes depicted in the opening pages.

What’s missing from Forster

The first 50 or 60 pages prompted a Big (negative) Thought which dominated the rest of my reading. This that the book contains many, many, many conversations about life and human nature and so on but, placed in a historical context, all these conversations are rendered moot, or even worthless, by their ignorance of everything we, a hundred years later, now know about human nature, science and society…

A few years after the book was published came the Great War which triggered a complete disillusion with the values of previous generations, then the Bolshevik revolution which swept away previous socialist rhetoric and replaced it with a much more militant model of violent revolution and anti-bourgeois terror. There followed the Jazz Age decade of amoral hedonism, short skirts, wild dances and the advent of Fascism in Italy. At the end of the decade, a worldwide economic collapse encouraged the spread of communist belief across the West, which helped the rise to power of the genocidal Nazi movement, all of which led up to the most destructive conflagration in human history. This climaxed with the dropping of the two atom bombs which ushered in the atomic age and generations of fear that the entire human race might be wiped out in a nuclear holocaust. Alongside this, in the post-war years, went the decolonisation which ended the European empires and led to the rise of what we call the Third World, often characterised by ruinous civil wars and/or famines, which recur across Africa to this day. From the 1960s onwards women’s liberation, gay rights and so on have transformed our attitudes to sex, sexuality and gender identity.

By the time I came along, as a schoolboy in the 1970s, all this history was the basic, entry-level materials of serious discussion. As earnest 6th formers our debates about politics or the meaning of life weren’t based on the ancient Greeks or the Renaissance but were informed by the horrors of twentieth century history. Entry-level debate was aware that any line of thought about, say, trying to improve society by scientific means, risked raising eugenics and the Nazis; arguments about trying to enforce a fairer society sooner or later invoked the dire example of Stalin and the gulags; anyone promoting belief in could easily be refuted by the atom bomb, and so on.

Debate about the big issues was both a) informed by the extreme political, social and scientific experiments of the 20th century and b) hemmed in by the way so many of these experiments had ended in utter disaster.

My point is that Forster and his characters know none of this. Everything which makes up the backdrop, the atmosphere, of serious modern debate on almost every issue (politics,economics, socialism, imperialism, feminism, the environment, multicultural society, science and technology, art and aesthetics, you name it) hadn’t happened yet, was invisible, didn’t exist. Although Edwardian people were as clever, canny, passionate, loving, cruel etc as you or me, they lived and thought and acted in a world Before The Fall.

This explains several things about Forster’s novels and our feeling about the Edwardian period as a whole. The obvious one is an idealised nostalgia for a much simpler, more innocent world. This explains the popularity of the Merchant Ivory dramatisations of his novels, especially ‘A Room With A View’, and the tremendous popularity of ‘Downton Abbey’ on the telly.

But the reason I’ve described all this is that, for me, the vast absence of knowledge drums home the boring triteness of the characters’ supposedly ‘serious’ conversations.

Forster’s novels regularly pause while the characters discuss the nature of Truth or Beauty or Love, ‘the Spirit of Truth’, ‘real Life’ and so on, in an embarrassingly callow, undergraduate way – but to our jaded modern eye i.e. to anyone born After the Fall, after the calamitous twentieth century, these conversations, recorded in loving detail and clearly intended to indicate important differences between characters’ beliefs and attitudes, come across as vapid, naive and irrelevant. Basically, who can care for these characters when they’re all so dim and ignorant of everything the 20th century revealed to us about human nature?

This is particularly problematic in ‘The Longest Journey’ because it is a Bildungsroman, the German term for ‘a novel dealing with one person’s formative years or spiritual education’. It is the story of the development of a mind and personality (Rickie’s) – but before most of the issues which form modern minds and personalities even existed.

To take the subject of Art which the characters waste lots of breath talking about, Forster’s novels were written before Modern Art existed or, more precisely, had become known in Britain. The full force of Symbolism across northern Europe, Cubism and the Fauves in France, the Expressionists in Germany, the first stirrings of Futurism in Italy and Vorticism in England – all these are completely absent from Forster’s texts and endless conversations about Art. His and his characters’ notions of Beauty with a capital B are almost unbearably simple-minded. They are late-Victorian, bourgeois clichés about Masterpieces of the Renaissance and the most stiflingly conventional of British salon art.

Mr. Elliot [Rickie’s father] had not one scrap of genius. He gathered the pictures and the books and the flower-supports mechanically, not in any impulse of love. He passed for a cultured man because he knew how to select, and he passed for an unconventional man because he did not select quite like other people. In reality he never did or said or thought one single thing that had the slightest beauty or value.

These people’s one aesthetic idea is that ITALY is the venerated location of Life and Beauty and, above all, the treasures of Renaissance Art, which anyone who aspires to be anyone has to know and remember, down to the finest detail of the obscurest painting in the remotest Tuscan chapel.

These axioms explain how the characters can talk the most almighty guff about the same three subjects (Beauty, Art, Italy) over and over again, in complete ignorance of the worlds of art and philosophy and politics (and communism and existentialism, feminism and environmentalism) which were to colour modern, 20th century, conversations. What I’m trying to explain is the oppressive feeling of painfully limited horizons, petty provincial opinions, naivety and simple-mindedness, which hamper and limit every conversation, character and the overall the narration.

The worship of the Renaissance is tied up with the way Rickie and his friends’ intellectual life is cabined and confined by The Classics. Top subject at the school Rickie joins is Classics. The teachers dream of editing Sophocles. In the British Museum Ansell and Widdrington marvel at how immature they are against a background of Grecian friezes. Ansell, trapped in the Classics perspective, compares everyone and everything to Greek personages and philosophy. So does Rickie, who comments on one of his fellow teachers, Mr Jackson, that:

‘He cheers one up. He does believe in poetry. Smart, sentimental books do seem absolutely absurd to him, and gods and fairies far nearer to reality. He tries to express all modern life in the terms of Greek mythology, because the Greeks looked very straight at things, and Demeter or Aphrodite are thinner veils than ‘The survival of the fittest’, or ‘A marriage has been arranged,’ and other draperies of modern journalese.’

A lot later, commenting on Stephen’s fondness for getting drunk, the narrator says:

Drink, today, is an unlovely thing. Between us and the heights of Cithaeron the river of sin now flows. Yet the cries still call from the mountain, and granted a man has responded to them, it is better he respond with the candour of the Greek. (p.266)

The very same Classics and ancient world which forms the foundation and perspective of almost all these characters’ thought and which they consider an escape from the brutality of British commercial culture, to the modern mind seems more like an incredibly constricted prison-house they can’t escape.

Forster is a subtle, intricate writer but he is writing about a tiny world, a small pond of terribly nice chaps, their paramours and maiden aunts, all displaying exquisite feelings about trivia. Seven years after the book was published they would all be marched off to the meadows of Flanders and blown to pieces in their millions, exposing their naive vapourings about Art or Beauty for the childish posturing it was, for its pitiful inadequacy to the catastrophic possibilities of life.

The Wikipedia article about ‘The Longest Journey’ quotes the critic Gilbert Adair saying that the greatest weaknesses for readers is the book’s ‘unrelenting intellectuality’, which struck me as hilariously wrong. The greatest drawback for readers is the book’s unrelenting dimness. It may often be emotionally subtle, but it is intellectually bereft. And this is important, in fact it’s vital, because the book sets out to be a description of the intellectual journey of the central character.

The plot

The book is divided into three sections which have symbolic meanings associated with the three key locations in Rickie’s life:

He was extremely sensitive to the inside of a house, holding it an organism that expressed the thoughts, conscious and subconscious, of its inmates. He was equally sensitive to places. He would compare Cambridge with Sawston, and either with a third type of existence, to which, for want of a better name, he gave the name of ‘Wiltshire’.

1. Cambridge obviously symbolises Rickie’s callow student days, more generally the life of the mind, intellect etc, and his revered friend Ansell.

2. Sawston becomes associated with his career as a teacher, work, his adult life with Agnes, supervised by her father, Mr Pembroke.

3. Wiltshire stands apart as symbolising the pagan countryside, Rickie’s malicious aunt and his stupid, virile half-brother Stephen.

Part 1. Cambridge

Frederick ‘Rickie’ Elliot has inherited his father and grandfather’s deformed foot, which makes him walk with a limp. His father is quite heartless to him, nicknaming him ‘Rickie’ as short for ricketty. His parents are well-off enough to send him to public school as a day boy. When he’s 15 his father dies and shortly afterwards so does his mother so he is passed to the care of cousins. His only friends from boyhood is the Pembroke family.

Rickie goes up to Cambridge where he makes like-minded friends (Ansell, Widdrington, Tilliard). Handily the Pembroke family son, Herbert, is there and is involved in some scenes. His little band are intellectuals or at least self-consciously aware that they are not sporty types, what later generations would call Jocks or hearties. Rickie is in awe of / worships Ansell, a philosophy student who his little group all think is the real thing although, as always with books like this, there is absolutely no evidence whatsoever of his philosophical abilities.

In the vacation Rickie goes to stay with the Pembroke family where he observes young Miss Pembroke, Agnes, engaged to a hearty a year or so older than him, Gerald Dawes. Something really weird happens to the narration whereby the narrator describes the couple in visionary terms almost as Greek gods, writing paragraphs of purple prose about how the sight of them inspires him to lyrical paeans.

This is all the odder because, once the narration comes back down to earth, it turns out that Gerald was at school with Rickie and sadistically and systematically bullied him. I found it impossible to understand how Rickie the character combines terrorised memories of Gerald with such overblown idealisation of the couple. Maybe it’s meant to indicate how young and callow he is, but it just comes over as weird.

Anyway, shortly afterwards Gerald dies (in a football match, the details are left vague and completely unconvincing). To nobody’s surprise this clears the way for Rickie’s lyrical feelings to spill over into Miss Pembroke and a few short years later he is introducing her to his Cambridge friends as his fiancée.

The minute-by-minute subtleties of interaction between Rickie and his friends, the descriptions of his parents and their tense household, the strange descriptions of Gerald and Miss Pembroke (Agnes), his debates about Love and Art with his best friend Ansell, his visit back to the old school, all the other little interactions with his relatives or friends at uni or his bedder or Miss Pembroke’s chaperone (Mrs Lewin) – I register all the micro-discriminations embedded in the text but just didn’t care. His depiction of Cambridge stinks of the kind of incestuous pretentiousness where everyone talks about each other having a ‘first rate mind’, being a genius, being fearfully bright etc. The Bloomsbury style of navel-gazing much of which, to us, sounds like children.

Rickie: ‘Doing right is simply doing right.’
Agnes: ‘I think that all you say is wonderfully clever.’ (p.143)

Anyway, his best friend Ansell takes against Agnes and thinks they are badly mismatched. He thinks ‘she is happy because she has conquered; he is happy because he has at last hung all the world’s beauty on to a single peg’ but, in Ansell’s view, they are both deluded.

So: sensitive young man goes to Cambridge, falls in love with schoolfriend’s fiancée, his best friend disapproves, he hopes to become a writer but his ambitions are disappointed yadda yadda.

Mrs Failing in Wiltshire

The happy couple go to visit his closest living relative, his aunt, his father’s sister, Mrs Emily Failing who lives in a grand grey house, Cadover, with a farm in flat Wiltshire (‘From the distance it showed as a grey box, huddled against evergreens’).

Aunt Emily is a distracting character, a widow deliberately taunting her staff and in particular a beefy young man Agnes’ and Rickie’s age who’s staying with her, named Stephen Wonham, who is remarkably stupid and earthy. She has a gift for making everyone uncomfortable. She makes Rickie go for a horse ride he doesn’t want to and then is tiresome and contrary with Agnes who she takes on a walk to her arbour. She nastily insists on calling Stephen a ‘hero’ for belittling and mocking Rickie.

Anyway, one day on a walk out to a barrow near her land Miss Failing deliberately shocks and upsets Rickie by telling him the family secret that Stephen is his half-brother. Rickie is so shocked he faints. When he tells Agnes she is repelled but cross at Miss Failing. She confronts her and the latter admits she did it partly to shock Rickie. She reassures Agnes that she hasn’t told Stephen himself. They fob the poor dolt (Stephen) off, in a bizarre way, by giving him a few sovereigns and telling him to go for a walk down to the sea (a journey which will take several days) and off he lumbers into the night.

If I may hazard an interpretation, the two brothers symbolise opposites, like Cain and Abel. Where Rickie is effete, over-intellectual callowness, Stephen is under-brained and earthy. Spirit versus matter. Soul versus body, etc etc.

Oddly, with the odd change of perspective and unexpected events which you wouldn’t have expected, the narrator very casually tells us that Rickie found this news so traumatic that he took to his bed for a year. During this period he tried to get his eight or nine little short stories published. When we are told they are tales of paganism in England and he has titled the volume ‘Pan Pipes’ we realise this is very close to Forster’s own short stories which are unexpectedly strange and visionary tales of paganism in England.

(Agnes is justifiably sceptical about Rickie’s chances as a writer: ‘she had always mistrusted the little stories, and now people who knew agreed with her. How could Rickie, or any one, make a living by pretending that Greek gods were alive, or that young ladies could vanish into trees?’ p.156.)

Rickie goes to see the editor of Holborn magazine who is supportive but unfortunately can’t publish any of his stories, saying they are good in parts but need to be good throughout (p.149). He meets Agnes in a London restaurant:

‘Can’t you try something longer, Rickie?’ she said; ‘I believe we’re on the wrong track. Try an out-and-out love story.’
‘My notion just now,’ he replied, ‘is to leave the passions on the fringe. She nodded, and tapped for the waiter: they had met in a London restaurant. ‘I can’t soar; I can only indicate…’

Is that a self portrait, Forster’s deprecating view of his own fiction? Or, more probably, a view he once and sometimes held, attributed to this ambitious but ineffectual young character? If so it’s ironic that so much of this novel is strange and visionary – in other words, does soar.

Anyway, the (unnamed) editor suggests that Rickie try to see a little more of Life. All very well but as he takes a cab through the London streets, Rickie wonders where you find this Life.

As he rumbled westward, his face was drawn, and his eyes moved quickly to the right and left, as if he would discover something in the squalid fashionable streets some bird on the wing, some radiant archway, the face of some god beneath a beaver hat. He loved, he was loved, he had seen death and other things; but the heart of all things was hidden. There was a password and he could not learn it, nor could the kind editor of the Holborn teach him. He sighed, and then sighed more piteously.

Alack-a-day.

2. Sawston

Part two describes how Agnes’s weak-willed schoolmaster father, Mr Pembroke, in need of help, suggests to his daughter Agnes that she and Rickie get married, come and live and work at the school. (There is a comic digression when Mr Pembroke proposes to his kindly old friend Miss Orr, who has the good sense to turn him down.) Agnes thinks it’s a great idea and sets about persuading him, using the argument that there’ll be long holidays to write in, and it’s an altruistic profession with lots of opportunities to do good. Which triggers a typically naive effusion from Rickie:

To do good! For what other reason are we here? Let us give up our refined sensations, and our comforts, and our art, if thereby we can make other people happier and better. The woman he loved had urged him to do good! With a vehemence that surprised her, he exclaimed, ‘I’ll do it.’ (p.156)

So Rickie and Agnes move into the free accommodation arranged by her father and he is paid to become a trainee teacher, learning about the gown, the timetable, how to manage the boys, the other members of staff. He is supervised and supported by Agnes’ brother, Herbert, who had been with him at Cambridge and has gone on to follow his father into teaching. Slyly, Forster shows us how Rickie finds himself being manipulated and used in the tiny but fiercely fought micro politics of the staff room, specifically by Herbert whose drawbacks Rickie slowly comes to realise.

Rickie and Agnes get married

They all get married, don’t they, the young characters in novels by Forster, H.G. Wells and Arnold Bennett? In one sense it’s all they can do with their lives, it’s the only interest in them as characters. Rickie’s marriage to Agnes is treated as an anti-climax. The ceremony isn’t described, instead the way they settle into their new roles as man and wife both living at Sawston school. Agnes dislikes emotion and turmoil and quite quickly Rickie gets used to not discussing his deeper feelings.

Remember the rather ludicrous vision Rickie had of Agnes and Gerald as Greek gods when he saw them embracing? Now that turns out to be playing a sort of structural role for Rickie, because it turns out he is destined never again to see Agnes with the same intensity.

In such a bustle, what spiritual union could take place? Surely the dust would settle soon: in Italy, at Easter, he might perceive the infinities of love. But love had shown him its infinities already. Neither by marriage nor by any other device can men insure themselves a vision; and Rickie’s had been granted him three years before, when he had seen his wife and a dead man clasped in each other’s arms. She was never to be so real to him again. (p.171)

They settle into a frank good fellowship.

Ansell and Widdrington

Ansell is in the British Museum studying for his second dissertation. Tellingly, his first one failed. I think the novel is dramatising the discovery that real life turns out not to be the glamorous cakewalk we think it’ll be when we’re carefree students.

Widdrington is a mutual friend of his and Rickie’s. He went to see the newly married couple at Sawston and discovered two things: 1) he doesn’t like Agnes, who he finds stony and abrupt, no soul; and 2) Rickie is unhappy. This is due to something which the narrator told us about earlier and I didn’t really understand, but which this character Widdrington explains with admirable clarity. It is that the school where Rickie’s teaching was established as a private school for day boys from the locality. However the more ambitious head master and teachers want to expand the number of boarders because 1) more money 2) posher, like a proper public school. But this will reduce the places available for day boys and so there is quite a fierce debate going on between two factions of the staff but also with angry parents of day boys who feel their being bilked. Ansell says he couldn’t care less. He and Rickie now have nothing in common and describes Agnes as ‘that ghastly woman’.

Back at school

Back at Sawston School Rickie has realised he is not cut out to be a teacher, that Agnes doesn’t respect him and he was ceasing to love her. The boys despise Rickie and hate Agnes’s strictness. Oh dear, we’re on page 186 of 288. Will he find another love or will he soldier on becoming more lonely and sad? In one sense it’s a portrait of the many men who were relieved by the outbreak of the First World War because it liberated them from lives of quiet despair.

The daughter

Agnes gets pregnant and in due course goes into labour. As was the custom Rickie wasn’t even told, just a tap at the door of the prep class he’s taking and Herbert takes him into the corridor to deliver the news. He has a daughter but she is lame, much lamer than him, will only walk with crutches. Everyone is very nice but Rickie is stricken. After just a week the poor mite dies.

Varden

Another bad thing happens. The weakest member of the house he’s in charge of, Varden, is set upon by virtually the entire class one night after school, pushing him down onto the floor, rubbing his nose in the dirt and yanking his ears. Herbert hears and breaks it up but Varden is injured and has to have an operation before being taken out of the school by his parents. Herbert can’t understand how his young men could be so beastly but the narrator has an explanation:

What had come over his boys? Were they not gentlemen’s sons? He would not admit that if you herd together human beings before they can understand each other the great god Pan is angry, and will in the end evade your regulations and drive them mad.

Forster genuinely seems to believe in his rather limp-wristed form of paganism. In the complete absence of Freud, Jung and modern psychology, this kind of literature-based – and Classical literature-based – theory of human nature appears to be all Forster had.

Agnes has gotten over the dead daughter (‘She had got over the tragedy: she got over everything.’) She tells Rickie he needs to make up the argument he had with Aunt Emily. In a flash he perceives it’s because Agnes is after Aunt Emily’s money and they have a big quarrel, their first big fight. Agnes despises him for thinking in poetic terms; he is desperately disappointed she is so mundane and mercenary. He is learning wisdom = the disillusionments of life.

He perceived more clearly the cruelty of Nature, to whom our refinement and piety are but as bubbles, hurrying downwards on the turbid waters. They break, and the stream continues.

In a strange and wildly improbable development it turns out that this wretched bullied boy Varden had been sending letters to a variety of people, public and private, asking for their help and prayers, many of whom had charitably replied. What’s improbable is that the boy had somehow managed to write to Stephen, Rickie’s half-brother, who had written a semi-illiterate reply. This is a wild improbability but it is here so that Rickie can be plunged into a crisis about his life, filled with anger and despair that his half-brother, in his sturdy peasant illiteracy, is the one who will survive and flourish.

Forster’s narrators are surprisingly intrusive, explaining, judging, leaping gaps in the narrative and generally showing us round. Just such a passage ends a horrible sleepless night of dreams and nightmares when the narrator baldly tells us:

Henceforward he deteriorates. Let those who censure him suggest what he should do. He has lost the work that he loved, his friends, and his child. He remained conscientious and decent, but the spiritual part of him proceeded towards ruin. (p.197)

In a department store in London the pair bump into Maud Ansell, Stewart’s sister. She informs them that Stewart failed his dissertation a second time. Now he will never be a don, never have a Cambridge career, everything they scrimped and saved for has been wasted. Agnes is patronising to her; Maud gets angry.

A digression in which Forster, to be fair, tells us Agnes has her own tragedy. She realises her marriage has failed but refuses to be sentimental about it. She wishes her husband was taller, richer, more domineering. Ho hum. Life goes on.

But this is prelude to a big family fight. At dinner with Agnes and Herbert when the post arrives. First a small surprise, that Mr Jackson, a teacher in the rival ‘progressive’ faction has invited them to dinner. This is because, slightly incomprehensibly, Jackson is playing host to Stuart Ansell who has invited himself down to the school but not wanting to stay with Rickie, who he has been so long estranged from.

But another letter is from Aunt Emily and it’s this that triggers the bitter argument. Rickie knows that Agnes has been to visit Aunt Emily several times. Now a letter comes with the upshot of these visits which is that Emily is dismissing Stephen from staying with her and sending him off to a colony to make his own way. Rickie is outraged to learn that Agnes has been using his name to blacken Stephen in his aunt’s eyes and lets slip the secret fact that his father ‘strayed’ i.e. Stephen is his half-brother.

Rickie’s anger against his wife not surprisingly makes Herbert rise to the defence of his sister but also because Herbert doesn’t like disorder and wants to calm any argument. He backs up her accusation that the Elliots are an odd family, that Aunt Emily has behave badly, that Stephen is a monster best out of the country etc. Rickie could weep with frustration at not being able to make him see what Agnes has done wrong and how manipulative she’s being. For a moment brother and sister are very close in their wrong-headedness. Then the narrator goes on to editorialise.

There are moments for all of us when we seem obliged to speak in a new unprofitable tongue. One might fancy a seraph, vexed with our normal language, who touches the pious to blasphemy, the blasphemous to piety. The seraph passes, and we proceed unaltered. (p.210)

Whether you like this kind of rhetoric and diction will determine whether you like this book. I understand its delicate poetic intent. I understand it is a metaphor. But in the difficult lives we are faced with I find it neither really insightful nor a practical help.

Ansell visits

I haven’t mentioned that Aunt Emily’s deceased husband, Anthony Failing (‘He loved poetry and music and pictures, and everything tempted him to live in a kind of cultured paradise, with the door shut upon squalor’), left a volume of essays (titled ‘What We Want’) to which she wrote a little introduction and which has now been published. Ansell, the failed philosopher is reading and annotating it in the garden of Sawton School.

The passage he’s reading is on the difference between coarseness and vulgarity (coarseness, revealing something; vulgarity, concealing something). This is an example of the useless, superficial diddling which passes for ‘thought’ among these people. It’s more a question of manners and etiquette than any kind of serious structural analysis. No wonder England was considered the unintellectual country all across the Continent.

Anyway Ansell is quietly seething because at dinner the night before, old Mr Pembroke and his daughter, Agnes, had both commiserated in a way which made it clear they consider him a failure. His reflections are interrupted when someone throws a clod of earth at his back and he gets into a ridiculous fight with Stephen Wonham although it takes him a moment, and the narrator quite a long time, to confirm his identity. When you’re a hammer, everything looks like a nail. Ansell is oversoaked in late-Victorian fetish for all things ancient Greek and so is struck that Stephen is like…an ancient Greek.

He gave the idea of an animal with just enough soul to contemplate its own bliss. United with refinement, such a type was common in Greece. It is not common today (p.216)

Because this is such an obvious thought the narrator tries to dress it up in fancy syntax.

Was it only a pose to like this man, or was he really wonderful? He was not romantic, for Romance is a figure with outstretched hands, yearning for the unattainable. Certain figures of the Greeks, to whom we continually return, suggested him a little. (p.217)

Anyway Stephen tells the story of how Aunt Emily, backed up by the old retainers, kicked him out, giving him £100 and throwing a packet at him which contained the documents proving he is Rickie’s half-brother. He’s been travelling rough across country to the school to tell Rickie (not realising that Rickie already knows). At this point, the maid comes to call Stephen into the house for an interview with Mrs Elliot (not Rickie). Ansell fantasises that the menfolk will have gone up to dress for dinner not realising what a bombshell was bursting downstairs and, characteristically, sees it through the prism of ancient Greek drama.

The irony of the situation appealed to him strongly. It reminded him of the Greek Drama, where the actors know so little and the spectators so much. (p.221)

Part one of the denouement is Stephen and Mrs Elliot (Agnes). She invites him in for an interview and immediately gets down to business offering him £2 if he will sign a contract swearing to keep silent forever about being Rickie’s brother. it takes him some minutes to understand what is going on which Agnes takes for playing hard to get. Once he understands he stands up, outraged or disgusted, and simply walks out.

Part two of the denouement comes when Agnes, Rickie and Herbert call Ansell to come into the hall because it is now dinner time. The hall is full of their boys and servants bringing in the meal. It is in front of all these that Ansell deliberately humiliates Rickie by telling him he has a brother he doesn’t know about, and that his wife has hidden from him. Much gasping among the boys, and some prefects stand as if to make a physical defence but Ansell ploughs on to accuse Rickie of being the one who’s passed on accusations about Stephen and so caused his brother to be turned out of his home and sent to be a tramp. It’s hard to imagine a more ruinous accusation and in front of Rickie’s entire House.

But Rickie compounds the situation by admitting he had a philanderer for a father and a dark horse for a brother. In front of all the boys. Who will go home and tell their parents. Who will threaten to withdraw their boys from the school. But it’s then that Ansell drops the real bombshell which none of us expected: Stephen is not the son of his philandering father but of his unfaithful mother! Rickie faints and has to be carried from the hall. Pandemonium. The gossip is broadcast throughout the school within the hour.

Part 2 ends with a page of Forster editorialising which I will include in its entirety as a chunk of his style and thought. I understood all the words and read it twice but still don’t know what it means.

The soul has her own currency. She mints her spiritual coinage and stamps it with the image of some beloved face. With it she pays her debts, with it she reckons, saying, ‘This man has worth, this man is worthless.’ And in time she forgets its origin; it seems to her to be a thing unalterable, divine. But the soul can also have her bankruptcies.

Perhaps she will be the richer in the end. In her agony she learns to reckon clearly. Fair as the coin may have been, it was not accurate; and though she knew it not, there were treasures that it could not buy. The face, however beloved, was mortal, and as liable as the soul herself to err. We do but shift responsibility by making a standard of the dead.

There is, indeed, another coinage that bears on it not man’s image but God’s. It is incorruptible, and the soul may trust it safely; it will serve her beyond the stars. But it cannot give us friends, or the embrace of a lover, or the touch of children, for with our fellow mortals it has no concern. It cannot even give the joys we call trivial – fine weather, the pleasures of meat and drink, bathing and the hot sand afterwards, running, dreamless sleep. Have we learnt the true discipline of a bankruptcy if we turn to such coinage as this? Will it really profit us so much if we save our souls and lose the whole world?

If we start from the position that there is no soul and no God then surely these 250 words are literally meaningless. They may have value as a metaphor but like so many of Forster’s metaphors are such hard work for so little reward that it’s not worth the effort.

I liked the Great Scene of Ansell denouncing his old friend because it was dramatic, and the entire storyline of the disreputable relative carries the whiff of Victorian melodrama at its most garish. Think of Pip discovering the truth about Magwitch in Great Expectations. But the comparison also highlights Forster’s limp-wristed diffuseness. He has regular moments of great perspicuity and imagines his characters in great detail – but at the same time he drowns them in half-hearted treacle about The Greek Spirit and the Great God Pan and the currency of the soul.

Part 3. Wiltshire

I was expecting Rickie to quit being a schoolmaster, maybe separate from Agnes, and retire injured to Aunt Emily’s estate where, maybe, he finds his true self amid the pagan countryside… Maybe someone has to die or commit suicide to give it the real oomph that a serious novel of his time aspired to…

But the book commences a new part because it denotes a change not only of scenery but of time. It took me a few pages to realise what was going on, but the entire narrative ups sticks and flashes back twenty years or more, to an account of How Mrs Elliot, Rickie’s Mother, Ran Off With a Farmer i.e. how Stephen the half-brother was conceived.

Basically a farmer named Robert fell hopelessly in love with Mrs Elliot on first meeting her at Tony and Emily Failing’s house when Mr and Mrs Elliott are visiting. Tony Failing gets wind of it and escorts him off the premises but not too sharply since he is the author of those whimsical essays about vulgarity and whatnot and so tolerates Robert’s visits on condition they are squeaky clean. Typically, Tony’s confused moral position is expressed in classical metaphor:

For he remembered that sensual and spiritual are not easy words to use; that there are, perhaps, not two Aphrodites, but one Aphrodite with a Janus face. (p.233)

And so Robert nurses his love but remains outwardly clean, polite and civil for six long years until one day he calls and finds Mrs Elliot alone and, in his blunt country way, declares his love for her. She tells him to leave this instant but Mr Elliot returns at this point and is much more civil and suave. This turns out to be a mistake because it breaches the emotional defences against Robert which Mrs Elliot was just about holding together and next thing you know… they have run off to Stockholm!

Tony and Emily Failing get a letter from her from Stockholm, debate what to do, then set off to Stockholm to confront her. However, by the time they arrive, Robert has drowned. A landsman, he had never swum in the sea before and didn’t know about tides, got carried away and drowned. (You can’t help feeling Forster has a very casual way with his characters’ lives.) So the lover is conveniently out of the way but not before impregnating Mrs Elliot. The Mrs and Mrs Elliot manage to reconcile but Mrs Elliot remains abroad in order to conceal her pregnancy and giving birth: she returns to England with him, giving out that he is the baby of a family friend. Everything about her elopement and having another man’s baby is covered up.

She comes to dislike her forgiving husband but, strangely, to love both her boys. Love for Stephen, who’s the spitting image of his father, rough and strong and blunt, makes her love Rickie the more. When Mr Elliot dies in middle age, his wife looks forward to the autumn of her years raising her two boys but fate had other plans and she herself dies shortly afterwards.

So there’s the backstory – how Rickie has a half-brother of a completely different characters – all neatly explained. The next chapter describes the growth of young Stephen. Actually it jumps straight to his young manhood when he wanders like a pagan god among the rolling farmland of Wiltshire. The deaths in quick succession of Mr Failing who was looking after him, Mr Elliot and then Mrs Elliot who was always kind to him (because she was, unknown to him, his mother) means none of them had had time to make a will or leave him any money. Instead he falls into the care of Mrs Failing, Aunt Emily, who maliciously thinks it will be comical to keep the two boys apart and in ignorance of their true relationship.

Jump back to the present and the scene we left, with Stephen blundering out of Sawston school. Ansell goes running round looking for Stephen but the latter has hidden under a railway archway. He heads into London and gets a job for a few weeks with a removal company. He holds a horse for a man who overtips him. He sends some of the money to Cadover to pay for the windows he smashed after being kicked out by Mrs Failing. Then, unable to stay away, he gets blind drunk and makes his way back to Sawston where he announces his presence by throwing a brick through a window and breaking down the front door, waking up Rickie, Herbert and Ansell.

So. There are 40 pages of the novel left and we are in a pickle. What can possibly happen next? What happens is next day Stephen is full of contrition while Rickie, Herbert and Agnes have to go about their days’ duties. Once Stephen’s woken up from his hangover sleep, Rickie has an interview with him which goes wrong because Stephen is pagan simplicity and refuses to fit into Rickie’s bourgeois preconceptions and concerns.

Above all, Stephen realises that Rickie’s wish to have him (Stephen) stay at Sawston isn’t based on a true understanding of his personality, but because Stephen reminds him of his mother who he has never stopped loving. Stephen rejects all this sentimental tripe and tears up the photo of their mother which Rickie hands him, steps outside into the fog and then… asks Rickie to come with him! It is a key decision point. Rickie looks back at the house containing Herbert, an average scheming teacher who sides against him, and his wife who despises him and… what the hell! goes running off into the fog with Stephen.

Rickie set free

I was hoping the two half-brothers would roam like swaggering vagabonds across the south of England but this is a Forster novel, timid and fearful like its author. So Rickie and Steven end up going to stay with the Ansells in some village. Agnes quickly learns that Rickie’s gone there, she and Herbert try to persuade him to come home but he isn’t interested.

There’s some chaff about this but the last big action of the novel comes when Aunt Emily invites Rickie to visit her at Cadover. Again. So off he sets. Just for a lark, Stephen at the last minute jumps into the train in order to come with him, despite all Rickie’s protestations. He’s grown to like his straightforward, undeceitful brother, even if they all disapprove of his new penchant for heavy drinking.

There follows a surprisingly prolonged description of Rickie’s railway journey towards Salisbury. During it Rickie extracts a promise from Stephen that he’ll remain sober for the duration of their two or three-day stay. Then he gets a pony and trap out to Mrs Failings’ house. Rickie forbids Stephen from accompanying him so Stephen instead goes to the local pub, The Antelope.

The title phrase and homosexuality

The phrase ‘the longest journey’ comes from Percy Bysshe Shelley’s poem Epipsychidion. Rickie reads this section of the poem aloud when he’s in Wiltshire.

I never was attached to that great sect
Whose doctrine is, that each one should select
Out of the crowd a mistress or a friend,
And all the rest, though fair and wise, commend
To cold oblivion, though it is in the code
Of modern morals, and the beaten road
Which those poor souls with weary footsteps tread,
Who travel to their home among the dead
By the broad highway of the world, and so
With one chained friend, perhaps a jealous foe,
The dreariest and longest journey go.

I’m not completely certain what it means or what its relevance is to the narrative. Does it imply that Rickie is one of ‘those poor souls’ who condemns himself to travelling the ‘longest journey’ (of life?) ‘with one chained friend, perhaps a jealous foe’? In which case, who precisely is this chained friend and jealous foe? Is it Stephen, the half-brother who haunts his respectable life? Or his heartless wife, Agnes?

The phrase is repeated again, right at the end of the book, when Stephen has come along with Rickie on his visit to Aunt Emily. Before Rickie goes on to visit the aunt the pair play like schoolboys in a stream, lighting paper lanterns which float down the stream, rather beautifully. Rickie is caught wondering what his life has been about.

Romantic love is greater than this. There are men and women — we know it from history — who have been born into the world for each other, and for no one else, who have accomplished the longest journey locked in each other’s arms. But romantic love is also the code of modern morals, and, for this reason, popular. Eternal union, eternal ownership—these are tempting baits for the average man. He swallows them, will not confess his mistake, and — perhaps to cover it — cries ‘dirty cynic’ at such a man as Stephen. (p.271)

Again, I didn’t really follow this. As Rickie follows Stephen’s instructions for making the lanterns, he feels transformed.

Rickie obeyed, though intent on the transfigured face. He believed that a new spirit dwelt there, expelling the crudities of youth. He saw steadier eyes, and the sign of manhood set like a bar of gold upon steadier lips. Some faces are knit by beauty, or by intellect, or by a great passion: had Stephen’s waited for the touch of the years?

Is this gay? The scene is set at dusk in a country stream and the mood is of tremendous acceptance and affection between the brothers. It’s a lyrical scene and all the better for not being saddled with one of Forster’s heavy classical references, just being itself.

But is the obscurity of phrasing because Forster feels in his heart a gay or queer connection between them? He’s feeling the love that dare not speak its name and so is censoring himself and so it comes out in this cryptic mode?

Dinner and the pub

Rickie goes on to have dinner with Aunt Emily. She advises him to go back to Agnes but he seems to have made his mind up to devote his life to literature. Some friends have encouraged him to write and also advise him to go to Italy (as Forster himself did). Anyway, he’s not going back to Agnes.

And in a far bigger ‘anyway’, he is now obsessed with Stephen. He replays the scene at dusk in the stream during dinner and, afterwards, asks Aunt Emily’s youngish manservant, Leighton, if he wants to accompany him to the village to find Stephen. When they get to the pub where Stephen’s staying, Rickie asks Leighton to go in, to ask if Stephen wants to come for a walk (Rickie is scared of going into a pub. That’s what a ‘milksop’ he is). Meanwhile Rickie’s feelings about Stephen are blossoming.

Stephen was a hero. He was a law to himself, and rightly. He was great enough to despise our small moralities. He was attaining love. This evening Rickie caught Ansell’s enthusiasm, and felt it worth while to sacrifice everything for such a man. (p.278)

But Leighton discovers that Stephen’s been drinking, in fact he’s so drunk he can’t stand. Rickie is outraged that Stephen has broken his promise but then directs his disillusionment against himself. He was foolish to trust him, to believe in people i.e. a typically immature over-reaction.

The brutal shock ending

It’s worth portraying Rickie’s state of mind just before he dies.

He leant against the parapet and prayed passionately, for he knew that the conventions would claim him soon. God was beyond them, but ah, how far beyond, and to be reached after what degradation! At the end of this childish detour his wife awaited him, not less surely because she was only his wife in name. He was too weak. Books and friends were not enough. Little by little she would claim him and corrupt him and make him what he had been; and the woman he loved would die out, in drunkenness, in debauchery, and her strength would be dissipated by a man, her beauty defiled in a man. She would not continue. That mystic rose and the face it illumined meant nothing. The stream — he was above it now — meant nothing, though it burst from the pure turf and ran for ever to the sea. The bather, the shoulders of Orion-they all meant nothing, and were going nowhere. The whole affair was a ridiculous dream.

You feel there could be no arguing for a young man who was so immature and melodramatic. Leighton goes back to the pub to reason with Stephen only to be told Stephen left a while ago to follow them. Puzzled they arrive at the railway level crossing as a slow goods strain is approaching, to see Stephen drunkenly sprawled across the rails. Rickie runs forward and throw his drunken brother free of the rails, but is too slow himself. It’s worth quoting the entire scene in full, mostly because of the abrupt and brutal, throwaway treatment of the event, but also because it demonstrates Forster’s peculiar way with language and psychology. I’ve reread it numerous times and don’t really understand exactly how or why it happens.

He wandered a little along the Roman road. Again nothing mattered. At the level-crossing he leant on the gate to watch a slow goods train pass. In the glare of the engine he saw that his brother had come this way, perhaps through some sodden memory of the Rings, and now lay drunk over the rails. Wearily he did a man’s duty. There was time to raise him up and push him into safety. It is also a man’s duty to save his own life, and therefore he tried. The train went over his knees. He died up in Cadover, whispering, ‘You have been right,’ to Mrs Failing.

‘It is also a man’s duty to save his own life, and therefore he tried,’ what does that mean? What does he mean ‘tried’. If he was stone cold sober surely there was time to nip out of the train’s way. But why is it phrased like this, ‘It is also a man’s duty to save his own life’? Is the implication that he is so, so tired and disillusioned that, although consciously aware of this ‘duty’, he is only half-hearted? But the text says ‘he tried’? Maybe it’s me but I find Forster’s psychology, I mean the way he depicts the minds and feelings of all his characters, very often bewilderingly obtuse.

Coda

What’s surprising is that, after this ‘random’ brutal killing of his protagonist, Forster gives us a final chapter of six more pages. In this Stephen has established himself as a farmer, and is discussing the posthumous publication of Rickie’s stories in a volume to be titled Pan’s Pipes, with Mr Pembroke, who is now a clergyman. They are arguing, Stephen is supplying 10 of Rickie’s stories to the clergyman’s 4, and demands a similar percentage of the royalties. Disgruntled, the clergyman leaves in a pony and trap.

Stephen is now married and has a three-year-old daughter so this must be 4 years (?) later. Now, as dusk falls, he wraps his little girl up and insists, despite his wife calling, that they go and sleep out on the Downs, in the warm evening. After opening with the silly conversation of the over-educated Cambridge undergraduates, the novel closes with the man of the soil Stephen, refusing his wife’s womanly entreaties to stay home, and insisting on wrapping up his small daughter and taking her to commune with the earth. From spirit to body. From air to earth. This ending has a surprisingly D.H. Lawrence primitivism, despite that the face the Lawrence hadn’t yet published a word.


Rickie the intellectual midget

He was only used to Cambridge, and to a very small corner of that. He and his friends there believed in free speech. But they spoke freely about generalities. They were scientific and philosophic. They would have shrunk from the empirical freedom that results from a little beer.

Ludwig Wittgenstein arrived in Cambridge in autumn 1911 and came to loathe it for its intellectual provincialism, its idiocy and its smug air of self congratulation. This novel helps you understand why. I found the self-satisfied triteness about ‘morality’ and ‘the Good’ and ‘the True’ unbearable, stuff like:

The sense of purity is a puzzling and at times a fearful thing. It seems so noble, and it starts as one with morality. But it is a dangerous guide, and can lead us away not only from what is gracious, but also from what is good. (p.144)

You can argue that Rickie, his friends and girlfriend are meant to be immature, silly, callow, and that this is the novel’s deliberate aim. But this is the narrator speaking, this is the narrative voice, which interchanges quite easily with the characters. It’s only when Rickie arrives in Sawston that the narrator comes clean about his limitations:

Rickie’s intellect was not remarkable. He came to his worthier results rather by imagination and instinct than by logic. An argument confused him, and he could with difficulty follow it even on paper. (170)

But by then it was too late for me, I was irrevocably put off the book by its undergraduate callowness. W.H. Auden has a line in ‘To a writer on his birthday’, looking back on himself and Isherwood as two sniggering students, declaring that ‘all the secrets we discovered were extraordinary and false.’ All the great ‘intellectual’ and ‘moral’ findings in this novel strike me in the same way.

Purple patches

With a canvas twice the long as his first book, Forster lets himself go and I don’t like it.

The rain tilted a little from the south-west. For the most part it fell from a grey cloud silently, but now and then the tilt increased, and a kind of sigh passed over the country as the drops lashed the walls, trees, shepherds, and other motionless objects that stood in their slanting career. At times the cloud would descend and visibly embrace the earth, to which it had only sent messages; and the earth itself would bring forth clouds — clouds of a whiter breed — which formed in shallow valleys and followed the courses of the streams. It seemed the beginning of life. Again God said, ‘Shall we divide the waters from the land or not? Was not the firmament labour and glory sufficient?’ At all events it was the beginning of life pastoral, behind which imagination cannot travel.

I’m afraid I think this is rubbish, on every possible level, as either literal description or as insight into Rickie’s supposed state of mind; and the casual invocation of the kind of meek God that suits Forster made me barf. There’s a lot, lot more written in the same overblown style. Here’s Rickie in love:

She had been a goddess both in joy and sorrow. She was a goddess still. But he had dethroned the god whom once he had glorified equally. Slowly, slowly, the image of Gerald had faded. That was the first step. Rickie had thought, ‘No matter. He will be bright again. Just now all the radiance chances to be in her.’ And on her he had fixed his eyes. He thought of her awake. He entertained her willingly in dreams. He found her in poetry and music and in the sunset. She made him kind and strong. She made him clever. (p.71)

Masquerading as Significant Thought, there are repeated passages saying what frail insects we are on the huge indifferent earth etc etc, which just feel banal and obvious:

Ah, the frailty of joy! Ah, the myriads of longings that pass without fruition, and the turf grows over them! Better men, women as noble — they had died up here and their dust had been mingled, but only their dust. These are morbid thoughts, but who dare contradict them? There is much good luck in the world, but it is luck. We are none of us safe. We are children, playing or quarrelling on the line, and some of us have Rickie’s temperament, or his experiences, and admit it. So he mused, that anxious little speck, and all the land seemed to comment on his fears and on his love…

He had lost all sense of incident. In this great solitude — more solitary than any Alpine range — he and Agnes were floating alone and for ever, between the shapeless earth and the shapeless clouds. An immense silence seemed to move towards them. A lark stopped singing, and they were glad of it. They were approaching the Throne of God. The silence touched them; the earth and all danger dissolved.

It feels like Thomas Hardy without Hardy’s rich lugubriousness. Then again, is all this a sly game? Is it over-written and shallow like this to indicate Rickie’s immaturity and callowness?

Name-dropping

The characters move in a miasma of artistic and literary references. I don’t think a single one of these does anything to move the story forwards. As far as I can tell they are there solely to signal the educated class the characters come from and the book is aimed at and, more practically, to flatter the bourgeois reader by dispensing cultural references easy enough for us to recognise and feel smug about:

He thought of Renan, who declares that on the Acropolis at Athens beauty and wisdom do exist, really exist, as external powers.

Suddenly she stopped, not through any skill of his, but because she had remembered some words of Bacon: ‘The true atheist is he whose hands are cauterized by holy things.’ (p.97)

Having changed her dress and glanced at the poems of Milton, she went to them, with uplifted hands of apology and horror. (p.97)

And when Rickie and Stewart exchange letters criticising each other’s worldview:

Read poetry – not only Shelley. Understand Beatrice, and Clara Middleton, and Brunhilde in the first scene of Gotterdammerung. Understand Goethe when he says ‘the eternal feminine leads us on.’ (p.87)

Understand Xanthippe, and Mrs. Bennet, and Elsa in the question scene of Lohengrin. Understand Euripides when he says the eternal feminine leads us a pretty dance. (p.87)

Even Mrs Failing’s two horses are named Dido and Aeneas, ho ho.

Again he spoke of old Em’ly, and recited the poem, with Aristophanic variations.

In the scene between Mr Wonham and the soldier you can feel the way the narrator’s deployment of cultural references like this is not an amplification of lived experience but an old maid escape, a denial or rejection of life. Books are safer than life, an attitude Forster embodies and lightly satirises in the character of the intellectual eunuch, Ansell. But although his story mocks Ansell the text itself subscribes to Ansell’s bookish values.

There may be moments of insight and clever psychology in such a long baggy monster, but overall I didn’t enjoy this book.

Gay

What makes all the purple patches about heterosexual love so funny is that Forster was gay, homosexual, queer. In 1914 he wrote ‘Maurice’, a novel about a gay love affair which he kept secret and wasn’t published until after his death, in 1971. I’m afraid knowledge of his lifelong homosexuality completely undermined my belief in the scores of passages where Rickie waxes lyrical about his beloved Agnes being a goddess, a spirit, a divine being etc.

Obviously the main intention of these passages is to flag Rickie’s hopeless immaturity but it’s hard to avoid the suspicion that Forster was also overdoing it, overcompensating, replacing the subtleties and edginess of real love (gay or straight) with great dollops of Victorian romanticism, and doing it for security reasons. In order to be safe and avoid the slightest accusation of homosexuality. He was writing just ten years after the Oscar Wilde case. Everyone was scared. Lilia’s infatuation with Gino and Philip’s obsession with Miss Abbott in his previous novel, ‘Where Angels Fear To Tread’ both felt more convincing (relatively speaking).

The passages at the very end, from the train journey Rickie and Stephen share and especially the lovely description of lighting the paper lanterns on the stream, and the lyrical mood it puts Rickie in, is this all queer love, Rickie’s gay love for lovely rough and manly Stephen? And is this why Rickie has to die? Partly because, as a character, he’s pretty much played out? But mostly because the love that dare not speak its name needs to be censored out of existence?


Credit

The Longest Journey by E.M. Forster was first published in 1907 by Blackwood. References are to the 1982 Penguin paperback edition.

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