 CHAPTER 12 The Excursion to Salisbury was but a poor business, in fact, Ricky never got there. They were not out of the drive before Mr. Warnham began doing acrobatics. He showed Ricky how very quickly he could turn round in his saddle and sit with his face to Aeneas' tail. I see, said Ricky coldly, and became almost cross when they arrived in this condition at the gate behind the house, for he had to open it and was afraid of falling. As usual he anchored just behind the fastenings and then had to turn Dido, who seemed as long as a battleship. To his relief a man came forward and murmuring. Worst gate in the parish pushed it wide and held it respectfully. Thank you, cried Ricky. Many thanks. But Stefan, who was riding into the world back first, said majestically, No, no, it doesn't count. You needn't think it does. You make it worse by touching your hat. Four hours and seven minutes. You'll see me again. The man answered nothing. Eh! but I'll hurt him, he chanted, as he swung into position. That was Flea. Eh! but he's forgotten my fists. Eh! but I'll hurt him. Why? ventured Ricky. Last night over cigarettes he had been bored to death by the story of Flea. The boy had a little reminded him of Gerald, the Gerald of history, not the Gerald of romance. He was more genial, but there was the same brutality, the same peevish insistence on the pound of flesh. Hurt him till he learns. Learn was what? Learns, of course, retorted Stefan. Neither of them was very civil. They did not dislike each other, but they each wanted to be somewhere else, exactly the situation that Mrs. Failing had expected. He behaved badly. Said Ricky, because he is poorer than we are and more ignorant. This money has been spent on teaching him to behave. Well, I'll teach him for nothing. Perhaps his fists are stronger than yours. They aren't, I looked. After this conversation flagged. Ricky glanced back at Caddover and thought of the insipid day that lay before him. Generally he was attracted by fresh people, and Stefan was almost fresh. They had been to him symbols of the unknown, and all that they did was interesting. But now he cared for the unknown no longer. He knew. Mr. Wilbram passed them in his dog-cart and lifted his hat to his employer's nephew. Stefan he ignored. He could not find him on the map. Good morning, said Ricky. What a lovely morning! I say, called the other, another child dead. Mr. Wilbram, who had seemed inclined to chat, whipped up his horse and left them. There goes an out-and-outer, said Stefan, and then as if introducing an entirely new subject. Don't you think Flea thumps and treated me disgracefully? I suppose he did, but I'm scarcely the person to sympathize. The illusion fell flat, and he had to explain it. I should have done the same myself, promised to be away two hours and stopped four. Stopped? Oh, oh, I understand. You being in love you mean? He smiled and nodded. Oh, I've no objection to Flea loving. He says he can't help it, but as long as my fists are stronger he's got to keep it in line. In line? A man like that, when he's got a girl, thinks the rest can go to the devil. He goes cutting his work and breaking his word. Wilbram ought to sack him. I promise you, when I have a girl, I'll keep her in line, and if she turns nasty, I'll get another. Ricky smiled and said no more. But he was sorry that anyone should start life with such a creed. All the more sorry because the creed caricatured his own. He too believed that life should be in a line, a line of enormous length, full of countless interests and countless figures, all well-beloved. But woman was not to be kept to this line. Rather did she advance it continually, like some triumphant general, making its unit still more interesting, still more lovable than it had been before. He loved Agnes not only for herself but because she was lighting up the human world. But he could scarcely explain this to an inexperienced animal, nor did he make the attempt. For a long time they proceeded in silence. The hill behind Catover was in harvest, and the horses moved regretfully between the sheaves. Stefan had picked a grass leaf and was blowing cat-calls upon it. He blew very well, and this morning all his soul went into the whale. For he was ill. He was tortured with the feeling that he could not get away and do, do something, instead of being civil to this anemic prig. Four hours in the rain was better than this. He had not wanted to fidget in the rain. But now the air was like wine, and the stubble was smelling of wet, and over his head white clouds trodled more slowly and more seldom through broadening tracts of blue. There never had been such a morning, and he shut up his eyes and called to it, and whenever he called, Ricky shut up his eyes and winced. At last the blade broke. We don't go quick, do we? he remarked, and looked on the weedy track for another. I wish you wouldn't let me keep you. If you were alone you would be galloping or something of that sort. I was told I must go your pace, he said mournfully, and you promised Miss Pembroke not to hurry. Well, I'll disobey. But he could not rise above a gentle trot, and even that nearly jerked him out of the saddle. Sit like this, said Stefan. Can't you see? Like this. Ricky lurched forward and broke his thumbnail on the horse's neck. It bled a little and had to be bound up. Thank you. Awfully kind. No tighter, please. I am simply spoiling your day. I can't think how a man can help riding. You've only to leave it to the horse. So, so, just as you leave it to water in swimming. Ricky left it to Dido who stopped immediately. I said, leave it. His voice rose irritably. I didn't say, die. Of course she stops if you die. First you sit her as if you're Sando exercising, and then you sit like a corpse. Can't you tell her you're alive? That's all she wants. In trying to convey the information Ricky dropped his whip. Stefan picked it up and rammed it into the belt of his own Norfolk jacket. He was scarcely a fashionable horseman. He was not even graceful. But he rode as a living man, though Ricky was too much bored to notice it. Not a muscle in him was idle. Not a muscle working hard. When he returned from the gallop his limbs were still unsatisfied and his manner still irritable. He did not know that he was ill. He knew nothing about himself at all. Like a howdy in the zoo, he grumbled. Mother failing will buy elephants. And he proceeded to criticize his benefactress. Ricky, keenly alive to bad taste, tried to stop him and gained instead a criticism of religion. Stefan overthrew the mosaic Cosmogony. He pointed out the discrepancies in the Gospels. He leveled his wit against the most beautiful spire in the world, now rising against the southern sky. Between wiles he went for a gallop. After a time Ricky stopped listening and simply went his way. Ferdido was a perfect mount, and as indifferent to the motions of Aeneas as if she was strolling in the Elysian fields. He had had a bad night, and the strong air made him sleepy. The wind blew from the plain. Cadover and its valley had disappeared, and though they had not climbed much and could not see far, there was a sense of infinite space. The fields were enormous, like fields on the continent, and the brilliant sun showed up their colors well. The green of the turnips, the gold of the harvest, and the brown of the newly turned clods were each contrasted with morsels of grey down. For the general effect was pale, or rather silvery, for which shire is not a country of heavy tints. Beneath these colors lurked the unconquerable chalk, and wherever the soil was poor it emerged. The grassy track, so gay with scabious and bed-straw, was snow-white at the bottom of its ruts. A dazzling amphitheater gleamed in the flank of a distant hill, cut for some Olympian audience, and here and there, whatever the surface crop, the earth broke into little embankments, little ditches, little mounds, there had been no lack of drama to solace the gods. In Caddover, the perilous house, Agnes had already parted from Mrs. Failing. His thoughts returned to her. Was she, the soul of truth, in safety? Was her purity vexed by the lies and selfishness? Would she elude the caprice which had, he vaguely knew, caused suffering before? 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 quarreling on the line, and some of us have rick his 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. Their path lay upward, over a great bald skull, half grass, half stubble. It seemed each moment there would be a splendid view. The view never came, for none of the inclines were sharp enough, and they moved over the skull for many minutes, scarcely shifting a landmark or altering the blue fringe of the distance. The spire of Salisbury did alter, but very slightly, rising and falling like the mercury in a thermometer. At the most it would be half hidden. At the least the tip would show behind the swelling barrier of earth. They passed two elder trees, a great event. The bare patch, said Stefan, was owing to the gallows. Ricky nodded. He had lost all sense of incident. In this great solitude, more solitary than any alpine range, he and Agnes were floating alone and forever 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, but ere they quite vanished, Ricky heard himself saying, Is it exactly what we intended? Yes, said a man's voice, it's the old plan. They were in another valley. Its sides were thick with trees. Down it ran another stream and another road. It too sheltered a string of villages. But all was richer, larger, and more beautiful. The valley of the Avon, below Amesbury. I've been asleep, said Ricky in awestruck tones. Never, said the other facetiously, pleasant dreams. Perhaps I'm really tired of apologizing to you. How long have you been holding me on? All in a day's work, he gave him back the reins. Where's that round hill? Gone where the good niggers go. I want a drink. This is nature's joke in Wiltshire, her one joke. You toil on windy slopes and feel very primeval. You are miles from your fellows and low, a little valley full of elms and cottages. Before Ricky had waked up to it, they had stopped by a thatched public house, and Stefan was yelling like a maniac for beer. There was no occasion to yell. He was not very thirsty, and they were quite ready to serve him. Nor need he have drunk in the saddle with the air of a warrior who carries important dispatches, and has not the time to dismount. A real soldier, bound on a similar errand, rode up to the inn, and Stefan feared that he would yell louder, and was hostile. But they made friends and treated each other, and slanked the proprietor and ragged the pretty girls, while Ricky, as each wave of vulgarity burst over him, sunk his head lower and lower and wished that the earth would swallow him up. 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. That was what annoyed him as he rode down the new valley with two chattering companions. He was more skilled than they were in the principles of human existence, but he was not so indecently familiar with the examples. A sordid village scandal, such as Stefan described as a huge joke, sprang from certain defects in human nature, with which he was theoretically acquainted, but the example. He blushed at it like a maiden lady, in spite of its having a parallel in a beautiful idol of theocrates. Was experience going to be such a splendid thing after all? Were the outside of houses so very beautiful? That's spicy, the soldier was saying. Got any more like that? I got a poem, said Stefan, and drew a piece of paper from his pocket. The valley had broadened. Old Sarum rose before them, ugly and majestic. Write this yourself? He asked, chuckling. Rather, said Stefan, lowering his head and kissing Aeneas between the ears. But who's Old Emily? Ricky winced, and frowned. Now you're asking. Old Emily, she limps, and as— I am so tired, said Ricky. Why should he stand it any longer? He would go home to the woman he loved. Do you mind if I give up Salisbury? But we've seen nothing, cried Stefan. I shouldn't enjoy anything. I am so absurdly tired. Left turned then, all in the day's work. He bit at his mustache angrily. Good gracious me, man! Of course I'm going back alone. I'm not going to spoil your day. How could you think it of me? Stefan gave a loud sigh of relief. If you do want to go home, here's your whip. Don't fall off. Say to her you wanted it, or there might be ructions. Certainly. Thank you for your kind care of me. Old Emily, she limps, and as— Soon he was out of earshot. Soon they were lost of you. Soon they were out of his thoughts. He forgot the coarseness and the drinking and the ingratitude. A few months ago he would not have forgotten so easily, and he might also have detected something else. But a lover is dogmatic. To him the world shall be beautiful and pure. When it is not, he ignores it. He's not tired, said Stefan to the soldier. He wants his girl. And they winked at each other and cracked jokes over the eternal comedy of love. They asked each other if they'd let a girl spoil a morning's ride. They both exhibited a profound cynicism. Stefan, who was quite without ballast, described the household at cat-over. He should say that Ricky would find Miss Pembro kissing the footman. I say the footman's kissing old Emily. Charlie Day, said Stefan, his voice was suddenly constrained. He was not sure whether he liked the soldier after all, nor whether he had been wise in showing him his compositions. Old Emily, she limps, and as— All right, Thomas, that'll do. Old Emily, I wish you'd dry up like a good fellow. This is the lady's horse you know. Hang it, after all. Indeed! Don't you see, when a fellow's on a horse, he can't let another fellow kind of—don't you know? The man did know. Their sense in that, he said approvingly. Peace was restored, and they would have reached Salisbury if they had not had some more beer. It unleashed the soldier's fancies, and again he spoke of old Emily and recited the poem with aristophanic variations. Charlie Day, repeated Stefan, with a straightening of the eyebrows and a quick glance at the other's body. He then warned him against the variations, in consequence he was accused of being a member of the YMCA. His blood, boiled at this, he refuted the charge, and became great friends with the soldier for the third time. Any objection to Saucin, Mr. and Mrs. Tackleton? Rather not. The soldier sang Saucin, Mr. and Mrs. Tackleton. It is really a work for two voices. Most of the Saucin is disappearing when taken as a solo, nor is Mrs. Tackleton's name Emily. I call it a jolly rotten song, said Stefan Crossley. I won't stand being got at. Perhaps you like the old song, listen. Of all the galls that are smart, there's none line pretty Emily, for she's darling of my art. Now, that's wrong. He wrote up close to the singer. Shright. Tisnt. It's as my mother taught me. I don't care. I'll not alter from mother's way. Stefan was baffled. Then he said, How does your mother make it rhyme? What? Squat, you're an ass, and I'm not. Palms want rhymes. Alley comes next line. He said Alley was welcomed to come if it liked. It can't. You want Sally. Sally, Alley. Emily, Alley doesn't do. Emily, family, cried the soldier, with an inspiration that was not his when sober. My mother taught me family. For she's the darling of my art, and she lives in my family. Well, you'd best be careful, Thomas, and your mother too. Your mother's no better than she should be, said Thomas vaguely. Do you think I haven't heard that before? retorted the boy. The other concluded he might now say anything, so he might, the name of old Emily, exempted. Stefan cared little about his benefactress's honour, but a great deal about his own. He had made Mrs. Failing into a test. For the moment he would die for her, as a knight would die for a glove. He is not to be distinguished from a hero. Old Sarum was passed. They approached the most beautiful spy in the world. Lord, another of these large churches, said the soldier. Unfriendly to Gothic he lifted both hands to his nose, and declared that old Emily was buried there. He lain the mud. His horse trotted back towards Amesbury. Stefan had twisted him out of the saddle. I've done him. He yelled, though no one was there to hear. He rose up in his stirrups, and shouted with joy. He flung his arms around Anus's neck. The elderly horse understood, capered, and bolted. It was a censure that dashed into Sellsbury and scattered the people. In the stable he would not dismount. I've done him. He yelled to the Oslurs, apathetic men. Stretching upwards he clung to a beam. Anus moved on, and he was left hanging. Greatly did he incomode them by his exercises. He pulled up, he circled, he kicked the other customers. At last he felt the earth, deliciously fatigued. His body worried him no longer. He went like the baby he was, to buy a white linen hat. There were soldiers about and he thought it would disguise him. Then he had a little lunch to steady the beer. This day had turned out admirably. All the money that should have fed Ricky he could spend on himself. Instead of toiling over the cathedral and seeing the stuffed penguins, he could see the whole thing in the cattle market. There he met and made some friends. He watched the cheap chacks and saw how necessary it was to have a confident manner. He spoke confidently himself about lambs and people listened. He spoke confidently about pigs and they roared with laughter. He must learn more about pigs. He witnessed a performance not too namby-pamby of punch and duty. Hello, Podge! cried a naughty little girl. He tried to catch her and failed. She was one of the Cadford children. For Salisbury on market day, though it is not picturesque, is certainly representative, and you read the names of half the Wiltshire villages upon the carriers, carts. He found, in Penny Farthing Street, the cart from Winter's Bridge. It would not start for several hours, but the passengers always used it as a club and sat in it every now and then during the day. No less than three ladies were these now, staring at the shafts. One of them was Fleethompson's girl. He asked her, quite politely, why her lover had broken faith with him in the rain. She was silent. He warned her of approaching vengeance. She was still silent, but another woman hoped that a gentleman would not be hard on a poor person. Something in this annoyed him. It wasn't a question of gentility and poverty. It was a question of two men. He determined to go back by Cadbury Rings where the shepherd would now be. He did, but this part must be treated lightly. He wrote up to the culprit with the air of a Saint George, spoke a few stern words from the saddle, tethered his teet to a hurdle, and took off his coat. Are you ready? He asked. Yes, sir, said Fleethompson and flung him on his back. That's not fair, he protested. The other did not reply, but flung him on his head. How on earth did you learn that? By trying often, said Fleethompson. I meant it to be fists, he said gloomily. I know, sir. It's jolly smart, though, and I beg your pardon all round. It cost him a great deal to say this, but he was sure that it was the right thing to say. He must acknowledge the better man. Whereas most people, if they provoke a fight in our flung, say, you cannot rob me of my moral victory. There was nothing further to be done. He mounted again not exactly depressed, but feeling that this delightful world is extraordinarily unreliable. He had never expected to fling the soldier or to be flung by flea. One nips or is nipped, he thought, and never knows beforehand. I should not be surprised if many people had more in them than I suppose, while others were just the other way round. I haven't seen that sort of thing in Ingersoll, but it's quite important. Then his thoughts turned to a curious incident of long ago, when he had been nipped as a little boy. He was trespassing in those woods when he met in a narrow glade a flock of sheep. They had neither dug nor shepherd, and advanced towards him silently. He was accustomed to sheep, but had never happened to meet them in a wood before, and disliked it. He retired slowly at first, then fast, and the flock in a dense mass pressed after him. His terror increased. He turned and screamed at their long white faces, and still they came on, all stuck together like some horrible gel. If once he got into them. Bellowing and screeching, he rushed into the undergrowth, tore himself all over and reached home in convulsions. Mr. Failing, his only grown-up friend, was sympathetic, but quite stupid. Pan-ovium-costus. He is sympathetic as he pulled out the thorns. Why not? Pan-ovium-costus. Stefan learned the meaning of the phrase at school, a pan of eggs for custard. He still remembered how the other boys looked as he peeped at them between his legs, awaiting the descending cane. So he returned, full of pleasant, disconnected thoughts. He had had a rare good time. He liked everyone, even that poor little Elliot, and yet no one mattered. They were all out. On the landing he saw the housemaid. He felt skittish and irresistible. Should he slip his arm round her waist? Perhaps better not, she might box his ears, and he wanted to smoke on the roof before dinner. So he only said, Please, will you stop the boy blacking my brown boots? And she with downcast eyes answered, Yes, sir, I will indeed. He's room was in the pediment. Classical architecture, like all things in this world that attempt serenity, is bound to have its lapses into the undignified, and cat overlapsed hopelessly when it came to Stefan's room. It gave him one round window to see through which he must lie upon his stomach, one trap door opening upon the leads, three iron girders, three beams, six buttresses, no circling unless you count the walls, no walls unless you count the ceiling, and in its embarrassment presented him with a gurgly cistern that supplied the bath water. Here he lived, absolutely happy, and unaware that Mrs. Failing had poked him up here on purpose to prevent him from growing to bumpious. Here he worked and sang and practiced on the ochreone. Here in the crannies he had constructed shelves and cupboards and useless little drawers. He had only one picture, the dimeter of Nidus, and she hung straight from the roof like a joint of meat. Once she was in the drawing room but Mrs. Failing had got tired of her and decreed her removal and this degradation. Now she faced the sunrise and when the moon rose its light also fell on her and trembled, like light upon the sea. For she was never still, and if the draught increased she would twist on her string and would sway and tap upon the rafters until Stefan woke up and said what he thought of her. Want your nose? He would murmur. Don't you wish you may get it? Then he drew the clothes over his ears while above him in the wind and the darkness, the goddess continued her motions. Today as he entered he trod on the pile of six-penny reprints. Layton had brought them up. He looked at the portraits in their covers and began to think that these people were not everything. What a fate to look like Colonel Ingersoll or to marry Mrs. Julia P. Chunk. The dimeter turned towards him as he bathed and in the cold water he sang. They aren't beautiful, they aren't modest, I just as soon follow an old stone goddess, and sprang upward through the skylight onto the roof. Years ago, when a nurse was washing him, he had slipped from her soapy hands and got up there. She implored him to remember that he was a little gentleman, but he forgot the fact, if it was a fact, and not even the butler could get him down. Mr. Failing, who was sitting alone in the garden, too ill to read, heard a shout. Am I an acrotarium? He looked up and saw a naked child poised on the summit of cat-over. Yes, he replied, but they are unfashionable. Go in. And the vision had remained with him as something peculiarly gracious. He felt that nonsense and beauty have close connections, closer connections than art would allow, and that both would remain when his own heaviness and his own ugliness had perished. Mrs. Failing found in his remains a sentence that puzzled her. I see the respectable mansion, I see the smug fortress of culture, the doors are shut, the windows are shut, but on the roof the children go dancing forever. Stephen was a child no longer. He never stood on the pediment now except for a bet. He never or scarcely ever poured water down the chimneys. When he caught the cat, his seldom dropped her into the housekeeper's bedroom. But still, when the weather was fair, he liked to come up after bathing and get dry in the sun. Today he brought with him a towel, a pipe of tobacco, and Rickie's story. He must get it done some time, and he was tired of the six-penny reprints. The sloping gable was warm, and he lay back on it with closed eyes, gasping for pleasure. Starlings criticized him. Snots fell on his clean body, and over him a little cloud was tinged with the colours of evening. Good! good! he whispered. Good! oh, good! and opened the manuscript reluctantly. What a production! Who was this girl? Where did she go to? Why so much talk about trees? I take it he wrote it when feeling bad. He murmured and let it fall into the gutter. It fell face downwards and on the back he saw a neat little resume in Miss Pembroke's handwriting intended for such as him. Allegory! Man equals modern civilization, in bad sense. Girl equals getting into touch with nature. In touch with nature? The girl was a tree. He lit his pipe and gazed at the radiant earth. The foreground was hidden, but there was the village with its elms, and the Roman road, and Cadbury rings. There, too, were those woods, and little beach copses crowning a waste of down, not to mention the air or the sun or water. Good! oh, good! In touch with nature? What can't with the books think of next? His eyes closed. He was sleepy. Good! oh, good! Sighing into his pipe, he fell asleep. End of Chapter 12 The Longest Journey Read by Kehinde of BahaTrack.com Chapter 13 of The Longest Journey This is a LibriVox recording, while LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org The Longest Journey by E. M. Forster Chapter 13 Glad as Agnes was when her lover returned for lunch, she was at the same time rather dismayed. She knew that Mrs. Failing would not, like her plans, altered, and her dismay was justified. Their hostess was a little stiff, and asked whether Stefan had been obnoxious. Indeed, he hasn't. He spent the whole time looking after me. From which I conclude he was more obnoxious than usual. Ricky praised him diligently, but his candid nature showed everything through. His aunt soon saw that they had not got on. She had expected this, almost planned it. Nevertheless, she resented it, and her resentment was to fall on him. The storm gathered slowly, and many other things went to swell it. Weekly people, if they are not careful, hate one another, and when the weakness is hereditary the temptation increases. Elliott's had never got on among themselves. They talked of the family, but they always turned outwards to the health and beauty that lie so promiscuously about the world. Ricky's father had turned, for a time at all events, to his mother. Ricky himself was turning to Agnes, and Mrs. Failing now was irritable and unfair to the nephew who was lame, like her horrible brother, and like herself. She thought him invertebrate and conventional. She was envious of his happiness. She did not trouble to understand his art. She longed to shatter him, but knowing as she did that the human thunderbolt often rebounds and strikes the wielder, she held her hand. Agnes watched the approaching clouds. Ricky had warned her, now she began to warn him. As the visit wore away she urged him to be pleasant to his aunt, and so converted into a success. He replied, Why need it be a success, or reply in the manner of Ansel? She laughed, She laughed. Oh, that's so like you men, all theory. What about your great theory of hating no one? As soon as it comes in useful you drop it. I don't hate Aunt Emily, honestly, but certainly I don't want to be near her or think about her. Don't you think there are two great things in life that we ought to aim at? Truth and kindness. Let's have both if we can, but let's be sure of having one or the other. My aunt gives up both for the sake of being funny. And Stefan won him. Pursue Agnes. There's another person you hate or don't think about if you prefer it put like that. The truth is I'm changing. I'm beginning to see that the world has many people in it who don't matter. I had time for them once, not now. There was only one gate to the kingdom of heaven now. Agnes surprised him by saying, But the one hand boy is evidently a part of your aunt's life. She laughs at him, but she is fond of him. What's that to do with it? You ought to be pleasant to him on account of it. Why on earth? She flushed a little. I'm old fashioned. One ought to consider one's hostess and fall in with her life. After we leave it's another thing. But while we take her hospitality, I think it's our duty. Her good sense triumphed. Henceforth he tried to fall in with Aunt Emily's life. Aunt Emily watched him trying. The storm broke, as storms sometimes do, on Sunday. Sunday church was a function at Cadover, though strange one. The pompous land-doll rolled up to the house at a quarter to eleven. Then Mrs. Failing said, Why am I being hurried? And after an interval descended the steps in her ordinary clothes. She regarded the church as a sort of sitting-room and refused even to wear a bonnet there. The village was shocked, but at the same time a little proud, it would point out the carriage to strangers in gossip about the pale smiling lady who sat in it, always alone, always late, her hair always draped in an expensive shawl. This Sunday, though late as usual, she was not alone. Miss Pembroke, in grand toilette, sat by her side. Ricky, looking plain and devout, perched opposite. And Stefan actually came to murmuring that it would be the benedicity which she had never minded. There was also the litany which drove him into the air again, much to Mrs. Failing's delight. She enjoyed this sort of thing. It amused her when her protogé left the pew, looking bored, athletic and disheveled, and groping most obviously for his pipe. She liked to keep a thoroughbred pagan to shock people. He's gone to worship nature, she whispered. Ricky did not look up. Don't you think he's charming? He made no reply. Charming, whispered Agnes over his head. During the sermon she analyzed her guests. Miss Pembroke, undistinguished, unimaginative, tolerable. Ricky, intolerable. And how pedantic! she mused. He smells of the university library. If he was stupid in the right way he would be a don. She looked round the tiny church, at the whitewashed pillars, the humble pavement, the window full of magenta saints. There was the vicar's wife, and Mrs. Wilbram's bonnets. Ugh. The rest of the congregation were poor women, with flat hopeless faces. She saw them Sunday after Sunday, but did not know their names. Diversified with a few reluctant plowboys, and the vile little schoolchildren row upon row. Ugh, what a hole! thought Mrs. Failing, whose Christianity was the type best described as cathedral. What a hole for a cultured woman. I don't think it has blunted my sensations, though. I still see it squalors, clearly as ever. And my nephew pretends he is worshipping, pa, the hypocrite. Above her the vicar spoke of the danger of hurrying from one dissipation to another. She treasured his words and continued, I cannot stand smugness. It is the one, the unpardonable sin. Fresh air. The fresh air that has made Stefan Wanham fresh and companionable and strong. Even if it kills, I will let in the fresh air. Thus reasoned Mrs. Failing, in the facile vein of Ibsenism. She imagined herself to be a cold-eyed Scandinavian heroine. Really, she was an English old lady who did not mind giving other people a chill, provided it was not infectious. Agnes, on the way back, noted that her hostess was a little snappish. But Wan is so hungry after morning service, and either so hot or so cold, that he would be a saint indeed who becomes a saint at once. Mrs. Failing, after asserting vindictively that it was impossible to make a living out of literature, was courteously left alone. Roast, beef, and moselle might yet work miracles, and Agnes still hoped for the introductions, the introductions to certain editors and publishers, on which her whole diplomacy was bent. Ricky would not push himself, it was his besetting sin. Well for him that he would have a wife and a loving wife who knew the value of enterprise. Unfortunately lunch was a quarter of an hour late, and during that quarter of an hour the aunt and the nephew quarreled. She had been in vain against the morning service, and he quietly and deliberately replied, If organized religion is anything, and it is something to me, it will not be wrecked by a harmonium and a dull sermon. Mrs. Failing frowned. My envy you, it is a great thing to have no sense of beauty. I think I have a sense of beauty which leads me astray if I am not careful. But this is a great relief to me, I thought the present day young man was an agnostic. Isn't agnosticism all the thing at Cambridge? Nothing is the thing at Cambridge. If a few men are agnostic there it is for some grave reason, not because they are irritated with the way the parson says his vows. Agnes intervened. Well I side with Aunt Emily, I believe in ritual. Don't my dear, side with me. He will only say you have no sense of religion either. Excuse me, said Ricky. Perhaps he too was a little hungry. I never suggested such a thing. I never would suggest such a thing. Why cannot you understand my position? I almost feel it is that you won't. I try to understand your position night and day, dear. What you mean, what you like, why you came to cat over, and why you stop here when my presence is so obviously unpleasing to you. Luncheon is served, said Layton, but he said it too late. They discussed the beef and the moselle in silence. The air was heavy and ominous. Even the one-hamboy was affected by it. Shivered at times, choked once, and hastened anew into the sun. He could not understand clever people. Agnes, in a brief anxious interview, advised the culprit to take a solitary walk. She would stop near Aunt Emily and pave the way for an apology. Don't worry too much. It doesn't really matter. I suppose not, dear, but it seems a pity considering we are so near the end of our visit. Rootness and grossness matter, and I've shown both, and already I'm sorry, and I hope she'll let me apologize. But from the selfish point of view, it doesn't matter a straw. She's no more to us than that one-hamboy or the boot-boy. Which way will you walk? I think to that entrenchment. Look at it. They were sitting on the steps. He stretched out his hands to Cad's burry rings, and then let it rest for a moment on her shoulder. You're changing me, he said gently. God bless you for it. He enjoyed his walk. Cadford was a charming village, and for a time he hung over the bridge by the mill. So clear was the stream that it seemed not water at all, but some invisible quintessence in which the happy minnows and the weeds were vibrating. And he paused again at the Roman crossing, and thought for a moment of the unknown child. The line curved suddenly. Surgently it was dangerous. Then he lifted his eyes to the down. The entrenchment showed like the rim of a saucer, and over its narrow line peeped the summit of the central tree. It looked interesting. He hurried forward with the wind behind him. The rings were curious rather than impressive. Neither embankment was over twelve feet high, and the gates on them had not the exquisite green of old serum, but was gray and wiry. But nature, if she arranges anything, had arranged that from them. At all events there should be a view. The whole system of the country lay spread before Ricky, and he gained an idea of it that he never got in his elaborate ride. He saw how all the water converges at Salisbury, how Salisbury lies in a shallow basin just at the change of the soil. He saw to the north the plain, and the stream of the cad flowing down from it, with a tributary that broke out suddenly as the chalk streams due. One village had clustered round the source and clothed itself with trees. He saw old serum and hints of the Avon Valley and the land above Stonehenge, and behind him he saw the great wood beginning unobtrusively, as if the down too needed shaving, and into it the road to London slipped, covering the bushes with white dust. Chalk made the dust white. Chalk made the water clear. Chalk made the clean rolling outlines of the land, and favoured the grass, and the distant kernels of trees. Here is the heart of our island, the shill turns, the north downs, the south downs radiate hints. The fibres of England unite in Wiltshire, and did we condescend to worship her, here we should erect our national shrine. People at that time were trying to think imperially. Ricky wondered how they did it, for he could not imagine a place larger than England. And other people talked of Italy, the spiritual fatherland of us all. Perhaps Italy would prove marvellous. But at present he conceived it as something exotic, to be admired and reverenced, but not to be loved, like these unostentatious fields. He drew out a book. It was natural for him to read when he was happy, and to read out loud, and for a little time his voice disturbed the silence of that glorious afternoon. The book was shelly, and it opened at a passage that he had cherished greatly two years before, and marked as very good. I never was attached to that great sect, whose doctrine is that each one should select, out of the world a mistress or a friend, and all the rest, though fair and wise, commend to cold oblivion, though it is the code of modern morals, and the bitten road, which those poor slaves with weary footsteps tread, who travel to their home among the dead, by the broad highway of the world. And so with one sad friend, perhaps a jealous foe, the drearest and the longest journey go. It was very good, fine poetry, and in a sense true. Yet he was surprised that he had ever selected it so vehemently. This afternoon it seemed a little inhuman. Half a mile off, two lovers were keeping company where all the villagers could see them. They cared for no one else. They felt only the pressure of each other, and so progressed, silent and oblivious across the land. He felt them to be nearer the truth than Shelley. Even if they suffered or quarreled, they would have been nearer the truth. He wondered whether they were Henry Adams and Jessica Thompson, both of this parish, whose bands had been asked for the second time in the church this morning. Why could he not marry on fifteen shillings a week, and be looked at them with respect, and wished that he was not a cumbersome gentleman? Presently he saw something less pleasant, his aunt's pony carriage. It had crossed the railway and was advancing of the Roman road along by the straw sacks. His impulse was to retreat, but someone waved to him. It was Agnes. She waved continually as much as to say, wait for us. Mrs. Failing herself raised the whip in a nonchalant way. Stefan Wanham was following on foot, some way behind. He put the Shelley back into his pocket and waited for them. When the carriage stopped by some hurdles, he went down from the embankment and helped them to dismount. He felt rather nervous. His aunt gave him one of her disquieting smiles, but said, pleasantly enough, aren't the rings a little immense? Agnes and I came here because we wanted an antidote to the morning service. Pang! said the church bell suddenly. Pang! Pang! It sounded petty and ludicrous. They all laughed. Ricky blushed, and Agnes, with a glance that said, Apologize, darted away to the entrenchment as though unable to restrain her curiosity. The pony won't move, said Mrs. Failing. Leave him for Stefan to tie up. Will you walk me to the tree in the middle? Puh! I'm tired. Give me your arm, unless you're tired as well. No, I came out partly in the hope of helping you. How sweet of you! She contrasted his blatant unselfishness with the hardness of Stefan. Stefan never came out to help you, but if you got hold of him he was some good. He didn't wobble and bend at the critical moment. Her fancy compared Ricky to the cracked church bell sending forth its message of Pang, Pang to the countryside, and Stefan to the young pagans who were said to lie under this field guarding their pagan gold. This place is full of ghosties, she remarked. Have you seen any yet? I've kept on the outer rim so far. Let's go to the tree in the center. Here's the path. The bank of grass where he had set was broken by a gap through which chariots had entered and farm carts entered now. The track, following the ancient track, led straight through turnips to a similar gap in the second circle and thence continued through more turnips to the central tree. Pang set the bell as they paused at the entrance. You needn't unharness, shouted Mrs. Failing for Stefan was approaching the carriage. Yes I will, he retorted. You will, will you? she murmured with a smile. I wish your brother wasn't quite so upish. Let's get on. Doesn't that church distract you? It's so faint here, said Ricky, and it sounded fainter inside, though the earthwork was neither thick nor tall and the view, though not hidden, was greatly diminished. He was reminded for a minute of that chockpit near Maddingley, whose ramparts excluded the familiar world. Agnes was here, as she had once been there. She stood on the farther barrier, waiting to receive them when they had traversed the heart of the camp. I admire my mangle-wuzzles, said Mrs. Failing. They are set to grow so splendidly on account of the dead soldiers. Isn't it a sweet thought? Need I say it is your brother's? One hams, he suggested. It was the second time that she had made the little slip. She nodded, and he asked her what kind of ghost he's haunted this curious field. The D was her prompt reply. He leans against the tree in the middle, especially on Sunday afternoons, and all the worshippers rise through the turnips and dance around him. Oh, these were decent people, he replied, looking downwards. Soldiers and shepherds, they have no ghosts. They worshipped Mars or Panerta, perhaps, not the devil. Pang went the church and was silent, for the afternoon service had begun. They entered the second entrenchment, which was in height, breadth, and composition, similar to the first, and excluded still more of the view. His aunt continued friendly. Agnes stood watching them. Soldiers may seem decent in the past, she continued, but wait till they turn into tommys from Bullford camp who rob the chickens. I don't mind Bullford camp, said Ricky, looking though in vain for signs of its snowy tents. The men there are the sons of the men here and have come back to the old country. War is horrible, yet one loves all continuity, and no one would mind a shepherd. Indeed, what about your brother, a shepherd, if ever there was? Look how he bores you, don't be so sentimental. But, oh, you mean your brother, Stefan. He glanced at her nervously. He had never known her so queer before. Perhaps it was some literary illusion that he had not caught, but her face did not at that moment suggest literature. In the differential tones that one uses to an old and infirm person, he said, Stefan Wanham isn't my brother, Aunt Emily. My dear, you're that precise. One can't say half brother every time. They approached the central tree. How you do puzzle me, he said, dropping her arm and beginning to laugh. How could I have a half brother? She made no answer. Then a horror leapt straight at him, and he beat it back and said, I will not be frightened. The tree in the center revolved, the tree disappeared, and he saw a room, the room where his father had lived in town. Gently, he told himself, gently. Still laughing, he said, I, with a brother younger, it's not possible. The horror leapt again, and he exclaimed, It's a foul lie. My dear, my dear, it's a foul lie. He wasn't. I won't stand— My dear, before you say several noble things, remember that it's worse for him than for you, worse for your brother, for your half brother, for your younger brother. But he heard her no longer. He was gazing at the past which he had praised so recently, which gaped ever wider like an unhellowed grave. Turn where he would, it encircled him. It took visible form. It was this double entrenchment of the rings. His mouth went cold, and he knew that he was going to faint among the dead. He started running, missed the exit, stumbled on the inner barrier, fell into darkness. Get his head down, said a voice. Get the blood back into him, that's all he wants. Leave him to me. Elliot, the blood was returning. Elliot, wake up. He woke up. The earth he had dreaded lay close to his eyes and seemed beautiful. He saw the structure of the clouds. A tiny beetle swung on the grass blade. On his own neck the human hand pressed, guiding the blood back to his brain. There broke from him a cry, not of horror, but of acceptance. For one short moment he understood. Stefan, he began, and then he heard his own name called, Ricky, Ricky. Agnes hurried from her post on the margin and as if understanding also caught him to her breast. Stefan offered to help them further, but finding that he made things worse, he stepped aside to let them pass and then sauntered inwards. The whole field with concentric circles was visible, and the broad leaves of the turnips rustled in the gathering wind. Miss Pembroke and Elliot were moving towards the cat over entrance. Mrs. Faling stood watching her turn on the opposite bank. He was not an inquisitive boy, but as he lent against the tree, he wondered what it was all about and whether he would ever know. Chapter 14 On the way back, at that very level crossing where he had paused on his upward route, Ricky stopped suddenly and told the girl why he had fainted. Hitherto she had asked him in vain. His tone had gone from him, and he told her harshly and brutally so that she started away with a horrified cry. Then his manner altered and he exclaimed, Will you mind? Are you going to mind? Of course I mind. She whispered. She turned from him and saw up on the skyline two figures that seemed to be of enormous size. They're watching us. They stand on the edge, watching us. This country's so open. You, you can't. They watch us wherever we go. Of course you mind. They heard the rumble of the train and she pulled herself together. Come, dearest, we shall be run over next. We're saying things that have no sense. But on the way back he repeated. They can still see us. They can see every inch of this road. They watch us forever. And when they arrived at the steps there, sure enough, were still the two figures gazing from the outer circle of the rings. She made him go to his room at once. He was almost hysterical. Layton brought out some tea for her and she sat drinking it on the little terrace. Of course she minded. Again she was menaced by the abnormal. All had seemed so fair and so simple, so in accordance with her ideas and then, like a corpse, this horror rose up to the surface. She saw the two figures descend and pause while one of them harnessed the pony. She saw them drive downward and knew that before long she must face them and the world. She glanced at her engagement ring. When the carriage drove up Mrs. Failing dismounted but did not speak. It was Stefan who inquired after Ricky. She, scarcely knowing the sound of her own voice, replied that he was a little tired. Go and put up the pony, said Mrs. Failing rather sharply. Agnes, give me some tea. It is rather strong, said Agnes as the carriage drove off and left them alone. Then she noticed that Mrs. Failing herself was agitated. Her lips were trembling and she saw the boy depart with manifest relief. Do you know, she said hurriedly as if talking against time, do you know what upset Ricky? I do indeed know. Has he told anyone else? I believe not. Agnes, have I been a fool? You have been very unkind, said the girl and her eyes filled with tears. For a moment Mrs. Failing was annoyed. Unkind? I do not see that at all. I believe in looking facts in the face. Ricky must know his ghosts some time. Why not this afternoon? She rose with quiet dignity but her tears came faster. That is not so. You told him to hurt him. I cannot think what you did it for. I suppose because he was rude to you after church. It is a mean, cowardly revenge. What? What if it's a lie? Then Mrs. Failing, it is sickening of you. There is no other word. Sickening. I am sorry. A nobody like myself to speak like this. How could you? Oh, how could you demean yourself? Why, not even a poor person. Her indignation was fine and genuine, but her tears fell no longer. Nothing menaced her if they were not really brothers. It is not a lie, my dear. Sit down. I will swear so much solemnly. It is not a lie, but... Agnes waited. We can call it a life we choose. I am not so childish. You have said it and we must all suffer. You have had your fun. I conclude you did it for fun. You cannot go back. He... She pointed towards the stables and could not finish her sentence. I have not been a fool twice. Agnes did not understand. My dense lady, can't you follow? I have not told Stefan one single word. Neither before nor now. There was a long silence. Indeed, Mrs. Failing was in an awkward position. Ricky had irritated her, and in her desire to shock him, she had imperiled her own peace. She had felt so unconventional upon the hillside when she loosed the horror against him, but now it was darting at her as well. Suppose the scandal came out. Stefan, who was absolutely without delicacy, would tell it to the people as soon as tell them the time. His paganism would be too assertive. It might even be in bad taste. After all, she had a prominent position in the neighborhood. She was talked about, respected, looked up to. After all, she was growing old. And therefore, though she had no true regard for Ricky, nor for Agnes, nor for Stefan, nor for Stefan's parents, in whose tragedy she had assisted, yet should it feel that if the scandal revived, it would disturb the harmony of Caddover, and therefore tried to retrace her steps. It is easy to say shocking things. It is so different to be connected with anything shocking. Life and death were not involved, but comfort and discomfort were. The silence was broken by the sound of feet on the gravel. Agnes said hastily, Is that really true that he knows nothing? You, Ricky, and I are the only people alive that know. He realizes what he is, with a precision that is sometimes alarming. Who he is he doesn't know and doesn't care. I suppose he would know when I am dead. There are papers. Aunt Emily, before he comes, may I say to you I am sorry I was so rude. Mrs. Failing had not disliked her courage. My dear, you may. We're all off our hinges this Sunday. Sit down by me again. Agnes obeyed, and they awaited the arrival of Stefan. They were clever enough to understand each other. The thing must be hushed up. The matron must repair the consequences of her petulance. The girl must hide the stain in her future husband's family. Why not? Who was injured? What does a grown man want with a grown brother? Ricky upstairs. How grateful he would be to them for saving him. Stefan, yes, I'm tired of you. Go and bathe in the sea. All right. And the whole thing was settled. She liked no fuss, and so did he. He sat down on the step to tighten his bootlaces. Then he would be ready. Mrs. Failing laid two or three sovereigns on the step above him. Agnes tried to make conversation and said with averted eyes that the sea was a long way off. The sea's downhill. That's all I know about it. He swept up the money with a word of pleasure. He was kept like a baby in such things. Then he started off, but slowly, for he meant to walk till the morning. He will be gone days, said Mrs. Failing. The comedy is finished. Let us come in. She went to her room. The storm that she had raised had shattered her. Yet, because it was still for a moment, she resumed her old, emancipated manner and spoke of it as a comedy. As for Miss Pembroke, she pretended to be emancipated no longer. People like Stefan Wonham were social thunderbolts to be shunned at all costs, or at almost all costs. Her joy was now unfeigned, and she heard upstairs to impart it to Ricky. I don't think we are rewarded if we do right, but we are punished if we lie. It's the fashion to laugh at poetic justice, but I do believe in half of it. Cast bitter bread upon the waters, and after many days it really will come back to you. These were the words of Mr. Failing. They were also the opinions of Stuart Ansell, another unpractical person. Ricky was trying to write to him when she entered with the good news. Dear, we are saved. He doesn't know, and he never is to know. I can't tell you how glad I am. All the time we saw them standing together up there, she wasn't telling him at all. She was keeping him out of the way in case you let it out. Oh, I like her. She may be unwise, but she is nice, really. She said, I've been a fool, but I haven't been a fool twice. You must forgive her, Ricky. I've forgiven her, and she, me. For at first I was so angry with her. Oh, my darling boy, I am so glad. He was shivering all over and could not reply. At last he said, why hasn't she told him? Because she has come to her senses, but she can't behave to people like that. She must tell him, because he must be told such a real thing. Such a real thing, the girl echoed, screwing up her forehead. But, but you don't mean you're glad about it. He's had bowed over the letter. My God, no, but it's a real thing. She must tell him. I nearly told him myself up there, when he made me look at the ground, but you happened to prevent me. How Providence had watched over them. She won't tell him. I know that much. Then, Agnes, darling, he drew her to the table. We must talk together a little. If she won't, then we ought to. We tell him? cried the girl, white with horror. Tell him now, when everything has been comfortably arranged. You see, darling, he took hold of her hand. What one must do is to think the thing out and settle what's right. I'm still all trembling and stupid. I see it mixed up with other things. I want you to help me. It seems to me that here and there in life we meet with a person or incident that is symbolical. It's nothing in itself, yet for the moment it stands for some eternal principle. We accept it at whatever costs and we have accepted life. But if we are frightened and rejected, the moment, so to speak, passes. The symbol is never offered again. Is this nonsense? Once before a symbol was offered to me, I shall not tell you how. But I did accept it and cherished it through much exciting repulsion, and in the end I am rewarded. There will be no reward this time. I think from such a man, the son of such a man. But I want to do what is right. Because doing right is its own reward, said Agnes anxiously. I do not think that. I have seen few examples of it. Doing right is simply doing right. I think that all you say is wonderfully clever, but since you ask me it is nonsense, dear Ricky, absolutely. Thank you, he said humbly and began to stroke her hand. But all my disgust, my indignation with my father, my love for him, he broke off. He could not bear to mention the name of his mother. I was trying to say I oughtn't to follow these impulses too much. There are other things, truth, our duty to acknowledge each man accurately, however vile he is, and apart from ideals. Here she had won the battle, and leaving ideals aside, I couldn't meet him and keep silent. It isn't in me. I should blurt it out. But you won't meet him. She cried. It's all been arranged. We've sent him to the sea. Isn't it splendid? He's gone. My own boy won't be fantastic, will he? Then she fought the fantasy on its own ground. And by the by what you call the symbolic moment is over. You had it up by the rings. You tried to tell him. I interrupted you. It's not your fault you did all you could. She thought this excellent logic and was surprised that he looked so gloomy. So he's gone to the sea, for the present that does settle it, hasn't Emily talked about him yet? No. Ask her tomorrow if you wish to know. Ask her kindly. It would be so dreadful if you did not part friends and— What's that? It was Stefan calling up from the drive. He had come back. Agnes threw out her hand in despair. Elliot, the voice called. They were facing each other, silent and motionless. Then Ricky advanced to the window. The girl darted in front of him. He thought he had never seen her so beautiful. She was stopping his advance quite frankly with widespread arms. Elliot. He moved forward into what? He pretended to himself he would rather see his brother before he answered that it was easier to acknowledge him thus. But at the back of his soul he knew that the woman had conquered and that he was moving forward to acknowledge her. If he calls me again, he thought. Elliot. Well, if he calls me once again I will answer him file as he is. He did not call again. Stefan had really come back for some tobacco but as he passed under the windows he thought of the poor fellow who had been nipped. Nothing serious had missed his failing and determined to shout goodbye to him. And once or twice as he followed the river into the darkness he wondered what it was like to be so weak. Not to ride, not to swim, not to care for anything but books and a girl. They embraced passionately. The danger had brought them very near to each other. They both needed a home to confront the menacing tumultuous world. And what weary years of work, of waiting, lay between them and that home. Still holding her fast he said, I was riding to Ansel when you came in. Do you owe him a letter? No. He paused. I was riding to tell him about this. He would help us. He always picks out the important point. Darling, I don't like to say anything and I know that Mr. Ansel would keep a secret but haven't we picked out the important point for ourselves? He released her and tore the letter up. End of Chapter 14, read by Kehinde of Bahadrak.com Chapter 15 of the longest journey This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org The Longest Journey by E. M. Forster Chapter 15 The sense of purity is a puzzling and a 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. Agnes in this tangle had followed it blindly partly because she was a woman and it meant more to her than it can ever mean to a man. Partly because though dangerous it is also obvious and makes no demand upon the intellect she could not feel that Stefan had full human rights. He was illicit, abnormal, worse than a man deceased. And Ricky, remembering whose son he was, gradually adopted her opinion. He too came to be glad that his brother had passed from him and tried that the symbolic moment had been rejected. Stefan was the fruit of sin therefore he was sinful. He too became a sexual snob. And now he must hear the unsavory details. That evening they sat in the walled garden. Agnes according to arrangement left him alone with his aunt. He asked her and was not answered. You were shocked, she said in a hard mocking voice. It is very nice of you to be shocked and I do not wish to grieve you further. We will not allude to it again. Let us all go on just as we are. The comedy is finished. He could not tolerate this. His nerves were shattered and all that was good in him revolted as well. To the horror of Agnes who was within earshot he replied. You used to puzzle me aunt Emily but I understand you at last. You have forgotten what other people are like. Continual selfishness leads to that. I am sure of it. I see now how you look at the world. Nice of me to be shocked. I want to go tomorrow if I may. Certainly dear the morning trains are the best. And so the disastrous visit ended. As he walked back to the house he met a certain poor woman whose child Stefan had rescued at the level crossing and who had decided after some delay that she must thank the kind gentleman in person. He has got some brute courage, thought Ricky, and it was decent of him not to boast about it. But he had labelled the boy as bad and it was convenient to revert to his good qualities as seldom as possible. He preferred to brood over his coarseness, his catish ingratitude, his irreligion. Out of these he constructed a repulsive figure forgetting how slovenly his own perceptions had been during the past week, how dogmatic and intolerant his attitude to all that was not love. During the packing he was obliged to go up to the attic to find the dried manuscript which had never been returned. Layton came too and for about half an hour they hunted in the flickering light of a candle. It was a strange ghostly place and Ricky was quite startled when a picture swung towards him and he saw the dimeter of Snidus shimmering in gray. Layton suggested the roof. Mr. Steffen sometimes left things on the roof, so they climbed out of the skylight. The night was perfectly still and continued the search among the gables. Enormous stars hung overhead and the roof was bounded by chasms, impenetrable and black. It doesn't matter, said Ricky suddenly convinced of the futility of all that he did. Oh, let us look properly, said Layton, a kindly, pliable man who had tried to shirk coming but who was genuinely sympathetic now that he had come. They were rewarded. The manuscript lay in a gutter, charred and smudged. The rest of the year was spent by Ricky partly in bed. He had a curious breakdown, partly in the attempt to get his little stories published. He had written eight or nine and hoped they would make up a book and that the book might be called Panpipes. He was very energetic over this. He liked to work for some imperceptible bloom had passed from the world and he no longer found such acute pleasure in people. Mrs. Failing's old publishers, to whom the book was submitted, replied that, greatly as they found themselves interested, they did not see their way to making an offer at present. They were very polite and singled out for special praise and antepastoral which Ricky had thought too sentimental but which Agnes had persuaded him to include. The stories were sent to another publisher who considered them for six weeks and then returned them. A fragment of red cotton placed by Agnes between the leaves had not shifted its position. Can't you try something longer, Ricky? She said. I believe we are 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. That's where the musicians have the pull, for music has wings and when she says, Tristan, and he says, Esolda, you are on the heights at once. What do people mean when they call love music artificial? I know what they mean, though I can't exactly explain. Or couldn't you make your stories more obvious? I don't see any harm in that. Uncle Willie floundered hopelessly. He doesn't read much and he got muddled. I had to explain and then he was delighted. Of course to write down to the public would be quite another thing and horrible. You have certain ideas and you must express them. But couldn't you express them more clearly? You see, he got no further than you see. The soul and the body, the soul's what matters. Said Agnes and tapped for their waiter again. He looked at her admiringly, but felt that she was not a perfect critic. Perhaps she was too perfect to be a critic. Actual life might seem to her so real that she could not detect the union of shadow and adamant that men call poetry. He would even go further and acknowledge that she was not as clever as himself and he was stupid enough. She did not like discussing anything or reading solid books and she was a little angry with such women as did. It pleased him to make these concessions for they touched nothing in her that he valued. He looked round the restaurant, which was in Soho and decided that she was incomparable. At half past two I call on the editor of the Hallborne. He's got a stray story to look at and he's written about it. Oh Ricky, Ricky, why didn't you put on a boiled shirt? He laughed and teased her. The soul's what matters. We literary people don't care about dress. Well, you ought to care, and I believe you do. Can't you change? Too far. He had rooms in South Kensington and I've forgotten my card case. There's for you. She shook her head. Naughty, naughty boy, whatever will you do? Send in my name or ask for a bit of paper and write it. Hello, that's tillered. Tillered blushed, partly on account of the faux pas he had made last June, partly on account of the restaurant. He explained how he came to be pigging in Soho. It was so frightfully convenient and so frightfully cheap. Just why Ricky brings me, said Miss Pembroke. And I suppose you're here to study life, said Tillered sitting down. I don't know, said Ricky gazing round at the waiters and the guests. Doesn't one want to see a good deal of life for writing? There's a life of a sort in Soho. Agnes also grabbed at the waiter and paid. She always did the paying, Ricky muddled with his purse. I'm cramming, pursued Tillered, and so naturally I come into contact with very little at present, but later on I hope to see things. He blushed a little, for he was talking for Ricky's edification. It is most frightfully important not to get a narrow or academic outlook, don't you think? A person like Ansel, who goes from Cambridge, home, home, Cambridge, it must tell on him in time. But Mr. Ansel is a philosopher. A very kinky one, said Tillered abruptly. Not my idea of a philosopher. How goes his dissertation? He never answers my letters, replied Ricky. He never would. I've heard nothing since June. It's a pity he sends in this year. There are so many good people in. He'd have a far better chance if he waited. So I said, but he wouldn't wait. He's so keen about this particular subject. What is it? asked Agnes. About things being real, wasn't it, Tillered? That's near enough. Well, good luck to him, said the girl, and good luck to you, Mr. Tillered. Later on I hope we'll meet again. They parted. Tillered liked her, though he did not feel that she was quiet in his hu-che-so-shell. His sister, for instance, would never have been lured into a so-ho restaurant except for the experience of the thing. Tillered's cu-che-so-shell permitted experiences, provided if his heart did not go out to the poor and the unorthodox, he might stare at them as much as he liked. It was seeing life. Agnes put her lover safely into an omnibus at Cambridge Circus. She shouted after him that his time was rising over his collar, but he did not hear her. For a moment she felt depressed and pictured quite accurately the effect that his appearance would have on the editor. The editor was a tall, neat man of forty, slow of speech, slow of soul, and extraordinarily kind. He and Ricky sat over fire with an enormous table behind them whereon stood many books waiting to be reviewed. I'm sorry, he said and paused. Ricky smiled feebly. Your story does not convince. He tapped it. I have read it with very great pleasure. It convinces in parts, but it does not convince as a whole, and stories don't you think ought to convince as a whole? The ought indeed, said Ricky and plunged into self-depreciation, but the editor checked him. No, no, please don't talk like that. I can't bear to hear any one talk against imagination. There are countless openings for imagination, for the mysterious, for the supernatural, for all the things you are trying to do and which I hope you will succeed in doing. I am not objecting to imagination. On the contrary, I advise you to cultivate it, to accent it, write a really good ghost story and would take it at once, or, he suggested it as an alternative to imagination, or you might get inside life. It's worth doing. Life, I called Ricky anxiously. He looked around the pleasant room as if life might be fluttering there like an imprisoned bird. Then he looked at the editor. Perhaps he was sitting inside life at this very moment. See life, Mr. Elliott, and then send us another story. He held out his hand. I am sorry, I have to say no, thank you. It's so much nicer to say yes, please. He laid his hand on the young man's sleeve and added, well, the interview's not been so alarming after all, has it? I don't think that either of us is a very alarming person, was not Ricky's reply. It was what he thought out afterwards in the omnibus. His reply was, ow, delivered with a slight giggle. 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 Holbern teach him. He sighed, and then sighed more piteously, for had he not known the password once, known it and forgotten it already. But at this point his fortunes become intimately connected with those of Mr. Pembroke. In three years Mr. Pembroke had done much to solidify the day boys at Sauston School. If they were not solid they were at all events curdling, and his activities might reasonably turn elsewhere. He had served the school for many years, and it was really time he should be entrusted with a boarding-house. The headmaster and impulsive man, who darted about like a minnow, and gave his mother a great deal of trouble, agreed with him, and also agreed with Mrs. Jackson, when she said that Mr. Jackson had served the school for many years, and that it was really time he should be entrusted with a boarding-house. Consequently, when Dunwood House fell vacant, the headmaster found himself in rather a difficult position. Dunwood House was the largest and most lucrative of the boarding houses. It stood almost opposite the school buildings. Originally it had been a villa residence, a red brick villa, covered with creepers and crowned with terracotta dragons. Mr. Anison, founder of its glory, had lived here, and had one or two boys to live with him. Times changed. The fame of the bishops blazed brighter, the school increased, the one or two boys became a dozen, and an addition was made to Dunwood House that more than double its size. A huge new building, replete with every convenience, was stuck onto its right flank. Dormitories, cubicles, studies, a preparation room, a dining room, parking floors, hot air pipes, no expense was spared, and the twelve boys roamed or read like princes. Bays doors communicated on every floor with Mr. Anison's part, and he, an anxious gentleman, would stroll backwards and forwards, a little depressed at the hygienic splendors, and conscious of some vanished intimacy. Somehow he had known his boys better when they had all muddled together as one family, and algebras lay strewn upon the drawing-room chairs. As the house filled, his interest in it decreased. When he retired, which he did the same summer that Ricky left Cambridge, it had already passed the summit of excellence and was beginning to decline. Its numbers were still satisfactory, and for a little time it would subsist on its past reputation, but that mysterious asset, the tone had lowered, and it was therefore of great importance that Mr. Anison's successor should be a first-class man. Mr. Coates, who came next in seniority, was passed over and rightly. The choice lay between Mr. Pembroke and Mr. Jackson, the one and organizer, the other a humanist. Mr. Jackson was master of the sixth, and, with the exception of the headmaster who was too busy to impart knowledge, the only first-class intellect in the school. But he could not or rather would not keep order. He told his form that if it chose to listen to him it would learn, if it didn't it wouldn't. One half listened. The other half made paper frogs and bored holes in the raised map of Italy with their pen knives. When the pen knives gritted he punished them with undue severity and then forgot to make them show the punishments up. Yet out of this chaos two facts emerged. Half the boys got scholarships at the university, and some of them, including several of the paper frog sort, remained friends with him throughout their lives. Moreover he was rich and had a competent wife. His claim to Dunwood House was stronger than one would have supposed. The qualifications of Mr. Pembroke have already been indicated. They prevailed but under conditions. If things went wrong he must promise to the resign. In the first place, said the headmaster, you are doing so splendidly with the day boys. Your attitude towards the parents is magnificent. I don't know how to replace you there. Whereas, of course, the parents of a border. Of course, said Mr. Pembroke. The parent of a border, who only had to remove his son if he was discontented with the school, was naturally in a more independent position than the parent who had brought all his goods and chattels to Sauston and was renting a house there. Now the parents of borders, this is my second point, practically demand that the housemaster should have a wife. A most unreasonable demand, said Mr. Pembroke. To my mind also a bright motherly matron is quite sufficient, but that is what they demand, and that is why do you see we have to regard your appointment as experimental. Possibly Ms. Pembroke will be able to help you, or I don't know whether if ever. He left the sentence unfinished. Two days later Mr. Pembroke proposed to Mrs. Orr. He had always intended to marry when he could afford it and once he had been in love, violently in love, but had laid the passion aside and told it to wait till a more convenient season. This was of course the proper thing to do and prudence should have been rewarded. But when, after the lapse of fifteen years he went as it were, to his spiritual larder and took down love from the top shelf to offer to Mrs. Orr, he was rather dismayed. Something had happened. Perhaps the God had flown, perhaps he had been eaten by the rats. At all events he was not there. Mr. Pembroke was conscientious and romantic and knew that marriage without love is intolerable. On the other hand he could not admit that love had vanished from him. To admit this he would argue that he had deteriorated. Whereas he knew for a fact that he had improved year by year. Each year he grew more moral, more efficient, more learned, more genial. So how could he fail to be more loving? He did not speak to himself as follows because he never spoke to himself, but the following notions moved in the recesses of his mind. It is not the fire of youth, but I am not sure that I approve of the fire of youth. Look at my sister. Once she has suffered, twice she has been most imprudent, and put me to great inconvenience besides. For if she was stopping with me she would have done the housekeeping. I rather suspect that it is a nobler, riper emotion that I am laying at the feet of Mrs. Orr. It never took him long to get muddled or to reverse cause and effect. In a short time he believed that he had been pining for years and only waiting for this good fortune to ask the lady to share it with him. Mrs. Orr was quiet, clever, kindly, capable, and amusing, and they were old acquaintances. Altogether it was not surprising that he should ask her to be his wife, nor very surprising that she should refuse, but she refused with a violence that alarmed them both. He left her house, declaring that he had been insulted, and she, as soon as he left, passed from disgust into tears. He was much annoyed. There was a certain Miss Heriton who, though far inferior to Mrs. Orr, would have done instead of her. But now it was impossible. He could not go offering himself about Sosten. Having engaged a matron who had the reputation for being bright and motherly, he moved into Dunwood House and opened the Michaelness term. Everything went wrong. The cook left, the boys had a disease called Rosiola. Agnes, who was still drunk with her engagement, was of no assistance, but kept flying up to London to push Ricky's fortunes, and to crown everything. The matron was too bright and not motherly enough. She neglected the little boys and was overattentive to the big ones. She left abruptly, and the voice of Mrs. Jackson arose, prophesying disaster. Should he avert it by taking orders? Parents do not demand that a housemaster should be a clergyman, yet it reassures them when he is, and he would have to take orders sometime if he hoped for a school of his own. His religious convictions were ready to hand, but he spent several uncomfortable days hunting up his religious enthusiasm. It was not unlike his attempt to marry Mrs. Orr. But his piety was more genuine, and this time he never came to the point. His sense of decency forbade him hurrying into a church that he reverenced. Moreover, he thought of another solution. Agnes must marry Ricky in the Christmas holidays, and they must come, both of them, to Sauston, she as housekeeper, he as assistant master. The girl was a good worker, when once she was settled down, and as for Ricky, he could easily be fitted in somewhere in the school. He was not a good classic, but good enough to take the lower fifth. He was no athlete, but boys might profitably note that he was a perfect gentleman all the same. He had no experience, but he would gain it. He had no decision, but he could stimulate it. Above all, thought Mr. Pembroke, it will be something regular for him to do. Of course this was not above all. Dunwood House held that position, but Mr. Pembroke soon came to think that it was, and believed that he was planning for Ricky, just as he had believed he was pining for Mrs. Orr. Agnes, when she got back from the lunch in Soho, was told of the plan. She refused to give any opinion until she had seen her lover. A telegram was sent to him, and next morning he arrived. He was very susceptible to the weather, and perhaps it was unfortunate that the morning was foggy. His strain had been stopped outside Sauston Station, and there he had sat for half an hour, listening to the unreal noises that came from the line, and watching the shadowy figures that worked there. The gas was alight in the great drawing-room, and in its depressing rays he and Agnes greeted each other and discussed the most momentous question of their lives. They wanted to be married. There was no doubt of that. They wanted it, both of them dreadfully, but should they marry on these terms? I'd never thought of such a thing, you see. When the scholastic agency sent me circulars after the tree-pose, I tore them up at once. There are the holidays, said Agnes. You would have three months in the year to yourself, and you could do your writing then. But who'll read what I've written? And he told her about the editor of the whole burn. She became extremely grave. At the bottom of her heart she had always mistrusted the little stories and now people who knew agreed with her. How could Ricky or anyone make a living by pretending that Greek gods were alive or that young ladies could vanish into trees? A sparkling society tale full of verve and pathos would have been another thing, and the editor might have been convinced by it. But what does he mean? Ricky was saying. What does he mean by life? I know what he means, but I can't exactly explain. You ought to see life, Ricky. I think he's right there. And Mr. Tillard was right when he said one oughtn't to be academic. He stood in the twilight that fell from the window, she in the twilight of the gas. I wonder what Ansel would say, he murmured. Oh, poor Mr. Ansel. He was somewhat surprised. Why was Ansel poor? It was the first time the epithet had been applied to him. But to change the conversation, said Agnes. If we did marry, we might get to Italy at Easter and escape this horrible fog. Yes, perhaps there. Perhaps life would be there. He thought of Renan, who declares that on the acropolis at Athens beauty and wisdom to exist really exist as external powers. He did not aspire to beauty or wisdom, but he prayed to be delivered from the shadow of unreality that had begun to darken the world. For it was as if some power had pronounced against him, as if by some heedless action he had offended an Olympian god. Like many another he wondered whether the god might be appeased by work, hard, uncongenial work. Perhaps he had not worked hard enough or had enjoyed his work too much, and for that reason the shadow was falling. And above all a schoolmaster has wonderful opportunities for doing good, one mustn't forget that. 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. Think it over, she cautioned, though she was greatly pleased. No, I think over things too much. The room grew brighter, a boy's laughter floated in, and it seemed to him that people were as important and vivid as they had been six months before. Then he was at Cambridge, idling in the parsley meadows, and weaving perishable garlands out of flowers. Now he was at Sauston, preparing to work as a beneficent machine. No man works for nothing, and Ricci trusted that to him also benefits might accrue, that his wound might heal as he labored, and his eyes recapture the holy grail.