 CHAPTER VII Love, say orderly people, can be fallen into by two methods. One, through the desires. Two, through the imagination. And if the orderly people are English, they add that one is the inferior method and characteristic of the south. It is inferior. Yet those who pursue it at all events know what they want. They are not puzzling to themselves or ludicrous to others. They do not take the wings of the morning and fly into the uttermost parts of the sea before walking to the registry office. They cannot breed a tragedy quite like Ricky's. He is, of course, absurdly young, not twenty-one, and he will be engaged to be married at twenty-three. He has no knowledge of the world. For example, he thinks that if you do not want money you can give it to friends who do. He believes in humanity because he knows a dozen decent people. He believes in women because he has loved his mother. And his friends are as young and as ignorant as himself. They are full of the wine of life, but they have not tasted the cup. Let us call it the tea-cup of experience which has made men of Mr. Pembroke's type what they are. Oh, that tea-cup! To be taken at prayers, at friendship, at love, till we are quite sane, efficient, quite experienced and quite useless to God or men. We must drink it, or we shall die. But we need not drink it always. Here is our problem and our salvation. There comes a moment God knows when, at which we can say, I will experience no longer, I will create, I will be an experience. But to do this we must be both acute and heroic, for it is not easy, after accepting six cups of tea, to throw the seventh in the face of the hostess. And to Ricky this moment has not, as yet, been offered. Ansel, at the end of his third year, got a first in the Moral Science Tripose. Being a scholar he kept his rooms in college and at once began to work for a fellowship. Ricky got a creditable second in the Classical Tripose Part I and retired to Salo Lodgings in Milbane, carrying with him the degree of BA and a small exhibition, which was quite as much as he deserved. For Part II he read Greek Archaeology and got a second. All this means that Ansel was much cleverer than Ricky. As for the cow, she was still going strong, though turning a little academic as the years passed over her. We are bound to get narrow, sighed Ricky. He and his friend were lying in a meadow during their last summer term. In his incurable love for flowers he had plated two garlands of butter-cups and cow parsley, and Ansel's lean Jewish face was framed in one of them. Cambridge is wonderful, but it's so tiny, you have no idea at least I think you have no idea how the great world looks down on it. I read the letters in the papers. It's a bad look-out. How? Cambridge has lost touch with the times. Was she ever intended to touch them? She satisfies, said Ricky mysteriously, neither the professions nor the public schools, nor the great thinking mass of men and women. There is a general feeling that her day is over, and naturally one feels pretty sick. Do you still write short stories? Because your English has gone to the devil, you think and talk in joinedlies. Define a great thinking mass. Ricky sat up and adjusted his floral crown. Estimate the worth of a general feeling. Silence. And thirdly, where is the great world? Oh, that! Yes, that! exclaimed Ansel, rising from his couch in violent excitement. Where is it? How do you set about finding it? How long does it take to get there? What does it think? What does it do? What does it want? Oblige me with specimens of its art and literature. Silence. Till you do, my opinions will be as follows. There is no great world at all. Only a little earth, forever isolated from the rest of the little solar system. The earth is full of tiny societies, and Cambridge is one of them. All the societies are narrow, but some are good and some are bad, just as one house is beautiful inside and another ugly. Observe the metaphor of the houses. I am coming back to it. The good societies say, I tell you to do this because I am Cambridge. The bad ones say, I tell you to do that because I am the great world, not because I am Peckham or Billingsgate or Park Glein, but because I am the great world. They lie and fools like you listen to them and believe they are a thing which does not exist and never has existed and confuse great, which has no meaning whatsoever, with good, which means salvation. Look at this great wreath. It'll be dead tomorrow. Look at that good flower. It'll come up again next year. Now for the other metaphor. To compare the world to Cambridge is like comparing the outsides of houses with the inside of a house. No intellectual effort is needed. No moral result is attained. You only have to say, oh, what a difference! And then come indoors again and exhibit your broadened mind. I shall never come indoors again, said Ricky. That's the whole point. And his voice began to quiver. It's well enough for those who'll get a fellowship, but in a few weeks I shall go down. In a few years it'll be as if I've never been up. It matters very much to me what the world is like. I can't answer your questions about it, that's no loss to you, but so much the worse for me. And then you've got a house, not a metaphorical one, but a house with father and sisters. I haven't and never shall have. There'll never again be a home for me like Cambridge. I shall only look at the outside of homes. According to your metaphor I shall live in the street, and it matters very much to me what I find there. You'll live in another house, right enough? said Ansel, rather uneasily. Only take care you pick out a decent one. I can't think why you flop about so helplessly like a bit of seaweed. In four years you've taken as much fruit as any one. Where? I should say you've been fortunate in your friends. Oh, that! But he was not cynical, or cynical in a very tender way. He was thinking of the irony of friendship so strong at his and so fragile. We fly together like straws in an eddy to part in the open stream. Nature has no use for us, she has cut her stuff differently. Beautiful sons, loving husbands, responsible fathers, these are what she wants, and if we are friends it must be in our spare time. Abraham and Sarai were sorrowful, yet their seed became as sand of the sea and distracts the politics of Europe at this moment. But a few verses of poetry is all that survives of David and Jonathan. I wish we were labelled, said Ricky. He wished that all the confidence and mutual knowledge that is born in such a place as Cambridge could be organized. People went down into the world saying, We know unlike each other we shan't forget. But they did forget, for man is so made that he cannot remember long without a symbol. He wished there was a society, a kind of friendship office where the marriage of true minds could be registered. Why labelled? To know each other again. I have taught you pessimism splendidly. He looked at his watch. What time? Not twelve. Ricky got up. Why go? He stretched out his hand and caught hold of Ricky's ankle. I've got that Miss Pembroke to lunch. That girl whom you say never's there. Then why go? All this week you have pretended Miss Pembroke awaited you. Wednesday Miss Pembroke to lunch. Thursday Miss Pembroke to tea. Now again, and you didn't even invite her. To Cambridge no, but the whole man they're stopping with has so many engagements that she and her friend can often come to me. I'm glad to say. I don't think I ever told you much, but over two years ago the man she was going to marry was killed at football. She nearly died of grief. This visit to Cambridge is almost the first amusement she has felt up to taking. Oh, they go back to-morrow. Give me breakfast to-morrow. All right. But I shall see you this evening. I shall be rounded to your paper on Scopenhauer. Let me go. Don't go. He said idly. It's much better for you to talk to me. Let me go, Stuart. It's amusing that you're so feeble. You simply can't get away. I wish I wanted to bully you. Ricky laughed and suddenly overbalanced into the grass. Ansel with unusual playfulness held him prisoner. They lay there for a few minutes, talking and ragging aimlessly. Then Ricky seized his opportunity and jerked away. Go, go! yawned the other. But he was a little vexed, for he was a young man with a great capacity for pleasure, and it pleased him that morning to be with his friend. The thought of two ladies waiting lunch did not deter him. Stupid women, why shouldn't they wait? Why should they interfere with their betters? With his ear on the ground he listened to Ricky's departing steps and thought, he wastes a lot of time keeping engagements. Why will he be pleasant to fools? And then he thought, why has he turned so unhappy? It isn't as it he is a philosopher or tries to solve the riddle of existence, and he's got money of his own. Thus thinking he fell asleep. Meanwhile, Ricky hurried away from him and slackened and stopped and hurried again. He was due at the union in ten minutes, but he could not bring himself there. He dared not meet Miss Pembroke. He loved her. The devil must have planned it. They had started so gloriously, she had been a goddess both in joy and sorrow. She was a goddess still. But he had thrown the god whom once he had glorified equally. Slowly, slowly the image of Gerald had faded. That was the first step. Ricky 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. Through her he kept Cambridge in its proper place and lived as a citizen of the great world. But one night he dreamt that she lay in his arms. This displeased him. He determined to think a little about Gerald instead. Then the fabric collapsed. It was hard on Ricky thus to meet the devil. He did not deserve it for he was comparatively civilized and knew that there was nothing shameful in love. But to love this woman if only it had been anyone else. Love in return that he could expect from no one being too ugly and too unattractive. But the love he offered would not then have been vile. The insult to Miss Pembroke, who was consecrated and whom he had consecrated, who could still see Gerald and always would see him shining on his everlasting throne, this was the crime from the devil, the crime that no penance would ever purge. She knew nothing. She never would know. But the crime was registered in heaven. He had been tempted to confide in Ansel. But to what purpose? He would say, I love Miss Pembroke. And Stewart would reply, you ass. And then I'm never going to tell her. You ass, again. After all, it was not a practical question. Agnes would never hear of his fall. If his friend had been, as he expressed it, labeled, if he had been a father or still better a brother, one might tell him of the discreditable passion. But why irritate him for no reason? Thinking, I am always angling for sympathy. I must stop myself. He hurried onward to the union. He found his guests halfway up the stairs reading the advertisements of coaches for the long vacation. He heard Mrs. Lewin say, I wonder what he'll end by doing. A little overacting his part, he apologized nonchalantly for his lateness. It's always the same! cried Agnes. Last time he forgot I was coming all together. She wore a flowered muslin, something indescribably liquid and cool. It reminded him a little of those swift piercing streams, neither blue nor green, that gush out of the Dalmites. Her face was clear and brown, like the face of a mountaineer. Her hair was so plentiful, that it seemed banked up above it, and her little toque, though it answered the note of the dress, was almost ludicrous, poised on so much natural glory. When she moved, the sunlight flashed on her earrings. He led them up to the luncheon room. By now he was conscious of his limitations as a host, and never attempted to entertain ladies in his lodgings. Moreover, the union seemed less intimate. It had a faint flavor of a London club. It marked the undergraduate's nearest approach to the great world. Amid its waiters and serviettes, one felt impersonal, and able to conceal the private emotions. Bricky felt that if Miss Pambroke knew one thing about him, she knew everything. During this visit he took her to no place that he greatly loved. Sit down, ladies. Fall, too. I'm sorry. I was out towards cotton with a dreadful friend. Mrs. Lewin pushed up her veil. She was a typical May-term chaperone, always pleasant, always hungry, and always tired. Year after year she came up to Cambridge in a tight silk dress, and year after year she nearly died of it. Her feet hurt, her limbs were cramped in a canoe, black spots danced before her eyes from eating too much mayonnaise. But still she came, if not as a mother as an aunt, if not as an aunt as a friend. Still she ascended the roof of King's. Still she counted the balls of Clare. Still she was on the point of grasping the organization of the May-races. And who is your friend? She asked. His name is Ansel. Well, now, did I see him two years ago as a bed-maker in something they did at the Footlights? Oh, how I roared. You didn't see Mr. Ansel at the Footlights? said Agnes, smiling. How do you know? asked Ricky. He'd scarcely be so frivolous. Do you remember seeing him? For a moment. What a memory she had, and how splendidly during that moment she had behaved. Isn't he marvelously clever? I believe so. Oh, give me clever people! cried Mrs. Lewin. They are kindness itself at the hall, but I assure you I am depressed at times. One cannot talk bump-rowing forever. I never hear about him, Ricky, but isn't he really your greatest friend? I don't go in for greatest friends. What do you mean you like us all equally? All differently, those of you I like. Ah, you've caught it! cried Mrs. Lewin. Mr. Elliott gave it you there well. Agnes laughed, and her elbows on the table regarded them both through her fingers, a habit of hers. Then she said, Can't we see the great Mr. Ansel? Oh, let's, or would he frighten me? He would frighten you. Said Ricky. Is a trifle weird? My good Ricky, if you knew the deathly dullness of Swastin, everyone is saying the proper thing at the proper time. I, so proper, Herbert, so proper. Why, weirdness is the one thing I long for. Do arrange something. I'm afraid there's no opportunity. Ansel goes with some vast bicycle ride this afternoon. This evening you're tied up at the hall, and tomorrow you go. But there's breakfast tomorrow, said Agnes. Look here, Ricky, bring Mr. Ansel to breakfast with us at boys. Mrs. Lewin seconded the invitation. Bad luck again, said Ricky boldly. I'm already fixed up for breakfast. I'll tell him of your very kind intention. Let's have him alone, murmured Agnes. My dear girl, I should die through the floor. Oh, it'll be all right about breakfast. I rather think we shall get asked this evening by that shy man who has the pretty rooms in Trinity. Oh, very well. Where is it you breakfast, Ricky? He faltered. To Ansel's, it is. It seemed as if he was making some great admission. So self-conscious was he that he thought the two women exchanged glances. Had Agnes already explored that part of him that did not belong to her? Would another chance step reveal the part that did? He asked them abruptly what they would like to do after lunch. Anything, said Mrs. Lewin, anything in the world. A walk, a boat, a lee, a drive. Some objection was raised to each. To tell the truth, she said at last, I do feel a wee bit tired. And what occurs to me is this. You and Agnes shall leave me here and have no more bother. I shall be perfectly happy, snoozzling in one of these delightful drawing-room chairs. Do what you like and then pick me up after it. Alas, it's against regulations, said Ricky. The Union won't trust lady visitors on its premises alone. But who's to know I'm alone? With a lot of men in the drawing-room, how's each to know that I'm not with the others? That would shock Ricky, said Agnes, laughing, his frightfully high-principled. No, I'm not, said Ricky, thinking of his recent shiftiness over breakfast. Then come for a walk with me, I want to exercise. Some connection of ours was once rector of Maddingley. I shall walk out and see the church. Miss Lewin was accordingly left in the Union. This is Jolly, Agnes exclaimed, as she strode along the somewhat depressing road that leads out of Cambridge, past the observatory. Do I go too fast? No, thank you, I get stronger every year. If it wasn't for the look of the thing, I should be quite happy. But you don't care for the look of the thing, it's only ignorant people who do that, surely? Perhaps, I care. I like people who are well-made and beautiful. They are of some use in the world. I understand why they are there. I cannot understand why the ugly and crippled are there, however healthy they may feel inside. Don't you know how Turner spoils his pictures by introducing a man like a bolster in the foreground? Well, in actual life every landscape is spoiled by men of worse shape still. You sound like a bolster with a stuffing out. They laughed. She always blew his cobwebs away like this, with a puff of humorous mountain air. Just now the associations he attached to her were various. She reminded him of a heroine of Meredith's, but a heroine at the end of the book. All had been written about her. She had played her mighty part and knew that it was over. He and he alone was not content and wrote for her a daily, a trivial and impossible sequel. Last time they had talked about Gerald. But that was some six months ago when things felt easier. Today Gerald was the faintest blur. Fortunately the conversation turned to Mr. Pembroke and to education. Did women lose a lot by not knowing Greek? A heap, said Ricky roughly. But modern languages. Thus they got to Germany which he had visited last Easter with Ansel, and thence to the German Emperor and what it to do he made and from him to our own king, still Prince of Wales, who had lived while an undergraduate at Maddingley Hall. Here it was and all the time he thought, it is hard on her. She has no right to be walking with me. She would be ill with disgust if she knew. It is hard on her to be loved. They looked at the hall and went inside the pretty little church. Some Arundel prints hung upon the pillars and Agnes expressed the opinion that pictures inside a place of worship were a pity. Ricky did not agree with this. He said again that nothing beautiful was ever to be regretted. You're cracked on beauty. She whispered there were still inside the church. Do hurry up and write something. Something beautiful? I believe you can. I'm going to lecture you seriously all the way home. Take care that you don't waste your life. They continued the conversation outside. But I've got to hate my own writing. I believe that most people come to that stage not so early, though. What I write is too silly. It can't happen. For instance, a stupid vulgar man is engaged to a lovely young lady. He wants her to live in the towns, but she only cares for woods. She shocks him this way and that, but gradually he tames her and makes her nearly as dull as he is. One day she has a last explosion over the snobby wedding presents and flies out of the drawing-room window shouting, Freedom and truth! Near the house is a little dell full of fir trees and she runs into it. He comes there the next moment, but she's gone. Offly exciting? Where? Oh, Lord, she's a dried! cried Ricky in great disgust. She's turned into a tree. Ricky, it's very good indeed. The kind of thing has something in it. Of course you get it all through Greek and Latin. How upset the man must be when he sees the girl turn. He doesn't see her. He never guesses. Such a man could never see a dried. So you describe how she turns just before he comes up? No. Indeed, I don't ever say that she does turn. I don't use the word dried once. I think you ought to put that part plainly, otherwise with such an original story, people might miss the point. Have you had any luck with it? Magazines? I haven't tried. I know what the stuff's worth. You see, a year or two ago I had a great idea of getting into touch with nature, just as the Greeks were in touch, and seeing England so beautiful, I used to pretend that her trees and coppices and summer fields of parsley were alive. It's funny enough now, but it wasn't funny then. For I got in such a state that I believed—actually believed—that fawns lived in a certain double hedgerow near the Cognagogs, and one evening I walked a mile sooner than go through it alone. Good gracious! She laid her hand on his shoulder. He moved to the other side of the road. It's all right now. I've changed those follies for others. But while I had them I began to write, and even now I keep on writing, though I know better. I've got quite a pile of little stories all harping on this ridiculous idea of getting into touch with nature. I wish you weren't so modest. It's simply splendid as an idea. Though—but tell me about the dried who was engaged to be married. What was she like? I can show you the dell in which the young person disappeared. We pass it on the right in a moment. It does seem a pity that you don't make something of your talents. It seems such a waste to write little stories and never publish them. You must have enough for a book. Life is so full in our days that short stories are the very thing. They get read by people who'd never tackle a novel. For example, at our Dorcas we tried to read out a long affair by Henry James. Herbert saw it recommended in the Times. There was no doubt it was very good, but one simply couldn't remember from one week to another what had happened. So now our aim is to get something that just lasts the hour. I take you seriously, Ricky, and that is why I am so offensive. You are too modest. People who think they can do nothing so often do nothing. I want you to plunge. It thrilled him like a trumpet blast. She took him seriously. Could he but thank her for her divine affability. But the words would stick in his throat, or worse still would bring other words along with them. His breath came quickly, for his seldom spoke of his writing, and no one, not even Anzo, had advised him to plunge. But do you really think that I could take up literature? Why not? You can try. Even if you fail, you can try. Of course we think you tremendously clever, and I met one of your dons at tea, and he said that your degree was not in the least a proof of your abilities. He said that you knocked up and got floored in examinations. Oh! her cheek flushed. I wish I was a man. The whole world lies before them. They can do anything. They aren't cooped up with servants, and tea parties, and twaddle. But where's this dell where the dryer disappeared? We've passed it. He had meant to pass it. It was too beautiful. All he had read, all he had hoped for, all he had loved seemed to quiver in its enchanted air. It was perilous. He dared not enter it with such a woman. How long ago? She turned back. I don't want to miss the dell. Here it must be. She added after a few moments and sprang up the green bank that hid the entrance from the road. Oh! what a jolly place! Go right in, if you want to see it. Said Ricky, and did not offer to go with her. She stood for a moment looking at the view, for a few steps will increase a view in Cambridgeshire. The wind blew her dress against her. Then, like a cataract again, she vanished, pure and cool, into the dell. The young man thought of her feelings no longer. His heart throbbed louder and louder, and seemed to shake him to pieces. Ricky! She was calling from the dell. For an answer he sat down where he was on the dust-besbattered margin. She could call as loud as she liked. The devil had done much, but he should not take him to her. Ricky! And it came with the tones of an angel. He drove his fingers into his ears and invoked the name of Gerald. But there was no sign, neither angry motion in the air, nor hint of January missed. June. Fields of June. Sky of June. Songs of June. Grass of June beneath him. Grass of June over the tragedy he had deemed immortal. A bird called out of the dell. Ricky! A bird flew into the dell. Did you take me for the dryad? She asked. She was sitting down with his head on her lap. He had laid it there for a moment before he went out to die, and she had not let him take it away. I prayed you might not be a woman. He whispered, Darling, I am very much a woman. I do not vanish into groves and trees. I thought you would never come. Did you expect? I hoped. I called, hoping. Inside the dell it was neither June or January. The chalk walls barred out the seasons and the fir trees did not seem to feel their passage. Only from time to time the odours of summer slipped in from the wood above to comment on the waxing year. She bent down to touch him with her lips. He started and cried passionately. Never forget that your greatest thing is over. I have forgotten. I am too weak. You shall never forget. What I said to you then is greater than what I say to you now. What he gave you then is greater than anything you will get from me. She was frightened. Again she had the sense of something abnormal. Then she said, What is all this nonsense? And folded him in her arms. CHAPTER VIII. OF THE LONGEST JOURNEY. By E. M. Forster. CHAPTER VIII. Ansel stood looking at his breakfast table, which was late for four instead of two. His bed-maker, equally peevish, explained how it had happened. Last night at one in the morning the porter had been awoke with a note for the kitchens, and in that note Mr. Eliot said that all these things were to be sent to Mr. Ansel's. The fools have sent the original order as well. Here's the lemon soul for two. I can't move her food. The notes being ambiguous. The kitchens judged best to send it all. She spoke of the kitchens in a half-respectful, half-pitying way, much as one speaks of Parliament. Who's to pay for it? He peeped into the new dishes. Kidneys entombed in an omelet, hot roast chicken in watery gravy, a glazed but pallid pie. And who's to wash it up? said the bed-maker to her help outside. Ansel had disputed late last night concerning Schopenhauer and was a little cross and tired. He bounced over to Tillard, who kept opposite. Tillard was eating gooseberry jam. Did Eliot ask you to breakfast with me? No? said Tillard mildly. Well, you'd better come and bring everyone you know. So Tillard came, bearing himself a little formally, for he was not very intimate with his neighbour. Out of the window they called to Winterington, but he laid his hand on his stomach, thus indicating it was too late. Who's to pay for it? repeated Ansel, as a man appeared from the buttery carrying coffee in a bright tintre. College coffee, how nice! remarked Tillard, who was cutting the pie. But before term ends you must come and try my new machine, my sister gave it to me. There is a bulb at the top and as the water boils. He might have counterordered the lemon-soul, that's Ricky all over, violently economical, and then loses his head and all the things go bad. Give them to the batter while they're hot. This was done. She accepted them dispassionately with the air of one who lives without nourishment. Tillard continued to describe his sister's coffee machine. What's that? They could hear panting and rustling on the stairs. It sounds like a lady. Said Tillard, fearfully. He slipped the piece of pie back. It fell into position like a brick. Is it here? Am I right? Is it here? The door opened and in came Mrs. Levine. Oh, horrors! I've made a mistake. That's all right, said Ansel awkwardly. I wanted Mr. Elliot. Where are they? We expect Mr. Elliot every moment, said Tillard. Don't tell me I'm right, cried Mrs. Levine, and that you're the terrifying Mr. Ansel. And with obvious relief she rung Tillard warmly by the hand. I'm Ansel, said Ansel, looking very uncouth and grim. How stupid of me not to know it! She gasped and would have gone on to, I know not what, but the door opened again. It was ricky. Here's Miss Pembroke. He said, I am going to marry her. There was a profound silence. We oughtn't to have done things like this, said Agnes, turning to Mrs. Levine. We have no right to take Mr. Ansel by surprise. It is Ricky's fault. He was that obstinate. He would bring us. He ought to be horse-whipped. He ought indeed, said Tillard pleasantly and bolted. Not till he gained his room did he realize that he had been less apt than usual. As for Ansel, the first thing he said was, Why didn't you counter-order the Lemon Soul? In such a situation Mrs. Levine was of priceless value. She led the way to the table observing. I quite agree with Miss Pembroke. I loathe surprises. Never shall I forget my horror when the knife-boy painted the dove's cage with a dove inside. He did it as a surprise. Poor Parseval nearly died. His feathers were bright green. Well, give me the Lemon Souls, said Ricky. I like them. The betters got them. Well, there you are. What's there to be annoyed about? And while the cage was drying we put him among the Bantams. They had been the greatest allies. But I suppose they took him for a parrot or a hawk, or something that Bantams hate. For while his cage was drying they picked out his feathers and picked and picked out his feathers, till he was perfectly bald. Hugo, look, said I. This is the end of Parseval. Let me have no more surprises. He burst into tears. Thus did Mrs. Levine create an atmosphere. At first it seemed unreal, but gradually they got used to it and breathed scarcely anything else throughout the meal. In such an atmosphere everything seemed of small and equal value, and the engagement of Ricky and Agnes, like the feathers of Parseval, fluttered lightly to the ground. Ansel was generally silent. He was no match for these two quite clever women. Only once was there a hitch. They had been talking gaily enough about the betrothal when Ansel suddenly interrupted with, When is the marriage? Mr. Ansel, said Agnes blushing, I wish you hadn't asked that. That part's dreadful, not for years as far as we can see. But Ricky had not seen as far. He had not talked to her of this at all. Last night they had spoken only of love. He exclaimed, Oh, Agnes, don't. Mrs. Levine laughed roguishly. Why this delay? asked Ansel. Agnes looked at Ricky, who replied, I must get money, worse luck. I thought you got money. He hesitated, and then said, I must get my foot on the ladder, then. Ansel began with, on which ladder? But Mrs. Levine, using the privilege of her sex, exclaimed, Not another word, if there's a thing I abominated is plans. My head goes whirling at once. What she really abominated was questions, and she saw that Ansel was turning serious. To appease him she put on her clever manner and asked him about Germany. How had it impressed him? Were we so totally unfitted to repel invasion? Was not German scholarship overestimated? He replied discordously, but he did reply, and if she could have stopped him thinking, her triumph would have been complete. When they rose to go, Agnes held Ansel's hand for a moment in her own. Goodbye, she said. It was very unconventional of us to come as we did, but I don't think any of us are conventional people. He only replied, goodbye. The lady started off. Ricky lingered behind to whisper, I would have it so. I would have you begin square together. I can't talk yet. I've loved her for years. I can't think what she's done it for. I'm going to write short stories. I shall start this afternoon. She declares there may be something in me. As soon as he had left, Tillard burst in white with agitation and crying, Did you see my awful faux pas about the horse whip? What shall I do? I must call an Elliot, or had I better write? Miss Pembroke will not mind, said Ansel gravely. She is unconventional. He knelt in an armchair and hid his face in the back. It was like a bomb, said Tillard. It was meant to be. I do feel a fool. What must she think? Never mind, Tillard, you've not been as big a fool as myself. At all events you told her he must be horse-whipped. Tillard hummed a little tune. He hated anything nasty, and there was nastiness in Ansel. What did you tell her? He asked. Nothing. What do you think of it? I think. Damn those women. Ah, yes. One hates one's friends to yet engaged. It makes one feel so old. I think that is one of the reasons. The brother just above me has lately married and my sister was quite sick about it, though the thing was suitable in every way. Damn these women, then. said Ansel, bouncing round in the chair. Damn these particular women. They looked and spoke like ladies. Exactly. Their diplomacy was ladylike. Their lies were ladylike. They've caught Elliot in a most ladylike way. I saw it all during the one moment we were natural. Generally we were clattering after the married one, whom, like a fool, I took for a fool. But for one moment we were natural, and during that moment Miss Pembroke told a lie and made Ricky believe it was the truth. What did she say? She said, We see, instead of I see. Tillard burst into laughter. This jaundiced young philosopher, with his kinky view of life, was too much for him. She said, We see, repeated Ansel, instead of I see, and she made him believe that it was the truth. She caught him and makes him believe that he caught her. She came to see me and makes him think that it is his idea. That is what I mean when I say that she is a lady. You are too subtle for me. My dull eyes could only see two happy people. I never said they weren't happy. Then, my dear Ansel, why are you so caught up? It's beastly when a friend marries and I grant he's rather young, but I should say it's the best thing for him. A decent woman, and you have proved not one thing against her. A decent woman will keep him up to the mark and stop him getting slack. She'll make him responsible and manly. For much as I like Ricky, I always find him a little effeminate. And really? His voice grew sharper, for he was irritated by Ansel's conceit, and really you talk as if you were mixed up in the affair. They pay a civil visit to your rooms, and you see nothing but dark plots and challenges to war. War! cried Ansel, crashing his fists together. It's war, then! Oh, what a lot of tummy-rot! said Tillard. Can't a man and a woman get engaged? My dear boy, excuse me talking like this. What on earth is it to do with us? We're his friends, and I hope we always shall be, but we shall't keep his friendship by fighting. We're bound to fall into the background. Wife first, friends some way after. You may resent the order, but it is ordained by nature. The point is not what's ordained by nature or any other fool, but what's right. You are hopelessly unpractical, said Tillard turning away, and let me remind you that you've already given away your case by acknowledging that they're happy. She is happy because she has conquered. He is happy because he has, at last, hung all the world's beauty onto a single peg. He was always trying to do it. He used to call the peg humanity. Will either of these happinesses last? He's can't. Her is only for a time. I fight this woman not only because she fights me, but because I foresee the most appalling catastrophe. She wants Ricky, partly to replace another man whom she lost two years ago, partly to make something out of him. He is to write. In time she will get sick of this. He won't get famous. She will only see how thin he is and how lame. She will long for a jollier husband, and I don't blame her. And, having made him thoroughly miserable and degraded, she will bolt, if she can do it, like a lady. CHAPTER IX. THE LONGEST JOURNEY by E. M. Forster. Red for you by Julie Pandia. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. To find out more, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. THE LONGEST JOURNEY CHAPTER IX. SEVEN LETTERS WRITTEN IN JUNE. CAMPBRIDGE. DEAR RICKY. I would rather write, and you can guess what kind of letter this is when I say it is a fair copy. I have been making rough drafts all the morning. When I talk I get angry, and also at times try to be clever, to reasons why I fail to get detention paid to me. This is a letter of the prudent sort. If it makes you break off the engagement, its work is done. You are not a person who ought to marry at all. You are unfitted in body, that we once discussed. You are also unfitted in soul. You want, and you need to, like many people, and a man of that sort ought not to marry. You never were attached to that great sect, who can like one person only, and if you try to enter it you will find destruction. I have read in books, and I cannot afford to despise books. They are all that I have to go by, that men and women desire different things. Man wants to love mankind. Women wants to love one man. When she has him her work is over. She is the emissary of nature, and nature's bidding has been fulfilled. But man does not care a damn for nature, or at least only a very little damn. He cares for a hundred things besides, and the more civilized he is the more he will care for these other hundred things, and demand not only a wife and children, but also friends and work, and spiritual freedom. I believe you to be extraordinarily civilized. Yours ever, S.A. Shelthorpe, 9 Sauston Park Road, Sauston. Dear Ansel, But I am in love, a detail you forgotten. I can't listen to English essays. The wretched Agnes may be an emissary of nature, but I only grinned when I read it. I may be extraordinarily civilized, but I don't feel so. I am in love, and I found a woman to love me, and I mean to have the hundred other things as well. She wants me to have them—friends and work, and spiritual freedom, and everything. You and your books miss this, because your books are too sedate. Read poetry, not only Shelley. Understand Beatrice, and Clara Middleton, and Roon Hild in the first scene of Gautre Damerung. Understand Gerta when he says, The eternal feminine leads us on, and don't write another English essay. Yours ever affectionately, R.E. Cambridge. Dear Ricky, what am I to say? Understand Zanthippe, and Mrs. Benet, and Elsa, and the question scene of Loan Green. Understand Euripides when he says, The eternal feminine leads us pretty dance. I shall say nothing of the sort. The illusions in this English essay shall not be literary. My personal objections to Miss Pembroke are as follows. One, she is not serious. Two, she is not truthful. Shelthorpe. Nine, Sauston Park Road, Sauston. My dear Stuart. You couldn't know. I didn't know for a moment. Yours is the most wonderful thing that has ever happened to me yet. More wonderful—I don't exaggerate—than the moment when Agnes promised to marry me. I always knew you liked me, but I never knew how much until this letter. Up to now I think we have been too much like the strong heroes in books who feel so much and say so little, and feel all the more for saying so little. Now that's over, and we shall never be that kind of an ass again. We've hit, by accident, upon something permanent. You've written to me. I hate the woman who will be your wife, and I write back. Hate her. Can't I love you both? She will never come between us, Stuart. She wouldn't wish to, but that's by the way, because our friendship is now passed beyond intervention. No third person could break it. We couldn't ourselves, I fancy. We may quarrel and argue till one of us dies, but the thing is registered. I only wish, dear man, you could be happier. For me it's as if a light was suddenly held behind the world. R.E. Shelthorpe. 9 Sauston Park Road, Sauston. Dear Mrs. Lewin. The time goes flying, but I am getting to learn my wonderful boy. We speak a great deal about his work. He has just finished a curious thing called Nami about a Roman ship that is actually sunk in some lake. I cannot think how he describes the things when he has never seen them. If, as I hope, he goes to Italy next year, he should turn out something really good. Meanwhile, we are hunting for a publisher. Herbert believes that a collection of short stories is hard to get published. It is, after all, better to write one long one. But you must not think we only talk books. What we say on other topics cannot so easily be repeated. Oh, Mrs. Lewin, he is a dear, and dearer than ever now that we have him at Sauston. Herbert, in a quiet way, has been making inquiries about those Cambridge friends of his. Nothing against them, but they seem to be terribly eccentric. None of them are good at games, and they spend all their spare time thinking and discussing. They discuss what one knows, and what one never will know, and what one had much better not to know. Herbert says it is because they have not got enough to do. Ever your great and affectionate friend, Agnes Pembroke. Dear Mr. Silt, thank you for the congratulations, which I have handed over to the delighted Ricky. The congratulations were really addressed to Agnes, a social blunder which Mr. Pembroke deftly corrects. I am sorry that the rumor reached you, that I was not pleased. Anything pleases me that promises my sister's happiness, and I have known your cousin nearly as long as you have. It will be a very long engagement, for he must make his way first. The dear boy is not nearly as wealthy as he is supposed. Having no tastes, and hardly any expenses, he used to talk as if he were a millionaire. He must at least double his income before he can dream of more intimate ties. This has been a bitter pill, but I am glad to say that they have accepted it bravely. Hoping that you and Mrs. Silt will profit by your week at Margate, I remain yours very sincerely, Herbert Pembroke. Cat over, Wilts. Dear Miss Pembroke Agnes, I hear that you are going to marry my nephew. I have no idea what he is like, and wonder whether you would bring him that I may find out. Isn't September rather a nice month? You might have to go to Stone-Hedge, but without exception would be left unmolested. I do hope you will manage the visit. We met once at Mrs. Lewins, and I have a very clear recollection of you. Believe me, yours sincerely, Emily Felling. The rain tilted a little from the southwest. 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 labor and glory sufficient? At all events it was the beginning of life pastoral behind which imagination cannot travel. Yet complicated people were getting wet, not only the shepherds. For instance, the piano tuner was sopping. So was the vicar's wife. So were the lieutenant and the peevish damsels in his battle-stone car. Gallantry, charity, and art pursued their various missions, perspiring and muddy, while out on the slopes beyond them stood the eternal man and the eternal dog, guarding eternal sheep until the world is vegetarian. Inside an arbor which faced east, and thus avoided the bad weather, there sat a complicated person who was dry. She looked at the drenched world with a pleased expression and would smile when a cloud would lay down on the village or when the rain sighed louder than usual against her solid shelter. Ink paper clips and full-scat paper were on the table before her, and she could also reach an umbrella, a waterproof, a walking stick, and an electric bell. Her age was between elderly and old, and her forehead was wrinkled with an expression of slight but perpetual pain. But the lines round her mouth indicated that she had laughed a great deal during her life, just as the clean, tight skin around her eyes perhaps indicated that she had not often cried. She was dressed in brown silk. A brown silk shawl lay most becomingly over her beautiful hair. After long thought, she wrote on the paper in front of her. The subject of this memoir first saw the light at Wolverhampton on May 14, 1842. She laid down her pen and said, A robin hopped in and she welcomed him. A sparrow followed and she stamped her foot. She watched some thick white water which was sliding like a snake down the gutter of the gravel path. It had just appeared. It must have escaped from a hollow in the chalk up behind. The earth could absorb no longer. The lady did not think of all this, for she hated questions of whence and wherefore, and the ways of the earth, our dull stepmother, bored her unspeakably. But the water, just the snake of water was amusing, and she flung her collage at it to dam it up. Then she wrote feverishly. The subject of this memoir first saw the light in the middle of the night. It was twenty to eleven. His pa was a parson, but he was not his pa's son, and never went to heaven. There was the sound of a train, and presently white smoke appeared, rising laboriously through the heavy air. It distracted her, and for about a quarter of an hour she sat perfectly still, doing nothing. At last she pushed the spoiled paper aside, took a fresh piece, and was beginning to write, on May the fourteenth, 1842, when there was a crunch on the gravel, and a furious voice said, I am sorry for Flea Thompson. I daresay I am sorry for him too, said the lady, her voice was languid and pleasant. Who is he? Flea is a liar, and the next time we meet he'll be a football. Off slipped a sudden ulster. He hung it up angrily upon a peg. The arbor provided several. But who is he, and why has he that disastrous name? Flea? Fleans. All the thompsons are named out of Shakespeare. He grazes the rings. Ah, I see, a pet lamb. Lamb? Shepherd. One of my shepherds? The last time I go with his sheep, but not the last tune he sees me, I am sorry for him, he dodged me to-day. Do you mean to say, she became animated, that you have been out in the wet keeping the sheep of Flea Thompson? I had to. He blew on his fingers and took off his cap, water trickled over his unshaven cheeks. His hair was so wet that it seemed worked upon his scalp in bronze. Get away, bad dog! Screamed the lady, for he had given himself a shake, and spattered her dress with water. He was a powerful boy of twenty, admirably muscular, but rather too broad for his height. People called him Pudge until they were dissuaded. Then they called him Stefan, or Mr. Juanhem. Then he said, you can call me Pudge if you like. As for Flea, he began tempestuously. He sat down by her and with much heavy breathing told the story. Flea has a girl at Winster's Bridge, and I had to go with his sheep while he went to see her. Two hours we agreed, half an hour to go, an hour to kiss his girl, and half an hour back, and he had my bike. Four hours! Four hours and seven minutes I was on the rings with a full of a dog and sheep doing all they knew to get the turnips. My farm is a mystery to me, said the lady, stroking her fingers. Someday you must really take me to see it. It must be like Gilbert and Sullivan Opera, with a chorus of agitated employers. How is it that I have escaped? Why have I never been summoned to milk the cows, or flay the pigs, or drive the young bullocks to the pasture? He looked at her with astonishingly blue eyes, the only dry things he had about him. He could not see into her, she would have puzzled an older and clever man. He may have seen round her. A thing of beauty you are not, but I sometimes think you are a joy for ever. I beg your pardon. Oh, you understand right enough? She exclaimed irritably, and then smiled, for he was conceited, and did not like being told that he was not a thing of beauty. Large and steady feet, she continued, have this disadvantage, you can knock down a man, but you will never knock down a woman. I don't know what you mean, I'm not likely. Oh, never mind, never, never mind, I was being funny. I repent. Tell me about the sheep. Why did you go with them? I did tell you, I had to. But why? He had to see his girl. But why? His eyes shot past her again. It was so obvious that the man had to see his girl, for two hours, though, not for four hours, seven minutes. Did you have any lunch? I don't hold with regular meals. Did you have a book? I don't hold with books in the open, none of the older men read. Did you commune with yourself, or don't you hold with that? Oh, Lord, don't ask me. You distress me. You rob the pastoral of its lingering romance. Is there no poetry and no thought in England? Is there no one in all these downs who warbles with eager thought the Doric lay? Chapsing to themselves at times, if you mean that. I dream of Arcady, I open my eyes, Wiltshire, of Amaryllis, Fleethompson's girl, of the pensive shepherd twitching his mantle blue, hue in an ulster. Aren't you sorry for me? May I put in a pipe? By all means, put a pipe in. In return, tell me of what you were thinking for the four hours and the seven minutes. He laughed shyly. He do ask a man such questions. Did you simply waste the time? I suppose so. I thought the Colonel Robert Ingersoll says you must be strenuous. At the sound of this name he whisked open a little cupboard and declaring, I haven't a moment to spare, took out of it a pile of clarion and other reprints, adorned as to their covers with bald or bearded apostles of humanity. Selecting a bald one, he began at once to read, occasionally exclaiming, That's got them. That's knocked Genesis, with similar ejaculations of an aspiring mind. She glanced at the pile. Reren minus the style. Darwin minus the modesty. A comic edition of the Book of Job by Excelsior, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. The Beginning of Life with Diagrams. Angel or Ape by Mrs. Julia P. Chunk. She was amused and wondered idly what was passing within his narrow but not an interesting brain. Did he suppose that he was going to find out? She had tried once herself, but had since subsided into a sprightly orthodoxy. Why didn't he read poetry instead of wasting his time between books like these and a country like that? The cloud parted and the increase of light made her look up. Over the valley she saw a grave sullen down, and on its flanks a little brown smudge, her sheep, together with her shepherd, Fleance Thompson, returned to his duties at last. A trickle of water came through the arbor roof. She shrieked in dismay. That's all right, said her companion moving her chair, but still keeping his place in his book. She dried up the spot on the manuscript, then she wrote, Anthony Eustace Failing. The subject of his memoir was born at Wolverhampton. But she wrote no more. She was fidgety. Another drop fell from the roof, likewise an earwig. She wished she had not been so playful in flinging her galosh into the path. The boy who was overthrowing religion breathed somewhat heavily as he did so. Another earwig. She touched the electric bell. I am going in. She observed. It's far too wet. Again the cloud parted and caused her to add. Weren't you rather kind to flee? But he was deep in the book. He read like a poor person, with lips apart, and a finger that followed the print. At times he scratched his ear or ran his tongue along a straggly blonde moustache. His face had, after all, a certain beauty. At all events the coloring was regal, a steady crimson, from throat to forehead. The sun and the winds had worked on him daily ever since he was born. The face of a strong man, thought the lady, let him thank his stars he isn't a silent strong man, or I'd turn him into the gutter. Suddenly it struck her that he was like an Irish terrier. He worried infinity as if it was a bone. Nashing his teeth he tried to carry the eternal subtleties by violence. As a man he often bored her, for he was always saying and doing the same things. But as a philosopher he really was a joy forever and inexhaustible buffoon. Taking up her pen she began to caricature him. She drew a rabid war and where rabbits were at play in four dimensions. Before she had introduced the principal figure she was interrupted by the footmen. He had come up from the house to answer the bell. On seeing her he uttered a respectful cry. Madame, are you here? I am very sorry. I looked for you everywhere. Mr. Elliot and Miss Pembroke arrived nearly an hour ago. Oh dear, oh dear! exclaimed Mrs. Failing. Take these papers. Where's the umbrella? Mr. Stefan will hold it over me. You hurry back and apologize. Are they happy? Miss Pembroke inquired after you, madame. Have they had tea? Yes, madame. Layton. Yes, sir. I believe you knew she was here all the time. You didn't want to wet your pretty skin. You must not call me she to the servants, said Mrs. Failing as they walked away. She limping with a stick. He holding a great umbrella over her. I will not have it. Then more pleasantly, and don't tell him he lies. We all lie. I knew quite well they were coming by the four-six train. I saw it pass. That reminds me. Another child run over at the Roman crossing. Wish, bang, dead. Oh, my foot! Oh, my foot! My foot! said Mrs. Failing and paused to take a breath. Bad! he asked callously. Layton with bowed head passed them with the manuscript and disappeared among the laurels. The twinge of pain which had been slight passed away and they proceeded, descending a green airless corridor which opened into the gravel drive. Isn't it odd, said Mrs. Failing, that the Greeks should be enthusiastic about laurels, that Apollo should pursue anyone who could possibly turn into such a frightful plant. What do you make of Ricky? Oh, I don't know. Shall I lend you his story to read? He made no reply. Don't you think, Stefan, that a person in your precarious position ought to be civil to my relatives? Sorry, Mrs. Failing. I meant to be civil. I only hadn't anything to say. She laughed. Are you a dear boy? I sometimes wander, or are you a brute? Again he had nothing to say. Then she laughed more mischievously and said, How can you be either when you are a philosopher? Would you mind telling me? I am so anxious to learn what happens to people when they die. Don't ask me. He knew by bitter experience that she was making fun of him. Oh, but I do ask you. Those paper books of yours are so up to date. For instance, what has happened to the child you say was killed on the line? The rain increased. The drops padded hard on the leaves, and outside the corridor men and women were struggling, however stupidly, with the facts of life. Inside it they wrangled. She teased the boy and laughed at his theories and proved that no man can be an agnostic who has a sense of humor. 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. She thought of her distant youth. The world was not so humorous then, but it had been more important. For a moment she respected her companion and determined to vex him no more. They left the shelter of the laurels, crossed the broad drive, and were inside the house at last. She had got quite wet, for the weather would not let her play the simple life with impunity. As for him, he seemed a piece of the wet. Look here! She cried as he hurried up to his attic. Don't shave! He was delighted with the permission. I have an idea that Miss Pembroke is of the type that pretends to be unconventional and really isn't. I want to see how she takes it. Don't shave! In the drawing room she could hear the guests conversing in the subdued tones of those who have not been welcomed. Having changed her dress and glanced at the poems of Milton, she went to them with uplifted hands of apology and horror. But I must have tea, she announced, when they had assured her that they understood. Otherwise I shall start by being cross. Agnes, stop me, give me tea. Agnes, looking pleased, moved to the table and served her hostess. Ricky followed with a pagoda of sandwiches and little cakes. I feel twenty-seven years younger. Ricky, you are so like your father. I feel it is twenty-seven years ago and that he is bringing your mother to see me for the first time. It is curious, almost terrible, to see history repeating itself. The remark was not tactful. I remember that visit well. She continued thoughtfully. I suppose it was a wonderful visit, though we none of us knew it at the time. We all fell in love with your mother. I wish she would have fallen in love with us. She couldn't bear me, could she? I never heard her say so, Aunt Emily. No, she wouldn't. I am sure your father said so, though. My dear boy, don't look so shocked. Your father and I hated each other. He said so, I said so. I say so, say so, too. Then we shall start fair. Just a coconut cake. Agnes, don't you agree that it's always best to speak out? Oh, rather, Mrs. Failing, but I am shockingly straightforward. So am I, said the lady. I like to get down to the bedrock. Hello, slippers? Slippers in the drawing-room. A young man had come in silently. Agnes observed with a feeling of regret that he had not shaved. Ricky, after a moment's hesitation, remembered who it was and shook hands with him. You've grown since I saw you last. He showed his teeth amiably. How long was that? asked Mrs. Failing. Three years, wasn't it? Come over from the end-cells, friends. How disgraceful, Ricky, why don't you come and see me oftener? He could not retort that she never asked him. Agnes will make you come. Oh, let me introduce Mr. Wanham, Ms. Pembroke. I am Deputy Hostess, said Agnes. May I give you some tea? Thank you, but I have had a little beer. It is one of the shepherds, said Mrs. Failing in low tones. Agnes smiled rather wildly. Mrs. Lewin had warned her that Cadover was an extraordinary place, and that one must never be astonished at anything. A shepherd in the drawing-room! No harm! Still one ought to know whether it was a shepherd or not. At all events he was in gentlemen's clothing. She was anxious not to start with a blunder, and therefore did not talk to the young fellow, but tried to gather what he was from the demeanor of Ricky. I am sure, Mrs. Failing, that you need not talk of making people come to Cadover. There will be no difficulty, I should say. Thank you, my dear. Do you know who once said those exact words to me? Who? Ricky's mother. Did she really? My sister-in-law was a dear. You will have heard Ricky's praises, but now you must hear mine. I never knew a woman who was so unselfish and yet had such capacities for life. Does one generally exclude the other? Asked Ricky. Unselfish people, as a rule, are deathly dull. They have no colour. They think of other people because it is easier. They give money because they are too stupid, or too idle to spend it properly on themselves. That was the beauty of your mother. She gave away, but she also spent on herself, or tried to. The light faded out of the drawing-room, in spite of it being September and only half past six. From her low chair Agnes could see the trees by the drive, black against a blackening sky. That drive was half a mile long, and she was praising its graveled surface when Ricky called in a voice of alarm. I say, when did our train arrive? Four-six. I said so. It arrived at four-six on the timetable, said Mr. Wanham. I want to know when it got to the station. I tell you again it was punctual. I tell you, I looked at my watch. I can do no more. Agnes was amazed. Was Ricky mad? A minute ago, and they were boring each other over dogs. What had happened? Now, now, quarreling already? Asked Mrs. Failing. The footman bringing a lamp lit up two angry faces. He says. He says. He says we ran over a child. So you did. You ran over a child in the village at four-seven by my watch. Your train was late. You couldn't have got to the station till four-ten. I don't believe it. We had passed the village by four-seven. Agnes, hadn't we passed the village? It must have been an express that ran over the child. Now is it likely, he appealed to the practical world. Is it likely that the company would run a stopping train and then an express three minutes after it? A child, said Ricky. I can't believe that the train killed a child. He thought of their journey. They were alone in the carriage. As the train slickened speed he had caught her for a moment in his arms. The rain beat on the windows, but they were in heaven. You've got to believe it, said the other and proceeded to rub it in. His healthy, irritable face drew close to Ricky's. Two children were kicking and screaming on the Roman crossing. Your train, being late, came down on them. One of them was pulled off the line, but the other was caught. How will you get out of that? And how will you get out of it? cried Mrs. Failing, turning the tables on him. Where's the child now? What has happened to its soul? You must know, Agnes, that this young gentleman is a philosopher. Oh, drop all that! said Mr. Wanham, suddenly collapsing. Drop it? Where? On my nice carpet? I hate philosophy. remarked Agnes, trying to turn the subject, for she saw that it made Ricky unhappy. So do I, but I dare not say so before Stefan. He despises us women. No, I don't. said the victim, swaying to and fro on the windowsill, with her he had retreated. Yes, he does. He won't even trouble to answer us. Stefan, Podge, answer me. What has happened to the child's soul? He flung open the window and lent from them into the dusk. They heard him mutter something about a bridge. What did I tell you? He won't answer my question. The delightful moment was approaching when the boy would lose his temper, and she knew it by a certain tremor in his heels. There wants a bridge. He exploded. A bridge instead of all this rotten talk and the level crossing. It wouldn't break you to build a two-arch bridge. Then the child's soul, as you call it well, nothing would have happened to the child at all. August of night air entered, accompanied by rain. The flowers in the vases rustled, and the flame of the lamp shot up and smoked the glass. Slightly irritated she ordered him to close the window. Chapter 11 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 11. Cadover was not a large house. But it is the largest house with which this story has dealings, and must always be thought of with respect. It was built about the year 1800, and favor the architecture of ancient Rome, chiefly, by means of five-lank pilasters, which stretched from the top of it to the bottom. Between the pilasters was the glass front door, to the right of them the drawing-room windows, to the left of them the windows of the dining room, above them a triangular area which the better-class servants knew as a pendiment, and which had in its middle a small round hole according to the usage of Palladio. The classical note was also sustained by eight gray steps, which led from the building down into the drive, and by an attempt at a formal garden on the adjoining lawn. The lawn ended in a ha-ha, ha-ha who shall regard it, and then so the bare land sloped down into the village. The main garden, walled, was to the left as one faced the house, while to the right was that laurel avenue leading up to Mrs. Failing's Arbor. It was a comfortable but not very attractive place, and, to a certain type of mind, its situation was not attractive either. From the distance it showed as a gray box, huddled against evergreens. There was no mystery about it. You saw it for miles. Its hill had none of the beatling romance of Devonshire, none of the subtle contours that prelude a cottage in Kent, but proffered its burden crudely on a huge bare palm. There's Caddover, visitors would say, how small it still looks, which shall be late for lunch. And the view from the windows, though extensive, would not have been accepted by the Royal Academy. A valley, containing a stream, a road, a railway, over the valley fields of Barley and Warzel, divided by no pretty hedges, and passing into a great and formless down, this was the outlook desolate at all times and almost terrifying beneath a cloudy sky. The down was called Cadbury Range. Cocoa squares, if you were young and funny, because high upon it, one cannot say on the top, there being scarcely any tops in Wiltshire, because high upon it there stood a double circle of entrenchments. A bank of grass enclosed a ring of turnips, which enclosed a second bank of grass, which enclosed more turnips, and in the middle of the pattern grew one small tree. British, Roman, Saxon, Danish—the competent reader will decide. The Thumpsin family knew it to be far older than the Franco-German War. It was the property of government. It was full of gold and dead soldiers who had fought with the soldiers on Castle Rings and been beaten. The road to Londonium, having forwarded the stream and crossed the valley road and the railway, passed up by these entrenchments. The road to London lay half a mile to the right of them. To complete this survey one must mention the church and the farm, both of which lay over the stream in Catford. Between them they ruled the village, one claiming the souls of the labourers, the other their bodies. If a man desired other religion or other employment he must leave. The church lay up by the railway, the farm was down by the water meadows. The vicar, a gentle charitable man scarcely realized his power and never tried to abuse it. Mr. Wilbram, the agent, was of another mold. He knew his place and kept others to theirs. All societies seemed spread before him like a map. The line between the county and the local, the line between the labourer and the artisan, he knew them all and strengthened them with no uncertain touch. Everything with him was graduated, carefully graduated civility towards his superior, towards his inferior is carefully graduated in civility. So, for he was a thoughtful person, so alone declared he could things be kept together. Perhaps the comic muse to whom so much is now attributed had caused his estate to be left to Mr. Failing. Mr. Failing was the author of some brilliant books on socialism. That was why his wife married him. And for twenty-five years he reigned up at Cadover and tried to put his theories into practice. He believed that things could be kept together by accenting the similarities, not the differences, of men. We are all much more alike than we confess, was one of his favorite speeches. As a speech it sounded very well and his wife had applauded, but when it resulted in hard work, evenings in the reading rooms, mixed parties and long unobtrusive talks with dull people, she got bored. In her pecan't way she declared that she was not going to love her husband and succeeded. He took it quietly, but his brilliancy decreased. His health grew worse, and he knew that when he died there was no one to carry on his work. He felt, besides, that he had done very little. Toil as he would he had not a practical mind and could never dispense with Mr. Wilbram. For all his tact he would often stretch out the hand of brotherhood too soon or withhold it when it would have been accepted. Most people misunderstood him, or only understood him when he was dead. In after years his reign became a golden age, but he counted a few disciples in his lifetime, a few young laborers and tenant farmers, who swore tempestuously that he was not really a fool. This he told himself was as much as he deserved. Cadover was inherited by his widow. She tried to sell it, she tried to let it, but she asked too much and as it was neither a pretty place nor fertile it was left on her hands. With many a groan she settled down to banishment. Wiltshire people she declared were the stupidest in England. She told them so to their faces which made them no brighter, and their county was worthy of them, no distinction in it, no style, simply land. But her wrath passed, or remained only as a graceful fretfulness. She made the house comfortable and abandoned the farm to Mr. Wilbram. With a good deal of care she selected a small circle of acquaintances and had them to stop in the summer months. In the winter she would go to town and frequent the salons of the literary. As her lameness increased she moved about less and at the time of her nephew's visit seldom left the place that had been forced upon her as a home. Just now she was busy. A prominent politician had quoted her husband. The young generation asked, who is this Mr. Failing? And the publishers wrote, now is the time. She was collecting some essays and penning an introductory memoir. Ricky admired his aunt but did not care for her. She reminded him too much of his father. She had the same affliction, the same heartlessness, the same habit of taking life with a laugh, as if life is a pill. He also felt that she had neglected him. He would not have asked much. As for prospects they had never entered his head, but she was his only near relative and a little kindness in hospitality during the lonely years would have made incalculable difference. Now that he was happier and could bring her agnes and she had asked him to stop at once. The sun as it rose next morning spoke to him of a new life. He too had a purpose and a value in the world at last. Leaning out of the window he gazed at the earth, washed clean, and heard, through the pure air, the distant noises of the farm. But that day nothing was to remain divine but the weather. His aunt, for reasons of her own, decreed that he should go for a ride with the one him boy. They were to look at Old Sarum, proceed thence to Salisbury, launch there, see the sights, call in a certain cannon for tea, and return to Cadover in the evening. The arrangements suited no one. He did not want to ride but to be with Agnes, nor did Agnes want to be parted from him, nor Stefan to go with him. But the clearer the wishes of her guests became, the more determined was Mrs. Failing to disregard them. She smoothed away every difficulty, she converted every objection into a reason, and she ordered the horses for half past nine. It is a bore. He grumbled as he sat in their little private sitting-room, breaking his fingernails upon the coachman's gators. I can't ride, I shall fall off. We should have been so happy here. It's just like Aunt Emily. Can't you imagine her saying afterwards, lovers are absurd. I made a point of keeping them apart, and then everybody laughing. With a pretty foretaste of the future, Agnes knelt before him and did the gators up. Who is this Mr. Wanhem by the by? I don't know, some connection of Mr. Failing's, I think. Does he live here? He used to be at school or something, he seems to have grown into a tiresome person. I suppose that Mrs. Failing has adopted him. I suppose so. I believe that she has been quite kind. I do hope she'll be kind to you this morning. I hate leaving you with her. Why, you say she likes me. Yes, but that wouldn't prevent. You see, she doesn't mind what she says or what she repeats if it amuses her. If she thought it really funny, for instance, to break off our engagement, she'd try. Dear boy, what a frightful remark! But it would be funnier for us to see her trying. Whatever could she do? He kissed the hands that were still busy with the fastenings. Nothing, I can't see one thing. We simply lie open to each other you and I. There isn't one new corner in either of us that she could reveal. It's only that I always have in this house the most awful feeling of insecurity. Why? If anyone says or does a foolish thing, it's always here. All the family breezes have started here. It's a kind of focus for aimed and aimless scandal. You know, when my father and mother had their special quarrel, my aunt was mixed up in it. I never knew how or how much, but you may be sure she didn't calm things down, unless she found things more entertaining calm. Ricky! Ricky! cried the lady from the garden. Your riding master is impatient. We really oughtn't to talk of her like this here, whispered Agnes. It's a horrible habit. The habit of the country, Agnes, this gossip. Suddenly he flung his arms over her. Dear, dear, let's beware of, I don't know what, of nothing at all perhaps. Oh, buck up! yelled the irritable Stefan. Which am I to shorten, left, stirrup, or right? Left! shouted Agnes. How many holes? They hurried down. On the way, she said. I'm glad of the warning. Now I'm prepared. Your aunt will get nothing out of me. Her betrothed, tried to mount with the wrong foot according to his invariable custom. She also had to pick up his whip. At last they started, the boy showing off pretty consistently, and she was left alone with her hostess. Dido is quiet as a lamb, said Mrs. Failing, and Stefan is a good fielder. What a blessing it is to have cleared out the men. What shall you and I do this heavenly morning? I'm game for anything. Have you quite unpacked? Yes. Any letters to write? No. Then let's go to my arbor. No, we won't. It gets the morning sun, and it'll be too hot today. Already she regretted clearing out the men. On such a morning she would have liked to drive, but her third animal had gone lame. She feared, too, that Miss Pembroke was going to bore her. However, they did go to the arbor. In languid tones she pointed out the various objects of interest. There's the cad, which goes into the something which goes into the avon Cadbury Ring's opposite. Cad church to the extreme left, you can't see it. You were there last night. It is famous for the drunken person in the railway station. Then Cad dancy. Then Cad furred the side of the stream connected with Cad over this. Observe the fertility of the wildshire mind. A terrible lot of Cad's, said Agnes brightly. Mrs. Failing divided her guests into those who made this joke, and those who did not. The latter class was very small. The vicar of Cadford, not the nice drunkard, declares the name is really Chadford, and he worried on till I put up a window to St. Chad in our church. His Cambridge wife pronounces it Haidford. I could smack them both. How do you like Pogge? Ah, you jump. I meant you, too. How do you like Pogge won him? Very nice, said Agnes, laughing. Nice? He is a hero. There was a long interval of silence. Each lady looked without much interest at the view. Mrs. Failing's attitude towards nature was severely aesthetic, an attitude more sterile than the severely practical. She applied the test of beauty to shadow and odor and sound. They never filled her with reverence or excitement. She never knew them as a resistless trinity that may intoxicate the worshipper with joy. If she liked a plowed field it was only as a spot of color, not also as a hint of the endless strength of the earth. And today she could approve of one cloud but object to its fellow. As for Miss Pambroke, she was not approving or objecting at all. A hero, she queried, when the interval had passed. Her voice was indifferent as if she had been thinking of other things. A hero, yes, didn't you notice how heroic he was? I don't think I did. Not at dinner? Oh, Agnes, always look out for heroism at dinner. It is their great time. They live up to the stiffness of their shirt fronts. Do you mean to say that you never noticed how he set down Ricky? Oh, about that poetry! said Agnes, laughing. Ricky would not mind it for a moment, but why do you single out that as heroic? To snub people, to set them down, to be rude to them, to make them feel small. Surely that's the lifework of a hero. I shouldn't have said that, and as a matter of fact Mr. Wanhem was wrong over the poetry. I made Ricky look it up afterwards. But, of course, a hero always is wrong. To me she persisted rather gently. A hero has always been a strong, wonderful being, who champions. Ah, wait till you are the dragon. I have been a dragon most of my life, I think. A dragon that wants nothing but a peaceful cave. Then incomes a strong, wonderful, delighted being, and gains a princess by piercing my hide. No, seriously, my dear Agnes, the chief characteristics of a hero are infinite, disregard for the feelings of others, plus general inability to understand them. But surely Mr. Wanhem? Yes, aren't we being unkind to the poor boy? Odd way to go on talking. Agnes waited, remembering the warnings of Ricky and thinking that anything she said might perhaps be repeated. Though even if he was here he wouldn't understand what we are saying. Wouldn't understand? Mrs. Failing gave the least flicker of an eye towards her companion. Did you take him for clever? I don't think I took him for anything. She smiled. I have been thinking of other things, and another boy. But do you think for a moment of Stefan I will describe how he spent yesterday? He rose at eight. From eight to eleven he sang. The song was called, Father's Boots Will Soon Fit Willie. He stopped once to say to the footmen, She'll never finish her book. She idols. She being I. At eleven he went out and stood in the rain till four, but had the luck to see a child run over at the level crossing. By half past four he had knocked the bottom out of Christianity. Agnes looked bewildered. Aren't you impressed? I was. I told him that he was on no account to unsettle the vicar. Open it, cupboard. One of those six penny books tells Pudge that he's made of hard little black things. Another that he's made of brown things, larger and squashy. There seems a discrepancy, but anything is better for a thoughtful youth than to be made in the Garden of Eden. Let us eliminate the poetic at whatever cost, through the probable. When for a moment she spoke more gravely. Here he is at twenty with nothing to hold on by. I don't know what's to be done. I suppose it is my fault, but I've never had any bother over the Church of England, have you? Of course I go with my church, said Miss Pembroke, who hated this style of conversation. I don't know, I'm sure. I think you should consult a man. Would Ricky help me? Ricky would do anything he can. And Mrs. Failing noted the half-official way, in which she vouched for her lover. But of course Ricky is a little complicated. I doubt whether Mr. Wanham would understand him. He wants, doesn't he, someone who's a little more assertive and more custom to boys, someone more like my brother? Agnes. She seized her by the arm. Do you suppose that Mr. Pembroke would undertake my podge? She shook her head. His time is so filled up, he gets a boarding-house next term. Besides, after all I don't know what Herbert would do. Morality. He would teach him morality. The thirty-nine articles may come of themselves, but if you have no morals you come to grief. Morality is all I demand from Mr. Herbert Pembroke. He shall be excused the use of the globes. You know, of course, that Stefan's expelled from a public school. He stole. The school was not a public one, and the expulsion or rather request for removal had taken place when Stefan was fourteen. A violent spasm of dishonesty, such as often heralds the approach of manhood, had overcome him. He stole everything, especially what was difficult to steal, and hid the plunder beneath a loose plank in the passage. He was betrayed by the inclusion of a ham. This was the crisis of his career. His benefactress was just then rather bored with him. He had stopped being a pretty boy, and she rather doubted whether she would see him through. But she was so raged with the letters of the schoolmaster, and so delighted with those of the criminal, that she had him back and gave him a prize. No, said Agnes. I didn't know. I should be happy to speak to Herbert, but, as I said, his time will be very full. But I know he has friends who make a specialty of weakly, or, or unusual boys. My dear, I've tried it. Stefan kicked the weakly boys and robbed apples with the unusual ones. He was expelled again. Agnes began to find Mrs. Failing rather tiresome. Wherever you trod on her, she seemed to slip away from beneath your feet. Agnes liked to know where she was and where other people were as well. She said, My brother thinks a great deal of home life. I dare say he'd think that Mr. Wanham is best where he is with you. You've been so kind to him. You, she paused, have been to him both father and mother. I'm too hot, was Mrs. Failing's reply. It seemed that Miss Pembroke had at last touched a topic in which she was reticent. She rang the electric bell. It was only to tell the footmen to take the reprints to Mr. Wanham's room, and then murmuring something about work proceeded herself to the house. Mrs. Failing said Agnes who had not expected such a speedy end to their chat. Call me Aunt Emily, my dear. Aunt Emily, what do you think of that story Ricky sent you? It is bad, said Mrs. Failing. But, but, but. Then she escaped, having told the truth, and yet leaving a pleasurable impression behind her.