The Longest Journey

by E. M. Forster

  Mrs. Lewin seconded the invitation.

  “Bad luck again,” said Rickie 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, Rickie?”

  He faltered. “To Ansell’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? Ely? 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 snoozling 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 Rickie. “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 Rickie,” said Agnes, laughing. “He’s frightfully high-principled.”

  “No, I’m not,” said Rickie, thinking of his recent shiftiness over breakfast.

  “Then come for a walk with me. I want exercise. Some connection of ours was once rector of Madingley. I shall walk out and see the church.”

  Mrs. 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 spoilt by men of worse shapes still.”

  “You sound like a bolster with the 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 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 Rickie, roughly. But modern languages? Thus they got to Germany, which he had visited last Easter with Ansell; and thence to the German Emperor, and what a to-do he made; and from him to our own king (still Prince of Wales), who had lived while an undergraduate at Madingley 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. Rickie did not agree with this. He said again that nothing beautiful was ever to be regretted.

  “You’re cracked on beauty,” she whispered—they 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 the 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.”

  “Awfully exciting. Where?”

  “Oh Lord, she’s a Dryad!” cried Rickie, in great disgust. “She’s turned into a tree.”

  “Rickie, 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 Dryad.”

  “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 ‘Dryad’ 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 Fauns lived in a certain double hedgerow near the Gog Magogs, 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 Dryad 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, Rickie, 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 he seldom spoke of his writing, and no one, not even Ansell, 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 flurried 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 Dryad 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 Rickie, 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.

  “Rickie!”

  She was calling from the dell. For an answer he sat down where he was, on the dust-bespattered margin. She could call as loud as she liked. The devil had done much, but he should not take him to her.

  “Rickie!”—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 mist. 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: “Rickie!”

  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 to me.”

  “Did you expect—–?”

  “I hoped. I called hoping.”

  Inside the dell it was neither June nor 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.

  8

  Ansell stood looking at his breakfast-table, which was laid for four instead of two. His bedmaker, 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. Elliot said that all these things were to be sent to Mr. Ansell’s.

  “The fools have sent the original order as well. Here’s the lemon-sole for two. I can’t move for food.”

  “The note being ambigerous, 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 omelette, hot roast chicken in watery gravy, a glazed but pallid pie.

  “And who’s to wash it up?” said the bedmaker to her help outside.

  Ansell had disputed late last night concerning Schopenhauer, and was a little cross and tired. He bounced over to Tilliard, who kept opposite. Tilliard was eating gooseberry jam.

  “Did Elliot ask you to breakfast with me?”

  “No,” said Tilliard mildly.

  “Well, you’d better come, and bring every one you know.”

  So Tilliard came, bearing himself a little formally, for he was not very intimate with his neighbour. Out of the window they called to Widdrington. But he laid his hand on his stomach, thus indicating it was too late.

  “Who’s to pay for it?” repeated Ansell, as a man appeared from the Buttery carrying coffee on a bright tin tray.

  “College coffee! How nice!” remarked Tilliard, who was cutting the pie. “But before term ends you must come and try my new machine. My sister gave it me. There is a bulb at the top, and as the water boils—”

  “He might have counter-ordered the lemon-sole. That’s Rickie all over. Violently economical, and then loses his head, and all the things go bad.”

  “Give them to the bedder while they’re hot.” This was done. She accepted them dispassionately, with the air of one who lives without nourishment. Tilliard 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 Tilliard 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. Lewin. “Oh horrors! I’ve made a mistake.”

  “That’s all right,” said Ansell awkwardly.

  “I wanted Mr. Elliot. Where are they?”

  “We expect Mr. Elliot every moment,” said Tilliard.

  “Don’t tell me I’m right,” cried Mrs. Lewin, “and that you’re the terrifying Mr. Ansell.” And, with obvious relief, she wrung Tilliard warmly by the hand.

  “I’m Ansell,” said Ansell, 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 Rickie.

  “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. Lewin. “We have no right to take Mr. Ansell by surprise. It is Rickie’s fault. He was that obstinate. He would bring us. He ought to be horsewhipped.”

  “He ought, indeed,” said Tilliard pleasantly, and bolted. Not till he gained his room did he realize that he had been less apt than usual. As for Ansell, the first thing he said was, “Why didn’t you counter-order the lemon-sole?”

  In such a situation Mrs. Lewin 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 the dove inside. He did it as a surprise. Poor Parsival nearly died. His feathers were bright green!”

  “Well, give me the lemon-soles,” said Rickie. “I like them.”

  “The bedder’s 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 out his feathers, and Picked out his feathers, till he was perfectly bald. ‘Hugo, look,’ said I. ‘This is the end of Parsival. Let me have no more surprises.’ He burst into tears.”

  Thus did Mrs. Lewin 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 Rickie and Agnes, like the feathers of Parsival, fluttered lightly to the ground. Ansell 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 betr
othal when Ansell suddenly interrupted with, “When is the marriage?”

  “Mr. Ansell,” said Agnes, blushing, “I wish you hadn’t asked that. That part’s dreadful. Not for years, as far as we can see.”

  But Rickie 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. Lewin laughed roguishly.

  “Why this delay?” asked Ansell.

  Agnes looked at Rickie, who replied, “I must get money, worse luck.”

  “I thought you’d got money.”

  He hesitated, and then said, “I must get my foot on the ladder, then.”

  Ansell began with, “On which ladder?” but Mrs. Lewin, using the privilege of her sex, exclaimed, “Not another word. If there’s a thing I abominate, it is plans. My head goes whirling at once.” What she really abominated was questions, and she saw that Ansell 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 discourteously, 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 Ansell’s hand for a moment in her own.

  “Good-bye,” 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, “Good-bye.” The ladies started off. Rickie 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, Tilliard burst in, white with agitation, and crying, “Did you see my awful faux pas—about the horsewhip? What shall I do? I must call on Elliot. Or had I better write?”

  “Miss Pembroke will not mind,” said Ansell gravely. “She is unconventional.” He knelt in an arm-chair and hid his face in the back.