Works of E M Forster

by E. M. Forster

  She burst into tears.

  Tears answered her.

  They wept for humanity, those two, not for themselves. They could not bear that this should be the end. Ere silence was completed their hearts were opened, and they knew what had been important on the earth. Man, the flower of all flesh, the noblest of all creatures visible, man who had once made god in his image, and had mirrored his strength on the constellations, beautiful naked man was dying, strangled in the garments that he had woven. Century after century had he toiled, and here was his reward. Truly the garment had seemed heavenly at first, shot with colours of culture, sewn with the threads of self-denial. And heavenly it had been so long as man could shed it at will and live by the essence that is his soul, and the essence, equally divine, that is his body. The sin against the body - it was for that they wept in chief; the centuries of wrong against the muscles and the nerves, and those five portals by which we can alone apprehend - glozing it over with talk of evolution, until the body was white pap, the home of ideas as colourless, last sloshy stirrings of a spirit that had grasped the stars.

  ‘Where are you?’ she sobbed.

  His voice in the darkness said, ‘Here.’

  ‘Is there any hope, Kuno?’

  ‘None for us.’

  ‘Where are you?’ She crawled over the bodies of the dead. His blood spurted over her hands.

  ‘Quicker,’ he gasped, ‘I am dying - but we touch, we talk, not through the Machine.’ He kissed her.

  ‘We have come back to our own. We die, but we have recaptured life, as it was in Wessex, when Ælfrid overthrew the Danes. We know what they know outside, they who dwelt in the cloud that is the colour of a pearl.’

  ‘But Kuno, is it true? Are there still men on the surface of the earth? Is this - tunnel, this poisoned darkness - really not the end?’

  He replied: ‘I have seen them, spoken to them, loved them. They are hiding in the midst and the ferns until our civilization stops. Today they are the Homeless - tomorrow — — ‘

  ‘Oh, tomorrow - some fool will start the Machine again, tomorrow.’

  ‘Never,’ said Kuno, ‘never. Humanity has learnt its lesson.’

  As he spoke, the whole city was broken like a honeycomb. An air-ship had sailed in through the vomitory into a ruined wharf. It crashed downwards, exploding as it went, rending gallery after gallery with its wings of steel. For a moment they saw the nations of the dead, and, before they joined them, scraps of the untainted sky.

  THE END

  THE CELESTIAL OMNIBUS AND OTHER STORIES

  Forster’s first collection of short stories was published in 1911 and consists of stories written at various times during the previous decade. The stories frequently incorporate supernatural and fantasy elements that attack the perennial Forsterian target of the stifled, repressed English middle-class. ‘The Story of a Panic’, for example, makes literal use of the derivation of the word ‘panic’ from the name of the rural spirit ‘Pan’. In the tale, a young boy appears to go mad on a holiday in Italy after possibly becoming possessed by Pan. While this almost Gothic use of the Italian countryside evokes themes dealt with more fully in Where Angels Fear to Tread and A Room with a View, the elements of the boy’s relationship with the young fisherman Gennaro also draws upon the homoerotic subtext of Forster’s first novel to articulate its theme of a more sexually and socially liberated Italy in contrast to the repressed atmosphere of suburban England.

  Suburban repression is also the theme of ‘The Celestial Omnibus’, another fantasy in which a young boy discovers a spectral horse-drawn bus, driven by the Renaissance writer Sir Thomas Browne. The vehicle leaves town every evening for a ‘Heaven’ peopled by characters from literature. When the boy tells his tutor of his discovery, however, the older man is at first sceptical, then terrified – a metaphor for his inability to confront on a personal, empathic level the texts he has pored over in his academic studies.

  ‘Other Kingdom’ is a strange tale in which a young woman tries to persuade her husband not to fence off a copse on their grounds, in which she loves to wander. The ‘other kingdom’ of the title refers not only to the copse itself but also to the transcendent natural beauty that the young woman’s fiancé cannot comprehend. Forster references the story (and its supernatural conclusion) in The Longest Journey, where it is described as one of the literary productions of the novel’s protagonist, Rickie.

  The other three stories (‘The Road from Colonus’, ‘The Curate’s Friend’ and ‘The Other Side of the Hedge’) continue the theme of supernatural forces startling English protagonists out of their repressed modes of life and thought.

  Cover of the first edition

  CONTENTS

  THE STORY OF A PANIC

  THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HEDGE

  THE CELESTIAL OMNIBUS

  OTHER KINGDOM

  THE CURATE’S FRIEND

  THE ROAD FROM COLONUS

  E. M. Forster (right) photographed in 1911 with his close friend Syed Ross Masood

  THE STORY OF A PANIC

  I

  Eustace’s career — if career it can be called — certainly dates from that afternoon in the chestnut woods above Ravello. I confess at once that I am a plain, simple man, with no pretensions to literary style. Still, I do flatter myself that I can tell a story without exaggerating, and I have therefore decided to give an unbiassed account of the extraordinary events of eight years ago.

  Ravello is a delightful place with a delightful little hotel in which we met some charming people. There were the two Miss Robinsons, who had been there for six weeks with Eustace, their nephew, then a boy of about fourteen. Mr. Sandbach had also been there some time. He had held a curacy in the north of England, which he had been compelled to resign on account of ill-health, and while he was recruiting at Ravello he had taken in hand Eustace’s education — which was then sadly deficient — and was endeavouring to fit him for one of our great public schools. Then there was Mr. Leyland, a would-be artist, and, finally, there was the nice landlady, Signora Scafetti, and the nice English-speaking waiter, Emmanuele — though at the time of which I am speaking Emmanuele was away, visiting a sick father.

  To this little circle, I, my wife, and my two daughters made, I venture to think, a not unwelcome addition. But though I liked most of the company well enough, there were two of them to whom I did not take at all. They were the artist, Leyland, and the Miss Robinsons’ nephew, Eustace.

  Leyland was simply conceited and odious, and, as those qualities will be amply illustrated in my narrative, I need not enlarge upon them here. But Eustace was something besides: he was indescribably repellent.

  I am fond of boys as a rule, and was quite disposed to be friendly. I and my daughters offered to take him out— ‘No, walking was such a fag.’ Then I asked him to come and bathe— ‘ No, he could not swim.’

  “Every English boy should be able to swim,” I said, “I will teach you myself.”

  “There, Eustace dear,” said Miss Robinson; “here is a chance for you.”

  But he said he was afraid of the water! — a boy afraid! — and of course I said no more.

  I would not have minded so much if he had been a really studious boy, but he neither played hard nor worked hard. His favourite occupations were lounging on the terrace in an easy chair and loafing along the high road, with his feet shuffling up the dust and his shoulders stooping forward. Naturally enough, his features were pale, his chest contracted, and his muscles undeveloped. His aunts thought him delicate; what he really needed was discipline.

  That memorable day we all arranged to go for a picnic up in the chestnut woods — all, that is, except Janet, who stopped behind to finish her water-colour of the Cathedral — not a very successful attempt, I am afraid.

  I wander off into these irrelevant details, because in my mind I cannot separate them from an account of the day; and it is the same with the conversation during the picnic: all is imprinted on my brain together. After a couple of h
ours’ ascent, we left the donkeys that had carried the Miss Robinsons and my wife, and all proceeded on foot to the head of the valley — Vallone Fontana Caroso is its proper name, I find.

  I have visited a good deal of fine scenery before and since, but have found little that has pleased me more. The valley ended in a vast hollow, shaped like a cup, into which radiated ravines from the precipitous hills around. Both the valley and the ravines and the ribs of hill that divided the ravines were covered with leafy, chestnut, so that the general appearance was that of a many fingered green hand, palm upwards, which was clutching, convulsively to keep us in its grasp. Far down the valley we could see Ravello and the sea, but that was the only sign of another world.

  “Oh, what a perfectly lovely place,” said my daughter Rose. “What a picture it would make!”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Sandbach. “Many a famous European gallery would be proud to have a landscape a tithe as beautiful as this upon its walls.”

  “On the contrary,” said Leyland, “it would make a very poor picture. Indeed, it is not paintable at all.”

  “And why is that?” said Rose, with far more deference than he deserved.

  “Look, in the first place,” he replied, “how intolerably straight against the sky is the line of the hill. It would need breaking up and diversifying. And where we are standing the whole thing is out of perspective. Besides, all the colouring is monotonous and crude.”

  “I do not know anything about pictures,” I put in, “and I do not pretend to know: but I know what is beautiful when I see it, and I am thoroughly content with this.”

  “Indeed, who could help being contented!” said the elder Miss Robinson and Mr. Sandbach said the same.

  “Ah!” said Leyland, “you all confuse the artistic view of nature with the photographic.”

  Poor Rose had brought her camera with her, so I thought this positively rude. I did not wish any unpleasantness; so I merely turned away and assisted my wife and Miss Mary Robinson to put out the lunch — not a very nice lunch.

  “Eustace, dear,” said his aunt, “come and help us here.”

  He was in a particularly bad temper that morning. He had, as usual, not wanted to come, and his aunts had nearly allowed him to stop at the hotel to vex Janet. But I, with their permission, spoke to him rather sharply on the subject of exercise; and the result was that he had come, but was even more taciturn and moody than usual.

  Obedience was not his strong point. He invariably questioned every command, and only executed it grumbling. I should always insist on prompt and cheerful obedience, if I had a son.

  “I’m — coming — Aunt — Mary,” he at last replied, and dawdled to cut a piece of wood to make a whistle, taking care not to arrive till we had finished.

  “Well, well, sir!” said I, “you stroll in at the end and profit by our labours.” He sighed, for he could not endure being chaffed. Miss Mary, very unwisely, insisted on giving him the wing of the chicken, in spite of all my attempts to prevent her. I remember that I had a moment’s vexation when I thought that, instead of enjoying the sun, and the air, and the woods, we were all engaged in wrangling over the diet of a spoilt boy.

  But, after lunch, he was a little less in evidence. He withdrew to a tree trunk, and began to loosen the bark from his whistle. I was thankful to see him employed, for once in a way. We reclined, and took a dolce far niente.

  Those sweet chestnuts of the South are puny striplings compared with our robust Northerners. But they clothed the contours of the hills and valleys in a most pleasing way, their veil being only broken by two clearings, in one of which we were sitting.

  And because these few trees were cut down, Leyland burst into a petty indictment of the proprietor.

  “All the poetry is going from Nature,” he cried, “her lakes and marshes are drained, her seas banked up, her forests cut down. Everywhere we see the vulgarity of desolation spreading.”

  I have had some experience of estates, and answered that cutting was very necessary for the health of the larger trees. Besides, it was unreasonable to expect the proprietor to derive no income from his lands.

  “If you take the commercial side of landscape, you may feel pleasure in the owner’s activity. But to me the mere thought that a tree is convertible into cash is disgusting.”

  “I see no reason,” I observed politely, “to despise the gifts of Nature, because they are of value.”

  It did not stop him. “It is no matter,” he went on, “we are all hopelessly steeped in vulgarity. I do not except myself. It is through us, and to our shame, that the Nereids have left the waters and the Oreads the mountains, that the woods no longer give shelter to Pan.”

  “Pan!” cried Mr. Sandbach, his mellow voice filling the valley as if it had been a great green church, “Pan is dead. That is why the woods do not shelter him.” And he began to tell the striking story of the mariners who were sailing near the coast at the time of the birth of Christ, and three times heard a loud voice saying: “The great God Pan is dead.”

  “Yes. The great God Pan is dead,” said Leyland. And he abandoned himself to that mock misery in which artistic people are so fond of indulging. His cigar went out, and he had to ask me for a match.

  “How very interesting,” said Rose. “I do wish I knew some ancient history.”

  “It is not worth your notice,” said Mr. Sandbach. “Eh, Eustace?”

  Eustace was finishing his whistle. He looked up, with the irritable frown in which his aunts allowed him to indulge, and made no reply.

  The conversation turned to various topics and then died out. It was a cloudless afternoon in May, and the pale green of the young chestnut leaves made a pretty contrast with the dark blue of the sky. We were all sitting at the edge of the small clearing for the sake of the view, and the shade of the chestnut saplings behind us was manifestly insufficient. All sounds died away — at least that is my account: Miss Robinson says that the clamour of the birds was the first sign of uneasiness that she discerned. All sounds died away, except that, far in the distance, I could hear two boughs of a great chestnut grinding together as the tree swayed. The grinds grew shorter and shorter, and finally that sound stopped also. As I looked over the green fingers of the valley, everything was absolutely motionless and still; and that feeling of suspense which one so often experiences when Nature is in repose, began to steal over me.

  Suddenly, we were all electrified by the excruciating noise of Eustace’s whistle. I never heard any instrument give forth so ear-splitting and discordant a sound.

  “Eustace, dear,” said Miss Mary Robinson, “you might have thought of your poor Aunt Julia’s head.”

  Leyland who had apparently been asleep, sat up.

  “It is astonishing how blind a boy is to anything that is elevating or beautiful,” he observed. “I should not have thought he could have found the wherewithal out here to spoil our pleasure like this.”

  Then the terrible silence fell upon us again. I was now standing up and watching a catspaw of wind that was running down one of the ridges opposite, turning the light green to dark as it travelled. A fanciful feeling of foreboding came over me; so I turned away, to find to my amazement, that all the others were also on their feet, watching it too.

  It is not possible to describe coherently what happened next: but I, for one, am not ashamed to confess that, though the fair blue sky was above me, and the green spring woods beneath me, and the kindest of friends around me, yet I became terribly frightened, more frightened than I ever wish to become again, frightened in a way I never have known either before or after. And in the eyes of the others, too, I saw blank, expressionless fear, while their mouths strove in vain to speak and their hands to gesticulate. Yet, all around us were prosperity, beauty, and peace, and all was motionless, save the catspaw of wind, now travelling up the ridge on which we stood.

  Who moved first has never been settled. It is enough to say that in one second we were tearing away along the hillside. Leyland was in fro
nt, then Mr. Sandbach, then my wife. But I only saw for a brief moment; for I ran across the little clearing and through the woods and over the undergrowth and the rocks and down the dry torrent beds into the valley below. The sky might have been black as I ran, and the trees short grass, and the hillside a level road; for I saw nothing and heard nothing and felt nothing, since all the channels of sense and reason were blocked. It was not the spiritual fear that one has known at other times, but brutal overmastering physical fear, stopping up the ears, and dropping clouds before the eyes, and filling the mouth with foul tastes. And it was no ordinary humiliation that survived; for I had been afraid, not as a man, but as a beast.

  II

  I cannot describe our finish any better than our start; for our fear passed away as it had come, without cause. Suddenly I was able to see, and hear, and cough, and clear my mouth. Looking back, I saw that the others were stopping too; and, in a short time, we were all together, though it was long before we could speak, and longer before we dared to.

  No one was seriously injured. My poor wife had sprained her ankle, Leyland had torn one of his nails on a tree trunk, and I myself had scraped and damaged my ear. I never noticed it till I had stopped.

  We were all silent, searching one another’s faces. Suddenly Miss Mary Robinson gave a terrible shriek. “Oh, merciful heavens! where is Eustace?” And then she would have fallen, if Mr. Sandbach had not caught her.

  “We must go back, we must go back at once,” said my Rose, who was quite the most collected of the party. “But I hope — I feel he is safe.”

  Such was the cowardice of Leyland, that he objected. But, finding himself in a minority, and being afraid of being left alone, he gave in. Rose and I supported my poor wife, Mr. Sandbach and Miss Robinson helped Miss Mary, and we returned slowly and silently, taking forty minutes to ascend the path that we had descended in ten.