The man in this story told the married men in the hotel that he was going to Sydney for a couple of days to look at the sights. He did not tell the married men that he hoped to spend each of his couple of days in Sydney walking up and down past a low wall of cream-coloured stones in a Catholic monastery. The man did not tell the married men that he was going to Sydney in order to talk to a cousin of his who was unmarried and was studying to be a priest in a Catholic monastery where a few ferns hung down over a low wall. The man did not want the married men to know that he himself had been brought up as a Catholic, although he had not called himself a Catholic for the past five years and had not gone into a Catholic church during those five years. The man especially did not want the married men to know that he was going to Sydney because he foresaw himself beginning to call himself a Catholic again and to go into Catholic churches again as from January 1965, and because his cousin in the monastery was the only man or woman who might have been interested in hearing from him that he foresaw these things.
The man’s cousin was two years younger than the man and had been studying to be a priest since he had left school. The man and his cousin had gone to the same secondary school in a suburb of the city where the man still lived. The two boys had seldom spoken to one another at school, but as from May 1961, which was three years and three months after the man’s cousin had gone to the monastery in a suburb of Sydney, the man had written a letter every month to his cousin. Sometimes the man had sent with the letter a few handwritten pages of poetry.
In 1961 the man in this story had drunk beer with a few married men in a hotel every Friday night and had drunk beer and played cards with a few unmarried men in a bungalow behind the house of the parents of one of the unmarried men every Saturday night. On every other night the man had sat in the room that he called for the time being his own room and had drunk beer and read books and had sometimes written a page of poetry. One night in May 1961 the man had wanted to send a few of his pages of poetry to some man or woman who would read the pages and comment on them. The man knew no man or woman in the city where he had always lived who might want to read his pages of poetry, but he had thought that his cousin in Sydney might want to read a few of his pages. Before that night in May 1961 the man had never written to his cousin, but afterwards he had written to his cousin every month and had sometimes sent with his letter a few of his pages of poetry. The man’s cousin had answered all the letters sent by the man and had sometimes commented on some of the pages of poetry.
One night in March 1964 the man in this story had written in one of his letters to his cousin that he was thinking of going to Sydney for a couple of days in order to tell his cousin something important.
The cousin had written back to the man that he would be welcome to visit him in the monastery. The cousin had sent with his letter four small colour prints of photographs of parts of the monastery. The man had looked only once at three of the colour prints, which showed parts of the outsides of buildings, but he had looked often at a colour print showing part of a low wall of cream-coloured stones with a few dark-green ferns hanging down in front of the stones.
Sometimes during the five years when he had not called himself a Catholic and had not gone into a Catholic church, the man in this story had wondered whether he himself ought to have been studying to be a priest in a monastery. Even though he claimed not to believe in the teachings of the Catholic Church, he had sometimes wondered whether he was the sort of man who could only have been contented as a priest in a monastery. The man had wondered about this whenever he had tried to persuade a young woman to become his girlfriend but had failed.
Whenever the man in this story had wondered why he had never been able to persuade a young woman to become his girlfriend, he had foreseen himself learning at last, in about December 1970, that he was the sort of man who would never persuade any young woman to become his girlfriend. He had then foreseen himself doing things other than trying to persuade one young woman after another to become his girlfriend and thinking of things other than having one or another young woman as his girlfriend. He had foreseen himself walking up and down in a corner of a garden and thinking only about the stones and the green leaves in the garden. He had then wondered whether the garden where he foresaw himself walking up and down was the garden of a monastery.
When the man in this story had first seen the colour print showing part of a low wall and a few ferns, he remembered his having foreseen himself sometimes walking up and down in front of such walls and such ferns. He then foresaw himself and his cousin walking up and down in front of the low wall and the few ferns on each of the couple of days when the man was visiting Sydney.
When the man in this story foresaw this he did not hear in his mind himself telling his cousin that he, the man in this story, had foreseen himself walking up and down at last in a corner of the garden of a monastery. The man heard in his mind himself telling his cousin that he, the man, was going to live, as from January 1965, in one or another country district far away from the suburbs of the city where he had always lived and that he, the man, was going to call himself a Catholic in that country district and was going to attend the Catholic church in that district on every Sunday as from January 1965.
In 1964 the young man in this story had been for five years a teacher in primary schools in the suburbs of the city where he had always lived. During those five years he had chosen in his mind one after another young female teacher that he would have liked to have as his girlfriend. He had talked with each of these young women and had become friendly with one after another of six of them. At one time or another he had asked each of these six young women to go with him to a cinema or to a house where a party was taking place or to a race meeting. Three of the six had agreed to go with him where he had asked them to go. One of these three had agreed twice afterwards to go with him where he had asked her to go. But not even this young woman had agreed to become his girlfriend.
Whenever the man in this story had chosen in his mind one of the young women mentioned in the previous paragraph, he had believed that she had not been brought up as a Catholic and had never been into a Catholic church. He had wanted his girlfriend not to be bound by the Ten Commandments as they were interpreted by the Catholic Church. But in February 1964 the man had begun to believe that he would never find a girlfriend from among the young women who were not bound by the Ten Commandments as they were interpreted by the Catholic Church.
One Sunday morning in February 1964 the man in this story had tried to learn why he had had to drink beer and to play cards with married men and unmarried men on almost every Friday night and Saturday night for five years, when what he had wanted to do on each of those nights was to be alone with a young woman who had agreed to be his girlfriend.
On that Sunday morning the man had assembled in his mind the six young women that he had become friendly with during the previous five years. The man saw the young women as standing in a line while he walked slowly past and looked at their faces and tried to understand why none of them had wanted to become his girlfriend. After he had looked at the face of each of the six young women, the man in this story had decided that each of the young women had been too knowing. The man had been older in years than each of the young women, but each young woman had been too knowing to want to be the girlfriend of the man in this story.
The man had next decided, in February 1964, that each of the six young women had been too knowing because she had not been bound by the Ten Commandments as they were interpreted by the Catholic Church. A month later, in March 1964, the man in this story had decided that the only young women who would not have been too knowing to want to become his girlfriend would have been young women who had been brought up as Catholics and who still called themselves Catholics and went into Catholic churches every Sunday. When the man had decided this, he decided to leave the suburbs where he had lived all his life and to live in a country district where he would call himself a Catholic and would go i
nto a Catholic church every Sunday.
The man could not leave the suburbs at once. He had to stay until December 1964 at the primary school where he was a teacher. But he was free to apply in writing at any time during 1964 to be transferred to a primary school in a country district as from January 1965.
In March 1964 the man in this story had begun to spend part of each evening reading the pages headed ADVERTISED VACANCIES—PRIMARY SCHOOLS DIVISION in the Education Gazette and Teachers’ Aid published by the Education Department in the city whose suburbs he had always lived in. While he read those pages he looked often at a map of all the country districts as far away as two hundred miles from that city. While he looked at the map he moved his index finger along the black lines denoting main roads. While he moved his finger he saw in his mind himself travelling in January 1965 from the suburbs where he had always lived to the country district where he would sit in a Catholic church each Sunday morning and would choose in his mind the young woman who would not be too knowing to want to become his girlfriend.
After he had moved his index finger in this way, the man in this story would move his index finger along the grey lines denoting lesser roads. While he moved his finger he saw in his mind himself travelling in January 1967 or January 1968 with his wife from the country district where they had been married towards the remote country district where they would live in a small weatherboard house beside the primary school where the man would be the sole teacher. In time, the finger of the man would come to rest at a point where two of the grey lines intersected. While his finger rested at this point the man would see in his mind himself and his wife living for year after year in the weatherboard house beside the weatherboard school at the remote crossroads. The school and the house that he saw in his mind were painted cream with dark-green trimmings like every school and every teacher’s house in country districts for two or three hundred miles around the city where the man in this story had been born.
During the five years before 1964, while the man in this story had been living in the suburbs where he had always lived and had been choosing in his mind young female teachers in each school where he himself was a teacher, the man had believed that he would not always be a teacher in a primary school. He believed that he might become in the future a copy-writer in an advertising agency or an editor in a publishing firm or a manager of a bookshop. He understood that he was not qualified to become any of these, but whenever he was walking towards his room or rooms late on Friday night or Saturday night he would see in his mind first one or another young woman becoming his girlfriend then himself finding that his having a girlfriend caused him to feel more knowing then himself writing a paragraph of advertising copy or a poem or a short story that would be awarded first prize in a competition and at last the head of an advertising agency or of a publishing firm or of a firm of booksellers reading the prize-winning words and deciding to employ the man who had written the words.
But when the man in this story had decided that he would marry a young woman who would not be too knowing to want to become his girlfriend and who would be bound by the Ten Commandments as they were interpreted by the Catholic Church and that he would live with her in a house painted cream and dark green in a country district, then the man had understood that he was also deciding that he would remain a teacher in a primary school for as many years as he could foresee. The man had understood this because he understood that his having a wife who had not been too knowing to want to become his girlfriend and then his wife would not cause him to feel more knowing and so to write paragraphs of advertising copy or poems or short stories.
When the man in this story wondered during March 1964 what he would see in his mind during all the years when he would live in a house painted cream and dark green, he foresaw himself walking up and down for a few minutes every evening in the garden of his house and seeing in his mind networks of black lines and grey lines with dots of cream and dark green at their intersections and following with his finger in his mind first the black lines and the grey lines that he had already followed to the dot of cream and dark green where he was walking up and down at that moment and then the black lines and the grey lines that he might follow in later years towards other dots of cream and dark green in the network of black and grey that would surround him for as many years as he could foresee.
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In May 1964 the man in this story travelled to Sydney in a carriage of a railway train. Outside the railway station in Sydney, the man asked the driver of a taxi to take him to the Majestic Hotel in Kings Cross. Inside the Majestic Hotel the man walked towards a walled desk that was not so high as the walled desks that he had previously seen in his mind. The woman behind the walled desk was so much older and looked so much more knowing than the women in his mind that he was hardly afraid of her jeering or laughing at him.
The man took the key that the woman gave him but he did not listen to what she told him about breakfast and dinner in the hotel. The man had decided before he had set out for Sydney that he was not going to sit in a dining room of a hotel where the young women of Sydney might see how much less knowing he was than themselves.
The man in this story went to his room in the Majestic Hotel in Kings Cross and put his bag on the bed. He took out of the bag and put on the small table near the bed the book that he was reading at that time: Marius the Epicurean, by Walter Pater, in the Everyman’s Library edition. Then he took out of the bag and put on the table his map of the country districts for as far as two hundred miles around his city and one of the bags of sultanas and dried apricots and cheese that he had brought for eating in Sydney. The man ate the sultanas and dried apricots and cheese while he looked at the map. Sometimes he rested his index finger at a point on the map where two black lines or two grey lines or a black line and a grey line intersected and he saw the two lines intersecting in his mind and at the place where they intersected a dot of cream and dark green.
At noon on his first day in Sydney the man in this story walked out of the Majestic Hotel in Kings Cross and looked for a bus that would take him to one of the railway stations of Sydney. He stood on the footpath and watched two buses pass him. He saw on the other side of the windows of each bus young women who seemed no older than himself but much more knowing. He saw in his mind himself climbing the steps of each of the buses and asking the driver or the conductor a question that would cause the young women in the bus to smile or to laugh.
The man in this story travelled by taxi from Kings Cross to Central Station. From there he travelled by railway train to Turramurra on the Hornsby line. From the railway station at Turramurra the man walked through streets of houses with large front gardens. At each intersection of two or more streets the man looked at the directions that his cousin had written in his latest letter to the man. After walking for twenty minutes, the man came to the monastery and rang the front doorbell and was shown into the parlour to wait for his cousin.
The cousin of the man in this story came into the front parlour of the monastery and shook the hand of the man. The cousin asked the man whether he wanted to talk in the front parlour or in the garden of the monastery. The man said he would like to walk up and down on a quiet path in the garden.
The cousin led the man to a path between a lawn and a wire fence with a tennis court on the other side. The two men walked up and down and talked. The cousin talked about his life in the monastery. The man talked about his life as a teacher in a primary school.
While the man walked up and down and talked, he looked around him for a cream-coloured wall with a few dark-green ferns hanging over it. He saw part of a cream-coloured wall in a corner of the garden on the far side of the lawn, but he saw no ferns hanging down.
After the two men had walked and had talked for two hours, the cousin took the man into the front parlour of the monastery and then brought the man a cup of tea and some biscuits on a tray. The man then knew that the time allowed for his visit had almost passed.
Whil
e the man drank his cup of tea, his cousin told him that he felt very happy in the monastery because he was close to God. The man in this story then understood that his cousin was waiting for him to say that he felt unhappy in the suburbs of his city because he was not close to God.
The man in this story told his cousin that he was unhappy in the suburbs of his city and that he was thinking of going to live in a country district as from January 1965. The man thought that he would tell his cousin on the following day that he was thinking of going into a Catholic church as from January 1965 and of choosing a young woman who would agree to become his girlfriend.
The man left the monastery in the late afternoon and travelled by railway train from Turramurra to the centre of Sydney and then by taxi to the Majestic Hotel in Kings Cross. In his room he ate sultanas and dried apricots and cheese while he looked at his map of country districts and sometimes rested his index finger at a point where lines intersected.
On the second day of his couple of days in Sydney, the man in this story did the same things that he had done on the first day until the moment in the parlour of the monastery when his cousin asked him whether he wanted to talk in the parlour or in the garden. The man then said to his cousin that he would like to walk up and down on the opposite side of the garden from where they had walked on the previous day. The man did not tell his cousin about the cream-coloured wall or the ferns hanging down.
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