The Longest Journey

by E. M. Forster

  “Oh, did the wretch go too fast?” called Miss Pembroke from her bedroom window.

  “I went too fast for him.” He spoke quite sharply, and before he had time to say he was sorry and didn’t mean exactly that, the window had shut.

  “They’ve quarrelled,” she thought. “Whatever about?”

  She soon heard. Gerald returned in a cold stormy temper. Rickie had offered him money.

  “My dear fellow don’t be so cross. The child’s mad.”

  “If it was, I’d forgive that. But I can’t stand unhealthiness.”

  “Now, Gerald, that’s where I hate you. You don’t know what it is to pity the weak.”

  “Woman’s job. So you wish I’d taken a hundred pounds a-year from him. Did you ever hear such blasted cheek? Marry us—he, you, and me—a hundred pounds down and as much annual—he, of course, to pry into all we did, and we to kowtow and eat dirt-pie to him. If that’s Mr. Rickety Elliot’s idea of a soldier and an Englishman, it isn’t mine, and I wish I’d had a horsewhip.”

  She was roaring with laughter. “You’re babies, a pair of you, and you’re the worst. Why couldn’t you let the little silly down gently? There he was puffing and sniffing under my window, and I thought he’d insulted you. Why didn’t you accept?”

  “Accept?” he thundered.

  “It would have taken the nonsense out of him for ever. Why, he was only talking out of a book.”

  “More fool he.”

  “Well, don’t be angry with a fool. He means no harm. He muddles all day with poetry and old dead people, and then tries to bring it into life. It’s too funny for words.”

  Gerald repeated that he could not stand unhealthiness.

  “I don’t call that exactly unhealthy.”

  “I do. And why he could give the money’s worse.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He became shy. “I hadn’t meant to tell you. It’s not quite for a lady.” For, like most men who are rather animal, he was intellectually a prude. “He says he can’t ever marry, owing to his foot. It wouldn’t be fair to posterity. His grandfather was crocked, his father too, and he’s as bad. He thinks that it’s hereditary, and may get worse next generation. He’s discussed it all over with other Undergrads. A bright lot they must be. He daren’t risk having any children. Hence the hundred quid.”

  She stopped laughing. “Oh, little beast, if he said all that!”

  He was encouraged to proceed. Hitherto he had not talked about their school days. Now he told her everything,—the “barley-sugar,” as he called it, the pins in chapel, and how one afternoon he had tied him head-downward on to a tree trunk and then ran away—of course only for a moment.

  For this she scolded him well. But she had a thrill of joy when she thought of the weak boy in the clutches of the strong one.

  5

  Gerald died that afternoon. He was broken up in the football match. Rickie and Mr. Pembroke were on the ground when the accident took place. It was no good torturing him by a drive to the hospital, and he was merely carried to the little pavilion and laid upon the floor. A doctor came, and so did a clergyman, but it seemed better to leave him for the last few minutes with Agnes, who had ridden down on her bicycle.

  It was a strange lamentable interview. The girl was so accustomed to health, that for a time she could not understand. It must be a joke that he chose to lie there in the dust, with a rug over him and his knees bent up towards his chin. His arms were as she knew them, and their admirable muscles showed clear and clean beneath the jersey. The face, too, though a little flushed, was uninjured: it must be some curious joke.

  “Gerald, what have you been doing?”

  He replied, “I can’t see you. It’s too dark.”

  “Oh, I’ll soon alter that,” she said in her old brisk way. She opened the pavilion door. The people who were standing by it moved aside. She saw a deserted meadow, steaming and grey, and beyond it slate-roofed cottages, row beside row, climbing a shapeless hill. Towards London the sky was yellow. “There. That’s better.” She sat down by him again, and drew his hand into her own. “Now we are all right, aren’t we?”

  “Where are you?”

  This time she could not reply.

  “What is it? Where am I going?”

  “Wasn’t the rector here?” said she after a silence.

  “He explained heaven, and thinks that I—but—I couldn’t tell a parson; but I don’t seem to have any use for any of the things there.”

  “We are Christians,” said Agnes shyly. “Dear love, we don’t talk about these things, but we believe them. I think that you will get well and be as strong again as ever; but, in any case, there is a spiritual life, and we know that some day you and I—”

  “I shan’t do as a spirit,” he interrupted, sighing pitifully. “I want you as I am, and it cannot be managed. The rector had to say so. I want—I don’t want to talk. I can’t see you. Shut that door.”

  She obeyed, and crept into his arms. Only this time her grasp was the stronger. Her heart beat louder and louder as the sound of his grew more faint. He was crying like a little frightened child, and her lips were wet with his tears. “Bear it bravely,” she told him.

  “I can’t,” he whispered. “It isn’t to be done. I can’t see you,” and passed from her trembling with open eyes.

  She rode home on her bicycle, leaving the others to follow. Some ladies who did not know what had happened bowed and smiled as she passed, and she returned their salute.

  “Oh, miss, is it true?” cried the cook, her face streaming with tears.

  Agnes nodded. Presumably it was true. Letters had just arrived: one was for Gerald from his mother. Life, which had given them no warning, seemed to make no comment now. The incident was outside nature, and would surely pass away like a dream. She felt slightly irritable, and the grief of the servants annoyed her.

  They sobbed. “Ah, look at his marks! Ah, little he thought—little he thought!” In the brown holland strip by the front door a heavy football boot had left its impress. They had not liked Gerald, but he was a man, they were women, he had died. Their mistress ordered them to leave her.

  For many minutes she sat at the foot of the stairs, rubbing her eyes. An obscure spiritual crisis was going on.

  Should she weep like the servants? Or should she bear up and trust in the consoler Time? Was the death of a man so terrible after all? As she invited herself to apathy there were steps on the gravel, and Rickie Elliot burst in. He was splashed with mud, his breath was gone, and his hair fell wildly over his meagre face. She thought, “These are the people who are left alive!” From the bottom of her soul she hated him.

  “I came to see what you’re doing,” he cried.

  “Resting.”

  He knelt beside her, and she said, “Would you please go away?”

  “Yes, dear Agnes, of course; but I must see first that you mind.”

  Her breath caught. Her eyes moved to the treads, going outwards, so firmly, so irretrievably.

  He panted, “It’s the worst thing that can ever happen to you in all your life, and you’ve got to mind it—you’ve got to mind it. They’ll come saying, ‘Bear up—trust to time.’ No, no; they’re wrong. Mind it.”

  Through all her misery she knew that this boy was greater than they supposed. He rose to his feet, and with intense conviction cried: “But I know—I understand. It’s your death as well as his. He’s gone, Agnes, and his arms will never hold you again. In God’s name, mind such a thing, and don’t sit fencing with your soul. Don’t stop being great; that’s the one crime he’ll never forgive you.”

  She faltered, “Who—who forgives?”

  “Gerald.”

  At the sound of his name she slid forward, and all her dishonesty left her. She acknowledged that life’s meaning had vanished. Bending down, she kissed the footprint. “How can he forgive me?” she sobbed. “Where has he gone to? You could never dream such an awful thing. He couldn’t see me though I opened the
door—wide—plenty of light; and then he could not remember the things that should comfort him. He wasn’t a—he wasn’t ever a great reader, and he couldn’t remember the things. The rector tried, and he couldn’t—I came, and I couldn’t—–” She could not speak for tears. Rickie did not check her. He let her accuse herself, and fate, and Herbert, who had postponed their marriage. She might have been a wife six months; but Herbert had spoken of self-control and of all life before them. He let her kiss the footprints till their marks gave way to the marks of her lips. She moaned. “He is gone—where is he?” and then he replied quite quietly, “He is in heaven.”

  She begged him not to comfort her; she could not bear it.

  “I did not come to comfort you. I came to see that you mind. He is in heaven, Agnes. The greatest thing is over.”

  Her hatred was lulled. She murmured, “Dear Rickie!” and held up her hand to him. Through her tears his meagre face showed as a seraph’s who spoke the truth and forbade her to juggle with her soul. “Dear Rickie—but for the rest of my life what am I to do?”

  “Anything—if you remember that the greatest thing is over.”

  “I don’t know you,” she said tremulously. “You have grown up in a moment. You never talked to us, and yet you understand it all. Tell me again—I can only trust you—where he is.”

  “He is in heaven.”

  “You are sure?”

  It puzzled her that Rickie, who could scarcely tell you the time without a saving clause, should be so certain about immortality.

  6

  He did not stop for the funeral. Mr. Pembroke thought that he had a bad effect on Agnes, and prevented her from acquiescing in the tragedy as rapidly as she might have done. As he expressed it, “one must not court sorrow,” and he hinted to the young man that they desired to be alone.

  Rickie went back to the Silts.

  He was only there a few days. As soon as term opened he returned to Cambridge, for which he longed passionately. The journey thither was now familiar to him, and he took pleasure in each landmark. The fair valley of Tewin Water, the cutting into Hitchin where the train traverses the chalk, Baldock Church, Royston with its promise of downs, were nothing in themselves, but dear as stages in the pilgrimage towards the abode of peace. On the platform he met friends. They had all had pleasant vacations: it was a happy world. The atmosphere alters.

  Cambridge, according to her custom, welcomed her sons with open drains. Pettycury was up, so was Trinity Street, and navvies peeped out of King’s Parade. Here it was gas, there electric light, but everywhere something, and always a smell. It was also the day that the wheels fell off the station tram, and Rickie, who was naturally inside, was among the passengers who “sustained no injury but a shock, and had as hearty a laugh over the mishap afterwards as any one.”

  Tilliard fled into a hansom, cursing himself for having tried to do the thing cheaply. Hornblower also swept past yelling derisively, with his luggage neatly piled above his head. “Let’s get out and walk,” muttered Ansell. But Rickie was succouring a distressed female—Mrs. Aberdeen.

  “Oh, Mrs. Aberdeen, I never saw you: I am so glad to see you—I am so very glad.” Mrs. Aberdeen was cold. She did not like being spoken to outside the college, and was also distrait about her basket. Hitherto no genteel eye had even seen inside it, but in the collision its little calico veil fell off, and there was revealed—nothing. The basket was empty, and never would hold anything illegal. All the same she was distrait, and “We shall meet later, sir, I dessy,” was all the greeting Rickie got from her.

  “Now what kind of a life has Mrs. Aberdeen?” he exclaimed, as he and Ansell pursued the Station Road. “Here these bedders come and make us comfortable. We owe an enormous amount to them, their wages are absurd, and we know nothing about them. Off they go to Barnwell, and then their lives are hidden. I just know that Mrs. Aberdeen has a husband, but that’s all. She never will talk about him. Now I do so want to fill in her life. I see one-half of it. What’s the other half? She may have a real jolly house, in good taste, with a little garden and books, and pictures. Or, again, she mayn’t. But in any case one ought to know. I know she’d dislike it, but she oughtn’t to dislike. After all, bedders are to blame for the present lamentable state of things, just as much as gentlefolk. She ought to want me to come. She ought to introduce me to her husband.”

  They had reached the corner of Hills Road. Ansell spoke for the first time. He said, “Ugh!”

  “Drains?”

  “Yes. A spiritual cesspool.”

  Rickie laughed.

  “I expected it from your letter.”

  “The one you never answered?”

  “I answer none of your letters. You are quite hopeless by now. You can go to the bad. But I refuse to accompany you. I refuse to believe that every human being is a moving wonder of supreme interest and tragedy and beauty—which was what the letter in question amounted to. You’ll find plenty who will believe it. It’s a very popular view among people who are too idle to think; it saves them the trouble of detecting the beautiful from the ugly, the interesting from the dull, the tragic from the melodramatic. You had just come from Sawston, and were apparently carried away by the fact that Miss Pembroke had the usual amount of arms and legs.”

  Rickie was silent. He had told his friend how he felt, but not what had happened. Ansell could discuss love and death admirably, but somehow he would not understand lovers or a dying man, and in the letter there had been scant allusion to these concrete facts. Would Cambridge understand them either? He watched some dons who were peeping into an excavation, and throwing up their hands with humorous gestures of despair. These men would lecture next week on Catiline’s conspiracy, on Luther, on Evolution, on Catullus. They dealt with so much and they had experienced so little. Was it possible he would ever come to think Cambridge narrow? In his short life Rickie had known two sudden deaths, and that is enough to disarrange any placid outlook on the world. He knew once for all that we are all of us bubbles on an extremely rough sea. Into this sea humanity has built, as it were, some little breakwaters—scientific knowledge, civilized restraint—so that the bubbles do not break so frequently or so soon. But the sea has not altered, and it was only a chance that he, Ansell, Tilliard, and Mrs. Aberdeen had not all been killed in the tram.

  They waited for the other tram by the Roman Catholic Church, whose florid bulk was already receding into twilight. It is the first big building that the incoming visitor sees. “Oh, here come the colleges!” cries the Protestant parent, and then learns that it was built by a Papist who made a fortune out of movable eyes for dolls. “Built out of doll’s eyes to contain idols”—that, at all events, is the legend and the joke. It watches over the apostate city, taller by many a yard than anything within, and asserting, however wildly, that here is eternity, stability, and bubbles unbreakable upon a windless sea.

  A costly hymn tune announced five o’clock, and in the distance the more lovable note of St. Mary’s could be heard, speaking from the heart of the town. Then the tram arrived—the slow stuffy tram that plies every twenty minutes between the unknown and the marketplace—and took them past the desecrated grounds of Downing, past Addenbrookes Hospital, girt like any Venetian palace with a mantling canal, past the Fitz William, towering upon immense substructions like any Roman temple, right up to the gates of one’s own college, which looked like nothing else in the world. The porters were glad to see them, but wished it had been a hansom. “Our luggage,” explained Rickie, “comes in the hotel omnibus, if you would kindly pay a shilling for mine.” Ansell turned aside to some large lighted windows, the abode of a hospitable, and from other windows there floated familiar voices and the familiar mistakes in a Beethoven sonata. The college, though small, was civilized, and proud of its civilization. It was not sufficient glory to be a Blue there, nor an additional glory to get drunk. Many a maiden lady who had read that Cambridge men were sad dogs, was surprised and perhaps a little disappointed at the reasonable
life which greeted her. Miss Appleblossom in particular had had a tremendous shock. The sight of young fellows making tea and drinking water had made her wonder whether this was Cambridge College at all. “It is so,” she exclaimed afterwards. “It is just as I say; and what’s more, I wouldn’t have it otherwise; Stewart says it’s as easy as easy to get into the swim, and not at all expensive.” The direction of the swim was determined a little by the genius of the place—for places have a genius, though the less we talk about it the better—and a good deal by the tutors and resident fellows, who treated with rare dexterity the products that came up yearly from the public schools. They taught the perky boy that he was not everything, and the limp boy that he might be something. They even welcomed those boys who were neither limp nor perky, but odd—those boys who had never been at a public school at all, and such do not find a welcome everywhere. And they did everything with ease—one might almost say with nonchalance,—so that the boys noticed nothing, and received education, often for the first time in their lives.

  But Rickie turned to none of these friends, for just then he loved his rooms better than any person. They were all he really possessed in the world, the only place he could call his own. Over the door was his name, and through the paint, like a grey ghost, he could still read the name of his predecessor. With a sigh of joy he entered the perishable home that was his for a couple of years. There was a beautiful fire, and the kettle boiled at once. He made tea on the hearth-rug and ate the biscuits which Mrs. Aberdeen had brought for him up from Anderson’s. “Gentlemen,” she said, “must learn to give and take.” He sighed again and again, like one who had escaped from danger. With his head on the fender and all his limbs relaxed, he felt almost as safe as he felt once when his mother killed a ghost in the passage by carrying him through it in her arms. There was no ghost now; he was frightened at reality; he was frightened at the splendours and horrors of the world.

  A letter from Miss Pembroke was on the table. He did not hurry to open it, for she, and all that she did, was overwhelming. She wrote like the Sibyl; her sorrowful face moved over the stars and shattered their harmonies; last night he saw her with the eyes of Blake, a virgin widow, tall, veiled, consecrated, with her hands stretched out against an everlasting wind. Why should she write? Her letters were not for the likes of him, nor to be read in rooms like his.