Works of E M Forster

by E. M. Forster

  Mrs. Failing frowned. “I envy you. It is a great thing to have no sense of beauty.”

  “I think I have a sense of beauty, which leads me astray if I am not careful.”

  “But this is a great relief to me. I thought the present day young man was an agnostic! Isn’t agnosticism all the thing at Cambridge?”

  “Nothing is the ‘thing’ at Cambridge. If a few men are agnostic there, it is for some grave reason, not because they are irritated with the way the parson says his vowels.”

  Agnes intervened. “Well, I side with Aunt Emily. I believe in ritual.”

  “Don’t, my dear, side with me. He will only say you have no sense of religion either.”

  “Excuse me,” said Rickie, perhaps he too was a little hungry,— “I never suggested such a thing. I never would suggest such a thing. Why cannot you understand my position? I almost feel it is that you won’t.”

  “I try to understand your position night and day dear — what you mean, what you like, why you came to Cadover, and why you stop here when my presence is so obviously unpleasing to you.”

  “Luncheon is served,” said Leighton, but he said it too late. They discussed the beef and the moselle in silence. The air was heavy and ominous. Even the Wonham boy was affected by it, shivered at times, choked once, and hastened anew into the sun. He could not understand clever people.

  Agnes, in a brief anxious interview, advised the culprit to take a solitary walk. She would stop near Aunt Emily, and pave the way for an apology.

  “Don’t worry too much. It doesn’t really matter.”

  “I suppose not, dear. But it seems a pity, considering we are so near the end of our visit.”

  “Rudeness and Grossness matter, and I’ve shown both, and already I’m sorry, and I hope she’ll let me apologize. But from the selfish point of view it doesn’t matter a straw. She’s no more to us than the Wonham boy or the boot boy.”

  “Which way will you walk?”

  “I think to that entrenchment. Look at it.” They were sitting on the steps. He stretched out his hand to Cadsbury Rings, and then let it rest for a moment on her shoulder. “You’re changing me,” he said gently. “God bless you for it.”

  He enjoyed his walk. Cadford was a charming village and for a time he hung over the bridge by the mill. So clear was the stream that it seemed not water at all, but some invisible quintessence in which the happy minnows and the weeds were vibrating. And he paused again at the Roman crossing, and thought for a moment of the unknown child. The line curved suddenly: certainly it was dangerous. Then he lifted his eyes to the down. The entrenchment showed like the rim of a saucer, and over its narrow line peeped the summit of the central tree. It looked interesting. He hurried forward, with the wind behind him.

  The Rings were curious rather than impressive. Neither embankment was over twelve feet high, and the grass on them had not the exquisite green of Old Sarum, but was grey and wiry. But Nature (if she arranges anything) had arranged that from them, at all events, there should be a view. The whole system of the country lay spread before Rickie, and he gained an idea of it that he never got in his elaborate ride. He saw how all the water converges at Salisbury; how Salisbury lies in a shallow basin, just at the change of the soil. He saw to the north the Plain, and the stream of the Cad flowing down from it, with a tributary that broke out suddenly, as the chalk streams do: one village had clustered round the source and clothed itself with trees. He saw Old Sarum, and hints of the Avon valley, and the land above Stone Henge. And behind him he saw the great wood beginning unobtrusively, as if the down too needed shaving; and into it the road to London slipped, covering the bushes with white dust. Chalk made the dust white, chalk made the water clear, chalk made the clean rolling outlines of the land, and favoured the grass and the distant coronals of trees. Here is the heart of our island: the Chilterns, the North Downs, the South Downs radiate hence. The fibres of England unite in Wiltshire, and did we condescend to worship her, here we should erect our national shrine.

  People at that time were trying to think imperially, Rickie wondered how they did it, for he could not imagine a place larger than England. And other people talked of Italy, the spiritual fatherland of us all. Perhaps Italy would prove marvellous. But at present he conceived it as something exotic, to be admired and reverenced, but not to be loved like these unostentatious fields. He drew out a book, it was natural for him to read when he was happy, and to read out loud, — and for a little time his voice disturbed the silence of that glorious afternoon. The book was Shelley, and it opened at a passage that he had cherished greatly two years before, and marked as “very good.”

  “I never was attached to that great sect Whose doctrine is that each one should select Out of the world a mistress or a friend, And all the rest, though fair and wise, commend To cold oblivion, — though it is the code Of modern morals, and the beaten road Which those poor slaves with weary footsteps tread Who travel to their home among the dead By the broad highway of the world, — and so With one sad friend, perhaps a jealous foe, The dreariest and the longest journey go.”

  It was “very good” — fine poetry, and, in a sense, true. Yet he was surprised that he had ever selected it so vehemently. This afternoon it seemed a little inhuman. Half a mile off two lovers were keeping company where all the villagers could see them. They cared for no one else; they felt only the pressure of each other, and so progressed, silent and oblivious, across the land. He felt them to be nearer the truth than Shelley. Even if they suffered or quarrelled, they would have been nearer the truth. He wondered whether they were Henry Adams and Jessica Thompson, both of this parish, whose banns had been asked for the second time in the church this morning. Why could he not marry on fifteen shillings a-week? And be looked at them with respect, and wished that he was not a cumbersome gentleman.

  Presently he saw something less pleasant — his aunt’s pony carriage. It had crossed the railway, and was advancing up the Roman road along by the straw sacks. His impulse was to retreat, but someone waved to him. It was Agnes. She waved continually, as much as to say, “Wait for us.” Mrs. Failing herself raised the whip in a nonchalant way. Stephen Wonham was following on foot, some way behind. He put the Shelley back into his pocket and waited for them. When the carriage stopped by some hurdles he went down from the embankment and helped them to dismount. He felt rather nervous.

  His aunt gave him one of her disquieting smiles, but said pleasantly enough, “Aren’t the Rings a little immense? Agnes and I came here because we wanted an antidote to the morning service.”

  “Pang!” said the church bell suddenly; “pang! pang!” It sounded petty and ludicrous. They all laughed. Rickie blushed, and Agnes, with a glance that said “apologize,” darted away to the entrenchment, as though unable to restrain her curiosity.

  “The pony won’t move,” said Mrs. Failing. “Leave him for Stephen to tie up. Will you walk me to the tree in the middle? Booh! I’m tired. Give me your arm — unless you’re tired as well.”

  “No. I came out partly in the hope of helping you.”

  “How sweet of you.” She contrasted his blatant unselfishness with the hardness of Stephen. Stephen never came out to help you. But if you got hold of him he was some good. He didn’t wobble and bend at the critical moment. Her fancy compared Rickie to the cracked church bell sending forth its message of “Pang! pang!” to the countryside, and Stephen to the young pagans who were said to lie under this field guarding their pagan gold.

  “This place is full of ghosties,” she remarked; “have you seen any yet?”

  “I’ve kept on the outer rim so far.”

  “Let’s go to the tree in the centre.”

  “Here’s the path.” The bank of grass where he had sat was broken by a gap, through which chariots had entered, and farm carts entered now. The track, following the ancient track, led straight through turnips to a similar gap in the second circle, and thence continued, through more turnips, to the central tree.

>   “Pang!” said the bell, as they paused at the entrance.

  “You needn’t unharness,” shouted Mrs. Failing, for Stephen was approaching the carriage.

  “Yes, I will,” he retorted.

  “You will, will you?” she murmured with a smile. “I wish your brother wasn’t quite so uppish. Let’s get on. Doesn’t that church distract you?”

  “It’s so faint here,” said Rickie. And it sounded fainter inside, though the earthwork was neither thick nor tall; and the view, though not hidden, was greatly diminished. He was reminded for a minute of that chalk pit near Madingley, whose ramparts excluded the familiar world. Agnes was here, as she had once been there. She stood on the farther barrier, waiting to receive them when they had traversed the heart of the camp.

  “Admire my mangel-wurzels,” said Mrs. Failing. “They are said to grow so splendidly on account of the dead soldiers. Isn’t it a sweet thought? Need I say it is your brother’s?”

  “Wonham’s?” he suggested. It was the second time that she had made the little slip. She nodded, and he asked her what kind of ghosties haunted this curious field.

  “The D.,” was her prompt reply. “He leans against the tree in the middle, especially on Sunday afternoons and all the worshippers rise through the turnips and dance round him.”

  “Oh, these were decent people,” he replied, looking downwards— “soldiers and shepherds. They have no ghosts. They worshipped Mars or Pan-Erda perhaps; not the devil.”

  “Pang!” went the church, and was silent, for the afternoon service had begun. They entered the second entrenchment, which was in height, breadth, and composition, similar to the first, and excluded still more of the view. His aunt continued friendly. Agnes stood watching them.

  “Soldiers may seem decent in the past,” she continued, “but wait till they turn into Tommies from Bulford Camp, who rob the chickens.”

  “I don’t mind Bulford Camp,” said Rickie, looking, though in vain, for signs of its snowy tents. “The men there are the sons of the men here, and have come back to the old country. War’s horrible, yet one loves all continuity. And no one could mind a shepherd.”

  “Indeed! What about your brother — a shepherd if ever there was? Look how he bores you! Don’t be so sentimental.”

  “But — oh, you mean— “

  “Your brother Stephen.”

  He glanced at her nervously. He had never known her so queer before. Perhaps it was some literary allusion that he had not caught; but her face did not at that moment suggest literature. In the differential tones that one uses to an old and infirm person he said “Stephen Wonham isn’t my brother, Aunt Emily.”

  “My dear, you’re that precise. One can’t say ‘half-brother’ every time.”

  They approached the central tree.

  “How you do puzzle me,” he said, dropping her arm and beginning to laugh. “How could I have a half-brother?”

  She made no answer.

  Then a horror leapt straight at him, and he beat it back and said, “I will not be frightened.” The tree in the centre revolved, the tree disappeared, and he saw a room — the room where his father had lived in town. “Gently,” he told himself, “gently.” Still laughing, he said, “I, with a brother-younger it’s not possible.” The horror leapt again, and he exclaimed, “It’s a foul lie!”

  “My dear, my dear!”

  “It’s a foul lie! He wasn’t — I won’t stand— “

  “My dear, before you say several noble things, remember that it’s worse for him than for you — worse for your brother, for your half-brother, for your younger brother.”

  But he heard her no longer. He was gazing at the past, which he had praised so recently, which gaped ever wider, like an unhallowed grave. Turn where he would, it encircled him. It took visible form: it was this double entrenchment of the Rings. His mouth went cold, and he knew that he was going to faint among the dead. He started running, missed the exit, stumbled on the inner barrier, fell into darkness —

  “Get his head down,” said a voice. “Get the blood back into him. That’s all he wants. Leave him to me. Elliot!” — the blood was returning— “Elliot, wake up!”

  He woke up. The earth he had dreaded lay close to his eyes, and seemed beautiful. He saw the structure of the clods. A tiny beetle swung on the grass blade. On his own neck a human hand pressed, guiding the blood back to his brain.

  There broke from him a cry, not of horror but of acceptance. For one short moment he understood. “Stephen— “ he began, and then he heard his own name called: “Rickie! Rickie!” Agnes hurried from her post on the margin, and, as if understanding also, caught him to her breast.

  Stephen offered to help them further, but finding that he made things worse, he stepped aside to let them pass and then sauntered inwards. The whole field, with concentric circles, was visible, and the broad leaves of the turnips rustled in the gathering wind. Miss Pembroke and Elliot were moving towards the Cadover entrance. Mrs. Failing stood watching in her turn on the opposite bank. He was not an inquisitive boy; but as he leant against the tree he wondered what it was all about, and whether he would ever know.

  XIV

  On the way back — at that very level-crossing where he had paused on his upward route — Rickie stopped suddenly and told the girl why he had fainted. Hitherto she had asked him in vain. His tone had gone from him, and he told her harshly and brutally, so that she started away with a horrified cry. Then his manner altered, and he exclaimed: “Will you mind? Are you going to mind?”

  “Of course I mind,” she whispered. She turned from him, and saw up on the sky-line two figures that seemed to be of enormous size.

  “They’re watching us. They stand on the edge watching us. This country’s so open — you — you can’t they watch us wherever we go. Of course you mind.”

  They heard the rumble of the train, and she pulled herself together. “Come, dearest, we shall be run over next. We’re saying things that have no sense.” But on the way back he repeated: “They can still see us. They can see every inch of this road. They watch us for ever.” And when they arrived at the steps there, sure enough, were still the two figures gazing from the outer circle of the Rings.

  She made him go to his room at once: he was almost hysterical. Leighton brought out some tea for her, and she sat drinking it on the little terrace. Of course she minded.

  Again she was menaced by the abnormal. All had seemed so fair and so simple, so in accordance with her ideas; and then, like a corpse, this horror rose up to the surface. She saw the two figures descend and pause while one of them harnessed the pony; she saw them drive downward, and knew that before long she must face them and the world. She glanced at her engagement ring.

  When the carriage drove up Mrs. Failing dismounted, but did not speak. It was Stephen who inquired after Rickie. She, scarcely knowing the sound of her own voice, replied that he was a little tired.

  “Go and put up the pony,” said Mrs. Failing rather sharply.

  “Agnes, give me some tea.”

  “It is rather strong,” said Agnes as the carriage drove off and left them alone. Then she noticed that Mrs. Failing herself was agitated. Her lips were trembling, and she saw the boy depart with manifest relief.

  “Do you know,” she said hurriedly, as if talking against time— “Do you know what upset Rickie?”

  “I do indeed know.”

  “Has he told any one else?”

  “I believe not.”

  “Agnes — have I been a fool?”

  “You have been very unkind,” said the girl, and her eyes filled with tears.

  For a moment Mrs. Failing was annoyed. “Unkind? I do not see that at all. I believe in looking facts in the face. Rickie must know his ghosts some time. Why not this afternoon?”

  She rose with quiet dignity, but her tears came faster. “That is not so. You told him to hurt him. I cannot think what you did it for. I suppose because he was rude to you after church. It is a mean, cowardl
y revenge.

  “What — what if it’s a lie?”

  “Then, Mrs. Failing, it is sickening of you. There is no other word. Sickening. I am sorry — a nobody like myself — to speak like this. How COULD you, oh, how could you demean yourself? Why, not even a poor person — Her indignation was fine and genuine. But her tears fell no longer. Nothing menaced her if they were not really brothers.

  “It is not a lie, my clear; sit down. I will swear so much solemnly. It is not a lie, but— “

  Agnes waited.

  “ — we can call it a lie if we choose.”

  “I am not so childish. You have said it, and we must all suffer. You have had your fun: I conclude you did it for fun. You cannot go back. He— “ She pointed towards the stables, and could not finish her sentence.

  “I have not been a fool twice.”

  Agnes did not understand.

  “My dense lady, can’t you follow? I have not told Stephen one single word, neither before nor now.”

  There was a long silence.

  Indeed, Mrs. Failing was in an awkward position.

  Rickie had irritated her, and, in her desire to shock him, she had imperilled her own peace. She had felt so unconventional upon the hillside, when she loosed the horror against him; but now it was darting at her as well. Suppose the scandal came out. Stephen, who was absolutely without delicacy, would tell it to the people as soon as tell them the time. His paganism would be too assertive; it might even be in bad taste. After all, she had a prominent position in the neighbourhood; she was talked about, respected, looked up to. After all, she was growing old. And therefore, though she had no true regard for Rickie, nor for Agnes, nor for Stephen, nor for Stephen’s parents, in whose tragedy she had assisted, yet she did feel that if the scandal revived it would disturb the harmony of Cadover, and therefore tried to retrace her steps. It is easy to say shocking things: it is so different to be connected with anything shocking. Life and death were not involved, but comfort and discomfort were.