The Longest Journey. E. M. Forster

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СКАЧАТЬ you despise music—but Anderson was playing Wagner, and he’d just got to the part where they sing

      ‘Rheingold!

       ‘Rheingold!

      and the sun strikes into the waters, and the music, which up to then has so often been in E flat—”

      “Goes into D sharp. I have not understood a single word, partly because you talk as if your mouth was full of plums, partly because I don’t know whom you’re talking about.” “Miss Pembroke—whom you saw.”

      “I saw no one.”

      “Who came in?”

      “No one came in.”

      “You’re an ass!” shrieked Rickie. “She came in. You saw her come in. She and her brother have been to dinner.”

      “You only think so. They were not really there.”

      “But they stop till Monday.”

      “You only think that they are stopping.”

      “But—oh, look here, shut up! The girl like an empress—”

      “I saw no empress, nor any girl, nor have you seen them.”

      “Ansell, don’t rag.”

      “Elliot, I never rag, and you know it. She was not really there.”

      There was a moment’s silence. Then Rickie exclaimed, “I’ve got you. You say—or was it Tilliard?—no, YOU say that the cow’s there. Well—there these people are, then. Got you. Yah!”

      “Did it never strike you that phenomena may be of two kinds: ONE, those which have a real existence, such as the cow; TWO, those which are the subjective product of a diseased imagination, and which, to our destruction, we invest with the semblance of reality? If this never struck you, let it strike you now.”

      Rickie spoke again, but received no answer. He paced a little up and down the sombre roam. Then he sat on the edge of the table and watched his clever friend draw within the square a circle, and within the circle a square, and inside that another circle, and inside that another square.

      “Why will you do that?”

      No answer.

      “Are they real?”

      “The inside one is—the one in the middle of everything, that there’s never room enough to draw.”

      II

      A little this side of Madingley, to the left of the road, there is a secluded dell, paved with grass and planted with fir-trees. It could not have been worth a visit twenty years ago, for then it was only a scar of chalk, and it is not worth a visit at the present day, for the trees have grown too thick and choked it. But when Rickie was up, it chanced to be the brief season of its romance, a season as brief for a chalk-pit as a man—its divine interval between the bareness of boyhood and the stuffiness of age. Rickie had discovered it in his second term, when the January snows had melted and left fiords and lagoons of clearest water between the inequalities of the floor. The place looked as big as Switzerland or Norway—as indeed for the moment it was—and he came upon it at a time when his life too was beginning to expand. Accordingly the dell became for him a kind of church—a church where indeed you could do anything you liked, but where anything you did would be transfigured. Like the ancient Greeks, he could even laugh at his holy place and leave it no less holy. He chatted gaily about it, and about the pleasant thoughts with which it inspired him; he took his friends there; he even took people whom he did not like. “Procul este, profani!” exclaimed a delighted aesthete on being introduced to it. But this was never to be the attitude of Rickie. He did not love the vulgar herd, but he knew that his own vulgarity would be greater if he forbade it ingress, and that it was not by preciosity that he would attain to the intimate spirit of the dell. Indeed, if he had agreed with the aesthete, he would possibly not have introduced him. If the dell was to bear any inscription, he would have liked it to be “This way to Heaven,” painted on a sign-post by the high-road, and he did not realize till later years that the number of visitors would not thereby have sensibly increased.

      On the blessed Monday that the Pembrokes left, he walked out here with three friends. It was a day when the sky seemed enormous. One cloud, as large as a continent, was voyaging near the sun, whilst other clouds seemed anchored to the horizon, too lazy or too happy to move. The sky itself was of the palest blue, paling to white where it approached the earth; and the earth, brown, wet, and odorous, was engaged beneath it on its yearly duty of decay. Rickie was open to the complexities of autumn; he felt extremely tiny—extremely tiny and extremely important; and perhaps the combination is as fair as any that exists. He hoped that all his life he would never be peevish or unkind.

      “Elliot is in a dangerous state,” said Ansell. They had reached the dell, and had stood for some time in silence, each leaning against a tree. It was too wet to sit down.

      “How’s that?” asked Rickie, who had not known he was in any state at all. He shut up Keats, whom he thought he had been reading, and slipped him back into his coat-pocket. Scarcely ever was he without a book.

      “He’s trying to like people.”

      “Then he’s done for,” said Widdrington. “He’s dead.”

      “He’s trying to like Hornblower.”

      The others gave shrill agonized cries.

      “He wants to bind the college together. He wants to link us to the beefy set.”

      “I do like Hornblower,” he protested. “I don’t try.”

      “And Hornblower tries to like you.”

      “That part doesn’t matter.”

      “But he does try to like you. He tries not to despise you. It is altogether a most public-spirited affair.”

      “Tilliard started them,” said Widdrington. “Tilliard thinks it such a pity the college should be split into sets.”

      “Oh, Tilliard!” said Ansell, with much irritation. “But what can you expect from a person who’s eternally beautiful? The other night we had been discussing a long time, and suddenly the light was turned on. Every one else looked a sight, as they ought. But there was Tilliard, sitting neatly on a little chair, like an undersized god, with not a curl crooked. I should say he will get into the Foreign Office.”

      “Why are most of us so ugly?” laughed Rickie.

      “It’s merely a sign of our salvation—merely another sign that the college is split.”

      “The college isn’t split,” cried Rickie, who got excited on this subject with unfailing regularity. “The college is, and has been, and always will be, one. What you call the beefy set aren’t a set at all. They’re just the rowing people, and naturally they chiefly see each other; but they’re always nice to me or to any one. Of course, they think us rather asses, but it’s quite in a pleasant way.”

      “That’s my whole objection,” said Ansell. “What right have they to think us asses in a pleasant way? Why СКАЧАТЬ