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    Short Stories
    Short Stories
    Short Stories
    Ebook283 pages4 hours

    Short Stories

    By E. M. Forster

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    Edward Morgan Forster (1 January 1879 – 7 June 1970), known as E. M. Forster, was an English novelist, short story writer, essayist and librettist. Many of his novels examined class difference and hypocrisy in early 20th-century British society, notably A Room with a View (1908), Howards End (1910), and A Passage to India (1924), which brought him his greatest success. He was nominated for the Nobel Prize in Literature in 16 different years. This collection of 13 short stories originally appeared in magazines between 1903 and 1920. The book includes the following stories:
    ALBERGO EMPEDOCLE, Temple Bar Magazine, December 1903
    THE STORY OF A PANIC, Independent Review, August 1904
    THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HEDGE, Independent Review, November 1904
    THE ROAD FROM COLONUS, Independent Review, June 1904
    THE ETERNAL MOMENT, Independent Review, 1905
    THE CURATE’S FRIEND, Pall Mall Magazine, October 1907
    THE CELESTIAL OMNIBUS, Albany Review, January 1908
    OTHER KINGDOM, English Review, July 1909
    THE MACHINE STOPS (PD), Oxford and Cambridge Review, 1909
    THE POINT OF IT, English Review, November 1911
    MR ANDREWS, Open Window, April 1911
    CO-ORDINATION, English Review, June 1912
    THE STORY OF THE SIREN, Hogarth Press, 1920
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherVintReads
    Release dateFeb 3, 2018
    ISBN9788827564066
    Short Stories
    Author

    E. M. Forster

    Edward Morgan Forster (1879–1970) was born in London and attended the Tonbridge School and King’s College, Cambridge. A substantial inheritance from his aunt gave Forster the freedom to pursue a literary career and travel extensively, and he wrote some of the finest novels of the twentieth century, including A Room with a View, A Passage to India, and Howards End. Queen Elizabeth II awarded him the Order of Merit in 1969.

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      Book preview

      Short Stories - E. M. Forster

      (1920)

      SHORT STORIES

      E. M. FORSTER

      Published by

      © Vintreads - 2018

      www.vintreads.com

      For more information, email post@vintreads.com

      PUBLISHING HISTORY

      The stories were originally published as follows:

      ALBERGO EMPEDOCLE, Temple Bar Magazine, December 1903

      THE STORY OF A PANIC, Independent Review, August 1904

      THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HEDGE, Independent Review, November 1904

      THE ROAD FROM COLONUS, Independent Review, June 1904

      THE ETERNAL MOMENT, Independent Review, 1905

      THE CURATE’S FRIEND, Pall Mall Magazine, October 1907

      THE CELESTIAL OMNIBUS, Albany Review, January 1908

      OTHER KINGDOM, English Review, July 1909

      THE MACHINE STOPS, Oxford and Cambridge Review, 1909

      THE POINT OF IT, English Review, November 1911

      MR ANDREWS, Open Window, April 1911

      CO-ORDINATION, English Review, June 1912

      THE STORY OF THE SIREN, Hogarth Press, 1920

      ALBERGO EMPEDOCLE (1903)

      The last letter I had from Harold was from Naples.

      We’ve just come back from Pompeii (he wrote). On the whole it’s decidedly no go and very tiring. What with the smells and the beggars and the mosquitoes we’re rather off Naples altogether, and we’ve changed our plans and are going to Sicily. The guidebooks say you can run through it in no time; only four places you have to go to, and very little in them. That suits us to a T. Pompeii and the awful Museum here have fairly killed us— except of course Mildred, and perhaps Sir Edwin.

      Now why don’t you come too? I know you’re keen on Sicily, and we all would like it. You would be able to spread yourself no end with your archaeology. For once in my life I should have to listen while you jaw. You’d enjoy discussing temples, gods, etc., with Mildred. She’s taught me a lot, but of course it’s no fun for her, talking to us. Send a wire; I’ll stand the cost. Start at once and we’ll wait for you. The Peaslakes say the same, especially Mildred.

      My not sleeping at night, and my headaches are all right now, thanks very much. As for the blues, I haven’t had any since I’ve been engaged, and don’t intend to. So don’t worry any more.

      Yours,

      Harold

      Dear Tommy, if you aren’t an utter fool you’ll let me pay your ticket out.

      I did not go. I could just have managed it, but Sicily was then a very sacred name to me, and the thought of running through it in no time, even with Harold, deterred me. I went afterwards, and as I am well acquainted with all who went then, and have had circumstantial information of all that happened, I think that my account of the affair will be as intelligible as anyone’s.

      I am conceited enough to think that, if I had gone, the man I love most in the world would not now be in an asylum.

      I

      The Peaslake party was most harmonious in its composition. Four out of the five were Peaslakes, which partly accounted for the success, but the fifth, Harold, seemed to have been created to go with them. They had started from England soon after his engagement to Mildred Peaslake, and had been flying over Europe for two months. At first they were a little ashamed of their rapidity, but the delight of continual custom-house examinations soon seized them, and they had hardly learned what Come in and Hot water, please were in one language, before they crossed the frontier and had to learn them in another.

      But, as Harold truly said, People say we don’t see things properly, and are globe-trotters, and all that, but after all one travels to enjoy oneself, and no one can say that we aren’t having a ripping time.

      Every party, to be really harmonious, must have a physical and an intellectual centre. Harold provided one, Mildred the other. He settled whether a mountain had to be climbed or a walk taken, and it was his fists that were clenched when a porter was insolent, or a cabman tried to overcharge. Mildred, on the other hand, was the fount of information. It was she who generally held the Baedeker and explained it. She had been expecting her continental scramble for several years, and had read a fair amount of books for it, which a good memory often enabled her to reproduce.

      But they all agreed that she was no dry encyclopaedia. Her appetite for facts was balanced by her reverence for imagination.

      It is imagination, she would say, that makes the past live again. It sets the centuries at naught.

      Rather! was the invariable reply of Harold, who was notoriously deficient in it. Recreating the past was apt to give him a headache, and his thoughts obstinately returned to the unromantic present, which he found quite satisfactory. He was fairly rich, fairly healthy, very much in love, very fond of life, and he was content to worship in

      Mildred those higher qualities which he did not possess himself.

      These two between them practically ran the party, and both Sir Edwin and Lady Peaslake were glad that the weight of settling or explaining anything should be lifted off their shoulders. Sir Edwin sometimes held the Baedeker, but his real function was the keeping of a diary in which he put down the places they went to, the people they met, and the times of the trains. Lady Peaslake’s department was packing, hotels, and the purchasing of presents for a large circle of acquaintance. As for Lilian, Mildred’s sister, whatever pleased other people pleased her. Altogether it was a most delightful party.

      They were, however, just a little subdued and quiet during that journey from Palermo to Girgenti. They had done Palermo in even less time than Baedeker had allowed for it, and such audacity must tell on the most robust of tourists. Furthermore they had made an early start, as they had to get to Girgenti for lunch, do the temples in the afternoon, and go on the next morning to Syracuse.

      It was no wonder that Lady Peaslake was too weary to look out of the window, and that Harold yawned when Mildred explained at some length how it was that a Greek temple came to be built out of Greece.

      Poor boy! You’re tired, she said, without bitterness, and without surprise.

      Harold blushed at his impoliteness.

      We really do too much, said Lady Peaslake. I never bought that Sicilian cart for Mrs Popham. It would have been the very thing. She will have something out of the way. If a thing’s at all ordinary she will hardly say thank you. Harold, would you try at Girgenti? Mind you beat them down. Four francs is the outside.

      Certainly, Lady Peaslake. His method of purchasing for her was to pay whatever was asked, and to make good the difference out of his own pocket.

      Girgenti will produce more than Sicilian carts, said Mildred, smoothing down the pages of the guidebook. In Greek times it was the second city of the island, wasn’t it? It was famous for the ability, wealth and luxury of its inhabitants. You remember, Harold, it was called Acragas. Acragas, Acragas, chanted Harold, striving to rescue one word from the chaos. The effort was too much for him, and he gave another yawn.

      Really, Harold! said Mildred, laughing. You’re very much exhausted.

      I’ve scarcely slept for three nights, he replied in rather an aggrieved voice.

      Oh, my dear boy! I’m very sorry. I had no idea.

      Why did not you tell me? said Sir Edwin. We would have started later. Yes, I see you do look tired.

      It’s so queer. It’s ever since I’ve been in Sicily. Perhaps Girgenti will be better.

      Have you never slept since Naples?

      Oh, I did sleep for an hour or so last night. But that was because I used my dodge.

      Dodge! said Sir Edwin. What ever do you mean?

      You know it, don’t you? You pretend you’re someone else, and then you go asleep in no time.

      Indeed I do not know it, said Sir Edwin emphatically. Mildred’s curiosity was aroused. She had never heard Harold say anything unexpected before, and she was determined to question him.

      How extremely interesting! How very interesting! I don’t know it either. Who do you imagine yourself to be?

      Oh, no one—anyone. I just say to myself, ‘That’s someone lying awake. Why doesn’t he go to sleep if he’s tired?’ Then he—I mean I—do, and it’s all right.

      But that is a very wonderful thing. Why didn’t you do it all three nights?

      Well, to tell the truth, said Harold, rather confused, I promised Tommy I’d never do it again. You see, I used to do it, not only when I couldn’t sleep, but also when I was in the blues about something—or nothing—as one is, I don’t know why. It doesn’t get rid of them, but it kind of makes me so strong that I don’t care for them—I can’t explain. One morning Tommy came to see me, and I never knew him till he shook me. Naturally he was horribly sick, and made me promise never to do it again.

      And why have you done it again? said Sir Edwin.

      "Well, I did hold out two nights. But last night I was so dead tired, I couldn’t think what I wanted to—of course you understand that; it’s rather beastly. All the night I had to keep saying, ‘ I’m lying awake, I’m lying awake, I’m lying awake,’ and it got more and more difficult. And when it was almost time to get up I made a slip and said, ‘He’s lying awake’—and then off I went."

      How very, very interesting, said Mildred, and Lilian cried that it was a simply splendid idea, and that she should try it next time she had the toothache.

      Indeed, Lilian, said her mother, I beg you’ll do no such thing.

      No, indeed, said Sir Edwin, who was looking grave. Harold, your friend was quite right. It is never safe to play tricks with the brain. I must say I’m astonished: you of all people!

      Yes, said Harold, looking at a very substantial hand. I’m such a stodgy person. It is odd. It isn’t brain or imagination or anything like that. I simply pretend.

      It is imagination, said Mildred in alow determined voice. Whatever it is, it must stop, said Sir Edwin. It’s a dangerous habit. You must break yourself of it before it is fully formed.

      Yes. I promised Tommy. I shall try again tonight, said Harold, with a pitiful little sigh of fatigue.

      I’ll arrange to have a room communicating with yours. If you can’t sleep tonight, call me.

      Thanks very much, I’m sure not to do it if you’re near. It only works when one’s alone. Tommy stopped it by taking rooms in the same house, which was decent of him.

      The conversation had woken them up. The girls were quiet, Lilian being awed, and Mildred being rather annoyed with her parents for their want of sympathy with imagination. She felt that Harold had so little, that unless it was nourished it would disappear. She crossed over to him, and managed to say in a low voice:

      You please me very much. I had no idea you were like this before. We live in a world of mystery.

      Harold smiled complacently at the praise, and being sure that he could not say anything sensible held his tongue. Mildred at once began to turn his newly found powers to the appreciation of Girgenti.

      Think, she said, of the famous men who visited her in her prime. Pindar, Aeschylus, Plato—and as for Empedocles, of course he was born there.

      Oh!

      The disciple, you know, of Pythagoras, who believed in the transmigration of souls.

      Oh!

      It’s a beautiful idea, isn’t it, that the soul should have several lives.

      But, Mildred darling, said the gentle voice of Lady Peaslake, we know that it is not so.

      Oh, I didn’t mean that, mamma. I only said it was a beautiful idea.

      But not a true one, darling.

      No.

      Their voices had sunk into that respectful monotone which is always considered suitable when the soul is under discussion. They all looked awkward and ill at ease. Sir Edwin played tunes on his waistcoat buttons, and Harold blew into the bowl of his pipe. Mildred, a little confused at her temerity, passed on to the terrible sack of Acragas by the Romans. Whereat their faces relaxed, and they regained their accustomed spirits.

      But what are dates? said Mildred. What are facts, or even names of persons? They carry one a very little way. In a place like this one must simply feel.

      Rather, said Harold, trying to fix his attention.

      You must throw yourself into a past age if you want to appreciate it thoroughly. Today you must imagine you are a Greek.

      Really, Mildred, said Sir Edwin, you’re almost too fanciful.

      "No, father, I’m not. Harold understands. He must forget all these modern horrors of railways and Cook’s tours, and think that he’s living over two thousand years ago, among palaces and temples. He must think and feel and act like a Greek. It’s the only way. He must—well, he must be a Greek."

      The sea! The sea! interrupted Harold. How absolutely ripping! I swear I’ll put in a bathe!

      Oh, you incorrigible boy! said Mildred, joining in the laugh at the failure of her own scheme. Show me the sea, then.

      They were still far away from it, for they had hardly crossed the watershed of the island. It was the country of the mines, barren and immense, absolutely destitute of grass or trees, producing nothing but cakes of sallow sulphur, which were stacked on the platform of every wayside station. Human beings were scanty, and they were stunted and dry, mere withered vestiges of men. And far below at the bottom of the yellow waste was the moving living sea, which embraced Sicily when she was green and delicate and young, and embraces her now, when she is brown and withered and dying.

      I see something more interesting than the sea, said Mildred. I see Girgenti.

      She pointed to a little ridge of brown hill far beneath them, on the summit of which a few gray buildings were huddled together.

      Oh, what a dreadful place! cried poor Lady Peaslake. How uncomfortable we are going to be!

      Oh dearest mother, it’s only for one night. What are a few drawbacks, when we are going to see temples! Temples, Greek temples! Doesn’t the word make you thrill?

      Well, no, dear, it doesn’t. I should have thought the Pesto ones would have been enough. These can’t be very different.

      I consider you are a recreant party, said Mildred in a sprightly voice. First it’s Harold, now it’s you. I’m the only worthy one among you. Today I mean to be a Greek. What hotel do we go to?

      Lady Peaslake produced her notebook and said: Grand Hotel des Temples. Recommended by Mr Dimbleby. Ask for a back room, as those have the view.

      But at the Girgenti railway station, the man from the Temples told them that his hotel was full, and Mildred, catching sight of the modest omnibus of the Albergo Empedocle, suggested that they should go there, because it sounded so typical.

      You remember what the doctrine of Empedocles was, Harold?

      The wretched Harold had forgotten.

      Sir Edwin was meanwhile being gently urged into the omnibus by the man from the Empedocle.

      We know nothing about it, absolutely nothing. Are you—have you clean beds?

      The man from the Empedocle raised his eyes and hands to heaven, so ecstatic was his remembrance of the purity of the blankets, the spotlessness of the sheets. At last words came, and he said, The beds of the Empedocle! They are celestial. One spends one night there, and one remembers it for ever!

      II

      Sir Edwin and Lady Peaslake were sitting in the Temple of Juno Lacinia and leaning back on a Doric column—which is a form of architecture neither comfortable as a cushion nor adequate as a parasol. They were as cross as it was possible for good-tempered people to be. Their lunch at the dirty hotel had disagreed with them, and the wine that was included with it had made them heavy. The drive to the temples had joggled them up and one of the horses had fallen down. They had been worried to buy flowers, figs, shells, sulphur crystals, and new-laid antiquities, they had been pestered by the beggars and bitten by the fleas. Had they been Sicilian-born they would have known what was the matter, and lying down on the grass, on the flowers, on the road, on the temple steps—on anything, would have sunk at once into that marvellous midday sleep which is fed by light and warmth and air. But being northern-born they did not know—nor could they have slept if they had.

      Where on earth are Harold and Mildred? asked Lady Peaslake. She did not want to know, but she was restless with fatigue.

      I can’t think why we couldn’t all keep together, said Sir Edwin.

      You see, papa, said Lilian, Mildred wants to see the temples that have tumbled down as well as these, and Harold is taking her.

      He’s a poor guide, said Sir Edwin. Really, Lilian, I begin to think that Harold is rather stupid. Of course I’m very fond of him, he’s a thoroughly nice fellow, honest as the day, and he’s good-looking and well-made—I value all that extremely—but after all brains are something. He is so slow—so lamentably slow—at catching one’s meaning.

      But, father dear, replied Lilian, who was devoted to Harold, he’s tired.

      I am tired, too, but I can keep my wits about me. He seems in a dream; when the horse fell he never attempted to get down and sit on its head. It might have kicked us to pieces. He’s as helpless as a baby with beggars. He’s too idle to walk properly; three times he trod on my toes, and he fell up the temple steps and broke your camera. He’s blind, he’s deaf—I may say he’s dumb, too. Now this is pure stupidity, and I believe that stupidity can be cured just like anything else, if you make the effort.

      Lilian continued the defence, and repeated that he had hardly slept for three nights.

      Ridiculous. Why can’t he sleep? It’s stupidity again. An effort is needed—that is all. He can cure it if he chooses.

      He does know how to cure it, said Lilian, but you thought—and so did he—that—

      She produced an explosion of ill-temper in her father, which was quite unprecedented.

      I’m very much annoyed with him. He has no right to play tricks with his brain. And what’s more I am annoyed with Mildred, too.

      Oh, father!

      She encourages him in his silliness—makes him think he’s clever. I’m extremely annoyed, and I shall speak to them both, as soon as I get the opportunity.

      Lilian was surprised and pained. Her father had never blamed anyone so strongly before. She did not know— indeed, he did not know himself—that neither the indigestion nor the heat, nor the beggars, nor the fleas, were the real cause of his irritation. He was annoyed because he failed to understand.

      Mildred he could pardon; she had merely been indiscreet, and as she had gone in for being clever when quite a child such things were to be expected from her. Besides, he shrewdly guessed that, although she might sometimes indulge in fancies, yet when it came to action she could be trusted to behave in a thoroughly conventional manner. Thank heaven! she was seldom guilty of confusing books with life.

      But Harold did not escape so easily, for Sir Edwin absolutely failed to understand him, for the first time. Hitherto he had believed that he understood him perfectly. Harold’s character was so simple; it consisted of little more than two things, the power to love and the desire for truth, and Sir Edwin, like many a wiser thinker, concluded that what was not complicated could not be mysterious. Similarly, because Harold’s intellect did not devote itself to the acquisition of facts or to the elaboration of emotions, he had concluded that he was stupid. But now, just because he could send himself to sleep by an unexplained device, he spied a mystery in him, and was aggrieved.

      He was right. There was a mystery, and a great one. Yet it was trivial and unimportant in comparison with the power to love and the desire for truth—things which he saw daily, and, because he had seen daily, ignored.

      His meditations took shape, and he flung this challenge at the unknown: I’ll have no queerness in a son-in-law! He was sitting in a Doric temple with a sea of gold and purple flowers tossing over its ruins, and his eyes looked out to the moving, living sea of blue. But his ears caught neither the echo of the past nor the cry of the present, for he was suddenly paralysed with the fear that after all he had not done so well for his daughter as he hoped.

      Meanwhile, Mildred, at the other end of the line of temples, was concentrated on the echoes of the past. Harold was even more inattentive to them than usual. He was very sleepy, and would only say that the flowers were rather jolly and that the sea looked in prime condition if only one could try it. To the magnificence and pathos of the ruined Temple of Zeus he was quite dead. He only valued it as a chair.

      Suppose you go back and rest in the carriage? said Mildred, with a shade of irritation in her voice.

      He shook his head and sat yawning at the sea, thinking how wonderfully the water would fizz up over his body and how marvellously cold would be the pale blue pools among the rocks. Mildred endeavoured to recall him to higher pleasures by reading out of her Baedeker.

      She turned round to explain something and he was gone.

      At first she thought it was a mild practical joke, such as they did not disdain to play on each other; then that he had changed his mind and gone back to the carriage. But the custodian at the gate said that no one had gone out, and she returned to search the ruins.

      The Temple of Zeus—the third greatest temple of the Greek world—has been overthrown by an earthquake, and now resembles a ruined mountain rather than a ruined building. There is a well-made path, which makes a circuit over the mass, and is amply sufficient for all rational tourists. Those who wish to see more have to go mountaineering over gigantic columns and pilasters, and squeeze their way through passes of cut stone.

      Harold was not on the path, and Mildred was naturally annoyed. Few things are more vexatious for a young lady than to go out with an escort and return without. It argues remissness on her own part quite as much as on that of her swain.

      Having told the custodian to stop Harold if he tried to come out, she began a systematic hunt. She saw an enormous block of stone from which she would get a good view of die chaos, and, wading through the gold and purple flowers that separated her from it, scrambled up.

      On its further side were two fallen columns, lying close together, and the space that separated them had been silted up and was covered with flowers. On it, as on a bed, lay Harold, fast asleep, his cheek pressed against the hot stone of one of the columns, and his breath swaying a little blue iris that had rooted in one of its cracks.

      The indignant

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