That,” exclaimed Ansell, rising from his couch in violent excitement. “Where is it? How do you set about finding it? How long does it take to get there? What does it think? What does it do? What does it want? Oblige me with specimens of its art and literature.” Silence. “Till you do, my opinions will be as follows: There is no great world at all, only a little earth, for ever isolated from the rest of the little solar system. The earth is full of tiny societies, and Cambridge is one of them. All the societies are narrow, but some are good and some are bad—just as one house is beautiful inside and another ugly. Observe the metaphor of the houses: I am coming back to it. The good societies say, `I tell you to do this because I am Cambridge.’ The bad ones say, `I tell you to do that because I am the great world, not because I am ‘Peckham,’ or `Billingsgate,’ or ` Park Lane,’ but `because I am the great world.’ They lie. And fools like you listen to them, and believe that they are a thing which does not exist and never has existed, and confuse ‘great,’ which has no meaning whatever, with ‘good,’ which means salvation. Look at this great wreath: it’ll be dead tomorrow. Look at that good flower: it’ll come up again next year. Now for the other metaphor. To compare the world to Cambridge is like comparing the outsides of houses with the inside of a house. No intellectual effort is needed, no moral result is attained. You only have to say, ‘Oh, what a difference!’ and then come indoors again and exhibit your broadened mind.”
“I never shall come indoors again,” said Rickie. “That’s the whole point.” And his voice began to quiver. “It’s well enough for those who’ll get a Fellowship, but in a few weeks I shall go down. In a few years it’ll be as if I’ve never been up. It matters very much to me what the world is like. I can’t answer your questions about it; and that’s no loss to you, but so much the worse for me. And then you’ve got a house—not a metaphorical one, but a house with father and sisters. I haven’t, and never shall have. There’ll never again be a home for me like Cambridge. I shall only look at the outside of homes. According to your metaphor, I shall live in the street, and it matters very much to me what I find there.”
“You’ll live in another house right enough,” said Ansell, rather uneasily. “Only take care you pick out a decent one. I can’t think why you flop about so helplessly, like a bit of seaweed. In four years you’ve taken as much root as any one.”
“Where?”
“I should say you’ve been fortunate in your friends.”
“Oh—that!” But he was not cynical—or cynical in a very tender way. He was thinking of the irony of friendship—so strong it is, and so fragile. We fly together, like straws in an eddy, to part in the open stream. Nature has no use for us: she has cut her stuff differently. Dutiful sons, loving husbands, responsible fathers these are what she wants, and if we are friends it must be in our spare time. Abram and Sarai were sorrowful, yet their seed became as sand of the sea, and distracts the politics of Europe at this moment. But a few verses of poetry is all that survives of David and Jonathan.
“I wish we were labelled,” said Rickie. He wished that all the confidence and mutual knowledge that is born in such a place as Cambridge could be organized. People went down into the world saying, “We know and like each other; we shan’t forget.” But they did forget, for man is so made that he cannot remember long without a symbol; he wished there was a society, a kind of friendship office, where the marriage of true minds could be registered.
“Why labels?”
“To know each other again.”
“I have taught you pessimism splendidly.” He looked at his watch.
“What time?”
“Not twelve.”
Rickie got up.
“Why go?” He stretched out his hand and caught hold of Rickie’s ankle.
“I’ve got that Miss Pembroke to lunch—that girl whom you say never’s there.”
“Then why go? All this week you have pretended Miss Pembroke awaited you. Wednesday—Miss Pembroke to lunch. Thursday—Miss Pembroke to tea. Now again—and you didn’t even invite her.”
“To Cambridge, no. But the Hall man they’re stopping with has so many engagements that she and her friend can often come to me, I’m glad to say. I don’t think I ever told you much, but over two years ago the man she was going to marry was killed at football. She nearly died of grief. This visit to Cambridge is almost the first amusement she has felt up to taking. Oh, they go back tomorrow! Give me breakfast tomorrow.”
“All right.”
“But I shall see you this evening. I shall be round at your paper on Schopenhauer. Lemme go.”
“Don’t go,” he said idly. “It’s much better for you to talk to me.”
“Lemme go, Stewart.”
“It’s amusing that you’re so feeble. You—simply—can’t—get— away. I wish I wanted to bully you.”
Rickie laughed, and suddenly over balanced into the grass. Ansell, with unusual playfulness, held him prisoner. They lay there for few minutes, talking and ragging aimlessly. Then Rickie seized his opportunity and jerked away.
“Go, go!” yawned the other. But he was a little vexed, for he was a young man with great capacity for pleasure, and it pleased him that morning to be with his friend. The thought of two ladies waiting lunch did not deter him; stupid women, why shouldn’t they wait? Why should they interfere with their betters? With his ear on the ground he listened to Rickie’s departing steps, and thought, “He wastes a lot of time keeping engagements. Why will he be pleasant to fools?” And then he thought, “Why has he turned so unhappy? It isn’t as it he’s a philosopher, or tries to solve the riddle of existence. And he’s got money of his own: “Thus thinking, he fell asleep.
Meanwhile Rickie hurried away from him, and slackened and stopped, and hurried again. He was due at the Union in ten minutes, but he could not bring himself there. He dared not meet Miss Pembroke: he loved her.
The devil must have planned it. They had started so gloriously; she had been a goddess both in joy and sorrow. She was a goddess still. But he had dethroned the god whom once he had glorified equally. Slowly, slowly, the image of Gerald had faded. That was the first step. Rickie had thought, “No matter. He will be bright again. Just now all the radiance chances to be in her.” And on her he had fixed his eyes. He thought of her awake. He entertained her willingly in dreams. He found her in poetry and music and in the sunset. She made him kind and strong. She made him clever. Through her he kept Cambridge in its proper place, and lived as a citizen of the great world. But one night he dreamt that she lay in his arms. This displeased him. He determined to think a little about Gerald instead. Then the fabric collapsed.
It was hard on Rickie thus to meet the devil. He did not deserve it, for he was comparatively civilized, and knew that there was nothing shameful in love. But to love this woman! If only it had been any one else! Love in return—that he could expect from no one, being too ugly and too unattractive. But the love he offered would not then have been vile. The insult to Miss Pembroke, who was consecrated, and whom he had consecrated, who could still see Gerald, and always would see him, shining on his everlasting throne this was the crime from the devil, the crime that no penance would ever purge. She knew nothing. She never would know. But the crime was registered in heaven.
He had been tempted to confide in Ansell. But to what purpose? He would say, “I love Miss Pembroke.” and Stewart would reply,
