Forster For no very intelligible reason, Mr. Lucas had hurried ahead of his party. He was perhaps reaching the age at which independence becomes valuable, because it is so soon to be lost. Tired of attention and consideration, he liked breaking away from the younger members, to ride by himself, and to dismount unassisted.
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Lucas had hurried ahead of his party. He was perhaps reaching the age at which independence becomes valuable, because it is so soon to be lost. Tired of attention and consideration, he liked breaking away from the younger members, to ride by himself, and to dismount unassisted.
Perhaps he also relished that more subtle pleasure of being kept waiting for lunch, and of telling the others on their arrival that it was of no consequence. Even in England those trees would have been remarkable, so huge were they, so interlaced, so magnificently clothed in quivering green.
And here in Greece they were unique, the one cool spot in that hard brilliant landscape, already scorched by the heat of an April sun.
In their midst was hidden a tiny Khan or country inn, a frail mud building with a broad wooden balcony in which sat an old woman spinning, while a small brown pig, eating orange peel, stood beside her. On the wet earth below squatted two children, playing some primaeval game with their fingers; and their mother, none too clean either, was messing with some rice inside.
As Mrs. Forman would have said, it was all very Greek, and the fastidious Mr. Lucas felt thankful that they were bringing their own food with them, and should eat it in the open air. Still, he was glad to be there—the muleteer had helped him off—and glad that Mrs. Forman was not there to forestall his opinions—glad even that he should not see Ethel for quite half an hour. Ethel was his youngest daughter, still unmarried.
She was unselfish and affectionate, and it was generally understood that she was to devote her life to her father, and be the comfort of his old age. Forman always referred to her as Antigone, and Mr.
Lucas tried to settle down to the role of Oedipus, which seemed the only one that public opinion allowed him. He had this in common with Oedipus, that he was growing old.
Even to himself it had become obvious. He was fond of talking himself but often forgot what he was going to say, and even when he succeeded, it seldom seemed worth the effort.
His phrases and gestures had become stiff and set, his anecdotes, once so successful, fell flat, his silence was as meaningless as his speech. Yet he had led a healthy, active life, had worked steadily, made money, educated his children. There was nothing and no one to blame: he was simply growing old.
At the present moment, here he was in Greece, and one of the dreams of his life was realized. Forty years ago he had caught the fever of Hellenism, and all his life he had felt that could he but visit that land, he would not have lived in vain. But Athens had been dusty, Delphi wet, Thermopylae flat, and he had listened with amazement and cynicism to the rapturous exclamations of his companions. Greece was like England: it was a man who was growing old, and it made no difference whether that man looked at the Thames or the Eurotas.
It was his last hope of contradicting that logic of experience, and it was failing. Yet Greece had done something for him, though he did not know it. It had made him discontented, and there are stirrings of life in discontent. He knew that he was not the victim of continual ill-luck. Something great was wrong, and he was pitted against no mediocre or accidental enemy. For the last month a strange desire had possessed him to die fighting.
Leaves shall be green again, water shall be sweet, the sky shall be blue. They were so forty years ago, and I will win them back. I do mind being old, and I will pretend no longer. He stopped still in amazement, saying: "Water out of a tree—out of a hollow tree?
I never saw nor thought of that before. Then he remembered with a smile his own thought—"the place shall be mine; I will enter it and possess it"—and leapt almost aggressively on to a stone within. The water pressed up steadily and noiselessly from the hollow roots and hidden crevices of the plane, forming a wonderful amber pool ere it spilt over the lip of bark on to the earth outside.
Lucas tasted it and it was sweet, and when he looked up the black funnel of the trunk he saw sky which was blue, and some leaves which were green; and he remembered, without smiling, another of his thoughts. Others had been before him—indeed he had a curious sense of companionship. Little votive offerings to the presiding Power were fastened on to the bark—tiny arms and legs and eyes in tin, grotesque models of the brain or the heart—all tokens of some recovery of strength or wisdom or love.
There was no such thing as the solitude of nature for the sorrows and joys of humanity had pressed even into the bosom of a tree. He spread out his arms and steadied himself against the soft charred wood, and then slowly leant back, till his body was resting on the trunk behind. His eyes closed, and he had the strange feeling of one who is moving, yet at peace—the feeling of the swimmer, who, after long struggling with chopping seas, finds that after all the tide will sweep him to his goal.
So he lay motionless, conscious only of the stream below his feet, and that all things were a stream, in which he was moving. He was aroused at last by a shock—the shock of an arrival perhaps, for when he opened his eyes, something unimagined, indefinable, had passed over all things, and made them intelligible and good. There was meaning in the stoop of the old woman over her work, and in the quick motions of the little pig, and in her diminishing globe of wool. A young man came singing over the streams on a mule, and there was beauty in his pose and sincerity in his greeting.
The sun made no accidental patterns upon the spreading roots of the trees, and there was intention in the nodding clumps of asphodel, and in the music of the water. To Mr. Lucas, who, in a brief space of time, had discovered not only Greece, but England and all the world and life, there seemed nothing ludicrous in the desire to hang within the tree another votive offering—a little model of an entire man.
Forman, Mr. Graham, and the English-speaking dragoman. Lucas peered out at them suspiciously. They had suddenly become unfamiliar, and all that they did seemed strained and coarse. Graham, a young man who was always polite to his elders. Lucas felt annoyed. His foot slipped as he stepped out of the tree, and went into the spring. Thank goodness I have got a change for you on the mule. They came back in ecstasies, in which Mr.
Lucas tried to join. But he found them intolerable. Their enthusiasm was superficial, commonplace, and spasmodic. They had no perception of the coherent beauty was flowering around them. He tried at least to explain his feelings, and what he said was: "I am altogether pleased with the appearance of this place. It impresses me very favourably. The trees are fine, remarkably fine for Greece, and there is something very poetic in the spring of clear running water. The people too seem kindly and civil.
It is decidedly an attractive place. Forman upbraided him for his tepid praise. I really would stop if I had not to be back at Athens! It reminds me of the Colonus of Sophocles. You and your father!
Antigone and Oedipus. Of course you must stop at Colonus! Lucas was almost breathless with excitement. When he stood within the tree, he had believed that his happiness would be independent of locality. He no longer trusted himself to journey through the world, for old thoughts, old wearinesses might be waiting to rejoin him as soon as he left the shade of the planes, and the music of the virgin water.
To sleep in the Khan with the gracious, kind-eyed country people, to watch the bats flit about within the globe of shade, and see the moon turn the golden patterns into silver—one such night would place him beyond relapse, and confirm him for ever in the kingdom he had regained.
But all his lips could say was: "I should be willing to put in a night here. It would be sacrilege to put in less. All through lunch he spoke to them no more, but watched the place he should know so well, and the people who would so soon be his companions and friends.
The inmates of the Khan only consisted of an old woman, a middle-aged woman, a young man and two children, and to none of them had he spoken, yet he loved them as he loved everything that moved or breathed or existed beneath the benedictory shade of the planes.
The best of things must end. Lucas, "they will light the little lamp by the shrine. And when we all sit together on the balcony, perhaps they will tell me which offerings they put up. Lucas," said Graham, "but they want to fold up the rug you are sitting on.
Lucas got up, saying to himself: "Ethel shall go to bed first, and then I will try to tell them about my offering too—for it is a thing I must do. I think they will understand if I am left with them alone. All the mules are here.
What mules? Oh, Mr. Graham, do help my father on. You know we have to get to Olympia to-night. Lucas in pompous, confident tones replied: "I always did wish, Ethel, that you had a better head for plans. You know perfectly well that we are putting in a week here. It is your own suggestion.
The Road From Colonus
Date of entry: Nov Summary Mr. Lucas, an Englishman, is growing old. He has always wanted to visit Greece and has finally achieved this, accompanied by his unmarried daughter, Ethel, who will, it has been assumed, dedicate her life to taking care of him in his old age. In Greece, Mr. Lucas becomes restless and resistant to the idea of an expected passive, peaceful death from old age. He wants to "die fighting. He climbs into the tree and experiences an epiphany: he suddenly sees all things as "intelligible and good.
The Road from Colonus
Forster, In his introduction to his Collected Tales , E. Forster was careful to identify the contents as "fantasies. Forster saw nature as an agent of that newness, but, as he wrote in his unpublished diary, "There is no hope of writing down Nature: we can write down man. We employ similes for Nature, which the imagination revivifies. But to describe their source is hopeless. Forster even tried to fall into a trance by repeating a name, but without success. The pull of reality was too strong.