The Man Who Went Too Far by E. F. Benson
The little village of St. Faith's nestles in a hollow of wooded
till up on the north bank of the river Fawn in the country of
Hampshire, huddling close round its grey Norman church as if for
spiritual protection against the fays and fairies, the trolls and
"little people," who might be supposed still to linger in the vast
empty spaces of the New Forest, and to come after dusk and do their
doubtful businesses. Once outside the hamlet you may walk in any
direction (so long as you avoid the high road which leads to
Brockenhurst) for the length of a summer afternoon without seeing
sign of human habitation, or possibly even catching sight of another
Shaggy wild ponies may stop their feeding for a moment as you
pass, the white scuts of rabbits will vanish into their burrows, a
brown viper perhaps will glide from your path into a clump of
heather, and unseen birds will chuckle in the bushes, but it may
easily happen that for a long day you will see nothing human. But you
will not feel in the least lonely; in summer, at any rate, the
sunlight will be gay with butterflies, and the air thick with all
those woodland sounds which like instruments in an orchestra combine
to play the great symphony of the yearly festival of June.
Winds whisper in the birches, and sigh among the firs; bees are
busy with their redolent labour among the heather, a myriad birds
chirp in the green temples of the forest trees, and the voice of the
river prattling over stony places, bubbling into pools, chuckling and
gulping round corners, gives you the sense that many presences and
companions are near at hand.
Yet, oddly enough, though one would have thought that these benign
and cheerful influences of wholesome air and spaciousness of forest
were very healthful comrades for a man, in so far as Nature can
really influence this wonderful human genus which has in these
centuries learned to defy her most violent storms in its
well-established houses, to bridle her torrents and make them light
its streets, to tunnel her mountains and plough her seas, the
inhabitants of St. Faith's will not willingly venture into the forest
after dark. For in spite of the silence and loneliness of the hooded
night it seems that a man is not sure in what company he may suddenly
find himself, and though it is difficult to get from these villagers
any very clear story of occult appearances, the feeling is
widespread. One story indeed I have heard with some definiteness, the
tale of a monstrous goat that has been seen to skip with hellish glee
about the woods and shady places, and this perhaps is connected with
the story which I have here attempted to piece together. It too is
well-known to them; for all remember the young artist who died here
not long ago, a young man, or so he struck the beholder, of great
personal beauty, with something about him that made men's faces to
smile and brighten when they looked on him. His ghost they will tell
you "walks" constantly by the stream and through the woods which he
loved so, and in especial it haunts a certain house, the last of the
village, where he lived, and its garden in which he was done to
death. For my part I am inclined to think that the terror of the
forest dates chiefly from that day.
So, such as the story is, I have set it forth in connected form.
It is based partly on the accounts of the villagers, but mainly on
that of Darcy, a friend of mine and a friend of the man with whom
these events were chiefly concerned.
The day had been one of untarnished midsummer splendour, and as
the sun drew near to its setting, the glory of the evening grew every
moment more crystalline, more miraculous.
Westward from St. Faith's the beechwood which stretched for some
miles toward the heathery upland beyond already cast its veil of
clear shadow over the red roofs of the village, but the spire of the
grey church, over-topping all, still pointed a flaming orange finger
into the sky. The river Fawn, which runs below, lay in sheets of
sky-reflected blue, and wound its dreamy devious course round the
edge of this wood, where a rough two-planked bridge crossed from the
bottom of the garden of the last house in the village, and
communicated by means of a little wicker gate with the wood itself.
Then once out of the shadow of the wood the stream lay in flaming
pools of the molten crimson of the sunset, and lost itself in the
haze of woodland distances.
This house at the end of the village stood outside the shadow, and
the lawn which sloped down to the river was still flecked with
sunlight. Garden-beds of dazzling colour lined its gravel walks, and
down the middle of it ran a brick pergola, half-hidden in clusters of
rambler-rose and purple with starry clematis. At the bottom end of
it, between two of its pillars, was slung a hammock containing a
The house itself lay somewhat remote from the rest of the village,
and a footpath leading across two fields, now tall and fragrant with
hay, was its only communication with the high road.
It was low-built, only two stories in height, and like the garden,
its walls were a mass of flowering roses. A narrow stone terrace ran
along the garden front, over which was stretched an awning, and on
the terrace a young silent-footed man-servant was busied with the
laying of the table for dinner. He was neat-handed and quick with his
job, and having finished it he went back into the house, and
reappeared again with a large rough bath-towel on his arm. With this
he went to the hammock in the pergola.
"Nearly eight, sir," he said.
"Has Mr. Darcy come yet?" asked a voice from the hammock.
"If I'm not back when he comes, tell him that I'm just having a
bathe before dinner."
The servant went back to the house, and after a moment or two
Frank Halton struggled to a sitting posture, and slipped out on to
the grass. He was of medium height and rather slender in build, but
the supple ease and grace of his movements gave the impression of
great physical strength: even his descent from the hammock was not an
awkward performance. His face and hands were of very dark complexion,
either from constant exposure to wind and sun, or, as his black hair
and dark eyes tended to show, from some strain of southern blood. His
head was small, his face of an exquisite beauty of modelling, while
the smoothness of its contour would have led you to believe that he
was a beardless lad still in his teens. But something, some look
which living and experience alone can give, seemed to contradict
that, and finding yourself completely puzzled as to his age, you
would next moment probably cease to think about that, and only look
at this glorious specimen of young manhood with wondering
He was dressed as became the season and the heat, and wore only a
shirt open at the neck, and a pair of flannel trousers. His head,
covered very thickly with a somewhat rebellious crop of short curly
hair, was bare as he strolled across the lawn to the bathing-place
that lay below. Then for a moment there was silence, then the sound
of splashed and divided waters, and presently after, a great shout of
ecstatic joy, as he swam up-stream with the foamed water standing in
a frill round his neck. Then after some five minutes of
limb-stretching struggle with the flood, he turned over on his back,
and with arms thrown wide, floated down-stream, ripple-cradled and
inert. His eyes were shut, and between half-parted lips he talked
gently to himself.
"I am one with it," he said to himself, "the river and I, I and
the river. The coolness and splash of it is I, and the water-herbs
that wave in it are I also. And my strength and my limbs are not mine
but the river's. It is all one, all one, dear Fawn." A quarter of an
hour later he appeared again at the bottom of the lawn, dressed as
before, his wet hair already drying into its crisp short curls again.
There he paused a moment, looking back at the stream with the smile
with which men look on the face of a friend, then turned towards the
house. Simultaneously his servant came to the door leading on to the
terrace, followed by a man who appeared to be some half-way through
the fourth decade of his years. Frank and he saw each other across
the bushes and garden-beds, and each quickening his step, they met
suddenly face to face round an angle of the garden walk, in the
fragrance of syringa.
"My dear Darcy," cried Frank, "I am charmed to see you." But the
other stared at him in amazement.
"Frank!" he exclaimed.
"Yes, that is my name," he said, laughing; "what is the matter?"
Darcy took his hand.
"What have you done to yourself?" he asked.
"You are a boy again."
"Ah, I have a lot to tell you," said Frank.
"Lots that you will hardly believe, but I shall convince
He broke off suddenly, and held up his hand.
"Hush, there is my nightingale," he said.
The smile of recognition and welcome with which he had greeted his
friend faded from his face, and a look of rapt wonder took its place,
as of a lover listening to the voice of his beloved.
His mouth parted slightly, showing the white line of teeth, and
his eyes looked out and out till they seemed to Darcy to be focussed
on things beyond the vision of man. Then something perhaps startled
the bird, for the song ceased.
"Yes, lots to tell you," he said. "Really I am delighted to see
you. But you look rather white and pulled down; no wonder after that
fever. And there is to be no nonsense about this visit. It is June
now, you stop here till you are fit to begin work again. Two months
"Ah, I can't trespass quite to that extent."
Frank took his arm and walked him down the grass.
"Trespass? Who talks of trespass? I shall tell you quite openly
when I am tired of you, but you know when we had the studio together,
we used not to bore each other. However, it is ill talking of going
away on the moment of your arrival. Just a stroll to the river, and
then it will be dinner-time."
Darcy took out his cigarette case, and offered it to the
"No, not for me. Dear me, I suppose I used to smoke once. How very
"Given it up?"
"I don't know. I suppose I must have. Anyhow I don't do it now. I
would as soon think of eating meat."
"Another victim on the smoking altar of vegetarianism?"
"Victim?" asked Frank. "Do I strike you as such?"
He paused on the margin of the stream and whistled softly. Next
moment a moor-hen made its splashing flight across the river, and ran
up the bank. Frank took it very gently in his hands and stroked its
head, as the creature lay against his shirt.
"And is the house among the reeds still secure?" he half-crooned
to it. "And is the missus quite well, and are the neighbours
flourishing? There, dear, home with you," and he flung it into the
"That bird's very tame," said Darcy, slightly bewildered.
"It is rather," said Frank, following its flight.
During dinner Frank chiefly occupied himself in bringing himself
up-to-date in the movements and achievements of this old friend whom
he had not seen for six years. Those six years, it now appeared, had
been full of incident and success for Darcy; he had made a name for
himself as a portrait painter which bade fair to outlast the vogue of
a couple of seasons, and his leisure time had been brief. Then some
four months previously he had been through a severe attack of
typhoid, the result of which as concerns this story was that he had
come down to this sequestered place to recruit.
"Yes, you've got on," said Frank at the end. "I always knew you
would. A.R.A. with more in prospect. Money? You roll in it, I
suppose, and, O Darcy, how much happiness have you had all these
years? That is the only imperishable possession. And how much have
you learned? Oh, I don't mean in Art. Even I could have done well in
"Done well? My dear fellow, all I have learned in these six years
you knew, so to speak, in your cradle. Your old pictures fetch huge
prices. Do you never paint now?"
Frank shook his head.
"No, I'm too busy," he said.
"Doing what? Please tell me. That is what everyone is for ever
"Doing? I suppose you would say I do nothing."
Darcy glanced up at the brilliant young face opposite him.
"It seems to suit you, that way of being busy," he said. "Now,
it's your turn. Do you read? Do you study? I remember you saying that
it would do us all--all us artists, I mean--a great deal of good if
we would study any one human face carefully for a year, without
recording a line."
"Have you been doing that?"
Frank shook his head again.
"I mean exactly what I say," he said. "I have been doing nothing.
And I have never been so occupied. Look at me; have I not done
something to myself to begin with?"
"You are two years younger than I," said Darcy, "at least you used
to be. You therefore are thirty-five. But had I never seen you before
I should say you were just twenty. But was it worth while to spend
six years of greatly-occupied life in order to look twenty? Seems
rather like a woman of fashion."
Frank laughed boisterously.
"First time I've ever been compared to that particular bird of
prey," he said. "No, that has not been my occupation--in fact I am
only very rarely conscious that one effect of my occupation has been
that. Of course, it must have been if one comes to think of it. It is
not very important."
"Quite true my body has become young. But that is very little; I
have become young."
Darcy pushed back his chair and sat sideways to the table looking
at the other.
"Has that been your occupation then?" he asked.
"Yes, that anyhow is one aspect of it. Think what youth means! It
is the capacity for growth, mind, body, spirit, all grow, all get
stronger, all have a fuller, firmer life every day. That is
something, considering that every day that passes after the ordinary
man reaches the full-blown flower of his strength, weakens his hold
on life. A man reaches his prime, and remains, we say, in his prime
for ten years, or perhaps twenty. But after his primest prime is
reached, he slowly, insensibly weakens. These are the signs of age in
you, in your body, in your art probably, in your mind. You are less
electric than you were. But I, when I reach my prime--I am nearing
it--ah, you shall see." The stars had begun to appear in the blue
velvet of the sky, and to the east the horizon seen above the black
silhouette of the village was growing dove-coloured with the approach
White moths hovered dimly over the garden-beds, and the footsteps
of night tip-toed through the bushes. Suddenly Frank rose.
"Ah, it is the supreme moment," he said softly. "Now more than at
any other time the current of life, the eternal imperishable current
runs so close to me that I am almost enveloped in it. Be silent a
He advanced to the edge of the terrace and looked out, standing
stretched with arms outspread. Darcy heard him draw a long breath
into his lungs, and after many seconds expel it again. Six or eight
times he did this, then turned back into the lamplight.
"It will sound to you quite mad, I expect," he said, "but if you
want to hear the soberest truth I have ever spoken and shall ever
speak, I will tell you about myself. But come into the garden if it
is not damp for you. I have never told anyone yet, but I shall like
to tell you. It is long, in fact, since I have even tried to classify
what I have learned."
They wandered into the fragrant dimness of the pergola, and sat
down. Then Frank began:
"Years ago, do you remember," he said, "we used often to talk
about the decay of joy in the world. Many impulses, we settled, had
contributed to this decay, some of which were good in themselves,
others that were quite completely bad. Among the good things, I put
what we may call certain Christian virtues, renunciation,
resignation, sympathy with suffering, and the desire to relieve
sufferers, but out of those things spring very bad ones, useless
renunciation, asceticism for its own sake, mortification of the flesh
with nothing to follow, no corresponding gain that is, and that awful
and terrible disease which devastated England some centuries ago, and
from which by heredity of spirit we suffer now, Puritanism. That was
a dreadful plague, the brutes held and taught that joy and laughter
and merriment were evil: it was a doctrine the most profane and
wicked. Why, what is the commonest crime one sees? A sullen face.
That is the truth of the matter. Now all my life I have believed that
we are intended to be happy, that joy is of all gifts the most
divine. And when I left London, abandoned my career, such as it was,
I did so because I intended to devote my life to the cultivation of
joy, and, by continuous and unsparing effort to be happy. Among
people, and in constant intercourse with others, I did not find it
possible; there were too many distractions in towns and work-rooms,
and also too much suffering. So I took one step backwards or
forwards, as you may choose to put it, and went straight to Nature,
to trees, birds, animals, to all those things which quite clearly
pursue one aim only, which blindly follow the great native instinct
to be happy without any care at all for morality, or human law or
divine law. I wanted, you understand, to get all joy first-hand and
unadulterated, and I think it scarcely exists among men; it is
Darcy turned in his chair.
"Ah, but what makes birds and animals happy?" he asked. "Food,
food and mating."
Frank laughed gently in the stillness.
"Do not think I became a sensualist," he said. "I did not make
that mistake. For the sensualist carries his miseries pick-a-back,
and round his feet is wound the shroud that shall soon enwrap him. I
may be mad, it is true, but I am not so stupid anyhow as to have
tried that. No, what is it that makes puppies play with their own
tails, that sends cats on their prowling ecstatic errands at
He paused a moment.
"So I went to Nature," he said. "I sat down here in this New
Forest, sat down fair and square, and looked. That was my first
difficulty, to sit here quiet without being bored, to wait without
being impatient, to be receptive and very alert, though for a long
time nothing particular happened. The change in fact was slow in
those early stages."
"Nothing happened?" asked Darcy, rather impatiently, with the
sturdy revolt against any new idea which to the English mind is
synonymous with nonsense. "Why, what in the world should happen?"
Now Frank as he had known him was the most generous but most
quick-tempered of mortal men; in other words his anger would flare to
a prodigious beacon, under almost no provocation, only to be quenched
again under a gust of no less impulsive kindliness. Thus the moment
Darcy had spoken, an apology for his hasty question was half-way up
his tongue. But there was no need for it to have travelled even so
far, for Frank laughed again with kindly, genuine mirth.
"Oh, how I should have resented that a few years ago," he said.
"Thank goodness that resentment is one of the things I have got rid
of. I certainly wish that you should believe my story--in fact, you
are going to--but that you at this moment should imply that you do
not does not concern me."
"Ah, your solitary sojournings have made you inhuman," said Darcy,
still very English.
"No, human," said Frank. "Rather more human, at least rather less
of an ape."
"Well, that was my first quest," he continued, after a moment,
"the deliberate and unswerving pursuit of joy, and my method, the
eager contemplation of Nature. As far as motive went, I daresay it
was purely selfish, but as far as effect goes, it seems to me about
the best thing one can do for one's follow-creatures, for happiness
is more infectious than small-pox. So, as I said, I sat down and
waited; I looked at happy things, zealously avoided the sight of
anything unhappy, and by degrees a little trickle of the happiness of
this blissful world began to filter into me. The trickle grew more
abundant, and now, my dear fellow, if I could for a moment divert
from me into you one half of the torrent of joy that pours through me
day and night, you would throw the world, art, everything aside, and
just live, exist. When a man's body dies, it passes into trees and
flowers. Well, that is what I have been trying to do with my soul
The servant had brought into the pergola a table with syphons and
spirits, and had set a lamp upon it. As Frank spoke he leaned forward
towards the other, and Darcy for all his matter-of-fact common sense
could have sworn that his companion's face shone, was luminous in
itself. His dark brown eyes glowed from within, the unconscious smile
of a child irradiated and transformed his face. Darcy felt suddenly
"Go on," he said. "Go on. I can feel you are somehow telling me
sober truth. I daresay you are mad; but I don't see that
Frank laughed again.
"Mad?" he said. "Yes, certainly, if you wish. But I prefer to call
it sane. However, nothing matters less than what anybody chooses to
call things. God never labels his gifts; He just puts them into our
hands; just as he put animals in the garden of Eden, for Adam to name
if he felt disposed.
"So by the continual observance and study of things that were
happy," continued he, "I got happiness, I got joy. But seeking it, as
I did, from Nature, I got much more which I did not seek, but
stumbled upon originally by accident. It is difficult to explain, but
I will try.
"About three years ago I was sitting one morning in a place I will
show you to-morrow. It is down by the river brink, very green,
dappled with shade and sun, and the river passes there through some
little clumps of reeds. Well, as I sat there, doing nothing, but just
looking and listening, I heard the sound quite distinctly of some
flute-like instrument playing a strange unending melody. I thought at
first it was some musical yokel on the highway and did not pay much
attention. But before long the strangeness and indescribable beauty
of the tune struck me.
"It never repeated itself, but it never came to an end, phrase
after phrase ran its sweet course, it worked gradually and inevitably
up to a climax, and having attained it, it went on; another climax
was reached and another and another. Then with a sudden gasp of
wonder I localised where it came from. It came from the reeds and
from the sky and from the trees. It was everywhere, it was the sound
of life. It was, my dear Darcy, as the Greeks would have said, it was
Pan playing on his pipes, the voice of Nature. It was the
life-melody, the world-melody."
Darcy was far too interested to interrupt, though there was a
question he would have liked to ask, and Frank went on:
"Well, for the moment I was terrified, terrified with the impotent
horror of nightmare, and I stopped my ears and just ran from the
place and got back to the house panting, trembling, literally in a
panic. Unknowingly, for at that time I only pursued joy, I had begun,
since I drew my joy from Nature, to get in touch with Nature. Nature,
force, God, call it what you will, had drawn across my face a little
gossamer web of essential life. I saw that when I emerged from my
terror, and I went very humbly back to where I had heard the
Pan-pipes. But it was nearly six months before I heard them
"Why was that?" asked Darcy.
"Surely because I had revolted, rebelled, and worst of all been
frightened. For I believe that just as there is nothing in the world
which so injures one's body as fear, so there is nothing that so much
shuts up the soul. I was afraid, you see, of the one thing in the
world which has real existence. No wonder its manifestation was
"And after six months?"
"After six months one blessed morning I heard the piping again. I
wasn't afraid that time."
"And since then it has grown louder, it has become more constant.
I now hear it often, and I can put myself into such an attitude
towards Nature that the pipes will almost certainly sound. And never
yet have they played the same tune, it is always something new,
something fuller, richer, more complete than before."
"What do you mean by 'such an attitude towards Nature'?" asked
"I can't explain that; but by translating it into a bodily
attitude it is this."
Frank sat up for a moment quite straight in his chair, then slowly
sunk back with arms outspread and head drooped.
"That;" he said, "an effortless attitude, but open, resting,
receptive. It is just that which you must do with your soul."
Then he sat up again.
"One word more," he said, "and I will bore you no further. Nor
unless you ask me questions shall I talk about it again. You will
find me, in fact, quite sane in my mode of life. Birds and beasts you
will see behaving somewhat intimately to me, like that moor-hen, but
that is all. I will walk with you, ride with you, play golf with you,
and talk with you on any subject you like. But I wanted you on the
threshold to know what has happened to me. And one thing more will
He paused again, and a slight look of fear crossed his eyes.
"There will be a final revelation," he said, "a complete and
blinding stroke which will throw open to me, once and for all, the
full knowledge, the full realisation and comprehension that I am one,
just as you are, with life. In reality there is no 'me,' no 'you,' no
'it.' Everything is part of the one and only thing which is life. I
know that that is so, but the realisation of it is not yet mine.
"But it will be, and on that day, so I take it, I shall see Pan.
It may mean death, the death of my body, that is, but I don't care.
It may mean immortal, eternal life lived here and now and for
"Then having gained that, ah, my dear Darcy, I shall preach such a
gospel of joy, showing myself as the living proof of the truth, that
Puritanism, the dismal religion of sour faces, shall vanish like a
breath of smoke, and be dispersed and disappear in the sunlit air.
But first the full knowledge must be mine."
Darcy watched his face narrowly.
"You are afraid of that moment," he said. Frank smiled at him.
"Quite true; you are quick to have seen that. But when it comes I
hope I shall not be afraid."
For some little time there was silence; then Darcy rose. "You have
bewitched me, you extraordinary boy," he said. "You have been telling
me a fairy-story, and I find myself saying, 'Promise me it is
"I promise you that," said the other.
"And I know I shan't sleep," added Darcy.
Frank looked at him with a sort of mild wonder as if he scarcely
"Well, what does that matter?" he said.
"I assure you it does. I am wretched unless I sleep."
"Of course I can make you sleep if I want," said Frank in a rather
"Very good: go to bed. I'll come upstairs in ten minutes."
Frank busied himself for a little after the other had gone, moving
the table back under the awning of the verandah and quenching the
lamp. Then he went with his quick silent tread upstairs and into
Darcy's room. The latter was already in bed, but very wide-eyed and
wakeful, and Frank with an amused smile of indulgence, as for a
fretful child, sat down on the edge of the bed.
"Look at me," he said, and Darcy looked.
"The birds are sleeping in the brake," said Frank softly, "and the
winds are asleep. The sea sleeps, and the tides are but the heaving
of its breast. The stars swing slow, rocked in the great cradle of
the Heavens, and--"
He stopped suddenly, gently blew out Darcy's candle, and left him
Morning brought to Darcy a flood of hard common sense, as clear
and crisp as the sunshine that filled his room. Slowly as he woke he
gathered together the broken threads of the memories of the evening
which had ended, so he told himself, in a trick of common hypnotism.
That accounted for it all; the whole strange talk he had had was
under a spell of suggestion from the extraordinary vivid boy who had
once been a man; all his own excitement, his acceptance of the
incredible had been merely the effect of a stronger, more potent will
imposed on his own. How strong that will was, he guessed from his own
instantaneous obedience to Frank's suggestion of sleep. And armed
with impenetrable common sense he came down to breakfast. Frank had
already begun, and was consuming a large plateful of porridge and
milk with the most prosaic and healthy appetite.
"Slept well?" he asked.
"Yes, of course. Where did you learn hypnotism?"
"By the side of the river."
"You talked an amazing quantity of nonsense last night," remarked
Darcy, in a voice prickly with reason.
"Rather. I felt quite giddy. Look, I remembered to order a
dreadful daily paper for you. You can read about money markets or
politics or cricket matches." Darcy looked at him closely. In the
morning light Frank looked even fresher, younger, more vital than he
had done the night before, and the sight of him somehow dinted
Darcy's armour of common sense.
"You are the most extraordinary fellow I ever saw," he said. "I
want to ask you some more questions."
"Ask away," said Frank.
For the next day or two Darcy plied his friend with many
questions, objections and criticisms on the theory of life, and
gradually got out of him a coherent and complete account of his
experience. In brief, then, Frank believed that "by lying naked," as
he put it, to the force which controls the passage of the stars, the
breaking of a wave, the budding of a tree, the love of a youth and
maiden, he had succeeded in a way hitherto undreamed of in possessing
himself of the essential principle of life. Day by day, so he
thought, he was getting nearer to, and in closer union with, the
great power itself which caused all life to be, the spirit of nature,
of force, or the spirit of God. For himself, he confessed to what
others would call paganism; it was sufficient for him that there
existed a principle of life. He did not worship it, he did not pray
to it, he did not praise it. Some of it existed in all human beings,
just as it existed in trees and animals; to realise and make living
to himself the fact that it was all one, was his sole aim and
Here perhaps Darcy would put in a word of warning.
"Take care," he said. "To see Pan meant death, did it not."
Frank's eyebrows would rise at this.
"What does that matter?" he said. "True, the Greeks were always
right, and they said so, but there is another possibility. For the
nearer I get to it, the more living, the more vital and young I
"What then do you expect the final revelation will do for
"I have told you," said he. "It will make me immortal."
But it was not so much from speech and argument that Darcy grew to
grasp his friend's conception, as from the ordinary conduct of his
life. They were passing, for instance, one morning down the village
street, when an old woman, very bent and decrepit, but with an
extraordinary cheerfulness of face, hobbled out from her cottage.
Frank instantly stopped when he saw her.
"You old darling! How goes it all?" he said.
But she did not answer, her dim old eyes were riveted on his face;
she seemed to drink in like a thirsty creature the beautiful radiance
which shone there. Suddenly she put her two withered old hands on his
"You're just the sunshine itself," she said, and he kissed her and
But scarcely a hundred yards further a strange contradiction of
such tenderness occurred. A child running along the path towards them
fell on its face and set up a dismal cry of fright and pain. A look
of horror came into Frank's eyes, and, putting his fingers in his
ears, he fled at full speed down the street, and did not pause till
he was out of hearing. Darcy, having ascertained that the child was
not really hurt, followed him in bewilderment.
"Are you without pity then?" he asked. Frank shook his head
"Can't you see?" he asked. "Can't you understand that that sort of
thing, pain, anger, anything unlovely, throws me back, retards the
coming of the great hour! Perhaps when it comes I shall be able to
piece that side of life on to the other, on to the true religion of
joy. At present I can't."
"But the old woman. Was she not ugly?"
Frank's radiance gradually returned.
"Ah, no. She was like me. She longed for joy, and knew it when she
saw it, the old darling."
Another question suggested itself.
"Then what about Christianity?" asked Darcy.
"I can't accept it. I can't believe in any creed of which the
central doctrine is that God who is Joy should have had to suffer.
Perhaps it was so; in some inscrutable way I believe it may have been
so, but I don't understand how it was possible. So I leave it alone;
my affair is joy."
They had come to the weir above the village, and the thunder of
riotous cool water was heavy in the air. Trees dipped into the
translucent stream with slender trailing branches, and the meadow
where they stood was starred with midsummer blossomings. Larks shot
up carolling into the crystal dome of blue, and a thousand voices of
June sang round them. Frank, bare-headed as was his wont, with his
coat slung over his arm and his shirt sleeves rolled up above the
elbow, stood there like some beautiful wild animal with eyes
half-shut and mouth half-open, drinking in the scented warmth of the
air. Then suddenly he flung himself face downwards on the grass at
the edge of the stream, burying his face in the daisies and cowslips,
and lay stretched there in wide-armed ecstasy, with his long fingers
pressing and stroking the dewy herbs of the field. Never before had
Darcy seen him thus fully possessed by his idea; his caressing
fingers, his half-buried face pressed close to the grass, even the
clothed lines of his figure were instinct with a vitality that
somehow was different from that of other men. And some faint glow
from it reached Darcy, some thrill, some vibration from that charged
recumbent body passed to him, and for a moment he understood as he
had not understood before, despite his persistent questions and the
candid answers they received, how real, and how realised by Frank,
his idea was.
Then suddenly the muscles in Frank's neck became stiff and alert,
and he half-raised his head.
"The Pan-pipes, the Pan-pipes," he whispered. "Close, oh, so
Very slowly, as if a sudden movement might interrupt the melody,
he raised himself and leaned on the elbow of his bent arm. His eyes
opened wider, the lower lids drooped as if he focussed his eyes on
something very far away, and the smile on his face broadened and
quivered like sunlight on still water, till the exultance of its
happiness was scarcely human. So he remained motionless and rapt for
some minutes, then the look of listening died from his face, and he
bowed his head, satisfied.
"Ah, that was good," he said. "How is it possible you did not
hear? Oh, you poor fellow! Did you really hear nothing?"
A week of this outdoor and stimulating life did wonders in
restoring to Darcy the vigour and health which his weeks of fever had
filched from him, and as his normal activity and higher pressure of
vitality returned, he seemed to himself to fall even more under the
spell which the miracle of Frank's youth cast over him. Twenty times
a day he found himself saying to himself suddenly at the end of some
ten minutes silent resistance to the absurdity of Frank's idea: "But
it isn't possible; it can't be possible," and from the fact of his
having to assure himself so frequently of this, he knew that he was
struggling and arguing with a conclusion which already had taken root
in his mind. For in any case a visible living miracle confronted him,
since it was equally impossible that this youth, this boy, trembling
on the verge of manhood, was thirty-five.
Yet such was the fact.
July was ushered in by a couple of days of blustering and fretful
rain, and Darcy, unwilling to risk a chill, kept to the house. But to
Frank this weeping change of weather seemed to have no bearing on the
behaviour of man, and he spent his days exactly as he did under the
suns of June, lying in his hammock, stretched on the dripping grass,
or making huge rambling excursions into the forest, the birds hopping
from tree to tree after him, to return in the evening, drenched and
soaked, but with the same unquenchable flame of joy burning within
"Catch cold?" he would ask; "I've forgotten how to do it, I think
I suppose it makes one's body more sensible always to sleep
out-of-doors. People who live indoors always remind me of something
peeled and skinless."
"Do you mean to say you slept out-of-doors last night in that
deluge?" asked Darcy. "And where, may I ask?"
Frank thought a moment.
"I slept in the hammock till nearly dawn," he said. "For I
remember the light blinked in the east when I awoke. Then I
went--where did I go--oh, yes, to the meadow where the Pan-pipes
sounded so close a week ago. You were with me, do you remember? But I
always have a rug if it is wet."
And he went whistling upstairs.
Somehow that little touch, his obvious effort to recall where he
had slept, brought strangely home to Darcy the wonderful romance of
which he was the still half-incredulous beholder. Sleep till close on
dawn in a hammock, then the tramp--or probably scamper--underneath
the windy and weeping heavens to the remote and lonely meadow by the
weir! The picture of other such nights rose before him; Frank
sleeping perhaps by the bathing-place under the filtered twilight of
the stars, or the white blaze of moon-shine, a stir and awakening at
some dead hour, perhaps a space of silent wide-eyed thought, and then
awandering through the hushed woods to some other dormitory, alone
with his happiness, alone with the joy and the life that suffused and
enveloped him, without other thought or desire or aim except the
hourly and never-ceasing communion with the joy of nature.
They were in the middle of dinner that night, talking on
indifferent subjects, when Darcy suddenly broke off in the middle of
"I've got it," he said. "At last I've got it."
"Congratulate you," said Frank. "But what?"
"The radical unsoundness of your idea. It is this: 'All Nature
from highest to lowest is full, crammed full of suffering; every
living organism in Nature preys on another, yet in your aim to get
close to, to be one with Nature, you leave suffering altogether out;
you run away from it, you refuse to recognise it. And you are
waiting, you say, for the final revelation."
Frank's brow clouded slightly.
"Well," he asked, rather wearily.
"Cannot you guess then when the final revelation will be? In joy
you are supreme, I grant you that; I did not know a man could be so
master of it. You have learned perhaps practically all that Nature
can teach. And if, as you think, the final revelation is coming to
you, it will be the revelation of horror, suffering, death, pain in
all its hideous forms. Suffering does exist: you hate it and fear
Frank held up his hand.
"Stop; let me think," he said.
There was silence for a long minute.
"That never struck me," he said at length. "It is possible that
what you suggest is true. Does the sight of Pan mean that, do you
think? Is it that Nature, take it altogether, suffers horribly,
suffers to a hideous inconceivable extent? Shall I be shown all the
suffering?" He got up and came round to where Darcy sat.
"If it is so, so be it," he said. "Because, my dear fellow, I am
near, so splendidly near to the final revelation. To-day the pipes
have sounded almost without pause. I have even heard the rustle in
the bushes, I believe, of Pan's coming. I have seen, yes, I saw
to-day, the bushes pushed aside as if by a hand, and piece of a face,
not human, peered through. But I was not frightened, at least I did
not run away this time."
He took a turn up to the window and back again.
"Yes, there is suffering all through," he said, "and I have left
it all out of my search. Perhaps, as you say, the revelation will be
that. And in that case, it will be good-bye. I have gone on one line.
I shall have gone too far along one road, without having explored the
other. But I can't go back now. I wouldn't if I could; not a step
would I retrace! In any case, whatever the revelation is, it will be
God. I'm sure of that."
The rainy weather soon passed, and with the return of the sun
Darcy again joined Frank in long rambling days. It grew
extraordinarily hotter, and with the fresh bursting of life, after
the rain, Frank's vitality seemed to blaze higher and higher. Then,
as is the habit of the English weather, one evening clouds began to
bank themselves up in the west, the sun went down in a glare of
coppery thunder-rack, and the whole earth broiling under an
unspeakable oppression and sultriness paused and panted for the
storm. After sunset the remote fires of lightning began to wink and
flicker on the horizon, but when bed-time came the storm seemed to
have moved no nearer, though a very low unceasing noise of thunder
was audible. Weary and oppressed by the stress of the day, Darcy fell
at once into a heavy uncomforting sleep.
He woke suddenly into full consciousness, with the din of some
appalling explosion of thunder in his ears, and sat up in bed with
racing heart. Then for a moment, as he recovered himself from the
panic-land which lies between sleeping and waking, there was silence,
except for the steady hissing of rain on the shrubs outside his
window. But suddenly that silence was shattered and shredded into
fragments by a scream from somewhere close at hand outside in the
black garden, a scream of supreme and despairing terror. Again and
once again it shrilled up, and then a babble of awful words was
interjected. A quivering sobbing voice that he knew said:
"My God, oh, my God; oh, Christ!"
And then followed a little mocking, bleating laugh. Then was
silence again; only the rain hissed on the shrubs.
All this was but the affair of a moment, and without pause either
to put on clothes or light a candle, Darcy was already fumbling at
his door-handle. Even as he opened it he met a terror-stricken face
outside, that of the man-servant who carried a light.
"Did you hear?" he asked.
The man's face was bleached to a dull shining whiteness. "Yes,
sir," he said. "It was the master's voice."
Together they hurried down the stairs and through the dining-room
where an orderly table for breakfast had already been laid, and out
on to the terrace. The rain for the moment had been utterly stayed,
as if the tap of the heavens had been turned off, and under the
lowering black sky, not quite dark, since the moon rode somewhere
serene behind the conglomerated thunder-clouds, Darcy stumbled into
the garden, followed by the servant with the candle. The monstrous
leaping shadow of himself was cast before him on the lawn; lost and
wandering odours of rose and lily and damp earth were thick about
him, but more pungent was some sharp and acrid smell that suddenly
reminded him of a certain chalet in which he had once taken refuge in
the Alps. In the blackness of the hazy light from the sky, and the
vague tossing of the candle behind him, he saw that the hammock in
which Frank so often lay was tenanted. A gleam of white shirt was
there, as if a man were sitting up in it, but across that there was
an obscure dark shadow, and as he approached the acrid odour grew
He was now only some few yards away, when suddenly the black
shadow seemed to jump into the air, then came down with tappings of
hard hoofs on the brick path that ran down the pergola, and with
frolicsome skippings galloped off into the bushes. When that was gone
Darcy could see quite clearly that a shirted figure sat up in the
hammock. For one moment, from sheer terror of the unseen, he hung on
his step, and the servant joining him they walked together to the
It was Frank. He was in shirt and trousers only, and he sat up
with braced arms. For one half-second he stared at them, his face a
mask of horrible contorted terror. His upper lip was drawn back so
that the gums of the teeth appeared, and his eyes were focussed not
on the two who approached him, but on something quite close to him;
his nostrils were widely expanded, as if he panted for breath, and
terror incarnate and repulsion and deathly anguish ruled dreadful
lines on his smooth cheeks and forehead. Then even as they looked the
body sank backwards, and the ropes of the hammock wheezed and
Darcy lifted him out and carried him indoors. Once he thought
there was a faint convulsive stir of the limbs that lay with so dead
a weight in his arms, but when they got inside, there was no trace of
life. But the look of supreme terror and agony of fear had gone from
his face, a boy tired with play but still smiling in his sleep was
the burden he laid on the floor. His eyes had closed, and the
beautiful mouth lay in smiling curves, even as when a few mornings
ago, in the meadow by the weir, it had quivered to the music of the
unheard melody of Pan's pipes. Then they looked further.
Frank had come back from his bathe before dinner that night in his
usual costume of shirt and trousers only. He had not dressed, and
during dinner, so Darcy remembered, he had rolled up the sleeves of
his shirt to above the elbow. Later, as they sat and talked after
dinner on the close sultriness of the evening, he had unbuttoned the
front of his shirt to let what little breath of wind there was play
on his skin. The sleeves were rolled up now, the front of the shirt
was unbuttoned, and on his arms and on the brown skin of his chest
were strange discolorations which grew momently more clear and
defined, till they saw that the marks were pointed prints, as if
caused by the hoofs of some monstrous goat that had leaped and
stamped upon him.