The Road From Colonus by E. M. 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. 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.
So, with childish impatience, he battered the animal's sides with his
heels, and made the muleteer bang it with a thick stick and prick it
with a sharp one, and jolted down the hill sides through clumps of
flowering shrubs and stretches of anemones and asphodel, till he heard
the sound of running water, and came in sight of the group of plane
trees where they were to have their meal.
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. Mrs. 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 had lost interest in other people's
affairs, and seldom attended when they spoke to him. 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
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.
"Greece is the land for young people," he said to himself as he stood
under the plane trees, "but I will enter into it, I will possess it.
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 took two steps forward, and immediately cold waters were gurgling
over his ankle.
"Where does the water come from?" he asked himself. "I do not even know
that." He remembered that all the hill sides were dry; yet here the road
was suddenly covered with flowing streams.
He stopped still in amazement, saying: "Water out of a tree—out of a
hollow tree? I never saw nor thought of that before."
For the enormous plane that leant towards the Khan was hollow—it had
been burnt out for charcoal—and from its living trunk there gushed an
impetuous spring, coating the bark! with fern and moss, and flowing over
the mule track to create fertile meadows beyond. The simple country folk
had paid to beauty and mystery such tribute as they could, for in the
rind of the tree a shrine was cut, holding a lamp and a little picture
of the Virgin, inheritor of the Naiad's and Dryad's joint abode.
"I never saw anything so marvellous before," said Mr. Lucas. "I could
even step inside the trunk and see where the water comes from."
For a moment he hesitated to violate the shrine. 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. Mr. 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.
"Why, here's papa, playing at being Merlin."
All unnoticed they had arrived—Ethel, Mrs. Forman, Mr. Graham, and the
English-speaking dragoman. Mr. Lucas peered out at them suspiciously.
They had suddenly become unfamiliar, and all that they did seemed
strained and coarse.
"Allow me to give you a hand," said Mr. Graham, a young man who was
always polite to his elders.
Mr. Lucas felt annoyed. "Thank you, I can manage perfectly well by
myself," he replied. His foot slipped as he stepped out of the tree, and
went into the spring.
"Oh papa, my papa!" said Ethel, "what are you doing? Thank goodness I
have got a change for you on the mule."
She tended him carefully, giving him clean socks and dry boots, and then
sat him down on the rug beside the lunch basket, while she went with the
others to explore the grove.
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."
Mrs. Forman upbraided him for his tepid praise.
"Oh, it is a place in a thousand!" she cried "I could live and die here!
I really would stop if I had not to be back at Athens! It reminds me of
the Colonus of Sophocles."
"Well, I must stop," said Ethel. "I positively must."
"Yes, do! You and your father! Antigone and Oedipus. Of course you must
stop at Colonus!"
Mr. Lucas was almost breathless with excitement. When he stood within
the tree, he had believed that his happiness would be independent of
locality. But these few minutes' conversation had undeceived him. 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."
"You mean a week, papa! It would be sacrilege to put in less."
"A week then, a week," said his lips, irritated at being corrected,
while his heart was leaping with joy. 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.
"En route!" said the shrill voice of Mrs. Forman. "Ethel! Mr. Graham!
The best of things must end."
"To-night," thought Mr. 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."
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Lucas," said Graham, "but they want to fold up
the rug you are sitting on."
Mr. 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."
Ethel touched him on the cheek. "Papa! I've called you three times. All
the mules are here."
"Mules? What mules?"
"Our mules. We're all waiting. Oh, Mr. Graham, do help my father on."
"I don't know what you're talking about, Ethel."
"My dearest papa, we must start. You know we have to get to Olympia
Mr. 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."
Ethel was startled into impoliteness. "What a perfectly ridiculous idea.
You must have known I was joking. Of course I meant I wished we could."
"Ah! if we could only do what we wished!" sighed Mrs. Forman, already
seated on her mule.
"Surely," Ethel continued in calmer tones, "you didn't think I meant
"Most certainly I did. I have made all my plans on the supposition that
we are stopping here, and it will be extremely inconvenient, indeed,
impossible for me to start."
He delivered this remark with an air of great conviction, and Mrs.
Forman and Mr. Graham had to turn away to hide their smiles.
"I am sorry I spoke so carelessly; it was wrong of me. But, you know, we
can't break up our party, and even one night here would make us miss the
boat at Patras."
Mrs. Forman, in an aside, called Mr. Graham's attention to the excellent
way in which Ethel managed her father.
"I don't mind about the Patras boat. You said that we should stop here,
and we are stopping."
It seemed as if the inhabitants of the Khan had divined in some
mysterious way that the altercation touched them. The old woman stopped
her spinning, while the young man and the two children stood behind Mr.
Lucas, as if supporting him.
Neither arguments nor entreaties moved him. He said little, but he was
absolutely determined, because for the first time he saw his daily life
aright. What need had he to return to England? Who would miss him? His
friends were dead or cold. Ethel loved him in a way, but, as was right,
she had other interests. His other children he seldom saw. He had only
one other relative, his sister Julia, whom he both feared and hated. It
was no effort to struggle. He would be a fool as well as a coward if he
stirred from the place which brought him happiness and peace.
At last Ethel, to humour him, and not disinclined to air her modern
Greek, went into the Khan with the astonished dragoman to look at the
rooms. The woman inside received them with loud welcomes, and the young
man, when no one was looking, began to lead Mr. Lucas' mule to the
"Drop it, you brigand!" shouted Graham, who always declared that
foreigners could understand English if they chose. He was right, for the
man obeyed, and they all stood waiting for Ethel's return.
She emerged at last, with close-gathered skirts, followed by the
dragoman bearing the little pig, which he had bought at a bargain.
"My dear papa, I will do all I can for you, but stop in that Khan—no."
"Are there—fleas?" asked Mrs. Forman.
Ethel intimated that "fleas" was not the word.
"Well, I am afraid that settles it," said Mrs. Forman, "I know how
particular Mr. Lucas is."
"It does not settle it," said Mr. Lucas. "Ethel, you go on. I do not
want you. I don't know why I ever consulted you. I shall stop here
"That is absolute nonsense," said Ethel, losing her temper. "How can you
be left alone at your age? How would you get your meals or your bath?
All your letters are waiting for you at Patras. You'll miss the boat.
That means missing the London operas, and upsetting all your engagements
for the month. And as if you could travel by yourself!"
"They might knife you," was Mr. Graham's contribution.
The Greeks said nothing; but whenever Mr. Lucas looked their way, they
beckoned him towards the Khan. The children would even have drawn him by
the coat, and the old woman on the balcony stopped her almost completed
spinning, and fixed him with mysterious appealing eyes. As he fought,
the issue assumed gigantic proportions, and he believed that he was not
merely stopping because he had regained youth or seen beauty or found
happiness, but because in, that place and with those people a supreme
event was awaiting him which would transfigure the face of the world.
The moment was so tremendous that he abandoned words and arguments as
useless, and rested on the strength of his mighty unrevealed allies:
silent men, murmuring water, and whispering trees. For the whole place
called with one voice, articulate to him, and his garrulous opponents
became every minute more meaningless and absurd. Soon they would be
tired and go chattering away into the sun, leaving him to the cool grove
and the moonlight and the destiny he foresaw.
Mrs. Forman and the dragoman had indeed already started, amid the
piercing screams of the little pig, and the struggle might have gone on
indefinitely if Ethel had not called in Mr. Graham.
"Can you help me?" she whispered. "He is absolutely unmanageable."
"I'm no good at arguing—but if I could help you in any other way——"
and he looked down complacently at his well-made figure.
Ethel hesitated. Then she said: "Help me in any way you can. After all,
it is for his good that we do it."
"Then have his mule led up behind him."
So when Mr. Lucas thought he had gained the day, he suddenly felt
himself lifted off the ground, and sat sideways on the saddle, and at
the same time the mule started off at a trot. He said nothing, for he
had nothing to say, and even his face showed little emotion as he felt
the shade pass and heard the sound of the water cease. Mr. Graham was
running at his side, hat in hand, apologizing.
"I know I had no business to do it, and I do beg your pardon awfully.
But I do hope that some day you too will feel that I was—damn!"
A stone had caught him in the middle of the back. It was thrown by the
little boy, who was pursuing them along the mule track. He was followed
by his sister, also throwing stones.
Ethel screamed to the dragoman, who was some way ahead with Mrs. Forman,
but before he could rejoin them, another adversary appeared. It was the
young Greek, who had cut them off in front, and now dashed down at Mr.
Lucas' bridle. Fortunately Graham was an expert boxer, and it did not
take him a moment to beat down the youth's feeble defence, and to send
him sprawling with a bleeding mouth into the asphodel. By this time the
dragoman had arrived, the children, alarmed at the fate of their
brother, had desisted, and the rescue party, if such it is to be
considered, retired in disorder to the trees.
"Little devils!" said Graham, laughing; with triumph. "That's the modern
Greek all over. Your father meant money if he stopped, and they consider
we were taking it out of their pocket."
"Oh, they are terrible—simple savages! I don't know how I shall ever
thank you. You've saved my father."
"I only hope you didn't think me brutal."
"No," replied Ethel with a little sigh. "I admire strength."
Meanwhile the cavalcade reformed, and Mr. Lucas, who, as Mrs. Forman
said, bore his disappointment wonderfully well, was put comfortably on
to his mule. They hurried up the opposite hillside, fearful of another
attack, and it was not until they had left the eventful place far behind
that Ethel found an opportunity to speak to her father and ask his
pardon for the way she had treated him.
"You seemed so different, dear father, and you quite frightened me. Now
I feel that you are your old self again."
He did not answer, and she concluded that he was not unnaturally
offended at her behaviour.
By one of those curious tricks of mountain scenery, the place they had
left an hour before suddenly reappeared far below them. The Khan was
hidden under the green dome, but in the open there still stood three
figures, and through the pure air rose up a faint cry of defiance or
Mr. Lucas stopped irresolutely, and let the reins fall from his hand.
"Come, father dear," said Ethel gently.
He obeyed, and in another moment a spur of the hill hid the dangerous
scene for ever.
It was breakfast time, but the gas was alight, owing to the fog. Mr.
Lucas was in the middle of an account of a bad night he had spent,
Ethel, who was to be married in a few weeks, had her arms on the table,
"First the door bell rang, then you came back from the theatre. Then the
dog started, and after the dog the cat. And at three in the morning a
young hooligan passed by singing. Oh yes: then there was the water
gurgling in the pipe above my head."
"I think that was only the bath water running away," said Ethel, looking
"Well, there's nothing I dislike more than running water. It's
perfectly impossible to sleep in the house. I shall give it up. I shall
give notice next quarter. I shall tell the landlord plainly, 'The reason
I am giving up the house is this: it is perfectly impossible to sleep in
it.' If he says—says—well, what has he got to say?"
"Some more toast, father?"
"Thank you, my dear." He took it, and there was an interval of peace.
But he soon recommenced. "I'm not going to submit to the practising next
door as tamely as they think. I wrote and told them so—didn't I?"
"Yes," said Ethel, who had taken care that the letter should not reach.
"I have seen the governess, and she has promised to arrange it
differently. And Aunt Julia hates noise. It will sure to be all right."
Her aunt, being the only unattached member of the family, was coming to
keep house for her father when she left him. The reference was not a
happy one, and Mr. Lucas commenced a series of half articulate sighs,
which was only stopped by the arrival of the post.
"Oh, what a parcel!" cried Ethel. "For me! What can it be! Greek stamps.
This is most exciting!"
It proved to be some asphodel bulbs, sent by Mrs. Forman from Athens for
planting in the conservatory.
"Doesn't it bring it all back! You remember the asphodels, father. And
all wrapped up in Greek newspapers. I wonder if I can read them still. I
used to be able to, you know."
She rattled on, hoping to conceal the laughter of the children next
door—a favourite source of querulousness at breakfast time.
"Listen to me! 'A rural disaster.' Oh, I've hit on something sad. But
never mind. 'Last Tuesday at Plataniste, in the province of messenia, a
shocking tragedy occurred. A large tree'—aren't I getting on
well?—'blew down in the night and'—wait a minute—oh, dear! 'crushed
to death the five occupants of the little Khan there, who had apparently
been sitting in the balcony. The bodies of Maria Rhomaides, the aged
proprietress, and of her daughter, aged forty-six, were easily
recognizable, whereas that of her grandson'—oh, the rest is really too
horrid; I wish I had never tried it, and what's more I feel to have
heard the name Plataniste before. We didn't stop there, did we, in the
"We had lunch," said Mr. Lucas, with a faint expression of trouble on
his vacant face. "Perhaps it was where the dragoman bought the pig."
"Of course," said Ethel in a nervous voice. "Where the dragoman bought
the little pig. How terrible!"
"Very terrible!" said her father, whose attention was wandering to the
noisy children next door. Ethel suddenly started to her feet with
"Good gracious!" she exclaimed. "This is an old paper. It happened not
lately but in April—the night of Tuesday the eighteenth—and we—we
must have been there in the afternoon."
"So we were," said Mr. Lucas. She put her hand to her heart, scarcely
able to speak.
"Father, dear father, I must say it: you wanted to stop there. All those
people, those poor half savage people, tried, to keep you, and they're
dead. The whole place, it says, is in ruins, and even the stream has
changed its course. Father, dear, if it had not been for me, and if
Arthur had not helped me, you must have been killed."
Mr. Lucas waved his hand irritably. "It is not a bit of good speaking to
the governess, I shall write to the landlord and say, 'The reason I am
giving up the house is this: the dog barks, the children next door are
intolerable, and I cannot stand the noise of running water.'"
Ethel did not check his babbling. She was aghast at the narrowness of
the escape, and for a long time kept silence. At last she said: "Such a
marvellous deliverance does make one believe in Providence."
Mr. Lucas, who was still composing his letter to the landlord, did not