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Getting MEAN with Mongo,
Express, Angular, and
Node.js 2ED
Simon Holmes Cliver Harber
Copyright
For online information and ordering of this and other Manning
books, please visit www.manning.com. The publisher offers
discounts on this book when ordered in quantity. For more
information, please contact

Special Sales Department

Manning Publications Co.
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© 2019 by Manning Publications Co. All rights reserved.

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that is at least 15 percent recycled and processed without the
use of elemental chlorine.
 Manning Publications Co.
20 Baldwin Road
PO Box 761
Shelter Island, NY 11964

Acquisitions editor: Brian Sawyer

Development editor: Kristen Watterson
Technical development editor: Luis Atencio
Review editor: Ivan Martinović
Production editor: Anthony Calcara
Copy editor: Kathy Simpson
Proofreader: Katie Tennant
Technical proofreader: Tony Mullen
Typesetter: Dottie Marsico
Cover designer: Marija Tudor

ISBN 9781617294754

Printed in the United States of America

Brief Table of Contents
Copyright

Brief Table of Contents

Table of Contents

Praise for the First Edition

Preface

Acknowledgments

About this book

About the authors

About the cover illustration

1. Setting the baseline

Chapter 1. Introducing full-stack development

Chapter 2. Designing a MEAN stack architecture

2. Building a Node web application

Chapter 3. Creating and setting up a MEAN project

Chapter 4. Building a static site with Node and Express

Chapter 5. Building a data model with MongoDB and

Mongoose
 Chapter 6. Writing a REST API: Exposing the MongoDB
database to the application

Chapter 7. Consuming a REST API: Using an API from

inside Express

3. Adding a dynamic front end with Angular

Chapter 8. Creating an Angular application with TypeScript

Chapter 9. Building a single-page application with Angular:

Foundations

Chapter 10. Building a single-page application with Angular:

The next level

4. Managing authentication and user sessions

Chapter 11. Authenticating users, managing sessions, and

securing APIs

Chapter 12. Using an authentication API in Angular

applications

A. Installing the stack

B. Installing and preparing the supporting cast

C. Dealing with all the views

D. Reintroducing JavaScript

Data integration differences for various approaches used by

Node.js applications

Index
List of Figures

List of Tables

List of Listings
Table of Contents
Copyright

Brief Table of Contents

Table of Contents

Praise for the First Edition

Preface

Acknowledgments

About this book

About the authors

About the cover illustration

1. Setting the baseline

Chapter 1. Introducing full-stack development

1.1. Why learn the full stack?

1.1.1. A brief history of web development

1.1.2. The trend toward full-stack developing

1.1.3. Benefits of full-stack development

1.1.4. Why the MEAN stack specifically?

1.2. Introducing Node.js: The web server/platform

 1.2.1. JavaScript: The single language through the
stack

1.2.2. Fast, efficient, and scalable

1.2.3. Using prebuilt packages via npm

1.3. Introducing Express: The framework

1.3.1. Easing your server setup

1.3.2. Routing URLs to responses

1.3.3. Views: HTML responses

1.3.4. Remembering visitors with session support

1.4. Introducing MongoDB: The database

1.4.1. Relational databases vs. document stores

1.4.2. MongoDB documents: JavaScript data store

1.4.3. More than just a document database

1.4.4. What is MongoDB not good for?

1.4.5. Mongoose for data modeling and more

1.5. Introducing Angular: The front-end framework

1.5.1. jQuery vs. Angular

1.5.2. Two-way data binding: Working with data in a

page

1.5.3. Using Angular to load new pages

 1.5.4. Are there any downsides?

1.5.5. Developing in TypeScript

1.6. Supporting cast

1.6.1. Twitter Bootstrap for user interface

1.6.2. Git for source control

1.6.3. Hosting with Heroku

1.7. Putting it together with a practical example

1.7.1. Introducing the example application

1.7.2. How the MEAN stack components work

together

Summary

Chapter 2. Designing a MEAN stack architecture

2.1. A common MEAN stack architecture

2.2. Looking beyond SPAs

2.2.1. Hard to crawl

2.2.2. Analytics and browser history

2.2.3. Speed of initial load

2.2.4. To SPA or not to SPA?

2.3. Designing a flexible MEAN architecture

2.3.1. Requirements for a blog engine

 2.3.2. A blog engine architecture

2.3.3. Best practice: Building an internal API for a

data layer

2.4. Planning a real application

2.4.1. Planning the application at a high level

2.4.2. Architecting the application

2.4.3. Wrapping everything in an Express project

2.4.4. The end product

2.5. Breaking the development into stages

2.5.1. Rapid prototype development stages

2.5.2. The steps to build Loc8r

2.6. Hardware architecture

2.6.1. Development hardware

2.6.2. Production hardware

Summary

2. Building a Node web application

Chapter 3. Creating and setting up a MEAN project

3.1. A brief look at Express, Node, and npm

3.1.1. Defining packages with package.json

 3.1.2. Working with dependency versions in
package.json

3.1.3. Installing Node dependencies with npm

3.2. Creating an Express project

3.2.1. Installing the pieces

3.2.2. Verifying the installations

3.2.3. Creating a project folder

3.2.4. Configuring an Express installation

3.2.5. Creating an Express project and trying it out

3.2.6. Restarting the application

3.3. Modifying Express for MVC

3.3.1. A bird’s-eye view of MVC

3.3.2. Changing the folder structure

3.3.3. Using the views and routes relocated folders

3.3.4. Splitting controllers from routes

3.4. Importing Bootstrap for quick, responsive layouts

3.4.1. Downloading Bootstrap and adding it to the

application

3.4.2. Using Bootstrap in the application

3.5. Making it live on Heroku

 3.5.1. Getting Heroku set up

3.5.2. Pushing the site live using Git

Summary

Chapter 4. Building a static site with Node and Express

4.1. Defining the routes in Express

4.1.1. Different controller files for different

collections

4.2. Building basic controllers

4.2.1. Setting up controllers

4.2.2. Testing the controllers and routes

4.3. Creating some views

4.3.1. A look at Bootstrap

4.3.2. Setting up the HTML framework with Pug

templates and Bootstrap

4.3.3. Building a template

4.4. Adding the rest of the views

4.4.1. Details page

4.4.2. Adding the Review page

4.4.3. Adding the About page

 4.5. Taking the data out of the views and making them
smarter

4.5.1. Moving data from the view to the controller

4.5.2. Dealing with complex, repeating data patterns

4.5.3. Manipulating the data and view with code

4.5.4. Using includes and mixins to create reusable

layout components

4.5.5. Viewing the finished homepage

4.5.6. Updating the rest of the views and controllers

Summary

Chapter 5. Building a data model with MongoDB and

Mongoose

5.1. Connecting the Express application to MongoDB by

using Mongoose

5.1.1. Adding Mongoose to your application

5.1.2. Adding a Mongoose connection to your

application

5.2. Why model the data?

5.2.1. What is Mongoose and how does it work?

5.2.2. How does Mongoose model data?

5.2.3. Breaking down a schema path

 5.3. Defining simple Mongoose schemas

5.3.1. The basics of setting up a schema

5.3.2. Using geographic data in MongoDB and

Mongoose

5.3.3. Creating more complex schemas with

subdocuments

5.3.4. Final schema

5.3.5. Compiling Mongoose schemas into models

5.4. Using the MongoDB shell to create a MongoDB

database and add data

5.4.1. MongoDB shell basics

5.4.2. Creating a MongoDB database

5.5. Getting your database live

5.5.1. Setting up mLab and getting the database URI

5.5.2. Pushing up the data

5.5.3. Making the application use the right database

Summary

Chapter 6. Writing a REST API: Exposing the MongoDB

database to the application

6.1. The rules of a REST API

6.1.1. Request URLs

 6.1.2. Request methods

6.1.3. Responses and status codes

6.2. Setting up the API in Express

6.2.1. Creating the routes

6.2.2. Creating the controller placeholders

6.2.3. Returning JSON from an Express request

6.2.4. Including the model

6.2.5. Testing the API

6.3. GET methods: Reading data from MongoDB

6.3.1. Finding a single document in MongoDB using

Mongoose

6.3.2. Finding a single subdocument based on IDs

6.3.3. Finding multiple documents with geospatial

queries

Processing the $geoNear output

6.4. POST methods: Adding data to MongoDB

6.4.1. Creating new documents in MongoDB

6.4.2. Validating the data using Mongoose

6.4.3. Creating new subdocuments in MongoDB

6.5. PUT methods: Updating data in MongoDB

 6.5.1. Using Mongoose to update a document in
MongoDB

6.5.2. Using the Mongoose save method

6.5.3. Updating an existing subdocument in

MongoDB

6.6. DELETE method: Deleting data from MongoDB

6.6.1. Deleting documents in MongoDB

6.6.2. Deleting a subdocument from MongoDB

Summary

Chapter 7. Consuming a REST API: Using an API from

inside Express

7.1. How to call an API from Express

7.1.1. Adding the request module to your project

7.1.2. Setting up default options

7.1.3. Using the request module

7.2. Using lists of data from an API: The Loc8r

homepage

7.2.1. Separating concerns: Moving the rendering

into a named function

7.2.2. Building the API request

7.2.3. Using the API response data

 7.2.4. Modifying data before displaying it: fixing the
distances

7.2.5. Catching errors returned by the API

7.3. Getting single documents from an API: The Loc8r

Details page

7.3.1. Setting URLs and routes to access specific

MongoDB documents

7.3.2. Separating concerns: Moving the rendering

into a named function

7.3.3. Querying the API using a unique ID from a

URL parameter

7.3.4. Passing the data from the API to the view

7.3.5. Debugging and fixing the view errors

7.3.6. Formatting dates using a Pug mixin

7.3.7. Creating status-specific error pages

7.4. Adding data to the database via the API: add Loc8r
reviews

7.4.1. Setting up the routing and views

7.4.2. POSTing the review data to the API

7.5. Protecting data integrity with data validation

7.5.1. Validating at the schema level with Mongoose

 7.5.2. Validating at the application level with Node
and Express

7.5.3. Validating in the browser with jQuery

Summary

3. Adding a dynamic front end with Angular

Chapter 8. Creating an Angular application with TypeScript

8.1. Getting up and running with Angular

8.1.1. Using the command line to create a boilerplate

Angular app

8.1.2. Running the Angular app

8.1.3. The source code behind the application

8.2. Working with Angular components

8.2.1. Creating a new home-list component

8.2.2. Creating the HTML template

8.2.3. Moving data out of the template into the code

8.2.4. Using class member data in the HTML

template

8.3. Getting data from an API

8.3.1. Creating a data service

8.3.2. Using a data service

 8.4. Putting an Angular application into production

8.4.1. Building an Angular application for production

8.4.2. Using the Angular application from the

Express site

Summary

Chapter 9. Building a single-page application with Angular:

Foundations

9.1. Adding navigation in an Angular SPA

9.1.1. Importing the Angular router and defining the

first route

9.1.2. Routing configuration

9.1.3. Creating a component for the framework and

navigation

9.1.4. Defining where to display the content using

router-outlet

9.1.5. Navigating between pages

9.1.6. Adding active navigation styles

9.2. Building a modular app using multiple nested

components

9.2.1. Creating the main homepage component

9.2.2. Creating and using reusable subcomponents

9.3. Adding geolocation to find places near you

 9.3.1. Creating an Angular geolocation service

9.3.2. Adding the geolocation service to the

application

9.3.3. Using the geolocation service from the home-

list component

9.4. Safely binding HTML content

9.4.1. Adding the About page content to the app

9.4.2. Creating a pipe to transform the line breaks

9.4.3. Safely binding HTML by using a property

binding

9.5. Challenge

Summary

Chapter 10. Building a single-page application with Angular:

The next level

10.1. Working with more-complex views and routing

parameters

10.1.1. Planning the layout

10.1.2. Creating the required components

10.1.3. Setting up and defining routes with URL

parameters

10.1.4. Using URL parameters in components and

services
 10.1.5. Passing data to the Details page component

10.1.6. Building the Details page view

10.2. Working with forms and handling submitted data

10.2.1. Creating the review form in Angular

10.2.2. Sending submitted form data to an API

10.3. Improving the architecture

10.3.1. Using a separate routing-configuration file

10.3.2. Improving the location class definition

10.4. Using the SPA instead of the server-side application

10.4.1. Routing Express requests to the build folder

10.4.2. Making sure that deep URLs work

Summary

4. Managing authentication and user sessions

Chapter 11. Authenticating users, managing sessions, and

securing APIs

11.1. How to approach authentication in the MEAN stack

11.1.1. Traditional server-based application approach

11.1.2. Using the traditional approach in the MEAN

stack

11.1.3. Full MEAN stack approach

 11.2. Creating a user schema for MongoDB

11.2.1. One-way password encryption: Hashes and

salts

11.2.2. Building the Mongoose schema

11.2.3. Basic user schema

11.2.4. Setting encrypted paths using Mongoose

methods

11.2.5. Validating a submitted password

11.2.6. Generating a JSON Web Token

11.3. Creating an authentication API with Passport

11.3.1. Installing and configuring Passport

11.3.2. Creating API endpoints to return JWTs

11.4. Securing relevant API endpoints

11.4.1. Adding authentication middleware to Express

routes

11.4.2. Using the JWT information inside a

controller

Summary

Chapter 12. Using an authentication API in Angular

applications

12.1. Creating an Angular authentication service

 12.1.1. Managing a user session in Angular

12.1.2. Allowing users to sign up, sign in, and sign

out

12.1.3. Using the JWT data in the Angular service

12.2. Creating the Register and Login pages

12.2.1. Building the Register page

12.2.2. Building the Login page

12.3. Working with authentication in the Angular app

12.3.1. Updating the navigation

12.3.2. Adding a right-side section to the navigation

Summary

A. Installing the stack

Installing Node and npm

Long-Term Support versions of Node

Installing Node on Windows

Installing Node on macOS

Installing Node on Linux

Verifying installation by checking version

Installing Express globally

 Installing MongoDB

Installing MongoDB on Windows

Installing MongoDB on macOS

Installing MongoDB on Linux

Running MongoDB as a service

Checking the MongoDB version number

Installing Angular

B. Installing and preparing the supporting cast

Twitter Bootstrap

Adding some custom styles

Font Awesome

Installing Git

Installing Docker

Installing a suitable command-line interface

Setting up Heroku

Signing up for Heroku

Installing the Heroku CLI

Logging in to Heroku using terminal

C. Dealing with all the views

 Moving the data from the views to the controllers

Details page

Add Review page

About page

Switching from Promises to Observables

D. Reintroducing JavaScript

Everybody knows JavaScript, right?

Good habits or bad habits

Variables, scope, and functions

Working with scope and scope inheritance

Pushing from local to global scope: The wrong way

Pushing from local to global scope: The right way

Referencing global variables from local scope

Implied global scope

The problem of variable hoisting

Lexical scope

Functions are variables

Limiting use of the global scope

Arrow functions
Destructuring

Logic flow and looping

Conditional statements: Working with if

Running loops: Working with for

Using for loops with arrays

Getting to know JSON

JavaScript object literals

Differences with JSON

Why is JSON so good?

Formatting practices

Indenting code

Position of braces for functions and blocks

Using the semicolon correctly

Placing commas in a list

Don’t be afraid of whitespace

Tools to help you write good JavaScript

String formatting

Understanding callbacks

Using setTimeout to run code later

 Asynchronous code

Running a callback function

Named callbacks

Callbacks in Node

Promises and async/await

Promises

async/await

Writing modular JavaScript

Closures

Module pattern

Revealing module pattern

Classes

Functional programming concepts

Immutability

Purity

Declarative code style

Partial application and function composition

Final thoughts

Data integration differences for various approaches used by

Node.js applications
Index

List of Figures

List of Tables

List of Listings
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
 But once again Anna began to protest. ‘What’s the good of it all
for a girl?’ she argued. ‘Did you love me any less because I couldn’t
do mathematics? Do you love me less now because I count on my
fingers?’
He kissed her. ‘That’s different, you’re you,’ he said, smiling, but a
look that she knew well had come into his eyes, a cold, resolute
expression, which meant that all persuasion was likely to be
unavailing.
Presently they went upstairs to the nursery, and Sir Philip shaded
the candle with his hand, while they stood together gazing down at
Stephen—the child was heavily asleep.
‘Look, Philip,’ whispered Anna, pitiful and shaken, ‘look, Philip—
she’s got two big tears on her cheek!’
He nodded, slipping his arm around Anna: ‘Come away,’ he
muttered, ‘we may wake her.’

CHAPTER 6

M rs. Bingham departed unmourned and unmourning, and in her

stead reigned Mademoiselle Duphot, a youthful French
governess with a long, pleasant face that reminded Stephen of a
horse. This equine resemblance was fortunate in one way—Stephen
took to Mademoiselle Duphot at once—but it did not make for
respectful obedience. On the contrary, Stephen felt very familiar,
kindly familiar and quite at her ease; she petted Mademoiselle
Duphot. Mademoiselle Duphot was lonely and homesick, and it must
be admitted that she liked being petted. Stephen would rush off to
get her a cushion, or a footstool or her glass of milk at eleven.
‘Comme elle est gentille, cette drôle de petite fille, elle a si bon
cœur,’ would think Mademoiselle Duphot, and somehow geography
would not seem to matter quite so much, or arithmetic either—in
vain did Mademoiselle try to be strict, her pupil could always beguile
her.
Mademoiselle Duphot knew nothing about horses, in spite of the
fact that she looked so much like one, and Stephen would
complacently entertain her with long conversations anent splints and
spavins, cow hocks and colic, all mixed up together in a kind of wild
veterinary jumble. Had Williams been listening, he might well have
rubbed his chin, but Williams was not there to listen.
As for Mademoiselle Duphot, she was genuinely impressed: ‘Mais
quel type, quel type!’ she was always exclaiming. ‘Vous êtes déjà
une vraie petite Amazone, Stévenne.’
‘N’est-ce pas?’ agreed Stephen, who was picking up French.
The child showed a real ability for French, and this delighted her
teacher; at the end of six months she could gabble quite freely,
making quick little gestures and shrugging her shoulders. She liked
talking French, it rather amused her, nor was she averse to
mastering the grammar; what she could not endure were the long,
foolish dictées from the edifying Bibliothèque Rose. Weak in all other
respects with Stephen, Mademoiselle Duphot clung to these dictées;
the Bibliothèque Rose became her last trench of authority, and she
held it.
‘ “Les Petites Filles Modèles,” ’ Mademoiselle would announce,
while Stephen yawned out her ineffable boredom; ‘Maintenant nous
allons retrouver Sophie—Where to did we arrive? Ah, oui, I
remember: “Cette preuve de confiance toucha Sophie et augmenta
encore son regret d’avoir été si méchante.
‘ “Comment, se dit-elle, ai-je pu me livrer à une telle colère?
Comment ai-je été si méchante avec des amies aussi bonnes que
celles que j’ai ici, et si hardie envers une personne aussi douce, aussi
tendre que Mme. de Fleurville!” ’
From time to time the programme would be varied by extracts of
an even more edifying nature, and ‘Les Bons Enfants’ would be
chosen for dictation, to the scorn and derision or Stephen.
‘La Maman. Donne-lui ton cœur, mon Henri; c’est ce que tu
pourras lui donner de plus agréable.
‘—Mon cœur? Dit Henri en déboutonnant son habit et en ouvrant
sa chemise. Mais comment faire? il me faudrait un couteau.’ At which
Stephen would giggle.
One day she had added a comment of her own in the margin:
‘Little beast, he was only shamming!’ and Mademoiselle, coming on
this unawares, had been caught in the act of laughing by her pupil.
After which there was naturally less discipline than ever in the
schoolroom, but considerably more friendship.
However, Anna seemed quite contented, since Stephen was
becoming so proficient in French; and observing that his wife looked
less anxious these days, Sir Philip said nothing, biding his time. This
frank, jaunty slacking on the part of his daughter should be checked
later on, he decided. Meanwhile, Stephen grew fond of the mild-
faced Frenchwoman, who in her turn adored the unusual child. She
would often confide her troubles to Stephen, those family troubles in
which governesses abound—her Maman was old and delicate and
needy; her sister had a wicked and spendthrift husband, and now
her sister must make little bags for the grand shops in Paris that
paid very badly, her sister was gradually losing her eyesight through
making those little bead bags for the shops that cared nothing, and
paid very badly. Mademoiselle sent Maman a part of her earnings,
and sometimes, of course, she must help her sister. Her Maman
must have her chicken on Sundays: ‘Bon Dieu, il faut vivre—il faut
manger, au moins—’ And afterwards that chicken came in very nicely
for Petite Marmite, which was made from his carcass and a few
leaves of cabbage—Maman loved Petite Marmite, the warmth of it
eased her old gums.
Stephen would listen to these long dissertations with patience
and with apparent understanding. She would nod her head wisely:
‘Mais c’est dur,’ she would comment, ‘c’est terriblement dur, la vie!’
 But she never confided her own special troubles, and
Mademoiselle Duphot sometimes wondered about her: ‘Est-elle
heureuse, cet étrange petit être?’ she would wonder. ‘Sera-t-elle
heureuse plus tard? Qui sait!’

Idleness and peace had reigned in the schoolroom for more than two
years, when ex-Sergeant Smylie sailed over the horizon and
proceeded to announce that he taught gymnastics and fencing.
From that moment peace ceased to reign in the schoolroom, or
indeed anywhere in the house for that matter. In vain did
Mademoiselle Duphot protest that gymnastics and fencing thickened
the ankles, in vain did Anna express disapproval, Stephen merely
ignored them and consulted her father.
‘I want to go in for Sandowing,’ she informed him, as though
they were discussing a career.
He laughed: ‘Sandowing? Well, and how will you start it?’
Then Stephen explained about ex-Sergeant Smylie.
‘I see,’ nodded Sir Philip, ‘you want to learn fencing.’
‘And how to lift weights with my stomach,’ she said quickly.
‘Why not with your large front teeth?’ he teased her. ‘Oh, well,’ he
added, ‘there’s no harm in fencing or gymnastics either—provided, of
course, that you don’t try to wreck Morton Hall like a Sampson
wrecking the house of the Philistines; I foresee that that might easily
happen—’
Stephen grinned: ‘But it mightn’t if I cut off my hair! May I cut
off my hair? Oh, do let me, Father!’
‘Certainly not, I prefer to risk it,’ said Sir Philip, speaking quite
firmly.
 Stephen went pounding back to the schoolroom. ‘I’m going to
those classes!’ she announced in triumph. ‘I’m going to be driven
over to Malvern next week; I’m going to begin on Tuesday, and I’m
going to learn fencing so as I can kill your brother-in-law who’s a
beast to your sister, I’m going to fight duels for wives in distress, like
men do in Paris, and I’m going to learn how to lift pianos on my
stomach by expanding something—the diapan muscles—and I’m
going to cut my hair off!’ she mendaciously concluded, glancing
sideways to observe the effect of this bombshell.
‘Bon Dieu, soyez clément!’ breathed Mademoiselle Duphot,
casting her eyes to heaven.

It was not very long before ex-Sergeant Smylie discovered that in

Stephen he had a star pupil. ‘Some day you ought to make a
champion fencer, if you work really hard at it, Miss,’ he told her.
Stephen did not learn to lift pianos with her stomach, but as time
went on she did become quite an expert gymnast and fencer; and as
Mademoiselle Duphot confided to Anna, it was after all very
charming to watch her, so supple and young and quick in her
movements.
‘And she fence like an angel,’ said Mademoiselle fondly, ‘she fence
now almost as well as she ride.’
Anna nodded. She herself had seen Stephen fencing many times,
and had thought it a fine performance for so young a child, but the
fencing displeased her, so that she found it hard to praise Stephen.
‘I hate all that sort of thing for girls,’ she said slowly.
‘But she fence like a man, with such power and such grace,’
babbled Mademoiselle Duphot, the tactless.
And now life was full of new interest for Stephen, an interest that
centred entirely in her body. She discovered her body for a thing to
be cherished, a thing of real value since its strength could rejoice
her; and young though she was she cared for her body with great
diligence, bathing it night and morning in dull, tepid water—cold
baths were forbidden, and hot baths, she had heard, sometimes
weakened the muscles. For gymnastics she wore her hair in a pigtail,
and somehow that pigtail began to intrude on other occasions. In
spite of protests, she always forgot and came down to breakfast
with a neat, shining plait, so that Anna gave in in the end and said,
sighing:
‘Have your pigtail do, child, if you feel that you must—but I can’t
say it suits you, Stephen.’
And Mademoiselle Duphot was foolishly loving. Stephen would
stop in the middle of lessons to roll back her sleeves and examine
her muscles; then Mademoiselle Duphot, instead of protesting,
would laugh and admire her absurd little biceps. Stephen’s craze for
physical culture increased, and now it began to invade the
schoolroom. Dumb-bells appeared in the schoolroom bookcases,
while half worn-out gym shoes skulked in the corners. Everything
went by the board but this passion of the child’s for training her
body. And what must Sir Philip elect to do next, but to write out to
Ireland and purchase a hunter for his daughter to ride—a real,
thoroughbred hunter. And what must he say but: ‘That’s one for
young Roger!’ So that Stephen found herself comfortably laughing at
the thought of young Roger; and that laugh went a long way
towards healing the wound that had rankled within her—perhaps
this was why Sir Philip had written out to Ireland for that
thoroughbred hunter.
The hunter, when he came, was grey-coated and slender, and his
eyes were as soft as an Irish morning, and his courage was as bright
as an Irish sunrise, and his heart was as young as the wild heart of
Ireland, but devoted and loyal and eager for service, and his name
was sweet on the tongue as you spoke it—being Raftery, after the
poet. Stephen loved Raftery and Raftery loved Stephen. It was love
at first sight, and they talked to each other for hours in his loose box
—not in Irish or English, but in a quiet language having very few
words but many small sounds and many small movements, which to
both of them meant more than words. And Raftery said: ‘I will carry
you bravely, I will serve you all the days of my life.’ And she
answered: ‘I will care for you night and day, Raftery—all the days of
your life.’ Thus Stephen and Raftery pledged their devotion, alone in
his fragrant, hay-scented stable. And Raftery was five and Stephen
was twelve when they solemnly pledged their devotion.
Never was rider more proud or more happy than Stephen, when
first she and Raftery went a-hunting; and never was youngster more
wise or courageous than Raftery proved himself at his fences; and
never can Bellerophon have thrilled to more daring than did
Stephen, astride of Raftery that day, with the wind in her face and a
fire in her heart that made life a thing of glory. At the very beginning
of the run the fox turned in the direction of Morton, actually crossing
the big north paddock before turning once more and making for
Upton. In the paddock was a mighty, upstanding hedge, a
formidable place concealing timber, and what must they do, these
two young creatures, but go straight at it and get safely over—those
who saw Raftery fly that hedge could never afterwards doubt his
valour. And when they got home there was Anna waiting to pat
Raftery, because she could not resist him. Because, being Irish, her
hands loved the feel of fine horseflesh under their delicate fingers—
and because she did very much want to be tender to Stephen, and
understanding. But as Stephen dismounted, bespattered and
dishevelled, and yet with that perversive look of her father, the
words that Anna had been planning to speak died away before they
could get themselves spoken—she shrank back from the child; but
the child was too overjoyed at that moment to perceive it.

Happy days, splendid days of childish achievements; but they passed

all too soon, giving place to the seasons, and there came the winter
when Stephen was fourteen.
 On a January afternoon of bright sunshine, Mademoiselle Duphot
sat dabbing her eyes; for Mademoiselle Duphot must leave her loved
Stévenne, must give place to a rival who could teach Greek and
Latin—she would go back to Paris, the poor Mademoiselle Duphot,
and take care of her ageing Maman.
Meanwhile, Stephen, very angular and lanky at fourteen, was
standing before her father in his study. She stood still, but her
glance kept straying to the window, to the sunshine that seemed to
be beckoning through the window. She was dressed for riding in
breeches and gaiters, and her thoughts were with Raftery.
‘Sit down,’ said Sir Philip, and his voice was so grave that her
thoughts came back with a leap and a bound; ‘you and I have got to
talk this thing out, Stephen.’
‘What thing, Father?’ she faltered, sitting down abruptly.
‘Your idleness, my child. The time has now come when all play
and no work will make a dull Stephen, unless we pull ourselves
together.’
She rested her large, shapely hands on her knees and bent
forward, searching his face intently. What she saw there was a quiet
determination that spread from his lips to his eyes. She grew
suddenly uneasy, like a youngster who objects to the rather
unpleasant process of mouthing.
‘I speak French,’ she broke out, ‘I speak French like a native; I
can read and write French as well as Mademoiselle does.’
‘And beyond that you know very little,’ he informed her; ‘it’s not
enough, Stephen, believe me.’
There ensued a long silence, she tapping her leg with her whip,
he speculating about her. Then he said, but quite gently: ‘I’ve
considered this thing—I’ve considered this matter of your education.
I want you to have the same education, the same advantages as I’d
give to my son—that is as far as possible—’ he added, looking away
from Stephen.
 ‘But I’m not your son, Father,’ she said very slowly, and even as
she said it her heart felt heavy—heavy and sad as it had not done
for years, not since she was quite a small child.
And at this he looked back at her with love in his eyes, love and
something that seemed like compassion; and their looks met and
mingled and held for a moment, speechless yet somehow expressing
their hearts. Her own eyes clouded and she stared at her boots,
ashamed of the tears that she felt might flow over. He saw this and
went on speaking more quickly, as though anxious to cover her
confusion.
‘You’re all the son that I’ve got,’ he told her. ‘You’re brave and
strong-limbed, but I want you to be wise—I want you to be wise for
your own sake, Stephen, because at the best life requires great
wisdom. I want you to learn to make friends of your books; some
day you may need them, because—’ He hesitated, ‘because you
mayn’t find life at all easy, we none of us do, and books are good
friends. I don’t want you to give up your fencing and gymnastics or
your riding, but I want you to show moderation. You’ve developed
your body, now develop your mind; let your mind and your muscles
help, not hinder each other—it can be done, Stephen, I’ve done it
myself, and in many respects you’re like me. I’ve brought you up
very differently from most girls, you must know that—look at Violet
Antrim. I’ve indulged you, I suppose, but I don’t think I’ve spoilt
you, because I believe in you absolutely. I believe in myself too,
where you’re concerned; I believe in my own sound judgment. But
you’ve now got to prove that my judgment’s been sound, we’ve both
got to prove it to ourselves and to your mother—she’s been very
patient with my unusual methods—I’m going to stand trial now, and
she’ll be my judge. Help me, I’m going to need all your help; if you
fail then I fail, we shall go down together. But we’re not going to fail,
you’re going to work hard when your new governess comes, and
when you’re older you’re going to become a fine woman; you must,
dear—I love you so much that you can’t disappoint me.’ His voice
faltered a little, then he held out his hand: ‘and Stephen, come here
—look me straight in the eyes—what is honour, my daughter?’
 She looked into his anxious, questioning eyes: ‘You are honour,’
she said quite simply.

When Stephen kissed Mademoiselle Duphot good-bye, she cried, for

she felt that something was going that would never come back—
irresponsible childhood. It was going, like Mademoiselle Duphot.
Kind Mademoiselle Duphot, so foolishly loving, so easily coerced, so
glad to be persuaded; so eager to believe that you were doing your
best, in the face of the most obvious slacking. Kind Mademoiselle
Duphot who smiled when she shouldn’t, who laughed when she
shouldn’t, and now she was weeping—but weeping as only a Latin
can weep, shedding rivers of tears and sobbing quite loudly.
‘Chérie—mon bébé, petit chou!’ she was sobbing, as she clung to
the angular Stephen.
The tears ran down on to Mademoiselle’s tippet, and they wet
the poor fur which already looked jaded, and the fur clogged
together, turning black with those tears, so that Mademoiselle tried
to wipe it. But the more she wiped it the wetter it grew, since her
handkerchief only augmented the trouble; nor was Stephen’s large
handkerchief very dry either, as she found when she started to help.
The old station fly that had come out from Malvern, drove up,
and the footman seized Mademoiselle’s luggage. It was such meagre
luggage that he waved back assistance from the driver, and lifted the
trunk single-handed. Then Mademoiselle Duphot broke out into
English—heaven only knew why, perhaps from emotion.
‘It’s not farewell, it shall not be for ever—’ she sobbed. ‘You
come, but I feel it, to Paris. We meet once more, Stévenne, my poor
little baby, when you grow up bigger, we two meet once more—’ And
Stephen, already taller than she was, longed to grow small again,
just to please Mademoiselle. Then, because the French are a
practical people even in moments of real emotion, Mademoiselle
found her handbag, and groping in its depths she produced a half
sheet of paper.
‘The address of my sister in Paris,’ she said, snuffling; ‘the
address of my sister who makes little bags—if you should hear of
anyone, Stévenne—any lady who would care to buy one little bag—’
‘Yes, yes, I’ll remember,’ muttered Stephen.
At last she was gone; the fly rumbled away down the drive and
finally turned the corner. To the end a wet face had been thrust from
the window, a wet handkerchief waved despondently at Stephen.
The rain must have mingled with Mademoiselle’s tears, for the
weather had broken and now it was raining. It was surely a desolate
day for departure, with the mist closing over the Severn Valley and
beginning to creep up the hillsides. . . .
Stephen made her way to the empty schoolroom, empty of all
save a general confusion; the confusion that stalks in some people’s
trail—it had always stalked Mademoiselle Duphot. On the chairs,
which stood crooked, lay odds and ends meaning nothing—crumpled
paper, a broken shoehorn, a well-worn brown glove that had lost its
fellow and likewise two of its buttons. On the table lay a much
abused pink blotting pad, from which Stephen had torn off the
corners, unchidden—it was crossed and re-crossed with elegant
French script until its scarred face had turned purple. And there
stood the bottle of purple ink, half-empty, and green round its neck
with dribbles; and a pen with a nib as sharp as a pin point, a thin,
peevish nib that jabbed at the paper. Chock-a-block with the bottle
of purple ink lay a little piety card of St. Joseph that had evidently
slipped out of Mademoiselle’s missal—St. Joseph looked very
respectable and kind, like the fishmonger in Great Malvern. Stephen
picked up the card and stared at St. Joseph; something was written
across his corner; looking closer she read the minute handwriting:
‘Priez pour ma petite Stévenne.’
She put the card away in her desk; the ink and the blotter she
hid in the cupboard together with the peevish steel nib that jabbed
paper, and that richly deserved cremation. Then she straightened the
chairs and threw away the litter, after which she went in search of a
duster; one by one she dusted the few remaining volumes in the
bookcase, including the Bibliothèque Rose. She arranged her
dictation notebooks in a pile with others that were far less accurately
written—books of sums, mostly careless and marked with a cross;
books of English history, in one of which Stephen had begun to write
the history of the horse! Books of geography with Mademoiselle’s
comments in strong purple ink: ‘Grand manque d’attention.’ And
lastly she collected the torn lesson books that had lain on their
backs, on their sides, on their bellies—anyhow, anywhere in drawers
or in cupboards, but not very often in the bookcase. For the
bookcase was harbouring quite other things, a motley and most
unstudious collection; dumb-bells, wooden and iron, of varying sizes
—some Indian clubs, one split off at the handle—cotton laces, for
gym shoes, the belt of a tunic. And then stable keepsakes, including
a headband that Raftery had worn on some special occasion; a
miniature horseshoe kicked sky-high by Collins; a half-eaten carrot,
now withered and mouldy, and two hunting crops that had both lost
their lashes and were waiting to visit the saddler.
Stephen considered, rubbing her chin—a habit which by now had
become automatic—she finally decided on the ample box-sofa as a
seemly receptacle. Remained only the carrot, and she stood for a
long time with it clasped in her hand, disturbed and unhappy—this
clearing of decks for stern mental action was certainly very
depressing. But at last she threw the thing into the fire, where it
shifted distressfully, sizzling and humming. Then she sat down and
stared rather grimly at the flames that were burning up Raftery’s
first carrot.

CHAPTER 7
 1

S oon after the departure of Mademoiselle Duphot, there occurred

two distinct innovations at Morton. Miss Puddleton arrived to
take possession of the schoolroom, and Sir Philip bought himself a
motor-car. The motor was a Panhard, and it caused much
excitement in the neighbourhood of Upton-on-Severn. Conservative,
suspicious of all innovations, people had abstained from motors in
the Midlands, and, incredible as it now seems to look back on, Sir
Philip was regarded as a kind of pioneer. The Panhard was a high-
shouldered, snub-nosed abortion with a loud, vulgar voice and an
uncertain temper. It suffered from frequent fits of dyspepsia,
brought about by an unhealthy spark-plug. Its seats were the very
acme of discomfort, its primitive gears unhandy and noisy, but
nevertheless it could manage to attain to a speed of about fifteen
miles per hour—given always that, by God’s good grace and the
chauffeur’s, it was not in the throes of indigestion.
Anna felt doubtful regarding this new purchase. She was one of
those women who, having passed forty, were content to go on
placidly driving in their broughams, or, in summer, in their charming
little French victorias. She detested the look of herself in large
goggles, detested being forced to tie on her hat, detested the heavy,
mannish coat of rough tweed that Sir Philip insisted she must wear
when motoring. Such things were not of her; they offended her
sense of the seemly, her preference for soft, clinging garments, her
instinct for quiet, rather slow, gentle movements, her love of the
feminine and comely. For Anna at forty-four was still slender, and her
dark hair, as yet, was untouched with grey, and her blue Irish eyes
were as clear and candid as when she had come as a bride to
Morton. She was beautiful still, and this fact rejoiced her in secret,
because of her husband. Yet Anna did not ignore middle age; she
met it half-way with dignity and courage; and now her soft dresses
were of reticent colours, and her movements a little more careful
than they had been, and her mind more severely disciplined and
guarded—too much guarded these days, she was gradually growing
less tolerant as her interests narrowed. And the motor, an
unimportant thing in itself, served nevertheless to crystallize in Anna
a certain tendency towards retrogression, a certain instinctive dislike
of the unusual, a certain deep-rooted fear of the unknown.
Old Williams was openly disgusted and hostile; he considered the
car to be an outrage to his stables—those immaculate stables with
their spacious coach-houses, their wide plaits of straw neatly
interwoven with yards of red and blue saddler’s tape, and their fine
stable-yard hitherto kept so spotless. Came the Panhard, and
behold, pools of oil on the flagstones, greenish, bad-smelling oil that
defied even scouring; and a medley of odd-looking tools in the
coach-house, all greasy, all soiling your hands when you touched
them; and large tins of what looked like black vaseline; and spare
tyres for which nails had been knocked into the woodwork; and a
bench with a vice for the motor’s insides which were frequently
being dissected. From this coach-house the dog-cart had been
ruthlessly expelled, and now it must stand chock-a-block with the
phaeton, so that room might be made for the garish intruder
together with its young bodyservant. The young bodyservant was
known as a chauffeur—he had come down from London and wore
clothes made of leather. He talked Cockney, and openly spat before
Williams in the coach-house, then rubbed his foot over the spittle.
‘I’ll ’ave none of yer expectoration ’ere in me coach-house, I tells
ee!’ bawled Williams, apoplectic with temper.
‘Oh, come orf it, do, Grandpa; we’re not in the ark!’ was how the
new blood answered Williams.
There was war to the knife between Williams and Burton—Burton
who expressed large disdain of the horses.
‘Yer time’s up now, Grandpa,’ he was constantly remarking; ‘it’s
all up with the gees—better learn to be a shovver!’
‘ ’Opes I’ll die afore ever I demean meself that way, you young
blight!’ bawled the outraged Williams. Very angry he grew, and his
dinner fermented, dilating his stomach and causing discomfort, so
that his wife became anxious about him.
‘Now don’t ee go worryin’, Arth-thur,’ she coaxed; ‘us be old, me
and you, and the world be progressin’.’
‘It be goin’ to the devil, that’s what it be doin’!’ groaned Williams,
rubbing his stomach.
To make matters worse, Sir Philip’s behaviour was that of a
schoolboy with some horrid new contraption. He was caught by his
stud-groom lying flat on his back with his feet sticking out beneath
the bonnet of the motor, and when he emerged there was soot on
his cheek-bones, on his hair, and even on the tip of his nose. He
looked terribly sheepish, and as Williams said later to his wife:
‘It were somethin’ aw-ful to see ’im all mucked up, and ’im such
a neat gentleman, and ’im in a filthy old coat of that Burton’s, and
that Burton agrinnin’ at me and just pointin’, silent, because the
master couldn’t see ’im, and the master a-callin’ up familiar-like to
Burton: “I say! She’s got somethin’ all wrong with ’er exhaust pipe!”
and Burton acontradictin’ the master: “It’s that piston,” says ’e, as
cool as yer please.’
Nor was Stephen less thrilled by the car than was her father.
Stephen made friends with the execrable Burton, and Burton, who
was only too anxious to gain allies, soon started to teach her the
parts of the engine; he taught her to drive too, Sir Philip being
willing, and off they would go, the three of them together, leaving
Williams to glare at the disappearing motor.
‘And ’er such a fine ’orse-woman and all!’ he would grumble,
rubbing a disconsolate chin.
It is not too much to say that Williams felt heart-broken, he was
like a very unhappy old baby; quite infantile he was in his fits of bad
temper, in his mouthings and his grindings of toothless gums. And all
about nothing, for Sir Philip and his daughter had the lure of
horseflesh in their very bones—and then there was Raftery, and
Raftery loved Stephen, and Stephen loved Raftery.
 2

The motoring, of course, was the most tremendous fun, but—and it

was a very large but indeed—when Stephen got home to Morton and
the schoolroom, a little grey figure would be sitting at the table
correcting an exercise book, or preparing some task for the following
morning. The little grey figure might look up and smile, and when it
did this its face would be charming; but if it refrained from smiling,
then its face would be ugly, too hard and too square in formation—
except for the brow, which was rounded and shiny like a bare
intellectual knee. If the little grey figure got up from the table, you
were struck by the fact that it seemed square all over—square
shoulders, square hips, a flat, square line of bosom; square tips to
the fingers, square toes to the shoes, and all tiny; it suggested a
miniature box that was neatly spliced at the corners. Of uncertain
age, pale, with iron-grey hair, grey eyes, and invariably dressed in
dark grey, Miss Puddleton did not look very inspiring—not at all as
one having authority, in fact. But on close observation it had to be
admitted that her chin, though minute, was extremely aggressive.
Her mouth, too, was firm, except when its firmness was melted by
the warmth and humour of her smile—a smile that mocked, pitied
and questioned the world, and perhaps Miss Puddleton as well.
From the very first moment of Miss Puddleton’s arrival, Stephen
had had an uncomfortable conviction that this queer little woman
was going to mean something, was going to become a fixture. And
sure enough she had settled down at once, so that in less than two
months it seemed to Stephen that Miss Puddleton must always have
been at Morton, must always have been sitting at the large walnut
table, must always have been saying in that dry, toneless voice with
the Oxford accent: ‘You’ve forgotten something, Stephen,’ and then,
‘the books can’t walk to the bookcase, but you can, so suppose that
you take them with you.’
It was truly amazing, the change in the schoolroom, not a book
out of place, not a shelf in disorder; even the box lounge had had to
be opened and its dumb-bells and clubs paired off nicely together—
Miss Puddleton always liked things to be paired, perhaps an
unrecognized matrimonial instinct. And now Stephen found herself
put into harness for the first time in her life, and she loathed the
sensation. There were so many rules that a very large time-sheet
had had to be fastened to the blackboard in the schoolroom.
‘Because,’ said Miss Puddleton as she pinned the thing up, ‘even
my brain won’t stand your complete lack of method, it’s infectious;
this time-sheet is my anti-toxin, so please don’t tear it to pieces!’
Mathematics and algebra, Latin and Greek, Roman history, Greek
history, geometry, botany, they reduced Stephen’s mind to a species
of beehive in which every bee buzzed on the least provocation. She
would gaze at Miss Puddleton in a kind of amazement; that tiny,
square box to hold all this grim knowledge! And seeing that gaze
Miss Puddleton would smile her most warm, charming smile, and
would say as she did so:
‘Yes, I know—but it’s only the first effort, Stephen; presently your
mind will get neat like the schoolroom, and then you’ll be able to
find what you want without all this rummaging and bother.’
But her tasks being over, Stephen must often slip away to visit
Raftery in the stables: ‘Oh, Raftery, I’m hating it so!’ she would tell
him. ‘I feel like you’d feel if I put you in harness—hard wooden
shafts and a kicking strap, Raftery—but my darling, I’d never put you
into harness!’
And Raftery would hardly know what he should answer, since all
human creatures, so far as he knew them, must run between shafts
—God-like though they were, they undoubtedly had to run between
shafts. . . .
Nothing but Stephen’s great love for her father helped her to
endure the first six months of learning—that and her own stubborn,
arrogant will that made her hate to be beaten. She would swing
clubs and dumb-bells in a kind of fury, consoling herself with the
thought of her muscles, and, finding her at it, Miss Puddleton had
laughed.
 ‘You must feel that your teacher’s some sort of midge, Stephen—
a tiresome midge that you want to brush off!’
Then Stephen had laughed too: ‘Well, you are little, Puddle—oh,
I’m sorry—’
‘I don’t mind,’ Miss Puddleton had told her; ‘call me Puddle if you
like, it’s all one to me.’ After which Miss Puddleton disappeared
somehow, and Puddle took her place in the household.
An insignificant creature this Puddle, yet at moments
unmistakably self-assertive. Always willing to help in domestic
affairs, such as balancing Anna’s chaotic account books, or making
out library lists for Jackson’s, she was nevertheless very guardful of
her rights, very quick to assert and maintain her position. Puddle
knew what she wanted and saw that she got it, both in and out of
the schoolroom. Yet every one liked her; she took what she gave
and she gave what she took, yes, but sometimes she gave just a
little bit more—and that little bit more is the whole art of teaching,
the whole art of living, in fact, and Miss Puddleton knew it. Thus
gradually, oh, very gradually at first, she wore down her pupil’s
unconscious resistance. With small, dexterous fingers she caught
Stephen’s brain, and she stroked it and modelled it after her own
fashion. She talked to that brain and showed it new pictures; she
gave it new thoughts, new hopes and ambitions; she made it feel
certain and proud of achievement. Nor did she belittle Stephen’s
muscles in the process, never once did Puddle make game of the
athlete, never once did she show by so much as the twitch of an
eyelid that she had her own thoughts about her pupil. She appeared
to take Stephen as a matter of course, nothing surprised or even
amused her it seemed, and Stephen grew quite at ease with her.
‘I can always be comfortable with you, Puddle,’ Stephen would
say in a tone of satisfaction, ‘you’re like a nice chair; though you are
so tiny yet one’s got room to stretch, I don’t know how you do it.’
Then Puddle would smile, and that smile would warm Stephen
while it mocked her a little; but it also mocked Puddle—they would
share that warm smile with its fun and its kindness, so that neither
of them could feel hurt or embarrassed. And their friendship took
root, growing strong and verdant, and it flourished like a green bay-
tree in the schoolroom.
Came the time when Stephen began to realize that Puddle had
genius—the genius of teaching; the genius of compelling her pupil to
share in her own enthusiastic love of the Classics.
‘Oh, Stephen, if only you could read this in Greek!’ she would say,
and her voice would sound full of excitement; ‘the beauty, the
splendid dignity of it—it’s like the sea, Stephen, rather terrible but
splendid; that’s the language, it’s far more virile than Latin.’ And
Stephen would catch that sudden excitement, and determine to
work even harder at Greek.
But Puddle did not live by the ancients alone, she taught Stephen
to appreciate all literary beauty, observing in her pupil a really fine
judgment, a great feeling for balance in sentences and words. A vast
tract of new interest was thus opened up, and Stephen began to
excel in composition; to her own deep amazement she found herself
able to write many things that had long lain dormant in her heart—
all the beauty of nature, for instance, she could write it. Impressions
of childhood—gold light on the hills; the first cuckoo, mysterious,
strangely alluring; those rides home from hunting together with her
father—bare furrows, the meaning of those bare furrows. And later,
how many queer hopes and queer longings, queer joys and even
more curious frustrations. Joy of strength, splendid physical strength
and courage; joy of health and sound sleep and refreshed
awakening; joy of Raftery leaping under the saddle, joy of wind
racing backward as Raftery leapt forward. And then, what? A sudden
impenetrable darkness, a sudden vast void all nothingness and
darkness; a sudden sense of acute apprehension: ‘I’m lost, where
am I? Where am I? I’m nothing—yes I am, I’m Stephen—but that’s
being nothing—’ then that horrible sense of apprehension.
Writing, it was like a heavenly balm, it was like the flowing out of
deep waters, it was like the lifting of a load from the spirit; it
brought with it a sense of relief, of assuagement. One could say
things in writing without feeling self-conscious, without feeling shy
and ashamed and foolish—one could even write of the days of
young Nelson, smiling a very little as one did so.
Sometimes Puddle would sit alone in her bedroom reading and
re-reading Stephen’s strange compositions; frowning, or smiling a
little in her turn, at those turbulent, youthful outpourings.
She would think: ‘Here’s real talent, real red-hot talent—
interesting to find it in that great, athletic creature; but what is she
likely to make of her talent? She’s up agin the world, if she only
knew it!’ Then Puddle would shake her head and look doubtful,
feeling sorry for Stephen and the world in general.

This then was how Stephen conquered yet another kingdom, and at
seventeen was not only athlete but student. Three years under
Puddle’s ingenious tuition, and the girl was as proud of her brains as
of her muscles—a trifle too proud, she was growing conceited, she
was growing self-satisfied, arrogant even, and Sir Philip must tease
her: ‘Ask Stephen, she’ll tell us. Stephen, what’s that reference to
Adeimantus, something about a mind fixed on true being—doesn’t it
come in Euripides, somewhere? Oh, no, I’m forgetting, of course it’s
Plato; really my Greek is disgracefully rusty!’ Then Stephen would
know that Sir Philip was laughing at her, but very kindly.
In spite of her newly acquired book learning, Stephen still talked
quite often to Raftery. He was now ten years old and had grown
much in wisdom himself, so he listened with care and attention.
‘You see,’ she would tell him, ‘it’s very important to develop the
brain as well as the muscles; I’m now doing both—stand still, will
you, Raftery! Never mind that old corn-bin, stop rolling your eye
round—it’s very important to develop the brain because that gives
you an advantage over people, it makes you more able to do as you
like in this world, to conquer conditions, Raftery.’
 And Raftery, who was not really thinking of the corn-bin, but
rolling his eye in an effort to answer, would want to say something
too big for his language, which at best must consist of small sounds
and small movements; would want to say something about a strong
feeling he had that Stephen was missing the truth. But how could he
hope to make her understand the age-old wisdom of all the dumb
creatures? The wisdom of plains and primeval forests, the wisdom
come down from the youth of the world.

CHAPTER 8

A t seventeenStephen was taller than Anna, who had used to be

considered quite tall for a woman, but Stephen was nearly as tall
as her father—not a beauty this, in the eyes of the neighbours.
Colonel Antrim would shake his head and remark: ‘I like ’em
plump and compact, it’s more taking.’
Then his wife, who was certainly plump and compact, so
compact in her stays that she felt rather breathless, would say: ‘But
then Stephen is very unusual, almost—well, almost a wee bit
unnatural—such a pity, poor child, it’s a terrible drawback; young
men do hate that sort of thing, don’t they?’
But in spite of all this Stephen’s figure was handsome in a flat,
broad-shouldered and slim flanked fashion; and her movements
were purposeful, having fine poise, she moved with the easy
assurance of the athlete. Her hands, although large for a woman,
were slender and meticulously tended; she was proud of her hands.
In face she had changed very little since childhood, still having Sir
Philip’s wide, tolerant expression. What change there was only
tended to strengthen the extraordinary likeness between father and
daughter, for now that the bones of her face showed more clearly, as
the childish fullness had gradually diminished, the formation of the
resolute jaw was Sir Philip’s. His too the strong chin with its shade of
a cleft; the well modelled, sensitive lips were his also. A fine face,
very pleasing, yet with something about it that went ill with the hats
on which Anna insisted—large hats trimmed with ribbons or roses or
daisies, and supposed to be softening to the features.
Staring at her own reflection in the glass, Stephen would feel just
a little uneasy: ‘Am I queer looking or not?’ she would wonder,
‘Suppose I wore my hair more like Mother’s?’ and then she would
undo her splendid, thick hair, and would part it in the middle and
draw it back loosely.
The result was always far from becoming, so that Stephen would
hastily plait it again. She now wore the plait screwed up very tightly
in the nape of her neck with a bow of black ribbon. Anna hated this
fashion and constantly said so, but Stephen was stubborn: ‘I’ve tried
your way, Mother, and I look like a scarecrow; you’re beautiful,
darling, but your young daughter isn’t, which is jolly hard on you.’
‘She makes no effort to improve her appearance,’ Anna would
reproach, very gravely.
These days there was constant warfare between them on the
subject of clothes; quite a seemly warfare, for Stephen was learning
to control her hot temper, and Anna was seldom anything but gentle.
Nevertheless it was open warfare, the inevitable clash of two
opposing natures who sought to express themselves in apparel,
since clothes, after all, are a form of self-expression. The victory
would be now on this side, now on that; sometimes Stephen would
appear in a thick woollen jersey, or a suit of rough tweeds
surreptitiously ordered from the excellent tailor in Malvern.
Sometimes Anna would triumph, having journeyed to London to
procure soft and very expensive dresses, which her daughter must
wear in order to please her, because she would come home quite
tired by such journeys. On the whole, Anna got her own way at this
time, for Stephen would suddenly give up the contest, reduced to
submission by Anna’s disappointment, always more efficacious than
mere disapproval.
 ‘Here, give it to me!’ she would say rather gruffly, grabbing the
delicate dress from her mother.
Then off she would rush and put it on all wrong, so that Anna
would sigh in a kind of desperation, and would pat, readjust,
unfasten and fasten, striving to make peace between wearer and
model, whose inimical feelings were evidently mutual.
Came a day when Stephen was suddenly outspoken: ‘It’s my
face,’ she announced, ‘something’s wrong with my face.’
‘Nonsense!’ exclaimed Anna, and her cheeks flushed a little, as
though the girl’s words had been an offence, then she turned away
quickly to hide her expression.
But Stephen had seen that fleeting expression, and she stood
very still when her mother had left her, her own face growing heavy
and sombre with anger, with a sense of some uncomprehended
injustice. She wrenched off the dress and hurled it from her, longing
intensely to rend it, to hurt it, longing to hurt herself in the process,
yet filled all the while with that sense of injustice. But this mood
changed abruptly to one of self pity; she wanted to sit down and
weep over Stephen; on a sudden impulse she wanted to pray over
Stephen as though she were some one apart, yet terribly personal
too in her trouble. Going over to the dress she smoothed it out
slowly; it seemed to have acquired an enormous importance; it
seemed to have acquired the importance of prayer, the poor,
crumpled thing lying crushed and dejected. Yet Stephen, these days,
was not given to prayer, God had grown so unreal, so hard to believe
in since she had studied Comparative Religion; engrossed in her
studies she had somehow mislaid Him. But now, here she was, very
wishful to pray, while not knowing how to explain her dilemma: ‘I’m
terribly unhappy, dear, improbable God—’ would not be a very
propitious beginning. And yet at this moment she was wanting a
God and a tangible one, very kind and paternal; a God with a white
flowing beard and wide forehead, a benevolent parent Who would
lean out of Heaven and turn His face sideways the better to listen
from His cloud, upheld by cherubs and angels. What she wanted was
a wise old family God, surrounded by endless heavenly relations. In
spite of her troubles she began to laugh weakly, and the laughter
was good for it killed self pity; nor can it have offended that
Venerable Person whose image persists in the hearts of small
children.
She donned the new dress with infinite precaution, pulling out its
bows and arranging its ruffles. Her large hands were clumsy but now
they were willing, very penitent hands full or deep resignation. They
fumbled and paused, then continued to fumble with the endless
small fastenings so cunningly hidden. She sighed once or twice but
the sighs were quite patient, so perhaps in this wise, after all,
Stephen prayed.

Anna worried continually over her daughter; for one thing Stephen
was a social disaster, yet at seventeen many a girl was presented,
but the bare idea of this had terrified Stephen, and so it had had to
be abandoned. At garden parties she was always a failure, seemingly
ill at ease and ungracious. She shook hands much too hard, digging
rings into fingers, this from sheer automatic nervous reaction. She
spoke not at all, or else gabbled too freely, so that Anna grew vague
in her own conversation; all eyes and ears she would be as she
listened—it was certainly terribly hard on Anna. But if hard on Anna,
it was harder on Stephen who dreaded these festive gatherings
intensely; indeed her dread of them lacked all proportion, becoming
a kind of unreasoning obsession. Every vestige of self-confidence
seemed to desert her, so that Puddle, supposing she happened to be
present would find herself grimly comparing this Stephen with the
graceful, light-footed, proficient young athlete, with the clever and
somewhat opinionated student who was fast outstripping her own
powers as a teacher. Yes, Puddle would sit there grimly comparing,
and would feel not a little uneasy as she did so. Then something of
her pupil’s distress would reach her, so that perforce she would have
to share it and as like as not she would want to shake Stephen.
 ‘Good Lord,’ she would think, ‘why can’t she hit back? It’s absurd,
it’s outrageous to be so disgruntled by a handful of petty, half-
educated yokels—a girl with her brain too, it’s simply outrageous!
She’ll have to tackle life more forcibly than this, if she’s not going to
let herself go under!’
But Stephen, completely oblivious of Puddle, would be deep in
the throes of her old suspicion, the suspicion that had haunted her
ever since childhood—she would fancy that people were laughing at
her. So sensitive was she, that a half-heard sentence, a word, a
glance, made her inwardly crumble. It might well be that people
were not even thinking about her, much less discussing her
appearance—no good, she would always imagine that the word, the
glance, had some purely personal meaning. She would twitch at her
hat with inadequate fingers, or walk clumsily, slouching a little as she
did so, until Anna would whisper:
‘Hold your back up, you’re stooping.’
Or Puddle exclaim crossly: ‘What on earth’s the matter, Stephen!’
All of which only added to Stephen’s tribulation by making her
still more self-conscious.
With other young girls she had nothing in common, while they, in
their turn, found her irritating. She was shy to primness regarding
certain subjects, and would actually blush if they happened to be
mentioned. This would strike her companions as queer and absurd—
after all, between girls—surely every one knew that at times one
ought not to get one’s feet wet, that one didn’t play games, not at
certain times—there was nothing to make all this fuss about surely!
To see Stephen Gordon’s expression of horror if one so much as
threw out a hint on the subject, was to feel that the thing must in
some way be shameful, a kind of disgrace, a humiliation! And then
she was odd about other things too; there were so many things that
she didn’t like mentioned.
In the end, they completely lost patience with her, and they left
her alone with her fads and her fancies, disliking the check that her
presence imposed, disliking to feel that they dare not allude to even
the necessary functions of nature without being made to feel
immodest.
But at times Stephen hated her own isolation, and then she
would make little awkward advances, while her eyes would grow
rather apologetic, like the eyes of a dog who has been out of favour.
She would try to appear quite at ease with her companions, as she
joined in their light-hearted conversation. Strolling up to a group of
young girls at a party, she would grin as though their small jokes
amused her, or else listen gravely while they talked about clothes or
some popular actor who had visited Malvern. As long as they
refrained from too intimate details, she would fondly imagine that
her interest passed muster. There she would stand with her strong
arms folded, and her face somewhat strained in an effort of
attention. While despising these girls, she yet longed to be like them
—yes, indeed, at such moments she longed to be like them. It would
suddenly strike her that they seemed very happy, very sure of
themselves as they gossiped together. There was something so
secure in their feminine conclaves, a secure sense of oneness, of
mutual understanding; each in turn understood the other’s
ambitions. They might have their jealousies, their quarrels even, but
always she discerned, underneath, that sense of oneness.
Poor Stephen! She could never impose upon them; they always
saw through her as though she were a window. They knew well
enough that she cared not so much as a jot about clothes and
popular actors. Conversation would falter, then die down completely,
her presence would dry up their springs of inspiration. She spoilt
things while trying to make herself agreeable; they really liked her
better when she was grumpy.
Could Stephen have met men on equal terms, she would always
have chosen them as her companions; she preferred them because
of their blunt, open outlook, and with men she had much in common
—sport for instance. But men found her too clever if she ventured to
expand, and too dull if she suddenly subsided into shyness. In
addition to this there was something about her that antagonized
slightly, an unconscious presumption. Shy though she might be, they
sensed this presumption; it annoyed them, it made them feel on the
defensive. She was handsome but much too large and unyielding
both in body and mind, and they liked clinging women. They were
oak-trees, preferring the feminine ivy. It might cling rather close, it
might finally strangle, it frequently did, and yet they preferred it, and
this being so, they resented Stephen, suspecting something of the
acorn about her.

Stephen’s worst ordeals at this time were the dinners given in turn by
a hospitable county. They were long, these dinners, overloaded with
courses; they were heavy, being weighted with polite conversation;
they were stately, by reason of the family silver; above all they were
firmly conservative in spirit, as conservative as the marriage service
itself, and almost as insistent upon sex distinction.
‘Captain Ramsay, will you take Miss Gordon in to dinner?’
A politely crooked arm: ‘Delighted, Miss Gordon.’
Then the solemn and very ridiculous procession, animals
marching into Noah’s Ark two by two, very sure of divine protection
—male and female created He them! Stephen’s skirt would be long
and her foot might get entangled, and she with but one free hand at
her disposal—the procession would stop and she would have
stopped it! Intolerable thought, she had stopped the procession!
‘I’m so sorry, Captain Ramsay!’
‘I say, can I help you?’
‘No—it’s really—all right, I think I can manage—’
But oh, the utter confusion of spirit, the humiliating feeling that
some one must be laughing, the resentment at having to cling to his
arm for support, while Captain Ramsay looked patient.
 ‘Not much damage, I think you’ve just torn the frill, but I often
wonder how you women manage. Imagine a man in a dress like
that, too awful to think of—imagine me in it!’ Then a laugh, not
unkindly but a trifle self-conscious, and rather more than a trifle
complacent.
Safely steered to her seat at the long dinner-table, Stephen
would struggle to smile and talk brightly, while her partner would
think: ‘Lord, she’s heavy in hand; I wish I had the mother; now
there’s a lovely woman!’
And Stephen would think: ‘I’m a bore, why is it?’ Then, ‘But if I
were he I wouldn’t be a bore, I could just be myself, I’d feel
perfectly natural.’
Her face would grow splotched with resentment and worry; she
would feel her neck flush and her hands become awkward.
Embarrassed, she would sit staring down at her hands, which would
seem to be growing more and more awkward. No escape! No
escape! Captain Ramsay was kind-hearted, he would try very hard to
be complimentary; his grey eyes would try to express admiration,
polite admiration as they rested on Stephen. His voice would sound
softer and more confidential, the voice that nice men reserve for
good women, protective, respectful, yet a little sex-conscious, a little
expectant of a tentative response. But Stephen would feel herself
growing more rigid with every kind word and gallant allusion. Openly
hostile she would be feeling, as poor Captain Ramsay or some other
victim was manfully trying to do his duty.
In such a mood as this she had once drunk champagne, one
glass only, the first she had ever tasted. She had gulped it all down
in sheer desperation—the result had not been Dutch courage but
hiccups. Violent, insistent, incorrigible hiccups had echoed along the
whole length of the table. One of those weird conversational lulls
had been filled, as it were, to the brim with her hiccups. Then Anna
had started to talk very loudly; Mrs. Antrim had smiled and so had
their hostess. Their hostess had finally beckoned to the butler: ‘Give
Miss Gordon a glass of water,’ she had whispered. After that Stephen
shunned champagne like the plague—better hopeless depression,
she decided, than hiccups!
It was strange how little her fine brain seemed able to help her
when she was trying to be social; in spite of her confident boasting
to Raftery, it did not seem able to help her at all. Perhaps is was the
clothes, for she lost all conceit the moment she was dressed as Anna
would have her; at this period clothes greatly influenced Stephen,
giving her confidence or the reverse. But be that as it might, people
thought her peculiar, and with them that was tantamount to
disapproval.
And thus, it was being borne in upon Stephen, that for her there
was no real abiding city beyond the strong, friendly old gates of
Morton, and she clung more and more to her home and to her
father. Perplexed and unhappy she would seek out her father on all
social occasions and would sit down beside him. Like a very small
child this large muscular creature would sit down beside him
because she felt lonely, and because youth most rightly resents
isolation, and because she had not yet learnt her hard lesson—she
had not yet learnt that the loneliest place in this world is the no-
man’s-land of sex.

CHAPTER 9

S ir Philip and his daughter had a new common interest; they

could now discuss books and the making of books and the feel
and the smell and the essence of books—a mighty bond this, and
one full of enchantment. They could talk of these things with mutual
understanding; they did so for hours in the father’s study, and Sir
Philip discovered a secret ambition that had lain in the girl like a
seed in deep soil; and he, the good gardener of her body and spirit,
hoed the soil and watered this seed of ambition. Stephen would
show him her queer compositions, and would wait very breathless
and still while he read them; then one evening he looked up and
saw her expression, and he smiled:
‘So that’s it, you want to be a writer. Well, why not? You’ve got
plenty of talent, Stephen; I should be a proud man if you were a
writer.’ After which their discussions on the making of books held an
even more vital enchantment.
But Anna came less and less often to the study, and she would
be sitting alone and idle. Puddle, upstairs at work in the schoolroom,
might be swatting at her Greek to keep pace with Stephen, but Anna
would be sitting with her hands in her lap in the vast drawing-room
so beautifully proportioned, so restfully furnished in old polished
walnut, so redolent of beeswax and orris root and violets—all alone
in its vastness would Anna be sitting, with her white hands folded
and idle.
A lovely and most comfortable woman she had been, and still
was, in spite of her gentle ageing, but not learned, oh, no, very far
from learned—that, indeed, was why Sir Philip had loved her, that
was why he had found her so infinitely restful, that was why he still
loved her after very many years; her simplicity was stronger to hold
him than learning. But now Anna went less and less often to the
study.
It was not that they failed to make her feel welcome, but rather
that they could not conceal their deep interest in subjects of which
she knew little or nothing. What did she know of or care for the
Classics? What interest had she in the works of Erasmus? Her
theology needed no erudite discussion, her philosophy consisted of a
home swept and garnished, and as for the poets, she liked simple
verses; for the rest her poetry lay in her husband. All this she well
knew and had no wish to alter, yet lately there had come upon Anna
an aching, a tormenting aching that she dared give no name to. It
nagged at her heart when she went to that study and saw Sir Philip
together with their daughter, and knew that her presence