The Celestial Omnibus and other Stories

By E. M. Forster

"The Celestial Omnibus and Other Stories" by E.M. Forster invites readers into a world where the ordinary collides with the extraordinary. In a collection of captivating short stories, Forster explores the complexities of human relationships, societal norms, and the transcendental. The titular tale, "The Celestial Omnibus," takes readers on a fantastical journey, blurring the lines between reality and imagination. Other stories delve into themes of love, self-discovery, and the subtle nuances of daily life. Forster's keen observation and exquisite prose create a literary landscape where the mundane becomes magical, inviting readers to ponder the profound within the seemingly commonplace.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Interactive Media
• Release date: Oct 3, 2018
• ISBN: 9781787249028

E. M. Forster

E.M. Forster (1879-1970) was an English novelist. Born in London to an Anglo-Irish mother and a Welsh father, Forster moved with his mother to Rooks Nest, a country house in rural Hertfordshire, in 1883, following his father’s death from tuberculosis. He received a sizeable inheritance from his great-aunt, which allowed him to pursue his studies and support himself as a professional writer. Forster attended King’s College, Cambridge, from 1897 to 1901, where he met many of the people who would later make up the legendary Bloomsbury Group of such writers and intellectuals as Virginia Woolf, Lytton Strachey, and John Maynard Keynes. A gay man, Forster lived with his mother for much of his life in Weybridge, Surrey, where he wrote the novels A Room with a View, Howards End, and A Passage to India. Nominated for the Nobel Prize in Literature sixteen times without winning, Forster is now recognized as one of the most important writers of twentieth century English fiction, and is remembered for his unique vision of English life and powerful critique of the inequities of class.

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E. M. Forster

The Celestial Omnibus

and other Stories

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New Edition

filet%201%20short.jpg

New Edition

Published by Sovereign Classic

This Edition

First published in 2018

Copyright © 2018 Sovereign Classic

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 9781787249028

Contents

THE STORY OF A PANIC

THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HEDGE

THE CELESTIAL OMNIBUS

OTHER KINGDOM

THE CURATE’S FRIEND

THE ROAD FROM COLONUS

THE STORY OF A PANIC

I

Eustace’s career—if career it can be called—certainly dates from that afternoon in the chestnut woods above Ravello. I confess at once that I am a plain, simple man, with no pretensions to literary style. Still, I do flatter myself that I can tell a story without exaggerating, and I have therefore decided to give an unbiassed account of the extraordinary events of eight years ago.

Ravello is a delightful place with a delightful little hotel in which we met some charming people. There were the two Miss Robinsons, who had been there for six weeks with Eustace, their nephew, then a boy of about fourteen. Mr. Sandbach had also been there some time. He had held a curacy in the north of England, which he had been compelled to resign on account of ill-health, and while he was recruiting at Ravello he had taken in hand Eustace’s education—which was then sadly deficient—and was endeavouring to fit him for one of our great public schools. Then there was Mr. Leyland, a would-be artist, and, finally, there was the nice landlady, Signora Scafetti, and the nice English-speaking waiter, Emmanuele—though at the time of which I am speaking Emmanuele was away, visiting a sick father.

To this little circle, I, my wife, and my two daughters made, I venture to think, a not unwelcome addition. But though I liked most of the company well enough, there were two of them to whom I did not take at all. They were the artist, Leyland, and the Miss Robinsons’ nephew, Eustace.

Leyland was simply conceited and odious, and, as those qualities will be amply illustrated in my narrative, I need not enlarge upon them here. But Eustace was something besides: he was indescribably repellent.

I am fond of boys as a rule, and was quite disposed to be friendly. I and my daughters offered to take him out—’No, walking was such a fag.’ Then I asked him to come and bathe—’ No, he could not swim.’

Every English boy should be able to swim, I said, I will teach you myself.

There, Eustace dear, said Miss Robinson; here is a chance for you.

But he said he was afraid of the water!—a boy afraid!—and of course I said no more.

I would not have minded so much if he had been a really studious boy, but he neither played hard nor worked hard. His favourite occupations were lounging on the terrace in an easy chair and loafing along the high road, with his feet shuffling up the dust and his shoulders stooping forward. Naturally enough, his features were pale, his chest contracted, and his muscles undeveloped. His aunts thought him delicate; what he really needed was discipline.

That memorable day we all arranged to go for a picnic up in the chestnut woods—all, that is, except Janet, who stopped behind to finish her water-colour of the Cathedral—not a very successful attempt, I am afraid.

I wander off into these irrelevant details, because in my mind I cannot separate them from an account of the day; and it is the same with the conversation during the picnic: all is imprinted on my brain together. After a couple of hours’ ascent, we left the donkeys that had carried the Miss Robinsons and my wife, and all proceeded on foot to the head of the valley—Vallone Fontana Caroso is its proper name, I find.

I have visited a good deal of fine scenery before and since, but have found little that has pleased me more. The valley ended in a vast hollow, shaped like a cup, into which radiated ravines from the precipitous hills around. Both the valley and the ravines and the ribs of hill that divided the ravines were covered with leafy chestnut, so that the general appearance was that of a many fingered green hand, palm upwards, which was clutching, convulsively to keep us in its grasp. Far down the valley we could see Ravello and the sea, but that was the only sign of another world.

Oh, what a perfectly lovely place, said my daughter Rose. What a picture it would make!

Yes, said Mr. Sandbach. Many a famous European gallery would be proud to have a landscape a tithe as beautiful as this upon its walls.

On the contrary, said Leyland, it would make a very poor picture. Indeed, it is not paintable at all.

And why is that? said Rose, with far more deference than he deserved.

Look, in the first place, he replied, how intolerably straight against the sky is the line of the hill. It would need breaking up and diversifying. And where we are standing the whole thing is out of perspective. Besides, all the colouring is monotonous and crude.

I do not know anything about pictures, I put in, and I do not pretend to know: but I know what is beautiful when I see it, and I am thoroughly content with this.

Indeed, who could help being contented! said the elder Miss Robinson and Mr. Sandbach said the same.

Ah! said Leyland, you all confuse the artistic view of nature with the photographic.

Poor Rose had brought her camera with her, so I thought this positively rude. I did not wish any unpleasantness; so I merely turned away and assisted my wife and Miss Mary Robinson to put out the lunch—not a very nice lunch.

Eustace, dear, said his aunt, come and help us here.

He was in a particularly bad temper that morning. He had, as usual, not wanted to come, and his aunts had nearly allowed him to stop at the hotel to vex Janet. But I, with their permission, spoke to him rather sharply on the subject of exercise; and the result was that he had come, but was even more taciturn and moody than usual.

Obedience was not his strong point. He invariably questioned every command, and only executed it grumbling. I should always insist on prompt and cheerful obedience, if I had a son.

I’m—coming—Aunt—Mary, he at last replied, and dawdled to cut a piece of wood to make a whistle, taking care not to arrive till we had finished.

Well, well, sir! said I, you stroll in at the end and profit by our labours. He sighed, for he could not endure being chaffed. Miss Mary, very unwisely, insisted on giving him the wing of the chicken, in spite of all my attempts to prevent her. I remember that I had a moment’s vexation when I thought that, instead of enjoying the sun, and the air, and the woods, we were all engaged in wrangling over the diet of a spoilt boy.

But, after lunch, he was a little less in evidence. He withdrew to a tree trunk, and began to loosen the bark from his whistle. I was thankful to see him employed, for once in a way. We reclined, and took a dolce far niente.

Those sweet chestnuts of the South are puny striplings compared with our robust Northerners. But they clothed the contours of the hills and valleys in a most pleasing way, their veil being only broken by two clearings, in one of which we were sitting.

And because these few trees were cut down, Leyland burst into a petty indictment of the proprietor.

All the poetry is going from Nature, he cried, her lakes and marshes are drained, her seas banked up, her forests cut down. Everywhere we see the vulgarity of desolation spreading.

I have had some experience of estates, and answered that cutting was very necessary for the health of the larger trees. Besides, it was unreasonable to expect the proprietor to derive no income from his lands.

If you take the commercial side of landscape, you may feel pleasure in the owner’s activity. But to me the mere thought that a tree is convertible into cash is disgusting.

I see no reason, I observed politely, to despise the gifts of Nature, because they are of value.

It did not stop him. It is no matter, he went on, we are all hopelessly steeped in vulgarity. I do not except myself. It is through us, and to our shame, that the Nereids have left the waters and the Oreads the mountains, that the woods no longer give shelter to Pan.

Pan! cried Mr. Sandbach, his mellow voice filling the valley as if it had been a great green church, Pan is dead. That is why the woods do not shelter him. And he began to tell the striking story of the mariners who were sailing near the coast at the time of the birth of Christ, and three times heard a loud voice saying: The great God Pan is dead.

Yes. The great God Pan is dead, said Leyland. And he abandoned himself to that mock misery in which artistic people are so fond of indulging. His cigar went out, and he had to ask me for a match.

How very interesting,

Reviews for The Celestial Omnibus and other Stories

[laurajwryan · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I first read the short story "The Celestial Omnibus" in junior high for a class assignment, and thought it was the most beautiful story at the time...it was a good feeling to read it today many years later and still find the magic that so sweetly set my imagination on fire...

[cait815 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I have to admit that I am still getting used to Forster's style. He's not especially descriptive, which can be a good thing. I've read books that take pages upon pages to describe something as inconsequential as the front porch of a random building, down to the individual hues and intricate pattern of the wood grain. Um, no thanks. That's when I start skimming, in an attempt to keep my eyes from glazing over and drooping shut. However. Forster, in my opinion, goes too far in the opposite direction. Although I did notice it here and there in A Room With a View, it was much more obvious in this collection, probably due to the short story form. It was a bit disconcerting to begin a story and find myself plopped in mid-conversation amongst characters who are completely indistinguishable from one another (I am thinking specifically of Other Kingdom). Forster eventually gets around to sorting them out and the stories' backdrops and characters become clearer, but it does make for slightly uncomfortable reading in the first few pages.

I feel like the above is making it seem as if I didn't like his stories, but I did. I loved them. I loved the weaving together of Edwardian era characters and sensibilities with fantasy and fable. The Story of a Panic, The Celestial Omnibus, Other Kingdom, and The Road from Colonus were standouts, but honestly there's not a bad one in the bunch.

[altheaann · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Review of just the title story:

The allegory here is in the beat-'em-over-the-head-with-it school, but I still really enjoyed this tale of a small boy who discovers a carriage that conveys him to the Heaven that all true lovers of literature can find (the return ticket is free). Yes, the story is 100% about the wonders of reading and scathing about both those who disrespect the sense of wonder, and those who treat literature as a didactic tool to be put on a pedestal - and that's just wonderful. Very clever.

[rbeffa_2 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This small collection of stories is described by the author in his introduction as fantasies written before the first world war. They date to 1904-1911. Forster became famous for his later novels such as Howard's End and A Passage to India. These stories are something quite different. The first tale, "The Story of a panic," is more than a little odd and I wondered what I had gotten into. I will say that I liked these stories and fables but I did not love them as many people seem to do. There is some cuteness and cleverness in here. They rather seduce the reader in a variety of ways.

[elenchus_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I came to this collection after reading two stories online and finding them charming. After a closer reading of all six stories, their charm is undeniable but Forster offers much more than pleasant diversion.Forster's achievement is two-fold: on one hand, the peculiar truth treated by all six stories, triangulated upon rather than addressed squarely; and on the other hand, a distinctive tone used to impressive effect.The tone first, as it is somewhat tricky. The overarching tone of the collection is droll and wistful, individual stories playing variations on that theme. The resulting effect is of distance, as though observing events and finding some lesson in them beyond the specific plot. Set against that contemplative mood, however, is each story's narrative voice, which in many cases is pompous and disagreeable. (Only one story uses a sympathetic narrator.)This tension is apparent in each story, a wistful tone (of story) offset by a pompous and domineering voice (of character). It's remarkable that Forster consistently instills an overall lighthearted feeling (a large factor in the charm so apparent on first reading), while just as clearly communicating that certain characters border on repugnant --and not in one instance, but with six separate narrators and situations. Forster plainly sets up these irritating characters to point the reader elsewhere. They have strong opinions, they display a reasonable and modern outlook, and they clearly and confidently articulate how life is best lived. It's just as clear that for Forster, these characters are also completely wrong.And that's the tricky bit: that tone so inviting, gently shepherding the reader along, even as that pompous voice clangs and alarums, warning the reader away from certain ideas.Which leads to the second achievement, the implicit instruction in these Weird tales. In responding to that tone, considering what might be meant by steering us away from a genteel, sensible, modern life, readers do not find a clear answer. Forster provides very strong hints (the counter-example of an odious character is just one technique, he also employs recurring imagery and Classical allusion), but nowhere does he state it explicitly. Rather, both within a story and through reflection upon all of them, Forster seems to be gently nudging us toward something, rather than frightening or amusing with his little fantasies. Forster's truth in these stories is delicate and frankly obtuse to anyone pursuing a typically modern and rational life, and Forster chooses to convey his point primarily through careful and particular representations of what it is not. He leaves the rest unsaid, trusting readers to work it out -- or not.Poking around online convinces me that many readers find a rational and, yes, charming answer to the question of what Forster is getting on about, an answer suitable for fans of Peter Pan and Mary Poppins. I don't share that view. I believe Forster's truth is weightier than that, and also more specific, and altogether less rational. One's view comes down to whether Forster's appeal to Pan is symbolic or allegoric, or something more. For my part, I think something more. But I concede that Forster's stories support either interpretation equally well."The Story of a Panic" 1P"For I saw nothing and heard nothing and felt nothing, since all the channels of sense and reason were blocked." (11)"The Other Side of the Hedge" 1P"In normal conditions everything works. Science and the spirit of emulation -- those are the forces that have made us what we are." (47-48)"The Celestial Omnibus" 3P"Truth in the depth, truth on the height." (69)"Other Kingdom" 1P"The bridge is built, the fence finished, and Other Kingdom lies tethered by a ribbon of asphalt to our front door." (119)"The Curate's Friend" 1P"How I came to see him is a more difficult question. For to see him there is required a certain quality, for which truthfulness is too cold a name and animal spirits too coarse a one, and he alone knows how this quality came to be in me." (129-130)"The Road from Colonus" 3P"It was his last hope of contradicting that logic of experience, and it was failing." (146)A brilliant little book.

[mykl8s · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

In the ways I enjoyed "A Room with a View" I liked each of Forster's different kinds of stories in this collection.