Transcriber's Notes:
Blank pages have been eliminated.
Variations in spelling and hyphenation have been left as in theoriginal.
A few typographical errors have been corrected.
The cover page was created by the transcriber and can be considered public domain.
THE STORY OF THE SIREN
BY
E. M. FORSTER
Printed by Leonard & Virginia Woolf at
The Hogarth Press, Paradise Road, Richmond
1920
THE STORY OF THE SIREN
Few things have been more beautiful than mynote book on the Deist Controversy as it fell downwardthrough the waters of the Mediterranean. It dived,like a piece of black slate, but opened soon, disclosingleaves of pale green, which quivered into blue. Now ithad vanished, now it was a piece of magical india rubberstretching out to infinity, now it was a book again, butbigger than the book of all knowledge. It grew morefantastic as it reached the bottom, where a puff of sandwelcomed it and obscured it from view. But it reappeared,quite sane though a little tremulous, lying decentlyopen on its back, while unseen fingers fidgeted amongits leaves.
"It is such a pity" said my aunt, "that you willnot finish your work in the Hotel. Then you wouldbe free to enjoy yourself and this would never havehappened."
"Nothing of it but will change into something richand strange," warbled the chaplain, while his sister said"Why it's gone into the water." As for the boatmen,one of them laughed, while the other, without a wordof warning, stood up and began to take his clothes off.
"Holy Moses!" cried the Colonel. "Is the fellowmad?"
"Yes, thank him dear," said my aunt: "that is tosay tell him he is very kind, but perhaps another time."
"All the same I do want my book back," I complained."It's for my Fellowship Dissertation. Therewon't be much left of it by another time."
"I have an idea," said some woman or otherthrough her parasol. "Let us leave this child ofnature to dive for the book while we go on to the othergrotto. We can land him either on this rock or on theledge inside, and he will be ready when we return."
The idea seemed good; and I improved it by sayingI would be left behind too, to lighten the boat. Sothe two of us were deposited outside the little grottoon a great sunlit rock that guarded the harmonies within.Let us call them blue, though they suggest ratherthe spirit of what is clean, cleanliness passed from thedomestic to the sublime, the cleanliness of all the seagathered together and radiating light. The Blue Grottoat Capri contains only more blue water, not bluer water.That colour and that spirit is the heritage of every cavein the Mediterranean into which the sun can shine andthe sea flow.
As soon as the boat left I realised how imprudentI had been to trust myself on a sloping rock with anunknown Sicilian. With a jerk he became alive, seizingmy arm and saying "Go to the end of the Grottoand I will show you something beautiful."
He made me jump off the rock on to the ledgeover a dazzling crack of sea, he drew me away from thelight till I was standing on the tiny beach of sand whichemerged like powdered turquoise at the further end.There he left me with his clothes, and returned swiftlyto the summit of the entrance-rock. For a moment hestood naked in the brilliant sun, looking down