l. As
for Oxford, it had given him nearly all the solitude and liberty he
wanted, and more companionship than he was ever likely to want. At
twenty-two Michael was no longer afraid of dying before he had finished
his best work. In spite of both Universities he had done more or less
what he had meant to do before he went to Germany. His work had not yet
stood the test of time, but to make up for that he himself, in his
uneasy passion for perfection, like Time, destroyed almost as much as he
created. Still, after some pitiless eliminations, enough of his verse
remained for one fine, thin book.

It would be published if Lawrence Stephen approved of the selection.

So, Michael argued, even if he died to-morrow there was no reason why he
should not go to Germany to-day.

He was too young to know that he acquiesced so calmly because his soul
was for a moment appeased by accomplishment.

He was too young to know that his soul had a delicate, profound and
hidden life of its own, and that in secret it approached the crisis of
transition. It was passing over from youth to maturity, like a
sleep-walker, unconscious, enchanted, seeing its way without seeing it,
safe only from the dangers of the passage if nobody touched it, and if
it went alone.

Michael had no idea of what Germany could and would do to his soul.

Otherwise he might have listened to what Paris had to say by way of
warning.

For his father had given him a fortnight in Paris on his way to Germany,
as the reward of acquiescence. That (from Herr Harrison's point of view)
was a disastrous blunder. How could the dear old Pater be expected to
know that Paris is, spiritually speaking, no sort of way even to South
Germany? He should have gone to Brussels, if he was ever, spiritually
speaking, to get there at all.

And neither Anthony nor Frances knew that Lawrence Stephen had plans for
Michael.

Michael went to Paris with his unpublished poems in his pocket and a
letter of introduction from Stephen to Jules Reveillaud. He left it with
revolution in his soul and the published poems of Reveillaud and his
followers in his suit-case, straining and distending it so that it burst
open of its own accord at the frontier.

Lawrence Stephen had said to him: "Before you write another line read
Reveillaud and show him what you've written."

Jules Reveillaud was ten years older than Michael, and he recognized the
symptoms of the crisis. He could see what was happening and