10 - Prelude To Adventure by Hugh Walpole

Step into the thrilling narrative of Hugh Walpoles Prelude to Adventure. The story unfolds around Olva Dune, a Cambridge undergraduate who commits a murder and in that moment, senses the divine presence. The novel masterfully encapsulates the essence of Francis Thompsons poem, The Hound of Heaven - a tale of a soul in dread, relentlessly pursued by Gods love. Its highly recommended to enrich your experience by familiarizing yourself with the poem prior to diving into the novel. The story intrigued Carl Jung so much that he praised it as a psychological masterpiece in a letter to Walpole. Hergesheimer likened the suspense and plot to that of a Poe masterpiece, yet grounded in the relatable human experience. The narrative is a riveting blend of suspense, love, fear, triumph, all set against the backdrop of the captivating Cornish sea.

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
Chapter nine of the Prelude to Adventure by Hugh Wopole.
This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter nine
Revelation of Bunning two one. The next day the frost broke,
and after a practice game on the Saul's ground in
preparation for a rugby match at the end of the week, Ova,

(00:22):
bathed and feeling physically a fine, overwhelming fitness, went to
see Margaret Craven. This sense of his physical well being
was extraordinary. Mentally, he was nearly beaten, almost at the
limit of his endurance. Spiritually, the catastrophe hovered more closely
above him at every advancing moment. But physically he had never,

(00:44):
in all his life before felt such magnificent health. He
had been sleeping badly now for weeks, he had been
eating very little, but he felt no weariness, no faintness.
It was as though his body were urging upon him
the importance of his resistance, as though he were perceiving too,
with unmistakable clearness, the cleavage that there was between body

(01:08):
and soul. And indeed this vigor did give him an
energy to set about the numberless things that he had
arranged to fill every moment of his day, the many
little tinkling bells that he had set going to hide
the urgent whisper of that other voice. He carried his
day through with a rush, a whirl, so that he

(01:30):
might be in bed again at night, almost before he
had finished his dressing in the morning. No pause, no
opportunity for silence. And now he must see Margaret Craven,
see her for herself, but also see her to talk
to her about her brother. How much did Rupert Craven know?
How much? And here was the one tremendous question had

(01:53):
he told his sister? As Ova waited once again in
the musty hall, saw once more the dim red glass
of the distant window, smelt again the scent of oranges.
His heart was beating so that he could not hear
the old woman's trembling voice. How would Margaret receive him?
Would there be in her eyes that shadow of distrust

(02:16):
that he always saw now in Rupert's. His knees were trembling,
and he had to stay for an instant and pull
himself together before he crossed the drawing room threshold. And
then he was instantly reassured Margaret was alone in the
dim room, And as she came to meet him. He
saw in her approach to him that she had been

(02:37):
wanting him in her extended hands. He found a welcome
that implied also a need he felt as he met
her and greeted her, and looked again into the grave,
tender eyes that he had been wanting so badly ever
since he had seen them last. That there was nothing
more wonderful than the way that their relationship advanced. Betwe Queen.

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Every meeting they met, exchanged a word or two and parted,
But in the days that separated them, their spirits seemed
to leap together, to crowd into lonely hours, a communion
that bound them more closely than any physical intimacy could do. Oh,
I'm so glad you've come. I had hoped it, wanted it.

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He sat down close to her, his dark eyes on
her face. You're in trouble, I can see. She bent
her eyes gravely on the fire, and as slowly she
tried to put together the things that she wished to say,
he felt in her earnest thoughtfulness a rest, a relief
so wonderful that it was like plunging his body into

(03:43):
cool water after a long and arid journey. No it
is nothing. I don't want to make things more overwhelming
than they are. Only it is I think, simply that
during these last days, when mother and Rupert have both
been ill, I have been overwhelmed. Rupert. Yes, we'll come
to him in a moment. You must remember, she smiled

(04:05):
up at him as she said it, that I'm not
the least the kind of person who makes the best
of things. In fact, I'm not a useful person at all.
I suppose being abroad so long with my music spoiled me.
But whatever it is, I seem unable to wrestle with things.
They frighten me, overwhelm me. As I say, I'm frightened now.

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He looked up at her last word and caught a
corner reflection in the old gilt mirror, a reflection of
a multitude of little things, silver boxes, photograph frames, old
china pots, little silk squares, lying like scattered treasures from
a wreck on a dark sea. What are you frightened about? Well, there,

(04:48):
it is nothing, I suppose. Only I'm not good at
managing sick people, especially when there's nothing definitely the matter
with them. It's a case with all three of us,
a case of nerves. Well, that's as serious a thing
as any other disease. Yes, but I don't know what
to do with it. Mother lies there all day. She

(05:08):
seldom speaks, She scarcely eats anything. She entirely refuses to
have a doctor. But worse than that is the extraordinary
feeling that she has had during this last week about Rupert.
She refuses to see him. Margaret Craven, finally brought out, refuses. Yes.
She says that he is altered to her. She says

(05:31):
that he will not let her alone, that he is
imagining things. Poor Rupert is most terribly distressed. He is
imagining nothing. He would do anything for her, He's devoted
to her. Since when has she had this idea? You
remember the day that you came last, when Rupert came
in and had found your match box. It began about then.

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Of course, Rupert has not been well. He's never been
well since that dreadful death of mister carrcts, and certainly
since that day when you were here. I think that
he's been worse, strange, utterly unlike himself, sleeping, badly, eating nothing,
Poor poor Rupert. I would do anything for him, for

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them both, but I am so utterly, utterly useless. What
can I do? She finally appealed to him, you said once,
He answered her slowly, that I could help you. If
you still feel that, tell me, and I will do
anything anything. You know that I will do anything. They
came together in that terrible room like two children out

(06:38):
of the dark. He suddenly caught her hand and she
let him hold it. Then very gently she withdrew it.
I think that you can make all the difference, she
answered slowly. Mother often speaks of you. I told you
before that she wants so much to see you, and
if you would do that, if you would go up
for just a little time and sit with her, I

(07:01):
believe you would soothe her as no one else can.
I don't know why I feel that, but I know
that she feels it too. You are RESTful, she said, suddenly,
with a smile, flung up at him, and again, as
on the earlier occasion, he shrank from the thing that
she asked him. He had felt from the very moment

(07:22):
this afternoon that he had entered the house that that
thing would be asked of him. Missus Craven wanted him.
He could feel the compulsion of her wish drawing him
through walls and floors and all the obstructions of the world.
Of course I'll go, he said, Ah, that will help.
It would be so good of you. Poor mother. It's

(07:43):
lunely for her up there all day, and I know
that she thinks about things about father, and it's not
good for her. You might perhaps say a word too
about Rupert. I cannot imagine what it is that she
is feeling about him. She paused, and then, with a sigh,
rising from their chair, longingly brought out, Oh, but for

(08:04):
all of us to get away out of this house,
out of this place, that's the thing we want. She
stood there, in her black dress, so simply, so appealingly
before him, that it was all that he could do
not to catch her in his arms and hold her.
He did, indeed, rise and stand beside her, and there

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in silence, with a dim room about them, the oppressive
silence so ominous and sinister, they came together with a
closeness that no earlier intercourse had given them. Ulva seemed
for a short space to be relieved from his burdens.
For them, both so young, so helpless, against powers that

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were ruthless in the accomplishment of wider destinies they were
allowed to find in these silent minutes a brief reprieve. Then,
with the sudden whirring and shrill clatter of an ancient clock,
action began again. But before the striking hour had entirely
died away, he said to her, whatever happens, we are

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at any rate friends. We can snatch a moment together,
even out of the worst catastrophe. You're afraid. Her breath caught,
and she flung a look about the room. One never knows.
It is all so strange there and therasten. Everything was
so happy, so undisturbed, the music in one's friends, it

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was also natural. And now here with Rupert and mother
is like walking in one's sleep. Well, I'll walk with you,
he assured her. But indeed that was exactly what it
was like, he thought, as he climbed the old and
creaking stairs. How often had one dreamed of the old
dark house, the dusty, latticed windows, the stairs with the

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gaping boards. At last, that thin dark passage into which
doors sowed so dimly opened, that had black chasms at
either end of it, whose very shadows seemed to demand
the dipping of some distant water, and the shutterer of
some trembling blind In a dream too, there was that
sense of inevitability of treading unaccustomed ways with an assured

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accustomed tread that was with him now. The old woman
who had conducted him stopped at a door hidden by
the dusk and knocked. She opened it and wheezed out, mister, doone, ma'am,
and then, standing back for him to pass, left him inside.
As the door closed, He was instantly conscious of an

(10:40):
overwhelming desire for air, a longing to fling open the
little diamond paned window. The ceiling was very low, and
a fierce fire burned in the fireplace. There was little furniture,
only a huge white bed covered in the background. Ova
was conscious of a dark figure eying on a low

(11:00):
chair by the fire, a figure that gave you instantly
those long white hands and those burning eyes that gave
you afterwards, more slowly the rest of the outline. But
its supreme quality was its immobility. That head, that body,
those hands, never moved. Only behind its dark outline. The

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bright fire crackled and flung its shadows upon the wall.
I am sorry that you were not so well, missus.
Craven's dark eyes searched his face. You are RESTful to me.
I like you to come, but I would not intrude
upon your time. Ovah said, I'm very glad to come
if I can be of any service, if there's anything

(11:44):
that I can do. The eye seemed the only part
of her body that lived. It was the eyes that spoke. No,
there is nothing that anyone can do. I do not
care for talking. Soon I will be downstairs again. I
hope it is lonely for my daughter. There is rupert
At the mention of the name, her eyes were suddenly sheathed.

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It was like the instant quenching of some light. She
did not answer him. Tell me about yourself, what you do,
what you care about your life. He told her a
little about his home, his father, but he had a strange,
overwhelming conviction that she already knew. He felt also that
she regarded these things that he told her as preliminaries

(12:30):
to something else that he would presently say. He paused, Yes,
she said, I am tiring you. I have talked enough.
It is time for me to be back in college.
She did not contradict him. She watched him as he
said good bye. For one moment, he touched her chill,
unresponsive hand. For an instant, their eyes dark and somber met.

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The thought flew to his brain, my god, how lonely
she is? And then, my god, how lonely I am.
Slowly and quietly, he closed the door behind him. Two
that night, the shadow was nearer, more insistent. The closer
it came, the more completely was the real world obscured.

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This obscurity was now shutting out from him everything. It
was exactly as though his whole body had been struck numb,
so that he might touch, might hold, but could feel
nothing again. It was as though he were confined in
a damp, underground cell, and the world above his head
was crying out with life and joy. In his hand

(13:41):
was the key of the door. He had only to
use it. Submission, to be taken into those arms, to
be told gently what he must do, and then obedience,
perhaps public confession, perhaps death, struggling, ignominious death, at least
never again, Margaret Craven, never again, her companionship, her understanding,

(14:05):
never again to help her, and to feel that warm,
sure clasp of her hand. What would she say? What
would she do? If she were told that remained for
him now, the one abiding question. But he could not
doubt what she would do. He saw the warmth fading
from the eyes, the hard, stern line settling about the mouth,

(14:26):
the cold stiffening of her whole body. No, she must
never know, And if Rupert discovered the truth, he Ulva
must force him, for his sister's sake, to keep silence.
But if Rupert knew, he would tell his sister, and
she would believe him. No use denials then, And on

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the side of it all, there was the shadow with
him now, with him in the room. All things betray
thee who betrayeest me. The line from some poem came
to him. It was true, true, His life, that had
been the life of a man, was now the life
of a liar, liar to his friends, liar to Margaret,

(15:09):
liar to all the world. So his shuddering soul cowered there, naked,
creeping into the uttermost corner to escape the presence. If
only for an hour, he might be again himself, might
shout aloud the truth, boast of it, triumph in it,
be naked in the glory of it. Day by day

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the pressure had been increased. Day by day, his loneliness
had grown. Day by day, the pursuit had drawn closer,
and now he hardly recognized the reel from the faults.
He paced his room frantically. He felt that on the
other side of the bedroom door there was terror. He
had turned on all his lights, A furious fire was

(15:52):
blazing in the grate. Beyond the windows, cold stars and
an icy moon, But in here stifling eat. When Bunning
the clocks were striking eleven came blinking in upon him.
He was muttering, let me go, Let me go. I
killed him. I tell you, I'm glad I killed him. Oh,
let me alone, for pity's sake, Let me alone. I

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can't confess. Don't you see that I can't confess. There's Margaret.
I must keep her afterwards, when she knows me better,
I'll tell her. As he faced Bunning's staring glasses, the
thought came to him, Am I going mad? Has it
been too much for me mad? He stopped, wheeled around,
caught the table with both hands, and leaned over to Bunning,

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who stood his mouth open, his cap and gown still on.
Ova very gravely said, come in, Bunning, shut the door,
sport it. That's right, Take off, your gown and sit down.
The man, still staring, white and frightened, sat down. Ova
spoke slowly and very distinctly, I'm glad you come. I

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want to talk to you. I killed Carfax. You know
as he say he said the words. He began slowly
to come back to himself from the other world to
this one. How often, sleeping, waking had he said those words,
How often aloud in his room with his door locked,
had he almost shouted them? He was not now altogether

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sure whether Bunning were really there or no. His spectacles
were there, his boots were there. But was Bunning there
if he were not there? But he was there. Olvah's
brain slowly cleared, and for the first time for many weeks,
he was entirely himself. It was the first moment of
peace that he had known since that hour in Saint

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Martin's Chapel. He was quiet, collected, perfectly calm. He went
over to the window, opened it, and rejoiced in the breeze.
The room seemed suddenly empty. Five minutes ago it had
been crowded, breathless. There was now only Bunning. It was
so awfully hot, with an enormous fire. He said, Bunning's

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condition was peculiar. He sat, his large, fat face, white
and streaky, beads of perspiration on his forehead, his hands
gripping the sides of the arm chair, his boots stuck
up in the most absurd manner, like interrogation marks, he
washed Ovah's face fearfully. At last, he gasped, I say, Douna,

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you are ill, You are are really you. You're overdone.
You ought to see someone, you know, you ought really,
you ought to go to bed. His words came in
jerks ov across the room and stood looking down upon him. No, Bunning,
I'm perfectly well. There's nothing the matter with me. My
nurves have been a bit tried lately by this business

(18:46):
keeping it all alone, and it's a great relief to
me to have told you. The fact forced itself upon
Bunning's brain at last, in a husky whisper, you gilt Carfax,
and then the favorite expression of such weak souls as say,
oh my god, oh my god. Now look here, don't

(19:07):
get hysterical about it. You've got to take it quietly
as I do. You said the other day you do
anything for me. Well, now you've got a chance of
proving your devotion. My god, my god. The boots feebly
tapped the floor. I had to tell somebody it was
getting on my nerves. I suppose it gives you a

(19:28):
kind of horror of me. Don't mind saying so if
it does. Bunning, taking out a grimy handkerchief, wiped his forehead.
He shook his head without speaking. Ova sat down in
the chair opposite him and lit his pipe. I want
to tell somebody all about it. You weren't really, I
suppose the best person to tell. You're a hysterical sort

(19:50):
of fellow, and you're easily frightened. But you happen to
come in just when I was rather worked up about it.
At any rate, you've got to face it now, and
you must pull yourself together as well as you can
move away from the fire if you're hot. Bunning shook
his head. Ova continued, I'm going to try to put
it quite plainly to you, the Carfax part of it.

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I mean, there are other things that have happened since
that I needn't bother you with, but I'd like you
to understand why I did it. Oh my god, said Bunning.
He was trembling from head to foot and his fat
hands rattled on the woodwork of the chair, and his
feet rattled on the floor. I met Carfax first at

(20:32):
my private school, a little, fat, dirty boy. He was then,
and fat and dirty he's been ever since. I hated him,
but I was always pleasant to him. He wasn't worth
being angry with. He always did rotten things. He knew
more filthy things than the other boys, and he was
a bully, a beastly bully. I think he knew that

(20:55):
I hated him, but we were on perfectly good terms.
I think he was always a little afraid of me.
But it's curious to remember that we never had a
quarrel of any kind until the day when I killed him.
Ova paused and asked Bunning to have a drink. Bunning,
gazing at him with desperate eyes, shook his head. Then

(21:17):
we went on to rugby together. It's odd how fate
has apparently been determined to hammer out our paths side
by side. Carfax grew more and more beastly. He always
did the filthiest things, and yet out of it all
seemed to the world at large, a perfectly decent fellow.
He was clever in that way. I'm not trying to

(21:38):
defend myself. I'm making it perfectly straightforward, and just as
it really was. He knew that I knew him better
than anybody, And as we went on at rugby, I
think that his fear of me grew. I didn't hate
him so much for being Carfax, but rather as standing
for all sorts of rotten things. It didn't matter to

(21:59):
me in the least whether he was a beast or not.
I'm a beast myself, but it did matter that he
should smile about it and have damp hands. When I
touched his hand, I always wanted to hit him. I've
got a very sudden temper. All my family are like that.
Calm most of the time and then absolutely wild. I

(22:21):
hated him more up here at college than I'd hated
him at school. He developed, and still his reputation was
just the same. Decent fellows like Craven followed him, excused him.
He had that cheery manner. Hating him became a habit
with me. I hated everything that he did, his rolling

(22:42):
walk down the court, his red color, his football, and
then he ruined that fellow Thompson. That was a poor game,
But no one seemed to think anything of it, And
indeed he and I seemed to be very good friends.
He used to sneer at me behind my back, I know,
but I didn't mind that. Anyone's at liberty to sneer

(23:02):
if they like. But he was really afraid of me always.
Then at last there was this girl that he said
about destroying. He seduced her, promised her marriage. I knew
all about it because she used to be rather a
friend of mine. I warned her, but she was absolutely infatuated.
Wouldn't hear of anything that I had to say. Thought

(23:24):
it was all jealousy. She wasn't the kind of girl
who could stand disgrace. She came to him one day
and told him that she was going to have a baby.
He laughed at her in the regular, old conventional way,
and that very afternoon, after he had seen her, he
met me there in sanet Wood. He began to boast

(23:45):
about it, told me jokingly about the way that he'd
shut her mouth, as he called it, laughed. I hit him.
I meant to hit him hard. I hated him, so
I think that I wanted to kill him. All the
accumulator years were in that blow. I suppose, at any rate,
I caught him on the chin, and it broke his

(24:05):
neck and he dropped. That's all Ova paused, finished his
drink and ended with there it is. It's simple enough.
I'm not in the least sorry I killed him. I've
no regrets. He was better out of the world than
in it, and I've probably saved a number of people
from a great deal of misery. I thought at first

(24:26):
that I should be caught, but they aren't very sharp
around here, and there was really nothing to connect me
with it. But there were other things. There's more in
killing a man than the mere killing. I haven't been
able to stand the loneliness. So I told you. The
last words brought him back to Bunning, a person whom
he had almost forgotten. A sudden pity for the man's

(24:50):
distress made his voice tender. I say, Bunning, I oughtn't
to have told you. It's been too much for you.
But if you knew the relief that it is to me, though,
mind you, if it's on your conscience, if it burdened you,
you must out with it. Don't have any scruples about me,
but it needn't burden you. You hadn't anything to do with it.

(25:12):
You were here, and I told you that's all. I've
shown you that I want you as a friend. For answer,
the creature burst suddenly into tears, hiding his face in
his sleeve as small boys hide their faces and choking
out desperately. Oh my god, Oh my god. End of

(25:32):
chapter nine.