And Michael had been honest with himself.  He had told himself that he too must take some risks, and the chances were that a year or two in Germany wouldn’t really hurt him.  Things never did hurt you as much as you thought they would.  He had thought that Cambridge would do all sorts of things to him, and Cambridge had not done anything to him at all.  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Michael went to Paris with his unpublished poems in his pocket and a letter of introduction from Stephen to Jules Reveillaud.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 what had happened and would happen in Michael’s soul.  He said:  “One third of each of your poems is good.  And there are a few—­the three last—­which are all good.”