 Chapter 18 of the Voyage Out by Virginia Woolf. The sleeper fox recording is in the public domain. Everything he saw was distasteful to him. He hated the blue and white, the intensity and definiteness, the hum and heat of the south. The landscape seemed to him as hard and as romantic as a cardboard background on the stage, and the mountain but a wooden screen against a sheet painted blue. He walked fast in spite of the heat of the sun. Two roads led out of the town on the eastern side. One branched off towards the Ambrose's villa. The others struck into the country, eventually reaching a village on the plain. But many footpaths, which had been stamped in the earth when it was wet, led off from it, across great dry fields, to scattered farmhouses and the villas of rich natives. Hewitt stepped off the road on to one of these in order to avoid the hardness and heat of the main road, the dust of which was always being raised in small clouds by carts and ramshackle flies which carried parties of festive peasants or turkeys swelling unevenly like a bundle of airballs beneath a net, or the brass bedstead and black wooden boxes of some newly wedded pair. The exercise indeed served to clear away the superficial irritations of the morning, but he remained miserable. It seemed proved beyond a doubt that Rachel was indifferent to him, for she had scarcely looked at him, and she had talked to Mr. Flushing with just the same interest with which she talked to him. Finally Hearst's odious words flicked his mind like a whip, and he remembered that he had left her talking to Hearst. She was at this moment talking to him, and it might be true, as he said, that she was in love with him. He went over all the evidence for this supposition. Her sudden interest in Hearst's writing, her way of quoting his opinions respectfully, or with only half a laugh, her very nickname for him, The Great Man, might have some serious meaning in it. Supposing that there were an understanding between them, what would it mean to him? Damn it all, he demanded. Am I in love with her? To that he could only return himself one answer. He certainly was in love with her, if he knew what love meant. Ever since he had first seen her, he had been interested and attracted—more and more interested and attracted—until he was scarcely able to think of anything except Rachel. But just as he was sliding into one of the long feasts of meditation about them both, he checked himself by asking whether he wanted to marry her. That was the real problem, for these miseries and agonies could not be endured, and it was necessary that he should make up his mind. He instantly decided that he did not want to marry anyone. Partly because he was irritated by Rachel, the idea of marriage irritated him. It immediately suggested the picture of two people sitting alone over the fire. The man was reading. The woman sewing. There was a second picture. He saw a man jump up, say good night, leave the company, and hasten away with the quiet, secret look of one who is stealing to certain happiness. Both these pictures were very unpleasant, and even more so was a third picture of husband and wife and friend, and the married people glancing at each other as though they were content to let something pass unquestioned, being themselves possessed of the deeper truth. Other pictures. He was walking very fast in his irritation, and they came before him without any conscious effort, like pictures on a sheet. Succeeded these. Here were the worn husband and wife sitting with their children round them. Very patient, tolerant, and wise. But that, too, was an unpleasant picture. He tried all sorts of pictures, taking them from the lives of friends of his, for he knew many different married couples. But he saw them always walled up in a warm, fire-lit room. When, on the other hand, he began to think of unmarried people, he saw them active in an unlimited world, above all standing on the same ground as the rest, without shelter or advantage. All the most individual and humane of his friends were bachelors and spinsters. Indeed he was surprised to find that the women he most admired and knew best were unmarried women. Marriage seemed to be worse for them than it was for men. Leaving these general pictures, he considered the people whom he had been observing lately at the hotel. He had often revolved these questions in his mind, as he watched Susan and Arthur, or Mr. and Mrs. Thornbury, or Mr. and Mrs. Elliott. He had observed how the shy happiness and surprise of the engaged couple had gradually been replaced by a comfortable, tolerant state of mind. As if they had already done with the adventure of intimacy and were taking up their parts, Susan used to pursue Arthur about with a sweater, because he had one day let slip that a brother of his had died of pneumonia. The sight amused him, but was not pleasant if you substituted Terence and Rachel for Arthur and Susan, and Arthur was far less eager to get you in a corner and to talk about flying and the mechanics of airplanes. They would settle down. He then looked at the couples who had been married for several years. It was true that Mrs. Thornbury had a husband, and that for the most part she was wonderfully successful in bringing him into the conversation. But one could not imagine what they said to each other when they were alone. There was the same difficulty with regard to the Elliott's, except that they probably bickered openly in private. They sometimes bickered in public, though these disagreements were painfully covered over by little insincereities on the part of the wife, who was afraid of public opinion, because she was much stupider than her husband, and had to make efforts to keep hold of him. There could be no doubt, he decided, that it would have been far better for the world if these couples had separated. Even the Ambroses, whom he admired and respected profoundly, in spite of all the love between them, was not there marriage to a compromise? She gave way to him. She spoiled him. She arranged things for him. She, who was all truth to others, was not true to her husband. Was not true to her friends if they came in conflict with her husband. It was a strange and piteous flaw in her nature. Perhaps Rachel had been right then. When she said that night in the garden, we bring out what's worst in each other. We should live separate. No, Rachel had been utterly wrong. Every argument seemed to be against undertaking the burden of marriage until he came to Rachel's argument. Which was manifestly absurd. From having been the pursued, he turned and became the pursuer, allowing the case against marriage to lapse. He began to consider the peculiarities of character which had led to her saying that. Had she meant it? Surely one ought to know the character of the person with whom one might spend all one's life. Being a novelist, let him try to discover what sort of person she was. When he was with her, he could not analyze her qualities, because he seemed to know them instinctively. But when he was away from her, it sometimes seemed to him that he did not know her at all. She was young, but she was also old. She had little self-confidence, and yet she was a good judge of people. She was happy. But what made her happy? If they were alone and the excitement had worn off, and they had to deal with the ordinary facts of the day, what would happen? Casting his eye upon his own character. Two things appeared to him. That he was very unpunctual. And that he disliked answering notes. As far as he knew, Rachel was inclined to be punctual. But he could not remember that he had ever seen her with a pen in her hand. Let him next imagine a dinner party. Say at the crooms. And Wilson, who had taken her down. Talking about the State of the Liberal Party. She would say, Of course, she was absolutely ignorant of politics. Nevertheless, she was intelligent, certainly, and honest, too. Her temper was uncertain. That he had noticed. And she was not domestic. And she was not easy. And she was not quiet. Or beautiful. Except in some dresses, in some lights. But the great gift she had was that she understood what was said to her. There had never been anyone like her or talking to. You could say anything. You could say everything. And yet she was never servile. Here he pulled himself up. For it seemed to him suddenly that he knew less about her than about anyone. All these thoughts had occurred to him many times already. Often had he tried to argue and reason. And again he had reached the old State of Doubt. He did not know her. And he did not know what she felt. Or whether they could live together. Or whether he wanted to marry her. And yet he was in love with her. Supposing he went to her and said, he slackened his pace and began to speak aloud, as if he were speaking to Rachel. I worship you, but I loathe marriage. I hate its smugness, its safety, its compromise. And the thought of you interfering in my work, hindering me. What would you answer? He stopped, lent against the trunk of a tree, and gazed without seeing them at some stones scattered on the bank of the dry river bed. He saw Rachel's face distinctly. The gray eyes, the hair, the mouth, the face that could look so many things. Plain, vacant, almost insignificant, or wild, passionate, almost beautiful. Yet in his eyes was always the same, because of the extraordinary freedom with which she looked at him, and spoke as she felt. What would she answer? What did she feel? Did she love him? Or did she feel nothing at all for him, or for any other man, being, as she had said that afternoon, free like the wind or the sea? Oh, you're free! he exclaimed, in exultation at the thought of her. And I'd keep you free. We'd be free together. We'd share everything together. No happiness would be like ours. No lives would compare with ours. He opened his arms wide as if to hold her and the world in one embrace. No longer able to consider marriage, or to weigh coolly what her nature was, or how it would be if they lived together. He dropped to the ground and sat, absorbed in the thought of her, and soon tormented by the desire to be in her presence again. End of Chapter 18 Chapter 19 of The Voyage Out by Virginia Wolfe This Librivox recording is in the public domain. But Hewitt need not have increased his torments by imagining that Hearst was still talking to Rachel. The party very soon broke up, the Flushings going in one direction, Hearst in another, and Rachel remaining in the hall, pulling the illustrated papers about, turning from one to another, her movements expressing the unformed, restless desire in her mind. She did not know whether to go or to stay, though Mrs. Flushing had commanded her to appear at tea. The hall was empty, save for Miss Wellett, who was playing scales with her fingers upon a sheet of sacred music, and Picarders, an opulent couple who disliked the girl, because her shoelaces were untied, and she did not look sufficiently cheery, which by some indirect process of thought led them to think that she would not like them. Rachel certainly would not have liked them, if she had seen them, for the excellent reason that Mr. Carter waxed his moustache, and Mrs. Carter wore bracelets, and they were evidently the kind of people who would not like her. But she was too much absorbed by her own restlessness to think or to look. She was turning over the slippery pages of an American magazine, when the hall door swung, a wedge of light fell upon the floor, and a small white figure upon whom the light seemed focused, made straight across the room to her. What, you here? Evelyn exclaimed. Just caught a glimpse of you at lunch, but you wouldn't condescend to look at me. It was part of Evelyn's character that, in spite of many snubs which she received or imagined, she never gave up the pursuit of people she wanted to know, and in the long run generally succeeded in knowing them, and even in making them like her. She looked round her. I hate this place. I hate these people, she said. I wish you'd come up to my room with me. I do want to talk to you. As Rachel had no wish to go or to stay, Evelyn took her by the wrist and drew her out of the hall and up the stairs. As they went upstairs two steps at a time, Evelyn, who still kept hold of Rachel's hand, ejaculated broken sentences about not carrying a hang what people said. Why should you, if one knows one's right? And let them all go to blazes. Them's my opinions. She was in a state of great excitement, and muscles of her arms were twitching nervously. It was evident that she was only waiting for the door to shut to tell Rachel all about it. Indeed, directly they were inside her room. She sat on the end of the bed and said, I suppose you think I'm mad. Rachel was not in the mood to think clearly about any one's state of mind. She was, however, in the mood to say straight out whatever occurred to her, without fear of the consequences. Somebody's proposed to you, she remarked. How on earth did you guess that, Evelyn exclaimed? Some pleasure mingling with her surprise. Do I look as if I'd just had a proposal? You look as if you had them every day, Rachel replied. But I don't suppose I've had more than you've had. Evelyn laughed rather insincerely. I've never had one. But you will. Lots. It's the easiest thing in the world. But that's not what's happened this afternoon exactly. It's—oh, it's a muddle, a detestable, horrible, disgusting muddle. She went to the wash stand and began sponging her cheeks with cold water, for they were burning hot. Still sponging them and trembling slightly, she turned and explained in the high-pitched voice of nervous excitement. Alfred Parrot says I've promised to marry him. And I say I never did. Sinclair says he'll shoot himself if I don't marry him. And I say, well, shoot yourself. But of course he doesn't. They never do. And Sinclair got hold of me this afternoon and began bothering me to give an answer, and accusing me of flirting with Alfred Parrot, and told me I'd no heart, and was merely a siren. Oh, and quantities of pleasant things like that. So at last I said to him, well, Sinclair, you've said enough now, you can just let me go. And then he caught me and kissed me, the disgusting brute. I can still feel his nasty hairy face just there, as if he'd any right to, after what he'd said. She sponged a spot on her left cheek energetically. I've never met a man that was fit to compare with a woman, she cried. They've no dignity. They've no courage. They've nothing but their beastly passions and their brute strength. Would any woman have behaved like that? If a man had said he didn't want her? Weave too much self-respect. We're infinitely finer than they are. She walked about the room, dabbing her wet cheeks with a towel. Tears were now running down with the drops of cold water. It makes me angry, she explained, drying her eyes. Rachel sat watching her. She did not think of Evelyn's position. She only thought that the world was full of people in torment. There's only one man here I really like, Evelyn continued. Terence Hewitt. One feels as if one could trust him. At these words Rachel suffered an indescribable chill. Her heart seemed to be pressed together by cold hands. Why, she asked, why can you trust him? I don't know, said Evelyn. Don't you have feelings about people? Feelings you're absolutely certain are right. I had a long talk with Terence the other night. I felt we were really friends after that. There's something of a woman in him. She paused as though she were thinking of very intimate things that Terence had told her. So at least Rachel interpreted her gaze. She tried to force herself to say, has he proposed to you? But the question was too tremendous and in another moment Evelyn was saying that the finest men were like women, and women were nobler than men. For example, one couldn't imagine a woman like Liola Harrison thinking a mean thing or having anything base about her. How I'd like you to know her, she exclaimed. She was becoming much calmer and her cheeks were now quite dry. Her eyes had regained their usual expression of keen vitality, and she seemed to have forgotten Alfred and Sinclair and her emotion. Liola runs a home for inebriate women in the Deptford Road. She continued. She started it, managed it, did everything off her own bat. And it's now the biggest of its kind in England. You can't think what those women are like, and their homes. But she goes among them at all hours of the day and night. I've often been with her. That's what's the matter with us. We don't do things. What do you do, she demanded. Looking at Rachel with a slightly ironical smile. Rachel had scarcely listened to any of this, and her expression was vacant and unhappy. She had conceived an equal dislike for Liola Harrison and her work in the Deptford Road, and for Evelyn M. and her profusion of love affairs. I play, she said, with an affectation of stolid composure. That's about it, Evelyn laughed. We none of us do anything but play. And that's why women like Liola Harrison, who's worth twenty of you and me, have to work themselves to the bone. But I'm tired of playing. She went on, lying flat on the bed, and raising her arms above her head. Thus stretched out, she looked more diminutive than ever. I'm going to do something. I've got a splendid idea. Look here, you must join. I'm sure you've got any amount of stuff in you, though you look, well as if you'd lived all your life in a garden. She sat up and began to explain with animation. I belong to a club in London. It meets every Saturday, so it's called the Saturday Club. We're supposed to talk about art, but I'm sick of talking about art. What's the good of it? With all kinds of real things going on round one. It isn't as if they'd got anything to say about art, either. So what I'm going to tell them is that we've talked enough about art, and we'd better talk about life for change. Questions that really matter to people's lives. The white slave traffic, women's suffrage, the insurance bill, and so on. And when we've made up our mind what we want to do, we could form ourselves into a society for doing it. I'm certain that if people like ourselves were to take things in hand instead of leaving it to policemen and magistrates, we could put a stop to prostitution. She lowered her voice at the ugly word. In six months. My idea is that men and women ought to join in these matters. We ought to go into Piccadilly and stop one of these poor wretches and say, now look here, I'm no better than you are, and I don't pretend to be any better. But you're doing what you know to be beastly, and I won't have you doing beastly things. Because we're all the same under our skins. And if you do a beastly thing, it does matter to me. That's what Mr. Bax was saying this morning. And it's true, though you clever people, you're clever too, aren't you? Don't believe it. When Evelyn began talking, it was a fact she often regretted. Her thoughts came so quickly that she never had any time to listen to other people's thoughts. She continued without more pause than was needed for taking breath. I don't see why the Saturday Club people shouldn't do a really great work in that way. She went on. Of course it would want organization, someone to give their life to it. But I'm ready to do that. My notions to think of the human beings first and let the abstract ideas take care of themselves. What's wrong with Lila, if there is anything wrong, is that she thinks of temperance first and of women afterwards. Now there's one thing I'll say to my credit, she continued. I'm not intellectual or artistic or anything of that sort. But I'm jolly human. She slipped off the bed and sat on the floor, looking up at Rachel. She searched up into her face as if she were trying to read what kind of character was concealed behind the face. She put her hand on Rachel's knee. It is being human that counts, isn't it? She continued. Being real, whatever Mr. Hearst may say. Are you real? Rachel felt much as Terence had felt. That Evelyn was too close to her. And that there was something exciting in this closeness. Although it was also disagreeable. She was spared the need of finding an answer to the question. For Evelyn proceeded. Do you believe in anything? In order to put an end to the scrutiny of these bright blue eyes and to relieve her own physical restlessness, Rachel pushed back her chair and exclaimed, in everything, and began to finger different objects. The books on the table, the photographs, the freshly-leaved plant with the stiff bristles, which stood in a large earthenware pot in the window. I believe in the bed, in the photographs, in the pot, in the balcony, in the sun, in Mrs. Blushing. She remarked, still speaking recklessly, with something at the back of her mind forcing her to say the things that one usually does not say. But I don't believe in God. I don't believe in Mr. Bax. I don't believe in the hospital nurse. I don't believe— She took up a photograph and, looking at it, did not finish her sentence. That's my mother, said Evelyn, who remained sitting on the floor, finding her knees together with her arms, and watching Rachel curiously. Rachel considered the portrait. Well, I don't much believe in her, she remarked after a time in a low tone of voice. Mrs. Murgatroyd looked indeed as if the life had been crushed out of her. She knelt on a chair, gazing piteously from behind the body of a Pomeranian dog, which she clasped to her cheek, as if for protection. And that's my dad, said Evelyn, for there were two photographs in one frame. The second photograph represented a handsome soldier, with high regular features and a heavy black mustache. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword. There was a decided likeness between him and Evelyn. And it's because of them, said Evelyn, that I'm going to help the other women. You've heard about me, I suppose. They weren't married, you see. I'm not anybody in particular. I'm not a bit ashamed of it. They loved each other somehow, and that's more than most people can say of their parents. Rachel sat down on the bed, with the two pictures in her hands, and compared them. The man, the woman, who had, so Evelyn said, loved each other. That fact interested her more than the campaign on behalf of unfortunate women, which Evelyn was once more beginning to describe. She looked again from one to the other. What do you think it's like, she asked, as Evelyn paused for a minute, being in love. Have you never been in love, Evelyn asked? Oh no, one's only got to look at you to see that, she added. She considered. I really was in love once, she said. She fell into reflection, her eyes losing their bright vitality, and approaching something like an expression of tenderness. It was heavenly, while it lasted. The worst of it is, it don't last. Not with me. That's the bother. She went on to consider the difficulty with Alfred and Sinclair, about which she had pretended to ask Rachel's advice. But she did not want advice. She wanted intimacy. When she looked at Rachel, who was still looking at the photographs on the bed, she could not help seeing that Rachel was not thinking about her. What was she thinking about then? Evelyn was tormented by the little spark of life in her, which was always trying to work through to other people, and was always being rebuffed. Falling silent, she looked at her visitor, her shoes, her stockings, the combs in her hair, all the details of her dress in short, as though by seizing every detail she might get closer to the life within. Rachel at last put down the photographs, walked to the window and remarked, It's odd. People talk as much about love as they do about religion. I wish you'd sit down and talk, set Evelyn impatiently. Instead Rachel opened the window, which was made in too long pains, and looked down into the garden below. That's where we got lost the first night, she said. It must have been in those bushes. They kill hens down there, said Evelyn. They cut their heads off with a knife. Disgusting. But tell me, what— I'd like to explore the hotel, Rachel interrupted. She drew her head in and looked at Evelyn, who still sat on the floor. It's just like other hotels, said Evelyn. That might be, although every room and passage and chair in the place had a character of its own in Rachel's eyes. But she could not bring herself to stay in one place any longer. She moved slowly towards the door. What is it you want? said Evelyn. You make me feel as if you were always thinking of something you don't say. Do say it. But Rachel made no response to this invitation, either. She stopped with her fingers on the handle of the door, as if she remembered that some sort of pronouncement was due from her. I suppose you'll marry one of them, she said, and then turn to the handle and shut the door behind her. She walked slowly down the passage, running her hand along the wall beside her. She did not think which way she was going, and therefore walked down a passage which only led to a window and a balcony. She looked down at the kitchen premises, the wrong side of the hotel life which was cut off from the right side by a maze of small bushes. The ground was bare, old tins were scattered about, and the bushes wore towels and aprons upon their heads to dry. Every now and then a waiter came out in a white apron and threw rubbish onto a heap. Two large women in cotton dresses were sitting on a bench with blood smeared tin trays in front of them, and yellow bodies across their knees. They were plucking the birds and talking as they plucked. Suddenly a chicken came floundering, half flying, half running into the space. Pursued by a third woman, whose age could hardly be under eighty, although wizened and unsteady on her legs, she kept up the chase, egged on by the laughter of the others. Her face was expressive of furious rage, and as she ran she swore in Spanish, frightened by hand clapping here, a napkin there. The bird ran this way and that in sharp angles, and finally fluttered straight at the old woman, who opened her scanty gray skirts to enclose it, dropped upon it in a bundle, and then holding it out cut its head off with an expression of vindictive energy and triumph combined. The blood and the ugly wriggling fascinated Rachel, so that although she knew that someone had come up behind and was standing beside her, she did not turn round until the old woman had settled down on the bench beside the others. Then she looked up sharply because of the ugliness of what she had seen. It was Miss Allen who stood beside her. Not a pretty sight, said Miss Allen, although I dare say it's really more humane than our method. I don't believe you've ever been in my room, she added, and turned away as if she meant Rachel to follow her. Rachel followed, for it seemed possible that each new person might remove the mystery which burdened her. The bedrooms at the hotel were all on the same pattern, save that some were larger and some smaller. They had a floor of dark red tiles, they had a high bed draped in mosquito curtains, they had each a writing table and a dressing table, and a couple of arm chairs. But directly a box was unpacked, the rooms became very different, so that Miss Allen's room was very unlike Evelyn's room. There were no variously colored hat pins on her dressing table, no scent bottles, no narrow curved pair of scissors, no great variety of shoes and boots, no silk petticoats lying on the chairs. The room was extremely neat. There seemed to be two pairs of everything. The writing table, however, was piled with manuscript, and a table was drawn out to stand by the arm chair, on which were two separate heaps of dark library books, in which there were many slips of paper sticking out at different degrees of thickness. Miss Allen had asked Rachel to come in out of kindness, thinking that she was waiting about with nothing to do. Moreover, she liked young women, or she had taught many of them, and having received so much hospitality from the Ambroses, she was glad to be able to repay a minute part of it. She looked about accordingly for something to show her. The room did not provide much entertainment. She touched her manuscript. Age of Chaucer, age of Elizabeth, age of Dryden, she reflected. I'm glad there aren't many more ages. I'm still in the middle of the 18th century. Won't you sit down, Miss Binraise? The chair, though small, is firm. You-fuees. The germ of the English novel, she continued, glancing at another page. Is that the kind of thing that interests you? She looked at Rachel with great kindness and simplicity, as though she would do her utmost to provide anything she wished to have. This expression had a remarkable charm in a face otherwise much lined with care and thought. Oh no, it's music with you, isn't it? She continued recollecting. And I generally find that they don't go together. Sometimes, of course, we have prodigies. She was looking about her for something, and now saw a jar on the mantle-piece, which she reached down and gave to Rachel. If you put your finger into this jar, you may be able to extract a piece of preserved ginger. Are you a prodigy? But the ginger was deep, and could not be reached. Don't bother, she said, as Miss Allen looked about for some other implement. I daresay I shouldn't like preserved ginger. You've never tried? inquired Miss Allen. Then I consider that it is your duty to try now, why you may add a new pleasure to life, and as you are still young. She wondered whether a button-hook would do. I make it a rule to try everything, she said. Don't you think it would be very annoying if you tasted ginger for the first time on your death bed, and found you never liked anything so much? I should be so exceedingly annoyed that I think I should get well on that count alone. She was now successful, and a lump of ginger emerged on the end of the button-hook. While she went to wipe the button-hook, Rachel bit the ginger, and at once cried, I must spit it out. Are you sure you have really tasted it, Miss Allen demanded? For answer, Rachel threw it out of the window. An experience, anyhow, said Miss Allen calmly. Let me see. I have nothing else to offer you, unless you would like to taste this. A small cupboard hung above her bed, and she took out of it a slim elegant jar filled with a bright green fluid. Crammed to math, she said. The cure, you know. It looks as if I drank, doesn't it? As a matter of fact, it goes to prove what an exceptionally abstinious person I am. I've had that jar for six and twenty years, she added, looking at it with pride as she tipped it over. And from the height of the liquid it could be a little more pleasant. Looking at it with pride as she tipped it over. And from the height of the liquid it could be seen that the bottle was still untouched. Twenty-six years, Rachel exclaimed. Miss Allen was gratified, for she had meant Rachel to be surprised. When I went to Dresden six and twenty years ago, she said. A certain friend of mine announced her intention of making me a present. She thought that in the event of shipwreck or accident, a stimulant might be useful. However, as I had no occasion for it, I gave it back on my return. On the eve of any foreign journey, the same bottle always makes its appearance, with the same note. On my return in safety, it is always handed back. I consider it a kind of charm against accidents. Though I was once detained twenty-four hours by an accident to the train in front of me, I had never met with any accident myself. Yes, she continued, now addressing the bottle. We have seen many climbs and cupboards together, have we not? I intend one of these days to have a silver label made with an inscription. It is a gentleman, as you may observe, and his name is Oliver. I do not think I could forgive you, Miss Bin Race, if you broke my Oliver. She said, firmly taking the bottle out of Rachel's hands and replacing it in the cupboard. Rachel was swinging the bottle by the neck. She was interested by Miss Allen, to the point of forgetting the bottle. Well, she exclaimed, I do think that odd, to have had a friend for twenty-six years and a bottle, and to have made all those journeys. Not at all. I call it the reverse of odd, Miss Allen replied. I always consider myself the most ordinary person I know. It's rather distinguished to be as ordinary as I am. I forget. Are you a prodigy, or did you say you were not a prodigy? She smiled at Rachel very kindly. She seemed to have known and experienced so much, as she moved cumbrously about the room, that surely there must be balm for all anguish in her words. Could one induce her to have recourse to them? But Miss Allen, who was now locking the cupboard door, showed no signs of breaking the reticence which had snowed her under for years. An unfortunate sensation kept Rachel silent. On the one hand she wished to whirl high and strike a spark out of the cool pink flesh. On the other she perceived there was nothing to be done, but to drift past each other in silence. I'm not a prodigy. I find it very difficult to say what I mean, she observed at length. It's a matter of temperament, I believe, Miss Allen helped her. There are some people who have no difficulty. For myself I find there are a great many things I simply cannot say. But then I consider myself very slow. One of my colleagues now knows whether she likes you or not. Let me see, how does she do it? By the way you say good morning at breakfast. It is sometimes a matter of years before I can make up my mind. But most young people seem to find it easy. Oh no, said Rachel, it's hard. Miss Allen looked at Rachel quietly, saying nothing. She suspected that there were difficulties of some kind. Then she put her hand to the back of her head and discovered that one of the gray coils of hair had come loose. I must ask you to be so kind as to excuse me, she said, rising, if I do my hair. I have never yet found a satisfactory type of hairpin. I must change my dress, too, for the matter of that. And I should be particularly glad of your assistance, because there is a tiresome set of hooks which I can fasten for myself. But it takes from ten to fifteen minutes. Whereas with your help she slipped off her coat and skirt and blouse and stood doing her hair before the glass, a massive homely figure, her petticoat being so short that she stood on a pair of thick slate gray legs. People say youth is pleasant. I myself find middle age far pleasanter, she remarked, removing hairpins and combs and taking up her brush. When it fell loose her hair only came down to her neck. When one was young, she continued, things could seem so very serious if one was made that way. And now my dress. In a wonderfully short space of time her hair had been reformed in its usual loops. The upper half of her body now became dark green with black stripes on it. The skirt, however, needed hooking at various angles, and Rachel had to kneel on the floor, fitting the eyes to the hooks. Our Miss Johnson used to find life very unsatisfactory, I remember. Miss Allen continued. She turned her back to the light. And then she took to breeding guinea pigs for their spots. And became absorbed in that. I have just heard that the yellow guinea pig has had a black baby. We had a bet of six pence on about it. She will be very triumphant. The skirt was fastened. She looked at herself in the glass with the curious stiffening of her face, generally caused by looking in the glass. Am I in a fit state to encounter my fellow beings? She asked. I forget which way it is. But they find black animals very rarely have colored babies. It may be the other way round. I have had it so often explained to me that it is very stupid of me to have forgotten again. She moved about the room acquiring small objects with quiet force and fixing them about her. A locket, a watch and chain, a heavy gold bracelet, and the party-colored button of a suffraged society. Finally, completely equipped for Sunday tea, she stood before Rachel and smiled at her kindly. She was not an impulsive woman, and her life had schooled her to restrain her tongue. At the same time she was possessed of an amount of good will towards others, and in particular towards the young, which often made her regret that speech was so difficult. Shall we descend? she said. She put one hand upon Rachel's shoulder, and Stooping picked up a pair of walking shoes with the other, and placed them neatly side by side outside her door. As they walked down the passage they passed many pairs of boots and shoes some black and some brown, all side by side, and all different, even to the way in which they lay together. I always think that people are so like their boots, said Miss Allen. That is Mrs. Paley's. But as she spoke the door opened and Mrs. Paley rolled out in her chair, equipped also for tea. She greeted Miss Allen and Rachel. I was just saying that people are so like their boots, said Miss Allen. Mrs. Paley did not hear. She repeated it more loudly still. Mrs. Paley did not hear. She repeated it a third time. Mrs. Paley heard, but she did not understand. She was apparently about to repeat it for the fourth time, when Rachel suddenly said something inarticulate and disappeared down the corridor. This misunderstanding, which involved a complete block in the passage, seemed to her unbearable. She walked quickly and blindly in the opposite direction, and found herself at the end of a cul-de-sac. There was a window and a table and a chair in the window, and upon the table stood a rusty ink-stand, an ashtray, an old copy of a French newspaper, and a pen with a broken nib. Rachel sat down as if to study the French newspaper, but a tear fell on the blurred French print, raising a soft blot. She lifted her head sharply, exclaiming aloud, It's intolerable. Looking out of the window with eyes that would have seen nothing, even had they not been dazed by tears, she indulged herself at last in violent abuse of the entire day. It had been miserable from start to finish. First the service in the chapel. Then luncheon. Then Evelyn. Then Miss Allen. Then old Mrs. Paley blocking up the passage. All day long she had been tantalised and put off. She had now reached one of those eminences, the result of some crisis, from which the world has finally displayed in its true proportions. She disliked the look of it immensely. Churches, politicians, misfits, and huge imposters. Men like Mr. Dalloway, men like Mr. Bax, Evelyn, and her chatter, Mrs. Paley blocking up the passage. Meanwhile the steady beat of her own pulse represented the hot current of feeling that ran down beneath. Beating, struggling, fretting. For the time her own body was the source of all the life in the world, which tried to burst forth here, there, and was repressed now by Mr. Bax, now by Evelyn, now by the imposition of ponderous stupidity, the weight of the entire world. Thus tormented she would twist her hands together, for all things were wrong, all people stupid. Vaguely seeing that there were people down in the garden beneath, she represented them as aimless masses of matter, floating hither and thither, without aim except to impede her. What were they doing, those other people in the world? Nobody knows, she said. The force of her rage was beginning to spend itself, and the vision of the world which had been so vivid became dim. It's a dream, she murmured. She considered the rusty ink stand, the pen, the ashtray, and the old French newspaper. These small and worthless objects seemed to her to represent human lives. We're asleep and dreaming, she repeated. But the possibility, which now suggested itself, that one of the shapes might be the shape of Terence, roused her from her melancholy lethargy. She became as restless as she had been before she sat down. She was no longer able to see the world as a town laid out beneath her. It was covered instead by a haze of feverish red mist. She had returned to the state in which she had been all day. Thinking was no escape. Physical movement was the only refuge. In and out of rooms, in and out of people's minds, seeking she knew not what. Therefore she rose, pushing back the table, and went downstairs. She went out of the hall door, and turning the corner of the hotel, found herself among the people whom she had seen from the window. But owing to the broad sunshine after shaded passages, and to the substance of living people after dreams, the group appeared with startling intensity, as though the dusty surface had been peeled off everything, leaving only the reality and the instant. It had the look of a vision printed on the dark at night. White and gray and purple figures were scattered on the green round wicker tables. In the middle, the flame of the tea-earn, made the air waver like a faulty sheet of glass. A mass of green trees stood over them, as if it were a moving force held at rest. As she approached, she could hear Evelyn's voice repeating monotonously. Here then, here, good doggie, come here. For a moment nothing seemed to happen. It all stood still, and then she realized that one of the figures was Helen Ambrose, and the dust again began to settle. The group indeed had come together in a miscellaneous way, one tea-table joining to another tea-table, and deck-chairs serving to connect two groups. But even at a distance it could be seen that Mrs. Wushing, upright and imperious, dominated the party. She was talking vehemently to Helen across the table. Ten days under canvas she was saying, No comforts. If you want comforts, don't come. But I may tell you, if you don't come, you'll regret it all your life. You say yes. At this moment Mrs. Wushing caught sight of Rachel. Ah, there's your niece. She's promised. You're coming, aren't you? Having adopted the plan, she pursued it with the energy of a child. Rachel took her part with eagerness. Of course I'm coming. So are you, Helen. And Mr. Pepper, too. As she sat she realized that she was surrounded by people she knew, but that Terence was not among them. From various angles people began saying what they thought of the proposed expedition. According to some it would be hot, but the nights would be cold. According to others the difficulties would lie rather in getting a boat and in speaking the language. Mrs. Wushing disposed of all objections, whether due to man or due to nature, by announcing that her husband would settle all that. Meanwhile Mr. Wushing quietly explained to Helen that the expedition was really a simple matter. It took five days at the outside, and to the place a native village was certainly well worth seeing before she returned to England. Helen murmured ambiguously and did not commit herself to one answer rather than to another. The Tea Party, however, included too many different kinds of people for general conversation to flourish. And from Rachel's point of view possessed the great advantage that it was quite unnecessary for her to talk. Over there Susan and Arthur were explaining to Mrs. Paley that an expedition had been proposed. And Mrs. Paley, having grasped the fact, gave the advice of an old traveller that they should take nice canned vegetables, fur cloaks, and insect powder. She lent over to Mrs. Wushing and whispered something which from the twinkle in her eyes probably had reference to bugs. Then Helen was reciting Toll for the Brave to St. John Hearst in order, apparently, to win a six pence which lay upon the table. While Mr. Hewling Elliot imposed silence upon his section of the audience by his fascinating anecdote of Lord Curson and the undergraduate's bicycle, Mrs. Thornberry was trying to remember the name of a man who might have been another Garibaldi and had written a book which they ought to read. And Mr. Thornberry recollected that he had a pair of binoculars at anybody's service. Ms. Allen meanwhile murmured, with a curious intimacy, which a spinster often achieves with dogs, to the fox terrier which Evelyn had at last induced to come over to them. Little particles of dust or blossom fell on the plates now and then. When the branches sighed above, Rachel seemed to see and hear a little of everything, much as a river feels the twigs that fall into it and seize the sky above. But her eyes were too vague for Evelyn's liking. She came across and sat on the ground at Rachel's feet. Well, she asked suddenly. What are you thinking about? Miss Warrington, Rachel replied rashly, because she had to say something. She did indeed see Susan murmuring to Mrs. Elliott while Arthur stared at her with complete confidence in his own love. Both Rachel and Evelyn then began to listen to what Susan was saying. There's the ordering and the dogs and the garden and the children coming to be taught her voice proceeded rhythmically as of checking the list, and my tennis and the village and letters to write for father, and a thousand little things that don't sound much. But I never have a moment to myself. And when I go to bed, I'm so sleepy I'm off before my head touches the pillow. Besides, I like to be a great deal with my aunts. I'm a great bore, aren't I, Aunt Emma? She smiled at old Mrs. Paley, who with head slightly drooped, was regarding the cake with speculative affection. And father has to be very careful about chills in winter, which means a great deal of running about, because he won't look after himself any more than you will, Arthur. So it all mounts up. Her voice mounted, too, in a mild ecstasy of satisfaction with her life and her own nature. Rachel suddenly took a violent dislike to Susan, ignoring all that was kindly, modest, and even pathetic about her. She appeared insincere and cruel. She saw her groan stout and prolific, the kind blue eyes now shallow and watery, the bloom of the cheeks congealed to a network of dry red canals. Helen turned to her. Did you go to church, she asked? She had won her sixpence and seemed making ready to go. Yes, said Rachel. For the last time, she added. In preparing to put on her gloves, Helen dropped one. You're not going, Evelyn asked, taking hold of one glove as if to keep them. It's high time we went, said Helen. Don't you see how silent everyone's getting? The silence had fallen upon them all, caused partly by one of the accidents of talk, and partly because they saw someone approaching. Helen could not see who it was, but keeping her eyes fixed upon Rachel observed something which made her say to herself. So it's Hewitt. She drew on her gloves with a curious sense of the significance of the moment. Then she rose, for Mrs. Flushing had seen Hewitt too, and was demanding information about rivers and boats, which showed that the whole conversation would now come over again. Rachel followed her, and they walked in silence down the avenue. In spite of what Helen had seen and understood, the feeling that was uppermost in her mind was now curiously perverse. If she went on this expedition, she would not be able to have a bath. The effort appeared to her to be great and disagreeable. It's so unpleasant being cooped up with people one hardly knows, she remarked. People who mined being seen naked. You don't mean to go, Rachel asked. The intensity with which this was spoken irritated Mrs. Ambrose. I don't mean to go, and I don't mean not to go, she replied. She became more and more casual and indifferent. After all, I daresay we've seen all there is to be seen. And there's the bother of getting there, and whatever they may say, it's bound to be vilely uncomfortable. For some time Rachel made no reply. But every sentence Helen spoke increased her bitterness. At last she broke out. Thank God, Helen, I'm not like you. I sometimes think you don't think or feel or care to do anything but exist. You're like Mr. Hurst. You see that things are bad, and you pride yourself on saying so. It's what you call being honest. As a matter of fact it's being lazy, being dull, being nothing. You don't help. You put an end to things. Helen smiled as if she rather enjoyed the attack. Well, she inquired. It seems to me bad, that's all, Rachel replied. Quite likely, said Helen. At any other time Rachel would probably have been silenced by her aunt's candor. But this afternoon she was not in the mood to be silenced by anyone. A quarrel would be welcome. You're only half alive, she continued. Is that because I didn't accept Mr. Flushing's invitation? Helen asked. Or do you always think that? At the moment it appeared to Rachel that she had always seen the same faults in Helen, from the very first night on board the Eufroceny. In spite of her beauty, in spite of her magnanimity, and their love. Oh, it's only what's the matter with everyone, she exclaimed. No one feels. No one does anything but hurt. I tell you, Helen, the world's bad. It's an agony, living, wanting. Here she tore a handful of leaves from a bush and crushed them to control herself. The lives of these people, she tried to explain. The aimlessness, the way they live. One goes from one to another. And it's all the same. One never gets what one wants out of any of them. Her emotional state and her confusion would have made her an easy prey if Helen had wished to argue, or had wished to draw confidences. But instead of talking, she fell into a profound silence as they walked on. Aimless, trivial, meaningless. Oh, no. What she had seen at tea made it impossible for her to believe that. The little jokes, the chatter, the inanities of the afternoon, had shriveled up before her eyes. Underneath the likings and spights, the comings together and partings, great things were happening, terrible things, because they were so great. Her sense of safety was shaken. As beneath twigs and dead leaves she had seen the movement of a snake. It seemed to her that a moment's respite was allowed. A moment's make-believe. And then again the profound and reasonless law asserted itself, molding them all to its liking, making and destroying. She looked at Rachel walking beside her, still crushing the leaves in her fingers, and absorbed in her own thoughts. She was in love, and she pitied her profoundly. But she roused herself from these thoughts and apologized. I'm very sorry, she said. But if I'm dull, it's my nature, and it can't be helped. If it was a natural defect, however, she found an easy remedy, for she went on to say that she thought Mr. Plushing's scheme a very good one, only needing a little consideration, which it appeared she had given it by the time they reached home. By that time they had settled that, if anything more was said, they would accept the invitation. End of Chapter 19 Chapter 20 of The Voyage Out by Virginia Wool This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. When considered in detail by Mr. Plushing and Mrs. Ambrose, the expedition proved neither dangerous nor difficult. They found also that it was not even unusual. Every year at this season English people made parties which steamed a short way up the river, landed, and looked at the native village, bought a certain number of things from the natives, and returned again without damage done to mind or body. When it was discovered that six people really wished the same thing, the arrangements were soon carried out. Since the time of Elizabeth very few people had seen the river. And nothing had been done to change its appearance from what it was to the eyes of the Elizabethan voyagers. The time of Elizabeth was only distant from the present time by a moment of space compared with the ages which had passed since the water had run between those banks, and the green thickets swarmed there. And the small trees had grown to huge wrinkled trees in solitude. Changing only with the change of the sun and the clouds, the waving green mass had stood there for century after century, and the water had run between its banks ceaselessly, sometimes washing away earth, and sometimes the branches of trees. While in other parts of the world one town had risen upon the ruins of another town, and the men in the towns had become more and more articulate and unlike each other. A few miles of this river were visible from the top of the mountain, where some weeks before the party from the hotel had picnicked. Susan and Arthur had seen it as they kissed each other, and Terence and Rachel as they sat talking about Richmond, and Evelyn and Parrot as they strolled about, imagining that they were great captains sent to colonize the world. They had seen the broad blue mark across the sand, where it flowed into the sea, and the green cloud of trees massed themselves about it farther up, and finally hide its waters altogether from sight At intervals for the first twenty miles or so, houses were scattered on the bank. By degrees the houses became huts, and later still there was neither hut nor house, but trees and grass, which were seen only by hunters, explorers, or merchants, marching or sailing, but making no settlement. By leaving Santa Marina early in the morning, driving twenty miles and riding eight, the party which was composed finally of six English people reached the riverside as the night fell. They came cantering through the trees, Mr. and Mrs. Flushing, Helen Ambrose, Rachel, Terence, and Syngin. The tired little horses then stopped automatically, and the English dismounted. Mrs. Flushing strode to the river bank in high spirits. The day had been long and hot, but she had enjoyed the speed and the open air. She had left the hotel which she hated, and she found the company to her liking. The river was swirling past in the darkness. They could just distinguish the smooth moving surface of the water, and the air was full of the sound of it. They stood in an empty space in the midst of great tree trunks, and out there a little green light moving slightly up and down showed them where the steamer lay in which they were to embark. When they all stood upon its deck, they found that it was a very small boat which throbbed gently beneath them for a few minutes, and then shoved smoothly through the water. They seemed to be driving into the heart of the night, for the trees closed in front of them, and they could hear all round them the rustling of leaves. The great darkness had the usual effect of taking away all desire for communication, by making their words sound thin and small. And after walking round the deck three or four times, they clustered together, yawning deeply, and looking at the same spot of deep gloom on the banks, murmuring very low in the rhythmical tone of one oppressed by the air. Mrs. Flushing began to wonder where they were to sleep, or they could not sleep downstairs. They could not sleep in a dog-hole smelling of oil. They could not sleep on deck. They could not sleep. She yawned profoundly. It was as Helen had foreseen. The question of nakedness had risen already, although they were half asleep and almost invisible to each other. With Syngin's help she stretched an awning and persuaded Mrs. Flushing that she could take off her clothes behind this, and that no one would notice if by chance some part of her, which had been concealed for forty-five years, was laid bare to the human eye. Mattresses were thrown down, rugs provided, and the three women lay near each other in the soft open air. The gentlemen, having smoked a certain number of cigarettes, dropped the glowing ends into the river and looked for a time at the ripples, wrinkling the black water beneath them, undressed too, and lay down at the other end of the boat. They were very tired and curtained from each other by the darkness. The light from one lantern fell upon a few ropes, a few planks of the deck, and the rail of the boat. But beyond that there was unbroken darkness. No light reached their faces, or the trees, which were masked on the sides of the river. Soon Wilfred Flushing slept, and Hearst slept. He would alone lay awake, looking straight up into the sky. The gentle motion and the black shapes that were drawn ceaselessly across his eyes had the effect of making it impossible for him to think. Rachel's presence so near him lulled thought asleep. Being so near him, only a few paces off at the other end of the boat, she made it as impossible for him to think about her, as it would have been impossible to see her if she had stood quite close to him, her forehead against his forehead. In some strange way the boat became identified with himself, and just as it would have been useless for him to get up and steer the boat, so was it useless for him to struggle any longer with the irresistible force of his own feelings. He was drawn on and on away from all he knew, slipping over barriers and past landmarks into unknown waters, as the boat glided over the smooth surface of the river. In profound peace enveloped in deeper unconsciousness than had been his for many nights, he lay on deck watching the treetops change their position slightly against the sky and arch themselves and sink and tower huge, until he passed from seeing them into dreams where he lay beneath the shadow of the vast trees looking up into the sky. When they woke next morning they had gone a considerable way up the river. On the right was a high yellow bank of sand, tufted with trees. On the left a swamp quivering with long reeds and tall bamboos, on the top of which, swaying slightly, perched vivid green and yellow birds. The morning was hot and still. After breakfast they drew chairs together and set in an irregular semi-circle in the bow. An awning above their heads protected them from the heat of the sun and the breeze which the boat made aired them softly. Mrs. Flushing was already dotting and striping her canvas, her head jerking this way and that with the action of a bird nervously picking up grain. The others had books or pieces of paper or embroidery on their knees, at which they looked fitfully and again looked at the river ahead. At one point hew at red part of a poem aloud, but the number of moving things entirely vanquished his words. He ceased to read and no one spoke. They moved on under the shelter of the trees. There was now a covey of red birds feeding on one of the little islets to the left, or again a blue-green parrot flew shrieking from tree to tree. As they moved on the country grew wilder and wilder. The trees and the undergrowth seemed to be strangling each other near the ground in a multitudinous wrestle. While here and there a splendid tree towered high above the swarm, shaking its thin green umbrellas lightly in the upper air. Hewitt looked at his books again. The morning was peaceful as the night had been. Only it was very strange because he could see it was light and he could see Rachel and hear her voice and be near to her. He felt as if he were waiting, as if somehow he were stationary among things that passed over him and around him, voices, people's bodies, birds. Only Rachel too was waiting with him. He looked at her sometimes as if she must know that they were waiting together and being drawn on together without being able to offer any resistance. Again he read from his book. Whoever you are holding me now in your hand, without one thing all will be useless. A bird gave a wild laugh. A monkey chuckled a malicious question, and as fire fades in the hot sunshine his words flickered and went out. By degrees as the river narrowed and the high sand banks fell to level ground, thickly grown with trees, the sounds of the forest could be heard. It echoed like a hall. There were sudden cries and then long spaces of silence, such as there are in a cathedral when a boy's voice has ceased and the echo of it still seems to haunt about the remote places of the roof. Once Mr. Flushing rose and spoke to a sailor and even announced that sometime after luncheon the steamer would stop and they could walk a little way through the forest. There are tracks all through the trees there, he explained. We're no distance from civilization yet. He scrutinized his wife's painting. Too polite to praise it openly, he contented himself with cutting off one half of the picture with one hand and giving a flourish in the air with the other. God, Hurst exclaimed, staring straight ahead. Don't you think it's amazingly beautiful? Beautiful, Helen inquired. It seemed a strange little word, and Hurst and herself both so small that she forgot to answer him. Hewitt felt that he must speak. That's where the Elizabethans got their style he mused. Staring into the profusion of leaves and blossoms and prodigious fruits. Shakespeare? I hate Shakespeare, Mrs. Flushing exclaimed, and Wilfred returned admiringly. I believe you're the only person who dares to say that, Alice. But Mrs. Flushing went on painting. She did not appear to attach much value to her husband's compliment, and painted steadily, sometimes muttering a half-audible word or groan. The morning was now very hot. Look at Hurst, Mr. Flushing whispered. His sheet of paper had slipped onto the deck, his head lay back, and he drew a long snoring breath. Terence picked up the sheet of paper and spread it out before Rachel. It was a continuation of the poem on God which he had begun in the chapel, and it was so indecent that Rachel did not understand half of it, although she saw that it was indecent. Hewitt began to fill in words where Hurst had left spaces, but he soon ceased. His pencil rolled on deck. Gradually they approached nearer and nearer to the bank on the right-hand side, so that the light which covered them became definitely green, falling through a shade of green leaves, and Mrs. Flushing set aside her sketch and stared ahead of her in silence. Hurst woke up. They were then called to luncheon, and while they ate it, the steamer came to a stand still, a little way out from the bank. The boat which was towed behind them was brought to the side, and the ladies were helped into it. For protection against boredom Helen put a book of memoirs beneath her arm, and Mrs. Flushing her paint-box, and thus equipped they allowed themselves to be set on shore on the verge of the forest. They had not strolled more than a few hundred yards along the track which ran parallel with the river before Helen professed to find it unbearably hot. The river breeze had ceased, and a hot steamy atmosphere, thick with scents, came from the forest. I shall sit down here, she announced, pointing to the trunk of a tree which had fallen long ago, and was now laced across and across by creepers and thong-like brambles. She seated herself, opened her parasol, and looked at the river which was barred by the stems of trees. She turned her back to the trees which disappeared in black shadow behind her. I quite agree, said Mrs. Flushing, and proceeded to undo her paint-box. Her husband strolled about to select an interesting point of view for her. Hurst cleared a space on the ground by Helen's side and seated himself with great deliberation, as if he did not mean to move until he had talked to her for a long time. Terence and Rachel were left standing by themselves without occupation. Terence saw that the time had come, as it was fated to come, but although he realized this he was completely calm and master of himself. He chose to stand for a few moments talking to Helen and persuading her to leave her seat. Rachel joined him, too, in advising her to come with him. Of all the people I've ever met, he said, you're the least adventurous. You might be sitting on green chairs in Hyde Park. Are you going to sit there the whole afternoon? Aren't you going to walk? Oh, no, said Helen. One's only got to use one's eye. There's everything here. Everything, she repeated in a drowsy tone of voice. What will you gain by walking? You'll be hot and disagreeable by tea-time. We shall be cool and sweet, put in Hurst. Into his eyes as he looked up at them had come yellow and green reflection. From the sky and the branches robbing them of their intentness. And he seemed to think what he did not say. It was thus taken for granted by them both that Terence and Rachel proposed to walk into the woods together. With one look at each other they turned away. Good-bye, cried Rachel. Good-bye. Beware of snakes, Hurst replied. He settled himself still more comfortably under the shade of Allen Tree and Helen's figure. As they went Mr. Flushing called after them. We must start in an hour. He would please remember that. An hour. Whether made by man or for some reason preserved by nature. There was a wide pathway striking through the forest at right angles to the river. It resembled a drive in an English forest. Saved that tropical bushes with their sword-like leaves grew at the side. And the ground was covered with an unmarked springy moss instead of grass. Start with little yellow flowers. As they passed into the depths of the forest the light grew dimmer, and the noises of the ordinary world were replaced by those creaking and sighing sounds, which suggest to the traveller in a forest that he is walking at the bottom of the sea. The path narrowed and turned. It was hedged in by dense creepers which knotted tree to tree, and burst here and there into star-shaped crimson blossoms. The sighing and creaking up above were broken every now and then by the jarring cry of some startled animal. The atmosphere was close, and the air came at them in languid puffs of scent. The vast green light was broken here and there by a round of pure yellow sunlight, which fell through some gap in the immense umbrella of green above. And in these yellow spaces crimson and black butterflies were circling and settling. Terrence and Rachel hardly spoke. Not only did the silence weigh upon them, but they were both unable to frame any thoughts. There was something between them which had to be spoken of. One of them had to begin, but which of them was it to be? Then Hewitt picked up a red fruit and threw it as high as he could. When it dropped he would speak. They heard the flapping of great wings. They heard the fruit go pattering through the leaves and eventually fall with a thud. The silence was again profound. Does this frighten you? Terrence asked when the sound of the fruit falling had completely died away. No, she answered. I like it. She repeated. I like it. She was walking fast and holding herself more erect than usual. There was another pause. You like being with me? Terrence asked. Yes, with you, she replied. He was silent for a moment. Silence seemed to have fallen upon the world. That is what I have felt ever since I knew you, he replied. We are happy together. He did not seem to be speaking or she to be hearing. Very happy, she answered. They continued to walk for some time in silence. Their steps unconsciously quickened. We love each other, Terrence said. We love each other, she repeated. The silence was then broken by their voices, which joined in tones of strange, unfamiliar sound, which formed no words. Faster and faster they walked. Simultaneously they stopped, clasped each other in their arms, then releasing themselves, dropped to the earth. They sat side by side. Sound stood out from the background, making a bridge across their silence. They heard the swish of the trees and some beast croaking in a remote world. We love each other, Terrence repeated, searching into her face. Their faces were both very pale and quiet, and they said nothing. He was afraid to kiss her again. By degrees she drew close to him and rested against him. In this position they sat for some time. She said, Terrence wants, he answered, Rachel. Terrible, terrible, she murmured after another pause. But in saying this she was thinking as much of the persistent churning of the water as of her own feeling. On and on it went in the distance, the senseless and cruel churning of the water. She observed that the tears were running down Terrence's cheeks. The next movement was on his part. A very long time seemed to have passed. He took out his watch. Flushing said an hour, we've been gone more than half an hour. And it takes that to get back, said Rachel. She raised herself very slowly. When she was standing up she stretched her arms and drew a deep breath. Half a sigh, half a yawn. She appeared to be very tired. Her cheeks were white. Which way, she asked. There, said Terrence. They began to walk back down the mossy path again. The sighing and creaking continued far overhead. And the jarring cries of animals. The butterflies were circling still in the patches of yellow sunlight. At first Terrence was certain of his way. But as they walked he became doubtful. They had to stop to consider. And then to return and start once more. For although he was certain of the direction of the river, he was not certain of striking the point where they had left the others. Rachel followed him. Stopping where he stopped. Turning where he turned. Ignorant of the way. Ignorant why he stopped or why he turned. I don't want to be late, he said, because he put a flower into her hand and her fingers closed upon it quietly. We're so late, so late, so horribly late, he repeated, as if he were talking in his sleep. Ah, this is right. We turn here. They found themselves again in the broad path, like the drive in an English forest, where they had started when they left the others. They walked on in silence as people walking in their sleep. And were oddly conscious now and again of the mass of their bodies. Then Rachel exclaimed suddenly, Helen. In the sunny space at the edge of the forest they saw Helen still sitting on the tree trunk. Her dress showing very white in the sun, with Hearst still propped on his elbow by her side. They stopped instinctively. At the sight of other people they could not go on. They stood hand in hand for a minute or two in silence. They could not bear to face other people. But we must go on, Rachel insisted at last, in the curious dull tone of voice in which they had both been speaking. And with a great effort they forced themselves to cover the short distance which lay between them and the pair sitting on the tree trunk. As they approached Helen turned round and looked at them. She looked at them for some time without speaking. And when they were close to her she said quietly, Did you meet Mr. Flushing? He has gone to find you. He thought you must be lost, though I told him you weren't lost. Hearst half turned round and threw his head back so that he looked at the branches crossing themselves in the air above him. Well, was it worth the effort? He inquired dreamily. Hewitt sat down on the grass by his side and began to fan himself. Rachel had balanced herself near Helen on the end of the tree trunk. Very hot, she said. You look exhausted anyhow, said Hearst. It's fearfully close in those trees Helen remarked, picking up her book and shaking it free from the dried blades of grass which had fallen between the leaves. Then they were all silent, looking at the river swirling past in front of them, between the trunks of the trees, until Mr. Flushing interrupted them. He broke out of the trees a hundred yards to the left, exclaiming sharply, Ah, so you found the way after all. But it's late, much later than we arranged, Hewitt. He was slightly annoyed, and in his capacity as leader of the expedition inclined to be dictatorial. He spoke quickly, using curiously sharp, meaningless words. Being late wouldn't matter normally, of course, he said. But when it's a question of keeping the men up to time, he gathered them together and made them come down to the riverbank, where the boat was waiting to row them out to the steamer. The heat of the day was going down, and over their cups of tea the Flushings tended to become communicative. It seemed to Terrence as he listened to them talking, that existence now went on in two different layers. Here were the Flushings talking, talking, somewhere high up in the air above him, and he and Rachel had dropped to the bottom of the world together. But with something of a child's directness, Mrs. Flushing had also the instinct which leads a child to suspect what its elders wished to keep hidden. She fixed Terrence with her vivid blue eyes and addressed herself to him in particular. What would he do, she wanted to know, if the boat ran upon a rock and sank? Would you care for anything but saving yourself? Should I? No, no, she laughed. Not one scrap. Don't tell me. There's only two creatures the ordinary woman cares about. She continued. Her child and her dog. And I don't believe it's even two with men. One reads a lot about love. That's why poetry's so dull. But what happens in real life, eh? It ain't love, she cried. Terrence murmured something unintelligible. Mr. Flushing, however, had recovered his urbanity. He was smoking a cigarette and he now answered his wife. You must always remember, Alice, he said, that your upbringing was very unnatural. Unusual, I should say. They had no mother, he explained, dropping something of the formality of his tone. And a father. He was a very delightful man, I've no doubt, but he cared only for racehorses and Greek statues. Tell them about the bath, Alice. In the stableyard, said Mrs. Flushing, covered with ice in winter. We had to get in. If we didn't, we were whipped. The strong ones lived. The others died. What you call survival of the fittest. A most excellent plan, I dare say. If you thirteen children. And all this going on in the heart of England in the nineteenth century, Mr. Flushing exclaimed, turning to Helen. I'd treat my children just the same if I had any, said Mrs. Flushing. Every word sounded quite distinctly in Terence's ears. But what were they saying? And who were they talking to? And who were they? These fantastic people. Detached somewhere high up in the air. Now that they had drunk their tea, they rose and lent over the bow of the boat. The sun was going down, and the water was dark and crimson. The river had widened again, and they were passing a little island, set like a dark wedge in the middle of the stream. Two great white birds with red lights on them stood there on stilt-like legs, and the beach of the island was unmarked, saved by the skeleton print of bird's feet. The branches of the trees on the bank looked more twisted and angular than ever, and the green of the leaves was lurid and splashed with gold. Then Hearst began to talk, leaning over the bow. It makes one awfully queer, don't you find, he complained. These trees get on one's nerves. It's all so crazy. God's undoubtedly mad. What sane person could have conceived a wilderness like this, and peopled it with apes and alligators. I should go mad if I lived here, raving mad. Terence attempted to answer him, but Mrs. Ambrose replied instead. She bade him look at the way things masked themselves. Look at the amazing colors. Look at the shapes of the trees. She seemed to be protecting Terence from the approach of the others. Yes, said Mr. Flushing, and in my opinion he continued, the absence of population to which Hearst objects is precisely the significant touch. You must admit, Hearst, that a little Italian town even would vulgarize the whole scene, would detract from the vastness the sense of elemental grandeur. He swept his hands towards the forest, and paused for a moment, looking at the great green mass which was now falling silent. I own it makes us seem pretty small. Us, not them. He nodded his head at a sailor who lent over the side, spitting into the river. And that, I think, is what my wife feels. The essential superiority of the peasant. Under cover of Mr. Flushing's words, which continued now gently reasoning with Shingen and persuading him, Terence drew Rachel to the side, pointing ostensibly to a great gnarled tree-trunk which had fallen and lay half in the water. He wished at any rate to be near her. But he found that he could say nothing. They could hear Mr. Flushing flowing on, now about his wife, now about art, now about the future of the country. Little meaningless words floating high in air. As it was becoming cold he began to pace the deck with Hearst. Fragments of their talk came out distinctly as they passed. Art, emotion, truth, reality. Is it true or is it a dream, Rachel murmured, when they had passed? It's true, it's true, he replied. But the breeze pressioned, and there was a general desire for movement. When the party rearranged themselves under cover of rugs and cloaks, Terence and Rachel were at opposite ends of the circle, and could not speak to each other. But as the dark descended the words of the others seemed to curl up and vanish as the ashes of burnt paper, and left them sitting perfectly silent at the bottom of the world. Occasional starts of exquisite joy ran through them, and then they were peaceful again. End of Chapter 20