 CHAPTER XI And in a few minutes divided more or less into two separate parties. One of these parties was dominated by Huling Elliott and Mrs. Thornberry, who, having both read the same books and considered the same questions, were now anxious to name the places beneath them, and to hang upon them stores of information about navies and armies, political parties, natives and mineral products, all of which combined, they said, to prove that South America was the country of the future. Evelyn M. listened with her bright blue eyes fixed upon the oracles. How it makes one long to be a man, she exclaimed. Mr. Parrot answered, surveying the plane, that a country with a future was a very fine thing. If I were you, said Evelyn, turning to him and drawing her glove vehemently through her fingers, I'd raise a troop and conquer some great territory and make it splendid. You'd want women for that. I'd love to start life from the very beginning as it ought to be. Nothing squalid, but great halls and gardens and splendid men and women. But you, you only like law courts. And would you really be content without pretty rocks and sweets and all the things young ladies like? asked Mr. Parrot, concealing a certain amount of pain beneath his ironical manner. I'm not a young lady, Evelyn flashed. She bit her underlip. Just because I like splendid things, you laugh at me. Why are there no men like Garibaldi now? she demanded. Look here, said Mr. Parrot. You don't give me a chance. You think we ought to begin things fresh. Good. But I don't see precisely. Conquer a territory? They're all conquered already, aren't they? It's not any territory in particular, Evelyn explained. It's the idea, don't you see? We lead such tame lives. And I feel sure you've got splendid things in you. Hewitt saw the scars and hollows in Mr. Parrot's sagacious face relax pathetically. He could imagine the calculations which even then went on within his mind as to whether he would be justified in asking a woman to marry him, considering that he made no more than five hundred a year at the bar, owned no private means, and had an invalid sister to support. Mr. Parrot again knew that he was not quite, as Susan stated in her diary, not quite a gentleman, she meant, for he was the son of a grocer in Leeds, had started life with a basket on his back, and now, though practically indistinguishable from a born gentleman, showed his origin to keen eyes in an impeccable neatness of dress, lack of freedom in manner, extreme cleanliness of person, and a certain indescribable timidity and precision with his knife and fork, which might be the relic of days when meat was rare, and the way of handling it by no means gingerly. The two parties who were strolling about and losing their unity now came together and joined each other in a long stare over the yellow and green patches of the heated landscape below. The hot air danced across it, making it impossible to see the roofs of a village on the plane distinctly. Even on the top of the mountain, where a breeze played lightly, it was very hot, and the heat, the food, the immense space, and perhaps some less well-defined cause produced a comfortable drowsiness and a sense of happy relaxation in them. They did not say much, but felt no constraint in being silent. "'Suppose we go and see what's to be seen over there,' said Arthur to Susan, and the pair walked off together, their departures certainly sending some thrill of emotion through the rest.' "'An odd lot, aren't they?' said Arthur. "'I thought we should never get them all to the top. But I'm glad we came, by Jove. I wouldn't have missed this or something.' "'I don't like Mr. Hurst,' said Susan inconsequently. "'I suppose he's very clever. But why should clever people be so?' "'I expect he's awfully nice, really,' she added, instinctively qualifying what might have seemed an unkind remark. "'Hurst? Oh, he's one of these learned chaps,' said Arthur indifferently. "'He don't look as if he enjoyed it. You should hear him talking to Elliot. It's as much as I can do to follow him at all. I was never good at my books.' "'With these sentences and the pauses that came between them, they reached a little hillock, on the top of which grew several slim trees.' "'Do you mind if we sit down here?' said Arthur, looking about him. It's jolly in the shade. And the view. They sat down and looked straight ahead of them, in silence for some time. "'But I do envy those clever chaps sometimes,' Arthur remarked. "'I don't suppose they ever—' He did not finish his sentence. "'I can't see why you should envy them,' said Susan, with great sincerity. "'Odd things happen to one,' said Arthur. One goes along smoothly enough. One thing following another. And it's all very jolly and plain sailing. And you think you know all about it. And suddenly one doesn't know where one is a bit. And everything seems different from what it used to seem. Now today, coming up that path, riding behind you, I seemed to see everything as if he paused and plucked a piece of grass up by the roots. He scattered the little lumps of earth which were sticking to the roots, as if it had a kind of meaning. "'You've made the difference to me,' he jerked out. "'I don't see why I shouldn't tell you. I've felt it ever since I knew you. It's because I love you.' "'Even while they had been saying commonplace things, Susan had been conscious of the excitement of intimacy, which seemed not only to lay bare something in her, but in the trees and the sky, and the progress of his speech, which seemed inevitable, was positively painful to her, for no human being had ever come so close to her before. She was struck motionless as his speech went on, and her heart gave great separate leaps at the last words. She sat with her fingers curled round a stone, looking straight in front of her, down the mountain, over the plain. So then, it had actually happened to her. A proposal of marriage. Arthur looked round at her. His face was oddly twisted. She was drawing her breath with such difficulty that she could hardly answer. "'You might have known,' he seized her in his arms, again and again, and again they clasped each other, murmuring inarticulately. "'Well,' sighed Arthur, sinking back on the ground. "'That's the most wonderful thing that's ever happened to me.' He looked as if he were trying to put things seen in a dream, beside real things. There was a long silence. "'It's the most perfect thing in the world,' Susan stated, very gently and with great conviction. It was no longer merely a proposal of marriage, but of marriage with Arthur, with whom she was in love. "'In the silence that followed, holding his hand tightly in hers, she prayed to God that she might make him a good wife. "'And what will Mr. Parrott say?' she asked at the end of it. "'Dear old fellow,' said Arthur, who now that the first shock was over, was relaxing into an enormous sense of pleasure and contentment. "'We must be very nice to him, Susan.' He told her how hard Parrott's life had been, and how absurdly devoted he was to Arthur himself. He went on to tell her about his mother, a widow-lady of strong character. In return Susan sketched the portraits of her own family, Edith in particular, her youngest sister, whom she loved better than anyone else, except you, Arthur. Arthur she continued. "'What was it that you first liked me for?' "'It was a buckle you wore one night at sea,' said Arthur, after due consideration. "'I remember noticing. It's an absurd thing to notice, that you didn't take fees, because I don't either.' From this they went on to compare their more serious tastes, or rather Susan ascertained what Arthur cared about, and professed herself very fond of the same thing. They would live in London, perhaps have a cottage in the country, near Susan's family, for they would find it strange without her at first. Her mind, stunned to begin with, now flew to the various changes that her engagement would make. How delightful it would be to join the ranks of the married women, no longer to hang on to groups of girls much younger than herself, to escape the long solitude of an old maid's life. Now and then her amazing good fortune overcame her, and she turned to Arthur with an exclamation of love. They lay in each other's arms and had no notion that they were observed. Yet two figures suddenly appeared among the trees above them. Here's Shade began Hewitt, when Rachel suddenly stopped dead. They saw a man and woman lying on the ground beneath them, rolling slightly this way and that, as the embrace tightened and slackened. The man then sat upright, and the woman, who now appeared to be Susan Warrington, lay back upon the ground, with her eyes shut and an absorbed look upon her face, as though she were not altogether conscious. Nor could you tell from her expression whether she was happy, or had suffered something. When Arthur again turned to her, butting her as a lamb butts a you, Hewitt and Rachel retreated without a word. Hewitt felt uncomfortably shy. I don't like that, said Rachel, after a moment. I can remember not liking it either, said Hewitt. I can remember. But he changed his mind and continued in an ordinary tone of voice. Well, we may take it for granted that they're engaged. Do you think he'll ever fly? Or will she put a stop to that? But Rachel was still agitated. She could not get away from the sight they had just seen. Instead of answering Hewitt, she persisted. Loves an odd thing, isn't it? Making one's heart beat. It's so enormously important, you see, Hewitt replied. Their lives are now changed forever. And it makes one sorry for them too, Rachel continued, as though she were tracing the course of her feelings. I don't know either of them. But I could almost burst into tears. That's silly, isn't it? Just because they're in love, said Hewitt. Yes, he added after a moment's consideration. There's something horribly pathetic about it, I agree. And now, as they had walked some way from the grove of trees, and had come to a rounded hollow very tempting to the back, they proceeded to sit down, and the impression of the lovers lost some of its force, though a certain intensity of vision, which was probably the result of the sight, remained with them, as a day upon which any emotion has been repressed is different from other days. So this day was now different merely because they had seen other people at a crisis of their lives. A great encampment of tents they might be, said Hewitt, looking in front of him at the mountains. Isn't it like a watercolor, too? You know the way watercolors dry in ridges all across the paper. I've been wondering what they looked like. His eyes became dreamy as though he were matching things, and reminded Rachel in their color of the green flesh of a snail. She sat beside him looking at the mountains, too. When it became painful to look any longer, the great size of the view seemed to enlarge her eyes beyond their natural limit. She looked at the ground. It pleased her to scrutinize this inch of the soil of South America, so minutely that she noticed every grain of earth, and made it into a world where she was in doubt with the supreme power. She bent a blade of grass and set an insect on the utmost tassel of it, and wondered if the insect realized his strange adventure, and thought how strange it was that she should have bent that tassel, rather than any other of the million tassels. You've never told me your name, said Hewitt suddenly. Miss somebody, Vinrace. I like to know people's Christian names. Rachel, she replied. Rachel, he repeated. I have an aunt called Rachel, who put the life of Father Damien into verse. She is a religious fanatic. The result of the way she was brought up, down in Northamptonshire. Never seeing a soul. Have you any aunts? I live with them, said Rachel. And I wonder what they're doing now, Hewitt inquired. They are probably buying wool, Rachel determined. She tried to describe them. They are small, rather pale women, she began. Very clean. We live in Richmond. They have an old dog, too, who will only eat the marrow out of bones. They are always going to church. They tidy their drawers a good deal. But here she was overcome by the difficulty of describing people. It's impossible to believe that it's all going on still, she exclaimed. The sun was behind them, and two long shadows suddenly lay upon the ground in front of them. One waving because it was made by a skirt. And the other stationary because throwing by a pair of legs in trousers. You look very comfortable, said Helen's voice above them. Hurst, said Hewitt, pointing at the scissor like shadow. He then rolled round to look up at them. There's room for us all here, he said. When Hurst had seated himself comfortably, he said. Did you congratulate the young couple? It appeared that, coming to the same spot a few minutes after Hewitt and Rachel, Helen and Hurst had seen precisely the same thing. No, we didn't congratulate them, said Hewitt. They seemed very happy. Well, said Hurst, cursing up his lips, so long as I needn't marry either of them. We were very much moved, said Hewitt. I thought you would be, said Hurst. Which was it, Monk? The thought of the immortal passions? Or the thought of newborn males to keep the Roman Catholics out? I assure you, he said to Helen, he's capable of being moved by either. Rachel was a good deal stung by his banter. But she felt to be directed equally against them both. But she could think of no repartee. Nothing moves Hurst, Hewitt laughed. He did not seem to be stung at all. Unless it were a trans-finite number falling in love with a finite one, I suppose such things do happen, even in mathematics. On the contrary, said Hurst, with a touch of annoyance. I consider myself a person of very strong passions. It was clear from the way he spoke that he meant it seriously. He spoke, of course, for the benefit of the ladies. By the way, Hurst, said Hewitt, after a pause. I have a terrible confession to make. Your book, The Poems of Wordsworth, which, if you remember, I took off your table just as we were starting, and certainly put in my pocket here, is lost, Hurst finished for him. I consider that there is still a chance, Hewitt urged, slapping himself to right and left, that I never did take it after all. No, said Hurst, it is here. He pointed to his breast. Thank God, Hewitt exclaimed. I need no longer feel as though I'd murdered a child. I should think you were always losing things, Helen remarked, looking at him meditatively. I don't lose things, said Hewitt. I mislay them. That was the reason why Hurst refused to share a cabin with me on the voyage out. You came out together, Helen inquired. I proposed that each member of this party now gives a short biographical sketch of himself, or herself, said Hurst, sitting upright. Miss Finrace, who is now a member of this party, said he would like to be a member of this party. You come first. Begin. Rachel stated that she was twenty-four years of age, the daughter of a shipowner, that she had never been properly educated, played the piano, had no brothers or sisters, and lived at Richmond with aunts, her mother being dead. Next, said Hurst, having taken in these facts, he pointed at Hewitt. I am the son of an English gentleman. I am twenty-seven, Hewitt began. My father was a fox hunting squire. He died when I was ten in the hunting field. I can remember his body coming home, on the shutter, I suppose, just as I was going down to T, and noticing that there was jam for T, and wondering whether I should be allowed. Yes, but keep to the facts, Hurst put in. I was educated at Winchester and Cambridge, which I had to leave after a time. I have done a good many things since. Profession. None. At least. Tastes. Literary. I'm writing a novel. Brothers and sisters. Three sisters. No brother. And a mother. Is that all we're to hear about you, said Helen? She stated that she was very old, forty last October, and her father had been a solicitor in the city, who had gone bankrupt, for which reason she had never had much education. They lived in one place after another, but an elder brother used to lend her books. If I were to tell you everything, she stopped and smiled. It would take too long, she concluded. I married when I was thirty, and I have two children. My husband is a scholar, and now it's your turn, she nodded at Hurst. You've left out a great deal, he reproved her. My name is St. John Alaric Hurst. He began in a jaunty tone of voice. I'm twenty-four years old. I'm the son of the Reverend Sidney Hurst. Vicar of great whopping at Norfolk. Oh, I got scholarships everywhere. Westminster, Kings. I'm now a fellow of Kings. Don't it sound dreary? Parents both alive, alas. Two brothers and one sister. I'm a very distinguished young man, he added. One of the three, or is it five most distinguished men in England, Hewitt remarked. Quite correct, said Hurst. That's all very interesting, said Helen after a pause. But of course we've left out the only questions that matter. For instance, are we Christians? I am not. I am not. Both the young men replied. I am, Rachel stated. You believe in a personal God, Hurst demanded, turning round and fixing her with his eyeglasses. I believe, I believe, Rachel stammered. I believe there are things we don't know about, and the world might change in a minute, and anything appear. At this Helen laughed outright. Nonsense, she said. You're not a Christian. You've never thought what you are. And there are lots of other questions, she continued. Though perhaps we can't ask them yet. Although they had talked so freely, they were all uncomfortably conscious that they really knew nothing about each other. The important questions Hewitt pondered. The really interesting ones. I doubt that one ever does ask them. Rachel, who was slow to accept the fact that only a very few things can be said, even by people who know each other well, insisted on knowing what He meant. Whether we've ever been in love, she inquired. Is that the kind of question you mean? Again Helen laughed at her, benignantly strewing her with handfuls of the long-tassled grass. For she was so brave and so foolish. Oh, Rachel, she cried. It's like having a puppy in the house, having you with one. A puppy that brings one's underclothes down into the hall. But again the sunny earth in front of them was crossed by fantastic wavering figures. The shadows of men and women. There they are, exclaimed Mrs. Elliot. There was a touch of peevishness in her voice. And we've had such a hunt to find you. Do you know what the time is? Mrs. Elliot and Mr. and Mrs. Thornbury now confronted them. Mrs. Elliot was holding out her watch and playfully tapping it upon the face. Hewitt was recalled to the fact that this was a party for which he was responsible, and he immediately led them back to the watch-tower, where they were to have tea before starting home again. A bright crimson scarf fluttered from the top of the wall, which Mr. Parrot and Evelyn were tying to a stone as the others came up. The heat had changed just so far that instead of sitting in the shadow, they sat in the sun, which was still hot enough to paint their faces red and yellow, and to color great sections of the earth beneath them. There's nothing half so nice as tea, said Mrs. Thornbury, taking her cup. Nothing, said Helen. Can't you remember as a child chopping up hay? She spoke much more quickly than usual. And kept her eye fixed upon Mrs. Thornbury, and pretending it was tea, and getting scolded by the nurses. Why, I can't imagine. Except that nurses are such brutes. Won't allow pepper instead of salt, though there's no earthly harm in it. Weren't your nurses just the same? During this speech Susan came into the group and sat down by Helen's side. A few minutes later Mr. Vennings strolled up from the opposite direction. He was a little flushed and in the mood to answer hilariously whatever was said to him. What have you been doing to that old chap's grave, he asked, pointing to the red flag which floated from the top of the stones? We have tried to make him forget his misfortune in having died three hundred years ago, said Mr. Parrot. It would be awful to be dead, ejaculated Evelyn M. To be dead, said Hewitt. I don't think it would be awful. It's quite easy to imagine. When you go to bed tonight, fold your hands so. Breathe slower and slower. He lay back with his hands clasped upon his breast and his eyes shut. Now, he murmured, in an even monotonous tone, I shall never, never, never move again. His body lying flat among them did for a moment suggest death. This is a horrible exhibition, Mr. Hewitt, cried Mrs. Thornbury. More cake for us, said Arthur. I assure you there's nothing horrible about it, said Hewitt, sitting up and laying hands upon the cake. It's so natural, he repeated. People with children should make them do that exercise every night. Not that I look forward to seeing them. Not that I look forward to being dead. And when you allude to a grave, said Mr. Thornbury, who spoke almost for the first time, have you any authority for calling that ruin a grave? I am quite with you in refusing to accept the common interpretation, which declares it to be the remains of an Elizabethan watchtower. Any more than I believe that the circular mounds or barrows which we find on the top of our English downs were camps. The antiquaries call everything a camp. I am always asking them. Well, then, where do you think our ancestors kept their cattle? Half the camps in England are merely the ancient pound or Barton, as we call it in my part of the world. The argument that no one would keep his cattle in such exposed and inaccessible spots has no weight at all. If you reflect that in those days a man's cattle were his capital, his stock in trade, his daughter's dowries. Without cattle he was a serf, another man's man. His eyes slowly lost their intensity, and he muttered a few concluding words under his breath, looking curiously old and forlorn. Euling Elliott, who might have been expected to engage the old gentleman in argument, was absent at the moment. He now came up holding out a large square of cotton upon which a fine design was printed in pleasant bright colors that made his hand look pale. A bargain he announced laying it down on the cloth. I've just bought it from the big man with the earrings. Fine, isn't it? It wouldn't suit everyone, of course, but it's just the thing, isn't it, Hilda, or Mrs. Raymond Parry? Mrs. Raymond Parry cried Helen and Mrs. Thornbury at the same moment. They looked at each other as though a mist hitherto obscuring their faces had been blown away. Ah, you have been to those wonderful parties, too, Mrs. Elliott asked with interest. Mrs. Parry's drawing-room, though thousands of miles away, behind a vast curve of water on a tiny piece of earth, came before their eyes. They, who had had no solidity or anchorage before, seemed to be attached to it somehow, and at once grown more substantial. Perhaps they had been in the drawing-room at the same moment. Perhaps they had passed each other on the stairs. At any rate, they knew some of the same people. They looked one another up and down with new interest. But they could do no more than look at each other, for there was no time to enjoy the fruits of the discovery. The donkeys were advancing, and it was advisable to begin the descent immediately, for the night fell so quickly that it would be dark before they were home again. Accordingly, remounting in order, they filed off down the hillside. Scraps of talk came floating back from one to another. There were jokes to begin with, and laughter. Some walked part of the way and picked flowers, and sent stones bounding behind them. Who writes the best Latin verse in your college, Hurst? Mr. Elliott called back incongruously, and Mr. Hurst returned that he had no idea. The dusk fell as suddenly as the natives had warned them. The hollows of the mountain on either side, filling up with darkness, and the path becoming so dim, that it was surprising to hear the donkeys who have still striking on hard rock. Silence fell upon one, and then upon another, until they were all silent. Their minds spilling out into the deep blue air. The way seemed shorter in the dark than in the day, and soon the lights of the town were seen on the flat far beneath them. Suddenly someone cried, Ah! In a moment the slow yellow drop rose again from the plain below. It rose, paused, opened like a flower, and fell in a shower of drops. Fireworks, they cried. Another went up more quickly, and then another. They could almost hear it twist and roar. Some Saints' Day, I suppose, said a voice. The rush and embrace of the rockets as they soared up into the air seemed like the fiery way in which lovers suddenly rose and united, leaving the crowd gazing up at them with strained white faces. But Susan and Arthur, riding down the hill, never said a word to each other, and kept accurately apart. Then the fireworks became erratic, and soon they ceased altogether, and the rest of the journey was made almost in darkness, the mountain being a great shadow behind them, and bushes and trees, little shadows which threw darkness across the road. Among the plain trees they separated, bundling into carriages and driving off, without saying good night, or saying it only in a half-muffled way. It was so late that there was no time for normal conversation between their arrival at the hotel and their retirement to bed. But Hearst wandered into Hewitt's room with a collar in his hand. Well, Hewitt, he remarked, on the crest of a gigantic yawn. That was a great success, I consider. He yawned. But take care you're not landed with that young woman. I don't really like young women. Hewitt was too much drugged by hours in the open air to make any reply. In fact, every one of the party was sound asleep within ten minutes or so of each other. With the exception of Susan Warrington. She lay for a considerable time looking blankly at the wall opposite. Her hands clasped above her heart, and her light burning by her side. All articulate thought had long ago deserted her. Her heart seemed to have grown to the size of a sun, and to illuminate her entire body. Shedding like the sun, a steady tide of warmth. I'm happy. I'm happy. I'm happy, she repeated. I love everyone. I'm happy. End of Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Part 1 of The Voyage Out by Virginia Wolfe The sleeper-box recording is in the public domain. When Susan's engagement had been approved at home, and made public to anyone who took an interest in it at the hotel. And by this time, the society at the hotel was divided so as to point to invisible chalk marks, such as Mr. Hurst had described. The news was felt to justify some celebration. An expedition? That had been done already. A dance, then. The advantage of a dance was that it abolished one of those long evenings, which were apt to become tedious and lead to absurdly early hours in spite of bridge. Two or three people standing under the erect body of the stuffed leopard in the hall very soon had the matter decided. Evelyn slid a pace or two this way and that, and pronounced that the floor was excellent. Signor Rodriguez informed them of an old Spaniard who fiddled at weddings, fiddled so as to make a tortoise waltz, and his daughter, although endowed with eyes as black as coal-scuttles, had the same power over the piano. If there were any so sick or so surly as to prefer sedentary occupations, on the night in question, to spinning and watching others spin, the drawing room and billiard room were theirs. Hewitt made it his business to conciliate the outsiders as much as possible. To Hearst's theory of the invisible chalkmarks he would pay no attention whatever. He was treated to a snub or two, but in reward found obscure lonely gentleman delighted to have this opportunity of talking to their kind. And the lady of doubtful character showed every symptom of confiding her case to him in the near future. Indeed it was made quite obvious to him that the two or three hours between dinner and bed contained an amount of unhappiness which was really pitiable. So many people had not succeeded in making friends. It was settled that the dance was to be on Friday, one week after the engagement, and at dinner Hewitt declared himself satisfied. They're all coming, he told Hearst. Pepper, he called, seeing William Pepper slip past in the wake of the soup with a pamphlet beneath his arm. We're counting on you to open the ball. You will certainly put sleep out of the question, Pepper returned. You are to take the floor with Miss Allen, Hewitt continued, consulting a sheet of penciled notes. Pepper stopped and began a discourse upon round dances, country dances, Morris dances, and quadrills, all of which are entirely superior to the bastard waltz and spurious polka which have ousted the most unjustly in contemporary popularity. When the waiters gently pushed him on to his table in the corner. The dining-room at this moment had a certain fantastic resemblance to a farmyard scattered with grain on which bright pigeons kept descending. Almost all the ladies wore dresses which they had not yet displayed, and their hair rose in waves and scrolls, so as to appear like carved wood in gothic churches rather than hair. The dinner was shorter and less formal than usual, even the waiters seeming to be affected with the general excitement. Ten minutes before the clock struck nine, the committee made a tour through the ballroom. The hall, when emptied of its furniture, brilliantly lit, adorned with flowers who scent-tinged the air, presented to the wonderful appearance of ethereal gaiety. It's like a starlit sky on an absolutely cloudless night, Hewitt murmured, looking about him at the airy, empty room. A heavenly floor anyhow, Evelyn added, taking a run and sliding two or three feet along. What about those curtains, asked Terst. The crimson curtains were drawn across the long windows. It's a perfect night outside. Yes, but curtains inspire confidence, Miss Allen decided. When the ball is in full swing, it will be time to draw them. We might even open the windows a little. If we do it now, elderly people will imagine there are drafts. Her wisdom had come to be recognized and held in respect. Meanwhile, as they stood talking, the musicians were unwrapping their instruments. And the violin was repeating again and again. A note struck upon the piano. Everything was ready to begin. After a few minutes paused, the father, the daughter, and the son-in-law who played the horn, flourished with one accord. Like the rats who followed the piper, heads instantly appeared in the doorway. There was another flourish, and then the trio dashed spontaneously into the triumphant swing of the waltz. It was as though the room were instantly flooded with water. After a moment's hesitation, first one couple, then another, leapt into midstream, and went round and round in the eddies. The rhythmic swish of the dancers sounded like a swirling pool. By degrees, the room grew perceptibly hotter. The smell of kid gloves mingled with the strong scent of flowers. The eddies seemed to circle faster and faster, until the music brought itself into a crash, ceased, and the circles were smashed into little separate bits. The couples struck off in different directions, leaving a thin row of elderly people stuck fast to the waltz. And here and there a piece of trimming, or a handkerchief, or a flower lay upon the floor. There was a pause, and then the music started again. The eddies whirled, the couples circled round in them, until there was a crash, and the circles were broken up into separate pieces. When this had happened about five times, Hearst, who leant against a window frame, like some singular gargoyle, perceived that Helen Ambrose and Rachel stood in the doorway, the crowd was such that they could not move, but he recognized them by a piece of Helen's shoulder, and a glimpse of Rachel's head turning round. He made his way to them. They greeted him with relief. We are suffering the tortures of the damned, said Helen. This is my idea of hell, said Rachel. Her eyes were bright, and she looked bewildered. Hewitt and Miss Allen, who had been waltzing somewhat laboriously, paused and greeted the newcomers. This is nice, said Hewitt. But where is Mr. Ambrose? Pindar, said Helen. May a married woman who was forty in October dance? I can't stand still. She seemed to fade into Hewitt, and they both dissolved in the crowd. We must follow suit, said Hearst, to Rachel, and he took her resolutely by the elbow. Rachel, without being expert, danced well because of a good ear for rhythm. But Hearst had no taste for music, and a few dancing lessons at Cambridge had only put him into possession of the anatomy of a waltz, without imparting any of its spirit. A single turn proved to them that their methods were incompatible. Instead of fitting into each other, their bones seemed to jut out in angles, making smooth turning and impossibility, and cutting moreover into the circular progress of the other dancers. Shall we stop? said Hearst. Rachel gathered from his expression that he was annoyed. They staggered to seats in the corner from which they had a view of the room. It was still surging in waves of blue and yellow, striped by the black evening clothes of the gentlemen. An amazing spectacle, Hearst remarked. Do you dance much in London? They were both breathing fast, and both a little excited, though each was determined not to show any excitement at all. Scarcely ever, do you? My people give a dance every Christmas. This isn't half a bad floor, Rachel said. Hearst did not attempt to answer her platitude. He sat quite silent, staring at the dancers. After three minutes the silence became so intolerable to Rachel that she was goaded to advance another common place about the beauty of the night. Hearst interrupted her ruthlessly. Was that all nonsense what you said the other day about being a Christian and having no education, he asked? It was practically true, she replied. But I also play the piano very well, she said. Better I expect than anyone in this room. You are the most distinguished man in England, aren't you? She asked shyly. One of the three, he corrected. Helen whirling past Hearst tossed a fan into Rachel's lap. She is very beautiful, Hearst remarked. They were again silent. Rachel was wondering whether he thought her also nice-looking. Sinjin was considering the immense difficulty of talking to girls who had no experience of life. Rachel had obviously never thought or felt or seen anything. And she might be intelligent, or she might be just like all the rest. But Hewitt's taunt rankled in his mind. You don't know how to get on with women, and he was determined to profit by this opportunity. Her evening clothes bestowed on her just that degree of unreality and distinction, which made it romantic to speak to her, and stirred a desire to talk, which irritated him because he did not know how to begin. He glanced at her, and she seemed to him very remote and inexplicable, very young and chaste. He drew a sigh and began. About books now. What have you read? Just Shakespeare and the Bible? I haven't read many classics, Rachel stated. She was slightly annoyed by his jaunty and rather unnatural manner, while his masculine acquirements induced her to take a very modest view of her own power. Do you mean to tell me you've reached the age of 24 without reading given, he demanded? Yes, I have, she answered. Monde du he exclaimed, throwing out his hands. You must begin to-morrow. I shall send you my copy. What I want to know is— He looked at her critically. You see, the problem is, can one really talk to you? Have you got a mind? Or are you like the rest of your sex? You seem to me absurdly young compared with men of your age. Rachel looked at him, but said nothing. About given, he continued. Do you think you'll be able to appreciate him? He's the test, of course. It's awfully difficult to tell about women, he continued. How much, I mean, is due to lack of training, and how much is native in capacity. I don't see myself why you shouldn't understand. Only I suppose you've led an absurd life until now. You've just walked in a crocodile, I suppose, with your hair down your back. The music was again beginning. Hearst's eye wandered about the room in search of Mrs. Ambrose. With the best will in the world he was conscious that they were not getting on well together. I'd like awfully to lend you books, he said, buttoning his gloves and rising from his seat. We shall meet again. I'm going to leave you now. He got up and left her. Rachel looked round. She felt herself surrounded, like a child at a party, by the faces of strangers all hostile to her. With hooked noses and sneering in different eyes. She was by a window. She pushed it open with a jerk. She stepped out into the garden. Her eyes swam with tears of rage. Damn that man, she exclaimed, having acquired some of Helen's words. Damn his insolence! She stood in the middle of the pale square of light which the window she had opened through upon the grass. The forms of great black trees rose massively in front of her. She stood still, looking at them, shivering slightly with anger and excitement. She heard the trampling and swinging of the dancers behind her, and the rhythmic sway of the waltz music. There are trees, she said aloud. Would the trees make up for singe and hearst? She would be a Persian princess far from civilization, riding her horse upon the mountain alone, and making her women sing to her in the evening, far from all this, from the strife and men and women. A form came out of the shadow. A little red light burnt high up in its blackness. Miss Bin Race, is it? said Hewitt, peering at her. You were dancing with Hearst? He's made me furious, she cried vehemently. No one's any right to be insolent. Insolent, Hewitt repeated, taking his cigar from his mouth in surprise. Hearst, insolent? It's insolent too, said Rachel, and stopped. She did not know exactly why she had been made so angry. With a great effort she pulled herself together. Oh, well, she added. The vision of Helen and her mockery before her. I daresay I'm a fool. She made as though she were going back into the ballroom, but Hewitt stopped her. Please explain to me, he said. I feel sure Hearst didn't mean to hurt you. When Rachel tried to explain, she found it very difficult. She could not say that she found the vision of herself walking in a crocodile with her hair down her back, peculiarly unjust and horrible. Nor could she explain why Hearst's assumption of the superiority of his nature and experience had seemed to her not only galling, but terrible, as if a gait had clanged in her face. Pacing up and down the terrace beside Hewitt, she said bitterly, It's no good. We should live separate. We cannot understand each other. We only bring out what's first. Hewitt brushed aside her generalization as to the nature of the two sexes. For such generalizations bored him and seemed to him generally untrue. But knowing Hearst, he guessed fairly accurately what had happened, and though secretly much amused, was determined that Rachel should not store the incident away in her mind to take its place in the view she had of life. Now you'll hate him, he said. Which is wrong. Poor old Hearst. He can't help his method, and really must have been race. He was doing his best. He was paying you a compliment. He was trying. He was trying. He could not finish with a laughter that overcame him. Rachel veered round suddenly and laughed out, too. She saw that there was something ridiculous about Hearst, and perhaps about herself. It's his way of making friends, I suppose, she laughed. Well, I shall be sure of that. She laughed. Well, I shall do my part. I shall begin. Ugly in body, repulsive in mind as you are, Mr. Hearst. Here, here, cried Hewitt. That's the way to treat him. You see, Miss Ben-Race, you must make allowances for Hearst. He's lived all his life in front of a looking-glass, so to speak. In a beautiful, paneled room hung with Japanese prints and lovely old chairs and tables. Just one splash of color, you know, in the right place, between the windows, I think it is. And there he sits hour after hour with his toes on the fender, talking about philosophy and God and his liver and his heart and the hearts of his friends. They're all broken. You can't expect him to be at his best in a ballroom. He wants a cozy, smoky, masculine place where he can stretch his legs out and only speak when he's got something to say. For myself I find it rather dreary, but I do respect it. They're all so much in earnest. They do take the serious things very seriously. The description of Hearst's way of life interested Rachel so much that she almost forgot her private grudge against him. And her respect revived. They are really very clever, then, she asked. Of course they are. So far as brains go I think it's true what he said the other day. They're the cleverest people in England. But you ought to take him in hand, he added. There's a great deal more in him than's ever been got at. He wants someone to laugh at him. The idea of Hearst telling you that you've had no experiences. Poor old Hearst. They had been pacing up and down the terrace while they talked, and now one by one the dark windows were uncurtained by an invisible hand. And pains of light fell regularly at equal intervals upon the grass. They stopped to look in at the drawing-room and perceived Mr. Pepper writing alone at a table. There's Pepper writing to his aunt, said Hewitt. She must be a very remarkable old lady. Eighty-five, he tells me. And he takes her for walking tours in the new forest. Pepper, he cried, rapping on the window. Go and do your duty, Miss Allen expects you. When they came to the windows of the ballroom, the swing of the dancers and the lilt of the music was irresistible. Shall we? said Hewitt. And they clasped hands and swept off magnificently into the great swirling pool. Although this was only the second time they had met, the first time they had seen a man and woman kissing each other. And the second time Mr. Hewitt had found that a young woman, angry, is very like a child, so that when they joined hands in the dance they felt more at their ease than as usual. It was midnight and the dance was now at its height. Servants were peeping in at the windows. The garden was sprinkled with the white shapes of couples sitting out. Mrs. Thornbury and Mrs. Elliott sat side by side under a palm tree, holding fans, handkerchiefs and brooches deposited in their laps by flushed maidens. Occasionally they exchanged comments. Miss Warrington does look happy, said Mrs. Elliott. They both smiled. They both sighed. He has a great deal of character, said Mrs. Thornbury, alluding to Arthur. And character is what one wants, said Mrs. Elliott. Now that young man is clever enough, she added, nodding at Hearst, who came past with Miss Allen on his arm. He does not look strong, said Mrs. Thornbury. His complexion is not good. Shall I tear it off? she asked, for Rachel had stopped, conscious of a long, stripped trailing behind her. I hope you are enjoying yourselves. He would ask the ladies. This is a very familiar position for me. Smiled Mrs. Thornbury. I have brought out five daughters, and they all loved dancing. You love it too, Miss Benrace? she asked. Looking at Rachel with maternal eyes. I know I did when I was your age. How I used to beg my mother to let me stay. And now I sympathize with the poor mothers. But I sympathize with the daughters too. She smiled sympathetically, and at the same time, rather keenly, at Rachel. They seemed to find a great deal to say to each other, said Mrs. Elliott, looking significantly at the backs of the couple as they turned away. Did you notice at the picnic? He was the only person who could make her utter. Her father is a very interesting man, said Mrs. Thornbury. He has one of the largest shipping businesses in Hall. He made a very able reply, you remember, to Mr. Asquith at the last election. It is so interesting to find that a man of his experience is a strong protectionist. She would have liked to discuss politics which interested her more than personalities. But Mrs. Elliott would only talk about the Empire in a less abstract form. I hear there are dreadful accounts from England about the rats, she said. A sister-in-law who lives at Norwich tells me it has been quite unsafe to order poultry. The plague, you see, it attacks the rats and, through them, other creatures. And the local authorities are not taking proper steps, asked Mrs. Thornbury. That she does not say. But she describes the attitude of the educated people, who should know better. As callous in the extreme. Of course my sister-in-law is one of those active modern women who always takes things up, you know. The kind of woman one admires, though one does not feel. At least I do not feel. But then she has a constitution of iron. Mrs. Elliott, brought back to the consideration of her own delicacy, here aside. A very animated face said Mrs. Thornbury, looking at evil and am, who had stopped near them to pin tight a scarlet flower at her breast. It would not stay. And with a spirited gesture of impatience she thrust it into her partner's buttonhole. He was a tall melancholy youth, who received the gift as a knight might receive his lady's token. Very trying to the eyes was Mrs. Elliott's next remark. After watching the yellow whorl in which so few of the whorlers had either name or character for her for a few minutes. Bursting out of the crowd, Helen approached them and took a vacant chair. May I sit by you, she said, smiling and breathing fast. I suppose I ought to be ashamed of myself, she went on, sitting down, at my age. Her beauty, now that she was flushed and animated, was more expansive than usual, and both the ladies felt the same desire to touch her. I am enjoying myself, she panned it. Movement. Isn't it amazing? I have always heard that nothing comes up to dancing if one is a good dancer, said Mrs. Thornbury, looking at her with a smile. End of Chapter 12 Part 1 Chapter 12 Part 2 of The Voyage Out by Virginia Woolf The sleeper-box recording is in the public domain. Helen swayed slightly as if she sat on wires. I could dance forever, she said. They ought to let themselves go more, she exclaimed. They ought to leap and swing. Look! How they mince! Have you seen those wonderful Russian dancers, began Mrs. Elliott? But Helen saw her partner coming and rose as the moon rises. She was half round the room before they took their eyes off her. Or they could not help admiring her, although they thought it a little odd that a woman of her age should enjoy dancing. Directly Helen was left alone for a minute. She was joined by St. John Hearst, who had been watching for an opportunity. Should you mind sitting out with me, he asked. I'm quite incapable of dancing. He piloted Helen to a corner which was supplied with two-arm chairs, and thus enjoyed the advantage of semi-privacy. They sat down, and for a few minutes Helen was too much under the influence of dancing to speak. Astonishing, she exclaimed at last, what sort of shape can she think her body is. This remark was called forth by a lady who came past them, waddling rather than walking, and leaning on the arm of a stout man with globular green eyes set in a fat white face. Some support was necessary, for she was very stout, and so compressed that the upper part of her body hung considerably in advance of her feet, which could only trip in tiny steps owing to the tightness of the skirt round her ankles. The dress itself consisted of a small piece of shiny yellow satin, adorned here and there indiscriminately, with round shields of blue and green beads made to imitate hues of a peacock's breast. On the summit of a frothy castle of hair, a purple plume stood erect, while her short neck was encircled by a black velvet ribbon knobbed with gems, and golden bracelets were tightly wedged into the flesh of her fat-gloved arms. She had the face of an impertinent but jolly little pig, mottled red under a dusting of powder. Sinjant could not join in Helen's laughter. It makes me sick, he declared. The whole thing makes me sick. Consider the minds of those people, their feelings, don't you agree? I always make a vow never to go to another party of any description, Helen replied, and I always break it. She lent back in her chair and looked laughingly at the young man. She could see that he was genuinely crossed, if at the same time slightly excited. However, he said, resumed her life. However, he said, resuming his jaunty tone, I suppose one must just make up one's mind to it. To what? There never will be more than five people in the world worth talking to. Slowly the flesh and sparkle in Helen's face died away, and she looked as quiet and observant as usual. Five people, she remarked, I should say there were more than five. You've been very fortunate, then, said Hearst. Or perhaps I've been very unfortunate. He became silent. Should you say I was a difficult kind of person to get on with, he asked sharply. Most clever people are when they're young, Helen replied. And of course I am immensely clever, said Hearst. I'm infinitely cleverer than Hewitt. It's quite possible, he continued in his curiously impersonal manner, that I'm going to be one of the people who really matter. That's utterly different from being clever, though one can't expect one's family to see it, he added bitterly. Helen thought herself justified in asking, Do you find your family difficult to get on with? Intolerable. They want me to be a peer and a privy counselor. I've come out here partly in order to settle the matter. It's got to be settled. Either I must go to the bar, or I must stay on in Cambridge. Of course there are obvious drawbacks to each. But the arguments certainly do seem to me in favour of Cambridge. This kind of thing, he waved his hand at the crowded ballroom. Repulsive. I'm conscious of great powers of affection, too. I'm not susceptible, of course, in the way Hewitt is. I'm very fond of a few people. I think, for example, that there's something to be said for my mother. Though she is, in many ways, so deplorable. At Cambridge, of course, I should inevitably become the most important man in the place. But there are other reasons why I dread Cambridge. He ceased. Are you finding me a dreadful bore? He asked. He changed curiously from a friend confiding in a friend to a conventional young man at a party. Not in the least, said Helen. I like it very much. You can't think, he exclaimed, speaking almost with emotion. What a difference it makes finding someone to talk to. Directly I saw you I felt you might possibly understand me. I'm very fond of Hewitt. But he hasn't the remotest idea what I'm like. You're the only woman I've ever met who seems to have the faintest conception of what I mean when I say a thing. The next dance was beginning. It was the bark a roll out of Hoffman, which made Helen beat her toe in time to it. But she felt that after such a compliment it was impossible to get up and go. And besides being amused, she was really flattered. And the honesty of his conceit attracted her. She suspected that he was not happy, and was sufficiently feminine to wish to receive confidences. I'm very old, she sighed. The odd thing is that I don't find you old at all, he replied. I feel as though we were exactly the same age. Moreover, here he hesitated but took courage from a glance at her face. I feel as if I could talk quite plainly to you, as one does to a man, about the relations between the sexes. About and. In spite of his certainty the slight redness came into his face as he spoke the last two words. She reassured him at once by the laugh with which she exclaimed, I should hope so. He looked at her with real cordiality, and the lines which were drawn about his nose and lips slackened for the first time. Thank God, he exclaimed. Now we can behave like civilized human beings. Certainly a barrier which usually stands fast had fallen, and it was possible to speak of matters which are generally only alluded to between men and women when doctors are present, or the shadow of death. In five minutes he was telling her the history of his life. It was long, for it was full of extremely elaborate incidents, which led on to a discussion of the principles on which morality is founded, and thus to several very interesting matters, which even in this ballroom had to be discussed in a whisper, lest one of the powder-pigeon ladies or resplendent merchants should overhear them and proceed to demand that they should leave the place, when they had come to an end, or to speak more accurately, when Helen intimated by a slight slackening of her attention that they had sat there long enough, first rose exclaiming, so there's no reason whatever for all this mystery. None except that we are English people, she answered. She took his arm and they crossed the ballroom, making their way with difficulty between the spinning couples, who were now perceptibly disheveled, and certainly to a critical eye by no means lovely in their shapes. The excitement of undertaking a friendship, and the length of their talk, made them hungry. And they went in search of food to the dining-room, which was now full of people eating at little separate tables. In the doorway they met Rachel, going up to dance again with Arthur Venning. She was flushed and looked very happy, and Helen was struck by the fact that, in this mood, she was certainly more attractive than the generality of young women. She had never noticed it so clearly before. Enjoying yourself, she asked, as they stopped for a second. Miss Venrace, Arthur answered for her, has just made a confession. She'd no idea that dances could be so delightful. Yes, Rachel exclaimed. I've changed my view of life completely. You don't say so, Helen mocked. They passed on. That's typical of Rachel, she said. She changes her view of life about every other day. Do you know I believe you're just the person I want, she said, as they sat down, to help me complete her education. She's been brought up practically in a nunnery. Her father's too absurd. I've been doing what I can, but I'm too old, and I'm a woman. Why shouldn't you talk to her? Explain things to her. Talk to her, I mean, as you talk to me. I have made one attempt already this evening, said Syngin. I rather doubt that it was successful. She seems to me so very young and inexperienced. I have promised to lend her Gibbon. It's not Gibbon exactly, Helen pondered. It's the facts of life, I think. Do you see what I mean? What really goes on? What people feel, although they generally try to hide it? There's nothing to be frightened of. It's so much more beautiful than the pretenses. Always more interesting, always better, I should say, than that kind of thing. She nodded her head at a table near them, where two girls and two men were chaffing each other very loudly, and carrying on an arch-insinuating dialogue sprinkled with endearments about, it seemed, a pair of stockings or a pair of legs. One of the girls was flirting a fan and pretending to be shocked. And the sight was very unpleasant, partly because it was obvious that the girls were secretly hostile to each other. In my old age, however, Helen sighed. I'm coming to think that it doesn't much matter in the long run what one does. People always go their own way. Nothing will ever influence them. She nodded her head at the supper-party. But St. John did not agree. He said that he thought one could really make a great deal of difference by one's point of view. Books and so on, and added that few things at the present time mattered more than the enlightenment of women. He sometimes thought that almost everything was due to education. In the ballroom, meanwhile, the dancers were being formed into squares for the Lancers. Arthur and Rachel, Susan and Hewitt, Miss Allen and Hewling Elliot, found themselves together. Miss Allen looked at her watch. Half past one, she stated. And I have to dispatch Alexander Pope tomorrow. Pope! snorted Mr. Elliot. Who reads Pope I should like to know. And as for reading about him? No, no, Miss Allen. Be persuaded you will benefit the world much more by dancing than by writing. It was one of Mr. Elliot's affectations that nothing in the world could compare with the delights of dancing. Nothing in the world was so tedious as literature. Thus he sought pathetically enough to ingratiate himself with the young, and to prove to them beyond a doubt that though married to a nanny of a wife, and rather pale and bent and careworn by his weight of learning, he was as much alive as the youngest of them all. It's a question of bread and butter, said Miss Allen calmly. However they seemed to expect me. She took up her position and pointed a square black toe. Mr. Hewitt, you bow to me. It was evident at once that Miss Allen was the only one of them who had a thoroughly sound knowledge of the figures of the dance. After the Lancers there was a waltz. After the waltz, the polka. And then a terrible thing happened. The music, which had been sounding regularly with five-minute pauses, stopped suddenly. The lady with the great dark eyes began to swathe her violin in silk, and the gentleman placed his horn carefully in its case. They were surrounded by couples imploring them in English, in French, in Spanish, of one more dance, one only. It was still early. But the old man at the piano merely exhibited his watch and shook his head. He turned up the collar of his coat and produced a red silk muffler, which completely dashed his festive appearance. Strange as it seemed, the musicians were pale and heavy-eyed. They looked bored and prosaic as if the summit of their desire was cold meat and beer, succeeded immediately by bed. Rachel was one of those who had begged them to continue. When they refused, she began turning over the sheets of dance music which lay upon the piano. The pieces were generally bound in colored covers, with pictures on them of romantic scenes. Gondoliers astride on the crescent of the moon, nuns peering through the bars of a convent window, or young women with their hair down, pointing a gun at the stars. She remembered that the general effect of the music to which they had danced so gaily was one of passionate regret for dead love and the innocent years of youth. Dreadful sorrows had always separated the dancers from their past happiness. No wonder they get sick of playing stuff like this, she remarked reading a bar or two. Their really hymn tunes played very fast, with bits out of Wagner and Beethoven. Do you play? Would you play? Anything so long as we can dance to it. From all sides her gift for playing the piano was insisted upon, and she had to consent. As very soon she had played the only pieces of dance music she could remember, she went on to play an air from a sonata by Mozart. But that's not a dance, said someone, pausing by the piano. It is, she replied, emphatically nodding her head. Invent the steps. Sure of her melody she marked the rhythm boldly, so as to simplify the way. Helen caught the idea, seized Miss Allen by the arm, and hurled round the room. Now curtsying, now spinning round, now tripping this way and that like a child skipping through a meadow. This is the dance for people who don't know how to dance, she cried. The tune changed to a minuet. Singin' hopped with incredible swiftness, first on his left leg, then on his right. The tune flowed melodiously. Hewitt, swaying his arms and holding out the tails of his coat, swam down the room in imitation of the voluptuous dreamy dance of an Indian maiden dancing before her rajah. The tune marched, and Miss Allen advanced with skirts extended, and bowed profoundly to the engaged pair. Once their feet fell in with the rhythm, they showed a complete lack of self-consciousness. From Mozart Rachel passed without stopping to old English hunting songs, carols and hymn tunes. For as she had observed, any good tune, with a little management, became a tune one could dance to. By degrees every person in the room was tripping and turning in pairs, or alone. Mr. Pepper executed an ingenious pointed step derived from figure skating, for which he had once held some local championship, while Mrs. Thornbury tried to recall an old country dance which she had seen danced by her father's tenants in Dorseture in the old days. As were Mr. and Mrs. Elliott, they gallop-potted round and round the room with such impetuosity that the other dancers shivered at their approach. Some people were heard to criticize the performance as a romp. To others it was the most enjoyable part of the evening. Now for the great round dance, Hewitt shouted. Instantly a gigantic circle was formed. The dancers holding hands and shouting out, Do you can John Peel? As they swung faster and faster and faster until the strain was too great. And one link of the chain, Mrs. Thornbury, gave way and the rest went flying across the room in all directions. To land upon the floor, or the chairs, or in each other's arms, as seemed most convenient. Rising from these positions, breathless and unkempt, it struck them for the first time that the electric lights pricked the air very vainly. And instinctively a great many eyes turned to the windows. Yes, there was the dawn. While they had been dancing, the night had passed and it had come. Outside the mountains showed very pure and remote. The dew was sparkling on the grass and the sky was flushed with blue, save for the pale yellows and pinks in the east. The dancers came crowding to the windows, pushed them open, and here and there ventured a foot upon the grass. How silly the poor old lights look, said Evelyn M., in a curiously subdued tone of voice. And ourselves, it isn't becoming. It was true. The untidy hair and the green and yellow gems, which had seemed so festive half an hour ago, now looked cheap and slovenly. The complexions of the elder ladies suffered terribly. And as if conscious that a cold eye had been turned upon them, they began to say good night and to make their way up to bed. Rachel, though robbed of her audience, had gone on playing to herself. From John Peel she passed to Bach, who was at this time the subject of her intense enthusiasm. And one by one some of the younger dancers came in from the garden and sat upon the deserted gilt chairs round the piano, the room being now so clear that they turned out the lights. As they sat and listened, their nerves were quieted. The heat and soreness of their lips, the result of incessant talking and laughing, was smoothed away. They sat very still as if they saw a building, with spaces and columns succeeding each other, rising in the empty space. Then they began to see themselves and their lives, and the whole of human life advancing very nobly under the direction of the music. They felt themselves ennobled. And when Rachel stopped playing, they desired nothing but sleep. Susan Rose I think this has been the happiest night of my life, she exclaimed. I do adore music, she said, as she thanked Rachel. It just seems to say all the things one can't say oneself. She gave a nervous little laugh and looked from one to another with great benignity, as though she would like to say something, but could not find the words in which to express it. Everyone's been so kind, so very kind, she said. Then she too went to bed. The party having ended in the very abrupt way in which parties do end, Helen and Rachel stood by the door with their cloaks on, looking for a carriage. I suppose you realize that there are no carriages left, said Syngin, who had been out to look. You must sleep here. Oh no, said Helen, we shall walk. May we come too, he would ask. We can't go to bed. Imagine lying among bolsters and looking at one's washstand on a morning like this. Is that where you live? They had begun to walk down the avenue, and he turned and pointed at the white and green villa on the hillside, which seemed to have its eyes shut. That's not a light burning, is it, Helen asked anxiously. It's the sun, said Syngin. The upper windows had each a spot of gold on them. I was afraid it was my husband, still reading Greek, she said. All this time he's been editing Pindar. They passed through the town and turned up the steep road, which was perfectly clear, though still unbordered by shadows. Partly because they were tired, and partly because the early lights subdued them. They scarcely spoke, but breathed in the delicious fresh air, which seemed to belong to a different state of life from the air at midday. When they came to the high yellow wall, where the lane turned off from the road, Helen was for dismissing the two young men. You've come far enough, she said. Go back to bed. But they seemed unwilling to move. Let's sit down a moment, said Hewitt. He spread his coat on the ground. Let's sit down and consider. They sat down and looked out over the bay. It was very still. The sea was rippling faintly, and lines of green and blue were beginning to stripe it. There were no sailing boats as yet, but a steamer was anchored in the bay, looking very ghostly in the mist. It gave one unearthly cry, and then all was silent. Rachel occupied herself in collecting one gray stone after another, and building them into a little cairn. She did it very quietly and carefully. And so you've changed your view of life, Rachel, said Helen. Rachel added another stone and yawned. I don't remember, she said. I feel like a fish at the bottom of the sea. She yawned again. None of these people possessed any power to frighten her out here in the dawn, and she felt perfectly familiar, even with Mr. Hurst. My brain, on the contrary, said Hurst, is in a condition of abnormal activity. He sat in his favorite position, with his arms binding his legs together, and his chin resting on the top of his knees. I see through everything, absolutely everything. Life has no more mysteries for me. He spoke with conviction, but did not appear to wish for an answer. Near though they sat, and familiar though they felt, they seemed mere shadows to each other. And all those people down there, going to sleep, hew it began dreamily, thinking such different things. Ms. Warrington, I suppose, is now on her knees. The Elliotts are a little startled. It's not often they get out of breath, and they want to get to sleep as quickly as possible. Then there's the poor lean young man, who danced all night with Evelyn. He's putting his flower in water, and asking himself, Is this love? And poor old parrot, I daresay, can't get to sleep at all, and is reading his favorite Greek book to console himself. And the others. No, Hurst, he wound up. I don't find it simple at all. I have a key, said Hurst cryptically. His chin was still upon his knees, and his eyes fixed in front of him. A silence followed. Then Helen rose and bathed them good night. But she said, Remember that you've got to come and see us. They waved good night and parted, but the two young men did not go back to the hotel. They went for a walk, during which they scarcely spoke, and never mentioned the names of the two women, who were, to a considerable extent, the subject of their thoughts. They did not wish to share their impressions. They returned to the hotel in time for breakfast. CHAPTER XIII There were many rooms in the villa, but one room which possessed a character of its own, because the door was always shut, and no sound of music or laughter issued from it. Everyone in the house was vaguely conscious that something went on behind that door, and without in the least knowing what it was, were influenced in their own thoughts, by the knowledge that if they passed it, the door would be shut, and if they made a noise, Mr. Ambrose inside would be disturbed. Certain acts therefore possessed merit, and others were bad, so that life became more harmonious and less disconnected than it would have been, had Mr. Ambrose given up editing Pindar, and taken to a nomadic existence, in and out of every room in the house. As it was, everyone was conscious that by observing certain rules, such as punctuality and quiet, by cooking well, and performing other small duties, one owed after another was satisfactorily restored to the world, and they shared the continuity of the scholar's life. Unfortunately, as age puts one barrier between human beings, and learning another, and sex a third, Mr. Ambrose in his study was some thousand miles distant from the nearest human being, who in this household was inevitably a woman. He sat hour after hour among white-leaved books, alone like an idol in an empty church, still except for the passage of his hand from one side of the sheet to another, silent save for an occasional choke which drove him to extend his pipe a moment in the air. As he worked his way further and further into the heart of the poet, his chair became more and more deeply encircled by books, which lay open on the floor, and could only be crossed by a careful process of stepping, so delicate that his visitors generally stopped and addressed him from the outskirts. On the morning after the dance, however, Rachel came into her uncle's room and hailed him twice, Uncle Ridley, before he paid any attention. At length he looked over his spectacles. Well, he asked. I want a book, she replied, Gibbons' History of the Roman Empire. May I have it? She watched the lines on her uncle's face gradually rearrange themselves at her question. It had been smooth as a mask before she spoke. Please say that again, said her uncle, either because he had not heard or because he had not understood. She repeated the same words and readdened slightly as she did so. Gibbons, what on earth do you want him for, he inquired. Somebody advised me to read it, Rachel stammered. But I don't travel about with a miscellaneous collection of eighteenth-century historians, her uncle exclaimed. Gibbons, ten big volumes at least. Rachel said that she was sorry to interrupt and was turning to go. Stop, cried her uncle. He put down his pipe, placed his book on one side, and rose and led her slowly round the room, holding her by the arm. Plateau, he said, laying one finger on the first of a row of small, dark books. And Jorak's next door, which is wrong. Sophocles, swift. You don't care for German commentators, I presume. French, then. You read French? You should read Balzac. Then we come to Wordsworth and Colleridge. Pope, Johnson, Addison, Wordsworth, Shelley, Keats. One thing leads to another. Why is Marlowe here? Mrs. Chaley, I presume. But what's the use of reading if you don't read Greek? After all, if you read Greek, you need never read anything else. Pure waste of time, pure waste of time. Thus speaking half to himself with quick movements of his hands. They had come round again to the circle of books on the floor, and their progress was stopped. Well, he demanded. Which shall it be? Balzac, said Rachel. Or have you the speech on the American Revolution, Uncle Ridley? The speech on the American Revolution, he asked. He looked at her very keenly again. Another young man at the dance? No, that was Mr. Dalloway, she confessed. Good Lord! He flung back his head in recollection of Mr. Dalloway. She chose for herself a volume at random, submitted it to her uncle, who, seeing that it was La Cousanne bet, bade her throw it away if she found it too horrible. And was about to leave him when he demanded whether she had enjoyed her dance. He then wanted to know what people did at dances, seeing that he had only been to one, thirty-five years ago, when nothing had seemed to him more meaningless and idiotic. Did they enjoy turning round and round to the screech of a fiddle? Did they talk and say pretty things? And if so, why didn't they do it under reasonable conditions? As for himself, he sighed, and pointed at the signs of industry lying all about him, which in spite of his sigh filled his face with such satisfaction that his niece thought good to leave. On bestowing a kiss she was allowed to go, but not until she had bound herself to learn at any rate the Greek alphabet. And to return her French novel when done with, upon which something more suitable would be found for her. As the rooms in which people live are apt to give off something of the same shock as their faces when seen for the first time, Rachel walked very slowly downstairs, lost in wonder at her uncle and his books and his neglect of dances, and his queer, utterly inexplicable, but apparently satisfactory view of life, when her eye was caught by a note with her name on it lying in the hall. The address was written in a small, strong hand unknown to her, and the note which had no beginning ran. I sent the first volume of gibbon as I promised. Personally I find little to be said for the moderns. But I'm going to send you Vedicand when I've done with him. Done? Have you read Webster and all that set? I envy you reading them for the first time. Completely exhausted after last night, and you? The flourish of initials which she took to be S.T.J.A.H. wound up the letter. She was very much flattered that Mr. Hearst should have remembered her, and fulfilled his promise so quickly. There was still an hour to luncheon, and with gibbon in one hand and Balzac in the other, she strolled out of the gate and down the little path of beaten mud between the olive trees on the slope of the hill. It was too hot for climbing hills, but along the valley there were trees and a grass path running by the riverbed. In this land where the population was centered in the towns, it was possible to lose sight of civilization in a very short time. Passing only an occasional farmhouse, where the women were handling red roots in the courtyard, or a little boy lying on his elbows on the hillside surrounded by a flock of black, strong-smelling goats. Save for a thread of water at the bottom. The river was merely a deep channel of dry, yellow stones. On the bank grew those trees which Helen had said it was worth the voyage out merely to see. April had burst their buds, and they bore large blossoms among their glossy green leaves, with petals of a thick wax-like substance colored in exquisite cream or pink or deep crimson, but filled with one of those unreasonable exultations which start generally from an unknown cause, and sweep whole countries and skies into their embrace. She walked without seeing. The night was encroaching upon the day. Her ears hummed with the tunes she had played the night before. She sang, and the singing made her walk faster and faster. She did not see distinctly where she was going, the trees and the landscape appearing only as masses of green and blue, with an occasional space of differently colored sky. Faces of people she had seen last night came before her. She heard their voices. She stopped singing and began saying things over again, or saying things differently, or inventing things that might have been said. The constraint of being among strangers in a long silk dress made it unusually exciting to stride thus alone. Hewitt, Hearst, Mr. Venning, Ms. Allen, the music, the light, the dark trees in the garden, the dawn. As she walked they went surging round in her head, a tumultuous background from which the present moment, with its opportunity of doing exactly as she liked, sprung more wonderfully vivid even than the night before. So she might have walked until she had lost all knowledge of her way. Had it not been for the interruption of a tree, which although it did not grow across her path, stopped her as effectively as if the branches had struck her in the face, it was an ordinary tree, but to her it appeared so strange that it might have been the only tree in the world. Dark was the trunk in the middle, and the branches sprang here and there, leaving jagged intervals of light between them as distinctly as if it had but that second risen from the ground. Having seen a sight that would last her for a lifetime, and for a lifetime would preserve that second, the tree once more sank into the ordinary ranks of trees, and she was able to seat herself in its shade, and to pick the red flowers with the thin green leaves which were growing beneath it. She laid them side by side, flower to flower, and stalk to stalk, caressing them for walking alone. Flowers and deepened pebbles in the earth had their own life and disposition, and brought back the feelings of a child to whom they were companions. Looking up, her eye was caught by the line of the mountains flying out energetically across the sky, like the lash of a curling whip. She looked at the pale distant sky, and the high bare places on the mountain tops, lying exposed to the sun. When she sat down, she had dropped her books onto the earth at her feet, and now she looked down on them, lying there, so square in the grass, a tall stem bending over and tickling the smooth brown cover of Gibbon, while the mottled blue ball-zack lay naked in the sun. With a feeling that, to open and read, would certainly be a surprising experience, she turned the historian's page, and read that. His generals in the early part of his reign attempted the reduction of Ethiopia and Arabia Felix. They marched near a thousand miles to the south of the tropic. But the heat of the climate soon repelled the invaders and protected the unwarlike natives of those sequestered regions. The northern countries of Europe scarcely deserved the expense and labor of conquest. The forests and morasses of Germany were filled with a hearty race of barbarians who despised life when it was separated from freedom. Never had any words been so vivid and so beautiful. Arabia Felix, Ethiopia, but those were not more noble than the others. Hearty barbarians, forests and morasses, they seemed to drive roads back to the very beginning of the world, on either side of which the populations of all times and countries stood in avenues, and by passing down them all knowledge would be hers, and the book of the world turned back to the very first page. Such was her excitement at the possibilities of knowledge, now opening before her, that she ceased to read, and a breeze turning the page, the covers of given gently ruffled and closed together. She then rose again and walked on. Slowly her mind became less confused and sought the origins of her exaltation, which were twofold, and could be limited by an effort to the persons of Mr. Hearst and Mr. Hewitt. Any clear analysis of them was impossible owing to the haze of wonder in which they were enveloped. She could not reason about them as about people whose feelings went by the same rule as her own did, and her mind dwelt on them with a kind of physical pleasure such as is caused by the contemplation of bright things hanging in the sun. From them all life seemed to radiate. The very words of books were steeped in radiance. She then became haunted by a suspicion, which she was so reluctant to face, that she welcomed a trip and stumble over the grass, because thus her attention was dispersed. But in a second it had collected itself again. Unconsciously she had been walking faster and faster, her body trying to outrun her mind, but she was now on the summit of a little hillock of earth which rose above the river and displayed the valley. She was no longer able to juggle with several ideas, but must deal with the most persistent and a kind of melancholy replaced her excitement. She sank down on to the earth, clasping her knees together and looking blankly in front of her. For some time she observed a great yellow butterfly which was opening and closing its wings very slowly on a little flat stone. What is it to be in love, she demanded, after a long silence. Each word as it came into being seemed to shove itself out into an unknown sea. Hypnotized by the wings of the butterfly and awed by the discovery of a terrible possibility in life, she sat for some time longer. When the butterfly flew away she rose, and with her two books beneath her arm returned home again, much as a soldier prepared for battle.