 CHAPTER 8 OF THE VOYAGE OUT BY VERGINIA WOLF The next few months passed away as many years can pass away, without definite events, and yet, if suddenly disturbed, it would be seen that such months or years had a character unlike others. The three months which had passed had brought them to the beginning of March. The climate had kept its promise, and the change of season from winter to spring had made very little difference, so that Helen, who was sitting in the drawing-room with a pen in her hand, could keep the windows open, though a great fire of logs burnt on one side of her. Below the sea was still blue and the roofs still brown and white, though the day was fading rapidly. It was dusk in the room, which large and empty at all times now appeared larger and emptier than usual. Her own figure, as she sat writing with a pad on her knee, shared the general effect of size and lack of detail. For the flames which ran along the branches, suddenly devouring little green tufts, burnt intermittently and sent irregular illuminations across her face and the plaster walls. There were no pictures on the walls, but here and there vows laden with heavy petaled flowers spread widely against them. Of the books fallen on the bare floor and heaped upon the large table, it was only possible in this light to trace the outline. Mrs. Ambrose was writing a very long letter. Beginning, dear Bernard, it went on to describe what had been happening in the Via San Hervassio during the past three months, as, for instance, that they had had the British consul to dinner, and had been taken over a Spanish man of war, and had seen a great many processions and religious festivals which were so beautiful that Mrs. Ambrose couldn't conceive why, if people must have a religion, they didn't all become Roman Catholics. They had made several expeditions, though none of any length. It was worth coming, if only for the sake of the flowering trees, which grew wild quite near the house, and the amazing colors of sea and earth. The earth, instead of being brown, was red, purple, green. You won't believe me, she added. There is no color like it in England. She adopted, indeed, a condescending tone towards that poor island, which was now advancing chilly crocuses and nipped violets in nooks, in coapses, in cozy corners, tended by rosy old gardeners and mufflers who were always touching their hats and bobbing obsequiously. She went on to deride the islanders themselves, rumors of London all in a ferment over a general election, had reached them even out here. It seems incredible, she went on, that people should care whether Asquith is in or Austin Chamberlain out. And while you scream yourselves hoarse about politics, you let the only people who are trying for something good starve, or simply laugh at them. When have you ever encouraged a living artist, or bought his best work? Why are you all so ugly and so servile? Here the servants are human beings, they talk to one as if they were equals. As far as I can tell, there are no aristocrats. Perhaps it was the mention of aristocrats that reminded her of Richard Dalloway and Rachel, for she ran on with the same penful to describe her niece. It's an odd fate that has put me in charge of a girl, she wrote, considering that I have never got on well with women, or had much to do with them. However, I must retract some of the things that I have said against them. If they were properly educated, I don't see why they shouldn't be much the same as men. As satisfactory I mean, though of course very different. The question is, how should one educate them? The present method seems to me abominable. This girl, though twenty-four, had never heard that men desired women, and until I explained it, did not know how children were born. Her ignorance upon other matters as important, here Mrs. Ambrose's letter, may not be quoted, was complete. It seems to me not merely foolish but criminal to bring people up like that. Let alone the suffering to them, it explains why women are what they are. The wonder is, they're no worse. I have taken it upon myself to enlighten her, and now, though still a good deal prejudiced and liable to exaggerate, she is more or less a reasonable human being. Keeping them ignorant, of course, defeats its own object, and when they begin to understand, they take it all much too seriously. My brother-in-law really deserved a catastrophe, which he won't get. I now pray for a young man to come to my help. Someone, I mean, who would talk to her openly and prove how absurd most of her ideas about life are. Unluckily, such men seem almost as rare as the women. The English colonies certainly doesn't provide one. Artists, merchants, cultivated people, they are stupid, conventional, and flirtatious. She ceased and, with her pen in her hand, sat looking into the fire, making the logs into caves and mountains, or it had grown too dark to go on writing. Moreover, the house began to stir as the hour of dinner approached. She could hear the plates being chinked in the dining-room next door, and chaeli instructing the Spanish girl where to put things down in vigorous English. The bell rang. She rose, met Ridley and Rachel outside, and they all went into dinner. Three months had made but little difference in the appearance either of Ridley or Rachel. And a keen observer might have thought that the girl was more definite and self-confident in her manner than before. Her skin was brown, her eyes certainly brighter, and she attended to what was said as though she might be going to contradict it. The meal began with the comfortable silence of people who were quite at their ease together. Then Ridley, leaning on his elbow and looking out of the window, observed that it was a lovely night. Yes, said Helen. She added, the seasons begun, looking at the lights beneath them. She asked Maria in Spanish whether the hotel was not filling up with visitors. Maria informed her with pride that there would come a time when it was positively difficult to buy eggs. And the shopkeepers would not mind what prices they asked. They would get them at any rate from the English. That's an English steamer in the bay, said Rachel, looking at a triangle of lights below. She came in early this morning. Then we may hope for some letters and send ours back, said Helen. For the same reason the mention of letters always made Ridley groan, and the rest of the meal passed in a brisk argument between husband and wife, as to whether he was or was not wholly ignored by the entire civilized world. Considering the last batch, said Helen, you deserve beating. You were asked to lecture. You were offered a degree. And some silly woman praised not only your books but your beauty. She said he was what Shelley would have been if Shelley had lived to fifty-five and grown a beard. Really, Ridley, I think you're the vainest man I know, she ended, rising from the table. Which I may tell you is saying a good deal. Finding her letter lying before the fire she added a few lines to it, and then announced that she was going to take the letters now. Ridley must bring his. And Rachel, I hope you've written to your aunts its high time. The women put on cloaks and hats, and after inviting Ridley to come with them, which he emphatically refused to do, exclaiming that Rachel he expected to be a fool, but Helen surely knew better. They turned to go. He stood over the fire gazing into the depths of the looking-glass and compressing his face into a likeness of a commander surveying a field of battle, or a martyr watching the flames lick his toes, rather than that of a secluded professor. Helen laid hold of his beard. Am I a fool, she said? Let me go, Helen. Am I a fool, she repeated? By a woman, he exclaimed, and kissed her. We'll leave you to your vanities, she called back as they went out of the door. It was a beautiful evening, still light enough to see a long way down the road, though the stars were coming out. The pillar-box was let into a high yellow wall where the lane met the road, and having dropped the letters into it, Helen was returning back. No, no, said Rachel, taking her by the wrist. We're going to see life, you promised. Seeing life was the phrase they used for their habit of strolling through the town after dark. The social life of Santa Marina was carried on almost entirely by lamp-light, which the warmth of the nights and the scents culled from flowers made pleasant enough. The young women, with their hair magnificently swept in coils, a red flower behind the ear, sat on the door-steps, or issued out onto balconies, while the young men ranged up and down beneath, shouting up a greeting from time to time, and stopping here and there to enter into amorous talk. At the open windows merchants could be seen making up the day's account, and older women lifting jars from shelf to shelf. The streets were full of people, men for the most part, who interchanged their views of the world as they walked, or gathered round the wine-tables at the street-corner, where an old cripple was twanging his guitar-strings, while a poor girl cried her passionate song in the gutter. The two English women excited some friendly curiosity, but no one molested them. Helen sauntered on, observing the different people in their shabby clothes, who seemed so careless and so natural with satisfaction. "'Just think of the mall tonight,' she exclaimed at length. "'It's the fifteenth of March. Perhaps there's a court.' She thought of the crowd waiting in the cold spring-air to see the grand carriages go by. "'It's very cold if it's not raining,' she said. "'First there are men selling picture-postcards. Then there are wretched little shop-girls with round band-boxes. Then there are bank-clarques and tail-coats, and then any number of dress-makers. People from South Kensington drive up in a hired fly. Officials have a pair of bays. Officials, on the other hand, are allowed one-footmen to stand up behind. Dukes have two, royal dukes, so I was told have three. The king, I suppose, can have as many as he likes, and the people believe in it. Out here it seemed as though the people of England must be shaped in the body, like the kings and queens, knights and pawns of the chessboard. So strange were their differences, so marked and so implicitly believed in. They had to part in order to circumvent a crowd. "'They believe in God,' said Rachel, as they regained each other. She meant that the people in the crowd believed in him. For she remembered the crosses with bleeding plaster figures that stood where footpaths joined, and the inexplicable mystery of a service in a Roman Catholic church. "'We shall never understand,' she sighed. They had walked some way, and it was now night, but they could see a large iron gate a little way farther down the road on their left. "'Do you mean to go right up to the hotel?' Helen asked. Rachel gave the gate a push. It swung open, and seeing no one about, and judging that nothing was private in this country, they walked straight on. An avenue of trees ran along the road, which was completely straight. The trees suddenly came to an end. The road turned a corner, and they found themselves confronted by a large square building. They had come out upon the broad terrace which ran round the hotel, and were only a few feet distant from the windows. A row of long windows opened almost to the ground. They were all of them uncurrent and all brilliantly lighted, so that they could see everything inside. Each window revealed a different section of the life of the hotel. They drew into one of the broad columns of shadow which separated the windows and gazed in. They found themselves just outside the dining room. It was being swept. A waiter was eating a bunch of grapes with his leg across the corner of a table. Next door was the kitchen, where they were washing up. White cooks were dipping their arms into cauldrons while the waiters made their meal voraciously off broken meats, sopping up the gravy with bits of crumb. Moving on they became lost in a plantation of bushes, and then suddenly found themselves outside the drawing room, where the ladies and gentlemen, having dined well, lay back in deep arm-chairs, occasionally speaking or turning over the pages of magazines. A thin woman was flourishing up and down the piano. It is Adahabiya Charles, in the distant voice of a widow, seated in an arm-chair by the window, asked her son. It was the end of the piece, and his answer was lost in the general clearing of throats and tapping of knees. They're all old in this room, Rachel whispered. Creeping on they found that the next window revealed two men in shirt-sleeves playing billiards with two young ladies. He pinched my arm the plump young woman cried, as she missed her stroke. Now you too, no ragging, the young man with the red face reproved them, who was marking. "'Take care, or we shall be seen,' whispered Helen, plucking Rachel by the arm. Incautiously her head had risen to the middle of the window. Turning the corner they came to the largest room in the hotel, which was supplied with four windows, and was called the lounge, although it was really a hall. Hung with armour and native embroideries, furnished with divans and screens, which shut off convenient corners. The room was less formal than the others, and was evidently the haunt of youth. Our Rodriguez, whom they knew to be the manager of the hotel, stood quite near them in the doorway, surveying the scene, the gentlemen lounging in chairs, the couples leaning over coffee cups, the game of cards in the centre under profuse clusters of electric light. He was congratulating himself upon the enterprise which had turned the refactory, the cold stone room with pots on trestles, into the most comfortable room in the house. The hotel was very full, and proved his wisdom in decreeing that no hotel can flourish without a lounge. The people were scattered about in couples or parties of four, and either they were actually better acquainted, or the informal room made their manners easier. Through the open window came an uneven humming sound, like that which rises from a flock of sheep, pent within hurdles at dusk. The card game occupied the centre of the foreground. Helen and Rachel watched them play for some minutes without being able to distinguish a word. Helen was observing one of the men intently. He was a lean, somewhat cadaverous man of about her own age, whose profile was turned to them. And he was the partner of a highly coloured girl, obviously English by birth. Suddenly in the strange way in which some words detach themselves from the rest they heard him say quite distinctly, all you want is practice, Miss Warrington, courage and practice, once no good without the other. Being Elliot, of course Helen exclaimed. She ducked her head immediately, for at the sound of his name he looked up. The game went on for a few minutes, and was then broken up by the approach of a wheeled chair containing a voluminous old lady who paused at the table and said, "'Better luck to-night, Susan?' All the luck saw on our side said a young man who until now had kept his back turned to the window. He appeared to be rather stout and had a thick crop of hair. "'Luck, Mr. Hewitt,' said his partner, a middle-aged lady with spectacles, I assure you, Mrs. Paley, our success is due solely to our brilliant play. "'Unless I go to bed early I get practically no sleep at all,' Mrs. Paley was heard to explain, as if to justify her seizure of Susan, who got up and proceeded to wheel the chair to the door. "'They'll get someone else to take my place,' she said cheerfully. But she was wrong. No attempt was made to find another player, and after the young man had built three stories of a card-house. Which fell down, the players strolled off in different directions. Mr. Hewitt turned his full face towards the window. They could see that he had large eyes obscured by glasses. His complexion was rosy, his lips clean shaven, and seen among ordinary people it appeared to be an interesting face. He came straight towards them, but his eyes were fixed not upon the eavesdroppers, but upon a spot where the curtain hung in folds. "'A sleep,' he said. Helen and Rachel started to think that someone had been sitting near to them unobserved all the time. There were legs in the shadow. A melancholy voice issued from above them. Two women, it said. The scuffling was heard on the gravel. The women had fled. They did not stop running until they felt certain that no eye could penetrate the darkness. And the hotel was only a square shadow in the distance. With red holes regularly cut in it. Chapter 9 Part 1 of the Voyage Out by Virginia Woolf. An hour passed, and the downstairs rooms at the hotel grew dim and were almost deserted. While the little box-like squares above them were brilliantly irradiated. Some forty or fifty people were going to bed. The thump of jugs set down on the floor above could be heard, and the clink of china, for there was not as thick a partition between the rooms as one might wish. So Miss Allen, the elderly lady who had been playing, bridged determined, giving the wall a smart wrap with her knuckles. It was only match-board, she decided, run up to make many little rooms of one large one. Her gray petticoats slipped to the ground, and, stooping, she folded her clothes with neat, if not loving, fingers. Screwed her hair into a plait, wound her father's great gold watch, and opened the complete works of Wordsworth. She was reading the prelude, partly because she always read the prelude abroad, and partly because she was engaged in writing a short primer of English literature, Beowulf to Swinburne, which would have a paragraph on Wordsworth. She was deep in the fifth book, stopping indeed to pencil a note when a pair of boots dropped one after another on the floor above her. She looked up and speculated. Whose boots were they, she wondered. She then became aware of a swishing sound next door. A woman clearly putting away her dress. It was succeeded by a gentle tapping sound, such as that which accompanies hair-dressing. It was very difficult to keep her attention fixed upon the prelude. Was it Susan Warrington tapping? She forced herself, however, to read to the end of the book, when she placed a mark between the pages, hand-contentedly, and then turned out the light. Very different was the room through the wall, though as like in shape as one egg-box is like another. As Miss Allen read her book, Susan Warrington was brushing her hair. Ages have consecrated this hour and the most majestic of all domestic actions. To talk of love between women. But Miss Warrington, being alone, could not talk. She could only look with extreme solicitude at her own face in the glass. She turned her head from side to side, tossing heavy locks now this way, now that, and then withdrew a pace or two and considered herself seriously. I'm nice-looking, she determined. Not pretty, possibly. She drew herself up a little. Yes, most people would say I was handsome. She was really wondering what Arthur Venning would say she was. Her feeling about him was decidedly queer. She would not admit to herself that she was in love with him, or that she wanted to marry him. Yet she spent every minute, when she was alone, in wondering what he thought of her. And in comparing what they had done today with what they had done the day before. He didn't ask me to play, but he certainly followed me into the hall, she meditated, summing up the evening. She was thirty years of age, and owing to the number of her sisters and the seclusion of life in a country parsonage, had as yet had no proposal of marriage. The hour of confidences was often a sad one, and she had been known to jump into bed, treating her hair unkindly, feeling herself overlooked by life in comparison with others. She was a big, well-made woman, the red lying upon her cheeks in patches that were too well-defined, but her serious anxiety gave her a kind of beauty. She was just about to pull back the bed-clothes when she exclaimed, Oh, but I'm forgetting! and went to her writing-table. A brown volume lay there, stamped with the figure of the year. She proceeded to write in the square ugly hand of a mature child, as she wrote daily year after year, keeping the diaries though she seldom looked at them. A.M. talked to Mrs. H. Elliot about country neighbors. She knows the man's, also the selby caraways. How small the world is! Liker read a chapter of Miss Applebee's adventure to Aunt E. P.M. played Lawn Tennis with Mr. Parrot and Evelyn M. Don't like Mr. P. Have a feeling that he is not quite, though clever certainly. Beat them. Day splendid. View wonderful. One gets used to no trees, though much too bare at first. Cards after dinner. Aunt E. cheerful, though twingey, she says. M.M. asked about damp sheets. She knelt in prayer and then lay down in bed, tucking the blankets comfortably about her, and in a few minutes her breathing showed that she was asleep. With its profoundly peaceful size and hesitations it resembled that of a cow standing up to its knees all night through in the long grass. A glance into the next room revealed little more than a nose prominent above the sheets, growing accustomed to the darkness before the windows were open and showed gray squares with splinters of starlight. One could distinguish a lean form, terribly like the body of a dead person. The body, indeed, of William Pepper, asleep too. 36, 37, 38. Here were three Portuguese men of business. asleep presumably, since a snore came with the regularity of a great ticking clock. 39 was a corner room at the end of the passage, but late though it was, one struck gently downstairs. A line of light under the door showed that someone was still awake. How late you are, Hugh, a woman lying in bed, said in a peevish but solicitous voice. Her husband was brushing his teeth and for some moments did not answer. You should have gone to sleep, he replied. I was talking to Thornbury. But you know that I never can sleep when I'm waiting for you, she said. To that he made no answer but only remarked well then will turn out the light. They were silent. The faint but penetrating pulse of an electric bell could now be heard in the corridor. Old Mrs. Paley, have been woken hungry but without her spectacles, was summoning her maid to find the biscuit-box. The maid, having answered the bell, drearily respectful, even at this hour, though muffled in a macintosh. The passage was left in silence. Downstairs all was empty and dark. But on the upper floor, a light still burnt in the room where the boots had dropped so heavily above Miss Allen's head. Here was the gentleman who, a few hours previously, in the shade of the curtain, had seemed to consist entirely of legs. Deep in an armchair he was reading the third volume of Gibbons' history of the decline and fall of Rome by candlelight. As he read he knocked the ash automatically, now and again, from his cigarette, and turned the page. While a whole procession of splendid sentences entered his capacious brow and went marching through his brain in order, it seemed likely that this process might continue for an hour or more, until the entire regimen had shifted its quarters, had not the door opened, and the young man, who was inclined to be stout, come in with large naked feet. Oh, Hearst! What I forgot to say was— Two minutes, said Hearst, raising his finger. He safely stowed away the last words of the paragraph. What was it you forgot to say, he asked? Do you think you do make enough allowance for feelings? asked Mr. Hewitt. He had again forgotten what he had meant to say. After intense contemplation of the immaculate Gibbon, Mr. Hearst smiled at the question of his friend. He laid aside his book and considered. I should call yours a singularly untidy mind, he observed. Feelings? Aren't they just what we do allow for? We put love up there, and all the rest somewhere down below. With his left hand he indicated the top of a pyramid, and with his right the base. But you didn't get out of bed to tell me that, he added severely. I got out of bed, said Hewitt vaguely, merely to talk, I suppose. Meanwhile I shall undress, said Hearst. When naked of all but his shirt, invent over the basin, Mr. Hearst no longer impressed one with the majesty of his intellect, but with the pathos of his young, yet ugly body. For he stooped, and he was so thin that there were dark lines between the different bones of his neck and shoulders. Women interest me, said Hewitt, who, sitting on the bed with his chin resting on his knees, paid no attention to the undressing of Mr. Hearst. They're so stupid, said Hearst. You're sitting on my pajamas. I suppose they are stupid, Hewitt wondered. There can't be two opinions about that, I imagine, said Hearst, hopping briskly across the room. Unless you're in love. That fat woman, Warrington, he inquired. Not one fat woman. All fat women, Hewitt sighed. The women I saw tonight were not fat, said Hearst, who was taking advantage of Hewitt's company to cut his toenails. Describe them, said Hewitt. You know I can't describe things, said Hewitt. They were much like other women, I should think. They always are. No, that's where we differ, said Hewitt. I say everything's different. No two people are in the least the same. Take you and me now. So I used to think once, said Hearst. But now they're all types. Don't take us. Take this hotel. You could draw circles round the whole lot of them, and they'd never stray outside. You can kill a hen by doing that, Hewitt murmured. Mr. Hewling Elliot, Mrs. Hewling Elliot, Ms. Allen, Mr. and Mrs. Thornbury, one circle, Hearst continued. Ms. Warrington, Mr. Arthur Venning, Mr. Parrot, Evelyn M., another circle. Then there are a whole lot of natives. Only ourselves. Are we all alone in our circle? asked Hewitt. Quite alone, said Hearst. You try to get out, but you can't. You only make a mess of things by trying. I'm not a hen in a circle, said Hewitt. I'm a dove on a treetop. I wonder if this is what they call an ingrowing toenail, said Hearst, examining the big toe on his left foot. I flit from branch to branch, continued Hewitt. The world is profoundly pleasant. He lay back on the bed, upon his arms. I wonder if it's really nice to be as vague as you are, asked Hearst, looking at him. It's the lack of continuity. That's what's so odd about you, he went on. At the age of twenty-seven, which is nearly thirty, you seem to have drawn no conclusions. A party of old women excites you still, as though you were three. Hewitt contemplated the angular young man, who was neatly brushing the rims of his toenails into the fireplace in silence for a moment. I respect you, Hearst, he remarked. I envy you, some things, said Hearst. One, your capacity for not thinking. Two, people like you better than they like me. Women like you, I suppose. I wonder whether that isn't really what matters most, said Hewitt. Lying now flat on the bed, he waved his hand in vague circles above him. Of course it is, said Hearst. But that's not the difficulty. The difficulty is, isn't it, to find an appropriate object. There are no female hens in your circle, asked Hewitt. Not the ghost of one, said Hearst. Although they had known each other for three years, Hearst had never yet heard the true story of Hewitt's loves. In general conversation it was taken for granted that they were many. But in private the subject was allowed to lapse. The fact that he had money enough to do no work, and that he had left Cambridge after two terms owing to a difference with the authorities, and had been traveled and drifted, made his life strange at many points where his friends' lives were much of a piece. I don't see your circles. I don't see them, Hewitt continued. I see a thing like a teetotem spinning in and out, knocking into things, dashing from side to side, collecting numbers, more and more and more, till the whole place is thick with them. Round and round they go, out there, over the rim, out of sight. His fingers showed that the waltzing teetotems had spun over the edge of the counterpane and fallen off the bed into infinity. Could you contemplate three weeks alone in this hotel, asked Hearst after a moment's pause? Hewitt proceeded to think. The truth of it is that one never is alone, and one never is in company, he concluded. Meaning, said Hearst. Meaning owes something about bubbles, auras, what do you call them? You can't see my bubble, I can't see yours. All we see of each other is a speck, like the wick in the middle of that flame. The flame goes about with us everywhere. It's not ourselves exactly, but what we feel. The world is short. Or people, mainly. All kinds of people. A nice streaky bubble yours must be, said Hearst. And supposing my bubble could run into someone else's bubble. And they both burst, put in Hearst. Then, then, then, pondered Hewitt, as if to himself. It would be an enormous world, he said, stretching his arms to their full width, as though even so they could hardly clasp the billowy universe. For when he was with Hearst he always felt unusually sanguine and vague. I don't think you altogether as foolish as I used to, Hewitt, said Hearst. You don't know what you mean, but you try to say it. But aren't you enjoying yourself here, asked Hewitt? On the whole, yes, said Hearst. I like observing people. I like looking at things. This country is amazingly beautiful. Did you notice how the top of the mountain turned yellow tonight? Only we must take our lunch and spend the day out. You're getting disgustingly fat. He pointed at the calf of Hewitt's bare leg. We'll get up in expedition, said Hewitt, energetically. We'll ask the entire hotel. We'll hire donkeys, and— Oh, Lord, said Hearst, do shut it. I can see Miss Warrington and Miss Allen, and Mrs. Elliott and the rest, swatting on the stones and quacking how jolly. We'll ask Venning and Parrot and Miss Murgatroyd. Everyone we can lay hands on went on Hewitt. What's the name of the little old grasshopper with the eyeglasses? Pepper? Pepper shall lead us. Thank God you'll never get the donkeys, said Hearst. I must make a note of that, said Hewitt, slowly dropping his feet to the floor. Hearst escorts Miss Warrington. Pepper advances alone on a white ass. Provisions equally distributed. Or shall we hire a mule? The Matrons, there's Mrs. Paley by Joe, share a carriage. That's where you'll go wrong, said Hearst, putting the virgins among Matrons. How long should you think that an expedition like that would take, Hearst, asked Hewitt? From twelve to sixteen hours, I would say, said Hearst. The time usually occupied by a first confinement. It will need considerable organization, said Hewitt. He was now patting softly round the room, and stopped to stir the books on the table. They lay heaped one upon another. We shall want some poets, too, he remarked. Not given, no. Do you happen to have modern love? Or, John, done? You see, I contemplate pauses when people get tired of looking at the view. And then it would be nice to read something rather difficult, aloud. Mrs. Paley will enjoy herself, said Hearst. Mrs. Paley will enjoy it, certainly, said Hewitt. It's one of the saddest things I know, the way elderly ladies cease to read poetry. And yet how appropriate this is. I speak as one who plums life's dim profound, one who at length can sound clear views and certain, but after love what comes, a scene that lours, a few sad vacant hours, and then the curtain. I daresay Mrs. Paley is the only one of us who can really understand that. We'll ask her, said Hearst. Please, Hewitt, if you must go to bed, draw my curtain. A few things distress me more than the moonlight. Hewitt retreated, pressing the poems of Thomas Hardy beneath his arm. And in their beds next door to each other, both the young men were soon asleep. Between the extinction of Hewitt's candle and the rising of a dusky Spanish boy, who was the first to survey the desolation of the hotel in the early morning, a few hours of silence intervened. One could almost hear a hundred people breathing deeply. And however wakeful and restless it would have been hard to escape sleep in the middle of so much sleep. Looking out of the windows there was only darkness to be seen. All over the shadowed half of the world people lay prone. And a few flickering lights in empty streets marked the places where their cities were built. Red and yellow omnibuses were crowding each other in Piccadilly. Sumptuous women were rocking at a standstill. But here in the darkness an owl flitted from tree to tree. And when the breeze lifted the branches, the moon flashed as if it were a torch. Until all people should awake again the houseless animals were abroad. The tigers and the stags and the elephants coming down in the darkness to drink at pools. The wind at night blowing over the hills and woods was purer and fresher than the wind by day. And the earth robbed of detail, more mysterious than the earth colored and divided by roads and fields. For six hours this profound beauty existed. And then as the east grew whiter and whiter the ground swam to the surface. The roads were revealed. The smoke rose and the people stirred and the sun shone upon the windows of the hotel at Santa Marina. Until they were uncurtained. And the gong blaring all through the house gave notice of breakfast. Directly breakfast was over. The ladies as usual circled vaguely. Picking up papers and putting them down again about the hall. What are you going to do today? asked Mrs. Elliot, drifting up against Miss Warrington. Mrs. Elliot, the wife of Huling, the Oxford Don, was a short woman whose expression was habitually plaintive. Her eyes moved from thing to thing as though they never found anything sufficiently pleasant to rest upon for any length of time. I'm going to try to get Aunt Emma out into the town, said Susan. She's not seen a thing yet. I call it so spirited of her at her age, said Mrs. Elliot. Coming all this way from her own fireside. Yes, we always tell her she'll die on board ship, Susan replied. She was born on one, she added. In the old days, said Mrs. Elliot, the great many people were. I always pity the poor women so. We've got a lot to complain of. She shook her head. Her eyes wandered about the table and she remarked irrelevantly. The poor little queen of Holland. Newspaper reporters practically, one may say, at her bedroom door. Were you talking of the Queen of Holland? said the pleasant voice of Miss Allen, who was searching for the thick pages of the times among the litter of thin foreign sheets. I always envy anyone who lives in such an excessively flat country, she remarked. How very strange, said Mrs. Elliot. I find a flat country so depressing. I'm afraid you can't be very happy here then, Miss Allen, said Susan. On the contrary, said Miss Allen. I am exceedingly fond of mountains. Perceiving the time set some distance, she moved off to secure it. Well, I must find my husband, said Mrs. Elliot, fidgeting away. And I must go to my aunt, said Miss Warrington. And taking up the duties of the day, they moved away. Whether the flimsiness of foreign sheets and the coarseness of their type is any proof of frivolity and ignorance, there is no doubt that English people scarce consider news red there as news. Any more than a programme bought from a man in the street inspires confidence in what it says. A very respectable elderly pair, having inspected the long tables of newspapers, did not think it worth their while to read more than the headlines. The debate on the fifteenth should have reached us by now, Mrs. Thornbury murmured. Mr. Thornbury, who was beautifully clean, and had red rubbed into his handsome worn face like traces of paint on a weather-beaten wooden figure, looked over his glasses and saw that Miss Allen had the times. The couple therefore sat themselves down in arm-chairs and waited. I was telling my husband how much you reminded me of a dear old friend of mine, Mary Ampleby. She was a most delightful woman I assure you. She grew roses. We used to stay with her in the old days. No young man likes to have it said that he resembles an elderly spinster, said Mr. Thornbury. On the contrary, said Mr. Hewitt, I always think it a compliment to remind people of someone else. But Mrs. Ampleby, why did she grow roses? Ah, poor thing, said Mrs. Thornbury. That's a long story. She had gone through dreadful sorrows. At one time I think she would have lost her senses if it hadn't been for her garden. The soil was very much against her. A blessing in disguise. She had to be up at dawn, out in all weathers. And then there are creatures that eat roses. But she triumphed. She always did. She was a brave soul. She sighed deeply at the same time with resignation. I did not realize that I was monopolizing the paper, said Miss Allen, coming up to them. We were so anxious to read about the debate, said Mrs. Thornbury, accepting it on behalf of her husband. One doesn't realize how interesting a debate can be until one has sons in the Navy. My interests are equally balanced, though. I have sons in the Army, too, and one son who makes speeches at the Union. My baby. Hurst would know him, I expect, said Hewitt. Mr. Hurst has such an interesting face, said Mrs. Thornbury. But I feel one ought to be very clever to talk to him. Well, William, she inquired, or Mr. Thornbury grunted. They're making a mess of it, said Mr. Thornbury. He had reached the second column of the report, a spasmodic column, for the Irish members had been brawling three weeks ago at Westminster over a question of naval efficiency. After a disturbed paragraph or two, the column of print wants more ran smoothly. You have read it, Mrs. Thornbury asked Miss Allen. No, I am ashamed to say I have only read about the discoveries in Crete, said Miss Allen. Oh, but I would give so much to realize the ancient world, cried Mrs. Thornbury. Now that we old people are alone, we're on our second honeymoon. I am really going to put myself to school again. After all, we are founded on the past, aren't we, Mr. Hewitt? My soldier's son says that there is still a great deal to be learned from Hannibal. One ought to know so much more than one does. Somehow when I read the paper, I begin with the debates first. But before I've done, the door always opens. We're a very large party at home. And so one never does think enough about the ancients and all they've done for us. But you begin at the beginning, Miss Allen. When I think of the Greeks, I think of them as naked black men, said Miss Allen, which is quite incorrect, I'm sure. And you, Mr. Hearst? said Mrs. Thornbury, perceiving that the gaunt young man was nearer. I'm sure you read everything. I confine myself to cricket and crime, said Hearst. The worst of coming from the upper classes, he continued, is that one's friends are never killed in railway accidents. Mr. Thornbury threw down the paper and emphatically dropped his eyeglasses. The sheets fell in the middle of the group and were eyed by them all. It's not gone well? asked his wife solicitously. Hewitt picked up one sheet and read. A lady was walking yesterday in the streets of Westminster. When she perceived a cat in the window of a deserted house, the famished animal, I shall be out of it anyway, Mr. Thornbury interrupted peevishly. Cats are often forgotten, Miss Allen remarked. Remember, William, the Prime Minister has reserved his answer, said Mrs. Thornbury. At the age of eighty, Mr. Joshua Harris of Eales Park, Bronsbury, has had a son, said Hearst. The famished animal, which had been noticed by workmen for some days, was rescued. But by Joe, it bit the man's hand to pieces. Wild with hunger, I suppose, commented Miss Allen. You're all neglecting the chief advantage of being abroad, said Mr. Hewitt, who had joined the group. You might read your news in French, which is equivalent to reading no news at all. Mr. Eliot had a profound knowledge of Coptic, which he concealed as far as possible, and quoted French phrases so exquisitely that it was hard to believe that he could also speak the ordinary tongue. He had an immense respect for the French. Coming, he asked the two young men, we ought to start before it's really hot. I beg of you not to walk in the heat, Hewitt. His wife pleaded, giving him an angular parcel, enclosing half a chicken and some raisins. Hewitt will be our barometer, said Mr. Eliot. He will melt before I shall. Indeed, if so much as a drop had melted off his spare ribs, the bones would have lain bare. The ladies were left alone now, surrounding the times which lay upon the floor. Ms. Allen looked at her father's watch. Ten minutes to eleven she observed. Work, asked Mrs. Tharnbury. Work, replied Miss Allen. What a fine creature she is, murmured Mrs. Tharnbury. As the square figure in its manly coat withdrew. And I'm sure she has a hard life, said Mrs. Eliot. Oh, it is a hard life, said Mrs. Tharnbury. Unmarried women, earning their livings. It's the hardest life of all. Yet she seems pretty cheerful, said Mrs. Eliot. It must be very interesting, said Mrs. Tharnbury. I envy her, her knowledge. But that isn't what women want, said Mrs. Eliot. I'm afraid it's all a great many can hope to have, sighed Mrs. Tharnbury. I believe that there are more of us than ever now. Sir Harley Lethbridge was telling me only the other day how difficult it is to find boys for the navy. Partly because of their teeth it is true. And I have heard young women talk quite openly of— Dreadful, dreadful, exclaimed Mrs. Eliot. The crown, as one may call it, of a woman's life. I, who know what it is to be childless, she sighed and ceased. But we must not be hard, said Mrs. Tharnbury. The conditions are so much changed since I was a young woman. Surely maternity does not change, said Mrs. Eliot. In some ways we can learn a great deal from the young, said Mrs. Tharnbury. I learned so much from my own daughters. I believe that Hewling really doesn't mind, said Mrs. Eliot. But then he has his work. Women without children can do so much for the children of others, observed Mrs. Tharnbury gently. I sketch a great deal, said Mrs. Eliot. But that isn't really an occupation. It's so disconcerting to find girls just beginning, doing better than one does oneself. And nature's difficult. Very difficult. Are there not institutions, clubs, that you could help, asked Mrs. Tharnbury? They are so exhausting, said Mrs. Eliot. I looked strong because of my color, but I'm not. The youngest of eleven never is. If the mother is careful before, said Mrs. Tharnbury judicially, there is no reason why the size of the family should make any difference. And there is no training like the training that brothers and sisters give each other. I am sure of that. I have seen it with my own children. My eldest boy Ralph, for instance. But Mrs. Eliot was inattentive to the elder lady's experience, and her eyes wandered about the hall. My mother had two miscarriages, I know, she said suddenly. The first because she met one of those great dancing bears. They shouldn't be allowed. The other. It was a horrid story. Our cook had a child, and there was a dinner party. So I put my dyspepsia down to that. And a miscarriage is so much worse than a confinement, Mrs. Tharnbury murmured absentmindedly, adjusting her spectacles and picking up the times. Mrs. Eliot rose and fluttered away. When she had heard what one of the million voices speaking in the paper had to say, and noticed that a cousin of hers had married a clergyman at minehead, ignoring the drunken women, the golden animals of Crete, the movements of battalions, the dinners, the reforms, the fires, the indignant, the learned and benevolent, Mrs. Tharnbury went upstairs to write a letter for the male. The paper laid directly beneath the clock, the two together seeming to represent stability in a changing world. Mr. Parrot passed through. Mr. Benning poised for a second on the edge of a table. Mrs. Paley was wheeled past. Susan followed. Mr. Benning strolled after her. Portuguese military families, their clothes suggesting late rising in untidy bedrooms, trailed across, attended by confidential nurses carrying noisy children. As midday drew on and the sun beat straight upon the roof, an eddy of great flies droned in a circle. Iced drinks were served under the palms. The long blinds were pulled down with a shriek, turning all the light yellow. The clock now had a silent hall to tick in, and an audience of four or five somnolent merchants. By degrees white figures with shady hats came in at the door, admitting a wedge of the hot summer day, and shutting it out again. After resting in the dimness for a minute they went upstairs. Simultaneously the clock wheezed one, and the gong sounded, turning softly, working itself into a frenzy and ceasing. There was a pause. Then all those who had gone upstairs came down. Cripples came, planting both feet on the same step lest they should slip. Prim little girls came, holding the nurse's finger. Fat old men came, still buttoning waskets. The gong had been sounded in the garden, and by degrees recumbent figures rose and strolled in to eat. Since the time had come for them to feed again. There were pools and bars of shade in the garden even at midday, where two or three visitors could lie working or talking at their ease. Owing to the heat of the day luncheon was generally a silent meal, and people observed their neighbors and took stock of any new faces there might be. Hazarding guesses as to who they were and what they did. Mrs. Paley, although well over seventy, and crippled in the legs, enjoyed her food and the peculiarities of her fellow beings. She was seated at a small table with Susan. I shouldn't like to say what she is. She chuckled surveying a tall woman dressed conspicuously in white, with paint in the hollows of her cheeks, who was always late and always attended by a shabby female follower, at which remark Susan blushed and wondered why her aunt said such things. Lunch went on methodically until each of the seven courses was left in fragments, and the fruit was merely a toy. To be peeled and sliced as a child destroys a daisy, petal by petal. The food served as an extinguisher upon any faint flame of the human spirit that might survive the midday heat. But Susan sat in her room afterwards, turning over and over the delightful fact that Mr. Benning had come to her in the garden, and had sat there quite half an hour while she read aloud to her aunt. Men and women sought different corners where they could lie unobserved, and from two to four it might be said without exaggeration that the hotel was inhabited by bodies without souls. Disasterous would have been the result if a fire or a death had suddenly demanded something heroic of human nature. But tragedies come in the hungry hours. Towards four o'clock the human spirit again began to lick the body, as a flame licks a black promontory of coal. Mrs. Paley felt it unseemly to open her toothless jaw so widely, though there was no one near. And Mrs. Elliott surveyed her round, flushed her face anxiously in the looking glass. Half an hour later, having removed the traces of sleep, they met each other in the hall. And Mrs. Paley observed that she was going to have her tea. "'You like your tea too, don't you?' she said, and invited Mrs. Elliott, whose husband was still out, to join her at a special table which she had placed for her under a tree. A little silver goes a long way in this country,' she chuckled. She sent Susan back to fetch another cup. "'They have such excellent biscuits here,' she said, contemplating a plateful. Not sweet biscuits, which I don't like. Dry biscuits. Have you been sketching?' "'Oh, I've done two or three little doves,' said Mrs. Elliott, making rather louder than usual. But it's so difficult after Oxfordshire, where there are so many trees. The light's so strong here. Some people admire it, I know. But I find it very fatiguing.' "'I really don't need cooking,' Susan,' said Mrs. Paley, when her niece returned. "'I must trouble you to move me. Everything had to be moved. Finally the old lady was placed so that the light wavered over her, as though she were a fish in a net. Susan poured out tea, and was just remarking that they were having hot weather in Wiltshire, too, when Mr. Venning asked whether he might join them. "'It's so nice to find a young man who doesn't despise tea,' said Mrs. Paley, regaining her good humour. One of my nephews the other day asked for a glass of sherry at five o'clock. I told him he could get it at the public house round the corner, but not in my drawing room. "'I'd rather go without lunch than tea,' said Mr. Venning. "'That's not strictly true. I want both.' Mr. Venning was a dark young man, about thirty-two years of age, very slap-dash and confident in his manner, although at this moment obviously a little excited. His friend Mr. Parrott was a barrister, and as Mr. Parrott refused to go anywhere without Mr. Venning, it was necessary when Mr. Parrott came to Santa Marina about a company, for Mr. Venning to come, too. He was a barrister also, but he loathed a profession which kept him indoors over books. And directly his widowed mother died, he was going, so he confided to Susan, to take up flying seriously and become partner in a large business for making aeroplanes. The talk rambled on. It dealt, of course, with the beauties and singularities of the place, the streets, the people, and the quantities of unowned yellow dogs. "'Don't you think it dreadfully cruel the way they treat dogs in this country?' asked Mrs. Paley. "'I'd have them all shot,' said Mr. Venning. "'Oh, but the darling puppies,' said Susan. "'Jolly little chaps,' said Mr. Venning. "'Look here. You've got nothing to eat. A great wedge of cake was handed, Susan, on the point of a trembling knife. Her hand trembled, too, as she took it. "'I have such a dear dog at home,' said Mrs. Elliott. "'My parrot can't stand dogs,' said Mrs. Paley, with the air of one making a confidence. I always suspect that he or she was teased by a dog when I was abroad.' "'You didn't get far this morning, Miss Warrington,' said Mr. Venning. "'It was hot,' she answered. Their conversation became private, owing to Mrs. Paley's deafness and long sad history, which Mrs. Elliott had embarked upon, of a wire-haired terrier, white with just one black spot, belonging to an uncle of hers, which had committed suicide. Animals do commit suicide, she sighed, as if she asserted a painful fact. "'Couldn't we explore the town this evening?' Mr. Venning suggested. "'My aunt,' Susan began. "'You deserve a holiday,' he said. "'You're always doing things for other people.' "'But that's my life,' she said, under cover of refilling the teapot. "'That's no one's life,' he returned. "'No young persons. "'You'll come?' "'I should like to come,' she murmured. "'At this moment Mrs. Elliott looked up and exclaimed. "'Oh, Hugh!' "'He's bringing someone,' she added. "'He would like some tea,' said Mrs. Paley. "'Susan, run and get some cups. "'There are the two young men.' "'We're thirsting for tea,' said Mr. Elliott. "'You know Mr. Ambrose, Hilda?' "'We met on the hill. "'He dragged me in,' said Ridley, "'or I should have been ashamed. "'I'm dusty and dirty and disagreeable.' He pointed to his boots which were white with dust, while a dejected flower drooping in his buttonhole, like an exhausted animal over a gate, added to the effect of length and untidiness. He was introduced to the others. Mr. Hewitt and Mr. Hurst brought chairs. And tea began again. Susan pouring cascades of water from pot to pot. Always cheerfully and with the competence of long use. My wife's brother Ridley explained to Hilda, whom he failed to remember. "'Has a house here,' which he has lent us. I was sitting on a rock, thinking of nothing at all, when Elliott started up like a fairy in a pantomime. "'Our chicken got into the salt,' Hewitt said dolefully to Susan. "'Nor is it true that bananas include moisture as well as sustenance.' Hurst was already drinking. "'We've been cursing you,' said Ridley, in answer to Mrs. Elliott's kind inquiries about his wife. "'You tourists seed up all the eggs,' Helen tells me. "'That's an eyesore, too.' He nodded his head at the hotel. Disgusting luxury, I call it. We live like pigs in the drawing-room.' "'The food is not at all what it ought to be, considering the price,' said Mrs. Paley seriously. "'But unless one goes to a hotel, where is one to go to?' "'Stay at home,' said Ridley. I often wish I had. Everyone ought to stay at home. But of course they won't.' Mrs. Paley conceived a certain grudge against Ridley, who seemed to be criticizing her habits after an acquaintance of five minutes. "'I believe in foreign travel myself,' she stated. "'If one knows one's native land, which I think I can honestly say I do, I should not allow anyone to travel until they had visited Kent and Dorseture— Kent for the hops and Dorseture for its old stone cottages. There is nothing to compare with them here.' "'Yes, I always think that some people like the flat, and other people like the Downs,' said Mrs. Elliott rather vaguely. Hurst, who had been eating and drinking without interruption, now lit a cigarette and observed, "'Oh, but we're all agreed by this time that nature's a mistake. She's either very ugly, appallingly uncomfortable, or absolutely terrifying. I don't know which alarms me most, a cow or a tree. I once met a cow in a field by night. The creature looked at me. I assure you it turned my hair gray. It's a disgrace that the animal should be allowed to go at large.' And what did the cow think of him? Benning mumbled to Susan, who immediately decided in her own mind that Mr. Hurst was a dreadful young man, and that although he had such an air of being clever, he probably wasn't as clever as Arthur. In the ways that really matter. Wasn't it wild who discovered the fact that nature makes no allowance for hip bones, inquired Hewling Elliott? He knew by this time exactly what scholarships and distinction Hurst enjoyed, and had formed a very high opinion of his capacities. But Hurst merely drew his lips together very tightly, and made no reply. Ridley conjectured that it was now permissible for him to take his leave. Politeness required him to thank Mrs. Elliott for his tea, and to add with a wave of his hand. You must come up and see us. The wave included both Hurst and Hewitt. And Hewitt answered, I should like it immensely. The party broke up, and Susan, who had never felt so happy in her life, was just about to start for her walk in the town with Arthur. When Mrs. Paley beckoned her back, she could not understand from the book how double demon patience is played, and suggested that if they sat down and worked it out together, it would fill up the time nicely before dinner. End of Chapter 9 Chapter 10 of the voyage out by Virginia Wool. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Among the promises which Mrs. Ambrose had made her niece, should she stay, was a room cut off from the rest of the house, large, private, a room in which she could play, read, think, defy the world, a fortress as well as a sanctuary, rooms she knew became more like worlds than rooms at the age of twenty-four. Her judgment was correct, and when she shut the door, Rachel entered an enchanted place, where the poet sang and things fell into the right proportions. Some days after the vision of the hotel by night, she was sitting alone, sunk in an armchair, reading a brightly colored red volume, lettered on the back, works of Henrik Ibsen. Music was open on the piano, and books of music rose in two jagged pillars on the floor. But for the moment music was deserted. Far from looking bored or absent-minded, her eyes were concentrated almost sternly upon the page. And from her breathing, which was slow but repressed, it could be seen that her whole body was constrained by the working of her mind. At last she shut the book sharply, laid back, and drew a deep breath expressive of the wonder which always marks the transition from the imaginary world to the real world. What I want to know, she said aloud, is this. What is the truth? What's the truth of it all? She was speaking partly as herself, and partly as the heroine of the play she had just read. The landscape outside, because she had seen nothing but print for the space of two hours, now appeared amazingly solid and clear. But although there were men on the hill, washing the trunks of olive trees with a white liquid, for the moment she herself was the most vivid thing in it, an heroic statue in the middle of the foreground, dominating the view. Ibsen's plays always left her in that condition. She acted them for days at a time, greatly to Helen's amusement, and then it would be Meredith's turn, and she became Diana of the crossways. But Helen was aware that it was not all acting, and that some sort of change was taking place in the human being. When Rachel became tired of the rigidity of her pose on the back of the chair, she turned round, slid comfortably down into it, and gazed out over the furniture through the window opposite, which opened on the garden. Her mind wandered away from Nora. But she went on thinking of things that the book suggested to her, of women and life. During the three months she had been here, she had made up considerably, as Helen meant she should, for time spent in interminable walks round sheltered gardens, and the household gossip of her aunts. But Mrs. Ambrose would have been the first to disclaim any influence or indeed any belief that two influence was within her power. She saw her less shy and less serious, which was all to the good, and the violent leaps and the interminable mazes, which had led to that result, were usually not even guessed at by her. Talk was the medicine she trusted to. Talk about everything. Talk that was free, unguarded. And as candid as a habit of talking with men made natural in her own case. Nor did she encourage those habits of unselfishness and amiability founded upon insincerity, which are put at so high a value in mixed households of men and women. She desired that Rachel should think, and for this reason offered books and discouraged two entire dependents upon Bach and Beethoven and Wagner. But when Mrs. Ambrose would have suggested Defoe, Mopassant, or some spacious chronicle of family life, Rachel chose modern books, books in shiny yellow covers, books with a great deal of gilding on the back, which were tokens in her aunts' eyes of harsh wrangling and disputes about facts which had no such importance as the moderns claimed for them. But she did not interfere. Rachel read what she chose. Reading with the curious literalness of one to whom written sentences are unfamiliar, and handling words as though they were made of wood, separately of great importance, and possessed of shapes like tables or chairs. In this way she came to conclusions which had to be remodeled according to the adventures of the day, and were indeed recast as liberally as any one could desire, leaving always a small grain of belief behind them. Ibsen was succeeded by a novel, such as Mrs. Ambrose detested, whose purpose was to distribute the guilt of a woman's downfall upon the right shoulders, a purpose which was achieved if the reader's discomfort or any proof of it. She threw the book down, looked out of the window, turned away from the window, and relapsed into an armchair. The morning was hot, and the exercise of reading left her mind contracting and expanding like the mainspring of a clock. The sounds of the garden outside joined with the clock, and the small noises of midday, which one can ascribe to no definite cause, in a regular rhythm. It was all very real, very big, very impersonal, and after a moment or two she began to raise her first finger, and to let it fall on the arm of her chair, so as to bring back to herself. Some consciousness of her own existence. She was next overcome by the unspeakable queerness of the fact that she should be sitting in an armchair, in the morning, in the middle of the world. Who were the people moving in the house, moving things from one place to another? And life, what was that? It was only a light passing over the surface and vanishing. As in time she would vanish, though the furniture in the room would remain. Her dissolution became so complete that she could not raise her finger any more, and set perfectly still, listening and looking always at the same spot. It became stranger and stranger. She was overcome with awe that things should exist at all. She forgot that she had any fingers to raise. The things that existed were so immense and so desolate. She continued to be conscious of these vast masses of substance, for a long stretch of time, the clock still ticking in the midst of the universal silence. Come in, she said mechanically, for a string in her brain seemed to be pulled by a persistent knocking at the door. With great slowness the door opened and a tall human being came towards her, holding out her arm and saying, What am I to say to this? The utter absurdity of a woman coming into a room with a piece of paper in her hand amazed Rachel. I don't know what to answer or who Terence Hewitt is. Helen continued in the toneless voice of a ghost. She put a paper before Rachel, on which were written the incredible words. Dear Mrs. Ambrose, I am getting up a picnic for next Friday, when we propose to start at eleven thirty if the weather is fine, and to make the ascent of Monte Rosa. It will take some time, but the view should be magnificent. It would give me great pleasure if you and Ms. Vin-Race would consent to be of the party. Yours sincerely, Terence Hewitt. Rachel read the words aloud to make herself believe in them, for the same reason she put her hand on Helen's shoulder. Books, books, books, said Helen in her absent-minded way. More new books. I wonder what you find in them. For the second time Rachel read the letter, but to herself. This time, instead of seeming vague as ghosts, each word was astonishingly prominent. They came out as the tops of mountains come through a mist. Friday, eleven thirty. Ms. Vin-Race. The blood began to run in her veins. She felt her eyes brighten. We must go, she said, rather surprising Helen by her decision. We must certainly go. Such was the relief of finding that things still happened. And indeed they appeared the brighter for the mist surrounding them. Monte Rosa. That's the mountain over there, isn't it? said Helen. But Hewitt, who's he? One of the young men Ridley met, I suppose. Shall I say yes, then? It may be dreadfully dull. She took the letter back and went, for the messenger was waiting for her answer. The party which had been suggested a few nights ago in Mr. Hurst's bedroom had taken shape, and was the source of great satisfaction to Mr. Hewitt, who had seldom used his practical abilities, and was pleased to find them equal to the strain. His invitations had been universally accepted, which was the more encouraging, as they had been issued against Hurst's advice to people who were very dull, not at all suited to each other, and not sure to come. Undoubtedly, he said, as he twirled and untwirled a note signed Helen Ambrose, the gifts needed to make a great commander have been absurdly overrated. About half the intellectual effort which is needed to review a book of modern poetry has enabled me to get together seven or eight people of opposite sexes at the same spot at the same hour on the same day. What else is generalship Hurst? What more did Wellington do on the field of Waterloo? It's like counting the number of pebbles of a path, tedious but not difficult. He was sitting in his bedroom, one leg over the arm of the chair, and Hurst was writing a letter opposite. Hurst was quick to point out that all the difficulties remained. For instance, here are two women you've never seen. Suppose one of them suffers from mountain sickness, as my sister does, and the other. Oh, the women are for you, Hewitt interrupted. I asked them solely for your benefit. What you want, Hurst, you know, is the society of young women of your own age. You don't know how to get on with women, which is a great defect, considering that half the world consists of women. Hurst groaned that he was quite aware of that. But Hewitt's complacency was a little chilled as he walked with Hurst to the place where a general meeting had been appointed. He wondered why on earth he had asked these people, and what one really expected to get from bunching human beings up together. Cows, he reflected, draw together in a field, ships in a calm, and we're just the same when we've nothing else to do. But why do we do it? Is it to prevent ourselves from seeing to the bottom of things? He stopped by a stream and began stirring it with his walking stick and clouding the water with mud. Making cities and mountains and whole universes out of nothing. Or do we really love each other? Or do we, on the other hand, live in a state of perpetual uncertainty, knowing nothing, leaping from moment to moment, as from world to world, which is on the whole, the view I inclined to. He jumped over the stream. Hurst went round and joined him, remarking that he had long ceased to look for the reason of any human action. Half a mile further they came to a group of plain trees, and the salmon-pink farmhouse standing by the stream which had been chosen as meeting-place. It was a shady spot, lying conveniently just where the hills sprung out from the flat. Between the thin stems of the plain trees the young men could see little knots of donkeys pasturing, and a tall woman rubbing the nose of one of them, while another woman was kneeling by the stream, lapping water out of her palms. As they entered the shady place Helen looked up and then held out her hand. I must introduce myself, she said. I am Mrs. Ambrose. Having shaken hands, she said. That's my niece. Rachel approached awkwardly. She held out her hand but withdrew it. It's all wet, she said. Scarcely had they spoken when the first carriage drew up. The donkeys were quickly jerked into attention, and the second carriage arrived. By degrees the grove filled with people—the Elliott's, the Thornburys, Mr. Venning and Susan, Ms. Allen, Evelyn Murgatroyd and Mr. Parrot. Mr. Hurst acted the part of horse-energetic sheep-dog. By means of a few words of caustic Latin he had the animals marshalled, and by inclining a sharp shoulder he lifted the ladies. What Hewitt fails to understand, he remarked, is that we must break the back of the ascent before midday. He was assisting a young lady, by name Evelyn Murgatroyd, as he spoke. She rose light as a bubble to her seat, with a feather drooping from a broad-brimmed hat, in white from top to toe. She looked like a gallant lady of the time of Charles the First, leading royalist troops into action. Ride with me, she commanded, and as soon as Hurst had swung himself across a mule, the two started, leading the cavalcade. You're not to call me Ms. Murgatroyd, I hate it, she said. My name's Evelyn, what's yours? Singen, he said. I like that, said Evelyn, and what's your friend's name? His initials being R.S. Murgatroyd. We call him Monk, said Hurst. Oh, you're all too clever, she said. Which way? Pick me a branch, let's canter. She gave her donkey a sharp cut with a switch and started forward. The full and romantic career of Evelyn Murgatroyd is best hit off by her own words. Call me Evelyn, and I'll call you Singen. She said that on very slight provocation. Her surname was enough, but although a great many young men had answered her already with considerable spirit, she went on saying it and making choice of none. But her donkey stumbled to a job trot, and she had to ride in advance alone, for the path when it began to ascend one of the spines of the hill became narrow and scattered with stones. The cavalcade wound on like a jointed caterpillar, tufted at the white parasols of the ladies and the Panama hats of the gentlemen. At one point where the ground rose sharply, Evelyn M jumped off through her reins to the native boy and adjured Singen Hurst to dismount two. Their example was followed by those who felt the need of stretching. I don't see any need to get off, said Miss Allen to Mrs. Elliott just behind her, considering the difficulty I had getting on. These little donkeys stand anything, Nespah, Mrs. Elliott addressed the guide, who obligingly bowed his head. Flowers, said Helen, stooping to pick the lovely little bright flowers which grew separately here and there. You pinch their leaves and then they smell, she said, laying one on Miss Allen's knee. Haven't we met before, asked Miss Allen, looking at her. I was taking it for granted, Helen laughed, for in the confusion of meeting they had not been introduced. How sensible, chirped Mrs. Elliott. That's just what one would always like, only unfortunately it's not possible. Not possible, said Helen. Everything's possible. Who knows what may and happen before nightfall. She continued mocking the poor lady's timidity. Who depended implicitly upon one thing following another. That the mere glimpse of a world where dinner could be disregarded. Or the table moved one inch from its accustomed place. Filled her with fears for her own stability. Higher and higher they went, becoming separated from the world. The world, when they turned to look back, flattened itself out, and was marked with squares of thin green and gray. Towns are very small, Rachel remarked, obscuring the whole of Santa Marina and its suburbs with one hand. The sea filled in all the angles of the coast smoothly. Breaking in a white frill. And here and there ships were set firmly in the blue. The sea was stained with purple and green blots. And there was a glittering line upon the rim, where it met the sky. The air was very clear and silent, save for the sharp noise of grasshoppers at the home of bees. Which sounded loud in the ear as they shot past and vanished. The party halted and sat for a time in a quarry on the hillside. Amazingly clear exclaimed St. John, identifying one cleft in the land after another. Evelyn M. sat beside him, propping her chin on her hand. She surveyed the view with a certain look of triumph. Do you think Garibaldi was ever up here? She asked Mr. Hurst. Oh, if she had been his bride. Eve, instead of a picnic party, this was a party of patriots. And she, red-shirted like the rest, had lain among grim men, flat on the turf, aiming her gun at the white turrets beneath them, screening her eyes to pierce through the smoke. So thinking her foot stirred restlessly, and she exclaimed, I don't call this life, do you? What do you call life? said St. John. Fighting, revolution, she said, still gazing at the doomed city. You only care for books, I know. You're quite wrong, said St. John. Explain, she urged, for there were no guns to be aimed at bodies. And she turned to another kind of warfare. What do I care for? People, he said. Well, I am surprised, she exclaimed. You look so awfully serious. Do let's be friends, and tell each other what we're like. I hate being cautious, don't you? But St. John was decidedly cautious, as she could see by the sudden constriction of his lips, and had no intention of revealing his soul to a young lady. The ass is eating my hat, he remarked, and stretched out for it instead of answering her. Evelyn blushed very slightly, and then turned with some impetuosity upon Mr. Parrot. And when they mounted again, it was Mr. Parrot who lifted her to her seat. When one has laid the eggs, one eats the omelet, said Hewling Elliott exquisitely in French. A hint to the rest of them that it was time to ride on again. The midday sun which Hearst had foretold was beginning to beat down hotly. The higher they got, the more of the sky appeared, until the mountain was only a small tent of earth against an enormous blue background. The English fell silent. The natives who walked beside the donkeys broke into queer wavering songs and tossed jokes from one to the other. The way grew very steep, and each rider kept his eyes fixed on the hobbling, curved form of the rider and donkey directly in front of him. Rather, more strain was being put upon their bodies than is quite legitimate in a party of pleasure. And Hewitt overheard one or two slightly grumbling remarks. Expeditions in such heat are perhaps a little unwise. Mrs. Elliott murmured to Miss Allen. But Miss Allen returned, I always liked to get to the top. And it was true, although she was a big woman, stiff in the joints and unused to donkey-riding. But as her holidays were few, she made the most of them. The vivacious white figure rode well in front. She had somehow possessed herself of a leafy branch and wore it round her hat like a garland. They went on for a few minutes in silence. The view will be wonderful, Hewitt assured them, turning round in his saddle and smiling in encouragement. Rachel caught his eye and smiled too. They struggled on for some time longer. Nothing being heard but the clatter of hooves, striving on the loose stones. Then they saw that Evelyn was off her ass, and that Mr. Parrot was standing in the attitude of a statesman in Parliament Square, stretching an arm of stone towards the view. A little to the left of them was a low-ruined wall, the stump of an Elizabethan watchtower. I couldn't have stood it much longer, Mrs. Elliott confided to Mrs. Thornbury. But the excitement of being at the top in another moment, and seeing the view, prevented anyone from answering her. One after another they came out on the flat space at the top and stood overcome with wonder. Before them they beheld an immense space, gray sands running into forest, and forest merging in mountains, and mountains washed by air, the infinite distances of South America. A river ran across the plain as flat as the land, and appearing quite as stationary. The effect of so much space was at first rather chilling. They felt themselves very small, and for some time no one said anything. Then Evelyn exclaimed, Splendid! She took hold of the hand that was next to her. It chanced to be Miss Allen's hand. North, South, East, West, said Miss Allen, jerking her head slightly towards the points of the compass. Hewitt, who had gone a little in front, looked up at his guests as if to justify himself for having brought them. He observed how strangely the people standing in a row with their figures bent slightly forward, and their clothes plastered by the wind to the shape of their bodies resembled naked statues. On their pedestal of earth they looked unfamiliar and noble. But in another moment they had broken their rank, and he had to see to the laying out of food. Hurst came to his help, and they handed packets of chicken and bread from one to another. As singent gave Helen her packet, she looked him full in the face, and said, Do you remember two women? He looked at her sharply. I do, he answered. So you're the two women, he would exclaimed, looking from Helen to Rachel. Your lights tempted us, said Helen. We watched you playing cards, but we never knew that we were being watched. It was like a thing in a play, Rachel added. And Hurst couldn't describe you, said Hewitt. It was certainly odd to have seen Helen and to find nothing to say about her. Hewling Alliot put up his eyeglass and grasped the situation. I don't know of anything more dreadful, he said, pulling at the joint of a chicken's leg, then being seen when one isn't conscious of it. One feels sure one has been caught doing something ridiculous, looking at one's tongue in a handsome, for instance. Now the others ceased to look at the view and drawing together sat down in a circle round the baskets. And yet those little looking glasses in handsome's have a fascination of their own, said Mrs. Thornbury. One's features look so different when one can only see a bit of them. There will soon be very few handsome cabs left, said Mrs. Alliot. And four-wheeled cabs, I assure you even at Oxford, it's almost impossible to get a four-wheeled cab. I wonder what happens to the horses, said Susan. Veal Pye, said Arthur. It's high time that horses should become extinct anyhow, said Hearst. They're distressingly ugly, besides being vicious. But Susan, who had been brought up to understand that the horse is the noblest of God's creatures, could not agree. And Venning thought Hearst an unspeakable ass, but was too polite not to continue the conversation. When they see us falling out of aeroplanes, they get some of their own back, I expect, he remarked. You fly, said old Mr. Thornbury, putting on his spectacles to look at him. I hope to some day, said Arthur. Here flying was disgust at length, and Mrs. Thornbury delivered an opinion, which was almost a speech to the effect that it would be quite necessary in time of war. And in England we were terribly behind hand. If I were a young fellow, she concluded, I should certainly qualify. It was odd to look at the little elderly lady in her gray coat and skirt, with a sandwich in her hand, her eyes lighting up with zeal, as she imagined herself a young man in an aeroplane. For some reason, however, the talk did not run easily after this, and all they said was about drink and salt and the view. Suddenly Miss Allen, who was seated with her back to the ruined wall, put down her sandwich, picked something off her neck, and remarked, I'm covered with little creatures. It was true, and the discovery was very welcome. The ants were pouring down a glacier of loose earth heaped between the stones of the ruin, large brown ants with polished bodies. She held out one on the back of her hand for Helen to look at. Suppose they sting, said Helen. They will not sting, but they may infest the victuals, said Miss Allen, and measures were taken at once to divert the ants from their course. At Hewitt's suggestion it was decided to adopt the methods of modern warfare against an invading army. The tablecloth represented the invaded country, and rounded they built barricades of blankets, set up the wine bottles in a rampart, made fortifications of bread, and dug fosses of salt. When an ant got through it was exposed to a fire of breadcrumbs, until Susan pronounced that that was cruel, and rewarded those brave spirits with spoil in the shape of tongue. Playing this game they lost their stiffness, and even became unusually daring. For Mr. Parrot, who was very shy, said, Permit me, and removed an ant from Evelyn's neck. It would be no laughing matter, really, said Mrs. Elliott confidentially to Mrs. Thornbury, if an ant did get between the vest and the skin. The noise grew suddenly more clamorous, for it was discovered that a long line of ants had found their way on to the tablecloth by a back entrance. And if success could be gauged by noise, Hewitt had every reason to think his party a success. Nevertheless he became, for no reason at all, profoundly depressed. They are not satisfactory. They are ignoble, he thought, surveying his guests from a little distance, where he was gathering together the plates. He glanced at them all, stooping and swaying and gesticulating round the tablecloth. Amiable and modest, respectable in many ways, lovable even in their contentment and desire to be kind. How mediocre they all were, and capable of what insipid cruelty to one another. There was Mrs. Thornbury, sweet but trivial in her maternal egoism. Mrs. Elliott, perpetually complaining of her lot, her husband to mere pee and a pod. And Susan, she had no self, and counted neither one way nor the other. Venning was as honest and as brutal as a schoolboy. Poor old Thornbury merely trod his round like a horse in a mill. And the less one examined into Evelyn's character, the better he suspected. Yet these were the people with money. And to them, rather than to others, was given the management of the world. Put among them someone more vital, who cared for life or for beauty. And what an agony! What a waste would they inflict on him if he tried to share with them and not discourage. There's Hearst, he concluded, coming to the figure of his friend. With his usual little frown of concentration upon his forehead he was peeling the skin off a banana. And he's as ugly as sin. For the ugliness of sin, gin, Hearst, and the limitations that went with it. He made the rest in some way responsible. It was their fault that he had to live alone. Then he came to Helen. Attracted to her by the sound of her laugh. She was laughing at Miss Allen. You wear combinations in this heat, she said, in a voice which was meant to be private. He liked the look of her immensely. Not so much her beauty, but her largeness and simplicity. Which made her stand out from the rest like a great stone woman. And he passed on in a gentler mood. His eye fell upon Rachel. She was lying back rather behind the others, resting on one elbow. She might have been thinking precisely the same thoughts as Hewitt himself. Her eyes were fixed rather sadly, but not intently, upon the row of people opposite her. Hewitt crawled up to her on his knees, with a piece of bread in his hand. What are you looking at? he asked. She was a little startled, but answered directly. Human beings. End of chapter 10