The Voyage Out
dressed for a hot climate, and rather elaborate in his manner, to a
very persuasive shop-keeper. Meanwhile, as he sat looking at them, he
was entangled in the Thornburys and Miss Allan, who, after hovering
about for a minute or two, settled in chairs round him, holding their
cups in their hands. They wanted to know whether he could tell them
anything about Mr. Bax. Mr. Thornbury as usual sat saying nothing,
looking vaguely ahead of him, occasionally raising his eye-glasses, as
if to put them on, but always thinking better of it at the last moment,
and letting them fall again. After some discussion, the ladies put it
beyond a doubt that Mr. Bax was not the son of Mr. William Bax. There
was a pause. Then Mrs. Thornbury remarked that she was still in the
habit of saying Queen instead of King in the National Anthem. There was
another pause. Then Miss Allan observed reflectively that going to
church abroad always made her feel as if she had been to a sailor’s
funeral.
There was then a very long pause, which threatened to be final, when,
mercifully, a bird about the size of a magpie, but of a metallic blue
colour, appeared on the section of the terrace that could be seen from
where they sat. Mrs. Thornbury was led to enquire whether we should
like it if all our rooks were blue—“What do _you_ think, William?” she
asked, touching her husband on the knee.
“If all our rooks were blue,” he said,—he raised his glasses; he
actually placed them on his nose—“they would not live long in
Wiltshire,” he concluded; he dropped his glasses to his side again. The
three elderly people now gazed meditatively at the bird, which was so
obliging as to stay in the middle of the view for a considerable space
of time, thus making it unnecessary for them to speak again. Hewet
began to wonder whether he might not cross over to the Flushings’
corner, when Hirst appeared from the background, slipped into a chair
by Rachel’s side, and began to talk to her with every appearance of
familiarity. Hewet could stand it no longer. He rose, took his hat and
dashed out of doors.
CHAPTER XVIII
Everything he saw was distasteful to him. He hated the blue and white,
the intensity and definiteness, the hum and heat of the south; the
landscape seemed to him as hard and as romantic as a cardboard
background on the stage, and the mountain but a wooden screen against a
sheet painted blue. He walked fast in spite of the heat of the sun.
Two roads led out of the town on the eastern side; one branched off
towards the Ambroses’ villa, the other struck into the country,
eventually reaching a village on the plain, but many footpaths, which
had been stamped in the earth when it was wet, led off from it, across
great dry fields, to scattered farm-houses, and the villas of rich
natives. Hewet stepped off the road on to one of these, in order to
avoid the hardness and heat of the main road, the dust of which was
always being raised in small clouds by carts and ramshackle flies which
carried parties of festive peasants, or turkeys swelling unevenly like
a bundle of air balls beneath a net, or the brass bedstead and black
wooden boxes of some newly wedded pair.
The exercise indeed served to clear away the superficial irritations of
the morning, but he remained miserable. It seemed proved beyond a doubt
that Rachel was indifferent to him, for she had scarcely looked at him,
and she had talked to Mr. Flushing with just the same interest with
which she talked to him. Finally, Hirst’s odious words flicked his mind
like a whip, and he remembered that he had left her talking to Hirst.
She was at this moment talking to him, and it might be true, as he
said, that she was in love with him. He went over all the evidence for
this supposition—her sudden interest in Hirst’s writing, her way of
quoting his opinions respectfully, or with only half a laugh; her very
nickname for him, “the great Man,” might have some serious meaning in
it. Supposing that there were an understanding between them, what would
it mean to him?
“Damn it all!” he demanded, “am I in love with her?” To that he could
only return himself one answer. He certainly was in love with her, if
he knew what love meant. Ever since he had first seen her he had been
interested and attracted, more and more interested and attracted, until
he was scarcely able to think of anything except Rachel. But just as he
was sliding into one of the long feasts of meditation about them both,
he checked himself by asking whether he wanted to marry her? That was
the real problem, for these miseries and agonies could not be endured,
and it was necessary that he should make up his mind. He instantly
decided that he did not want to marry any one. Partly because he was
irritated by Rachel the idea of marriage irritated him. It immediately
suggested the picture of two people sitting alone over the fire; the
man was reading, the woman sewing. There was a second picture. He saw a
man jump up, say good-night, leave the company and hasten away with the
quiet secret look of one who is stealing to certain happiness. Both
these pictures were very unpleasant, and even more so was a third
picture, of husband and wife and friend; and the married people
glancing at each other as though they were content to let something
pass unquestioned, being themselves possessed of the deeper truth.
Other pictures—he was walking very fast in his irritation, and they
came before him without any conscious effort, like pictures on a
sheet—succeeded these. Here were the worn husband and wife sitting with
their children round them, very patient, tolerant, and wise. But that
too, was an unpleasant picture. He tried all sorts of pictures, taking
them from the lives of friends of his, for he knew many different
married couples; but he saw them always, walled up in a warm firelit
room. When, on the other hand, he began to think of unmarried people,
he saw them active in an unlimited world; above all, standing on the
same ground as the rest, without shelter or advantage. All the most
individual and humane of his friends were bachelors and spinsters;
indeed he was surprised to find that the women he most admired and knew
best were unmarried women. Marriage seemed to be worse for them than it
was for men. Leaving these general pictures he considered the people
whom he had been observing lately at the hotel. He had often revolved
these questions in his mind, as he watched Susan and Arthur, or Mr. and
Mrs. Thornbury, or Mr. and Mrs. Elliot. He had observed how the shy
happiness and surprise of the engaged couple had gradually been
replaced by a comfortable, tolerant state of mind, as if they had
already done with the adventure of intimacy and were taking up their
parts. Susan used to pursue Arthur about with a sweater, because he had
one day let slip that a brother of his had died of pneumonia. The sight
amused him, but was not pleasant if you substituted Terence and Rachel
for Arthur and Susan; and Arthur was far less eager to get you in a
corner and talk about flying and the mechanics of aeroplanes. They
would settle down. He then looked at the couples who had been married
for several years. It was true that Mrs. Thornbury had a husband, and
that for the most part she was wonderfully successful in bringing him
into the conversation, but one could not imagine what they said to each
other when they were alone. There was the same difficulty with regard
to the Elliots, except that they probably bickered openly in private.
They sometimes bickered in public, though these disagreements were
painfully covered over by little insincerities on the part of the wife,
who was afraid of public opinion, because she was much stupider than
her husband, and had to make efforts to keep hold of him. There could
be no doubt, he decided, that it would have been far better for the
world if these couples had separated. Even the Ambroses, whom he
admired and respected profoundly—in spite of all the love between them,
was not their marriage too a compromise? She gave way to him; she
spoilt him; she arranged things for him; she who was all truth to
others was not true to her husband, was not true to her friends if they
came in conflict with her husband. It was a strange and piteous flaw in
her nature. Perhaps Rachel had been right, then, when she said that
night in the garden, “We bring out what’s worst in each other—we should
live separate.”
No, Rachel had been utterly wrong! Every argument seemed to be against
undertaking the burden of marriage until he came to Rachel’s argument,
which was manifestly absurd. From having been the pursued, he turned
and became the pursuer. Allowing the case against marriage to lapse, he
began to consider the peculiarities of character which had led to her
saying that. Had she meant it? Surely one ought to know the character
of the person with whom one might spend all one’s life; being a
novelist, let him try to discover what sort of person she was. When he
was with her he could not analyse her qualities, because he seemed to
know them instinctively, but when he was away from her it sometimes
seemed to him that he did not know her at all. She was young, but she
was also old; she had little self-confidence, and yet she was a good
judge of people. She was happy; but what made her happy? If they were
alone and the excitement had worn off, and they had to deal with the
ordinary facts of the day, what would happen? Casting his eye upon his
own character, two things appeared to him: that he was very unpunctual,
and that he disliked answering notes. As far as he knew Rachel was
inclined to be punctual, but he could not remember that he had ever
seen her with a pen in her hand. Let him next imagine a dinner-party,
say at the Crooms, and Wilson, who had taken her down, talking about
the state of the Liberal party. She would say—of course she was
absolutely ignorant of politics. Nevertheless she was intelligent
certainly, and honest too. Her temper was uncertain—that he had
noticed—and she was not domestic, and she was not easy, and she was not
quiet, or beautiful, except in some dresses in some lights. But the
great gift she had was that she understood what was said to her; there
had never been any one like her for talking to. You could say
anything—you could say everything, and yet she was never servile. Here
he pulled himself up, for it seemed to him suddenly that he knew less
about her than about any one. All these thoughts had occurred to him
many times already; often had he tried to argue and reason; and again
he had reached the old state of doubt. He did not know her, and he did
not know what she felt, or whether they could live together, or whether
he wanted to marry her, and yet he was in love with her.
Supposing he went to her and said (he slackened his pace and began to
speak aloud, as if he were speaking to Rachel):
“I worship you, but I loathe marriage, I hate its smugness, its safety,
its compromise, and the thought of you interfering in my work,
hindering me; what would you answer?”
He stopped, leant against the trunk of a tree, and gazed without seeing
them at some stones scattered on the bank of the dry river-bed. He saw
Rachel’s face distinctly, the grey eyes, the hair, the mouth; the face
that could look so many things—plain, vacant, almost insignificant, or
wild, passionate, almost beautiful, yet in his eyes was always the same
because of the extraordinary freedom with which she looked at him, and
spoke as she felt. What would she answer? What did she feel? Did she
love him, or did she feel nothing at all for him or for any other man,
being, as she had said that afternoon, free, like the wind or the sea?
“Oh, you’re free!” he exclaimed, in exultation at the thought of her,