The Voyage Out
came down to her on the ground. She thought she heard them speak of
love and then of marriage. Raising herself and sitting up, she too
realised Helen’s soft body, the strong and hospitable arms, and
happiness swelling and breaking in one vast wave. When this fell away,
and the grasses once more lay low, and the sky became horizontal, and
the earth rolled out flat on each side, and the trees stood upright,
she was the first to perceive a little row of human figures standing
patiently in the distance. For the moment she could not remember who
they were.
“Who are they?” she asked, and then recollected.
Falling into line behind Mr. Flushing, they were careful to leave at
least three yards’ distance between the toe of his boot and the rim of
her skirt.
He led them across a stretch of green by the river-bank and then
through a grove of trees, and bade them remark the signs of human
habitation, the blackened grass, the charred tree-stumps, and there,
through the trees, strange wooden nests, drawn together in an arch
where the trees drew apart, the village which was the goal of their
journey.
Stepping cautiously, they observed the women, who were squatting on the
ground in triangular shapes, moving their hands, either plaiting straw
or in kneading something in bowls. But when they had looked for a
moment undiscovered, they were seen, and Mr. Flushing, advancing into
the centre of the clearing, was engaged in talk with a lean majestic
man, whose bones and hollows at once made the shapes of the
Englishman’s body appear ugly and unnatural. The women took no notice
of the strangers, except that their hands paused for a moment and their
long narrow eyes slid round and fixed upon them with the motionless
inexpressive gaze of those removed from each other far far beyond the
plunge of speech. Their hands moved again, but the stare continued. It
followed them as they walked, as they peered into the huts where they
could distinguish guns leaning in the corner, and bowls upon the floor,
and stacks of rushes; in the dusk the solemn eyes of babies regarded
them, and old women stared out too. As they sauntered about, the stare
followed them, passing over their legs, their bodies, their heads,
curiously not without hostility, like the crawl of a winter fly. As she
drew apart her shawl and uncovered her breast to the lips of her baby,
the eyes of a woman never left their faces, although they moved
uneasily under her stare, and finally turned away, rather than stand
there looking at her any longer. When sweetmeats were offered them,
they put out great red hands to take them, and felt themselves treading
cumbrously like tight-coated soldiers among these soft instinctive
people. But soon the life of the village took no notice of them; they
had become absorbed in it. The women’s hands became busy again with the
straw; their eyes dropped. If they moved, it was to fetch something
from the hut, or to catch a straying child, or to cross the space with
a jar balanced on their heads; if they spoke, it was to cry some harsh
unintelligible cry. Voices rose when a child was beaten, and fell
again; voices rose in song, which slid up a little way and down a
little way, and settled again upon the same low and melancholy note.
Seeking each other, Terence and Rachel drew together under a tree.
Peaceful, and even beautiful at first, the sight of the women, who had
given up looking at them, made them now feel very cold and melancholy.
“Well,” Terence sighed at length, “it makes us seem insignificant,
doesn’t it?”
Rachel agreed. So it would go on for ever and ever, she said, those
women sitting under the trees, the trees and the river. They turned
away and began to walk through the trees, leaning, without fear of
discovery, upon each other’s arms. They had not gone far before they
began to assure each other once more that they were in love, were
happy, were content; but why was it so painful being in love, why was
there so much pain in happiness?
The sight of the village indeed affected them all curiously though all
differently. St. John had left the others and was walking slowly down
to the river, absorbed in his own thoughts, which were bitter and
unhappy, for he felt himself alone; and Helen, standing by herself in
the sunny space among the native women, was exposed to presentiments of
disaster. The cries of the senseless beasts rang in her ears high and
low in the air, as they ran from tree-trunk to tree-top. How small the
little figures looked wandering through the trees! She became acutely
conscious of the little limbs, the thin veins, the delicate flesh of
men and women, which breaks so easily and lets the life escape compared
with these great trees and deep waters. A falling branch, a foot that
slips, and the earth has crushed them or the water drowned them. Thus
thinking, she kept her eyes anxiously fixed upon the lovers, as if by
doing so she could protect them from their fate. Turning, she found the
Flushings by her side.
They were talking about the things they had bought and arguing whether
they were really old, and whether there were not signs here and there
of European influence. Helen was appealed to. She was made to look at a
brooch, and then at a pair of ear-rings. But all the time she blamed
them for having come on this expedition, for having ventured too far
and exposed themselves. Then she roused herself and tried to talk, but
in a few moments she caught herself seeing a picture of a boat upset on
the river in England, at midday. It was morbid, she knew, to imagine
such things; nevertheless she sought out the figures of the others
between the trees, and whenever she saw them she kept her eyes fixed on
them, so that she might be able to protect them from disaster.
But when the sun went down and the steamer turned and began to steam
back towards civilisation, again her fears were calmed. In the
semi-darkness the chairs on deck and the people sitting in them were
angular shapes, the mouth being indicated by a tiny burning spot, and
the arm by the same spot moving up or down as the cigar or cigarette
was lifted to and from the lips. Words crossed the darkness, but, not
knowing where they fell, seemed to lack energy and substance. Deep
sighs proceeded regularly, although with some attempt at suppression,
from the large white mound which represented the person of Mrs.
Flushing. The day had been long and very hot, and now that all the
colours were blotted out the cool night air seemed to press soft
fingers upon the eyelids, sealing them down. Some philosophical remark
directed, apparently, at St. John Hirst missed its aim, and hung so
long suspended in the air until it was engulfed by a yawn, that it was
considered dead, and this gave the signal for stirring of legs and
murmurs about sleep. The white mound moved, finally lengthened itself
and disappeared, and after a few turns and paces St. John and Mr.
Flushing withdrew, leaving the three chairs still occupied by three
silent bodies. The light which came from a lamp high on the mast and a
sky pale with stars left them with shapes but without features; but
even in this darkness the withdrawal of the others made them feel each
other very near, for they were all thinking of the same thing. For some
time no one spoke, then Helen said with a sigh, “So you’re both very
happy?”
As if washed by the air her voice sounded more spiritual and softer
than usual. Voices at a little distance answered her, “Yes.”
Through the darkness she was looking at them both, and trying to
distinguish him. What was there for her to say? Rachel had passed
beyond her guardianship. A voice might reach her ears, but never again
would it carry as far as it had carried twenty-four hours ago.
Nevertheless, speech seemed to be due from her before she went to bed.
She wished to speak, but she felt strangely old and depressed.
“D’you realise what you’re doing?” she demanded. “She’s young, you’re
both young; and marriage—” Here she ceased. They begged her, however,
to continue, with such earnestness in their voices, as if they only
craved advice, that she was led to add:
“Marriage! well, it’s not easy.”
“That’s what we want to know,” they answered, and she guessed that now
they were looking at each other.
“It depends on both of you,” she stated. Her face was turned towards
Terence, and although he could hardly see her, he believed that her
words really covered a genuine desire to know more about him. He raised
himself from his semi-recumbent position and proceeded to tell her what
she wanted to know. He spoke as lightly as he could in order to take
away her depression.
“I’m twenty-seven, and I’ve about seven hundred a year,” he began. “My
temper is good on the whole, and health excellent, though Hirst detects
a gouty tendency. Well, then, I think I’m very intelligent.” He paused
as if for confirmation.
Helen agreed.
“Though, unfortunately, rather lazy. I intend to allow Rachel to be a
fool if she wants to, and—Do you find me on the whole satisfactory in
other respects?” he asked shyly.
“Yes, I like what I know of you,” Helen replied. “But then—one knows so
little.”
“We shall live in London,” he continued, “and—” With one voice they
suddenly enquired whether she did not think them the happiest people
that she had ever known.
“Hush,” she checked them, “Mrs. Flushing, remember. She’s behind us.”
Then they fell silent, and Terence and Rachel felt instinctively that
their happiness had made her sad, and, while they were anxious to go on
talking about themselves, they did not like to.
“We’ve talked too much about ourselves,” Terence said. “Tell us—”
“Yes, tell us—” Rachel echoed. They were both in the mood to believe
that every one was capable of saying something very profound.
“What can I tell you?” Helen reflected, speaking more to herself in a
rambling style than as a prophetess delivering a message. She forced
herself to speak.
“After all, though I scold Rachel, I’m not much wiser myself. I’m
older, of course, I’m half-way through, and you’re just beginning. It’s
puzzling—sometimes, I think, disappointing; the great things aren’t as
great, perhaps, as one expects—but it’s interesting—Oh, yes, you’re
certain to find it interesting—And so it goes on,” they became
conscious here of the procession of dark trees into which, as far as
they could see, Helen was now looking, “and there are pleasures where
one doesn’t expect them (you must write to your father), and you’ll be
very happy, I’ve no doubt. But I must go to bed, and if you are
sensible you will follow in ten minutes, and so,” she rose and stood
before them, almost featureless and very large, “Good-night.” She
passed behind the curtain.
After sitting in silence for the greater part of the ten minutes she
allowed them, they rose and hung over the rail. Beneath them the smooth
black water slipped away very fast and silently. The spark of a
cigarette vanished behind them. “A beautiful voice,” Terence murmured.
Rachel assented. Helen had a beautiful voice.
After a silence she asked, looking up into the sky, “Are we on the deck
of a steamer on a river in South America? Am I Rachel, are you
Terence?”
The great black world lay round them. As they were drawn smoothly along
it seemed possessed of immense thickness and endurance. They could
discern pointed tree-tops and blunt rounded tree-tops. Raising their
eyes above the trees, they fixed them on the stars and the pale border
of sky above the trees. The little points of frosty light infinitely
far away drew their eyes and held them fixed, so that it seemed as if
they stayed a long time and fell a great distance when once more they
realised their hands grasping the rail and their separate bodies
standing side by side.