The Voyage Out
When they appeared, St. John explained why it had been necessary for
him to come to luncheon. He imitated Evelyn’s enthusiastic tone as she
confronted him in the smoking-room. “She thinks there can be nothing
_quite_ so thrilling as mathematics, so I’ve lent her a large work in
two volumes. It’ll be interesting to see what she makes of it.”
Rachel could now afford to laugh at him. She reminded him of Gibbon;
she had the first volume somewhere still; if he were undertaking the
education of Evelyn, that surely was the test; or she had heard that
Burke, upon the American Rebellion—Evelyn ought to read them both
simultaneously. When St. John had disposed of her argument and had
satisfied his hunger, he proceeded to tell them that the hotel was
seething with scandals, some of the most appalling kind, which had
happened in their absence; he was indeed much given to the study of his
kind.
“Evelyn M., for example—but that was told me in confidence.”
“Nonsense!” Terence interposed.
“You’ve heard about poor Sinclair, too?”
“Oh, yes, I’ve heard about Sinclair. He’s retired to his mine with a
revolver. He writes to Evelyn daily that he’s thinking of committing
suicide. I’ve assured her that he’s never been so happy in his life,
and, on the whole, she’s inclined to agree with me.”
“But then she’s entangled herself with Perrott,” St. John continued;
“and I have reason to think, from something I saw in the passage, that
everything isn’t as it should be between Arthur and Susan. There’s a
young female lately arrived from Manchester. A very good thing if it
were broken off, in my opinion. Their married life is something too
horrible to contemplate. Oh, and I distinctly heard old Mrs. Paley
rapping out the most fearful oaths as I passed her bedroom door. It’s
supposed that she tortures her maid in private—it’s practically certain
she does. One can tell it from the look in her eyes.”
“When you’re eighty and the gout tweezes you, you’ll be swearing like a
trooper,” Terence remarked. “You’ll be very fat, very testy, very
disagreeable. Can’t you imagine him—bald as a coot, with a pair of
sponge-bag trousers, a little spotted tie, and a corporation?”
After a pause Hirst remarked that the worst infamy had still to be
told. He addressed himself to Helen.
“They’ve hoofed out the prostitute. One night while we were away that
old numskull Thornbury was doddering about the passages very late.
(Nobody seems to have asked him what _he_ was up to.) He saw the
Signora Lola Mendoza, as she calls herself, cross the passage in her
nightgown. He communicated his suspicions next morning to Elliot, with
the result that Rodriguez went to the woman and gave her twenty-four
hours in which to clear out of the place. No one seems to have enquired
into the truth of the story, or to have asked Thornbury and Elliot what
business it was of theirs; they had it entirely their own way. I
propose that we should all sign a Round Robin, go to Rodriguez in a
body, and insist upon a full enquiry. Something’s got to be done, don’t
you agree?”
Hewet remarked that there could be no doubt as to the lady’s
profession.
“Still,” he added, “it’s a great shame, poor woman; only I don’t see
what’s to be done—”
“I quite agree with you, St. John,” Helen burst out. “It’s monstrous.
The hypocritical smugness of the English makes my blood boil. A man
who’s made a fortune in trade as Mr. Thornbury has is bound to be twice
as bad as any prostitute.”
She respected St. John’s morality, which she took far more seriously
than any one else did, and now entered into a discussion with him as to
the steps that were to be taken to enforce their peculiar view of what
was right. The argument led to some profoundly gloomy statements of a
general nature. Who were they, after all—what authority had they—what
power against the mass of superstition and ignorance? It was the
English, of course; there must be something wrong in the English blood.
Directly you met an English person, of the middle classes, you were
conscious of an indefinable sensation of loathing; directly you saw the
brown crescent of houses above Dover, the same thing came over you. But
unfortunately St. John added, you couldn’t trust these foreigners—
They were interrupted by sounds of strife at the further end of the
table. Rachel appealed to her aunt.
“Terence says we must go to tea with Mrs. Thornbury because she’s been
so kind, but I don’t see it; in fact, I’d rather have my right hand
sawn in pieces—just imagine! the eyes of all those women!”
“Fiddlesticks, Rachel,” Terence replied. “Who wants to look at you?
You’re consumed with vanity! You’re a monster of conceit! Surely,
Helen, you ought to have taught her by this time that she’s a person of
no conceivable importance whatever—not beautiful, or well dressed, or
conspicuous for elegance or intellect, or deportment. A more ordinary
sight than you are,” he concluded, “except for the tear across your
dress has never been seen. However, stay at home if you want to. I’m
going.”
She appealed again to her aunt. It wasn’t the being looked at, she
explained, but the things people were sure to say. The women in
particular. She liked women, but where emotion was concerned they were
as flies on a lump of sugar. They would be certain to ask her
questions. Evelyn M. would say: “Are you in love? Is it nice being in
love?” And Mrs. Thornbury—her eyes would go up and down, up and
down—she shuddered at the thought of it. Indeed, the retirement of
their life since their engagement had made her so sensitive, that she
was not exaggerating her case.
She found an ally in Helen, who proceeded to expound her views of the
human race, as she regarded with complacency the pyramid of variegated
fruits in the centre of the table. It wasn’t that they were cruel, or
meant to hurt, or even stupid exactly; but she had always found that
the ordinary person had so little emotion in his own life that the
scent of it in the lives of others was like the scent of blood in the
nostrils of a bloodhound. Warming to the theme, she continued:
“Directly anything happens—it may be a marriage, or a birth, or a
death—on the whole they prefer it to be a death—every one wants to see
you. They insist upon seeing you. They’ve got nothing to say; they
don’t care a rap for you; but you’ve got to go to lunch or to tea or to
dinner, and if you don’t you’re damned. It’s the smell of blood,” she
continued; “I don’t blame ’em; only they shan’t have mine if I know
it!”
She looked about her as if she had called up a legion of human beings,
all hostile and all disagreeable, who encircled the table, with mouths
gaping for blood, and made it appear a little island of neutral country
in the midst of the enemy’s country.
Her words roused her husband, who had been muttering rhythmically to
himself, surveying his guests and his food and his wife with eyes that
were now melancholy and now fierce, according to the fortunes of the
lady in his ballad. He cut Helen short with a protest. He hated even
the semblance of cynicism in women. “Nonsense, nonsense,” he remarked
abruptly.
Terence and Rachel glanced at each other across the table, which meant
that when they were married they would not behave like that. The
entrance of Ridley into the conversation had a strange effect. It
became at once more formal and more polite. It would have been
impossible to talk quite easily of anything that came into their heads,
and to say the word prostitute as simply as any other word. The talk
now turned upon literature and politics, and Ridley told stories of the
distinguished people he had known in his youth. Such talk was of the
nature of an art, and the personalities and informalities of the young
were silenced. As they rose to go, Helen stopped for a moment, leaning
her elbows on the table.
“You’ve all been sitting here,” she said, “for almost an hour, and you
haven’t noticed my figs, or my flowers, or the way the light comes
through, or anything. I haven’t been listening, because I’ve been
looking at you. You looked very beautiful; I wish you’d go on sitting
for ever.”
She led the way to the drawing-room, where she took up her embroidery,
and began again to dissuade Terence from walking down to the hotel in
this heat. But the more she dissuaded, the more he was determined to
go. He became irritated and obstinate. There were moments when they
almost disliked each other. He wanted other people; he wanted Rachel,
to see them with him. He suspected that Mrs. Ambrose would now try to
dissuade her from going. He was annoyed by all this space and shade and
beauty, and Hirst, recumbent, drooping a magazine from his wrist.
“I’m going,” he repeated. “Rachel needn’t come unless she wants to.”
“If you go, Hewet, I wish you’d make enquiries about the prostitute,”
said Hirst. “Look here,” he added, “I’ll walk half the way with you.”
Greatly to their surprise he raised himself, looked at his watch, and
remarked that, as it was now half an hour since luncheon, the gastric
juices had had sufficient time to secrete; he was trying a system, he
explained, which involved short spells of exercise interspaced by
longer intervals of rest.
“I shall be back at four,” he remarked to Helen, “when I shall lie down
on the sofa and relax all my muscles completely.”
“So you’re going, Rachel?” Helen asked. “You won’t stay with me?”
She smiled, but she might have been sad.
Was she sad, or was she really laughing? Rachel could not tell, and she
felt for the moment very uncomfortable between Helen and Terence. Then
she turned away, saying merely that she would go with Terence, on
condition that he did all the talking.
A narrow border of shadow ran along the road, which was broad enough
for two, but not broad enough for three. St. John therefore dropped a
little behind the pair, and the distance between them increased by
degrees. Walking with a view to digestion, and with one eye upon his
watch, he looked from time to time at the pair in front of him. They
seemed to be so happy, so intimate, although they were walking side by
side much as other people walk. They turned slightly toward each other
now and then, and said something which he thought must be something
very private. They were really disputing about Helen’s character, and
Terence was trying to explain why it was that she annoyed him so much
sometimes. But St. John thought that they were saying things which they
did not want him to hear, and was led to think of his own isolation.
These people were happy, and in some ways he despised them for being
made happy so simply, and in other ways he envied them. He was much
more remarkable than they were, but he was not happy. People never
liked him; he doubted sometimes whether even Helen liked him. To be
simple, to be able to say simply what one felt, without the terrific
self-consciousness which possessed him, and showed him his own face and
words perpetually in a mirror, that would be worth almost any other
gift, for it made one happy. Happiness, happiness, what was happiness?
He was never happy. He saw too clearly the little vices and deceits and
flaws of life, and, seeing them, it seemed to him honest to take notice
of them. That was the reason, no doubt, why people generally disliked
him, and complained that he was heartless and bitter. Certainly they
never told him the things he wanted to be told, that he was nice and
kind, and that they liked him. But it was true that half the sharp
things that he said about them were said because he was unhappy or hurt
himself. But he admitted that he had very seldom told any one that he
cared for them, and when he had been demonstrative, he had generally
regretted it afterwards. His feelings about Terence and Rachel were so