The Voyage Out
without often troubling to think about it, except as something
superficially strange. Absorbed by her music she accepted her lot very
complacently, blazing into indignation perhaps once a fortnight, and
subsiding as she subsided now. Inextricably mixed in dreamy confusion,
her mind seemed to enter into communion, to be delightfully expanded
and combined with the spirit of the whitish boards on deck, with the
spirit of the sea, with the spirit of Beethoven Op. 112, even with the
spirit of poor William Cowper there at Olney. Like a ball of
thistledown it kissed the sea, rose, kissed it again, and thus rising
and kissing passed finally out of sight. The rising and falling of the
ball of thistledown was represented by the sudden droop forward of her
own head, and when it passed out of sight she was asleep.
Ten minutes later Mrs. Ambrose opened the door and looked at her. It
did not surprise her to find that this was the way in which Rachel
passed her mornings. She glanced round the room at the piano, at the
books, at the general mess. In the first place she considered Rachel
aesthetically; lying unprotected she looked somehow like a victim
dropped from the claws of a bird of prey, but considered as a woman, a
young woman of twenty-four, the sight gave rise to reflections. Mrs.
Ambrose stood thinking for at least two minutes. She then smiled,
turned noiselessly away and went, lest the sleeper should waken, and
there should be the awkwardness of speech between them.
CHAPTER III
Early next morning there was a sound as of chains being drawn roughly
overhead; the steady heart of the _Euphrosyne_ slowly ceased to beat;
and Helen, poking her nose above deck, saw a stationary castle upon a
stationary hill. They had dropped anchor in the mouth of the Tagus, and
instead of cleaving new waves perpetually, the same waves kept
returning and washing against the sides of the ship.
As soon as breakfast was done, Willoughby disappeared over the vessel’s
side, carrying a brown leather case, shouting over his shoulder that
every one was to mind and behave themselves, for he would be kept in
Lisbon doing business until five o’clock that afternoon.
At about that hour he reappeared, carrying his case, professing himself
tired, bothered, hungry, thirsty, cold, and in immediate need of his
tea. Rubbing his hands, he told them the adventures of the day: how he
had come upon poor old Jackson combing his moustache before the glass
in the office, little expecting his descent, had put him through such a
morning’s work as seldom came his way; then treated him to a lunch of
champagne and ortolans; paid a call upon Mrs. Jackson, who was fatter
than ever, poor woman, but asked kindly after Rachel—and O Lord, little
Jackson had confessed to a confounded piece of weakness—well, well, no
harm was done, he supposed, but what was the use of his giving orders
if they were promptly disobeyed? He had said distinctly that he would
take no passengers on this trip. Here he began searching in his pockets
and eventually discovered a card, which he planked down on the table
before Rachel. On it she read, “Mr. and Mrs. Richard Dalloway, 23
Browne Street, Mayfair.”
“Mr. Richard Dalloway,” continued Vinrace, “seems to be a gentleman who
thinks that because he was once a member of Parliament, and his wife’s
the daughter of a peer, they can have what they like for the asking.
They got round poor little Jackson anyhow. Said they must have
passages—produced a letter from Lord Glenaway, asking me as a personal
favour—overruled any objections Jackson made (I don’t believe they came
to much), and so there’s nothing for it but to submit, I suppose.”
But it was evident that for some reason or other Willoughby was quite
pleased to submit, although he made a show of growling.
The truth was that Mr. and Mrs. Dalloway had found themselves stranded
in Lisbon. They had been travelling on the Continent for some weeks,
chiefly with a view to broadening Mr. Dalloway’s mind. Unable for a
season, by one of the accidents of political life, to serve his country
in Parliament, Mr. Dalloway was doing the best he could to serve it out
of Parliament. For that purpose the Latin countries did very well,
although the East, of course, would have done better.
“Expect to hear of me next in Petersburg or Teheran,” he had said,
turning to wave farewell from the steps of the Travellers’. But a
disease had broken out in the East, there was cholera in Russia, and he
was heard of, not so romantically, in Lisbon. They had been through
France; he had stopped at manufacturing centres where, producing
letters of introduction, he had been shown over works, and noted facts
in a pocket-book. In Spain he and Mrs. Dalloway had mounted mules, for
they wished to understand how the peasants live. Are they ripe for
rebellion, for example? Mrs. Dalloway had then insisted upon a day or
two at Madrid with the pictures. Finally they arrived in Lisbon and
spent six days which, in a journal privately issued afterwards, they
described as of “unique interest.” Richard had audiences with
ministers, and foretold a crisis at no distant date, “the foundations
of government being incurably corrupt. Yet how blame, etc.”; while
Clarissa inspected the royal stables, and took several snapshots
showing men now exiled and windows now broken. Among other things she
photographed Fielding’s grave, and let loose a small bird which some
ruffian had trapped, “because one hates to think of anything in a cage
where English people lie buried,” the diary stated. Their tour was
thoroughly unconventional, and followed no meditated plan. The foreign
correspondents of the _Times_ decided their route as much as anything
else. Mr. Dalloway wished to look at certain guns, and was of opinion
that the African coast is far more unsettled than people at home were
inclined to believe. For these reasons they wanted a slow inquisitive
kind of ship, comfortable, for they were bad sailors, but not
extravagant, which would stop for a day or two at this port and at
that, taking in coal while the Dalloways saw things for themselves.
Meanwhile they found themselves stranded in Lisbon, unable for the
moment to lay hands upon the precise vessel they wanted. They heard of
the _Euphrosyne_, but heard also that she was primarily a cargo boat,
and only took passengers by special arrangement, her business being to
carry dry goods to the Amazons, and rubber home again. “By special
arrangement,” however, were words of high encouragement to them, for
they came of a class where almost everything was specially arranged, or
could be if necessary. On this occasion all that Richard did was to
write a note to Lord Glenaway, the head of the line which bears his
title; to call on poor old Jackson; to represent to him how Mrs.
Dalloway was so-and-so, and he had been something or other else, and
what they wanted was such and such a thing. It was done. They parted
with compliments and pleasure on both sides, and here, a week later,
came the boat rowing up to the ship in the dusk with the Dalloways on
board of it; in three minutes they were standing together on the deck
of the _Euphrosyne_. Their arrival, of course, created some stir, and
it was seen by several pairs of eyes that Mrs. Dalloway was a tall
slight woman, her body wrapped in furs, her head in veils, while Mr.
Dalloway appeared to be a middle-sized man of sturdy build, dressed
like a sportsman on an autumnal moor. Many solid leather bags of a rich
brown hue soon surrounded them, in addition to which Mr. Dalloway
carried a despatch box, and his wife a dressing-case suggestive of a
diamond necklace and bottles with silver tops.
“It’s so like Whistler!” she exclaimed, with a wave towards the shore,
as she shook Rachel by the hand, and Rachel had only time to look at
the grey hills on one side of her before Willoughby introduced Mrs.
Chailey, who took the lady to her cabin.
Momentary though it seemed, nevertheless the interruption was
upsetting; every one was more or less put out by it, from Mr. Grice,
the steward, to Ridley himself. A few minutes later Rachel passed the
smoking-room, and found Helen moving arm-chairs. She was absorbed in
her arrangements, and on seeing Rachel remarked confidentially:
“If one can give men a room to themselves where they will sit, it’s all
to the good. Arm-chairs are _the_ important things—” She began wheeling
them about. “Now, does it still look like a bar at a railway station?”
She whipped a plush cover off a table. The appearance of the place was
marvellously improved.
Again, the arrival of the strangers made it obvious to Rachel, as the
hour of dinner approached, that she must change her dress; and the
ringing of the great bell found her sitting on the edge of her berth in
such a position that the little glass above the washstand reflected her
head and shoulders. In the glass she wore an expression of tense
melancholy, for she had come to the depressing conclusion, since the
arrival of the Dalloways, that her face was not the face she wanted,
and in all probability never would be.
However, punctuality had been impressed on her, and whatever face she
had, she must go in to dinner.
These few minutes had been used by Willoughby in sketching to the
Dalloways the people they were to meet, and checking them upon his
fingers.
“There’s my brother-in-law, Ambrose, the scholar (I daresay you’ve
heard his name), his wife, my old friend Pepper, a very quiet fellow,
but knows everything, I’m told. And that’s all. We’re a very small
party. I’m dropping them on the coast.”
Mrs. Dalloway, with her head a little on one side, did her best to
recollect Ambrose—was it a surname?—but failed. She was made slightly
uneasy by what she had heard. She knew that scholars married any
one—girls they met in farms on reading parties; or little suburban
women who said disagreeably, “Of course I know it’s my husband you
want; not _me_.”
But Helen came in at that point, and Mrs. Dalloway saw with relief that
though slightly eccentric in appearance, she was not untidy, held
herself well, and her voice had restraint in it, which she held to be
the sign of a lady. Mr. Pepper had not troubled to change his neat ugly
suit.
“But after all,” Clarissa thought to herself as she followed Vinrace in
to dinner, “_every one’s_ interesting really.”
When seated at the table she had some need of that assurance, chiefly
because of Ridley, who came in late, looked decidedly unkempt, and took
to his soup in profound gloom.
An imperceptible signal passed between husband and wife, meaning that
they grasped the situation and would stand by each other loyally. With
scarcely a pause Mrs. Dalloway turned to Willoughby and began:
“What I find so tiresome about the sea is that there are no flowers in
it. Imagine fields of hollyhocks and violets in mid-ocean! How divine!”
“But somewhat dangerous to navigation,” boomed Richard, in the bass,
like the bassoon to the flourish of his wife’s violin. “Why, weeds can
be bad enough, can’t they, Vinrace? I remember crossing in the
_Mauretania_ once, and saying to the Captain—Richards—did you know
him?—‘Now tell me what perils you really dread most for your ship,
Captain Richards?’ expecting him to say icebergs, or derelicts, or fog,
or something of that sort. Not a bit of it. I’ve always remembered his
answer. ‘_Sedgius aquatici_,’ he said, which I take to be a kind of
duck-weed.”
Mr. Pepper looked up sharply, and was about to put a question when
Willoughby continued:
“They’ve an awful time of it—those captains! Three thousand souls on
board!”
“Yes, indeed,” said Clarissa. She turned to Helen with an air of
profundity. “I’m convinced people are wrong when they say it’s work