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 cardboardbackground on the stage, and the mountain but a wooden screen against asheet 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 branchedoff towards the Ambroses' villa, the other struck into the country,eventually reaching a village on the plain, but many footpaths, whichhad been stamped in the earth when it was wet, led off from it, acrossgreat dry fields, to scattered farm-houses, and the villas of richnatives. Hewet stepped off the road on to one of these, in order toavoid the hardness and heat of the main road, the dust of which wasalways being raised in small clouds by carts and ramshackle flies whichcarried parties of festive peasants, or turkeys swelling unevenly likea bundle of air balls beneath a net, or the brass bedstead and blackwooden boxes of some newly wedded pair.
The exercise indeed served to clear away the superficial irritations ofthe morning, but he remained miserable. It seemed proved beyond a doubtthat Rachel was indifferent to him, for she had scarcely looked at him,and she had talked to Mr. Flushing with just the same interest withwhich she talked to him. Finally, Hirst's odious words flicked his mindlike 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 thissupposition--her sudden interest in Hirst's writing, her way of quotinghis opinions respectfully, or with only half a laugh; her very nicknamefor him, "the great Man," might have some serious meaning in it.Supposing that there were an understanding between them, what would itmean to him?
"Damn it all!" he demanded, "am I in love with her?" To that he couldonly return himself one answer. He certainly was in love with her, ifhe knew what love meant. Ever since he had first seen her he had beeninterested and attracted, more and more interested and attracted, untilhe was scarcely able to think of anything except Rachel. But just as hewas sliding into one of the long feasts of meditation about them both,he checked himself by asking whether he wanted to marry her? That wasthe real problem, for these miseries and agonies could not be endured,and it was necessary that he should make up his mind. He instantlydecided that he did not want to marry any one. Partly because he wasirritated by Rachel the idea of marriage irritated him. It immediatelysuggested the picture of two people sitting alone over the fire; the manwas reading, the woman sewing. There was a second picture. He saw aman jump up, say good-night, leave the company and hasten away withthe quiet secret look of one who is stealing to certain happiness.Both these pictures were very unpleasant, and even more so was a thirdpicture, of husband and wife and friend; and the married peopleglancing at each other as though they were content to let somethingpass unquestioned, being themselves possessed of the deeper truth. Otherpictures--he was walking very fast in his irritation, and theycame before him without any conscious effort, like pictures on asheet--succeeded these. Here were the worn husband and wife sitting withtheir children round them, very patient, tolerant, and wise. But thattoo, was an unpleasant picture. He tried all sorts of pictures, takingthem from the lives of friends of his, for he knew many differentmarried couples; but he saw them always, walled up in a warm firelitroom. When, on the other hand, he began to think of unmarried people, hesaw them active in an unlimited world; above all, standing on thesame ground as the rest, without shelter or advantage. All the mostindividual and humane of his friends were bachelors and spinsters;indeed he was surprised to find that the women he most admired and knewbest were unmarried women. Marriage seemed to be worse for them thanit was for men. Leaving these general pictures he considered the peoplewhom he had been observing lately at the hotel. He had often revolvedthese 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 shyhappiness and surprise of the engaged couple had gradually been replacedby a comfortable, tolerant state of mind, as if they had already donewith the adventure of intimacy and were taking up their parts. Susanused to pursue Arthur about with a sweater, because he had one day letslip that a brother of his had died of pneumonia. The sight amused him,but was not pleasant if you substituted Terence and Rachel for Arthurand Susan; and Arthur was far less eager to get you in a corner and talkabout flying and the mechanics of aeroplanes. They would settle down.He then looked at the couples who had been married for several years. Itwas true that Mrs. Thornbury had a husband, and that for the most partshe was wonderfully successful in bringing him into the conversation,but one could not imagine what they said to each other when they werealone. There was the same difficulty with regard to the Elliots, exceptthat they probably bickered openly in private. They sometimes bickeredin public, though these disagreements were painfully covered over bylittle insincerities on the part of the wife, who was afraid of publicopinion, because she was much stupider than her husband, and had to makeefforts to keep hold of him. There could be no doubt, he decided,that it would have been far better for the world if these coupleshad separated. Even the Ambroses, whom he admired and respectedprofoundly--in spite of all the love between them, was not theirmarriage too a compromise? She gave way to him; she spoilt him; shearranged things for him; she who was all truth to others was not true toher husband, was not true to her friends if they came in conflict withher husband. It was a strange and piteous flaw in her nature. PerhapsRachel had been right, then, when she said that night in the garden, "Webring out what's worst in each other--we should live separate."
No Rachel had been utterly wrong! Every argument seemed to be againstundertaking the burden of marriage until he came to Rachel's argument,which was manifestly absurd. From having been the pursued, he turnedand became the pursuer. Allowing the case against marriage to lapse, hebegan to consider the peculiarities of character which had led to hersaying that. Had she meant it? Surely one ought to know the character ofthe 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 withher he could not analyse her qualities, because he seemed to know theminstinctively, but when he was away from her it sometimes seemed to himthat 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 theexcitement had worn off, and they had to deal with the ordinary facts ofthe day, what would happen? Casting his eye upon his own character,two things appeared to him: that he was very unpunctual, and that hedisliked answering notes. As far as he knew Rachel was inclined to bepunctual, but he could not remember that he had ever seen her with a penin her hand. Let him next imagine a dinner-party, say at the Crooms, andWilson, who had taken her down, talking about the state of the Liberalparty. She would say--of course she was absolutely ignorant of politics.Nevertheless she was intelligent certainly, and honest too. Her temperwas uncertain--that he had noticed--and she was not domestic, andshe was not easy, and she was not quiet, or beautiful, except insome dresses in some lights. But the great gift she had was that sheunderstood what was said to her; there had never been any one like herfor talking to. You could say anything--you could say everything, andyet she was never servile. Here he pulled himself up, for it seemed tohim suddenly that he knew less about her than about any one. All thesethoughts had occurred to him many times already; often had he tried toargue and reason and again he had reached the old state of doubt. Hedid not know her, and he did not know what she felt, or whether theycould live together, or whether he wanted to marry her, and yet he wasin love with her.
Supposing he went to her and said (he slackened his pace and began tospeak 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, hinderingme; what would you answer?"
"Oh, you're free!" he exclaimed, in exultation at the thought of her,"and I'd keep you free. We'd be free together. We'd share everythingtogether. No happiness would be like ours. No lives would compare withours." He opened his arms wide as if to hold her and the world in oneembrace.
No longer able to consider marriage, or to weigh coolly what her naturewas, or how it would be if they lived together, he dropped to the groundand sat absorbed in the thought of her, and soon tormented by the desireto be in her presence again.
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