The Voyage Out

by Virginia Woolf

  Chapter XXVI

  For two or three hours longer the moon poured its light through theempty air. Unbroken by clouds it fell straightly, and lay almost likea chill white frost over the sea and the earth. During these hours thesilence was not broken, and the only movement was caused by the movementof trees and branches which stirred slightly, and then the shadows thatlay across the white spaces of the land moved too. In this profoundsilence one sound only was audible, the sound of a slight but continuousbreathing which never ceased, although it never rose and never fell. Itcontinued after the birds had begun to flutter from branch to branch,and could be heard behind the first thin notes of their voices. Itcontinued all through the hours when the east whitened, and grew red,and a faint blue tinged the sky, but when the sun rose it ceased, andgave place to other sounds.

  The first sounds that were heard were little inarticulate cries, thecries, it seemed, of children or of the very poor, of people who werevery weak or in pain. But when the sun was above the horizon, the airwhich had been thin and pale grew every moment richer and warmer, andthe sounds of life became bolder and more full of courage and authority.By degrees the smoke began to ascend in wavering breaths over thehouses, and these slowly thickened, until they were as round andstraight as columns, and instead of striking upon pale white blinds, thesun shone upon dark windows, beyond which there was depth and space.

  The sun had been up for many hours, and the great dome of air was warmedthrough and glittering with thin gold threads of sunlight, before anyone moved in the hotel. White and massive it stood in the early light,half asleep with its blinds down.

  At about half-past nine Miss Allan came very slowly into the hall, andwalked very slowly to the table where the morning papers were laid, butshe did not put out her hand to take one; she stood still, thinking,with her head a little sunk upon her shoulders. She looked curiouslyold, and from the way in which she stood, a little hunched together andvery massive, you could see what she would be like when she was reallyold, how she would sit day after day in her chair looking placidly infront of her. Other people began to come into the room, and to pass her,but she did not speak to any of them or even look at them, and at last,as if it were necessary to do something, she sat down in a chair, andlooked quietly and fixedly in front of her. She felt very old thismorning, and useless too, as if her life had been a failure, as if ithad been hard and laborious to no purpose. She did not want to go onliving, and yet she knew that she would. She was so strong that shewould live to be a very old woman. She would probably live to be eighty,and as she was now fifty, that left thirty years more for her tolive. She turned her hands over and over in her lap and looked at themcuriously; her old hands, that had done so much work for her. There didnot seem to be much point in it all; one went on, of course one wenton. . . . She looked up to see Mrs. Thornbury standing beside her, withlines drawn upon her forehead, and her lips parted as if she were aboutto ask a question.

  Miss Allan anticipated her.

  "Yes," she said. "She died this morning, very early, about threeo'clock."

  Mrs. Thornbury made a little exclamation, drew her lips together, andthe tears rose in her eyes. Through them she looked at the hall whichwas now laid with great breadths of sunlight, and at the careless,casual groups of people who were standing beside the solid arm-chairsand tables. They looked to her unreal, or as people look who remainunconscious that some great explosion is about to take place besidethem. But there was no explosion, and they went on standing bythe chairs and the tables. Mrs. Thornbury no longer saw them, but,penetrating through them as though they were without substance, she sawthe house, the people in the house, the room, the bed in the room, andthe figure of the dead lying still in the dark beneath the sheets.She could almost see the dead. She could almost hear the voices of themourners.

  "They expected it?" she asked at length.

  Miss Allan could only shake her head.

  "I know nothing," she replied, "except what Mrs. Flushing's maid toldme. She died early this morning."

  The two women looked at each other with a quiet significant gaze, andthen, feeling oddly dazed, and seeking she did not know exactly what,Mrs. Thornbury went slowly upstairs and walked quietly along thepassages, touching the wall with her fingers as if to guide herself.Housemaids were passing briskly from room to room, but Mrs. Thornburyavoided them; she hardly saw them; they seemed to her to be in anotherworld. She did not even look up directly when Evelyn stopped her. Itwas evident that Evelyn had been lately in tears, and when she lookedat Mrs. Thornbury she began to cry again. Together they drew into thehollow of a window, and stood there in silence. Broken words formedthemselves at last among Evelyn's sobs. "It was wicked," she sobbed, "itwas cruel--they were so happy."

  Mrs. Thornbury patted her on the shoulder.

  "It seems hard--very hard," she said. She paused and looked out over theslope of the hill at the Ambroses' villa; the windows were blazing inthe sun, and she thought how the soul of the dead had passed from thosewindows. Something had passed from the world. It seemed to her strangelyempty.

  "And yet the older one grows," she continued, her eyes regaining morethan their usual brightness, "the more certain one becomes that there isa reason. How could one go on if there were no reason?" she asked.

  She asked the question of some one, but she did not ask it of Evelyn.Evelyn's sobs were becoming quieter. "There must be a reason," she said."It can't only be an accident. For it was an accident--it need neverhave happened."

  Mrs. Thornbury sighed deeply.

  "But we must not let ourselves think of that," she added, "and let ushope that they don't either. Whatever they had done it might have beenthe same. These terrible illnesses--"

  "There's no reason--I don't believe there's any reason at all!" Evelynbroke out, pulling the blind down and letting it fly back with a littlesnap.

  "Why should these things happen? Why should people suffer? I honestlybelieve," she went on, lowering her voice slightly, "that Rachel's inHeaven, but Terence. . . ."

  "What's the good of it all?" she demanded.

  Mrs. Thornbury shook her head slightly but made no reply, and pressingEvelyn's hand she went on down the passage. Impelled by a strong desireto hear something, although she did not know exactly what there was tohear, she was making her way to the Flushings' room. As she opened theirdoor she felt that she had interrupted some argument between husbandand wife. Mrs. Flushing was sitting with her back to the light, and Mr.Flushing was standing near her, arguing and trying to persuade her ofsomething.

  "Ah, here is Mrs. Thornbury," he began with some relief in his voice."You have heard, of course. My wife feels that she was in some wayresponsible. She urged poor Miss Vinrace to come on the expedition. I'msure you will agree with me that it is most unreasonable to feel that.We don't even know--in fact I think it most unlikely--that she caughther illness there. These diseases--Besides, she was set on going. Shewould have gone whether you asked her or not, Alice."

  "Don't, Wilfrid," said Mrs. Flushing, neither moving nor taking her eyesoff the spot on the floor upon which they rested. "What's the use oftalking? What's the use--?" She ceased.

  "I was coming to ask you," said Mrs. Thornbury, addressing Wilfrid, forit was useless to speak to his wife. "Is there anything you think thatone could do? Has the father arrived? Could one go and see?"

  The strongest wish in her being at this moment was to be able to dosomething for the unhappy people--to see them--to assure them--to helpthem. It was dreadful to be so far away from them. But Mr. Flushingshook his head; he did not think that now--later perhaps one might beable to help. Here Mrs. Flushing rose stiffly, turned her back to them,and walked to the dressing-room opposite. As she walked, they could seeher breast slowly rise and slowly fall. But her grief was silent. Sheshut the door behind her.

  When she was alone by herself she clenched her fists together, and beganbeating the back of a chair with them. She was like a wounded animal.She hated death; she was furious, outraged, indigna
nt with death, asif it were a living creature. She refused to relinquish her friends todeath. She would not submit to dark and nothingness. She began to paceup and down, clenching her hands, and making no attempt to stop thequick tears which raced down her cheeks. She sat still at last, but shedid not submit. She looked stubborn and strong when she had ceased tocry.

  In the next room, meanwhile, Wilfrid was talking to Mrs. Thornbury withgreater freedom now that his wife was not sitting there.

  "That's the worst of these places," he said. "People will behave asthough they were in England, and they're not. I've no doubt myself thatMiss Vinrace caught the infection up at the villa itself. She probablyran risks a dozen times a day that might have given her the illness.It's absurd to say she caught it with us."

  If he had not been sincerely sorry for them he would have been annoyed."Pepper tells me," he continued, "that he left the house because hethought them so careless. He says they never washed their vegetablesproperly. Poor people! It's a fearful price to pay. But it's only whatI've seen over and over again--people seem to forget that these thingshappen, and then they do happen, and they're surprised."

  Mrs. Thornbury agreed with him that they had been very careless, andthat there was no reason whatever to think that she had caught the feveron the expedition and after talking about other things for a shorttime, she left him and went sadly along the passage to her own room.There must be some reason why such things happen, she thought toherself, as she shut the door. Only at first it was not easy tounderstand what it was. It seemed so strange--so unbelievable. Why, onlythree weeks ago--only a fortnight ago, she had seen Rachel; when sheshut her eyes she could almost see her now, the quiet, shy girl who wasgoing to be married. She thought of all that she would have missedhad she died at Rachel's age, the children, the married life, theunimaginable depths and miracles that seemed to her, as she looked back,to have lain about her, day after day, and year after year. The stunnedfeeling, which had been making it difficult for her to think, graduallygave way to a feeling of the opposite nature; she thought very quicklyand very clearly, and, looking back over all her experiences, tried tofit them into a kind of order. There was undoubtedly much suffering,much struggling, but, on the whole, surely there was a balance ofhappiness--surely order did prevail. Nor were the deaths of young peoplereally the saddest things in life--they were saved so much; they keptso much. The dead--she called to mind those who had died early,accidentally--were beautiful; she often dreamt of the dead. And intime Terence himself would come to feel--She got up and began to wanderrestlessly about the room.

  For an old woman of her age she was very restless, and for one of herclear, quick mind she was unusually perplexed. She could not settle toanything, so that she was relieved when the door opened. She went upto her husband, took him in her arms, and kissed him with unusualintensity, and then as they sat down together she began to pat him andquestion him as if he were a baby, an old, tired, querulous baby. Shedid not tell him about Miss Vinrace's death, for that would only disturbhim, and he was put out already. She tried to discover why he wasuneasy. Politics again? What were those horrid people doing? She spentthe whole morning in discussing politics with her husband, and bydegrees she became deeply interested in what they were saying. But everynow and then what she was saying seemed to her oddly empty of meaning.

  At luncheon it was remarked by several people that the visitors at thehotel were beginning to leave; there were fewer every day. There wereonly forty people at luncheon, instead of the sixty that there had been.So old Mrs. Paley computed, gazing about her with her faded eyes, asshe took her seat at her own table in the window. Her party generallyconsisted of Mr. Perrott as well as Arthur and Susan, and to-day Evelynwas lunching with them also.

  She was unusually subdued. Having noticed that her eyes were red, andguessing the reason, the others took pains to keep up an elaborateconversation between themselves. She suffered it to go on for afew minutes, leaning both elbows on the table, and leaving her soupuntouched, when she exclaimed suddenly, "I don't know how you feel, butI can simply think of nothing else!"

  The gentlemen murmured sympathetically, and looked grave.

  Susan replied, "Yes--isn't it perfectly awful? When you think whata nice girl she was--only just engaged, and this need never havehappened--it seems too tragic." She looked at Arthur as though he mightbe able to help her with something more suitable.

  "Hard lines," said Arthur briefly. "But it was a foolish thing to do--togo up that river." He shook his head. "They should have known better.You can't expect Englishwomen to stand roughing it as the natives dowho've been acclimatised. I'd half a mind to warn them at tea thatday when it was being discussed. But it's no good saying these sort ofthings--it only puts people's backs up--it never makes any difference."

  Old Mrs. Paley, hitherto contented with her soup, here intimated, byraising one hand to her ear, that she wished to know what was beingsaid.

  "You heard, Aunt Emma, that poor Miss Vinrace has died of the fever,"Susan informed her gently. She could not speak of death loudly or evenin her usual voice, so that Mrs. Paley did not catch a word. Arthur cameto the rescue.

  "Miss Vinrace is dead," he said very distinctly.

  Mrs. Paley merely bent a little towards him and asked, "Eh?"

  "Miss Vinrace is dead," he repeated. It was only by stiffening all themuscles round his mouth that he could prevent himself from burstinginto laughter, and forced himself to repeat for the third time, "MissVinrace. . . . She's dead."

  Let alone the difficulty of hearing the exact words, facts that wereoutside her daily experience took some time to reach Mrs. Paley'sconsciousness. A weight seemed to rest upon her brain, impeding, thoughnot damaging its action. She sat vague-eyed for at least a minute beforeshe realised what Arthur meant.

  "Dead?" she said vaguely. "Miss Vinrace dead? Dear me . . . that's verysad. But I don't at the moment remember which she was. We seem to havemade so many new acquaintances here." She looked at Susan for help. "Atall dark girl, who just missed being handsome, with a high colour?"

  "No," Susan interposed. "She was--" then she gave it up in despair.There was no use in explaining that Mrs. Paley was thinking of the wrongperson.

  "She ought not to have died," Mrs. Paley continued. "She looked sostrong. But people will drink the water. I can never make out why. Itseems such a simple thing to tell them to put a bottle of Seltzer waterin your bedroom. That's all the precaution I've ever taken, and I'vebeen in every part of the world, I may say--Italy a dozen times over.. . . But young people always think they know better, and then they paythe penalty. Poor thing--I am very sorry for her." But the difficultyof peering into a dish of potatoes and helping herself engrossed herattention.

  Arthur and Susan both secretly hoped that the subject was now disposedof, for there seemed to them something unpleasant in this discussion.But Evelyn was not ready to let it drop. Why would people never talkabout the things that mattered?

  "I don't believe you care a bit!" she said, turning savagely upon Mr.Perrott, who had sat all this time in silence.

  "I? Oh, yes, I do," he answered awkwardly, but with obvious sincerity.Evelyn's questions made him too feel uncomfortable.

  "It seems so inexplicable," Evelyn continued. "Death, I mean. Why shouldshe be dead, and not you or I? It was only a fortnight ago that shewas here with the rest of us. What d'you believe?" she demanded ofmr. Perrott. "D'you believe that things go on, that she's stillsomewhere--or d'you think it's simply a game--we crumble up to nothingwhen we die? I'm positive Rachel's not dead."

  Mr. Perrott would have said almost anything that Evelyn wanted him tosay, but to assert that he believed in the immortality of the soulwas not in his power. He sat silent, more deeply wrinkled than usual,crumbling his bread.

  Lest Evelyn should next ask him what he believed, Arthur, after making apause equivalent to a full stop, started a completely different topic.

  "Supposing," he said, "a man were to write and tell you that he wantedfive poun
ds because he had known your grandfather, what would you do? Itwas this way. My grandfather--"

  "Invented a stove," said Evelyn. "I know all about that. We had one inthe conservatory to keep the plants warm."

  "Didn't know I was so famous," said Arthur. "Well," he continued,determined at all costs to spin his story out at length, "the old chap,being about the second best inventor of his day, and a capable lawyertoo, died, as they always do, without making a will. Now Fielding, hisclerk, with how much justice I don't know, always claimed that he meantto do something for him. The poor old boy's come down in the worldthrough trying inventions on his own account, lives in Penge over atobacconist's shop. I've been to see him there. The question is--mustI stump up or not? What does the abstract spirit of justice require,Perrott? Remember, I didn't benefit under my grandfather's will, andI've no way of testing the truth of the story."

  "I don't know much about the abstract spirit of justice," said Susan,smiling complacently at the others, "but I'm certain of one thing--he'llget his five pounds!"

  As Mr. Perrott proceeded to deliver an opinion, and Evelyn insisted thathe was much too stingy, like all lawyers, thinking of the letter and notof the spirit, while Mrs. Paley required to be kept informed betweenthe courses as to what they were all saying, the luncheon passed with nointerval of silence, and Arthur congratulated himself upon the tact withwhich the discussion had been smoothed over.

  As they left the room it happened that Mrs. Paley's wheeled chair raninto the Elliots, who were coming through the door, as she was goingout. Brought thus to a standstill for a moment, Arthur and Susancongratulated Hughling Elliot upon his convalescence,--he was down,cadaverous enough, for the first time,--and Mr. Perrott took occasion tosay a few words in private to Evelyn.

  "Would there be any chance of seeing you this afternoon, aboutthree-thirty say? I shall be in the garden, by the fountain."

  The block dissolved before Evelyn answered. But as she left them in thehall, she looked at him brightly and said, "Half-past three, did yousay? That'll suit me."

  She ran upstairs with the feeling of spiritual exaltation and quickenedlife which the prospect of an emotional scene always aroused in her.That Mr. Perrott was again about to propose to her, she had no doubt,and she was aware that on this occasion she ought to be prepared witha definite answer, for she was going away in three days' time. Butshe could not bring her mind to bear upon the question. To come to adecision was very difficult to her, because she had a natural dislike ofanything final and done with; she liked to go on and on--always on andon. She was leaving, and, therefore, she occupied herself in laying herclothes out side by side upon the bed. She observed that some were veryshabby. She took the photograph of her father and mother, and, beforeshe laid it away in her box, she held it for a minute in her hand.Rachel had looked at it. Suddenly the keen feeling of some one'spersonality, which things that they have owned or handled sometimespreserves, overcame her; she felt Rachel in the room with her; it was asif she were on a ship at sea, and the life of the day was as unrealas the land in the distance. But by degrees the feeling of Rachel'spresence passed away, and she could no longer realise her, for she hadscarcely known her. But this momentary sensation left her depressed andfatigued. What had she done with her life? What future was there beforeher? What was make-believe, and what was real? Were these proposals andintimacies and adventures real, or was the contentment which she hadseen on the faces of Susan and Rachel more real than anything she hadever felt?

  She made herself ready to go downstairs, absentmindedly, but her fingerswere so well trained that they did the work of preparing her almost oftheir own accord. When she was actually on the way downstairs, the bloodbegan to circle through her body of its own accord too, for her mindfelt very dull.

  Mr. Perrott was waiting for her. Indeed, he had gone straight into thegarden after luncheon, and had been walking up and down the path formore than half an hour, in a state of acute suspense.

  "I'm late as usual!" she exclaimed, as she caught sight of him. "Well,you must forgive me; I had to pack up. . . . My word! It looks stormy!And that's a new steamer in the bay, isn't it?"

  She looked at the bay, in which a steamer was just dropping anchor, thesmoke still hanging about it, while a swift black shudder ran throughthe waves. "One's quite forgotten what rain looks like," she added.

  But Mr. Perrott paid no attention to the steamer or to the weather.

  "Miss Murgatroyd," he began with his usual formality, "I asked you tocome here from a very selfish motive, I fear. I do not think you need tobe assured once more of my feelings; but, as you are leaving so soon, Ifelt that I could not let you go without asking you to tell me--have Iany reason to hope that you will ever come to care for me?"

  He was very pale, and seemed unable to say any more.

  The little gush of vitality which had come into Evelyn as she randownstairs had left her, and she felt herself impotent. There wasnothing for her to say; she felt nothing. Now that he was actuallyasking her, in his elderly gentle words, to marry him, she felt less forhim than she had ever felt before.

  "Let's sit down and talk it over," she said rather unsteadily.

  Mr. Perrott followed her to a curved green seat under a tree. Theylooked at the fountain in front of them, which had long ceased to play.Evelyn kept looking at the fountain instead of thinking of what she wassaying; the fountain without any water seemed to be the type of her ownbeing.

  "Of course I care for you," she began, rushing her words out in a hurry;"I should be a brute if I didn't. I think you're quite one of the nicestpeople I've ever known, and one of the finest too. But I wish . . . Iwish you didn't care for me in that way. Are you sure you do?" For themoment she honestly desired that he should say no.

  "Quite sure," said Mr. Perrott.

  "You see, I'm not as simple as most women," Evelyn continued. "I think Iwant more. I don't know exactly what I feel."

  He sat by her, watching her and refraining from speech.

  "I sometimes think I haven't got it in me to care very much for oneperson only. Some one else would make you a better wife. I can imagineyou very happy with some one else."

  "If you think that there is any chance that you will come to care forme, I am quite content to wait," said Mr. Perrott.

  "Well--there's no hurry, is there?" said Evelyn. "Suppose I thought itover and wrote and told you when I get back? I'm going to Moscow; I'llwrite from Moscow."

  But Mr. Perrott persisted.

  "You cannot give me any kind of idea. I do not ask for a date . . . thatwould be most unreasonable." He paused, looking down at the gravel path.

  As she did not immediately answer, he went on.

  "I know very well that I am not--that I have not much to offer youeither in myself or in my circumstances. And I forget; it cannot seemthe miracle to you that it does to me. Until I met you I had gone on inmy own quiet way--we are both very quiet people, my sister and I--quitecontent with my lot. My friendship with Arthur was the most importantthing in my life. Now that I know you, all that has changed. You seemto put such a spirit into everything. Life seems to hold so manypossibilities that I had never dreamt of."

  "That's splendid!" Evelyn exclaimed, grasping his hand. "Now you'll goback and start all kinds of things and make a great name in the world;and we'll go on being friends, whatever happens . . . we'll be greatfriends, won't we?"

  "Evelyn!" he moaned suddenly, and took her in his arms, and kissed her.She did not resent it, although it made little impression on her.

  As she sat upright again, she said, "I never see why one shouldn't goon being friends--though some people do. And friendships do make adifference, don't they? They are the kind of things that matter in one'slife?"

  He looked at her with a bewildered expression as if he did not reallyunderstand what she was saying. With a considerable effort he collectedhimself, stood up, and said, "Now I think I have told you what I feel,and I will only add that I can wait as long as ever you wish."

  L
eft alone, Evelyn walked up and down the path. What did matter than?What was the meaning of it all?