The Virginia Woolf Megapack. Virginia Woolf
said an hour. We’ve been gone more than half an hour.”
“And it takes that to get back,” said Rachel. She raised herself very slowly. When she was standing up she stretched her arms and drew a deep breath, half a sigh, half a yawn. She appeared to be very tired. Her cheeks were white. “Which way?” she asked.
“There,” said Terence.
They began to walk back down the mossy path again. The sighing and creaking continued far overhead, and the jarring cries of animals. The butterflies were circling still in the patches of yellow sunlight. At first Terence was certain of his way, but as they walked he became doubtful. They had to stop to consider, and then to return and start once more, for although he was certain of the direction of the river he was not certain of striking the point where they had left the others. Rachel followed him, stopping where he stopped, turning where he turned, ignorant of the way, ignorant why he stopped or why he turned.
“I don’t want to be late,” he said, “because—” He put a flower into her hand and her fingers closed upon it quietly. “We’re so late—so late—so horribly late,” he repeated as if he were talking in his sleep. “Ah—this is right. We turn here.”
They found themselves again in the broad path, like the drive in the English forest, where they had started when they left the others. They walked on in silence as people walking in their sleep, and were oddly conscious now and again of the mass of their bodies. Then Rachel exclaimed suddenly, “Helen!”
In the sunny space at the edge of the forest they saw Helen still sitting on the tree-trunk, her dress showing very white in the sun, with Hirst still propped on his elbow by her side. They stopped instinctively. At the sight of other people they could not go on. They stood hand in hand for a minute or two in silence. They could not bear to face other people.
“But we must go on,” Rachel insisted at last, in the curious dull tone of voice in which they had both been speaking, and with a great effort they forced themselves to cover the short distance which lay between them and the pair sitting on the tree-trunk.
As they approached, Helen turned round and looked at them. She looked at them for some time without speaking, and when they were close to her she said quietly:
“Did you meet Mr. Flushing? He has gone to find you. He thought you must be lost, though I told him you weren’t lost.”
Hirst half turned round and threw his head back so that he looked at the branches crossing themselves in the air above him.
“Well, was it worth the effort?” he enquired dreamily.
Hewet sat down on the grass by his side and began to fan himself.
Rachel had balanced herself near Helen on the end of the tree trunk.
“Very hot,” she said.
“You look exhausted anyhow,” said Hirst.
“It’s fearfully close in those trees,” Helen remarked, picking up her book and shaking it free from the dried blades of grass which had fallen between the leaves. Then they were all silent, looking at the river swirling past in front of them between the trunks of the trees until Mr. Flushing interrupted them. He broke out of the trees a hundred yards to the left, exclaiming sharply:
“Ah, so you found the way after all. But it’s late—much later than we arranged, Hewet.”
He was slightly annoyed, and in his capacity as leader of the expedition, inclined to be dictatorial. He spoke quickly, using curiously sharp, meaningless words.
“Being late wouldn’t matter normally, of course,” he said, “but when it’s a question of keeping the men up to time—”
He gathered them together and made them come down to the river-bank, where the boat was waiting to row them out to the steamer.
The heat of the day was going down, and over their cups of tea the Flushings tended to become communicative. It seemed to Terence as he listened to them talking, that existence now went on in two different layers. Here were the Flushings talking, talking somewhere high up in the air above him, and he and Rachel had dropped to the bottom of the world together. But with something of a child’s directness, Mrs. Flushing had also the instinct which leads a child to suspect what its elders wish to keep hidden. She fixed Terence with her vivid blue eyes and addressed herself to him in particular. What would he do, she wanted to know, if the boat ran upon a rock and sank.
“Would you care for anythin’ but savin’ yourself? Should I? No, no,” she laughed, “not one scrap—don’t tell me. There’s only two creatures the ordinary woman cares about,” she continued, “her child and her dog; and I don’t believe it’s even two with men. One reads a lot about love—that’s why poetry’s so dull. But what happens in real life, he? It ain’t love!” she cried.
Terence murmured something unintelligible. Mr. Flushing, however, had recovered his urbanity. He was smoking a cigarette, and he now answered his wife.
“You must always remember, Alice,” he said, “that your upbringing was very unnatural—unusual, I should say. They had no mother,” he explained, dropping something of the formality of his tone; “and a father—he was a very delightful man, I’ve no doubt, but he cared only for racehorses and Greek statues. Tell them about the bath, Alice.”
“In the stable-yard,” said Mrs. Flushing. “Covered with ice in winter. We had to get in; if we didn’t, we were whipped. The strong ones lived—the others died. What you call survival of the fittest—a most excellent plan, I daresay, if you’ve thirteen children!”
“And all this going on in the heart of England, in the nineteenth century!” Mr. Flushing exclaimed, turning to Helen.
“I’d treat my children just the same if I had any,” said Mrs. Flushing.
Every word sounded quite distinctly in Terence’s ears; but what were they saying, and who were they talking to, and who were they, these fantastic people, detached somewhere high up in the air? Now that they had drunk their tea, they rose and leant over the bow of the boat. The sun was going down, and the water was dark and crimson. The river had widened again, and they were passing a little island set like a dark wedge in the middle of the stream. Two great white birds with red lights on them stood there on stilt-like legs, and the beach of the island was unmarked, save by the skeleton print of birds’ feet. The branches of the trees on the bank looked more twisted and angular than ever, and the green of the leaves was lurid and splashed with gold. Then Hirst began to talk, leaning over the bow.
“It makes one awfully queer, don’t you find?” he complained. “These trees get on one’s nerves—it’s all so crazy. God’s undoubtedly mad. What sane person could have conceived a wilderness like this, and peopled it with apes and alligators? I should go mad if I lived here—raving mad.”
Terence attempted to answer him, but Mrs. Ambrose replied instead. She bade him look at the way things massed themselves—look at the amazing colours, look at the shapes of the trees. She seemed to be protecting Terence from the approach of the others.
“Yes,” said Mr. Flushing. “And in my opinion,” he continued, “the absence of population to which Hirst objects is precisely the significant touch. You must admit, Hirst, that a little Italian town even would vulgarise the whole scene, would detract from the vastness—the sense of elemental grandeur.” He swept his hands towards the forest, and paused for a moment, looking at the great green mass, which was now falling silent. “I own it makes us seem pretty small—us, not them.” He nodded his head at a sailor who leant over the side spitting into the river. “And that, I think, is what my wife feels, the essential superiority of the peasant—” Under cover of Mr. Flushing’s words, which continued now gently reasoning with St. John and persuading him, Terence drew Rachel to the side, pointing ostensibly to a great gnarled tree-trunk which had fallen and lay half in the water. He wished, at any rate, to be near her, but he found that he could say nothing. They could hear Mr. Flushing flowing on, now about his wife, now about art, now about the future of the country, little