Anna would not play in the games. Not so much because she disliked the games themselves – certainly they were inane and boring enough, but then the whole shipboard life was such a madness of inanity that the lesser, incidental imbecilities were excusable – but because she could not endure the determinedly jovial attitude which everyone adopted towards the skittle contests and the quoits and the deck-tennis and deck-everything-else. ‘Let’s get up a cheery party.’ ‘Let’s collect a cheery crowd.’ There was something about the very sound of the word ‘cheery’ that set her teeth on edge with repulsion. All this fizz of jovialness left her cold. She was somewhat contemptuous, somewhat dazed in the society of all these jolly good fellows who treated her to their peculiar mixture of gallantry and effrontery and mock-deference – all overlying, in some way, a fundamental slight. Presumably the slight was unconscious and unintended; but it was there, none the less. A kind of masculine all-highest condescension to which the other women played up disgustingly. The flighty feminine dove-cote always seemed to be in a flutter of coquettish excitement over some fine gentleman. It was the sort of atmosphere which one expects to meet in mid-Victorian fiction. But it had a central nullity particularly its own. Underneath the superficial cheeriness and the little flirtatious excitements was a sort of flatness, an emptiness. As though at any moment the whole system might collapse into a black abyss of vacancy.
Anna found it all rather depressing. However, she sat calmly in her chair, and watched the slow, hot passage of the hours, and felt uneasy and dubious. A horrible empty feeling she had. And lonely, as if the universe were tumbling down in a watery swirl, and she alone stood solid on her solitary peak. The horizon was like a ruled line, clean-cut and rigid, cutting the world in two. The upper half, the sky, pale ultramarine; the lower, the watery half, cobalt, or sometimes prussian-blue with streaks of purple in it. The empty, empty world of water and blueness! In her eye came an ache like nausea, craving so keenly the relief of solidity. She wanted so much to find something to catch hold of. But what was there?
The days went by, and they were at Colombo – the voyage was ending. She came up on deck one morning, very early, and saw the land, a tremulous, rosy scarf floating on the blue rippling water, but pearly, pearly, a very precious and diaphanous thing, lucent and phantasmal. She remembered that Ceylon was called the pearl-drop of India. And there it was, the pearl, before her eyes.
Many passengers were leaving the boat, Findlay among them. Matthew and Anna went ashore with him. They had arranged to make an expedition together, a sort of farewell party. They would drive to Mount Lavinia, dine and stay the night. It was not necessary to return to the ship till the following day.
Anna was very excited. It was dry land, solidity at last. She was in the East, in the great continent of ancient Asia, with the hot earth underfoot. And really, in the blue and glittery atmosphere, in the reckless, transparent flood of sunshine, in the hot dazzle of buildings, and palm trees bursting up, there was something different, something romantic. And the fantastic figures of the men going about, so womanish with their coloured skirts and their long black hair turned up in a bun or swathed round a tortoiseshell comb – altogether womanlike until you saw their smallish, metallic faces which had a curious small-scale maleness of their own, a sort of masculinity in minature. Like men dressed up as women in a pantomime they were, after you had seen their male faces. Anna was exhilarated.
In the afternoon they motored into the country, in a whirl of dust and palms and scarlet and vivid green, and chickens scattering at the sides of the roads – all rather gaudy and unconvincing, like a pantomime. There was even a glimpse of elephants solemnly trundling. Then, in the evening, a hotel by the sea, gardens, people bathing, and palm trees darkly leaning over the pale sand.
Anna was very aware of Findlay. But what did she feel about him? She looked at him to find out. He smiled at her. And the blood stirred in her veins. This was her response, but what did it mean? She was on the alert for him, she wanted to make contact.
But she could not speak to him. There was no opportunity. The presence of Matthew and of the other people was like a wall of rock round her. She hated them. In a fury of intolerance her grey eyes looked out at them. But she gave no sign. She sat quietly, concealed and secret behind her smiling face. So the whole evening passed without any trace of intimacy. Findlay and Anna were like affable, shipboard acquaintances taking leave of each other. Matthew sat near Anna and refilled her glass. And as she drank she began to grow angry. A sort of shame was at the root of her anger, her heart was cold. She looked at Findlay with a smiling, cold face which he seemed not to see. Then, laughing, saying that they must go and look at the moon, he led the way out of doors.
Anna went with him into the garden. The night was brilliant, the moonlight burned and glittered. The moon seemed smaller, more distinct, much more dazzling and intense than the English moon. It was like a small round hole in the sky through which the white fire of brightness poured in a concentrated beam. The air was quite warm.
The warm night air was on Anna’s face, not stirring, but lying softly upon her, like a flower. It was an alien, soft air, heavy with the suggestion of unknown things. And she was alone with Findlay. Out in the mysterious, nocturnal garden he walked beside her.
‘Shall we go down to the sea?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ came his airy voice.
And smiling, he took her hand. A sharp tremor went over her.
‘Which is the way?’ she said.
‘Here,’ he answered.
He walked holding her hand in the moonlight, she saw his face strangely blanched and masklike, and yet beautiful. It was the beautiful curve of his mouth which so enthralled her.
They went in silence, wading through the pale brightness. The moonlight was like a fluid, a magic, silvery element, buoyant and wonderful.
They came to the shore, a ghostly silver waste, with grey wraiths of palm trees writhing and bending. The sea moved with mysterious massiveness, shadowed and brightly flashing, the mysterious, slow waves of the Indian Ocean rolled in, slowly, heavily, without spray, and flattened themselves with a dull, muted crash. It was all mysterious and unfamiliar; rather oppressive, the heavily swinging ocean, in the flare of dead white light.
She stood on the sand, on the unstable, treacherous body of the sand, and watched the slow rhythm of the unfurling waves. Her heart was cold like the sea. And yet an emotional excitement burned hotly in her veins, because of Findlay, and because of the wine she had drunk.
‘I don’t like it,’ she said, in an unfamiliar tone. ‘It’s a dead sea.’
He gave an odd, half-mocking jerk of his head, and began to laugh. She could not hear his laughter in the noise of the waves, but she saw his face laughing at her boldly, carelessly, mischievously, like the satyr he resembled. She had an impulse to abandon herself – to him? – to what? She was not certain.
‘Rex?’ she said to him.
‘Well?’ he answered.
The impudent smile showed on his face, he took hold of her hands. She felt the warm, firm swell of his chest. For the moment she was open to him. If he should take her at this moment she would yield. She waited for him: let him do as he wished. She leaned towards him in the moonlight, she felt his hands holding hers.
She saw his eyes looking down on her, dark and sparkling and alien. Gazing up, she saw the luminous pallor of his face above her, in the moonlight, something irresponsible and thrilling and rather sinister. She looked at him and her blood pulsed hot and expectant. She waited, submissive, and he hovered above her in his elusiveness, his heart yearning to her.
He wanted so much to take her in the moonlight. But the desire in him was overborne by the knowledge of her difference. He knew that she was not for him. His airy nature sheered off in alarm. He wanted her, and yet he did not want her. His irresponsibility made a gulf between them. They were in different worlds.
So he could not touch her. He did nothing. He did not even kiss her. H
e sheered off, he had to retain his elvish freedom, though the leaving of her hurt him and lacerated him.
Anna stood still, feeling lost. Presently she realized his failure. Her heart flew to anger. She looked at Findlay, and there seemed to be a furtive look about him, an evasiveness, and she stiffened in sudden dislike, turning away. Then a sort of shame stabbed through her anger; she was ashamed, and only wanted to be gone.
‘Let us go back,’ she said.
They turned away from the heaving bulk of water, away from the darkly surging waves, back towards the hotel. Findlay glanced at her, and would have spoken. But she would not look at him. Pale and silent and angry, she walked in the gleaming, silvery night. And all the time at the back of her mind there was something shameful. She wondered angrily at her own shame.
They reached the lighted entrance. Anna’s heart trembled, but it was locked in bitterness.
‘Good night,’ she said, standing on the step above him, her face wearing its peculiar blank, almost stony look. She wondered what he was thinking, as he stood and watched her.
He looked at her, at her slender body, which he was not able to touch. And he knew that his failure would always haunt him. He did not want her, he was in a different world; but he suffered at losing her.
‘What have I done?’ he asked, diffident, and smiling rather exquisitely.
She felt her heart stir. His smile still went to her heart. Yet her heart was not touched; it was cold and bitter. No response came on her face.
‘Nothing,’ she said, hating him.
She went into the hotel and turned her back on him. There were people moving about. She caught sight of Matthew. She went up and touched his arm.
‘I’m tired,’ she said. ‘I shall go to bed now.’
He looked at her very strangely. He looked at her hands, which trembled slightly. Then he looked at her face again, which was cold and blank and a little despairing.
A slyness came into his eyes, a strange suggestion of craft.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I will see you upstairs.’
He took her arm at the elbow to lead her away. She did not notice him. Findlay stood in the doorway, watching, but without any expression, the two people, the girl and the stiff-shouldered, rather insignificant man. Anna went on with Matthew. They began to walk up the stairs. Still she was locked in anger, feeling a great bitterness in her heart. Against her will her hands were trembling: but she was not softened: her anger was cold and shameful. She had a sensation of strange, cold lightness.
Matthew had opened her bedroom door, and was waiting for her to go in.
‘Can I do anything?’ he asked, watching her.
She was aware of a cold indifference, and also of something else, not exactly excitement, but a kind of frozen recklessness, anguished and bitter. It was as if her disillusionment, her feeling of shame aroused some passionate desperation in her. She seemed to be in the grip of a kind of possession.
‘Can I do anything for you?’ persisted Matthew. There was a queer confidence in his voice and also a note of insinuation.
She hesitated, watching him. The blue glassiness was bright in his eyes, he was staring at her hungrily, as a starved creature might. Some certainty flared in her soul. She knew that if she let him come into the room she would have to submit to him.
‘Would you like me to open the shutters?’ he asked, humbly it seemed.
She shuddered with cold and with the intense premonition of what must follow.
They still stood at the door.
‘No,’ she replied. ‘Leave them as they are.’
‘It will be stuffy. I had better open them,’ he said, with his strange, blindly persisting obstinacy that seemed to stifle her.
There was something inevitable about him. It no longer seemed worth while to resist. Sometime, somewhere his obstinacy, his mindless, unwavering determination would get the better of her. Impossible to withstand him for ever. She realized with horror that she was going to yield. His large, brown, hairless hand was advancing in her direction. She stood still. His head was round and dark and ball-like. So unlike a human cranium. He smiled in anticipation.
‘No!’ she exclaimed involuntarily, stepping back.
But he stepped after her, very prancy and complacent now, and closed the door behind him. She saw his brown, neat, expressionless face coming towards her through the air. It was like an image approaching. Her blood ran cold with the horror of his unreality, with the horror of the thing he threatened, and with humiliation, and with the bitterness of lonely despair. She was a helpless traveller alone in the night. And what was he? She felt herself his victim.
Just for a moment, she struggled wildly to defend herself. But when she felt his strength, the tough, monkeyish strength of his long arms about her, she knew she had no chance against him. She had to submit. But he was ugly to her, horrible. Never for one instant did her spirit yield to him. Her will, her soul, was set in inflexible, adamantine resistance, defying him. He was hateful to her, despicable, so that she cringed under the humiliating infliction of his body, his hard, smooth, unattractive muscularity. But she submitted to him, to his ugliness and to his strength, his imperceptiveness. And he ravished her. He simply took her body and ravished it. She suffered atrociously. Yet all the time her spirit remained cold, reckless, and unchanging. Nor did he ever become real to her.
CHAPTER 13
AFTER Colombo there still remained five days of sea before the Henzada would reach Rangoon. But the heart seemed to have gone out of the ship, this part of the voyage hardly counted. All the more noticeable passengers – the smartest, the most interesting, the most amusing – had left the boat at Colombo. The people stopping on board were the callow young bachelors fresh from unimportant schools and training colleges, the untidy families of young children with their tired-looking parents, the insignificant elderly couples, like the Bretts. The same convention of jovial gaiety was maintained; but now it was the gaiety of the nursery. The whole tone of the ship had descended to a rather tiresome domesticity. And there was an undercurrent of discontent. Superficially, these people might be all keenness and enthusiasm. But underneath was a certain reluctance – rather the feeling of schoolboys at the start of a new term.
With a complete indifference Anna watched the monotonous last days of sea. She saw a shadowy line, far out in the midst of the blue vacancy, running along the edge of the sky. She knew that it was the coast of Burma.
And slowly the land approached – they came to the mouth of the river and steamed up, slowly, so slowly, in the sluggish afternoon. Soon they would be in Rangoon. Anna was too indifferent to care. A vast indifference had settled on her like a doom. She went about calm and vague and indifferent. Vaguely, she was sorry that Findlay had gone. Vaguely, she was aware of a sense of humiliation, of bitter loneliness: the absolute loneliness of her existence. She felt weighed down by an oppressive rock of indifference. And Matthew was the cause of her humiliation. Vaguely, she wanted to escape from him, but she was too indifferent to make any effort.
In front of her she could see Matthew’s head, with its dark, dry-looking hair, inclined to dustiness, like a cap that has not been brushed. It was his head, she imagined, which so oppressed her, crushing her in some way, as a weight might crush the blood out of her heart. He was very complacent after his triumph over her. And back to his chivalrous pose again. He was very devoted and attentive, looking at her with a proud gleam of private ownership in his manly eye, making no advances for the moment. But he was getting tired of chivalry and restraint, she could see. Soon he would start bullying again.
The passengers got excited, packing and saying good-bye, and so the boat steamed on till it came to Rangoon. Then there was a fuss and a scramble with servants and luggage, a confusion of meetings and farewells, and finally a drive in an open car to the station. Anna was vaguely disappointed. Rangoon was a big town with modern buildings and trams everywhere. Without the brown faces and the brilliant clothes, it might hav
e been Marseilles over again. She sat and ate in the station restaurant while Matthew fussed over the luggage.
Towards evening they were in the train, in a queer white wooden box of a carriage, travelling up the middle of Burma. In a trance of indifference Anna watched the flat, unreal-seeming country outside the windows, the squalid, ramshackle bamboo huts and the gaudily dressed crowds. Then it was dark, the train running on in the black night, worlds away from everywhere it seemed. The familiar universe had vanished away, and in its place had come this strange black void, and the train thumping on for ever and ever, nothing but darkness and the heavily throbbing train. Only at the infrequent stations there was light and noise, a flare of hot, reddish lights, and the hubbub of seething humanity, a sharp, breath-taking odour of hot foods.
The slow discomfort of the night proceeded. It grew rather cold. Matthew was sound asleep. The train rumbled on; or came to an occasional halt. Anna saw glimpses of stations, still crowded, but quieter now, with strange, cocoon-like figures lying on the ground. Occasionally she caught sight of names – Pegu, Prome. What in the world could they stand for but stations, weird, spectral platforms brightly lighted in the profound black night, and rows of muffled figures outstretched?
At last it was morning. The sky filled slowly with a ghostly pallor. Drop by drop the greyish-luminous light distilled into the great, smooth cup of the sky. Then came the pinkness of dawn, and the golden sun swinging up, suddenly, as if surprised, out of the level land. Anna was pleased. In the midst of her weariness and indifference, she felt a shaft of appreciation. Suddenly, she was pleased to be in the East. It pleased her to watch the queer, flat, unearthly-looking country, the people pleased her, the brown, rather flat-faced people with their brilliant skirts and the flowers in their hair.
After a time the hills appeared. The train panted up, slowly, laboriously. They seemed to be among the tops of the hills. Dazzling little pagodas perched on the rocky summits, hills swelled up and down, like a tapestry landscape, pools of water sprinkled with bright blue lilies trembled in the low places; it all seemed brilliant and gay, rather childish, like a fairy-tale country come alive. The train pottered along, and stopped more often. Finally it left the hills and meandered out on to the level ground.