Virginia Woolf

The Voyage Out Virginia Woolf

Uncomfortable as the night, with its rocking movement, and salt smells, may have been, and in one case undoubtedly was, for Mr. Pepper had insufficient clothes upon his bed, thebreakfast next morning wore a kind of beauty. The voyage had begun, and had begunhappily with a soft blue sky, and a calm sea. The sense of untapped resources, things to sayas yet unsaid, made the hour significant, so that in future years the entire journey perhapswould be represented by this one scene, with the sound of sirens hooting in the river thenight before, somehow mixing in. The table was cheerful with apples and bread and eggs. Helen handed Willoughby thebutter, and as she did so cast her eye on him and reflected, "And she married you, and shewas happy, I suppose."She went off on a familiar train of thought, leading on to all kinds of well-knownreflections, from the old wonder, why Theresa had married Willoughby?"Of course, one sees all that," she thought, meaning that one sees that he is big and burly, and has a great booming voice, and a fist and a will of his own; "but-" here she slipped intoa fine analysis of him which is best represented by one word, "sentimental," by which shemeant that he was never simple and honest about his feelings. For example, he seldomspoke of the dead, but kept anniversaries with singular pomp. She suspected him ofnameless atrocities with regard to his daughter, as indeed she had always suspected him ofbullying his wife. Naturally she fell to comparing her own fortunes with the fortunes of herfriend, for Willoughby's wife had been perhaps the one woman Helen called friend, and thiscomparison often made the staple of their talk. Ridley was a scholar, and Willoughby was aman of business. Ridley was bringing out the third volume of Pindar when Willoughby waslaunching his first ship. They built a new factory the very year the commentary onAristotle-was it?-appeared at the University Press. "And Rachel," she looked at her, meaning, no doubt, to decide the argument, which was otherwise too evenly balanced, bydeclaring that Rachel was not comparable to her own children. "She really might be sixyears old," was all she said, however, this judgment referring to the smooth unmarkedoutline of the girl's face, and not condemning her otherwise, for if Rachel were ever tothink, feel, laugh, or express herself, instead of dropping milk from a height as though to seewhat kind of drops it made, she might be interesting though never exactly pretty. She waslike her mother, as the image in a pool on a still summer's day is like the vivid flushed facethat hangs over