Voss

by Patrick White

  As for the baby, she had but exchanged one room for another, or so it seemed. She was still curled, with her instincts, in the transparent, pink cocoon of protective love, upon which a vague future could have no possible effect.

  Mrs Bonner searched greedily for some evidence of discomfort or sickliness in the sleeping child, of ugly dangers threatening it, but found no more than a bruise or two. Nature had favoured the baby that lay so unperturbed in Laura’s arms. Then Mrs Bonner looked in the latter’s face and was a bit afraid, as if she had been present at a miracle. She did not know what to make of it.

  Nor did Laura attempt to explain her own state, even to herself. Those ensuing days she was exhausted, but content. They were the baby’s days. There was a golden fuzz of morning in the garden. She could not bring herself to tread upon the tender flesh of rose petals that were showered at her feet. To avoid this, she would walk round by another way, though it meant running the gauntlet of the sun. Then her duty was most delicious. She was the living shield, that rejoiced to deflect the most savage blows. Other pains, of desert suns, of letters unwritten, of the touch of his man’s hands, with their queer pronounced finger-joints, would fluctuate, as she carried her baby along the golden tunnels of light.

  There was no doubt that the child was hers; nor did the blood mother protest, lying on her hot pillows in the shuttered, best room. Rose Portion took all for granted. She would receive the child and feed it at her breast whenever she was told. She would look from her distance at its crinkled face. It was obvious that she had paid the penalty for some monstrous sin, but not the most seductive religion, not even her own baby, could have convinced her the sinner is pardoned. So the flies stood transfixed on wiry legs in the corners of the baby’s eyes. So the wool lace on the backs of the chairs stared back with a Gothic splendour. All was marvellous, but sculpture, to the frozen woman. Her stiff mouth would not move. Her hands had reached the position of infinite acceptance.

  Then the mistress would begin to frown for the maid’s omissions.

  ‘Look, Rose, at the flies on Baby’s face. Disgusting things! They could do her some harm,’ she would scold in true concern. ‘We must ask Mr Bonner to bring us a gossamer from town.’

  She herself would take up the baby in its parcel of expensive clothes, and rock it in her arms, or hold it to her shoulder, to listen to its bubbles. The mistress was very soon appeased. She forgot her irritating maid on recovering her child. The young woman would glow and throb with the warmth of the baby, whereas the maid, on surrendering her share in its transparent life, was content to relapse into her own opaque flesh, in its dull shroud of days, into which she had been sewn by circumstance.

  ‘What will you call the baby?’ Belle Bonner asked her cousin.

  ‘I do not know,’ said Laura Trevelyan. ‘We must ask Rose.’

  ‘Poor Rose!’ said Belle.

  ‘Why poor?’ asked Laura, quickly.

  Belle laughed. She could not say.

  Since her return from the Pringles’, the tawny Belle was also changed. She was a lioness prowling in the passages. Laura had escaped, she felt, leaving her alone in the empty cage.

  Laura, however, would often remember, and look back affectionately at Belle.

  ‘Let us go together,’ she tried now to make amends, and touched, ‘let us go and ask Rose.’

  Belle smiled sadly, but did consent to come, at a distance.

  ‘Rose,’ began Laura, very kindly, ‘what would you like to call your baby?’

  Rose, who had risen from her bed, but continued to sit in the cool room, waiting to recover her strength, did not hesitate.

  ‘Mercy,’ she said.

  Belle laughed, and Laura blushed.

  ‘That is a modest name,’ replied Belle.

  ‘Mercy, and nothing more?’ asked Laura.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Rose.

  She cleared her throat. She looked down. She would have been better left alone.

  ‘I can see Mercy all in grey,’ Belle sang dreamily.

  For the future was a dream.

  ‘You take Mercy, Rose, for a little,’ suggested Laura, offering the parcel of her child.

  ‘She is as well with you, miss,’ said the woman, quite unmoved and positive.

  ‘You are suited to each other,’ she added.

  It did, indeed, seem as though this grey-skinned woman were made of a different stuff.

  So that Laura felt wrung.

  ‘But if people should laugh at “Mercy”,’ she had to protest, ‘could we not give her a second name? Mary, for instance?’

  ‘Ah, people!’ Rose replied.

  Then Laura knew that she herself must suffer any derision or opprobrium.

  During this intercourse Belle was to some extent mollified by discovering Mercy to be the most amusing creature.

  ‘A whole chain of dreadful bubbles! Give her to me, Lolly,’ she insisted.

  ‘Then if Mercy it must be, I will speak to my uncle, and ask him to arrange with Mr Plumpton,’ Laura said. ‘There is no reason why the christening should not take place at once.’

  ‘Thank you, miss,’ said Rose.

  So it was arranged.

  But the morning that Mercy was dressed for the font, they began to suspect that her mother had overslept, and on going at last to rouse her maid, Laura Trevelyan discovered that she was gone.

  Rose Portion had turned aside her face. The watery blood had stained the pillow, her leather tongue was already stiff, in fact, this poor animal had suffered her last indignity, with the result that the girl who had arrived breathless, blooming with expectation and the roses she had pinned at her throat, was herself turned yellow by the hot wind of death. She was chafing her arms for some time beside the bed. She was gulping uglily, and touching the poor, living hair of the dead woman, her friend and servant.

  The christening of Mercy was, very properly, postponed. Instead, her mother was buried at the Sand Hills after a day or two had elapsed, and to that burying-ground the Bonners drove, in the family carriage and a hired fly, for there was the grateful Mr Plumpton to be considered, and Cassie, who was remembering Ireland, and Edith, the young girl, her red knuckles stuffed for the occasion into a first pair of gloves. The mourners smelled of fresh crêpe, supplied by the George Street store, and of the refreshment with which some of the weaker had fortified themselves. These sad smells were soon straying amongst those of baked ivy and thirsty privet at the cemetery gates, where there was an urn, besides, in which someone had left half a dozen apples to rot. The poor, sandy soil soon provided most difficult going, especially for the women, whose heels sank, and whose skirts dragged dreadfully. There were times when it seemed to the ordinarily unimpeded Belle that they were making hardly any progress; nor could the merchant help but suspect, while holding up his distressed wife, that the sun was burning a hole in his back. As for Mrs Bonner, she did suffer a good deal, less in sorrow for her dead servant, than from the presence, the very weight of Death, for while she had been struggling up the crumbly slope, recalling the different illnesses that had carried off her relatives and friends, He had mounted pick-a-back, and there He rode, regardless of a lady’s feelings.

  Rather an isolated part of the cemetery had been chosen for the grave of Rose Portion, the emancipist servant, but, of course, as the conciliatory Mr Plumpton pointed out, the whole ground would in time be opened up. So they straggled on towards the mound, and a tree from which wind or insects had torn the foliage, leaving its essential form, or bones.

  Now, when the party stood before the grave, and sun and wind were fighting for possession of the black clothes, it was Laura Trevelyan who saw clearest. The bright new box tossed and bumped as they lowered it. Then there was a thump and a spurt of sand, to reply to such human life as persisted in its arrogance. The girl who was watching flung aside the bitter hair that was blowing across her mouth. The terrible body of the dead woman, with its steady nostrils and its carved hands, was altogether resigned, she saw again, through
the intervening lid. But what of her own expectant soul, or tender roseflesh of the child? Each grain of merciless sand suggested to the girl that her days of joy had been, in a sense, illusory.

  While the thin young clergyman was strewing words, great clouds the colour of bruises were being rolled across the sky from the direction of the ocean. There was such a swirling and whirling that the earth itself pulled loose, all was moving, and the mourners lowered their heads, and braced their feeble legs to prevent themselves from being sent spinning.

  Only Laura Trevelyan appeared to stand motionless upon a little hummock.

  Laura is so cold, Aunt Emmy lamented. She shivered inside her hot dress, and tried desperately to cling to some comfort of the parson’s words.

  But Laura was calm rather than cold, as, all around her, the mourners surrendered up their faces to the fear of anonymity, and above, the clouds were loading lead to aim at men. After the first shock of discovery, it had been exhilarating to know that terrestrial safety is not assured, and that solid earth does eventually swirl beneath the feet. Then, when the wind had cut the last shred of flesh from the girl’s bones, and was whistling in the little cage that remained, she began even to experience a shrill happiness, to sing the wounds her flesh would never suffer. Yet, such was their weakness, her bones continued to crave earthly love, to hold his skull against the hollow where her heart had been. It appeared that pure happiness must await the final crumbling, when love would enter into love, becoming an endlessness, blowing at last, indivisible, indistinguishable, over the brown earth.

  ‘We can do no more for Rose,’ Mr Bonner was saying; otherwise everyone might have continued to stand.

  When she had resumed her body, and noticed the little mound that they had made for her friend, the clods of earth accused Laura’s exaltation, and she went away quickly after the others, holding her clumsy skirt.

  As soon as they reached the vehicles, the ladies and the servants climbed inside. They were congratulating one another with elaborate relief that the threatening storm had not burst. But they looked nowhere in particular, certainly not at one another, for the skin of their cheeks had dried, and was feeling too tight. As Jim Prentice and the man from the livery stable were gathering up the reins, Mr Bonner led the parson behind the carriage to pay his fee. Hungry Mr Plumpton, whose name did not fit his form, had been standing there for some other purpose, he would have liked it to appear, but did also have to eat. Mr Bonner rewarded him substantially, for he was only too relieved to escape. And the young parson became gay. The shadow of death was lifted, and all were smelling the sea breeze and the good chaff which the horses had beslavered in their nosebags.

  Life resumes possession thus simply. Mr Bonner was again stalking in the midst of his smoothly ordered women, in his impregnable stone house. Laura Trevelyan’s baby grew. She washed it, and powdered it, and wrapped it up tight, but with that humility which lately she had learnt, or rediscovered, for humility is short-lived, and must be born again in anguish.

  Similar phases mark the cycle of love. Could I forget my own husband? Laura asked, as she nursed the baby that was playing with her chin. Yet, she did forget, frequently for whole days, and then was conscience-stricken. As one takes one’s own face for granted, so it was, at least she hoped, staring at her reflection in the glass. He is never farther removed, she said, looking at her own, woman’s face. Moreover, there was the baby, that visible token of the love with which she was filled. So a mother will persuade herself.

  One evening after she had put her baby in its cot, and deceived it into sleeping, she had gone down and found her uncle talking to a stranger in the hall.

  Mr Bonner was saying:

  ‘Then, if you call on Thursday, I will have the letter written.’

  Noticing his niece, he mentioned:

  ‘This is Mr Bagot, Laura. He leaves on Friday for Moreton Bay, and will find a means of sending a letter through to Jildra. I shall, of course, take this opportunity of communicating with the expedition. One never knows but that Voss may see his way to get in touch with Mr Boyle.’

  Soon afterwards, the otherwise unimportant stranger left the house.

  ‘It would only be civil,’ Laura ventured, ‘if I, too, were to send a line.’

  ‘Nothing is lost by civility,’ her uncle agreed, absently. ‘But is it necessary in this case?’

  ‘My dear Uncle, a great deal that is unnecessary is also nice. You are not nourished by your glass of rum and water, but I am glad to think you can enjoy it.’

  ‘Eh?’ said Mr Bonner. ‘That is beside the point. But write, Laura, by all means, if it will give you pleasure.’

  He was preoccupied.

  ‘Thank you, Uncle dear.’ Laura laughed, and kissed him. ‘To give pleasure to Mr Voss was my intention.’

  She went away then, refreshed by her inspired deception.

  In the few days that remained till Thursday, Laura Trevelyan composed several tender, humorous, clever, even perfect letters, as she went about, or sat and watched the hem of her skirt. Soon, she said, I shall write it down, and then the last evening was upon her, and all the clumsiness of words.

  She sat at her little desk, which had, in fact, been built for a child, in bird’s-eye maple, an uncle’s present for a fifteenth birthday. She took her pen from out of the conglomeration of writing tools, most of which she never used. She dropped the ink eraser. Seated before her exercise, she was both stiff and childish, sullen almost. She felt that she would bungle this, but did begin in that Italian hand, which was, mercifully, her automatic writing:

  Potts Point,

  – March, 1846

  Dear Johann Ulrich Voss,

  If I address you by so many names, it is because I do not dare confess to my favourite, for my choice might indicate some weakness that you have not already suspected. You will find, I fear, that I am all weaknesses, when I would like you to admire me for my strength! …

  Now her blood began to flow. Her shoulders were the wings of birds. Her mind was a bower-bird, greedy for the shells and coloured glass that would transform the drab and ordinary.

  How I wish my sentiments were worthy of communication, and, not content with one gift, I would ask for the genius to express them. Then I would dazzle you with the glitter of diamonds, although I am inclined to believe I would adopt something less precious, but more mysterious; moonstone, I think, would be my stone.…

  Was she being affected? She thought perhaps she was, but enjoyed the opportunity. She loved the shape of words, and taste, even of the acid drops.

  I imagine how you must frown at the frivolousness of this letter, but now that I have begun, I cannot deny myself the luxury of writing as it comes, almost with recklessness, to one who knows me scarcely at all, yet (and this is what is awful) who has complete possession of the most secret part of me. You have taken the important, essential core of the apple, including (one must not forget) the nasty pips, and scales (I do not know what you call those little things) which must be spat out.

  There it is! I hope you will continue to think kindly of me, dearest Ulrich (I have now confessed that, too!), and cherish the blemishes on my character.

  I will tell you more truths. I have thought about you, and thought about you, until recently I found, to my honest disgust, that you were no longer uppermost in my mind. This disconcerting discovery was turned to advantage, however, on my realizing that you had become a necessary part of me. I do truthfully believe that you are always lurking somewhere on the fringes of my dreams, though I seldom see your face, and cannot even distinguish your form. I only know it is you, I know, just as I have sat beside you beneath certain trees, although I could not describe their shape, nor recite their Latin names. I have touched their bark, however.

  Oh dear, if I could but describe in simple words the immensity of simple knowledge.

  We are close to each other, my dearest, and shall strengthen each other. Better than that I cannot do.

  I must tell you of somethi
ng pathetic that occurred lately, and which has affected us all. You may remember a woman called Rose Portion, an emancipist servant, employed here in my uncle’s house. Rose recently had a child, by whom, I cannot bring myself to say, but a pretty little girl called Mercy. On Rose’s dying a few weeks after giving birth to her baby, never having recovered, we are now positive, from the ministrations of an ignorant and rapacious midwife, I took this child, and am caring for her as if she were my own. Together with yourself, she is my greatest joy. Can you understand, dear Ulrich? She is my consolation, my token of love.

  If I continue to dwell unduly upon the death of Rose, it is because of the great impression it left upon me, the morning I found her lying in her bed, and again, at the funeral. We buried her at the Sand Hills on an indescribable day, of heat, and cloud, and wind. As I stood there (I hesitate to write you all this, except that it is the truth), as I stood, the material part of myself became quite superfluous, while my understanding seemed to enter into wind, earth, the ocean beyond, even the soul of our poor, dead maid. I was nowhere and everywhere at once. I was destroyed, yet living more intensely than actual sunlight, so that I no longer feared the face of Death as I had found it on the pillow. If I suffered, it was to understand the devotion and suffering of Rose, to love whom had always been an effort!

  Finally, I believe I have begun to understand this great country, which we have been presumptuous enough to call ours, and with which I shall be content to grow since the day we buried Rose. For part of me has now gone into it. Do you know that a country does not develop through the prosperity of a few landowners and merchants, but out of the suffering of the humble? I could now lay my head on the ugliest rock in the land and feel at rest.

  My dear Ulrich, I am not really so proud as to claim to be humble, although I do attempt, continually, to humble myself. Do you also? I understand you are entitled, as a man, to a greater share of pride, but would like to see you humbled. Otherwise, I am afraid for you. Two cannot share one throne. Even I would not wash your feet if I might wash His. Of that I am now certain, however great my need of you may be. Let us understand this, and serve together.