Anna could hardly drag herself out of doors. Even the early mornings were burning hot. And the heat seemed to lie upon her like a great, intolerable, irritating mass, crushing out her life. She felt half ill all the time. She had no spirit or energy. She was crushed.
Yet the outside world was wonderful. There was a changing, eerie beauty about the landscape. From day to day it altered, assuming gradually a strange coppery, metallic brilliance, almost orange-coloured, like a Martian landscape. There was something unbelievable about it, really other-worldly. You could imagine yourself on some other planet. And the people, the natives of this other world, changed too, were changing from day to day. As the days went by, a sort of excitement seemed to be working up in them. They went about more. There were always groups of brightly dressed figures going along the roads, bullock-carts bumping along in a Christmas-tree jingle of tassels and little bells, and the sharp, nerve-racking whine of the heavily loaded carts. And suddenly, in the still, burning air, wild music breaking out: the squeal of a pipe, and strange falsetto voices singing, chanting in vibrant cadence, with sudden startling flourishes and bursts of music. And gongs clanging. The strange, deep, powerful, disturbing sound of the gongs, like the yelling, ringing throats of demons. Strangely exciting, it was, to sense the excitement rising in the native world. The magic, the dangerous, sinister thrill of the old Eastern demonology which it brought up.
‘They always go on like that before the rains,’ said Matthew. ‘It will be the same until the rains break.’
And sure enough the excitement went on, day after day it accumulated, the crowds of brilliant figures straying about, like bright leaves speckling the dust-dry earth, the high, unnatural voices singing. Anna felt it more than she could bear, the heat and the suspense, waiting there for the rains to break, in the burning, unearthly solitude, cut off from the world. It seemed to be driving her mad.
There was now a distinct breach between Anna and the rest of the feminine population. Of course it had been hopeless from the start. Quite hopeless for her to expect to get on with them. But she had done her best. She had dined out with Matthew at each house in turn, and had dutifully returned the invitations. But the flatness, the hopeless dreariness of those dinner-parties — it was enough to make one weep. First the dinner itself: the inevitable luxury of tinned asparagus, the cook surpassing himself in some sort of sweet — usually a solid lump of ice with a candle burning inside, as under a transparent bushel — which the men would not condescend to touch, and Matthew being rather sprightly and coy with the ladies at his end of the table. Then the feminine group in the drawing-room, the general atmosphere of feminine confidences, the spate of trivialities, the endless waiting for the men to appear, Mrs. Grove staring out of her insolent wasted face, like a living skull-and-crossbones at the feast, and Anna herself falling gradually silent in an asphyxiation of discomfort and ennui.
She gave it up after a time, the effort to be pleasant and to join in the game. It was no good. She would never succeed — not if she tried for a hundred years. She would never go down with them. So she gave up the attempt.
It was strange to Anna to feel the profound, suspicious dislike which all these kind-hearted women seemed to have of her, just because she was a little different. Because she was not quite as they were, they were hostile, malevolent, affronted. She felt that they would like to do her an injury. She could feel the waves of envious dislike going out against her, because she was young and intelligent, and because the men thought her attractive, in her pleasant clothes.
Yes, the men were attracted towards her: no doubt of that. They talked to her at the club, and escorted her about, and watched her out of the corners of their eyes when they thought she wasn’t looking. Some of them even made tentative advances when Matthew was away. Nothing really definite or compromising. They were all very circumspect. But it was obvious that they wanted to flirt.
Anna would have nothing to do with them. She didn’t care for their conceited, underhand, cautious methods — so patronizing. She was sick to death of the lordly male. But the women were impossible. She couldn’t talk to them. Moreover, they were beginning to avoid her. She seemed doomed to complete isolation.
Except for young Whitaker. Whitaker was a young man working for the railway, a very junior official. He was only about twenty-five, and looked younger, but he was married to a florid, matronly sort of wife, and had already a pair of shrill-voiced children.
Anna was not very interested in him. He was an infantile creature with a round, cherubic face and a bewildered expression. The load of domesticity with which he had burdened himself seemed rather too heavy for him, too much of a good thing. Hence the bewilderment. His wife and his two babies seemed to fill him with wonder, as though he wondered how they came to be there. However, he bore up bravely under the burden of family life.
The shortest way to the railway offices lay past Matthew’s bungalow, and Whitaker passed every day, hurrying along, down a narrow goat-track at the edge of the marsh. Sometimes Anna saw him from the window, sometimes he caught a glimpse of her, and, when this happened, he made her a quick salute and hurried on faster than ever. He was rather shy; particularly of Anna, to whom a curious reputation was beginning to attach itself.
One day he killed a snake with his stick. There were a great many snakes hidden under the leaves and the rubbery, turgid stems of the marsh plants which remained green and lustrous in spite of the heat. Anna saw the incident and came out, out into the burning ferocity of the sunshine. She was fascinated by the sight of the dead snake, the weird, magnificent skin, dark purple and yellow blotched with brown, like some sinister crushed orchid lying on the burnt ground.
She talked to Whitaker. She suggested that he should walk through the compound in future, instead of along the marshy track on the other side of the fence. It was agreed. His chubby, khaki-clad figure now passed a little closer to the house. When he saw Anna he saluted her with the same slightly embarrassed politeness as before. That was all. Then suddenly one day, he came into the house on some pretext. Anna was astonished. What could have possessed him? Looking like an overgrown infant in his khaki shorts, he sat and made conversation in her gloomy, dim-lit drawing-room. She was amused by his plump, bare, sunburnt knees. She wanted to laugh at him. He was so absurd with his shyness and his awkwardness and his bewildered-cherub appearance. But she did not send him away.
He came fairly often after that. Anna couldn’t imagine why. But there seemed to be some attraction. He sat, rather gauche and infantile, and dropped cigarette ash on to her coloured rugs, and broke his long silences with laborious banalities. She laughed at him secretly and was rather bored, rather amused. But she did not rebuff him. To tell the truth, she was glad of even this shred of human companionship.
Matthew came back one afternoon earlier than usual. Anna was in the drawing-room with Whitaker. Tea-things were on the table. She heard Matthew come on to the verandah. The sound of his footsteps and of his cross, domineering voice speaking to the servants, filled her with apprehension. She was apprehensive without knowing why. She waited apprehensively. He came in.
‘Will you have some tea?’ she asked him.