Chapter I

by Virginia Woolf

　　It was a Sunday evening in October, and in common with many otheryoung ladies of her class, Katharine Hilbery was pouring out tea.Perhaps a fifth part of her mind was thus occupied, and the remainingparts leapt over the little barrier of day which interposed betweenMonday morning and this rather subdued moment, and played with thethings one does voluntarily and normally in the daylight. But althoughshe was silent, she was evidently mistress of a situation which wasfamiliar enough to her, and inclined to let it take its way for thesix hundredth time, perhaps, without bringing into play any of herunoccupied faculties. A single glance was enough to show that Mrs.Hilbery was so rich in the gifts which make tea-parties of elderlydistinguished people successful, that she scarcely needed any helpfrom her daughter, provided that the tiresome business of teacups andbread and butter was discharged for her.Considering that the little party had been seated round the tea-tablefor less than twenty minutes, the animation observable on theirfaces, and the amount of sound they were producing collectively, werevery creditable to the hostess. It suddenly came into Katharine's mindthat if some one opened the door at this moment he would think thatthey were enjoying themselves; he would think, "What an extremely nicehouse to come into!" and instinctively she laughed, and said somethingto increase the noise, for the credit of the house presumably, sinceshe herself had not been feeling exhilarated. At the very same moment,rather to her amusement, the door was flung open, and a young manentered the room. Katharine, as she shook hands with him, asked him,in her own mind, "Now, do you think we're enjoying ourselvesenormously?" . . . "Mr. Denham, mother," she said aloud, for she sawthat her mother had forgotten his name.That fact was perceptible to Mr. Denham also, and increased theawkwardness which inevitably attends the entrance of a stranger into aroom full of people much at their ease, and all launched uponsentences. At the same time, it seemed to Mr. Denham as if a thousandsoftly padded doors had closed between him and the street outside. Afine mist, the etherealized essence of the fog, hung visibly in thewide and rather empty space of the drawing-room, all silver where thecandles were grouped on the tea-table, and ruddy again in thefirelight. With the omnibuses and cabs still running in his head, andhis body still tingling with his quick walk along the streets and inand out of traffic and foot-passengers, this drawing-room seemed veryremote and still; and the faces of the elderly people were mellowed,at some distance from each other, and had a bloom on them owing to thefact that the air in the drawing-room was thickened by blue grains ofmist. Mr. Denham had come in as Mr. Fortescue, the eminent novelist,reached the middle of a very long sentence. He kept this suspendedwhile the newcomer sat down, and Mrs. Hilbery deftly joined thesevered parts by leaning towards him and remarking:"Now, what would you do if you were married to an engineer, and had tolive in Manchester, Mr. Denham?""Surely she could learn Persian," broke in a thin, elderly gentleman."Is there no retired schoolmaster or man of letters in Manchester withwhom she could read Persian?""A cousin of ours has married and gone to live in Manchester,"Katharine explained. Mr. Denham muttered something, which was indeedall that was required of him, and the novelist went on where he hadleft off. Privately, Mr. Denham cursed himself very sharply for havingexchanged the freedom of the street for this sophisticated drawing-room, where, among other disagreeables, he certainly would not appearat his best. He glanced round him, and saw that, save for Katharine,they were all over forty, the only consolation being that Mr.Fortescue was a considerable celebrity, so that to-morrow one might beglad to have met him."Have you ever been to Manchester?" he asked Katharine."Never," she replied."Why do you object to it, then?"Katharine stirred her tea, and seemed to speculate, so Denham thought,upon the duty of filling somebody else's cup, but she was reallywondering how she was going to keep this strange young man in harmonywith the rest. She observed that he was compressing his teacup, sothat there was danger lest the thin china might cave inwards. Shecould see that he was nervous; one would expect a bony young man withhis face slightly reddened by the wind, and his hair not altogethersmooth, to be nervous in such a party. Further, he probably dislikedthis kind of thing, and had come out of curiosity, or because herfather had invited him--anyhow, he would not be easily combined withthe rest."I should think there would be no one to talk to in Manchester," shereplied at random. Mr. Fortescue had been observing her for a momentor two, as novelists are inclined to observe, and at this remark hesmiled, and made it the text for a little further speculation."In spite of a slight tendency to exaggeration, Katharine decidedlyhits the mark," he said, and lying back in his chair, with his opaquecontemplative eyes fixed on the ceiling, and the tips of his fingerspressed together, he depicted, first the horrors of the streets ofManchester, and then the bare, immense moors on the outskirts of thetown, and then the scrubby little house in which the girl would live,and then the professors and the miserable young students devoted tothe more strenuous works of our younger dramatists, who would visither, and how her appearance would change by degrees, and how she wouldfly to London, and how Katharine would have to lead her about, as oneleads an eager dog on a chain, past rows of clamorous butchers' shops,poor dear creature."Oh, Mr. Fortescue," exclaimed Mrs. Hilbery, as he finished, "I hadjust written to say how I envied her! I was thinking of the biggardens and the dear old ladies in mittens, who read nothing but the"Spectator," and snuff the candles. Have they all disappeared? I toldher she would find the nice things of London without the horridstreets that depress one so.""There is the University," said the thin gentleman, who had previouslyinsisted upon the existence of people knowing Persian."I know there are moors there, because I read about them in a book theother day," said Katharine."I am grieved and amazed at the ignorance of my family," Mr. Hilberyremarked. He was an elderly man, with a pair of oval, hazel eyes whichwere rather bright for his time of life, and relieved the heaviness ofhis face. He played constantly with a little green stone attached tohis watch-chain, thus displaying long and very sensitive fingers, andhad a habit of moving his head hither and thither very quickly withoutaltering the position of his large and rather corpulent body, so thathe seemed to be providing himself incessantly with food for amusementand reflection with the least possible expenditure of energy. Onemight suppose that he had passed the time of life when his ambitionswere personal, or that he had gratified them as far as he was likelyto do, and now employed his considerable acuteness rather to observeand reflect than to attain any result.Katharine, so Denham decided, while Mr. Fortescue built up anotherrounded structure of words, had a likeness to each of her parents, butthese elements were rather oddly blended. She had the quick, impulsivemovements of her mother, the lips parting often to speak, and closingagain; and the dark oval eyes of her father brimming with light upon abasis of sadness, or, since she was too young to have acquired asorrowful point of view, one might say that the basis was not sadnessso much as a spirit given to contemplation and self-control. Judgingby her hair, her coloring, and the shape of her features, she wasstriking, if not actually beautiful. Decision and composure stampedher, a combination of qualities that produced a very marked character,and one that was not calculated to put a young man, who scarcely knewher, at his ease. For the rest, she was tall; her dress was of somequiet color, with old yellow-tinted lace for ornament, to which thespark of an ancient jewel gave its one red gleam. Denham noticed that,although silent, she kept sufficient control of the situation toanswer immediately her mother appealed to her for help, and yet it wasobvious to him that she attended only with the surface skin of hermind. It struck him that her position at the tea-table, among allthese elderly people, was not without its difficulties, and he checkedhis inclination to find her, or her attitude, generally antipatheticto him. The talk had passed over Manchester, after dealing with itvery generously."Would it be the Battle of Trafalgar or the Spanish Armada,Katharine?" her mother demanded."Trafalgar, mother.""Trafalgar, of course! How stupid of me! Another cup of tea, with athin slice of lemon in it, and then, dear Mr. Fortescue, pleaseexplain my absurd little puzzle. One can't help believing gentlemenwith Roman noses, even if one meets them in omnibuses."Mr. Hilbery here interposed so far as Denham was concerned, and talkeda great deal of sense about the solicitors' profession, and thechanges which he had seen in his lifetime. Indeed, Denham properlyfell to his lot, owing to the fact that an article by Denham upon somelegal matter, published by Mr. Hilbery in his Review, had brought themacquainted. But when a moment later Mrs. Sutton Bailey was announced,he turned to her, and Mr. Denham found himself sitting silent,rejecting possible things to say, beside Katharine, who was silenttoo. Being much about the same age and both under thirty, they wereprohibited from the use of a great many convenient phrases whichlaunch conversation into smooth waters. They were further silenced byKatharine's rather malicious determination not to help this young man,in whose upright and resolute bearing she detected something hostileto her surroundings, by any of the usual feminine amenities. Theytherefore sat silent, Denham controlling his desire to say somethingabrupt and explosive, which should shock her into life. But Mrs.Hilbery was immediately sensitive to any silence in the drawing-room,as of a dumb note in a sonorous scale, and leaning across the tableshe observed, in the curiously tentative detached manner which alwaysgave her phrases the likeness of butterflies flaunting from one sunnyspot to another, "D'you know, Mr. Denham, you remind me so much ofdear Mr. Ruskin. . . . Is it his tie, Katharine, or his hair, or theway he sits in his chair? Do tell me, Mr. Denham, are you an admirerof Ruskin? Some one, the other day, said to me, 'Oh, no, we don't readRuskin, Mrs. Hilbery.' What do you read, I wonder?--for you can'tspend all your time going up in aeroplanes and burrowing into thebowels of the earth."She looked benevolently at Denham, who said nothing articulate, andthen at Katharine, who smiled but said nothing either, upon which Mrs.Hilbery seemed possessed by a brilliant idea, and exclaimed:"I'm sure Mr. Denham would like to see our things, Katharine. I'm surehe's not like that dreadful young man, Mr. Ponting, who told me thathe considered it our duty to live exclusively in the present. Afterall, what is the present? Half of it's the past, and the better half,too, I should say," she added, turning to Mr. Fortescue.Denham rose, half meaning to go, and thinking that he had seen allthat there was to see, but Katharine rose at the same moment, andsaying, "Perhaps you would like to see the pictures," led the wayacross the drawing-room to a smaller room opening out of it.The smaller room was something like a chapel in a cathedral, or agrotto in a cave, for the booming sound of the traffic in the distancesuggested the soft surge of waters, and the oval mirrors, with theirsilver surface, were like deep pools trembling beneath starlight. Butthe comparison to a religious temple of some kind was the more apt ofthe two, for the little room was crowded with relics.As Katharine touched different spots, lights sprang here and there,and revealed a square mass of red-and-gold books, and then a longskirt in blue-and-white paint lustrous behind glass, and then amahogany writing-table, with its orderly equipment, and, finally, apicture above the table, to which special illumination was accorded.When Katharine had touched these last lights, she stood back, as muchas to say, "There!" Denham found himself looked down upon by the eyesof the great poet, Richard Alardyce, and suffered a little shock whichwould have led him, had he been wearing a hat, to remove it. The eyeslooked at him out of the mellow pinks and yellows of the paint withdivine friendliness, which embraced him, and passed on to contemplatethe entire world. The paint had so faded that very little but thebeautiful large eyes were left, dark in the surrounding dimness.Katharine waited as though for him to receive a full impression, andthen she said:"This is his writing-table. He used this pen," and she lifted a quillpen and laid it down again. The writing-table was splashed with oldink, and the pen disheveled in service. There lay the gigantic gold-rimmed spectacles, ready to his hand, and beneath the table was a pairof large, worn slippers, one of which Katharine picked up, remarking:"I think my grandfather must have been at least twice as large as anyone is nowadays. This," she went on, as if she knew what she had tosay by heart, "is the original manuscript of the 'Ode to Winter.' Theearly poems are far less corrected than the later. Would you like tolook at it?"While Mr. Denham examined the manuscript, she glanced up at hergrandfather, and, for the thousandth time, fell into a pleasant dreamystate in which she seemed to be the companion of those giant men, oftheir own lineage, at any rate, and the insignificant present momentwas put to shame. That magnificent ghostly head on the canvas, surely,never beheld all the trivialities of a Sunday afternoon, and it didnot seem to matter what she and this young man said to each other, forthey were only small people."This is a copy of the first edition of the poems," she continued,without considering the fact that Mr. Denham was still occupied withthe manuscript, "which contains several poems that have not beenreprinted, as well as corrections." She paused for a minute, and thenwent on, as if these spaces had all been calculated."That lady in blue is my great-grandmother, by Millington. Here is myuncle's walking-stick--he was Sir Richard Warburton, you know, androde with Havelock to the Relief of Lucknow. And then, let me see--oh,that's the original Alardyce, 1697, the founder of the familyfortunes, with his wife. Some one gave us this bowl the other daybecause it has their crest and initials. We think it must have beengiven them to celebrate their silver wedding-day."Here she stopped for a moment, wondering why it was that Mr. Denhamsaid nothing. Her feeling that he was antagonistic to her, which hadlapsed while she thought of her family possessions, returned so keenlythat she stopped in the middle of her catalog and looked at him. Hermother, wishing to connect him reputably with the great dead, hadcompared him with Mr. Ruskin; and the comparison was in Katharine'smind, and led her to be more critical of the young man than was fair,for a young man paying a call in a tail-coat is in a different elementaltogether from a head seized at its climax of expressiveness, gazingimmutably from behind a sheet of glass, which was all that remained toher of Mr. Ruskin. He had a singular face--a face built for swiftnessand decision rather than for massive contemplation; the foreheadbroad, the nose long and formidable, the lips clean-shaven and at oncedogged and sensitive, the cheeks lean, with a deeply running tide ofred blood in them. His eyes, expressive now of the usual masculineimpersonality and authority, might reveal more subtle emotions underfavorable circumstances, for they were large, and of a clear, browncolor; they seemed unexpectedly to hesitate and speculate; butKatharine only looked at him to wonder whether his face would not havecome nearer the standard of her dead heroes if it had been adornedwith side-whiskers. In his spare build and thin, though healthy,cheeks, she saw tokens of an angular and acrid soul. His voice, shenoticed, had a slight vibrating or creaking sound in it, as he laiddown the manuscript and said:"You must be very proud of your family, Miss Hilbery.""Yes, I am," Katharine answered, and she added, "Do you think there'sanything wrong in that?""Wrong? How should it be wrong? It must be a bore, though, showingyour things to visitors," he added reflectively."Not if the visitors like them.""Isn't it difficult to live up to your ancestors?" he proceeded."I dare say I shouldn't try to write poetry," Katharine replied."No. And that's what I should hate. I couldn't bear my grandfather tocut me out. And, after all," Denham went on, glancing round himsatirically, as Katharine thought, "it's not your grandfather only.You're cut out all the way round. I suppose you come of one of themost distinguished families in England. There are the Warburtons andthe Mannings--and you're related to the Otways, aren't you? I read itall in some magazine," he added."The Otways are my cousins," Katharine replied."Well," said Denham, in a final tone of voice, as if his argument wereproved."Well," said Katharine, "I don't see that you've proved anything."Denham smiled, in a peculiarly provoking way. He was amused andgratified to find that he had the power to annoy his oblivious,supercilious hostess, if he could not impress her; though he wouldhave preferred to impress her.He sat silent, holding the precious little book of poems unopened inhis hands, and Katharine watched him, the melancholy or contemplativeexpression deepening in her eyes as her annoyance faded. She appearedto be considering many things. She had forgotten her duties."Well," said Denham again, suddenly opening the little book of poems,as though he had said all that he meant to say or could, withpropriety, say. He turned over the pages with great decision, as if hewere judging the book in its entirety, the printing and paper andbinding, as well as the poetry, and then, having satisfied himself ofits good or bad quality, he placed it on the writing-table, andexamined the malacca cane with the gold knob which had belonged to thesoldier."But aren't you proud of your family?" Katharine demanded."No," said Denham. "We've never done anything to be proud of--unlessyou count paying one's bills a matter for pride.""That sounds rather dull," Katharine remarked."You would think us horribly dull," Denham agreed."Yes, I might find you dull, but I don't think I should find youridiculous," Katharine added, as if Denham had actually brought thatcharge against her family."No--because we're not in the least ridiculous. We're a respectablemiddle-class family, living at Highgate.""We don't live at Highgate, but we're middle class too, I suppose."Denham merely smiled, and replacing the malacca cane on the rack, hedrew a sword from its ornamental sheath."That belonged to Clive, so we say," said Katharine, taking up herduties as hostess again automatically."Is it a lie?" Denham inquired."It's a family tradition. I don't know that we can prove it.""You see, we don't have traditions in our family," said Denham."You sound very dull," Katharine remarked, for the second time."Merely middle class," Denham replied."You pay your bills, and you speak the truth. I don't see why youshould despise us."Mr. Denham carefully sheathed the sword which the Hilberys saidbelonged to Clive."I shouldn't like to be you; that's all I said," he replied, as if hewere saying what he thought as accurately as he could."No, but one never would like to be any one else.""I should. I should like to be lots of other people.""Then why not us?" Katharine asked.Denham looked at her as she sat in her grandfather's arm-chair,drawing her great-uncle's malacca cane smoothly through her fingers,while her background was made up equally of lustrous blue-and-whitepaint, and crimson books with gilt lines on them. The vitality andcomposure of her attitude, as of a bright-plumed bird poised easilybefore further flights, roused him to show her the limitations of herlot. So soon, so easily, would he be forgotten."You'll never know anything at first hand," he began, almost savagely."It's all been done for you. You'll never know the pleasure of buyingthings after saving up for them, or reading books for the first time,or making discoveries.""Go on," Katharine observed, as he paused, suddenly doubtful, when heheard his voice proclaiming aloud these facts, whether there was anytruth in them."Of course, I don't know how you spend your time," he continued, alittle stiffly, "but I suppose you have to show people round. You arewriting a life of your grandfather, aren't you? And this kind ofthing"--he nodded towards the other room, where they could hear burstsof cultivated laughter--"must take up a lot of time."She looked at him expectantly, as if between them they were decoratinga small figure of herself, and she saw him hesitating in thedisposition of some bow or sash."You've got it very nearly right," she said, "but I only help mymother. I don't write myself.""Do you do anything yourself?" he demanded."What do you mean?" she asked. "I don't leave the house at ten andcome back at six.""I don't mean that."Mr. Denham had recovered his self-control; he spoke with a quietnesswhich made Katharine rather anxious that he should explain himself,but at the same time she wished to annoy him, to waft him away fromher on some light current of ridicule or satire, as she was wont to dowith these intermittent young men of her father's."Nobody ever does do anything worth doing nowadays," she remarked."You see"--she tapped the volume of her grandfather's poems--"we don'teven print as well as they did, and as for poets or painters ornovelists--there are none; so, at any rate, I'm not singular.""No, we haven't any great men," Denham replied. "I'm very glad that wehaven't. I hate great men. The worship of greatness in the nineteenthcentury seems to me to explain the worthlessness of that generation."Katharine opened her lips and drew in her breath, as if to reply withequal vigor, when the shutting of a door in the next room withdrew herattention, and they both became conscious that the voices, which hadbeen rising and falling round the tea-table, had fallen silent; thelight, even, seemed to have sunk lower. A moment later Mrs. Hilberyappeared in the doorway of the ante-room. She stood looking at themwith a smile of expectancy on her face, as if a scene from the dramaof the younger generation were being played for her benefit. She was aremarkable-looking woman, well advanced in the sixties, but owing tothe lightness of her frame and the brightness of her eyes she seemedto have been wafted over the surface of the years without taking muchharm in the passage. Her face was shrunken and aquiline, but any hintof sharpness was dispelled by the large blue eyes, at once sagaciousand innocent, which seemed to regard the world with an enormous desirethat it should behave itself nobly, and an entire confidence that itcould do so, if it would only take the pains.Certain lines on the broad forehead and about the lips might be takento suggest that she had known moments of some difficulty andperplexity in the course of her career, but these had not destroyedher trustfulness, and she was clearly still prepared to give every oneany number of fresh chances and the whole system the benefit of thedoubt. She wore a great resemblance to her father, and suggested, ashe did, the fresh airs and open spaces of a younger world."Well," she said, "how do you like our things, Mr. Denham?"Mr. Denham rose, put his book down, opened his mouth, but saidnothing, as Katharine observed, with some amusement.Mrs. Hilbery handled the book he had laid down."There are some books that live," she mused. "They are young with us,and they grow old with us. Are you fond of poetry, Mr. Denham? Butwhat an absurd question to ask! The truth is, dear Mr. Fortescue hasalmost tired me out. He is so eloquent and so witty, so searching andso profound that, after half an hour or so, I feel inclined to turnout all the lights. But perhaps he'd be more wonderful than ever inthe dark. What d'you think, Katharine? Shall we give a little party incomplete darkness? There'd have to be bright rooms for thebores. . . ."Here Mr. Denham held out his hand."But we've any number of things to show you!" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed,taking no notice of it. "Books, pictures, china, manuscripts, and thevery chair that Mary Queen of Scots sat in when she heard of Darnley'smurder. I must lie down for a little, and Katharine must change herdress (though she's wearing a very pretty one), but if you don't mindbeing left alone, supper will be at eight. I dare say you'll write apoem of your own while you're waiting. Ah, how I love the firelight!Doesn't our room look charming?"She stepped back and bade them contemplate the empty drawing-room,with its rich, irregular lights, as the flames leapt and wavered."Dear things!" she exclaimed. "Dear chairs and tables! How like oldfriends they are--faithful, silent friends. Which reminds me,Katharine, little Mr. Anning is coming to-night, and Tite Street, andCadogan Square. . . . Do remember to get that drawing of your great-uncle glazed. Aunt Millicent remarked it last time she was here, and Iknow how it would hurt me to see my father in a broken glass."It was like tearing through a maze of diamond-glittering spiders' websto say good-bye and escape, for at each movement Mrs. Hilberyremembered something further about the villainies of picture-framersor the delights of poetry, and at one time it seemed to the young manthat he would be hypnotized into doing what she pretended to want himto do, for he could not suppose that she attached any value whateverto his presence. Katharine, however, made an opportunity for him toleave, and for that he was grateful to her, as one young person isgrateful for the understanding of another.