Chapter IV

by Virginia Woolf

　　At about nine o'clock at night, on every alternate Wednesday, MissMary Datchet made the same resolve, that she would never again lendher rooms for any purposes whatsoever. Being, as they were, ratherlarge and conveniently situated in a street mostly dedicated tooffices off the Strand, people who wished to meet, either for purposesof enjoyment, or to discuss art, or to reform the State, had a way ofsuggesting that Mary had better be asked to lend them her rooms. Shealways met the request with the same frown of well-simulatedannoyance, which presently dissolved in a kind of half-humorous, half-surly shrug, as of a large dog tormented by children who shakes hisears. She would lend her room, but only on condition that all thearrangements were made by her. This fortnightly meeting of a societyfor the free discussion of everything entailed a great deal of moving,and pulling, and ranging of furniture against the wall, and placing ofbreakable and precious things in safe places. Miss Datchet was quitecapable of lifting a kitchen table on her back, if need were, foralthough well-proportioned and dressed becomingly, she had theappearance of unusual strength and determination.She was some twenty-five years of age, but looked older because sheearned, or intended to earn, her own living, and had already lost thelook of the irresponsible spectator, and taken on that of the privatein the army of workers. Her gestures seemed to have a certain purpose,the muscles round eyes and lips were set rather firmly, as though thesenses had undergone some discipline, and were held ready for a callon them. She had contracted two faint lines between her eyebrows, notfrom anxiety but from thought, and it was quite evident that all thefeminine instincts of pleasing, soothing, and charming were crossed byothers in no way peculiar to her sex. For the rest she was brown-eyed,a little clumsy in movement, and suggested country birth and a descentfrom respectable hard-working ancestors, who had been men of faith andintegrity rather than doubters or fanatics.At the end of a fairly hard day's work it was certainly something ofan effort to clear one's room, to pull the mattress off one's bed, andlay it on the floor, to fill a pitcher with cold coffee, and to sweepa long table clear for plates and cups and saucers, with pyramids oflittle pink biscuits between them; but when these alterations wereeffected, Mary felt a lightness of spirit come to her, as if she hadput off the stout stuff of her working hours and slipped over herentire being some vesture of thin, bright silk. She knelt before thefire and looked out into the room. The light fell softly, but withclear radiance, through shades of yellow and blue paper, and the room,which was set with one or two sofas resembling grassy mounds in theirlack of shape, looked unusually large and quiet. Mary was led to thinkof the heights of a Sussex down, and the swelling green circle of somecamp of ancient warriors. The moonlight would be falling there sopeacefully now, and she could fancy the rough pathway of silver uponthe wrinkled skin of the sea."And here we are," she said, half aloud, half satirically, yet withevident pride, "talking about art."She pulled a basket containing balls of differently colored wools anda pair of stockings which needed darning towards her, and began to sether fingers to work; while her mind, reflecting the lassitude of herbody, went on perversely, conjuring up visions of solitude and quiet,and she pictured herself laying aside her knitting and walking out onto the down, and hearing nothing but the sheep cropping the grassclose to the roots, while the shadows of the little trees moved veryslightly this way and that in the moonlight, as the breeze wentthrough them. But she was perfectly conscious of her presentsituation, and derived some pleasure from the reflection that shecould rejoice equally in solitude, and in the presence of the manyvery different people who were now making their way, by divers paths,across London to the spot where she was sitting.As she ran her needle in and out of the wool, she thought of thevarious stages in her own life which made her present position seemthe culmination of successive miracles. She thought of her clericalfather in his country parsonage, and of her mother's death, and of herown determination to obtain education, and of her college life, whichhad merged, not so very long ago, in the wonderful maze of London,which still seemed to her, in spite of her constitutionallevel-headedness, like a vast electric light, casting radiance uponthe myriads of men and women who crowded round it. And here she was atthe very center of it all, that center which was constantly in theminds of people in remote Canadian forests and on the plains of India,when their thoughts turned to England. The nine mellow strokes, bywhich she was now apprised of the hour, were a message from the greatclock at Westminster itself. As the last of them died away, there wasa firm knocking on her own door, and she rose and opened it. Shereturned to the room, with a look of steady pleasure in her eyes, andshe was talking to Ralph Denham, who followed her."Alone?" he said, as if he were pleasantly surprised by that fact."I am sometimes alone," she replied."But you expect a great many people," he added, looking round him."It's like a room on the stage. Who is it to-night?""William Rodney, upon the Elizabethan use of metaphor. I expect a goodsolid paper, with plenty of quotations from the classics."Ralph warmed his hands at the fire, which was flapping bravely in thegrate, while Mary took up her stocking again."I suppose you are the only woman in London who darns her ownstockings," he observed."I'm only one of a great many thousands really," she replied, "thoughI must admit that I was thinking myself very remarkable when you camein. And now that you're here I don't think myself remarkable at all.How horrid of you! But I'm afraid you're much more remarkable than Iam. You've done much more than I've done.""If that's your standard, you've nothing to be proud of," said Ralphgrimly."Well, I must reflect with Emerson that it's being and not doing thatmatters," she continued."Emerson?" Ralph exclaimed, with derision. "You don't mean to say youread Emerson?""Perhaps it wasn't Emerson; but why shouldn't I read Emerson?" sheasked, with a tinge of anxiety."There's no reason that I know of. It's the combination that's odd--books and stockings. The combination is very odd." But it seemed torecommend itself to him. Mary gave a little laugh, expressive ofhappiness, and the particular stitches that she was now putting intoher work appeared to her to be done with singular grace and felicity.She held out the stocking and looked at it approvingly."You always say that," she said. "I assure you it's a common'combination,' as you call it, in the houses of the clergy. The onlything that's odd about me is that I enjoy them both--Emerson and thestocking."A knock was heard, and Ralph exclaimed:"Damn those people! I wish they weren't coming!""It's only Mr. Turner, on the floor below," said Mary, and she feltgrateful to Mr. Turner for having alarmed Ralph, and for having givena false alarm."Will there be a crowd?" Ralph asked, after a pause."There'll be the Morrises and the Crashaws, and Dick Osborne, andSeptimus, and all that set. Katharine Hilbery is coming, by the way,so William Rodney told me.""Katharine Hilbery!" Ralph exclaimed."You know her?" Mary asked, with some surprise."I went to a tea-party at her house."Mary pressed him to tell her all about it, and Ralph was not at allunwilling to exhibit proofs of the extent of his knowledge. Hedescribed the scene with certain additions and exaggerations whichinterested Mary very much."But, in spite of what you say, I do admire her," she said. "I've onlyseen her once or twice, but she seems to me to be what one calls a'personality.'""I didn't mean to abuse her. I only felt that she wasn't verysympathetic to me.""They say she's going to marry that queer creature Rodney.""Marry Rodney? Then she must be more deluded than I thought her.""Now that's my door, all right," Mary exclaimed, carefully putting herwools away, as a succession of knocks reverberated unnecessarily,accompanied by a sound of people stamping their feet and laughing. Amoment later the room was full of young men and women, who came inwith a peculiar look of expectation, exclaimed "Oh!" when they sawDenham, and then stood still, gaping rather foolishly.The room very soon contained between twenty and thirty people, whofound seats for the most part upon the floor, occupying themattresses, and hunching themselves together into triangular shapes.They were all young and some of them seemed to make a protest by theirhair and dress, and something somber and truculent in the expressionof their faces, against the more normal type, who would have passedunnoticed in an omnibus or an underground railway. It was notable thatthe talk was confined to groups, and was, at first, entirely spasmodicin character, and muttered in undertones as if the speakers weresuspicious of their fellow-guests.Katharine Hilbery came in rather late, and took up a position on thefloor, with her back against the wall. She looked round quickly,recognized about half a dozen people, to whom she nodded, but failedto see Ralph, or, if so, had already forgotten to attach any name tohim. But in a second these heterogeneous elements were all united bythe voice of Mr. Rodney, who suddenly strode up to the table, andbegan very rapidly in high-strained tones:"In undertaking to speak of the Elizabethan use of metaphor inpoetry--"All the different heads swung slightly or steadied themselves into aposition in which they could gaze straight at the speaker's face, andthe same rather solemn expression was visible on all of them. But, atthe same time, even the faces that were most exposed to view, andtherefore most tautly under control, disclosed a sudden impulsivetremor which, unless directly checked, would have developed into anoutburst of laughter. The first sight of Mr. Rodney was irresistiblyludicrous. He was very red in the face, whether from the cool Novembernight or nervousness, and every movement, from the way he wrung hishands to the way he jerked his head to right and left, as though avision drew him now to the door, now to the window, bespoke hishorrible discomfort under the stare of so many eyes. He wasscrupulously well dressed, and a pearl in the center of his tie seemedto give him a touch of aristocratic opulence. But the rather prominenteyes and the impulsive stammering manner, which seemed to indicate atorrent of ideas intermittently pressing for utterance and alwayschecked in their course by a clutch of nervousness, drew no pity, asin the case of a more imposing personage, but a desire to laugh, whichwas, however, entirely lacking in malice. Mr. Rodney was evidently sopainfully conscious of the oddity of his appearance, and his veryredness and the starts to which his body was liable gave such proof ofhis own discomfort, that there was something endearing in thisridiculous susceptibility, although most people would probably haveechoed Denham's private exclamation, "Fancy marrying a creature likethat!"His paper was carefully written out, but in spite of this precautionMr. Rodney managed to turn over two sheets instead of one, to choosethe wrong sentence where two were written together, and to discoverhis own handwriting suddenly illegible. When he found himselfpossessed of a coherent passage, he shook it at his audience almostaggressively, and then fumbled for another. After a distressing searcha fresh discovery would be made, and produced in the same way, until,by means of repeated attacks, he had stirred his audience to a degreeof animation quite remarkable in these gatherings. Whether they werestirred by his enthusiasm for poetry or by the contortions which ahuman being was going through for their benefit, it would be hard tosay. At length Mr. Rodney sat down impulsively in the middle of asentence, and, after a pause of bewilderment, the audience expressedits relief at being able to laugh aloud in a decided outburst ofapplause.Mr. Rodney acknowledged this with a wild glance round him, and,instead of waiting to answer questions, he jumped up, thrust himselfthrough the seated bodies into the corner where Katharine was sitting,and exclaimed, very audibly:"Well, Katharine, I hope I've made a big enough fool of myself evenfor you! It was terrible! terrible! terrible!""Hush! You must answer their questions," Katharine whispered,desiring, at all costs, to keep him quiet. Oddly enough, when thespeaker was no longer in front of them, there seemed to be much thatwas suggestive in what he had said. At any rate, a pale-faced youngman with sad eyes was already on his feet, delivering an accuratelyworded speech with perfect composure. William Rodney listened with acurious lifting of his upper lip, although his face was stillquivering slightly with emotion."Idiot!" he whispered. "He's misunderstood every word I said!""Well then, answer him," Katharine whispered back."No, I shan't! They'd only laugh at me. Why did I let you persuade methat these sort of people care for literature?" he continued.There was much to be said both for and against Mr. Rodney's paper. Ithad been crammed with assertions that such-and-such passages, takenliberally from English, French, and Italian, are the supreme pearls ofliterature. Further, he was fond of using metaphors which, compoundedin the study, were apt to sound either cramped or out of place as hedelivered them in fragments. Literature was a fresh garland of springflowers, he said, in which yew-berries and the purple nightshademingled with the various tints of the anemone; and somehow or otherthis garland encircled marble brows. He had read very badly some verybeautiful quotations. But through his manner and his confusion oflanguage there had emerged some passion of feeling which, as he spoke,formed in the majority of the audience a little picture or an ideawhich each now was eager to give expression to. Most of the peoplethere proposed to spend their lives in the practice either of writingor painting, and merely by looking at them it could be seen that, asthey listened to Mr. Purvis first, and then to Mr. Greenhalgh, theywere seeing something done by these gentlemen to a possession whichthey thought to be their own. One person after another rose, and, aswith an ill-balanced axe, attempted to hew out his conception of art alittle more clearly, and sat down with the feeling that, for somereason which he could not grasp, his strokes had gone awry. As theysat down they turned almost invariably to the person sitting nextthem, and rectified and continued what they had just said in public.Before long, therefore, the groups on the mattresses and the groups onthe chairs were all in communication with each other, and MaryDatchet, who had begun to darn stockings again, stooped down andremarked to Ralph:"That was what I call a first-rate paper."Both of them instinctively turned their eyes in the direction of thereader of the paper. He was lying back against the wall, with his eyesapparently shut, and his chin sunk upon his collar. Katharine wasturning over the pages of his manuscript as if she were looking forsome passage that had particularly struck her, and had a difficulty infinding it."Let's go and tell him how much we liked it," said Mary, thussuggesting an action which Ralph was anxious to take, though withouther he would have been too proud to do it, for he suspected that hehad more interest in Katharine than she had in him."That was a very interesting paper," Mary began, without any shyness,seating herself on the floor opposite to Rodney and Katharine. "Willyou lend me the manuscript to read in peace?"Rodney, who had opened his eyes on their approach, regarded her for amoment in suspicious silence."Do you say that merely to disguise the fact of my ridiculousfailure?" he asked.Katharine looked up from her reading with a smile."He says he doesn't mind what we think of him," she remarked. "He sayswe don't care a rap for art of any kind.""I asked her to pity me, and she teases me!" Rodney exclaimed."I don't intend to pity you, Mr. Rodney," Mary remarked, kindly, butfirmly. "When a paper's a failure, nobody says anything, whereas now,just listen to them!"The sound, which filled the room, with its hurry of short syllables,its sudden pauses, and its sudden attacks, might be compared to someanimal hubbub, frantic and inarticulate."D'you think that's all about my paper?" Rodney inquired, after amoment's attention, with a distinct brightening of expression."Of course it is," said Mary. "It was a very suggestive paper."She turned to Denham for confirmation, and he corroborated her."It's the ten minutes after a paper is read that proves whether it'sbeen a success or not," he said. "If I were you, Rodney, I should bevery pleased with myself."This commendation seemed to comfort Mr. Rodney completely, and hebegan to bethink him of all the passages in his paper which deservedto be called "suggestive.""Did you agree at all, Denham, with what I said about Shakespeare'slater use of imagery? I'm afraid I didn't altogether make my meaningplain."Here he gathered himself together, and by means of a series offrog-like jerks, succeeded in bringing himself close to Denham.Denham answered him with the brevity which is the result of havinganother sentence in the mind to be addressed to another person. Hewished to say to Katharine: "Did you remember to get that pictureglazed before your aunt came to dinner?" but, besides having to answerRodney, he was not sure that the remark, with its assertion ofintimacy, would not strike Katharine as impertinent. She was listeningto what some one in another group was saying. Rodney, meanwhile, wastalking about the Elizabethan dramatists.He was a curious-looking man since, upon first sight, especially if hechanced to be talking with animation, he appeared, in some way,ridiculous; but, next moment, in repose, his face, with its largenose, thin cheeks and lips expressing the utmost sensibility, somehowrecalled a Roman head bound with laurel, cut upon a circle of semi-transparent reddish stone. It had dignity and character. By professiona clerk in a Government office, he was one of those martyred spiritsto whom literature is at once a source of divine joy and of almostintolerable irritation. Not content to rest in their love of it, theymust attempt to practise it themselves, and they are generally endowedwith very little facility in composition. They condemn whatever theyproduce. Moreover, the violence of their feelings is such that theyseldom meet with adequate sympathy, and being rendered very sensitiveby their cultivated perceptions, suffer constant slights both to theirown persons and to the thing they worship. But Rodney could neverresist making trial of the sympathies of any one who seemed favorablydisposed, and Denham's praise had stimulated his very susceptiblevanity."You remember the passage just before the death of the Duchess?" hecontinued, edging still closer to Denham, and adjusting his elbow andknee in an incredibly angular combination. Here, Katharine, who hadbeen cut off by these maneuvers from all communication with the outerworld, rose, and seated herself upon the window-sill, where she wasjoined by Mary Datchet. The two young women could thus survey thewhole party. Denham looked after them, and made as if he were tearinghandfuls of grass up by the roots from the carpet. But as it fell inaccurately with his conception of life that all one's desires werebound to be frustrated, he concentrated his mind upon literature, anddetermined, philosophically, to get what he could out of that.Katharine was pleasantly excited. A variety of courses was open toher. She knew several people slightly, and at any moment one of themmight rise from the floor and come and speak to her; on the otherhand, she might select somebody for herself, or she might strike intoRodney's discourse, to which she was intermittently attentive. She wasconscious of Mary's body beside her, but, at the same time, theconsciousness of being both of them women made it unnecessary to speakto her. But Mary, feeling, as she had said, that Katharine was a"personality," wished so much to speak to her that in a few momentsshe did."They're exactly like a flock of sheep, aren't they?" she said,referring to the noise that rose from the scattered bodies beneathher.Katharine turned and smiled."I wonder what they're making such a noise about?" she said."The Elizabethans, I suppose.""No, I don't think it's got anything to do with the Elizabethans.There! Didn't you hear them say, 'Insurance Bill'?""I wonder why men always talk about politics?" Mary speculated. "Isuppose, if we had votes, we should, too.""I dare say we should. And you spend your life in getting us votes,don't you?""I do," said Mary, stoutly. "From ten to six every day I'm at it."Katharine looked at Ralph Denham, who was now pounding his way throughthe metaphysics of metaphor with Rodney, and was reminded of his talkthat Sunday afternoon. She connected him vaguely with Mary."I suppose you're one of the people who think we should all haveprofessions," she said, rather distantly, as if feeling her way amongthe phantoms of an unknown world."Oh dear no," said Mary at once."Well, I think I do," Katharine continued, with half a sigh. "You willalways be able to say that you've done something, whereas, in a crowdlike this, I feel rather melancholy.""In a crowd? Why in a crowd?" Mary asked, deepening the two linesbetween her eyes, and hoisting herself nearer to Katharine upon thewindow-sill."Don't you see how many different things these people care about? AndI want to beat them down--I only mean," she corrected herself, "that Iwant to assert myself, and it's difficult, if one hasn't aprofession."Mary smiled, thinking that to beat people down was a process thatshould present no difficulty to Miss Katharine Hilbery. They knew eachother so slightly that the beginning of intimacy, which Katharineseemed to initiate by talking about herself, had something solemn init, and they were silent, as if to decide whether to proceed or not.They tested the ground."Ah, but I want to trample upon their prostrate bodies!" Katharineannounced, a moment later, with a laugh, as if at the train of thoughtwhich had led her to this conclusion."One doesn't necessarily trample upon people's bodies because one runsan office," Mary remarked."No. Perhaps not," Katharine replied. The conversation lapsed, andMary saw Katharine looking out into the room rather moodily withclosed lips, the desire to talk about herself or to initiate afriendship having, apparently, left her. Mary was struck by hercapacity for being thus easily silent, and occupied with her ownthoughts. It was a habit that spoke of loneliness and a mind thinkingfor itself. When Katharine remained silent Mary was slightlyembarrassed."Yes, they're very like sheep," she repeated, foolishly."And yet they are very clever--at least," Katharine added, "I supposethey have all read Webster.""Surely you don't think that a proof of cleverness? I've read Webster,I've read Ben Jonson, but I don't think myself clever--not exactly, atleast.""I think you must be very clever," Katharine observed."Why? Because I run an office?""I wasn't thinking of that. I was thinking how you live alone in thisroom, and have parties."Mary reflected for a second."It means, chiefly, a power of being disagreeable to one's own family,I think. I have that, perhaps. I didn't want to live at home, and Itold my father. He didn't like it. . . . But then I have a sister, andyou haven't, have you?""No, I haven't any sisters.""You are writing a life of your grandfather?" Mary pursued.Katharine seemed instantly to be confronted by some familiar thoughtfrom which she wished to escape. She replied, "Yes, I am helping mymother," in such a way that Mary felt herself baffled, and put backagain into the position in which she had been at the beginning oftheir talk. It seemed to her that Katharine possessed a curious powerof drawing near and receding, which sent alternate emotions throughher far more quickly than was usual, and kept her in a condition ofcurious alertness. Desiring to classify her, Mary bethought her of theconvenient term "egoist.""She's an egoist," she said to herself, and stored that word up togive to Ralph one day when, as it would certainly fall out, they werediscussing Miss Hilbery."Heavens, what a mess there'll be to-morrow morning!" Katharineexclaimed. "I hope you don't sleep in this room, Miss Datchet?"Mary laughed."What are you laughing at?" Katharine demanded."I won't tell you.""Let me guess. You were laughing because you thought I'd changed theconversation?""No.""Because you think--" She paused."If you want to know, I was laughing at the way you said MissDatchet.""Mary, then. Mary, Mary, Mary."So saying, Katharine drew back the curtain in order, perhaps, toconceal the momentary flush of pleasure which is caused by comingperceptibly nearer to another person."Mary Datchet," said Mary. "It's not such an imposing name asKatharine Hilbery, I'm afraid."They both looked out of the window, first up at the hard silver moon,stationary among a hurry of little grey-blue clouds, and then downupon the roofs of London, with all their upright chimneys, and thenbelow them at the empty moonlit pavement of the street, upon which thejoint of each paving-stone was clearly marked out. Mary then sawKatharine raise her eyes again to the moon, with a contemplative lookin them, as though she were setting that moon against the moon ofother nights, held in memory. Some one in the room behind them made ajoke about star-gazing, which destroyed their pleasure in it, and theylooked back into the room again.Ralph had been watching for this moment, and he instantly produced hissentence."I wonder, Miss Hilbery, whether you remembered to get that pictureglazed?" His voice showed that the question was one that had beenprepared."Oh, you idiot!" Mary exclaimed, very nearly aloud, with a sense thatRalph had said something very stupid. So, after three lessons in Latingrammar, one might correct a fellow student, whose knowledge did notembrace the ablative of "mensa.""Picture--what picture?" Katharine asked. "Oh, at home, you mean--thatSunday afternoon. Was it the day Mr. Fortescue came? Yes, I think Iremembered it."The three of them stood for a moment awkwardly silent, and then Maryleft them in order to see that the great pitcher of coffee wasproperly handled, for beneath all her education she preserved theanxieties of one who owns china.Ralph could think of nothing further to say; but could one havestripped off his mask of flesh, one would have seen that his will-power was rigidly set upon a single object--that Miss Hilbery shouldobey him. He wished her to stay there until, by some measures not yetapparent to him, he had conquered her interest. These states of mindtransmit themselves very often without the use of language, and it wasevident to Katharine that this young man had fixed his mind upon her.She instantly recalled her first impressions of him, and saw herselfagain proffering family relics. She reverted to the state of mind inwhich he had left her that Sunday afternoon. She supposed that hejudged her very severely. She argued naturally that, if this were thecase, the burden of the conversation should rest with him. But shesubmitted so far as to stand perfectly still, her eyes upon theopposite wall, and her lips very nearly closed, though the desire tolaugh stirred them slightly."You know the names of the stars, I suppose?" Denham remarked, andfrom the tone of his voice one might have thought that he grudgedKatharine the knowledge he attributed to her.She kept her voice steady with some difficulty."I know how to find the Pole star if I'm lost.""I don't suppose that often happens to you.""No. Nothing interesting ever happens to me," she said."I think you make a system of saying disagreeable things, MissHilbery," he broke out, again going further than he meant to. "Isuppose it's one of the characteristics of your class. They never talkseriously to their inferiors."Whether it was that they were meeting on neutral ground to-night, orwhether the carelessness of an old grey coat that Denham wore gave anease to his bearing that he lacked in conventional dress, Katharinecertainly felt no impulse to consider him outside the particular setin which she lived."In what sense are you my inferior?" she asked, looking at himgravely, as though honestly searching for his meaning. The look gavehim great pleasure. For the first time he felt himself on perfectlyequal terms with a woman whom he wished to think well of him, althoughhe could not have explained why her opinion of him mattered one way oranother. Perhaps, after all, he only wanted to have something of herto take home to think about. But he was not destined to profit by hisadvantage."I don't think I understand what you mean," Katharine repeated, andthen she was obliged to stop and answer some one who wished to knowwhether she would buy a ticket for an opera from them, at a reduction.Indeed, the temper of the meeting was now unfavorable to separateconversation; it had become rather debauched and hilarious, and peoplewho scarcely knew each other were making use of Christian names withapparent cordiality, and had reached that kind of gay tolerance andgeneral friendliness which human beings in England only attain aftersitting together for three hours or so, and the first cold blast inthe air of the street freezes them into isolation once more. Cloakswere being flung round the shoulders, hats swiftly pinned to the head;and Denham had the mortification of seeing Katharine helped to prepareherself by the ridiculous Rodney. It was not the convention of themeeting to say good-bye, or necessarily even to nod to the person withwhom one was talking; but, nevertheless, Denham was disappointed bythe completeness with which Katharine parted from him, without anyattempt to finish her sentence. She left with Rodney.