Night and Day by Virginia Woolf
CHAPTER XVII
When the sun shone, as it did with unusual brightness that Christmasweek, it revealed much that was faded and not altogether well-kept-upin Stogdon House and its grounds. In truth, Sir Francis had retiredfrom service under the Government of India with a pension that wasnot adequate, in his opinion, to his services, as it certainly wasnot adequate to his ambitions. His career had not come up to hisexpectations, and although he was a very fine, white-whiskered,mahogany-colored old man to look at, and had laid down a very choicecellar of good reading and good stories, you could not long remainignorant of the fact that some thunder-storm had soured them; he hada grievance. This grievance dated back to the middle years of the lastcentury, when, owing to some official intrigue, his merits had beenpassed over in a disgraceful manner in favor of another, his junior.
The rights and wrongs of the story, presuming that they had someexistence in fact, were no longer clearly known to his wife andchildren; but this disappointment had played a very large part in theirlives, and had poisoned the life of Sir Francis much as a disappointmentin love is said to poison the whole life of a woman. Long brooding onhis failure, continual arrangement and rearrangement of his deserts andrebuffs, had made Sir Francis much of an egoist, and in his retirementhis temper became increasingly difficult and exacting.
His wife now offered so little resistance to his moods that she waspractically useless to him. He made his daughter Eleanor into his chiefconfidante, and the prime of her life was being rapidly consumed by herfather. To her he dictated the memoirs which were to avenge his memory,and she had to assure him constantly that his treatment had been adisgrace. Already, at the age of thirty-five, her cheeks were whiteningas her mother's had whitened, but for her there would be no memories ofIndian suns and Indian rivers, and clamor of children in a nursery; shewould have very little of substance to think about when she sat, asLady Otway now sat, knitting white wool, with her eyes fixed almostperpetually upon the same embroidered bird upon the same fire-screen.But then Lady Otway was one of the people for whom the greatmake-believe game of English social life has been invented; she spentmost of her time in pretending to herself and her neighbors that shewas a dignified, important, much-occupied person, of considerable socialstanding and sufficient wealth. In view of the actual state of thingsthis game needed a great deal of skill; and, perhaps, at the age she hadreached--she was over sixty--she played far more to deceive herselfthan to deceive any one else. Moreover, the armor was wearing thin; sheforgot to keep up appearances more and more.
The worn patches in the carpets, and the pallor of the drawing-room,where no chair or cover had been renewed for some years, were duenot only to the miserable pension, but to the wear and tear of twelvechildren, eight of whom were sons. As often happens in these largefamilies, a distinct dividing-line could be traced, about half-way inthe succession, where the money for educational purposes had run short,and the six younger children had grown up far more economically thanthe elder. If the boys were clever, they won scholarships, and went toschool; if they were not clever, they took what the family connectionhad to offer them. The girls accepted situations occasionally, but therewere always one or two at home, nursing sick animals, tending silkworms,or playing the flute in their bedrooms. The distinction between theelder children and the younger corresponded almost to the distinctionbetween a higher class and a lower one, for with only a haphazardeducation and insufficient allowances, the younger children had pickedup accomplishments, friends, and points of view which were not to befound within the walls of a public school or of a Government office.Between the two divisions there was considerable hostility, the eldertrying to patronize the younger, the younger refusing to respect theelder; but one feeling united them and instantly closed any risk of abreach--their common belief in the superiority of their own family toall others. Henry was the eldest of the younger group, and their leader;he bought strange books and joined odd societies; he went without a tiefor a whole year, and had six shirts made of black flannel. He hadlong refused to take a seat either in a shipping office or in atea-merchant's warehouse; and persisted, in spite of the disapproval ofuncles and aunts, in practicing both violin and piano, with the resultthat he could not perform professionally upon either. Indeed, forthirty-two years of life he had nothing more substantial to show than amanuscript book containing the score of half an opera. In this protestof his, Katharine had always given him her support, and as she wasgenerally held to be an extremely sensible person, who dressed too wellto be eccentric, he had found her support of some use. Indeed, when shecame down at Christmas she usually spent a great part of her time inprivate conferences with Henry and with Cassandra, the youngest girl,to whom the silkworms belonged. With the younger section she had a greatreputation for common sense, and for something that they despised butinwardly respected and called knowledge of the world--that is to say,of the way in which respectable elderly people, going to their clubsand dining out with ministers, think and behave. She had more than onceplayed the part of ambassador between Lady Otway and her children. Thatpoor lady, for instance, consulted her for advice when, one day, sheopened Cassandra's bedroom door on a mission of discovery, and found theceiling hung with mulberry-leaves, the windows blocked with cages, andthe tables stacked with home-made machines for the manufacture of silkdresses.
"I wish you could help her to take an interest in something that otherpeople are interested in, Katharine," she observed, rather plaintively,detailing her grievances. "It's all Henry's doing, you know, giving upher parties and taking to these nasty insects. It doesn't follow that ifa man can do a thing a woman may too."
The morning was sufficiently bright to make the chairs and sofas in LadyOtway's private sitting-room appear more than usually shabby, and thegallant gentlemen, her brothers and cousins, who had defended the Empireand left their bones on many frontiers, looked at the world through afilm of yellow which the morning light seemed to have drawn acrosstheir photographs. Lady Otway sighed, it may be at the faded relics,and turned, with resignation, to her balls of wool, which, curiouslyand characteristically, were not an ivory-white, but rather a tarnishedyellow-white. She had called her niece in for a little chat. She hadalways trusted her, and now more than ever, since her engagement toRodney, which seemed to Lady Otway extremely suitable, and just what onewould wish for one's own daughter. Katharine unwittingly increased herreputation for wisdom by asking to be given knitting-needles too.
"It's so very pleasant," said Lady Otway, "to knit while one's talking.And now, my dear Katharine, tell me about your plans."
The emotions of the night before, which she had suppressed in such a wayas to keep her awake till dawn, had left Katharine a little jaded, andthus more matter-of-fact than usual. She was quite ready to discuss herplans--houses and rents, servants and economy--without feeling that theyconcerned her very much. As she spoke, knitting methodically meanwhile,Lady Otway noted, with approval, the upright, responsible bearing of herniece, to whom the prospect of marriage had brought some gravity mostbecoming in a bride, and yet, in these days, most rare. Yes, Katharine'sengagement had changed her a little.
"What a perfect daughter, or daughter-in-law!" she thought to herself,and could not help contrasting her with Cassandra, surrounded byinnumerable silkworms in her bedroom.
"Yes," she continued, glancing at Katharine, with the round, greenisheyes which were as inexpressive as moist marbles, "Katharine is like thegirls of my youth. We took the serious things of life seriously."But just as she was deriving satisfaction from this thought, and wasproducing some of the hoarded wisdom which none of her own daughters,alas! seemed now to need, the door opened, and Mrs. Hilbery came in,or rather, did not come in, but stood in the doorway and smiled, havingevidently mistaken the room.
"I never SHALL know my way about this house!" she exclaimed. "I'm onmy way to the library, and I don't want to interrupt. You and Katharinewere having a little chat?"
The presence of her sister-in-law made Lady Otway slightly une
"I was telling Katharine a few little commonplaces about marriage," shesaid, with a little laugh. "Are none of my children looking after you,Maggie?"
"Marriage," said Mrs. Hilbery, coming into the room, and nodding herhead once or twice, "I always say marriage is a school. And you don'tget the prizes unless you go to school. Charlotte has won all theprizes," she added, giving her sister-in-law a little pat, whichmade Lady Otway more uncomfortable still. She half laughed, mutteredsomething, and ended on a sigh.
"Aunt Charlotte was saying that it's no good being married unless yousubmit to your husband," said Katharine, framing her aunt's words intoa far more definite shape than they had really worn; and when she spokethus she did not appear at all old-fashioned. Lady Otway looked at herand paused for a moment.
"Well, I really don't advise a woman who wants to have things her ownway to get married," she said, beginning a fresh row rather elaborately.
Mrs. Hilbery knew something of the circumstances which, as she thought,had inspired this remark. In a moment her face was clouded with sympathywhich she did not quite know how to express.
"What a shame it was!" she exclaimed, forgetting that her train ofthought might not be obvious to her listeners. "But, Charlotte, it wouldhave been much worse if Frank had disgraced himself in any way. And itisn't what our husbands GET, but what they ARE. I used to dream of whitehorses and palanquins, too; but still, I like the ink-pots best. And whoknows?" she concluded, looking at Katharine, "your father may be made abaronet to-morrow."
Lady Otway, who was Mr. Hilbery's sister, knew quite well that, inprivate, the Hilberys called Sir Francis "that old Turk," and thoughshe did not follow the drift of Mrs. Hilbery's remarks, she knew whatprompted them.
"But if you can give way to your husband," she said, speaking toKatharine, as if there were a separate understanding between them, "ahappy marriage is the happiest thing in the world."
"Yes," said Katharine, "but--" She did not mean to finish her sentence,she merely wished to induce her mother and her aunt to go on talkingabout marriage, for she was in the mood to feel that other people couldhelp her if they would. She went on knitting, but her fingers workedwith a decision that was oddly unlike the smooth and contemplativesweep of Lady Otway's plump hand. Now and then she looked swiftly at hermother, then at her aunt. Mrs. Hilbery held a book in her hand, andwas on her way, as Katharine guessed, to the library, where anotherparagraph was to be added to that varied assortment of paragraphs, theLife of Richard Alardyce. Normally, Katharine would have hurried hermother downstairs, and seen that no excuse for distraction came her way.Her attitude towards the poet's life, however, had changed with otherchanges; and she was content to forget all about her scheme of hours.Mrs. Hilbery was secretly delighted. Her relief at finding herselfexcused manifested itself in a series of sidelong glances of sly humorin her daughter's direction, and the indulgence put her in the best ofspirits. Was she to be allowed merely to sit and talk? It was so muchpleasanter to sit in a nice room filled with all sorts of interestingodds and ends which she hadn't looked at for a year, at least, than toseek out one date which contradicted another in a dictionary.
"We've all had perfect husbands," she concluded, generously forgivingSir Francis all his faults in a lump. "Not that I think a bad temperis really a fault in a man. I don't mean a bad temper," she correctedherself, with a glance obviously in the direction of Sir Francis. "Ishould say a quick, impatient temper. Most, in fact ALL great men havehad bad tempers--except your grandfather, Katharine," and here shesighed, and suggested that, perhaps, she ought to go down to thelibrary.
"But in the ordinary marriage, is it necessary to give way to one'shusband?" said Katharine, taking no notice of her mother's suggestion,blind even to the depression which had now taken possession of her atthe thought of her own inevitable death.
"I should say yes, certainly," said Lady Otway, with a decision mostunusual for her.
"Then one ought to make up one's mind to that before one is married,"Katharine mused, seeming to address herself.
Mrs. Hilbery was not much interested in these remarks, which seemed tohave a melancholy tendency, and to revive her spirits she had recourseto an infallible remedy--she looked out of the window.
"Do look at that lovely little blue bird!" she exclaimed, and her eyelooked with extreme pleasure at the soft sky. at the trees, at the greenfields visible behind those trees, and at the leafless branches whichsurrounded the body of the small blue tit. Her sympathy with nature wasexquisite.
"Most women know by instinct whether they can give it or not," LadyOtway slipped in quickly, in rather a low voice, as if she wanted toget this said while her sister-in-law's attention was diverted. "And ifnot--well then, my advice would be--don't marry."
"Oh, but marriage is the happiest life for a woman," said Mrs. Hilbery,catching the word marriage, as she brought her eyes back to the roomagain. Then she turned her mind to what she had said.
"It's the most INTERESTING life," she corrected herself. She looked ather daughter with a look of vague alarm. It was the kind of maternalscrutiny which suggests that, in looking at her daughter a mother isreally looking at herself. She was not altogether satisfied; but shepurposely made no attempt to break down the reserve which, as a matterof fact, was a quality she particularly admired and depended upon inher daughter. But when her mother said that marriage was the mostinteresting life, Katharine felt, as she was apt to do suddenly, for nodefinite reason, that they understood each other, in spite of differingin every possible way. Yet the wisdom of the old seems to apply more tofeelings which we have in common with the rest of the human race thanto our feelings as individuals, and Katharine knew that only some one ofher own age could follow her meaning. Both these elderly women seemed toher to have been content with so little happiness, and at the moment shehad not sufficient force to feel certain that their version of marriagewas the wrong one. In London, certainly, this temperate attitude towardher own marriage had seemed to her just. Why had she now changed? Whydid it now depress her? It never occurred to her that her own conductcould be anything of a puzzle to her mother, or that elder people are asmuch affected by the young as the young are by them. And yet it was truethat love--passion--whatever one chose to call it, had played far lesspart in Mrs. Hilbery's life than might have seemed likely, judging fromher enthusiastic and imaginative temperament. She had always beenmore interested by other things. Lady Otway, strange though it seemed,guessed more accurately at Katharine's state of mind than her motherdid.
"Why don't we all live in the country?" exclaimed Mrs. Hilbery, oncemore looking out of the window. "I'm sure one would think such beautifulthings if one lived in the country. No horrid slum houses to depressone, no trams or motor-cars; and the people all looking so plump andcheerful. Isn't there some little cottage near you, Charlotte, whichwould do for us, with a spare room, perhaps, in case we asked a frienddown? And we should save so much money that we should be able totravel--"
"Yes. You would find it very nice for a week or two, no doubt," saidLady Otway. "But what hour would you like the carriage this morning?"she continued, touching the bell.
"Katharine shall decide," said Mrs. Hilbery, feeling herself unableto prefer one hour to another. "And I was just going to tell you,Katharine, how, when I woke this morning, everything seemed so clear inmy head that if I'd had a pencil I believe I could have written quite along chapter. When we're out on our drive I shall find us a house. A fewtrees round it, and a little garden, a pond with a Chinese duck, astudy for your father, a study for me, and a sitting room for Katharine,because then she'll be a married lady."
At this Katharine shivered a little, drew up to the fire, and warmed herhands by spreading them over the topmost peak of the coal. She wished tobring the talk back to marriage again, in order to hear Aunt Charlotte'sviews, but she did not know how to do th
"Let me look at your engagement-ring, Aunt Charlotte," she said,noticing her own.
She took the cluster of green stones and turned it round and round, butshe did not know what to say next.
"That poor old ring was a sad disappointment to me when I first had it,"Lady Otway mused. "I'd set my heart on a diamond ring, but I never likedto tell Frank, naturally. He bought it at Simla."
Katharine turned the ring round once more, and gave it back to her auntwithout speaking. And while she turned it round her lips set themselvesfirmly together, and it seemed to her that she could satisfy Williamas these women had satisfied their husbands; she could pretend to likeemeralds when she preferred diamonds. Having replaced her ring, LadyOtway remarked that it was chilly, though not more so than one mustexpect at this time of year. Indeed, one ought to be thankful to see thesun at all, and she advised them both to dress warmly for their drive.Her aunt's stock of commonplaces, Katharine sometimes suspected, hadbeen laid in on purpose to fill silences with, and had little to do withher private thoughts. But at this moment they seemed terribly in keepingwith her own conclusions, so that she took up her knitting again andlistened, chiefly with a view to confirming herself in the belief thatto be engaged to marry some one with whom you are not in love is aninevitable step in a world where the existence of passion is only atraveller's story brought from the heart of deep forests and told sorarely that wise people doubt whether the story can be true. She did herbest to listen to her mother asking for news of John, and to her auntreplying with the authentic history of Hilda's engagement to an officerin the Indian Army, but she cast her mind alternately towards forestpaths and starry blossoms, and towards pages of neatly writtenmathematical signs. When her mind took this turn her marriage seemed nomore than an archway through which it was necessary to pass in order tohave her desire. At such times the current of her nature ran in itsdeep narrow channel with great force and with an alarming lack ofconsideration for the feelings of others. Just as the two elder ladieshad finished their survey of the family prospects, and Lady Otway wasnervously anticipating some general statement as to life and death fromher sister-in-law, Cassandra burst into the room with the news that thecarriage was at the door.
"Why didn't Andrews tell me himself?" said Lady Otway, peevishly,blaming her servants for not living up to her ideals.
When Mrs. Hilbery and Katharine arrived in the hall, ready dressed fortheir drive, they found that the usual discussion was going forward asto the plans of the rest of the family. In token of this, a great manydoors were opening and shutting, two or three people stood irresolutelyon the stairs, now going a few steps up, and now a few steps down, andSir Francis himself had come out from his study, with the "Times" underhis arm, and a complaint about noise and draughts from the open doorwhich, at least, had the effect of bundling the people who did not wantto go into the carriage, and sending those who did not want to stay backto their rooms. It was decided that Mrs. Hilbery, Katharine, Rodney, andHenry should drive to Lincoln, and any one else who wished to go shouldfollow on bicycles or in the pony-cart. Every one who stayed at StogdonHouse had to make this expedition to Lincoln in obedience to LadyOtway's conception of the right way to entertain her guests, whichshe had imbibed from reading in fashionable papers of the behavior ofChristmas parties in ducal houses. The carriage horses were both fat andaged, still they matched; the carriage was shaky and uncomfortable,but the Otway arms were visible on the panels. Lady Otway stood onthe topmost step, wrapped in a white shawl, and waved her hand almostmechanically until they had turned the corner under the laurel-bushes,when she retired indoors with a sense that she had played her part, anda sigh at the thought that none of her children felt it necessary toplay theirs.
The carriage bowled along smoothly over the gently curving road. Mrs.Hilbery dropped into a pleasant, inattentive state of mind, in which shewas conscious of the running green lines of the hedges, of the swellingploughland, and of the mild blue sky, which served her, after the firstfive minutes, for a pastoral background to the drama of human life; andthen she thought of a cottage garden, with the flash of yellow daffodilsagainst blue water; and what with the arrangement of these differentprospects, and the shaping of two or three lovely phrases, she did notnotice that the young people in the carriage were almost silent. Henry,indeed, had been included against his wish, and revenged himself byobserving Katharine and Rodney with disillusioned eyes; while Katharinewas in a state of gloomy self-suppression which resulted in completeapathy. When Rodney spoke to her she either said "Hum!" or assentedso listlessly that he addressed his next remark to her mother. Hisdeference was agreeable to her, his manners were exemplary; and whenthe church towers and factory chimneys of the town came into sight, sheroused herself, and recalled memories of the fair summer of 1853, whichfitted in harmoniously with what she was dreaming of the future.