I should have been better off, Martin thought, reading my book.
“Have you been to the races?” he said aloud to the girl whom he was to take down to dinner. She shook her head. She had white arms; a white dress; and a pearl necklace. Purely virginal, he said to himself; and only an hour ago I was lying stark naked in my bath in Ebury Street, he thought.
“I’ve been watching polo,” she said. He looked down at his shoes, and noticed that they had creases across them; they were old; he had meant to buy a new pair, but had forgotten. That was what he had forgotten, he thought, seeing himself again in the cab, crossing the bridge over the Serpentine.
But they were going down to dinner. He gave her his arm. As they went down the stairs, and he watched the ladies’ dresses in front of them trail from step to step, he thought, What on earth am I going to say to her? Then they crossed the black-and-white squares and went into the dining-room. It was harmoniously shrouded; pictures with hooded bars of light under them shone out; and the dinner table glowed; but no light shone directly on their faces. If this doesn’t work, he thought, looking at the portrait of a nobleman with a crimson cloak and a star that hung luminous in front of him, I’ll never do it again. Then he braced himself to talk to the virginal girl who sat beside him. But he had to reject almost everything that occurred to him — she was so young.
“I’ve thought of three subjects to talk about,” he began straight off, without thinking how the sentence was to end. “Racing; the Russian ballet; and” — he hesitated for a moment— “Ireland. Which interests you?” He unfolded his napkin.
“Please,” she said, bending slightly towards him, “say that again.”
He laughed. She had a charming way of putting her head on one side and bending towards him.
“Don’t let’s talk of any of them,” he said. “Let’s talk of something interesting. Do you enjoy parties?” he asked her. She was dipping her spoon in her soup. She looked up at him as she lifted it with eyes that seemed like bright stones under a film of water. They’re like drops of glass under water, he thought. She was extraordinarily pretty.
“But I’ve only been to three parties in my life!” she said. She gave a charming little laugh.
“You don’t say so!” he exclaimed. “This is the third, then; or is it the fourth?”
He listened to the sounds in the street. He could just hear the cars hooting; but they had gone far away; they made a continuous rushing noise. It was beginning to work. He held out his glass. He would like her to say, he thought, as his glass was filled, “What a charming man I sat next!” when she went to bed that night.
“This is my third real party,” she said, stressing the word “real” in a way that seemed to him slightly pathetic. She must have been in the nursery three months ago, he thought, eating bread and butter.
“And I was thinking as I shaved,” he said, “that I would never go to a party again.” It was true; he had seen a hole in the bookcase. Who’s taken my life of Wren? he had thought, holding his razor out; and had wanted to stay and read, alone. But now — what little piece of his vast experience could he break off and give to her, he wondered?
“Do you live in London?” she asked.
“Ebury Street,” he told her. And she knew Ebury Street, because it was on the way to Victoria; she often went to Victoria, because they had a house in Sussex.
“And now tell me,” he said, feeling that they had broken the ice — when she turned her head to answer some remark of the man on the other side. He was annoyed. The whole fabric that he had been building, like a game of spillikins in which one frail little bone is hooked on top of another, was dashed to the ground. Ann was talking as if she had known the other man all her life; he had hair that looked as if a rake had been drawn through it; he was very young. Martin sat silent. He looked at the great portrait opposite. A footman was standing beneath it; a row of decanters obscured the folds of the cloak on the floor. That’s the third Earl, or the fourth? he asked himself. He knew his eighteenth century; it was the fourth Earl who had made the great marriage. But after all, he thought, looking at Kitty at the head of the table, the Rigbys are a better family than they are. He smiled; he checked himself. I only think of “better families” when I dine in this sort of place, he thought. He looked at another picture; a lady in sea green; the famous Gainsborough. But here Lady Margaret, the woman on his left, turned to him.
“I’m sure you’ll agree with me,” she said, “Captain Pargiter” — he noticed that she swept her eyes over the name on his card before she spoke it, although they had met often before— “that it’s a devilish thing to have done?”
She spoke so pouncingly that the fork she held upright seemed like a weapon with which she was about to pinion him. He threw himself into their conversation. It was about politics of course, about Ireland. “Tell me — what’s your opinion?” she asked, with her fork poised. For a moment he had the illusion that he too was behind the scenes. The screen was down; the lights were up; and he too was behind the scenes. It was an illusion of course; they were only throwing him scraps from their larder; but it was an agreeable sensation while it lasted. He listened. Now she was holding forth to a distinguished old man at the end of the table. He watched him. He had let down a mask of infinitely wise tolerance over his face as she harangued them. He was arranging three crusts of bread by the side of his plate as if he were playing a mysterious little game of profound significance. “So,” he seemed to be saying, “So,” as if they were fragments of human destiny, not crusts, that he held in his fingers. The mask might conceal anything — or nothing? Anyhow it was a mask of great distinction. But here Lady Margaret pinioned him too with her fork; and he raised his eyebrows and moved one of the crusts a little to one side before he spoke. Martin leant forward to listen.
“When I was in Ireland,” he began, “in 1880 . . .” He spoke very simply; he was offering them a memory; he told his story perfectly; it held its meaning without spilling a single drop. And he had played a great part. Martin listened attentively. Yes, it was absorbing. Here we are, he thought, going on and on and on. . . . He leant forward trying to catch every word. But he was conscious of some interruption; Ann had turned to him.
“Do tell me” — she was asking him— “who he is?” She bent her head to the right. She was under the impression that he knew everybody, apparently. He was flattered. He looked along the table. Who was it? Somebody he had met; somebody, he guessed, who was not quite at his ease.
“I know him,” he said. “I know him—” He had a rather white, fat face; he was talking away at a great rate. And the young married woman to whom he was talking was saying “I see; I see,” with little nods of her head. But there was a slight look of strain on her face. You needn’t put yourself to all that trouble, my good fellow, Martin felt inclined to say to him. She doesn’t understand a word you’re saying.
“I can’t put a name to him,” he said aloud. “But I’ve met him — let me see — where? In Oxford or Cambridge?”
A faint look of amusement came into Ann’s eyes. She had spotted the difference. She coupled them together. They were not her world — no.
“Have you seen the Russian dancers?” she was saying. She had been there with her young man, it seemed. And what’s your world, Martin thought, as she rapped out her slender stock of adjectives— “heavenly,” “amazing,” “marvellous,” and so on. Is it “the” world? he mused. He looked down the table. Anyhow no other world had a chance against it, he thought. And it’s a good world too, he added; large; generous; hospitable. And very nice-looking. He glanced from face to face. Dinner was drawing to an end. They all looked as if they had been rubbed with wash leather, like precious stones; yet the bloom seemed ingrained; it went through the stone. And the stone was clear-cut; there was no blur, no indecision. Here a footman’s white-gloved hand removing dishes knocked over a glass of wine. A red splash trickled onto the lady’s dress. But she did not move a muscle; she went on talking. Then s
he straightened the clean napkin that had been brought her, nonchalantly, over the stain.
That’s what I like, Martin thought. He admired that. She would have blown her fingers on her nose like an applewoman if she wanted to, he thought. But Ann was talking.
“And when he gives that leap!” she exclaimed — she raised her hand with a lovely gesture in the air— “and then comes down!” She let her hand fall in her lap.
“Marvellous!” Martin agreed. He had got the very accent, he thought; he had got it from the young man whose hair looked as if a rake had gone through it.
“Yes: Nijinsky’s marvellous,” he agreed. “Marvellous,” he repeated.
“And my aunt has asked me to meet him at a party,” said Ann.
“Your aunt?” he said aloud.
She mentioned a well-known name.
“Oh, she’s your aunt, is she?” he said. He placed her. So that was her world. He wanted to ask her — for he found her charming in her youth, her simplicity — but it was too late. Ann was rising.
“I hope—” he began. She bent her head towards him as if she longed to stay, catch his last word, his least word; but could not, since Lady Lasswade had risen; and it was time for her to go.
Lady Lasswade had risen; everybody rose. All the pink, grey, sea-coloured dresses lengthened themselves, and for a moment the tall women standing by the table looked like the famous Gainsborough hanging on the wall. The table, strewn with napkins and wine-glasses, had a derelict air as they left it. For a moment the ladies clustered at the door; then the little old woman in black hobbled past them with remarkable dignity; and Kitty, coming last, put her arm round Ann’s shoulder and led her out. The door shut on the ladies.
Kitty paused for a moment.
“I hope you liked my old cousin?” she said to Ann as they walked upstairs together. She put her hand to her dress and straightened something as they passed a looking-glass.
“I thought him charming!” Ann exclaimed. “And what a lovely tree!” She spoke of Martin and the tree in exactly the same tone. They paused for a moment to look at a tree that was covered with pink blossoms in a china tub standing at the door. Some of the flowers were fully out; others were still unopened. As they looked a petal dropped.
“It’s cruel to keep it here,” said Kitty, “in this hot air.”
They went in. While they dined the servants had opened the folding doors and lit lights in a further room so that it seemed as if they came into another room freshly made ready for them. There was a great fire blazing between two stately fire-dogs; but it seemed cordial and decorative rather than hot. Two or three of the ladies stood before it, opening and shutting their fingers as they spread them to the blaze; but they turned to make room for their hostess.
“How I love that picture of you, Kitty!” said Mrs Aislabie, looking up at the portrait of Lady Lasswade as a young woman. Her hair had been very red in those days; she was toying with a basket of roses. Fiery but tender, she looked, emerging from a cloud of white muslin.
Kitty glanced at it and then turned away.
“One never likes one’s own picture,” she said.
“But it’s the image of you!” said another lady.
“Not now,” said Kitty, laughing off the compliment rather awkwardly. Always after dinner women paid each other compliments about their clothes or their looks, she thought. She did not like being alone with women after dinner; it made her shy. She stood there, upright among them, while footmen went round with trays of coffee.
“By the way, I hope the wine—” she paused and helped herself to coffee, “the wine didn’t stain your frock, Cynthia?” she said to the young married woman who had taken the disaster so coolly.
“And such a lovely frock,” said Lady Margaret, fondling the folds of golden satin between her finger and thumb.
“D’you like it?” said the young woman.
“It’s perfectly lovely! I’ve been looking at it the whole evening!” said Mrs Treyer, an Oriental-looking woman, with a feather floating back from her head in harmony with her nose, which was Jewish.
Kitty looked at them admiring the lovely frock. Eleanor would have found herself out of it, she thought. She had refused her invitation to dinner. That annoyed her.
“Do tell me,” Lady Cynthia interrupted, “who was the man I sat next? One always meets such interesting people at your house,” she added.
“The man you sat next?” said Kitty. She considered a moment. “Tony Ashton,” she said.
“Is that the man who’s been lecturing on French poetry at Mortimer House?” chimed in Mrs Aislabie. “I longed to go to those lectures. I heard they were wonderfully interesting.”
“Mildred went,” said Mrs Treyer.
“Why should we all stand?” said Kitty. She made a movement with her hands towards the seats. She did things like that so abruptly that they called her, behind her back, “The Grenadier.” They all moved this way and that, and she herself, after seeing how the couples sorted themselves, sat down by old Aunt Warburton, who was enthroned in the great chair.
“Tell me about my delightful godson,” the old lady began. She meant Kitty’s second son, who was with the fleet at Malta.
“He’s at Malta—” she began. She sat down on a low chair and began answering her questions. But the fire was too hot for Aunt Warburton. She raised her knobbed old hand.
“Priestley wants to roast us all alive,” said Kitty. She got up and went to the window. The ladies smiled as she strode across the room and jerked up the top of the long window. Just for a moment, as the curtains hung apart, she looked at the square outside. There was a spatter of leaf-shadow and lamplight on the pavement; the usual policeman was balancing himself as he patrolled; the usual little men and women, foreshortened from this height, hurried along by the railings. So she saw them hurrying, the other way, when she brushed her teeth in the morning. Then she came back and sat down on a low stool beside old Aunt Warburton. The worldly old woman was honest, in her way.
“And the little red-haired ruffian whom I love?” she asked. He was her favourite; the little boy at Eton.
“He’s been in trouble,” said Kitty. “He’s been swished.” She smiled. He was her favourite too.
The old lady grinned. She liked boys who got into trouble. She had a wedge-shaped yellow face with an occasional bristle on her chin; she was over eighty; but she sat as if she were riding a hunter, Kitty thought, glancing at her hands. They were coarse hands, with big finger-joints; red and white sparks flashed from her rings as she moved them.
“And you, my dear,” said the old lady, looking at her shrewdly under her bushy eyebrows, “busy as usual?”
“Yes. Much as usual,” said Kitty, evading the shrewd old eyes; for she did things on the sly that they — the ladies over there — did not approve.
They were chattering together. Yet animated as it sounded, to Kitty’s ear the talk lacked substance. It was a battledore and shuttlecock talk, to be kept going until the door opened and the gentlemen came in. Then it would stop. They were talking about a by-election. She could hear Lady Margaret telling some story that was rather coarse presumably, in the eighteenth-century way, since she dropped her voice.
“ — turned her upside down and slapped her,” she could hear her say. There was a twitter of laughter.
“I’m so delighted he got in in spite of them,” said Mrs Treyer. They dropped their voices.
“I’m a tiresome old woman,” said Aunt Warburton, raising one of her knobbed hands to her shoulder. “But now I’m going to ask you to shut that window.” The draught was getting at her rheumatic joint.
Kitty strode to the window. “Damn these women!” she said to herself. She laid hold of the long stick with a beak at the end that stood in the window and poked; but the window stuck. She would have liked to fleece them of their clothes, of their jewels, of their intrigues, of their gossip. The window went up with a jerk. There was Ann standing about with nobody to talk to.
“Come and talk to us, Ann,” she said, beckoning to her. Ann drew up a footstool and sat down at Aunt Warburton’s feet. There was a pause. Old Aunt Warburton disliked young girls; but they had relations in common.
“Where’s Timmy, Ann?” she asked.
“Harrow,” said Ann.
“Ah, you’ve always been to Harrow,” said Aunt Warburton. And then the old lady, with the beautiful breeding that simulated at least human charity, flattered the girl, likening her to her grandmother, a famous beauty.
“How I should love to have known her!” Ann exclaimed. “Do tell me — what was she like?”
The old lady began making a selection from her memoirs; it was only a selection; an edition with asterisks; for it was a story that could hardly be told to a girl in white satin. Kitty’s mind wandered. If Charles stayed much longer downstairs, she thought, glancing at the clock, she would miss her train. Could Priestley be trusted to whisper a message in his ears? She would give them another ten minutes; she turned to Aunt Warburton again.
“She must have been wonderful!” Ann was saying. She sat with her hands clasped round her knees looking up into the face of the hairy old dowager. Kitty felt a moment’s pity. Her face will be like their faces, she thought, looking at the little group at the other side of the room. Their faces looked harassed, worried; their hands moved restlessly. Yet they’re brave, she thought; and generous. They gave as much as they took. Had Eleanor after all any right to despise them? Had she done more with her life than Margaret Marrable? And I? she thought. And I? . . . Who’s right? she thought. Who’s wrong? . . . Here mercifully the door opened.
The gentlemen came in. They came in reluctantly, rather slowly, as if they had just stopped talking, and had to get their bearings in the drawing-room. They were a little flushed and still laughing, as if they had stopped in the middle of what they were saying. They filed in; and the distinguished old man moved across the room with the air of a ship making port, and all the ladies stirred without rising. The game was over; the battledores and shuttlecocks put away. They were like gulls settling on fish, Kitty thought. There was a rising and a fluttering. The great man let himself slowly down into a chair beside his old friend Lady Warburton. He put the tips of his fingers together and began “Well . . . ?” as if he were continuing a conversation left unfinished the night before. Yes, she thought, there was something — was it human? civilised? she could not find the word she wanted — about the old couple, talking, as they had talked for the past fifty years. . . . They were all talking. They had all settled in to add another sentence to the story that was just ending, or in the middle, or about to begin.
Complete Works of Virginia Woolf Page 226
