But there was Tony Ashton standing by himself without a sentence to add to the story. She went up to him therefore.
“Have you seen Edward lately?” he asked her as usual.
“Yes, today,” she said. “I lunched with him. We walked in the Park. . . .” She stopped. They had walked in the Park. A thrush had been singing; they had stopped to listen. “That’s the wise thrush that sings each song twice over . . .” he had said. “Does he?” she had asked innocently. And it had been a quotation.
She had felt foolish; Oxford always made her feel foolish. She disliked Oxford; yet she respected Edward and Tony too, she thought looking at him. A snob on the surface; underneath a scholar. . . . They had a standard. . . . But she roused herself.
He would like to talk to some smart woman — Mrs Aislabie, or Margaret Marrable. But they were both engaged — both were adding sentences with considerable vivacity. There was a pause. She was not a good hostess, she reflected; this sort of hitch always happened at her parties. There was Ann; Ann about to be captured by a youth she knew. But Kitty beckoned. Ann came instantly and submissively.
“Come and be introduced,” she said, “to Mr Ashton. He’s been lecturing at Mortimer House,” she explained, “about—” She hesitated.
“Mallarmé,” he said with his odd little squeak, as if his voice had been pinched off.
Kitty turned away. Martin came up to her.
“A very brilliant party, Lady Lasswade,” he said with his usual tiresome irony.
“This? Oh, not at all,” she said brusquely. This wasn’t a party. Her parties were never brilliant. Martin was trying to tease her as usual. She looked down and saw his shabby shoes.
“Come and talk to me,” she said, feeling the old family affection return. She noticed with amusement that he was a little flushed, a little, as the nurses used to say, “above himself”. How many “parties” would it need, she wondered, to turn her satirical, uncompromising cousin into an obedient member of society?
“Let’s sit down and talk sense,” she said, sinking on to a little sofa. He sat down beside her.
“Tell me, what’s Nell doing?” she asked.
“She sent her love,” said Martin. “She told me to say how much she wanted to see you.”
“Then why wouldn’t she come tonight?” said Kitty. She felt hurt. She could not help it.
“She hasn’t the right kind of hairpin,” he said with a laugh, looking down at his shoes. Kitty looked down at them too.
“My shoes, you see, don’t matter,” he said. “But then I’m a man.”
“It’s such nonsense . . .” Kitty began. “What does it matter . . .”
But he was looking round him at the groups of beautifully dressed women; then at the picture.
“That’s a horrid daub of you over the mantelpiece,” he said, looking at the red-haired girl. “Who did it?”
“I forget . . . Don’t let’s look at it,” she said.
“Let’s talk . . .” Then she stopped.
He was looking round the room. It was crowded; there were little tables with photographs; ornate cabinets with vases of flowers; and panels of yellow brocade let into the walls. She felt that he was criticising the room and herself too.
“I always want to take a knife and scrape it all off,” she said. But what’s the use, she thought? If she moved a picture, “Where’s Uncle Bill on the old cob?” her husband would say, and back it had to go again.
“Like a hotel, isn’t it?” she continued.
“A saloon,” he remarked. He did not know why he always wanted to hurt her; but he did; it was a fact.
“I was asking myself,” he dropped his voice, “Why have a picture like that” — he nodded his head at the portrait— “when they’ve a Gainsborough . . .”
“And why,” she dropped her voice, imitating his tone that was half sneering, half humorous, “come and eat their food when you despise them?”
“I don’t! Not a bit!” he exclaimed. “I’m enjoying myself immensely. I like seeing you, Kitty,” he added. It was true — he always liked her. “You haven’t dropped your poor relations. That’s very nice of you.”
“It’s they who’ve dropped me,” she said.
“Oh, Eleanor,” he said. “She’s a queer old bird.”
“It’s all so . . .” Kitty began. But there was something wrong about the disposition of her party; she stopped in the middle of her sentence. “You’ve got to come and talk to Mrs Treyer,” she said getting up.
Why does one do it? he wondered as he followed her. He had wanted to talk to Kitty; he had nothing to say to that Oriental-looking harpy with a pheasant’s feather floating at the back of her head. Still, if you drink the good wine of the noble countess, he said bowing, you have to entertain her less desirable friends. He led her off.
Kitty went back to the fireplace. She dealt the coal a blow, and the sparks went volleying up the chimney. She was irritable; she was restless. Time was passing; if they stayed much longer she would miss her train. Surreptitiously she noted that the hands of the clock were close on eleven. The party was bound to break up soon; it was only the prelude to another party. Yet they were all talking, and talking, as if they would never go.
She glanced at the groups that seemed immovable. Then the clock chimed a succession of petulant little strokes, on the last of which the door opened and Priestley advanced. With his inscrutable butler’s eyes and crooked forefinger he summoned Ann Hillier.
“That’s Mama fetching me,” said Ann, advancing down the room with a little flutter.
“She’s taking you on?” said Kitty. She held her hand for a moment. Why? she asked herself, looking at the lovely face, empty of meaning, or character, like a page on which nothing has been written but youth. She held her hand for a moment.
“Must you go?” she said.
“I’m afraid I must,” said Ann, withdrawing her hand.
There was a general rising and movement, like the flutter of white-winged gulls.
“Coming with us?” Martin heard Ann say to the youth through whose hair the rake seemed to have been passed. They turned to leave together. As she passed Martin, who stood with his hand out, Ann gave him the least bend of her head, as if his image had been already swept from her mind. He was dashed; his feeling was out of all proportion to its object. He felt a strong desire to go with them, wherever it was. But he had not been asked; Ashton had; he was following in their wake.
“What a toady!” he thought to himself with a bitterness that surprised him. It was odd how jealous he felt for a moment. They were all “going on,” it seemed. He hung about a little awkwardly. Only the old fogies were left — no, even the great man was going on, it seemed. Only the old lady was left. She was hobbling across the room on Lasswade’s arm. She wanted to confirm something that she had been saying about a miniature. Lasswade had taken it off the wall; he held it under a lamp so that she could pronounce her verdict. Was it Grandpapa on the cob, or was it Uncle William?
“Sit down, Martin, and let us talk,” said Kitty. He sat down: but he had a feeling that she wanted him to go. He had seen her glance at the clock. They chatted for a moment. Now the old lady came back; she was proving, beyond a doubt, from her unexampled store of anecdotes, that it must be Uncle William on the cob; not Grandpapa. She was going. But she took her time. Martin waited till she was fairly in the doorway, leaning on her nephew’s arm. He hesitated; they were alone now; should he stay, or should he go? But Kitty was standing up. She was holding out her hand.
“Come again soon and see me alone,” she said. She had dismissed him, he felt.
That’s what people always say, he said to himself as he made his way slowly downstairs behind Lady Warburton. Come again: but I don’t know that I shall. . . . Lady Warburton went downstairs like a crab, holding on to the banisters with one hand, to Lasswade’s arm with the other. He lingered behind her. He looked at the Canaletto once more. A nice picture: but a copy, he said to himself. He peered ove
r the banisters and saw the black-and-white slabs on the hall beneath.
It did work, he said to himself, descending step by step into the hall. Off and on; by fits and starts. But was it worth it? he asked himself, letting the footman help him into his coat. The double doors stood wide open into the street. One or two people were passing; they peered in curiously, looking at the footmen, at the bright big hall; and at the old lady who paused for a moment on the black-and-white squares. She was robing herself. Now she was accepting her cloak with a violet slash in it; now her furs. A bag dangled from her wrist. She was hung about with chains; her fingers were knobbed with rings. Her sharp stone-coloured face, riddled with lines and wrinkled into creases, looked out from its soft nest of fur and laces. The eyes were still bright.
The nineteenth century going to bed, Martin said to himself as he watched her hobble down the steps on the arm of her footman. She was helped into her carriage. Then he shook hands with that good fellow his host, who had had quite as much wine as was good for him, and walked off through Grosvenor Square.
Upstairs in the bedroom at the top of the house Kitty’s maid Baxter was looking out of the window, watching the guests drive off. There — that was the old lady going. She wished they would hurry; if the party went on much longer her own little jaunt would be done for. She was going up the river tomorrow with her young man. She turned and looked round her. She had everything ready — her ladyship’s coat, skirt, and the bag with the ticket in it. It was long past eleven. She stood at the dressing-table waiting. The three-folded mirror reflected silver pots, powder puffs, combs and brushes. Baxter stooped down and smirked at herself in the glass — that was how she would look when she went up the river — then she drew herself up; she heard footsteps in the passage. Her ladyship was coming. Here she was.
Lady Lasswade came in, slipping the rings from her fingers. “Sorry to be so late, Baxter,” she said. “Now I must hurry.”
Baxter, without speaking, unhooked her dress; slipped it dexterously to her feet, and bore it away. Kitty sat down at her dressing-table and kicked off her shoes. Satin shoes were always too tight. She glanced at the clock on her dressing-table. She just had time.
Baxter was handing her coat. Now she was handing her bag.
“The ticket’s in there, m’lady,” she said, touching the bag.
“Now my hat,” said Kitty. She stooped to settle it in front of the mirror. The little tweed travelling-hat poised on the top of her hair made her look quite a different person; the person she liked being. She stood in her travelling-dress, wondering if she had forgotten anything. Her mind was a perfect blank for a moment. Where am I? she wondered. What am I doing? Where am I going? Her eyes fixed themselves on the dressing-table; vaguely she remembered some other room, and some other time when she was a girl. At Oxford was it?
“The ticket, Baxter?” she said perfunctorily.
“In your bag, m’lady,” Baxter reminded her. She was holding it in her hand.
“So that’s everything,” said Kitty, glancing round her.
She felt a moment’s compunction.
“Thanks, Baxter,” she said. “I hope you’ll enjoy your. . .” — she hesitated: she did not know what Baxter did on her day off—”. . . your play,” she said at a venture. Baxter gave a queer little bitten-off smile. Maids bothered Kitty with their demure politeness; with their inscrutable, pursed-up faces. But they were very useful.
“Good-night!” she said to Baxter at the door of the bedroom; for there Baxter turned back as if her responsibility for her mistress ended. Somebody else had charge of the stairs.
Kitty looked in at the drawing-room, in case her husband should be there. But the room was empty. The fire was still blazing; the chairs, drawn out in a circle, still seemed to hold the skeleton of the party in their empty arms. But the car was waiting for her at the door.
“Plenty of time?” she said to the chauffeur as he laid the rug across her knees. Off they started.
It was a clear still night and every tree in the square was visible; some were black, others were sprinkled with strange patches of green artificial light. Above the arc lamps rose shafts of darkness. Although it was close on midnight, it scarcely seemed to be night; but rather some ethereal disembodied day, for there were so many lamps in the streets; cars passing; men in white mufflers with their light overcoats open walking along the clean dry pavements, and many houses were still lit up, for everyone was giving parties. The town changed as they drew smoothly through Mayfair. The public houses were closing; here was a group clustered round a lamp-post at the corner. A drunken man was bawling out some loud song; a tipsy girl with a feather bobbing in her eyes was swaying as she clung to the lamp-post . . . but Kitty’s eyes alone registered what she saw. After the talk, the effort and the hurry, she could add nothing to what she saw. And they swept on quickly. Now they had turned, and the car was gliding at full speed up a long bright avenue of great shuttered shops. The streets were almost empty. The yellow station clock showed that they had five minutes to spare.
Just in time, she said to herself. The usual exhilaration mounted in her as she walked along the platform. Diffused light poured down from a great height. Men’s cries and the clangour of shunting carriages echoed in the immense vacancy. The train was waiting; travellers were making ready to start. Some were standing with one foot on the step of the carriage drinking out of thick cups as if they were afraid to go far from their seats. She looked down the length of the train and saw the engine sucking water from a hose. It seemed all body, all muscle; even the neck had been consumed into the smooth barrel of the body. This was “the” train; the others were toys in comparison. She snuffed up the sulphurous air, which left a slight tinge of acid at the back of the throat, as if it already had a tang of the north.
The guard had seen her and was coming towards her with his whistle in his hand.
“Good evening, m’lady,” he said.
“Good evening, Purvis. Run it rather fine,” she said as he unlocked the door of her carriage.
“Yes, m’lady. Only just in time,” he replied.
He locked the door. Kitty turned and looked round the small lighted room in which she was to spend the night. Everything was ready; the bed was made; the sheets were turned down; her bag was on the seat. The guard passed the window, holding his flag in his hand.
A man who had only just caught the train ran across the platform with his arms spread out. A door slammed.
“Just in time,” Kitty said to herself as she stood there. Then the train gave a gentle tug. She could hardly believe that so great a monster could start so gently on so long a journey. Then she saw the tea-urn sliding past.
“We’re off,” she said to herself, sinking back onto the seat. “We’re off!”
All the tension went out of her body. She was alone; and the train was moving. The last lamp on the platform slid away. The last figure on the platform vanished.
“What fun!” she said to herself, as if she were a little girl who had run away from her nurse and escaped. “We’re off!”
She sat still for a moment in her brightly lit compartment; then she tugged the blind and it sprang up with a jerk. Elongated lights slid past; lights in factories and warehouses; lights in obscure back streets. Then there were asphalt paths; more lights in public gardens; and then bushes and a hedge in a field. They were leaving London behind them; leaving that blaze of light which seemed, as the train rushed into the darkness, to contract itself into one fiery circle. The train rushed with a roar through a tunnel. It seemed to perform an act of amputation; now she was cut off from that circle of light.
She looked round the narrow little compartment in which she was isolated. Everything shook slightly. There was a perpetual faint vibration. She seemed to be passing from one world to another; this was the moment of transition. She sat still for a moment; then undressed and paused with her hand on the blind. The train had got into its stride now; it was rushing at full speed through the country
. A few distant lights twinkled here and there. Black clumps of trees stood in the grey summer fields; the fields were full of summer grasses. The light from the engine lit up a quiet group of cows; and a hedge of hawthorn. They were in open country now.
She pulled down the blind and climbed into her bed. She laid herself out on the rather hard shelf with her back to the carriage wall, so that she felt a faint vibration against her head. She lay listening to the humming noise which the train made, now that it had got into its stride. Smoothly and powerfully she was being drawn through England to the north. I need do nothing, she thought, nothing, nothing, but let myself be drawn on. She turned and pulled the blue shade over the lamp. The sound of the train became louder in the darkness; its roar, its vibration, seemed to fall into a regular rhythm of sound, raking through her mind, rolling out her thoughts.
Ah, but not all of them, she thought, turning restlessly on her shelf. Some still jutted up. One’s not a child, she thought, staring at the light under the blue shade, any longer. The years changed things; destroyed things; heaped things up — worries and bothers; here they were again. Fragments of talk kept coming back to her; sights came before her. She saw herself raise the window with a jerk; and the bristles on Aunt Warburton’s chin. She saw the women rising, and the men filing in. She sighed as she turned on her ledge. All their clothes are the same, she thought; all their lives are the same. And which is right? she thought, turning restlessly on her shelf. Which is wrong? She turned again.
Complete Works of Virginia Woolf Page 227
