A large man sitting at a table in the corner was thumping on the table with his fork. He was leaning forward as if he wanted to attract attention, as if he were about to make a speech. It was the man Peggy called Brown; the others called Nicholas; whose real name he did not know. Perhaps he was a little drunk.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” he said. “Ladies and gentlemen!” he repeated rather more loudly.
“What, a speech?” said Edward quizzically. He half turned his chair; he raised his eyeglass, which hung on a black silk ribbon as if it were a foreign order.
People were buzzing about with plates and glasses. They were stumbling over cushions on the floor. A girl pitched head foremost.
“Hurt yourself?” said a young man, stretching out his hand.
No, she had not hurt herself. But the interruption had distracted attention from the speech. A buzz of talk had risen like the buzz of flies over sugar. Nicholas sat down again. He was lost apparently in contemplation of the red stone in his ring; or of the strewn flowers; the white, waxy flowers, the pale, semi-transparent flowers, the crimson flowers that were so full-blown that the gold heart showed, and the petals had fallen and lay among the hired knives and forks, the cheap tumblers on the table. Then he roused himself.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” he began. Again he thumped the table with his fork. There was a momentary lull. Rose marched across the room.
“Going to make a speech, are you?” she demanded. “Go on, I like hearing speeches.” She stood beside him, with her hand hollowed round her ear like a military man. Again the buzz of talk had broken out.
“Silence!” she exclaimed. She took a knife and rapped on the table.
“Silence! Silence!” She rapped again.
Martin crossed the room.
“What’s Rose making such a noise about?” he asked.
“I’m asking for silence!” she said, flourishing her knife in his face. “This gentleman wants to make a speech!”
But he had sat down and was regarding his ring with equanimity.
“Isn’t she the very spit and image,” said Martin, laying his hand on Rose’s shoulder and turning to Eleanor as if to confirm his words, “of old Uncle Pargiter of Pargiter’s Horse?”
“Well, I’m proud of it!” said Rose, brandishing her knife in his face. “I’m proud of my family; proud of my country; proud of . . .”
“Your sex?” he interrupted her.
“I am,” she asseverated. “And what about you?” she went on, tapping him on the shoulder. “Proud of yourself, are you?”
“Don’t quarrel, children, don’t quarrel!” cried Eleanor, giving her chair a little edge nearer. “They always would quarrel,” she said, “always . . . always. . . .”
“She was a horrid little spitfire,” said Martin, squatting down on the floor, and looking up at Rose, “with her hair scraped off her forehead . . .”
“. . . wearing a pink frock,” Rose added. She sat down abruptly, holding her knife erect in her hand. “A pink frock; a pink frock,” she repeated, as if the words recalled something.
“But go on with your speech, Nicholas,” said Eleanor, turning to him. He shook his head.
“Let us talk about pink frocks,” he smiled.
“. . . in the drawing-room at Abercorn Terrace, when we were children,” said Rose. “D’you remember?” She looked at Martin. He nodded his head.
“In the drawing-room at Abercorn Terrace . . .” said Delia. She was going from table to table with a great jug of claret cup. She stopped in front of them. “Abercorn Terrace!” she exclaimed, filling a glass. She flung her head back and looked for a moment astonishingly young, handsome, and defiant.
“It was Hell!” she exclaimed. “It was Hell!” she repeated.
“Oh come, Delia . . .” Martin protested, holding out his glass to be filled.
“It was Hell,” she said, dropping her Irish manner, and speaking quite simply, as she poured out the drink.
“D’you know,” she said, looking at Eleanor, “when I go to Paddington, I always say to the man, ‘Drive the other way round!’”
“That’s enough . . .” Martin stopped her; his glass was full. “I hated it too . . .” he began.
But here Kitty Lasswade advanced upon them. She held her glass in front of her as though it were a bauble.
“What’s Martin hating now?” she said, facing him.
A polite gentleman pushed forward a little gilt chair upon which she sat down.
“He always was a hater,” she said, holding her glass out to be filled.
“What was it you hated that night, Martin, when you dined with us?” she asked him. “I remember how angry you made me. . . .”
She smiled at him. He had grown cherubic; pink and plump; with his hair brushed back like a waiter’s.
“Hated? I never hated anybody,” he protested.
“My heart’s full of love; my heart’s full of kindness,” he laughed, waving his glass at her.
“Nonsense,” said Kitty. “When you were young you hated . . . everything!” she flung her hand out. “My house . . . my friends. . . .” She broke off with a quick little sigh. She saw them again — the men filing in; the women pinching some dress between their thumbs and fingers. She lived alone now, in the north.
“. . . and I daresay I’m better off as I am,” she added, half to herself, “with just a boy to chop up wood.”
There was a pause.
“Now let him get on with his speech,” said Eleanor.
“Yes. Get on with your speech!” said Rose. Again she rapped her knife on the table; again he half rose.
“Going to make a speech, is he?” said Kitty, turning to Edward who had drawn his chair up beside her.
“The only place where oratory is now practised as an art . . .” Edward began. Then he paused, drew his chair a little closer, and adjusted his glasses, “. . . is the church,” he added.
That’s why I didn’t marry you, Kitty said to herself. How the voice, the supercilious voice, brought it back! the tree half fallen; rain falling; undergraduates calling; bells tolling; she and her mother. . . .
But Nicholas had risen. He took a deep breath which expanded his shirt front. With one hand he fumbled with his fob; the other he flung out with an oratorical gesture.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” he began again. “In the name of all who have enjoyed themselves tonight. . . .”
“Speak up! Speak up!” the young men cried who were standing in the window.
(“Is he a foreigner?” Kitty whispered to Eleanor.)
“. . . in the name of all who have enjoyed themselves tonight,” he repeated more loudly, “I wish to thank our host and hostess. . . .”
“Oh, don’t thank me!” said Delia brushing past them with her empty jug.
Again the speech was brought to the ground. He must be a foreigner, Kitty thought to herself, because he has no self-consciousness. There he stood holding his wine-glass and smiling.
“Go on, go on,” she urged him. “Don’t mind them.” She was in the mood for a speech. A speech was a good thing at parties. It gave them a fillip. It gave them a finish. She rapped her glass on the table.
“It’s very nice of you,” said Delia, trying to push past him, but he had laid his hand on her arm, “but don’t thank me.”
“But Delia,” he expostulated, still holding her, “it’s not what you want; it’s what we want. And it is fitting,” he continued, waving his hand out, “when our hearts are full of gratitude. . .”
Now he’s getting into his stride, Kitty thought. I daresay he’s a bit of an orator. Most foreigners are.
“. . . when our hearts are full of gratitude,” he repeated, touching one finger.
“What for?” said a voice abruptly.
Nicholas stopped again.
(“Who is that dark man?” Kitty whispered to Eleanor. “I’ve been wondering all the evening.”
“Renny,” Eleanor whispered. “Renny,” she repeated.)
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p; “What for?” said Nicholas. “That is what I am about to tell you. . . .” He paused, and drew a deep breath which again expanded his waistcoat. His eyes beamed; he seemed full of spontaneous subterraneous benevolence. But here a head popped up over the edge of the table; a hand swept up a fistful of flower petals; and a voice cried:
“Red Rose, thorny Rose, brave Rose, tawny Rose!” The petals were thrown, fan-shape, over the stout old woman who was sitting on the edge of her chair. She looked up in surprise. Petals had fallen on her. She brushed them where they had lodged upon the prominences of her person. “Thank you! Thank you!” she exclaimed. Then she took up a flower and beat it energetically upon the edge of the table. “But I want my speech!” she said, looking at Nicholas.
“No, no,” he said. “This is not a time for making speeches,” and sat down again.
“Let’s drink then,” said Martin. He raised his glass. “Pargiter of Pargiter’s Horse!” he said. “I drink to her!” He put his glass down with a thump on the table.
“Oh, if you’re all drinking healths,” said Kitty, “I’ll drink too. Rose, your health. Rose is a fine fellow,” she said, raising her glass. “But Rose was wrong,” she added. “Force is always wrong, — don’t you agree with me, Edward?” She tapped him on the knee. I’d forgotten the War, she muttered half to herself. “Still,” she said aloud, “Rose had the courage of her convictions. Rose went to prison. And I drink to her!” She drank.
“The same to you, Kitty,” said Rose, bowing to her.
“She smashed his window,” Martin jeered at her, “and then she helped him to smash other people’s windows. Where’s your decoration, Rose?”
“In a cardboard box on the mantelpiece,” said Rose. “You can’t get a rise out of me at this time of day, my good fellow.”
“But I wish you had let Nicholas finish his speech,” said Eleanor.
Down through the ceiling, muted and far away, came the preliminary notes of another dance. The young people, hastily swallowing what remained in their glasses, rose and began to move off upstairs. Soon there was the sound of feet thudding, rhythmically, heavily on the floor above.
“Another dance?” said Eleanor. It was a waltz. “When we were young,” she said, looking at Kitty, “we used to dance. . . .” The tune seemed to take her words and to repeat them — when I was young I used to dance — I used to dance. . . .
“And how I hated it!” said Kitty, looking at her fingers, which were short and pricked. “How nice it is,” she said, “not to be young! How nice not to mind what people think! Now one can live as one likes,” she added, “. . . now that one’s seventy.”
She paused. She raised her eyebrows as if she remembered something. “Pity one can’t live again,” she said. But she broke off.
“Aren’t we going to have our speech after all, Mr — ?” she said, looking at Nicholas, whose name she did not know. He sat gazing benevolently in front of him, paddling his hands among the flower petals.
“What’s the good?” he said. “Nobody wants to listen.” They listened to the feet thudding upstairs, and to the music repeating, it seemed to Eleanor, when I was young I used to dance, all men loved me when I was young. . . .
“But I want a speech!” said Kitty in her authoritative manner. It was true; she wanted something — something that gave a fillip, a finish — what she scarcely knew. But not the past — not memories. The present; the future; that was what she wanted.
“There’s Peggy!” said Eleanor, looking round. She was sitting on the edge of a table, eating a ham sandwich.
“Come, Peggy!” she called out. “Come and talk to us!”
“Speak for the younger generation, Peggy!” said Lady Lasswade, shaking hands.
“But I’m not the younger generation,” said Peggy. “And I’ve made my speech already,” she said. “I made a fool of myself upstairs,” she said, sinking down on the floor at Eleanor’s feet.
“Then, North . . .” said Eleanor, looking down on the parting of North’s hair as he sat on the floor beside her.
“Yes, North,” said Peggy, looking at him across her aunt’s knee. “North says we talk of nothing but money and politics,” she added. “Tell us what we ought to do.” He started. He had been dozing off, dazed by the music and voices. What we ought to do? he said to himself, waking up. What ought we to do?
He jerked up into a sitting posture. He saw Peggy’s face looking at him. Now she was smiling; her face was gay; it reminded him of his grandmother’s face in the picture. But he saw it as he had seen it upstairs — scarlet, puckered — as if she were about to burst into tears. It was her face that was true; not her words. But only her words returned to him — to live differently — differently. He paused. This is what needs courage, he said to himself; to speak the truth. She was listening. The old people were already gossiping about their own affairs.
“. . . It’s a nice little house,” Kitty was saying. “An old mad woman used to live there. . . . You’ll have to come and stay with me, Nell. In the spring. . . .”
Peggy was watching him over the rim of her ham sandwich.
“What you said was true,” he blurted out, “. . . quite true.” It was what she meant that was true, he corrected himself; her feeling, not her words. He felt her feeling now; it was not about him; it was about other people; about another world, a new world. . . .
The old aunts and uncles were gossiping above him.
“What was the name of the man I used to like so much at Oxford?” Lady Lasswade was saying. He could see her silver body bending towards Edward.
“The man you liked at Oxford?” Edward was repeating. “I thought you never liked anyone at Oxford. . . .” And they laughed.
But Peggy was waiting, she was watching him. He saw again the glass with the bubbles rising; he felt again the constriction of a knot in his forehead. He wished there were someone, infinitely wise and good, to think for him, to answer for him. But the young man with the receding forehead had vanished.
“. . . To live differently . . . differently,” he repeated. Those were her words; they did not altogether fit his meaning; but he had to use them. Now I’ve made a fool of myself too, he thought, as a ripple of some disagreeable sensation went across his back as if a knife had sliced it, and he leant against the wall.
“Yes, it was Robson!” Lady Lasswade exclaimed. Her trumpet voice rang out over his head.
“How one forgets things!” she went on. “Of course — Robson. That was his name. And the girl I used to like — Nelly? The girl who was going to be a doctor?”
“Died, I think,” said Edward.
“Died, did she — died—” said Lady Lasswade. She paused for a moment. “Well, I wish you’d make your speech,” she said, turning and looking down at North.
He drew himself back. No more speech-making for me, he thought. He had his glass in his hand still. It was still half full of pale yellow liquid. The bubbles had ceased to rise. The wine was clear and still. Stillness and solitude, he thought to himself; silence and solitude . . . that’s the only element in which the mind is free now.
Silence and solitude, he repeated; silence and solitude. His eyes half closed themselves. He was tired; he was dazed; people talked; people talked. He would detach himself, generalise himself, imagine that he was lying in a great space on a blue plain with hills on the rim of the horizon. He stretched out his feet. There were the sheep cropping; slowly tearing the grass; advancing first one stiff leg and then another. And babbling — babbling. He made no sense of what they were saying. Through his half-open eyes he saw hands holding flowers — thin hands, fine hands; but hands that belonged to no one. And were they flowers the hands held? Or mountains? Blue mountains with violet shadows? Then petals fell. Pink, yellow, white with violet shadows, the petals fell. They fall and fall and cover all, he murmured. And there was the stem of a wine-glass; the rim of a plate; and a bowl of water. The hands went on picking up flower after flower; that was a white rose; that was a yellow rose; th
at was a rose with violet valleys in its petals. There they hung, many folded, many coloured, drooping over the rim of the bowl. And petals fell. There they lay, violet and yellow, little shallops, boats on a river. And he was floating, and drifting, in a shallop, in a petal, down a river into silence, into solitude . . . which is the worst torture, the words came back to him as if a voice had spoken them, that human beings can inflict. . . .
“Wake up, North . . . we want your speech!” a voice interrupted him. Kitty’s red handsome face was hanging over him.
“Maggie!” he exclaimed, pulling himself up. It was she who was sitting there, putting flowers into water. “Yes, it’s Maggie’s turn to speak,” said Nicholas, putting his hand on her knee.
“Speak, speak!” Renny urged her.
But she shook her head. Laughter took her and shook her. She laughed, throwing her head back as if she were possessed by some genial spirit outside herself that made her bend and rise, as a tree, North thought, is tossed and bent by the wind. No idols, no idols, no idols, her laughter seemed to chime as if the tree were hung with innumerable bells, and he laughed too.
Their laughter ceased. Feet thudded, dancing on the floor above. A siren hooted on the river. A van crashed down the street in the distance. There was a rush and quiver of sound; something seemed to be released; it was as if the life of the day were about to begin, and this were the chorus, the cry, the chirp, the stir, which salutes the London dawn.
Kitty turned to Nicholas.
“And what was your speech going to have been about, Mr . . . I’m afraid I don’t know your name?” she said.
“. . . the one that was interrupted?”
“My speech?” he laughed. “It was to have been a miracle!” he said. “A masterpiece! But how can one speak when one is always interrupted? I begin: I say, Let us give thanks. Then Delia says, Don’t thank me. I begin again: I say, Let us give thanks to someone, to somebody . . . And Renny says, What for? I begin again, and look — Eleanor is sound asleep.” (He pointed at her.) “So what’s the good?”
Complete Works of Virginia Woolf Page 241
