Night and Day by Virginia Woolf (websites to read books for free .TXT) đ
- Author: Virginia Woolf
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to Katharine. How impotent they were, fiddling about all day long with
papers! And the clock was striking eleven and nothing done! She
watched her mother, now rummaging in a great brass-bound box which
stood by her table, but she did not go to her help. Of course,
Katharine reflected, her mother had now lost some paper, and they
would waste the rest of the morning looking for it. She cast her eyes
down in irritation, and read again her motherâs musical sentences
about the silver gulls, and the roots of little pink flowers washed by
pellucid streams, and the blue mists of hyacinths, until she was
struck by her motherâs silence. She raised her eyes. Mrs. Hilbery had
emptied a portfolio containing old photographs over her table, and was
looking from one to another.
âSurely, Katharine,â she said, âthe men were far handsomer in those
days than they are now, in spite of their odious whiskers? Look at old
John Graham, in his white waistcoatâlook at Uncle Harley. Thatâs
Peter the manservant, I suppose. Uncle John brought him back from
India.â
Katharine looked at her mother, but did not stir or answer. She had
suddenly become very angry, with a rage which their relationship made
silent, and therefore doubly powerful and critical. She felt all the
unfairness of the claim which her mother tacitly made to her time and
sympathy, and what Mrs. Hilbery took, Katharine thought bitterly, she
wasted. Then, in a flash, she remembered that she had still to tell
her about Cyrilâs misbehavior. Her anger immediately dissipated
itself; it broke like some wave that has gathered itself high above
the rest; the waters were resumed into the sea again, and Katharine
felt once more full of peace and solicitude, and anxious only that her
mother should be protected from pain. She crossed the room
instinctively, and sat on the arm of her motherâs chair. Mrs. Hilbery
leant her head against her daughterâs body.
âWhat is nobler,â she mused, turning over the photographs, âthan to be
a woman to whom every one turns, in sorrow or difficulty? How have the
young women of your generation improved upon that, Katharine? I can
see them now, sweeping over the lawns at Melbury House, in their
flounces and furbelows, so calm and stately and imperial (and the
monkey and the little black dwarf following behind), as if nothing
mattered in the world but to be beautiful and kind. But they did more
than we do, I sometimes think. They WERE, and thatâs better than
doing. They seem to me like ships, like majestic ships, holding on
their way, not shoving or pushing, not fretted by little things, as we
are, but taking their way, like ships with white sails.â
Katharine tried to interrupt this discourse, but the opportunity did
not come, and she could not forbear to turn over the pages of the
album in which the old photographs were stored. The faces of these men
and women shone forth wonderfully after the hubbub of living faces,
and seemed, as her mother had said, to wear a marvelous dignity and
calm, as if they had ruled their kingdoms justly and deserved great
love. Some were of almost incredible beauty, others were ugly enough
in a forcible way, but none were dull or bored or insignificant. The
superb stiff folds of the crinolines suited the women; the cloaks and
hats of the gentlemen seemed full of character. Once more Katharine
felt the serene air all round her, and seemed far off to hear the
solemn beating of the sea upon the shore. But she knew that she must
join the present on to this past.
Mrs. Hilbery was rambling on, from story to story.
âThatâs Janie Mannering,â she said, pointing to a superb, white-haired
dame, whose satin robes seemed strung with pearls. âI must have told
you how she found her cook drunk under the kitchen table when the
Empress was coming to dinner, and tucked up her velvet sleeves (she
always dressed like an Empress herself), cooked the whole meal, and
appeared in the drawing-room as if sheâd been sleeping on a bank of
roses all day. She could do anything with her handsâthey all couldâ
make a cottage or embroider a petticoat.
âAnd thatâs Queenie Colquhoun,â she went on, turning the pages, âwho
took her coffin out with her to Jamaica, packed with lovely shawls and
bonnets, because you couldnât get coffins in Jamaica, and she had a
horror of dying there (as she did), and being devoured by the white
ants. And thereâs Sabine, the loveliest of them all; ah! it was like a
star rising when she came into the room. And thatâs Miriam, in her
coachmanâs cloak, with all the little capes on, and she wore great
top-boots underneath. You young people may say youâre unconventional,
but youâre nothing compared with her.â
Turning the page, she came upon the picture of a very masculine,
handsome lady, whose head the photographer had adorned with an
imperial crown.
âAh, you wretch!â Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed, âwhat a wicked old despot
you were, in your day! How we all bowed down before you! âMaggie,â she
used to say, âif it hadnât been for me, where would you be now?â And
it was true; she brought them together, you know. She said to my
father, âMarry her,â and he did; and she said to poor little Clara,
âFall down and worship him,â and she did; but she got up again, of
course. What else could one expect? She was a mere childâeighteenâ
and half dead with fright, too. But that old tyrant never repented.
She used to say that she had given them three perfect months, and no
one had a right to more; and I sometimes think, Katharine, thatâs
true, you know. Itâs more than most of us have, only we have to
pretend, which was a thing neither of them could ever do. I fancy,â
Mrs. Hilbery mused, âthat there was a kind of sincerity in those days
between men and women which, with all your outspokenness, you havenât
got.â
Katharine again tried to interrupt. But Mrs. Hilbery had been
gathering impetus from her recollections, and was now in high spirits.
âThey must have been good friends at heart,â she resumed, âbecause she
used to sing his songs. Ah, how did it go?â and Mrs. Hilbery, who had
a very sweet voice, trolled out a famous lyric of her fatherâs which
had been set to an absurdly and charmingly sentimental air by some
early Victorian composer.
âItâs the vitality of them!â she concluded, striking her fist against
the table. âThatâs what we havenât got! Weâre virtuous, weâre earnest,
we go to meetings, we pay the poor their wages, but we donât live as
they lived. As often as not, my father wasnât in bed three nights out
of the seven, but always fresh as paint in the morning. I hear him
now, come singing up the stairs to the nursery, and tossing the loaf
for breakfast on his sword-stick, and then off we went for a dayâs
pleasuringâRichmond, Hampton Court, the Surrey Hills. Why shouldnât
we go, Katharine? Itâs going to be a fine day.â
At this moment, just as Mrs. Hilbery was examining the weather from
the window, there was a knock at the door. A slight, elderly lady came
in, and was saluted by Katharine, with very evident dismay, as âAunt
Celia!â She was dismayed because she guessed why Aunt Celia had come.
It was certainly in order to discuss the case of Cyril and the woman
who was not his wife, and owing to her procrastination Mrs. Hilbery
was quite unprepared. Who could be more unprepared? Here she was,
suggesting that all three of them should go on a jaunt to Blackfriars
to inspect the site of Shakespeareâs theater, for the weather was
hardly settled enough for the country.
To this proposal Mrs. Milvain listened with a patient smile, which
indicated that for many years she had accepted such eccentricities in
her sister-in-law with bland philosophy. Katharine took up her
position at some distance, standing with her foot on the fender, as
though by so doing she could get a better view of the matter. But, in
spite of her auntâs presence, how unreal the whole question of Cyril
and his morality appeared! The difficulty, it now seemed, was not to
break the news gently to Mrs. Hilbery, but to make her understand it.
How was one to lasso her mind, and tether it to this minute,
unimportant spot? A matter-of-fact statement seemed best.
âI think Aunt Celia has come to talk about Cyril, mother,â she said
rather brutally. âAunt Celia has discovered that Cyril is married. He
has a wife and children.â
âNo, he is NOT married,â Mrs. Milvain interposed, in low tones,
addressing herself to Mrs. Hilbery. âHe has two children, and another
on the way.â
Mrs. Hilbery looked from one to the other in bewilderment.
âWe thought it better to wait until it was proved before we told you,â
Katharine added.
âBut I met Cyril only a fortnight ago at the National Gallery!â Mrs.
Hilbery exclaimed. âI donât believe a word of it,â and she tossed her
head with a smile on her lips at Mrs. Milvain, as though she could
quite understand her mistake, which was a very natural mistake, in the
case of a childless woman, whose husband was something very dull in
the Board of Trade.
âI didnât WISH to believe it, Maggie,â said Mrs. Milvain. âFor a long
time I COULDNâT believe it. But now Iâve seen, and I HAVE to believe
it.â
âKatharine,â Mrs. Hilbery demanded, âdoes your father know of this?â
Katharine nodded.
âCyril married!â Mrs. Hilbery repeated. âAnd never telling us a word,
though weâve had him in our house since he was a childânoble
Williamâs son! I canât believe my ears!â
Feeling that the burden of proof was laid upon her, Mrs. Milvain now
proceeded with her story. She was elderly and fragile, but her
childlessness seemed always to impose these painful duties on her, and
to revere the family, and to keep it in repair, had now become the
chief object of her life. She told her story in a low, spasmodic, and
somewhat broken voice.
âI have suspected for some time that he was not happy. There were new
lines on his face. So I went to his rooms, when I knew he was engaged
at the poor menâs college. He lectures thereâRoman law, you know, or
it may be Greek. The landlady said Mr. Alardyce only slept there about
once a fortnight now. He looked so ill, she said. She had seen him
with a young person. I suspected something directly. I went to his
room, and there was an envelope on the mantelpiece, and a letter with
an address in Seton Street, off the Kennington Road.â
Mrs. Hilbery fidgeted rather restlessly, and hummed fragments of her
tune, as if to interrupt.
âI went to Seton Street,â Aunt Celia continued firmly. âA very low
placeâlodging-houses, you know, with canaries in the window. Number
seven just like all the others. I rang, I knocked; no one came. I went
down the area. I am certain I saw some one insideâchildrenâa cradle.
But no replyâno reply.â She sighed, and looked straight in front of
her with a glazed expression in her half-veiled blue eyes.
âI stood in the street,â she resumed, âin case I could catch a sight
of one of them. It seemed a very long time. There were rough men
singing in the public-house round the corner. At last the door opened,
and some oneâit must have been the woman herselfâcame right past me.
There was only the
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