Night and Day by Virginia Woolf (websites to read books for free .TXT) 📖

aspect

of his character.

 

“I think you’d be foolish to risk your money on poor old Charles,” she

observed. “Fond as I am of him, he doesn’t seem to me exactly

brilliant… . Besides, why should you be sacrificed?”

 

“My dear Joan,” Ralph exclaimed, stretching himself out with a gesture

of impatience, “don’t you see that we’ve all got to be sacrificed?

What’s the use of denying it? What’s the use of struggling against it?

So it always has been, so it always will be. We’ve got no money and we

never shall have any money. We shall just turn round in the mill every

day of our lives until we drop and die, worn out, as most people do,

when one comes to think of it.”

 

Joan looked at him, opened her lips as if to speak, and closed them

again. Then she said, very tentatively:

 

“Aren’t you happy, Ralph?”

 

“No. Are you? Perhaps I’m as happy as most people, though. God knows

whether I’m happy or not. What is happiness?”

 

He glanced with half a smile, in spite of his gloomy irritation, at

his sister. She looked, as usual, as if she were weighing one thing

with another, and balancing them together before she made up her mind.

 

“Happiness,” she remarked at length enigmatically, rather as if she

were sampling the word, and then she paused. She paused for a

considerable space, as if she were considering happiness in all its

bearings. “Hilda was here to-day,” she suddenly resumed, as if they

had never mentioned happiness. “She brought Bobbie—he’s a fine boy

now.” Ralph observed, with an amusement that had a tinge of irony in

it, that she was now going to sidle away quickly from this dangerous

approach to intimacy on to topics of general and family interest.

Nevertheless, he reflected, she was the only one of his family with

whom he found it possible to discuss happiness, although he might very

well have discussed happiness with Miss Hilbery at their first

meeting. He looked critically at Joan, and wished that she did not

look so provincial or suburban in her high green dress with the faded

trimming, so patient, and almost resigned. He began to wish to tell

her about the Hilberys in order to abuse them, for in the miniature

battle which so often rages between two quickly following impressions

of life, the life of the Hilberys was getting the better of the life

of the Denhams in his mind, and he wanted to assure himself that there

was some quality in which Joan infinitely surpassed Miss Hilbery. He

should have felt that his own sister was more original, and had

greater vitality than Miss Hilbery had; but his main impression of

Katharine now was of a person of great vitality and composure; and at

the moment he could not perceive what poor dear Joan had gained from

the fact that she was the granddaughter of a man who kept a shop, and

herself earned her own living. The infinite dreariness and sordidness

of their life oppressed him in spite of his fundamental belief that,

as a family, they were somehow remarkable.

 

“Shall you talk to mother?” Joan inquired. “Because, you see, the

thing’s got to be settled, one way or another. Charles must write to

Uncle John if he’s going there.”

 

Ralph sighed impatiently.

 

“I suppose it doesn’t much matter either way,” he exclaimed. “He’s

doomed to misery in the long run.”

 

A slight flush came into Joan’s cheek.

 

“You know you’re talking nonsense,” she said. “It doesn’t hurt any one

to have to earn their own living. I’m very glad I have to earn mine.”

 

Ralph was pleased that she should feel this, and wished her to

continue, but he went on, perversely enough.

 

“Isn’t that only because you’ve forgotten how to enjoy yourself? You

never have time for anything decent—”

 

“As for instance?”

 

“Well, going for walks, or music, or books, or seeing interesting

people. You never do anything that’s really worth doing any more than

I do.”

 

“I always think you could make this room much nicer, if you liked,”

she observed.

 

“What does it matter what sort of room I have when I’m forced to spend

all the best years of my life drawing up deeds in an office?”

 

“You said two days ago that you found the law so interesting.”

 

“So it is if one could afford to know anything about it.”

 

(“That’s Herbert only just going to bed now,” Joan interposed, as a

door on the landing slammed vigorously. “And then he won’t get up in

the morning.”)

 

Ralph looked at the ceiling, and shut his lips closely together. Why,

he wondered, could Joan never for one moment detach her mind from the

details of domestic life? It seemed to him that she was getting more

and more enmeshed in them, and capable of shorter and less frequent

flights into the outer world, and yet she was only thirty-three.

 

“D’you ever pay calls now?” he asked abruptly.

 

“I don’t often have the time. Why do you ask?”

 

“It might be a good thing, to get to know new people, that’s all.”

 

“Poor Ralph!” said Joan suddenly, with a smile. “You think your

sister’s getting very old and very dull—that’s it, isn’t it?”

 

“I don’t think anything of the kind,” he said stoutly, but he flushed.

“But you lead a dog’s life, Joan. When you’re not working in an

office, you’re worrying over the rest of us. And I’m not much good to

you, I’m afraid.”

 

Joan rose, and stood for a moment warming her hands, and, apparently,

meditating as to whether she should say anything more or not. A

feeling of great intimacy united the brother and sister, and the

semicircular lines above their eyebrows disappeared. No, there was

nothing more to be said on either side. Joan brushed her brother’s

head with her hand as she passed him, murmured good night, and left

the room. For some minutes after she had gone Ralph lay quiescent,

resting his head on his hand, but gradually his eyes filled with

thought, and the line reappeared on his brow, as the pleasant

impression of companionship and ancient sympathy waned, and he was

left to think on alone.

 

After a time he opened his book, and read on steadily, glancing once

or twice at his watch, as if he had set himself a task to be

accomplished in a certain measure of time. Now and then he heard

voices in the house, and the closing of bedroom doors, which showed

that the building, at the top of which he sat, was inhabited in every

one of its cells. When midnight struck, Ralph shut his book, and with

a candle in his hand, descended to the ground floor, to ascertain that

all lights were extinct and all doors locked. It was a threadbare,

well-worn house that he thus examined, as if the inmates had grazed

down all luxuriance and plenty to the verge of decency; and in the

night, bereft of life, bare places and ancient blemishes were

unpleasantly visible. Katharine Hilbery, he thought, would condemn it

off-hand.