Chapter XVII

by Virginia Woolf

　　When the sun shone, as it did with unusual brightness that Christmasweek, it revealed much that was faded and not altogether well-kept-upin Stogdon House and its grounds. In truth, Sir Francis had retiredfrom service under the Government of India with a pension that was notadequate, in his opinion, to his services, as it certainly was notadequate to his ambitions. His career had not come up to hisexpectations, and although he was a very fine, white-whiskered,mahogany-colored old man to look at, and had laid down a very choicecellar of good reading and good stories, you could not long remainignorant of the fact that some thunder-storm had soured them; he had agrievance. This grievance dated back to the middle years of the lastcentury, when, owing to some official intrigue, his merits had beenpassed over in a disgraceful manner in favor of another, his junior.The rights and wrongs of the story, presuming that they had someexistence in fact, were no longer clearly known to his wife andchildren; but this disappointment had played a very large part intheir lives, and had poisoned the life of Sir Francis much as adisappointment in love is said to poison the whole life of a woman.Long brooding on his failure, continual arrangement and rearrangementof his deserts and rebuffs, had made Sir Francis much of an egoist,and in his retirement his temper became increasingly difficult andexacting.His wife now offered so little resistance to his moods that she waspractically useless to him. He made his daughter Eleanor into hischief confidante, and the prime of her life was being rapidly consumedby her father. To her he dictated the memoirs which were to avenge hismemory, and she had to assure him constantly that his treatment hadbeen a disgrace. Already, at the age of thirty-five, her cheeks werewhitening as her mother's had whitened, but for her there would be nomemories of Indian suns and Indian rivers, and clamor of children in anursery; she would have very little of substance to think about whenshe sat, as Lady Otway now sat, knitting white wool, with her eyesfixed almost perpetually upon the same embroidered bird upon the samefire-screen. But then Lady Otway was one of the people for whom thegreat make-believe game of English social life has been invented; shespent most of her time in pretending to herself and her neighbors thatshe was a dignified, important, much-occupied person, of considerablesocial standing and sufficient wealth. In view of the actual state ofthings this game needed a great deal of skill; and, perhaps, at theage she had reached--she was over sixty--she played far more todeceive herself than to deceive any one else. Moreover, the armor waswearing thin; she forgot to keep up appearances more and more.The worn patches in the carpets, and the pallor of the drawing-room,where no chair or cover had been renewed for some years, were due notonly to the miserable pension, but to the wear and tear of twelvechildren, eight of whom were sons. As often happens in these largefamilies, a distinct dividing-line could be traced, about half-way inthe succession, where the money for educational purposes had runshort, and the six younger children had grown up far more economicallythan the elder. If the boys were clever, they won scholarships, andwent to school; if they were not clever, they took what the familyconnection had to offer them. The girls accepted situationsoccasionally, but there were always one or two at home, nursing sickanimals, tending silkworms, or playing the flute in their bedrooms.The distinction between the elder children and the youngercorresponded almost to the distinction between a higher class and alower one, for with only a haphazard education and insufficientallowances, the younger children had picked up accomplishments,friends, and points of view which were not to be found within thewalls of a public school or of a Government office. Between the twodivisions there was considerable hostility, the elder trying topatronize the younger, the younger refusing to respect the elder; butone feeling united them and instantly closed any risk of a breach--their common belief in the superiority of their own family to allothers. Henry was the eldest of the younger group, and their leader;he bought strange books and joined odd societies; he went without atie for a whole year, and had six shirts made of black flannel. He hadlong refused to take a seat either in a shipping office or in atea-merchant's warehouse; and persisted, in spite of the disapprovalof uncles and aunts, in practicing both violin and piano, with theresult that he could not perform professionally upon either. Indeed,for thirty-two years of life he had nothing more substantial to showthan a manuscript book containing the score of half an opera. In thisprotest of his, Katharine had always given him her support, and as shewas generally held to be an extremely sensible person, who dressed toowell to be eccentric, he had found her support of some use. Indeed,when she came down at Christmas she usually spent a great part of hertime in private conferences with Henry and with Cassandra, theyoungest girl, to whom the silkworms belonged. With the youngersection she had a great reputation for common sense, and for somethingthat they despised but inwardly respected and called knowledge of theworld--that is to say, of the way in which respectable elderly people,going to their clubs and dining out with ministers, think and behave.She had more than once played the part of ambassador between LadyOtway and her children. That poor lady, for instance, consulted herfor advice when, one day, she opened Cassandra's bedroom door on amission of discovery, and found the ceiling hung with mulberry-leaves,the windows blocked with cages, and the tables stacked with home-mademachines for the manufacture of silk dresses."I wish you could help her to take an interest in something that otherpeople are interested in, Katharine," she observed, ratherplaintively, detailing her grievances. "It's all Henry's doing, youknow, giving up her parties and taking to these nasty insects. Itdoesn't follow that if a man can do a thing a woman may too."The morning was sufficiently bright to make the chairs and sofas inLady Otway's private sitting-room appear more than usually shabby, andthe gallant gentlemen, her brothers and cousins, who had defended theEmpire and left their bones on many frontiers, looked at the worldthrough a film of yellow which the morning light seemed to have drawnacross their photographs. Lady Otway sighed, it may be at the fadedrelics, and turned, with resignation, to her balls of wool, which,curiously and characteristically, were not an ivory-white, but rathera tarnished yellow-white. She had called her niece in for a littlechat. She had always trusted her, and now more than ever, since herengagement to Rodney, which seemed to Lady Otway extremely suitable,and just what one would wish for one's own daughter. Katharineunwittingly increased her reputation for wisdom by asking to be givenknitting-needles too."It's so very pleasant," said Lady Otway, "to knit while one'stalking. And now, my dear Katharine, tell me about your plans."The emotions of the night before, which she had suppressed in such away as to keep her awake till dawn, had left Katharine a little jaded,and thus more matter-of-fact than usual. She was quite ready todiscuss her plans--houses and rents, servants and economy--withoutfeeling that they concerned her very much. As she spoke, knittingmethodically meanwhile, Lady Otway noted, with approval, the upright,responsible bearing of her niece, to whom the prospect of marriage hadbrought some gravity most becoming in a bride, and yet, in these days,most rare. Yes, Katharine's engagement had changed her a little."What a perfect daughter, or daughter-in-law!" she thought to herself,and could not help contrasting her with Cassandra, surrounded byinnumerable silkworms in her bedroom."Yes," she continued, glancing at Katharine, with the round, greenisheyes which were as inexpressive as moist marbles, "Katharine is likethe girls of my youth. We took the serious things of life seriously."But just as she was deriving satisfaction from this thought, and wasproducing some of the hoarded wisdom which none of her own daughters,alas! seemed now to need, the door opened, and Mrs. Hilbery came in,or rather, did not come in, but stood in the doorway and smiled,having evidently mistaken the room."I never shall know my way about this house!" she exclaimed. "I'm onmy way to the library, and I don't want to interrupt. You andKatharine were having a little chat?"The presence of her sister-in-law made Lady Otway slightly uneasy. Howcould she go on with what she was saying in Maggie's presence? for shewas saying something that she had never said, all these years, toMaggie herself."I was telling Katharine a few little commonplaces about marriage,"she said, with a little laugh. "Are none of my children looking afteryou, Maggie?""Marriage," said Mrs. Hilbery, coming into the room, and nodding herhead once or twice, "I always say marriage is a school. And you don'tget the prizes unless you go to school. Charlotte has won all theprizes," she added, giving her sister-in-law a little pat, which madeLady Otway more uncomfortable still. She half laughed, mutteredsomething, and ended on a sigh."Aunt Charlotte was saying that it's no good being married unless yousubmit to your husband," said Katharine, framing her aunt's words intoa far more definite shape than they had really worn; and when shespoke thus she did not appear at all old-fashioned. Lady Otway lookedat her and paused for a moment."Well, I really don't advise a woman who wants to have things her ownway to get married," she said, beginning a fresh row ratherelaborately.Mrs. Hilbery knew something of the circumstances which, as shethought, had inspired this remark. In a moment her face was cloudedwith sympathy which she did not quite know how to express."What a shame it was!" she exclaimed, forgetting that her train ofthought might not be obvious to her listeners. "But, Charlotte, itwould have been much worse if Frank had disgraced himself in any way.And it isn't what our husbands get, but what they are. I used to dreamof white horses and palanquins, too; but still, I like the ink-potsbest. And who knows?" she concluded, looking at Katharine, "yourfather may be made a baronet to-morrow."Lady Otway, who was Mr. Hilbery's sister, knew quite well that, inprivate, the Hilberys called Sir Francis "that old Turk," and thoughshe did not follow the drift of Mrs. Hilbery's remarks, she knew whatprompted them."But if you can give way to your husband," she said, speaking toKatharine, as if there were a separate understanding between them, "ahappy marriage is the happiest thing in the world.""Yes," said Katharine, "but--" She did not mean to finish hersentence, she merely wished to induce her mother and her aunt to go ontalking about marriage, for she was in the mood to feel that otherpeople could help her if they would. She went on knitting, but herfingers worked with a decision that was oddly unlike the smooth andcontemplative sweep of Lady Otway's plump hand. Now and then shelooked swiftly at her mother, then at her aunt. Mrs. Hilbery held abook in her hand, and was on her way, as Katharine guessed, to thelibrary, where another paragraph was to be added to that variedassortment of paragraphs, the Life of Richard Alardyce. Normally,Katharine would have hurried her mother downstairs, and seen that noexcuse for distraction came her way. Her attitude towards the poet'slife, however, had changed with other changes; and she was content toforget all about her scheme of hours. Mrs. Hilbery was secretlydelighted. Her relief at finding herself excused manifested itself ina series of sidelong glances of sly humor in her daughter's direction,and the indulgence put her in the best of spirits. Was she to beallowed merely to sit and talk? It was so much pleasanter to sit in anice room filled with all sorts of interesting odds and ends which shehadn't looked at for a year, at least, than to seek out one date whichcontradicted another in a dictionary."We've all had perfect husbands," she concluded, generously forgivingSir Francis all his faults in a lump. "Not that I think a bad temperis really a fault in a man. I don't mean a bad temper," she correctedherself, with a glance obviously in the direction of Sir Francis. "Ishould say a quick, impatient temper. Most, in fact all great men havehad bad tempers--except your grandfather, Katharine," and here shesighed, and suggested that, perhaps, she ought to go down to thelibrary."But in the ordinary marriage, is it necessary to give way to one'shusband?" said Katharine, taking no notice of her mother's suggestion,blind even to the depression which had now taken possession of her atthe thought of her own inevitable death."I should say yes, certainly," said Lady Otway, with a decision mostunusual for her."Then one ought to make up one's mind to that before one is married,"Katharine mused, seeming to address herself.Mrs. Hilbery was not much interested in these remarks, which seemed tohave a melancholy tendency, and to revive her spirits she had recourseto an infallible remedy--she looked out of the window."Do look at that lovely little blue bird!" she exclaimed, and her eyelooked with extreme pleasure at the soft sky. at the trees, at thegreen fields visible behind those trees, and at the leafless brancheswhich surrounded the body of the small blue tit. Her sympathy withnature was exquisite."Most women know by instinct whether they can give it or not," LadyOtway slipped in quickly, in rather a low voice, as if she wanted toget this said while her sister-in-law's attention was diverted. "Andif not--well then, my advice would be--don't marry.""Oh, but marriage is the happiest life for a woman," said Mrs.Hilbery, catching the word marriage, as she brought her eyes back tothe room again. Then she turned her mind to what she had said."It's the most interesting life," she corrected herself. She looked ather daughter with a look of vague alarm. It was the kind of maternalscrutiny which suggests that, in looking at her daughter a mother isreally looking at herself. She was not altogether satisfied; but shepurposely made no attempt to break down the reserve which, as a matterof fact, was a quality she particularly admired and depended upon inher daughter. But when her mother said that marriage was the mostinteresting life, Katharine felt, as she was apt to do suddenly, forno definite reason, that they understood each other, in spite ofdiffering in every possible way. Yet the wisdom of the old seems toapply more to feelings which we have in common with the rest of thehuman race than to our feelings as individuals, and Katharine knewthat only some one of her own age could follow her meaning. Both theseelderly women seemed to her to have been content with so littlehappiness, and at the moment she had not sufficient force to feelcertain that their version of marriage was the wrong one. In London,certainly, this temperate attitude toward her own marriage had seemedto her just. Why had she now changed? Why did it now depress her? Itnever occurred to her that her own conduct could be anything of apuzzle to her mother, or that elder people are as much affected by theyoung as the young are by them. And yet it was true that love--passion--whatever one chose to call it, had played far less part in Mrs.Hilbery's life than might have seemed likely, judging from herenthusiastic and imaginative temperament. She had always been moreinterested by other things. Lady Otway, strange though it seemed,guessed more accurately at Katharine's state of mind than her motherdid."Why don't we all live in the country?" exclaimed Mrs. Hilbery, oncemore looking out of the window. "I'm sure one would think suchbeautiful things if one lived in the country. No horrid slum houses todepress one, no trams or motor-cars; and the people all looking soplump and cheerful. Isn't there some little cottage near you,Charlotte, which would do for us, with a spare room, perhaps, in casewe asked a friend down? And we should save so much money that weshould be able to travel--""Yes. You would find it very nice for a week or two, no doubt," saidLady Otway. "But what hour would you like the carriage this morning?"she continued, touching the bell."Katharine shall decide," said Mrs. Hilbery, feeling herself unable toprefer one hour to another. "And I was just going to tell you,Katharine, how, when I woke this morning, everything seemed so clearin my head that if I'd had a pencil I believe I could have writtenquite a long chapter. When we're out on our drive I shall find us ahouse. A few trees round it, and a little garden, a pond with aChinese duck, a study for your father, a study for me, and a sittingroom for Katharine, because then she'll be a married lady."At this Katharine shivered a little, drew up to the fire, and warmedher hands by spreading them over the topmost peak of the coal. Shewished to bring the talk back to marriage again, in order to hear AuntCharlotte's views, but she did not know how to do this."Let me look at your engagement-ring, Aunt Charlotte," she said,noticing her own.She took the cluster of green stones and turned it round and round,but she did not know what to say next."That poor old ring was a sad disappointment to me when I first hadit," Lady Otway mused. "I'd set my heart on a diamond ring, but Inever liked to tell Frank, naturally. He bought it at Simla."Katharine turned the ring round once more, and gave it back to heraunt without speaking. And while she turned it round her lips setthemselves firmly together, and it seemed to her that she couldsatisfy William as these women had satisfied their husbands; she couldpretend to like emeralds when she preferred diamonds. Having replacedher ring, Lady Otway remarked that it was chilly, though not more sothan one must expect at this time of year. Indeed, one ought to bethankful to see the sun at all, and she advised them both to dresswarmly for their drive. Her aunt's stock of commonplaces, Katharinesometimes suspected, had been laid in on purpose to fill silenceswith, and had little to do with her private thoughts. But at thismoment they seemed terribly in keeping with her own conclusions, sothat she took up her knitting again and listened, chiefly with a viewto confirming herself in the belief that to be engaged to marry someone with whom you are not in love is an inevitable step in a worldwhere the existence of passion is only a traveller's story broughtfrom the heart of deep forests and told so rarely that wise peopledoubt whether the story can be true. She did her best to listen to hermother asking for news of John, and to her aunt replying with theauthentic history of Hilda's engagement to an officer in the IndianArmy, but she cast her mind alternately towards forest paths andstarry blossoms, and towards pages of neatly written mathematicalsigns. When her mind took this turn her marriage seemed no more thanan archway through which it was necessary to pass in order to have herdesire. At such times the current of her nature ran in its deep narrowchannel with great force and with an alarming lack of considerationfor the feelings of others. Just as the two elder ladies had finishedtheir survey of the family prospects, and Lady Otway was nervouslyanticipating some general statement as to life and death from hersister-in-law, Cassandra burst into the room with the news that thecarriage was at the door."Why didn't Andrews tell me himself?" said Lady Otway, peevishly,blaming her servants for not living up to her ideals.When Mrs. Hilbery and Katharine arrived in the hall, ready dressed fortheir drive, they found that the usual discussion was going forward asto the plans of the rest of the family. In token of this, a great manydoors were opening and shutting, two or three people stoodirresolutely on the stairs, now going a few steps up, and now a fewsteps down, and Sir Francis himself had come out from his study, withthe "Times" under his arm, and a complaint about noise and draughtsfrom the open door which, at least, had the effect of bundling thepeople who did not want to go into the carriage, and sending those whodid not want to stay back to their rooms. It was decided that Mrs.Hilbery, Katharine, Rodney, and Henry should drive to Lincoln, and anyone else who wished to go should follow on bicycles or in the pony-cart. Every one who stayed at Stogdon House had to make thisexpedition to Lincoln in obedience to Lady Otway's conception of theright way to entertain her guests, which she had imbibed from readingin fashionable papers of the behavior of Christmas parties in ducalhouses. The carriage horses were both fat and aged, still theymatched; the carriage was shaky and uncomfortable, but the Otway armswere visible on the panels. Lady Otway stood on the topmost step,wrapped in a white shawl, and waved her hand almost mechanically untilthey had turned the corner under the laurel-bushes, when she retiredindoors with a sense that she had played her part, and a sigh at thethought that none of her children felt it necessary to play theirs.The carriage bowled along smoothly over the gently curving road. Mrs.Hilbery dropped into a pleasant, inattentive state of mind, in whichshe was conscious of the running green lines of the hedges, of theswelling ploughland, and of the mild blue sky, which served her, afterthe first five minutes, for a pastoral background to the drama ofhuman life; and then she thought of a cottage garden, with the flashof yellow daffodils against blue water; and what with the arrangementof these different prospects, and the shaping of two or three lovelyphrases, she did not notice that the young people in the carriage werealmost silent. Henry, indeed, had been included against his wish, andrevenged himself by observing Katharine and Rodney with disillusionedeyes; while Katharine was in a state of gloomy self-suppression whichresulted in complete apathy. When Rodney spoke to her she either said"Hum!" or assented so listlessly that he addressed his next remark toher mother. His deference was agreeable to her, his manners wereexemplary; and when the church towers and factory chimneys of the towncame into sight, she roused herself, and recalled memories of the fairsummer of 1853, which fitted in harmoniously with what she wasdreaming of the future.