Virginia Woolf: Jacob's Room, Night and Day, The Voyage Out & Monday or Tuesday (4 Books in One Edition). Вирджиния Вулф
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was educated at Winchester and Cambridge, which I had to leave after a time. I have done a good many things since—”
“Profession?”
“None—at least—”
“Tastes?”
“Literary. I’m writing a novel.”
“Brothers and sisters?”
“Three sisters, no brother, and a mother.”
“Is that all we’re to hear about you?” said Helen. She stated that she was very old—forty last October, and her father had been a solicitor in the city who had gone bankrupt, for which reason she had never had much education—they lived in one place after another—but an elder brother used to lend her books.
“If I were to tell you everything—” she stopped and smiled. “It would take too long,” she concluded. “I married when I was thirty, and I have two children. My husband is a scholar. And now—it’s your turn,” she nodded at Hirst.
“You’ve left out a great deal,” he reproved her. “My name is St. John Alaric Hirst,” he began in a jaunty tone of voice. “I’m twenty-four years old. I’m the son of the Reverend Sidney Hirst, vicar of Great Wappyng in Norfolk. Oh, I got scholarships everywhere—Westminster—King’s. I’m now a fellow of King’s. Don’t it sound dreary? Parents both alive (alas). Two brothers and one sister. I’m a very distinguished young man,” he added.
“One of the three, or is it five, most distinguished men in England,” Hewet remarked.
“Quite correct,” said Hirst.
“That’s all very interesting,” said Helen after a pause. “But of course we’ve left out the only questions that matter. For instance, are we Christians?”
“I am not,” “I am not,” both the young men replied.
“I am,” Rachel stated.
“You believe in a personal God?” Hirst demanded, turning round and fixing her with his eyeglasses.
“I believe—I believe,” Rachel stammered, “I believe there are things we don’t know about, and the world might change in a minute and anything appear.”
At this Helen laughed outright. “Nonsense,” she said. “You’re not a Christian. You’ve never thought what you are.—And there are lots of other questions,” she continued, “though perhaps we can’t ask them yet.” Although they had talked so freely they were all uncomfortably conscious that they really knew nothing about each other.
“The important questions,” Hewet pondered, “the really interesting ones. I doubt that one ever does ask them.”
Rachel, who was slow to accept the fact that only a very few things can be said even by people who know each other well, insisted on knowing what he meant.
“Whether we’ve ever been in love?” she enquired. “Is that the kind of question you mean?”
Again Helen laughed at her, benignantly strewing her with handfuls of the long tasselled grass, for she was so brave and so foolish.
“Oh, Rachel,” she cried. “It’s like having a puppy in the house having you with one—a puppy that brings one’s underclothes down into the hall.”
But again the sunny earth in front of them was crossed by fantastic wavering figures, the shadows of men and women.
“There they are!” exclaimed Mrs. Elliot. There was a touch of peevishness in her voice. “And we’ve had such a hunt to find you. Do you know what the time is?”
Mrs. Elliot and Mr. and Mrs. Thornbury now confronted them; Mrs. Elliot was holding out her watch, and playfully tapping it upon the face. Hewet was recalled to the fact that this was a party for which he was responsible, and he immediately led them back to the watch-tower, where they were to have tea before starting home again. A bright crimson scarf fluttered from the top of the wall, which Mr. Perrott and Evelyn were tying to a stone as the others came up. The heat had changed just so far that instead of sitting in the shadow they sat in the sun, which was still hot enough to paint their faces red and yellow, and to colour great sections of the earth beneath them.
“There’s nothing half so nice as tea!” said Mrs. Thornbury, taking her cup.
“Nothing,” said Helen. “Can’t you remember as a child chopping up hay—” she spoke much more quickly than usual, and kept her eye fixed upon Mrs. Thornbury, “and pretending it was tea, and getting scolded by the nurses—why I can’t imagine, except that nurses are such brutes, won’t allow pepper instead of salt though there’s no earthly harm in it. Weren’t your nurses just the same?”
During this speech Susan came into the group, and sat down by Helen’s side. A few minutes later Mr. Venning strolled up from the opposite direction. He was a little flushed, and in the mood to answer hilariously whatever was said to him.
“What have you been doing to that old chap’s grave?” he asked, pointing to the red flag which floated from the top of the stones.
“We have tried to make him forget his misfortune in having died three hundred years ago,” said Mr. Perrott.
“It would be awful—to be dead!” ejaculated Evelyn M.
“To be dead?” said Hewet. “I don’t think it would be awful. It’s quite easy to imagine. When you go to bed to-night fold your hands so—breathe slower and slower—” He lay back with his hands clasped upon his breast, and his eyes shut, “Now,” he murmured in an even monotonous voice, “I shall never, never, never move again.” His body, lying flat among them, did for a moment suggest death.
“This is a horrible exhibition, Mr. Hewet!” cried Mrs. Thornbury.
“More cake for us!” said Arthur.
“I assure you there’s nothing horrible about it,” said Hewet, sitting up and laying hands upon the cake.
“It’s so natural,” he repeated. “People with children should make them do that exercise every night…. Not that I look forward to being dead.”
“And when you allude to a grave,” said Mr. Thornbury, who spoke almost for the first time, “have you any authority for calling that ruin a grave? I am quite with you in refusing to accept the common interpretation which declares it to be the remains of an Elizabethan watch-tower—any more than I believe that the circular mounds or barrows which we find on the top of our English downs were camps. The antiquaries call everything a camp. I am always asking them, Well then, where do you think our ancestors kept their cattle? Half the camps in England are merely the ancient pound or barton as we call it in my part of the world. The argument that no one would keep his cattle in such exposed and inaccessible spots has no weight at all, if you reflect that in those days a man’s cattle were his capital, his stock-in-trade, his daughter’s dowries. Without cattle he was a serf, another man’s man….” His eyes slowly lost their intensity, and he muttered a few concluding words under his breath, looking curiously old and forlorn.
Hughling Elliot, who might have been expected to engage the old gentleman in argument, was absent at the moment. He now came up holding out a large square of cotton upon which a fine design was printed in pleasant bright colours that made his hand look pale.
“A bargain,” he announced, laying it down on the cloth. “I’ve just bought it from the big man with the ear-rings. Fine, isn’t it? It wouldn’t suit every one, of course, but it’s just the thing—isn’t it, Hilda?—for Mrs. Raymond Parry.”
“Mrs. Raymond Parry!” cried Helen and Mrs. Thornbury at the same moment.
They looked at each other as though a mist hitherto obscuring their faces had been blown away.
“Ah—you have been to those wonderful parties too?” Mrs. Elliot asked with interest.
Mrs.