The Complete Novels of Virginia Woolf. Вирджиния Вулф
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he meant it seriously; he spoke of course for the benefit of the ladies.
“By the way, Hirst,” said Hewet, after a pause, “I have a terrible confession to make. Your book—the poems of Wordsworth, which if you remember I took off your table just as we were starting, and certainly put in my pocket here—”
“Is lost,” Hirst finished for him.
“I consider that there is still a chance,” Hewet urged, slapping himself to right and left, “that I never did take it after all.”
“No,” said Hirst. “It is here.” He pointed to his breast.
“Thank God,” Hewet exclaimed. “I need no longer feel as though I’d murdered a child!”
“I should think you were always losing things,” Helen remarked, looking at him meditatively.
“I don’t lose things,” said Hewet. “I mislay them. That was the reason why Hirst refused to share a cabin with me on the voyage out.”
“You came out together?” Helen enquired.
“I propose that each member of this party now gives a short biographical sketch of himself or herself,” said Hirst, sitting upright. “Miss Vinrace, you come first; begin.”
Rachel stated that she was twenty-four years of age, the daughter of a ship-owner, that she had never been properly educated; played the piano, had no brothers or sisters, and lived at Richmond with aunts, her mother being dead.
“Next,” said Hirst, having taken in these facts; he pointed at Hewet. “I am the son of an English gentleman. I am twenty-seven,” Hewet began. “My father was a fox-hunting squire. He died when I was ten in the hunting field. I can remember his body coming home, on a shutter I suppose, just as I was going down to tea, and noticing that there was jam for tea, and wondering whether I should be allowed—”
“Yes; but keep to the facts,” Hirst put in.
“I 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