She looked at Sara. She was balancing herself on the arm of a chair, sipping her coffee and swinging her foot up and down.
“Shall I come?” she asked, vaguely, still swinging her foot up and down.
Rose shrugged her shoulders. “If you like,” she said.
“But should I like it?” Sara continued, still swinging her foot. “. . . this meeting? What do you think, Maggie?” she said, appealing to her sister. “Shall I go, or shan’t I? Shall I go, or shan’t I?” Maggie said nothing.
Then Sara got up, went to the window and stood there for a moment humming a tune. “Go search the valleys; pluck up every rose,” she hummed. The man was passing; he was crying “Any old iron? Any old iron?” She turned round with a sudden jerk.
“I’ll come,” she said, as if she had made up her mind. “I’ll fling on my clothes and come.”
She sprang up and went into the bedroom. She’s like one of those birds at the Zoo, Rose thought, that never flies but hops rapidly across the grass.
She turned to the window. It was a depressing little street, she thought. There was a public house at the corner. The houses opposite looked very dingy, and it was very noisy. “Any old iron to sell?” the man was crying under the window, “any old iron?” Children were screaming in the road; they were playing a game with chalk-marks on the pavement. She stood there looking down on them.
“Poor little wretches!” she said. She picked up her hat and ran two bonnet-pins sharply through it. “Don’t you find it rather unpleasant,” she said, giving her hat a little pat on one side as she looked in the looking-glass, “coming home late at night sometimes with that public house at the corner?”
“Drunken men, you mean?” said Maggie.
“Yes,” said Rose. She buttoned the row of leather buttons on her tailor-made suit and gave herself a little pat here and there, as if she were making ready.
“And now what are you talking about?” said Sara, coming in carrying her shoes. “Another visit to Italy?”
“No,” said Maggie. She spoke indistinctly because her mouth was full of pins. “Drunken men following one.”
“Drunken men following one,” said Sara. She sat down and began to put on her shoes.
“But they don’t follow me,” she said. Rose smiled. That was obvious. She was sallow, angular and plain. “I can walk over Waterloo Bridge at any hour of the day or night,” she continued, tugging at her shoelaces, “and nobody notices.” The shoe-lace was in a knot; she fumbled with it. “But I can remember,” she continued, “being told by a woman — a very beautiful woman — she was like—”
“Hurry up,” Maggie interrupted. “Rose is waiting.”
“. . . Rose is waiting — well, the woman told me, when she went into Regent’s Park to have an ice” — she stood up, trying to fit her shoe on to her foot, “ — to have an ice, at one of those little tables under the trees, one of those little round tables laid with a cloth under the trees” — she hopped about with one shoe off and one shoe on— “the eyes, she said, came through every leaf like the darts of the sun; and her ice was melted. . . . Her ice was melted!” she repeated, tapping her sister on the shoulder as she twirled round on her toe.
Rose held out her hand. “You’re going to stay and finish your dress?” she said. “You won’t come with us?” It was Maggie she wanted to come.
“No, I won’t come,” said Maggie, shaking hands. “I should hate it,” she added, smiling at Rose with a candour that was baffling.
Did she mean me? thought Rose as she went down the stairs. Did she mean that she hated me? When I liked her so much?
In the alley that led into the old square off Holborn an elderly man, battered and red-nosed, as if he had weathered out many years at street corners, was selling violets. He had his pitch by a row of posts. The bunches, tightly laced, each with a green frill of leaves round the rather withered flowers, lay in a row on the tray; for he had not sold many.
“Nice vilets, fresh vilets,” he repeated automatically as the people passed. Most of them went by without looking. But he went on repeating his formula automatically. “Nice vilets, fresh vilets,” as if he scarcely expected any one to buy. Then two ladies came; and he held out his violets, and he said once more “Nice vilets, fresh vilets.” One of them slapped down two coppers on his tray; and he looked up. The other lady stopped, put her hand on the post, and said, “Here I leave you.” Upon which the one who was short and stout, struck her on the shoulder and said, “Don’t be such an ass!” And the tall lady gave a sudden cackle of laughter, took a bunch of violets from the tray as if she had paid for it; and off they walked. She’s an odd customer, he thought — she took the violets though she hadn’t paid for them. He watched them walking round the square; then he began muttering again, “Nice vilets, sweet vilets.”
“Is this the place where you meet?” said Sara as they walked along the square.
It was very quiet. The noise of the traffic had ceased. The trees were not in full leaf yet, and pigeons were shuffling and crooning on the tree tops. Little bits of twig fell on the pavement as the birds fidgeted among the branches. A soft air puffed in their faces. They walked on round the square.
“That’s the house over there,” said Rose, pointing. She stopped when she reached a house with a carved doorway, and many names on the door-post. The windows on the ground floor were open; the curtains blew in and out, and through them they could see a row of heads, as if people were sitting round a table, talking.
Rose paused on the door-step.
“Are you coming in,” she said, “or aren’t you?”
Sara hesitated. She peered in. Then she brandished her bunch of violets in Rose’s face and cried out, “All right!” she cried. “Ride on!”
Miriam Parrish was reading a letter. Eleanor was blackening the strokes on her blotting-paper. I’ve heard all this, I’ve done all this so often, she was thinking. She glanced round the table. People’s faces even seemed to repeat themselves. There’s the Judd type there’s the Lazenby type, and there’s Miriam, she thought, drawing on her blotting-paper. I know what he’s going to say, I know what she’s going to say, she thought, digging a little hole in the blotting-paper. Here Rose came in. But who’s that with her, Eleanor asked? She did not recognise her. Whoever it was was waved by Rose to a seat in the corner, and the meeting went on. Why must we do it? Eleanor thought, drawing a spoke from the hole in the middle. She looked up. Someone was rattling a stick along the railings and whistling; the branches of a tree swung up and down in the garden outside. The leaves were already unfolding. . . . Miriam put down her papers; Mr Spicer rose.
There’s no other way, I suppose, she thought, taking up her pencil again. She made a note as Mr Spicer spoke. She found that her pencil could take notes quite accurately while she herself thought of something else. She seemed able to divide herself into two. One person followed the argument — and he’s putting it very well, she thought; while the other, for it was a fine afternoon, and she had wanted to go to Kew, walked down a green glade and stopped in front of a flowering tree. Is it a magnolia? she asked herself, or are they already over? Magnolias, she remembered, have no leaves, but masses of white blossom. . . . She drew a line on the blotting-paper.
Now Pickford . . . she said, looking up again. Mr Pickford spoke. She drew more spokes; blackened them. Then she looked up, for there was a change in the tone of voice.
“I know Westminster very well,” Miss Ashford was saying.
“So do I!” said Mr Pickford. “I’ve lived there for forty years.”
Eleanor was surprised. She had always thought he lived at Ealing. He lived at Westminster, did he? He was a clean-shaven, dapper little man, whom she had always seen in her mind’s eye running to catch a train with a newspaper under his arm. But he lived at Westminster, did he? That was odd, she thought.
Then they went on arguing again. The cooing of the pigeons became audible. Take two coos, take two coos, tak . . . they were crooning. Martin was
speaking. And he speaks very well, she thought . . . but he shouldn’t be sarcastic; it puts people’s backs up. She drew another stroke.
Then she heard the rush of a car outside; it stopped outside the window. Martin stopped speaking. There was a momentary pause. Then the door opened and in came a tall woman in evening dress. Everybody looked up.
“Lady Lasswade!” said Mr Pickford, getting up and scraping back his chair.
“Kitty!” Eleanor exclaimed. She half rose, but she sat down again. There was a little stir. A chair was found for her. Lady Lasswade took her place opposite Eleanor.
“I’m so sorry,” she apologised, “to be so late. And for coming in these ridiculous clothes,” she added, touching her cloak. She did look strange, dressed in evening dress in the broad daylight. There was something shining in her hair.
“The Opera?” said Martin as she sat down beside him.
“Yes,” she said briefly. She laid her white gloves in a businesslike way on the table. Her cloak opened and showed the gleam of a silver dress beneath. She did look odd compared with the others; but it’s very good of her to come, Eleanor thought, looking at her, considering she’s going on to the Opera. The meeting began again.
How long has she been married? Eleanor wondered. How long is it since we broke the swing together at Oxford? She drew another stroke on the blotting-paper. The dot was now surrounded with strokes.
“. . . and we discussed the whole matter perfectly frankly,” Kitty was saying. Eleanor listened. That’s the manner I like, she thought. She had been meeting Sir Edward at dinner. . . . It’s the great ladies’ manner, Eleanor thought . . . authoritative, natural. She listened again. The great ladies’ manner charmed Mr Pickford; but it irritated Martin, she knew. He was pooh-poohing Sir Edward and his frankness. Then Mr Spicer was off again; and Kitty had joined in. Now there was Rose. They were all at loggerheads. Eleanor listened. She became more and more irritated. All it comes to is: I’m right and you’re wrong, she thought. This bickering merely wasted time. If we could only get at something, something deeper, deeper, she thought, prodding her pencil on the blotting-paper. Suddenly she saw the only point that was of any importance. She had the words on the tip of her tongue. She opened her mouth to speak. But just as she cleared her throat, Mr Pickford swept his papers together and rose. Would they pardon him? he said. He had to be at the Law Courts. He rose and went.
The meeting dragged on. The ash-tray in the middle of the table became full of cigarette-stumps; the air became thick with smoke; then Mr Spicer went; Miss Bodham went; Miss Ashford wound a scarf tightly round her neck, snapped her attaché-case to, and strode out of the room. Miriam Parrish took off her pince-nez and fixed them to a hook that was sewn onto the front of her dress. Everybody was going; the meeting was over. Eleanor got up. She wanted to speak to Kitty. But Miriam intercepted her.
“About coming to see you on Wednesday,” she began.
“Yes,” said Eleanor.
“I’ve just remembered I’ve promised to take a niece to the dentist,” said Miriam.
“Saturday would suit me just as well,” said Eleanor.
Miriam paused. She pondered.
“Would Monday do instead?” she said.
“I’ll write,” said Eleanor with an irritation that she could never conceal, saint though Miriam was, and Miriam fluttered away with a guilty air as if she were a little dog caught stealing.
Eleanor turned. The others were still arguing.
“You’ll agree with me one of these days,” Martin was saying.
“Never! Never!” said Kitty, slapping her gloves on the table. She looked very handsome; at the same time rather absurd in her evening dress.
“Why didn’t you speak, Nell?” she said, turning on her.
“Because—” Eleanor began, “I don’t know,” she added, rather feebly. She felt suddenly shabby and dowdy compared with Kitty, who stood there in full evening dress with something shining in her hair.
“Well,” said Kitty, turning away. “I must be off. But can’t I give anyone a lift?” she said, pointing to the window. There was her car.
“What a magnificent car!” said Martin, looking at it, with a sneer in his voice.
“It’s Charlie’s,” said Kitty rather sharply.
“What about you, Eleanor?” she said, turning to her.
“Thanks,” said Eleanor: “ — one moment.”
She had muddled her things up. She had left her gloves somewhere. Had she brought an umbrella, or hadn’t she? She felt flustered and dowdy, as if she were a schoolgirl suddenly. There was the magnificent car waiting, and the chauffeur held the door open with a rug in his hand.
“Get in,” said Kitty. And she got in and the chauffeur put the rug over her knees.
“We’ll leave them,” said Kitty, with a wave of her hand, “caballing.” And the car drove off.
“What a pig-headed set they are!” said Kitty, turning to Eleanor.
“Force is always wrong — don’t you agree with me? — always wrong!” she repeated, drawing the rug over her knees. She was still under the influence of the meeting. Yet she wanted to talk to Eleanor. They met so seldom; she liked her so much. But she was shy, sitting there in her absurd clothes, and she could not jerk her mind out of the rut of the meeting in which it was running.
“What a pig-headed set they are!” she repeated. Then she began:
“Tell me. . . .”
There were many things that she wanted to ask; but the engine was so powerful; the car swept in and out of the traffic so smoothly; before she had time to say any of the things she wanted to say Eleanor had put her hand out because they had reached the Tube station.
“Would he stop here?” she said, rising.
“But must you get out?” Kitty began. She had wanted to talk to her. “I must, I must,” said Eleanor. “Papa’s expecting me.” She felt like a child again beside this great lady and the chauffeur, who was holding the door open.
“Do come and see me — do let us meet again soon, Nell,” said Kitty, taking her hand.
The car started on again. Lady Lasswade sat back in her corner. She wished she saw more of Eleanor, she thought; but she never could get her to come and dine. It was always “Papa’s expecting me” or some other excuse, she thought rather bitterly. They had gone such different ways, they had lived such different lives, since Oxford. . . . The car slowed down. It had to take its place in the long line of cars that moved at a foot’s pace, now stopping dead, now jerking on, down the narrow street, blocked by market carts, that led to the Opera House. Men and women in full evening dress were walking along the pavement. They looked uncomfortable and self-conscious as they dodged between costers’ barrows, with their high piled hair and their evening cloaks; with their button-holes and their white waistcoats, in the glare of the afternoon sun. The ladies tripped uncomfortably on their high-heeled shoes; now and then they put their hands to their heads. The gentlemen kept close beside them as though protecting them. It’s absurd, Kitty thought; it’s ridiculous to come out in full evening dress at this time of day. She leant back in her corner. Covent Garden porters, dingy little clerks in their ordinary working clothes, coarse-looking women in aprons stared in at her. The air smelt strongly of oranges and bananas. But the car was coming to a standstill. It drew up under the archway; she pushed through the glass doors and went in.
She felt at once a sense of relief. Now that the daylight was extinguished and the air glowed yellow and crimson, she no longer felt absurd. On the contrary, she felt appropriate. The ladies and gentlemen who were mounting the stairs were dressed exactly as she was. The smell of oranges and bananas had been replaced by another smell — a subtle mixture of clothes and gloves and flowers that affected her pleasantly. The carpet was thick beneath her feet. She went along the corridor till she came to her own box with the card on it. She went in and the whole Opera House opened in front of her. She was not late after all. The orchestra was still tuning up; the players were laughi
ng, talking and turning round in their seats as they fiddled busily with their instruments. She stood looking down at the stalls. The floor of the house was in a state of great agitation. People were passing to their seats; they were sitting down and getting up again; they were taking off their cloaks and signalling to friends. They were like birds settling on a field. In the boxes white figures were appearing here and there; white arms rested on the ledges of boxes; white shirt-fronts shone beside them. The whole house glowed — red, gold, cream-coloured, and smelt of clothes and flowers, and echoed with the squeaks and trills of the instruments and with the buzz and hum of voices. She glanced at the programme that was laid on the ledge of her box. It was Siegfried — her favourite opera. In a little space within the highly decorated border the names of the cast were given. She stooped to read them; then a thought struck her and she glanced at the royal box. It was empty. As she looked the door opened and two men came in; one was her cousin Edward; the other a boy, a cousin of her husband’s.
“They haven’t put it off?” he said as he shook hands. “I was afraid they might.” He was something in the Foreign Office; with a handsome Roman head.
They all looked instinctively at the royal box. Programmes lay along the edge; but there was no bouquet of pink carnations. The box was empty.
“The doctors have given him up,” said the young man, looking very important. They all think they know everything, Kitty thought, smiling at his air of private information.
“But if he dies?” she said, looking at the royal box, “d’you think they’ll stop it?”
The young man shrugged his shoulders. About that he could not be positive apparently. The house was filling up. Lights winked on ladies’ arms as they turned; ripples of light flashed, stopped, and then flashed the opposite way as they turned their heads.
But now the conductor pushed his way through the orchestra to his raised seat. There was an outburst of applause; he turned, bowed to the audience; turned again, all the lights sank down; the overture had begun.
Complete Works of Virginia Woolf Page 219