“Very full today, Alfred,” said Martin affably, as the waiter took his coat and hat and hung them on the rack. He knew the waiter; he often lunched there; the waiter knew him too.
“Very full, Captain,” he said.
“Now,” he said, sitting down, “what shall we have?”
A vast brownish-yellow joint was being trundled from table to table on a lorry.
“That,” said Sara, waving her hand at it.
“And drink?” said Martin. He took the wine-list and consulted it.
“Drink—” said Sara, “drink, I leave to you.” She took off her gloves and laid them on a small reddish-brown book that was obviously a prayer-book.
“Drink you leave to me,” said Martin. Why, he wondered, do prayer-books always have their leaves gilt with red and gold? He chose the wine.
“And what were you doing,” he said, dismissing the waiter, “at St. Paul’s?”
“Listening to the service,” she said. She looked round her. The room was very hot and crowded. The walls were covered with gold leaves encrusted on a brown surface. People were passing them and coming in and out all the time. The waiter brought the wine. Martin poured her out a glass.
“I didn’t know you went to services,” he said, looking at her prayer-book.
She did not answer. She kept looking round her, watching the people come in and go out. She sipped her wine. The colour was coming into her cheeks. She took up her knife and fork and began to eat the admirable mutton. They ate in silence for a moment.
He wanted to make her talk.
“And what, Sal,” he said, touching the little book, “d’you make of it?”
She opened the prayer-book at random and began to read:
“The father incomprehensible; the son incomprehensible—” she spoke in her ordinary voice.
“Hush!” he stopped her. “Somebody’s listening.”
In deference to him she assumed the manner of a lady lunching with a gentleman in a City restaurant.
“And what were you doing,” she asked, “at St. Paul’s?”
“Wishing I’d been an architect,” he said. “But they sent me into the Army instead, which I loathed.” He spoke emphatically.
“Hush,” she whispered. “Somebody’s listening.”
He looked round quickly; then he laughed. The waiter was setting their tart in front of them. They ate in silence. He filled her glass again. Her cheeks were flushed; her eyes were bright. He envied her the generalised sensation of universal wellbeing that he used to get from a glass of wine. Wine was good — it broke down barriers. He wanted to make her talk.
“I didn’t know you went to services,” he said, looking at her prayer-book. “And what do you think of it?” She looked at it too. Then she tapped it with her fork.
“What do they think of it, Martin?” she asked. “The woman praying and the man with a long white beard?”
“Much what Crosby thinks when she comes to see me,” he said. He thought of the old woman standing at the door of his room with the pyjama jacket over her arm, and the devout look on her face.
“I’m Crosby’s God,” he said, helping her to brussels sprouts.
“Crosby’s God! Almighty, all-powerful Mr Martin!” She laughed.
She raised her glass to him. Was she laughing at him? he wondered. He hoped she did not think him very old. “You remember Crosby, don’t you?” he said. “She’s retired, and her dog’s dead.”
“Retired and her dog’s dead?” she repeated. She looked again over her shoulder. Conversation in a restaurant was impossible; it was broken into little fragments. City men in their neat striped suits and bowler hats were brushing past them all the time.
“It’s a fine church,” she said, turning round. She had hopped back to St. Paul’s, he supposed.
“Magnificent,” he replied. “Were you looking at the monuments?”
Somebody had come in whom he recognised: Erridge, the stockbroker. He raised a finger and beckoned. Martin rose and went to speak to him. When he came back she had filled her glass again. She was sitting there, looking at the people, as if she were a child that he had taken to a pantomime.
“And what are you doing this afternoon?” he asked.
“The Round Pond at four,” she said. She drummed on the table “The Round Pond at four.” Now she had passed, he guessed, into the drowsy benevolence which waits on a good dinner and a glass of wine.
“Meeting somebody?” he asked.
“Yes. Maggie,” she said.
They ate in silence. Fragments of other people’s talk reached them in broken sentences. Then the man to whom Martin had spoken touched him on the shoulder as he went out.
“Wednesday at eight,” he said.
“Right you are,” said Martin. He made a note in his pocket-book.
“And what are you doing this afternoon?” she asked.
“Ought to see my sister in prison,” he said, lighting a cigarette.
“In prison?” she asked.
“Rose. For throwing a brick,” he said.
“Red Rose, tawny Rose,” she began, reaching out her hand for the wine again, “wild Rose, thorny Rose—”
“No,” he said, putting his hand over the mouth of the bottle, “you’ve had enough.” A little excited her. He must damp her excitement. There were people listening.
“A damned unpleasant thing,” he said, “being in prison.”
She drew back her glass and sat gazing at it, as if the engine of the brain were suddenly cut off. She was very like her mother — except when she laughed.
He would have liked to talk to her about her mother. But it was impossible to talk. Too many people were listening, and they were smoking. Smoke mixed with the smell of meat made the air heavy. He was thinking of the past when she exclaimed:
“Sitting on a three-legged stool having meat crammed down her throat!”
He roused himself. She was thinking of Rose, was she?
“Crash came a brick!” she laughed, flourishing her fork.
“‘Roll up the map of Europe,’ said the man to the flunkey. ‘I don’t believe in force’!” She brought down her fork. A plum-stone jumped. Martin looked round. People were listening. He got up.
“Shall we go?” he said, “ — if you’ve had enough?”
She got up and looked for her cloak.
“Well, I’ve enjoyed it,” she said, taking her cloak. “Thanks, Martin, for my good lunch.”
He beckoned to the waiter who came with alacrity and totted up the bill. Martin laid a sovereign on the plate. Sara began to thrust her arms into the sleeves of her cloak.
“Shall I come with you,” he said, helping her, “to the Round Pond at four?”
“Yes!” she said, spinning round on her heel. “To the Round Pond at four!”
She walked off, a little unsteadily he observed, past the City men who were still eating.
Here the waiter came up with the change and Martin began to slip it in his pocket. He kept back one coin for the tip. But as he was about to give it, he was struck by something shifty in Alfred’s expression. He flicked up the flap of the bill; a two-shilling piece lay beneath. It was the usual trick. He lost his temper.
“What’s this?” he said angrily.
“Didn’t know it was there, sir,” the waiter stammered.
Martin felt his blood rise to his ears. He felt exactly like his father in a rage; as if he had white spots above his temples. He pocketed the coin that he had been going to give the waiter; and marched past him, brushing aside his hand. The man slunk back with a murmur.
“Let’s be off,” he said, hustling Sara along the crowded room. “Let’s get out of this.”
He hurried her into the street. The fug, the warm meaty smell of the City chop-house, had suddenly become intolerable.
“How I hate being cheated!” he said as he put on his hat.
“Sorry, Sara,” he apologised. “I oughtn’t to have taken you there. It’s a beastly hole.”
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br /> He drew in a breath of fresh air. The street noises, the unconcerned, business-like look of things, were refreshing after the hot steamy room. There were the carts waiting, drawn up along the street; and the packages sliding down into them from the warehouses. Again they came out in front of St. Paul’s. He looked up. There was the same old man still feeding the sparrows. And there was the Cathedral. He wished he could feel again the sense of weights changing in his body and coming to a stop; but the queer thrill of some correspondence between his own body and the stone no longer came to him. He felt nothing except anger. Also, Sara distracted him. She was about to cross the crowded road. He put out his hand to stop her. “Take care,” he said. Then they crossed.
“Shall we walk?” he asked. She nodded. They began to walk along Fleet Street. Conversation was impossible. The pavement was so narrow that he had to step on and off in order to keep beside her. He still felt the discomfort of anger, but the anger itself was cooling. What ought I to have done? he thought, seeing himself brush past the waiter without giving him a tip. Not that; he thought, no, not that. People pressing against him made him step off the pavement. After all, the poor devil had to make a living. He liked being generous: he liked to leave people smiling; and two shillings meant nothing to him. But what’s the use, he thought, now it’s done? He began to hum his little song — and then stopped, remembering that he was with someone.
“Look at that, Sal,” he said, clutching at her arm. “Look at that!”
He pointed at the splayed-out figure at Temple Bar; it looked as ridiculous as usual — something between a serpent and a fowl.
“Look at that!” he repeated laughing. They paused for a moment to look at the little flattened figures lodged so uncomfortably against the pediment of Temple Bar: Queen Victoria: King Edward. Then they walked on. It was impossible to talk because of the crowd. Men in wigs and gowns hurried across the street: some carried red bags, others blue bags.
“The Law Courts,” he said, pointing at the cold mass of decorated stone. It looked very gloomy and funereal, “. . . where Morris spends his time,” he said aloud.
He still felt uncomfortable at having lost his temper. But the feeling was passing. Only a little ridge of roughness remained in his mind.
“D’you think I ought to have been . . .” he began, a barrister he meant; but also Ought I to have done that — lost his temper with the waiter.
“Ought to have been — ought to have done?” she asked, bending towards him. She had not caught his meaning in the roar of the traffic. It was impossible to talk; but at any rate the feeling that he had lost his temper was diminishing. That little sting was being successfully smoothed over. Then back it came because he saw a beggar selling violets. And that poor devil, he thought, had to go without his tip because he cheated me. . . . He fixed his eyes on a pillar-box. Then he looked at a car. It was odd how soon one got used to cars without horses, he thought. They used to look ridiculous. They passed the woman selling violets. She wore a hat over her face. He dropped a sixpence in her tray to make amends to the waiter. He shook his head. No violets, he meant; and indeed they were faded. But he caught sight of her face. She had no nose; her face was seamed with white patches; there were red rims for nostrils. She had no nose — she had pulled her hat down to hide that fact.
“Let’s cross,” he said, abruptly. He took Sara’s arm and made her cross between the omnibuses. She must have seen such sights often; he had, often; but not together — that made a difference. He hurried her on to the further pavement.
“We’ll get a bus,” he said, “Come along.”
He took her by the elbow to make her step out briskly. But it was impossible; a cart blocked the way; there were people passing. They were approaching Charing Cross. It was like the piers of a bridge; men and women were sucked in instead of water. They had to stop. Newspaper boys held placards against their legs. Men were buying papers: some loitered; others snatched them. Martin bought one and held it in his hand.
“We’ll wait here,” he said. “The bus’ll come.” An old straw hat with a purple ribbon round it, he thought opening his paper. The sight persisted. He looked up. The station clock’s always fast, he assured a man who was hurrying to catch a train. Always fast, he said to himself as he opened the paper. But there was no clock. He turned to read the news from Ireland. Omnibus after omnibus stopped, then swooped off again. It was difficult to concentrate on the news from Ireland; he looked up.
“This is ours,” he said, as the right bus came. They climbed on top and sat side by side overlooking the driver.
“Two to Hyde Park Corner,” he said, producing a handful of silver, and looked through the pages of the evening paper; but it was only an early edition.
“Nothing in it,” he said, stuffing the paper under the seat. “And now—” he began, filling his pipe. They were running smoothly down the incline of Piccadilly. “ — where my old father used to sit,” he broke off, waving his pipe at Club windows. “. . . and now” — he lit a match, “ — and now, Sally, you can say whatever you like. Nobody’s listening. Say something,” he added, throwing his match overboard, “very profound.”
He turned to her. He wanted her to speak. Down they dipped; up they swooped again. He wanted her to speak; or he must speak himself. And what could he say? He had buried his feeling. But some emotion remained. He wanted her to speak it: but she was silent. No, he thought, biting the stem of his pipe. I won’t say it. If I did she’d think me . . .
He looked at her. The sun was blazing on the windows of St. George’s Hospital. She was looking at it with rapture. But why with rapture? he wondered, as the bus stopped and he got down.
The scene since the morning had changed slightly. Clocks in the distance were just striking three. There were more cars; more women in pale summer dresses; more men in tail-coats and grey top-hats. The procession through the gates into the park was beginning. Everyone looked festive. Even the little dressmakers’ apprentices with band-boxes looked as if they were taking part in some ceremonial. Green chairs were drawn up at the edge of the Row. They were full of people looking about them as if they had taken seats at a play. Riders cantered to the end of the Row; pulled up their horses; turned and cantered the other way. The wind, coming from the west, moved white clouds grained with gold across the sky. The windows of Park Lane shone with blue and gold reflections.
Martin stepped out briskly.
“Come along,” he said; “come — come!” He walked on. I’m young, he thought; I’m in the prime of life. There was a tang of earth in the air; even in the Park there was some faint smell of spring, of the country.
“How I like—” he said aloud. He looked round. He had spoken to the empty air. Sara had lagged behind; there she was, tying her shoe-lace. But he felt as if he had missed a step going downstairs.
“What a fool one feels when one talks aloud to oneself,” he said as she came up. She pointed.
“But look,” she said, “they all do it.”
A middle-aged woman was coming towards them. She was talking to herself. Her lips moved; she was gesticulating with her hand.
“It’s the spring,” he said, as she passed them.
“No. Once in winter I came here,” she said, “and there was a negro, laughing aloud in the snow.”
“In the snow,” said Martin. “A negro.” The sun was bright on the grass; they were passing a bed in which the many-coloured hyacinths were curled and glossy.
“Don’t let’s think of the snow,” he said. “Let’s think—” A young woman was wheeling a perambulator; a sudden thought came into his head. “Maggie,” he said. “Tell me. I haven’t seen her since her baby was born. And I’ve never met the Frenchman — what d’you call him? — René?”
“Renny,” she said. She was still under the influence of the wine; of the wandering airs; of the people passing. He too felt the same distraction; but he wanted to end it.
“Yes. What’s he like, this man René; Renny?”
He pronounced the word first in the French way; then as she did, in the English. He wanted to wake her. He took her arm.
“Renny!” Sara repeated. She threw her head back and laughed. “Let me see,” she said. “He wears a red tie with white spots. And has dark eyes. And he takes an orange — suppose we’re at dinner, and says, looking straight at you, ‘This orange, Sara—’” She rolled her r’s. She paused.
“There’s another person talking to himself,” she broke off. A young man came past them in a closely buttoned-up coat as if he had no shirt. He was muttering as he walked. He scowled at them as he passed them.
“But Renny?” said Martin.
“We were talking about Renny,” he reminded her. “He takes an orange—”
“. . . and pours himself out a glass of wine,” she resumed. “‘Science is the religion of the future!’” she exclaimed, waving her hand as if she held a glass of wine.
“Of wine?” said Martin. Half listening, he had visualised an earnest French professor — a little picture to which now he must add inappropriately a glass of wine.
“Yes, wine,” she repeated. “His father was a merchant,” she continued. “A man with a black beard; a merchant at Bordeaux. And one day,” she continued, “when he was a little boy, playing in the garden, there was a tap on the window. ‘Don’t make so much noise. Play further away,’ said a woman in a white cap. His mother was dead. . . . And he was afraid to tell his father that the horse was too big to ride . . . and they sent him to England. . . .”
She was skipping over railings.
“And then what happened?” said Martin, joining her. “They became engaged?”
She was silent. He waited for her to explain — why they had married — Maggie and Renny. He waited, but she said no more. Well, she married him and they’re happy he thought. He was jealous for a moment. The Park was full of couples walking together. Everything seemed fresh and full of sweetness. The air puffed soft in their faces. It was laden with murmurs; with the stir of branches; the rush of wheels; dogs barking, and now and again the intermittent song of a thrush.
Complete Works of Virginia Woolf Page 224