The Complete Novels of Virginia Woolf. Вирджиния Вулф

was an interruption. Hewet and Hirst appeared at the drawing-room window and came up to the tea-table.

      Rachel’s heart beat hard. She was conscious of an extraordinary intensity in everything, as though their presence stripped some cover off the surface of things; but the greetings were remarkably commonplace.

      “Excuse me,” said Hirst, rising from his chair directly he had sat down. He went into the drawing-room, and returned with a cushion which he placed carefully upon his seat.

      “Rheumatism,” he remarked, as he sat down for the second time.

      “The result of the dance?” Helen enquired.

      “Whenever I get at all run down I tend to be rheumatic,” Hirst stated. He bent his wrist back sharply. “I hear little pieces of chalk grinding together!”

      Rachel looked at him. She was amused, and yet she was respectful; if such a thing could be, the upper part of her face seemed to laugh, and the lower part to check its laughter.

      Hewet picked up the book that lay on the ground.

      “You like this?” he asked in an undertone.

      “No, I don’t like it,” she replied. She had indeed been trying all the afternoon to read it, and for some reason the glory which she had perceived at first had faded, and, read as she would, she could not grasp the meaning with her mind.

      “It goes round, round, round, like a roll of oil-cloth,” she hazarded. Evidently she meant Hewet alone to hear her words, but Hirst demanded, “What d’you mean?”

      She was instantly ashamed of her figure of speech, for she could not explain it in words of sober criticism.

      “Surely it’s the most perfect style, so far as style goes, that’s ever been invented,” he continued. “Every sentence is practically perfect, and the wit—”

      “Ugly in body, repulsive in mind,” she thought, instead of thinking about Gibbon’s style. “Yes, but strong, searching, unyielding in mind.” She looked at his big head, a disproportionate part of which was occupied by the forehead, and at the direct, severe eyes.

      “I give you up in despair,” he said. He meant it lightly, but she took it seriously, and believed that her value as a human being was lessened because she did not happen to admire the style of Gibbon. The others were talking now in a group about the native villages which Mrs. Flushing ought to visit.

      “I despair too,” she said impetuously. “How are you going to judge people merely by their minds?”

      “You agree with my spinster Aunt, I expect,” said St. John in his jaunty manner, which was always irritating because it made the person he talked to appear unduly clumsy and in earnest. “’Be good, sweet maid’—I thought Mr. Kingsley and my Aunt were now obsolete.”

      “One can be very nice without having read a book,” she asserted. Very silly and simple her words sounded, and laid her open to derision.

      “Did I ever deny it?” Hirst enquired, raising his eyebrows.

      Most unexpectedly Mrs. Thornbury here intervened, either because it was her mission to keep things smooth or because she had long wished to speak to Mr. Hirst, feeling as she did that young men were her sons.

      “I have lived all my life with people like your Aunt, Mr. Hirst,” she said, leaning forward in her chair. Her brown squirrel-like eyes became even brighter than usual. “They have never heard of Gibbon. They only care for their pheasants and their peasants. They are great big men who look so fine on horseback, as people must have done, I think, in the days of the great wars. Say what you like against them—they are animal, they are unintellectual; they don’t read themselves, and they don’t want others to read, but they are some of the finest and the kindest human beings on the face of the earth! You would be surprised at some of the stories I could tell. You have never guessed, perhaps, at all the romances that go on in the heart of the country. There are the people, I feel, among whom Shakespeare will be born if he is ever born again. In those old houses, up among the Downs—”

      “My Aunt,” Hirst interrupted, “spends her life in East Lambeth among the degraded poor. I only quoted my Aunt because she is inclined to persecute people she calls ‘intellectual,’ which is what I suspect Miss Vinrace of doing. It’s all the fashion now. If you’re clever it’s always taken for granted that you’re completely without sympathy, understanding, affection—all the things that really matter. Oh, you Christians! You’re the most conceited, patronising, hypocritical set of old humbugs in the kingdom! Of course,” he continued, “I’m the first to allow your country gentlemen great merits. For one thing, they’re probably quite frank about their passions, which we are not. My father, who is a clergyman in Norfolk, says that there is hardly a squire in the country who does not—”

      “But about Gibbon?” Hewet interrupted. The look of nervous tension which had come over every face was relaxed by the interruption.

      “You find him monotonous, I suppose. But you know—” He opened the book, and began searching for passages to read aloud, and in a little time he found a good one which he considered suitable. But there was nothing in the world that bored Ridley more than being read aloud to, and he was besides scrupulously fastidious as to the dress and behaviour of ladies. In the space of fifteen minutes he had decided against Mrs. Flushing on the ground that her orange plume did not suit her complexion, that she spoke too loud, that she crossed her legs, and finally, when he saw her accept a cigarette that Hewet offered her, he jumped up, exclaiming something about “bar parlours,” and left them. Mrs. Flushing was evidently relieved by his departure. She puffed her cigarette, stuck her legs out, and examined Helen closely as to the character and reputation of their common friend Mrs. Raymond Parry. By a series of little strategems she drove her to define Mrs. Parry as somewhat elderly, by no means beautiful, very much made up—an insolent old harridan, in short, whose parties were amusing because one met odd people; but Helen herself always pitied poor Mr. Parry, who was understood to be shut up downstairs with cases full of gems, while his wife enjoyed herself in the drawing-room. “Not that I believe what people say against her—although she hints, of course—” Upon which Mrs. Flushing cried out with delight:

      “She’s my first cousin! Go on—go on!”

      When Mrs. Flushing rose to go she was obviously delighted with her new acquaintances. She made three or four different plans for meeting or going on an expedition, or showing Helen the things they had bought, on her way to the carriage. She included them all in a vague but magnificent invitation.

      As Helen returned to the garden again, Ridley’s words of warning came into her head, and she hesitated a moment and looked at Rachel sitting between Hirst and Hewet. But she could draw no conclusions, for Hewet was still reading Gibbon aloud, and Rachel, for all the expression she had, might have been a shell, and his words water rubbing against her ears, as water rubs a shell on the edge of a rock.

      Hewet’s voice was very pleasant. When he reached the end of the period Hewet stopped, and no one volunteered any criticism.

      “I do adore the aristocracy!” Hirst exclaimed after a moment’s pause. “They’re so amazingly unscrupulous. None of us would dare to behave as that woman behaves.”

      “What I like about them,” said Helen as she sat down, “is that they’re so well put together. Naked, Mrs. Flushing would be superb. Dressed as she dresses, it’s absurd, of course.”

      “Yes,” said Hirst. A shade of depression crossed his face. “I’ve never weighed more than ten stone in my life,” he said, “which is ridiculous, considering my height, and I’ve actually gone down in weight since we came here. I daresay that accounts for the rheumatism.” Again he jerked his wrist back sharply, so that Helen might hear the grinding of the chalk stones. She could not help smiling.

      “It’s no laughing matter for me, I assure you,” he protested. “My mother’s a chronic invalid, and I’m always expecting to be told that I’ve got heart disease myself. Rheumatism always goes to the heart in the end.”