The Complete Novels of Virginia Woolf. Вирджиния Вулф
where English people lie buried,” the diary stated. Their tour was thoroughly unconventional, and followed no meditated plan. The foreign correspondents of the Times decided their route as much as anything else. Mr. Dalloway wished to look at certain guns, and was of opinion that the African coast is far more unsettled than people at home were inclined to believe. For these reasons they wanted a slow inquisitive kind of ship, comfortable, for they were bad sailors, but not extravagant, which would stop for a day or two at this port and at that, taking in coal while the Dalloways saw things for themselves. Meanwhile they found themselves stranded in Lisbon, unable for the moment to lay hands upon the precise vessel they wanted. They heard of the Euphrosyne, but heard also that she was primarily a cargo boat, and only took passengers by special arrangement, her business being to carry dry goods to the Amazons, and rubber home again. “By special arrangement,” however, were words of high encouragement to them, for they came of a class where almost everything was specially arranged, or could be if necessary. On this occasion all that Richard did was to write a note to Lord Glenaway, the head of the line which bears his title; to call on poor old Jackson; to represent to him how Mrs. Dalloway was so-and-so, and he had been something or other else, and what they wanted was such and such a thing. It was done. They parted with compliments and pleasure on both sides, and here, a week later, came the boat rowing up to the ship in the dusk with the Dalloways on board of it; in three minutes they were standing together on the deck of the Euphrosyne. Their arrival, of course, created some stir, and it was seen by several pairs of eyes that Mrs. Dalloway was a tall slight woman, her body wrapped in furs, her head in veils, while Mr. Dalloway appeared to be a middle-sized man of sturdy build, dressed like a sportsman on an autumnal moor. Many solid leather bags of a rich brown hue soon surrounded them, in addition to which Mr. Dalloway carried a despatch box, and his wife a dressing-case suggestive of a diamond necklace and bottles with silver tops.
“It’s so like Whistler!” she exclaimed, with a wave towards the shore, as she shook Rachel by the hand, and Rachel had only time to look at the grey hills on one side of her before Willoughby introduced Mrs. Chailey, who took the lady to her cabin.
Momentary though it seemed, nevertheless the interruption was upsetting; every one was more or less put out by it, from Mr. Grice, the steward, to Ridley himself. A few minutes later Rachel passed the smoking-room, and found Helen moving arm-chairs. She was absorbed in her arrangements, and on seeing Rachel remarked confidentially:
“If one can give men a room to themselves where they will sit, it’s all to the good. Arm-chairs are the important things—” She began wheeling them about. “Now, does it still look like a bar at a railway station?”
She whipped a plush cover off a table. The appearance of the place was marvellously improved.
Again, the arrival of the strangers made it obvious to Rachel, as the hour of dinner approached, that she must change her dress; and the ringing of the great bell found her sitting on the edge of her berth in such a position that the little glass above the washstand reflected her head and shoulders. In the glass she wore an expression of tense melancholy, for she had come to the depressing conclusion, since the arrival of the Dalloways, that her face was not the face she wanted, and in all probability never would be.
However, punctuality had been impressed on her, and whatever face she had, she must go in to dinner.
These few minutes had been used by Willoughby in sketching to the Dalloways the people they were to meet, and checking them upon his fingers.
“There’s my brother-in-law, Ambrose, the scholar (I daresay you’ve heard his name), his wife, my old friend Pepper, a very quiet fellow, but knows everything, I’m told. And that’s all. We’re a very small party. I’m dropping them on the coast.”
Mrs. Dalloway, with her head a little on one side, did her best to recollect Ambrose—was it a surname?—but failed. She was made slightly uneasy by what she had heard. She knew that scholars married any one—girls they met in farms on reading parties; or little suburban women who said disagreeably, “Of course I know it’s my husband you want; not me.”
But Helen came in at that point, and Mrs. Dalloway saw with relief that though slightly eccentric in appearance, she was not untidy, held herself well, and her voice had restraint in it, which she held to be the sign of a lady. Mr. Pepper had not troubled to change his neat ugly suit.
“But after all,” Clarissa thought to herself as she followed Vinrace in to dinner, “every one’s interesting really.”
When seated at the table she had some need of that assurance, chiefly because of Ridley, who came in late, looked decidedly unkempt, and took to his soup in profound gloom.
An imperceptible signal passed between husband and wife, meaning that they grasped the situation and would stand by each other loyally. With scarcely a pause Mrs. Dalloway turned to Willoughby and began:
“What I find so tiresome about the sea is that there are no flowers in it. Imagine fields of hollyhocks and violets in mid-ocean! How divine!”
“But somewhat dangerous to navigation,” boomed Richard, in the bass, like the bassoon to the flourish of his wife’s violin. “Why, weeds can be bad enough, can’t they, Vinrace? I remember crossing in the Mauretania once, and saying to the Captain—Richards—did you know him?—’Now tell me what perils you really dread most for your ship, Captain Richards?’ expecting him to say icebergs, or derelicts, or fog, or something of that sort. Not a bit of it. I’ve always remembered his answer. ‘Sedgius aquatici,’ he said, which I take to be a kind of duck-weed.”
Mr. Pepper looked up sharply, and was about to put a question when Willoughby continued:
“They’ve an awful time of it—those captains! Three thousand souls on board!”
“Yes, indeed,” said Clarissa. She turned to Helen with an air of profundity. “I’m convinced people are wrong when they say it’s work that wears one; it’s responsibility. That’s why one pays one’s cook more than one’s housemaid, I suppose.”
“According to that, one ought to pay one’s nurse double; but one doesn’t,” said Helen.
“No; but think what a joy to have to do with babies, instead of saucepans!” said Mrs. Dalloway, looking with more interest at Helen, a probable mother.
“I’d much rather be a cook than a nurse,” said Helen. “Nothing would induce me to take charge of children.”
“Mothers always exaggerate,” said Ridley. “A well-bred child is no responsibility. I’ve travelled all over Europe with mine. You just wrap ’em up warm and put ’em in the rack.”
Helen laughed at that. Mrs. Dalloway exclaimed, looking at Ridley:
“How like a father! My husband’s just the same. And then one talks of the equality of the sexes!”
“Does one?” said Mr. Pepper.
“Oh, some do!” cried Clarissa. “My husband had to pass an irate lady every afternoon last session who said nothing else, I imagine.”
“She sat outside the house; it was very awkward,” said Dalloway. “At last I plucked up courage and said to her, ‘My good creature, you’re only in the way where you are. You’re hindering me, and you’re doing no good to yourself.’”
“And then she caught him by the coat, and would have scratched his eyes out—” Mrs. Dalloway put in.
“Pooh—that’s been exaggerated,” said Richard. “No, I pity them, I confess. The discomfort of sitting on those steps must be awful.”
“Serve them right,” said Willoughby curtly.
“Oh, I’m entirely with you there,” said Dalloway. “Nobody can condemn the utter folly and futility of such behaviour more than I do; and as for the whole agitation, well! may I be in my grave before a woman has the right to vote in England! That’s all I say.”
The solemnity of her husband’s assertion made Clarissa