WEBVTT

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Section twenty one. How nice it
must be, she said in the country,

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struggling, as mister Whittaker had told
her, with that violent grudge against

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the world which had scorned her,
sneered at her, cast her off,

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beginning with this indignity, the infliction
of her unlovable body, which people could

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not bear to see. Do her
hair as she might, Her forehead remained

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like an egg, bald white.
No clothes suited her. She might buy

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anything, and for a woman,
of course, that meant never meeting the

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opposite sex. Never would she come
first with any one. Sometimes, lately

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it had seemed to her that except
for Elizabeth, her food was all that

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she lived for, her comforts,
her dinner, her tea, her hot

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water bottle at night. But one
must fight, vanquish, have faith in

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God. Mister Whittaker had said.
She was there for a purpose, But

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no one knew the agony, he
said, pointing to the crucifix, that

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God knew. But why should she
have to suffer when other women, like

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Clarissa Dollaway escaped. Knowledge comes through
suffering, said mister Whittaker. She had

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passed the pillar box, and Elizabeth
had turned into the cool brown tobacco department

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of the Army and Navy Stores.
While she was still muttering to herself what

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mister Whittaker had said about knowledge coming
through suffering into the flesh. The flesh,

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she muttered, what department did she
want? Elizabeth interrupted her petticoats,

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she said abruptly, and stalked straight
on to the lift. Up they went.

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Elizabeth guided her this way, and
that guided her in her abstraction,

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as if she had been a great
child and on wieldy battleship. There were

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the petticoats, brown, decorus,
striped, frivolous, solid, flimsy,

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And she chose in her abstraction portentously, and the girl serving thought her mad.

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Elizabeth rather wandered as they did up
the parcel what Miss Kilman was thinking.

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They must have their tea, said
Miss Kilman, rousing, collecting herself.

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They had their tea. Elizabeth rather
wondered whether Miss Kilman could be hungry.

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It was her way of eating,
eating with intensity, then looking again

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and again at a plate of sugared
cakes on the table next them. Then

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when a lady and a child sat
down and the child took the cake,

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could Miss Kilman really mind it?
Yes, Miss Kilman did mind it.

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She had wanted that cake, the
pink one. The pleasure of eating was

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almost the only pure pleasure left her. And then to be baffled even in

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that when people are happy, they
have a reserve, she had told Elizabeth

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upon which to draw. Whereas she
was like a wheel without a tire,

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She was fond of such metaphors,
jolted by every pebble, so she would

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say, staying on after the lessons, standing by the fireplace with her bag

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of books, her satchel, she
called it, on a Tuesday morning after

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the lesson was over, and she
talked too about the wall. After all,

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there were people who did not think
the English invariably right. There were

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books, there were meetings, there
were other points of view. Would Elizabeth

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like to come with her to listen
to so and so? A most extraordinary

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looking old man. Then Miss Kilman
took her to some church in Kensington,

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and they had tea with a clergyman. She had lent her books, law,

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medicine, politics. All professions are
open to women of your generations,

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said miss Kilmen. But for herself
her career was absolutely ruined, and was

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it her fault? Good gracious,
said Elizabeth. No, And her mother

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would come calling to say that a
hamper had come from Burton, and would

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miss Kilman like some flowers to Miss
Kilmen. She was always very, very

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nice, but Miss Kilman squashed the
flowers all in a bunch and hadn't any

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small talk, and what interested.
Miss Kilman bored her mother, and Miss

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Kilmen and she were terrible together,
and Miss Kilmen swelled and looked very plain.

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But then Miss Kilman was frightfully clever. Elizabeth had never thought about the

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poor. They lived with everything they
wanted. Her mother had breakfast in bed

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every day. Lucy carried it up, and she liked old women because they

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would die and being descended from some
lord. But Miss Kilman said, one

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of those Tuesday mornings, when the
lesson was over, my grandfather kept an

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oil and color shop in Kensington.
Miss Kilman made one feel so small.

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Miss Kilman took another cup of tea. Elizabeth, with her oriental bearing,

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her inscrutable mystery, sat perfectly upright. No, she did not want anything

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more. She looked for her gloves, her white gloves. They were under

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the table. Ah, But she
must not go. Miss Kilman could not

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let her go, this youth that
was so beautiful, this girl whom she

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genuinely loved. Her large hand opened
and shut on the table. But perhaps

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it was a little flat somehow,
Elizabeth felt, And really she would like

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to go, But said miss Kilmen, I've not quite finished yet. Of

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course, then Elizabeth would wait.
But it was rather stuffy in here.

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Are you going to the party to
night? Miss Kilman said. Elizabeth supposed

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she was going. Her mother wanted
her to go. She must not let

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parties absorb her, Miss Kilman said, fingering the last two inches of a

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chocolate Claire. She did not much
like parties, Elizabeth said. Miss Kilman

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opened her mouth, slightly, projected
her chin, and swallowed down the last

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inches of the chocolate. Claire then
wiped her fingers and washed the tea round

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in her cup. She was about
to split asunder. She felt. The

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agony was so terrific. If she
could grasp her, if she could clasp

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her, if she could make her
hers absolutely and forever, and then die,

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that was all she wanted. But
to sit here, unable to think

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of anything to say, to see
Elizabeth turning against her, to be felt

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repulsive even by her. It was
too much. She could not stand it.

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The thick fingers curled inwards. I
never go to parties, said miss

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Kilmen, just to keep Elizabeth from
going. People don't ask me to parties.

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And she knew as she said it
that it was this egotism that was

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her undoing. Mister Whittaker had warned
her, but she could not help it.

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She had suffered so horribly. Why
should they ask me, she said,

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I'm plain, I'm unhappy. She
knew it was idiotic, but it

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was all those people passing people with
parcels who despised her who made her say

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it. However, she was Doris
Kilman, she had her degree, She

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was a woman who had made her
way in the world. Her knowledge of

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modern history was more than respectable.
I don't pity myself, she said.

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I pity She meant to say,
your mother, but no she could not.

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Not to Elizabeth, I pity other
people, she said, more like

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some dumb creature who has been brought
up to a gate for an unknown purpose

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and stands there, longing to gallop
away. Elizabeth Dallaway sat silent. Was

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Miss Kilman going to say anything more? Don't quite forget me, said Doris

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Kilman, her voice quivered right away
to the end of the field. The

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dumb creature galloped in terror. The
great hand opened and shut. Elizabeth turned

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her head. The waitress came.
One had to pay at the desk,

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Elizabeth said, and went off,
drawing out. So miss Kilman felt the

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very entrails in her body, stretching
them as she crossed the room, and

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then with a final twist, bowing
her head very politely, she went.

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She had gone. Miss Kilman sat
at the marble table among the ecclaires,

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stricken once, twice thrice by shocks
of suffering. She had gone. Missus

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Dollaway had triumphed, Elizabeth had gone, Beauty had gone, youth had gone.

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So she sat. She got up, blundered off among the little tables,

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rocking slightly from side to side,
and somebody came after her with her

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petticoat, and she lost her way
and was hemmed in by trunks specially prepared

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for taking to India. Next,
got among the accouchment sets and baby linen.

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Through all the commodities of the world, perishable and permanent, hams,

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drugs, flowers, stationary, variously
smelling now sweet, now sour. She

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lurched, saw herself thus lurching with
her hat askew very red in the face

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full length in a looking glass,
and at last came out into the street.

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The tower of Westminster Cathedral rose in
front of her, the habitation of

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God. In the midst of the
traffic, there was the habitation of God.

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Doggedly, she set off with her
parcel to that other sanctuary, the

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abbey, where, raising her hands
in a tent before her face, she

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sat beside those driven into shelter tu
the variously assorted worshippers, now divested of

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social rank, almost of sex,
as they raised their hands before their faces,

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But once they removed them instantly,
reverent middle class english men and women,

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some of them desirous of seeing the
waxworks. But Miss Kilmen held her

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tent before her face. Now she
was deserted, Now rejoined, new worshippers

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came in from the street to replace
the strollers, And still as people gazed

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round and shuffled past the tomb of
the ear unknown warrior, still she barred

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her eyes with her fingers and tried, in this double darkness, for the

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light in the abbey was bodiless,
to aspire above the vanities, the desires,

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the commodities, to rid herself both
of hatred and of love. Her

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hands twitched, she seemed to struggle, yet to others God was accessible and

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to the path to him smooth.
Mister Fletcher retired of the treasury. Missus

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Goreham, widow of the famous Casey, approached him simply, and, having

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done their praying, leant back.
Enjoyed the music the organ pealed sweetly,

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and saw Miss Kilman at the end
of the row, praying, praying,

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and being still on the threshold of
their underworld, thought of her sympathetically as

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a soul haunting the same territory,
a soul cut out of immaterial substance,

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not a woman, a soul.
But mister Fletcher had to go, He

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had to pass her, and,
being himself neat as a new pin,

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could not help being a little distressed
by the poor lady's disorder, her hair

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down, her parcel on the floor. She did not at once let him

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pass, but as he stood gazing
about him at the white marbles, gray

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window panes, and accumulated treasures,
for he was extremely proud of the abbey,

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her largeness, robustness, and power. As she sat there, shifting

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her knees from time to time,
it was so rough. The approach to

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her God so tough her desires impressed
him as they had impressed Missus Dollaway.

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She could not get the thought of
her out of her mind. That afternoon,

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the Reverend Edward Whittaker and Elizabeth too, and Elizabeth waited in Victoria Street

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for an omnibus. It was so
nice to be out of doors, she

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thought, perhaps she need not go
home just yet. It was so nice

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to be out in the air,
so she would get on to an omnibus.

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And already, even as she stood
there in her very well cut clothes,

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it was beginning. People were beginning
to compare her to poplar trees,

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early dawn, hyacinths, fawns,
running water, and garden lilies. And

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it made her life a burden to
her, for she so much preferred being

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left alone to do what she liked
in the country, but they would compare

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her to lilies, and she had
to go to parties, and London was

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so dreary compared with being alone in
the country with her father and the dogs.

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Buses swooped, settled were off gearish
caravans glistening with red and yellow varnish.

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But which should she get on too? She had no preferences. Of

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course, she would not push her
way. She inclined to be passive.

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It was expression she needed. But
her eyes were fine Chinese, oriental,

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and as her mother said, with
such nice shoulders and holding herself so straight,

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she was always charming to look at, and lately in the evening,

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especially when she was interested, for
she never seemed excited. She looked almost

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beautiful, very stately, very serene. What could she be thinking? Every

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man fell in love with her,
and she was really awfully bored, for

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it was beginning. Her mother could
see that the calm laments were beginning,

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that she did not care more about
it. For instance, for her clothes

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sometimes worried Clarissa. But perhaps it
was as well with all these puppies and

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guinea pigs about having distemper, and
it gave her a charm. And now

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there was this odd friendship with miss
Kilmen. Well thought Clarissa about three o'clock

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in the morning, reading baron Marlbo, for she could not sleep. It

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proves she has a heart. End
of section twenty one, read by Hannah

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Dormer, London, twenty sixth of
September twenty twenty one.