WEBVTT

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Section thirty. That was his old
trick, opening a pocket knife, thought

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Sallie, always opening and shutting a
knife when he got excited. They had

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been very, very intimate, she
and Peter Walsh when he was in love

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with Clarissa. And there was that
dreadful, ridiculous scene over Richard Dollaway at

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lunch she had called Richard Wickham,
why not call Richard Wickham? Clarissa had

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flared up, And indeed they had
never seen each other since, she and

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Clarissa, not more than half a
dozen times, perhaps in the last ten

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years. And Peter Walsh had gone
off to India, and she had heard

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vaguely that he had made an unhappy
marriage, and she didn't know whether he

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had any children, and she couldn't
ask him, for he had changed.

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He was rather shriveled looking, but
kinder, she felt, and she had

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a real affection for him, for
he was connected with her youth, and

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she still had a little Emily bronte
he had given her. And he was

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to write, surely in those days
he was to write. Have you written?

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She asked him, spreading her hand, her firm and shapely hand on

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her in a way he recalled not
a word, said Peter Walsh, and

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she laughed. She was still attractive, still a personage, Sally Seaton.

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But who was this rossiter? He
wore two camellias on his wedding day.

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That was all Peter knew of him. They have myriads of servants, miles

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of conservatories. Clarissa wrote something like
that. Sallie owned it, with a

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shout of laughter. Yes, I
have ten thousand a year, whether before

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the tax was paid or after.
She couldn't remember for her husband. Whom

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you must meet, she said,
whom you would like? She said,

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did all that for her? And
Sallie used to be in rags and tatters.

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She had pawned her grandmother's ring,
which Mary Antoinette had given her great

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grandfather, to come to Burton.
Oh, yes, Sallie remembered. She

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had it still, a ruby ring
which Mary Antoinette had given her great grandfather.

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She never had a penny to her
name in those days, and going

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to Burton always meant some frightful pinch. But going to Burton had meant so

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much to her, had kept her
say. She believed so unhappy she had

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been at home, But that was
all a thing of the past. All

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over now, she said, And
mister Parry was dead, and Miss Parry

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was still alive. Never had he
had such a shock in his life,

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said Peter. He had been quite
certain she was dead, and the marriage

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had been Sally supposed a success.
And that very handsome, very self possessed

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young woman was Elizabeth over there by
the curtains and red. She was like

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a poplar, She was like a
river, She was like a hyacinth.

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Willie Titkin was thinking, Oh,
how much nicer to be in the country

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and do what she liked. She
could hear her poor dog howling. Elizabeth

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was certain she was not a bit
like Clarissa. Peter Walsh said, oh,

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Clarissa, said Salie. What Sally
felt was simply this. She had

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owed Clarissa an enormous amount. They
had been friends, not acquaintances, friends,

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And she still saw Clarissa, all
in white, going about the house

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with her hands full of flowers to
this day. Tobacco plants made her think

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of Burton. But did Peter understand
she lacked something lacked? What was it?

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She had charm, she had extraordinary
charm, but to be frank,

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and she felt that Peter was an
old friend, a real friend? Did

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absence matter? Did distance matter?
She had often wanted to write to him,

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but torn it up, Yet felt
he understood, for people understand without

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things being said, as one realizes. Growing old and old, she was

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had been that afternoon to see her
sons at Eton where they had the mumps.

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To be quite frank, then how
could Clarissa have done it? Married

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Richard Dollaway, a sportsman, a
man who cared only for dogs. Literally,

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when he came into the room he
smelt of the stables, and then

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all this She waved her hand.
Hugh Whitbred. It was strolling past in

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his white waistcoat, dim fat,
blind, past everything he looked except self

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esteem and comfort. He's I'm not
going to recognize us, said Sallie.

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And really she hadn't the courage.
So that was Hugh, the admirable Hue.

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And what does he do, she
asked Peter? He blacked the King's

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boots or counted bottles at Windsor.
Peter told her. Peter kept his sharp

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tongue still, but Sally must be
frank. Peter said that kiss now hughes

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on the lips, she assured him. In the smoking room one evening,

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she went straight to Clarissa in rage. Hugh didn't do such things, Clarissa

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said, the admirable hue Hugh's socks
were, without exception, the most beautiful

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she had ever seen, and now
his evening dress perfect? And had he

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children? Everybody in the room has
six sons at eton, Peter told her,

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except himself, he, thank god, had none, no sons,

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no daughters, no wife. Well
he didn't seem to mind, said Sallie.

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He looked younger, she thought,
than any of them. But it

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had been a silly thing to do
in many ways, Peter said, to

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marry like that a perfect goose she
w was, he said, But he

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said, we had a splendid time
of it. But how could that be?

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Sallie wondered, what did he mean? And how odd it was to

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know him and yet not know a
single thing that had happened to him.

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And did he say it out of
pride? Very likely, for after all,

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it must be galling for him,
though he was an oddity, a

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sort of sprite, not at all
an ordinary man. It must be lonely

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at his age to have no home, nowhere to go to, But he

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must stay with them for weeks and
weeks of course he would, He would

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love to stay with them. And
that was how it came out. All

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these years, the Dollaways had never
been once. Time after time they had

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asked them. Clarissa, for it
was Clarissa, of course, would not

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come, for said Sallie. Clarissa
was at heart a snob. One had

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to admit it, a snob,
and it was that that was between them.

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She was convinced. Clarissa thought she
had married beneath her, her husband

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being she was proud of it.
A minus son. Every penny they had

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he had earned as a little boy. Her voice trembled. He had carried

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great sacks, and so she would
go on. Peter felt hour after hour

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the miner's son. People thought she
had married beneath her, her five sons.

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And what was the other thing?
Plants Hydranger's syringes, very very rare

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hibiscus lilies that never grow north of
the Swear's Canal, But she with one

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gardener, and a suburb near Manchester
had beds of them, positively beds now

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all that Clarissa had escaped on maternal
as she was a snob? Was she?

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Yes? In many ways? Where
was she? All this time?

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It was getting late yet, said
Sally. When I heard Clarissa was giving

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a party, I felt I couldn't
not come, must see her again.

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And I'm staying in Victoria Street,
practically next door, so I just came

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without an invitation. But she whispered, tell me, do who is this?

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It was Missus Hillbury, looking for
the door for how late it was

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getting, and she murmured as the
night grew Later, as people went,

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one found old friend, quiet nooks
and corners and the loveliest views. Did

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they know? She asked? That
they were surrounded by an enchanted garden,

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lights and trees, and wonderful gleaming
lakes into the sky, just a few

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fairy lamps. Clarissa Dolaway had said, in the back garden. But she

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was a magician. It was a
park. And she didn't know their names,

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But friends, she knew they were
friends without names, songs without words

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always the best. But there were
so many doors, such unexpected places.

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She could not find her way.
Old Missus Hilbury, said Peter, But

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who was that that lady standing by
the curtain all the evening without speaking?

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He knew her face connected her with
Burton. Surely she used to cut up

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underclothes at the large table in the
window, Davidson. Was that her name?

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Oh, that is Ellie Henderson,
said Sallie. Clarissa was really very

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hard on her. She was a
cousin. Very poor. Clarissa was hard

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on people. She was rather,
said Peter. Yet said Sallie in her

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emotional way, with rush of that
enthusiasm which Peter used to love her for,

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yet dreaded a little now so effusive
she might become. How generous to

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her friends Clarissa was, and what
a rare quality one found it, And

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how sometimes at night or on Christmas
Day, when she counted up her blessings,

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she put that friendship first. They
were young, That was it.

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Clarissa was pure hearted, that was
it. Peter would think her sentimental.

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So she was, for she had
come to feel that it was the only

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thing worth saying what one felt.
Cleverness was silly. One must say simply

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what one felt. But I do
not know, said Peter Walsh, what

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I feel, Poor Peter, thought
Sally, Why did not Clarissa come and

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talk to them? That was what
he was longing for. She knew it

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all the time. He was thinking
only of Clarissa, and was fidgeting with

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his knife. He had not found
life simple, Peter said. His relations

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with Clarissa had not been simple.
It had spoilt his life, he said.

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They had been so intimate, he
and Sally's Seaton. It was absurd

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not to say it. One could
not be in love twice, he said,

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And what could she say? Still, it is better to have loved.

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But he would think her sentimental.
He used to be so sharp.

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He must come and stay with them
in Manchester. That is all very true,

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he said, all very true.
He would love to come and stay

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with them directly. He had done
what he had to do in London,

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and Clarissa had cared for him more
than she had ever cared for Richard.

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Sally was positive of that. No, no, no, said Peter.

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Sally should not have said that she
went too far. That good fellow.

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There he was at the end of
the room, holding forth the same as

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ever. Dear Old Richard, who
was he talking to? Sallie asked that

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very distinguished looking man living in the
wilds as she did. She had an

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insatiable curiosity to know who people were. But Peter did not know. He

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did not like his looks, he
said, probably a cabinet minister. Of

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them all, Richard seemed to him
the best, he said, the most

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disinterested. But what has he done? Sally asked? Public works? She

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supposed, and were they happy together? Salie asked, She herself was extremely

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happy, for she admitted she knew
nothing about them, only jumped to conclusions

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as one does. For what can
one know even of the people one lives

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with every day? She asked,
are we not all prisoners? She had

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read a wonderful play about a man
who scratched on the wall of his cell,

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and she had felt that was true
of life. One scratched on the

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wall, despairing of human relationships.
People were so difficult. She often went

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into her garden and got from her
flowers a piece which men and women never

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gave her. But no, he
did not like cabbages. He preferred human

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beings. Peter said, Indeed,
the young are beautiful, Sallie said,

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watching Elizabeth cross the room, How
unlike Clarissa at her age, could he

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make anything of her? She would
not open her lips, not much,

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Not yet. Peter admitted she was
like a lily. Sallie said, a

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lily by the side of a pool. But Peter did not agree that we

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know nothing. We know everything,
he said, at least he did.

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But these two, Sallie whispered,
these two coming now, and really she

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must go if Clarissa did not come
soon, This distinguished looking man and his

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rather common looking wife, who had
been talking to Richard. What could one

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know about people like that? That
they're damnable humbugs, said Peter, looking

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at them casually. He made Sally
laugh. But Sir William Bradshaw stopped at

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the door to look at a picture. He looked in the corner for the

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engraver's name. His wife looked too. Sir William Bradshaw was so interested in

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art when one was young, said
Peter. One was too much excited to

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know people now that one was old, fifty two to be precise. Sallie

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was fifty five in body, she
said, but her heart was like a

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girl's of twenty. Now that one
was mature, then, said Peter,

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one could watch, one could understand, and one did not lose the power

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of feeling. He said, No, that is true, said Sallie.

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She felt more deeply, more passionately
every year it increased. He said,

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alas, perhaps, but one should
be glad of it. Went on increasing

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in his experience. There was someone
in India. He would like to tell

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Sallie about her. He would like
Sallie to know her. She was married,

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he said, she had two small
children. They must all come to

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Manchester, said Sallie. He must
promise before they left. There's Elizabeth,

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he said. She feels not half
what we feel. Not yet, but

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said Sallie. Watching Elizabeth go to
her father, one can see they are

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devoted to each other. She could
feel it by the way Elizabeth went to

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her father. For her father had
been looking at her as he stood talking

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to the Bradshaws, and he had
thought to himself, who is that lovely

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girl? And suddenly he realized that
it was his Elizabeth, and he had

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not recognized her. She looked so
lovely in her pink frock. Elizabeth had

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felt him looking at her as she
talked to Willie Titcomb, so she went

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to him and they stood together.
Now that the party was almost over,

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looking at the people going, and
the rooms getting emptier and emptier, with

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things scattered on the floor. Even
Ellie Henderson was going nearly last of all,

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though no one had spoken to her, but she had wanted to see

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everything to tell Edith and Richard and
Elizabeth were rather glad it was over.

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But Richard was proud of his daughter, and he had not meant to tell

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her, but he could not help
telling her. He had looked at her,

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he said, and he had wondered
who was that lovely girl? And

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it was his daughter that did make
her happy, But her poor dog was

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howling. Richard has improved. You
are right, said Sallie. I shall

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go and talk to him. I
shall say good night. What does the

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brain matter, said lady Roster,
getting up compared with the heart. I

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will come, said Peter. But
he sat on for a moment. What

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is this terror? What is this
ecstasy? He thought to himself. What

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is it that fills me with extraordinary
excitement? It is Clarissa, he said,

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for there she was. The end
end of section thirty read by Hannah

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Dormer, London, twenty fourth of
October twenty twenty one, and of Missus

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Dollaway by Virginia Woolfe