not perceive what poor dear Joan had gained from the
fact that she was the granddaughter of a man who kept a
shop； and herself earned her own living。 The infinite
dreariness and sordidness of their life oppressed him in
spite of his fundamental belief that； as a family； they
were somehow remarkable。
“Shall you talk to mother？” Joan inquired。 “Because；
you see； the thing’s got to be settled； one way or another。
Charles must write to Uncle John if he’s going
there。”
Ralph sighed impatiently。
24
Virginia Woolf
“I suppose it doesn’t much matter either way；” he exclaimed。
“He’s doomed to misery in the long run。”
A slight flush came into Joan’s cheek。
“You know you’re talking nonsense；” she said。 “It doesn’t
hurt any one to have to earn their own living。 I’m very
glad I have to earn mine。”
Ralph was pleased that she should feel this； and wished
her to continue； but he went on； perversely enough。
“Isn’t that only because you’ve forgotten how to enjoy
yourself？ You never have time for anything decent—”
“As for instance？”
“Well； going for walks； or music； or books； or seeing
interesting people。 You never do anything that’s really
worth doing any more than I do。”
“I always think you could make this room much nicer； if
you liked；” she observed。
“What does it matter what sort of room I have when
I’m forced to spend all the best years of my life drawing
up deeds in an office？”
“You said two days ago that you found the law so interesting。”
“So it is if one could afford to know anything about it。”
（“That’s Herbert only just going to bed now；” Joan interposed；
as a door on the landing slammed vigorously。
“And then he won’t get up in the morning。”）
Ralph looked at the ceiling； and shut his lips closely
together。 Why； he wondered； could Joan never for one
moment detach her mind from the details of domestic
life？ It seemed to him that she was getting more and
more enmeshed in them； and capable of shorter and less
frequent flights into the outer world； and yet she was
only thirtythree。
“D’you ever pay calls now？” he asked abruptly。
“I don’t often have the time。 Why do you ask？”
“It might be a good thing； to get to know new people；
that’s all。”
“Poor Ralph！” said Joan suddenly； with a smile。 “You
think your sister’s getting very old and very dull—that’s
it； isn’t it？”
“I don’t think anything of the kind；” he said stoutly；
but he flushed。 “But you lead a dog’s life； Joan。 When
you’re not working in an office； you’re worrying over the
25
Night and Day
rest of us。 And I’m not much good to you； I’m afraid。”
Joan rose； and stood for a moment warming her hands；
and； apparently； meditating as to whether she should say
anything more or not。 A feeling of great intimacy united
the brother and sister； and the semicircular lines above
their eyebrows disappeared。 No； there was nothing more
to be said on either side。 Joan brushed her brother’s head
with her hand as she passed him； murmured good night；
and left the room。 For some minutes after she had gone
Ralph lay quiescent； resting his head on his hand； but
gradually his eyes filled with thought； and the line reappeared
on his brow； as the pleasant impression of panionship
and ancient sympathy waned； and he was left
to think on alone。
After a time he opened his book； and read on steadily；
glancing once or twice at his watch； as if he had set
himself a task to be acplished in a certain measure of
time。 Now and then he heard voices in the house； and the
closing of bedroom doors； which showed that the building；
at the top of which he sat； was inhabited in every
one of its cells。 When midnight struck； Ralph shut his
book； and with a candle in his hand； descended to the
ground floor； to ascertain that all lights were extinct and
all doors locked。 It was a threadbare； wellworn house
that he thus examined； as if the inmates had grazed down
all luxuriance and plenty to the verge of decency； and in
the night； bereft of life； bare places and ancient blemishes
were unpleasantly visible。 Katharine Hilbery； he
thought； would condemn it offhand。
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Virginia Woolf
CHAPTER III
Denham had accused Katharine Hilbery of belonging to
one of the most distinguished families in England； and if
any one will take the trouble to consult Mr。 Galton’s “Hereditary
Genius；” he will find that this assertion is not far
from the truth。 The Alardyces； the Hilberys； the
Millingtons； and the Otways seem to prove that intellect
is a possession which can be tossed from one member of
a certain group to another almost indefinitely； and with
apparent certainty that the brilliant gift will be safely
caught and held by nine out of ten of the privileged race。
They had been conspicuous judges and admirals； lawyers
and servants of the State for some years before the richness
of the soil culminated in the rarest flower that any
family can boast； a great writer； a poet eminent among
the poets of England； a Richard Alardyce； and having produced
him； they proved once more the amazing virtues of
their race by proceeding unconcernedly again with their
usual task of breeding distinguished men。 They had sailed
with Sir John Franklin to the North Pole； and ridden with
Havelock to the Relief of Lucknow； and when they were
not lighthouses firmly based on rock for the guidance of
their generation； they were steady； serviceable candles；
illuminating the ordinary chambers of daily life。 Whatever
profession you looked at； there was a Warburton or
an Alardyce； a Millington or a Hilbery somewhere in authority
and prominence。
It may be said； indeed； that English society being what
it is； no very great merit is required； once you bear a
wellknown name； to put you into a position where it is
easier on the whole to be eminent than obscure。 And if
this is true of the sons； even the daughters； even in the
nieenth century； are apt to bee people of importance—
philanthropists and educationalists if they are
spinsters； and the wives of distinguished men if they marry。
It is true that there were several lamentable exceptions
to this rule in the Alardyce group； which seems to indicate
that the cadets of such houses go more rapidly to
the bad than the children of ordinary fathers and mothers；
as if it were somehow a relief to them。 But； on the
whole； in these first years of the twentieth century； the
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Night and Day
Alardyces and their relations were keeping their heads well
above water。 One finds them at the tops of professions；
with letters after their names； they sit in luxurious public
offices； with private secretaries attached to them； they
write solid books in dark covers； issued by the presses of
the two great universities； and when one of them dies the
chances are that another of them writes his biography。
Now the source of this nobility was； of course； the poet；
and his immediate descendants； therefore； were invested
with greater luster than the collateral branches。 Mrs。
Hilbery； in virtue of her position as the only child of the
poet； was spiritually the head of the family； and Katharine；
her daughter； had some superior rank among all the cousins
and connections； the more so because she was an only
child。 The Alardyces had married and intermarried； and
their offspring were generally profuse； and had a way of
meeting regularly in each other’s houses for meals and
family celebrations which had acquired a semisacred
character； and were as regularly observed as days of feasting
and fasting in the Church。
In times gone by； Mrs。 Hilbery had known all the poets；
all the novelists； all the beautiful women and distinguished
men of her time。 These being now either dead or secluded
in their infirm glory； she made her house a meet
ingplace for her own relations； to whom she would lament
the passing of the great days of the nieenth
century； when every department of letters and art was
represented in England by two or three illustrious names。
Where are their successors？ she would ask； and the absence
of any poet or painter or novelist of the true caliber
at the present day was a text upon which she liked to
ruminate； in a sunset mood of benignant reminiscence；
which it would have been hard to disturb had there been
need。 But she was far from visiting their inferiority upon
the younger generation。 She weled them very heartily
to her house； told them her stories； gave them sovereigns
and ices and good advice； and weaved round them
romances which had generally no likeness to the truth。
The quality of her birth oozed into Katharine’s consciousness
from a dozen different sources as soon as she
was able to perceive anything。 Above her nursery fireplace
hung a photograph of her grandfather’s tomb in
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Virginia Woolf
Poets’ Corner； and she was told in one of those moments
of grownup confidence which are so tremendously impressive
to the child’s mind； that he was buried there
because he was a “good and great man。” Later； on an
anniversary； she was taken by her mother through the
fog in a hansom cab； and given a large bunch of bright；
sweetscented flowers to lay upon his tomb。 The candles
in the church； the singing and the booming of the organ；
were all； she thought； in his honor。 Again and again she
was brought down into the drawingroom to receive the
blessing of some awful distinguished old man； who sat；
even to her childish eye； somewhat apart； all gathered
together and clutching a stick； unlike an ordinary visitor
in her father’s own armchair； and her father himself was
there； unlike himself； too； a little excited and very polite。
These formidable old creatures used to take her in
their arms； look very keenly in her eyes； and then to
bless her； and tell her that she must mind and be a good
girl； or detect a look in her face something like Richard’s
as a small boy。 That drew down upon her her mother’s
fervent embrace； and she was