not a drop of HIM in me！”
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Virginia Woolf
CHAPTER IV
At about nine o’clock at night； on every alternate Wednesday；
Miss Mary Datchet made the same resolve； that she
would never again lend her rooms for any purposes whatsoever。
Being； as they were； rather large and conveniently
situated in a street mostly dedicated to offices off the
Strand； people who wished to meet； either for purposes
of enjoyment； or to discuss art； or to reform the State；
had a way of suggesting that Mary had better be asked to
lend them her rooms。 She always met the request with
the same frown of wellsimulated annoyance； which presently
dissolved in a kind of halfhumorous； halfsurly
shrug； as of a large dog tormented by children who shakes
his ears。 She would lend her room； but only on condition
that all the arrangements were made by her。 This fortnightly
meeting of a society for the free discussion of
everything entailed a great deal of moving； and pulling；
and ranging of furniture against the wall； and placing of
breakable and precious things in safe places。 Miss Datchet
was quite capable of lifting a kitchen table on her back；
if need were； for although wellproportioned and dressed
beingly； she had the appearance of unusual strength
and determination。
She was some twentyfive years of age； but looked older
because she earned； or intended to earn； her own living；
and had already lost the look of the irresponsible spectator；
and taken on that of the private in the army of workers。
Her gestures seemed to have a certain purpose； the
muscles round eyes and lips were set rather firmly； as
though the senses had undergone some discipline； and
were held ready for a call on them。 She had contracted
two faint lines between her eyebrows； not from anxiety
but from thought； and it was quite evident that all the
feminine instincts of pleasing； soothing； and charming
were crossed by others in no way peculiar to her sex。 For
the rest she was browneyed； a little clumsy in movement；
and suggested country birth and a descent from
respectable hardworking ancestors； who had been men
of faith and integrity rather than doubters or fanatics。
At the end of a fairly hard day’s work it was certainly
something of an effort to clear one’s room； to pull the
37
Night and Day
mattress off one’s bed； and lay it on the floor； to fill a
pitcher with cold coffee； and to sweep a long table clear
for plates and cups and saucers； with pyramids of little
pink biscuits between them； but when these alterations
were effected； Mary felt a lightness of spirit e to her；
as if she had put off the stout stuff of her working hours
and slipped over her entire being some vesture of thin；
bright silk。 She knelt before the fire and looked out into
the room。 The light fell softly； but with clear radiance；
through shades of yellow and blue paper； and the room；
which was set with one or two sofas resembling grassy
mounds in their lack of shape； looked unusually large and
quiet。 Mary was led to think of the heights of a Sussex
down； and the swelling green circle of some camp of ancient
warriors。 The moonlight would be falling there so
peacefully now； and she could fancy the rough pathway
of silver upon the wrinkled skin of the sea。
“And here we are；” she said； half aloud； half satirically；
yet with evident pride； “talking about art。”
She pulled a basket containing balls of differently colored
wools and a pair of stockings which needed darning
towards her； and began to set her fingers to work； while
her mind； reflecting the lassitude of her body； went on
perversely； conjuring up visions of solitude and quiet；
and she pictured herself laying aside her knitting and
walking out on to the down； and hearing nothing but the
sheep cropping the grass close to the roots； while the
shadows of the little trees moved very slightly this way
and that in the moonlight； as the breeze went through
them。 But she was perfectly conscious of her present situation；
and derived some pleasure from the reflection that
she could rejoice equally in solitude； and in the presence
of the many very different people who were now making
their way； by divers paths； across London to the spot
where she was sitting。
As she ran her needle in and out of the wool； she thought
of the various stages in her own life which made her
present position seem the culmination of successive
miracles。 She thought of her clerical father in his country
parsonage； and of her mother’s death； and of her own
determination to obtain education； and of her college
life； which had merged； not so very long ago； in the won
38
Virginia Woolf
derful maze of London； which still seemed to her； in spite
of her constitutional levelheadedness； like a vast electric
light； casting radiance upon the myriads of men and
women who crowded round it。 And here she was at the
very center of it all； that center which was constantly in
the minds of people in remote Canadian forests and on
the plains of India； when their thoughts turned to England。
The nine mellow strokes； by which she was now
apprised of the hour； were a message from the great clock
at Westminster itself。 As the last of them died away； there
was a firm knocking on her own door； and she rose and
opened it。 She returned to the room； with a look of steady
pleasure in her eyes； and she was talking to Ralph Denham；
who followed her。
“Alone？” he said； as if he were pleasantly surprised by
that fact。
“I am sometimes alone；” she replied。
“But you expect a great many people；” he added； looking
round him。 “It’s like a room on the stage。 Who is it
tonight？”
“William Rodney； upon the Elizabethan use of meta
phor。 I expect a good solid paper； with plenty of quotations
from the classics。”
Ralph warmed his hands at the fire； which was flapping
bravely in the grate； while Mary took up her stocking
again。
“I suppose you are the only woman in London who darns
her own stockings；” he observed。
“I’m only one of a great many thousands really；” she
replied； “though I must admit that I was thinking myself
very remarkable when you came in。 And now that you’re
here I don’t think myself remarkable at all。 How horrid of
you！ But I’m afraid you’re much more remarkable than I
am。 You’ve done much more than I’ve done。”
“If that’s your standard； you’ve nothing to be proud
of；” said Ralph grimly。
“Well； I must reflect with Emerson that it’s being and
not doing that matters；” she continued。
“Emerson？” Ralph exclaimed； with derision。 “You don’t
mean to say you read Emerson？”
“Perhaps it wasn’t Emerson； but why shouldn’t I read
Emerson？” she asked； with a tinge of anxiety。
39
Night and Day
“There’s no reason that I know of。 It’s the bination
that’s odd—books and stockings。 The bination is very
odd。” But it seemed to remend itself to him。 Mary gave
a little laugh； expressive of happiness； and the particular
stitches that she was now putting into her wor