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 grave.
“It’s unthinkable,” she said. “Don’t tell me you’re a suffragist?” she turned to Ridley.
“I don’t care a fig one way or t’other,” said Ambrose. “If any creature is so deluded as to think that a vote does him or her any good, let him have it. He’ll soon learn better.”
“You’re not a politician, I see,” she smiled.
“Goodness, no,” said Ridley.
“I’m afraid your husband won’t approve of me,” said Dalloway aside, to Mrs. Ambrose. She suddenly recollected that he had been in Parliament.
“Don’t you ever find it rather dull?” she asked, not knowing exactly what to say.
Richard spread his hands before him, as if inscriptions bearing on what she asked him were to be read in the palms of them.
“If you ask me whether I ever find it rather dull,” he said, “I am bound to say yes; on the other hand, if you ask me what career do you consider on the whole, taking the good with the bad, the most enjoyable and enviable, not to speak of its more serious side, of all careers, for a man, I am bound to say, ‘The Politician’s.’ ”
“The Bar or politics, I agree,” said Willoughby. “You get more run for your money.”
“All one’s faculties have their play,” said Richard. “I may be treading on dangerous ground; but what I feel about poets and artists in general is this: on your own lines, you can’t be beaten—granted; but off your own lines—puff—one has to make allowances. Now, I shouldn’t like to think that any one had to make allowances for me.”
“I don’t quite agree, Richard,” said Mrs. Dalloway. “Think of Shelley. I feel that there’s almost everything one wants in ‘Adonais.’ ” 3
“Read ‘Adonais’ by all means,” Richard conceded. “But wheneverI hear of Shelley I repeat to myself the words of Matthew Arnold, ‘What a set! What a set!’ ” 4
This roused Ridley’s attention. “Matthew Arnold? A detestable prig!” he snapped.
“A prig—granted,” said Richard; “but, I think, a man of the world. That’s where my point comes in. We politicians doubtless seem to you” (he had grasped somehow that Helen was the representative of the arts) “a gross commonplace set of people; but we see both sides; we may be clumsy, but we do our best to get a grasp of things. Now your artists
find
things in a mess, shrug their shoulders, turn aside to their visions—which I grant may be very beautiful—and
leave
things in a mess. Now that seems to me evading one’s responsibilities. Besides, we aren’t all born with the artistic faculty.”
“It’s dreadful,” said Mrs. Dalloway, who, while her husband spoke, had been thinking. “When I’m with artists I feel so intensely the delights of shutting oneself up in a little world of one’s own, with pictures and music and everything beautiful, and then
“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 grave.
“It’s unthinkable,” she said. “Don’t tell me you’re a suffragist?” she turned to Ridley.
“I don’t care a fig one way or t’other,” said Ambrose. “If any creature is so deluded as to think that a vote does him or her any good, let him have it. He’ll soon learn better.”
“You’re not a politician, I see,” she smiled.
“Goodness, no,” said Ridley.
“I’m afraid your husband won’t approve of me,” said Dalloway aside, to Mrs. Ambrose. She suddenly recollected that he had been in Parliament.
“Don’t you ever find it rather dull?” she asked, not knowing exactly what to say.
Richard spread his hands before him, as if inscriptions bearing on what she asked him were to be read in the palms of them.
“If you ask me whether I ever find it rather dull,” he said, “I am bound to say yes; on the other hand, if you ask me what career do you consider on the whole, taking the good with the bad, the most enjoyable and enviable, not to speak of its more serious side, of all careers, for a man, I am bound to say, ‘The Politician’s.’ ”
“The Bar or politics, I agree,” said Willoughby. “You get more run for your money.”
“All one’s faculties have their play,” said Richard. “I may be treading on dangerous ground; but what I feel about poets and artists in general is this: on your own lines, you can’t be beaten—granted; but off your own lines—puff—one has to make allowances. Now, I shouldn’t like to think that any one had to make allowances for me.”
“I don’t quite agree, Richard,” said Mrs. Dalloway. “Think of Shelley. I feel that there’s almost everything one wants in ‘Adonais.’ ” 3
“Read ‘Adonais’ by all means,” Richard conceded. “But wheneverI hear of Shelley I repeat to myself the words of Matthew Arnold, ‘What a set! What a set!’ ” 4
This roused Ridley’s attention. “Matthew Arnold? A detestable prig!” he snapped.
“A prig—granted,” said Richard; “but, I think, a man of the world. That’s where my point comes in. We politicians doubtless seem to you” (he had grasped somehow that Helen was the representative of the arts) “a gross commonplace set of people; but we see both sides; we may be clumsy, but we do our best to get a grasp of things. Now your artists
find
things in a mess, shrug their shoulders, turn aside to their visions—which I grant may be very beautiful—and
leave
things in a mess. Now that seems to me evading one’s responsibilities. Besides, we aren’t all born with the artistic faculty.”
“It’s dreadful,” said Mrs. Dalloway, who, while her husband spoke, had been thinking. “When I’m with artists I feel so intensely the delights of shutting oneself up in a little world of one’s own, with pictures and music and everything beautiful, and then
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