to this Mrs。 Hilbery had in her own head as bright a vision
of that time as now remained to the living； and
could give those flashes and thrills to the old words which
gave them almost the substance of flesh。 She had no
difficulty in writing； and covered a page every morning
as instinctively as a thrush sings； but nevertheless； with
all this to urge and inspire； and the most devout intention
to acplish the work； the book still remained unwritten。
Papers accumulated without much furthering their
task； and in dull moments Katharine had her doubts
whether they would ever produce anything at all fit to
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Virginia Woolf
lay before the public。 Where did the difficulty lie？ Not in
their materials； alas！ nor in their ambitions； but in something
more profound； in her own inaptitude； and above
all； in her mother’s temperament。 Katharine would calculate
that she had never known her write for more than
ten minutes at a time。 Ideas came to her chiefly when
she was in motion。 She liked to perambulate the room
with a duster in her hand； with which she stopped to
polish the backs of already lustrous books； musing and
romancing as she did so。 Suddenly the right phrase or the
perating point of view would suggest itself； and she
would drop her duster and write ecstatically for a few
breathless moments； and then the mood would pass away；
and the duster would be sought for； and the old books
polished again。 These spells of inspiration never burnt
steadily； but flickered over the gigantic mass of the subject
as capriciously as a willo’thewisp； lighting now on
this point； now on that。 It was as much as Katharine
could do to keep the pages of her mother’s manuscript in
order； but to sort them so that the sixteenth year of Richard
Alardyce’s life succeeded the fifteenth was beyond
her skill。 And yet they were so brilliant； these paragraphs；
so nobly phrased； so lightninglike in their illumination；
that the dead seemed to crowd the very room。 Read continuously；
they produced a sort of vertigo； and set her
asking herself in despair what on earth she was to do
with them？ Her mother refused； also； to face the radical
questions of what to leave in and what to leave out。 She
could not decide how far the public was to be told the
truth about the poet’s separation from his wife。 She drafted
passages to suit either case； and then liked each so well
that she could not decide upon the rejection of either。
But the book must be written。 It was a duty that they
owed the world； and to Katharine； at least； it meant more
than that； for if they could not between them get this
one book acplished they had no right to their privileged
position。 Their increment became yearly more and
more unearned。 Besides； it must be established indisputably
that her grandfather was a very great man。
By the time she was twentyseven； these thoughts had
bee very familiar to her。 They trod their way through
her mind as she sat opposite her mother of a morning at
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Night and Day
a table heaped with bundles of old letters and well supplied
with pencils； scissors； bottles of gum； indiarubber
bands； large envelopes； and other appliances for the manufacture
of books。 Shortly before Ralph Denham’s visit；
Katharine had resolved to try the effect of strict rules
upon her mother’s habits of literary position。 They
were to be seated at their tables every morning at ten
o’clock； with a cleanswept morning of empty； secluded
hours before them。 They were to keep their eyes fast upon
the paper； and nothing was to tempt them to speech；
save at the stroke of the hour when ten minutes for relaxation
were to be allowed them。 If these rules were
observed for a year； she made out on a sheet of paper
that the pletion of the book was certain； and she laid
her scheme before her mother with a feeling that much
of the task was already acplished。 Mrs。 Hilbery examined
the sheet of paper very carefully。 Then she clapped
her hands and exclaimed enthusiastically：
“Well done； Katharine！ What a wonderful head for business
you’ve got！ Now I shall keep this before me； and
every day I shall make a little mark in my pocketbook；
and on the last day of all—let me think； what shall we do
to celebrate the last day of all？ If it weren’t the winter
we could take a jaunt to Italy。 They say Switzerland’s
very lovely in the snow； except for the cold。 But； as you
say； the great thing is to finish the book。 Now let me
see—”
When they inspected her manuscripts； which Katharine
had put in order； they found a state of things well calculated
to dash their spirits； if they had not just resolved
on reform。 They found； to begin with； a great variety of
very imposing paragraphs with which the biography was
to open； many of these； it is true； were unfinished； and
resembled triumphal arches standing upon one leg； but；
as Mrs。 Hilbery observed； they could be patched up in ten
minutes； if she gave her mind to it。 Next； there was an
account of the ancient home of the Alardyces； or rather；
of spring in Suffolk； which was very beautifully written；
although not essential to the story。 However； Katharine
had put together a string of names and dates； so that the
poet was capably brought into the world； and his ninth
year was reached without further mishap。 After that； Mrs。
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Virginia Woolf
Hilbery wished； for sentimental reasons； to introduce the
recollections of a very fluent old lady； who had been
brought up in the same village； but these Katharine decided
must go。 It might be advisable to introduce here a
sketch of contemporary poetry contributed by Mr。 Hilbery；
and thus terse and learned and altogether out of keeping
with the rest； but Mrs。 Hilbery was of opinion that it was
too bare； and made one feel altogether like a good little
girl in a lectureroom； which was not at all in keeping
with her father。 It was put on one side。 Now came the
period of his early manhood； when various affairs of the
heart must either be concealed or revealed； here again
Mrs。 Hilbery was of two minds； and a thick packet of
manuscript was shelved for further consideration。
Several years were now altogether omitted； because Mrs。
Hilbery had found something distasteful to her in that
period； and had preferred to dwell upon her own recollections
as a child。 After this； it seemed to Katharine
that the book became a wild dance of willo’thewisps；
without form or continuity； without coherence even； or
any attempt to make a narrative。 Here were twenty pages
upon her grandfather’s taste in hats； an essay upon contemporary
china； a long account of a summer day’s expedition
into the country； when they had missed their train；
together with fragmentary visions of all sorts of famous
men and women； which seemed to be partly imaginary
and partly authentic。 There were； moreover； thousands of
letters； and a mass of faithful recollections contributed
by old friends； which had grown yellow now in their envelopes；
but must be placed somewhere； or their feelings
would be hurt。 So many volumes had been written about
the poet since his death that she had also to dispose of
a great number of misstatements； which involved minute
researches and much correspondence。 Sometimes
Katharine brooded； half crushed； among her papers； sometimes
she felt that it was necessary for her very existence
that she should free herself from the past； at others； that
the past had pletely displaced the present； which；
when one resumed life after a morning among the dead；
proved to be of an utterly thin and inferior position。
The worst of it was that she had no aptitude for literature。
She did not like phrases。 She had even some natural
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Night and Day
antipathy to that process of selfexamination； that perpetual
effort to understand one’s own feeling； and express
it beautifully； fitly； or energetically in language；
which constituted so great a part of her mother’s existence。
She was； on the contrary； inclined to be silent； she
shrank from expressing herself even in talk； let alone in
writing。 As this disposition was highly convenient in a
family much given to the manufacture of phrases； and
seemed to argue a corresponding capacity for action； she
was； from her childhood even； put in charge of household
affairs。 She had the reputation； which nothing in
her manner contradicted； of being the most practical of
people。 Ordering meals； directing servants； paying bills；
and so contriving that every clock ticked more or less
accurately in time； and a number of vases were always
full of fresh flowers was supposed to be a natural endowment
of hers； and； indeed； Mrs。 Hilbery often observed
that it was poetry the wrong side out。 From a very early
age； too； she had to exert herself in another capacity；
she had to counsel and help and generally sustain her
mother。 Mrs。 Hilbery would have been perfectly well able
to sustain herself if the world had been what the world is
not。 She was beautifully adapted for life in another pla。
But t