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as a small boy。 That drew down upon her her mother’s
fervent embrace； and she was sent back to the nursery
very proud； and with a mysterious sense of an important
and unexplained state of things； which time； by degrees；
unveiled to her。
There were always visitors—uncles and aunts and cousins
“from India；” to be reverenced for their relationship
alone； and others of the solitary and formidable class；
whom she was enjoined by her parents to “remember all
your life。” By these means； and from hearing constant
talk of great men and their works； her earliest conceptions
of the world included an august circle of beings to
whom she gave the names of Shakespeare； Milton；
Wordsworth； Shelley； and so on； who were； for some reason；
much more nearly akin to the Hilberys than to other
people。 They made a kind of boundary to her vision of
life； and played a considerable part in determining her
scale of good and bad in her own small affairs。 Her descent
from one of these gods was no surprise to her； but
matter for satisfaction； until； as the years wore on； the
privileges of her lot were taken for granted； and certain
drawbacks made themselves very manifest。 Perhaps it is
a little depressing to inherit not lands but an example of
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Night and Day
intellectual and spiritual virtue； perhaps the conclusiveness
of a great ancestor is a little discouraging to those
who run the risk of parison with him。 It seems as if；
having flowered so splendidly； nothing now remained
possible but a steady growth of good； green stalk and
leaf。 For these reasons； and for others； Katharine had her
moments of despondency。 The glorious past； in which men
and women grew to unexampled size； intruded too much
upon the present； and dwarfed it too consistently； to be
altogether encouraging to one forced to make her experiment
in living when the great age was dead。
She was drawn to dwell upon these matters more than
was natural； in the first place owing to her mother’s absorption
in them； and in the second because a great part
of her time was spent in imagination with the dead； since
she was helping her mother to produce a life of the great
poet。 When Katharine was seventeen or eighteen—that
is to say； some ten years ago—her mother had enthusiastically
announced that now； with a daughter to help
her； the biography would soon be published。 Notices to
this effect found their way into the literary papers； and
for some time Katharine worked with a sense of great
pride and achievement。
Lately； however； it had seemed to her that they were
making no way at all； and this was the more tantalizing
because no one with the ghost of a literary temperament
could doubt but that they had materials for one of the
greatest biographies that has ever been written。 Shelves
and boxes bulged with the precious stuff。 The most private
lives of the most interesting people lay furled in
yellow bundles of closewritten manuscript。 In addition
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
wit