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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　
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　man