76
Paul. He remembered that because he always thought it such a good name
for a villain. "Vronsky," said Mrs. Ramsay; "Oh, Anna Karenina,"
119
but
that did not take them very far; books were not in their line. No,
Charles Tansley would put them both right in a second about books, but
it was all so mixed up with, Am I saying the right thing? Am I making
a good impression? that, after all, one knew more about him than
about Tolstoi, whereas, what Paul said was about the thing, simply, not
himself, nothing else. Like all stupid people, he had a kind of
modesty too, a consideration for what you were feeling, which, once in
a way at least, she found attractive. Now he was thinking, not about
himself, or about Tolstoi, but whether she was cold, whether she felt a
draught, whether she would like a pear.
No, she said, she did not want a pear. Indeed she had been keeping
guard over the dish of fruit (without realising it) jealously, hoping
that nobody would touch it. Her eyes had been going in and out among
the curves and shadows of the fruit, among the rich purples of the
lowland grapes, then over the horny ridge of the shell, putting a
yellow against a purple, a curved shape against a round shape, without
knowing why she did it, or why, every time she did it, she felt more
and more serene; until, oh, what a pity that they should do it--a hand
reached out, took a pear, and spoilt the whole thing. In sympathy she
looked at Rose. She looked at Rose sitting between Jasper and Prue.
How odd that one's child should do that!
How odd to see them sitting there, in a row, her children, Jasper,
Rose, Prue, Andrew, almost silent, but with some joke of their own
going on, she guessed, from the twitching at their lips. It was
something quite apart from everything else, something they were
hoarding up to laugh over in their own room. It was not about their
father, she hoped. No, she thought not. What was it, she wondered,
sadly rather, for it seemed to her that they would laugh when she was
not there. There was all that hoarded behind those rather set, still,
mask-like faces, for they did not join in easily; they were like
watchers, surveyors, a little raised or set apart from the grown-up
people. But when she looked at Prue tonight, she saw that this was
not now quite true of her. She was just beginning, just moving,
just descending. The faintest light was on her face, as if the
glow of Minta opposite, some excitement, some anticipation of happiness
was reflected in her, as if the sun of the love of men and women rose
over the rim of the table-cloth, and without knowing what it was she
bent towards it and greeted it. She kept looking at Minta, shyly, yet
curiously, so that Mrs. Ramsay looked from one to the other and said,
speaking to Prue in her own mind, You will be as happy as she is one of
these days. You will be much happier, she added, because you are my
119
Tolstoy’s novel Anna Karenina (1878) depicts a woman’s adultery; Vronsky is the title character’s lover.