The Hours Read Online Free PDF

eyes and wet, hushed breathing. She washes her face and does not look, certainly not this morning, not when the work is waiting for her and she is anxious to join it the way she might join a party that had already started downstairs, a party full of wit and beauty certainly but full, too, of something finer than wit or beauty; something mysterious and golden; a spark of profound celebration, of life itself, as silks rustle across polished floors and secrets are whispered under the music. She, Virginia, could be a girl in a new dress, about to go down to a party, about to appear on the stairs, fresh and full of hope. No, she will not look in the mirror. She finishes washing her face.
    When she is finished in the bathroom she descends into the dusky morning quiet of the hall. She wears her pale blue housecoat. Night still resides here. Hogarth House is always nocturnal, even with its chaos of papers and books, its bright hassocks and Persian rugs. It is not dark in itself but it seems to be illuminated against darkness, even as the wan, early sun shines between the curtains and cars and carriages rumble by on Paradise Road.
    Virginia pours herself a cup of coffee in the dining room, walks quietly downstairs, but does not go to Nelly in the kitchen. This morning, she wants to get straight to work without risking exposure to Nelly’s bargainings and grievances. It could be a good day; it needs to be treated carefully. Balancing the cup on its saucer, she goes into the printing room. Leonard
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    i s sitting at his desk, reading page proofs. It is too early yet for Ralph or Marjorie.
    Leonard looks up at her, still wearing, for a moment, the scowl he has brought to the proofs. It is an expression she trusts and fears, his eyes blazing and impenetrably dark under his heavy brows, the corners of his mouth turned down in an expression of judgment that is severe but not in any way petulant or trivial—the frown of a deity, all-seeing and weary, hoping for the best from humankind, knowing just how much to expect. It is the expression he brings to all written work, including, and especially, her own. As he looks at her, though, the expression fades almost immediately and is replaced by the milder, kinder face of the husband who has nursed her through her worst periods, who does not demand what she can’t provide and who urges on her, sometimes successfully, a glass of milk every morning at eleven.
    ‘‘Good morning,’’ she says.
    ‘‘Good morning. How was your sleep?’’
    How was your sleep, he asks, as if sleep were not an act but a creature that could be either docile or fierce. Virginia says, ‘‘It was uneventful. Are those Tom’s?’’
    ‘‘Yes.’’
    ‘‘How do they look?’’
    He scowls again. ‘‘I’ve found an error already, and I’m not quite through the second page.’’
    ‘‘One error at the beginning is quite likely just that. It’s early in the day to be so bent on irritation, don’t you think?’’
    ‘‘Have you had breakfast?’’ he asks.
    ‘‘Yes.’’
    ‘‘Liar.’’
    ‘‘I’m having coffee with cream for breakfast. It’s enough.’’
    ‘‘It’s far from enough. I’m going to have Nelly bring you a bun and some fruit.’’ ‘‘If you send Nelly in to interrupt me I won’t be responsible for my actions.’’
    ‘‘You must eat,’’ he says. ‘‘It doesn’t have to be much.’’
    ‘‘I’ll eat later. I’m going to work now.’’
    He hesitates, then nods grudgingly. He does not, will not, interfere with her work. Still, Virginia refusing to eat is not a good sign.
    ‘‘You will have lunch,’’ he says. ‘‘A true lunch, soup, pudding, and all. By force, if it comes to that.’’
    ‘‘I will have lunch,’’ she says, impatiently but without true anger. She stands tall, haggard, marvelous in her housecoat, the coffee steaming in her hand. He is still, at times, astonished by her. She may be the most intelligent woman in England, he thinks.