Chapter XVI

by Virginia Woolf

　　Into that same black night, almost, indeed, into the very same layerof starlit air, Katharine Hilbery was now gazing, although not with aview to the prospects of a fine day for duck shooting on the morrow.She was walking up and down a gravel path in the garden of StogdonHouse, her sight of the heavens being partially intercepted by thelight leafless hoops of a pergola. Thus a spray of clematis wouldcompletely obscure Cassiopeia, or blot out with its black patternmyriads of miles of the Milky Way. At the end of the pergola, however,there was a stone seat, from which the sky could be seen completelyswept clear of any earthly interruption, save to the right, indeed,where a line of elm-trees was beautifully sprinkled with stars, and alow stable building had a full drop of quivering silver just issuingfrom the mouth of the chimney. It was a moonless night, but the lightof the stars was sufficient to show the outline of the young woman'sform, and the shape of her face gazing gravely, indeed almost sternly,into the sky. She had come out into the winter's night, which was mildenough, not so much to look with scientific eyes upon the stars, as toshake herself free from certain purely terrestrial discontents. Muchas a literary person in like circumstances would begin,absent-mindedly, pulling out volume after volume, so she stepped intothe garden in order to have the stars at hand, even though she did notlook at them. Not to be happy, when she was supposed to be happierthan she would ever be again--that, as far as she could see, was theorigin of a discontent which had begun almost as soon as she arrived,two days before, and seemed now so intolerable that she had left thefamily party, and come out here to consider it by herself. It was notshe who thought herself unhappy, but her cousins, who thought it forher. The house was full of cousins, much of her age, or even younger,and among them they had some terribly bright eyes. They seemed alwayson the search for something between her and Rodney, which theyexpected to find, and yet did not find; and when they searched,Katharine became aware of wanting what she had not been conscious ofwanting in London, alone with William and her parents. Or, if she didnot want it, she missed it. And this state of mind depressed her,because she had been accustomed always to give complete satisfaction,and her self-love was now a little ruffled. She would have liked tobreak through the reserve habitual to her in order to justify herengagement to some one whose opinion she valued. No one had spoken aword of criticism, but they left her alone with William; not that thatwould have mattered, if they had not left her alone so politely; and,perhaps, that would not have mattered if they had not seemed soqueerly silent, almost respectful, in her presence, which gave way tocriticism, she felt, out of it.Looking now and then at the sky, she went through the list of hercousins' names: Eleanor, Humphrey, Marmaduke, Silvia, Henry,Cassandra, Gilbert, and Mostyn--Henry, the cousin who taught the youngladies of Bungay to play upon the violin, was the only one in whom shecould confide, and as she walked up and down beneath the hoops of thepergola, she did begin a little speech to him, which ran somethinglike this:"To begin with, I'm very fond of William. You can't deny that. I knowhim better than any one, almost. But why I'm marrying him is, partly,I admit--I'm being quite honest with you, and you mustn't tell anyone--partly because I want to get married. I want to have a house ofmy own. It isn't possible at home. It's all very well for you, Henry;you can go your own way. I have to be there always. Besides, you knowwhat our house is. You wouldn't be happy either, if you didn't dosomething. It isn't that I haven't the time at home--it's theatmosphere." Here, presumably, she imagined that her cousin, who hadlistened with his usual intelligent sympathy, raised his eyebrows alittle, and interposed:"Well, but what do you want to do?"Even in this purely imaginary dialogue, Katharine found it difficultto confide her ambition to an imaginary companion."I should like," she began, and hesitated quite a long time before sheforced herself to add, with a change of voice, "to studymathematics--to know about the stars."Henry was clearly amazed, but too kind to express all his doubts; heonly said something about the difficulties of mathematics, andremarked that very little was known about the stars.Katharine thereupon went on with the statement of her case."I don't care much whether I ever get to know anything--but I want towork out something in figures--something that hasn't got to do withhuman beings. I don't want people particularly. In some ways, Henry,I'm a humbug--I mean, I'm not what you all take me for. I'm notdomestic, or very practical or sensible, really. And if I couldcalculate things, and use a telescope, and have to work out figures,and know to a fraction where I was wrong, I should be perfectly happy,and I believe I should give William all he wants."Having reached this point, instinct told her that she had passedbeyond the region in which Henry's advice could be of any good; and,having rid her mind of its superficial annoyance, she sat herself uponthe stone seat, raised her eyes unconsciously and thought about thedeeper questions which she had to decide, she knew, for herself. Wouldshe, indeed, give William all he wanted? In order to decide thequestion, she ran her mind rapidly over her little collection ofsignificant sayings, looks, compliments, gestures, which had markedtheir intercourse during the last day or two. He had been annoyedbecause a box, containing some clothes specially chosen by him for herto wear, had been taken to the wrong station, owing to her neglect inthe matter of labels. The box had arrived in the nick of time, and hehad remarked, as she came downstairs on the first night, that he hadnever seen her look more beautiful. She outshone all her cousins. Hehad discovered that she never made an ugly movement; he also said thatthe shape of her head made it possible for her, unlike most women, towear her hair low. He had twice reproved her for being silent atdinner; and once for never attending to what he said. He had beensurprised at the excellence of her French accent, but he thought itwas selfish of her not to go with her mother to call upon theMiddletons, because they were old family friends and very nice people.On the whole, the balance was nearly even; and, writing down a kind ofconclusion in her mind which finished the sum for the present, atleast, she changed the focus of her eyes, and saw nothing but thestars.To-night they seemed fixed with unusual firmness in the blue, andflashed back such a ripple of light into her eyes that she foundherself thinking that to-night the stars were happy. Without knowingor caring more for Church practices than most people of her age,Katharine could not look into the sky at Christmas time withoutfeeling that, at this one season, the Heavens bend over the earth withsympathy, and signal with immortal radiance that they, too, take partin her festival. Somehow, it seemed to her that they were even nowbeholding the procession of kings and wise men upon some road on adistant part of the earth. And yet, after gazing for another second,the stars did their usual work upon the mind, froze to cinders thewhole of our short human history, and reduced the human body to anape-like, furry form, crouching amid the brushwood of a barbarous clodof mud. This stage was soon succeeded by another, in which there wasnothing in the universe save stars and the light of stars; as shelooked up the pupils of her eyes so dilated with starlight that thewhole of her seemed dissolved in silver and spilt over the ledges ofthe stars for ever and ever indefinitely through space. Somehowsimultaneously, though incongruously, she was riding with themagnanimous hero upon the shore or under forest trees, and so mighthave continued were it not for the rebuke forcibly administered by thebody, which, content with the normal conditions of life, in no wayfurthers any attempt on the part of the mind to alter them. She grewcold, shook herself, rose, and walked towards the house.By the light of the stars, Stogdon House looked pale and romantic, andabout twice its natural size. Built by a retired admiral in the earlyyears of the nineteenth century, the curving bow windows of the front,now filled with reddish-yellow light, suggested a portly three-decker,sailing seas where those dolphins and narwhals who disport themselvesupon the edges of old maps were scattered with an impartial hand. Asemicircular flight of shallow steps led to a very large door, whichKatharine had left ajar. She hesitated, cast her eyes over the frontof the house, marked that a light burnt in one small window upon anupper floor, and pushed the door open. For a moment she stood in thesquare hall, among many horned skulls, sallow globes, crackedoil-paintings, and stuffed owls, hesitating, it seemed, whether sheshould open the door on her right, through which the stir of lifereached her ears. Listening for a moment, she heard a sound whichdecided her, apparently, not to enter; her uncle, Sir Francis, wasplaying his nightly game of whist; it appeared probable that he waslosing.She went up the curving stairway, which represented the one attempt atceremony in the otherwise rather dilapidated mansion, and down anarrow passage until she came to the room whose light she had seenfrom the garden. Knocking, she was told to come in. A young man, HenryOtway, was reading, with his feet on the fender. He had a fine head,the brow arched in the Elizabethan manner, but the gentle, honest eyeswere rather skeptical than glowing with the Elizabethan vigor. He gavethe impression that he had not yet found the cause which suited histemperament.He turned, put down his book, and looked at her. He noticed her ratherpale, dew-drenched look, as of one whose mind is not altogethersettled in the body. He had often laid his difficulties before her,and guessed, in some ways hoped, that perhaps she now had need of him.At the same time, she carried on her life with such independence thathe scarcely expected any confidence to be expressed in words."You have fled, too, then?" he said, looking at her cloak. Katharinehad forgotten to remove this token of her star-gazing."Fled?" she asked. "From whom d'you mean? Oh, the family party. Yes,it was hot down there, so I went into the garden.""And aren't you very cold?" Henry inquired, placing coal on the fire,drawing a chair up to the grate, and laying aside her cloak. Herindifference to such details often forced Henry to act the partgenerally taken by women in such dealings. It was one of the tiesbetween them."Thank you, Henry," she said. "I'm not disturbing you?""I'm not here. I'm at Bungay," he replied. "I'm giving a music lessonto Harold and Julia. That was why I had to leave the table with theladies--I'm spending the night there, and I shan't be back till lateon Christmas Eve.""How I wish--" Katharine began, and stopped short. "I think theseparties are a great mistake," she added briefly, and sighed."Oh, horrible!" he agreed; and they both fell silent.Her sigh made him look at her. Should he venture to ask her why shesighed? Was her reticence about her own affairs as inviolable as ithad often been convenient for rather an egoistical young man to thinkit? But since her engagement to Rodney, Henry's feeling towards herhad become rather complex; equally divided between an impulse to hurther and an impulse to be tender to her; and all the time he suffered acurious irritation from the sense that she was drifting away from himfor ever upon unknown seas. On her side, directly Katharine got intohis presence, and the sense of the stars dropped from her, she knewthat any intercourse between people is extremely partial; from thewhole mass of her feelings, only one or two could be selected forHenry's inspection, and therefore she sighed. Then she looked at him,and their eyes meeting, much more seemed to be in common between themthan had appeared possible. At any rate they had a grandfather incommon; at any rate there was a kind of loyalty between them sometimesfound between relations who have no other cause to like each other, asthese two had."Well, what's the date of the wedding?" said Henry, the malicious moodnow predominating."I think some time in March," she replied."And afterwards?" he asked."We take a house, I suppose, somewhere in Chelsea.""It's very interesting," he observed, stealing another look at her.She lay back in her arm-chair, her feet high upon the side of thegrate, and in front of her, presumably to screen her eyes, she held anewspaper from which she picked up a sentence or two now and again.Observing this, Henry remarked:"Perhaps marriage will make you more human."At this she lowered the newspaper an inch or two, but said nothing.Indeed, she sat quite silent for over a minute."When you consider things like the stars, our affairs don't seem tomatter very much, do they?" she said suddenly."I don't think I ever do consider things like the stars," Henryreplied. "I'm not sure that that's not the explanation, though," headded, now observing her steadily."I doubt whether there is an explanation," she replied ratherhurriedly, not clearly understanding what he meant."What? No explanation of anything?" he inquired, with a smile."Oh, things happen. That's about all," she let drop in her casual,decided way."That certainly seems to explain some of your actions," Henry thoughtto himself."One thing's about as good as another, and one's got to do something,"he said aloud, expressing what he supposed to be her attitude, much inher accent. Perhaps she detected the imitation, for looking gently athim, she said, with ironical composure:"Well, if you believe that your life must be simple, Henry.""But I don't believe it," he said shortly."No more do I," she replied."What about the stars?" he asked a moment later. "I understand thatyou rule your life by the stars?"She let this pass, either because she did not attend to it, or becausethe tone was not to her liking.Once more she paused, and then she inquired:"But do you always understand why you do everything? Ought one tounderstand? People like my mother understand," she reflected. "Now Imust go down to them, I suppose, and see what's happening.""What could be happening?" Henry protested."Oh, they may want to settle something," she replied vaguely, puttingher feet on the ground, resting her chin on her hands, and looking outof her large dark eyes contemplatively at the fire."And then there's William," she added, as if by an afterthought.Henry very nearly laughed, but restrained himself."Do they know what coals are made of, Henry?" she asked, a momentlater."Mares' tails, I believe," he hazarded."Have you ever been down a coal-mine?" she went on."Don't let's talk about coal-mines, Katharine," he protested. "Weshall probably never see each other again.When you're married--"Tremendously to his surprise, he saw the tears stand in her eyes."Why do you all tease me?" she said. "It isn't kind."Henry could not pretend that he was altogether ignorant of hermeaning, though, certainly, he had never guessed that she minded theteasing. But before he knew what to say, her eyes were clear again,and the sudden crack in the surface was almost filled up."Things aren't easy, anyhow," she stated.Obeying an impulse of genuine affection, Henry spoke."Promise me, Katharine, that if I can ever help you, you will let me."She seemed to consider, looking once more into the red of the fire,and decided to refrain from any explanation."Yes, I promise that," she said at length, and Henry felt himselfgratified by her complete sincerity, and began to tell her now aboutthe coal-mine, in obedience to her love of facts.They were, indeed, descending the shaft in a small cage, and couldhear the picks of the miners, something like the gnawing of rats, inthe earth beneath them, when the door was burst open, without anyknocking."Well, here you are!" Rodney exclaimed. Both Katharine and Henryturned round very quickly and rather guiltily. Rodney was in eveningdress. It was clear that his temper was ruffled."That's where you've been all the time," he repeated, looking atKatharine."I've only been here about ten minutes," she replied."My dear Katharine, you left the drawing-room over an hour ago."She said nothing."Does it very much matter?" Henry asked.Rodney found it hard to be unreasonable in the presence of anotherman, and did not answer him."They don't like it," he said. "It isn't kind to old people to leavethem alone--although I've no doubt it's much more amusing to sit uphere and talk to Henry.""We were discussing coal-mines," said Henry urbanely."Yes. But we were talking about much more interesting things beforethat," said Katharine.From the apparent determination to hurt him with which she spoke,Henry thought that some sort of explosion on Rodney's part was aboutto take place."I can quite understand that," said Rodney, with his little chuckle,leaning over the back of his chair and tapping the woodwork lightlywith his fingers. They were all silent, and the silence was acutelyuncomfortable to Henry, at least."Was it very dull, William?" Katharine suddenly asked, with a completechange of tone and a little gesture of her hand."Of course it was dull," William said sulkily."Well, you stay and talk to Henry, and I'll go down," she replied.She rose as she spoke, and as she turned to leave the room, she laidher hand, with a curiously caressing gesture, upon Rodney's shoulder.Instantly Rodney clasped her hand in his, with such an impulse ofemotion that Henry was annoyed, and rather ostentatiously opened abook."I shall come down with you," said William, as she drew back her hand,and made as if to pass him."Oh no," she said hastily. "You stay here and talk to Henry.""Yes, do," said Henry, shutting up his book again. His invitation waspolite, without being precisely cordial. Rodney evidently hesitated asto the course he should pursue, but seeing Katharine at the door, heexclaimed:"No. I want to come with you."She looked back, and said in a very commanding tone, and with anexpression of authority upon her face:"It's useless for you to come. I shall go to bed in ten minutes. Goodnight."She nodded to them both, but Henry could not help noticing that herlast nod was in his direction. Rodney sat down rather heavily.His mortification was so obvious that Henry scarcely liked to open theconversation with some remark of a literary character. On the otherhand, unless he checked him, Rodney might begin to talk about hisfeelings, and irreticence is apt to be extremely painful, at any ratein prospect. He therefore adopted a middle course; that is to say, hewrote a note upon the fly-leaf of his book, which ran, "The situationis becoming most uncomfortable." This he decorated with thoseflourishes and decorative borders which grow of themselves upon theseoccasions; and as he did so, he thought to himself that whateverKatharine's difficulties might be, they did not justify her behavior.She had spoken with a kind of brutality which suggested that, whetherit is natural or assumed, women have a peculiar blindness to thefeelings of men.The penciling of this note gave Rodney time to recover himself.Perhaps, for he was a very vain man, he was more hurt that Henry hadseen him rebuffed than by the rebuff itself. He was in love withKatharine, and vanity is not decreased but increased by love;especially, one may hazard, in the presence of one's own sex. ButRodney enjoyed the courage which springs from that laughable andlovable defect, and when he had mastered his first impulse, in someway to make a fool of himself, he drew inspiration from the perfectfit of his evening dress. He chose a cigarette, tapped it on the backof his hand, displayed his exquisite pumps on the edge of the fender,and summoned his self-respect."You've several big estates round here, Otway," he began. "Any goodhunting? Let me see, what pack would it be? Who's your great man?""Sir William Budge, the sugar king, has the biggest estate. He boughtout poor Stanham, who went bankrupt.""Which Stanham would that be? Verney or Alfred?""Alfred. . . . I don't hunt myself. You're a great huntsman, aren'tyou? You have a great reputation as a horseman, anyhow," he added,desiring to help Rodney in his effort to recover his complacency."Oh, I love riding," Rodney replied. "Could I get a horse down here?Stupid of me! I forgot to bring any clothes. I can't imagine, though,who told you I was anything of a rider?"To tell the truth, Henry labored under the same difficulty; he did notwish to introduce Katharine's name, and, therefore, he replied vaguelythat he had always heard that Rodney was a great rider. In truth, hehad heard very little about him, one way or another, accepting him asa figure often to be found in the background at his aunt's house, andinevitably, though inexplicably, engaged to his cousin."I don't care much for shooting," Rodney continued; "but one has to doit, unless one wants to be altogether out of things. I dare saythere's some very pretty country round here. I stayed once at BolhamHall. Young Cranthorpe was up with you, wasn't he? He married old LordBolham's daughter. Very nice people--in their way.""I don't mix in that society," Henry remarked, rather shortly. ButRodney, now started on an agreeable current of reflection, could notresist the temptation of pursuing it a little further. He appeared tohimself as a man who moved easily in very good society, and knewenough about the true values of life to be himself above it."Oh, but you should," he went on. "It's well worth staying there,anyhow, once a year. They make one very comfortable, and the women areravishing.""The women?" Henry thought to himself, with disgust. "What could anywoman see in you?" His tolerance was rapidly becoming exhausted, buthe could not help liking Rodney nevertheless, and this appeared to himstrange, for he was fastidious, and such words in another mouth wouldhave condemned the speaker irreparably. He began, in short, to wonderwhat kind of creature this man who was to marry his cousin might be.Could any one, except a rather singular character, afford to be soridiculously vain?"I don't think I should get on in that society," he replied. "I don'tthink I should know what to say to Lady Rose if I met her.""I don't find any difficulty," Rodney chuckled. "You talk to themabout their children, if they have any, or their accomplishments--painting, gardening, poetry--they're so delightfully sympathetic.Seriously, you know I think a woman's opinion of one's poetry isalways worth having. Don't ask them for their reasons. Just ask themfor their feelings. Katharine, for example--""Katharine," said Henry, with an emphasis upon the name, almost as ifhe resented Rodney's use of it, "Katharine is very unlike most women.""Quite," Rodney agreed. "She is--" He seemed about to describe her,and he hesitated for a long time. "She's looking very well," hestated, or rather almost inquired, in a different tone from that inwhich he had been speaking. Henry bent his head."But, as a family, you're given to moods, eh?""Not Katharine," said Henry, with decision."Not Katharine," Rodney repeated, as if he weighed the meaning of thewords. "No, perhaps you're right. But her engagement has changed her.Naturally," he added, "one would expect that to be so." He waited forHenry to confirm this statement, but Henry remained silent."Katharine has had a difficult life, in some ways," he continued. "Iexpect that marriage will be good for her. She has great powers.""Great," said Henry, with decision."Yes--but now what direction d'you think they take?"Rodney had completely dropped his pose as a man of the world, andseemed to be asking Henry to help him in a difficulty."I don't know," Henry hesitated cautiously."D'you think children--a household--that sort of thing--d'you thinkthat'll satisfy her? Mind, I'm out all day.""She would certainly be very competent," Henry stated."Oh, she's wonderfully competent," said Rodney. "But--I get absorbedin my poetry. Well, Katharine hasn't got that. She admires my poetry,you know, but that wouldn't be enough for her?""No," said Henry. He paused. "I think you're right," he added, as ifhe were summing up his thoughts. "Katharine hasn't found herself yet.Life isn't altogether real to her yet--I sometimes think--""Yes?" Rodney inquired, as if he were eager for Henry to continue."That is what I--" he was going on, as Henry remained silent, but thesentence was not finished, for the door opened, and they wereinterrupted by Henry's younger brother Gilbert, much to Henry'srelief, for he had already said more than he liked.