Chapter XXI

by Virginia Woolf

　　Mary walked to the nearest station and reached home in an incrediblyshort space of time, just so much, indeed, as was needed for theintelligent understanding of the news of the world as the "WestminsterGazette" reported it. Within a few minutes of opening her door, shewas in trim for a hard evening's work. She unlocked a drawer and tookout a manuscript, which consisted of a very few pages, entitled, in aforcible hand, "Some Aspects of the Democratic State." The aspectsdwindled out in a cries-cross of blotted lines in the very middle of asentence, and suggested that the author had been interrupted, orconvinced of the futility of proceeding, with her pen in theair. . . . Oh, yes, Ralph had come in at that point. She scored thatsheet very effectively, and, choosing a fresh one, began at a greatrate with a generalization upon the structure of human society, whichwas a good deal bolder than her custom. Ralph had told her once thatshe couldn't write English, which accounted for those frequent blotsand insertions; but she put all that behind her, and drove ahead withsuch words as came her way, until she had accomplished half a page ofgeneralization and might legitimately draw breath. Directly her handstopped her brain stopped too, and she began to listen. A paper-boyshouted down the street; an omnibus ceased and lurched on again withthe heave of duty once more shouldered; the dullness of the soundssuggested that a fog had risen since her return, if, indeed, a fog haspower to deaden sound, of which fact, she could not be sure at thepresent moment. It was the sort of fact Ralph Denham knew. At anyrate, it was no concern of hers, and she was about to dip a pen whenher ear was caught by the sound of a step upon the stone staircase.She followed it past Mr. Chippen's chambers; past Mr. Gibson's; pastMr. Turner's; after which it became her sound. A postman, awasherwoman, a circular, a bill--she presented herself with each ofthese perfectly natural possibilities; but, to her surprise, her mindrejected each one of them impatiently, even apprehensively. The stepbecame slow, as it was apt to do at the end of the steep climb, andMary, listening for the regular sound, was filled with an intolerablenervousness. Leaning against the table, she felt the knock of herheart push her body perceptibly backwards and forwards--a state ofnerves astonishing and reprehensible in a stable woman. Grotesquefancies took shape. Alone, at the top of the house, an unknown personapproaching nearer and nearer--how could she escape? There was no wayof escape. She did not even know whether that oblong mark on theceiling was a trap-door to the roof or not. And if she got on to theroof--well, there was a drop of sixty feet or so on to the pavement.But she sat perfectly still, and when the knock sounded, she got updirectly and opened the door without hesitation. She saw a tall figureoutside, with something ominous to her eyes in the look of it."What do you want?" she said, not recognizing the face in the fitfullight of the staircase."Mary? I'm Katharine Hilbery!"Mary's self-possession returned almost excessively, and her welcomewas decidedly cold, as if she must recoup herself for this ridiculouswaste of emotion. She moved her green-shaded lamp to another table,and covered "Some Aspects of the Democratic State" with a sheet ofblotting-paper."Why can't they leave me alone?" she thought bitterly, connectingKatharine and Ralph in a conspiracy to take from her even this hour ofsolitary study, even this poor little defence against the world. And,as she smoothed down the sheet of blotting-paper over the manuscript,she braced herself to resist Katharine, whose presence struck her, notmerely by its force, as usual, but as something in the nature of amenace."You're working?" said Katharine, with hesitation, perceiving that shewas not welcome."Nothing that matters," Mary replied, drawing forward the best of thechairs and poking the fire."I didn't know you had to work after you had left the office," saidKatharine, in a tone which gave the impression that she was thinkingof something else, as was, indeed, the case.She had been paying calls with her mother, and in between the callsMrs. Hilbery had rushed into shops and bought pillow-cases andblotting-books on no perceptible method for the furnishing ofKatharine's house. Katharine had a sense of impedimenta accumulatingon all sides of her. She had left her at length, and had come on tokeep an engagement to dine with Rodney at his rooms. But she did notmean to get to him before seven o'clock, and so had plenty of time towalk all the way from Bond Street to the Temple if she wished it. Theflow of faces streaming on either side of her had hypnotized her intoa mood of profound despondency, to which her expectation of an eveningalone with Rodney contributed. They were very good friends again,better friends, they both said, than ever before. So far as she wasconcerned this was true. There were many more things in him than shehad guessed until emotion brought them forth--strength, affection,sympathy. And she thought of them and looked at the faces passing, andthought how much alike they were, and how distant, nobody feelinganything as she felt nothing, and distance, she thought, layinevitably between the closest, and their intimacy was the worstpresence of all. For, "Oh dear," she thought, looking into atobacconist's window, "I don't care for any of them, and I don't carefor William, and people say this is the thing that matters most, and Ican't see what they mean by it."She looked desperately at the smooth-bowled pipes, and wondered--should she walk on by the Strand or by the Embankment? It was not asimple question, for it concerned not different streets so much asdifferent streams of thought. If she went by the Strand she wouldforce herself to think out the problem of the future, or somemathematical problem; if she went by the river she would certainlybegin to think about things that didn't exist--the forest, the oceanbeach, the leafy solitudes, the magnanimous hero. No, no, no! Athousand times no!--it wouldn't do; there was something repulsive insuch thoughts at present; she must take something else; she was out ofthat mood at present. And then she thought of Mary; the thought gaveher confidence, even pleasure of a sad sort, as if the triumph ofRalph and Mary proved that the fault of her failure lay with herselfand not with life. An indistinct idea that the sight of Mary might beof help, combined with her natural trust in her, suggested a visit;for, surely, her liking was of a kind that implied liking upon Mary'sside also. After a moment's hesitation she decided, although sheseldom acted upon impulse, to act upon this one, and turned down aside street and found Mary's door. But her reception was notencouraging; clearly Mary didn't want to see her, had no help toimpart, and the half-formed desire to confide in her was quenchedimmediately. She was slightly amused at her own delusion, lookedrather absent-minded, and swung her gloves to and fro, as if dolingout the few minutes accurately before she could say good-by.Those few minutes might very well be spent in asking for informationas to the exact position of the Suffrage Bill, or in expounding herown very sensible view of the situation. But there was a tone in hervoice, or a shade in her opinions, or a swing of her gloves whichserved to irritate Mary Datchet, whose manner became increasinglydirect, abrupt, and even antagonistic. She became conscious of a wishto make Katharine realize the importance of this work, which shediscussed so coolly, as though she, too, had sacrificed what Maryherself had sacrificed. The swinging of the gloves ceased, andKatharine, after ten minutes, began to make movements preliminary todeparture. At the sight of this, Mary was aware--she was abnormallyaware of things to-night--of another very strong desire; Katharine wasnot to be allowed to go, to disappear into the free, happy world ofirresponsible individuals. She must be made to realize--to feel."I don't quite see," she said, as if Katharine had challenged herexplicitly, "how, things being as they are, any one can help trying,at least, to do something.""No. But how are things?"Mary pressed her lips, and smiled ironically; she had Katharine at hermercy; she could, if she liked, discharge upon her head wagon-loads ofrevolting proof of the state of things ignored by the casual, theamateur, the looker-on, the cynical observer of life at a distance.And yet she hesitated. As usual, when she found herself in talk withKatharine, she began to feel rapid alternations of opinion about her,arrows of sensation striking strangely through the envelope ofpersonality, which shelters us so conveniently from our fellows. Whatan egoist, how aloof she was! And yet, not in her words, perhaps, butin her voice, in her face, in her attitude, there were signs of a softbrooding spirit, of a sensibility unblunted and profound, playing overher thoughts and deeds, and investing her manner with an habitualgentleness. The arguments and phrases of Mr. Clacton fell flat againstsuch armor."You'll be married, and you'll have other things to think of," shesaid inconsequently, and with an accent of condescension. She was notgoing to make Katharine understand in a second, as she would, all sheherself had learnt at the cost of such pain. No. Katharine was to behappy; Katharine was to be ignorant; Mary was to keep this knowledgeof the impersonal life for herself. The thought of her morning'srenunciation stung her conscience, and she tried to expand once moreinto that impersonal condition which was so lofty and so painless. Shemust check this desire to be an individual again, whose wishes were inconflict with those of other people. She repented of her bitterness.Katharine now renewed her signs of leave-taking; she had drawn on oneof her gloves, and looked about her as if in search of some trivialsaying to end with. Wasn't there some picture, or clock, or chest ofdrawers which might be singled out for notice? something peaceable andfriendly to end the uncomfortable interview? The green-shaded lampburnt in the corner, and illumined books and pens and blotting-paper.The whole aspect of the place started another train of thought andstruck her as enviably free; in such a room one could work--one couldhave a life of one's own."I think you're very lucky," she observed. "I envy you, living aloneand having your own things"--and engaged in this exalted way, whichhad no recognition or engagement-ring, she added in her own mind.Mary's lips parted slightly. She could not conceive in what respectsKatharine, who spoke sincerely, could envy her."I don't think you've got any reason to envy me," she said."Perhaps one always envies other people," Katharine observed vaguely."Well, but you've got everything that any one can want."Katharine remained silent. She gazed into the fire quietly, andwithout a trace of self-consciousness. The hostility which she haddivined in Mary's tone had completely disappeared, and she forgot thatshe had been upon the point of going."Well, I suppose I have," she said at length. "And yet I sometimesthink--" She paused; she did not know how to express what she meant."It came over me in the Tube the other day," she resumed, with asmile; "what is it that makes these people go one way rather than theother? It's not love; it's not reason; I think it must be some idea.Perhaps, Mary, our affections are the shadow of an idea. Perhaps thereisn't any such thing as affection in itself. . . ." She spokehalf-mockingly, asking her question, which she scarcely troubled toframe, not of Mary, or of any one in particular.But the words seemed to Mary Datchet shallow, supercilious,cold-blooded, and cynical all in one. All her natural instincts wereroused in revolt against them."I'm the opposite way of thinking, you see," she said."Yes; I know you are," Katharine replied, looking at her as if now shewere about, perhaps, to explain something very important.Mary could not help feeling the simplicity and good faith that laybehind Katharine's words."I think affection is the only reality," she said."Yes," said Katharine, almost sadly. She understood that Mary wasthinking of Ralph, and she felt it impossible to press her to revealmore of this exalted condition; she could only respect the fact that,in some few cases, life arranged itself thus satisfactorily and passon. She rose to her feet accordingly. But Mary exclaimed, withunmistakable earnestness, that she must not go; that they met soseldom; that she wanted to talk to her so much. . . . Katharine wassurprised at the earnestness with which she spoke. It seemed to herthat there could be no indiscretion in mentioning Ralph by name.Seating herself "for ten minutes," she said: "By the way, Mr. Denhamtold me he was going to give up the Bar and live in the country. Hashe gone? He was beginning to tell me about it, when we wereinterrupted.""He thinks of it," said Mary briefly. The color at once came to herface."It would be a very good plan," said Katharine in her decided way."You think so?""Yes, because he would do something worth while; he would write abook. My father always says that he's the most remarkable of the youngmen who write for him."Mary bent low over the fire and stirred the coal between the bars witha poker. Katharine's mention of Ralph had roused within her an almostirresistible desire to explain to her the true state of the casebetween herself and Ralph. She knew, from the tone of her voice, thatin speaking of Ralph she had no desire to probe Mary's secrets, or toinsinuate any of her own. Moreover, she liked Katharine; she trustedher; she felt a respect for her. The first step of confidence wascomparatively simple; but a further confidence had revealed itself, asKatharine spoke, which was not so simple, and yet it impressed itselfupon her as a necessity; she must tell Katharine what it was clearthat she had no conception of--she must tell Katharine that Ralph wasin love with her."I don't know what he means to do," she said hurriedly, seeking timeagainst the pressure of her own conviction. "I've not seen him sinceChristmas."Katharine reflected that this was odd; perhaps, after all, she hadmisunderstood the position. She was in the habit of assuming, however,that she was rather unobservant of the finer shades of feeling, andshe noted her present failure as another proof that she was apractical, abstract-minded person, better fitted to deal with figuresthan with the feelings of men and women. Anyhow, William Rodney wouldsay so."And now--" she said."Oh, please stay!" Mary exclaimed, putting out her hand to stop her.Directly Katharine moved she felt, inarticulately and violently, thatshe could not bear to let her go. If Katharine went, her only chanceof speaking was lost; her only chance of saying something tremendouslyimportant was lost. Half a dozen words were sufficient to wakeKatharine's attention, and put flight and further silence beyond herpower. But although the words came to her lips, her throat closed uponthem and drove them back. After all, she considered, why should shespeak? Because it is right, her instinct told her; right to exposeoneself without reservations to other human beings. She flinched fromthe thought. It asked too much of one already stripped bare. Somethingshe must keep of her own. But if she did keep something of her own?Immediately she figured an immured life, continuing for an immenseperiod, the same feelings living for ever, neither dwindling norchanging within the ring of a thick stone wall. The imagination ofthis loneliness frightened her, and yet to speak--to lose herloneliness, for it had already become dear to her, was beyond herpower.Her hand went down to the hem of Katharine's skirt, and, fingering aline of fur, she bent her head as if to examine it."I like this fur," she said, "I like your clothes. And you mustn'tthink that I'm going to marry Ralph," she continued, in the same tone,"because he doesn't care for me at all. He cares for some one else."Her head remained bent, and her hand still rested upon the skirt."It's a shabby old dress," said Katharine, and the only sign thatMary's words had reached her was that she spoke with a little jerk."You don't mind my telling you that?" said Mary, raising herself."No, no," said Katharine; "but you're mistaken, aren't you?" She was,in truth, horribly uncomfortable, dismayed, indeed, disillusioned. Shedisliked the turn things had taken quite intensely. The indecency ofit afflicted her. The suffering implied by the tone appalled her. Shelooked at Mary furtively, with eyes that were full of apprehension.But if she had hoped to find that these words had been spoken withoutunderstanding of their meaning, she was at once disappointed. Mary layback in her chair, frowning slightly, and looking, Katharine thought,as if she had lived fifteen years or so in the space of a few minutes."There are some things, don't you think, that one can't be mistakenabout?" Mary said, quietly and almost coldly. "That is what puzzles meabout this question of being in love. I've always prided myself uponbeing reasonable," she added. "I didn't think I could have feltthis--I mean if the other person didn't. I was foolish. I let myselfpretend." Here she paused. "For, you see, Katharine," she proceeded,rousing herself and speaking with greater energy, "I am in love.There's no doubt about that. . . . I'm tremendously in love . . . withRalph." The little forward shake of her head, which shook a lock ofhair, together with her brighter color, gave her an appearance at onceproud and defiant.Katharine thought to herself, "That's how it feels then." Shehesitated, with a feeling that it was not for her to speak; and thensaid, in a low tone, "You've got that.""Yes," said Mary; "I've got that. One wouldn't not be in love. . . .But I didn't mean to talk about that; I only wanted you to know.There's another thing I want to tell you . . ." She paused. "I haven'tany authority from Ralph to say it; but I'm sure of this--he's in lovewith you."Katharine looked at her again, as if her first glance must have beendeluded, for, surely, there must be some outward sign that Mary wastalking in an excited, or bewildered, or fantastic manner. No; shestill frowned, as if she sought her way through the clauses of adifficult argument, but she still looked more like one who reasonsthan one who feels."That proves that you're mistaken--utterly mistaken," said Katharine,speaking reasonably, too. She had no need to verify the mistake by aglance at her own recollections, when the fact was so clearly stampedupon her mind that if Ralph had any feeling towards her it was one ofcritical hostility. She did not give the matter another thought, andMary, now that she had stated the fact, did not seek to prove it, buttried to explain to herself, rather than to Katharine, her motives inmaking the statement.She had nerved herself to do what some large and imperious instinctdemanded her doing; she had been swept on the breast of a wave beyondher reckoning."I've told you," she said, "because I want you to help me. I don'twant to be jealous of you. And I am--I'm fearfully jealous. The onlyway, I thought, was to tell you."She hesitated, and groped in her endeavor to make her feelings clearto herself."If I tell you, then we can talk; and when I'm jealous, I can tellyou. And if I'm tempted to do something frightfully mean, I can tellyou; you could make me tell you. I find talking so difficult; butloneliness frightens me. I should shut it up in my mind. Yes, that'swhat I'm afraid of. Going about with something in my mind all my lifethat never changes. I find it so difficult to change. When I think athing's wrong I never stop thinking it wrong, and Ralph was quiteright, I see, when he said that there's no such thing as right andwrong; no such thing, I mean, as judging people--""Ralph Denham said that?" said Katharine, with considerableindignation. In order to have produced such suffering in Mary, itseemed to her that he must have behaved with extreme callousness. Itseemed to her that he had discarded the friendship, when it suited hisconvenience to do so, with some falsely philosophical theory whichmade his conduct all the worse. She was going on to express herselfthus, had not Mary at once interrupted her."No, no," she said; "you don't understand. If there's any fault it'smine entirely; after all, if one chooses to run risks--"Her voice faltered into silence. It was borne in upon her howcompletely in running her risk she had lost her prize, lost it soentirely that she had no longer the right, in talking of Ralph, topresume that her knowledge of him supplanted all other knowledge. Sheno longer completely possessed her love, since his share in it wasdoubtful; and now, to make things yet more bitter, her clear vision ofthe way to face life was rendered tremulous and uncertain, becauseanother was witness of it. Feeling her desire for the old unsharedintimacy too great to be borne without tears, she rose, walked to thefarther end of the room, held the curtains apart, and stood theremastered for a moment. The grief itself was not ignoble; the sting ofit lay in the fact that she had been led to this act of treacheryagainst herself. Trapped, cheated, robbed, first by Ralph and then byKatharine, she seemed all dissolved in humiliation, and bereft ofanything she could call her own. Tears of weakness welled up androlled down her cheeks. But tears, at least, she could control, andwould this instant, and then, turning, she would face Katharine, andretrieve what could be retrieved of the collapse of her courage.She turned. Katharine had not moved; she was leaning a little forwardin her chair and looking into the fire. Something in the attitudereminded Mary of Ralph. So he would sit, leaning forward, lookingrather fixedly in front of him, while his mind went far away,exploring, speculating, until he broke off with his, "Well, Mary?"--and the silence, that had been so full of romance to her, gave way tothe most delightful talk that she had ever known.Something unfamiliar in the pose of the silent figure, somethingstill, solemn, significant about it, made her hold her breath. Shepaused. Her thoughts were without bitterness. She was surprised by herown quiet and confidence. She came back silently, and sat once more byKatharine's side. Mary had no wish to speak. In the silence she seemedto have lost her isolation; she was at once the sufferer and thepitiful spectator of suffering; she was happier than she had everbeen; she was more bereft; she was rejected, and she was immenselybeloved. Attempt to express these sensations was vain, and, moreover,she could not help believing that, without any words on her side, theywere shared. Thus for some time longer they sat silent, side by side,while Mary fingered the fur on the skirt of the old dress.