Chapter XXII

by Virginia Woolf

　　The fact that she would be late in keeping her engagement with Williamwas not the only reason which sent Katharine almost at racing speedalong the Strand in the direction of his rooms. Punctuality might havebeen achieved by taking a cab, had she not wished the open air to faninto flame the glow kindled by Mary's words. For among all theimpressions of the evening's talk one was of the nature of arevelation and subdued the rest to insignificance. Thus one looked;thus one spoke; such was love."She sat up straight and looked at me, and then she said, 'I'm inlove,'" Katharine mused, trying to set the whole scene in motion. Itwas a scene to dwell on with so much wonder that not a grain of pityoccurred to her; it was a flame blazing suddenly in the dark; by itslight Katharine perceived far too vividly for her comfort themediocrity, indeed the entirely fictitious character of her ownfeelings so far as they pretended to correspond with Mary's feelings.She made up her mind to act instantly upon the knowledge thus gained,and cast her mind in amazement back to the scene upon the heath, whenshe had yielded, heaven knows why, for reasons which seemed nowimperceptible. So in broad daylight one might revisit the place whereone has groped and turned and succumbed to utter bewilderment in afog."It's all so simple," she said to herself. "There can't be any doubt.I've only got to speak now. I've only got to speak," she went onsaying, in time to her own footsteps, and completely forgot MaryDatchet.William Rodney, having come back earlier from the office than heexpected, sat down to pick out the melodies in "The Magic Flute" uponthe piano. Katharine was late, but that was nothing new, and, as shehad no particular liking for music, and he felt in the mood for it,perhaps it was as well. This defect in Katharine was the more strange,William reflected, because, as a rule, the women of her family wereunusually musical. Her cousin, Cassandra Otway, for example, had avery fine taste in music, and he had charming recollections of her ina light fantastic attitude, playing the flute in the morning-room atStogdon House. He recalled with pleasure the amusing way in which hernose, long like all the Otway noses, seemed to extend itself into theflute, as if she were some inimitably graceful species of musicalmole. The little picture suggested very happily her melodious andwhimsical temperament. The enthusiasms of a young girl ofdistinguished upbringing appealed to William, and suggested a thousandways in which, with his training and accomplishments, he could be ofservice to her. She ought to be given the chance of hearing goodmusic, as it is played by those who have inherited the greattradition. Moreover, from one or two remarks let fall in the course ofconversation, he thought it possible that she had what Katharineprofessed to lack, a passionate, if untaught, appreciation ofliterature. He had lent her his play. Meanwhile, as Katharine wascertain to be late, and "The Magic Flute" is nothing without a voice,he felt inclined to spend the time of waiting in writing a letter toCassandra, exhorting her to read Pope in preference to Dostoevsky,until her feeling for form was more highly developed. He set himselfdown to compose this piece of advice in a shape which was light andplayful, and yet did no injury to a cause which he had near at heart,when he heard Katharine upon the stairs. A moment later it was plainthat he had been mistaken, it was not Katharine; but he could notsettle himself to his letter. His temper had changed from one ofurbane contentment--indeed of delicious expansion--to one ofuneasiness and expectation. The dinner was brought in, and had to beset by the fire to keep hot. It was now a quarter of an hour beyondthe specified time. He bethought him of a piece of news which haddepressed him in the earlier part of the day. Owing to the illness ofone of his fellow-clerks, it was likely that he would get no holidayuntil later in the year, which would mean the postponement of theirmarriage. But this possibility, after all, was not so disagreeable asthe probability which forced itself upon him with every tick of theclock that Katharine had completely forgotten her engagement. Suchthings had happened less frequently since Christmas, but what if theywere going to begin to happen again? What if their marriage shouldturn out, as she had said, a farce? He acquitted her of any wish tohurt him wantonly, but there was something in her character which madeit impossible for her to help hurting people. Was she cold? Was sheself-absorbed? He tried to fit her with each of these descriptions,but he had to own that she puzzled him."There are so many things that she doesn't understand," he reflected,glancing at the letter to Cassandra which he had begun and laid aside.What prevented him from finishing the letter which he had so muchenjoyed beginning? The reason was that Katharine might, at any moment,enter the room. The thought, implying his bondage to her, irritatedhim acutely. It occurred to him that he would leave the letter lyingopen for her to see, and he would take the opportunity of telling herthat he had sent his play to Cassandra for her to criticize. Possibly,but not by any means certainly, this would annoy her--and as hereached the doubtful comfort of this conclusion, there was a knock onthe door and Katharine came in. They kissed each other coldly and shemade no apology for being late. Nevertheless, her mere presence movedhim strangely; but he was determined that this should not weaken hisresolution to make some kind of stand against her; to get at the truthabout her. He let her make her own disposition of clothes and busiedhimself with the plates."I've got a piece of news for you, Katharine," he said directly theysat down to table; "I shan't get my holiday in April. We shall have toput off our marriage."He rapped the words out with a certain degree of briskness. Katharinestarted a little, as if the announcement disturbed her thoughts."That won't make any difference, will it? I mean the lease isn'tsigned," she replied. "But why? What has happened?"He told her, in an off-hand way, how one of his fellow-clerks hadbroken down, and might have to be away for months, six months even, inwhich case they would have to think over their position. He said it ina way which struck her, at last, as oddly casual. She looked at him.There was no outward sign that he was annoyed with her. Was she welldressed? She thought sufficiently so. Perhaps she was late? She lookedfor a clock."It's a good thing we didn't take the house then," she repeatedthoughtfully."It'll mean, too, I'm afraid, that I shan't be as free for aconsiderable time as I have been," he continued. She had time toreflect that she gained something by all this, though it was too soonto determine what. But the light which had been burning with suchintensity as she came along was suddenly overclouded, as much by hismanner as by his news. She had been prepared to meet opposition, whichis simple to encounter compared with--she did not know what it wasthat she had to encounter. The meal passed in quiet, well-controlledtalk about indifferent things. Music was not a subject about which sheknew anything, but she liked him to tell her things; and could, shemused, as he talked, fancy the evenings of married life spent thus,over the fire; spent thus, or with a book, perhaps, for then she wouldhave time to read her books, and to grasp firmly with every muscle ofher unused mind what she longed to know. The atmosphere was very free.Suddenly William broke off. She looked up apprehensively, brushingaside these thoughts with annoyance."Where should I address a letter to Cassandra?" he asked her. It wasobvious again that William had some meaning or other to-night, or wasin some mood. "We've struck up a friendship," he added."She's at home, I think," Katharine replied."They keep her too much at home," said William. "Why don't you ask herto stay with you, and let her hear a little good music? I'll justfinish what I was saying, if you don't mind, because I'm particularlyanxious that she should hear to-morrow."Katharine sank back in her chair, and Rodney took the paper on hisknees, and went on with his sentence. "Style, you know, is what wetend to neglect--"; but he was far more conscious of Katharine's eyeupon him than of what he was saying about style. He knew that she waslooking at him, but whether with irritation or indifference he couldnot guess.In truth, she had fallen sufficiently into his trap to feeluncomfortably roused and disturbed and unable to proceed on the lineslaid down for herself. This indifferent, if not hostile, attitude onWilliam's part made it impossible to break off without animosity,largely and completely. Infinitely preferable was Mary's state, shethought, where there was a simple thing to do and one did it. In fact,she could not help supposing that some littleness of nature had a partin all the refinements, reserves, and subtleties of feeling for whichher friends and family were so distinguished. For example, althoughshe liked Cassandra well enough, her fantastic method of life struckher as purely frivolous; now it was socialism, now it was silkworms,now it was music--which last she supposed was the cause of William'ssudden interest in her. Never before had William wasted the minutes ofher presence in writing his letters. With a curious sense of lightopening where all, hitherto, had been opaque, it dawned upon her that,after all, possibly, yes, probably, nay, certainly, the devotion whichshe had almost wearily taken for granted existed in a much slighterdegree than she had suspected, or existed no longer. She looked at himattentively as if this discovery of hers must show traces in his face.Never had she seen so much to respect in his appearance, so much thatattracted her by its sensitiveness and intelligence, although she sawthese qualities as if they were those one responds to, dumbly, in theface of a stranger. The head bent over the paper, thoughtful as usual,had now a composure which seemed somehow to place it at a distance,like a face seen talking to some one else behind glass.He wrote on, without raising his eyes. She would have spoken, butcould not bring herself to ask him for signs of affection which shehad no right to claim. The conviction that he was thus strange to herfilled her with despondency, and illustrated quite beyond doubt theinfinite loneliness of human beings. She had never felt the truth ofthis so strongly before. She looked away into the fire; it seemed toher that even physically they were now scarcely within speakingdistance; and spiritually there was certainly no human being with whomshe could claim comradeship; no dream that satisfied her as she wasused to be satisfied; nothing remained in whose reality she couldbelieve, save those abstract ideas--figures, laws, stars, facts, whichshe could hardly hold to for lack of knowledge and a kind of shame.When Rodney owned to himself the folly of this prolonged silence, andthe meanness of such devices, and looked up ready to seek some excusefor a good laugh, or opening for a confession, he was disconcerted bywhat he saw. Katharine seemed equally oblivious of what was bad or ofwhat was good in him. Her expression suggested concentration uponsomething entirely remote from her surroundings. The carelessness ofher attitude seemed to him rather masculine than feminine. His impulseto break up the constraint was chilled, and once more the exasperatingsense of his own impotency returned to him. He could not helpcontrasting Katharine with his vision of the engaging, whimsicalCassandra; Katharine undemonstrative, inconsiderate, silent, and yetso notable that he could never do without her good opinion.She veered round upon him a moment later, as if, when her train ofthought was ended, she became aware of his presence."Have you finished your letter?" she asked. He thought he heard faintamusement in her tone, but not a trace of jealousy."No, I'm not going to write any more to-night," he said. "I'm not inthe mood for it for some reason. I can't say what I want to say.""Cassandra won't know if it's well written or badly written,"Katharine remarked."I'm not so sure about that. I should say she has a good deal ofliterary feeling.""Perhaps," said Katharine indifferently. "You've been neglecting myeducation lately, by the way. I wish you'd read something. Let mechoose a book." So speaking, she went across to his bookshelves andbegan looking in a desultory way among his books. Anything, shethought, was better than bickering or the strange silence which drovehome to her the distance between them. As she pulled one book forwardand then another she thought ironically of her own certainty not anhour ago; how it had vanished in a moment, how she was merely markingtime as best she could, not knowing in the least where they stood,what they felt, or whether William loved her or not. More and more thecondition of Mary's mind seemed to her wonderful and enviable--if,indeed, it could be quite as she figured it--if, indeed, simplicityexisted for any one of the daughters of women."Swift," she said, at last, taking out a volume at haphazard to settlethis question at least. "Let us have some Swift."Rodney took the book, held it in front of him, inserted one fingerbetween the pages, but said nothing. His face wore a queer expressionof deliberation, as if he were weighing one thing with another, andwould not say anything until his mind were made up.Katharine, taking her chair beside him, noted his silence and lookedat him with sudden apprehension. What she hoped or feared, she couldnot have said; a most irrational and indefensible desire for someassurance of his affection was, perhaps, uppermost in her mind.Peevishness, complaints, exacting cross-examination she was used to,but this attitude of composed quiet, which seemed to come from theconsciousness of power within, puzzled her. She did not know what wasgoing to happen next.At last William spoke."I think it's a little odd, don't you?" he said, in a voice ofdetached reflection. "Most people, I mean, would be seriously upset iftheir marriage was put off for six months or so. But we aren't; nowhow do you account for that?"She looked at him and observed his judicial attitude as of one holdingfar aloof from emotion."I attribute it," he went on, without waiting for her to answer, "tothe fact that neither of us is in the least romantic about the other.That may be partly, no doubt, because we've known each other so long;but I'm inclined to think there's more in it than that. There'ssomething temperamental. I think you're a trifle cold, and I suspectI'm a trifle self-absorbed. If that were so it goes a long way toexplaining our odd lack of illusion about each other. I'm not sayingthat the most satisfactory marriages aren't founded upon this sort ofunderstanding. But certainly it struck me as odd this morning, whenWilson told me, how little upset I felt. By the way, you're sure wehaven't committed ourselves to that house?""I've kept the letters, and I'll go through them to-morrow; but I'mcertain we're on the safe side.""Thanks. As to the psychological problem," he continued, as if thequestion interested him in a detached way, "there's no doubt, I think,that either of us is capable of feeling what, for reasons ofsimplicity, I call romance for a third person--at least, I've littledoubt in my own case."It was, perhaps, the first time in all her knowledge of him thatKatharine had known William enter thus deliberately and without signof emotion upon a statement of his own feelings. He was wont todiscourage such intimate discussions by a little laugh or turn of theconversation, as much as to say that men, or men of the world, findsuch topics a little silly, or in doubtful taste. His obvious wish toexplain something puzzled her, interested her, and neutralized thewound to her vanity. For some reason, too, she felt more at ease withhim than usual; or her ease was more the ease of equality--she couldnot stop to think of that at the moment though. His remarks interestedher too much for the light that they threw upon certain problems ofher own."What is this romance?" she mused."Ah, that's the question. I've never come across a definition thatsatisfied me, though there are some very good ones"--he glanced in thedirection of his books."It's not altogether knowing the other person, perhaps--it'signorance," she hazarded."Some authorities say it's a question of distance--romance inliterature, that is--""Possibly, in the case of art. But in the case of people it may be--"she hesitated."Have you no personal experience of it?" he asked, letting his eyesrest upon her swiftly for a moment."I believe it's influenced me enormously," she said, in the tone ofone absorbed by the possibilities of some view just presented to them;"but in my life there's so little scope for it," she added. Shereviewed her daily task, the perpetual demands upon her for goodsense, self-control, and accuracy in a house containing a romanticmother. Ah, but her romance wasn't that romance. It was a desire, anecho, a sound; she could drape it in color, see it in form, hear it inmusic, but not in words; no, never in words. She sighed, teased bydesires so incoherent, so incommunicable."But isn't it curious," William resumed, "that you should neither feelit for me, nor I for you?"Katharine agreed that it was curious--very; but even more curious toher was the fact that she was discussing the question with William. Itrevealed possibilities which opened a prospect of a new relationshipaltogether. Somehow it seemed to her that he was helping her tounderstand what she had never understood; and in her gratitude she wasconscious of a most sisterly desire to help him, too--sisterly, savefor one pang, not quite to be subdued, that for him she was withoutromance."I think you might be very happy with some one you loved in that way,"she said."You assume that romance survives a closer knowledge of the person oneloves?"He asked the question formally, to protect himself from the sort ofpersonality which he dreaded. The whole situation needed the mostcareful management lest it should degenerate into some degrading anddisturbing exhibition such as the scene, which he could never think ofwithout shame, upon the heath among the dead leaves. And yet eachsentence brought him relief. He was coming to understand something orother about his own desires hitherto undefined by him, the source ofhis difficulty with Katharine. The wish to hurt her, which had urgedhim to begin, had completely left him, and he felt that it was onlyKatharine now who could help him to be sure. He must take his time.There were so many things that he could not say without the greatestdifficulty--that name, for example, Cassandra. Nor could he move hiseyes from a certain spot, a fiery glen surrounded by high mountains,in the heart of the coals. He waited in suspense for Katharine tocontinue. She had said that he might be very happy with some one heloved in that way."I don't see why it shouldn't last with you," she resumed. "I canimagine a certain sort of person--" she paused; she was aware that hewas listening with the greatest intentness, and that his formality wasmerely the cover for an extreme anxiety of some sort. There was someperson then--some woman--who could it be? Cassandra? Ah, possibly--"A person," she added, speaking in the most matter-of-fact tone shecould command, "like Cassandra Otway, for instance. Cassandra is themost interesting of the Otways--with the exception of Henry. Even so,I like Cassandra better. She has more than mere cleverness. She is acharacter--a person by herself.""Those dreadful insects!" burst from William, with a nervous laugh,and a little spasm went through him as Katharine noticed. It wasCassandra then. Automatically and dully she replied, "You could insistthat she confined herself to--to--something else. . . . But she caresfor music; I believe she writes poetry; and there can be no doubt thatshe has a peculiar charm--"She ceased, as if defining to herself this peculiar charm. After amoment's silence William jerked out:"I thought her affectionate?""Extremely affectionate. She worships Henry. When you think what ahouse that is--Uncle Francis always in one mood or another--""Dear, dear, dear," William muttered."And you have so much in common.""My dear Katharine!" William exclaimed, flinging himself back in hischair, and uprooting his eyes from the spot in the fire. "I reallydon't know what we're talking about. . . . I assure you. . . ."He was covered with an extreme confusion.He withdrew the finger that was still thrust between the pages ofGulliver, opened the book, and ran his eye down the list of chapters,as though he were about to select the one most suitable for readingaloud. As Katharine watched him, she was seized with preliminarysymptoms of his own panic. At the same time she was convinced that,should he find the right page, take out his spectacles, clear histhroat, and open his lips, a chance that would never come again in alltheir lives would be lost to them both."We're talking about things that interest us both very much," shesaid. "Shan't we go on talking, and leave Swift for another time? Idon't feel in the mood for Swift, and it's a pity to read any one whenthat's the case--particularly Swift."The presence of wise literary speculation, as she calculated, restoredWilliam's confidence in his security, and he replaced the book in thebookcase, keeping his back turned to her as he did so, and takingadvantage of this circumstance to summon his thoughts together.But a second of introspection had the alarming result of showing himthat his mind, when looked at from within, was no longer familiarground. He felt, that is to say, what he had never consciously feltbefore; he was revealed to himself as other than he was wont to thinkhim; he was afloat upon a sea of unknown and tumultuous possibilities.He paced once up and down the room, and then flung himself impetuouslyinto the chair by Katharine's side. He had never felt anything likethis before; he put himself entirely into her hands; he cast off allresponsibility. He very nearly exclaimed aloud:"You've stirred up all these odious and violent emotions, and now youmust do the best you can with them."Her near presence, however, had a calming and reassuring effect uponhis agitation, and he was conscious only of an implicit trust that,somehow, he was safe with her, that she would see him through, findout what it was that he wanted, and procure it for him."I wish to do whatever you tell me to do," he said. "I put myselfentirely in your hands, Katharine.""You must try to tell me what you feel," she said."My dear, I feel a thousand things every second. I don't know, I'msure, what I feel. That afternoon on the heath--it was then--then--"He broke off; he did not tell her what had happened then. "Yourghastly good sense, as usual, has convinced me--for the moment--butwhat the truth is, Heaven only knows!" he exclaimed."Isn't it the truth that you are, or might be, in love withCassandra?" she said gently.William bowed his head. After a moment's silence he murmured:"I believe you're right, Katharine."She sighed, involuntarily. She had been hoping all this time, with anintensity that increased second by second against the current of herwords, that it would not in the end come to this. After a moment ofsurprising anguish, she summoned her courage to tell him how shewished only that she might help him, and had framed the first words ofher speech when a knock, terrific and startling to people in theiroverwrought condition, sounded upon the door."Katharine, I worship you," he urged, half in a whisper."Yes," she replied, withdrawing with a little shiver, "but you mustopen the door."