Chapter XXVIII

by Virginia Woolf

　　Like a strain of music, the effect of Katharine's presence slowly diedfrom the room in which Ralph sat alone. The music had ceased in therapture of its melody. He strained to catch the faintest lingeringechoes; for a moment the memory lulled him into peace; but soon itfailed, and he paced the room so hungry for the sound to come againthat he was conscious of no other desire left in life. She had gonewithout speaking; abruptly a chasm had been cut in his course, downwhich the tide of his being plunged in disorder; fell upon rocks;flung itself to destruction. The distress had an effect of physicalruin and disaster. He trembled; he was white; he felt exhausted, as ifby a great physical effort. He sank at last into a chair standingopposite her empty one, and marked, mechanically, with his eye uponthe clock, how she went farther and farther from him, was home now,and now, doubtless, again with Rodney. But it was long before he couldrealize these facts; the immense desire for her presence churned hissenses into foam, into froth, into a haze of emotion that removed allfacts from his grasp, and gave him a strange sense of distance, evenfrom the material shapes of wall and window by which he wassurrounded. The prospect of the future, now that the strength of hispassion was revealed to him, appalled him.The marriage would take place in September, she had said; that allowedhim, then, six full months in which to undergo these terrible extremesof emotion. Six months of torture, and after that the silence of thegrave, the isolation of the insane, the exile of the damned; at best,a life from which the chief good was knowingly and for ever excluded.An impartial judge might have assured him that his chief hope ofrecovery lay in this mystic temper, which identified a living womanwith much that no human beings long possess in the eyes of each other;she would pass, and the desire for her vanish, but his belief in whatshe stood for, detached from her, would remain. This line of thoughtoffered, perhaps, some respite, and possessed of a brain that had itsstation considerably above the tumult of the senses, he tried toreduce the vague and wandering incoherency of his emotions to order.The sense of self-preservation was strong in him, and Katharineherself had strangely revived it by convincing him that his familydeserved and needed all his strength. She was right, and for theirsake, if not for his own, this passion, which could bear no fruit,must be cut off, uprooted, shown to be as visionary and baseless asshe had maintained. The best way of achieving this was not to run awayfrom her, but to face her, and having steeped himself in herqualities, to convince his reason that they were, as she assured him,not those that he imagined. She was a practical woman, a domestic wifefor an inferior poet, endowed with romantic beauty by some freak ofunintelligent Nature. No doubt her beauty itself would not standexamination. He had the means of settling this point at least. Hepossessed a book of photographs from the Greek statues; the head of agoddess, if the lower part were concealed, had often given him theecstasy of being in Katharine's presence. He took it down from theshelf and found the picture. To this he added a note from her, biddinghim meet her at the Zoo. He had a flower which he had picked at Kew toteach her botany. Such were his relics. He placed them before him, andset himself to visualize her so clearly that no deception or delusionwas possible. In a second he could see her, with the sun slantingacross her dress, coming towards him down the green walk at Kew. Hemade her sit upon the seat beside him. He heard her voice, so low andyet so decided in its tone; she spoke reasonably of indifferentmatters. He could see her faults, and analyze her virtues. His pulsebecame quieter, and his brain increased in clarity. This time shecould not escape him. The illusion of her presence became more andmore complete. They seemed to pass in and out of each other's minds,questioning and answering. The utmost fullness of communion seemed tobe theirs. Thus united, he felt himself raised to an eminence,exalted, and filled with a power of achievement such as he had neverknown in singleness. Once more he told over conscientiously herfaults, both of face and character; they were clearly known to him;but they merged themselves in the flawless union that was born oftheir association. They surveyed life to its uttermost limits. Howdeep it was when looked at from this height! How sublime! How thecommonest things moved him almost to tears! Thus, he forgot theinevitable limitations; he forgot her absence, he thought it of noaccount whether she married him or another; nothing mattered, savethat she should exist, and that he should love her. Some words ofthese reflections were uttered aloud, and it happened that among themwere the words, "I love her." It was the first time that he had usedthe word "love" to describe his feeling; madness, romance,hallucination--he had called it by these names before; but having,apparently by accident, stumbled upon the word "love," he repeated itagain and again with a sense of revelation."But I'm in love with you!" he exclaimed, with something like dismay.He leant against the window-sill, looking over the city as she hadlooked. Everything had become miraculously different and completelydistinct. His feelings were justified and needed no furtherexplanation. But he must impart them to some one, because hisdiscovery was so important that it concerned other people too.Shutting the book of Greek photographs, and hiding his relics, he randownstairs, snatched his coat, and passed out of doors.The lamps were being lit, but the streets were dark enough and emptyenough to let him walk his fastest, and to talk aloud as he walked. Hehad no doubt where he was going. He was going to find Mary Datchet.The desire to share what he felt, with some one who understood it, wasso imperious that he did not question it. He was soon in her street.He ran up the stairs leading to her flat two steps at a time, and itnever crossed his mind that she might not be at home. As he rang herbell, he seemed to himself to be announcing the presence of somethingwonderful that was separate from himself, and gave him power andauthority over all other people. Mary came to the door after amoment's pause. He was perfectly silent, and in the dusk his facelooked completely white. He followed her into her room."Do you know each other?" she said, to his extreme surprise, for hehad counted on finding her alone. A young man rose, and said that heknew Ralph by sight."We were just going through some papers," said Mary. "Mr. Basnett hasto help me, because I don't know much about my work yet. It's the newsociety," she explained. "I'm the secretary. I'm no longer at RussellSquare."The voice in which she gave this information was so constrained as tosound almost harsh."What are your aims?" said Ralph. He looked neither at Mary nor at Mr.Basnett. Mr. Basnett thought he had seldom seen a more disagreeable orformidable man than this friend of Mary's, this sarcastic-looking,white-faced Mr. Denham, who seemed to demand, as if by right, anaccount of their proposals, and to criticize them before he had heardthem. Nevertheless, he explained his projects as clearly as he could,and knew that he wished Mr. Denham to think well of them."I see," said Ralph, when he had done. "D'you know, Mary," he suddenlyremarked, "I believe I'm in for a cold. Have you any quinine?" Thelook which he cast at her frightened her; it expressed mutely, perhapswithout his own consciousness, something deep, wild, and passionate.She left the room at once. Her heart beat fast at the knowledge ofRalph's presence; but it beat with pain, and with an extraordinaryfear. She stood listening for a moment to the voices in the next room."Of course, I agree with you," she heard Ralph say, in this strangevoice, to Mr. Basnett. "But there's more that might be done. Have youseen Judson, for instance? You should make a point of getting him."Mary returned with the quinine."Judson's address?" Mr. Basnett inquired, pulling out his notebook andpreparing to write. For twenty minutes, perhaps, he wrote down names,addresses, and other suggestions that Ralph dictated to him. Then,when Ralph fell silent, Mr. Basnett felt that his presence was notdesired, and thanking Ralph for his help, with a sense that he wasvery young and ignorant compared with him, he said good-bye."Mary," said Ralph, directly Mr. Basnett had shut the door and theywere alone together. "Mary," he repeated. But the old difficulty ofspeaking to Mary without reserve prevented him from continuing. Hisdesire to proclaim his love for Katharine was still strong in him, buthe had felt, directly he saw Mary, that he could not share it withher. The feeling increased as he sat talking to Mr. Basnett. And yetall the time he was thinking of Katharine, and marveling at his love.The tone in which he spoke Mary's name was harsh."What is it, Ralph?" she asked, startled by his tone. She looked athim anxiously, and her little frown showed that she was tryingpainfully to understand him, and was puzzled. He could feel hergroping for his meaning, and he was annoyed with her, and thought howhe had always found her slow, painstaking, and clumsy. He had behavedbadly to her, too, which made his irritation the more acute. Withoutwaiting for him to answer, she rose as if his answer were indifferentto her, and began to put in order some papers that Mr. Basnett hadleft on the table. She hummed a scrap of a tune under her breath, andmoved about the room as if she were occupied in making things tidy,and had no other concern."You'll stay and dine?" she said casually, returning to her seat."No," Ralph replied. She did not press him further. They sat side byside without speaking, and Mary reached her hand for her work basket,and took out her sewing and threaded a needle."That's a clever young man," Ralph observed, referring to Mr. Basnett."I'm glad you thought so. It's tremendously interesting work, andconsidering everything, I think we've done very well. But I'm inclinedto agree with you; we ought to try to be more conciliatory. We'reabsurdly strict. It's difficult to see that there may be sense in whatone's opponents say, though they are one's opponents. Horace Basnettis certainly too uncompromising. I mustn't forget to see that hewrites that letter to Judson. You're too busy, I suppose, to come onto our committee?" She spoke in the most impersonal manner."I may be out of town," Ralph replied, with equal distance of manner."Our executive meets every week, of course," she observed. "But someof our members don't come more than once a month. Members ofParliament are the worst; it was a mistake, I think, to ask them."She went on sewing in silence."You've not taken your quinine," she said, looking up and seeing thetabloids upon the mantelpiece."I don't want it," said Ralph shortly."Well, you know best," she replied tranquilly."Mary, I'm a brute!" he exclaimed. "Here I come and waste your time,and do nothing but make myself disagreeable.""A cold coming on does make one feel wretched," she replied."I've not got a cold. That was a lie. There's nothing the matter withme. I'm mad, I suppose. I ought to have had the decency to keep away.But I wanted to see you--I wanted to tell you--I'm in love, Mary." Hespoke the word, but, as he spoke it, it seemed robbed of substance."In love, are you?" she said quietly. "I'm glad, Ralph.""I suppose I'm in love. Anyhow, I'm out of my mind. I can't think, Ican't work, I don't care a hang for anything in the world. GoodHeavens, Mary! I'm in torment! One moment I'm happy; next I'mmiserable. I hate her for half an hour; then I'd give my whole life tobe with her for ten minutes; all the time I don't know what I feel, orwhy I feel it; it's insanity, and yet it's perfectly reasonable. Canyou make any sense of it? Can you see what's happened? I'm raving, Iknow; don't listen, Mary; go on with your work."He rose and began, as usual, to pace up and down the room. He knewthat what he had just said bore very little resemblance to what hefelt, for Mary's presence acted upon him like a very strong magnet,drawing from him certain expressions which were not those he made useof when he spoke to himself, nor did they represent his deepestfeelings. He felt a little contempt for himself at having spoken thus;but somehow he had been forced into speech."Do sit down," said Mary suddenly. "You make me so--" She spoke withunusual irritability, and Ralph, noticing it with surprise, sat downat once."You haven't told me her name--you'd rather not, I suppose?""Her name? Katharine Hilbery.""But she's engaged--""To Rodney. They're to be married in September.""I see," said Mary. But in truth the calm of his manner, now that hewas sitting down once more, wrapt her in the presence of somethingwhich she felt to be so strong, so mysterious, so incalculable, thatshe scarcely dared to attempt to intercept it by any word or questionthat she was able to frame. She looked at Ralph blankly, with a kindof awe in her face, her lips slightly parted, and her brows raised. Hewas apparently quite unconscious of her gaze. Then, as if she couldlook no longer, she leant back in her chair, and half closed her eyes.The distance between them hurt her terribly; one thing after anothercame into her mind, tempting her to assail Ralph with questions, toforce him to confide in her, and to enjoy once more his intimacy. Butshe rejected every impulse, for she could not speak without doingviolence to some reserve which had grown between them, putting them alittle far from each other, so that he seemed to her dignified andremote, like a person she no longer knew well."Is there anything that I could do for you?" she asked gently, andeven with courtesy, at length."You could see her--no, that's not what I want; you mustn't botherabout me, Mary." He, too, spoke very gently."I'm afraid no third person can do anything to help," she added."No," he shook his head. "Katharine was saying to-day how lonely weare." She saw the effort with which he spoke Katharine's name, andbelieved that he forced himself to make amends now for his concealmentin the past. At any rate, she was conscious of no anger against him;but rather of a deep pity for one condemned to suffer as she hadsuffered. But in the case of Katharine it was different; she wasindignant with Katharine."There's always work," she said, a little aggressively.Ralph moved directly."Do you want to be working now?" he asked."No, no. It's Sunday," she replied. "I was thinking of Katharine. Shedoesn't understand about work. She's never had to. She doesn't knowwhat work is. I've only found out myself quite lately. But it's thething that saves one--I'm sure of that.""There are other things, aren't there?" he hesitated."Nothing that one can count upon," she returned. "After all, otherpeople--" she stopped, but forced herself to go on. "Where should I benow if I hadn't got to go to my office every day? Thousands of peoplewould tell you the same thing--thousands of women. I tell you, work isthe only thing that saved me, Ralph." He set his mouth, as if herwords rained blows on him; he looked as if he had made up his mind tobear anything she might say, in silence. He had deserved it, and therewould be relief in having to bear it. But she broke off, and rose asif to fetch something from the next room. Before she reached the doorshe turned back, and stood facing him, self-possessed, and yet defiantand formidable in her composure."It's all turned out splendidly for me," she said. "It will for you,too. I'm sure of that. Because, after all, Katharine is worth it.""Mary--!" he exclaimed. But her head was turned away, and he could notsay what he wished to say. "Mary, you're splendid," he concluded. Shefaced him as he spoke, and gave him her hand. She had suffered andrelinquished, she had seen her future turned from one of infinitepromise to one of barrenness, and yet, somehow, over what she scarcelyknew, and with what results she could hardly foretell, she hadconquered. With Ralph's eyes upon her, smiling straight back at himserenely and proudly, she knew, for the first time, that she hadconquered. She let him kiss her hand.The streets were empty enough on Sunday night, and if the Sabbath, andthe domestic amusements proper to the Sabbath, had not kept peopleindoors, a high strong wind might very probably have done so. RalphDenham was aware of a tumult in the street much in accordance with hisown sensations. The gusts, sweeping along the Strand, seemed at thesame time to blow a clear space across the sky in which starsappeared, and for a short time the quicks-peeding silver moon ridingthrough clouds, as if they were waves of water surging round her andover her. They swamped her, but she emerged; they broke over her andcovered her again; she issued forth indomitable. In the country fieldsall the wreckage of winter was being dispersed; the dead leaves, thewithered bracken, the dry and discolored grass, but no bud would bebroken, nor would the new stalks that showed above the earth take anyharm, and perhaps to-morrow a line of blue or yellow would showthrough a slit in their green. But the whirl of the atmosphere alonewas in Denham's mood, and what of star or blossom appeared was only asa light gleaming for a second upon heaped waves fast following eachother. He had not been able to speak to Mary, though for a moment hehad come near enough to be tantalized by a wonderful possibility ofunderstanding. But the desire to communicate something of the verygreatest importance possessed him completely; he still wished tobestow this gift upon some other human being; he sought their company.More by instinct than by conscious choice, he took the direction whichled to Rodney's rooms. He knocked loudly upon his door; but no oneanswered. He rang the bell. It took him some time to accept the factthat Rodney was out. When he could no longer pretend that the sound ofthe wind in the old building was the sound of some one rising from hischair, he ran downstairs again, as if his goal had been altered andonly just revealed to him. He walked in the direction of Chelsea.But physical fatigue, for he had not dined and had tramped both farand fast, made him sit for a moment upon a seat on the Embankment. Oneof the regular occupants of those seats, an elderly man who had drunkhimself, probably, out of work and lodging, drifted up, begged amatch, and sat down beside him. It was a windy night, he said; timeswere hard; some long story of bad luck and injustice followed, told sooften that the man seemed to be talking to himself, or, perhaps, theneglect of his audience had long made any attempt to catch theirattention seem scarcely worth while. When he began to speak Ralph hada wild desire to talk to him; to question him; to make him understand.He did, in fact, interrupt him at one point; but it was useless. Theancient story of failure, ill-luck, undeserved disaster, went down thewind, disconnected syllables flying past Ralph's ears with a queeralternation of loudness and faintness as if, at certain moments, theman's memory of his wrongs revived and then flagged, dying down atlast into a grumble of resignation, which seemed to represent a finallapse into the accustomed despair. The unhappy voice afflicted Ralph,but it also angered him. And when the elderly man refused to listenand mumbled on, an odd image came to his mind of a lighthouse besiegedby the flying bodies of lost birds, who were dashed senseless, by thegale, against the glass. He had a strange sensation that he was bothlighthouse and bird; he was steadfast and brilliant; and at the sametime he was whirled, with all other things, senseless against theglass. He got up, left his tribute of silver, and pressed on, with thewind against him. The image of the lighthouse and the storm full ofbirds persisted, taking the place of more definite thoughts, as hewalked past the Houses of Parliament and down Grosvenor Road, by theside of the river. In his state of physical fatigue, details mergedthemselves in the vaster prospect, of which the flying gloom and theintermittent lights of lamp-posts and private houses were the outwardtoken, but he never lost his sense of walking in the direction ofKatharine's house. He took it for granted that something would thenhappen, and, as he walked on, his mind became more and more full ofpleasure and expectancy. Within a certain radius of her house thestreets came under the influence of her presence. Each house had anindividuality known to Ralph, because of the tremendous individualityof the house in which she lived. For some yards before reaching theHilberys' door he walked in a trance of pleasure, but when he reachedit, and pushed the gate of the little garden open, he hesitated. Hedid not know what to do next. There was no hurry, however, for theoutside of the house held pleasure enough to last him some timelonger. He crossed the road, and leant against the balustrade of theEmbankment, fixing his eyes upon the house.Lights burnt in the three long windows of the drawing-room. The spaceof the room behind became, in Ralph's vision, the center of the dark,flying wilderness of the world; the justification for the welter ofconfusion surrounding it; the steady light which cast its beams, likethose of a lighthouse, with searching composure over the tracklesswaste. In this little sanctuary were gathered together severaldifferent people, but their identity was dissolved in a general gloryof something that might, perhaps, be called civilization; at any rate,all dryness, all safety, all that stood up above the surge andpreserved a consciousness of its own, was centered in the drawing-roomof the Hilberys. Its purpose was beneficent; and yet so far above hislevel as to have something austere about it, a light that cast itselfout and yet kept itself aloof. Then he began, in his mind, todistinguish different individuals within, consciously refusing as yetto attack the figure of Katharine. His thoughts lingered over Mrs.Hilbery and Cassandra; and then he turned to Rodney and Mr. Hilbery.Physically, he saw them bathed in that steady flow of yellow lightwhich filled the long oblongs of the windows; in their movements theywere beautiful; and in their speech he figured a reserve of meaning,unspoken, but understood. At length, after all this half-consciousselection and arrangement, he allowed himself to approach the figureof Katharine herself; and instantly the scene was flooded withexcitement. He did not see her in the body; he seemed curiously to seeher as a shape of light, the light itself; he seemed, simplified andexhausted as he was, to be like one of those lost birds fascinated bythe lighthouse and held to the glass by the splendor of the blaze.These thoughts drove him to tramp a beat up and down the pavementbefore the Hilberys' gate. He did not trouble himself to make anyplans for the future. Something of an unknown kind would decide boththe coming year and the coming hour. Now and again, in his vigil, hesought the light in the long windows, or glanced at the ray whichgilded a few leaves and a few blades of grass in the little garden.For a long time the light burnt without changing. He had just reachedthe limit of his beat and was turning, when the front door opened, andthe aspect of the house was entirely changed. A black figure came downthe little pathway and paused at the gate. Denham understood instantlythat it was Rodney. Without hesitation, and conscious only of a greatfriendliness for any one coming from that lighted room, he walkedstraight up to him and stopped him. In the flurry of the wind Rodneywas taken aback, and for the moment tried to press on, mutteringsomething, as if he suspected a demand upon his charity."Goodness, Denham, what are you doing here?" he exclaimed, recognizinghim.Ralph mumbled something about being on his way home. They walked ontogether, though Rodney walked quick enough to make it plain that hehad no wish for company.He was very unhappy. That afternoon Cassandra had repulsed him; he hadtried to explain to her the difficulties of the situation, and tosuggest the nature of his feelings for her without saying anythingdefinite or anything offensive to her. But he had lost his head; underthe goad of Katharine's ridicule he had said too much, and Cassandra,superb in her dignity and severity, had refused to hear another word,and threatened an immediate return to her home. His agitation, afteran evening spent between the two women, was extreme. Moreover, hecould not help suspecting that Ralph was wandering near the Hilberys'house, at this hour, for reasons connected with Katharine. There wasprobably some understanding between them--not that anything of thekind mattered to him now. He was convinced that he had never cared forany one save Cassandra, and Katharine's future was no concern of his.Aloud, he said, shortly, that he was very tired and wished to find acab. But on Sunday night, on the Embankment, cabs were hard to comeby, and Rodney found himself constrained to walk some distance, at anyrate, in Denham's company. Denham maintained his silence. Rodney'sirritation lapsed. He found the silence oddly suggestive of the goodmasculine qualities which he much respected, and had at this momentgreat reason to need. After the mystery, difficulty, and uncertaintyof dealing with the other sex, intercourse with one's own is apt tohave a composing and even ennobling influence, since plain speaking ispossible and subterfuges of no avail. Rodney, too, was much in need ofa confidant; Katharine, despite her promises of help, had failed himat the critical moment; she had gone off with Denham; she was,perhaps, tormenting Denham as she had tormented him. How grave andstable he seemed, speaking little, and walking firmly, compared withwhat Rodney knew of his own torments and indecisions! He began to castabout for some way of telling the story of his relations withKatharine and Cassandra that would not lower him in Denham's eyes. Itthen occurred to him that, perhaps, Katharine herself had confided inDenham; they had something in common; it was likely that they haddiscussed him that very afternoon. The desire to discover what theyhad said of him now came uppermost in his mind. He recalledKatharine's laugh; he remembered that she had gone, laughing, to walkwith Denham."Did you stay long after we'd left?" he asked abruptly."No. We went back to my house."This seemed to confirm Rodney's belief that he had been discussed. Heturned over the unpalatable idea for a while, in silence."Women are incomprehensible creatures, Denham!" he then exclaimed."Um," said Denham, who seemed to himself possessed of completeunderstanding, not merely of women, but of the entire universe. Hecould read Rodney, too, like a book. He knew that he was unhappy, andhe pitied him, and wished to help him."You say something and they--fly into a passion. Or for no reason atall, they laugh. I take it that no amount of education will--" Theremainder of the sentence was lost in the high wind, against whichthey had to struggle; but Denham understood that he referred toKatharine's laughter, and that the memory of it was still hurting him.In comparison with Rodney, Denham felt himself very secure; he sawRodney as one of the lost birds dashed senseless against the glass;one of the flying bodies of which the air was full. But he andKatharine were alone together, aloft, splendid, and luminous with atwofold radiance. He pitied the unstable creature beside him; he felta desire to protect him, exposed without the knowledge which made hisown way so direct. They were united as the adventurous are united,though one reaches the goal and the other perishes by the way."You couldn't laugh at some one you cared for."This sentence, apparently addressed to no other human being, reachedDenham's ears. The wind seemed to muffle it and fly away with itdirectly. Had Rodney spoken those words?"You love her." Was that his own voice, which seemed to sound in theair several yards in front of him?"I've suffered tortures, Denham, tortures!""Yes, yes, I know that.""She's laughed at me.""Never--to me."The wind blew a space between the words--blew them so far away thatthey seemed unspoken."How I've loved her!"This was certainly spoken by the man at Denham's side. The voice hadall the marks of Rodney's character, and recalled, with; strangevividness, his personal appearance. Denham could see him against theblank buildings and towers of the horizon. He saw him dignified,exalted, and tragic, as he might have appeared thinking of Katharinealone in his rooms at night."I am in love with Katharine myself. That is why I am here to-night."Ralph spoke distinctly and deliberately, as if Rodney's confession hadmade this statement necessary.Rodney exclaimed something inarticulate."Ah, I've always known it," he cried, "I've known it from the first.You'll marry her!"The cry had a note of despair in it. Again the wind intercepted theirwords. They said no more. At length they drew up beneath a lamp-post,simultaneously."My God, Denham, what fools we both are!" Rodney exclaimed. Theylooked at each other, queerly, in the light of the lamp. Fools! Theyseemed to confess to each other the extreme depths of their folly. Forthe moment, under the lamp-post, they seemed to be aware of somecommon knowledge which did away with the possibility of rivalry, andmade them feel more sympathy for each other than for any one else inthe world. Giving simultaneously a little nod, as if in confirmationof this understanding, they parted without speaking again.