Chapter XXX

by Virginia Woolf

　　The day was so different from other days to three people in the housethat the common routine of household life--the maid waiting at table,Mrs. Hilbery writing a letter, the clock striking, and the dooropening, and all the other signs of long-established civilizationappeared suddenly to have no meaning save as they lulled Mr. and Mrs.Hilbery into the belief that nothing unusual had taken place. Itchanced that Mrs. Hilbery was depressed without visible cause, unlessa certain crudeness verging upon coarseness in the temper of herfavorite Elizabethans could be held responsible for the mood. At anyrate, she had shut up "The Duchess of Malfi" with a sigh, and wishedto know, so she told Rodney at dinner, whether there wasn't some youngwriter with a touch of the great spirit--somebody who made you believethat life was beautiful? She got little help from Rodney, and aftersinging her plaintive requiem for the death of poetry by herself, shecharmed herself into good spirits again by remembering the existenceof Mozart. She begged Cassandra to play to her, and when they wentupstairs Cassandra opened the piano directly, and did her best tocreate an atmosphere of unmixed beauty. At the sound of the firstnotes Katharine and Rodney both felt an enormous sense of relief atthe license which the music gave them to loosen their hold upon themechanism of behavior. They lapsed into the depths of thought. Mrs.Hilbery was soon spirited away into a perfectly congenial mood, thatwas half reverie and half slumber, half delicious melancholy and halfpure bliss. Mr. Hilbery alone attended. He was extremely musical, andmade Cassandra aware that he listened to every note. She played herbest, and won his approval. Leaning slightly forward in his chair, andturning his little green stone, he weighed the intention of herphrases approvingly, but stopped her suddenly to complain of a noisebehind him. The window was unhasped. He signed to Rodney, who crossedthe room immediately to put the matter right. He stayed a momentlonger by the window than was, perhaps, necessary, and having donewhat was needed, drew his chair a little closer than before toKatharine's side. The music went on. Under cover of some exquisite runof melody, he leant towards her and whispered something. She glancedat her father and mother, and a moment later left the room, almostunobserved, with Rodney."What is it?" she asked, as soon as the door was shut.Rodney made no answer, but led her downstairs into the dining-room onthe ground floor. Even when he had shut the door he said nothing, butwent straight to the window and parted the curtains. He beckoned toKatharine."There he is again," he said. "Look, there--under the lamp-post."Katharine looked. She had no idea what Rodney was talking about. Avague feeling of alarm and mystery possessed her. She saw a manstanding on the opposite side of the road facing the house beneath alamp-post. As they looked the figure turned, walked a few steps, andcame back again to his old position. It seemed to her that he waslooking fixedly at her, and was conscious of her gaze on him. Sheknew, in a flash, who the man was who was watching them. She drew thecurtain abruptly."Denham," said Rodney. "He was there last night too." He spokesternly. His whole manner had become full of authority. Katharine feltalmost as if he accused her of some crime. She was pale anduncomfortably agitated, as much by the strangeness of Rodney'sbehavior as by the sight of Ralph Denham."If he chooses to come--" she said defiantly."You can't let him wait out there. I shall tell him to come in."Rodney spoke with such decision that when he raised his arm Katharineexpected him to draw the curtain instantly. She caught his hand with alittle exclamation."Wait!" she cried. "I don't allow you.""You can't wait," he replied. "You've gone too far." His hand remainedupon the curtain. "Why don't you admit, Katharine," he broke out,looking at her with an expression of contempt as well as of anger,"that you love him? Are you going to treat him as you treated me?"She looked at him, wondering, in spite of all her perplexity, at thespirit that possessed him."I forbid you to draw the curtain," she said.He reflected, and then took his hand away."I've no right to interfere," he concluded. "I'll leave you. Or, ifyou like, we'll go back to the drawing-room.""No. I can't go back," she said, shaking her head. She bent her headin thought."You love him, Katharine," Rodney said suddenly. His tone had lostsomething of its sternness, and might have been used to urge a childto confess its fault. She raised her eyes and fixed them upon him."I love him?" she repeated. He nodded. She searched his face, as iffor further confirmation of his words, and, as he remained silent andexpectant, turned away once more and continued her thoughts. Heobserved her closely, but without stirring, as if he gave her time tomake up her mind to fulfil her obvious duty. The strains of Mozartreached them from the room above."Now," she said suddenly, with a sort of desperation, rising from herchair and seeming to command Rodney to fulfil his part. He drew thecurtain instantly, and she made no attempt to stop him. Their eyes atonce sought the same spot beneath the lamp-post."He's not there!" she exclaimed.No one was there. William threw the window up and looked out. The windrushed into the room, together with the sound of distant wheels,footsteps hurrying along the pavement, and the cries of sirens hootingdown the river."Denham!" William cried."Ralph!" said Katharine, but she spoke scarcely louder than she mighthave spoken to some one in the same room. With their eyes fixed uponthe opposite side of the road, they did not notice a figure close tothe railing which divided the garden from the street. But Denham hadcrossed the road and was standing there. They were startled by hisvoice close at hand."Rodney!""There you are! Come in, Denham." Rodney went to the front door andopened it. "Here he is," he said, bringing Ralph with him into thedining-room where Katharine stood, with her back to the open window.Their eyes met for a second. Denham looked half dazed by the stronglight, and, buttoned in his overcoat, with his hair ruffled across hisforehead by the wind, he seemed like somebody rescued from an openboat out at sea. William promptly shut the window and drew thecurtains. He acted with a cheerful decision as if he were master ofthe situation, and knew exactly what he meant to do."You're the first to hear the news, Denham," he said. "Katharine isn'tgoing to marry me, after all.""Where shall I put--" Ralph began vaguely, holding out his hat andglancing about him; he balanced it carefully against a silver bowlthat stood upon the sideboard. He then sat himself down rather heavilyat the head of the oval dinner-table. Rodney stood on one side of himand Katharine on the other. He appeared to be presiding over somemeeting from which most of the members were absent. Meanwhile, hewaited, and his eyes rested upon the glow of the beautifully polishedmahogany table."William is engaged to Cassandra," said Katharine briefly.At that Denham looked up quickly at Rodney. Rodney's expressionchanged. He lost his self-possession. He smiled a little nervously,and then his attention seemed to be caught by a fragment of melodyfrom the floor above. He seemed for a moment to forget the presence ofthe others. He glanced towards the door."I congratulate you," said Denham."Yes, yes. We're all mad--quite out of our minds, Denham," he said."It's partly Katharine's doing--partly mine." He looked oddly roundthe room as if he wished to make sure that the scene in which heplayed a part had some real existence. "Quite mad," he repeated. "EvenKatharine--" His gaze rested upon her finally, as if she, too, hadchanged from his old view of her. He smiled at her as if to encourageher. "Katharine shall explain," he said, and giving a little nod toDenham, he left the room.Katharine sat down at once, and leant her chin upon her hands. So longas Rodney was in the room the proceedings of the evening had seemed tobe in his charge, and had been marked by a certain unreality. Now thatshe was alone with Ralph she felt at once that a constraint had beentaken from them both. She felt that they were alone at the bottom ofthe house, which rose, story upon story, upon the top of them."Why were you waiting out there?" she asked."For the chance of seeing you," he replied."You would have waited all night if it hadn't been for William. It'swindy too. You must have been cold. What could you see? Nothing butour windows.""It was worth it. I heard you call me.""I called you?" She had called unconsciously."They were engaged this morning," she told him, after a pause."You're glad?" he asked.She bent her head. "Yes, yes," she sighed. "But you don't know howgood he is--what he's done for me--" Ralph made a sound ofunderstanding. "You waited there last night too?" she asked."Yes. I can wait," Denham replied.The words seemed to fill the room with an emotion which Katharineconnected with the sound of distant wheels, the footsteps hurryingalong the pavement, the cries of sirens hooting down the river, thedarkness and the wind. She saw the upright figure standing beneath thelamp-post."Waiting in the dark," she said, glancing at the window, as if he sawwhat she was seeing. "Ah, but it's different--" She broke off. "I'mnot the person you think me. Until you realize that it's impossible--"Placing her elbows on the table, she slid her ruby ring up and downher finger abstractedly. She frowned at the rows of leather-boundbooks opposite her. Ralph looked keenly at her. Very pale, but sternlyconcentrated upon her meaning, beautiful but so little aware ofherself as to seem remote from him also, there was something distantand abstract about her which exalted him and chilled him at the sametime."No, you're right," he said. "I don't know you. I've never known you.""Yet perhaps you know me better than any one else," she mused.Some detached instinct made her aware that she was gazing at a bookwhich belonged by rights to some other part of the house. She walkedover to the shelf, took it down, and returned to her seat, placing thebook on the table between them. Ralph opened it and looked at theportrait of a man with a voluminous white shirt-collar, which formedthe frontispiece."I say I do know you, Katharine," he affirmed, shutting the book."It's only for moments that I go mad.""Do you call two whole nights a moment?""I swear to you that now, at this instant, I see you precisely as youare. No one has ever known you as I know you. . . . Could you havetaken down that book just now if I hadn't known you?""That's true," she replied, "but you can't think how I'm divided--howI'm at my ease with you, and how I'm bewildered. The unreality--thedark--the waiting outside in the wind--yes, when you look at me, notseeing me, and I don't see you either. . . . But I do see," she wenton quickly, changing her position and frowning again, "heaps ofthings, only not you.""Tell me what you see," he urged.But she could not reduce her vision to words, since it was no singleshape colored upon the dark, but rather a general excitement, anatmosphere, which, when she tried to visualize it, took form as a windscouring the flanks of northern hills and flashing light uponcornfields and pools."Impossible," she sighed, laughing at the ridiculous notion of puttingany part of this into words."Try, Katharine," Ralph urged her."But I can't--I'm talking a sort of nonsense--the sort of nonsense onetalks to oneself." She was dismayed by the expression of longing anddespair upon his face. "I was thinking about a mountain in the Northof England," she attempted. "It's too silly--I won't go on.""We were there together?" he pressed her."No. I was alone." She seemed to be disappointing the desire of achild. His face fell."You're always alone there?""I can't explain." She could not explain that she was essentiallyalone there. "It's not a mountain in the North of England. It's animagination--a story one tells oneself. You have yours too?""You're with me in mine. You're the thing I make up, you see.""Oh, I see," she sighed. "That's why it's so impossible." She turnedupon him almost fiercely. "You must try to stop it," she said."I won't," he replied roughly, "because I--" He stopped. He realizedthat the moment had come to impart that news of the utmost importancewhich he had tried to impart to Mary Datchet, to Rodney upon theEmbankment, to the drunken tramp upon the seat. How should he offer itto Katharine? He looked quickly at her. He saw that she was only halfattentive to him; only a section of her was exposed to him. The sightroused in him such desperation that he had much ado to control hisimpulse to rise and leave the house. Her hand lay loosely curled uponthe table. He seized it and grasped it firmly as if to make sure ofher existence and of his own. "Because I love you, Katharine," hesaid.Some roundness or warmth essential to that statement was absent fromhis voice, and she had merely to shake her head very slightly for himto drop her hand and turn away in shame at his own impotence. Hethought that she had detected his wish to leave her. She had discernedthe break in his resolution, the blankness in the heart of his vision.It was true that he had been happier out in the street, thinking ofher, than now that he was in the same room with her. He looked at herwith a guilty expression on his face. But her look expressed neitherdisappointment nor reproach. Her pose was easy, and she seemed to giveeffect to a mood of quiet speculation by the spinning of her ruby ringupon the polished table. Denham forgot his despair in wondering whatthoughts now occupied her."You don't believe me?" he said. His tone was humble, and made hersmile at him."As far as I understand you--but what should you advise me to do withthis ring?" she asked, holding it out."I should advise you to let me keep it for you," he replied, in thesame tone of half-humorous gravity."After what you've said, I can hardly trust you--unless you'll unsaywhat you've said?""Very well. I'm not in love with you.""But I think you are in love with me. . . . As I am with you," sheadded casually enough. "At least," she said slipping her ring back toits old position, "what other word describes the state we're in?"She looked at him gravely and inquiringly, as if in search of help."It's when I'm with you that I doubt it, not when I'm alone," hestated."So I thought," she replied.In order to explain to her his state of mind, Ralph recounted hisexperience with the photograph, the letter, and the flower picked atKew. She listened very seriously."And then you went raving about the streets," she mused. "Well, it'sbad enough. But my state is worse than yours, because it hasn'tanything to do with facts. It's an hallucination, pure and simple--anintoxication. . . . One can be in love with pure reason?" shehazarded. "Because if you're in love with a vision, I believe thatthat's what I'm in love with."This conclusion seemed fantastic and profoundly unsatisfactory toRalph, but after the astonishing variations of his own sentimentsduring the past half-hour he could not accuse her of fancifulexaggeration."Rodney seems to know his own mind well enough," he said almostbitterly. The music, which had ceased, had now begun again, and themelody of Mozart seemed to express the easy and exquisite love of thetwo upstairs."Cassandra never doubted for a moment. But we--" she glanced at him asif to ascertain his position, "we see each other only now and then--""Like lights in a storm--""In the midst of a hurricane," she concluded, as the window shookbeneath the pressure of the wind. They listened to the sound insilence.Here the door opened with considerable hesitation, and Mrs. Hilbery'shead appeared, at first with an air of caution, but having made surethat she had admitted herself to the dining-room and not to some moreunusual region, she came completely inside and seemed in no way takenaback by the sight she saw. She seemed, as usual, bound on some questof her own which was interrupted pleasantly but strangely by runninginto one of those queer, unnecessary ceremonies that other peoplethought fit to indulge in."Please don't let me interrupt you, Mr.--" she was at a loss, asusual, for the name, and Katharine thought that she did not recognizehim. "I hope you've found something nice to read," she added, pointingto the book upon the table. "Byron--ah, Byron. I've known people whoknew Lord Byron," she said.Katharine, who had risen in some confusion, could not help smiling atthe thought that her mother found it perfectly natural and desirablethat her daughter should be reading Byron in the dining-room late atnight alone with a strange young man. She blessed a disposition thatwas so convenient, and felt tenderly towards her mother and hermother's eccentricities. But Ralph observed that although Mrs. Hilberyheld the book so close to her eyes she was not reading a word."My dear mother, why aren't you in bed?" Katharine exclaimed, changingastonishingly in the space of a minute to her usual condition ofauthoritative good sense. "Why are you wandering about?""I'm sure I should like your poetry better than I like Lord Byron's,"said Mrs. Hilbery, addressing Ralph Denham."Mr. Denham doesn't write poetry; he has written articles for father,for the Review," Katharine said, as if prompting her memory."Oh dear! How dull!" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed, with a sudden laugh thatrather puzzled her daughter.Ralph found that she had turned upon him a gaze that was at once veryvague and very penetrating."But I'm sure you read poetry at night. I always judge by theexpression of the eyes," Mrs. Hilbery continued. ("The windows of thesoul," she added parenthetically.) "I don't know much about the law,"she went on, "though many of my relations were lawyers. Some of themlooked very handsome, too, in their wigs. But I think I do know alittle about poetry," she added. "And all the things that aren'twritten down, but--but--" She waved her hand, as if to indicate thewealth of unwritten poetry all about them. "The night and the stars,the dawn coming up, the barges swimming past, the sun setting. . . .Ah dear," she sighed, "well, the sunset is very lovely too. Isometimes think that poetry isn't so much what we write as what wefeel, Mr. Denham."During this speech of her mother's Katharine had turned away, andRalph felt that Mrs. Hilbery was talking to him apart, with a desireto ascertain something about him which she veiled purposely by thevagueness of her words. He felt curiously encouraged and heartened bythe beam in her eye rather than by her actual words. From the distanceof her age and sex she seemed to be waving to him, hailing him as aship sinking beneath the horizon might wave its flag of greeting toanother setting out upon the same voyage. He bent his head, sayingnothing, but with a curious certainty that she had read an answer toher inquiry that satisfied her. At any rate, she rambled off into adescription of the Law Courts which turned to a denunciation ofEnglish justice, which, according to her, imprisoned poor men whocouldn't pay their debts. "Tell me, shall we ever do without it all?"she asked, but at this point Katharine gently insisted that her mothershould go to bed. Looking back from half-way up the staircase,Katharine seemed to see Denham's eyes watching her steadily andintently with an expression that she had guessed in them when he stoodlooking at the windows across the road.