Chapter XI

by Virginia Woolf

　　It's life that matters, nothing but life--the process of discovering,the everlasting and perpetual process," said Katharine, as she passedunder the archway, and so into the wide space of King's Bench Walk,"not the discovery itself at all." She spoke the last words looking upat Rodney's windows, which were a semilucent red color, in her honor,as she knew. He had asked her to tea with him. But she was in a moodwhen it is almost physically disagreeable to interrupt the stride ofone's thought, and she walked up and down two or three times under thetrees before approaching his staircase. She liked getting hold of somebook which neither her father or mother had read, and keeping it toherself, and gnawing its contents in privacy, and pondering themeaning without sharing her thoughts with any one, or having to decidewhether the book was a good one or a bad one. This evening she hadtwisted the words of Dostoevsky to suit her mood--a fatalistic mood--to proclaim that the process of discovery was life, and that,presumably, the nature of one's goal mattered not at all. She sat downfor a moment upon one of the seats; felt herself carried along in theswirl of many things; decided, in her sudden way, that it was time toheave all this thinking overboard, and rose, leaving a fishmonger'sbasket on the seat behind her. Two minutes later her rap sounded withauthority upon Rodney's door."Well, William," she said, "I'm afraid I'm late."It was true, but he was so glad to see her that he forgot hisannoyance. He had been occupied for over an hour in making thingsready for her, and he now had his reward in seeing her look right andleft, as she slipped her cloak from her shoulders, with evidentsatisfaction, although she said nothing. He had seen that the fireburnt well; jam-pots were on the table, tin covers shone in thefender, and the shabby comfort of the room was extreme. He was dressedin his old crimson dressing-gown, which was faded irregularly, and hadbright new patches on it, like the paler grass which one finds onlifting a stone. He made the tea, and Katharine drew off her gloves,and crossed her legs with a gesture that was rather masculine in itsease. Nor did they talk much until they were smoking cigarettes overthe fire, having placed their teacups upon the floor between them.They had not met since they had exchanged letters about theirrelationship. Katharine's answer to his protestation had been shortand sensible. Half a sheet of notepaper contained the whole of it, forshe merely had to say that she was not in love with him, and so couldnot marry him, but their friendship would continue, she hoped,unchanged. She had added a postscript in which she stated, "I likeyour sonnet very much."So far as William was concerned, this appearance of ease was assumed.Three times that afternoon he had dressed himself in a tail-coat, andthree times he had discarded it for an old dressing-gown; three timeshe had placed his pearl tie-pin in position, and three times he hadremoved it again, the little looking-glass in his room being thewitness of these changes of mind. The question was, which wouldKatharine prefer on this particular afternoon in December? He read hernote once more, and the postscript about the sonnet settled thematter. Evidently she admired most the poet in him; and as this, onthe whole, agreed with his own opinion, he decided to err, ifanything, on the side of shabbiness. His demeanor was also regulatedwith premeditation; he spoke little, and only on impersonal matters;he wished her to realize that in visiting him for the first time aloneshe was doing nothing remarkable, although, in fact, that was a pointabout which he was not at all sure.Certainly Katharine seemed quite unmoved by any disturbing thoughts;and if he had been completely master of himself, he might, indeed,have complained that she was a trifle absent-minded. The ease, thefamiliarity of the situation alone with Rodney, among teacups andcandles, had more effect upon her than was apparent. She asked to lookat his books, and then at his pictures. It was while she heldphotograph from the Greek in her hands that she exclaimed,impulsively, if incongruously:"My oysters! I had a basket," she explained, "and I've left itsomewhere. Uncle Dudley dines with us to-night. What in the world haveI done with them?"She rose and began to wander about the room. William rose also, andstood in front of the fire, muttering, "Oysters, oysters--your basketof oysters!" but though he looked vaguely here and there, as if theoysters might be on the top of the bookshelf, his eyes returned alwaysto Katharine. She drew the curtain and looked out among the scantyleaves of the plane-trees."I had them," she calculated, "in the Strand; I sat on a seat. Well,never mind," she concluded, turning back into the room abruptly, "Idare say some old creature is enjoying them by this time.""I should have thought that you never forgot anything," Williamremarked, as they settled down again."That's part of the myth about me, I know," Katharine replied."And I wonder," William proceeded, with some caution, "what the truthabout you is? But I know this sort of thing doesn't interest you," headded hastily, with a touch of peevishness."No; it doesn't interest me very much," she replied candidly."What shall we talk about then?" he asked.She looked rather whimsically round the walls of the room."However we start, we end by talking about the same thing--aboutpoetry, I mean. I wonder if you realize, William, that I've never readeven Shakespeare? It's rather wonderful how I've kept it up all theseyears.""You've kept it up for ten years very beautifully, as far as I'mconcerned," he said."Ten years? So long as that?""And I don't think it's always bored you," he added.She looked into the fire silently. She could not deny that the surfaceof her feeling was absolutely unruffled by anything in William'scharacter; on the contrary, she felt certain that she could deal withwhatever turned up. He gave her peace, in which she could think ofthings that were far removed from what they talked about. Even now,when he sat within a yard of her, how easily her mind ranged hitherand thither! Suddenly a picture presented itself before her, withoutany effort on her part as pictures will, of herself in these veryrooms; she had come in from a lecture, and she held a pile of books inher hand, scientific books, and books about mathematics and astronomywhich she had mastered. She put them down on the table over there. Itwas a picture plucked from her life two or three years hence, when shewas married to William; but here she checked herself abruptly.She could not entirely forget William's presence, because, in spite ofhis efforts to control himself, his nervousness was apparent. On suchoccasions his eyes protruded more than ever, and his face had morethan ever the appearance of being covered with a thin crackling skin,through which every flush of his volatile blood showed itselfinstantly. By this time he had shaped so many sentences and rejectedthem, felt so many impulses and subdued them, that he was a uniformscarlet."You may say you don't read books," he remarked, "but, all the same,you know about them. Besides, who wants you to be learned? Leave thatto the poor devils who've got nothing better to do. You--you--ahem!--""Well, then, why don't you read me something before I go?" saidKatharine, looking at her watch."Katharine, you've only just come! Let me see now, what have I got toshow you?" He rose, and stirred about the papers on his table, as ifin doubt; he then picked up a manuscript, and after spreading itsmoothly upon his knee, he looked up at Katharine suspiciously. Hecaught her smiling."I believe you only ask me to read out of kindness," he burst out."Let's find something else to talk about. Who have you been seeing?""I don't generally ask things out of kindness," Katharine observed;"however, if you don't want to read, you needn't."William gave a queer snort of exasperation, and opened his manuscriptonce more, though he kept his eyes upon her face as he did so. No facecould have been graver or more judicial."One can trust you, certainly, to say unpleasant things," he said,smoothing out the page, clearing his throat, and reading half a stanzato himself. "Ahem! The Princess is lost in the wood, and she hears thesound of a horn. (This would all be very pretty on the stage, but Ican't get the effect here.) Anyhow, Sylvano enters, accompanied by therest of the gentlemen of Gratian's court. I begin where hesoliloquizes." He jerked his head and began to read.Although Katharine had just disclaimed any knowledge of literature,she listened attentively. At least, she listened to the first twenty-five lines attentively, and then she frowned. Her attention was onlyaroused again when Rodney raised his finger--a sign, she knew, thatthe meter was about to change.His theory was that every mood has its meter. His mastery of meterswas very great; and, if the beauty of a drama depended upon thevariety of measures in which the personages speak, Rodney's plays musthave challenged the works of Shakespeare. Katharine's ignorance ofShakespeare did not prevent her from feeling fairly certain that playsshould not produce a sense of chill stupor in the audience, such asovercame her as the lines flowed on, sometimes long and sometimesshort, but always delivered with the same lilt of voice, which seemedto nail each line firmly on to the same spot in the hearer's brain.Still, she reflected, these sorts of skill are almost exclusivelymasculine; women neither practice them nor know how to value them; andone's husband's proficiency in this direction might legitimatelyincrease one's respect for him, since mystification is no bad basisfor respect. No one could doubt that William was a scholar. Thereading ended with the finish of the Act; Katharine had prepared alittle speech."That seems to me extremely well written, William; although, ofcourse, I don't know enough to criticize in detail.""But it's the skill that strikes you--not the emotion?""In a fragment like that, of course, the skill strikes one most.""But perhaps--have you time to listen to one more short piece? thescene between the lovers? There's some real feeling in that, I think.Denham agrees that it's the best thing I've done.""You've read it to Ralph Denham?" Katharine inquired, with surprise."He's a better judge than I am. What did he say?""My dear Katharine," Rodney exclaimed, "I don't ask you for criticism,as I should ask a scholar. I dare say there are only five men inEngland whose opinion of my work matters a straw to me. But I trustyou where feeling is concerned. I had you in my mind often when I waswriting those scenes. I kept asking myself, 'Now is this the sort ofthing Katharine would like?' I always think of you when I'm writing,Katharine, even when it's the sort of thing you wouldn't know about.And I'd rather--yes, I really believe I'd rather--you thought well ofmy writing than any one in the world."This was so genuine a tribute to his trust in her that Katharine wastouched."You think too much of me altogether, William," she said, forgettingthat she had not meant to speak in this way."No, Katharine, I don't," he replied, replacing his manuscript in thedrawer. "It does me good to think of you."So quiet an answer, followed as it was by no expression of love, butmerely by the statement that if she must go he would take her to theStrand, and would, if she could wait a moment, change his dressing-gown for a coat, moved her to the warmest feeling of affection for himthat she had yet experienced. While he changed in the next room, shestood by the bookcase, taking down books and opening them, but readingnothing on their pages.She felt certain that she would marry Rodney. How could one avoid it?How could one find fault with it? Here she sighed, and, putting thethought of marriage away, fell into a dream state, in which she becameanother person, and the whole world seemed changed. Being a frequentvisitor to that world, she could find her way there unhesitatingly. Ifshe had tried to analyze her impressions, she would have said thatthere dwelt the realities of the appearances which figure in ourworld; so direct, powerful, and unimpeded were her sensations there,compared with those called forth in actual life. There dwelt thethings one might have felt, had there been cause; the perfecthappiness of which here we taste the fragment; the beauty seen here inflying glimpses only. No doubt much of the furniture of this world wasdrawn directly from the past, and even from the England of theElizabethan age. However the embellishment of this imaginary worldmight change, two qualities were constant in it. It was a place wherefeelings were liberated from the constraint which the real world putsupon them; and the process of awakenment was always marked byresignation and a kind of stoical acceptance of facts. She met noacquaintance there, as Denham did, miraculously transfigured; sheplayed no heroic part. But there certainly she loved some magnanimoushero, and as they swept together among the leaf-hung trees of anunknown world, they shared the feelings which came fresh and fast asthe waves on the shore. But the sands of her liberation were runningfast; even through the forest branches came sounds of Rodney movingthings on his dressing-table; and Katharine woke herself from thisexcursion by shutting the cover of the book she was holding, andreplacing it in the bookshelf."William," she said, speaking rather faintly at first, like onesending a voice from sleep to reach the living. "William," sherepeated firmly, "if you still want me to marry you, I will."Perhaps it was that no man could expect to have the most momentousquestion of his life settled in a voice so level, so toneless, sodevoid of joy or energy. At any rate William made no answer. Shewaited stoically. A moment later he stepped briskly from hisdressing-room, and observed that if she wanted to buy more oysters hethought he knew where they could find a fishmonger's shop still open.She breathed deeply a sigh of relief.Extract from a letter sent a few days later by Mrs. Hilbery to hersister-in-law, Mrs. Milvain:" . . . How stupid of me to forget the name in my telegram. Such anice, rich, English name, too, and, in addition, he has all the gracesof intellect; he has read literally everything. I tell Katharine, Ishall always put him on my right side at dinner, so as to have him byme when people begin talking about characters in Shakespeare. Theywon't be rich, but they'll be very, very happy. I was sitting in myroom late one night, feeling that nothing nice would ever happen to meagain, when I heard Katharine outside in the passage, and I thought tomyself, 'Shall I call her in?' and then I thought (in that hopeless,dreary way one does think, with the fire going out and one's birthdayjust over), 'Why should I lay my troubles on her?' But my little self-control had its reward, for next moment she tapped at the door andcame in, and sat on the rug, and though we neither of us saidanything, I felt so happy all of a second that I couldn't help crying,'Oh, Katharine, when you come to my age, how I hope you'll have adaughter, too!' You know how silent Katharine is. She was so silent,for such a long time, that in my foolish, nervous state I dreadedsomething, I don't quite know what. And then she told me how, afterall, she had made up her mind. She had written. She expected himto-morrow. At first I wasn't glad at all. I didn't want her to marryany one; but when she said, 'It will make no difference. I shallalways care for you and father most,' then I saw how selfish I was,and I told her she must give him everything, everything, everything! Itold her I should be thankful to come second. But why, wheneverything's turned out just as one always hoped it would turn out,why then can one do nothing but cry, nothing but feel a desolate oldwoman whose life's been a failure, and now is nearly over, and age isso cruel? But Katharine said to me, 'I am happy. I'm very happy.' Andthen I thought, though it all seemed so desperately dismal at thetime, Katharine had said she was happy, and I should have a son, andit would all turn out so much more wonderfully than I could possiblyimagine, for though the sermons don't say so, I do believe the worldis meant for us to be happy in. She told me that they would live quitenear us, and see us every day; and she would go on with the Life, andwe should finish it as we had meant to. And, after all, it would befar more horrid if she didn't marry--or suppose she married some onewe couldn't endure? Suppose she had fallen in love with some one whowas married already?"And though one never thinks any one good enough for the people one'sfond of, he has the kindest, truest instincts, I'm sure, and though heseems nervous and his manner is not commanding, I only think thesethings because it's Katharine. And now I've written this, it comesover me that, of course, all the time, Katharine has what he hasn't.She does command, she isn't nervous; it comes naturally to her to ruleand control. It's time that she should give all this to some one whowill need her when we aren't there, save in our spirits, for whateverpeople say, I'm sure I shall come back to this wonderful world whereone's been so happy and so miserable, where, even now, I seem to seemyself stretching out my hands for another present from the greatFairy Tree whose boughs are still hung with enchanting toys, thoughthey are rarer now, perhaps, and between the branches one sees nolonger the blue sky, but the stars and the tops of the mountains."One doesn't know any more, does one? One hasn't any advice to giveone's children. One can only hope that they will have the same visionand the same power to believe, without which life would be someaningless. That is what I ask for Katharine and her husband."