Chapter XII

by Virginia Woolf

　　Is Mr. Hilbery at home, or Mrs. Hilbery?" Denham asked, of the parlor-maid in Chelsea, a week later."No, sir. But Miss Hilbery is at home," the girl answered.Ralph had anticipated many answers, but not this one, and now it wasunexpectedly made plain to him that it was the chance of seeingKatharine that had brought him all the way to Chelsea on pretence ofseeing her father.He made some show of considering the matter, and was taken upstairs tothe drawing-room. As upon that first occasion, some weeks ago, thedoor closed as if it were a thousand doors softly excluding the world;and once more Ralph received an impression of a room full of deepshadows, firelight, unwavering silver candle flames, and empty spacesto be crossed before reaching the round table in the middle of theroom, with its frail burden of silver trays and china teacups. Butthis time Katharine was there by herself; the volume in her handshowed that she expected no visitors.Ralph said something about hoping to find her father."My father is out," she replied. "But if you can wait, I expect himsoon."It might have been due merely to politeness, but Ralph felt that shereceived him almost with cordiality. Perhaps she was bored by drinkingtea and reading a book all alone; at any rate, she tossed the book onto a sofa with a gesture of relief."Is that one of the moderns whom you despise?" he asked, smiling atthe carelessness of her gesture."Yes," she replied. "I think even you would despise him.""Even I?" he repeated. "Why even I?""You said you liked modern things; I said I hated them."This was not a very accurate report of their conversation among therelics, perhaps, but Ralph was flattered to think that she rememberedanything about it."Or did I confess that I hated all books?" she went on, seeing himlook up with an air of inquiry. "I forget--""Do you hate all books?" he asked."It would be absurd to say that I hate all books when I've only readten, perhaps; but--' Here she pulled herself up short."Well?""Yes, I do hate books," she continued. "Why do you want to be for evertalking about your feelings? That's what I can't make out. Andpoetry's all about feelings--novels are all about feelings."She cut a cake vigorously into slices, and providing a tray with breadand butter for Mrs. Hilbery, who was in her room with a cold, she roseto go upstairs.Ralph held the door open for her, and then stood with clasped hands inthe middle of the room. His eyes were bright, and, indeed, he scarcelyknew whether they beheld dreams or realities. All down the street andon the doorstep, and while he mounted the stairs, his dream ofKatharine possessed him; on the threshold of the room he had dismissedit, in order to prevent too painful a collision between what he dreamtof her and what she was. And in five minutes she had filled the shellof the old dream with the flesh of life; looked with fire out ofphantom eyes. He glanced about him with bewilderment at findinghimself among her chairs and tables; they were solid, for he graspedthe back of the chair in which Katharine had sat; and yet they wereunreal; the atmosphere was that of a dream. He summoned all thefaculties of his spirit to seize what the minutes had to give him; andfrom the depths of his mind there rose unchecked a joyful recognitionof the truth that human nature surpasses, in its beauty, all that ourwildest dreams bring us hints of.Katharine came into the room a moment later. He stood watching hercome towards him, and thought her more beautiful and strange than hisdream of her; for the real Katharine could speak the words whichseemed to crowd behind the forehead and in the depths of the eyes, andthe commonest sentence would be flashed on by this immortal light. Andshe overflowed the edges of the dream; he remarked that her softnesswas like that of some vast snowy owl; she wore a ruby on her finger."My mother wants me to tell you," she said, "that she hopes you havebegun your poem. She says every one ought to write poetry. . . . Allmy relations write poetry," she went on. "I can't bear to think of itsometimes--because, of course, it's none of it any good. But then oneneedn't read it--""You don't encourage me to write a poem," said Ralph."But you're not a poet, too, are you?" she inquired, turning upon himwith a laugh."Should I tell you if I were?""Yes. Because I think you speak the truth," she said, searching himfor proof of this apparently, with eyes now almost impersonallydirect. It would be easy, Ralph thought, to worship one so farremoved, and yet of so straight a nature; easy to submit recklessly toher, without thought of future pain."Are you a poet?" she demanded. He felt that her question had anunexplained weight of meaning behind it, as if she sought an answer toa question that she did not ask."No. I haven't written any poetry for years," he replied. "But all thesame, I don't agree with you. I think it's the only thing worthdoing.""Why do you say that?" she asked, almost with impatience, tapping herspoon two or three times against the side of her cup."Why?" Ralph laid hands on the first words that came to mind."Because, I suppose, it keeps an ideal alive which might dieotherwise."A curious change came over her face, as if the flame of her mind weresubdued; and she looked at him ironically and with the expressionwhich he had called sad before, for want of a better name for it."I don't know that there's much sense in having ideals," she said."But you have them," he replied energetically. "Why do we call themideals? It's a stupid word. Dreams, I mean--"She followed his words with parted lips, as though to answer eagerlywhen he had done; but as he said, "Dreams, I mean," the door of thedrawing-room swung open, and so remained for a perceptible instant.They both held themselves silent, her lips still parted.Far off, they heard the rustle of skirts. Then the owner of the skirtsappeared in the doorway, which she almost filled, nearly concealingthe figure of a very much smaller lady who accompanied her."My aunts!" Katharine murmured, under her breath. Her tone had a hintof tragedy in it, but no less, Ralph thought, than the situationrequired. She addressed the larger lady as Aunt Millicent; the smallerwas Aunt Celia, Mrs. Milvain, who had lately undertaken the task ofmarrying Cyril to his wife. Both ladies, but Mrs. Cosham (AuntMillicent) in particular, had that look of heightened, smoothed,incarnadined existence which is proper to elderly ladies paying callsin London about five o'clock in the afternoon. Portraits by Romney,seen through glass, have something of their pink, mellow look, theirblooming softness, as of apricots hanging upon a red wall in theafternoon sun. Mrs. Cosham was so appareled with hanging muffs,chains, and swinging draperies that it was impossible to detect theshape of a human being in the mass of brown and black which filled thearm-chair. Mrs. Milvain was a much slighter figure; but the same doubtas to the precise lines of her contour filled Ralph, as he regardedthem, with dismal foreboding. What remark of his would ever reachthese fabulous and fantastic characters?--for there was somethingfantastically unreal in the curious swayings and noddings of Mrs.Cosham, as if her equipment included a large wire spring. Her voicehad a high-pitched, cooing note, which prolonged words and cut themshort until the English language seemed no longer fit for commonpurposes. In a moment of nervousness, so Ralph thought, Katharine hadturned on innumerable electric lights. But Mrs. Cosham had gainedimpetus (perhaps her swaying movements had that end in view) forsustained speech; and she now addressed Ralph deliberately andelaborately."I come from Woking, Mr. Popham. You may well ask me, why Woking? andto that I answer, for perhaps the hundredth time, because of thesunsets. We went there for the sunsets, but that was five-and-twentyyears ago. Where are the sunsets now? Alas! There is no sunset nownearer than the South Coast." Her rich and romantic notes wereaccompanied by a wave of a long white hand, which, when waved, gaveoff a flash of diamonds, rubies, and emeralds. Ralph wondered whethershe more resembled an elephant, with a jeweled head-dress, or a superbcockatoo, balanced insecurely upon its perch, and pecking capriciouslyat a lump of sugar."Where are the sunsets now?" she repeated. "Do you find sunsets now,Mr. Popham?""I live at Highgate," he replied."At Highgate? Yes, Highgate has its charms; your Uncle John lived atHighgate," she jerked in the direction of Katharine. She sank her headupon her breast, as if for a moment's meditation, which past, shelooked up and observed: "I dare say there are very pretty lanes inHighgate. I can recollect walking with your mother, Katharine, throughlanes blossoming with wild hawthorn. But where is the hawthorn now?You remember that exquisite description in De Quincey, Mr. Popham?--but I forget, you, in your generation, with all your activity andenlightenment, at which I can only marvel"--here she displayed bothher beautiful white hands--"do not read De Quincey. You have yourBelloc, your Chesterton, your Bernard Shaw--why should you read DeQuincey?""But I do read De Quincey," Ralph protested, "more than Belloc andChesterton, anyhow.""Indeed!" exclaimed Mrs. Cosham, with a gesture of surprise and reliefmingled. "You are, then, a 'rara avis' in your generation. I amdelighted to meet anyone who reads De Quincey."Here she hollowed her hand into a screen, and, leaning towardsKatharine, inquired, in a very audible whisper, "Does your friendwrite?""Mr. Denham," said Katharine, with more than her usual clearness andfirmness, "writes for the Review. He is a lawyer.""The clean-shaven lips, showing the expression of the mouth! Irecognize them at once. I always feel at home with lawyers, Mr.Denham--""They used to come about so much in the old days," Mrs. Milvaininterposed, the frail, silvery notes of her voice falling with thesweet tone of an old bell."You say you live at Highgate," she continued. "I wonder whether youhappen to know if there is an old house called Tempest Lodge still inexistence--an old white house in a garden?"Ralph shook his head, and she sighed."Ah, no; it must have been pulled down by this time, with all theother old houses. There were such pretty lanes in those days. That washow your uncle met your Aunt Emily, you know," she addressedKatharine. "They walked home through the lanes.""A sprig of May in her bonnet," Mrs. Cosham ejaculated, reminiscently."And next Sunday he had violets in his buttonhole. And that was how weguessed."Katharine laughed. She looked at Ralph. His eyes were meditative, andshe wondered what he found in this old gossip to make him ponder socontentedly. She felt, she hardly knew why, a curious pity for him."Uncle John--yes, 'poor John,' you always called him. Why was that?"she asked, to make them go on talking, which, indeed, they neededlittle invitation to do."That was what his father, old Sir Richard, always called him. PoorJohn, or the fool of the family," Mrs. Milvain hastened to informthem. "The other boys were so brilliant, and he could never pass hisexaminations, so they sent him to India--a long voyage in those days,poor fellow. You had your own room, you know, and you did it up. Buthe will get his knighthood and a pension, I believe," she said,turning to Ralph, "only it is not England.""No," Mrs. Cosham confirmed her, "it is not England. In those days wethought an Indian Judgeship about equal to a county-court judgeship athome. His Honor--a pretty title, but still, not at the top of thetree. However," she sighed, "if you have a wife and seven children,and people nowadays very quickly forget your father's name--well, youhave to take what you can get," she concluded."And I fancy," Mrs. Milvain resumed, lowering her voice ratherconfidentially, "that John would have done more if it hadn't been forhis wife, your Aunt Emily. She was a very good woman, devoted to him,of course, but she was not ambitious for him, and if a wife isn'tambitious for her husband, especially in a profession like the law,clients soon get to know of it. In our young days, Mr. Denham, we usedto say that we knew which of our friends would become judges, bylooking at the girls they married. And so it was, and so, I fancy, italways will be. I don't think," she added, summing up these scatteredremarks, "that any man is really happy unless he succeeds in hisprofession."Mrs. Cosham approved of this sentiment with more ponderous sagacityfrom her side of the tea-table, in the first place by swaying herhead, and in the second by remarking:"No, men are not the same as women. I fancy Alfred Tennyson spoke thetruth about that as about many other things. How I wish he'd lived towrite 'The Prince'--a sequel to 'The Princess'! I confess I'm almosttired of Princesses. We want some one to show us what a good man canbe. We have Laura and Beatrice, Antigone and Cordelia, but we have noheroic man. How do you, as a poet, account for that, Mr. Denham?""I'm not a poet," said Ralph good-humoredly. "I'm only a solicitor.""But you write, too?" Mrs. Cosham demanded, afraid lest she should bebalked of her priceless discovery, a young man truly devoted toliterature."In my spare time," Denham reassured her."In your spare time!" Mrs. Cosham echoed. "That is a proof ofdevotion, indeed." She half closed her eyes, and indulged herself in afascinating picture of a briefless barrister lodged in a garret,writing immortal novels by the light of a farthing dip. But theromance which fell upon the figures of great writers and illuminedtheir pages was no false radiance in her case. She carried her pocketShakespeare about with her, and met life fortified by the words of thepoets. How far she saw Denham, and how far she confused him with somehero of fiction, it would be hard to say. Literature had takenpossession even of her memories. She was matching him, presumably,with certain characters in the old novels, for she came out, after apause, with:"Um--um--Pendennis--Warrington--I could never forgive Laura," shepronounced energetically, "for not marrying George, in spite ofeverything. George Eliot did the very same thing; and Lewes was alittle frog-faced man, with the manner of a dancing master. ButWarrington, now, had everything in his favor; intellect, passion,romance, distinction, and the connection was a mere piece ofundergraduate folly. Arthur, I confess, has always seemed to me a bitof a fop; I can't imagine how Laura married him. But you say you're asolicitor, Mr. Denham. Now there are one or two things I should liketo ask you--about Shakespeare--" She drew out her small, worn volumewith some difficulty, opened it, and shook it in the air. "They say,nowadays, that Shakespeare was a lawyer. They say, that accounts forhis knowledge of human nature. There's a fine example for you, Mr.Denham. Study your clients, young man, and the world will be thericher one of these days, I have no doubt. Tell me, how do we come outof it, now; better or worse than you expected?"Thus called upon to sum up the worth of human nature in a few words,Ralph answered unhesitatingly:"Worse, Mrs. Cosham, a good deal worse. I'm afraid the ordinary man isa bit of a rascal--""And the ordinary woman?""No, I don't like the ordinary woman either--"Ah, dear me, I've no doubt that's very true, very true." Mrs. Coshamsighed. "Swift would have agreed with you, anyhow--" She looked athim, and thought that there were signs of distinct power in his brow.He would do well, she thought, to devote himself to satire."Charles Lavington, you remember, was a solicitor," Mrs. Milvaininterposed, rather resenting the waste of time involved in talkingabout fictitious people when you might be talking about real people."But you wouldn't remember him, Katharine.""Mr. Lavington? Oh, yes, I do," said Katharine, waking from otherthoughts with her little start. "The summer we had a house near Tenby.I remember the field and the pond with the tadpoles, and makinghaystacks with Mr. Lavington.""She is right. There was a pond with tadpoles," Mrs. Coshamcorroborated. "Millais made studies of it for 'Ophelia.' Some say thatis the best picture he ever painted--""And I remember the dog chained up in the yard, and the dead snakeshanging in the toolhouse.""It was at Tenby that you were chased by the bull," Mrs. Milvaincontinued. "But that you couldn't remember, though it's true you werea wonderful child. Such eyes she had, Mr. Denham! I used to say to herfather, 'She's watching us, and summing us all up in her little mind.'And they had a nurse in those days," she went on, telling her storywith charming solemnity to Ralph, "who was a good woman, but engagedto a sailor. When she ought to have been attending to the baby, hereyes were on the sea. And Mrs. Hilbery allowed this girl--Susan hername was--to have him to stay in the village. They abused hergoodness, I'm sorry to say, and while they walked in the lanes, theystood the perambulator alone in a field where there was a bull. Theanimal became enraged by the red blanket in the perambulator, andHeaven knows what might have happened if a gentleman had not beenwalking by in the nick of time, and rescued Katharine in his arms!""I think the bull was only a cow, Aunt Celia," said Katharine."My darling, it was a great red Devonshire bull, and not long after itgored a man to death and had to be destroyed. And your mother forgaveSusan--a thing I could never have done.""Maggie's sympathies were entirely with Susan and the sailor, I amsure," said Mrs. Cosham, rather tartly. "My sister-in-law," shecontinued, "has laid her burdens upon Providence at every crisis inher life, and Providence, I must confess, has responded nobly, sofar--""Yes," said Katharine, with a laugh, for she liked the rashness whichirritated the rest of the family. "My mother's bulls always turn intocows at the critical moment.""Well," said Mrs. Milvain, "I'm glad you have some one to protect youfrom bulls now.""I can't imagine William protecting any one from bulls," saidKatharine.It happened that Mrs. Cosham had once more produced her pocket volumeof Shakespeare, and was consulting Ralph upon an obscure passage in"Measure for Measure." He did not at once seize the meaning of whatKatharine and her aunt were saying; William, he supposed, referred tosome small cousin, for he now saw Katharine as a child in a pinafore;but, nevertheless, he was so much distracted that his eye could hardlyfollow the words on the paper. A moment later he heard them speakdistinctly of an engagement ring."I like rubies," he heard Katharine say."To be imprison'd in the viewless winds,And blown with restless violence round aboutThe pendant world. . . ."Mrs. Cosham intoned; at the same instant "Rodney" fitted itself to"William" in Ralph's mind. He felt convinced that Katharine wasengaged to Rodney. His first sensation was one of violent rage withher for having deceived him throughout the visit, fed him withpleasant old wives' tales, let him see her as a child playing in ameadow, shared her youth with him, while all the time she was astranger entirely, and engaged to marry Rodney.But was it possible? Surely it was not possible. For in his eyes shewas still a child. He paused so long over the book that Mrs. Coshamhad time to look over his shoulder and ask her niece:"And have you settled upon a house yet, Katharine?"This convinced him of the truth of the monstrous idea. He looked up atonce and said:"Yes, it's a difficult passage."His voice had changed so much, he spoke with such curtness and evenwith such contempt, that Mrs. Cosham looked at him fairly puzzled.Happily she belonged to a generation which expected uncouthness in itsmen, and she merely felt convinced that this Mr. Denham was very, veryclever. She took back her Shakespeare, as Denham seemed to have nomore to say, and secreted it once more about her person with theinfinitely pathetic resignation of the old."Katharine's engaged to William Rodney," she said, by way of fillingin the pause; "a very old friend of ours. He has a wonderful knowledgeof literature, too--wonderful." She nodded her head rather vaguely."You should meet each other."Denham's one wish was to leave the house as soon as he could; but theelderly ladies had risen, and were proposing to visit Mrs. Hilbery inher bedroom, so that any move on his part was impossible. At the sametime, he wished to say something, but he knew not what, to Katharinealone. She took her aunts upstairs, and returned, coming towards himonce more with an air of innocence and friendliness that amazed him."My father will be back," she said. "Won't you sit down?" and shelaughed, as if now they might share a perfectly friendly laugh at thetea-party.But Ralph made no attempt to seat himself."I must congratulate you," he said. "It was news to me." He saw herface change, but only to become graver than before."My engagement?" she asked. "Yes, I am going to marry William Rodney."Ralph remained standing with his hand on the back of a chair inabsolute silence. Abysses seemed to plunge into darkness between them.He looked at her, but her face showed that she was not thinking ofhim. No regret or consciousness of wrong disturbed her."Well, I must go," he said at length.She seemed about to say something, then changed her mind and saidmerely:"You will come again, I hope. We always seem"--she hesitated--"to beinterrupted."He bowed and left the room.Ralph strode with extreme swiftness along the Embankment. Every musclewas taut and braced as if to resist some sudden attack from outside.For the moment it seemed as if the attack were about to be directedagainst his body, and his brain thus was on the alert, but withoutunderstanding. Finding himself, after a few minutes, no longer underobservation, and no attack delivered, he slackened his pace, the painspread all through him, took possession of every governing seat, andmet with scarcely any resistance from powers exhausted by their firsteffort at defence. He took his way languidly along the riverembankment, away from home rather than towards it. The world had himat its mercy. He made no pattern out of the sights he saw. He felthimself now, as he had often fancied other people, adrift on thestream, and far removed from control of it, a man with no grasp uponcircumstances any longer. Old battered men loafing at the doors ofpublic-houses now seemed to be his fellows, and he felt, as hesupposed them to feel, a mingling of envy and hatred towards those whopassed quickly and certainly to a goal of their own. They, too, sawthings very thin and shadowy, and were wafted about by the lightestbreath of wind. For the substantial world, with its prospect ofavenues leading on and on to the invisible distance, had slipped fromhim, since Katharine was engaged. Now all his life was visible, andthe straight, meager path had its ending soon enough. Katharine wasengaged, and she had deceived him, too. He felt for corners of hisbeing untouched by his disaster; but there was no limit to the floodof damage; not one of his possessions was safe now. Katharine haddeceived him; she had mixed herself with every thought of his, andreft of her they seemed false thoughts which he would blush to thinkagain. His life seemed immeasurably impoverished.He sat himself down, in spite of the chilly fog which obscured thefarther bank and left its lights suspended upon a blank surface, uponone of the riverside seats, and let the tide of disillusionment sweepthrough him. For the time being all bright points in his life wereblotted out; all prominences leveled. At first he made himself believethat Katharine had treated him badly, and drew comfort from thethought that, left alone, she would recollect this, and think of himand tender him, in silence, at any rate, an apology. But this grain ofcomfort failed him after a second or two, for, upon reflection, he hadto admit that Katharine owed him nothing. Katharine had promisednothing, taken nothing; to her his dreams had meant nothing. This,indeed, was the lowest pitch of his despair. If the best of one'sfeelings means nothing to the person most concerned in those feelings,what reality is left us? The old romance which had warmed his days forhim, the thoughts of Katharine which had painted every hour, were nowmade to appear foolish and enfeebled. He rose, and looked into theriver, whose swift race of dun-colored waters seemed the very spiritof futility and oblivion."In what can one trust, then?" he thought, as he leant there. Sofeeble and insubstantial did he feel himself that he repeated the wordaloud."In what can one trust? Not in men and women. Not in one's dreamsabout them. There's nothing--nothing, nothing left at all."Now Denham had reason to know that he could bring to birth and keepalive a fine anger when he chose. Rodney provided a good target forthat emotion. And yet at the moment, Rodney and Katharine herselfseemed disembodied ghosts. He could scarcely remember the look ofthem. His mind plunged lower and lower. Their marriage seemed of noimportance to him. All things had turned to ghosts; the whole mass ofthe world was insubstantial vapor, surrounding the solitary spark inhis mind, whose burning point he could remember, for it burnt no more.He had once cherished a belief, and Katharine had embodied thisbelief, and she did so no longer. He did not blame her; he blamednothing, nobody; he saw the truth. He saw the dun-colored race ofwaters and the blank shore. But life is vigorous; the body lives, andthe body, no doubt, dictated the reflection, which now urged him tomovement, that one may cast away the forms of human beings, and yetretain the passion which seemed inseparable from their existence inthe flesh. Now this passion burnt on his horizon, as the winter sunmakes a greenish pane in the west through thinning clouds. His eyeswere set on something infinitely far and remote; by that light he felthe could walk, and would, in future, have to find his way. But thatwas all there was left to him of a populous and teeming world.