Night and Day - Virginia Woolf (best novels for beginners txt) 📗

CHAPTER XXII

The fact that she would be late in keeping her engagement with William

was not the only reason which sent Katharine almost at racing speed

along the Strand in the direction of his rooms. Punctuality might have

been achieved by taking a cab, had she not wished the open air to fan

into flame the glow kindled by Mary’s words. For among all the

impressions of the evening’s talk one was of the nature of a

revelation and subdued the rest to insignificance. Thus one looked;

thus one spoke; such was love.

 

“She sat up straight and looked at me, and then she said, ‘I’m in

love,’” Katharine mused, trying to set the whole scene in motion. It

was a scene to dwell on with so much wonder that not a grain of pity

occurred to her; it was a flame blazing suddenly in the dark; by its

light Katharine perceived far too vividly for her comfort the

mediocrity, indeed the entirely fictitious character of her own

feelings so far as they pretended to correspond with Mary’s feelings.

She made up her mind to act instantly upon the knowledge thus gained,

and cast her mind in amazement back to the scene upon the heath, when

she had yielded, heaven knows why, for reasons which seemed now

imperceptible. So in broad daylight one might revisit the place where

one has groped and turned and succumbed to utter bewilderment in a

fog.

 

“It’s all so simple,” she said to herself. “There can’t be any doubt.

I’ve only got to speak now. I’ve only got to speak,” she went on

saying, in time to her own footsteps, and completely forgot Mary

Datchet.

 

William Rodney, having come back earlier from the office than he

expected, sat down to pick out the melodies in “The Magic Flute” upon

the piano. Katharine was late, but that was nothing new, and, as she

had no particular liking for music, and he felt in the mood for it,

perhaps it was as well. This defect in Katharine was the more strange,

William reflected, because, as a rule, the women of her family were

unusually musical. Her cousin, Cassandra Otway, for example, had a

very fine taste in music, and he had charming recollections of her in

a light fantastic attitude, playing the flute in the morning-room at

Stogdon House. He recalled with pleasure the amusing way in which her

nose, long like all the Otway noses, seemed to extend itself into the

flute, as if she were some inimitably graceful species of musical

mole. The little picture suggested very happily her melodious and

whimsical temperament. The enthusiasms of a young girl of

distinguished upbringing appealed to William, and suggested a thousand

ways in which, with his training and accomplishments, he could be of

service to her. She ought to be given the chance of hearing good

music, as it is played by those who have inherited the great

tradition. Moreover, from one or two remarks let fall in the course of

conversation, he thought it possible that she had what Katharine

professed to lack, a passionate, if untaught, appreciation of

literature. He had lent her his play. Meanwhile, as Katharine was

certain to be late, and “The Magic Flute” is nothing without a voice,

he felt inclined to spend the time of waiting in writing a letter to

Cassandra, exhorting her to read Pope in preference to Dostoevsky,

until her feeling for form was more highly developed. He set himself

down to compose this piece of advice in a shape which was light and

playful, and yet did no injury to a cause which he had near at heart,

when he heard Katharine upon the stairs. A moment later it was plain

that he had been mistaken, it was not Katharine; but he could not

settle himself to his letter. His temper had changed from one of

urbane contentment—indeed of delicious expansion—to one of

uneasiness and expectation. The dinner was brought in, and had to be

set by the fire to keep hot. It was now a quarter of an hour beyond

the specified time. He bethought him of a piece of news which had

depressed him in the earlier part of the day. Owing to the illness of

one of his fellow-clerks, it was likely that he would get no holiday

until later in the year, which would mean the postponement of their

marriage. But this possibility, after all, was not so disagreeable as

the probability which forced itself upon him with every tick of the

clock that Katharine had completely forgotten her engagement. Such

things had happened less frequently since Christmas, but what if they

were going to begin to happen again? What if their marriage should

turn out, as she had said, a farce? He acquitted her of any wish to

hurt him wantonly, but there was something in her character which made

it impossible for her to help hurting people. Was she cold? Was she

self-absorbed? He tried to fit her with each of these descriptions,

but he had to own that she puzzled him.

 

“There are so many things that she doesn’t understand,” he reflected,

glancing at the letter to Cassandra which he had begun and laid aside.

What prevented him from finishing the letter which he had so much

enjoyed beginning? The reason was that Katharine might, at any moment,

enter the room. The thought, implying his bondage to her, irritated

him acutely. It occurred to him that he would leave the letter lying

open for her to see, and he would take the opportunity of telling her

that he had sent his play to Cassandra for her to criticize. Possibly,

but not by any means certainly, this would annoy her—and as he

reached the doubtful comfort of this conclusion, there was a knock on

the door and Katharine came in. They kissed each other coldly and she

made no apology for being late. Nevertheless, her mere presence moved

him strangely; but he was determined that this should not weaken his

resolution to make some kind of stand against her; to get at the truth

about her. He let her make her own disposition of clothes and busied

himself with the plates.

 

“I’ve got a piece of news for you, Katharine,” he said directly they

sat down to table; “I shan’t get my holiday in April. We shall have to

put off our marriage.”

 

He rapped the words out with a certain degree of briskness. Katharine

started a little, as if the announcement disturbed her thoughts.

 

“That won’t make any difference, will it? I mean the lease isn’t

signed,” she replied. “But why? What has happened?”

 

He told her, in an off-hand way, how one of his fellow-clerks had

broken down, and might have to be away for months, six months even, in

which case they would have to think over their position. He said it in

a way which struck her, at last, as oddly casual. She looked at him.

There was no outward sign that he was annoyed with her. Was she well

dressed? She thought sufficiently so. Perhaps she was late? She looked

for a clock.

 

“It’s a good thing we didn’t take the house then,” she repeated

thoughtfully.

 

“It’ll mean, too, I’m afraid, that I shan’t be as free for a

considerable time as I have been,” he continued. She had time to

reflect that she gained something by all this, though it was too soon

to determine what. But the light which had been burning with such

intensity as she came along was suddenly overclouded, as much by his

manner as by his news. She had been prepared to meet opposition, which

is simple to encounter compared with—she did not know what it was

that she had to encounter. The meal passed in quiet, well-controlled

talk about indifferent things. Music was not a subject about which she

knew anything, but she liked him to tell her things; and could, she

mused, as he talked, fancy the evenings of married life spent thus,

over the fire; spent thus, or with a book, perhaps, for then she would

have time to read her books, and to grasp firmly with every muscle of

her unused mind what she longed to know. The atmosphere was very free.

Suddenly William broke off. She looked up apprehensively, brushing

aside these thoughts with annoyance.

 

“Where should I address a letter to Cassandra?” he asked her. It was

obvious again that William had some meaning or other to-night, or was

in some mood. “We’ve struck up a friendship,” he added.

 

“She’s at home, I think,” Katharine replied.

 

“They keep her too much at home,” said William. “Why don’t you ask her

to stay with you, and let her hear a little good music? I’ll just

finish what I was saying, if you don’t mind, because I’m particularly

anxious that she should hear tomorrow.”

 

Katharine sank back in her chair, and Rodney took the paper on his

knees, and went on with his sentence. “Style, you know, is what we

tend to neglect—”; but he was far more conscious of Katharine’s eye

upon him than of what he was saying about style. He knew that she was

looking at him, but whether with irritation or indifference he could

not guess.

 

In truth, she had fallen sufficiently into his trap to feel

uncomfortably roused and disturbed and unable to proceed on the lines

laid down for herself. This indifferent, if not hostile, attitude on

William’s part made it impossible to break off without animosity,

largely and completely. Infinitely preferable was Mary’s state, she

thought, where there was a simple thing to do and one did it. In fact,

she could not help supposing that some littleness of nature had a part

in all the refinements, reserves, and subtleties of feeling for which

her friends and family were so distinguished. For example, although

she liked Cassandra well enough, her fantastic method of life struck

her as purely frivolous; now it was socialism, now it was silkworms,

now it was music—which last she supposed was the cause of William’s

sudden interest in her. Never before had William wasted the minutes of

her presence in writing his letters. With a curious sense of light

opening where all, hitherto, had been opaque, it dawned upon her that,

after all, possibly, yes, probably, nay, certainly, the devotion which

she had almost wearily taken for granted existed in a much slighter

degree than she