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

the dark,

flying wilderness of the world; the justification for the welter of

confusion surrounding it; the steady light which cast its beams, like

those of a lighthouse, with searching composure over the trackless

waste. In this little sanctuary were gathered together several

different people, but their identity was dissolved in a general glory

of something that might, perhaps, be called civilization; at any rate,

all dryness, all safety, all that stood up above the surge and

preserved a consciousness of its own, was centered in the drawing-room

of the Hilberys. Its purpose was beneficent; and yet so far above his

level as to have something austere about it, a light that cast itself

out and yet kept itself aloof. Then he began, in his mind, to

distinguish different individuals within, consciously refusing as yet

to 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 light

which filled the long oblongs of the windows; in their movements they

were beautiful; and in their speech he figured a reserve of meaning,

unspoken, but understood. At length, after all this half-conscious

selection and arrangement, he allowed himself to approach the figure

of Katharine herself; and instantly the scene was flooded with

excitement. He did not see her in the body; he seemed curiously to see

her as a shape of light, the light itself; he seemed, simplified and

exhausted as he was, to be like one of those lost birds fascinated by

the lighthouse and held to the glass by the splendor of the blaze.

 

These thoughts drove him to tramp a beat up and down the pavement

before the Hilberys’ gate. He did not trouble himself to make any

plans for the future. Something of an unknown kind would decide both

the coming year and the coming hour. Now and again, in his vigil, he

sought the light in the long windows, or glanced at the ray which

gilded 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 reached

the limit of his beat and was turning, when the front door opened, and

the aspect of the house was entirely changed. A black figure came down

the little pathway and paused at the gate. Denham understood instantly

that it was Rodney. Without hesitation, and conscious only of a great

friendliness for any one coming from that lighted room, he walked

straight up to him and stopped him. In the flurry of the wind Rodney

was taken aback, and for the moment tried to press on, muttering

something, as if he suspected a demand upon his charity.

 

“Goodness, Denham, what are you doing here?” he exclaimed, recognizing

him.

 

Ralph mumbled something about being on his way home. They walked on

together, though Rodney walked quick enough to make it plain that he

had no wish for company.

 

He was very unhappy. That afternoon Cassandra had repulsed him; he had

tried to explain to her the difficulties of the situation, and to

suggest the nature of his feelings for her without saying anything

definite or anything offensive to her. But he had lost his head; under

the 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, after

an evening spent between the two women, was extreme. Moreover, he

could not help suspecting that Ralph was wandering near the Hilberys’

house, at this hour, for reasons connected with Katharine. There was

probably some understanding between them—not that anything of the

kind mattered to him now. He was convinced that he had never cared for

any 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 a

cab. But on Sunday night, on the Embankment, cabs were hard to come

by, and Rodney found himself constrained to walk some distance, at any

rate, in Denham’s company. Denham maintained his silence. Rodney’s

irritation lapsed. He found the silence oddly suggestive of the good

masculine qualities which he much respected, and had at this moment

great reason to need. After the mystery, difficulty, and uncertainty

of dealing with the other sex, intercourse with one’s own is apt to

have a composing and even ennobling influence, since plain speaking is

possible and subterfuges of no avail. Rodney, too, was much in need of

a confidant; Katharine, despite her promises of help, had failed him

at the critical moment; she had gone off with Denham; she was,

perhaps, tormenting Denham as she had tormented him. How grave and

stable he seemed, speaking little, and walking firmly, compared with

what Rodney knew of his own torments and indecisions! He began to cast

about for some way of telling the story of his relations with

Katharine and Cassandra that would not lower him in Denham’s eyes. It

then occurred to him that, perhaps, Katharine herself had confided in

Denham; they had something in common; it was likely that they had

discussed him that very afternoon. The desire to discover what they

had said of him now came uppermost in his mind. He recalled

Katharine’s laugh; he remembered that she had gone, laughing, to walk

with 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. He

turned 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 complete

understanding, not merely of women, but of the entire universe. He

could read Rodney, too, like a book. He knew that he was unhappy, and

he pitied him, and wished to help him.

 

“You say something and they—fly into a passion. Or for no reason at

all, they laugh. I take it that no amount of education will—” The

remainder of the sentence was lost in the high wind, against which

they had to struggle; but Denham understood that he referred to

Katharine’s laughter, and that the memory of it was still hurting him.

In comparison with Rodney, Denham felt himself very secure; he saw

Rodney as one of the lost birds dashed senseless against the glass;

one of the flying bodies of which the air was full. But he and

Katharine were alone together, aloft, splendid, and luminous with a

twofold radiance. He pitied the unstable creature beside him; he felt

a desire to protect him, exposed without the knowledge which made his

own 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, reached

Denham’s ears. The wind seemed to muffle it and fly away with it

directly. Had Rodney spoken those words?

 

“You love her.” Was that his own voice, which seemed to sound in the

air 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 that

they seemed unspoken.

 

“How I’ve loved her!”

 

This was certainly spoken by the man at Denham’s side. The voice had

all the marks of Rodney’s character, and recalled, with; strange

vividness, his personal appearance. Denham could see him against the

blank buildings and towers of the horizon. He saw him dignified,

exalted, and tragic, as he might have appeared thinking of Katharine

alone 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 had

made 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 their

words. They said no more. At length they drew up beneath a lamp-post,

simultaneously.

 

“My God, Denham, what fools we both are!” Rodney exclaimed. They

looked at each other, queerly, in the light of the lamp. Fools! They

seemed to confess to each other the extreme depths of their folly. For

the moment, under the lamp-post, they seemed to be aware of some

common knowledge which did away with the possibility of rivalry, and

made them feel more sympathy for each other than for any one else in

the world. Giving simultaneously a little nod, as if in confirmation

of this understanding, they parted without speaking again.