Night and Day by Virginia Woolf (good books for 8th graders .txt) 📕

CHAPTER XXXIV

The lamps were lit; their luster reflected itself in the polished

wood; good wine was passed round the dinner-table; before the meal was

far advanced civilization had triumphed, and Mr. Hilbery presided over

a feast which came to wear more and more surely an aspect, cheerful,

dignified, promising well for the future. To judge from the expression

in Katharine’s eyes it promised something—but he checked the approach

sentimentality. He poured out wine; he bade Denham help himself.

 

They went upstairs and he saw Katharine and Denham abstract themselves

directly Cassandra had asked whether she might not play him something

—some Mozart? some Beethoven? She sat down to the piano; the door

closed softly behind them. His eyes rested on the closed door for some

seconds unwaveringly, but, by degrees, the look of expectation died

out of them, and, with a sigh, he listened to the music.

 

Katharine and Ralph were agreed with scarcely a word of discussion as

to what they wished to do, and in a moment she joined him in the hall

dressed for walking. The night was still and moonlit, fit for walking,

though any night would have seemed so to them, desiring more than

anything movement, freedom from scrutiny, silence, and the open air.

 

“At last!” she breathed, as the front door shut. She told him how she

had waited, fidgeted, thought he was never coming, listened for the

sound of doors, half expected to see him again under the lamp-post,

looking at the house. They turned and looked at the serene front with

its gold-rimmed windows, to him the shrine of so much adoration. In

spite of her laugh and the little pressure of mockery on his arm, he

would not resign his belief, but with her hand resting there, her

voice quickened and mysteriously moving in his ears, he had not time—

they had not the same inclination—other objects drew his attention.

 

How they came to find themselves walking down a street with many

lamps, corners radiant with light, and a steady succession of motor-omnibuses plying both ways along it, they could neither of them tell;

nor account for the impulse which led them suddenly to select one of

these wayfarers and mount to the very front seat. After curving

through streets of comparative darkness, so narrow that shadows on the

blinds were pressed within a few feet of their faces, they came to one

of those great knots of activity where the lights, having drawn close

together, thin out again and take their separate ways. They were borne

on until they saw the spires of the city churches pale and flat

against the sky.

 

“Are you cold?” he asked, as they stopped by Temple Bar.

 

“Yes, I am rather,” she replied, becoming conscious that the splendid

race of lights drawn past her eyes by the superb curving and swerving

of the monster on which she sat was at an end. They had followed some

such course in their thoughts too; they had been borne on, victors in

the forefront of some triumphal car, spectators of a pageant enacted

for them, masters of life. But standing on the pavement alone, this

exaltation left them; they were glad to be alone together. Ralph stood

still for a moment to light his pipe beneath a lamp.

 

She looked at his face isolated in the little circle of light.

 

“Oh, that cottage,” she said. “We must take it and go there.”

 

“And leave all this?” he inquired.

 

“As you like,” she replied. She thought, looking at the sky above

Chancery Lane, how the roof was the same everywhere; how she was now

secure of all that this lofty blue and its steadfast lights meant to

her; reality, was it, figures, love, truth?

 

“I’ve something on my mind,” said Ralph abruptly. “I mean I’ve been

thinking of Mary Datchet. We’re very near her rooms now. Would you

mind if we went there?”

 

She had turned before she answered him. She had no wish to see any one

to-night; it seemed to her that the immense riddle was answered; the

problem had been solved; she held in her hands for one brief moment

the globe which we spend our lives in trying to shape, round, whole,

and entire from the confusion of chaos. To see Mary was to risk the

destruction of this globe.

 

“Did you treat her badly?” she asked rather mechanically, walking on.

 

“I could defend myself,” he said, almost defiantly. “But what’s the

use, if one feels a thing? I won’t be with her a minute,” he said.

“I’ll just tell her—”

 

“Of course, you must tell her,” said Katharine, and now felt anxious

for him to do what appeared to be necessary if he, too, were to hold

his globe for a moment round, whole, and entire.

 

“I wish—I wish—” she sighed, for melancholy came over her and

obscured at least a section of her clear vision. The globe swam before

her as if obscured by tears.

 

“I regret nothing,” said Ralph firmly. She leant towards him almost as

if she could thus see what he saw. She thought how obscure he still

was to her, save only that more and more constantly he appeared to her

a fire burning through its smoke, a source of life.

 

“Go on,” she said. “You regret nothing—”

 

“Nothing—nothing,” he repeated.

 

“What a fire!” she thought to herself. She thought of him blazing

splendidly in the night, yet so obscure that to hold his arm, as she

held it, was only to touch the opaque substance surrounding the flame

that roared upwards.

 

“Why nothing?” she asked hurriedly, in order that he might say more

and so make more splendid, more red, more darkly intertwined with

smoke this flame rushing upwards.

 

“What are you thinking of, Katharine?” he asked suspiciously, noticing

her tone of dreaminess and the inapt words.

 

“I was thinking of you—yes, I swear it. Always of you, but you take

such strange shapes in my mind. You’ve destroyed my loneliness. Am I

to tell you how I see you? No, tell me—tell me from the beginning.”

 

Beginning with spasmodic words, he went on to speak more and more

fluently, more and more passionately, feeling her leaning towards him,

listening