it seemed to Katharine。 Whose voice was now going to
bine with them； or to strike a discord？
“Whose voice？” she asked herself； hearing a man inquire；
with great determination； for her number。 The unfamiliar
voice now asked for Miss Hilbery。 Out of all the welter of
voices which crowd round the far end of the telephone；
out of the enormous range of possibilities； whose voice；
what possibility； was this？ A pause gave her time to ask
herself this question。 It was solved next moment。
“I’ve looked out the train… 。 Early on Saturday afternoon
would suit me best… 。 I’m Ralph Denham… 。 But
I’ll write it down… 。”
With more than the usual sense of being impinged upon
the point of a bayo； Katharine replied：
“I think I could e。 I’ll look at my engagements… 。
268
Virginia Woolf
Hold on。”
She dropped the machine； and looked fixedly at the
print of the greatuncle who had not ceased to gaze；
with an air of amiable authority； into a world which； as
yet； beheld no symptoms of the Indian Mutiny。 And yet；
gently swinging against the wall； within the black tube；
was a voice which recked nothing of Uncle James； of China
teapots； or of red velvet curtains。 She watched the oscillation
of the tube； and at the same moment became conscious
of the individuality of the house in which she stood；
she heard the soft domestic sounds of regular existence
upon staircases and floors above her head； and movements
through the wall in the house next door。 She had
no very clear vision of Denham himself； when she lifted
the telephone to her lips and replied that she thought
Saturday would suit her。 She hoped that he would not say
goodbye at once； although she felt no particular anxiety
to attend to what he was saying； and began； even while
he spoke； to think of her own upper room； with its books；
its papers pressed between the leaves of dictionaries；
and the table that could be cleared for work。 She re
placed the instrument； thoughtfully； her restlessness was
assuaged； she finished her letter to Cassandra without
difficulty； addressed the envelope； and fixed the stamp
with her usual quick decision。
A bunch of anemones caught Mrs。 Hilbery’s eye when
they had finished luncheon。 The blue and purple and white
of the bowl； standing in a pool of variegated light on a
polished Chippendale table in the drawingroom window；
made her stop dead with an exclamation of pleasure。
“Who is lying ill in bed； Katharine？” she demanded。
“Which of our friends wants cheering up？ Who feels that
they’ve been forgotten and passed over； and that nobody
wants them？ Whose water rates are overdue； and the cook
leaving in a temper without waiting for her wages？ There
was somebody I know—” she concluded； but for the moment
the name of this desirable acquaintance escaped
her。 The best representative of the forlorn pany whose
day would be brightened by a bunch of anemones was； in
Katharine’s opinion； the widow of a general living in the
Cromwell Road。 In default of the actually destitute and
starving； whom she would much have preferred； Mrs。
269
Night and Day
Hilbery was forced to acknowledge her claims； for though
in fortable circumstances； she was extremely dull；
unattractive； connected in some oblique fashion with literature；
and had been touched to the verge of tears； on
one occasion； by an afternoon call。
It happened that Mrs。 Hilbery had an engagement elsewhere；
so that the task of taking the flowers to the
Cromwell Road fell upon Katharine。 She took her letter to
Cassandra with her； meaning to post it in the first pillar
box she came to。 When； however； she was fairly out of
doors； and constantly invited by pillarboxes and post
offices to slip her envelope down their scarlet throats；
she forbore。 She made absurd excuses； as that she did
not wish to cross the road； or that she was certain to
pass another postoffice in a more central position a little
farther on。 The longer she held the letter in her hand；
however； the more persistently certain questions pressed
upon her； as if from a collection of voices in the air。
These invisible people wished to be informed whether
she was engaged to William Rodney； or was the engagement
broken off？ Was it right； they asked； to invite
Cassandra for a visit； and was William Rodney in love
with her； or likely to fall in love？ Then the questioners
paused for a moment； and resumed as if another side of
the problem had just e to their notice。 What did Ralph
Denham mean by what he said to you last night？ Do you
consider that he is in love with you？ Is it right to consent
to a solitary walk with him； and what advice are you
going to give him about his future？ Has William Rodney
cause to be jealous of your conduct； and what do you
propose to do about Mary Datchet？ What are you going
to do？ What does honor require you to do？ they repeated。
“Good Heavens！” Katharine exclaimed； after listening
to all these remarks； “I suppose I ought to make up my
mind。”
But the debate was a formal skirmishing； a pastime to
gain breathingspace。 Like all people brought up in a
tradition； Katharine was able； within ten minutes or so；
to reduce any moral difficulty to its traditional shape and
solve it by the traditional answers。 The book of wisdom
lay open； if not upon her mother’s knee； upon the knees
of many uncles and aunts。 She had only to consult them；
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Virginia Woolf
and they would at once turn to the right page and read
out an answer exactly suited to one in her position。 The
rules which should govern the behavior of an unmarried
woman are written in red ink； graved upon marble； if； by
some freak of nature； it should fall out that the unmarried
woman has not the same writing scored upon her
heart。 She was ready to believe that some people are
fortunate enough to reject； accept； resign； or lay down
their lives at the bidding of traditional authority； she
could envy them； but in her case the questions became
phantoms directly she tried seriously to find an answer；
which proved that the traditional answer would be of no
use to her individually。 Yet it had served so many people；
she thought； glancing at the rows of houses on either
side of her； where families； whose ines must be between
a thousand and fifteenhundred a year lived； and
kept； perhaps； three servants； and draped their windows
with curtains which were always thick and generally dirty；
and must； she thought； since you could only see a look
ingglass gleaming above a sideboard on which a dish of
apples was set； keep the room inside very dark。 But she
turned her head away； observing that this was not a
method of thinking the matter out。
The only truth which she could discover was the truth
of what she herself felt—a frail beam when pared
with the broad illumination shed by the eyes of all the
people who are in agreement to see together； but having
rejected the visionary voices； she had no choice but to
make this her guide through the dark masses which confronted
her。 She tried to follow her beam； with an expression
upon her face which would have made any passerby
think her reprehensibly and almost ridiculously detached
from the surrounding scene。 One would have felt alarmed
lest this young and striking woman were about to do
something eccentric。 But her beauty saved her from the
worst fate that can befall a pedestrian； people looked at
her； but they did not laugh。 To seek a true feeling among
the chaos of the unfeelings or halffeelings of life； to
recognize it when found； and to accept the consequences
of the discovery； draws lines upon the smoothest brow；
while it quickens the light of the eyes； it is a pursuit
which is alternately bewildering； debasing； and exalting；
271
Night and Day
and； as Katharine speedily found； her discoveries gave her
equal cause for surprise； shame； and intense anxiety。 Much
depended； as usual； upon the interpretation of the word
love； which word came up again and again； whether she
considered Rodney； Denham； Mary Datchet； or herself； and
in each case it seemed to stand for something different；
and yet for something unmistakable and something not to
be passed by。 For the more she looked into the confusion
of lives which； instead of running parallel； had suddenly
intersected each other； the more distinctly she seemed to
convince herself that there was no other light on them
than was shed by this strange illumination； and no other
path save the one upon which it threw its beams。 Her
blindness in the case of Rodney； her attempt to match his
true feeling with her false feeling； was a failure never to
be sufficiently condemned； indeed； she could only pay it
the tribute of leaving it a black and naked landmark unburied
by attempt at oblivion or excuse。
With this to humiliate there was much to exalt。 She
thought of three different scenes； she thought of Mary
sitting upright and saying； “I’m in love—I’m in love”；
she thought of Rodney losing his selfconsciousness among
the de