Night and Day. Virginia Woolf

to be talking very constantly. He observed that when a pedestrian going the opposite way forced them to part they came together again directly afterwards. Without intending to watch them he never quite lost sight of the yellow scarf twisted round Katharine’s head, or the light overcoat which made Rodney look fashionable among the crowd. At the Strand he supposed that they would separate, but instead they crossed the road, and took their way down one of the narrow passages which lead through ancient courts to the river. Among the crowd of people in the big thoroughfares Rodney seemed merely to be lending Katharine his escort, but now, when passengers were rare and the footsteps of the couple were distinctly heard in the silence, Denham could not help picturing to himself some change in their conversation. The effect of the light and shadow, which seemed to increase their height, was to make them mysterious and significant, so that Denham had no feeling of irritation with Katharine, but rather a half-dreamy acquiescence in the course of the world. Yes, she did very well to dream about – but Sandys had suddenly begun to talk. He was a solitary man who had made his friends at college and always addressed them as if they were still undergraduates arguing in his room, though many months or even years had passed in some cases between the last sentence and the present one. The method was a little singular, but very restful, for it seemed to ignore completely all accidents of human life, and to span very deep abysses with a few simple words.

      On this occasion he began, while they waited for a minute on the edge of the Strand:

      “I hear that Bennett has given up his theory of truth.”

      Denham returned a suitable answer, and he proceeded to explain how this decision had been arrived at, and what changes it involved in the philosophy which they both accepted. Meanwhile Katharine and Rodney drew further ahead, and Denham kept, if that is the right expression for an involuntary action, one filament of his mind upon them, while with the rest of his intelligence he sought to understand what Sandys was saying.

      As they passed through the courts thus talking, Sandys laid the tip of his stick upon one of the stones forming a time-worn arch, and struck it meditatively two or three times in order to illustrate something very obscure about the complex nature of one’s apprehension of facts. During the pause which this necessitated, Katharine and Rodney turned the corner and disappeared. For a moment Denham stopped involuntarily in his sentence, and continued it with a sense of having lost something.

      Unconscious that they were observed, Katharine and Rodney had come out on the Embankment. When they had crossed the road, Rodney slapped his hand upon the stone parapet above the river and exclaimed:

      “I promise I won’t say another word about it, Katharine! But do stop a minute and look at the moon upon the water.”

      Katharine paused, looked up and down the river, and snuffed the air.

      “I’m sure one can smell the sea, with the wind blowing this way,” she said.

      They stood silent for a few moments while the river shifted in its bed, and the silver and red lights which were laid upon it were torn by the current and joined together again. Very far off up the river a steamer hooted with its hollow voice of unspeakable melancholy, as if from the heart of lonely mist-shrouded voyagings.

      “Ah!” Rodney cried, striking his hand once more upon the balustrade, “why can’t one say how beautiful it all is? Why am I condemned for ever, Katharine, to feel what I can’t express? And the things I can give there’s no use in my giving. Trust me, Katharine,” he added hastily, “I won’t speak of it again. But in the presence of beauty – look at the iridescence round the moon! – one feels – one feels – Perhaps if you married me – I’m half a poet, you see, and I can’t pretend not to feel what I do feel. If I could write – ah, that would be another matter. I shouldn’t bother you to marry me then, Katharine.”

      He spoke these disconnected sentences rather abruptly, with his eyes alternately upon the moon and upon the stream.

      “But for me I suppose you would recommend marriage?” said Katharine, with her eyes fixed on the moon.

      “Certainly I should. Not for you only, but for all women. Why, you’re nothing at all without it; you’re only half alive; using only half your faculties; you must feel that for yourself. That is why – ” Here he stopped himself, and they began to walk slowly along the Embankment, the moon fronting them.

          “With how sad steps she climbs the sky,

          How silently and with how wan a face,”

      Rodney quoted.

      “I’ve been told a great many unpleasant things about myself to-night,” Katharine stated, without attending to him. “Mr. Denham seems to think it his mission to lecture me, though I hardly know him. By the way, William, you know him; tell me, what is he like?”

      William drew a deep sigh.

      “We may lecture you till we’re blue in the face – ”

      “Yes – but what’s he like?”

      “And we write sonnets to your eyebrows, you cruel practical creature. Denham?” he added, as Katharine remained silent. “A good fellow, I should think. He cares, naturally, for the right sort of things, I expect. But you mustn’t marry him, though. He scolded you, did he – what did he say?”

      “What happens with Mr. Denham is this: He comes to tea. I do all I can to put him at his ease. He merely sits and scowls at me. Then I show him our manuscripts. At this he becomes really angry, and tells me I’ve no business to call myself a middle-class woman. So we part in a huff; and next time we meet, which was to-night, he walks straight up to me, and says, ‘Go to the Devil!’ That’s the sort of behavior my mother complains of. I want to know, what does it mean?”

      She paused and, slackening her steps, looked at the lighted train drawing itself smoothly over Hungerford Bridge.

      “It means, I should say, that he finds you chilly and unsympathetic.”

      Katharine laughed with round, separate notes of genuine amusement.

      “It’s time I jumped into a cab and hid myself in my own house,” she exclaimed.

      “Would your mother object to my being seen with you? No one could possibly recognize us, could they?” Rodney inquired, with some solicitude.

      Katharine looked at him, and perceiving that his solicitude was genuine, she laughed again, but with an ironical note in her laughter.

      “You may laugh, Katharine, but I can tell you that if any of your friends saw us together at this time of night they would talk about it, and I should find that very disagreeable. But why do you laugh?”

      “I don’t know. Because you’re such a queer mixture, I think. You’re half poet and half old maid.”

      “I know I always seem to you highly ridiculous. But I can’t help having inherited certain traditions and trying to put them into practice.”

      “Nonsense, William. You may come of the oldest family in Devonshire, but that’s no reason why you should mind being seen alone with me on the Embankment.”

      “I’m ten years older than you are, Katharine, and I know more of the world than you do.”

      “Very well. Leave me and go home.”

      Rodney looked back over his shoulder and perceived that they were being followed at a short distance by a taxicab, which evidently awaited his summons. Katharine saw it, too, and exclaimed:

      “Don’t call that cab for me, William. I shall walk.”

      “Nonsense, Katharine; you’ll do nothing of the kind. It’s nearly twelve o’clock, and we’ve walked too far as it is.”

      Katharine laughed and walked on so quickly that both Rodney and the taxicab had to increase their pace to keep up with her.

      “Now, William,” she said, “if people see me racing along the Embankment like this they WILL talk. You had far better say good-night, if you don’t want people to talk.”

      At this William beckoned, with a despotic gesture, to the cab with