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face； and to lose herself in the nothingness of night。 But
with the air the distant humming sound of faroff crowded
thoroughfares was admitted to the room。 The incessant
and tumultuous hum of the distant traffic seemed； as she
stood there； to represent the thick texture of her life； for
her life was so hemmed in with the progress of other
lives that the sound of its own advance was inaudible。
People like Ralph and Mary； she thought； had it all their
own way； and an empty space before them； and； as she
envied them； she cast her mind out to imagine an empty
land where all this petty intercourse of men and women；
this life made up of the dense crossings and entangle
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Virginia Woolf
ments of men and women； had no existence whatever。
Even now； alone； at night； looking out into the shapeless
mass of London； she was forced to remember that there
was one point and here another with which she had some
connection。 William Rodney； at this very moment； was
seated in a minute speck of light somewhere to the east of
her； and his mind was occupied； not with his book； but
with her。 She wished that no one in the whole world would
think of her。 However； there was no way of escaping from
one’s fellowbeings； she concluded； and shut the window
with a sigh； and returned once more to her letters。
She could not doubt but that William’s letter was the
most genuine she had yet received from him。 He had
e to the conclusion that he could not live without
her； he wrote。 He believed that he knew her； and could
give her happiness； and that their marriage would be
unlike other marriages。 Nor was the son； in spite of
its acplishment； lacking in passion； and Katharine；
as she read the pages through again； could see in what
direction her feelings ought to flow； supposing they revealed
themselves。 She would e to feel a humorous
sort of tenderness for him； a zealous care for his susceptibilities；
and； after all； she considered； thinking of her
father and mother； what is love？
Naturally； with her face； position； and background； she
had experience of young men who wished to marry her；
and made protestations of love； but； perhaps because
she did not return the feeling； it remained something of
a pageant to her。 Not having experience of it herself； her
mind had unconsciously occupied itself for some years in
dressing up an image of love； and the marriage that was
the oute of love； and the man who inspired love；
which naturally dwarfed any examples that came her way。
Easily； and without correction by reason； her imagination
made pictures； superb backgrounds casting a rich though
phantom light upon the facts in the foreground。 Splendid
as the waters that drop with resounding thunder from
high ledges of rock； and plunge downwards into the blue
depths of night； was the presence of love she dreamt；
drawing into it every drop of the force of life； and dashing
them all asunder in the superb catastrophe in which
everything was surrendered； and nothing might be re
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Night and Day
claimed。 The man； too； was some magnanimous hero；
riding a great horse by the shore of the sea。 They rode
through forests together； they galloped by the rim of the
sea。 But waking； she was able to contemplate a perfectly
loveless marriage； as the thing one did actually in real
life； for possibly the people who dream thus are those
who do the most prosaic things。
At this moment she was much inclined to sit on into
the night； spinning her light fabric of thoughts until she
tired of their futility； and went to her mathematics； but；
as she knew very well； it was necessary that she should
see her father before he went to bed。 The case of Cyril
Alardyce must be discussed； her mother’s illusions and
the rights of the family attended to。 Being vague herself
as to what all this amounted to； she had to take counsel
with her father。 She took her letters in her hand and went
downstairs。 It was past eleven； and the clocks had e
into their reign； the grandfather’s clock in the hall ticking
in petition with the small clock on the landing。
Mr。 Hilbery’s study ran out behind the rest of the house；
on the ground floor； and was a very silent； subterranean
place； the sun in daytime casting a mere abstract of light
through a skylight upon his books and the large table；
with its spread of white papers； now illumined by a green
readinglamp。 Here Mr。 Hilbery sat editing his review； or
placing together documents by means of which it could
be proved that Shelley had written “of” instead of “and；”
or that the inn in which Byron had slept was called the
“Nag’s Head” and not the “Turkish Knight；” or that the
Christian name of Keats’s uncle had been John rather
than Richard； for he knew more minute details about these
poets than any man in England； probably； and was preparing
an edition of Shelley which scrupulously observed
the poet’s system of punctuation。 He saw the humor of
these researches； but that did not prevent him from carrying
them out with the utmost scrupulosity。
He was lying back fortably in a deep armchair smoking
a cigar； and ruminating the fruitful question as to
whether Coleridge had wished to marry Dorothy
Wordsworth； and what； if he had done so； would have
been the consequences to him in particular； and to literature
in general。 When Katharine came in he reflected
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Virginia Woolf
that he knew what she had e for； and he made a
pencil note before he spoke to her。 Having done this； he
saw that she was reading； and he watched her for a moment
without saying anything。 She was reading “Isabella
and the Pot of Basil；” and her mind was full of the Italian
hills and the blue daylight； and the hedges set with little
rosettes of red and white roses。 Feeling that her father
waited for her； she sighed and said； shutting her book：
“I’ve had a letter from Aunt Celia about Cyril； father… 。 It
seems to be true—about his marriage。 What are we to do？”
“Cyril seems to have been behaving in a very foolish
manner；” said Mr。 Hilbery； in his pleasant and deliberate
tones。
Katharine found some difficulty in carrying on the conversation；
while her father balanced his fingertips so
judiciously； and seemed to reserve so many of his thoughts
for himself。
“He’s about done for himself； I should say；” he continued。
Without saying anything； he took Katharine’s letters
out of her hand； adjusted his eyeglasses； and read them
through。
At length he said “Humph！” and gave the letters back
to her。
“Mother knows nothing about it；” Katharine remarked。
“Will you tell her？”
“I shall tell your mother。 But I shall tell her that there
is nothing whatever for us to do。”
“But the marriage？” Katharine asked； with some diffidence。
Mr。 Hilbery said nothing； and stared into the fire。
“What in the name of conscience did he do it for？” he
speculated at last； rather to himself than to her。
Katharine had begun to read her aunt’s letter over again；
and she now quoted a sentence。 “Ibsen and Butler… 。 He
has sent me a letter full of quotations—nonsense； though
clever nonsense。”
“Well； if the younger generation want to carry on its
life on those lines； it’s none of our affair；” he remarked。
“But isn’t it our affair； perhaps； to make them get married？”
Katharine asked rather wearily。
“Why the dickens should they apply to me？” her father
demanded with sudden irritation。
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Night and Day
“Only as the head of the family—”
“But I’m not the head of the family。 Alfred’s the head of
the family。 Let them apply to Alfred；” said Mr。 Hilbery；
relapsing again into his armchair。 Katharine was aware
that she had touched a sensitive spot； however； in mentioning
the family。
“I think； perhaps； the best thing would be for me to go
and see them；” she observed。
“I won’t have you going anywhere near them；” Mr。
Hilbery replied with unwonted decision and authority。
“Indeed； I don’t understand why they’ve dragged you into
the busi