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wasting time wasted also high private hopes of his own。
His face was no bad index to what went on within him。
He was in a condition of mind rather too exalted for the
trivialities of daily life。 He could not accept the fact that
a lady was fifteen minutes late in keeping her appointment
without seeing in that accident the frustration of
his entire life。 Looking at his watch； he seemed to look
deep into the springs of human existence； and by the
light of what he saw there altered his course towards the
north and the midnight… 。 Yes； one’s voyage must be
made absolutely without panions through ice and
black water—towards what goal？ Here he laid his finger
upon the halfhour； and decided that when the minute
hand reached that point he would go； at the same time
answering the question put by another of the many voices
of consciousness with the reply that there was undoubtedly
a goal； but that it would need the most relentless
energy to keep anywhere in its direction。 Still； still； one
goes on； the ticking seconds seemed to assure him； with
dignity； with open eyes； with determination not to accept
the secondrate； not to be tempted by the unworthy；
not to yield； not to promise。 Twentyfive minutes
past three were now marked upon the face of the
watch。 The world； he assured himself； since Katharine
Hilbery was now half an hour behind her time； offers no
happiness； no rest from struggle； no certainty。 In a scheme
of things utterly bad from the start the only unpardonable
folly is that of hope。 Raising his eyes for a moment
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Night and Day
from the face of his watch； he rested them upon the
opposite bank； reflectively and not without a certain wistfulness；
as if the sternness of their gaze were still capable
of mitigation。 Soon a look of the deepest satisfaction
filled them； though； for a moment； he did not move。
He watched a lady who came rapidly； and yet with a trace
of hesitation； down the broad grasswalk towards him。
She did not see him。 Distance lent her figure an indescribable
height； and romance seemed to surround her
from the floating of a purple veil which the light air filled
and curved from her shoulders。
“Here she es； like a ship in full sail；” he said to
himself； half remembering some line from a play or poem
where the heroine bore down thus with feathers flying
and airs saluting her。 The greenery and the high presences
of the trees surrounded her as if they stood forth
at her ing。 He rose； and she saw him； her little exclamation
proved that she was glad to find him； and then
that she blamed herself for being late。
“Why did you never tell me？ I didn’t know there was
this；” she remarked； alluding to the lake； the broad green
space； the vista of trees； with the ruffled gold of the
Thames in the distance and the Ducal castle standing in
its meadows。 She paid the rigid tail of the Ducal lion the
tribute of incredulous laughter。
“You’ve never been to Kew？” Denham remarked。
But it appeared that she had e once as a small
child； when the geography of the place was entirely different；
and the fauna included certainly flamingoes and；
possibly； camels。 They strolled on； refashioning these legendary
gardens。 She was； as he felt； glad merely to stroll
and loiter and let her fancy touch upon anything her
eyes encountered—a bush； a parkkeeper； a decorated
goose—as if the relaxation soothed her。 The warmth of
the afternoon； the first of spring； tempted them to sit
upon a seat in a glade of beechtrees； with forest drives
striking green paths this way and that around them。 She
sighed deeply。
“It’s so peaceful；” she said； as if in explanation of her
sigh。 Not a single person was in sight； and the stir of the
wind in the branches； that sound so seldom heard by
Londoners； seemed to her as if wafted from fathomless
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Virginia Woolf
oceans of sweet air in the distance。
While she breathed and looked； Denham was engaged
in uncovering with the point of his stick a group of green
spikes half smothered by the dead leaves。 He did this
with the peculiar touch of the botanist。 In naming the
little green plant to her he used the Latin name； thus
disguising some flower familiar even to Chelsea； and
making her exclaim； half in amusement； at his knowledge。
Her own ignorance was vast； she confessed。 What
did one call that tree opposite； for instance； supposing
one condescended to call it by its English name？ Beech
or elm or sycamore？ It chanced； by the testimony of a
dead leaf； to be oak； and a little attention to a diagram
which Denham proceeded to draw upon an envelope soon
put Katharine in possession of some of the fundamental
distinctions between our British trees。 She then asked
him to inform her about flowers。 To her they were variously
shaped and colored petals； poised； at different seasons
of the year； upon very similar green stalks； but to
him they were； in the first instance； bulbs or seeds； and
later； living things endowed with sex； and pores； and
susceptibilities which adapted themselves by all manner
of ingenious devices to live and beget life； and could be
fashioned squat or tapering； flamecolored or pale； pure
or spotted； by processes which might reveal the secrets
of human existence。 Denham spoke with increasing ardor
of a hobby which had long been his in secret。 No discourse
could have worn a more wele sound in
Katharine’s ears。 For weeks she had heard nothing that
made such pleasant music in her mind。 It wakened echoes
in all those remote fastnesses of her being where
loneliness had brooded so long undisturbed。
She wished he would go on for ever talking of plants；
and showing her how science felt not quite blindly for
the law that ruled their endless variations。 A law that
might be inscrutable but was certainly omnipotent appealed
to her at the moment； because she could find
nothing like it in possession of human lives。 Circumstances
had long forced her； as they force most women in the
flower of youth； to consider； painfully and minutely； all
that part of life which is conspicuously without order；
she had had to consider moods and wishes； degrees of
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Night and Day
liking or disliking； and their effect upon the destiny of
people dear to her； she had been forced to deny herself
any contemplation of that other part of life where thought
constructs a destiny which is independent of human beings。
As Denham spoke； she followed his words and considered
their bearing with an easy vigor which spoke of a
capacity long hoarded and unspent。 The very trees and
the green merging into the blue distance became symbols
of the vast external world which recks so little of the
happiness； of the marriages or deaths of individuals。 In
order to give her examples of what he was saying； Denham
led the way； first to the Rock Garden； and then to the
Orchid House。
For him there was safety in the direction which the talk
had taken。 His emphasis might e from feelings more
personal than those science roused in him； but it was
disguised； and naturally he found it easy to expound and
explain。 Nevertheless； when he saw Katharine among the
orchids； her beauty strangely emphasized by the fantastic
plants； which seemed to peer and gape at her from
striped hoods and fleshy throats； his ardor for botany
waned； and a more plex feeling replaced it。 She fell
silent。 The orchids seemed to suggest absorbing reflections。
In defiance of the rules she stretched her ungloved
hand and touched one。 The sight of the rubies upon her
finger affected him so disagreeably that he started and
turned away。 But next moment he controlled himself； he
looked at her taking in one strange shape after another
with the contemplative； considering gaze of a person who
sees not exactly what is before him； but gropes in regions
that lie beyond it。 The faraway look entirely lacked
selfconsciousness。 Denham doubted whether she remembered
his presence。 He could recall himself； of course； by
a word or a movement—but why？ She was happier thus。