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how lonely we are。” She saw the effort with which he
spoke Katharine’s name； and believed that he forced himself
to make amends now for his concealment in the past。
At any rate； she was conscious of no anger against him；
but rather of a deep pity for one condemned to suffer as
she had suffered。 But in the case of Katharine it was
different； she was indignant with Katharine。
“There’s always work；” she said； a little aggressively。
Ralph moved directly。
“Do you want to be working now？” he asked。
“No； no。 It’s Sunday；” she replied。 “I was thinking of
Katharine。 She doesn’t understand about work。 She’s never
had to。 She doesn’t know what work is。 I’ve only found
out myself quite lately。 But it’s the thing that saves one—
I’m sure of that。”
“There are other things； aren’t there？” he hesitated。
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Virginia Woolf
“Nothing that one can count upon；” she returned。 “After
all； other people—” she stopped； but forced herself to go
on。 “Where should I be now if I hadn’t got to go to my
office every day？ Thousands of people would tell you the
same thing—thousands of women。 I tell you； work is the
only thing that saved me； Ralph。” He set his mouth； as if
her words rained blows on him； he looked as if he had
made up his mind to bear anything she might say； in silence。
He had deserved it； and there would be relief in
having to bear it。 But she broke off； and rose as if to fetch
something from the next room。 Before she reached the
door she turned back； and stood facing him； selfpossessed；
and yet defiant and formidable in her posure。
“It’s all turned out splendidly for me；” she said。 “It will
for you； too。 I’m sure of that。 Because； after all； Katharine
is worth it。”
“Mary—！” he exclaimed。 But her head was turned away；
and he could not say what he wished to say。 “Mary； you’re
splendid；” he concluded。 She faced him as he spoke； and
gave him her hand。 She had suffered and relinquished；
she had seen her future turned from one of infinite promise
to one of barrenness； and yet； somehow； over what she
scarcely knew； and with what results she could hardly
foretell； she had conquered。 With Ralph’s eyes upon her；
smiling straight back at him serenely and proudly； she
knew； for the first time； that she had conquered。 She let
him kiss her hand。
The streets were empty enough on Sunday night； and if
the Sabbath； and the domestic amusements proper to the
Sabbath； had not kept people indoors； a high strong wind
might very probably have done so。 Ralph Denham was
aware of a tumult in the street much in accordance with
his own sensations。 The gusts； sweeping along the Strand；
seemed at the same time to blow a clear space across the
sky in which stars appeared； and for a short time the
quickspeeding silver moon riding through clouds； as if
they were waves of water surging round her and over her。
They swamped her； but she emerged； they broke over her
and covered her again； she issued forth indomitable。 In
the country fields all the wreckage of winter was being
dispersed； the dead leaves； the withered bracken； the dry
and discolored grass； but no bud would be broken； nor
341
Night and Day
would the new stalks that showed above the earth take
any harm； and perhaps tomorrow a line of blue or yellow
would show through a slit in their green。 But the whirl of
the atmosphere alone was in Denham’s mood； and what
of star or blossom appeared was only as a light gleaming
for a second upon heaped waves fast following each other。
He had not been able to speak to Mary； though for a
moment he had e near enough to be tantalized by a
wonderful possibility of understanding。 But the desire to
municate something of the very greatest importance
possessed him pletely； he still wished to bestow this
gift upon some other human being； he sought their pany。
More by instinct than by conscious choice； he took
the direction which led to Rodney’s rooms。 He knocked
loudly upon his door； but no one answered。 He rang the
bell。 It took him some time to accept the fact that Rodney
was out。 When he could no longer pretend that the sound
of the wind in the old building was the sound of some
one rising from his chair； he ran downstairs again； as if
his goal had been altered and only just revealed to him。
He walked in the direction of Chelsea。
But physical fatigue； for he had not dined and had
tramped both far and fast； made him sit for a moment
upon a seat on the Embankment。 One of the regular occupants
of those seats； an elderly man who had drunk
himself； probably； out of work and lodging； drifted up；
begged a match； and sat down beside him。 It was a windy
night； he said； times were hard； some long story of bad
luck and injustice followed； told so often that the man
seemed to be talking to himself； or； perhaps； the neglect
of his audience had long made any attempt to catch their
attention seem scarcely worth while。 When he began to
speak Ralph had a wild desire to talk to him； to question
him； to make him understand。 He did； in fact； interrupt
him at one point； but it was useless。 The ancient story of
failure； illluck； undeserved disaster； went down the wind；
disconnected syllables flying past Ralph’s ears with a queer
alternation of loudness and faintness as if； at certain
moments； the man’s memory of his wrongs revived and
then flagged； dying down at last into a grumble of resignation；
which seemed to represent a final lapse into the
accustomed despair。 The unhappy voice afflicted Ralph；
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Virginia Woolf
but it also angered him。 And when the elderly man refused
to listen and mumbled on； an odd image came to
his mind of a lighthouse besieged by the flying bodies of
lost birds； who were dashed senseless； by the gale； against
the glass。 He had a strange sensation that he was both
lighthouse and bird； he was steadfast and brilliant； and
at the same time he was whirled； with all other things；
senseless against the glass。 He got up； left his tribute of
silver； and pressed on； with