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“Yes；” she replied。 “I think even you would despise him。”
“Even I？” he repeated。 “Why even I？”
“You said you liked modern things； I said I hated them。”
This was not a very accurate report of their conversation
among the relics； perhaps； but Ralph was flattered
to think that she remembered anything about it。
“Or did I confess that I hated all books？” she went on；
seeing him look up with an air of inquiry。 “I forget—”
“Do you hate all books？” he asked。
“It would be absurd to say that I hate all books when
I’ve only read ten； perhaps； but—’ Here she pulled herself
up short。
“Well？”
“Yes； I do hate books；” she continued。 “Why do you
want to be for ever talking about your feelings？ That’s
what I can’t make out。 And poetry’s all about feelings—
novels are all about feelings。”
She cut a cake vigorously into slices； and providing a
tray with bread and butter for Mrs。 Hilbery； who was in
her room with a cold； she rose to go upstairs。
Ralph held the door open for her； and then stood with
clasped hands in the middle of the room。 His eyes were
bright； and； indeed； he scarcely knew whether they beheld
dreams or realities。 All down the street and on the
doorstep； and while he mounted the stairs； his dream of
Katharine possessed him； on the threshold of the room
he had dismissed it； in order to prevent too painful a
collision between what he dreamt of her and what she
was。 And in five minutes she had filled the shell of the
old dream with the flesh of life； looked with fire out of
phantom eyes。 He glanced about him with bewilderment
at finding himself among her chairs and tables； they were
solid； for he grasped the back of the chair in which
123
Night and Day
Katharine had sat； and yet they were unreal； the atmosphere
was that of a dream。 He summoned all the faculties
of his spirit to seize what the minutes had to give
him； and from the depths of his mind there rose unchecked
a joyful recognition of the truth that human nature surpasses；
in its beauty； all that our wildest dreams bring us
hints of。
Katharine came into the room a moment later。 He stood
watching her e towards him； and thought her more
beautiful and strange than his dream of her； for the real
Katharine could speak the words which seemed to crowd
behind the forehead and in the depths of the eyes； and
the monest sentence would be flashed on by this
immortal light。 And she overflowed the edges of the dream；
he remarked that her softness was like that of some vast
snowy owl； she wore a ruby on her finger。
“My mother wants me to tell you；” she said； “that she
hopes you have begun your poem。 She says every one
ought to write poetry… 。 All my relations write poetry；”
she went on。 “I can’t bear to think of it sometimes—
because； of course； it’s none of it any good。 But then one
needn’t read it—”
“You don’t encourage me to write a poem；” said Ralph。
“But you’re not a poet； too； are you？” she inquired；
turning upon him with a laugh。
“Should I tell you if I were？”
“Yes。 Because I think you speak the truth；” she said；
searching him for proof of this apparently； with eyes now
almost impersonally direct。 It would be easy； Ralph
thought； to worship one so far removed； and yet of so
straight a nature； easy to submit recklessly to her； without
thought of future pain。
“Are you a poet？” she demanded。 He felt that her question
had an unexplained weight of meaning behind it； as
if she sought an answer to a question that she did not
ask。
“No。 I haven’t written any poetry for years；” he replied。
“But all the same； I don’t agree with you。 I think it’s the
only thing worth doing。”
“Why do you say that？” she asked； almost with impatience；
tapping her spoon two or three times against the
side of her cup。
124
Virginia Woolf
“Why？” Ralph laid hands on the first words that came
to mind。 “Because； I suppose； it keeps an ideal alive which
might die otherwise。”
A curious change came over her face； as if the flame of
her mind were subdued； and she looked at him ironically
and with the expression which he had called sad before；
for want of a better name for it。
“I don’t know that there’s much sense in having ideals；”
she said。
“But you have them；” he replied energetically。 “Why do we
call them ideals？ It’s a stupid word。 Dreams； I mean—”
She followed his words with parted lips； as though to
answer eagerly when he had done； but as he said； “Dreams；
I mean；” the door of the drawingroom swung open； and
so remained for a perceptible instant。 They both held
themselves silent； her lips still parted。
Far off； they heard the rustle of skirts。 Then the owner
of the skirts appeared in the doorway； which she almost
filled； nearly concealing the figure of a very much smaller
lady who acpanied her。
“My aunts！” Katharine murmured； under her breath。 Her
tone had a hint of tragedy in it； but no less； Ralph thought；
than the situation required。 She addressed the larger lady
as Aunt Millicent； the smaller was Aunt Celia； Mrs。 Milvain；
who had lately undertaken the task of marrying Cyril to
his wife。 Both ladies； but Mrs。 Cosham （Aunt Millicent） in
particular； had that look of heightened； smoothed；
incarnadined existence which is proper to elderly ladies
paying calls in London about five o’clock in the afternoon。
Portraits by Romney； seen through glass； have something
of their pink； mellow look； their blooming softness；
as of apricots hanging upon a red wall in the afternoon
sun。 Mrs。 Cosham was so appareled with hanging muffs；
chains； and swinging draperies that it was impossible to
detect the shape of a human being in the mass of brown
and black which filled the armchair。 Mrs。 Milvain was a
much slighter figure； but the same doubt as to the precise
lines of her contour filled Ralph； as he regarded them；
with dismal foreboding。 What remark of his would ever
reach these fabulous and fantastic characters？—for there
was something fantastica