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the same conclusion myself。 Only it won’t be a country
cottage in my case； it’ll be America。 America！” she cried。
“That’s the place for me！ They’ll teach me something about
organizing a movement there； and I’ll e back and show
you how to do it。”
If she meant consciously or unconsciously to belittle
the seclusion and security of a country cottage； she did
not succeed； for Ralph’s determination was genuine。 But
she made him visualize her in her own character； so that
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Virginia Woolf
he looked quickly at her； as she walked a little in front of
him across the plowed field； for the first time that morning
he saw her independently of him or of his preoccupation
with Katharine。 He seemed to see her marching ahead；
a rather clumsy but powerful and independent figure； for
whose courage he felt the greatest respect。
“Don’t go away； Mary！” he exclaimed； and stopped。
“That’s what you said before； Ralph；” she returned； without
looking at him。 “You want to go away yourself and you
don’t want me to go away。 That’s not very sensible； is it？”
“Mary；” he cried； stung by the remembrance of his exacting
and dictatorial ways with her； “what a brute I’ve
been to you！”
It took all her strength to keep the tears from springing；
and to thrust back her assurance that she would
forgive him till Doomsday if he chose。 She was preserved
from doing so only by a stubborn kind of respect for herself
which lay at the root of her nature and forbade surrender；
even in moments of almost overwhelming passion。
Now； when all was tempest and highrunning waves；
she knew of a land where the sun shone clear upon Ital
ian grammars and files of docketed papers。 Nevertheless；
from the skeleton pallor of that land and the rocks that
broke its surface； she knew that her life there would be
harsh and lonely almost beyond endurance。 She walked
steadily a little in front of him across the plowed field。
Their way took them round the verge of a wood of thin
trees standing at the edge of a steep fold in the land。
Looking between the treetrunks； Ralph saw laid out on
the perfectly flat and richly green meadow at the bottom
of the hill a small gray manorhouse； with ponds； terraces；
and clipped hedges in front of it； a farm building
or so at the side； and a screen of firtrees rising behind；
all perfectly sheltered and selfsufficient。 Behind the house
the hill rose again； and the trees on the farther summit
stood upright against the sky； which appeared of a more
intense blue between their trunks。 His mind at once was
filled with a sense of the actual presence of Katharine；
the gray house and the intense blue sky gave him the
feeling of her presence close by。 He leant against a tree；
forming her name beneath his breath：
“Katharine； Katharine；” he said aloud； and then； look
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Night and Day
ing round； saw Mary walking slowly away from him； tearing
a long spray of ivy from the trees as she passed them。
She seemed so definitely opposed to the vision he held
in his mind that he returned to it with a gesture of impatience。
“Katharine； Katharine；” he repeated； and seemed to himself
to be with her。 He lost his sense of all that surrounded
him； all substantial things—the hour of the day；
what we have done and are about to do； the presence of
other people and the support we derive from seeing their
belief in a mon reality—all this slipped from him。 So
he might have felt if the earth had dropped from his feet；
and the empty blue had hung all round him； and the air
had been steeped in the presence of one woman。 The
chirp of a robin on the bough above his head awakened
him； and his awakenment was acpanied by a sigh。
Here was the world in which he had lived； here the plowed
field； the high road yonder； and Mary； stripping ivy from
the trees。 When he came up with her he linked his arm
through hers and said：
“Now； Mary； what’s all this about America？”
There was a brotherly kindness in his voice which seemed
to her magnanimous； when she reflected that she had
cut short his explanations and shown little interest in his
change of plan。 She gave him her reasons for thinking
that she might profit by such a journey； omitting the one
reason which had set all the rest in motion。 He listened
attentively； and made no attempt to dissuade her。 In truth；
he found himself curiously eager to make certain of her
good sense； and accepted each fresh proof of it with satisfaction；
as though it helped him to make up his mind
about something。 She forgot the pain he had caused her；
and in place of it she became conscious of a steady tide
of wellbeing which harmonized very aptly with the tramp
of their feet upon the dry road and the support of his
arm。 The fort was the more glowing in that it seemed
to be the reward of her determination to behave to him
simply and without attempting to be other than she was。
Instead of making out an interest in the poets； she avoided
them instinctively； and dwelt rather insistently upon the
practical nature of her gifts。
In a practical way she asked for particulars of his cot
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Virginia Woolf
tage； which hardly existed in his mind； and corrected his
vagueness。
“You must see that there’s water；” she insisted； with an
exaggeration of interest。 She avoided asking him what
he meant to do in this cottage； and； at last； when all the
practical details had been thrashed out as much as possible；
he rewarded her by a more intimate statement。
“One of the rooms；” he said； “must be my study； for；
you see； Mary； I’m going to write a book。” Here he withdrew
his arm from hers； lit his pipe； and they tramped on
in a sagacious kind of radeship； the most plete
they had attained in all their friendship。
“And what’s your book to be about？” she said； as boldly
as if she had never e to grief with Ralph in talking
about books。 He told her unhesitatingly that he meant to
write the history of the English village from Saxon days
to the present time。 Some such plan had lain as a